August 11, 2008
Toe vs. Ass: The Age-Old Debate
To be a diva, one must know how to make a fabulous entrance. I, however, am a diva of a different sort. I enjoy a show-stopping exit. In short, I know how to clear a room, and I don't even need to use flatulance.
Some of my family were here Saturday night, saying their final farewells to my Norwegian cousins, who had been staying in the Chicago area for three weeks. They returned to Oslo yesterday evening. And you know, I'm quite disappointed that they didn't inspire any good blogs, but they're so cool, I just can't find anything to mock them about.
Anyhoo, we were sitting in the kitchen -- me, Husband, Mom, Dad, Spikette, Nephew, Ivar, Per and Mai. Stella and Daisy were underfoot, also, because Stella is madly in love with Per, and Daisy was hoping there'd be food.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Stella was licking my Dad's toes. He was wearing sandals. He was also wearing a short-sleeved, button-up shirt over his wife-beater. This proves that my cousins rate WAAAAAAAAAY higher than the rest of us because Dad's usual uniform is as follows: wife-beater, armpit hair, Levi's that somehow stay up desite his complete lack of buttocks, 25-year old loafers that are largely held together with duct tape.
When my Dad dresses up for holidays, he wears a polo shirt without a stain on it. When he dies, we're going to have to go shopping because nothing he currently owns is fit to wear in a coffin. My mother often complains because Dad doesn't like to go out and do things, but I can understand his reluctance. It hurts getting pelted with all that change.
So where were we? Ah, yes -- Stella was licking my Dad's toes. Have you ever seen 74-year old toenails? They're not pretty. Yellow, thick, ridged, UCK. And my sweet, adorable, angel-puppy was licking them!!! With enthusiasm!!!
You now know the meaning of the word: ABOMINATION.
I started freaking out, "Oh my God, Stella, what are you doing?! Don't lick Grandpa's toes! Lookit them! They can't possibly taste good! They're old-man-toes, for God's sake! What are you thinking?!"
Ever the annoyingly-calm foil to my great diva dramatics, Husband tried to give me some perspective, "Honey, she licks her butt."
I pointed to the black dog and loudly said, "I would rather lick Stella's butt," I pointed to Dad's feet, "Than that man's toes!"
The party broke-up immediately upon my announcement.
Can't think why.
Posted at 08:16 AM | Comments (1)August 04, 2008
Death and Doom
PW: I can't believe you dogs aren't bald by now. Lookit all this damn hair! [gets out the vacuum cleaner]
Stella: Wait a minute. I know that noise... [pokes her head into the living room] Oh no! It's the Scary Monster of Death and Doom!
Daisy: Death and Doom? Is it really necessary to list both? Wouldn't one suffice?
Stella: There aren't enough words to describe the horror! [runs around the house] Where to hide... where to hide...
Daisy: Come get me if the Scary Monster of Death and Doom goes near the treat jar. Maybe he'll get one down for me.
Stella: How can you be so calm?!
PW: [turns on the vacuum]
Stella: Sweet Jesus, it's coming for me! [runs into the dining room]
Daisy: Nice hiding place. The Scary Monster of Death and Doom will never think to look in there.
Stella: You're not helping!
PW: I'll say. Daisy, move your fat ass.
Daisy: Why?
PW: Because I need to vacuum under it. [bumps her repeatedly with the vacuum]
Stella: Oh no! It's eating Daisy! Oh, the caninity!
Daisy: [gets up] Fine.
PW: I swear, I should just shave the two of you.
Daisy: Can I lay back down now?
PW: Yes, your highness.
Stella: Uh oh. I think I peed a little.
Daisy: Mom is gonna kill you.
Stella: It's not my fault! [resumes running around the house] The Scary Monster of Death and Doom was about to anihilate you!
Daisy: Yeah, thanks for your help with that. I can see I'll be on my own should a burgler ever break in.
PW: [turns off vacuum] What the hell is that?
Stella: Oh, thank God she's done!
Daisy: You're so in trouble.
Stella: I stand by my original plea of innocence. Now let's never speak of this again.
Posted at 08:34 PM | Comments (4)July 25, 2008
Things My Dogs Can Hear
1. A banana being peeled anywhere in the house.
2. The other dog being petted.
3. The neighbor's Miniature Pinscher, Layla, inside the neighbor's house, standing near the neighbor's front door, thinking about barking.
4. The click of the neighbor's front door opening to let Layla outside.
5. The click of my La-Z-Boy before I get up, which signals that I might be coming upstairs, and might be passing the treat jar, and just maaaaaaaaaaybe I'll give them a treat.
6. Socks being put on, which signals that I'm sitting down and might be available to pet them.
7. My ass making contact with the toilet seat, which signals that I'm sitting down and might be available to pet them.
Posted at 12:02 PM | Comments (2)July 07, 2008
Fourth of the What Now?
Despite fireworks being illegal in Illinois, there were fireworks going off everywhere Thursday and Friday night. Which is fine, I don't care. I don't have kids, I sleep with earplugs in anyway, and I was blessed with two dogs who don't freak out at loud noises.
I don't know how we got so lucky. I mean, they are completely retarded in every other way. One day in March, Daisy decided to stop going down stairs ever again. And Stella is a Labrador Retriever who won't go in the water.
See? Morons.
Sue said it's because they are "gun dogs" and bred to be unafraid of hunting rifles or any other loud noises. But Labs are also bred to be smart,... so you see why I'm dubious about the whole breeding theory.
Yup, 4th of July, and my idiot dogs were sound asleep. People could break into my house, guns blazing, and the dogs would sleep right through it. All the neighborhood dogs were freaking out, but my dogs were sawing logs.
Now you can bet your ass, if I slowly peeled a banana in the other room, they'd be magically transported to the floor at my feet, instantly alert. I'm serious, I've seen it.
Also? They can hear the other one being petted in another room. The second my hand hits fur, whoever isn't being stroked has to come barrelling over and take out my knees.
And I swear, any other day, the sound of all the other dogs in the neighborhood barking their fool heads off would have the fur up on both Daisy and Stella's backs. But when barking is accompanied by fire and explosions? Nuthin'.
I'm not complaining, mind you. These two are annoying enough without the added fireworks-induced panic. I just think it's completely incongruent.
And therefore, retarded. Sooo... not incongruent. I guess.
Did I have a point?
Posted at 06:16 PM | Comments (0)April 22, 2008
Puppy Action Shots: Part II
Cooper: Hey, Stella? Is it okay to play some more?
Stella: I don't know. I think Daisy is sleeping in the next room.
Cooper: Dang. Well, what if we play reeeaaal quietly?
Stella: Do you think we're capable of that?
Cooper: I don't know. What do you think?
Stella: I think... I keell you!
Cooper: Oh no! Here comes Daisy!
Daisy: Do I have to lie between you two?
Stella & Cooper: No, ma'am.
Cooper: I'm just gonna... lie here and chew on my foot.
Daisy: Make it so.
Cooper: Is she gone...?
Stella: I think she went into the living room.
Cooper: Then I keell you!
Stella: No! I keell you!
Posted at 07:50 AM | Comments (1)April 15, 2008
Episode II: The Cooper Wars
PW: I hate the puppy.
Stella: What?!
PW: I hate. The puppy.
Stella: Mom! You can't!
Daisy: I knew you'd come around.
Stella: But he's so CUTE!
PW: He peed on my office rug!
Stella: Well, you left the door open!
PW: Don't you take that tone with me! You want your nails clipped?
Stella: No.
PW: Then zip it.
Daisy: Mom, you know he totally peed on your rug on purpose.
Stella: Don't you encourage her! She's PMSing! Who knows what she'll do to poor Cooper!
PW: I might eat him, if I can find the BBQ sauce.
Stella: C'mon, Mom. You don't really mean that. You don't really hate him.
Daisy: Sure, she does!
PW: Oh, Stella, don't look at me like that. It's not the end of the world. I hated you guys when you were tiny puppies.
Daisy: Yeah, she ha--WHAT???
PW: Daisy, you had explosive diarrhea for two weeks before we figured out what was wrong with you.
Stella: Ha!
PW: And Stella, do I need to recount for you all the pieces of furniture you've eaten?
Stella: La la la la la la la la la la, I'm not listeniiiiiiiiiiiing!
Daisy: God, Mom. I feel like a red-headed step-child. Why did you even get us?
PW: Well, I thought getting two Labs would make my lifestyle more closely resemble that of the people in the L.L. Bean catalogues.
Daisy: And?
PW: Not so much.
Daisy: I feel nauseous.
PW: Don't worry, Stella. He goes home in an hour or so. I'm pretty sure I can control my murderous inclinations in the meantime.
Stella: You're just saying that because we're out of BBQ sauce.
Daisy: It's like my whole life is a lie.
PW: Oh, stop being so dramatic. That's my whole point! I grew to love you! Just as I'm sure I'm grow to love Cooper one day.
Stella: He lives at Smokey's house.
PW: Exactly. Now who wants a rawhide?
Posted at 08:14 AM | Comments (0)April 11, 2008
Cooper's Arrival
Daisy: Mom? We hate the new puppy.
Stella: Yeah. What she said.
PW: Well, that's fine because we're just baby-sitting for a few days.
Daisy: Riiiight. That's what you said about Stella.
Stella: Yea-- what???
PW: I never said that about Stella!
Daisy: Whatever, Mom. We're not happy.
Stella: Not. Happy.
PW: He's going home on Tuesday.
Daisy: HE??? It's a boy???
Stella: Ewwwwwwww!
Daisy: I hope you don't expect him to sleep with us!
Stella: I don't want boy germs on my Nylabone!
PW: He sleeps in a cage!
Stella: Not my cage.
Daisy: You don't sleep in a cage anymore.
Stella: I'm just sayin'.
PW: Hey, you don't have to play with him. Just don't bite him.
Daisy: I can't make any promises if he comes near my tail. You know how much I hate that.
Stella: She really does.
Daisy: Sooooooooo, what day is today?
PW: Friday.
Daisy: And he's going home when?
PW: Tuesday.
Daisy: So that's...
Stella: Three days?
PW: Four.
Daisy: Moron.
Stella: Hey! I didn't get fancy obedience class like you did!
Daisy: So he's house-trained, right?
PW: Not quite.
Daisy: Oh my God!
Stella: Jesus Christ, Mom!
Daisy: How could you?
PW: He's ten weeks old!
Daisy: Oh, for God's sake, Mom. I hope you don't expect me to nurse him because that's not how I roll.
PW: He eats regular food.
Stella: Not my food.
PW: Puppy food. This stuff, see? Cooper! C'mere, boy! Come and eat, Cooper!
Daisy: That is the gayest name ever.
Cooper: I have no idea what you just said, but you sounded really excited, so here I am!
Stella: Oh, my stars, look how cute he is!
Daisy: Yeah, he's rea-- what???
Stella: He's all fuzzy and tiny! And look how his little ears flop around! Can we keep him, Mom? Pleeeaaase?
Daisy: You traiterous bitch.
Posted at 08:49 AM | Comments (5)March 13, 2008
Black Is the Color of Evil
We re-arranged the living room. Again. But my obsession with furniture placement is not the point of this post. I'm showing you this merely as a Before photo.
Note the cleanliness. Note the matchy-match-ness. Note the unseen frayed carpet edge that Stella chewed -- unseen because it is hidden under a strategicly placed end table!
Note... the After photo.
And to add insult to injury, there were three -- count 'em, THREE -- bones within two feet of the coffee table when I found this.
Free to a good home -- one 18 mo. female black lab. Spayed, all shots. Answers to the name WHATTHEFUCKDIDYOUDO???
Posted at 09:32 PM | Comments (0)February 18, 2008
Things I Have Too Many Of
Nail Polishes (full size): 16
At the moment, I'm wearing black, with a top coat of silver glitter. It represents the limitlessness of outer space. Because I'm deep like that.
Nail Polish Minis: 16
Fifteen shades of pink and one black. Hmmmm, there's a joke in there somewhere...
Hair Products That Smell Like Food: 11
The one in back on the left is Vanilla Birthday Cake, I believe. And how come every time I try to type birthday, it comes out bitchday? Never fails.
Lotions, Creams & Ungents -- Most of Which Smell Like Food: 23
I'm so well-oiled, it's amazing I don't slide right outta my clothes, out the door and into the street.
Labrador Retrievers: 2
In retrospect, one would have been puh-lenty.
December 18, 2007
Three Lists of Three
Things I Had to Remove From Stella's Mouth While Boy Child & Girl Child Were Over
1. A Bionicle.
2. A nickel.
3. A piece from Jenga.
Things I Can't Find Since The Spare Was Carrying Them Around
1. My comb.
2. My roller brush.
3. The ornament my boss gave me for Christmas, still in its box.
Things Boy Child Enjoyed Playing with While at Our House
1. The lazy susan where we keep the breakfast cereal.
2. The sliding door that separates the dining room and kitchen.
3. My Harley Davidson Barbie.
December 03, 2007
Why I Don't Leave Dirty Laundry On the Floor
The Evil One is eating my home again.
Now that her favorite kitchen walls are fixed and wallpaper-free, Stella has turned her appetite to our $300 rug. Prompting me to ponder the age-old question: What the fuck is wrong with my stupid dog?
Can't she eat anything inexpensive? Almost makes me wish she'd just go back to eating poop. At least poop is free and plentiful. And outside.
Back in her poop-chowing phase, I bought a bottle of Stool Deodorizer Plus, whose promises include the following:
1. Eliminates Foul Stool & Urine Odor
2. Alleviates Occasional Gas
3. Stops Stool Eating
4. Reduces Bad Breath & Body Odor.
Now, my first reaction is, "If this product actually eliminates all smelly functions of the body, why don't they make it for humans???"
Husband, I'm looking at you.
But I don't really care about my dogs' stool and urine odor because they go outside in the yard. And if their occasional gas was alleviated, who would I blame mine on? As for bad breath and body odor, well... they're dogs. Those of us who know what it's like to bask in a pet's unconditional love are willing to put up with a bit of smelliness. It just comes with the territory.
No, it was the Stops Stool Eating that caught my attention. But how do they do it? How do they make poop less appealing?
Prompting me to ponder the other age-old question: What tastes worse than poop?
Vomit? Not for my dogs! The opportunity to re-eat what they've already eaten is a total bonus for them. Vomit: all the taste, no chewing required!
So how does it work???
Frankly, it doesn't. Tried it, Stella still snarfed turds. It was just something she had to grow out of.
She has since moved on to other fragrant snacks, including rugs, window ledges, Husband's socks and Younger Step Daughter's panties.
How do they taste in comparison to poop, I wonder? Uup, I just puked a little in the back of my throat.
Posted at 12:24 PM | Comments (3)September 11, 2007
Bladder Business
Awwwwwwwww, you guys are the cutest, with the hugs and carbs and outpouring of love! Group hug!
Everything has, indeed, sorted itself out, thanks to the mysterious workings of the universe and Husband's excellent karma (which, thank Odin, counteracts mine).
Daisy, in her mildly-retarded way, is completely unaware that she has sutures in her abdomen, and that there is mass amounts of yucky-tasting antibiotics in the SUPER YUMMY EXCELLENT HAPPY-TIME HELLO SAILOR TREAT that she gets twice a day (i.e. yogurt).
I would thank the dog-headed Egyptian god for the obliviousness of Labs, but I've forgotten his name. Seth? Sedrick? Snicklefritz? Something like that. I haven't even thought about him since he took me off his Christmas card list two years ago.
Anyhoo, the vet informed me that we'll have to extend her prescription another week, plus add another one. I guess those stones really did a number on her poor bladder.
We're still waiting for the results on what the stones are made of. I guess the test takes a while because the stones have to dissolve or something. Don't ask me -- I took the minimum science requirement in high school and didn't retain a damn thing. I spent most of the class writing different variations of Mrs. Simon LeBon on my notebook and surrounding it with hearts and shit.
Dr. Bunsen Honeydew -- now there's a science teacher who could keep my attention!
Posted at 01:33 PM | Comments (3)September 05, 2007
Worst. Day. Ever.
So it's Sunday afternoon, and I'm standing there in the Animal 911 waiting room, and the vet is showing me the X-ray where I can see the huge cluster of stones in my sweet Daisy's obstructed bladder.
My cell phone rings, and it's Husband, telling me that he's been fired. FIRED. By the same mother-fuckers who have been embezzling from the company. Fired by selfish, drunken, black-hearted, inhuman scum, for the crime of wanting to earn an honest living.
Welcome to Poor Town, indeed.
I've spent this week helping Husband clean out his desk and office, and taking my dog in for emergency surgery. It's been an emotional rollercoaster, to say the least. I would liken Sunday to the day I left my practice husband, without the benefit of moving into Billi and Brad's house.
So you can see how I might have been too distracted to blog. There's absolutely nothing funny about a urinary blockage or white collar crime.
Things have settled down a bit now. Daisy is home and resting comfortably, when not being sniffed all over by Stella. And Husband is very excited about starting a new company.
Unfortunately, I'm heading up north tomorrow, sans Husband and Daisy, avec Stella, Egrau and J. I know it seems cruel, but, what with being "between jobs," Husband will be home with Daisy much of the time. And I can't very well abandon Egrau and J, as it's my family's cabin we will be staying at. Have to play hostess!
I won't be back until Monday night, so I guess this week is kind of a wash as far as blogs go. I'm sorry. I'll do better next week, I promise.
Posted at 04:50 PM | Comments (5)August 21, 2007
Whatever Happened To Molly?
Remember Molly? The sweet, sad-eyed dog with pneumonia that my parents got from the animal shelter? To refresh your memory, she looks like this:
And I keep meaning to tell you the rest of her story! I'm so freakin' flighty sometimes.
(And Marty goes, "Sometimes???")
When K found out about Molly's lung affliction, she goes, "Oh, man. When that dog gets better she's gonna eat your couch!"
Well, Molly didn't eat Mom's couch.
She ate some wall decorations. Right down off the wall. And part of my Dad's dinner. While Dad was sitting at the table! Stupid dog just came up and started eating off my Dad's plate like friggin' Helen Keller!
So, yeah, Molly wasn't so much "sweet" as she was "weak with fever." And once she was feeling her oats again, she proceeded to tear my parents' house apart.
Needless to say, my parents no longer have a dog. The gave Molly to a no-kill shelter, and I'm pretty damn sure that's the end of their dog-owning days for good.
Which reminds me -- when I was in grade school, we got a puppy that was a German Shepherd mix, I believe. His name was Oly. One day, we arrived home to find that Oly -- who was kept in the kitchen to keep him from ruining the rest of the house -- had jumped up and turned on all the burners on the gas stove.
I'm sure he was thinking, Won't let me in the rest of the house, eh? Fine! I'll just burn the whole thing down! How do you like them apples?!
I don't even know where Oly disappeared to after that. Probably some nice farm where he had lots of room to run around.
Posted at 03:17 PM | Comments (3)August 10, 2007
I Am Too Pissed Off To Sleep
Stella, having had the run of the house for a couple months, is now back to being in her cage while we're out. She can't be trusted to not gnaw on the home we generously let her live in, so that's the way it has to be.
She is, however, allowed to sleep in our room at night, unfettered. Until now, that is.
At 2:00 this morning, Husband and I were roused by the scent of fresh shit. (God, this story has a familiar ring.) Turned out to be a puddle of runny poo at the foot of our bed. On the rug. Bitch didn't even try to make it to the back door or anything. She just rolled outta bed and squatted, which is how we know it was Stella. When it comes to poo, Daisy always does it by one of the doors.
Isn't it sad that it has happened so often, we've noticed a trend?
So there we stood, hands on hips, surveying the damage, our muddled, sleepy minds fully comprehending the crappiness of the situation but having no idea what to do about it.
It was finally decided that we would just roll up the rug and haul it to the curb, even tho' garbage day isn't until Tuesday. No, no, no. We can't just pitch it. Let's at least try to hose it off.
We both put on some pants and rolled up the bedroom rug, being sure to cover the ass-juice with plastic, so as not to smoosh it into the rest of the carpet. It was at this point that I noticed the 2" by 4" section of woodwork behind the bedroom door that had paint missing from it.
Fucking puppy.
No doubt, she had done it one night when Husband was snoring and I was wearing earplugs, so neither of us heard.
My puppy eats paint chips.
IS ANYONE SURPRISED???
Stella will now be back in her cage at night, as well as when we're out. She turns 10 months on Aug. 23. Perhaps when she's a year old, we'll try trusting her again. In the meantime, I think it's enough that we didn't simply kill her.
The turn from the kitchen through the mudroom out the back door was too sharp, so we carried the rug out the front door and around the house to the back yard.
I was bringing up the rear, and Husband is whisper-yelling, "Don't let the screen door slam behind you!"
"Why."
"The neighbors!"
I'm out there, in my pajamas and bare feet, carrying a turd-laden rug at two in the morning, and he thinks I give a rat's ass about disturbing the neighbors? Riiiiiiiiiiiight. None of them are stupid enough to have the windows open anyway, considering the 1000% humidity. Everyone has their A/C on.
Thanks to Husband's superior hosing skills, the poop actually came off the rug pretty quickly. Of course, then there was the even-heavier, sopping wet rug to contend with. So I moved my car, put my keys on the fence post where I'd remember them (that's called "foreshadowing," boys and girls), and we draped the rug over a couple work horses in the garage, where it will need to stay for the next several days.
Bleary-eyed and weary, and more than a little snippy with each other, we turned off all the lights, put Stella in her cage and fell back into bed. But the scent of crap was over-whelming. Not wanting to open our windows to the moist night air, we cleverly lit a pumpkin pie-scented candle. Yeah, that worked wonders. Pumpkin poop.
I laid in bed, too angry to sleep, thinking about the day I have ahead of me. I have to get up at 5:45 to be at work by 7:30. Goes without saying that I will be stopping at Starbuck's on the way. Get off work at 12:30, and I have to be waiting at my front door, costumes in hand, by 1:45, when Bro-In-Law (not Brad, the other one) will be picking me up for our bottle-playing gig at Navy Pier for 1,800 Lutherans.
Of course, we don't actually start playing until 8:00 tonight, but we have to schlep all the bottles and props and tables, then set-up, then do a soundcheck, then reherse, then have dinner, then wait around for our introduction. Hopefully, the audience will be good and drunk by then.
But wait. There's more.
Just when I had managed to slow my heart rate a little, we heard Daisy puking.
Now, Daisy's chronic bladder infections have finally been diagnosed as bladder crystals. Apparently, she's part cat. So we were wearning her onto her new, fancy, expensive, prescription dog food to take care of the crystals when she got some kind of stomach virus and hurled on the living room carpet four times in two days. Always in the middle of the night, naturally.
She was on a chicken and rice diet for a few days, until the virus cleared up. Then we started her back on a mix of half her usual food, half the new food. She was fine with that, so this afternoon, I switched it to a ratio of 2-to-1.
I'm guessing, by the pile of undigested food on our carpet, that it wasn't a virus at all. Daisy is just having trouble keeping down the new food.
Greeeeeeeaaaaaaaaat.
She'll be going back on her normal food come breakfast.
And why the hell is it always the living room carpet? To get from our bedroom to the living room, she has to walk through the uncarpeted hallway and through the entire linoleumed kitchen. And God forbid she ralph on the large uncarpeted section of the living room, where once the rug runner had lived, until it got pooped and puked on too many times, and we just threw the damn thing out instead of taking it to the cleaners for the ninth time. That's right -- I said ninth.
Husband is all, "We should just throw this rug out."
I know he was speaking in anger. The anger of a man who had to clean up TWO different toxic bodily secretions in one night and knows he won't get a nap in that day. But I don't think that's such a bad idea. I want to just get rid of ALL the rugs and do the entire first floor in slate.
I'm only half kidding.
Back in bed, trying to lower my blood pressure through zen-like concentration, I hear Husband mutter, "Did we close the garage door?"
*sigh* "I'll check while I get my keys from the fence."
Thank God he remembered about the garage, or I never would have remembered about my keys. And I never would have had the chance to walk around the front of my house in my panties.
I told Husband, after one of the two dogs dies, we're never having two dogs at once again. What a stupid idea. I can't take twice as much trouble, those stinking, tag-teaming bitches.
And I'm not at all kidding.
Posted at 03:10 AM | Comments (4)July 31, 2007
White Trash Summer
You guys, the summer is two-thirds over, and I haven't been skinny dipping with even half of my hott friends. I've only had, like, three Lynchberg Lemonades. I'm a shitty, friend. I'm a shitty, sober friend.
I wish I could say I've been scuba-diving shipwrecks or following the Sasquach migration or something. But no. Where have I been? Door County and the Renaissance Faire. Could I be more white trash?
After I got meat-on-a-stick at the Ren Faire, I got this:
A henna tattoo. And why did I get a henna tattoo, branding me as a smelly hippie for the next two to three weeks? Because I had nowhere to go that evening, so I didn't want to get my face painted.
I now want to get henna supplies and a book and do my entire body. Seriously. I love this. I'm gonna write my name on Husband's ass while he sleeps. And maybe give Younger Step Daughter a moustache.
But more on the Ren Faire later.
So it's summer, and I'm so tired of my toe. Yes, the nail is still attached. But it's disgusting, and I swear, looking worse instead of better. The part that, apparently, absorbed the impact, in the nail bed, has grown out into view. It's a blood-colored ridge that runs across my entire nail.
And I'm so sick of wearing nail polish that's black or brown or eggplant. I want summer colors on my toes! So I threw away all decency and painted them lavender.
Pretty, no?
Lest you think that my summer has been all sunshine and deep-fried Milky Ways and lavishly decorated appendages, my summer has also been the internal struggle of not wanting that damn huge, metal dog cage in my kitchen, and not wanting to let the world's largest termite to run free in my home.
Look what that bitch Stella did to my wall.
Now, it could be that she's just as disgusted with the prior owners' decorating as I am. But more likely, she's just a retard who eats wallpaper. Oh, crap, it just occurred to me that there's probably lead in that 40 year old paint. The cycle of retardedness continues.
So what's more white trash than a henna tattoo, a dubious toenail and a partially-eaten home? Not much. Oh, my truck is starting to rust along the bottom, too. Perfect.
Posted at 04:12 PM | Comments (4)July 24, 2007
Puppy Review
A couple of my friends got puppies this year. You can tell them apart from a Swiffer Duster only by the presence of their eyes. I don't understand tiny-dog ownership. I need a dog I can trip over and not kill. I just don't have the physical coordination for tiny dogs.
Anyhoo, here's Lola Beth's ball of fluff, Gracie. Note that Gracie has more stuffed animals than The Girl Child.
This is Peanut, recently acquired by Laura. Apparently, Peanut is deathly afraid of the other dogs in the neighborhood. But I would be, too, if I was 4 inches tall and my owners named me after food.
And for good measure, here's a photo of Stella thrawting my every attempt to take a good photo of her.
She is, indeed, the Bart Simpson of dogs.
Posted at 02:56 PM | Comments (5)June 22, 2007
Ol' McWenchie Had a Farm
E-I-E-I-HO. Hee!
Last month, we went to Indiana to visit Husband’s folks for Mothers Day. [My gift to my Mom is that I wasn’t around. Haaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha!] While there, we stopped by Husband’s Sister’s ranch, where she trains dogs to herd sheep. Like Babe. Only with dogs.
This is Husband’s Sister’s champion sheepherder, Ally. She’s a Belgian Tervuren. She’s smarter than you.
This is Husband’s Sister’s Great Pyrenees, Soliel. She and her brother, Patu (lower right corner), protect the sheep. In this photo, they are protecting the sheep from Husband’s loving hand and scratching fingers. Good Soliel!
How many dogs does Husband’s Sister have? you’re wondering. She currently has six. And three cows. And a flock of ducks. And a herd of sheep. Including 43 baby lambies. And a partridge in a pear tree. She’s utterly insane but fun to visit!
This is Husband’s Sister’s cows, along with one of her sheep. She has waaaaaaay more sheep, and I do have a photograph of all of them together, but it totally creeps me out because they’re all looking into the camera. It’s like a zombie film.
Husband’s Sister’s Friend just had a litter of Shelties. Well, SHE didn’t but… oh, never mind. Sitting in the shade, under an umbrella, in a pen, on a colorful blanket, were five six-week old Shelties. Their faces are so tiny, Japanese schoolgirls are squealing with glee half a world away, and they don’t even know why. I’m telling you, I’ve eaten sandwiches bigger than these dogs. This one already promises to be an excellent sheepherder.
These are our nephews holding puppies. Don’t let them fool you –- they are evil and vicious and will eviscerate you as soon as look at you. The puppies and the boys.
I don’t know which I love more -– the puppy or my manicure. Yes, I got a manicure right before visiting a farm. What of it?
This puppy is so cute, I want to nurse it. Now good luck getting THAT mental image outta your head. HA! Happy nightmares!
This is Stella with Husband’s Mom. No, my mother-in-law is not a midget -– Stella really is that big.
And in case you doubt how big Stella has gotten, here she is about to eat a helpless puppy.
I just realized, I have no photos of Daisy from this trip. I guess she was forgotten among the carnival of puppies and lambies and baby moo-cows. Poor Daisy. I feel bad. I’m gonna go give her a Snausage.
Posted at 05:24 PM | Comments (1)Ol' McWenchie Had a Farm
E-I-E-I-HO. Hee!
Last month, we went to Indiana to visit Husband’s folks for Mothers Day. [My gift to my Mom is that I wasn’t around. Haaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha!] While there, we stopped by Husband’s Sister’s ranch, where she trains dogs to herd sheep. Like Babe. Only with dogs.
This is Husband’s Sister’s champion sheepherder, Ally. She’s a Belgian Tervuren. She’s smarter than you.
This is Husband’s Sister’s Great Pyrenees, Soliel. She and her brother, Patu (lower right corner), protect the sheep. In this photo, they are protecting the sheep from Husband’s loving hand and scratching fingers. Good Soliel!
How many dogs does Husband’s Sister have? you’re wondering. She currently has six. And three cows. And a flock of ducks. And a herd of sheep. Including 43 baby lambies. And a partridge in a pear tree. She’s utterly insane but fun to visit!
This is Husband’s Sister’s cows, along with one of her sheep. She has waaaaaaay more sheep, and I do have a photograph of all of them together, but it totally creeps me out because they’re all looking into the camera. It’s like a zombie film.
Husband’s Sister’s Friend just had a litter of Shelties. Well, SHE didn’t but… oh, never mind. Sitting in the shade, under an umbrella, in a pen, on a colorful blanket, were five six-week old Shelties. Their faces are so tiny, Japanese schoolgirls are squealing with glee half a world away, and they don’t even know why. I’m telling you, I’ve eaten sandwiches bigger than these dogs. This one already promises to be an excellent sheepherder.
These are our nephews holding puppies. Don’t let them fool you –- they are evil and vicious and will eviscerate you as soon as look at you. The puppies and the boys.
I don’t know which I love more -– the puppy or my manicure. Yes, I got a manicure right before visiting a farm. What of it?
This puppy is so cute, I want to nurse it. Now good luck getting THAT mental image outta your head. HA! Happy nightmares!
This is Stella with Husband’s Mom. No, my mother-in-law is not a midget -– Stella really is that big.
And in case you doubt how big Stella has gotten, here she is about to eat a helpless puppy.
I just realized, I have no photos of Daisy from this trip. I guess she was forgotten among the carnival of puppies and lambies and baby moo-cows. Poor Daisy. I feel bad. I’m gonna go give her a Snausage.
Posted at 05:24 PM | Comments (1)June 13, 2007
More Euphamisms for "Poop"
Because I'm clearly bored and have nothing to keep me entertained, Stella has invented another game for me to play. It's called simply Find It.
This morning, instead of pooping at her usual time, Stella chose to, instead, sit down in the grass and watch a plane go by overhead. Sometimes, I just don't have the patience to wait until her fickle colon comes to life. Like this morning. When my shower was long overdue.
I took her back inside and figured we'd try again once I no longer smelled like the ape house at the zoo. But upon exiting the shower, I immediately smelled the telltale smell of an unpracticed puppy sphincter, i.e. poop.
Sighing wearily with the knowledge of the task to come, I walked over to her usual spot, which is currently bare floor, ironically, because our living room runner is still at the cleaners. (That stupid Home Depot runner is probably worth about $800 by now, after all we've put into maintaining it.)
No poop. I turned on a light. Still no sign of poop. So I followed my nose and walked through the living room, dining room, hallway, kitchen...
Once I reached the bedrooms, the smell disappeared, so I knew it had to be in the front of the house. But where?!
I did another circuit and thought, "Well, maybe it was just a bad fart...?" But after 37 years on this planet, I can tell the difference between a fart and the actual deed. (You know, they're just not teaching kids the really important stuff in the public schools.)
This was definately A Deed.
There could only be one explanation. One of them had eaten it before I could find it and swat me some furry fanny. But which one? Daisy or Stella? They've both been known to fancy some fecal matter...
Needless to say, it wasn't hard to distinguish which one of them had Bowel Breath. Stella. And then, because she could tell I was mad, and the guilt was killing her, she wanted to lick me in apology.
With her Turd Tongue!
Posted at 02:07 PM | Comments (0)June 06, 2007
Timberrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
This is what Stella did to our kitchen chairs.
They were oak. Now we have a couple metal folding chairs in our kitchen. I hope she breaks a fucking tooth.
Oh, and? She didn't just chew the wood, she ate it. Consumed it. What goes in must come out, and it has done so in a supremely odorous dribble.
A random, odorous dribble. Like, when she's in the yard, it takes her five minutes to squeeze out a piece of timber, while I stand in the rain. And cicadas.
And yet, when she's in the house, on our nice living room rugs, she can stealth-shit in 0.3 seconds. And I don't notice it until my eyes start tearing up. I just brought our runner in to be cleaned for the fourth time. I have a punch card.
I hate the puppy.
The puppy who is 7-1/2 months old and just 10 lbs. shy of Daisy. Yeah, that puppy.
We have a new game that we play now. It's called Puppy Jeopardy. It goes like this: I notice Stella has something in her mouth. I wrestle it out of there. I look at the mangled piece of wood or plastic and try to answer the following questions:
1. What the hell is/was this?
2. How much of it is now missing?
3. If she ate it, will it pass easily, or will I be cleaning up puke?
4. What object in my home is now missing a crucial piece of itself and will soon fall apart?
Stupid, stupid dog. For my revenge, I will humiliate her with the following photo.
So there.
Posted at 02:14 PM | Comments (6)March 23, 2007
The Three Stages of Poop
One... day. I just want to go one damn day without the smell of poop in my nostrils.
There are many things I don't want waking me up at 1:00 in the morning.
Snoring.
Husband's and/or Daisy's.
The phone.
It's never good news in the middle of the night.
Husband's wandering hands.
I'm married. The window for sex is 7:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. And don't gimme that "Oh, I must've been doing it in my sleep" crap, mister.
Canine pre-hork retching.
Y'all know what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Yet more than all of these, I hate, HATE, HATE waking up to the smell of shit.
Yes, the barf is gross. But we have recently discovered the joy of Resolve Pet Stain Remover. And besides -- I can usually play Girl and get Husband to do most of the hurl removal.
Lo, worse than the barf is the shit because it immediately means three things.
One, the cage needs to be cleaned out. Disassembled, cleaned and reassembled. Fine.
Two, the floor will probably need to be washed because poop will be tracked from the cage to the back door. Her majesty is tipping the scales just shy of 45 lbs. nowadays, despite only being 5 months old today, so she is no longer easily picked up and toted around.
Three -- and this is the biggie -- the 45 lb. puppy will need to be bathed. The very idea of this causes me to go limp with reluctance and dread. I can hardly type it.
And this is what happened at 1:00 a.m. Wednesday. I woke to the smell of fecal matter, and my limbs immediately responded by refusing to let me leave the bed. So I laid there for a while, praying it was merely a case of Husband having had garlic for lunch.
But it didn't dissipate. Indeed, it worsened. And yea, the three inevitables followed.
One, I cleaned the cage.
Two, we bathed the puppy. In the kitchen sink.
Three, I called in "pissed off" to work so I could stay home to clean the kitchen and nap.
My dedication to employment knows no bounds.
Posted at 07:21 AM | Comments (0)March 13, 2007
Shaken, Not Stirred
Sleep does not come easy for me, as we all know. Blame it on feng shui, biorhythms or an overactive imagination. So last night, it was quite wonderful -- and rare -- to still be deep in dreams beyond 4 a.m.
Suddenly, I was violently shaken awake by Husband. And I’m not talking about a nudge here, people. I’m talking about WE HAVE TEN SECONDS TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!!! That kind of shaken awake. The kind where your colon leaps up to join your tonsils, and you’re sure that, if no one is already dead, someone will be very, very soon.
I bolted upright and took the earplugs out of my ears… just in time to hear the all-too-familiar sound of Daisy preparing to hurl on the bedroom rug.
Quickly, I used my powers of levitation to whisk Daisy into the kitchen, where she could puke harmlessly on the linoleum!
Wait a minute. I don’t have powers of levitation. So why the fuck did Husband wake me with such urgency? What did he think I was going to do that he couldn’t do?
I’m more than happy to share in the responsibility of cleaning up middle-of-the-night, semi-digested piles of goo. But I hardly think an impending one warrants scaring the eternal living shit outta me.
PW: Darling? The next time you crave my company cleaning up dog barf? Please don’t violently shake me awake. Okay, sweetie?
H: But! She was about to throw-up!
PW: Which, while being gross, isn’t really a life-threatening emergency, is it, my love?
H: Well… I panicked.
And then? He turned on every light in the house in rapid succession. At 4:30 a.m. Thank God there wasn’t a plane about to fly into our house because I wouldn’t have been able to see my way to the door.
Posted at 07:59 AM | Comments (3)February 26, 2007
When Does the Book Cart Come By?
My internet connection has been down. Who knew you had to pay the bill? Please enjoy this photo of my dogs while I delete many days worth of spam comments.
February 12, 2007
There Are No Bad Dogs, Only Perverted Owners
Things I've Said To My Puppy That Sound Dirty But Aren't
1. Don't eat Mommy's crotch!
2. Stop licking! There's nothing down there!
3. No fighting between my legs!
Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (1)January 12, 2007
I Stepped In It
Dear Co-Workers & Cube Neighbors,
Please pardon the smell.
It's not me. It's the puppy poop on the bottom of my shoe.
Yeah, I just noticed it.
"How did you JUST NOTICE the stench of feces following you everywhere?!" you ask.
You raise a good point, but clearly, you don't understand the world in which I live.
It's a world in which puppy pee is clear and insidiously invisible, until it has saturated your sock. A world in which tiny puppy poop is indistinguishable from an autumn leaf in the back yard. A world in which the smell of pee and puppy breath and harsh cleansers have numbed my sense of smell to all else.
Yes, I have cleaned it off my shoe. (Thank God I keep Lysol Wipes in my desk.)
I'm just really, really, really glad that the smell didn't turn out to be eminating from me.
I would have worn my other brown shoes today, but those are covered in even more poop than these are and are currently sitting on my back stoop, waiting for me to work up enough courage to face them. Or throw them away.
Thank you for your understanding.
Respectfully yours,
Wenchie
January 10, 2007
Answering the Call of Nature
My house is disgusting. I don't even want people coming over to pay homage to Stella because my house smells like The Crazy Cat Lady died here.
Stella has had diarrhea, which is fairly common with puppies. Nothing to be alarmed about. Plus, she's happy to pee outside, but she's not going to tell you she has to go outside. You just have to guess and hope you catch her with a full bladder.
Daisy -- a.k.a. The Good Dog -- has another bladder infection. Between the two of them, we're going outside every seventeen minutes, morning, noon and night.
Now we've all seen the funny emails about How Men Get Ready For Bed vs. How Women Get Ready For Bed, and How Men Shower vs. How Women Shower. And, being a big fan of exfoliation, I can't say with 100% certainty that I wasn't the inspiration for at least one of those.
So allow me to turn the tables a bit, with 100% certainty.
How Wenchie Gets Ready to Take Out Stella at 3 a.m.
1. Throws glasses on face.
2. Shoves feet into clogs (regardless of the presence or absence of socks).
3. Gets coat mostly onto body.
4. Clips Stella's leash to her collar.
5. Runs her into the yard.
And lemme tell ya -- if it's over 40 degrees out, I dispense with step three entirely. No neighbors are awake to see my braless, falangling boobs anyway.
How Husband Gets Ready to Take Out Stella at 3 a.m.
1. Rolls into sitting position on side of bed.
2. Scratches hair, several places.
3. Gets up and turns on bedroom lights, ignoring wailing of sleeping wife.
4. Puts on pants.
5. Puts on shirt.
6. Neatly tucks in shirt.
7. Fastens belt.
8. Looks around for shoes.
9. Asks sleeping wife if she knows where shoes are.
10. Ignores finger.
11. Remembers that shoes are in basement by couch (with wallet, phone and keys).
12. Puts on slippers instead.
13. Walks to kitchen, turning on hallway light and both kitchen lights.
14. Gets on coat.
15. Gets on hat.
16. Gets on gloves.
17. Looks around for leash.
18. Is confused because leash is NOT where he left it -- on the floor in the corner -- but is instead hanging on its hook.
19. Hooks leash to collar.
20. Takes dog outside (ignoring puddle on floor).
21. Is satisfied when Stella pees on the flagstone patio instead of the grass.
See? This is his great plan. I get more sleep when I take the damn dog out. He's trying to wear me down with lack of sleep, so I'll eventually stop making him take turns and just take the dog outside myself.
I'm onto you, Husband! Don't think I don't know.
Posted at 04:27 PM | Comments (1)January 04, 2007
And So It Begins
So there I was, at 3:30 in the morning, in the backyard in my cotton pajamas. In Chicago. In January. Stella had just peed and pooped in her cage. Lovely. The ground was frosty, and my feet were regretably sock-free inside my garden clogs.
Stella sat down on her little butt and looked at me like, "What -- you think I could possibly have anything left inside me to excrete?"
We went back inside where Husband was tending to cage clean-up, bless his little heart.
As he picked up the tiny poop, he said cheerfully, "Well, at least it's firm!"
Isn't that sweet? And applicable to so many situations. I think I'm gonna write that in his Valentine's Day card.
At least it's firm.
Posted at 06:55 AM | Comments (3)December 25, 2006
Have a Very Daisy Christmas!
December 17, 2006
The Joy of Two Dogs
Today's Guest Blogger is Egrau, who sent me this email on Friday, regarding the joys of owning two dogs:
Yesterday, having eaten his cookie way too fast, Deuce ran into the living room to puke on the carpet. I ran after him but was too late. I dragged him back into the kitchen, and while I was digging out cleaning supplies, he yakked again. At least this time it was on the tile.Meanwhile, Ava had taken advantage of my distraction, and had eaten all of the puke in the living room. After all, there was a cookie in it. Gross, gross, gross!
Something for you to look forward to...
Love,
The Disgusting Dog's Mother
It's so nice to have such kind and supportive friends. Getting a second dog was an easy decision for Husband and I, and knowing we have such wonderful people around us makes it even easier.
Can you feel the love?
And no, Ava did not hurl after eating Deuce's vomit. That was my immediate follow-up question. Although I suppose a better question would have been -- What the hell kind of insanely irresistable cookies are you feeding those dogs?!
Posted at 09:24 PM | Comments (0)December 08, 2006
Stella Bella
We went to visit our puppy last weekend, since she's not old enough to leave her mother, yet. And I learned something that day -- black dogs are very hard to photograph.
But I did my best...
And yes, I have every intention of standing on the back porch yelling, "Stelllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" While she's in the back yard. That's the whole purpose of the name!
Also in the running for names -- Xena and Heidi. Yeah, I put Xena forward as a joke so Husband would take the other two possibilities more seriously. You know, kinda like, "Mom, Dad, I have a terminal brain tumor. I'm kidding! I'm just gay!"
But he went for it! He wants to name her Xena! *sigh* It's so hard to use reverse-psychology on him because I never know when he's gonna go completely mental.
Posted at 08:04 AM | Comments (5)May 01, 2006
Eva's In the Hizzouse!
AB wanted more pictures of my dog, so here they are.
A lovely profile shot:
She's turned away from me because she hates it when I take pictures of her from above. She says it makes her look dumpy.
That's my office she's in. I hate that rug. I want a pink one. Hey, remind me to show you guys photos of my completed office. It's been on my To Do List for quite some time now. You'll be horrified.
While Husband was away at Timberframing School (a.k.a. Amish Fantasy Camp), he charged me with the care of his newly planted snowpeas. For me, this meant making sure they got enough water, and taking them inside if there was frost at night.
For Daisy, this meant licking them.
And this is one of Daisy's cousins, Eva (Egrau's dog):
Isn't she regal?
Eva used to live with the late and great Tango the Canine Cop. She was the main bitch in his harem, before he went to bite bad guys in heaven (I'm sure God imports some from hell specifically for this purpose).
Now Eva has a new brother, Deuce, or Shithead, as J calls him. Yeah, Deuce isn't quite as well-trained as Tango was, hence the affectionate nickname. (Remind me to get some photos of Deuce, too, he's gorgeous.)
In Deuce's defense, few dogs are as brilliant as Tango. And Eva is no exception. She's... not so much book smart as she is street smart. She's fast! She can catch a tennis ball when whipped at her head at point-blank range.
...
Not that we'd ever whip a tennis ball at her head. That would be wrong.
Posted at 01:05 PM | Comments (3)February 21, 2006
My Dog Can Type
My parents have a HUGE 90-year old house and a HUGE yard on a double lot, and they like dogs who follow the command "Other room!" So whenever we go outta town, that's where Daisy stays. One time, Daisy was there for a week, and she literally got tendonitis in her leg from all the exercise she got running around their immense property. That ought to tell you something about our lifestyle right there.
Now, when Billi and Older Sister and I were little and my folks went outta town or had a party that necessitated police involvement (not exaggerating!), we'd often stay with Mom's folks. My grandparents took us, my folks take Daisy -- it's the Circle of Life right here in my blog, folks.
And my Gramma would always have us write down what we did each day to give to Mom and Dad when they picked us up. Stuff like "Blew bubbles in the yard," or "Played kickball with Grampa," or "Played Crazy 8's." Oh my God. I just realized. Gramma J. was my first blogging influence. That's... surreal.
Anyhoo, Husband and I went outta town for Valentine's last weekend, and Daisy, again, stayed with my folks. And Mom had Daisy keep a blog of what she did all weekend. This is the email I got from my dog:
Dear Mom and Daddy:I am having a great time and no one here has dared give me "people " food. I gobble up my own food and drink lots of water and Grandpa has taken me out at least 35 times since Friday. I think Grammy will suffer a kiniption soon. I have fun with him. I just dance around him and he, quick, takes me out. What a sucker!! Grandma is kind and gentle with me, but doesn't spoil me, Phooey.
I really didn't like taking those pills, and after a while, Grandpa stuck it in a tiny bit of liver sausage -- he tricked me!
I don't play much with my squeeky squirrel, but Grammy loves it. She's wondering if it escaped from Cartwrights'.Well, I shall now go down to Grandpa's secret hideout, a/k/a the basement, while Grammy tucks herself in.
They don't sing in choir tomorrow (Sun) but Gram will go to church and hear Kathie talk at the Adult Ed program and Grampy and I shall frolick around the house until she returns.
WOOF--WOOF-------BOW-----BOW. Daisy.
She and I are going to have a serious talk about grammar.
"No, no, Daisy! No run-on sentences! Where's your commas? Go get your commas! Good dog!"
Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (3)February 13, 2006
Ganging Up On Me
In order to cure Daisy of her bloody-pee malady, she has to take 2-1/2 antibiotic pills a day. Now, we discovered -- the hard way -- that these pills upset her stomach. (I don't know what the hell she was eating, but it'll be a looooong, long time before I have scrambled eggs again.)
To prevent me from sympathy-puking, we break up her pills and give them to her every few hours.
Now Daisy, although we never exercise her, is remarkably strong. When the vet was trying to examine her bladder, our sweet, patient 71 lb. dog got the better of two grown men, ripped off her muzzle and nipped the vet's hand.
I guess she didn't want his hands in that area.
She exercised this same strength when I was trying to get a damn pill down her throat. Despite the fact that we coated them in cheese and/or peanut butter and/or liver sausage, she wouldn't open her mouth. You've been there -- you understand. You know that if I just handed her the food-coated pill, she'd suck off the food and spit out the pill.
So I devised quite an ingenius scheme, if I do say so myself. I took two chunks of liver sausage -- one had the pill in it, one did not. I threw the non-pill hunk at her, and, after discerning that there was no pill, she swallowed it all, convinced I was merely being generous and not trying to sneak any life-saving medications into her body.
When I threw the second hunk -- with the pill -- she was so blinded by trust that she scarfed it right down.
HA HA! I WON! I outsmarted my dog!
What? It's a valid accomplishment! She's really smart!
Billious with pride, I invited Husband to witness her next pill time. I was busy getting out the zip-lock back with the liver sausage and the spoon and prepping the hunks.
Husband picked up the pill, said, "Daisy! Treat!" Threw the pill in the air, and Daisy caught it and gulped it down.
I hate it when they do shit like that.
Posted at 01:10 PM | Comments (5)February 03, 2006
There Are Worse Things Than Being At Work
Yesterday, Daisy peed over 400 times. Half of those were in my house, which now smells like a bus terminal.
Yes, she has some sort of bladder infection, but we won't know what kind until the urine work-up comes back IN A WEEK. By which time, I'm hoping the antibiotics make the work-up obsolete because I don't want to wake up to any more bloody-pee minefields on my kitchen floor.
And here's another image for ya, a mental image this time. Me, running around outside after a dog, trying to get the doggie-bedpan under her when she squats. [Insert "Turkey in the Straw" music here.]
Posted at 01:24 PM | Comments (2)January 23, 2006
F-E-E-D, F-E-E-D-I-N-G, F-E-D,
Husband arrived home the other night around 6:00, Daisy's usual dinner time, and I came up from the basement to greet him and chit-chat while he changed clothes.
H: So, how was your day?
PW: Enh. Boring.
Daisy: [sits at Husband's feet and bores holes through his skull with her stare]
H: Um, did you F-E-E-D Daisy?
Daisy: [freaks out and starts doing her pony-dance, which is where she keeps her back feet on the floor and hops on her front feet because I don't know it's just what she does]
PW: Dude! Does she know what you just said?
Daisy: [stops dancing and looks at me]
H: I don't know. Maybeeeeeee... we should F-E-E-D her?
Daisy: [runs into the kitchen where we keep her food]
PW: Did you teach the dog to spell? NO TEACHING THE DOG TO SPELL! If we don't keep her ignorant, how are we supposed to oppress her?!
The next night, similar setting.
H:: Has Daisy been F-E-D?
Daisy: [stares blankly at the blank wall]
PW: No. And thank God she hasn't learned to conjugate.
H: Yeah, she starts conjugating verbs, and we're gonna have to put her to sleep.
Posted at 03:06 PM | Comments (3)December 23, 2005
Daisy Meets Santa for the First Time
K and I had a lovely afternoon of Starbucks and shoe-shopping (new Sketchers -- yay!), and I was driving her home, when my cell phone rang. It was Nicholle, so I asked if I could call her back in ten minutes, so as not to be rude to K.
N: Are you on your way home?
PW: Yeah, I'll be there in about ten, fifteen minutes.
N: Okay, we'll meet you there.
Now, Nicholle is a very orderly person. In fact, she may be even more O/C than I, so drop-by's aren't exactly her thing. I was immediately suspicious, especially about the "we" part. I mean, if Nicholle was ever going to come over unexpectedly, I'd assume it would be alone with a suitcase in her hand, asking if I knew anyone who could do her a "favor."
Well, if J was with her, I figured she either got a puppy or a new car for Christmas and wanted to come show it off. I was so excited!
I got home and immediately tried to straighten up the place. J is a real estate agent, so I knew our house would be under intense scrutiny the entire time they were over.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened it...
AND THERE WAS SANTA.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! Oh, it was just J in a Santa suit. Still kinda creepy, but I was fairly confident he wouldn't ask me to sit in his lap with Nicholle right there.
"We're on our way to a party, and they just called and told us to stall for a little while. Can we come in and hang out?"
No puppy. Dammit. So I made some chai tea for J, since it would be inappropriate for Santa to smell like a brewery. But because they were on their way to her in-laws', I gave Nicholle the beer.
Here's Daisy posing against her will with the scary man wearing too much facial hair.
Immediately following the photo, Daisy ran in circles around the coffee table with her ears back and her butt tucked under her. I don't know why.
And as soon as Nicholle and Santa pulled outta the driveway, I slapped my digital memory card into the computer. Merry Christmas, J! Now you're as famous as your wife's panties!
Posted at 04:15 PM | Comments (0)December 13, 2005
Paying for Fresh's Sins
Because Fresh Pepper hasn't asked me a question, yet, I'm punishing everyone by posting another photo of my dog.
I wonder what she dreams of? Probably ripping my throat out and seizing absolute control of her food bin.
Ask me a question, Fresh! You disloyal, verbally abusive, mean, selfish hypocrite!
More tomorrow on my Grown-Up Arm Candy outfit. Sneak preview: These are the winners!
Posted at 12:11 PM | Comments (2)November 24, 2005
Thanksgiving Photo Gallery
Brace yourself -- here's my Thanksgiving centerpiece.
Yeah, it's a little... busy. But hey, can you ever have too many gourds? I think not! We're not actually having Thanksgiving dinner at our house, but I like to set the table according to the season, regardless. I change it every month -- tablecloth, placemats, candles, bric-a-brack. I should do a montage for you guys sometime, in case you still have a shred of respect for me.
This is my dollie, Marie. She used to live at my Gramma's house, but when Gramma died, I got to keep her.
My friend Joe (of Barbie fame) sews doll clothes and made me a whole slew of clothes for her, including a little 7-piece Witch/Pilgrim/Nun ensemble. Just change a couple accessories and voila! A whole new costume! Yes, I change her clothes every month, too. What? My shrink said it's good to have hobbies!
These are a couple of things I'm thankful for this year, but I can't say them at dinner this evening because you're supposed to say stuff like "continued good health" and "all the loved ones gathered around this table" blah blah blah.
From left to right: From Philosophy, Ultra Rich Shampoo, Conditioner and Body Wash, Cinnamon Buns scent; Frango Candy Cane Chocolates; Beanpod Soy Candle, Sugar Cookie scent. (Beanpod Candles give off no soot when they burn!) My life is richer because they're in it.
My contribution to the Thanksgiving feast.
In less than an hour, these docile-looking ingredients will become that treasured culinary favorite -- Green Bean Casserole!
Now who could resist this face?
I could, especially when there's stuffing involved.
Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, people. And remember, today is the day the police get the highest number of domestic disturbance calls. Guns don't kill people -- holidays do. God bless.
Posted at 11:04 AM | Comments (5)November 14, 2005
Closing Doors
Husband is physically unable to close anything or turn off anything.
Examples:
1. When getting silverware/toothpaste/potholder, he always leaves the drawer open an inch or so. AL. WAYS.
2. He leaves for work after I do, so I often come home to find that the water in the bathroom is still running. A thin stream, yes, but one that's been on for EIGHT. HOURS.
(He moves me to superfluous. periods. like no one can!)
3. I often come home to find the back door unlocked, and sometimes, even STANDING. OPEN.
4. He'll be in his office in the back of the basement, and yet EVERY. LIGHT. IN THE HOUSE. is on.
Makes. Me. Mental.
I've even come home a few times to find the garage door open. Like Thursday night. You know, after working a full 7.5 hours (quit laughing!), I just want to have a fudgcicle and look at catalogs. I don't appreciate having to enter my home with my musket at the ready and do a sweep of the entire house.
But my irritation turned to puke when I saw that the door from the garage to the house was also open. And Daisy wasn't running to greet me.
DAISYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!
Somewhere in the universe, Kahn is thinking, "Damn, that bitch is loud."
Somewhere in Milwaukee, Husband got a call from his whimpering, completely FREAKED OUT wife.
PW: DID YOU COME HOME BEFORE LEAVING FOR MILWAUKEE?! [Please, God, tell me he only left the door open for two hours instead of eight.]
H: No. Why?
PW: Because... [Wait a minute. I left after him this morning. So if he didn't come home this afternoon, then...] BECAUSE I LEFT THE GARAGE DOOR OPEN AND DAISY IS GONE!!!
The horror of my dog being gone was quickly replaced by the even more horrifying thought -- IT WAS MY FAULT! I left my house wide open for burglars and crackwhores and ninjas and teenagers and raccoons!
But how could that be?! I'm the responsible one! I'm the one who walks around the house turning off lights! I put everything away! I lock up tight before going to bed! I'M NOT THE STUPID ONE!
Except Thursday, when I was.
But I still totally blamed it on Husband when I called the police and asked if they had picked up a runaway dog. I mean, c'mon, what were the odds? He leaves shit undone all the time; I did it ONCE. It's more-likely-to-the-bajillionth-power that he'd be the harbinger of some disaster! So really, was it a huge stretch that I blamed it on him? No. No, it wasn't.
So the cop asked me the make and model of the dog I was looking for. Like, do people do that? Randomly call up police stations and hope there's a stray they can claim for their own? They'd still have to pay the $20 Dog Without Tags and $20 Dog Running at Large tickets (yeah, that's right), so it's not that much cheaper than just going to the Anti-Cruelty Society and picking up a pooch.
Then again, I've been to the Anti-Cruelty Society, and believe me, you get waaaaaaaay less hassle from the cops.
Isn't Dog Running At Large a great name for a band?
Anyhoo, before you people start sending me hate mail about WHY DON'T YOU HAVE TAGS FOR YOUR DOG? SHE NEEDS TO BE REGISTERED AND HAVE ALL HER SHOTS! Relax. Take a deep breath. Have an egg nog shake from Steak 'n' Shake -- they're fabulous.
I do have tags for Daisy. They just aren't on her when she's inside because they're noisy and annoying, and the whole point of this is that I wasn't expecting her to be outside that day.
The people at the animal hospital where she was impounded -- like a car, minus the Denver Boot -- were really nice. They didn't even charge me, so I thanked them profusely for taking good care of my dog.
And how do I know they took such good care of her? Because, when it was time to leave, she was like, "I'm sorry, what? You want me to leave these nice people, and the little puppy they let me play with, and the treats, and the petting, and the land of milk and honey, to go with the woman who left me to be eaten by wild animals? I don't think so."
But the part that really chaps my ass? This means I can no longer rag on Husband for leaving stuff open. Dammit.
Posted at 01:51 PM | Comments (3)October 13, 2005
1-800-GRR-WOOF
Daisy stayed at my parents' house while Husband and I were on vacation. She looooooooves it there! They have a HUGE back yard, and they're home a lot more than Husband and I are, so it's like a vacation for Daisy. Different crotches to sniff! New pizza crusts to beg for! Wheeeeeeeeee -- it's Christmas!
We got back in town last night around dinner time, and I called over there to let them know I'd be coming to get Daisy. Dad answered, which means Mom is either out or dead.
"Hello?"
"WHERE'S MOM???" I demanded, looking at the four un-listened-to messages on my answering machine and wondering if one of them was about Mom's funeral arrangements.
"She took Nephew to choir practice."
"Oh. Okay, well, I'll be there to get Daisy in about 20 minutes."
"Okay. You wanna talk to her?"
"Um... N-no..."
"Awwwwwww, she wants to talk to you."
"Dad, don't put the dog on the phone. Dad! Dad? Don't put the--Daisy! Hi! ... Yes, I'll be there in a little bit... No, you can't stay there... Because you're our dog! ... Because I said so... I will take you for more walks! ... Put your grandpa back on the phone."
HE PUT THE DOG ON THE PHONE.
This is going right into my Case for Having Dad Committed file.
Posted at 02:33 PM | Comments (2)September 21, 2005
Plumb Tuckered Out
Lucy and Milo, after a full day of trying to viscerate each other.
Posted at 02:06 PM | Comments (1)August 19, 2005
Pneumonia Is Pnot Phunny
Adding to my intestinal distress lately, Molly has pneumonia. It started off as kennel cough, which reared it's phlegmy head the day after my parents brought her home, and has since turned into a potentially-fatal case of pneumonia.
Excuse me? How is pneumonia even an issue anymore? Didn't that go the way of consumption and ennui and vapors? It's not like Molly was living in a drafty, mildewy castle on a moor!
Yesterday, the vet gave her a mega-bionic-anti-pneumonia shot and told them, "If she doesn't get better, take her back to ACS, and they'll put her down for you."
HORRIFIED!
You don't give up on your new dog, just because she's costing you an average of $100 a day, and you are on your knees every 10 minutes cleaning up puke or mucus from your oriental rugs! I shudder to think what would happen if little Wenchie had taken sick 35 years ago.
"Oh, the new one? Well, she's got an ear infection, and she's not responding to the rum. Clearly, she's defective, so I think we're just gonna take her back to the hospital. And then I think we'll pick up a new kitchen table at IKEA on the way home."
Also, if Molly dies, it will scar Mom, who won't want to get another dog and risk going thru all this again. So I'll be forced to buy a dog and leave it in their yard in the middle of the night. Is that a felony? Leaving something instead of stealing it? I don't think so. I mean, it's anti-stealing, so logically, I should have one of the felonies erased from my record, no?
Luckily, the drugs have perked Molly up a bit, and she was actually walking about and wagging her tail when I visited her last night. I wanted to comfort Molly, and to talk Mom out of returning her, which was easy to do. (Mom's secretly a softie. Shhhhhhh!)
I also wanted to lecture my Dad on the virtues of taking his turn cleaning up the canine bodily fluids once in a while! Do we all understand now why Mom was reluctant to get another dog? It's because Ward Cleaver considers any kind of caretaking to be woman's work. No one will be surprised the day he doesn't wake up, due to the waffle iron imbedded in his skull.
I go, "Dad, you have to help Mom clean up the dog puke! You wanted a dog, too!"
He goes, "Hey! I shaved my moustache!"
Posted at 01:24 PM | Comments (3)August 13, 2005
Molly for a Moustache
My father is Norwegian. 100%. This means he is a lot of things. He is tall. He is blond. He is sturdy. He can withstand cold water that would kill a dolphin. He can eat creamed herring without gagging. But he cannot grow a beard.
I mean, dude can hardly grow a chest hair, let alone a full beard. And yet, he tries. Every year on vacation, he stops shaving. And it's so, so sad. He looks like he has the mange.
This year, he took it too far. It was two weeks after he and Mom returned from vacation, and the "beard" and "moustache" (yes, facial hair that lame must be put in quotes) were still there. I was horrified. I mean, that plus the way he dresses -- he looked utterly homeless. I was expecting him to pull out a bible and a megaphone at any moment.
He finally gave up the "beard," praise be to God, be he clung stubbornly to the "moustache." And he grew it down the side of his mouth, too, so it looked like some weird fu-man-choo wanna-be. Ugh.
"Hey, Dad, are you auditioning for the next season of Deadwood?"
We tried EVERYTHING to get him to shave the thing. Every bribe we could think of, which isn't easy, cuz the man already has everything. In his basement. So then we tried the Peer Pressure tactic and had everyone we know tell him how awful it looks.
Mom was growing desparate. She hates facial hair. She also doesn't like dog hair. Or dog drool. Or dog smell. But Dad does. Dad LOOOOOOOOOOVES dogs. He wants one really bad. And fankly, I'd like Mom to have a dog, too, because Dad goes on business trips a lot. And frankly, even when he's there, he's not quite... well,... there.
So Mom pulled out the big guns. She told Dad, "If you shave off your moustache, we can get a dog."
His barber gladly did it for FREE.
Introducing... MOLLY!
They went to the Chicago Anti-Cruelty Society on Friday and came home with this little sweetheart. And I do mean sweetheart! What a serene and loving disposition! How could anyone give up this dog?!
She's a year old and still has some serious growing to do, judging by the size of her feet and how slender she is. Mom and Dad were told she's a German Shepherd mix, and if I had to guess what she's mixed with, I'd definately say Boxer.
Billi went with to choose the dog and brought Boy Child and Girl Child. When they got Molly out of her cage, the first thing Boy Child did was throw himself on her and shove his head in her mouth. Don't be alarmed; this is perfectly normal behavior for Boy Child. And Molly didn't bat an eye. So clearly, she was the right dog. She passed The Boy Child Litmus Test.
Are her ears not the cutest?!
Posted at 05:53 PM | Comments (7)August 02, 2005
Daisy
And for no apparent reason, my dog, on vacation from her otherwise grueling and dreary life:
July 29, 2005
A Tribute to Tango
Statistics say that the majority of us have some sort of pet -- dogs and cats being the most popular. And every year, the ridiculous amounts of moola we spend on our pets rises. Know why?
WE LOVE OUR PETS!
Pet-love is, of course, so much better than human love. Our pets don't care what we look like, sound like or smell like. In fact, I get the impression that, the worse I smell, the more Daisy loves me. Our pets don't care if our career isn't a huge success, or if we can't afford the fancy kibble. They don't care if we spend hours on the computer while eating cold lasagna for dinner.
So it is any wonder that, while the sight of Husband's dirty boxers hanging on the back of the bathroom door sends me into hysterics, I don't think twice about picking up Daisy's poop?
Of course not.
Now do me a favor. Think about your pet for a minute and how much you love him/her. Now imagine how much closer you'd be if you got to bring your pet to work and spent 24/7 with him/her.
NOW imagine how you'd feel if your pet actually worked WITH you, always had your back, and, indeed, had saved your life a few times.
Can you even begin to imagine that kind of relationship? That kind of love? I have to admit -- as much as I adore Daisy, as much as she's a part of my life -- I can't imagine the kind of bond between a police officer and his canine partner.
And such is the bond between J and Tango.
Unfortunately, a few days ago, J had to make the horrible decision to have Tango, his 11 year old German Shepherd, put to sleep. He was suffering from bladder cancer and bone cancer in his neck. But despite the suffering, and the knowledge that you have the power to stop it, it's a crappy decision for anyone to be faced with. And I commend the bravery and selflessness it took J to give Tango lasting peace, even at the price of his own terrible grief.
Not only was Tango incredibly handsome and a hit with the bitches, he was fearless and enthusiastic about getting the "bad guys" and making his "yard" a better place.
He had the STRONGEST BITE of any dog the trainers had ever worked with. Some of them even refused to play the "bad guy" in Tango's training sessions because Tango could BITE THROUGH all the padding that kept them safe from the other canine cops.
Tango's nose was amazing, too. He could find bombs, bad guys, drugs, and -- my personal favorite -- he could go into a field or forest and find whatever had been put there most recently. Meaning he could find the murder weapon or the shoe or the freshly buried evidence among the litter. I think that's just amazing.
His nose was also responsible for the LARGEST DRUG FIND EVER in the state of Illinois. Put THAT in your crack pipe and smoke it, baby!
But I think my favorite Tango stories are the ones where he made the hard-ass gang-bangers cry. BWAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
And then Tango would visit and play like a puppy with Daisy. And for that reason, he was her favorite, of all her doggie-cousins.
I guess I would say that Tango lived the kind of life most humans would love to lead. He had a wonderful, stable family who was always there for him. He had a job he excelled at and loved to do. He was respected and admired by his peers, and loved by everyone who knew him.
Who wouldn't want a life like that? Tango was the definition of "Lucky Dog," and we were lucky to have him. As a rule, canine cops do not socialize much, so I'm very honored to have been allowed to be part of his life.
He will be deeply, deeply missed.
June 24, 2005
And I Thought MY Dog Was Weird
Here's Lucy, reclining on her Mommy's lap, like Cleopatra suffering from a near-fatal tummy-rub.
And here's her famous impersonation of a side of beef. She gets lots of requests for this one.
I don't know if she was smoking it, or she just didn't realize she had grass hanging out of her mouth.
She also eats frogs. That's right -- frogs. Live ones.
Posted at 03:54 PM | Comments (3)June 08, 2005
Your Diabetic-Coma-Inducing Moment of the Week
A friend had a feral cat give birth underneath her backyard shed.
Awwwwww. It nearly makes you forget that they're almost certainly infested with fleas and worms. How precious.
Posted at 08:23 AM | Comments (5)March 29, 2005
Who's My Cute Wittle Babyface? You Are! Yes, You Are!
Yeah, so, I love my camera, and I love dogs. Hence the inevitable result.
This is my dog, Daisy the Shedomatic. Last year, she ate the fuzzy bunny ears, so now she's forced to pose with stuffed bunnies and basket.
Nice try, Wigglebutt, but you're not getting out of it that easily! I've got a pirate costume with your name on it for Halloween!
Note the worried look on her face, like, "Oh, God, are the other dogs looking?"
Here she is in all her regal glory, basking in the sun from the kitchen skylight. Note that this time, the look on her face says, "You don't have to worship me. Adoration will suffice."
Last but certainly not least, unless we're talkin' size here, Lucy. She looks so innocent without The Boy Child's head in her mouth, doesn't she?
But don't be fooled! She's evil, I tell you! Eeeeeee-viiiiiiiilll!
Posted at 09:48 AM | Comments (0)March 23, 2005
Lucy and The Boy Child
It just doesn't get any cuter than this.
Posted at 08:22 AM | Comments (1)March 18, 2005
Introducing... Lucy!
Well, Younger Sister (I think I will call her Billi from now on, for obvious reasons, because she really does need a name) and her husband have decided not to have a third child.
I find I have mixed emotions about this. For one, the interwoven DNA of the two of them produces such ridiculously adorable beings that the combined cuteness of three children would be positively paralyzing. Also, if the third is anything like the first two, I will probably be hospitalized from laughter.
Anyhoo, in lieu of a third child, they got A PUPPY!!!
And I just couldn’t be more excited! I love dogs, and I know that The Children love dogs, and all that lovin’ is just gonna be one Kodak moment after another! (The Boy Child has been known to drape himself over my poor Daisy as if she were a chaise lounge and he a lovelorn starlet with the vapors. Thankfully, Lucy is turning out to be a sturdy advesary!)
Obviously, they didn’t tell the folks at The Anti-Cruelty Society that The Boy Child is bi-polar and will probably attempt, at some point, to make sweet, sweet love to the dog. They never would have gotten the puppy outta the building. He has spent his time either lying next to the puppy, lying on the puppy (“Boy Child, get OFF the puppy!”), or standing there talking to her (“Ya yo ya yo ya yo, etc.”). He also joined her in her cage and was rewarded with some moist, rank-smelling pants.
Anyhoo, this is an exciting time for me for another completely different reason, too. I GET TO BE THE EXPERT! Billi will be calling ME with questions and looking to ME for wisdom! Despite the fact that I’m older than her, this will be a total role reversal.
See, Billi has always been prettier and cooler and more popular than me, and I always looked to her for my fashion and music cues. Garth Brooks, off-the-shoulder t-shirts –- oh, gimme a break, we’re in our 30s!
She was way ahead of me on the partying curve, so there was no need to introduce her around. She got married the same year I did -– and stayed married, so obviously, she’s not looking to me for marital advice. And she actually made her own children, instead of just occasionally looking after other peoples’, so I’m no help there whatsoever.
But now… NOW! Now I am Master & Commander of Canine Guidance and Development! I ROCK! I know how to crate train/potty train a puppy! I know how to get pee stains out of a carpet! I know what toys are the best! I know how to train a dog to stay out of your way when you’re carrying a basket of laundry down the stairs! I am a veritable cornucopia of dog-related knowledge!
So, Lucy is half black lab, half shepherd and, as you can tell from the photo, freakin’ adorable. Even after The Boy Child has tortured her into a coma.
I’m going there after work today to spend the night, and in the morning, Billi takes Lucy to Puppy Obedience Class.
She’s like, “Do you wanna come with and see all the puppies, or stay home and play with the chilluns?”
What is this -– some sort of sick joke?! I have to choose between puppies and chilluns?! God, that’s just mean! Can’t we just take the kids with us to the class? To this, of course, Billi laughed her ass off.
I think I’ll stay with the kids. See, if I let myself be exposed to dozens of adorable, little puppies, I’m just gonna wanna go out and get one for myself. However, if I stay with the kids, wanting to have one for myself really isn’t an issue.
Posted at 02:38 PM | Comments (0)February 23, 2005
Adding New Meaning To The Phrase "Sick as a Dog"
You wanna know why I wasn't here yesterday? Huh, punk? Do ya?! Oh, I'll tell you why I wasn't here yesterday! I wasn't here because my dog had been ill -- in a geyser-like manner -- in my living room and dining room!
And you know what she threw up? She threw up undigested CARROTS and GREEN BEANS. I'll give you a minute to let that sink in. MY DOG. VEGETABLES.
Not that there's anything wrong with carrots and green beans, mind you. But my dog's diet consists of excatly five things: fancy-ass kibble, Milkbones, rawhide chews made from American beef, the occassional pizza crust (I don't eat crust), and a bite or two of banana when Husband is eating one. That's it. Five things.
So you don't go introducing a smorgasbord of new things to a creature who only eats from a menu of five things! Of course she hurled her guts up!
AND she had projectile diarrhea. Did I mention the projectile diarrhea? Cuz she had that. In my dining room. On the rug, floor, woodwork, vent cover, wall, mirror and the little wrought iron table that holds our meager wine "collection." In my dining room. Where we DINE. Thank Odin she missed the wood furniture by an inch, or I would have been forced to just set the whole place on fire and walk away.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I woke up in the middle of the night to a foul stench and assumed that it was Husband, and he'd eaten something stupid again. Turns out it was the Hershey squirts melding to the very fiber of my home, but I wouldn't know that for several more hours.
A little before 5 a.m., Husband and I awoke to the telltale retching sounds of a dog about to blow chunks. Alas, in our pre-dawn stupor, we were too late, and undigested veggies made Technicolor contact with our living room rug.
Have I mentioned that the living room and dining room rugs are the most expensive rugs in the house, i.e. not from Target? Cuz, seriously, replacing them is just not an option.
As Husband hurled obscenities at the pool of vomit, I discovered the splatter of ass-juice in my dining room. It was like the St. Valentine's Day ASSacre in there. So Husband tackled the fresh sick while I got to work on the dried sick.
(Those of you on a diet, feel free to print off this post and hang it on your refrigerator door.)
Determined not to let the stains set any further, I called the boss, took a "personal day" (like a sick day, only you don't really have to be sick -- we get two a year), and employed much time and many methods to rid my house of The Smell of Ass.
To no avail.
The rugs are currently rolled up in the garage and going to the professional rug cleaner's after work today. I get 20% off if I bring them in myself -- whoopee.
Posted at 05:02 PM | Comments (6)December 07, 2004
No, No! Bad Dog!
Yesterday, I arrived home from work to be greeted by a very strange sight: the complete lack of wiggling-jumping-up-and-down dog.
My first thought -- "Oh fuck. She'd better be dead or have the burglar cornered."
Because the only other option was that something had been chewed.
Now, Daisy doesn't have many bad habits. She doesn't beg at the table. She doesn't get up on the furniture. She doesn't run away. She doesn't drunk dial. She does, however, enjoy chewing up paper and ramming her nose into everyone's crotch without even a "How's it going?" or a romantic dinner date.
It may be just that she's inherently a darn good dog. Or it could be that she fears me the way Michael Jackson fears subpoenas. I found her wedged into the corner by the back door, ears down, shoulders hunched, looking like she'd just eaten the sofa.
So I walked around the house and quickly found the Christmas present she had halfway unwrapped. I can't tell you what it was, cuz it's for Little Sister, and she reads this, but it wasn't food, so I don't know what provoked her to unwrap it.
I picked up the scraps of paper, held them in front of her face and said in my Scary Mommy voice, "What is this? I spent hours of my life wrapping those damn presents, and now I have to rewrap!"
Shuh. Like I'm not just gonna tape some other wrapping paper over the hole. But she bought it and pressed herself flat to the floor, trying to melt through the linoleum into the basement and thus escape Scary Mommy. God, she looked like I'd just beaten her, and I didn't even raise my hand!
Naturally, I totally started laughing at her and forgave her. And she crawled forward and licked m chin in apology. Really, she's so pathetic. It's embarrassing.
Later, R and PJ came by to bring me a trifle dish and some allergy pills that can only be found at CostCo. They brought their two dogs, Karma the Golden Retriever and Zoe the Rottweiler, and I told them about Daisy's melodrama.
PJ said she had a similar experience with Karma yesterday. She got home from work, and Zoe was the only one who greeted her at the door. And in the kitchen was the reason: the garbage had been invaded.
"Which really was our fault for leaving garbage from Italian beef and hamburger and fries in there." PJ and her dogs are soooooooo codependent.
Anyhoo, she found Karma in the farthest corner of the house from the kitchen as was possible, grabbed her by the collar and started dragging. Karma splayed out her legs as far as they'd go, trying desperately to get a purchase on the floor. But to no avail. She got the scolding of a lifetime just as R was walking in the door.
He was all like, "Why are you yelling at Karma? It was probably Zoe!"
To which I took great offense. You see, Zoe was MY dog originally, but after my divorce, I couldn't keep her, so they agreed to take her. She has a great life -- I want to be reincarnated as one of R and PJ's dogs -- but I enjoy playing the protective "birth mother" and condemning him for treating her like the red-headed stepchild. We all have our hobbies.
But PJ defended her, "No, it was the kitchen garbage. Zoe only likes the bathroom garbage because that has the feminine products."
Ewwwww.
Posted at 11:44 AM | Comments (0)November 02, 2004
I Am Not Writing About the Election Today!
I have a 60 lb., 2-1/2 year old yellow lab named Daisy. My dog does not sleep with us. Dogs belong on the floor.
Now don't start with me. I am not mean. Daisy is well fed with top-o-the-line kibble. She has a comfy dog bed all her own. She has lots of toys, treats and attention. I just don't want the shedding, snoring beast on my pillow.
I used to dog-sit for an older, single woman's two shih tzus. Their list of "needs" included extensive daily brushing, a daily shower complete with shampoo and conditioner, and of course, they would need to be lifted onto the bed to sleep with me at night.
Yes, you read it right -- the woman not only slept with her dogs, she showered with them. Wet and naked with tiny, hairy yappers. Chilling.
Needless to say, altho' the dogs were not mistreated or ignored, they were not attended to in the fashion to which they had become accustomed. And they were none the worse for wear.
Which is a really long way of explaining -- I'm the only bitch allowed in my bed. I do, however, sleep with an over-active imagination.
When I was little, my nightmares were so bad, I would scream for my Mom, who would lay down with me until I feel back asleep, with the light on. Nowadays, Mom gets cranky if her phone rings at 3 a.m., so I cling to the Husband like he was the last lifejacket on the Titanic. And when my frigid toes meet his adorable butt-cheeks (I go positively fetal), he wakes up -- conveniently -- so that I may tell him my dream.
"A sorcerer?"
"Yes, but he was in the shape of an alligator, and I couldn't fly high enough to reach the ladder!" Silence. "It was really scary!"
"I'm sure it was."
Heartless bastard.
But the one I had on vacation a few weeks ago was really scary. Really! It starred that creepy, hairy dead girl from "The Ring" (I hate that bitch), with a couple cameos courtesy of "The Grudge."
[I have seen "The Ring." But I have only seen a trailer of "The Grudge." Yes, I had a nightmare about a trailer. I should mention here that I am the Queen of Wussdom.]
So I woke up in the pitch black cabin in the middle of the woods, knowing that the dead girl was after me. It was darker out than we city-folk can believe it gets. Husband was still back home, and a screened-in porch separated the cabin I was sleeping in from the cabin Dad was sleeping in. (The original cabin has the fireplace, but the new cabin has the bathroom. I'm partial to indoor plumbing myself.) That seaweed-haired bitch could just sneak in the screen door and strangle me with her white, gnarled, little hands without Dad even knowing!!!
I was terrified. Can't-move, afraid-of-the-windows, alone-in-the-dark-woods, can't-even-scream petrified.
But I gotta admit. There was one funny part to the dream. Me and two friends were in a boiler room, being chased by drippy-hair girl, running for the door. Friend One made it out. I reached the door, and it started closing, slowly but unstoppably.
I'm like, "Hurry up! The door is closing!"
Friend Two stops a foot from the door and is all, "The door's not closing by itself. You guys just don't want me to come with you."
Meanwhile, I'm stuggling to keep the haunted door open for her. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
But seriously, it was freaking me out at the time. I laid there, praying for sunrise, which was hours away, not even daring to close my eyes. And it was in that most desperate hour that I succumbed.
I made that shedding, shoring, bed-hogging, butt-licking beast get into bed with me. And now there's fucking dog hair in my sleeping bag.