Archive for January, 2007
First of all, Metalia asked yesterday if the wormed nephew was the same nephew who was tortured at Christmas, and the answer is yes. Yes, I was party to his quasi-ruined Christmas for him, and at one point, after his fifth nosebleed of the day, casually mentioned a friend from middle school who had to have her nose cauterized from too many nosebleeds, which led to a bit of mild panic and an explanation of what a soldering gun does. I was like Auntie Death for the duration of the holidays, and only in retrospect have I fully realized my idiocy. I did, however, play a mean game of FlashFlashRevolution with both of my nephews, and racked up quite a few credits to give the little darlings so they can purchase new songs. I’m not all bad.
Also, a housekeeping issue: I’ve been having a bit of a problem while running with, ah, the riding up of the gym shorts. I am a pear, and there is little I can do about that, and while I’m not wearing culottes, I’m not whipping out the hotpants, either. I’m wearing normal shorts that hit mid-thigh, and yet after about five minutes, I’m plucking the inner hem out of my…inners. Pants are not an option, as it’s a bojillion degrees out there. So I’m asking: does anyone have any suggestions? Am I bound to run with large swaths of fabric jammed into my crotch?
Anyway.
Lawyerish asked how we decided to get a dog, and why we opted for a pug. Truthfully, we always wanted a dog. I’ve always had cats, and would have considered myself more of a cat person, but in the interest of experiencing all pets except for goats, a dog seemed like a good idea. And honestly, thank God we got a dog, because if not, I could absolutely see myself spending all of my time at home with my 11 cats later in life, tottering around in my house slippers and wondering where Muffy got to, maybe behind the refrigerator? Now at least I will be able to mix it up with a couple of dogs who will get me out of the house.
It was always a given that we’d get a dog as soon as we bought a house, and as soon as we moved here, we started plotting. Unfortunately, I was going through a bit of anxiety at the time and channeled EVERY INCH of my angst into finding that dog, and made the process a little less fun than it could have been. In other words, I made it miserable by panicking that we would NEVER FIND A DOG AS LONG AS WE LIVED, and then realizing that if we did NOT find that dog IMMEDIATELY, I would never have a baby, ever. I can’t see the connection either, but there you have it. Dog, baby. Not sure. I got over it fast, though, so whatever.
The shelter vs. breeder question is one that comes up a lot, and one that I know both sides of, and researched the pants off of. Suffice it to say we were open to both avenues, and a breeder turned out to be the best decision for us, and one that I really suck at justifying, but I am comfortable with it.
Boston terriers and pugs topped the list, because they were both on the lazy side, and required little exercise, relatively speaking, compared to something like a Brittany Spaniel or Golden Retriever. Plus, honestly, they’re small enough that they get a truckload of exercise just running around the house, though this is infinitely more applicable to pugs than Bostons, who benefit from a lot more running around outside. They also had the added bonus of being reasonably compact, small dogs, yet relatively indestructible. I could not handle living with a highly breakable dog, given that I am immeasurably clumsy, and the dog would doubtless spend the first few months of his life in some sort of traction after I fell on her and broke her legs. Plus, truth be told, I’ve always loved smooshy-faced dogs who snort and snuffle.
And, after a long search that involved finding a Boston and naming her a dirty name , then not being able to bring home said dog, who narrowly escaped being a pundenda, we ended up focusing on pugs and coming home with Sunny.
Pugs are the weirdest little dogs in the world. They snort, snuffle, wheeze and snore like the dickens. I’ve never been near her and not realized she was there – she is a loud breather, and snuffles, creaks and snarfs everything within range, and once in a while, she lets out a large, cleansing breath out through her nose, sending pugsnot all over the room, and all over you, if you happen to be close enough. Her wrinkles always have shit in them, and we’re constantly cleaning her face of whatever mischief she’s gotten into (and it’s a lot). She spreads water all over the floor when she drinks, and a few ounces are always left hanging about in her wrinkles, which trickle out all over the place as she runs away from her dish. And the shedding! Oh my sweet lord, the shedding. She makes our cat seem like a sphynx.
We knew they were social dogs, and needed a lot of attention, but I had no idea just how much she would need to be near us. She follows me everywhere, the little clickclick of her nails just barely rising above the snorfling and occasional horking gag if she drinks too much, too fast. Until recently, she was SunnoDestructo, chewing and eating everything in her path and running up and down the stairs in a mad dash until she collapsed. In the last few weeks, though, she’s become quite the lovemuffin, and her favorite thing in the world is to snuggle up with you on the couch, her little head nestled as close to your face as possible, so that she can snarf and snore loud enough that you can’t hear the television.
In short, she’s awesome.
And this was long, and likely boring as hell, I’m sorry. I get a little overly earnest about dogs. Dogs are magic!
*White Stripes
January 3rd, 2007
There are few things quite so horrifying as realizing – 40 minutes into a long run – that the foul stench at the gym is not the sweaty pig of a man next to you, but is in fact, you. Well, not my body, per se, but rather, it was the gym shorts I didn’t wash when I thought I did because, in my infinite purchasing and laundry wisdom, I re-washed the clean navy shorts instead of the utterly foul black shorts and ran many miles in stank shorts. Of course, the only thing that could possibly make it worse is that by some strange law of the universe, this event fell on a day when there were no fewer than seven superhot, buff dudes working out on various pieces of equipment throughout the gym.
I mean, obviously I’m not on the prowl or anything, but one never wants to smell like sweaty taco near hot specimens of any kind, really. Funny how smells completely change good/bad status, depending on where they are located. Fish, for example, can range from mildly pleasant to downright horrifying, depending on the location, which should never include the gym or, ah, anywhere on the body, and yep, I just grossed myself out. Let it be known, however, that I did not smell like fish OR tacos at the gym, and I now realize that’s what it seemed like, and oh God, no! NO!
Speaking of fish (the hell?), I got in quite a bit of trouble over the holiday for discussing the presence of cod worms as we prepared the baccala (salt cod), for I’m told that my oldest nephew will no longer eat fish of any kind, and frankly, I don’t blame him. I continue to eat cod and just pray that the fisherman have eradicated all of them before it reaches my table, but I am forever tainted by an experience demonstrated to me by a marine biologist family friend that involved microwaving non-dewormed cod and seeing the, ah, little suckers standing on end like miniature trees. This is, by the way, why you should never eat cod uncooked, because those suckers can survive in your intestinal tract and become frustrating little parasites for everyone involved, and no, I’m not making this up.
I’m not sure how I’ve come to this place, but I’ve horrified myself, and very likely you, completely right the hell out of here. I’m sorry.
I spent the better part of today in the waiting room for bloodwork and an ultrasound – a fact that I should not have announced to the office before I left, because the rumors are already swirling that I am either pregnant or dying. It was a normal thyroid ultrasound, as I have every six months, and while usually it’s a quick appointment, the technician was unusually backed up, which resulted in me being stuck in a waiting room for four hours, and of course, I had to have this done today, as a series of appointments in the coming weeks hinge on the ultrasound results, and there were no further appointments to make the deadlines.
Those four hours, I might add, included sitting across from a man waiting for the MRI machine to be fixed so he could have his head checked, when really, I’d rather they examined his wife, who was wearing a T-shirt that read, “Don’t worry – be crabby!” and crabby she was. I suffered through literally hours of her constant complaints, ranging from the magazine selection (“embarrassing and inappropriate!”) to chair comfort (“My back! My BACK!”) to the long wait (“Are they MAKING THE MACHINE FROM SCRATCH?”) in a voice not dissimilar to an out of tune trumpet, only louder.
She screeched and hollered for the duration, and I was about to politely ask her to shut up, for the love of God, before someone killed her, when she announced to no one in particular that she didn’t appreciate the fancy wine opener her children gave her for Christmas, as she prefers wine in a box or at the very least “WITH ONE OF THEM SCREW-TOPS” and so, in fact, she “PLANS TO RE-GIFT IT, BUT PLEASE, DO NOT TELL THE CHILDREN.”
I liked her a little better after that.
Anyway, the four hours in the waiting room meant I had to do four hours of work tonight, which means you get nothing but cod worms and screw tops this evening, neither of which are all that pleasant.
*Tears for Fears
January 2nd, 2007
Poop wars are escalating in my neighborhood, even beyond the Asshole Bag. I don’t get it. Should I? I mean, I loathe strange dog crap as much as the next person, but I can’t say I would make it the cornerstone of a months-long vendetta that requires me to pick up another dog’s crap, dump it into a bag and leave it on their doorstep or spread it all over someone else’s lawn. And yet! Yet! It’s happening all over our neighborhood, and the rise of poop-related indignance is unprecedented, and has started to involve demands for fines, and even has one neighbor compiling paperwork to figure out how she can file a formal complaint and get a lien on her neighbor’s house until, for the love of all that is holy, he picks up the damn dog’s shit already.
And to answer -R-! It was -R-‘s question, she is my craziest neighbor, and believe me it was a tough choice, given that one of my neighbors is rumored to be a known sexual predator who followed a school bus to school last year, although I haven’t had the intestinal fortitude to actually look that one up. Truthfully, I doubt it, as this is a rumor started by children, not unlike the time the poor guy lifted up his pinky while working on his car outside while I was walking with my 7 year-old neighbor, who promptly ran away screaming, “HE JUST GAVE ME THE CHINESE MIDDLE FINGER! THE PINKY IS DIRTY IN CHINA!”
Anywho, this a woman who fell into a wailing puddle at the mere thought of not having enough mulch in her flower bed – as in, she actually got choked up and whimpered, “But we’re paying for fresh mulch! And I haven’t seen it! I HAVE NOT SEEN THE MULCH I PAID FOR, THERE IS ONLY PINE NEEDLE STUFF.” She also screamed with the yelling yelliness of a thousand banshees when she found out that the remote control at the gym was stolen, because, in her exact words, she hates Oprah and what if Oprah comes on while she’s on the treadmill and can’t get off to change the channel?
“I can’t handle Oprah. You don’t understand.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear her lower lip was trembling.
Anyway, happy New Year! Ours consisted of doing our best to mimic two tater tot-like lumps of flesh in our bed watching movies and eating really, really awful prepackaged food, as is our tradition. Last night we enjoyed frozen pirogies and Totino’s pizza rolls, along with a bottle of reasonably decent champagne I consumed almost entirely by myself, which made for a mildly unpleasant 4 a.m., when I awoke hungover and in desperate need of water, or preferably Kool-Aid, of which, sadly, there was none. Fatburger was a bit of a balm, although I have yet to fully grasp the cult-like rabidity that surrounds these greasy little burgers, for I remain a bit on the unimpressed side. Not to mention, I am a little ashamed that when I order a burger, it is immediately repeated in a loud Slavic accent by the clerk, “FEHT BURGHARRRR!” to the line cooks in the back, while they all clap their hands in glee, repeating, “FAT BURGHAR! WOOT!”. I hate it, and will likely never go back. Perhaps a California reader can enlighten me?
Also, I realized with a bit of chagrin that the last time I went anywhere other than my bed on New Year’s Eve was 7 years ago, and even that was spent at another couple’s house and I’m pretty sure I was wearing sweatpants for the duration. Last year we fell asleep at 11 p.m., and last night we were knee-deep in Lady in the Water (which draws a hell to the no from me, if you were wondering) and I happen to glance at the clock and steal a half-assed kiss and a whispered “Happy New Year!” before we turned our attention back to the really bad acting of M. Night Shyamalan and the simpering sound of nepotism in the form of Bryce Dallas Howard. Why didn’t I learn my lesson after The Village?
I hope you all had a great weekend, and I wish you a smooth transition back into work after a long break, because let’s face it: even if you had to work last week, wasn’t it nice not having anyone in the office?
*Gene Loves Jezabel
January 1st, 2007
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