Update to Prozac progress
I'm frightened even to hope, but I think it is notable that for the past few days there have been three pees in the litterboxes.
I suppose I should point out that when the pee parade began a few weeks ago, the first thing I noticed was that the usual pee count in the litterboxes went from three (one for each cat) to two (but we still have three cats!). I didn't notice at first because although I clean the boxes DAILY (without fail), I don't always clean them at the same time each day. So two pees instead of three isn't necessarily a big deal because maybe I'm cleaning the boxes early and one of the cats went late the day before. Typically, if I only see two pees then the next day there will be four pees.
In theory.
Unfortunately, it's not an exact science and I don't always remember to count. Then the Pee Fiasco started at the beginning of this month, and the counting was a moot point . . . the house reeked so bad it didn't take a detective to figure out that of course he wasn't peeing in the box.
At all.
This whole adventure, while nauseating and seemingly endless, has only been about a month long affair. It took the first two weeks of August to figure out Blake had turned into a pee monster, get him scheduled for an appointment at the vet and tested for a bladder infection (negative!), and subsequently start treatment.
As of tomorrow, he will have been on treatment for two weeks. (Again, it's not really Prozac, but it is an antidepressant for humans. I can never remember the name--uh, starts with a B?--calling it Prozac is easier for me.)
For humans, it takes four to six weeks for results to start being noticeable.
Therefore, my conclusion is that the two week mark is an entirely respectable point to start noticing an improvement. Which is to say, I still may find evidence of "unwanted elimination," but hopefully it will start tapering off and soon disappear altogether.
I hope, I hope, I hope.
Showing posts with label Part 2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Part 2. Show all posts
Monday, August 30, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Ain't that the kick in the head (part 2)
We just might have worked out a solution about the hard wood dilemma. Keep your fingers crossed; it may turn out to be a wholly stupid idea.
Or, worse yet, it may work out that it's not stupid, but impossible.
The decision to remove part of the floor, right or wrong, was not ours. We can't beat ourselves up over what was done in the past. All we can do is move on and do what we can to salvage the ass-wipe of a situation.
That being said, I truly think the party is over for the hard wood as flooring. We've debated the relatively few options that would let us use leave the hard wood visible, and none of them are appealing: either cover the subfloor with something else (hard wood, laminate), cut it out and replace with something else (hard wood, laminate) and do some kind of divider straight down the middle of the room delineating between the two floors; or, create a feature in the room (like a step) but basically do the same thing. We could move our bedroom into the living room and make the subfloor area our closet (which would mean moving the living room to the back of the house).
All of the ideas were scrapped as ridiculous.
We concluded that the flooring ship sailed 40 years ago when half of the hard wood was removed from the house and discarded. But if that old wood can never be flooring again, could it be something else?
I've been mulling it over and over and over, and a glimmer of an idea has taken shape as a remote possibility. Any interior decorators (or interior decorator wannabes) please DO voice your opinion.
The idea (no clue about logistics at this point, which is why I said it may turn out to be a good idea but impossible):
Rather than just cover up the hard wood with laminate and never see it again, we're considering taking out one of the planks and cutting it down (and refinishing, of course) and using it to replace the three windowsills.
Here's a shot of one of the windowsills. Look carefully under Blake's ass and you might be able to see it (har har):
Or, worse yet, it may work out that it's not stupid, but impossible.
The decision to remove part of the floor, right or wrong, was not ours. We can't beat ourselves up over what was done in the past. All we can do is move on and do what we can to salvage the ass-wipe of a situation.
That being said, I truly think the party is over for the hard wood as flooring. We've debated the relatively few options that would let us use leave the hard wood visible, and none of them are appealing: either cover the subfloor with something else (hard wood, laminate), cut it out and replace with something else (hard wood, laminate) and do some kind of divider straight down the middle of the room delineating between the two floors; or, create a feature in the room (like a step) but basically do the same thing. We could move our bedroom into the living room and make the subfloor area our closet (which would mean moving the living room to the back of the house).
All of the ideas were scrapped as ridiculous.
We concluded that the flooring ship sailed 40 years ago when half of the hard wood was removed from the house and discarded. But if that old wood can never be flooring again, could it be something else?
I've been mulling it over and over and over, and a glimmer of an idea has taken shape as a remote possibility. Any interior decorators (or interior decorator wannabes) please DO voice your opinion.
The idea (no clue about logistics at this point, which is why I said it may turn out to be a good idea but impossible):
Rather than just cover up the hard wood with laminate and never see it again, we're considering taking out one of the planks and cutting it down (and refinishing, of course) and using it to replace the three windowsills.
Here's a shot of one of the windowsills. Look carefully under Blake's ass and you might be able to see it (har har):
The three windowsills in the room are about 8 inches wide.
This is the longest one--the front picture window.
Remember, Blake is the size of a small elephant
Remember, Blake is the size of a small elephant
and his right ass-cheek is still falling off.
Hear me out. I absolutely do not want to commit a historical preservation sin that will land me in interior decorating hell. But, I really think this could be a neat idea.
First of all, if we don't do something, the hard wood will be covered up for probably another 40 years (the warranty on the laminate we chose is 30 years--40 years is a guestimate). Which is to say, the hard wood won't be lost, it should be protected from damage, but still: even though no one can anticipate what might happen in the next 40 years, if we cover it up we assuredly won't be able to enjoy the beauty of the hard wood. That's a Given. So is "out of sight, out of mind."
Secondly, the hard wood is the old style. Oregonians have no clue what the old style is (and before last Sunday, nor did I), so in case you're wondering what "old style" is: the planks are huge (not like the manufactured 2 to 4 inch wide planks you see at Home Depot -- rather, the size of a sheet of plywood, which is what we'd have to use to put in place of the one we take out). One plank should be plenty to replace all the windowsills.
Back to the "first of all:" that means there would still be the same unusable amount of hard wood that would be untouched and protected beneath laminate. In 40 years or whenever, when/if we (or someone else) take up the laminate, the situation is going to be no WORSE off, and no BETTER off, then where it is now. Still SCREWED because there still won't be enough to do anything with.
So although yes I can see there is a definite downside (once you cut it, you can't put it back), I still think it is okay because the whole point is that right NOW, before we've cut or altered anything, there isn't enough hard wood to use it as functional flooring. What's one more plank when half of it is already gone?
Also, it's is a neat idea because our windowsills are so uncool. In the picture, you can see it's a weird color. That's because I painted it. That's right, I painted our windowsills. I know that sounds like the sin that should land me into interior decorating hell, but trust me: the windowsills were so offensive to the eye, painting them was the only solution. Eventually we want to replace the windows anyway, so I didn't worry about it too much when I did it. It looks a million times better though because:
The windowsills, under the paint, are the leftover vinyl laminate from the kitchen counters! Avocado green marble vinyl/plastic/laminate (I have no idea what it really is) from 30-40 years ago! The windowsills! It was too bizarre; my brain couldn't even handle it.
Our goal timeline for replacing the three windows in this room is within the next 2 years, so we would probably just pull up the plank and keep it safe until we're ready to do the windows.
Any thoughts out there?
--------------UPDATE!!--------------
FORMICA!!! That was the word I couldn't think of. Our windowsills (that I painted) were originally avocado green, marble-style FORMICA. Major faux pas. Major UGH-O-RAMA.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
I am so NOT country (part 2)
That is just not okay.
It's like a bad horror movie . . . any second now a derranged, cross-eyed cat is going to jump out from behind a tree with a chainsaw and an evil laugh.
And people wonder why I am scared to walk our dogs at night.
Friday, April 23, 2010
An encounter with a spider part 2
The story doesn’t end with the text message, of course.
The spider, which was apparently crawling around on the ceiling of the car just over my head for the first 30 minutes of my commute, chose a random moment in the middle of my Grapes of Wrath book on tape to descend smoothly and sharply into view. I stared in disbelief for a moment, shocked that I was seeing what I was actually seeing: a black and white, tarantula-style spider. (See footnote 1 below)
Before I lose all credibility and you start thinking I’m a melodramatic, over-exaggerating fool, let me just say that even to my panicked, distorted vision, I never really thought it was a tarantula. Of course it wasn’t even close—it was much too small—what I meant is that it was fuzzy just like a tarantula.
AND!
To give myself even more credibility: I will acknowledge that when the event first happened, I thought the spider was much larger than he turned out to be. Although, to be clear, he was no small fry.
Ominous and sinister, the spider dangled and did a macabre dance while the Grapes of Wrath continued unaffected. His legs fingered the air like he was a witch working over a cauldron, summoning up a spell. Its contorted, possessed body expanded and swelled right in front of my eyes. In my memory of the moment, the spider (including legs) was the size of a 50-cent piece. He turned out to be the size of a nickel, but we’re not trying to make any money here.
That’s when I started to scream. It surprised even myself because I’m not a squeamish, girly-girl type. Whenever I hear the scary movie scream, I wonder how they do it. I can't imagine having that kind of volume, and I had certainly never screamed like that before in my life. Normally when I'm surprised by a bug I would let out a yelp of startlement.
Turns out all I needed was some motivation because the screams went on and on and on, actually raised in pitch until I sounded just like the horror movie bimbo who should be running out the front door but runs up the stairs instead. The miniscule fraction of my brain that wasn't scared to death actually marveled at my newfound screaming ability, and wondered at the complete lack of control. I could not stop.
My only question is: what are you supposed to do when you have a supernatural spider in your car? Or any kind of spider, I suppose. What kind of survival advice would 20/20 or 60 Minutes give for this situation? I'm sure their advice wouldn't include having a meltdown like I did, but still. There are programs about what to do if you’re caught in your car in a blizzard, if you're kidnapped and stuffed into a trunk . . . but what should you do about a spell-casting tarantula less than 12 inches from your face?
Conveniently, instinct took over. Inconveniently, instinct did not forecast out the results of my actions.
Still screaming, I swiped at the spider with my arm—apparently having enough sanity left to scrunch my arm up into the sleeve of my coat so the spider wouldn’t touch my bare skin—but then I couldn’t find it.
73 miles per hour down the freeway with a demonic spider crawling evilly somewhere within the confines of my car or on my person. An exit beckoned ahead and I debated for maybe a millisecond whether it mattered if I was late to work.
I was pulling over on the wide shoulder of the off ramp when my screaming stopped and the Blair Witch caliber, raspy breathing started.
Where is it?!
Huge lungfuls of air did nothing for me though I gulped and gulped and gulped. My heart was racing while I tried to calm down and look for the intruder at the same time. Incidentally I noticed that we are well over-due for vacuuming out our car.
Did I kill it?!
Am I looking for a dead body or a moving, silent figure? Was it big enough that I’d hear it skitter across the temporary paper floor mats in our car? (See footnote 2 below) Is it making its way up the seat, the car door, the center console, the dashboard? A relentless, hairy demon trailing a sticky shining ribbon. I dashed my hand across my face and felt the web clinging to my skin.
Did I imagine it?!
That could not be possible. I insisted that to myself firmly, still with shoulders heaving and twitching. I absolutely did not imagine screaming—my throat was already feeling raw. But the sun was glinting behind me and reflecting off various surfaces in the car—was the spider an optical illusion? The over-production of adrenaline continued, but now I was feeling stupid too.
Barely holding it together, and unwilling to get out of the car due to being on the shoulder of the road, I decided the best thing to do was just pull it together and get to work. It’s just a spider, I’m a grown up, and I can’t take up residence in the grass on the side of the off ramp. I seriously considered calling my husband, but dismissed it reluctantly because what on earth would he do? I didn’t know if I was more afraid that he’d laugh at me, or that he'd be just as appalled (or even more appalled) than I was. It's only cool to share horrific moments when you've passed them, not while you're still living through them.
What I really wanted was to throw bravery out the window, get out of the car, and never get back in again.
I put it in gear and drove on.
The 15 minutes remaining of my commute was hellish. I felt like a thousand spiders were all over me. Was it on the rest behind my head? Were its prickly, sticky legs tiptoeing up my pantleg? Was it in my hair? On my coat? Back up on the ceiling somehow?
Due to a time warp, it took an hour to get the rest of the way into work. When I finally careened crookedly into a parking space I was panting and terrified, but relief began to knock on my door.
I still had to find the blasted wretch.
I leaped joyously out of my car and shook out my clothes and sanity. I gave an extra shake just to be sure, then took a deep breath and peered into the car.
It was sitting on the center console.
It did not matter that I was glad that I found it. "Glad." Right.
My heart stopped when I looked at its beastly face. It was ugly and had beady eyes and chest hair. It was looking right at me and all scrunched up from the gust of cold morning air coming from the open car door. It seemed to have a dialogue box over its head that read, “I dare you.”
I didn’t think. I took off my shoe and walloped it. The wily bastard was in the nook of the console but I thought my ferocity and frustration might get it anyway.
It didn’t.
He jumped backward into a deeper contour of the console and then came back out to mock me. Thus ensued several smashing sessions each followed by increasingly louder grunts of thwarted anger. Were the growls coming from me or the spider?
At last the devious demon got cocky and didn't jump out of the way quick enough. Dead! But he still got the last word because his flattened, juicy body bounced up from the force of the blow and somehow missed the wide open window to hell and fell down the crack between my cup holder and the console instead.
The cup holder in our car has one of those lids that tuck away into a little cubby for convenience, and of course that tiny little space was where the squashed spider ended up. To make matters worse, I couldn't just take off the lid to make the cubby accessible for the removal of the spider's remains. I discovered that while fussing with the lid; every time I closed it the lid would come up out of its cubby and push the corpse along until the body was pinched against the roof of the little nook where it was caught.
One leg poked out to cast obscene spells at the world while I contemplated this new dilemma. It was like an arm of the damned reaching out of a grave; I couldn’t leave it like that while I casually went in to work.
Luckily a coworker had arrived at the same time as me and I flagged him down while he was walking through the parking lot. Stifling a laugh at my dramatics, for of course he had no idea of the hocus-pocus going on in my car, he brought me a paper towel that he had in his car. Somehow I managed to get the carcass out of the crack.
I stomped him another one, just for good measure.
-------------------------
1) I did a Google Image search for "black and white jumping spiders" and lo and behold, there are LOTS of pictures of my nasty car companion. Check out the Wikipedia article and picture. Per Wikipedia, the spiders are easily identified "by their relatively large size . . . " Food for thought to anyone harboring any thoughts of the "she's a wimp" variety.
2) Yup, we have a Toyota. Yup, our floor mats were recalled. I only wanted to point it out because by the virtue of the fact that the mats in our car at this moment are PAPER, it's actually feasible that a large bug would make an audible sound when running across.
The spider, which was apparently crawling around on the ceiling of the car just over my head for the first 30 minutes of my commute, chose a random moment in the middle of my Grapes of Wrath book on tape to descend smoothly and sharply into view. I stared in disbelief for a moment, shocked that I was seeing what I was actually seeing: a black and white, tarantula-style spider. (See footnote 1 below)
Before I lose all credibility and you start thinking I’m a melodramatic, over-exaggerating fool, let me just say that even to my panicked, distorted vision, I never really thought it was a tarantula. Of course it wasn’t even close—it was much too small—what I meant is that it was fuzzy just like a tarantula.
AND!
To give myself even more credibility: I will acknowledge that when the event first happened, I thought the spider was much larger than he turned out to be. Although, to be clear, he was no small fry.
Ominous and sinister, the spider dangled and did a macabre dance while the Grapes of Wrath continued unaffected. His legs fingered the air like he was a witch working over a cauldron, summoning up a spell. Its contorted, possessed body expanded and swelled right in front of my eyes. In my memory of the moment, the spider (including legs) was the size of a 50-cent piece. He turned out to be the size of a nickel, but we’re not trying to make any money here.
That’s when I started to scream. It surprised even myself because I’m not a squeamish, girly-girl type. Whenever I hear the scary movie scream, I wonder how they do it. I can't imagine having that kind of volume, and I had certainly never screamed like that before in my life. Normally when I'm surprised by a bug I would let out a yelp of startlement.
Turns out all I needed was some motivation because the screams went on and on and on, actually raised in pitch until I sounded just like the horror movie bimbo who should be running out the front door but runs up the stairs instead. The miniscule fraction of my brain that wasn't scared to death actually marveled at my newfound screaming ability, and wondered at the complete lack of control. I could not stop.
My only question is: what are you supposed to do when you have a supernatural spider in your car? Or any kind of spider, I suppose. What kind of survival advice would 20/20 or 60 Minutes give for this situation? I'm sure their advice wouldn't include having a meltdown like I did, but still. There are programs about what to do if you’re caught in your car in a blizzard, if you're kidnapped and stuffed into a trunk . . . but what should you do about a spell-casting tarantula less than 12 inches from your face?
Conveniently, instinct took over. Inconveniently, instinct did not forecast out the results of my actions.
Still screaming, I swiped at the spider with my arm—apparently having enough sanity left to scrunch my arm up into the sleeve of my coat so the spider wouldn’t touch my bare skin—but then I couldn’t find it.
73 miles per hour down the freeway with a demonic spider crawling evilly somewhere within the confines of my car or on my person. An exit beckoned ahead and I debated for maybe a millisecond whether it mattered if I was late to work.
I was pulling over on the wide shoulder of the off ramp when my screaming stopped and the Blair Witch caliber, raspy breathing started.
Where is it?!
Huge lungfuls of air did nothing for me though I gulped and gulped and gulped. My heart was racing while I tried to calm down and look for the intruder at the same time. Incidentally I noticed that we are well over-due for vacuuming out our car.
Did I kill it?!
Am I looking for a dead body or a moving, silent figure? Was it big enough that I’d hear it skitter across the temporary paper floor mats in our car? (See footnote 2 below) Is it making its way up the seat, the car door, the center console, the dashboard? A relentless, hairy demon trailing a sticky shining ribbon. I dashed my hand across my face and felt the web clinging to my skin.
Did I imagine it?!
That could not be possible. I insisted that to myself firmly, still with shoulders heaving and twitching. I absolutely did not imagine screaming—my throat was already feeling raw. But the sun was glinting behind me and reflecting off various surfaces in the car—was the spider an optical illusion? The over-production of adrenaline continued, but now I was feeling stupid too.
Barely holding it together, and unwilling to get out of the car due to being on the shoulder of the road, I decided the best thing to do was just pull it together and get to work. It’s just a spider, I’m a grown up, and I can’t take up residence in the grass on the side of the off ramp. I seriously considered calling my husband, but dismissed it reluctantly because what on earth would he do? I didn’t know if I was more afraid that he’d laugh at me, or that he'd be just as appalled (or even more appalled) than I was. It's only cool to share horrific moments when you've passed them, not while you're still living through them.
What I really wanted was to throw bravery out the window, get out of the car, and never get back in again.
I put it in gear and drove on.
The 15 minutes remaining of my commute was hellish. I felt like a thousand spiders were all over me. Was it on the rest behind my head? Were its prickly, sticky legs tiptoeing up my pantleg? Was it in my hair? On my coat? Back up on the ceiling somehow?
Due to a time warp, it took an hour to get the rest of the way into work. When I finally careened crookedly into a parking space I was panting and terrified, but relief began to knock on my door.
I still had to find the blasted wretch.
I leaped joyously out of my car and shook out my clothes and sanity. I gave an extra shake just to be sure, then took a deep breath and peered into the car.
It was sitting on the center console.
It did not matter that I was glad that I found it. "Glad." Right.
My heart stopped when I looked at its beastly face. It was ugly and had beady eyes and chest hair. It was looking right at me and all scrunched up from the gust of cold morning air coming from the open car door. It seemed to have a dialogue box over its head that read, “I dare you.”
I didn’t think. I took off my shoe and walloped it. The wily bastard was in the nook of the console but I thought my ferocity and frustration might get it anyway.
It didn’t.
He jumped backward into a deeper contour of the console and then came back out to mock me. Thus ensued several smashing sessions each followed by increasingly louder grunts of thwarted anger. Were the growls coming from me or the spider?
At last the devious demon got cocky and didn't jump out of the way quick enough. Dead! But he still got the last word because his flattened, juicy body bounced up from the force of the blow and somehow missed the wide open window to hell and fell down the crack between my cup holder and the console instead.
The cup holder in our car has one of those lids that tuck away into a little cubby for convenience, and of course that tiny little space was where the squashed spider ended up. To make matters worse, I couldn't just take off the lid to make the cubby accessible for the removal of the spider's remains. I discovered that while fussing with the lid; every time I closed it the lid would come up out of its cubby and push the corpse along until the body was pinched against the roof of the little nook where it was caught.
One leg poked out to cast obscene spells at the world while I contemplated this new dilemma. It was like an arm of the damned reaching out of a grave; I couldn’t leave it like that while I casually went in to work.
Luckily a coworker had arrived at the same time as me and I flagged him down while he was walking through the parking lot. Stifling a laugh at my dramatics, for of course he had no idea of the hocus-pocus going on in my car, he brought me a paper towel that he had in his car. Somehow I managed to get the carcass out of the crack.
I stomped him another one, just for good measure.
-------------------------
1) I did a Google Image search for "black and white jumping spiders" and lo and behold, there are LOTS of pictures of my nasty car companion. Check out the Wikipedia article and picture. Per Wikipedia, the spiders are easily identified "by their relatively large size . . . " Food for thought to anyone harboring any thoughts of the "she's a wimp" variety.
2) Yup, we have a Toyota. Yup, our floor mats were recalled. I only wanted to point it out because by the virtue of the fact that the mats in our car at this moment are PAPER, it's actually feasible that a large bug would make an audible sound when running across.
Monday, March 22, 2010
I'm bald! (Part 2)
Not sure if the lighting is any better,
but at least I'm wearing makeup.
but at least I'm wearing makeup.
(Part 1)
Do you ever wonder why some people think some things are appropriate to say? Or even, why they're you're friend in the first place?
Crapola grammar aside, I'd really like to know the answers to both questions.
Number One: Really?
Where are the filters? Some people don't have the appropriate filters that I think I was born with. Have I ever spoken out of turn? Put my foot in my mouth? Dug my own grave? Of course I have. Of course! Hello . . . we all do that. Sometimes.
On occasion, I have spoken without thinking. So have you. So has everyone else on the planet. But what about people that do it all the time? How is that okay, exactly? When is it ever okay to tell someone to their face that they look, "Terrible!"? The answer: never! Especially if the "You look terrible!" is spoken with aghast, horrified shock. Believe it or not, this actually happened at work a few weeks ago. Not to me (thank God--I would have cried), but to a gal that sits in a cubicle near me.
To be fair, she did not look her best that day. Apparently she had been up crying all night; "problems at home" was the only explanation I ever heard. I don't like to guess a person's age, and I would never refer to a person as old, but it is a simple fact that she is older than me. As women age, crying all night gets harder and harder to recover from gracefully. That's another diplomatically stated fact, isn't it? So, setting the scene, the gal in the cubicle near me has lost almost all of her ability for elegant restoration from a night of crying. Someone walked up to speak to her, and when she looked up at him the "You look terrible!" was blurted out in stunned exclamation and obvious recoil from her appearance.
She handled the rude comment with much more poise then I ever could. On my side of the cubicle wall, I was livid. This was not okay! Unacceptable.
And now, number two: Are you kidding me?
Sometimes I wonder why I'm friends with some people. For some, it goes beyond a simple lack of filter; they are just plain mean!
So, I recently got my hair cut. Blah, blah, blah. I'm in shock, it's been hard to get used to. Good cause, yadda, yadda, yadda. (I've been repeating myself a lot at work, can you tell?) It is no secret that I prefer my hair long and I'm having trouble learning how to style my new do (which means, I've been wearing it in a ponytail a lot). I've also been very vocal about the fact that I like the way it looks in a ponytail; it does the little flip-doo that I so admire in other women with short hair.
And yet, someone thought it was okay to tell me that: 1) my new haircut makes me look so much younger now (how old did I look before?!), and 2) my short hair looks so much nicer when I wear it down. When I have my hair pulled back (any length) I look like a spinster.
WTF?!
That is a direct quote from a supposed friend. What a bitch! Did I look like a spinster at my wedding? Because I had my hair pulled back then.
And what about all these days that I've been wearing it in a ponytail since I've gotten my hair cut? Was she telling me that every day all week I looked like a spinster?
I was so shocked, I didn't respond at all. But now I hear it over and over in my head, and with each replay I wonder yet again, "Why are we friends, exactly?" I'm not really sure.
It is just not right or fair that people can open their mouths and spout such horrible things with no remorse or recourse. In fact, it's wholly unforgivable. Sure, we've all said things we regret, but what she said goes beyond "regret." It's inexcusable for any person to be that clueless to that degree. People who say things like that think they're being honest. They think the brutal truth is okay because it's the truth. They think laughing after saying something severe makes it less venomous.
I think that's horse shit.
I think it's just plain rude and hurtful.
It's not just me. I'm speaking generically but it's actually one despicable person that I'm talking about. My friend, no less. Why am I friends with such a deplorable human being? This isn't the first time she's said something that hurt my feelings or someone else's. I've heard her tell people they "look tired." That means they look like shit. I guess I can't think of any other examples, but don't worry . . . they're out there.
The "just kidding" thing is one of my lesser known pet peeves. I hate the phrase "just kidding" when used to soften a harsh statement. That's what people like my bitch-friend at work say so they can say something mean and not get in trouble for it. But they still said it. "You look like hell today . . . JUST KIDDING! Hahahahaha!"
I'm not normally violent, but just writing that last paragraph made me want to slap her. And my point of all this is I'm still searching the appropriate response to the JK Bitches of the world.
I suppose, "Shut the EFF up," is out of the question.
Brain wave! I just thought of the perfect response to JK Bitch, and apparently I've come full circle. It's the response I heard at the library a while back: "My personal appearance is none of your business."
I'm actually looking forward to trying it out.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Year end project (part 2) completed
Project review: Year end project
Project details
Completion date: 2/19/10
Deadline met: No
Status: Success
Objective
Success of project will be determined by ability to achieve the following: A horrible holiday picture in which few or none of the project attendees are looking at the camera or smiling, to be distributed with pride among family and friends in our first annual Newsletter.
Preparation
No prep.
When the day presented itself that the project could finally be attempted, the project attendees switched roles and caused major confusion from a managerial perspective.
Itemization
Task 1: Camera setup
Notes: This item was scheduled to be completed by Papa, using a tripod. Perhaps this could have happened if we'd actually prepared and planned for the project to take place prior to the moment captured below. Due to the spur of the moment nature of the project attempt, it was Mama that ended up completing this task, sans tripod.
Task 2: Everyone together on couch.
Notes: This item was to be completed by Mama, but unfortunately due to fussing with the camera, the mutiny was handled by Papa instead. There was an indication of insubordination.
Task 3: (Bunny) Sit like a princess and fall asleep in a highly inconvenient location. Refuse to move.
Notes: Accomplished by Blake instead. Refusal to move had more to do with being frozen in fear (as opposed to laziness or being too comfortable to move).
Task 4: (Izzy) Lick all butts/faces in sight and make Mama and Papa laugh.
Notes: Over-achiever Izzy never has to be told twice. Performed to perfection.
Task 5: (Georgie) Wiggle uncontrollably until Mama and Papa start losing patience.
Notes: By happenstance, this project goal was achieved by multiple project representatives. All except Blake had a wiggle. The "losing patience" aspect of the task was deemed inappropriate for the project and replaced with extreme annoyance.
Task 6: (Ernie) Refuse to cooperate until Papa and Mama start arguing.
Notes: A last minute substitution was required due to non-performance of a normally disobedient member. When the original participant diplayed unusual signs of cooperation, Project Associate Bunny took over the burden of rebellion and executed her defiance effortlessly. Merit prize awarded for unsightly body position as demonstrated in the photo below. Note the impossible leg contortion.
Task 7: (Blake) Run off and hide when Papa and Mama start yelling at everyone. Bonus task: knock something over on the way out.
Notes: Was fulfilled by Bunny and Ernie immediately upon completion of Task 8. Bonus points awarded for expedience.
Task 8: Take the picture using delay feature of digital camera.
Notes: A special honorarium is available for payout to project officials Mama and Papa for overlooking the disaster on the coffee table in the foreground and the woven wood blinds in the background. Kudos granted from the committee.
Summation and analysis
With the exception of not meeting the proposed deadline, all goals (primarily, that all attendees come through the project without injury or dismemberment) were met satisfactorily and our pride is insurmountable.
Project details
Completion date: 2/19/10
Deadline met: No
Status: Success
Objective
Success of project will be determined by ability to achieve the following: A horrible holiday picture in which few or none of the project attendees are looking at the camera or smiling, to be distributed with pride among family and friends in our first annual Newsletter.
Preparation
No prep.
When the day presented itself that the project could finally be attempted, the project attendees switched roles and caused major confusion from a managerial perspective.
Itemization
Task 1: Camera setup
Notes: This item was scheduled to be completed by Papa, using a tripod. Perhaps this could have happened if we'd actually prepared and planned for the project to take place prior to the moment captured below. Due to the spur of the moment nature of the project attempt, it was Mama that ended up completing this task, sans tripod.
Task 2: Everyone together on couch.
Notes: This item was to be completed by Mama, but unfortunately due to fussing with the camera, the mutiny was handled by Papa instead. There was an indication of insubordination.
Task 3: (Bunny) Sit like a princess and fall asleep in a highly inconvenient location. Refuse to move.
Notes: Accomplished by Blake instead. Refusal to move had more to do with being frozen in fear (as opposed to laziness or being too comfortable to move).
Task 4: (Izzy) Lick all butts/faces in sight and make Mama and Papa laugh.
Notes: Over-achiever Izzy never has to be told twice. Performed to perfection.
Task 5: (Georgie) Wiggle uncontrollably until Mama and Papa start losing patience.
Notes: By happenstance, this project goal was achieved by multiple project representatives. All except Blake had a wiggle. The "losing patience" aspect of the task was deemed inappropriate for the project and replaced with extreme annoyance.
Task 6: (Ernie) Refuse to cooperate until Papa and Mama start arguing.
Notes: A last minute substitution was required due to non-performance of a normally disobedient member. When the original participant diplayed unusual signs of cooperation, Project Associate Bunny took over the burden of rebellion and executed her defiance effortlessly. Merit prize awarded for unsightly body position as demonstrated in the photo below. Note the impossible leg contortion.
Task 7: (Blake) Run off and hide when Papa and Mama start yelling at everyone. Bonus task: knock something over on the way out.
Notes: Was fulfilled by Bunny and Ernie immediately upon completion of Task 8. Bonus points awarded for expedience.
Task 8: Take the picture using delay feature of digital camera.
Notes: A special honorarium is available for payout to project officials Mama and Papa for overlooking the disaster on the coffee table in the foreground and the woven wood blinds in the background. Kudos granted from the committee.
Summation and analysis
With the exception of not meeting the proposed deadline, all goals (primarily, that all attendees come through the project without injury or dismemberment) were met satisfactorily and our pride is insurmountable.
Merry Christmas from our family
Friday, February 19, 2010
I hate winter (Part 2)
Technically this picture was from last year, but it's been awful snowy'ness for the past few weeks, so it could have been from this year.
Obviously since the person is standing next to the car, it wasn't too serious of a crash. But the fact that the vehicle is laying on its side is pretty bad for all that.
He was probably trying to pass that chick in the green Taurus.
---------------
PS
Oops, forgot to mention something. La Maestra makes a good point, but just so it's clear: I was stopped when I took this picture. If I'd taken it while I was moving, I'd have waited until I was closer!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
My little drama queen's dramatic tail (part 2)
My little drama queen's dramatic tail
As promised, the continuing saga:
I left off cursing the jimmy boot and deciding that soaking was not as evil as everyone says. My once-complacent horse was not a stubborn MULE when it came to picking up either of her front feet. When I finally got her to pick one up, I had to finish my business quickly because once she set it back down GOOD LUCK getting her to pick it up again. Also, if I took too long with my dinking around, then she would lay down to get me to put her foot down.
Nice.
So that was getting old. My horse used to be not just willing to pick her feet up, but she anticipated which foot you were going to ask for and actually held it in the air waiting for you.
We were plugging along, not really getting anywhere, and I was starting to wonder if something else was going on. Gazelle is 26, which is pretty old for a horse, but she has always acted much younger than she is. In my experience, which I think is generic enough to be relatively true, horses tend to act like babies until they're 4 or so, then they act like stupid adolescents until they're about 10 years old. I've never heard that there is a magic number like there is with dogs to get the equivalent human age, but it's relatively close to 3 which is what I like to use. So, using that theory, a 4 year old horse would be about 12 years old in people-years, and a 10 year old horse would be about 30.
And 30 is, of course, when most people finally start settling down, doing chores without being told, going to work, being a grown up. With horses, they also start settling down, but they do it by acting calmer, getting along with others when they're turned out, and not spooking at stupid things like a garbage can moved from one side of the aisle to the other. However, just like with people, it can be plus or minus a few years. Or decades.
But Gazelle has never really followed that rule of thumb. Pre-abscess, she was a 26 year old mare that acted like she was 7. She would prance around outside like she had never even heard of arthritis, and rile up the other horses to such an extent that she could only be turned out by herself. When the wind was blowing, she's put her Dorothy Gale hat on and make a complete nuisance of herself, shrieking, "Auntie Em, Auntie Em!" and panicking about flying monkeys.
Post-abscess, Gazelle has been much more mellow, which has completely been freaking me out. Not lethargic, not lame . . . just mellow. I was like a mom with an ADHD child that suddenly started doing their homework right after school and washing their dishes without being told . . . what in the hell is wrong with my kid?!
I just couldn't put my finger on what was wrong. She would do everything I asked, but was still being a pain about picking up her feet. She would walk, trot, and canter on the lunge line, mostly but not wholly sound, and every once in a while would limp. Sometimes just one step, sometimes for half of the circle. The limp was pronounced enough that even I (a person not good at detecting a limp) could see it, but not so pronounced as to raise an alarm or cause me to call the vet back. Rather than the limp, the problem seemed to be just plain old melancholy.
The farrier came out for her regular appointment, and things started moving along. In looking at her front feet, he noticed that what was the good foot was now not so great anymore. And when he trimmed away the excess, he ended up draining some extra fluid. Not an abscess, not yet, but fluid that was either brewing up to become an abscess, or perhaps nothing.
He was not surprised that she wasn't totally lame, since it wasn't a full-blown abscess, but he wanted me to soak it a few times to make sure we got all the fluid out.
And now! Limp is gone, and melancholy attitude is melting away. I even got to ride yesterday, for the first time in weeks. Hooray!
As promised, the continuing saga:
I left off cursing the jimmy boot and deciding that soaking was not as evil as everyone says. My once-complacent horse was not a stubborn MULE when it came to picking up either of her front feet. When I finally got her to pick one up, I had to finish my business quickly because once she set it back down GOOD LUCK getting her to pick it up again. Also, if I took too long with my dinking around, then she would lay down to get me to put her foot down.
Nice.
So that was getting old. My horse used to be not just willing to pick her feet up, but she anticipated which foot you were going to ask for and actually held it in the air waiting for you.
We were plugging along, not really getting anywhere, and I was starting to wonder if something else was going on. Gazelle is 26, which is pretty old for a horse, but she has always acted much younger than she is. In my experience, which I think is generic enough to be relatively true, horses tend to act like babies until they're 4 or so, then they act like stupid adolescents until they're about 10 years old. I've never heard that there is a magic number like there is with dogs to get the equivalent human age, but it's relatively close to 3 which is what I like to use. So, using that theory, a 4 year old horse would be about 12 years old in people-years, and a 10 year old horse would be about 30.
And 30 is, of course, when most people finally start settling down, doing chores without being told, going to work, being a grown up. With horses, they also start settling down, but they do it by acting calmer, getting along with others when they're turned out, and not spooking at stupid things like a garbage can moved from one side of the aisle to the other. However, just like with people, it can be plus or minus a few years. Or decades.
But Gazelle has never really followed that rule of thumb. Pre-abscess, she was a 26 year old mare that acted like she was 7. She would prance around outside like she had never even heard of arthritis, and rile up the other horses to such an extent that she could only be turned out by herself. When the wind was blowing, she's put her Dorothy Gale hat on and make a complete nuisance of herself, shrieking, "Auntie Em, Auntie Em!" and panicking about flying monkeys.
Post-abscess, Gazelle has been much more mellow, which has completely been freaking me out. Not lethargic, not lame . . . just mellow. I was like a mom with an ADHD child that suddenly started doing their homework right after school and washing their dishes without being told . . . what in the hell is wrong with my kid?!
I just couldn't put my finger on what was wrong. She would do everything I asked, but was still being a pain about picking up her feet. She would walk, trot, and canter on the lunge line, mostly but not wholly sound, and every once in a while would limp. Sometimes just one step, sometimes for half of the circle. The limp was pronounced enough that even I (a person not good at detecting a limp) could see it, but not so pronounced as to raise an alarm or cause me to call the vet back. Rather than the limp, the problem seemed to be just plain old melancholy.
The farrier came out for her regular appointment, and things started moving along. In looking at her front feet, he noticed that what was the good foot was now not so great anymore. And when he trimmed away the excess, he ended up draining some extra fluid. Not an abscess, not yet, but fluid that was either brewing up to become an abscess, or perhaps nothing.
He was not surprised that she wasn't totally lame, since it wasn't a full-blown abscess, but he wanted me to soak it a few times to make sure we got all the fluid out.
And now! Limp is gone, and melancholy attitude is melting away. I even got to ride yesterday, for the first time in weeks. Hooray!
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Have you ever felt like you were in a movie (part 2)
I received a comment on the post Have you ever felt like you were in a movie? asking what the fight was about and if there would be an explanatory post to follow.
Absolutootly! Always happy to oblige.
Unfortunately, I played it up a bit too much, and after all my hype the actual reason for the fight is going to be a bit of a letdown. Really it was just a "She said that he said that you said that I said" kind of situation, you know what I'm saying? Ha.
So. Simply stated: the gal that announced her pregnancy was insensitively vocal (to the point of gloating, said some) about her pregnancy in front of another gal that is allegedly having difficulty getting pregnant (but is not being vocal about it so very few people knew about her difficulty prior to The Event). After The Event, of course everyone knew, so I hope I'm not also being insensitive.
The second gal, Miss Quiet, didn't even say anything, but a third coworker, Miss Jerry Springer, flew off the handle to Miss Pregnant, attenpting to protect Miss Quiet but what in the end only resulted in putting Miss Pregnant on the defensive. And in Miss Pregnant's mind, the best defense is a good offense. So Miss Pregnant made a bunch of "I'm so betrayed," phone calls to Miss Quiet, and then Miss Quiet and Miss Jerry Springer both made calls back to Miss Pregnant and . . . yeah, I kind of lost track.
In the end, Miss Jerry Springer was the catalyst for it all. Miss Jerry Springer has been having some of her own issues going on (definitely not my business), but it made her not just "overreact," but instead have a reaction of immense proportions when this situation presented itself.
Can't say I've never been there: in a place where you want to (and possibly do) take your own garbage out on someone else. I'm sure there's no love lost between Miss Pregnant and Miss Jerry Springer, so I doubt that Miss J.S. has lost any sleep over Miss P's feelings, but still . . . it was pretty entertaining.
Absolutootly! Always happy to oblige.
Unfortunately, I played it up a bit too much, and after all my hype the actual reason for the fight is going to be a bit of a letdown. Really it was just a "She said that he said that you said that I said" kind of situation, you know what I'm saying? Ha.
So. Simply stated: the gal that announced her pregnancy was insensitively vocal (to the point of gloating, said some) about her pregnancy in front of another gal that is allegedly having difficulty getting pregnant (but is not being vocal about it so very few people knew about her difficulty prior to The Event). After The Event, of course everyone knew, so I hope I'm not also being insensitive.
The second gal, Miss Quiet, didn't even say anything, but a third coworker, Miss Jerry Springer, flew off the handle to Miss Pregnant, attenpting to protect Miss Quiet but what in the end only resulted in putting Miss Pregnant on the defensive. And in Miss Pregnant's mind, the best defense is a good offense. So Miss Pregnant made a bunch of "I'm so betrayed," phone calls to Miss Quiet, and then Miss Quiet and Miss Jerry Springer both made calls back to Miss Pregnant and . . . yeah, I kind of lost track.
In the end, Miss Jerry Springer was the catalyst for it all. Miss Jerry Springer has been having some of her own issues going on (definitely not my business), but it made her not just "overreact," but instead have a reaction of immense proportions when this situation presented itself.
Can't say I've never been there: in a place where you want to (and possibly do) take your own garbage out on someone else. I'm sure there's no love lost between Miss Pregnant and Miss Jerry Springer, so I doubt that Miss J.S. has lost any sleep over Miss P's feelings, but still . . . it was pretty entertaining.
Monday, September 28, 2009
The ditto debate (part 2)
The ditto debate (part 1)
I'm so disappointed. Everyone guessed Rush Limbaugh, which is so far from what I was looking for it's not even funny. Did I forget to say I'm not politically minded? I don't keep up on current events?
Right.
So I guess I should have mentioned ditto was supposed to be a movie reference.
At any rate, my husband and I got in a nice, healthy debate about the word ditto the other day. I have a feeling this whole post is going to be a big fat letdown after everyone got all geared up for a post about Rush. Good ol' Rush Limbaugh, who I don't even like or know anything about, and probably couldn't pick out of a line up of four other balding, middle-aged, pot-bellied, Caucasian Republicans.
If you were looking for a riveting, post about politics, well . . . sorry about your luck that you blundered upon my silly little blog about grammar and my pets and anthropomorphism.
The debate my husband and I had was regarding the late Patrick Swayze. I've been busy and didn't write this post right when it happened, so I would like to point out for the record that when this debate occurred, Patrick Swayze had not yet passed away. Also, regarding his passing, although I have nothing original to say about him, I do think there is a ring of truth to what is becoming his cliche epitaph: he was a courageous soul that fought a terrible fight for a really long time, and he didn't deserve it at all. What an unfair, tragic, shame.
Okay, now that the business has been attended to, back to the debate with Dan, which is of course the main point of this post.
We were IM'ing, he from his BlackBerry, me from my PinkBerry. It was about 5:00 on a workday and we were both about to leave our respective offices, so I IM'd the message "Be careful." His response, "Ditto."
Naturally I responded, "I love you too, Patrick Swayze from Ghost."
His text message reply to me is what started the debate. I couldn't believe when he IM'ed back to me just one word:
"Huh?"
"Huh?"!? What do you mean, "Huh?"!
How could it be that a fellow Child of the 80's would not be familiar with that reference? I was speechless.
Talking to him later, Dan did not think it was a big deal, but I just couldn't let it go. And it wasn't even that he hadn't seen the movie. He has.
In the end, it was his nonchalance at not recognizing a movie reference that I found so infuriating. For some people, I would just let it go, but with my husband . . . we're both big movie buffs. We're both always saying obscure and random lines from movies to make sure the other one knows what it's from. It's Our Thing. So although granted I wouldn't have had this debate with, say, a coworker I don't know well, with Danny it was completely justified.
I asked Dan's mom at dinner the same question to prove to Dan that it was appalling that he didn't recognize ditto. Unfortunately it backfired; she didn't know either! Worse, she hasn't even seen the movie! How can that be? How can there be a person in the United States that hasn't seen Ghost? I take back all that I said about not pestering someone I don't know well . . . not picking up on a Ghost reference is like not picking up on a Dirty Dancing reference.
Oh, please say you've seen Dirty Dancing! "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" is in WIKIPEDIA, for crying out loud!
I decided I needed to do more research. I took a limited poll of just my mother and sister. I texted them the message: "Danny and I are having a debate! Please read the word at the bottom of this message and text back the first thing that pops into your head." And of course, ditto was at the end of the message.
One response was spot-on. Just a one-word text: "Ghost." The other response was disappointing: "I can't think of the movie but it was from the 80's."
So not an overwhelming support of my side of the argument, but at least both recognized that ditto is from an 80's movie. Also, there is no doubt in my mind that if I'd been having the same IM conversation with either of them, I wouldn't have gotten "Huh?" as a response to my un-political cleverness.
I'm so disappointed. Everyone guessed Rush Limbaugh, which is so far from what I was looking for it's not even funny. Did I forget to say I'm not politically minded? I don't keep up on current events?
Right.
So I guess I should have mentioned ditto was supposed to be a movie reference.
At any rate, my husband and I got in a nice, healthy debate about the word ditto the other day. I have a feeling this whole post is going to be a big fat letdown after everyone got all geared up for a post about Rush. Good ol' Rush Limbaugh, who I don't even like or know anything about, and probably couldn't pick out of a line up of four other balding, middle-aged, pot-bellied, Caucasian Republicans.
If you were looking for a riveting, post about politics, well . . . sorry about your luck that you blundered upon my silly little blog about grammar and my pets and anthropomorphism.
The debate my husband and I had was regarding the late Patrick Swayze. I've been busy and didn't write this post right when it happened, so I would like to point out for the record that when this debate occurred, Patrick Swayze had not yet passed away. Also, regarding his passing, although I have nothing original to say about him, I do think there is a ring of truth to what is becoming his cliche epitaph: he was a courageous soul that fought a terrible fight for a really long time, and he didn't deserve it at all. What an unfair, tragic, shame.
Okay, now that the business has been attended to, back to the debate with Dan, which is of course the main point of this post.
We were IM'ing, he from his BlackBerry, me from my PinkBerry. It was about 5:00 on a workday and we were both about to leave our respective offices, so I IM'd the message "Be careful." His response, "Ditto."
Naturally I responded, "I love you too, Patrick Swayze from Ghost."
His text message reply to me is what started the debate. I couldn't believe when he IM'ed back to me just one word:
"Huh?"
"Huh?"!? What do you mean, "Huh?"!
How could it be that a fellow Child of the 80's would not be familiar with that reference? I was speechless.
Talking to him later, Dan did not think it was a big deal, but I just couldn't let it go. And it wasn't even that he hadn't seen the movie. He has.
In the end, it was his nonchalance at not recognizing a movie reference that I found so infuriating. For some people, I would just let it go, but with my husband . . . we're both big movie buffs. We're both always saying obscure and random lines from movies to make sure the other one knows what it's from. It's Our Thing. So although granted I wouldn't have had this debate with, say, a coworker I don't know well, with Danny it was completely justified.
I asked Dan's mom at dinner the same question to prove to Dan that it was appalling that he didn't recognize ditto. Unfortunately it backfired; she didn't know either! Worse, she hasn't even seen the movie! How can that be? How can there be a person in the United States that hasn't seen Ghost? I take back all that I said about not pestering someone I don't know well . . . not picking up on a Ghost reference is like not picking up on a Dirty Dancing reference.
Oh, please say you've seen Dirty Dancing! "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" is in WIKIPEDIA, for crying out loud!
I decided I needed to do more research. I took a limited poll of just my mother and sister. I texted them the message: "Danny and I are having a debate! Please read the word at the bottom of this message and text back the first thing that pops into your head." And of course, ditto was at the end of the message.
One response was spot-on. Just a one-word text: "Ghost." The other response was disappointing: "I can't think of the movie but it was from the 80's."
So not an overwhelming support of my side of the argument, but at least both recognized that ditto is from an 80's movie. Also, there is no doubt in my mind that if I'd been having the same IM conversation with either of them, I wouldn't have gotten "Huh?" as a response to my un-political cleverness.
Monday, August 31, 2009
I watch too many movies
Can a person will away FEAR? Part Two
I am aware that I watch too many movies. But--am I the only one here?--sometimes it feels like The World is doing everything it can to make me feel like I'm in a scary movie.
[Thump, creak] Am I supposed to be running out the front door right now?
[Prickle, prickle, neck hairs up] Is someone watching me saying, "Don't go up the stairs!" or "Look behind you!"
[Watching TV] Am I in the rough cut that doesn't have music yet? Is this the moment when the audience will hear "Ree! Ree! Ree!"?
So, perhaps a little melodrama is creeping into this post. But what is a person supposed to think when this happens:
Dan was out of town (of course he was!) and I was on the phone chatting when I was supposed to be walking the dogs. One of the adaptations I have made is to walk the dogs right before dusk--when it's still broad daylight--so that when it's time to go to bed I can just take them to the yard for one last quick peepee. It's been working out well; there's nothing worse then walking the dogs down the length of our driveway (about a quarter of a mile!) when it's dark out and your imagination is working overtime.
In my defense: our farm is scary as hell! It is the epicenter of scarydom, the template they use to create the setting for all Scary Movies. And if you've ever walked past a field of corn when the wind is rattling the stalks and the clouds are whisping creepily in front of a werewolf moon . . . well, if you have then you know. You know why they use The Middle of Nowhere to invoke the proper amount of spookiness. And if you haven't . . . well, I invite you to try it, just once.
We have a couple of streetlight-sized lights (that I just call streetlights even though there is no street per se). We have them because we're just That Far away from civilization.
To make matters worse: one of them is shorting out (the power company has been notified but they can't make it out to fix it for like two weeks). So to anyone who has never been out walking in the pitch dark when one of the only lights for miles is flickering on and off (mostly staying off), well . . . I don't really think that person is allowed an opinion on the matter.
Back to the story: Dan was out of town, I was chattering away on the phone with a friend of mine like some kind of Scary Movie Ditz, and just as we ended our conversation the dogs started going bonkers, barking like hell was out waiting in our driveway.
SHIT!
While I was gabbing away, the sun had said goodbye, set, and was now completely gone. It was wholly dark, the streetlight was flickering, and apparently an ax murderer was waiting for us in the bushes.
My heart started to thump. "It will be okay!" I hooked the dogs up. "You watch too many movies!" I went and got a sweatshirt. "Everything is going to be fine; the dogs bark when a leaf blows by!" I got my cell phone and called Dan. "It's just a little wind!" We all went outside. "When the streetlights go out in Harry Potter, it means Dumbledore is coming. But . . . Harry Potter is just a movie. It's going to be a convict or a coyote instead."
No clue what Dan and I talked about . . . I was so in my head, I didn't hear anything he said. I know he was trying to reassure me, but the wind was blowing and I was getting more and more petrified with every step I took.
Incidentally, the farmer we lease our land to did not plant corn this year. So, to be fair: soybeans are actually much less scary then corn, since it comes up to your knee instead of over your head. Being able to see all the way to the center of the field is actually reassuring in a "you can see if someone is coming" kind of way (rather than scary in a "nowhere to hide" kind of way)(I've seen enough scary movies to know you should never hide in a cornfield!).
However, between the dogs barking like crazy earlier, the wind, the darkness, and the inoperable streetlight . . . I was not in the mood to be reassured by the fact that we had a low field of soybeans versus a taller, even creepier field of corn. It really didn't matter at that point in my imagination.
I made it to the second streetlight without being killed (that's about halfway down the driveway), but neither of the dogs had pooped yet so we had to keep going. Did you know when you're that far out in the Boonies, you can see the edge of light cast by a streetlight? And when you step beyond the rim of light, you feel the temperature drop, and all sounds are sucked up by the seashell void of ghostliness? It's true.
As soon as we walked beyond the edge of light, the dogs started standing on their back legs (both of them!) to sniff the air and peer into the even darker shadows of the hayfield. (One side of the driveway is soybeans, the other side is hay). I was having trouble controlling them (remember, Danny was with me on the phone) and I could feel my diaphragm start to seize.
Finally, whoever was supposed to poop did their business, and we started back. We walked briskly toward the circle of light from the streetlight . . . the dogs' behavior continued to psych me out, and I yearned toward the light like grace.
It was just before we got to the circle of light that it happened. The scene with absolutely no theatrical benefits to the movie; simply a scene meant to scare the hell out of the audience for no reason other then for the kicks and jollys of some sadistic director.
Ree! Ree! Ree!
Both dogs were trying to walk on their back legs (to catch the scent of whoever, or whatever, was in the soybeans) when all of a sudden Izzy darted over to the edge of the soybean field and before I knew what was happening the air was filled with the roaring clap and flap of demon wings as a throng of devils flew straight toward my face. I saw bone-white bodies and black, soulless eyes and I yelled and nearly dropped the phone, the leashes, and my stomach. Whatever fraction of rationality and bravery I had completely deserted me.
It turned out to be nothing but two birds roosting on the ground on the edge of the field, startled out of their sleep by Izzy. I tried to calm my palpitating heart enough to tell Dan that I was not dead, but my shaking hands could barely keep a hold of the phone and the dogs were weaving back and forth, getting their leashes tangled in the excitement of our near-death experience. I panicked neatly, and even though I knew it was nothing, the adrenaline made my extremities tingle and my breath come short. When I finally was able to speak, it came out in a gasping Blair Witch style stutter that I couldn't control.
At first Dan thought it was hilarious, as anyone at the other end of the line would for someone freaking out over a pair of birds. But he soon figured out that they were just the final straw, and the anticipation had almost been as bad as my fright over the birds. The birds would have unsettled even the most stoic of dog walkers, and I was about as far away from stoic as a person could get. Even for the calm of heart, bird wings can be very loud and shocking; it's a natural instinct to swat and jerk backward when something flies toward you, and someone in a normal state of mind would have moved on very quickly from what was practically a non-event.
I did not move on.
My subsequent meltdown was just the result of being in a heightened state of fear prior to having a flock of rabid birds attack me and chase me back to the house, swarming and plucking at my hair and clothes, and screaming like banshees in my ear.
I am aware that I watch too many movies. But--am I the only one here?--sometimes it feels like The World is doing everything it can to make me feel like I'm in a scary movie.
[Thump, creak] Am I supposed to be running out the front door right now?
[Prickle, prickle, neck hairs up] Is someone watching me saying, "Don't go up the stairs!" or "Look behind you!"
[Watching TV] Am I in the rough cut that doesn't have music yet? Is this the moment when the audience will hear "Ree! Ree! Ree!"?
So, perhaps a little melodrama is creeping into this post. But what is a person supposed to think when this happens:
Dan was out of town (of course he was!) and I was on the phone chatting when I was supposed to be walking the dogs. One of the adaptations I have made is to walk the dogs right before dusk--when it's still broad daylight--so that when it's time to go to bed I can just take them to the yard for one last quick peepee. It's been working out well; there's nothing worse then walking the dogs down the length of our driveway (about a quarter of a mile!) when it's dark out and your imagination is working overtime.
In my defense: our farm is scary as hell! It is the epicenter of scarydom, the template they use to create the setting for all Scary Movies. And if you've ever walked past a field of corn when the wind is rattling the stalks and the clouds are whisping creepily in front of a werewolf moon . . . well, if you have then you know. You know why they use The Middle of Nowhere to invoke the proper amount of spookiness. And if you haven't . . . well, I invite you to try it, just once.
We have a couple of streetlight-sized lights (that I just call streetlights even though there is no street per se). We have them because we're just That Far away from civilization.
To make matters worse: one of them is shorting out (the power company has been notified but they can't make it out to fix it for like two weeks). So to anyone who has never been out walking in the pitch dark when one of the only lights for miles is flickering on and off (mostly staying off), well . . . I don't really think that person is allowed an opinion on the matter.
Back to the story: Dan was out of town, I was chattering away on the phone with a friend of mine like some kind of Scary Movie Ditz, and just as we ended our conversation the dogs started going bonkers, barking like hell was out waiting in our driveway.
SHIT!
While I was gabbing away, the sun had said goodbye, set, and was now completely gone. It was wholly dark, the streetlight was flickering, and apparently an ax murderer was waiting for us in the bushes.
My heart started to thump. "It will be okay!" I hooked the dogs up. "You watch too many movies!" I went and got a sweatshirt. "Everything is going to be fine; the dogs bark when a leaf blows by!" I got my cell phone and called Dan. "It's just a little wind!" We all went outside. "When the streetlights go out in Harry Potter, it means Dumbledore is coming. But . . . Harry Potter is just a movie. It's going to be a convict or a coyote instead."
No clue what Dan and I talked about . . . I was so in my head, I didn't hear anything he said. I know he was trying to reassure me, but the wind was blowing and I was getting more and more petrified with every step I took.
Incidentally, the farmer we lease our land to did not plant corn this year. So, to be fair: soybeans are actually much less scary then corn, since it comes up to your knee instead of over your head. Being able to see all the way to the center of the field is actually reassuring in a "you can see if someone is coming" kind of way (rather than scary in a "nowhere to hide" kind of way)(I've seen enough scary movies to know you should never hide in a cornfield!).
However, between the dogs barking like crazy earlier, the wind, the darkness, and the inoperable streetlight . . . I was not in the mood to be reassured by the fact that we had a low field of soybeans versus a taller, even creepier field of corn. It really didn't matter at that point in my imagination.
I made it to the second streetlight without being killed (that's about halfway down the driveway), but neither of the dogs had pooped yet so we had to keep going. Did you know when you're that far out in the Boonies, you can see the edge of light cast by a streetlight? And when you step beyond the rim of light, you feel the temperature drop, and all sounds are sucked up by the seashell void of ghostliness? It's true.
As soon as we walked beyond the edge of light, the dogs started standing on their back legs (both of them!) to sniff the air and peer into the even darker shadows of the hayfield. (One side of the driveway is soybeans, the other side is hay). I was having trouble controlling them (remember, Danny was with me on the phone) and I could feel my diaphragm start to seize.
Finally, whoever was supposed to poop did their business, and we started back. We walked briskly toward the circle of light from the streetlight . . . the dogs' behavior continued to psych me out, and I yearned toward the light like grace.
It was just before we got to the circle of light that it happened. The scene with absolutely no theatrical benefits to the movie; simply a scene meant to scare the hell out of the audience for no reason other then for the kicks and jollys of some sadistic director.
Ree! Ree! Ree!
Both dogs were trying to walk on their back legs (to catch the scent of whoever, or whatever, was in the soybeans) when all of a sudden Izzy darted over to the edge of the soybean field and before I knew what was happening the air was filled with the roaring clap and flap of demon wings as a throng of devils flew straight toward my face. I saw bone-white bodies and black, soulless eyes and I yelled and nearly dropped the phone, the leashes, and my stomach. Whatever fraction of rationality and bravery I had completely deserted me.
It turned out to be nothing but two birds roosting on the ground on the edge of the field, startled out of their sleep by Izzy. I tried to calm my palpitating heart enough to tell Dan that I was not dead, but my shaking hands could barely keep a hold of the phone and the dogs were weaving back and forth, getting their leashes tangled in the excitement of our near-death experience. I panicked neatly, and even though I knew it was nothing, the adrenaline made my extremities tingle and my breath come short. When I finally was able to speak, it came out in a gasping Blair Witch style stutter that I couldn't control.
At first Dan thought it was hilarious, as anyone at the other end of the line would for someone freaking out over a pair of birds. But he soon figured out that they were just the final straw, and the anticipation had almost been as bad as my fright over the birds. The birds would have unsettled even the most stoic of dog walkers, and I was about as far away from stoic as a person could get. Even for the calm of heart, bird wings can be very loud and shocking; it's a natural instinct to swat and jerk backward when something flies toward you, and someone in a normal state of mind would have moved on very quickly from what was practically a non-event.
I did not move on.
My subsequent meltdown was just the result of being in a heightened state of fear prior to having a flock of rabid birds attack me and chase me back to the house, swarming and plucking at my hair and clothes, and screaming like banshees in my ear.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Fat and happy is a good thing (part 2)
Fat and happy is a good thing, right?
Most of our animals are a little on the hefty side, some more so then others. Blake definitely takes the cake, weighing in at 25 pounds. Now, before you turn me in to the Humane Society, let me just say in my defense: I have tried!
Blake gets NO treats, NO people food, and is on Indoor Light cat food. He gets the minimum portion of food as directed by the cat food manufacturer.
He is that fat because he is just THAT LAZY.
I've asked at my veterinarian if there is something else I can do, and one vet in the group practice suggested that we get a doggie treat ball so that he has to play with it to eat. I was doubtful, but tried it anyway. When I went back to the vet (for something else) I complained, "He's not interested! He understands what to do but just won't get into it!" The vet's shocking reply, "Well, he must not be hungry enough!"
Excuse me?
I am NOT going to starve my pet . . . that's not the solution.
On another trip to the vet's office, a different vet in the practice (and on a side note, my favorite vet there) walked in to the room and took one look at Blake and said, "Why, that's a round one!"
I explained to him my woes to date, Blake's disinterest in the doggie treat ball for dinner, and then said to him, seriously worried, "Tell it to me straight. If the Humane Society saw him would I be in jail?"
Oh, how he laughed! He said if that were so, half his clients would be in jail with me. I told him that Blake is on a strict diet, and when I try cutting back too much on the food then he and Bunny start fighting. He reassured me that there just isn't much a person can do, and although he didn't disagree openly with his colleague's bright idea of using a doggie treat ball for exercise, he definitely didn't seem very keen on it as a viable option for a cat diet.
And, despite the fact that I just described three vet visits in quick succession, Blake is (other than being overweight) actually quite healthy. I did not have him with me on all these vet trips, sometimes I was just talking about him when I had someone else there. I don't think that first vet that I was talking about ever saw Blake at all.
Okay, so that was the first part of my defense. The second part is that we have a laser pointer, and Blake is not interested in that either (what kind of cat is not interested in a laser pointer?!). We keep trying, and he looks like an elephant dancing for the 15 seconds that he will play with it, and then he just sits and stares at the little red dot. His eyes follow it, but he's either too tired or too unmotivated to chase it. Does he think he's exercising his eyeballs?
But Georgie is another story!
It is the most crazy-funny thing I've ever seen in my life. I was playing with him last night, and I could not stop laughing. You could probably hear me outside.
I keep the laser pointer on a shelf out of reach of the dog, and I try to use it every few days. It is really good exercise for Georgie, if no one else.
Every time it's laser pointer time, it starts out the same way. I have to walk through the kitchen to get it off the shelf, and no matter how sly I am, Georgie knows that I've got it in my hand. He starts running before I even turn it on. But he's in the kitchen on the linoleum floor, and he can't get traction, so you hear this skitter-scrape-skitter cartoon-like scrabbling as he tries to get out of the kitchen.
It gets worse.
Georgie especially loves it when I take down the baby gate so he can use the hallway for extra running room. He can really pick up some speed, and sometimes as he rounds the corner the angle of his body is so extreme while he runs it looks like his legs are sticking out of the side of his body.
If you could see his legs; they're just a blur of wavy lines, like when they slow down a bullet in the movies and you can see the air rippling away from it. Or in the summer when it's really hot and heat radiates off the pavement.
Last night Ernie's cube was in the hallway and Ernie was sitting next to it when I took down the gate. Ernie likes to play with the dot too, so I just started running the light up and down the hallway for Georgie, and didn't pay much attention to Ernie.
The first pass Ernie was still sitting next to his cube. He saw Georgie coming and stretched his front paws forward and dove into his cube. Georgie sailed over Ernie's back legs that were left sticking out of the hole.
Ernie stayed in the safety of the cube and peered out, watching the show as Georgie kept zinging past. Once Ernie came out and just had to jump back in when he heard Georgie coming. Except he tripped over himself on the way in, and Georgie leaped over the tangled legs again. Ernie twisted sideways, frozen mid-dive and looking confused as he watched Georgie thunder to the end of the hall and came whizzing back.
I think it's so funny because Ernie isn't scared of Georgie, and Georgie is only focused on the crazy red dot; he's not chasing Ernie or being mean at all. I honestly can't tell if Ernie stays in his cube because he doesn't want to get plowed over (which has happened, to no apparent ill effect), or because he thinks of it as front row seats to a show.
Back and forth, up and down the hallway, Georgie chases the glorious red dot, and every time he passes the cube, Ernie sticks his paw out like he's trying to grab (or perhaps trip) him as he runs by.
Hooting and gleeful, we all continued for a bit until something happened that turned my normal level of hilarity into a supernatural shout. The hacking kind of growling laugh that makes your throat hurt. The red dot was down at the end of the hallway, and Georgie was getting tired and not right on its tail, when all of a sudden Blake popped out of the bedroom door to get the dot.
He was really excited for a fraction of a second, couldn't believe his good luck that he got control of the dot. Innocently, stubbornly, his paw tapped at the maddening crimson spot, which of course--unfailingly--refused to be caught. But soon his world of crickets and birdsong was interrupted by the sound of Georgie barreling down the hallway. Cartoon style, his eyes bugged out of their sockets to hang dangling in mid-air on their stalks, and his mouth fell open more dramatically than any Macaulay Culkin.
I felt a little bad because Blake is so scared of Georgie, and I know it very well. But it was over in the blink of an eye, so I didn't feel that bad. I don't think Georgie even saw Blake, he was so focused on the red dot of goodness. Blake beat feet over the opposite way that he had come (it's a weird hallway) and Georgie flipped around and chased the red dot back into the dining room.
As soon as Georgie left, I saw Blake slink back into the bedroom, but he's so fat when he slinks he looks like he has a load in his pants.
I couldn't keep going after that . . . I had collapsed.
Most of our animals are a little on the hefty side, some more so then others. Blake definitely takes the cake, weighing in at 25 pounds. Now, before you turn me in to the Humane Society, let me just say in my defense: I have tried!
Blake gets NO treats, NO people food, and is on Indoor Light cat food. He gets the minimum portion of food as directed by the cat food manufacturer.
He is that fat because he is just THAT LAZY.
I've asked at my veterinarian if there is something else I can do, and one vet in the group practice suggested that we get a doggie treat ball so that he has to play with it to eat. I was doubtful, but tried it anyway. When I went back to the vet (for something else) I complained, "He's not interested! He understands what to do but just won't get into it!" The vet's shocking reply, "Well, he must not be hungry enough!"
Excuse me?
I am NOT going to starve my pet . . . that's not the solution.
On another trip to the vet's office, a different vet in the practice (and on a side note, my favorite vet there) walked in to the room and took one look at Blake and said, "Why, that's a round one!"
I explained to him my woes to date, Blake's disinterest in the doggie treat ball for dinner, and then said to him, seriously worried, "Tell it to me straight. If the Humane Society saw him would I be in jail?"
Oh, how he laughed! He said if that were so, half his clients would be in jail with me. I told him that Blake is on a strict diet, and when I try cutting back too much on the food then he and Bunny start fighting. He reassured me that there just isn't much a person can do, and although he didn't disagree openly with his colleague's bright idea of using a doggie treat ball for exercise, he definitely didn't seem very keen on it as a viable option for a cat diet.
And, despite the fact that I just described three vet visits in quick succession, Blake is (other than being overweight) actually quite healthy. I did not have him with me on all these vet trips, sometimes I was just talking about him when I had someone else there. I don't think that first vet that I was talking about ever saw Blake at all.
Okay, so that was the first part of my defense. The second part is that we have a laser pointer, and Blake is not interested in that either (what kind of cat is not interested in a laser pointer?!). We keep trying, and he looks like an elephant dancing for the 15 seconds that he will play with it, and then he just sits and stares at the little red dot. His eyes follow it, but he's either too tired or too unmotivated to chase it. Does he think he's exercising his eyeballs?
But Georgie is another story!
It is the most crazy-funny thing I've ever seen in my life. I was playing with him last night, and I could not stop laughing. You could probably hear me outside.
I keep the laser pointer on a shelf out of reach of the dog, and I try to use it every few days. It is really good exercise for Georgie, if no one else.
Every time it's laser pointer time, it starts out the same way. I have to walk through the kitchen to get it off the shelf, and no matter how sly I am, Georgie knows that I've got it in my hand. He starts running before I even turn it on. But he's in the kitchen on the linoleum floor, and he can't get traction, so you hear this skitter-scrape-skitter cartoon-like scrabbling as he tries to get out of the kitchen.
It gets worse.
Georgie especially loves it when I take down the baby gate so he can use the hallway for extra running room. He can really pick up some speed, and sometimes as he rounds the corner the angle of his body is so extreme while he runs it looks like his legs are sticking out of the side of his body.
If you could see his legs; they're just a blur of wavy lines, like when they slow down a bullet in the movies and you can see the air rippling away from it. Or in the summer when it's really hot and heat radiates off the pavement.
Last night Ernie's cube was in the hallway and Ernie was sitting next to it when I took down the gate. Ernie likes to play with the dot too, so I just started running the light up and down the hallway for Georgie, and didn't pay much attention to Ernie.
The first pass Ernie was still sitting next to his cube. He saw Georgie coming and stretched his front paws forward and dove into his cube. Georgie sailed over Ernie's back legs that were left sticking out of the hole.
Ernie stayed in the safety of the cube and peered out, watching the show as Georgie kept zinging past. Once Ernie came out and just had to jump back in when he heard Georgie coming. Except he tripped over himself on the way in, and Georgie leaped over the tangled legs again. Ernie twisted sideways, frozen mid-dive and looking confused as he watched Georgie thunder to the end of the hall and came whizzing back.
I think it's so funny because Ernie isn't scared of Georgie, and Georgie is only focused on the crazy red dot; he's not chasing Ernie or being mean at all. I honestly can't tell if Ernie stays in his cube because he doesn't want to get plowed over (which has happened, to no apparent ill effect), or because he thinks of it as front row seats to a show.
Back and forth, up and down the hallway, Georgie chases the glorious red dot, and every time he passes the cube, Ernie sticks his paw out like he's trying to grab (or perhaps trip) him as he runs by.
Hooting and gleeful, we all continued for a bit until something happened that turned my normal level of hilarity into a supernatural shout. The hacking kind of growling laugh that makes your throat hurt. The red dot was down at the end of the hallway, and Georgie was getting tired and not right on its tail, when all of a sudden Blake popped out of the bedroom door to get the dot.
He was really excited for a fraction of a second, couldn't believe his good luck that he got control of the dot. Innocently, stubbornly, his paw tapped at the maddening crimson spot, which of course--unfailingly--refused to be caught. But soon his world of crickets and birdsong was interrupted by the sound of Georgie barreling down the hallway. Cartoon style, his eyes bugged out of their sockets to hang dangling in mid-air on their stalks, and his mouth fell open more dramatically than any Macaulay Culkin.
I felt a little bad because Blake is so scared of Georgie, and I know it very well. But it was over in the blink of an eye, so I didn't feel that bad. I don't think Georgie even saw Blake, he was so focused on the red dot of goodness. Blake beat feet over the opposite way that he had come (it's a weird hallway) and Georgie flipped around and chased the red dot back into the dining room.
As soon as Georgie left, I saw Blake slink back into the bedroom, but he's so fat when he slinks he looks like he has a load in his pants.
I couldn't keep going after that . . . I had collapsed.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
An encounter with a watermelon (part 2)
State Capital, Charleston, West Virginia
Well, we just got back from our big rafting trip, and boy am I sore!
We definitely had a nice time, but I wouldn't say it was THE-GREATEST-MOST-FABULOUS-TIME-OF-MY-LIFE kind of a trip. We left at 3:30 PM on Saturday, after spending a very enjoyable lazy morning sleeping in (we needed it!). But leaving so late meant that we didn't arrive until about 9:30 at night. Dark, unfamiliar, rabbit warren of a campgroup equals a foggy, snappy, sleepy Where the &;$@!% hell is our campsite type of arrival.
Tent up, sleeping bags unrolled, and beer in hand helped lighten everyone's mood, and we went to bed relatively early (probably about 10:30 or so). Unfortunately, Papa's tent looks like it's wearing a condom; the rainfly goes all the way to the ground (very bizarre). When we were inside, the humidity was stifling, and it took a few hours for us to realize to fix it we needed to open up the rainfly. But we were jazzed for the next day, and ready to get up early and beat the stampede to the watering hole (a.k.a., continental breakfast).
Unfortunately (again), some hooligans on the other side of the campground had different ideas. "O-H-I-O" rang in our ears throughout the night; apparently their beer was full of school spirt. We all just lay there cursing, but other campers were not so sweet. The somewhat cheery, if slurred, "O-H-I-O" chant slowly evolved to "O-H . . . EFF-U!" with some shut up's and knock it off's peppered in, surround sound style, from various points throughout the campground.
We woke up groggy and cranky, but excited for the rafting trip (excitement only slightly tarnished by the "You May Die" waiver we were required to sign beforehand).
Yeah, they weren't kidding about the "You May Die" part, and I would say that was the reason I didn't really have fun. It was my first rafting trip ever, and I would have been really disappointed to have died on it. I thought it was supposed to be all Class 2 and maybe a few 3's, but NOPE! We went on Class 4 and 5 rapids! Parts of it was very much like The River Wild, and I was pretty upset about that.
I didn't fall out of the boat though. It's a pretty common occurrence, so I was surprised myself not to have been dunked, but thank goodness. That really would have left a bad taste in my mouth. Instead, early on in the trip (before I got wet anyway due to the rapids) I got splashed by some random bully from another boat, so our guide made it his mission to sneak up behind them and yank him off with his paddle. He almost succeeded. So close, yet so far. I sent a few good Medusa stares his way too. Talk about a watermelon. Literally!
So the trip went over about as great a limp noodle. Wait, is that how the saying goes? Whatever. I don't care. I was irritated from the very first "You owe me money" e-mail, through the part where we were complete afterthoughts, all the way to leaving early and missing dinner so we could get back at a relatively decent time, and finally making it to: we still didn't get home until 11 PM, and are both still exhausted today. May as well have stayed for dinner.
The good? There was some! I saw my first true, honest to goodness West Virginian hillbilly (apparently there's a difference). I saw three of them, to be more accurate. Mawm 'n Pawp sittin' on their porch, watching the cars go by (or the bugs hitting the zapper, or the person across the street changing, or who knows). And Hillbilly Bill Billy, wearing overalls with reflectors. Ha ha!
There was a lot of other good stuff. Any rapids that were Class 2 or less, not falling out of the boat, not dying, spending a 7 hour car ride with Papa, sleeping in his beloved tent (on a hill, in 100 percent humidity) and waking up the next morning and INSISTING that we get a new tent (and he agreed), getting just the right amount of sun (with the aid of the 50 SPF sunblock I was wearing), and coming home to our 5 indoor kids and seeing their bright, sunny faces.
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