My Thursday night consisted of this: lounging on the couch while pretending to do work, taking an hour to fold a basket of laundry, catching up on my exhaustive dvr list, and watching my inbred dog toss a stuffed pumpkin up in the air and catch it about a thousand times (she may be at the risk of getting retained in training class, but she knows how to entertain herself). Smokey and I were feeling a little defeated after the trainer strongly implied that she will not be graduating from her classes in 2 weeks ( although, that really just means she can re-take it for free so, in all reality, Pet Smart is really just putting itself at a loss in this brutal economy).
While scrolling through my DVR list, now littered with Reid-shows aka "Hillbillie Handfishin'," I realized how distant all of those neon Thursday nights at Rick's had become. And, yes, that is my one and only attempt at sounding profound. Instead, I was trying to ensure that all of my shows had dvr'd and was relishing the fact that I could watch sitcoms in 20 minutes and dramas in about 42.
During these fine 62 minutes of allotted tv time, my inbred dog decided to herd all of her toys and personal items ( brush, traveling water bowl, and seat belt) into a pile in our room. With the dog's newfound love for herding er maybe for hording, it occured to me that it was very possible that it had been she who had planted the bird in the laundry room.
Flashbacking to Monday, after a somewhat long and exhausting day, I was falling asleep on the early side while Reid stayed up and did homework and probably played Call of Duty. I awoke slightly because I heard him bumbling around in the laundry room. Soon the bedroom door cracked and he entered, turning on the closet light so as not to wake me fully. Looming over me like a vampire or something, Reid whispered, "hey, I think there might be a bird behind the dryer, or maybe a sock. I don't know. I'm wearing my glasses and I cannot see well."
There were two things really wrong with this statement. Number one, there should not be a BIRD in MY house. Number two, why would you wear glasses that impair your vision? I was royally confused and dying to enter a REM cycle. I tried to convince myself that I was dreaming about a vampire.
"It's probably just a sock," he said settling in, "don't worry about it." I am sure I mumbled something unintelligible and fell asleep.
In the morning, my genetically maladjusted puppy jumped on top of us as usual and I was up pulling on running clothes. As I reached into the basket for fresh socks, something about vampires, socks and birds entered my brain. Did that really happen? I thought to myself, tying up my shoes. Wincing, I slowly peered behind the dryer. And there it was.
It was the BIRD. Terrified and disgusted, I let out a yelp and screamed at Reid who was shaving in the bathroom. Then I grabbed the dog's leash and we ran like hell... for about two blocks until we got lazy and retreated to our typical pace.
During the run, my brain started spinning. How did it get in? Had we left a door open? Had it flown down the chimney? that tiny crack on the ceiling of our closet? God, there were so many ways the bird could have gotten in. On the bright side, Reid's glasses were probably ok.
When we returned home, Reid had left for work but next to the dryer was his lacrosse stick. After spending so many years of his life playing and coaching, he was now using it to scoop intruders from behind our dryer.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
my tweenage dogg-er
Basically, I was smart about it. I watched all of my friends become dog moms to newborn puppies while I stood by as the cool, jerky-bearing aunt. I avoided the racoon eyes, sleepless nights, and scraping fecal matter from the dog's cage. Instead, I surfed the net for a one year old dog who was house broken, somewhat obedient, and still, on a technicality, a puppy. You see, until a dog is two, it is essentially still a puppy. I am not certain about where the baby-toddler-child-tween-teen transgression begins and changes for canines. My name is not Cesar Milan. Therefore, it is pure speculation that I consider my dog to be a tween.
At about 1.5 years, Smokey is a the equivalent of a 10 year old tween. And, yes, Smokey is a she. We opted for an androgenous name so that Reid would not have to suffer the shame of failing his WASPy roots. More literally, Smokey's pelt is neither dark brown or black...it's just smokey. Of course, she already has a stockpile of inane nicknames. I actually typed these once and, out of shame, deleted them. It really reduces my cool factor. Won't even get into the songs.
Anyway, as Smokey is a rescue tweenager, she's got some hormonal growing pains that she is dealing with. Just like human tweens become angsty, awkward, and smelly, Smokey is also facing some of these challenges.
Fraternizing with boys: Smokey always has initial anxiety when meeting new friends, particularly boyfriends. Of course, she does like them. Even though she dances away from full facial contact while meeting them, she is the first to check their behinds. Eventually, she will come onto them in the backyard, dashing after them and baiting them with her plush, squeaker filled toys.
Her best boyfriend, Leo, has recently been sneaking a lot of kisses. Smokes just growls and kicks him away from her water bowl. Typical. Actually, that sounds a little more like college.
Eating disorders: I cannot quite pin point how to define her eating disorder. She will go from starving herself during meal time to binging on jerky (the equivalent of a real tween's cool ranch doritos). While this seems like a classic case of bulimia, there is no purging involved. Confounding, but, nonetheless, disordered eating.
Intense sweating: While real tweens begin sweating intensely while nervous behind the wheels, a dam basically breaks in my backseat everytime Smokes jumps in. She is not getting her learner's permit anytime soon.
Interest in new substances: While Smokes was hesitant about accepting jerky and t-bonz from us at first, she has begun to experiment with a new fervor. Her experimentation has actually transgressed to full on addiction. She has also been experimenting with Kleenex, Nylabones, and Toy Stuffing. These are highly addictive substances.
I attributed of these quirks, along with her physical anomolies: wide crazy eyes, huge thighs, and pigeon toed front feet, to be part of her character and growing pains. That was until Smokes went to training class at Pet Smart.
After the first class, I feared not only retention, but demotion to a lower level. On top of that, the trainer told me she might be inbred (as she was a rescue dog). Inbred? There was no way! My wild-eyed, kind of bulimic Aussie Shephard with an androgenous name was not inbred. She was a tween! She was artsy! She was using multiple substances! But she was not inbred.
I returned home and told Reid. In true Reid form, he told me I was ridiculous. Then I looked back down at Smokes, with her dialated pupils, big mouth open and her huge thighs holding up her smallish body. I loved my inbred dog.
At about 1.5 years, Smokey is a the equivalent of a 10 year old tween. And, yes, Smokey is a she. We opted for an androgenous name so that Reid would not have to suffer the shame of failing his WASPy roots. More literally, Smokey's pelt is neither dark brown or black...it's just smokey. Of course, she already has a stockpile of inane nicknames. I actually typed these once and, out of shame, deleted them. It really reduces my cool factor. Won't even get into the songs.
Anyway, as Smokey is a rescue tweenager, she's got some hormonal growing pains that she is dealing with. Just like human tweens become angsty, awkward, and smelly, Smokey is also facing some of these challenges.
Fraternizing with boys: Smokey always has initial anxiety when meeting new friends, particularly boyfriends. Of course, she does like them. Even though she dances away from full facial contact while meeting them, she is the first to check their behinds. Eventually, she will come onto them in the backyard, dashing after them and baiting them with her plush, squeaker filled toys.
Her best boyfriend, Leo, has recently been sneaking a lot of kisses. Smokes just growls and kicks him away from her water bowl. Typical. Actually, that sounds a little more like college.
Eating disorders: I cannot quite pin point how to define her eating disorder. She will go from starving herself during meal time to binging on jerky (the equivalent of a real tween's cool ranch doritos). While this seems like a classic case of bulimia, there is no purging involved. Confounding, but, nonetheless, disordered eating.
Intense sweating: While real tweens begin sweating intensely while nervous behind the wheels, a dam basically breaks in my backseat everytime Smokes jumps in. She is not getting her learner's permit anytime soon.
Interest in new substances: While Smokes was hesitant about accepting jerky and t-bonz from us at first, she has begun to experiment with a new fervor. Her experimentation has actually transgressed to full on addiction. She has also been experimenting with Kleenex, Nylabones, and Toy Stuffing. These are highly addictive substances.
I attributed of these quirks, along with her physical anomolies: wide crazy eyes, huge thighs, and pigeon toed front feet, to be part of her character and growing pains. That was until Smokes went to training class at Pet Smart.
After the first class, I feared not only retention, but demotion to a lower level. On top of that, the trainer told me she might be inbred (as she was a rescue dog). Inbred? There was no way! My wild-eyed, kind of bulimic Aussie Shephard with an androgenous name was not inbred. She was a tween! She was artsy! She was using multiple substances! But she was not inbred.
I returned home and told Reid. In true Reid form, he told me I was ridiculous. Then I looked back down at Smokes, with her dialated pupils, big mouth open and her huge thighs holding up her smallish body. I loved my inbred dog.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Puppy Love and Dog Babies
Without giving me any advanced notice, all of my friends decided to adopt puppies this summer. My friends have brought their dogs into various home environments. One dog, Leo Feinberg, is the son of single mom, Julie. Another dog, Lily Rabin, is the beloved daughter of Jen and Adam. This leave me, on the other hand, as the spinster auntie, barren of puppy love and dog poop.
The other day, Leo and Lily came over to play in my backyard and pool. When Lily arrived, Jen told me that Lily needed to greet me outside because she would get excited and start to dribble pee upon seeing me. So we stood on the patio, oohing and ahhing over the golden doodle and her pee splattering on our feet.
Lily enjoyed the pool for a while until Leo arrived. Leo, a lab pit mix, excitedly eyed Lily. I am sure he was into her fluffy doodle haircut, teddybear like complexion, and large, silky ears. As they began to dance around, pawing one another, Lily would coquettishly pat him on the lower back or flirtily sniff his asshole. It was not all that different than a scene out of Axis Radius or Pussy Cat Lounge.
As Lily is both younger and smaller than Leo, he was fairly responsive when she would start to back off from their little romp. And just as Lily's mom was getting comfortable with the playdate, Leo went biserk and jumped Lily's bones, sending her rolling into a pile of grass. She sat up, stunned.
"He did that because he has to poop," Julie said, hopping out of the pool, "it's really sad but my life now revolves around when he needs to poop." I sat in the pool and contemplated my friends' life changes. Julie, the single mom, was thinking feces 24/7. Jen, on the other hand, was fretting over her golden doodle's playdate gone amuck. These were not animals, they were children. Dog babies to be exact.
After a few hours of swimming and playing, the babies needed their naps.
The other day, Leo and Lily came over to play in my backyard and pool. When Lily arrived, Jen told me that Lily needed to greet me outside because she would get excited and start to dribble pee upon seeing me. So we stood on the patio, oohing and ahhing over the golden doodle and her pee splattering on our feet.
Lily enjoyed the pool for a while until Leo arrived. Leo, a lab pit mix, excitedly eyed Lily. I am sure he was into her fluffy doodle haircut, teddybear like complexion, and large, silky ears. As they began to dance around, pawing one another, Lily would coquettishly pat him on the lower back or flirtily sniff his asshole. It was not all that different than a scene out of Axis Radius or Pussy Cat Lounge.
As Lily is both younger and smaller than Leo, he was fairly responsive when she would start to back off from their little romp. And just as Lily's mom was getting comfortable with the playdate, Leo went biserk and jumped Lily's bones, sending her rolling into a pile of grass. She sat up, stunned.
"He did that because he has to poop," Julie said, hopping out of the pool, "it's really sad but my life now revolves around when he needs to poop." I sat in the pool and contemplated my friends' life changes. Julie, the single mom, was thinking feces 24/7. Jen, on the other hand, was fretting over her golden doodle's playdate gone amuck. These were not animals, they were children. Dog babies to be exact.
After a few hours of swimming and playing, the babies needed their naps.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Riding in [trucks] with [farmers]
One lazy spring sunday, I forced Reid to watch the latter half of Riding in Cars with Boys, that Drew Barrymore flick where Steve Zahn, in all his creepy glory, is the father of her illegitimate son. I am pretty sure he enjoyed it because on another occasion I caught him watching How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. This has nothing to do with the story I am about to tell, but it did birth the title of the blog.
Anyway, one of my greatest paranoias (among many) is getting lost. And by 'getting lost' I really mean getting lost in nature. I love nature, but I love it on a marked trail sans snakes and poison ivy. With plenty of water.
In the time that I have dated Reid, we have enjoyed many a trail and sometimes gotten temporarily turned around. On those hiking occasions, I was never too nervous because he assured me that he knew the 'landmarks'. Of course, I had no idea what landmarks he was talking about because just about everything in the desert is reddish brown and hot. But, whatever, he did NOLS, that prestigious outdoor adventure program that supposedly makes you an expert explorer and gives you the Godly ability to use the sun as a compass or something like that.
Unfortunately, NOLS knew nothing about the backroads of York, Pennsylvania, a small town just north of Baltimore that was supposedly the nation's capital for 4 days during the American Revolution. It was also the home of Reid's older brother who lived not far from the trail we were about to traverse.
Once we arrived on the trail and began tackling the humid mosquito laden land, our illustrious leader decided to take a short cut on the trail. Apparently, he was a little tired out after frolicking around a fire pit and carousing in the local reservoir all night (another story completely).
"I'll meet you guys in a little bit- just stay on the trail- see you soon..." and he was off, down a side trail that would lead to the end sooner.
Now, it was just Reid and I running around this York, Pennsylvania trail that had a bajillion off shoots and random bugs everywhere. Every few seconds I would ask if we were on the right trail. Reid would shake his head humidified hair and say it was fine.
As we headed up a narrow leg of the trail and hurdled a fallen tree, the great cloud of doubt crept in, but I braced myself and tried not to whine. I mean, everything was usually fine so I knew I needed to let go and let York.
Soon enough, the trail came to an end and petered off into a regular, cilivized road. Reid's brother had not mentioned us hitting a road, but we were out of the woods.
Well, we ran up and down over that road again and again while the air grew hotter and seethed with humidity. I was dripping with sweat and dead mosquitos and Reid definitely needed some curl care for his hair. And suddenly he stopped.
"Ok," he said, "now we are lost." Oh shit, I thought to myself. For once, I was right about being lost. However, it was not as satisfying as being wrong because when I was wrong, I was actually on the right trail.
"we'll just flag someone down, " he said and started waving his hand at a man driving a Ford Truck. The truck slowed down. the man inside confirmed that we were about a half mile from the next trailhead to get us back on the trail.
"I can give ya a ride up there if ya want, " the man whom I assumed to a be a farmer offered. Without thinking, we hopped in the back of the truck bed, and rested on granules of dirt. Normally, I would not get in a strange man's car. Or a strange woman's car. But York, Pennsylvania seemed to be the place to do it.
And after hitch hiking for a half mile up the road, we were back into the woods, retracing our steps. Reid insisted that I laugh about the incident so I did. However, I was kicking myself for not asking our driver to just take us back to the house. A girl could get used to this hitchhiking business.
Anyway, one of my greatest paranoias (among many) is getting lost. And by 'getting lost' I really mean getting lost in nature. I love nature, but I love it on a marked trail sans snakes and poison ivy. With plenty of water.
In the time that I have dated Reid, we have enjoyed many a trail and sometimes gotten temporarily turned around. On those hiking occasions, I was never too nervous because he assured me that he knew the 'landmarks'. Of course, I had no idea what landmarks he was talking about because just about everything in the desert is reddish brown and hot. But, whatever, he did NOLS, that prestigious outdoor adventure program that supposedly makes you an expert explorer and gives you the Godly ability to use the sun as a compass or something like that.
Unfortunately, NOLS knew nothing about the backroads of York, Pennsylvania, a small town just north of Baltimore that was supposedly the nation's capital for 4 days during the American Revolution. It was also the home of Reid's older brother who lived not far from the trail we were about to traverse.
Once we arrived on the trail and began tackling the humid mosquito laden land, our illustrious leader decided to take a short cut on the trail. Apparently, he was a little tired out after frolicking around a fire pit and carousing in the local reservoir all night (another story completely).
"I'll meet you guys in a little bit- just stay on the trail- see you soon..." and he was off, down a side trail that would lead to the end sooner.
Now, it was just Reid and I running around this York, Pennsylvania trail that had a bajillion off shoots and random bugs everywhere. Every few seconds I would ask if we were on the right trail. Reid would shake his head humidified hair and say it was fine.
As we headed up a narrow leg of the trail and hurdled a fallen tree, the great cloud of doubt crept in, but I braced myself and tried not to whine. I mean, everything was usually fine so I knew I needed to let go and let York.
Soon enough, the trail came to an end and petered off into a regular, cilivized road. Reid's brother had not mentioned us hitting a road, but we were out of the woods.
Well, we ran up and down over that road again and again while the air grew hotter and seethed with humidity. I was dripping with sweat and dead mosquitos and Reid definitely needed some curl care for his hair. And suddenly he stopped.
"Ok," he said, "now we are lost." Oh shit, I thought to myself. For once, I was right about being lost. However, it was not as satisfying as being wrong because when I was wrong, I was actually on the right trail.
"we'll just flag someone down, " he said and started waving his hand at a man driving a Ford Truck. The truck slowed down. the man inside confirmed that we were about a half mile from the next trailhead to get us back on the trail.
"I can give ya a ride up there if ya want, " the man whom I assumed to a be a farmer offered. Without thinking, we hopped in the back of the truck bed, and rested on granules of dirt. Normally, I would not get in a strange man's car. Or a strange woman's car. But York, Pennsylvania seemed to be the place to do it.
And after hitch hiking for a half mile up the road, we were back into the woods, retracing our steps. Reid insisted that I laugh about the incident so I did. However, I was kicking myself for not asking our driver to just take us back to the house. A girl could get used to this hitchhiking business.
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