The Diary of Lola Bear: Snow Day

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Doodle’s Log: March 5, 2015.

It snowed last night. I can’t be sure how much, as I lack the thumbs required to utilize a ruler effectively, but the drifts come up to the beagle’s chin. I think the humans asked for it to punish me for bleeding all over their carpet the other night.

I have tried to explain to the beagle that snow is a terrible condition but she’ll have none of it. This morning when we went out for our morning constitutional, she made a mockery of herself by diving headfirst into the deepest snow. I tried to call her back to Mom and my side, but she pretended not to hear. Instead, she began blazing trails through the snow, though it is up to her chin and very cold, smiling like an idiot all the while. Mom laughed, which baffled me. I stood beside her, stoic, waiting for the charade to end so that we could return inside. She kept chanting at me to “be a good girl” and “go potty” even though we both know that it is madness to try to evacuate my bladder in snow that deep. I would surely die. Evidently the beagle has gone mad. I will not be so easily taken. I will wait until Mom or Dad shovels an area of the yard. They will have to do this eventually. I fear I may not be able to last until then, however, and that I may be forced to evacuate my bowels in Mom’s closet. Oh, how far I’ve fallen.

I heard Mom tell Dad that my webbed feet are defective, a fact which I know to be false. My webbed toes make me an excellent swimmer, or they would if I were ever desperate enough to need to swim. According to her, however, the webs are also supposed to keep the snow from collecting between my toes, which must be a lie. That is one of the snow’s evil tricks — getting frozen to your paw hair in between your toes and giving you frostbite. To “help me,” she says, Mom purchased paw covers, which only I am forced to wear. The paw covers are most humiliating. They have taken countless videos of my attempts to walk in them. They laugh. What sort of hell have I come to?

In addition, the humans will not leave. Normally, they all evacuate the house in the morning and return later in the day. This gives me time to tend to my affairs. I have business to take care of, namely spying on the cat and ascertaining how far progressed are her plans for total household domination. I fear she is close. In addition, I must frighten the birds who grow bolder every day and lay down a fine layer of my hair on all of the furniture to help keep the humans warmer. They are basically naked but cover themselves with blanket-like things that make them look ridiculous. Eventually, I hope they will appreciate my sacrifices.

I am liking the ear rubs and extra treats I have been given this morning, but I also caution myself to look out for the attached strings to such benevolence. It’s only a matter of time before I am forced outside again. I fear I may go mad.

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Best in Show

Credit: Andrew Burton/Getty Images [source]

Last night at the Westminster Kennel Club’s Best in Show competition, a beagle named Miss P took home the gold.

Is that right?

Miss P took home the ribbon-y thing that they give to dogs with “wonderful type” and “wonderful head[s].”

I am the proud human of a beagle named Miss P, by extension. She’s a Rigby, but we call her Miss Piggy. I’ve had a devil of a time telling her today that while a noble member of her breed is the champion, she is still ever the farty, nervous old thing she’s always been. But you’re the champion of my heart, Rigby, which may mean a lot or a little, depending on whether I’m holding treats or not.

Does anyone else have a hard time not thinking of Christopher Guest’s movie, Best in Show, when discussing the Westminster Kennel Club show?

We’re effectively snowed in. I have a sinus and ear infection. Rigby has a Napoleonic complex. Among everything else. I see this movie in my future this evening.

How is everyone? Snowed in? 65 and sunny?

Checking in. Are we still there? Is everyone ok?

I almost forgot what this place looked like, friends. Truly. Remember that post when I said I wanted to post more because it made me happy? And then I didn’t post for a reeeeeeally long time? Yea. Me too.

I dreamt that I had this whole new post planned out in my head that was going to be hilarious. Then I woke up and realized that it was just me replacing song lyrics with my dogs’ names. You’re welcome for not posting that. Although, full disclosure, we are on our second singing of “Doodles are Better than People” this morning, sung to the tune of Frozen’s “Reindeer are Better than People.” Lola loves it so don’t you dare judge me.

(Start a blog, they said. You’re super funny, they said. It’ll make you seem aloof and cool, they said.)

This is the place where I’m supposed to share my musings and opinions with the world at large, which seems ever more ridiculous. In fulfillment of that contract, I’m sending this out into the now empty room that once held at least 12 people who read this blog. Here’s the update on my life using a series of Liz Lemon gifs and memes. Buckle up.

1. School has been insane.

2. Work is work.

3. Freelance “art-ing” and writing is oddly stressful.

4. I work with the general public and study the general public and, therefore, want little to nothing to do with the general public. Kidding. …Mostly.

5. I had some fitness-related realizations and, subsequently, made some fitness- related goals.

6. Apparently there’s this thing where, when you reach your late twenties and haven’t yet procreated, your body goes all, “Get it together, jerkwad!” and goes into a kind of latent, second puberty. When I heard that, I could literally feel my heart trying to claw its way out of my mouth. It’s definitely a thing, though, because my late twenties and early teens have not looked all that different, only instead of collecting Backstreet Boys posters I make my husband look up cute pictures of baby animals on Reddit. Sometimes that backfires because he’ll show me a picture of a newborn pygmy hippo and I’ll start crying because, and I quote, “it’s little ears are too cute to be real.” It’s a cruel joke, really.

It’s like society praised me for my responsible life choices – “You went to college, lady! And grad school! And waited to have children until you felt that you could provide them with a financially stable home and that you, yourself, were emotionally, mentally, and spiritually mature enough to handle the daunting task of raising a human being successfully! Well done, lady!”

Meanwhile, the ol’ lady business is plotting my demise one peanut butter cup at a time.

7. In response to #6, I have cut down exposure to the things that make me weepy which means that I only watch that one video – the one with the kid who has a genetic condition that has rendered him nearly unable to walk or physically develop fully but who adopts a three legged dog and they both find comfort, purpose, and happiness in each other – once a week. Progress.

(Seriously though, if you haven’t watched that video, do it. The first time I viewed it, Carter found me clutching the Labradoodle sobbing that it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Truly. And not in a pygmy hippo way.)

8. I’m studying social work, which is to say I’m studying society, which is to say that my eyes are open to just how crappy humans can and have been throughout history. The entire social work degree, as I have experienced it, can be boiled down to one primary concept: Human beings, like the internet, are at once the most amazing and most terrible things ever. Get it together, human race.

9. This spring, I start training to become a yoga teacher. I am, at once, excited and completely terrified.

10. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my pets. It is both a good thing and a terrible thing.

11. I’m going through that late-twenties phase where I’m pretty much a fully-formed person with a fully-formed personality, for better or worse, but also harbor some of the deep, latent self-loathing of my teens and early twenties that tells me that the fully-formed personality I have is really, really dumb and pretty kind of okay at the same time.

It’s a journey though, right? Isn’t that the premise of 9 of the 254 Chicken Soup for the Soul books? Calling it.

How have you been, awesome nerds? I’m gonna be here more often. And this time, I mean it.

How to Tell You’re Ovulating: A Medical Reference

1. You watch this video….

And, after bawling for a full five minutes following, decide to watch it again. Your husband may or may not give you a concerned look when  you whisper through your snot bubble, “Go, monkey. Be free!”

2. You squeal for a solid 2 minutes after finding this handsome gentleman on Pinterest:

3. Speaking of Pinterest, your feed looks like this:

Screen Shot 2014-11-08 at 8.20.16 PM

 

 

In other news, the Polar Vortex is back. We’re supposed to see a 40-degree temperature drop next week.

http://thenestedblog.com/2014/11/932.html

My Little Opossum

I’m doing a bit of pet sitting for a friend’s two precious dogs. When taking them outside for the final go the other evening, all hell broke loose in the form of an opossum, which one dog cornered and the other killed.

Or so I thought.

Minor sidebar – neither dog was injured or bitten and while I was shaking and nearly hysterical, they were grooming themselves and looking utterly and smugly satisfied with their accomplishments.

We finally got the dogs inside and, armed with various plastic bags, brooms, and dustpans, Carter and I went out to assess the damages.

He shone his flashlight on the poor little creature which, as soon as I began to reach for it, opened its eyes.

“Better leave it, babe,” he said. “It might be playing dead.”

“Why would it be playing dead?!”

“Babe, it’s an opossum. That’s what they do.”

Did anyone else have a mother that accused them of “playing opossum” when they pretended to be asleep to avoid getting up for school? Of course you did. I did too.

Apparently, I never took my mother seriously when she said this and filed it away into the “Silly Mom Doesn’t Know What She’s Talking About” folder.

We decided to wait until morning. If the opossum was still there, we would dispose of it. If not, well, we would have saved me from death by opossum fight.

The next morning, imagine my horror to discover that the opossum had vanished. I mean, I’m glad the little guy made it. I’m also, however, glad that Carter actually listened to his mother with regard to opossums.

Because, let’s be awesome, if I had picked up that “dead” opossum, well, you know…

 

Although, Carter thinks it would have gone more like this…

He has far more confidence in me and my precision tackling skills than he should. We all know I’m far more useful as a receiver. (Har har har)

It’s a real shame because, if left to my own devices, I would have just done this…

What did we learn? Opossums do, in fact, “play opossum.” This has several implications, chief of which is that, no, your mother was not full of shit. At least not about everything. This means that, in all likelihood, she was right about other things, too, like your first boyfriend. Okay, who are we kidding – your first through eighth boyfriends.