Walking my girl

 Lola 1

My girl.

She’s been going through it lately. Well, for a dog, anyway. She had a brush with an ear infection, found out that she has a tilted vulva (don’t ask), got a haircut, and, to add insult to injury, it’s been raining for several days now.

I wouldn’t call her miserable. After all, I don’t think any creature who lives as well as she does could ever be capable of true misery, but she’s been down in the dumps. Mopey. Clingy. And, oh, the sighs that come from this dog.

Meanwhile, I’ve been chugging along, cheerfully assuring her that everything’s great — on the way to the vet [ears and vulva], on the way to the pet wash [haircut], when we’re standing out in the rain to potty [her, not me].

But yesterday, I started my new part-time job. My manager, as managers are wont to do, asked me to tell him about myself.

MANAGER: So you’re in school?

ME: Yes. Studying social work. I’m going to be a licensed clinical social worker and, hopefully, do therapy and counseling with combat veterans.

MANAGER: That’s really cool. So, when you’re not in school, what do you do for fun?

ME: Well, I’m ignoring the fact that I should be finishing my novel. And I have an Etsy store. And I substitute teach.

MANAGER: Oh, that’s really awesome! …But what do you do for fun?

Kittens, I didn’t have an answer. I certainly didn’t want to say “Watch tv,” though, recently, my recreation can be boiled down to watching Miranda on Hulu in bed while stress-drinking an absurd amount of tea.

I wouldn’t call me miserable. After all, I don’t think any creature as blessed as I am could ever be capable of true misery, but I’ve been down in the dumps. Mopey. Clingy. And, oh, the sighs that have come from me.

That question, “What do you do for fun?” has been plaguing me.

I was walking Lola this morning. It’s raining. The grass is wet. And, as we’ve covered before, I don’t think I loathe anything in this world as much as Lola loathes wet grass. Or even damp grass, really. So here we are, mincing our way down the driveway – she, trying to find the least wet patch of grass in the yard while I, on tiptoe, try to avoid stepping on any of the approximately 7 million earthworms littering the pavement. Because they gross me out. I’m frustrated at her for being so picky while she, undoubtedly, is frustrated for my refusal to understand her “issue.” (pronounced in the fancy way – “iss-you”)

Eventually, we both gave up. Lola heaved a giant sigh and waded into the wet grass and I’m pretty sure that I stepped on a worm. Or nine.

I think we both need a little shake-up in our lives, Miss Lolabear and me. She needs the hair trimmed from between her toes and, I’ll admit, a bit of an attitude adjustment. (It is not your bed, Lola. It is our bed and we let you sleep in it.)

I, on the other hand, need to chill the f*ck out.

And yet, it’s hard to tell myself to do that. The world seems to have gone mad. Really and truly mad. Dear friends of mine are hurting. It seems that everyone is hurting.

The papers will get written. The work will get done. The bills, somehow, will get paid. Everything will work out. What’s that quote? “Everything will be okay in the end and, if it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.”

I guess I need an attitude adjustment of my own. I’ve missed this blog. I’ve missed attempting to make you laugh. That used to make me really, really happy. That used to be a lot of fun. And, in this time of great struggle for our world, I think we need more laughter and fun. After all, when the laughter stops, things get very scary very quickly.

Sending you all so much love. We’ll get through this. It has to stop raining eventually. But in the meantime, I leave you with something that’s been making me laugh quite a bit the last two days. Thanks, Barry. You’re tops.

A Snapshot of Marriage

As some of you know, I’m married. As those of you who are married know, marriage is defined as “a relationship wherein you are yolked to a person until one or both of you dies, characterized by vacillating feelings of intense love, disgust, and loathing.”

Last night, I was making gravy. As those of you who make gravy know, gravy is defined as “an amalgamation of starch, fat, and liquid which, if you turn your back, will congeal or break and ruin your f*cking day.”

It’s not the easiest thing to accomplish. The fats must be right. The thickener must be right. It must simmer and reduce for the right amount of time. It’s not difficult per se, but it requires finesse.

Enter my husband.

CARTER: I’m gonna stir it, babe!

ME: It doesn’t need to be stirred.

CARTER: It’s fine. I’m gonna whisk it.

ME: Please don’t touch it. It’s reducing. It doesn’t need to be stirred.

CARTER: I’m gonna do it. Babe, you just don’t have the culinary instincts that I have.

ME: Dont. Touch it.

CARTER: Give it a little whisk, a little stir, babe. I’m gonna.

ME: I’m gonna crazy person murder you.

CARTER: Well that seems a bit harsh.

ME: Will you hand me a knife?

CARTER: What kind?

ME: A sharp one.

CARTER: Well, not now.

ME: Babe, I need a knife. I have to cut this broccoli.

CARTER: You just told me you were going to, and I quote, “crazy person murder” me and now you’re asking me to hand you a sharp knife.

ME: I can’t right now. You know that. You don’t have any money to dig.

CARTER: Ah, yes. Your plans to dig my gold. You know you’re the worst gold digger ever, babe. Right?

ME: It’s the long con, my love. I’m in it for the long con.

 

Disclosure: I would never harm this man. Well, I would eat the last piece of Havarti on purpose and I hope to live to be in my eighties just to spite him. But I would never, ever harm him and he knows this. I may be prone to theatrics and exaggeration. It’s my nature. Don’t you dare judge me.

As for the gold digging, contrary to what he says, I am not the worst gold digger in the world. After all, I get to sit around in my satin pajamas stained sweatpants while I eat bonbons do homework and start a home business and sip on champagne all morning lukewarm coffee all day. So, yea, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself.

Marriage. Lifetime Original Movies, you’re doing it wrong.

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.

(Sidebar – neither dog was injured or bitten and while I was shaking and nearly hysterical, they were grooming themselves and looking utterly smug and 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 honest, 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.

Code Milky Green

The Players:

Me

Carter

The World

Ugh.

And then I watched a video that reminded me of my obese dead hamster… but in a cute way.

Those of you who have been around here for a while will remember my dearly departed hamster, Fat Olivia.

 

I called Fat Olivia “Fat Olivia” so that those twig-bitch mice in my sister’s room couldn’t call her that behind her back.

 

Two things you should know about that story:

1. I’m fairly certain that the Fat Olivia blog post has the most comments of any post on this blog ever. Probably.

2. I still want to be a hydrangea bush when I die.

 

Read it. Please. You’re going to need the context to fully appreciate what I’m about to share next.

I know this isn’t new, but it’s new to me. I’m proudshamed to admit that I have watched it no less than 15 times in the last 12 hours.

 

Yea, you read that correctly. Tiny Hamsters Eating Tiny Burritos.

It reminds me of this:

Too.F*cking.Cute. End of story.

Hope you all have a smashing sort of weekend and that you get all the rain and sub-90 degree weather you’ve been praying/ritually sacrificing your children’s stuffed animals for.

xx