Pack of angry Chihuahuas attack officer in Fremont

Friday, December 30, 2005
(12-30) 08:56 PST Fremont, Calif. (AP) --

A pack of angry Chihuahuas attacked a police officer who was escorting a teenager home following a traffic stop, authorities said.

The officer suffered minor injuries including bites to his ankle on Thursday when the five Chihuahuas escaped the 17-year-old boy's home and rushed the officer in the doorway, said Fremont detective Bill Veteran.

The teenager had been detained after the traffic incident, Veteran said.

The officer was treated at a local hospital and returned to work less than two hours later, Veteran said.

It was the third time this month a Fremont officer was bitten by a dog while on duty. Neither of the other officers were seriously injured.

URL: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/news/archive/2005/12/30/state/n085627S38.DTL

Honestly, you really don't want to fuck with those little guys. They are FIERCE, god bless their tiny hearts.

Et tu, Scott? or Why Women Shouldn't Run the Gift Exchange

Scott and I were driving to the far side of town, in a frenzy of last minute Christmas shopping. HIS last minute shopping, mind you, because I finished mine before we moved in August. (I'm annoying like that.)

We were shopping for his office gift exchange, which operates like a White Elephant or Yankee Swap. On the way, we discussed various items that might be nice and still within the budget of ten dollars. Time and again I attempted to steer him towards gender neutral gifts, such as BBQ tools and hot sauce, or at least a DVD that might appeal to a man.

Finally, Scott asked me why I was so insistent on this point, to which I replied that guys always get short-shrifted with the whole gift exchange thing, because women always buy for other women, and the guys get stuck with potpourri and body lotion or Christmas decorations.

I personally witnessed a man at my former place of employment end up with an item we "affectionately" called Strip-Search-Santa, and I will note that he never even took it home; it just drifted around the office all year long, assaulting the eyes of everyone unfortunate to run across it. Mind you, a woman would have thought it was cute; a man, not so much.

The following year another man was blessed with a pink Disney Princess Tree, a gift all the women thought was absolutely hilarious, but again, men don't share the same sense of humor. At least he had a small daughter he was able to take the tree home to.

Scott nodded knowingly as I relayed these horror stories. "Yeah, I'll never forget the year I got CANDLES in my gift exchange, I..." He stopped in horror, with the sudden realization that he had already revealed far, far too much.

"Hey....HEY! Are you telling me that those candles you gave me that year...the candles I thought were so beautiful and thoughtful...were a RE-GIFT???" I shouted in disillusionment.

He hung his head and shame, then took me shopping for new lingerie to make up for his faux pas. The truth is, I still really liked the candles. I just wanted new lingerie. Shhhhh....

; )

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It's a Small World, But There's a Lot of Love

Once upon a time, there was a fetching young lady who was named, coincidentally, QuinnBee.

QuinnBee was, in the words of the brilliant Laurie Notaro, a Stoopid Girl, who had traveled many miles for a visit with her so-called boyfriend, who had moved to the Bahamas and had invited her to Florida for a long weekend.

QuinnBee thought her so-called boyfriend really sucked in the first place for moving to an island without even consulting her, but there were stars in her eyes that prevented her from seeing that he was, in fact, a first-class asshole. So, off she went.

One of the bright ideas that the so-called boyfriend had was to travel many, many miles in a convertible to see the Magic Kingdom. The stars in her eyes prevented QuinnBee from seeing that all the fancy lace undergarments she had brought for a so-called romantic weekend would be one-hundred-percent uncomfortable for walking around an amusement park for an entire day, but that's what stars are wont to do. So, off she went.

Her so-called boyfriend was very mean and jerky all day long, and QuinnBee was beginning to get the idea that something was very, very wrong. But the stars in her eyes prevented her from seeng that, when he suggested going on the It's a Small World ride, it might be solely to get her in a place where she would be completely incapable of making a scene. So, off she went.

And, of course, her so-called boyfriend broke up with QuinnBee on It's a Small World, and she had to cry very quietly to herself so as not to scare all the little children, and she kept crying through the rest of the very long day, and her nether regions were numb from the inappropriate panties that didn't do a damn bit of good keeping her so-called boyfriend from breaking up with her, and she cried the whole long drive back to West Palm Beach in the middle of the night, because she was a very Stoopid Girl.

But at least she didn't have those pesky stars in her eyes anymore.

"Aww," said my husband, "that is the saddest story I have ever heard."

"You're not kidding. Those panties were a bitch," said the formerly Stoopid Girl. "So, you wanna go on It's a Small World? You can laugh at me with the full picture, that way."

"Sure! Hang on, though, I need to go in here for a minute. I'll be right back."

Off Scott loped, while I sat and people-watched on Main Street. I saw lots of parents and kids, and more than a few Stoopid Girls who might, someday in the future, look back and think, Why did I ruin Disney by going with that moron? Worse, seeing little mouse-ear veils and top hats bobbing through the crowd, Why did I ruin Disney by marrying that jerk then having my honeymoon there?? Why, why, why?! But you never know, when you've got stars in your eyes, do you?

Now, I LOVE my husband, and from the first time I saw him I had a HUGE crush on him. But the truth is, I didn't marry him because I felt butterflies in my stomach. I married him because he is good and cheerful (most of the time) and responsible. He gets me, I get him, and while it may not be a romance novel every day of the week it is OUR love story and it seems to work just fine. I always feel a little defensive, as if --- in this day of PASSION! and ROMANCE! --- mere love and respect is not enough, but I believe that we married for all the right reasons and we'll be together long after more torrid affairs have burned themselves out.

"Ok, I'm back. It's a Small World, here we come!"

So of course the lines were long; the ride's a classic after all. Scott kept begging me to entertain him by telling the sad story of QuinnBee again.

"When did he break up with you?" he asked, "At the beginning of the ride? Or in the middle?"

"Um, pretty near the beginning, because I remember crying and crying and thinking I was going to throw up if I had to keep listening to that fucking song."

"That's rough," he commiserated, but really he seemed like he was laughing more than anything.

"You are very sadistic, did you know that?"

But why shouldn't he laugh? It was a long time ago, and I wouldn't tell it if it wasn't a funny story. I mean, c'mon, how pathetic do you have to be for your so-called boyfriend to break up with you on IT'S A SMALL WORLD??? I smiled up at Scott and thought, Just wait, I'm gonna punch you right in the hip.

Then it was our turn to enter the little boat and visit a world of happy, singing marionettes. We oooed. We ahhhed. Scott turned to me and pressed a small box into my hand.

"QuinnBee, will you marry me, again?"

I opened the box to find a small sterling ring, with a "B" and a tiny Mickey logo made of glittery little stones.

"I just thought that, since some other guy ruined this for you, I'd try to make it better again."

Ohhh, yeeeaaah, THIS is why I married him: he is the sweetest, nicest person in the whole world.

He went on, excitedly describing his plan to surprise me and how he managed to pull it off. But I kind of lost track of what he was saying, looking at the little ring nestled on my finger.

Actually, I couldn't even see that well, from all the damn stars in my eyes....

Disney Death March, Part Two

The first raindrop hit me square in the head.

"Shit, that's rain."

"You shouldn't say 'shit' at the Happiest Place on Earth," my husband chastised me.

"Bugger, that's rain." Cleaner language it may have been, but it did not change the fact that we were in for a bitch of a storm.

"This is GREAT!" Scott crowed. "Now all the tourists will go home! We'll get on any ride we want! You can't ask for anything better than this!!" His pace quickened, pulling me forward to the more popular rides, the ones with the longest lines.

I mumbled more curse words as I wrapped myself in my cheap rain poncho, the one I had brought with me in case of just this situation. Having traveled with Scott for nigh on seven years, I have learned that you'd best bring any number of things, as you simply never know what might happen and --- believe me --- the day will NOT be cut short for anything as trivial as hunger, rain, or injury.

As was reiterated to me in short order when, hurrying to the Haunted Mansion, my flip flop hit a particularly slippy* type of paving, and down I went.

"Uhn!" (Me, hitting the pavement.)

"What the....are you ok? I TOLD YOU NOT TO WEAR THOSE FLIP FLOPS!! C'mon, let's go!" (Scott, dragging me along by my arm for a short distance.)

"Grumble, grumble." (Me, making a few comments on my husband's questionable parentage, sotto voce.)

On he went. I was now totally soaked excepting for the small section covered by my discount poncho, which was the approximate thickness and durability of cling film. Satisfying myself with small, expressive sighs of discontent, I followed.

The rain continued, the ride lines got shorter and shorter, and our fellow travelers looked more and more miserable, huddled together under any overhang available. The bathrooms began to resemble emergency shelters: crying children clutched to their parents' bosoms, clothing and backpacks strewn wherever unused space could be found.

Scott, by contrast, could not have been happier. This was just what he had been hoping for, and he hadn't even had to purchase an overpriced Mickey poncho! We zipped onto Pirates of the Caribbean and sallied straight through to the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad with no wait whatsoever.

The second time I fell, I thought to myself, Stay down. Just stay down, and it'll all be over. They'll come get you in a little golf cart, and they'll drive you to somewhere private and warm. They'll give you a band-aid for your toe, and maybe a Stitch doll so you won't sue. Just...stay...down....

But like the punch drunk fighter who won't throw the match, even if it means the Mob will be on him for whatever is left of his honourable life, I trembled to my feet. "Please. Don't hurt me anymore."

"Oh, sweetie, it's okay!" my dear, beloved husband cooed. "But hurry up now, we still have to see It's a Small World and The Country Bear Jamboree and Buzz Lightyear and..."

After that, it was all a rain-soaked blur. I should have stayed down....

* This is Pittsburghese for "slippery".

Happy Hallowe'en!

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Disney Death March

After talking with K for an hour and a half, my mind was reeling. Either this man had the most interesting life of anyone in the history of the world or he was the craziest motherfucker I'd ever met. There is a fine line between genius and madness, but it's important to stay on the right side of the line. I reminded myself many times during the course of our conversation that you can't catch crazy, and found K to be a genuinely delightful person. But, still, nice can't trump being a wack-a-doo.

K remembered his golf tournament and eventually bid his farewells, promising to meet us the following day to repeat the process, and we were free to explore. All the sights and sounds of Disney beckoned but, frankly --- after our near-death experience just getting there and the psychedelic experience of K --- I was ready for a nap.

Unfortunately, my husband --- normally the sweetest and most considerate of men --- becomes a vacation despot. On our last trip, we walked until my feet bled. The time before that, we visited literally EVERY church in Quebec. And some outside the city, as well. And if you haven't been to Quebec, all I can say is it has a LOT of churches.

So, in preparation for this trip, I started priming the pump early. I reminded him every day of my weak and arthritic ankles. I reminded him of my arthritic back and my bulging discs. I made an effort to look particularly aged and feeble. I pointed out that, while he is a Greek god among men, I am a nag destined for the glue factory in very short order.

(His answer was to ban my flip flops and to buy me very lightweight, flexible running shoes. "Now," he said, smiling, "there is no reason you can't keep up with me. Isn't this great?!"

"But, they're little leather coffins for feet! I can't put my feet in those all day long! My feet can't breathe! I'll get blisters!"

"No, no," he reasoned, "you'll get used to them. It'll be better for you. You'll be able to walk for miles."

I got the message. I might wear the shoes, but he wouldn't make me like it. And I figured I was now due some Disney loot in exchange. This could be working out to my advantage, after all.)

Now we were here, with two parks to cover in one day, Hurricane Wilma threatening, and Scott with a surfeit of energy to expend. I made one final plea for mercy, then the Disney Death March began.

First, we got tickets for the Mission: Space ride. This was a mistake, but we'll come back to that later. While we waited for our ride time, we headed around the International Pavilions to sample the food at the International Food and Wine Festival. This was actually good, and less expensive than the Norwegian smoked fish fest Scott had been planning. Strangely, the Norwegian pavilion had been taken over by the Disney Princesses, who were taking all their meals there. EVERY table was booked. We were assured that a seat would not be available for breakfast, lunch, OR dinner until sometime in November.

"What," Scott wondered, "would a kid eat at a Norwegian restaurant?"

My guess, macaroni and cheese.

However, the special Festival booths had some really great food. And booze. Which I reckoned I'd be needing before too long.

Rounding the far side of the lake, I had my first inkling that we were going to stand out from the "average" guest. There, near the German pavilion (I think, they all blur together after a while), was a miniature train set-up.

"Quick, take my picture like I'm a monster menacing the village!" my husband growled, his face a rictus of evil, leaning over the railing, his hands raised in enormous claws.

Always happy to oblige, I whipped out the camera and started shouting directions. "Look more terrifying! LOOK MORE TERRIFYING!" I was Cecil B. DeMille, and I was getting the best performance of Scott's life!

Then I saw the woman over his shoulder. The one who was looking at me like we should not have been allowed in the park. Ever.

"Uh, he's menacing the village," I shrugged, blushing.

We made our retreat to the champagne kiosk, then promptly pounced on Fox, from Pinocchio. I had decided that I only wanted to associate with the bad characters, and this guy definitely fit the bill. I wanted to pose like I was dragging him away by his tail, but was too shy when I got up close to him. From a distance, you can kind of pretend that it really is Fox, but up close you can tell that it's a person looking at you from the mesh covering the eyes. A tired person. A patient, tired person.

A Disney villain I can manhandle, no problem; a real person, well, I've gotta know you for a while before I can be THAT bossy.

Suddenly, from the Colonial American pavilion, we heard the fife and drum. "Hurrah! They're conscripting colonists for their army! Let's go watch!"

We then got into an argument about whether they were conscripting or impressing civilians, but it ended up they were just doing a little schtick. It got me thinking, though, how cool it would be if, every once in a while, a few of the nations would band together and invade, say, France. They're used to it, and it would be educational and entertaining all at the same time.

Needless to say, this earned me a few more strange looks from the other tourists, but then it was time to head over to Mission: Space for our first ride of the day.

Really, the only good thing I can say about Mission: Space is that Gary Sinise is your captain. And he is very easy on the eyes. Despite what my husband says. He looks all tired and worn out and like he couldn't run very fast. I like that.

What I DON'T like is a stupid ride that straps you into a pseudo-cockpit then tilts your seat all around while flashing twirly pictures on a big video screen in front of you.

Yes. I have motion sickness. Yes, it was horrible. No, I didn't puke, but not for lack of trying, I assure you.

This was not a good start to our day. But, it would only get worse from here.....

Heart of Disney

We were waiting in a parking lot.

We were supposed to meet him here, but we had no idea what he looked like. He, on the other hand, knew that Scott would be wearing a loud plaid shirt and I would be wearing my orange Longhorns baseball cap. He could be anywhere, watching us, without our even being aware. The back of my neck prickled.

"So...uh....what time did he say he'd meet us?" I ventured.

"Shhh," my husband hissed, "I think that's him now."

Well over six feet tall, gaunt, with searing blue eyes that seemed to look within my soul and find me lacking in some indefinable way, he loomed before us. Our connection. Our link.

Our Disney hook-up.

"Let me tell you how this is going to go down," he barked, "you will follow me to the gates. You will stay directly behind me at all times. We will enter the park together. We will spend some time together at the park so that my employers will know that I have not sold you these passes. I will then leave to attend my golf tournament. Do you have any questions? No? Good, let's go."

And, suddenly, we were Seaman Marlow, following Mr. Kurtz into the Heart of Darkness.

K, as I will call him to protect his anonymity and avoid a lawsuit, is the relative of a colleague. She warned us that, while a nice guy, he is a little crazy. To put it mildly.

I had time to reflect upon this as we careened down back roads and short cuts into the Magic Kingdom. Speed limits, turn signals, and maintaining safe distance meant nothing to this man, and I began to wonder if free passes into the Happiest Place on Earth were really worth it, given the obvious price of life and limb we were being asked to pay.

Oh, how I wished I had remained a Christian. Oh, how I wished I still started each day with a beer and a bottle of cheap wine. Prayer and drunkeness were the only things I could believe would save me now.

Scott, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Unleashed from my incessant nagging about his driving by the necessity of keeping up with K, he made token mutterings about doing 65 in a 25 zone and cutting off SUVs as K whimsically changed lanes, but I could tell his heart wasn't really in it. From the corner of my eye, I could see him smile.

At last we reached the park. K began to tell us his life story as he walked with us to the gates, mentioning that he had at one time been a race car driver. This I was fully prepared to believe. The rest, I'm not so sure....

Tears Are NOT a Substitute For Spray Starch

So, we were on our way to Brunswick! Scott would be sitting in on the interviews for his replacement and I would be taking a little look see at the place we'll be calling home in four short months.

Things were actually going very well. I had carefully orchestrated every aspect of packing, even laying out various shirts and cargo shorts that I know are Scott's favourites, to help him decide what to take with a minimum of fuss and muss. The only things I did not worry about were Scott's dopp kit (he keeps it hidden somewhere that I can never find) and his suit things for the interviews (he knows best how he wants to present himself and I'm never able to guess what suit and tie he'll want on any given occasion.) We had pretty weather for the drive --- lots of sun, not too hot --- and the traffic was light.

As we neared Statesboro, Scott suddenly announced that he needed to take a turn around the city and find a department store, having just realized that he'd forgotten to bring a tie. We laughed in relief as we found a Goody's and a JC Penney's within walking distance of one another --- we'd be sure to find something he'd like, and thank goodness he'd realized in time for us to actually stop and buy a replacement!

Oh ho, we chortled, flapping the tongue of the tie at each other, standing in the checkout line. Rascally tie, it won't get the better of us, we chuckled as we continued our drive to Brunswick. Tie! we exclaimed gleefully during dinner, knowing that for once we had our shit one-hundred-percent together, no surprises here, no sireebob!

Scott was in a fine mood the next morning, preparing to meet his boss for breakfast before leaving for the interviews. He winked at me in the bathroom mirror, waving the recalcitrant tie at me with a little kiss. This would certainly be a Good Day. I smiled sleepily then rolled over for another couple hours of blissful, luxury hotel rest.

Then I heard a gasp.

Then muttered curses.

Then a sob.

Sitting bolt upright, I thought to myself, That idiot forgot his socks, I just know it!

"Sweetheart, what is it, what's the matter?" I called to my husband, who by now was struggling for breath. "Did you forget your socks? Do I need to run out somewhere while you're at breakfast and buy you some socks??" Thinking to myself, Where the hell am I going to buy socks at seven in the morning?? And a lot of other mean things, besides.

"I...I...I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone!" came the strangled reply.

Now, in the history of the world, this response has never been met by any wife with less than all-consuming curiosity. Now I MUST know, at ANY cost. "Tell me right now what is going on, did you forget your damned socks again?"

"No.....MY PANTS!"

Oh, yes, we were really on top of that TIE, thank God, and the SOCKS; THOSE were covered. The easiest things in the world to physically remove from a waiter or bellboy, sure, THOSE we had. 36 inch inseam dress trousers, though....that was going to be a problem, even for someone with my ingenuity and unscrupulous cunning.

As soon as I could catch my breath, from my immediate and prolonged laughter at my husband's expense, I asked him if he'd brought any khaki trousers. We were, after all, on our way to a Disney vacation, so his outfits were heavy on the cargo short side, but hopefully at least one pair of trousers had made the cut, just in case of dinner at a nice restaurant or a sudden whim to attend church.

And thank god! He had packed ONE pair, his most favourite pair, which I had JUST rescued from an assault from movie-popcorn butter with extreme intervention via stain remover. The day was saved! He wouldn't be in a full suit, but he could --- just maybe --- pull off a casual, sport coat effect, with the new tie serving to anchor the khaki trousers to the gunmetal grey suit jacket. Hurrah!

Working quickly, he started warming the iron and setting up the ironing board. He threw the pants onto the board, then began ironing as if his life depended upon it.

"Hey," he growled, "there are bleach stains ALL OVER these pants! What have you done to my pants??"

"Nothing! I just...used some stain remover..." Could I have used that stain remover a little over-zealously?? Could it really have left those bleachy stains ALL OVER those damned pants?? I only used it on the front, where the butter......

"Hey!" Scott glared at me accusingly. "I thought you said you got the stain out of these?!"

"OF COURSE I DID!" But he was right; the heat of the iron had, somehow, brought the stain out with a vengeance. My husband collapsed, limply, over the iron. Only his muffled cries assured me that, still, he lived.

Of course, life goes on, even if you are an unfortunate law clerk with no kind of housekeeper for a wife. He put on his stained, bleached trousers and marched out the door to meet with his very particular boss --- who is a bit of a dandy and truly believes that clothes make the man --- several Ivy League candidates, and his own Fate.

"So, how did it go?" I asked when I picked him up that afternoon.

"Oh, it was fine. The Judge was wearing a sport coat and khakis. So, where do you want to have lunch?"

And that, friends, was the end of that. But only the beginning of a very strange trip, indeed...

My Life, This Weekend

Ok, I have to just interrupt myself for one second to say that the weather man, who looked like a very sedate older gentleman, just started his report with, "The latest pain in the rear is Hurricane Wilma...." Now, I ask you, is that any way for a weather man to talk?? First the postal employees stopped wearing proper uniforms, now local news personalities are talking like gang members.

Anyway, the reason I'm watching the news at all is that we leave tomorrow for a day in Brunswick and then on to Orlando and the House of Mouse. So I am glued to the weather because, without a doubt, we are going to have nothing but rain, rain, and more rain because of the damned hurricane. And it is only par for the course that the family vacation would be scheduled for the rainy season, 'cause that's just how we roll around here.

It all started when my husband decided out of the blue --- on the basis of one throw-away comment from yours truly --- to purchase a discount vacation package to Orlando. We haven't taken a proper vacation in four years, so it was an extremely sweet thing for him to do, except that we just had an unexpected vet bill. But then we had to get the brakes fixed, as he then decided we should just drive our own car, rather than rent.

Unfortunately, having made the mistake of taking care of our car once, it decided that it liked the attention and so the alternator promptly bit the dust. After an extremely complicated process, the repair was made, but Scott really did it, though, when he decided to throw in an oil change while he was at it. The car, demanding bitch that she is, suddenly decided that she needed a new battery and tires. Having gotten those, however, she went completely power mad, requiring a new something-or-other that --- as my husband explains it, and I have to trust him 'cause I don't know --- on any other model would be a separate $25 part, but on OUR model is an all-in-one unit, the sum total cost of which was in excess of $400.

Well, now that all THAT work had been done on the car, we just decided to go whole hog and buy new hubcaps! Sand and paint the rust spots! Replace the rear brake cylinders! Cost is not an issue at this point, it's only money! When all is said and done, we will have put a grand into this car, which is more than we've spent on it in the last three years, I grant you, but still, right before vacation??? That's just mean.

So there's the initial cost of the package, plus the grand for the car, plus the fuel for the drive, PLUS the cost of two vet visits with complete shots in order to be able to board the dogs while we're away (this does not include the cost of the first, surprise emergency vet visit mentioned earlier).

But it doesn't even stop there, because no sooner had the dogs discovered that THEIR needs were going to be met when they BOTH came down with some sort of horrible itchiness that needed to be addressed IMMEDIATELY, it was just too pitiful to watch, and I've had poison ivy so I know how it feels. And since the Horrible Itch was flea-related, it was clear that their flea collars just weren't cuttin' the mustard and I had to spring for the extremely expensive lethal chemical flea medicine. So there's another $500, and we haven't even boarded them yet!

And then I realized today that I am disgustingly fat and all of my clothes are completely unfashionable, so I had to go buy some new clothes so I won't look like a dumpy housewife while strolling through the Magic Kingdom. 'Cause, you know, then I'd really stand out. Fortunately, I hated almost everything as soon as I got it home, so at least we can deduct most of the panic-packing costs as soon as I can make my returns, but this discount vacation is costing us an arm and a leg!

All of this is running through my mind, along with the long check list of chores I need to do and errands I need to run before we leave, which I haven't been able to do yet because the car has either been not working or actively under repair for the last two weeks. Not a good traveler under the best of circumstances, this is driving me out of my mind.

And the cherry on the top of this stress sundae is that my poor Beloved, whose sole wish was to take me on a vacation he heard ME express a desire to take, keeps asking me if I'm excited about our trip and all I can think of is dollar signs. I feel like a real heel.

Brutus Was So Excited to Go to The Morris Last Sunday!

He brought along his favourite buckeye for the day, although we warned him that food and beverages are not allowed in the Museum. He didn't think it'd be a problem, as buckeyes are poisonous and therefore inedible.

He didn't like it much when we pointed out that he, too, is a "poisonous nut".

When he was done pouting, we spent a happy afternoon wandering through the galleries. Scott and I particularly liked the Eudora Welty photography exhibit. Brutus really liked the Georgiana paintings and practically had to be dragged away!

Overall, a very good day, and NO CLOWNS!

Outlander vs. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Outlander has magical time travel; HP has magic.

Outlander has a blonde witch, Geillis Duncan; HP has a blonde witch, Fleur Delacour.

Outlander has a Loch Ness monster; HP has mermaids.

Outlander has a black mineral spring hidden under a monastery; HP has a black lake hidden in a cave.

HP has Inferi; Outlander has a lynch mob.

Outlander has divination via a bowl of water; HP has divination via a bowl of memories.

Outlander has a dangerous horse, Donas; HP has a dangerous hippogriff, Buckbea....er, Witherwings.

HP has a gentle giant, Hagrid; Outlander has a gentle-ish giant, Wee Angus.

Outlander has an impetuous red head, Jamie Fraser; HP has impetuous red heads Fred, George, and Ron Weasley.

HP has a clever herbologist, Hermione Granger; Outlander has a clever herbologist, Clair Beauchamp Randall Fraser.

HP has the complicated and evil Professor Severus Snape; Outlander has the complicated and evil Captain Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall.

HP has werewolves Greyback and Remus Lupin; Outlander has a pack of wolves.

HP has a castle, Hogwarts; Outlander has a castle, Leoch.

In HP, Harry plays a hazardous game: Quidditch; in Outlander, Jamie plays a hazardous game: political intrigue.

HP has a kindly headmaster, Albus Dumbledore; Outlander has a kindly horsemaster, Alec McMahon MacKenzie.

Outlander has lots of sex and rogering; HP has lots of snogging, and probably some students named Roger.

Sometimes My Husband is Unwittingly Funny

For example:

Today, one of his female colleagues confided to him that she suffers from endometriosis. Not knowing exactly what this is, he mentioned that an old friend of his, Pat, had the same thing.

Which would have been fine, really, but Pat is a man. And Scott kept using the masculine pronoun.

And he wonders why people think he's odd.

Huh

So yesterday my dogs were going NUTS. Due to the incessant klaxons and sirens and alarums emanating from a block away.

Me, I just shrugged and went about my business. Which was, primarily, shouting at the dogs to shut the fuck up before I clubbed them like baby seals. (I use language like that to charm the neighbours. Honestly.)

Found out today that there was a million dollar jewelry heist less than a mile from my home. By a gang of South American jewel thieves.

Huh. That's a new one for me.

The Horror, The Horror

Saturday, Scott and I went to the Farmer's Market in downtown Augusta. It was alright; we had a great breakfast, met some cool people, loaded up on some fresh produce, and even got some free peaches. All in all, a nice morning.

Until....

I can hardly even bear to say it. But, for you my loyal readers, I will try. (Deep breath....)

On our way back to the car, we kept seeing all these clowns. Like, literally, CLOWNS. Clowns on scooters, clowns making balloon animals, clowns just generally running amok, annoying the children and frightening the horses.

Naturally, I was repulsed by the painted freaks and just kept walking, like any sane human being in her right mind would do. Scott, however.....

How can you know someone for seven years, and not realize that they are either the spawn of the Devil or profoundly retarded? You'd think something like that would show, wouldn't you? I certainly did. But, sadly, no; with no warning --- no indication whatsoever --- my husband started veering in the direction of the CLOWNS.

Of course, I immediately shouted out, "No, for the love of all that is good, I will NOT cross this street. I WILL NOT GO NEAR THOSE CLOWNS!" I clutched at his sleeve, but with an crazed chuckle and a dazed expression he escaped me and plodded, inexorably, to that unholy place.

Dear readers, I followed him.

The man I promised to love, honor, and cherish had been dazzled by enormous shoes and white face paint, and I realized that now was not the time to forsake him, NOW was the time that he needed me most, and only a coward would run away.

I caught up to him just as he reached the pavement on the other side. We stood together, dumbfounded by the chaos of CLOWNS, mutely trying to take it all in.

"Look," said my beloved, "that one is giving away shoe shines, you should go get one."

(As I was wearing flip flops at the time, I suddenly realized WHY he had been so drawn to them; obviously he shares their inexplicable sense of "humor".)

I looked up, straight into the video camera.

"Well," I heard the operator snicker, "are these the next two contestants?" just as the events coordinator rushed up to us, murmuring, "If you could just move along now, they are judging the clown contest right where you're standing."

And as the footage plays on local newscasts around Augusta, I can only say:

Well, Scotty, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into.

I Have Finally Found Something to Love About Georgia

Mind you, I haven't been outside the Augusta city limits, yet, so I'm working on pretty limited information. But so far I have not been that impressed (see previous entry re: enormous insects, ramshackle house, temperatures unfit for tropical beasts, etc.)

But then, I went to BoJangles. Then, I tasted of the Tree of the Knowledge of Cinnamon and Icing. For lo, I had eaten a BoJangles cinnamon biscuit.

And it was good.

Actually, I think BoJangles is spelled more like "B*jangles" with a star or something where the "O" should be, but that makes it like I'm trying to curse and be coy at the same time, so, you know, fuck it.

But those cinnamon biscuits are pure heroin. And let me point out that you can buy two for one dollar! Of course, I can actually HEAR my pancreas secreting insulin when I'm eating them, but damn they are good.

We Made It

Well, we're settling in nicely here in Georgia.

Mind you, I have to watch that the dogs don't get carried off by the so-called "palmetto bugs" (really REALLY big roaches, although our realtor says differently; I'll have to check her credentials because I'm pretty sure entomologist is not among them.)

And our living room flooded because apparently they've never heard of flues down here. And our refrigerator is a piece of shit.

And there are uncovered electical outlets. That don't seem to fit in the wall, so it is impossible to fit them with a cover.

And the maintenance company will not return my calls or emails.

And it's so damn hot I break a sweat looking out the window.

On the bright side, a big tree branch fell during the last thunderstorm and dented our car!

Okay, all whining aside, Scott keeps pointing out that this is my opportunity to strike out in a new direction! That I can make a little vacation out of the next couple of weeks, then find a little part-time job that I can have fun at. He's right, of course, but for right now I think I'm going to feel a little sorry for myself. Come Monday, I'm going to pick myself up by my bootstraps and get a plan of action together.

But, just for today....well, a girl can dream of Ohio and the friends she left behind....

My Dog Hates You

Here is an interesting site, for anyone who has ever wondered if animals can, or should, be included in the birthing process:

http://freebirth.com/inspired/fluffy.html

Some very touching stories.

I'd like to point out, however, that you'll notice there were no stories about "my Chihuahua was adorably sweet with the baby and couldn't wait to be a second mother to him", because I'll bet you that has never in the history of Chihuahuas happened.

Probably more like "my Chihuahua threatened my baby with prison rape if it so much as looked at me, and it also claimed all my breastmilk as its own on the premise that everything about me is property first of the Chi."

At least, that's what my dog did.

Okay, it wasn't a baby. It was my husband.

And it wasn't exactly prison rape, so much as a sharp nip on the wrist. We are all still trying to learn to get along here; eventually, one of them will make the other one his bitch, then we'll all be back to normal.

Soon.

I hope....

Pipe Cleaner Animals

I made these tonite whilst watching television. They were featured in one of the Martha Stewart Living Kids magazines, and I think they turned out really great! From left to right: monkey, mouse, bunny with carrot, another monkey, a little red pig, and a chameleon. (I made up the carrot and the pig without a reference, and didn't do too badly, if I say so myself...)

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A Pipe Cleaner Brutus Buckeye

I love the way he turned out. : )

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In Honour of HP VI

I'm
a Gryffindor!

I made Scott take this picture at the park a coupla weeks ago. Bride and Groom and Photographer.....being photographed by my husband. That just makes me laugh, is it just me?

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Repent, For the End is Near

Well, this is my next to last week at my current job. I thought that, when this moment came, I would be dancing on my desk, waving farewell to all the poor colleagues I was going to leave behind. "So long, suckers!" I envisioned myself singing out gaily, drunk on freedom and champagne. (Wadda they gonna do, *fire* me??)

Now that the day is fast approaching, I find myself strangely sad. I guess some of it has to do with the fact that each day brings me closer to leaving my home and my friends, as well as a job I've alternated between loving and hating for six years. In essence, each day brings me just a little closer to leaving everything I know for the complete Unknown. Not to mention being --- for at least a little while --- completely dependent upon my husband for the first time. Ever.

That's a little scary when you're a control freak like me. What if I don't like it? Does not having a job mean that my husband gets to call all the shots? On a purely practical matter, this is just the first step of the journey; what if our second move in February doesn't go so well?

What if? Are there any two more wistful, wishful words in the English language? What if...I'm all alone. What if...I just watch television every day and gain a million pounds and cry all day because my husband doesn't love me any more? What if...all the plans I've had for my life never come to fruition, because I'm better at dreaming than at making those dreams come true?

Obviously, there's a little more to this than just leaving my job. But I'm going to try to stay present during these last few days, try to assess what it is I'm really afraid of, and what I can do to manage my fear. And maybe the end will start to look like a new beginning.

Date My Pet

So, my sister sent me this link: www.datemypet.com

Meet Singles with Pets - Dating for pet lovers. Free to join.

I'm so excited! Now I have somewhere to go if Scott and I ever split up.

Unfortunately, my ad would read:

"Psycho Chihuahua seeks....WHAT??...fuck that....my mommy doesn't need anyone but me!! You come around here, I'LL KILL YOU."

::sigh::

Blech

Sometime I run across things in my travels that makes me feel like there is simply no hope for mankind. And I have to say it really, really depresses me.

For example, I was doing a quite innocuous search of the internet for a Miskatonic University tee shirt. I've been shopping around for one for a coupla years and just haven't found one I like, so I thought I'd give another try tonite. Sadly, TWO of the shirts on offer that turned up in tonite's search were from white supremacist groups.

Gack. I know Lovecraft was xenophobic and an anti-Semite, BUT he was the product of an era that still believed Irish and Italians were dirty foreigners, for cryin' out loud. I just don't understand how people can still believe this shit today, and how they can annex the creation of a great --- but sadly misguided --- writer to support their beliefs.

So, um, the other shirt that caught my eye before I made my hasty exit was one emblazoned with "I LOVE MY PIT BULL". Poor dog.

So In Keeping With Our Bee Theme

When Scott and I got married, I was delighted to realize that I could adopt the bee as our emblem: Belhorn, "B", bee.....get it?

Anyway, we now have bees around the kitchen, a bee print in our bedroom, and I have several cross stitch patterns with bees and hives to stitch. I've named our tiny little house "Beecroft Cottage" and our ficticious country cottage is called "La Ruche". (Because I have an active fantasy life, and because who is there to stop me? Because I am the QuinnBee and I am mad with power!)

Ok, so then Wednesday I had the genius idea that Scott and I should have alter-egos. BEE-related alter-egos! Alter-egos who would take over when Scott and I failed, who could help us to communicate better and to be better friends to each other. And in short order I had created Buzz and Honi.

Buzz and Honi are everything that Scott and I might like to be, but aren't. They are fun, they like to do all sorts of different things, and they're always up for a party. Buzz and Honi also enjoy working out, something that on my best days I find ho-hum. Needless to say, Buzz and Honi have never heard of social anxiety, they balance their checkbook, they never say mean things in the heat of anger, and they probably do not own a television. And, just between you and me, Honi is a bit of a hotsy-totsy. (Read, "sexpot".)

Ok, yeah, I know Buzz and Honi don't really exist, but thinking that they could makes me want to try just a little bit harder.

Then I started thinking, why should Scott and I have all the fun? So I thought of a few more combinations for other couples I know. For my friends who use monkeys as their inside joke: KoKo and Kong. For my friend the actuarial and his wife: Buck and Penny. For my sister and her Scotch-Irish husband: Thistle and Kiltie.

Oh, I could go on for days, but you get the gist of it, I'm sure. Is it a little dorky? Sure, but it's still fun.

And if anyone is up for some fun, it's Buzz and Honi. ; )

Alright, Try This One On For Size

Your Deadly Sins

Sloth: 60%

Gluttony: 40%

Greed: 40%

Envy: 20%

Wrath: 20%

Lust: 0%

Pride: 0%

Chance You'll Go to Hell: 26%

You will die while sleeping - and no one will notice.

How Sinful Are You?

At Least I'm a Genius at Some Damn Thing

Your IQ Is 105

Your Logical Intelligence is Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Above Average Your General Knowledge is Above Average

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

Could I Possibly Love Soul Coughing Any More Than I Already Do?

And that answer to that would be...absolutely no! I am gorging myself on Soul Coughing tonite after faaaar too long apart, and swooning in love with them. Why can't every band be this great???? ::lovestruck::

I'm Keeping My Fingers Crossed

Well, I did it. Something kinda crazy. I'm even a little embarrassed to admit it, but 1) it's a little exciting and B) I don't have anything else to write about today, so what the hell.

I wrote a story.

And I sent it to a magazine for publication.

Squee!

Now, I'm no writer, I can't just sit down and make up a story. But I can describe stuff that I see pretty well, and I'm a good editor. So I got a flash of a scene, and I just started describing it, and darn if it didn't turn out okay! So I showed it to my sister and my husband, just to get a little feedback, and when they didn't think I was too off my rocker I decided to go out on a limb and submit it.

I'm really nervous, I have to admit, but I'm also proud of myself for having the nerve to do it. I'm trying not to get my hopes too far up, but keep your fingers crossed, too, okay?

More Poetry, We Put This in Our Wedding Program

XVII  (I do not love you...)
Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


Translated by Stephen Tapscott

If I Were...I Would Be...

If I were a dessert, I would be big enough to share.

If I were an alcoholic beverage, I would be champagne.

If I were a type of music, I would be Rasputina or Red Priest.

If I were a color, I would be orange-fuscia swirl.

If I were a fruit, I would be a ripe, juicy peach.

If I were an animal, I would be a Chihuahua.

If I were a story, I would be written by Angela Carter.

If I were a car, I would be a Karmann Ghia.

If I were a poem, I would be The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me by Delmore Schwartz.

If I were a bird, I would be a Grackle.**

If I were a city, I would be Prague.

If I were an article of clothing, I would be flip flops.

If I were the weather, I would be a summer storm.

If I were a plant, I would be a passion flower.

If I were a planet, I would be Saturn.

If I were a tree, I would be a flowering cherry.

If I were a fabric, I would be cashmere.

If I were a work of art, I would be a Redon.

If I were a book, I would be Precious Bane by Mary Webb.

If I were an emotion, I would be worry.

If I were an insect, I would be the queen bee.

If I were a song, I would be Surrounded by Chantal Kreviazuk.

If I were a fictional character, I would be Prue Sarn.

If I were a season, I would be autumn.

If I were an instrument, I would be an accordion.

If I were lingerie, I would be cabaret stripe thigh high stockings, clinging to my garters.

If I were a movie, I would be Harold & Maude.

If I were a musical, I would be Gigi.

If I were a criminal act, I would be the long con.

**THE GRACKLE

   Ogden Nash
p.1942
====================

The grackle's voice is less than mellow,
His heart is black, his eye is yellow,
He bullies more attractive birds
With hoodlum deeds and vulgar words,
And should a human interfere,
Attacks that human in the rear.
I cannot help but deem the grackle
An ornithological debacle.

My Heaven on Earth

I LOVE our garden.

It was actually one of the two reasons we bought our house, but if you could see what it looked like then, you'd be scratching you head. Scott and I just kept coming back to the horrible over-grown garden and the crazy tiki bar and saying, "Are we crazy? Do we like this? Is this nuts?? Who else would buy this place???" (Turns out, NO ONE. The house had been on the market for something like 450 days.)

BUT, it was in our price range, in a pocket-neighbourhood that honestly could trick you into believing you live in the country even though it's in the middle of a good sized city, and it's on a dead-end street. Even better, we were hard-pressed to find even one house in the entire neighbourhood that didn't have at least one dog. Definitely Heaven!

So we bought the place, white carpet, over-grown garden, outdated wiring, and all. Oh, if I could only explain all the crazy stuff that was in this house, you'd never stop laughing. (One example: the bizarre home made street light, converted from an old fire-hydrant. Scott not only threw his back out trying to shift the hydrant, he got electrocuted --- this is how we discovered where the line ran through the yard, ha ha.)

But slowly we started discovering the charms of this little brick box: There were hard wood floors under the carpeting! The back garden had a lot of charm once it was beaten back a little! There was a second pond under the corner bush! (We ended up taking that one out, but it was a nice surprise. Actually still had some fish in it, even; what they'd been living on, I have no idea.) The neighbours, while a little...intrusive...were actually very sweet, once we established our own territory. Scott spent a summer building the stone patio and got wonderfully brown and skinny.

All in all, it's worked out really well. I spent Friday afternoon hanging out under our cherry tree in the back garden, reading a magazine and watching the dogs goof around. This picture really doesn't do it justice; it was taken last month, and everything has grown so much since then. The hostas are already demanding to be divided, which might actually work in our favour, as the front garden is an absolute mess that a few hostas could certainly improve.

I realized that I spent our first two summers in this house focusing on all the work to be done, all the improvements yet to be made. This summer, because we'll be gone for a year, I find myself looking at the budding trees, the expanding hostas, our host of bumblebees, really noticing in a way that I haven't before. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say, and I can see now how true that is.

So this spring, and the summer to come, is bittersweet. I'm sad I won't be here next spring to take note of which tulips are emerging and which buds are flowering and if the bleeding heart made it through another winter. But I'm thankful it's made me pay attention today.


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An Exciting Day for Che

Small Dog had a very exciting day yesterday, he fell into the fish pond.

One minute he's watching the fish eat, the next thing I know is I hear a big "KER-PLUNK" and he's splashing around for dear life. (Honestly, it was exactly the sound you hear when you drop a big rock into a lake. Everytime I think about it, I just have to chuckle.)

Anyway, this is why the dogs are never allowed in the back yard on their own; they are very small, and our pond is very deep. This could be serious trouble. Fortunately, I was there to pull his sorry, damp self out of the pond, good as new.

The fish, however, are COMPLETELY traumatized. You can imagine how THEY feel: one minute it's supper, the next minute there's a dog on their heads. It's no wonder they won't come out from the lily pads now. It's kind of a shame, though, I really love watching them all swimming and schooling. It's one of the highlights of my day.

Watching Che eat is a little less poetic, but I guess it will have to do. At least until the fish have recovered.

This Week's Dream

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Scott and I stayed at the Pink Motel this weekend, as we passed through the Smokey Mountains on our way home from Georgia. This motel is so cute, absolutely everything is pink --- exterior, carpeting, bedspreads, bathroom tile. It was FABULOUS! Built in the '50's, it's owned by the daughter of the original owner. My dream this week is to buy the Pink Motel when the current owner decides to retire, then I would make it a haven of kitschy good times. I would live in the Pink Motel for the rest of my life! Hurrah! Anyway, while I'm dreaming you can start planning your vacation to Cherokee, NC. The Smokies are beautiful, there are wedding chapels galore (why, I'm not sure; this region is apparently the Vegas of the Southeast), and you can honeymoon in the Pink Motel!

Incredible, But True!

You Are a Chihuahua Puppy

Small, high strung, and loyal. You do best in the city with a adults - young kids could crush you!

What Breed of Puppy Are You?

If I Were a Famous Work of Art, I Would Be...

From the Lake, No. 1 by Georgia O'Keeffe

What Famous Work of Art Are You?

The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me

Delmore Schwartz

"the withness of the body" –Whitehead

The heavy bear who goes with me,
A manifold honey to smear his face,
Clumsy and lumbering here and there,
The central ton of every place,
The hungry beating brutish one
In love with candy, anger, and sleep,
Crazy factotum, dishevelling all,
Climbs the building, kicks the football,
Boxes his brother in the hate-ridden city.

Breathing at my side, that heavy animal,
That heavy bear who sleeps with me,
Howls in his sleep for a world of sugar,
A sweetness intimate as the water's clasp,
Howls in his sleep because the tight-rope
Trembles and shows the darkness beneath.
--The strutting show-off is terrified,
Dressed in his dress-suit, bulging his pants,
Trembles to think that his quivering meat
Must finally wince to nothing at all.

That inescapable animal walks with me,
Has followed me since the black womb held,
Moves where I move, distorting my gesture,
A caricature, a swollen shadow,
A stupid clown of the spirit's motive,
Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness,
The secret life of belly and bone,
Opaque, too near, my private, yet unknown,
Stretches to embrace the very dear
With whom I would walk without him near,
Touches her grossly, although a word
Would bare my heart and make me clear,
Stumbles, flounders, and strives to be fed
Dragging me with him in his mouthing care,
Amid the hundred million of his kind,
the scrimmage of appetite everywhere.

You Had Me At Your Badass Homepage Image

The coolest site ---- bar NONE --- for shopping right now has got to be Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab and it's sister site, Black Phoenix Trading Post. I am not kidding. If this site was a person, I'd be stripped down to my panties already; I'm hot and bothered, I tell ya!

I simply cannot explain the experience of browsing Black Phoenix, but let's just say you have to be intrigued by a shop that creates a limited edition line of fragrance called "Springtime in Arkham". (I'm a well-documented Lovecraft geek, so my heart is a-flutter.) If you can't choose between Al Azif, Cuthulhu, or Miskatonic University, you can always spring for the Gibbering Madness sampler pack. But hurry; these particular scents are only available until June 1, 2005.

That don't rock your boat? Howsabout something from the Mad Tea Party line? Now you can smell like your favorite character from the classic story. (Sorry, Spittingonmissamerica, no Dina.)

Please do yourself a favor and check it out; even if you don't like fragrance or cool fucking tshirts, you will enjoy the clip art and the poetic, well-considered descriptions. And if you do like scent, you can be sure no one else at the mall is gonna smell like you!

Interpret My Dream

This oughta be good.....

Ok, so last night I dreamt that I was wandering through this big hotel. I was looking for a man about getting a job. I was dressed respectably, but shabbily; if I didn't find this person to talk about this job I was going to be out on the street, and I was desperate and terrified, but I could not find my way to where I was supposed to talk to this person.

Suddenly, I bumped into Jennifer Aniston. I asked her several times, with increasing urgency, to help me contact this man I was supposed to see about the job. She pretty much blew me off, like she had her own problems (you know, Brad) and just couldn't be bothered with mine. Then she swept off with her entourage and her glittery evening gown, and just left me standing there.

I was so frustrated and frantic I just wanted to cry. Then it was like I was looking back on myself, and I was Jennifer Aniston!

I have a few ideas about this, but I'm interested to hear what you think.

That's Just, Like, Your Opinion, Man

According to the "Which Big Lebowski character are you?" quiz:

Why don't you check it out? Or we cut off your Johnson!

It'll help you pick out your costume for the Louisville Lebowskifest.

BTW, the Problem Was....

The thing that was screwing up my laptop, in case you're wondering, is a little something called "TBPS.exe". Or, as I like to call it, Satan's Little Helper. If you're computer is acting crazy, check out your task manager. If you see it there --- and you will, as it's sucking 200+kb away from your poor, struggling computer --- you must find and remove the tool bar it's associated with. I worked two whole days on it and, with the help of a computer-pro friend, FINALLY managed to rid myself of this terrible plague.

One thing that really helped was a free download called "HijackThis", which had a lot of good information and tools.

So that's that.

Until the next one comes along..........

Yikes!

I waited far too long to take care of my injured toe, and this is the result. I go to the podiatrist tomorrow --- I dread to think what he's going to do. Trust me, this looks much, MUCH worse in person.

How was I injured? Well, it all started when Small Dog escaped, waddling at a snail's pace across our looooong front yard (he's a fattish Chihuahua, remember) and one of our neighbours was driving down our looooong hill, and I panicked at the tragedy that was playing out before my eyes. I made a final, superhuman lunge at the leash, stomping with my clog-clad foot. Alas, the clog slid forward; my foot did not. My great toe took the brunt of the punishment, but the love of my life was saved from becoming road kill.

Now my toe looks like road kill. Yuk. Wish me luck; I'll let you know how it goes.


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Otis Lee Crenshaw is My New Boyfriend

Why, oh why is he so popular in Scotland and so neglected here in the States?? It is not fair. Check him out if you can, it's a pleasant --- albeit extremely strange --- ride.


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Oh, It's All Go Here

Ha ha, that was a pun.

Ok, I talked a little bit about my neighbours' son and our little heart-to-heart about canine constipation in a comment on my friend lavidalisa's blog, but it's part of this story. If you've already read it, you may skip ahead.

Alright. My dog, Che, eats paper. It's a treat for him; after a biscuit, there's nothing he likes better than a subscription card. If we don't watch him carefully, he will unwind and eat half a roll of bath tissue. If I want him to behave, I tempt him with one square of tissue, and he's putty in my hands. Because he sneaks paper between his sanctioned "treats", he is sometimes, well, constipated. To be perfectly frank.

So one afternoon we were in the yard, waiting for Che to do his thing, and I was talking with my neighbours' son, who is a very nice person but a bit of a know-it-all. In the middle of our conversation, Che suddenly began whimpering and very obviously looking at his bottom in a distressed way. Of course my neighbour wanted to know what was happening, so I had to admit that 1) my dog eats paper, b) we somewhat condone this, and 3) it makes him constipated and confused.

"Oh," says my neighbour, "you wanna give him some applesauce. Works like a charm." Very matter of fact.

Oh, well, then. Applesauce it is. How it is he knows this, off the top of his head, I don't think I want to know. But, out of pure desperation, I gave it a try and he's right; it works like a charm. Huh.

Fast forward to this Saturday, which was Che's birthday. We also celebrate Yma's then, because she's a rescue and we're not sure when her real birthday is.

Anyway, I decided to have a little birthday party for the dogs. Invited a couple of people, then realized I should probably get the dogs a little cake or something. You know, festive. So I went 'round to the organic doggy bakery to pick up some favors for the guests' pups back home and a cake or something special for our guys.

Now, if you were going to purchase a little cake or muffin, given the information earlier, what flavour would you choose? Would it be, oh, pumpkin or cheese or liver flavour?

Yeah, that's you.

Me, I went for the applesauce muffins.

Yes, applesauce.

I'll let you just mull that over for a minute....

Well, I'll just close by saying that four days of diarrhea will run you $158 for an 11 pound Chihuahua.

My Computer Has Worms!

But my darling husband fixed them for me (fingers crossed, knock wood). Seems the little effer was glomming all my laptop's strength whenever I started the internet, much like Delilah cutting Samson's wavy golden locks. We still have no idea how it got there, but I have been strictly admonished to STOP DOWNLOADING FROM THE INTERNET!

I'm not gonna argue, since I'm not the one who figured out a) what the problem was and 2) how to fix it.

Anyway, with luck I will be able to post a little more consistently from now on, although --- just as with worms of the canine intestinal variety --- one must be ever vigilant, and anticipate occasional re-occurrence. Let's all keep our fingers crossed.....

Arrrgh! My Pirate Name Be...

Mad Anne Vane

"Every pirate is a little bit crazy. You, though, are more than just a little bit. You tend to blend into the background occasionally, but that's okay, because it's much easier to sneak up on people and disembowel them that way. Arr!"

Get your own pirate name at fidius.org.

Now I'm Really Getting Pissed.

You are NEVER going to believe this, but that post --- the one about the dog? I just lost it again. And I'm not even on my home computer!

I'm giving up for the day, Computer 2 - Quinnbee 0.

Dark Forces are Afoot

Firstly, my computer is shit.

I finally sit down to write my blog, which I haven't been able to do in a week, and the effing thing loses my whole thing. Oddly enough, it was about a dog.

So, I'm going to leave off for today. Tomorrow, I will be getting some software to correct the problems I've been having. Or a really big, solid baseball bat. To correct the problems I've been having.

Yesterday Was a Great Day

First, I woke up with a back ache.

(Stick with me, it's gets better.)

Now, I wouldn't normally broadcast something like that, because I hate to make excuses, but I was so cranky with my friend Jules because of my back pain that I felt I should offer some sort of explanation. So I apologized for my crankiness, blaming my hurt back.

"Wait," she said, "I can't make my massage appointment for today, why don't you take it? I'll have to pay for it anyway..."

What, what, what?! The very day my back is hurt, and someone has a free massage appointment to offer me? I felt that I'd be spitting in the universe's face if I didn't accept.

So I went. And, although it was a new experience (always anxiety-producing for me), it was absolutely amazing! If anyone in Columbus is looking for a wonderful massage therapist, I am delighted to recommend Ardon Smith. Trust me, this guy is magic, and so generous with his time and energy. I can't say enough good things about him.

Now, since this is me we're talking about, here's the funny part. My back was hurting, but the real problem is.....my ass.

My magnificent bottom, it seems, is clenched. This isn't something I'm regularly accused of, but the proof is in the pudding, and my gluteus medius is in knots! Ardon gave me a right working over, and I gotta tell you, I'll take a butt massage over a back massage any day.

So there you have it. The universe is still up to its tricks, my life is still odd and wonderful, all's right with the world.

Bat Boy: The Musical

My friends and I rented a van and drove to Canton, Ohio --- of all places --- to see Bat Boy: The Musical this past Saturday.

Besides being a lot of fun (be sure to stay for Act II, it really is not to be missed), I concur wholeheartedly with my friend Lisa, who said, "I'm just happy I know nine other people who would travel to see this."

Agreed. It's a great feeling to know that --- no matter how odd your tastes might be, no matter how strange your sense of humor --- someone will be there snickering beside you. Takes a little bit of the edge off family holidays, I can tell you, knowing that there's someone a phone call away to make the painful funny again.

Anyway, if you can find a van and nine people with whom to share it, I highly recommend taking a road trip to see Bat Boy. And if it's playing in your town, shame on you if you don't go. The story is nuts, the tunes are catchy, and --- if you're lucky --- you'll be sitting in a roomful of people a lot like you.

M Designs Celtic Heart

I'm working on this one for my friend Jules. But, I am the slowest cross-stitcher in the world! This has been taking me, literally, months. Hopefully, I'll be done before the end of the month.


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To Each His Own, Right?

I was driving home from work the other day, and I noticed this cute guy walking down the street. I don't normally notice guys, but he was so cute I actually checked him out in the rear-view mirror. And then I realized that, empirically, this guy was not good looking. By most definitions, in fact, he would fall somewhere on the continuum between "plain" (at best) and "ugly" (at worst), depending how picky you are.

My husband, it must be said, is a handsome man. This guy on the street would, it is fair to say, have an inferiority complex next to Scott. But --- if I wasn't in love with and married to my husband --- if you put the two of them side by side, I'd probably go for the ugly guy. The truth is, I'm not attracted to my husband because he's tall and good looking, but despite these things.

That's just my type. I only go for guys who look like caricatures, like character actors, like French philosophers. I like a man who looks tired, bone weary, with deep lines in his care-worn face. I always fall for the guy who looks like he needs a hot meal, a soft bed, and someone to hear his confession. Like a torch singer, I need a man who needs a woman to save him from himself.

Scott is none of these things, but when I met him his hair was a little too long and he dazzled me with theoretical physics and jade-green eyes. In other words, I was duped.

Sure, it's all worked out for the best, and my new type is a hyper-intelligent clever-boots with a passion for bluegrass and Brit Pop.

But all you "ugly" guys? I'll still be looking.

Hello from Enlightenment

Actually, not. But I have to say, I did learn a coupla things.

So what did I do for a week without books, television, movies, the internet, or email? Not what I expected, to be honest. I played with my dogs. I sat on the sofa with my husband and listened to the radio. I went shopping for stuff for the house, including more paint chips. I took a nap every single day. I made funny connections between the names of the paint chips. I took a road trip with my girlfriends. I returned stuff I'd bought to the stores. I argued back with a rude service person, and didn't feel all that bad about it. I journaled a LOT, and I did end up doing all those exercises I normally can't find time for.

I have to confess that I did "cheat" a couple of times. I found a video tape of my all-time favorite love story, which I watched, then had to read a couple chapters of the book. (But it's li-tra-choor, so I'm not going to count it.) I also spent an evening sipping tea and browsing decorating magazines for ideas for our bedroom, and I skimmed a hilarious little book about the benefits of hedonism. Since both are about adding beauty and pleasure to one's life, I'm not counting that as cheating, either. And I actually skipped watching two television programs I had planned to see, so it's gotta balance out in the long run.

Suprisingly, I was not bored. I didn't miss the television; I didn't even miss my blog! I realized that, for me, compulsively flipping through seventy channels is waaaay more boring than poking around my house, waiting for water to boil. I realized that I could stay connected with the people who matter without being electronically available twenty-four hours per day. I know, it's shocking, they actually got by without reading a new post from me every single day! Their worlds did not fall apart!!

Neither did mine. And that's a darn good thing to realize, because sometimes I feel responsible for entertaining the world. That's how I "earn my keep", so to speak; being funny and kind and offering help in a crises. But that's really how I keep my distance, if I'm perfectly honest with myself. Having a week's worth of personal time uncluttered by external entertainments forced me to examine a lot of my stuff, and I think it's going to force me to make a few changes.

For starters, I'm going to worry less about "perfection" in these little posts, and have more fun with them. My apologies, in advance, to anyone besides myself who might have expected that. : )

Thanks for missing me, I'm glad to be back!

Heads Up

Well, this is going to be a hell of a week.

As I've mentioned, oh about one hundred times, I am working on The Artist's Way. This week, my task is to avoid reading. Also, no surfing the net, watching television, or --- oh, no --- blogging.

I'll really miss jotting down my little thoughts, browsing on ebay, and spending long evenings with my friend, my confidant, my loooover --- television. But not like I'm gonna miss reading.

I've been reading since I was three, when my older sister, in desperation, taught me that C-A-T = "cat". I thought to myself, "That's easy!" and never looked back. My point is, I am always reading. When I'm between books, I read the cereal boxes. Like that.

Ironically, the sole time in my life that I stopped reading was when I was working in a bookstore. Sort of like when I was working in the restaurant, I stopped eating; I simply could not tolerate the written word outside of work. Apart from that, I've always prided myself on my big brain and my big vocabulary and my voracious reading habits. Hell, I once read two Stephen King novels (the appetizer and salad) and A Fine Balance in one day. And was kind of hungry for more.

So how ya gonna keep them out of the library when they've been to gay Par-ree? I don't know. But the theory, I think, is that by reducing the distraction of other people's creativity I'll be able to concentrate on my own.

Who knows, I might only last a day. I might get so bored I actually do all the exercises for the week. I might sign up for those dance classes. I might do the laundry. (Really! I might even get that bored!)

I might even come up with some good stories for you. Meet me back here in a week and I'll let you know how it went.

I LOVE Cheesy Monster Movies

And they just don't get any cheesier than Skeleton Man, which aired tonite on SciFi. For your reading pleasure, my list of what is wrong --- and oh, so right --- with Skeleton Man.

1. The "skeleton man" of this eponymously titled film is supposed to be the spirit of a cursed Native American, defending the bones of his slain tribe. (Actually, he was the one who slayed them; long story, don't ask, not nearly as entertaining as the goofball stuff that's going on in this movie.) However, nothing --- and I do mean NOTHING --- about this guy is Native American. If anything, he looks more like someone who stepped out of Carnivale in Venice right into the Wild West. Even his bloody horse looks like he's never seen a Native American before.

2. Out of the eight super-special, super-secret-ops operatives on the job, fully FOUR of them are women. Does this seem a little unusual to anyone?

3. While the four men of the team are dressed in layers galore, every single one of the women wears only a tank top.

4. Did I mention that these four women super-soldiers are all specialists? Just like Fox Force Five! (Remember? From Pulp Fiction?) For example, one is a sniper-trainer; one is a...I don't remember, but you get the picture. But despite their "obvious" training and "military" bearing, they still flinch when they run across corpses. (Maybe because those who can't do...teach? I don't know, it's just a thought. Nothing else can explain it.)

5. The ancient Native American dude, who gives them the back story on the cursed spirit? When they do his close-up you can tell that he's, like, thirty-five. They just put a long white wig on him (a cheap long white wig) and painted his eyebrows white. My guess is, he also plays another, younger character, but that's pure conjecture on my part. (But the ancient dude gave me my new favorite lines: "Beans is good." and "Them's Army beans." Priceless.)

6. The army guys somehow felt the need to tell their buddy, who has been run-through with a SPEAR, "Hold on, you'll be okay." Really? 'Cause in that case I want them with me if I'm ever, for example, put through a thresher, or a mangle.

7. Apparently, if you have a spirit-spear it can explode people's heads. Not just poke them and stick there; explode on contact.

8. Poor Michael Rooker, who is desperately strapped for cash if he took this job, was forced to say, "Go! Save yourself!" And, "It's over. It's over...." I kid you not.

And there's more, but I don't want to spoil it for you. Suffice it to say, I'm enjoying the movie immensely. Just probably not how the filmmakers wanted me to.

It's like a FilmFakers script, only better because I get two hours of joy! So a heartfelt thank you, (writer) Frederick Bailey. Thank you, (director) Johnny Martin. My evening was just a little bit brighter, because of you and your vision.

See? I'm not the only one who can't stop watching Skeleton Man....

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Yesterday I Told a Lie

Normally, I don't lie.

I tell the truth because I'm not clever enough to keep my story straight. I don't think it's a nice thing to do, anyway. So I try not to lie.

But.

I lied to a woman at the grocery store. I told her I had children to get better service.

Now, I'm not going to try to justify my actions.

But.

I am going to ask why it's okay for the clerk in the grocery store to waste my time --- the real, childless-by-choice me --- when she wouldn't dream of wasting the time of a woman with children.

Why don't we all just ruminate on that for a while.

Hmmm....

I want to make myself perfectly clear, here. I like parents. I understand that children come with extra responsibilities, etc etc, although one could argue that one chose to have those responsibilites when one decided to have children. (And if you weren't thinking that carefully about it, you didn't think enough.) I am not a mommy-basher.

But.

My time is also valuable. And a trip to a store that I can look at from my front window, for crying out loud, should not take a half-hour. Not when I'm buying diet Coke and lettuce in the middle of the night.

But.

It did. And it would have taken longer if I hadn't appealed to a passing clerk with the tale of my fictional children waiting patiently for me, shivering in the dark, cold parking lot. Because just me --- little ol' lonely, childless-by-choice me --- can wait as long as it takes, because obviously a person without children is foot-loose and fancy-free, galivanting around in the middle of the night for greens and soda pop, headed off to do god knows what, but it probably won't be even remotely related to family values.

And I am not exaggerating when I say that my made-up brood got this lady moving. When it was just me waiting, she was sloooooowly strolling my way, mumbling excuses; when my kids were growing impatient in the car, she literally broke into a trot.

No, you're right, that still doesn't justify telling a lie, I know. Two wrongs don't make a right, and all of that.

But....

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Oh, Yeah, the Universe is Laughing Now

Ok, so I've mentioned that I've been doing The Artist's Way ("Boring Post Today, Kids"). This week I'm supposed to be affirming my desires and keeping on the lookout for serendipity --- happy accidents.

So, during the course of my journaling I realized that my semi-formed wish to take dance classes is a genuine desire that I've been downplaying because I just don't think it's practical right now. I'm afraid classes would be too expensive, given the fact that we're living on my miniscule salary and shouldn't be wasting money on "frivolous" things. And I don't have a partner to take dance classes with, anyway, while my husband is so busy with school.

I've been thinking a lot about this, and finally decided to affirm that I would a) find the money to take the classes and 2) find a partner to go with.

Step one, I actually found a $3 class at a local church! The universe wants me to take dance classes, hurrah! Now, about that partner....

Which the universe, apparently, is only toooo happy to send me.

A person I work with, who is not someone with whom I feel emotionally safe, came into the lunch room yesterday, sits down and asks, right off the bat, where he could take dance lessons in the city.

(Ever see somebody do a really cheesy double take? That was me; throw some synchronicity my way and I'm in the Catskills.)

"Dance lessons?" one of the others enquired. "What kind of dance lessons?"

"Any kind, I just want to get my heart rate up," came the reply. "Anything but ballroom."

"What about salsa?" I asked, casually.

"Yeah," he answered, "but I don't have a partner."

Remember, earlier ("Hey Everybody, This is Ted and Annette Fleming"), when I talked about the universe being a literal thinker? Having a sense of humor? Oh, wait, is that a hearty chuckle I hear?

Why, oh why, Universe? Why didn't I be more specific? Why didn't I spell it out?? Why didn't I specify taking dance lessons I could afford with someone I actually like?? What was I thinking?!

Is this a case where there is a higher lesson to be learned? Does the universe want me to open myself up to this person; could I really risk spending personal time with a person I'm not entirely sure of? I honestly do not know.

Or perhaps I'm just meant to note this synchronicity, this literal-minded answering of my prayers, to realize that the universe is paying attention to my desires.

And, in future, to be a little more clear about what I want.