Dog Problems (among others)

I returned from the holiday with an eerily foreign sense of inner peace and resolve. Peace that life is what it is. And resolve to make it even better whilst refocusing on the simple pleasures. I didn’t say it was profound. While the resolve remains intact, the peace was shattered to anxiety-ridden bits within 48 hours of returning to The Everyday. A few memorable catalysts…

Employ. The coworker who drives me up the wall with her insecurity-driven (I can only assume) incessant bragging was immediately up to her old tricks of making herself feel important by making others appear second-rate. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s braggarts. And know-it-alls. And queue-cutters.

Shelter. After making myself comfortable in my parent’s very respectable adult house for a few days, I returned to my own rental and suddenly felt like a cold sardine within its confines.

Four-Legged Friend. Oh, and there was the incident where my sweet little Foo bit a human. Yeah, there was that. I'm a dog-rearing failure, I'm going to get sued, and to avoid Foo getting taken away in a paddy wagon we will both go fugitive. Let me explain. My end of year raise made my embarrassing debate between walker-for-foo and therapist-for-me a reality. As if there was any question, the dog walker camp was far more persuasive. After all, who needs a therapist when you can’t even tell him the truth? I mean, really.

Foo met Dog Walker once, and all seemed fine. Until I received an urgent call at work on what was to be Dog Walker’s first day informing me that all was not fine, no not fine at all. Turns out Foo was much less enthused about Dog Walker than me. In fact, he was not in the least bit okay with Dog Walker entering the apartment during my absence, and, in fairness, Foo reportedly made that disinterest quite clear to Dog Walker via ferocious barking and fang-bearing. Is it Foo’s fault that So-Confident-He-Is-Delusional Dog Walker plodded onward, much to the chagrin of his tasty knee?

Upon getting the disturbing news that Foo is Kujo, I closed my office door and cried. And continued to cry off and on until I went to bed that night. It was neither a reasonable nor proportionate reaction (I know of real tragedy in the world), but pity parades rarely cater to reason or proportion (or the suffering of others). I’m all about embracing what needs to be done, and apparently crying like a baby is what I needed to do before I could implement the resolve. Recall, resolve is intact. Peace, gone. Resolve, here. That’s right, this is where the resolve comes in.

Work. They always told me work would help me learn to deal with difficult people, and this has never rung so true. Dealing with the pesky coworker is a work in progress. When she comes around to do her thing, I’ve resolved to breath, remind myself I'm lucky to have a job at all, pretend not to be seething inside, remind myself that I’m not stuck in an adolescent mentality (whilst I excuse her behavior as some sort of compensation for being so short), and convince myself that braggarts never prosper. So far this is working about as well as a cold compress on a hungover head. But using logic to trump raw reaction is a start, and I’m not looking to work miracles on myself here. The Tylenol, tomato juice and Coke will come later. Seriously, how did it take me this long to discover the cure that is Coke?

Shelter. This is where I’ve spent most of my spare time thus far. The reorganizing I’ve done freed up a noticeable amount of space in the joint, and the whole apartment has become more user friendly and aesthetically pleasing. The best thing about this is that the space surrounding me tends to mirror the space inside my head. In other words, things are feeling less cluttered upstairs, and this is a welcome sensation indeed.

Four-Legged Friend. My beloved Foo is soon to receive a few house calls from a dog shrink. Sadly, I'm totally serious. In lieu of a dog walker, I’ve hired Chicago’s finest dog behavioralist to help curb Foo’s “house aggression,” which I hardly knew had so spiraled. Ok, there were signs that this was brewin’, but the bite was the proverbial straw… that will break the bank. But I’m hopeful it’s worth it, and I’m excited to learn new things. Dog Behavioralist’s philosophy sounds like a good one. He uses purely positive reinforcement, recognizes anxiety-inducing triggers, desensitizes Foo to those triggers, and teaches him to respond in new ways. we'll see....



photo c/o ffffound.com

Cute on a Stick

I love when sleeping animals' various body parts get all dented, mooshed and smooshed by whatever it is they're sleeping on. This cat, for example, with its fluffy leg jutting out and pink ear poking through the slats. What can I say, it's one of my simple pleasures.

This photo will have to do until I can capture a good one of Foo, whose current nom de plume happens to be "Constantine Balanchine." For, well, obvious reasons. Puts "Monsieur Quincampoix" to shame, no? It never fails to crack me up when he wakes from a nap, looks at me with great seriousness and (in British accent) seems to say "Oh, hello. I see you're still here. Very well then. I suppose I shall resume my napping. Cheerio. Wait-whoht? What's so god-damn funny all of a sudden?"

What he doesn't know is that his sophistication has been utterly compromised by one jowl mooshed up like a cinnamon bun into the side of his face and half-an-upper-lip that's tucked up under itself to reveal four to five of his upper toofs. Those not in the mooshface know are missing out... It's seriously the cutest thing.

photo from flicker via unruly things

Ode to a Lost Glove

It's here. The season of losing accessories is upon us. It already flurried a few times in November, but here marks the first day of sticking snowfall. The kind that required me to wear boots to work. Among other things, this means that I will start losing things. Like scarves, gloves, earmuffs, hats, and the jewelry I remove to accommodate them. Over the years I've discovered that the most common time for the losing to occur is while getting out of a car. During the ride I absentmindedly remove the stifling stuff and place it on my lap. I soon forget all about it, and when I go to get out of the car, the soon-to-be-missing item drops to the ground next to the car, never to be seen or heard from again. The second most common loss location is a pub. This should require no further explanation.

On a brighter note, this is also the time of the season for a happy dingo. This morning Foo was so damn excited to feel the snow under his paws it made me smile. I liken it to the kid who realizes this means he doesn't have to go to school and gets to sled all day instead. That's what it meant to me as a kid in NC-where-there-are-no-plows, anyway. Only Foo doesn't get to avoid school, nor does he enjoy sledding (lacks the requisite coordination and bravery). Best I can figure, the little guy's so darn pleased because snow turns the entire earth's surface as he knows it into a potential place to pee. Who knows why this is so appealing, but oh is it ever. Long after there's not a drop of yellow left in him to stain the pretty white snow, he keeps on lifting that furry little turkey leg. I could probably learn a thing or two from his persistence.


The Lost Glove lives here.

The Rents

Now that my dad has joined the footloose and fancy free ranks of retirement (is it wrong that the idea already appeals to me at 31?), he and my mom are taking impromptu road trips. Last weekend they packed a couple bags and one dingo into their car and trekked 12 hours up to Chicago to visit me and The Foo. They brought their sweet pup with them, and this here pic's proof that Foo still has some dingo love left in him yet. Enough for a rump-to-rump snooze draped all over his grandmasters, anyway. Foo sure does love Mike, as evidenced by the fact that he could not take his sad brown eyes off the man. It was almost creepy. Foo has always had a thing for the mens, and boy has he seen his share come and go.... but where was I going with this...

My parents love Chicago and have visited about a thousand times in the five years I've lived here, so there was no need to relive the standard tourist fare. We winged it (retirement style) instead. Starting Friday night I took the BBQ lovers down the street to Smoke Daddy to check out Chicago's version of meaty tang. The rents approved, and so did I once I discovered the "Carolina Style" sandwich, which stands for slaw on top. And cheese if you so please. And I do. One saucy thumb up.

On Saturday we grabbed brunch at Lula, which is -oddly enough- the namesake of mum and diddy's dog. Later that night, I dragged them to a bike messenger dive in the loop (the kind that doubles as a liquor store, yeah) to hear D's band play. As we approached, they noticed a long line of club-goers forming outside the building. We would have been the only white folks to join the line, and massively underdressed at that, and yet they seemed really excited about the prospect. That is, until they realized we were actually headed for the establishment nextdoor, which appeared to be closed or altogether condemned. Not so!

Once we were not-so-comfortably inside amongst a handful of people and the stench of spoiled smoke and old vinyl, I disappointed mom again with the news that no way in hell would the sursly surly bartender have wine or margarita mixins. I wanted her to ask just for a laugh but thought better of it after spotting the decidedly "I want to kill you, slowly" look already on the bartender's face. Trusting my judgment, she happily settled on a gin & tonic and earplugs for an extra buck. Dad went with scotch side of earplugs, and it was vodka straight up for me. For once they sucked their drinks down faster than me. Someone needed some liquid courage I guess. Forty-five minutes later it was all said and done, and they genuinely seemed to enjoy the musical experience. Troopers, right? Four sore thumbs up.

Then there was Sunday (anything but) coming down, because Sunday was my long-awaited date with Alaksan king crab legs, in season only for another month or so. My crab cravings are so severe that I drool just thinking about them, weird feeling on sides of my tongue and all. No kidding, it's Pavlovian. We hit Joe's Seafood for lunch, because it's a little more affordable that way (I did my research). Still about two-hundo for the three of us, but what a delicioso splurge it was. The legs were perfectly cooked and expertly cracked and prepared (by someone else) so that giant chunks of flaky crab were ready and waiting for us to easily fork right out of the shells and into our lovin' mouths. Zero work, people. 'Twas the best crab I've ever had, hands down, and the 'rents concurred. Six claws up! I try (and fail) not to get too excited over food, but this was well worth the anticipatory frenzy. In fact, it's grounds for one more trip of indulgence while the legs are still in season. If you're in town, I highly recommend you take me there. Hee.

One of those nights we watched Mumford on Netflix instant play. We could hardly hear it half the time over my GD heater, but it seemed to be surprisingly good. A little outlandish in the end, but a good story. We settled on Netflix after searches through my "borrowed" On Demand channels left us collectively staring at a penis TWICE. I had to convince them this was not what I usually find. Damn the nearby cable users who watch 27 Dresses a bazillion times, why don't I ever find the interesting stuff when it's just me?? Two phallic thumbs down.

Unfortunately, the 'rents' trip was cut a little short. My gramps is in the hospital for blood clots, so my parents packed up the car and trekked through all sorts of winter weather to visit him in Jerz. If I were retired I would have piled in with them. Instead, I'm here sending many good thoughts his way. Love you gramps. And love you, rents, for being good sports, great houseguests, and loving grandmasters to the dingo that misses you so much he licked himself a new hotspot just to prove it! One paw down.

Bambi Killer

I try not to think about the fact that Foo eats deer. It's not his fault he's allergic to a mystery protein other than deer, and so we stick with deer. Oddly enough, sometimes he reminds me of a deer, particularly when he's prancing. This brings a whole new meaning to that "you are what you eat" philosophy. As for me and the pig, no comment.

But all that's beside the point, if there was one from the start. Oh yeah, being the professed creature lover that I am, I find myself very fond of these photos by Sharon Montrose. My favorite is definitely the porcupine. Figures. Most of her subjects are residents of a nearby zoo and, we presume, have pretty good lives. I like how the images are sweetly stripped bare yet still remind of the various ways that animals are forced to live within human confines. Which I see as both good and bad all at the same time.

Cute on a Stick

Even though we'd look straight-up cuckoo, I (not so) secretly (anymore) wish my dog would do something like this. Or this. Or this. Or this. Ok, not that.

Fleet of Feet

I returned home from Jersey to find that the dingo molted during my absence. My apartment was a veritable desert of tumbleweeds in the form of white fluffy furballs. I couldn't touch anything without said body part coming up covered in fur. Odd time for a dog to profusely shed, no? Is it like a groundhog telling me winter is not actually on its torturous way to me? Hooray!!

I popped in the Fleet Foxes to help me through my cleaning frenzy, and it was surprisingly motivational. Motivational enough to get me to wash my sofa cover thingy, and that, my dears, is sayin' a lot.

The vid above is for "Ragged Wood," and here's one for "White Winter Hymnal." Then there's this song I've never heard before from the Black Cab Sessions.

If you've never checked out the Black Cab Sessions, do, oh do! Such a cool idea, me thinks. Some favorites: a ride with The National, Britt Daniel from Spoon, Death Cab for Cutie, and Lykke Li too.

Meet My Neighbor

When I came across this little sketch, I giggled and instantly thought of my neighbor, "the rockstar." Although my hood's full of aspiring "musicians," I'm pretty sure he was this artist's muse. Other than his peacocky greatest-thing-since-sliced-bread-demeanor, I don't have any good reason not to like the guy.

Well, except for the fact that every.frikin.chance.he.gets he insists my dog makes his yappy weiner dog two floors up even yappier - "Um, yeah, your dog and my dog were communicating again today." or "Your dog was saying hi to all the passerbys again today." or "Your dog sure is a big talker." Imaginary response: "Oh yeah, well you sound like a valley girl, your hair is dumb, and you're too old and your hairline too receded to rock that look." Guilty groan.

And yet. His new girlfriend is a damn button. This is the one who moved in a mere TWO days after I spotted the old (but-still-cute) girlfriend moving out whilst sobbing. Neighborhood gossip mill has it that the new chickadee's a model, and though I originally figured it must be the JC Penney variety, I officially met her tonight and am now thinking I underestimated her potential.

I'm all about attraction proving itself to be more than skin deep, but I could not comprehend why this girl paired up with my neighbor the diva. Until... she introduced herself by saying: "I haven't met you, but I sure have met your dog." Birds of a feather....