Moved

(Moved.)

Clicky

So I have this stupid cold, and cramps, and also last night I was given a Really Bad Haircut. I went in for a trim, and explained the trim I wanted, and also a few minor changes. And then stopped paying attention because my stylist, who is pregnant with t-w-i-n-s, asked for suggestions on girl names. IVY, I said, you must consider Ivy. Just think about it.

While I was expounding on the virtues of Ivy, she was chopping off way more of my hair than I expected. Also: the front, I fear, is shorter than the back, which is the opposite of everything I believe in. She asked me if I was freaking out, and I looked at it and said no, it's hair. It grows back. It'll be back in no time! When I got home and looked at it some more and got all disgruntled. But it will be back in no time.

And, now, let's all mosey over to here, because I finally decided I wanted My Own Blog. And let's pretend this is a good change, because I am feeling decidedly panicked about the whole thing.

Clicky click,
black sheeped

Monday

The weekend is, in my mind, a whirlwind of errands, a ridiculous county convention (I cast my delegate vote--as awful as it seemed, four hours of local government candidate speeches, disorganized counting, and painfully annoying arguments about wording on various 'planks' was a small price to pay for representing someone I believe in), cleaning like crazy for an impromptu in-law visit (I didn't realize how filthy the house had gotten, squalor hidden by denial), and then an impromptu Great Redoing of Our Taxes with my mother-in-law.

Also, of course, Cab was bad. When I shooed the dogs downstairs because wrestling on our tax documents was getting old, my in-laws requested that Monk stay up with us. Monk is a good dog, they said. Monk was not always a good dog, however, and I'm standing by a belief that Cab will not always be a shithead.

This week my husband is on spring break. It's 7:21 a.m. and he is in bed. Monk also decided to stay in bed (Monk would sleep in every day, and also would go be in bed by 6:00 p.m. after a full day of napping if Cab didn't force him to, gasp, play.) I got up at six, followed by Cab. We went out. Cab watched me pick out clothing, he watched the bathroom door while I showered, he watched me put on make-up and fix my hair. And then he sighed and went back to bed. Also, the cats are sleeping upstairs, and blinked crankily when I flipped on a lamp.

They are all obviously jerks.

I think I feel more tired now than I did Friday evening, but it will be a good week. J will get to stay home and write, the house is actually sort of clean, Artemisia is coming, work suggested I take Thursday off to be able to spend more time with her, I mopped my studio floor, and think I will be able to finish two paintings that have been looming over my head. Both are gifts, and I get a bit cantankerous when I am trying to make a piece of art for a friend/relative, because I will feel bad if they hate it and think they should pull it out of a closet only when I visit. One is for my sister. When I was about half-way done I called my mom to ask if my sister had anything in her house in the main color of the painting. My mom thought for a long time and said, "No, I don't think so."

Whoops. (Hi, sister! Sorry! You can always hide it in a closet. That's what closets are for. Closets are also designed to be pissy cat escape tunnels. Just a tip.)

And finally, to wrap up this ridiculous post, yesterday J and I trimmed the cats' claws and put new SoftPaws on them. Coltrane, as usual, was a bit horrified and shed wildly. After her ordeal, which was painless and took all of two minutes, she ran to my closet. This closet has a little panel in the back, which covers an opening to the bathtub plumbing. Also, it opens down to the basement, above the washer and dryer, assuming you are tiny and insane and willing to jump. Coltrane realized the panel had fallen open and made a ridiculous escape. So she was in the floor/ceiling, and I think maybe it explains a lot. Like how she gets so dusty, and how sometimes I can not find her to hug her.

Oh! Also, this is how she is about J. Yesterday morning I got up first, and was sitting on the couch. Coltrane was sitting pissily beside me, sort of angrily squawking if I tried to pet her. The usual. When we heard J get out of bed and start to walk around upstairs, she looked up at the ceiling. This soft, creepy expression of evil love crawled across her face. Her eyes closed halfway, she started purring loudly, and breathing quickly. She was purring at the ceiling, at his foot steps.

Pets again!
black sheeped

Dogs

If you have been wondering how the dogs are doing (which, I assume, you always are), the answer is that they are More Awful Than Ever. It's been warming up a bit, and the frozen water stuck in the earth is thawing, bubbling to the surface, refreezing at night, melting again during the day, etc. This means that we are living in some sort of squishy-mucky-horrible-sinking-ground world, and my shoes, by noon, make squelching noises with each step.

This also means that Monk can not bear to put his delicate, dainty paws to the ground. EVEN TO POOP. Even when we threaten to skin him and maybe even feed it to him, he will stand miserably with one paw in the air, waiting in some sort of Slightly Damp Paw Agony until we take him back in. He is always apologetic, and always looking back at us in the garage with his quivering pathetic apology-tail-wag (not because we are mean to him, but because he knows he needs to poop but just can't bring himself to do it in such puddly conditions). This means dog gas. The only relief is when the ground is frozen again in the morning, which is more acceptable to his tastes than wet.

Also, Cab has always had a habit of flinching uncontrollably every time we touch him. When we adopted him he was malnourished and had cuts and things, and we'll never know if he's just hand shy or if someone used to hit him, or if his mother was a shy dog and he picked it up from her. But nothing makes you feel more monstrous than reaching out to scratch behind your dog's ears and the dog responds by wincing before you even touch him.

I did some googling the other day, and read some tips, all of which were things we already do. Except for one, which was so obvious I was kicking myself mentally, because: DUH, DOG OWNER. And that tip suggested instead of reaching a hand out and over to pat a dog's head, bring your hand up, from a low place, and scratch their chest or neck or under the chin. No hand over the head action until the dog is ready. So all week I'll been doing this, and it is MAGICAL. No more flinching, no more ducking, no more reflexive squinting when I pet him. He's very calm when I pet him that way, and he's been coming up and asking for pets, even.

I feel like such a jerk, for not thinking of that sooner.

The last thing about the dogs is this:

Just now, Cab was resting on the dog bed peacefully. Monk came over, checked out the bed situation, then deliberately laid down directly on top of Cab, pinning him down by putting his foreleg over Cab. Monk placed his head on Cab's chest sleepily. Of course, because eighty pounds of pointy elbows were now ON him, Cab starting kicking at Monk. Kick, kick, kick. Monk sighed, and struggled to remain on top, but soon they were flopped over and making out, dog fashion, by clicking teeth and licking each other's tongues. Now they are cuddled up against each other, each asleep, spooning.

So I announce, I officially throw out J's theory that their relationship is one of brothers.

Question day!

What's the last magazine you read? HONESTLY. If you got a spring break, and could go anywhere in the US, where would you go? Do you have any houseplants? What time will you get up tomorrow morning?

My turn: yesterday at work I flipped through a Van Dyke restoration magazine looking for something specific, but the LAST thing I went through was a JC Penney catalogue that came in the mail. I looked at it right after work, while I was still wearing work clothes and unwilling to face the three or four more hours until bedtime, and the dogs were wrestling and J and I were chatting. Because I? I know how to start a Thursday evening. With a free catalogue.

I feel as if I'd like to go back to Arizona, for Royals spring training games. We went a few years ago, and it was AWESOME. Especially the hiking. And the drinking of beer at springy small baseball games.

I have several dying plants, that have been half alive for a few years. It's pathetic.

Tomorrow I will get up at seven, for it is County Caucus Delegate Time! WHOOOOOO.

Love,
me

Upcoming

This week has been sort of crazy. You know that week? The weeks that even includes one of those special moments when you cry in front of your bosses (uuuuuuuggggggggggggggggggh) (seriously, how ridiculous? UGH), and your uterus is going crazy, and you're annoyed that the robots are calling to ask if you'll possibly change your delegate vote, and also, HOW CAN BURT'S BEES BE SOLD AT WALMART? Actually, that happened last week, but I'll still reeling from it.

Also, from an ad I saw in a magazine for Burt's Bees. A totally sexed up cliche lame stupid ad of a woman's naked hips and torso (WHY IS THAT IMAGE STILL BEING USED, HUMANITY?), like ads you see in every stupid Cosmo and Glamour and why?

Why?

I don't blame the original Burt for moving back to his turkey coop.

The good news is, is that my cute sweet friend I left back west is coming to visit next week. I think the whole world will be on spring break (unfair, unfair) including my husband, and I wish I could also be, you know, OFF for this visit. But work is busy busy busy. And we'll have a couple of glorious evenings to catch up, and I'm excited.

I'm also excited that our dogs:



















and their dogs:




















are going to have the Most Awesome Doggie Wrestle-Mania Sleep-Over Extraordinaire 2008 EVER. It's true that I'm happy that there will be four dogs in my house, it's true. I'm happy there will be ridiculousness and romping and funny stiff dog tails while they meet, and probably a lot of mouth-breathing.

Last night I confessed to Artemisia that I transfer pet hair from home to my desk chair at work, and she said that happens to her too, and that she transfers it to the people she works with, and I was all, YES, ME TOO. I felt very very relieved that this happens to someone else. And I can't remember ever seeing pet hair on hair, because she always looks impeccable, so that gives me hope that I don't look quite as slovenly as I imagine I do.

This post is ridiculous.

In short: bad week, but friends are coming, with DOGS, doubling the dog content of this house for a few days, and I'm wearing a size smaller pants today. With PMS bloating!

Love,
black sheeped