Just Say No--to Scissors

Don't run with scissors.

I'm pretty sure it's a warning exactly nobody takes seriously.  I mean, sure, children probably should avoid the motion + sharp objects equation, but we grown ups ought to be able to handle it, right?  As long as we aren't simultaneously making stabby motions with them?

Not me.  At least, I assume not--I haven't actually had a run-in with scissors yet.  But last week, I split my thumbnail smack down the middle with an apple slicer.  Two weeks ago I took a chunk out of my index finger when I was chopping vegetables and missed.  I have a nasty scar on the knobby bit of my wrist from when I juggled a razor in the shower.

If scissors are a gateway cutting tool, I've skipped straight to the hard stuff.


(True:  Super glue is a useful tool to have in one's first aid kit.)

A Hairy Situation: Vote on It!

It's damp and disgusting out, and I have a date tonight.

So I have three options:

1. I can leave my hair "as is" and go out with Hermione Hair.
2. I can spend thirty minutes straightening my hair.  It will look nice until the minute I step outside--then it will return to its natural state, Hermione Hair.
3. I can apply hot curlers, which takes very little time (I can finish getting ready while they set) and will hold all night.  This option will give me hair such as an '80s porn star's dreams are made of.

I don't feel like making any decsions today.  So I'm leaving it up to your vote.  Comment below, and I'll go with whatever has the most votes when I need to get ready.  I'll even post a photo!  (Of my real face, people.  This is unprecedented.  And goes to show my brain is incapable of rational thought today.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Feet!

Just because I occasionally blog dogs doesn't mean I have all the answers.  I make no claims to being an expert.  Or even qualified to give advice, but it's the internet, and my blog, so I can do as I please.  Sometimes, I have a lot to say.

Sometimes, though, all I have are questions.

One thing I've been wondering about lately is feet.  I've mentioned before that I worry about Prada's feet--she can't afford to be down any more.  But is she?  Prada definitely dislikes having her feet handled, and more strongly than a lot of other dogs I've met.  But is that because she's a tripod, or is it just a quirk of her personality?  Plenty of dogs don't like their feet being handled, after all.

That then, leads me to wonder if perhaps tripods and other dogs with altered mobility are statistically more likely to have an aversion to their feet being touched.  There's anecdotal evidence that they are more likely to fear slippery floors, as Prada does, so it doesn't seem like such a stretch for the caution to extend from the dog's environment to their body.

Anybody have an anecdote?  Ideas?  A deep-seated need to tell me this is a stupid question?


(True:  If manipulating something with your hands is called "handling," I vote that manipulating something with your feet should be called "footing."  Or am I the only person who will try to reach something I've dropped  with my feet so I don't have to get off the couch?)

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Last weekend I went with some friends to the Field Museum and spent a couple of hours perusing the Taxidermied Everything exhibit.  Most of the animals I recognized.  Some of them caused what on God's good earth is that?! moments.  But those moments were all with really foreign, uncommon animals that you don't see every old day on National Geographic or, you know, at the dog park.

So this story about people accidentally buying 'roided out ferrets instead of toy poodles kind of surprised me.  Do people frequently see a long slinky-animal and think, "What a cute dog!"  And this has happened with a lamb being mistaken for a standard poodle as well?!

Oh boy.  I worry about the state of humanity sometimes.

Let's face it:  it's pretty funny.  But at the same time, it's worryingly indicative of the casualness with which people acquire pets.  Not only are these people clearly not researching their desired pet, they can't even recognize the difference between the canine and weasel families, or canine teeth and the teeth of an herbivore.  (Let's not even mention any appearances of freaking hooves, shall we?)

Even at a step slightly less stupid, when people can actually tell a dog is a dog, there is the following list of dog breeds frequently mistaken for bull dogs:

• Alpha Blue Blood Bulldog
• Rottweiler
• Catahoula Bulldog
• Boerboel
• Chesapeake Bay Retriever
• Rhodesian ridgeback
• Presa Canario
• Patterdale Terrier
• Olde English Bulldogge
• Hungarian Vizsla
• Fila Brasiliero
• Cane Corso
• Ca De Bou
• A "Bully" dog
• Bull Mastiff
• Boxer
• Black Mouth Cur
• The Argentine Dog or Dogos Argentino
• American Bulldog
• Alapaha blueblood Bulldog
• The Alaunt
• The Bull Terrier
• American Staffordshire Terrier
• Staffordshire Bull Terrier

Is it stupid of me to think that if a person can't immediately recognize a good number of these breeds on sight, then maybe they should do a tiny bit of research before publishing an article or blog post, slapping on a label at a shelter, or--oh, I don't know--passing legislation?

How many of these breeds do you recognize?  Get the answers here.  I can tell you, I didn't do very well.


(True:  This is my second rant this week--sorry.  I'll try to be funny on Friday.)

Quick, someone give me something funny to blog about!

It's a Grisly Affair

When I was little, I thought Barbie was what being a grown-up woman was all about.  She was a doctor/veterinarian with impeccable clothes and hair who balanced her career, glamorous outings with Ken (or more likely, G.I. Joe) on the jet-ski, and possibly a family (a beautiful, silent baby) with ease and long vacations to Italy.

When I was little, I was stupid.

Here is what being an adult woman is really like:

• WORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKweekend.
• BILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSmoney?
• NO ONE REALLY LOOKS LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  THE KARDASHIANS DON'T EVEN LOOK LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  Stop judging my sweatpants.
• Uncomfortable bras, and worst of all, strapless bras.
• You only get your period when you think it's safe to wear your favorite underwear.
• I could go out.  Or I could stay in, gorge on pizza puffs, watch bad television, and be in bed before the ten o'clock news.
• That event so awful I won't name it here.  (But it involves stirrups and a vicious lie along the lines of, "It'll just be a pinch.")
• Wolf whistles.
• Grubby children pulling your birth control out of your purse in front of mixed company.
• Childbirth war stories.  (Seriously--can mothers answer me why none of you seem to have PTSD?)
• The expectation of the general populace that you just can't wait to experience that particular miracle.

And what women have to look forward to:

• Smashing, painful mammograms.  For years.
• Menopause and the accompanying misery.  For years.
• Death.

Surprisingly, I'm not saying being a woman is such a bad thing.  It's worked out pretty well for me so far.  I'm just saying, thank the ladies in your life for being seriously hardcore.  And that maybe women deserve a little something for tolerating all the shit we do--like the Permanent Fund Dividend in Alaska, where they give you money for living there year-round.

Because, fuck.

Via

(True:  Today I had the grisly distinction of bearing witness to several women's very detailed discussion of mammograms.  I am suddenly terrified of life.)

A First-Person Narrative

I'm eating hummus for lunch and I just stumbled across the terrifying words "Honey Boo Boo."

So there went my idea for today's post.  It must not have been very important.

So, here are some thoughts on my day:

Someone has been sitting on my chair.  Someone adjusted my chair.  My feet don't touch the floor!  Who has been sitting in my chair???  Jerk.

Someone once told me the hydraulics in swivel chairs are powerful enough that a malfunction could shoot the base all the way through your butt. 

If this is a promotion, why am I sitting at the short bus desk?  I had a bigger desk in third grade, and that had a flip top for storage.  This one just has a cartoon that says, "Weenie Hut Jr's."

At what point is it reasonable to ask for my borrowed pen back?  It's been twenty minutes.  And that pen is perfectly broken in.  Is the borrower at lunch?  Maybe I could steal it back.  Crap.  It's not in plain sight and there are too many people around for me to rifle through drawers.



(True:  No, this is not a real post.  I'd sell my left foot--that's my ass-kicking foot--for a nap.  And I'd be open to negotiation.)

I Have Landed in an Alternate Universe.

Which I realized on Saturday evening, at a Roller Derby after-party with professional derby girls and Canadians.

Let's face it, guys--I'm not cool enough for any part of that scenario.

On a related note, Canadians really are as nice as everyone always says.  At the bout, the emcee hosted a game of scavenger hunting musical chairs.  One of the items the players had to find was a Canadian coin.  There was one group of Canadian fans.  They very politely gave every participant money from their pockets.

Also, the half-time show was a professional hula-hooper.

I swear to god I'm not making this up.

And no, I wasn't smoking anything, either.


(True:  Have you ever seen Roller Derby?  Because you need to.  Also, where can I take hula hoop lessons?)