I'll Be Playing Vince Vaughn

I've got two weddings and two funerals this weekend, which is the perfect set-up for a movie starring Vince Vaughn and a cardboard cut-out of Reece Witherspoon.  (Not that I have anything against Reece.  But her hair is way better than mine.)

This is a terrible time to be unable to think of any icebreaking jokes that don't reference Weekend at Bernie's.

Yeah, I Say "OreGON." And I Sort of Hate Myself For It.

(Content note:  The experience described below is a lot more universal than you're going to want to admit.)

When I was in grade school, the best days in computer class were when we were allowed to play Oregon Trail.  This was back in the day when a computer was still called a MacIntosh, and the green oxen pulled a green Conastoga wagon across a black screen.

Obviously, when naming the members of my party, I borrowed exclusively from my friends and, more importantly (sorry, friends), always included the name of my latest crush.

Because that's the height of romance in fourth grade.

Invariably, my crush would drown during an attempted river-fording (I knew I should have paid the Indians to guide me across!) or succumb to dysentery.  There were other diseases in the game as I recall, but dysentery seemed to be the only one that could actually be fatal.  That and ford-crossing.

Because I was a particularly twisted child, these deaths were always very amusing to me.

A few days ago, the Dude sent me a photo--he'd set me up as a test patient of the hospital that for some reason employs him.  The first thing that popped into my head?

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Naturally.


(True:  I just went to the bathroom and discovered there was toothpaste on my ear.  What?!  How!?)

A Series of Unfortunate Eve--Wait. That title's already taken.

I went camping with the Dude, the dogs, and my folks.  This is not the unfortunate part.

Dad set the Dude on fire.  (But only a little bit.)  (Edit:  I've been told by a not-unbiased party that this should actually read:  Hero Dad saved the Dude's life moments before total combustion.)

Blink, the blind and deaf dog--It's awesome.  He grins and waves his head like Ray Charles, only without the piano.--almost, while on a walk with Dad and the Dude, floated away down the river.  Whoops!

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The moral of the story is:  I'm never leaving the Dude alone with the Dad again.  They're trouble.

Also fun:  I forgot to rinse the conditioner out of my hair this morning.  You know that scene in There's Something About Mary?

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Yeah.  It wasn't anything like that, actually.

Hops in the Right Direction: Good Dog Round-Up

Just in case you'd forgotten how awesome dogs are, I present to you....

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Psycho, the 10-pound chihuahua/poodle mix that saved his owner's granddaughter from a poisonous snake.

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So, looking at the comments, it's pretty clear most people have decided this is the worst thing ever, and this woman is a Terrible Human Being.

I look at this photo and see a great way for disabled pets to avoid being left at home.

Then again, maybe I'm a Terrible Human Being as well.

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Evan the rescue is getting a new leg!  Hooray!



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Service dogs in Scotland are being trained to assist people with dementia.  This is pretty much the coolest thing ever.



And last but certainly not least, read here about how shelters are reducing overall euthenasia. 



My take-away from these links are that people don't always suck, but dogs just keep on rockin' on.

Well, I Guess They've Got to Shop Somewhere.

So, my dad sometimes reads this blog.  Hi Dad!  The work you did on your yard this weekend looks great!  Please stop reading this post now, 'kay?

I was just at Marshalls, shopping for underpants.  Like you do.  And maybe I was looking at the not not-sexy underpants, if you get my drift.  Because I'm an adult (sort of) and I shouldn't have to feel embarrassed about that.

Something on the other side of the rack caused me to look up.  I'd like to think it was devine intervention, but judging by what happened next, probably not.

With my hands full of skimpy underwear, I locked eyes across the rack with a nun.

Good Lord.

Life As I Know It Is Over, and It's About To Be Your Fault

I have discovered Reddit, and it is good. There goes any chance of productivity in the evenings after work or on the weekends.

Oh let's face it, I never get anything done then, anyway. Except sometimes for dishes. And occasionally laundry. And once in a while I make a sad attempt to not kill flowers in the yard.

But mostly I just watch Doctor Who. Or this:

In actually important news, if you live in the Madison, Wisconsin area, the Dane County Humane Society is having a "Thank Goodness It's $5 Feline Friday" event.  Adult cats' adoption fees are reduced to just five bucks, and kittens' to $20 for today--you've still got some time today to save a life!

And then you can take a photo of your new friend, post it on Reddit, and become complicit in my sloth.  (The sin, not the animal.)

Hops in the Right Direction: The Dogs Around Me

Having a dog is awesome.  No, really.  Even after moving, when Prada is settling in by marking the living room floor (thanks for that, by the way) and establishing a new routine for herself (by waking me up half an hour before my alarm goes off with a request to be let outside), having a dog is fantastic.  Something about coming home after a long workday to a a fluffbomb of excitement is so validating.  And sure, it's twenty to six in the morning, but when I carry her outside to go potty and she nestles her head under my chin sleepily, it's hard to mind too much.

My dog makes me feel like a superstar every damn day.

Now I live in a household with, altogether, a Dude, three dogs, and Stink the much-maligned cat.  So let me introduce you to the new dogs around me.

Benny and Blink are brothers of about seven years of age.  They're mixed breeds--definitely some Australian Shepherd in there.  Both are handsome merles:  Benny is mostly black with a bit of grey, and Blink is mostly white with a few small, black spots.  Blink is also blind and deaf--but don't let that fool you.  He is a smart, well-adjusted dog who loves running around the yard and exploring parts of the house he's really not supposed to be in.

When you open the door to let the dogs into the backyard, he feels the change in air movement or temperature and knows.  He knows when you open the closet door that houses the dog food, too.  He has the layout of the house memorized, so as long as you don't move furniture, he gets around just fine, using the top of his head as a bumper on the walls and furniture as guidance.  His favorite game to play seems to be "I'm not supposed to go over there and I know it because you're blocking my progess.  So I'll sneak to the left or the right and you'll never know because I can't see you, so you definitely can't see me either."  He's a riot.

Benny is just as much a character.  All he wants out of life is to be loved on and simultaneously not seen.  So if I'm on the floor playing with Prada, he'll sneak up behind me and try to join the game in a casual, "you'll never notice" way.  One time, flopped down on the couch, I stretched my arms back and over the arm of the couch, palms down.  Suddenly, there was a dog head in my hands.  But when I sat up to see, Benny had already retreated around the corner.  It was like a sneak attack of affection.  If Prada makes me feel like a superstar, Benny acts like the paparrazi.




Benny:  "Oh, do you see me sitting here?  Oh geez.  That's awkward."


Having a dog is awesome.  Being surrounded by them makes me very, very happy.


(True:  You can learn more about merle Aussies and the sight and hearing defects that can occur here.)

Life Lessons

Yesterday I learned:

• To never wear sandals in a dog-friendly park.
• That dating a nurse is totally helpful in determining whether or not you need stitches.
• And that it's generally considered inappropriate to make Weekend at Bernie's jokes at a funeral.

These three lessons are fortunately not related.

My Spirit Animal Is A Marsupial, But It Doesn't Matter Because I'm Dying.

I'm sick.  Not with the plague, as I was surprised to learn.  It's one of those unnotable, unspecial summer head colds that just make you want to die.  Someone asked me yesterday how I was feeling.

I answered promptly and with confidence:  "My head is wallaby."

Like this.

Suffice it to say I had a fever, as this word choice made perfect sense in that moment.  "Wallaby" sounds like it should be an adjective, and they live in Australia.  So, you know, they're upside down.  Which pretty accurately describes how my head felt yesterday--not right and generally askew.

(First it was the possums...  Now my blog collection of marsupials is growing.  Be afraid--very afraid.)

On a side note, I'd like to make it known that I do not have pink eye.  I scratched my cornea last weekend doing yard work.  My eye and my head are two completely separate things.

Oh, you know what I mean.  Don't judge me!

Also I'm never doing yard work again.


(True:  The Dude is also sick.  We spent last night feeling very, very sorry for ourselves and each other, and watching Doctor Who.  Which I think makes a pretty legit pity party.)