Bro-Dude the Hulk is one cool bro-dude.

I went to Georgia for work Wednesday and Thursday.  On the flight back to Chicago, I got a window seat.  (Yay!)  In the seat next to me was a hugely burly bro-dude.  (Nooo!)

To give you an idea, he looked rather like the soap guys from Hyperbole and a Half.  Except in a hot pink polo and a "vintage" baseball hat.

His muscles kind of hulked into my personal space, so it was a pretty cozy flight.  He was also super-embarrassed about it and not unintelligent, so we were cool.  I decided if our knees were going to touch even when we were both trying hard to not let our knees touch, I may as well just relax. 

Travelling can make for strange knee-fellows.

All was well until the woman sitting behind me asked her seatmate the distance from the airport to the suburb where I live.  I turned, apologized for accidentally overhearing, and answered.  She looked at me like I was wearing a horse mask and had invited her into my rusty, windowless white van.

I lurched around and tried to fall out the bottom of the plane, but that doesn't even work in really terrible romance novels.

Bro-Dude the Hulk leaned over.

"If you hadn't answered her, I would have."

Muscle on, Bro-Dude, my friend.  Muscle on.

Giraffe Spit Smells Like Marigolds

Yesterday, my whole hand was in a giraffe's mouth.

This giraffe and I got up close and personal.  I know what it's spit smells like.

It was pretty much the best day of my life.

Ricky, you have some mansplainin' to do...

It was my senior year of college.  I had taken a fall down a flight of stairs, and had some pretty severe bruising on the inside of my left arm, and a ladder of less-severe bruises down my back.  Hurt like a mother, but nothing terribly serious.  However, within a few days I'd developed some hard lumps in the bruise on my arm--calcium deposits.

I took myself off to the campus health center, and the doctor happened to be in.  (He was usually available for a couple of hours, two or three days a week; the rest of the time the nurse was available.  And generally more helpful.)  I sat on the table, rolled up my sleeve, and explained that I was concerned by what I felt--

"Don't worry.  It's not cancer."

--which I was pretty certain was a series of marble-sized calcium deposits, and what was the best course of action to take to ensure I didn't pass them through my urethra.

"Oh.  Oh.  Well, warm, damp compresses should help with that."

Gee, thanks.  I'm so glad you were able to ease my fears about cancer of the bruise.  What color ribbons does that have again?  I'm sure I saw it on a rubber bracelet somewhere.

If you don't know what mansplaining is or aren't aware how commonplace it is for women to be on the receiving end of it (from whatever gender), I recommend checking out this link.

George is a Douche-Canoe.

Oh, did you notice me rubbing my hands?  Sorry, I can't help it.  They're not sore.  Sometimes my knuckles curl my fingers into stiff claws, making movement difficult and painful, but they don't hurt much today.  Today they're just itchy and tight with tiny blisters, and I'm feeling self-conscious.

I've gotten the blisters often enough now that what used to be tender skin on the sides of my fingers are now thick with calluses.  But the blisters creep farther and farther into "good skin territory" all the time, and the trail of hardening skin follows.

On top of my fingers, running along my nail beds.

The outside of my hands, slithering up towards my pinky and down past my wrist bone.

The web between my thumb and forefinger.

Starbursting outward from the center of my palm.

When the blisters dissipate, they'll peel off in thick layers, sometimes for weeks.

It's an itchy process, beginning to end, but that doesn't bother me so much as the fact that it's ugly.  It's not terribly noticeable, but people who do see it assume it's contagious or a fungus.  It's neither, just my body going just a little out of whack, but it makes me feel dirty and embarrassed.  Maybe a little ashamed on bad days.

I have an "undifferentiated autimmune disorder."  I call it George so that I don't have to be mad at my body for being gross, but at George for making me feel gross.  And I have it mostly under control; I haven't required regular meds in almost ten years, and have only had a handful of short, mild flares in that time.  The blisters are one of the few symptoms I can't kick.

It's really not so bad.  I know I'm lucky.

But today?  This tiny reminder that my body will never function normally?

It's fucking pissing me off.


(True:  I have a happy "Hops in the Right Direction" post for you tomorrow, courtesy of my friend/cousin Dianawesome.)

All About the Ladies

Warning:  SFW euphamisms (with one exception) and TMI to follow.

Ever since I read this Epbot post, I've had my ladies on the brain.  Apparently, so does the rest of the world.

My sticky-outy bits aren't that, well, sticky-outy.  They don't generally get in the way.  In fact, they have never gotten in the way.  But at a loud work event last week, when I leaned forward to shout in a coworker friend's ear, he zigged and I zagged, and the ladies collided with his elbow, spilling his drink down my front.  (Good thing I wore black, right?)  Without even thinking about it, my friend exclaimed, "Ohgodyourtits!"  Which from anyone else would be offensive but from my friend was just funny as hell.  Good thing it was too loud for anyone else to overhear...

Later, as I was attempting to find some new, properly-fitting underpinnings, I swung by good-ol' Victoria's Secret.  I'd already tried a bunch on at other stores, and had had some near-fits, so I had a pretty good idea of what size I needed, like that the band needed to be either a 30 or a 32.  The oh-so-helpful girl in VS sized me up and recommended a 36B.  Because apparently VS is trying to get into the hula hoop business, with the way that thing would be flying around on me.  And the cup size?  Would have been a lot like that "Fat guy in a little coat" bit from Tommy Boy.  Not what I want to think of in relation to the girls.  I think I'm officially done with that store.  I always knew their sizing could be a bit inaccurate, but that's just ridiculous.  I had much better luck at TJ Maxx, where I also spent a lot, lot less.

Finally, you may remember that I went to a con this weekend, C2E2 here in Chicago.  It was awesome.  I wore one of my Doctor Who tees, because it's an advertisement of what interests me and an invitation for other Whovians to come fangirl with me.  (David Tennant's hair, anyone?)  But of course I forgot I was wearing it, so when an artist in Artist's Alley mentioned he had some Doctor art a few pages farther along in his portfolio, I was surprised.

"How did you know I like Doctor Who?" I asked.

"Your shirt is made of psychic paper," the artist responded.  Very clever, right?

The person with me piped in.  "I just thought you weren't wearing a shirt!"



(True:  My dad reads this blog.  Hi, Dad!  Sorry, Dad!)

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?)

Pinterest, Don't Ever Change.

Pinterest is interesting.

In the last ten minutes, I've been introduced to a Batman Snuggie, a solar-powered bonsai tree, and someone in an absolutely ginormous panda costume being shoved through a too-small train car door by several police officers.

Via

(True:  I may want two of those things.  Guess which?)

Define "Normal."

Well, I was going to blog today, but I ate too much Thai food instead.

In unrelated news, I dropped my hairbrush in the toilet this morning.  But hey, at least it wasn't my toothbrush.  The comb I use for backup probably wouldn't have worked as well on my teeth.


(True:  My coworker, who says she does not find puns funny, just responded to, "Are you quoting an Audi dealership?" with, "No, but I Audi be."  This was promptly followed by another coworker asking if anyone had an Audi.  The response?  "No, my belly button's an innie."  God, I love my office.)

If You've Ruined My French Fries, I Will Never Forgive You

Dude.

Someone found my blog for searching for the "consummation of potatoes in 2013."

I don't think I've ever hoped so fervently that a word did not mean what someone thought it meant.  Or is this a thing?  Like furries, but with root vegetables?

And how did that search phrase bring them here?!

Clearly, my blog has a niche readership.

I worry about you people sometimes.

Via

(True:  I am trying really hard to not judge you right now.)

I'll Be Beating Them Off With a Stick For Sure

I'm thinking of signing up on one of those dating sites, and I'm hoping you guys can help me edit my profile.


Name:  Dana the Biped (Prada the Puff and Stink are freebies.  Or an entourage, if you think that's cooler.  Whatever.  We're a group package.  I really hope you don't have allergies.)

Date of Birth:  Old enough to buy beer, young enough to still get carded for buying beer.  Old enough for my great-aunts to think I'm a spinster, young enough to want to punch them for it.*

*I do not actually condone great-aunt-punching.

Occupation:  Full-time office drudge, part-time blogger/karaoke jockey.  I'm a "slash"--like the Midwest's version of Paris Hilton, except I know what Walmart is and my boobs are real.

About me:  Well, I've got a fair few skills that would help in a zombie apocalypse.  I know how to use a chainsaw and drive a manual transmission.  I'm great to have around in an emergency--I've set my kitchen on fire enough times to know that panicking helps nothing. 

I love to eat, so I'd be a great test subject for anyone who likes to cook.  And since I'm a total whiny wimp when I'm sick, you have the prime opportunity to play romantic hero by supplying me with tissues, cough drops, and books.  In my free time, I like watching Doctor Who and not wearing pants.

But seriously, how could you even edit such a work of genius and panache?


(True:  I'm limping through the whole day with just one can of Mt. Dew.  I'm impressed that I'm still conscious, frankly.)

Um, You've Gone Too Far

I have discovered something that is equally amazing and apalling:



Via

It's a tail.  That wags when you're happy.

Because I definitely need to give people an excuse to stare at my butt.

(True:  When I went to a bridal show with My then-bride-to-be Sister the Lawyer, one of the men with a "Groom" sticker--who was holding hands with a woman wearing a "Bride" sticker, mind you--"accidentally" copped a feel of my butt.  Dude, here's a hint:  If you want to make it seem like an accident, DON'T FOLLOW THE CURVE.)

Hops in the Right Direction: The Next Direction

If you've been reading my "Hops in the Right Direction" column for any length of time, you know Prada has come so far in the time I've had her.  She has become so much more confident in her body and in her environment, and her socialization is coming along very nicely, though of course we'll always be working toward something new.

There is one area, however, where she could still use a lot of improvement.  She still gets overexcited when someone is about to touch her.  Don't get me wrong--I love the fact that getting loved on sends her into throes of exultation.  It's the fact that she dances around like an ADD-ridden kindergartner on a caffeine high and suffering a seizure that's the problem.  For me, it means minor inconveniences, like giving her time to slightly settle before getting her into her harness and clipping her leash on before going on walks, and holding her in her "safe position" (i.e., like a football) when people ask to pet her.  And those inconveniences are mostly offset by the fact that her dancing almost invariably makes me laugh.

There is one place, however, where this becomes a more serious issue:  at the vet.  We've already experienced one example of this--the vet wanted to aspirate when she had folliculitis on her cheek, but was unable to because Prada is just too wigglesome. 

Prada will very likely end up with arthritis at some point.  I'm trying to stave it off as long as possible by keeping her at a healthy weight and giving her plenty of massages, but arthritis looms before us, and that means more vet visits.

So, the way I see it, I've got a couple of years, at least (hopefully), to teach Prada to calmly accept touches.  Here's the plan:

1. Sitting is her go-to "see what a good girl I am" pose, and it immediately puts her into "work" mode.  I'm going to try to use this to my advantage and start touching her here.  The challenge I'll need to work through is how to reward her for doing it right without getting her too excited.  Maybe a long-lasting treat like a rawhide would keep some of her focus off what my hands are doing until she can build up a tolerance to it. 
2. I haven't had too much success using the "stay" command during touching, so perhaps I can come up with a different vocal/hand cue to prepare her.
3. Practice when she is already calm and relaxed, usually when she is laying next to me.  This is usually when I rub her muscles loose, since straight-up petting overstimulates her.  I'm going to need to practice other kind of touches--handling her ears, muzzle, toes, and tail, especially.  Hopefully if she is already calm, she won't be as quick to overreact.
4. Use her fatigue to my advantage.  Practice after long walks when she's ready to settle in and rest for a while.

That's pretty much as far as I've gotten.  What do you think?  Anything you would try?


(True:  Dog people will totally relate to both this, the touching side and this, the disgusting/funny side of dog ownership.)

NOT How I Prefer to Meet People

I saw Magic Mike with some girlfriends yesterday.  Not because it looked like a good movie, of course, but because it looked like a good-looking movie.  I'll admit it:  I like a pretty shirtless man.  I also discovered that seeing a man in a thong makes me giggle like a twelve-year-old.  Especially when there are sock garters involved.

But I think what really made this movie-going experience memorable is what happened after.  The very instant the credits started rolling, the woman two seats down jumped up and rushed out of the aisle.  This normally wouldn't be any big deal, but she was in such a hurry that when I took .3 seconds to reach down and try to grab my purse off the floor and out of her way, she decided to climb over my head instead of waiting.  This struck me as a little odd, and I gaped and stuttered for a moment after.  At which point, she turned around, looked at me like I was crazy, and asked, "Are you all right?"

Honestly.  She had just straddled my head in a movie theater, and she asked what's wrong with me.

Sometimes, my life is so much more interesting than it needs to me.

Via

(True:  I nicked my armpit shaving this morning.  I'd say it's the worst thing ever, but I had my head straddled by a stranger yesterday, which really puts things into perspective.)

Hops in the Right Direction: The Driving Force

My parents have a miniature schnauzer, and Linka is scary-smart.  My folks' biggest challenge with her is how to keep her occupied and challenged so she doesn't turn that brilliant mind to getting into really creative trouble.  She's really got a work ethic, too--I have rarely seen a dog so eager for work.

Talking with my dad last night, and the things they work on in their dog class (like how to sit-stay on a moving skateboard) struck me as being motivated entirely differently than the things we work on in my dog class (like how to down-stay even when I leave her sight momentarily).  And those class motivations are why they suit our respective dogs so well--Linka and Prada are motivated differently themselves.

Linka is a thinker.  If she sees something new, her first instinct is to go check it out.  She wants to learn everything there is to know about everything.  She has a cheerful disregard for her own safety, sometimes.

Prada, on the other hand, is a feeler.  I am not saying by any means that she is not a smart girl or a quick learner, but if she has to choose between checking out something new and interesting and feeling safe, she'll choose security every time.  This means introducing her to new situations slowly, or in a way that sets her up to succeed.

I've mentioned before that slippery floors are a no-go for her.  So, when we go someplace new, I toss her rug in the car, so she'll have a safe, familiar place to sit no matter what flooring situation we encounter.  Or, if a couple of kids want to pet her while we're on a walk, I'll pick her up into her "safe position" (basically tucked under my arm like a football--she'll tolerate pretty much anything as long as she's in that position).  This way, she feels confident that this new and probably overwhelming situation is going to be okay.  (Plus, I can steer little hands away from Prada's chest, which she doesn't like strangers to touch.) 

And when new environmental elements come up, I take advantage of them.  On a walk a few nights ago, we passed a yard that had an in-ground sprinkler system.  It made a sort of hissing sound that Prada shied away from, so I sat on the sidewalk near one of the sprinklers and fed Prada treats and just let her explore as far as she was comfortable.  On the few occasions that she's stepped on a manhole cover, I've praised her effusively and had a little treat party.  (Yes, passers-by do think I'm crazy.  Whatever.)

All this so she feels safe.  Because, of course, no one can feel confident in themselves until they feel safe in their environment.

Adopted dogs come in all shapes and sizes, but they all have one thing in common:  they've had an uncertain past.  It's up to us as their guardians to give them certainty in their surroundings and encourage certainty in themselves, whether that's through cerebral challenges like the rally obedience my parents do with Linka or through the positive associations (treats) linked with brave actions (staying while I walk out of sight).  Tailoring our methods by knowing what drives our dogs helps us set them up for success--the long-term-happy kind.

The State of Florida is None the Worse for Wear

Despite my having been there.  I did get up to plenty of hijinks, most of which I can't tell you.  (I'd have to kill you.  And hunting you down is just too much work.)

Ah, the sunny, sunny heat.  I am a heat monger in the worst way, and 86 and humid is just my style.  So, I spent most of Friday and Saturday slathered in sunscreen and snoozing on the beach.  It was awesome.

What wasn't awesome was the fact that I forgot to slather the SPF on my neck and chest on Friday.  Everywhere else, I developed a nice glow.  There, I fried.  When I woke up and headed inside, it was pink.  Later that night, it turned bright red.  By morning, it had a lovely purple tinge and swear-to-god, had turned crispy.    The best part is that I've got one white spot by my collarbone where I apparently wiped the last of the sunscreen on my fingers.  Knowing me, I meant to get more sunscreen and finish, but then just didn't.  The remainder of the weekend consisted of locals asking, "You aren't from around here, are you?"

Awesome.  I'm that guy.  (The photographer took pictures of most of the guests, but I hear he mistook me for a tomato and moved on.)

"Fried Egg on the Plate Without the Plate" by Salvador Dali.  AKA, "An Accurate Depiction of How I Feel Right Now."

I was travelling with my best friend Seven, as his plus one to the wedding of a friend of ours from high school.  He and I actually make good travelling companions.  I've got a fair bit of experience flying, but he's the one who is organized enough to keep track of things like what gate we're flying out of and where I've left the GodPod.  We like the same kinds of food (which we ate a ton of), and he's a good sport about me geeking out and dragging him to places like the Dali Museum (more on that to come).
 
Seven and I first became friends when a guy in our algebra II class asked if we were siblings.  We don't look much alike, but we do have that kind of relationship.  As in, we tease each other pretty mercilessly.  (Okay, I'm merciless.  Seven just holds on for the ride.) 

For example, we rented a car.  And by we, I mean Seven, because I'm too disorganized to manage something like that and also I'm a terrible driver.  He asks me which of the several cars we can choose from I prefer, and I tell him I don't have an opinion.  Then, no sooner than he signs the paperwork and we load our crap into the trunk of a white Mazda 6, I say we should have gotten the red one.  Which I proceeded to tell everyone throughout the trip.  Not that I actually cared.  I meant it when I said I didn't have a preference--it's just so fun to see Seven take the bait.  Every.  Single.  Time. 

Cracks me up.


(True:  Just after the wedding, during the official serious professional photography time, a parasailer's kite very nearly took out the bride, guaranteeing that this is one wedding we'll never forget--love you, Kate!)

Trust Issues

I've got 'em.  Case in point:  jumping off a telephone pole.  For some reason, I had to in high school.  I went to this hoity-toity private school, and every fall we kicked off the year with a "Leadership Weekend," where we were forced into uncomfortable situations in order to bond with our equally awkward, sweaty peers.  One year, we went to a ropes course, where we did trust activities like falling backward into the arms of our waiting classmates and other stupid things.

We started by linking arms into a big human knot and then untangling ourselves.  Like Twister, but with forty-eight other people instead of colorful dots.  No one should have to get that up close and personal with their peers, just sayin'.  Especially when those peers are teenagers who are awkward and smelly, and all you can think about is if the guy whose shoulder you are straddling thinks your butt looks cute in those jeans.

Not okay.

Then we did the falling backwards bit, and out of forty-eight classmates--well, we dropped a few.

So, I wasn't feeling terribly confident in my peers when the time came to don the climbing gear, haul ass up a forty-foot telephone pole (sorry, I should clarify:  a forty-foot tapered telephone pole that was waving noticeably in the wind), stand on the six-inch diameter top, turn around, and jump the hell off.  The goal of this was to ring a bell about six feet away from the jumping-off point.  And also not to die.

I missed the bell.  I also didn't give a crap.  My fellow classmates hauled the skinny little rope attached to my butt-harness tight after only an eternity of free fall, and for some reason held me aloft with my feet about five inches from the ground.  At that point, I really did not want to be in the harness of death, and promptly went about removing myself from it.  The "guide" was not happy that I didn't wait for him, especially since I was still sort of dangling there.  I was not happy I didn't take the opportunity to tell him to suck it.

Then I went down the zipline about twelve times, which was awesome.  No, there was no harness attaching me to anything.  Yes, it was fast.  I suppose I could have died just as easily on the zipline as on the telephone pole.  The difference, of course, is that on the zipline, it was my own hands gripping the handle, and not my own hands hoping they are not going to be dropped by people who needed calculators to add and also were more worried about whether the guy/girl hips were brushing theirs as they held the rope thought their butt looked cute in those jeans than preserving the life of a nerd.  I think you'll agree that is a crucial difference.

But in the end, I'm a survivor.  Which means I hardly cursed (aloud) at all, and went on to write about the experience on all of my college applications in some inspiring way which landed me some pretty sweet financial aid offers.


(True:  Hormone-driven, sweaty teenagers and abject terror mix potently.  Some get smellier.  Others get pregnant.  I got the former.)