Bragging Rights

The Dude and I have tickets to see the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary special simulcast.

You can go ahead and be jealous now.

Hops in the Right Direction: It's a Journey, and This One's Wet

I know, I know.  No one is really interested in me, and you've only been checking here for the most important question:  What is Prada the Puff up to?

Well, we moved a few months back.  Now, rather than it just being us girls (Prada, Stink the Cat, and me), we've got boys to contend with (the Dude and his two dogs).  We're kind of like the Brady Bunch, only with pets and no maids.  It's awesome.

But Prada has had a hard time adjusting--she's been marking in two places in the house.  At first we thought the behavior would stop once she had a chance to get used to everything, but we're into month four, and the behavior continues.

Back to the drawing board.

I like research, so I've been doing some.  I haven't worked out yet whether her marking is stemming from dominance or anxiety--knowing her, it could be either or both.  A large part of the problem is that she ninja-pees:  leave the room for ten seconds, and when you return, you've got a mess to clean up.  So it's been very difficult to catch her in the act, when we could correct the behavior, or find any common behavior before she does it.  (Because it's by no means every time we leave the room, and it's frequently very shortly after she's been outside and gone potty appropriately.)

But there are options:

• A shaker can (a soda can filled with pennies you can shake when you observe the behavior):  This probably won't work for us, because we don't generally catch her in the act, and even if we did, she's anxious enough that we don't want to scare her into peeing more, or have her associate those two places with a scary sound.
• A thorough carpet cleaning:  We've done this once, but it's probably time again, despite spot cleanings.  Hopefully then any lingering smell won't entice her to repeat performances.
• Keeping her on a leash:  As a temporary solution, it may help us keep an eye on her and prevent any bad behavior or at least let us catch her in the act.
• More walks:  A tired dog is a well-behaved dog.
• More bonding time:  If the cause of the behavior is anxiety at the move and the fact that there are more dogs to compete with, special Dana/Prada bonding time may help ease her nerves and prove to her she's still special.  Even if she is already spoiled rotten and gets lots of cuddle time every day.
• Sprays/barriers to keep her from the problem areas:  Logistically, this won't work for us, as the problem areas aren't neatly contained or able to be cordoned off.
• Positive reinforcement:  Continuing to praise/treat for appropriate expelling.
• Doggie diapers:  it'll keep her from marking and will make her uncomfortably damp, so this may be an option until we can retrain her and break the bad habit.

So at this point, it's a matter of experimenting and figuring out what works for both her and us.

We'll get there, and our carpet will be the happier for it.  So will Prada, for that matter.  And she's worth it.

Take That, Pinterest! I Am, Too, Capable of Feeding Myself!

If you've ever been on Pinterest--or even Facebook--you know that some people can like, do stuff around the house.  Like cooking, or decorating.  And the photographs these people take make their homes look like magazine shoots.

And here I am, all, "Look!  I made mac and cheese from a box and finally washed two weeks' worth of dirty dishes!"

Unless people are coming over, in which case I clean like a mad person to convince them I'm not the derelict slob I really am.

But this week, I totally could have photographed the dinner that I made.  From real ingredients!  Except that instead of photographing it, I ate it.  Because that's how I usually treat my dinner.

I made Cornish pasties.  And it was super easy.  And not what I'd call a real recipe, since I didn't really follow a recipe.  Here's how I did it:

I called the Dude on my way home from work, and made him take 2 chicken breasts out of the freezer to thaw.

I stopped at the store at bought two refrigerated pie crusts, a bag of mixed frozen veggies, and a can of condensed cream of potato soup.

Upon getting home, I cut the chicken into smallish pieces.  (This is the hard part.)

Then I dumped the chicken and the veggies and some chicken bouillon and whatever other seasoning I felt like and a couple handfuls of frozen diced onion in a pot of water.  And I boiled it.

I unrolled the pie crusts and cut each in half.  (This made eight pasties.) 

And once the stuff was done boiling (I stopped just before the chicken was fully cooked), I strained it, dumped in the can of soup and a bit of the water I'd reserved, mixed that shit together, added some more seasoning, and scooped a little onto each piece of dough.  Folded the dough over, pinched the edges, and baked at 425 for half an hour.

Then I watched some TV.

Ten minutes in, I ran back to the oven and poked a hole in each so as to avoid a pasty-splosion.

And then I finished my show, and then I stuffed my face and burned my tongue.

It was fucking awesome.

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.

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.)

Announcement

I am very sorry to announce I will no longer be accepting comments from anonymous posters.  I love comments immensely, but I will not tolerate creepy anonymous comments of the variety I have been receiving of late. Go look for porn or join a website dedicated to creeps.  You're no longer welcome here.

If you're an anonymous commenter of the uncreepy variety, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience.  I hope you'll still read and maybe build a profile so you can continue your much-appreciated commenting.

A Poetry Slam Isn't Actually Supposed To Be Violent.

It's been a while since I've done a poetry post, and I know you, dear reader, have been desperately awaiting more of my lyrical wit...


I cooked food last night.
Dude had to eat some of it.
He is a good sport.


I went to Target
but forgot the Mt. Dew.
Life is terrible.


Trolling on Facebook.
My friends' vacation photos
make me Sad Panda.


I am wearing very bright shoes.
With multi-various hues.
When I put them on my feet
My toes tap a quick beat.
Happy sometimes comes in twos.


I once went to a poetry slam
Where everybody bitched out The Man
Though very sonorous,
I found listening onerous.
I just didn't give a tinker's damn.


(True:  It's shocking I haven't won an award for this shit yet.)

Five Things That Make Me Stupid-Happy

5.  Ice cream and beer.

4.  Everything about this photo:

Via

3.  This painting of a chair that you can actually sit in:

Via

2.  The custard-filled, green-iced doughnut with star-shaped sprinkles I had for breakfast.

1.  The fact that an English teacher reached out to me to use this post as a supplement for her high school students.  Told you I was smart!


(True:  This weekend I am going to Six Flags and a con.  Happy dancing all around!)

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.)

Mad Motor Skillz, Yo. I've Got Them.

While bowling this weekend with friends, we got to talking about how in the US, we count on our fingers starting with our index finger, while in Europe, they start with their thumb.  It was just a curious, one-off observation until C tried to demonstrate the number four, European-style.

I am twenty-mumblemumble years old, and I should probably not find someone not being able to move their ring and pinkie fingers independently as funny as I do.

I my defence, he looked like a velociraptor, and velociraptors are always funny.  They are even funnier when they try to redeem themselves by doing a Vulcan salute (i.e., a Spock hand).  (I had no redeeming to do.  Not only can I fold my pinkie down solo, I can also snap my fingers on one hand in the shape of a triangle while simultaneously snapping the shape of an L with my other hand.  With a high-demand talent like that, it's a shock I'm not filthy rich.)

Also, I discovered that some people are totally incapable of not checking out a fellow bowler's butt.

I am not one of those people.

After bowling (and barbecue!  Sweet, sweet barbecue...), we hit downtown for drinks and karaoke.  It's been a while since I've been to a bar in a college town.  So it was something of a revelation to get hit on by a guy calling himself "Rhino" who opened with, "How old are you?  Are you way too old for me?" 


(True:  Try moving your right foot in a clockwise circle.  Now draw a six in the air.  Your foot just changed direction and also you look very silly.)

It's My Two Hundred and Onest Post!

I woke up this morning with my cat's face so close, I could feel her breath on my eyelashes.

In other news, did you know Monday's post was my 200th?  Yeah, me neither.  But to all four of you who follow me, and have stuck around for the ride, thank you.

I started this blog because I'd recently adopted a three-legged puff of hair, and I wanted to do my part to raise awareness about how awesome dogs are, altered mobility or no.  I still try to do that with my "Hops in the Right Direction" series, but those are never my most popular posts.  That's okay.  You're stuck with it.

By far and away, my most popular post has been The Hunger Games and Nazi Germany: Visual Metaphor in the Film and Why It Works.  It's the post that got me a call-out from Neil Howe, who's kind of a hero of mine.  It's the post that made the first page of a Google search, and it's still the first for the search "Hunger Games Nazi Germany" (because I Google things that might bring up my blog like other people stalk their exes on Facebook).  Clearly I posted that on a good day.

I've also posted about a particularly bad day.  I forget what made it bad, but the hits on the post sure make me smile now.

I've given fashion advice and dating advice.  I've given more unsolicited reading advice than anyone probably ever wanted, but who cares?  Ian Beck, author extraordinaire, commented on my review!  (Which renders your complaints invalid, by the way.)

AND I gave away free copies of the world's most disturbing pinup calendar.  You know.  For charity.

All in all, it's been an amazing ride.  Thanks for sharing it with me.

Ready for the next leg of this road trip?

(Yes, that was a tripod joke.)

(Sorry.)


(True:  You guys are the best.  You're a little strange, but you're my favorite kind of strange.)

Well, That's Just Embarrassing...

I work in the commercial lighting industry.  Friday, I quoted this fixture, and the photo they used to market it, well, I'd post it here, but it's probably NSFW.

That's right--a website I frequently use for work is not safe for work.

But here's the real mystery--is that photo proof that Spiderman is a hipster with a little too much affection for his web?

And who the hell thought, You know what will sell this light fixture?  A skinny, hairy, naked guy in the fetal position.


(True:  In a testament to how awesome my supervisor is, when she saw the web page I'd accidentally-on-purpose pulled up, she laughed and called over the rest of the department to come see.)

Reason I Love My Job #848

My manager gave me beer for Christmas.


(True:  I'm headed up to AbominableSnowmanLand tonight--no promises that I'll post on Monday.  Have a safe and happy holiday, folks!)