Make Sure It's Got Lots of Glitter, Okay?

Last night some dude gave me a giant, man-sized crow puppet and taught me how to work it so that the world wouldn't explode.  But then I didn't do it right so the only option left was to turn into Buffy the Vampire Slayer and let someone throw a knife at my back.  I died, but it was okay, because I came out a happy ghost and had averted the apocalypse.

Lesson 1:  Birds can't be trusted.  Neither can professional puppeteers.

Lesson 2:  While you were all unconscious, I saved the world, so you should probably make me an award.  With glitter.

Alternate Lesson 2:  I need to stop eating cheese fries before bed.


(True:  Large dogs' dreams last longer, but small dogs dream more frequently.)

Kellan dreams of playing fetch with some nice new people.

You Found Me, and That's Weird

One of the things I like about Blogger is the "Stats" tab.  It allows you to keep up with how many hits you have and what search terms people are using to find you.

Basically, what I've discovered is that my readers are very odd, and probably disappointed.

To the person who found my by searching for "horizontal zombie arm:"  I don't understand why your zombie arm can only be held horizontally, but I'm sorry that the only zombie arm I've provided you was vertical and actually non-cancerous, not zombified.  But I can see where you'd get confused about that.

To the person who seached for "does towles 'an afair to remember' have a happy ending:'"  If you need a grammar and spelling tutor, you've come to the right place, but I'm afraid I've never seen that movie.  Or is it a book?  Either way, it was clearly poorly written.

To the person looking for "labyrinth eyebrows:"  I seriously hope you are working on growing your eyebrows into a hedge maze, like in all those trashy romance novels and also Harry Potter.

To the person needing ideas "for the spring summer dog:"  Maybe a sparkly new collar?  Or a kiddie pool?  You've got me stumped on this one.

To the person wanting to find that perfect "zombie spider horror movie:"  You are not welcome here.

Also, someone is clearly very, very interested in dental implants.  It comes up on my stats page several times a week.  Awesome.


(True:  You, my dear readers, are baffling and wonderful.)

Kellan knows I was going somewhere with this, but he's keeping mum. 

Hops in the Right Direction: Toys and Treats for Your Tripod

Oh, hi!  It's been a while since I've pontificated at you, huh? 

When I got Prada, she had no interest in toys of any kind.  Some dogs just don't.  However, because I wanted her to have an occupation other than getting my attention, and because I enjoy a game of tug myself, I taught her.  It took a while.  It's only in the last couple months that I can show her a new toy and she'll be excited about it, rather than me coaxing her into playing with it.

Of course, we've never had any trouble with her being excited about treats.

My biggest concern for treats is whether or not they are good for her.  It's important she doesn't get tubby and put more stress on her joints.  The people where I train her are huge fans of Stella and Chewy's brand treats.  They are made of freeze-dried meats or sometimes vegetables, and can be given to your dog as-is or re-hydrated for a different texture.  They're pretty expensive, though, so I haven't purchased any.  (Prada did snag a free sample of them at an event, though, and she gives them three paws up.)  I have been getting an off-brand I've found at TJMaxx a couple of different times.  Prada like the chicken and liver a ton.  She's still a bit iffy on the sweet potato, but that's really good for dogs, too.  The freeze-dried treats also crumble easily, so you can give just a little at a time, or sprinkle one over her dinner for a special surprise. 

In general, I try to stay away from treats that have lots of carbohydrates as the first ingredients (flour, wheat gluten, corn anything, etc.) or anything that has lots of ingredients I can't pronounce.  I look at it this way:  if I had kids, I would rather they snack on grapes than candy.  Grapes are better for them and less likely to give them a tummy ache, but a piece of candy every once in a while isn't going to do any harm, either.

For longer-lasting chews, I try to find things Prada won't have to chase around.  Nothing rolly.  Ring- or knot-shaped chews work well, though Prada's favorite is the Quado, made by N-Bone.  It's unique shape is perfect for being held secure by a single paw.  Best of all, because Prada doesn't have to work so hard to hold it still, she doesn't have to chew just from one side.  That's much better for her teeth.  (They make her breath smell nice, too.)

I've heard a lot of people talk up Kongs, and I've always liked those.  My last dog, Hans, thought they were the greatest thing since peanut butter.  Prada, on the other hand, is not a fan.  She wants to roll it to make the treats or kibble fall out, but the placement of the hole isn't conducive to that.  I've replaced the Kong with a rubber ball that has a hole in it.

As for plush toys, as long as it has something small enough for her to get her itty bitty mouth around, she's happy.  And the ones that have legs or such that will whip around when she shakes it are the best, obviously.

I'm not saying any of these are going to work for everybody, but talking about it can help you come up with new ideas.  Every dog is different.  But if you keep trying new things, you're bound to find something that is really the cat's meow.  (Sorry.  I couldn't help myself.)

What does your dog love/hate?

(I'm not paid to talk about particular products--I'm not nearly that important.)

Kellan is not a tripod.  He doesn't have limited mobility, either.  But he used to be completely paralyzed, so you know he's a special boy.

Home Decorating is a Lie.

I like the idea of decorating my place and living in a space that is beautiful and functional.

This space is a myth.

Browsing apartmenttherapy.com, a site I very much enjoy and admire, with its gorgeous photos and hope-inspring tips, I have stumbled across some photos that make me realize that perhaps, there is a solution, and a beautiful living environment can be mine.

Found here.

Look at how pretty that is, and everything you need to leave the house is right there for you.  Now I just need to pick a color, buy a new outdoor wardrobe in that monochromatic theme, and never wear anything else.  Also, the cat will totally pee in that plant, and the dirty Chicago snow is going to smear all over those pretty tiles without a serious heavy duty rug there.  The bench?  It's going to be heaped with junk mail and whatever I happen to have gotten sick of holding as I walk past.  And be prepared for the fact that there is going to be at the very least ten pairs of shoes laying haphazardly on the floor, waiting to trip the unsuspecting.

Oh, what about this kitchen? 

Found here.

This might work.  After all, I too, have a lot of shelves.  However, I'm going to need dishes that actually match, and for those dishes to actually make it to their homes before before being used again.  That will probably be a shock for them, having never left the dish drainer before.  Also, I don't know if boxes of mac and cheese and Hamburger Helper and cans of condenced cream of chicken soup are going to look as elegant in those jars.  Although those top shelves do look like an amazing places to store things I want to forget I own until I need to move again and then have to deduct what it is that might be living under the three inches of dust up there.
No, really.  Does anyone really live this way, with their homes looking like department store tableaus?  Because frankly, if I'm not going to be seriously depressed, I need to believe in homes like this the same way I believe in the tooth fairy--if I'm not getting paid to keep it up, it's just not worth it.


(True:  I once bought a book on organizing your home, the friend I was with laughed at me.)

Coco doesn't mind clutter, as long as there is space on your lap.

Healthcare for the Country Girl

Do you need to go to the doctor?  A handy checklist.*

Are you bleeding? 
Are you bleeding a lot?
No?  Don't waste my time.
Yes, quite a lot?
Is this bleeding putting you in mortal danger?
No?  Quit whining and put some duct tape on it.
Yes?  You may drive yourself to the doctor.

Do you think you may have broken a bone?
No?  Whenever you're finally done with what you're doing, take an aspirin.
Yes?  If it is broken, would the doctor be able to put a cast on it?
No?  It's your finger/toe?  Put some tape on it.  You'll be fine.
No?  It's your tailbone?  Sit on a floaty-ring.  You'll be fine.
Yes?  Can you see the bone?
No?  You're probably fine.  Walk it off.
Yes?  You may drive yourself to the doctor.

Does your head hurt?
Yes?  Did you fall from a great height or did something heavy fall on your head?
Yes?  Can you remember who the president is?
No?  You may lie down until someone finds you and drives you to the doctor.
Yes?  Do you have a very strong opinion about the president?
Yes?  You're fine.  Take one of those good pills left over from when you had your wisdom teeth out four years ago.
No?  You may lie down until someone finds you and drives you to the doctor.
Is the person nearest you screaming something about squishy pink stuff spilling out of your noggin?
Yes?  You're screwed.  You may as well not bother with the doctor.

Do you have a cold?
Is this a joke?  Use some Vicks and quitcherbitchin'.

*I am not a certified healthcare professional.  If you die, it's not my fault.


(True:  I love Vicks.  I once wrote an ode to express my love for Vicks.)

Coco is writing you a prescription for snuggles and rawhides.

My Job Here is Done

The Squeeze and I have been dating for a while now, going on four years, I guess.  And that's just this time!  Over the years, I've told him repeatedly that I don't cook, I don't like to cook, I can't cook.

Confession:  I can cook just fine.  I just didn't want him--or anyone--expecting me to cook all the time.  Or ever, really.  Sometimes (usually) I'm cool with having a bowl of cereal and letting anyone else fend for themselves.

But, now that I'm living so far from my parents that I can't visit them regularly just for comfort food, I've been cooking a bit more regularly.  I've cooked like, three times in the last two weeks, and he hasn't tried a single bite. 

First, it was bean soup, and I thought, okay, maybe he doesn't like bean soup.  Then it was home-made mini pizzas, which I was sure would be a hit.  They were pretty darn tasty.  Nope.  But then, they did have whole-wheat crusts, so maybe that scared him away.  Spaghetti.  Everybody likes spaghetti, right?  I even cooked meat for it.  (I'm not a vegetarian, meat is just expensive and takes a whole 'nother step to prepare and one more dish to wash.)  So the spaghetti was, you know, manly.

It was also a no-go.

Want to know what I think?  Well, you're here, so I'm going to take that as a yes.

I think I did my job too well.  I have convinced him that I don't cook, I don't like to cook, I can't cook.

The Squeeze is absolutely terrified of eating anything I've had a hand in preparing.  And he really doesn't even have any reason, if you overlook the fact that that's what I've told him a whole bunch of times, and that one time I made pancakes and he puked for hours.

That could have just been a bug, you know.


(True:  My specialties are Kraft Mac'n'Cheese and frozen pizza.  I should totally have a contract with Food Network.  (That's a thing, right?  Food Network?))

Coco isn't a picky eater.

The Land of the Living

Here I am...  A day late, and a dollar short.  (I'm sure I owe somebody a dollar, anyway.)  I thought briefly about posting yesterday even though I was home sick, but by the time I cast a line out and reeled my head in from across the street, I had fallen back asleep.

Anyway, here's a story for you, and it's even true.

This weekend, I had a work function, the kind that involves beer and schmoozing with customers.  My boss played on of those bar games where you punch the punching game for points.  He got enough points, and the machine spat out a prize in a plastic sphere.  Shrugging, he gave it to me.  Being the curious sort, I opened it right away.

BAD IDEA.

Honestly, where is my robot?  You know, the one that will wave it's arms and cry, "Danger, Dana the Biped, Danger."

I opened the prize and promptly regretted my existence.  I'm not certain whose existence my boss regretted, mine or his own.  Probably both.

In that innocuous plastic sphere, which I had opened in front of God, my coworkers, and a good number of our customers, was not the plastic soldier with a plastic parachute or something expected like that.  Oh, no.  I lucked out enough to get the frilly underpants.


(True:  I recently saw a video of one of the guys I work with at karaoke singing with no shirt on, with lots of women rubbing up against him.  Knowing this guy as I do, the part that upset me was the fact that his hair is so much better than mine.  Also, my life is pretty strange.)

Dear Dora, I'm really sorry that this is the week you were stuck with me.

(Update:  I just decided I didn't blog yesterday because SOPA sucks.  Unless you speak Spanish, and are talking about soup.  Soup is cool.)