My weekend without cable

It rained here Friday night. We have been without cable since Saturday morning. I suspect these two things are related. At 10:00 Saturday, we were promised resumption of service in 2-4 hours. By 9:00 pm, we had been upgraded from an “interruption” to an “outage” and were promised service within 24 hours. [I thought I felt a disturbance in the Force. That must have been when the interruption became an outage. I’m glad the cable company explained it or we might not have noticed a difference between one type of non-service and another type of non-service.] It is now Sunday morning and no cable.

No cable Chez Nous means no DVR, no high-definition digital TV, and no internet. I am composing this post Sunday morning, but who knows when I’ll be able to post it. This means we could not watch the Wahoos beat the Turtle last night in football. The Washington Post headline was something like “Turtle loses by a whisker” but it could have said “Wahoos win by a whisker” (“Wahoos crush overrated inferior local favorite”; “Wahoos show Turtle that ability to read translates to victory on gridiron”; “Even sucky Wahoos overwhelm commuter-college Turtle”). You can see what we Wahoos are dealing with up here inside the Beltway.

Also, no cable means The Man had to watch baseball over the rabbit ears on the 13-inch TV I bought in law school for about $100. We are looking at the same with today’s Redskins and baseball games. The Man is not happy.

So what does a TV addict do when cable goes out? Why, she watches DVDs! Duh. Bunny and The Man are trying to catch up with Heroes Season 1 from Netflix before we watch the season 2 episodes we have stored on the DVR. We love this show. You have your bad-asses, your sad-sacks, your evil villains, your gangsters, your smarmy politicians, your consplosions, your sloppily predictable plot developments, and your implausibly stupid geneticists who are hanging out with the bad guy and are inexplicably unable to read all of his creepy clues to figure out that he’s the bad guy. Duh.

Closet cleaning

Although it is still in the 70s here in Suburbia, it is time to switch over to fall clothes and shoes. This means switching the contents of the upstairs closet with the basement closet, getting rid of stuff I don’t want anymore, and making sure that what I do want is clean, pressed, and mended. It is also a good time for ordinary closet cleaning, which is pretty simple here since I tend not to clutter up my closets too much. I have discovered YB’s mother lode of buried rawhides:

And with all the open closet doors today, I have fished him out of my yarn stash once and out from behind the suitcases another time. The yarn stash rawhide (don’t worry—the yarn is protected inside Ziploc bags) I’m retrieving later when he isn’t looking because it apparently spent some time underground outside....

....and is too filthy for beagles, no matter what YB thinks. The suitcase rawhide has already been given back to YB for reburial, and he has just showed up without it, so I’ll look in the sofa cushions later. If it’s in my closet, the sofa or chair cushions, or the bed, I’ll dig it out and save it for later. If it’s in The Man’s closet, it stays. I don’t go in The Man’s closet, and if he doesn’t want beagles digging around in there, then he should learn to close the door.

Hey, Bunny! Whatcha doin out there? Kirby come with?

Kirby

Back when Bunny and The Man lived in a spacious apartment with a view of the Washington Monument and the Capitol (that view is now gone, obstructed by many blocks of new condo towers), we were saving for a house. We called the savings the dog fund, because once we bought a house, we could then have a dog, someone who could love The Man unconditionally, because Dirtbunny is cold and heartless. Then we bought the house now known as Chez Nous. Then, we dithered for years before we got a dog. Eventually, friend of the family Fred would come to visit for a while when his humans went out of town. We love Fred, but he likes to get up early. As in EARLY. At 4 am, Bunny could say, "Go back to bed, Fred," and he would. But at 6 am, Fred was up, and would put his doggy snout in Bunny's face and snuffle her and breathe on her until she got up too. Also, The Man worried that he would end up doing all the doggy grunt work, such as managing puddles, picking up poop, and going out for walks.

The Man is very, very smart. Almost as smart as Dirtbunny.

Anyway, Fred's humans showed Bunny some dog rescue websites, and Bunny noticed that Lost Dog Rescue was at the Petsmart next to the Target at Seven Corners every Saturday. Bunny nagged. Bunny teased. Bunny whined. The Man, thinking of years of covering for Bunny's laziness, was resolute. Still, Bunny kept looking at the web. And then she saw Niles. He was adorable and pathetic. He even looked a little lost in his web photo.

And his little narrative was heartrending, with such schmoopie mush as "sweet little guy who must not have gotten much love because he doesn't seem to know what to do with it." Bunny was hooked. But The Man was stubborn.

For months, Bunny would look at Niles on the web and think about how sad he was and how much she loved him without even having met him. Months. Really. Like five months. Really.

Finally, Bunny and The Man had to go shopping at Target on a Saturday and Bunny sez Hey The Man, let's go next door and look at the dogs. And The Man sez OK. So we go next door and look at the doggies and who should be there but NILES! Joy joy joy!

I should mention here that not all the dogs go to all the adoption events every weekend, so it was a mighty profound coincidence that brought Bunny and Niles together on that March 25. We were meant to be together.

Niles came to live at Chez Nous that very same day. We had no dog bed, no dog food, no dog bowl, no nuthin. And he was terrified. He found a little table to hide under and he curled up into a ball and stayed there. We fished out an old blanket for him and made him a nest, we talked to him a little, we put Mozart on the stereo, we stroked him a little, but mostly, we left him alone. And he just stayed in his ball and trembled. (Later, The Man came to call that particular posture "Going Turtle.") He wouldn't eat any dinner or drink any water. He would take a lump of cheese, but otherwise, he went full-on turtle. That night, we carried his nest into the bedroom and put him on it, and he slept there like a little angel.

By Monday, I discovered that his real name was Kirby, not Niles. He was still a big turtle, but he was starting to eat a little. After supper, I put his blankie on the sofa net to me, then I put him on the blankie and he would go turtle, but I would slowly scratch his neck and ears while I watched TV. His ears are amazing. I could do it for an hour without getting tired. After a few days, he decided maybe this forever home was not such a bad place. By Tuesday, he gave me the tiniest flick of a tail wag when I got home from work. I thought I might explode from love and happiness.

Kirby has lived here for about 19 months now. He is my first dog, and I am devoted to him, as he is to me. He follows me everywhere and always wants to be near me. He is, by far, Bunny's biggest fan, and he's also Bunny's favorite boy. And The Man, as he predicted, does nearly all of the doggy scut work.

Bunny visits the vampire

Dirtbunny has a medical condition that means she has to get routine blood work done several times a year. This means a trip to the vampire. These trips cause Bunny a lot of angst:

• Bunny does not particularly care for needles and has a hard time believing that they really need to completely fill all those vials.
• Bunny has been poked by the vampire enough times that her veins are getting hard to find. This results in more poking and more pain.
• Bunny is supposed to fast for 12 hours before she goes. Two points result from this:

1. She has to go early in the morning before coffee. This is bad for Bunny, bad for the vampire, and bad for the American people.
2. Nothing makes Bunny want to eat more than not being allowed to for 12 hours.

Also, because of Bunny's medical condition, she is on the "Special Needs" list for flu shots aaaaand it's flu shot time, so this morning, Bunny killed two birds with one stone and got vampired and flu shotted. The vampire thing went fine. The Special Needs flu shot stuff is another matter.

First of all, there's the name. Special Needs. To me, that conjures up images of children who wear bike helmets all the time. "Special Needs" is a gentler label than the ones you will hear around the 1970s school yard I grew up in, but we all know exactly what it means, and I don't really want to be one.

Two, perhaps you don't know who is Special Needs for flu shots. According to my HMO's website, these people include health care workers who directly care for patients, pregnant women, babies and people who are frequently around babies, people with chronic health conditions (like moi), and OLD PEOPLE.

At my HMO, the largest group of Special Needs flu shot people is composed of the aged. Old People freak me out. They tend to be friendly and want to talk to me, especially when I'm knitting, which I usually am because I knit in waiting rooms. I hate talking to strangers because I'm misanthropic and shy. I am also hearing impaired. I have a really hard time hearing and understanding many old people and their soft, quavery voices. So I feel at an enormous disadvantage when they try to engage me in conversation. But, really, who wants to be rude to old people? Even Dirtbunny is not that much of an asshole. Plus, many of them are there with caregivers, or they have oxygen, or are in wheelchairs, or walk with canes. Bunny worries a lot about becoming infirm (but not enough to take charge of her health) and doesn't like to be reminded about this.

Then there is the other kind of Old Person. This is the booming, physically still vital, but mentally starting to decline sort of person. Last year there was one who spoke at the top of his voice for fifteen minutes about being 80 something years old and storming the beach at Normandy and blah blah blah. All Bunny could think was "Shut it, old timer." So Bunny is misanthropic and an asshole and the line was really long that day, but if he had been there today, Bunny would probably have reacted differently.

Sometimes Bunny cannot get it together well enough to get through a routine day comfortably. Getting up, commuting, working, daily chores, all of it seems too much. And my life is easy compared to most. I cannot even imagine being half my current age (i.e., being stupider and possessing fewer coping skills) and facing a combat situation. How do ordinary people get through a day of war? How could they stand it? This loud old coot did something unimaginably difficult and helped to save us from fascism. I'll never understand it, but I am finally finding some compassion for it. If he'd been in line today, I would probably have fought through the caffeine-deprived crankiness and cut him a break.

Thank Goodness He's Back

The last few Manless days were rough here Chez Bunny. YB got bored and did something he's never done before: get into the dirty laundry that frequently occupies the floor of Bunny's room.

Above, we see YB (who needs to be the center of attention) approaching from the left as Bunny documents his misbehavior.
Those are underpants. I'll spare us all a close-up. Also, Bunny tended to stay up too late watching TV, thereby forcing The Boys to go to sleep in The Cave, because they can't go to their dog beds in Bunny's room if Bunny is in the living room. See how they had to huddle up together?


Finally, however, The Man returned from PBU and things returned to normal.

Dirtbunny blocked The Man's sweater for the third time in an effort to stretch it out enough to fit The Man's manly shoulders.


Progress was made on the Economy Plan:


Also, the following was achieved in re facial products:

1. Bunny decanted the travel-sized bottle of toner into the regular-sized bottle of toner.
2. Bunny used up one regular-sized bottle of cleanser.
3. Bunny refilled the travel-sized bottle of cleanser from the other regular-sized bottle of cleanser.
4. Bunny used up one tub of moisturizer.

Net reduction in facial products: 3

Today is one of Dirtbunny's favorite days. It's Columbus Day, which is a Federal holiday for reasons that Bunny does not understand. However, it means no work and usually, although not this year, it means excellent weather. This year, we are back to HHH weather, so Bunny is going to stay inside and watch The War.

That's why we call him the Yarn Bandit.

One of The Man's many very important responsibilities at the Department of Bureaus is to serve as Professor of Bureaucracy at Pork Barrel University. (There used to be a small School of Legal Learning for Lawyers here in Our Nation's Capital where all the lawyers are, but Senator So-and-So decided it would be much more convenient to move the SLLL outside the beltway to His Home State, where there is no major airport. That way, all the lawyers could get on teeny tiny propeller jets and travel hours and hours away to go to school, instead of taking the tin can through the tunnel for 15 minutes. If you build it (while simultaneously dismantling the old one), they will have no choice but to come, no matter how much it costs. That's just my opinion, of course.)

This week, Professor The Man is teaching at PBU. The Man performs many functions here Chez Nous, the most important of which are coffee production, removal of dead creatures left around the yard by the neighborhood cats, and evening YB management. I also let him kill bugs. I don't care about spiders and crickets around the house, but it lets him feel manly, so squish.

Um, coffee. He makes good, strong coffee. He grinds the beans and puts water in the machine and in the morning I stumble out to the kitchen half naked to slap the machine around the base until I find the big button and the red light goes on. This is how it works every morning except the four mornings a year when I have to go to the vampire before I can drink coffee and the mornings when he's at PBU.

YB is a friendly little monkey who wants a lot of attention. After a long day at home taking naps, he especially craves human attention. In the evenings, we all retire to the couch. GK sits next to me because all he wants is to be near me and really that's not too much to ask is it? YB sits next to The Man, and pokes him and claws at him with The Paw Of Demand to make sure that The Man strokes him. The stroking must continue, or The Paw of Demand comes out to poke and prod for more. When The Man is gone, the Boys compete for the prime spot next to Dirtbunny. If YB wins, then Bunny has to diddle his ears or tickle his belly or risk the wrath of The Paw of Demand. If GK wins, Bunny has to pay attention to make sure YB doesn't wander off to the sunroom to engage in some retaliatory urination.

Well, dammit, I have a life too (sort of) and last night I went out. So sue me. I did what I did. GK probably slunk (slank? slinked?) off to his dog bed, where he sulked for about 90 seconds and then fell asleep. YB probably ended up having more fun than the rest of us, as I would eventually discover. I came home from my Big Night Out (not), had a cancer stick, took the Boys into the yard to void, and then we all went to bed. I did not inspect the house.

This morning, I got up, staggered out to the kitchen, saw that THERE WAS NO COFFEE BECAUSE THE MAN IS GONE, went past the dining room table and the treadmill to turn on the laptop, came back through, and went back to my room to put on my glasses because I have to make the fucking coffee myself goddamn it.

So I make the coffee. I walk out to the sunroom to see if the laptop is finished booting up or whatever the fuck it does. It's still dark and it's before 7:00, and I'm no techie, so give me a break. (I'm also cranky in the morning). Goddamn The Man, going off to Pork Barrel University. Have to make my own coffee. I stumble around from room to room, muttering, waiting for enough coffee to brew so I can actually drink some.

At last sweet brown elixir of life. Slip me a slug from the wonderful mug and I'll cut a rug just snug in a jug. A sliced up onion and a raw one. Draw one. Waiter, waiter, percolator, I love coffee, I love t----

Hello. Who are you?

Last time I saw you, you were in the green knitting bag over th----

HEY! That's not right!

What happened to the----HEY!

[This is the treadmill, sometime exercise device and storage facility for YB's beagley trophies. GK doesn't keep trophies.]

What the hell did you do to my sock, you hoser?

[Here you can see Piggy and Squirrel, which belong to GK, and the orange thing, which belongs to YB]

I'VE BEEN KNITTING THAT GODDAMNED SOCK AS A SURPRISE FOR MY MOTHER, YOU MONKEY! YOU BETTER NOT HAVE MESSED IT UP OR SO HELP ME I'M RETURNING YOU TO THE RESCUE ORGANIZATION IF YOU'RE LUCKY!

Let's see here. Ziploc bag: shredded. Yarn: apparently intact.

Sock: Unmolested. He could have chewed the Nylabone, but no, he had to have the sock. Looks like he didn't eat any yarn this time. Sock is OK. Whew. Hoser.

I get out the camera so I can show The Man what a bad boy YB has been, when who should decide to grace us with his presence? I hear him coming, his little toenails of destruction clicking on the hardwood floor, the unmistakable gait of his waddle clearly identifying him as YB and not GK. He wanders by me, taking no notice of me or the crime scene. He waddles past and climbs into his favorite dog bed (which does not belong to him but to GK).

Not a shred of remorse.

That'll learn me from going out without him.

I do have a connection out here.

Here in Suburbia, the best part of the year has arrived. The weather never really gets better than it is in October. The humidity is low. There's a breeze. Any realistic chance of our trademark H-H-H weather is over. I can turn off the air conditioning and don't have to turn on the heat, as long as I put a good blanket on the bed. Plus, to my great pleasure, the wireless router works out here on the 1.8 billion dollar deck. At least for now it does. So for now, that means I'm outside with the boys.

YB has found himself a sunny spot, where he will sit and cook his beagle brain until he is just short of the point where he starts to convulse, at which point he goes and sits in the shade and pants for a while. GK goes where I go, so the weather is immaterial as far as his location is concerned. When it's nice, like today, he sits under my chair and smiles, lifting his beagle snout up to sniff the breeze from time to time.

I might have mentioned that I sold my future to buy some landscaping, including this here deck that I'm enjoying right now. This has led to a period of relative austerity Chez Nous. I actually eat the food in the fridge most of the time now instead of waiting for it to rot and then throwing it out. I only send out The Man for takeout when I'm really desperate. Also:






This must go. Before long, it will be too cool to enjoy G&T. The tonic water that I spent less than a dollar on four or five months ago must be consumed, because the bottle is open and it will go flat if I don't drink it and flat tonic water is evil, but I can't throw away .75 liters of tonic water that I spent less than a dollar on because that would be wasteful and we need all our money to pay the bill collectors. (Yes, I went to college. I took Econ 101 AND Econ 102. I know what a sunk cost is.) The Man and I have had G&T maybe three times this year but, by God, we WILL finish this bottle of tonic water before it goes flat even if it means a week of hangovers.

Moreover:

I have a cabinet full of skin care products. I have been obsessing over how many I have. It seems unfathomable to me that I could have acquired this many bottles, tubs, and tubes of stuff over the last six months when I have been on the Economy Plan for a whole two weeks now. How did this stuff get here? (I know. Sunk Costs.) I paid for every bit of it, except for one bottle of Estee Lauder Advanced Night Repair Protective Recovery Complex that my Mother in Law gave me. This is one of those anti-aging potions that you dispense from a medicine dropper.

Where was I?

Oh yes. So this is my collection of moisturizers, exfoliating lotions, scrubs, masques, night repair concoctions, toner (what the hell is that for?), cleansers, and "daily peel pads." Not counting the stuff I keep in the shower and one bottle in the medicine chest that I forgot to bring out for the group photo. Or the stuff in my desk drawer at work. My skin would probably be OK if I stopped picking at it. And anyway, it offends me that I am supposed to be all frugal now and I have all this crap sitting around. This accumulation of stuff represents a ridiculous expense that, cumulatively, might represent about one-half of one of my credit card payments. How can I possibly justify that? I really really really want to use it all up. NOW! So I can be frugal, see. Get it?

Ahem. I figure I have at least a year's worth of moisturizer without sunscreen. I rarely use that, since I am pale and Celtic of complexion and need the sunscreen. The no-sunscreen stuff is only for days when I don't leave the house. There are more of those than you might think, but not enough to get through three different bottles/tubs in the next week.

The Economy Plan. We are cutting back on discretionary expenses. No, no, we aren't getting rid of the maid, dogwalker, or digital cable. Silly reader. On Bunny Planet, the Economy Plan means obsessing about half-empty bottles of tonic water and umpteen expensive skin-care products for which the money is already gone.

Don't worry. I already have a therapist, and The Man says I'm not allowed to cut back on therapy, no matter how much we have to cut back.