Send them Back

I am exhausted and my back is killing me. I was tired yesterday, so I went to bed early, listening to the patter of rain on the skylight. MMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Peaceful.



And them, WHUMP! Delivered unto me by one The Man is a K-Hole dumped unceremoniously on the bed. I shift a little, I feel Kirby settle into me, and I drift off to sleep.



Slowly, gradually, I become aware that all is not right. Yarn Bandit is also on the bed. And then I realize: THUNDERSTORM. I usually sleep through these on account of the hearing impairment. The Boys, however, hate HATE HATE thunderstorms. It turns out that Kirby was awakened by the thunder and tried to hide from it by scrabbling around under the bed, which woke up The Man. We know from experience that Kirby is not going to settle down during a storm unless he can seek refuge in Dirtbunny’s protection, so on the bed he went, and he settled down.
Tiki, I think, is worse about storms. He does not settle down. He climbed up on the bed and slowly, inch by inch, wormed his way between Kirby and Bunny. He did not lie down and curl up. He did not relax. He could not get close enough. I put him under the covers (but not the face! He doesn’t like the face under the covers.) and I put my arms around him, but he would not settle down. He just sat there and shook and trembled and drooled a little (Yum! That’s what you want dribbling on you when you are trying to sleep.) and kept trying to get closer to me by climbing on me by poking his claws and his little forearms into my flesh (arms, boobs, whatever happened to be there). Um, ouch. Tiki has no respect for boobs. Testicles, either, reports The Man.
After about three hours of this, the worst of the thunder passed over us and Tiki went back to his dog bed and went to sleep. Kirby, however, proceeded to hog the bed. I woke up a half dozen times with my body contorted uncomfortably around his lump of a body. And now my back is killing me.

Doctor Kirby in his laBORatory

Come with me if you will to see Doctor Kirby.

Hi, Kirby! What are you doing under there? Conducting an experiment? What kind of experiment?

Oh, no! It looks like another unholy medical experiment on a helpless dog toy! What are you doing to Crocodile?

Oh, no! Not the eyes! Wha....

For Pete's sake, Tiki! Do you have to be the center of attention all the time? Go see The Man. Maybe he has some food for you.

Yes, food. Go on. Go. Where were we?


It's over. We've missed it.

Poor, blind Crocodile. Perhaps it's just as well. I don't have much stomach for gruesomeness or gore.

Both eyes, eh? How nice.

You don't have to look so proud of yourself.

Scientifically Proven

This is Spenser:





Spenser lives in New Jersey and is one of the stars of the Daily Digital, a feature of Beagles on the Web. He's a big boy, approximately 40 pounds of beagley goodness. By contrast, Kirby is about 28-29 pounds, and the Yarn Bandit is about 26 pounds.




This is Moses:

He's a friend of Spenser's. He's a really big boy. You can get an even better sense of how big he is here.

This next photo was lifted from the Daily Digital (I hope I'm not violating any copyright laws) and so were the others:

Please to note that the beagle takes up about the same amount of linear sofa space as the Mastiff.

Conclusion: It's not just me. Beagles are notorious bed hogs way out of proportion to their size.

Um, yeah. My friend Pam killed herself this week. I have nothing deep or eloquent to say about it. Nothing I can possibly say that will do her justice. She was an amazing person, probably the kindest and most generous soul I have ever known. Everyone loved her, but her head was so full of darkness and depression and hopelessness that she could not see how much she was loved. All of her friends are really shaken by this, and so am I. It isn't quite real yet.

It's very strange that this happened just when I was feeling about as depressed myself as I ever have. She must have felt completely alone and unloved, and she was so, so wrong. If she could be so blind to a truth that was completely obvious to everyone around her, then maybe there is the slightest possibility that I'm wrong too, and that there is more love and hope out there for me than I am capable of seeing right now.

I'm going to feed myself carefully this weekend with things I like: knitting, resting, reading, as much time outside as the pollen count will allow, some beagle time, some fresh sheets, some cold water, fruit, salad, things that smell good, baseball, some rain (I hope), and a lot of time thinking about other people instead of myself, especially dear, dear Pam and my other friends.

Bunny is Pissed Off

The other day, I watched Elmer Gantry on the DVR. It was an Oscar-winning classic movie, and I remembered enjoying the novel by Nobel-prize winner American author Sinclair Lewis. What a bust. I’m idealistic, but not naïve, and I certainly don’t expect movies to bear much resemblance to the books on which they are based. This, however, was a serious disappointment. I was outraged enough that I instructed The Man to take me to the library post-haste so I could check out the novel and re-read it to see if it was all in my head. The Man goes to the library several times a week, but I haven’t been in a long while. So long that my library card had expired. They issued me a new one. Here’s my card and The Man’s card for a little compare and contrast.

Please return to the top to take the poll.

And now let’s get a little personal.

In case it has escaped your notice, Dirtbunny has what are known these days as “issues.” Bunny has standing behind her a phalanx of helping professionals who work pretty hard to keep her sane, well, keep her acting sane most of the time. Lately, the one of them has insisted that I go to my shrink for some pharmacological adjustments. Me no wanna. Me would rather not ever take any meds ever again for anything (although I do faithfully take my meds every day like the sheep I am). Me told her to stuff it. She didna like me telling her to stuff it. She has continued to nag me about the meds. Then the second one got on the bandwagon. And also The Man.

SEE YOUR SHRINK.

SEE YOUR SHRINK.

SEE YOUR SHRINK.

OK already. Bite me and I’ll see the shrink. Just shut the fuck up and quit nagging me. And they all want to be able to talk about me behind my back. Fine, you have my permission. Have at it. What do I care?

So I get an appointment with the shrink, who can’t see me for three weeks, but who wants me to start taking more meds right away. Fuck. Fine, I’ll take more meds. And here’s an email giving you written consent to talk to everyone else about me behind my back. Sheesh.

So then I get a voicemail from the shrink. She’s gotten a voicemail from one of my helping professionals, and they are all “concerned” about me, so please come in for an appointment tomorrow. Okay, okay! Sheesh. What’s the big deal? Leave me alone.

And then I get an email. My written consent is inadequate for the bureaucracy. I have to execute a consent on one of their crappy little forms, and I have to go to such and such place to get a form, etc. etc. I AM NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS. I’m a lawyer, for cryin’ out loud, and I am well aware that the statutory purpose of the crappy waiver is to protect ME and if I have given you a knowing and informed written waiver IN MY OWN WORDS then that should be fucking good enough.

It never is, however. The theme of 2008 so far is that the system must be served, man. The system isn’t really there to serve the individuals in the system, the individuals are there to serve the system, man. And anyway, I’m not so sure that I have any problems that can’t be solved by staying in bed for the rest of my life with an endless supply of chocolate and Pellegrino. But this attitude is “concerning,” so off I go to the goddamn shrink, and off I go to an undisclosed location where I will attempt to execute a fucking proper consent form, and I have to call my therapist every day, and I get some extra therapy this week on top of that. I hope everyone is happy. This is really cutting into my knitting time.

I know, I know. I said I was gonna do it and I’m gonna do it. I’m a sheep, okay? Aren’t I allowed to be a cranky sheep?

And so now let’s get a little less personal. I believe I have ranted before about a certain someone’s bad habit of watering the rug and the resultant stinkiness. This weekend, we took the rug out on the deck and subjected it to a serious steam cleaning. We replaced the rug pad with a new, unstained one. And we put it all back and gave it the full herbal deodorizing treatment

complete with the Baby Gate of Injustice

It all looks a lot better, but it only smells about 50% better. Yarn Bandit has spent a fair amount of time standing on the rug and sniffing at his favorite places. This worries me.

So I’m ticked that we didn’t (can’t?) get it all out. And I’m ticked about this:

However, it is under the rug, and I’m going to pretend it isn’t there, since this floor can’t be refinished and I have no intention of replacing it.

I JUST FUCKING DUMPED COFFEE ON MY KEYBOARD!



Safety cup only from now on.



Is there any good news? Yes, there is. We did some essential shopping recently:




We’re good to go, G&T, wine, and margarita-wise for at least a few days.

Also good:

Kirby doesn’t much believe in dog toys. However, he fervently believes that dog toys should not have eyeballs.

Plus, there’s this:


Awwww.

More about the office

I've got my job on the brain and not much else to say. How about if you all pretend that I have just written a highly entertaining rant about work.

There. Wasn't that amusing? Better than reading an actual work rant.


This is a photo of the big bookcase in Bunny's office. Back in days of yore, when we still had a "backlog" and were ordering furniture, Bunny was carrying a caseload of 30-35 cases. Bunny needed a place to put all that stuff, so she selected a nice tall bookcase to put it in. Now the backlog is gone, and Bunny is carrying a whopping two cases today. Sometimes, it goes all the way up to four! So no need for the big bookcase. There's still some work down there at the bottom, but mostly it is filled with toys and supplies.


I have an apple and a banana. I have the travel mug from the morning commute. I have my dinosaur, Hose. He's good for holding rubber bands around his neck and he makes a good paperweight.

Up there on the top shelf, I have my Cat Lady and her assorted kitties in repose on a stack of subversive books (one of them is a dictionary of corporate bullshit that defines terms like "team work" and "thinking out of the box"). I have some plastic spiders up there and a contraband candle. I'm pretty sure that I am not supposed to have candles. Here's the thing. No one actually cares about my stupid candles as long as I employ common-sense safety techniques. Therefore, no one is telling me that I have to ixnay the candles. However, if I were to ask for permission, permission would have to be denied. This is all a chickenshit sort of don't ask don't tell. I like the candles. They smell good, and I need something that will mask the stench of my neighbor's cloud of White Linen. I used to wear White Linen myself, but this person soaks in it. I can smell it in my office with my door closed. Hell, some days it's so strong I can taste it. So the candles help with that. Also, I get a petty little boost from the whole forbidden aspect of it. What? I said it was petty.

What else? Oh, my nutritionist is always nagging me about not getting enough protein in my diet, so I have a Giant Can Of Protein Powder that I sometimes mix with soymilk to make a protein shake. Or I did. That can now lives at home and I use it in smoothies.

Finally, but most importantly, I have my coffee-making apparatus. I like coffee really really strong and I don't like going out to get it and the coffee club at work is not an option flavor-wise. So I have my own French Press, and I have a can of regular and a can of decaf, and I use hot water from the water club machine and make my own about three times a week. I get about a cup and a half of dark, sludgy stuff, with caffeine or without as my whim might be, and the only downside is The Man isn't there to clean up after me. I have to do my own dishes. That bites. But, since I'm the only one who uses it, it only has to be clean-ish, not clean. If I want it clean, I take it home and run it through the dishwasher, probably about once a week.

Yarn Bandit Shows His True Colors

Part of the 1.8 billion dollars in landscaping that we bought last year and hope to actually pay for someday is this:



A nice shed. So far we use it for storage. Well, we expect to continue to use it for storage. What I meant was, so far, we have used it for the open the door, shove it in, and close the door fast before everything falls out sort of storage. "We" have always intended to install pegboard so we can hang our garden tools and reclaim our garage for auto-related stuff. So, this weekend, the Old Folks came to visit to help "we" with the installation of the pegboard.

Although the forecast called for rain yesterday, it was actually warm, sunny, and breezy, a good day for this:


And so "we" went outside. Some of "we" did this:

And some of "we" did this:


And some of "we" did this:


Kirby tolerated the noise from the circular saw surprisingly well:

He was not so pleased with the neighbor kid's air rifle and all the little plastic pellets pinging off the windows. I didn't hear any of that, but the Old Woman did, and I collected about 11 pellets off the deck.

We had a nice visit with the Old Folks. As they were leaving this morning, The Boys freaked out a little. They saw all the "leaving" stuff, like luggage and whatnot, and started to worry. I thought we could all go outside together to say goodbye. Yarn Bandit thought that was a great idea. Defying Bunny, who stayed at the top of the hill and told him to stay put, YB followed the Old Man all the way down to the truck. When the Old Man opened it up to stow the gear, Yarn Bandit took advantage and hopped in and called shotgun.

Fickle little tramp. I had half a mind to just let him have his wish and go. It would serve him right. But the Old Folks only like to visit Yarn Bandit. They don't want to have to take care of him full time (which is sort of how they view their grandchildren). So the Old Man fished him out and The Man leashed him up and dragged him up the hill to the house.

After that, we all got back in bed with the paper and had some cuddle time. The Boys have been asleep ever since.

See him there snuggling with his toy? Doesn't he look like a dog who has everything he could ever want right where he is? Why does he want to run off with someone else?