shoesonwrong

Adventures In Housesitting

It's been six days since I posted because I spent six days at my parent's house, pet-sitting for them while they went capering off on another whirlwind vacation. Apparently taking care of dogs is nothing whatsoever like riding a bike because we've been without Cassie for around five months and I've lost the ability to remember to let the dogs outside at regular intervals.

My parent's older dog, Shelly, is seventeen (eighteen? We've lost count.) and completely deaf, mostly blind, and more than a little bit cranky. I felt like I was visiting a relative I barely like in the nursing home most of the time I was there; I mostly just left her alone except for when I had to scream at her to communicate. I felt bad just hollering into her face like she was the clown at a fast food joint, but anything less than a good bellow went completely unheard.

I used the time up there to get a lot of reading in and visit some old friends. Also, I went to see Burn After Reading. It was okay, but I had been prepared for something else. It would have been like seeing Fargo and expecting it to be a lighthearted comedy.

By the time I went home, I had used all the clean towels, Cassie got muddy and then slept on my parent's bed without me realizing it until I was heading out the door, and I had subsisted on mostly reheated pizza and candy corn for nearly a week. So, if you're looking for someone to mess up your home and forget to take care of your pets, I am available for hire.

The Cat's Tail Looks Long Enough To Strangle Him With

When Cassie was a puppy, she was prone to running all over the neighborhood, just eluding my grasp, thinking it was a fun game. One day, she got away in the pouring rain when I was barefoot and she wasn't wearing a collar. After a lively chase around a few blocks while I cursed at her, she stopped half a block from the house, squatted, and took the biggest dump ever. Right in front of a lawyer's office. While the lawyer looked out the window. That same lawyer looked out the window as I, soaking wet and barefoot, carried a mid-sized puppy across the street and back into the apartment. He also watched while I trudged over, soaking wet and barefoot still (shoes? I don't need shoes, y'all. I'm BRITNEY SPEARS.), and picked up dog poop from his lawn in the pouring rain.

So yeah, we've had some really special moments. I've been happy that lately our pet missteps have been in the privacy of our own home. (I don't count the Momo Backlash of Ought-Eight because I DID NOTHING WRONG. I MAY DRAG HIM AROUND AGAINST HIS WILL IN A HARNESS 9 HOURS A DAY UNTIL HE'S DEHYDRATED AND HAS A BALD SPOT, BUT I DID NOTHING WRONG.) Sure, the cat has tried to kamikaze out the window and the other day, the dog wandered into the closet, stepped into a pair of my underwear that had fallen out of the hamper, then got all her feet tangled up in them as she tried to escape/wander around the apartment so that she hogtied herself with my underpants, but these things happened in the privacy of our own home.

I think you sense where this is building to, right?

I opened the apartment door for a second -- a SECOND -- and the cat was off like a shot down the stairs. Fortunately, he's unable to push hard enough on the door at the bottom to escape. Unfortunately the same is not true of the dog, who pushed past me in a cat-chasing frenzy. At this point, I had just woken up and was only wearing a tee shirt that didn't really cover my various, uh, widgets.

The long and short of the story is this: I ended up throwing on whatever clothes I could find (which did not include a bra, sadly) and chasing a ginger dog and marmalade cat around the outside of the house, hissing death threats at them, and fervently hoping all my neighbors were either asleep or still drunk.

It's moments like these that I'm almost happy we have decided to give Cassie to my parents when we move to Detroit. Almost.

At least if I'm running around Detroit half-clothed with a crazed look, it probably just means the job didn't pan out and we've taken to the hobo lifestyle.

I hate my pets

Every stupid morning the stupid dog is let out by Ryan while he's showering and stuff. She's outside for about 30 minutes before he lets her back in and then goes to work. Only after she has been put back in the house (THIS HAPPENS ALMOST EVERY DAY, PEOPLE) does she realize suddenly, "Oh, yeah, I forgot to POOP."

So she whines outside the door to the bedroom where I am still sleeping. If whining doesn't wake me, then she tries yelping. If I manage to remain comatose through THAT she then BEATS ON THE DOOR. Not, like, scratches at it or anything. There's no claw involved. This is straight up, pad to door, repeated slamming.

I finally wake up and let her out while calling her every variation of the term "turd", she runs outside and poops, and then I go back to sleep. Unless I have a class. Like today.

Seriously. What is wrong with her? She is smart enough to know basic commands, recognize names, and know approximately what time to start looking out the window to wait for Ryan to come home. Yet she can't remember to TAKE A DUMP? There is something wrong with her. It's not mental retardation, but it's not not mental retardation, you know?**

Plus, she's got the cat doing it now. He whines outside the door and paws at it like a needy little tool in the mornings until I pick him up, where he proceeds to sit on my head like a hat and lick my hair. Again, not not mental retardation.

*Not really. Except sometimes really.

Charming

The dog's breath has gotten incredibly bad despite my best attempts to make it less vile, including milkbones, other treats that claim to scrape off whatever horrendous evil spirits are living in her mouth, and even brushing her teeth. Given her bad breath and constant farting, it's becoming difficult to tell what end is pointing at me anymore.

Please Let This Phase Pass Quickly

Why are our pets so clingy to me? Remember when Cassie went through that 6 month phase where she would bark and whine whenever I left the room? I remember it vividly as the time I kept that plastic bag, cinder block, and map to the river in my pocket to make me feel better.

Now, Momo has developed a similar problem. He follows me all over the apartment, and even when he's nowhere to be found, I only need to turn my back for a second and then turn back around to find him sitting there, staring at me in wide-eyed wonder. He tries to crawl into my socks as I put them on, nibbles my toes while I pee, and pitches a hissy fit when he's separated from me at night. Let me assure you, Miniature Satan is damn tenacious, too. He will keep up his yowling for a good half hour to an hour each night. One night, I had to pee in the middle of his scream himself to sleep routine, and he instantly stopped bellyaching when I entered the bathroom (which is where he stays at night, with his toys, food, water, and litter box) and started purring at a level that should have liquefied his brain. His favorite thing to do is drape himself around my shoulders like some weird cat scarf and give my ears love bites.

I like the cat and all, don't get me wrong. But I prefer that he stay on the floor. And be a dog. All the problems we had with Cassie, I never had to wear her as a hat to keep her placated.

My Dog is the Dennis the Menace of Dogs

This past weekend, we headed north, to my parent's house.

We were there for less than 12 hours and Dog had already eaten a mouse, causing me to spend a good deal of the weekend ordering her not to wipe her mousy lips on me.

The real point of going up north was to house-sit for my parents, which essentially means making sure their dog doesn't die while I watch TV and eat their food. At one point, their dog tried to make a break for it because my dog was tormenting her so much. My parent's dog is old, feeble, and has never really cared for puppies. Cassie, of course, is drawn to her like a moth to a flame and likes to chew on her fur.

I Hate Wal-Mart

4th of July Weekend was less than stellar. Then when we got home, my neighbor hit Dog with her car. Dog was in our yard on her lead, so it was essentially like shooting fish in a barrel. Except more like hitting a captive dog with a car.

So I haven't blogged for two main reasons: 1) It would probably be boring to read an entire post where every other sentence is "I WILL HIT HER WITH MY CAR. I WILL." 2) A post like that will probably be incriminating to me WHEN I HIT HER WITH MY CAR.

Dog is okay now. Neighbor was (I think) drunk, causing her to be even less polite than usual and just sped off afterwards. We called the cops, but there wasn't a whole lot they could do.

Also, today some enormously unpleasant woman in Wal-Mart was trying to check out with 80 zillion things in the self-checkout, and I probably looked mildly impatient (It's genetic. My dad can't watch the same TV channel for more than 12 seconds.). I, in my favor, did not say anything or do one of those annoyed sighs. Even when she decided to pay by check, but oh, she couldn't find her checkbook, and no, she wasn't sure if she wanted to pay with a card and hmmm didn't she have a coupon for 30 cents off around here somewhere? I may have done my pee-dance a little bit because, well, I had to pee. But on the whole, I was a model citizen. Who was about to have an aneurysm. Imagine my surprise when this woman turns around after writing the check and says loudly into my face "Do you have a problem? Maybe you should keep your rude comments to yourself," As though I was the clown whose mouth you order into at Jack-In-The-Box.

Of course, everyone turned around and stared at me. My first instinct was to crawl under the magazine rack and peek out from behind the latest issue of People Magazine, but I decided to go with my fail-safe backup plan: Turn red and do nothing.

Two days ago, I read the first 15 pages of Anna Karenina and have since started reading some sci-fi book instead. However, the official party line is that I'm reading classic literature like Anna Karenina over the summer. Okay?

My Summer Vacation, Part Deux: Cassie's Revenge

Of course, I tempted fate in my last entry. Mere moments after writing it, there was a clap of thunder and the earth swallowed us whole. I'm actually blogging from deep inside the earth's core. Elvis is down here. And the good looking version of Britney Spears.

In reality, Ryan developed an ear infection, and the dog has chosen to communicate her physical condition using not one but two of her orifices.

In the past three days, I have tended to an ill-tempered man, spoon fed rice and beef broth to a Shar Pei, and heard Ryan use the phrase, "The dog needs to go out before she machine guns rice across the apartment."

Until this week, I didn't think machine gun could be used as a verb.

It'll Be the Death of Her

I was worried that Dog's giant head would act like a mammoth lead weight and pull her directly to the bottom of the river when I was trying to get her to go swimming. I was only partially right; she did start to sink, but only because she was so busy trying to whine whilst she swam that she forgot to paddle.

I'm starting to think I should actually create a category entitled "Dog Poop", considering how much it gets mentioned here.

It's been raining for almost 5 days straight here. Dog, perpetually blustery grump that she is, refuses to go poop in the rain, on wet grass, near puddles, or if someone within a 5 mile radius is running a faucet. 5 unbearably long days of rain has created a problem because, despite her refusal to do her business, she has not cut down on her massive food intake in the slightest -- resulting in a cranky, pudgy, farty dog who glares out the window a lot.

Last night, we made a late night run to Meijer for fudgesicles and matzo (dinner of champions), and Dog rode along. In the 5 minutes it took to dash into the supermarket and come back out, Dog had pooped in the back seat. What pushes this incident from just plain nasty to downright bizarre is the fact that she managed to drag a balled up empty plastic bag out into the open, pushed it around until it opened up, and then pooped into it. Then, she apparently nosed closed.

When Ryan and I discovered this, we were quite upset. Ryan was for the obvious reason -- Dog had pooped in the car, and someone (read: Not Me Because I Get All Gaggy) would have to clean it up. I, on the other hand, was upset because why on earth had she not been bagging it up since we got her??

I am currently a little freaked out, as I am throughly convinced that if she's mastered the ability to clean up after herself, then wielding a butcher knife and coming after me in my sleep cannot be too far behind. Kate keeps assuring me that without opposable thumbs this is impossible, but I'm doubtful.

Reason Number One Why I Shouldn't Even Have a Ficus Plant, Let Alone a Dog.

We ran out of dog food yesterday, and still haven't bought any. Oh, we've had the best of intentions of going to the store, but between classes and work and having what I know in my heart of hearts is the plague, somehow it keeps slipping our minds. So, we have simultaneously been trying to keep the dog alive and ease our guilt over being horrible people by feeding her people food. At first, it was just some bread -- here, Dog, bread is a bland food that can't hurt you! Pretty soon, we were spreading peanut butter on it -- we're sorry we haven't fed you dog food in 18 hours, so here, have some sweet sticky paste on your bland bread! Finally, it degraded into me opening a can of green beans and heating them up for her -- let me make you a tiny peanut butter sandwich while you wait for your beans!

She has taken to this whole system far too well, and I fear that if I don't go out and buy dog food right now, there will be no point in ever doing it again because she will turn up her nose at it and demand that I cut her sandwich in triangles -- not squares, TRIANGLES.

Awkward Moment

An easy way to entertain Dog while doing homework or anything else that requires sitting down is to hold out one of your legs and let her jump back and forth over it like it's some sort of hurdle and she's practicing for the olympics. It can keep her entertained for hours on end, and generally keeps her from whining incessantly because, oh, it's not sunny enough out, or it's too sunny, or she's bored, or she doesn't know how to spell the word cabbage.

Today, something else happened. Dog got hung up, mid jump, and accidentally straddled my leg. Usually, a twitch of the leg will send her safely back to earth and she will once again resume her ceaseless jumping. HOWEVER, today she hung on for dear life and began twitching. And by twitching, I mean thrusting.

My female puppy was humping my leg.

I sternly told her no, and set her on the floor. She looked up at me, got a panicked look, and ran to sit in the corner with her back to me. She's been periodically checking to see whether or not I'm looking at her, and every time she sees that I am, she gets a little farther away. Last I knew, she was sitting in the corner of our closet, beside her crate and behind several stacks of books that she had to scale in order to get there, staring at the corner.

Ryan just called Disco Stu, "Disco Shoe."

Sadly, there was no pony under the tree this year, thus crushing my hopes of building a Shetland Pony empire and taking over the world.

However, the holiday wasn't ruined by the lack of pony-ness. We spent Christmas at my parents house; I slept till 1 in the afternoon, and we didn't open presents until almost 9 o'clock at night. The holiday spirit was OVERWHELMING. Over all, it was low key and enjoyable.

Currently, I have some sort of stomach virus, and I slept most of the evening which means that I'm wide awake and watching The Simpsons when I should be asleep. Dog is glaring at me because she obviously feels we should be asleep or fanning her with palm leaves or something. Or maybe she's still just carrying around bitterness from a weekend of Christmas humiliation.

It's kind of what Pollyanna would look like if she were a cross eyed Shar Pei.

I Love Rachel so Much I Don't Even Mind the Fact I Had to Put On Real Clothes Today

Today, my usual, hectic, stressful routine of doing nothing in particular while sitting around in my pajamas was interrupted by a visit from my one of my favorite people, Rachel. Rachel and I met long ago, in the days of yesteryear, when I was but an innocent 16 year old attendee of summer camp at Michigan Tech. After camp, we stayed in touch for a few years on and off, and eventually bumped into each other again at Michigan Tech as college students. Rachel is one of the funniest people I know, and there's just something about her that elevates my personality from zany to flat out coked out of my mind.

That combined with our willingness to touch each others butts in public (okay, my willingness to touch her butt against her will in public) makes for an interesting, if some what violating day. We saw The Goblet of Fire, which we whispered snarky comments all the way through, and the whole movie experience built to a stunning finale in which I accidentally poked her in the eye.

(On a side note, the theater was not very full, and we weren't loud enough to bother other people. I'm just telling you that so that when I get all self-righteous about people talking in the theater, the internet doesn't rip me a new one and throw old shoes at me while screaming "HYPOCRITE! HYPOCRITE!" Because I have delicate little feelings, and even though I can dish it out, I certainly cannot take it.)

When it was time for her to go, Dog and I were both very sad. Her boyfriend ripped Rachel's petite (itty bitty) body out of my tightly clenched hands, they left, and I went over and began sadly licking the window. Dog whined and threw her body at the door. I suspect it was simply because SOMEONE WAS NOT AWARE THAT DOG IS THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE AND NO ONE CAN GO ANYWHERE WITHOUT HER rather than Dog actually missing Rachel. I suspect this because Dog, unsocial blustery turd that she is, really did not like Rachel or Brian (el boyfriendo) and spent most of their visit alternately growling at them and hiding behind me.

I Can Tell What Day of the Week It Is By How Drunk the Neighbors Are.

This town totally disorients me every single day. In the past 3 days, 3 phone books have arrived. It seems like there's always some parade marching by our house, the most recent one being today. (Being grinches with tiny shriveled hearts, we didn't watch or join in on the festivities, but Dog sat on the porch, quite engrossed, and seemed to enjoy herself.) Plus, due to a disproportionate amount of Subways, it feels like I'm constantly going past one. Besides giving me a perpetual desire to eat an entire loaf of parmesan oregano bread, I'm starting to feel like Wile E. Coyote -- I just keep going past the same scenery over and over. I don't know where Dog learned to close her own crate door from the inside, but I'm beginning to resent her slightly every time she runs in and slams the door shut.

And Then One Day You Find Yourself Blogging About Dog Poop and Using the Term, "Grease Smackdown."

Number of times I yawned during the last two hours of class: 63

Tried to stifle yawns and make them seem less obvious by: Gritting my teeth and clenching my jaw

I hoped I would look: Casual

Instead I looked: Like I was stuck in a wind tunnel and trying to give myself a face lift with a car battery AT THE SAME TIME.

The cause of my facial contortions was due to my lack of sleep and THE DAY THAT WILL NOT END. Last night, I couldn't sleep. I tried reading my textbooks, doing deep breathing, relaxing all my muscles, and even resorted to counting sheep. None of it worked, and I just tossed and turned until well after 3:30 in the morning, while Barenaked Ladies "Who Needs Sleep" played on repeat in my head.

7:45 rolled around, and I peeled my eyelids open. They immediately slammed back shut. I eventually had to resort to using toothpicks to prop them up, ala [INSERT CARTOON HERE].

After hauling myself to a completely pointless class, Ryan and I came home to a smell. A very distinctive smell. A smell that I blame on my husband. My husband. My brilliant, programmer, computer genius, math prodigy, well read husband fed Dog bacon grease. Lots of bacon grease. Once in awhile, he gives her a teaspoon or two on top of her food, and that's fine. Zoning out and accidentally pouring ALL the bacon grease on her food is NOT okay. Which is exactly what he did yesterday. Imagine little brown bits floating up and down in a big bowl of grease. Now imagine my dog eating it.

Needless to say, she was not happy today. She alternated between sleeping for hours at a time (which, come to think of it, is not all that different from her normal routine) and sitting sadly on my lap and farting. When she wasn't doing that, she was out in the yard doing things that even I won't blog about (THE HORROR. THE HORROR.), eating cooked noodles out of my hand, and throwing up on the door while freaking out and flinging herself at it and trying to get inside. One day, those kids next door who obsessively watch Dog from their window are going to need therapy, and they will trace it straight back to this day.

So, to recap: slept approximately 13 minutes; there's a lot of grease doing a smackdown on Dog's intestines; had to watch over Dog during smackdown so she didn't desecrate our apartment/car/the world at large; missed a class while watching Dog during aforementioned grease smackdown; am so tired my eyeballs are about to suck back into my head and be lost forever.

Technorati Tags: Bacon, Puppy

I Offer to You, Internet, Her Last Morsel of Dignity

I never wanted to be one of those kind of people. Really.

But then the shivering started. The pathetic, "I have no undercoat of fur and am freezing here, you horrible Mama" shivering. I caved. I totally caved. I tried to find one in a sensible bright orange so that she'd be safe during hunting season. I really, really did. They were all out of orange, and then it came down to a choice between an ugly sweater and this. And the sweater was really really ugly.

Yes, Internet, I bought my dog a teeny pink dog parka with faux fur trim on the hood. She's lost all her street cred, and her homies won't respect her no mo'. BUT OH MY GOSH, SHE IS CUTE.

I do not like dog clothing. It's pretentious and come on, they're not people. They're dogs. But the shivering! I felt really really bad when she shivered and looked at me with that demanding look as if to say, "Okay, giant. Turn the heat back up. Find that little knob like the one that sticks out of the wall inside, and TURN IT UP. Or at least turn on the oven and let me stick my butt up beside it like you do when you're cold."

Plus, when she's cold, it takes her FOREVER to pee. And frankly, I have better things to do than wait for a dog to urinate. Things like dressing her up in dog parkas and watching her reaction, which, disappointingly, was not as freaked out as I would have liked. I fear she just thinks to herself, "About time you started treating me like the person I am." And soon she'll be demanding that I stop by McDonalds and buy her a that milkshake she's been jonesing for all day.

Maybe She Can Pee On Him, You Know, As A Grand Finale.

Our new landlord is here today, checking out the house that we rent part of. The reason we have a new landlord is because our old ones are moving to China. They were so cool. She was young and hip and he was... well, actually not really that cool. He was kind of pasty white and geeky, but he was super nice.

New Landlord isn't super anything except maybe anal. WhenI talk to him, I feel like I'm being interrogated. Also, he talks in a really fast, clipped voice that sounds as if he might have something stuck in one of his body cavaties. He's not very friendly, and he hates dogs. But the rent is dirt cheap, all the utilities are paid, and there's free wireless internet. So unless he starts kicking our dog around the yard, I'm not going to let it bother me that he's not exactly a "people person." Actually, based on the way Dog is acting today, I might not even speak up then.

Sensing that I wanted New Landlord to not hate us, Dog has gone into full brat mode. She's whining and pacing and trying to scratch at the door. She barks at the landlord, and when I take her outside to poop, she won't because OH THE CEADER BUSHES SMELL SO GOOD. SNIFF SNIFF. Instead she paces around, obsessively sniffing ceader bushes, barking at the landlord, and doing the holding-in-her-poop walk. Basically, she's letting her freak hang way, way out. And it's not impressing New Landlord in the least.

IT IS TEN THIRTY THREE AND THE iBOOK IS SCHEDULED TO ARRIVE BETWEEN TEN THIRTY AND TWO THIRTY. CLEARLY, TEN THIRTY HAS ALREADY PASSED. WHERE IS THE iBOOK?

I sense it is going to be a long day.

Technorati Tags: Apartment, iBook, Landlord

Laundry Day is Exactly Like Christmas, Except You Have to Sort Underwear and You Don't Get Presents. I Guess It's Not Like Christmas at All, Really.

For you droves of internetters who have arrived here via the search term "how to steal an ipod from meijer," let me just tell you I have no idea. My only experience with theft has been watching Oceans 11 and Gone in 60 Seconds. One time I think I saw a guy steal a little girl's bike outside of the library; he just walked up to it, sat his 6'1" frame onto the little pink bike, and rode away, handlebar streamers fluttering softly in the wind.

May I just suggest that you not steal an iPod, from Meijer or anywhere else. Because a) it's wrong and b) I hate the thought someone else is getting something for free that I actually paid money for. It's bad enough that the iPod video with 50% more storage capacity came out mere weeks after we got ours. Knowing that somewhere out there, you've got a better iPod than mine and you didn't even PAY for it makes me grumpy.

Also, you future iPod thieves have all been searching via MSN. MSN? What is WRONG with you?

Tonight, at about 9 o'clock we realized that we had no underwear to wear to school tomorrow. Not relishing the thought of going commando, we schlepped all of our dirty laundry down to the laundromat, and used the approximately 3 working machines out of the 75 in the laundromat. (Why? Why are they always broken? Wouldn't you make more money if they were, I don't know, working?) Instead of saying how much I hatehatehate the laundromat, I'll just show you pictures of the one member of the family who actually loves laundry day. Rather, she loves rolling around in the dirty laundry and then falling asleep in it. Which is sort of the same thing.

It's evident she loves the stinking clothing more than us because I only managed to lure her away from the pile by offering my finger for her to suck on and occasionally bite on and then pretend it's an accident and keep sucking on.

Crazy Book Girl's Dog Wants to With You Merry Chrithmath.

A few minutes ago I nearly killed Dog over a 1984 copy of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I had it in my hand and was wildly gesturing with it in my spasmodic way while I was talking. Dog seemed to think all of my jabbing at the air was a signal. A signal for her to GRAB. ONTO. MY. COPY. OF CATONAHOTTINROOF. There are not enough words to explain how very wrong that is.

There's this old children's book called The Library. It's about a girl named Elizabeth Brown and how she read all day long, through meals and school and under the covers at night. When she loaned out books to her friends, she became so nervous about her precious books that she did midnight raids to collect them safely back into her possession. She read in the bathtub, while roller skating, and while doing her shopping. Eventually, she got to a ripe old age and had amassed so many books that her house was filled to the brim. She gave all her books away to start a local library and moved in with a friend. They sat around all day and read. Presumably until they dropped dead.

That book was given to me as a child by my Aunt Jeanne who read the book and thought it sounded exactly like me -- bathtub and all. At the age of 10, when I got the book, I immediately decided that yes, I would be like Elizabeth Brown. I would collect books, I would never ever get married, I would read all day and all night, and I would collect so many books that they filled my old, creaky, Victorian house. Also, there would probably be lots of cats.

Poor Dog had no idea what she was doing when she latched onto the book belonging to a girl who, at ten years old, dreamt of being a spinster with the worlds largest collection of books. After the reaction she received from me, she may never go near another book again. Which is totally what I was going for.

I noticed today that she has lost her two front teeth. I can't decide if it makes her look more like a first grader who eats paste or a hillbilly whose trailer was blown away in the tornady.

All Roads Lead to Dog Poop

First of all, I wanted to say thanks to everybody who left me comments (both on the typepad and the livejournal) and sent emails. I appreciate it more than I can say.

Beth was here Saturday through Monday. We watched episode after episode of Freaks & Geeks and, well, I have no idea what else. The weekend was a blur of laziness. And it was good. (I tried to tie her up and keep her in the closet, but Ryan said I had to let her go home.) Wait, I DO recall going to a movie and making fun of the dog. The latter happened a lot. Mainly because Dog is, let me think about how to put this nicely, an idiot.

Speaking of The Wrinklebag, she is not so happy with the being home thing. My parents house was fun, then we took a road trip, then Beth was here, and yesterday... she ate a leaf. That was pretty much the highlight. She's been expressing her distaste for us, the apartment, and life in general by holding in her poop. She just WILL NOT GO. Essentially, she holds it in until she simply cannot anymore, which is usually about 10 minutes after both Ryan and I have passed out from the smell of the poop-being-held-in-too-long farts that she charmingly emits every few minutes.

Why do so many of my posts degenerate into dog poop?

WonkyWonkyWonkyWonky

My hair's wonky-ness level is off the charts today. It's shooting all over, and I suspect it's trying to actually eat my head and take over my body. (A day before midterms? Be my guest, hair.) So I've managed to sort of wrangle it into a stubby, pathetic, little ponytail that Leta Armstrong would make fun of if she could see.

And that pretty much chronicles all the work I've accomplished today. Well, that and buying the neighbor a pound of flour when I was at Meijer buying fruit cups and pudding.

If someone made a reality TV show about my life, even I wouldn't watch it.

Oh! The neighbor, the one who was lacking in flour, has a brandy new puppy. Her name is Sheba, and she is THE CUTEST PUPPY IN THE WORLD. Well, besides Cassie. Oh my gosh. Don't tell Cassie I said that first thing, or she'll kill me in my sleep. Really.

Between her sharp little claws and her enormously fat face that she could use to smother me with, I don't stand a chance.

She's Probably in There, Listening to Imogen Heap on Her iPod Nano and Resenting Me

The dumpster blew all its money on pop rocks and a city bus pass, came home hungover, and is sleeping it off in the yard. I have no idea where it was for two days, but I am okay with that. Also, the dog is home for today.

And she is MAD.

At first she was happy. She was running towards me, tail wagging so hard it practically flipped her over. When she actually came inside, though, she started to kind of glare at me. Pretty soon she sat in the corner with her back to me, and now she's been sleeping in her crate (also with her back towards me) for the past 2 hours.

She's going to hate me so hard when she realizes that my parents are taking her back with them this afternoon.

Ryan and I were talking about how we feel like parents in prison, and our parents have custody of our kid and we get to see her once in awhile. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry it's like this too. We miss you so much. We'll be out soon, though, and you can come home and live with us then. We'll be a family again. I promise. Mom finished one prison term exam this week, and Mom and Dad only have three more sentences exams each to finish next week. Then we can all be together. Don't look at me like that. We love you very much."

Only instead of being in prison for holding up a convenience store, we're in prison college so that we can get good jobs and not have to hold up a convenience store. Although I'm sure that the dog would be fine with that as long as we keep her in dentabones and tennis balls.

Annie Who?

We unloaded the dog a few days ago at my parent's house. There's a big exam period coming up, and we just didn't have enough free time for the dog. We're going to be so busy studying that we just won't have time to lock her in a box and beat her with sticks like we usually do. So we decided to just drive by my parents house and chuck her out the window. She bounced off a small-ish boulder, but I think she'll be fine.

I've talked to my mom everyday since we dropped the wrinklebag off. Cassie doesn't miss us. At all. She apparently spends her time taking walks and trying to make sure that my parent's dog doesn't get more attention than her. Basically she's all, "Annie who?"

You know, Annie. The one who wipes your spit slime off your fat face? The one who clips your toenails and plays tug of war 70 percent of the day? I PICK UP YOUR POOP, DOG.

"Annie who?"

Yeah, that's what I thought.

I have to admit, I am getting a lot more studying done than I would if I had to yell "NO" every five seconds while my toe was being gnawed on. PLUS, I've formulated a plan for passing linear algebra. It involves a giant vat of cole slaw, a quilt, and a ping pong ball. I can't divulge anymore information than that. Mainly because I have no idea what my plan is yet.

Listen Lady, My Dog Don't Poop That Big.

The old lady who lives a few houses down came to the edge of her fence and started heckling me about my dog today. "YOU HAD BETTER PICK UP ITS POOP." And I said, "My dog hasn't pooped anywhere near here." Then she lowered her voice slightly and gave me the evil eye, "No, but it will. And you're not even holding a bag." I tried to politely point out that my dog had done her business in our yard and it has been picked up already, I was only walking the dog around the block, and the dog physically could not go again in the immediate future -- We don't feed her by the bucketful or anything.

The old lady seemed hellbent on hating my dog, and she WOULD NOT LET LOGIC STAND IN HER WAY, DARN IT. So she huffed, "Well, you are not holding a bag. By law, you are required to hold a bag. And the dog has to be on a leash."

At this point I was starting to wonder if she was talking to someone I couldn't see. I just stared at the leash that was attatched to my hand on one end and the dog on the other, and began envisioning her jumping her picket fence and body slamming me with her 80 year old body becuase I wasn't holding a plastic poop bag in plain view. About the time I snapped out of that vision and started to gesture to the leash in an attempt to appease her, she let out a sort of sharp, barking laugh and said kind of snidely, "Well, I don't want to argue with you about it. I just don't want to see anymore of your dog's poop around here. Other people don't like to look at it."

I nodded and tried to smile, turned on my heel and started marching the dog the other way, because I didn't think talking anymore would help. There wasn't going to be anyway to convince the woman that my dog actually was on an leash and did not poop in her yard.

Believe me, I've seen dog poop in her yard... and if my dog pooped something that size right now, I'd probably take her to the vet to see what was wrong with her.

I just re-read this post and realized that yes, it is in fact all about dog, poop, and my dog's poop. I'm sorry. I would just refrain from posting it but hey, this took like 7 minutes out of my life. I'M GOING TO GET SOMETHING TO SHOW FOR THAT 7 MINUTES, PEOPLE.

The Day I Became a Rainmaker

The dog, apparently, thinks I am single-handedly responsible for the rain. When I, the cruel owner that I am, take her outside to pee -- so she doesn't hold it and get all squishy like a hairy water balloon -- while it's raining she stares up at the sky for a second, shakes vigorously, and then GLARES at me with hatred. As if I am the most horrible person on earth.

At that point I usually just tell her that if I was powerful enough to control the rain, would I have to beg her every night to STOP BARKING PLEASE STOP BARKING? But evidently my argument is not convincing enough, because she glares at me the entire time she does her business and all during her dash back to the house to escape the horrible rain I hath called down from the sky.

Yeah. Her life is just so awful, and I am so mean. What with all those toys and getting to sleep all day long, not to mention her ever widening bottom that's probably a result of the yogurt that she gets on her breakfast every morning.

I just realized that we have almost no photographs of the dog outside. This is because when she's outside, it's like trying to photograph the wind. You can photograph it's effects, but not the wind itself. So unless you want to see pictures of poop, a little dust cloud, and ripped up foliage, then outdoor photography just won't be an option until she's stopped running around like she's on crack.

Here's to Hoping I'm Not Dumber Than My Dog.

The dog, she is getting smarter. Today, she finally started to realize that there are places! Where! She! Can! Go! And not just look at from a distance. Like the backseat of the car, which today she gazed at with wonder and amazement, then dove into and started rooting around like some little wrinkly pig looking for truffles. It was like Subway wrapper safari for her, I guess. And she's learned how to (try) and outwit me, by walking behind furniture in an attempt to hide herself whilst trying to get into stuff. And I swear, she tip toes across the linoleum when she thinks I'm not watching.

Let's hope this levels off soon. I am not going to be pleased about being outwitted by my dog. And if she learns to play euchre before me, I am going to be very, very unhappy.

I don't know, though, every time I start to think she's getting smarter than a pancake, I find her chewing on a rock. So maybe I'm wrong.

The Reason I Have to Wake Up Early Every Morning

I have officially survived the first week of classes. And this weekend, we are going to my parent's house. Where there will be much dessertage, swimming, and not taking care of the dog. My mom's all, "BRING ME THE PUPPY," And I am more than willing to comply. She is a lot of work. Even more so now that she's out of the, "Fuzzy teddy bear, curl up in Annie's lap and sleep, hold me hold me!" phase. Now she's in more of a, "Don't touch me because it slows me down and I need to race around the house and smell everything while not listening to you" sort of phase.

But dang, she's cute cute cute. (Click thumbnails to view entire picture.)

     
   

Maybe we won't give her away to feed the poor after all.

(*EDIT* One more picture was added. The last one in the second row. Seriously. I'm not even a dog person, and I feel like the cuteness might make me explode.)

Synaptic Misfires

The dog started watching television today. She watched it for almost half an hour. I just might refrain from sticking her in the front lawn with a sign that says, "Farting wrinkle bag, free to a good home. Very stubborn."

I used to call picnic tables "knick-knack paddywack tables" as a little girl.

Today, I heard a girl in the grocery store on her cell phone going, "You want me to buy two pounds of beef? I don't see any two pound packages. What should I do? What? Buy two one-pound packages of ground beef? Why? You said you wanted a two pound package." In a voice so loud and so annoying that it could be heard in space. And it annoyed the people on the space station.

Dear Frat Boys Next Door: when you're so drunk the only thing you can say is, "Woooooo!" repeatedly, it's probably time to call it a night. Please don't kill any more brain cells. You'll need them in the future -- I hate it when the guy taking my order can't remember to ask me if I want fries with that.

Not Every Post Will be Dog-Oriented. I promise.

I had the weirdest series of a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream during my "holy crap the dog's asleep" nap. Yes, 4 dreams; one of them real. In the first dream, I was in a nice farmhouse. In the next dream, I was living under the overhang of a Dairy Queen. In the last dream, I was living in a VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER. And Ryan offered me government cheese. I kid you not. I was a little afraid to wake up again because, well, what if it got worse?

We just got back from my parent's house. We were there for two days to show off the new dog and try and collect my sanity. While I'm pretty sure that's been gone for good for about a decade, I at least got some sleep and we have Cassie understanding that she has to just buck up and deal with her crate or I will eventually become a raving lunatic with big knotted hair who talks into her shoe like it's a phone.

I'm not entirely sure she understand the complexity of the issue, but she seems to get that she needs to go in that crate. Because my mother is like a short little female version of Dr. Doolittle. I don't question it, I just roll with it. I am getting more sleep, able to shower without the dog going nuts, and the dog is entertaining herself. My mom could be using voodoo and a blood sacrifice to make the dog behave, and I'm so relieved, I might still be okay with that.

Now that we're home, Cassie seems decidedly disappointed that we're not at my parent's house. No short little woman chasing her around and making funny noises, no big man calling her, "Mini DinkerDoo" and petting her all the time. No big yard to play in, no big dog to play with. She looks at me like, "I hate you. You are so mean. I will never forgive you. Oh. What's that over there?" Yeah, dog, well, deal with it. If I can't live at my parents house, with a heated pool and freshly baked dessert every night, then you certainly cannot.

Punch Drunk with a Loaded Squirt Gun

I keep losing my dog. Seriously. In a 14 by 18 foot room. I turn around, and she's just GONE. Then I find her hiding under my chair, or behind the sofa, or you know, in a TEACUP. My word, she's small.

My respect for all you mommy-bloggers out there has just increased by about 10 MILLION PERCENT. I'm serious. I am EXHAUSTED, and all I have is this 5 pound hairball with a tail. I went to bed 3 times between the hours of 3 a.m. and 1 p.m., and still only got 5 hours of sleep. (And even then, I dreamed that I was awake, taking care of her.) Every time we put her in her crate (which she LOVES to hang out in until we want her to go in there), she was all BARKBARKBARKBARK until I had to let her out of the crate so the neighbors wouldn't hate me and I wouldn't rip my own ears off my head in a freaked out spasm. I was BEGGING her to stop. "Please, Cassie, stop. I need to sleep. You have to sleep in your crate. Please stop. Please. Please. Please." And then I cried.

A dog roughly the size of a large meatloaf reduced me to tears last night and all this morning. And she's just a DOG. I cannot imagine a baby. Wait, no, I just don't WANT to imagine taking care of a baby. It would probably make me cry.

We think we managed to find a remedy for the bratty, controlling, don't-you-dare-close-my-cage-door-unless-I-say-so, puppy behavior. A squirt gun. She barks, I squirt her, she barks, I squirt her, she glares at me and then rips into the frog stuffed animal that keeps her company at night. We call it her anger frog. It's who she beats up when she's mad because she can't have her way. So far she's beat him up about 5 times in the last hour.

We had to go ALL OVER TOWN TO FIND A SQUIRT GUN. (Hello? It's summer. Don't kids play with squirt guns anymore?) We started at Meijer, then went to Target, and finally Wal-Mart. They had huge box of squirt guns that came packaged together for 4 dollars. 9 quirt guns for 4 dollars. Why, Wal-mart? Why? Why must you make things so cheap and fool me into liking you, you evil, life-force sucking empire? I felt a little bit like Anakin, going over to the dark side, as I walked through the automatic doors into that badly lit store that smelled like cat pee.

The dog has been here for 25 hours. I feel like I've aged 3 years. She barked all night, snores like locomotive (which is actually kind of cute...), farts a lot, and will only go to sleep if Miles Davis is playing or Sex & the City is on so far. I'm telling you. If she weren't so cute, I'd let the German Shepherd upstairs eat her.

I love in the last one, she's clearly got this look on her face that says, "You are obviously not understanding what a leash is for. It enables me to drag you from place to place. Now please stop trying to move me around with it." Also, she doesn't always look stoned. She's just stoned looking there because we made her take a few hits off our bong. (I am so kidding. We don't smoke pot and I wouldn't let the dog upstairs eat her. So please don't email me.)

This post is long, boring, and probably doesn't make a lot of sense. What can I say? I'm punch drunk from staying up all night with a barking meatloaf. Even my HAIR is tired.

I COULDN'T GET ANYMORE HYPED UP IF I WAS SNORTING SOMETHING OFF THE DESK IN FRONT OF ME

Okay. It's 11:51 as I'm typing this, it's too early to wake Ryan up (he worked till 6 a.m.), my mom won't be stopping by for almost 2 hours, the PUPPY homecoming is today, I'm supposed to call about whether or not I got that job later, I can't find my favorite underwear, and I'm pretty sure that all the other bloggers in the world think I'm psycho because - in my incredibly hyped up internetting - I just keep randomly clicking on blogs on my favorites list. I'm up to 3 times now on badgerbag, and 4 at chez miscarriage. In the last 30 minutes. I've left 5 comments at 5 different blogs.

Just for the record, if that's how you go to my site, or if you ARE the author who's blogs I've been hyper-commenting on the past few days, I just want to say I'm not crazy. Well, at least not in a freaky, stalker-ish, I read your blog morning noon and night, comment on every post kind of way. Maybe just in other, harmless ways. Like how I always have to eat Chex cereal with my special spoon that looks halfway between a soup spoon and a garden shovel. Or how I randomly put things like shoes, keys, or shampoo in my refridgerator. Or how I...

Okay, I'm stopping with the "How Crazy Annie Is" discussion. First of all, I don't have enough time, and second of all, I'm already wound up tighter than an eight day clock as it is - talking about how my cheese has slid off its cracker won't help. What I was trying to emphasize to my fellow bloggers and blog readers is that I'm not insane and I'm sorry I sent your stat counter soaring this morning (and for the past hyped up, freaked out, week or two).

I found jeans that fit me beautifully. They're about 2 sizes bigger than I traditionally wear, but oh well. The tag on my jeans doesn't define who I am. I have other people's approval, or lack thereof, to do that for me! Seriously, though, I am OVER fitting into a size such and such or not buying something because it is size such and such. When I had 12 percent body fat a few years ago and my butt was so bony it hurt to sit down, I was still a size 10 from hipbone to hipbone. So I am NEVER going to be able to brag about what size I fit into, and therefore have stopped giving a flying fig. I found jeans to hide my nekkidness from the world, and they don't ride up, fall down, or show my butt crack. Apparently hell just has just frozen over.

In Which I Sound Like Sally Field and Kate Impregnates a Horse

I was going to post an update on my life earlier... But somehow posts about genital warts just don't mix with job interviews, cookies, and puppies. And if they do for you... Well, please don't leave your blog link here. Really.

Yes, I got a job interview. With the school library - as in, a place that doesn't require me to scoop fries or restrict phone privileges from bitter 17 year olds. (I did this last summer.) Seeing as how I've put out 1,744.3 resumes to local business this summer (That's just a rough estimate. Don't take my word on that. Or anything, really.), and GOT NO INTERVIEWS, NONE AT ALL, I was pretty excited when I got called in for an interview 3 hours after I dropped off my resume. I was THIS close to sobbing, "THEY LIKE ME. THEY REALLY LIKE ME." after I got off the phone with the guy who called for the library. (Because it's just so hard for a building to dial the phone.) I mean, this was my FIRST interview of the whole summer. And I've applied places like McDonalds and Old Navy. So a whole summers worth of anticipation had built up, and all my self-worth, hopes, and dreams were riding on this one interview. If I don't get this job, I'll probably be serving up Louisiana chicken and rice in the cafeteria while wearing a hairnet all year long.

No pressure or anything.

Anyway. The interview. It went okay, I think. Pretty good, really. Actually, I've just been swinging wildly from, "OH MY GOSH I'M NEVER GOING TO GET A JOB AND I WILL BE AN OLD LADY WHO LIVES WITH HER CATS." To planning what shoes I'll buy with my first paycheck. Basically, I have absolutely no idea how I did or whether or not he'll hire me. I didn't spit when I talked, wore deodorant, and managed to stress how much I love libraries and how yes I am a very organized person. So at least I've got that going for me. I should find out on Friday whether or not I'll get the job.

I need to stop thinking about it, or I'm going give myself a bald spot with all this hair twisting I've been doing.

When I got back from the interview, I found a package of Katy lovin' from Japan. She sent me my favorite koala bear cookies and some other cookies that look like goldfish but are filled with chocolate. At least I think they look like goldfish. They could be tiny balaclavas with no eye-holes. But that seems weird, to me. I don't know why someone would make balaclava shaped cookies.

I digress. The point is, my friend sent me cookies to cheer me up. Thank you, Kate the Great. I love you. Even though you impregnated a horse once. Or at least I think that's what happened. I'm still not very clear on the details. It is now 43.5 hours until I get my puppy! Aren't you excited? I'm excited.

The Puppy Formerly Known as Hope

Today, we got a puppy. Well, actually, we paid for a puppy. For half a puppy, really. The rest will be paid when we pick her up in two weeks. She is currently 6 weeks old, and she is WONDIFFEROUS. She can't come live with us for a few weeks yet, because she is too baby

Her name is Cassie (used to be Hope), and she is a shar pei. She is smallish for her age, and is brownish with an almost auburn back. Her muzzle is black, and her fur is very very soft. I've been eyeing her for awhile now, but I was too poor to buy her. But my parents, who I will never complain about again (for awhile) have decided to help us out and make her an early Christmas present.

Cassie likes leaves, toys, and things that are smaller than her. She does not like very loud noises, as they seem to startle her. She will be living in the same house with me, so obviously she will have to get used to that. She has an odd fascination with the little black puppies who are three weeks younger than her - I think it's mainly because she is bigger than them, and she likes to be bigger than things. (Except she's not really bigger than them now. Because the puppies from the other litter are ENORMOUS. Really. And they're barely big enough to stand up. So they look drunk a lot. It's quite humorous, actually.)

I am head over heels for this puppy, and when we had to get in the car and drive away today, a litte tiny piece of my heart broke.

Other than the dog, there's not a whole lot going on. Correction: there's not a whole lot going on I feel comfortable discussing on the internet. Family drama on Ryan's side has kind of enveloped me of late, and I wish nothing more than to be free of it. So talking about it online won't help one little bit. I WILL say that I sold the book my mother in law sent my husband so that he could "figure out his problems" for eight bucks on half.com. Thanks, Darla!

We're going camping this weekend north of the bridge. I'm pumped because I haven't been to this particular campground for about 5 years now. PLUS, the food always gets better on camping trips. Pancakes, steaks, s'mores, peanut butter rice krispie treats, and burritos. I know that probably sounds odd, but camping burritos are like my favorite thing on earth. Because they're burritos... only more campgroundy.