Yesterday a friendly and smiling and Hello Ma'am-ing cop showed up at my door to inform me that the house next door had been broken into. "They lost a coupla tvs," he told me. "Didja hear anything?"

(I've noticed, lately, that I'm getting a lot of "Ma'am" from people. I am not sure how I feel about this. I'm not yet old enough to really enjoy my age, and while I can't wait to get there, I am also doing the typical female thing and clinging in confusion to my fading youth. But anyway.)

I had not heard anything, though I'd got home around midnight or one, which was a damned nuisance since the porch light had gone out and I haven't gone to the shop to get more bulbs. Then I spent another few hours failing at falling asleep, watching a movie while curled up with/on/under Riley in bed. Riley hadn't made a sound to indicate anything was amiss. Though in Riley's defense, the comings and goings of homo sapiens next door are none of her concern. She probably noticed, but didn't see fit to raise the alarm.

Last night, about two in the morning, I was living the wild life - curled up on the couch with the dog, watching Dr. Who. I was watching the tv, that is; she was getting her ears scratched. Then she hauled herself upright, putting an elbow into my spleen, raised her hackles, and let me know that something was not right. This was the alert/warning noise, not the LOL I LIKE TO BARK AT SKWIRLS noise. There is a big difference. Her alert involves lots of watchful stillness, and perked ears, and low growling with the occasional "hey, boss?" woof. I take it seriously, because when it comes to guarding me, Riley is very good at her job.

Being me - thus, completely fearless when I should be spooked, and terrified of useless things - I snagged one of the big boat flashlights, poked my head out the front door, and had a look. I couldn't see anything, but I could hear it. Scuffle. Scuffle-shift-quiet-slide-quiet-quiet-quiet-scoot. Indi the Stupidly Fearless told the darkness, "I can't see you, but I can hear you."

Then I went inside, thought for a moment, snagged Riley by the collar, and called the police. I was very apologetic and sort of embarrassed - "yeah, uh, the house next door was broken into last night, and my dog's pretty good about letting me know when something's up, but I don't know if there's really anything to worry about there, I didn't see anything or anyone but I heard something" - and the dispatcher assured me that I'd done the right thing and cops would be by shortly.

I put Riley's leash on and we both resumed our spots on the couch - me a bit tense, Riley at-ease but alert. Before too long she started up the alarm growling and I saw flashlight beams bouncing around in the darkness. A cop knocked on the door. I manhandled Riley out of the room, then opened the door.

"I hear y'got a prowler," a cop said. I couldn't see him, with the lack of a porchlight and the bouncing flashlight beams.

"Heard something," I said. "I didn't see it."

"Well," the cop said, swinging the flashlight beam across the yard, "there's yer suspect."

And there it was: a big full-grown armadillo, all pale and hairless, blinking stupidly in the blue-white light.

I couldn't help it. I started laughing. I giggled my way through apologizing and oh my god and I am such an idiot and my dog is such an idiot and really jesus I'm sorry, this is so stupid.

"That's all right ma'am," the cop said to me, "but I'm not gettin' anywhere near it." Which just made me laugh more. So I thanked them and said goodnight.

Once Riley was released back into the rest of the house, she growled a bit more because the Suspect Dillo was still out there, sticking its snout into ants' nests and eating small frogs. THOSE ARE RILEY'S INSECTS, DAMN IT.

At least it wasn't an alligator.
Yesterday Riley and I went to the new place to clean the refrigerator. Well. I went to clean the refrigerator. Riley went for moral support and also to play with her softball. I try not to give myself too many things to do at once when I'm hurt****, and cleaning and reassembling a refrigerator (from a closed box with a pile of dead shelves at the bottom) sounded about perfect for the day -- that, and finally meeting the mysterious Neighbor in Apartment A.

****SEE I AM LEARNING YOU GUYS

It turns out that meeting the neighbor is all we did, because there is no electricity to be found, and after the time change things get dark awful fast. It also turns out that, hilariously, he used to be my neighbor here -- he was the guy with the noisy dogs that stopped being noisy after I was all HI SORRY MY DOG IS CRAZY over the fence one day. Remember that guy? That's my new-old-recurring neighbor whose name is Aaron. He has lots of tattoos and is from Detroit and works as a mechanic and has a giant lazy pit bull mix named Lucille, who has a bum hip and likes to eat tacos.

We wound up sitting around in his apartment for two hours, talking about mostly nothing, playing with Riley. He told me how nice the new neighborhood is, we rained abuse on Crazy Ann Coulter Bitch Who Owns The House Next Door, and how New Place's next-door neighbors are a married couple, of which one half is a cop. "They're, seriously, they're great people," said Neighbor Aaron, "I just went golfing with them today, Lucille swims in their pool."

Lucille, asleep in her crate, had no comment.

Things went on like this for a while. Riley got called a big baby and a lovebug and a sillybutt, and I was offered free cable because "yeah, one of my buddies climbed the pole so I'm hooked up." All was going well, I was put at my ease, there was no leering or uncomfortable closeness. There were lots of jokes about how we'd already been neighbors, wasn't that funny, small world.

Then he said something that scared me to the soles of my purple boots.

NEIGHBOR AARON: blah whooda something landlord floogle geese.

ME: Wait, what? Geese?

NEIGHBOR AARON: Geese.

ME: Like, the dinosaurs that didn't die out but just got smaller and grew feathers and are still all angry that the mammals took over the world?

NEIGHBOR AARON: ......

ME: DO YOU MEAN GEESE LIKE VERY ANGRY EVIL BIRDS THE SIZE OF DALMATIANS GEESE?

NEIGHBOR AARON: Yuh.

ME: Hoshit.

NEIGHBOR AARON: I don't know what'll happen if he brings them back. My dog doesn't mind, but your girl...

RILEY, HALF UNDER THE FUTON: I FOUND A TACO WRAPPER! I AM GOOD AT FINDING THINGS!

ME, FORESEEING TRAGEDY AND GOOSE-NIPPED EARS: Awfuck. Baby, put that down, c'mere.

NEIGHBOR AARON: Two of 'em. Big mean ugly fuckers. Mean. Mmmmeeeeaaaaannnnn.

RILEY, OBEDIENTLY: I CAN'T HAS :(

ME: I guess we can just, y'know, *gesture which is supposed to represent cooking a goose but probably looked more like a cow failing to sneeze* and then, hey Landlord, thanks for the Christmas dinner!

NEIGHBOR AARON, AMUSED: Hnh.

I am afraid. I am very afraid. I am also aware of just how much a nerdy spaz I am around normal people.
There may be something mildly wrong with me.

I'm pretty sure normal people do not go off to take a shower, realize they wanted to paint their nails first, start doing that, stop midway through to make dinner, get distracted by a special on whether aliens helped build pyramids, and then suddenly realize it's almost two in the morning.

And then, instead of going and taking the damn shower already, instead I come back to tell the internet about it.

For what it's worth, while I like the idea of aliens showing up in historical times, I reckon that modern archaeologists do not give the builders enough credit. A bit of a What Ho Colonialist attitude, that. (Though it makes for great scifi.) I want to believe, but I need some airtight proof first. Riley, on the other hand, does not care, as long as I share the rice-crackers and stop curling up so my hair gets into her ear and tickles her.

To make this a somewhat slightly less useless post: I spent a decent length of time filling out my absentee ballot, today. I like doing absentee ballots because I always get bogged down on the justices and things, and I always forget that happens to me, so at home I can just search them and see what I find. I left a few things blank - having no idea whether an internal auditor should or should not be politically affected - and in one particular case when both choices sucked, I went for the write-in line and added: "NOBODY - BATMAN?"

Here's a thing about voting that bothers me. When you vote, you do it at a poll. A poll, in plural, becomes the polls. And yet: there's no official name for where the polls are. All my literature tells me about Your Polling Place, and/or Su Centro de Votación - reminding me to be sure I know where it is. We have names for every fiddly last bit of the democratic process, down to what you call the paper bits punched out of hole-punch ballots, and nobody's done better than "the polling place?"

The best thing about mail-in voting though is that it comes with a SECRECY SLEEVE. Which is ridiculous, but brilliant. I vote for Miss Scarlett in the library with the rope. Or Batman.

ps: very thankful October is almost over. You have no idea.
A sonic boom will make Riley do the Scooby Doo Scramble. A second one will just make her stare at me somewhat tiredly, as though I am a bad monkey for letting the sounds continue. if this happens when I am dazed and sleepy, I will somehow totally discount the honking big military base right down the street and think that a car drove into a house nearby.

Last week Bleu and I went to the swamp. Bleu is not an outdoors person, not at all. I went happily clomping down the boardwalk grabbing at the plants and pointing at everything and avoiding the giant black things that look like bees that I'm not sure what they are. Bleu gingerly followed behind, arms clasped together -- which is about how I look in a shopping mall. I found us some birds and turtles and then a darling baby alligator, maybe as long as my arm. On the way back we spotted two armadillos. Imagine one the size of a minivan. I wish the prehistoric megafauna had survived.

On the way out I found a sign put up by the Florida Parks & Recreation Department of Redundancy Department:



Later I was asked, Indi, why can't you be quiet in your boots when military people are? The reason is because their boots have laces. Mine do not. Hence: clomp clomp clomp.

I got my sample ballot in the mail today, which is just what it says on the cover: a tiny copy of the ballot I'll be using to vote during the midterms. Let me tell you what is on it:

- US Senator
- District Representative
- State Governor and Lieutenant Governor
- State Attorney General
- State Chief Financial Officer
- State Commissionner of Agriculture
- State Senator for district X
- State Representative for district X
- Board of County Commissionners districts x, y, and z
- four Justices of the State Supreme Court
- seven Justices of the State District Court of Appeal (these judges all get their own box)
- School Board Member district X
- Soil and Water Conservation Groups X and Y
- proposed state constitutional amendments one through eight (these take up the majority of the inside of the thing; pages two and three, I suppose)
- a Nonbinding Statewide Referendum calling for an Amendment to the United States Constitution
- a Countywide Transportation System Construction Maintenance Operations Levy Tax
- Amends to The Charter (of what I am not sure) to eliminate veto powers of an elected County Mayor
- Economic development property tax exemptions for new businesses and expansions of existing businesses
- a Proposal to Amend the Reapportionment Provision to require an aditional public meeting
- a Proposal to Amend the Hillsborough County Charter Provisions pertaining to the Internal Performance Auditor

That, dear readers, is why the average American does not understand anything about their government. IT'S ALL COMPLICATED.
Fun things to do with the dog on a sunny winter's day. Jowls and ears a-flappin'!

i got it i got it

This is never gonna stop being funny. )
Today I took Riley to the groomer's to get her claws clipped & ears cleaned out. The place was really busy, so Riley was spooked - when the lady took her to the back, she started shivering, put her ears down, and kept looking back at me. I offered to help, so I held her and itched her butt while she was clipped and cleaned.

Since she was all upset by that, we went to the park afterwards. Livejournal told me I should get back in contact with some old mangroves, so we did just that.

On the way back we found a little table set up with necklaces and trinkets, made of bone, manned by a grizzled old guy in a bright Hawaiian shirt. He and Riley greeted each other like old friends and I browsed his wares.

"I have one thing here," he said, "that I will give you for free if you can guess what it is." He handed me something that looked like it had been carved from a fish vertebra - which it was - and told me to guess.

"Incense burner?" I asked.

He looked me square in the eye and said, dead serious, "Gnome toilet."

When I was done laughing (that took a WHILE, let me tell you) I told him about the Estonian gnome superstition - shockingly he knew where Estonia was - and we agreed that an angry gnome is a bad thing indeed.

it's a what?

So I bought it, because some stories are better with souvenirs.

stubby punk

Dec. 5th, 2009 11:17 am
Riley woke me up with a lot of fuss and bother and saliva around 8AM today. (Today is Saturday, this is so wrong.) I stumbled out of bed and went to pee and put on some pants and found some shoes so I could take her out, because usually when she wakes me like that she wants out.

Meanwhile the little bitch had curled up quite contentedly in the exact center of the bed and when I said the magic words - wangoSIDE? - she just raised an eyebrow and went, "Suckerrrrr."

Who is the pack leader again?
Riley took on Godzilla the other night. This Godzilla. And Riley won.

I found the loser on the couch, sans tail. (It was sort of seated into the body and could be turned around.) I asked Riley what exactly had happened, but she just gave me this "you're stupid and also possibly crazy" face, which means she and Godzilla really did get into an epic battle one day and then the Stormtroopers rebuilt the house.

Turns out 'Zilla's tail was under the couch. I popped it back into place and safely put my irradiated mutant dinosaur thing back on my desk where the stupid dog can't get to it.

But now you know. Godzilla vs. Riley? The smart money is on Riley.

(Explaining this to people is VERY DIFFICULT. Was on the phone with the 2.0 and -- "so, yeah, Riley got ahold of Godzilla and took its tail off." "Wait, what? WHAT?")

Also, have a recording of Riley barging into a telephone call.



slobber-head
I just spent ten minutes in the tub with a soaped-up Riley, rubbing her back and singing Beatles songs at her. As near as I can estimate, ten minutes of Beatles is the first half of 'I Am The Walrus,' and then all of 'With A Little Help From My Friends' and 'Yellow Submarine,' complete with whistling and onomatopoeia for the musical interludes. Oh, and I was naked. Because if I wash this dog with clothes on, I wind up with wet and soapy clothes.

I CAN EXPLAIN THIS, I SWEAR.

See.. she's got a Thing. On her neck. An icky oozy thing. We went to the vet today and learned it was a sort of skin infection, which requires medicated soap and antibiotics. Said medicated soap (which smells pleasantly candylike, sort of like liquorice) stated on the bottle that, For Best Effects, I was to cover Riley with a good lather, then spend ten minutes letting it soak into her skin. Massaging was optional but recommended.

So what do I do? Sit down on the side of the tub, assume each Beatles song is roughly 4 minutes long, and sing while I rub the dog.

I am either a very good dog owner or completely crazy. Although I'm thinking the former may require the latter.
Fifteen minutes ago I was in a small concrete-block room, with a window unit, surrounded by cages. I was on my knees on the floor, bent over something somewhat less than stable. The place was a tiny little dog-groomer's. The less than stable thing was Riley, who very much wanted to properly greet the woman who was trying to trim her nails, and who was also doing the dance of Keeping My Paws Out Of Your Paws. I was helping hold her down.

... where the fuck did you think I was, what is wrong with your head?

Y'all know the hazards of clipping Riley's claws, for me. She's half my weight and twice my strength, and really the only way to do it is for me to flip her on her back and sit on her, which involves a lot of getting kicked. So I phoned up a place where I'd heard they did claw clips for two dollars a pop (TWO. DOLLARS.) and upon learning I needed no appointment, I brought the oaf in.

On our way in another guy was heading out with two dogs. Riley sat for the man, expecting cookies or petting, but only got talked to. I think she was disappointed.

Then it was our turn, and we were led into the back. The woman took Riley's leash and tied it in a very sailorly way (I was impressed) to a grooming table, then turned to me.

"Does she bite?" she asked.

"No, but she'll lick you half to death. I'll get the back and try to hold her down. She's just... wiggly."

And she did lick. She licked the lady's arms, and hands, and the claw-clipper too. So there I was, kneeling on this floor, with my arms wrapped around the back end of my dog and her nub tail wagging ferociously even though it was pressed into my belly.

I, of course, was doing my best Tenth Doctor Babble, which I tend to do around EVERYBODY WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MY BRAIN. It went like this: "Riley. Please don't fart. I know you're good at it, but NOW IS NOT THE TIME." And then, "You see why this is a two-man procedure?"

The claw-clipping lady said yes, finished with Riley's foot, pushed Riley's tongue-flailing head away from her face, and we turned her around to do the other end.

The back was finished more easily than the front, on account of the only place Riley could lick was my armpit (she did), and I paid up and we headed out. Where Riley nearly pulled me backwards down the three stairs leading into the place. Claw-clipping lady laughed as I flailed out the door.

We also dropped off some boxes of stuff at one of the thrift shops, and the guy there seemed DETERMINED to give me a receipt for tax purposes. I didn't particularly want it, because it sort of defeats the purpose of Giving Stuff Away to Get Something Back, but -- I guess I'm just defective that way.

The point to all this is, I am never clipping my dog's nails again. For two dollars I get HELP. It's so worth it.
dork

tug

If we were a sitcom, the action montage would sound like this:

Mahah mahnah doot - OW - doot do do, mahnah - CRASH - ah, doot do do do - HEY STOPPIT - mahnah mahnah doot do do - BAROOOOO! - do do - AURGH - do, da-da-da, da-da-da, badaba - SNEEZE - da-da - EURGH!- da da da!
Oh, that sounds like I'm gonna be talkin' bondage. Sorry -- just dogs.

A few days ago, [livejournal.com profile] bleukarma and I went on a multi-part all-day ADVENTUR, which included many trips to many shops. In one, I was looking for comforters, but instead I found a dog collar. A really nice one. A really really nice one. The D-ring was on the opposite side from the buckle, and it was made of two pieces of leather sewn together so that the inside was covered with a butter-soft leather. It was marked down from thirty-five bucks to ten. The only thing it lacked was a tag telling me how long it was.

So I used Dave's old dollar bill trick and measured it, estimating it at 24 inches. Fine, Riley's got a 20 inch neck, that'll work.

I brought it up to the register and asked if they had a measuring tape, because I wanted to double-check the length of the collar. The woman measured it - yeah, twenty-four - and then said, hmm, that's kind of short. The woman in line behind me agreed that it was short.

I can't remember what I said, something like "She has a big neck, that should do." This is when I realized that they thought it was a leash. Not a collar. A leash. Or maybe they thought it was a belt. I don't know, but the news that it was a collar was a shock.

Both women looked visibly dismayed. The one ringing me up kept the friendly going and asked what kind of dog I have. Boxer, I said. More dismay. "Oh," said one.

So I explained that she's a 60lb lapdog. Still with the dismay-faces. I further explained that she likes kittens.

"But not cats?" the woman behind me said, somewhat accusingly.

"What grown cat will put up with getting licked for an hour?" I asked.

The cashier finished ringing me up and told me that if the collar doesn't fit I can return it, which was nice of her. Then on the way out Bleu asked me what anyone would do with a leash that short and I had to explain tab/traffic leashes and the importance of Heel.

Usually, when I say I have a Boxer, people get excited. I may as well have said I had a pet wolverine, from the response I got. A pet bear, maybe. A man-eating tiger. I don't know. Bloody Stepfords. Dogs are not just small and cute, you know. Sometimes they're large and loyal and dumb and slobrous and make you feel safe.

... of course, I left the collar in Bleu's car and I won't get to see her until the weekend.

In related news, I ordered this in black, because I prefer the flat leash to the combo martingale lead.
I don't care, you Northerners, you can mock me if you want, but when the temperature drops 40 degrees in 12 hours it is a bit of a surprise.

Anyway, with it being pleasant outside, Riley and I engaged in a fun game: Barefoot Dogsoccer. Afterwards we played I Am Going To Grab Your Tongue, which is kind of like playing with those gel-tubes you can get at science shops, if the gel-tube was salivating and muddy and attached to a mouth that, I swear, is bigger on the inside.

march of the dork

Happy Riley and dirty feet. )
Riley decided to serenade me. I decided to take her out and chase her around in the unseasonable heat and try to cook off some of her energy. That's not quite what happened, because another Boxer was out, with owner, in the field behind the house. I didn't notice this at first, but Riley sure as hell did.

Riley: BOSS LOOK IT'S MY CLONE.

Indi: I see that. Shut up.

Riley: BUT IT'S MY CLONE IT IS LIKE ME EXCEPT NOT AS PRETTY BECAUSE SHE DOES NOT HAVE STRIPES.

The Other Boxer: OMG IT'S MY CLONE.

The Other Owner: I see that, shut up.

The Other Boxer: BUT IT'S MY CLONE JUST LIKE ME EXCEPT NOT AS PRETTY BECAUSE SHE HAS STRIPES.

Riley: I AM SO PRETTIER THAN YOU. ALSO MY FACE IS MUSHIER.

The Other Boxer: LIKE HELL. MY TONGUE IS LONGER AND SLAPPIER.

Riley: LIAR. YOU TAKE THAT SENTENCE BACK.

And then they started to HOWL. )

On second thought, two at once might end me.
Forget what I said about a lot of rain last week. It wasn't, and I can say this because the streets never disappeared like they did yesterday. The water either soaked in or burnt off enough that they'd reappeared by midafternoon yesterday, but this morning my lake is back. It's kind of neat. And when there's standing water, for some reason it smells like the ocean.

My immediate instinct, of course, is to roll up my jeans and kick off my boots and go splashing around in it, because I'm still ten years old. And, judging by how often I did this as a kid, I am also totally immune to things like leeches and ringworm. But I did that yesterday. (I need new flip-flops too; mine have some sort of stringy plastic on the soles that looks like Brillo and is supposed to be nice and cushy for toes. It isn't. What it does do is never dry off, which sort of defeats the purpose of such footwear.) It's ghost-hunting weather, tadpole-catching weather. It reminds me of the day Bleu and I picked up a pallet of strawberries at the flea market, took them to the park with the Indian mounds, and ate ourselves into diabetic shock. I want to go explore under the trees with the Zeiss, and get rained on until my hair looks like an unhappy mop. I love this part of summer.

The best stuff yesterday had nothing to do with rain though. Vinny's still ours! The big-ass contract kicked in and, according to some guy from the paper, Vinny can run the show if he wants. Which is a nicer thought than him being mailed off to Edmonton or somewhere. This part is especially true: "Vinny wins any matchup with ownership in the eyes of Lightning fans. Vinny is the good guy. He'll never be the bad guy." We also got Mattias Ohlund, bringing our total of Swedes up from None to Two, as compared to this time last week. And we got Matt Walker, who I'm sure will have competitions with Meszaros to see who is more indestructible.

In other news, it turns out Riley really really really likes Elvis....

Oh my god, y'all. I saw this and I thought I was gonna have to shank a bitch. or several. But luckily for the bitches, the camera is a repro and not a real one that's been ruined to HOLD BOOKS.

I am not against holding books, mind. Nor am I against doing that with cameras. Or doing other things with cameras that they weren't exactly designed for. I used my Graflex as a balance-block, and I may once have used the Nikkormat as a hammer. (I can't remember.) What I am against is doing things to cameras that renders them incapable of shooting pictures. They are very easy to break and very hard to fix. If you don't know how to clean or open a vintage camera, don't. Leave it to someone who knows what they are doing. You can pick these people out of a crowd easily. When they see your destroyed cameras in the junkshop with forty-dollar tags tied to their lenses, they will laugh because it hurts.

Things In Riley's Bed:
- One plush hedgehog that squeaks.
- One plush duck that farts.
- Two of my dirty socks.
- Two tennis balls.
- A few pieces of kibble, saved for later.

Things In My Bed:
- Riley.

*facepalm*

In other Riley-related news: how do y'all think she'd get along with a roomba? I really like the idea of "robot that does the vaccuming for me." Riley's the problem. She flipped out and attacked the vaccum the last time she and it were in the same room - this is why I bless my lack of carpeting and make good use of brooms. I am not sure if a roomba would survive a Rileying.

lists today

Jun. 8th, 2009 07:58 pm
Things that fit into the Fifty-Nine Cent Ikea Bag of Gigantitude*:
- Precisely one load of laundry, as determined by [livejournal.com profile] bleukarma's washer, a bottle of soap, a trade paperback of one of the BEST NOVELS EVER, six DVDs, one CD, and a package of replacement Venus razor blades.

Or, if you dump all of that out:
- Me, with room to spare.
(Theoretically Riley will fit, since she's half my size, but I get the idea she won't let me try it.)
*First mentioned here.

Reasons I get excited every time the postman, the Fed Ex guy, and the UPS guy drive by:
- The shiny new flat monitor that is coming to replace this pieceashit that blurs out on me, unless it's my eyes doing that.
- The shiny new Dell computer where everything is new and will work that's coming to replace ol' Feverish Frankenstein here.
- The shiny new 500gb external hard drive so that I can back all my things up onto it and yay I finally have one.
- The not-shiny new hockey socks that [livejournal.com profile] oregoonie told me I should get. What the fuck am I going to do with hockey socks? I ordered the kiddy ones because the sizing chart thinks that I am a twelve-year-old boy. The problem with this is that if you tell me I should do something because it'll be funny, I WILL DO IT. Especially if I'm tired. This is how I wound up owning Stormtroopers.

(As I was writing this, Dell emailed to inform me that the computer & external drive are now scheduled to ship on 1/1/0001. Doesn't that mean they'd be here by now?)

Now I need advice. My showerhead thinks it's funny to divert 25% of the water in a perfect arc over the top of the curtain and smack into the center of the three inch space between toilet and sink. I'm telling you, an inch to the right and I could leave the toilet lid up to catch the water. The rest of the water shoots out of approximately ten remaining holes in the rain-can head, with enough pressure to knock a nipple off. The water here is so hard you could hurt people with it. I have to dismantle the whole shower assembly every two or three months and soak it in LimeAway, and even then I have to scrub the showerhead with a nail brush before I get under it. This is what happens when all of your water is sucked out of a limestone aquifer.

I am considering just wrapping the pipe with that metal tape people use to fix freezers. My reasoning is thus: shortness + standing on tub edge + 2lb murder-weapon wrench + gravity = a tragic end, or at least a bathtub with a giant hole in the bottom. My stopgap measure has been to put a washcloth over the spraying part of the pipe, but that's... stopgap. Anyone have suggestions?

Lastly, Riley performs an emoticon --- :D
glrsngk
(Shot this morning when she finished her breakfast and proceeded to rub her face all over my bed. She has her own bed, yes. Riley's bed is new and too nice for wiping kibble-dust out of mudflap lips, so she does it in my ratty old non-Ikea bed instead. Punk. My dreams smell like Purina Chicken And Rice.)

Remind me, one of these days, to tell you about the massmarket paperback version of the Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy that almost cost me fifty-five dollars.
I still don't get how on earth Boxers were ever used during the world wars. I've heard they were messengers, guards, and most alarmingly, search-and-rescue dogs. That has to be why Germany lost. Forget superior numbers, Churchill, etc: they lost because they had farting slap-happy clown dogs eating all the encrypted messages. MMM TASTES LIKE NUMBERS.

This observation brought to you by the fact that I have something that's not the swinovirus and Riley thinks the way to cure me is to kick me in the stomach.
Dogs + yoga = "Doga." No, really, go read that.

I would say I don't have words, but I've thought about it and I have quite a few. I'll skip the WTF, because I'm sure you're right there with me. I'll also skip the "but dogs don't need yoga," because again I assume you're right there with me.

I'm sure some of you are thinking, but this is just the sort of whimsically insane thing I would expect Indi to do! I have a dog and I do yoga, but that's not the point. One, this looks crazy; and two - hey. I'm sure I'd get months' worth of amusement out of attending a "doga" class, but I'd also only ever be able to go one time, since Riley would get us kicked out for ruining the flow of positive chi. Either she'd pick a fight with someone or she'd emit loads of negative chi from her rear. Maybe both.

Now. Riley - being a two-year-old child in a dog suit - likes to be near the center of attention when she can't be the center of attention. She likes to participate. If I'm doing anything she's nearby, watching and interfering and getting in my way. I've adapted to this, because it's a Boxer thing, and you can't get a Boxer to go away any more than you can get a Border Collie to stop building a nuclear reactor in the garage. This means that when I am doing yoga Riley is there supervising. Or interfering. Or thinking it's play time. I've mentioned this before.

I would like to propose a list of more realistic dog-assisted asanas, with which I have personal experience. (By that I mean bruises.) These work best when Dog is of goodly size; if your Dog is too light to knock you off your balance, or small enough to be injured when you fall on top of it, borrow a larger one.

1. Cow and Calf. Human gets into Cow pose. Dog crawls under Human and nuzzles Human's belly with face-whiskers, because Dog knows that if Human is touched on the belly, Human makes all manner of funny noises. Human's job, therefore, is to hold the posture (with extensions, balancing, whatever) while being tickled. This is good for abdominal muscles and preparation for future tickle-torture.

2. Hidden Soldier Under Collapsing Structure. Human gets into Plank pose. Dog belly-crawls, like soldiers do, under Human. Human thus cannot get out of Plank until Dog leaves. Dog, however, is hiding from the bad guys and WILL NOT MOVE. Human holds Plank until arms give out, at which point Dog gets squished. This works your biceps, legs, etc. Do not, however, attempt Side Plank with Dog beneath you.

3. Tree and Lumberjack. Human assumes Tree pose. Dog, therefore, will be the Lumberjack, whose job it is to fell the Tree. Dog can use any method to knock Human down: licking feet, hip-checks, jumping up, throwing toys. This is good for balance, patience, and learning how to say "fuck off, you rotten monster" on the inbreath.

4. Get Off The Mat Before Your Claws Put Holes In It. Human will say this a lot. Dog won't actually do it. This is good for learning what it's like to have children.

5. Wake The Dead. Human is in Corpse pose. Dog does not like this corpse business and wants Human to act alive again. Dog's goal is to get Human to stop relaxing and start reacting. This is, again, good for learning how to not get distracted.

Doga. I really don't know how this can be in any way serious.
1. Get stabbed in toes by Riley's stabby horrible monster sloth claws. Realize it's - *gulp* - nail-trim time.

2. Try to forget how Buster screamed that one time the vet caught the quick, which was terrifying, and has scared me badly when it comes to nail clips.

3. Find nail clippers. (Wire cutters do not work; we have tried this already.)

4. Tell Riley Sit. She does. Tell her Down. She does. Tell her Over, and guide her so she flops to her side with her back facing away.

5. Find surprise tick on Riley's leg. Freak the fuck out. Ticks = instant nausea. I do not know why.

6. Remove tick. We're not discussing that. Oh god horrible.

7. Remind self to wash the damn dog already and reapply the Frontline. Sip fizzy soda until stomach calms down; get consoling licks from Riley, who got a cookie for good behavior during parasite removal and also probably wants some soda too.

8. Once again: sit, down, over. Scoot close to Riley, sitting on the floor; throw right leg over Riley's body. Settle her down because she thinks this is a game and wants to punch me in the thigh.

9. Grab near hind foot, spread toes out. Get kicked in the shoulder with off hind foot. (Horse terms apply here as she's bigger than some ponies.) Re-adjust leg on dog so that foot is holding off-side leg well out of the way.

10. Align clippers on nail. Move paw and clippers as far away from face as possible. Turn away, brace self, clip. Hear Riley grunt, see removed claw-end go flying, watch as absolutely nothing catastrophic happens. Repeat two more times, until Riley decides she Will Not Be Having With this claw-clipping nonsense and she needs to be settled down.

11. Tell self: "Steve Irwin would not be afraid of clipping a dog's nails."

12. Quickly and efficiently clip last claw. Realize that Riley has run out of patience, and decide to attack the other feet later. Let Riley up, accept a friendly punching and some more licking, and give her another cookie.

13. Realize that pill bottle over there is full of rubbing alcohol and a BIG NASTY TICK.

14. Remove self to fainting couch. Allow Riley to accompany, because she would anyway and saying no gets me nowhere.

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sisalik

May 2012

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