Happy birthday to one of my favorite coworkers

SPARKI

He's 15 in human years today! What a trooper! He could have retired by now, but he loves his job so much that he decided not to. Here he is getting one of his great ideas at his desk:Always the first to volunteer to drive on a business trip, he is the definitive team player.He's a wily old fellow, too, as we told him to lay off the coffee, but he always finds a way to get that half-full cup out of the garbage.

Happy birthday, buddy! And many more!

Feeling Rainy/Frosty Paws Friday

It's raining AGAIN today. It's rained so much this summer that it's gotten to the point where I constantly feel rainy - meaning that I dress like it's going to rain, I act like it's going to rain, I plan my work out like it's going to rain, I never leave the house without an umbrella, and I always feel like staying in and reading or watching a movie with some popcorn are good ways to spend an evening. (Also remember I have limited choices because my fiancee is studying for the bar...countdown: 6.5 days). Don't take this to mean I'm a constant downer, because that's not it. It's just that I've adapted to all the rain. I walk outside and it's just a reflex to want to take cover. I even feel weird when it's sunny. This must be like what people in Mobile, Alabama (the rainiest place in the US with 67 inches on average per year - yeah, apparently, Seattle's not even in the top 10 in terms of amount of rain per year) or Bergen, Norway (where it rains 2 out of every 3 days) or Tutunendo, Colombia (464 inches of rain on average per year - are you KIDDING me?) feel like all the time. Huh.

On a totally different note, today could also be called "Frosty Paws Friday" because Sparki's 15th birthday is coming up and we just got him a pack of Frosty Paws- the peanut butter kind, because he loves peanut butter. It's the perfect treat for him because he's losing his teeth and isn't allowed anything really difficult to chew these days (like rawhide or anything like that). So, bless his little heart, he'll celebrate his old age with a half melted "ice cream like" treat on Sunday. And maybe a birthday hat. And a little extra glucosamin and chondroitin for that bad hip and arthritic front paw and old ACL injury (you think I'm kidding...). What a champ he is!

Mid-month puzzle: Learning to swim

Did you know that because of the particles in the atmosphere that collect during the week (due to things like more people traveling in their cars and moving about and industry and what not), it's more likely to rain on the weekends? Just terrible! That's why I'm glad that I can do things like teach Emma to swim during the week when it's nice out!



When I started skipping stones, she thought she was supposed to retrieve them and started really getting in deep. Just at the point she couldn't touch, there was a moment where she was like "ohh I'm still floating, cool" and then she started to sink and BOOM, swimming instinct took over. She was paddling like a champ!

Afterwards, there was the dreaded BATH to wash away all the smelly pond scum, and this was her reaction post-bath:


Have a lovely sunny summer day!

Fed-Up Friday: Ever have days where your ovaries just shrivel up?

Yesterday was one of those days.

Ovary destroyer #1: I was walking my dogs at the park and there were kids there (from say, 8 to 11, mostly boys) setting up for their little league game. Two of them walked up to us and started barking at my dogs, who were, for once in their lives, not doing anything wrong. Of course, they started barking, and the little kids laughed and ran away. All I could say was "real nice" in a kind of sarcastic way, which only made them laugh harder. My ovaries, seeing how children can be, decided no, no, we don't want any of that, thank you, and retreated from the scene.

Ovary destroyer #2: Jess and I went running in the Southwest Corridor, where there are two separate paths for walking and biking. There is pretty clear signage (pictures and everything), and generally people follow the rules. We were in the most narrow part of the corridor and saw a gaggle of 12 year old girls approach the path on their bikes. They chose the running path. They didn't even stay to one side or try to get out of our way, so we stepped off the path and onto the grass. As they passed, Jess said, "There's a separate biking path on the other side." Just pointing it out. Not snotty in the slightest. And one of the girls looked over her shoulder as they passed us and said, "shut up." Again, all I could do was retort, "real nice" sarcastically. My mother would have slapped off my face, baked it into a homemade cookie, and served it to the adult I had disrespected if she ever caught me acting like that! After that, my ovaries were silent with disgust as they shriveled and shrank to a size so small, I couldn't even find them with a magnifying glass.

I shared this story with my mom, who works as a teacher's aid. She shared in my distaste that "these young people today are just so disrespectful!" We hung up. I sat back and replayed the day in my head. That's when I realized that not only had my ovaries gone on strike, but I had celebrated my 90th birthday as well.

This whole morning was a poop dance

This morning started badly. It wasn't anything catastrophic. I mean, I didn't have jury duty or anything, but it was still pretty bad. In fact, this whole morning was a poop dance. Let me explain...

Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Sundays are my days to take the dogs out in the morning. Yesterday was my day, being a Wednesday and all, but I had to get up so early for jury duty that the dogs were not ready to get up yet. Emma especially just looked at me like, "what, are you nuts?!" and went back to sleep. So Jess took them out at their usual 8:15am (they're so regular, they put things like Activia to shame), while I was already 15 minutes into my waiting period in the cattle room at the courthouse. So long story short, today became my day instead of yesterday.

Old Man Sparki started shuffling around at probably 7am this morning, and I wanted to throw my pillow at him. The only thing that stopped me was that I knew I wouldn't reach, and then I would be out of a pillow to boot. I could hear his tags jingling around as he got a few drinks of water and walked over to the gate to our bedroom just to stare at me. I could hear his thoughts projecting and boring into my soul, "get up and take me out! I have an old man bladder and have to pee real bad!" But it was way too early, so I told him to go back to sleep. Miraculously, he did. This was the last favor my dogs did for me this morning.

Emma started singing to me around 8:30, so I got up and we all went outside. I figured it was a little later than they usually get up, so it should be quick. I didn't bother to take my retainers out, change my candy cane pajama pants, or even put a hat on; I just put on my shoes and coat, leashed 'em up, and off we went.

As it turns out, that extra 15 minutes did make a difference; just not the one I had expected. There is a daycare 2 houses down from our apartment and 8:30 is apparently THE busiest time for kid drop-off. In addition, it's also apparently when all the big dogs in the neighborhood go out for their morning walks. As we were crossing the street, I saw the disaster unfold: Emma is afraid of little kids and sometimes barks at them when they move quickly. Sparki is afraid of and aggressive towards other dogs and hoarsely barks and lunges at them as soon as he can see them. This was going to be challenging.

I tried to pull them close to me before they started stiffening up and barking in that sudden, explosive, "I'm a crazy terrier" kind of way, but to no avail. Some poor kid was running across the crosswalk towards us with his mom, and I think Emma made him probably shit his pants when she barked at him. I got her to calm down as the mother ushered her crying son to the other side of the street. As we crossed the street, Emma was playing with Sparki and biting at his ears. This held up traffic on our very busy road used for many a morning commute. I dragged them both across the street amidst honks.

When we finally got to the park, Sparki immediately saw the other dogs and went ballistic. We were batting 1000, and there wasn't even any "business" to speak of yet. Great. The owners of the other dogs gave me a look (did I mention I was in candy cane pajamas, an over-sized coat, and had wild, dishshevled bed head?) and, thankfully, escorted their well-behaved pups to the other side of the park. Sparki, still angry, did his business to show the other dogs who was boss.

Emma, on the other hand, is much more selective in where and how and under what conditions she will "evacuate." She circled and circled this one area for about 5 minutes, and finally peed. I figured poop was about to follow, as usual, and waited for the poop dance. Nothing. Why? Because it was windy. She doesn't like the breeze to hit her netherregions. She sat there, looking up at me stupidly, and I said "go ahead and poop!" We walked into the field a little bit, my vans and the bottoms of my candy cane pants getting quite wet. "For the love of God, just poop!" Nothing. At least now I was talking crazy to match my crazy ensemble. To add to the mess, all the while, my allergies were succeeding at pissing me off: My left eye would not stop watering (to the point where it looked like I was crying) and my nose was running so badly I was contemplating a farmer blow.

After about 25 minutes of waiting for the poop dance, I gave up and we returned to the apartment. I jiggled the handle to find that it was locked. My landlord who lives on the top floor had been out there (she was one of the ones with the dogs in the park) and returned inside before us. She must have forgotten we were out there, however, and locked us out. I rang my own doorbell as it started to rain, and waited.

Jess let me in and said "good morning" and I handed her the leashes and said "she didn't poop and it's raining and I can't get my eye to stop watering and there's snot dripping down my face - watch out!" and ran to blow my nose. I'm sure in that moment, all she could think of was "I'm so glad I'm marrying such a class act." I know I would.

So you see, this entire morning was a poop dance. I guess it can only go up from here!

TTMPS

It's been a little while since I was laid off, and enough time has passed that I have developed a very serious condition: Talking To My Pet(s) Syndrome (TTMPS).

What is TTMPS? I'll tell you. TTMPS is a condition in which the affected goes beyond the normal dialogue with their pets (sit, stay, there's a good boy/girl!, no!) and starts to:

a) think they and their pet understand each other
ex. Affected: Oh Fluffy, I've just been so lonely without a job or coworkers.
(Fluffy settles in next to the Affected)
No, it's not your fault. I know I'll always have you. Say, you want to watch King of the Hill?
(Fluffy's ears perk up slightly)
Yeah you do! I know how much you love that show!

b) use their pet's "voice" to talk for them in "conversation," essentially talking to themselves
ex. Affected: Fluffy, dear, how are you feeling today?
Affected (as Fluffy in a higher pitched voice): Ok, Mom, but I'd really like a cookie!
Affected: Oh really? Do you think you deserve a cookie, Fluffy?
Affected as Fluffy: Yeah, Mom, I do! I do!
Affected: Oh alright...

c) talk using their pet's "voice" to talk to other people
ex. Affected's friend, Claire: Oh, look! I think your dog wants to play with me!
Affected: Do you want to play with Claire, Fluffy?
Affected as Fluffy: Yeah, yeah! Please play with me!
Affected: Oh I think so, Claire! Here, grab Mr. Piggy by the leg. She really likes that.
Claire gets the feeling she's at a really bad one-man puppet show, but plays with Fluffy.
Affected as Fluffy: Yeah! And I really like the way you smell, Claire!
Claire: Ok, this is awkward...

I have voices for Emma and Sparki, and have invented their personalities based on what I presume to be a fantastic understanding of their behaviors. Emma has a high-pitched voice. She can be whiny at times, but is mostly fun, assertive, and a jokester.

For Sparki, I use a voice that is Eeyore meets boy going through puberty. He is grumpy and usually annoyed with Emma and/or the world, but he's a gentleman and a team player. He's also got a soft spot for tummy time.

Ok yes, this is a problem. Does anyone know the cure for TTMPS?
Get a job, right? Man, that seems to be the answer for everything these days!

Fruit Dog Friday

For some reason, I was reminded today of an EF tour I took in high school to Spain and France (I call it my Spance tour). Anyway, on the way home on the plane, I tried to sleep but wasn't very successful. Unlike the plane ride to Spance, when we were supposed to be sleeping but couldn't because we were all too excited and it was only 7pm US time, the flight home was at a normal European time. Sleeping seemed silly.

But the girl next to me didn't seem to think so, and she fell asleep around take off. During her fitful sleep, she kind of kicked around a lot, and I remember thinking that she must have been one of those kids who kicked the backs of other people's chairs in movie theaters and airplanes. I wanted to wake her "by accident," but I didn't. I just kept on sipping on my Orangina and thinking back on my trip. Actually, I'm pretty sure I wrote in a journal of some kind (note to self: must find journal and see if there is any further evidence of budding authorship).

I was probably writing something about Toledo, my favorite part of the trip, when the sleeping idiot next to me flailed herself awake. During said flail, she punched my Orangina. It sailed upward through the air in slow motion and we both just kind of looked at it, waiting to see what it would do next. It crashed onto my backpack, which, luckily, was waterproof so nothing inside was damaged. She was embarassed and wiped up the Orangina splatters. I figured everything was fine. So my bag was now orange-scented. So what?

We were walking through the airport after retrieving our baggage, when a very cute beagle approached me. On his back, he wore a little jacket that said something like "fruit and plant sniffer dog." "Oh crap," I thought to myself. Sure enough, the beagle's human counterpart "pulled me over."
Fruit Dog's Cop Counterpart: Miss, I'm sorry to stop you, but my friend here seems to think you have taken some plants out of Spance. May I search your bag?
Me: Oh, yeah, ugh sure. It's just that, I know what he smells.
FD's CC: Really?
Me: Oh yeah, it's the Orangina.
FD's CC: You have Orangina in your bag?
Me: More like on my bag...
At this point I explained. He searched the bag anyway, but surprisingly didn't find the marajuana I had taken out of Spance (I kid, I kid). We had a good chuckle about the Orangina and he sent me on my way.

Two things:

1. I want his job.
2. Can I train Emma and/or Sparki to be a Fruit Dog? Emma already looks like a fruit bat half the time, so we must be half way there, right?

The Tale of the Corduroy Children

In an attempt to save money, we've had to reduce our budget for dog treats. Emma and Sparki have been going through Greenie withdrawl, and as a result have been rather cranky. At least, however, they haven't tried to run away and join the circus. I felt bad for them, and so tried to fill the Greenie void recently with butt-busted pants. It's a heart-warming story, and I will now share it with you.

So my fiancee, Jess, had some pants that were well-loved. One day, the whole butt ripped. It just ripped right off. She wasn't even doing anything (i.e. trying to sit, do the chicken dance, get a leg up- nothing)! She was standing still and *poof* there went the butt!

Knowing that I have scads of free time on my hands and that I like to flex my creative muscle from time to time, she gave me the pants. "Here, do something creative with these. When I come back this afternoon, I expect big things to have happened with these pants," she said to me.

I accepted my mission and took the pants. I turned them over in my hands and studied them. They had a worn, corduroy texture. Hmmm. No butt, so I couldn't use the pockets for anything. Huh. What to do, what to DO!

I looked over at Emma and Sparki. They were sleeping. Their blankets had been kicked off, but they looked chilly. It was probably because they were losing their Greenie love handles, but I still felt bad. Maybe I should buy them some of those dog sweater things? I looked some up online and found that not only are they ridiculously expensive, many are just plain ridiculous.

And then it hit me: I could make corduroy outfits for the little idiots! I dug out my sewing kit from middle school and got started. I worked in a frenzy until, at last, I stood back and admired my work:






Contrary to what you might think, and contrary, certainly, to what it looks like, these are not little orphan children. They are not saying "Please sir, may we have some more?"

What are they then? What were their reactions to my creative attempts at recycling pants into warmth? Though Emma was impressed with my expert craftsmanship (especially with the shoulder strips on her outfit), Sparki was not at all appreciative of my efforts to warm his tiny old man legs. He took off my creation immediately following this picture and stormed off. We didn't speak for hours.

Jess came home and I showed her the outfits. She was speechless, and in her silence, it was clear that we would have to find another way to save money and keep the little fools warm. The lesson? Unemployment often leaves you cold, but it will keep you laughing.

Happy birthday to one of my favorite "coworkers"

EMMA

She's the coworker that collaborates well with others...
...but is never afraid to constructively voice her opinion...


...and hardly ever falls asleep on the job (except maybe this time)...

...and she's 2 (human) years old today!

Creative Shepherd

Creativity often springs from time spent with no particular task at hand (when you're unemployed, for example). It also stems from unusual situations and the ability to look at things in different ways. I, for example, wrote a book and started a blog. I did some fun stuff with business cards. You, on the other hand, might have decided to create some sort of sexy butter sculpture, or perform an interpretive dance on protein synthesis. To each his own. The point is that the possibilities are endless.

These fine gentlemen have illustrated my point completely and have taken creativity to a place not many of us have visited before: shepherding.
http://www.milkandcookies.com/link/152506/detail/

I admire their work and am confident I would fit in with these guys. I'm moderately good at training dogs, after all, so maybe I could get a job as the Border Collie trainer! It's settled, then: I will move to wherever these fellas are located and join them as a Baa Stud-ette.

I just hope they're not under a hiring freeze.

Where did we go wrong?

I've had a lot of time to think over the past couple days, being between jobs again and all. Looking at my two dogs, I just have to ask myself: Where did we go wrong, Sparki?

Compare:

Emma



Sparki

Bring Your Dog to Work Day

My office allows you to bring your dog in to work with you. I thought this was a great idea, and decided to spice up office life a little by bringing in one of my little idiots.

I have two little idiots to choose from:
Sparki
A 14 year old Jack Russell Terrier with bad teeth, inclassifiable old man lumps, a genetically defective hip, and a bad knee. He loves people, and would probably lick a robber to death, but because of his traumatic puppyhood, he hates all dogs. That is, all dogs except...



Emma
A 2 year old Rat Terrier with limitless energy, the ears of a fruit bat, and a mildly sensitive stomach. She is the product of Jess's sister's unspayed dog's one night stand with a stray of indeterminate breed. She's shy around new people and dogs and sometimes hides behind me or Jess, like a four year old would hide behind their father as he talks to strangers in the hardware store.


It was a hard decision. On one hand, I shouldn't bring Emma because she hates riding in the car. On the other, Sparki shouldn't come because he would attack the other dogs there, and there was a big boxer down the hall. The latter could be more trouble, so I decided to bring Emma.

Luckily, there was no vomit during the car ride. That was a huge plus. When we arrived, she was eager to get out of the car. In the building, however, she was extremely cautious. She slowed down before turning every corner, and if anyone was walking in the hallway, she barked at them as if to say, "Where am I and who the hell are you?!" Already, it was going well.

We got to the office and I set up her bed, food, and water. I let her explore a little, figuring she would settle down in her bed after a thorough sniff. After all, she usually sleeps all morning. But no, she did not settle down. I didn't want her roaming around the office and getting into trouble, so I used a giant white board that had yet to be nailed to the wall to gate off my office. That was when she started to whine...

...and also when my boss came in.

"Where's your dog, I don't see him," he said, looking right at her. Clearly, he's one of those people that a) assumes all dogs are male, and b) thinks that dogs under 45lbs are not real dogs.

"Her name is Emma - she's in her bed," I said, already peeved.

"Ohhh," he said with a look of snarky bemusement. He followed it up with, "You know, if you moved out here, you could have the space for a real dog." Awesome. I didn't even know how to respond to that, so I kind of just rolled my eyes as if to say, "oh you, you kidder you!" He left my office doorway, mumbling something like "small dogs are ridiculous" and I imagined Emma's stuffed anteater hitting him square in the ass with a "honk." (I don't know why the stuffed anteater honks. I don't even know what noise, if any, an anteater makes, but I'm pretty sure it's not "honk").

After my boss left, Emma desperately wanted to play. I hadn't even started my work day yet, so unfortunately, playing with honking anteaters were not on my list of things to do. I gave her a rawhide bone so she'd have something to keep her busy, but the poor thing just looked at me like "why are were here, mom? This place sucks!" I returned her gaze in complete agreement and sighed.

The day continued, and Emma was bored out of her mind. She behaved - there was no more whining - but I could tell she was...well...troubled by her temporary location. What did we learn today? I will not bring either dog to work again because:

1. My boss is a douche.
   
2. Flutopia is deathly boring to most living things. Furthermore, I should find another job.