jennsylvania

Sell Out

The bad news?

The Sixteen Candles event has already sold out.  Thanks to everyone who signed up and I'll see you in March!  For those who missed out, I'm really sorry.  None of us involved in setting up the event had any idea the seats would go so quickly.

The good news?

Here's a shot of my nemesis, The Beard.

Googly eyes - they're not just for craft projects anymore!

Granted, Fletch isn't all ZZ Top yet, but that's only because it's been a month since he stopped shaving.  Ladies, DO NOT LET YOUR HUSBANDS TRY THIS AT HOME.

Anyway, the best news?

I'm doing a book giveaway tomorrow, so hope to see you then!

 

I Don't Like Your Beard

I'm on book deadline. 

Again.

That's why I haven't been around here much.  Sorry about that.  I have a very short period in which to get this one done so by the time I hit my goal every day, the last thing in the world I want to do is sit at my computer any more. 

(Fortunately I bought a fancy chair a few books back.  The first three memoirs were written on this stupid wooden IKEA desk chair that didn't bend, flex, swivel, or give in any way.  Hate that chair.  Hate that chair SO MUCH.  Yet when I finally got an Aeron, Fletch wouldn't let me throw Ol' Woody away, claiming that someday it would go in the Jen Lancaster Museum, next to my Barbie head and good burying shovel.)

(I am currently unaware of any pending museum plans.)

(I think he may have been drinking when he mentioned it.)

Anyway, in my last post, a couple of things were going on - I was deeply engrossed in a stupid hidden object game and I didn't have a new literary agent.  Now I have a fine new literary agent and I'm still deeply engrossed in a stupid hidden object game only now I'm on Level 32.  (Am very impressed with my own ability to find hidden lotus flowers and yachts.)

What else?

Fletch has grown a beard so I've been quite busy actively hating it for a couple of weeks now.

Dogs are fine.  Libby ran off with a chicken breast while Fletch was cleaning out the fridge yesterday and I'm pretty sure that was the greatest day of her entire life.

Speaking of meat, I've become a pescetarian.  Kind of a long story and there's no payoff to it, save for the fact that my hair seems shinier and I sweat less. 

Also?  There are those who believe deeply detailed blog posts about the new way they've been eating are interesting. 

They are wrong. 

I've discovered Downton Abbey and I cannot shut my piehole about it.  If you're not watching it, you're missing out on one of the best shows ever produced.  Everyone says the show is costume porn, but they are mistaken.  Actually, it's antiques porn.  Please know I would kill every one of you to possess the flower show trophy.  (No offense.)

Cats are fine.

Relatively speaking.

When last I updated about the New Girls, no one was getting along and I hadn't been able to mainstream the Girls into the rest of the household.

The level of animosity between both groups has since escalated from that of the Bloods and Crips to those of the Israelis and the Palestinians.  And our house is the Gaza strip.  Not sure which side is going nuclear yet, but it's going to happen.  Bank on that. 

So I'm kind of like the UN here (except, you know, effective) and I've made sure that the cats are happily living separate lives in different sections of the house.  The only thing is sometimes the Thundercats get all SEAL TEAM SIX and rush the doors to where the New Girls live, so I've taken to hissing every time I put my hand on a doorknob.  This precaution is actually working quite nicely, except now it's kind of a bad habit and I've since frightened the FedEx guy.

I think that's it, unless you want to know more, oh so much more, about the pre-made honey-teriyaki sea bass I particularly enjoy.

(My guess is no.)

Please tune in later this week because I'll be making some fun announcements about a couple of book events you won't (I hope) want to miss as well as doing at least one book giveaway!

And I may post a photo of Fletch's new beard.

If I don't shave it off in the night first.

Sucks To Be You, 2011

I keep running across blog posts and tweets and articles summarizing last year, all of which can be condensed into three words:

2011 Blew Goats

That's pretty much my assessment, too. 

Having lived through far more difficult times, I can't say that 2011 was my Worst. Year. Ever. but it definitely ranks in the top five, possibly the top three, at least in terms of stress and annoyances and situations going sideways. 

Seeing how we experienced three hundred and sixty-five days of illness (both of human and pet variety), professional catastrophes (oh, hi, one third of all bookstores closing), and overall worst case scenarios, I planned to ignore the holidays and start fresh in January. 

I decided we'd skip decorating/baking/shopping/entertaining and all the other assorted bits of holiday frippery because I just couldn't get behind putting a bow on the shit sandwich that was 2011.

I was resolved.

Fletch was not.

He insisted we give this awful year a Viking funeral, setting it all on fire and sending it out to sea. 

I'm not sure how, exactly, but the nihilist/cynic I married somehow morphed into the unholy love child of Martha Stewart and Clark W. Griswold, playing the Bing Crosby Christmas channel 24/7 while slapping lights, pine boughs, and glitter on every item in this house that didn't move.

And he even managed to decorate those items that did move.

(It's hard to look noble while wearing jingle bells, but Loki pulls it off.)

(Shame.  Now in convenient hat form.)

And then he made me invite house guests and helped throw a dinner party.

(That's Fletch in the argyle socks and red vest, the front of which matches the dogs' collars.  Oh, yes, it does.)

(Clearly discussing the fish I caught with the ladies.)

(Best stalker/house guest ever!)

And in so doing all of the above, Fletch managed to take one of the most hateful years on record and turned it into the best week ever.

Like I said, I have no idea how he did it, but I sure do appreciate it.

So what I'm saying, 2012, is that Fletch is running the show now so you'd better represent.

Or this guy's going to go all 2011 on your asses.

(Full of Christmas spirit or batshit, bugfuck, banana sandwich crazy?  2012, I wouldn't take my chances if I were you.)

The Photo Weiner Should Have Been Tweeting

First, hat tip to my friend Quinn for describing what really makes the average woman over the age of 25 dewy-eyed.

Seriously, is this not the hottest thing you've ever seen?

 
Here's Fletch voluntarily mopping dog pee off the porch because it needed to be done.

RAWR.

Mr. Fletcher's Bad, Bad Day

How to Make Fletch Apoplectic in a Few Easy Steps:

1.  Discover eBay and spend two weeks spite-bidding on a bunch of random, delicate, heavily-packaged items.

2.  Accidentally win every single auction, due to aforementioned spite bidding.

3.  Attempt to open a box of one of the shipped items with a spoon.  (Hey, it was the most handy pointy thing.)

4.  Be so excited about all the random, delicate items deeply ensconced in packing peanuts that you simply abandon the empty husks of boxes all over the kitchen. 

5.  Completely forget about the packing peanuts while you arrange your snappy new vintage trophies and old timey football helmets and cleats.

6.  Have Fletch fill one entire garbage can with all the packing peanuts.

7.  Accidentally knock over said garbage can in your haste to get to Lowes to buy geraniums while it's sunny.

8.  Return home to find packing peanuts spread over 1.2 acres, prompting you to ask, "Did it hail or something?"

9.  Bray like a jackass upon discovering those thousands of little green and white blobs are free-range Styrofoam and then wish Fletch a Happy Earth Day.

10.  KABOOM.

Fortunately, Fletch managed to calm himself down yesterday by playing with his new pressure washer.  While he attacked the stubborn spots on the patio, I was inside arranging Easter baskets.  I heard a big crash coming from the vicinity of the laundry room, but I assumed it was cat-related since Libby was sitting nicely beside me.

Twenty minutes later, I was getting ready to go out to dinner with my friend Karyn.  Fletch came in and said, "We have a problem."

I rolled my eyes.  "Don't want to hear about the peanuts again, thanks.  We'll deal with them later."  (And by "we" I meant "him" or possibly "the wind.")  (Happy Earth Day, indeed.) 

Fletch looked oddly serious.  "Um, no.  Loki fell into the window well."

"What??"  I leap out of my seat and begin following Fletch toward the kitchen well.  "Is he okay?"

"He seems to be fine.  The issue is I don't know how to get him out."

Possessing a rich personal history of getting stuck in stupid places, I immediately knew what to do.  So we went down to the basement and this is what we found:

 
"Huh," I said.  "I see you found a spot to store all my boxes from eBay."

Then I stopped talking as to not further encourage him to have an aneurysm.  So I started filming.  Here's part one of the rescue:

 

Once the boxes were moved, we had to deal with the window:

 

Loki was wet and dirty from having been in the woods then the pool, but otherwise none the worse for wear.  After Fletch gave him a thorough once-over, we pulled him out of the window where he immediately began wrestling the other dogs with extra enthusiasm.

What's odd is at no point did Loki panic or get upset at having fallen into the window well.  He just sat there quietly, most likely because his mind was absolutely blown.  "One minute I was looking for a rabbit and then next?  Alternate universe, man.  Whoa." 

For Loki, I figure the experience was like when the cleaning ladies accidentally shut the cats in the closet when they close the doors to vacuum.  The cats just assume they've died, and although they feel safe and comfortable, they're probably a little bummed that the afterlife smells like my shoes.

Again, Loki is absolutely fine and we're grateful.  This could have ended a lot differently. And  Loki's been in an exceptionally good mood since then, too.  He does this weird little pant thing that we learned about on an animal show - essentially, it means the dog is laughing.  Loki laughed all night.

"So our dog fell into a window well," Fletch said later.  "Like Baby Jessica.  Once again, and despite our best efforts, we're still manage to be the most white trash family up here."

"Oh, honey, animals fall through these things all the time.  We'll just have to get a new cover that's more reinforced.  That doesn't make us white trash at all," I replied.

"Maybe you're right," he grudgingly admitted.

I replied, "But the lawn full of packing peanuts?  That's another story."

The Drawer of Shame and Other Assorted Oddities

Fletch and I have a love/hate relationship with infomercials – he hates them and I love them. 

For me, I pretty much want whatever product they’re pitching.  When I used to roll home after the bar closed in college, I’d watch infomercials until dawn because I was powerless to turn them off.  A special paint brush that reaches those hard to reach corners?  The fruit dehydrator?  Susan Powter urging me to stop the insanity?  A tonic used to straighten black women’s hair that's so non-toxic you can actually taste it without dying?  The Principal Secret?  OMG, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes!!

I imagine that because I was young, drunk, and more than a tad stupid, I was the target market for these infomercial makers.  Unfortunately I’d maxed my credit cards years previous, so I was never liquid enough to actually purchase treasures such as the Roli Poli storage containers.  (Storage containers!  That ROLL!!)

As for Fletch, between the terrible acting and the exaggerated incompetence, he feels infomercials are an insult to everyone’s intelligence.  So now I love infomercials even more because watching Fletch get mad is always funny. 

“Who can’t crack an egg?” he’ll fume. 

“Blankets aren’t that complicated!  And it's just a backwards robe, you idiot!” 

“Seriously?  They can’t peel a cucumber without stabbing themselves?  Seriously?” 

“Oh, noes!  I can’t work this Saran Wrap!  Look at my butter–fingers!  Somebody help me!”

This leads us to Tuesday night where we’ve just finished a lovely dinner of flank steaks wrapped with spinach, prosciutto, and provolone cheese.  The kitchen TV is on and we’re both mesmerized by the Chef’s Basket.  Fletch is busy barking at the people who can’t boil a potato without incident while I’m busy imagining all the potatoes I’ll finally be able to boil without incident. 

At no point do either of us notice that our eighteen year old cat Jordan has climbed onto the dinner table.  I hear a quiet om-nom-nom in the near vicinity, but it doesn’t really register because the dogs’ dishes are right behind us and, my God!  The Chef’s Basket handles stay cool to the touch!  Finally I’ll stop burning my hands whenever I go near the stove!

So it’s not until the commercial ends that we realize the cat’s not only on the table, but she’s also just ingested the nine inch loop of butcher’s string that had held my flank steak together while cooking.

Son of a bitch.

“Did she…” I gasp, lifting my plate to find evidence of the string.  “She couldn’t…”

But she had and she did and she was currently smacking her smug, self-satisfied feline chops as though the string were particularly tasty.

Mind you, I’ve spent the last eighteen years trying to keep this stupid cat from eating string knowing the havoc it would play on her delicate digestive system.  I’m so careful that I don’t even throw dental floss in the trash.  I wait until I’m ready to take the garbage out and then I collect the used bits I'd stashed in my nightstand. 

(Sidenote:  I almost always forget to do this and Fletch won’t go near my nightstand because it’s a huge tangled knot of old floss, headbands, uncapped lip balms, free range antacids, and those tiny silica packets found in shoe boxes for some odd reason.  Fletch calls it my Drawer of Shame.)

Fletch is a quicker thinker than I am, so while I pace and try to convince the cat to barf, he consults the emergency vet and the internet.

“Good news,” he tells me, hanging up the phone.  “This isn’t such a big deal.  We don’t have to bring her to the ER.  All we need is a tablespoon of Vaseline.”

I run to the medicine cabinet to locate a tub.  I grab a handful of goo and return to the kitchen. 

“Okay, so what end do I put this in?” I ask.

Fletch scowls while I wrestle Jordan into position.  “Her mouth, you ninny.  You put it in her mouth.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” I scoff.  “I’ve never lubed a cat before.”

“You think I have??”

Noted.

And that's when Fletch and I learn a valuable lesson about mass – whereas you might think two hundred pounds of husband could control six pounds of ancient cat, you would be wrong.

So very wrong. 

We continue to struggle with her, but I can’t get the Vaseline anywhere near her mouth.  I do, however, get it in my mouth, as well as my hair and my ear and all over the counter, all of which blends nicely with the blood gushing from our fresh clawmarks.

“Shit, now what?” I ask.

“Well, according to the doc, if we can’t get it in her mouth, we put tiny dabs on her paws and she’ll ingest it when she cleans her feet.”

So I slather my handfuls on her front feet.  Jordan bolts away from us, but not before splattering every cabinet in the kitchen with Vaseline when she shakes her paws before escaping to the laundry room.

“That didn’t work,” I wail.

“What part of ‘dabs’ did you not understand?” he replies.

At this point, Jordan is beyond upset, but for her own good, we have to get this stuff in her.  So I rub her whole front down with Vaseline and to make it more appetizing, follow it up with some delicious Danish butter.  Then, for good measure, I apply some of the pan drippings from our dinner.  Her fur stands up in glistening chunks and spikes, giving her the appearance of Pauly D. before an evening of fist-pumping at Karma. 

But Jordan, unlike the rest of the Jersey Shore crew, is not up for GTL nor is she DTF.  Instead, takes off for my closet and spends the rest of the evening RAMCLS (Rubbing Against My Clean Lacoste Shirts.)

Fletch brings her to the vet for an X-ray and a bath the next morning.  I have him go because the last time I visited this particular vet, I’d brought in our other elderly cat Tucker to determine whether or not he was a date rapist.  (He is.)

Long story short, our efforts worked and Jordan’s fine.  Due to our diligent efforts at greasing her up, things… passed smoothly and without incident. 

However, the vet says the kind of bath he’d have to give her would be too traumatic so we have to rely on a combination of time and pet wipes to get her fur back to normal.  For now, she’s our little Exxon Valdez, leaving an angry trail of oil slicks wherever she goes.

So I guess what I’m saying is that if anyone knows of a good infomercial product to degrease the cat, I’m all ears.

(Also?  This is why we don’t have kids.)

This Month's Humor Hotel Column - Losing the Battle of the Sexes

I married a man who isn't afraid to wash a dish, scrub a toilet or have his unibrow waxed into submission by a licensed professional.

That's not because my husband, Fletcher, is so in touch with his feminine side, spending inordinate amounts of time sharing his feeeeelings over pints of Ben & Jerry's. Rather, we're fairly egalitarian with household duties and don't always subscribe to traditional gender roles. For example, I'm the primary breadwinner and he rarely watches televised sports or scratches himself inappropriately.

So, when the time came to paint the old dresser I've been storing in a damp basement for the past decade, I decided to do it myself.

Until I saw the spider.

Correction: spiders.

That's when I turned into a prototypical '50s sitcom wife, tottering around helplessly as though deeply encumbered by heels, a frilly apron and the right to vote. I outsourced the job to my husband, who seemed rather pleased to have a project that didn't entail fabric softener or a bottle of Mr. Clean.

"This will take, what two or three days?" I asked. "We've got leftover paint from the cabinets and a couple of brushes, so we should be all set."

Oh, if it were only that easy.

What I didn't realize at the time was that in tasking my husband with "man's work," I awoke a sleeping giant.

Before he could even begin to envision slapping a few coats on the dresser, he had to ready his workshop. Clearly the basement was too dusty for paint to properly adhere, which necessitated the purchase of an enormous, expensive shop vac.

After his workspace was sterile enough to perform your garden-variety tracheotomy, he realized he didn't have enough places to set things down. I suggested perhaps he use the now-immaculate floor. He laughed, yet I wasn't joking.

Instead, he invested in a hammer drill to hang studs on the concrete basement walls. Then he mounted pegboards on the studs and loaded them up with tools artfully displayed by make, size, and shape. Dissatisfied with his handiwork, he took all the tools down to paint the pegboards. My suggestion of, "Why not hit the dresser while you've got the brushes out?" fell on deaf ears.

Workshop complete, Fletch disassembled the dresser and began to sand. He didn't care for the job the orbital sander did, declaring the need for a disc sander.

"How much does that cost?" I asked.

"You can't put a price on a job well done," he said.

"Um, when it's a $50 dresser you can."

But the disc sander worked well. In fact, it worked so well that Fletch smoothed out some parts meant to stay pointy, which required the purchase of a table saw.

"You need a saw? To paint?" I demanded.

"All part of the process," he assured me, while lovingly assembling a machine costing roughly the same amount as my first year of college.

"Wait a minute," I said, recalling the dismemberment stories he'd shared about his father, uncles, and maternal and paternal grandfathers. "Don't you come from a long line of nine-fingered Fletchers?"

"Everyone gets 10. That way you have some extras," he replied.

To date, he's forked out more than $2,000 on this project and that's without factoring in the cost of three weeks' labor. For a dresser that's still in a dozen pieces and has yet to see a single drop of primer.

I suspect this has all been an elaborate ruse to get out of doing laundry.

Next time? I'm just going to paint over the spiders myself.

COPYRIGHT ©2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

UPDATE FROM WHEN I WROTE THIS ON 2/18:

The dresser isn't done but the good news is we now own a jigsaw and some kind of industrial hairdryer that removes veneer and makes the house smell like a campfire. 

At this point, the project has morphed into absurdist performance art and the finished dresser is Godot. 

And Godot is never coming. 

But Fletch did fold some laundry last night.  So there's that.

Forty-Two Candles

Sometimes my Twitters require a visual aid, so here goes...

Me:  You look like Jake Ryan today.

Fletch:  Yeah?

Me: (squinting) Well, sort of.  Actually, you look like Jake Ryan if he was twenty-five years older and after a bender.

Fletch:  In other words, I look like Vince Vaughn.

"You say Vince Vaughn like it's a bad thing."

Now we're going to have birthday cake. 

But we're probably going to sit at the table, not on it. 

Hi, Honey, I'm Home

The house reeks of bourbon, there's no food in the fridge, and all my plants are dead.

I'm not going to hit him with a frying pan, but I did just change my password.

Viva la Jennsylvania!

A Tale Of Two Dogs

For years we wondered exactly what kind of dogs we have.  Because they're from a shelter, they didn't come with any breed information other than what was guessed by volunteers.  I mean, sure, we could tell a lot about Maisy and Loki's heritage from their looks and their proclivities, but we didn't really have any concrete proof of their ancestry.

We always wanted to do a doggie DNA test but wondered how to go about this - would we find a testing facility on the internet?  Bring them to our vet?  Go on the Maury Povich show? 

We planned to do the test years ago but we were broke and even spending a dime on something so silly was out of the question.  The good news is that the prices have come down since we initially looked and now kits are available in many pet stores.  All the owner needs to do is take two samples from the back of the dog's mouth and send them in to the lab for analysis in a handy pre-paid envelope.

Naturally, this chore proved easier on Loki than Maisy.  While Loki stood there and panted obediently as we swabbed his gums, Maisy reacted as though we were trying to stuff a live snake in her maw. 

I'd expect nothing less from her.

Maisy's results came in first.  I always knew she was mostly pit bull, probably American Pit Bull Terrier specifically, but I figured she had to have something else mixed in, maybe some English Bulldog or possibly even a touch of Beagle or Jack Russel.  She's a little on the small side and she's got a wicked underbite, so didn't quite conform to some of the APBT breed's standards.

Turns out Maisy is 100% American bulldog, which is a type of pit bull that's directly descended from the English bulldog.  This neatly explains why Maisy's stockier (read: fatter) than the garden variety APBT or American Staffordshire Terrier and why she has all those kissable face wrinkles.  It also accounts for why she's so strong, so sweet, and so damn stubborn.

Loki's results took a bit longer because there was some confusion on my email address.  While we waited in anticipation, we couldn't help but speculate on his parentage.  Would the tests show exactly how much wolf we believed he had in him?  Or could his lupine tendencies be better explained by traces of Husky or Akita?  Naturally he'd have tons of Shepherd in him because he's a dead ringer for their body type.  I mean, just google images of "black German Shepherd" and every single one of them looks exactly like Loki.

Finally I received the email telling us our results were ready.

"Fletch, Fletch!  Get in here!  We got his results!" I shouted down the hallway.  Fletch dashed into my office and hovered over my shoulder.  "Okay, I've got to put in our last name here and plug in his sample number here... and... here we go!"

The test form displays what breeds are associated with the dog from minor (meaning 12.5%) to significant (meaning more than 50%.)  The more a dog has of a specific breed, the larger and lower-down the label is displayed on the heritage grid.  As the test found nothing but American Bulldog in Maisy's ancestry, her parentage was displayed as a big button on the bottom of the screen.

The first thing we noticed once our grid was populated was that Loki didn't have any significant heritage, which was kind of a shock as we figured him for at least 50% Shepherd.

Actually, the bigger shock was that the test found no traces of Shepherd whatsoever.

We weren't prepared for what it did find.

"No.  NO.  That can't be right," Fletch exclaimed, glowering at the screen.

"Okay, now you really do sound like one of those guys on Maury Povich's show.  DNA doesn't lie, honey," I replied.  "That's why it's such a popular daytime television topic."

"But it's impossible," he gasped, staring at the screen.  "Seriously, it is NOT POSSIBLE."

"Fletch, he's still the same dog regardless of what this test says.  This changes nothing.  He's still funny and sweet and will bark his head off protecting us from every squirrel in the neighborhood."

Fletch was steadfast.  "I want another test."

"Oh, please.  Paying for one test is fine.  Paying for a second test is ridiculous," I countered.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.  "Fine," he conceded.  "Maybe I could see a little Labrador in him, even though he hates the water and refuses to retrieve anything." 

True enough.  Just try to toss something to Loki and see what happens.  Loki will simply stand there and be all, "Hey, look at you, throwing that thing in which I have no interest."  For a while we wondered if he had bad depth perception and started tossing toys right to his face.  Tennis balls would bounce off his snout and then he'd get upset because he thought we were mad at him.  (We don't try to play fetch any more.)

"What I refuse to accept," Fletch continued, "is that he's a quarter POODLE.  Poodle!  This dog is not a poodle!"

"Look on the bright side.  Maybe he's not a Lab and a Poodle.  Maybe he's a Labradoodle like the people next door own.  Perhaps that means we should buy him some sweatshirts with his name embroidered on them, too."  Then I collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Fletch eventually stalked off, spending the rest of the night researching how DNA tests can be inconclusive. 

The thing is, at least 50% of Loki's parentage is unknown.  The test people say that some of this could be attributed to his last three generations being mixed breeds and some might be because the test doesn't cover every breed, particularly if that breed happens to be a wolf.  And there was some confusion about my email address, so it's entirely possible that some poor purebred owner is demanding a refund based on Loki's results.  But if that's the case, I don't want to know because the notion of him being a Labradoodle is too hilarious.

Seriously, I've been laughing about our "new" Labradoodle for weeks.  Actually, I love that Loki had a completely unexpected DNA test.  I swear to you that this dog has a sense of humor and were he capable of pulling a prank, this is exactly the kind of thing he'd do.

A couple of nights ago I was looking at Cute Overload and they had video of dogs howling.  I pressed PLAY and cranked the volume on my speakers to see what Loki would do.  Then I started to google different dog howls to see how Loki might react to each of them.  Off and on, Loki would bay and bark.  Fletch heard all the noise in my office and up to investigate. 

"Look up 'wolf howl' and see what he does," Fletch demanded.

So I googled 'Labradoodle howl' and played it. 

Loki completely lost his shit.

"See?  See how he reacted to the wolves?"  Fletch said.

"Yeah," I agreed.  "Except those were Labradoodles."

"Don't be cute.  Try it again and do a wolf this time," he demanded.

So I googled 'Labradoodle' again.

Same reaction.

Fletch got (adorably) righteously indignant.  "I'm serious!  Pull up 'wolf cub howling.'"

So I pulled up 'Labradoodle puppies howling' and Loki went crazy.  I couldn't suppress my laughter and that's when Fletch stepped behind my computer and did his own google-searching. 

He played 'wolf howling' and... nothing.

He tried again.  No reaction. 

He tried a third time, evoking nothing but a few staccato bursts of farts from Maisy.  (American Bulldogs are a particularly farty breed.)

Fletch said Loki was probably just too tired to react, so I played the Labradoodles again and Loki - with his impeccable comedic timing - completely mimicked the video dog's cry, causing Fletch to skulk off, grumbling about shopping for embroidered sweatshirts.

Then Loki stretched and yawned on the bed across from where I sat at the computer.

And I swear that bastard winked at me.

 
  
"I am not a frigging Labradoodle.  But I would take a sweatshirt."

Fletcher's Choice: Like Sophie's Choice But Without All The Nazis - UPDATED

Setting:  My kitchen, twenty minutes ago.

Fletch:  Do these new gym shorts shorts look okay?

Me: (not looking because I'm busy making coffee) They're fine.

Fletch:  How about the shirt?  It's new, too.

Me: (pouring, not looking) S'fine. (adding cream and Splenda, then glancing at clock) Hey, it's already 8:30.  How are you going to work out and then have enough time to get to your 10:15 facial? 

Fletch:  Shit, is that this morning?  And I thought I didn't have to go until 11:15.  Are you sure?

Me:  Yep.  I wrote it in my calendar when I booked it for you.

Fletch:  Damn. (sighing deeply and glancing down at his snappy new ensemble) I guess I have to skip the gym.

Me:  Okay, then.  I'm going to go back upstairs to write my column.

* * *

I'd now like to break this scene down for you.  Please note the following:

I am not the one dressed in a snappy new gym outfit.

I am making and serving my own coffee.

I am not only booking his appointments but also apparently managing his calendar.

I will be busy working while he has a spa treatment.

Now you all know how much I adore him, but let's be honest... this man is not a good assistant.

But with a little effort, he could be an excellent trophy wife.

UPDATE:  He just called to see what I'd like him to buy for lunch.  Now that's more like it.

UPDATE, PART II:  He came home empty-handed because the line at Jimmy John's was too long.  I swear to you that some day these posts just write themselves.

In Case There Was Any Doubt...

... this is why we're jerks.

jen @ home:  Just read on the crime blotter that two guys in the neighborhood were arguing and a third guy came up and stabbed one of them in the thigh.  And I couldn't help but wonder, 'Hey, what's Agent Jack Bauer doing in Logan Square?'

fletch @ work:  What about this part?  'One man is in critical condition after being stabbed in the chest at Illinois Masonic.'  I knew it wasn't a great hospital, but now they stab people there?

jen @ home:  Sometimes stabbing is funny.

fletch @ work:  Yeah.

I suspect the bad karma we generate is exactly why we haven't found house to buy outside of this stabby neighborhood.

(But it's still a little bit funny.)

Watch This Space

Tomorrow I'll be posting an exciting announcement, one that's:

A) been years in the making

and

B) could win you an early autographed copy of My Fair Lazy.

(Some of you have emailed me to speculate on if I might be pregnant.  So let me just ask this - is it raining toads where you live?  Have the rivers turned to blood?  Are you suddenly infested with boils and covered in flies?  Then no, I'm not expecting.)

Anyway, I can't just demand you watch this space and give you nothing in return, so here's a photo of some of the famous people who attended my '80s party this weekend.

"That's right, Thomas Magnum... I am dangerous."

So, please sit tight until tomorrow.

Now I'm off to explain to Fletch why he can't work the flight jacket and cowboy boots into his everyday rotation.

The Evolution Of A Bad Idea

10:15 PM - Hmm, getting late.  I should get ready for bed.

10:30 PM - Hmm, getting even later.  I should get ready for bed.

10:45 PM - Someone on the internet is mistaken and I must express my displeasure with many upper-case letters and exclamation points.

11:00 PM - It's really not getting any earlier, is it?

11:10 PM - Nightly skin inspection in bathroom mirror.  Not perfect, but not bad for my age/lifestyle/aversion to sunscreen.

11:11 PM - Hey, what would happen if I used a magnifying mirror during my inspection?

11:12 PM - SWEET JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!

11:13 PM - Re-inspect by light of bedside lamp.  Ah, all better.

11:14 PM - But what if I put in a brighter bulb?

11:15 PM - IS FURRY BEAST!  KILL IT!  KIIIIIIIIL IT!

11:16 PM - "What do you think I'm doing?  I'm looking at my skin in this mirror.  And I've either got to wax this mustache or start giving rides on it, ha ha!"

11:16 PM - "What do you mean, 'I don't think that expression means what you think it means'?"

11:17 PM -  Oh.  Then that man at Target with the "Free Mustache Rides" logo was wearing a very dirty shirt.

11:18 PM - "Then I would like to amend my previous statement.  I need to wax this mustache or learn to twirl it, ha ha!"

11:19 PM - I should tweeze this thing.

11:20 PM - I should find my tweezers.

11:21 PM - Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

11:22 PM - Screw this.  I need a professional waxing.  Must make an appointment.

11:25 PM - Can't.  Stop.  Fondling.  Mustache.

11:30  PM - Fine, I'll do the goddamned thing myself.

11:40 PM - Can't find new tub of wax I purchased for just this very occasion, so locate old container.  Is very old.  Is possibly the exact same tub that Moses's wife used to remove her unwanted facial hair.  (Desert light is unforgiving.)

11:41 PM - But it's wax.  It's not like it could go bad, right?

11:42 PM - "I'm not 'banging around and keeping you awake.'  I'm doing something important."

11:43 PM - Microwaving.

11:44 PM - Microwaving.

11:45 PM - Microwaving.

11:46 PM - Microwaving.

11:47 PM - I think my microwave may be broken.

11:48 PM - Ah, there we go.

11:49 PM - I don't have a stick, so I'll just use my finger to stir this hot, molten lava.

11:50 PM - "Well, what do you expect?  I just seared off my own fingerprint!"

11:51 PM - Blow and cool.  Use damaged digit to spread wax liberally on my Tom Selleck.

11:52 PM - Wait for wax to harden so can pull off unsightly hairs in one (briefly painful) fell swoop.

11:53 PM - Is not hardening.

11:54 PM - Is not hardening.

11:55 PM - Is not hardening.  Is sitting on upper lip in a big, sticky blob.

11:56 PM - Begin to tentatively peel off wax millimeter by millimeter.  (Hate metric system.)

11:57 PM - Is like removing chewing gum from underneath cafeteria table, only ouchy.

11:57 PM - Hurty.

11:58 PM - Hurty.

11:59 PM - So very hurty.

12:00 AM - Use sticky bits of already-peeled wax to slowly pry off other gummy bits. 

12:01 AM - Oh, yeah, this is WAY better than waiting nine hours to pay a professional ten dollars to handle this in five seconds.

12:02 AM - The good news is the hair is coming off. 

12:03 AM -  The bad news is, so is my skin.

12:04 AM -  How mad will he be if I wake him up to help me?

12:05 AM -  On second thought, he'd be mad for a second, but the mocking would last a lifetime.  Must cowboy-up and finish job myself.

12:06 AM - ...And it's finally off! 

12:07 AM - Except for those small, tacky bits with the Kleenex stuck to them.

12:08 AM - I know, I'll use baby oil.  That gets rid of sticky stuff.

12:09 AM - Hmm, I don't have a baby oil.  Instead opt for canola oil.  (Is hearty-healthy.)

12:10 AM - Wax is off, now to remove oil.  Need toner.

12:11 AM - But tossed out toner after that whole "who thought it was a good idea to make this stuff the exact same shade of blue as the nail polish remover?" incident.

12:12 AM - Will use Fletch's toner.  Quietly.

12:13 AM -  !!!

12:14 AM - "WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN 'GLYCOLIC ACID' IN BIGGER PRINT ON THE BOTTLE!"

12:15 AM - Probably should plan to make an "I'm sorry I got shouty after midnight mousse" tomorrow.

12:16 AM - Inspect skin in magnifying mirror by light of new bulb.  Hair is gone, but lip is swollen in manner of Simpson's character.

12:17 AM - So this is what I'd look like if I had the capability of growing a big, red fu-manchu mustache.  Noted.

12:18 AM - In retrospect, perhaps "learn to twirl it" wasn't such a bad idea.

12:19 AM - Is really late.  Must get ready for bed.

12:20 AM - I wonder if anyone else on the internet is wrong?

Crisis Averted

My office is on the second floor and that's where I tend to spend most of the workday.  Because it's located an entire flight of stairs from the filtered water on the fridge door, I find myself going thirsty rather than taking the trek to the kitchen.

Yes, I understand exactly how lazy this is. 

(Do I need to remind anyone of how I once considered hiding a bucket in the first floor pantry in the old house rather than climbing twelve stairs to the bathroom?) 

(Fletch wouldn't let me, by the way.)

Anyway, I came up with a rather elegant solution.  I would buy a case of water and store it upstairs, thus I would never get thirsty to the point of dizziness again!  Genius! 

(Granted, a little bit pathetic, but mostly genius!)

I bought the water, brought it upstairs, and deposited it on the counter in the guest bathroom, where it remained in the way for the next few days.  Because this bath is right next to my office, I tend to favor it over the master bath which is a good twenty paces down the hall. 

(Y'all are noticing a theme here, aren't you?)

I kept having to work around the bulky case when I brushed my teeth, washed my face, etc. so I needed to find a place to store it.  I could bring it down to the laundry room off the master bedroom, but then I'd have to do all that rearranging to make it fit in the cabinet.

Turns out the solution to my problem was right next to me.  I drew back the shower curtain in front of the unused guest tub and placed the case in there, spic, span, and out of the way.  Plus, I figured, if anything happened to one of the bottles, leaking water would go directly down the drain.  Again, genius!

When Fletch got home, I proudly whipped open the curtain to show him where I'd stashed the water. 

He slowly looked from the case to me.  After a long pause, he finally said, "So... you've decided to store stuff in an empty tub.  Congratulations, you've just taken the first step to seeing yourself on Hoarders in twenty years."

Yeah.  I moved the bottles.