jennsylvania

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.

I Love Lamp

Good morning!

This photo has no bearing on what I'm writing next.  I just really wanted to share the awesome that is the $10 milk frother I bought.  I'm so quick to complain about what I don't like that I often forget to document what I do, so I'm making a point to post this.

Seriously, look at this cup! 

It's foamy! 

It's magnificent! 

I feel like I'm having my morning coffee in Italy... if Italy were a filthy home office littered with cat toys.

Speaking of cats, I wanted to share the success we've had integrating Patsy and Edina into our household. 

Ha!

Honestly?  I'm beginning to understand why they were longtime shelter residents.  They are... not terribly nice.  These two are all, "Come for the biting, stay for the hissing, swatting, and shaking in impotent rage!"

(Spoiler alert: Don't worry - they're here for the long haul and nothing bad happens.) 

(Of course, Mr. Fletcher Bleedyhands would beg to differ about something bad happening.)

Anyway, we've been following every bit of advice I could find in regard to introducing new cats to a multiple pet household.  For the first week, they were completely separated in their own room.  I'd hang out with them and we'd all watch Real Housewives on Bravo together.  They seem to dig me.  (And NeNe, for that matter.)  I'd bring the same quilt into and out of the room so the ladies would become familiar with the scents of the other cats and dogs.

BTW, here's a shot of Patsy.  It's kind of blurry and awful (as per my usual) but you can get a peek of how blue-eyed and wide-caboosed she is:

And here's Eddie with the one thing she loves in this world - the lampshade:

She spends hours every day nuzzling and licking it.  I don't get it.

Last week my dad was here, so they didn't quite get the proper Week Two socialization.  That means we're still doing the Week Two gradual introduction business.  That's mostly entailed two lazy pit bulls sleeping on the bed while Patsy and Edina glower, smoke, and sip Bolly.  Libby's been able to nuzzle Patsy a little without having her snout slashed to ribbons, so that's a bonus.

The other thing we've done is put a baby gate in front of the open office door so everyone can see each other without touching.  At first I thought this was genius because Patsy's too fat to clamber over and Edina's too reticent.  What I didn't realize is the Thundercats can scale anything so they sometimes pop over to inspect the girls' toys, thus invoking the wrath of Khan.  (Having anticipated this, I clipped all claws down to stubs, so it's more like they're slapping and less like they're Edward Scissorshanding one another.)

But last night while the door was open, Eddie decided to venture out, unbeknownst to us.  I realized this when I stepped into the bathroom downstairs and found a shredded toilet paper roll (she also loves to rip paper), stray tufts of fur, and what I'd classify as "terror turds."  She must have encountered one of the boys while she was on walkabout.

We found her happily hanging out on a pile of sweaters in my closet.  Whatever had happened, she was over it.  Fletch picked up the sweet, nice kitty and on our way out of the bedroom, Libby and Loki flew past the door while chasing each other.

To say Eddie freaked the fuck out would be an understatement.

Fletch was holding her and instead of just letting her drop and run back to the closet, he tried to keep a grip on her, wresting four pounds of cat like she was a prize marlin.

Mistake.

Big, huge mistake.

She bit him about nine hundred times in rapid succession before sinking her teeth into my hand.  She then banked off me and dashed under the bed.  Fletch was shrieking, "She hit an artery!" before he realized the warm liquid gushing down his arm wasn't blood.

Oh, come on. 

I couldn't not laugh.

While Fletch disinfected dressed his wounds, all, "What did I have for Thanksgiving?  A staph infection!" I tried to calm Eddie.  I knew we had to get her out from under the bed because we didn't want ten thousand free-range, bare-knuckle boxing matches to break out while we were sleeping.

We have this weird cat pheromone spray we got from the vet so I sprayed it all over and just as I was asphyxiating myself, I spied the warning about not inhaling the fumes. 

Noted.

Eddie was considerably more calm after I'd doused myself with Feliway, but she still wasn't budging from under the bed, despite offers of treats and catnip.

I tried to nudge her out with my good grabbing stick but had no luck.  Then, Fletch then positioned himself on the other side of the bed with a Swiffer.  However, the bed was too wide and she kept slipping through the gap where our poles wouldn't meet.

Also, she was getting mad again and every time she growled, Fletch flinched. 

He kept picturing her attaching to his face squirrel-in-Christmas-Vacation-style.

Then I grabbed a broom and Fletch took the extend-a-pole we use to change lights outside and, thirty delightful minutes later, we managed to flush her out.

I'm not sure why I seem so different while lying next to the bed as opposed to sitting on it, but the minute she spotted me, she ran over to sit in my lap and she was totally fine.

We got her back upstairs without incident, where she immediately began to make out with her lampshade again. 

In retrospect, I should have just brought the lamp downstairs and lured her out with that.

Anyway, everyone's fine today, with the possible exception of Fletch who has yet to believe that these cats were a good idea. 

That's when I explained to him that last year our dogs were wild Indians who only got worse once we introduced a new puppy to the mix. 

But with the proper training, consistent discipline, and a commitment to making it work, our little family is all the happier for it... even if we did lose a few light bulbs, remote controls, and shoes along the way.

Happy First Anniversary, Libby!

"Happy Thanksgiving!  And I hope you don't get a staph infection!"

 

Three of You Are Winners!! (The Rest of You Get Cat Pictures)

First up, the winners of yesterday's It's Hard Not to Hate You book giveaway are...

Beth D.

Marlene Bates

Melissa Chapman

(But you know this because I already emailed you.)

For everyone else, I have a story.  (So, really, you're all winners!  Yay!!)

Ahem.  Anyway, last week was my birthday. 

Neither Fletch nor I are usually big birthday people, so I wanted to keep the day low-key, particularly since last year we actually had an elaborate celebration with friends in from New York.  I've also been sick ever since that asshole sneezed in my mouth in Detroit so I didn't feel up to going out for dinner in the city.  Plus, I received my present early when I stumbled across an old poster chest (like a steamer trunk flipped on its side) at an antiques store.

I love the trunk so much that it took every ounce of willpower I possess to not to email a shot of it everyone I know with the caption, "Look at my chest!"  I would, of course, follow that up with a photo of the brilliant red shrubs on the side of the house with the caption, "Check out my bush!"

This is why no one ever emails me back.

Anyway, I was kind of mopey on my birthday because (at my insistence) we weren't doing anything and I didn't have a present to open.  Finally, Fletch couldn't take the melancholy anymore and suggested we stop at the Orphans of the Storm animal shelter on the way to the grocery store.

To backtrack, we lost two of our elderly cats this year.  Jordan and Tucker were 19 and 18 respectively and they lived long, happy, and in Tucker's case, slightly date-rapey lives.  Ever since they've been gone, I've insisted that we had space on our roster for two more team members, while Fletch insisted that the game was over.  Also?  He's tired of always having fur in his mouth.

But I can't stop quoting the stories I've read about how shelters are overrun because families can't afford to care for their pets any more and it breaks my heart.  So when Fletch asked if bringing on another cat would give me a happy birthday, I said yes!

We went to the shelter with one goal in mind - to find the hardest-to-place cat/pair of cats they had.  Everyone always wants kittens, but no one ever looks for a five year old black cat who may or may not quite grasp the concept of using a litter box.

When we got to the cat part of the shelter, immediately in front of us was a room full of ledges and windows, swarming with hundreds of cats hanging out together.  I pointed to the area and said, "Hey, Fletch?  That's what my life's going to look like when you die."

I wanted the very first set of cats that we met.  The shelter directed us to Rocky and Crystal, two of the fattest cats I've ever seen.  Seriously, each of them looked like a stuffed animal bedroom slipper.  (I envisioned myself sending out emails boasting the heading, "Look at my fat p-u-s..." but then realized it would take too much spelling.)  They'd previously been together but the family had to dump them to take work in Texas and the poor guys had been in the shelter for two years.  At eight and six, no one was exactly lining up for them and there was a good chance that they'd live in the shelter for the rest of their lives.  Plus, these guys loved dogs and they're the cats they use to proof dogs in the shelter.  What's not to want?

Rocky and Crystal are all the volunteer's favorite cats and can't understand why nobody ever wants them.  However, we wanted to take them immediately, but Rocky seemed to have a cold so the shelter workers said both cats would have to be treated with antibiotics before we could take them.  Which, fine, no problem.  We'd be back.

The next day the shelter director called us and explained that Rocky didn't have a cold; rather he had some slight ongoing respiratory problems, likely from the stress of living in a shelter for two years.  I said we were fine with that and we had the means to treat him.  So we went in to claim our cats, with the plans to change Crystal's name to Adrian.  (I mean, come on!  Rocky and Adrian?  Yo!)

However, after we finished the paperwork and were about to put them in their boxes to bring them home, the shelter insisted on one last FIV test.

Rocky tested positive, as did Crystal.

We were heartbroken.

This wouldn't be a big deal if we were bringing them to a cat-free environment.  Cats who test positive can live long, happy, healthy lives.  However, they can spread the disease through scratches and bites and the shelter advised us not to take them for the safety of our other cats.  The volunteers took Rocky and Crystal/Adrian and put them back into their cage while I tried to not cry.  That's when I told Fletch, "I am not leaving here without two cats."

The shelter workers begged us not to feel bad because it didn't matter if we took those guys or another set of cats - we'd be freeing up space and resources for more needy pets and we were doing a good thing.  So we looked at the second hardest-to-place cats in the joint, a couple of four year old female cats named Patsy and Tonka.  One had the blue, slanty eyes of a Siamese and the other was an amalgamation of the features of every girl cat I ever had, so of course they were a yes.  They were both so pretty and sweet that I couldn't figure out why they'd been stuck in a cage for over a year.

We brought them home.

Before I get to the rest of the story, if there's ANYONE local who's looking for two amazing cats, please, please, please check out Rocky and Crystal at Orphans of the Storm in Deerfield.  They're so sweet and mellow and lovable that they're going to make someone the best pets if they're just given a chance.

Anyway, we brought them home and I immediately rechristened them with their new AbFab names.

This is Patsy...

And her BFF Edina...

The only group photo I've been able to take so far...

They were such sweetie-darlings that none of us (my friend Tracey accompanied us) could figure out why no one had adopted them until we got them home and realized they're biters.

Mind you, they're not angry biters. 

They're loving biters. 

All they want to do is give us hugs... with their teeth.

But I figure that living in a crate with anyone for a year might make you touchy.  And in the scheme of things, being bitten is better than what Dirty Old Mr. Tucker used to do after luring kittens into his panel van with warm saucers of milk and when Jordan decided litter boxes were for suckers.

I'll be interested to see what happens as we slowly transition them into the household.  Currently they live in my guest room and we're following a stringent program of how to introduce them to the rest of the clan.  So far they've met all the Thundercats from afar and even though the ladies are half their size and twice their age, they managed to scare the bejesus out of the boys.

This should be fun.

(Those don't sound like famous last words at all.)

You can find out more about Orphans of the Storm here.

 

Libby Lessons

Check out the left cheek action going on here.

 
What did Libby learn today?

Bees bite back. 

Hurricane Libby

Shameful.

My absence around here has been shameful.

I'm aware that it's shameful and I feel terrible about it, although, apparently, not quite badly enough to haul my fat ass out of the pool to offer written explanation. 

So let me just say this in my defense - I was tired after being away from home for so long and it was hot and sunny for the first time in about nine months.  The end.

The good news is I'm tanned roughly the color of a baked potato.  I've actually been very conscientious about using sunscreen, which is why I'm not tanned into the hue of a steak or a Hershey bar.  (What I'm saying is my tan is all kinds of delicious.) I blame Henrietta Lacks because if I hadn't picked up the book about her, I might have done something in a week other than wallow and read.

Anyway, today we need to discuss Libby.

I got home from tour the first week and I couldn't help but notice that Libby had... changed. 

When I left, she had a whippet-slim little waist and elegantly muscled legs.  She was light and lithe and quick as the devil.  But when I got home, it appeared as though someone had stuffed fifty-five pounds of pit bull into a forty-five pound package.  She bulged like an over-stuffed kielbasa.  When she'd sit, her backside arranged itself into multiple velvety folds of flab sticking out over her haunches.

Fletch tried to explain this away to our trainer, claiming, "She had a growth spurt!" to which our trainer replied,"They grow UP, not OUT."

I know what happened because I'd get missives from Fletch about her all day, quoting Arrested Development and telling me, "Buster is out of control!"  Because it was pouring and freezing the whole time I was gone, he had trouble giving her enough exercise, so she was full of the kind of energy that caused her to clear off bathroom counters, chewing everything that she could steal, leaving a trail of mangled shaving bag items in her wake.  Thus, every time she made him crazy with all the running and leaping and dancing and chewing, he gave her a bone to occupy her time.

Ergo muffin-top.

The next couple of weeks, our trainer helped Fletch find other solutions to keep her active and occupied and got her weight under control, although not her trail of devastation.  (RIP perfect shade of pewter Mephisto cork sandals, six Burt's Bees lip balms, and every toilet brush in the house.)

So, I finally finished doing all tour dates and TV appearances right when the weather improved.  We ratcheted up our training exercises and began spending all our time outdoors, and, like magic, her behavior improved.  It was like a light-bulb finally went off in her tiny, pretty brain and she began to understand commands while off-leash.  She could be anywhere in the yard and as soon as we called her, she'd bolt to the door.  She'd sit, stay, and take-hold-give, too!

In fact, all the dogs' behavior improved so much that we actually had a doggie playdate here on Sunday.  My friend Tracey had to document the whole thing photographically because we were in awe of what we were seeing.

Here's the whole pack:

 
"Lifeguard Maisy says 'No running by the pool!  Or humping!'"

Here's Libby and Tracey's dog (and new BFF) Maxie:

 

And here's the bush they took turns laying in all afternoon:

 

"You finished with that bush yet?"

Isn't Maxie beautiful?

 

"Dis my bush.  But I shares."

Honestly, I couldn't believe how good Libby's been for the past week.  She hasn't peed indoors (a major accomplishment) but on top of that, she's not garbage picked, counter-surfed, or cat chased.  She hasn't dug any holes or burst through any screen doors.  She simply plays nicely outdoors and then quickly and politely obliges when we try to get her inside.  Best of all, she stays in bed until we wake her up.  Her transformation from Tasmanian devil to sweet, obedient, properly trained puppy seemed almost complete and we've been congratulating ourselves on all our hard work in training.

Turns out, we're not the training geniuses we thought. 

Apparently our brilliant instruction isn't what calmed her down.

What settled her was the heat.  She was simply too hot all week to be naughty.

This morning it was fifty-five degrees and raining sideways and the change in temperature has re-awoken all her bad habits.  She's done nothing but terrorize cats and steal things since she sprang out of bed at 5:30 this morning.  After running around in rain and muck, she dashed back inside and left a muddy trail from the kitchen, all the way down the hall, across two beds and a brocade couch.  So far she's destroyed the contents of three wastebaskets, two tubes of moisturizer, a container of shaving cream, a bottle of color-correcting shampoo, and she left us a 'gift' on the dining room rug.

The best we can figure is this puppy is like a set of snow tires - she's only fully functional when it's less than eighty degrees.  Above that, she just gets all mushy and feckless.

To be clear, I love this puppy.

But there's a good chance she's going to end me.

So if it's not too much trouble, please pray for another heat wave.

 
"Maisy tells you dat puppy was trubble."

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."

Much Ado About Mud

We're having a little mud problem around here.

By "little" I mean massive and excruciating and requiring daily mopping and vacuuming and linen-washing.  Apparently in this house, the only thing more exciting than dashing through the wet part of yard along the fence line is immediately coming back inside to roll around on all the beds.

One of our college friends is a landscape architect, so when he was up here last week we asked what we might do about the swampy spot.  Permanently ridding ourselves of the muck would require a massive re-grading effort and a check containing far too many zeroes, so we spent fourteen dollars on a long lead for Loki and now he can't reach the mud. 

Mud problem solved.

When our friend saw the brick floor in the entry hall, he mentioned houseplants would really pop in that area.  I love plants, but to this point have only had Boston ferns for safety reasons.  I'm extremely cautious about plants because I have the kind of cats who eat anything green, regardless of level of toxicity.  In their book, the more toxic, the more tasty.  But our friend was right - our hallway was crying out for a little green, so I started to do my research.

I needed low-to-medium light plants that were non-toxic.  There are plenty of places that list appropriate plants for the kind of light in the hall and plenty that showed which are cat-safe.  I couldn't locate a list that displayed both, so I ended up cross-referencing a couple of sites and the whole thing felt very academic.  (If you're interested, that list includes the aforementioned Boston ferns, cast iron plants, grape ivy, parlor palms, peperomia, pink polka dot plants, prayer plants, spider plants, and Swedish ivy.)

Over the course of my Googling, I noticed one person had written, "My issue has never been which plants are safe for my cats.  Rather, it's which plants are safe FROM my cats."  That cracked me up, considering I've had to booby-trap my big Boston fern with a dozen chopsticks-come-punji-sticks to keep Chuck from whizzing in there.

I went plant shopping this weekend, trolling the aisles and carefully reading every label.  I came home with half a dozen leafy, attractive, cat-friendly plants.  I potted everything in lovely planters and placed a ring of tin foil around the one the cats could reach because that's their Kryptonite.  (Thunder?  Yawn.  Lightning?  Pfft.  Cars backfiring?  Gun shots?  The Blue Angels taking practice runs over my house?  Whatevs.  Aluminum foil?  OMG, IT'S A TRAP!!!!)

Anyway, plants are planted, cats are leaving them alone, and Loki's paws are so clean I can see the white fur between his toes.  It's all good, right?

But I forgot about one thing.

 

Oh, hai.

 

In addition to light bulbs, toothpaste, deodorant, and toilet brushes (yesterday's snacks), it turns out Libby's a bit of a parlor palm aficionado.

As I'd just watered the plant the day before when I potted it, the soil was still wet. 

Libby - 1, Jen - 0.

But the cats are fine.  So there's that.

Another Episode of Bad Idea Theater

In case these photos aren't worth one thousand words, I've provided handy captions.

 
Things That Seem Like A Good Idea But Actually Turn Out To Be The Opposite Of A Good Idea (Much In The Same Way That Tattoos Following Tequila Shots Are A Good Idea) And In This Case Prove A Spectacularly Bad Lapse In Judgment Particularly As One Is A) An Entire Mile Away From Home, B) At The Other End Of Three Leashes That One Has Tied Together Into A Giant Knot Because It 'Seemed Easier Somehow' and, C) In The Captivity Of Three Raving Assholes Who Act Like They've Never Seen A Squirrel Before, All Of Which Is Exacerbated By Ones Snappy New Hot Pink Adidas Track Jacket One Bought In Tribute To Sue Sylvester And Glee Before It Got All Shark-Jumpy, Only To Find Out The Hard Way There's A Hole In The Interior Pocket One Millimeter Wider Than The Width Of Ones House Key, Thus Causing One To Traverse Up And Down The Path By The Squirrels Many Extra Times.

 

Hey, Remember That Neck And Shoulder Injury I Had That Worried You So Much A Couple Of Weeks Ago And Forced Me To Wear A Harness Because That Whole Area Was So Tender And Weak That I Couldn't Even Turn My Neck To The Right?  Good News, Not Only Do I Feel A Million Percent Better, But I've Got My Full Strength Back And Also Learned How To Slip Out Of My Harness While Simultaneously Ignoring The 'Maisy, Come' Command! 

 
When We Get Back Inside I'm Going To Whiz In Three Places And Then Spend Some Quality Time Barking At My Reflection In The Window Before Very Quietly Eating An Entire Shelf Of Books.

 

Actually The Feeder's Friend Tracey Took This Photo Last Summer Which Is Why It's Good, But If You Pay Special Attention To The Gleam In My Eye, This Is The Exact Look I Had On My Face When I Got Home And Rolled Around In The Mud In The Woods And Then Headed Directly To The Clean Duvet Cover On The Feeder's Bed.

In related news, if I'm ever stupid enough to walk all three of these assholes at the same time again and you stop your car to remark, "Hey there, who's walking who?" please know that once I untangle myself from their leashes, I will cut you.

 

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 One's For Elaine

A few weeks ago we mentioned to our dog trainer Elaine that in terms of smarts, we thought Libby was very pretty. 

Elaine politely disagreed, pointing out how advanced Libby is for her age.  Not only does she have a laser-like focus and a mastery of all the basic commands,  she's also quickly conquering more complex tasks like Swing, Stand, and Take, Hold, Give. 

Having never had properly trained dogs before, I'm not sure what I should consider impressive.  So I told Elaine if Libby wanted to really wow me, she'd need to learn to read.

I'll admit, observing Libby in her sessions is a bit like watching a young Michael Phelps slice through the water in his afterschool swimming lesson - there's potential for greatness in the show ring, and it's up to us to develop it.

Libby trains for two hours a week and in those two hours under Elaine's expert instruction, she's a prodigy. 

The thing is, she's, um... less impressive for the hundred and sixty-six other hours in the week.  I mean, when I see Libby running around with a toilet brush in her mouth, my first thoughts are not of her massive potential.

We keep a close eye on her, knowing that we're responsible for making sure she understands her boundaries.  Fletch and I are extraordinarily careful with what Libby can access and we learned long ago that any item within the dog's reach is fair game and that delicious Chanel slingbacks can't be eaten if they're in a box on a shelf in a closed closet.

However, we had a health scare with Maisy last week.  She's been getting chemotherapy for a year and a half and she's been tougher than you can imagine.  But while her white blood cells were low post-treatment, she got an infection that nearly did her in and I honestly thought we were going to lose her.  She spent three days hospitalized and I was a complete wreck.  Maisy's slowly bouncing back and becoming her old bossy self again, but it was scary for a while. 

So, while I was distracted, Libby learned and perfected a new skill - counter surfing.  Nothing below four feet is safe.  Nothing.  If you've never witnessed a pit bull puppy running toward you with a steak knife in her mouth, I highly recommend it for the sheer adrenaline rush. 

The good news is if the writing thing doesn't work out for me, I totally have a future in covert operations; I learned this having spent an hour with a roll of tape reconstructing the particularly delicious shards of an advanced reader's copy that Libby shredded.

Point?  Last night Fletch and I were in the family room and we noticed Libby wasn't hanging out under the coffee table.  The problem was we didn't hear anything.  Seems like that wouldn't be an issue, but it absolutely is.  We call Libby the Smoke Monster (from the show Lost.)  We don't always see what she's doing, but we're perpetually aware of her because she's thundering through the house along the perimeter of the walls making all the drapery sheers flutter. 

So, quiet?  Quiet's a bad sign.

Fletch and I headed to the kitchen to look for her.

"What do you think she's doing?" Fletch asked.

"Probably something stupid," I replied.

And that's when we spotted this:

 

She was working that can like she was Charlie Sheen and it was a mountain of blow.  After pausing briefly to give us a look like, isn't this great? she returned to her task at hand.

I snapped this one quick shot before Fletch grabbed the can away from her, knowing that baking powder can be mildly toxic when consumed in large amounts.  Fortunately Libby's completely fine, although instances like this cause me to doubt her future MENSA membership. 

Of course, my friend Caprice argued that Libby was making us a cake and that we ruined the surprise by walking in on her.

So let me just say this - if Elaine has been secretly been teaching Libby to bake, I promise to be impressed.
 

Scenes from a Snow Day

Have officially deemed today a snow day and plan to spend it on the good couch catching up on TiVoed episodes of The Cape, Off the Map, and Harry's Law. Banana cupcakes may or may not be involved.

As I am clearly very busy today with important work, please tune in later this week for my list of fab winter book picks. (Sarah Pekkanen, I'm talking about you.)

As for the dogs? They plan to spend the day defrosting.

(My braying like a jackass is a bonus feature of this video.)

(You're welcome.)

Hurricane Libby

This is how mornings go around here:

8:07 AM - Get out of bed when Libby begins to whine.  Yes, it's always 8:07 AM and no, I have no clue how that damn dog can tell time.  Doesn't matter how late we keep her up, she's ready and raring to go at 8:07 AM.  Bought new blackout curtains and they haven't helped one iota, except they billow when the heat comes on and cats like to hide behind them, which only serves to drive Libby into chase mode. 

8:08 AM - Throw on slippers and robe.

8:09 AM - Leave Libby in cage while rustling up bigger dogs who look at me as if to say, "What are we, farmers?  Screw you and your 8:07 AM, lady."

8:10 AM - Wake up Fletch, who gives me the exact same reaction as the bigger dogs.  Birds may or may not be flipped when covers are forcibly removed. 

8:11 AM - Blind him by opening blackout curtains.

8:12 AM - Head down the hall, turning off the alarm while a parade of cats follows behind me, admonishing me for sleeping so damn late, asking, "What are we, vampires?"  (At this point, everyone's hungry and simply choosing to repress their feelings on another evening of Tucker's late-night date rapery.)

8:13 AM - Feed cats.

(Ha!  If it were only that simple.)

8:13 AM - 'Feed cats' is a part of a multi-step process that means first segregating Thundercats in to laundry room, throwing stinky entrails on a plate, topping off dishes of water and kibble. 

8:14 AM - The sound of cans opening brings large, lazy dogs running. 

8:15 AM - Hand one empty can to Loki to lick and the second to Maisy, which keeps her busy and present as I prepare her morning meds cocktail. 

8:16 AM - Portion out Maisy's antihistimine, steroid, and antacid, hiding all in a chewy pill pocket, while Jordan screeches about my forgetting to feed her breakfast and Tucker looks confused and vaguely ashamed.

8:17 AM - Wrestle older cats out into the kitchen with a portion of the canned food set aside.  Prepare plates for each cat on counter, taking care to hide their medications in each batch.  Tucker generally loses focus and wanders off while Jordan does everything in her power to eat around the hidden tablets. 

8:19 AM - Put the big dogs outside.  Loki barks his face off as a 'good morning' nod to the rest of the neighborhood, while Maisy pees on the steps and then runs around to the door in the other room and adds to the chorus of barking.  (She doesn't like to climb the steps she just peed on.)

8:20 AM - While Jordan dodges her tablets (steroid and one for early-stage kidney disease), I station myself next to her plate, using my fingers to tent and reposition the pills in the vile wet food in such a way that she will accidentally swallow her medicine during a particularly enthusiastic nom.  Corral Tucker and attempt to interest him in his dish, laden with meds that help his kidneys and an oil-based supplement that keeps his coat from looking so much like a bathmat.

8:21 AM - Block Thundercats from eating old cats' food.  All the heaviness in their hearts about the dirty things Uncle Tucker tries on them in the night makes them extra hungry.  And sad.  But mostly hungry.  They begin to swarm around me which somehow reminds the big dogs that they're hungry and makes noise, driving Libby into hysterics down the hall.

8:22 AM - Eye the Kahlua that's been sitting next to the coffee maker since my last dinner party.

8:23 AM - Fletch, having dressed and performed a basic yet leisurely toilette, brings Libby into the kitchen, who greets all gathered like she's running for Senate.

8:24 AM - From the pets' collective reaction to her daily greeting, they're clearly all voting for the other guy.

8:25 AM - Fletch attaches Libby to the long lead outside while I portion out four different types of dog foods, based on everyone's dietary needs. 

8:26 AM - Fletch begins coffee prep, THANK GOD.  Resist urge to order mine "Irish."

8:27 AM - I head outside in my slippers to untangle small, enthusiastic pit bull from where she's stuck on trees, brush, hose stake, barbecue grill, etc.  (Varies from day to day.)  (Getting stuck is the only part that doesn't vary.)

8:28 AM - Feed dogs, segregating Libby to the corner while big dogs inhale their breakfast by the counter.  Empty dog food cans attract Thundercats who insert their heads into the cans and begin furiously licking.

8:29 AM - Tucker decides he's hungry and instead of eating his portion-controlled, dieteticly correct and nutritious meal, he attempts to muscle between the big dogs to get a bite of theirs.

8:30 AM - Forcibly remove Tucker.

8:31 AM - Forcibly remove Tucker.

8:33 AM - Forcibly remove Tucker.  All dogs tire of eating their own food.  Loki swipes a can away from a Thundercat (generally Chuck Norris) and retreats to a corner to begin a thorough cleaning.  Maisy finishes Libby's meal and Libby attacks Loki's uneaten portion while Tucker hunkers down with Maisy's dish, gleefully ingesting large chunks of dog kibble, despite only having one tooth left in his wee, filthy head. 

8:34 AM - You get why I eye the Kahlua every day, right?

My point here is not so much to complain (even on the worst day this beats working) but to explain how sometimes I'm tired after all of this.  Today I woke with a sore throat (at 8:07 AM) and once the pets were all squared away, I went back to bed for a while.  Neither Maisy nor Loki had to be asked twice so we went back to the bedroom, shut the blackout curtains, and left Fletch to supervise Libby.

I got up around 10:00 AM to find that a small, sweet tornado had ripped through almost every room in the house.  In the downstairs guest bedroom, she somehow got up on the dresser, knocked over a bowl of seashell potpourri, and chewed the legs off of all my scented starfish.

From there, she proceeded to the master bedroom and systematically emptied the basket of folded laundry, blanketing the room in fresh t-shirts and clean socks.

She moved on to the living room where she ripped out all the decorative vase filler and dug out the contents of the fireplace and then proceeded to the family room where she barfed up starfish stumps.

Having finished her business on the first floor, she raced up to my office, knocked a mug of pens off my desk, chewed each one on the light beige carpet, and completely eviscerated a pink artgum eraser.  The one food item I had in my office - a big Everlasting Gobstopper-type lollipop, got a few cursory licks before she made her way the den where she ate a bunch of sandpaper.

Sandpaper.

For her final act, she pooped next to the couch. 

(Perhaps sandpaper is high in fiber?)

As I assessed the damage in each room, I was all, "What the hell, Fletch?  Didn't you watch her?"

According to Fletch, she was with him for every single second, except for the three minutes it took him to print out a copy of the extended warranty on my car.

I'm not sure what my lesson here is, except maybe this is why normal people don't have eight pets.

Also, when I was putting Libby into her crate for a nap, I noticed something sort of feathery and shiny right above her eyebrow.  I thought it might be the inside of one of my (apparently delicious) shells. 

Upon closer inspection, I discovered this was the very tip of a cat's claw.

I brushed it off, inspected the damage (none), and kissed her to make it better.  She's absolutely fine and happy, no harm done physically or mentally.

Yet there's a tiny part of me that wonders if she didn't have it coming.

And in other news, Libby got her final round of shots yesterday.  According to the vet, she's gained seventeen pounds in three weeks, pretty much doubling her body weight. 

 

I think we're going to need more Kahlua.

Technically, It's Still Cooking with Angus

My internal monologue during tonight's dinner prep:

"Okay, Chinese food night!  Yay!  Let's do this.  I've got my wok ready - what else do I need?  Thinking... thinking... okay, lemme grab the big container of pre-chopped stir-fry vegetables, which, yes, I admit is pretty lazy.  But the alternative is simply ordering delivery, so I'm not going to go all Tiger-mother on myself.  Slightly lazy is way better than totally lazy, right?  Wait, don't answer that."

"What else should I add?  Hey, I've got some leftover onions and celery from the sauce I made for the short ribs yesterday.  I'll cut those up so I don't feel like I'm cheating quite so much.  Also, last night's dinner was completely from scratch so bonus points for me." 

"Hmm, how am I going to give this some flavor?  Alrighty, I have Chinese Five spice, a fresh head of garlic to crush, and, ooh, what's in the jar?  Hoisin sauce?  I remember buying this although I can't recall why and I have no idea what it is.  But it looks authentic, yes?  Let's see... contains sugar, soy sauce, garlic, vinegar, chili paste.  Hey, self, nice job buying mystery sauce in anticipation of your future dinner!  I'm awarding myself more bonus points.  This should go a long way in making Fletch forget those ill-conceived caramel apple pork chops last month."

"Anyway, let's think Chinese food.  You know, the one thing that bugs me about our usual Chinese joint is that every dish on the menu contains 'brown sauce.'  The hell is brown sauce?  I mean, that could be anything.  Brown.  That's not a flavor; that's an overnight delivery service or an ivy league university, depending on who you ask.  Plus, the restaurant is always trying to sneak oysters into their stupid brown sauce." 

"At least I hope they're oysters."

"Now, I've seasoned and chopped the meat into bite-size pieces, the veggies are ready, and I've mixed the soy and Hoisin with a little corn starch to make the sauce thick, so all I need to do is turn around and light the burner and..."

 

... take Gus out of the wok."

"You know what?  This is why no one ever wants to come to my dinner parties."

* * *

P.S.  Did not make an 'authentic Chinese food' joke.  Bonus points for me.

 

Show Me On The Doll Where The Bad Kitty Touched You

Have been trying to write a post for an hour about my elderly cat Tucker's new, um, proclivity, but I can't make it not sound twisted.

Instead, please enjoy this shot of Maisy and Libby.

 

Fletch wanted me to come up with a clever narrative so I could write off today's $352 vet bill but I've got nothing that doesn't include the term "newly date rape-y" or refer to Tucker as the creepy old man down the street who lets his robe flap open in front of kids.

Let me just say this - if my (perfectly healthy) cat tries to lure you into his panel van to see his new puppy, don't get in.

Two And A Half Dogs

 

This

 

has been

 

going on

 

for

 

two solid

 

hours.

They've been nothing but a blur of action since they rolled me out of bed at the crack of dawn. 

Do these photos make you dizzy?  Yes?  Then you should experience it live for the full effect.  I'm delighted they're finally playing together, although I'm starting to wonder if this isn't a be careful what you wish for scenario.  Please note Maisy's combat position in photos one through three.  She does ninety-five percent of her fighting on her back.  We call her style Hidden Tiger, Crouching Fatass.

Not pictured - the stink lines radiating out from the disgusting carpeting.  But trust me, they're there.

 
"We have no idea what you're talking about, lady."