Doggie Style!

For those of you who clicked into here looking for pictures of a certain bored yet not-bad-looking housewife in a *ahem* canine-like compromising position, scroll down....























...a little further....






































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Here you go!



GET OFF MY PAGE, YOU PERV!

This is a family blog. I won't even use the "F" word. Maybe Peabody will even read it.

Dogs. What would we do without them?

I'm a dog person. I was once a cat person, but have decided that cats are selfish, psychotic little midgets in fur suits that like to try to suffocate me by sleeping on my face. Many have been launched across the room in the middle of the night. But that's another blog.

But a dog! They're loyal, intelligent (well, most of them, we have an exception), loving and smelly. And they stay where you put them. Unlike the feline things.

Since meeting my husband, we've had a few mutts enter our lives. Some we went looking for, some found us, some we literally tripped over and had to take home for some damn reason. So today, I'm taking a trip down memory lane to share My Life With Dogs. And to introduce our newest doggie addition.

Winnie

Winnie was the first dog my husband ever had. We returned from our first vacation together, a few months after we had started dating, to find a pair of big black Newfoundlands in his fenced back yard. We made a few inquiries of his mostly-stoned-and-unemployed-slacker buds, figuring they might know something about it, since my husband-then-boyfriend was the only one with his own house and they generally left their detritus there.
"Yeah, dude," one said, "my girlfriend, like, has these dogs, you know?"
Yes, we know that now.
"And she, like, can't keep them cuz she's like getting evicted? So, like, they just need to stay there for, like, a while. Hope that's okay, dude. Heh. Heh. "
Okay.
Turns out, both dogs were big sweeties, and pregnant. Imminently pregnant. We could feel the puppies moving, and I decided to take the most-likely-to-blow to my apartment. I had a spare bedroom, she could whelp in there. And she did, after peeing green goop all over my new carpet (a landlord's dream come true) and attacking my own dog. Once the pups were stable, I took them back to the fenced-in yard (it was summer and shady) to give my poor mutt a break. The other dog whelped soon after and we had a whopping 17 little sausages wiggling under the maple tree.
Six weeks later, The girlfriend got her act together and came to get the dogs and puppies. We were attached to them by that time and decided she wouldn't miss one, so we picked the mellowest, yellowest one and hid her, saving her from a life of living in the backseat of a Honda. Yes, the girlfriend had certainly gotten her act together.
And we got Winnie.



She was the classic big dumb dog. And sweet. Apparently Momma Dog had gotten busy with a purebred Golden Retriever, and we had to have both of Winnie's hips fixed when she was six months old. That was back before the miracle of digital cameras, otherwise I'd share the beautiful photos of her naked bum and bucket-collar.
Winnie lived with us for eight years, boucing and drooling and teasing the cats and loving the new baby we brought home. She died in 2005 of cancer.

Hobie
He was a crotchety but sweet old man when Lance found him on the Golden Retriever Rescue website. It was love at first sight between those two. He insisted on having his bed in the middle of the hall so we all had to step over him and he could protect us from all things bad, sucked on a towel, and wanted to bounce but had a bad rear leg. Lance took him everywhere; to work when he could, to the gym every evening where Hobie would wait faithfully and patiently in the car, sucking his woobie the whole time.











Hobie died of bone cancer two years ago. He's still in the back of Lance's car, his ashes and woobie memorialized until my husband finds another dog with whom he can bond so strongly. I just hope that bonding doesn't include barfing up three gallons of blech into his lap this time. Rest well, old man.


Rudy
My mother-in-law called us one day to tell us she had gotten a new dog. We laughed nervously, as she isn't always discriminating about her canine companions.
She'd found an old Golden Retriever (anyone see a pattern here?) wandering the highway near her house. No collar, no tags, not neutered, ancient and stone deaf. She called the local shelter to ask if anyone had been missing one and they said no one had alerted them to a missing Golden. She called him Rudy and set him up at her place with her Rottweiler and multitude of cats.
Two weeks later as she was walking the dogs, a neighbor stopped her and asked her about Rudy. Turns out, he belonged to a friend of this person and they were looking for him. She returned him to his owners, laughed when they said he "musta just wandered off when we let 'im out" and gave them her phone number, just in case he wandered back.
He did. Twice. And they never called her or the shelter looking for him. So, we decided he must not be that missed and would probably rather come live with us than playing chicken with semis on the highway again. (She had her hands full with the Rotti, we only had two dogs at the time, what's one more?)



This is what he did the most of. And he was the only creature in our whole family who wasn't routinely attacked by this evil devil-spawn cat. This cat loved him and followed him around. Rudy was a Good Boy.

On top of being deaf, Rudy was also mostly blind and somewhat shaky. The vet put his age at around 15. At that point, we joked that our house is The Place Where Old Goldens Come To Die.

He lived a quiet, happy life with us for a year and a half, and passed away quietly at home the day after last Christmas. That's a dog for you; he'd been on the brink for a week, dying a little at a time but wouldn't go on a day that he must have, with that odd doggie-telepathy, known was a special day. Rest quiet now, sweet old guy.

Phoebe!
Gawd. Have you ever fallen in love with someone and have no idea why? And continue to love them even though they might be neurotic and flighty and possibly *whispering* not very intelligent?
Well then you understand my relationship with the Pheebs.

I went to the pet store one day, just to get dog food. They were having a big adoption event and Grace, being three, "hadda go seeum doggees. " And there she was. I had to have this dog, this "Phoebe". I couldn't quit thinking about her and whined to Lance that I needed her until he gave in. "Fine. Three dogs is just what we need."
I've always wanted a Great Dane, they are awesomely majestic dogs. Powerful. Commanding. Serene.
Phoebe, while definitely a Dane, is none of those things.


She's goofy, neurotic, and a bit passive-aggressive. She was surrendered to the rescue by a fine, upstanding gentleman who had used her for the previous four years in a backyard-breeding puppy mill. She'd been beaten, bitten by the male, and had apparently never been out of her kennel. He finally got rid of her after five litters because she experienced complications with the last one and he had to shell out money so the pups wouldn't die. Prick. I'd like to let a male Great Dane have his way with him....

She had to learn how to navigate the stairs (which she still sounds like she's falling up every time) and was terrified of the cats and the car. She's chewed through three seatbelts in my backseat, even from behind the doggie-gate in my SUV, which I had to buy specifically to transport dogs. She had to learn to play, and it's the funniest thing EVER to watch her bounce around. She cannot CANNOT lie or sit down without a bed. When I wash her beds (which is often, because she's pretty smelly), she about has a nervous breakdown until they're ready. In fact, she once bowled me over to get them out of my hands before I could get the covers back on.


She's my Big Dumb Schweetie. And after what some uncaring a-hole put her through for four years, I think she deserves every moment of sloth she now enjoys. Stick around longer, my gal.

Morgan.
I'm probably not going to make it through this one without crying. Yep. I was right. Ahem.
I was 21 when this puppy found me. I was in college, had just moved into an apartment from my parents' house (after a stupid detour with a boy), and was working at a pet store. A litter of puppies came in for sale, and the shop owner had room for all but one of them. The puppy people said the last one was going to the pound. I looked into her little brown eyes and something just clicked. I took her home with me, instead.
And that was the beginning of a long journey. She was Golden Retriever mixed with Border Collie, and we almost didn't survive her first year. She was too smart for her own good and tried to herd everything that moved including skateboarders. She would chase a ball until she burst or your arm fell off. She destroyed Christmas ornaments and figured out locks. She and I got through the first level of competetive obedience in under six months training time (it usually takes a year or two before a dog is ready), but couldn't compete or impress the dog trainer that I worked for at the time because she was a "mixed breed". She was the ring bearer at our wedding and was offended when the baby came home, but got over it. Mostly.
She was my constant companion, my most trusted adviser, the one who was just always there.


Until she just wasn't. She left me last year after 15 years together, and it's still not something I can think about without bawling. Like now, for instance. I miss you, Little Red Dog, and will see you on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, ready for our special greeting and a game of never-ending fetch.

Whew. Still with me? Okay then, I have one more:

Einstein
The daughter is tired of being the smallest being in the house. She wanted a dachshund or a pug. Pugs are not my favorite dogs, so I kept telling her if we found a weiner dog that needed us, we'd get it. She was excited to the point of yelling "I WANT WEINER!" out the car window one sunny afternoon after seeing someone walking their dachsies. Nice. Sssshhhh, honey, never say that again, okay?

Dachshunds are not easy to find in the rescue world. And then, out of the blue, ta-da! I found him.











He's our little man. He's a sweetie, a cuddler and is freakishly small. He's curled up in my lap right now as I type this, wagging his little tail every time I stop to stroke his llloooooonnnnngggg back. I've never had a small dog before and it takes some getting used to. Grace adores him; he sleeps happily tangled in her covers at night. And despite the size issue, he and Phoebe seem to be getting on just fine.




But she's jealous of his cool little bed. She's tried to get in it. She doesn't quite fit.
I hope he sticks around on his little stubby legs for a while.

So there it is. My Life With Dogs.

I hope you all noticed that all of our dogs have been rescues or adoptions. For a good reason. Millions of wonderful dogs are destroyed in shelters every year, given up or banished by people who either didn't have the time or the energy or the brains it takes to take care of their best friend. Please, PLEASE, if you feel you want and need a dog, do your research first. Dogs take time, patience, money and lots of love. Look at rescues first, don't ever buy from a pet store unless it's a rescue organization sponsored event, always always spay or neuter. They deserve better than what we've given them.

I don't remember who said it, but one of the best quotes I've ever read is as follows:
"Dogs aren't our whole lives, but they make our lives whole."
And
"Deal with stressful situations like a dog: if you can't eat it or play with it, pee on it and walk away."

Lecture over.

Share your dog pics and stories! Let's all do it Doggie Style!!!

Friendship

There's a chance that I'm obnoxious. That I'm overbearing, judgmental and have a hair trigger. That I'm closed-minded, that I'm opinionated and rude. That I don't communicate when I should, and say too much when I need to shut the fuck up. Mostly that second thing.

Is it possible to be friends with someone whose philosophical base is so very oppositional to one's own? Is it enough to love a person for who they are and the generous things they do if you don't respect their ideals or opinions when it comes to what you think matters? How far does friendship go?

The Birthday Bitch

So it's my birthday. I'm not a kid, so it's not like I anticipate it all month and get giggly and try to spy out my gifts. I don't. I don't really expect that much, and am so touched and surprised every year when my family and friends acknowledge that I mean something to them, that they love me and enjoy my company. Especially my husband. He goes above and beyond in getting me gifts I want. My girlfriends also go to great lengths to make me feel special. And my daughter, of course, gets so excited that she can barely contain what I'm getting for my birthday and tries to give me hints about it. Even my mother-in-law did a nice job this year, and she usually gets me a book on how to clean. Or a new vacuum. Subtle, she is.

So, why am I now, as in years past, feeling so very pissy and put-upon and acting like a petulant child?

My parents house is being painted, so instead of dinner there, they offered to take me out wherever I wanted. I love the Silver Fork lodge in the canyon, so I asked for brunch there. They make the best eggs benedict ever. But Mom called yesterday and said we'd need to do it at 10:30 so they can be home in time for the painter at 2. Which meant I had to forego sleeping in til I wanted to get out of bed (which my sweet husband lets me do on my birthday--he always takes it off work), and had to get up early so I could satisfy my daughter's need for me to open my gifts in the morning. Then we had to rush rush rush to get out of the house in time to get to the restaurant, which is a 45 minute drive up the canyon from here. I hate rushing, especially in the morning, I am so NOT a morning person, and getting the daughter ready is sometimes like pulling teeth from a hippo with tweezers. She doesn't really understand the "hurry" thing; time is very different for a 6-year-old, which is fine, but the rest of the world doesn't run on kid time. We finally get her ready to go, my hair is very very bad today as I didn't have the 20 minutes it normally takes to tame it into any kind of down-style, and wouldn't stay in its pins.
Brunch was lovely, the restaurant was surrounded by 7 feet of snow and cozy and rustic and yummy. But the daughter, due in part to the close proximity of her favorite person, my mom, and because no one was paying enough attention to her (only child syndrome, compounded by only grandchild syndrome) started to whine and interrupt and generally make it stressful. She continued this on the way home, and by the time we got here, I'm ready to run away. Far, far away. I tried to be patient, I tried to be gentle, I tried paying as much attention to her as I could when she was being appropriate, and she just got more and more irate. She's been wanting to decorate for Easter, so I offered to do that with her when we got home, but she was more interested in getting the neighbor girl to play. Fine, fine. I'm glad she has a friend she so loves, B is definitely a godsend sometimes. It just ticked me off because when she helped my mom decorate for Easter, it was the funnest thing EVER. I guess I'm tired of being shown up by my mom. So I turned into BItchMom. And BitchWife, just for kicks. I didn't mean to, I didn't want to, I wanted to just let it roll off my back and be appreciative that I have what I have. But fuck, I'm tired of the drama. And the husband was so worried that he wasn't doing enough for me that he started pouting and making me feel guilty.
So I shooed him off to the gym, telling him I needed some time to myself and that's really what I want on my birthday. I love to be alone, always have, and he hates that. My wonderful girlfriends also saved the day by offering to get the daughter and take her to play with their kids.
So, now I'm alone, drinking a crappy martini (I can't make a martini to save my life, but I love them and keep trying to beat that dead horse), and I bought cigarettes (which I've quit but sneak now and then and shouldn't) and I don't know what to do with myself for the next hour. So I'm sitting here bitching.

How lame is that? Be careful what you wish for.

The Other Side of Me, Giving In to the Pain

So, I've had this headache since last Thanksgiving, and I think it might be starting to affect my sanity.

I've been diagnosed with occipital neuralgia and the muscles in my neck, causing the pinched nerve to radiate pain throughout my skull, simply won't relax. I've tried drugs that relax muscles and stop nerve transduction, I've tried exercise and heat and some massage. I'm going to try to convince my husband that it might be worth it to try acupuncture and intensive massage therapy, but I think he's frightened and resentful of the cost, as those aren't covered by insurance. Does that sound shitty? Maybe. But it's his reality and I have to live with it, because it's his money. I don't work, I don't generate income, so all the financial everything is up to him.

I wrote another blog about the headache, on my Domestic Goddess blog on MySpace. It's a funny, sarcastic, lighthearted look at the pain I've been in and how I've tried to get out of it, and it's true. MySpace is where I go to have fun, my blog there is semi-popular and I have a great audience, who leave great comments and most of whom I consider friends, even though I haven't met them. But I am very careful to keep that blog light and fun, even while writing about complex issues. I consider it practice for writing my fiction. Plus, I don't want to be viewed as a dramatic, dark, whiny girl who wants fawning and delicacy and sympathy. I don't want that to be my persona.
So I've brought it here.
Because I need to get out what this pain is, really. And you people, if anyone is reading this, don't know my MySpace persona, which is a real part of me. But not the whole of me. This is where I will come to be the other part of me, the one who is weak and hurting and not very funny or clever at all. Consider yourself warned.

This pain, while bearable, is now wearing away who I am. It is waves of torment, smashing against the rocks of my psyche, turning them into sand as it bashes and foams and swirls along my nerves. My head is a stone, wedged in the vise of a crack in the earth, slowly being squeezed by incalculable pressure of the tectonic movement, and soon it will begin to shatter and crack and it will implode, taking my personality with it. I will become the pain. That is all I will be. I will no longer be Vanessa, the wife and mom, the sarcastic one in my group of girlfriends, the room mom who constantly invades my daughter's classroom to see what's going on, the writer, the reader, the cook who loves to try new recipes. I will simply exist; I will be one with the pain and I will not fight it anymore. I will give in to the need to curl up and weep, head clutched in fingers weakened by a drug that might be killing me.
I am fighting this urge, the urge to just give up; give in and be the pain. It is not who I want to be. But, can I continue? Is this pain just going to be something I have, or will it become who I am?

Things that annoy me

What the Fuck!?!

(Look out, I drop the F-bomb quite a few times in here. Sorry. I know it's tacky, but I'm in a MOOD.) Okay, okay. I've cleaned it up. I'm calmer now.

Hi kids! Did everyone have a good holiday season? Good!/I'm sorry... (whichever applies to your situation). Mine was nice, thanks for asking. Glad it's over and everything is back to normal now.
This last week I finally ventured back out into the shopping world, having sworn all stores were shunned from my life FOREVER after the @!&%! Christmas shopping hell. But, we do need to eat on occasion, so I had to hit the Mega-Mondo Super Duper Consume-til-you-explode Mart of Super Deals So You Can Keep Up With the Joneses (otherwise and heretofore known as Costco). And I remembered why I hate people. Not YOU, obviously, just the stupid ones who are hell-bent on annoying the living crap out of me.
I can't very well strangle them in public, and apparently the tongue-lashings aren't working, so I've decided to take it out on you. I also have issues with some inanimate objects.
This could very well be an ongoing blog, so feel free to add what you see fit.

Ahem. WTF Is Up With:

~Not making eye contact does not excuse a person from having done a rude, annoying or downright anti-social act. Just because you pretend you don't see me doesn't mean I don't see you, you mental toddler. Don't cut in line in front of me just because you have one item in your giant cart and my giant cart is overflowing on coupon day. You know, you might try nicely asking if I would mind terribly if you went in front of me, because amazingly: sometimes I'm nice. Make eye contact and use your big-boy voice, dumbass. Try me.

~Packaging! Why is there SO DAMN MUCH Packaging?! I bought a two-pack of mascara today (coupon!) as I need a lot of help to look this hot. Each tube is about 2 centimeters in circumference and maybe 13 cm in length. And they were packaged in 3 square feet (I swear!) of a combination of clamshell plastic, steel-reinforced cardboard and NASA-approved bonding glue. WTF?
Why is it that every time I buy something I have to wrestle it out of material that can hurt me? My husband has lost a couple of clamshell-package battles and really needed stitches, but he was too embarrassed to go to the ER. Not to mention the environmental factor; there's enough petroleum in the packaging the spiral light bulbs come in to fund a Saudi's new Lexus and negate any benefit of using the spiral bulb. WTF? Is it a subtle lesson in irony? Do they think we're stupid? Yes, yes they do.

~Why is it that we can't walk anywhere anymore? My Costco is across the street from a strip mall of super stores. Circuit City, Petsmart, Zurcher's, The Dollar Tree, all lined up nicely in their hugeness just waiting for you to come spend money on shit you probably could live without. They have a giant parking lot there. Costco, across the street, also has a giant parking lot. We usually have to go to Petsmart for something, so I figure it's a good idea to just walk over after the Costco Experience. You know, get some exercise, save some gas.
There's one catch: You can't walk across the street. Well, you can, but it's an exercise in car-dodging and puddle-jumping. There are no crosswalks, and barely a sidewalk, and people drive 60 mph to get from the light at the corner to the parking lot 100 meters away. I'm not joking. People look at me like I'm the idiot for not getting back in my car, getting my daughter buckled in, waiting in line to get out of the parking lot, driving across the street, and finding another parking space. There are a couple of strip malls on the other side of the valley that you literally cannot walk from one end to the other. You have to drive. Seriously, do you still wonder why we have an obesity problem? Why OPEC laughs their asses off at every meeting? GET OFF YOUR ASS AND WALK!

~You people who equate your pets with children? Now, before anyone gets pissed at me, know this: I am an animal fanatic. I have, over the last 15 years, shared my home with (notice I didn't say owned): 6 dogs, 12 cats, 4 rodents, umpteen fish, 3 rabbits, 4 lizards and 3 frogs. I have bawled my eyes out every time one has died. My original major was zoology, my degree is in Animal Behaviorism. Ok? I like the critters.
BUT: WTF is up with people who spend thousands of dollars on a "designer breed" when there are animals being destroyed by the thousands in shelters, put your dogs on prozac, give your cats chemotherapy, and would buy pink or baby blue sweaters, beds and woobies for your new puppy or kitten? Get a life! Have a child! They're animals. Love them for what they are; stop anthropomorphizing them to make yourself feel better.

Whew....ok. There's my rant for today. Stay tuned for more as things continue to annoy me, and feel free to add your own WTF moment.
Cheers!

The never-ending case of the Blahs...

Ugh. Have you ever had one of those time periods in which anything that might require effort is just a big No-no? When your body is heavy and stiff, you are dead-dog tired no matter how much sleep you get, and you can actually FEEL your brain inside your skull, and not in a good way? Maybe this feeling lasts a day, a week, a month or longer, but the whole time you want to tell people "sorry, I'm just not myself, I'm really not this lame/weird/comatose most of the time," because you've seen them looking at you like you've just flicked a booger on the wall. You know that feeling?

Ok, I've been in this state of existence for a few months now. This can't be normal. And, of course, the catastrophist side of me immediately goes for "You've got a brain tumor!" or "I need a COMPLETE life overhaul, NOW! Call the therapist! Buy all new clothes, furniture and move to a new country!" I can't write, I can't read, I can't play with my daughter or have a nice normal conversation with my friends. I scare new friends away, I'm pretty sure.

The stupid part is: I'm HAPPY. There's nothing in the world right now for me to be unhappy about. Handsome husband loves me. Daughter, while going through some admittedly annoying boundary-testing phase, is healthy, funny and smart and loves me and school. THIS IS NOT ME! I'm funny! I'm smart! I write really really well and have the most awesome novel in my head!

So, WTF?

Random Things about me...

Ok, so my other blog is on MySpace. I was picked in a game of tag to come up with ten totally random things about me, so here they are:


1) I bump into things. Like, all the time. I am constantly bruised at the hips. Someone once told me there's a theory that people who bump into things are actually trying to affirm their reality and the reality of things around them. Ok. Sounds better than "I'm a clumsy dumbshit".

2) I love birds. The giant blue spruce in my backyard is nesting ground for a few pair of birds each year. Two weeks ago I watched a young robin get kicked out by his parents, and I've sat in my yard watching him learn how to fend for himself ever since. Now he's trying to learn his big boy song, and it cracks me up. He sounds like a teenager whose voice is changing.

3) I hate feet. Don't touch them, don't let anyone touch mine. I've never gotten a professional pedicure, that creeps me out. The only exception was when my daughter was an infant and I loved kissing her chubby little feet. Now they creep me out too.

4) I like the smell of dog breath.

5) The ocean is the most calming, life-affirming sound and sight ever. In my next life, I will live by the sea instead of a fucking desert with a pretend sea.

6) I hate shopping malls. Bad vibes. I will chew off my own arm to avoid going to the mall.

7) Metallica and other like-sounding heavy metal actually makes me throw up a little in my mouth when I hear it. My hubby loves Metallica and is teaching our daughter how to head bang and air guitar, which is quite alarming for me.

8) Even though I claim to be a Bitch, I am actually an annoying people-pleaser in most situations. I hate it and am doing my very very best to conquer it and be the Bitch Within when needed.

9) I am 1/4 through writing a book, which I seriously doubt I will ever have the guts to try to get published, even though I like it and others who have read it so far like it. I fear rejection above all things.

10) This is harder than I thought! I love to talk about myself, that's why I'm on MySpace. Now I find that there are all these other fascinating people. And I can't think of one more random thing to tell you. So there.