Snoods for Oliver.

So...today is Friday and its about to be a long weekend so I am extra extra unmotivated to do anything.

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My office is right by the conference room and for the last twenty minutes the phone has been ringing and ringing. This is the sort of thing that is just going to drive me to take my computer, bash out my eighth floor window and leap out after it. Maybe thats a little melodramatic but it IS intensely annoying.

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Today I got paid so of course I immediately bought Oliver the following things:

• a "snuggle sack." Doesn't that just SOUND like something Olibur needs? I thought so too. Also, it benefits me in that he will no longer have a pillow and C's old college comforter as his bed. NOT exactly the most fashionable interior design. Plus in addition to the fact that I hate looking at what is essentially an enormous pile of flea infested blankets in my bedroom corner every day (side note: I can't just put it out of the way, because little dude has to be within arms reach of us when he sleeps) I also can't stand the fact that oliver has to get up four times each night to paw around and reorganize his "nest." Also, he's pathetic when he can't get the nest right, and he's shivering because the blankets are all tangled up underneath him. Next time I get a dog I will try not to get the biggest weenie ever.
• a "snood" which is short for "snuggle hood", I presume. I'm not sure what looks stupider, Olivers fishing hat or this:

I'm pretty sure the snood is warmer, since it was created with warmth in mind, whereas the fishing hat was created with making oliver look stupid in mind. Keep in mind, Olivers snood is not gay pink and purple plaid, but manly forrest green, as are all his winter coats and apparel.










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Ok, maybe more later.

Ode to Dinah Lou: nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnol89

I was having a sort of blah day, and then after Colin left our g-chat to shower, Dinah Lou typed this message to me:

D-LO: nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnol89
ME: get off the keyboard, kitty!

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnol89....if you say it outloud it sort of sounds like dinah lou yowling at you plaintively. Also, this is what "nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnol89" would look like if you took a picture of it:

Scary right? Oh Dinah Lou, you really are the best kitty ever. I'm not even afraid to say that if I had to grow up and be a cat lady with ANY CAT EVER, it would be you...and we could yowl plaintively at one another until we withered away.

Meow.

During my lunch break today I read about a cat fashion show recently held in NYC. I couldn't imagine that there are more than about three cats on earth that would put up with that shit (one of them is Ethan, my roommates cat, see below), so I looked it up and APPARENTLY, there's a whole subculture of people devoted to dressing up their cats. And no, neither me nor my roommate belongs to said sub-culture, despite what the pictures suggest. My research seems to suggest, based on pictorial evidence, that despite the alarming percentage of human beings who delight in regularly outfitting their cats, approximately 0% of the world's cat population (aside from Ethan) does more than barely tolerate the world of "cat fashion." I've posted the following pictures, most indicative of my research findings.


PHOTO ESSAY TIME:

Double Triple whammy: pink, dress, leash. Look at this cat, truly he is experiencing the perfect storm of humilation.












Not only does this cat have no hair, but he is wearing a feathery hat, which looks agonizingly like something he would like to chase and destroy. This cat posture says to me: "my spirit has been defeated. "









DO NOT WANT.











This kitty is desperately trying to maintain a modicum of pride through her posture and refusal to look at the camera.












All of this in stark contrast to the dog fashion models:

"if I humiliate myself, you will give me a cookie/ham/pepperoni/"













PS: the title of this post is totally lame, i know.

DO NOT WANT.

Tonight we flea-dipped the cats and the dog and I cant decide which is worse: being plagued by blood-sucking insects or flea dipping three unwilling animals. I think it's a draw.

All this is because Oliver is harboring a literal flea civilization with flea governments and flea literature and little flea scientists. The other night he decided at four AM that sleeping with mom and dad was a lot better than sleeping on the floor so he crawled in bed between us (yes, my dog is a toddler...that will never grow up.) Anyway, I'm sure theres a nightmarish horror movie out there somewhere about what ensued: I woke up every thirty minutes for the rest of the night COVERED in bugs. Just thinking about it makes me want to fucking take a cheese grater to my skin.

ANYWAY. Here's pictures of the Fuck-You-Fleas-A-Rama 2008...








This is Dinah, mid-wail.









Ethan is obviously guarding the portals to hell.













This is about three seconds after Olivers bath, I'm not sure at this point he remembers what happened.








These are disgusting super fleas STILL alive after sitting in insecticide and hot water for about fifteen minutes. I'm not even sure I would survive that, and yet those fuckers were climbing up my bathtub wall when this was taken.

In addition to the flea dip, I also sprayed enough poison gas to ensure that I have brain cancer and my children have webbed feet. I guess the the only point I'm trying to make here is that there better fucking. not. be. fleas. in my house.
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Speaking of pets, in closing I'd like to give homage to our guppy, Tanya. Tanya came with a husband, Hank, who sadly passed. After Hank died, we sort of forgot to take him out, because honestly, it's like this fish tank is invisible. I can. not. remember to take care of it to save my life. Maybe because I neglected to ever buy plants, or bubbly treasure chests or really anything for it except fish. Anyway, Hank was flashy enough to remind me, but Tanya is pretty much the same color as the water itself...drab gray.

I know, I know, I'm a horrible pet owner. How am I supposed to someday take care of a baby if I can't even remember to clean the guppy tank.

But wait!

I haven't told you Tanya's fate, and that's because that bitch is STILL ALIVE. For a while there C thought I was feeding her and vice versa but it turned out really that no-one has fed that damn fish for months. MONTHS.

You know those little glass balls you buy at Sharper Image with the little perfectly balanced ecosystem inside? I'm telling you, that's what I've got. A much grimmer and less artistic version. And not worth using as a paperweight.

I leave you with this thought for the night:












VERSUS













I think it's close, I really do.

not newsworthy.

Lately when I read the news I bypass every single front page news story and go straight for the celebrity gossip or science/health news. Does that make me the shallowest, most useless person in my demographic? Probably. I just can't stand to hear anymore about how oil prices suck or 156 dozen people died in a suicide bomber attack. It's like a very boring, repetitive novel. One that I buy because I think it would make me look (more?) intelligent if it was sitting on my shelf, while simultaneously praying that no-one asks me about it.

I swear I'm intelligent, I swear it.

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This weekend C and I gave Oliver a bath, shined him up and put on his best, snazziest harness to go to the park. Here's some clues as to what happened there:










In case you're wondering, that's a dead toad, Oliver, and the angel of death playing a flute made of a femur, chronologically placed. The femur flute (FF) really has nothing to do with it, but the smell of death does.

Well, back to work.

Oliver goes Ice Fishing

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This morning took Oliver out to pee and went back to bed for a while, and when I went out to the garage to go to work, I discovered it had been pouring rain all that time, and there was Oliver, looking pathetic and dumber than usual with his little soggy ears plastered to his face. I wish I had a picture of it, but instead I'll have to make due with an equally stupid picture of him, all dressed up for a hard day of ice fishing winter in st. louis.

Sometimes I wish I had another dog to keep him company (although, this feeling never lasts more than about as long as it takes me to go outside and witness the destruction he's wrought), since it's apparent to me that he's excruciatingly bored/cooped-up/lonely/sad in the backyard all by himself. Recently he's taken to attempting to jump our eight foot plank board fence. Since Oliver is more like a giant, fifteen pound flea, and less like a normal domestic dog, this is entirely possible. C and I have witnessed it if you want further proof. Other things that he does include making nests out of trash and his dog house bedding, pooping all over the garage, eating his bone on top of my car and dumping his dog food all over the porch. He's so charming, sometimes I can't stand it.

But really, I do love him a lot. How can you not love a creature that will willingly put on an ice fishing hat in the winter because he's ACTUALLY that cold? That's right, you have no recourse.

Sexy Rexy

Today in addition to work I:

• looked up information on multiple births
• participated in an online photoshop contest (DORK)
• read the comics
• spent copious amounts of time on craigslist looking up the following things that were for sale:

• birdcages
• old wedding dresses
• washing machines
• houses
• briggs and stratton engines
• horses and ponies
• Nigerian Dwarf Goat
• mountain bikes
  

Admittedly, perusing craigslist always starts out innocently enough. "Oh, Rex needs a bigger cage, the lawn mower is broken and my friend needs a new washing machine." I'll leave it up to you to try and discern what particular train of thought got me from washing machine to Nigerian Dwarf Goat.

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I've started working out again and last night I got hooked into "BODY BLAST" which is about exactly as awful as it sounds. I reckon they got the name from the fact that after you complete "Body Blast" you will probably feel like your body has been "blasted" by something heavy, like an anvil or an artillery shell. I probably shouldn't have started my workout regimen back up with something with that name but when I was invited to the class by a woman who is at least 168 years old, the two shreds of pride I had left at that point wouldn't let me refuse. Needless to say, that old woman quickly showed me that I am a weak, flabby person who doesn't deserve to be 23 and in the prime of life.

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To finish, I must report that baby Rex: (see below - to refresh your memory)

Is now teenage Rex, and while no longer requiring bi-daily feedings, is now what C affectionately calls "a little shit." I'm sure that moniker has been accurately applied to teenagers throughout the annuls of history, but probably none so accurately as it is applied to Rex. For something that gets toys, food, treats, accesories and attention galore, he sure does a whole hell of a lot of hissing and biting and generally telling me where I can stick it. Not unlike a human teenager, I would imagine.

Pretty much the only endearing thing about him at this point is that he has learned the following:

• Cat Call
  
• "Seventy Six Trombones"
  
• the beeping on the microwave

Maybe the third one is somewhat less endearing than the other two, but still. He is also molting and thus in addition to his unending bad attitude and incessant cat calling (also not unlike a human teenager, I suppose), he looks like we put him in the blender. I promise we didn't, but I can't promise that we havne't thought about it.

NOW, it's five o-clock.

Seventy Six Trombones in the Big Parade

Today for a brief interlude I spent some time looking up cockatiels on the internet and thinking I might want one. When I was little I had a cockatiel. His name was Merle and he was awesome...so I got to thinking about how I'd like to have another Merle and teach him to cat call and sing Seventy Six Trombones. I also got to thinking about how it was my job to take care of Merle and he died, so I obviously wasn't doing something right. Lastly, I got to thinking about how the last bird I got was brutally devoured by Oliver.

Maybe I shouldn't get a bird.

Also, this brings to mind how little actual work I did today.
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There's a warning on my keyboard that says:

"Some experts believe that the use of any keyboard may cause serious injury."

That seems like a pretty serious warning for something as innocuous as a keyboard.

Other things that can cause serious injury:

• knives
• guns
• skydiving
• crop dusting
• working in a chemical plant
• nuclear meltdown

Time to go home, thank God.

On hating Milo the cat

I HATE MILO THE CAT SO MUCH.

I mean, really. I've never actually had disdain for an animal, but if Milo dissapeared off the face of the earth tommorow, my only sorrow would be for Sam, because she would actually be sad. However, I personally wouldn't be mourning his absence.

Tonights episode: I'm trying to study for my damn test, and Milo picks MY room like he always does to have nightly antics. Under my bed. And on top of my dresser. Mind you, before Milo enters stage right, both of the other cats are quietly sitting and behaving themselves, and within five seconds of his entering the room, hes managaed to get them involved in some sort of CAT game that entails batting my things around the room and knocking bottles and picture frames off my desk. So I endeavor to throw them out. Ethan goes quietly, probably because he's too stupid/gentle to put up a fight. I love Ethan, he's my buddy. Dinah goes because deep down she loves me, even though Dinah aspires to love no one. But Milo, he hides under my bed, and continues to make a ruckus, and generally act like an asshole until I pin him under my cedar trunk and drag him out by the scruff of his neck. Really, this is his fault. If he would get the fuck out from under my bed, I wouldnt be forced to remove him by any means possible.

Anyway, I hate him. His stupid, "cute" little exterior, his "cute" little meow, his "cute" little personality. NO. He's the most obknoxious creature that ever roamed the earth. He must be stopped.

May 21, 2007

Ollie cut his foot!! Honest to god, my dogs are like CHILDREN.

And how did I end up with so many animals in my house anyway? Honestly, I don't think any of us intended for it to get this out of hand. We have a veritable menagerie:

Oliver, Henry, and Penny the dogs.
Dinah, Milo, and Ethan the cats.
Rupert and Enya, the african cichlids.
X, the wren egg that we rescued from the holly bush outside the door.

I'm not sure that poor X is alive anymore. He had a brother, Y, but we cut him open to see if we weren't incubating yolks. We weren't. And now I feel bad for potentially ending the life of a bird fetus.

My life is weird, I know.

I need to go buy new books. Tommorow. Tommorow when I FINALLY have money again.

Sigh. IT's gonna be so great....I read a great one by Michael Cunningham. "Specimen Days." Everyone should go read it, but I'm not going to try and explain it, because when I do, people invariable think I'm insane.

I'm out, kids. It's bedtime I think.