There must be some misunderstanding........

There must be some kind of mistake -- Genesis -- 1983


My girl Sadie:

( affectionately called "the nightmare", but meant in the most loving of terms) and I went to our final Agility class in the series last night. We missed last week because I was ....... near death sick with a crappy cold. We have never missed a week before, unless you count the time when the surgeon was unceremoniously ripping Sadie's hip-bone out of her body repairing her damaged hip.

But since we have been back to Agility, we are ALWAYS there. Agility is good for my hell-girl sweet puppy. It lets her burn off some of that demonic mania youthful energy and gives her a way to focus on something that will not cause me to wring her skinny neck positive.

[Note to self: Cut the shit with the crossing out business. It's not cute anymore]

Where were we? Oh, right. Agility. Stop trying to confuse me!

So my girl has been making her comeback. She's pretty fearless and tough given all that she's been through, but I try to make sure that she doesn't take any really high leaps or sharp turns....at least not until that muscle is completely built back up in her hip, which in my estimation should be


ummmmm, never.

OK, so maybe I'm a bit neurotic about this whole deal, but really, when you think about it logically......she's BROKEN!! And she was just a puppy when she broke. And, still, no matter how much Dr.NiceOrthopedicDoggieSurgeon explained it to me, it just doesn't make sense that a surgeon can go into a tiny little puppy body, saw off the entire top of the sweet puppy's femur, slap a few loose stitches in there, and she's good to go. I mean really, where's the Titanium? The ceramic replacement?? Even some wires and pins???? Duct tape????!!!??? You really expect me to believe that a little flap of atrophied muscle is gonna' hold that whole shebang together? Nah, not me. I'm no fool.

Soooo, as a result, we are still the teensiest bit *careful* in Agility class. I paid nearly 4000 dollars to have my one-hipped-wonder patched up. I fully expect to get a good 12-14 years outta that skimpy muscle.

But, my girl, she must run. Or she is one unhappy girl. So we trudge off to class, me feeling mostly recovered ( HA!) and her ready to kick another Sheltie's ass on the course. We were cruising along at the top of our game, feeling great when it all went a bit askew. Here is how it played out:

The obstacle we were working on was the pause table:








Propped on one side of the table was a small dogwalk plank ( just one section):










and at the end of the plank was a target where the dogs were supposed to stop and offer a nose touch.

This exercise--designed so that they jump onto the low table ( 12 inches high), run the plank down to the target and offer a touch with the 2 front feet off the plank and the 2 back feet on -- is an extremely simple exercise for Sadie. She loves the table, she loves the dogwalk, and she ADORES offering nose touches for treats. No problem, right?

The first 3 runs, you would, in fact, be right. She nailed it every time. Proud as a peacock my girl was. The 4th run, something went terribly wrong. I don't know if I mis-cued her, if she slipped, if she had second thoughts.......whatever the reason, my Sadie nailed herself on the table. HARD. By her neck. And then fell over. Onto. Her. Repaired. Hip.

There is that moment. We all know it cause we've all been there.The moment when something bad is happening. You can see it happening. You know it is going to turn out ugly and awful, but there is nothing you can do about it. I felt like I was suspended in that moment for about 6 hours. I gave Sadie the signal to run to the table, I started to run, I glanced back at her just in time to see her trying to skid to a stop inches in front of the table. Not happening. She had already gained too much momentum. So she basically Karate-chopped her neck on the edge of the table, the force of the collision sent her flying backwards and her little body slammed onto the floor.

In that moment, I imagined a race to the vet's office....me carefully holding her dangling hip in place, or trying to keep her crushed trachea open so she could breathe. I don't think my heart actually stopped, but I know I never took a single breath while I ran back to her to assess the severity of the damage.

Before I could get there, my girl was on all 4 feet, shakin' that shit off. Pfffffffff, she said. That was nuthin'. She looked up at me, an expression of sheer disgust on her face and marched off to the end of the plank. She slammed her nose onto the target, waited for her treat and trotted away. I was still trying deep-breathing exercises to calm my fluttering heart and that bitch was waiting to go again.

The entire ordeal was over in about 30 seconds, but it effectively took 3 years off of my life expectancy. I can't wait to see what the next round of classes will bring.

BTW, as I referenced earlier, I was feeling pretty good when I got there. By the time I left, I was hacking and coughing and my chest hurt like a mother. Today, even it hurts to take a deep breath.

So much for exercise being good for you. It almost killed the two of us!

I did it, Do you think I’ve gone too far?..........

I did it, Guilty as charged -- Dave Matthews Band -- I Did It -- 2001



This is a very handsome face. The face of a sweet, kind, happy-go-lucky Poodle. The Poodle of my dreams since childhood. This is Trevor:

It is also the face of a dirty thief. A sneaky scoundrel. A puppy who may be living on borrowed time if the Heat Miser, now to be referred to as Mrs. McTwitter the babysitter

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/09/i-promise-it-wont-be-all-doggie-all.html

had her way. Maybe having friends involved in Poodle Rescue is not such a good idea. When you have a misbehaving Poodle, will anyone really notice if he is suddenly replaced with another, uhhhhh, similar type of Poodle? Will anyone question why my Blue Standard has morphed into a Brown Mini? Do ya' think his breeder might catch on when I send a group Christmas photo? Maybe we can turn it into an educational game for kiddies. The poor man's version of "Where's Waldo?".

"What happened to Trevor?"------it'll be all the rage for Christmas.


Or maybe I can rent him out to our local mall. A little of this in dark brown:

http://www.justformen.com/products/haircolor/haircolor8.shtml

A cutesy pair of these:



Paint his nose red and off he goes.


We will have killed two birds with a single, well- aimed stone. Or cinderblock. Trevor will be too busy to get into trouble, he'll be drawing a weekly salary as Santa's helper, and Mrs McTwitter will not have to resort to Poodle-cide.

Because, you see, he is plucking at her very last Poodle-sitting nerve. Playing her like a fragile sitar. If she could actually run, he would have left this earth yesterday afternoon, destined for the place where bad, bad dogs go when their owners kill them. The perpetual Veterinarian office. Located at 666 Devil Avenue in Hades. He woulda' been on the bullet train to Poodle hell. Eternally. Luckily for Trevor, Mrs. McTwitter is getting up there in years, and her Bruce Jenner sprinting days are long behind her.

You see, Mrs. McTwitter, aside from her heat-regulating duties, has a few other house related duties that she takes very, very seriously. One of those is decorating for the holidays. She is a pro, a champ, a heavyweight in a world of welters. Other people may think they are decorating gurus, but the ever-talented Mrs. McTwitter can whip a home into holiday-ready shape with a twitch or her nose......or a slap of her palm if I'm helping.

So the lovely Mrs. was completing the tedious chore of removing the outdoor Thanksgiving decorations ( yesssssss, she has them for every holiday! You can find our house in March by the brilliant green shamrock-infused glow), to prepare our humble abode for the arrival of the Christmas decorations. This duty apparently entails the *drying out* of the silk fall leaves from her window box/antique flower cart displays. The bottoms are sometimes wet and muddy from being outside. This drying process usually takes place in the driveway as we all know that blacktop is a most excellent drying surface. Unless, of course, you have dogs. Especially male dogs. The ones who find urinating on new items resting in the driveway to be a very inviting past time.

STRIKE ONE!

Yep, Trevor pissed all over the drying silk leaves. He is a Standard Poodle, so pretty much, it's a raging river of urine.

Mrs. McTwitter and urine soaked leaves = Trevor running through the yard trying to avoid being bonked on the ass by a broom. Guess who wins?

So now the lovely Mrs. is already aggravated, and calls me at work to inform me of such. Apparently, tittering is not the appropriate response to Mrs. Mc Twitter's retelling of the story. Needless to say, the conversation was rather terse and short.

So, Trevor was already firmly entrenched on the shitlist when he decided to up the lunacy a notch. Mrs. McTwitter had picked up all of the wet leaves, washed them to ensure their beauty and cleanliness for another year, and placed them on a high surface to ensure their safety from the traveling piss-pot. She thought all was well with her decorating world until she saw a horrible sight that stopped her holiday preparations in their very tracks.

Somehow, some way, Trevor had managed to pilfer a bunch of the leaves from their now-secret drying spot and magnanimously decided to distribute them among his Poodle siblings! He was happily cavorting around the yard with fall leaves fluttering in his mouth, two of the others were having a satisfying chew on the plastic stems, and the other two had dumped their prizes unceremoniously in the mud. Mrs. Mc Twitter was headed for a stroke.

STRIKE TWO!

She managed to gather up her now tattered leaves, once again secure ANOTHER spot of safety to dry them ( which may or may not have included rappeling from the garage) and headed inside, exhausted and disgusted. That is when Trevor, always a master at timing, decided that his beloved Mrs. obviously needed some cheering up, given her sad expression and lack of decipherable communication........so he JUMPED UP ON HER. To offer her a comforting hug. With. Muddy. Feet.

STRIKE THREE........ YEEEEEEEEEEEER OUT!!!!!

She is still not speaking to him. He is avoiding any and all eye contact with her. And I am the Poodle Mother from hell.

I guess I've been called worse. At least that designation doesn't involve decorating.

I've been lost now, days uncounted,and its months since I've seen home...........

I'm Your Captain (Closer To Home) -- Grand Funk Railroad -- 1970

Remember this:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/11/colder-crying-on-your-shoulder.html

and this:

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/11/if-i-had-photograph-of-you.html

Well, good news! Three of the 4 have already made it to their new homes. New families, new adventures.......a new beginning. One boy is still available, but he already has some people interested in giving him a great life. My friend Daryl is truly amazing. She and her band of merry helpers ( including myself), got them rescued, cleaned up, and vetted, provided them with a jumpstart on training, socialization and love, and then found them wonderful homes. Whatta' girl!

In other news, well.....there really is no other news worth telling. I'm back at work. The Princess is back at school. The Poodles are back to their regularly scheduled programming, and the Heat Miser is taking a break from thermometer monitoring detail. We have had another warm-ish snap in the weather, so the heat has been relegated to 8th class status again. Just wait till next week. The Heat Miser will spring into action. I think I witnessed her taking a nylon spoon out of the junk drawer. She has no trouble smacking the hand of anyone screwing with her delicate heat-cold balance. And believe me, that damn spoon hurts on tender skin. Or long bones. Or the top of the head. Believe me.

Other than that, life has held little entertainment value the past few days. I even missed the *neighborhood event*! I was at the drugstore and came home to see quite a crowd gathered on my neighbor's lawn. Apparently, my neighbor, a somewhat prudish woman well into her 50's spotted a branch that had attempted to commit suicide by plunging from her giant Maple tree. The branch, however, was rather inept and only made it about 75% of the way down. The neighbor's daughter, Little Miss Brainless decided to climb the tree to get the branch down so it wouldn't ever, say, fall onto an unsuspecting person's head.

Little Miss Brainless climbed the tree with ease, rather like a Monkey that she eerily resembles anyway. She grabbed the branch, went to lower it down , and guess what? She dropped it.......onto an unsuspecting person's head!! Her Mother's!! Right onto Momma's noggin. Ole' Momma had to be taken to a nearby walk-in Clinic for a few basting stitches. How's that for a knee slapper?!? And I missed it all. I know it sounds heartless, but I bet I would have laughed like a MOFO. I simply love shit like that. I always have. Cracks me up every time.

I can vividly remember my own Mother falling down one of the levels of our 3rd floor stairs when I was a little kid. Not like head-over-heels-over-head falling. More like *whoops.....oh shit!! thumpety-thumpy-thump on the ass* falling. All the way down the flight she bounced. I about peed myself with laughter and then, ever so kindly requested that she do it again. I was about 4 at the time, so this mean streak, well let's say, it's pretty well ingrained.

So kids, that's my tale for today. Not much to say, but I would love to leave you with the ever-amusing image of my snootified neighbor being bonked on the bean by her own offspring. I took this very picture right after she got back from having her cranium sutured, so don't be too shocked if it's graphic.

Enjoy!

All you do to me is talk, talk.......

Talk Talk -- The Party's Over -- 1982

Hope everyone had a smashing Turkey Day here in the US. For you Canucks, figure it out. I can't be expected to keep track of everything.

We had just a bag o' fun here at our house. The Princess came home and we all shared in the joy of familial illness together. Hacking and sneezing and snorting snot with damp tissues galore.

I'm not much of a Turkey fan myself. For me, just back up the truck and unload those carbs. Gimmee' the mashed potatoes, the stuffing, the corn. I'm thankful enough right there. No need to add a Bird to the fray and screw things all up.

Anyway, the few days were rather uneventful aside from one or two memorable *Princessisms*. Now, we all love our children. We all think they are brilliant and beautiful and witty and charming. Don't' we??

My Princess is no different. She is a very smart girl, college educated and all. Nearly graduated. Yep, I've paid a boatload of money to have this kid smartened up. A big boatload. Like a cruiseliner. Filled to the poopdeck with money.

Sometimes, however, I secretly wonder about the quality of her education. Maybe a few niggling concerns about the size or capacity of her brain. She's brilliant in a freaky Rain-Man sorta' way. Not with the counting of toothpicks, but with the things that her noggin retains. Weird things. Useless facts. Sometimes it's really kind of freaky. She's like an encyclopedia with legs. But then, the Princess does or says something that starts me wondering all over again. Kinda like this:

She has a 1998 Volkswagen Beetle. She {{{{{hearts}}}} this car. Even named him. Fang is his moniker. Witty, no? I mean, what looks less ferocious than a new Beetle? Fang! That cracks me up.

So, Fang has developed a *teensy-weensy* problem with oil disappearing. No one knows where it is going. No one ( like a Princess) ever sees oil on the ground where Fang has been parked. It's a mystery. Sooooo, we have repeatedly warned the Princess to keep a verrrrrrry close eye on the oil level in Fang, lest he become too thirsty, dehydrate and die. She has been shown several times how to check the oil level, she has been provided several quarts of oil to keep *just in case*, and she is regularly nagged about the oil in Fang.

I decided that I should check Fang's oil while she was home.....just to be sure. Not that I don't trust the Princess. Oh, no, nothing like that. I was just really in the holiday spirit of giving...and all that crap.

I go to check the oil and the Princess comes out with me. I open the hood and start to pull out the dipstick and the Princess says " oh, so that's the oil-measurement thingie". Warning, Will Robinson, warning. Red lights start to go off in my head and I carefully, in metered I-intend-to-murder-you-here-in-this-very-driveway-tones, ask the Princess "have you been checking the oil like I showed you?" To which the Princess responds, "uh, no, not really. I mean, when Fang starts to sound a little, you know, *knocky*, I just dump some more oil in there". Great! Score one for common sense. Guess the cruiseliner full of money didn't offer the Takecareofyourautomobile101 course this semester.

We patched things up, the Princess and I ,after her near death experience in the driveway, under the hood of a *knocky* Volkswagen.

We even sat for a few hours and watched a PBS broadcast of a ballroom dancing competition. The Princess was thoroughly enjoying the broadcast, until one memorable exchange between the male and female host of the show set the Princess' teeth on edge and she could not contain her indignation any longer.

The male host was singing the praises of dancing ( cute, huh?. I thought so). The female host was agreeing, and then took the praise one step further. She began to sermonize on the importance of regular exercise. She went on and on about how wonderful dance was as a form of exercise. She had the unmitigated gall to suggest that dance was, as a matter of fact, the BEST form of exercise for anyone. ANYONE AND EVERYONE SHOULD DANCE EVERYDAY FOR THEIR HEALTH!!!

I heard the loud release of the Princess' breath. I witnessed the rolling of the Princess' eyes. I waited for the Princess strike back at the host, deeming her an idiot who has never needed to exercise in her whole, entire pathetic life. Complaining that this hostess probably had every ounce of her fat sucked out by one of those Doctor 90210 freaks on the E Channel. I just knew the Princess was becoming irate at the suggestion that this poofy-coiffed hostess was lecturing her audience on the merits of EXERCISE!!! Oh the horrors!!! I thought the Princess' head would simply explode. *POOF* Head begone. But instead, I was treated to this educated and lightening-fast retort to the suggestion that EVERYONE should dance for exercise. Should and must DANCE. NOW!!!!



Ya' know what the Princess responded to that??????????






"Um, no, not if you're legless".




Seriously!! She was not kidding. And I will be paying for student loans until I'm about 70.

Leave all your troubles and pain.........

And rise like Phoenix from the flame -- Good Life -- Getaway People -- 2000


We have heat!!! Warm, snuggly, toasty, downy, baby-ass soft heat. It is a beautiful thing. But, as we all know, beautiful things sometimes come at a great cost. And so did the heat.

The Gas Company heeded the call to arms and arrived at the house, match at the ready to restart the pilot light. Simple enough. Although, the Heat Miser did admit to me that she had not told the Gas Company man the * entire* truth about why the pilot light was out

http://nowthepartysover.blogspot.com/2006/11/i-know-what-it-means-to-freeze-to-death.html

which, to me signifies that the Heat Miser basically blamed the entire mess on me ( or the Poodles, but I think even the Gas Man might have doubted that scenario).

So, the Gas Man worked his gassy magic and quick as a flame, we had heat. LOTS of heat. And the birds chirped, the sun shone and the Poodles barked. Maybe a raspy bark from frozen vocal chords, but they barked.

Until the kindly and efficient Gas Man suddenly turned into the Gas Inspector From Hell. He decided that he should inspect the travesty called " the furnace" before he sped away in his fancy Gasmobile. That's when the whole plan to restore the heat went alarmingly astray.

Upon inspection, the Gas Inspector from Hell discovered ( gasp) A PROBLEM!!!. A large problem. A dangerous problem. A potentially deadly problem. And he RED-TAGGED OUR FURNACE. Shut it down in it's prime. Took away it's heat making abilities just as it was building up a full head of steam. He emasculated our furnace and felt not one ounce of regret. Bastard.

It seems that our furnace venting thingamajiggie had a clog. Somewhere. The Gas Inspector From Hell could not be any more specific than that. But he did forbid us to use the furnace and provided all sorts of graphic verbal illustrations including the words "Shriner's hospital", "going to bed and never waking up", or the more charming alternative, "coming home and finding everyone dead".

That was the clincher. The Gas Man From Hell morphed into the Angel Of Doom and I wanted him out. Out of my house with his scary tactics and frightening details. He left alright, but not before shutting down the entire operation. And giving us a number to call when the repairs were made. Then, he explained, the Gas Company could come out to reinspect to determine if our repairs deem us to be heat-worthy.

My Mother, in a state of near panic, while contemplating if hotel room hot plates could possibly cook a 15 lb turkey, called her old friend Tom, a heating and plumbing specialist. Mercifully, he sent one of his men out right away. The man, whom will be referred to as the Silent Vacuumer, arrived with his sidekick, affectionately known as the Chatty Flashlight Holder. Between this strange pair, they immediately determined that a big pipe from the furnace to the chimney was probably clogged with "crap". Apparently, "crap" is a highly esteemed and technical term in the heating/plumbing business as I heard it bandied about frequently.

These two professionals basically vacuumed out the "crap", built up over the past 20 years from the bottom of the chimney. With MY Shop-Vac. For 40 minutes. Let it be known that we are not neglectful chimney owners. Our fireplace has not worked correctly since we moved in, so it is purely decorative as I really dislike fires and burns and extended hospital stays, as I may have mentioned. So, the chimney has not been serviced in many years. And "crap" apparently multiplies without the cheery services of a chimney sweep. Who woulda' known?

The end result was........we again were graced with heat, this time by the Silent Vacuumer and the Chatty Flashlight Holder. They were quite a skilled pair, those two. This time, we were even allowed to keep our heat. We decided that we liked the heat, so it stayed. Unfortunately, the heat was not cheap. To have all of these " professionals" come to our home, frighten us witless, make a hazy and ashy mess and then leave, well, it will end up costing us close to 400 dollars. And we are not done. We have been advised that even though we don't use the fireplace, and we now despise said fireplace, we MUST have the fireplace flue relined, lest any sparks or embers or heat cause a problem, like a blazing inferno type of problem.

Now wouldn't that be a bitch. After almost freezing to death, we end up burning to death instead. It would be just my luck. After I went to all the trouble of pulling out quilts and blankets and toasty slipper socks, I will explode into flames.

So....... Happy friggin" Thanksgiving to you and yours. If you would like to toast any marshmallows after your Turkey dinner, stop on by.

My house will be the cute little red Cape with flames shooting out of the top.

I know what it means to freeze to death, to lose a little life with every breath..........

Frozen Man -- James Taylor-- New Moon Shine -- 1991


As if the congestion, the coughing, the ear pain, the chest rattling, the sheer AGONY of illness is not enough--------WE HAVE NO HEAT!!!!! You heard me!! NO HEAT. In New England. In the end of November. NO HEAT!!!! Not a funny joke.

Does the fun never end? Last night began our very first cold weather snap. It has been unusually mild here. Freaky warm. And rainy. Monsoony, to be exact.Until last night. November decided to stage an appearance. Fine by me. I am a hearty New Englander. I can deal with November. I mean, it is the month that I was born. I am intimately familiar with November. We're tight, November and me.

So, last evening, I watch the weather like the dutiful lamb I have become, and I notice that the temperatures may plummet into the low 30's! Yikes! I can feel a chill coming on. A chill that will last until, uh, about mid- May. Because, you see, I live with the original Heat-Miser:


Only my Heat-Miser doesn't do a little ragtime ditty and dance to the delight of small children everywhere. My very own heat-miser is my Mother, and she has, in her advancing years, taken to the notion that the heat should NEVER be set above 62. Now, normally, 62 is tolerable. I have plenty of insulation, and the sum of 2 adults and 5 Poodles creates the cumulative effect of global warming in our tiny abode. Except that, the Heat-Miser has also become enamored of the idea that the heat should be set EVEN LOWER at night to conserve on energy costs. Her rationale " well, we're all under the blankets anyway, so why should the air have to be warm?".

Ummmmm, OK?!?

So, once the cold weather hits, the HM springs into action, checking the thermostat with fervor, assuring that no one is messing with her plan to save a bajillion dollars this season on heat bills. The HM gets up earlier than me in the morning, so she usually cranks the heat up to a blazin' 65 to warm up the house, then, before she leaves for work she turns it back down to the pre-determined magical 62 and all is well with the world.

Except for today. My first clue was when my feet hit the floor at 5:45 a.m. The very cold floor. Cold like you are walking out on your driveway in December in bare feet floor. OK, I thought. The HM must be a bit slow on the uptake because it's the very first cold night of the season. Then I made it downstairs to be met by this cheery greeting from the HM herself "we have no heat", said in an unnaturally calm voice. Which immediately clued me in to the fact that the HM must have been somehow responsible for this transgression. If it had been my fault, there would have been much consternation, passive-aggressive blaming, and eyebrow movements suggestive of grievous harm.

It did not take me long to point out (tactfully.....I mean, she will be cooking Thanksgiving dinner in a few days. I don't care much for Botulism with my turkey) to the HM that she probably blew out the pilot light on the furnace. In a moment of sheer brilliance last week, the HM decided to do some *home-repair* work in the basement. Our basement floods. Always has, probably always will. So everything we have in the basement is up off the floor, and we have a gynormous Shop-Vac at the ready in the event of big rain. As I mentioned before, we have been Monsoony lately, and last week, we had an overnight storm that dumped several inches of water, some of it into our basement. The HM decided that she would assist in the drying-of-the-rain-process by setting up a huge floor fan. Yep, gotta hand it to Mrs. Bob Vila.....she set the fan up a few feet away from the furnace!!! Now that's good thinking.

So, it appears that our pilot light was blown out. I will attempt just about any home repair, except for big electrical work, and stuff having to do with explosions and third degree burns. Pilot light = extended hospital stay and skin grafts.

Now we have to pray that the gas company will actually come out.....between 1 and 5 this afternoon or after 7:30 p.m but before 10 when Nip/Tuck starts. I would rather be cold than interrupted from Agility class or Nip/Tuck. Do you think that schedule is too restrictive?

Maybe I'll just buy one of these:


and cut the bottom off. I can wear it around the house. I'll have to buy 2 cause' the Princess is coming home this evening for the holiday. The Princess should never be cold.


The HM will have to buy her own. I'm not bailing her out of this one.

And the tears roll down my swollen cheek ........

think I'm losing it - getting weaker -- Peter Gabriel -- San Jacinto -- Security


Still sick. As a dog. Worse than a dog. Sick. Bleeaaaaccccchhhhhh. Snot pouring, rattly coughing, chest hurting, head exploding sick. I hate everything.

In the midst of my misery, I took the time to snap some pictures of myself. I want you to grasp the gravity of the situation, the severity of my illness. I want you to send gifts

Here is the progression of my illness in pictures. Rest assured, these are all pictures of me. The illness was so powerful, it sometimes changed my hair color, sex, age and features. It's been a bad one.

And finally, just in case you thought I was joking about the seriousness of this head cold, here I am, ready to roll:

Meet me in the crowd,People people..........

Throw your love around, Love me love me -- Shiny Happy People -- REM -- Out Of Time -- 1991



Can you see it????? Can you??? My stat counter. Please, hurry! Go look and see. I'll wait right here. I'm soooooo excited!!!!!

{{hums to self. taps foot. fiddles with hair}}


You're back!! Whaddya' think????? Isn't it just great?!?!





I HAVE REACHED A READERSHIP IN THE THOUSANDS!!!!!!!!! OK, so maybe it's just one thousand, but don't rain on my parade. I am happy, excited, overwhelmed by my worldwide popularity. A little addled by fever maybe.

I am sick. Really, with an illness, possibly, the way my head and chest are feeling, the plague. But please, legions of adoring fans and general malcontents......don't let my illness spoil your private little celebrations in my honor. You have all brought me here to the pinnacle of fame and fortune and now we must luxuriate in the warming glow of being the newest members of " the in-crowd". Kinda like the Brat pack. Yeah, kinda' like that. Just older, with more estrogen, and no theater sized posters of our faces. But still, kinda' the same.

Bahhhh, that doesn't matter to us. We are an army of 1000 readers ( I am stubbornly REFUSING to acknowledge those who's return visits contribute mightily to the count. I would prefer to believe that I have a massive audience hanging on my every word, but thanks for trying to snap me back into reality. Party poopers)

So, everyone, have a drink on me, your Maya Angelou of the Blogging world......or a smoke, or an orgy, or a manic shopping spree, or a deep, dark, angst filled night where you wonder why you were not born to be as popular and beautiful and wealthy and thin and delusional as me........whatever. Just have fun. It's a celebration!

Couldn't you just die from excitement?!?

Give yourself what you need...........

Sing a song, it'll make your day -- Earth, Wind and Fire -- Singasong -- 1975

Friday. My favorite day for music at work. In their infinite wisdom, my facility blocked all streaming audio and video from our desktops, but I can still revel in all the 80's goodness of Radio Nigel:

http://www.radionigel.com/index.php

As long as our desktops have Windows Media Players installed, we all have access to this wonderland that is 80's music ( my fave-----New Wave!), and Nigel does Block Party Friday every week. A chunk of musical goodness right here at my desk. Nigel does not like to play 80's pop, more often you hear things like Ultravox and the Smiths and The Cure and Roxy Music and Heaven 17 and The Jam, and, and, and............I think I might faint from the sheer musical bliss it brings into my day!!

So, for those of you with varied musical tastes, give Nigel a shout. I promise, if you have a brain in your head and an intact tympanic membrane ( look it up), you will {{{{{{{{heart}}}}}}} Nigel as much as I do.

Go now. Shooo. Nigel is waiting!


BTW, I don't realy know if Nigel is an actual person, like maybe a funky british DJ zipping to work in his London studio on a shiny Vespa, with a smokin' pair of Doc Martens and a penchant for unexplained moodiness. However, in my mind, I picture Nigel looking something like this dapper gentleman in the upper right:






Fine, no?
So look, listen and have a wonderful weekend. I'll pick up the tab.

Every minute I keep finding.......

Clues that you leave behind -- Duran Duran -- New Moon On Monday -- Seven And The Ragged Tiger -- 1983


I would like to believe that my life is in order, under control, running smoothly, not spiraling toward madness, but last night, my life proved me wrong. Smacked my rose-colored theory right upside the head and then laughed. Loudly.

As some of you may have noticed, I like order. My ADD dictates that order is the way to go. When things start to become disorderly, I can feel the sweat slowly begin to creep down the small of my back. I NEED order. I really, truly hate chaos ( although I do jones for a regular adrenaline fix). So I have, by necessity, become a planner. If I have tasks that are out of the ordinary, I plan them all out in my head before jumping in. "I have to get to the Vet's office, I have to call the Princess's doctor for an appointment over Christmas break, I have to send in that rebate form, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera" Shall we dance?

It can get exhausting very quickly.

So, yesterday, instead of my normal work-----home----eat-----chores------bed routine, I had a few minor stops I needed to make. Errands. Simple errands. Except that it all went awry. I told you before, this ADD is killing me, but I have been too chicken to call my doctor to discuss it. I am truly worried that he will pooh-pooh the idea of ADD in a fairly successful 41 year old. Then I might be forced to harm him. I will, however, be forced to plan the harming scenario first. It's just my way. However, I will get a harsher sentence when convicted because planning definitely implies guilt.

Frickin' ADD. Where was I? Oh yeah, errands.

I had 3 things to do. Pick up doggie meds at the Vet, pick up rent money at the local ATM ( and yes I pay rent to my Mother, I'm not an ingrate no matter what anyone else might have told you) and pick up my own meds along with some Ice Cream at the grocery store. Not so hard for those with an un-addled brain, but believe me, this turned into a nightmare of stressful and near epic proportions for me and my scrambled cranium.

I left work with my plan all mapped out. Go to the Vet first because they close by 5. Blew out of the office a few minutes early, got to the vet at 4:40. I had called to order the 2 refills last week. When I got there, only one med was refilled and I had to wait for the Vet to finish an appointment to approve the other. Got the meds, paid my fortune and headed off on my merry way. I was sailing through this routine without a hitch.

I arrived, in the dark, at the ATM. I tried to take out my money ( with my debit card) but was deterred by the sinister blinking message that told me I was "over the daily deduction" quota. I was forced to scale down the deduction, but OK, no biggie. Maybe I got a teensy-tiny bit flustered, but I survived it. Me and Gloria Gaynor, we are survivors. As I walked back to the dark parking lot ALONE there was a very hinky guy on a bike, lazily riding around the lot. I quickly sized up the situation and decided that I could take him if he rushed me for my fortunes, but he just kept bikin'. I got into my car and headed for the Grocery.

Got to the Grocery store and decided to leave my bag with the recently retrieved rent money locked in the center console. I would just take my wallet with me. I didn't want to carry that kind of cash around. I have been known to .....uh......misplace thing. Sometimes. So, I get the Ice cream, go to the Pharmacy, get my medication and whip out my wallet to pay the tab. It was at this exact moment that my world took on this "spinning-out-of-control" sensation. I had no debit card! I pay for everything with my debit. I NEVER have cash. And there was the cozy debit-card slot in my wallet......mocking me. Debit free! Naked!!!

In my panic, I tried to recount my steps and- VOILA!!!! The Vet's office! I used my debit card to pay for the doggie meds. I call the Vet, but by now they were closed. Damn it! Oddly enough ( or maybe not if you know me)I never even remembered going to the bank. That trip had simply been erased from my consciousness like it never happened.

I left my items behind to check my car. NOTHING!!! No dropped debit card. NOTHING!!! But, suddenly, while searching the car, I remembered that I had cash in the center console........and then, a creeping realization that I had been to the BANK TO GET THAT MONEY hit me!!!! Holy shit!!! THE BANK!?!?

I ran back to the Pharmacy with the cash, paid and got the hell out of dodge, secretly praying to the gods of *anything* that my debit card was sitting on the bank ledge, patiently waiting for me to pick it up. "please oh, please do not let it be stolen".

I raced to the bank, but, of course, there is no fucking way to get inside the vestibule to look for your missing debit card without swiping......you guessed it.....your missing debit card to gain entry! GREAT!!!There was not another soul around, so I skulked around the lot like the hinky guy from my first visit, only without a bike. It was then, in the dark of the lot, that I looked down in the mess of leaves and cigarette butts and spotted my beloved debit card, forlornly staring back up at me! Glory be!!!! I was so excited at my good fortune that I almost wept.

Until I got back into the car. My phone was ringing. It was my Mother to say that the Pharmacy had called her. I had, in my panic to reunite with my debit card, left all of my purchases at the Pharmacy......and I had 5 minutes to get there before they closed.

I made it. Somehow. But it took a toll on me. I arrived home exhausted, dragging a box of melted French Vanilla Ice Cream behind me, debit card held close to my heart. I was near hysteria from the stress of it all.



Tell me the truth. Should I pursue the ADD/Medication thing?

I'm a bitch, I'm a bitch, Oh the bitch is back.........

Elton John -- The Bitch Is Back -- Caribou -- 1974



Get ready kids cause that's the kind of mood I am in today. Bitchy. No good reason. I just feel like being bitchy.

No, I don't want to talk about it, and no, it's not your fault.

In honor of my newly-minted bitch-day, I am going to complain about a few random things that annoy me. And, if you know me, really know me, you will immediately realize how hard it is for me to narrow my bitching down to a scant few items. I can usually find an awful lot to bitch about.......without thinking too hard.


My bitch-list for today:

People who find it spatially impossible to park between the lines in a parking space. If you are blind, pardon me for mentioning, but I think there might be some legal liability related to you operating a motor vehicle. If you are not blind, well then obviously, you are just a parking-impaired asshole. Stay home.


Neighbors who listen to their music so loud that I have to hear the thump-thump-thumping of the bass line in my own house........half a block away. Now I love music as much as the next person, maybe even more when you consider my fatal attraction to all things Bowie ( he counts as extra points because he is perfection), but I don't like the sensation that I am living inside of a headachy skull........buboom-buboom-buboom-buboom. I will arrange for a craniectomy if you keep that shit up.....and it's not my head that will be rollin'.


Ignoramus's. Should it be ignoramuses? I don't know. It's not a spelling test, O.K., so don't badger me! Anyway, Ignorami who give me shit over the phone. About work. Like I make all the rules ( although I probably should because then there would be no yelling.....just beheading - see above). Although they may be of the mistaken notion that I am the Queen of Everything, I am not, and my protestations do not seem to convince them. I have a boss, and she has a boss, and so on and so forth until you get to the Big Kahuna. So no, Iggie, I DO NOT MAKE THE RULES THAT YOU NEITHER LIKE NOR AGREE WITH so take your yelling ass elsewhere. My ears hurt.


People who place ads to sell their unused items, and then when you call or e-mail, they act like you're a mosquito nefariously buzzing around their soft parts. WTF!! Do you want to sell it or not? If you want to make some cash, you might want to treat me like the most glamorous, well-heeled, rich bitch you have ever met. Then you might stand a chance. Oh, and BTW, don't tell me that you can't send me a picture of the item in question, or that you are soooooo busy that it will be hard to arrange a time for me to see the item. Will you have enough time to feel the crisp, green cash slide into your sweaty palm? Thought so.


Ass-hats who open their driver's side doors to get in or out of a parked car.........in traffic. If I didn't have such a high deductible on my SUV, I would just thoroughly enjoy the look of horror on your face when KA-BLAMMMMMMMMMM........ I smacked the front end of my truck into your door and sent it soaring. I should not have to stop or swerve or wait for you. Never.

Doctors who order 5 bajillion dollars worth of medical tests, rush you hither and yon to be poked, prodded and humiliated, and then insist that you come back to their office to *discuss the results*. Uh, excuse me Doc, but I have no desire to fork over another co-pay to hear those magical, soul-searing words that you trained 8 years in medical school to utter............"we can't find anything". I'll keep my 20 bucks, thanks.


Co-workers who feel the need to tell you the most mundane, uninteresting details of a story that you never really wanted to hear in the first place. Do I care that your son's best friends name is Eddie? Do I need to know that your husband has a Plantar's Wart? Have you completely disregarded the look of sheer revulsion on my face every single time you start to speak? Are you in need of a Lobotomy? If so, refer to above. I can handle that for you, tut-sweet.


Barking dogs. Anywhere. Anytime. Even my own.

The end.

Wake up you sleepy head........

Put on some clothes, shake up your bed -- Oh You Pretty Things -- David Bowie -- 1971



IT'S OFFICIAL!!!! I'm a big girl now. I am getting a big girl bed! Can't-ya-just-feel-the-excitement?!?!?! I can't hear you........

A little back story on the whole big-bed thing. I don't want you to think I'm phobic about real beds, or have an issue with sleeping alone in a bed made for more than one, or that I still sleep in something like this:













No sireeee. I actually have a very nice bed, thankyouverymuch!! It is an antique Sleigh bed, similar to the lovely model pictured here:










Except mine is smaller. A lot smaller. As in twin-size smaller. And I am no longer a twin-size person. My bed is beautiful and I love it, but it's killing me. Slowly. Painfully. Every single friggin' night. Killing me.

The tale goes something like this *abridged version*.

Young, pregnant, living with my Mother in a 2 bedroom apartment. Have my baby, give up my full-sized bed for a twin to fit a crib in my bedroom.

4 years later, we move to our house. My baby is now 4.5 and has never had her own room, so, being the wonderful, awe-inspiring mother that I am, I gave my daughter the larger of the bedrooms. I was left with, as I lovingly call it, "the closet". A room so tiny that only a twin-size bed would fit. With much careful arranging of minimal furniture, I managed to survive in the closet for almost 17 years. So what, a few broken toes.......not a big deal. Really, I'm OK with claustrophobia and foot pain.

Anyway, daughter grows up, goes to college. I remain in the closet........hahahahahahaha. Not literally. Well, maybe literally, but not sexually.

Onward and upward. Over the course of the college years, daughter comes home less and less and daughter's belongings move out more and more. I finally work up the nerve to ask daughter if she would like to trade rooms.........seeing as she is not there and all. Don't judge. She had a palace for almost 18 years while I suffered!

She surprisingly agrees and the move is made. I am in the lap of luxury, except for the bedding situation. There, I am still in the bed from hell. However, beautiful beds are hard to come by and I hate my room to not be matchy-matchy. Or at least not white-trashy. So I stay in the Mini Cooper of the sleep world begrudgingly.

Until this past weekend. Ole eagle-eyed Mother spots an ad for a cast-iron antique bed. Yeaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh. My kinda' taste. I go last night to see the bed and it's A-OKAY. Perfect. And, best of all, it's a full-sized bed!!!! Woooooohoooooooooo!!!!! Can you feel the love I have for this bed?!?! Can ya"? I do.

So, I am arranging to pick it up this week. I will, however, have to suffer for a little while longer. You see, mattresses, as I have found, are fuckin' expensive. Damn it!! I haven't bought a new mattress in ......well.......ummmmm......I can't remember when. You need a loan (or a healthy kidney for sale) to afford a mattress. Even still, I am happy, happy, oh-so-happy about my new bed. It looks remarkably similar to this one, but better. In many ways. Much better.










My new bed is more fantastical, more dramatical (thank you Flava-Flav!), more beautifical. It is just more perfect than a girl could hope for. It is.......are you ready.................





THE BED OF MY DREAMS!!!!!!!!



Thank you very much and goodnight. Don't forget to tip your waitress on the way out.

If I had a photograph of you......

as something to remind me -- Wishing -- A Flock Of Seagulls -- 1980

By popular request, here they are.......the rescued Poodles in their new-do's! First, the White Male, 1 year old:











Then the Blue Male, 7 months old:










And then, my favorite, the pregnant girl, age unknown:











You can see just how thin the boys are, but that won't be for long! The pretty girl is filled out better, probably from pregnancy. Their pictures DO NOT do them justice, and their hair is a bit short, but they are clean and happy!

Colder, crying on your shoulder

Hold her, and tell her everythings gonna be fine -- Travis -- Sing -- 2001




I hope everyone had a simply divine weekend.....at least my legions of devoted Blog fans. Anyway.

My weekend was zipping along smoothly, and then Saturday afternoon I got a call. From my friend. Now, you might be saying to yourself : who is this friend that Avalon speaks of and why is a call from this friend important enough to warrant Blog coverage?

Well, my friend is Daryl ( a female), and she is the person who originally rescued, fostered and adopted my Maisie out to me. She used to be the CT rescue coordinator for Poodle Rescue of New England. A few months ago, after many years of selfless and dedicated volunteer service, they unceremoniously dumped her! I curse their stupidity. But I still care deeply about the Poodles that need rescue, and so does Daryl. She cares so much that she turned right around and formed Poodle Rescue of Connecticut! Daryl is now rescuing Poodles on her own terms with far less red tape than she used to have. She is amazing. She is married, works full time, has 5 Poodles of her own, does rescue 24/7, manages to save, rehab, train and place these Poodles, and ALWAYS has room in her heart and home for more. She's also wickedly funny and a great friend. I never knew her before we adopted Maisie 3 years ago this week, but we have become friends since then. She's just the kind of person you want to be friends with.

So, Daryl calls me Saturday afternoon, obviously in her car. She says that she's on her way back from New York. She tells me that she just picked up 4 Mini Poodles that needed rescue, and that they desperately need to be groomed. Her friend Sue is a professional groomer who normally helps Daryl, but Sue recently had a baby, Daryl wasn't going to make it to the shop until the evening, and Sue needed to get home. Daryl knows that I groom my own Poodles, and knows that I have tried to help with rescue when I am able, so I agreed to come to Sue's shop and help groom them. It was then that Daryl admitted the 4 Poodles ( 2 of them puppies and one other who was likely pregnant) were filthy, overgrown, matted and so smelly that she was driving with her windows down. Whoopeeeeeee!!

So, my Mother and I packed up and drove to Sue's grooming shop. I had stopped to get a bag of treats because I knew the dogs had spent a long day being transported and probably had not eaten much. As soon as we opened the door to the shop, the smell hit us in the face. A nasty combination of urine, feces, filth and, well........sadness. Sue had stayed for a about an hour to help start the shave-down process of the most matted Poodles. Daryl was in charge of the bathing. The 2 younger pups were not in as bad shape as the 2 older ones. The pregnant female had already been washed and had a basic strip-down shave. She just needed finishing work done. The 4 year old Silver male was just waiting in his crate to be cared for. They all looked frightened and defeated. It was unbelievably sad.

So, I started in. I am certainly no professional, but I can do a decent pet clip. As Sue did finishing work on the 7 month old Blue male, I did the same on the 1 year old white male. The pregnant female was drying after her bath. When I was done, I went to offer the female a treat and found that she was ravenous. We gave her a bowl of food while she dried and she ate it all. We ended up feeding all 4. They were all hungry. The 2 young males were painfully thin. You could see their hip bones protruding from under their skin. However, they were also both wild-men when we let them down off the table! They were rambunctious and silly and thrilled to be clean! They ran and tussled and zoomed around the room. It was wonderful to watch their spirit return.

Then I started on the female. No one knows just how pregnant she might be, but she was obviously not as thin as the young boys. She was gentle and sweet and very patient about her grooming. She had a urine burn on her right buttock from sitting in filth. Her feet were sore from standing in it. But she was dignified, albeit a bit afraid and uncertain. Until she was finished. When I was done with her makeover and let her off the table, she pranced around proudly, coming up to get loving from my Mother and Daryl. She was simply beautiful. All of them were. At one time, they were all well cared for and seemed to be very well bred. My Mother sat with this girl, Blossom was her name, and just held her, whispered to her and gave her some of the love and tenderness she has missed out on. She soaked it up.

Then, I started on the Silver male. He was 4 years old, and he resembled a filthy rastafarian rag-muffin. The smell from his coat made my eyes water and a few times I had to stop myself from gagging. I stripped down the outer, filthy fur and then Daryl bathed him. Once he dried, I finished his clip. He was absolutely handsome under all that mess, but he, like the female, had urine burns on his feet. Otherwise, he appeared to be in good shape. He was not underweight, but he didn't have great muscle tone.

All in all, it took us about 4 hours to finish the 4 Poodles. When they were done, we cleaned up and headed home. A few hours later, Daryl sent me some pictures of them that I would love to share, but Blogger the asshole won't let me load them. Suffice it to say, they look good and hopefully they feel great. I know they will all find wonderful homes. This is the start of their new lives.

I just can't get that sweet, sweet little pregnant girl out of my head. Logically, I know we are at our Poodle max with 5, but all she wanted was to be loved and petted and treated with gentle hands. She wanted to be someone's special girl. It breaks my heart to think that, had she not been rescued, she would shortly have given birth alone, in filth, hungry and frightened. While I understand that this scenario plays out every day in puppy mills around the country, and that she was one of the lucky ones, it is so hard to see the face of neglect up close and personal. It was even harder to imagine, when I asked Daryl " so was my Maisie worse than this when you rescued her?, she said " oh yeah, much worse".

I hugged my Poodles closer this weekend. And I said a little prayer for all those who didn't get a makeover and a new start on Saturday night.

So, how was your weekend?

You're too old to lose it, too young to choose it..........

Rock N Roll Suicide -- David Bowie -- 1974




It's my birthday today! 41 years old. Wooohoooooo. Yeah, right. No big deal anymore. Birthdays. Whatever.

If all of you mailed your gifts at the last minute, don't worry. I am very understanding about procrastination. If you want to make me a belated one of these:

















I prefer vanilla.

BTW, the date of my birth does hold one point of interest. I was born in Connecticut. Go here to read about how we celebrated my arrival:

http://blackouts.gmu.edu/events/tl1965.html






The running joke in my family was that I was such a horrible looking newborn, I broke all the lights! Charming.

My lips are moving and the sound's coming out.............

The words are audible but I have my doubts
That you realize what has been said -- Words -- Missing Persons -- 1982




Had to be up extra early today to staff another health fair. Up at 5 am, out of the house by 6:15 am, health fair from 7 to 9 am, starving like a mofo by 9:15 am. Our boss NEVER allows employees to have food or drink at any health screenings. So, like the good little worker bee that I am, when the health screen was over, I treated my co-worker/assistant to



for a late breakfast. I also offered to do the run. I get to D&D and it is pouring rain, so I decide to hazard the drive-thru. List that as mistake numero uno to start the day. Here was my order,verbatim:

D&D: gmqabnfjk, kin I hilp yu?

Me: Good morning, can I have a wheat bagel with butter on the side, a lightly toasted Onion bagel with butter, a small black coff........

D&D: dat is whee bagel...toased?

Me: Nope, a wheat bagel, not toasted with butter on the side.....

D&D: dat all? Dry up plees.

Me: Uh, no, I have more to order. I also need an Onion bagel, lightly toasted with butter, a small black coffee with 2 sweet n' lows , and a medium tea light and sweet.

D&D: ( complete silence, unless you count the buzzing of the talkie-thing)

Me: Hello?

D&D: mejbnsud, kin I hilp yu?

Me: did you get my order?

D&D: OK, drive up!!

Me: Um, .....ok.....thanks.


So I get the order, pay my 6 bucks, take a quick gander in the bag to make sure everything is there and drive back to work. This is what I got:

A toasted wheat bagel slathered in butter. An untoasted bagel of some sort with Cream Cheese (WTF! I don't even EAT Cream Cheese, nevermind order it). A small coffee, black, but no sweet n' low to be found, and a medium COFFEE WITH A FUCKING TEA BAG IN IT!! I shit you not! A coffee with a tea bag. To fool me I guess. Lull me into believing that they got it right until I take a sip.

I am the last person to rag on someone busting their ass to make minimum wage for hard work at ungodly hours, but WTF!!!!!! A coffee with a tea bag. Is tea difficult?!? Was I asking too much?!?

Now I have a caffeine withdrawl headache and I'm out 6 bucks.

Fuckin moron!

It's good to hear your voice, you know it's been so long.........

If I don't get your calls then everything goes wrong. I want to tell you something you've known all along.
Don't leave me hanging on the telephone. - Blondie - Parallel Lines - 1978




Happy Election Day for my enormous contingent of US fans! Isn't it just thrilling?!? Couldn't you just about piss yourself from joy?!? Are you awake?!?


I had a very strange call at 1:12 a.m last night. You know, the one when the phone rings, you are sound asleep, you think you may be dreaming, you jump up out of bed when you finally realize it's for real,afraid that the answering machine will get to it first and then you will have to hear the horrific news while your cutesy-pie message is playing, breathless and worried because.....C'MON.....SOMEONE MAY HAVE DIED!!!!!!! That kind of call.

Except that it wasn't. That kind of call. It was more like......THIS kind of call:


Me: Hlo?

Caller: Uh, hi!

Me: ( more awake and therefore more literate now) Hlo?

Caller: Um, hi. How are you?

Me: Who is this? Who are you looking for cause' I think you have the wrong number.

Caller: No, um, hi. What are you doing?

Me: You have the WRONG NUMBER!

Caller: No, I don't. Don't hang up, what are you doing? What are you wearing?

Me: You fuckin freak!! You better hang up before I have this call traced.

Caller: No, you can't. Where are you right now? Tell me where you work. Where do you live? C'mon, tell me what you're doing right now.

Me: Fuck you buddy. You pathetic loser. I'm hanging up and reporting you to the phone company. They will trace the number with one easy press of a button! ASSHOLE.

Caller: Wait, wa..........

***CLICK***

Creepy, right? That fucker kept me awake for the next 2 hours. Worried. He was so damned smug and persistent. Cocky too! So sure that he wouldn't be caught.







If he hadn't been some late night loser, house-calling, question asking, asshole of a freak...........



I might have wanted to ask him out. C'mon, don't give me shit. You had to be there. He had one helluva voice.

Ring! Ring! It's 7:00 A.M.!.........

Move y'self to go again - The Magnificent Seven - The Clash - 1980

A short history of my relaxing, stress-free weekend. Think










hammocks gently swinging over the clear blue waters,














and bronzed waiters to serve those icy delicacies.


Now, think about this:

Friday.....leave work, get home at 5, pooper-scoop yard, feed dogs, wash dishes, iron clothes,play with pups, eat, head out to *skin-care* dem ( roped in by my Mother....neither one of us wanted anything but her friend begged us to go). Spend dem trying to calm hostesses 3 week old grandbaby. BTW.....baby Mylicon sucks ass. Get home at 10. Try to calm hysterical and now hyperactive dogs. Get to bed at midnight.

Friday/Saturday.....3 a.m. Wake to the sound of furious retching from any 1 of 5 Poodles. Jump out of bed while silently praying for no puke puddle between bed and light switch. Search room, find nothing. Get back to sleep after spending next hour wondering if it all was a weird dream.

Saturday...... wake at 7. Feed dogs, clean up yard and house,wash dishes,shower, stuff 5 Kongs with goodies for the pups and get out of the house. Spend the morning out with Mom, doing errands and cruising for bargains.

Get home at 1. Again try to calm hysterical and hyperactive pups. Play with said pups to burn some energy. Clean gutters, mow front and back lawns, rake leaves, clean garage....put away summer furniture, take out winter *stuff*. Pack away outdoor agility equipment. Feed dogs, clean yard, dishes, etc. Collapse at 7 p.m in front of TV. Go to bed at 11.

Sunday.... wake up at 7:20. Feed dogs, blah de blah de blah......start on first of 7 loads of laundry. Bathe and dry 4 little dogs. Groom 2, clean up, shower.


*******Get call from daughter to say that she has had a *minor* accident, she THINKS. Daughter pulled in next to another car in a parking lot. The occupants of that car proceeded to jump out and tell her, in very broken English that she hit them. NO DAMAGE to daughter's car.

Small rubber scuff on their SUV.

Daughter denies hitting anything. Other driver demands daughter's name and number but refuses to release their own insurance info and refuses to let daughter call Police. Says she will take her car to a body shop for estimate to repair damage. Other driver leaves the scene after conferring with car occupants in language that daughter does not understand. I advise daughter to call Police and make report. Daughter was smart enough to get other driver's license plate # and also to take 2 cell phone pictures of *supposed* damage to other car. ~I smell a big ole' scam~!*********


Go to Pet Therapy appointment, come home, change into grubby clothes, groom 2 more Poodles, clean up again. Talk to daughter. Find out that Police never cameand also refused to do a report when daughter went to Police station. Daughter is fine but shaken. Lecture her ( again) to always call Police before anything else. Finish laundry. Eat dinner. Clean up. Make 6 beds with clean sheets and blankets.....1 for me, 5 for Poodles. Asleep by midnight.

Monday..... wake at 5:30. Feed......... nevermind, you all know the routine by now. Get ready for work. Go outside to find that Exploder will not start. Finally get it going. Call work to say I will be late. Go to closest auto shop, find that they are not open. Go to second shop. Have electrical system scanned. Need new








Leave one hour later, $158 poorer.


Now I am here at work, and I am fuckin' exhausted from my relaxing weekend. The worst part.......except for the daughter's *accident*, none of it was out of the norm. I'm tellin' ya, this life is gonna be the death of me!

Tell me, what's that underneath your hair?.........

Is there anybody living there? - Prince - Pop Life - 1985

Last evening, I was treated to this charming and appetizing discovery while sitting with Willie, my almost 4 year old Mini Poodle:

















Yup, that's a tick. A Brown Dog Tick to be more precise. Gross. Just gross. It was on his shoulder, newly attached, not yet engorged. Still gross. Luckily, I have all my dogs on a Frontline regimen and they also get an annual Lyme Disease vaccine, seeing as we live 40 minutes from the town that the disease was named for. Lyme is a show-stopper here in our state!

I got the tick out without too much trauma to poor Willie, but boy-oh-boy, did I ever suffer. GROSS. Have I made that clear?

So, in honor of that delicious find, I have generously decided to make a list of the top however many things that simply turn my stomach. Honestly, I am not afraid of the normal things like snakes and spiders and mice, but some things do just gross me out ( some people too, but I'll keep their identities to myself).When apropos, I will give a little explanation to add to the drama.

Wheeeeeeeeee.

Here we go:

1. The sight of someone,anyone...drinking milk from a glass. Makes me literally look away lest I vomit. I hate milk. I hate it even more when I can actually see someone drinking it. If it's in a carton, I'm OK. Milk mustaches........get me a barf bag.

2.Loogies. You know, when someone takes a snort of phlegm and then hawks it out, usually on the sidewalk. Nasty. Especially if you are the unfortunate slob who steps in it.

3.Back hair ( Hi Louisa!!). LOTS of it on men. I had a middle school teacher who had more hair than Magilla Gorilla. He found it oddly charming to wear OPEN WEAVE mesh shirts to work every day. He looked like a demented, shirt-wearing Chia pet. Made me gag.

4.The sound of someone vomiting. Lets put it this way....you puke, I puke, we all scream for puke-puke.

5.Nail biters. I used to be one as a kid, but seriously. Do ya' know what's under those nails???? And you are stuffing them into your mouth!!

6.Giant pimples. Although I must admit that I find giant blackheads oddly fascinating in a sick sorta' way. I once had an elderly male patient in the ER who had a fist sized blackhead on his back. They actually had to pack it once they cleaned it all out. Now that was cool! But big, angry, red pustules,especially on dirty people. I can feel the bile rising.

7.People eating raw fish. Nuff' said.

8.Filthy, stained seats. In a car, a theater, anywhere. You actually want me to sit on that???

9.People eating Tuna fish. Again, nuff' said.

10.Nail fungus. PEOPLE......clear it up or cover it up!!!

11.Filthy feet. C'mon now! I can possibly see how some of the upper parts may have missed a little cleaning in the tub, but if you take a bath, your feet are usually submerged. If you take a shower, the water is constantly running down over your feet, effectively cleaning them with little effort. The way I see it, if your feet are filthy, I don't even want to get close enough to see or smell any other parts.

12. The *squishhhhhh* that you can actually feel under your shoe when you accidentally step in dog poop. Blehhhhhhhhhh.

13. Pubic hair. Anywhere except for where it belongs. Vile. Especially in public bathrooms.



OK kiddies. I think that's probably enough for today, but don't worry your pretty little heads. I will continue to refine my list as things pop up, open or out.

Have a wonderful weekend!!!!