Ladies Love Cool Gus

The Gus Obedience Project Week Two: That’s What She Said.

Gus mostly listened and did was he was told. “Mostly” is to a terrier what “always without fail 100% of the time” is to just about any other dog, so we’ll take it. He’ll do just about anything for food. He’s less convinced that sitting/staying/down are things he wants to do when there is no food involved. We’ll see. The story of his rescue spread throughout the volunteers, and so nice lady after nice lady kept coming up to us to give him a hug. Stud.

The hardest part of class has less to do with Gus and more to do with the fact that I am five. You can end just about all things our instructor has to say in class with “that’s what she said” (like “she has to go down at least five times per day”, “you have to make sure he comes every time”, “if she refuses to come, grab her collar and force it”, etc.) My elbow is bruised from driving it into my husband’s ribs over and over again (see how easy it is? That’s what she said.) while we try not to snicker and act like fools.

Since we can’t get him to stay still for pictures, here’s one I took while he was passed out in the car the other day. If only it was always this easy. That’s what she said

It’s German for total piece of crap

Back during my senior year of college, my dad bought me a 2000 Volkswagen Jetta Turbo.

It could go really, really fast. It also had heated seats.

Those were the only two good things about it.

Within the first 500 miles, the entire fuel system had to be replaced because of a faulty latch on the tank. We discovered this while driving it to Richmond from PA. We could not get the gas nozzle to go into the tank, and it was because the latch that prevents backflow somehow got jammed when the tank was filled the first time. Thus, for the entire trip and next two days until the dealership down here opened, we had to use a beer bong-like funnel contraption provided by us from the PA dealer to get gas into the tank. The only way to fix it was to rip out the whole fuel line. The car had less than 500 miles on it at that point.

That should have been the first clue that my Jetta was a piece of junk.

At various times, somethign on the underside of the front bumper would catch the ground or a concrete parking bumper, or the air for all I know. Then, the front bumper would pop off on one side. This happened at least five times in the three years I had the car.

The front power windows would, without notice, go crashing down into the recesses of the door when you hit the button to open the window. They would not close, no matter how cold it was or no matter how much it was raining. This was the opposite of awesome, because the windows never did this on a day when it was nice and sunny – it was always when you were trying to defog your window in a driving ice storm.

The turbo valve broke four times and had to be replaced.

I had to have various things done to the engine three times.

We used to joke that my Jetta was trying to kill me. Then today, I read this article and realized maybe we weren’t too far off the mark. Perhaps the Jetta was trying to warn me that someday, driving it might cost me my life.

And then I went outside and hugged my box-shaped Honda Element. It may not have a turbo engine or power seats, but what it lacks in aerodynamics, it makes up for in washable seats, the ability to fit a sofa inside its vast recesses, the same turning radius as a Civic, and functioning brake lights.

Suck it, Volkswagen. This is your karmic payback for your association with Hitler

All About Me

Ten Things People Won’t Guess By Just Looking At You
1. I am terrified of small spaces and life-like puppets.
2. I like to put ketchup on macaroni and cheese.
3. I have pretty good fashion sense but choose to wear jeans and Gap t-shirts most of the time.
4. I dislike sweating.
5. I listen to Howard Stern and the Hair Nation station on Sirius more than I should
6. II love bad reality television such as The Girls Next Door but hate everything they stand for.
7. I am really good at painting rooms, not canvases
8. I don’t like cooking or being domestic.
9. I am absentminded beyond what should be humanly acceptable.
10. I hate wearing shoes. I love buying them. It’s a pisser.

Nine Things You Want To Do Before You Die
1. win the Amazing Race
2. Go to Russia, Rarotonga, and various European locales
3. See the Rocky Mountains and a moose.
4. Live to see the day where the magic doctors can fix my eye problems for good.
5. write a book
6. complete an entire NYT crossword puzzle without cheating
7. organize my closets
8. live somewhere other than Richmond
9. bungee jump/skydive/cheat death/own a goat

Eight Things You Say Everyday
1. It needs to be done immediately.
2. Shit.
3. Stop trying to eat my foot, Gus. It’s not food.
4. I love you.
5. What do you want for dinner?
6. I don’t know where I put them.
7. Would you please just poop already?
8. This is (name), how can I help you?

Seven Things You Hate
1. neo-conservatives
2. ignorant people
3. tapered-leg jeans
4. The Pedigree Shelter Dogs commerical because it makes me cry every time
5. warm winters
6. living five hours from my family
7. animal abusers

Six Things You Love To Do
1. take walks my husband and/or dogs
2. sleep
3. read, although i really am not supposed to do so
4. travel
5. steal fall weekends at the beach
6. Spend the Christmas holidays with my insane, wonderful, kazoo-playing family

Five People You Look Up To
1. mom and dad
2. grandparents, all
3. that’s it
4. because if you knew them
5. you would realize why I don’ t need any more role models

Four Places You Want To Visit
1. Rarotonga
2. Thailand
3. Russia
4. Amsterdam

Three Things You Think You Could Do Without
1. Bill O’Reily
2. our dependence on fossil fuels
3. football (not actually going to football games, because that involves eating and drinking delicious things while sitting on the tailgate of the car. I mean the way it dominantes and/or ruins Sundays at home. If the Redskins were actually good, there would be less stress in the house.)

Two Things You Never Want To Do
1. Identify someone at the morgue
2. Go to a ventriloquist show in an elevator.

One Person Who Has Changed Your Life For The Better:
1. Pick a family member.

This is why I don’t go out

I have inherited my mother’s gene that allows the crazies to spot me a mile away. She’s a guidance counselor, and so maybe she gives off some sort of theraputic vibe that she passed on to me. Or maybe we both look like suckers.

I mind my own business, try to to avoid eye contact with anyone, act as standoffish as possible, but invariably, I hear someone’s life story.

Or someone tells me a weird story about their childhood that should really be told to their therapist. Or cellmate.

Or someone tries to get me to give them gas money in exchange for them buying my coffee with their gift card and then yell at me when I don’t spend enough.

Or they stop me in the street, ask me if I have had collagen in my lips, and then refuse to believe me when I tell that that the answer is no.

Or while we are reviewing things in an intial meeting, they tell me about how they were brutally raped as a child.

Or they tell me how their husband was shot to death in front ofi their son.

And so on and so on. This caused me to avoid interaction with strangers as much as possible, because the fine line between overly-friendly and lonely stranger and psychopath who might kill you and then boil and eat your feet is hard to distinguish. Plus, hearing about a client’s sexual assaut is really, really uncomfortable.

Tonight, we went shopping for a piece of furniture for our entryway. We’re finally at a point in our lives where it’s time to start replacing the junk we bought from Target with furniture that actually stays together when you put things on top of it. We wound up at a fancy-pants store at one of the local Town Centers of Pretention and Hair Products Made of Angel Wings, and we found what we wanted. My husband made the grave error of approaching someone for help so we could find out the details and get a tear sheet.

I now know that this saleswoman has a boyfriend, an ex-husband, stepchildren (one of whom rides horses), a cat, a dog that sheds all over that she didn’t want in the first place but wound up getting anyway, and so on. Like most of the people I encounter, at first, she seemed normal and friendly, but as time went on, I started to sense the crazy and tried to make a quick and graceful exit.

We left and walked around for a while, and as we were heading back home, we passed the same store. My new friend was in the window, helping some other folks. As I passed, she stopped, walked over to the window, and frantically waved at me.

The storage bench whatever with hooks cost twice what we were planning on spending, but there’s a good chance it will go on sale in the near future. It’s exactly what we want

However, I don’t want my feet to be boiled and eaten, so we’re ordering a cabinet from L.L. Bean instead.

Kelsie the Wonder Dog

Today we received the sad but expected news that my husband’s parents have made the correct decision to put down Kelsie, their border collie and resident genius. She’s into her teens, a long life for any dog, and has been suffering from crippling arthritis for the last year or so. This week, the vet found a tumor on her kidneys and bladder; it would be a selfish disservice to the happy life she’s led to this point to allow her to continue existing in pain. When you own a pet, this is that thing. The thing that that you don’t often dwell on when you’re throwing around a frisbee or playing on the beach or covering your nose with your pillow trying to figure out which dog farted.

It’s the hardest day, the toughest decison. But by virtue of our higher-order thinking skills and opposable thumbs, it’s our responsibility to make the choices for our furry pals that they cannot make for themselves. This is the shit end of the bargain, this loaded bargain that also guarantees unending devotion and someone who always lets you cry into their fur on days when no one else cares.

Kelsie was my hubby’s steadfast and loyal companion throughout his later teens and college years. Her cognitive abilities often left us all speechless. Rather than focus on how sad this is making us and how much it reminds us of of the awful part of pet ownership(and I am not denying that I am crying while I’m writing this), I am going to instead tell my favorite Kelsie story. It is not an event I personally experienced, but it’s been told and retold so many times that it’s as if I was there. Since I’m pretty certain she possesses the skills to surf the internet and read blogs, I’m sure Kelsie will send me an email from doggie heaven if I get any of the details wrong. I assume they have internet access up there.

My in-laws used to have an outdoor cat, and they left food for the cat on top of their gas grill in the gargage. This was a system designed to prevent puppy Kelsie from eating the cat food, which is magically delcious and irresistible, but also not good for developing pups. When denied access to this cat food, most dogs would whine or bark or cry or ram their heads into the gas grill over and over trying to get to the food fall down. Kelsie instead used objects she found in the garage to build herself a set of stairs. You read that right. As a puppy, she had the ability to engineer common household structures.

This is no ordinary dog. She lived a good life, a long life, a happy life, but certainly not an ordinary life. We’ll miss you, Kelsie girl. Especially when we have to do Algebra problems and you’re not around to help us.

Did you hear the one about the ass-kicking contest?

Right this very minute, my husband is trying to explain to me why he thinks the Virginia marriage amendment invalidates some statute involving unmarried persons and I think I killed several thousand of my Aveda-soaked brain cells trying to make any sense of what he is talking about.* My brain has liquified and is leaking out my ears.

I have no doubt his argument is brilliant, and I think he just mentioned something about how he’s going to take the Supreme Court by storm while wearing a cape. He would look so hot in a cape. Certainly hotter then Scalia would.

It’s been that kind of week – the kind of week where you spend so much time at work, thinking about work, and being proficient and efficient at work that you lose the ability to carry on an intelligent conversation.

If you too are having such a week, here are several things you can discuss instead that don’t require any brain cells:

Britney left rehab. I think she actually just gave it up for Lent, but way to go, Britney! You tried it for a day, it didn’t work for you. What you lack in underpants you make up for in good decision-making skillz. The head-shaving, the tattoos, the K-Federspawn, this trainwreck of your own creation that is your life – I no longer feel any pity for you. Please, please, please, don’t stop.

Heather Mills is joining the cast of Dancing with the Stars. Even though my husband thinks she’s got a leg up on the competition, I personally don’t feel she’s got a leg to stand on. (I feel no remorse in making these horrible jokes. NONE. Mainly because my father inadvertently gave Heather Mills, who I always thought had ulterior motives, $682 dollars, as that was half the cost of my family’s tickets to see Paul McCartney last year, money she will no doubt get her hands on and spend on one shoe. Also, when you put yourself on TV, you give me license to make jokes at your expense. If you go on TV with just the one leg, you’re just pitching straight down the strike zone.)

Friday Night Lights is the greatest thing on television right now. If you are STILL not watching Friday Night Lights, you are an asshole. Quit being an asshole. Tune to NBC at 8 p.m. every Wednesday. If this show gets cancelled because you are being an asshole, I’m coming for you.

*This is why I never listen to my husband’s legal prattle. (Don’t be mad, honey, it’s like when I start talking about Oscar Wilde and I see your eyes glaze over as you think of Erin Andrews, who certainly always would listen to every word you say all the time. I’m kidding. On both accounts, as normally, I find you and every word that comes out of your mouth fascinating and you don’t stand a chance with Erin Andrews. )

Argh

Dear somewhat well-meaning but unknowingly offensive lady,

I am not any less of a woman because I don’t have nor want children. Really. My world can be complete without rugrats. As the big 3-0 draws near, I find myself singing this song more frequently, and it’s not fair. My husband is not constantly forced to deal with the same sentiments.

You really offended me today with your comments, even though I don’t think you meant to do so.

Also, before you try to push your childcentric worldview on others, you might want to first encourage your offspring to use some manners and learn the concept of personal space.

Also, your kids looked really sticky.

Honor roll..over

Gus started obedience classes today. I promised my sister, a.k.a. Gus’ second true love that I would blog about them.

My husband claims there is no such thing as Valedictorian of Obedience Class.

This is probably good, because a) we don’t like losing, even in things involving animals who eat their own poop and b) Gus is going to be a challenge. Not because he is a bad dog or a dumb dog, but because he is SO EXCITED YOU HAVE A PIECE OF HOT DOG IN YOUR HAND OH MY GOD A HOT DOG I AM STARVING FOR A HOT DOG CAN’T YOU JUST GIVE ME THE HOT DOG that he cannot focus on the command you are giving him.

He is also just about the only dog in there that is still a puppy and also a terrier, meaning he comes prewired with his own agenda. He has no real desire to please us as would a retrieving or herding dog. His only desire is to eat that hot dog, and god damn it, he does not want to have to do “down” to get it.

We basically have to outwit and outlast Gus. Rather like Survivor, but without actorslashmodels and Jeff Probst’s annoying commentary.

However, the singularly most awesome part of class was that Gus didn’t accidentally pull my pants off like C-bear did back in her obedience days.

To recap class one: Gus loves hot dogs and my pants didn’t fall down. All in all, not a bad evening.

Gross

Did anyone else out there find themselves afflicted with this nasty stomach virus that is going around?

It’s EVIL.

If ou get it, prepare to move into the bathroom for three days until you once again gain control of your bodily functions. Also, be aware that your dog might think you are dead and will then spend ten minutes barking at you and licking your face until you get up and assure her that you are alright. The good news is that the smell of dog breath and fermented terrier beard is just what you want shoved up your nose when you are nauseated beyond what is tolerable.

It’s five days later and I still can’t eat anything. Except now I am finally hungry again, but if I put anything into my stomach, it just gets pissed at me. It’s awesome.

I have also consumed so much Gatorade that I have now shaved my head bald and have entered the NBA Slam Dunk Contest.

I’ll write more when I have more energy. Or in a year. Whichever comes first.

Also, please watch Friday Night Lights or I will come to your house and puke on you.

Love means never having to apologize for giving your husband the finger

“Hey honey, I saw some travel special on Seville the other day.”

“Yeah, I saw it too. They visited the Alcazar and stuff.”

“Aww, that’s where you took that picture of me flicking you off.”

“Yeah. Our honeymoon was the greatest.”

(It’s too blurry to see it, but above is the aforementioned picture. And in my defense, I was miserable that day because I cannot in any way control myself around salty Spanish cheese, especially when cute little old Spanish men keep bringing it to you after you finish one plate of it. Thus, my feet were swollen to the point where they no longer fit in any of the shoes I brought. They were bleeding from all the walking. Later that day, I bought new, giant shoes and was much happier. Later that night, in a dark bar, I gave my husband a drunken lecture on the wives of Henry VIII. Which is what every man wants on their honeymoon. Divorced, Beheaded, Died; Divorced, Beheaded, Survived, baby. I know we’ll survive. )