Apparently I'm Not As Funny As I Think

I was tickled all pink and lavender about my last post. I read it many, many times and laughed myself silly. Other people who read it also thought it was hilarious, especially the people who realized I was absolutely not kidding about any of it. In fact, I had to tone parts of it down a little, because I didn't want to sound too much like a sociopath or whatever psychological disorder makes you want to have as little to do with society as possible, and react badly when subjected to too much interpersonal contact.

Tom, however, didn't laugh. At all. Not even once.

Me: So, did you read my new blog post?
Tom: The one from yesterday?
Me: Yeah. Did you like it? Wasn't it hilarious?
Tom: Um...
Me: What was your favorite part? Jess liked the part about baby-juice, and the part about whiny little snot-machines that might grow up to be serial arsonists.
Tom: (Not laughing. Not even smirking at my incredible wit.) I guess it's not so funny when you have to live it.
Me: (Stunned.) Wait. You didn't think it was funny? You didn't think it was funny.
Tom: Well, sometimes I do wish you'd do a little bit more around here.
Me: Do I not make the bed and clean up the kitchen every single day, except today, because I feel like crap?
Tom: Yeah, but you never clean the fish tank. Or cut the grass.
Me: Well, you never clean the bathroom or groom the dogs.
Tom: What would it take to get you to clean up the laundry room? That place is a disaster.
(This is true. I have a hamper and about four overflowing bins of random clothes all over the place down there, all of which is crunched into unwearable wads of fabric, and which I'd have to wash again before it would resemble any sort of garment. Which is why it's still there. I wash stuff, fold it, but it in the baskets, then dig through it to find what I want, and eventually everything is a jumbled mess. But since I hate laundry with a passion, stuff goes into the baskets but rarely makes it out.)
Me: About twenty hangers. (Everything is in baskets or draped over furniture or Tom's bike because there are never ever any hangers.)
Tom: On Saturday, do you think maybe you could go through all that stuff, get rid of what you don't wear, and put the rest of it away?
Me: Maybe. (Translation: No. At least that's what I want to say, but he's guilting me so much that I'll probably have to at least make an attempt.)

That didn't turn out even remotely like I'd planned. I just wanted a little ego-boost, to revel in my own bloggish hilarity, and have him tell me what a talented, clever, humor-writing wife I am. And I end up having to clean the laundry room.

Guess the joke's on me.

Fur-Kids and the Un-Furry Kind, Which I Don't Get. At All.

I am totally on board with the concept of our pets being members of the family. Anybody who has ever met me knows that. Within thirty seconds of meeting someone, they're going to know several things that I consider essential.

• I've been married for twenty-five years,
  
• I have one son (grown and happily married),
  
• I recently wrote a book,
  
• I had gastric bypass surgery,
  
• I love Cross Canadian Ragweed,
  
• I consider myself a Pagan (definitely non-Christian),
  
• I manage a holistic veterinary practice...
  
• and I adore my dogs.

These are important things to know about me. If any one of them appalls the listener, there's no point in extending the conversation beyond those initial thirty seconds. I've become stunningly efficient that way. Besides, I probably wasn't all that thrilled to be having a conversation in the first place, so if I can scare off the intruder, so much the better. If they express a profound interest in one of my biographical factoids and are not horrified by the rest, I'll keep talking.

If it's about my book or my dogs, they'll probably start wanting to bludgeon me with the nearest blunt object sometime in the subsequent ten minutes. Because the truth is, I'm probably not going to let them say much. I'm not interested. I want to talk about my book and my dogs.

That was actually a huge digression on my way to today's subject. Which, if you scroll back up to the first sentence, you will recall was about considering pets (in my case, dogs, because I'm a single-species pet-person) members of the family.

My dogs are my family. As I've watched some of my dogs age and eventually leave me, I've often said, "If I could just give him one of my kidneys or a chunk of my liver - as if he'd want that, what with the probably advanced cirrhosis and all - and he'd get better, I would." We must note that this is not something I would do for 9 out of 10 humans to whom I am allegedly related.

So, yes, my dogs are my family.

I approve of people who give their dogs family-level status. It's the way it should be. Many people, including those of us in the veterinary business, use the title "Mom and Dad" to refer to a pet's owners. "Mitzi's mom is here to pick her up." "Make sure to tell Scooby's dad to call us tomorrow with an update on his appetite." (Scooby's, not Dad's. Frankly, Scooby's dad probably needs to cut back a little.)

Which makes it difficult for me to decipher why one statement in particular gets on my nerves. "We don't have children, so Skippy and Dottie are our kids."

Um, excuse me? Because you didn't have children (a fact of which I also heartily approve), your dogs are more special to you than mine are to me? You love them more... because you didn't waste any of your love or nurturing skills on human reproduction?

Because I beg to differ. Not using my Indoor Voice.

Perhaps if I had eight or ten kids, I wouldn't have much time to devote to my dogs. What I should probably be doing with the eleven spare seconds I had per day is researching more effective methods of birth control or becoming a lesbian. I imagine that choosing to have numerous children is a manifestation of your priorities in life, that you want to devote your efforts toward raising whiny little snot-machines into what will eventually become valuable members of society. Or serial arsonists. Whatever. You never really know, do you? But you've chosen not to put the majority of your energies into caring for family members of the furry, four-footed variety.

(Yes, I realize there are people who have a shit-load of kids and still have pets. But they probably shouldn't.) (Which, written from the perspective of someone who has done canine rescue for the better part of 15 years, is a topic for a whole 'nother day.) (Remind me about that when I start bitching that I don't have any new topics for the blog.) (Thank you.)

I, on the other paw, did add another human being to the world's population. But since it took two of us to do it, and we only increased the census by "one," effectively reducing our eventual familial population by 50%, I figure we're doing fine. The Boy was conceived 26 years ago, born the customary nine months later, and has grown to adulthood in a pleasingly understated, undramatic, interesting, intelligent and productive way. Mission Accomplished.

But because I gave birth one rainy March day in 1984, does that mean I don't love my dogs as much as the people who have, through free will or medical misfortune, remained childless? Does their kid-free existence give them some special status as pet owners?

I'm not sure if this speaks more to the nauseating devotion I have for my dogs, or my mediocre, seat-of-my-pants maternal skills. The Boy says I did a decent job... though I do believe he used the qualifier, "considering." (Which you'd think would bother me, but it really doesn't.) (Because I know just how bad it could have been, but somehow wasn't.) (He, and society at large should be grateful.)

I very seldom have houseguests. This is partly because I am enormously lazy, hate to cook, am an aspiring hermit, am annoyed by the human race in general, don't like to have to put on a bra, don't like people in my space, would rather sit on the Sofur and read than talk to people, and really wish you would stay in a hotel. But it's also about the dogs.

First of all, you'll annoy them. Then you'll let it be known that they annoy you... which will annoy me in a big way. Because they live here, and you do not.

Oh, you might try to make nice with them. You'll try to play tuggy with their toys, when mostly what you want to do is throw the disgusting, slimy toy so the dog will run away - briefly - to retrieve it. You will be unable to completely hide your dismay when they bring it back. For the sixty-seventh time. Hellooooooo...? What part of "golden retriever" did you fail to understand?

I'll see you plucking dog hair from your shirt (and pants and shoes and hair and jewelry and exposed skin) in a pointless effort to maintain a pristine wardrobe. Or body. Give it up, already. Also, all food in this house automatically comes with a side of dog hair. Yeah, I understand your feelings, but it's unavoidable, so you might as well find a way to deal with it. I open a box or can, or take the film off a microwave meal, and that's it. The second it's exposed to air, there's a bit-o-dog in it. It hasn't killed me yet, and isn't likely to kill you. (It won't. But my actions will be dictated by how you treat my dogs. Just sayin'.)

So I suggest we eat out. You're buying.

Do people who have several small children have to apologize when they have guests? Do they have to hide all traces of their offspring? No sippy-cups on the end tables, no playpen in the dining room, no Legos or Barbie clothes strewn about the family room, no swingset in the back yard, no baby-snot-sucking device in the medicine cabinet, no jelly stains on the recliner? Maybe some people try, because they are a bit OCD about housekeeping (a total waste of time and energy), but the fact is that other people really don't care. You have kids. You have kid things. Kids are occasionally unruly and messy. Most people have no problem accepting that. They even laugh when you hand them Baby Boo-Boo, who smiles, coos, and pukes on their sweater. (Not me. I'd probably puke on your sofa in a reaction that would be partly involuntary and partly revenge.) (Your dog, however, can barf in my shoes. It wouldn't be the first time. Possibly not even the first time that week.)

But guests to a dog-filled home frequently act like they've stepped into a toxic waste dump, and they will pull the lint roller out of their glove compartment the instant they get in their cars to leave, lest they accidentally take a bit of this horrific contaminant home with them.

Luckily, I've worked with dog-related groups and veterinary hospitals for the past decade and a half. This means that the majority of people I ever allow into my home (like, all four or five of them) are as immune to dog debris as I am. They are here to see my dogs as much as to see me. A little dog drool, even the slimy kind, on their pants leg isn't going to send them screaming, a la Charlie Brown's Lucy character, "Ew! Ew! Dog germs! Get some iodine! Get some hot water!" We're more likely to discuss our dogs than our husbands. Or kids.

So, if you visit me... I'm not going to church with you, you're going to have to watch the Cross Canadian Ragweed "Back to Tulsa" live concert DVD, you'll have to hear about my book, you'll have to put up with my reading at times that you might rather chat, you'll have to watch me feed my dogs raw food, you will hear barking, you will be exposed to dog hair and drool (hopefully no other bodily substances, but I can't make any promises), and I expect you to be happy about it. In return, I'll give you a clean toilet and as fur-free a bed as I can manage.

Fair trade, no? If not... well, a bad guest tends to bring out the worst in a reluctant hostess.

And do not for one second think that just because I gave birth at some point in my life that I don't love my dogs as much as the child-free people you know who say, "I don't have any kids, so my dogs are my babies." My dogs are my babies, too. I don't like people-babies, so I avoid situations where I'm liable to get any sort of baby-juice on me. If dogs aren't your thing, you can avoid them, too. But you can't avoid them at my house. If you have a houseful of rugrats and I (for some reason) like you, we'll visit away from home, keeping baby-interaction to a minimum. We can also accomplish this if you visit me, though if you don't like dogs I'm really not sure why I'm hanging out with you. There are very few exceptions.

A final observation: This started out as a post about "don't tell me you care more about your dogs because you don't have kids," but turned out to be a "don't come to my house and expect me to be embarrassed or apologetic about my dogs' very dogginess" rant. Which makes me wonder what my issues really are.

P.S... My dogs are cuter than your kids. No point arguing. It is a fact. Unless your kid has a tail, and I totally need to see that.

Invention and Miscellanea

Even though it's a cliche, necessity really is the mother of invention.

For example, remember last summer when I ran out of ice and mixer simultaneously, but still had plenty of rum? I discovered that orange freeze-pops can fill both the deficiencies. When it comes to being creative or drinking straight rum, I have a whole lot of motivation.

On Sunday, I had a non-alcohol-related revelation. It involves chicken.

Tom had requested on Saturday that we have breaded chicken and Stove-Top stuffing for dinner on Sunday. No problem. Or so I thought. The problem arose because we did not have any bread crumbs. I started thinking of alternatives. We've done the thing where you crunch up a can of those french-fried onions and use that for coating. It's surprisingly yummy, but Tom wasn't feeling up to it, after a bad reaction to a buffalo chicken pizza the night before.

So what are my options?

Tom: How 'bout cornflakes? We could use cornflakes, right?
Me: Yeah. Lots of people make cornflake chicken. (Pause) Um, do we have cornflakes? (I don't shop, and I don't eat cereal, so this was a legitimate question.)
Tom: Yeah. Well, they're Frosted Flakes, but that'd be okay, wouldn't it?
Me: No. I am not putting Frosted Flakes on chicken. (Because? Yuck.)
Tom: (Rummaging in cupboards, and now - I hope - joking) Powdered sugar! It'd be like a chicken beignet.
Me: Ha ha. (Throwing up in my mouth a little.)

I started mentally reviewing the contents of the cupboards, without actually getting off the Sofur. Wheat Thins? Crunched-up Wheat Thins would probably be tasty. But upon further reflection, I remembered that I had eaten all of them the night before. Rats. No other cracker-like candidates were currently in stock.

Flour. Sure! I used to add various seasonings to flour and make a decent coating. Except I cleaned out the cupboard a year or so ago. The open bag of flour I'd had got tossed, because I thought it was highly probable that I'd had it since at least 2001 and didn't feel that it was something I'd want to actually eat anymore. Since I don't often do any cooking that requires "ingredients," I'd never had a reason to buy more flour that would undoubtedly sit there until 2015, at which point I would throw it away.

We used to have several bags of soy flour, obtained when Tom thought maybe he'd try the Atkins Diet. Low-carb bread, made with soy flour, sounded like a logical idea. Except it was disgusting. So we had a lot of extra soy flour... which got thrown away around the same time as the regular flour.

Finally I saw... mashed potato flakes. The garlic kind. I pondered this, but could think of no reason that wouldn't work. I eat chicken with mashed potatoes all the time, often scooping up the mashed potatoes with the chicken. They're practically the same food.

We have a winner.

Dipped the chicken in milk and egg, into the garlic potato flakes, and into the oven. It wasn't bad. BroZarkWin, however, were disappointed. If it had been vomit-inducing, they probably would have gotten some of it. The chicken, not the vomit.

A few other assorted updates:

My friend Brian is helping me with some changes to my Official Author Website today. So if you visit and it looks all snafuzzled, that's why. We'll get it sorted out soon. I hope. I plan to add the guestbook and a "News" section, too. The News page will include a post about the premise for the Next Book, and invite readers (dare I call you fans???) to suggest titles.

I'm hoping Mr. Agent gets to my submission this week. I need to know if there's still a possibility of moving forward with him representing me, or if I need to start working on the queries for the next agents on my list. I want to get this book moving forward toward publication so I can focus on writing the next one.

On a somber note... Dilbert, the real-life dog (who belonged to Dr. Vet-Friend) was euthanized on Saturday. He'd been battling intestinal cancer for several months, and it was time. I wish he had lived for the publication of Make or Break. I could see him showing up with me at local book signings. He was the sweetest, best-natured boy, and we'll miss him terribly.

(Totally awful picture of Dilbert. But a) black dogs are tough to photograph, b) he wouldn't hold still because there were treats involved, and c) I was trying to hurry and couldn't hold the camera still. But, this was Dilbert in real life, inspiration for Dilbert in Make or Break.)

And now, I must depart in order to start the process of shifting my brain from Seth and Abby in Emporia, Minnesota, to Mitch and Evan in Arcadia County, WV. I think we're going to have a lot of fun there.

Fluffasaurus

Brody has been doing the Great Pyrenees thing, blowing his coat. Big-time. Normally, I'd haul his fuzzy butt up to his groomer and let her deal with the whole overwhelming mess, but I've been a bit on the financially-challenged side lately. He's a 100-pound, four-legged cotton ball dispenser, making it look like several dozen sheep exploded in the living room mere minutes after someone (usually Tom) runs the vacuum.

I took him outside a week or so ago and tortured him with the undercoat rake, and it helped. A little. This morning, I couldn't stand it - again - and took him into the yard to see if I could relieve him of a bit more of that profuse, no-longer-technically-attached fur.

I spent a total of about two minutes on the task. Because he is fidgity and I am lazy. I started to perspire, and we can't have that. But in that brief period of time, this is what happened:


I'm sure I could have stood there, bent over a dog who was itching to go patrol the perimeter and find things which deserved a good barking-at, for hours, and the fur would keep flying. But at least now I hope I'll be able to find the Sofur without having to use the leaf-blower.

I currently look like I could use an undercoat rake myself, but that's nothing that an hour or two in the tub won't cure. I'm thinking I'll need to program the number for a good plumber into my phone, though, because he might have to deal with the Mother of All Hairballs tomorrow.

Morons Abound

Rant Warning, Threat Level Crimson.

Because that's the color my face gets when I see stories like the one I'm about to inflict upon you. Threat Level Crimson means you can expect there to be very firm and undiplomatically stated opinions. And swearing. Lots of swearing, in which I will probably blaspheme the name of your personal favorite deity and assorted grandmothers. Well, maybe not the grandmothers. Just the deities.

For a moment, let's consider the concept of selective breeding. Not of humans, because (unfortunately) nobody makes people take an IQ test before they reproduce, but they totally should. Morons are dumbing down our gene pool at an alarming rate. But I'm talking about dogs. The idea is to take the best representatives of a breed, the ones that are strong, healthy, intelligent, and well-tempered... and let them be the ones that produce the next generation of puppies.

Okay, let's get the cute-thing out of the way, in case you haven't clicked on the story link yet:


Yes. I get it. It is cute. It is a teeny-tiny dog, and teeny-tiny things are cute. Dogs are also cute, so this is the cute double-whammy.

I don't know why I click on these links. Really. Because I know it's only going to make my fucking head explode. And the comments made it worse. I'm afraid to go back and see if anybody has chimed in as the voice of reason, attempting to drown out the numerous asshats who had been saying things like, "Awwww, how cute! I want one!"

Let's clarify. This dog is 8 cm tall, I presume at the withers. This (thank you, Google) is slightly over 3.14 inches. He weighs 400 grams. As there are 450-odd grams in a pound, this dog weighs a fair amount less than one pound. The can of green beans in my cupboard weighs 411 grams. It weighs more than that dog. Jesus H. Fucking Roosevelt Christ on a Crutch. It is also taller.

My dogs weigh, collectively, about 285 pounds. I don't think you could get enough of those little dogs in one room to weigh as much as my (healthy) dogs.

There are so many things wrong with that story that I hardly know where to start. I'm sure there are even more than I'll discuss here, but I can't bring myself to go back and look at that shit-pile of a story again to try to identify them.

Dogs. Are. Not. Supposed. To. Be. That. Fucking. Tiny.

If. You. Want. A. Pet. That. Small. Get. A. God. Damned. Guinea. Pig.

Oh, wait. Most guinea pigs are probably bigger. And healthier. Gotta go with hamster, then.

Better yet, if you think a less-than-one-pound dog is a good idea, don't get a pet at all. Because you clearly have the intelligence of foot fungus, and should not be allowed to own any living creature. Also, you should be surgically sterilized immediately, as well as any children you may have already inflicted on the world.

How often do you imagine the tiniest dog in a litter is the healthiest? How 'bout never? Unless all the other puppies in the litter are seriously fucked up, in which case you do the best you can to find them homes that will love them and work with their special needs, then you spay Mama Dog as fast as you can get a surgery appointment.

Yet the people who breed "teacup" anythings - and there is no such thing recognized by a single national breed club - are opportunistic, greedy, manipulative, conscienceless assholes and should all be spayed, neutered, declawed, de-barked and have their ears cropped. Minus anesthesia. Using a disease-ridden spork. They take the tiniest pup-muffins out of each litter and choose them for their breeding stock. Because tiny-tiny parent-dogs mean tiny-tiny baby-dogs. Hydrocephalus? No big deal. Heart defect? Hypoglycemia? Liver shunt? As long as they live long enough to make puppies, who cares?

Do you even want to guess what this puppy would cost in the pet store? It's fucking insane.

What do you think are the odds that this puppy, who is now six months old and hasn't grown since he was two months old, is - or will ever be - neutered? Hey, he's a world record holder. Famous. Big bucks to be made from his tiny-tiny sperm.

We were just talking at work today about a particular breed of dog that has recently started showing up in "miniature" and "toy" varieties, without any endorsement of the national breed club in question. I said, hey, I'm getting old, and a toy golden retriever sure would be great. I could carry it around in my purse and everything. I was, of course, oozing sarcasm from every pore. But if you're unethical enough, and if you don't care about the health of the animals you breed, you sure can make an ass-load of money. Because there are always people stupid enough to a) shop at a pet store, and b) go, "Awwwwwwwww, isn't da widdle puppy-buppy adowable???" and then whip out the AmEx card and pay the equivalent of two months' mortgage for the privelege of having this defective, sickly status symbol.

Pet stores, whole 'nother rant. Ditto for people who breed grossly over-sized dogs, too. A Rottweiler is not supposed to be 175 pounds, for example.

Some days, I almost give up. We work so hard to expose puppy mills, over-vaccination, inferior foods, cruel training practices, and other atrocities. Sometimes I think we're making progress. Then I see stories like that, and read, "Awwww, where can I get one of those?" and I want to rip my own brain out through my nostrils.

It's not the puppy's fault. It never is.

Intermission

Yeah, I know. I haven't been writing enough. (Though I bet none of you checked Writecrastination, did you?) I've been... busy. If you can call nauseous, hand-wringing impatience busy. I submitted my query to my "first-choice" agent on Thursday. According to his blog, he is currently reading submissions from the last week of June, so he has about 10 days' worth of submissions before he gets to mine. If he wanted to save himself a whole bunch of time, he'd just toss all those in the recycling bin and get to mine. Because, you know, I'm going to make the guy rich.

Other things that have been going on, and which may or may not become future blogs, once the hand-wringing is done...

Darwin tore off all of his back toenails on the July 4 weekend, launching from the concrete patio into the pool. Only two of them bled, thankfully. Didn't even slow him down.


I was attacked by a defective, homicidal toilet seat on Saturday and have a bruise on my forehead. Tom replaced the evil potty-seat this morning, so should I feel the need to barf in the future, I can do so safe from the threat of head injuries.

My little sister had a heart-related incident and ended up in the hospital having a heart catheterization. Luckily, it showed no arterial blockage, and the incident was due to angina/spasms. Still, it's got me starting the process of convincing my brain that I need to quit smoking.

At work today, the clinic cats got into a "discussion" on my desk and dumped a whole bottle of green tea into my laptop. I picked it up, tea poured out the side. Frantic opening and air-drying ensued. Then I decided the canned air was an excellent deterrant when it comes to keeping the little bastards off my desk. I am Armed and Annoying. (No cats were harmed in the writing of this blog. Yet.)

I've been obsessively proofing and editing Make or Break. I have it down from 117,000 words to 114,000 and have distributed a few reading copies. I'm also opening a small portion of my brain to start inventing the characters for my next book. Because there is going to be a next book.

For your reading enjoyment, since I suck and never write to you anymore, I recommend the following blogs. A couple of them are in my links in the right sidebar, but for ease of clickability, I'm listing them here:

Heretic Spire, A Damn Lie!
is it 5 o'clock yet?
I Will Dare
will work for shoes
Notes to self
While Walking Duncan (of course!)
Recovering Californian (author Melissa Lion)
Sir Pinky's Eye On Everything (frequent Fermented Fur visitor and commenter)
All THREE Bloggess blogs:
The Bloggess
Ask the Bloggess on PRN
The Bloggess's Sex Blog on SexIs
(That last one is a link to her most recent post there. To find the others, you have to go down the right margin.)
Mark Henry (Urban Fantasy Author and all-around hilarious guy)
Zombie Chow (Mark's humor journal. Excellent zombie pictures!)

OK, that should keep you busy for a while! I promise to write when I have something entertaining (or exciting) to report!

Another Place to Visit

It's official. I have an author website. Content and layout are still very basic, and I don't have a guestbook yet... but I hope you'll all stop by and take a peek!

The Dreaded Crosspost

No, this isn't tied to my Writecrastination blog, though I really should get something up there, too. This is the post I wrote today for my work blog. It's not funny, but if you have pets or children, and if you use (or are considering using) chemical lawn treatments, you might want to stop by and take a peek. I mean, what's so bad about dandelions, in the scheme of things? I sure like them better than watching my dogs die years before their time.

I'm told there's a natural product, made with corn gluten, that is beneficial in keeping some of the weeds and other undesirables from our yards. I'll have to research that and get back to you.

Honestly, when some of the lawn treatment companies will put their chemicals in their kids' baby bottles, I'll consider putting it on my yard. And then I'll decide against it anyway, because clearly they are idiots.