Dear Dogs,
Neither of you are looking me in the eye right now and I just want to take the opportunity to explain exactly why this tense and uncomfortable situation has arisen.
You are smelly, smelly beasts. And Rooster, you shed. Monkey, you don't shed but you have a greater propensity to carry mud and other unmentionables gathered when you leap spectacularly for my mis-thrown balls and land squarely in a puddle. Rooster, you do not leap and for that I thank you.
Tomorrow we are heading south to my parents brand-new, just-moved-into house. You will probably not be allowed inside but I felt that you at least deserved a fighting chance.
When we went to the park tonight, I had the full intention of washing both of you as soon as we got home. Your youthful romping and overall good behavior had almost gotten me turned towards non-bath-land, when suddenly the arrow snapped back to your imminent soapiness.
Rooster, pay attention to this.
When I clipped your leashes on and headed towards the gate, you (ROOSTER) got a sudden burst of energy and bounced off the path, plunging my flip-flop adorned foot and pant cuff deep into a puddle. You (ROOSTER), also, were in the puddle, and looked confused at my sudden swearing outburst (note: mud in dog parks is very rarely purely dirt). Monkey, in solidarity, wandered off the path as well and began rooting around in the grass. A couple yanks and you were back in line, but the damage was done. As soon as we walked in the door you (Monkey) sensed something was wrong and curled up on the loveseat. I coaxed you in the bathroom and closed the door, but when I turned on the water your cooperation ceased. I no longer enjoy lifting your 55 pounds up and over the edge of the tub. I'm not sure that I ever did. If you would jump every now and then (I know you can do it, since you jump OUT with very little problem) I can offer many delicious varieties of biscuit and maybe even rawhide. Think about it. Also think about saving the shaking-off of your head until AFTER I'm done rinsing you. I've sworn more tonight than I have in months. Rawhide possibilities. Really.
Rooster, we really have to talk about bathing. You are enormous. I'd be willing to be you're over 70 pounds now, and when I can't even get you NEAR the bathroom (you've finally figured out that once I get you on the linoleum, you're hosed. Life was easier when you were stupider.) it makes me want to whimper more than you. Tonight I herded you away from the door, across the studio, through the living room, and finally (thankfully, since I was getting fatigued) onto the linoleum by grabbing the scruff of your neck and pushing your ass with my other hand while you dug your toenails into every available surface and squirmed like a 2-year-old throwing a tantrum. This is not dignified, for you or for me. Then when I had you in the bathroom I had to grab your hind legs, shove them in the tub, and then thread the rest of you between my legs until I finally got your furry (stinky) ass in the tub. Thank you for admitting defeat at this point and not jumping back out, but I really don't appreciate that you had to lean on me over the edge for the remainder of the bathing process. Also, next time you can skip the "I forgive you" cuddle after the bath is over. It's a nice thought, but I really wasn't expecting 70+ pounds of wet dog up on my bed (where you're not allowed, I feel compelled to remind you) when I was reading. I'm not mad at you now, I'm just trying to ignore you so you won't feel the need to forgive me again.
Basically, it comes down to this. Rooster, if you could possibly find a way to not shed ever again, you will get biscuits and rawhide galore and a free vaccuum to chew on. Monkey, if you could learn to hop politely in the tub and then teach Roo how to do it, I will give you whatever your sweet little canine heart desires. I'm guessing that would be a squirrel of your very own and a racetrack, and I'm willing to work on that.
Also, please do something about the breaths. Mint hasn't worked and peanut butter has proven to be more of a liability than a help (sticky AND nasty breath). I can plant some nice herbs if you promise to eat them every day.
Also also, Roo if you chew up any more magazines please aim for Bazaar and not Vibe.
Thanks and love you,
Janelle (the tall thing that gives you food)
Feliz Navidad
(I just looked at my history and realized that in a couple of days I will have been writing this lovely thing for a year!)
(HAPPY BLOGDAY!!!)
(I'm such a dork.)
Ballroom blitz
Two summers ago I was inbetween my years of college courses, madly scrambling for work that would tide me over for the coming school year. I applied for everything I could find, and went to interviews for positions as disparate as administrative assistant, barista, and finally ballroom dance instructor. The interview was simple. We took a couple of ethics questionnaires and chatted with a very large woman with clown-level makeup and a bright muu-muu dress. Then we went out to the dance floor and their instructors (a group of attractive 20-30 year olds who were poised, orange-tanned, and equally made up) (yes, even the men) put us through our paces. We were asked what dance styles we knew (for me, it was swing, country-western (oh hush, I had to do SOMETHING with myself down in San Antonio), and salsa) and the appropriate people would take us out and whirl us around a bit. It wasn't all that hard, and I enjoyed the dancing for the most part. I guess ballroom salsa isn't quite what I've learned in the clubs, though. I move my hips too much. Too "urban".
I was hired along with a tiny little thing I'll call Nikki because I can't remember her real name. She had long bleached blonde hair, enormous eyes, twig arms, and more eyeliner than I'd ever seen on a non-Goth. We were given handbooks and mix tapes and instructed in the magic and grace that is the *highly recognizable name removed* Dance System. We learned swing, tango, waltz, foxtrot, country-western (2-step), salsa, rumba, and the hustle. Five basic steps within each style, plus the transitions between steps. We learned how to lead and follow for each style. Along with the dance instruction, we had sessions with the enormous muu-muu lady in which we were shown how to sell dance packages and encourage our students to move up the certification levels and compete in higher and higher divisions. She would also give us little life lessons on topics she thought would help us. Like pantyhose. And how good pantyhose was in every situation.
I didn't fit in. Not in the least. The enthusiasm that I'd managed to muster for the interview (I give good interview) disappeared the first week, and the thought of having to sell lessons to my friends and acquaintences (one of the main tenets of the scheme) made me feel vaguely ill. Plus, my look wasn't quite right for the job. Muu-muu complemented me at first on my "fresh, surfer look" but soon started to remind me each time to make sure that I wear more makeup. I kept telling her that I thought I WAS wearing more makeup, but none of my acceptable levels of plastering were thick enough for her. My hair was also not quite big enough, which is a struggle I haven't tried to wage since the early 90's (where I admitted defeat to my bangs in a very touching ceremony involving the destruction of a large can of White Rain).
Nikki was a natural. Her voice was high and chirpy, she seemed born with orange skin and silver eyeshadow, and she was as shallow as a puddle on the 4th of July. We played friendly in the false way that females do when stuck in a situation where there is no one else more compatible to talk to, and I soon was regaled with her tales of love and betrayal in the higher social classes of Seattle. She was currently a boat trophy for a guy on Mercer Island ("which bikini do you think will make him love me?") but had a past life of Belltown partying and drug usage that verged on Hiltonesque. She was charmingly nonchalant about the few times she'd been roofied (Rohypnol, the date rape drug) and how waking up in a strange house was quite the adventure. She worked part-time as a representative for a popular brand of alcohol and spread her particular type of bubbly joy to the masses while subtly encouraging men to buy her drinks mixed with her sponsor's booze. She had no problem selling the full lessons package. I negotiated, and ended up (gasp!) selling people only what they needed.
You can probably guess how this ended. Nikki outsold and outbubbled me, and while I kicked her ass on the dance floor, she maintained a chirp in her instructions that I couldn't duplicate. Muu-muu had to let me go after the training was completed even though they had originally hoped to put both of us on full-time. She was kind and told me that it was only because their staffing requirements had been lessened and they could only afford to bring one person on, but we both knew that my surfer hip-shaking pantyhoseless style would stand out in their group of polished professionals. I still dance with the guys when I see them out in the clubs (in their strange chin-up-elbows-out style that conflicts with everything I know about salsa), but have given up all hope of ever bringing my personal style to the masses.
I do still lead a mean hustle, though.
A little bit of nothing
I was at the City of Seattle's building department waiting for my permit meeting to resume, when I took a closer look at the desk of my permit reviewer. His name was Nick Misomethingsomething (memory...of...steel...) and all of his binders had a pen-scribbled "NM" adorning their sides. As did his pencil holder and paper files. And his computer monitor. Suddenly I realized that every removable object in his cubicle was marked with his initials, which made it all the more shocking when I looked at his stapler and saw "FRANK".
I know there's a story there, somewhere.
