Free Magic Wands

This morning a friend sent me a "How are you?" email with this picture embedded. I love it! Free magic wands -- are you kidding me?!

It made me want to run in my room and dig out my white tights, pink tutu, and matching pink sequence belly shirt, but then I remembered I only have a black wig, shoehorn and feather boa in there. Not sure that goes as well, but maybe...

Anywho, the real question here is what to do with my magic wand!

Hmmm.....

No need to wait for the magic of Advil now - definitely going to wand myself in the head and get rid of this headache.

I would also like to wand wave a special chemical-free hot tub into creation that is the perfect temperature when you are in it and then as soon as you step out of it you are perfectly dry. Don't judge -- I hate standing there getting cold while I dry off and then having to deal with my wet hair and chloriney skin.

And even though it is thoroughly enchanting to know that my little shoebox sits on a previous strawberry field, I would like to wand my way back over to the other side of the mountain -- I'm over you highway 17 -- you heard me!

Eternal Youth for The Ru for sure -- gotta have that. I figure if I can remind her all the time that I have the power to put her to sleep, I might as well balance that fun with the wand magic of eternal youth. Who wouldn't want to live with me forever?!

Lots of cash baby! (Come on, you knew that was coming. When has there ever been a fantasy question/wishlist response that hasn't worked in our supposed root of all evil -- Cashish?!)

How about you? What wonderment would you wand up for yourself?

Sympathizing With The Enemy

I hate when the doorbell rings - positively loathe it in fact. That jarring surprise of fake bell tone echoing through my front room, making the dog bark like we are under a complete enemy siege, (whatever that looks like in dog terms - gang of cats in full Transformers gear perhaps?) just irritates the hell out of me.

So imagine how fab I was feeling yesterday afternoon when the tale my novel was weaving was abruptly cut off by two (two!) rings of my doorbell before I could even walk across my front room to answer it. Yeah, good times.

I opened the door on two little boys and a woman. The woman did the talking. She explained to me through intermittent bark-fire from lil Ruthy that she was a neighbor who lived behind me, her yard in fact being the one that borders my garage and the parking spot adjacent to it where my car can be found. I guess her boys just graduated from the Annie Oakley School and managed to miss their target on the fence and put a bb through the small space between two fence boards, and straight through the back window of my car. Yeah, good times.

One boy was slightly taller and chunkier than the other one. He was the first to pipe up, throwing his comrade under the bus by volunteering, "he was shy about coming over here" as he pointed to his right. I took my gaze to his brother and said, "I would be too" as I remembered the time my brother went to bed at 4:00 in the afternoon after we lobbed an asteroid sized dirt clod into the neighbor's pool while trying to hit rats in the Cypress trees on the shared fence line. Sal thought crime and punishment found no one in bed. Surely if he skipped dinner and hid under the sheets, no one would think of him when the mud sludge at the bottom of the pool was discovered. Yeah, good times.

And so my friends, this is where my grated nerve reaction to ringing doorbells, and icy reception to random neighbors breaking my stuff, started to melt away.

Of course he was feeling shy about coming over. I didn't mean to break anything! Who knows what scary adult lives in that house. Are they going to yell at me?!

No yelling. I found myself saying stupid forgiveness-esque shit like "accidents happen" and "thank you guys for being so honest about this".

Then my two new foes and I chatted it up a bit even laughing over the irony of how impossible their wipe-out my window shot would have been if they were actually trying to get that bb through the small space between those boards.

There was good news as well. Not only did mom leave her contact information and a promise to reimburse my repair costs, she informed me that I lived on a strawberry field - or rather the concrete slab hosting my abode was laid on land that used to be strawberry fields. A little history lesson she gleaned from another neighbor who was farming these rows of berries that went all the way to the sea apparently, back in 1948. Yeah, good times.

As they started to make their way back down the front walk, eventually everyone got around to petting lil Ruthy, and agreeing that she indeed looked like a Ruth.

The forgiveness-esque shit must have still been working it's good Juju on me, because I wasn't in the least irritated to sit down at the computer and start getting quotes on replacement windows. Let's hope that extends to today's project of cleaning up all the broken window glass and taping/plasticing the hole in my car. Yeah, good times.

The Dispassionate Observer

I'm exhausted today. My overgrown Amazon of a yard really didn't care though. It still beckoned to me to get my ass out there and straighten things up before a surveyor takes some measurements out there tomorrow.

While I toiled and reflected on how I am the only person on the planet who has ever had to do a little manual labor while tired, I noticed some stuff.

I saw two dragonflies taking part in a little bit of Mile High club action. Their airborne bliss was a thing to behold. Who makes sure to keep a good look out and not fly into a tree during such things? Or is it that unlike us, they can fly into a tree without injury. How cool would that be, by the way...

These are stand-ins to protect identities. I think someone might have had a dragon at home waiting for them, if you know what I mean. Awkward.

When I had cut and filled my yard waste container, I spotted a giant spider sitting on the rim. It was black with gold stripes down it's back and had a body the size of a 25 cent gumball. I would have taken a picture of it, but once I saw it the only thought I had in my head was "mindless killing must commence!" and I grabbed a rather large rock. Sorry PETA, but I doubt you were going to help me if that damn thing had bit me and I went into anaphylactic shock and died in my yard, leaving my dog to watch me rot from the other side of the screen door. See, that in turn would be traumatizing dog cruelty, so be glad of my ninja-esque command decision to ice the giant spider.

The Ru happy that I am not dead.

Then I went out to my garage to put a few things away, and I was again reminded of the mass turd grave that has been gaining bodies along the fence line where my car is parked. This area is not part of my yard, so I don't know who is making all of the drop-offs. My guess would be that it is the same useless cat that slides down my windshield all the time, and runs across my roof at 4a.m. Good times. Anyway, as I scooped turds into a bag, the irony of this much shit getting under DS Man's radar really hit me. He sniffed out two little logs from my pooch that were in a small thicket of bushes, and had them gift wrapped on my doorstep in no time. How did he miss all of this sitting on the dirt strip out here in the open? Perhaps he was out of his gift bags and ribbon?

Stunt poo, but make it real and multiple it out by 50 logs or so, and you're smelling what I was scooping. Fucking cats.......or perhaps small hippies.....hadn't thought of that.

That was my little snippet of Nature's Majesty for today.

The Book Of Ruth - Chapter One

Fixer-uper Puppy

Ten years ago today I brought Ruth home. Well actually We brought Ruth home. You see, back then I was married and it was the other half of the We, John, that wanted to bring Ruth home.

I admit I started it. My not-so-subtle pleading to at least go down to the Humane Society and look around had finally paid off -- or so I thought.

August 4th 1999 was our third trip down to the pound. Our house was small and we were on the hunt for a petite pooch to match. Our previous two visits the preceding weeks were Pit Bull and Shepherd mix adventures. No-go.

This visit was shaping up about the same. Row after row of large breed puppies and large breed adult dogs watched us walk up and down the rows of runs. There was the occasional small dog garnish amongst them but they were all on adoption hold already. We were never going to find a dog this way.

As I frowned into one of the last runs full of Shepherd mix puppies, I marveled at the little brown dog toy they had in there when I realized it was moving. What in the french toast was going on here?!

John caught up to me, and as I pointed, his smile confirmed that my eyes were not deceiving me. A tiny, brown scraggly little puppy was sitting in the middle of this pack of dogs destined for great...size. Each time they tried to play with her it looked more like a pummeling. Paws on head, playful nosey nudges pushing this little thing right over.

Bummer for that puppy or squirrel mix, or whatever, I thought as I walked towards the exit. But John was not so quick to follow. "Where are you going? This could be the dog for us."

Um, what?! I only agreed to the strict size limit on the prospective puppy because I thought I was going to end up with a CUTE one!

This is a cute puppy.












This is a cute puppy.

This.....not so much.













Alright, alright.....but still...


















Before I can even spell UGLY, John has hurried off in search of an adoption counselor. Five minutes later he returns. Alone. "She's already on hold" he tells me in a disappointed tone. Whew! That was close. As we leave, the woman who had helped John stopped us to tell us that if the potential adopter doesn't pass muster during the scheduled interview that was to take place that evening, She-It would be back up for takers starting the following morning.

Oh great.

There we were bright and early the next morning; arriving when the Humane Society opened. We waited to speak to someone, and were informed She-It was off of adoption hold and back on the market.

Apparently the woman who wanted to adopt her had what else but a big dog at home. Since that Rottweiler of hers was an adult, it made the environment for She-It unsafe by HS standards, and her application was denied.

Oh great.

We followed the woman out to the kennels and the little brownish clump of steel wool managed a half wag as we approached. As John stepped into the run and picked She-It up, a yellow sprinkling hit his jacket. "She peed on you!" I screeched. Unfazed, John held She-It close and softly dismissed my resistance with, "She's a fixer-uper puppy"

Oh great.

Happy Thanksgiving!

What can I say? .....We aren't all in to turkey -- too dry. Now puppy...that's different. Mmm, mmm moist!

Easy Like Sunday Morning Cat-Butt

Sunday mornings are fabulous (so is the word 'fabulous', by the way). I always try to carve out a few hours to do whatever I want, with coffee in hand. You know, just have a little time to unwind and relax. I love 'em.

Well, apparently my dog does too. She has a little different idea of what a relaxing Sunday morning looks like though. She likes to spend hers smelling the cat's butt. That is actually the everyday morning ritual around here, but I only really have time to be disgusted by it on Sundays. I will stick with the coffee under my nose, thank you.

I don't get the attraction, but the two animal train with the canine cat-butt smelling caboose has just made it's third trip through my living room this morning.

The whole thing is gross I know, but I will tell you that I have some respect for it on a dedication level. It may not be the healthy, well adjusted love Peck talks about in The Road Less Traveled but it is committed. I mean this has been going on for over 8 years! There are a lot of marriages that haven't lasted nearly that long, even if they did include butt smelling!

Here's the thing though: The cat shows no sign of appreciation or acknowledgement for what looks like quite a task. Instead, it seems to me that she has developed a pretty snooty sense of entitlement about the whole ritual. That doesn't seem right.

I don't know -- I just have a little bit of what I am sure is poorly placed admiration for sticking to something for that long -- even if it is an unappreciative cat's butt (you know you saw that coming).

I just blogged about my dog's fetish and my cat's butt. That's probably not ideal.


happy Sunday!
d.