26 August 2010
Add this to the list of pointless things I want
I haven't had a soft boiled egg since I was 6 years old. Having this in my cupboard would probably change that...you know, once all of America's eggs are done with this whole salmonella business.
24 August 2010
Were they born that way?
Why is it that whenever some douchebag cuts me off in the Target parking lot, he's always making a face like this?
Yes, I'm screwing around...
...with my template you dirty minded bastards.
With my web abilities limited to what Blogger can provide, I'm having a real issue finding a template that really conveys the essence of badgers who are wielding knives. Does a coffee cup remind you of a big toothy rodent feeling stabby-stabby? How about a palm tree back dropped with a sunset on a sandy white beach? What I'm going for is a fear of a white striped danger claws with a hint of calmness knowing that the machete holding creature is on your side. Is that too much to ask for Blogger?
With my web abilities limited to what Blogger can provide, I'm having a real issue finding a template that really conveys the essence of badgers who are wielding knives. Does a coffee cup remind you of a big toothy rodent feeling stabby-stabby? How about a palm tree back dropped with a sunset on a sandy white beach? What I'm going for is a fear of a white striped danger claws with a hint of calmness knowing that the machete holding creature is on your side. Is that too much to ask for Blogger?
23 August 2010
I finally left the damn house and did something!
Yes, I’m still here. I try to write at least once a week but since all I’ve been doing recently is trying to get through this damn novel that I started back last Christmas, I didn’t have much to offer. I did finish the damn novel and it was quite good. I even managed to get 5 chapters into a second damn novel before my love of all things television took over. It’s sad really – I’m a reader, always have been – but I need to have pretty much complete silence when I read or else I get distracted and end up reading the same page over and over. If someone is randomly chatting at me, or the television is too loud, or the cat is trying to get pet or aliens come down to ask if they can set up a portal to their space ship in my living room, I get distracted, then frustrated, and then finally I just stop reading. It’s a shame, it really is. I miss reading.
On a completely unrelated note, I learned last week if you are in America and there’s a cool breeze coming through an open window, it’s obviously called a ‘draft’, but if you are in England and the same thing happened, it’s a ‘draught’. I told Andy that was stupid since there’s no ‘F’ in his spelling even though there’s an ‘F’ sound in the word, but he shut me down quick with references to ‘enough’. I hate it when he’s right.
All that above has absolutely nothing what-so-ever to do with the purpose of this post. The purpose obviously is to tell you I finally left the house, in August no less, and it was interesting enough to write about it. Well, I think it’s interesting enough but what do I know? I’ve been making a hole on the couch for the last two weeks.
So, the weekend previously, Andy and I were at the Harp. Me being the obnoxious sort, I was fucking around on Facebook on my iPhone looking up upcoming events to share with the Harp group to appear “cool”, “with it”, and “in the know”. I had noticed that one of our friends had posted a free Weezer concert down in Del Mar at the racetrack. While I like Weezer enough to see them live, I don’t like them enough to suffer the crowds that a free Weezer concert was sure to attract. I did, however, like the idea of betting on some ponies. We asked the group if anyone would want to join us for the horse races the following Saturday, and much to our delight, Dave and Jill said that they were interested.
A quick word about Dave and Jill - I have known Dave and Jill since I first moved to California back in 2000. They are great people. Dave is quick witted and grumpy old man-ish and his wife, Jill, is the polar opposite – always cheerful and never has a bad word to say about anyone. While they are only 10-15 years older than Andy and I, when we all go out together there are times when waiters or bar staff will think that they are our parents. A fact that is pretty hysterical figuring that Andy, personality wise, could be Dave’s bastard son.
Because I’ve been on a no drinking kick, I offered to drive the group. We picked up Dave and Jill around 11:30 AM on Saturday and started what should have been the hour long drive down to Del Mar. Except it wasn’t an hour long drive – it was a 2 ½ hour drive, or 3 ½ if you count the hour we spent for lunch. Traffic was terrible. I figured it would be bad, but I had no idea that the highest speed I would get for 60 miles was 23 mph. The HIGHEST speed, mind you. Poor Jill – she was terrified of my driving – and having to be in the car for twice as long as normal – well, let’s just say she had her eyes closed for most of the trip. In my defense, both Dave and Andy thought I drove just fine, thank you very much. I only almost ran into that car the one time – and that was only because everyone was shouting at the time unable to tell which way to turn.
When we finally got there, they were just about to start the 4th race. Andy and I bought one $5.00 Place tickets each for every race (4th – 10th) costing us a total of $70. We both did the highly skilled technical horse choosing of picking whatever horse name we found the most amusing. While this strategy worked in Andy’s favor, I should have stuck to my original plan of picking whatever horse was wearing blue.
Right off the bat, Andy’s horses win the first two races. Already we had won back $45 of the $70 we had spent. Andy was quite chuffed. I, in the meantime, kept losing race after race. They say that when you are picking horses, you should look for active horses with a spring in their step. Every horse that I had picked looked like it just woke up from a nap and very much wanted to just go to the pub for a quiet pint. To be fair, most of my horse picks did exceptionally well right out of the gate before halfway through discovering, “Oh shit, I’m running! I don’t like to run! What the hell!” and fell into last place. I didn’t win one single race. Andy carried us by winning yet another race at the very end and getting us to a total of $55. $15 loss – not bad I would say.
Because there was 25 minutes of nothing time between races, I spent a lot of the afternoon wandering around looking at the women in fancy hats (I want a fancy hat! Preferably one with 1,800 feathers and a dead bird) and the horses that were going to race next.
We ended up leaving around 7 PM and even with a stop for dinner, we made it back home by 9 PM. It was a great day overall, and it was really nice to get out of Dodge for awhile. It certainly made all of us appreciate the lack of traffic we all had getting to the Harp the next day, that’s for sure.
On a completely unrelated note, I learned last week if you are in America and there’s a cool breeze coming through an open window, it’s obviously called a ‘draft’, but if you are in England and the same thing happened, it’s a ‘draught’. I told Andy that was stupid since there’s no ‘F’ in his spelling even though there’s an ‘F’ sound in the word, but he shut me down quick with references to ‘enough’. I hate it when he’s right.
All that above has absolutely nothing what-so-ever to do with the purpose of this post. The purpose obviously is to tell you I finally left the house, in August no less, and it was interesting enough to write about it. Well, I think it’s interesting enough but what do I know? I’ve been making a hole on the couch for the last two weeks.
So, the weekend previously, Andy and I were at the Harp. Me being the obnoxious sort, I was fucking around on Facebook on my iPhone looking up upcoming events to share with the Harp group to appear “cool”, “with it”, and “in the know”. I had noticed that one of our friends had posted a free Weezer concert down in Del Mar at the racetrack. While I like Weezer enough to see them live, I don’t like them enough to suffer the crowds that a free Weezer concert was sure to attract. I did, however, like the idea of betting on some ponies. We asked the group if anyone would want to join us for the horse races the following Saturday, and much to our delight, Dave and Jill said that they were interested.
A quick word about Dave and Jill - I have known Dave and Jill since I first moved to California back in 2000. They are great people. Dave is quick witted and grumpy old man-ish and his wife, Jill, is the polar opposite – always cheerful and never has a bad word to say about anyone. While they are only 10-15 years older than Andy and I, when we all go out together there are times when waiters or bar staff will think that they are our parents. A fact that is pretty hysterical figuring that Andy, personality wise, could be Dave’s bastard son.
Because I’ve been on a no drinking kick, I offered to drive the group. We picked up Dave and Jill around 11:30 AM on Saturday and started what should have been the hour long drive down to Del Mar. Except it wasn’t an hour long drive – it was a 2 ½ hour drive, or 3 ½ if you count the hour we spent for lunch. Traffic was terrible. I figured it would be bad, but I had no idea that the highest speed I would get for 60 miles was 23 mph. The HIGHEST speed, mind you. Poor Jill – she was terrified of my driving – and having to be in the car for twice as long as normal – well, let’s just say she had her eyes closed for most of the trip. In my defense, both Dave and Andy thought I drove just fine, thank you very much. I only almost ran into that car the one time – and that was only because everyone was shouting at the time unable to tell which way to turn.
When we finally got there, they were just about to start the 4th race. Andy and I bought one $5.00 Place tickets each for every race (4th – 10th) costing us a total of $70. We both did the highly skilled technical horse choosing of picking whatever horse name we found the most amusing. While this strategy worked in Andy’s favor, I should have stuck to my original plan of picking whatever horse was wearing blue.
Getting ready to make some big bucks betting on the ponies.
Right off the bat, Andy’s horses win the first two races. Already we had won back $45 of the $70 we had spent. Andy was quite chuffed. I, in the meantime, kept losing race after race. They say that when you are picking horses, you should look for active horses with a spring in their step. Every horse that I had picked looked like it just woke up from a nap and very much wanted to just go to the pub for a quiet pint. To be fair, most of my horse picks did exceptionally well right out of the gate before halfway through discovering, “Oh shit, I’m running! I don’t like to run! What the hell!” and fell into last place. I didn’t win one single race. Andy carried us by winning yet another race at the very end and getting us to a total of $55. $15 loss – not bad I would say.
Andy shows off one of his winning tickets. Check out that shit eating grin!
Because there was 25 minutes of nothing time between races, I spent a lot of the afternoon wandering around looking at the women in fancy hats (I want a fancy hat! Preferably one with 1,800 feathers and a dead bird) and the horses that were going to race next.
One of the many races in which I won nothing. These are the lead horses. My horse, I'm sure, will not show up in this frame for another 18 minutes.
This horse won. Andy seemed to know that was going to happen...I certainly didn't.
We ended up leaving around 7 PM and even with a stop for dinner, we made it back home by 9 PM. It was a great day overall, and it was really nice to get out of Dodge for awhile. It certainly made all of us appreciate the lack of traffic we all had getting to the Harp the next day, that’s for sure.
12 August 2010
It might be this way until September
Hello. My name is Moe and I hate August.
I have hated August for as long as I can remember. And just so we are clear, I’m talking about August as in the month of August and not ‘August, ’ a 1983 novel by Judith Rossner (whom I’ve never heard of, though I’m sure her novel is lovely) or August Spies, the American anarchist (whom I’ve also never heard of but who doesn’t love a good anarchist?). No, I’m talking August – the butt side book end of summer.
When I was a kid, my August hatred was pretty obvious. August meant that summer vacation was drawing to a close. Even though school didn’t start until the first week of September, you know my mom was in the driveway with the engine revving the minute the 1st of August hit.
“C’MON! GET IN THE CAR! We have to go to Target for school supplies!” (revvvvvvv)
“But it’s only August! School doesn’t start for another month!”
“Got to beat the rush! Early bird school supply sales! C’MON!” (revvvvvvv)
“Aww…”
Besides the impending doom that was the start of the school year, August was pretty miserable anyhow. Anyone who has lived in a Midwestern state that borders the Mississippi River or one of the Great Lakes knows that in August the temperatures can reach up to 90 degrees. That isn’t so bad really. But couple 90 degrees with 90% humidity, and you’ve got yourself a problem. I like to think of humidity being similar to falling asleep at 4 in the morning under a big fluffy comforter after drinking entirely way too much booze and waking up 6 hours later covered in that horrible layer of sweat that is your body releasing booze toxins, feeling your internal temperature is running 300 billion degrees and you have the stupid heavy comforter on you that you can’t get off because your asshole boyfriend is passed out on top of it trapping you, trapping you in that hot sweaty 300 billion degrees OH JAYSUS GET OFF! OFF! OFF!! OOOOOOFFFFFFFFF!!!!!! Humidity in the Midwest is like that but worse because it doesn’t go away after 3 glasses of water and a fried egg sandwich.
Nowadays, I don’t like August because there doesn’t seem to be that much to do. Everyone has pretty much burned themselves out of holding BBQ’s. Not that it would matter – no one is around because they are squeezing in those last vacation days or afternoons down at the beach before it turns cold (and I snicker because in California, “cold” means 60 degrees). August Boredom has drove Andy and I to play mini golf and go to the movies last Saturday. Not that it wasn’t fun - it was, but that’s August for you. There are no crazy trips out to Catalina or some raging festival down at the peninsula or anything really. Earlier this week I was complaining to Andy that I had nothing to look forward to (which sounds horribly desolate and suicidal). I meant to say is that normally we have some sort of trip or adventure planned most months and this month…nothing. Looking at our social calendar there is nothing until the Charlatans show in mid-September. Basically, I don’t know quite what to do with myself, which depresses me to no end and makes me quite the pain in the ass to be around – until September rolls around that is.
So what is a girl to do? Whine on her blog and hope that someone can come up with a suggestion? Hmm…great idea, think I’ll give that a go.
I have hated August for as long as I can remember. And just so we are clear, I’m talking about August as in the month of August and not ‘August, ’ a 1983 novel by Judith Rossner (whom I’ve never heard of, though I’m sure her novel is lovely) or August Spies, the American anarchist (whom I’ve also never heard of but who doesn’t love a good anarchist?). No, I’m talking August – the butt side book end of summer.
When I was a kid, my August hatred was pretty obvious. August meant that summer vacation was drawing to a close. Even though school didn’t start until the first week of September, you know my mom was in the driveway with the engine revving the minute the 1st of August hit.
“C’MON! GET IN THE CAR! We have to go to Target for school supplies!” (revvvvvvv)
“But it’s only August! School doesn’t start for another month!”
“Got to beat the rush! Early bird school supply sales! C’MON!” (revvvvvvv)
“Aww…”
Besides the impending doom that was the start of the school year, August was pretty miserable anyhow. Anyone who has lived in a Midwestern state that borders the Mississippi River or one of the Great Lakes knows that in August the temperatures can reach up to 90 degrees. That isn’t so bad really. But couple 90 degrees with 90% humidity, and you’ve got yourself a problem. I like to think of humidity being similar to falling asleep at 4 in the morning under a big fluffy comforter after drinking entirely way too much booze and waking up 6 hours later covered in that horrible layer of sweat that is your body releasing booze toxins, feeling your internal temperature is running 300 billion degrees and you have the stupid heavy comforter on you that you can’t get off because your asshole boyfriend is passed out on top of it trapping you, trapping you in that hot sweaty 300 billion degrees OH JAYSUS GET OFF! OFF! OFF!! OOOOOOFFFFFFFFF!!!!!! Humidity in the Midwest is like that but worse because it doesn’t go away after 3 glasses of water and a fried egg sandwich.
Nowadays, I don’t like August because there doesn’t seem to be that much to do. Everyone has pretty much burned themselves out of holding BBQ’s. Not that it would matter – no one is around because they are squeezing in those last vacation days or afternoons down at the beach before it turns cold (and I snicker because in California, “cold” means 60 degrees). August Boredom has drove Andy and I to play mini golf and go to the movies last Saturday. Not that it wasn’t fun - it was, but that’s August for you. There are no crazy trips out to Catalina or some raging festival down at the peninsula or anything really. Earlier this week I was complaining to Andy that I had nothing to look forward to (which sounds horribly desolate and suicidal). I meant to say is that normally we have some sort of trip or adventure planned most months and this month…nothing. Looking at our social calendar there is nothing until the Charlatans show in mid-September. Basically, I don’t know quite what to do with myself, which depresses me to no end and makes me quite the pain in the ass to be around – until September rolls around that is.
Our mini-golf adventure where Andy tries to slice the ball back on the green.
So what is a girl to do? Whine on her blog and hope that someone can come up with a suggestion? Hmm…great idea, think I’ll give that a go.
05 August 2010
Chloe goes to the Vet
So yesterday morning, Andy and I took the cat to the vet to start the Step One process of getting the cat to a foreign land. I have mentioned before that Chloe is a difficult cat and has been banned from two other veterinarians in the area for being a complete and utter uncontrollable terror (a term I believe the English describe as “being plagued by anti-social behavior” – which tickles me to no end). When I called to make the initial appointment I asked the receptionist if it would be possible to pick up some sedatives to give to Chloe prior to the appointment to make everyone’s life a bit easier and claws of death free. The reception responded, “I’m sorry we can’t do that. The doctor will determine if the cat needs sedation.” It’s your arms and hands open for mutilation, not mine, chica.
The night before the appointment we went on a desperate search for the cat carrier. Due to Chloe being banned from two pet hospitals, I haven’t used the cat carrier since we moved from a shitty one bedroom apartment down the street to the not so shitty triplex we’re in now – which was over 4 years ago. I have no idea where that cat carrier went but I can determine that it is no longer in my possession. I blame the thieving neighbors that used to live next to us who didn’t have cats but they we horrible and obnoxious and I’m sure they used the cat carrier to transport illegal cocaine bananas! A-hem. Anyhow, because we couldn’t find the carrier, we ended up getting a new one and while at the pet store I insisted that we get this fleece bed type liner for the carrier. Both the carrier and fleece liner were for designed for small yippy type dogs and I think we both had fears that Chloe developed the sudden talent of Reading English and would reject the carrier with that air of snobbery only cats can possess.
Thankfully Chloe’s only talent is still knowing when a can of tuna is opened from 3 miles away and she spent the majority of Tuesday night tucked quite comfortably in the new carrier (door open of course). I think she felt it was her own personal grotto sans waterfall – she really took to lounging like Hugh Hefner.
The next morning getting her into the carrier was a piece of piss. I kind of nudged her in and she was quite happy to go in - though she did have a look of shock when the door closed behind her. “Wha? What’s this then? IS THIS A CAGE? OH NO YOU DI’INT!” (Chloe’s a bit gangster by the way)
When we met the vet for the first time I felt really bad for her. She was a middle aged skinny blonde woman with a pretty face and kind eyes. I felt for sure that the experience she will soon have with our cat would taint her forever and she’d quit that very day and start selling beanie babies on eBay for money instead. She had with her a young Hispanic man as her assistant. The assistant asked if it was OK to weigh Chloe. Andy responded, “It’s your skin mate, go for it.” The assistant choose instead to step back and wait for the vet to take charge.
The first thing the vet had to do was to get Chloe out of the carrier. I should mention that Chloe was already hissing up a storm by this point. Neither the vet nor the assistant wanted to put their hands in the carrier to get Chloe out so they ended up kind of tipping the carrier over vertically in an attempt to sliiiide her out. But Chloe wasn’t having a bit of it. She was holding on to that fleece liner with every bit of razor sharp nail she had. At one point the carrier is at a 90 degree vertical angle, the fleece liner is halfway out and all Andy and I see is one very pissed off, claws out, fuzzy grey hind leg coming out of the carrier trying desperately to defy the laws of gravity and get back in the damn box. Because Andy and I are mean, we laughed our asses off at the hind leg. I’m only sad I didn’t think enough to take a picture of it. Seriously, you would all be laughing too.
Once Chloe was out of the box, the vet had the assistant hold Chloe down with a towel. Again, I wish I had taken pictures – or a video! Seriously, it was comedy genius. Chloe doesn’t like strangers and she certainly doesn’t like being held down by a towel. She began screeching. Anyone who has ever owned a cat knows the screech – it’s the same screech that is heard when you accidently step on the cat’s tail because the damn cat has decided to stand right behind you when you are in the kitchen getting a glass from the cupboard and the cat somehow thinks you have eyes in the back of your ankles. Except this wasn't a single screech of tail stepping, this was a constant screech followed by the wild eyes and squirming like a 2 year old who no longer wants to be held. The vet’s assistant had a look of terror in his eyes. I shouldn’t have worried about the vet; it was the assistant that’s selling the beanie babies today. The vet in all her wisdom, said to the assistant, “Get the box.”
The box in reference was a small glass box, just slightly bigger than a shoe box. It had a glass lid with two 4-inch “air holes” on the top. They slide the cat into the box (a feat itself) and clamp the lid onto the box. At this point the vet turns to me and says, “She’s not getting banned from my hospital.” I decided at that sentence that I would never want another vet but this one.
So yeah, the vet gassed our cat. Er, I mean, sedated her. Chloe got her exam in, shots done, and an able to be read in foreign countries microchip inserted. When the vet brought Chloe back, Chloe’s tongue was hanging out. Andy and I laughed again. The vet said, “Yeah, she went down pretty quickly. I gave her a mushy kiss on the lips!” We laughed more and I considered inviting this lady over for dinner she was so cool.
But then comes the bad news. And it makes me feel worse because it’s entirely my fault. In order for Chloe to go overseas she needs to have had a previous rabies shot to the one she received yesterday. I never kept up with her shots because she was so difficult to manage and after being banned from two different animal hospitals I had doubted that they would be able to give her the shots in the first place. That said, the times when she did get shots (early in her life) one of the vets along the way should have given her a shot for rabies – which they never did. What all this means is that in order for Chloe to come with us, she needs another rabies shot IN A YEAR, followed by a blood test a month after that, followed by a 6 month waiting period. Which means, my fair readers, Chloe can’t leave the United States until April 2012. APRIL 2012! We are still leaving in 6-7 months time. We are at a loss of what to do.
As of today, Chloe isn’t talking to us. She sulked all of last night and I think today she’s a bit ill from the rabies shot and\or gassing. I feel horrible enough to give her tuna for the next week but she hasn’t bothered to come out of Andy’s closet since last night. It’s like she knows what we’re up against.
The night before the appointment we went on a desperate search for the cat carrier. Due to Chloe being banned from two pet hospitals, I haven’t used the cat carrier since we moved from a shitty one bedroom apartment down the street to the not so shitty triplex we’re in now – which was over 4 years ago. I have no idea where that cat carrier went but I can determine that it is no longer in my possession. I blame the thieving neighbors that used to live next to us who didn’t have cats but they we horrible and obnoxious and I’m sure they used the cat carrier to transport illegal cocaine bananas! A-hem. Anyhow, because we couldn’t find the carrier, we ended up getting a new one and while at the pet store I insisted that we get this fleece bed type liner for the carrier. Both the carrier and fleece liner were for designed for small yippy type dogs and I think we both had fears that Chloe developed the sudden talent of Reading English and would reject the carrier with that air of snobbery only cats can possess.
Thankfully Chloe’s only talent is still knowing when a can of tuna is opened from 3 miles away and she spent the majority of Tuesday night tucked quite comfortably in the new carrier (door open of course). I think she felt it was her own personal grotto sans waterfall – she really took to lounging like Hugh Hefner.
The next morning getting her into the carrier was a piece of piss. I kind of nudged her in and she was quite happy to go in - though she did have a look of shock when the door closed behind her. “Wha? What’s this then? IS THIS A CAGE? OH NO YOU DI’INT!” (Chloe’s a bit gangster by the way)
When we met the vet for the first time I felt really bad for her. She was a middle aged skinny blonde woman with a pretty face and kind eyes. I felt for sure that the experience she will soon have with our cat would taint her forever and she’d quit that very day and start selling beanie babies on eBay for money instead. She had with her a young Hispanic man as her assistant. The assistant asked if it was OK to weigh Chloe. Andy responded, “It’s your skin mate, go for it.” The assistant choose instead to step back and wait for the vet to take charge.
The first thing the vet had to do was to get Chloe out of the carrier. I should mention that Chloe was already hissing up a storm by this point. Neither the vet nor the assistant wanted to put their hands in the carrier to get Chloe out so they ended up kind of tipping the carrier over vertically in an attempt to sliiiide her out. But Chloe wasn’t having a bit of it. She was holding on to that fleece liner with every bit of razor sharp nail she had. At one point the carrier is at a 90 degree vertical angle, the fleece liner is halfway out and all Andy and I see is one very pissed off, claws out, fuzzy grey hind leg coming out of the carrier trying desperately to defy the laws of gravity and get back in the damn box. Because Andy and I are mean, we laughed our asses off at the hind leg. I’m only sad I didn’t think enough to take a picture of it. Seriously, you would all be laughing too.
Once Chloe was out of the box, the vet had the assistant hold Chloe down with a towel. Again, I wish I had taken pictures – or a video! Seriously, it was comedy genius. Chloe doesn’t like strangers and she certainly doesn’t like being held down by a towel. She began screeching. Anyone who has ever owned a cat knows the screech – it’s the same screech that is heard when you accidently step on the cat’s tail because the damn cat has decided to stand right behind you when you are in the kitchen getting a glass from the cupboard and the cat somehow thinks you have eyes in the back of your ankles. Except this wasn't a single screech of tail stepping, this was a constant screech followed by the wild eyes and squirming like a 2 year old who no longer wants to be held. The vet’s assistant had a look of terror in his eyes. I shouldn’t have worried about the vet; it was the assistant that’s selling the beanie babies today. The vet in all her wisdom, said to the assistant, “Get the box.”
The box in reference was a small glass box, just slightly bigger than a shoe box. It had a glass lid with two 4-inch “air holes” on the top. They slide the cat into the box (a feat itself) and clamp the lid onto the box. At this point the vet turns to me and says, “She’s not getting banned from my hospital.” I decided at that sentence that I would never want another vet but this one.
So yeah, the vet gassed our cat. Er, I mean, sedated her. Chloe got her exam in, shots done, and an able to be read in foreign countries microchip inserted. When the vet brought Chloe back, Chloe’s tongue was hanging out. Andy and I laughed again. The vet said, “Yeah, she went down pretty quickly. I gave her a mushy kiss on the lips!” We laughed more and I considered inviting this lady over for dinner she was so cool.
But then comes the bad news. And it makes me feel worse because it’s entirely my fault. In order for Chloe to go overseas she needs to have had a previous rabies shot to the one she received yesterday. I never kept up with her shots because she was so difficult to manage and after being banned from two different animal hospitals I had doubted that they would be able to give her the shots in the first place. That said, the times when she did get shots (early in her life) one of the vets along the way should have given her a shot for rabies – which they never did. What all this means is that in order for Chloe to come with us, she needs another rabies shot IN A YEAR, followed by a blood test a month after that, followed by a 6 month waiting period. Which means, my fair readers, Chloe can’t leave the United States until April 2012. APRIL 2012! We are still leaving in 6-7 months time. We are at a loss of what to do.
As of today, Chloe isn’t talking to us. She sulked all of last night and I think today she’s a bit ill from the rabies shot and\or gassing. I feel horrible enough to give her tuna for the next week but she hasn’t bothered to come out of Andy’s closet since last night. It’s like she knows what we’re up against.
03 August 2010
Personally I think you should wait for the kangaroo story
This unfortunately is one of those weeks where I really don’t have much to say – well, I do – one thing – and that is that someone recently searched for “giraffe” + “leaning tower” and found my site. That’s a job well done I think.
Otherwise it’s been pretty quiet. This is sad really, since I want to write and will thus have to fill you in with mundane shit that will probably not be the least bit funny. Feel free to check in next week when I find the dancing kangaroo I’ve been searching for on Craigslist and report about the hilarity that ensues when we discuss the correct way to pronounce “cheesy puffs on toast”.
Ready then?
The Thursday Splenda incident slowly made way to Friday No Incident Gyro Day and it was good. I met Andy at the Harp where we socialized, did other things – food was involved somewhere – and Friday No Incident Gyro Day somehow morphed into Saturday Oh My God Where Did All These Flies Come From Day. Seriously, our back yard was swarming in them. We had to take tactical action and locate the source (open trash bin) and eliminate the flies (thank you Raid). (sarcasm) So that was exciting. (/sarcasm) Oh, there is a small pointless story I can tell you about from Saturday, but it’s a bit gross.
So we’re at R.E.I. buying Andy some socks and technical underpants. Andy has a degree (it might be a Master’s even) in computer science so even his underpants need to be technical. That’s how he rolls. While we are standing looking at the technical underpants Andy decides that this would be the perfect moment to let one rip, that is to say fart, and it was of the “silent but deadly” variety. This is also the same moment that Andy asks me to check the tag on his current underpants so he knows what size to get. I didn’t want to stand 5 feet next to Andy during the butt war currently raging against my nostrils, much less stick my nose in by the source. But since I love my husband and he offered up the very helpful “just hold your nose” advice, I did it, but it wasn’t pleasant. I personally think that he owes me one fancy dinner because of it though.
After all our errands, we made it back to the Harp for a couple hours, and later on ended up going to a Peruvian restaurant with Dave and Jill. I have determined I like Peruvian food. We were home by 7PM and ended up staying up until about 1 AM watching the entire first series of “The Worst Week of My Life”. A bit slow to get started but had us gasping for air by the time the father catches Howard fishing the goulash out of the toilet. It’s on Netflix in case anyone is interested – which you should be.
Because the underpants story and the staying up until 1 AM story (was that even a story?) are the only highlights I have up to this point, I’m going to abruptly end this here. Actually, its lunch time and I’m hungry and I don’t feel like finishing this later. What? At least I’m honest.
And thus ends the most pointless blog post ever, even though it had the bit about the underpants in the middle.
Otherwise it’s been pretty quiet. This is sad really, since I want to write and will thus have to fill you in with mundane shit that will probably not be the least bit funny. Feel free to check in next week when I find the dancing kangaroo I’ve been searching for on Craigslist and report about the hilarity that ensues when we discuss the correct way to pronounce “cheesy puffs on toast”.
Ready then?
The Thursday Splenda incident slowly made way to Friday No Incident Gyro Day and it was good. I met Andy at the Harp where we socialized, did other things – food was involved somewhere – and Friday No Incident Gyro Day somehow morphed into Saturday Oh My God Where Did All These Flies Come From Day. Seriously, our back yard was swarming in them. We had to take tactical action and locate the source (open trash bin) and eliminate the flies (thank you Raid). (sarcasm) So that was exciting. (/sarcasm) Oh, there is a small pointless story I can tell you about from Saturday, but it’s a bit gross.
So we’re at R.E.I. buying Andy some socks and technical underpants. Andy has a degree (it might be a Master’s even) in computer science so even his underpants need to be technical. That’s how he rolls. While we are standing looking at the technical underpants Andy decides that this would be the perfect moment to let one rip, that is to say fart, and it was of the “silent but deadly” variety. This is also the same moment that Andy asks me to check the tag on his current underpants so he knows what size to get. I didn’t want to stand 5 feet next to Andy during the butt war currently raging against my nostrils, much less stick my nose in by the source. But since I love my husband and he offered up the very helpful “just hold your nose” advice, I did it, but it wasn’t pleasant. I personally think that he owes me one fancy dinner because of it though.
After all our errands, we made it back to the Harp for a couple hours, and later on ended up going to a Peruvian restaurant with Dave and Jill. I have determined I like Peruvian food. We were home by 7PM and ended up staying up until about 1 AM watching the entire first series of “The Worst Week of My Life”. A bit slow to get started but had us gasping for air by the time the father catches Howard fishing the goulash out of the toilet. It’s on Netflix in case anyone is interested – which you should be.
Howard attempts to get the ring that was swallowed by the dog he accidentally put in the cement mixer.
Because the underpants story and the staying up until 1 AM story (was that even a story?) are the only highlights I have up to this point, I’m going to abruptly end this here. Actually, its lunch time and I’m hungry and I don’t feel like finishing this later. What? At least I’m honest.
And thus ends the most pointless blog post ever, even though it had the bit about the underpants in the middle.
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