After a long week of anticipation, we took Indy out to Danger's family's lake today for his first swim. Things started out very well, as Indy got acquainted with Danger's brother's dog, Max.
At first, Indy seemed quite happy to splash around in the water with Max and to explore the shallows along the edge of the lake.
But then we tried to get him to do some actual swimming, and that didn't go quite as well.
Not at all tempted by the tennis ball (Note firmly planted hind legs)
Shortly after this photo was taken, I went further out into the water and called Indy over to me. He actually swam about two feet all by himself, and then as I was praising him for his great courage, he clambered up onto me, using my body as high ground. There is, unfortunately, no photo of him standing on me, his back feet on my thigh and his front feet on my shoulder. If he could've stood on top of my head, I think he would have. I was laughing too hard to tell MB to snap a picture. I cannot imagine how ridiculous we looked -- black Lab trying to use human as stepstool to get out of the water.
After another fifteen minutes or so of coaxing and then bodily carrying Indy out into the water, I finally got him to swim one more time -- in a frantic scramble for the shore:
Note: the water is not waist deep. It is mid-thigh deep and I am crouched down. My dog is a weenie.
Our grand day of swimming turned into a bit of a glorified wade, but it was still a really good day. We got to hang out with Danger and MacGyver and Max. We got to spend time outside on a gorgeous summer day, lolling about in the lake as a redtailed hawk soared overhead. And even though he didn't take to the water quite as enthusiastically as we'd hoped, Indy did give it a try, and that's enough for me. Indy was so tuckered out by his big adventure that he slept in the car on the way home, and then took a three-hour nap.
Just because they're impossibly cute, here are some photos of Indy wearing his new backpack, which was on clearance at Petsmart:
Also impossibly cute, my parents' new kitten, Rusty:
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Talk it out
Apparently all I needed to do to get past my blog-block was bitch about it. Several people were kind enough to oblige me with questions, so I felt it was only right to answer them.
Elise asked "What message board? (Does that count as a question?)" It does count as a question, but I don't have much of an interesting answer. I belong to a private MSN message board that started as a spinoff of a spinoff of the Knot. It's really great, but you can't come in. Sorry!
Elise also asked: "If not, then what is your most favorite place to eat when you are STARVING?" OMG, Longhorn. LONGHORN. I am craving firecracker chicken wraps right now.
Twitchy didn't have a question, but was kind enough to delurk. Hi, Twitchy!
Dawn~a~Bon said, "Here's my question: Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight? And some disturbing questions that come in the wake of the first: Does anyone actually keep their chewing gum on the bedpost overnight and then try to chew it the next day? EWWW! That's crazy! What if a fly pooped on it?" My cousin and I must've heard about or read about people keeping their gum on the bedpost overnight, because we did try it. I don't remember if we tried it at her house or not, but when I did it at my house, the gum tasted like bedpost varnish the next day. NASTY. My favorite thing I'd do with my gum when I used to chew it all the time was to stick it in my drink at dinner. It floated around in the soda or water or whatever, and got really hard from the ice. Once I was done eating, a few chews and the gum went back to normal. Try it sometime! Even better, chew up ice WITH the gum! Crazy!
It's a miracle I'm here talking to you right now, y'all, instead of under arrest for punching someone in the face. See, I had to go to the grocery store twice after work today. I don't mind going to the grocery during the day when it's pretty empty, or if MB and I go together, but going right after work is always a crapshoot, because it's likely to be really crowded. I am not the world's most patient person by nature, and though I have learned to be quite Zen most of the time, it really irks me when people fuck with my grocery store efficiency mojo. Really, people, I have a list and I just want to get in, get my shit, and get the hell out of Dodge. It doesn't help that two of my biggest pet peeves are people who lack common sense and people who lack common courtesy.
When I shop, I always make an effort to park my cart as far to the side as I can, so as not to block other people's progress. If I park my cart to browse, I'll stand in front of or behind it, not beside it so that my cart is blocking one half of the aisle and my body is blocking the other. When people park their carts (or their asses) in the middle of the damn aisle, I start to get a wee bit irritated. So, of course, at the first grocery I went to after work (let's call it Swanky Grocery, since it's a little nicer than most of the stores we frequent), the produce section was full of aisle blockers and the dreaded millers -- people who mill about aimlessly, staring slack-jawed at their surroundings and moving at the slowest pace possible.
One woman had a kid roaming around and another in the cart, which she had parked EXACTLY in the middle of the section. I waited patiently behind another woman, who was picking out melons and who smiled apologetically when she saw that I was blocked in. The first woman finished bagging up her greens or whatever, chucked them in the cart, moved her cart two feet forward and then stopped again and walked off. At that point I had to bail because I could tell I was about to bust out some Angry Jazz Hands.
Things got better for a bit, until I encountered a chick in pink yoga pants, yapping on her cell phone in the wine aisle while her cart sat cockeyed in the middle of the damn thoroughfare. I seriously wanted to slap a 'ho, let me tell you. I went around the other end of the aisle, got some wine for MB, and made my escape. There were a few things left on the list, but I was clean out of patience. It didn't help that I went to the Ghetto Grocery (so named for its location, clientele, and lack of selection) yester-damn-day after work, and was only at the Swanky Grocery because the Ghetto Grocery didn't have some of the stuff we needed.
When I got home, MB announced that I had "forgotten" to get his soda pop and corn chips for the salsa he wanted to make. I say "forgotten" because he had not asked me to get the chips OR the soda, even though I asked him twice if he needed anything. He wheedled and made sad eyes and against my better judgement I finally agreed to drive down to the smaller, crappier grocery about five minutes from our house to get his damn chips and soda. We'll call this one Crappy Grocery since the selection is kind of limited and the dairy section is highly suspect. (For real, almost every time I've tried to pick up yogurt there, every cup of Yoplait on the shelves was expired. Gag.)
I should've known it was a bad move when, as I was trying to walk into the store, I was accosted by a woman with a bad bleach job, who forced one of those "I'm deaf, buy this useless trinket" cards into my hand as I was passing. I'm all for charity, but ( 1 ) I just want to get my damn groceries and go home, ( 2 ) I don't carry cash, and ( 3 ) if you can afford a cigarette habit, I'm not going to feel all that inclined to give you my money. I managed to quickly round up the freaking chips and freaking soda and headed for the checkouts. Both open registers were pretty backed up, but I picked the one with the shorter line, falling in behind a middle aged guy with only two items. As I pushed my cart into place, the register next to that one opened. Now, I'm not any kind of traditionalist and I think it's kind of sexist to assume that ladies should always get to go first, but I think it was a little extreme for him to whip around, practically shove my cart into my stomach, and push past me so he could jump to the next line. Because my mother raised me right, I did not yell, "What the fuck, asshole?" at him or throw a bag of chips at his head. I really think I'm growing as a person.
No video, just the best supermarket song ever:
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Oh Mah Gawd
I can't believe I forgot to tell you guys one of the funniest things that happened at camp last week. I was wearing a Wallflowers concert tee from 1997. The girl sitting next to me at dinner gave my shirt an appraising look.
Kid: Is that, like, some band you guys used to listen to?
VBG: Yeah.
Kid: Some old band?
VBG: Hey, they're not that old.
Kid, unconvinced: You guys probably like Patrick Swayze, too.
VBG:ARRRRGH!! How old do you think I am??
* Wikipedia later informed me that Jakob Dylan is actually 15 years older than me. Swayze, however, is only two years younger than my FATHER, and even when I liked Dirty Dancing well enough to watch it a few times with my foster sister, I never thought Johnny Castle was all that cute.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
You will never know what you mean to me
As relayed in the dreaded spider story *, from the summer before 7th grade until the summer before 12th grade, I went to Girl Scout camp for a week every summer. I loved my camp. I still love my camp.
This year, I finally did something I've been wanting to do for a while, and I volunteered to go out to camp and lead some nature activities. The bibliophile and I went up there on June 2nd to go "bug fishing" and do a leaf scavenger hunt. For the bug fishing, we took the girls down to a shallow area off the main lake and had them hunt for macroinvertebrates. We didn't get as many bugs as I can usually find at the local wetlands, but they had a really great time catching tadpoles and tiny frogs.
We managed to find one dragonfly nymph, and it was a pretty proud moment when I introduced this ugly-ass bug to a bunch of 8-year-old girls as a baby dragonfly and they went, "AWWWWW!!"
The girls were pretty rad all around. During the leaf scavenger hunt, one of the groups spotted a snake up a tree, and instead of freaking out, they all wanted to see it.
Added bonus -- one of the counselors was in my unit the last year I went to camp, so it was really cool to reconnect with her.
We went back out on the 25th for a night-themed session. I didn't realize it at first because the name has been changed, but this session was the exact session I went to for my first year at camp. How appropriate is that?
We started out with a simple owl lesson. Did you know, for example, that for a human's eyes to be proportional to an owl's, they'd be the size of baseballs? Also, owls don't have eye muscles, which is why they turn their heads so much. They can't actually do a full-on exorcist twist, though. They can only go 270 degrees, not a full 360. It was actually pretty fun. I borrowed some props from the nature center where the Master Naturalist program is based, so I could show them the adaptations on the owl's feathers that allow it fly silently and show them a real taxidermied talon and stuff. After that, we got to the good parts, and the girls dissected owl pellets. One kid found an ENTIRE rat skull in her pellet, and then she donated it to the "sample jar" of bones I'd saved from the last time I did this activity as examples to show other participants. Rock on.
While the girls had "me time," the bibliophile and I hiked down to a little rock hollow near the swimming area. While we were down there I found what I thought to be an empty turtle shell, which is totally awesome and something I've been hoping to find for years. Alas, it was only mostly empty. I got a few Ziploc bags from the kitchen to seal off the smell, and figured I'd come up with a solution later. (Incidentally, I may see about leaving it out at Danger's place for a while with a bunch of almost-unstinky bones that MacGyver has found on his rambles. Of course, if it's not done with it's circle of life stuff before they move, things might get complicated.)
After dinner and a little dusk-time kayaking for the girls, we headed up to the top of the hill to make simple starwheels and go stargazing. It was so cool. The sky was absolutely perfect, and we saw at least a dozen constellations. The two-hour drive home, starting at 12:30, was kind of brutal, but I'm pretty sure it was worth it.
*Seriously. It's a great story, but not for the arachnophobics.
Got to kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight
I know I promised you guys some cute Camp stories, and they're eventually going to get written, but I've been in some kind of blog rut for over a week now. I have no idea what's up with me. I'm happy enough, really. Husband's fine, pets are good. Job's going well. But I just feel sort of dull and uninspired lately. I'll promise myself that tonight's the night that I'm going to write something good, something meaningful or funny, but then I get home and the house is covered in dog hair and must be swept. Or I fall asleep in front of the TV at like 9:45 PM because I am OLD, y'all. OLD.
I've been getting twitchy almost-ideas for stories lately, which hasn't happened in a long time, but I'm so out of practice that I'm having trouble snagging them and putting words on a page. It's frustrating because I used to be able to practically draw fiction out of the air. Now I'm getting snatches of stuff, but nothing substantial. Suckage.
Then on Sunday there was a semi-big drama on my beloved message board, and even though it's all worked out now, there were some things said that left me feeling really hurt and crappy. That stuff's getting cleared up now, but I'm still a bit mopey and drained.
And yet, my stats this last week or so have been crazy (For me, anyway...don't laugh!). Who are all of you people and where are you coming from?
No, scratch that...only tell me if you want to. But in the meantime, would you maybe consider delurking and helping me get out of this funk? Pretty please? Ask me anything, anything you want. I need some material, people!
Friday, June 27, 2008
Complimentary
Antonia at Whoopee did a great post today with a list of the nicest things people have ever said to her, and suggested that others write their own. Here are mine:
"You don't throw like a girl."
(Boy in my 10th grade gym class who incidentally picked me NOT LAST for his team. I did have a crappy football throw, but I tried really hard and I guess it counted for something.)
"You're way prettier than Uma Thurman. She's ugly compared to you!"
(MB, when drunk, which means he was being absolutely honest.)
"She's a good writer. You need to keep an eye on her."
(One of the most respected English professors at my university, to my advisor. One of my mentors told me that having him say you're a good writer is like having the Pope say you're a good Catholic. Too bad I never made anything of myself.)
"Ah. You're the girl with the funny jokes!"
(Tim Cahill, at a writers' retreat where I met him and shot the shit around a campfire one night. ZOMG. I still can't believe this one.)
"You're not like a regular grownup. You're cool. You're kind of like a kid, like us!"
(a girl at my old Girl Scout Camp on Thursday, where the bibliophile and I were serving as guest nature counselors, an adventure which I hope to have time to write about tomorrow night :P)
(an Early Reviewer book from Library Thing. Woot! Also, you know this book is good so far, because I was only a few chapters into it when my copies of Odd Hours and Fearless Fourteen came in at the library, and I didn't put it aside to finish later.)
VBG: Hey, Indy! I got you a ball that's too big for you to bite! Here you go!
Indy: Nom!
ball: pfffffffffff
VBG: oh.
"Throw the ball!"
"PLEASE throw the ball?"
"Bear? What stuffed bear?"
Monday, June 16, 2008
Benediction
Last Friday morning I walked the dog over to my parents' house so I could use my mom's sewing machine to make some pillows for a friend's little boy. I chatted a bit with my mom and sister, and solicited lots of advice since I haven't made much of anything on a sewing machine since college.
I was both surprised and pleased at how easy it was to use the machine. As happens when I sit down at a piano, my hands just sort of knew what to do and didn't really need much help from my brain. All the little things you must remember to do, like holding the loose threads to the side so they don't get pulled under the foot at the beginning of a seam, like pressing the button on the side of the machine to reverse the direction and backstitch, I just kind of did them without thinking. Until the day I die, the sound of a sewing machine whirring away will be the sound of home. Mom made most of our clothes when we were kids, made her own clothes, and for several years made completely amazing "busy books" to sell at craft shows.
Mom left for work and Sis went to the last day of her volunteer daycamp counselor gig, and I was alone within the comfort of my mom's sewing room, in the peace of the house where I grew up. At some point I looked around and noticed a sheet of lined paper taped to a cabinet door, covered in my mom's handwriting, the arches and loops of it as familiar as my own face in the mirror. At first I didn't think much of it, assuming it detailed instructions of some craft idea or sewing technique. But as I got to the less-exciting stage of stuffing pillow forms into the cases I'd sewn, I had time to let my eyes wander. They returned to the handwritten sheet, and I realized it was a verse of some kind.
Maybe it was the thunderstorm that was rumbling outside. Maybe it was the cocoon-like quiet of the home that held me safe for most of my life. Maybe it was feeling sappy about sewing and seeing lovely words in my mom's writing. Maybe I'm just a drippy girl. But the words on that page? They were beautiful. I have no idea where Mom found them. Google, for once, wasn't super helpful, other than an indication that they come from an old African verse. If I could, I'd pull that sheet down from the cabinet door, frame it, and hang it in my house. Maybe someday I will.
Each thing that goes away, returns, and nothing in the end is lost. The great friend throws all things apart and brings all things together again. That is the way everything goes and turns around. That is how all living things come back after long absences, and in the whole great world all things are living things. All that goes returns.
Where you are going, go softly.
Aananom, you who have gone before, see that his body does not lead him into snares made for the death of spirits. You who are going now, do not let your mind become persuaded that you walk alone. There are no humans born alone.
You are a piece of us, of those gone before and who will come again. A piece of us go, and come a piece of us. You will not be coming, when you come, the way you went away. You will come stronger to make us stronger, wiser to guide us with your wisdom. Gain much from this going. Gain the wisdom to turn your back on the wisdom of Ananse. Do not be persuaded you will fill your stomach faster if you do not have others' to fill.
There are no humans who walk this earth alone.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Watch your back
That ninja squirrel picture that my friend Dawnabon sent me reminded me of a squirrel story. When I was a kid, I'd often ride my bike around the block. I had a Huffy Desert Rose one-speed with coaster brakes. It was my first real big-kid bike, and I'd bought it with my own money after saving up First Communion and birthday money. When I picked it out (used) at the bike shop, I didn't have quite enough, and I remember the sales guy telling my mom and me to wait a few minutes, that he'd ask his manager if it was okay to lower the price a little since I'd saved up for it myself.
Anyhoodle, if you had a bike with coaster brakes, you know that they weren't the most responsive piece of equipment you could ask for. One day I was pedaling along at top speed, and a squirrel rocketed across my path. I slammed on the coaster brakes and just missed the squirrel, which launched itself at the telephone pole beside me for a last-minute escape. Relief!
Except the squirrel? Apparently not so bright. Instead of clinging to the pole or, I don't know, CLIMBING IT, the squirrel hit the pole and pushed off. It landed directly in front of my still-skidding bicycle. The tire just barely hit the squirrel, who let out a squeak, leapt straight up into the air, and then shot across the street and up a tree.
My dad has been known to forget how old I am and my sister's birth date, but he still remembers and tells the story of the time I hit the squirrel with my bike. Perhaps I really should be on my guard against squirrels. They may be nurturing an unfulfilled vendetta.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Photo Friday
View the entire Photo Friday collection on Flickr.
I read a semi-sad article on MSN today about "black dog syndrome", the slightly awkward nickname for the trend that shelters across the country have observed -- black dogs (and cats) tend to be overlooked more and adopted less often than their colorfully-coated counterparts. Sometimes it's because they blend in with the shadows in their kennels. Sometimes it's because they don't photograph very well, so people cruising animal shelter websites pass over them. Sometimes people say they can't see or read the dog's face that well because he's so dark. Sometimes people may have underlying or even unconscious superstitions about dark-colored animals. But no matter what the reasons are, it's still heartbreaking to think of all the wonderful dogs in the world who aren't given a chance, simply because of their black coats.
When MB and I decided to get a dog, he very quickly settled on a Lab mix as the type of dog to seek. I'd told him about the black dog syndrome, and so we were doubly committed to find a black Lab mix. MB even dismissed some potentials I showed him on the local humane society's webpage because they weren't black (reverse discrimination!).
I admit, Indy is sort of hard to photograph. He can blend in when he's in the shadows. He's also the best dog we ever, ever could've hoped to find, and we are so very lucky to have him in our lives. I know I probably talk about him too much, but...well...how could I not, especially after reading about how dogs just like him are being left behind in shelters all over the country?
MB and Indy on our very first walk around Petsmart. Right after this, MB sent me to the ATM to get cash to pay the adoption fee while he stayed at the store. We didn't want to put Indy back into his cage and risk someone else coming along and picking him while we were gone.
On Tuesday I bagged up all the debris from the bushes MB cut down last weekend, and Indy watched me the whole time with the most scandalized expression. He was absolutely horrified that I was throwing away perfectly good sticks.
Hanging out in the basement the last day the air conditioner was broken. The photo doesn't show his ears flapping gently in the breeze from the fan.
Last night after obedience class, we had to stop by Sam's Club. Indy waited ever so patiently for MB to come back.
He had this ball for less than a minute before he popped it. I felt really awful for buying him such a wimpy toy, but damned if he didn't play with the sad, flat thing for the rest of the evening.
He was also pretty pleased with his new bargain bin bear. He spent a few minutes trying really hard to figure out a way to hold both toys in his mouth at once.
MB had a sudden and important errand related to a very part-time job he's starting this weekend come up after he'd already settled in for the night and had a few glasses of wine. I suggested we bring the dog along, since I'd just be waiting outside MB's destination anyway and since Indy seems to enjoy car rides. MB agreed, so at the risk of becoming Those People, the ones who take their dog everywhere, we loaded Indy into the car and set off. MB's part-time workplace is way out on the edge of town, and it's surrounded by a pretty good patch of grassy land. I let Indy (on his leash, of course) decide where we were going, and he seemed to be having a pretty fine time following his nose around.
After about 20 minutes, I could tell Indy was getting really thirsty, but there was no sign of MB. All the puddles in the parking lot had oil slick rainbows, so they were out of the question. Finally, after trying to text and call MB and getting no answer, I had to do something. I put Indy back into the car and told him I'd be right back, then took the small plastic banana split dish we keep in the door up to the building. I could see a water fountain from outside, so I knew I could get to the water if I kept my cool and hurried.
As I was filling up Indy's dish, a woman came out of one of the offices. "Hey, what's going on?" she said. It took me a second to realize she meant, "What's up?" and not "What are you doing here? I'm calling security." Since the secret to not getting questioned is often simply acting like you belong, I said, "Hi, how's it going?" right back to her.
"Let me ask you something, honey," she said, starting toward me. "Do you like white chocolate?"
"Uh...yes?" Okay, this is getting a bit strange. I'm stealing water in a small plastic ice cream dish and you're asking me about my chocolate preferences?
Then she walked over and handed me a box of some kind of soy meal replacement bars. "You can have these, then."
What could I do? I thanked her as if I had a fucking clue why someone I'd never met was handing me health food, and she wished me a good night and breezed off out the door. I'm still utterly mystified.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
"Gardening requires lots of water - most of it in the form of perspiration." -- Lou Erickson
We worked out in the yard for most of the day, and damn it was hot. I love having a yard and a garden, but this was not a day of cute gardening. There were no sassy hats or twee little garden clogs, no pretty glasses of lemonade. It wasn't sexy gardening, either, unless you like your garden chicks pouring sweat and wearing an old ratty baseball cap.
I did some stuff in the garden while MB and R trimmed down the bushes along the fence that MB hates.
When I took this photo, I was sort of sad that the bushes would be gone by the end of the day. Then the guys spent about an hour chopping and chainsawing them, and I spent another almost two hours hacking what they'd cut into pieces that would fit in the trashcans. Some of the pieces resembled that thing that comes out of the lake in the first Lord of the Rings movie, and some of them had inch-long thorns. It was not a nice way to spend an afternoon, but I suppose it'll be worth it to not hear MB bitch about the bushes every time he mows the grass.
The guys also went out with my dad to fetch a truckload of firewood from one of MB's coworkers. I felt sort of like we belonged in a Little House book, laying in wood for the long winter.
The air conditioner is getting fixed today, ya'll. It's sort of being fixed right now, except not really since the guys had to leave to go get some parts. I thought it would be a quick in-and-out thing, so I came home from work with every intention of going back this afternoon. Since then, however, I have sweated (sweat? swat? nothing looks right) through my bra in this 82-degree humid-ass house (Whoo! Sex-ay!), and have given up jeans and dignity for an old T-shirt and a pair of boxers. Indy and I are down in the basement (thank the good Lord for wireless) trying to halt the melting process. Unless things get fixed and cooled down pretty damn quick, I may be out for the day. Which would be a good thing, except I actually did have quite a few things to do at work today, and of course I'll have to make up an entire day later or burn 8 personal hours. I have to admit, it's probably worth it to get our AC back up and running before the weekend.
Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to try and catch up on the completely out-of-control blog backlog sitting in my reader.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Dear Top Chef
No spoilers, but you can fuck off. As if making me watch people butcher whole dead pigs wasn't bad enough. FUCK OFF AND DIE.
(See, I told you I get cranky by the end of the day. Working AC, I needz it.)
I am totally sucking at blog updates this week. Apologies! The air conditioner is still broken, which means I'm both angry and wilted by the end of the day, for I am a delicate flower. Indy is back to his old sassy self and Kitters seems to be doing fine, but it's still getting old really fast.
I called the home warranty company yesterday, since it had been a week since the order was placed for our new compressor. The new part isn't due to arrive until Friday. I'm wondering where the hell it's shipping from...Alaska? Siberia? Outer Mongolia?
