Mar 21 2005

Flappy Flying Fluttering Fwings

…or how I learned to love fringe on motorcycle jackets. Okay, that’s not really what this post is about, but on the way into work this morning, TGP and I did pass a Harley rider in full regalia, with extravagant fringe fluttering behind him to show the world what direction he’d just come from. We figured if he was gonna have streamers on his person or bike, they should be multi-colored and glittery. And he should have a few playing cards – the Suicide Jack was always my favorite – stuck between the spokes of his wheels. And a little brass horn with a red rubber bulb. I mean, that’s what I’d do if I rode a Harley. Well, in my mind, that’s what I’d be doing… whee!!!

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, the sun has come out. The sun came out first, actually, but here I am announcing it to all three readers. The sun has come out. I got a new job that lessens my commute time from 2.5 hours round-trip every day to about 30-40 minutes… starting the first week of April, I get two whole hours back every day! Time is the most precious resource, and I intend to squander my filthy temporal lucre on such extravagences as exercise (gotta climb Kilimanjaro in 5 years), real cooking (literally sick of fast and convenience foods), writing (imagine getting past chapter two, or actually sending a poem out there to garner public approbation), sleep (gotta have that to be awake), and getting Little Conversations (no website up yet) off its feet and selling hand-cast and crafted jewelry, greeting cards, and writerly trinkets. No, I won’t be trying to do all those things at once. Except in my head when I’ve had too much caffeine and am levitating about two inches off the ground while my amazing Jedi mind powers hide the ‘droids and handle the rest.

In other news, Secret Agent Wee Haggis is six months old today – Happy Half-Birthday, my dear sweet poopers! Angus weighs somewhere between 55-60 lbs. and ain’t done growing yet. We got a big dawg fer shure. He hit puberty a few weeks ago and his first *manly* act was to claim territory in the time-honored tradition of those who can pee standing up… he pissed on the side of the fridge. He’s already master of the belly rubs and holds eminent domain over our laps, so I’d say the boy displayed a fine sense of strategic resource management – declare ownership of the big food before moving onto that cute poodle down the street.

Hmm… what else, what else… haven’t blogged at Winds of Change in a month thus have missed the opportunity to snark in timely fashion about Middle East Peace happenings, need to clean the carbs in my motorcycle so I can take advantage of the great riding weather we’re about to have in SoCal, still have four papers due by this Friday for Winter Quarter classes, and would love to go away someplace beachy and fruity-drinky long enough to get bored with staring at the waves. I’m tired in many ways – this job change represents the last big shift from my past life with my ex-husband, so lots of emotional stuff is coming up around that and making me feel more exhausted than I otherwise might. But the best way out of burnout is not wallowing and hiding under the couch, it’s doing new and exciting stuff, it’s living life and taking chances. Think I’ll spend the vacation pay coming to me at REI.

Jan 19 2005

RabbitBlog Rawks And Stuff

I love RabbitBlog. I used to love Suck, until they went away, which sucked and not in a good Suck-age kind of way. Now I love RabbitBlog in spite of and more often because of the egregious swearing for effect. Read thusly:

“We’ve all been through all kinds of bullshit. But believing in love makes love possible, and deciding that it’s impossible is fucking stupid. Getting hurt is no big deal, idiots. I’ve been hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt. Every time it’s easier. You have to keep leaping, keep throwing yourself in. Find someone who’s worthy of your crazy mind and your stupid notions and your filthy urges and your homemade waffles with blueberries on top. Fuck the flinchy and the fault-finding! Find someone who’s fun and moody and sweet, someone who knows how to listen and apologize, someone with opinions about everything, someone who can’t help but tell you how great you are, often. I know you can do it, fuckwieners. I’m counting on you.”

and (via Brutal Women, another blog I gotta rave about):

“Life is short, dippies. Today is the day to make your move. Buy some flowers, and a lottery ticket, and start to believe in the possibility that your life could be big and bright and pretty. As Frances McDormand says in “Almost Famous,” “Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid.” Magic, honkies! Believe in magic for once in your narrow little lives. Give up on the mundane for a minute, and open up your hearts, and listen to all the dead people in your office and on the street outside, screaming the same thing: “Live, motherfuckers! Stop planning and fucking LIVE.”

I’ve been sick since almost the New Year – first flu then pneumonia then lungs not working and needing fuckloads more asthma meds. Now I can breathe again, and focus, and stay awake without having that creeping sense of paranoia that the Earth is about to fall into the Sun just because I can’t get enough oxygen. Yay drugs. Time to fucking LIVE. Life is good.

Of creatures that remind me that life is good, Angus the Mangus (like Dennis the Menace but fuzzier) is awesome still and always. I heard him bark for the first time today. Not the “let’s play” bark we get on occasion when he’s really amped and just can’t help but sound off, but a full-throated “get the hell out of my backyard or I’m gonna eat you, you nasty flappy feathered thing” bark. I wouldn’t mess with him, based on that sound. Never mind that both his bark and his tail are bigger than the rest of him (although the rest of him is a hefty 41.5 lbs at a mere 17 weeks… we got ourselves a big dawg). I really wish he didn’t have such a passion for eating the lava rocks out of the backyard firepit, but hey, every dog’s got its quirks. The cute way he makes piggy grunts when excited to see us, or offers up a paw in preparation for assuming the belly-rub position, more than make up for the various untidinesses of tending to a critter who’s the goat of the dog world.

Of two-legged creatures who remind me that life is good, TGP is the best. He’s definitely the man to have around when one is sick and flailing – he never flinched when I coughed up half a dead frog and it splattered all over the kitchen sink, nor failed to take on full dog and dishwashing duties when I was too sick to stand up straight. He even pets my head and tells me that I’m beautiful when my face is all red and chapped and swollen because I’ve just used up half a box of kleenex mopping up the brains that have been leaking out my nose. He’s either totally delusional or the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. I vote for the latter.

Dec 13 2004

Happiness Is A Fuzzy Piranha

I was going to say that happiness is a warm puppy in your lap, but since Angus the Wonder Puppy (a.k.a. Secret Agent Wee Haggis) is teething, he rarely sits still long enough to be a nice little lap-warmer. The little dude is chewing on EVERYTHING that can’t run away fast enough.

My arms look like I’ve been sparring with fanged ninjas, several tee-shirts and pajama bottoms are sporting new holes, and the kitchen in our new house (more on that later) is not faring well against the onslaught of puppy teeth. Said kitchen, which had survived 60+ years just fine with all-original Bakelite cupboard handles, salmon and burgundy counter and backsplash tiles, custom cabinetry and and molding intact, is officially a casualty of the Wee Haggis’ war with order. The other night TGP and I came home to find that the *only* cabinet corner that sticks out in the entire kitchen had been resculpted by a certain fuzzy piranha with an affinity for belly rubs. He didn’t just gnaw it off, he swallowed. Poor little guy was pooping flakes of lead-based paint and rather large chips of wood for the next 12 hours. Had to hurt. Serves him right. Hope he’s not gonna be scarred for life by it. Or by the nasty bitter stuff we sprayed on the chewed-off corner (nice little beveled edge to it now, albeit unpainted).

I haven’t had a puppy in many years, and am really glad I’ve been reading up on training, etc., so I can benefit from others’ experiences raising Labrador Retreivers. I’m also really glad that I’m not raising the Wee Haggis alone. I grew up with lots of dogs around, so nothing that Angus has done so far has surprised me, but TGP has never had a mammalian pet, so it’s all new and messy to him. Luckily for both the Wee Haggis and me, TGP is a model of patience, consistency, and willingness to learn – he’s a great doggie dad. Angus is 12 weeks old today, about 23 lbs., and already knows how to work those big brown puppy eyes.

Deceptively Calm Picture of the Fuzzy Piranha:

Plotting his next adventure.

Update on the rest of it: TGP and I bought a house and are engaged (yeah, that was fast and what the hell happened to never getting married again? dunno, I got over it), my ankle was seriously sprained in a complicated fashion 2.5 months ago and I’m still in a cast, I start school at Antioch on January 3rd to study Creative Writing in preparation for an MFA program, and I met someone at a holiday party last night who might be able to get my bike running again so I can ride once my ankle’s a bit stronger. Woo on all counts! Well, except for the sprained-three-ways-to-Sunday ankle part…