Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Dachshunds, Home and hearth, responsible adult, Who does that
There’s always the things I could start on now, while the laundry is churning and since I’ve already had breakfast. The windowsills are dusty. So are the electronics and since some (likely male,who statistically speaking doesn’t consider these things, or maybe he did and in a cave-man patriarchal way thought of it as his contribution toward keeping the li’l lady busy at home) person had the genius idea that an electric static generating devise should naturally be black, those are dusty as well. O for the days of old, when electronics were housed in lovely wooden cabinets, that looked like furniture, instead of glossy black that only goes well with 1980′s lacquer furniture.
But why DO it when I can sit here with a (yet another) cup of coffee, and a cat in my lap which makes me turn a little sideways to type and will probably result in all sorts of issues requiring physical therapy or something. I’d much rather complain about it.
I have, however, happily gotten several things done so far (9:41 am at this moment). The aformentioned afformentioned previously mentioned laundry is going. That’s a nice sound, and I only had to whack the washing machine once to get it to click and turn on. The kitchen is relatively clean. The counters are, anyway. What it really needs is a solid emptying of all the cabinets and a healthy wash down of everything. A Spring Cleaning type thing. I missed doing it last Spring, as I was pretty busy doing very important things…I don’t remember what but they must have been really important, for me to miss out on such a heinous chore lovely and fulfilling … thing. Now it really needs doing, but Spring is right around the corner so I might wait until then. Maybe if I can dazzle them with all my fabulous cooking they won’t notice the coffee grounds under the sink. I hear coffee grounds are odor absorbing, so that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
And I can write motivational messages in the dust on the TV stand. Call it my little ministry to the world.
Also…if my house is not perfect then I am building the self esteem of everyone who visits, because they can say “whew…my house isn’t the worst place there is…after all, if SHE can have company without shame (did you SEE THOSE COFFEE GROUNDS?) then surely I can!”
I have done, however, necessary things. The menus for the next 2 weeks are made, and the accompanying grocery list. Terry is working a short day today, so he’s going to the store with me. I like having company for the trip…sometimes. I also like going alone…sometimes. Normally the routine is to drop #4 at school at 8 am, then to Panera for a cup of hazelnut coffee, which I carry into the grocery store (I wish they put cup holders on the buggy!) and take it slow and easy. Rushing through is not fun. Things get forgotten. In the mornings I frequently run into friends who have the same idea (it’s not crowded at 8 am) and have a chat. The nice thing about a chat in the grocery store is that we can look into each others buggies and make suggestions. She will say “Oh, what are you doing with (this and that)?” and I’ll tell her and she’ll answer with “Oh I make that but I like to add (something I haven’t thought of)” and there I am with a whole new idea.
Anyway, we might or might not have company for Thanksgiving. It might or might not be my parents, and if it is, they are used to my substandard housecleaning and the dog smell. If nobody comes, that’s fine, we’ll have lots of leftovers. I will make an effort. Piles will be reduced and the windowsills washed. The vacuum cleaner will see the light of day as will a mop and some good smelling cleaning stuff. And bleach. The bathroom (possibly even a plurality of bathrooms) will be cleaned enough that there isn’t toothpaste on the sink and the funky aroma is altered to smell more like lemons or something. Maybe funky lemons, one can only do so much with a bathroom aroma, even with bleach, when one has a dog that sneaks in there and tries to use the toilet but bless his heart he’s too short to reach the bowl so he just pees on the side of it. I try to catch it, and try to keep the door shut, but that doesn’t always happen.
See what I’m up against?
This is why I am sitting here, writing about it, instead of actually DOING something about it.
Filed under: *whinge*, cat, Disease and infirmity, dogs! | Tags: arthritis, cats, Dachshunds, hurricane, In the Southland, Oversharing
Isaac isn’t anywhere near us. It’s way over there approaching the Mississippi delta (good grief and they aren’t fully recovered from Katrina yet, bless their hearts.)
And yet, my arthritis…it’s like…some kind of psychosomatic thing. I hear “hurricane” and go to aching. If we lived where we used to live in South Alabama, I could see it. When Opal and Alphonse (or whatever it’s name was) rolled over us I was (even at the tender age of early 30′s) pretty much incapacitated for a few days. Motrin, heating pads, frozen lasagna and a telescoping stick with which to smack the kids so I didn’t have to move (also, soft slippers to throw at them. My aim is wicked accurate). The boys were early elementary age back then and required swift justice.
But here? We don’t get them much here. Either they hit land way south or further north. But just mention it and suddenly the hands and feet, wrists and ankles, and that @%&*! left shoulder all commence to sounding like Yosemite Sam on a bender.
Feel sorry for me yet? You should.
I have Things To DO! However, y’know what? I am going to do them anyway. Shit’s gonna hurt, whether I am sitting in my comfortable recliner watching Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix, or ambling through the grocery store, picking up Velveeta and jalapenos for Terry’s football party on Thursday. It will get done.
With complaining. Oh yes, you can betcher sweet bippy I am going to be vociferous in my complaints, and even milk it all a bit for getting work out of people. Why SHOULD I have to do all this stuff (which I am normally quite capable and even cheerfully willing to do) when there are several able-bodied males who eat the food and use the laundry (once in a while, when they run completely out of clothes) who can do it for me?
This morning is Grocery Day, with a merry trip to the store and a trunk full (you know, a Beetle’s trunk is much larger than you’d think. It’s just the opening that is ridiculously small) of provisions. I am HOPING that someone will be awake and functional when I get home, and can carry everything in. I love it when that happens.
(Pardon while I pause briefly to bellow at the 13 year old,who is half an hour late getting downstairs to do his morning chores, which aren’t as onerous as usual because someone forgot to run the dishwasher last night. I swear you’d think he had to shovel the barn and milk the cows, with all this stalling he does. His morning chores are: feed the dogs, take out the trash, empty the dishwasher…which he doesn’t have to do this morning. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.)
So, in the interest of being cheerful and Suzy Sunshine, here are some cute pictures of my animals.
This has been submitted to Dogshaming.com This is Daisy, our standard dachshund.
- Our 1 yr old wirehaired dachshund- Rusty
Lacy, also submitted to Dogshaming. Do not lecture me about not taking her outside. She has a pet door and can come and go. She only pees on the floor after she barks at me and I don’t scratch her head. Like when I am in the shower or have my hands full of bread dough.
Daisy and Lily
Gracie, up high where Rusty can’t get to her. She comes down when she wants to smack him,otherwise, she spends a good deal of time up there.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: a weekend away, Dachshunds, Home and hearth, Hotlanta
I am not yet ready for the weekend to be over. Even thought we’re home now (no traffic on a Sunday morning, so driving was easy and I did all of it. Terry napped) and the dogs have quit telling me all about the horrors of being left in Will’s care for 2 days, I am still not ready for it to be over. Therefore I have turned in the chair a little bit so the pile of overlooked dog poo (they do that when they’re disgruntled about something) is out of my line of sight.
Because I am a paranoid worrywart, and the person left in charge of the house while we were gone didn’t ever answer his phone or respond to my 127 text messages, I was slightly (only very slightly, mind you, which is a vast improvement over times past) concerned that someone had broken into the house in the middle of the night and I’d find his dismembered corpse in the bathtub and all the dogs hides stapled to the living room walls. I’ve said before that my mind is like a chapter from a Stephen King novel.
Instead, what I found were 4 dogs who tried to convince me they’d not been fed for a week (we were only gone 2 days, but dogs have a lousy sense of time) and the person left in charge was awake and cheerful and the house (other than the small pile of poo I am trying to ignore) was in good order.
It took a bit of time getting all the purchases put away, but it is SO satisfying to have the empty mason jars filled again with purple barley, kamut, and wild rice. (and other stuff necessary for culinary creativity). I get a great deal of satisfaction in having such variety to choose from, and plenty of herbs and spices. The Dekalb Farmers Market has a nice selection of fresh herbs, in big bundles for Not Much, so I buy the ones I don’t grow, and freeze them- dill and tarragon, mainly. Those are herbs that really need to be fresh, as they lose most of their OOMPH when dried.
Oooookay. I guess I’d better go clean up the poo. At least, with the food we give them (Pedigree Small Breed ) their poos are small and hard, and don’t smell like much.
Terry was happy that we got home in time for him to see the race, and I have to figure out what to fix for supper, tho I might pull out the “I never cook on Sunday” excuse, even though I didn’t cook on Friday or Saturday.
Filed under: aaawwwww, dogs!, family, food, Good grief, I feel so smart!, In The Southland, oh you self indulgent hussy! | Tags: Being Southern, Coping mechanisms, Dachshunds, Oh for pete's sake, What.
So. Yesterday was full of consequences. (before you worry, no one died, no relationships were ended, and actually this post has nothing to do with anything related to the last 2 posts)
I wear aprons around the house. I am a messy person and wearing a full coverage apron allows me to only wear one change of clothes a day. My aprons always have deep pockets. The one on the left gets bits and pieces of trash that I pick up, and gets emptied several times a day. The one on the right carries my phone and reading glasses. This Is How It Is Done. I also did laundry yesterday, and that included washing the week’s worth of aprons. Monday’s apron somehow didn’t get emptied before washing. As I was removing everything from the dryer, I discovered a very clean and bent to heck pair of reading glasses. “Well,” I thought. “I wonder if I bought the warranty for them. Probably not because I don’t usually have the best judgement when it comes to stuff like that”. A trip to the optician and resulting assurances that I, in an uncharacteristic fit on common sense, DID buy the warranty and they still had those frames in stock so 10 minutes later, I had a a new pair of reading glasses. I needed to go to the store anyway…because…
I had plans to make this ridiculously easy chicken salad for dinner. Seriously…no cooking not even any chopping. However, it requires chow mein noodles- those delicious little fried things that look like dessicated earthworms. Since I was there anyway, I got a bag of noodles. Then I though “hey, self…since you were so smart to get that warranty, you deserve a Treat.” I love Ruffles chips and that onion dip you make from a carton of sour cream and a bag of onion soup mix. O How I Love That Stuff. So, I bought some. A big bag of chips so it could be shared with the Summer Household. And I ate it. So delicious! Not a petite portion either. You know how the thing on the back calls a portion size 2 tablespoons? Is that realistic? No it is not. Not when you love that stuff. Now, as a No Longer 20 Year Old With A Cast Iron Digestive System, I suffered consequences. I knew I’d have them and did not care. And have them I did. I warned Terry, but did not feel guilt, because he has his own issues with hot wings. Sometimes the consequences are worth it.
We have a dog. He name is Rusty (actually we have 4 dogs but this story is mainly about him). He is one year old, and a male wirehaired dachshund. Like most male dogs, he’s loyal to a fault, and Protects Me From Danger. Even though he only weighs 10 pounds. Last night Terry and I were sitting outside, enjoy a late evening adult beverage and commenting on the weather. It is what people do in the Deep South. “It sure is humid tonight.” That sort of thing. Now, we live on a golf course. Our yard is fenced. Every evening at 7:30, a dog and his person, that live on the 12th hole (we are midway down the par-4 10th hole), walk past our fence. All 4 dogs find it necessary to vociferously remind that dog and his person (the dog is a stately old golden retriever) that they (our dogs) are Very Dangerous Indeed and He’d Better Watch Out and If It Weren’t For The Fence There Would Be Carnage. Satisfied that the old dog was sufficiently reminded of his rank in the scheme of things, 3 of the 4 dogs came back to us. We didn’t see Rusty, but didn’t think much of it, assuming he was molesting a golf ball or something. Then we heard mournful wailing. A sad, sad song that alarmed us. It was not the yelping and squealing of pain, but the angst of a broken spirit. We saw Rusty standing in the back of the yard, and called to him. He didn’t move, but was obviously alive because his tail wagged. What we discovered was that, in the excitement of the golden retriever’s evening constitutional, Rusty got his head stuck in the fence. He wasn’t hurt, but was unable to get loose. We laughed, Terry took pictures with his phone, and then we got him loose, no worse for the event.
No dogs were hurt in the making of this photograph
Now for the ridiculously easy chicken salad, because you know you want to know:
The meat from the other 1/2 of the rotisserie chicken you bought on Sunday, chopped OR 2 cans of chicken, drained
1 can each bamboo shoots, sliced water chestnuts, bean sprouts and baby corn, drained
1 bag of shredded cole slaw mix from the produce section
1/2 cup Asian Sesame Dressing (the bottled stuff)
1/2 cup mayonnaise
A bag of chow mein noodles, or a can of those rice noodles (like chow mein noodles but smaller) either one is fine
Maybe some toasted almond slivers
Mix the chicken and vegs together in a big bowl
Mix together the mayo and salad dressing, pour over the salad and mix together.
Sprinkle the noodles and almonds on top.
See, no cooking.
Filed under: Anger management, Dewicate feewings, Dream a little dream, God Stuff, Sometimes she thinks too much | Tags: Dachshunds, Depression, Oversharing, solving personal problems
So, in the interest of resetting my brain I was thinking of going to Tybee Island for a day, sometime this week. Only, according to the people, it’s supposed to rain every day.
I take this as a sign that I am not meant to go to the beach this week.
I believe in signs. Not the woowoo stuff of tarot cards and palm readings and things that totally kind of skeeve me, but signals that say “no, I am not supposed to do that.”
And please, don’t give me your reasons for loving tarot readings and that sort of thing. I do not like them and you will not convince me of the benefits of using them. You want to use them? Fine. Go ahead.
Sometimes it’s something as silly as my computer deleting a whiny and bitter post I’ve spent 30 minutes typing in, then I accidentally hit control instead of shift and WHOOSH…it’s gone. I will curse for a couple of seconds, then realize how self indulgent and self pitying it was,and decide perhaps it’s for the best.
It’s happened with emails, too. Perhaps I was blasting one out, in a fit of ill temper, and whoosh- it’s gone.
I see it as God being a kind editor.
We badly need the rain. It is a joy to behold. Well, the grass, that also loves the rain, isn’t a joy to behold because it’s reaching the “bush hog” stage of needing to be mowed, but the crops, the corn and peaches and soybeans, cotton and peanuts…the river which has been so low…the rain has so many benefits that my trip to Tybee seems so self indulgent I don’t want to get peevish because it might not be able to happen.
Perhaps there is a very good reason why I need to stay home this week. Other than the normal stuff like “good grief the dust bunnies are evolving into sentient beings” and needing to locate the Spot du Jour for the dogs bathroom needs. I am immensely thankful that Terry recognizes and respects my dislike of carpets and rugs, because that means the dogs bathroom du jour is easy to deal with. (Dachshunds are notoriously difficult to housetrain, and when it’s raining, they are exponentially more stubborn about going outside.)
I do have things to do, here at home. 3 skirts to make for a 12 year old girl. The 2 women (both I’ve done sewing for) asked if I could make capes for the kindergarten class (that they’re teaching) at Vacation Bible School. My Fabric Pimp is going to see if he can find purple fabric to donate, otherwise I’ll use red…but we’re talking about 2 adult sized capes for the teachers and maybe 20 for the kids. Fortunately that is 5 weeks away.
I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. This fugue has been 8 years long. It has to do with teenagers, and work, and marriage and personalities and emotional self-protection. I have built a wall around myself, a fortress of sorts. Only, it has grown more into a prison than protection, and I am trying to knock the bricks out, one at a time, so I can see light again, and maybe get to the point where (maybe? Hopefully?) I can step over the walls back into the world, and breathe something more than my own stale air. But, something that has been 8 years in the making isn’t going to come down in one day, and when you’ve been inside a fortress for so long, and become accustomed (even comfortable) to it…well…it’s not easy, is it. I am anxious. What if I am making the wrong decision to come out of this? What if I get hurt again? So, caution is in order. I must be careful. I am, however, determined to do this. I want to live. I want real friends who know me. That won’t happen as long as I stay in my fortress, hiding behind a thick wall.
The cannonballs might hit, but they don’t destroy.
Fort Pulaski, Georgia
My Poor Puppy Rusty, (that’s his name now, to be referred to as “PPR)…he has a broken foot. 3 metatarsals in his front left foot, with nice clean breaks, not displaced (thank goodness, that would have required surgery and pins). The vet showed me the xray, and said he’d put a splint on it. It’s a neat little cup thing that fits over his foot and up the back of his leg, held in place with purple-with-blue-spots bandages. He got a doggie valium for the splinting, and was grooving on it when I picked him up.
“What? No Auburn logo bandage?” I exclaimed.
::blink:: he responded, and quietly pointed to the University of Georgia Veterinary degree hanging on the wall.
“oh well,” I said. “Nobody’s perfect.”
He turned to his office manager and said “Please give this client the Auburn University Special Price.”
“Yessir, Dr. Gary!” she chirped.
Turning to me she said “That’s $260, but with the AU Price, you only have to pay $800, half now and half in 2 weeks!”
I turned to Dr. Gary and said “You know, my father taught at the UGA Vet school for 9 years.”
He said “Why didn’t you say so?” and told his office manager “UGA prices please!”
She rolled her eyes at both of us and said “That’s $190, payable over 4 months, and you get a free packet of Dawg Biskits”
Poor Puppy Rusty is now in the dog bed,gnawing on a chunk of leg bone, The other dogs are perched around him, like a trio of vultures, waiting for him to choke on the bone so one of them can grab it.
PPR is a Flea Magnet. That is a special type of dog that, for some reason, fleas are more attracted to than typical. Since we got him, there have been very few fleas on the other dogs (even without the normal weekly shampoo or dip) and he requires a bath every other day, and is STILL covered up with the a few hours later. I mean, really, 100 fleas on this poor thing. So, I figured he needed something more effective. Dr Gary put him on Comfortis, kind of pricey for 4 dogs (at $18 a month per dog), but he felt like, given PPR’s body chemistry, maybe just putting him on it would work. He’ll keep them off the other dogs, and when the fleas get on him they die. So, 4 hours after giving him the tablet (once a month like heartworm stuff), I checked him over and found some fleas…BUT…they were all DEAD! Awesome 
The Next Day
He shall now be known as That Little Shit (or TLS).
You see, the veterinarian, Dr. Gary, prescribed TLS some pain pills. Nothing strong, he assured me, just something to help, an NSAID, like Doggie Motrin (dogs can’t take real Motrin, it will shut their kidneys down).
“Give him some at bedtime, it will help him sleep comfortably”
phphpht. Give him some at bedtime. It will help him sleep comfortably. My aunt’s ass.
Rusty, That Little Shit. I gave him the pill and he seemed to start seeing things. He was laying on the bed, then sat straight up and was looking around, really alert, like he was following a fly through the air. I didn’t see a fly. Then he started wiffling at the fly.
I decided ok, maybe if I turned out the light he wouldn’t see anything.
So I did, and he laid down, continuing to wiffle.
Eventually he settled down and (I thought) went to sleep.
This was 11 pm. Later than my normal bedtime of 9pm, but hey, I was gonna get to sleep in the next morning!
Ha.
At 1am, he started barking softly and hopping around on the bed.
Great, I thought. He has to use the feckin’ bathroom. I put him on the pee pad, conveniently located in our bathroom. He ran to the door and tried to crawl under it.
Great, I thought. Suddenly he’s developed manners and only wants to pee outside. So I took him downstairs, across the house, and outside. He hopped around the patio, located a golf ball and brought it to me.
He wants to play fetch. At 1am. That little shit.
I said O Hell NO, and took him back to bed.
He laid down and appeared to go to sleep.
2:30am, same thing.
4:20am. Same thing. This time I have the bright idea to get the other dogs out of their crates, to keep him company. I do this, give them all some food, and open the door so they can go outside if they want to.
They don’t want to.
They (all 4 of them) crowd at the bottom of the stairs (there’s a gate there to keep them from coming up) and yodel their disapproval at my absence.
Finally, at 5:15, I came downstairs with a pillow, and got in the recliner to sleep, and slept undisturbed until 9:30. I woke up to find TLS attempting to remove his cast, so was able to get some deep and somewhat sadistic pleasure at snapping The Cone of Shame around his neck. I am also contemplating his lovely curly buff colored fur coat, and how nice it would look as a collar on a tweed cloak.
