Puppy Love

Recently, my Mother decided that three dogs, six cats, two birds, nine baby alligators and a llama weren't enough for her, and decided to take in a new puppy. A poodle puppy. A toy poodle puppy. I think that she wanted to make sure she was getting the most ridiculous puppy possible, and the snickerdoodlepoos were all sold out. Actually though, the dog she found is very cute, and has lots of energy. He is very tiny, very furry, and very friendly. Almost too friendly... His name is Scamper. I think though, after viewing the video below you will agree that Humper would have been a better moniker...

I was really hoping it would be a cute "dog frolics with boy" video. Instead I think I'll sell it to HBO.

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Gobble, gobble

Today is Thanksgiving, which, for all my international readers, is the day Americans mark landing on Plymouth Rock and beginning our slow takeover of this land from the Native Americans. We celebrate by eating foods we believe our forefathers did shortly after they arrived -- like Cool Whip and macaroni salad. Oh, and then we all complain about how much we ate and pledge to get back to the gym. Some of us even take the celebration a bit further, get stinking drunk, and start a fight with a family member. I think the pilgrims would be so proud of us.

Really though, today is a day to look back on the past year and count your blessings. I consider myself quite lucky, because I have a lot for which to be thankful. I have a wonderful husband, a cute, but stinky dog, a wonderful family and a roof over my head. I have a job I don't despise, friends who put up with me, and am relatively healthy. And then there are the little things....

• I am thankful for step stools, because without them I would never be able to get anything out of the high cupboards when Ryan wasn't home.
  
• I am thankful for Kraft singles. The French may have the best cheese in the world, but they don't have this. It melts, but it doesn't. It's food, but it isn't. How truly American.
  
• I am thankful for coconut scented shampoo. Some days it is the only thing that gets me out of bed. It's like being lulled into wakefulness by a sweet cookie/island dream.
  
• I am thankful for any kind of dough that has been fried. Scones, elephant ears, fry bread, beignets, turnovers, dumplings -- all are little pieces of oil soaked deliciousness. Ryan and I have traveled pretty extensively, and I have found that fried doughy goodness is the one thing that exists in all cultures. Now, that's something they don't tell you on the "Small World" ride.
  
• I am thankful for Crocs. yes, I know my sisters call them a crime against fashion, and that Sally is bent on destroying them, but I love them. They don't require socks, they don't hurt my feet, and they wash easily. What more could you want? Style? Screw style.
• I am thankful for wine, in all it's forms. Even Viognier and Merlot.

Now we are off to my Mother's, bringing chocolate pie and pigs in a blanket to add to the Thanksgiving feast. I think that's exactly what the Native Americans brought to welcome the settlers if I remember high school history correctly.

I hope you all have a lovely day, and that everyone has a nice pair of elastic waist pants.

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Party favor

Yesterday the vet's office called to let me know Maggie's ashes were there to be picked up. I don't know why, and some of you will think this is silly, but I just couldn't let her be taken away and burned in a mass cremation. I thought she deserve slightly better than that. So, this afternoon I went out to get her cremains, expecting the ashes to be in a small box or a bag or an envelope or something. After all, she was a small cat, there couldn't be that much to pack up. What I received was unexpected:

Yep, they gift wrapped my cat. They even used pet themed tissue paper and a little gift tag shaped like a cat with Maggie's name on it too. Martha Stewart couldn't have done it better if she had cremated my cat. I was actually a little afraid to look inside. When I did, I found the container for her ashes was a bit less gaudy, but no less fancy. A cedar box with her name carved in it. Now, I have seen human cremains twice before in my life, and they did not come in boxes as nice as this. I think the box they put my grandfather in had previously held shoes. It was not meant to be displayed as a tchokche. Maggie's box is something we could put on the mantle. I can see it now: "Oh, what's in this box, Libby? It's lovely." "Well, thank you, it's the ashes of our dead cat." People already think I'm strange. I think that might push me into "over the edge crazy, she probably talks to plants" territory. Also, I don't want Maggie to be a conservation piece. She didn't like being around lots of people, and she hated sitting still. She may be gone, but I think she still would be pissed to know any part of her was trapped in a box, especially one that could easily be passed around a cocktail party.

So, I think I will stick to my original plan for Maggie's ashes, when I thought they would come in a plain brown wrapper. I am going to scatter them in the front garden, near the plant she loved to hide in and chew on. Evey time I look at it I will think of her.

Now I just need to find someone named Maggie who wants a really pretty jewelry box. But I will have to find new gift wrapping. The words "pet cremation service" on this one might give it away.

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The reason I am not an accountant

Last week after we had Maggie put to sleep I transferred money from our savings account to our checking in order to cover the bill. I will admit, I should have transferred the money beforehand, or on the day of, but I was a bit distracted and so didn't do it until Friday. Then I went about my happy little life, assuming everything was okay.

It wasn't.

The money wasn't actually transferred until today due to the weekend and the Veteran's Day holiday that only banks took off. However, in the meantime debits on my account had very easily gone through, despite said said weekend and holiday, and the bank was only too happy to charge an overdraft on each one. The grand total? $160.

If you'll excuse me I'm going to go put my head in the freezer.

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Christmas is coming -- and don't you forget it.

Today is the tenth day of November, and this afternoon, while shopping with my parents I was subjected to an unspeakable horror -- Christmas carols. Yes, although Thanksgiving has not yet arrived, and I still have up Halloween decorations (shut up, I like them), not one, but three radio stations have already begun playing Christmas carols 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And they all promote this fat like it is a good thing. They have cheery jingles reminding you that you will hear nothing but the "sounds of the season" for the next month and a half. What season is that? It certainly isn't Christmas -- because that doesn't start for almost two weeks. I think it is the season of annoying the hell out of me.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like Christmas, I like Christmas carols, and I even like hearing them this early, to a point. I wouldn't mind it if the occasional "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" was snuck in like every twenty songs. It's just the relentless overplaying that drives me nuts. You see, playing Christmas carols all day, every day means one thing -- ALL of the Christmas carols have to played in order to avoid excessive repetition. That means that slutty "Santa baby" by Madonna, every "modern classic" penned by a country singer -- including that annoying song about the little kid buying shoes for his dying mother (we all know he was lying), and all the Christmas carols sung my Chipmunks, barked by dogs and and shrieked by Celine Dion will get air time. And that's where I draw the line.

Also, I hate the endless self-promotion of the radio stations that play non-stop Christmas music. It's kind of like someone going around proclaiming "I've got the clap." It isn't pleasant, it's nothing to brag about, and those people who need to know will eventually find out.

Of course, there are people like my Mother who say they would like listening to Christmas carols in June. That actually makes me worry she's getting senile. I just hope that if radio stations actually start playing Christmas carols all year long I mercifully go deaf. I guess I could also turn my radio off, but this seems more dramatic.

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Maggie

Our cat Maggie died today. She was nine and a half.

I found Maggie on the outskirts of Charlotte North Carolina in June of 1998. I had driven down for my sister's graduation, and to look for a kitten to keep Rita company in D.C. I worried being the only cat was making her mad with power. When I arrived my Mother begged me not to get a cat that weekend since there was so much going on, and breaking in a kitten is a lot of work. Of course, being the reasonable person I was, I went right out and found a little grey fuzzball -- who was covered with fleas.

Yes, my first evening with Maggie was spent with her submerged in the bathtub, picking fleas off her nose as they rushed to her head to keep from drowning. I suppose I could have used a flea bath, but I was worried about hurting her. That, and I was kind of hoping my Mother would see this method as a sort of penance. She didn't.

Over the years Maggie moved with me from Washington to Utah, and from apartment, to apartment, to house. She was with me when I got fired (twice), and married (once), and I had hoped she would be around when we had a baby. I figured she would humor a toddler as long as it had hands to pet her. The other two cats are not so patient.

Maggie was, above all else, an attention whore. She could not stand it if someone with hands, or hand like appendages, was in the room and not touching her. She would meow and meow, just to make sure you knew she was there, and if that didn't work she would circle you, and finally stand on you in some way. There were times when I was ignoring her that she would turn to Sally for attention, running into her legs, and putting her head under Sally's jaw to get a semblance of physical contact. Sally was never amused by this and would always look out of the corner of her eye at Maggie as if she were some kind of alien life form trying to burrow under her skin.

Being touched sent Maggie into a very unique dance of joy. She never sat or laid down when being petted, she had to walk and stretch, as if to show you how cute she was, and that petting her was a joy and a privilege. It was so annoying. I mean, sometimes all you want to do is lay on the couch and pet a cat. You don't want them doing a floor show.

On Sunday I opened the front door to let everyone out to enjoy was what shaping up to be a lovely fall day. No Maggie. She was normally the first one out the door. I went to look for her and found her curled up on the floor near the bed. She wasn't sleeping, just sitting. And she didn't want to be touched. On Monday Ryan took her into the vet and we got the bad news: her kidneys were failing. We could have tried to be heroic, and put her through tons of tests and possibly a kidney removal, but I think that would have been more for us. She wouldn't have understood we were trying to save her. She just would have understood she was in pain.

I wasn't ready to let her go on Monday though, so we took her home. For the next two days I tried to get her to eat, bringing her turkey, tuna, and anything else I could think of. I would have made her a baked Alaska if I thought it would have done the trick. Rita and Sally would sit behind me as I offered Maggie these choice morsels, looking at me as if to say "she doesn't eat that much when she's healthy, and it would be a shame for it to go to waste." Piranhas.

Eventually Maggie stopped even drinking water, or moving around, or sleeping. In a last ditch effort I took her outside and sprinkled her favorite thing on the ground -- catnip. No interest. That's when I knew it was time. We had one last night with her in our bed, sleeping between us on the pillows, each one petting her and telling her how much we loved her. Then she wet the bed.

I was amazed how quickly she died after the vet gave her the injection today. One second she was there, and the next she wasn't. She was still soft, and her eyes were still bright, but something was gone. That's all I can really say about that without going into my enormous fear of death, worry about a lack of afterlife and struggling with the existence of God. I mean, I could, but Ryan will be home in three hours.

There are so many things to say about Maggie. She had the prettiest eyes ever -- bright green with yellow specks. She loved Ryan so much that, at times, it made me jealous. Maggie loved to play fetch with hair elastics, and would bring them back if you flung them across the floor. She loved really cold water, and would stand on the counter and meow in the morning until I turned on the faucet.

Maggie was my friend, and she will be missed.

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This is free entertainment

Today I woke up at 8:30A-M, on a weekend, to attend a financial planning seminar with Ryan. You see, it has become clear to both Ryan and myself that we shouldn't be broke all the time with the amount of money that we make, especially with nothing to show for it. I mean, if we had monkey butlers, or jet skis or diamond encrusted underwear I wouldn't feel bad, because I would know that we are spending are money wisely. But right it just feels like cash flies away in the wind. We have a savings account, but more often than not we dip into it, and we have a credit card for emergencies, which ends up being about once a month when we've spent all of our money and have forgotten to buy little things, like food.

When we got to the seminar things looked promising. They had donuts. And not the cheap grocery store kind either, the really good ones from the bakery down the hill. I figured that if this woman could afford the good donuts she must know what she's talking about. Then I saw the binders, and inside the binders, the worksheets. She wanted us to think about where we spent money, and write it down. Damn. You see, I was kind of hoping we would walk in and she would tell us that the federal government or some evil overlord had been unfairly taking our money, and now was the time to stick it to the man. But instead she wanted us to think, and, even worse, make changes.

She started by asking us to think of things that we buy every month that we don't really need. Now, looking at where I spend my money I know that there are several places people would assume I could cut. Costumes for Luke? Yes, but it's a shame to stifle a child's imagination. Wine with pretty labels? Well, don't we first eat and drink with our eyes? And don't our eyes like to see beauty? Dog daycare? Don't even go there. We don't have enough stuff for Sally to destroy if we don't take her. I did see some other places to cut though. For instance, it isn't so terrible to only eat out twice a week. And do I really need shoes? After all, I have pretty tough feet, and everyone likes to see webbed toes. It's like a surprise sideshow.

At the end of the seminar we had a list of several things we could do each month to save money. For instance, we would put money into an "escrow" account to pay for surprise expenses so we wouldn't have to constantly deplete our savings. And at the beginning of each month we will take out "spending money." When it's gone, we're done. After all, when you have to part with cash you think more about what you are buying. I can uses my debit card like a drunken sailor, but it's hard for me to part with a Jackson.

When we got home I was so jazzed I wanted to think of more ways to save money. Here are just a few of my ideas...

• Cut all produce out of our diets. After all, vegetables and fruit are pricey. And they go bad. That's just throwing money away. However, potato chips and pasta can stay in the cupboard forever, as can Spam.
  
• Sally needs to get a job. There are tons of ugly dogs on television, and she might as well be one of them. On Monday we're sending out head shots, and we're letting agents know she isn't afraid to do nudity.
  
• Live as Mother Nature intended. The body is pretty self cleaning, and some of those "beauty" products can actually cause harm. After all, doesn't deodorant cause Alzheimer's? And I'm pretty sure shampoo causes insanity in lab rats. We won't only save on products that we buy, but also on our water bill.
  
• Become freegans. There is no same in rooting through the trash. Especially since those people doing it are young and hip. We'll save money and improve our social profiles. And I doubt they will care we don't shower that often and have a dog in porn.
  
• Open a check cashing store. In the seminar we learned how much money those places make, by preying on people like us and our friends. We should be the ones preying on our friends. And if that doesn't work out we should start a credit card company. Yes, the interest isn't as high, but it could still bring in a nice chunk of change. Also, doesn't the sound of "put it on my Libbycard" sound nice?
• Win the lottery. That's really more of a retirement plan though.

I think this is a real change for us. Pretty soon we'll have so much money we might even be able to give to charity. We won't, but we would have enough. After all, we'll be using that money to keep the monkey butlers ass deep in bananas.

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