Powzer dog toys...

FINALLY!

I have found a chew toy/ball which Praline can't shred.

I bought this Powzer ball a while back, and true to form, Praline left it languishing in the toy tub for months before she deemed it play-worthy.

Last week-- joy of joys! -- this green ball became her new favorite. The amazing thing is her bottom jaw will fit into the little quatrefoil windows, and she will hold it between her paws and try to rend it as she has every previous toy, but this one apparently is Praline-proof.

For the moment... I'm not holding my breath, but I am impressed.

Any toy with a squeaker WILL be de-squeaked within mere moments of arriving in chez Phlegm. I'm not buying the squeakers these days, unless they are .99 at walmark.

Now what's tragic is that I can't find more of these balls anywhere. Have tried ebay. Have looked all over online. *harumph* Good thing this one is indestructible, right?

right?

*crickets*

Watch this space.

Simultaneously...

the most frightening yet intriguing entry on twitter ever:

We're through being cool.

My experiences at Princeton have made me far more aware of my "Blackness" than ever before. I have found that at Princeton no matter how liberal and open-minded some of my White professors and classmates try to be toward me, I sometimes feel like a visitor on campus; as if I really don’t belong. Regardless of the circumstances under which I interact with Whites at Princeton, it often seems as if, to them, I will always be Black first and a student second.

from Michelle LaVaughn Robinson Obama's Princeton Thesis

Just think: in this passage the very august institution of Princeton is impugned for Michelle's perception of how she was perceived by others. How can anyone combat such idiocy? There's a saying that if you realized how little time others spend thinking about you, then you'd care a lot less what they think. Honestly, I think more often about Michelle Obama than I'd prefer, but I seriously doubt the whole of the university was a cabal orchestrated for the purpose of keeping her down. (what? they gave her a degree? Surely not! They mis-perceived her! She was not welcome!) Sooner or later, pretty much everyone will find themselves feeling out of place somewhere they have to be on a daily basis. It's handy to have something to blame it on, though, other than just the general angst of the transition to adulthood, or whatever.

You know, it's funny that some of her classmates and professors tried to embrace Michelle and make her feel welcome. Golly, I wish that happened to me at college, but at the time I sort of got the idea that I needed to suck it up and deal with life and make my way through the whole process on my own. I really don't think my "Whiteness" opened any doors. I also got the idea that college was meant to be a transition from the micro-managey handholding of the elementary and secondary schools, that I had to take responsibility for the course of my studies and ultimately, for whatever career to which my efforts might lead. Perhaps there were very groups of people who cringed at the sight of me, but I rather doubt it, and even if they did, it matters not at all. In any case, when I turned in my work to glazed-over professors who probably wouldn't have distinguished me from any other pupil even if I'd had skin a lovely green color, my grades were issued based on the accuracy of my responses, the quality of my writing and in some cases, whether or not I happened to fill in the right bubble on the sheet.

Then again, I attended a lowly state university, so what do I know of how they do things at Princeton, a degree from which probably guarantees an extra zero at the end of one's annual earnings total? Oh, no. My lot is that of the mere human person, left little excuse for my failings or success, save my own efforts or lack thereof.

Or maybe it's because I'm female?

Michelle needs to watch Revenge of the Nerds. I know she's busy, though, so I'll just put up the last bit.

Won't we ever learn?

THIS ARTICLE 'splains us how Americans are hurting poor people in Africa by donating clothes to charitable organizations.

The guilt! The guilt! It hurtses us, precious.

Holy shit. Throw your disused garments in landfills, people! How can you be so selfish as to give them away for other people to use?

Can't you do anything right?

Sunday, Puppy Sunday 8 March

Today's picture is a blast from the past. This was sometime around the first month I got the little furboy. He's so tiny and sweet here!

This losing-an-hour business is lame in the extreme, btw. Argh.

Bath Time

A man once said to me "I don't get the whole bath thing."

I understand that much of what we women do is a mystery to you fellows, so I'm going to betray the sisterhood and let you in on what goes on when we take a bath.

We arrive in the bath chamber already very pretty and smelling of rainbows and sunshine. In truth, we are never dirty. Well, never very dirty. We look very cute and, of course, we are just totally hawt. We probably will take a moment to stand and pose demurely atop the tanned hide of some unfortunate former beast, probably a bear or a leopard you killed for us- you sweet, sweet man! Taking a moment to pose and consider our own hotness is an important part of the process. We need time to think. Plus we like the idea that if you could see us (and you can't), it would drive you bug-nuts. Tra-La!

We are attended by one or two other women of lower social station than ourselves, always dressed as harem maids. They are cute, but not as cute as we are. They draw a bath of the desired temperature and resplendent with oodles of bubbles and more wonderful-smelling essences of flowers, herbs and various processed bits of dead critter. Hmmmm. Nothing says bathtime like herb-infused musky flowers. ROWR!

We pose again at the edge of our bathing pool, deciding which comely shoulder to slip from the dressing gown first, playing peek-a-boo while the maids feign enthusiasm as they wait to take our fine garments away. [When we bathe, our servants probably play with our wardrobe and other fineries. We must think of appropriate punishments for such presumptuousness. Bitches.] Were you fortunate enough to get a gander into our private little bath chamber, you still would miss the creamy flash of our beautiful naked body as we slip into the water behind diaphanous layers of gossamer silks. Silly stag. Think of it as a reverse performance of Venus rising from the foam. We're just like that. Every time.

We recline into the warm, caressing waters only to suddenly feel very lively, rather frisky, even. Yes, we sit and play with bubbles for hours, giggling at their wondrous symmetry and fragility. Plus, they tickle, and if we could really think it through, we'd realize what's in the bubbles so delights and appeals to us because it's so very like that great raft of pretty nothing knocking about between our ears, but why worry about such things?

In the end, all that really matters is how glorious the bath feels and smells and Damn! We're cute! Did I mention how cute we are?

We are Bettie Page.

**************************************************************

Friday morning, I opened my door to find a box of goodies from Lush on my garden gnome doormat, a luscious little barge of bath bombs. THRILLS! Friday evening found me luxuriating in jasmine-and-mimosa infused waters courtesy of a Sakura bath bomb. Deftly hoisting my novel above the fragrant churning waters, Harry Dresden is, it would appear, in another pickle and made for fast reading as I took lazy draughts of my champagne. After an hour or so, I had to add fresh hot water and gave in to my not-so-inner libertine by cracking into the Bon Bomb, which swathed my glorious naked body in luscious shea butter and more floral essences. Decadent in the most tasteful sort of way. Finally: the proper bath I've been craving.

I smell all nice and flowery. ...and damn! I'm cute. Srsly. I smell like a garden of earthly delights.



And am, in fact, a garden of earthly delights.

REMEMBER THE ALAMO.

I strongly urge you to go to Blackfork's blog and read his series on this historic battle which raged over the course of 13 days, February 23 - March 6.

Oh Lord, Please don't let me be misunderstood?

Unfortunately, this is absolutely true...

One summer in high school, I went to camp with the other kids from the church my family attended. The week was resplendent with the sort of dullery/drama one might expect on that variety of excursion. There was bickering, snot-slinging, petty disputes and the forest echoed with the pulsating ostinato of bible thumpery. Camp. Ugh. Led by one cheeseball youth director who still owes someone in my clan money, no less. *aherm*

One day Susan left her contact lenses on the edge of a sink in the girls' bunkhouse. Now, I had no idea they were there, didn't see them, etc. Somehow those contact lenses got washed down the sink. Fingers were pointed, mostly at me, as I sat there blinking, wide-eyed and innocent. Believe it or not-- I didn't know what contact lenses were, let alone know to watch out not to wash the colorless blending-in-with-the-blasted-water-in-the-sink teeny weeny plastic things down the drain.

Yes, I felt a little hostile at the readiness of everyone to believe a) _I_ was the one who flushed the contact lenses down the sink and that b) I had done so intentionally. A church camp retreat is supposed to be all sweetness and light, right? I felt very judged. Why wasn't anyone asking her why she'd be so careless with something she was going to stick on her blasted eyeballs? Where was her responsibility in all of this? Am I my sisters' lenskeeper? Au contraire, bitches.

Anyway-- my reputation was sealed: I was a Bad Girl. Again-- no bloody tossing idea, but I was to blame. Fine. Whatever.

Fun activity of the day? A blind trust walk. For those of you fortunate enough to not know what this is, a BTW is where one person is blindfolded and the other person has to give them verbal guidance to navigate the great outdoors or whatever. Apparently some brain trust thought it would be a healing thing for me and Susan to partner up for this activity. *sigh* Blindfolds went on half the kids, and the guide buddies fanned their charges out from the central huddle area, threading through the dense pines with their scratchy needles in the oppressive August heat.

*BORING*

Everyone was sort of walking around trees and mostly trying to avoid head-on collisions of blind-folded people. Susan was first to don the old bandana, and I thought I would give a different experience.

The pier stretched catlike over the lake, its broad planks beckoning out over the water... Interesting... very interesting... Hmmm...


Susan needed to walk out onto the pier, to feel the cool breeze skimming off the lake. Our blind trust walk would be special. Oh, yes. Yes.

I swear I had NO intention of anything bad happening. I know you don't believe me. No one ever does. I'm just a little lamb and I mean no harm, and it wasn't my fault what happened.

Susan was halfway out onto the pier and I was following instructions, guiding only with my voice and no touching. She was well-centered on the boards when she stepped from the edge of the lake, but after several yards, she had veered uncomfortably close to the edge of the planks at the right. It was at this instant I realized the error of my choice of playing field, and I acted to get Susan off the pier forthwith. I ordered her to stop and she complied. I instructed her to turn toward my voice which she did. Facing me, I knew she needed to go to her right to the center of the pier, and I said "take a step to your right." To my horror, she lifted her left foot and stepped to the left. SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT! Now realizing she didn't know which foot was which, I quickly recovered and said "no! BIG step to the left!" thinking she'd go to her right this time. Alas, this was the moment she figured out which foot was which and followed my instructions, her left foot in slow motion as her long leg gangled out over the water, her Keds™-shod foot seeking a wooden surface where it would find no purchase, and she fell treelike right into the brackish blue.

No one believed this was an accident as my explanation fell on deaf ears. *sigh* Oh well.

Susan seemed disinclined to continue the exercise, which was convenient, as I now had absolutely no intention of putting on a blindfold myself. Specially not a wet one. Ew.

Somewhere, Susan probably has a blog and heaps scorn upon your humble narrator. Now you, my darlings, know the truth of the tale.

If people are determined to think the very worst of you, you may as well do something to earn it, right? One of these days, I'm going to be really naughty, and then the world won't know what hit it.

Fetal Redneck Syndrome

I hope that baby turned out alright...

Somehow, I doubt it.

Whyzzit the least fit folk are incredibly fertile?

View from the lounge...

After work Tuesday, I took a rare moment to lounge on the sofa to read for a bit. The back door was open so the hounds could run in and out.

Generally, if I sit still for a moment, Chuy the lovesponge will come cuddle up to me and Praline will wiggle up with something gripped in her maw which she'd dearly love me to throw and yet she can't bring herself to let go of. Someone sagely mused recently that "picking up Praline is like trying to hold a salmon on meth." Quite. I had finally settled into reading and calmed the little critters down when they both took off and ran out the back door. A short while later, one of the pups jumped up onto the sofa and snuggled in between my side and the back of the sofa. Thinking this was Chuy, I reached down to pet the critter just as I heard Chuy's hoarse bark reporting from the back yard.

ZOMG! Praline had nestled in and was being very still as I scratched her ornery little head. This has NEVER happened before. I thought it would take years for her to reach this point. Of course, this was an isolated incident and may not occur again for months or years, but for just today and just for a few minutes, she was ready to sit still for a proper pet and scratch session. In future, I will politely not remind her of this event which must necessarily cause her some embarrassment [omg! someone might mistake me for one of those useless lap-dogs! I'm much too busy for such petty niceties!], but I'm calling this progress.

*****************************************

Tuesday night I enjoyed the rare privelege of meeting the lovely and esteemed Brigid. We went to Texas Land & Cattle Company for a hearty repast of dead cow product. (It was comin' right for us!) I urged her to try the Shiner Bock, a fab brew from a Texas company wot's been making good beer for 100 years, and she seemed to really like it. Oh, and since I was driving, I had iced tea, and the waiter brought me a big carafe of tea for refills. Nirvana! Honestly, I could walk around all day with an IV bag of iced tea on one of those rolly-cart things they have in the hospital. Habit is not quite a big enough word for my relationship with iced tea. Anyway, we talked and laughed and discussed houses and apartments and our fabulous dogs. She is a remarkable woman, and I am delighted to have met her!

Okay, so it's not the prettiest thing layout-wise, but...

I just came across this, which was not a final copy, but the work in progress which would become an issue of my property newsletter. (I was just learning Publisher, and it's all a bit wonky here, still)


Of all the newsletters I've composed and edited, this dog-centric issue I did a few years ago is officially my favorite. I had residents from all my properties send me their favorite photos of their dogs, and I managed to squeeze every one of them into the issue at one spot or another, often with pithy captions, where appropriate. This was a great way to showcase beloved property pets and acquaint new arrivals to the city with local dog amenities and services. I loved that I had the chance to do the Mwahahahaha caption to one of those (obviously) criminal mastermind chihuahuas, and even managed to endow a cat with honorary junkyard dog status, since that sort of fit his personality.

I hate to admit I've had favorite resident pets, but I have. I can name all my residents, and most of their dogs, as well. It doesn't hurt that up until a couple weeks ago, we had three white dogs named Lola on the property. Anyway, I loved the wiener dogs named Uno and Dos, gifts from their owner's respective first and current husbands. Those dogs would hear my car drive on property and would get all antsy and excited, demanding to be let out. They'd run up the hill to my office and look balefully through the door, hoping the treat lady was feeling benevolent, or sucker-ish, as they probably thought of me. Score! I'd always have treats for the dogs.

I loved the 180 pound Great Dane/Irish Wolfhound mix. The top of his head was almost to my shoulder, but he was such a mild soul. His name was Chaps, and his owner had adopted his GD mother while living in Brussels on business. She then had these two pups, and their beards and brows gave away the provenance of their dear old Dad. By the time he moved back to the states, Chaps was the only one still alive, and he had to be shipped home in a horse crate. Chaps' ears were like big heathered gray blankets. Lovely boy, he.

Once when I was new at the job, a showing was scheduled for the apartment of a woman who was about to move into a larger space on property. I entered the darkened apartment with the prospective renter and I about dropped my transmission when I saw a strange form rising from the sofa. I quickly recovered as the greyhound flopped its head back onto the cushion. The other greyhound conserving his energy over on the loveseat never even opened his eyes. Not good guard dogs, I'm guessing, but someone might at least have warned me!

Then there was Amei, dog on the bottom right, who was just one of the sweetest dog souls ever, I'm convinced. LOVED. HER. She loved me, too. She was one of those little dogs that always looks old, you know? Probably a lot of chihuahua in the mix, but she was a cool, jaunty little thing. She had no idea she was homely, and was ever the social butterfly: there's a lesson in that. Her owners were lovely people, but they were vegetarian, so I tried to make sure to have meaty things on hand in the office. About a year ago, her family moved to Los Angeles and I was very sad to see her go, but very happy to have known her. Her caption was the one I liked best: Amei likes piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. Somehow, that really fit her. I think she would have loved the cheese factor of her caption!

I don't mean to be unkind, but...

What have we learned from Esquire magazine? Anyone?

Anyone?

Anyone?

No horizontal stripes on head fat-rolls.

I don't mean to be unkind here. I'm trying to help. I'd just hate for anyone to think this guy is not very bright, for some reason.

missing the pups...

I went out of town Friday and got home Sunday evening. Taking the pups along was not an option, so I boarded them. Now I'm home and it's quiet and I miss them. It feels wrong to be here without my little confetti-makers. I can pick them up at 8am Monday. YAYS!







This picture of Chuy is from the drive to the boarding place on Friday. The other picture is of the pups trying to act nonchalant when I walked in on their dollar bill confetti-making party. Last time it was a $10, though, so I got off easy this time.

interspecies romance...