Scary Stuff

An unexamined leg is something something something. How does that quote go? An unexamined life is not worth living. Socrates. Fucking philosopher. What the hell does he know?

Wearing shorts after months of, for us, freezing temperatures is a treat. What isn't a treat is examining your legs in those shorts.

It's probably illegal in some venues. Holy twirling dervishes sitting on poles while contemplating (I'm talking to you, Socrates, you asshole.)

My legs used to be one of my finer features. And, they are still lean. But, they've turned into the birdlegs that une femme d'un certain age acquires after 50 plus years. It sucks. I could wear a miniskirt and look like a pincushion with sockpuppet legs.

Plus, they're pasty white?!?!? I live in Texas! They're fucking pasty white! This is a travesty of hues unparallelled in the annals of hueness. And, they're full of freckles and bumps and just general grotesqueries.

What the fucking fuck.

I've always been veiny, not spider veins, just viewable veins, so you add that to the pasty white and birdness and you have an extremely unattractive set of gams right now. The toes look okay because I polished them. But, that's like putting a tiara on a gourd. Big deal.

I refuse to do the fake tan shit. I guess I'll just have to live with it for a bit.

An unexamined set of legs is a less frightening set of legs. Socrates, my ass.

Bad blogger. Bad blogger.

Something about going to bed at 8 or watching the Olympics until eleven and regretting not going to bed at 8.

And work.

But, today we took Dot to the dogpark and she had a GRAND time. She's Miss Thang. She is prom queen. She's also just a little pushover slut, if she weren't spayed. Just spread her legs for every hound that sniffed her. Plus it prevented them from chomping her immediately. Except for the creepy mini-pit bull named Coco that growled at everyone and got weird. Next time I'm gonna pop a cap up its ass.

Oh sure. But, really, it was an ass.

The Great Pyrenees, on the other hand, was a beauty! And the 12 year old Golden. And Bear the Black Lab. And the Bull Mastiff, who was the peacemaker amongst all the out of control doggies.

Speaking of feet, Dot is a supreme footlicker. Maybe that's just wrong, but I don't care. She hits the sweet spot in the middle of your arch and gently chews on your toes and it's better than a pedicure. If she could manage to wield the nail polish I'd market her.

We're wearing shorts. Outside. Until it turns cold again.

I need to clean the bathroom.

That's all.

Happy Birthday!

Dr. Fooms is a grandpa!  Whoo hooo!!!

Happy V-Day

This has been a very sedate and easy day, so far. The youngest came home about 2 o'clock to use our computer to finish some certification that he needed by 4 o'clock for his job. Well, yes. Of course.

He accomplished his goal, but, son, you need to get your internet fixed.

We have taken a walk with the Dot, who isn't particularly pleased with the Gentle Leader leash thingie that we've instituted. It's a muzzle thing that, if you didn't know it's just to prevent pulling and tugging, would lead you to believe she's a biter or something. Which, duh, she's not, except for the regular puppy stuff. It was still a lovely walk and she got to meet other goggies and pee on the sidewalk and avoid other dog poop.

We have finished a NYT crossword puzzle, which wasn't totally obnoxious, just diverting enough to make us have to erase a bunch of shit when we thought we had it right.

I bought a new purse, a couple of pairs of sandals and one pair of shoes that I don't think will kill my feet and some lovely Valentine gifts for Mr. Froth at...Target! My personal shopper.

He, in turn, gifted me with calla lilies and tulips and...the TURBO SNAKE!

The turbo snake doesn't do half as well as a coat hanger, which we discovered as we rotorootered the sink pipe.

Nothing like the smell of decomposing facial hairs, toothpaste and that other stuff that we don't talk about that comes from our bodies and lies in wait in pipes. No wonder pythons and rats like to live in those crevicey places. It's like dip. You got your crunchy stuff and then you have your dip to go with it. I'd rather have dip. I'd make a good pipe-dweller.

Seriously, it was uniquely disgusting.

Then, we ate eggrolls and then we read books. Now, we're going to cook asparagus and Hollandaise sauce and probably some sort of steak item or something.

All I know is, I have a spanking fresh purse aligned just right. Which will devolve into my usual hodgepodge of craposity tomorrow.

Merv and Dot are wrestling buddies now. Merv is an ear-lick recipient and shows great restraint and kindness while being so.

All in all, plus it's 65 degrees!, it's a fine day.

Blurg

I really, really need to vacuum and mop the floor. We can use the "Dot will only track in  more dirt again" excuse so often and then its efficacy evaporates.

That sounded stupid. Anyway, I really, really need to vacuum and mop the floor.

Mr. Froth will only track in more dirt again, so maybe tomorrow.

How to stay well

Poor snot-beridden wolf-looker.  She sounds very ill. That sucks. I mean, seriously. Anything requiring actual prescriptions isn't good. I sometimes wait a month or two until my eyeballs are popping out of their sockets from the sinus infection pressure or my lungs constrict to the point I turn an attractive indigo to match a sweater I have, at which point I finally get drugs. I might want to rethink that regimen...

However, with all the weird and wonderful bug crap out there I do concern myself with the admonitions by the "experts" and the "preventive" measures they advocate.

The "sneeze into your sleeve" thing. Okay. I realize that that is better than leaning over to your co-worker as you sit in another staff meeting and pulling her long, lustrous hair over to your nostrils to catch the spray from the eruption. I do.Unless she has extremely dry hair, in which case your boogers would provide added moisture for which she would most assuredly be grateful.But, honestly. If I sneeze into my sleeve, which might be attached to a suede jacket or a cool fuzzy angora cardigan, then I would have to explain the long, slimy trail on my sleeve. The angora tends to mat up depending on the volume of snot and the suede just turns hard and sheeny. Not even shiny. Sheeny. That sharkskin looking sheeny.

Once you're afflicted with the crud or know that the crud is rampant in your community then you have to be careful that you don't spread the crud or acquire the crud at the grocery store. Not that I grocery shop anymore. Mr. Froth has done that with aplomb since pre-kids. He's the coupon king. I'm the impulse buyer and am only allowed into a grocery store if he's out of town.

But, if I were to go to the store, or, WHEN he goes to the store, there are these very official-looking disinfectant wipes available to douche your shopping cart handle.

In theory that's peachy. In reality what's the point? Once you've wiped the handle off and popped the wiper into the trash can, assuming you used your foot to open the lid into which to pop it, and, assuming you never touch any of the produce, bags, bottles, paper, hardware, cheese, lunch samples, manager's hand that you shake, prescription cardswiper, books, grocery batch separator at the checkout counter, conveyor belt, dripping flowers, credit card swiper and PEN with which to sign your bill, you've avoided attaching 8,000,000,000,000,000 microbes to your appendages or purchases.

Exactly.

Dot rocks

Dot is an alien, we believe. While she has her moments of crazyass speeding running puppy glazed eyeballs ram into the chairs/wall/deck edges bushes with a camelia bud in her mouth, she is beginning to really understand English.

When she bites my arm or foot, unless she REALLY bit my foot in which case I pulled her head off my bitten foot, I calmly say "Don't bite." and substitute the toilet brush and she stops biting. She's even stopping biting when I just say "Don't bite."

Oh. The toilet brush. The official line is that "We bought a new toilet brush for her." That was for when the rescue Lab lady came and Mr. Froth and she took Dot for her vaccinations (the trip during which she didn't bark at all or flip out). However, we haven't used the toilet brush in awhile, so it's not bacteria-laden or grodie or anything and Dot discovered it and...

It's a PERFECT TEETHER. Perfect. Plus, it brushes her teeth. Something we never did for our 14 and 11 year old Labs prior. So, now we do something we didn't do.

Toilet brushes are brilliantly constructed objects. They don't shred, they don't fall apart, the metal doesn't flake, the handle is indestructible. I'm going to go buy a spare for Dot.

Dot also gives Merv the Cat sugars. Which Merv allows. Is he a great cat or what?

Dot doesn't realize she's bigger than Merv, so when she's in her crazed puppy mode Merv sits in a tree, which is wise and saddens Dot, because she can't give Merv sugars.

Dot just looks at us like "I know you. I understand." And, she licks my toes.

Life is good.

I'm not pleased

With certain entities with whom I have to interact. That impact my ability to survive this lovely economic landscape that we grovel in.

Preposition, schmeposition.

A lot of people are crust-ridden underpants. That's all.

As I lay dozing

As I lay dozing (with apologies to William Faulkner—wait, no. No apologies to William Faulkner. Even though I did a research paper on him my junior year of high school and read many of his literary deposits and fancied myself such an intellecshual because of it, I will not apologize to him. Mostly because he’s dead, but also because he was so mushed up in the head.)

It was early that I was dozing which is why this is sounding so Faulknerian. See what happens? You wake up too early and you start to go all mush-heady.


Anyway, I was reclining on the loveseat at 5ish a.m. this morning, having arisen with the Dot. And the Merv. Merv had gotten up much earlier and who knows what he was doing prior to joining us on the loveseat. You know those cats. They’re cunning. And fuzzy. And purry.

I’m really wandering here again. Need lunch.


Reclining on loveseat. Dot had slept almost nine hours. I’m serious. We both crashed early and I awoke about 3 a.m. thinking that would be the time whimpers would ensue. No whimpers ensued, so, rather than getting up to take a leak I decided to stay in bed until Dot DID ensue some whimpers. Which accounts for the dreams of heavily-laden water balloons straining under weakly-tied knots, pendulously percolating…

WHIMPER AT 5!!! Whooo hoooo!!! I can go to the bathroom!


So, we got up and did all that and then reclined on the loveseat in relief, and I thought how neat it would be if Dot got on my head again and Merv, who was on the top of the loveseat, would get on the back of my neck and we three could be a----



Chapeau vivant



I think that’s a pretty good pun. I do. And ridiculously good for coming out of a 5 a.m. mind.