Nylaboner

Here's a little something I'm thinking about picking up.

Settle down, people, it's a dog toy.  For canines to chew on.  I present the Galileo, by Nylabone. It comes in three sizes: Souper, Wolf, and Petite. You can guess what size I'm going for.

I have Labs, folks, calm down.



Who comes up with this shit?  First I thought, gotta be a guy, but then ... well, maybe not. I'd invent that shit. This person is either sly and outrageously witty, or completely clueless. Here is the description:

Nylabone Galileo - World's Strongest Bone!
The Galileo is made of extra tough nylon, and is designed for powerful chewers. If you have a dog that has destroyed every toy you've given him in the past, THIS is the chew for you. The Souper size is a monster -- it measures nearly 7" long and 4" across the widest part, and weighs a lot. In fact, we've dubbed this toy "the toe buster"... we recommend you wear shoes when your dog plays with this one!

Souper size indeed. A monster? Well, I don't know about all that. You be the judge.  It does seem to have a hefty girth.

I'm just wondering if it really is indestructible. An indestructible dog toy would make me pretty damn excited, truth be told. Those jokers are expensive! I mean, the ones that last any length of time at all run $10 - $15 for big dogs.  I might actually buy this thing.

Maybe two.  You know, just to have an extra.

I Still Need a Clone.

Wouldn't it be fabulous to have a clone so you could split off responsibilities and do life better?

Seriously. I do the single-mom thing. With teenagers. The ex is now 12 time zones away, so not the kind where Dad has them Tuesdays, Thursdays, every other weekend, either.

So, teenagers, full time job, two big dogs (one with separation anxiety), the requisite housework, meals, bills, a lawn, and a 1955 house that doesn't exactly maintain itself.

A clone is called for.

An assistant won't cover it. You spend more time training someone than it's worth. If I had time to train someone, I wouldn't need a clone.

Plus, you'd need multiple people: chef, cleaning person, dog walker and poop cleaner, chauffeur, gardener, work assistant ... and if one of those guys could also pinch hit for discipline and handling teenager issues, that would just make it a veritable party in my book.

Of course, those people would require salaries, and decent ones, too, since their jobs would be no picnic. If I could afford their salaries, I wouldn't need a clone.

Some folks say a partner makes life easier, but I don't know. Again with the training, for one thing. Relationships take work, we all know that. If I had time for something extra like a relationship, I wouldn't need a clone, now would I? Plus, it's someone else to cook for or who leaves the seat up or whatever, and then you've got to factor in time to shave your legs and file your toenails. Wait -- maybe I'd actually have time to fit that in: the partner could mow the lawn or cook, while I shaved the legs. Hmm. However, a relationship requires mental energy of all sorts, and I'm thinking I don't have much mental anything left to go around these days.

No, I've thought about this, and I really just need a clone. Not the kind that gets born as a normal baby, where you've still got to change their diapers and basically train their ass like any normal kid. No. That defeats the whole purpose of a clone.

Plus, when they do grow up, they look better than you, because they're you ... 25 years younger! Fuck that. No, my clone would be another me, the grown-up version. Insta-Clone. And none of that Mini-Me business, fuck that too. I'd be the Mini-Me, as I would then have time to work out, if I had a clone.

My version of clone would share all my knowledge and memories, therefore, my clone would know my schedule, deadlines, who has a school conference or sporting event, when the grass was last mowed, the grocery situation, when taxes are due ... you get the picture. I wouldn't have to explain anything.

My clone would be "fire and forget" -- send her off to handle something, and then forget it, knowing she'd have that shit covered.

My clone would not mind handling the more distasteful jobs -- she'd pick up dog poop and figure out the taxes. If one of the offspring has lost his/her mind, I'd pick up the dog poop, and send the clone to deal with the teenager.

It's all about options, with a clone.

And, check this out: since my clone would be genetically me (basically) she'd share the same love and commitment to the offspring. No feeling guilty about a new partner taking on child rearing tasks for my kids. No worrying about the kids having to deal with that whole step-parent thing either -- they're already used to me, no new dynamic, it's just Mom. Again. They'd be the clone's kids too, in a twisted but convenient way. All of the help, none of the drama. If my clone wants to have sex with someone else, good for her! Just be back in time to pick up the offspring from track practice.

In fact, now that I think about it, with a clone, I might have the time and energy for a relationship after all. And if the partner has a bout of temporary insanity, guess who will be heading out to the coffee shop with a book, while the clone deals with any pouty partners? Now that is genius.

Anyway, I am seriously waiting for this technology. I will even name my clone Dolly in honor of the sheep, I'd be so damn grateful to the scientists who could give me a clone like that.

I Need a Clone.

Can I get a friggin' minute to BREATHE, here?

to be continued...

Raising the Bar

Second Born Daughter is in the midst of track season. She does high jump, and also runs in the 4 x 200 relay.

Yes, this blog includes bragging about offspring. I've got the stretchmarks, I'm goddamn well bragging.

Track meets last a long, long time. It was friggin' freezing this time. How is it possible to jump over that bar when you're shivering like Jell-O? I don't know, that's why I'm a spectator, not a participator. Meets are fun when it's warm and sunny. On colder (or rainier) days, spectating requires coffee. Lots of coffee.

Shots from the latest meet:

Got the perfect camera shot, but at the starting height, 4'4".

Nice shot, though, eh?

Next, 4'6"

Nails 4'8"

And out at 4'10"
("But I jumped it twice in practice ... when it was sunny ...)

You go girl!

Bumper Sticker of the Day

Three for the price of one, folks.
All courtesy of the same rockin' vehicle.

Wine In a Box

OK, I saw this last night:

I was cruising the wine area of my local cheap ass grocery store. I'm like, what is that milk? vegetable broth? No, it was wine. WTF? This is just weird. This is how milk and juice is packaged in other countries. Broth comes in these boxes here. Wine?

"Excuse me, Tackmeister? Hook me up with a box of your best vintage Merlot, thanks."

Anyway, I bought this shit because of this:


What that has to do with wine, I have no idea, but I like the idea. I often buy wines based on witty or amusing labels, rather than actual quality. Yeah, well, like I said, I've apparently fallen a long way from Europe. Also, it was on sale.

Don't squat with your spurs on, folks.

Budget Crunching My Life

This is Official Budget Crunch time here at my place of employment. Our fiscal year runs from July to July.

• Last day of the fiscal year: June 30th.
• Day the Powers That Be cut us off from purchasing shit on our own budget lines: April 13th. Friday the 13th this year, to be exact.

We'll see what the day brings. We do tend to get some drama going on up in here, what with some of my coworkers occasionally going postal and all, so Friday the 13th could be interesting.

So, yeah, they cut us off 2 1/2 months beforehand so they can get shit straight over in the budget office. It wouldn't be so bad if we were up and running on July 1st. But no, it also takes some time once the new fiscal year begins to open up next year's budget.

All this to say it's a royal pain in the ass. Luckily I have set up most of my vendors to do orders directly, circumventing Budget Office Approval & Processing, so I get a May 30 deadline for those direct dealings. Because I'm good like that.

Anyway, been working 12 hour days mostly this week. I'm dreaming spreadsheets. I have mostly random thoughts to offer today. Nothing coherent. Like:

1) Putting on a cold bra in a cold house is fucking torture. Seriously, it's a bitch. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. Just starts the day out bitchy for you.

2) Why do some zits start out way the hell underneath your skin and turn into a dormant volcano? Dormant meaning that shit isn't going anywhere. I mean like when you wake up, and half your jawline is actually swollen. Seriously, like your profile is all fucked up, because it looks like you have a 4-inch tumor. Or like you've been in a bar fight. That actually did happen to me once, where I got clocked in the jaw by a member of the Hungarian mob for protesting when they beat the shit out of one of my firefighter buddies -- he made the mistake of dancing in the cage, without knowing that a couple of the working gals had reserved it -- but that's a story for another day. Anyway, my jaw pretty much looks like that, except there wasn't tequila behind it this time.

3) Why do dogs eat shit that tastes nasty? Batman has had another Gastro-Adventure. Apparently, those fake firelogs make a fine meal for a dog. Now you know that some ground up black flammable chemicals pressed into a log shape has got to taste nasty, even to a dog. I can see that road-kill might be perceived as tasty to a dog, while being repulsive to me. I get that rotting trash might be some high-living to a dog, whereas it would make me hurl. But a grainy chemicals? I could even see a dog tearing the paper off and shaking it around, but eating it? He probably ate 1/3 of the log. Puked twice the next morning. That was some of the strangest puke I've ever seen, but we won't even go there. Anyway, I added that to my WTF? canine files.

OK, back to the grind. I just found out that the buyer up in the budget office doesn't want to approve my proposal at a cost of $7,800 through my vendor, which would cost from $43,400 to $58,800 with her vendors. WTF? What is it with state institutions? I miss my old job where I actually had some power to make decisions. Especially if those decisions were no-brainers that benefited the company.

>sigh<

Oh, and I still haven't done my taxes. Shit.

A SunBreak in the Life...

Yesterday it was sunny. I mean for the whole day. Also, you could feel the sun, in addition to seeing it.

Today, of course, it is grey again, although (thus far) not raining.

Yesterday was such an unusual event 'round these here parts, I played hooky. Seriously, I took a vacation day from work simply because The Sun Was Out. I did not pretend to be sick, nor did I make up an excuse such as "Male Offspring has broken his leg in three spots, I'm at the hospital". I told my boss, "I'm taking a day off because the sun is out, and I need to mow the lawn, bathe the dogs, plant some flowers, and get some friggin' vitamin D before I kill someone." She was cool with that. It is not unheard of 'round these here parts.

This is the pathetic reality of my life. Not good for an admitted sun-whore.

Yesterday I skipped the a.m. hit of caffeine altogether, took the canines on a two-mile walk and played tennis ball with them. (His name is Batman; it's been one day since his last ball.)

I mowed my lawn with my brand-spankin-new Craftsman lawnmower. 6.5 torque. Mulching mower. Foldable handle for storage. On sale. Pretty damn fancy.

I gave both canines a bath, and brushed their winter fur out until my arms gave out. I pretty much spent the whole damn day outside. Then I actually cooked a decent dinner and watched a movie with the offspring.

Yesterday I wore only two layers: the usual undershirt, and *gasp* a shortsleeved shirt. These arms have not seen the light of day since last August, and that probably only happened three times. They are about the shade of a fish's belly. As is the rest of me.


Anyway, yesterday I was manically happy. My dear friend called me at 11pm last night.

Phone: Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: How do you know I wasn't asleep?

Dear Friend: Because you're probably just now coming down off your sun high.

Yeah, well.

The Daughterly Offspring went to track practice yesterday. She hit 4'10" at the high jump bar. This qualifies her to compete in a track invite on the other side of the state. She told her coach it was the weather. It's like absorbing an energy drink from the air.

The other track kids were lying on the ground, panting and dying of heat stroke. It was maybe 72*. With the famed maritime breeze.

Daughterly Offspring says she may apply to the University of Arizona for college. If she ends up being a Wildcat, I am so turning into one of those Stalker Moms who follow their kid to college.

My Mom Thinks I'm a Spinster.

And she aims to fix that.

I got this dancing hamster for the Spring Equinox, aka my birthday. I'm not sure why a dancing hamster dressed in a frog costume made my parents think of me, but it arrived with a note attached. In case you can't make it out in the photo, it reads:

Here's hoping that a kiss from you upon this frog will land you a HUSBAND!

Notice the emphasis on the word HUSBAND.

My mom is bound and determined that I be married. This is very important to her. Normal women, evidently, want to be married. I am just being stubborn. Her motive is not the usual "when will I have grandchildren" deal.  Been there, done that, got the divorce.

I'm fine being single. It's a choice, not a sentence, Mom. I remember when my mom found out, in an unfortunate casual conversation, that I'd actually passed up opportunities to be married again.  I thought she was going to burst a vein. Either that or take the wooden spoon to my ass, a la childhood.

Mom never misses an opportunity to oh-so-casually point out that not every marriage ends in divorce -- just look at her and my dad! Still happy! Still married! Mom is convinced that this whole issue is caused by residual bitterness over my own marriage ending. If I could just get over this silly "fear of marriage", everything would be fine.

I don't feel bitter about being single. I'm thankful as hell that particular unholy matrimony is null and void. Seriously, when I think about who I am now, compared to who I was then, no contest. When I think of who I would likely be now, had I remained in a wifely way... holy hell, a million thank-yous to my ex for his liberal interpretation of those marriage vows.

Didn't see it that way then, but Hindsight is a clear-sighted bitch.

Put it this way: the ex is getting remarried next month. In Las Vegas. No, they don't live there. They're flying from 12 time zones away to be married in Las Vegas. Their "wedding package" (yes, I said wedding package) includes Internet streaming so friends and family can join in the fun. All inclusive, y'all! They may see Britney Spears there. So yeah, there are definitely worse things than being single.

Being single has contributed immeasurably to untold personal growth and self-awareness, not to mention no longer looking like a housewife from What Not to Wear. I also had a hell of a lot of fun in the decade following said divorce.

Mom thinks life would be more fun, or at least more secure, if there were a full-time penis complete with legal papers and a ring around the house. And she ain't talking about the kind with batteries.  By "secure", she means entangled finances, like having a mortgage together and all.

That doesn't sound secure. I win the lottery, I'll feel secure.

Daddy just says, "Well, kid, people marry the first time for love. You see how that worked out. Marry for money. You can love rich as easy as you can love poor."

My dad also says, "Wherever you go, there you are," and "Pull my finger."

Mom knows of a guy who "would be perfect for me". I think his name is John. We are apparently both smart, witty, and like big dogs. In fact, John raises puppies to be service dogs. Pretty cool. John lives in the Midwest, near my parents. He also is a regular at Mom's church. Finally, during a visit home, I told her it would never work. Besides the fact that I live in Seattle, the whole religion thing is a definite no-go. I suspect this plan of Mom's was a Two-Fer. Get me married and get me back in the church. Oh, and back in Ohio. That too.

So, my mom is basically Yente to my Tzeitel. Thus the dancing hamster in a frog costume. I kissed it. Nothing happened.

Whew.

A Day In the Life

OK, so today is shaping up to be a pretty good day.

1) It is sunny today. As in continuous sunshine. As opposed to "sunbreaks", that Northwest phenomenon that seems to make people here happy, but which serves mainly to piss me off. Sunbreak is an official weather term used by meteorologists here. It means basically another grey, cloudy-ass day where the sun might pop out for like, 30 seconds, only to disappear right as your ass starts to get happy about the sun.

It's become a joke in my family. "Look!! A Sunbreak!" "Ooh! Ah!" Whatever. There are also a jillion terms for "rain". You know how there are supposedly like, 5,000 ways to say "snow" in some northern Native language?  That pretty much applies to western Washington and rain. There are so many ways to say rain it's not even funny.

But I digress. Today it is sunny. This is my office window today. That makes me pretty damn happy.

2) I got a Starbucks card for the Spring Equinox. A day started with sunshine and caffeine is a good day.




3) Baker Girl (aka Second-Born Daughter) made these last night, and thoughtfully packed one up for me take to work today. She made the dark chocolate "cups" herself, filled them with raspberries, topped them with whipped cream and threw in chocolate chips for a garnish. Hell yeah. She rocks.




4) The college is on break, between quarters. The library is closed, most of my colleagues are out. I will therefore play my CDs loudly on my lame-ass, tiny, tinny, $19 office CD player, and clean the hell out of my office. My office is friggin' out of control. It's like my daughter's room with a desk. I'm serious, it's bad. But with music, I can clean and sing simultaneously. The sunshine will serve as the usual Manic Motivator. It's all good.


5) Male Offspring is competing in the varsity tournament today. He's had a great season, and is turning out to be one hell of a wrestler.

I, of course, am thinking scholarships. You know I am all about the scholarships, baby. You've got a talent? Let it take your behind right on through that college. Hell, yeah. Anyway, he has kicked butt this year on the mat, I'm really proud of him. I've screamed myself hoarse with all the other wrestling parents -- this is intense stuff. Read the "Ready to Rumble" post if you don't know what I'm talking about. Anyway, the tournament is today, he's stoked, the team is stoked, it's going to be fun. I'm leaving early to cheer the kids on.


Not everything is good today, however. As I was crossing the staff parking lot, I realized my feet were cold. I looked down to realize I didn't have my boots on.

I forgot my damn shoes.

I'd been wearing these in the house. Birkenstocks. Not even the cool suede ones. The dorky-assed navy blue ones. With purpley socks. I was wearing them so my purpley socks would not end up covered in black and brown Labradog hair. (Okay, so I need to sweep the floors.)

Anyway, I guess my feet felt like they had shoes on, so out the door I went.

I almost went back for my boots, which, by the way are exceedingly cool. Then I figured, fuck it, no one is here anyway. And, if they were here, I live in the Pacific Northwest, where it is normal for people to walk around in Birkies and socks. So even though my feet look like someone's grandma gone wild, it probably just looks normal. So, whatever. Unless you sign my paycheck, I'm not worried about it.

One of my dear friends complains that after she moved here, her gaydar was way the hell off because she kept thinking she saw butch women everywhere (her particular attraction), and they always turned out to be straight girls doing Pacific Northwest. According to her, she can't tell the straight girls from the granola dykes. I found out I had this term wrong one day when I said something about oatmeal dykes, and she about spit her drink out. Whatever. "And where are all the stylish Butches out here?!" she bitches. "On the East Coast, people knew how to dress, where the fuck is the style? Flannel is not a damn style!"
Oh, well, I don't know about all that, all I know is that today I did not have to go back home to get my cool-ass boots, because Birkies and socks is pretty much normal here. That works for me.

I just have to remember to get my boots before I hit Male Offspring's tournament today.