They're out to get me. It's a plot. A conspiracy. An evil league of evil doers completely set on two things and two things alone: making me insane and destroying my worldly posessions.
Shhhh. They'll hear me. I don't want them to know that I am on to them. They might attack in a new way. Do you think they can read this? Are they online now, watching me?
M made a paper boat for them on Sunday. They set it out to sail on the pool. Naturally, it got wet. S turned it into a wadded ball and put purple marker on it while it was still wet. He threw it up on to the ceiling where it stuck like a spitball. Until I got it down. But it left a purple stain on the ceiling.
See what I mean? That clearly can't happen without tremendous foresight and evil planning? How did they convince M to make the paper ship? How did they know? How did S know to use purple marker instead of yellow or some other slightly less conspicuous color? How did he know to throw it up on the ceiling directly over the TV so that I notice it every time I sit down?
They must have been planning. For a long time.
How did they know that leaving sticky lollipop residue on the cabinets would cause navy lint from their uniform shorts to adhere and leave dark, sticky mess all over my cabinets? How many experiments did they secretly run to determine the stickiest adhesive? The most obvious color of lint?
I think I am being regularly drugged while they conduct their experiments. It's why there are never enough hours in the day...I'm telling you...
Shhh. They're right here. Watching. Always watching.
I just want my theory to be written down. Just in case something (else) happens to me. So there's a record. I think they just put something in my drink...EUYHRIKLFWEUISQWUI#*#(&@$
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Turkeys, crows, chickens and other birds
Have you been wondering about where I've been? I know you're missing me and the shining light of humor I bring to you every morning.
I have been sucked into the vortex of the iphone. I haven't been online with my computer since I got it. I have turned into one of those antisocial freaks peering into the nanoscreen of my iphone to get my news, email, weather, world-goings on, games, entertainment and life resources in general. Sad, but true.
Even in the fog of technology, however, I did enjoy the company of my family, however briefly.
S came home with a good story last week. At school, they played a variation of capture the flag. Only I guess they play it with a rubber chicken?! When S's team won, he demonstrated the score with his fingers: one to zero. He was crowing about his team's success, and I suspect he was probably not exhibiting the best of sportsmanship.
However, instead of using pointer man to illustrate one, he used tall man. And for those of you without kids, that means he gave the losing team the finger.
After regaling us with the victorious tale of capturing the chicken, and his flaunting of the score, we asked him why he used his middle finger instead of his pointing finger.
He says, ever so nonchalantly, "I flipped them the bird."
Why, yes you did, young man. "Do you know what that means?"
No. But just like a chicken, you know, bird?
Hmm. Yes. Indeed. However, in our culture, flipping some one the bird is a really obscene thing to do. It's like saying a dirty word. Like, sometimes when you want to curse or swear at some one and maybe they can't hear you, you can say the obscene message with your middle finger.
Like f#$( you?
Exactly. (How lovely that my child can just blurt out that sentiment). Pointing the middle finger is like saying f&^* you. In fact, it is saying that without using words. Everyone in our culture understands that gesture to mean f&*^ you.
Hmmm.
Now, I feel as though I have armed little S. Not only with knowledge (I am sure he's heard the expression like a million times) that he can share with his mini cohorts; but also with a certain power. It's kind of alarming. Like having a small nuclear device in the trunk of your car.
Let's hope he uses his new found power for good, rather than evil. Although he has been so mischievous lately, it would not surprise me at all for him to get caught flipping the bird at another losing squad. But, also it would not surprise me at all for him to look up at the disciplinarian with wide, pathetic eyes a la Puss in Boots from Shrek, and say, who, me? I was just showing them the score. How could THAT be naughty?
That kid is trouble. f#$%
I have been sucked into the vortex of the iphone. I haven't been online with my computer since I got it. I have turned into one of those antisocial freaks peering into the nanoscreen of my iphone to get my news, email, weather, world-goings on, games, entertainment and life resources in general. Sad, but true.
Even in the fog of technology, however, I did enjoy the company of my family, however briefly.
S came home with a good story last week. At school, they played a variation of capture the flag. Only I guess they play it with a rubber chicken?! When S's team won, he demonstrated the score with his fingers: one to zero. He was crowing about his team's success, and I suspect he was probably not exhibiting the best of sportsmanship.
However, instead of using pointer man to illustrate one, he used tall man. And for those of you without kids, that means he gave the losing team the finger.
After regaling us with the victorious tale of capturing the chicken, and his flaunting of the score, we asked him why he used his middle finger instead of his pointing finger.
He says, ever so nonchalantly, "I flipped them the bird."
Why, yes you did, young man. "Do you know what that means?"
No. But just like a chicken, you know, bird?
Hmm. Yes. Indeed. However, in our culture, flipping some one the bird is a really obscene thing to do. It's like saying a dirty word. Like, sometimes when you want to curse or swear at some one and maybe they can't hear you, you can say the obscene message with your middle finger.
Like f#$( you?
Exactly. (How lovely that my child can just blurt out that sentiment). Pointing the middle finger is like saying f&^* you. In fact, it is saying that without using words. Everyone in our culture understands that gesture to mean f&*^ you.
Hmmm.
Now, I feel as though I have armed little S. Not only with knowledge (I am sure he's heard the expression like a million times) that he can share with his mini cohorts; but also with a certain power. It's kind of alarming. Like having a small nuclear device in the trunk of your car.
Let's hope he uses his new found power for good, rather than evil. Although he has been so mischievous lately, it would not surprise me at all for him to get caught flipping the bird at another losing squad. But, also it would not surprise me at all for him to look up at the disciplinarian with wide, pathetic eyes a la Puss in Boots from Shrek, and say, who, me? I was just showing them the score. How could THAT be naughty?
That kid is trouble. f#$%
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Crazy like a fox
I took Clooney to the vet yesterday. He's been licking and chewing at his skin for weeks now, and it's to the point that he's driven to distraction by itching.
I didn't go to the regular vet. The regular vet is the guy who gives rabies shots, flea repellent, heart worm prevention. The regular vet is the guy who has giant posters of anatomical cross sections illustrating cat's urinary systems and dog's inner ear. The regular vet has Milk Bones in a jar and rewards Fido for a nice, passive inspection process. The regular vet has an office with technicians and is, you know, regular.
I went to Dr. Apocalypse. Dr. Smoke and Mirrors, Dr. Magic Wand, Dr. Pixie Dust. Dr. Pixie Dust has NO pharmaceutical-sponsored diagrams. Dr. PD has a bag of Purina with a skull and crossbones drawn on it. Dr. PD has a Milk Bone Box with the nuclear waste icon. Dr. PD's office is like going into a palm reader's lair. Walking through the door suspends all disbelief. Walking through the door transfixes you, engages you, and absolutely renders everything you hear in that examination room compelling, factual and completely plausible. Despite the fact that there's a 50-50 chance Dr. Pixie Dust is a quack.
A few things about Dr. PD--he is an actual DVM. He got his degree at Auburn. (Which, for the record, has an excellent animal health program) He is by and large sane in his appearance. It's what he says that is alternately paranoid bat-shit crazy and completely and totally true.
In his examination room, I listen to what he has to say (and he DOES have a lot to say) and I think about the world, the toxins humans pour into it every day, and the new "science" of food. Then, I pay my bill, go outside and see the bright, shining light of day, and think, "nah. That was nuts."
We first visited Dr. PD when we got Clooney. He gave us his lecture on the four horsemen of the Apocalypse: milk, wheat, soy and corn. Not what you were expecting, eh? He explained that these products should not be in dog food, and are inserted in various amounts to add volume cheaply. These foods, he very rationally told us, are toxic to dogs, and to humans (a big leap, yes. But WAY beyond the purview of this blog right now) and that we need to feed the dog limited ingredient foods developed by such noteworthy dog-food companies as Dick Van Patten (of Eight is Enough. I wish I were making this up.) These food brands include such non-traditional combinations as salmon and sweet potato, bison and potato, duck and rice, elk and sweet potato.
I swear to God, every time I bought that bag of food, I laughed. In what Universe was a 12 pound dog, with only a faint genetic wisp of wolf left in his DNA meant to eat ELK? I mean is there anything funnier than the image of Clooney, long (well-maintained) hair blowing in the breeze like Fabio, chasing down a herd of elk, culling out the weak, and bringing one down with a swift leap and fierce bite to the throat?
Honestly, I am laughing now, just describing it.
After a while, Clooney grew bored? Ill? Intolerant? to the Dick Van Patten food. I went back and bought an alternate brand, whose name I can never recall, but whose bag looks much like a tampon/Masengill ad. The packaging offers water color renderings of open prairies, deer and bear standing harmoniously together, fish jumping in the stream. It's like Snow White's menstrual cycle, illustrated. Clooney ate this brand with enthusiasm for weeks.
But then. The Itch.
Poor Clooney. He has been itchy and licky and miserable. Without exaggeration, he will sit and lick his feet (a notorious sign of allergy or skin irritation) for more than an hour at a time. I'm thinking to myself, I'm feeding the Masengill food, what more could be wrong with this poor dog? I then started reading about environmental allergens. Did you know that some dogs are allergic to GRASS?
OK. That does make the fantasy of Clooney hunting the elk even more comedic. Now he is sneezing uncontrollably as he's stalking the herd.
Maybe Clooney, in all the generations of tinkering that have been done to his genes, suffers from grass allergy. What the hell, Dr. PD probably knows about this.
I go in to Dr. PD. Without examining the dog, he begins his diatribe. I intervene early, not wanting to listen to the litany of ailments caused by corn gluten. (And there is a list, by the way.) I proudly announce that I feed my dog Masengill dog food, fresh non-municipal water, offer him no treats or human food, and bathe him only in unscented, unperfumed oatmeal based baby shampoos.
AHA! I must be the perfect client for Dr. PD! I think for SURE I am going to get a quick rundown of what to do and be out the door.
Wrong. He begins to tell me about the cellular process of allergy. About mast cells, and histamines and leukotrienes, and nano-charges of cells. I start to have flashbacks to our first visit. We had this little puppy and got a huge lecture about food, and the dog fell asleep, and M swears he fell into a corn-gluten-induced coma. And we all left the office shaking our heads and thinking this guy was a nut job. Until we bought conventional, non-Masengill brand dog food and the dog barfed non-stop for a week, developed a yeast infection in his ear, and developed malaise unlike any puppy should have. We tried the Dick Van Patten stuff within a week, and voila! Perfect Puppy. Crap. Hate it when the nutjob is right.
So, back to the current appointment. I blacked out for a while during the part about nanovolts of human cells and free radicals. But then he said something that started to resonate: this has been the worst allergy summer for humans and animals in the past 15 years. (This is documented fact, per the news) during the oil spill, hundreds of thousands of gallons of dispersant were sprayed over the gulf. This highly volatile dispersant, in Dr. PD's opinion, evaporated readily, was absorbed into the high humidity air over Mobile and, at the molecular level, has created poor air quality and stimulated everyone's allergy responses.
OK. STOP. I know. Bazillions of quantity of air in the world. Relatively small quantity of toxic crap. True. I get it. But, pollen levels are unusually low this year. AND, when my parents came, my mother's allergies went into hyperdrive. AND, government air quality standards have consistently identified Mobile's air as fair to poor all summer. AND, who trusts the government or BP to tell us what REALLY went on this summer? Perhaps the dispersants are the equivalent of thousands of poorly-maintained diesel trucks driving around? I'm just saying. It's possible right?
In the end, Dr PD suggested I make Clooney home cooked meals for 5 days to see if the licking stops. If the licking stops, we can start examining the food for triggers to the itching. If the licking doesn't stop, we can try a drug for 5 days to see if the licking is externally caused. If the licking stops then, we wait for the heat and humidity to die down along with the quantity of pollutants in the air.
Oh, fine. You're right. In the light of day, this all sounds like nonsense and insanity. It's like recounting a dream you had to some one and you realize that describing a monkey in a wizarding outfit offering you a telephone made of cheez-its really doesn't do justice to the strangeness of the dream, but instead makes you sound like a raving lunatic. I'm just saying.
If the dog stops licking, I'm going to let you know.
Because Dr. PD will be promoted to Grand Poobah of the Pixie Dust and I will begin following his advice on EVERYTHING. Except maybe fluoride. Fluoride HAS to be good for you, right? Seriously. Doesn't it? Right?
I didn't go to the regular vet. The regular vet is the guy who gives rabies shots, flea repellent, heart worm prevention. The regular vet is the guy who has giant posters of anatomical cross sections illustrating cat's urinary systems and dog's inner ear. The regular vet has Milk Bones in a jar and rewards Fido for a nice, passive inspection process. The regular vet has an office with technicians and is, you know, regular.
I went to Dr. Apocalypse. Dr. Smoke and Mirrors, Dr. Magic Wand, Dr. Pixie Dust. Dr. Pixie Dust has NO pharmaceutical-sponsored diagrams. Dr. PD has a bag of Purina with a skull and crossbones drawn on it. Dr. PD has a Milk Bone Box with the nuclear waste icon. Dr. PD's office is like going into a palm reader's lair. Walking through the door suspends all disbelief. Walking through the door transfixes you, engages you, and absolutely renders everything you hear in that examination room compelling, factual and completely plausible. Despite the fact that there's a 50-50 chance Dr. Pixie Dust is a quack.
A few things about Dr. PD--he is an actual DVM. He got his degree at Auburn. (Which, for the record, has an excellent animal health program) He is by and large sane in his appearance. It's what he says that is alternately paranoid bat-shit crazy and completely and totally true.
In his examination room, I listen to what he has to say (and he DOES have a lot to say) and I think about the world, the toxins humans pour into it every day, and the new "science" of food. Then, I pay my bill, go outside and see the bright, shining light of day, and think, "nah. That was nuts."
We first visited Dr. PD when we got Clooney. He gave us his lecture on the four horsemen of the Apocalypse: milk, wheat, soy and corn. Not what you were expecting, eh? He explained that these products should not be in dog food, and are inserted in various amounts to add volume cheaply. These foods, he very rationally told us, are toxic to dogs, and to humans (a big leap, yes. But WAY beyond the purview of this blog right now) and that we need to feed the dog limited ingredient foods developed by such noteworthy dog-food companies as Dick Van Patten (of Eight is Enough. I wish I were making this up.) These food brands include such non-traditional combinations as salmon and sweet potato, bison and potato, duck and rice, elk and sweet potato.
I swear to God, every time I bought that bag of food, I laughed. In what Universe was a 12 pound dog, with only a faint genetic wisp of wolf left in his DNA meant to eat ELK? I mean is there anything funnier than the image of Clooney, long (well-maintained) hair blowing in the breeze like Fabio, chasing down a herd of elk, culling out the weak, and bringing one down with a swift leap and fierce bite to the throat?
Honestly, I am laughing now, just describing it.
After a while, Clooney grew bored? Ill? Intolerant? to the Dick Van Patten food. I went back and bought an alternate brand, whose name I can never recall, but whose bag looks much like a tampon/Masengill ad. The packaging offers water color renderings of open prairies, deer and bear standing harmoniously together, fish jumping in the stream. It's like Snow White's menstrual cycle, illustrated. Clooney ate this brand with enthusiasm for weeks.
But then. The Itch.
Poor Clooney. He has been itchy and licky and miserable. Without exaggeration, he will sit and lick his feet (a notorious sign of allergy or skin irritation) for more than an hour at a time. I'm thinking to myself, I'm feeding the Masengill food, what more could be wrong with this poor dog? I then started reading about environmental allergens. Did you know that some dogs are allergic to GRASS?
OK. That does make the fantasy of Clooney hunting the elk even more comedic. Now he is sneezing uncontrollably as he's stalking the herd.
Maybe Clooney, in all the generations of tinkering that have been done to his genes, suffers from grass allergy. What the hell, Dr. PD probably knows about this.
I go in to Dr. PD. Without examining the dog, he begins his diatribe. I intervene early, not wanting to listen to the litany of ailments caused by corn gluten. (And there is a list, by the way.) I proudly announce that I feed my dog Masengill dog food, fresh non-municipal water, offer him no treats or human food, and bathe him only in unscented, unperfumed oatmeal based baby shampoos.
AHA! I must be the perfect client for Dr. PD! I think for SURE I am going to get a quick rundown of what to do and be out the door.
Wrong. He begins to tell me about the cellular process of allergy. About mast cells, and histamines and leukotrienes, and nano-charges of cells. I start to have flashbacks to our first visit. We had this little puppy and got a huge lecture about food, and the dog fell asleep, and M swears he fell into a corn-gluten-induced coma. And we all left the office shaking our heads and thinking this guy was a nut job. Until we bought conventional, non-Masengill brand dog food and the dog barfed non-stop for a week, developed a yeast infection in his ear, and developed malaise unlike any puppy should have. We tried the Dick Van Patten stuff within a week, and voila! Perfect Puppy. Crap. Hate it when the nutjob is right.
So, back to the current appointment. I blacked out for a while during the part about nanovolts of human cells and free radicals. But then he said something that started to resonate: this has been the worst allergy summer for humans and animals in the past 15 years. (This is documented fact, per the news) during the oil spill, hundreds of thousands of gallons of dispersant were sprayed over the gulf. This highly volatile dispersant, in Dr. PD's opinion, evaporated readily, was absorbed into the high humidity air over Mobile and, at the molecular level, has created poor air quality and stimulated everyone's allergy responses.
OK. STOP. I know. Bazillions of quantity of air in the world. Relatively small quantity of toxic crap. True. I get it. But, pollen levels are unusually low this year. AND, when my parents came, my mother's allergies went into hyperdrive. AND, government air quality standards have consistently identified Mobile's air as fair to poor all summer. AND, who trusts the government or BP to tell us what REALLY went on this summer? Perhaps the dispersants are the equivalent of thousands of poorly-maintained diesel trucks driving around? I'm just saying. It's possible right?
In the end, Dr PD suggested I make Clooney home cooked meals for 5 days to see if the licking stops. If the licking stops, we can start examining the food for triggers to the itching. If the licking doesn't stop, we can try a drug for 5 days to see if the licking is externally caused. If the licking stops then, we wait for the heat and humidity to die down along with the quantity of pollutants in the air.
Oh, fine. You're right. In the light of day, this all sounds like nonsense and insanity. It's like recounting a dream you had to some one and you realize that describing a monkey in a wizarding outfit offering you a telephone made of cheez-its really doesn't do justice to the strangeness of the dream, but instead makes you sound like a raving lunatic. I'm just saying.
If the dog stops licking, I'm going to let you know.
Because Dr. PD will be promoted to Grand Poobah of the Pixie Dust and I will begin following his advice on EVERYTHING. Except maybe fluoride. Fluoride HAS to be good for you, right? Seriously. Doesn't it? Right?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
An Open Letter
Dear Jerk,
Lemme tell you a few things that are on my mind right now:
1. If you are going to insist on stealing a credit card number, go ahead and don't take mine.
2. Once you have stolen a credit card number, don't be a total douche and spend $700 at FOOTLOCKER in MILAN. Really? In all of Milan, you couldn't find a better place to buy shoes? Milan, buddy. Headquarters of shoes coveted by everyone everywhere and you went to Footlocker. Christ, some half-wit in Jersey could steal a credit card and go to Footlocker. I really expected better fashion sense from an Italian.
3. Also, next time, could you steal my card on a Monday or Tuesday? That would give the company a few business days to send me a new card. Stealing a card on a Thursday afternoon really louses up my whole weekend.
4. Seriously. Footlocker?
5. Really, your timing sucked. I got my iphone last week. And I got the crappy data plan with it. So, I went and got a router so that I could have wi-fi in the house. M was crazy busy last week, so he didn't hook it up until Saturday morning. Which meant that by the time I FINALLY had my router, I had no credit card to buy new apps. Which annoys me beyond reason.
6. I think that as punishment for stealing the credit card number, YOU should have to go to all of our autopay sites and update them with the new credit card information when we get it. Seriously. It's annoying. And I just know that we'll think we've got them all done, and then a PAST DUE notice will come and we'll realize we totally forgot to update something important, like the water bill, and then I'll have soapy hair and be stuck in a dry shower, and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT.
7. Maybe, if you need sneakers or trainersor whatever they call them in Italy, so badly, you could get a job at Footlocker. For real, right? They hire just about anybody. And you clearly have some computer knowledge as you managed to intercept my credit card number. Go ahead and get a job, ok?
8. Finally, and I say this sincerely: if I were to find out who you are, I would send the angry hoard of Capital One vikings out to avenge me. And then you had better hope that the sneakers you STOLE help you run fast, because those guys will show no mercy.
Sincerely,
Julie P.
Lemme tell you a few things that are on my mind right now:
1. If you are going to insist on stealing a credit card number, go ahead and don't take mine.
2. Once you have stolen a credit card number, don't be a total douche and spend $700 at FOOTLOCKER in MILAN. Really? In all of Milan, you couldn't find a better place to buy shoes? Milan, buddy. Headquarters of shoes coveted by everyone everywhere and you went to Footlocker. Christ, some half-wit in Jersey could steal a credit card and go to Footlocker. I really expected better fashion sense from an Italian.
3. Also, next time, could you steal my card on a Monday or Tuesday? That would give the company a few business days to send me a new card. Stealing a card on a Thursday afternoon really louses up my whole weekend.
4. Seriously. Footlocker?
5. Really, your timing sucked. I got my iphone last week. And I got the crappy data plan with it. So, I went and got a router so that I could have wi-fi in the house. M was crazy busy last week, so he didn't hook it up until Saturday morning. Which meant that by the time I FINALLY had my router, I had no credit card to buy new apps. Which annoys me beyond reason.
6. I think that as punishment for stealing the credit card number, YOU should have to go to all of our autopay sites and update them with the new credit card information when we get it. Seriously. It's annoying. And I just know that we'll think we've got them all done, and then a PAST DUE notice will come and we'll realize we totally forgot to update something important, like the water bill, and then I'll have soapy hair and be stuck in a dry shower, and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT.
7. Maybe, if you need sneakers or trainersor whatever they call them in Italy, so badly, you could get a job at Footlocker. For real, right? They hire just about anybody. And you clearly have some computer knowledge as you managed to intercept my credit card number. Go ahead and get a job, ok?
8. Finally, and I say this sincerely: if I were to find out who you are, I would send the angry hoard of Capital One vikings out to avenge me. And then you had better hope that the sneakers you STOLE help you run fast, because those guys will show no mercy.
Sincerely,
Julie P.
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