What happens at the kennel stays at the kennel

Attention, burglars: we'll be out of town for Mardi Gras this year. So, I had to make reservations at the dogtel for Clooney. Until dogs are allowed on cruises, he is relegated to shore. Holland America does not like the idea of dog poo on their decks, I guess.

Clooney has traditionally stayed at the vet's office. However, when we pick him up, it always seems like he's been on a terrible bender: he's got nasty junk in his eyes, and he smells like his own pee, and basically I feel like I'm picking him up in the middle of the worst hangover of his life.

I just can't get behind that. I feel terrible that he's been spending an entire day barking his head off while trapped in a little crate. It's unpleasant. And maybe it's not his pee that he smells of--maybe it's from the crate above him--and that's just wrong. NOBODY (except those freaks on HBO) want to be pee'd on without consent. That's just gross.

So, I ask around for suggestions. Of course, CC has a dog. And CC's dog stays at the pet motel. I call the pet motel, and they offer 2 services: Indoor/Outdoor facility and suites.

First, their Indoor/Outdoor option is nearly 2x as much money as the vet's rent-a-box. But, pweshus wittle cwoonsey will get his own bed, and a doggie door to the outside whenever he wants/needs to go. Seems humane. The indoors are heated and cooled to 72 degrees. Which is good, since he gets cold easily.

The Dog Suite option cracks me up. It is more than 3x the vet's rent-a-box, but get this--features human day bed, real plasma TV, and a phone jack with speaker phone so that humans can check on their canine campers. This option provides same doggie door access to the outdoors and 4x/day human interaction.

First of all, if I'm the human interactor, I'm a little bitter that the dog is livin' in the lap o' luxury and I'm wearing doggie themed scrubs and am picking up his crap. Maybe the tech just goes in and watches TV with the dog. Maybe there's playtime. Who knows? It's a freaking dog.

But, then I got to thinking that maybe there's doggie pay per view. Wouldn't it be hilarious if you go to check out Rover and he's run up a HUGE ppv bill? A combination of bad animal flicks like The Chipmunks (a movie about potential food items) and Marmaduke (a buddy flick) and Marley and Me (a doggie tearjerker) and Dog PORN?!?

I love it. I could sit here all day and think of dog porn movie titles, but for G rated purposes, one is already an ACTUAL movie "Cats and Dogs 2: The Revenge of Kitty Galore." Imagine Rover guiltily looking out the window to see if anyone's watching, stepping on the red button on the remote that looks like a tail, and kickin' back with a rawhide treat watching some doggie love.

I googled dog sex, to see if I could find something humorous to post to this article, but now simply just want to wash my eyes. I did find this, however, which tickles my funny bone:

Yes, that is a white fluffy dog humping a doggie sex toy. Again, I find myself imagining the human being working for the company that makes these toys. Picture a Chinese factory worker, getting paid some horrifyingly small amount to make these dogs. "I wonder where these beautiful toys wind up," he asks himself. "Perhaps they are toys for wonderfully happy children." "Or maybe, they are virtual companions for disabled people."

Nope, Sorry. The toxic fumes you inhale every day which are probably going to kill you, Xi, for which you are chained to the assembly line and get paid a nickel and a half per day under inhumane conditions with repetitive motion and no light is to build a toy for Americans' dogs to hump. Bummer.

ANYPOODLES, poor Clooney The Mistreated is getting basic services only. No sex doll, no cable porn. He's just gonna have to ogle the chihuahua in the dog run next door.

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?

Power tool porn

Sometimes, the fantasy doesn't live up to the reality.
For instance, I am sure George Clooney would cheat on me, and despite our fantastic good looks and fame, we would be miserably unhappy and I would have to sneak cookies past my Pilates instructor, chef, and nutritionist, and then I would feel guilty, and I'd have to go shopping in Italy to assuage my guilt, and then, I would have to buy something for George to make up for the enormous amount of money I'd spent, so I would jauntily jet back to the Villa at Lake Como with a beautiful gift like a Doucati, and have to apologize for my naughtiness and he would forgive me and we would spend the evening together admiring our beauty and watching reruns of Bones on TV in our deliciously soft hotel quality linens.
OK. So, maybe that fantasy has some possibilities.
But there are other disappointments. The fantasy of children is nowhere near the reality. The children don't just drop by in their perfect pajamas, smelling sweet, to kiss us goodnight. They're here all the frickin' time. And they're noisy and want stuff, and ew.
I read today in the Wall Street Journal, courtesy of a posting on Facebook, that bamboo fabric is basically rayon viscose. It is chemically engineered, and must undergo an incredibly toxic process to become a fiber, and is not ecological at all, or biodegradable, or even luxurious. It's pretty much the same stuff as my pretty pink Barbie nightie from when I was four. Disappointment. (Thanks, MS, for the reference).
Porn, too doesn't always work out as planned. In theory, your man is going to find it hot, and you are going to find it hot, and there you'll be, all bothered and desperate for each other and suddenly your sex life will be invigorated and perfect. But what really happens is that the plot is ridiculous and the dialogue so hideously bad that you take turns mocking it. And then, in a close-up, the high def TV reveals the worst complexion any woman has ever had, and all you can think of is the horrific rashes that STDs cause, and then you're both revolted, and turned off, and you turn on football, put your fuzzy socks back on, and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Running is a fantasy I occasionally indulge. I'll be all lithe and smooth while out there running in my (of course, new) running clothes. And this time will be different than the last, because I'm in the right place for running. And, I take my ipod and whip my hair into a stubby little pony tail, and take off down the street. And like 200 yards later, I have a stitch, and I've tripped like 4 times on cracks on the sidewalk in front of a crowded stoplight, and I run something like Phoebe from Friends, and the whole thing is best done in private on the treadmill at a speed more approximating a walk.
But today, TODAY. I pressure washed the carport, and oh, it was as good as I imagined. I broke down and bought an electric washer, which is inferior to gas in terms of psi, but superior in terms of storage and loudness, and I put it to use. I washed and bleached the trash can, the recycle bins, the kids plastic outside toys, the steps, the concrete, the decomposing hot tub, EVERYTHING. It's all gleaming. A terrific success. Nothing is stinky or dustbunnied, or leafy, or spiderwebby. It's all just clean. And my feet are pruny, and my pants are soaked, but lo, the carport is clean. And the magical washer has found its place in the shed for the next time I need it to work its wonders of cleanliness. My pressure washing fantasy has been fulfilled.

OMG! Season Premiere Night!

So, yes. It's only a TV show.
OMG.
It's fake. It's pretend.
It'shere It'shere It'shere!!!
It isn't REAL. It's just TV.
I know I know I know. Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod.
HOORAY!
I am squealing like a tween at Zac Efron.
TV season starts this week. Finally. This summer was the longest summer offseason for football, and because of the Hollywood Writers' Strike, this year's TV schedule was all messed up, too. I WANT MY TV, DAMMIT.
And it starts tonight tonight tonight! I am unreasonably excited about the season premiere of Bones. Good characters, good dialogue, good chemistry. M and I watched last season's finale today and I got all fired up about the premiere. I love resolution of cliffhangers. Especially ones that will (hopefully) clarify the relationship subplot between two of my favorite TV characters.
There was Angela and Tony, David and Maddie, Ross and Rachel,Joey and Dawson, Mulder and Scully, Buffy and Angel. Now I have Barney and Robin. Booth and Brennan. Like every other unabashed TV junkie, I have rooted for these relationships season after season. Sure, the romance diminishes the show. Sure, the shows generally jump the shark after the romance blooms. Nonetheless, I still root for it, I still grin and clap stupidly when the chemistry peaks, and I never get tired of a well-written romance (sub)plot in a good TV show.
Why the goofy enthusiasm for TV, you ask. Don't you have a life, you ask. Well, frankly, no. My life is that of normal married person with children. I don't have friends to meet in a bar at all hours of the night. I don't have murders to solve, bones to analyze, DNA scans to rush. I am not a suspiciously frequent victim of crime. So, no. I do not have a lot going on in my life, and frankly, I'm pretty glad.
I can sit down with some ice cream. (My friend Cici has said that if you stuff a bunch of raisins in your mouth all at once, you can pretend it's a brownie. Either Cici has never had a proper brownie, or she's finding some freaking awesome raisins.) I can ogle my TV man candy, (M LOVES it when I do that. He will provoke: "OOOH. Look at that charming smile. Ooh. I bet you love it. Why don't you marry it?" But I don't care about his 3rd grade ridicule. One, because I'm behaving like a third grader when I get all starry eyed about my TVMC, and two, because I don't care. My family is cared for, my job is done for the day, and for one short hour, I can be starry eyed and daydreamy and giggly if I want to. I can free my inner tween if I want to.
In fact, I used to have pin-up posters of my TV crushes (and George Clooney, whom, despite my love, I never watched on ER.) on the inside of the cabinet door at my desk. Publicity shots, headshots from imdb.com, pullouts from fan mags (I only bought them for the posters), whatever. It was, literally, a closet obsession. When we left Missouri, the pictures didn't make it with us. Despite that milestone in growth toward adulthood, I regress every evening to soak up my primetime faves.
3 hours and counting...

The Rhymes With Bucket List

Every night (evening. I generally try to be in bed between 8:45 and 9:15.)when my brain is finally quiet (not functioning, mind you, I literally mean quiet. Without children shouting, dogs barking, music blaring) I begin to think about the next morning's Cinnamon. Sometimes, I just go through the incidents, accidents, and funnies from the day. Sometimes, I think about something that makes me wildly angry or annoyed. Occasionally, I get nothing.
Last night was one of those nights. Yesterday was completely uneventful: I think I'm getting sick, so I took a nap, rested, did laundry, rested and did nothing. The things that really outraged me are political in nature, and I try to avoid politics here. And, so...
I am brought back to my untimely ageing.
This time, though, I was thinking about my TV crush and his wife, who just had a baby together. To quote Carrie Fischer's character from When Harry Met Sally, "He's never going to leave her." Sad, but true. I mean TV Crush MIGHT leave his ex-Playmate wife, but that certainly doesn't mean he's going to take up with me. Sadly. Then there is the whole coming to terms with the fact that my TV crush is married to an ex-Playmate. In my fantasy life, in addition to being handsome, he is thoughtful, and deep, and funny, and charming, and not at all self-absorbed. How to reconcile THIS with the fact that he's married to a woman whose film credits include "Buxom Blonde #1" and "Bombshell #1" and "BJ Cummings"? I am pained. Really, couldn't he be married to a slightly overweight woman with a really interesting face and a compelling daily blog?
Though, while I complain about this woman's ALLEGED shallowness, (We don't want to get sued or anything.) I am going to reveal a deep, dark secret of my marriage.
We each have a List. A list of people (must be reasonably considered celebrities. Putting your hubby's best friend or your next door neighbor would be cheating. Not to mention highly suspect.) with whom, given the opportunity, we would each be allowed to fool around with. It's a free pass. Because, hey, who wants a pesky thing like your marriage to get in the way of a once in a lifetime opportunity to fool around with a B list TV star?
So. Now that I have shared the concept of the list, and I highly encourage you to make one, I will share the contents of my list with you. No snickering. Seriously. Stop it. My list is in no order, because of course, opportunity arises when you least expect it.
1. John Cusack (nostalgic romp)
2. Johnny Depp (intellectual, French romp)
3. David Boreanaz (every week in my living room via TV romp)
4. George Clooney (goes without saying romp)
5. Matt Damon (how do you like them apples romp)
6. John Mayer (just to confirm the rumors romp)
7. Daniel Craig(British Bond romp)
8. Hugh Grant (yah, I said it. I like floppy hair. And accents. Oh, just shut up.)
9. Jon Stewart (smart, well-informed newsy Jewish romp)
10. Depends on what Oscar Party I get invited to....

So, the list lacks a certain degree of diversity. But this reflects no personal bias, but rather a lack of completely hot roles for minorities in Hollywood movies. Also, as some one once pointed out to me, my list has no women on it. Thanks for that observation.
So. If you, gentle readers, know any of these handsome gentlemen, and one night y'all are hanging out, and he happens to remark that he'd really like to hook up with a middle aged housewife, don't fail to give him my name just because I'm married. Thanks.

Man Lives My Fantasy

Why, in all of my dreams, does it go so much more smoothly? And so much less embarrassingly? And end so differently? And, why, in my fantasy does my body look, um, better?