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Complete Nonsense

Hope You Like Bison

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Photo credit: lightfoot via morguefile.com
Photo credit: lighfoot via morguefile.com

Sometimes you have something important to get off your chest before you can settle down to rest.

This was the case with Nora last night. She couldn’t sleep until she told me:

Three reasons you shouldn’t try to kill a bison with a spear.

The first reason is that you may not be able to bury the spear deep enough in the bison, or it may simply bounce off the bison, in which case the bison may become angry and ram you.

I can’t remember the second reason and neither could Nora this morning when I asked her for clarification. So, sorry, hope this doesn’t haunt you. If it makes you feel better, I suspect there were only two reasons, and we were both too sleepy to count properly.

The third reason is that you may actually be successful and then what would you do? As Nora put it, “Geez, I hope you like bison! They’re so big some of it might go to waste.”

So, there you go. Once I was in possession of the knowledge, I had to share it with all of you. Mainly because I really need some sleep tonight.

The New Guy

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Meet Charlie, the new guy. We got him in September, when the dog-lessness of our house became unbearable (to two-thirds of us).

He is a cuddle bug. With the world’s longest tail. (18 inches. Ben measured.)

But he has some issues.

He’s a rescue, and as such, he classifies the entire world into two categories: things to eat and things to fear. We’re working through it all, but it’s a lot of, well, work. 

Sometimes, we don’t do such a great job of keeping on top of his needs. As every responsible dog owner knows, doggie mistakes are really human mistakes.

Which brings me to:

A non-exhaustive list of things Charlie has eaten, chewed, defecated on, vomited on or otherwise destroyed since his adoption:

(Really, this list should really be in a big globby paragraph — Salinger style — but in this internet age we need bulleted lists or our little heads might explode.)

  • Living room rug (soiled)
  • Replacement living room rug (chewed)
  • Hallway rug (chewed)
  • Nora’s mattress (vomited on)
  • Food dispensing rolling toy (chewed threads on cap, rendering it useless)
  • Replacement food dispensing rolling toy (chewed threads on cap, rendering it useless)
  • Harness (chewed right off of himself)
  • Countless hair ties (eaten)
  • Beeswax (eaten)
  • Fire wood (eaten)
  • Wads of wool batting (eaten)
  • Upstairs wall to wall carpeting (soiled)
  • Sheets (chewed)
  • Dog bed (chewed and shredded)
  • Replacement dog bed (chewed and shredded)
  • Slippers (chewed)
  • Binder for storing film negatives (peed on)
  • Pink plastic headband (eaten)
  • Rain boots (chewed)
  • Miniature garden (chewed)
  • North Face sleeping bag (peed on)
  • Sweater sleeve (eaten)
  • Wicker basket (chewed)
  • Duvet cover (chewed)

And all this has occurred even with the judicious use of baby gates and a considerably bully stick budget.

Miraculously, none of these ingestion events have landed him in the emergency room. But if one ever does, we had the good sense to get pet health insurance this time.

As most of you know, Charlie has big shoes to fill. An eight-year-old well trained purebred lab he is not. He’s just a year old, full of energy and uncertain of the world. But with lots training and lots of love, he’ll grow into the role of steadfast companion.

Speaking of growing, in the short time we’ve had him, he’s gone from fifty-five pounds to over seventy. Which leads me to worry, perhaps he’s growing into the tail?

How to Show Your Guests a Good Time – Portland Style

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Perhaps you have important guests coming in from out of town?  Your husband’s beloved grandfather (Papa) and uncle who’ve never been to Portland?  I can help!

Your guests will be tired from travel. But not so tired that they don’t immediately notice that your front yard is full of dog crap. Quickly steer them into the house.  The first thing to do is feed them, of course. Just make sure the dishes you feed them on have that weird residue from the dishwasher.

After dinner, give them the tour of your quarter acre urban farm, being sure to stop in the basement to look at the piles of laundry and the smelly, yet adorable, baby chicks.  Then make them stand around outside in the rain looking at your chicken coop and overgrown lawn when all they really want to do is sit by the fire and talk to your four-year-old who they only get to see once a year. She will cooperate by burying her head in your chest and grunting whenever they address her. Once she warms up, she will deliver ear piercing  girl screams to show her affection. At this point, advise that hearing aides should be turned down.

Let your guests return to their hotel for some much needed rest. Your husband has a role to play here, too. After closing up the chicken coop for the night, he should decide that one of the chickens definitely needs to go into the vet, as her butt looks like those red-assed monkeys you can’t help staring at at the zoo. Make an appointment to drop her off in the morning, you can squeeze it in during the grand tour you are planning, it will just take a few minutes.

In the morning, instruct your husband to ready a large box to house your giant chicken for transport to the vet.  As you guests arrive, recruit one of them to take over cooking breakfast while you and your husband wrangle a 12 pound chicken into said box. Leave your husband to finish cooking and scurry off to the vet.

The vet’s office will instruct you to return for your chicken in two hours, so, take a wrong turn on the way home to add another twenty minutes to your already half hour return drive. Once you’re home, it’s time to being the tour of the Rose City! Pile into the car, passenger seat for Papa, of course. Your husband drives and you ride on the hump squeezed between uncle and large car seat.

Make a stop of your daughter’s school. Brilliant photo opportunity. Wow, it’s time to pick up the chicken already!

But when you get there, it won’t be. You will sit in the lobby, with guests, four-year-old and husband waiting in the car, for a ludicrously long time, while every bird keeper in Portland waits with you.

Because they are gracious and midwestern, your guests will forgive you. But God only knows what they must be thinking. Finally, after nearly an hour and half, the vet pulls you to an exam room to tell you that your chicken has lice and a mild uterine infection. You get to give her — a chicken who won’t come within 3 feet of you of her own volition — antibiotics twice a day for seven days.

But the monkey butt? Completely normal.

Fork over enough money to buy a flock of 30 baby chicks to treat a chicken who hates you and heft your box of poultry out to the car, wedging it into the space between the passenger seat and the back seat on the floor, your four-year-old’s legs resting atop it.

This is where you all break into giggles. There is a chicken in the car. At least there will be a story for your guests to tell their friends when they get back. Never mind that everyone in Minnesota will think you’ve become a hopeless west coast flake. Own it.

Now that you’re off to such an aupicious start, the rest will likely take care of itself. Make a stop at Powells Books, the International Rose Test Garden and the St. John’s Bridge. Your guests will be so relieved that they are no longer locked in a sedan with a sick chicken, they’re sure to fall in love with P-town.

Surrogate Sisterhood

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Nora’s fed up with this no baby sister nonsense.

About a month ago, she threatened to kidnap a baby. Her friend Ruby was expecting a little sibling at any moment. I asked Ruby if she thought she was getting a little brother or a little sister. Nora interrupted, “If it’s a girl, I’m going to steal it,” she deadpanned. “For real.” Poor Ruby looked horrified.

Saturday night, rather than sleep, Nora had an all out break down over the injustice of it all. “It’s not fair,” she complained. “I really want a baby sister.”

“Well, when you’re a grown up, you can have all the babies you want.”

“But that won’t be a sister.” Nothing gets past this kid.

“But if I had a baby now, there’s no guarantee it would be a girl. It could be a baby brother.”

“Well, I don’t want that. Maybe somebody else will give their girl to us.”

“Most people want to keep their babies. I don’t think you’re going to find someone to give you a baby.”

This brought on racking, angry sobs. “But it’s not fair! You get to have a sister!”

“You’re right, it’s not fair. Hey, tomorrow, do you want me to call aunt Rachel and ask her if she’ll be your sister, too?”

“Yeah,” she sniffed.

“Okay, we’ll give her a call.”

First thing Sunday morning, Nora said, “Do you remember last night when I was angry about not having a sister?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can we call Rachel?”

So we called my sister in Minnesota. I put her on speaker phone.

“Hey, Rach. Listen, um, Nora’s really upset about not having a sister, so I told her I’d call and ask if you’d be her sister, too.”

“Sure, I can do that. Nora, do you want to be the big sister or the little sister?”

“Big sister.”

“Okay, I’ll be the little sister. I have lots of practice at that. It’s settled then. You’ll be my big sister and I’ll make sure all parties on this end are informed.”

She meant Nora’s uncle, cousins and grandparents. Or I guess, now that they’re sisters, it would be Nora’s brother-in-law, nephews and parents?

I’m so confused. But it’s a lot simpler than having another baby.

#SeniorHottie

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I love nothing more than to make a fool of myself (for proof, just read this post on potty training).

So when Liz from A Belle, A Bean and a Chicago Dog offered a chance to mock my 17-year-old self, I gleefully dug up my scrap book.

But I found that, except for the haircut, there wasn’t much to ridicule.  (The haircut was short lived, no one in Central Minnesota had the skills to give me the Meg Ryan pixie I was going for.)

I didn’t have Chewbacca eyebrows, as I had gay friends who ruthlessly plucked them along with pushing back my cuticles.

I never wore braces.

I don’t recall my skin being this glowy and clear, so I’m going to thank the airbrush.

I’m not leaned against a fake tree, clutching a band instrument (I gave up french horn in the sixth grade).

So, I’m left in the strange position of posting something I’m not mortified to share.

But dammit if my hair wasn’t more red then.  Humph.