What are you afraid of?

Jann Arden tweeted today "NEVER tell people what you're afraid of."

Well, I certainly couldn't tweet it because 140 characters even times 400 wouldn't take care of everything that I'm afraid of.

Brooke Shields: I have recurring nightmares in which she's chewing on my shoulder. CHEWING, not nibbling. And I can feel her eyelashes.

Fork in the neck: Just what happened to that frog in Grade 7 in the sadistic science teacher's insane classroom of horrors. I have to sit with my back to the wall wherever I go and airplanes are a constant upset. The fact that its spleen juice shot into my eye upon puncture, necessitating a trip to the emergency eye wash station on the very first day I ever in my life wore mascara? I think that was karma announcing itself. What if it is not yet done with me??

Bug under pillow: All pillows, everywhere, even hospitals. Even when stoned on morphine because of a broken kneecap, I squirmed up and around, upsetting the bedpan, to make sure that there were no bugs under the pillow. In Alberta. In the winter.

Pee dye: When you get to be of a certain age, continence is no longer a guarantee. I don't think I'm there yet, but it's coming. I would never EVER on purpose pee in anyone's pool, but what if a little happened and I was trailed by tell-tale green dye, letting everyone know I might be the sort of person who might just pee in someone else's pool. The smell of chlorine now fills me with a sense of criminality sort of like crossing borders with nothing to declare does.

Banana shortage: WHAT WOULD I DO.

Snake in midnight toilet: Obviously.

My dog knows when I'm lying: And is judging me.

"Tell me another one, sugar."

That this look of aloof disdain has nothing to do with his essential houndiness and everything to do with being disappointed in me. That he writes things down and one day everyone will know that I often do not walk him as often or for as long as I should.

The chair will collapse: In the restaurant and everyone will laff and I will have guacamole in my hair. Only Mexican restaurants affect me in this way.

My fingernails are just waiting to shatter, right up to the elbow: I believe this requires no further comment.

I will run someone over without realizing it and then everyone will think that not only am I a killer, but I am a heartless killer: So let me just try to clear that up right now. If I run you over, I'm really sorry about that and I really truly didn't do it on purpose. It's probably just that Leonard Cohen came on the radio and I had to make an emergency swiping gesture or put my fingers in my ears.

There you have it. And that's just what I could come up with in the last 5 minutes. We should totally grab a drink and talk more about me (or, I guess, you) one of these days. But not in a Mexican restaurant. Gracias.

Meet Elvis

This is Elvis:

He's a mixed hound, mostly coonhound, although with a little bloodhound or foxhound thrown in for good measure. He has many virtues.


He dances.

He accessorizes rather well.

He performs high-diving feats of derring-do.

He has a dignified bearing.





















He was once a Hurricane Katrina refugee from New Orleans. He was found under a truck near the intersection of Paris Road and Maria Drive. This is what it looks like from space:

He had a broken back leg, a broken jaw, heartworm, scars from where he'd been attacked by other dogs, and was starving to death. I won't show you the picture of him at the St Bernard Animal Shelter when those good people first took him in because it would make you cry. (If you have spare cash lying around, they would be glad of it--apparently the BP oil spill has forced lots of people to surrender pets they can no longer afford.)

Needless to say, we're not stingy with the gravy around here as far as he's concerned.

A nice American woman who lives around here rescued Elvie and three other large dogs, flying them to the Banff area and finding homes for them all. That first winter, Elvis was one perturbed coonhound--not just the ice and snow, but also the boots and ski sweaters.

It's been 5 years since Katrina. Up here in the voodoo bungalow, we cheer you New Orleansianites on, we wish hard for your recovery, and we're sorry that one of your finest citizens was forced to emigrate. We're taking pretty good care of him though, so don't worry about him in the slightest.

We're sure you'd do the same for us.

Relax and enjoy this soothing post about organic honey face masks

"With honey facemasks, you know that you will have nothing but good results since honey is all-natural. There is no need to worry about burns from harsh chemicals or products that hurt the environment. If it is good enough to eat, it is good enough for your skin. Apply the facemask two to four times a week and you will have soft glowing skin that you will simply love before you know it."

Aw, that sounds like such good advice. And from such a nice little source, too. Don't you feel more WHOLESOME just reading it?

Let me tell you what would happen if I wore an organic honey face mask for even the minimum 20 minutes that this site recommends.

1. Within 5 minutes I would look like a Wookie because of the coonhound hair drifting lushly through the air of this entire bungalow.
2. The fruit flies swarming in the kitchen would hear the dinner bell and then I would look like a Wookie with hygiene issues.
3. Kid would take this opportunity to sneeze wildly into the air in my vicinity. Unclean snot Wookie.

I could go on and on. Give me the nasty chemicals that are applied in the shower any day. I might be burnt and poisoned but altogether I think that might be a better look for me.

The magical exploding cappuccino maker

I originally sent this letter a couple of weeks ago under trying circumstances. I've not heard back from the probably very busy people to whom I sent it, but I thought perhaps if anyone else were trolling the Internet morosely, covered in foam, perhaps that person might take comfort in knowing that he or she was not alone.


Hello there, nice person at Stone Haven Group:

I just cleaned up my kitchen. That’s probably a good thing in general, although I would have preferred to have done it at leisure and not in my pyjamas. But, you see, there was hot milk and coffee all over the walls and the floors and underneath the stove and the dog was getting into it and, believe you me, the very last thing a girl needs three days before Christmas is a giant coonhound all buzzed out on Italian caffeine.

My Mukka doesn’t work. I just have to tell someone. It either produces lukewarm cappuccino, dribbles the water down the sides (despite my having rubbed a little oil into the grooves as suggested by a consumer site), or explodes dramatically—which, while fun to watch, doesn’t result in my dream life of sitting quietly with a glorious hot beverage while reading the paper. I have a PhD, albeit not in rocket science, and I feel I am essentially clever enough to be able to do this thing, this making cappuccino thing, and yet it never works. I’ve concluded there is a magic trick involved that I am not performing. If you know what it is, or know who I can talk to about it, I would be willing to learn an ancient language, or conduct furious hand gestures, or whatever it might take. I am at That Point.

Wishing you a lovely and non-dramatic holiday season,
Lorraine

Celebrity Dogs

I admit it, I check on Coco and Chuck all the time at dooce.com. Like, I go there, on purpose, because I'm curious what they'll make Chuck wear this time. The day he was balancing huggies on his nose was a memorable one. And the bonnet! Hoo, boy, don't get me going. Not going to spend any time pondering my rationale--I am a creature of deep mystery. I'll just add something of my own.

Elvis here, the Elvis shedding all over the Spiderman couch in my office, the Elvis who just ate about a dozen green apples as they fell from the tree, THAT Elvis, should be wearing a diamond encrusted tiara and perhaps an ermine wrap.

If that is the sort of outfit worn by the world's champeen dog farter.

Child "care"

A lovely friend was recently horrified by the bucket of dirty blocks her angelic 2.5-year-old was handed at a soon-to-be-hastily-abandoned childcare in the neighborhood.

Today I'm hosting that particular angel, her equally angelic (though steely-willed) older sister, my cousin's angelic 12-year-old, and Kid (streaming trails of glory, etc etc). They're in the living room, just down the hall from my office, each in a different chair, all playing DS/Leapster in dead silence. The house is a tip, there's a drooling coonhound licking their feet, roughly 18 million fruit flies in the kitchen, nothing even remotely resembling a healthy snack anywhere within walking distance, and inappropriate music being streamed on my Mac.

And yet how much better this is, for all of us. I will actually be sad when they're all back in school and I am left alone here with my little career. But at least I won't have to share the Pringles. . . .

This Week in Wisdom

1. Never regard the threat " . . . or I'll poo in my Batman jammies" as idle.
2. Even those of us with classic profiles can suffer the indignity of nose zits.
3. Booking a holiday more than two hours in advance of departure tempts the gods to throw some mucus your way.
4. It is completely worth however much it costs to have someone else deal with the coonhound's "fish bum" issues.
5. It is not as easy as you'd think to find a red Lego lightsaber beneath the deck. It's easier to, say, find two wasp nests.
6. Wal-Mart isn't the hell hole I'd imagined it to be. For an evil empire, it is at least brightly lit and features an extensive array of baseball bats.
7. The whole "guys in trucks" thing is STILL NOT OVER.
8. You will miss the coyotes howling when you can no longer hear them.
9. The little indigenous grey squirrel? The cute little one with the white rings around his eyes? Yeah, he's a shit like the rest of them.
10. Always make it clear to the arborist that he is free to use your bathroom. Otherwise, you'll catch him peeing on the raspberry bushes outside your bedroom window when woken from your sick bed by the sound of. . . oh no is that a burst tap in the garden??

Embedded

Live, from the battlefield of the work-at-home mommy. THIS IS LIVE.

I'm on a conference call. Direction: Be Enthused. Order came in 10 minutes ago. I have created Eau d'Enthused by eating a chocolate Santa, drinking two cups of coffee, and doing four deep-knee bends. Am now creating Eau d'Enthused with a Chaser of Advil as a result of popping right knee from its flimsy but comfortable point of stasis.

Elvis the flatulent coonhound is taking shelter beneath my desk. He never does this. What will I discover when checking the living room? Please don't lick my feet Elvis. It's gross plus it makes me really worry about what I'll find in the living room.

Must. Close. Office. Door. The sound of not one but two toilets flushing (women cycle sympathetically, boys pee sympathetically) (why not vacuum sympathetically?) must be disguised by sudden fit of coughing.

There is mustard on my pyjamas. How??

Distracted. Come back to conversation to hear "snide, irreverent, provocative" -- is this bad or good? What I'm to do or what I'm to avoid?

The client sounds like Commissioner Gordon. Da na na na na na na na Da na na na na na na na BATMAN, Batman, batman.

Did I just hum that into the receiver?

This all sounds good. This is a fun job. I love this client. I love my friend who is also my client who is also sort of a part-time boss and so is the other friend and they both have the same name. It's a good name. Good friends. Good client. Wait: thought leadership. Write that down.

Directive two: Ask lots of questions. Not about any of the Wiggles or Commissioner Gordon.

OH SHIT IT'S THURSDAY. The cleaners are here. Please Elvis don't howl, don't--oh Elvis. Sssshhhh. Ssshhhh.

Gagging noise from Cleaner 1 tells me that there is something in the living room that is Very Bad Indeed.

IM from neice. Her mother is, like, SO UNFAIR. I know baby, I know, I IM back to someone who works with me in Los Angeles. WTF??? I get back.

I thought you were Abby, I write back. He doesn't know Abby and thinks, not for the first or last time, that I am retarded. A bad word. I remember when it was okay to say that. Perhaps my reluctance to give it up reflects a wish to be 9 again. I don't know what his excuse is.

Thank God this call is recorded, I think, not for the first or the last time. Thank God.

I hang up the phone. TWO SECONDS LATER, in comes a very wet Kid, holding two worms. Yes, I can see that it's raining. Yes, I do know that worms come out when it's raining because they'll drown otherwise and then birds will get them. Yes, it's unfair. Yes, I feel terrible for the worms. Yes, they can live in the bathtub. You're welcome.

The doorbell rings. FedEx. A manuscript that I agreed to edit about three years ago has arrived. Dread. Fear. Dread. Do not open. Forget about til next week or possibly longer. Settle down to write thought leadership on subject matter unthought of before this morning. Before 15 minutes ago.

TWO SECONDS LATER, in comes frightened Cleaner 2. Do I know there are worms in the bathtub? WORMS? I shriek. Oh, worms. Yes. Would you mind throwing them outside, please? MOMMY! Shrieks Kid I assumed was in the basement. MOMMY, IF YOU THROW THEM OUTSIDE THEY WILL DIE.

Horns of a dilemma. This is where I am. On the horns of a dilemma. Do the worms live or die?

Note to self: Potential magazine article on whether worms live or die. Somehow work in "bathtub gin."

It all comes back to gin.