Synaptic misfires

The woman that owned our house before us added some really wonderful things during the short time she lived here. In the span of four months, she had the entire first floor redone with laminate hardwood, wired the living room for surround sound, and added a very nice deck to the back. Not to mention all the kitchen appliances and the washer and dryer that she bought, had installed, and left for us.

Have I mentioned that I really, really love this lady? I do. Because without her, we most certainly would have spent our first few months (at least) still using the coin laundry. Spending three years using the coin laundry (even if it was just across the hallway in our apartment building) was quite enough for me. I also don’t miss asking the teller at our bank for a $10 roll of quarters every week. So, thank you Ms. Previous Owner Lady. You saved me lots of quarters.

However, probably because of time, this woman did nothing to the landscaping around our home. The landscaping when we purchased the home looked like it was what the contractor had planted right after the house was completed. Pretty sparse, if you get my drift. Although, they did provide a really large, really prickly, ridiculously ugly bush that was standing in for “landscaping”. It was awesome. In fact, in was so awesome that we hacked it apart the first summer we were here. I won’t mention that we, with our discerning tastes, didn’t bother replacing it with anything at the time.

Since the house is relatively new (built in 2004) and also resides within a pretty new subdivision, there really isn’t any established landscaping or trees around here either. What I’m trying to say is, that as much as we would like to, we can’t hide our lack of knowledge or effort in landscaping with our beautiful surroundings. It also happens that we moved into a neighborhood–onto a single street, even–with TWO landscaping contractors living less than a block away and a pair of retired neighbors that invest every second into the gardens and flowerbeds lining EVERY SIDE OF THEIR HOUSE, their backyard, and the side of OUR fence!

So, even though neither of us possessed any prior knowledge or even professed an interest in gardening or landscaping, we felt somewhat pressured to do SOMETHING. Especially since we had chopped up the main landscaping “feature” in the front of our home and now–instead of a hideous, prickly plant–we had a mud hole. And perhaps we were slightly afraid that the members of our neighborhood association would pay us a visit in the middle of the night with flaming pitchforks.

To make a long story short (or somewhat shorter), all that we accomplished last year was to dig up a VERY LARGE area in our front lawn (at least, much larger than the original and much, much larger than most other families in our area have in front of their house–for GOOD REASON apparently), leave it sitting long enough for the grass to regrow, and finally dig it up again and lay the few landscaping pavers that we had purchased at the time. The rest was left to endure the winter and spring and to grow more weeds and grass. Let’s just say that what we faced this spring was not pretty. But my husband–crazy persevering individual that he is–decided to make this his major project of the season (well… besides helping his BFF with his fence. But i’m not bitter. Really. OK, I’m a liar.).

So, in short order (weeks, MONTHS, at most!) my dear man had laid the remaining pavers around the flowerbed; chopped up the grass and weeds (AGAIN! 3 times, people! He’s a trooper.); hauled the horrid, CEMENT-LIKE clay, grass, and weeds away; and supplanted the previous mess with nutritious, fertilizing, EXPENSIVE organic soil (not more than 85 bags at 45 pounds each priced at $1.09 per bag, but WHO’S COUNTING?!).

Let me just cut into the story here and mention that if you are EVER thinking about putting in a flowerbed or garden or what-have-you and would like to line pavers around it, BUY MORE THAN YOU NEED. Many, many more. All at once. Don’t wait. Don’t worry about not finding a use for them. Trust me, you’ll find SOMETHING to do with them. Otherwise, you might wind up like us and face the strain of being stuck with LAST-YEAR’S MODEL. Yes. It’s true. Much like automobiles, pavers are a yearly edition. And if you neglect to purchase the correct amount within the manufacturing year–GOD HELP YOU–you will have one tough time finding more anywhere. On earth. I haven’t checked Mars, but I hear they keep up with this “model year” paver business.

That really wasn’t such a short story after all, huh? The whole point here was to be able to show you some “before” (well, at least the before from this spring. I didn’t document last year. Just insert mud, mud, and, oh, more mud, for that part) and “after” photos of our flowerbed. Because we spent all Saturday and Sunday buying plants, more dirt (AGH! I’m so tired of the varying types of DIRT! Organic topsoil, garden soil… Who knew DIRT was so EXPENSIVE?!), and PLANTING. Joy.

Let’s move on to the photo’s shall we? I won’t mention how SORE I was after everything was done or how SICK I got from the massive sunburn on my back and legs (yes, I know about sunblock. And yes, I know that most people don’t garden in shorts. If you have any further questions just look at the title of this blog, OK?).

Here is one part of the extended flowerbed that didn’t exist when we moved here. Before.

And here it is after Sunday:

Not impressed yet? Well here is the middle of our flowerbed. This is what it looked like from, oh say, March through May:

Our neighbors are very compassionate and understanding individuals. I have also gathered that they don’t own flaming pitchforks. HALLELUJAH!

Here’s the after:

And yes, we know that Hostas AND Hydrangeas prefer shade. Let’s just consider this a grand experiment, shall we?

OK, last one. Before:

After:

I’ll be posting more photos in the coming weeks to keep you informed about our progress. You know, which plants lived. Which didn’t. What is flowering. What wilted. If I turned to Prozac to cope. You know, those sorts of things. At the very least, our flowerbed project will be profitable to the home improvement industry and Bacardi. We do what we can to help stimulate the economy.

We adopted Copper (OK, I’ll admit that technically we “bought” Copper. But saying that I “bought” a living thing seems rather crude. It also seems to me that we have yet to receive a return on that particular investment, so let’s just leave it with “adopted”, cool?) in February 2007. In fact, we brought Copper home one day before the Super Bowl. I remember that Super Bowl only because we spent the entire day before it acquiring and “setting up shop” for our new arrival. OK, and perhaps because the next day we had most of James’ (LARGE!) family over for a raucous Super Bowl party in honor of the Colts v. Bears game. OK, OK, and perhaps I remember that Super Bowl because I spent the majority of the party outside teaching a very small puppy (only 8 lbs! She weighs 46 now. Sheesh!) how to potty outside. I think I got the better “end” of that bargain. Moving on…

Copper has always shed quite a lot, just like most other dogs. But, as I mentioned in the previous post, her hair is short and wiry (albeit WHITE, which contrasts WONDERFULLY with our DARK WOOD furniture and floor). The short part is nice. The white and wiry doesn’t work out great, but we’ve grown used to it. I mean, my arms are WAY more toned now that I have to lift a heavy hand held vacuum SEVERAL TIMES A WEEK, just so that I’m not constantly furring myself with MY COUCH. By the way, don’t be like me. Don’t buy the HEAVIEST hand held vacuum on the market. Even if it has cool attachments. THAT DON’T PICK UP BEAGLE/BASSET HOUND HAIR. Moving on…

We adopted Dingo (formerly, “Patches”. Yes, we thought it was lame too.) from the Bloomington Animal Shelter in March 2008. They estimated that he was over a year old, but I think he was somewhere around 8-12 months. This estimate is solely based on the amount of things he destroyed upon arriving at our house. More on that to come. They also estimated that he was a Sheltie/Australian Cattle Dog mix. My extensive research online (at least 5 minutes!) has let me to believe that he is more of a Sheltie (based entirely on the testimony of friends who have them)/American Eskimo mix. You are welcome to your own conclusions.

I will admit that I was the one who wanted a “long haired dog”. My Aunt has two dogs–both of the longer haired variety: a dachshund mix and a lab mix–which she insists are immeasurably easier to groom and house indoors than the short haired boxer that my cousin keeps inside with the other two. Either she is insane, or somehow the fact that both of her dogs have black fur contributes to this skewed perception. Anyway, it was on her testimony that I insisted that our second dog have long or medium hair. No more of this short, wiry hair for me. No.

Let me just put it out there: this decision was certainly a momentary, yet life changing, error in judgment. Think twice before committing to a dog with long or medium hair. Especially if you have chronic OCD tendencies. Or ever want to eat dinner that isn’t garnished with dog hair.

This spring, Dingo has ERUPTED in a tornado of hair. This has only started to abate in the last week or so. Recently, I have been focusing on a few backlogged photos that I would like to touch up and upload to my Flickr account. After browsing through the last couple of months of photos, I started to realize that the dog that we brought home from the shelter has morphed into something else. Something substantially less furry. Like a cuddly teddy bear morphing into a strange gopher-like creature with premature male-pattern hair loss.

This was Dingo when we brought him home in March:

I hope you can see the curb appeal here. He is so fluffy and cuddly. I think he looks like a strange canine-teddy bear mix.

See? Of course you see it. He’s adorable. Dingo is also the type of dog that, rather than chase a toy or chew on a bone, would rather lay sprawled out on your lap, spit shining your face. He is the gentlest dog I have ever met. Far more gentle than Copper, who, indifferent to her massive weight, will jump on adults, children, and small animals, indifferent to their frantic, wheezing fight for oxygen.

However, something… something strange… something inexplicable… has happened in the last week or so. My fuzzy little bear dog has mysteriously (well… mysteriously if you don’t count the NUMEROUS TRASH BAGS of dog hair that we have brushed, vacuumed, and collected from various locales) transformed.

Who knew that underneath all of that glorious fur was such a scrawny little pup?

He almost looks like a show dog in this photo. Almost. Of course I much prefer that we don’t spend our future children’s college fund in grooming him. That, and I don’t have as much hair to pick out of my shoes in the morning. HEY, at least I’m practical, right?!

Honestly, I kind of miss the whole fuzzy teddy bear months with Dingo. He does seem somewhat… “fine haired” these days. And we all know that we have quite enough of that in THIS household.

I promise, this was posted with the husband’s permission. At least, while he was inebriated.

Spring is finally turning into summer around here (THANK GOD! AND JESUS! AND BUDDAH! WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE! YE BE THANKED!) and I could not be happier. Well… maybe I’d be a teeny, tiny bit happier if it wasn’t constantly raining. And if I had some flowers in my flower bed (I know. We are late. Do not EVEN get me going on the great flowerbed fiasco of 2008. More on that later, stay tuned.). And, OK, I’ll admit that if I had a pool, I would be only minutely happier than I am already. OK, that’s a lie. I’d be outrageously happier. Fanatically happier. Happy hour 24/7. But, unfortunately, I do not have a pool. So here we are. At least I am happy with what I have. Warm rain. Woo.

Anyway, as I said, I have absolutely no complains about what is going on outside. Inside is a different story. If any of you have dogs–especially more than one–you will know VERY WELL that spring is an amazing season. A fantastic season. A magical season. A season in which your animal(s) can, MIRACULOUSLY, shed and regrow an entire coat of hair in less than 24 hours. I believe even Criss Angel would be impressed with the amount of hair one house can sheer from a dog.

Those of you that have not been blessed with animals in your house (oh, you SANE individuals amid the squalor of psychotic animal hoarders) may be wondering if perhaps regular grooming might alleviate the situation. The answer, in short, is no. In my experience, it usually only exacerbates it. I have spent over an hour grooming both of my dogs (Copper, a beagle/basset mix with short, wiry hair, and Dingo, a mutt of extreme mutt-ness, with mid-length, semi-wavy, hair) to no avail. We use a Kong Zoom Groom for Copper (yes, the pink one, in case you were wondering) and a generic slicker brush for Dingo, and I can brush an entire Chihuahua off of both of them and still have a house full of hair. And, if you didn’t know, hair travels fast. Especially with two–count ‘em, TWO–white haired dogs. Within seconds my two dogs can fur an entire comforter, the upstairs carpet, and an entire closet full of clothes and you will STILL be picking hair from your teeth. Mmmm. Protein.

Anyway, the point of this bitter diatribe is to show you, the internets, how I live.

Here is exhibit 1.1. Notice the huge “tufts” of white hair “decorating” my hardwood floor. Let me just digress here (since, really, when do I not digress?) and mention that the fact that I have hardwood floors throughout the first floor of my home is the ONLY reason my brain registered the insane notion that we should get a puppy. Truly. I didn’t go momentarily insane at the pet store. I can remember every wonderful moment of that experience. It was completely planned and full of wonderful memories, such as… umm… well…

Moving on!

All ye blog readers, bask in exhibit 1.2. You will notice more of the white “tufts” of fur, no? We call those tumbleweeds around these parts. I gave up pilates in favor of picking these babies up every time I travel from room to room. Those of you with excellent vision will also notice that the corner baseboard to the bottom left looks “odd”. That is because dogs think that baseboards taste delicious. Just like chicken. Or steak. All ye homeowners beware, if you plan to hoard animals indoors be sure to check that your current or potential domicile contains only VEGAN baseboards. Otherwise, be prepared to have the wood putty handy. To the right you will notice a dog toy. I could have picked that up for the picture, but I didn’t. ‘Cuz I’m keeping it real, ya’ll. I do it for YOU.

And, finally, exhibit 1.3. The grand finale. This is a “dogs eye view” (HA!) of my floors. This is what my hardwood floors look like most of the time. If you were to stop by on a random weekday, this is what you would step into. Well, perhaps a few more muddy paw prints, but, after this, what does it really matter anyway? And, OK, you’d probably see this on the weekend too. Just being honest, after all!

You may notice two SweepVac Swiffers (one loaded and ready to go!) against the back wall. This is our only defense against this onslaught. You are looking at SweepVac #’s 2 and 3. Our first is in the closet. Hiding in shame at being bested by the insidious hoard of dog hair that we house on a regular basis. SweepVac #2 (the unloaded one on the right) is on its way out, unfortunately. I hate to say it (especially while it is still struggling for life) but it is also giving up the fight against the dog hair war. The noise it makes when it is active is just pitiful. A dying “whir, whir, whirring” that makes me want to put it out of its misery. Well. Almost. Mostly I want to kick it when it won’t pick up the hair that I’ve driven it over TWENTY TIMES.

I hope that you have enjoyed this brief, albeit disgusting and perhaps disturbing, view of my home. Those of you with indoor pets, take solace. I feel your pain. Truly. Those of you without pets… YOU SMARTY PANTS. You don’t know what you’re missing. Well, OK, perhaps I’ve shown you a bit of what you’re missing. Do not let that deter you. Trust me, the joy that you recieve from your furry friends will far outweigh the hours of therapy that you spend trying to forget all the hair you removed from your socks. Trust me.

Or not.

So, I have had enough time since my last post for the scrapes and bumps that I so proudly displayed to become full-fledged bruises of varying shades of green, brown, and purple. I tried to photograph some of the better ones but chickened out before posting them. I’ve decided that I’ll wait at least one more post before I subject my readers (all… none of you… since I pretty much just talk to myself. And I’m OK with that. Really.) to more photos of my translucent skin. I’m OK with that, too. Really.

For whatever reason, lately I’ve been in full-on “spring into spring” mode. There are so many things around the house that we haven’t done for this or that reason (perhaps because my husband had two surgeries in less than two months!) plus all the everyday chores (two dogs in spring = VAST amounts of dog hair. ON EVERYTHING. GAH!).

Just about every evening I have been trying to check at least one chore off my list. Swiffering the floor, dusting, vacuuming the upstairs carpet and the downstairs couches (dog hair, GAH!), cleaning bathrooms, doing freelance or “full-time gig” work, grocery shopping, etc. Usually, I’ll hit the grocery store right after work rather than come home, change, and meet up with the husband. However, going it alone and in “work wear” is often treacherous for someone with synaptic misfires, such as moi. Case in point (yes, I promise that someday I will not mention footwear in a post):

Have you ever tried to shop in heels like these? For those of you (brilliant souls that you are) that haven’t, let me tell you that you’ll end up “click-click-clicking” down the aisles like some June Cleaver wannabe. And let me tell you again–everyone stares. You could be Chewbacca, and trust me, every male eye will be on you. Female too. My theory is that males are intrigued by the noise of high heels in some Freudian or Lemming sort of way. Females simply want to throw them at you. And I’m OK with that. Really. I just don’t have time to change into my grungy “at-home” wear before going to the store. Otherwise, I’d be there in this:

I have had these boxers since 1999. I stole them from an ex-boyfriend. They are super comfortable. Probably because he was a football player. And a wrestler. And they are LUXURIOUSLY loose fitting. I don’t give a damn what they look like. Obviously. Because, really, that boyfriend was neither a “bad dog” or “big dog”. MOVING ON…

Anyway, all of this was to lead us up to tonight’s trip to Sam’s Club. Often, I will idealize that I can do something alone when truthfully, I should ask for the husband’s help. Call it independence. Or stupidity. I’m OK with that. Really.

Tuesday is a strange night for me to be shopping at Sam’s since the husband and I normally cram it into our Sunday schedule. I mean, you guys know how MUCH STUFF you are really buying when you buy ANYTHING at that store. We spend a good HALF HOUR just figuring out strategically where to store all those bulk goods in our house.

Suffice it to say, it was an act of desperation that drew me to that store tonight. And as I was “click-click-clicking” through the liquor isle (how CONVENIENT. Isn’t that always where people STALK… er… find you) I just so happened to see a mirage. This mirage looked just like my mother. My mother, whom I WILLINGLY–OH GOD, PLEASE KEEP HER INSANITY AWAY–have not spoken to in over TWO years. And while she had changed, while her appearance was not what I last remembered of her, I knew so blindingly that it was her, that in that split second of reaction, the flight reaction in my brain triggered immediately.

Have you ever tried to do a hair-pin turn with a cart laden with bulk-sized groceries? In heals?? If not, please do not attempt. Your insurance rate will increase, I guarantee it.

Suffice it to say that I spent the rest of the trip to Sam’s peeking around every corner, sure that I would slam face-to-face with the object of so much discord in my life. I’m sure I spent three quarters of an hour inspecting frozen fish (”should I go with frozen tilapia, trout, or salmon this time? Oh, wait, the breaded versions look nice. Wait, this isle’s clear. Perhaps I can wander into the shrimp section safely. Why are these Asian people staring at me…?”).

Once I had made it to a relatively unoccupied check-out lane, I thought I was in the clear. BUT NO! You are never safe. Because, let me tell you, if you buy a shirt at Sam’s–especially a shirt at a good price, in your size, when you have NOTHING ELSE to wear during the summer–it will ABSOLUTELY require a price check. At least three people will need to physically locate a like item IN THE STORE before it is universally accepted that it can be purchased by someone such as you. And after you stand there–vulnerable, waiting for doom (read: mother) to approach you from around the corner, for FIVE MINUTES, PERHAPS MORE–you will be asked to show ID, IN TRIPLICATE, because you are sweating like a college freshman with a grad student’s out-of-state license and your parents’ Sam’s Club card. OK, at least, I was. But, really, I’m OK with that. Not really.

And then you’ll babble to the woman standing at the sliding exit doors about how relieved you are that you made “it through” this store tonight and she’ll relucantly hand you back your recipt and watch you leave while contemplating calling security. Or at least, I’m guessing that she CAN call security. Otherwise, she’s just some nosy broad looking through everyone’s shopping basket. And I’m OK with that. Really.