Whinging It

Cat is…sweet, an adjective that sounds nice but is really meant to reflect that he lacks the speed, smarts and wherewithal to survive more than ten minutes on the street.  He is kept mostly inside and loved and adored and we all like the situation just fine.  He makes the occasional foray into the yard, but both Wife and I have witnessed how squirrels will walk RIGHT UP TO HIM — LIKE TOUCHING HIS NOSE WITH THEIR NOSES, and all he does is hunch down like there might be danger.  I have thus been long incredulous of his ability to effectively hunt vermin and birds.  We instead focus on what he does do well: make an excellent noticer of empty laps that need warming and/or idle hands that should be scratching furry ears.

The other night, Cat spotted something in the dining room and started stalking it.  A co-worker had driven me home and stayed for cocktails, and we all noticed Cat’s sudden and extreme interest in the area underneath the dining room table.  I mocked Cat aloud, noting that if whatever he was chasing actually existed (as more often than not it is a dust mite or something invisible), then it was likely a pill bug or spider that he would watch for awhile before going to take a nap.

We discussed the small possibility it could be a rodent because there was a recent snafu with some stored dog food that ended up feeding what appears to have been a colony of mice intent on pooping on every surface in the garage, but noted that even if it was a mouse, the potential of Cat being able to actually catch a rodent was nil.  “If Cat ever catches a mouse,” I said, “I’ll throw a party.”

Lo and behold, Cat emerged not one minute later with a tee-tiny mouse clutched in his little jaws.  He surprised even himself, as after he caught it, he dropped it and looked in alarm as it scampered away.

Much mayhem followed including:

- My impression of a cartoon housewife when the mouse touched my arm as it ran by me.  Much to my own embarrassment, I screamed and dropped the bowl I was attempting to trap it with.

- Moving of all dining room furniture in order to give the mouse no sanctuary.

- A fantastic CAT-AND-DOG TEAM! that worked together to corner and capture the mouse.  Dog was the ultimate final catcher, ending the game with two quick chomps.

- Excessive explanation to my co-worker that really, we are reasonably clean people.  Awesome.

The mouse was given an unceremonious funeral-by-flinging into the abandoned house’s yard next door.  Go with God, little guy.

Mouse traps have now been set.  I am using a loophole excuse that I don’t have to throw Cat a mouse-catching party as Dog helped him.  That, and the fact that Cat doesn’t actually like parties what with all the stomping and nap-interrupting, so his idea of a party is a slow Sunday morning.  Consider THAT party thrown.

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Super annoying thing of the day:
“To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,” the Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson “musical” assault on the ears, was playing in the drug store this morning.  Unfortunately, I know it well enough so that it’s been in my head ever since.

I extend my sympathy to all the girls who have travelled in and out Julio’s and/or Willie’s door.

I have a strong love of three-legged dogs.  Wife knows that if one is spotted, we will be made to stop and admire it and discuss its adorable-ness in high cooing voices.

Although really, how do you NOT love a three-legged dog?

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I started a trial of a new gym yesterday.  It’s a CrossFit gym, and its premise is that people have classes in groups of 15 with a “Coach.”  Workouts are varied and hard and mimic real-life movements.  They don’t use any weight machines — it’s all free weights and body movement and flexibility and cardio.  The whole thing feels to me a lot like varsity sports in high school.  People care a lot more than regular gym class, but there’s still a large element of play to it.

Yesterday in the trial I was asked to row 500 m (not hard), do 40 squats with perfect form (a little hard), 30 full sit-ups (fine), 20 real push-ups (ummm…ouchy), and then 10 pull-ups.

Let me repeat that last little bit to you: TEN PULL-UPS.

The last time I could do a pull-up, I didn’t have hips.  I can vividly recall being 14 in the high school weight room and leaping up to the chin-up bar and doing ten pull-ups in rapid succession with ease.  I could not figure out what the big deal was.

One year later of constant sports while growing rapidly: Tried the same thing and couldn’t do one.  My center of gravity was completely different.  My dad (the gym teacher and track coach) told me that it’s why girls have a harder time doing pull-ups and I left it at that: Women with hips weren’t made for pull-ups.  But the female coach yesterday jumped right up to demonstrate a proper pull-up.  While she is not exactly wide through the hips, she still does not resemble a boy or a stick-figure.  She could bear children if need be, but could do a pull-up easy as pie.  (Which, judging by the rest of her figure, she probably never gets to eat.  But she could make the easy pie and then I would eat it.  Mmmmm…pie.)

It hit me suddenly during her demonstration: Women CAN do pull-ups.  It’s just hard is all.  And if it’s just  hard, then so what?  Hard is do-able.

Anyway, in the trial workout I got to use the help of some resistance band thing-y to start and finish the pull-ups.  I did them all, but holy cow was I tired at the end of it.

After I finished, I was informed that this routine is a typical warm-up or that if this were a workout, we’d repeat it four to five times.

I’m scared, but I’m game.  First real work-out tomorrow.  Massage scheduled for Sunday.

And no, I will still never run a marathon.

Who writes a whole entry about her dog?  I do.

Dog was a problem puppy, but she’s a sweet dog.  She has never met a person who didn’t make her wag in all-out body-bending ecstasy, but she has rarely met a dog that meets with her standard of approval.  We do not go to the dog park.  We cross the street if we’re coming up on other dogs on a walk, but if you come over?  You will be loved.  And kissed.  And shown each of her toys in succession.  Here’s one-legged bear.  Here’s half-stuffed lobster.  Here’s a rope that used to be attached to a tennis ball.  THESE ARE HER TOYS.

Cat is totally sick of being made to look at her parade of misfit toys.

It is hard for Dog to sit still, and the hardest thing she ever learned was to give her belly for rubbing.  It just doesn’t come naturally to her to hold still and roll over.

So it is with pure pride that I received this picture from Wife. In this picture, Dog is sound asleep, not even awakening while Wife went and got the camera and returned to capture this.

She is a good dog.

In my ongoing quest to become more of a mom without actually having children, I am just now exploring phenomena from about 2003-2007.  (Next: Think that these phenomena are current.)

First up: Neti pot. I never knew that I could find joy in pouring a saline solution from one nostril to another, but there it is.  Pure, unadulterated joy.  Yes, the actual process sucks much ass, but the results are astounding.  I can now do things like breathing and not snoring the entire night.

I also have a new fondness for the Pinkberry-like yogurt shops that are everywhere, especially those that allow me to put on my own toppings.  I need more chocolate chips than anyone seems to realize.  I need them.

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I recently had an iTunes fiasco (FIASCO!) in which I lost approximately 7,000 songs.  I had no one to blame but myself and Steve Jobs, and he seemed to take no responsibility for the situation.  Graciously, his minion did agree that I could re-download all of my iTunes purchases, but that also left me to dig my and Wife’s CDs out of the garage and patiently re-put them all into iTunes. (Note! Deep mis-trust of iTunes led me retain all these CDs against my better judgment, and ha! Paranoia confirmed! I love when that happens.)

I decided to be completely non-discerning about which music made it back into the library.  Entire CD devoted to re-makes of Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner”?  Into the collection!  Awful REM CD purchased without a pre-listening because their prior CD was great?  Now each of its songs are in the running for a tortuous shuffle.  In part, all the CDs went in because it had been so long since I listened to the old music that I couldn’t remember what was good or bad.  But also, it made me nostalgic for my 14- to 25-year-old self who would buy music on a whim.  Who would happily create a music collection that included the greatest hits of James Taylor and Journey with absolutely no idea how un-cool that was (although, in all fairness, others now know the awesomeness of Journey thanks to “Glee”).  I did it for the girl who thought that buying that Oingo Boingo CD really rounded out her collection.  That girl was adorable, and paved the way to the woman who can’t and will not stop listening non-stop to Lady Gaga.

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Sometimes?  If you are doing a lot of cooking and you run out of room on the counter so you put the squash on the floor?  Sometimes someone else thinks it’s her new toy.

Look at the ridiculous amount of bedding that Dog has.  Her incredibly thin coat requires lots of blankies.

It is raining today, the first big rain of winter in the Bay Area. This season is also known, in our household, as the season of the Magical Non-Peeing Dog.

On the fairest of days when the back door is wide open and both Dog and butterflies flit in and out of the house with ease and abandon, Dog will hold her bladder for eight hours without a thought.  But when it’s raining? It’s like she sucks in all liquid and declares that it never existed. We may as well barricade the way to the yard, as she won’t need to venture that direction until spring.

Another rain-brought phenomenon is that there is a direct correlation between how hard I try to make Dog go out and how cute she becomes.  At the first mention of that horrible, rain-filled area known as “outside,” her ears fold back demurely against her head, her eyes become liquidy soft, and she contorts her body into a fawn-like pose. It’s like she thinks that if she is just adorable enough, she won’t be made to stand in the horrible wet.

She’s totally right.

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I am just recovered from a bad cold (ixnay on suggesting it was winesay lufay), and it sucked.

In other news, the Pope is Catholic.