Whinging It

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.

I have an ex-boyfriend who thought I was psychic.  I did little beyond the “aw shucks, nah” to dissuade him, mostly because it was fun for me that he thought I could see the future. It should be noted that he also thought his mom was psychic, and was perhaps not familiar with the word “intuition.”

Every once in awhile when I have a premonition based upon experience that turns out to be accurate, I give a little smile to the life I don’t lead where I could relate my fortune-telling abilities over dinner to a gullible audience.  That kind of thing would keep me entertained for a lot of meals.

Wife does not think that I am psychic, but she does know that I kick ass at Guitar Hero.

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Wife sent me this picture yesterday of the position Dog takes up when it is almost time for me to come home.  The shaft of light is coming through the screen door she is watching.

She is a good dog, even if she is not supposed to be in that chair.

At my work, I was recently involved in a Good Ol’ Boys meeting between contractors. Besides the feeling that my new work name is Sweetheart and I should be a good girl and fetch them some coffee, I found the whole experience fascinating.

Among other things, they discussed who hunted with whom, what they hunt, who attends which church with whose uncle, and the merits of said church’s preachers from its founding until the present day.

Keep in mind these men had never met before.

Later that day, in discussion with Wife about the meeting:

Whinger: I mean, who assumes in this day and age and in the Bay Area that people hunt?  How do you just come on out and ask what people hunt?  Chances are probably four in ten that somebody in the party is vegetarian or vegan or raw diet or that Pisces-eating thing where people only eat fish and eggs or whatever.

Wife: Did they ask what you hunt?

Whinger: Nah. Too busy wondering if they could get away with patting me on the head.  Or elsewhere.  But it would’ve been funny if they had.  What would you say if someone asked what you hunt?

Wife: Bitches. I hunt bitches.

Awesome.

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There was an article in the SF Gate today about these specialized five-toed shoes that are essentially a thick-soled sock. The aim of these shoes is for people to regain their natural gait which apparently should not include landing on one’s heel, but instead with more time spent on the ball of the foot. Or something.

Upon reading the article and looking at the shoes, I was suddenly and inexplicably filled with terrific longing for these atrocious shoes. These will fix your life! And make you more athletic! said the marketing-honed center of my brain. The only reason you have non-shapely legs is because you aren’t running correctly. It’s the cushioned shoes’ fault! This was coupled with the fact that I have been intrigued by running without shoes ever since I read “Once a Runner,” in which the super-fast protagonist runs barefoot for ridiculous numbers of miles every day in order to keep his Achilles tendon in the right kind of shape. Nevermind that I have no idea behind the science of THAT little tidbit.

Happily, there was just enough rational reasoning that managed to come up with the following list of reasons I should not strap my feet into frog shoes and spend my days in them:

1. OMG ugly.

2. I mostly wear cute little mid-century sweaters and skirts. Perhaps not-so-much with the toed shoes.

3. In the past six months, I have run approximately 0.1 miles. And even that one time was to catch the bus.

4. I have very weird toes that would never consent to fit in someone else’s idea of what length toes should be in relation to one another.

I manage to remain free of the frog shoes.