Every time I try to write here… I find myself stuck in complaint. I don’t wanna be like that so I just don’t write. *sigh* It’s a vicious circle. I need to get over it.

Here’s lookin’ at you, kid:

Lulu ate an entire plate of banana pancakes off the kitchen counter this morning. Bugger! Only one of us had a serious complaint about that and, believe me, Mojo is really pissed he’s so short. I gave him his tennis ball and he completely forgot what he was so upset about. Obsession is, sometimes, a beautiful thing.

I met a lady at work the other day who had just gotten back from the Eukanuba Dog Show. She was making some color copies and I noticed her photos. She has a Bichon Frise’ and I started talking to her. We had a lovely conversation about our love for Bichons, their sweetness and happy-go-lucky nature and, at the end of our talk; she gave me her website address. What a happy moment! Later that night, I turned on the TV and there she was with her sweet, little Bichon, parading around in a circle with the other dogs in the non-sporting group. Cool, eh?

Gabriel is doing well and is currently playing with his Neopet. He started to complain about having to do his chores first until I told him that his attitude about it was just as important as getting the chore done. He shrugged, scooped poop, and said, “Yes, ma’am.” Every day he is on the brink of a meltdown if something doesn‘t exactly go his way. It‘s how he now rolls… considering what he‘s been through and the fact that he‘s at such and *evil* age: 11. He’s seriously emotional about everything. And I mean everything: brushing his teeth (“But I… but I… but I… *sob*”); getting dressed for school (“But I… but I… but I… *sob*); doing his homework (But I… but I… but I… *sob*); “Okay, Gabriel. We let you stay up *special*, as we said, late, until 8:45 to watch American Idol but it’s now time for bed.” (But I… but I… but I… *sob*). For hours on end… ‘cause he had something else in mind or we are unfair or, OH MY GOD: the injustice of it all! He gets it in his head that it’s going to be a certain way and, God forbid it’s not what he thought, regardless of what we actually said. It is terribly hard to deal with and even harder to ignore. *sob*

(I just heard S say, “Your pet is bloated, dude. You can’t feed him anymore or he’s gonna be sick.” Gabe said, “Oh, I kinda forgot. Okay.” (“But I… but I… but I… *sob*.)

D-Man complains about everything. I didn’t really know about this until recently. His gibberish is starting to make sense. What sounds like this, “IdunnoIdunwannaIshoun’thaftayoucracciegabelheetmeNOlulubadgiwlIdohwanna” is actually his way of saying, “Miss Natalie? Can I just have some ice cream without all the drama?”

I think. He’s learning the art of argument and negotiation. Thank goodness he’s got simple demands and we can counter with simple arguments. Positive reinforcement goes a long, long way with him. Whew!

S booked her first really big wedding the other day. I’m proud of her. She’ll be able to use that money to buy another camera. I have to go in to work today for a stupid training. There is one great thing I’ll get out of it: I have to learn to use the big, color copier and will make a 36×48 poster out of one of her prints. The only problem is, my favorite print is in black and white. Eh. I can hardly wait and hope I totally don’t mess it up.

I turn 50 in 22 days.

I think I’ll stop here while I’m still ahead…

As I understand it, the Obamas have narrowed down their possible choices for a breed of dog. They are trying to decide between a Labradoodle and a Portuguese water dog. (I’m leaning toward the PWD ’cause I just think it would be so much fun to watch this dog’s antics in the White House.  If you read the Wiki entry, particulary the temperament section, it talks about these dogs walking, hopping, and dancing on their hind legs to greet people, and “counter surfing.”  Lulu must be part PWD.  I can just see the headlines now, “First Dog Eats Entire Pie Off Kitchen Counter!” Ha!) 

I thought they were going for a pound puppy but I guess, due to allergies, they need to be more specific in their breed choice. Both of these dogs are supposedly “hypo-allergenic” but, man, have you seen the hair on these dogs? Both are beautiful and big and hairy and boisterously slobbery dogs with tails that could clear the coffee table easily. (Can’t you just see it? “No!! No!! Choco, NO! Not the President’s desk! Oh, no, he did NOT just chew that!” Heh…)

Of course, I believe they should have seriously considered a Bichon Frise’ and not just because I have one but because they are the cutest, happiest, sweetest lil’ buggers… ever. I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t love this:

Anyway… Mojo certainly has his moments of hairy, slobbery, crazy energy. He will suddenly get a wild hair and run around the house, flinging himself onto the furniture (or your belly), around the corners, peek out and bark at poor, suffering Lulu, to chase or be chased. It’s hell on wheels but really amusing. Not so sure how that would play in the White House.

What made me think of this was the end-line from Maureen Dowd’s column in today’s NYT’s.

“We’re trading a dogmatic president for one who’s shopping for a dog. It feels good.”

I found myself nodding in agreement, smiling, eyes bouncing along in her vocabulary cadence. Jarred at times by a single word (“…if he had actually consulted his dad before he ignorantly and fraudulently rammed into the Middle East.”); musing at her opposite poles definitions (“…one the parody of a monosyllabic Western gunslinger who disdains nuance, and one a complex, polysyllabic professor sort …”); delighting in her Oedipal comparisons (“…W. lives in the shadow of his father’s presence, while Obama lives in the shadow of his father’s absence.”); I totally agreed as I’d always thought Bush’s impetus was all about gaining respect from his “blankie”.

Bush egoisms and Obama altruisms aside, it was a funny take on this momentous transition.

So, after reading that, I totally get why Obama wouldn’t want a little “lap dog” such as a Bichon Frise’. What he doesn’t understand is that he’ll get a big lap dog in either of those other two breeds.

I have hope, yes, the audacity of hope, that they remembered to pack a good lint brush.

They are gonna need it.

Something unbelievable has happened: the house is quiet. It’s still early and everyone is asleep but me. I am the one who should have passed out hours ago but I guess that ol’ second wind never really dissipates after you’ve worked retail for over 20 years. Yep, I feel like I’m workin’ the second shift and loving the fact that I can sit here and listen to the wind howling outside my window, accompanied by some really bad commentary blasting in from a dog show on some obscure cable station.

Ever since I saw the movie, “Best in Show”, I’ve loved watching these things. I can guess most of the breeds (which astounds S and reaffirms with the boys that I actually DO know everything) and love to dish on the commentators comments. It’s really funny to me that they ask each other questions, back and forth, and take turns being knowledgeable, or not, about each breed. I like to rephrase their questions with sexual innuendos. I’m thinking I should write this stuff down and send it to Mattel as an idea for a new board (bored) game. It would go something like this:

“Tell me, Hank, how much time goes into shaving and shaping the balls on that Standard Poodle? Do they wax it or actually take a razor to it? I would imagine you’d have to tranquilize a dog with balls that size.”  Of course, I’m talking about how that dog is groomed but, you know, whatever!

But really, I’m just in the concept phase…

I really love it when I correctly call the winner and S will look at me like I’m Cesar Milan’s kissing cousin. Tonight, she kept insisting that the Bichon Frise’ was going to win in the non-sporting class. I felt the Tibetan Terrier was a better show of breed (like I would know but, hey, I’ve been following the lead of these phony commentators and, if they can do it, I can do it even better… especially if I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine.) The cute little Bichon really put on a show. Her little feet were moving so fast that she looked like she was happily gliding along singing a Melanie song. (“I’ve got a brand new pair of roller-skates; you’ve got a brand new key!”) She did win the online vote for most popular. This made S happy as she yelled out, “Told ya so!” and called Mojo over and give him a hug and a kiss. Mojo had no idea what was going on but ate up the sudden attention.

It is interesting when Mojo does know when something is happening on the television. Last night, we were watching a dog program and he stopped what he was doing, looked at the TV, and then jumped up on the entertainment center to have a better look. He was fascinated by it and kept tossing his head from side to side. It was really cute and S and I laughed and laughed at him. However, he does this when he sees his own reflection in the sliding glass doors so; I have no idea what he’s really thinking. The only time he has ever barked at anything (other than just playing) was when he saw himself in a reflection on the dishwasher door. I happen to know that he thinks the dishwasher is a place to find free food so I found it odd that he would bark menacingly at it. If it was me, I wouldn’t be growling at it like that, but that’s just me, and, I am, after all, only a dog-kissin’ distant cousin of Cesar Milan. (My “Shhh” sound has a whole lot more panache and my finger snappin’ has a decidedly more samba-like rhythm. Eat your heart out, Cesar. You are still my bestest boyfriend and don‘t you forget it!)

I’ve always been a dog-person and have had dogs since I was a kid. When I was about ten years old, our neighbor, Yvonka (she was Yugoslavian) came over and told my mom that she saw my father riding in his car with a blond woman. The story goes that my father had been in court all day (he was a police officer) and someone was suing someone or owed someone money regarding a dog. The judge ruled that the owner would have to give up the dog and then he tried to find someone who would take it. My dad volunteered to take the dog home and keep him. The dog was a nine year old, show quality (and former champion), blond, Afghan hound, named Zak. He’d been abused and neglected and, I’m sure my father initially saw him as a potential investment or, at the very least, a really cool dog for show. In other words, he knew nothing about it but the dog seemed like he would have been expensive so he took him. To give him some credit; he’s always been an animal lover but, really, this was an impressive looking dog. Imagine Yvonka’s surprise when he pulled up into the driveway with that “blond woman” in the car and it turned out to be Zak. It was a good laugh.

This from the man who’d also brought home a little, two-toner, black ‘n white kitty, which we named oh-so-creatively, “Bootsie” that eventually, had kittens in my closet on my sisters’ faux fur winter coat. He’d been walkin’ a beat, or something, and this little kitty kept following him and his buddies were giving him a hard time about it. He brought that kitty home and never gave it another thought. God… My poor, poor mother… This is the same cat that climbed up the telephone pole that was in the far-back corner of our yard. I, of course, climbed up that pole, wiggling carefully through the wires and transformers, and “rescued” her.  I could have fried myself into oblivion. I heard my mother yell my first, middle, and last name so frantically that I practically jumped down off that pole. Once again; God, my poor, poor mother…

I, of course, took immediate possession of Zak. He was my best friend and I included him in everything. You could never let him out off the leash. He would run and the only way I could catch him would be to jump on my bike, ride like the wind, and hope he had to stop to poop. Then, I’d have to walk him and my bicycle home and we were usually a pretty good distance away as he was quite the runner.  I loved that dog.  In fact, I loved him so much that, when he turned 10, I got my mom to let me have a birthday party for him.  I invited all of the neighbors and had bones for the dogs (um, not really such a good idea) and homemade brownies and some milk for the guests.  Amazingly, all of the neighbors and their dogs show-up and they even brought him cards and presents!  I particularly liked the “Doggie Donuts” which tasted exactly like real donuts only were really, really crunchy.  Tsk!  Of course I tasted them!  They were donuts, for God’s sake!  No other doggie treat would ever compare!  Ever!  Ahem… Anyway…

Zak had a girlfriend, (ironically) named Lulu, that lived down the street. Theirs was a tragic relationship in that he was a golden-haired, graceful, TALL, Afghan Hound while she was a small, nay-TINY, mixed breed of the Chihuahua variety. She was all black with a jutting lower jaw exposing crooked little teeth that extended far past her nose making her look like she was should be chomping on a cigar. Her cutest feature was her curly-Q, piggy tail. It was a riot to watch them do “the dance.” I used to fantasize about them having puppies but thought it would kill Lulu so I watched them very closely to ensure nothing ever connected. Yes, that’s right; that is how I used to while away the hours when I was ten years old. Do things suddenly make sense for you now, gentle reader? *Laughing*

As an Afghan Hound saunters around the dog show arena, the commenter says, “Check out the grace and beauty and the way his hair flows like wheat blowing in a field.” That’s as close to waxing poetic as it will ever get on one of these shows. If it were me, I’d be saying, “Wow, lady; don’t let that dog off the leash or you won’t catch him until you hit Nebraska and then, well, he’ll be lost in the flowing fields of wheat: pooping.”

Yes, I really should have passed-out hours ago. I’ve been sick for the last several days. Well, not really full-blown sick but just sick enough to feel tired and miserable during my days off from work. Why does it always happen that I feel this way on my days off but am perfectly healthy when I go to work? It should be the other way around, dagnabbit! Maybe I’m not really sick. Maybe I’m just under-caffeinated while at home.

Must. Remedy. That.

Tomorrow. At work.

Happy Thursday!

I can no longer come home, kick off my shoes, flop down on the couch and just relax after work. Mojo has suddenly discovered that I actually work for a living. He has definitely decided, through his extreme actions, that he loves my new job.

Dogs are simple creatures. Our dogs make emotional decisions based on the shoes we’re wearing. If I’m wearing my boots, it’s just another day in paradise and they figure they can sleep on the couch all day. My boots mean I’m saying home. If I put on my hiking boots, Lulu’s tail begins doing that gyrating-helicopter-whirly-thingy and she gets so excited that, I swear, she might just lift off. My hiking boots mean we are going for a walk. My work shoes, a lovely pair of Doc Martins that I purchased specifically for my new job, used to mean I was going to work and the dogs would then completely ignore me as I walked out the door.

Mojo, however, has discovered my work shoes upon my arrival home from a long hard day of slingin’ mocha, pumpkin spice, vanilla, and other assorted flavor drinks. Both dogs greet me by barking as soon as I set the alarm on my truck. They have a decidedly Pavlovian response to the horn honk alarm and greet me at the door, salivating, wiggling, whirling, and standing on the arm of the couch, ready to lick my face off.

But it’s the shoes… those very expensive, black leather, non-slip, Doc’s that lil’ Mojo goes for almost immediately. Sure, he’s a short lil’ guy and almost everything, for him, is at ground level. For once, being short is to his advantage and, brother, let me tell you; he acts like he’s hit the mother lode!

I guess, in a way, he has considering how much “stuff” gets poured, dropped, trickled, and drizzled onto my shoes. Last week, I had pumpkin spice plop onto the top of my left shoe and, I swear, from the orange-ish color, it looked like someone or some thing threw-up all over My Left Foot. It was gross and when I stopped to visit my mom, I sheepishly looked down and promised to take my “baby shit shoes” off before walking on her beautiful carpet.

Last Friday, usually our busiest day and that day was no exception, I was working the bar and the other barista accidentally dropped an entire pitcher of hot half n’ half between us. It’s a tight working space and we generally don’t take too many steps outside of it to make drinks. It didn’t hit my pants (which I’ve experienced and it burns like hell) and didn’t exactly hit my shoes. It went right into My Left Shoe as if ladled in on purpose. Hot as hell, steaming, and now puddling in my high arch, I stood there grimacing while the barista was staring at me for response and apologizing profusely. We had about 15 drinks waiting to be made and at least the same number of customers staring at us; waiting. So, the show went on, we laughed about it, and I slogged around the rest of the day with one milk soaked sock sloshing in my pretty Doc Martins.

Mojo’s Mother Lode in the Making. That’s the only “nice” title I could give that situation. He’s been licking my shoes clean for days and on that particular day, he began licking the insides of my shoes. Dogs are simple creatures and apparently not too discerning when it comes to food health and safety guidelines.

Much to Mojo’s chagrin, I’m one of those dorks that actually cleans and polishes my shoes. I have some special stuff that keeps the food products from penetrating the leather and I do my best to clean and polish my shoes as much as possible. I refuse to wear cheap, ugly, non-slip shoes and then just replace them once they get caked-up with grunge. (I mean, have you seen them? They look like old-lady-orthopedic-mall-walker shoes.)

Oh, no, and now that I have my little helper; we keep those shoes, literally, spit-shined.

Although… I do worry about his teeth and, well, since all of this messin’ with my shoes business, Mojo’s breath has gone from, um, doggy-like to something akin to buffalo-breath. I won’t even go into the toots he’s had recently. Let me just say this; for a little thing, he could clear the entire room in 7 seconds.

I’m starting to wonder if he’s lactose intolerant. As a result, I do still let him greet me with a lil’ shoe-lickin’ but then I make sure to put those shoes away. Truth be told; it’s S that always puts my shoes away because once I flomp down on the couch, well, that’s it; I’m stuck there.

I never knew the life of a barista could be so doggy entertaining but then, they are simple creatures.

The cat, never wanting to truly be aligned with the dogs, has secretly tried to lick my shoes but does so from the stealthy place of under the couch.  He thinks I haven’t noticed him, with his arms and paws wrapped around a shoe, slowly licking the top while his eyes roll to the back of his head.  It reminds me of those kids who were licking frogs to get high.  Yeah, Q, I see you and your addictions and I’m pretty sure, there’s a twelve step group for that albeit you’ll have to substitute “milked and mocha’d shoes” for “catnip” at those meetings. 

“My name is Q and I’m a milked and mocha’d shoes addict.”

“Hi, Q!”

And it feels like Tidbit Tuesday… It’s been a long week.

Have you ever gone back and read through your blog or stuff you’ve written and it seems totally foreign to you? I’ve been reading through my blog (and forgot my own password, for God’s sake!) and laughing, smiling, tearing-up, and grimacing. The grimacing is more about the spelling and grammar issues. Grimacing is always followed by wincing. Eh.

Anyway, I think I used to be funnier in the days when I wasn’t working. Now, there’s a reason to quit a job, if I’ve ever made one up seen one. Or so I tell myself… It wouldn’t take much, at this point, to lure me from my career choice especially considering that ol’ being robbed at gunpoint deal. I’m still dealing with the issues from that and every day become more and more aware of dangers lurking just beyond the doors of my own abode. “Safety First!” was always one of my top mottos when I was only joking. It’s not funny anymore.

I was watching KRQE news last night and they had a little ditty about a supposed Chupacabra sighting. I looked at the photos and immediately recognized it as the thing I saw in my neighborhood the other night. The photo sighting isn’t that far from where I live so I figured the poor thing had simply gone up the hill into my neighborhood. It’s definitely a coyote or dog with mange, though, and I felt very sorry for it. I hope animal control finds it and puts it out of its misery.

We’ve had some developments with the kid’s “father” in that he’s, once again and without warning, dropped the child support. He’s also stolen (copyrighted) photos from S and posted the kids on his MySpace. THAT pissed me off. Of all places… MySpace! Of course, he’s trying to get a rise from us and, well, that will just get him some hefty legal action. I hate this shit, you know?

Mr. Q has decided that he loves Mojo. Mojo has decided that he loves Mr. Q. I love the love balance. And… it’s all fun and games until Mojo gets his eye poked out. They chase each other through the house and it’s hilarious. It wasn’t so funny when Mr. Q jumped on me and launched off my forearm to get away from the yapping, foo-foo dog. I have a four inch, nasty lookin’, scratch that screams, “I HAVE A NEW CAT AND A CRAZY DOG!”

My mother told me she doesn’t know how I deal with all the dogs, cat, kids, and craziness. One day at a time, mom; one day at a time. Actually, it’s more like moment-to-moment; ’cause you just never know what yer gonna git. Forrest Gump Moments.

We finally, officially met the “lezzies-up-the-street” ’cause they were having a garage sale. S came home with hideous looking, porcelain, velvet-clad, pole-up-her-butt, Barbie. The conversation went like this:

S: “Do you have five dollars?”

Me: “Hmmm? What? What for?”

S: “For this…” She produced this hideous thing from behind her back and I almost screamed.

Me: “What in the hell is that and where did you get it and why do you need five dollars?”

S: “The lezzies-up-the-street are having a garage sale and they’ll let me have this for ONLY five bucks!”

Me: “Um… That is totally frightening. Even if I had five bucks, I wouldn’t give it to you at this point. I’m having a Twilight Zone PTSD moment.”

S: “Please! Please! Please! Please! I’ll pay you baaaaaaackkkkk!”

Me: “I have two bucks and you can have that. Where are you going to put it?”

S: “Up here.” (She plops the thing atop her bookcase.)

Me: “No way, Jose’. You’ve got to turn it. It is looking right at me and creeping me out.”

So, later that day, I decided to mosey up the street and check out the garage sale. I finally met the lezzies-up-the-street, who are very nice and totally funny and gave me a hard time for giving S a hard time for the Barbie deal. We joked back and forth and they ended-up giving me something they thought would “frighten” S and I think I actually felt my face flush. It’s a little ceramic thingy with two piggies dressed in leather gear. I told them that it certainly wouldn’t frighten S but would definitely spark a big debate in our house of which of us is the girl-piggy versus the boy-piggy. And now you might understand why I password protected this entry… hahahahaha! So, I told them the story about the kid’s psychiatrist (in Chicago) who saw me wearing my purse and turned to S and said, “So, she’s the “girl” in the relationship, eh?”

S has never been able to live that one down and it’s been really fun to tease her (constantly) about it. Yet, she’s the one with Twilight Zone Barbie and I’m the one with pigs in leather, five shades of lip-gloss in my PURSE, a circular saw and a complete set of tools.

Don’t even try to define it… it defies logic.

Kitty Q cannot fool me. He acts all big and tough but the fact is that he’s falling in love with sweet, gentle, happy-go-lucky Mojo. I caught him rubbing up against Mojo and purring but once he realized that I was observing him, he swung out his paw and boxed poor, confused, love-struck Mojo on the nose. Theirs, obviously, is a dangerous love… and I’m hopeful that it will grow and someday ol’ Mr. Q won’t feel it necessary to defend his ability to love outside his species.

Well, it appears he can love outside his species as long as the thing is two feet tall or less. He’s a discriminate lover-man but who can blame him? Lulu, who is about the size of a coyote, towers over him and when she lunges, it’s all just a little too tall and overwhelming for him. The reality is, and he may get this yet, Lulu simply wants to sniff his mighty fine smellin’ booty. Such is the cat-on-dog action in my house. It’s all about the butt-sniffin’.

Driving home from work last night, I turned the corner into my neighborhood and some Chupacabra lookin’ thing tumbled out of a small grove of oleander bushes. It stumbled into the street and looked right at me. My headlights shone into its eyes making it look evil and menacing. The fact is this poor creature was simply a very sick coyote. Its haunches were raw, open and bleeding. Almost all of its hair was gone, probably due to mange, and its skin looked gray and sickly. It was standing on wobbly legs, confused on which way to go, and walking in circles. It lay down on the street and crawled on its belly back into the oleanders. It actually looked like he was trying to scratch his belly on the asphalt.

The car behind me honked so I pulled off to the side. Just before that car drove around my truck, the creature came out from the oleanders and plopped itself down into the middle of the street. The impatient driver stopped suddenly, sat there for a second or two, backed-up, and then headed up a different side street. Yeah; that’s right, buddy… Chupacabra is comin’ for you only it’s gonna take a while ’cause the little guy is just a wee bit disoriented, itchy, and smelly. I felt very sorry for this little guy and called the city’s 311 line to report him. They told me they would send animal control out to try to capture it and put it out of its misery.

As I hung up the phone, I watched this creature stumble around in the street and fall over several times. I knew I had done the right thing but felt bad for it, nonetheless. I wondered how many other coyotes were in this condition and roaming the streets of our neighborhood. All of the dogs in the neighborhood have been howling and barking into the wee hours of the night for the past week. At first I thought it was just because they were outside, barking at every little sound, or maybe all of the Halloween activities. Now I reckon it’s because coyotes, probably including this little guy, were running (or stumbling) through the streets, looking for food and water.

Seeing this sickly animal really made me glad I took in Kitty Q; effectively ending his ramblin’ days and giving him an opportunity to pounce on a small, white, curly-haired d-o-g. We haven’t let him outside since he‘s been here and he‘s pretty pissed that the dogs can go outside as much as they want. He sits, looking through the sliding glass doors, and meows at the dogs in such a forlorn tone. I’m thinkin’ he would never go near that door if he was seeing what I saw on the street earlier in the evening. Just like the Chupacabra link above (albeit, full-bodied and still alive), this creature was grotesque and something made for bad dreams. Q would have been a tasty morsel for any coyote but to think his fate may have been aligned with Chupacabra, well, that’s just too much to think about. For now, our little kitty will remain hermetically sealed in the confines of carpeted floors, cozy couches, and a conveniently located kitty box.

Finally, I had a hankerin’ for a caramel apple spiced latte’ last night. I actually drove to the Starbucks near our house and ordered one for me and one for S. I’m addicted to them. As I was driving down our street, I saw a nice family walking their dogs. I pulled over and told the man what I had seen wandering the streets of our neighborhood not an hour earlier. They were very nice people with five dogs and two kids. All of their dogs were “rescues” including one greyhound, three pitbulls (Which, ironically, looked almost Chupacabra-esque.  Don’t get me wrong; I love pitbulls and think they are much maligned.  And this link is about as hideous as it comes because of WHO it is… Outkast?  Yikes!), and a mutt. I was explaining the situation when the little girl spoke up and said, “Well, my mom rescues animals. She’ll probably want to rescue this one, too.”

I went into my “sick, wild animal” speech and watched the girl’s eyes when I said, “…looked just like a Chupacabra…” She stepped closer to her mom and asked to go home. Urban legends like Chupacabra and La Llorona (ditch witch) run deep in these neck of the woods. These are the very things of bad dreams as well as some pretty awesome disciplinary tools for just about every parent in Albuquerque. “Stay out of the ditch or La Llorona will get you!” or “Put the animals away or the Chupacabra’s will get them!” are sayings I’ve heard for years. Although the legend of Chupacabra has been debunked for me, the sight was still scary enough to enter my dreams and cause me to scoop up our little kitty and remind him of his good fortune.

He repaid me by later jumping up on the table and trying to eat my breakfast while I wasn’t looking. Too bad he doesn’t speak English other than, “No!” and “Off!” (and that’s a stretch, still) otherwise I would have said, “Boy… You’d better get off that table or Chupacabra will get you!” Instead, I resorted to the next best thing: the dreaded spray bottle.

Nothin’ like a good squirt in the face, first thing in the morning, to remind all animals who is in charge… they all scrambled under the table and waited until things settled down. Just to make a point, Kitty Q slapped Lulu across the face, adding injury to insult.

One thing is for sure: watching our little menagerie is better than any sitcom or drama show on T.V. and seeing a Chupacabra in our neighborhood was scarier than anything Wes Craven could come up with. Unless, of course, you count his 1999 digression from horror films, Music of the Heart; now THAT was scary!

I am such a sucker.

Last night, we were watching TV, hanging out, when we heard some kind of ruckus going on next door. Our neighbor had company and they’d been drinkin’, a wee bit, and there was some kind of commotion going on in the foyer. Evidently, there was a kitty sitting outside their door asking to come in but our neighbor, in her funny, not-so-ha-ha-way, wasn’t havin’ it. She was worried about her own cat and could be heard rudely shushing and hissing poor lil’ kitty away… and then she slammed her door shut. We looked at each other, rolled our eyes, and went back to viewing CSI.

And then I heard it… “Me..ahh…ahh… ow…”

At first the sound came quietly and then became more insistent. Of course, Lulu and Mojo went wild and began tossing themselves at the front door in a clearly menacing manner. So, I went outside to see what all the commotion was about and shush the critter back to its own house.

I first saw this kitty the other day as I was driving home. I saw a woman walking to the mailbox and her kitty was following her. It was very sweet and cute and he’s a very pretty kitty. I was worried he’d run out in front of my truck so I drove very slowly, keeping my eye on him the entire way. I remembered this as I finally caught sight of this same kitty now hiding in the bushes just outside our front door.

I coaxed him over and he came eagerly, purring, meowing, and rubbing against my legs. Oh, what a pretty little boy! Well, I pretty much knew that he belonged to the crazy lady who lives four houses down and, although I knew I should take him back, I really didn’t want to because this woman is so nuts. Her husband died three weeks ago at the pickled young age of 35. He suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and cancer. Both of them are alcoholics and since his death, this woman has been a holy terror. About three weeks ago, just after his death, our street was being paved causing all of the residents to have to park on an adjoining side street. S, and a few other neighbors, came upon this woman, half in/half out of her parked car, looking as if she were dead. She’d taken a bunch of drugs and had been drinking and was totally passed out. This wasn’t the first time and by the looks of it, wouldn’t be the last.

We’d noticed that her daughter was no longer living with her (thank God) and that she suddenly had this cat. This crazy woman had also done some weird things to our immediate neighbor that just cracked us up. One day, some months ago, this woman was all lit-up and walked into our neighbor’s house, up the stairs and into her bedroom, and surprised her by lifting her dress over her head and then asked her to have sex with her. When our neighbor told us this story, it took everything we had to not laugh our asses off because, really, it’s sad and freaky and an awful way to live. However, that hasn’t stopped us from referring to her as our neighbor’s “girlfriend”, much to our neighbor’s chagrin.

So, here I am with this kitty and now I have to go confront “the girlfriend” and give her back her cat without getting asked to have sex or a drink or engage in some weird conversation. I walked up the walkway to the house and dogs started barking. I didn’t know this woman had dogs and wondered what the heck was going on in that house.

A woman answered the door and, although she looked vaguely familiar, I didn’t recognize her as the crazy lady. It turns out that I had the wrong house and hadn’t gone down the street far enough. This nice lady told me that she’d been feeding the little kitty because the crazy lady had stopped feeding him, had thrown him out of the house, and he’d been wandering the streets for a couple of days. She’d tried to find him a home without any luck. She would have kept him except for the fact that she already has two dogs and two male cats. She implored me to take him in and give him a good home.  It turns out that it was this woman I saw at the mailbox and he’d been following her around for days.

At that point I felt I just couldn’t refuse and would, at the very least, bring him in from the cold and danger of coyotes (and they’ve been out in force lately) until I could find him a good home. She gave me the box and old towel she’d made for him, a baggy of food, a half of a container of kitty litter, and sent me on my way.

When I got home, I yelled at S to put the dogs outside so I could bring him into the house. He immediately made himself at home on the couch. I decided to test the waters and let Mojo into the house. Suddenly, kitty was hissing and spitting and puffed-up twice his original size. Well, Mojo really dug that and decided to take a closer look. As Mojo crept toward him, kitty took a swing and caught Mojo squarely on the nose. Well, that was enough of that! I took kitty out to the garage, made his lil’ bed, gave him some food and water, and set-up a makeshift kitty box. He stayed in the garage last night and seemed perfectly fine.

This morning, after the kids had gone to school, I let him in because I could hear him mewing for some attention. He was happy as a lark to get out of that stinky, ol’ garage and planted himself on my lap and the warmth and comfort of my blanket. Damn him for having such a sweet little purr, soft, silky hair, and adorable little white toes. He’s a really pretty little kitty and I just can’t help myself… I want him to stay with us and have a forever home. He’s still just a baby, about four-five months old, and could easily get used to being in our home.

That is… if he can get along with the dogs and the dogs can get along with him and, he actually uses the kitty box and doesn’t tear-up my furniture. He’s a smart lil’ guy and listened when I’ve Cesar-Milan’d him for putting his claws into my couch. We let him be with us all morning (the dogs were outside) and he’s taken up residence behind S’ computer monitor. It’s a nice, safe place for him while he and the dogs get used to each other. We just let the dogs in and they’ve finally settled down. They are very excited to have another species in their house and are dying to sniff-butt. What they don’t know (and will probably soon find out) is that this lil’ guy has stickers in his paws and isn’t afraid to wield them.

S has decide to name him “Q” because, a) it’s her turn to name something; b) she’s appealing to my ego by naming him that (Q used to be my moniker on another blog); c) she’s all about Star Trek and I wouldn’t let her name him Jean Luc or Chakotay.

She’s written about him over at her blog… and it’s pretty funny. She also has a photo of him posted.  (Just a reminder that her password is the same as mine.  If you can’t remember it, just email me.)

We are still undecided (yeah, right, sure, uh-huh) whether we will keep him but one thing is for sure: we are not giving him back to the crazy lady. Her kid has been taken from her and there’s no way in hell we are going to let her neglect and abuse this little guy. It sounds like we live in a really wacky neighborhood but, really, it’s a nice area; we just seem to have a few nut cases down the block. Thank goodness for the kind-hearted animal lover neighbor whose house I went to accidentally. Everything happens for a reason! She and I totally bonded over this kitty and I really appreciate that I woke her up, she responded (in her pajamas), and helped get this little guy out of harms way.

The really weird thing is… just two nights ago I had a dream about a cat I had years ago. Her name was Pepper and I’d adopted her from the Humane Society. She was the best cat I’ve ever had and I’m not much of a cat person. She had a great sense of humor, didn’t use a kitty box (went outside), and if she got locked in the house, she’d pee down the bathtub drain. She ruled the roost and used to punch my dog in the snout, as if boxing, just to get her attention. She never hurt my dog but did that boxing thing whenever she felt the dog needed to be reminded who was in charge. Great cat! I had her for a very long time and always think of her very fondly.

And now we have “Q” whose personality is very much like Pepper’s. I wonder if she showed up in my dream to let me know he was coming. In my dream, I was looking for her and worried about her and being chased by bad people. It was clearly an anxiety dream (probably more about work than anything else) but in the end, I found her. She was sitting atop a fence, tail wagging in communication (she was quite a tail-talker), and purring.

With the exception of the fence, that’s almost how I found Mr. Q.

Welcome to the family, buddy. Just wait until you meet the boys; you may want to reserve your desire to live with us until after 2:15PM today. This house is not as quiet as you may think… and the dogs may be the least of your worries. HA!

So far, since moving into this house, we’ve been given two puppies and have had several stray animals just show-up at our doorsteps. We are also a second home to a neighbor dog that is quite the escape artist anytime there is a thunderstorm. I don’t know what it is about this house but it seems to be a magnet for stray animals. Must be the good Karma, dogma, catma, whatever… There’s certainly never a dull moment around here!

I switched over the swamp coolers today. That’s plural because I did my mom’s and then did ours. Hers was a cinch but ours is proving a bit more problematic. First of all, I fell off the damned ladder. Not exactly fall-fall, more like slipped, slid, fell, scrambled, scraped, lunged, jumped… scraping myself along the shed… all the way down to the ground. I’d stepped on the roof-edge of our plastic shed and a piece popped off causing my foot to dangle and the need for a quick grab of the ladder. I then fell, just a little at a time, along the torn and jagged side of the shed. Scraped my entire right side, I did, and now have a funky-lookin’ “road-rash” along my right elbow. Stings like the Dickens! I guess it could have been worse and I should be thanking my lucky stars that I didn’t actually fall… but, sheesh! This ooouie hurts!

Then the pilot on the furnace wouldn’t light. It’s electronic and I can’t figure it out. Everything is on… but it’s not firing-up. Bother! I am currently airing out the garage in an attempt to get all of the errant gas to fly away. I’ll try again later and hope I don’t blow myself up in the process. I’m not EVEN going to attempt to light the fireplace pilot light. I mean, really, I’m not that blonde!

Lulu has figured out how to open doors. She can open any internal door (jumps up and grabs it with her paws) and can push the sliding doors and come and go, inside/outside, as she pleases. Usually it’s more her letting herself in when we have purposely put her out. S and I couldn’t figure out what was going on, at first, until we saw her do it. This, of course, means we will occasionally find doors that are wide-open and every half-alive-hanger-on fly has come into the house. The place is abuzz. Mojo thinks this is just wonderful while I think I’d like to kill our smarty-farty dog. You know, when I first got Lulu, she was such a ding-dong-spazz-puppy. She’s still a ding-dong-spazz-dog but she’s smartened-up just a bit too much for my liking. Although she is a great judge of people… that comes in handy sometimes. Now we are chasing after both dogs and kids to SHUT THE DAMNED DOOR! Born in a barn; all of ‘em.

Our street will be closed tomorrow and we won’t be able to get in or out with our cars. I’m thinking this is a good enough reason to call in “busy” to work. I actually had an employee call in busy once. The next time he tried to come in to work his shift, I suggested he start making money at being “busy” ’cause he no longer worked for me. Now, why did that make him mad? Because, well, he was a dumbass and thought his life business/busy-ness was more important than anyone else’s and we should have accommodated him. I did accommodate him; I showed him to the door.

When I lived/worked in California, I had a young man tell me that he skipped coming in to work because there was a hurricane in Hawaii. I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about until he said he just “had to get out on the waves, dude!” I told him I hoped he was a great surfer and could make money at it because, yep, you guessed it; he no longer worked for me. Harsh? Oh, hell no! Just another simple Life Choice. Glad I could accommodate those with a lack of Life Choice skills but why do I even have to do that? Everything is my fault. Pffttt… I don’t think so. But, then, I’m not a professional surfer. Wish I was…

Methinks I best figure out where I can park my truck and make sure S is on shoe patrol after school tomorrow. I wonder what the bus driver will do when she attempts to pick-up/drop off the kids. How much you wanna bet she simply drives over it, anyway? Ten bucks says she does. The warning notice told us that tar and asphalt will not come out of clothing or carpet. They went to great lengths to tell us this information which I’m guessing covers their butts if someone is actually dumb enough to walk on the wet asphalt and then walk into their home. I’m more worried about my shoes. Hey! I paid big bucks for these Docs!

It’s dry-sneezing season in Albuquerque. I sneezed 32 times this morning. I counted… I blew my nose as many times. What’s up with that? And then I went to my mom’s house and sneezed some more. We are also back to zapping each other any time we kiss, touch, or grab a doorknob. If only the electric ignition in the furnace was so prolific…

Time for Mojo’s bath… he’s been a terrific lil’ Swiffer but it’s time to shake out the mop. Remind me again… why did we get a white dog?

It is green chile’ season. The air, dry though it is, smells wonderful.

It’s also Balloon Fiesta. A woman died yesterday when the balloon she was riding in got caught in some electrical wires and tore the basket… causing her to fall 60 feet to her death. The other three women in the gondola were injured and, wow, what an awful thing to have your friend die, right in front of your eyes, while you are wondering if you are about to suffer the same fate. My condolences to everyone… there were lots of witnesses and everyone was totally freaked out. Very tragic… These women were in their late fifties, early sixties, and on vacation from California. Geez.

This morning there were four, count ‘em, FOUR balloon accidents. I really don’t understand why we have the Balloon Fiesta in the first part of October. It’s a traditionally windy time of year and wind is not a balloonist’s friend. Accidents aside, it has been wonderful to see all of the balloons filling the skies. The traffic from this event is horrid. They expect over 900, 000 people to attend the Balloon Fiesta this year. They are all on the roads, gawking/looking-up, at the same time I’m trying to drive to work. Usually, it only takes me 15 minutes to get to work at 4:30 in the morning. Not so, this time of year. Eh. I guess you take the good with the bad.

The trees are starting to turn on the Bosque. It’s goigeous!

The kids are acting up. I just got a call from D-Man’s teacher. He refused to get on the bus after school and, during P.E., called another little boy a “Bitch.” Now, this is not a word we use in our house (but we do, I ashamedly admit, use lots of others!) and when he says the word, “Fish”, it sometimes sounds like, “Bitch.” However, his teacher told me it was said in anger. *sigh* Fish Bitch, whatever, it was said in anger so it all has the same meaning. And… He snuck his cars to school again. I had to go pick him up. When we got home I made him throw all of his cars in the trash. It was most traumatic. If this was the first time… well, it wasn’t. It was the umpteenth time and today he learned the real consequences. Oddly, I’m his new BFF… I think it’s because he had to sit on his bed and watch his older brothers get in trouble for their antics.

The other two boys have been on a lying jag. We found candy wrappers in their room. We found wet toilet paper blobs slogged to the ceiling (aka spitballs.) Oldest took his “bling” to school today. That’s against the rules. He had it taken from him on the bus. One boy threw his pencil at him as they were fighting over the bling. Oldest took the pencil and poked it into the bus seat and tried to blame it on the other kid. They wrestled, oldest got his bling back, and then everyone on the bus told on him for puncturing the seat. The bus driver told us we would have to pay for the seat to be fixed.

I could kill them all. However, I know why they are doing this. They just found out that Mr. Patrick and Miss Veronica (our neighbors with their BFF neighbor kids and too many dogs) are going to get a divorce. They’ve been freaking out about it since Saturday. I had to have long talks about why people don’t stay in relationships and why they do stay in relationships. I also had to go back over all of that crap about their dad which still hurts and haunts them. Ergo yon stupefactions of acting-out processes. I really hate that I have to, in some ways, defend their dad. But I want them to know there is such a thing as a healthy relationship. Also, I refuse to run someone down when that person does this through their own actions quite well.

So, we’ve got bling, spitballs, Fish-Bitches, cars in trash, blistered-for-lying-butts, and a vinyl bus seat that will need to be repaired for, I don’t know how much money. Yeah; all in a day’s work.

Kids, I love ‘em.

Charbroiled.

By the way… I got the furnace to light. Just in time for a BBQ… Muahahahaha!

Mojo has been quite persistent about jumping up into my chair and getting his little paws all over my laptop. I told him I would help him out and be his typist/interpretter ’cause, really, he can’t read or write but he certainly has some strong opinions. (And I shall take advantage of this by interjecting my own thoughts ’cause, well, he’ll have no idea I’m doing it.) He has insisted he has a story to tell so I told him to get with it ’cause I’ve got things to do and can’t be his opposable thumb forever, dontcha’ know.

Without further ado, I present to you, Mojo:

“Yo.” (Clears throat and attempts to have a deep, MALE dog voice despite his cute feminine [Oh, pardon me... metro-sexual] overtones.)

“YO.”

“I just got back from vacation. We went to the beach. I had no idea what the beach was but now that I do, I wanna go back. I also have a pretty good idea of what the back of everyone’s heads look like and how freakin’ hot it can get sitting on top of Lulu’s new bedroll, in the sun, in a window, in freakin’ Needles, Ca. Un-Freakin’-Believable!

So, I drank the salt water and purged my worms. Well, they were actually pretend worms ’cause I was feelin’ kinda, you know, lactose intolerant, or somethin’ like that, and, wow, I’ve gotta tell ya… it was better than a coffee enema. Actually, not really an enema; more like a coffee enigma ’cause I can only steal a drink when my moms aren’t lookin’. I just love knowing that I can drink their coffee and they never know how much I’ve slobbered on their cup. I sneak onto the couch and walk onto the table and no one ever knows a thing. Smooth, right?”

(Yeah, right, buddy. I’ve seen your mustache, soul patch, toupee, or whatever it is your are calling it today, early in the morning… You’re a white dog, remember? Coffee shows on all white dogs!)

“Anyway, I purged and it felt great. Too bad the photographer in the group didn’t get a shot of my sunset-silhouetted-humped-back-doggy- ass-shootin’-kibble-beans-into-the-surf because, really, it was poetic and artful. At least I thought so… Now I understand why cats love those sand box thingies. Who woulda freakin’ thought I could relate to a cat? Hey, just ’cause I like cats, doesn’t mean I’m a freak!

So, anyway… now that we are back home, I finally checked myself in the mirror. WTHUMP? I was told I look “handsome” and was such a “pretty boy” but would-ja look at this? Would you look at my hair? They took me to the groomer before we went on vacation and I had no idea what that wench did to me. Would you look at this?! Not cool.

What I wanna know is, how come they don’t make hair gel for the Bichon? Why not a Bichon hair-relaxer? I would die to have straight hair. Eh; maybe not. Then I’d look like just another Westie or Maltese. Oh, no, no, no, no, no… I’ll keep my curls. Dog forbid I should look like a poodle. *shudder* What a mess. Do you know how long it’s gonna take for me to grow this mop out? For Dog’s sake!

Anyway, I went to the beach and all I got was this bad haircut. Oh, and a sunburn; my people forgot to put sunscreen on my sensitive, freckled skin. I pee’d on the couch. Don’t tell anyone.”

(You WHAT?!)

   ”ArGrrrrrrRRRRH!!!!

DO YOU SEE WHAT I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH? DO YOU SEE IT? DO YOU HEAR THIS CRAP?

ArGrrrrrRRRRRRrrrRRRRH!”

When I was a kid, I had “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night on a 45-rpm record. It had a skip in it and we would always have to hit it gently to advance past the repetitious music. It went something like this: “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! (Duh, duh, duh…) Was a good friend of mine! (Duh, Duh, Duh….) Was a good friend of mine… Was a good friend of mine… Was a good friend of mine…”

I still hear it that way. S made a CD for our trip that included this song and no matter how hard I tried, I kept hearing the skipped version. This would become The Ditty In My Head that was representative of every weird moment during our vacation holiday. Every day, every single ding dang day, something happened and I heard that stupid skipping song in my head. I’m thinkin’ it was a coping mechanism.

Here’s an excerpt of something I wrote but couldn’t post on our first day of travel:

Currently, I am sitting in a Days Inn in Needles, California. It is eight o’clock at night and it is still 110 degrees outside. Luckily, there is air conditioning in this hotel room. Unfortunately, there are four other people and two dogs sucking the air right out of the air conditioning.

The day started fairly well until we hit Holbrook, Arizona. We were groovin’ to Kid Rock and Jimi Hendrix when I noticed the “Check Engine” light blink on. Suddenly, we were thrust into a panic and all I could say was, “Oh. My. God. You’ve got to be kidding!” What could be wrong? S had previously read the entire manual and said that it was either emissions, gas cap, or something else that I can’t remember ’cause I was stressing out. She also said that the idiot light wasn’t blinking so we should be okay. We both tried to tell ourselves that everything would be okay but we worried about it for the next 67 miles.

We pulled into the Dinosaur Truck Stop (I have no idea what the real name is; that’s what we call it ’cause it has a bunch of dinosaurs leading up to the turn-off.) and found that the gas cap was okay except that there was an extreme pressure to it and there seemed to be a freaky hissing under the vehicle. We had no idea what to do at that point. Someone in the truck stop gave us the name and phone number of a mechanic who would be open on a Sunday. Both of us agreed that spending the next week in Holbrook waiting for a part to be ordered was definitely NOT how we wanted to spend our vacation. We had visions of Kurt Russell and a trucker (name that movie) and briefly thought it might be a way to ditch the kids but then reality set in. *sigh* Neither of us wanted to believe there was anything really wrong so we decided to get into Flagstaff and go to an auto parts store and buy a new gas cap.

We worried for the next 100-some-odd-miles, driving in silence in case a noise suddenly happened, and finally pulled into Flagstaff as rain, lightning, and thunder assailed us. Checker was open so I ran in and bought a new gas cap. Approximately 20 miles later, the “Check Engine” light went out.

That entire scenario made us all very glad to arrive in Needles. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to say that we were actually glad to arrive in Needles because it was, well, 110 degrees, muggy, buggy, and hotter than hell. (Was a good friend of mine…)

However, the “Check Engine” light was off. It almost felt like we’d finally checked off our “To Do” list and could now get on with our trip.

The next day I drove like a bat outta hell and we arrived in Cayucos by mid-afternoon. After unpacking the car, the bins (We used big bins to pack everything and it served as a place for the dogs to sit atop. Mojo, who normally pukes anytime he has to be in the car, didn’t get sick once! [Was a good friend of mine...]), and got settled in; we finally headed to the beach.

And this is what it’s all about, folks:

I’m pretty sure seeing these two dogs running down the beach was the epitome of “Joy to the World.”

S is still in the process of pulling photos off her camera and posting them to her Flicker account. Stop by and take a look at what she’s posted so far.

Tomorrow… Day Two at the Beach and how one boy almost drowned and two boys were almost murdered… on the beach… in broad daylight. If you have kids, that’s not much of a mystery; if you don’t, you won’t… ever… have… them…

There’s no place like home…