Thank you sweet Dee

My dog, Ellen Dee, passed away last week from intestinal cancer. She was two months shy of her eighth birthday.

In the days since her passing, I’ve struggled tremendously to deal with the emotion and finality of it. Ellen Dee was there for me during the hardest, most emotionally trying years of my life. She was always my strength and courage. She helped me do things that were scary, that I didn't think I was capable of, but that were so important and stretched me as a person—like pack up all my belongings, rent out my house and move away from my family (twice). I did things I never would have done if she hadn’t been there, but I did them because I knew no matter what happened, she’d always be by my side.

But until last night, when a friend sent me a quote that helped her get through the days and weeks following the loss of her beloved cat, Puddin’, I didn’t truly realize the real gift Ellen gave me. The quote said:

“Our animals shepherd us through certain areas of our lives. When we are ready to turn the corner and make it on our own…they let us go.”

The night before Ellen passed was my 40th birthday. I lay on the floor with her, listening to her shallow, painful breaths, praying like hell she would somehow get better. Around 3 am, she got up and went to lay in the hall, alone. I knew it was her way of telling me she was ready to go. And that I needed to let her go. But, after I read that quote last night, I also realized it was her way of telling me that I too was ready, and that I needed to go on without her.

Ellen watched me struggle through five years of bad relationships with people who were never there for me. So, when I met my amazing partner, Eileen, who not only adored little Dee, but was truly devoted to me, Ellen knew I was going to be okay. For the first time in her life, she saw that I had someone who loved and supported me. Ellen shepherded me through the storm, and now the sun was out, the seas were calm and her job was done. It was time for her to go, and time for me to make it on my own.

On July 24, 2009, Ellen Dee went to the biggest, best doggie park of all—the one in the sky. She ran all the way there, with a happy smile and light heart, knowing she had done the most amazing job in this life. I will always be grateful to sweet little Dee for being my courage and my strength for so, so long. And while I’ll always miss her sweet face, wiggle tail and air kisses, I know when I see her again, I’ll have lived a much fuller life because of her.

Thanks for everything Ellen Dee. I love you. The next time I see you, you’ll be chasing your squeaky football from cloud to cloud to cloud. I know because I’ll be the one throwing it.

Shelly

What's For Dessert?

When I took this photo, I thought of my friend, Mary. Not because her ass looks like two loaves of Challah bread trapped in a polyester prison, but because she’s the one who first introduced me to the term “hungry butt.”

Mary isn’t known for her tact, which is why I like her so much. What she is known for is an infamous party trick—the ability to pop her shoulder blades from their sockets, jutting them out behind her like the fins of a ’53 Cadillac. But Mary didn’t stop there. The space created between her shoulder blades was the exact same size as a case of Bud Light. Mary would squeeze that box of brew with her vice-like scapulas as she wandered the room offering a beer to anyone who looked thirsty. Or sober.

Mind you, she performed this marvelous trick without a shirt on, not because she was an exhibitionist per se, but because she claimed the garment prevented her from getting a proper grip. Um, whatever. Frankly, I didn’t even notice the beer at first because her double D bazookas were blocking my view.

Anyway, I had never heard the term “hungry butt” before Mary used it to describe the phenomenon of someone’s pants being devoured by their own ass crack. So when I stumbled upon this unfortunate munching, naturally I thought of her.

Mary, This Butt’s For You.

Shelly

Crap-tastic

So for the past week I’ve discovered that the lid of our guest bathroom toilet is squeaking. I notice this mostly in the middle of the night because the guest toilet is the closest toilet to my side of the bed—or at least the closest toilet that doesn’t require navigating around the dog bed (with dog in it) in the dark.

So you’re probably thinking, “Why does she need to lift the toilet seat to pee?” Listen up, I said LID not SEAT. I’m one of those people who must close the lid of the toilet when the toilet is not in use. It’s just more sanitary. Or at least it has the appearance of such.

Anyway, this afternoon I decide I’m going to fix that f-ing leaky toilet lid and I grab my can of WD-40. (It fixes everything, you know.) Feeling very proud of myself, I enthusiastically squirt the WD-40 onto the hinges and work the grease into the plastic pins that hold the entire contraption together. But to my great dismay this only makes the squeak louder. No, not just louder. Crazy loud. Like fingernails on a chalkboard combined with dental work from hell.

At this point I realize I’m in over my head so I consult the experts (Google). Apparently, WD-40 is the worst possible thing you can squirt onto plastic toilet seat hinges. A more appropriate plan of attack would have been to take the entire thing apart and lube it up with petroleum jelly. Great! I have experience here. Unfortunately, my toilet is of the unique variety (cheap as hell) that does not allow you to take it apart without breaking the shit out of it. So I tried slathering the lube on top of the WD-40 and guess what? It didn’t work. Big surprise.

Oh, did I mention the whole reason I really care this much about a squeaky toilet lid is because my Mother In Law arrives tomorrow for a six-month visit and this is her primary bathroom? Super duper awesome.

Well, new toilet seats run $20-50. So screw that. Instead, I just swapped the guest bath seat with the master bath seat (luckily they’re of the same shoddy quality) and Bernie and I have agreed to leave the lid up at all times. Unless we’re trying to scare off a burglar. Or it’s Halloween.

How To Get To Heaven From Mesa, AZ

That is seriously the headline on a church flyer someone stuck to our door yesterday. I actually saw the guy walk up because my home office overlooks the front porch. So when this strange dude in a blue shirt came to the door I did what I always do: I hid under the desk and let Edgar bark him away.

The flyer is for the Gospel Light Baptist church. They claim I can get to heaven (from Mesa, AZ!) in three easy steps. Thank God because I won’t do anything if it isn’t easy. Oh shit, I just took the Lord’s name in vain. I’m a hopeless sinner.

Anyway, here’s all you have to do to go to heaven (besides live in Mesa, AZ):

1. ADMIT THAT YOU ARE A SINNER. Fucking sweet, I already did that! (See final sentence of previous paragraph.)
2. BELIEVE THAT JESUS CHRIST IS YOUR LORD AND SAVIOR. It actually goes on to explain exactly what this means but it’s hard to understand because of the typos. Even a third grader could tell you that “shalt” and “believeth” aren’t real words.
3. CALL TO GOD IN PRAYER AND ASK FOR FORGIVENESS. Okay, here goes: “Dear God, please forgive me for swearing too fucking much. Also, for liking girls in 'that way.' But it's your own damn fault because I was born like this."

Wow. I feel so much better. Heaven, here I come! I wonder what Heaven is like? I hope there’s a good bar. I bet St. Peter makes a mean Bloody Mary. I’ll bring a nail for the olives.

Jenny

I know the feeling, boy

This is Edgar’s new favorite spot in the house. For some unexplained reason he suddenly loves to wedge himself under this particular dining room chair. We don’t mind, since neither Bernice nor I have much of an affinity for the dining room set. I mean, come on. Does it look like something we’d buy? Seriously. It’s floral. The furniture was actually given to us by the previous owner of the house. And since the alternative would have been a card table, we accepted.

Come to think of it, Edgar might be onto something. Depending on how my afternoon client call goes, I may just join him under there.

Jenny

Why I'm not at the gym right now

I don’t like things that skitter. And by “things” I mean vermin. These objectionable entities include rodents of all kinds as well as any insects with enough legs and/or wings to propel themselves away from the many instruments of death I am wielding (fly swatter, stomping feet, poison spray, karate chops, etc.).

So you can imagine my horror at the gym yesterday when I spied a black ant creeping around the free weight area, just inches from my feet. The little bastard thought he was so smart, dressing in all black so he’d blend in perfectly with the industrial rubber flooring. But his ant camouflage was no match for me. I can spot wretched pests from a thousand yards (cockroaches from over a mile). I looked right into his beady little eyes and screamed at the top of my lungs, “DIE YOU LITTLE FUCKER!!” and stomped the shit out of him. Okay, I didn’t really yell that out in the middle of a crowded gym. But I really wanted to which is basically the same thing.

Vermin successfully eliminated, I continued with my workout on the other side of the gym—can’t be too safe. I selected a pair of free weights from the rack and put my bright orange workout towel on the floor by my feet as I did my first set. When I finished, I glanced down and witnessed the unthinkable: ants on my towel. Lots of them, skittering in and out of the folds, getting their vile ant filth all over the towel I use to wipe my face! But even before my brain could fully process this event, I saw something infinitely worse. The ants were all over my shoes. And not just down by the laces. Up near the opening, by my exposed skin!

Now I should probably mention that about a year and a half ago I had an exceptionally bad ant bite experience while walking my dog, Edgar. We always walk at night because it’s cooler. Well, Edgar stopped to poop (as dogs often do) in a particularly dark corner of someone’s front yard. Well, unbeknownst to me, while I was patiently waiting for him to finish his business I was standing square in the middle of an ant nest. The reality of this didn’t hit me until I was being bitten by roughly 40 ants, all at the same time. Over the next few days my ankles swelled to the size of softballs and itched so badly I had to ice them at night just to fall asleep. Good times.

So when I saw the ants on my shoes at the gym I reacted as any sane person would, screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK!?” (this time out loud) and adding to the spectacle by hopping around while swatting at my shoes with the towel. (In hindsight, probably not the greatest plan since it too was covered in ants.) 

Why were there ants all over the gym floor? Where did they come from? Did they get a good workout? These and other important questions may have been answered but I sure as hell wasn’t around to find out. The last thing I saw as I fled the premises was some poor maintenance dude, hunched with bug killer in hand, futilely scanning the black gym floor for camouflaged ants.

Jenny