Bye Bye, Pie!

The dog who hates me

Last night at dog obedience, the instructor said she wanted Tallulah and me to go off in a corner and make out. She said Tallulah was way more interested in playing with Rosie the Boxer than she was in me, and that I had to teach her to tune in to me. Calling Tokyo. Come in Tokyo.

Now, naturally, this led me to believe that Lula hates my guts and wishes anyone in the world had plucked her from that trailer park other than me. And it didn't help any when we stood there for 65 hours and she looked at everything in the world but me. Perhaps I am hideous to her. Perhaps every time she sees me, the Beauty and the Beast theme plays in her head.

So tonight I made her look at me before I posted.

Could she look more apprehensive? WHY DOES MY DOG HATE ME? You get dogs because they have to love you, because they are dogs. As opposed to cats, who are waiting for their paycheck for living with you.

Do you like how I added the hearts, to kind of force that loving feeling? She is like every ex-boyfriend I ever had. I am SO trying to make her jealous tonight at the dog park.

I know that I have not delved into any of the topics I said I would, and as you can see, I have retained the ding-dang job no matter WHAT rule-breaking techniques I try. I am wearing nothing but pasties and a headdress tomorrow.

Okay, so my diet. My nonkilling, slaughterhouse zero diet. First of all, my groceries were cheap. I got 47 million of those little containers of every pasta made, where you just add hot water, for lunch. And I got fruits and vegetables. And also Fig Newtons. My grocery bill was 24 bucks. For me, that's good.

Also, I ordered the veggie patty at Subway, and is it ever tasty. And also last night we had spinach pizza, which was similarly delicious. So all in all, it's been good other than when I saw the beef ad and almost died of lust. But, yeah, why must there be so many tomato items in vegetarian food? You got your spaghetti sauce, your salsa, your tomatoes on sandwiches and in salads, your V-8. I am expecting to have a hole in my esophagus by Friday.

What else did I say I wanted to mention? Oh, yeah, the neighbor! Hang on! Let me show you what she did to my cupboard.

So, I knew my neighbor was an artist, and I had told her that once we unpacked, I'd love to have her give us visual-skills advice. So she came over Saturday afternoon and we were together till 10 p.m. I am not even kidding. At one point, we were at her house, and I noticed on the wall all these plaques and awards because she is an interior designer. Me too. So we now have a whole makeover plan for this house, which will take years but it's exciting.

Here is how my cupboard/shelfy thing, because I am an interior designer and I know all the words, looked when I set it up:

Here's how it looked after she played with it:

I wish I had skills. Mad skillz. I don't even know what that phrase means.

It is time for macaroni and cheese, so I must go. I have not forgotten that I have to write about how I have either been lobotomized or I am depressed, and also how annoying I was at 24.

Because apparently it wouldn't be a day unless I blogged from work

When I get home tonight, remind me to discuss:

• How I spent an inordinate amount of time with my next-door neighbor this weekend, and it turns out she is an award-winning decorator and I need to suck up to her more.
• How many tomato products must one consume when one is vegetarian?
• What a pretentious twit I was in college.
• And, can you be depressed and not know it?

Okay, talk to you at 5:40 ET. Unless they finally fire me for this, in which case I'd assume I'll get home earlier.

Loved him.

I also don't like Pina Coladas

Today I got my roots done, because Hostess Ding-Dongs called. They wanted their creamy white center back. What gray roots? Yeesch.

I got home from my rootage and I was so proud. I got right on the webcam, because I am obsessed with myself.

This photo didn't exactly capture my nice new roots as much as it captured Winston and his squinty self. And also Marvin's musical equipment that I don't understand. All I know is all his stuff is black and has many cords, and I have never seen a black-with-many-cords-themed room in any decorating magazine. But I digress.

Theeeerrre we go. No gray roots! I am young again! And by the way, my hairdresser said her parents were nearly 50, but they were young at heart. Tipped her 48 cents.

So, I was all proud of my roots and my blowout, and I was debating not running because I didn't want to ruin said blowout, which right there makes me stupid. Yes, her cholesterol was 796 when she died, but what smooth hair!

Meanwhile, Marvin said, "Let's go to the park with Tallulah!" "Okay," I said, wanting all of Greensboro to see I was no longer Spalding Gray drinking Earl Grey with the Legend of Greystoke.

Right when we got outside, the sky said, BOOM! "Gee, it looks a little stormy," I said, the Wicked Witch theme starting up quietly in the background. "No," said Marvin, who once mistook a crying kitten for a bird. Who once, in the middle of the night, thought the sound of a car flipping over in front of our house was really the ocean crashing into the shore, even though we lived 20 miles from the ocean. "Let's go," he insisted.

The sky was a nice shade of purple as we approached the park, the all-tall-tress-and-giant-metal-statues park. BOOM! the sky repeated. Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton drove by in a pickup truck as Marvin got a concerned-looking Tallulah out of the car.

BOOM! CRACK! the sky insisted. All the other park-goers were rushing past us in droves, as well as all the woodland creatures, searching for higher ground. "Come on, Tallulah!" Marvin sang brightly. She raised her eyebrows at me.

I'd say we were five minutes into our walk when we must have somehow managed to walk directly under the Hoover Dam. Karen Silkwood had less water doused on her then we did in that moment. You couldn't even talk, because if you opened your mouth, you'd drown.

Of course, this was the moment Tallulah decided to relieve her bowels.

And guess what? The trash can at the all-lightning-rods-all-the-time park? Had some sort of raccoon-proof trap door on it that you had to read the directions to get open. Who wanted to hang her Target bag of poop right on the electricity-attracting arm of one of the statues? But no. I was a Brownie; I have learned to leave nature as I found it. I actually stood in that driving rain and read the stupid instructions.

Anyway, we are home. We look like this:

You can't tell, but I am so winning a wet t-shirt contest, and Lula looks like a terrier, her fur is so sticky-uppy. She hates us.

I not leave house, never.

Our house. In the middle of our street. Actually, it's pretty close to the corner.

Am I the analiest wife from Analville, Analbama? Or are Marvin's towel-folding techniques unacceptable?

And let's none of us do the thing where we all just feel grateful a man has folded a towel. It's as much his job as it is mine. Except that he clearly has an emotional block about it.

I have, in the exasperated past, just told him to not fold any towels. I have told him to just come get me, and I will do it.

And look. Mine don't have military precision or anything, like old lady towels. Can someone tell me how old ladies get their towels so tidy-looking? And their sheets? Have you ever looked in any old lady linen closets, or is that just my hobby? And why do old ladies all like Pond's Cold Cream? Does anyone under 78 use Pond's?

Ooo, speaking of which, there's a man I know at the dog park, named Mister's dad. We all just know each other by our dog names, and then add the unfortunate "dad" or "mom." Anyway, Mister is a black, calm giant Schnauzer and so cool, and he is owned by a black, calm giant man. It sort of cracks me up. I like to think of myself as a fun blonde, so maybe everyone thinks I am like Tallulah, too. But probably not. Well, the going-straight-for-everyone's-crotches part, yeah.

Were you waiting for me to tell you this giant Schnauzer uses Pond's Cold Cream?

Anyway, Mister's dad works weekends at a retirement community that sounds really fancy, and it has independent apartments, then independent living, then assisted living, then you are old and gonna die soon living. He was telling me about all the funny old ladies and next thing you know old Jed's a millionaire and I am gonna volunteer there. I was missing my old ladies. And their tidy towels.

And in case anyone is burning with curiosity, last night I had spaghetti for dinner, which is probably a rookie new vegetarian thing to have. And for breakfast I had Barbie cereal. Marvin had it too, and when I woke up and opened the bedroom door, the whole house smelled like Barbie cereal.

I am certain Jackie Onassis had similar problems.

Oh, and I already own the book Fast Food Nation, so I guess I will read it after I finish my Anne Lamont book. Does anyone else totally worship Anne Lamont?

Anyway, we are really almost done unpacking boxes, and now we just have to make things pretty. We have nine million, seven hundred and fifty thousand knickknacks. How old are we? There's hardly anywhere to set down our Pond's.

Here is our shelf in the hallway. We had just been cramming stuff there for yucks. Now I have to think of something real to do with it. I mean, I could use all the shelves for the all-knickknacks, all the time thing we got going. As it is, the Filofax, photo of Marvin's grandmother, Tiffany's box, reading glasses, tarot cards theme is looking nice, too.

But I am pleased with how I arranged the shelf in the kitchen:

That's just our everyday china, along with some pretty pieces we've gotten over the years. And do you like our eBay phone? We heart ourselves. When's the last time you DIALED a phone? It feels so retro. It's kind of hard to dial when you have Pond's Cold Cream on your fingers, though.

Okay, need to get over the Pond's.

Nine grain

I am home right now with Francis, even though it is 1 p.m. I left work cause I was sick, dog. I was sicky-sick-sick.

I woke up with a migraine this morning, which always annoys me. I had run the night before, and made sure I got my eight hours, and put in my mouth guard so my top teeth wouldn't come out my bottom jaw in the night, and I wake up with ROWR ROWR ROWR in my head. That is what a migraine says as it throbs. ROWR ROWR ROWR.

Migraines tend to be on one side of your head or the other. Now, for me, if I have a headache on the right side, it hurts a lot, but isn't that nauseating. If it's throbbing on the left, I have less pain but more nausea. Do not ask me why. I did not ask for my body to do this to me, just as I did not ask it to make my midsection bell-shaped or marsupial-pouched.

So, I took an Imitrex, which, thank you, God, for drugs. Good American drugs. I have tried acupuncture, biofeedback, aura cleansing, past life readings, finding my totem animal, meditation, Chinese herbs and relaxation CDs to get rid of these migraines. And you know what works? The good people at GlaxoSmithKline, that's what works.

Visualize GlaxoSmithKline. All we are saying is give prescriptions a chance.

And by the way? I wish that list of alternative medicines was exaggerated for comic effect, but it isn't.

Anyway. I take an Imitrex. I go to work, because I have only worked there two months. By the time I get there, my stomach is not pleased with me. Also, I was working with someone else, and I noticed I really couldn't get my brain to, you know, work. After each step in what I was doing, I had to think. "Now, what do I do, again?" My coworker must think they hired the child of Pia Zadora and Forrest Gump.

Did I ever tell you that once during my marathon training, some teenager yelled, "Run, Forrest! Run!" at me? This is why I don't have kids.

Eventually, it was time for my 10 o'clock break. I'd estimate the time was 10 o'clock because I am Sherlock Holmes, over here. At this point, was head was so dizzy that I thought, maybe I shouldn't walk. But maybe I'd feel better if I walked. So I got up and ambled over to where my walker friends are, and it just occurs to me one of them is named Jim, so he is Jimmy Walker, which is killing me just a little. Anyway, by the time I got over there, the back of my mouth started watering and I said, oh no.

I have not barfed since 1982. And in 1982, I was drunk on Andre pink champagne so it didn't matter that I was barfing. But I would rather watch a Reba marathon than barf. I am HORRIFIED of it. I would rather attend an all-Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow-all-the-time dance marathon than barf.

I do not know why all my examples involve marathons.

So, I left. I did not want to be ill at work. I drove home very motionlessly. See? Everyone who's afraid of emailing me because you think I'll proof your email? I just said motionlessly. Calm down.

I slept until just now, when I got up famished and ate leftover pepperoni pizza with the pepperonis picked off, which was the best I could do considering I haven't bought non-meat food yet. Then I had a peach, because I have 7,000 peaches, because I told my mother-in-law that I like yellow peaches, and when you tell that woman something she gets it for you in droves. I wish I told her I liked gold bouillon.

I was eating the peach when Marvin, who was still sporting his pajamas and I am not resentful of his summer off at all, totally tripped on absolutely nothing. I mean, he was in the middle of the hardwood floor with nothing around him for miles. And the way he flung his hands in the air? He looked exactly like Jack Be Nimble. Which I was trying to tell him but I was choking on the peach.

So that's my first 24 hours as a vegetarian. Oh, and an anonymous commenter, whose initials might be my mother, wants vegetarian recipes or food ideas. Nothing with cilantro, please. I'd rather go to a drum solo marathon than...oh, you get my drift.

No makeup, I'm a vegetarian. Is a dreamcatcher next?

Here's my radiant self, after a whole day of wearing no makeup at work.

And I made a stupid mistake at work today, too, that vexed me, and someone said, "You look so drained. Don't beat yourself up about that mistake."

Okay, I really wasn't drained so much as I was without eyeliner. And I'm enjoying my gray roots too. Glad it wasn't Bring Your Jude Law to Work Day.

Other than forgetting to wear makeup, I had another major event in the past 24 hours. I have decided to become vegetarian.

I love animals. And not in that way. Cut it out. But really, I am up there with the major animal lovers of the word: Pamela Anderson, Tippi Hedrin, Dr. Doolittle, Oscar Mayer. So why do I eat them?

Several times in life I have walked up to those dreadful trucks that have the livestock on them. I do not mean that I was walking on the highway, I mean at rest stops and such, where I earn some extra cash on the side. And have you ever looked inside those containers of pigs or cows or chickens? They are CRAMMED in there, and they look like they know exactly what's going on, and it also doesn't look very clean.

Also, one time Marvin was watching one of his interminable documentaries, and they showed a pig being killed. Did you know a pig has the intelligence of a three-year-old person? I am telling you what, that pig knew what was up.

So last night I saw another of Marvin's sad documentaries, and there were pigs being transported on one of those trucks (it was a documentary on truckers. I am telling you, that man would watch a documentary on radishes if it were available), and they looked so sad, and I said that is IT. I am DONE eating meat. Done.

I did it before, not eating meat, for like three months. Then my stepsister got married, and they served prime rib at the reception. And oh, did it look good. So I had me some. "Num num num," I said. Then I noticed Marvin wasn't eating his prime rib. "You gonna eat that?" I asked, earning my last name. "Num, num, num," I said, minutes later.

Then my stepsister felt too nervous to eat. You know what I had to say about that.

Num, num, num.

Three hours later I was back at the hotel, and MONKEYS were flying out my arse. Oh, I was ill. Apparently you can't just eat meat after not eating it.

And what does that say, by the way, that you have to build up a tolerance in order to digest meat? That can't be a good sign.

And can I just mention that after being in the bathroom for hours, HOURS, I finally exited the bathroom and flopped onto our hotel bed, pale and shaken, and MARVIN MADE HIS MOVE. Now, seriously, could I have been less appealing at that moment? He also made his move the day I had my wisdom tooth removed.

I do not know what to tell you about Marvin. I can't wait till I'm old and infirm. He will be SMITTEN.

So, I'll let you know how it goes. Going vegetarian. And I'll try not to be one of those "I can't believe you're eating meat, have you seen the inside of a slaughterhouse" kind of vegetarians.

But really, have you seen the inside of a slaughterhouse?

Illegally blogging at work again

In my rush this morning? For the first time in 20 years of being in the work world, I forgot to put on makeup.

I look like Tom Petty.

In Chris

I am typing you between the bodies of Francis and Lula. Fran is on my left, saying, "Hsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. GrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOrrrrrrrr" and Tallulah is trying to pretend she doesn't hear it while attempting to eat my peach.

It's relaxing, is what it is.

Today I am going to address the subject of proofreading, because people keep asking about it as a career choice.

My main concern -- and I know I have said this before -- is that you think it is a relaxing job where you read all day. Or that you think, I love to read, so I'd love love love proofreading!

Yeah, not so much. With proofreading you have to slowwwwwly look at every single letter, making sure all is spelled right. Then you have to look at it again to make sure it is the right font, the right leading, the right kerning, and then that it makes sense in context.

Then you have to think of any related stuff you have read before and make sure what you just read makes sense in the context of the related thing you read however long ago.

Then you have to make sure everything you just read matches the style guide of whatever company has hired you.

Does this sound fun? Okay, then, you may enjoy proofreading. You may also enjoy being the person who spreads the sawdust on vomit, you giant freak.

You have to be screamingly detailed and always paying attention. You can't skim and you can't not totally concentrate on the task at hand. When you're proofing, I mean. I suppose the poor elementary school janitor can let his mind wander.

Just today I was proofing something for a friend for his church, and he signed off "In Chris" instead of "In Christ." Now, I'm sure Chris is a nice guy, but In Chris is probably not how you want to end a letter to churchgoers. But it'd be so easy to just be at the end of the letter and bleep over the fact that it said Chris.

Also, proofreading will ruin your eyes. I have 20/500 vision, which means something 20 feet away? Looks like it's 500 feet away for me. Sexy.

And people want to know how I got started. Well, I have a degree in English, which always makes employers happy but between you and me has nothing to do with proofreading. I read books and pretentious poems. I never took a single grammar class.

So, anyway, there was an ad in the paper for a proofreader at a publishing company, I sent my resume, which basically said hi, I have an English degree and now I'm a receptionist because that job seldom interferes with my drinking, and for some reason they called me and I took a test and I was in.

So, that's the whole story of what it's like and how I started. Oh, and I have seen pay ranges of anywhere from $100 an hour somewhere fancy in LA to $8 an hour for some job on Craigslist. I sent that guy an email and said shame on you. I'd say the average is 25-30 bucks an hour in big cities and 15-20 bucks an hour in smaller towns.

And now my in-laws are here so I can't tell you about how Tallulah found a dead squirrel and brought it home to me. If I were Granny Clampett, we'd be all set for dinner.

Phone home. And also phone the pizza delivery place while you're up.

I got no time to talk to you, girl. But yet, here I am. Coming at you from the NC.

Tonight is the deadline for my freelance proofreading project, which I have not worked on in two days because my in-laws are here. They are currently in Tiny Town, however, as Marvin decided to torture them by taking them there for a visit.

Actually, they're going to a concert at my old church/workplace, and all my Tiny Town peeps are gonna be there and I would dearly like to see my peeps. How cool am I with my use of the word "peeps"? Do you see a whole church full of marshmallow parishioners?

Anyway, my plan was to finish up this Herculean task tonight and then send a nice email to the publishing company saying okay, thanks for all the work through the years, but I work full time now and I cannot proof for you any more, even though the extra $10,000 a year comes in pretty handy around here, Bub. (That was a line from It's a Wonderful Life.)

But yesterday I got an email from that very publishing company, thanking me for all I do, this Bud's for you, and saying what an asset I am. Certainly I've been an ass to many, but an asset? Hardly ever. So now I feel too bad to quit. I am too legit to quit.

Someone is free associating all over the place tonight, isn't she?

I like how even though I have a giant, looming deadline and a dog who needs walking, I took the time to take a picture of my ET finger.

It's a pen that lights up. I couldn't get it to capture the lit finger look. What do you want from me? I'm no Steven Spielberg. But do you enjoy today's business casual attire? I am also celebrating my Ann Landers flip. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

No one takes advantage of you without your permission.

Perfume should be a reward for being close.

Those were all the Ann Landers gems I could remember.

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Okay. Seriously berserk today. Goodbye. Wish me luck in the proofin'. Beeeee gooooood.