Saturday, March 31, 2007

Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

But, failing diamonds, Murano glass will do.

Lest you think this blog is going to be all about the dogs and nothing more substantive, I thought I would talk about another subject near and dear to my heart: the shiny objects I've been collecting since my teens.

I blame my dearly departed mother for my collection obsession. She was the original Material Girl. She taught me my love of objects, those things crafted by the hands of artisans for purposes both beautiful and useful.

While many, many lovely things catch my eye on a regular basis, my real love is for Mid Century Modern objets de art, including Scandinavian dinnerware. My prescient mother could see even way back in her own youth the beauty and value of Stig Lindberg's Bersa pattern and Ulla Procope's Ruska, which she ardently collected and eventually passed down to me.

I also collect Mid Century American ceramics from the West Coast, namely Bauer bowls and coffee carafes. This was my first Bauer purchase. It never ceases to amaze me with its beauty and symmetry.

But my favorite objects are Murano glass bowls. Sometimes they are called ashtrays, although they often seem too deep and cumbersome to hold cigarettes. Maybe cigars. At first, I collected only what's known as the geode bowls. Now, I am thinking of selling that collection so that I can shift my focus to sommerso bowls utilizing the controlled bubble technique – called bullicante – with an over all spattering of gold or silver flecks – called aventurine. I just love the Italian language; it makes everything sound so gorgeous.

Here is one example of a bullicante sommerso bowl I recently purchased on eBay:

Isn't it sparkly?

Friday, March 30, 2007

It's a Poo Thing

I love my dogs. I really, really do. I just need to remember that they're getting old. JoJo has already tipped over into her teens. Not only is she geriatric, asthmatic, and terribly arthritic, but is also now totally incapable of holding her Number Two potties. Another fact I really need to remember when I go stumbling into the living room in the darkened a.m. hours. If I don't, I will most likely step in it.

Just like I did this morning.

It’s a good thing I had socks on. Gag reflex in full force, it was all I could do to remove the offensively coated sock and fling it, along with its thankfully pristine mate, out onto the back porch to remain there until such time it dries thoroughly enough for me to be able to . . . Gee, I dunno. I don’t see myself tossing it into the washer. Wouldn’t all that poo residue infect the other items? And if I wash it all by its lonesome, well that’s just wasteful. I think my only recourse is to throw it away and use its mate as a dust rag. See, I’m just that way about poo.

It’s one of the reasons I never wanted to have children.

With children, poo is what you put up with for, oh, I’d say the better part of 5 to 6 years. During which time I would quite likely go stark raving mad from changing poo-packed diapers and cleaning poo-smeared walls and wiping poo-filled bottoms. And would therefore be rendered incapable of carrying on parental duties from that point forward. Plus, children do not come with manuals and I, for one, do not task well without directions.

But that's just me. Feel perfectly free to shout from the rooftops – hell make a You Tube video out of it if you like – just how much you love being a parent and find it the most fulfilling work ever.

In spite of my love of all things canine, I have also never raised a dog from a pup. Neither do I bond with the puppies at the pound. Nope, there are plenty of other tender-hearted suckers to do that. The last time I ventured into the pound pup kennel I was greeted by no less than six wiggly bottomed Rottweiler cross puppies with wuv in their eyes and – you guessed it – poo on their paws. I did what I had to do (administer Frontline between their – thank God – poo-free shoulder blades) and then hightailed it over to the staff room where I batted my eyelashes at one of the few male staffers in existence and asked him in my best pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top-of-it-never-mind-the-braces voice if he could go clean up the mess in building one’s puppy cage because I had to rush back home to meet a deadline.

Nope, it’s adult dogs all the way for me. Because unless they happen to get hold of some particularly nasty varmint and not only kill said varmint but proceed to make it a mid day snack, then adult dog poo is perfectly manageable. Even geriatric poo emissions. Unless you do what I did and actually step in the stuff, it comes out in pretty decently solid chunks. To dispose, simply wad up half a roll of paper towels and then with a sort of duck-squat-reach maneuver just far enough away from the poo so as not to engage the gag reflex but still close enough to grab it with outstretched hand and wadded paper towel, enfold that sucker up safely in the wad and rush to the trashcan to deposit with nary a hacking sound. Voila, it’s now in the hands of Mora and Sons Trash Pick-Up.

Now, you show me a parent who can do that with their human children’s poo.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Spring Fling

I knew I wasn't going to be able to get through even the first quarter of this year without having to fling a carcass.

That's because we live on two acres in the country and own a couple of high prey drive doggies. How high? Ivan once treed a bobcat, is how high. JoJo, she's 14 but still gives our bunnies the what for. Don't be messin' with girlfriend's lawn. Only Beaux (RIP), our big black Lab, refrained from ever catching anything. Bless his big boofie heart, he was just in it for the chase.

But these other two, they're still all fired up in good old canis lupus (not-quite familiaris) fashion about chasing shit down and stomping its guts out. Last year, it was one squirrel, two mice, and a half chewed what-I-can-only-guess was a chipmunk. The year before that, Ivan got a kitty. That was a true joy, I tell, ya, scooping that poor thing up into the shovel and walking the few yards to the fence line before I flung its limp carcass over into the neighbor's yard (My neighbor has two acres, too, and the patch that abuts my property is what I like to call "no man's land." In other words, there's nothing there but some brush and a septic tank marker. I figure, he pisses me off, letting that poor dog of his bark all day and night, I'm flinging my carcasses on his Lower 40.) At any rate, too bad, so sad. It's survival of the fittest around here. RIP kitty dude.

So this morning I went out to check the dogs' water and what did I find floating in their trough? A mouse. For a moment, I thought it may have been a rat or a chipmunk, it was so big, but maybe that was just the water log. If there's nothing worse than scooping a carcass, it's fishing out a carcass. I had to do that once with a squirrel and I tell ya, those suckers get heavy if they soak a while. But then, that's what S.B.'s trout fishing net is for.

At any rate, it's still dark, so I haven't yet flung the carcass. It is currently residing inside the shovel, on top of S.B.'s work table in the garage. I'll fling it once the sun comes up.

RIP little mouse dude.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007


Welcome to Moi's Blob.

It is not guaranteed to be smoke free, pet hair free, fat free, nor particularly PC. I assume no responsibility if you are easily offended by any of the views contained herein.

Here are some particulars:

The point of this blog:
None whatsoever. Sometimes I'm funny. Sometimes I'm snot. Sometimes I bitch. Sometimes I moan. I obsess about dawgs and fashion, stooopid politicians and terrorist squirrels. And whatever else pops into my brain. Or yours.

What I do to pay the mortgage:
I write. It is not as glamorous as it sounds. Sometimes it's a lot of fun. Sometimes, I want to dig my .38 out from under the mattress and shoot myself through the eyeballs (eyeball?) what I produce is so lame.

What I do for fun:
I bake. I put one foot in front of the other at a lame-o pace of about 5-6mph, depending on wind conditions. I also run a pit bull advocacy organization.

I am ageless. I plan to be a babe until the day I die. Or die trying.

Single or Hitched:
Hitched. He's a sexy beast, too. If you saw him, you'd agree. Or not.

Religious Affiliation:
Church of CHRISTian Louboutin.

Political Leaning:
Minarchist, Classical Liberal, Anarcho-Capitalist flirt.

Main Fetish:
Other than all manner of baked goods, shoes. I know, it's superficial and all, but I really, truly believe that life would be a much better place if we all wore high heels. Just imagine trying to invade small Arab countries in 3-inch heeled red patent leather Christian Louboutins. Huh, huh? We'd just give up and go have lunch.

Some of my favorite things that aren't S.B., shoes, baked goods, or pit bulls:
My dogs
Shiny objects
1960s Corvettes
Outdoor adventuring
My COWWgirls
My iPod

If, as COWWgirl Mandy recently posited, I could disappear, what would I reinvent myself as?
I would love to move to a small Eastern European town and work as a matchmaker. Or, I'd be a rock star.