Like Gas-X, but better.

So, I’m trying to reclaim some of my time.

Yes, it’s the last day of March, but I … bought a calendar.

Yeah, I know.

I’m addicted to my Outlook calendar at work, but I refuse to get a Treo or Blackberry, so I depend upon my feeble brain to keep track of non-work obligations.

This high-tech system? Not working so well.

So, I shelled out $1.47 for a cheap and ugly little calendar at Target. Yes, they had cute ones, but they were all roughly the size of unabridged dictionaries. So I bought the ugly one, as it will fit easily into whichever of my gazillion purses I happen to be carrying.

I’m trying to reign in my weeknights so that I never have more than two obligations every week. And by obligation, I mean any type of event that doesn’t allow me to sit on the couch in my underwear.

I’m overwhelmed yet simultaneously bored at work. This makes my focus on how I spend my time even more acute. Overwhelmed yet bored is how I’m choosing to spend 40 hours of my week. Hrmph. Well-paid yet bored. Comfortable yet uncomfortable every afternoon because of stress.

Seriously. I have gas every afternoon.

It doesn’t matter what I eat. It doesn’t happen on the weekends. It’s stress. Stress is making me fart with wild abandon every night on the commute home! I know!

So. The reclamation is starting with the weeknights – approximately 10 hours a week. Baby steps, my friends.

What's that bewitching scent you're wearing?

So, Mr. Wonderful and I had a rough week. The sort of week where one of you expresses the need to figure out if this relationship is working and if you should stay together.

I was, shall we say, completely devastated.

After a few gut-wrenching days, we started to turn the corner on Friday morning. I was almost an hour late leaving for work, but I didn't care.

Turns out my timing was just right.

As I was getting ready to turn out of Mr. Wonderful's subdivision onto a busy, four-lane, 45-mph road, I saw a large yellow lab sniffing around. Alone.

I rolled down my window and she gave me that look.

I called out. She ran to me. She had a collar with a nearby address. Her name was Bailey. She got in the car.

And only then, when she was trying to burrow under the seat of my Honda, did I realize that she was roughly the size of an Econoline van. Gorgeous dog. Very, very, very large dog. Rather damp dog.

Nobody was home. Nobody answered the number on the tag, either. I called Mr. Wonderful, who was working from home.

"Hi, honey. I'm a few blocks away and I'm coming back to the house. Uh ... I found a dog."

"Chaaaaa Chaaaaaaaa ..."

"No, no, no! She's got a collar and she lives in the neighborhood and she just needs someplace to stay until her parents can pick her up. We won't keep her, I swear."

I pulled into his driveway and he came out. "Cha Cha, she's bigger than you are!"

My new hefty friend was very excited to hang in Mr. Wonderful's garage. I left the two of them and drove to work, very, very late, in the Friday morning sunshine.

The only other time I've found a dog was the day after I got laid off four years ago. I was in shock and barely functioning, then this starving Ridgeback greeted me when I went out to get the paper. That dog, who was later adopted and named Rufus, gave me something to focus on. But he was also a sign that in spite of the crappiness of the immediate situation, very good things were on the horizon.

So, when I drove to work on Friday, I knew that Mr. Wonderful and I would work through our issues. And very good things are on the horizon.

And then, I spent the rest of the day smelling vaguely of wet yellow lab. It was a good day.

I'm a winner!

Y'all, you'll never believe what happened.

My stalking, err, I mean intense appreciation of James Taylor is being further enabled by Saucy of bloggedy blog blog. I'm the winner of her JT tribute DVD. Thank you, Saucy!

Like her sassy prose isn't gift enough. Seriously.

So, to pay it forward, I'm going to a) write a post or two already (geez!) and b) find some random crap, err, I mean prizes around my house to give away. Stay tuned!

I can't believe I missed it.

National Sleep Awareness Week was March 3–9.

According to the National Sleep Foundation, the week’s festivities included an awards dinner titled “A Celebration of Sleep Leadership.”

What, exactly, is sleep leadership? Are sleep leaders people who sleep a whole lot? Or are they boring people who are skilled in putting others to sleep?

I love to sleep. Love it. If there was an Olympic sleep event, I would definitely try out – you know, to try to be a good sleep leader and act as a role model for young people. Like Mary Lou Retton … but a whole three inches taller.

I’ve always been a night owl, and my natural tendency is to wake up around 9-ish. Ok, 10 if we’re being honest. And I hate naps. Even as a baby, I never took naps.

Yeah, I’m surprised my mother allowed me to live to adulthood, too.

Anyway. Yesterday, I went to Easter Mass and then brunch with Mr. Wonderful’s family. There were egg hunts. And bloody marys. And a good time was had by all.

And then? I walked into my house at 3:20. I sat down my purse. And I immediately collapsed on my dog-hair-encrusted couch.

I woke up two hours later.

I called Mr. Wonderful. “You’re never going to buh-LIEVE what I did!”

I was right. He didn’t. My nap announcement was met with a hearty “Shutthefuckup!”

Maybe my subconscious knew that I had missed national Sleep Awareness Week and was trying to celebrate. You know, in my own, passed-out-after-vodka-in-the-middle-of-the-day sort of way.

Long road to ruin, indeed.

In addition to his addiction to ice cream, Mr. Wonderful is also sharing his addiction to live music.

We have tickets to a re-DEEEK-ulous number of concerts this year. Rush, James Taylor, Bon Jovi and The Police, among others.

Last week, we saw Foreigner. It was the second time in a year that we'd seen them, but damn, it feels like the first time, you know? Sadly, I initially referred to their lead singer as "Fake Lou Gramm," which is wrong, as he totally and completely rocks. Kelly Hanson, I am so sorry I ever thought of you as anything but your own bad-ass rock star.

Anyway, the dude has the skinniest legs in the history of the world ... but was wearing these jeans that fit like a glove. It made me think - is there a special denim boutique that is open to rock stars only? Do you have to have a gold record just to get in? I totally think this must be the case - and Def Leppard shops there, too. Speaking as someone who is always on the lookout for jeans that actually fit, I have yet another reason to become a rock star.

In other news, I might run off with a rock star.

Long ago when I was lonely and depressed and very, very single, BFF decided that I should marry Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters. She photoshopped a picture of us getting married on the beach and everything.

I told Mr. Wonderful that he should be concerned. You see ... we have tickets to see the Foo at flippin' RED ROCKS in July.

I cannot WAIT!

This will be part of a vacation where we're going to hike. In nature. Voluntarily. And it was my idea.

I know. I've lost my mind.

But I'm actually really looking forward to it. We're on the hunt for hiking books and are starting to train in preparation. And, in preparation for the concert, I have been loading up on all things Foo.

I'd not seen their video for Long Road to Ruin, which you can find here.

How am I supposed to not throw myself at a rock star who isn't afraid to look like a 70s-era soap star? He's hilarious! And, I understand that he's very hard of hearing, which would be a perfect fit for my nagging ways. What's not to like?

I don't, however, know if Dave would ever try to pay me to eat a chicken liver dog treat, so Mr. Wonderful has the upper hand. For now.

Finally!

It seems my recent run of crazy dog lady posts has finally propelled Google Ads to stop running ads about ski resorts on my blog.

Thank god. No, I don't want to find cheap condos in Vail. In fact, I never want to even think about skiing ever again. Google, didn't you read my post about praying for death on the ski slope?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, now, I have crazy dog lady ads. Dog sweaters. Dog retreats. I'm waiting for dog assisted living facilities, to really tie in to my current experiences with Geriatric Poodle. But aren't all homes assisted living facilities where dogs are concerned?

Anyway. I imagine I will make exactly zero dollars on my little Google Ads venture, but I keep it on my sidebar simply for the entertainment value. Sometimes, no one reads my blog - including Google - and I get some hilarious ads. A few favorites:

Boys Wearing Dresses
Women Wearing Thongs
Desiring Lord appearing?
Tips for Fixing Hair Loss
Your pretty Mexican bride

No, I'm not making any of those up. These are all bona fide Google Ads that have appeared on my sidebar.

I am not a boy and I am not into boys wearing dresses. However, I know some people enjoy that, and I respect their preferences.

I also know a lot of women wear thongs. I am not one of those women. Again, I respect their preferences.

I don't know who this Desiring Lord is or where he's appearing, but I'm sure he's very friendly.

I don't need to fix hair loss, as my head has approximately 794 hair follicles per square centimeter of scalp. But thanks.

And as for my pretty Mexican bride ... umm ... wouldn't that technically be my pretty Mexican domestic partner?

Not hatin' - just sayin'. Peace out, Google.

Oh, HELL no.

Yesterday was a full day for the Geriatric Poodle.

In the morning, he found his way off the deck. In the rain. He looked to be lost, so I threw a parka over my bathrobe, slipped on some shoes, and ran out to rescue him. I reached him just as he hunched over to take a dump.

So I stood in the rain and waited. And remembered why I hated living in an apartment.

Finally, he finished his business – and took off running away from me.

I chased him, my bathrobe flapping in the wind, hopefully keeping me decent. Grabbed the dog, got him in the house, and realized his black fur looked very Jeri-Curl-riffic when rain-soaked. Good times.

I thought that was enough doggie adventure for one day, but boy, was I wrong.

Last night, he fell down the basement stairs again.

It was totally my fault – I forgot to the close the door. The guilt is killing me.

He’s fine – a little sore, but ok. I’m a little worse for the wear. Last time, I just heard the thud, thud, thud, rolling behind me. This time, I saw him fly through the air, only hitting the stairs maybe twice before landing in a puddle on the cement floor.

I think the sound I made can best be described as guttural.

He shook himself off and kept on keepin’ on. I couldn’t stop crying.

Mr. Wonderful’s reaction was priceless. The first thing he said was, “Holy shit! He’s one bad motherfucker!”

Ah, yes.

So, we had some chicken liver treats as a reward for nobody killing themselves.

The dogs go nuts for these things. I think Foxie Doxie would do anything asked of him – including hotwiring a car, making meth, or sprouting thumbs – if you promise him a Bil-Jac.

Mr. Wonderful looked at the bag. “Made of real chicken liver, huh?”

Then he eyed me. “How much would I have to pay you to get you to eat one of these things? What’s your price?”

I considered. “Five hundred dollars.”

He guffawed. “Right. What-EVAH. How about 20?”

I’m meeting some girlfriends for dinner tonight and could use the cash. “Ok.”

“What? Seriously? Ohmygod!” He ran to the other room to dig through his wallet.

For some reason, the idea of eating a canine liver treat doesn’t bother me. They don’t smell that bad.

Mr. Wonderful called out from the other room. “I only have $14.”

“Too bad. The deal was 20 bucks.”

Silence.

“Hey honey?” he called in his sweetest voice. “Can I borrow $6?”

Don't mock the elderly.

So, the Geriatric Poodle has been on anti-senility drugs for about two weeks now. Anti-senility drugs that run $99 a month.

He weighs 12 pounds. So, that figures to a little less than 28 cents per pound of not crazy dog per day.

See? I’m totally justifying the $99 monthly bill. Twenty-eight cents is the money you’d throw in the bottom of your purse and forget about! Isn’t a life partner’s sanity worth the change in the bottom of your purse?

Gah.

So, he seems to be a little more with-it as of late. He still wanders around somewhat aimlessly, but he has managed to do new things like find his way off the deck.

Score one for the expensive drugs. Having a poo-free deck is a value-add.

Geriatric Poodle wanders around the yard, and he seems to be happy doing it. Usually, he runs the perimeter, following the fence line and getting about 27 leaves caught in his fur. Good times.

This morning, however, I looked out the kitchen window to find my sweet boy walking in a circle – a circle of about two feet in diameter.

He wasn’t chasing his tail. He was walking. Exploring, really. In a two-foot circle.

He made himself dizzy and he fell down.

He got right back up and started walking in a circle again.

I called out to Mr. Wonderful to come have a look. “Do you think he had a stroke?”

About that time, Geriatric Poodle walked straight into the one tree in the yard.

Mr. Wonderful guffawed.

And then, the poodle was up and running again. Circle, circle, circle. The size of the circle varied a bit. That made me feel better. We decided that his tail was up and he was happy, so we’d just let him be.

I felt guilty for laughing. Really, really guilty. And then I laughed some more.

And then? About 20 minutes later, Lil’ Fluff found his way back up on the deck and to the door, where he barked and demanded to be granted entrée. Just like old times.

He’s happy. He’s confused, but he’s not hurting. And he finds joy in exploring outside. He finds comfort sitting on my lap.

My mom told me I need to face the music and realize that it’s time to help him go.

And then, I ran over her with my car.

Ok, not really. But part of me does want to reply that she should be thankful that I won’t put her down when she goes blind.

Please, God, may I be doing the right thing. With the dog, I mean.

Things that suck about Corporate Behemoth.

I really shouldn't blog about the specifics of work. My blog is anonymous, but really, it's just not good form to blog about work.

So, I really shouldn't blog about the hour and a half I spent on the phone with IT yesterday.

And I shouldn't mention the complete ineptitude of the IT guy, who couldn't fix the issue with my monitor and instead told me to steal someone else's monitor to replace mine.

Nor should I mention how I asked the IT guy a question, only to be met with silence on the other end of the phone. Silence, followed by heavy breathing. I mentally ruminated on the social ineptitude of all computer folk.

Finally, I asked, "Are you ok?"

IT guy: "WHAT?"

The IT guy fell asleep while we were on the phone.

Finally, our time was over. I nearly cried with frustration. And five minutes later, IT guy called me back.

I really shouldn't blog about how the IT guy had the mouth-breathing IT guy in his cube, talking him through how to fix my problem. Mouth-breathing IT guy who always talks to my rack, not to my face.

And I shouldn't expose Corporate Behemoth by blogging about how annoying IT guy attempted to morph into charming IT guy, talking about his dog, when he got off work, and how it was *just him and his dog.*

Dude. Just fix my fucking monitor.

Mr. Wonderful's take on it was lovely in its simplicity.

"Next time this happens," he said, "Tell him, 'Oh, yeah? When I get off work, it's just me and my boyfriend.'"

That made me laugh. But my women's studies minor is enraged.

Mmm ... burrito ...

Two weeks without posting? Don't mind if I do!

See, I was gonna post, but a bunch of people died and then there was an accident and I was sick and we lost electricity and my computer crashed and the dog ate my homework.

Ok, not really.

And please, gods of karma, I'm joking. Like I'm always joking about being pregnant with a burrito after I visit Chipotle. Joking!

I didn't post because ... I have no good reason.

But I've been thinking about blogging, and that means something, right? I've been thinking about it so much that I dreamed that I visited Mrs. G. and stayed at her house. And I invited myself to a school pageant her son was in and everything.

Mrs. G.: I'm not pregnant with a burrito and I'm also not a stalker - I swear!

So, to get back on the wagon, I'm doing something I've been meaning to do for a while: updating ye olde blogroll. Visit these fabulous writers. I'm a crappy commenter, but I enjoy their writing on a daily basis.

bloggedy blog blog

I am bossy

Minnesota Matron

Surrender, Dorothy

Tales From Clark Street