Truths and Half Truths

More Puppy Video

I promise this won't become an everyday thing, but today Puck got introduced to the concept of "wet grass".  Here he is with Allie and mom Ty.

Juliet will be ready to be picked up later today, and according to the receptionist at the Vet College "she also just may have found a home out of all this"  (vet college students are encouraged to take pets during their time at school).

Incidently, those of you who are worried about Ty's prospects will feel better about the fact we have quite a lineup of people keen to come see her.  And she's such a great dog I can't believe it won't work out for her.

Fostering the puppies has been fun and gets more comical every day (ohh, their little puppy growls as they play fight?  Melt your heart!).  But it'll be good when it's done and while I send out my love to all you people who were so sure we were going to end up with a newcomer to our house, we're all agreed that it will be enough to find them good homes elsewhere.

In any event - more puppy cuteness:

 

From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

Yesterday, I was chasing my dog Roxy around my yard with a pie plate, trying to stuff it under her when she squatted to pee.  (This is not some sort of new hobby - I was ordered to do this by the veterinarian) 

On the first attempt, just as I got it under her, it made that crinkling, popping sound pie plates make when they bend, and she nearly broke my arm lunging at the leash to get away.  Now, of course, she was terrified of the scary scary pie plate, and not only would she not pee, she wouldn't look at me because I held it in my hand and was evidently planning to use it to ... my God, I am speculating on what a dog might think.  Shoot me now.

So we went back inside the house, and I gave her a cookie, which wipes her memory clean, and we tried again.  This time I took a flat lid from a tupperware dish (no crinkly, no scary) and we went outside.  Due to the memory-deleting qualities of the dog biscuits, Roxy seemed to think it was our first time out that day, so she was very happy.

She wandered around, looking for that one blade of grass on our lawn which she had not yet blessed with the holy water of her bladder, found it, and squatted.  Smoothly, gracefully, as if I had done this hundreds of times before, I slid the tupperware lid under her just in time to have my dog pee on my hand.

Fortunately, enough got into the lid for me to pour a sample into a little cup, seal the cup, give it to Allison for delivery to the vet, then go in and dip my hands in bleach  wash my hands for about ten minutes under scalding water. 

So, yesterday, I let my dog pee on me.  On purpose.

Today, I am going for a meeting with the Queen's Representative to the Province of Prince Edward Island, our Lieutenant-Governor.  I expect I will be greeted by a military aide-de-camp, or perhaps a butler, and will be offered tea and possibly finger sandwiches.

I will look more or less like this: 
   

... and I will try to remember not to eat with that left hand. 

I Really Can Dress Myself

Me:  So ...?

Allie:  Really?

Me:  What?

Allie:  Shorts?

Me:  It's summer.

Allie:  You're not going to the beach.

Me:  Still.

Allie:  Sports jacket.  Minimum.

Me:  Really?

Allie:  He's an important guy.

Me:  So ... the golf shirt?

Allie:  Are you golfing?

Me:  No.  It's a meeting in his office.

Allie:  So ...

Me:  So, no golf shirt?

Allie:  I can't believe you need help with this.  What are you, 12?

Me:  Well, it's an important meeting.  A lot riding on it.  A whole new life.

Allie:  So your first thought was:  bare, hairy legs is the way to go.

Me:  Well, it's summer.

Allie:  Still.  Bare, hairy legs.

Me:  Good point.  Shirt?

Allie:  Always best.

Me:  But, a shirt shirt.

Allie:  As opposed to a watermelon shirt, yes.

Me:  You know what I mean.  A shirt with, like, buttons.

Allie:  Seriously.  12.

Me:  Fine, a shirt.  Tie?

Allie:  You could.

Me:  But do I have to?

Allie:  It's summer.  I'll give you this one.

Me:  So, no tie.  Score.  Now, as far as shoes ...

Allie:  Don't even think it.

Me:  They're fashionable.  People are wearing them.

Allie:  Dorks are wearing them.

Me:  Fine.  Whatever.  Shoes. 

Allie:  Swear to God.  12.

Me:  Pants?

Allie:  Again, always a good first impression.

Me:  Not always.

Allie:  Ew.  Just ew.

Me:  Fine.  Which pants?

Allie:  Are all your pants wool?

Me:  I wear pants in the winter.  In the summer ...

Allie: ... bare, hairy legs.  Fine.  These ones.

Me:   OK, good.

Allie:  Are we done?

Me:  Ball cap?

Allie:  We're done.

Suit. Me Fine.

So, as promised:

I think I clean up pretty good.  You're entitled to your own views on that.  But people asked, so ... here are the pics.

Looking Gooood

Today, Allison and I are going out shopping for a new suit for me.  I am taking her with me because I know she does not like to be embarrassed, so she will see to it that whatever suit we buy will not be hideous and that I will look as good as I can look on my daughter's wedding day.

I cannot buy a suit by myself, because I am emotionally malleable when it comes to my appearance.  I am a blank slate.  I cannot think of myself in terms of "attractive" or "good-looking", or "sexy".  In fact, typing those words in association with a discussion of how I look makes me exceedingly uncomfortable to the point where I fidget and use any possible ruse to change the topic.  (Even if I am the one who actually introduced the topic.)

It's not that I am particularly humble.  I'm absolutely not.  There are things in my life or career that I will absolutely bore you to tears bragging about, things of which I am proud to bursting and unafraid to proclaim that pride to the world.

But how I look?  Not among them.

I have always considered myself homely and chunky.  And for about 32 years, I carried 70 extra pounds or so.  That helped in the "Who could like my looks?" department.

I've felt badly for people who - through what I cannot help but see as kindness or questionable judgment - have tried to convince me otherwise.  It can be frustrating, saying nice things to someone and have them reject it at the rim as forcefully as I tend to do that.  I think something in me believes that after a while, they'll stop saying it and I won't have to deal with either a crazy person or someone who feels that kind of pity for me.  How screwed up is it that telling me I look good or sexy makes me feel pitied and pathetic?

Look, this is not a plea for a bunch of comments saying "No, really, you're not hideous".  It's just a little essay about how I feel when I look in the mirror.  Were I to look at you, I would see a different person than you see in your mirror. 

That ass you keep cringing about?  To me, it's perfect.  Yer skinny ankles?  I love 'em.  That hump on your back?  Well, now that you point it out I see it, but I'll never see it as clearly as you do - because you're looking at the brush strokes and I'm standing back here looking at the whole beautiful painting.

(It does not escape my attention that I am saying to you precisely what people say to me, and getting every bit as frustrated by your eyerolling, deflection, and arguing.  But in your case, you're wrong about how you look and, of course, in my case, I'm right.)

So, I'll take Allie with me and we'll go to the suit store and she'll work as an antidote to the salesman who will say, with a perfectly straight face, "Yes, that looks great on you," while trying not to throw up in his mouth just a little. 

And maybe when we have something and it's been tailored and I've put it on and been reassured sufficiently, I'll take a picture of myself in it.  And maybe I'll put it up here.  And then you can all say lovely things about how I look ...

... and make me completely miserable.

Sound like a plan?

**************  UPDATE  ******************

We're back, and we have found a suit.  It is an elegant, subtle, grey-blue pinstripe that Allie says matches my eyes and makes me look taller.  Ish.

I am a hard person to fit into a suit, because I have a sort of barrel chest and broad shoulders, with a shortish body.  That's not terribly odd, but I've lost enough weight in my waist that the proportions are not quite standard.  When they ask my size, I always say "44 Stumpy".

But here's the thing:  the pants that go with a 44 jacket have a waist size of 38.  And when you say "Can I have this, but with a 36 pant, they say "Ohhh, no, we're forbidden to do that."

Well, bite me arse.  I worked hard to get down to a 34/36, and I'm not going to take 38 waist pants, because it's not just the waist that's bigger.  They're looser .. everywhere.  If you get my drift.  And tailoring them to look perfect costs money and gets awfully picky.

So, shhhh.  When the salesperson was off finding me a tie or whatever, I grabbed the pants out of a somewhat mortified Allison's hand, found an identical suit in size 42, and made a quick switch.  When I tried the ensemble on, everything fit perfectly.  As I walked away, Allie had to agree with the switch move.

I believe the exact words from my 21 year old daughter's mouth were:  "Ohh ...  those pants do wonderful things to your tushy."    Then:  "OK, I'm pretty sure that's inappropriate."

We'll see if I still love the suit once it's been tailored, or if my love alters when it alterations finds.  But for now, I'm thinking it might look ... OK.