If Microsoft designed the iPod packaging.
a random recommendation:
I just started listening to Rabbit Fur Coat yesterday (while stuck in traffic for eleventy bajillions years because of the 520 bridge being closed, thankyouverymuch) and it's absolutely amazing. Go forth and procure yourself a copy today, you won't be sorry.
Dog is sending you an Evite.
Thursday, March 9, 2006
Our house is feeling slightly chaotic these days as the remodel gets underway. For the past two weeks there have been contractors framing in the new construction and the east end of the house is boisterous with hammering, shouted conversations, and the eternal blare of a radio. The driveway contains both a giant dumpster and a Honey Bucket (which I briefly considered emergency backup over the Weekend of Stomach Horror). Our bedroom has been laid open to the elements, with only a plywood wall and a great flapping sheet of plastic to protect us from being devoured by raccoons at night. We're stuck using the cramped guest bathroom, with its plagued-by-galvanized-pipes tendency to turn the water a startling shade of red, which always reminds me of that awful scene in Poltergeist when the guy looks in the bathroom mirror and sees himself ripping off pieces of his own face, jesus, oh and also the guest tub has hoopty-ass faucet controls that turn the wrong direction.
So there are some inconveniences, but things are coming along. We were pleasantly surprised to find that lurking under our dingy carpeting are some beautiful oak hardwood floors (also, unspeakably disgusting drifts of a fine grey powder that I suspect is the distilled DNA of every prior resident's skin sheddings over the last 50 years), although to restore them to their prior glory takes some thought. Do we refinish the flooring one room at a time and expose the household to deadly toxins in intervals, hopefully triggering a series of genetic mutations that result in Riley growing a useful set of tentacles? Or do it all in one fell swoop, somehow moving every single item of furniture we own off the floor at the same time via telekinesis or similar?
Now, you may be thinking that hardwood floors don't sound like the best bet for a household with a small child who presumably is going to follow his evolutionary destiny by walking upright someday, but it really comes down to what's better: an abrasion, or a contusion? Well, abrasions require bandaids, and bandaids hurt when you pull them off - the bruise is clearly preferable! Sure, carpeting provides a little padding, but no one likes a toddler with a rug burn. Scabby children are gross.
Don't look at me like that - they are.
The one who's feeling the most impact from all this Trading Spaces nonsense going on around the house is Dog. Dog, who gets freaked out when the kitchen timer goes off because oh my god it's a weird noise and make it stop make it stop make it stop, has been greatly concerned by all the strange sounds and smells and to add insult to injury there is a Construction Dog who belongs to one of the workers who spends his day snorfling around the yard and really, things are just very disturbing.
I feel sorry for Dog these days. Not just because of the remodel, but for the fact that she is definitely second fiddle now to a tiny bleating creature who devours all of our energy. We try to make sure to show her attention, to make sure she gets petted and fussed over and not entirely ignored in favor of the boy, but sometimes there's only so much patience and attention that can be doled out in one day. There are times when I cannot possibly bear one more demanding entity in my life, and that's when the I deeply regret the "cute" trick Cat learned where she rings a bell tied to the front door to go outside because I AM NOT YOUR MR. BELVEDERE, CAT.
Dog never makes demands, though. She only wags her tail and waits for us to remember her. The other day I was carrying a load of laundry to the utility room and I didn't see her lying in front of me until my foot solidly connected with the side of her jaw with a heart-dropping thok! sound. She scrambled hurriedly to her feet as I dropped clothes all around her and apologized, tangled my fingers in her fur and said I was sorry over and over. I could hardly bear thinking that it might have seemed to her as though I did it on purpose, just hauled off and kicked her for some unknown reason - my good dog, who has never in her life deserved anything more than a mild reprimand - and when she licked my face in response, I cried a little for having been unintentionally mean to such a sweet soul. I wanted her to understand that I was sorry I hurt her, but that I was also sorry things are different for her now; I wanted her to understand that we still love her.
On Monday when the contractors were doing something particularly loud, hacking into the house with buzzsaws by the sound of it, Dog came bustling out into the living room with her stuffed squeaky toy and stood in front of me, squeaking it frantically. It was like Dog Morse Code, sort of: squeak! Squeak! Squeaky squeaky squeak! (Warning! Unusual noises detected in house! Save...the...biscuits!)
While I wished I could tell her that everything was okay, and not to worry about the Construction Dog, and that when the weather's nice we're going to go for lots of walks again, I did what I could: I gave her a giant spoonful of Skippy. My love is both creamy and spreadable, Dog.
Yes, you're such a good girl! Alert and ready to protect the family! From...uh...stuffed Rottweilers. But alert! And poised to help, should the boy be in any distress!