Naptime

Hi, I'm Lola. Obviously, everything within my reach belongs to me. Including this pet bed. Once upon a time it belonged to Lottie. Later it came to Austin to belong to Banzai. But now it's mine.


Yeah, so I have a frog in my mouth. So what? You wanna make something of it? Huh? Huh?

With Apologies to Jeff

Today I had dinner with a dear friend of mine, who I will not identify, except to say that he really needs to update his blog, and his name is Jeff.

And on the way over to the restaurant, I thought about how they don't allow dogs on their patio. I was thinking about this because every time I leave the apartment without her, Lola does this on the glass patio door:


The picture truly does not do it justice. It ought to be a video, so that you can see her frantically scrabbling her front paws against the door. Her paws go takka-takka-takka-takka-takka-takka on the glass, and I swear, one day I'm going to come back and find claw-shaped gouges in the door, at exactly her height.

Last time Jeff and I had dinner at this restaurant, I called ahead and asked if they allow dogs on their patio. They don't. At dinner, I asked our waiter why not (and that's a story in and of itself). However, in the course of the conversation, he did mention that sometimes people sit on the patio, at a table next to the wrought-iron fence, and their dog sits on the other side of the fence.

On the other side of the fence? Excuse me? What if she needs some water? What if she needs me to scratch her ears? What if she needs tummy rubbles? The very idea is repellent. I am not going to treat my dog like a second-class citizen. If Lola can't sit on my lap, I'm not bringing her.

So as I drove to meet Jeff at the restaurant, I couldn't help but indulge in this little fantasy:

(Lola and I sit down at a table by the fence. Lola is, of course, well-behaved and adorable.)

Waiter: I'm sorry, you can't bring a dog in here.

Me (giving him a withering glare): Excuse me?

Waiter: I'm sorry. We don't allow dogs.

Me: And why's that?

Waiter: Sorry, I don't know. It's just the policy.

Me: Oh? Oh, it's the policy. I'm sorry, I thought you had a rational reason for not allowing my small and well-behaved dog to sit under my chair for the next hour.

Waiter: I'm sorry, ma'am, but you can't have the dog in here. If you want, you can have her on the other side of the fence.

Me (standing up with scornful dignity): I'm sorry, young man, are you suggesting that I enjoy a meal and a few drinks while my dog waits on the other side of the fence?

Waiter: Um. Yes?

Me: And this is -- let us be perfectly clear -- not because of any particular reason, but because of your policy?

Waiter: Look, lady, I don't make the rules...

Me: Are you aware that we are in Austin?

Waiter: Geez, lady...

Me: Ladies and gentlemen! (I stand on my chair and tap a wine-glass with a fork.) I apologize for interrupting your evening, but I must ask -- are any of you allergic to dogs?

(The crowd looks at each other in confusion.)

Me: Are any of you frightened of dogs?

(A few calls of "No" and "No way" from the crowd.)

Me: Ladies and gentlemen, humans of all races and creeds, I would like to introduce you to -- Lola! (I hold Lola aloft. She charms the crowd with adorableness. There are a few scattered cheers.)

Me: My friends (really warming up to the John-McCain-Town-Hall vibe now), my friends, this is Lola. A few short months ago, Lola was lost and alone. No one loved her. Her own family allowed her eye to become so infected that the SPCA had to surgically remove it!

(A few boos, one guy shouts "Let's lynch 'em!")

Me: No, no, we don't need any of that. We're running a clean campaign here. But I just want you to take a good look at Lola. She's loved, she's well-fed, she's healthy. And she is so grateful to have a good home. She's nothing but loving and kind. She's no trouble at all.

(Pause for dramatic effect. A few of the women go, "aww.")

Me: And now, these corporate big-wigs want to make Lola stay outside the fence. Can you believe it? This small, inoffensive dog, who has been through so much in her short life, and she has to stay outside. Not because of any particular reason. Not because the owner dislikes dogs. But just because of policy. Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to take a second look at our policies. I saw Lola's mother die while she fought with the insurance companies to try to prove that her cancer wasn't a pre-existing condition, and that was because of policy. Not for any real reason, no -- in fact, my friends, no one here can give us a single real reason. It's because of policy. It's because that's the way it is. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of following the meaningless rules that other people set for us! I'm tired of letting the corporate fat-cats boss us around! It is time for some change! Change we can believe in!

(The crowd goes wild, they're all applauding, half of them are on their feet. A few of them give a wolf-whistle at me, which I acknowledge with a wink.)

Me: Ladies and gentlemen, we can't put up with this kind of obsolete regulation any more. We need more oversight of these corporations so they can't play merry hell with our stock market like the last two weeks. It's time for a full-on, grand-scale reworking of how we do things around here. We've had eight years of dogs not being allowed on this patio -- we don't need another four!

(The crowd is beside themselves now, throwing confetti, popping champagne, throwing their panties at me.)

Me: If you believe, as I do, that we can truly change America for the better, then you know what to do. Change starts at home. It might not be fun. It might not be easy. But we should all bring our dogs to restaurants with patios, and refuse to put them outside the fence!!!

(Massive cheers and hoopla.)

Me: And if those corporate big-wigs try to tell you about the rules, you just tell them this: look, buddy, George Washington didn't freeze his ass off in Valley Forge for us to sit around arguing over whether my lapdog can be in my lap, or two feet away from me!!!

(More cheering. A few girls chant, all together, "We love you, Lola!")

Me: Black and white, Sunni and Shiite, Christian Scientist and Pentecostal -- we all need to come together, now! It's time to stop the hate! Let's make the world a better place!

(A few more cheers.)

Me: Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I'll be sitting down now, to enjoy my sake bomber and california roll. AND LOLA WILL BE ON MY LAP!!!

(The crowd is going insane. I sit down demurely, smooth down my skirt, set Lola on my lap, and smile at the waiter.)

Me: I'm sorry, you were saying?

The Perfect Hot Dog

Ellie has been wowing the internet with her incredibly detailed and thoughtful posts on recipes for everything from chili (in all its variations) to fig tarts.

Me, I'm happy when things don't explode in the microwave.

But tonight, I simply have to share my recipe for The Perfect Hotdog, probably better known as The Hot Dog For Poor Austinites.

Ingredients:
One slice from a loaf of 99 cent HEB wheat bread (what are we, rich?)
One "Smart Dog" brand vegetarian hot dog made of seasoned tofu (what are we, omnivores?)
One slice of Kraft American Cheese, which tastes like plastic, and which we are guilty about buying (what are we, pro-big-corporations?)

Directions:
- Set oven to Broil. Move assorted plastic grocery bags off the range, where they have been dumped, so they don't melt into the top of the oven.
- Arrange the tofu dog diagonally on the slice of bread, then top with the slice of cheese.
- Wait a few minutes for the oven to heat up. Occupy this time with a glass of wine.
- Put the layered bread/hotdog/cheese concoction on the middle shelf of the oven.
- Go start another episode of 30 Rock on Netflix.
- Suddenly remember about the hot dog when you can smell it burning.
- Frantically look for oven mitt amongst the non-melting grocery bags. Turn off oven. Find oven mitt and pull the middle oven shelf out. Burn right forearm on the oven door.
- Look in fridge for ketchup. Curse self for not buying ketchup when at the grocery store yesterday.
- Consider what the essential element of ketchup is. Decide that essential element is salt. Notice a bottle of soy sauce.
- Splash soy sauce over the tofu-dog-on-cheap-bread-covered-in-cheap-cheese.
- Enjoy.

No, really, enjoy. It's actually pretty awesome. I might just make myself another.

The Menagerie Takes a Trip

Earlier this week, we had to take both Banzai and Lola over to Lola's Daddy's house.

Lola, being a dog, travels in the car much better than Banzai does. So the concept was that Lola's Daddy would have Lola on his lap, and I'd have Banzai on my lap.

That concept didn't last very long.

What the menagerie wanted, apparently, was for Lola to be on my lap, gazing adoringly at me, while Banzai was also on my lap, gazing anxiously out the window.


You'll notice that Lola keeps pretty much the same position through these photos, while Banzai is all over the place. And this is for a trip that's just barely over a mile.


Yeah, I guess the animals don't really have a problem with each other.


Although by this point Banzai was yowling. He's really not a fan of being in the car.


But hey, look -- peaceful co-existence.


Lola's Daddy had been taking these photos at stoplights. (Secretly I think he was a bit miffed that neither of the animals wanted to sit on his lap.)

At the end of the trip, I said, "This will make a great blog post."

And he said, "Hon, that's great, but some of those photos are all about your boobs."

Shamelessly Self-Indulgent Close-Up Photos

Getting photos of Lola can be hard. I know, I know -- you're all thinking, "My goodness, JJ, the photos you post to this blog are so pristine, so artistic, so amazing, surely Lola is just the most photogenic dog in the world!"

Well, I'm sorry to say it, but you're wrong. Lola is practically allergic to the camera. She'll be lying there, fast asleep, looking all adorable, and I'll grab the camera and turn it on. And as soon as it goes "Boodely-ding!" she instantly comes over to sniff the camera lens.

The other day she was sitting on my lap, and I had the camera to hand, and I actually managed to get a few shots.

Profile, complete with hair-bow after being groomed:


Mournful sideways-look.


Full-on look of, "What? What? Stop making fun of me for having this stupid hairbow in!"


And then finally, "Oh, hey, it's the camera! Camera camera camera! I MUST COME SNIFF YOU."

Sloppies

Rawhide is a tricky thing.

Firstly, there's the health issue. There are plenty of people think that rawhide chews are very bad for dogs and also make them throw up. Lola hasn't seemed to be badly affected by them, but it's something to keep in mind.

Secondly, there's the gross-out factor. Regular, cheap rawhide rapidly disintegrates into a disgusting, smelly white mush. This is why Lottie's parents call them "sloppies." This is also why Lottie doesn't get rawhide treats any more. Better-quality compressed rawhide is a bit less nasty, but not by much.

Thirdly, there's the animal-rights angle. I'm vegetarian; hell, I was even vegan for a year. And rawhide is, indisputably, compressed dried animal skin. And even though it doesn't make much sense intellectually, emotionally, there's a difference between giving your dog animal-based food out of a can and giving your dog animal skin to enthusiastically gnaw on.

All of this is a very round-about way of saying that I gave Lola a compressed rawhide bone tonight. I've only let her chew on one once before, a few months ago, when I hadn't had her for very long and her habits with treats were much more protective and anxiety-driven. She seemed to enjoy it, but wasn't obsessed, and I was worried about the health issues and took it away after ten minutes or so.

So far tonight, Lola has chewed on this particular rawhide bone constantly. Without stopping. For over ninety-two minutes. I knelt down beside her, to see how much headway she had made on devouring the bone, and she gave a small growl and darted under the bed. With the bone in her mouth, of course.

I bet she throws up later tonight. This is what I get for feeling guilty about being at work all day.

P.S.: She moved! I was able to see the bone! All the crunching sounds completely overrated her progress. One end is slightly gnawed off, that's all. Wuss.

P.P.S.: Still, I don't fancy my chances of taking it away from her. This is a girl on a mission.

Lola's Favorite Toy

I have tried to give her other, similar toys, but what Lola loves beyond reason is this horrifically neon-green frog. She plays fetch with it, chews on it constantly, and often falls asleep with her teeth firmly embedded in its fuzzy skin.


But as this photo makes clear, Froggy is having some back problems.


So Froggy and Teddy got taken to the operating table today.


Teddy, nearing the end of his operation.


The happy patients, fully recovered. I sewed them up with nylon thread. We'll see how long it lasts.

Velveteen Doggie

Today I took Lola to get the second haircut since she's been with me. Since it's forty-seven bucks a pop, I try to leave it as long as I can between haircuts, and then get it cut as short as I can without her looking completely ridonkulous. The girls at Petsmart were really nice and agreed to pose for before and after pictures.

Before:


After:


They gave her pink bows with green dots to match her collar :-D

Right after a haircut, Lola becomes what I call the Velveteen Doggie. Her coat is short and soft, with no curl, and it's like stroking velvet.

Here is a picture of Lola eating, because that's the only time I could get her to stand still. Her head looks ridiculously huge compared to the rest of her body.


Of course as soon as the camera flashed she came towards me. She has an odd fascination with the camera. Also, did you know that Lhasas are prone to having problems with being bow-legged? I guess I'm really fortunate that Lola doesn't seem to be affected!


I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Evolution of a Cat Nap

Stage One:
Hi, I just wandered over to sniff your purse. Which you can't see because my big fat body is in front of it.


Stage Two:
Yawn.


Stage Three:
What are you lookin' at?


Stage Four:
Excuse me while I lick my butt for a moment.


Stage Five:
Hello again, purse.


Stage Six:
Ah, much better. As you were, everyone. Carry on.

In Memoriam, with the greatest respect

My dog books say that you should 'train' a dog for ten or fifteen minutes a day.

The books lie. What they actually mean is that you should pretend to train your dog for ten or fifteen minutes a day. The evidence:

Me: Want to see Lola do a trick? She knows Sit and Dance.

My Mom: That's two tricks.

Me: No, it's not. I've been teaching them together.

My Mom: Maybe she would learn them better if you taught them separately?

Me: Oh yeah? Lola -- sit!

[Lola sits and I give her a treat.]

Me: Now you tell me how to get her off her ass so I can reward her for Sit again.

[Lola, still sitting, watches me intently. She is clearly not going to move. Having her butt on the floor means a treat. She is not going to jeopardize the possibility of more treats by doing anything other than Sit. As my mother put it, she could sit for Britain.]

Me: See? This is why I have to do two at once. Lola -- Dance!

[Lola remains sitting.]

Me: Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!

[Lola jumps up onto her hind legs and I give her another treat.]

Me: Good girl! Dance!

[Lola sits.]

Lola is a big fan of Sit. Sitting gets her a treat, setting gets her harness on so she can go outside, sitting gets her brushed. You'd think she'd also be a fan of Dance, since I make her do it before I give her food, but apparently not. Tonight, I randomly alternated Sit and Dance commands while using Lucky Charms as treats. She chose Sit as her initial response every time.

And I couldn't help but think, "What we have here, is a failure to communicate!"

A New Nickname

People have told me that a dog should have two names: the first, a meaningless nickname that you don't need the dog to respond to, and the second, an actual 'command name,' the word which precedes each command, so that the dog knows she's supposed to pay attention.

My last roommate did this. Her dog was technically named Jackson, but she called him Pickle most of the time. Oddly enough, Pickle turns out to be a rather fitting eponym for a blonde Chihuahua-Rat Terrier mix.

But I've never managed to make this concept work with Lola. She's mostly just Lola. After all, when I was choosing her name, I deliberately picked one that was fun to say. And although she has a few other nicknames -- Silly Little Girl, Scruffbucket, Ragamuffin, Princess Poo-Face the Second -- those tend to be the kind of nonsense words you say when you're doing tummy rubbles.

But yesterday, Lola managed to earn herself a new nickname. Internet, I present to you a play in three acts, entitled: "Lola: A Play About A Nickname."*

ACT ONE:

Lola awakens in an incredibly energetic mood. I decide to take her out to Walnut Creek before breakfast so she can burn off some steam. We drive up there and do the mile-long hike we enjoy, and meet up with an older gentleman named David and his two medium-sized dogs. Lola pretends that she is part of their pack, even though it's clear she doesn't have a chance of keeping up with them. We have a nice outdoorsey forty-five minutes. I think that I've tired her out a bit.

ACT TWO:

I get a phone call from my apartment complex. "Hi. Did you call in to report that your breaker blew, and all the power is out except for your kitchen?" "Why yes, yes I did!" "Well, our maintenance guy is over there now to try to fix it, but there's a problem with your dog. She won't let him in."

She won't let him in. A thirteen-pound Lhasa-Poo is keeping a grown man at bay. She is adorable and fluffy. She is the complete opposite of threatening. But apparently, in my absence, she takes her protector duties very seriously. My dog rocks.

I manage to swing by home before work so that the maintenance guy can flip the right breakers. "Yeah, she really didn't like me being here before," he says.

ACT THREE:

I now have to leave for work. I give Lola a Teenie Greenie to occupy her while I slip outside. Despite this distraction, she darts out the door the moment it opens more than an inch -- I swear, I did not think the door was open enough for her to fit through it -- and she then prances around and around my car. You could practically hear her singing "Chitty-chitty-bang-bang, we love you!"

Since I was (of course) already late for work at this point I put on my most commanding voice. "LOLA. LOLA COME. LOLA COME. I MEAN IT. LOLA COME. Goddammit--" as she prances behind the car again. "LOLA COME!!!"

Eventually she did actually obey me, whereupon I tossed her back into the apartment without ceremony, saying, "That's right, and you stay there, you -- you Snickerdoodle!"

I have no idea why I called her a Snickerdoodle. The best explanation I have is this:

- Cookies are my favorite sweet dessert-type food. Forget cake, pie, brownies, anything. Cookies are the best. I had one of those big cookies from the Great American Cookie Co as my birthday cake for at least four years that I can remember.
- Snickerdoodles are a crappy kind of cookie which I do not actually enjoy. They suck. It's because of the cinnamon. Cinnamon is a stupid spice and I have never met a Britisher who enjoyed it. Even my Scottish roommate refused cinnamon gum.
- So it's sort of like saying, "I really love you lots and lots, but right now you are being really annoying!"

Or, as Lola's Daddy pointed out, possibly it's just because it rhymes with poodle.

Anyway, Lola can now be referred to as the Snickerdoodle. But probably only when she's been a bit naughty.

*Ellie, you would be the only one to get this incredibly inane reference, except that the play happened my freshman year. It was a decent play. One of Phillip's weirder set creations.

You Want What?

A young guy, maybe twenty years old, asks if we have a certain book. I walk over to the right section with him and we look -- nope, sorry, we don't have it, thanks for trying us, would you like to call our other locations because we all have a different inventory, thanks so much.

And then he says, "Where can I find wood?"

"Wood?"

"Yeah."

"Actual wood. Not a book called wood."

"Yeah."

"So, not something that we would have in this store."

"No. Real wood. We're going camping. We're from Dallas. We're going camping at [stupid campsite] and when we called they said there wasn't much firewood around."

"Well, there's a Home Depot a few exits down the freeway."

The punk has the nerve to say, skeptically, "And they'd have wood? That you could use for a fire?"

No, but I have a back-stock of paperbacks that you are welcome to use as kindling. I have officially run out of patience. "I don't know. Where would you go for firewood?"

"Walmart?"

"I don't live near here. I don't know where the closest Walmart is. Do you want me to google it?"

And then a customer chimes in. "There's a Walmart one exit up the freeway. What are you looking for?"

"Firewood. Wood chips."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I mean, it's the end of the summer in Texas. Maybe you should try Home Depot?"

Boo-yeah. I totally win.

The Difference Between Cats and Dogs: Part 1

To set the scene: I'm sitting in bed, Lola is sprawled out on the kitchen linoleum, and Banzai is curled up on my rollaboard.*

If I get up, Lola will immediately jump to her feet, tail perked up, head tilted to the side, looking at me expectantly, as if to say, "What? What? Are we going somewhere? Am I getting food? Do you want to play? Do you want to pet me? What's happening now? This is so exciting!"

Banzai will lift his head and cautiously open one eye, as if to say, "Woman, I'm nice and cozy, and you better not bother me."

It's nice to have one of each.

*I had to google how to spell rollaboard. My parents are English. I always thought it was Roller-Board. Which, come to think of it, doesn't make much sense.
** I also read Nancy Drew novels before I had ever heard the word "alibi," so I thought it was pronounced "uh-LIE-bee" until about tenth grade.
*** For the benefit of Lola's Daddy: my rollaboard is my brown suitcase-thing, on wheels with a handle. That is the name for this newfangled kind of equipment.

Can't Trust Those Stereotypes

Today, a tall, beefy guy in a Detroit Lions football jersey bought "Opera 101: A Complete Guide To Learning and Loving Opera."

A Handy Checklist for Retail Shopping

As Ellie pointed out in the comments of the last post, I haven't updated my blog in almost a week. Egad! For a few days, I was spending my writing-time on other stuff, and then I spent the last two days up in Dallas with Lottie and her parents. Internet, I offer you my most profound apologies.

With that out of the way, allow me to share a list I've created since I started working at Fifty Percent Literature. This is the Retail Shopping Checklist, Suitable For Use When You Are Shopping At A Retail Store And There Is A Long Line Behind You.

CELL PHONES

- Don't be on your cell phone. PERIOD. If the call is important, step out of the line. If the call is not important, then when it is your turn to check out, simply say, "I have to check out now. I'll call you right back." This is not a difficult concept.

- Don't be on your cell phone. EVER. I mean it. It's degrading to feel like the person who's not even here is important, while I am not. Do not devalue your fellow human beings in this manner. I will retaliate in a passive-aggressive way by loudly saying things that you don't actually need me to say, like "Your total is four thirty-eight, sir!!!" and "Here's your receipt, sir!!!" and "Would you like a bag, sir!!!" and "Have a great day, sir!!!" except that I don't actually mean that last one.

- Seriously. Don't be on your cell phone. It is difficult for me to give you correct change while I am listening to your half of the conversation.

THE CONTENTS OF YOUR PURCHASE

- Decide what you're going to purchase before you get to the register. My goal is to get you out the door so I can take care of the ten people behind you. Do not dither over whether your child would prefer to read Holes or Hoot. If you really want to consult with a bookstore professional on this all-important question, ask another employee before getting in line. (For the record, go with Holes.) Above all, do not hold up the entire line because you are on the phone with your wife, asking whether she wants the South Beach Diet Cookbook or just the South Beach Diet, including telling her the prices and giving detailed descriptions of the conditions of both books. You know what your wife wants? A husband who's not an asshole.

OFFSPRING

- If you have children, then fucking be a parent.

- If you have children, then fucking be a parent. If your child wants to ask you a question, then either listen to the child and answer the question, or explain to the child that you are busy and you will answer their question in a few minutes. Do not allow your child to repeat to stand beside you repeating "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy." for ten minutes while you browse the romance novels and absentmindedly say "uh huh." Those of us within hearing distance are slowly going insane. Your child is a human being, not a dog. Respect him. Either answer the question or don't.

- Seriously, would you just fucking be a parent? Yes, I know that life is difficult when you have kids. I know it's a lot of work. I know that they're running around the store with obscene amounts of energy. I sympathise. But this doesn't have to be as hard as you're making it. Do not give your child a directive if you're not going to follow through. Do not pretend like you're listening when you're not.

- It can be done. At my register, I have checked out people who are actually being parents. You know what they do? They let their kids know that their attention is otherwise engaged. They say, "Mommy has to pay now, go look at your new book." Or they say, "Everyone who's paying for these books, up at the counter. Everyone who's not, back off" (I liked that one). Stop getting so aggravated with your child's behavior when you're the one who's not enforcing the rules.

METHODS OF PAYMENT

- If you are paying in cash, and you have some change to make the transaction simpler, then yes, that is appreciated. But please remember that my goal is to get you out the door so I can take care of the ten people behind you. Do not count the change out onto the counter so that I have to laboriously pick up each coin. Do not spend forty-five seconds rummaging in your cavernous, disorganized purse "to see if you have two pennies." Above all, when told that your total is 15.10, DO NOT HAND ME A TWENTY AND THEN GO OUT TO YOUR CAR TO GET TEN PENNIES. I still can't believe that actually happened. With people waiting in line behind him.

- If you are paying in cash, you ought to know that I have to organize the bills in my register so they are all facing the same way. It makes it easier for the managers to count the register drawer. So please, do not shove me a handful of nine crumpled dollar bills from the recesses of your pockets.

- If you are paying with a check, stop it. Just stop. Right now. We live in an exciting age where we can enjoy all of the benefits of the wheel, the penicillin, and the checkcard. Go watch this commercial. Sadly, I no longer find it funny.

- If you simply must pay with a check, get with the program. You already know that I'm going to need your address, phone number, and drivers license number on the check. Order your checks so that this is pre-printed on them. If that is too difficult for you, write the information on the blank check while you are standing in line. While you're at it, fill in the name of the store and your signature. And you know that I'm going to need to see your drivers license, so get it out. When you set down your books on my counter you should have nothing left to do but fill in the amount. Don't you dare spend all that time waiting in line, let me spend all this time ringing you up, and THEN start to fumble around for your checkbook, a pen, and your license. Dumbass. Remember, my goal is to get you out of the store so I can deal with the ten people behind you. Outwardly, I will smile at you and tell you to have a great day. Inside, I am imagining you being boiled in oil.

PRICING

- Do not try to talk me down on the price. I know it's a used bookstore. But I'm not even trained to buy books. I know nothing about pricing. I will tell you to go talk to the buy counter. I don't know why Book A is 4.98, while Book B, which appears to be another book in the same series from the same publisher, is 7.48. That's just the way it is. Like gravity.

- However, if you happen to have found a book without a price tag, then waiting until there is a long line can be a very smart move. Am I going to call a manager over for a price check? Hell no. Why? Because (all together now) MY GOAL IS TO GET YOU OUT OF THE STORE SO I CAN DEAL WITH THE TEN PEOPLE BEHIND YOU. I'll look at the book, look at what else you're buying, and say, "how does 2.98 sound?" I can do that. I have powers where I can do that.

DISCLAIMER

All of this is a great big long diatribe worthy of Waiter Rant (except he's all cool and famous now, and he has a new girlfriend, which is way not fair, but Lola's Daddy is awesome). But the truth is, 95% of the customers are sweet as pie, and no trouble at all. And I actually really enjoy my job. And hell, if there's no one behind you, you can take your sweet time. I'm not going anywhere.

Except for the part about not being on your cell phone. For goodness' sake, show some common courtesy.

Um...

As I type this, I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, and my legs straight out in front of me, ankles crossed. Lola has just come up, straddled my feet with her back legs, and started humping my ankles. And while she's doing this, she's looking me in the eye very seriously.

This is so not okay.

No, the font had nothing to do with it.

Lola's Daddy was a bit put out by this post, in which I indicated that he had been giving cat treats to the dog.

It's not that I have a problem with giving cat treats to the dog. At this point, I'm happy with any treat that she's interested in. Cows' eyes? Sure! Ferret skin? Why not! Powdered mandrake, infused with the essence of souls from the third circle of hell? Anything, as long as it will give her an incentive to do what I say!

But last night, he triumphantly identified the bag of treats that he'd been talking about. And he was rather smug about them being dog treats after all.

Which is why, Internet, I have to post pictures of the bag of treats he was referring to when we had the conversation about greenies.

Here is the front of the bag (with some treats laid in front of it).


Here is the back of the bag:


The treats are dehydrated pig liver. Lola totally loves them. Lola's Daddy and I are both vegetarian, so the whole concept is kind of disgusting. I pretend like they're chocolate shavings. I don't know what he does.

Nevertheless, I'm not sure how we can have an entire conversation about "greenies" that turns out to be about a treat that is not green, in a bag that has no green on it, and which could easily be identified by other means, e.g. "those treats from the independent pet shop," "those treats which are actually pig liver," "those treats in the silver bag," etc. etc.

My point being, I still win.

It was hard to pull myself together after this one.

She's probably nine years old. She has a messy ponytail, as though her hair wasn't brushed first, or maybe it was done yesterday and she slept on it. Her two little brothers wrestle behind her, pretending to punch each other. Her hands and chin are on the check-out counter. Her father is buying "How To File For Divorce In Texas." She watches the book with somber, adult eyes.

FPL Quote of the Day

The next time someone comes up to me and says, "Do you work here?" I'm going to reply, "No, I just put on this t-shirt and shelve paperbacks for fun."

Maybe if it was in a bigger font?

Recently, Lola has been picky about which treats she likes, which makes training her much more difficult than it ought to be. After Lola obeyed a "Lola come!", sniffed the treat in my hand, and then walked away in disgust, Lola's Daddy and I had the following conversation:

"I don't think she likes those ones."

"I know she likes these. These are the ones that she jumped on my desk and ate a whole bag of them."

"Well, she definitely likes the greenies."

"I know, but those are too big to use as training treats."

"What, the little green ones?"

"Greenies are the big green ones shaped like a toothbrush."

"But she likes the little green hard ones I've been giving her."

"The ones shaped like little fishes?"

"Yeah."

Pause.

"Those are cat treats."

"What???"

"The ones that say 'Feline Greenies' on the bag? Yeah, those are cat treats."

FPL Quote of the Day

"I have to ask you a really stupid question."

"I promise you, it won't be."

"Where am I?"

Blink. Blink.

Where are you in the store? Where are you along your life's journey? Where are you in relation to Jupiter?

"I got lost coming back from Guitar Center. I'm trying to find Mopac."

Ohhh...

I gave the young lad directions (at one point becoming the archetypal big sister: "No, stand next to me. Face this direction. Good. Now, THAT is east...") and sent him on his way.

But in the future I'll have to remember: sometimes it really is going to be a stupid question.

Happy Birthday to Me!

My birthday isn't for another three days, but a birthday package from my parents arrived this morning, and I am definitely not the type to wait until the actual day before opening birthday goodies.

And amongst several other thoughtful and much-appreciated gifts, my wonderful mother had included a fifty dollar gift card to Petsmart for The Scruffbucket.

What can be purchased for fifty dollars at Petsmart? Why, I'm glad you asked! As it turns out, fifty dollars at Petsmart will procure you a great many exciting squeaky things!


More specifically, that's 1) a pink stuffed bone with fuzzy edging that crinkles when you chew on it, 2) a plush dog toy in the shape of french fries, 3) a pink octopus with long tentacles, which cost $14 but I couldn't resist it and I think Lola will really enjoy it, 4) a pink poo-bag dispenser which I will use to store treats, 5) a bag of the treats I know Lola likes because one day when I was at work she jumped up on the desk (which I thought she couldn't do) and chewed the bag open and ate the whole thing, 6) a few cheap rawhide bones filled with cheap flavoring, which were on sale, and look revolting, but she devoured the one I gave her, 7) a pink bunny rabbit that has a rattle in its head and a square flat body with four knots tied in the corners for arms and legs, which is the toy she got today and she loves it, 8) a stuffed turtle made of environmentally-friendly organic materials, and 9) a Democrats 2008 t-shirt, because we only have a few weeks left, people, and every little bit of advertising counts!!!

Happy Birthday to me! And to Lola!

The other awesome thing (that has to do with the damn dog, that is, after all it is MY birthday and not hers) is the gift for Lola that my mom included in the package. Lord knows you'd never know it from reading this blog, but I'm really not a soppy or sentimental person. It's just that, with having a small dog, ALL the soppy and sentimental urges I could possibly ever have come charging to the front, and I shamelessly indulge them. Case in point is that I really want Lola to have cute little clothes. Yes, I know. Dressing up a small dog is the height of absurdity. And yet somehow I just cannot bring myself to care. My mother, knowing this secret and shameful desire, included a princess outfit.



It was really, really hard to get a decent photo of Lola in her princess outfit, because I was practically squealing with excitement, and Lola, picking up on my energy, was running around all manic too. I couldn't get her to sit still for the life of me. But I do think that this final shot is funny enough to be The Best Picture Of The Day.

Lola Reviews: Red Bud Isle

Recently, both Lola's Daddy and I were off work -- a rare occurrence! So we took Lola out to Red Bud for the first time.

It's a lovely little off-leash dog park, and it's incredibly easy to get to. Go south on Mopac, right on Lake Austin Boulevard, and left on Redbud Trail. Then take the first left into the parking lot for the park. It's a funny little island, created when a dam broke in 1900, so it's not even on google maps (you can see it in the satellite view, but it's mislabeled).

Here is the sign they have explaining the history of the park. This is where I learned that it was created when the dam broke. Also, it became a park in 1987 and an off-leash dog park in 2001. And the reference to "hearty fishermen" cracks me up every time I read it. Who wrote this copy, Ernest Hemingway?


Here's the entrance to Red Bud. It is -- wait for it -- yes, it's beautiful. Of course, it also pretty much looks like every other park in Austin. Sandy pathway, green trees, blue sky. But there's nothing wrong with that.


Red Bud has a simple layout. It's a small peninsula, so you walk to the end of it, and then you turn around and walk back. But along the way, there are plenty of places to access the water. Here's Lola's Daddy looking out at the water.


Lola explores amongst the tree roots.


Lola keeps me company while I enjoy the view (not true; she didn't sit still for a second the whole time we were there.)


But it is a lovely view.


Lola's Daddy thought it was pretty too.


Various organizations have done a lot of work in the park, especially with things like these steps into the water. I tried to get Lola to come into the water with me. She wasn't particularly interested.


However, there were a couple of cute schnauzers. They belonged to a woman who also had a one-year-old in a stroller. Ye gods.


I wanted to entice Lola into the water with treats, but this big boy was pretty excited about the treats himself.


I did eventually get her on the bottom step, but that was about it.


So we went to a spot that slopes more gradually into the water, and she poddled around a bit.


And then, oh internet, I did a foolish thing. Remember how we got Lola to swim when we took her to Bull Creek? She totally swam. So I thought to myself, look, obviously she knows how to swim. But she won't jump out into the water herself. So I'll just plop her into the water and we'll see what happens from there.


Yeah, I almost drowned my dog.

It's not as bad as it looks! That's exactly where I put her. She's all of three inches from a big rock to stand on. But, um, she didn't seem to remember the whole swimming concept. So I had to help her.


This is about as wet as Lola gets.


But she quickly recovered, and ran to catch up with us at the end of the peninsula. (I think that all four of her feet are off the ground here. Not positive -- but it appears so.)


The view from the very tip is kinda rockin' awesome.


And so is this guy.


Lola stayed wet for a while and that always makes me laugh. Hehe. Silly wet dog.


And then we went back. And we tried to have lunch at Hula Hut, but they don't allow dogs on their patio. Even though it's a fucking huge patio and boats can dock at it. Yes, that's right. If you're on a boat and you're hungry, go to Hula Hut. They have seating for boats. But not for dogs. Dumbasses.

So we went to Freddie's instead, and everyone was very happy.