Why is it that when pets have an instant urge to vomit or have diarrhea, they will run to the 10% carpeted area of a home rather than the 90% tiled area?
Perplexing, isn't it?
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Daisy
I know I promised pictures of the new addition to our family, but I haven't had the patience to figure out our new camera (plus the fact that I can't find the USB cord for it). So, no pictures for now.
After braving the ER on Sunday, Scout decided that he wanted to go to the Humane Society. Now, I'm never in objection of visiting or rescuing unwanted dogs, but Scout has always been a little hesitant to allow our pack of canines to continue growing. Well, apparently he got a wild hair and decided he needed a new dog (in addition to the three that we have and the new cat we just adopted last month).
Still convinced that Scout was playing an April Fools joke on me, I helped him pick out a beautiful female weimereiner. We walked her, talked to her, and started thinking that maybe this was the dog we would take home. We put her pack in her kennel, promising her we'd be back in a few minutes. When we went to the front office to do the paperwork, the lady who worked there told us we couldn't have her because she was heart worm positive - we'd have to wait about two months to pick her up. I didn't have the heart to go back in and say goodbye to her. She really didn't want to go back in that kennel.
Our disappointment was suddenly distracted by four pitbull-mixed puppies. Scout has recently started talking about pitbulls because they are so beautiful and naturally strong. I told him that this particular breed typically has too much baggage for me to deal with (especially with other animals in the house), and if he wanted one, it would be a puppy or a female - and it would be rescued, not purchased by a breeder or at a pet store.
The story of the puppies (and the mother) was disturbing, although I have to say not as disturbing as some I've heard. Have I said before how much it outrages me that people can be so cruel?
Anyway, we picked out a white pup with a blond eye patch, brought her home, and named her Daisy. She really is quite cute, although I told Scout I would never have puppies again. Ever. That lasted a little over a year.
Daisy now as a pink leather collar with spikes (in full pitbull style, of course).
So now I'm going to take the opportunity to make a plea. First, what I'm about to say might make those of you that have purchased a purebred dog feel like I'm targeting you - I'm not. Dogs are bred for certain characteristics, and I can certainly respect wanting a particular breed because of personality, demeanor, or physical attributes. Having said that, if you are thinking about getting a dog, please visit your local pound or Humane Society first. They have all types of breeds, as well as mixed breeds for those that may not care. Like I mentioned, we saw a weimereiner, pitbulls, blue heelers, dachshunds, saint bernards, labradors, etc. Not only can you get a dog (or a cat) that is purebred, you can fix what the animal's previous owner fucked up, and you don't have to pay 17 million dollars for him or her either.
Just in this particular Humane Society alone, there are about 90 unwanted dogs, and about the same number of cats. Imagine how many unwanted animals there are around the country. If I could rescue them all, I seriously would. But in the real world (where I sometimes live), I can't bring all unwanted pets home. So I need your help. Just consider it next time you want a pet.
After braving the ER on Sunday, Scout decided that he wanted to go to the Humane Society. Now, I'm never in objection of visiting or rescuing unwanted dogs, but Scout has always been a little hesitant to allow our pack of canines to continue growing. Well, apparently he got a wild hair and decided he needed a new dog (in addition to the three that we have and the new cat we just adopted last month).
Still convinced that Scout was playing an April Fools joke on me, I helped him pick out a beautiful female weimereiner. We walked her, talked to her, and started thinking that maybe this was the dog we would take home. We put her pack in her kennel, promising her we'd be back in a few minutes. When we went to the front office to do the paperwork, the lady who worked there told us we couldn't have her because she was heart worm positive - we'd have to wait about two months to pick her up. I didn't have the heart to go back in and say goodbye to her. She really didn't want to go back in that kennel.
Our disappointment was suddenly distracted by four pitbull-mixed puppies. Scout has recently started talking about pitbulls because they are so beautiful and naturally strong. I told him that this particular breed typically has too much baggage for me to deal with (especially with other animals in the house), and if he wanted one, it would be a puppy or a female - and it would be rescued, not purchased by a breeder or at a pet store.
The story of the puppies (and the mother) was disturbing, although I have to say not as disturbing as some I've heard. Have I said before how much it outrages me that people can be so cruel?
Anyway, we picked out a white pup with a blond eye patch, brought her home, and named her Daisy. She really is quite cute, although I told Scout I would never have puppies again. Ever. That lasted a little over a year.
Daisy now as a pink leather collar with spikes (in full pitbull style, of course).
So now I'm going to take the opportunity to make a plea. First, what I'm about to say might make those of you that have purchased a purebred dog feel like I'm targeting you - I'm not. Dogs are bred for certain characteristics, and I can certainly respect wanting a particular breed because of personality, demeanor, or physical attributes. Having said that, if you are thinking about getting a dog, please visit your local pound or Humane Society first. They have all types of breeds, as well as mixed breeds for those that may not care. Like I mentioned, we saw a weimereiner, pitbulls, blue heelers, dachshunds, saint bernards, labradors, etc. Not only can you get a dog (or a cat) that is purebred, you can fix what the animal's previous owner fucked up, and you don't have to pay 17 million dollars for him or her either.
Just in this particular Humane Society alone, there are about 90 unwanted dogs, and about the same number of cats. Imagine how many unwanted animals there are around the country. If I could rescue them all, I seriously would. But in the real world (where I sometimes live), I can't bring all unwanted pets home. So I need your help. Just consider it next time you want a pet.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Sty In My Eye
I spent a good part of my day in the emergency room.
Why, you ask? I had a double-sty. INSIDE.My.Freakin'.Eye. And by the way, sty is just a really nice way of saying: Huge Freakin' Zit On One's Eyelid.
After two hours of listening to screaming children and being reasonably sure that my leather Fossil bag would have been heaved on had I not promptly moved it, a doctor told me she could relieve my painful, itchy eye ailment by popping the sty with a scalpel. Believe it or not, it sounded less torturous than letting the damn thing pop on its own.
So I called Scout back to the makeshift "Emergency Room" to hold my hand, which was really just a hallway with folding chairs filled with other patients. As I laid my head back to rest it on the wall, a medic held me down and the doctor proceeded to do what felt like plucking my eyeball out with a spoon. Dang, it hurt.
So now my eye is just a little swollen, but it feels much better.
And Scout decided that he needed another dog today. But that's a whole different post. I'll blog about it when I can post some pictures.
Why, you ask? I had a double-sty. INSIDE.My.Freakin'.Eye. And by the way, sty is just a really nice way of saying: Huge Freakin' Zit On One's Eyelid.
After two hours of listening to screaming children and being reasonably sure that my leather Fossil bag would have been heaved on had I not promptly moved it, a doctor told me she could relieve my painful, itchy eye ailment by popping the sty with a scalpel. Believe it or not, it sounded less torturous than letting the damn thing pop on its own.
So I called Scout back to the makeshift "Emergency Room" to hold my hand, which was really just a hallway with folding chairs filled with other patients. As I laid my head back to rest it on the wall, a medic held me down and the doctor proceeded to do what felt like plucking my eyeball out with a spoon. Dang, it hurt.
So now my eye is just a little swollen, but it feels much better.
And Scout decided that he needed another dog today. But that's a whole different post. I'll blog about it when I can post some pictures.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
The Good Ol' Justice System
For the most part, I believe in the power of our justice system. However, with the recent guilty verdict of Cynthia Sommer, I hope I'm never on trial for a murder I didn't commit.
Did she get new boobs with her husband's life insurance money? Yes. Did she act like a slut almost immediately following his death? By many standards, sure. Were her actions inconsistent with those of a grieving widow? Probably so. Did she live above her means both before he died and after? Most definitely.
The problem is, there was absolutely no evidence linking her to the arsenic that experts say killed her husband. No.Evidence.End of story.
I've been watching the trial coverage for the last month or so, amazed that the prosecutor was even allowed by law to charge this woman with a crime. I was positive that the jury would find her not guilty. I was wrong.
Seriously, I've been trying to imagine the anguish of losing my husband, being charged for his murder, having every man I slept with following his death testify against me on national television, go without seeing my children or parents for almost two years - and then be found guilty by twelve people that know nothing more about me.
And I'm not totally convinced that Cynthia Sommer didn't kill her husband. However, I think she was convicted before the trial even started. But, hello? Where is the consideration of reasonable doubt? I mean, isn't that the whole point? In criminal cases, don't jurors have to be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that someone is guilty (for example, credit card payments for arsenic on eBay)?
I can tell you one thing: If I were on that jury, we would have been deadlocked. There is no way in hell that I would have let a guilty verdict fly. Feeling in your gut that someone committed a crime and proving it are two different ball games. I think that people just naturally want someone to blame.
And I think these jurors made a terrible mistake.
Did she get new boobs with her husband's life insurance money? Yes. Did she act like a slut almost immediately following his death? By many standards, sure. Were her actions inconsistent with those of a grieving widow? Probably so. Did she live above her means both before he died and after? Most definitely.
The problem is, there was absolutely no evidence linking her to the arsenic that experts say killed her husband. No.Evidence.End of story.
I've been watching the trial coverage for the last month or so, amazed that the prosecutor was even allowed by law to charge this woman with a crime. I was positive that the jury would find her not guilty. I was wrong.
Seriously, I've been trying to imagine the anguish of losing my husband, being charged for his murder, having every man I slept with following his death testify against me on national television, go without seeing my children or parents for almost two years - and then be found guilty by twelve people that know nothing more about me.
And I'm not totally convinced that Cynthia Sommer didn't kill her husband. However, I think she was convicted before the trial even started. But, hello? Where is the consideration of reasonable doubt? I mean, isn't that the whole point? In criminal cases, don't jurors have to be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that someone is guilty (for example, credit card payments for arsenic on eBay)?
I can tell you one thing: If I were on that jury, we would have been deadlocked. There is no way in hell that I would have let a guilty verdict fly. Feeling in your gut that someone committed a crime and proving it are two different ball games. I think that people just naturally want someone to blame.
And I think these jurors made a terrible mistake.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Pawning
Some of you may know that I recently became a Pawn Broker. It's not a career path that I would have thought I would choose for myself, but I'm actually enjoying it so far.
I have never pawned anything before, and never really knew how the whole process worked. For those of you that have never pawned anything, I'll briefly explain it.
First, pawning something means taking out a loan on whatever it is one may use as collateral (such as a wedding ring or television). A person comes in with something somewhat valuable, we appraise it at approximately half of what we could sell it for, and loan that amount of money at 240% APR (or 20% per month). (During part of my training, I learned that my wedding ring could be pawned for $35.00. Quite depressing - we paid a considerable amount more for it than that.) If a customer hasn't paid the interest on the loan or called in to get an extension within 90 days, we pull the item and place it up for sale. We do not run credit checks or report unpaid loans to credit agencies.
The first loan that I ever wrote was for $20.00. I tried to keep my mouth from dropping as the person training me started typing away on the computer without so much as blinking. Today, only four days into my job, I wrote a loan for $10.00 without even thinking about it. Loaning out such small amounts happens from the moment we open until the moment we close.
Let me just illustrate how much interest people are paying on these type of loans. If someone borrows $100.00, he or she is paying $20.00 per month in interest. Since the person has 90 days to pay the loan, in order to pick up his or her item would be $160.00. If the person comes in and pays all the interest, he or she can renew the loan for another 90 days. If he or she continues to renew the loan for a full year, it would take a full $240.00 to pick that item up. In fact, it would be cheaper for the customer to just sell us the ring for $100.00, and buy it back for the $200.00 we would sell it for. Crazy, huh?
Here's the thing: The more I loan, the more I get paid. But I can't help but want to tell these people that they are getting themselves caught in a vicious cycle. Can't pay a bill? Pawn a ring. Pay the interest. Eventually get the ring back. Come up short on cash for bills. Pawn the ring again. Pay outrageous interest again. Pick it up again. And on and on and on...It makes me feel terribly guilty (even though the terms are clearly marked on the pawn ticket).
As a side note, one guy came in for a $50.00 loan yesterday in order to pay a bill on time, and came in today to pay it off. You want to know how much he paid in interest for less than 24 hours? Ten bucks.
So I'm probably boring all of you to tears right now, but I had always wondered how this worked so I wanted to pass it on to you. I really am enjoying myself - which is pretty cool.
I have never pawned anything before, and never really knew how the whole process worked. For those of you that have never pawned anything, I'll briefly explain it.
First, pawning something means taking out a loan on whatever it is one may use as collateral (such as a wedding ring or television). A person comes in with something somewhat valuable, we appraise it at approximately half of what we could sell it for, and loan that amount of money at 240% APR (or 20% per month). (During part of my training, I learned that my wedding ring could be pawned for $35.00. Quite depressing - we paid a considerable amount more for it than that.) If a customer hasn't paid the interest on the loan or called in to get an extension within 90 days, we pull the item and place it up for sale. We do not run credit checks or report unpaid loans to credit agencies.
The first loan that I ever wrote was for $20.00. I tried to keep my mouth from dropping as the person training me started typing away on the computer without so much as blinking. Today, only four days into my job, I wrote a loan for $10.00 without even thinking about it. Loaning out such small amounts happens from the moment we open until the moment we close.
Let me just illustrate how much interest people are paying on these type of loans. If someone borrows $100.00, he or she is paying $20.00 per month in interest. Since the person has 90 days to pay the loan, in order to pick up his or her item would be $160.00. If the person comes in and pays all the interest, he or she can renew the loan for another 90 days. If he or she continues to renew the loan for a full year, it would take a full $240.00 to pick that item up. In fact, it would be cheaper for the customer to just sell us the ring for $100.00, and buy it back for the $200.00 we would sell it for. Crazy, huh?
Here's the thing: The more I loan, the more I get paid. But I can't help but want to tell these people that they are getting themselves caught in a vicious cycle. Can't pay a bill? Pawn a ring. Pay the interest. Eventually get the ring back. Come up short on cash for bills. Pawn the ring again. Pay outrageous interest again. Pick it up again. And on and on and on...It makes me feel terribly guilty (even though the terms are clearly marked on the pawn ticket).
As a side note, one guy came in for a $50.00 loan yesterday in order to pay a bill on time, and came in today to pay it off. You want to know how much he paid in interest for less than 24 hours? Ten bucks.
So I'm probably boring all of you to tears right now, but I had always wondered how this worked so I wanted to pass it on to you. I really am enjoying myself - which is pretty cool.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Job
So I got a job as a stripper. Well, not really. Just checking to see if you're paying attention.
The place I will be working, starting Monday, has a prominent sign inside that says "Let's go hunting," with Osama Bin Laden's picture above it. Any guesses?
I am really liking our new area so far. I love our cute little house, our kind-of scary neighborhood, and the fact that we have every store and restaurant we could ever need within a five-mile radius of us.
In fact, I started thinking the other day that I haven't had a tantrum since we left Germany. I haven't had the urge to blog about how annoying life sometimes is. Well, I guess that's because life is pretty nice here. I mean, I'm still trying to figure out which company to get a home phone and Internet from, why my mortgage payment book hasn't arrived (even though our first payment is due on February 1st), and why I haven't gotten a water bill yet (while fearing that it somehow got lost in the mail and the company is going to turn off the water because we "haven't paid the bill." Not to mention the fact that no one ever answers the damn phone and I have to go in to the office and wait in line for two hours to ask, "Why hasn't my water bill come in the mail?"). I'm annoyed that I have to go to the library to pay bills and that there aren't any jobs here that pay more than $8.00/hour. But other than all the normal things that most likely irritate everyone, there have been no panic attacks, no yelling at customer service representatives, and no direct orders for Scout to "get-us-the-hell-outta-here-or-else."
And I did buy my first handgun, which pretty much makes me feel like a bad-ass. And it kind of makes our kind-of scary neighborhood not so scary afterall.
I hope all of you are doing well. I really miss being able to read your blogs every day like I used to. OH YEAH! Congratulations to CalliValleyGirl! She's gettting married (which I heard via telephone from Sarah. Which shows how out of the blog loop I am). I'll be back to regular blogging and reading of blogs as soon as possible.
The place I will be working, starting Monday, has a prominent sign inside that says "Let's go hunting," with Osama Bin Laden's picture above it. Any guesses?
I am really liking our new area so far. I love our cute little house, our kind-of scary neighborhood, and the fact that we have every store and restaurant we could ever need within a five-mile radius of us.
In fact, I started thinking the other day that I haven't had a tantrum since we left Germany. I haven't had the urge to blog about how annoying life sometimes is. Well, I guess that's because life is pretty nice here. I mean, I'm still trying to figure out which company to get a home phone and Internet from, why my mortgage payment book hasn't arrived (even though our first payment is due on February 1st), and why I haven't gotten a water bill yet (while fearing that it somehow got lost in the mail and the company is going to turn off the water because we "haven't paid the bill." Not to mention the fact that no one ever answers the damn phone and I have to go in to the office and wait in line for two hours to ask, "Why hasn't my water bill come in the mail?"). I'm annoyed that I have to go to the library to pay bills and that there aren't any jobs here that pay more than $8.00/hour. But other than all the normal things that most likely irritate everyone, there have been no panic attacks, no yelling at customer service representatives, and no direct orders for Scout to "get-us-the-hell-outta-here-or-else."
And I did buy my first handgun, which pretty much makes me feel like a bad-ass. And it kind of makes our kind-of scary neighborhood not so scary afterall.
I hope all of you are doing well. I really miss being able to read your blogs every day like I used to. OH YEAH! Congratulations to CalliValleyGirl! She's gettting married (which I heard via telephone from Sarah. Which shows how out of the blog loop I am). I'll be back to regular blogging and reading of blogs as soon as possible.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Scout Junior
In the midst of moving, buying a house, job searching, and planning for the holidays, Scout and I have his daughter at our house for the first time. Ever.
Scout Junior is eight years old, and she is freakin' hilarious. I can't tell you how many times I have laughed uncontrollably at some of the things she has said.
A few days ago, I drove 14 hours from Texas to Tennessee to pick her up. I chose to stay at a Days Inn, because up until that point it had been nothing but impressive to me. Well, I should have known when I called to make reservations that this was not a typical Days Inn. The guy who answered the phone was from India. Seriously, I think he arrived in America the day before and was immediately thrown into responsibilities that should be reserved for people that speak at least ten words in English. I had to spell my name for him at least 17 times before he handed the phone to the owner - who was also from India. The owner didn't speak much better English. I took my chances and hoped that neither one of them were working when I arrived.
As luck would have it, the first dude was the only one working when I came to check in. Imagine trying to explain to someone that doesn't speak English that you would like to pay cash for the room because even though there is plenty of money in your account, your debit card won't work as credit because it's defective and you haven't called the bank for a new one. You could also write a check, but since they don't take checks, cash is the only option. Also try explaining that you don't have any cash on you, so you would like to pay when you check out (which has been the norm at other Days Inns). Then try explaining that you have a dog without having to resort to barking at the man so that you don't get a $100 charge on your room when they find out that you've been hiding one, instead of the $10 fee for telling them up front. Fuck, it's irritating.
And then imagine after all of that, the man grabs your defective credit card and makes a carbon copy of it despite the fact that you've told him it won't work. I finally gave up, checked into my room, and went to pick up Scout Junior.
And just for the record, the room was supposed to have a king-size bed but had a full-size. The room smelled of bad incense and there were footprints on the bottom of the tub from the previous tenants. There were people dealing crack a few doors down (I'm guessing on the type of drug, but there were junkies for sure of some kind). The office even had a "night window" with bullet-proof glass and locks on the doors. Good choice, Erin.
When we returned to the room, the phone began to ring. It was the frantic owner, telling me that my credit card was declined. "I need money NOW!" he screamed. I hung up the phone and was glad I decided to get cash while I was out picking up Scout Junior. Her and I walked over to the office and the man almost jumped over the counter to grab the money I had in my hand. I yanked it back and said, "I told your guy that the card wouldn't work as credit. It only works as debit. But seeing as there was a language barrier (as I gritted my teeth), he didn't understand. I told him I wanted to pay in cash."
"Yeah, yeah," he said. "We were at Christmas party. Not my fault."
As we walked away, I realized that he hadn't charged me for my dog. I grumbled something about not wanting to figure out how to tell him that again, and Scout Junior replied, "Why don't you just say 'I have a dog' in Spanish?
I was rolling. She was completely serious and thought that this would be the perfect solution. You gotta love it.
And there's more to blog about, but Scout Junior is actually about to stroke right now because we are going to the movies and I'm *still* on the computer. Parenthood is calling, people. Gotta go.
Scout Junior is eight years old, and she is freakin' hilarious. I can't tell you how many times I have laughed uncontrollably at some of the things she has said.
A few days ago, I drove 14 hours from Texas to Tennessee to pick her up. I chose to stay at a Days Inn, because up until that point it had been nothing but impressive to me. Well, I should have known when I called to make reservations that this was not a typical Days Inn. The guy who answered the phone was from India. Seriously, I think he arrived in America the day before and was immediately thrown into responsibilities that should be reserved for people that speak at least ten words in English. I had to spell my name for him at least 17 times before he handed the phone to the owner - who was also from India. The owner didn't speak much better English. I took my chances and hoped that neither one of them were working when I arrived.
As luck would have it, the first dude was the only one working when I came to check in. Imagine trying to explain to someone that doesn't speak English that you would like to pay cash for the room because even though there is plenty of money in your account, your debit card won't work as credit because it's defective and you haven't called the bank for a new one. You could also write a check, but since they don't take checks, cash is the only option. Also try explaining that you don't have any cash on you, so you would like to pay when you check out (which has been the norm at other Days Inns). Then try explaining that you have a dog without having to resort to barking at the man so that you don't get a $100 charge on your room when they find out that you've been hiding one, instead of the $10 fee for telling them up front. Fuck, it's irritating.
And then imagine after all of that, the man grabs your defective credit card and makes a carbon copy of it despite the fact that you've told him it won't work. I finally gave up, checked into my room, and went to pick up Scout Junior.
And just for the record, the room was supposed to have a king-size bed but had a full-size. The room smelled of bad incense and there were footprints on the bottom of the tub from the previous tenants. There were people dealing crack a few doors down (I'm guessing on the type of drug, but there were junkies for sure of some kind). The office even had a "night window" with bullet-proof glass and locks on the doors. Good choice, Erin.
When we returned to the room, the phone began to ring. It was the frantic owner, telling me that my credit card was declined. "I need money NOW!" he screamed. I hung up the phone and was glad I decided to get cash while I was out picking up Scout Junior. Her and I walked over to the office and the man almost jumped over the counter to grab the money I had in my hand. I yanked it back and said, "I told your guy that the card wouldn't work as credit. It only works as debit. But seeing as there was a language barrier (as I gritted my teeth), he didn't understand. I told him I wanted to pay in cash."
"Yeah, yeah," he said. "We were at Christmas party. Not my fault."
As we walked away, I realized that he hadn't charged me for my dog. I grumbled something about not wanting to figure out how to tell him that again, and Scout Junior replied, "Why don't you just say 'I have a dog' in Spanish?
I was rolling. She was completely serious and thought that this would be the perfect solution. You gotta love it.
And there's more to blog about, but Scout Junior is actually about to stroke right now because we are going to the movies and I'm *still* on the computer. Parenthood is calling, people. Gotta go.
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