A dog diary

Daisy: Let me out, let me out, let me out.
Me: *lets her out*
Firework: *goes off*
Daisy: Let me in, let me in, let me in, let me in.

There’s always that one girl at the party

there’s always that one girl at the party

To understand what this even is and why I’m bringing it up, check it: earlier point of reference! ๐Ÿ™‚

I found this picture after mentioning how my dog and I work as a team when she knows she has to throw up. (Mostly, she starts gagging and I run her the f**k over to the nearest door to go outside, or, as you can see, to the nearest toilet.)

I was going to try to recreate this picture in some kind of drawing, but just one look at that little doggy expression and I shook my head. Nope, can’t do it. That face is too real. That face is too funny. Nothing that I could try to make would do it justice.

So apparently Daisy (aka Lou, aka Baby Butt, aka Shooga, akakakaka – ) isn’t super great with broccoli.

I sent this picture to my sister and she sent it back with the caption, there’s always that one girl at the party. Lol, that’s the truth. But I’ve always been an expert hair-holder, so it’s all good ๐Ÿ™‚

Love u daisyyyyy


Talents include: mornings. The tale of a mid-ranged millennial.

What can I say, I am really good at mornings.

It’s not exactly a skill I can put on a rรฉsumรฉ, but it’s something that I’m very quietly proud of. I apparently have a lot of skills that aren’t super appreciated by the larger society, and yet they are skills that I think pretty effectively sum up my character as an individual. For example, alongside my ability to freaking demolish a morning in the best way, I also have an incredibly attuned sense of knowing when my dog is about to throw up. (The latter skill is paired perfectly with my dexterous speed of action in scooping her up and running her outside, or, if outside is too far away, running her over to the nearest toilet and holding her ears back while she throws up in the old basin. We are the best roommates.)

But when I say “mornings”, I should clarify that I’m definitely being specific to weekend mornings or winter break mornings. Aka: limited responsibilities mornings. Weekday mornings are a bit more of a struggle. They usually consist of jumping out of bed, eyeing the clock as I regret not picking out my outfit the night before – oh well, I guess I’m just gonna wear something a little weird today – then rushing madly to get ready, pack my bag, and bolt out the door (after having ritually struggled with the lock), and with any luck (but mostly just a good dose of j-walking) I arrive at the bus stop just in time. No, my weekday mornings could stand to see some improvement. But let me tell you, on the weekends, I shine.

To start with, I sleep in. I’ve been able to reach that sweet spot wake-up time that manages to leave both seasoned adults and young adults alike unable to pass judgment: 9:50am. If I tell a 38 year old that I wake up at 9:50, they will remark something like, “Wow, I haven’t slept in that late in a while, but I guess it’s not so bad for a young adult like you.” Meaning that most people my age – particularly college students – are totally down for sleeping in until 1 or 2pm, so 9:50 is pretty impressive. So if I tell a full-grown adult my wake-up time, I get a nod of approval (mixed maybe with a look of nostalgia for their younger days), and if I tell a fellow young adult, I get some unspoken points for being so strong-willed and “productive” (we like to tell each other that simply being awake is productive since we all know personally what a challenge that is most of the time, and we like to be in mildly-envious support of each other). And as if by design (yeah I definitely designed this), I get to scoop up those “strong-willed and productive” points while just dodging any “you’re such a friggin’ nerd” points. Win win.

So at 9:50am I roll over in bed, stretch (hell yeah), and meander coolly over to my little 11-year-old, white faced dachshund pup who is curled up on the couch, also poised and ready to demolish this morning with me. We both like weekend mornings. I nearly inhale her face in greeting and play the fan-favorite “where’s-the-belly??” game with her until we are both kind of looking at each other like, “ok ok, that’s enough.” I make a killer breakfast and then go back to the couch where my pup (without-fail) sheepishly and totally clumsily climbs onto my lap with what I can only imagine are these narrative thoughts in her little doggy mind: “Is it cuddle time already? Yeah? Okayokay I’m just gonna…yeah, one paw there…then the other paw, O.K. *wobbles precariously on my knee* yeah I’m just gonna go for it *launches/free-falls onto my lap then quickly scrambles to regain control* I’m just gonna sit myself down right here, O.K? Yeah this is good, hey let’s get this morning! *passes the f**k out in a matter of minutes.*

So while my dog snores like an old man, I sip my coffee and listen to either a podcast, stand-up comedy bit on Netflix, or an audiobook reading of one of my all-time favorite guilty pleasure book series as a child. (Have you heard of the Warriors series by Erin Hunter? Okay I know you’re laughing and retracting some of my points that I racked up earlier for waking up at the perfect hour, but like fine, take them. I don’t care, this series is the sh**. #firestar4lyfe.)

I continue listening to what ever is playing until I notice that I’ve completely stopped paying attention and somehow, without thinking, started some other simultaneous activity. I use my sleeping dog as an excuse to not be able to move for a while, at least until she wakes up from her dream. This usually means doing something on my laptop while we both cuddle under a yellow blanket made even brighter yellow by the light that shines on our couch spot every morning.

Before I know it, I have maybe 14 Firefox tabs open on my laptop – an ode to my inability to start and finish a thought without interruption.They range in productivity, which I mean on the legit adult standards sense, not in the “good job, you’re awake” young adult standards sense.

On one end of the spectrum, one can see that I’ve fallen shamelessly down the Pinterest rabbit hole, with a million tabs open of to-die-for earrings that I’m pretending to actually own by saving them on an earrings board. On the other end of the spectrum, one can see that I’ve recently been hit by the fear of the crushing, impending future reality of soon graduating college. Don’t get me wrong, I will be no less than absolutely stoked to finish school, but the whole matter of life post-diploma is hazy to say the least. So a fair chunk of those tabs are about how to get a degree-related job with only an undergraduate degree in Psychology, which is apparently impossible (I’m sorry, wut?), so now there are a few more tabs of “please, just give me a job. Any job.”

And then, somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, I’ve been struck by yet another business idea, crazy invention, book or video production idea, etc. (you name it), and the rest of the 14 tabs become dedicated to researching how to make those far-fetched ideas come to life. Turns out most of them require a good chunk of money, which I don’t have at the moment because I’m apparently an unemployable Psych. major, so I return only semi-reluctantly to the land of imaginary money and continue to make make-believe purchases on Pinterest. (It should be noted that on Pinterest, I’m stylish as f*ck, my house is lit, and I am maybe the craftiest person on the planet.)

By this time, the morning is waning and my dog is starting to get pee-crazy. So I stretch again, cover her face with kisses, put my bed-head hair into a messy bun and take her outside to pee. Back inside, I feel full, refreshed, and ready for my day ahead. I make a mental list of things I have to do later on in the day (call the doctor, grocery shopping, read chapters 4 thru 6 in my clinical psychology textbook, call my sister, call my friends from my old school, etc). But first, shower time. Music playlist: on. Dog: passed out again on the couch. Me: ready to demolish the afternoon.