The Third Hand

The problem with keeping odd hours and eating all over the house (read: at my computer) is that I usually find myself having to make two trips to the kitchen - once for food, and a second time for drinks. To me, this is kind of a pain in the butt. Not only because I am inherently lazy about inconsequential tasks, but also because it delays things I actually want to do. (Eat, read, watch something.)

I am fortunate in that I often get my drinks from cans. (Pop.) A can being a closed container at the start, it is easily transported in unconventional ways without loss of product.

When I have a bowl in one hand and a plate in the other, there is nowhere for the can to go. Now, I know you might think - "Why not put it in your pocket?" For anyone who has ever dealt with girl pants, you have probably also dealt with girl pockets.

Girl pockets are only large enough to hold our hopes and dreams. Good luck putting anything substantial in there.

(To me) The next obvious solution is simply to grow a third hand. In the absence of practical science or sufficient quantities of radiation, I must think a little more widely. For example: can the beau carry the can for me? Well, he also has a plate and a bowl, so, no.

Expanding my scope yet again, I alight upon a delight of my life who is also usually underfoot. Being half border collie, he delights in doing and completing tasks no matter the consequence. (Read: He is less lazy than me in that circumstance.) It was but the matter of a moment to teach my worker dog his task, nay duty to assist the one who feeds, bathes, cleans up after and cuddles him. Being that I have a very good relationship with him, he will patiently sit and wait for me to take the can back, practically forever. I am very much of the "nurture" side of the argument. My dog was able to do this at nine months old.

I will give a small disclaimer in that Ajax is extraordinarily gentle and does not chomp down on things when offered them. It makes the first five minutes of "Tug" very easy to win.

So I give you, my Third Hand:

Day in the Life

The lady across the street was outside. We liked her, even had an affectionate nickname we called her behind closed doors, dealing with the amount of tobacco she could ingest in one short sitting. Her dog is four years old, a terrifying looking beast that is sweeter than honey.

She - the dog - is best friends with our puppy. He used to be afraid of her, but now that they're the same size, he likes to run as hard as he can to make her chase him. She bites him on the ruff and leaves long tracks of drool. Great.

We don't say much to each other while our dogs visit. It's merely a companionable moment of time, filled with excited canines and banalities.

Her head turns to me, blonde hair dancing slightly in the breeze. "So," she asks, awkwardly. I feel a moment of alarm. This seems like the intro to a Big Question. No place for that in our banalities.

"What exactly do you do?"

I glance down to the pavement. I'm a little ashamed, to be honest. I'm not where I thought I'd be when I finished college 6 years ago - graduating a semester ahead of my incoming class. I spent three years in a foreign country, seeing the world and learning about myself. I grew up, but what do I do? It was a question that struck fear into my heart.

I cleared my throat, stalling. "I... deliver pizza." I said it, but it sounded hollow. She blinked at me, as if I were lying. Trust me, I thought, with a vocabulary like mine, I understand your confusion.

"Oh." Seriousness sloughed away. She was content with the answer. "Okay."

Tell her the truth, my conscious whispered. Tell her what you really do.

I shouldn't hide it. I should tell her. My conscious was correct - why was I afraid? Did I think she would judge me? What did I care? If I spent all that time across the ocean and couldn't even stand up for my beliefs, what had I really learned?

I cleared my throat again, meaningfully. My voice exploded from my mouth in ringing tones, surprising even myself.

"Wait," I boomed, her back was starting to show to me. I might lose my moment, the window where I could show I was not a coward. She looked back, a wary query in her eyes.

I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. "Actually, I am an author."

Sock-in-Mouth-Syndrome

I sometimes regale my dear readers with tales of my puppy. Let me do so, again.

My dog has a habit of willfully putting some seriously disgusting things into his own mouth. Things that could not taste good by any stretch of the imagination. (I'm looking at you, cat box.) One thing that he has done, since the beginning of his little puppy history is carry our socks around in his mouth.

Not just our socks. Our sweaty, just-got-off-a-nine-hour-shift-where-I-delivered-pizza-in-the-rain-and-my-sneakers-are-old-and-leaky socks. Our I-had-to-peel-this-off-my-foot-then-wipe-my-hands-on-a-towel-because-they-are-so-sweaty socks. In short, the worst things that could ever come off a human foot. He snaps them up and trots around the house with them delicately poised in his jaws.

We usually give him the "Drop!" command, in exasperation. Invariably, they will end up in his mouth once more. So today, I took a different approach. When my gross post-work socks ended up in his mouth, I led him into the bedroom and to the laundry hamper. I gave him the "Come!" command until his head was over the basket, then I gave him the "Drop!" command.

Then I praised him.

My dog is smart. He responds best to food and second to attention. He scooped up another sock and we repeated the process. By that time, he was gallivanting around the room with his coptersniffer (my dog sniffs so hard he literally sounds like a helicopter) and searching for those tasty bits. I took him back into the other room and had him grab the last sock, then once again praised him when he dropped it in the hamper.

As there were no more socks on the floor, he did the next logical thing: he tried to dump over the hamper so we could play again. He received a stern "No!" and immediately went into the "Heel" position, to let me know he was behaving.

It's only the first step, but an important one - maybe we can turn this odd and negative (as we usually have to yell at him to drop the socks) situation into a positive one.

A praised dog can go a long way towards a clean house.

Compulsive Drag

Anyone who reads this knows by now - my book is due for release this week. In fact, I took a 9-day unpaid vacation to make it happen.

I just finished editing Chapter 30. Here's my lame but sincere statement: Editing takes a long time. I really thought I'd buzz through and be done, but attempting to put forth the best product I can - it takes time. I may have to bump back my release to FRIDAY :( Lost a lot of time today (don't regret it!) on Valentine's shenanigans. It's the way of things. I do feel like maybe I have a fear of releasing it, which is part of the reason I'm so far behind (hence today's title: Compulsive Drag!)

On a more personal note: Valentine's Day!

I'm impressed with my partner as we both bought each other very thoughtful gifts. We also went out for dinner and a movie (No Strings Attached, chick flick wheeee!) The movie was alright. My biggest complaint is that they have a lot of completely unnecessary rude (mostly sexual) statements. I felt it detracted from the story, some of the dialogue was just rough and jarring. At the very beginning of the movie, a young Adam is crying and as the last line in the scene says something obscene to the young Emma that felt out of place. I know it turns out to be the connection with the next scene but... maybe I'm getting old :P

The weather was also cooperative enough today that I took Ajax for a walk. I'd love to take him on daily walks if the snow would stop piling up to my bum in the STREET (Okay, maybe closer to ankle, but that's far less dramatic). We don't even have sidewalks around here, nor do the plows grace us with their presence (which is ridiculous, really, seeing as how we are IN the city on the property line between two cities, yay suburban sprawl!).

My stitches itched like crazy today and I'm just trying to keep my fingernails outta there. They come out on the 16th, so at least there's that :)

My cat is about 14~15 years old. Sadly, I think he's on his way out. I'm just trying to keep an eye on him and keep him comfortable. I've had him since I was a freshman in high school, so we go way back!

I've been pulling out some of my old music and loading it up while I write, to keep the constantly mobile part of my brain active while I write. If you like many of the following bands, we may be able to take a road trip together!:

American Head Charge
Jack's Mannequin
Snow Patrol
Godhead
Cold
Panic! at the Disco
Buckcherry
Crossbreed
Il Nino
Lollipop Lust Kill
Stereomud
Sum 41
Orgy

Anyone? Anyone? Buehler?

The Puppy Jar

I am seriously considering buying a nice, clear container to set in a place of prominence for when guests come over.  When they see it, and the myriad of amazing bits it contains they will ask with awe and wonder,

"Why, whatever is that jar for?"

"That old thing?" I will answer with calculated nonchalance.  "Oh really, it's nothing."

"No, no," they will press me, like children.  "Tell us why does it contain such bizarre items?"

"It is merely a puppy jar," I shall respond, fixing a cold eye on them, much like a preying hawk.

"Tell us, tell us," they will insist.  "What is a puppy jar?"

"It is every thing my delightful bargain bin puppy has put in his mouth, and that I have had to pull out."  I will point to the pine needles, liberally littering the bottom.  "Christmas," I shall say, waving a hand dismissively.  I will offer up the knowledge of every bit of plastic, toilet paper, bottle cap, napkin (and so forth) that my puppy has managed to unearth from the bowels of my supposedly clean home.

"That," I will answer, finally, with an air of triumphant scorn, "is a puppy jar!"