Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Random Sh*t

I took the dog to puppy training class last night and it was one of the most traumatic experiences EVER.

We've owned various dogs throughout my life. The last dog I remember going to any sort of training class was our husky that we got when I was 9. Most of our dogs were pretty good with the sit/stay/come. Our American Bulldog had dog aggression and was never off leash and all our other dogs have their own little personality traits. The husky would run away for days at a time, but always come back and liked to kill small woodland creatures (he was part wolf, allegedly). But mostly just really good dogs.

This dog is the smallest dog we have ever ever owned. By a lot. She's about ten pounds. The dog we got a year ago had been the smallest dog we'd ever owned and he's now 35 pounds. My tendency is to just pick her up a lot, which means she doesn't listen. She's also at least part terrier and terriers are a stubborn and willful breed. So she really doesn't listen. Mostly I just need her to learn to come back so I can let her off leash to play.

We went to the SPCA to get our learning on and about half way through I was ready to cry. She was tired of being on a leash, she'd been paying such good attention but then was just over it. You're in a room with ten other dogs and they can't even play! She did sit really good for awhile and has FINALLY started to look at me when I call her but I didn't bring nearly enough treats and even those weren't a big draw once she figured out that the treats meant doing shit.

Seriously, I have not been that exhausted after mental stimulation since taking the bar exam.

And the dog has never been so traumatized. At one point during training, as I'm squatting down near her because she's tiny and I don't want to pick her up, she buried her face between my arm and leg because she couldn't handle it anymore. I felt so bad! Related: never ever having children.

She's still traumatized today. Usually she wakes me up around 7:30 to go out and chows down her breakfast. I woke her up at 9 and she won't eat her food. She also won't leave my side. Stupid dog training.

In other news: It's Halloween weekend! That's a sarcastic exclamation point. I do not care about Halloween. I started dubbing it slut-o-ween a few years ago, a term that either I subconsciously picked up from the popular lexicon or I invented (the latter). One year I joked about taking a mishmash of slutty costumes and just going as a slutty slut. Like a nurses hat and fishnets and a firefighter jacket and a goalie shirt. Ya know, just an amalgamation of ridiculous crap that has been sexualized for Halloween because that's what the holiday has devolved into. But I'm not the type of girl who should be dressing up as slutty anything so...

I'm also incredibly uncreative and lazy when it comes to costumes. Every year when I was a kid we went to the Jessica McClintock outlet, got some oversized dress, cut the bottom off of it and I threw on a tiara. Insta-princess. My mom is not a sewer so no hand made costumes for us. In college I remember donning all black, putting on a choker, a pair of ears and using eyeliner to draw on whiskers. Insta-cat. The most recent time I dressed up was two years ago. I wore Levi's jeans, converse all-stars, a basic black top, a scarf, carried a Longchamp purse, threw a baguette in it sticking out of the top and joked about being bitchy and dismissive to everyone, which I am anyways. I was a French woman. Ta-da!

This year, I have no plans to go out. LSU has a bye week and I have taken to abstaining from alcohol during bye weeks, which is actually nice. Less regretful decisions made that way. I'm going to see Hair on Saturday night with Michael and Cheryl is out of town. So no Halloween debauchery for me, thanks.

However, my mom bought those fake sleeve tattoos and came up with the RIDICULOUS idea that I should wear those along with a Ben Davis shirt, a pair of Dickies, basic Pumas, a baseball hat low that covers my eyebrows, and carry around a can of Skoal and go as my brother. I was immediately and completely annoyed by this idea. I couldn't quite figure out why this bothered me so much though. It's kinda funny in theory. And when I told my brother's friends about it at the bar the other night they thought it was HYSTERICAL. So why was I so put off by it? Then it dawned on me: I have a hard enough time in San Francisco being taken seriously as ME, going as HIM would just compound the problem. I would be inextricably linked, more than I already am, as his sister and guys would be even MORE afraid to go within a hundred miles of me. Yeah, no.

(In fairness: one year for lazy Halloween, I stole his old Marine Corp camos that he'd abandoned at my moms, made them as sexy as I could (black tank top, shirt undone), wore the hat and everything and may have ended up late night making out with someone. So it's kinda possible, I suppose, to dress like him and not be considered just his sister. Still. I'd rather not risk it with a full on little brother homage outfit.)

And in the last of other news: the stepsis is keeping me sane with some serious emailing back and forth as I navigate getting to know someone new waters. Which I HATE. I mean, why isn't it all just easy and me being the sort of brutally forward person that I am is just cool? (It never ever is.) She's supposed to come up here to run the SF Marathon which I think is stupid and am trying to convince her to just come up that weekend to party and to watch the Bama game with me. Because I've decided I'm judging everyone by how much they care about me caring about LSU Bama. Watching it with me? Bonus points. Not even mentioning it? (Looking at you mom) Crappy Christmas presents (which they will be anyways cuz I still ain't got no job). So this is my public plea to convince everyone to convince Kathryn to come up here to watch LSU/Bama and cause the kind of trouble only her and I cause together. It's been too long! (since July).

Oh wait! One last thing: I went to high school with these guys and they were just these TOTAL surfer dudes. Then when we were college aged they were the guys who worked some crap job and then took their money to go surf Indo for a month, came back, lather, rinse, repeat. The one guy, Marty, was one of those high school guys who did not appreciate my mouthy nature back then, but he turned out to be pretty chill (his brother is SO HOT, you guys). Then they started this clothing company and it's actually taken off, which is super cool for them even if I'm left scratching my head going "Those surfer slackers, wha?" Anyway, Marty lives around the corner from my dad and every single damn time I drive around the block to get somewhere, this hot blonde guy will waive at me and smile and I'll think, "Oh! Me?!" before it takes me fifteen seconds to process, "Oh. It's Marty being nice. Never mind."

That's all a really long way of saying: SF is getting the Rip Curl Pro this fall, which I guess is a big freaking surf deal? (It's been since high school since I paid attention to surfing. Not much need for it in South Louisiana. Yes, I had Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton pictures on my bedroom wall in high school, what of it?) And Marty and Andy were called in to narrate the epic awesomeness that is Ocean Beach to get people prepped for the Pro. And now I'm gonna ponder SO MANY SURFERS across the street from the beach house. Suuhhweeet. (Brushes up on her surfer speak by watching Blue Crush.)

Later, bitches!

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