i came. i saw. i ate all your cheese. photographer :: imaginary world traveler :: word guzzler :: coffee grinder :: night owl :: indie listener :: wisecracker. a little sarcastic, a tad comical...Sarcomical.
[as you'll see in the first video, lucy was mesmerized by the bread maker, and i'm not surprised, seeing as this was the first time in her six years that it's been turned on. (yes) p.s. make sure you turn up your sound.]
[a few moments later, she's still enamored...and then ENTER: the cat, who she happens to have a tenuous relationship with. oh, and at the end there? yeah, that's ricky, on my lap.]
Last week driving back home from a trip I was compelled to pull over and take a photo of this overwhelmingly grand sky just before the colors disappeared. As I just prepared to post it, I realized that if I hadn't stopped for the couple of minutes to stand next to my car along a cornfield-adjacent highway, I would not have hit that cream kitty that jetted in front of me and only me on the very busy interstate an hour later one exit from my house (the first time I have ever hit an animal - EVER), and consequently would not have gone into a bizarre internal hysteria which made it necessary for me to hold my breath to stifle the heaving and sobbing over the next 10 minutes so I could see past my teary eyeballs and get home without wreaking MORE death and destruction and return to the four pets in my house, who had to put up with me successively crying into their furry heads after I came in, especially the cat who was brazenly laying on the kitchenette table staring straight at me damningly when I walked in.
The other night, as we were getting to bed and the dogs were assuming their regular positions (Lucy & Ricky on top of the bed, Shiloh under it), I crossed the room from my closet and saw something that troubled me greatly. One of the middle support casters under the bed was leaning crooked.
There is a good chance you are possibly already saying, So what? What a stupid thing to worry about. It's not like they are actually bearing the brunt of holding up your bed or anything; it's not like the entire unit is going to collapse; it's not like your bed will split in two...your bed sits on a wooden frame, those frakking wheels might as well be ornamental.
This is basically what my husband was trying to tell me.
However, what I heard was, That caster is the only thing keeping this bed one piece; it is the only thing standing between you and wood-splintered carnage. This bed is going to crr-reak in the middle of the night, and before you realize what is happening you will crush your dog with the very weight of your own selfish, too-busy-to-stop-and-fix-the-vitally-important-caster lumps of flesh. You will crush him and he will die and also you will have to move because how could you continue to live in a house where you killed your dog with your stupidity and carelessness and OH also your body weight? Now, GET UNDER THERE AND FIX IT YOU LOSER!
And so, because I could not be swayed with reason OR cookie bribes, I got down on the floor, sat facing the errant metal leg, braced myself on the carpet, and pushed it back into place with my foot. Aha, sweet safety.
Being down on the floor allowed me the opportunity to see the more precarious and more threatening BACK caster. It was practically making a right triangle with the floor. This was unacceptable. THE HORROR MUST BE PREVENTED! Of course, this meant I got down on my stomach and shimmied toward the middle of the underbelly. Now, mind you our bed is quite heavy, being an oversized King, and I could not get myself enough leverage to pull or push this leg back into place. Could you go lift that side of the bed up a little? I implored from under my one-foot prison.
This did not help.
And now, I was battling not only the goddamned caster but also my inner Freakoutometer, which was threatening to bubble and smoke as the floor seemed to begin pushing me tighter and tighter against the roof of my tiny compartment. Be cool, I thought. Just be cool. And I WAS cool. I managed to spin myself around underneath the bed and get myself in a position where I could brace my feet and puuuullllll. Voila! Straight as an arrow. And now...to simply get out. I started to wiggle backward and try to un-twist half-inch by half-inch, like some rewinding earthworm.
This was where my husband for some reason decided it would be a good time to ask over and over Can you get out? Can you get out? Can you get out? and I consequently told him to shut up!!! shut up!!! are you kidding me shut up!!! before I lost all memory of how to breathe correctly.
Yet somehow, as I clawed my way toward light and life, I was able to form this thought: When I get out of here I am going to kick you in the kneecaps.
I do not usually sound like an 80-year old lady when I open my mouth as I do at the opening of this clip.
Lucy started doing...strange things...with her ball after she saw us maneuvering it like a soccer ball to keep it away from her. I think she tried to mimic our footwork? The first time I saw her do this I laughed probably very disproportionately to how funny it actually was. Maybe you will laugh disproportionately as well. BONDING EXPERIENCE!
I do not like Rachael Ray. But my dogs love her BOOscotti cookies. Dog Bellies=FTW. Grudge Against Annoying Levels of Pep and Superfluous Hand Gestures?=FAIL.
"You're not giving away our water pick!" ... "SERENITY NOW!!!"
Sometimes there are crumbs in my toaster oven.
Ricky is mysteriously terrified of walking on the wood floor about 8.5 times out of 10.
Well, if you're a pet owner, you know that this question is presented to you on basis more regular than you would ever want to talk about in mixed company.
...I mean, after all, what IS the acceptable amount of time to let pass by before you become completely nonchalant about your dog sticking his tongue all over your face (READ: YOUR LIPULAR REGION) after seeing him lick his butt fervently for a solid 7 minutes?
I'm just saying. Is 30 minutes enough? Is 2 hours enough? All of whatever was going on there is just circulating around - let's be real here, there is no decontamination practice going on, he's not going to brush his teeth or swish and spit anything out of there.
The honest truth is, we wait until we can go into denial again. Which simply means we are crazy delusional. Because I guarantee you, if I saw a BABY sticking her hand in her diaper and then licking it, I would NOT be okay with that child getting anywhere near my face with that mouth until someone dipped her in a sanitation vat or at least got some sort of baby mouthbrush up in that situation.
The dogs in the SarcomiHouse like ice cubes. They reeeeeally, really like them. Any time I open the freezer there's a click-clacking stampede across the kitchen floor, as if I were slow-roasting juicy steaks in there instead of tossing a few chips of frozen water into their mouths out of the bag of Home City Ice.
If you have ever lived with a dog, you've probably seen some version of this thing that Shiloh is most guilty of out of the three of them: he will excitedly take his little chunk of ice over to the carpet, set it down, then nervously wander back into the kitchen (while attempting to not draw my attention), because he just isn't quite comfortable with the possibility that I might be giving out an even BIGGER! and BETTER! nugget of ice, even though everyone has gotten their ration and by now I'm just adding some to my glass for my sweet tea.
Last night, he did this particular thing, and I told him "Go! You already have yours!", which garnered a rather obvious lack of belief and further anxious peering at my hand nearing the big bag in that giant cold box where the melty dog biscuits apparently come out of. He didn't trust me. I don't know why; I'm a very trustworthy individual.
You do know, yes, that there is a certain someone named Ricky who lives here, correct? And that Ricky is the baby, and a spoiled brat who steals and will not share a toy or a blanket to save his life? Well, it seems as Shiloh's big ice cube sat on the carpet melting, Ricky - finished yet severely unsatisfied - could simply not take it anymore, and ran over and stole it just in time for Shiloh to turn, walk back for it, and then shoot me a "BUT MOM, WHAT THE HELL?!?" look.
Because I am alone in the house a lot a lot A LOT during the day, and because I have nothing else upon which to lavish the benefit of my maternal scolding, I without really thinking said, (and I swear to God, this was what I really said, even though it seems a little too convenient for a preachy post) "See what happens?!? What you have just isn't good enough for you and then someone else takes it."
Immediately afterward I thought that was kind of funny because a) I really talk to the dogs entirely too much like Humans with Fur Who Answer Me with Words and Waggy Tails sometimes but hey I've come to grips with that and b) the concept is glaringly relevant and timely, and something The Husband and I have certainly discussed at some point or another, and more often recently it seems.
Don't neglect what you have (talents, relationships, possessions, positions, finances) in favor of pacing stupidly waiting for your perfect chunk of life to fall out of the box, while others are able to LIVE and enjoy what you already have. You'll end up with no treat at all. BITE INTO YOUR OWN CUBE!
p.s. Lucy is mad she wasn't in this story. She wants everyone to know she takes her ice cubes daintily from my fingers and then eats them quietly in the other room with no trouble like these STEWPID BOYZ. Also, these photos are from a few Halloweens ago (which some of you may recognize), and I swear I decided to dress them ironically for the good of getting the shots. Honestly.
I'm about to ask you a question and then answer it with no pause for your feedback.
Just thought I'd prep you.
What is worse than unhappily discovering dog poop upstairs on the corner of the bedroom rug because one tiny (and apparently, delicate) brown chihuahua likely decided that -11° weather means it is too unbearably frigid to rest one's paws on the ground long enough for accomplishing the task oh...I don't know...OUTDOORS?
I'll tell you what's worse.
You now find yourself looking deeply into two watery and guilt-ridden, but otherwise manipulatively vacant, brown eyes and are painfully aware of how sadly well-acquainted you have become with the nature of your dog's...business...and this knowledge forces upon you a realization that something is amiss. Aha, that's it. And before you can rationalize that all you will receive in response is a more frantically-blank gaze, you hear yourself ask an embarrassed chocolate ball of hair:
"WHERE is the REST of it?"
(Who could blame the little guy, truly? Seeing them hobble around after a few seconds out there during the past two days is awfully sad.)
"Mommeh, where did your lap go? I cry for a place to cuddle. I weep for the legs which now have to hold up my body. Why don't you put that camera back into its bag, sit down on something squishy, and get a snack first because you are going to be there a while. Do not refuse me, Mommeh. You can not refuse me. Do you understand? Nod your head if you understand."
I'm an animal snuggler, Lover of Words and raging introvert who others often confuse for an extrovert. I'm typically caffeinated as a rule, BE IT BY BEAN OR BY LEAF.
This is the year I'll be talking a lot about my journey to grow further as a photographer, artist, music addict, YOGISTA, writer, volunteer, life adventurer, ALMOST-VEGETARIAN, runner, book devourer, knee sock connoisseur and procreator (yes, after 13 years we're finally working on that one, and it may be a more twisty path than we anticipated).
I embrace my inner geek (see: obsession with finding the perfect pen, affection for NERD GLASSES) and accept my irrational fears (see: FEET, rug bugs, outer space). I figure they balance out my super cool musical tastes, good luck in parking lots and long legs.
*Wife to 1, fur mother to 4. Future parent to severely over-photographed children.
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Are you wondering where most of the past 5 years-worth of posts went? I kicked them out (just kidding -read here), but do not fret. I'll be putting up the very best Vintage Sarcomical posts regularly!