Today's Non Sequitur kinda choked me up a little. Jack is big dreamer. He twitches and even barks a little. What traumas haunt poor Jack at night? Terrifying car rides to the park? Giant squirrels bursting out of the Hall Closet of Horror? Ballpoint pen clicks at sonic boom decibels? Jack's fears are so numerous in waking hours, what could possibly haunt his dreams?

It's not easy being Jack. Today, we will drug him so that we can brush him and wash him. I can't tell you how much I loathe having to dope him up but it's our only hope of getting the job done.

It's not easy being Jack.

Labels: cartoon, dogs, jack

I know it's not Friday but I'm feeling random this morning so please bear with me.

I didn’t even know the guy who created Davey and Goliath lived in Dallas until I read today’s obituary.

Rest in peace, guy who created what may be the creepiest most depressing kiddie show ever. (Hm, my spell check says kiddie should be spelled kiddy, but that that doesn’t look right.)

Something about that show…the melancholy music, Goliath’s mopey voice, the dreary little lessons, just bummed me out. If I stumbled upon it during my search for Sunday morning cartoons, I couldn’t turn the knob (yeah, it was that long ago) fast enough. Gimme Captain Kangaroo any day, with it’s cheery little theme song and Dancing Bear, the big stud. (I know, Captain Kangaroo was weekdays only.)

***

An entertaining local story:

A supervisor who instructed Dallas officers to make up occupations on citations will only receive counseling…

Nowhere in the article does it say why this supervisor told officers to do this, but since the people receiving the citations were all homeless, I wonder if compassion played a part.

But the best part of the story is the occupations he suggested.

Minutia technician—picks streets
Repose Specialist—does nothing but sleeps and lays around in doorways and alleys
Human Relations Clerk—Prostitute
Pharmacology Specialist—Drug Addict
Appropriations Loan Assistant—Burglar
Property Disposal Technician—Thief
Ethanol Analyst—Alcoholic

Counseling? This guy should receive a job writing for The Daily Show.

See why I read the newspaper, kids? It’s chock full of fun.

***

The Belo fitness blog includes this item about a CD that’s supposed to calm dogs down in the car. I listened to the samples. Of course this stuff is calming. It’s a CD of dirges. Maybe they’d calm Jack but they also might put me to sleep. Or drive me to despair. No pun intended.

***

I’ve never been a fan of the Police, but this interview with Stewart Copeland makes me like them even less. Self-important ass. I don’t like Sting, either. Yeah, I said it. Wanna make somethin' of it?

***

Sharon Stone on turning 50: I fired the people out of my life who weren’t working with me successfully professionally. I got rid of the people who weren’t really my friends. I stopped trying to date the men who didn’t really like me.

***

Confirmation that she is not twins. Unless she's quintuplets. (I cropped the giant photo of her, even though it was the ugliest bathing suit of the bunch.)



***

And finally, I'm not the only Dembling reaching a milestone this week. Happy 90th Birthday, Dad. Check you out, rockin' the facial hair (1971).



P.S. Today is Cher's birthday, too. She's 62.

Labels: dallas morning news, dogs, midlife, music, newspapers, police, television shopping

Alrighty then, lots of flotsam for your procrastinators today. A little something for everyone. (Maybe. I don’t know.)

I am happy to report that the incorrigible Jack has become partly corriged. He has adjusted to the electric fence and no longer wanders at will. No more crossing the creek and coming home muddy, no more chasing off the mailman, no more patrolling the alley and riling up the other dogs. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the limits. Perhaps the responsibility of patrolling so large an area weighed heavily on his burly shoulders and troubled his large noggin. His own yard is large enough. So many squirrels, so little time. And so much napping to be done. How is one dog to do it all without some limits?

Now I need an electric fence for the sofa. He is not allowed on the sofa and knows it, but at night, after we go to bed, he helps himself. At the suggestion of one of his many trainers, I tried booby trapping it last night by covering it with newspapers and balancing a couple beer cans filled with coins on the papers, which were supposed to fall off and make noise and either frighten him off or wake us up. They did neither. He managed to fit his large tuchus between the cans, barely even disturbing them. So, back to shutting him out of the living room at night. He hates that. The other night, I had to put his leash on him and drag him out. Literally drag him—he put that aforementioned large tuchus on the floor and wouldn’t move it.

Brat.

***

Slate has a special issue on procrastination (speaking of blogging) which includes this story, asking the question What is the difference between severe procrastination and writer's block?

So, I have this novel I’ve been working on for about three years. I’m in revisions. Ten painful pages at a time. And a half-finished book proposal that’s been collecting cyber dust for more than a year. So slow. I could do better. I know it. I’m not blocked, I’m procrastinating, Because as long as these remain remain unfinished they might be brilliant. If I finish them, their lead feet will be obvious.

Says one expert: "The chronic procrastinator knows he's presenting a negative image, but he'd rather be perceived negatively for lack of effort than for lack of ability."

***

The research corner:

Important news about men and their thingies: First, the International Society for Sexual Medicine has only just come up with (no pun intended) a formal definition of premature ejaculation. I know, can you believe it? I personally have never encountered this particular problem but in case you’re wondering, it is now defined as: “a male sexual dysfunction characterized by ejaculation which always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration; and, inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations; and, negative personal consequences, such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy.”

And, says the study’s main author, “The hope is that more people with these symptoms will understand this is an actual health condition and seek treatment. They no longer need to suffer in silence.”

In related thingie-research: Gastric Bypass Surgery Restores Sexual Function in Morbidly Obese Men—Losing weight may help resolve erectile dysfunction in obese men.

Mostly, it helps them get laid more, I assume.

Having just experienced a highly unpleasant allergic reaction to a drug (my friends got all the gory details, I spared most of you) I was drawn to research into why scratching helps an itch. The study involved 13 healthy participants who underwent testing with functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology that highlights areas of the brain activated during an activity. Participants were scratched on the lower leg with a small brush. The scratching went on for 30 seconds and was then stopped for 30 seconds – for a total of about five minutes.

“To our surprise, we found that areas of the brain associated with unpleasant or aversive emotions and memories became significantly less active during the scratching,” said Yosipovitch. “We know scratching is pleasurable, but we haven’t known why. It’s possible that scratching may suppress the emotional components of itch and bring about its relief.”

So scratching is not really physical relief, it’s emotional. Which, when you think about it makes sense. Itching is so miserable … a persistent itch makes you want to scream, cry, bang your head repeatedly against a wall. Finally succumbing to the urge to scratch? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It’s more than physical relief. It’s bliss—however short lived and guilty, since we know we shouldn’t scratch.

The rash is fading and I will never take Aleve again.

Here’s a fun read from the Wall Street Journal, about retail therapy. Yup, psychologists and neuroscientists are studying that, too. Not to help us, mind you. To help retailers.

But keep this in mind—just like those little 100-calorie size snack packs of cookies and other treats can help us eat less, how we carry money can help us spend less, according to one study: Students were given $100 in pretend cash to participate in a gambling study. Some students received one sealed envelope with all the money, and others got 10 sealed envelopes that each contained $10. Individuals with multiple envelopes tended to spend less, sometimes half of what the people with the single envelope spent. "The power of partitioning can reduce spending by 50 percent," Cheema said.

I don’t like carrying lots of cash for this very reason. If I have it, I spend it. If I have to go back to the ATM, I become more aware of my spending. (And I am on near-lockdown on credit cards right now. Not complete, but I’m staying careful. Baby needs a new tank of gas…)

***

Dunno why it’s taken me so long, but I’d like to point out a new blogroll link—to the blog of my friend Jenna and her friend Rachel. The Haiku Diaries is commentaries on life entirely in the 5-7-5 format. It’s so much fun. I like to comment in haiku when I’m feeling sharp enough.

***

This week instead of just a list of google searches, a little commentary on a select few.

Again, numerous searches for crossdressers in saris this week. Is it possible these are not just fetishists? I found a New York Times article about a Pakistani talk show host: Ali Saleem may have devised the perfect, if improbable, cover for breaking taboos in conservative, Muslim Pakistan.

In a country where publicly talking about sex is strictly off limits, Mr. Saleem has managed not only to bring up the subject on his prime-time television talk show — but to do so without stirring a backlash from fundamentalist Islamic clerics.

And he has done so as a woman.

In a sari.

I haven’t found anything similarly uplifting about searches for women peeing in saris.

On a related subject, I came across this Q&A from a woman who planned to cross dress her husband for a party because he lost a bet. Responders were not impressed.

I find a lot of searches that look like this: 2008 contact emails of the doctors @yahoo.com in Florida; email contact women's america 2008@yahoo.com

I was baffled until learning that these are the kinds of searches used by spammers to harvest email addresses. OK, that would explain the ever-thickening blizzard of spam I receive.

Three of my photos have become very popular: the one of a pyramid at Teotihuacan, the portrait of a xoloescuintle and the plastic army men war atrocities. These turn up so often, I assume someone is using them for something somewhere, but I can’t figure out how to figure it out.

Someone searched hillary jillette cunt which I suppose relates to Hillary Clinton and Penn Jillette. I know he called her a bitch. Did he call her a cunt, too? What a prick.

Someone searched Elizabet gilbert eat, pray, love review childfree, which is a little confusing.

Chelle, someone searched you. Someone searched my brother Oliver. And someone searched "black and blue" "rolling stones" tribute band dallas, texas myspace which had a very happy ending, since it resulted in a job for Black and Blue. May 31, Tolbert’s in Grapevine. Glad to help…

And that's Friday.

Labels: blogging, brain science, dallas morning news, dog training, dogs, google, jack, photography, psychology, research, sex, sexism, shopping, writing

Don't read this if you don't feel like getting bummed out. (Does anyone ever actually feel like getting bummed out?) But I have to write it because it's all I can think about. (Besides, according to a recent poll discussed in this article, people get therapeutic value from blogging.)

Yoga isn’t competitive and you’re supposed to let go of all self judgment and listen to your body and bla-bla-bla—but all that aside, I really sucked in my yoga class last night. I got out the door late because I was having trouble getting my VCR (if I may be so old school) set to tape Idol (which also sucked last night) and then traffic was stupid and erratic so I arrived to the rec center late and then got stuck behind a slow moving lady screwing with her cell phone as I tried to scurry to class… I was all kerfuffled by the time I got to the “studio.” (It’s actually a conference room.)

My Tuesday night teacher does a lot of balance moves which I’m ordinarily pretty good at but last night, I could barely balance on two feet much less one. I was wibbling and wobbling and although I never actually fell on my ass, I couldn’t hold any of the poses. And the more that happened, the more annoyed and stressed I got (so un-yogi of me). Plus, the room was freezing, as is often the case, which is not ideal for yoga. (My teachers says it’s often too hot for her early class but then when she requests an adjustment, the arctic chill sets in.) Maybe it was the barometric pressure or maybe I’d eaten too much sugar this week (recall the late lamented coffee cake) or maybe my mind was too unbalanced which set the rest of me off balance, but it was one lousy evening of yoga. The only thing I rocked was the wheel, which for some reason I’m really good at. (OK, look at that photo. TMI right?)

After class my evening went from bad to worse.

Since Tom wouldn’t be home for dinner and the cupboards are bare, I figured I’d punish my incorrigible bod with Whataburger. Happily, my timing was right and the food was piping hot (don’t you hate greasy fast food that’s been sitting under the lamps too long?) but on the way home…

…oh, here I go, choking up again…

… I saw a little fluffy white doggie—it looked a lot like ZsaZsa (RIP)--get hit and killed by a car. I saw the whole thing happen and screamed—the car just sped on. I pulled over to see if it was…well, it wasn’t. It was clearly someone’s pet, all fat and fluffy and groomed. I put it on the median and sobbed all the way halfway home, then turned around and went back to make extra sure I couldn’t save it. Then I cried all the way home again.

Of course, my food was cold by the time I got home. So I sat on the couch and ate cold food and watched crappy Idol and cried all evening.

I can’t seem to shake the sad. It’s dark and rainy today and I keep thinking about that little pup lying on the median in the rain. Maybe I should have taken it and buried it but I was so freaked out, and someone will be looking for it, I’m sure.

I have lunch with a client today. Sure hope I can stop crying long enough to get through it. Poor little doggie.

Labels: blogging, blues, bummer, dogs, psychology, yoga

To quote a friend, “not saying ‘I told you so’ is extremely overrated. I think we should be able to say it as often as we like. It's like a polite smack upside the head.”

So when I saw The Dallas Morning News quoted this LA Times online feature about the yuckiness that is Dr. Phil, I felt free to holler “I told you so” at my morning paper.

I’m pleased the LA Times mentions our book, however I did write to the paper pointing out that we did not say Dr. Phil had an affair with a 19-year-old patient, as alleged in this feature. In fact, we stuck to the official story, that the unethical dual relationship was because Phil hired this young woman to work in his biofeedback lab. Allegations of sexual impropriety were made by the tabloids, quoting unnamed sources.

Here’s a sobering thought—this Wall Street Journal financial columnist says these days, we’re better off investing in food than in investments. He suggests stockpiling non-perishables, since the cost of food is rising so fast. Woe is me, the sky is falling…

But not that fast, according to another WSJ writer, who points out that as much as we whine about poverty, we do all have iPods, DVD players and flat-screen TVs. (Actually, we don’t have a flat-screen TV and our iPods are second generation clunkers, though they work reasonably well.)

I read this WSJ article, The Do-It-Yourself Tax Cut, with interest. Here the writer suggests numerous ways you can save money with lifestyle changes. I got to be both smug and bummed, since Tom and I do most of the things suggested here and still, as Tom likes to say, we can’t afford our modest lifestyle. At least it’s reassuring that the rest of the country is catching up to us. We don’t feel like have-nots anymore. We feel like everybody else.

Apropos to nothing, we gave stinky Jack a bath in the driveway last night. What a crazy ordeal that was. We tranquilized him (it's gotta be done) and muzzled him and he still went apeshit. He didn’t mind the soap and water as much as the brushing (attempts) of his hairy ass. We finally had to give up on the brushing. He smells a lot better but his hair is a mess. World’s most exhausting canine….

And now, I must whine. Inappropriately. Much as I’m enjoying my adventures in blogging, I admit to being a tad discouraged these days. My readership numbers are stagnant. The freewheeling discussions we enjoyed in MySpace don’t happen here. Many of my frequent commenters have fallen silent, even those who complained about MySpace. Sigh. I still enjoy the exercise but it was more fun when I didn’t feel like I was talking to three people.

The most successful blogs in the blogosphere focus on one topic and I’m considering that—although I haven’t yet decided what that topic should be. Writing? Jack? Money or lack thereof?

Labels: blogging, blogs, celebrities, dog training, dogs, dr. phil, eating, economy, food, griping, headlines, money, whining, writing

Just a soupcon of flotsam today…

This is NOT FUNNY.

Everybody cast your votes! (Thanks, Mary. And no, it has nothing to do with Hillary/Obama. We're all exhausted ...)

Have you finished your Passover gift shopping yet? If not, MsKrit alerts us to these very special items.

Today’s newspaper was chock full of dreary, terrifying news about the economy and believe me, we’re feeling it. How are we going to pay for the electric fence we are having installed at this very moment? We have no idea. Things are a little tense around the house this morning and Jack doesn’t even know yet how his world is about to rocked. All he knows is that there are strange men in the backyard and he’s stuck in the house.

But I digress. I mention the newspaper mostly to show you this photo, the most entertaining thing in today’s paper. What’s the deal with the hoochie mama topiaries? Dallas is SO conflicted about sex….

And finally, huzzah! Not only is Dr. Phil finally, really tumbling from grace, but this MSN reaming actually mentions our book! Now, everybody run out and buy a copy!

OK, let’s get out there an EARN SOME MONEY! Jack-y needs a new pair of shoes. (Or something. He always needs something. A bath, for example.)

Labels: blogging, books, dogs, dr. phil, humor, passover, writing

I’m tired of words so here is a random selection of photos from Mexico City.

One of the best things about Mexico City is that, as my mother-in-law-says, "There's a treasure around every corner." I don’t know what church this is and didn’t bother finding out but it’s a stumbled-upon treasure.



The Pyramids of Teotihuacan are the remnants of a civilization that predates the Aztecs, who found this former metropolis already in ruins. The pyramids were spectacular, although we did spend somewhat more time there than I would have liked, what with everything else the city has to offer.



Our guide was knowledgeable and meticulous and had a lot to say about the pyramids.



Random artsy-fartsiness.



The Aztec dog, the xoloescuintle, is a little odd looking, with those big ears and hairless skin like a lizard. These dogs are endangered but we met this one by the pyramids.



This little pack of xoloescuintles (dunno how to pronounce it) lives at the Museo Doloros Olmedo, which I loved.



Dolores Olmedo was friend, lover, patron and sometime model of Diego Rivera. Her collection is housed in her former home, a lovely hacienda surrounded by lawns and gardens. Art ranges from pre-Columbian forward, including numerous artworks by Rivera and his wife Frida Kahlo, and the collection is stunning.

However, I was mesmerized by numerous photos and portraits of Dolores herself—so glamorous, so fabulous. In one photo that appears to be from the 1950s (I looked for a postcard in the museum shop but alas, there were none), she crosses a tarmac from a small plane wearing a pencil skirt with a fur stole around her shoulders, flanked by slender dark-haired men in suits and sunglasses. I have a new role model.

Random artsy-fartsy photo of the museum courtyard.



The gardens are home to a flock of peacocks and the boys were randy this day, showing their stuff.



A different view, in case you wondered.



We also visited the Frida Kahlo Museum, in her former home in the town of Coyoacan. I’m sure it’s lovely but it was so crowded I got woozy and tore through it. I’ll have to return someday. Nevertheless, here’s a photo of her garden.



And in conclusion, another random artsy-fartsy photo from the Frida Kahlo museum.




That is all. And it took forfrigginever to post.

Labels: dogs, Mexico, mexico city, photography, travel

Jack was a sale dog. He’d been at the SPCA for so long, they cut his adoption price from $50 to $25. Such a deal!

We’ve been hemorrhaging money on him ever since.

First, there was expensive training boot-camp. Then a behaviorist. Then we had to add an extra three feet to our property fence because he was jumping that and scaring the mailman. (That was more work than money but it was both and it looks crappy.)

We tried to find doggie day care for him so Tom would have options when I travel, but as soon as they hear “dog aggressive,” the discussion ends. We had to give up.

Our groomer, who did a great job on the big ol’ hairball, went out of business and now we have to find a new one. The last place we tried was owned and operated by a bunch of gayboys whose nervous energy put Jack all on edge. I left him there but by the time I got home, I had a voicemail asking me to come and get him. They suggested we tranquilize him for the grooming so we called our vet—who has never liked Jack—and he prescribed pills that had Jack nodding and stumbling like Sid Vicious on a Saturday night. Hm. Maybe half a pill next time. I wasn’t wild for the grooming, though. It was choppy and his tail went from a graceful sweep to a hairy stub. No thanks. The search for a groomer continues.

Now Jack has found a way out of the yard by crossing a creek into the neighbor’s yard and out the front. He doesn’t do much, but he likes to nap under a bush in front of the house and chase away the postman. The other problem is that when there’s water in the creek, as there is now, Jack gets muddy and filthy and, as some of you may recall, he won’t allow us to touch his back feet, which means muddy footprints in the house.

We’re getting so beaten down.

Yesterday I got an estimate on an invisible fence for the back property, which will be another $1,200. And we don’t have any choice.

I will say this—Jack has come MILES from his early surly self. I’ve been working on his dog aggression and we can walk past the archenemy dog across the street these days and he only goes a little crazy, not totally Cujo. It’s an improvement. If visitors listen to what we say (ignore him and don’t put a hand out to him), he’s perfectly lovely to be around. And I still enjoy the big galoot’s company.

But so many problems and expenses. And we thought ZsaZsa, with her myriad health issues, was a hassle. ... Believe it or not, we vaguely discussed the notion of giving Jack a night-night shot, but that’s really out of the question. Really. Still, we are so worn down by his quirks and costs, that every evening, when he slips out the back, Jack, to rile up the dogs in the alley behind our house, Tom and I only half-jokingly tell each other that with any luck, he won’t come back.

He always does though. And we’re sadhappy.

Labels: dog training, dogs, pets