In Which I Fail an IQ Test

With nothing better to do on a Friday night, I decided to take a page from Hyperbole and a Half, and test my dog's IQ.  There are 6 different tests, and before starting, the rules warn to treat it like a game and not get upset or concerned if the dog can't figure his way through one of the 6 puzzles.


Puzzle 1: show the dog a treat and then let him see you put it beneath a can.  Then, allow the dog to work his way to the treat.
I knew this one was going to be difficult when I was failing it for him in my quest for a can.  I looked in the recycling, only to see that damn!  boyfriend emptied that.  So, clear thinking individual that I am, I went for the trash, reaching for that can of beans that boyfriend took out of fridge last night for security's sake.  The stench alone managed to cut straight through my snot-riddled head and was the physical manifestation of stink.  For the second night in a row, can of beans knocked me on my ass.
After all the vomiting, I decided on a measuring cup.  Put treat under it, dog stared lasers through it, and quickly got down to business.  Neither the measuring cup nor the treat stood a chance.

Smarty dog! I squeeled in delight.
Then dog decided everything on floor must be a treat and ate about 800 ants, a piece of paper, chewed on my hand weights, and then careened throughout household on epic quest for morsels.
Not so sure how to judge that one.

Puzzle 2:  Throw towel over dog's head and judge how long until he finds his way clear.
Yes!  Doggy is like Odin! and is clear in seconds flat.  Except towel must have been covered in weird puppy hormones, and dog's red rocket shoots out.  I bend down to save towel from floor and dog goes manic, spinning in helicopter mode, knocks into my legs.  I reach for new bookshelves, only to stub my toe, knock them over, and fall all crazy-like to floor, clutching shelves.
Maybe I should be taking an IQ test.  Dog 1, Caitie 0.  Bookshelves....less than stellar.

Puzzle 3: with dog sitting about 6 feet away, make eye contact.  After a few seconds, smile broadly.  Faster the dog responds to smile and comes over, smarter dog is.
Dog can't help but be charmed and races over.   I am nearly charmed right back, but then red rocket brushes my hand, and suddenly I feel dirty and ashamed.  Go to your spot.
Dog 2, Caitie 0.  Bookshelves still sulking.

Puzzle 4: Show dog another treat, and place treat under tea towel.  Encourage dog to find treat.
Jeezus....dog is wicked smaht.  Perhaps dog could help me find keys...
10 seconds, guys.  This dog is potentially much smarter than me.

Puzzle 5:  Place treat in spot dog cannot reach with head, and must use paws to pull it closer.
Dog just invented tools!  Dog may as well have invented the Gopher.  He used mangled toy, and swept it under table, pulling treat out.  Dog is going to Harvard.

Puzzle 6: have dog seated away from you.  After he is settled in, using tone you'd use to say his name, instead, call, "Refrigerator."  If dog looks, but does not respond he's apparently discerning the difference, and thus is smart.
Shit.  Dog has flunked out of Harvard.  Dog comes racing out of his bed when called, "Refrigerator."  I think perhaps dog is so smart he knows that food is kept in refrigerator, and is showing entirely understandable reaction.  Same reaction I show when I hear "refrigerator" called.  I have dog go back to bed, wait a few minutes and call, "Closet!"
Dog turbo-jets out of bed, careening into my legs, once again angering book shelves.  But of course!  Dog knows shoes are kept in closet and shoes mean walk!  How could I be so short-sighted?  Dark murmurs begin to creep in.
"Sarah Palin!"   I whisper from bedroom.  Dog bolts in, and jumps on bed.  Obviously, he is attack-ready.
"Aerobics!"  In a flash, dog is at my side.  Dreams of Harvard have fallen by the wayside.  Dog should know by know that fitness has no place in this home.  I...am ashamed.  Dog sits, looking at me with tilted head.  Desperately trying to understand why I haven't given him a cookie.

In Which I Get a Massage

There was a poster of the muscular system on the door of the room I was placed in, waiting for my massage.  Practically nekkid, lying under a thin sheet, staring at the muscles of a friggin god.  It makes a person feel, at the very least, humble.  Realistically, I felt more  like a beached whale brought in for the autopsy.  Then I think how funny it would be if it was the muscles of just some average schlub, with bad posture and a trick knee.  I would like to see them standing together.  I wonder what schlub's butt would look like, and if it would be better than mine.

The lady came in and started to raise the table, prompting my need to comment that I felt like I was at the dentist.  Which then prompted her shushing me.  Now I feel like I'm in school.
"Just try to relax," she instructed.
How do I relax when a gore-tastic Superman is over there staring at me?


You know your brain is being a little too chatty when you spend 60 minutes wondering if you're laying correctly on the table.  She lifts your leg from under the sheet and you attempt to assist.  "Just relax," she says again.

If I knew how to do that, I wouldn't be here.

What, You Don't Like Funny?

I touched him! you stage whisper to me, after Paul Mecurio runs through the audience, collecting high-five's.  And I think you should be up there, making people laugh.  I know, at the very least, you won't be like that warm-up act, doing an impression of Carol Channing singing David Bowie.
What's a Carol Channing? and I shrug, no answers to give.  But there he is, screaming at the audience, powering through his last ten minutes before he can vacate the stage and spit in all our drinks.
Then the professional takes the stage and I hear your sigh of relief, and the audience begins to wake up.  He looks at everybody and damn near yells at a lady for not clapping.  "I won a fucking emmy!  You better goddam clap!  What is that you're wearing?  You look like a stripper!"
I sink into my seat, knowing that most of his act is talking to audience members and magically turning the mundane into funny.  We arrived early, hoping to get a good seat.  In our minds "good seat" meant as far away from the funny man as possible.  The man seating us, though, decided "good seat" meant smack dab in the center.  So I make it my mission to laugh at every joke, since he picks only on the ones that are clearly too good to be there.
"Where are your husbands?  Camping?  Sure they are."

We laugh all the way home, wondering why more people don't see comedians.  Their only goal in life is to make you laugh.  How could that be bad?  Only if he talks about Carol Channing, that's how.

These Thighs O' Mine

So, 29 is fast approaching, and it occurs to me that my bucket list is getting less and less time to reach completion.  For example, what's haunting me most recently is that I have yet to ride a mechanical bull.  How does that even happen?
Are there mechanical bulls to be found in the Bay Area?  Knowing SF, I would assume that there are at least 2 bars offering such a luxury.  Truthfully, I think I'd be pretty good at it.

I grew up around horses.  Even went so far as to be a member of Pony Club, which basically consisted of learning all the parts of the hoof and then jumping over a few cross rails, and bam!  Pony Club!  Mostly all I learned there was who was sleeping with who's tennis pro.

My first horse was named Ralph.  Technically, he was a pony, but he had the full attitude of a larger animal.  He had limited patience, but behaved well enough to give rides at my birthday parties, so long as my mum was there to guide him.  Also, and my favorite, we had a cart and harness to attach to him and my mum would take me for rides around the neighborhood.  Had I been older, I would have happily pretended to be the heroine in a Bronte sister novel.  Especially considering the frequency with which my grandmother dressed me in hand-made lace dresses.
Nirvana would have shriveled up in agony with just one glance at me in those moments.

My next horse was named Dusty.  He was a love of my life.  He was, first off, the most beautiful pony I had ever laid my eyes on.  Also, by far he was the smartest.  He was the one that taught me about mind games, acting all obedient for an entire lesson and then galloping for the barn at the very end, with me strapped to the saddle.  Later, as I outgrew him, he taught me about bucking and rearing and the utter terror that comes with those actions.  Do you, dear reader, know how much it hurts when a horse steps on you?  Can you first picture being thrown off the horse before being trampled upon?
Did you know your typical pony weighs around 700 pounds, and bears his weight down upon you the harder you try to push him off?  Gog....it hurts.

Long story short, Dusty taught me to hold the fuck on.  To dig my heels towards the floor, tighten my stomach, and squeeze my thighs until they go near numb.  I credit him to this day for the god-like strength of my legs.  Seriously.  It's ridiculous.  I'm like a Bond villain.

In short, if you see me in some seedy western bar atop a mechanical bull, put your money on me.  These ridiculous thighs of mine will bring some game.

The Death of the BFF

Dear Adulthood,

The bills are tough, but worth it to have a home of my own and the freedom to live in sin if I so choose. Responsibility often sucks, but hey, I get to have a dog and a cat and that's all well and good.

Mostly, you're much more difficult than people warn, but mostly it's all ok.
I only have one main complaint:

where does a girl go to get some bff's?


When you're a kid, it's so damn easy. She's the girl you sit next to in homeroom, or the girl 3 houses down that you got paired with because your mothers were friends. She's the friend that chooses the locker next to yours and also doesn't quite fit in. The first person you call when you get your license; the one that lets you sleep over when you're all upset that your crush started dating a total jerk. She ditches school with you, sits in the back of the bus with you, and knows every one of your secrets.

The last time I ever had to make the effort to find close friends was the first day of college, when you scramble not to be left out. To show everyone that you're someone worth knowing. And even that was pretty easy, because you were all in the same boat. There were R.A.'s, forcing you to sit in the common room together and play horrible games that you were secretly grateful for. There were those weird, older students that had done their time in the army and were now back, getting their free education. Your bff was the girl that walked with you, to ask them to buy you some beer.
And after that fear of leaving home was gone, you had a new group of close friends. The people that stayed up late, whispering secrets in the dark, bringing back the pinky-swear. The people that held your hair back, or whose hair you held, the ones you could call for no particular reason and would happily show up, so we could sit quietly together and enjoy the company.

But then college ended, and the real world began. And I'm here, on a different coast than the one I was familiar with, that's home to all those friends.
And I realize, when it's late like it is now, that I don't really have anyone out here to call. No one to sit quietly with. There are some truly fabulous people that I've had the pleasure of getting to know, but I can't call them bff's. I hope for some miraculous day that I could, but for now, they remain just lovely people.

Adulthood, you made making friends nearly impossible. Now, it's more like asking someone on a date. Awkward, and you damn well better have a plan. Don't expect to just sit around, no, no. Now there are guidelines, and weirdness, and smalltalk. You've made slumber parties taboo. But why should they be? When did they become so wrong? Damn you, Adulthood, because I loved those nights that we stayed up too late, giggling over our dreams. Those were the times that bff's were made.

What am I supposed to do now?

Not Complete Without an Elk Hat-Rack

It's like, FINALLY!  All my questions have been answered.  I don't know where I'd be if smarter people than I weren't there to show me how cowboys decorate their homes.
Yee-haw!  We've got doilies!

Clearly, we also have images from my nightmares.

All I Need to Know...I Probably Did Not Learn in Kindergarten

Sometimes you don't learn everything you needed in school.

It just doesn't teach you things like how to deal with a dead-end job.
Or how to stand up against a boss that wants you to do something at the very least unethical, and very much illegal.
And when you do stand up, it doesn't teach you how not to cry when said boss fires you.

You never learn how to make your brain stop chattering on that long drive home.  "You fuck-up.  What is wrong with you?  How do you get fired from a receptionist position?"
You don't know how to make the most of it.
You never learned how many hours there could possibly be in a day, when you have nowhere to spend them.

You also never learned how fortuitous a visit from your mum could be.  How she can show you that a nature walk, far from the city, can make your brain stop chattering.
You learn that petting your dog can stop the tears.
That you're not a loser, just because your ex-boss is a criminal.
Your mum shows you how baking a blueberry pie can while away some of the long hours.
A blueberry pie can show you that it's not such a big deal, you'll get a better job.
You'll be ok.