It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It seems to be that time of year again, when I spend money I don't have on an inordinate number of cards to send out (which will most likely just live in my nightstand's top drawer, along with all the others), and bitch about all those ugly life-size Frosty dolls on people's lawns.
The boyfriend has implied on more than one occasion that I'm a scrooge, but I'd still like to know WHEN Christmas became code for "be as tacky as you possibly can."

Still, though, I love seeing Santa. Not in my home at midnight, because then he'd be uninvited and most likely robbing me, but out on the street ringing bells or listening to wishes. The Bay Area, it seems, is a wonderful place for such sightings.

Take last weekend for example, on our way back from watching A Very Merry Murder Mystery (which I highly recommend, because what says "holiday cheer" better than murder?), we took a short jaunt through the Marina, only to be entrenched in Santas. All kinds of Santas, even the slutty variety, and all of them raging drunk. Santas carrying each other home, Santas fighting in the street, Santas peeing in the alleys. We saw them all.

I tell you, I'm not much of a Christmas spirit kinda gal, but watching a third Santa try to break up a fight between two other Santas really brought a tear to my eye. I'm a better person for being reminded of what this time of year is all about: boozing.

Time to Pretend

I'd like to tell you a little story now, and I apologize beforehand for its melancholy notes.

Let's say you're a man, new to a city, starting a new life with your partner. You both spent most of your money to move out here, find a home, and start fresh.

Now let's say it's a national holiday, and you don't have to go into work today.  A day of respite after a few hard weeks. Your partner wakes up early and volunteers to take the dogs for a walk, allowing you to stay in bed and catch up on some much needed sleep.

Less than an hour later, a phone call wakes you up. We're at the Starbucks on King Street. Get here now.

Now let's say you're a different man. You've taken a brisk walk around your new city, with your two dogs by your side, Nina and Nani. They're a couple of mutts, not like the purse dogs you've seen so much of lately. You catch Nina, mid-stride, looking up at you, one ear cocked back, like she's asking if she's doing it right. You're ok, N, good girl.

It's nearing the end of your walk, and you decide to surprise your partner, still asleep back home, with a big cup of coffee. You tie Nina and Nani to the base of a table and head into Starbucks.

And then a commotion.

A dog is barking across the street and Nani perks up, ready to play. Nina looks at the door, looking for you, ready to check in. Just then, Nani bolts, no longer able to resist the call to frolic, and Nina follows, dragging the table behind them.

A screech.

2 thuds.

A lump of dread in your throat as you call your partner. We're at Starbucks on King Street. Get here now.

You're a young dog and you were on a walk, and now you're in this strange place. There's blood running into your eye. Most of your scalp has been ripped off, exposing the entire top of your skull, and your ribs are broken. You'll go into surgery soon and the people in blue will fix you. You're nervous, though, looking around for Nina.

You're a good dog, and you meant to ask for permission. You're having a hard time breathing because something has caused your intestines to be pushed forward into your chest. Maybe you could be fixed, but your people just moved to this city, and they can't afford it. Then again, maybe you couldn't be fixed anyways.

You're on a blanket and your favorite people are petting you and calling you Good Dog.

There's a needle.

2 kisses on your head.

Then nothing.

Let's pretend now that you were driving too fast on your commute. Out of nowhere, 2 dogs ran into the street. You couldn't avoid them. Who could really blame you? Horrible things happen every day.

But then you sped away.

And that's what makes you a terrible person.

In Which I Recount a Lame Conversation

Someone ran by singing a terrible song (Waterfalls, by TLC), and like all terrible songs, it wriggled its way into my grey matter.
I knew the one thing that would unseat it.  Yum Yum Bumblebee, bumble bee tuna....and so on.
I told Sam, The only way to make this better is to make it much much worse.
"You're funny. Are you a comedian? 'Cause you're, like, really funny."
That's stupid. Don't be stupid, Sam, just 'cause the man expects it.
"What man?"
That one, over there.

In Which I Drink too Much and Wax on about Missing the Fam.

I'm listening to some Traveling Wilburys and thinking of my dad.  Specifically, End of the Line (That sounds dreary, but I swear, it's kinda an uplifting song). I think it's due to the fact that he introduced me to the boy band when I was a kid and I've had a fondness ever since.

There's not much point to this update other than for me to say that I miss my dad.

I miss my entire family, in truth, but it feels like forever since I've seen the dad and we're due a visit. For reals, people.
There is some serious Harry Potter viewing and music commentating to be done.  It's well past due.

The boyfriend and I are planning a visit in February and I can barely keep my boots on. Except when I sit back and think on just how boring I remember I found my hometown to be when I was a teen.
I'll show you my favorite comic book store.....and my favorite place for coffee.  And maybe that statue of the lamb in my town center.
And then it's just a matter of what to do for the next 4 and a half days.  I suppose Boston could offer a short reprieve.

It'll just be nice to put my feet up and be all sarcastic and awful around my dad.  He's one of the few people who actually thinks I'm funny.

*On a side note, I google image searched "sterling, massachusetts," and this is quite truly the most exciting image to be found.  I think it's high time I stopped pretending Sterling is without it's glamour. NYC, beware!

In Which I Whine, on 3 Counts.

Hello again, friends.  Long time, right?
I've been using the excuse of 13-hour days as a reason to stay sedate on my days off, so just back the hell off, right?  Wrong, maybe.
Because now I've forgotten how to write about anything.  I could tell you of my day.  Very exciting stuff.  Today, dears, was the 2nd day in a row, mind you, that a frightened dog *ahem* expressed on my scrubs.  Have you heard of anal gland expression?  If not, then rest assured, it's not something you want on your clothes, or a smell you want following you on your commute home.
So, maybe work is out.

I could wonder aloud why women are so awful to each other.  Back to work.  I'm spending these long days with 20+ people at a time, only 1, maybe 2 of them are men.  As a new person, you expect to go through certain trials, proving yourself and all that.  As a new person, you DON'T expect to be put through tests similar (I assume) to that of a sorority pledge.  Girls are mean, more often than not, it would seem.  Making me all the more grateful for my wonderful female friends.  It is these few personalities that raise me back up and allow me to enter a new week, once again trusting women.

Lastly, I could bitch about the boyfriend's man-date.  How he sees certain people more often than he sees  me, and doesn't seem to miss me at all.  He talks extensively about hanging out with a friend, never mentioning that I'm not invited.  It seems small, especially in writing, but it's my only day off this week and it would have been nice to hear that he wanted to spend that time with me.  He says he can squeeze me in for a couple hours, but, frankly, I'm not so into that idea.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, I guess.  But it IS my blog.  Where better for it.

How 'bout you?  Any new jobs, mean women, or man-dates you've been dealing with?  How's your week going?

In Which I Have a "Puppy Day"

For those of you not in the know, I got a new job.  Today marks my completion of the first, tumultuous week.  I'm a vet technician, which basically means I'm a nurse for animals in an exotic animal hospital in San Francisco.  I work 11 hour shifts, 4 days a week.  Add commuting, and you've got yourself a 13 hour work day.  It's long, is what I'm trying to say.  I am, quite literally, on my feet all day long.  Taking temperatures from fractious cats.

Side note: "fractious" has become one of my new favorite words.  It's a nice medical sounding word for basically saying, "That cat is an asshole!"


I've assisted in drawing blood, I get all the vaccinations ready, watch surgery and tooth cleanings, and all kinds of other small jobs that are beyond fascinating to Yours Truly.  Then again, I was also that kid who would stay in to watch surgeries on the Discovery Channel, and I still never pass up the opportunity to watch some program on parasites.  Man, that botfly is disgusting!


All in all, it's wonderful and exhausting.  Euthanasias are something I don't think I'll ever get used to.  You should know, pet owners, that once we've gotten the job done in a calm manner and done the best for you and your pet, we then collapse in back and pass boxes of tissues around.  It's not easy.  Not for anybody.

Yesterday was my last day of the first week, and also the first day there were NO euthanasias, making it kind of awesome.  In fact, I called it "Puppy Day," since ever patient was under 15 weeks, and little wiggly creatures.  Every one of them is happy to take all kinds of shots, if you'll just let them kiss you.
My favorite was a 10 week old Irish Wolfhound.  That calm temperament, those sweet eyes, it was hard not to just sit with him and sniff that puppy smell all day.  His mother came with him, as company, and I got an eyeful of just what this pet owner was in store for.  The mother was over 160 pounds!
160 pounds of dog!  She could reach the shelf where we keep the treats, and as my feet were pinned under her, I was more than happy to allow it.

Rounding the day off were Burmese Mountain Dog twins.  2 years old, full of energy and hair, and not at all happy to be at the dreaded vet's.  They were in for anal gland expression.  If you don't know what that is, count yourself lucky.  Very, very lucky.  The smell will linger, either in my clothes or memory, till my last days.

Beans for Dinner, and No One Got Hurt

Just a quick note here, since I'm knocked out by a severe head-cold and boyfriend's welcome heavy-handed use of whiskey.

I saw these today and nearly died of happiness.  It might have been the cold, but I think it was happiness.

That's right, Subtle Butt.  For those times when your friend made beans for dinner and nobody is buying your story that a rat crawled in during conversation and died right beneath you.


Subtle Butt: when you dealt it, and NO ONE smell't it.

Subtle Butt: we haven't had to blame the dog since 1908.