Braving the Winter with the World’s Strongest Dog
For those of us dog owners that live in apartments, the winter is a cruel joke to the nature of a dog’s bowel movements. When the temperatures plunge below zero, the last place we want to be is outside with a dog, begging him to do his business a little faster than normal so that we may return to the confines of our home and thaw our popsicle hands. And we don’t have the luxury of those who own or rent with fenced yards, who let their dogs out with a quick “outside boy!” and return to the couch and wait to hear the obligatory whimper or scratch at the door.
Friday, this winter, is much more of a bear than last – in both senses of the word – and I’m sure it’s all the more entertainment for my neighbors. The pooping hour most definitely comes when I am in five-inch heels or Cole Haan mules attached to fine wool trousers. Not willing to make him wait a minute longer than my arrival, we venture out into the cold. He of course springs forth on his leash, bounding as far into the snow banks as possible, only to dump his little treasure far beneath a tree or something of the sort. I’ve tried keeping him on a short leash, so that pickup is easy and within arm’s reach, but apparently he won’t have it. He waits until I give in because it’s getting to cold to wait any longer.
Considering that we live under rule close to that of the Nazi regime when it comes to dog waste disposal, I’m forced to get into the snow bank and pick up after the little pup, despite the fact that by that time all good judgment has left me and my impulses wish otherwise. What ensues probably qualifies as neighborhood entertainment, as I enter the snow in tip-toe fashion, readying the tiny plastic bag for its contents. I use the path most traveled, of course, although dog tracks aren’t nearly the size of human footprints. I steady myself in the bank, shoes already full of snow, in a position of spread legs, as to not lose my balance and topple forward into the warm, stink-ridden pile. I’m sure I look much like I’m trying to balance on a surfboard for the first time and I am carefully picking up the bag’s contents, which most likely are almost larger than the bag itself. Meanwhile, Friday has already seen a car, a person, a squirrel or any other thing that he wishes to run after and is dashing towards it at full speed. Magically (and well timed, I might add) he hits the end of his twenty-six foot leash at the most delicate point of the operation; the point at which the bag gets turned inside out over its contents, as to not contaminate any part of my being. For those of you unaware: the force or pull of a 50 lb. Basset Hound traveling at mach 3 is comparable to that of Mack truck barreling down I90. Inevitably, I stumble, if not once then multiple times, while mild cursing can be heard partly mumbled under my breath. Friday thinks it’s a game, so we start a tug of war, which I eventually win when the snow between the pads of his paws gets so cold he starts hopping around on alternating feet to ease the sting. He then decides he’s had enough and wants to go in.

posted by paula 8:32 AM

I admit it. Last night I was sucked in by every single gory detail of pop-culture TV that is Joe Millionaire. Oh, I watched the last episode, alright. And yes, I shamelessly sat on my couch and ate up every minute of it and Ryan was right there with me the whole time. We eventually pried ourselves off the couch and fled to the gym, but only at the security of knowing that our Time Warner Digital Recorder was spying in on every minute that we missed and would report back to us as soon as we got home. And yes, we had mini-heart attacks when we realized that our recorder had failed yet again, and not recorded the final (and most important) last twelve minutes of the show.
And as if that wasn’t enough, I’ve been held slave to the multitude of Michael Jackson interview wars that are raging between ABC and FOX. It’s all better than the original seasons of Jerry Springer or the first season of The Real World.
Truthfully, I’m a bit surprised that in the course of the final episode of Joe Millionaire there wasn’t one woman who said the line I was ultimately looking for: a direct and overly emphatic “You lied?!?!!?” After all, my issue wasn’t with the money, it was with the lying.
They say that the number one reason married couples argue is because of financial matters and the second is because of deception or mistrust. Wow. Looks like Joe Millionaire and Zora are looking at a great future together since he’s pretty much covered all the bases.
And of course he picked the girl who voluteers time with the elderly and is so poor that she melted her blinds trying to heat her apartment with a gas stove, so that the girl who paid her school debts off by doing some fetish photography could look like a big gold digger. After all, who can resist someone who lies to others just so that he can “find out if they love me for who I really am?” Ironic, no?
But we knew that he would end up with Zora. We just knew it. Peter Berger, a well known sociological theorist developed a theory that love is not so hit and miss and at that rarely, if ever, does the Cinderella dream come true because socioeconomic status plays too much of a role in American society. Rarely do we look outside our social class for a mate and if we should, rarely does that love succeed because of the pressures put on the couple from their respective peers and surroundings. Cinderella, Pretty Woman, Maid in Manhattan and even Beauty and the Beast were never meant to be. A little depressing, but much more grounded in reality, no?

posted by paula 10:09 AM

Wow. Google is buying Blogger!

posted by paula 8:59 AM