Nom de Plume

Apparently, it’s not hard to put dirty dishes in the sink but it’s next to impossible to put them in the dishwasher.

I lost it last night. I am tired of doing all the housework: mopping, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning the kitchen. This morning, having come to the conclusion that Steve and I have much better things to fight about, I contacted a bunch of housecleaners posted on Craig’s List for rates, references, etc. I don’t think Steve is going to be happy about this, but tough.

“I bought a present …” Steve announced last night as he walked through the door with his bulging PCC bags.

“Oh goody!” said I, expecting a smelly soap or candle, or even, God forbid, flowers.

“…for the dog.”

Like men everywhere, Steve is currently defending the rights of the penis, whether his, some other guy’s, or the dog’s. “What do you mean he’s going to fixed?” he screeched when I told him Harry P. would go under the knife in about a month.

“He needs to be fixed.”

“But we could breed him!”

“Does the world really need another freaky looking dog?” I asked.

“I wanted to breed him with a German Shepherd!!”

“I don’t believe in that indiscriminate breeding. There are too many unloved puppies in the world as it is.”

“It wouldn’t be indiscriminate,” he retorted. “I would choose a German Shepherd I liked.”

According to this review, “Thackeray’s fans will want to see the film out of curiosity,” but I’m wondering whether I should bother.

Harry P. is not completely potty-trained–or as I say in front of him and Steve makes fun of me, P-O-T-T-Y. So he now has a crate, and is about to be officially crate-trained. He wasn’t too happy when I lured him in there for an hour on Saturday with a handful of treats, but when I got back, was happily snoozing. He’s a good sleeper.

We also went to the vet–no chip, he’s five months, and has ear mites. The vet wants a stool sample, which is probably wise because who knows what he’s gotten from eating it. Yes, our dog has a very unfortunate habit of eating excrement. He makes do with his own, but prefers that generated by other animals. I am totally grossed out.

Then, coffee with Leslie and then Elizabeth and I walked around Seward Park. Her puppy Koya and Harry P. got on like guns afire. Yesterday, Steve and I spent the entire day in the Jeep as we scoped out surfing spots on the Strait of San Juan de Fuca. Now Monday morning, and must get dressed and go to work.

I’m a little worried about crating Harry all day.

O’Neill argues that the movie Super Size Me is less about food and more about snobbery. Can’t argue he’s wrong. Food–and its subsequent padding–has always been a class issue.

Harry is undecided about the stone beaches at Seward Park.

It all started with an inadvertent swim in the plink. Steve and I did the Seward Park loop with Harry on his new retractable leash. S was walking on a narrow stone embankment; Harry and I were on the trail, which was up a grassy incline. Missing Steve, Harry went hurtling down the incline so fast that he disappeared with a splash. I ran down, and there he was up to his belly in lake water and looking very, very surprised.

And then he turned away and started swimming in little circles!

I was pretty surprised considering that these dogs — at least according to what I’ve read — don’t swim. We hauled him up. Steve noted that with the two of us, he should be a swimmer, but Harry avoided puddles the rest of the walk. And he really didn’t like the stone beaches on the other side of the park despite our best efforts.

He did the walk like a champ though. Steve even held the leash, even though he keeps on saying this is my dog and that he wouldn’t be caught walking him in public because–oh horrors!–people might think he was gay. Towards the end of the loop, Harry started dragging tail so I tucked him under my arm. Steve looked over at me.

“Do you want me to carry him?”

“No, I’ve got him. Unless you want to carry him?”

“No, I just thought maybe you wanted me to.”

We walked ten more steps. Steve looked at me sideways.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry him?”

“Do you want to?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? A freaky little dog like that? That’s just what I need.”

“You want to carry him,” I stated. Ignoring his protests, I thrust Harry into his arms. Steve flipped him on his back and carried him like a baby.

“I look ridiculous,” he grumbled, and happily let Harry lick his face.

Stamp out Bush

Okay, this isn’t Harry Potsticker, but looks exactly like him:

Jenny, of course, being the sweetest little mutt ever, the one whose father has custody.

I am a sucker.

A colleague brought in a puppy pug today she rescued (some might say stole) from her neighbors who were beating it. The puppy was in the habit of coming over and hanging out with her dogs, and finally, she got sick of his beating/absent owners and brought it in to work.

And I volunteered to take it.

It’s kinda hard to work when you’ve got a sweet little puppy nestled on your lap.

Good morning.

Good night.

The New Yorker almost redeemed itself in my eyes with a fabulous article on Gore in last week’s issue, but the advertising in this week’s made me want to vomit. Once I felt like each NY was like a mini liberal arts education, but the magazine has lost its scope of articles. Now, it mainly focuses on the political, which is all very well and good, but what of the comprehensive science articles? What of the sociological? They’re all gone, to make way for politics, politics, politics. Even the Talk of the Town section has lost much of its flair with forced little soundbytes that are more worthy of U.S. Today. And I really detest their themed issues. The Fashion Issue? Come on people, if I wanted fashion, I’d buy a fashion magazine. And while the Food Issue had some good–and interesting–writing, it’s clear that the publication’s new readership consists of the McMansioned crowd with the requisite Vikings and Subzeros.

The Atlantic Monthly, on the other hand, has filled the void. It’s almost as though the editors recognize the void left by the New Yorker’s shifting demographic–and have filled it, without losing their own personality.

So here’s my vote for a weekly Atlantic and a monthly New Yorker. Granted, the extra work involved in quadrupling the work that goes into the former might make this a little unrealistic. On the other hand, once you page through all the advertising (cars, clothing, jewelry, wealth management) in the latter, you’re left with a pretty slim little issue.

Once again I am procrastinating, and once again I have become derelict in my book reporting. What better way to combine the two? I can’t remember all that I’ve read since my last post, so will post only the most memorable.

Which brings me to Maguire’s latest, Lost.

Let me say first and foremost that I love Maguire. Not only does he have a vivid imagination and the ability to connect and tease meaning out of the most dissimilar things … boy, can he write. So on a jaunt to one of the Evil Large Bookstores, I decided not to wait for the libary’s copy, but to go ahead and buy. Which for cheap me is something.

In previous books, he brought reality to the fantastical–the story of the wicked witch in Oz, Cinderella, and so forth. In Lost, he brings the fantastical to reality, and for those of you who think the two are similar, think again. Winifred Rutledge, a semi-ashamed author of a mass market astrology book, goes to London to start a novel about Jack the Ripper’s ghost. She is to stay with her stepcousin, who has mysteriously vanished. Through a series of eerie happenings, we learn dribble by dribble than Winifred, who initially seems quite as stolid as her name, is not far from being completely unhinged–but then again, who wouldn’t be with all the fantastical around her, including an ancestor who is said to have been Dickens’ inspiration for the character of Scrooge, phantasmagorical events, the ghost of Jack the Ripper, and a spirit who haunts the living by possession.

Highly recommend.

I don’t know what it is about the fall that makes one feel so nostalgic, but it’s here. Leaves are starting to turn; the air has that apple-pumpkin crispness; I’m wearing my favorite wool sweater. Yesterday, we went to Ujiwamaya to stock up on groceries (sashimi, pot stickers and eggplant noodles for dinner last night–Steve cooked, yum) and behind the butcher counter was a young man and he looked so happy, like he had just made the football team, or found out he had gotten into the college of his choice. Well, okay, it’s a little early for the latter, but the look on his face made me long for that wholesomeness, the beauty of being content without even knowing it. He caught me looking at him, smiled even wider and shrugged, as though to say, “I’m happy, okay?” I loved him for it. this random stranger who was probably just shaking his head at another crazy lady.

And I’m sitting here in my office, working on another deadline for tomorrow, knowing I should be more stressed about getting a huge amount of work done this week. But the day sparkles outside my window, tall green trees and pointed roofs and the blue glint of water from our poor man’s view if I just stand up. I can’t make myself care that I’m swamped, though talk to me again at 7 tomorrow morning .

Why, oh why, do I feel compelled to go even though I will come out ranting?

Steve is sick and overworked, in that order, while I am overworked and sick, also in that order.

You know, the thing about productivity tools is that while they improve productivity, they also increase the need for additional tools.

When you really think about it, whole economies are predicated on things we don’t need. Go through the list: the only necessary profession I can see is being a doctor. Lawyers? Hmmph. Accountants? Hmmmph. The list goes on and on. It’s all, basically, unnecessary. We work to live, but ending up living to work.

Not that I mind work. One needs a sense of purpose, after all. And my purpose right now is to finish this project.

Early morning woes: Outlook will improve this evening at five.