All Hail Big Sky Country!

Truman has just informed me that HB 191 did not pass in Montana!
This ban would have allowed current pit owners to register their dogs but would have banned purchase or breeding of American Staffordshire Terriers, Staffordshire Bull Terriers, American Pit Bull Terriers, American Bull Dogs and "any dog that has been registered at any time as a pit bull terrier or has the physical characteristics that substantially conform to the standards established for the breeds listed in this subsection by the American kennel club or the united kennel club."

Truman thanks everyone who spoke out in opposition to this bill and recommends that anyone is favor of Breed Bans please check out this site.

Predictions

Now, normally, the phrase "Alt-Country Band from Brooklyn" would make me want to impale myself on a broken PBR bottle, but I love love love the Coydogs.




Just try to get this song out of your head.

Bully for you!

Life with Truman continues on at it's familiar, exhausting pace. There were a few times (like when he ate my glasses and most of a mattress) that I seriously considered rehoming him in a moment of extreme depression and financial desperadoes. I even consulted a dog behaviorist (not cheap) about his dog-on-dog issues. Turns out, he's not so much aggressive as he is a "knucklehead with no impulse control."

Since then, I've discovered several things:

1. The Gentle Leader: Head collar designed to help control Truman's frenzied lunging at other dogs. Worn in conjunction with #2

2. Hot dogs. Yes, hot dogs. The ONE FOOD I CAN'T STAND. Truman, however, will sell his soul for a hot dog. Or even just a piece of a hot dog. Or a piece of regular dog kibble that's been sitting in a sandwich baggie with a piece of hot dog.

The two of these things have really improved the quality of our walks. Instead of me sobbing and pleading and stopping every five steps to try and regain his attention, all I have to do is rustle the ziplock bag and suddenly it's OHMIGOD I'M SITTING. LOOK. LOOK. MOOOOOM! LOOK. SEE ME SIT? WHAT OTHER DOG? DID YOU SAY HOTDOG?

We're not perfect by any means, but more often than not, I can easily distract Truman from other dogs and continue on past without a scene. On some occasions, when he hears another dog bark, he will actually LOOK AT ME instead of lunging for the dog. It's like reverse clicker training! Dog bark = hot dog! Which is great, because we've tried the clicker and Truman ran and hid under a blanket and would not be convinced that CLICK = TREAT, but rather CLICK = dog eating dinosaur zombie attack imminent!

3. Swimming: Truman is so insanely athletic it scares me. I've gone from being semi-regular gym-goer/climber/yogi to
'I'm physically exhausted all the time.' I can't keep up. And if he doesn't tire out, see above re: mattress eating.

Lucky for us, Truman loves to swim! What's more, I just have to stand on the shore and chuck a tennis ball into the water and wait for him to go get it. Repeat 500 times.

Last week, I decided to take Truman for a walk in the Park. There was a concert going on and a zillion people, animals, bicycles and all manner of distractions. I thought it would be good for him to get used to a lot of different things happening around him so I armed myself with a huge quantity of chopped up hotdog bits and prepared for the worst.

Fortune smiled on us however, and it was 90+ degrees and 200% humidity (Truman tires out easily in the heat). We walked around the park without incident even though there were dogs everywhere. Truman, of course, made friends with everyone we passed, and was a perfect gentleman. We were walking by a tiny, elderly man in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank and Truman made a beeline for the man and stood next to him with his head in the man's lap. I apologized for Truman being overly friendly and but the man said that was ok, and started stroking Truman's head and telling me about his dog. We talked for a few minutes and the whole time, Truman was standing like a statue with his head in the guy's lap just being an absolute angel.

I may be jaded and unimpressed most of the time, but I have to say, Truman, I'm proud of you. Thanks, pal.

The Truman Show

About a month and a half ago, I found myself adopting a dog. It was one of those instances where you are wasting time on Craig's List and are suddenly compelled to email a poster about their haunted piano. Or a pit bull.

It was a typically sad story: stray dog, saved from doggy death row at a Rhode Island shelter, needs a good home. I agreed to meet him "just to see", but knowing full well that once I had him in my house, he was not likely to be leaving.

I was prepared for the challenges of having a dog, especially one with an unknown history. What I wasn't prepared for was having a dog who is one of the "popular kids".

The very first night I had Truman (he seems like a president, or at least someone with wire rimmed glasses) I took him to PetSmart to get him a collar that fit. We were in the store about 2 minutes when one of the employees came over to tell me what a beautiful dog I had. (He IS cute, don't get me wrong.) We speculated about what breed he is, most likely pitt/boxer and who knows what else, and went to pay for our stuff. A woman waiting in line behind us also commented on how nice he was. I was surprised, but pleased. I was used to having a dog that you could barely take anywhere for fear of him causing a huge scene. Or a llama riot.

Over the past weeks, I have kind of gotten used to the attention. Not that anyone is paying any attention to me, mind you, just my dog. Everywhere we go, people stop to talk and tell me what a nice/cute/beautiful/great dog I have. And it's not just certain people, it's everyone: children, the elderly, firefighters, gangstas, used car salesmen and women in mini-vans.

I live in a decidedly urban area and "tough" looking breeds like pitts definitely appeal to a lot of people, usually for the wrong reasons, but I'm really amazed by Truman's mass appeal considering how much bad press these so-called "vicious" dogs receive. I mean, we've all seen and heard news stories about small children getting mauled by pitt bulls, heard about the horrors of illegal dog fighting and seen cities and states all across the US ban ownership of "aggressive" breeds. So, when mothers with small children ask to pet my dog, I can barely hide my surprise.

Truman is by no means perfect. He likes to chase squirrels, he doesn't always come when he's called, he gets excited when he sees/hears/smells other dogs and he totally destroys any toy not tested on wolves. But, overall, he's a good dog. I like to think that as much as I did him a favor by giving him a home, he's doing wonders for people's impressions of bully breeds and maybe giving a pitt bull in a shelter somewhere a better chance of getting adopted.

A New Old Look At Marriage

On a recent trip to the Salvation Army, I stumbled upon what may, in fact, be the most amazing book ever written. The Modern Home Medical Adviser c. 1942 (known hereafter as "The Book"), offers a very interesting chapter (Ch. 5 "Sex Hygiene") on the subject of marriage and marital relations. After reading such gems as,
"Some girls have been lead to believe that they are under obligations to repay in ways that are destructive to morals and character. So long as the girl was entertaining in her own home, and furnishing lemonade or home-made fudge, she might bid her suitor begone when he made improper proposals;"

"The error that young people are so likely to make is to believe that parties, shows, elegant furniture and sport roadsters can bring more happiness than children."

And, finally:
"Great improvement in underwear has been made in recent years. Undergarments should be changed as often as one's finances will permit and should of course never be worn after they are definitely soiled."

I am totally on board. I mean, sure, I work, but only until "the time when...[I] shall be promoted to the much more important work of real home-making." I can't imagine anything better than not having to read any more college applications. And I'll have a clean house to boot!

My 30 List

As in, Things to do before I turn.

At the top of the list was 'Climb 5.11a'. I have actually been somewhat serious about my climbing as of late, hitting the gym semi-regularly and both climbing smartly and cranking hard when I am there. I've been successfully climbing 5.10's, a,b and c, with a few onsights to boot. So, all in all I considered myself in pretty good shape to tick an .11 by the end of April.

Went to the gym yesterday afternoon with Forrest and warmed up on an .8+, then jumped right into some .9's and easy .10's. I was a little worried that I was going to tire myself out pretty quickly, but I felt really good and I was climbing well, so I kept on keeping on. Towards the end of the evening, Forrest belayed this MIT dude up an .11a that had just been put up. It was the perfect candidate for my first attempt: a balance-y route that lead up to a lot of stemming through a wide chimney at the top. I was feeling pretty good, albeit a bit tired, so I decided to give it a go. (Also MIT dude had said that the grade was a little inflated, so I thought I might have a shot.)

About 2/3 of the way up the route, I suddenly had a thought: I'm actually going to climb this! And I did. I had a small bobble at the last move, so technically, I didn't get it clean. But I did get the move on the 2nd try. And I'll totally get it clean the next time.

Now I have absolutely no reason to turn 30. Woo hoo!

Keeping it Great in Ought Eight

I've never been particularly enamored by the start of a new year. It usually goes something like: I really want to do something fabulous. Except I don't know what that is. So I end up not really doing anything and then feel let down.

This year I decided to not even worry about it. And I ended up with a bottle of bourbon (thanks, Peter!) and a really good night with some really good friends. And a whole lot of ridiculousness.

I'm actually oddly optimistic about the new year. My sister and I were saying how 2007 was kind of a let down, but 2008 seems bursting with potential.

Potential and of course stacks and stacks of applications that I should really be reading.

How To Throw A Surprise Party 101

First, make sure you involve as many people as possible. This will come in handy later when you are trying to remember all the ridiculous lies everyone told the party recipient. Second, make sure you come up with the most plausible solutions for why the surprisee can/can't be at a certain place at a certain time. Some of my favorites include, "No reason" and "I don't know." You will be making up all manner of outrageous stories in the planning process but make sure that you totally piss off the person who you are trying to surprise. It's technically not a surprise party unless the guest of honor is hurt/mad at you for excluding them from all manner of secret plans. Finally, it is essential that there be at least 2 false alarms where everyone leaps out and yells "SURPRISE!!!" only to discover that the person coming in was only stepping out for a smoke or something and is not the surprise party recipient.

You Had Me At "Free Scotch"

On Saturday, I put on a kicky cocktail dress (ignoring the fact that it was 30 degrees out), grabbed Suzanne and headed to the "Johnnie Walker Journey" at the Boston Center for the Performing Arts. Now, even though JW and I go way back (Colorado, 2000, irrigation ditch) I wouldn't necessarily consider myself a huge fan. I mean, I'm more of a bourbon aficionado, and in terms of Scotch, I know more about single malts than blended whiskeys. But I am an apt pupil and always looking to expand my (whisky) horizons.

After sipping a cocktail (red label margarita, Grade: b+), and munching on some snacks (Turkish apricots with Gorgonzola, grade: a++) we were shown to our seats for the tasting/multimedia presentation/hour long advertisement for Johnnie Walker. Suzanne and I were seated next to a very animated (read: drunk) couple who kept shouting out references to how excited (drunk) they were to be there. Despite the obvious marketing scheme, the event was pretty nice (free drinks). They did some interesting things, such as serving the Gold Label ice cold and mixing the Red Label with "cola", and encouraging us to use the Green Label as cologne, ("Put a drop in your hands, rub them together. Now, smell it!).

However, when the heavens opened and Johnnie Walker Blue Label rained down into my glass, I think I regained my faith in god (whisky). A swirl, a sniff, and it was like angels had wept tears of salvation into my snifter.

Hint hint... Christmas is coming.

Answer: Who says Percherons can't pull?

Question: How do you start a bottle fight at the Sterling fair?

This Sunday, my sister and the lovely Serena (adjunct family member) and I went to the Sterling Fair. I like this fair for many reasons, the least of which is not that it's totally free. Prizewinning vegetables + ample amounts of fried food = One really great time. (Insider's tip: When assembling your vegetable cornucopia, make sure your cucumbers are the proper size. The judges this year were totally frowning on over sized cukes.)

I may have been born in Worcester, but I am totally a down home girl at heart. There's nothing like some draft horse competition and cute boys with Skoal rings on their pockets to make me want to grip a piece of hay in my teeth and sheepishly kick a dirt clod with the toe of my boot.

Everyone is nicer in Minnesota

Especially lumberjacks. But also hipsters.

Spent the weekend in Minneapolis visiting Slevy, drinking, and going to the State Fair. I have to say that I'll know I've made it when my face is carved into a hunk of butter.

No More Cock For Me

(At least not while I'm working...)

As of July 27th I will no longer be working at The Cock. On August 1st, I start my new jay-oh-bee at the lovely Clark University. I had off-handedly asked my brother to let me know if there were any openings and lo-and-behold the Admissions Office was hiring. I had worked there as an Undergrad (and helped my brother get a job there) and the woman I used to work for emailed me and advised me to send in my resume. Which I did, after many many agonizing days trying to make it look like I have some legitimate experience. (Thanks, Slev!)

I figured that my status as an Alum and a former student worker would probably get me an interview, which it did. On the hottest day of the entire summer. At least they probably thought I was sweating because it was hot, not because I had no idea what the hell I was doing in their office. I felt like the interview went... all right. At least until I started thinking about all the (probably) really dumb things I said.

Apparently they were all the right dumb things because I found out last week that I got the job!

Two Things I Will Not Miss About Working For Cock:

1. Conversations like this one:
TSV: I won't be in Friday.
Me: k.
TSV: I am having a colonoscopy.
Me: o_o
TSV: It's my 2nd one. (pause) You know, they really aren't as bad as people make them out to be.
Me: thinking Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

2. People who insist on using Comic Sans in presentations and expect to be taken seriously.

Bedroom eyes are easier if you have bangs or if you are a llama

I finally got a haircut on Saturday. Yes, finally. I FINALLY have non-embarassing hair. I was at that point where you almost don't want to go to a salon because you know they will be looking at your 4 inch roots and give you a "What the hell were you thinking?" look and then pick up a limp strand and say something about "We've got a LOT of work ahead of us."

I guess I have mixed feelings about judgemental hair stylists. On the one hand, I KNOW I look terrible, I don't need to pay someone $60 to remind me. But on the other hand, I want them to be judgemental and make me look good. As in, the opposite of how I look when I walked in.

I get the same way only worse when it comes to bikini waxes. I mean, I can't afford to go every 4 weeks like I am "supposed to", but then when I let it go too long (hahaha) I feel extremely self concious. I mean, even more self conscious then I usually feel while a Russian woman is yanking out my pubic hair. Luckily, Svetlana doesn't say anything. Possibly because she doesn't know that much English. Or maybe she's just being nice because of that time I let Anya watch and practice her waxing technique on my crotch. You know, the more the merrier.

Which was the theme of Alissa and The Schooligan's Birthday Extravaganza 2007. It totally turned out great though, in spite of my utter and complete lack of organizational skills. Perhaps they were cancelled out by Sangria. Even though I initially wanted to ignore the whole birthday all together (I'm 29, wtf?) I'm glad we ended up at a great restaurant surrounded by people we love and who don't mind me picking food directly off their plates.

It was super nice out today, so I went to the petting zoo on my lunch break. A llama tried to steal my iced coffee and a goat tried to eat my dress. There were some children there, but unfortunately luckily none of them got head butted by over zealous goats.

Jesus H. Sandwich

Obviously my lunch today was a sign from God.
A sign that I should eat it.

Yum.

Now I Can Get Back to Worrying About What's Really Important

Namely, my hair.

Yes, the hair is back. After my last hair disaster, I decided to go see the experts: The Russians.

I see Sveta every couple of months for a bikini wax and figured anyone that expert and adept at ripping hair off my crotch must know where to get a decent haircut. Luckily, the spa is a full service facility for all types of hair, and I got an appointment with Mary for a cut and color.

I'm not going to mince words here: She gave me the best haircut EVER. Seriously, ever. It's ironic that someone who's first language is NOT Enlgish, and who learned to speak it mostly by watching Oprah (from what I can gather), was able to understand EXACTLY what I wanted done. The haircut has met and exceeded all of my expectations. It's totally perfect.

And also purple.

Braveheart Syndrome

Tonight, I had what is hands down the best run of my life. And by best I mean, I didn't feel like I was going to die after 5 minutes and for a good portion of it, I didn't hate running.

It's so totally the iPod.

I put a bunch of new music on there yesterday in the hopes that it would stop playing Leadbelly so freaking much. It worked. Kinda. Leadbelly has been replaced by Mambo Cubano! which makes me want to swivel my hips and beat some timbales. Hard to do while running. Especially for someone who's equilibrium is not 100% reliable.

The best part came when I was running through the parking lot of The Big Lie and some rousing Celtic anthem came on. I think it may have been something by Old Blind Dogs. I immediately picked up my pace and charged across the moor, Claymore brandished high vowing to overthrow the Hanovarians/British/Protestants! I was Bonnie Prince Charlie! I was Michael Collins! I was Braveheart without the anti-semitism!

And then I was Tito Puente.