Really Jac? The Boy's Side?

I wasn't going to blog about this. But then I realized a few things:

A) the boy doesn't read this blog, even though he knows full well where it is located and that I post about him regularly.
B) I was so horrified last night that I had no CHOICE but to share this story
C) I need reassurance that my plan might actually work.*

So, on a recent field trip, I spent the day with the boy's sister. When discussing how much I dread mowing my lawn (but if I make myself do it regularly it's not such a HUGE deal) she indicated (very strongly) that she, too, hated the yard work. In fact, she hated it so much that she's considered paying the boy to take care of it for her. I was surprised. The boy's sister is usually very mild mannered. To have her express such a strong opinion must mean she really hated the yard work.

At this point, a plan began to take place.

I don't know if I've blogged about this before, but the boy? The boy hates to do dishes. I don't know why. Even when we first began dating, his entire apartment would be spotless....and the sink would be full of dishes.** It hasn't gotten any better. In fact, it's gotten worse. Now it's not just the sink....it's the counters...the stove....basically anywhere that he can put dirty dishes. Ew.

And so I decided that the boy would mow his sister's lawn once a week (and trim every other week) and she would do his dishes. To my surprise, she agreed.*** We ended up deciding that she would only do 90 minutes of work on his dishes/apartment per week - approximately the time it would take him to mow/trim.

What do I get out of this deal? Hmmmm. Well, I was going to be there while the dishes were washed, and once clean, I was going to put them all in boxes for storage in my basement. When all is said and done, I plan for the boy to only have one dish, one bowl, one glass, and one set of silverware.

The idea being, of course, that in that situation he would HAVE to wash the dishes after using them. (Because, though the dirty dishes may lead you to believe that the boy is really really gross**** he won't eat off of a dirty dish.) And if the boy DOESN'T wash the dishes, at least there are only five in the sink as opposed to five hundred.***** And in THAT case, the dreaded chore of doing the dishes is only a 20 minute task at most and not hours and hours of labor.

Because seriously? This is what was LEFT after the boy's sister worked on his dishes for 90 minutes. An hour and a half of labor, and this is what's LEFT! What you don't see in the picture are the two gross gross gross rubbermaid containers that were left to soak in the hopes of drowning the alien life forms that had grown within them.

See? I'm not dating a guy, I'm raising a toddler.

What's WEIRD is that he'll clean a bathroom until it's spotless (a chore that I HATE) but won't touch dishes. His entire apartment could be sparkling, and he'll consider the job done, even with a sink full of dishes. I don't get this avoidance of dishes. HE HAS A DISHWASHER FOR GOODNESS' SAKE!!

So this is a plea. Tell me this will work. It will work, right? I mean, it will work. All I want is for the boy to keep a decent house. That's all. To show me that he CAN (is willing to?) even if his hand is being held. I don't even mind messy....it's the alien life forms that I mind. (Well, that and that satan dog.) At this point, I wouldn't even mind if he wanted to spend money on disposable dishes. Environment be damned. As long as no one has to be subjected to the "before" view of the dishes ever again.******

*Pretty please?

**Ladies? Consider this your PSA to read the writing on the wall! These tiny little things that you overlook could become a HUGE deal later on. Especially if they're there in the beginning when, you know, he's supposed to be putting his best foot forward.

***In my defense, I really did try to explain exactly how bad the dishes were. But I don't think she really believed that I would get the boy to do her yardwork once per week. Oh ye of little faith. Here's your introduction to the will of Emily.

****And I understand it's easy to think that way.

*****Seriously - the boy ran out of glasses, and used an MARTINI SHAKER to drink out of. He ate out of a DISC THAT'S USED FOR DISC GOLF! THE GUY I'M DATING ATE DINNER OUT OF A GLORIFIED FRISBEE INSTEAD OF WASHING HIS DISHES!!!!

******I didn't post it because, seriously, you guys would judge me for dating a guy who lived like that. Seriously. Your imaginations can't even begin to make up how bad it was. I'll spare you the reality.

Needing a Y chromosome

The reason for this blog post began on Wednesday evening. When I got in my car after volleyball and noticed that my low tire pressure light was on. I didn't really worry and just figured that I would check it out when I got home.* When I got home there was no sign of a tire losing air, so I chalked the light up to a fluke and figured I would check the tire pressures sometime the next day.

Thursday came around and I didn't have time to check my tire pressures AND go to Starbucks before work... So I decided to do the responsible thing and check my tire pressure go to Starbucks so I would at least resemble a normal human being in the morning.

So it's probably no surprise to any of you that I left work Thursday evening to find Curvy with one flat tire.** After running through the list of men that I know and could call to help with just such a situation, I realized that at some point in the last five years of my life they had all either gotten married or lived really the heck far away from me at that moment.

And so I heaved a deep sigh and called my father to freak the hell out calmly pulled out my owner's manual to refresh my memory on exactly how to change a tire. From the beginning, things were against me.

First, I knew where my spare tire was. Duh. I love my car. I know every inch of it. But I had never actually taken the spare tire OUT. Luckily I remember asking the maintenance guy if he checked the air pressure on my spare when the pressure on the rest of my tires was checked. They do. (I love Penske.) So the spare was fine. It was getting the spare OUT of the car that was NOT fine. After reading the manual (which made it seem like removing the spare was as easy as turning a screw) and trying unsuccessfully for several minutes to turn said screw, I was perplexed. WTF? I mean, I am not a weak female. I am not a weak female AND I was super pissed. The freaking wingnut should have given way before me like everything else does when faced with my wrath. Still, it remained stubbornly stuck.

So then I turned my attention to loosening the lug nuts on the tire before I jacked up the car. (As it told me to do with step-by-step illustrated instructions in my owner's manual.)

I should probably take this opportunity to mention that amidst all of this working on the flat tire, I was incessantly calling the boy. Incessantly. If there was one man who was going to be willing, nay, REQUIRED to help me, it was the boy. And yet his phone went unanswered. When he finally did pickup, it was with a wry hello that let me know he figured it was something important.*** He wasn't prepared for the scathing anger that he faced. Luckily it was directed at the flat stinking tire, and not at him. Yet.

I swear to God in heaven that I put every ounce of force that I could muster into loosening those lug nuts one-half turn as directed in the manual. Had I not been wearing flats, and instead been wearing some sort of rubber soled shoe, I would have stood on the stinking wrench handle. As it was the lug nuts would. not. move. Not one teensy millimeter. I pushed. I pulled. I kicked. I cursed. I would probably still be there trying to get the lug nuts to succumb to my will had it not been 82 degrees with 110% humidity outside and my hands hadn't suddenly given up all ability to grip anything. It was at this point that I acted rationally and waited for rescue again attacked the wingnut that was holding my spare tire hostage. To no avail.

Around this time (the details are fuzzy) the boy answered and assured me that the calvary was on its way.

The calvary was, of course, late, and by the time it arrived, my hands and fingers were showing the early signs of turning the pretty purple color that they are today. The boy was bemused. But his smug smile quickly faded as he tried to turn the stinking wingnut. He failed. I felt vindicated.

So we gave up on the spare for a moment, and turned back to the lug nuts. As the boy prepared to jack up the car, I showed him the illustrated instructions that directed us to loosen the lug nuts by one half turn first. So he shrugged and attacked the lug nuts.

Nothing happened.

After what seemed to be a superhuman effort, the boy stepped back, scratched his head, and said, "Let's jack the car up a little."

I was tired at this point, but the rule follower in me couldn't believe that he wanted to deviate from what the owner's manual was telling me. I mean, there were illustrated instructions! But I was tired. And so after very little protesting, I agreed.

I'm sure you won't be surprised to know that once the car was raised slightly, the lug nuts came off with minor effort. I would go into the physics of why this is, but you're all smart and you can figure it out, right? Too bad I couldn't figure that out sooner. (silly girl.)

So we went back to the problem of the spare tire being held hostage. The boy pulled out some pliers and eventually won over the stubborn wingnut. (It took a LOT of effort and at one point I was concerned that the vein in the boy's forehead was going to explode.) Once removed, we saw immediately why Emily couldn't remove it herself. There was a slight but pronounced bend in the middle of two inch screw that is attached to the wingnut which made it all but impossible to turn. Apparently there was some residual damage from this incident that no one thought to check.

After that it was just a matter of getting the spare on Curvy and driving the three miles (very slowly) to my home.****

As I write this, my tire is fixed and back on my car. Best $30 I've ever spent. I think the lessons that I've learned are twofold:

1) I need to move marriage up on my priority list. Apparently a husband is not only good to have someone to mow my lawn, but also to have someone come and rescue me should I get another flat tire.*****

2) You should never do things "by the book."******

*In my defense, that light was malfunctioning when I purchased the car and pretty much stayed lit for the first four months that Curvy was mine. So I have grown slightly immune to its importance.

**The stream of obsenities out of my mouth probably wouldn't have surprised you either.

***I think the 15 missed calls were a good indication.

****The boy was compensated generously.

*****Not that I won't be able to do it myself next time.

******As J-mac said, "Apparently the owner's manual was written by a woman." Apparently the fact that he lives far away saved him from having to change a tire yesterday and also from getting punched in the knee.

Like I don't have enough to worry about?

So as not to appear a completely inept cyclist I didn't mention that last Friday, on Ride your Bike to Work Day, I totally fell over. On my bike. Like, tipped over and couldn't catch myself. Like, sprawled on the ground in the middle of the part of town where I work and where there are always a good number of pedestrians. Some of whom rushed over to help me. Which wasn't embarrassing at all. No. Not in the slightest.

And as a result of this incident, I had a pretty black and blue bruise on my shin, just above the ankle, that was about the size of an apple. Which of course made my entire calf and ankle swell up about three times their normal size. Fun times.

I showed the boy, and he was horrified. With good reason. Inexplicably, the boy is none too fond of that part of my body even when it's not grotesquely swollen.

Once upon a time when we were going through a book, the question came up, "What is your least favorite [body] part of your partner?"

Sometimes I wonder why the book isn't called "The breakup book."

The boy had to answer this question first. I braced myself and went through the list of every single insecurity that I have. (The List that is catalogued and cross referenced alphabetically in my mind...as it is in the minds of all women, gents. Don't let us fool you.) Let's see... My ass is huge, and I carry weight in my thighs, so they're none too pretty either. My arms are flabby, I have no neck... the list goes on and on. I was ready for anything the boy said.

Until he said, "Your ankles."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Well, it's just that....see.....my grandmother really doesn't have ankles either. I just don't like that."

"You're saying that I have CANKLES?!" This was said at a pitch that I'm pretty sure all the dogs in the neighborhood could hear.

"What are cankles?" The boy asked blankly.

"Um, when there is no ankle. So your calf goes right into your foot."

The boy began to giggle, "Oh. Yeah. That's what you have."

"WHAT?!" Again with the high pitch.

This was NOT on my List of Insecurities. In fact, I think it's the only body part that escaped even an honorable mention on The List. (Which is no small feat.) But one mention from the boy pointed out a whole new thing that I had never ever thought to worry about in my life. Which meant that I had to review every part of The List to see if there was anything ELSE that I had missed. Which is unacceptable because, seriously, who has time to review a list that they've been compiling since they were approximately 13 years old?

The thing is, in my unbiased opinion (which is deeply rooted real facts and actual observations,) I don't have cankles. My ankles are not the most slender ankles on the planet, but they are most definitely there and distinguishable from my calf. However, the boy is a bit more, um, dainty than I am [please see Bulldog/Cheetah comparison] and I guess he's used to seeing smaller joints. Whatev. I don't have cankles. And I pointed this out to him repeatedly until I'm pretty sure he just agreed with me to shut me the hell up. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's the entire reason why the boy hates the book with a passion. He thinks it's evil.

Which brings me back to today. And the fact that since I have one ankle swollen to about three times its normal size, I actually DO have one cankle and one pretty slender ankle by comparison. And so I'm all, "SEE?! This is what a REAL cankle would look like."

And in response I get a weary, "You're right, Emily."

Darn tootin' I am. Motion to add "cankles" to The List - DENIED.

Of Cheetahs and Bulldogs

So the parents have come and the parents have gone. My refrigerator has more alcohol in it than it's had in a long long time...and my dishes were mysteriously washed while I was volunteering at the Animal Hospital on Saturday morning. Overall, I'm pretty sure my parents left wondering how on earth I live in such a tiny space, but I think the visit was without any emotional or psychological scarring, and really, that's all a girl asks for.

After my parents had arrived and were decompressing from the drive, we were making small chit-chat as we waited for dinner to cook and my mother's eye fell on a book on the coffee table.

(If you remember, a long long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I posted about a book that I had purchased for the boy and I. I highly recommend the book to anyone in a relationship. I mean, you have to have a solid relationship, because there may be some answers that will truly test your patience (and your sense of humor.) But overall the book was a success. I loved it. It's been relegated to a box in my bedroom for over a year now, but in the deep clean that preceeds a parental visit, the book was dislodged from its usual spot in my bedroom and brought out to the living room so that I could re-live all the hilarity that the boy and I went through when filling it out. I just, um, forgot to put it away before the parents arrived.)

My mom asked about the book, and after I explained it to her, it became a topic of conversation. See, the whole object of the book is that it asks questions, both parties have to answer them, and it's supposed to open up more conversations. The questions range from serious (When did you know you were in love with your partner) to silly (What animal most reminds you of your partner?) I chose the silly to discuss with my parents. (No, I did not let my mother actually SEE the book. Are you crazy?)

When it came to confessing which animal most reminds us of each other, I went first. The answer came easily - a cheetah. The boy reminds me of a cheetah. He's lean, he's fast, he's agile....and he always lands on his feet.* I think cheetahs are like poetry in motion when they're running, and I see the same in the boy when he's playing soccer, playing with the dogs, etc. Done. Cheetah. The boy chewed that over for a while (I don't think it's what he expected) but he seemed satisfied with my response. (Image courtesy of National Geographic, btw)

When it was the boy's turn, he answered with no hesitation whatsoever, "Bulldog."

Blink.

Blink blink.

The boy, seeing my astonishment hurried to explain. "You know! It's because you're tenacious. And stubborn. And strong. And strong willed. And, you know....you're short. Compact."

Now, I don't know what springs to YOUR mind when you hear the word bulldog, but in my mind, a bulldog looks like this image that I found at kandinginfo. Um, notsocute. I mean, I think they're cute, but in that 'they're so ugly they're cute' sort of way. In fact, I think of slobber, and underbites, and snorting, and no agility whatsoever. Dear God, I'm a bulldog?! THAT'S how the boy sees me? A BULLDOG?! This is...what? I mean....what?!

As those thoughts ran through my head, the boy asked me what I was thinking. "Um, I dunno. Isn't there anything with all those characteristics that is a bit, um...cuter?"

At this point in the story, my father was laughing out loud. I told him that eventually I just accepted that this is how the boy is and chose to see this comparison as a good thing. I mean, I am tenacious. I am stubborn. I am compact. I really can't fault the boy for his opinion. It's not completely devoid of reality, you know.

After his laughter died down, my mother turned to my father. "So what animal would you compare to me?"

Whoops. Sorry dad. Didn't see that one coming.

An awkward silence decended while I tried desperately to think of something to say to change the subject. Unfortunately, all I could think of was "What animal would I compare my mother to?" None of the answers that occurred to me seemed appropriate.

"A monkey." My father said finally.

My mother seemed appeased. "Why?"

"Well, because you were born during the year of the monkey."

My mother's appeasement vanished. "That doesn't count!"

Another awkward silence. I could see my father getting frustrated. "Fine. Well, you're stubborn like your daughter. And you yell a lot. I don't know, a jackass?"**

And all of a sudden, the boy's answer didn't seem quite so bad.

*And for StaceyJ, I'll point out that cheetahs also sleep something like 18 hours per day. Though I did not realize this at the time and did NOT point it out to the boy.

**Don't worry, it was said in frustration/jest. My father took back that response later and promised to think about it. I'm sort of hoping he goes with "badger" next time, though I think "monkey" wasn't too far off the mark. He should have gone with his gut instinct.

Woman's Work

Once upon a time, I moved from an apartment to a house. Since I was still a renter, I was surprised that the job of caring for the lawn fell on my shoulders. Still, I do love me the novelty of new things to do....so I set about procuring a mower and trying to figure out how often I would actually have to mow.

First, a mower. I had a few restraints when I was thinking about getting a mower. A) it had to cost little to no money. B)
it had to cost little to no money. C) it had to be something that I could actually use. Luckily zlionsfan had an old mower that he had since graduated from (to a real "big boy" mower with a motor.*) It looks something like this. I was enchanted with the idea that it was green (not the color) that it was small, easy for me to maneuver and, of course, that it was free. I had visions of putting on my iPod and mowing my (not very big) yard on the weekends. This yard maintenance thing is a breeze!

Then my dad mentioned that he had an edger for me. I'm embarrassed to say that I had no idea what an edger was. Wait, you mean I have to do something other than mow my yard? Originally my dad had a gas powered edger for me, but upon careful consideration, decided to trade my little brother the gas powered edger for the electric edger for me. Why? Well, because the electric edger is lighter. I was insulted. What? You don't think I have the arm strength needed to edge my postage-sized yard? Seriously?

After my first go-round with the electric edger, and the subsequent day of not being able to raise my arms to shoulder level, I bowed to my father's incredible foresight. I then settled into an easy routine of mowing about once every ten days, and edging maybe once per month. My neighbors, mostly men, thought I was insane. I was routinely offered "help" with my lawn (at a cost, of course) and I routinely turned them down. I think that in this neighborhood, a woman doing her own yardwork is a bit, um, odd.

This year the weather has been a bit sporadic. There were beautiful days separated by random days of rain. Each weekend, I would tell myself that I was going to mow on Sunday, and it would inevitably rain. Then, last Wednesday, I stepped out of the house to face a yard that pretty much looked like this. Fabulous. I decided to mow during a weekend that was already packed to the gills. Until I spoke to my neighbor who mentioned that he had the holy grail of lawn care products - a self propelled mower. He would mow this weekend. YAY!! Not only would I be spared the comments of men in my neighborhood, I wouldn't have to force my little mower through the amazon jungle that was my lawn.

When I got home Monday evening after class and still had to bushwack my way to the front door, I was forced to admit that perhaps my neighbor suffered from the same "later" disease that sometimes afflicts the boy. Since my nagging would have no effect on a virtual stranger, I sucked it up and pulled out my little mower. After one length down the yard, I was already cursing my neighbor** and his phantom power mower, and had already decided that I was going to marry the next man who spoke to me - simply to have someone else to handle this first mow of the season.

Then came the beginning of the comments, and I took back that line of thinking. All comments came from men walking on the street or driving by and pulling over to offer advice. Apparently gender plays a big role in the household duties in this neighborhood and apparently women don't mow the lawn. All the comments had the same theme, "Hey baby! You shouldn't be doing that! Don't you have a man to do that for you?" or "Why don't you let me take care of that for you?" Right. Yes, I have a man to do this for me. Unfortunately he's busy right now inside making dinner and doing my laundry. But hey! Thanks for asking! After about ten comments, I had my fill of sexism and decided to let Casey out in the front yard with me. The bonus of having a well trained dog is that she says within eyesight and doesn't need to be leashed. Miraculously, the comments ceased. Apparently woman with lawnmower = woman to be harrassed. Woman with lawnmower and pit bull = woman to be ignored. Sweet.

After battling with my jungle for about an hour, I had gotten to the point where I could push my mower easily over the lawn for the second time to catch any thick patches of grass that had gotten away the first time. I was no longer getting stuck on various leaves and sticks, and thus the cursing and evil thoughts had ceased. But twilight was setting in, my arms were shaking, and I still had the small portion of my lawn near the street to get through. At this point I couldn't remember why I so enjoyed the "green" aspect of this mower and I was considering my options for next year. A) get married before the first mow of the year so that I don't have to do it, B) suck it up and buy a power mower, C) move back into an apartment, or D) not wait quite so long to pay someone to do the first mow of 2010. Luckily, a very kind neighbor with a power mower had been watching me battle with my jungle and decided to offer his power mower services. Yes, please. He finished up the portion that I had not yet begun to attempt. It was at this point that I learned a valuable lesson. Insinuate that Emily can't do or shouldn't be doing something, and she will rebel and get angry. Engage her in a discussion about her "green" mower, and then offer to assist with your power mower and she will fall down at your feet in gratitude.

I will say that I got sort of proud and fluffy when I stepped outside into the rain today and my lawn was no longer threatening to take over the house. Look what I can do!! Girls rock! I would throw up my arms in celebration if I could move them at all. As it is, the edging will have to wait until the weekend at least. We'll see.

*I get all sorts of his hand-me-downs. I'm thinking about registering myself as a not-for-profit under the name zGoodwill.

**Who smokes, btw. And who I see out on his front porch step all. the. time. But did he show his face once during the 90 minutes that I was mowing? Of course not. I know you can hear me in there!! Get out here and let me make you feel bad while I struggle through the grass and you sit there and watch me!

Do-It-Yourself for Daughters

"Hey Dad, how do you install a new door?"
"A new door?"
"Yes. Say I wanted to install a new front door. How do I do that?"
"You go to Lowe's and ask someone to help you. They have contractors that do that."
"Okay. And I also need to... Hey, hold on a sec. Is that the same answer that you would have given [insert little brother's name here] if he had asked you?"
"No."
"What would you have told him?"
"Doesn't matter. You're Emily. Go to Lowe's."
"Seriously?! C'mon. I can do things! I'm capable!"

This is the sort of thing I'm facing when asking about various fix-it issues I'm finding in my new home. Since having that conversation with my father, I found out that you don't need a whole new door to put in a doorknob. Live and learn, right? (originally there was no doorknob...just a handle - like a cabinet handle - and two deadbolts. There is now a doorknob and a deadbolt :-)

BTW - don't judge me on my household ignorance. I was/am content to rent for the rest of my life....spare me the lecture please. I would just as soon call someone to come and fix things and not have to worry about how my yard looks, or if my gutters are hanging, or if that crazy dog dug up the carpet and destroyed the door. (I've seen what crazy dogs can do to homes that people actually own. Yes, Ann, I'm looking at you.) Maybe that will change someday, but for now, I do not want the responsibility. Please. I have enough worries trying to get myself to school and to work and to pay my bills and to take care of my dogs. And my cat.

However, in this place I'm also (hold on to your seats everyone) painting various rooms and walls, as well as purchasing curtains. Why is this significant? Well, it's never been done before. Ever. In the various apartments I've inhabited, I've hung various items on the walls to give color, but I have never painted, and I've never purchased curtains - just left the miniblinds.

I got keys on Monday, so I've been through several times, and my list of to-dos looks like this:

1) Purchase and install three new light fixtures
2) Buy new stove things that go beneath the burners (what the hell are they called? You know...the metal things that catch the soup when I boil it over...)
3) Paint the trim in all rooms
4) Paint one wall in living room, entire kitchen and bedroom
5) Scrub everything
6) Replace various missing screws
7) Purchase some sort of bathroom caddy to hold various girl crap

Some of those things are covered by the landlord in a "you-fix-it-and-give-me-recipts" kind of way. Obviously the painting is all me. The cleaning is because I'm OCD.

This should be an interesting journey, no? I'll try to take before and after pictures, but I promise nothing...

Oh yes. I got lost on the way to volleyball from my new house last night. Theoretically, my commute to volleyball should be shortened by 20 minutes. In reality, it took me just as long as usual because I got lost. My house is 7 miles from volleyball and I got lost. It took me 30 minutes to get there. I'm awesome. And capable. Did I mention capable?

Too Many Words

Way way back in the day, when the boy adopted Tyson and we realized that he needed some training (little did we know then... our ignorance was almost cute in retrospect) we took him to doggy training classes at a great facility near our apartment. (K-9 First Friends, if you're interested. I can't recommend them enough. They did what they could.) It was my first experience "owning" a dog (even though he wasn't mine) and I was super interested in the whole "calm, assertive" leader thing. I quickly ascertained that owning dogs isn't much different than child rearing. Some parents are lawmakers, and some parents are just walked all over. Same goes for dog owners. After wrangling with the 80lb Tyson, and actually getting him to heel, I was immensely amused at the couple who couldn't get their 15lb cocker spaniel to walk. "He just doesn't want to" was their explanation when the trainer asked what was wrong.

The trainer gave them a look like they were insane, took the leash, and dragged the unwilling dog onto the track where everyone else was walking peacefully. Within 15 seconds, the dog realized that he could walk or be dragged, and hell, walking wasn't that bad... so he was walking along with the others. It was at this point that I realized that you can love your dog, but you can't LOVE your dog. Your dog should be part of your life, but he/she should never run it. I thought I completely understood.

Which is why I was slightly offended when the trainer said that men generally make better pack leaders and dog trainers than women. To be fair, I usually take umbrage with any "men are better than women at this because..." statement, but in this case, I thought it was particularly unfair. I could be just as hard nosed as any male dog owner. My dogs would most definitely learn to obey. If I wanted them to walk, they would walk.

Then the trainer explained, "Women talk too much. They use too many words, so the dog eventually tunes them out. A woman will use 10 words to say 'sit' and a man will just say 'sit.'" I considered this briefly, then thought about how I didn't ever (EVER) talk to Tyson unless it was to correct him. I certainly didn't find myself ever talking to him to tell him about my day or anything... (that was reserved for Laney) so I dismissed this as a stereotype founded in the trainer's own personal bias. Obviously I would be a great dog owner some day.

Now, while that statement may not be true all the time, I'm going to have to admit that apparently, that does apply to me. I'm faced with this reality after my walk with Casey and Blue this morning. This morning I did not wear my iPod. Usually I wear my iPod, so I can't hear myself say these things. I'm now worried that people who randomly pass me on my walks think I'm insane.

Upon finding goose droppings:
"Drop it! Blu-ue! If you don't drop that right now, I will abandon you right on this sidewalk. Then where will you be? You don't even have a tag with my phone number so you're not really adopted yet. We do NOT eat goose poop!"

Upon being scared of an upcoming trash can:
"Heel. Heel Casey! Would I lead you into danger? Seriously? You're supposed to stay right by me. Ignore the huge blue thing. If mom's not scared, you can't be scared either. Look at Blue! He's just fine."

Upon chasing the umpteenth bird on the walk:
"Ow! Blue! That hurt! You heel right now! You're never going to catch the birds! They FLY you dork!"

Upon ignoring the hyperactive lab going apeshit while walking with it's owner on the opposite side of the road:
"Good Dogs! Good heel. You guys are so awesome. I love when you guys prove that "pit bull" and "good dog" are not mutually exclusive."

Upon tripping over Casey:
"Damnit Case! Go! Not heeling is a gift. If you're going to lead, lead. Don't stop in the middle of the sidewalk."

Upon being bitten by another dog:
"No Blue. Do not bite back. Oh, poor baby. You're okay. C'mon buddy. It's not the dog's fault. It's the stupid owners who built a fence with two inch gaps between fenceposts. I'll take care of you when we get home, and then we'll laugh when they get sued by the parents of the neighborhood child who lost a couple of fingers..."

Along those lines, the last time we went to doggie day care (before the weather turned warmer) I forgot Casey's leash. When we were leaving there were two men in the waiting room, one with a hyperactive lab mix that was being dropped off for boarding, and the other awaiting their dog for pickup. Since I didn't have a leash, I was trying to get out of the waiting room as soon as possible. Casey followed me to the door, miraculously sat upon the first "sit" and then waited patiently while I opened the door and then gave her permission to exit. It was fabulous. There are now two people in Indianapolis who believe my dog is the most well trained dog EVER. So maybe I'm okay at being a dog owner.

Well, when when my dogs choose to listen, right?

The small woman/big truck phenomenon

When I was an intern in college, one of my bosses was talking over lunch about how attractive he found small women driving big trucks. I was A) disturbed and B) intrigued. What was it about women driving big trucks that was so sexy?

I asked him again on my last day at that internship. (I couldn't get up the courage until then, when I never had to face him again ) He didn't really have a reason why it was so sexy, but he said that some women on motorcycles or driving tractors were included in the phenomenon.

Over the years, I've never really understood the phenomenon, or why it applies in some situations and not others, but I have seen it in effect. I've just come to think that a woman doing anything manly is sexy...within reason.*

Which brings me to the here and now. I've been making it a point to walk with Casey for about an hour a day for the last two weeks or so. I'm trying to get daycare costs down, and she's still got so much of the puppy energy that if she's not exercised for any decent amount of time, there is no peace in my apartment that night for me, the boyfriend or poor Tyson whose legs are being chewed and whose toys are being stolen. I slowly came to realize that walking Casey wasn't cutting it. So we went back to an old standard - rollerblading with Casey. Something we both enjoy and that has the side effect of exhausing Casey.

When I walk with Casey, we just walk out of the apartment complex and down the adjoining busy road to the major intersection about two miles away, and then back. The entire trek is about 4.3 miles. Casey finishes and is ready for more. Dear God.

But when we rollerblade, we go to a little-known trail tucked in a park. It's about 2.16 miles one way. On the way to the end, I make Casey run beside me as we "race." On the way back, I attach the leash to her regular collar and she tows me home. Not great exercise for me, but FABULOUS exercise for Casey. She's pooped when she gets home. Mission accomplished.

But I sort of missed the walking. It was better for me, but worse for Casey. What to do?

It slowly dawned on me that there are TWO dogs in my apartment. So now, I walk Tyson for an hour, and then do the rollerblading with Casey afterwards. (Where is the boyfriend during all of this, you wonder? Good question. Send him an e-mail and tell him to exercise his own damn dog.)

I'm sure some of my Tyson-loving friends will love to hear that walking Tyson is actually more enjoyable than walking Casey. There is a downside (of course.) Tyson is lazy. I mean l-a-z-y. At about mile 2, he's wanting to lie down in the grass. I have to drag his ass the rest of the way back to the apartment. When it gets really bad, I'll call the boyfriend and have him walk ahead of us the way back. I swear, Tyson would walk through fire to follow him anywhere - psycho.

But there are several up-sides to walking Tyson. A) Should I choose to walk early in the morning, no one is going to mess with me when I'm with Tyson. I mean, I live in a suburb in Indiana, but still...you can never be too careful. B) He's not afraid of the dark. Casey will definitely hesitate if she can't see where she's going. C) He stays right by my side. Casey has a tendency to wander as far as her 16 foot retractable leash will allow. D) When someone is approaching (person or dog) Tyson assumes this protective position in front of me where he's standing at attention with his ears raised - ready for anything. I have a feeling that in the same situation, Casey would be barking her fool head off and running in circles.

But the weirdest difference between walking Tyson and Casey is the attention that I get walking down the busy road.

It's weird, but I get a noticeably higher number of honks or "Hey baby!"s when I'm walking Tyson than when I'm walking Casey. (Side note: my response to any sort of harrassment from cars passing me on the road is to raise my middle finger at them...so if I know you, and you're just honking to say hello, I apologize in advance. I don't usually take the time to look.) At first I thought it was a fluke. You know, a day of the week sort of thing. But it happened again. And again. I started wearing cuter workout clothes when walking Casey, and just a t-shirt and shorts when walking Tyson. Didn't matter. I tried different times of the day. In the morning, I get no honks from walking either dog. At noon, an average of one when I'm with Casey and three when I'm walking with Tyson. After work, I get about five honks with Casey and approximately five thousand when I'm with Tyson.

I mentioned this to the boyfriend, and he didn't seem to think it was weird. So I guess it must fall under the small woman/big truck phenomenon, right? I mean, Tyson is a man's dog if there ever was one (in appearance anyway.) He weighs over half of what I weigh, and he's wearing this huge scary looking pinch collar (that you never have to use - unless you're dragging him home.) So since those honks aren't "Hey baby"ing for Tyson (I hope), I must assume that Tyson is the best accessory EVER to make a female more attractive to men.

(What sort of men....now that's a whole other question.)

But, it's easier than buying a truck that you know you don't want to drive. It's easier than driving a tractor down the side of the road, and how many of us really have the extra money for a motorcycle?? If you want to take part in the small woman/big truck phenomenon, Tyson is the way to go.

So I'm officially offering Tyson to all of my single female friends. Please, feel free to borrow him to take a walk sometime after 5:00pm. (The time when, apparently, men are most likely to want to pay attention to women with big dogs.) He's available any day, just be sure to call ahead so I don't double book. I'm assuming that if honks aren't what you're after, you can take him to a park and actually strike up conversations with men who stop you to tell you how awesome your dog is, and how sexy you look walking him. You don't even have to tell your new man that the dog isn't yours... If you decide that you want to keep him...well, I'm sure something can be arranged.

Tyson's getting to be a chunky monkey, so I'm sure he'll love you for the exercise. So you're both doing a good deed AND attracting more men. Hell, I should clone him and make an informercial! Forget Paris Hilton and her tiny chihuahua - get a huge pit bull and get more dates!**

Call now to reserve your appointment. Get more dates! 60% of the time, it works every time!

* I mean, I don't think a woman who pees standing up is sexy...
**Not responsible for the caliber of men or any stalkers you may attract.

So....why are you going?

The internet is an interesting tool. You can reconnect with just about anyone anywhere thanks to Google. Other "helpful" sites include Friendster, Facebook, and Myspace. I usually enjoy reconnecting with people I used to know - especially from college. But I have my days.... I usually alternate between describing Myspace as "a great tool for keeping in touch with those I love" and "it makes me feel like my past just threw up all over me."

Which brings me to the interesting situation that is old friends who should probably just remain old friends. Unfortunately, some "old friends" are more persistant than others. And you can't just keep putting them off....

I find that other women are more sympathetic to this plight than men. If a guy doesn't want to spend time with you, he'll put you off once and then never answer your calls again. Simple... elegant... gets the point across... he's just not that in to you, right? I would love to be able to proceed with this course of action.

Unfortunately, I have a conscience.

AND Myspace has an e-mail feature. Which shows the sender whether or not their message was read. It also shows the sender the last time you actually logged in to Myspace, so they know if you're ignoring them.

Deep down, I was raised in a religion that may or may not be known for using guilt as a great tool for motivation. So when an "old friend" is persistant enough to make plans with me, I have to go. When I explain to the boyfriend that I have plans but "I don't wanna go," he inevitably responds with, "So.... why are you going?"

Why indeed.

Well, because I'm an eternal optimist. It could be fun, right? Right?? I could have a fabulous time and the "old friend" could be upgraded to "friend." Right?

But mostly it's because I have a guilty conscience. I can't keep making up excuses to NOT go, knowing full well I could go if I really wanted to. I figure the best course of action here is to just bite the bullet, go, and let the "old friend" decide whether or not it was worth their time. I mean, it's one night, and in the grand scheme of things, one night doesn't matter all that much.

It's if I do it again that the boyfriend has the right to say, "So....why are you going?"