So the other night Husband and I were walking down to Gastown to meet some friends for drinks when we saw a poster that caught our eye.  In huge, bold letters it said “STOLEN” on top.  Then there was a picture of a Boston Terrier.  Then a description: “Stolen dog.  Last seen wearing a pink Louis Vuitton collar, in the neighbourhood of X and Y streets.  Has a tattoo on her belly that spells out ‘thug life.’  Reward: $5000.  No questions asked.”

So what kind of person is the owner of this dog?  This owner, who puts a vanity tattoo on their dog proclaiming their anti-society association with criminal lifestyles?  Who wants someone to come forward but makes it clear that he believes the dog is STOLEN?  Who puts expensive gear on a ridiculous looking dog?  Is this owner, likely a person who uses their dog as a narcissistic extension of themselves and who is clearly hostile, the sort of person who actually will ask no questions?  If they can afford such a huge reward, are they in fact an actual thug?

Husband and I cracked up over this sign.  It’s quite interesting, the things people reveal (or portray) about themselves.

Today I spent the afternoon cleaning my living and dining rooms.  It was one of those very productive but invisible cleans: everything I’d shoved under the couch or in a cupboard got pulled out, sorted, cleaned, discarded if necessary, and reorganized for replacement in its proper home.  So even though I did housework for four hours, it looks about the same.  Only I know the true depth of my accomplishment.  Which isn’t really enough, so when Husband got home from work I paraded him around the apartment showing him where all the mess used to be.  (Which I realize now is mostly just me confessing to my bad housekeeping habits… hmm…)

You see, my landlord is coming next Wednesday to oversee the planning of the replacement of our patio planters.  I have this crazy idea that if the apartment is totally immaculate when he gets here, he will instantly see what a terrible mistake it was to say “no” to our requests for pets, and in a spasm of overwhelming guilt and remorse, he wil spontaneously offer to let us get a baker’s dozen of cats.  Of coure, what will really happen is he’ll say nothing and all this effort will be for naught… but anyway, I guess I do get to live in the nice clean apartment after it’s all done so what the hell.

You can tell because I never update my blog. I’ve been too busy being consumed with jealousy that SOME people get to have dogs but I DO NOT. I have friends who have this zany little Boston Terrier, which I would slice up, dip into ice cream, and eat if I weren’t a vegetarian, because he’s too cute for words. Even though he has serious bug eyes and a partially missing penis sheath, which means you can often see and/or feel his actual weiner. Okay. Why do these people deserve a dog more than I do? How can I persuade my landlord to let me get a dog? Preferable a big one… with lots of hair for trapping dirt and water from outside… yes, I begin to see why my efforts at persuasion have failed so far.

So, other than obsessively researching dog breeds (even though I generally as a rule disapprove of breed-ism for the ill health effects and would probably buy a mutt), I’ve been doing some school stuff… but only a little. I registered for next term today and, by the end of the summer? All my classes will be DONE. HOLY FUCKING CRAP. Then it’ll just be eight months of practicum and an exam and I’ll officially be a Master, which is how you can all address me at that time.

I’ve been doing next to no cooking, mainly because it’s hard to get motivated to shop when I’ll be in Chilliwack half the week and I never know if Husband will eat at home or out in my absence.  Tonight though I’m making a cauliflower and lentil curry, as well as asparagus and artichoke pasta for dinner.  Yum!

The house is a shambles and though it is sort of tidy, it is grimy and dirty underneath all that tidiness. Kudos here to Husband, who has been noting my despair at the mess and has been doing dishes for me unasked. It makes all the difference sometimes to just have at least one room that isn’t gross.

Speaking of Chilliwack, one of the great things about scoring the fall practicum is I can end my current Chilliwack practicum early. It’s a good site and I’m learning just butt-loads of stuff there, but it’s kind of crappy doing the commute. It’s strange because I like all parts of the process: the quiet early morning drive, the practicum itself, the time to visit with my family, the opportunity to miss my husband and enjoy our reunions. But somehow all those nice things combine to produce stress and discomfort and I will miss it, but not miss it at all. The Chilliwack stuff ends at the end of May.

I’ve been doing a little reading, in particular a work of moral philosophy about animal rights. Say what you will about animals, those philosophers can sure construct an argument! I’m loving the careful, logical, comprehensive way the author does it. One gets the impression that very few stones have been left unturned, and those that are are plainly identified. It’s honourable arguing. This is my first foray into philosophy (undergrad logic classes aside) and I am very impressed.

I’m also rewatching one of my favourite crime drama series, The Wire in the Blood. It’s about a psychologist and his involvement with an English police department. Unlike most portrayals of psychologists/psychiatrists in media, this one does not make me and Husband immediately vomit over the gross inaccuracies (another reasonable one is Dr Wong on Law & Order SVU). And it’s quite grisly, which I always enjoy. I have to get my gristle somewhere now that I don’t eat meat. And speaking of psychologists, I’m also rewatching Cracker, which I deeply love. Shows like these give me hope in this day and era where you can see that paltry excuse for crime drama CSI on TV at any hour.

And finally, this coming Thursday I get to go for the first of my nerve problem tests, a sleep deprived EEG.  I’m not really sure what is involved except the instructions I got were at great pains to reinforce that must have clean hair.  Apparently they’ll be attaching things to my scalp and measuring… something.  “Brain waves” let’s call them.  Anyway, I’m supposed to get no more than four hours sleep the night before, but since I’m an overachiever I’ll try to stay up all night.  Anyone want to come over and watch movies and help keep me up?  I’m total suck at that, and usually hit the sack by 11.  It takes hard work and dedication to stay up all night.  I’m not sure I can go it alone.

Last night we took the kid to the park across the street, and met a miniature schnauzer.  It was awesome!  She (the dog) was cute and clever, quite interested in us.  Like all minischnauzes she looked like a little old man with a beard, which I just thought was the most adorable thing on planet earth.  Husband agreed with my assessment, and we agree together that miniature schnauzers are totally way smarter than Boston terriers.  Ha!

The kid had a blast too.  Clearly she is starved for fun, which is our fault because we are boring adults and haven’t been making much time to do fun kid things with her.  She tore around all over the playground equipment, creating elaborate stories involving acid lava and us (I was The Sister and Husband was The Brother, which is kind of weird, but there you have it), running herself ragged, and appearing to enjoy herself immensely.  We must find a way to create better play time for her every day.

Now it’s time to get dressed and ready for the day, and then we’ll both do schoolwork: the kid will start with some reading, and I’ll be working on researching my presentation about sexuality and the older woman.  We’ll have lunch with the kid’s mom, then get groceries for dinner, and then do more homework in the afternoon before hitting the pool here in the building.  Should be a good day!

Today I bought some socks at Costco. Virgin socks are one of life’s great pleasures. I absolutely love the experience of putting on brand new socks, socks that have never been sweated on, or washed, or stuffed in a runner all day, or otherwise tainted. They are just soft (yet curiously firm) and fresh smelling and delightful. Only underwear comes close to being as enjoyable when new.

Our friend Esan occasionally waxes poetic about what he’d do if he were absurdly rich, and I must say that if anyone on Earth deserves to be absurdly rich, it’s Esan , because only he will truly appreciate it. One of Esan’s many plans is to create a roll of pants, a great big spool of fresh pants, from which you pull off a new pair to wear every day. At the end of the day, you just toss your jeans, because tomorrow you’ll get a fresh pair off the spool.

Personally, I like my jeans broken in, but the spool idea is sound. If I were absurdly rich, I would have a spool of socks. Every day I would just pull off two fresh socks, and experience the joy of the virgin sock forever. I would then turn the end of day used socks into some kind of modern art piece, or perhaps just mail them all, one pair a day, to my landlord who said we can’t get a dog. I think he’d like that.

Last night I put the final nail in the dog coffin.  Husband and I went to Metrotown (Metrobarf, we call it) and I bought some clothes with some of the money I’d set aside for buying the dog.  I’ve been diligently saving for over a month for the dog, since they are expensive, too expensive to just write a cheque for on buying day.  I’ve been very good about not going out, not buying things, not spending my budgeted money, and every week I made a trip to the bank to deposit my savings with a song in my heart: look, I just saved 10% of the cost of a dog!  Yippee!  Two days ago I found myself with a wad of savings and a landlord who said no.  So I shopped.

Anyway, I promise to stop going on and on about the damn dog after today.  The point is, spending some of those savings was really the final acknowledgment that I will not be buying a dog.  It really made it real.  Instead, I got some shirts and a pair of cutoff jean shorts.  They won’t love me back, but they also don’t need housebreaking.  I suppose that’s fair.

I am officially in mourning over the no dog ruling.  I spent most of last night sniffling on the couch and staring into space, which appeared to trouble Husband, so I put some Law and Order on so my behaviour would seem more normal.  It’s perfectly normal to sniffle while staring at Lenny Brisco - come on, the dude is dead!  Mostly I was in disbelief, because, seriously, what landlord doesn’t want a creature that will never learn to say “I need the toilet!” living in his condo?  And how will I continue to function without a little mammal to love?

Finally I went to bed, and tossed and turned with guilt over the little puppy that I won’t be adopting, which will consequently suffer at the hands of a cruel adopter, who probably plans to make puppy stew when the dog turns two.  And poke the puppy in the eye several times a day.  What have I consigned my puppy to?  Suffering!  Deep suffering!  I felt just the way I did when I gave away my cats (because Husband is allergic), and had nightmares about abandoning them for about two years.

This morning was spent grumbling and angry,  and but now I’m becoming more resigned to the idea of no pet.  I guess now I won’t be needing those puppy training books.  And maybe I could love my quilt instead - I’ll give him the puppy’s provisional name (Otto von Bismarck), take him out to the yard several times a day to pee, go to the dog park with him to visit others of his kind, and whap him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper when he leaves a turd on the floor.  Bad blanket, bad!  Also, since he’s pretty big, I’ll have to make sure to train him not to jump up when people come to the door.  Seriously, Otto the quilt is like seven feet tall.

Finally, our landlord got back to us: he’s standing firm on the no pet rule.  I am perhaps unreasonably upset.  I mean, it’s not the end of the world.  But I’m very disappointed.  I can see why the landlord wants no pets - how is he to know we aren’t going to get the biggest dog on planet Earth and then grind all his turds into the carpet?  Then again, how does he know we won’t do the same with Husband’s turds?  We might have to start, now that I no longer have a reason to make nice with the landlord.

Why is it that I don’t have enough time to do schoolwork, but I totally have enough time to read three books about training a puppy?  A puppy that I don’t even have, and may never have, mind you.  Priorities!  I need some!

Last night we finally saw Borat - and, this will surprise no one, we laughed our asses off.  Literally.  Our asses are still over at Joe’s.  His dog is probably chewing them to bits as we speak.

There was only one down side to the movie last night: near the beginning of the film, the second toe on my right foot suddenly swelled up, turned red, got hot, and started aching.  I cannot tell you how weird this was.  I didn’t injure my foot in any way.  I don’t recall even looking at it funny.  So, I have no explanation for the curious swelling except that possibly my second toe on my right foot hates Borat, and wishes we were watching CNN Headline News instead.  Well, too bad for you, Toe, because we watched Borat anyway!  Thppppbbbt!

And we ate Chinese food from Mr Ho’s or Ho Ho’s or House of Ho or something like that.  It was awesome, particularly the fried rice, which had just the right amount of grease.

And of course I tried in vain to make Loki sit with me, but that stupid dog simply won’t.  He just stares at me with this quizzical look on his bug eyes, tilting his head from side to side as though he’s trying but failing to understand me, when in fact he totally understands me and just doesn’t give a fuck what I want.  Well, I have news for you too, Loki: the free ride ends here!  From now on you can just forget about my tummy rubs, that’s right, no more tummy rubs for you, ungrateful beast!  See how you like that, Mister Fancypants I’m Too Good To Sit With You.

So there.  I said it and I’m glad.