I need a photo of myself. Not just any photo, though: an AUTHOR PHOTO. As in, a photo of myself that will accompany some writing (I’m being deliberately vague here, but all will become clear at a future date), and thus needs to hit that perfect blend of arty and intellectual and ironic.

There are a few rough schools of authorship that most of these photos fall into. There’s the “mildly hip without trying too hard or anything” photo, where the writer is in black and looking classic but ever-so-slightly edgy. Leaning on something appears to be a popular option. Then there’s the timeless “intellectual, because I’m a writer, you know,” where they’re posed in front of a desk and/or bookshelf, head almost inevitably in hand. I sound like I’m being cutting here, but I’m really not—I can only imagine how excruciating it must be to have your photo taken for something like this, trying to look normal and unegotistical while simultaneously having to be really intensely egotistical because this version of yourself will be the one most readers will associate with you FOREVER. So I’m trying to avoid it by finding an old photo. The only problem? All my photos of myself seem to look like this:

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Oh, you doubt me? YOU FOOL.

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The best part of this one is those aren’t even the same dog.

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THESE ARE NOT A DELIBERATE THEME. THESE ARE TAKEN YEARS APART.

I mean, I suppose if you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know I’m an animal lover. I’m well aware I’m a dog person. What I wasn’t aware of, until having to look through the photographic documentation of my life, is that apparently unless I can put a dog in front of my face while doing it, it’s not actually happening.

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God help me.

Our dog used to live like a dog. When we first moved in together, Remy slept in his crate in the living room, and we slept in our bedroom. You know, like normal people.

Then we moved here, and Remy’s crate wasn’t assembled by the end of our first night in the new place. “Oh, it’s fine,” we thought, “He’ll just sleep in our bed. He’s probably unsettled by the move, so this will be a nice treat, and then he’ll go back to sleeping in his crate!”

Yeah. That was a year ago.

The thing is, for a tiny little dog, Remy manages to take up about 85% of our bed at any given moment. He snores. He sneezes in your face. And he likes to move around throughout the night, and he likes to kickkickkick until he gets comfortable. I was wondering why I was so tired all the time, until I was awoken the other night by a little french bulldog kicking me in the face as he arranged his butt on my pillow.

We tried sleeping with him downstairs once recently, and it was blissful. Unbelievably so. I’ve never felt so well-rested in my life. The problem is…Remy’s used to sleeping upstairs with us now. So when we put him in his crate—helpfully constructed of fricking metal bars—he stares at us like we’re dropping him off at the orphanage, and then collapses in a snorty heap of disappointment and defeat. It’s terrible.

Yes, this is clearly a problem completely of our own making. It’s belabouring the point a bit, but we’ve made our bed…and now we’re going to have to lie in it.

You know, I think I have more trouble with this series of posts than with anything else I’ve written. Sometimes I’m having a bad week and the last thing I feel like is trawling through my days to go “um…that one muffin. that muffin I had on Wednesday was tasty. I’m thankful for that.” Sometimes I’m having an awesome week and don’t have the time to write the post at all. And sometimes there’s a week like this week—or even this weekend—where between the shootings in Norway and Amy Winehouse dying and the famine in Somalia it just seems really stupid and wilfully ignorant to go “rainbows! kittens! I’m thankful for sunshine!!”

Which is the entire point of these posts, of course. Just because there are several heart-rendingly awful events in the news right now doesn’t mean that there aren’t heart-rendingly awful events going on every week, or that until everything is solved and the world is full of sunshine we should all walk around with ashes on our heads waiting for someone to mention Amy Winehouse so we can bite their heads off for not mourning in the appropriate heirarchical order. Just because we are capable of being angry and upset and outraged—and should be angry and upset and outraged—doesn’t mean we can’t also get home and hug our families and dance to embarrassing music and take pleasure in small and silly things.

So that’s what I’m thankful for this week. I’m thankful for the little space of love and be-dog-furred carpets and bad pop music that is mine in this world, where I have the time and the freedom to sit back and say yep, the world is kind of a shitty place this weekend. I’m thankful for it anyway.

I know, it’s cheesy, but consider Sunday’s posts a counterpoint to my usual snarkiness: today, I’m posting three things I am thankful for this week. No snark, no sarcasm and no curs–well, let’s not go TOO crazy…

In honor of the occasion, today’s post is centered around an individual I am particularly grateful for: my father!

1. I’m grateful for my father’s unconventional name. Not his actual name, mind—what I call him. I am not totally sure of the origins of this, but somewhere along the way of his pre-kids life, my dad decided that any children he had would call him Dad-0. So my sisters and I have always called my dad Dad-o. It was totally normal when we were children, and then each of us went through our own eighteen-month-or-so period in early adolescence when we found having a unique name for our father, like, SO HUMILIATING, and became adept at making references to “my father” rather than saying his name. None of us actually tried calling him “Dad” or something similar, though; that would just be silly. And now I really like it—it feels more like a name than calling him a more common moniker.

2. I’m grateful that I grew up with a father who loves animals. We always had dogs when I was growing up—typically German shepherds, but there have been many other breeds (and a few ex-strays) in there as well. I firmly believe that growing up with animals as part of your family makes you more responsible and compassionate, and also more laidback, since you accept early on that everything you own will be covered in hair. I also love (and have adopted) my father’s approach to naming animals, which is to give each dog a name that respects his or her ethnic heritage. So, for example, we had German shepherds with names like Graf and Siegfried, a golden retriever named Baxter, and a stray named Eureka. This is a big part of why Remy is named Remy, and why our imaginary British bulldog is named Albert. I’m thankful for a father that passed his love of animals on to me!

3. I’m grateful that my dad has a strong sense of justice. I could tell any number of more substantive or moving stories to illustrate this, but instead I’m going to tell one of my favorites. (You’re welcome, Dad-o.) So when my sister and I were in seventh grade, we had a math teacher who was very Christian. And let me be clear, I don’t have a problem with that. What I did have a problem with was him dressing up as Moses on Halloween and spending our entire class period (at a public school) quizzing the class on Bible verses. Somehow, my sister and I and the one Jewish kid in the class didn’t get called on. Shocker. Anyway, after going home and reporting events to my parents, my dad ended up in a parent-teacher conference with the teacher in question, who insisted that sharing his religion with his students was part of his First Amendment rights, separation of church and state be damned. My father (who, by the way, is a law professor who specializes in constitutional law, so Mr. Pearson was basically screwed from the outset) responded by saying “Well, I don’t want to be difficult, so that’s fine with me…As long as, in the interest of equal time, I’m allowed to show up the last schoolday before Christmas break dressed as Satan and quiz the children on The Satanic Verses.”

Yes, I am aware Mr. Pearson probably went straight back to dressing like an Old Testament prophet the moment my family stopped darkening his classroom door. But he didn’t do it again in my presence, and that’s victory enough for me.

I know, it’s cheesy, but consider Sunday’s posts a counterpoint to my usual snarkiness: today, I’m posting three things I am thankful for this week. No snark, no sarcasm and no curs–well, let’s not go TOO crazy…

1. I’m grateful Luke and I did most of our checking out of the Town & Country Show yesterday, when it was sunny and warm, rather than today, when it’s cold and rainy. We did still go by today–there was a dog show we were considering entering Remy into until we realised it would involve standing around in the rain for the entirety of it—but most of our proper wandering was yesterday, when it was much nicer out. I bet the poor vendors who’re losing a big chunk of their potential profits to the weather aren’t feeling particularly grateful, though…

2. I’m thankful that after we got home and I took a few steps onto our beige carpet and then realized my moccasins had bled red ink onto my feet that I was tromping onto the carpet, it didn’t take too much scrubbing to save our security deposit. Yaaaaay.

3. I’m grateful I impulse-bought a bottle of red rather than white wine yesterday. It means the two-thirds of a bottle I have left today are so much more weather-appropriate! Three cheers for clairvoyant wino skills.

My mother’s birthday is tomorrow, so Friday’s post is probably going to be a compendium of stupid stories about her. (Just so you’re forewarned.) Today, though, I was planning on writing a post about how she’s strangely difficult to buy for, in the sense that she insists she always likes everything you give her so get whatever you want, and fine, Mom, but are you really saying that time I flew you to Portland was on the same level of awesome as that time I got you the artsy but fairly confusing scarf that involved several different forms of textile? because I DON’T BELIEVE YOU MOTHER…but joking about presents reminded me of my family’s longstanding choice of Joke Gift Item: the shovel.

I mean, no one’s actually received a shovel as a gift. But if you ask what you’re getting, the default response is that come Christmas/birthday/Easter morning, looks like someone’s getting a shovel! I’m guessing the joke is rooted in the fact that we have always had dogs. Typically big dogs. That run around a backyard. So pretty much the worst household chore is to go clean up the backyard, which inevitably involves a shovel. (Mazel tov! I got you a poopy shovel!) But come to think of it, we’ve never really delved (ho ho, do you see what I did there? eat your heart out Seamus Heaney) into the history of the joke; it’s just one of those phrases that gets deployed by everyone in the family without thinking too much about its meaning. (This is also why I refer to “eating pee dirt,” despite the fact that, come to think of it, I’m not sure whether it’s pee or pea dirt. But the line comes from my father, so probably pee.)

Anyone else grow up with only partially-explained family catchphrases? If so, I would love to hear them. In the meantime, I’ve got to go find some more wrapping paper, because this Birthday Shovel has an extra-festively-long handle. All the better to scoop you with, my dear…

1. I’m thankful for that little spot in front of Remy’s ears. Luke was the one who discovered this, but if you rub directly in front of Remy’s ears it is like you are shoving morphine up his nose. (Not that we’ve done that. Our abuse of Remy has been limited to putting him down a slide on a late-night back from the pub walk, and I still maintain he enjoyed it.) No, really. A minute or two of dedicated ear-rubbing and he will go from this:

REMY IS VERY EXCITED ABOUT HIS NEW FRIENDS.

This is why we can’t have playdates.

To this:

Ahh, with each new month comes...more random pictures of Remy. Yeah, I hold my dog like he’s a fat furry baby. What.

Sometimes, this is very necessary. Mostly when we’re trying to sleep, or talk on the phone, or do anything that might not be enhanced by the regular squeaking of a Kong Wubba and the pathetic purr-growls of Remy trying to entice you into playing with him.

2. I’m grateful my boyfriend likes stupid shit as much as I do. It lets me get away with suggesting ridiculous purchases. For example, last week I bought a frog marionette from the 1960s that had been hanging in the Oxfam shop window near us for about a week. Do I know how to work a marionette puppet? No. Do I have any interest in learning? Aside from a vague desire to freak the shit out of Luke by waking him up with a frog puppet slowly stroking its wooden webbed fingers along his cheek, not particularly. I just really liked the puppet, and spending twenty-five pounds on it seemed like a great idea. And because we were on our way home from buying Luke a dartboard, he was like “YES. That is a GREAT IDEA. I am buying you that puppet RIGHT NOW.” And he did! Basically, we try to distract each other from our own ludicrous spending habits by encouraging the other person to give in to their dorky hobbies as much as possible. It means we’re broke, but I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, I’m practicing on my new ukulele. (I’m lying, I’ve had that ukulele for two years.)

3. I am grateful my favourite pizza combination disgusts the rest of the world. Barbecue sauce instead of tomato, the reduced fat cheese (I’m watching my figure—plus for this pizza, a higher sauce:cheese ratio is better), double olives, jalapenos. It is DELICIOUS, and I’ve had people back away slowly from my pizza box upon discovering its contents. I didn’t intend to concoct the most revolting combo possible, but it’s given me a huge fringe benefit for those annoying moments when a meat-eater wants to try a slice of yours (oh, shall we trade slices? oh, wait, we can’t, because there’s DEAD SHIT ON YOURS). This vegetarian pizza is mine all mine, suckers.

I know, it’s cheesy, but consider Sunday’s posts a counterpoint to my usual snarkiness: today, I’m posting three things I am thankful for this week. No snark, no sarcasm and no curs–well, let’s not go TOO crazy…

1. Only one thing this time, because it is a doozy: I am immensely grateful that Remy didn’t kill the baby bird he found in our yard.

Yesterday afternoon, I was upstairs when I heard the boyfriend yelling for me, sounding more panicked than usual. I met him on the stairs and he told me that he’d caught Remy “mullering” a bird outside. (Northern slang, how you continually astound me with your total separation from the rest of the English language.) Remy has definitely looked interested in birds before—in fact, just that morning I’d been laughing watching him creeepy-creep through the lawn staring up at a bird singing on our fence—but given that birds are quick creatures that can fly and Remy is a short fat dog, I’d never been too worried that he’d actually, y’know, catch one.

So my entire walk downstairs and into the back garden, I was thinking I was going to be confronted with a mortally-wounded bird. Objectively, I was thinking the kindest thing in that situation would be to kill it—even if it feels awful, to let a bird die slowly and painfully is crueller than quickly killing it yourself. But that said…I am a vegetarian. I went vegetarian because I couldn’t handle the idea that I was directly responsible for causing animals’ deaths. So as I was walking down the garden, I was just thinking over and over again, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

I cannot say how relieved I was to discover that the bird was a bit spitty, and definitely not real happy with how his day had gone, but otherwise unharmed. It was an adolescent starling; starlings used to roost in the eaves of my parents’ house in Fresno, and then the babies would fall out once they started to try to fly, so I am very familiar with what they look like, and this one was neeearly full-grown. We put him in a shoebox and tried feeding him (dog food soaked to mush, as per the internet), but he was having none of it. He did, however, start chirping up a storm, so we were fairly confident he was totally fine.

So then the question became what to do with him. We guessed he’d fallen out of a nest in the neighbours’ yard, and there was no hope of putting him back in—plus, even if we’d somehow managed, he would have jumped right back out again. We could put him behind our yard in the grasses there, but that would have essentially just been packing a cat lunchbox, because I see them out there all the time. So we finally decided to put the shoebox out on our metal table in the garden, and watch to see if any of the starlings who kept landing in our yard were his parents. So we did, and then we sat down to wait…and about sixty seconds later, I see this stupid teenage starling going *whup! whup!* leaping up on the edge of the shoebox, and then promptly launching himself down into the long grasses where Remy found him the first time. Bastard.

He clearly wanted to make a go of it, plus he’s just at the age where starlings leave the nest, so we left him to fend for himself. I am hoping he will get out of our yard, but in the meantime we’re either watching the Remster closely, or actually taking him out into his own yard on a leash. He is not very happy about this. We also need to mow the lawn this weekend, which is now going to mean carefully scouting through all the shrubberies to make sure we don’t accidentally kill this bird we spent an afternoon rescuing, because I am insane.

Anyway, long story short: I am grateful Remy is not Mother Nature’s Portly Killing Machine, and instead is just a confused dog who saw something moving, instinctively went CAN I EAT IT?!?!!, but only gently mouthed the bird and didn’t actually do any harm. I am grateful I didn’t have to murder a baby bird, even if it would have been the merciful thing to do. I am not so grateful there may or may not be a starling emo-ing it up in my back garden, but he’s probably grateful as hell that we haven’t mowed our lawn for a solid two months or so, so I think overall we’re even stevens.

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I’ve made a few references to my dog on this blog already, so I suppose it’s high time I introduce him properly: behold, Remy, otherwise known as Remster, Remydog, and/or Butt Dog (for his behaviour, not his proclivities).

If you haven’t seen a dog like him before—and a surprising number of people haven’t—he’s a french bulldog. They’re great dogs for small spaces, because they don’t shed much, they often don’t bark (Remy was about nine months old when he barked for the first time—up until then we hadn’t thought he could), and they are fat, lazy dogs, so they don’t require a lot of exercise. Yes, that was a compelling factor in choosing his breed. I liked the idea of getting a dog that seemed to be me in canine form (minus the lack of barking, of course). I think they’re becoming increasingly popular, but in our neck of the woods, he’s still a bit of an anomaly. People tend to assume he’s a pug, a baby Staffie, or one, memorably, a pit bull. (Note to strange woman outside co-op: if you thought my twenty-pound dog was a pit bull, you have clearly never met, or possibly seen any pictures, of an actual pit bull.)

I suspect because they’re rare, the world of french bulldog owners is, perhaps, a bit cult-like. Let me illustrate with an example that’s been the high point of my week. So a few days ago, I took Remy out on a walk to a common near our house. On the way back home, we were toddling along when I hear “Excuse me?….excuse me?” behind me, and turn to see a woman hurrying along the sidewalk towards me. It turns out, she also has two french bulldogs, saw me walking past, and ran out of her house to introduce herself. We’ve now exchanged numbers, and hopefully we’ll go on a group walk soon.

I told this story to my sister. I should point out, I come from a family of pretty hardcore dog people. Not that we go to dog shows or anything like that, but we’ve had dogs my entire life, we are all big dog lovers, and I think all of us consider our own dogs (my sister has a three-year-old dachshund mix) members of our family. (As a side note, my mother once told me she doesn’t trust people who don’t like dogs, which is a sentiment recently expressed damn near word-for-word by Ice-T. I cannot tell you how happy this quote overlap makes me.) So Dara is definitely in a similar camp of dog-centrism. But as soon as I finished telling her about meeting this woman and how excited I was about it, we had the following exchange:

D: So…she just saw you walking past.

M: Yup.

D: And ran out of her house to meet you.

M: Uh-huh.

D: Purely because you were walking the same kind of dog she has.

M: Yeah.

D: ….You people are so weird.

In fact, as we were chatting, I realized I’d seen her shortly after we moved in, walking a block or so down the road from me. And my reaction wasn’t just to chase her down…I ran back to my house (only about half a block away), threw a leash on Remy, and went out chasing her. Sadly, retrieving Remy was the fatal delay, because she’d turned a corner before I could catch up to her.

So, is this weird? Would a schnauzer owner not see another schnauzer owner and automatically introduce themselves? Because I thought it was totally normal. Maybe I’m just a friendlier person than my sister. Or perhaps the frenchie fumes are finally getting to me…

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