Luring Readers

Ian and I watch the page views on the blog constantly, eager to see the number grow.

Ian: "How many views did the Lost story get?"

Laura: "Not nearly as many views as The Pool"

Ian: "I wonder why?"

Laura: "I don't know. I guess people really liked it. The page views skyrocketed. They were double what we usually get."

Ian: "I thought the Guinifred story was stronger."

Laura: "Me too."

I've been thinking it over. And the only great departure between "The Pool" and any other story on this blog?

Ian. Shirtless.

I'm positive Ian beefcake brought in the extra views. I may be a progressive feminist, but I will offer up more photos of shirtless Ian for women to objectify if it means double the views.

This is a blog we're talking about. This is serious business.

Ladies, don't hold back. Click here and leer at Ian's chest. It's for the greater good.

Why do you offer up my body for sexual objectification and capitalistic gain? I feel so used.

I am NOT posting this one to my Facebook.

This week promises to be busy and chaotic. I'm packing up all my stuff and moving in with Ian this week. I finally told my parents (on Father's Day! I love you, Dad! Guess what?!). 

My parents reacted positively, although my mom couldn't resist leaning over and whispering, "You know you'll by living in sin." And I was like, "Yeah. It's coo." 

Anyways, both Ian's and my parents support our sinful living arrangement. Which makes Ian and me feel pretty ecstatic.

We have a busy week ahead of us. Moreover, I've had spotty internet connection for the past few days. I may only post once this week, but I'll check back later with more stories, such as the gory moving day details. 

And I'll provide the answers to things you all want to know: 

• Is Spottswood gay or straight?
• Is Harvey really that fat? 
• Who is CDR, that second guinea pig you mentioned in your About Winiferd in the Burbs page? 
• Why do you keep linking back to old crap on your blog? 
• And when will Winiferd the dog achieve international superstardom? 

The answers to these, and much, much more, are coming up next month.   

Bye bye, apartment. I surely did love barking at passers-by at two in the morning and receiving non-stop squealing attention from my apartment-dwelling admirers. 

When the Dairy Queen Gave up Dairy: My Attempt at a Food Blog

Food blogs are all the rage these days, so I thought I'd rip them off to gain more viewers. Unfortunately, I'm of distinctly English and Scottish heritage, with only a tiny bit of Native American thrown in for street cred.

What does that mean? I'm white. Very white. And very white people must eat very bland foods.

My DNA is coded to destroy me if I eat anything other then sad boiled chicken or sad boiled potatoes. Everything else wreaks havoc on my stomach.

Here's a list of foods I enjoy but have proven destructive to my Celtic DNA.

Pork:

Being a Very White Person often means suffering from Very Bad Allergies. I have severe allergies to anything in nature. Nature= Bad. Micro-biologically Sterile Environment= Good.

At age 20, I underwent allergy testing and results showed I was allergic to everything on the planet.

My results also showed an unmistakable allergy to pork. Pork causes acid to surge through my chest, my throat to swell, and my stomach to ache.

As a child, I ate a lot of ham sandwiches and pulled pork. I also experienced frequent stomach aches.

When I was Five:

Laura: "Mommy, my stomach hurts."

Mom: "Your stomach always hurts. It's psycho-somatic. It's all in your head, darling."

Laura: "But my stomach really, really hurts."

Mom: "Nonsense. Here. Eat some ham."

Fifteen Years Later: 

Laura: "Guess what? The allergist said I'm allergic to pork. I wasn't faking illness for the past fifteen years! I have definitive medical proof!"

Mom: "Oh. Well, live and learn."

Laura: "You were essentially poisoning me as a child! Munchausen by proxy!"

These days, I only eat pork by accident.

Ian and I sometimes buy Kroger sandwiches for dinner. We always want turkey. Unfortunately, Kroger doesn't label their sandwiches.

Laura: "Yay! A turkey sandwich! I shall soon alleviate my hunger!"

Ian: "Yay! My sandwich came with Cool Ranch Doritos instead of Double Cheese Cheetos!"

Laura: <Eats half the sandwich, ignoring weird taste> Wait a second. Does this turkey look pink to you?"

Ian: "Yes."

Laura: "Oh no. Is this ham? This is ham, isn't it?"

Ian: "Yes."

Laura: <Undergoes 24 hours of intense acid reflux and stomach pains. Takes 16 extra-strength Pepcid AC pills, 8 regular strength Zantac pills, and unknown quantities of Pepto-Bismol>

Ian: "Are you chugging Pepto-Bismol?"

Laura: "Yes."

Peanuts, Walnuts, Cashews, Pecans:

The allergist also confirmed I'm allergic to a variety of nuts. Despite my allergy, I often eat nuts. (That's what she said, y'all!). 

Nuts don't provoke such a severe reaction. It's more irritating than painful. Usually.

One time, my co-worker, upon cleaning out her desk, offered me an old bag of glazed cashews, thickly coated in a gunky pomegranate and vanilla crust.

They were nuts. They were expired. And they were free. Did I take them? Hell yes.

The bag was still nearly full. Despite my nut allergy, and clearly void of any common sense, I ate almost an entire bag of rancid cashews.

I had to use two full sick days from work afterwards.

Dairy:

I love dairy. A few months ago, I was consuming vast amounts of milk and cheese and yogurt.

I clung to the school of thought that good nutrition springs from "everything in moderation." Do you want to eat french fries and ice cream and doughnuts and cheeseburgers? Go ahead! Eating everything in moderation is part of a healthy diet!

So I consumed plenty of dairy. It's got it's own square in the Food Pyramid! It's healthy! The government said so! When has the government ever lied? It's healthy! EVERYTHING IN MODERATION! GOT MILK?

The dairy did something. Something...splotchy. It made me break out like a hormonal 13-year-old. I couldn't figure out why I was suddenly perusing the zit-control aisle at Walgreen's: I'm a 25-year-old adult, damn it.

Then, one day, I chanced upon a New York Times article on the link between dairy consumption and acne.

And I was all: light bulb! I cut out cheese and yogurt from my diet and switched from cow's milk to almond milk. My skin cleared up within a couple of weeks.

Still, I adore dairy. And I'm weak. Occasionally, I'll eat a yogurt parfait for breakfast. (Everything in moderation!). Inevitably, my skin revolts.

Ian: "Do you want to go get food?"

Laura: "I can't go in public. I look like I'm on meth."

Ian: "No, you don't. I mean, kind of. You still look beautiful. You're always beautiful."

Laura: "Even when I look like a meth head?"

Ian: "Yes."

Laura: "Awww."

When Winnie Got Parasites and Laura had a Break-Down

My brain is pudding, my eyes are sandy, and I’m sleep-deprived. Why so sleep-deprived? Here’s the shameful truth: I think Winnie has fleas.

Winnie had suffered one previous bout with fleas as a baby. The people I adopted her from had given her a month’s worth of flea treatment.

And I was all, “La la la la! Fleas can’t get us! We are one giant flea shield against fleas! NO FLEAS HERE!

Then Winnie started scratching. A lot. One morning, around 6:00am, I blearily trotted Winnie out to use the bathroom and watched in sandy-eyed horror as these…things... exited her backside. Wormy things.

I immediately phoned the vet.

Vet: “Sounds like a tapeworm. Winnie ate a flea, the flea released a tapeworm, and the tapeworm lives in Winnie. It’s the circle of life; come get some pills.” 

So Winnie had fleas and worms. Two for the price of one! We win!

While I was at work, my dad picked up the pills. After work, I tossed Winnie in my car and motored over to my parents’ house.

We fed Winnie her first pill. Then I called the vet to check whether we could give her flea medicine a few days early.   

Laura: “My puppy's itchy and squirmy and frightened and hungry and probably confused, and she’s gnawing on herself. She’s not due for more Frontline for another three days. Can we give her some now?”

Vet: “Yes.”

Laura: “I love you.”

Vet: “Bye.”

So we doused the dog in flea preventative and congratulated ourselves on kicking parasite ass. 

Of course, Winnie threw up the pill and scratched violently all night, but I didn’t learn this until the following morning.

Because I pretty much left the dog with my parents and fled. Bye bye, dog! I can't handle this! Have fun at Grandma's!

My dad works from home, so he babysat Winnie. For a week. I exiled Winnie to my parents’ house, only visiting her during the evenings.

Dad: “It’s been four days now. Do you want to take Winnie home?”

Laura: “Umm, no. She still looks a little…peaked. I mean look how white she looks. She clearly still needs close medical attention.”

Dad: “Okay.”

Winnie in August 2010 

After recovering from my break-down, I took Winnie home, and we’ve been flea free ever since.

Until now. Winnie has been scratching and biting herself again. Upon bathing her, we found four fleas crawling through her fur.

The parasites and sleep deprivation have returned. I have no idea whether this post is funny or entertaining or even coherent because my mind has melted into sleepy sludge.  

I’m trying to stave off a second break-down, but I’m making no promises. I may dump Winnie with her grandparents and bolt again. At this point, it’s looking probable. Update to follow.

Monday Night Musings: The Justin Bieber Edition

Laura: <waits in grocery store check-out line; rifles through People Magazine> "Wow. Justin Bieber has his own perfume."

Ian: "What's it called? 'Just Beave'?"

Laura and Ian: .............<Hysterical laughter>

Ian: "No, really, what's it called?"

Laura: "I didn't catch that. Grab another People Magazine."

Ian: "I can't. That old dude is blocking it."

Laura: "That's good. I want to believe it's called 'Just Beave.' My heart wants it so."

Laura: "He looks like a cracked-out Precious Moments doll. Awesome!"

Ian: "Should I add a beaver?"

Laura: "Yes. And a rose. There was a rose in the ad."

Ian: "There was? Should I really draw that?"

Laura: "Yes. Draw a beaver and a rose. Since they both symbolize a vagina."

LOST

Ian loses things constantly. In the early days, he blamed me:

Ian: "Every time you use my comb, it gets lost."

Laura: "I always give the comb back to you, or I put it back where I found it."

Ian: "I'm sorry. I have this irrational quality. I blame other people when I lose things. You're smart for calling me out on it."

Now, he blames cleaning the house. For instance:

Ian: "I lost my iPod! Arrgh!"

Laura: "I'll help you look for it."

Ian: "I lost it because I cleaned the house! I never lose things when the house is dirty. Everything's in front of me. But then I clean, and it all disappears."

Laura: "That...doesn't sound right. I think you lost it because you put it down somewhere and forgot where you put it."

Ian: "Nonsense!"

 

In the past week alone, Ian lost his iPod, his phone charger, and multiple TV and DVD remotes. We tear the house apart, looking in every nook and cranny. I look in totally obscure places.

Laura: "I'm going to look in the mail box. And the wastepaper baskets. And the Guinea Pig cages."

Ian, certain he placed the item in a tidy box somewhere while cleaning, roots through dresser drawers and kitchen drawers and coat closets.

Laura: "Why would you put your iPod in the coat closet? You don't even put coats in the coat closet."

Ian: "Because I was cleaning. And every time I clean, I lose things. CLEANING RUINS MY LIFE."

After an hour of searching, I flop on the couch and watch Ian rip through the house, still furiously looking for the iPod.

Ian: "I'm sorry. I feel like I'm wasting our time. But I'm so frustrated."

Laura: "It'll show up. It's always in the last place you look."

Ian: "........."

Laura: "I bet watching the Simpsons would help you find your iPod. Especially the episode about Radioactive Man."

Ian: "I'm going to keep searching."

Laura: "I like that episode."

The search proves futile. Ian pounds through the house in exasperation, frazzled and frustrated.

Ian: "I bet I left it in my car when I got home and someone sneaked up my driveway and stole it from my car."

Laura: "That seems implausible. Your neighbors are pretty geriatric. They'd probably feel frightened by an iPod. My mom's scared of the internet and my dad's scared of texting. They're both terrified of Facebook."

Ian: "I bet I dropped it in a puddle in the yard and now its fried."

Laura: "Umm"

Ian: "I bet I lost it forever and I'll never find it and a little piece of my heart will fall out of my chest and die."

Laura: "Uhhh"

Ian: "I bet aliens took it. At this point, it's the only logical explanation."

Suddenly, Ian leaves the room. He returns holding his iPod.

Laura: "Where did you find it?"

Ian: "The cat room. I went in there earlier. I forgot I left it there."

The Pool

Last weekend, Ian and I bought a pool. Since March, we've been playing this game:

Ian: "It's hot."

Laura: "And you need a pool!"

In June, we decided it was hot and we needed a pool.

Upon purchasing the pool, we spent the whole weekend swimming. That same weekend, I wrote a blog post cheerfully describing the wonderful awesomeness of owning a pool. Snippets included:

"We bought happiness!"

"Pools are better when you're an adult. Because you can drink beer in them. Make sure you put that in the blog."

"POOLS ARE THE GREATEST THING EVER I WANNA LIVE IN THE POOL!!"

The blog post was edited and arranged, sitting in my draft box, just waiting to be posted.

Then events took a sudden turn:

Ian: "Yay! We're swimming in the pool! I love the pool!"

Laura: "The pool completes me!  <squints at the glass door> Uh, Ian, look at Winnie."

Ian: "What? Why?....Oh. Oh god."

Winnie, ever anxious to be with her humans, sat perched on the edge of the couch, staring through the glass door, boring holes into our souls.

She looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Laura: "That's...really creepy."

Ian: "I think she wants to murder us."

Laura: "Red-rum! Red-rum!"

Ian: "Look at her. Oh god."

Laura: "She's going to hack us into pieces."

A few days after seeing Murderous Winnie peer through the glass, Ian phoned me, sounding anxious.

Ian: "Listen, the pool looks...sick."

Laura: "Sick?"

Ian: "I'm worried about it."

Laura: "How exactly does it look?"

Ian: "Deflated."

Laura: "Uh oh."

Ian: "Errr, and another thing. The chlorine did something to the pool."

Laura: "What?"

Ian: "It bleached out the bottom of it. I probably should have read the directions first."

While cleaning the pool, Ian had haphazardly tossed a packet of chlorine in and called it a day.

At the time, I had figured putting chlorine in a pool was one of those innate man things that comes naturally to the male species. Like reading magazines on the toilet or cooking steaks on a grill. Turns out, it's not.

The next day, I looked at the pool.

Ian: "I think the rubber is melting and it's reforming into that bulbous shape."

Laura: "The bottom of the pool looks like a white fluffy cloud now."

Ian: "Try not to accidentally drink the water. It's probably over-saturated with chlorine. Um, we should probably get out soon. To be safe..."

Laura: "I just drank pool water. Will I be okay?"

Ian: "Yes."

Laura: "Will you drink some too, just in case?"

Ian: "No."

Guinea Pig Redux

Yesterday, when I posted Guinifred's Great Escape, I forgot to include pictures Ian drew directly following that harrowing event.

I also learned to stop advertising the number of times I will post in one week. Now I look ridiculous for posting thrice instead of twice.

But, I choose to flaunt my circumscriptions and restrictions. For I would like my readers to see Guinifred dressed as Batman and Winifred dressed as the Joker. All ten of you (Hi, Ian!).

More posts containing actual structure and/or plot are coming up next week. Please feel free to comment on the blog or to repost on Facebook or elsewhere if a post strikes your fancy. I will love you forever and ever and ever times infinity if you do.

Love (forever and ever and ever times infinity),
Laura

Guinifred's Great Escape

Ian: "I'm going to buy a guinea pig."

Laura: "We already have a hyperactive dog and a cat that eats us out of house and home. Plus Spottswood. Why should we add another animal to the mix?"

Ian: "I'm going to mate her and sell the babies."

Laura: "Makes sense."

Ian: "We can start a guinea pig farm, and they can live in the backyard. Winnie can herd the guinea pigs."

Laura: "She'll burn lots of energy that way."

In late December 2010, Ian bought a guinea pig, a beautiful chocolate brown one with caramel colored swirls on her back.

Laura: "Have you thought of a name yet?"

Ian: "No. It usually takes a while."

Laura: "What about Hazel? I like Hazel."

Ian: "I worked with a Hazel."

Laura: "What about Clementine? Pearl? Adele? Margot? Elizabeth? Charlotte? Do any of those strike you?"

Ian: "I like G. Money. Or The Situation. Or Snookie."

Laura: "Those are a bit... avant-garde.

Ian: "I was kidding."

Since the guinea pig remained nameless, I began calling her Guinifred, a play on Winifred. The name stuck.

I also called her Hamster, but not to be funny. I'd never had a guinea pig, so she was all hamster to me.

Laura: "Aww. The hamster looks cute."

Ian: "Guinea pig."

Laura: "The guinea pig looks cute. Aww, she's eating her carrot. Are you hungry, little hamster?"

Ian: "Guinea pig."

Laura: "Are you hungry, little guinea pig?"

Having spent months raising a puppy with distinct psychological and social needs, I felt concerned about the guinea pig's emotional state.

Laura: "Is she bored? Is she lonely? Is she happy?"

Ian: "Guinea pigs are simple creatures. They only want food, water, and a cage."

Laura: "Guinifred seems bright. She looks really alert."

Ian: "I agree. I guess I bought an intellectual guinea pig."

As Christmas drew near, Ian asked me to look after his cats and guinea pig while he visited his mother in Alabama for the holidays: "Just feed them once a day."

I was cool with looking after the cats. Cats are easy. I've had cats. But I felt nervous caring for the guinea pig.

Laura: "If something happens to Guinifred, I'll buy you a new one. I promise."

Ian: "I'm sure everything will be fine."

Laura: "But, like, if anything happens, I'll find another pretty one and I'll buy her for you."

Ian: "Why are you so nervous about it?"

Laura: "I don't know."

The day before he left, Ian gave me simple instructions.

Ian: "You probably won't have to refill Guinifred's water bottle. Just give her food in the evening. And a carrot from the fridge."

Laura: "Wait. Aren't you going to cover her cage? You're just going to leave it open?"

Ian: "Yeah. The cover's too hard to take on and off. Like I said, guinea pigs are simple creatures. She'll just eat, drink, and sit in her cage."

Laura: "..... okay."

Attention readers: By this point you should have noticed some foreshadowing.

On Christmas day, I headed to Ian's to feed the pets. I dialed Ian after I entered his house.

We talked as I filled the cat's bowls. I walked into the guinea pig room and looked at the cage, eager to see Guinifred alive.

She was gone.

Laura: "EEEE-an! EEEE-an! The hamster's gone! OH MY GOD!"

Ian: "You mean the guinea pig?"

Laura: "GUINIFRED'S NOT IN HER CAGE!"

Ian: "Uh oh. I wonder if the cats got her."

Laura: "OH MY GOD."

Ian: "Look for her."

Laura: "YOU MEAN LOOK FOR HER CARCASS? OH MY GOD."

Ian: "She's probably alive and just hiding. Look in the desk area below the cage."

Laura: "OH MY GOD. OKAY. I'M LOOKING."

Ian: "See her?"

Laura: Wait...wait... I think I see her. She's not moving. WHAT IF SHE'S DEAD?"

Ian: "Pick her up and see."

Dear readers, I felt one hundred percent positive that poor Guinifred would look like this:

I was certain of it: Guinifred, left in my care for one day, had already deteriorated into a rotting, bloody corpse. I felt too terrified to fish her poor bloodied body out with my own hands.

Ian: "Did you pick her up?"

Laura: "No. I can't. She's probably lying in a pool of her own blood. And dead."

Ian: "Just pick her up."

Laura: "I can't."

Ian: "What's the big deal? I don't understand."

Laura: "I'm going to get my dad. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

Ian: "Wait! What? You're going to get your dad? I don't understand..."

I hung up, hopped in my car, and fetched my dad. At Ian's, Dad carefully scooped up Guinifred from her hiding place, blood-free, breathing, and beautifully alive.

Dad: "She's just a little guinea pig. Why were you so scared?"

Laura: "Oh, just...corpse and... blood... and... snuff."

Dad: "Huh?"

Laura: "Oh, nothing."

I called Ian again.

Laura: "Guinifred's alive! She's alive!"

Ian: "Yeah, I figured she'd be alive. She must have escaped and gone on an adventure. Most guinea pigs just sit in their cages and eat."

Laura: "Trust you to buy the smartest damn hamster in the entire store. You couldn't choose a normal sloth one. You got the feminist one who decries cages and captivity and plots elaborate schemes for freedom."

We now keep the cover on Guinifred's cage. We have to keep a careful eye on both Freds.

Monday Night Musings

Laura: "Yesterday, out of the blue, my mom begged me to never get butt injections. I swear I can't be related to the woman."

Ian: "Butt injections?"

Laura: "Like, implants in your ass."

Ian: "Oh."

Laura: "I would never get a butt lift, I would never want a butt lift, I would never get a butt lift. Where does she get this stuff?"

Ian: "Obviously from the TV. I think I know what she was talking about. I saw a news story about how women are getting back-door butt injections. And they're getting injected with caulk.

Laura: "I think she mentioned the radio. She hears things and works herself into a frenzy over them. It's ridiculous. I WOULD NEVER GET BACK-DOOR BUTT INJECTIONS OF CAULK."

Ian and Laura: "............................."

Ian: "That would make a great band name."

I currently post twice a week, at the beginning and end of each week. A longer post featuring guinea pigs and mayhem is coming later this week.

Spottswood and Harvey in the Burbs

I am allergic to cats. I am deathly allergic to cats. They don't actually make me die, but when I'm exposed to them, I pretty much fall to my knees, begging for a swift and merciful death.

My eyes burn, my nose leaks, and histamines surge through my body, attempting to destroy my white Scottish ass.

So, obviously, Ian has cats.

Woo, boy, has it been fun.

I'm allergic to most things, including dogs. However, Winnie is hypoallergenic, meaning she doesn't shed or provoke allergic reactions.

Laura: "I'm so allergic to your cats. I think I'm going to die."

Ian: "I'm allergic to your dog."

Laura: "That's impossible."

Ian: "I am allergic to your dog."

Laura: "You're allergic to her bullshit."

Over time, I've adjusted to the cats, so they no longer inspire violent allergic reactions. I've swallowed enough cat hair to produce some immunologic therapy. It's like cheap, convenient allergy shots.

Ian: "I should put cat hair in your water."

Laura: "It's the only way..."

Ian has two tuxedo cats, Spottswood and Harvey. Spottswood's a sensitive, wide-eyed, perpetually frightened cat. He's scared of the refrigerator and the washing machine and lumpy blankets and sudden movement.

In the early days, he was scared of Winnie. When Winnie first trotted into Ian's house, Spottswood took one look and fled.

Spottswood tends to hide in the liter box room. In the house, it's accessible by cat door only. Ian affectionately calls it the Doo Doo Room.

The Doo Doo Room also functions as the Panic Room. When I started dating Ian, Spottswood spent the majority of his time in the Panic Room.

He's since grown accustomed to the dog, and the two even sorta play together.

Laura: "Aww, they're playing!"

Ian: "Winnie's just biting his toes."

Laura: "They're playing chase!"

Ian: "He's just running to the Panic Room. Look."

Laura: "They love each other!"

Ian: "Hmm."

Harvey is the dominant cat. He provides a foil for Spottswood. Whereas Spottswood is slender and elegant, Harvey is rotund and awkward.

Laura: "Which one's the smart one and which one's the dumb one?"

Ian: "I don't think there's a smart one or a dumb one. I think there's just a fat one and a skinny one."

Laura: "Oh."

Harvey's a big, fat lumpy thing, but he's charming in a big, fat lumpy way. We joke that he craves cheeseburgers and milkshakes and french fries and other traditional American food.

The first time Winnie walked too close to Harvey, Harvey hooked her face, yielding a puppy-sized bloodbath. Here's my crappy illustration of the traumatic event. (Please note: this is why Ian draws the cartoons).

For months afterwards, Winnie emitted ear-piercing shrieks every time Harvey looked at her. It was a tense situation.

Ian: "We've been invited to a dinner tonight. We'd have to leave the dog alone with the cats."

Laura: "It's cool. Harvey can babysit."

Winnie and Harvey eventually chilled. Now they play outside together. Winnie tears around the yard in circles and Harvey lumbers through the grass.

And Spottswood stares wide-eyed through the glass door, terrified of a world with no Panic Room.

Laura: "I could swear you beat him."

Ian: "I think we neutered him too early."