Laura's Big Move

Laura: "Oh no. There's a spider web in here." <Grabs shoe to kill spider; decimate web>

Ian: "Wait! That spider killed two flies."

Laura: "Oh."

Ian: "Kill him after he traps the rest of the flies."

Laura: "Okay... Does he have a name?"

Ian: "Charlotte."

Laura: "I thought he was a boy."

Ian: "Charles."

And that's how we adopted a spider named Charles.

Postscript

Laura: "Hey look! Harvey's posing next to your Godzilla doll! How cute! Wait..."

Ian: "I think Harvey just ate Charles."

It took one week, three visits to Fresh Slices, and sixty-seven dips in the pool, but we finally moved all my stuff into Ian's house.

Before: Oh the humanity!

After: Get your minds out of the gutter, people; that's tomatoes and basil we're growing.

The commotion and noise of the move scared Spottswood out of his already perpetually-frightened mind.  

WHAT DEMONRY IS THIS?

Ian and I had a blast, despite the hours of cleaning and organizing and rearranging. 

Hi, everybody! I'm organizing the dishes!

I will appease Harvey for sixty seconds, while I take this photo. And then I'm fleeing, BECAUSE THE SHEDDING, MY GOD, THE SHEDDING.

The cats are enamored with the new guest bedroom, where we moved my bedroom set. 

Forget Spottswood. I am clearly the more beautiful cat.

Finally, Winiferd spent the end of the weekend feeling confused, wondering when I would take her home to our old apartment.

Remember home? I liked home. We should go home.

We can't go home? I stay here?

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