An Update: Harvard the Gross

My husband has been prodding me to post a new blog for at least... a week? Two weeks? A month?

You know, life gets busy. Or something.

Here's a run-down of everything that's happened in the past month at the Winiferd house.

1. Harvey is disgusting. 

First, he started peeing on the living room rug.

We sprayed it down with what I call "Stank and Stain" but within hours, the smell would return.

This is seriously the only good recent photo we have of Harvey.

And then Harvey took a dump in the living room rug and helpfully mashed it deep into the shaggy fabric. That thing was done for, immediately.

But Ian's a hopeful man. He scurried about in his underwear at 7 in the morning, desperately trying to salvage the rug.

I had used my Christmas money to buy it last year, and he was worried I would feel heartbroken over the assassination of Shaggy the Rug.

The rug in better days

Alas, I took one sniff of Harvey's gift and knew all was lost.

Laura: "It's dead. Throw it away."

Ian: "You're okay with that? I thought you'd be upset."

Laura: "It's just a rug. There are worse things in life you can lose."

2. Harvey is trying to kill himself.

Harvey took a happy trip under the bed two weekends ago. He emerged with an enormous bald spot. He had cleanly ripped out a perfect circle of hair on his neck.

The bald spot looked red and inflamed. I couldn't stand to look at it so I gave Ian some Neosporin and asked him to coat the bald spot. Harvey's bald patch immediately began looking better.

Then, last weekend, he scraped the hell out it on his cat door, leaving him with a bloody flesh wound atop his bald spot.

I run away screeching when he shows off his bald spot now.

Harvey also enjoys dangling off high shelves while attempting to eat the semi-poisonous plants we had to move indoors.

If we find a suicide note in the next few days, it will all make sense.

3. Polly has feathers on her head now.

In an attempt to piss off Harvey, Polly has grown back the feathers on her bald spot. It appears we must have at least one bald animal in the family at all times.

4. Sal went to chicken heaven.

Something snatched up Sal. At this point, no one feels sad or mushy or frankly, even surprised, when something gets our chickens.

You learn quickly that chickens are just food sources, no matter how hard you try to make them into pets.

That's Sal on the left

5. Ian cooked phallic turkey sausage. 

I told him not to buy them, but he insisted. And then he screeched in horror as the wieners fried on the stove.

Ian: "I can't eat these! They're disgusting!" 

Of course, he ate two of them. Might I add, they were both disgusting-looking and expired. One week later, he still seems fine.

Baby Ian

So. Long time, no see. It's only been... what? Twenty-three days since my last post? I don't know. I've been busy at work and, eh, tired. Very tired.

I feel like I must apologize to my ardent readers who send bags of fan-mail and request Winiferd in the Burb t-shirts (please start sending bags of fan-mail and requesting Winiferd in the Burb t-shirts. God knows, no one else does). 

To make it up to you, here are some scrumptious scans of Ian as a baby. We spent several days with Ian's mom recently and took the opportunity to scan eight billion childhood photos of Ian:

Oh man, I can't even handle this photo. He's like the Gerber Baby meets Buddha, completely calm, serene, and blissed the hell out.

Baby in a bow-tie

Baby hypnosis?

The forehead wrinkles slay me. He's like a puppy.

Baby Beef-Cake on the beach

Looking a bit Hugh Hefner 

Learning to walk. And work his angles. Both very important life skills.

Ian told me, "That car seat was so hot." I, on the other hand, can't remember a darn thing about my toddler car seats.

Forget all the baby-cute stuff for a minute. I think we can all agree this picture is terrifying.

I mean, you would suspect he was a beautiful child, but damn if his parents couldn't have sold this kid off to the advertising world.

"And here we have four-year-old Ian modeling K-Mart's latest in overalls. Only $8.95 at any participating K-Mart."

Ian's most smoldering preschool look

SMILE WITH YOUR EYES

This was a common theme throughout the photo albums. Beats the hell out of me if he actually used the real swings. I saw no photographic evidence.

He wore lots of costumes: bunny, Indian, Pilgrim, Indian...

Eh. That bow tie and hat aren't really big enough to look authentic.

Real Native American men wear pink.

I have tons more, but Spottswood's feeling jealous that everyone's cooing over Ian instead of him. So this will have to do.

Spottswood the Menace

Life is full of irony, something Alanis Morissette went on at length about back in the 1990s.

Which is why one week you're branding your surly fat cat and needy dog the grossest, most annoying animals in the universe, or at least the house, and the next week the cat you deemed perfect is rampaging around the house acting like the devil with his pants on fire.

Spottswood, perfect, dainty, adorable Spottswood, erupted into hell on legs last week.

Spottswood has chewed three keys off Ian's computer keyboard, insists on chewing up computer cords, crams candy wrappers and plastics into his cheeks, hops onto shelves and knocks all the contents off, and is continually running between Ian's legs making them both skid around erratically.

"I am so gnawing on that ethernet cable."

Hell hath no furry like a cat who chews up your computer hardware, so Ian has taken to calling Spottswood, "asshole" and "bastard."

By contrast, Winnie has spent the last few days being cuddly and sugary sweet.

Ian and I usually walk the dog together, but the few times Ian has declined to walk, staying home to fix his mangled computer hardware full of fang bites, Winnie has leapt into Ian's lap, burrowing into his legs. She'll give me a mournful look, hiding in Forever Daddy's lap, upset at the prospect of separation.

And, well, you try to despise a dog with that kind of loyalty. Ian can't. He emits all kinds of "Awws" when that happens.

And then you factor in Winnie's new haircut, which makes her look like a deformed lamb mixed with a miniature Luck Dragon, and then the time a sleeping Winnie jerked awake, shaking and wild-eyed, tail tucked between her legs, scaring the ever-loving crap out of both Ian and me, and you suddenly have a wildly sympathetic Forever Daddy.

Laura: "She must have had a nightmare. I've never seen a dog react so emotionally to a dream."

Ian: "I was waiting for an earthquake to happen. Poor thing."

So we currently have an asshole of a cat and an achingly sweet dog. We're patiently waiting for Spottswood to level out and for everything to return to normal.

In the meantime:

Laura: "Did you know 'dog' spelled backwards is 'god'?"

Ian: "Yeah."

Laura: "Did you know 'cat' spelled backwards is 'tac'?"

Ian: <Giggles>

Survival of the Fittest

On Sunday afternoon, Ian summoned me to the barn and pointed out two sets of animal tracks: one set of animal prints walking into the barn and one set of chicken prints walking out of the barn.

Some wildlife apparently sneaked into the barn looking for a chicken dinner, and the chicken dinner cunningly ran circles around it, escaping to blissful freedom.

Ian: "We have some smart chickens."

Laura: "We're down to the four who out-foxed the foxes."

Ian: "And we started out with ten."

Laura: "It's literally survival of the fittest at this point. We're left with the strongest and the brainiest. If I had known that, I would have named these last four Charlotte Darwin or Alberta Einstein or something."

Famous last words.

A mere day later, Ian and I prepped for an evening walk with the dog. I pulled on Winnie's harness while Ian went to put up the chickens for the night.

Winnie and I grew impatient in the driveway as Ian took longer than usual to tuck the chickens into bed.

Suddenly a cat streaked past us, flying down the driveway. Ian came running after it.

Ian: "I have to get a flashlight! Marjorine is missing! I had to chase that cat away."

Missing: one white and red hen. Matches the barn.

Damn. When an animal has been skulking in the backyard, it usually means we have one less chicken.

We searched the yard by the fuzzy glow of the flashlight, looking for a mound of white feathers from poor dead Marjorine.

Ian ventured into the greenhouse.

Ian: "Oh my god!"

Crap. He found poor dead Marjorine.

Then I heard Ian laughing.

Poor guy. All the chicken carnage has gone to his head. He's lost his mind.

Ian: "Look! Look!"

I walked to the greenhouse, cringing, scared to see Marjorine's bloody carcus.

Ian pulled back an aluminum tray revealing a hidden Marjorine, calm, peaceful, and serene. Our little Marjie had outsmarted the cat.

Then Ian lifted up Marjorine and showed me a couple week's worth of eggs. Marjorine had been nesting and hiding her eggs in the greenhouse, lest we take her babies.

"What a good mommy," I cooed.

And that's how Marjorine proved, once again, she's a smart chicken. We're signing her up to take the SAT nex week.

Winiferd in the Burbs: SVU (Clank, Clank)

The crime-
Feces. Doo Doo. Defecation.

Scene of the crime-
The kitchen rug (yikes), the kitchen floor surrounding the kitchen rug (eww), and the bottom kitchen cabinet (WHY, GOD, WHY).

The time of the committed crime-
Between 3:00 am and 5:00 am, Friday morning.

The suspects- 
1. Skinny cat, black and white, fifteen pounds. Sleek, elegant, shiny. Has his own beauty regimen. Poses daintily for the camera. Has a crush on his school friend, Nicholas. Is generally perfect in every way.

2. Fat cat, black and white, twenty-three pounds. Dandruff, intense shedding, pathological eater, is best friends with a one Mr. Hanky.

Has a history of doo doo issues. Sleeps often. Loves strangers. Ignores family.

The story- 
I take Winnie to the potty at around 5:00 am on Friday morning. I notice lumps of...stuff. It's too dark to see, but the dog is intrigued. It smells oddly like dead things. Nah, I'm still dreaming.

I drag the dog outside to do her business, and we go back to bed. At 7:00 am, Ian and I wake up. I sniff the kitchen air. I cringe. I spot the crime.

The verdict-

Screw criminal justice and Miranda Rights and fair trials.

Harvard Nathaniel, the jury finds you guilty of First Degree Bull Shit, and the judge sentences you to a year of public shaming.

____________________________________________________

The Crime- 
Wee wee. Wet spot.

Scene of the crime- 
The living room rug I bought with my Christmas money, a rug that is shaggy and red and awesome.

Time of the committed crime- 
Between 8:00 am and 10:00 am, Saturday morning.

The suspects-
1. The fat cat from yesterday who now has a history of being too lazy to walk ten feet to the liter box. The fat cat who has temporarily lost all regard for rules and regulations and not shitting on the floor. 

2. Small dog, white, fluffy, eight pounds. Has to use the bathroom every four hours. Enjoys long walks and chicken-watching. Has attachment issues. Is hyper needy. Has a history of peeing on towels and rugs when immediate need to urinate goes unmet.

The story-

10:00 am on Saturday morning:

Ian: "It smells awful in here."

Laura: "I don't smell anything."

11:30 am on Saturday morning:

Laura: "What's wet over here? What is this?"

Ian: "I guess that's the source of the awful smell."

Laura: "I still can't smell it."

A few hours later: 

Laura: "IT SMELLS LIKE A DYING TURD IN HERE. I THINK A ROTTEN CARCUS IS MASHED INTO THE RUG."

The verdict-

This time we spend a few hours deliberating but ultimately declare the dog guilty of First Degree Asinine Behavior.

We sentence the dog to a year of being watched extra closely and constant references to the time she shamed the family.

The Doggy Said She Loves Me!

Here's the latest slew of catch-phrases here at the Winiferd house:

1. For the past several months I've been slipping the sentence, "The doggy said she loves me!" into casual conversations.

For instance:

Laura: "Have you heard about Romney in Britain today? Apparently, he's made multiple gaffes."

Ian: "I heard about it on NPR."

Laura: "I think the Brits are quietly waiting for Romney to tie one of the Queen's corgis atop his mini-van and drive it into the River Thames."

Ian: "Ha."

Laura: "He's headed to Israel next. That should be a nice, easy atmosphere to prove his diplomatic skills. The doggy said she loves me! So, yeah, I can't wait to hear what he'll say next."

Ian: "Did you... did you just say, 'The doggy said she loves me'?"

Laura: "I'm not sure. But she does love me, so it's probable."

A scan of a younger me with a cowlick and a very young Winnie

Puppy Winnie 

2. This has inevitably led to, "The kitty said he loves me!"

Ian: "We should get a hairless cat someday so you won't be allergic to it."

Laura: "Okay. They're ugly as hell, but I could deal with it if I could hold them. I never get to hold Spottswood and Harvey."

Ian: "They're intrigued by you."

Laura: "I know. They love me. I mean, they tell me all the time..."

3. We constantly imitate the chickens...

...Meaning I constantly ask Ian to imitate the chickens. Polly's cluck is light and charming, Caroline's is loud and screechy, and Marjorine sounds like a duck.

Here's a video of Ian imitating Polly, Caroline, and Marjorine, in that order.

Harvey and Winnie got overly excited when the camera came out, so there's a bit of me loudly objecting.

We should have re-shot the video, but Winiferd in the Burbs hasn't yet reached that level of journalistic excellence. We pride ourselves on slapping together the most half-assed media you've ever seen.

So watch the video!

Shitting on the Clock: Rekindling the Worker's Movement

I don't know if you've noticed, but the economy has been lagging a bit lately. Everyone's predicting doom and gloom and anxiously awaiting the days when gas costs twenty bucks a gallon and no one can afford food.

Then there's the unemployment, decreasing wages, and hyper-inflation. The lucky ones with jobs cling to them, taking on added, unpaid labor because damn, I'm so lucky to be employed.

Furthermore, the U.S. remains the only advanced nation with no mandatory vacation or sick days for its workers.

While most companies allow workers two weeks of vacation per year, every other advanced nation gets approximately four to eight weeks off and demands that workers use these vacation days. 

On the other hand, many U.S. employees fail to even use their paltry two weeks off, fearing negative repercussions from employers.

In the U.S., we strive to worker longer and dumber, rather than shorter and smarter. So you can imagine why U.S. employees might start to feel burnt-out, run-down, and apathetic.

I asked Winnie and Spottswood to write a guest post for the blog, highlighting ways mistreated, downtrodden workers can rebel against the system.

Here are their tips to win the race against the clock, challenge the rules, and beat the system.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors, Spottswood and Winifred, and do not necessarily reflect the official policy, position, or beliefs of any agency of Winiferd in the Burbs, including its creator and writer, Laura, or its cartoonist, Ian.

1. Form a prayer circle at work. Invite all colleagues to join a morning prayer ritual. Take prayer requests and volunteer to say the prayer. Make the prayer as long-winded, verbose, and rambling as possible. 

Maximize the time spent in the prayer circle. Strive to cut at least half an hour from your work day. In the process, you will also gain brownie points from your religious co-workers. 

To cut even more time, bring a Bible and offer to read several pages. Try to spark discussion. You may be able to cut an entire hour from your work-day. People love the Bible.

2. Adopt an extracurricular activity. Let's be honest: a lot of people can finish their work for the day in about three hours.

That leaves an entire five hours everyday in which employees can gain useful skills or knowledge.

Take on a useful hobby that enhances creativity and vision.

Learn a new language. Balance your budget. Research ways to start your own non-profit. Research ways to start your own for-profit.

Or start writing a blog. Not that we'd know anything about that. Since we're a cat and a dog.

3. Try to work from home. At least ask. It's worth a shot.

4. Take plenty of bathroom breaks. See title above.

5. Smoke Breaks. Coffee Breaks. Water Breaks. Take breaks that aren’t counted as your corporate-issued 15 minutes. You can pick up the habit second-hand. Get a buddy who smokes and break whenever they break.

6.  Use your vacation days. Actually use them. Rebel against sick corporate culture. Also, use your sick days.

If your company grants you two weeks of sick days per year in addition to two weeks of vacation days, you can figure that's about four full weeks of vacation.

7. Drink on your lunch break. You have an entire hour in which to make the rest of the work day bearable.

Bar hop.

Sample the lunch-time dollar margaritas at any Mexican restaurant.

Or go the old-fashioned route and pour rum in your coke in the company break-room.

8. Nap on the clock.

a. Tell your co-workers you left important work materials in your car. Go to your car and sneak in a power-nap.

b. Find a secluded, rarely-used maintenance closet to sleep in. Find one that only the Friday cleaning lady uses. One that locks from the inside.

9. Create a workplace computer emergency. Unplug one of the network cables. Throw a breaker in the breaker box. Let your creativity flow on this one.

10. What’s for lunch? Never pay for meals again thanks to the generosity of others. Keep on eye on the frozen dinners and to-go boxes people stash and forget in the fridge.

Snag them just before they go bad. 

And those are our tips. Thank you for reading our very first guest post!

We're tired now. Good-bye.

The Motorized Bicycle

A couple of weeks ago, Ian made the decision to order a motorized bicycle, allowing him to commute to work using significantly less gas.

The motor bike came in a box. In multiple parts. In multiple tiny parts. And with a motor, you know, just hanging out in the box. A motor that had to be attached to the bike.

I'm not sure why he considered this a good idea. If I had to build a motorized bicycle from scraps, I would have run for my life, screaming, crying, and shrieking in anguished despair.

I have this super idea...

Alas, it was Ian's money and Ian's bike and Ian decided that a weekend of agony was exactly what the doctor ordered. I sat back quietly as Ian placed the order, amused, skeptical, and already silently forgiving.

Here we go. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Of insanity.

I was of two minds: 1. Ah, boys and their toys. And 2. Hold on to your hats, darling pets. We shall soon hear Daddy's primal screams ringing from the rooftops. Don't take it personally.

The bike arrived on Thursday by UPS as promised. I had taken the day off from work and was the first to glimpse the box. Or rather, boxes. The thing arrived in two heavy boxes, too heavy for me to haul into the house.

So I ordered Winnie to window-watch for any motorized bicycle thieves looking to steal large boxes of random, exasperating parts.

Winnie promised to sound the alarm and dutifully kept watch at the window. Motorized bicycle thieves are evidently getting smarter because the boxes remained untouched.

Ian lugged the packages inside the house when he arrived home from work. He cut through the cardboard, and I heard satanic mutterings escape the pungent boxes.

I immediately escaped to the living room, opting to read the New York Times in peace before the rampage began.

Winnie, Spottswood, and Harvey were enthralled by a Daddy on floor-level with them, so they gathered around in wide-eyed curiosity, soaking up the smell of acrid rubber and the sounds of forty million metal parts clattering upon the kitchen floor. 

4:00 on Thursday afternoon-

Ian: "I can't wait to build this bike! I bet I finish it by tonight!"

Laura: "I'm just going to keep reading in here."

Ian: "Don't you want to sit at the kitchen table and keep me company?"

Laura: "Ummm, it's a little more comfy in the living room."

9:00 on Thursday night-

Ian: "What the hell is wrong with this thing? It makes no sense! UGHGHGHGHGHG."

Laura: "Oh dear."

Ian: "I MESSED UP THE BRAKE SYSTEM. THEY SENT A BAD BRAKE SYSTEM. I'M GOING TO KILL SOMEBODY."

Laura: [Herds animals into living room]

10:30 on Thursday night-

Laura: "I'm going to bed. You should, too. Just work on the bike tomorrow."

Ian: "I'm going to stay up."

10:45 on Thursday night:

Ian comes to bed smelling like rubber and grease. There's also the distinct odor of unshed tears.

Laura: "I thought you were going to stay up?"

Ian: "I decided you were right."

Friday night-

The kitchen floor is littered in enormous boxes, plastic bags, wrenches, and a billion metal parts. I debate snapping a photo, but one should never poke a sleeping bear.

Ian: "@#&*@$#&*@#$%&#@$((%&&*(&*)!$*(^^$#%&*()()_^&#@$@#"

Saturday- 

Ian: %#@^&^*(())*_*)_$%$#()*%$^^%#$&)*(^%$#()*)_*(^%$^*(()*^%$##@%**%$=(&^%%@^&&$%^%$^&(^(^()&()&()_%$#@%!#@^&^&^*(&()&()%#@^%$#^%^%#&%$&$@#$%^(*)%$%^%$^&(^(^()&()&()_%$#@%!#@^&%%&&^&^*(&()&(%$#$#@&(&*(&"

Sunday- 

Ian: "#$(*()*()&*($^%&*(()_()_^&$#%#@$&$#@&*(^%KISSMYASS^&*(&&*^^%$%&)(*(*()*()$##@$$%^^%&*#%$&*($%KILLKILLKILLKILL#^%^^%%$#%$^^%$#$@%IWILLKILLYOU^$^%$#%$#$$#@"

And then, late on Sunday afternoon, after a pissed-off Ian had rampaged all day, slamming doors and screaming swears, he finished the bike. I arrived home after visiting my mom and found a calm and cheerful Ian with a perfect motorized bicycle.

He hopped on the bike, revved up the engine, and sped down the street.

And we all lived happily after.

Except for the pets. They need therapy now.

Here's a video of Ian riding the motorized bicycle: