Is it really all that wrong that I kind of want to veganize some of them, just for the challenge? C'mon, a vegan pizza cone would sound really comforting after a stressful day. . . .
Seriously: how could you not want to take this guy home? He’s young, outgoing, good-looking, and is a total sweetheart. Oh, and he’s single, and looking for love.
His Petfinder page is here. I met him this afternoon when I picked up Moliere after his haircut.* Most of the time I was scratching his ears and head, he was trying his best to lick my hands without twisting his head out of my reach.
Two dogs is my limit — if nothing else, my HOA agreement specifies no more than two, and limits them to 35 lb or less — but if you or someone you know is in need of a dog and has the space for a dog who’ll maybe be 60 to 70 lb when he hits his full growth, check out Boone. The groomer said he’ll be at the Petsmart on Ponce de Leon on Sunday, if you want to meet him.
He’s a lovely, sweet young dog, and he deserves a good home.
***
*One of the things I like about my groomer, or rather Moliere’s groomer, is that he does stuff like this to help out rescues a lot.
All in all, today was not my favorite day. It could have been much worse, I’ll admit — my car might’ve slid on the ice and smashed into something or someone, or Nigel could’ve had a medical problem — but it was still fairly sucky. The various bad things of today included, but were not limited to, the following:
On the positive side, no one has died; Nigel’s in good spirits and Moliere remains sweet but, well, slow; no damage has been done except to my credit cards; and at least the woman at the car dealership said she liked the sock I’m working on:
It’s a crappy shot, but it’ll have to do for now. I’m off to watch old “Mary Tyler Moore” episodes on Hulu to cheer myself up.
Things like this make me happy.
I realize that I am, statistically, an outlier in many respects. I’m vegan, obviously; I’m rather leftist and living in the not-really-leftist-at-all South; I’m a single person in a world awash with couples; I drive a fuel-efficient diesel subcompact in a world of gasoline-driven SUVs; I am a recycling nazi in what is still a largely throwaway society. I tend to think of myself as normal, but when pressed I have to admit that I am not really representative of the views, positions, or attitudes of most of my species-mates.
Sometimes, though, it’s hard not to gawp at how, um, different some people’s opinions are. (Aren’t you proud of me for not swearing in that sentence? If not, read on.)
Case in point: the books talked about in this article (via the always-engaging Crooked House). Disclaimer: I have not read the actual books in question. This post is based on the article and information on the author’s Web site.
Urgh. Pro-hunting propaganda for children (to counteract the “literally dozens of anti-hunting themed children’s books on the market today”; I’m not really up on kids’ lit, but “literally dozens,” even if accurate, doesn’t sound like a whole bunch o’ books to me in the whole marketplace.) One hopes, though, that the choice of victims (one of the Three Bears? Bambi’s dad?) would make kids think beyond just the words on the page and remember that there’s another side to the story.
According to the article, “Jacobs said people who fear guns — and by extension do not approve of hunting — are missing some information. ” Um, yeah — because that’s why I disapprove of hunting: I’m a big weenie who’s too ignorant to know not to be afraid of guns. It’s not the killing and maiming in the name of fun, or even “hunting with a purpose” (apparently, that would be killing one of the Bears for fur and ursine sausages), that I find disturbing; it’s the fact that guns are scaaaary.
Please excuse me for a moment. I was rolling my eyes, and I think I pulled an eye muscle. Ouch.
The Web site selling the books (link is in the article) is also scary — probably because all the cartoon guns on the book covers are unnerving me; that must be it. “Many liberal school teachers in this country are against hunting and can have a persuasive effect on youth. . . . [The books portray] realistic hunting and fishing adventures in a positive manner. These stories will have a beneficial effect on children, and they are a way to reach kids, that have never been introduced to the hunting sports.” Um, yeah. (My editorial side would like to point out the lovely unnecessary comma there in the last sentence, and the way the text refers to kids “that” rather than kids “who,” as one might say if they were people or something. Sorry. Using “that” in reference to thinking beings of whatever age just gets up my nose.)
What’s just about as alarming is the reading-level estimate of “approximate 2nd-3rd grade reading level. Recommended reading ages start at 3-4 years old (if you are willing to read to your child) to 12-13 years of age.” Okay, firstly if you are willing? As far as I’m concerned, if you have a kid and don’t read to him or her in some form or fashion practically from birth, or at least as soon as you’ve recovered from the birth and have gotten enough sleep to be able to focus on the page (which I do understand can take a considerable time), and you yourself are not illiterate, then we need to have a talk.
I say that, of course, in my august authority as Someone Who Does Not Have Kids Herself, although I am definitely Someone Who Reads to Her Dogs Quite Regularly and Is Blithely Ignored by Both of Them. What I know, in a hands-on sense, of actual parenting would not fill a thimble. However, I do believe that having kids entails the responsibility to read to them as part of the job, the same as feeding them and clothing them. It’s an important job, and worth doing properly. “Willing” shouldn’t enter into it.
Granted, that statement says something more about the books’ intended audience than about the books themselves — the books apparently grew out of the author’s story-telling tradition with his daughter, so at least he read to her — but that phrase just incensed me.
Secondly, a 12- to 13-year-old actually reading something written at a 2nd- to 3rd-grade reading level? Way to aim high, dudes; just don’t try doing a book report on something you got out of the kiddie section of the library, or your “liberal school teacher” will rake your lazy butt over the coals. Is our public educational system really such a mess that kids in — what, that’s junior high school? 7th, or 8th grade? I’m too old to remember these things — would actuallly be entertained by reading stuff written for kids in early to middle elementary school? (Again, that’s addressing the probable intended audience, not the books themselves, and in today’s economy I can’t really blame indie entrepreneurs for trying to maximize their appeal in order to survive. It just seems rather unrealistic, and a sad comment on expectations in our society. Maybe it’s just me, though.)
People are, indeed, very strange. In a Venn diagram of “normality,” my perceptions (i.e., causing pain and death for fun = bad; reading at at least your grade level = good) may not overlap at all with other people’s notions. Probably it’s good to be reminded of that every so often, and to remember those wise and calming words attributed to Voltaire.
. . . or, judging from the labels in the thrift stores, Blazerville. (Blazer? Really? Huh. That’s a little like something Wally Cleaver might’ve worn with a diagonally striped tie, but whatever.) I wound up going to two different places, and found four potential candidates, all in that slightly weird velvet they also use to upholster sofas.
Unfortunately, the color was questionable for two of them (brown, whereas the other two were either plummy wine or a vaguely Ford Prefect-y black with silver stripes [a la the 1980s TV version of HHGttG, not the more recent movie version with Stephen Fry narrating; explanatory link for Mark and other nongeeks explaining what the smeg I'm talking about is here]). And, of course, none of them fit properly: either I couldn’t raise my arms parallel to the floor, or they were so big and floppy they resembled sacks with pockets. So, no joy. We are joy-free. We are not at home to Mr. Joy, and we do not hear him knocking.
I am now toying with the notion of sewing my own gorram jacket, or blazer, or lightweight outer clothing for the upper half of my body. Unfortunately, I haven’t a clue where to find interesting fabrics I’d actually want to wear: JoAnn’s tends to have, well, mostly crap, and I start to itch shortly after I walk into one of their stores. Other crafty sources online seem to tend more toward cheerful, colorful prints, and I can’t say that I really see myself putting in the effort to make a jacket out of, say, this fabric and wearing it more than once, for the shock value. (Not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that fabric. Honestly, I think it might be kind of interesting in a strange way as a lining for a purse — just not as anything that’s constantly on display. It’s way too . . . perky.)
Of course, even if I found the proper fabric for a jacket, what I’d really want before even starting it is a dressmaker’s dummy for easier tailoring. Given that I’m not about to spend the money on a real one, and the only way I know to make your own involves mummification in duct tape and a friend to wield the Jaws of Life, that’s probably not something likely to show up in my flat any time soon.
Besides, where would I put it? I’ve cleared out some donations stuff that had been languishing for years, but I still have too much stuff and too little space. No duct-tape dummy for me until the entire flat is decluttered, organized, and cleaned thoroughly.
(I suppose I could just knit this cardie and accomplish both the layering garment and some decluttering in one fell swoop. The thing is, my track record at accomplishing sweaters is not of the best, and though I plan to make that sweater, I’d like something I can wear sometime this year, too.)
I really miss having the time during the week to cook. Getting home at 6:30 or so means that, after I play with the dogs, take them for a quick walk and airing, find wherever Nigel’s had an accident and then mop up, and prepare dinner for Moliere and Nigel (a particularly time-consuming feat now, given that there are eight different meds and supplements that need to be sprinkled, mortar-and-pestled, and/or squirted into his food), it’s easily 7:15 before I can even think of starting to prepare my own dinner. This means I eat a lot of sandwiches, or a microwaved potato with broccoli.
This weekend, at least, I managed to do a bit of advance preparation, so at least I can reheat leftovers, or simply finish off something that’s almost fully prepared. I’ve got the broccoli slaw and one remaining chickpea cutlet, uncooked; there’s a pot of mustard greens and kale going (using the collard greens recipe from the Grit Cookbook, which was recommended by Cindy and Darren); there’s probably a cup of leftover nooch gravy from the same source, which would be good on grains, or the chickpea cutlet, or just licked from a spoon. I’ve even got the ingredients for some salads, kind of. There’s marinated tofu from Trader Joe’s, and plain tofu soaking up the “breast of tofu” marinade from Nonna’s Italian Kitchen, for easy broiling later on. There’s fruit in the fridge, and even presliced cucumbers (I find that, if I leave them whole, I tend to hoard the cucumbers for a later treat, until they turn to goo).
Thus, with a bit of luck, I won’t starve this week, or have to live off too much prefab stuff. (That’s assuming I remember actually to bring food with me for lunches, which is at best a 50/50 shot.) My only other real accomplishment this weekend has been doing my taxes, but, hey, at least that’s out of the way.
Now, if I can just remember where the thrift store is in Decatur, I want to go shopping. For some reason, I’ve been craving a layering-type lightweight jacket, possibly in corduroy. (Do they even make black corduroy jackets?) I’m not sure whence this craving came, but thrifting seems like the cheapest way to satisfy the urge — and despite the tax return that should be coming in the near future, I am still in enough vet-bill-related debt that I don’t want to spend more money that necessary.
