I’m dogbound at my folks’ house for the next couple days; just me and six pups, while mom and dad do a getaway trek through Kansas. There’s my two, my parents’ three, and my brother’s barky corgi, Willie Barnes.

We’ve got lots of dog warfare going on around here, mainly alpha struggles between Stella and Lola, with hench-pup Mabel acting as toothless 3-lb enforcer. (Bitch is nasty; I’d roll over if she came for me.) And we’re so full up on pup, the fur is literally flying, great gobs of it blowing through here like tumbleweeds. But lo, I have seen the light. My mom borrowed her neighbor’s Furminator, and I’ve been brushing, brushing, brushing my dogs all day long. In fact, I’ve unearthed so much undercoat I could knit you another dog, if only I could remember how the needles go.

Here’s how much came off one chihuahua in a single session, as compared to a variety of household objects. See, it’s bigger than a baby teether:

It’s as round as a squash:

And it’s as long as a zucchini:

Why does this please me so?

I think it’s because I have the sort of brain that takes grim pleasure in the cataloguing of bodily function. No, I don’t save my urine in a jar and or inspect my kleenex after a sneeze. And I’m not nearly as bad as my old college roommate, who saved her all used sanitary napkins (and not for any proto-feminist art project; hers was an act of ritual packrattery, something bodily pathological). But I confess, I find the sebaceous topography of a used Biore strip deeply satisfying, and back when I could afford brazilian bikini waxes, the pain was always balanced by my fascination with the wax-trapped hairs on cotton.

Perhaps I just like proof that something has happened: my pores cleared, my parts bared, my pups brushed.

Now excuse me, I’ve got dogs to furminate.

Via

I don’t always rock the bear hat. This is what I wear to work:

And here I am after hours, in the parlour (with a candlestick):

bunny-monkey, miss scarlet

Welcome to inertia; every day feels like Sunday wrapped in Monday lately. I have fuck-all to report: I haven’t collapsed in the corner; I’m not sad or mad; there have been no wounds or revelations, no news of what’s next. Mainly, I am just—what did my realtor call it? oh, yeah—biding my time, while Aretha sings me on through to evening.*

I’d be bored if I wasn’t so eager. My brain is aseethe lately, restless with ideas I cannot implement. But I won’t be emotionally homeless forever. (Oops, I can hear the over-dire hyperbole siren ringing in TSB’s head right now: Alert! Alert!). Let me rephrase: this limbo won’t last forever, and neither will the heat. In the meantime, will you be my something, my anything? We could take the dogs out on a walk, ride bikes down to Bread and Cup for Tuesday’s wine flights, settle in together for season 2 of The Wire.

Sound good? Meet me on the front porch in twenty; I’ll have the dogs leashed and ready to roll.

*As long as I’m stuck, I’m going to try to dance in place, just like Miss ‘Retha.

When I saw this on the window of a local property management company, it was all I could do to stop myself from opening the door and yelling inside: “It’s all over the Internet, you deluded schmoes! Use the Google!”

Then I remembered that 20% of Americans believe the sun revolves around the earth,* so I stood there ostentatiously taking pictures with my cameraphone instead, and have posted one here on my weblog.

That’ll learn ‘em!

*Not to be confused with the countless thousands who believes the sun shines out of their own particular assholes, although there’s plenty of overlap.

Sorry for the silence; the heat is back and my plate’s been full. Luckily, my attitude is buoyant, my toenails are freshly painted, and IT’S FRIDAY, BITCHEZ! Hallelujah wonderment: let a thousand roses bloom and a million jaws unclench. Next week, I’ll be all vivid and expository for y’all. But for now, stay beautiful and sharp, and enjoy your glorious two-day reward.

Apparently, world champion quarterback Ben Roethlisberger has been accused of rape in Nevada civil court. Here’s how The Subtle Boyfriend, a diehard Steelers fan (as well as a Lakers lifer), is taking the news:

First Kobe, now Ben. Love ain’t easy.

More pictures of the Neph, to please my Ford-obsessed readers. I especially love the last one, because if you look close, you can see the tributary of drool running from mouth to chin.

And yep, that’s the quilt I made for him. It’s all baby quilts, all the time around here, since half my friends are knocked up right now.

Ford is mainly amiable, but he can rock the bleak like nobody’s business. See, even his fauxhawk looks depressed:

Such a heavy weight on such a small boy. Lé sigh.

Is it Ford Presley, junior superstar, or Ford P. Milkbelly, general contractor?

Either way, he’s edible.