the slack daily

2012!

New Year's was spent as it has been for the past three years: no makeup, in my PJs, drinking champagne, and livetweeting the Twilight Zone Marathon.

Sidenote: I am going to be FORTY this year. When did that happen?

 

Daisy was bored by it all.

 

We were asleep before midnight.

Hope you had the holiday you wanted. As for us, we have a fridge full of Italian food and a group of friends coming over to eat it. (Which is precisely the holiday I wanted.)

I'd like to be here more this year, but as always, you can find me on Tumblr and Twitter.

I am a Horrible Human Being.

Why I Love Twitter.

A Letter to the Guy Reading War & Peace While Walking His Dog.

Hey There Dude Reading War & Peace While Walking Your Dog,

Most people are content to demonstrate their smartness by walking and chewing gum at the same time, but you, sir, you took that challenge and turned it up to eleven! First I thought perhaps you were working out your biceps with Tolstoy's giant tome of the effect of the Napoleonic Wars on Russian Aristocrats, but you made sure to crack the spine into submission as I walked by to show me that you were as serious as...well, War & Peace.

I can only imagine the conversations you have with your dog - who I imagine is ironically named Lenin because he likes his dog bed extra cold - at home. While Daisy and my most frequent conversation goes something like "HEY! GET OUT OF YOUR BUTT!" you must be discussing the cultural ramifications of Tsarist Upper Class Problems. (I got 99 problems but a Tsar ain't one.)

In the meantime, my hat is off to you, sir, in your quest to multitask your education with pet care. Just look where you're going, because Lenin just shit right in the middle of the sidewalk.

 

Love,

The Slackmistress
(Who is vaguely related to some Russian Aristocrats way back when.)

Potcakes: A Dog, Not James Franco's Dessert

It's no secret that I adore dogs. I think dogs are the best animals in the universe. Human beings can be petty, cruel, and downright evil and dogs still think we're amazing. Or they at least want to.

It's rare that I go on vacation - Will and I will sneak off for a weekend to Vegas or San Francisco, but our traveling has pretty much been 100% family related. He's never taken a week off since we've been married unless someone has died. We've been married for four years. We're overdue.

However, I have a problem: I cannot go anywhere where there is a stray dog problem, because I cannot shut off that voice in my head that says help. (Please feel free to judge how I feel about people from that statement.)

In 2005 I went to Tahiti, and while it was absolutely gorgeous, the packs of skinny, stray dogs who would nudge you for a morsel of food or a kind pat resulted in a rather expensive stay where I cried 50% of the time and I went nowhere without a stash food & Purell (to disinfect their wounds) my purse.

So now, when I think "would I like to go there?" the first thing I do is some research on the stray dog population.

Last night, I discovered the Turks & Caicos have a population of stray dogs that are now native to the island called "Potcakes." According to PotcakePlace:

'Potcake' is the name given to the dogs of The Bahamas and Turks and Caicos Islands. It came about because the locals fed the caked remains of the cooking pot to the dogs.

Potcakes are rescued from around the islands of the Turks and Caicos.
The spay/neuter programs are not keeping up. The feral dog population of the islands is growing, and more and more litters of puppies are being found as well as individual pups at a loss without their littermates. They may be found by tourists whilst they are out exploring, or locals in their back yard, whilst they are working on construction sites, or driving around the island.

 Potcakes have evolved into a breed which is extremely smart, loyal and loving. In the 'Success Stories', you will see them so at home from the beach to the snow, and from playing gently with young children to snuggling with other dogs and cats.

They're also pretty freakin' cute:

 

There's a lot of disagreement in the rescue community about adopting dogs from other countries  when we have such an issue with animal overpopulation here. No matter where you land on this issue, the real issue is spay & neuter. Potcake Place & the Pegasus Foundation lost the bulk of their spay & neuter funding, which was helping stem the Potcake population.

If you can help at all, throw 'em a bone.

Why I'll Die in the Zombie Apocalypse But That's Okay Because Chances Are You'll Already Be a Zombie By Then, Too.

So last night was the premiere of the much-anticipated Walking Dead, which began with a law enforcement official shooting a little zombie girl holding a stuffed bunny*.

Will: They don't waste any time, do they?

Me: She was a zombie, it's what you do.

I will have to turn in my Nerd Card when I admit that I haven't read the graphic novel. Not by choice, it's just that usually when I remember things I want to buy/read/see I am nowhere near a place to buy/read/see them. When I heard that Walking Dead was going to be made into a series I decided I wouldn't read the source material, but go back afterwards and see if there was anything I missed. I'm a completist that way. (You can give me my Nerd Card back now.)

Watching disaster movies (which while they skew horror, you could argue that they're easily disaster movies as well) always make me wonder how I'd react in the same scenario. I realized that while Will and I had discussed our wishes for what happens to us after we die or have to go on life support (Will has said he wants the plug pulled as soon as his pants go out of fashion), but we hadn't discussed what happens after we become undead.

I told Will that I would be upset if he didn't shoot me when I became a zombie. Unless I was a hot zombie, because then I'd want him to first take photo to show everyone what a hot zombie I made. Then he could shoot me. Never turn down a decent photo op.

But if we didn't end up zombies, what then?

But it's moments like these that I am reminded of a not-so-long-ago project of mine called the Post-Apocalyptic Workout, in which I was documenting my prep work for the Zombie Apocalypse.

Everyone always imagines themselves the hero but let's face it, most of us aren't. Most of us are just the hangers-on looking for someone to tell us what to do and then arguing when they tell us what we don't want to hear.  Like how I shouldn't go back for me dog.

This is why I'm going to die during the Zombie Apocalypse: I'm going back for my dog.

Will and I have a joke that's not really a joke but we say it in that ha-ha way which means this is serious but we're going to pretend it's not that we can both walk, so saving Daisy is our number one priority in any situation. Daisy is not Lassie. She will not pull you out of the well and call you an ambulance and mix you a drink at the end of a long day.

No, Daisy is the con artist of dogs, making you feel like you are the most important thing in her world at any given time. Daisy hates cats and dogs and squirrels, but Daisy does one thing better than any other animal on the planet, and that is that she LOVES YOU AND ONLY YOU.

In our ragtag group of survivors, when people would be going on about their parents and their kids and their wounded (listen, if zombies movies have taught me anything, it's that you gotta shoot the  wounded), I will wave that all off and say dasvidaniya, suckers I'm not leaving my dog who won't protect us from the zombies and in fact probably draw the zombies to us because her penchant for butt chewing sounds like Darth Vader attached to a Hoover vaccum so you'd better go on without us.

In summation: The Walking Dead is awesome and when my inevitable zombiefying happens in the apocalypse**, please do me a favor and take me down in one shot.

 

*The only moment of cringe-worthiness for me was when Mr. Law Enforcement Official co-opted a horse to ride into the city. I knew it wasn't going to end well. And it didn't. (Although you could argue that it ended well for the zombies.)

You asshole! I screamed at the TV while Will reminded me that it wasn't a real horse.

**This means IF I AM ACTUALLY A ZOMBIE. Not if I tell you I feel like a zombie or if I'm just sleepy. I have to be eating actual human*** brains.

***Clarified because I have been know to eat non-human brains.

I Look Good for 39.

I don't know what it is, but I can't stand living where we're living anymore. The lack of electrical outlets, the mold that grows back in the shower (which has two settings: super-fucking-hot and rendering-flesh-from-your-skin-hot), the wood counter tops which are softening with age, the formica counter tops that were installed last year that pool water in random places, the cabinets that are hanging on by a solitary hinge, threatening to tumble at any moment and take us with them....

But then I come back to the rent. The rent is cheap. And the place is big.

We can save for a house! I keep telling myself. But even though the market is prime for buying, we're still not in a position to do so.

I have always had an internal cut-off point. That cut-off point is 40.

I can't live there when I'm 40, I told Will the other night. We'll either have to be ready to buy or just bite the bullet and rent a nicer place that's fit for humans to live in.

I've been thinking the same thing, he told me. That means we have a little over a year.

A little over a year?

Because you're turning 39 this year.

I raised an eyebrow.

Wait! he realized. You're turning 38! We have an extra year!

No matter how much older you try to make me, you know you're probably dying first, I reminded him.

I should be so lucky.

 

Photo © Lisa Jane Persky

Family Roundup.

You should read my husband's post on how words mean things.

Daisy J Dog is getting ready for DogHer! 

I realize that I have two categories for people: 1) Friends worth saving during the Zombie Apocalypse, and 2) Meat.

What if All We Have to Look Forward to is a Bucket of Pig's Blood?

According to Jenny the Bloggess, today is Blogging Without Makeup Day,where bloggers, world-'round, post photos of themselves sans makeup.

To be honest, every day is Blogging Without Makeup Day, because I don't roll out of bed fully made up.
(And I don't blog every day. But we're talking about makeup here. Stay focused, people.)

My husband does not wake up to this:

Or even this:

I.R. Smart!

The slackmistress in her natural habitat looks something like this:

True to form, I didn't even brush my hair.

This is what it looks like without the cute dog to distract you:

I won't eat your children. PROBABLY.

But then I got to thinking: what's the point of this Blogging Without Makeup Day? Did I just take Jenny's word for it? Sure, it seems to be a meme, but what if it was elaborate ruse to get a bunch of (predominantly female) bloggers to post photos of themselves looking less than their absolute best? What if it was in fact a joke of Carrie-like proportions, and now all we have to look forward to is a bucket of pig's blood?

I pondered this conspiracy theory:

Wearing my pondering glasses.

 

But then I got distracted and forgot.

April Fools, Doggy Style

Follow DaisyJDog on Twitter here.