Mastering the Art of Labor Day Anxiety

 

I’m a 54 year old woman who had a dream last night whereby I forgot I was enrolled in a class and had to read Madame Bovary* and write some paper about it and it was due last Friday and not only did I forget I was in the class, I hadn’t read the book and I fucking woke up in a meat sweat panic and it took me a bout 15 minutes to figure out that I haven’t been in school since 1985. Holy Patron Saint of Labor* Day Telethon RIP Jerry Lewis, when will this end? I STILL FEEL THE SCHOOLS!

(*Madame Bovary, I know right? What does THAT mean?)

(*American spelling, so sue me)

Anyway, it’s only Freddy in the household who still goes school and I spent the entire morning on Saturday getting his shit together whilst he slept off his hangover. This is fine, he’s my baby, his summer job was the night shift and I move better when I’m alone. He goes to Ottawa U but he’s in his third year so he just needs to replenish his food pantry. So I went to No Frills thinking I could get deals because I’d be doing a big stock up shop and people always tell me what a goddamn fool I am to shop at Loblaws. Big lesson learned that day, you cheap bitches:  By the time it took me to unlock a fucking cart with a stupid quarter and wrangling its wide rattling ass into the goddamn store, I could have watched an episode of something/anything on Netflix, which I’m sure you’ll agree is time better wasted. Also No Frills has nothing. Fuck-Doodle nada. It’s like going into that dream I had where I forgot I was enrolled in that class. Where is the Ibuprofen? Why is there no White Cheddar Mac n Cheese? Cavernous holes in every shelf. If you ever worked in retail, those holes are the portal to hell. Face them up bitches,, it’s not that hard. And where are even the toilets? I have to take a slash mid-shop no matter where I am. Also nobody is good looking there, just a bunch of bargain hunting fug butts and their snot gobbling spawn in grotesque lighting who don’t know the rules of the road apply to the aisles of a groshop unless you are in the UK where you can slide up any which way.  If you could go to my Loblaws on any given Friday night, you would think you were in Rio De Janeiro. Like on the beach when Antonio Carolos Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes were inspired to write “The Girl from Ipanema.” My Loblaws is THAT magical.

When I got home I was so crabby, I didn’t even know myself. Did you get salami? Was all he asked before I took his head off. Not really, but even a little snap will put a damper on the final days and I said WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT SALAMI YOU KNEW I WAS SHOPPING HOLY GOD I’M NOT A MIND READER. Okay, so it was a big snap but still, I’m not a mind reader. Also I know that was one of those disengaging tactics one goes through when someone is leaving. I’ve just watched it on “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” when dude left. Don’t ask me which dude or when, they are playing them in random order as a marathon. It’s hilarious, I watch it ironically but I’m really learning so much about human behaviour. Not really, yes really. It’s super weird watching the old episodes when Bruce was Bruce and they had no clue. His eyebrows were so on point, how could they miss it?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I cried when Freddy left today and I’m also feeling weird anxiety. I also adopted another dog over the summer. It wasn’t really an impulsive thing to adopt another dog as I work with dogs, have other dogs occasionally in my house besides Betty, enjoy a two dog dynamic, even three dogs is fun, but this dog kind of came quickly, like a Tinder swipe. Woosh, bang. I was perusing the ole Internet, as I am wont to do, and came across a dog from a rescue site that I thought was cute. His name was Pancake and he he was from Mexico and had ears like tortilla chips, so cute!!! Freddy thought he was adorable also so I applied to adopt. Waited and whatnot. Days went by and no response.  Meanwhile, found another little Chihuahua pooch named Louie, who Evangeline took a shine to, and applied. Heard from the Louie people first and filled out an application longer than it would take to adopt a child from China and then got approved for a “primary” interview to visit him out in Kitchener. So we drove out there thinking: Jesus Christ, are we just driving there only to go all the way back? What the hell? When we adopted Betty from a rescue lady in Mississauga, she couldn’t wait to get rid of her. TAKE HER GODDAM ASS, we won’t cash the cheque for two week because everyone keeps bringing her back tho, like I’m going to go all the way back to return her in Mississauga, how much of an asshole can she be? Turns out a HUGE asshole and also turns out I’m really lazy. Kept her ass and haven’t looked back 12 years later.

Well I guess the new adoption process is maximum due diligence these days and it’s admirable. First impression: Louie looks like a squirrel/bat/wretched P0meranian that fell through a chimney, he’s kind of black but black coated, not black from the root but like a white haired Hispanic lady who died her hair with boxed Clairol and let it go for a few months because she went on a bender. He literally does not look like a dog. He’s a being, of an animal variety, but possibly mythical. He’s enchanting though, cute in the face, but mangled up in the body. Limps likes he has been carrying a back pack filled with nuts and roadkill for his forest friends (apparently he was a stray from Ohio). SHY AS FUCK. HIDES UNDER A TABLE. We said yes though. But only because we were in Kitchener and wanted to leave because a total Dorothy in Kansas storm was brewing and we were starving so we left but without real thought because I’m sure if we had real thought, we wouldn’t haven’t even been on the internet swiping right to rescue dogs in the first place.

Anyway, Louie’s rescue had another step and that was a home interview which we were sure, phewwww, we would totally fail because Betty is such a bitch and the home visit would entail a visit from another rescue dog who lived close by. I don’t why I feel relieved by the onset of rejection but I do…. HOWEVER! We passed our home visit with flying colours and Betty was adorable to this random Black Lab who she will never see again (she obviously takes after to her mother). So Freddy and Evangeline went off to Kitchener to pick up Louie whilst I was at work, which you would think would be a good way for him to bond with them so I wouldn’t have to so much. I’ve bonded with so many dogs in the last few months I feel to chill in the bottom of the pack for a bit, yet I’m still obsessed with dogs so that’s where I’m at with my mindset. But it was as though he knew I was the one who cut the cheque for his adoption fee because I am the only one he stares at, wants, loves. He looks at me like he thinks I’m pretty, so I’m cool with it.

So Louie has a flaw or two, according to the rescue: He’s afraid of a leash (who isn’t?) but most importantly he hates men apparently. His previous adoptees, a couple, sent him back because the dude claimed he chased him around the house barking his high pitched bark, which I rarely hear, scaring him to death. It’s pretty standard issue where rescue dogs hate men and have been traumatized by them in some way. Chill, Bill, grow a pair. But! There goes my Tinder game. Sigh, however! If he’s a cock block, then I will deal and be relieved if he scares them away. Fuck the men folk anyway, I am kind of put out by them these days, that last dude I thought was cool turned out to be a gaslighter, long story, I’d love to go into it but I won’t now because I’m saving it for my Ted Talks/screen play/other blog where I really tell my secrets. So if this furry little dude is guarding the gateway to ma pussy, then coolio, woof woof, enter at your own risk. CAVE CANEM, motherfuckers.

When Louie first came to the house he hid under a table for the first couple of hours. My fear was that he was one of those timid dogs that end up living under the bed who you forget about just like that dream where you forget about that class but this time there is a life on the line and you forget to feed him and he dies you end up with a bad smell that you nonchalantly attribute to peri-post-menopausal fartaciousness but it’s only when you vacuum a million years later that your Miele swivel head gets caught on a ploof of floof with skeleton attached that you realize holy god, it’s that freakish Louie dog I forgot I adopted!  Worst nightmare ever! BUT! Then we started watching Jeopardy and as soon as he heard the beginning theme song, he ran up to the couch and curled up on a pillow and basically called it his spot. His other spot in on my boobs. I can literally walk around with free hands while he clings to my upper tittage area like a 1950s mink stole. He’s fucking awesome and I am his glamourous lady.

We changed his name from Louie to Pablo though because I read somewhere that you should change a rescue dog’s name so they don’t associate it with their shitty past life. Makes sense. Pablo seems to have a good life now. Feeding him raw food like the wolf that he is. He sleeps on my bed by my head, smartest spot in the house. He also comes with me to work and hangs out with the coolest dogs in town.

Betty is jealous and is acting like a toddler dog but I just think she needs to chill. I don’t believe in cow towing to anybody else’s emotional issues, even the house pets. We can all learn to get along. Pablo makes me nervous also, as I have taken on a new responsibility when the kids are about the fly the coop and Betty is old and cranky as fuck but I guess that is what change is about, adaptation and giving your own ego a kick in the ass.

In he meantime, the first dog, Pancake with tortilla ears is still up for adoption, they just took a long time to get back to me! Go here, get a pupper! Don’t be scared:  http://saveourscruff.org

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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One response »

  1. Thanks for the Labour Day treat! (Canadian way ‘cuz here in northern New York we it’s spelt GOTTAWORKANYHOW.) There’s something special about sending one’s spawn back to university with Kraft Dinners, Ramen and enough peanut butter to pretend they (he/she) won’t be protein deprived. A litre of vodka makes a nice parting gift too! Best of luck with lucky Pablo who has found himself new digs!

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