What a ridiculous day this has turned out to be.
With temperatures in the mid 30s, it's too hot to be outside so the dogs are inside driving me nuts.
Sophie is just finishing up her heat -- thank the Lord, hopefully, it will be her last -- but Finnigan's gotten all randy all of a sudden. He simply won't leave her alone.
Strange, fixed boy dogs, they still want it but don't really know what "it" is so they chase fertile little girl dogs all around, grabbing them, coaxing them, with about three feet between their genitals and the generous opening provided for them.
Reminds me of the boys in high school with their gigantic notebooks.
Sophie, for her part, wants none of it, which is a good thing because that means she's getting close to being finished. The trapdoor, hopefully, will slam shut.
This is news to Finnigan who got doused with my kale juice this morning.
We're all fed up.
Sophie told me, telepathically, that she's planning to take out a restraining order on Finnigan.
Meanwhile, Sophie has started trying to eat Finn's food while his big stupid head is still attached to the food bowl. So now, in addition to being their cook and bottle washer, I am now a referee.
Gordie's being an absolute dick, too.
He's been on the old thyroid pills for three weeks now, so he is very aware of his surroundings once again and has stopped barking at the toilet brush.
But now he wants me to sit with him all the time.
If he doesn't get his own way, he whines until I give in.
I'm clocking several additional hours of couch time and I'm not happy about it.
If we had a swear jar and I had any money, we'd be rich.
Do you ever wonder what the dogs who are left home by working stiffs do all day?
Do they ransack the house, like teenagers, and then clean it up before the owners come home? Or do they just give up and lie by the door waiting to die?
These questions sometimes keep me up at night.
Today I learned that I will be laid off from my sketchy part-time job for a whole month.
The French media brigade, who employ me at a ridiculously low piece-work wage, are polishing up their budgie smugglers and thongs, in hopes of escaping the putrid weather in Paris -- their words, not mine -- and warming their assets on the sunny beaches in the Mediterranean.
The slave master Evi gushed in an email about going home to Italy for three weeks. The wine. The bread. The smell of fresh sewage wafting from the canal mixed with the scent of stale booze coming from the breath of gondoliers. Ass pinching.
I can imagine how that would appeal.
"What will you do for your holidays?"
"Freelancers don't get holidays," I grumped. "Holidays mean unemployment for freelancers."
This morning, I started polishing up my resume and it nearly brought me to tears.
Redoing my resume always depresses me. At my age, I feel like an old geezer telling stories about what I did "back in the day". I was a journalist! I worked in the Prime Ministers Office! I wrote speeches for Cabinet ministers! I was a magazine editor for a learned association!
Yeah, like ten years ago.
It's hard to explain that I've spent most of the last decade eating, shitting and working in the same space, waiting for the phone to ring and it never does.
There is one upside.
I have learned new skills along the way.
I learned how to order boots on Shop.ca.
I play a wicked game of Mario Brothers Sticker Party.
I can tape four shows on the DVR at once without ever dropping an episode of The View.
And I've learned to make soup.
I decided to give up on the resume for the afternoon and meditate in front of the television.
Alas, the only thing that was on was The English Patient.
As a film, The English Patient doesn't suck. It's an wonderful time waster at three hours.
For those who haven't seen it, The English Patient offers some excellent fornicating scenes in bathtubs and some terrific examples of drunkenness in the desert.
However, the whole thing ends badly.
The protagonist dies an agonizing death from third degree burns (ouch!) while pining for his married lover whom he left in a cave somewhere in North Africa.
And sadly, Colin Firth crashes himself in a plane while trying to kill his wife and her lover.
It does beat the scene where he girl-fights with Hugh Grant over Bridget Jones.
Always a cuckold that poor guy.
No wonder he started playing gay men.
If The English Patient serves one purpose it is to reveal that a) your life could be worse and b) non-Africans should keep out of the damned desert.
Now back to me.
What's most depressing about the layoff is that it will mean that Sophie will have to wait for her operation. Bills are coming in fast and furious and a pug spaying is now in my budget as "nice to have".
It was suggested to me that I offer my readers an option to contribute to the Sophie Gets Fixed and Finnigan Gets a Life Fund.
So if you are feeling particularly generous and have no other wonderful cause to support, feel free to hit the button which takes you to my PayPal account.
It's up on the top right next to the Grinch.