Scene begins – Jenge has just gone upstairs while Margarita sips her coffee on the sofa. . .
J (from upstairs): What medication did you have in your room?
M(sits up like a shot): No! She didn’t!
J: She did. What was it and how many did you have in the bottle?
M: Umm, I dunno, 30? but I’ve taken some.
J: Kay, I got 26.
M: Call the vet! I don’t think she ate any, but we can’t be sure!
J(on phone with vet, covers mouthpiece and speaks to M): She has to come in and throw up.
M: How much is that gonna cost me?
J: Dunno, but since we can’t be positive she didn’t’ eat them, she has to come in.
Later that day, at the vet’s. . .
Vet: Looks like she didn’t eat any of them, or if she did, didn’t ingest any full capsules. All we found was kibble, a cookie and some black plastic.
– side note: It was “Underworld Evolution” Later found chewed up in my room.
Portia had to spend most of the day at the vet getting her vitals checked every hour, but has since returned home. Apparently she busted into the pills and was more interested in destroying the prescription bottle than actually eating its contents. That dog is going to give me a heart attack!
As you know, Rocky is extremely high strung. I can’t laugh during tv shows as it sets of a five minute non stop stream of barking and pacing. I also can’t sneeze, move to quickly or pet Portia too long as it sets off another barking fit. So, at our last trip to the vet, Jenge talked to the vet about this problem and she recommended an herbal mixture for dogs that is supposed to calm him down. He gets three servings a day.
So, is it working? Tough to say, but the stoner doggie jokes are flying fast and furious around her. Is he calmer? Who can tell? He’s wound so tightly that even if he were to calm down by 50% you might not see it. But last night I was able to chuckle quietly to myself and he didn’t bark, so fingers crossed!
Working at the CarWash!
So the other day, as I was driving down Crowchild Trail, the sun was shining brightly and it was a gorgeous, bright, winter day.
Too bad my windows were so dirty that I couldn’t see squat out of them.
I had pushed it too far, left it too long. Nope. Not even a trip to the gas station and some lovin’ from the squeegee would save me this time.
It was time. Time for a carwash.
I love the carwash, and so I’m surprised how long it always takes me to get there. I’ve always got other things I need to do. Groceries, coffee stop, work, running late. I never seem to have time. But the other night, I decided, enough was enough. When you can’t tell if your headlights are on because they are so dirty, it’s time to go.
Going to the carwash makes me feel happy, like a child. It’s loud and there’s lots of stuff going on, but it’s all pleasantly muffled from the safe interior of my car. Although, now that I am an adult, there is an added level of suspense: Did I close all the windows? What about the back one that’s a little dodgy? Will it hold??
But it does and then the pretty colored foam gets sprayed on and I try to find exactly where it is that it turns pink and green, but I’m only ever able to catch it if I let my eyes drift over the entire windsheild. Scrutinize one point too hard, and you’ll miss it. I splurged on the luxury wash, which I consider a deal at 8 bucks. Nothin’ too good for my baby!
And now my car is bright and shiny and I’m busting with pride as I stare down at it in the parking lot. Do yourself a favour. Take yourself to the carwash today!
Emo vs Goth
For those of you not in the know (and hey, I’m right there with you), I have recently found out some info that may be usefull. For a while now there has been a new breed of teenager whose look is classified as ‘Emo.’ Now, you may look at them and see Goth, but apparently calling an Emo a Goth and a Goth an emo is like wearing a wrong colored bandana in downtown Gang City and you are asking for punishment. So I was confused, what was the difference? no one new, so I googled it and was directed to a site that Heidi had previously told me about, Ask a Ninja.
You can find out all about Emo vs Goth here.
Girly Girl and her Wheels.
I am irrationally attached to my car. I spend more time in my car than I do with some of my friends. I have an hour long commute (both ways) on good days, up to 2.5 hrs on bad (snowy days). I eat in my car, drink coffee, learn greek, sing along to the radio, contemplate life, work on my story dialogue, plan my day and day dream in my car.
When it had to go into the shop last week to get two new tires, I was lost without it. I had my mum’s car, graciously and generously loaned to me for as long as I would need it, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t my car. There was no funny rattling sound when I stopped at red lights. No ‘Check Engine’ light glared at me from the dash. The heat worked great, the windshield wipers cleaned both sides, there was a cd player. It just wasn’t the same. I know that sounds odd, you would think I would have been ecstatic, but, sniff, I missed my car.
So much so that when I went to go pick it up, I had a stupid grin on my face after I paid my bill and was told it was outside. ‘Hi baby!’ I whispered as I opened the driver door and slid in. I re-adjusted all my mirrors and my seat and then patted the steering wheel lovingly. “Did you miss me? I missed you!”
We’ve been through alot together, Perry (my car’s name because he is periwinkle blue) and I. We’ve driven to Vancouver and back, we’ve secretly eaten chocolate bars and hidden the wrappers, he got broken into once and I was devastated. We’ve been frustrated by traffic, and driven late at night with no radio on and only the sound of his windshield wipers whoosing unevenly. We’re mates! We’re pals! We’re homies! He’s my freedom to get to wherever, whenever.