Monthly Archives: November 2010

Questing still.

I don’t know what happened.

All the sudden it was almost too easy.

Maybe they were tired of seeing my mopey dejected, rejected, little ass hanging around, hands plunged deep into my pockets, looking like Miss Carol and the dogs had been hit by the train.

Maybe it was just my turn. Maybe officialdom has some unwritten, unseen agenda that counts down through the days and when it’s your turn, it’s YOUR turn.

Whatever it was, I won the lottery. I hit the home run with the bases loaded, I caught the touchdown pass with only seconds to spare, I sunk the impossibly long put, I tossed in the three-pointer at the buzzer, I gambled on my gas and squeaked over the finish line to win.

I did it.

Not only did I get the Land Disturbance Permit (just typing that makes me laugh fucking out loud), I got the Septic and the Well Permits AND successfully applied for the much sought after, but rarely seen, BUILDING PERMIT.

I think it might happen, chile.

And if it does, you better believe I’m gonna frame that sucker.

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20 lbs. of Bob.

Moms came down for a visit this weekend and brought her new dog Bob with her. Bob is a three year old rescue and he’s part beagle and part something with short legs. He’s 20lbs. of heart wrench that walked into our house and decided he was in charge.

And Cutter and Tug agreed.

After he’d made the grand tour and sniffed everything and taken a poop in the middle of the living room, Bob jumped up on the couch, made himself nice and comfy on the pillows, and growled at Cutter and Tug if they dared join him.

And since they are pussies they immediately backed down and spent the entire weekend cowering between my legs, hiding from the terrible Bob. Honestly, they are SUCH pussies.

To make matters worse, or better, depending on your point of view, Miss Carol fell hard for Bob. He was soooo cuuuute she just couldn’t stop picking him up and hugging him and every time she did the boys would look up at me with their WTF? eyes. And I’d be like- sorry dudes. It got so bad that by the time Moms was leaving, Miss Carol carried Bob across the lawn and put him on his blankie on the back seat of Moms car.

Then, while we were standing arm in arm waving goodbye she turned to me and said that she wouldn’t mind having a little dog like Bob around our house because he was soooo cuuuute and because she swore he’d had a little tear in his eye when she’d laid him down.

Jesus fuck.

So I hugged her and told her she’d probably been squeezing him too tight.

Time.

Sunday marks the end of Daylight Savings Time- that vain, collectively narcissisitic attempt by Congress to control time and daylight- so according to the gently hugging, overly maternalistic, government controlled news media we’re all supposed to set our clocks back one hour tonight before we put on our ‘jammies and go nighty night.

We here at oceandoggy.com say fuck that.

Don’t fritter your hour away and waste it sleeping. Hoard that hour, cling to it like a teen-agers first Playboy or a winos last sip. Be a rebel. Don’t set your clock back like the rest of the human cattle. Be different.

You’ve got 24 hours before Monday’s cold hard slap of meetings and schedules force you back into timely concurrence- take advantage of it and exert some control over your destiny. Relax. Leave time where it is for a little bit longer.

Then, on Sunday, when you and you alone decide you need a little more time or when you’re doing something you’d really like to have another hour doing or if you feel you’ve wasted an hour and want a do-over- that’s when you set your clocks back and enjoy your stolen hour.

You’ll still arrive bright and early on Monday morning chronologically insync with the rest of the planet but you’ll have bent time and the universe to YOUR schedule.

If only for an hour.

Quest.

“I can only think of my quest, I’ve not been satisfied being merely a tone, I’m making the choice to venture off”Josh Groban.

Thanks Joshie baby.

I too am on a quest.

A seemingly endless quest for a building permit and I’m not satisfied being merely a tone either. Whatever a tone is.

So anyway. I spent two days swimming uphill in both directions, battling The County on my quest, my journey. Yesterday, after work I hauled ass down to The County wanting to get the CAMA permit going ’cause I’d read it took a minimum of 18 days to clear and I’m starting to get really worried about the timeline.

I arrived panting and panicked in the CAMA office with my files and drawings and spilled them all over the very nice CAMA woman’s desk and the very nice CAMA woman took one look and pointed one of her perfectly trimmed and painted nails at the plan and said-

You don’t need a CAMA permit, she said.

I fist bumped her ’cause Miss Carol doesn’t like me to be kissing other women and ran out into the rain to get my Soil Disturbance Permit- which I’m gonna need because I’m going to be disturbing a LOT of soil building a house.

The County is funny like that.

I sprinted over the courthouse lawn high-steppin’ the sprinklers and curbs and ran into the Health Department, sluicing rainwater and breathing hard. I pressed my face up to the bullet proof glass and asked where the Water Conservation Department was.

And the nice lady said pointing to her left- right there but they’re both gone for the day.

Both? As in TWO? I asked? And no one else can help me get the Soil Disturbance permit that’ll lead to the Septic Permit, that’ll lead to the Well Permit, that’ll lead to the bright shiny Building Permit??

No, she said.

Come back maybe tomorrow she said.

Pee Pee Dance.

Twice a day, everyday, when I walk the boys, it’s not enough that they have to pee on every scent, on every plant, bush, rock, and mailbox, on every garbage can, and on every little kid standing still that we happen to come across on the same one mile loop we ALWAYS walk.

No way.

That ain’t near enough. They gotta top the yellow stream with the pee pee dance-its like it’s their end-zone celebration- their slamming the ball down and dancing off, hip-hoppin’ sideways to the roaring crowds.

This is how it goes-

They snuffle up something worth peeing on which is anything and everything and then they lift opposing legs and pee on each other and then, while they’re reveling in the warm gift they’ve given each other, they happily root?, or rut?

They both become furry little rototillers, churning up the grass and sand and dirt and hurling it back behind them in huge clumps.

It’d be cute if they did it once every now and again.

But they have to do it EVERY time they pee- which is like every ten feet?

I don’t get it- is it because they still have their dangly bits?

Shut up.

Ya know how some days you’re just off the charts chatty?

Shit’s clickin’ and you’re feelin’ like every little word droppin’ off your lips is some kinda pearl of wisdom that everyone needs and wants to hear and muse over?

The kinda shit that you think people would just want to roll over and over in their minds and hands and appreciate and rub smooth like pebbles or snowballs, making them better?

Yeah. So you continue on, giddily full of yourself, secure in the knowledge that others find you as entertaining as you do.

But then reality kicks in and you get a forearm bolt check to the chin and a follow up knee to the twins when Miss Carol says- you know what?

Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?

And you do.

‘Cause you’re good at that too, ’cause it’s something you learned when you were little.