Monthly Archives: December 2013

O Tannenbaum. Sweet Tannenbaum.

O Tannenbaum, Sweet Tannenbaum.

Long after you’ve been chosen and chopped down and hauled far, far away from the only home you’ve ever known-

And long after you’ve been propped up, leaning against others of your ilk, awaiting who knows what in the harsh light of the sales lot-

And long after you’ve been chosen once again and strapped to the top of a car-

And long after you’ve been dragged inside a sweltering home, a tree stand screwed to your trunk and stood in a corner-

And long after you’ve been draped with bright lights and heavy ornaments and glittering tinsel by giggling little kids and expansive adults-

And long after you’ve stood sentinel over gaily wrapped packages-

And long after you’ve watched the feigned surprise and happiness over seemingly thoughtful gifts both unneeded and largely unwanted-

And long after you’ve presided quietly over the gluttony and drunkenness that is a long-awaited Christmas dinner-

And long after you’ve it’s all over and the family has all gone home and the only thing remaining is the smell of over-cooked turkey and Uncle Bob’s overly masculine and horrendously inexpensive cologne-

After all of this, O Tannenbaum, Sweet Tannenbaum, you’ll still be standing; resplendent and twinkling glitteringly, beautifully regal in your Christmastime cloak of lights and splendor-

Until-

O Tannenbaum, Sweet Tannenbaum, the holiday is over and you’re stripped of your lights and your ornaments, your tinsel and your garland and you’re yanked from your stand of water, dragged outside and dumped at the curb, and left lying in the gritty grey gutter water, where you quietly shed needles and await trash pick-up.

O Tannenbaum, Sweet Tannenbaum.

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Dinnerdread.

I had just gotten home and gotten Cutter and Tug ready for their evening walk which is preceded by, and dreaded by me, their evening meal.

Every night is a new and interesting tug-of-war to get our two turds to eat in something resembling a reasonable fashion.

Tonight was no exception. After I’d managed to quell the spilling excitement and running around and wrestling that reaching for their leashes had caused, I gave them both a dog biscuit and filled their bowls with food.

And thats when the fun always begins.

Numm, ummm, chomp, ummm, nummm, Tug says, burying his face in first one bowl and then the other.

Cutter stands, looking expectantly and hopefully up at me.

Boss, c’mon boss, can I get another biscuit?, just one more biscuit?, he says, glancing back and forth between me and the pantry. C’mon, c’mon boss, pretty please? he pleads, twitching like an addict.

Nummm, nummm, chomp, glump, Tug says, and swallows.

I hesitate briefly and then gave in. Cutter just looks so needy. All right, I say, moving towards the pantry and giving them both a biscuit. Tug pauses eating his dog dinner just long enough to trot over and take the proffered biscuit.

Hmmm, nemmm, he says, chewing thoughtfully, this actually attenuates my meal, he says.

I think you mean accents, I say, that it accents your meal.

Whatfuckingever, Tug mumbles, moving back to their food dishes.

I put my coat and gloves on and turn to see Cutter once again beckoning towards the pantry. C’mon boss, he pleads, I just LOVE those things. I can’t get enough of ’em, I’d get ’em myself if I had thumbs, he whines, looking like he’ll pee the floor.

Jesus Christ, I think, pulling my gloves off, and repeating the nightly cycle.

And then again.

And then a fourth time, and finally, I lose my temper. ENOUGH, I shout, angrily giving them each one more biscuit. Cutter and Tug stare at me, maybe feeling sorry for me, and then Tug goes and stares out the door, ready for his walk. Yesssss, I think, moving towards Tug and the door.

But Cutter goes to the bowls, sniffs experimentally and then stops and stares up at me.

I don’t have any chicken, he says.

I try to count to 10 and make it to 3.

OF COURSE YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING MOTHERFUCKING CHICKEN CUTTER. TUG ATE ALL OF THE CHICKEN OUT OF YOUR CHICKEN AND RICE DOGFOOD WHILE YOU WERE FUCKING AROUND WITH BISCUITS!, I yell, my blood pressure spurting off the scale. WHY CAN’T YOU GUYS BE LIKE REGULAR DOGS AND JUST FUCKING EAT!!!!!, I shout, gesticulating about like a crazy person.

Cutter and Tug stare at me. And then Cutter drops his eyes to his litter mate and they exchange a look. And the look says, jesus what a dickhead.

Tug shrugs and turns back to the door, staring out expectantly, patiently waiting.

Cutter returns to their dinner bowls. He sniffs. He tastes experimentally. And then he sits and looks back at me. He settles himself.

I don’t have any chicken, he says.

Reborn. Redux.

Hola all over again.

Holy shit it’s been a long time. A long time since I posted or wrote or even thought about posting or even writing. 

I’d about given it up. Figured my creative juices had jelled, had set.

I was tired. A lot has been going on.

But, then, all of a sudden, like a bolt out of the blue I felt I needed to update something, anything, and the first and easiest thing that came to mind was my blog header. 

Woohoo- welcome to the party in my brain!

So I pulled up WordPress, wrangled with resetting my long forgotten password, and found my crinkly old blog and mussed with it.

And as I did, a strange thing starting happening- my jellied juices started a tepid stirring, a slowly un-coagulating. It was not unlike an infected cut reopening. 

Not necessarily painful, but maybe refreshing?

Hey, a girl can hope.