Lady of Leisure

Did you ever leave work early for a doctor's appointment, drive down a popular street, and wonder "where the heck do all these people come from??? Don't they have jobs?" I've wondered that, especially about places like Union Street, where it seems the people dining outside linger for hours with not a care in the world. And you just gotta wonder, what are you doing? Don't you have a job? I mean, I might be a dog, but even I have a job. I am a 24 hour companion. I get paid (in food and board) to accompany Joe and Dina on their excursions, sleep the day away, and occasionally fetch a ball. Hell, I'll even play dead if it means you're giving me a biscuit. Now, more than ever, my job has become quite demanding, though. My numero uno boss has become a lady of leisure. So I'm working pretty much 24/7. She, too, can be one of those people dining for hours at Rose's Cafe with the only thing plaguing her being the need for a new mani/pedi. But is she, is the question...

Here are a few things I've learned about Dina since she left her job.

1. Dina likes to be productive. She uses her free time to catch up on all sorts of things, and sometimes battles guilt when she feels like she hasn't done enough (enough of what, I have no idea. There's only so many loads of laundry you can do).

2. But, and here's a big but, Dina also really enjoys relaxing. So she has adapted surprisingly well to her new lifestyle. No, she doesn't lounge at cafes (and for the record, has not had a mani/pedi since she quit, which I think is a big mistake), but she certainly does take her time at the gym.

3. Free time is proving to be a good thing for Dina. She's more relaxed and easy-going (not a word that would have applied to her before). Personally, and don't tell her I said this, I think she's a better mom to me and I wouldn't say a better wife, but rather, she's a better friend to Joe now. She has more time to ask how he's doing, and perhaps more importantly, she actually listens to his answer.

But back to the initial question, what do we (she, a lady of leisure, and me, her paid companion) do with our days?

We read, but sometimes I have trouble finding books I like:


We eat, although I don't share my food:


We nap...Well, I nap. Dina serves as my pillow:


And sometimes, we just cuddle:


I have to say, my job might be demanding, but it's certainly rewarding.

I am too loved.

No such thing, you say! Love is good, how can there be too much, you say! If you have too much love, you're simply a lucky dog, you say! Ahhh, you say all those things because you are not an 18 pound beagle who has no ability to speak her mind, save for a bark here and there. And even when I do that, people coo, and say "how cute! Listen to her!" Well, unfortunately, I can't say anything -- not anything you'd understand anyway. It's certainly not possible for me to push my little digits down, only to leave one furry digit up solo, giving you the bird. And that's fortunate, for you all. Because if I could say something to you, or make any sort of human-like gestures, I would say this first. Stop dressing me up. I am not a toy. I come with my own coat, and in fact, I'm even double-coated. Since my kind has been around since the 1800's, we managed to evolve a bit, and my coat is so damn good, that I'm practically rain-repellant. But yet you (and that's the collective you, as all of you are guilty of this) think that despite my evolved double-coat, I still need to be dressed up. And then you do things like this to me.

Here I am, an American Apparel model. And like American Apparel models, I am also underage, pubescent, scantily-clad, generally sweaty and dirty, and provacatively posed:

Here's a Mexico City American Apparel employee (no kidding, it's from their site) - who's sexier?:

This is my Martha Stewart poncho. Yes, I too should be imprisoned for wearing this. At least her's hid her ass:

Here's Martha, your hero (you love to hate her, but you really just wish that she would stop making you looked so damn messy and like you can't throw a decent dinner party):

Look ma! I'm a pimp! Aren't you proud?:

And Ice T, because he used to be a pimp and clearly, he still rolls like one!:

Folks, all I'm asking for is my dignity.

P.S. Please don't be confused, I do, in fact, love getting gifts. I accept foods of all sort, belly rubs, and gift certificates for belly rubs (is this my wishlist, or Joe's?). But please, no Christmas sweaters with dogs on it, or special needlepoint pillows with a baying beagle on it. I am NOT what I wear.

I'm not a girl...Not yet a woman.

Sadly, most of you reading this probably know that the title to this post is a little shout-out to Britney, as this was one of her big hits that helped lead her to Crossroads acting fame. Or perhaps that was too long ago, and now all you can remember is that Britney got a bit chunky, is awfully-looking like white trash, and is a former pop star that can't manage to put on shoes before she hits the public restroom at gas stations. Never mind the fact that she married what is indisputably white trash (rap career or no rap career), K-Fed, who strangely enough hails from nearby Sacto, yet not strangely enough, fathered a couple kids out of wedlock.

In any event, enough about them, more about me. The reason I titled this blog "I'm not a girl...Not yet a woman" is because, WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH, I've been spayed! I don't understand. Joe and Dina pretend like they love me, like they treasure me, like I'm the only thing that matters in this world. And then what they do? They have me drugged so someone can rip my uterus out. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! Feel sorry for me. Feel very very sorry for me.

Here are the before and after photos.

Before:

After (can't you just see the pain on my face, never mind the pain in my houha!):


I don't think I'm exaggerating my pain. I didn't go willingly. For crying out loud, I had to be drugged the entire time (I wish I still was - how 'come there's no doggie prescription for Vicadin?). The word on the street is that this is a good thing. I know, I know. I don't need those dude dogs sniffing at me anyway (don't they know that NO means NO??!!). But my trust in Joe and Dina is seriously altered and it's going to take a little more than peanut butter and pupperoni to gain it back (more like peanut butter, pupperoni, and bits of apples! I know, I'm an expensive date!).

In defense of my whining, I'd just like to ask Joe and Dina each a question. Exactly how would they feel if they had their private parts removed (permanently, my friends! There's no velcro reattachment going on here!!!). In any event, I feel lost. I'm not longer a girl, yet I'm surely not yet (or likely ever will be now) a woman. And shoot, the least they could have done was a little lipo on my ass if they were going to put me under...or maybe I'm just really really furry on my backend. Yeah...that's the ticket.

Easy like Sunday morning

I can't help but let the soothing lyrics of Lionel Richie (of Commodores fame for those born in the 70's and before; Nicole Richie's father, for those of you born in the 80's and after) come to mind whenever Joe is around. Joe is like...Joe is like eating a turkey meal, taking a dose of Nyquil, or returning home at 3 a.m. after a hard night of partying where you end up waiting for a piece of pizza at Pizza Orgasmica on Fillmore Street wondering how the hell you're going to get home. In other words, Joe just makes you want to doze off and take a nap. I don't know if it's his own predisposition to napping, the perfect amount of fat to bone ratio on his body, or the body heat he exudes, but whenever I'm around Joe, I just want to drift off and slumber for, oh, just a bit...
Joe doesn't even mind when I spoon him.

Year of the Dog

Gung Hay Fat Choy! Ok, I'm a little late, but I've been boozing since Chinese New Year, I finally woke up from my nasty pijiu hangover and I'm ready to spread the love. Dude, it only comes around every 12 years, but this year is MY YEAR! The Year of the Dog! Woohoo!

This year is going to be a great year. First of all, my PoPo was born in a dog year. Here's PoPo with all the men in her life:

Here's PoPo with all the woman in her life: She's lucky, you know, because she has all those people that love her in her life.

Second of all, Dina turned 34 in February. 34, for whatever reason, is her favorite number. No, not because she really loved Charles Barkley or Fernando Valenzuela for that matter.




Instead, that's Dina's basketball number, the number she had since she was in 4th grade at a ripe 10 years of age. She's actually 11 in this picture, but see if you can pick her out. She's in the first row, being one of the shortest. She's always been in the first row. No, it wasn't selected for any particular reason other than the number was free. But Dina kept that number from age 10 , all the way through high school, and even during some club play post-high school. (By the way, for all of you wondering, just because you play a sport that long doesn't mean you are good. And surely, you aren't any good 14 years after not playing the sport at all. It's almost like you never played at all. And did you check out that hair??).




Third of all, and here's my final reason. For cryin' out loud people, it's the Year of the Dog, and I'm a DOG!!! So bow wow wow yippee yo yippee yay to you all, my peeps. Have a great year!