A few things

I'm awake at 5:30 am on Thanksgiving. I have no idea why. HERE'S WHAT YOU GET AS A RESULT.

1. The other day Charlie leaped on the coffee table, and this was as weird and anomalous an act as he's ever performed. He's sedate, if not unconscious, most of the time (unless a fire truck sounds its alarm, and then he's gotta HELP OUT!) and his favorite activities are a) sleeping and b) relaxing. He has never jumped on anything that was not cushioned and/or made for napping on.

Here you see Charlie in his natural habitat. It might seem as if he's peacefully dozing, but in fact he's waiting for me to place that blanket on top of him. He will soon look up and hrmph at me and if I don't do it he'll hrmph again. Come on, human with opposable thumbs--make with the blanket-application skills.

He will occasionally nab a person-food but only if it's on the very edge of the coffee table, at which point we're really just asking him to take it. But this, this jumping on the coffee table? It was as if he stood on his hind legs and offered us homemade crumpets. It made no sense. But there he was, just like that, on top of the coffee table, looking as confused about how he got there as we were. Scott and I were like whaaaaa? and he looked at us like I KNOW and then we had to help him off because he was all scrabble-legged and freaked about how to get down. And then afterward, oh, how we laughed. How we laughed!

We laughed like this: Ha, ha! Ha! Hoooo! Heh.

2. Ever since Camp Mighty, I have been having stress dreams about Oprah. Oprah is terribly disappointed with me. Every time she looks at me she makes her unhappy face, which I do not like. I complimented her on her dress, and it turned out that she called me into her office specifically to show me the problems with her dress and to ask me to return it for her! Goddammit! And then I woke up soaked in sweat.

3. Scott and I went out to dinner with friends last night and I spotted a character actor also at the restaurant, the kind of actor whose face you instantly recognize but you can't say from where. But his face, his lovable kindly hangdog face! Scott can usually identify these people at a glance, but the name was also escaping him. (Our friends just looked at us blankly while we referred to various obscure actors it could be but probably was not. Thank God we're married to each other.) On the way home I said, I know he's got a really WASPy name, like Buckram Gainsbridge or Percy Crampton. Scott scoffed at this and insisted that this actor was nothing if not Jewish and his name was probably Schlomo Herzfeld. (I'm paraphrasing.)

It turned out it was Austin Pendleton. Austin Pendleton! WHO WAS RIGHT ABOUT THE KIND OF NAME HE HAS OH THAT WOULD BE ME. Scott was not impressed enough that I at least could pull the characteristics of his name from deep within my subconscious. So now I'm asking you to be impressed. Go on.

4. I feel like this is some kind of metaphor for my life, but I'm not sure how:

5. In another dream Oprah wanted me to find someone's missing baby while she talked with her contractors about renovating her new offices. I couldn't find the baby. Once again: all sweaty upon awakening. I NEED TO MAKE OPRAH LIKE ME.

Operation Slim Cat, Month 2

Yesterday, a reader emailed to ask if my blog was becoming a blog about medications and health problems.

Of course not! It's becoming a blog about medications, health problems, and my overweight cat.

Hiya.

Two months ago (exactly! What do you know! I didn't even plan that) I wrote about our cat Izzy, who is large. Henry calls her "plush," which I think makes her sound … cleaner than she is. More luxurious. It's not easy for a cat to be clean when she can't reach all of her areas to clean them. And let me tell you, she does not want me cleaning her. Oh, I do it anyway, under severe protest. Both of us have been injured, either physically or emotionally, by my frequent attempts at brushing/wiping/rinsing. Our relationship has suffered.

I put her on a diet, as I mentioned. I read a bunch, and I guess you're supposed to not feed your cat unlimited amount of dry food all the time? Huh! Hargh! Oops! I switched her from dry carb-loaded crap to high-quality wet food. Half a can in the morning, half a can in the evening, with a tiny smidge of dry food available as a mid-day snack.

This is a LOT LESS FOOD than I was giving her before. And it's paid off! Wait until you see the dramatic results!

Here was Izzy before:

And here she is now. BEHOLD!

In other words, she looks exactly the same. But IN FACT she is now a svelte NINETEEN pounds instead of the TWENTY she was two months ago, and according to the veterinary health professionals, she is supposed to lose no more than a half pound a month, so we are RIGHT ON SCHEDULE. And I am using many CAPITAL LETTERS to express my ENTHUSIASM.

It might take a while, but someday she'll be able to clean her own butt! Which means that I'll be wiping exactly zero butts in my household! And that's on my Life List!

Izzy is an enthusiastic fan of the wet cat food, but she gobbles it right up and then spends the rest of the day demanding more. She is unappeased by the mid-day kibble snack. She has tasted the wonders of damp lamb-chunks, and she no longer wants any part of dry food. So for most of the day, here is where she can be found, sitting just like this, glaring at me:

Oh, we had to put her food up high, because Charlie will inhale it the minute we turn our backs. And, of course, because the food is wet, we can't hear him munching away. One slurp and it's done. (Until he throws it back up. So charming! Pets are so charming!)

And yes, she sits with her front legs splayed out, like this. I have no idea why. She has always done so. She continues to sit like this while I snap pictures of her, like she's not embarrassed at all.

Cats have no shame. They could use a little shame. Shame might give her the nudge she needs to, I don't know, cover her poop in the litter box. Or not glare at me while I clean her terrible haunches.

I truly hope that once she gets into a more reasonable cat-form, I'll like her a little more. I mean, I don't HATE her, but I'm having a hard time remembering what was so lovable about her. In addition to being kind of filthy and grumpy, she harasses Charlie on a daily basis. And Charlie is a senior citizen. He deserves some peace and quiet in his dotage. Come ON:

How could you bat your Evil Paws of Doom at this face, Izzy? HOW?

Please look at this other place where I'll be

I now have a blog over at Redbook! Celebration!

Please, my friends, please do not worry that this means you are losing Finslippy. It does not. I will still be here. This only means that you are gaining a me who is also over there. I can be in both places! You will see.

I will be using my Redbook soapbox to discuss issues pertaining to ladies who are mothers and our special mom-lady-problems, with an emphasis on Other Blogs and The Interesting Conversations That Can Be Found Therein. In stark contrast, I will be using Finslippy to discuss my dog's breath, and my pants.

Please register to comment, and then comment. I agree that registration is a pain, but there's no way around it, and you only have to do it once. And then, at some later date, when you're especially enraged by something I've written, you can fire off a furious missive without worrying about registering first. Because you're already in. It's like you're part of an exclusive club. That anyone with an email address can join.

The name of the Redbook blog is "The Mom Moment," and they're amenable to a better name, but I haven't been able to find it yet. So if you have any ideas, hit me. WIth ideas. Figuratively. Bonus points if it doesn't have "mom" in the name.

Now: Charlie's breath. I don't get it. Is he eating poop? Is he pooping, and then eating it, and then throwing it up? He is the cutest dog of all time. I mean, come ON:

But then he yawns near my face and it's like an old Warner Brothers cartoon where a green cloud spreads out from his mouth and everything that it touches either dies or runs screaming from the room. I think the last time he licked me, my nose cried out "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" and grabbed a tiny suitcase from out of nowhere and took off down my face.

On the other hand: he's 13. That's 91,000 in human years. He's earned his horrible death-stink mouth.

Next on Finslippy: my pants! Oh, you'll see.

Charlie and Me

I wrote an essay about our dog Charlie for a forthcoming anthology about dogs. I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship!, edited by Wade Rouse, will be published in 2011, with a portion of the proceeds going to the Humane Society of the United States. All kinds of incredible writers are contributing, including Merrill Markoe, Rita Mae Brown, and Jen Lancaster. I'm honored to be included.

Charlie is one of my favorite topics to write about, as most of my friends have long grown tired of me jabbering about my dog's velvety ears and I have to get it out somehow. We adopted Charlie shortly after we got married, and when my mom saw us with him she rolled her eyes and said, "You two need to have a baby." The implication being that once we procreated, we'd calm down about the dog and stop, say, kissing him on the lips. Well, guess who was wrong about that? You were, Mom! YOU! So there! Now give your other grandson a kiss.

I needed a picture of me with Charlie for the book, so my pal Amber of The Amber Show graciously volunteered her photographic talents. The essay is about Charlie's insistence on sleeping in our bed, between me and Scott, under the covers. Amber took some boudoir pics. I wore my nightie!

You can't really tell that it's a nightie. But oh, it is. It's from Target. Mrowr.

Charlie hates getting his picture taken. I don't know who beat him with a camera, but someone clearly did, because the minute he sees one his ears go back and he tries to lick it. That's Charlie's tactic. If you upset him in any way, his defense is to wag his tail violently and lick you. He'll love you right into submission.

This is him pleading with me to make the clickety-click sounds stop. Oh boy, do we need a headboard. Someday, my friends. Someday.

Here I am, pointing. I'm saying, "That's a dog. That's Charlie!" I can identify my pets.

I'm holding him down. The moment I loosened my grip he'd scurry to the next room. But oh, we got him back! Dogs are not bright.

I was trying to look vaguely unhappy with him being in the bed with me, and yet swayed by his canine charms. It was a complicated series of emotions. My face was breaking under the strain.

I am absolutely covered in dog hair, here. The crazy heat wave we've endured has caused Charlie to shed like he's getting paid for it, plus he sheds when he's stressed out, so during this photo shoot, he unloaded approximately 30 pounds of dog hair on me. And Charlie only weighs 25 pounds, so this took some effort on his part. Fur was raining off of him, causing Amber to observe, "He's Pig-Penning!" Which I thought was adorable. And accurate.

Charlie is now 13 years old. His face used to be mostly black with a white stripe running down the center, but as you can see, he's faded somewhat. His eyes are cloudy, but he can hear a slice of cheese hit the ground from across the apartment. He's still spry, and leaps and cavorts the moment we head outside.

I'm sure, fellow dog-owners, that your dogs are fine, but Charlie is pretty much the greatest dog who ever lived.