I love Kim Rhodes. Like REALLY love her.

I have recently become aware of a weird cultural war going on between those who have children and those who choose not to. For some reason, individuals in the former camp are making it their mission to convert those in the latter. “Have children!” they are championing. “It’s the best decision you can make! You’re selfish if you don’t! It will complete your life! HAVE A FUCKING KID!” I am here to tell you, don’t have a child if you don’t want a child. Don’t. It will destroy you as you know you, and if you don’t want one, the sacrifice won’t be worth it.

While most of the SPN cast I’ve met at cons are the sweetest people ever, I’ve never met anyone like Kim. She’s just awesome. Overly awesome. (And she needs to come back to the show!!!!!)

If you don’t read her blog, you really don’t know what you’re missing. This is probably my favorite blog entry of hers - and I’ve loved lots of them - because she says exactly what I’m thinking about this “culture war”.

I’ve been more open about the bipolar than I’ve ever been about getting my tubes tied, the decision NOT to have kids, and basically, my complete and utter disdain for most children. Some break through, like L, but for the most part, kids skeeve me out.

I don’t have whatever IT is that makes other people go “OH! BABY!” If I go “OH! BABY!” then you’ll know I’m drunk off my ass.

And, of course, the likelihood of that ever happening is zilch.

So, yeah, babies: bad. My crush on Kim Rhodes: out of control.

One big step and you’re back!

this is always good for a giggle

Where to start?

We brought Guinness home - finally - and he continued to go after Apache, to the point where we were seriously thinking about selling him.

Then, we discovered the problem: J. They’re both “his” dogs and there was some reminding Apache of just who was in charge here. Gotta love the (non-existent) battle for superiority.

We’re working on creating a truce. It will take time… but we’ve agreed he’s worth it.

Fucking dogs.

Then, I started having bad weeks at work. BAD weeks. And I JUST started. It didn’t bode well for the future, but I thought in time, it would get better.

That place was twelve flavors of crazy more than I thought it would be…and that’s a LOT of crazy. A LOT.

I made the decision on Sunday to start looking for a new job and they beat me to the punch.

I suddenly find myself unemployed. Again.

Life will go on. It always does… and for once, I’m not crushed to be jobless.

I know I’ll find something.

And then it was twelve

still the best representation of my childhood :: manchester, ct :: 1978

I still vividly remember April 30th, 2001 like it was yesterday.

In many ways, it was.

But, it’s not.

It’s been twelve years… twelve long, painful, lonely years…

It doesn’t get easier, even though I know it should.

Time heals all wounds and shit like that.

Boot Camp

I haven’t wanted to talk about this… which sounds stupid, because it’s about a dog… but it’s a painful topic.

We finally “gave up” on Guinness and his relationship with the cat. It’s been a problem since he came home, but we’ve been putting it off. The separation anxiety was ridiculous, too. He was breaking out of his crate(s) and this was even a bigger problem than the cat aggression. We didn’t feel safe leaving the house. Who knew what he was capable of? Could he get upstairs and get the cat? Would he turn on Apache? Would he hurt himself on the crate trying to break out?

We finally decided on sending him back to his breeder for a few weeks of intensive training. They worked on cat aggression, they worked on the separation anxiety and they drilled obedience into him.

Then we brought him home.

He wasn’t our dog. Something was different about him. He became really aggressive toward Apache, to the point where J got really worried (I mean terribly anxious/depressed) that he’d hurt Apache. (It’s not out of the realm of possibility - Guinness has caught and killed a bird before.) After only four days of being at home, he went after Apache a fourth time and wound up being boarded that night.

I needed to rewatch the videos the videos they sent us and I didn’t like what I saw. Guinness looked broken, afraid. Definitely not our dog.

When I brought it up to the breeder, he went OFF on me. Blamed it on J’s behavior when he picked Guinney up. Said J needed to be medicated. All sorts of terrible things. To say I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him would be an understatement.

Abso-fucking-lutely uncalled for.

We went there yesterday to pick him up.

We left him behind.

(I wonder what he thinks about us… I feel terrible.)

It was decided - after much clearing of the air - that they would bring Guinness to live with them, in their house, for the next few days. With cats and a dog who really hates cats who should spur Guinness into the bad behavior we’re seeing here at home.

He’s not a bad dog, and he has a lot of elements of both his parents in him (bonus of going back to the breeder - they KNOW what makes Guinnes tick better than anyone in the world. Probably even us.), which was a huge thing when it came to deciding on the best way to work with him.

The change in J’s anxiety level has been astonishing.

I know he won’t be perfect when he won’t be home, but I have hope that he’ll be close enough to the dog we know he can be…

But, holy shit, does it suck being apart from him for this long.

I… can’t… even

it’s been too long since david tennant has been on my blog

If you want the whole story, go watch the fucking news… IF (and that’s a big if (ha!)) they can figure out the fucking truth.

All I know today is that one of the owners of my company was basically locked in his apartment today due to this crazy bullshit.

To top it off, supposedly they found a bomb about 30 feet from where Mr. Bossman parked his car. Supposedly. That’s his story and that’s all I have to go on.

I am so over this shit.

——

There’s so much to talk about and so much I don’t want to talk about.

I think I’m going to listen to “Neverwhere” again. Or maybe I’ll start listening to “Cabin Pressure”... it feels like a radio show type of night. Plus, you know, Benedict Cumberbabe.