Adventures at the Vet

My dog Chunk is an 80 lb. black Labrador retriever. While away on a business trip my wonderful boyfriend offered to keep him so I wouldn’t have to pay for a kennel. My boyfriend has two large dogs as well – Zoey an Aussie Doodle; and Zephyr a Scottish Deer Hound – so it made sense that Chunk would have a fun time vacationing with the Z’s while I slaved over work in Spokane.

My boyfriend called me when I was away to say that Chunk seemed to have an ear infection because he was shaking his head and his ears smelled bad. I told him that I would make a vet appointment and take him in when I got home. I had been home just a day and realized Chunk was also likely constipated. After a quick Google search, I learned that pumpkin would remedy the pooping situation but I still would need to take him to the vet. I called the vet once more and bumped his appointment up by a day.

We left for the vet a little early and was greeted by the receptionist where I was asked to have him stand on a scale. Now, anyone who has ever encountered a lab knows that they are made of all springs and fluff. Getting this big oaf to stand on the scale – with all body parts on the scale at the same time – was no small feat. We weighed the back end of him, the front end of him, the both of us on the scale but with one paw off and finally after a lot of coaxing with a treat he didn’t even want; we got him on the scale. He had lost 2 pounds since January which proved to me that our recent running regimen would also work for me if I could just stick to eating bland food.

Anyhow, the nice reception lady ushered us into exam room 4 where we would just have to wait a few minutes for the vet and technician. Ten minutes later a very nervous looking veterinarian entered the room. Chunk walked over to greet him and I extended a slobbered hand in salutation. He spoke in a very kind way and had a general look of concern for my dog but I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that this man might be afraid of the Chunkinator. I thought, if you can’t make it past a Labrador, what do you do with the other larger more aggressive dogs? Little did I know that his chart indicated he was that large aggressive dog. Apparently there is a doctor/patient privacy act when it comes to K-9 behavior with veterinary staff. Had I known ahead of time he was a jack-ass I would have sent my boyfriend. But I digress…

Dr. Nice Guy bent low to the ground and held out a tentative hand for Chunk to sniff. Chunk got really still and then leaned into me. The vet reached for Chunk’s big black lips and attempted to examine his teeth. They were somewhat orange looking based on the pumpkin I had been feeding him so I made a mental note to purchase a Sonicare toothbrush and cruise the internet for some doggie white strips. As Dr. Nice Guy tried to get a good look, Chunk let out a warning growl (much to my amazement and somewhat pride) and the vet immediately backed away. As a courtesy, I apologized for Chunk.

Next he decided to try and feel Chunks belly and tail. I thought to myself, I am not a veterinarian but my instinct tells me that if someone doesn’t give you access to their face, their rear end has got to be off limits. But I wasn’t the professional here, so I kept my mouth shut. As soon as the doctor reached for the rear end of my dog, Chunk let out this awful growling snarl and nipped his hand. I didn’t think it was an actual bite because I didn’t see blood but it was enough to startle Mr. Nice Guy. The doctor again stood up and stated that he would need to take my dog in the back room to be able to examine him. I figured this is a nice way of saying, We need to beat your animal into submission so that we can then heal him. So I handed over the leash and away Chunk went.

I sat in exam room 4 for about 10 minutes by myself and there was absolutely nothing to do in there and the cell service was spotty at best so there was no updating my Facebook status or Words with Friends games. I decided to count ceiling tiles in case there was ever a trivia question about this topic and then started on the floor tiles. I was almost done counting the Q-tips in the jar on the counter when the door opened and the vet technician led the team through the door.

Excited to have company in exam room 4, I enthusiastically greet them with, Oh, did it go a lot better back there? The tech looked at the floor tiles*, and then I saw Chunk – with a smiley face printed muzzle around his snout. That asshole. Doesn’t he realize what a terrible owner I look like when he acts like a frickin animal? I raised him better than this.

“What happened?” I asked the doctor.

“Well, he got a bit aggressive with us back there so we had to muzzle him.”

“I’m so sorry!” I look down at Chunk. Then I start thinking about this muzzle situation. This could really benefit me. I wouldn’t have to keep food off the counters at home, he wouldn’t bark when I was on the phone, and he certainly wouldn’t do that weird heavy breathing thing in my face while I was driving. Maybe I needed to look into one of these contraptions. But then, why stop there?? You know how many annoying people I encounter when I go out? I could just muzzle them up and slip a straw in between their lips and they can drink their beer and I can enjoy my night out without listening to them. This thing has endless possibilities!

I rearrange my face so that I am looking less excitable and more sorrowful.

“So what’s next doctor?” I try sound like one of those worried pet owners that you see on Animal Planet. I don’t want to look like a complete dick that I think the muzzle is cool.

“Well, he needs his shots still.”

Damn it! Why didn't they do that while he was in the back and they could muscle him around? The vet then instructs me that I am to “hold” this beast while he shoots practical arrows into his rump. I really want to know how many Q-Tips are in that jar now. Why can’t these people take my dog, go away and bring him back new? I straddle Chunk like the moose he is and brace for impact as I know this to be a bumpy ride. I wonder, how buck can you get with your own dog before they would think about calling the equivalent of Child Protective Services on you? I know from experience I can body slam him into submission – I have bathed him a time or two.

The first shot is attempted. I can practically hear Chunk yell obscenities at the doctor as he bucks and huffs and puffs through his muzzle. He is jerking like a bull at a rodeo and I am holding on for dear life. Then I hear the doctor say, I missed. What?? We have to do this again? The doctor is standing there with a wild look in his eyes and a needle in his hand. He eyes Chunk and Chunk’s brown eyes widen in fear. I tighten my grip once again and bury my face into his neck. Again, the rodeo bull is bucking and thrashing and in a finale of bucking he rears his head and knocks me straight in the jaw. I see stars and an instant headache starts pounding in my head. I reach for my chin and I can already feel a lump forming. Neat. My dog just totally chin checked me.

The next two shots are less eventful and the doctor gives me instructions for Chunks care. After all the commotion I forget that he can’t poop and both of his ears are infected. I buy every prescription imaginable and some treats to hide the pills in and after paying a grand total of $236 to have my dog beaten, molested, stabbed and have my jaw crushed, we head back out to the car. I need a coffee, a nap and an ice pack.

*Probably trying to out-count me, but I already committed the number to memory. 55.

My Burning Curiosity with Bikini Baristas

I decided to resurrect Adventures in Dacialand after a long hiatus due to a Bikini Barista stand by the name of Blendz Girls moving into my little Podunk of a town in Nowhere Western Washington. I would like to start this article by clearly stating that I, in no way shape or form, care whether or not scantily clad ladies are hanging out in a box on downtown street US of A. However, I would also like to state for my readers out there that I am rather Fascinated by these businesses and I will tell you why. My only hope is that some lovely lady at one of these stands would read this and answer all of my burning questions.

In a past life I worked as barista – one which required me to be fully clothed. What I really want to know is when these girls wake up in the morning to go to work, are they really arriving at 5 a.m. in lingerie? Now; as a young(ish) woman, I can’t tell you a time when I was actually excited – nor looked good – nor felt comfortable – wearing lingerie. In the past if I actually felt the need to wear such clothing, I would wait until evening (when it was pitch black outside with no chance of light for hours), there were no chance of guests dropping by my house to visit, I had had a few boxes of wine and after evaluating the garment for a long while – mind you this stuff sat in its Victoria’s Secret* bag for months if not years before its “big reveal” – I would finally muster the courage to adorn it only to yell at my partner to shut the damn light off and to quit looking at me while I dove under the blankets only to take the lingerie off and fall asleep due to the wine. So really – 5 a.m. with daylight around the corner, strangers and coffee (not wine)?

Secondly, I like my co-workers. They are decent human beings. We all work together because we don’t have a choice and we are all committed to the long haul. However, all of that being said – I don’t ever want to see ANY of them in anything less than a bulky turtleneck sweater, trousers, and more layers of clothes due to the excessive air conditioning in my office. I don’t even really want to be able to differentiate between male or female co-worker. So, when these girls go to work, and their box partner is wearing, let’s say a thong and pasties – where do you look? Do you compliment her choice in blue pasties rather than red because they bring out the color in her eyes? I just wonder how awkward that is. I would like to note here that I also have a phobia of naked people who walk around gym locker rooms for the sake of it being a gym locker room and they are allowed to be nude. I agree their nudity is slightly more appropriate; however I stress the word slightly.

Staying on the topic of clothing…I live in Western Washington. It isn’t a part of the country that I would necessarily consider “balmy”. In fact, I wear *yawn* office attire to work and most of the time I am wrapped up in my wool dress coat and Snuggie, shivering in fingerless gloves while I type. Tomorrow morning, the temperature outside is supposed to be 34 degrees at 6 a.m. How do these girls not freeze when they go to work in fishnet leotards and go-go boots? Are the boots that insulating? If so, I would like someone to post a link to where I can purchase a pair for my own wardrobe – seriously.

Still on the costume kick – how much are these ladies spending on these get-ups? They are like mini-celebrities in that they can’t be caught twice in the same outfit. As any woman knows, lingerie is ridiculously expensive (which baffles me, but that could be another post entirely). So are they able to write that off on their taxes or does their employer supply the costumes? I can hear it now, “Bambi, tomorrow you are going to be a sailor and Buffi, you are going to be red riding hood – but a slutty red riding hood.” And my biggest burning question, do they stop by the store on their way home for a gallon of milk in their crotchless teddy? If so, I have some single guy friends that would like to know which grocery store they frequent. (Bambi and Buffi, if you are reading this, you can PM me.) J

I understand that you can earn really good tips by showing some skin. I am totally not that out of touch with reality. In fact, if my employer offered that, I might ditch the Snuggie. (Heavy on the might.) However, what kinds of men are tipping that money? I am venturing a guess that women don’t frequent these barista stands as their hate messages clearly imply they won’t be taking their mini-van and ten snotty children for a stroll in the drive-thru lane, so we are left with men. I would also like to remove men who respect (fear) their angry mini-van wives, gay men, and you’re left with single men before 8 a.m. and then bums and criminals for the rest of the day. Do these women really want to interact with this type of clientele? I would guess the answer is no, considering they are attractive women and have “bubbling personalities”**. If I were them, I would rally for a bodyguard and/or bouncer.

As a customer, I would like it advertised better when there is a bikini barista in the area. I am a total lookie-lou and would love to do a drive-by of these establishments and then tell all my friends about them. However, the name “Blendz Girls” doesn’t tip me off to what the business actually is. Just as there is a male bikini barista stand in Bremerton named, “Banana Hammock”. I was disappointed that these men didn’t sell bananas or hammocks and instead I got stuck with a crappy cup of coffee that was overpriced. Please, to anyone who is operating one of these businesses, name them appropriately. Edmonds, Washington was smart with theirs and named it “Java Jugs”. I get that nomenclature.

Finally, I would like to end this post on a serious note, I hope all these ladies are safe, don’t burn their pretty body parts with scalding hot water, and enjoy the crazy career that they have started – Go get those dollars naked ladies! You earned it!

*Ross

**Direct quote from an adoring customer on Facebook.

Self Image

I was out shopping today looking for new work clothes. For the first time, I figured I would venture from the junior section and try out the women’s department. Upon my arrival to the dark side, I realize with such resounding clarity why women have such terrible self images. It totally starts at the department stores!

I first went to the petite department. This is apparently where little people buy their clothing. I swear, Santa’s elves would have a tough go trying to find clothes in that section – they are so small! This section is dedicated to doll clothes – complete with frills, bows, lace and many other intricate details. I tried on a pair of slacks and they were perfect. As shorts. This was clearly not the Dacia department. I wandered a little further.

The next department was the WOMEN’s section. I capitalize because unlike the petite section, the WOMEN’s section has nothing frilly or intricate about it. The word WOMEN is prominately displayed on the biggest wall. Apparently, you are not a WOMAN until you have shopped in this area. It’s all about getting your WOMAN ass into some clothes. Period. The junior department is just looking friendlier by the minute. I decide to try on some pants.

I find my size, on sale, and head to the dressing room. Now, I am a junior size 7 so I choose a WOMAN size 8. Junior sizes are odd and WOMAN sizes are even numbers. I round up to give myself beer drinking room. Now, in the junior section, I think they assume all juniors are around 5’5”. Well, in the WOMEN section, they assume after 7th grade you’ll hit another growth spurt and shoot up about another 15 feet and therefore your pants need to be extra long. I am not a tall woman, but I’m not a little person either. These pants must have had a good extra two feet tacked onto the end of them. Great, I think, not so much of a “sale” when I have to pay to have the damn things tailored.

I decide to buy the long pants because I need them. As I make my way to pay for my find, I realize that in the front of the store is the plus size section. Now, I am sure that every woman who is overweight just loves to go to the front of this effing store to go through the tents that they have displayed on hangers. The clothing in this section isn’t even pretty! Do these idiots think if you’re overweight you don’t want to look good? I tell you, only a man would come up with this marketing strategy. To top it off, the women in the life size displays are about a size 10. When did a 10 become a plus size?? Isn’t this America? I thought we were all overweight?

I pick my jaw up off the floor where it fell and pay for my incredibly long pants. I then contemplate my adventure outside of the junior department. I see how women learn to hate their image and it all starts in the department store. I am never shopping in the WOMAN section again. I am going to hang on to being a junior as long as I can.

Cha-Cha-Cha Changes

I was having a conversation with my vodka cranberry and decided it was time that I start to make some changes in my life. Of course, my glass of yummy-ness made me promise not to switch to whiskey and I promised I wouldn’t. Besides, do I look like a middle-aged man to you? What kind of woman drinks whiskey? Probably the same kind of woman who wears tree camouflage and has Copenhagen stress marks in the back pockets of her Carhartts.

First things first, I needed to hit the gym more often or quit eating cookies on the half-hour marks. I already spend an hour a day at the gym so it must be the cookies that make my physique look more meatball-ish. Time to scratch the cookies. Damn.

Next were the clothes that I seem to just jam myself into on the weekends. I don’t know why, but I hate getting dolled up on days that start with ‘S’. It is true that sexy starts with S but so does slob and being a slob is so much easier than sexy. Besides, my boobs need a rest from being jammed up to my chin all week. The poor girls are so scared to come down Friday night that it takes them until Sunday to finally relax. Nevertheless, I need to start paying more attention to my clothing choices on the weekends. That’s really the only time the outside world sees me. Time to get a credit card.*

Next, my brain needed some more intelligent activity. My chick lit novels and rag magazines are doing me no favors in the brilliant department. I need to start watching the news and occasionally pick up a newspaper. I was so shocked when just last week I figured out that Osama Bin Laden died. Like where the hell was I when that went down?! I hope to God I was doing something important like feeding orphan children. Based on my normal routine, I was probably tanning or getting my nails done. Time to subscribe to a newspaper.

Finally, I need to make some new friends. My old friends are fabulous but they’re tired of my lazy ass not returning calls, failing to show up at events and overall being a crappy friend. However, new friends won’t have a clue as to how slothful I truly am so I’ll have a clean slate. I don’t really know where to find new friends and the last time I was at Trader Joe’s, no one seemed particularly interested in getting to know me. Add, ‘Become a more interesting person’ to my list.

As I re-read over this blog, I thoughtfully chew my double chocolate chip cookie and wonder if maybe everyone else is changing and I refuse to grow up. I couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Maybe after I get my new credit card, I’ll pick up a few self-help books and check things out.

In the meantime, I should probably just stay who I am and start drinking double vodka cranberries instead of singles. That seems like a healthy enough change to me!

*I hope like hell that my dad isn’t reading this. I may be 29 years old, but he told me that I wasn’t allowed to have credit cards and I’ve stuck it out this far…maybe he’ll let me use his…hmm….

Trader Joe's and PMS

PMS is a crazy place. Men could probably equate this to 90% of the cazy things they get involved in. Strange things happen during this hormonal hot spot in the month and I never seem to escape it. It’s like this super human force takes over my brain and suddenly I’m a hot mess and can’t figure out why I hate everyone and find them all so annoying. Then, as soon as I realize that I’ve been taken over, I cry profusely and beg forgiveness from everyone I know. This is probably the only unattractive aspect about me – and I mean only.

Needless to say, on Sunday, I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed starving for cornbread. It couldn’t be just any cornbread either. It had to be from Trader Joe's. So after much deliberation, pacing the kitchen floor and a bag of cookies later, I decide that it’s high time I jump into my best track suit and head into the city. Well... Olympia... but you get the idea. I’m in a TRACK SUIT for crying out loud – and it’s not even 1970.

During my 20-minute drive I mentally map where I need to go while I am in town. I knew I needed to go to Trader Joe's, the tanning salon, and Office Depot to have some scanning done. The only real ‘chore’ that I enjoy doing is anything that makes me more attractive. (For a brief listing of these services please see footnote.*) So I decided I would save the best for last – tanning! Yay!

I pull into the parking lot of Trader Joe's and as I am locking my vehicle, I notice that Mr. and Mrs. Granola and their two kids - Trail and Mix - are starting at me. I give myself the once over in the reflection of my car. Best black track jacket? Check. Sweats to match with a bedazzled leg and bottom? Check. Make-up caked on so no one realizes it was leftovers from last night? Check. Cross necklace? Check (um, hello Granola family…It’s Sunday! Represent some Jesus wouldja?). Platform Guess flip flops? Check.** Hoop earrings and bling ring? Check!+

I couldn’t understand why that odd little family looked at me so strangely until I crossed the threshold of Trader Joe's. Almost instantly everyone turned to look at me - I was the Snooki in the land of organic eating dirt worshippers. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks and my bronzer melt from my forehead. I needed to get out of this place and quick! Who knew what crazy ideas they wanted me to try. I quickly scanned the isles and as my nerves rose, so did my frustration. Where was this damn box of bread already?!

Finally a kind woman with wonderfully flowing armpit hair rustled up a gentleman who would go into the depths of the backroom farm to fish out my box of heaven. He was back behind the double doors for minutes too long. The stares kept coming and at one point, a little girl tugged on her amish mother’s skirt and whispered, “Why is she so orange?” I couldn’t hate on the little one until her beastly mother replied, “that’s what happens when you do drugs – you turn orange.” I would have loved to have stepped into that conversation and tell the little munchkin and her witch mother that what really happens when you do drugs is that you have the time of your life, flying high, dancing like it’s nobody’s business, and you wake up pool side to a plastic flamingo with your best girlfriend heaving chunks of Jack in the Box in a bush. But! I clearly was scary enough for these two little angels…they walked away quickly after my menacing stare.

Finally DJ Quick decided to come back out…empty handed. “I’m sorry miss. The truck won’t be in until this afternoon.”

Before I let the tears cascade down my little bronzed face and mess up my eyeliner, I said, “What does that mean exactly?”

He told me they were out of cornbread. Remember, this was my only reason for living on Sunday.

I quickly left the strange land of naturalists and was so saddened at the travesty our grocery stores have come to. Really, what is the purpose of even having a Trader Joes when there’s no cornbread or two buck chuck? I drug my track suited self to the tanning salon and quietly shed my tears as the heated lamps dried the saddness away.

*Facials, waxes, manicures, pedicures, massage, tanning, weight lifting, cardio, clothes shopping, shoe shopping, bikini shopping, car shopping, haircuts, colors, foils, extensions, buying push-up bras, high heel shopping, make-up…I think you get the general idea here.

**My track pants are too long so it was either platform flops or stilettos and it was church day.

+It was my lucky ring and I was definitely gonna hit some slots on the way home.

Damaged Merchandise

My husband, Mitch*, really likes new things. I mean, who doesn’t? However, he takes it to a whole new level. I have never met anyone who purposely ruins perfectly good products just so he can buy new. Yet, when it comes to clothes, they practically rot off the hanger before he shops for new.

Today, I woke up to the sun shining in my face and the sound of the sprinkler watering the back yard. Oh shoot! I was supposed to turn that off. Hold please! Alright, I am back. That really irks me. I am the one who pays the water bill. Anyhow…As I was saying, the morning was tranquil. I felt a warm body next to me and as I closed my eyes, I rolled over to snuggle into my lover. As soon as I felt the dog licking my face, I was suddenly transported back to reality. There was no lover in my bed. It was my lab, waiting for me to get up. Hung-over, I padded into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Mitch is moving about the house at break-neck speed which can only mean two things:

• He wants to get out of the house to go buy something before I wake up;
• Or, he hooked up with the friendly neighborhood dope dealer and is hopped up on coke.

Since he has random drug testing at work, I assume shopping. I ask where he is going and the following dialogue ensues:

“Goin’ to Sears to take back the patio umbrella.”

Let’s pause here and reflect to an earlier part of this story where I state that he “purposely ruins perfectly good products just so he can buy new”. This is the case with the umbrella. We purchased a new patio set last summer at the end of the season**but waited to buy the umbrella. This year, at the start of summer, we bought the umbrella and promptly brought it home and opened it above the patio set. It’s never been closed or brought inside. I told Mitch on several occasions that we needed to take it down when it got windy so that it didn’t take flight and leave us for the neighbors house. On one such occasion, the umbrella did take off and took the table and all of the tiles down with it. I reminded him yet again that it would be wise if we stored it.

I am sure that most of you who are reading this think, why don’t you do it? Are your arms broken? Indeed they are. Enough said. I don’t do anything that involves the outdoor work of home ownership. This is why I am married. It was cheaper to marry than hire a landscape architect.

So during the last minor windstorm we had, the open umbrella snapped in half and is now broken because he neglected to care for it properly. Now that you know the back story, we return to the dialogue:

“Mitch, you can’t take back an umbrella when it’s our fault that it’s broken.”

“The hell I can’t! It’s defective!”

I ponder this comment. It’s defective? Against wind? I am shocked at this statement. My husband, the landscape architect, is one of those people. He is a customer service employee’s nightmare person who doesn’t employ common sense when they purchase a product. I say nothing and drink my coffee. Off he leaves for Sears to be one of those dreadful people. I am thankful I woke up late and am too queasy to be asked to ride along.

An hour later, he calls. He is triumphant that he has a new umbrella in his possession. He tells me that the guy at Sears agreed with him that the umbrella was defective even after Mitch tells him the truth of what happened. It is during this phone conversation that I realize why he is such an outstanding salesman. He knows how to get his desired outcome, while still telling the truth, and getting his listener to be in agreement with him.

My new question is this: Why isn’t he running for President?

*Name changed to protect the innocent and salvage my marriage.

**Surprise, surprise, he already wants a new BIGGER set this year. I think I have made my point.

What's a running watch?

I have known my friend David for a long time. One recent evening, out of the blue, David instant messages me on Facebook. The following is the conversation that ensued. I found it ridiculously funny and for you who know Mr. Brotche, you will also see the humor…

David: How you doin?

Dacia: I'm good. Just shopping online and hanging out on FB. How are you?

David: I’m hanging in there...what are you shopping for?

Dacia: I'm trying to decide if I really need a running watch or if I am just fascinated by the buttons. Garmin watches are pretty expensive.

David: what is a running watch?

Dacia: It measures your distance, time, pace, and heart rate. BUT! Apparently they can also walk your dog, cook your dinner, and change your oil for only 10 easy payments of $59.99...

David: holy butt f*cker buy me one

Dacia: Agreed. Aiight. Why not? Would black be ok by you?

David: well I would prefer silver...but black would work. Does it still work if you’re a lazy ass and don't want to run?

Dacia: I think it works like a Wii remote. You just wiggle the damn thing and push a button and it does all the work.

David: lmao thats great

Dacia: I agree. Perhaps that's why they are so expensive. You can brag to all your friends that you just broke the one-mile running record and you really didn't have to do nothing but sit on your ass and play Buck Hunter while twirling a watch. Amazing self esteem builder.

David: in that case I gotta have one

Dacia: In camo or hunter orange to match the plastic gun?

David: camo....hello

Dacia: I figured so. You wouldn't want anyone to SEE the watch being twirled.