…until your mostly-white dog rolls in a foul-smelling brick-colored substance that was at first mistaken for just another patch of dry leaves. I know this, because on the homeward leg of our walk today, Cleo found a patch of…something…and immediately flipped herself over and began wriggling in it, making moves that can only be described as doggy orgasm.

I am not making this up.

I’ve rarely seen her roll in anything. She used to love to run around in freshly cut grass, thus turning her legs green up to the knee, but other than that the only thing she and Zorro ever flipped for (literally) was Eukaneuba.

Yes, the substance that most dogs understand is meant to be eaten, my dogs think is either a sexual stimulant, or a coat enhancer. Either way, even one kibble of Eukaneuba on the floor was enough to send both of them into paroxysms of canine ecstasy.

But at least THAT was behind closed doors.

Cleo’s display today took place in broad daylight, in the middle of the curb strip near the sidewalk, in the suburbs. I am not making it up when I share that even Zorro was embarrassed by her display. He turned his head away from her and gave a little chihuahua snort of utter disdain. (The only thing worse is when the snort is offered in combination with his famous slitty-eyed look.)

It took tugging, clapping, pleading, and – I am admitting this here – bribery with a bit of rollover kept in my pocket for just such emergencies, to get Cleo back on her feet, and marching toward home, where she was rewarded for her behavior with banishment from all furniture until after her bath.

Now, it is a fact that Cleo loves water. She’s jumped into the bathtub (while one of us was bathing) on more than one occaision. She ventures into the swimming pool from time to time. She has special white-dog radar that tells her where the deepiest, muddiest, grossest mud puddles are, and how best to approach her entrance to them. Today, however, she acted like the furry version of the Wicked Witch of the West – warbling with distress when I plopped her in the kitchen sink, and whining like a puppy when I brought forth the Sprayer of Doom.

It should come as no surprise that, once I had pronounced her CLEAN, and released her to go outside and shake off, more water was found soaked into my clothing and apron, and splashed across the kitchen floor, than had possibly gotten onto the dog.

“Oh, well,” I thought, as I looked down at my black shirt and pants, now covered with doggie bathwater and stray hairs (I think dogs share the trait that tarantulas have, of flinging hair when they’re stressed), “everything’s washable.”

And so, for an encore, I gave Zorro a bath as well.

And now, both dogs, having been bathed, brushed, fed, and cuddled into toasty warm dryness, are sleeping peacefully in their usual spots near my desk, though they’re still NAKED, as their collars were also washed, and haven’t yet dried.

And me?
I’m going to bed.

Tomorrow, though, we’re taking a different route on our walk.
One without any curb strips.

Onesome: All– all the world’s a stage… So what types of issues put you on your soapbox?
I don’t generally talk about politics in my blog, but I do have strong opinions. My biggest personal issue is reproductive choice – it’s NOT about being for or against HAVING an abortion. It’s about individuals being able to choose what is right for them. Beyond that…social justice, peace, animal welfare, though not to the extreme that organizations like PETA go to.

Twosome: Things– what sort of things are you most likely to purchase “spur of the moment” when shopping?
Books, pens, cool stationery, hats, the perfect lip gloss, earrings, and shoes.

Threesome: Girl– sugar and spice and everything nice? Come now, what are YOU really made of?
Me? I’m baggy v-neck sweatshirts over lacy tank tops, and comfortable sneakers. I’m strong coffee, red wine, and dark chocolate. I’m pen and ink and 0’s and 1’s and words and music and rhythm. I’m jazz and blues and standards, old folk songs, and songs of consious, a touch of classical, a peck of pop and rock, a glimmer of gospel, and just enough country to make things interesting. I’m funky hats and dangly earrings and hair color that is subject to change without notice. I’m books and quilts, cuddly dogs and mugs of tea. I’m the scent of damp earth mixed with the essence of fresh-cut flowers: iris, calla lilies, sunflowers. I’m eggplant, garlic, tomatoes, and olives. I’m purple and forest green and faded black, alternating with fiery orange and red. I am one in the morning, and I am the morning sun. But mostly, I’m just Melissa.

I’ve changed my template yet again, another one I didn’t create, but one I like. I really should consider implementing skinning, but when I get bored, it means I don’t want ANYONE seeing previous incarnations.

And I know it’s completely ridiculous, because I don’t see the template when I’m writing, but how it looks affects the voice in which I write.

Sometimes.

Anyway.

Read the credits and footer, and enjoy the new template.

I don’t generally watch commercials, having become addicted to the concept of starting to watch favorite shows 15 minutes into the hour, so that TiVo is just enough ahead that I can fast forward through the commercials.

But I was watching live tv last night (during Gilmore Girls, I think?) and had to laugh at the Diet Pepsi commercial using the old Sesame Street song “Manamanah.”

Yay, nostalgia.
Except now I have the song stuck in my head.

Last year, when I was still an employee of a mortgage company in California, and not a contract processor and wannabe freelance writer, my friend Jeremy, acting in his role as Uber-Cool Assistant whose admin skills are second only to his hugging skills, created an up-to-date mailing list for the company.

I KNOW that I have a copy on disc, and I KNOW that he emailed it to me before either of us had left the company. In fact, I sort of vaguely remember deleting the emailed copy, in a fit of ‘housecleaning.’

Can I find it? No.

So, since I volunteered to do a mailing for said company (for a hefty fee, paid in advance, of course), I’ve had to re-create the stupid mailing list.

ARGH.

There are times when my “delete” key really should be taken away.

Someone at OpenDiary challenged her readers to pick 10 things that represent them. She mentioned using a photo album or scrapbook, or some such, but because I’m a purist I’m eliminating those as possible choices. If you feel like playing along, please leave a comment or trackback ping.

1) A fountain pen. My favorite one is green and blue glass, with a metal nib. It represents words and writing, and my fetish for pen and ink.

2) A cake of rosin. Because it represents not just my cello, but also the work involved in learning to read music, and sing, or play an instrument. On a broader scale, it also represents my love of music.

3) Black western-style boots, which I’ve owned since I was 18, actually. They represent my new life, here in Texas, and also my love of horses, even though they’re not really riding boots.

4) The jaws of a baby white shark, that I’ve had since a trip to New Jersey when I was 12. A slightly gruesome object, I guess, but an important one. They represent my love of the ocean, and the danger inherent in taking nature for granted. In a more abstract fashion, they represent my hot temper.

5) A red candle in a glass and pewter candle holder, the flame for the people I love whom are either no longer within visiting distance, or no longer alive, the concept of a candle, as functional art, the color red for power and prosperity, in my personal interpretation, not based on any specific spiritual leaning.

6) My wedding & engagement rings, for the obvious, my committment to Fuzzy, and for the less obvious, the tiny sparkle of the diamond reminds me that good things come in small packages (trite but true).

7) A stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh that I’ve had for almost thirty-four years now. It stands for innocence lost, delights treasured, and the pleasure of imagination.

8) A small rubber duck. This represents my self-indulgent side – bubble baths, pedicures, and foofy hair salons, but it also represents my love of whimsy.

9) Bubbie’s quilt. My step-grandmother hand stitched this for my mother, as a sort of wedding gift, and when my parents came to visit this year, they gifted it to me. It represents the tradition of fiber arts in my family – my maternal grandmother never stopped reminding us that ‘a gift of the hand is a gift from the heart’, as well as the notion that families don’t have to be made only of the people who are connected to you by blood. It also represents my appreciation for history. Quilts are stories, as much as books are.

10) A black velvet beret, with a diamond poodle pin on it. It represents my love of hats, and the concept of having personal style beyond whatever is in fashion. Someone once said, “Blessed are those who know how to accessorize.” Hats are my favorite accessory. This hat, though, brings us back to my love of words, because I started wearing it when I was a kid, and wanted to be Jo March, up in her garrett, eating apples and scribbling madly.

I remember my grandmother using this phrase…”a cold and rainy wretched day” and I know she was quoting something, but I don’t know what…Googling the phrase didn’t give me anything in the first page of results, and I’m not in the mood to dig.

Actually, the day wasn’t at all wretched, but it was cold and rainy. We went to church where Father Young led an ‘instructed service’ rather than the usual Rite I with Music structure they usually follow at 10 AM mass. As someone just beginning her spiritual journey, I found it interesting. The best way I can explain it is as a live version of an annotated work. Specifically, at each stage of the service and the mass, Fr. Young would pause, and explain the structure, the history, the tradition, the symbolism. I love the way he uses light humor when he speaks – he’s quite warm and engaging, really – but I have to comment that the way he says the word ‘flesh’ is a bit creepy. It’s as if he’s tasting the word, the substance, as he wraps his mouth around the sound.

Fuzzy, good Baptist boy that he is, seems to be less comfortable than I am. He doesn’t like the structure, or the stand/sit/kneel combination that I used to refer to as “Catholic Calisthenics,” until I learned that the Episcopalians (which is what denomination St. Andrew’s is) practice the same tradition. I don’t mind it – kneeling is actually an excellent way to release the muscles of the lower back – and it breaks the time up a bit. After a call with his mother tonight, he commented that Baptist ceremonies are much less rigid, with regard to lessons and sermons. I’m not certain that’s true. I suspect that part of that is his perception, and part of it is that the language of the Episcopalian and Catholic services is still less than modern. I’ve told him I’m willing to check out the local Baptist churches to compare (and I am, from an educational POV, if nothing else), but he never wants to. I wonder if he’s declining because he really doesn’t want to, or because he knows I feel really out of place in Baptist churches, as my entire experience with them has been laced with negative responses – politics from the pulpit BOTHER me.

The rest of the day was low-key. We went to lunch at Panera, where I fell in love with the Bistro Steak Salad (only 6 net carbs if you don’t eat the bread, and hey! Walnuts and Bleu Cheese!), and spilled scalding-hot chai all over the table and my leg. Thankfully it was raining, and I’m wearing black, so no one could tell.

We also hit Barnes and Noble, where I bought Stephen King’s On Writing, as well as the 2005 Writer’s Market, and a couple of magazines that I’m thinking of submitting articles to, and therefore wanted to read.

A stop at PetsMart yielded food for the furry members of the family, and a trip to the local Starbucks resulted in a happy MissMeliss, because I am now stocked up on coffee beans. (I keep forgetting I own a coffee grinder, and had them grind them, and I really need to stop doing that.).

The late afternoon was spent here at home. While the rain poured down outside, Fuzzy caught up on all his Tivo’d sci-fi shows, and I skimmed my blogroll. I’m not feeling very much like commenting today, but, if you’re on my roll, you were visited today. I promise.

Since then, we’ve had dinner, and I’ve done an online order for groceries (to be delivered tomorrow), and even though it’s only a bit after nine, I’m tired. No TV tonight, no music. Just a mug of tea and a bit of reading, and then I shall let the falling rain lull me to sleep.

I was awake til five this morning, because I’d visited Starbucks for the first time since Christmas. I’m no longer accustomed to mainlining espresso, and it kept me wired and wakeful long after I wanted to sleep.

While I was there, I tasted Chantico, their new designer drinking chocolate. The taste was a free sample, perhaps an ounce of the stuff, or maybe an ounce and a half. The default size, if you order it, is 6 ounces. I, who generally drink venti coffee drinks, would never be able to survive 6 ounces of Chantico. In truth, the sample cup was more than enough. It’s that good. It’s so good, in fact, that it’s nearly orgasmic, and drinking it in public should be illegal. So should wasting it on serving it to children.

One sip, and instead of being in cold, grey, wintry Texas, I was in slightly warmer, romantically rainy Carcassone, watching people go in and out of quaint shoppes, while I sat at a marble table in a too-cute and far too crowded cafe, and shared chocolat chaud with my family.

Yeah. Chantico is that good.
It’s DARK chocolate.
Liquified dark chocolate.
Criminal chocolate.

Tired of spending our walks untangling leashes from trees, poles, and my ankles, I tried something new with the dogs today – instead of one long ramble, I took each of them on a solo walk.

This worked out well for Zorro, because he’s all about peeing on vertical objects, circling the block, and heading home where it’s warm and toasty.

It also gave me the chance to try letting Cleo off-leash a bit, which worked better than I thought. Technically, though, I guess I was the one off-leash, as it was still attached to her, so that, if necessary, I could stomp on the end of it.

People who know me will remember that I’m fanatical about keeping dogs under control. I’ve been known to lecture friends on the use of leashes, in fact. So, let me just say that the only time Cleo’s leash wasn’t in my hand was in the otherwise empty park, and that she has a 100% recall ratio. Meaning, I’m dead certain that if I call her name, she’ll come to me.

We tested this a LOT in the park today. I let her get almost to the curb, then called her back, and she came every time. I’m extremely pleased that she also ignored the person who lives across the street from the park opening and closing their garage door. Also, she didn’t chase the cat that was wandering loose.

(I’m also fanatical about people controlling their cats. Hello? We live in the suburbs, not a farm. It is not appropriate to let your animal run loose.)

So, Cleo gets a gold star for the day, and I’m tickled to death because part of my twelve-month plan involves taking up running, and I think she’ll make a great companion for that.

Tomorrow, we’ll try again, and see what happens. We will also begin training her to STOP and SIT at all corners, something we’ve been lax about.

In the meantime, both dogs are sacked out. Zorro’s on the chair near my desk. Cleo’s in Zorro’s bed. Sort of. She doesn’t really fit, as she’s three times his size, and it’s a cat bed. So her rear half is in it, her middle is over the side, and her head is resting on the floor.

Silly dog.

If a butterfly flaps its wings in Hollywood, do people then find Ashton Kutcher attractive?

Fuzzy and I watched the director’s cut of The Butterfly Effect on DVD tonight. My initial reaction (other than disbelief that anyone could find the star appealing) was: interesting story, a bit predictable.

The premise should be obvious from the film’s title. Chaos theory married to time travel. Specifically, a boy has a history of blacking out whenever he experiences trauma. As he reaches adulthood, he learns how to recover the memories of those traumatic events, and further, how to revisit, and alter them. The bulk of the film shows the many different iterations of his life that are created, each based on another tiny factor, in his quest to have the perfect ending.

In truth, despite my distaste for him, Ashton Kutcher’s performance as Evan Treborn was credible – especially at his most psychotic. Amy Smart was engaging (in most iterations) as Kayleigh, and Elden Henson did a fabulous job as Lenny, playing the same character as both normal and insane. But the performance that impressed me most was that of William Lee Scott as Tommy Miller, who was equally creepy as a budding serial killer and a Christian fundamentalist.

All in all, The Butterfly Effect was enjoyable, if a little creepy. There was some violence that was deeply disturbing to me, but I’d still recommend it for a movie night. I’m not sure it would have been worth $9 to see it in a theater, though.