Harley’s not terribly observant.
Posts about Ingrid the Labradoodle and Gunter the Chiweenie.
Summer is fabulous. You can find me at work, biking across the metro area, at cafes, dragging the dogs around the lake, and at home with the new boyfriend, usually watching Jersey Shore or BravoTV online.
During the past two weeks there were also missed apartment showings, foiled robberies, and an usual amount of spoiled food. I also feel perpetually behind in blogging, music production, and laundry. Blame it on the excessive amount of lake time:
The krakens and I surprised one of the apartment maintenance guys:
Maintenance guy: “Woah!”
Me: “Sorry.”
Maintenance guy: “Those are some big ass dogs!”
Me: “Yeah, I moved to the garden level apartment, so they are necessary.”
Maintenance guy: “Two dogs and a shotgun for city livin’. That’s what I say.”
So true.
And the krakens finally earned their keep re: the city livin’ part!
Gertrude knew the vet visit wasn’t for her. She was just there to laugh.
This is the, “Am I in trouble or what?” face.
This was the week of shit. The dogs kept breaking into my 3-tiered plastic food shelf, gorging themselves, and then crapping everywhere.
I would come home to find a chocolate rendition of the Bavarian Alps in my living room, and the dogs passed out in the kitchen. The dogs also figured out how to open the toilet lid and drink the blue-water, so they had the runs most of the time.
The steamer and cleaning spray barely kept up. I spent most of my week flustered and disgusted. Ick.
And although I finished moving to the new apartment last week, I had yet to clean out my old apartment because I thought that I had until August 1st to move out.
So I was horrified when my landlord left me a voicemail: “I showed your apartment today. It’s trashed. I’m also showing it tomorrow. Can you clean it, you filthy slob of a man?”
As a rule, any unexpected entrances into my apartment happen on the ONE day that it is trashed, so I should have expected that call.
In May, I finished finals and managed to survive the relentless hanging out with my law school people before they went off to their summer clerkships, study abroad countries, and odd family vacations.
June was all about reconnecting with the non-law school friends I neglected in May. And birthdays. It felt like every-other-day was someone’s birthday. I ran out of cards. Oh, and there was some dating too…. a pride parade, and some business about music production.
July started with loud-ass fireworks, my birthday, and heat. Lots of heat. And thunderstorms. And tornadoes. And hairspray (this is all very dramatic.)
There was also the epic move to the downstairs apartment and a dozen trips to Ikea, Target, and Home Depot. You can call me Tim Allen. Where’s Pamela?
In addition to drilling and the crap-load of cleaning associated with moving, I also became the building caretaker. That means I have to field the craziest phone calls from people who want apartment showings.
This blog needs a redesign. I have more unfinished laundry than a women’s penitentiary. My bike, rollerblades, and gym shoes feel neglected.
I am one check-in from becoming mayor of McDonald’s. (My love handles don’t lie.) My progress on my album is underwhelming. And, and and.
Moving is like1 losing your keys or your cat dying: an all-consuming time suck that is completely uninteresting to everyone else. All of my free time this week was spent hauling things downstairs, dusting, carpet cleaning, standing in line at Home depot, and constructing things.
I took off work yesterday and spent about 9 hours drilling. I probably have lead poisoning from all that paint. I think I’ll develop a cough that will earn my some street-cred at my local VFW.
The drilling was necessary because my apartment was almost completely devoid of fixtures like kitchen hooks, shelving, toilet paper holders, etc.
I finally bought a steamer and cleaned my rugs before moving them down to my new apartment. And oh my god, look at that filth!
The steamer has gotten a lot of use. My new apartment is carpeted, and my dog trainer told me that I have to re-potty train them because dogs don’t generalize well…so being house-broken in one apartment does not mean they are 100% house-broken in another apartment.
This makes the moving process…delightful.
Most of my furniture is in the new apartment but I still have clothes and hundreds of books to move downstairs. I’m slightly worried about leaving the dogs out with books because Harley has a taste for literature. We’ll see if Harley has grown out of his book-eating phase tomorrow.
We are still working on this whole “playing with tennis balls and not eating them” thing.
Just when I thought I hid the dog bones from them…
