Why is my Dog Peeing on the Floor?

When Nick saw me taking pictures tonight, he demanded that I start this post by stating that our dog, is in fact, potty trained. Ok, got that over with, now I can start:

I am seriously questioning whether Indy is potty trained. Sometimes (and by sometimes I mean sporadically since we got our little bundle of joy 2 1/2 years ago) he has taken to peeing on the floor. But he doesn’t just pee like a normal dog. Your every day Fido has the courtesy and decency to pee in one neat, easy to clean puddle. Our dog walks all through the living room, spreading it around like a sprinkler watering a parched lawn on the fourth of July. Graphic and gross, I know, but I think you have to see it to believe it:

  

Now I love this dog more than life itself, but when you layer the pee on top of the inch of dog hair, our glamorous high rise apartment becomes something out of a COPS episode – you know, when the cops bust into the crack den and find the passed out parents and illiterate kids living in squalor.

Since this isn’t the dog’s normal MO, I am not sure what to do. Should I yell and scream? Should I bring him to an animal communicator to see if he has repressed memories from puppyhood that are surfacing? Some tell me (hi Mom) that I should “spank his little *ss” and he will get the message. I just can’t do it. Anyone have a better solution? 

The fact is, Indy knows that he has done something wrong. One look at his guilty little face and my heart melts. How could it not?

The conclusion I have to come to is that our dog has trained us. He knows that he has us wrapped around his white tipped little paw. I hold out hope that some day I will become the Alpha in his eyes, but if that doesn’t happen I am going to make damn sure that our next place has a doggie door.

Boot Camp Food Journal

Ok, so there is this food journal that you are supposed to fill out for boot camp. I completely understand that the intent is to hold you accountable for the late day carbs and fatty indulgences, but this level of tracking is just not for me. 

The main issue is that I often do not eat normal meals. I am a grazer – a chronic snacker. I could live with my head in the fridge, taking one bite out of everything on a rotating basis all day long. How does one track that in a food journal? The review process would just be embarrassing. Yes, the journal is reviewed, and therefore there is no way that I am going to try to capture the full extent of munching (11 a.m. – two bites of cottage cheese, a peach, a mini dark chocolate snickers, two turkey and cheese rollups, pistachios, one bite of lasagna, crystal light and two crackers with cheese.) H*ll No! 

To simplify things, I have been trying to eat on a schedule like a normal human being. This unearthed a whole new problem. Now, instead of diverse snacking, I find myself eating the same things though out the day. How many times can I log Wasa Chips (approved on the program – tastes like cardboard) before it becomes unacceptable? Should I pretend that I had grapes because it is weird to have blueberries three times in one day? 

This is just too much work for me. I have never been a dieter and I have never kept a food journal. Why start now? Should I refuse and be THAT person who is not committed to the program?  

You may remember that I had a funnel cake at the fair over the weekend. Did I log it? No. Why? Because when I logged my McGriddle I had to explain myself. No one should be ashamed to have ONE McGriddle. Now, 10 McGriddles may be problematic, but not one!

Slowly, I am learning not to care. When asked about the wine I drank over the weekend I just smiled. Yum. No one is going to guilt me for  imbibing in cabernet, especially when red wine has been shown to contribute to cardiovascular health. With vino by my side, maybe I don’t need to suffer through mountain climbers and military style push-ups after all. 

The Fair: A Timeless Adventure

I love the fair. Much like Christmas, it only happens once a year, includes a glorious display of twinkling lights and provides a valid excuse for binge eating.

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Seriously, when else can you walk around in public with a massive hunk of meat in your hands, shamelessly tearing off the smoked flesh without the formality of a napkin? Typically, this is only acceptable if you are a member of the Flintstone family. Not at the fair though. At the fair, carnivores of all shapes and sizes are welcome.

And since we are on the topic of food, can we discuss the trend of frying everything that can be deemed edible? I have seen this phenomenon on the Food Network, but never in person. Fascinating. 

“Bonjour madaam, what would you like?” asked the apron clad waiter. “Well, hello kind sir. For the first course I will have the fried avocado. The fried spam is excellent you say? Lovely. Please bring that when I am done wiping the grease off of my chin. Oh, and no need to bring the dessert tray. I have been waiting all week for a fried Pop Tart. Does it come in cherry?” answered the bearded lady.

Our fried vice was the funnel cake with powdered sugar and strawberries. It did not last long enough to document. I have not yet decided if I will include it in my boot camp food journal (yes, there is a food journal, which I will definitely be blogging about at a later date). 

The other thing I love/hate about the fair is the incorporation of innocent barnyard animals (this is a little different than Christmas, unless you count reindeer as a barnyard species). We saw Hercules the Giant Horse. He is 20 hands high. Not knowing what a hand is, I felt fortunate that one of my best friends is a vet (hi Noel!). She promptly texted me back with this reply, “It is 4 inches to a hand at the withers!” Very helpful indeed. It should make perfect sense to you now.

We also saw White Mountain, a very famous….

We then proceeded to watch a milk producing goat contest, which included a delightful discussion about mammary glands, and finished off with a visit to the petting zoo area where I made friends with a couple feisty camels. 

I always feel bad for the inhabitants of a petting zoo. All day long people are poking them, kids are yelling and everyone is shoving cheap grain down their throats as to not waste the two dollars it cost to purchase that little white cup of gruel. My instinct is to stage a riot and lead them to freedom in a blaze of glory, or at the very least buy a ranch in Montana (think Little House on the Prairie) where I could set them free.

But, I guess when it comes down to it, there are worse fates for these furry friends. Lulu the Lamb could be stuck in a pen alone without any companionship, she could come face to face with a wild cheetah – or even worst – she could be the main course at tomorrow’s gyro dinner.

I love the fair.

Boot Camp Day Two

Did you know that there are more than 600 muscles in the human body? This is a fascinating fact that I Googled, after lamenting over my widespread muscle fatigue and soreness.

Boot camp – day two: I have crunched, push-uped, lifted and sprinted, and today I realized that I have not worked out this hard since high school. No wonder my body is staging a massive protest! My friend (hi Jen) is a returning veteran of the class and I use her exceptionally strong biceps as motivation, even though she is worried that she is developing super human strength. 

On a lighter note – I, along with millions of other Americans, saw the most touching video on Today this morning about Christian the Lion. It literally brought tears to my eyes (I have a soft spot for animals). Here is the Barbara Walters version. Enjoy! 

Drop and Give me 10!

I have signed up for boot camp, extreme boot camp that is. My friend and I went to orientation this weekend where we had to do push ups and sit ups, run a timed mile and yield to several body measurements, a public scale and a body fat test (every girl’s dream). Now I am not intimidated by the physical torture that will ensue. What terrifies me is the 5:15 a.m. wake up call tomorrow morning. To me, squats, sprints and weights pale in comparison to the threat of an obnoxious squealing alarm (reminder – click here). 

Back to the orientation – and to a minor rant. A few people gave my friend and I the old, “you don’t need to be here” commentary. Ok, yes, we appear to be fit people, but that doesn’t mean that we are as strong as we want to be, or as fit as we used to be. Hasn’t anyone ever heard of skinny fat? Perhaps I did not get the memo that outlined the need to apologize for feeling decent in a pair of stretch pants. The point is, the competition and comparisons are unnecessary. Everyone embarking on something as insane as 6 a.m. boot camp is ultimately striving for the same thing and there should be some semblance of unity that comes with a shared vision. And by vision, I am not talking about cholesterol management, blood pressure control or longevity. I am referring to the female aesthetic dream, which was best captured by my friend when filling out the goal line in her paperwork.  

About face, MARCH! Wish me luck… updates are sure to follow.

Goodbye Sun, Hello Moon

When the smog clears and the wildfire dust settles, we find ourselves with the most amazing sunsets over the Santa Monica mountains. Tonight was one of those nights. I watched from our patio and realized that the view is a real estate perk that I do not take advantage of nearly enough. 

Technodespair

Our Direct TV is on the fritz. Due to a serious satellite malfunction, we are going on day six without television. This is especially hard for me because I despise silence and my friend Sony Bravia (we’ll call her Brav for short) is a constant source of background noise. 

On day one I deemed the loss of Brav completely unacceptable. After a rescue attempt that would rival any physician in the ER – manual resets, rewiring, the old faithful unplug/plug back in and 45 minutes on the phone with Jermaine from customer service – I was forced to acknowledge defeat and call the time of death.

It is true what they say, time heals all wounds. As the earth continued to spin I found joy in other forms of entertainment. 

I learned how to turn people into cartoon characters using photoshop (send me your pics if you want to be morphed).

 

I went out and bought new kicks in an effort to spur some fitness motivation (see previous post). On a symmetry side note, I also learned that my right foot is almost a full size larger than my left. I blame my father because I was blessed with his feet when the chromosomes separated. 

I have been listening to music like it is going out of style and have a newfound love for Tom Petty, who incidentally, is currently playing in the background. ….”I’m learning to fly around the clouds, but what comes up must come down. I’m learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings…(click here for song)” 

I have also immersed myself in a book by Judith Orloff, MD that promises to take me on a wonderful journey through the mysteries of energy. Typically, you would never find me reading anything of this sort, but as I mentioned above, Brav has gone away and my horizons have broadened. More to come in a future post on energy vampires and generating positive emotion to counteract negativity.  

These past six days have been inspirational, but all good things must come to an end. Direct TV is sending a tech to our place on Wednesday to bring Brav back to life. While I know I that I will embrace the return of her audible and visual talents, moving forward it may not be so hard to use the Power Off button.

Eating Cherry Garcia Does Not Burn Calories

On Monday I made a proud and determined proclamation to anyone that would listen. It went something like this, “My jeans are tight as hell. I am going to set my alarm and work out every morning before work. I did it before my wedding and I am going to get into the habit again.” 

True to my word, every night I tucked myself into bed at a reasonable hour, set the alarm for 5:45 a.m. and waged war against insomnia in the name of physical fitness.

You probably know where I am going with this story so I won’t bore you with the details. I won’t drag out the fact that my dog was running laps around the living room as I lay motionless in bed. You don’t need to hear that my alarm snoozed every ten minutes for an hour each day. And worst of all, I won’t elaborate on how I waited patiently for the slowest elevator known to man, instead of taking the two flights of stairs to my office (clearly, the building contractor didn’t spring for an Otis).  

What bothers me more than the fact that my willpower is weaker than a smoker with a pack of cigs, is that people all around me don’t seem to be having the same problem. I even have a friend that wakes up before her two year old child to make it to the gym (hi Stacey). 

So right now, approximately four minutes after taking the last bite of a 3.6 ounce mini Cherry Garcia, I have decided that I despise this new lazy persona, the lack of ambition and the complete and utter apathy. In this spirit, I am officially making a new proclamation, stating aloud, “At least three times a week my heart rate will increase. Not because of freeway gridlock, work deadlines or cashier rage related to CVS’s insistence on hiring incompetent workers, but because the true me cares more about fitting into a pair of jeans than getting an extra hour of sleep.”

I am pretty confident I will be working out tomorrow. Until then, I will sit cross legged on my living room floor and chant my new mantra, “I love the eliptical machine, I love the eliptical machine, I love the eliptical machine.” Namaste.

The Man Cave

As you read this post, there are couples all over the world fighting a serious battle. It does not involve weaponry or blood, but it does involve cunning and determination. It is a battle of domestication. This clash is over the placement of previously owned possessions in a shared home. 

I remember when Nick and I made the big decision to move in together. I envisioned romantic nights at the new abode – making dinner, popping a bottle of wine and curling up on the couch to watch  a movie. What I never imagined was the subtle power struggle that would ensue. A game of tug-of-war, if you will, which resulted in many sentimental goodbyes for Nick. The stained leather couch – donated. The obscene speaker system – relegated to the closet. The tattered lamps – replaced. 

Women nest. Men do not. Women want to primp their home, while men want to pimp theirs. This is a fact. It is for this reason that I look forward to the day when Nick and I have a home large enough to accommodate a full scale man cave. A day when he will happily retreat with his man friends to a den of Coors Light, PlayStation, poker and fantasy football.

I took a little audit of our apartment tonight and realized that his future man cave is well underway. Several items did survive the domestic battle five years ago and several have been added as gifts throughout the years. 

We have the Trans Am, a perfect accent to the crystal vase. Snoop is nestled on the shelf below.

 I also came across our good friend Michael Jackson. I introduced him to Indy, but the meeting did not go well (clearly the dog thinks he was guilty as charged). 

We have sports paraphernalia up the wazoo.

And electronics galore. Although I am savvy enough to know that these products will be completely worthless in the eyes of any testosterone driven male when the next-gen comes out. 

But nothing, and I mean nothing, will be more meaningful than the moment when our loyal Indian Chief friend can stop standing guard on our patio and instead guard the man cave beer cooler.  

Yes folks, I look forward to the day when we can build Nick the most enviable man cave in all the land. Until that day, I will sprawl out on the new leather couch, watch TLC on the big TV, sneer at Snoop Dogg and hope to God that Indy doesn’t confuse the Indian Chief with an outdoor fire hydrant.

Are you there readers? It’s me, Marcy. (only chicks will get this)

I had a startling revelation last night. People are actually reading this blog.

I was at my friend’s fabulous birthday party in Hermosa beach. There were lots of people, lots of drinks and lots of laughs .

There were also many classy events. Such as the elite, upscale beer pong sport (not recommended for those who are germ conscious). 

As an aside, do you see a similarity between the arch of the hand above, and the arch of the hand below? Coincidence? I think not. 

Back on track – so mid-party someone (hi Sarah) mentions that she has been reading and following the blog. This should not have come as a surprise. After all, I started the blog to keep family and friends in better touch with my life. Hell, I even posted the Web link on Facebook. For some reason though, I never considered the fact that people would actually use the URL, would actually read the blog and would actually enjoy it (I hope).

So in conclusion, if you are out there reading please feel free to comment (click on the small comment count below) if you are ever so inclined. It will make me feel less like a pre-teen girl in the sixth grade who has grown up with no religion and feels alone in the world. (Again, a reference that only chicks will get).