Rebel Rescuer

Hey, why are you still here?!?!  Check out Rebel Rescuer’s new home at….

http://rebelrescuer.typepad.com/

One thing about rescuing dogs…ya never know what the next hour (or minute) will bring.

We did our dinner out tonight and got home around 11.  Of course, our homecomings are always marked by a bunch of barking and excited dogs.  Thankfully we had K crated.

Because when I walked by, I noticed that there was a teeny puppy in there with her!

K is a foster that came into rescue pregnant.  She came from a backyard breeder who ditched seven dogs (five purebred and two mixes) at a shelter.  Another rescue took the five purebreds, and we took the two mixes.  And of course, K was pregnant.

We had an xray on Tuesday and the vet thought we had some time.  But apparently not.

And K is NOT being friendly right now.  We can’t get close enough to even count the babies.  Xray showed seven (omg), we had one underdeveloped baby that wasn’t born alive.  But we think we may have eight live babies.  Just not sure.

So far she’s doing a good job.  Babies are eating and acting normal (I guess…I’m certainly no expert).

Did I mention its now 2:25am and I’ve been up since 4:30 yesterday?

Its gonna be a long night.

The Matrix bought a new camera for me, His Best Girl, and I plan on using it to capture life in the Asylum for you, my dear readers.  I can honestly say that I suck like a Hoover when it comes to photography and will be relying on various editing software to make them look decent.  Of course, I suck at editing software so the results could be rather sucky.

On a less-sucky note, it IS Friday and that means none other than the Friday After Work Club Meeting at our local Mexican food joint (which by the way, used to be a crematorium…no wonder the plates are so damn hot).  They have a loverly patio on which one can still smoke and freely bitch about whatever is on one’s mind.  Nicko the Sicko will debut her new ride tonight and no doubt the Matrix will tell us stories from his Job (note capitalization) that only he really gets because the rest of us are too ree-ree to understand.  But the queso is something good enough to drown in, and makes me giddy with anticipation.  I know, its wrong to be giddified over melted cheesy dip stuff.  Cut me some slack, I like cheese.

Surprisingly we don’t have a jam-packed weekend ahead (but you know me, I can certainly fix THAT).  One of our foster dogs is going home (sweet!), dinner with the pinup girl (porn star’s friend), and the usual ablutions to the humble abode.  Now that I’m mourning the end of the Season One DVD’s of “Big Love”, there is no reason to even turn on the tv (sniff).  In fact, if I play my cards right, I may be able to get that cut and color that I so desperately need (read:  I be uggy these days).  Also should go to the grocery store and at least pretend that I’m like the other wives in my neighborhood.

OK, I could NEVER pretend to be like the wives in my neighborhood.  Number one, I’m not tan enough, my boobs are wicked real, I don’t own a tennis court, and certainly am not screwing my tennis coach (don’t have one to screw).

I’m quite certain the Wives of the Hood see me at the grocery store and wonder if I’m someone’s maid or nanny.  Especially after a long week, I’m not ashamed to admit that I look like roadkill and feel like ass.  But being the ever-alert eavesdropper, I stil manage to catch bits and pieces of their conversations. 

“Blah blah Jason’s captain of the baseball team”.

“Jessie’s been invited to sing at the White House”.

“Ashlee’s riding lessons are going well”.  (Note double ee’s.  Y’s aren’t good enough anymore.)

But I also “basket-drop”…my own term for scanning another’s grocery cart to see what they consume when they’re not playing tennis.  It’s always the same culprits.  Lots of produce, steak, diet soda, diet bread, diet frozen dinners, teeny packages of diet cookies….and bottled water.

And then I glance at my own cart.

Fish sticks, chicken fingers, Little Debbies, tortilla chips, Coke with lime, fruity Pebbles, 1% (not skim!) milk, spray cheese, instant mashed potatoes, Spaghetti O’s…and for good measure, some strawberries that I will eat with a dusting of sugar (or forget about until they rot).

Sadly, they look in my cart, see my limp hair, the bags under my eyes, and shake their heads in mock sympathy.  But what they can’t see when they look at me (or my cart) is that I’m very proud of myself and very happy.  No, I don’t have a poolboy (or a pool, actually), but I save little doggie lives daily, and THAT makes for the limp hair and eye baggage.   

So please, Wives of the Hood…when you see me at the grocery store, there’s no reason to do the “up and down look” and feel sorry for me in my jeans and tshirt.  While you’re tanning at the salon, I’ll be home…saving lives, cracking jokes, and not worrying about whether the Matrix is jackrabbiting the coffee cart girl. 

After all, real men like real boobs.  And real women like queso.

I’ve been staying away from the poker tables quite a bit these days and its beginning to get to me.  Things have been hectic.

As the 2007 WSOP comes to a close, I find that instead of being there…I’m here.  And not spending much time on the felt.  Things are busy here at the House of Insanity and I’m scared to death that I’ll start losing my percentages and revert back to amateur mistakes that I was making four years ago.

I first learned the game of poker from my grandma who was every inch a proper lady….with a wild streak.  She liked cards, big shiny new cars, Neil Diamond, and anything that seemed like an adventure.  And so it was that she taught my brother and I how to play five card stud one day during summer break.  What she DIDN’T teach us was how to bluff.  Nope, that I taught myself that very day.  See, my brother and I were very competitive when it came to games, even betting our candy hordes on things like Monopoly and Rummy.  And so it was that I bet out my grandma and my brother to reveal that I had nothing in my hand at all.  I can still remember my gorgeous grandma throwing her head back and laughing at my ability to bluff….when I hadn’t even been taught.  I was exactly seven years old.

I’ve played poker on and off since then, but rarely go back to the old stud and draw games.  A few years ago I was introduced to Hold Em and have had a torrid love affair with it ever since (with Omaha being my hunky pool boy).  Maybe its not just the game, but the players, the dealers, the hole cards that you hope won’t be a 7-2 in the big blind.  Its putting my hair in a ponytail and playing the part of a dumb girl.  Yeah guys….I’m afraid to say that you’re hardwired to fall for that one.  Its watching pulses, watching faces (which are simply windows to thought), and hunkering down behind a stack of chips.  I really can’t explain more than that.  If poker were something that wasn’t played in the underground, it would be as respected as chess.  But the clientele is different; making it seem like a backroom gamble that only those skirting the gray line of good and bad can play.

And that’s another reason why I love it.

What most people don’t realize about poker is the relative “gamble” in it is minimal.  Is there luck involved?  Absolutely.  But there is skill involved that combines the actor with the mathematician, the banker with the bouncer, and the flirty girl with the serial killer.  The demographic is simple really…there is none.  Granted you see a lot of the baby boomers with their khaki shorts and L.L. Bean caps…but then you see the street-smart kid, and the rich housewife.  Whoever (or whatever) they are, it doesn’t matter when you’re all face to face over two thin pieces of cardboard (or plastic).

And yeah, you catch cold streaks that will freeze you to the bone…and hot streaks that will keep you grinning for weeks.  Its an emotional game and not for the weak.  Its an old best friend, an old enemy, and that nasty junior high gym coach all rolled into one.  But one thing its not is boring.

So I’m going to try and hit the felt again in the very near future, once things have slowed down a bit.  If I’ve learned nothing else, its to NOT play when your head is elsewhere.  I’ve done a good job of that.  But I still know that the odds of backdooring a set on the river is 4%.

And wouldn’t my grandma be proud?

Can I just say that I consider myself to be a gun-toting, alternative energy interested, former vegetarian, anti-factory farm/puppymill/fur coat kind of gal.

But this Spanish shit has got to stop.

The Matrix and I trucked to our local discount crap mecca Wally World last night to get some wrapping paper for the MIL’s thoughtfully purchased birthday gifts.  And everywhere (I’m talking every stinkin’ where) were signs printed ONLY in Spanish.

WTF Wally?!?!?!

I mean, I’m a “live and let live” kind of gal (unless of course, you mean to harm my family or myself…God save you if you harm my dogs), but this is becoming ridiculous!  Obviously their well-paid marketing folks have determined that the Spanish speaking population makes up a large portion of their customer base, and I can respect that.

But the rest of us speak FREAKING ENGLISH.

So although I did a lot of time in Spanish classes in high school, I have no clue what the “special” was in the film processing department.  I mean, don’t I get to participate in sales and specials?  Doesn’t Wally World want MY money too?!  Or should I trot over to Walgreens where everything still (at least for now) is written in English?!  Maybe I should take my white-bread film processing needs to the grocery store?

Pointless Digression #1 – Speaking of grocery stores, here in my politically correct backyard, the aisles are no longer marked “Mexican Food”.  Hell no.  They’re now “Hispanic Food”.  Seriously.  Now doesn’t everyone go out for Mexican Food?  Chinese Food?  Italian Food?  And WHY?!?!?!  Because those are the countries they stinkin’ came from?!?!  Are we REALLY that touchy feely these days?  What if I want German food?  Do I have to go to the “Western  European Formerly Communist” aisle? 

I’m asking you Wally…what do you want???

We’re all used to seeing signs that appear in both languages.  No problemo, after all, we probably have many tourists from Spanish speaking countries, who happen to find WalMArt to be a regular local tourist attraction (and I suppose it could be considered so, especially on Saturday morning).  But to have Spanish EXCLUSIVELY printed on signs is making me feel like a stranger in my own country.

Something’s gotta give here.

And that “something” is going to be my shopping trips to Walmart.  Screw you big-box, foreign language only store.  I’m through with you. 

I could go on for hours.

Yeah, after leading the life of a popular television crime drama for WAY too long, I’m looking at leaving for greener pastures.

It’s not that I don’t like dead people maggots, or various injured body parts, or the smell of two-week old blood.  Ok, I hate it.  In fact, if I stay here much longer I’ll either A) develop a serious mental problem involving plastic spoons and visions of animated dut bunnies B) the perma-wrinkle between my brows will swallow my entire face or C) I’ll snap completely and become “last seen” wearing hockey jersey and no underwear while running haphazardly through downtown traffic.

And no one wants that, do they?

So yes, my resume is sitting ever so patiently (or not) on the desk of someone in an animal-related industry.  The job is perfect for me!!  I mean, what could be better (besides being a pro poker player?)

Of course, it feels like my poor vulnerable little self is just sitting out in midair waiting for a giant smackdown.  But its worth a try, no?

**Monday Hot Tube Report – Nothing…zilch.  Kind of made me sad really.  But then I remembered that in this heat, its probably not safe for anyone to be engaging in Sin Glazing anyway.  ‘Nuff said.**

So by twisting and pleading, I’ve managed to convince the Matrix that I need to trade in Tighty Whitey, my speedy sweet, fully loaded, brought in from Vegas, leather for your hiney-car on a new one.  The criteria for said new vehicle (according to me) is that I can easily fit dog crates in it, it can’t have any predertermined “messages” about it, and it can’t be an SUV (or at least it can’t be a big one).

And of course, whenever you mention the topic of new cars, everyone has their opinion (including the Matrix, who’s opinion can be warped and changed according to how much I whine calmly present facts and research).  And most people would say that I should get an SUV, maybe something like a Jeep.  However, I’m about to reveal a little-known secret about myself.  I’m petrified of rolling a vehicle at high rates of speed.  Now, I would LOVE to have a Jeep to take into the hills in order to run over big hippies rocks, but we’re talking everyday auto.

Another big secret….I have a serious lead-foot, compounded with a chain-smoking problem, and the occasional desire to apply lip gloss while on the fly.  (But I don’t drink coffee while I’m driving…I’m not one of THOSE people).  So in other words, I need some serious safety and a serious ability to keep all four tires pointing downward.  My lead-foot issue has gotten me in trouble a couple of times (in neighboring states that is, here it’s called “professional courtesy”).  But as always, I’m running behind and trying to make up time in the most unsafe way possible.

So here is what I’ve been eyeballing.  Just enough cool mixed with some power, some room, and it simply screams “mobster” doesn’t it?!?!  It’s a far cry from Tighty Whitey, but the design is simply wonderful!  I think I need a moment….

Anyway, the Matrix (who has his own truck and therefore shouldn’t pick on me about cars) likes it OK.  Well, except for the fact that its American.  Now we’re the first ones to have our flag out on holidays, and the Matrix is known to wear flag-printed polo shirts while singing the National Anthem.  However, he’s not sure the American cars will hold up to my “driving style” the way the foreign guys will.  His thoughts?  Land Rover (not my style), Nissan (so-so), Audi (ever been over 5′ tall and sat in the backseat?) and a Volvo (hey Biff, wanna take a drive with Skip and Muffy to Connecticut to see the polo finals?).  Yeah, he’s obviously succombing to the bleach fumes.

So being the level-headed chick that I am, I told him that I understood.  Yeah, I understood that I’m going to have to do this while he’s out of town!!  Har har har!  Can’t return a new car, now can ya?!

But really, I hear what he’s saying and will probably continue to look.  Now Mom (who has no desire to look supercool, drive fast, etc) is a fan of this to which Nicko the Sicko and I guffaw like pneumonia-stricken crows.  I mean, Nicko and I spend a lot of time together.  Nicko actually asked my mom if it came with an optional rainbow sticker or if you had to have granola bars and hairy legs to drive it.  Of course Mom found this less than funny, and denied that it had lesbian undertones.  I’m sure its a very good car, but its just not for me, ya know?  Back to Nicko and I.  When you’re two chicks, 30 years old, and neither one of you are bleach-blondes or have fake tans (or boobs, or nails, or ass cheeks, or lips, or….), and you’re driving this car SOMEONE is gonna assume the worst and ask you to make a homevideo with leopard print sheets.  God forbid you be seen in it at Wild Oats in a long cotton skirt.

I mean, Nicko is a tomboy and well, so am I to a degree.  However, we’re both straight, and look straight (hellI put on makeup to mow the yard!).  But if someone were to see us cruising that ride, Nicko would NEVER find a date and would grow old and have to move in with us so I could change her diapers and wipe soup off her chin.  Not a pretty picture, is it?

So the great vehicle search continues on with little hope of producing just eh right car.  I would get this year’s version of Tighty Whitey if they hadn’t made the rear end look so damn constipated.  Tis fugly indeed.  Until I find that perfect vehicle though, I’ll still be known as the “white streak” around town in my trusty, speedy ride.  But the Matrix is going out of town soon….

Being the hard working chick that I am, its very rare that my carcass has time to sit and stare at the idiot box for an hour.  And so it was that I found myself between tasks staring in nauseus horror at a tv show that can only be described as horrific.  (But also being a “silver lining” kind of person, it DID make me forget that breakfast and lunch hadn’t been eaten and I might lose a pound today.  Maybe I should’ve recorded this show).  Here is what was served on this so-called food show…and the host actually ATE it.  I mean, I was a vegetarian for a long time, and still don’t eat McDonalds.  While I DO like sushi and sashimi, that’s about as crazy as  it gets.  Now excuse me while I get the vomit out of my hair…

Raw pigs’s testicle (sliced and served with soy sauce).  Trichinosis anyone??

Beating Frog’s Heart (literally he was holding it in chopsticks and it was BEATING, actually it was kind of like a raw red glistening mushroom that was waving goodbye)

Frog Sashimi (sliced raw frog, presumably the leftovers from the beating heart)

Lizard Sake (with like a 6″ lizard standing in the glass)

Giant Snails cooked right in front of your eyes on a grill

Deer Penis (wtf?)

Snake Sake

Poisonous Blow Fish (must be licensed to prepare this and contains enough toxins to numb your mouth)

Live turtle (well, till they cut its head off, saving the blood to make a drink)  the legs are eaten with the skin on.

About halfway through (while wretching iced tea all over myself and anyone standing within ten feet) I decided I’d had enough.  No more of this culinary crap for me. 

*Author’s note – this post is not meant to piss anyone off who eats this crap, this is not an ethnic poke at anyone.  If you want to gag down some of this stuff, and its normal in your country, then knock yourself out.  But you won’t find my hiney sitting down to a plate of rooster sternum anytime soon.**

So unless you’re really new to RR, you already know that I spend a good deal of time, money, effort, and sanity rescuing dogs.  Like the Peace Corps, it really IS the toughest job you’ll ever love.  In fact I believe it’s WAY more difficult than digging wells in Africa or building huts in the jungle.  If you don’t believe me, just ask the tiny gray hairs that are starting to sprout out of my 31 year-old head.

Sure, the Peace Corps is a great group that does wonders for those who are water-free, vaccine-free, and hut-free.  But how would they feel if they had to bring the residents of these unfortunate places home with them?  As in, “Welcome to my home!  Be sure to bark a lot, pee on the floor, eat my furniture, and never, ever tell me if you feel sick and are going to puke in my lap!”  Granted, I don’t have to hop a plane and indoor plumbing is always a treat.  But it ain’t easy when you can’t hop a plane back home and leave it all behind, either.

And of course, the Peace Corps couldn’t possibly have as much drama as we have in rescue.  Not even on Univision will you find the cattiness, bitchiness, back stabbing, self promotion, grittiness, and sheer obsessive/compulsive argumentativity that you see in rescue.  (Disclaimer – not everyone is like this….but that’s just because they’re new).  Its rarely dull, has more battles than the Civil War, and really shows just how angry a bunch of people with the same goals can be.  I mean, it amazes me sometimes when I stop and think that we’re all on the same side, but we feel compelled to dish out verbal bloody noses with rapid regularity.  But on the other hand, we’re a passionate and stubborn group. 

Recipe for a Rescue Brawl

1 heaping cup of stubborness

6 cups of policies and regulations

3 tsp of exhaustion

1 pound of chopped personalities

16 pounds of protectiveness

Put all ingredients in a chat room blender, mix well until mixture is volatile.  Pour onto a cookie sheet and bake at 350 until someone breaks out the F-Bomb.  Serve while hot.

Frankly, I’m pretty certain that we’d all get along pretty well if we didn’t try to keep things so PC.  I mean, we’re mainly Chicks with Tudes who throw ourselves into the rescue world.  And we all know that ANYTHING involving a bunch of chicks can turn ugly (ever work in an all-women office?!).  Add to that the fact that some of us are rebels who have opted to start our own rescues and you have a regular powder keg goin’ on.  I think it would do wonders if we fought like men…ya know slam each other with our chests, throw our arms up, say things like, “What’s your problem, a-hole?”….stuff like that.  We could duke it out, throw down, and get up and be done with it.  But as “civilized” women, we simply can’t do that!  After all, isn’t it so much nicer to carry on these war crimes for years through email and the “buddy system”?  Not really.  Instead we let it brew in our guts until one day, just like a volcano of estrogen, we let it fly.  But it seems that we NEVER let it ALL fly.  We always hold back, unwilling to “go there” and are still left with a hunk of lava burning in our stomachs…albeit a smaller hunk…but a hunk just the same, waiting for the next erruption.

But if anything positive comes out of these bitchfests, its the fact that people are talking (though usually trough gritted teeth) and anytime the word “rescue” is uttered, its a good thing.  There is no such thing as bad publicity, right?

I guess if I had a rescue-wish, it would be that more people were involved and helping.  Its an overwhelming job to run a rescue, and some of us are turn all glittery when we get new volunteers that are willing to shoulder some of it for us.  And glittery is always a good thing.

So if any of you are short on drama, have big hearts, and want to save a life…all while making it up as you go…PLEASE give us a shout!  We have just the recipe for you!  And indoor plumbing as well….

Now you all know me as a level-headed, semi-witty, occasionally intelligent person right??  And most of you know that I have a tendency to worry about things and play the “what if” game.  So its safe to say that I try to look for problems and do whatever it takes to avoid them, right?

And so it was a few nights ago when we emptied most of the furniture out of the guest room to accomodate Frankie’s brood of six-week old poopers.  They are no longer containable in their whelping box, and because Frankie is so short, we can’t put them in a bigger box.  They’re still nursing a bit from time to time and I’m not going to take them away from their mom until she decides she’s tired of them.  You get the picture?

And wasn’t it the other night when I told the Matrix (who is temporarily camping in the guest room to keep an eye on the little tykes) that he cannot leave anything low enough for them to chew on?  And wasn’t I the one who fenced off part of the room with an xpen so that they wouldn’t chew on the remaining furniture?

Today’s stats…….(did I mention its only 8:31am?!)

Puppies – 1

Crackberry charger – 0

I’m NOT going to be an I-Told-You-So.

Well, maybe just a smidge.

Can I just say that the Crackberry is truly the Matrix’ survival tool?  This is his child, his inspiration, his means of communicating with that which he holds most dear (work).  It is faithfully at his side from the ass-crack of dawn to the late hours of night.  It rings, he answers, it buzzes he reads.  I actually have fantasies of smashing it with a  9-iron (or some other manly, long, stick-like thing).  It interrupts romantic dinners, buzzes at very inopportune times, and there’s nothing like being in the shower and hearing BEEP, “Hey Boss, are you there?” from a complete stranger.

So of course, I’m wondering when (if ever) Frankie is going to fully wean these babies so that I can corral them and avoid the senseless murder of any more household goods.  And of course, I’m beginning to think its never gonna happen.  After laughing explaining to my coworkers about the death of the Crackberry umbilical cord, and how I need to contain the puppies the very second they’re weaned, they reminded me that Lindsay Wagner breastfed her son until he was seven years old.  (We have a tendency to digress to the most morbid, freakish, and downright disgusting topics very quickly around here.)

Wait, SEVEN years old?!

As in, “I’m in second grade and can tie my shoes” seven years old?!

So of course, I now have a stunned and horrified expression permanently plastered on my face at the thought of a kid coming home in the afternoon to that sort of “after school snack”.  I mean, what in the lactose intolerant hell is up with that?!?!  The picture of it makes my eyes water and that perma-wrinkle on my forehead gets deeper.

While I have no human offspring and therefore am pretty clueless about them….it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that seven year-olds have teeth that are great for eating REAL food.  What exactly can they get from Mom the Moo that they can’t get elsewhere?!  I mean, we ALL survived on Flintstones vitamins didn’t we?!  Is it some sort of cult thing?  Is it bonding?  Ugh, I think my PBJ breakfast is gonna look bad on this carpet.  There’s something just so Mommie Dearest about a seven year-old kid taking a slurp off the Milk-a-Mom machine.  Jesus, can you even imagine what her chesticles must look like after going through that?!  Ever seen a Capri Sun bag without the juice?

So I guess the only consolation that I can offer the Matrix is that while the poopers are a handful, and they do destroy everything in their path (the carpet in the guest room, one wooden rocking horse, a portion of the bedskirt, and of course, the Crackberry charger)…at least I don’t have a seven year old kid dangling from my right bewbie.

See, isn’t he a lucky guy?!?!