Today's Pet Porn

Fred and Sheba can't hide their mutual attraction.

They wrestle together, they race around the house together, they sleep together; they are the best of  friends but Ethel could care less about Sheba. I am devoted to them all.

Slow Sunday

It’s a beauty day — just stunning and the snow is almost gone. My yard, a green carpet, looks rich and warm and promising.  Please let that be the end of Winter!

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Friends/readers notice how happy I am in my posts. It’s true, I am exquisitely happy here. But it ain’t all roses — just an FYI. I’ve been having a rough time for two weeks; unable to speak to friends lately when they call. Dwight Facetime-ed last night and I couldn’t speak to him. I even had a seizure trying. But when it hurts, I know I am “growing.”

I’m growing in my understanding of myself and the implications of my condition. I began treatment thinking I had a speech disorder; I’ve leaving understanding myself as dominated/restricted by a seizure disorder with protocols to which it’s in my best interest to adhere.

I’ll skip the brief paragraph of self-pity that might have gone here. Instead, I’ll head off to the hot tub with some morning chocolate.

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I’m back.

Fred broke one of my most beautiful and expensive pieces of glass. I confess: I yelled at him. Then I went to Ethel for comfort and Fred came over too. I melted. He’s such a charmer.

“It’s just an object,” I said to myself. It has no soul. And then I threw Fred in the fire.

No I didn’t; I glued the tiny bowl back together as best I could.

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I searched for the incredibly encouraging comments from Rachel about my play and can only find one. There were three — plus her email saying my script had been recommended for their ReACT program. This is the one I found: “This is just brilliant, Chris!  Truly.” Thankfully, if I apply myself, I can find the missing ones on my blog.

Before I give up, I’m going to write to the new artistic director for one last kick at the can because I cannot think of any other producer and my play needs a space with two separate play areas as their BMO Theatre has.

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Darrell will get back to work on the porch tomorrow. That excites me. Tuesday I go to Vancouver and my penultimate appointment with Dr. Shoja. Wednesday Rob comes for an overnight visit. I’m really excited about that.

Melting!

Okay. This morning’s post might have put you off dog ownership — the whole rubber gloves, blockage thing.

I ended resolved to wash Sheba, stem-to-stern — especially stern — and I was dreading it. But she gets A+ for bathing. She just stood there and accepted everything. There was a single indicator of resistance: She raised one forepaw. That’s it!

I was incredibly impressed by her co-operation; it could not have been easier. And now she feel deliciously, cuddly soft and smells like a dog who lives in a spa should. I rewarded her by playing indoor fetch — that’s “fetch” not “felch” — to hasten the drying of her hair.

And I cut some hair around her eyes so that she can see better and I can see her.

Then I washed her wool blanket. It was disgusting. It’s an old off-white four-point HBC blanket — a dumb colour for a dog owner. After life with Spike and Béla it was stained, but it was still good thick wool so I’ve kept it for furniture protection.

Once I washed it, it looked fabulous! I mean … like new; I can’t quite believe it.

So I washed a blanket. So what. Well I used to have my blankets dry-cleaned but there’s no dry cleaner here. I’m actually stoked to have done something new and simple and practical. I dried it on my nice big clean table in my toasty-warm studio.

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It was sunny by nine o’clock. The melt had started.

It’s kind of scary outside though, especially for Sheba. The wind that cleared the skies is shaking the trees and avalanches of snow are dropping loudly on the tin roof and cold and wet on top of us. If it were frozen or ice, we’d be dead. The large shrub I like wherein the birds huddle waiting their turn at the feeder, is upright again.

It was beautiful working outdoors. I could hear Meryl and her partner next door and welcomed the sound of nice neighbours. The snow was still thick on the ground making the day startlingly bright.

I worked on my Pinecone Park & Spa “sign.” It wasn’t easy on the ladder so it was slow going and I did a lot of dropping of things. And boy it hurts when your hands get bone cold. But I’m happy with my work so far; to get through a quarter of the pinecones in one day is very satisfying.

I’m adding some horizontal Alder next. I hope to get that up tomorrow. But now at least my talisman of domestic identity isn’t just something manufactured. I love the life ring but even more now that it’s part of something handmade.

It feels great to be back doing creative things. It’s been forever. I’ve been focused on things indoors and without my ladies since October. But creative or practical, I always feel great at Happy Hour when I’ve done something to take this place forward in some way.

Then had a hot tub as the clouds rolled in and while I was in it I pretty much decided to make a brick and soil surface in my courtyard

Tonight: More Top of the Lake.

HORRORS AT PINECONE PARK 😱😱

I spent yesterday with God — with details, that is. Yum!

Like what, Chris?

Like going through the house, the shed and the studio and gathering all the batteries into one bag and putting them in a logical place; like capping lights with aluminum foil to dim them lower than the wattage; like cleaning the filters on my water and air purifiers and like cleaning around the bases of everything in the bathrooms — with a toothbrush.

Surely to God I get preferred seating in Eternity for that.

I also got the DVD player going in the studio. Finally.

But I am done with responsible things. Today I play. It’s supposed to be rainy with some sunny periods. I hope to put some pinecones up around my life ring if there’s enough sunshine and the shed’ siding is dry.

Alternatively, I start working on the fortune cookie/chopstick dress repair. It’s in the worst shape from the moves.

My studio is chock-a-block full of supplies and project parts. Still I have plenty of room in which to work and move around. I was in there yesterday sorting and tidying and getting my ladies out of harms way.

You can see in this photo from my studio that the new porch seems to fit into the house. It doesn’t, in terms of location and volume, look like a carbuncle. It will be covered in Cedar when it is finished.

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DON’T DO THIS!!! DON’T GOOGLE FELCHING!!!! I sincerely mean it. I just want you to know there’s a word spelt that way that happens to mean something insanely revolting. I’m not kidding. Don’t Google it. I’m not saying, “Don’t Google it” so you’ll Google it, I promise.

Sheba will run after the ball but not return it. She just stands there and looks at me: “Now what?” I’ve tried different tricks and she’s done it a couple of times but I can’t get her to repeat it. So I decided to Google “fetching” and typed “felching” by mistake.

By the time I realized I was reading something revolting, it was too late. 

I had to tell you because it was similarly embarrassing and horrifying to something that happened to me in France.

I was with some people I was trying to impress and a beginner in French. I wanted to compliment the surrounding pine forest but I mispronounced the word for pine tree (“pin”) and said: “Wow. You’ve got a lot of penises here. We have them in Canada too and ours are much bigger than yours, but yours smell better.”

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And speaking of disgusting — equally disgusting — I won’t tell you what I did this morning before dawn out in the backyard with a whimpering Sheba and only wearing slippers and pyjamas bottoms as it snowed. If I did, I’d have to use words such as “rubber gloves,” “matted hair,” “blockage,” “anus” and “stool.”

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Can I do it? Can I do it without freaking out or having a seizure? Should I do it in the hot tub? No, perhaps not. Should I be naked? I’m not sure. Why did I get such a big one?

I’m going to try to bather Sheba. I’m not keen for many reasons but it has to happen. I keep my furniture covered so the absence of canine bathing doesn’t compromise guest asses — I mean physical assets, not personalities. The place is shrouded with my old blankets.

It’s no wonder puppies come without manuals. If they’d told me about days like today …

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The woman who loved my play at the Arts Club is leaving her position that she’s had for seventeen years and with her goes my hopes that Defiant Dress will see the light there. The Arts Club’s new artistic director seems to want to leave risk to smaller companies and then pick up shows from them. Sigh. So now I have to schlep my script around if I want to see my show produced. The beauty of the Arts Club’s interest was their space. My script needs two separate performance spaces.

I feel gutted by the news; I’m no longer a playwright in waiting, no longer living with hope, pride or excitement. What a difference to when I heard that the movie wasn’t going ahead. That news thrilled me. I’d made a mistake signing the contract.

On the other hand I could reveal my ladies with their dresses in an exhibition here. Or not. Or pitch the play to another producer. I’ll ponder my options for a while.

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I discovered that I could buy magnificent long pinecones like the ones I gathered from a tree in the public walkway near John’s. They’re sixty bucks for eighty-seven of them.