Rachael

I’m using dog training techniques on people. Okay, on one person. In dog training, or at least the kind I’m using with good success so far on Clara, when the dog does something you don’t want her to do, you ignore her. You remove attention. Then you praise her when she does what you want.

There’s a person in my life (I won’t mention in which arena I know her — I know she doesn’t know that I blog, but someone who knows her might, so I won’t specify further) that drives me up a flipping wall. Up the wall to the point that my stomach turns into little knots of irritation. She talks. And talks. And talks. And talks.

Without point. Ad nauseum. About nothing.

And then she talks some more. And she talks mean.

I’m a nice gal. I like to respond politely to everyone who speaks to me. It’s one of the obligations in life, I think. As a good human, you honor the voices of others.

However. There’s a line, people.

This gal talks nothing but crap, too, did I mention that? She criticizes EVERYONE, but she does it in that dreadful passive-aggressive way, "Did you notice that Jane Doe has gained weight? Boy, I wonder what her husband thinks about that. Have you noticed? I wonder how much she’s gained. What do you think? How much do you guess she’s gained?"

Then she’ll repeat the exact same sentiment, same phrasing, an hour later. And the next day. I’m not exaggerating here.

Or she says the same thing, over and over, even if you pretend not to hear the first time. "I have to get gasoline today." Nothing. "I can’t believe I have to get gas already." I nod. "It’s just so expensive. I thought I just fueled up the other day. I hate getting gas. Don’t you?"

I guess I can’t convey how irritating it is. It sounds pretty innocuous, written like that. It’s the WAY she says things that grates on me. It’s the way she keeps talking, even when I am obviously busy doing something else, even when I snap at her, which I occasionally do to my everlasting regret. I snap, she backs off, and then she’s back to talking.

So, while in my Buddhist-in-law mind I try to think of her as my excellent teacher, as someone just trying to achieve happiness and avoid suffering, I’m also trying some dog training on her.

It’s working!

When I’m doing something and don’t want to be interrupted, and she talks about something completely trivial, or worse, mean-spirited, I ignore her. I may be quite close to her, and I don’t turn around. I can obviously hear her. And I just ignore her. Completely.

Then, when I’m not busy, I initiate polite, friendly conversation. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind my new method (I would, if someone were totally ignoring me), and she’s talking to me less when I’m obviously busy. It’s truly kind of amazing. I like her way better now.

Good girl!

PS – Bolinas tomorrow night! Come see the Whoreshoes in the best possible venue.

Here I am, out here on the porch again, thinking about getting my sweatshirt. The blessed, blessed fog is rolling back again, both last night and tonight, and while we’re inland enough to still heat up during the day, it’s cooling down with a smack now that the sun is setting. That makes for one happy Rachael.

I am also made happy by the fact that I ran today, with the Most Perfect Dog. I hadn’t run for over a month. I think in running you get about two or three weeks’ grace. You can jump back in and barely notice you haven’t been out in a while. More than a month and you feel like you’re an elephant with adenoids.

But it was bearable because I was with La Clarita. Clara is the BEST dog. This was really only the second time I’d taken her running. I took her out the first week I had her, and the next day she was limping, and the day after that, she had a sore on her paw that turned into a horrible mess. Turns out it was a foxtail that had gone up and through her paw, and she’d probably come with it, but I didn’t know that at first and I thought the run had broken her.

Since she healed, it’s just been too bloody hot. Down by the marinas, I’m sure it would have been cool enough for her to run, upper sixties, low seventies, with a cool breeze every day, but at our house, where we were living with ninety degrees and up inside, and hotter outside, you couldn’t pay me to put on Spandex running shorts. No way in hell (which we were very close to at that point).

Today was cool enough to try it. And know what? Surprise: she was perfect at it. I’d say, “Let’s go fast!” and I’d adjust the adjustable leash that was strapped to my waist pack. She’d run right next to me, with slack in the short leash. She looked up at me often, with a face that clearly said, “This is fun! Let’s go fast!” Then, when I tired, I’d say, “Okay, that’ll do.” I would release the catch on the leash, and she could play out on the line, sniffing in front of us, and straying behind fifteen feet, but always coming back when the leash went taut.

Also, I hate to brag, but she’s the star pupil in her obedience class. She learned “leave it” in three tries, and then turned her head AWAY from the hot dog when offered. Now, I don’t think even I would do that. I loves me a hot dog with mustard and a little sauerkraut.

Okay, the smells out here are weird tonight. I swear I smelled lamb being cooked on a grill, and now there’s a noxious smell that reminds me of cigarette smoke mixed with bleach. What does meth smell like? Oh, my god. I’m going inside. Can you smell meth? Really, I don’t know. We don’t live on a crack street, but we certainly are adjacent to one (the helicopter is over our house as I type this – it is often over our house).

Pictures now. Alison is right – they’re all cell phone pics nowadays, but you don’t mind much, do you? The real camera tanked, and we haven’t been able to afford a new one. And my cell is always on me, you know? At the ready.

Lala’s girls, smiling

    That’s a big stick for a five pound dog

I got this shirt at Goodwill for two bucks.

I refashioned it into this CYOOTE skirt. Chop off the top so that it’ll be length you want, chop off the arms if they’re still on, pin in the shape you want (try it on, carefully) and sew up the side. No modeled shots, sorry. Skirts are hard to model.

911 Duck loves Cowboy Duck

Did I ever show you the curtains I made for the bathroom?

Fabulous upholstery fabric, bought in Arroyo Grande (can’t remember the shop name, sorry)

The top of the fridge belongs to Adah

Clara in the car. Let’s go fast!

https://rachaelherron.com/here_i_am_out_h/

I’m sitting outside on the porch, because it’s one in the morning, and it’s finally cool out here. According to the thermometer inside, which I think reads low, it’s 94 in the house. Lala’s asleep in the bedroom where the small air-conditioner sings, but I’m not tired. Instead of going to bed, I soaked my clothes in cold water and I sat on the couch in front of the fan and watched the Daily Show (Jon Stewart is my boyfriend. Lala’s boyfriend is Stephen Colbert, and she can have him, all small-eyed and smarter than me. No, I like Jon’s slow appeal. I don’t have to work as hard. Call me lazy). You know, John McCain gets points for going on Jon Stewart’s show more than once. I almost like the him (yes, I have pronoun problems. Again, lazy. You figure them out). You can tell he REALLY wants to say what he really thinks about the administration, but can’t, and won’t. I can respect that.

Digit just came up on the porch. He’s happy it’s cooler now, too. I actually dunked his head in water today, which he hated and then immediately loved.

It’s been interesting, the way he now rules the house. In the condo, he stayed on top of cabinets when Lala’s dogs came over. He was scared. In the new house, he overcame his fears, and now, with the large new addition to our pack called Clara, he has NO fears. Clara chases Adah, yes. Adah doesn’t care much, just jumps on something and demands food. Clara chased Digit once, and there was a dog-ish scream, and some blood, and now Digit controls her just with his eyes. We’ve seen Digit sit just outside the slider in the kitchen – Clara will be dancing, crossing her legs she’s gotta go so bad, but she won’t pass The Eye of the Digit. And good on her. Digit’s got way more claws than most of those pussies out there.

Also this: I was on the couch, lazily watching my boyfriend be funny, my arm draped over my head as one does in heat that makes one want to chew frozen peas, and suddenly I screamed. What WAS that dangling near my head?

Oh, yes. My hand. That I had placed there.

Oh, it’s nice out here in the coolth. The dogs are very dead at my feet. I sure like these dogs. I sat on our godson Dylan tonight (he never woke up), and Lala called to ask what to do in case of a partial obstruction. This is something, as an EMD, I answer quite often. I hate the question, since people panic when they think someone they love is choking, and they don’t listen to you. You can tell it’s a partial obstruction, since you can hear the patient gasping and talking in the background, and you can also hear the sound of pounding. “Don’t hit him on the back!” “What?” “Don’t hit him on the back! It can push it farther in!” Slap, slap, slap, you hear in the background. Urg.

Anyway.

So Lala asks, and I think, how strange. I don’t think anyone is at the house with her, just the cats, and the DOGS!

My heart raced and my stomach fell to my feet. Isn’t it weird what the body does?

Harriet now seems fine – she may have choked on something before we got home since she acted like something was still in her throat, but she could breathe and drink water and jump around and wag. Her throat, when manipulated, doesn’t seem to bother her. We’re watching her, but I think she’s fine.

But the fear! How do parents do it? I checked Dylan’s breathing five times in the two hours I was with him tonight.

I learned this today, too: Dogs can be really gross. I caught Clara rolling in a DIAPER at the beach. I thought it was an empty paper bag. Then I got close. Ew, ew, ew. She is now bathed. But eeeew.

Okay. I’m now officially sleepy, and I’m out of wine. This ole porch swing has been with me through three houses now, and I don’t get enough time just sittin’ in it. This was nice. Off to bed. Goodnight.

You know, I’ve rethought that last post. I mentioned that I was intellectually above those two TV shows. I think perhaps I was wrong. I just realized that the two things I’ve most enjoyed on real (not at work) TV lately were:

My Date With Drew: One of the sweetest little documentaries I’ve seen in a long time. It purports to chronicle a guy’s obsession with getting a date, just one, with Drew Barrymore. But really, even though that part is cool (I won’t tell you whether or not he gets the date) it’s really a movie about friendship. Dude’s friends follow him EVERYWHERE, for a long time, and never, ever stop encouraging him in his quest. It was so great I got a little verklempt.

Long Way Round: Ewan McGregor and his best pal Charley go from London to New York, via mostly land, on motorbikes. I watched the first episode of seven and thought it would be rather a waste of time, but okay to spin to. Instead, it also turned into a male-friendship movie, the likes of which I haven’t seen since, well, My Date With Drew. I only realize now the similarity, and I wonder why I’m drawn to male-bonding right now. Ewan and Charley come across as nice, really nice. I like nice boys. I wondered if it was all editing, but there are several shots in the film where something horrible happens, some bike/car/flood/river catastrophe, and the camera goes right to their faces, and they’re cool. They react with compassion and concern to things, the way I want people to react to things. Satisfying to watch.

Also (knitting content!), Long Way Round has a scene in the sewers of Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia, and it shows the kids that Ryan’s Dulaan Brigade helps out. I felt connected to that scene in a very intense, very moving way.

So. That to say: I am not sophisticated, after all. I am a pop-culture junkie. Not quite in the eat-only-Twinkies kind of way, but still in an eat ice-cream-every-day and pickles-count-as-vegetables kind of way.Ya dig?

Just thought you should know.

You know when we get the happiest in dispatch? Besides when we give successful CPR instructions, or we hear the first cry of the new baby, I mean?

When America’s Funniest Home Videos is on. That and Cops.

I know, who am I? Normally I have a reasonable intellect. I am not a moron. These shows don’t normally suit me. Let me explain: At my last job we weren’t allowed to watch TV, but here it’s always on — news in the daytime, and whatever at night. When it’s busy we don’t hear it or notice it, but it sure is nice when it’s quiet. Every show is interrupted, of course, by routine business, as is well and good, so DVDs are good, because you can pause when the phone rings.

But I have a new theory — there should be a 24-hour channel for emergency workers: showing Funniest Videos and Cops. They’re segmented, so you never care if you watch all or part of the show, and they cheer you up. People behaving badly and animals being extremely cute. In this kind of environment, it would be perfect. We’d watch.

The Dyl-pickle is getting so big!

We heart our godson. (This was at the beach — Joni brought her dog, and all the dogs romped. But Dylan stole the show, of course.)

I am at work. It is early, early morning, on my first day of a 60 hour work week. I tell you, unless you have a LOT of coffee, Antiques Roadshow is not going to keep anyone awake when the phones aren’t ringing (not that I’m complaining. This is fire season. The phones have been ringing a hell of a lot lately, and the radios have been blaring. I suppose this is a nice break. But I need more coffee).