I'm Blogging Because I am Trapped by a Spider

I was thinking earlier this evening that I would really, really, REALLY love to be a more regular blogger. I have this sense of myself that I am a good and entertaining writer but these days I don't write very much at all. I don't write on this blog. I don't write on my own business' blog. All I really write these days is grocery lists, emails, and the occasional abusive Skype message to a fellow employee at work who gets on my nerves (I said I'm a good writer, not a good person, so get off my back, OK?).

So why, more than a year after my last blog post (which was written more than a year after the post before that) am I suddenly resurrecting the MooseBlog? 

Spiders. 

One spider, really. Which might actually be dead. Maybe. I haven't had the balls to get close enough to check. 

This is a significant moment for me. You see, I spent the better part of my afternoon talking my older sister's ear off about how I can't handle the toy industry's insistence on drowning little girls' ambitions with an endless parade of pink and purple princess tat. I hate the fact that it gives girls the message that they are somehow inferior when even the doctor's sets, the veterinarian's sets, or the special girly Legos that they find in the girls' toy aisles are colored an insipid pink or purple. It drives me insane to think that while back in the 80s I was playing with a fairly wide range of toys made just for kids and not girls OR boys (hey, Playskool really only used to come in bright primaries and murky creams), today's girls are being overwhelmed with the constant message that even though the world is at their fingertips their real goal in life should be to become a pretty (perhaps even sexy) princess. 

Princesses, as we all know, are traditionally around mostly to pine over princes and wait to get rescued.  

And yet here I am, ladies and gentlemen. Barricaded in my bedroom. Looking out of the window and absolutely willing my husband to return from the other side of the world (he's in Singapore until Friday and it's just Wednesday night right now) to rescue me from the (ooooh, I don't even want to say the word) spider that is lurking, dragon-like, on the stairs. 

You get the irony, right? I would actually let down my long, long hair and use it to climb out of my window were it not for the fact that another spider has set up camp on the window frame outside. 

I posted about my dilemma on Facebook a few minutes ago and have been offered plenty of lovely and useful advice about how to dispatch the diminutive beast, but in reality I have an obsession with not killing spiders, even though they scare the hell out of me. It's some kind of sentimental hippie thing that I have about the spider's right to be alive even though I don't really want it in my house. 

Aaaaaagh, which is why I need my husband to scoop it up in his hand (it's a superhuman feat, I tell you) and escort it outside, preferably somewhere further than just a few feet away from the front door. 

Not for the first time in my life, spiders have left me feeling a bit useless (if you want to know about the other time, ask my older sister, who basically de-spidered my house in Oxford while I lay curled up and crying in the middle of my bed), but at least I have a blog and my trusty ol' sarcasm to get me through it. 

And these two, who I think you will agree are not giving this dire situation the attention it deserves:

It has been more than a year since I last posted on this blog. More than a year. I have meant to be more regular. You know this because I have sworn it many of my previous posts. And yet, here we are.

A few nights ago, I watched a film about a writer with writer's block. Everyone kept asking him, "Are you writing?" and he wasn't. And neither am I.

But I am going to try.

Maybe the reason that the creative juices haven't been flowing is that we are second-class citizens where Meese are concerned. We long ago accepted (maybe when the vicar who married us announced in his sermon that there are three people in our marriage) that Moose has a couple of well-trained humans, not the other way around. He has his own sofa. He kicks us off the bed. He wakes us up in the middle of the night.

Moose has also acquired a new sidekick. A partner in evil. Yes, I am talking about none other than our neighbour-annoying, bird-murdering, foot-attacking new addition, Barley.

Yep, that's the little bugger there.

He looks innocent and sweet, but apparently he is a devil. To us, he is all cuddly and cute. But to the neighbours he is a menace! A misfit! An abomination!

For no sooner did we rescue sweet Barley from the shelter than the neighbours built a flimsy, bamboo fence to block Barley from going into their garden. He's a crafty one, though, Barley. He figured out how to get around their fence. And the four-inch tall flower pot that they placed for much the same aim. AND the laundry detergent bottle that they thought would really get in his way.

Apparently Barley is the Houdini of the cat world. Or, perhaps less excitingly, he is just a regular cat and isn't impressed by barriers or human interference of any kind.

Anyway, as you can see, I have had my hands full this year, what with having to claw my spot on the bed back in the middle of the night and trying to coerce the neighbours to be a tad more relaxed about our cat (Mr. Neighbour: Tear down this wall). So perhaps you can forgive me for being so lax on the blogging front.

In truth, it has been a busy year. And I will try to blog more. But it may be that the Mooseblog has reached its natural end and must be replaced with something new (like, ahem, a blog about the brewery that we are starting, which also may contain a moose in its title). We shall see. I would like to continue to put my sarcastic pen to this page.

Till next time...

The Dangers of Having a Teenager

Matthew and I are good dog parents. Actually, you know what? We are excellent dog parents. Seriously. We feed Moose premium, healthy dog food (it smells like pot roast). We take Moose for daily walks in the country (correction - we moved to the country for Moose). We let Moose sleep on the bed Moose lets us sleep on the bed with him!

Possibly the best thing we do for Moose (or is it the best thing we do for the cranky, overly-sensitive neighbours?) is we leave the TV on for him when we go away. There are many highly rational reasons for this. 1. The TV keeps Moose company when we are out! 2. The TV makes more noise than Moose does! 3. The TV makes it look like someone is home (as if someone would break in when there is a snarling Moose hurling himself at the front window at every tiny sound)!

But most importantly, leaving the TV on gives us the opportunity to educate Moose fully. You know - make him a fully rounded Moose. An educated Moose. A cultured Moose. Which is why we usually leave Moose with the National Geographic Channel, Eden, or History. Not Animal Planet, of course. Too much barking and God knows what smut he'd learn from that Cesar Millan. 

Now, it might not have escaped your attention, but Moose recently turned two. Those of you who are math geeks know what this means. I am not a math geek, so I used a calculator and discovered that 2 (human years) x 7 (dog years) = 14 = DISASTER! Moose is a teenager! A stinky, sleepy teenager whose purpose it is to embarrass and rebel against his loving parents! It occurred to me: while we are away (such trusting parents), TeenMoose must be getting into trouble! Raiding the goodie jar! Peeing on our bed! And, worst of all, watching trash on TV!

That last point is a fact. OK, actually all three points are facts, but this blog post is about point number three. The important one. The poisoning of Moose's fecund mind!

We haven't actually caught him in the act of watching forbidden, smut television. He's not currently showing signs of wanting to be America's Next Top Model or anything. Dawson's Creek is long off the air, so we aren't worried about him getting inappropriately involved with his teacher. Nothing like that. But what we are seeing is far more disturbing. 

We think he's been watching cartoons. 

We leave him with something like The World of Antarctic Birds or Churchill's Finest Millisecond and then the moment we leave the house, he changes the channel to the Disney Channel or (worse!) the Cartoon Network. And he has picked up some dangerous ideas. 

1. Who, if not the TV, taught Moose that his purpose in life is to harrass, harrangue, and possibly maul the postman? Why, when the postman brings lovely letters and politely puts them through the door without so much as ringing the bell, has Moose decided that the best course of action, upon sighting the postman's high-visibility vest, is to do his damnedest to eat the postman's head through the window-glass?

2. Must it have been cartoons that taught Moose that a cat is a better snack than it is a companion? Because that is the only explanation I have for his apparent obsession with chasing cats!

Thank you, teenage Moose. Thank you, Cartoon Network and all of your bad-attitude cartoon dogs. Thanks to you, my chiropractor wonders why my elbows are always out of place. Thanks to you, my shoes are showing worrying signs of skid-wear. 

My walks, you see, are not the peaceful country walks that you might imagine I am having. 

My walks, you see, now look like this:

Moose v. Cat. Lera v. Moose
Cartoon Credit: Diane Nichols (thanks, Mommy!)

I'm like the parachute that comes out of the ass end of drag-race cars. The little flag that flaps around behind go-carts. I'm the smiley ping-pong ball that people inexplicably skewer on their car antennas. 

Worst of all, I am the bizarre neighbour who swears loudly while being dragged, against her will, through flower beds, front gardens, and hedgerows in pursuit of a smirking yet mortally endangered neighbourhood mog. 

Ah, well. At least he hasn't started partying late at night, eating dangerous amounts of chocolate. Just wait till he turns three...

Why Being a Moose Rocks the Hiz

We all have ambitions. Matthew wants to win the lottery so we can finally buy a 'shag pad' (his words, not mine) in Budapest. My parents apparently want all three of their daughters, both sons in law, the grandkid, and the associated five dogs all to move permanently into their one-bedroom house. Most of the world's news agencies would like to see Pippa Middleton marrying Prince Harry while wearing a mini skirt and thigh-high stiletto boots. And that could be Pippa or Harry in the skirt, by the way.

My ambitions are simpler than that. My goal: be reincarnated as Moose. 

A Moose. Plus another one. At my parents' house.

Not A moose. Not two moose (see plural moose, pictured right). Not the kind of moose that wanders into my parents' back yard, eats their aspen trees, makes itself comfortable on the back porch, and stares menacingly at the dog. No, I want to be our Moose. The dog Moose. The Moose that gets to track mud all over our white carpet and not get evicted from the house. The Moose that eats much better than we do and then is allowed to wipe his face all over our newly-covered sofas. The Moose that takes great pleasure jumping on the bed at four in the morning  and nudging us out of our warm sleeping spaces so he can have a bit of a snuggle.

That's the kind of Moose I want to be. 

This is a well thought out ambition, I will have you know. I mean, it isn't as if I am not satisfied with my own life. Let's just take the past two months. I went to Wyoming for six weeks, during which time I worked both my real job and my dream job simultaneously (mindblowing multitasking!) and got to hang out with the parents at said one-bedroom house. I also had knee surgery (shall we call this epic multitasking?) and attended a staff meeting. And recertified my EMT card (how does she DO all this multitasking?). And then I picked up and went to Croatia, where I wandered around in the sun, ate incredible seafood, and drank insane amounts of red wine from a plastic bottle (slow down, multitasker!).  So as I was saying, it's not half bad. 

But let's take stock of the things a Moose has that a Lera does not. 

1. A tail. An oft neglected dog feature (especially in the States where some dogs' tails are docked) that shows emotion, looks adorable, can thwap people in the face, and can purposefully knock all manner of items off a table while making it look like an accident. Moose even dipped his tail into a glass of champagne the other day, just for fun. 

2. The ability to bite people and make it look like emotional distress. Well, OK. I will admit that if I ran up to someone and bit them it might look a lot like emotional distress and/or a strong dose of hallucinogenic drugs. Whereas when Moose, for example, ran up and bit a visiting priest last week, he only earned a mild scowl and a swift trip inside. 

3. Predictably bad breath. No, I am serious about this one. You know when you wake up in the morning and you kiss your husband/wife/partner/one-night-stand and you worry that your breath just stinks? Moose doesn't care. 

4. His very own blog. I couldn't possibly have a blog that is dedicated to myself. No, I am far too mild mannered and humble for that sort of thing. But Moose, you see, has his very own blog to detail his adventures. I am just his publicist, if you think about it. I want a publicist! 

So there you have it. Four very good reasons why I want to be Moose in my next life. The only problem with my design is this: what makes a Moose life so grand is the fact that his publicist, chef, massage therapist, life coach, and sleeping buddy happens to be me. So in order for me to die and reincarnate as a Moose I would also have to not die and not have to reincarnate as anybody. So...multitasking? Translife, multi-dimension multitasking. I despair. 

A Rat Called Basil

Reader, I want you to look carefully at the photo above. Do you see the devilish glint in his eye? The sheepish look on his furry face? The aura of self-satisfaction? Yes, that is one pleased looking little rat.

I will tell you why he is so damn pleased with himself. Matthew and I, as new homeowners, seem to have entered into the Saturday home improvement club. Our Saturdays are dedicated to cleaning, fixing, planting, mowing, weeding, installing, perfecting, and taking endless trips to Homebase (today's trip will be in the endeavour to obtain a loft ladder and various other exciting pieces of hardware).

So this morning, while Matthew was down at the bottom of the garden picking what has turned into an enormous crop of blackcurrants (courtesy of the previous owners and a good two years of neglect), I was on the deck planting a pot of basil. OK, before you accuse me of actually giving two hoots about gardening (I don't), I should clarify by admitting that the basil came as a patty (looking an awful lot like a chocolate chip cookie) and was incongruously included in a pack of Lurpak butter. I don't know what basil seeds and butter are doing together in the aisles of our supermarkets, but it's really none of my business, so I won't pry.

Anyway, since Matthew and I managed to kill our parsley (actually, Moose killed our parsley by knocking over the pot repeatedly), we had an empty, comfortable home for our patty of basil/butter seeds, so I got out my green thumb and did some minor gardening.

Erm, actually, I should come clean and admit that the patty really only had to be placed on top of the soil and watered, and then broken up an hour or so afterward and left to do its thing. Look, I already said that I am not a gardener, OK? Leave me alone.

But I tell you, friends, that the basil had not been nestled on top of the soil of a plant we had previously killed for more than three minutes before our ratty little Moose gobbled up the basily, seedy, buttery goodness! He ate the ersatz chocolate chip cookie in one remorseless bite!

Life with a Moose is tough business, I tell you. Dog eat dog. Dog eat basil. Dog eat tube after tube of Lera's almond chapstick.

It's only a matter of time, dear friends, before he is tossed out onto the street.

Oh, but look at how sweet he looks! And how innocent, with his sweet puppy eyes.

How quick we are to forgive. Alas.

Mooserable?

Oh, does the bad blogger of the year award go to me? I am speechless. I'd like to thank so many people for this hard-earned award. Thank you to Matthew, for marrying me and whisking me off on our great Romanian road trip honeymoon.

Thanks to work for firing me (and everyone else) and then employing me as a freelance editor anyway. Thanks to Christmas being held in two countries at once. Thanks to my grandmother, aunt, and uncle for cheering on the Oklahoma Thunder with Matthew and me (that was awesome). Thanks to the shower at 53 Princes Road for flooding every day, leading Matthew and me to throw in the rented towel (literally and metaphorically) and buy our own place. Thanks (oh, especially thanks) to the annoyingly slow vendor and the even more annoyingly pedantic solicitor for taking their damn sweet time completing the sale/purchase of our new house. Thanks (genuine, heart-felt thanks) to my in-laws for letting me stay at their house for a whopping six weeks, sans Matthew, while said annoying vendor and solicitor farted around with the house sale/purchase. Thanks to Lovells for being such shite builders that installing our washing machine and dishwasher became a DIY engineering miracle. And thanks to my meniscus for tearing after I tripped over a root while walking Moose. Yeah, thanks a lot for that one. Really makes things special.

OK, actually life has been absolutely amazing since I last put a sarcastic and figurative pen to this blog. But because it is my calling as sarcastic blogger to write with cynical slant, you will forgive the jaded introduction. I haven't blogged since August, people. I've got a lot of wit to pen. Or type. Whatever.

In the interest of writing a blog that covers more than the last nine months, I think I am going to write about my new neighbors. Neighbours. Look, can we just all make peace with the fact that some of my readers are Yanks and some of them are Limeys, and that my spelling is inevitably going to boomerang between the two? Yeah, thanks. Anyway, the people who live next door. They're nice, probably, but they seem not to have taken to the Moose. To the degree that we have been here just two months and they have already complained about what, to them, seems to be incessant barking. Yes, to those particular neighbors, our furry darling is a pest, a nuisance, a menace. Er...actually, that would be a pretty good description in anyone's book. But to them, he is nothing but a barking machine! We were worried about this, of course, on the occasion of said complaint. However, upon further investigation (ie. too many drinks with the neighbors who live on the other side of us), it became clear that the offending barking was, in fact, two incidents of no more than a minute each. In other words, Moose might actually have done nothing wrong. At all.

Unlikely, right? And yet...probable. Could it be that Moose is not, in fact, a black ball of pure evil? I will leave you with photo evidence, and you can decide for yourselves.

Happy Mooseday!

Er...remember how I said about two months ago that I was going to be more regular about updating the MooseBlog? Right, sorry about that. What I meant, apparently, was that I was going to drop off the face of the planet, stop updating, ignore emails, and generally fail to exist as any kind of normal correspondent or friend. But look, people, I'm planning a wedding. I'm working full time. I herniated a disc in my back. My sister came to visit. I...

Oh, forget it. I'm a bad blogger.

But look what I was doing instead of blogging! I was busy baking Moosecakes! Yes, that's right. The darling puppy had his first birthday on August 17. I cannot believe that our fuzzy ball of evil is a year old already. And is every bit, I should add, as mischievous as he was the day we brought him home. Nonetheless, I decided to celebrate his birthday with a special doggy birthday cake.

OK, I want it to be known that, despite my general skill in the kitchen, the doggy birthday cake did require a recipe. Which I was going to follow, of course (ahem). But Waitrose (er, so what if I bought the ingredients from an upscale store like Waitrose?) didn't have plain chicken baby food. Chicken with parsnips and apples, yes. Chicken with butternut squash, yep. Of course, they had chicken with rosemary (what baby would eat chicken without rosemary, is my question). But no plain chicken. So I bought ground beef. I forgot to put shredded carrots in. I refused to top it with bacon.

Yeah, so I didn't follow the recipe exactly. Or at all. But it turned out fine! Well, it turned out OK. Well, it turned out like a rubbery, beefy frisbee. With yogurt as icing. And a carrot stick candle. Perhaps not my single best effort.

Needless to say, Moose loved it. He dived right in, got yogurt all over himself, and assumed a down to business, legs-sprawled-out, face buried right in the cake, eating position, the envy of competitive eaters world-wide.

A happy birthday indeed.

In tribute to Moose and his year on this planet, I would like to say a few words. Our house never smells right. We have some things that could have gone forever without having been peed on (but haven't). One day we would like to be able to leave things on the counter without them getting stolen. We could be £12 richer a day, if the dog walker didn't charge so much. We would have a more active social life if we didn't have to come home to rescue you. But you are sweet (SO sweet). You are silly (you make us laugh all the time). You are soft, cuddly, and warm. You eat the carrots that come in our veg box every week, but that we never manage to eat. You take us for regular walks. You make us very, very happy. So thanks for giving us the first year of your life! We're sure it's going to get better and better. And we don't regret a moment.

Happy Mooseday!