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8 Apr

Indy has spent the majority of the morning trying to bite her own ass.

I blame the salami she managed to inhale in the two seconds it fell on the kitchen floor this morning.

Evidently, salami + Indy = flatulence.

I’ve been catching up on the blogs I read, and every few minutes I hear what sounds like a whoopie cushion, followed by a bark, and then a tasmanian-devil masquerading as my dog scurries across the floor in circles, trying to bite her own butt.  She is under the impression it is under attack.

Since it is distracting, I have attempted the following two methods to rid her of the gas so that I can continue about my day in relatively clean air:

1.  I tried squeezing her from either side.  This resulted in a pathetic glance and snort, followed by a long yawn.

2.  I tried squeezing her head backwards into her body, like an accordion.  This was in the hopes that all air would be pushed back and out.  Result: Slobbery hand.  Well that and she sat in the corner with her back to me for about five minutes, glancing over her shoulder every so often to make sure I noted her disapproval of my fart-free tactics.  She remained in that position until of course, she loudly tooted again.

So now she’s back to running around in circles, in what has got to be the most effort anything French has ever put up against an attack.


Freedom Fries my ass.

Well, her ass-as the case may be.


Zilla’s life-plan

13 Mar

Garlic bread crumbs cover my shirt, my dog is asleep on my legs, and there’s a near-empty box of ibuprofen on the coffee table.  I’ve been contemplating making popcorn for the past hour, and so far today I’ve gone through two buckets of green tea and a considerable amount of chocolate chip cookies.  If procrastination of life-planning was an art, I’d have lost an ear by now.

So must get started.  Must tie on cape, inflate muscles, slap this curvy figure into a spandex super-hero costume, and figure out what to do with my life.  Here I go…

(insert blank stare, sigh, nose crinkle, sip of coffee, spill coffee on the part of cape hanging over shoulders, yawn, another sigh-and now we’ve returned to the blank stare)

Did I mention that my super-hero costume has spikes down the back?

Cause it does.

Maybe I should wear it to job interviews.  Talk about making a first impression, those folks won’t know what hit em.  It kind of reminds me of the inflatable dinosaur I used to keep in my car in high-school.  Except that was Spike, and he was red.  The costume is slightly different, because of course-it is Ryzilla.  Not a dino, but a distant cousin.  Who doesn’t want to hire the distant cousin of a dinosaur?

Course first I gotta figure out what jobs to apply for…..

Focus Zilla, focus.

(stifle yawn, tiny growl, shift dog off legs onto couch, sit up straight, one firm nod of the head-and presto-focused face on)

Well I have a double Bachelors degree and two Masters degrees so that should help-not as much as the costume, but good as a foundation of my qualifications.  A foundation of awesomeness, if you will.

Plus I like to write, take pictures AND make movies.  Insert the basement of my split-level home of qualifications.

Now how to get up the stairs….

(popcorn urge taking over, requiring giant glass of water, butter stains appearing on costume, eating faster as contemplation increases, brow-furrowed, feeling bloated, can’t stop-too tasty,  share some kernels with dog, get up to wash hands, return to computer, ready for it to reveal answers)

Computer screen still as blank as before….

Well, at least I’ve got the costume.

Any employment ideas for the well-educated, artistic, mildly-delusional distant-cousin of a dinosaur?

All suggestions to be taken into account.

to gnetch

10 Mar

So a fellow blogger asked me to take the tenth pic from my computer and explain what’s happening in it.  Fortunately for me, it’s a picture of Indy roaming free in Champs de Mars.  She is able to roam free in the Parisian park because I have tied an obnoxious balloon to her collar so she won’t get lost.  My mother used to tie balloons to me when we went out in public so it would be more challenging for me to run off.   Figured if it worked for my childish antics, it might as well work for Fatbreath’s.

Turns out, Parisians love to smile at the ridiculous sight of Indy snorting around the park with a unicorn bobbing above her head.  She spent the first ten minutes trying to chase it, but when she realized that wasn’t working, she took a snooze next to an adorable kid who was all too happy to receive the balloon when I decided to pack up Indy’s things and go home.

So there it is, Indy’s independent park roam.  Courtesy of one over-priced, hot pink balloon.

Paris, je t’aime

2 Mar

I love my daily walks with Indy in Paris.  As a French bulldog, she attracts much attention and I am often stopped and asked questions regarding her age, her health, her snoring, and her general well-being.  Parisians like to check in on her to ensure that the American at the other end of her leash knows how to properly pamper their furry comrade.

For the record, Indy has the best life out of anyone I know.

She has beds in every room of the apartment and she sleeps about 19 hours a day.  Right now for example, she is cuddled up underneath the radiator, loudly snoring on a full-belly.  The rest of the day will include fetch, walks, and a visit to the cafe on the corner where she gets treats for no other reason than being chubby and cute.  She’s doing alright as far as I can tell.

Still, it’s nice to have her as a conversation starter with Parisians out walking their dogs-especially when their pups are other French bulldogs patrolling the city.  This weekend I was stopped by an elderly gentlemen in a suit and a smile on a street in the seventh.  He grabbed my hand, blue eyes twinkling from a face long-ago surrendered to wrinkles and said:

‘My dear, you look just like my wife on the day I met her fifty years ago.  She has owned eight French bulldogs in our marriage.  Your hair, smile, and little dog remind me exactly of why I fell in love with her in the first place.  Thank you for making my day.’

So yes, Parisians might have a bad reputation.  But sometimes an encounter reminds me of why I love the French.

Thanks to you old guy-you made my day.

the Indy incident

22 Feb

In Paris I go to the laundry mat about once a week.  Sometimes I take my dog Indy along, just for some company while waiting for my clothes to finish their spinning joyride.  It was during one such evening that my story of the day takes place.

It was almost closing time so the janitor had already arrived by the time my clothes were finishing.  She’s a charming little Indian woman-somewhere in her late forties.  She smiled at me while opening the cleaning cupboard to get her supplies. I returned the smile as I unloaded my warm clothes.  Indy remained sitting on the floor, day-dreaming about better times like breakfast or fetch.  I had just started folding my clothes and loading them into my bag when it happened.

The janitor pulled out a broom.

Anyone who has ever seen a bulldog around a vacuum or a broom will understand the intensity with which these items are hunted by the otherwise snorting, lazy creatures.  One sweep in and Indy was already crouched, ready to pounce, hop, chase, and in general be an annoying pest to the poor woman.  As her furry butt began its first launch I decided to cut her off before she began playfully irritating the janitor.  The woman had yet to notice that my dog had already claimed the plastic bristles as her prey.  So I instinctively yelled out


As I stated earlier, the janitor is an Indian woman.  An Indian woman who had not seen my dog do anything, so didn’t realize I was yelling out the name of my furry companion.  A woman who was under the impression that I enjoy randomly yelling out the nationality of people who cross my path.  Like some sort of specialized tourette syndrome.  So naturally she responded in kind.

“Excuse me?!” All traces of her smile vanished.  One hand reflexively went to her hip, eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down with what can only be described as complete disgust.

“No, no, no.  Sorry, no, that’s the name of my dog-she was about to attack your broom.  I wasn’t talking to you-I would never do that, ummmmmm I mean yes-you’re Indian-but I wouldn’t call you that-I mean…” (Clearly someone had handed me a shovel as I continued to scramble farther and farther into my hole of humiliation-in French no less).

Her eyes now ready to shoot firebolts.

“Her name is Indy-as in Indian, as in brown people?”

“No-not like that, not at all-like the Harrison Ford movies!!”

(small smile on her end) “ohhh like Indiana-”

“Yes!  Exactly, like Indiana Jones” (insert apologetic smile)

“Like in the movies?”

“Yes, like the movies” (I start humming soundtrack while petting my fat, useless bulldog.  Woman smiles and joins in the humming)

“I love Harrison Ford, he’s sexy”

(Huge grin of relief washes over my face) “Yes, yes he is”

That’s how the evening ended.  She continued cleaning, I continued folding, and for the next ten minutes we both passed the time humming the Indiana Jones soundtrack with the occasional smile at one another.