Please look at this other place where I'll be

I now have a blog over at Redbook! Celebration!

Please, my friends, please do not worry that this means you are losing Finslippy. It does not. I will still be here. This only means that you are gaining a me who is also over there. I can be in both places! You will see.

I will be using my Redbook soapbox to discuss issues pertaining to ladies who are mothers and our special mom-lady-problems, with an emphasis on Other Blogs and The Interesting Conversations That Can Be Found Therein. In stark contrast, I will be using Finslippy to discuss my dog's breath, and my pants.

Please register to comment, and then comment. I agree that registration is a pain, but there's no way around it, and you only have to do it once. And then, at some later date, when you're especially enraged by something I've written, you can fire off a furious missive without worrying about registering first. Because you're already in. It's like you're part of an exclusive club. That anyone with an email address can join.

The name of the Redbook blog is "The Mom Moment," and they're amenable to a better name, but I haven't been able to find it yet. So if you have any ideas, hit me. WIth ideas. Figuratively. Bonus points if it doesn't have "mom" in the name.

Now: Charlie's breath. I don't get it. Is he eating poop? Is he pooping, and then eating it, and then throwing it up? He is the cutest dog of all time. I mean, come ON:

But then he yawns near my face and it's like an old Warner Brothers cartoon where a green cloud spreads out from his mouth and everything that it touches either dies or runs screaming from the room. I think the last time he licked me, my nose cried out "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" and grabbed a tiny suitcase from out of nowhere and took off down my face.

On the other hand: he's 13. That's 91,000 in human years. He's earned his horrible death-stink mouth.

Next on Finslippy: my pants! Oh, you'll see.

Charlie and Me

I wrote an essay about our dog Charlie for a forthcoming anthology about dogs. I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship!, edited by Wade Rouse, will be published in 2011, with a portion of the proceeds going to the Humane Society of the United States. All kinds of incredible writers are contributing, including Merrill Markoe, Rita Mae Brown, and Jen Lancaster. I'm honored to be included.

Charlie is one of my favorite topics to write about, as most of my friends have long grown tired of me jabbering about my dog's velvety ears and I have to get it out somehow. We adopted Charlie shortly after we got married, and when my mom saw us with him she rolled her eyes and said, "You two need to have a baby." The implication being that once we procreated, we'd calm down about the dog and stop, say, kissing him on the lips. Well, guess who was wrong about that? You were, Mom! YOU! So there! Now give your other grandson a kiss.

I needed a picture of me with Charlie for the book, so my pal Amber of The Amber Show graciously volunteered her photographic talents. The essay is about Charlie's insistence on sleeping in our bed, between me and Scott, under the covers. Amber took some boudoir pics. I wore my nightie!

You can't really tell that it's a nightie. But oh, it is. It's from Target. Mrowr.

Charlie hates getting his picture taken. I don't know who beat him with a camera, but someone clearly did, because the minute he sees one his ears go back and he tries to lick it. That's Charlie's tactic. If you upset him in any way, his defense is to wag his tail violently and lick you. He'll love you right into submission.

This is him pleading with me to make the clickety-click sounds stop. Oh boy, do we need a headboard. Someday, my friends. Someday.

Here I am, pointing. I'm saying, "That's a dog. That's Charlie!" I can identify my pets.

I'm holding him down. The moment I loosened my grip he'd scurry to the next room. But oh, we got him back! Dogs are not bright.

I was trying to look vaguely unhappy with him being in the bed with me, and yet swayed by his canine charms. It was a complicated series of emotions. My face was breaking under the strain.

I am absolutely covered in dog hair, here. The crazy heat wave we've endured has caused Charlie to shed like he's getting paid for it, plus he sheds when he's stressed out, so during this photo shoot, he unloaded approximately 30 pounds of dog hair on me. And Charlie only weighs 25 pounds, so this took some effort on his part. Fur was raining off of him, causing Amber to observe, "He's Pig-Penning!" Which I thought was adorable. And accurate.

Charlie is now 13 years old. His face used to be mostly black with a white stripe running down the center, but as you can see, he's faded somewhat. His eyes are cloudy, but he can hear a slice of cheese hit the ground from across the apartment. He's still spry, and leaps and cavorts the moment we head outside.

I'm sure, fellow dog-owners, that your dogs are fine, but Charlie is pretty much the greatest dog who ever lived.

Making up for lost time

A few of my readers have asked me how Charlie the Dog and Izzy the Cat are adjusting to apartment living. Good question, readers! Or, you know, it's an okay question. I mean, there have been worse. Questions like "Why are you wearing that?" and "How much more could you suck?" So. Onward!

Of course we had informed the pets when we first decided to move, to give them time to adjust. And Charlie was all, "But I need a backyard to defile with my fecal matter" and Izzy was like, "How will I live without a basement in which I can find all manner of dust and crap to rub into my fur?" And we replied, "How about your opinion matters when you contribute some money and/or start picking up your own poop?" That shut them up good. At least for a few hours, and then they started grumbling again.

I am happy to report, however, that they appear happier in the apartment than they ever were in the house. I'm not sure why this is, except that now they can keep on eye on us at all times. Frankly I didn't think Izzy cared all that much, but it turns out she likes having us around. Where she can be directly underfoot, trying to kill us.

Charlie seems more comfortable knowing that we're all in one place, that his pack is safely assembled. It must have been exhausting, keeping track of us in the house. Especially when some of us were upstairs and others were downstairs, a setup he must have imagined we had planned just to torment him. He's also enjoying meeting other dogs, which is a huge surprise—the last time we lived here, he would go ballistic if he saw a dog or anything vaguely dog-shaped. On our walks in New Jersey, we would maybe see one other dog, usually across the street, as the dog and its owner scurried away. Now he's seeing multiple dogs on every block and he's greeting them like they're old friends. Like he's happy to be back in Brooklyn! Or maybe he's just old.

So they're good. Besides, we're in an overheated rental, and what animal doesn't enjoy a nice dry heat?

A brief, bewildering tour of where I spend most of my day.

Why hello! I've had too much coffee, and I've taken pictures of my workspace! Come along with me, won't you?

This is what my office looks like in the morning. Look how sunny! You'll notice there's no computer. That's because I compose my thoughts in a linen-bound journal, which I then read into a recording device, and send the digital voice files to a transcription service in Uruguay.

Actually the computer's just downstairs, and I'm too lazy to get it, so I was writing in my journal instead. I tend to write on whatever's handy. A journal, the side of a building, my son's forehead. Whatever.

Here you see the doodles I doodled at some point, I can't remember when. Doodling is essential to my thought process. I drew, as you can see, a heart, because love is very important to me. Then I drew the symbol for eternity, because I often ponder the big questions. Then there's a star and a star-like shape, and I don't have a reason for those. I like to practice the alphabet, because sometimes I forget what comes after what. The "catapult" note is about this deadly, enormous catapult that I'm designing… but I've said too much. Then there's a space for… for what? Who can say! You see how inspiring that is?

And here are the toys I play with, when I crave inspiration. Sometimes I like to take a break and go on a space mission. Or a "mission dans l'espace." It all depends. On what? Je ne sais quoi.

Here is my exercise ball. I have been known to use this for some forms of exercise. Usually I just leave it in that rattan basket, so I can pretend I am a bird, sitting on an enormous, bouncy egg. This amuses me.

This is my chalkboard easel, upon which I scribble angry notes to my inner critic. Here, as you can see, I have scrawled NONONO. This is because my inner critic told me to write something more worthwhile than this rambling mass of lies. Another day I might write POOP, or just draw a space man. I find this technique quite valuable, until my inner critic mocks my penmanship, and I cry.

Here is my cat. She likes to sit on this chair and stare at my back while I work. This keeps me awake, because if I nod off who knows what she'll do. She really cares about me, that cat.

In the adjoining bedroom is Charlie, who as you can see is lounging across our pillows. He does not care about my Art at all. All he cares about is himself. Himself, and his damned sleep.

Now he is pleading me with his eyes to go away, and leave him in peace. And so I shall.

The tour of my office is now finished. You are very welcome.