Saturday, August 5, 2017

Clementine Gets a Manicure

This morning, I woke up to my alarm at 8 o'clock sharp.

(I snoozed until 8:08.)

I threw on a t-shirt, yoga pants, and a light jacket. I let Gus and Clementine outside, fed them their breakfast, and then slid Clem into her pink "sports bra" (more conventionally known as a harness) before snapping on her leash.

We were off to the vet for a nail trim.

The short walk to the vet was positively glorious. There was an unusual chill in the air for early August, and the sun was shining.

I let Clem walk some of the way, but carried her for the majority of the walk.

See the below video for a sense of how slow Clem moves. If you put her up against a molasses spill in a race, my money would be on the molasses.

We arrived at our appointment time of 8:40 and were ushered into an examination room. This was our first visit to this particular vet, as we just recently moved neighborhoods, and all of the employees ooh'd and awed over Clem appropriately.

Call me bias, but I think she's just about the cutest thing in the world.

I sat down on the bench in the examination room, and held Clem against my chest. She was starting to get nervous and stress shedding.

"You're just getting a manicure. We won't be here long," I told her (even though she's deaf as can be), as a cat screeched down the hall and some dog named Carly received encouragement in the room next door.

Yaaaaayyyyy Carly! her owners would exclaim after every, single part of her exam.

Five minutes turned into ten. And ten turned into fifteen.

Clem was really beginning to panic now. And lose most of her fur coat on my poorly chosen black yoga pants.
When the twenty-five minute mark hit, I wondered if they had forgotten us.

Clem's heart was pounding, and she was beginning to pant.

I felt so awful for her.

"Okay, we've got Clementine next," I heard someone say out in the hall.

"It's almost our time!" I reported to Clem.

Finally, after waiting THIRTY MINUTES, the vet techs knocked at our door and carried Clem to the examination table.

"She's really good during nail trims," I bragged. "She's as mellow as can be."

So naturally, for the first time ever, Clem was a wild woman. She was a straight-up maniac.

She thrashed and wiggled and squirmed.

She glared at me with widened, accusatory eyes that said, I am never trusting you again. You are the worst. I hate you.

It was a very stressful three to five minutes.

Finally though, the incredibly patient techs finished up with Clem, and the drama was over.

Until I went to the checkout desk and realized this new vet of ours charges twice as much as our old one.


I carried Clem the entire way home and fed her chicken jerky. I even went to Kroger and bought a new bag of her favorite greasy dog food in my quest for forgiveness.

But judging by the fact that she still won't look at me, it seems I've got a long way to go.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

The Worst Supper of All Time.

My eyes are burning. My ego is hurt. And the chicken is burnt.

This is what happens when you choose the "Conventional Roast" option on your oven as opposed to your standard "Bake."

Oh, how clever I felt pressing that special button!

I'm roasting a chicken. How perfect! I thought. Plus, this feature comes with an animated fan icon. Very fun.

I was nothing but confident as I slid that chicken into the preheated oven. 

Off I went to my writer's nook, smug as can be.

Twenty minutes later, Adam arrived home from work.

"Dinner is in the oven!" I announced triumphantly. "And I watered the tomatoes."

No praise or appreciation was given.

Instead, alarm was washing over Adam's face. 

"What's burning?" he asked, his nose prickling before rushing into the kitchen, which had begun to fill with smoke. 

He pulled open the oven door and whoooosh! Smoke everywhere!


My eyes were burning and tears were streaming down my face. The smoke alarm was going off. The dogs where whining and looking at us with eyes that said, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO US???"

And despite the fact that the kitchen had turned into Jenna's Inferno, the chicken was still not done.

So after correcting the baking setting, that poor guy had to go right back inside the oven. And so did the croutons for the panzanella salad.

Needless to say, neither fared well. 

Each time I opened the oven door to check on them, MORE SMOKE, MORE BURNING EYES, MORE HORRIBLE BEEPING FROM THE SMOKE ALARM. I opened all of the windows (our poor neighbors!). I danced around the kitchen with a broom to shoo the smoke away. It was quite the workout. 

"This is the worst supper of all time," I declared.

By the time we plated our meal, things actually didn't look so bad. 

I mean, look at the dogs—they clearly thought the food was still worthy of begging. 

Luckily, this tale has a happy ending as Lowe's delivered a new gas range earlier this afternoon, which we truly hope will be less finicky than the electric one we inherited with our new home.

Now we just need a gas line installed.

Until then, no more "Conventional Roasting" for me.