Screw Diamonds. Dogs Are a Girl's Best Friend.

They say dogs are a man's best friend. I would like to contest that statement and say they are a girl's best friend too. They're the exercise buddy who makes you go outside to walk or run- even if you just want to sit around all day. They're the friend who is content to just sit and listen to you bitch (pun intended) while eating bon bons. And more bon bons for you since dogs can't have chocolate. And you know that creeper a few houses down? Who needs a bare-chested, hulky boyfriend when you have a little furry friend who would go to the ends of the earth to protect you, even if it is just a little ankle biter. Dogs are your constant companion, protector and best friend. Which is why yesterday was one of the hardest days of my life.

I've been around dogs all my life. Before I was even born, my parents had a dog named Taco- this is how "taco" became the second word I ever said. She was my "nanny dog." My parents were concerned how the furry baby of the family would react when they brought home a new crying bundle of joy, but she loved me and treated me like one of her own puppies. There is not one picture of me as a child without Taco in it (or maybe she was just a camera hog). She is the one who invoked in me a love for animals. Even in her old age, she was always there for me. Once she got to be too old to walk from room to room at night, she stayed in mine because in her mind, I was still her little puppy.

Then came Sadie. She's a brat. But I love her anyway. I have never known a more neurotic dog. She's scared of fireworks, bugs, loud noises and Lord knows what else, but she looks like an absolute hell dog when she's hiding and you lift up the couch cover to stare into her glowing red eyes and bared teeth (or lack thereof). She's an insane little ankle biter (with no teeth), but she's hilarious. She a snoop that spies on the neighbors, only likes Dairy Queen ice cream (yes, she can tell the difference), and understands more words than any dog should. No matter what, she makes me laugh. Unfortunately, she was too neurotic to take to Pittsburgh with me when I got my own house so that brings me to...

Keyta. She was the first dog that I got from the shelter. She was my pound puppy. The first night my roommate and I had her, it was obvious she was quite the character. As soon as she came home, we gave her a bath... probably not the best first impression considering that she hated water. But she must have liked the end result because she couldn't stop looking at herself in the mirror. It wasn't an "OMG! Another dog!" look, more of a stoic stare-down of "Ooooh yeah, look at me." My roommate and I were rather nervous that first night. Here was a dog who was ripped away from everything it knew and thrust into our home. How would she react? Calmly. She stayed in my roommate's room for the night and just slept the entire night. It was like she knew she had a home now... well, kinda. The next day she ran away. My roommate's boyfriend was staying with us at the time and when he went to let her out, she bolted. Maybe she didn't like us so much after all. But we got her back and had many more misadventures after that...

She created her own super alter-ego, known as "Roof Dog...." Ok, so she would just climb out onto the roof of the porch while I was at work. The only reason why I caught her is I was watching my friend's cat and had to keep the two separate so I had Keyta locked in the spare room. But when I went to let her out, she was nowhere to be found. Then, I saw a little nose poking through the window. I walked over to see the damn dog standing there, stupid grin and all. The stupid grin that inspired her costume for Halloween... the Joker. She also went as the Smoke Monster. She didn't seem to mind much. In fact, I think she kind of liked the attention.

She ran away a few other times. Mostly for my roommates. Or the poor people I coerced into watching her. Only once for me. It was on Mother's Day. I had just got done taking her for a nice long walk and was heading out the door. My friend was to check on her during the day while I was spending time with mother dear. I prepared a few things in the kitchen and heard the screen door open and shut. Strange. She wasn't supposed to come check on Keyta till later. Then I looked in the living room and the damn dog ran away. As I bolted down the street after her, I noticed that she would always look back to make sure she had me in her sight. So I slowed down a bit, but still screaming to people to try to catch her, in fear she would get hit by a car. Luckily, a nice lady with her two grandchildren answered my plea and helped me wrangle the mutt. She even drove us back to my house. So, thanks to Keyta, I was a little late going home that Mother's Day and a little more out of breath... and gross and sweaty.

She was a carb whore. Quite often she would break into the kitchen and only eat a loaf of bread. An entire loaf. She hated vegetables though. Of any kind. I've never seen a dog make a face of complete disgust when offered a piece of lettuce. Because I'm sure the stuffing in toys tastes so much better. She never touched my stuffed animals. I don't know how she knew they were off limits. So Eeyore, Wall E and Pluto remained safe on my floor.

After all of that, she sounds like a little devil dog. But she wasn't. She was my first dog on my own and she taught me so much. See, she wasn't just a pound puppy. Before we had her, she was abused, neglected and taken out of someone's house. Note I use the term "house," not "home." You think that she would hold a grudge against the human race and swear an oath to take revenge. But she didn't. As far as I could tell, she loved us unconditionally. As one who is quick to react and long to hold a grudge, it made me step back and look at myself. She taught me to be more forgiving. If this dog could bounce back from an awful existence to love a person again, surely I could let a few snide comments or sideways glances go.

To help with the running away, I used to tell her to "go home" as soon as we neared the house. And she would get excited and pull on the leash, proud she knew where she was, and bound up the stairs into the house to lap up some water or grab a tennis ball to continue the play day. I called her "Keyta Cat" because she would pounce on the tennis ball and bat it around like a cat. She was quite the character. And she was mine.

When I took her to the vet Friday, I had a sinking feeling it would not end well. But I just wanted a little bit of hope. If not for her, for me. I know it was selfish, but I wanted to at least try. Then when I saw her yesterday, I knew she wasn't my Keyta Cat anymore. All she wanted to do was run and play, but she was too sick and weak. I could see it in her eyes, she knew it was time. I think she knew it was time when I took her in- even though she was very weak, she just pulled towards me. The vets wouldn't tell me everything because they knew I was too upset. But I gave them permission to tell my father. He said they didn't think she would make it through Tuesday. But they kept telling her I would be there in the morning so she fought through the night. Maybe the dog who was always trying to run away loved me after all.

Without her, my house is empty. Note I use the term "house," not home. The creaks are more menacing than welcoming, knowing a happy husky isn't bounding down the stairs to greet me. There's a strange echo I never noticed before. And it's just so... quiet. There are still small pieces of her around. A bowl here, a toy there. I haven't the heart to pick them up yet. And thanks to the ridiculous amount of shedding every season, I'll never be able to get all her hair out of my house... or her out of my heart.

Goodbye, Keyta. I'll miss you so much, buddy.

Keep calm and put your bitchface on

Hip hip hooray! I have health insurance now. However, the one ailment that I suffer from that actually is an apparent hinderance to my job performance is the one that cannot be cured by a doctor. I have what is commonly referred to as "bitchface." The symptoms are somewhat angular facial features, a snarl, one raised eyebrow and glares that could kill. The only known cure is getting out of the hell hole.

Today, I was in a somewhat decent mood for once. I've been sleeping about 14 hours a day and I actually had caffeine to try to counteract this overdose on sleep so I was pretty hyper and not at all my usual disgruntled self. Until I discovered that a customer decided to complain about me because I was talking to another associate and gave her a "dirty look." Really? What are you, like 12? I didn't realize that MC Nickels is actually a playground at recess. I can't stand immature women.

Now, I could see if the "talking" consisted of a string of dirty jokes and me dropping the f bomb like it was "Little Boy" on Hiroshima, but I was talking to another customer in my high pitched, nice little innocent girl voice. And the only time I turned around was when the other associate told me she accidentally ripped the hold tag I had on a few items. I didn't even see this customer until after she told the other associate to call the manager on duty. I even tried to help her out when the manager was taking awhile and I told the associate to call again. Luckily, the manager to respond was my little dancing Polish lady (yup, she got promoted), who I'm sure rolled her eyes and called the customer a bitch as soon as she walked away. And there were no repercussions for me. So there. Nana nana boo boo, stick your head in doo doo.

The Late Night War Rages in the Leonard House

Many feel that for some reason my comedic genius is best suited for late night television (more than likely so it will be hidden far, far out of sight and mind). My parents are starting to agree. Like most parents, they only want what is best for their daughter so they are trying to find the perfect suitor their little comedian and both seem to have such differing perspectives that it has caused a rift in my once happy childhood home as vast as the one in the opening credits of Land of the Lost.

I have mentioned mommy dearest many times before, but not much on my dad. So here's a summary of him. He's the quieter, more reposed of the two. He is logic and my mom is chaos. He taught me a love for classic rock at a young age (I wasn't allowed to listen to 90s pop music under his watch... but my mom and aunt snuck me CDs anyway). He passed on not only his skill for visual arts (he's actually a pretty good photographer), but also the incredibly geeky gene that seems to run in the Leonard family. This penchant for anything nerdy combined with my mom's hippiness to form me.

Of course I had to go home this weekend to honor the man who introduced me to the first love of my life, Fox Mulder. While we were at dinner, surrounded by other happy families celebrating their fathers, my parents decided it was the best place to break the news to me. They're in a war with each other. A battle between late night talk show hosts (they might be a little behind on the times). My mother has latched onto Jimmy Fallon like she latched onto Sidney Crosby. Well, what else is a cougar to do in the off-season? And my father has always watched Craig Ferguson. They both believe that they have found my future boss-man... as if both hosts are just clamoring to have me on their writing team. Of course I heard all about Jimmy Fallon (she watched him on Piers Morgan) and every skit he does on his show, since my mom is the louder, slightly more talkative one of the two... even if most of what she says is just repeating what she said 5 minutes before. Hey, she partied hard in the 70s, more (flower) power to her. My dad did have a pretty good argument for Craig though- "He has a robot skeleton sidekick.... and puppets."

This late night feud has gotten so bad that they're starting to sleep in separate bedrooms.... not so much out of anger for each other, but because they each put on their late night talk show of choice and fall asleep to it. Maybe it's not so bad after all. After all those sex ed classes in junior high, I've dreamed of them having separate rooms. I just thought that I would feel more comfortable in my house that way. Well, thanks Jimmy and Craig, you've made one of my dreams come true... now hire me? Please?

The early bird gets the pissed off associate

I haven't gotten the call to action from Batman yet, so I'm still stuck at the hell hole. I'm pretty sure I don't even need an apartment anymore, I might as well just shack up at work. They love to do the infamous "clopen." It's not as fun as it sounds. I was stuck closing last night till 10:00 (about 10:30 when I finally leave, 11:00 when I get home and 2:00 till I get to sleep) and then I got to come in at 9:00 this morning (about 7:00 my alarm goes off, it's 7:30 after I hit the "snooze" button a million times, 7:45 till I actually get out of bed after contemplating what a strange word "snooze" is, etc.) After all of that nonsense, the hell hole is the last place I want to be. So if you are ever looking to barter in a retail store, as soon as it opens would be your best bet. Just be sure to go to the associate who barely has his/her eyes open.

If you happen to be a morning person, try not to rub it in. Some of us with menial jobs like to live in a dream world instead of our hellish realities and it's not very nice to force us to be at work when we could be dreaming about having dinner with David Tennant in Jurassic Park. First, a customer decided to wander from the juniors' department to misses and proceed to argue the prices of almost every item. Of course they wouldn't accept me calling the other department to verify the prices. Nope, I had to walk over there too. Far too much work at such an ungodly hour to be stuck in retail hell.

Then, of course, another one of the first customers I had practically waltzed up to the register singing the store's praises. I do not take kindly to such nonsense. I could hear the "customer service scores" plummeting with each grunt. Luckily, it was an older person who agreed that us youngin's shouldn't have to work at such an awful hour... unless it's on a film set, of course (or at least a job I like.) Speaking of...

Mirror, mirror on the wall, I'm the fairest of them all? Bitch, please!

As I've mentioned before, I'm pretty much a Disney princess. But the cool kind, like Belle... minus the Stockholm syndrome. I live on the third floor of my house with my dog who at least tries to speak, even if it's not English. And I have two sparrows, who I named Jack and Sally, that come to my window almost every morning. If only they could team up with the mice infestation to make me pretty dresses and a suit jacket to put on the chair next to me for my missing Prince Charming. I mean, he totally exists, he's just in the bathroom. Aaanyway, clearly there are many people who are just plain jealous of this:

Am I right?! So I was quite confused when a customer, who I will now refer to as the "Evil Queen" came up to me and after I asked if she found everything she was looking for completely flipped her lid and exclaimed, "I want a new body!" I was somewhat afraid she was a serial killer so I didn't say anything and tried not to make any sudden movements while ringing up her purchase. This didn't stop her from continuing her rant though, stating that I "think (I'm) young and pretty now, but just wait till (I) get old and fat. It'll happen! Some people escape it, but it'll happen eventually!" Several things went through my head at this point. The first one, obviously, was "You think I'm pretty?!" But the thought she was going to take me up to the food court and force feed me wasn't far behind. However, since I'm pretty damn poor, I'd actually be ok with this. The third and most rational thought was "I hope I don't care what I look like when I'm old." Vanity is for the young, I hope that when I'm fifty, I have more in my life to care about than just my looks. Like my Prince Charming, for example.... oh, damnit, that's right... he's just a jacket.... thaaat he left on the chair when he went to the restroom. He totally exists.

I'm a Brick (pause) House!

Since I've been judged on my weight/looks so much at the hell hole, I decided to to a more appropriate setting for such prejudice. What brought my usual lazy, skin-graft off the couch, air lift out of the house self to dust off the Lucky Charms and head out into proper society? Well, my little demons... errr, customers, of course. Oh, and the fact that I'll get on The Dark Knight Rises set one way or another.

Yup, I sucked up my cinema kid pride and went to the extras casting. The only advice I got (besides my mother's, who was decidedly not sober when I spoke to her) was to be "normal." I'm not quite sure what normal is, but they were casting prisoners (presumably from Arkham) so hopefully this is close enough:

Don't worry. I went as a "business person" (yawn) But that works out because I got to strut around in a dress all day- the bad part was it was also Pride Fest, so I'm not sure if they knew I was actually born female or just a pretty decent impersonator. I just needed a small confidence boost since I had a conversation that went something like this the day before:

Customer: "Where is the petite department?"

Me: *Points* and grunts (My linguistic skills at the hell hole are equivalent to those of Frankenstein's Monster)

Customer: "Well, I'm looking for something for my friend who's about your height, do you wear petites?"

Me: "Well, my height is right, but my proportions are off."

Customer: (in a hushed tone) "Oh, is it because you're wider?"

Next time I'm going to be like "Yeah, I'm a brick (pause) house..." who is desperately trying to claw her way out of the hell hole. Hey, any position on The Dark Knight Rises would be perfect for that. When I returned to work Tuesday after the casting call, it was as if the universe decided to show me a sign and I found this little guy on my register...

...did I mention I'm desperate?

Only YOU can prevent microwave fires

So I've been a bit blue with no place to go to and I'm always stuck at the place where fashion sits. Alas, I have not been putting on the ritz. Seriously, I have been a bit glum lately, but several events of today just turned my frown right upside down with choirs of angels singing:

The microwave, the microwave, the microwave's on fire

We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn

Burn, MC Nickels, burn.

At least I was close to seeing one of my dreams come to fruition today- seeing that place burn and go straight back to hell where it belongs. Unfortunately, it was only a small microwave fire contained in the Chick Fil A wrapper and the enclosed sandwich. I'm sure it could have spread into a glorious sight, but my manager, who I will now refer to as Smokey the Bear (killjoy), just had to walk through the break room while the little flame that could was still growing. Amazingly, 'twas not I who was the thiiiis close arsonist, but I really wish I would have thought of that earlier- "What? You mean I can't put this drawer of silverware in the microwave? And I shouldn't have had those bins of lighter fluid right next to it? Oooops."

Then, as if a burning microwave wasn't enough of a sign from God that MC Nickels should prepare for the end, the children's department was flooded without warning or at least a suggestion to gather a couple pets and build an ark. Don't worry, big man in the sky, I'm paying attention to your signs and am eagerly awaiting the plague of locusts.