Doggie Daycare

Really? This is where we are at as a civilization? People are dying because they aren't getting enough clean water to drink but you have a crisis and nuclear melt down because you are late and have to leave work early to pick Tickles up at doggie daycare after it's spa treatments.

Really?

I used to have a dog. She was the best.  She never got doggie daycare.  I'm not at all down with the doggie daycare business. By today's standards, this makes me a horrible pet owner and quite frankly unfit to own a dog.

Remember back in the day when you got a dog and you spent the time to train it to shit outside and not invest in pee pads or doggie diapers so it could roam freely around the house shitting and pissing wherever it wanted because you are to damn lazy to train the animal? Remember when you sat out in the yard and combed your dog out yourself? Remember when you had to fight with the dog to get it in and out of the tub to bathe it and had to wear a bathing suit because you were going to be drenched by the end of it?  Remember when your house didn't smell like a barn?

I was 14 when I got my dog.  I was lectured about poop patrol and feeding times.  I was given a bag full of brushes and clippers and told I had all summer to get the dog trained; there would be no shitting or pissing in the house and by September, the dog better know how to let everyone else know she needed out to do her thing.

I had to spend the time training her, bathing her, combing her out.  I didn't have a choice.  And that bitch hated to be groomed even though that was the extent of her luxury life.  Okay, maybe she did indulge in human food and when she curled up in bed with you, made damn sure she had pillow and blankie too.  But there was no such thing as a doggie daycare.

When I had a dog, dog owners actually trained and took care of their dogs.  All by themselves.  Dogs shat outside, you had a shovel by the shed for poop patrol and grass seed for the spots burnt on the lawn from dog piss, and owners were full of dog hair after the once a week brush out.  The.  End.

When did we get to dogs requiring daycare?  Weekly doggie day care. And not just any doggie daycare, kids. No, that would be so gauche, so kennel, so uncouth and just plain uncivilized. I'm hearing tales of canine spa treatments... pedicures and massages... because the dog suffers from anxiety and the drugs from the veterinarian just aren't getting the job done any more and it is allergic to...

... the hell?

Sometimes, it is really hard to like other human beings.

Two Girls And A Dye Job

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on February 15, 2010)

It was supposed to be a lovely day at the spa. A treat for me. For the most part it was.  Until it came time to get my hair did. Who knew my two-tone root emergency would prompt a cat fight?


Back in the day, I used to see Carla for all my hair dressing needs. Carla's husband knocked her up and told her he would not stand for her to be around chemicals that might give their baby a third arm or a cyclops eye. Asshole. Carla was a hair care goddess. I could say, "Do what you like" and not leave the spa looking like Denis Rodman. Now she's a mini-van mumma and she hasn't looked back. I miss her and hate her.


After being scalped and scalded with hair bleach by some sista who clearly had no idea what to do other than pose out, I ended up in the chair of the spa manager, George. In the beginning, things were great with George. It was magic. He was my therapist, my not gay gay hairdresser, and my follicular messiah.


Then he got complacent.


Three hair cuts in a row that were meh and this became a crisis for me.


I have nothing going on in the looks department so my hair is my crowning glory (ya, I'm a Leo). It pained me, but I did not have a choice.


I had to break up with George and see someone else.


What I should have done was change salons. But I am a fool. I cheated on George in George's salon. Right.  Under.  His.  Nose. I had to be all ninja about that shit too.  Believe me, I burned off the karma for cheating on George immediately. I ended up in the chair of a bat shit crazy woman who stalks her kids and wanted me to not only have an opinion about that, but wanted me to agree with her actions.  But she is the most amazing colour tech in the world.  So I endured the drama for a couple hours every six weeks.


Then there was the Sunday last summer when George busted my ass.


George does not do Sundays.  Bat Shit Crazy worked every other Sunday.  Perfect.  Getting my roots touched up was becoming a Black Ops ninja nightmare.


Then it happened.  George should have been having a lovely Sunday somewhere else. But no. No. NOOOOOO!!. He came into work. And there I was, in a chair, in the middle of the salon, mid colour application, hair standing on end with aluminum foil nesting on top of my head. My only options were to jump into my purse (too small, if you can believe it) or slide right off the chair and hide under the mirror (ewww, other people's hair). I was a hawt mess with nowhere to go. George's stank eye was like a laser.


Six weeks later, all  humble and humiliated, I went back to George's chair. "I knew you'd be back" was all he said. For two hours. It was purgatory but that's what a girl gets for cheating on her hairdresser.


I have a dinner engagement this Friday and the only day I could address my skunk root explosion was today. George doesn't see clients on Monday but with his blessing and recommendation, I booked with someone else.


I thought I was in good hands.


Not so much.


Those hands did not know how to show up to work on time. Those hands and their lack of respect for their employer and this client landed me back in Bat Shit Crazy's chair. As per George. Payback is a bitch and he had me behind the eight ball. For two hours I got to hear about loyalty and being on the client list of two stylists in one salon and how this is just not normal in the industry. I took it. Normally, I wouldn't. But I was desperate and Bat Shit Crazy is cleaver. She waited until the bleach was on my hair before she packed my bags for the guilt trip. That was when Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit showed up for work, demanding I switch chairs. Bat Shit Crazy told Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit she was taking the client, getting the credit, and the tip. Luckily there was no stabbing each other with scissors or bludgeoning each other with hair spray bottles, but even I can't repeat the language Bat Shit Crazy and Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit used at the washing station. Horrifying.


This has truly been one of the most dysfunctional relationships I have been involved in.


My roots are gone and so am I. Anyone know a good salon with a gayer than gay hairdresser/therapist/fashion consultant who needs a new client/patient?