Tag Archive | dog

Summer Lovin’

Earbuds firmly stuck in her ears, my mom dances around the lawn, backlit against the sinking sun. Her weights are in her hands, swinging dangerously near to her head everytime she raises her arms. She’s supposedly working out, and as she launches into the chorus of Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl, I can practically see her happiness gauge filling up. Cooper, the always hungry 10-year-old pup, pads around behind her, hoping he’ll get some kind of reward for his loyalty, not realizing that she has no idea he’s even there.

She’s oblivious to anything but her music, he’s oblivious to anything but his stomach. Together they make the perfect pair, spinning around until their shadows blur in the oncoming nighttime. Smiling, I shut my window on the enchanted scene, closing yet another perfect summer day.

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

 

My life would make a sh*tty movie

(c)TitineetMilou

(c)TitineetMilou

I’m standing in the subway, going over the Seine River, staring at a sparkling Eiffel Tower, my nose pressed against the door. It’s most unhygienic and people are looking at me weirdly. In my own fantasy world I’m riding towards a sparkly future, complete with unicorns and giant cookies. The train pitches forward and I collapse onto an elderly gentleman who looks at me as if to say “youth these days…” Back to the present. Ow, my ankle hurts.

See, this is what I do: I imagine that my life is a movie and that everything is going to turn out for the best. Of course this is a big problem because I very much doubt that Ryan Gosling or Ryan Reynolds ( why are they all called Ryan?) is going to show up at my door under the pouring rain, profess his undying love for me and present me with a giant bouquet of roses. Yes, I’m old fashioned, deal with it. Sure, there may be bumps in the road, sort of like in the Empire Strikes Back (anyone who doesn’t instantly know what I’m talking about should be… um… forced to go a week without eating a cookie (I’m being nice 😉 )): sure, the Empire owns the Rebel Alliance just like the Jets owned the Falcons last week and like any and every team who’s played the Giants, but in the end everything ends happily. Well, not happily exactly, I mean Darth Vader could have survived and spent another couple years teaching Luke how to turn on his friends and family, but I suppose it finished the best way that it could. Meanwhile, I’ve gotten off topic. Again. *sigh*

I’m afraid that my life would be rather more like Titanic though. Picture this: CT is, as always late. She runs down the hill to the metro station, hair unbrushed, makeup already smudged. She can hear the train approaching and she knows that there’s a very good chance that she won’t make it (knowing that she’ll be late for school if she takes the later one) so she puts on a final burst of speed and tears through the constraining ticket machines. The beeper on the doors sounds, letting her know that the train is about to leave. She won’t get there on time. BUT WAIT! There’s a hot dude holding the door for her! All is saved! She enters the train just as the doors shut, crashing straight into her [really hot] saviour. Oh oh, the boy has abs. Must. Not. Swoon. After pushing her off him, hot dude goes to sit down, but he keeps glancing at CT with a half curious, half perplexed look on his face. CT is just starting to think that he might ‘like’ her when she catches a glimpse of herself in the window. Yowser. She looks like a past date red pepper (and that is not a comparison that I make lightly believe me): hair sticking up in gravity defying ways, face a vermillion shade of red, weird grin plastered on her face, kind of like the Joker. And then she hears herself. Oopsy daisy, she sounds disturbingly like a parched dog. Well, that explains the staring! End of story.

That’s another thing; I sometimes talk about myself using the 3rd person, as if I were narrating my movie. Normally I don’t think anything of it, but a couple of weeks ago, someone asked me if I was schizophrenic. My answer had to be “nooooo… just crazy”. Quite honestly, if my life were a movie, it would probably be one like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes: under budget, with bad special effects, bad actors and just generally ridiculous. To make it short, my life would make a sh*tty movie.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

Paris by Night

Paris. A legendary city, in more ways than one. I assume that if you’re in a couple, walking through the “City of Love” at night under the twinkling streetlights on the small cobblestone alleys may seem very romantic, but since I am forever alone, I can calmly say 1) keep your mushy feelings to yourself, they make me quite jealous and 2) it’s a lot scarier when you’re all by yourself and those twinkling streetlights look like they’re winking creepily at you.

When I was little I was, like most kids, afraid of the dark. Thinking back this may have been due to the excessive amount of Calvin and Hobbes that I read before bed, where the whole “monsters under the bed” thing scared the sh*t out of me. As I grew up in Normandy I slowly conquered my fear of the black void that filled the room when my mom turned out the lights. I started being able to go outside all by myself and soon discovered the magnificence of Normandy/the countryside at night, the stars shining down on me reassuringly, the dog at my side. With no neighbors, there was never any threat, any danger.

Paris proved to be a very different experience (dare I say, duh? No? Okay then). I couldn’t see the stars anymore, there were no more familiar constellations guiding me, only the cold eery glow of electricity. For the first few years I didn’t know much of Paris at night, being occupied mostly by being awesome too young. But now, a junior in high school, I’m allowed to go out and only come back around 1 am. My family, being too busy with stuff like yelling at each other for no good reason, doesn’t care if I don’t come back for the night at all. As for coming to get me so I won’t have to make the journey alone? No way. Confronted with this apparent lack of caring, I started fending for ME and walking myself home.

Nonetheless, it’s spooky to watch all of your friends leave with their parents in safe warm cars and knowing that you have to walk all the way home, your awful (they really are terrible) self-defense skills being the only thing keeping you from potentially being mugged. And of course the only story you can think of is of the girl who got mugged on your street a few years back.

As I left my friend’s tonight, I shivered slightly even though the temperature was still high, and set off at a brisk walk through the deserted streets, trying to look (and feel) confident. I’ve become pretty paranoid, despite all of my attempts to be calm. Every person that I cross is immediately perceived as a threat, at which point I generally start running (bad idea?) only to then realize that it’s a frail old grandmother walking her poodle. Ah well. Paris is very different from, say, New York. The majority of French people go to bed relatively early, so you don’t see many humans out at midnight, though aliens abound. Even if you’re walking with someone or in a group, the atmosphere is very different, it’s hard to compare the Avenue Henri Martin in the daytime, a bustling, busy avenue, with the Avenue Henri Martin at night, tall trees casting shadows over the sidewalk, masking the faint light from the streetlamps. Night and day really are two different worlds. With sore blisters on my feet I ran most of the way back, heart pounding, clutching the bag from which I’d been careful enough to remove all valuables from. I took the trip one segment at a time, avoiding the smaller, darker streets, trying to blend in with my surroundings. When I finally made it to my apartment, forehead gleaming with sweat, muscles aching, I felt a singular sense of relief. I was finally safe.

Oh and look, my mom and brother engaged in a screaming match at one in the morning. Not so much as a look when I came in. How nice. Luckily for my insulted being, my amazing friends were kind enough to check up on me, making sure that I’d gotten home safely. I had, and I always do. Yet for some reason I get a little more scared each time, sure that I’m the perfect target. Despite all of this, I will not miss out on the wonderful nights with my friends. Whatever comes my way, I will face it, alone. And if it happens to be a threat, I will either willingly give up what they ask for or offer them a cookie as compensation.

The world is very big, and in perspective, I’m just a tiny speck of dust. As I finish writing this post, I find myself feeling more confident. To be fair, I’m also sitting on my couch, blocking out all high pitched noises with a cup of tea. Nevertheless, this small speck of dust will do anything to keep from being blown away in the breeze, and, hopefully, will grow into something like a mothball in terms of importance and influence. I now realize that that isn’t a very good metaphor, and if you have a better suggestion, I will hear it willingly.

Also, when I have kids, no matter where they are or what time it is, I will always be there to pick them up and bring them home safely.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

The Best of Friends

Image

They’re an odd couple, almost human-like, always a step away from killing each other all while harboring deep love and respect. To all the people going “ewww, is she talking about animal husbandry or some such pineapples?”, no, no I am not. I’m talking about a friendship so strong that nothing could break it.  Not even an butcher’s knife, pr even an ax. Well, maybe an ax could… Why am I talking about axes? I flummox myself sometimes. All the time.

I got my cat for my 6th birthday and named her Lucy because at the time I was obsessed with the Narnia books, so please don’t judge me. A tiny little kitten, she hid under the bathtub for 3 days. The innocent little girl that I was was heartbroken that she wouldn’t let me touch her (again, that sounds wrong), so I slipped her bowl of food to her hiding place each day, wishing she’d come out. Of course she eventually did and I was able to pet her, all while keeping my guard up for fear that she would gobble me up like a dinosaur. At the tender age of 6, I didn’t know much about cats, and I wouldn’t hold her until I was 8. Soon enough she discovered that 1) the outside world was really quite exciting and 2) she could eat A LOT of mice, throw them up in the house and still get fed. Heaven right? She’s my best animal friend, nuzzling up to me when she senses I’m feeling down, looking at me like a disapproving grandma when I do something wrong. She’s incredibly (and weirdly) social, so we basically had a dog already. Her peace lasted 3 years.

At that point, he arrived.

Cooperstown Hope, named thus because we hoped he would be a great baseball player/dog. Since it’s a fancy and stuck up name we call him Cooper for short. Or Bum. Whichever. Cooper was a tiny little golden ball of fluff who peed all over the house and got all of our attention: we ooh-ed and aah-ed over his cute puppy dog eyes and laughed at his clumsiness. While the cat had never liked her treats, he ate everything [yes, even whatever you’re imagining]. We loved him from the start and fawned over him like a bunch of girls drooling over a hot guy. Lucy hated him. This treatment was unfair, after all she’d has us all to herself for 3 whole years, and this “thing” came and tore that all away from her in a day. What a scam.

Cooper has always loved to play, so when he was little he would always try to get Lucy to tussle with him; but because she was the queen of the house and despised anything inferior to her (–> him) she rejected his advances scornfully. It’s only now, 6 years later, that she’s started to accept him as an equal. Unfortunately for her Cooper caught onto her scheme early on and now that she wants him, he pointedly ignores her. It’s like watching a reaaally long soap opera. Nonetheless they have their moments when they play together and look exceedingly happy. Other times, like the one in the picture, they just mutually enjoy each others company, lazing around, doing nothing in particular (hey, kind of like me! :))

Deep down they are the best of friends: if something is bothering Cooper, Lucy will go up to him and push his paw around with her nose reassuringly, and should any animal other than him come onto to his kitty, Cooper will make it very clear that she is his and only his.

I love them both with all my heart, and I hope that they always have the same hilariously weird relationship as they do today.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

The Doctor Dolittle Syndrome

I talk to animals. Like, I have conversations with them. Is that weird? Probably, but I can’t help it. I have the Doctor Dolittle Syndrome. Ever since I saw that movie when I was a little girl (the musical from 1967 mind you) I became convinced that much like Rex Harrison I had godly talents and could converse freely with any sheep that strolled by. After a few uninspiring attempts to talk to my neighbor’s horse, I realized that I couldn’t talk to just any animal. The animals that I felt comfortable rambling to about the facts of life (please, no comment, I already know that I’m crazy) were the ones that were close to me, that I knew.

My cat  is unusually social. She is, to me, quite a contradiction in in of herself: she’s independent and throws mice against our door like the murderer that she is and yet she always seems to be hanging around when people are outside (and not threatening to run her over with a tractor). Because she is extremely social, she is often my target when it comes to late night musings. Yes, I know, I talk to my cat. I’m the quintessential loser, but I love her anyway 🙂 With her, there is no need to use a ‘special’ voice, I can just talk normally. And she answers with emphatic MEOWS and more conservative meows, depending on her opinion on the subject. Then again, she may be telling me to f*ck off. I don’t know, I don’t speak cat (Doctor Dolittle fail).

When it comes to Cooper, my dog, I feel obliged to use my baby voice. There is something about his wide brown eyes and floppy ears that kicks my motherly instinct into action (even though I’m only 15. Geez). And yet I don’t have any trouble insulting him… I think my motherly instinct is quite twisted. Cooper, while being a very smart dog, is also very stupid in some aspects of his everyday life. Contrary to his best friend the cat, he doesn’t listen to all the words I say with equal attention. Noooo, he’s only interested in the words having to do with food and boots. That may be why I swear at him a lot.

Cooper

How could you not want to discuss philosophy with a dog so expertly and carefully eating his bone?

Anyway, I guess I’ll just end up being that crazy old lady who talks to her pets too much and makes everyone feel a little sad for her. But you know what? I’m happy to be the victim of the Doctor Dolittle Syndrome for a couple more years. After that, I might start scaring the boys off. And that, this teenager does not want to do. But I will never abandon my pets completely. Ever. Um… Until they die. *cries a little*

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: IGCSE results tomorrow, GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!