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Now with pictures!
It’s New Year’s Eve, and I am finding it hard to type, what with being jacked up on Albuterol and all. I had heard that phrase before–”jacked up on Albuterol“–and I assumed it was some sort of anti-depressant. Turns out it’s an asthma treatment. Huh. And that’s the end of the story of my bangin’ holiday vacation. Considering that I can actually inhale now, it’s actually a happy ending. Oh! Did I mention? I don’t even have asthma! It’s been quite the series of primarily unfortunate events, with a few sunny moments thrown in. The following, for your entertainment on the last day of 2007, is the story from the top.
Wednesday, December 19: While not technically a part of my vacation, I discovered late Wednesday afternoon that the 60 holiday cards I’d ordered from one of the cheaper online photo places (instead of the more expensive place with the prettier cards, oh no! because that order would have been about 80 bucks) were indeed WRONG. As in, “Our wish for 2007…” You know, the year that’s ENDING in a half hour. My mistake. Turns out, I should have held out a few more wishes for 2007, as you will soon discover. Instead I reordered the cards with the correct year, thus bringing my total payment to Cheap Photo Place to–yup–80 bucks. On the bright side, my mom, Little Sister, Mia and I picked up Middle Sister from the airport, so things seemed to be looking up by the end of the night.
Thursday, December 20: This should have been my last day at work before the holidays, but I took the day off to accompany my mother, aunt, and sisters to my five-months-deceased grandmother’s house to collect what belongings her asswipe husband deigned to share with us after all this time. My father was with me, he who has space to store the furniture my grandmother left me, and we left my house right after he fixed my dryer, which had been broken for over two weeks. I was starting in the black, see. We got there and did what we went to do and we left, and that’s really all I want to say about that particular segment of last Thursday for the time being.
My dad left from my grandmother’s with a truckload of stuff, and I flew home as fast as my car would carry me because from my grandmother’s we were all going to Charlotte to have Christmas at my aunt’s new house. Charlotte is a little over an hour from my house, and my plan was to leave home in time to feed Mia dinner by 7:30, which is pretty much her absolute threshold for the evening meal. I left my driveway at 6:00. At 6:15 as I pulled onto the sideroad that would take me to the interstate, I heard a loud ka-thunk-ka-thunk-ka-thunk sound. At first I thought it was the annoying music coming from the car behind me. It wasn’t, of course. It was coming from my car. Specifically, what used to be the right rear tire of my car.
I’ll skip most of the details. My roadside assistance service arrived 40 minutes later. In the interim I tried to entertain my kid, who was becoming hungrier by the minute and not at all happy about being stationary in a dark car. The tow truck sound scared her. She cried through the whole spare tire experience. I drove to Gayle’s and she fed Mia while I transferred all my crap to her car. My new goal was to be in Charlotte by 9. Having never been to my aunt’s new house, I set her address on the navigator on my phone and hit the road. At 8:45, a mere 19 miles from my destination, traffic came to a dead stop. I could see red taillights for what seemed like infinity. I called my family to tell them I was stuck in traffic, and it was during that conversation that I discovered the following: earlier in the day while we were still hauling stuff from my grandmother’s to my mom’s, my aunt and my sister Little NOTICED THAT MY TIRE WAS FLAT. BUT FORGOT. TO. TELL. ME. People, when I FINALLY discovered the state of my tire, the wall was completely shredded from the tread. I had to get a new one. There was no repairing the damage. I don’t know about you, but I think Aunt and Little owe me a new tire.
I arrived at my aunt’s house at 11. It was raining. My kid, who had been asleep for most of the traffic stall (apparently caused by some sort of explosion earlier in the evening–seriously, a part of the metal guardrail was melted) turned into the Energizer Bunny as soon as we walked in the door and went to sleep at 2:30 in the next morning. The next day was great; we celebrated Mia’s first birthday with the family and left around 4 that afternoon. At home later that night I remember thinking to myself, “This is good. Now I can relax. NOW my vacation can begin.” Stupid, stupid woman.
Saturday, December 22: I had a long list of things to do–unpacking, cleaning, laundry–and did none of them, opting instead to stay in my jammies all day long and play with my kid, who also stayed in her jammies all day long. Which meant that on…
Sunday, Christmas Eve-Eve: …all the things I didn’t do on Saturday had to be done, plus all the other things I’d planned to do on Sunday in the first place. One of those things was having the dog bathed. Suzanna has been living in the garage since September, when she brought fleas into my house (yet another saga from the past few months I won’t get into now), fleas she got from the stray cat I adopted last year and am now trying to relocate. Cat, anyone? Sweet disposition, updated shots, no uterus. But I digress. I unloaded a large amount of money at National Pet Chain Store to have my poor flea-allergic smelly itchy dog bathed, de-fleaed, un-hot-spotted, and settled into a brand new bed. That night she woke me up four times during the night begging to go back to the garage. And the scratching, good lord, the scratching. The stuff I sprayed on the hot spots made me sneeze, or maybe it was the shampoo, and yet, the scratching never stopped. I decided she was just readjusting to the house, gave her some benadryl, and tried (unsuccessfully) to sleep.
Monday, Christmas Eve: The stuff I didn’t get done on Sunday (do you see a pattern here?) was waiting for me on Monday. I was exhausted from the previous night of no sleep. Mom, Middle, and Little were coming for dinner, a dinner I was making and for which I had no ingredients. This would be a great time to sing the praises of the most wonderful child on the planet. Not one time during anything I have described, nor during anything I will describe in the next several paragraphs, did my daughter lose her cool. No crying (well, except for the tire-changing incident), no fussing, no public outbursts. If not for her, in fact, I would probably still be sitting on the side of the road next to my grotesquely flat tire.
I was halfway through dinner preparation when my family arrived with a moving van full of presents, and we had a nice meal–a ratatouille dish much like the one from the cartoon (laugh if you want, but it was amazing) on a bed of couscous with goat cheese and french bread. Little and I stayed up until 3 a.m. watching Harry Potter 5, and everyone, including my daughter, slept until almost 11 Christmas Day.
Tuesday, Christmas Day: It was wonderful–a bright spot in a series of distressingly eventful days. It is best viewed, not described.
Wednesday, Mia’s Birthday: Mia and I went to my mom’s to help her go through all the stuff we took from my grandmother’s house. Did I mention? I don’t want to talk about that yet. We hung out with my mom and were (I’m afraid) more messy than helpful. We got home just in time for bed, and I was welcomed by a puddle of pee next to the front door. By this time the dog was really starting to wear out her welcome. I didn’t sleep well because my throat was scratchy and my nose was a bit runny and I had a bit of a dry cough. The smell of Suzanna–I’m not sure if it was the hot spot spray or the shampoo from Sunday’s bath or just her own weird smell–permeated my room…and my sinuses.
Thursday, December 27: Mia’s 1 year well baby check-up was at 1:15. She got shots and cried pitifully. Gayle came over and we had lunch and went to Target to buy cute little plates and napkins for Mia’s Saturday birthday party, which was being held at my friend and coworker MJ’s new house (because I wanted to invite more than 5 people, see, and my house is TEENY). Late that afternoon my throat felt really scratchy and I couldn’t stop coughing. I said out loud at one point, “I feel like I’m getting sick.” Mia’s eyes were watery and she had a slight runny nose. I decided that Suzanna could not stay in the house any longer because I was convinced that her weird smell was contributing to our allergic demise. I felt horribly guilty about giving Suzanna the boot, but she seemed okay with the arrangement and I had a party to plan. I bought wine and beer, cake supplies, chips and dips, and ingredients for a baked brie and some spinach rolls I found in a magazine. I was pumped. And I felt like shit.
Friday, December 28: We didn’t leave the house. Mia had a fever; I couldn’t breathe through my nose and my cough had deepened. By dark I was wheezing and Mia was a veritable fountain of snot. I decided that if she had a fever the next morning I would cancel or postpone the party. Still, I stayed up late and made the cake. You know, wishful thinking and all.
Saturday, December 29: If you guessed that my kid still had a fever on Saturday morning, you guessed wrong. She was fine–a bundle of energy and all smiles. Snotty, but smiley. I, on the other hand, was having trouble inhaling. My cough had worsened. The wheezing was audible. My head ached. I seriously considered sending Mia to her party without me. But I didn’t. I went on with it. I hauled all the food and the drink and the kid to MJ’s house (thankfully no presents–Mia has a registry at Heifer.org and has raised almost $500 for the organization in honor of her birthday).
Anyway. I think the party was a success. I think people had a good time. Mia loved her cupcake, and friends of mine from different circles were mingling and making conversation, and the handful of kids who were there played like the best of friends. But honestly, there are parts of the afternoon I don’t particularly remember. By now my chest was actually hurting, and inhaling deeply was a physical impossibility. I was starting to get a little freaked out. Which is how it came to be that immediately after the party I found myself at an urgent care center near my house. While Mia played with Gayle in the waiting room, I got a shot of steroids in the buttocks and received a 30 minute Albuterol treatment. Comedienne Suzanne Westenhoefer does a bit in one of her old shows about how some Amish people in a community near where she grew up in PA got addicted to crack, and how they must have been speed-quilting and putting up barns single-handedly in mere hours. That’s how I felt after the breathing treatment. Like I could have cleaned my carpet by washing each fiber individually in 15 minutes. My organs were trembling, and I could feel them. My hands and arms seemed to be propelled by forces beyond my control. It was horrible. But not as horrible as not being able to breathe. That part was an improvement. The doctor sent me home with a high-powered expectorant/cough suppressant, a five-day round of steroids, and an asthma inhaler. He didn’t actually diagnose me with asthma but indicated that I could develop a chronic form of it as an adult, or even just have an acute case in the event that my immune system had been compromised for whatever reason. You know, like dead grandmother stuff and sleepless nights and weird dog smells and flat tires and the general stress of the holidays. Or something like that.
Sunday, New Year’s Eve-Eve: The twitches finally wore off after midnight and I slept well for the first night in over a week. I figured out that if I take Tylenol when I use the inhaler, I’m not quite as crawly and my sleep is not as disrupted. Mia is still a little font of snot, but she is undaunted and is equally interested in her birthday balloon (under strictly supervised circumstances, of course) and crawling under the table as she is in playing with her load of new toys. We’ve been playing a lot, and she’s been napping well, which means I’ve been lying around watching lots of movies. It sucks to be sick, but–fingers crossed–the major drama seems to be behind us.
Monday, New Year’s Eve: Actually, according to the TV in the background, it’s no longer New Year’s Eve. I can hear fireworks outside, and the ball just dropped, and I’ve kissed my sleeping daughter on the head. Let’s put ‘07 to bed, people. Here’s to a brilliant new year.
We have this autumnal practice here in the south of going to “see color.” Leaf color, that is. It usually involves the car and a day trip to somewhere due north or west–somewhere where there are mountains. I’m guessing this is because, for the most part, the fall color in this particular region usually lasts for around, oh, 30 minutes before the leaves all turn brown and fall to the ground.
Not true this year. Yesterday I had to drive to a neighboring city for a school library conference, and I was stunned by the beauty of the trees lining the highway. It was breathtaking. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought I was looking at an artificial backdrop that someone hand painted. There was just enough balance of reds, oranges, and golds, with the occasional evergreen thrown in. The trees were bold and bright, and they blended perfectly into one another, and against yesterday’s weird half sunny-half gunmetal gray sky, they were as beautiful as any autumn mountain vista I’ve ever seen.
Even though it was the buttcrack of dawn, and even though I was late to my conference, and even though my university adviser and district supervisor told me there was really nothing they could do if my principal decided I had to teach a class, the leaves were beyond gorgeous. It was the best part of my day.
That is, until I went home to this:
And also, this:
At around 1:30 in the morning last Wednesday, I became semi-consciously aware of something moving in the darkness next to my head. I opened an eye to investigate and could just slightly make out the silhouette of my enormous cat standing at the top of the bed. I know that his back legs were planted on the pillow opposite my head, and that his front legs were planted on the Mission bedside table next to the bed (see diagram below). It gets blurry from there, but here’s what I think happened:
I numbly tried to swat him off the bed and startled him, thus causing him to attempt a total move to the bedside table, a piece of furniture that is sub-stable at best, and whose surface area, even when free of other items, is not large enough to accommodate my giant cat. Incidentally, said surface was not cleared of other objects (see diagram again), but was serving as a home for a metal and glass candelabra of sorts which contained stones instead of candles.
You don’t need a physics lesson to understand what happened next. I couldn’t give you one anyway, but I can provide a brief recap:
The cat is huge.
The table is unstable.
The cat tried to jump on the table.
The candelabra/stone vessel on the table is part glass.
It all happened in a matter of seconds: swat…thud*…and then crash**crash***crash****…and finally, lots of swearing and the sounds of angry vacuuming. The only good thing I have to say about this incident is that my child made one small “eh…sigh” and went soundly back to sleep. Which is the only reason my cat still walks among the living.
*cat on table
**table hitting wall
***candelabra hitting the wall
****glass and stones shattering on the floor
A dog attempting to pick up a large plastic Easter egg with her teeth is highly amusing and entertaining.
Even though my mother always freaks out a little when she sees this picture–she says it reminds her of “The Ring,” which I have thankfully never seen–it’s one of my favorites, and a perfect tribute to rainbows and love and such. Suzanna is the sweetest, most patient dog I’ve ever known. She is always happy to see me, and most everyone else, for that matter. She welcomes strange animals (Chapin, for instance, and later Harry) into her domain. She would rather play with the gnawed remains of her hedgehog toy than the most expensive item on the shelf at PetCo. She allows herself to be subjected to a number of uncomfortable actions and seems to believe me when I say they are good for her: Q-tips in her ears, nasty tasting medicine, baths at the grooming salon, baths in the front yard under the water hose, eye drops, nail clippers. She will get up from her already warm spot on the floor and follow me three feet across the room if I decide I’d rather sit on the couch than in the chair, so long as she’s touching me (or the blanket I’m covered up with). She smiles, teeth and all, when she sees people she loves. Suzanna has been with me my whole adult life. No matter what comes out of me come December, she will always be my first baby. There is no better dog than Suzanna.
If you’re interested, this picture looks much better in its original size.
Happy Summer Solstice. Yes, I know, Solstice was yesterday, but I was celebrating and did not spend much time on the computer. Actually, that is a lie. I forgot that yesterday was Solstice because I had no idea what day it was–as far as I’m concerned, the first sign that summer is truly underway. I was out running some errands and noticed a sign announcing the Summer Solstice Celebration at the Arboretum, so I called up my friend Linda, who happened to be available (another sign that summer is truly underway: spontaneity), and we joined what must have been at least a thousand other people at one of our city’s most beautiful parks to ring in Summer. Linda had radical back surgery in January and rotator cuff correction two weeks ago, so we mostly stayed put and let the drummers and dancers come to us, although I did walk the length of the park to see what else was happening. Okay, that’s also a lie. I was looking for the bathroom, as pregnancy for me is, at this point, one long series of trips to the ladies’ room, but I did get to see the festival in its entirety on my journey. I also ran into some friends–first Joy and then Molly–and proceeded to run into them again and again throughout the rest of the evening. Linda and I also ran into some kids we’d both taught–J. and C.–and they spent most of the night with us. It was a great evening, and it reminded me that I don’t take enough advantage of my city, its parks and culture and special events. Note to self: one cannot spend an entire summer in one’s lounge pants and a tank top pajamas on one’s screened porch ogling the birds, rabbits and chipmunks.
The highlight of the night was the Fire Dance. I attempted to photograph other things throughout the evening: dancers and drummers, fairies, goddesses, cute little kids with face paint and angel wings, but I wasn’t using my flash and the twilight was a little too filtered to capture much more than a series of blurs. Not so with the Fire Dance. I played around with settings and finally settled on manual continuous exposure, which I think was a good decision considering the results. I’ll let you be the judge:
I could really use some advice from all you dog people out there. Here’s the situation: Suzanna has an ear infection, which is, I have no doubt, a result of her flea allergy. She is on flea prevention treatment–Frontl*ne–but she’s been scratching miserably, just like she does when she gets bitten by a flea. So yesterday when I picked up her heartworm medicine I asked the vet on duty at the Animal Wellness Center how exactly Frontl*ne works–does it repel fleas, or does the flea have to bite the dog in order to die or be repelled. Much to my dismay, the latter is true. I tried to explain that this is not a viable option for Suzanna due to her allergy. The vet’s response: “Well, you could always use a flea spray on your carpet.” Eh? Is that supposed to keep fleas from biting my dog who lives outside during the day?
I have not always used Frontl*ne. For years I used Advant*ge, and it seemed to work–no fleas, no itching, no red ears and belly. The Wellness Center recently stopped selling Advant*ge and switched to Frontl*ne because it was “a better product.” I assumed it worked the same way, as the application process was the same, but apparently I was wrong. Now my poor dog is miserable. I think we have conquered the ear infection with an antibiotic that smells like hair permanent solution and must taste horrible, but she swallows it right down, and with positive results so far. But it obviously does not do anything about her flea allergy, or her fleas for that matter, and I’m at a loss. The vet told me the other topical products were all the same, that the fleas had to bite to be affected, so buying anything else was pointless. I’m not sure I believe her.
That’s where you come in. I need flea and allergy advice, stat. Suzanna is quite patient, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable. I am willing to try whatever you suggest. And if anyone is interested in two tubes of Frontl*ne for dogs 26-50 lbs., email me your address and I’ll send them to you–they are of no use to me.
***
In other news…
…I will never shop at my local S*ears again. On Tuesday afternoon I saw, on the shiny concrete floor of America’s oldest department store, the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Seriously, it looked like The Bug from “Men in Black.” I abandoned my purchase and left immediately, because what if this mutant creature had deposited offspring in the pockets of the shorts I was going to buy? It was crawling toward the tool section when I fled; I think it was planning to make off with a nail gun and some tires. Watch your back.
…and speaking of bugs, I was nestled in my bed last night, all ready to flip on the TV and fall asleep before the intro theme music to “Will and Grace” finished playing, and that’s when I spied the spider on my ceiling. We’ve all been there. First we rationalize: well, as long as it stays there it’s fine. Then we think: but what if it does move? What if it falls? On me? While I am sleeping? And bites me? Then we are wide awake, so immediate action is our only hope for sleep. I have vaulted ceilings, and the spider was, of course, at the very highest peak, so I fetched the retractable ceiling fan duster from the linen closet, an object I had used just a few days before to kill a wasp in the skylight in my kitchen. If you’ve ever tried to squash a spider with what is basically the handle of a 10 foot-long feather duster, you know it’s hard to achieve just the right hand-eye-handle coordination. The spider eluded me. Then it started crawling down the wall. Toward me. I ran for the obligatory massive wad of paper towels (so the spider wouldn’t touch me, of course), and struck and flushed the intruder in a matter of seconds.
You should know I’m not usually this squeamish and girly about bugs, but there’s a place for bugs, and that place is not inside of S*ars or my bedroom.
***
And finally…I have finished my mix CDs for the Crazy Mixed Up CD Group. I’m listening to the final cut as I type this, and I think it’s safe to declare the CD ready for distribution. Look for it in a mailbox near you early next week.
I give you…KONG! Cat Kong, that is.
Now starring in a new feature film, “Cat Kong vs. Catzilla!” Behold, Catzilla!
I took these last week during a thunderstorm that was supposed to bring tennis ball-size hail and multiple tornadoes to my area. They said so on The Weather Channel. I am terrfied of tornadoes, so I curled up on the floor with the animals and my favorite comforter and watched “Friends.” Might as well go out happy, I always say. But neither the hail nor the tornadoes ever came, and once the thunderstorm was over I just stayed in the floor, mainly because Suzanna was so happy to have me on her turf that she positioned herself just so on the comforter and pinned me to the ground. I had my camera nearby (I don’t know, maybe I was going to attempt to photograph the airborne cows), so I snapped these pictures of Chapin, who was less inclined to snuggle and more interested in walking across my head. I didn’t set out to make him seem like a giant, but seriously, it’s not difficult. He IS a giant. On the outside. On the inside he is a wuss, a baby, a drama queen. I wish I could record his teeny little voice for you, and then these pictures would be even more amusing.
Alfred Hitchcat
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.
This Friday’s theme is SHADOWS. I know Photo Friday is supposed to encourage new photography, but this is my favorite shadow picture ever. Chapin has long since been banned from this window. Those poor blinds…may they rest in peace.
“This isn’t Grand Central Station!” Someone in my family used to say this about the bathroom–my mom or my grandmother, maybe both–when she was trying do something that required concentration or privacy (like pee, or take a shower, or get dressed, or any number of other things) while surrounded by children. I never understood. Having never been to Grand Central or any other station as a child, the metaphor was lost on me, and besides, I wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. I mean, what were they thinking, going in there all alone? It was our sworn mission as children to protect them from loneliness. “So what if I just opened this oatmeal pie? I don’t mind eating it here on the rug–you just go ahead with whatever you were going to do.” And then there was the curiosity. “What’s that?” “Why?” “Where are you putting it?” “Why?” “What does that mean?” “Why?” “Ew, gross. Can I have another oatmeal pie?” “Don’t worry, I’ll be RIGHT BACK!”
I have since been to Grand Central Station, and it is a chaotic place full of movement and noise. There is always something happening there, and showering or peeing in the middle of it all would be difficult. I can see how a woman might equate her bathroom with the hustle and bustle of a giant railway station if, say, she was attempting to apply mascara with a kid on each leg, a teenager edging her way into the mirror space, and a dog drinking out of the toilet with the television and the radio blaring loudly in the next room. I have also since become a woman who values her privacy, and I’ve been thinking a lot about Grand Central Station and what it signifies in the world of motherhood. It has raised some questions. For instance, how does one prepare for the constant company of a small child? And how do you cope with the penetrating gaze, the inquisition, the innocent meddling? Even with marriage there are boundaries, and adults can be told to go away. I was a teenager when my sisters were little kids; as a teenager I was allowed to lock the bathroom door, so while I got to practice lots of other things on my sisters, like diapering, hair and clothing management, and creative lunchmaking, I did not practice sharing the bathroom. Moms are not allowed to lock the door, and good luck telling a kid to go away: “Why?” Loud knocking. “What are you doing in there?” Door knob turning furiously. “But I miss you. I need you.” Small hand snaking under the door. Madness!
And then came Chapin. Before you parents roll your eyes and mutter under your breath about how clueless I am and how a cat is nothing like a child, shut the hell up and let me finish. Chapin has always loved the bathroom. He likes to play in the shower when the water isn’t running, and peer through the shower curtain in wonder when it is. He enjoys sitting on the closed toilet seat, and if someone leaves the seat up he likes to touch the water with his paw, and even drink it, and really, Visitors To My Home, do you really need a better reason for always flushing and NEVER LEAVING THE SEAT UP in my bathroom? He is also fascinated by the Great Unknown behind the cabinet doors, so anything that comes from behind those closed doors is an object that deserves intense observation and much touching and sniffing. This includes, but is not limited to, tampons, pads, Q-tips, cotton balls, hairspray, makeup, nail polish, tweezers, ovulation predictor sticks, pregnancy tests, and toothpaste. When he sees one of these items out in plain view his eyes grow large and round, his ears tremble, his tail twitches; he approaches the object, stares at it in silent communion, and then knocks it to the floor, into the trashcan, or into the open commode (seriously, PUT THE SEAT DOWN!). Oh, and he likes to sit in my lap. While I am sitting. On the toilet.
Sure, it sounds cute, and it was at first, but minus the questions, he was invading my privacy, so I started closing the door behind me whenever I went into either bathroom in my house. I should note that the door to one bathroom does not close all the way, due to some builder mismeasurement or temperature-related expansion in the door frame; and the door to the other bathroom is a pocket door that slides open easily and does not lock (except by accident, which is another story entirely). But this didn’t matter at first–the simple act of closing the door was enough for Chapin. The visual barrier seemed to make the room disappear to him. Soon, though, he caught on. He sat outside the bathroom and wailed. He scratched at the carpet around the door frame. He threw his weight against the pocket door, which, when you are in the shower, sounds like a band of drunken Hell’s Angels is coming up through the floor. He slipped his paw, then his entire limb, through the crack under the door; he reached in as far as he could, felt around, touched things. Then he figured out that he could press his face against the crack and look at me. And then, of course, he learned to open the doors. I finally surrendered. It was simpler than the alternative–tying him to the kitchen table with an extension cord–and much quieter. Still, there was another living creature watching me pee. At least it was just the cat.
And then Suzanna realized that Chapin was with me and she wasn’t, and she, too, started joining me every time I ventured into the bathroom. She who is afraid to walk on linoleum would brave the Scary Hard Surface of Death rather than allow her feline sibling to chance getting attention that might otherwise be given to her. Picture it: I am sitting, well, where else? Chapin is sitting at my feet watching my every move (Now she’s unwrapping the strange white stick. Amazing. Now she is unrolling the soft paper. Amazing. Now she is taking off her clothes. Amazing. Now she is clipping her toenails. Amazing.). Suzanna is lying in the doorway, also watching my every move (She is my mom. I love her. She is my mom. I love her. Maybe she will pet me. I love her). And just so you won’t walk away from here today believing both my animals are perverts, they like watching me do other things in the bathroom besides piss and shower. Last night I was down on my knees with my head in the cabinet looking for a new tube of toothpaste when I felt a nudge on my left side. Then I felt a nudge on my right side. I leaned back and looked around. There was Chapin. There was Suzanna. They, too, were staring into the cabinet. When they realized I had redirected my attention they both leaned against me; Suzanna forced her snout under my arm and into my face, and Chapin walked his front paws into my lap, purring loudly. “This isn’t Grand Central Station,” I said.
God, I can’t wait to have kids.
Suzanna-Suzannadanna
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.
No cuter dog has ever been. Ever.
masterpiece
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.
I should never have looked at the other animal pictures in the Friday Photo pool before I posted my own. Now I’m feeling all competitive and edgy. Thus, I’m forced to tell you things about this photo that I would have ordinarily kept to myself. Such as: Chapin was so sound asleep on the morning this photo was taken that I literally made the bed around him. When I got out of the shower I realized the lump that is his giant body (although he does look small and demure here) was still under the comforter, so I peeled it back and was so overcome by his CUTENESS that I could hardly take the picture. Also, I used the handy focal black and white feature in Picasa to make everything in the photo BW, but left Chapin in color, thereby drawing attention to his CUTENESS.
If I had to guess what he’s thinking, I’d say it’s something along the lines of, “Look, we need to talk. Why the hell is it so cold in here? I can’t feel my ears, and if I had balls they’d be frozen solid. Are you trying to ruin my life by making me sleep with the dog for warmth?”
I got my first winter gas bill today, and the second thing I did after opening it was turn the heat down to 65. The first thing I did was make sure nothing was broken after I woke from the temporary state of unconsciousness I experienced upon reading the amount I owe to my local gas company. We’re talking numbers too high for an English major to comfortably process. My self-diagnosed mathematical learning disability kicked into full gear and I started hyperventilating. I had to take deep breaths and put my head between my knees. It was like reliving the 5 minute class change before 8th grade math class, only worse. Worse, because these numbers are freaking DOLLARS, and even an English major can see that when I *gasp* subtract them from the treasury that is my state teachers’ paycheck I will have considerably less than when I started.
So yeah, it’s chilly in my house. The cat is now under the Christmas tree skirt, and the dog is lying in front of the fireplace. There’s no fire in it, but Suzanna has always been an optimist. As for me, I can’t feel my nose and my knuckles are actually cold from typing this post, so I think I’ll burrow under the covers and go to sleep. Maybe the cat will join me. And if not, at least I still have my unfolded laundry to keep me warm.
Look closely. Make sure your sound is on. And yeah, my cat speaks with a Scottish accent. It’s one of his many talents.
Friday, December 9
Today during my 4th period class–a class that usually makes me wish I had chosen a less stressful career, like firearms testing or bounty hunting–we actually had a productive discussion. They did their work and volunteered answers to questions. They refrained from cursing. I didn’t have murderous thoughts about any of them.
I should note that on Thursday I went to a workshop and left my classes in the hands of a competent substitute; my favorite class, my bright, energetic honors kids, got the worst report: rudeness, disrespect, failure to stay on task. My fourth period kids, these trash-talking potty mouths who are in my class because they have not yet earned an English I credit, got the best report. They were quiet; they did their assignment (a lengthy set of questions that accompanied the film “Rudy,” the final activity in our “news-to-screen” unit) and were polite to the sub. When I read the sub’s report on Friday, after I cleaned my glasses, caught my breath, and regulated my heartbeat, I decided that I would reward them by letting them have some “chill” time at the end of the period while they finished watching “Rudy.” “Chill” here means “watch leisurely without having an additional assignment.” It seemed like a feasible plan; after all, the first half of class had gone so smoothly. In retrospect I’m fairly certain I had been beamed temporarily to a parallel universe.
Barely two minutes after I pressed the “play” button I heard heated conversation in the back corner of the room. I detected an angry tone. I heard the scrape of a chair being moved abruptly across the floor. Before I could walk the 10 steps from my desk to the light switch there was a full-fledged fight in my classroom between two boys who, just moments earlier, had been exchanging civil if not pleasant conversation. I called the office for help, and within seconds the principal (we’ll call her Principal), a woman who is at least an inch or two shorter than my 5′6″ and more than likely matches me in weight, was in the middle of the fray. The fighters were locked in a bear hug when she arrived; no punches were being thrown because neither boy would let go, and I’d wanted to keep it that way until the resource officer arrived, so I’d assigned the biggest boy (we’ll call him Tall Boy) in the class to keep them contained by blocking their path to other parts of the room. As soon as Principal entered the room she made Tall Boy move, and she proceeded to wedge herself between the fighters until she had successfully pried them apart. As soon as the bear hug was broken fists began to fly, and Principal, who was now in the middle of the two fighters, got slugged right in the mouth. Moments–no, a second–later the officer arrived, pepper spray in hand, and started shooting the vile substance in a circle around the area where the fighters were now on the floor pummelling each other. He sprayed both fighters, Principal, and three of my students who were trapped in the corner and were innocently trying to stay out of the way. The room had to be evacuated. Principal was bleeding, and two of my students required an eye bath.
Saturday, December 10
Took Suzanna to the do-it-yourself pet bathing center today, and not a moment too soon. I was starting to leave rooms as she entered them, and I actually caught myself wondering what would happen if I put deodorant on her. Just before we left the house I let her in so I could leash her, and she tracked red North Carolina clay all over the carpet. Cry for help? I think so.
One of the attendants at the bathing facility was grooming a standard poodle next to the stall I was using, and she attempted to make conversation over the roar of the doggy dryer. Somehow canine anal glands came up–I think I might have been responsible–and she said, “here, I’ll show you how to express them.” I can now say I’ve squeezed my dog’s anus. It was not a pleasant experience for either of us, and we have agreed that I’ll never do it again, ever.
Went to see “Goblet of Fire” again–took Gayle, as she had not yet been, and we both agree that it was a bad decision to have the dragon escape during Task 1. Waste of precious time. Ralph Fiennes IS Voldemort, though. Even his voice is frighteningly perfect.
Sunday, December 11
Went to my first ever piano recital today–as an audience member, that is. Gayle has been taking piano lessons since January. She could already play well before she started, and now she is one of the best students in the class, second only to a 16 year-old so-called prodigy who, in my opinion, didn’t play all that well. Gayle played beautifully, but I had trouble sitting through the others, a combination of children and adults, most of whom were…bad. There were a few bright spots, but mostly they were not in time, they missed notes, and they had to stop for long periods to reposition their hands for the next bar. It was sad, and I was embarrassed for them, and while I know this is the point of taking lessons, it was difficult for me to see them struggle. When I have a kid I will happily take it to sports lessons–tennis, golf, swimming–but it will be hard to witness music lessons.
Monday, December 12
Stopped at the post office on my way to work for what I was sure would be a 5-minute errand. There were two people in line when I arrived–yes!–so I got out my wallet and waited anxiously. As it turns out, the short line curse that plagues me at the grocery store and Target applies at the PO as well. You know what I’m talking about–you automatically go to the shortest line thinking, “Ha! I picked the shortest line! You dumbasses who are in the long lines can eat my receipt!” but then you realize that the dumbasses are actually brilliant fonts of intelligence and YOU are the dumbass because the person at the front of the short line has either purchased 572 delicate glass objects that must be wrapped and bagged individually, or she wants to buy something that she dug out from behind some mismatched shoes and outdated shampoo and has not seen a price tag since 2001. Anyway, the man at the front of this morning’s short PO line was a Hispanic guy who was sending a 36 pound badly wrapped box to another country–I think it might have been one of his kids, there was a corner left slightly open–and he understood “yes, “10 days,” and “75 dollars.” I was in the post office for 20 minutes.
Going to dinner with some Elon friends tonight. Drinking beer. I don’t have to be there until 5:30, but I’m leaving now because if I sit in this classroom for another second I might kill the secretary, who has left the phone intercom engaged and is broadcasting her conversation and the blaring ring of the telephone to the entire building.
Dear Diary, I’m sorry I dumped all of this on you. I could have simply said “WTF?” I think that pretty much covers it.
It took 5, maybe 10 minutes for Chapin to call dibs on the new dog bed.
My name is Heather, and I give my animals nicknames.
That’s right, laugh all you want. My animals have nicknames. I’m sure there are others like me; after all, the nicknames evolved from conversations I’ve had with the animals, and I know I’m not the only person in the world who can have a lengthy chat with a dog. It’s the nicknames themselves that are a little…different. See for yourself.
I’ll begin with Harry the Beagle, who no longer lives here* but did long enough to earn a few monikers. Harry’s name depended on what mischief he had committed. For instance, if he had escaped from the padlocked, steel-barred, railroad tie-fortified kennel, we called him Harry Houdini. If he simply disappeared, only to reappear unharmed two neighborhoods away, we called him Harry Potter. When he wrapped himself hopelessly around a tree or walked out in front of a car while I was walking him, he was affectionately called Stupid Ass, and I often called him Buddy when we were going through our morning walk-and-treat routine.** But the best Harry nickname–and I’ll let you figure out its origin–was Harry Dogafarte. I know what you’re thinking–genius. Wait, it gets better.
Chapin the Cat was named after a famous country-folk musician, so he’s sometimes referred to as Hairy Chapin-Carpencat (we thought he was a girl; he was almost named Emmylou). I also call him George Chapinopolous from time to time (for no apparent reason), and when he is running at breakneck speed from the front to the back to the front of the house, or when he’s knocking things off the counters to get my attention, he’s called Kitty Kitty Bang-Bang. His everyday pet name is Kitty Boy; when I walk in the door after being gone for a while, I greet him with a “Hey, Kitty Boy,” and he falls down at my feet and rolls around on his back. I know he would prefer to be called Oh Great One, but he settles for what he gets.
Which brings me to Suzanna. She’s been around the longest, and while many of her nicknames are common and predictable (Baby, Sweetpea, and Girlygirl, for example), she does have a few that get weird stares when there’s company in the house: Suzannie; Suzanna Suzannadanna, complete with the Gilda Radner accent and inflection; and perhaps the most bizarre, “Black dog, black dog, where did you come from?” Yeah, about that one. You’d have to be a “Designing Women” fan to understand, but rest assured, it’s a beautiful thing–it has a little tune and everything. On that note, I should tell you that Suzanna has her own original song…but that’s a story for another day.
*I am happy to report that Harry is EXTREMELY happy in his new home. He sleeps on the bed and watches TV from the couch. He did recently escape (who’s really surprised?) but was safely recovered. I hear they may be putting up a fence.
**Harry’s new mom and dad think he looks like a “Buddy” and call him by this name as often as they call him Harry. A good sign? I think so.
I spent over an hour bathing Suzanna in the yard yesterday. We have a do-it-yourself place in town; for 10 bucks you have access to groomer-quality products, a waist-level washbasin with a restraining tether, and unlimited warm water. Oh, and someone else gets to clean the hair, which could feasibly make an entirely new dog, out of the drain. But it was 97 degrees outside, and I decided it would be a) cheaper, b) cooler, and c) more entertaining for the neighbors if I just bathed her in the yard with the hose and my trusty bottle of all natural organic Buddy Wash. One hour, one very wet woman, and one extremely tolerant dog later, Suzanna was the cleanest dog in the neighborhood. Oh, how her black fur glistened in the sun! Oh, how she smelled of lavendar and soap!
Fast-forward to this morning. I let her out to patrol the yard, only to discover after a few minutes that she was…well, description just won’t do it justice. You’ll have to see the footage. And while you’re watching, grinning from ear to ear at how cute my girl is and how happy she looks, just remember that the spot on the grass below her is the site where something died.
There have been several well-meaning people who, upon hearing about my plans to make a baby, have suggested that I might want to become a foster parent first (or instead). Apparently, there are those who believe that being a foster parent is a practice session, a sort of scrimmage match for would-be moms. I’ve actually been told things like, “You could be a mother for a while, see how you like it, and eventually you could just give the child back.” While I could digress on many–MANY, I tell you–underlying points here, what I really want to focus on is why I don’t think I could, in fact, “give the child back.” Enter Harry.
(WARNING: I’m about to write about a dog. In no way do I believe that having a dog and having a child are the same. Losing a dog and losing a child are very different. I am fully aware of this. Please do not think I am one of those people to whom having a child is like adopting a new puppy. I’m simply addressing a situation that brought to light a very strong personal truth. Having brought this situation up in an actual live conversation recently, after which followed a tongue-lashing from the other party and a series of self-defense explanations on my own behalf, I felt the need to clarify before going any further.)
Harry is a Beagle. My younger sister found him last October, coughing and underweight and trembling, at the stables on the campus of her small rural all-girls college in central Virginia. She named him Bandit, kept him in her private dormitory room, and took up a collection on her hall to cover the cost of a much-needed vet visit. The vet confirmed his age (two), treated him for worms and kennel cough, and charged my sister a fraction of the bill. But it became evident after a few weeks that a dorm room was no place for a Beagle. That’s where I come in.
It’s very difficult for me to walk away once I’m involved with anything stray or abandoned. And for me, involvement = eye contact. Well, usually, anyway. I was involved with the Beagle long before our eyes met. My mom told me about him over the phone, and I agreed to “find him a home.” The plan was to keep him in the backyard kennel away from my dog and cat (both of which I acquired on purpose, by the way) and to find a suitable home for him as quickly as possible. My mother and youngest sister picked him up at the college and brought him to my house on a Sunday afternoon. Then several things happened in very rapid succession: 1) the Beagle hopped out of the car and looked at me, and I was a goner. You might say he “had me at hello.” 2) someone let him into my house where he and my other dog immediately began to play. And 3) he got a new name after breaking out of a locked chainlink kennel, chewing through a harness, and slipping a collar, all within a 24 hour period. His name from that day forward was Harry (Houdini or Potter, take your pick; both apply). At first I thought he was just being mischievous, but his escapes never took him far; he was simply looking for company, and once I allowed him to bunk in the garage with Suzanna he was happy to stay put.
Harry was a high maintenance dog. My neighbor say he had “special needs.” Indeed, he had been abused, and he chewed and peed freely. He flattened himself whenever I raised my voice, or when he heard any sound that might be confused with a gunshot. It was an exercise in patience to handle his antics without frightening him, but I was mostly successful. But it wasn’t always easy. My garage door no longer has a safety stop sensor; the wires were mutilated and likely eaten. He gnawed a total of five collars right off of Suzanna’s neck–apparently he was trying to free her and live vicariously through her, as he was no match for the no-slip Greyhound collar he wore after the aforementioned escapes–and I eventually had to make her a chew-free collar from an old chain. He ate the tops off of the wooden wall brackets that were holding my 10-foot ladder, thereby causing the ladder to crash to the garage floor. Harry also had acid reflux and a penchant for eating disgusting things off the ground, thereby causing him to barf quite often. Thanks to Harry I’m now a Stanley Steemer customer, and a firm believer in Scotch Guard and a product called Nature’s Miracle. But the skittish, frightened behavior eventually went away, and so, mostly, did the chewing and peeing.
Harry and Suzanna slept indoors at night. Harry preferred the spot on the dog bed that allowed him to spoon, to place his snout snugly across Suzanna’s neck. She tolerated him at first, but later I think she enjoyed the camaraderie. He was an early riser–6:45 on the dot, and no later or I’d be spraying the Nature’s Miracle and cursing him, and then feeling like shit for yelling when it was my own fault for not getting him out sooner. The three of us walked every morning and every evening, even in the rain, and at the end of the day when I’d let them in, Harry and Suzanna would wrestle and roll and chase each other until they collapsed in a pile at bedtime. Even the cat got involved sometimes. Chapin would hide behind furniture (or perch on top of it) and taunt Harry; Harry would charge full speed toward Chapin, and just before the attack, Suzanna would dash between them and they’d all three scatter in different directions.
Months passed. My efforts at finding a home for Harry waned; it seemed he’d found home on his own. He was undeniably charming and adorable, and fellow walkers could not resist his friendly whole-body wagging and unsolicited kisses. His small size and large personality drew the attention of all the neighborhood children; the little girl across the street visited him daily to tell him she loved him. He was hopelessly affectionate; he’d wrap his front legs around my neck or arm or knee and hold on for dear life, licking whatever exposed flesh he could reach. There’s no denying that I fell in love with him.
But reality tugged at the back of my mind, reminding me of how difficult it would be to have a child AND a dog like Harry. I imagined life with a newborn, and I saw Harry in the periphery, innocently demanding that his special needs be met. I saw the alternatives: forcing him to stay in the kennel, forgoing the daily walks, making him sleep outside to avoid unnecessary wake-ups. I remembered life before Harry, with my independent cat and Suzanna, who is old and content to walk in the evenings, who sleeps late and does not chew and refrains from eating disgusting substances, who happily sleeps at my feet and demands very little. I saw Harry’s future, and it made me sad. I knew that he needed more than I’d eventually be able to give him. I knew it was time to do what I’d brought him here to do.
And so last Wednesday, Harry went home. His new parents are older with a grown daughter who moved out and took the family dogs with her. Harry’s new dad, a volunteer fireman, told me he called his pug on the phone every night in the first few weeks after it went to live with his newly married daughter so the dog wouldn’t feel too frightened in its new home. He told me I could call Harry anytime I needed to; I fought the urge to cry in front of this kind stranger. He spoke directly to Harry in a high-pitched sappy voice, assuring him that he’d love the couch and the yard, and that they had a place at the foot of the bed saved just for him; Harry licked his face with abandon. I sent the dog bed and all the food and treats and Harry’s favorite blanket so he’d start his new life with a hint of the familiar, and when they drove away I sobbed, broken-hearted but knowing I’d done the right thing.
Later that evening I put Suzanna in the car and took her to PetSmart where we picked out a new bed and replenished the food and treats, and when we went to sleep that night it was until 8:00 the next morning. It was raining, so we didn’t go for a walk, and when I got home that afternoon I read for a while with Suzanna curled at my feet, contentedly chewing on her favorite toy. Life has very quickly regained the simplicity that existed before Harry. But I miss that little Beagle. I get a heavy feeling in my chest every time I think of him, and I cry whenever I find one of his secretly stashed rawhides or come across a chewed piece of wood or plastic in the garage. I guess for me, involvement doesn’t ever really cease.
I know–really, I do–that my experience with Harry is not the equivalent of fostering a child, but placing that little dog into someone else’s care was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. How on earth could anyone who knows me at all think that I could do the same with a kid? Practice my ass. For me, a child–any child–will be the real deal. I want to have a baby of my own, one that comes from my body, my blood, my mind. But I would willingly foster a child should having one of my own not turn into a reality. Just don’t ask me to give it back.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.
Harry 
Collarless and Unfriendly: Behold, Chapin
“Minnesota defines a wild, or feral, cat as one with no collar that does not show friendly behavior, said Kevin Kyle with that state’s Department of Natural Resources.”
Okay. I was a little disturbed by the whole cat-hunting issue in Wisconsin (did you know it’s legal in South Dakota and Minnesota? I didn’t.), but the above quote has me especially rattled. If those are the criteria for open range kitty shooting, I have to say it’s a damn good thing my Chapin doesn’t A) dwell outdoors or B) live in Minnesota. If you are not me, Gayle, my mother, or my house-sitter, or if you are a small child or a person carrying various noisy power equipment, like a carpet steamer or power drill (or a freakin’ gun!), my cat will growl loudly and run from the room. Hence the unfriendly behavior. Also, he does not wear a collar. He has one, mind you; it even has a little tag with his name on it. But he can remove it, and quite honestly I have no idea where it is at this time, as he can also hide it from me. Apparently the little bell gets on his nerves, and I tend to agree with him on that point.
And anyway, who ever heard of an especially friendly cat? Cat lovers and owners will back me up on this one. My beagle loves people he has never met. No, really, if you are a stranger reading this, Harry the Beagle loves you. If you are Charles Manson reading this, ditto. My other dog is older and a bit more reserved. It would take her five, maybe ten minutes to love you, although she sides with the cat on the noisy power equipment issue. I’m not sure the beagle is smart enough to recognize noisy power equipment. But a cat? My cat likes a handful of people; he even loves a few, and when he feels like it, he shows his adoration and affection in sweet and surprising ways. Cats are supposed to be uppity and aloof. It is not the cat’s job to exhibit kindness toward strangers. Cats were created to stalk and eye the world warily from afar, to move stealthily and mysteriously, and to attack at precisely the right moment a well-studied mouse, rabbit, toe, gnat, beagle tail, or piece of rogue sweater fuzz. And for this, (and, as I understand it, peeing in gardens and eating small innocent creatures), in Minnesota, they get the death penalty.
I’m sure Minnesotans, South Dakotans, and a number of Wisconsinites have their reasons for taking target practice on their respective cat populations. But if having an unfriendly attitude, making nasty messes for others to clean up, and killing innocents is grounds for such drastic punishment in the animal world, why are so many humans getting away with these same behaviors on a daily basis? Just something to think about.
