The Giving D.

Our dog is 15 and has terrible arthritis in her back legs.  And pneumonia.  And a large mass in her lungs that may be cancer.  And she has pretty much lost her hearing along with about a third of her body weight.

But she still wags her tail when she sees me.  And she still follows me from room to room, which stresses me out because I know it must take so much effort.  "I'm just running upstairs to put this laundry away." I tell her.   "I'm coming right back down.  I promise."   She doesn't buy it.  Never has. Wherever I am is where it's at.

It's been this way for almost 15 years-- ever since that day in August when my boyfriend/future husband and I brought her home from the shelter.  She threw up on me a little in the car on the way back to the city and I guess that sealed the deal.  I told my boyfriend that he had to agree now that if we ever broke up that she was my dog.  

Over the years that ownership grab has come back to haunt me a bit-- "your dog is killing all the grass..." "your dog needs to go out..."-- but like any young couple thinking of a future together, we doted on our dog.  Birthday cakes, dog-friendly vacations, photo ops, you name it.  We didn't go so far as to dress her in clothes; but I did try to get her to wear booties and a coat during that first winter.  Her expression was classic: no way, dude.  I took them off.  And the dog was happy.

Then there were the lean years for the pooch.  We had a baby.  And he didn't sleep.  He took up so much of my attention that I couldn't have given nearly as much to my dog as she was used to.  I even kept our midday dog walker from when I had been working because I just couldn't coordinate it all.  But still, I vividly remember one night crying on my bed in frustration as the baby cried in his crib unable to go to sleep or stay asleep no matter what I did, my dog came and nuzzled up next to me.  "How can I make it better?" she seemed to be saying to me.  I cried into her fur.  And the dog was happy.

For years the kids required so much time and energy I honestly don't remember how my dog fit in the mix.  I know her name was one of my daughter's first words and I know she is usually somewhere in the frame of most videos and photos from those early years.  So it wasn't like I stopped paying attention to her.  I just know I wasn't all there. But she was no doubt right on my heels, stopping to catch the falling Cheerios and goldfish crackers.  And the dog was happy.

Then the renaissance-- my daughter went to Kindergarten.  Suddenly I had six hours on my own.  We had six hours together.  Time to take those long walks together on the trails again.  Time to read a book on the couch next to my dog.  Time to unearth the chuck-it and feed into her ball chasing OCD.  And the dog was happy.

As I look back I realize that, over the course of her lifetime, I've probably spent more time with my dog than with anybody else.  She has given me unconditional love, countless moments of pure joy, way more smelly dog-breath kisses than I would have liked, and someone to talk to as I slog through the mundane tasks of running a house.

I know someday I'm going to have to let her go.  But for now, her tail is wagging. 

And I am happy.

Hair Today, Gone to Maui

Hi blog!  It’s been a while.  I’ve…um… been busy?

If I’m being honest, the only reason I’m even writing now is that I’m trying to avoid doing what I’m supposed to be doing and I’ve already used up all my usual go-to procrastination devices. 

I should be preparing for Thanksgiving.  It’s only one week—seven short days!--  from today.  And my whole family will be descending upon my house on Tuesday.  I should be planning menus and making shopping lists and cleaning out the fridge to make room for four kinds of milk, two kinds of orange juice and umpteen bottles of club soda and seltzer (and googling just what the difference is between the two).  A wise hostess would be figuring out who is sleeping where and on what and whether the (clean) sheets in the linen closet need to be washed before they go on the beds.

Instead, I find myself fixated on towels and pillows and worried about whether I have enough of each.  Every time I go to Target (which is obscenely frequently),  I  pick up towels and pillows.  What am I going to do with all these dang towels and pillows after everyone leaves?

The Thanksgivings that we spend with my family have, historically, been held at my brother’s house.  The bar is set very high.  My sister-in-law is a wonderful hostess.  A real Martha.  She stocks the fridge and pantry ahead of time with things each of us likes.  She effortlessly produces meals and copious baked goods practically from thin air.  She has gobs of great rag magazines that I usually only get to read at the nail salon.  And, exceeding the service of any five star resort, she thoughtfully provides hand-picked toiletries in the bathrooms, tailored to the individual’s needs. 

That last one cuts both ways.   I know it’s the thought that counts and all of that—don’t get me wrong,  I am touched that she takes the time (and spends the money) to make me feel at home.  But it is always kind of funny/awkward that the shampoo and conditioner in the shower that I will be using are labeled  for use on hair that is DRY/DAMAGED/CHEMICALLY TREATED/FRIZZY/GOOD GOD DO YOU CHECK THE MIRROR EVER?! 

I’m sure it comes from a place of love.  Seriously.  But it has left me in a bit of a pickle.  I know that my family has come to expect not to have to BYOShampoo, etc.  so, on my latest Target run, I spent a great deal of time in the toiletries section.  As I surveyed the shampoo options I called to mind each man, woman and child that was going to be using our facilities and, channeling my sister-in-law, tried to guess what their individual hair care needs and wants might be.  

Well.  My brother has been somewhat successfully fighting genetics and a receding hairline since forever.  Do I get him the men’s shampoo for “Fuller, thicker looking hair” or is that mean?  My sister-in-law has been fighting her own battle with hair loss.  Do I get her the shampoo for “fragile, breaking, falling hair?”  Is there such a thing as passive-aggressive shampoo?

 Oof.  The towels and pillows are so much easier.  Maybe I should go get some more.

Only I Can Criticize Me!

I absolutely HATE making mistakes. As a child, if I were told off, I would recede into what my family called my "black mood" for hours at a time, unable to forgive myself or the messenger for calling attention to (gasp!) my faults. I have somewhat mellowed over the years but by a disappointingly small degree.

Last week I drove into the city (with all three children, during rush hour) to pick up my mother-in-law from the train station. Approaching a major intersection I found myself having to sneak between two city buses, the one on my right stationary and the one on my left moving. Realizing it was too narrow for me to comfortably squeeze through I stopped. Well! Cars behind me started sitting on their horns and the traffic cop at the intersection was blowing his whistle furiously and stamping his foot so STUPIDLY I drove through.

The next thing I knew there was a loud bang and my wing mirror flipped up (insert colourful language). So I pulled around the corner to inspect the damage and saw that happily the mirror was unscathed! I snapped it back into place and drove off to collect my mother-in-law.

The next day my husband came in from his run and asked me what the heck I had done to my car. What?!!! The entire right side was slightly scraped. At the time of the accident, in my relief over the state of the wing mirror,it didn't occur to me to check for other damage or file an accident report. Still, the damage wasn't so bad, just superficial. "It'll probably buff right out!" I assured my husband.

Long story short, the damage will cost almost $5000 to repair. Yes, that's three 0s. My husband sends me an email with the quote from Geico and quips, "Guess it WON'T just buff right out."

We've been married for 17 years. He REALLY should know better.

A Hairy Situation

The list of things that gross me out is long and, for the most part, not particularly original:

I don't like bugs (or, really, most creatures outside the mammal class); the smell and feel of raw chicken and-- shudder-- the "juice" inside the package makes me seriously consider becoming a vegan; I support corporal punishment for people who spit or blow snot rockets on the street; I'm gagging just from having typed "snot rockets" (all the words related to mucus are on my list); I'm not the one to go to if you need help baiting your fish hook; newspaper ink on my fingers sets my teeth on edge; and on and on. You get the idea.

My husband, on the other hand, is less easily shaken. Or he is better at hiding it. There are only a couple of things that really make him shudder: slimy things (like lotion, conditioner, or Carl Paladino) and cleaning out the kitchen basket strainer/stopper.

Unfortunately for my husband, he married the human equivalent of a golden retriever. I have crazy hair. And lots of it. And I'm a shedder. I could never be a criminal because I can't go anywhere without leaving behind a curly strand full of DNA. Sometimes I'll stop to say hello to someone and halfway through our conversation I'll notice that one of my hairs has somehow made it on to their coat. It's insane (and has, in all likelihood, earned me a spot on someone else's gross out list).

In the shower I use a hair catcher, which always seemed to do it's job. But recently I started hearing the tell-tale gurglings of a clogged drain. I tried Liquid Plumber but it didn't help. As time went on the drain got slower and I became concerned that there might be a real Problem (not with a clog but with the pipe itself-- it wouldn't be the first time our house had a hidden surprise for us).

Last night, out of his workroom, my husband produced a drain snake. (Who knew we had one?) And he got to work. What came out of that drain was like my husband's own personal Perfect Storm. A real horror, at once purely vile and purely captivating (especially for those of us-- me!-- who, during the months and months of nursing, derived great personal satisfaction from the removal of baby ear wax and baby boogers).

And this morning, the gurgle was gone. What a guy!

Could it be... Seven Ate Nine?

Some of the people in my life are habitual (chronic?) email forwarders: they send along jokes; product recalls; pictures of animals sleeping; urban legends disguised as police warnings; lists of myriad household tasks you never knew you could accomplish with a lemon, a pointed stick and a piece of gum; and all other emails that they themselves have been forwarded.

I have yet to follow through on my threat to reply "unsubscribe."

And now I may never.

The other day I received a forwarded email with the dubious subject line "Friendship."

Compelled to open it (I was bored), I braced myself for, at best, some cute animal pairs, at worst, a cheesy poem.

I was wrong.

"Well, here is a series of promises that actually speak of true friendship.

1. When you are sad ~ I will help you get drunk and plot revenge
against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

2. When you are blue ~ I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

3. When you smile ~ I will know you are thinking of something that I
would probably want to be involved in.

4. When you are scared ~ I will rag on you about it every chance I
get until you're NOT.

5. When you are worried ~ I will tell you horrible stories about
how much worse it could be until you quit whining.

6. When you are confused ~ I will try to use only little words.

7. When you are sick ~ Stay the hell away from me until you are well
again. I don't want whatever you have.

8. When you fall ~ I will laugh at your clumsy ass, but I'll
help you up.

9."

I have only two problems with this email. One, it sounds like I wrote it and I kind of wish I did. And, two, that's how it ended. Just the number nine. What is number nine? Was number nine cut off by the first forwarder? I'm guessing yes-- and that 10 was cut off as well-- no self-respecting list maker ends at nine (or eight for that matter).

Bad, bad forwarder.

Please No S'More

My husband is off work at the moment and rather than take a break from his normally hectic lifestyle, he has filled his two weeks off with ambitious plans. I am his reality-check/logistics manager but sometimes I have to just go with it.

On Tuesday, in a car filled with balloons and gift bags, on our way to our daughter's 5th birthday party, he suggested to the party girl that we go camping that night to celebrate. The kids screamed in delight. My reaction was ... (TUMBLEWEED)

Yep. My husband and I used to go camping a fair bit. Not K2 or anything like that, but Bryce Canyon and the like. All that came to a screeching halt when we saw 'The Blair Witch Project'. So it had been, what, ten or eleven years? since our camping equipment had been touched. We had two musty sleeping bags and a two-person tent. For five people. So we scrounged from neighbors, emptied the closet of duvets for padding and drove up to a park to our campsite. It was a stone lean-to.

We gave the kids the tent and my husband and I lay awake all night on the dirt floor (I even took a sleeping pill!), batting away bugs like lunatics, hiding under our sleeping bags then getting too hot, and freaking out at every twig-snap. At about 3am our youngest daughter came to sleep between us, forming an 'H'. I needed to pee for about 5 hours but dared not venture out and in the morning I had to pry my husband off the floor as he was crippled by back pain. We left by 7:30 am, with the kids asking all the way home when we could go camping again. My husband's response, thank the sweet lord, was "not for a while."

Cor Blimey!

Having spent two weeks in England with my parents (although, in this case my mum is entirely innocent), my brother, my sister and her husband (who also happens to be my brother's best friend - awww!) my children desperately need a remedial course in how to behave in public. I can't go into great personal detail but needless to say a fair amount of colorful euphemisms have entered our vocabulary and we have readily adopted the great British obsession with flatulence.

It is inevitable, I suppose, that some amount of slang is absorbed. I always play a little game with myself as to who will be the first to run upstairs for their "jumper' or "trainers". And the various brand names of sweets and crisps are processed as though through osmosis. But there was an awful lot of "Christ on a bike!" and "Bloody Nora!" type statements as well and they can quote Cockney rhyming slang like proper little Eastenders.

For the most part, I blame the nightly, highly-competitive games of Uno, where alliances were made and broken in the blink of an eye and all comments were sung in the voice of Fine Young Cannibals singer, Roland Gift (long story), which caused great hilarity and a slipping of inhibitions; somehow, cursing doesn't seem so sinister when it's sung in falsetto. My three little sponges, so pleased to be included, took it all in.

So now we are home and I return to being just a parent instead of a child and sibling. I miss those roles as mostly now they are easier to assume but someone has to be the adult, right?! And when my nieces and nephews are old enough to talk, I will happily teach them some fabulous new words ; )

Crazy Love

Yesterday was our ninth wedding anniversary. According to About.com, the “traditional” gift is pottery and willow. I don’t even know what that means. What’s a willow gift? A tree? The Val Kilmer movie?

The “modern” gift is leather. Yeah…. No.

We’re getting a ping pong table. And I’m totally psyched.

But forget gifts. As we all know, it’s the thought that counts. Want to know how I know my husband really loves me?

When he took our son to the batting cages last Sunday, he brought my son’s own batting helmet with them. Without my even asking him. Because I’m a little crazy.

I’m a lucky girl.

[N.B.: Crazy Love was our wedding song. Coincidence or prescience?]