Flea Circus

I’m typing this while enjoying a world class headache. Fucker. I’m blaming the headache on the very reason for this post.

Shelter puppies (yes, this is another post about the new puppy. Because I can, that’s why) come with the occasional baggage. Ours came with fleas. Not such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. Unless the treatment ends up poisoning the very rescued dog in question.

There is nothing quite like realizing you are the reason your new cute faced puppy is sick as two hells.

We discovered fleas on the dogs shortly after bringing the puppy home last month. We’ve been trying, unsuccessfully, to get rid of them ever since. Baths, garlic in the food, sprayed the house, etc etc.

On Tuesday night, we sprayed the Dasher with Adam’s Flea & Tick Mist as my husband had found a few fleas on her when he was combing her. He had just bought this stuff the day before because he had seen fleabites on her and our other dog was going bat shit bonkers from the dermatitis she gets whenever she’s bitten by fleas. Scratchscratchscratchbitebitebite and rash breaking out all over the poor thing. The older dog has some issues.

We used less than the suggested amount because PUPPY and icky chemical sprays that we hate to use but since we were losing the flea infestation battle decided must be tried.

The next day SuperHubby and Ace saw a couple more fleas on her and sprayed a little more on her thinking that we had not used enough.

That night she was not herself. I got home from work and she was retching and the kids said she had vomited earlier and was peeing a lot. Her energy level was nil and she just wanted to curl up on the couch in someone’s lap.

I checked her ears, which were cold and pale. Her gums were pale and slightly dry.

I called the vet and we both agreed that the spray was probably making her ill. The plan was to bathe off the nasty crap, keep her warm and get fluids into her to flush the toxins from her system.

After the bath, we bundled her into blankets and she cuddled with my husband and the kids, wrapped up in a down quilt. I made ground beef and rice and mixed it liberally with water. Luckily her appetite was not affected and the prospect of people food was more than enough to have her cobble up the well watered meal.

The puppy that had housetrained in less than a week, has gone without an accident for almost a month, was having some incontinence issues and peed on the floor several times. I began to panic. Another call to the vet who felt that if  we kept her hydrated and she peed frequently the flush of the toxins would fix that in a day or so but to watch her closely over night. We did, sleeping on the sofa in turns, cuddling the very sleepy puppy and taking her out whenever she stirred. We fed her frequent small serving of the beef/rice mixture with lots of water to keep fluids running.

The next morning she was still having bladder control issues but showed a little more energy. She was eager for her morning meal as in HURRY UP AND FEED ME THE GOOD SHIT WOMAN what are you standing around for?? While I was getting her bowl, the Most Royal Demanding Imperiousness barked at me several times in impatience YOU ARE TAKING TOO LONG. I know she would trade me in for paid help any minute.
She continued to have mild lethargy and incontinence issues Wednesday and on Thursday morning. By the time I got home yesterday, she was back to normal energy levels, hadn’t had an accident in hours and was bright eyed and eager to play and go for her nightly walk. During her walk all she wanted to do was play tug of war with the leash and bite our older dog's tail in an effort to get a rumble started.

There were no accidents over night and she woke me up demanding to go out. While I stumbled around getting my caffeine fix going, she sat in front of her bowl looking from it, to me, and back again with increasingly accusing eyes. THE YUMMY FOOD NOW

By the time I got it warmed up enough – oh please like you wouldn’t warm up the cold food/water before feeding it to a just recovering from poison puppy- she was dancing in place and practically eviscerating me with her intent little eyeballs.

So that’s how we poisoned our puppy and she is better now and I will never forgive myself and if anyone ever suggests that we should use one of those flea spray chemicals again I may hurt them. Adams Flea & Tick Mist nearly killed my dog.

If anyone has successful natural flea treatment/repellent ideas please share.

mitigating friction

The snowy weather this winter reawakened my husband’s love of skiing and he took all that fluffy cold stuff as an invitation to initiate our son to the joys of skiing.

Skiing is not a convenient sport where we live, at least not downhill skiing. The closest place in New Jersey is more than two hours away and the better skiing is in the Pocono’s or in New York. My guys decided on a night ski up at Shawnee because the cost would be reasonable for the lift tickets and equipment rental and some other reasons he mentioned, but by that time I had tuned him out because skiing is not on my list of fun things to do and whatever he wanted to do was fine with me beyond the desire that neither one of them break any bones and return in basically the same physical condition that they left in.

The one time I went skiing with him was up at Gore Mountain during one of our vacations and after an hour I hadn’t made it off the baby bunny trail. The bazillionth fall later, I decided I didn’t want to go swishing down a hill on sticks that seemed beyond my ability to control and he should go have lots of fun on the mountain and I will go inside, site by the fire and have some booze. I do not regret that decision. They served excellent booze.

So he headed off one late morning a couple of weeks ago to get back on ski’s and teach the boy how to get his groove on sticks. I’d like to note that it’s been over sixteen years since he’d been on skis and well over twenty since he raced on them. Apparently skiing is a skill much like bicycle riding, once learned is never forgotten, and my husband was thrilled to fly free down the slopes once again.

Ace apparently took to it like a duck does to water and really enjoyed himself. When they got home in the wee hours of the morning, he was exhausted, somewhat damp from his stumbles and face plants in the snow but giddy with this newfound ability. He grumbled plenty the next day from the muscle aches that came with learning a new sport and the pounding he took during his falls, but spent considerable time nagging his father about the next time they could get back on skis. Translation, I wanna go soon, Dad!

My husband likes to have fun and do all sorts of exciting things with the family. He also likes to do those things at the lowest cost possible and thinks nothing of spending hours online comparing prices, costs, packages and other bargain hunting. This is what makes him the perfect family travel agent. This bargain hunting is a hobby of his, a passion really. He is nothing if not dedicated to the cause of finding the right value for the cost. And skiing was no exception.

Every time I nudged him away from the computer to read email, or try and write a blog post, multiple internet windows were open displaying different ski equipment online shops. He had an excel spreadsheet listing the sellers, the prices, the type of skis and ski boots. This was serious shopping, a man with a purpose. When I asked him why he didn’t just rent the equipment again, he had a well thought out response based on use, time, money spent over time, rental vs. owning, blabbity blabbity blabbity. Really all he had to say was that he wanted new skis and I would have said fine. By the twentieth online store and hundredth or so different ski, my eyes would glaze over and my automated response was whatever-you- want-is-fine. One ski is very much like another in my mind and now I know how woefully wrong I was uttering that statement out loud while he was on the hunt because I now know more about ski types than I can forget.

At one point he asked me to look at this one online shop because the prices were so good, too reasonable, he was afraid it was a scam of sorts. He’s a little skittish that way and doesn’t trust the Interwebz as much as I do.

So he called the next day and spent almost an hour on the phone with some guy named Big Jon U and they discussed skis, ski boots, bindings, poles and who the hell knows what else but he was thrilled with the level of knowledge and customer service he received from this company levelninesports.com. Still somewhat skeptical he asked me to help with some research online about the company so as to not loose many hundreds of dollars after pressing the buy button. It didn’t take very long to ferret out the fact that this place had excellent deals on all sorts of ski and snowboarding equipment for all levels of skill. Their prices led many to believe that they could be a scam but every testimonial we found said they were a great place to deal with, that the equipment was top notch and their prices were not to be beat. Being based in Utah, a place as well known for skiing as Mormons, doesn’t hurt, I suppose. Our sense of security increased and my very frugal husband placed an order for two sets of new skis with mounted bindings, boots, and poles from Levelninesports.com. And he didn’t hyperventilate, overmuch, at the total charge as the same two sets were twice the price anywhere else. Imagine a new Harley for the price of a used Moped.

Hubbie & Ace tracked the shipment on UPS.com as if they were counting days til Christmas Day. Just over a week later the lot of it arrived in a couple of BIG boxes. The Head skis were well packaged and labeled with the personal specifications of the order and the boots were shiny and new. Both husband and son lovingly caressed their new skis and pranced around the house wearing boots that looked like they should have been attached to spacesuits. It was kind of weird, watching this display of manly sports equipment lust. But I suppose I get that way over new jewelry supplies. Oooohhhh, Sparkly!!

This very weekend they toddled off, new skis stuff in hand and spent 7 hours zipping down a cold mountain, during this winter’s worst freezing rainstorm no less. Why does anyone want to do that? They loved every wet cold minute of it. Both husband and son were amazed with how fast the skis were over the rented equipment they had previously used. My husband, who was pretty familiar with the skis of the past, made more than one comment about how fast his skis were and how sharp they turned – oh they can carve! I don’t really know what this means but I’m led to believe these are important factors. They were very happy with their new fast sharp sticks purchased from levelninesports.com. Practically giddy even as they talked about the near misses, almost wipeouts, hills they were able traverse and turns they could make on their new ski stuff. My husband was so thrilled with his new toys he asked me to tell the internet about levelninesports.com. I told him yes I would if he will just stops talking to me about skis.

I’m retaining the privilege of blaming levelninesports.com if my husband and son become ski bums.

Just sayin’

what up there?

Wanna know what’s on the top of my house?

A new roof! All sparkly and pristine to replace the ragged and deteriorating shingles that have probably been up there for a good twenty years. Of course now the faded blue paint and yellow trim that we slapped on the house back in 2001 look old and worn, but I can ignore that for a while because painting the house just sucks and we are too cheap frugal to pay someone to do it for us.

The roofers were blessedly efficient and good at what they do and got 92% of the job finished in one day. Their presence on that one day pushed the dog a little closer to the edge of a nervous breakdown though. With every thump and bump from the faceless nameless demons prowling above her head, threatening to demolish her very universe, she quaked and whimpered and tried to fit all 70 lbs of her shivering body onto my husband’s head. There were a couple of really loud moments when the roofers were replacing a few damaged sheathing boards, she tried to crawl up my body because, to the dog I’m sure, it sounded like the very gates of hell were opening above her and she was about to be sucked into the maw of the salivating vengeful giant gopher bound on retribution for her slaughter of the species throughout the years. Or maybe that’s just what her claws digging for purchase into my stomach felt like. Note to self – trim dog’s nails before contractors arrive.

Oddly enough, while the ominous sounds from above sent her into a spiral of neurotic crazy, the sight of a any of the guys walking past the window or door would transform her instantaneously into SUPER GUARDIAN DOG and she would lunge at them with deep ferocious barks and guttural growls emanating from her snarling mouth, teeth bared and ready to sink into whoever dared get close to HER territory.

And then another thump on the roof would send her scuttling back to cower under the desk.

To her credit, the snarly side of her personality totally freaked the roof guys so much that they nervously asked us to please keep the vicious dog away from them. Score one for bat shit crazy dog.

It was a fun day.

Replacing a roof is dirty nasty work, I discovered. Especially in 27 degree weather three days after 8 inches of snow fall, where it just becomes a cold wet slippery job. My husband must have made 30 cups of coffee to keep those guys warm from the inside out. Me? I tried to stay out of everyone’s way and escaped by offering to run all the necessary Saturday errands. I picked up the pizza. It’s safer and less annoying. I’m sure the roofers didn’t need some anxiety ridden nutball homeowner hovering outside reminding them to be careful and watch the snow and DON’T SLIP FOR GOD’S SAKE! Because people standing up on a dry roof (Why is the plural of hoof hooves, but the plural of roof is roofs?) make me nervous, when it’s all wet and slippery, they could you know slide right off and then there could be broken legs or arms and ambulances and that shit is such a hassle, and I so don’t want my roof responsible for breaking people.

Hmmm. Guess the dog is not the only neurotic one in the house.

things not recommended

Leaving a metal spoon in the mug of tea I put in the microwave to reheat.

Wearing a nice pair of dress pants that are waaay to long for my short legs without a pair of heeled shoes on a very rainy day. Dirty cuffs = dry cleaners.

Eating the entire bag of steam fresh brussel sprouts for dinner because OMG the GAS!

Thinking that multiple deadlines for the same date was a good idea.

Getting only five hours of sleep 3 nights in a row because I apparently cannot recognize that I’m tired and sleep is good.

Expecting certain projects to be well thought out before implementation. Really, who does that shit?

Forgetting there is a small pile of loose papers on the backseat of the car and opening all the windows while driving 60 mph.

Talking to me before caffeine.

Forgetting to set my alarm on days the kids do not have school. This is a new definition of late to work.

Putting the book I am reading down and then not being able to find it for TWO days.

Flipping the bird to the car that just cut me off only to realize it was a police car.

Playing with the black haired dog in a white t-shirt before leaving the house.

Wearing white anything while living with the 60 lb. black haired dog who believes she should be a lapdog.

Working with the wood planer without ear plugs.

channeling the crazy

For a few brief few hours this weekend, while in a complete obsessive, neurotic, fucked-up headspace anxiety funk, I channeled the miserable mental/emotional abuse bombardment that my mother used to drop around the house like grenades. It made me batshit crazy back then and it's even worse when I discover it coming from my own mouth.

We’re still cleaning up from the bedroom improvement project, five weeks later. We have one of those pack-rat things in the front yard loaded with boxes filled with stuff, much of it that we have no room for, nor need, now that space has been redesigned.

If the storage box stays in the yard another two weeks, we get whacked with another monthly fee. This project has cost a small fortune already and stupid costs need to be avoided.

We leave for nine days in two days. There are at least four days of unpacking left, to sift through boxes, to diminish the pile of things that need to go back into the house. To lighten up the clutter.

God, I’m sick of piles of crap. I need to stop crap accumulating myself, books, trinkets - no more stuff, please!

All of those things, and a few others, have jacked up my anxiety to new and interesting levels.

When my anxiety is cranked on high, little shit makes me twitchy.

Shit like asking one of the kids to put something away and it just gets tossed into the shed with no regard for where it goes or how it gets put away. My head explodes and I call said kid out to point out how just a few moments of kids precious time could have been taken to make sure something was put away properly rather than just irresponsibly tossed. And I went on for several minutes like that as I banged things around, and bitched that it’s just as easy to do it myself than rely on other people to do a half assed job.

Shit like asking another kid to unpack their boxes and then go into said kids room hours later only to find four boxes in various states of emptiness and little floor space to maneuver. So I went on a rant about how ridiculous this was and how one box should be emptied before the next is opened so it is done in an organized way and why is this hard to understand and do I need to do this myself so it gets done in a reasonable time frame.

And then I proceeded to find fault with just about everything everybody did, or did not do. All the tools lying around that were used and left about, waiting to be put away by someone else, usually me.

My husband had a severe allergy headache and was cranky and snappy and we fed off of each other’s bitchiness and I imagined that being single again might be more liberating. I don’t mean it, but for several long minutes I fantasized about the possibilities of it. And then set about showing him how I felt in a beautiful example of passive aggressive avoidance and cold shouldered belligerence.

I kept going, fueled by the inner anxiety ridden indignation of being tired of picking up after everyone, tired of everyone asking me to find things, tired of pointing out how things should be put back in their places, tired of being my husband’s irritability target, tired of the demands from my kids.

I slammed around the house, bitching under my breath about all of those things, as I picked up this, put away that, cleaned up more and simmered in the soup of my resentment.

And as the fire of my frenzy burned itself out, as it is wont to do, my ugly behavior became glaringly obvious. I recalled the stoic set of my son's face as he endured me berating him for being careless and irresponsible. The shimmer of tears in my daughter's eyes as I railed at her for not thinking things through and being disorganized. I used my tone and words to cut wounds into my kids carelessly and heedlessly in an effort to what? make myself feel better? Justify my shitty mood? Make everyone as miserable as I felt?

Score points for me.

I had just become my mother, emotionally and mentally battering at my kids, deflecting my irritation onto them and in the end making myself feel like the crap I want to throw out, empty and useless.

Once the shock had worn off and the Xanax had kicked in, I apologized to my kids for being such a bitch and we talked about frustration and irritation and how one handles it in productive ways other than the behavior their Mom had engaging in earlier that day. Which makes me feel loads better because that conversation would never have happened with my own mother.

I know how that behavior leaves lingering bleeding wounds. I've spent considerable dollars discussing it with a therapist and I swore that I would not be that way.

It is days later and I still feel like I failed in the mother department, not to mentioned ashamed at loosing my shit and for dumping the mean on them so hard. Since then we’ve spent plenty of quality time together, but I would give up a considerable amount to go back and redo Saturday afternoon. Some damage takes more time to repair than others.

what the shed burped up

The shed in our backyard is starting to disintegrate, a sort of slow neglected death from water damage and age that becomes more obvious as the roof leaks and the only thing keeping the door shut is a piece of wood wedged against it from the outside. We are claaasssssy.

I’m okay with its imminent demise as I’ve always hated that fucker with a passion because it is in the worst position possible and obstructs the view of the back yard from one of the bedroom windows. Our backyard is a nice place, being able to see it from my bedroom window would be a good thing. If I had had half a brain, I would have taken a sledgehammer to it years ago and built a massive bonfire from the guts of it. I don’t know why the previous owners built it so close to the house, except to avoid any town officials from noticing and making them pay for the permit necessary to place a shed of that size on the property. Gods, I wish I knew then what I know now about owning a house. But that is a whole different post.

With the big blue shed falling apart, the crap it’s been swallowing for the past 16+ years needs to be hauled out of its gullet and sorted to determine just how vital it is to keep a couple dozen boxes of paperbacks that haven’t seen the light of day since 1997. I’m a book junkie and have a tendency to hang onto just about every book I’ve read, figuring I’ll probably reread just about every one of them at some point. Except that damn Eat, Pray, Love crap which sucked so bad that I left it in a doctor’s office waiting room in disgust, barely through the Pray part. I truly do not get why people like this book so much. I know that blogging is its very own brand of navel gazing documenting how wonderful we all are, but c’mon, that book reeks of a self-indulgency that makes me ill.

There are a good number of boxes that just need to be put out to the curb because while the smelly box of 11 year old baby clothes is so not worth keeping, I found a few items sifting through all the decaying boxes and moldy paper that I’m really having a difficult time deciding what should be done with them.

The dead mouse found in the bottom of the plastic container is not one of them however. shudder, ick, eeeewwwww.

Carpentry tools from my grandfather and father. And I mean a fuck load of tools, people. Three large Rubbermaid totes of hand tools. Both of these men dabbled in carpentry and furniture-making all their lives, despite earning their living by other means and I don’t think they ever got rid of anything. My hoarding trait clearly comes naturally. Some of these my husband and I will probably, maybe, use when we work on projects, because we like to dabble in woodworking too, but just how many 50 year old hand planers does one person need? I think I counted ten. There are so many files & rasps and I’m not sure what half of them are meant for. Something in the vicinity of five different sharpening stones.

The male child plans on taking wood shop next year and while that’s a grand plan, thoughts of him wielding power tools sorta scares me, just a little, should I hang onto them for him or donate them to his school’s wood shop?

In this stash of tools are plumb bobs that have to be almost a hundred years old. Part of me wants to keep these forever. I mean, these were tools handled by the men in my family for years. I remember my father in the basement workshop, crafting the dining room set they used for years, showing me how to sand wood for the smoothest surface, sawing the tip of his finger partially off. My Dad guided me through the steps of building an album case for my bedroom when I was fifteen. It’s my nightstand to this day. Two years ago, I took an old, battered two-door cabinet that my grandfather and father had built back before I was born for my grandmother's sewing room, and I stripped and sanded it, painted and stamped it. It’s now very pretty and holds the family games, school supplies and some art supplies. Some of the tools that I found probably helped make it. How do I just get rid of those?

In the dampest corner, in boxes falling to pieces, I found china, and a few weird orange colored slugs. A pale cream color (the china, not the slugs), delicate roses adorning the surface with platinum edging. These neglected pieces were my grandmother’s china. I had forgotten that it had been stashed in my shed, waiting for someone to decide what to do with it. My grandmother had been very proud of her china and I think it was the only set she’d ever owned.

Talking to my sister about it the other day, we recalled the lectures we’d get about being careful when we were conscripted into washing and drying these dishes after Sunday, or holiday, dinners. While the men sat around in recliners and watched football, the bastards. It’s pretty china, but not something we'll use, it's a little too frilly for my taste and we’re not a china type household, frankly it wouldn’t be long before multiple pieces are broken. Do I hold onto it for either of my kids? Do I sell it? Do I give it away?

There are memories attached to these pieces and I’m a memory hoarder. I like to hold and touch items that have my history attached to them, the sentiment might be more what I want to keep, but for me, some of that is wrapped into the items. Now that I found them again, it’s very difficult to let go. Because I am a sap.


Maybe wanting to hold onto this stuff is directly related to not having my parent’s around any longer, and knowing that my sister and I are really the only two left with the memories connection to these items. My kids didn’t get a chance to know my grandparents, and their time with my parent’s was short, so these memories are all I have to share with them. But do my memories of these items, of these people, really have meaning to them? I know they hold fast to their memories of my parent’s but theirs are vastly different than mine and I want them to know these things, to show them more of these people that are very much a part of them. Or am I just trying to pawn off the decision making process, turning my kids into mini hoarders?

Memories are weird things, they are personal and individual. My sister and I have different memories of the same people, places and things. We approach these memories differently. She doesn’t care for the tangible item-linked memory. For me, those two are vital together. It’s not that I forget, it’s that if I have something to touch, to see, maybe the distant of those memories won’t feel so huge.

Sometimes you just have to sit back, shut your mouth and let a kid do her thing

Giggles had a music project for school a couple of weeks ago and the instructions were pretty straightforward – make a musical instrument, an interpretation of an existing one or create a new one, write about your instrument and how you made it, be creative and imaginative in your design. Those last few words are shining beacons to my artistic daughter’s soul.

I started to get a little nervous when she began collecting the empty gallon milk jugs, the empty liter soda bottles and numerous smaller water bottles and hoarding them in a corner of the kitchen. When I questioned her about this stack of recyclables, she told me about her design and showed me the sketches she had done. I was skeptical of her chosen path, I admit. The scale of the project, the amount of labor involved and knowing my daughter’s time management skills, made me think she had bitten off way more than she could chew in the time available. I asked some questions, made some gentle suggestions on altering her design and expectation and was met with a solid wall of obstinate. So be it, I thought, let her manage this.

As she continued to gather supplies and the hand-in date grew closer, the only development I could see was the growing pile of recyclables. No building of required project. I asked a few more questions, met the same obstinate stance and decided to just remind her of the date and back away slowly. She is her mother’s daughter after all and like recognizes like. Time to back off. But I doubted, oh! did I doubt. You would doubt too if you asked yourself the following question: what musical instrument can a 12 year old girl create with a pile of bottles and a roll of duct tape?

The beginning phases of this project looked something akin to a battered science fiction space ship that got spanked a recent battle, limped through hyperspace to survive another day but may never make it back to the home planet. I swear. Plastic bottles duct taped together and on and around each other to form a shape vaguely resembling a giant sausage with a broken carriage wheel on one end. If only I had taken pictures, but my concern was so huge that this was going to be such a flop that I didn’t want any lingering reminders in the future.

Doubt spread further when she took it to a friend’s house and the girls’ father asked me why my daughter was raiding his recycling can and asked me what her project was supposed to be. I just told him she had a vision and we felt it important to let her express herself. Because, frankly, I agreed with him. Completely oblivious to the lack of adult confidence in this project, Giggles was thrilled with some of the craft material she snagged from her friends craft bin and the supply of materials she foraged from her grandfather’s basement.

The weekend before the due-date - of course it was the weekend before, when else does a 12 year old finish a project, I ask you? – she hauled ass finishing this thing, taping and stapling, cutting and covering, gluing and painting. A quick trip to the dollar store to convince the manager to sell us the broken wind-chimes laying on the floor for half price rounded out the materials she needed to complete the vision that had been stewing in her head for weeks.

Her Music of Nature Tree.

She made a 3 ½ foot tall tree out of plastic bottles, duct tape, cardboard and found items from friends and family that made different sounds when the dangling wind chimes were hit with a variety of materials. Sometimes if the movement was right the wind chimes would make their own music as they clanked against each other. She made a musical tree, mostly out of recycled materials. It was so cool, and so funky in design, I kept expecting to see the checkle patch at the base of it. (Extra points to anyone who knows what I hell I was just talking about let alone has fond memories of The Magic Garden)

It was too big for her to carry to school on the bus so I drove her in that morning. The pride on her face, as she carried this magical musical tree, that was almost as tall as she is, through the hallways of her school, was such a beautiful wonder to behold it brought tears to my eyes, because she had had this vision from the very first day, stuck to it and did not let anyone convince her to scale it back, or to change her mind. We tried to stifle the effort of this vision and it would have been the worst parenting ever had we succeeded. As teachers and students oohed and aaahed at her project as we passed, the beaming glow she wore kept getting brighter and brighter. One older student yelled out “A PLUS FOR SURE!!” as she hauled it down the hall. Teachers poked their heads out of classrooms to see what was gathering so much attention and shared their amazement. I think she floated on clouds the rest of the day.

When she got home from school, her pride in herself as she told us that her teacher said that in all her years of teaching, no one had ever handed in such a creative project, a sense of accomplishment that had been filling her up all day, practically spilled over. And she deserved that pride, I told her later that night, because she held fast to her vision, never letting anyone convince her it was too much, never letting the doubt sway her. She deserves whatever praise and self-satisfaction she receives for this project because she made it her own. I admire the dedication to the vision she had, the ability to let the nay saying wash over her head and keep moving forward.

My kid is pretty damn amazing. If I do say so myself.

some Coldwater Creek intervention

Dear Coldwater Creek,

We’ve been together a long time now. Much of my wardrobe has your finger prints all over it. Even as I write this, I am comfortable dressed in a lovely linen stripped shirt that my husband and daughter picked out for me from your website. The colors remind me of a desert sunset. You know me so well.

Which is why I thought I’d let you in on one little pet peeve I have regarding many of your cotton knit tops.

The shrink. From the neck to the hem. And as they shrink in length, they get a wider. The boxy shape is not what I expect from you in this area. There is supposed to be a little shape here.

See, I’m a wash and wear woman. I have a lot of things that require my attention and spending a tremendous amount of time on clothing maintenance is, frankly, beyond my abilities. Hell, I think ironing is a waste of time usually. I do make an exception for your linens. Because a relationship such as ours requires a little give and take.

My closet contains a rainbow of your cotton knit short and long sleeved T-shirts. And every one of them has come out of the dryer about 2 – 3 inches shorter than when they went in, with a little more width. This is a disappointment as these are very comfortable shirts and the colors are scrumptious.

I’m going to be 43 years old in a few weeks and flashing my belly when I raise my arms isn’t as attractive as it was when I was 23, or even 33. You usually accept my flaws, but I feel that you're pointing them out now.

The clothes you gift me with that demand dry cleaning or hang to dry, usually get that treatment because, well I’m not sure how to say this delicately, your clothes are a little pricey. I have to be dressed relatively presentable for both work and the community service I do, so I take the good with the bad and your styles very much appeal to me, so the cost is the cost. But that cost gets a little less tolerable when the shirts I buy suddenly lose their shape after the first run through the dryer. I expect some structural integrity in my clothes.

I need to know you understand my feelings on this issue. It breaks my heart when I can’t pair that lovely coral top with those blue slacks, because the shirt’s hemline now rides up too high. You’re letting me down, just a little.

This is not a relationship breaker. I think we can get over this little bump in our long standing affiliation, because I hate clothes shopping and I know that when I order my size from you, it will fit. This may affect what types of shirts I do buy from you, which could be problematic for our long term commitment.

And since I’ve got your attention, will you please bring back that long black velvet riding jacket I didn’t get a chance to buy before it disappeared from your inventory, because that thing was hot shit and I regret not grabbing it when it was on sale. Please?

Thank you,
Catootes

For the Man

It’s my husband’s birthday today.

Happy Birthday, Honey! *waving at monitor in case he’s reading this*

We met 20 years ago this October and I can’t imagine my life, my world, without him. Life is that much better with him walking next to me.

My guy is really hard to get a gift for, truly. He’s like the bargain sleuth and if he wants something, he manages to find it at absurdly low prices online and then buys it. Which is a huge pain in the ass on gift giving occasions, because the selection of things he has wants is really small and when I do buy him something, the conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: Happy *insert holiday*! Here’s your present.

Him: Thanks. You paid too much for this, didn’t you?

Me: *snarl*

Him: Seriously, how much did you pay for this? I bet we can find it online for half.

Me: *snarl* Buy your own gifts.

This year, I wrote him a poem and taped it to the refrigerator. Oh Yes. Yes I did.

In my defense, he leaves for work at 4:00 am. It’s a little too early in the morning to get up and wish him birthday salutations as he starts his day.

And well, his other present didn’t get shipped out in time to arrive for the big day. Which sucks hugely and is completely my fault as I waited until the very last minute to order it. Even though I've been thinking about it for months. I have to get credit for the planning, even though I fell a little short in the execution, yes?


Now I feel guilty for not having his present available to give him on his actual birthday. Because I am lame.


It is the thought that counts, right?

He’s in a tough spot. His mother’s birthday is on the 7th and Mother’s day usually falls the day before, the day of, or the day after his birthday. He’s kind’ve sandwiched by the wife/mother marketing deluge and expectations.

He’s also a big boy who can buy himself what he likes and enjoys but I like to get him something special, something he really wants that he wouldn’t get himself. Isn’t that a wifely privilege?

Anyway, despite the delayed present giving, I hope his day is happy and he remembers that there is love abundant that he can call upon just by reaching for my hand. I know that’s my gift from his birth day.

malignancy of character

I don’t think I will ever understand people and that may be a good thing, overall.

It’s very difficult to grasp the mentality of individuals that trash others via an online space and do not have the balls to stand up in the public space and say the things they do, hiding behind the protection of a computer monitor and keyboard. The desire, capacity and effort it takes to sit and write mean, spiteful, and misinformed bullshit, takes a whole new level of douchebaggery than your average cowardly asshole. I guess that’s a skill all its own as well.

It’s one thing to disagree with someone, their politics, their opinions, to engage in that discussion, face to face, in a respectful and rational matter that accepts differences of opinions and philosophies but it is a completely different situation when those opinions, philosophies and reasoning are vilified as corrupt, suspicious and immoral from behind an online diatribe that leaves little to no room for dialogue, just because they are not shared by the small minded that cannot man-up and have that face to face discussion. That is immature, mean and COWARDLY.

And that is my opinion, in my space. Take it or leave it.

The only reasoning I can come to grips with, in my head, is that some people are bitter and resentful deep inside themselves, for real, or imagined, past transgressions against them, or maybe because they recognize an inner core of themselves that is less than true, less than brave and solid, that they can't bear to gaze upon that inner core and know that it lives inside them, so they turn that rancid awareness back on others, in attacks that are grounded in a twisted reality concocted by anger and hate, fueled by a lack of self-worth that must be fed with the hollow satisfaction of denigrating others.

These people, these trolls, that cannot stand a word against them, or present themselves without the safety barrier of an internet connection, these are sad, pitiable people. They end up being tools of others, because such malignancy of character, as exposed by this behavior, is a blighted siren beacon to those that would use it for its own benefit. Being a tool of other manipulative machines is then, one could rationalize, a just reward, no?

One could postulate however, that given the malignancy of character I refer to, one such as this would not recognize the reality of being used as a utter tool, blinded by complete ignorance and an unfounded arrogance. That being courted and stroked would be seen as a reward, for being accepted, and appreciated, never to understand that the praise is really just table scraps being tossed to an obedient dog for doing a master’s bidding.

nails

Ace has always been a nail biter, a nervous energy, and worried nail biter. We've been trying to get him to stop for fucking ever.

He doesn't even realize that he does it. One day he's ready for them to be clipped, the next they are chewed down and he has no idea how or why. It drives us all nuts.

Sometimes we tie X-Box time to his having nail length to cut in an effort to curb his nail biting. It doesn't always work and I get tired of adding these punishments, but can't seem to find a reasonable way to get him to stop doing it.

I sympathize, I really do. I am a nervous cuticle picker-at-er, sometimes i make my cuticles bleed, I pick at them so much. I'm getting a little better, but holy fucknuts, I'm 42 and it's taken me this long and I would hate for it to take him that long as well.

Any idea's from the smarter people that traverse the Internet? Because we are now at a complete loss as to what to do that will convince him to be more attentive to his nail biting and stop doing it. 

Seriously, people, I'm desperate.

i really wanted to smash the pb&j in his face but i'm the adult

I'm waging a battle for self-reliance. A battle for my son's self reliance with a dash of maternal retribution thrown in.

He needs to be up around 5:15 am to get ready for the 6:30 school bus. And I really dislike 5:00 am, but that's beside the point.

I've been waking his ass up for years now and frankly, some mornings it is really annoying to hear his alarm clock go off multiple times, know he's slapped at it and rolled over for another snooze, fully expecting me to get him up, make his breakfast and get his lunch ready, while he showers and then eats that very same breakfast while watching sports center.

Yes, I know, I created this monster by wanting to be the Mom that made sure my kids have a healthy breakfast before school, and I usually enjoy this part of the morning routine; once the caffeine has kicked in, we chat for a little while, clue each other in on details from the day before that were forgotten in the rush of the previous evening, discuss the Mets line-up and other silly shit that bonds us together. This is all well and good when things go smoothly.

They didn't go so smoothly Monday morning and I was cranky because I knew he'd ignored his alarm clock more than once because it kept waking me up and pissing me off. I yelled from my bed multiple times that it was time for him to get up and get ready, he responded each time verbally but failed to haul himself out of bed. When I finally got up and stalked into his room, I was pissed that he could not, would not, get himself up. So I yelled at him, loudly, snapping on the light and told him that he was late and I wasn't making breakfast.

He snarled back that I should have gotten him up earlier. I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN HIM UP EARLIER. My pre-caffeine mind barely took that in and I snapped back that he was old enough to get himself up. We exchanged cranky words for a while before he waved what I consider the red flag - Just because you're too lazy to come into my room and wake me up.

Yes, please read that again: Just because you're too lazy to come into my room and wake me up.

My brain exploded. So did the tenuous hold on my temper. I said many not very nice things to my son that morning. And I meant every word of them as they came spewing out of my mouth with extra special venom. I almost shoved the peanut butter & jelly sandwich I was holding, that I had made for HIM, into his face; it was a close call as I envisioned it in technocolor for a brief moment. Part of me still wishes I had, because every time I replay that scene in my head I want to go back in time and do just that. Childish and mean, yes, but oooh the imagery is so satisfying. Plus I knew he would have been so absolutely stunned that all bitching about not getting up would have been over.

Being the adult (barely), I held back on that action, told him I was not waking him up anymore & that he would have a new alarm clock that night and I hoped that he enjoyed making his breakfast, because I was done there as well.

Once the caffeine kicked in and the red haze of indignant maternal anger had faded, I realized that my temper had gotten the better of me and some of the words I tossed out in my immediate fury-fueled rant at his obnoxious head had been a bit severe, I took the high road and went into the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth and apologized for the meanness of specific words, not the reason, but the words themselves and that using them was wrong. I hate being cursed at during an argument and know exactly how I feel when mean words are hurled in my direction with the specific intent to cause pain, and my son is very much like me in that he takes words deeply to heart and that they cut him more than actions, so I knew that I had to repair the wounds I had inflicted in anger.

I also want my kids to learn that apologizing when you are wrong for being deliberately mean is important. The wounds that hateful, hurtful words cause, hurled in anger, often linger, leaving resentment and unbridgeable chasms or pain in their wake. I lived with that as a child, and I refuse, absolutely refuse, to hurt my children like that. If I do, as I did in this circumstance, I will lay my heart bare so they understand how much I regret the words I said, and then I will explain why I did, so we can address the underlining issues.

When he got home from baseball, there was indeed a new alarm clock on his bed. The packaging declared Extra Loud Alarm. I too can be snotty, with love.

He's been rushed getting ready every morning because he over shoots the alarm, and has had to make his own breakfast. There are lessons to be learned from calling your mother lazy.

I have made lunch however, because I am weak.

This morning was the worst so far, as I deliberately didn’t get up until almost 6, and I woke his sister up, which I knew would rouse his sleeping ass. When he saw the time on his new clock, he was steamed. I admit, I did lie in bed doubting the stance I had taken, twice I almost got up to nudge him out of bed, but damn it, I refuse to cave here. He’s going to be 15 in August and has to take responsibility for himself and for the words he uses, just as well as I do.

As he slammed around the house, showering, packing his lunch, bitching continually that I could have just gotten him up a little earlier, after all I woke his sister up and made her breakfast, why couldn’t I wake him up and help him, don’t I see that he has a problem waking up to the alarm, on and on he went, lamenting the unfairness of his morning and how mean and stupid this whole thing is. He’s like a damn battering ram, stubborn and relentless, when he wants to get his point across.

But not only am I still pissed, and slightly hurt, because you know, the lazy comment, I’m nimmune to this particular rant, because I’ll be damned if this kid thinks he’s going to get away with calling me lazy and not taking responsibility for himself.

So every time he bitched and moaned this morning and ranted why I couldn’t just get him up like I do his sister, I said I was too lazy to get him up. Having his words shoved back down his throat made him nuts.

There is a small petty part of me that feels good about that.


P.S. The worst most awful miserable part of this whole deabacle? I could hear both my very own smartass teenage attitude coming from my son's mouth and my mother's words being vomited from my own. I've already washed my mouth out with soap, thank you very much.

bring on some smiling tiki's

Giggles had minor oral surgery this past Thursday to help her adult molars descend so they don’t continue on the path of impaction they were on. If the oral surgeon mentioned her mouth was small while he had his hands shoved down my daughter’s open mouth, and it was hard to reach the gum area once, he said it ten times. I really wanted to use his tools on him so he would realize how his words affect the young person sitting in his chair. Not really the best way to soothe an anxious child of 11 who had just moments before freaked the hell out when the laughing gas made her “tingle all over” and she panicked so hard her heart rate kicked up to 138 and she almost keeled over in a swoon. Her reaction could be a good thing as I’ll just remind her of how freaky she got from a little laughing gas when any future desire she might have to drop acid surfaces and then she’ll faint from the memory of it all and decide that psychedelics are really not for her. One can hope.

She looked like a rabid steroidal chipmunk when it was all over, both cheeks puffed out and drooling from the Novocaine. My poor baby, I just wanted to scoop her up and cuddle till the glazed look in her eyes faded. She will forever detest the dentist I assume, as her first question when we got in the car was a mumbled “when do I get my braces off?” I resisted answering “when your teeth start acting normal and do not need to be yanked out of your gums with a pulley system.” Because her molars were not the only ones that required a similar treatment, her canines had to be yanked straight and pulled down with wires and bands. This kid’s teeth were a mess, she has too many and they are too big for her small mouth. Which is hard to believe with all the fresh sass that emits from that smiling little girl mouth daily. Maybe I’ll just wire her mouth closed until puberty is over.

The bruising in her cheeks showed up over the weekend, making it look like we walloped her with a cane across both cheeks but it has subsided to a nice pale orange color this morning. It’s a color that goes well with her fashion choices.

Given the mouth trauma and inability to eat anything solid for a few days, her mood was not so happy when she trundled off to school Monday morning. She made it through the day, thankfully, forgot some of her homework and was steamed about the most recent art project in class.

There were two projects that had just started while she was having her jaw unhinged, making a clay tiki (Brady Bunch, anyone?) or paper purses. The boys were making tiki’s and the girls, the purses. When she told me the girls had to make the purses, my own jaw started to hurt because it had bounced off the floor. Really? So I grilled her for a few minutes and felt my ears burn from the steam. Girls = purses, boys = tikis. Yeah, I don’t think so. I ranted and raved around the kitchen about limited vision, lack of creativity, gender assumptions, short-sightedness. And then I said we’d fix it in the morning.

My dreams were full of flying tiki’s, paper purses burning in the fire pits and protesting feminists. With the odd recriminating teacher thrown in for good measure.

Off we went to school this morning to see the principal. Because if my daughter wants to choose between tiki making and purse making, I’ll buy the damn supplied myself, if I have to and screw the classwork grade.

The outraged feminist side of me was prepared to go blazing into the school, all demanding and bitchy, because nothing ruins a principals day faster than a parent claiming sexual discrimination at 7:30 in the morning. But the rational side (I don’t know where that comes from) kicked in and forced me into professional and concerned mode. I’m not a huge fan of this principal, but it’s waaaay easier to get your point across when one is not foaming at the mouth with irrational indignation. I know several people who could benefit from that line of thought, but that is not this post.

So we presented our case, why no choice of projects, why was it purses for girls, tiki’s for boys? Can this be looked into so we can understand the reasons, maybe change the structure of that project. If it was about supplies, how can I help out. I expressed my dislike for what appeared to be gender pigeonholing and lack of creative freedom. To give the principal credit, she thought the idea of one project per gender was not in line with normal practices. She said she’d look into it right away and get back to me.

When she did call back shortly after, the issue seemed to stem from a supply issue after all. The teachers didn’t think there would be enough clay. Seems though, that after a little digging around in closets, there was enough clay to be found that opened up the projects to choice, as it should have been from the beginning. I’m not sure I fully accept that explanation, but the end result is the same, I suppose and there is no way to know for certain.

So, problem solved, my daughter and several of the other girls in class who grumbled about being forced to make paper purses will be able to express their creativity in other ways, the principal should be looking at teacher’s supplies a little closer and my daughter learned that you can stick up for what you believe in, with respect for all parties involved, and make change happen.

Not a bad start to the day.

as the dust flies from my wallet

Let’s see….

Minor oral surgery for Giggles that will pull her molars down so they don’t impact upon her other teeth, which would be painful and require teeth to be pulled. So, bands get put on the teeth under the gums and wires yank those suckers gently down and out.

The dryer finally gave up it’s last gasp, frankly after 15 years of abuse by our household, I’m amazed it lasted that long. We are so not easy to live with. The Dishwasher bit the dust last fall after only 5 ½ years. Wimpy appliances.

The awning that spans part of our back deck buckled under the weight of the bazillion tons of snow that landed on it last month. Those aluminum supports caved like G.W.’s thought capacity.

The shed roof is leaking, which is really a good excuse to dump the boxes of stuff we’ve tossed into its gaping maw for years, feeding the hungry beasty of material gathering, all the while pretending that there are precious possessions in those boxes that we need! Despite not opening those boxes in 10 odd years.

Several panels of our privacy fence fell over into my flower beds during the last few storms, which need to be replaced if I don't want my idiot dog to go tromping through the neighbors yard to face off with the really annoying and constantly barking German Shepard living on the other side of that fence. I think the Shepard could take the idiot dog in seconds and then there would be tears and all sorts of drama. 

There might be a leak in our roof. I say might because we haven’t actually braved checking in the attic to be certain, for fear it will be oh so painful to face the possible reality of a roof leak than to speculate on whether there could be one. We are so brave like that.

That about sums up the past few weeks and the absolute beating our family finances are taking.

My BlogHer 2010 budget has been consumed by these dollar gobbling life things but that is just the way it goes. It would have been fun and awesome and all kinds of wonderful to go, because it is close by in NY this year, but I just can’t justify the cost at this time. I want to, I could state all manner of nifty creative reasons why I should, but my conscious taps me not so gently on the noggin, more of a bitch slap really. Dammit.

I will definitely read all about it and sulk just a little for not being there.

As I whine and bemoan my terrible state of woe, I remind myself that this really is not suffering. Not even remotely close. Because there are men, women and children recently devastated in Haiti and Chile by random monster Earthquakes that destroyed their homes, their neighborhoods and some of their family.

The shit I was bitching about way up there? NOTHING compared to what is going on elsewhere. Miniscule in the big picture to what folks here in our own backyard are coping with every damn day.

We are employed, insured, mostly healthy, roofs over our heads, food in the kitchen with soft beds to sleep in.

FORTUNATE

GRATEFUL

I am those things in spades. Everything else is just surface drama.

olympic figure skating scoring surely is a befuddling mess

Normally watching people twirl around on ice skates does very little for my attention span and within minutes I'm drooling on the sofa arm dreaming of chocolate and Mark Harmon. Not necessarily in that order. I get that it is a hugely popular past time and passion for some people, just not me.


But it is the Olympics after all, and despite NBC continually pushing Bob Costas down my gullet and airing less events than talking heads, to my surprise there are skaters who captured my eye for their grace, athleticism, fluidity and down right spark. Which means I've been staying up waaaay past my bedtime, existing on about 4 1/2 hours sleep, watching the Men's figure skating events. Evan Lysacek, Daisuke Takahashi and Johnny Weir are the type of skaters I actually enjoy watching and prevent me from drifting immediately into unconsciousness.


Last night Evan Lysacek took the Gold Medal, which he very much deserved, considering his short program and freestyle performance. Yevgeny Plushenko won the silver medal and Daisuke-of the poofy hair-Takahashi, won the bronze medal. You all know that by now, so I'll move on to my target rant.


Why, in all that is glittery and lycra, was Johnny Weir not on that podium? Really? Did the judges decide to take a pee break when he was throwing down one spectacular skating display? Because he was robbed. Snubbed by a bunch of uptight traditionalists who clearly can't get the sticks out of their collective asses to see artistry in action.


Now, I freely admit that I have NO ice skating skills whatsoever. As in the first and last time a pair of ice skates were attached to my feet, which just happened to be on the outside ice in Lake Placid many distant moons ago, my feet started heading in different directions at the same time resulting in a split my muscles and pelvis had not warmed up for and a face plant on the ice which still retain the imprint of my nose. Because I am graceful and talented like just like that. Next up, the World Klutz Championship!


I also know absolutely zilch about Triple Axels, Toe Loops, Choctaws, Swizzles or Salchows. (Who makes up these names, by the way?) A Layback Spin usually involves the effect on my brain and equilibrium after too much bourbon, but I doubt the U.S Figure Skating terminology interprets it that way. What I see as a smooth skate routine, might very well be a clusterfuck of imperfections in a routine per the scoring sheet. Do you suppose the official Olympic tally sheets look a little like a Yahtzee score sheets? I'd really like to know. It's that kind of trivia that tickles my brain.


Johnny Weir ended up placing 6th. SIXTH!! And the judges were booed viciously for being such jerkwads. As they should have been. Had I been there, I might have thrown a beer bottle or twenty at their heads. Skaters who fell, stumbled and generally fucked up were presented better scores than Weir, who except for one small error in a spin, performed a graceful, fluid, emotional, and artistic ballet on ice. He deserved to win the Silver or Bronze.


Now that the judges have shown that scoring is completely baseless and subjective, that they are influenced by who knows what, when an event is not clearly a time performances alone, the Olympics have lost much of their interest, and NBC's for shoddy coverage can take responsibility for some of that as well. I hope Johnny Weir becomes a household name, makes some major bucks, so when he thumbs his nose at figure skating scores, he can tell the judges to go suck it at the same time.

**due to my technical stupidity, I can't seem to remove the background text color that I accidentally clicked on.

really, what are you smoking?

This search recently brought someone to my blog -
what would happen if u smoke weed with cat piss on it

I think I can say with all honesty that that question has never been posed on Catootes before.

However, now that some poor misguided fool is in need of some advice, and found themselves searching through the noise from my brain, let me offer them this little gem of wisdom - throw that shit out, Dude. There isn't any weed worth smoking that's been pissed on by a cat, or a dog, or a turtle. Seriously. If you're that hard up that you'd even consider it, then you've got bigger problems than I can fix here.

Thank you. That will be five cents.

should I stay or should I go

To BlogHer or Not to BlogHer, That is the question.

BlogHer is so in my backyard this year. Like in NYC, which technically is not in my backyard but a mere 2 hour bus ride from town, or a simple 1.5 hour drive from the house. The past two years since I began blogging, I’ve read so much about the great events, powerful voices, and happy squeeing that goes on when bloggy friends meet up at BlogHer. When I consider those elements, part of me thinks how fucking cool it would be to say hello to the great bloggers I read just about every day. And some that I don’t know now but will probably stalk, er read, after I meet them at this future event.

Then my absolute crowdo’phobia kicks in. Big throngs of people I do not know, lots of small talking I am not so good at. Small fish, big pond overload.

Did I mention crowdo’phobia? I went to BookExpo in May and despite my excitement, because BOOKS! AUTHORS! navigating those corridors was insane. By the time I left the first day, my brain was fried. I did enjoy catching up with colleagues, but oh man the people, the human sea! The second day just made me tired. But still, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything and I’m beginning to think I might feel this way about BlogHer 2010.

I’ve always been a background kind of person, the friend hovering along the edges of the gregarious social diva, the person who heads to a relatively quiet corner of the room after joining a party to gauge the lay of the land, perhas find a familiar face for safety. Brazenly walking up to strangers is no easy feat for me and inevitably my conversational skills choose those moments to abandon ship and little escapes my lips to make scintillating conversation. Mostly it just stays in my head. Shy - I hate that word but I suppose it’s better than social reject, which is rather extreme and not completely true. Hermit might be better. Or Mute. Eh, whatever.

That’s why blogging has been so cool for me. I can type type type all the thoughts roiling in my head and if someone likes to read it, that is awesome sauce. If someone likes it enough to comment, well hell, that is even better superfantasticwonderment.

The fee for the conference, while not in the budget, is not prohibitive. It may push my laptop purchase a little further away than I like, but one has to weigh these decisions carefully. Inanimate object versus real people. hhhmmm, that one could be tough to call. Heads or tails? The early bird fee is over at the end of February so I have time to thing it through to death and back again,  just like I do about everything else.

The question, please, if you will, (cue 80's Clash music now)

BlogHer, You gotta let me know
Should I stay or should I go?
If I go, will there be trouble?
If I stay, will I regret it?

BlogHer, you got to let know
Should I stay or should I go

It's always tease tease tease.
You’re happy when I’m reading posts
One year San Fran, the next Chicago.
So if you want me to commit,
BlogHer, come on and let me know,
Should I stay or Should I go?

Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there might be trouble
If I stay, I might regret it.
Bloggy friends, come on and let me know
This indecision’s bugging me.
Will I be social or will I freeze?
Exactly who I’m supposed to know,
Is my nametag clean enough to read?

Come on and let me know
Will my room mate be real cool?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay will I regret it?
Bloggy friends, you gotta let me know
Should I stay or should I go?

(My sincerest apologies to the Clash for destroying their song)

perhaps I need more sleep

It sneaks up on me. Stealthily, indiscernible at first, seemingly innocent in its initial touch, with thoughts that seem so innocuous and mundane. Then it strikes, that unseen fist plunging into my chest, clasping hold of my heart and lungs, causing a stutter in the beat, a shortness in the breath. And then that grasp loosens slightly, but does not fully release, it rhythmically clenches to elicit hard pounding thumps in my chest, as my heart struggles to pound and my lungs increase their need for air. My mind whirls with each clench, the thoughts overwhelming, mild concern becoming outright fear, the swirling maelstrom of thoughts, images, worries dragging me further into the darkness of anxiety. My body tenses, the muscles in my face rigid. I can’t look away from the thought pictures swirling by in my head, the hold me captive.

I try to peel away the slithery fingers of its hold by continuing the everyday things I had been doing when I first felt the fingers of press on my heart. Loading the dishwasher, cleaning the counters of the crumbs from dinner, putting to rights the table, the condiments, dismissing the feeling. The fingers get a firmer hold, brushing away resistance as if it were a fly on the wall. Until I finally move to the sofa, compelled by the paralysis of anxiety to the corner spot, where I can wedge myself, ensconced in some measure of protective comfort, buffeted by from side and back, looking to cave myself in. I stare into the room, seeing the pictures move on the television but not paying any attention really, feeling the snout of the dog as it nudges my hand, even rubbing her head, comforting us both. But the mind continues its agitated pacing, delving deeper into the darker images, crafting What If scenarios, the images flash across the movie screen in my brain, forcing my attention to fear and panic.

Some small part of me continually fights the pull, the clutching grabbing of my psyche, knowing that it isn’t real, that it’s just a spiral of fear, of worry. Most times that logic, that KNOWING, that this is just my subconscious run amuck can soothe away the pounding heart and unfilled lungs and peace regains once more. In must be quick to triumph, or the sneaky fingers burrow deep and dislodging those nails become for difficult, eroding confidence and rational thought under the barrage.

This is what my anxiety attack felt like the other night. A sudden stealth assault on my psyche; dark, swift and brutal. It came out of nowhere, or not really out of nowhere, but managed to escape the locks I visualize around the cage that holds my irrational anxiety & panic at bay. Those locks get rusty and breakdown and then I’m the prisoner, for a day or two, of shaky confidence, worried thoughts and fears.

Luckily SuperHubby is pretty attentive to my moods, could sense the change in my attention, my demeanor, who knows what really, but he sat down with me and finally it snapped, my control. I huddled there, clutching him, sobbing and pouring out all the disjointed, unfettered, renegade thoughts and worries that were swirling in my brain. And then it was gone, leaving the usual after effect, shaky emotions, shattered confidence and fatigue. Once I had settled down, SuperHubby frowned at me and said, “You are an idiot.” Because he is so gentle and subtle like that. “Weeks of 5 hours of sleep a night, early mornings, too much caffeine, worrying about stupid shit.” Yes he did indeed say stupid shit, blowing off the gnawed bones of my anxiety. He is direct and sometimes it's really annoying when he’s right.

I feel a little better, but the fatigue, volatile emotions and weak confidence hover on the edges. I’ve experienced these anxiety attacks before; they are often triggered by stupid frustrations but fueled by larger worries simmering deep inside, concerns about work, money, family health, the dog, the schedule, and on and on and on. I am a champion worrier, they should give degrees for the level at which I fret. Or at least present me with award of more small batch bourbon. When the tiniest irritations damn near sent me into orbit the other night, I should have just sat my anxious ass down and practiced deep breathing exercises to get myself under control, which usually works. But no, I ignored the signs and paid the price.

I went to bed at 9:30 last night when my head almost slammed into the table I had set the beading board on, thinking I would spend an hour or two working on a project. Oh no, that would not do, my brain decided as I laid out some gemstones and crystals, finding the patterned I liked. There will be no more thinking and doing today. And just like that, the creative window closed its shutters and the fatigue took over.

Dreams of Mark Harmon kept me company all night long. I might have to go to bed early more often.

thunking in the new year, Kerbanger style

For the past several years I‘ve kept looking toward the last day of December as a milestone. ‘05 will be better, of course ’06 will be better, certainly ’07 will be better, absolutely ’08 will be better, oh for fuck’s sake ’09 has to be better!

I’m tired of putting this horrible pressure on the flip of a calendar page, resting the rescue of my psyche on a manufactured date and a time. None of that cajoling, pleading and planning worked. Each of those years brought mind-numbing stress and grief and fear. Those ugly days were also mixed with love, learning, laughter and the acceptance that life hands out trials and it’s what you do with them that shows the mettle of the person inside of yourself. I’ve masterfully triumphed over some of those trials and miserably failed at others. That’s okay, as I know a little more of who I truly am and know that I’m that much stronger for what came before.

I decided that I would not put too much stake in expectation for ’10 and let the last day of ‘09 year pass quietly with family watching one of the dumbest movies ever made, yes G-Force I am looking right at you, eating chocolate and drinking good bourbon.

Instead, ’09 ended with a bang. Literally. Our dog got thunked by a car; she must have chased a critter from the yard. When we realized she was not safely monitoring her own backyard, we all ventured out into the frigid air to holler for her. Minutes later she dashed into the front yard looking a little out of sorts. Once we got her inside we saw that one eye was completely dilated while the other pupil was barely a pinprick and there was slight swelling along that side of her face. She was bleeding from a puncture under her tongue and from a few small scrapes along her left side and paws. We got her settled, cleaned her up, took closer stock using my rusty EMT skills, recognized that nothing was broken or dislocated, and then we had a family meeting. It was New Year's Eve, the vet offices were closed and the only emergency animal hospital was 45 minutes away. And the family budget was not flexible enough to accommodate what was, as sure as there were student veterinary school loans, going to easily cost more than a grand to examine. The decision we made was to watch and see if her condition changed through the night that might warrant a vet’s care.

SuperHubby and I took shifts, napping on the sofa with Thunder sleeping on her dogbed next to us. After a night of whining and comfort seeking, by both the dog and adults, spent keeping a close eye on her, she seemed stable. Her eyes responded to light by mid-morning, she was up, albeit moving gingerly, scarfed down breakfast, she took care of her outdoor needs and went back to sleep. Thunder had to be escorted outside for her personal business, to reassure ourselves that she was indeed okay walking, and to observe that there was no blood in her urine or other bodily waste and that task is exactly as disgusting as it reads. I don’t know that I have ever been this concerned about the condition of my dog’s ass. When SuperHubby came in from one such supervised outside excursion, he lamented that it was so damn cold his balls were chattering. I asked him if they sounded like Kerbangers when he walked. Poor Kerbanger Boy.

We decided to forgo a vet visit completely. I’m sure there are many opinions on our decision, such as what horrible pet owners we are, how we don’t deserve to have a dog, that we don’t love our dog, would we not take our kids to the ER because of the cost, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard all of those criticisms because I am my own worst troll and they ran around in my brain like pinballs on speed even as we made this decision, except the kids and the ER one, because OF COURSE! we would take out kids to the ER if they got hit by a car, I’m not completely unfeeling.

The short of it is the dog probably had a concussion, definitely some bruising and scraping. I’m grateful that she is built like a tank and is no worse off than she is, truly, because when my daughter came over and burrowed into my arms, tears tracking down her cheeks, whispering she didn’t want to loose another dog, I just about caved in and hauled that damn dog off to the emergency hospital just so I didn’t feel like such a shit for being concerned about money. If I'm lucky, the brain rattle she took might realign some of her gray matter and she'll stop eating her own feces for appetizers and start bringing me slippers when she inevitable wakes me up in the morning with shitbreath because she has to pee.

SuperHubby has been out of work, on disability since April ’09, and had back surgery in July after three years of unceasing debilitating back pain. He’s still recovering and not able to go back to work until the doctors release him. He wants to get back as soon as possible, because frankly, he is bored, BORED, BORED beyond belief and just about going bonkers from being cooped up and forced to remain relatively low key. SuperHubby is not the couch potato type.

The whole out of work thing has had a not so positive effect on our income and frankly, if I have to choose between making certain there is money in the bank to cover possible personal family kid type emergencies over taking the dog to the vet, I must confess the dog gets the shaft. It is what it is. I remain grateful that I am employed and we remain financially secure while all of this is going on, but a line must be drawn to stay that way. I'm not apologizing for that stance.

As a matter of fact, I think I’ll expend my energies this year on reclaiming my life from the overhanging clouds of the past few years. I can’t change them, nor ignore their significance. I can continue to grow from those experiences and be a better person. More loving, more tolerant, rebuild my self-confidence, remember who I am inside, because when I do that, myself and the ones I love benefit from those positive feelings and vibes. I will still snarl at you if you try so speak with me before caffeine, some things remain immutable.

So, the dog is fine. She’s been a bit low key, resting, moving slower than usual and demanding attention for the past couple of days. This morning, she woke me up bitching to get out to pee and raced over to the fence line to bark ferociously at the neighbors annoying shepherd, who never stops barking. When we trudged back inside, she demanded her breakfast and then proceeded to take up residence on the sofa as if she owned it, watching me move about getting ready for the day. We made the right decision, we gave her care and love, nursed her wounds and received love and comfort in return.

One Dog, sucking up the sickbed attention.

I guess that’s the heart of what I hope for in ‘10, living with love and care and making the right decisions.