Because the idea of being "left out" makes my skin crawl almost as much as Percocet

Speaking of which, anyone have any Percocet?

Because apparently brain injury + concussion = migraines which arrive out of nowhere and are vomit-in-the-shower-crippling, and are also virtually unaffected by anything known to man (except an illegal substance of which I certainly have never partaken, I'm just assuming since weed is used medicinally for migraines, it must actually work. Which reminds me, I need to move to California, because I could get an Rx for weed for any number of my ridonk ailments, from migraines to anxiety to depression to boredom. What, boredom is TOTALLY a medical condition.)

What was I saying?

Ah yes, it's time for me to hop on the band wagon and write a year-end wrap-up post because we're about to begin The Year the Mayans Got Bored with Making Calendars.

I'm pretty sure they just ran out of weed, but when they called their dealer, his voice mail said he wasn't available to sell  because he was busy getting sacrificed on an alter or some shit.

There's something else we can thank weed for: Postponing the end of the world until 2012.

Anyway, I'm sitting here in my bedroom, surfing the interwebnet because I don't want to watch the UFC fight that's on my TV because EEW, blood is grody, and I'm thinking about how crazy this year has been in almost every way.

2011 was supposed to be my first full year of marriage to my best friend, and while *technically* that's true because no court papers have been filed, I'm pretty sure everyone would have an opinion on just exactly how "married" I am. Not only are we not really married, not really living together, and certainly not best friends any longer, I'm hard pressed to get Gray to speak to me these days.

It's completely understandable, of course, but sucks just the same.

So I lost our beloved Bampa, as well as my husband and friend, not to mention all the brutal alienation such a split inevitably causes. So many of our friends are mutual, and most of those have no interest in my life at this time (I assume) out of loyalty to my husband, which again is understandable, and again, sucks.

The few friends I called my own, mostly from work, I lost touch with when I quit my job, but I think really they were relieved because I was proving to be more exhausting than awesome to them. Also understandable, when our lunch chats morphed from my wedding plans to my dating plans.

I'm an acquired taste at my very best, so throw in a few impulsive mistakes, a few irrational behaviors, and more than a few drunk texts...folks seem to appreciate some space.

So, New Years.

I'm not so naive to believe that January 1st is some kind of magical date. It's not a re-set button. It's nothing but the end of a calendar year, a calendar which was determined thousands of years ago by people WHO SLAUGHTERED OTHER PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF GOD.

So, really, they were a lot like we are now.

But this is what we do, we Americans. We talk about our kids and our ailments and our jobs and our wardrobes, and then we speculate on how those things may change in the next 52 weeks. We make predictions, we make grand statements about our intentions, we set unattainable goals, we thank everyone for believing in our ability to attain those goals, and then we get hammered and watch an electric comet plummet into Times Square, half-way hoping something will go horribly wrong and the ball will go rolling down the sidewalk, taking out every single one of those paper hat-wearing revelers, half-way relieved when it doesn't happen.

And so, I'll jump on that train because it's what I do.

In 2012, I intend to Get My Shit Together, Financially Speaking. I'm starting a really wicked new job on the 9th, and it should more than be enough for me to catch up with my medical bills, et al. I hope to find a second roommate to rent out the other bedroom upstairs, which will help financially as well. I plan to keep my part-time job and work nights and weekends, depositing that chump change into a separate account that I will use for "fun money," leaving the rest of my accounts untouched except for necessities. I plan to start over with a 401K because retirement sounds better every moment I'm alive.

I'd like to grow a tail, but that one is up in the air.

I plan to quit smoking, preferably forEVER this time.

I also intend to train Ramsey and Lucky to bring me beer in bed, and possibly to clean the toilet.

As far as relationships go, I plan to get back in touch with many of my friends. I'd like to make new ones. And I want to be sure that my partnership with Daylow doesn't grow stagnant, predictable, or co-dependent. I have a history of all of those things, and they don't bode well for Happily Ever After.

I'd like to drink less.

I want to camp more.

Daylow and I are going to plant a big garden this year, hopefully saving a small fortune on vegetables and herbs.

I want to see my family more than I got to this year.

Finally, I plan to win the lottery. Sadly, this may be the most likely of all of my goals, although if I do win the lottery, I'll be able to buy toilet-cleaning rats and pay people to be my friends, so it would kill several birds all at once.

Happy Birthaversary

Even though your actual birthday is a mystery, it was a year ago today that we brought you home to live with us/the best day EVER. So this is the day we picked to celebrate your birth and spoil you rotten.

Wish we could spend it with you.

We're going to bury you tonight, right in the spot where you always liked to pee. We can tell exactly where that is because there's still a yellow rectangle in the grass, and it's like a flashing beacon that says BAMPA WUZ HERE.

We're going to bury you there and think about you and we're even going to pretend you didn't pee like a girl.

We miss you!

King Bampa

Gray and I have lived more than three weeks without our dog.

It's taken me forever to write about this because...well...it fucking sucks, that's why. And also, my eyes have been swollen shut since he died.

I found Bampa completely by accident while searching rescue websites in an attempt to convince a friend she should adopt a puppy rather than purchase one from a breeder. None of my business, I know, and I'm as guilty as the next guy when it comes to supporting dog breeders - my ex was a hunter, and he loved him some purebred dogs, so my first two (even the mutt) came from breeders in the area.

Having just read something online about Black Dog Syndrome, I was hyper-aware of the need to adopt black dogs and senior aged dogs, so as I was scouring Petfinder and other websites, copying links to the most adorable puppies of the breed my friend was searching for, and bombarding her inbox with "helpful" suggestions with regards to her new fur kid selection, I may have begun subconsciously shopping for myself.

I'm always super helpful when it comes to doling out unsolicited advice, and even when explicitly solicited, my advice is rarely well-received. This situation was no different. But there was a bigger reason for my nosey ass this time, and during the search, I stumbled across the website for Homeward Bound Dog Rescue of Minnesota and began scrolling down their list of available dogs. There were just SO MANY and what astounds me about this particular rescue operation is that they don't have a centralized shelter or pound building. Instead, Homeward Bound is a network of foster homes in the Twin Cities area, and I can't believe how many people must be involved in fostering strays with this rescue alone to account for all of the pooches listed on their website.

There must be dozens of volunteers, I thought, every one of them living in homes that are bursting with dog fur, beds that are overwhelmed with snuggly sleepers, and yards full of shit.

VOLUNTARILY FULL OF SHIT.

As I scrolled through the assortment of canines, reading each bio with watery eyes and a pit in my stomach, I came across this photo of Bampa:

I was in love. IN LOVE. Instantaneously, irrationally, more in love with this dog than any picture of Devon Sawa I ever made out with in all of my pre-teen years, head-over-heels in love with this dog. In an instant. After reading his bio, I knew my fate was sealed: "Grandpa" (as he was called) was MY dog. I only had to convince Gray of that.

Gray, bless his heart, he tried to resist. We're renters, we can't have a dog. Don't worry! I already cleared it with Veronica! You're a student and you work full-time, we don't have time for a dog. I can come home between work and class to walk him! That's too many things on our plate. I'm only gone for classes one night a week, GAWD. I can handle it. Dog's are expensive, we can't afford him. He is going to be EUTHANIZED for fuck's sake, how can we let that happen?

After weeks of this back and forth, Gray looked at me and said, "Well, I guess you'd better figure out when we can go get him. I'd hate for your dog to have to wait very long."

And that was that. We picked him up on a Monday night in May 2010, and the funny thing is that as much as I loved Bampa from the moment I saw his photo on the Homeward Bound website, Gray fell even harder for that dog from the instant we met him until the day that he died. Gray spent that first night laying on the hardwood floor beside the dog bed so that Bampa would calm himself enough to rest.

Later that week, I sent this email to my parents:

Congratulations - You're grandparents!

Meet "Bampa" (formerly known as Grandpa)! He was a stray who ended up in a pound in Ohio for a couple of years, and just before he was put down, he was rescued by Homeward Bound and brought to a foster home in Minnesota. He's about 10 years old and moves slowly because of his un-treated arthritis pain, but we started him on some medication Tuesday and it's making a huge difference already! Otherwise, all his organs are in great health and his blood tests were great. Even his teeth are in amazing shape! Unfortunately, some asshole in Bampa's past de-barked him, so he's our silent old guy, but we love him already!


Bampa is the gentlest, calmest, friendliest dog we've ever met! He's definitely our kind of dog: already potty trained, affectionate, intelligent and sedentary. We're hoping to give him at least a couple of years of the happy, care-free retirement he deserves after the rough life he's had! Isn't he pweshus!? Can't wait for you to meet him!

XOXOXO
Cat

Over time, and with medication, grooming and a better diet, Bampa started looking and feeling much healthier. He even got a little trot back in his step, would occasionally run and climb stairs, things he couldn't do when we adopted him. He was exceptionally tolerant of the young kids who lived next door, kids who Gray BRILLIANTLY taught to ride the poor old guy like a motorcycle, using his ears as the gear shift. I'd pull into the driveway after work and one or the other would cry, "CAT'S HOME! LET'S GO PLAY WITH BAMPA!" which was the funniest thing to watch because Bampa's idea of "playing" was to stand in one place and look around with confusion.

Bampa went with Gray and I on our honeymoon. We drove thousands of miles from Minnesota to Idaho and back, stopping in places like Yellowstone and Red Fish Lake. While sitting outside the lodge at Yellowstone, a passerby remarked, "Hey, that dog looks just like a black bear." Gray and I laughed and smiled because we often referred to him as "Bear-bear" or "Bampa-bear" for the very same reason.

Bampa rode eagerly in the backseat which we rigged with bedding, an electric fan and some dog bones. He loved sleeping in tents. Hated the motel rooms. He got to travel the country and see some of the most famous landmarks we've ever seen. He was an amazing road trip companion, never bored or anxious, always eager to get out of the car yet always thrilled to get back into the car, as if he was thinking, "Okay, that was awesome, but WHERE TO NEXT?!"

When we moved into our new home, Bampa was a little stressed out. His belly started giving him fits, so we began feeding him a special (vet approved) diet of rice, cottage cheese and eggs or hamburger. He LOVED that shit, and to say we were sorry to give up the dry food would be a stretch. It was so funny to watch him dance around the kitchen, chasing after Gray with a bowl of this concoction in his hand, Bampa grinning from ear to ear and wagging his fuzzy tail.

When Bampa began struggling with incontinence, when he would sleep right through a poop-dropping, we feigned cheerfulness and cleaned up after the poor guy, all the while assuring him that we weren't angry because it couldn't be helped. That he was a good boy.

We brought Scary home with us in mid-January, and she was the first dog that Bampa didn't challenge in any way. It was as if he knew that she had been through the ringer, just like him. Like he knew his days with us were numbered and he didn't want to leave us alone. Like he loved her as a brother. When he tried air-humping in her direction, she scolded him swiftly and he stopped. He never bullied her, never tried barking at her, never became defensive with his food or bones. He was a good big brother and she followed him everywhere.

Then on February 26th, Bampa didn't come when called for breakfast. He was laying on his dog bed and couldn't move, was having difficulty breathing. We rushed him to the emergency vet where they had a gurney waiting, and we sat clutching hands while the staff took Xrays to determine what was happening with our Bampa bear. When the doctor entered the exam room with a laptop full of Xray photos and a somber, "Well, it's not looking good..." we nearly lost our ability to speak.

He showed up photos of several large tumors, cancerous tumors, that had invaded Bampa's lung cavity (making it hard to breathe) and in his abdominal cavity (squishing his spleen and possibly explaining his sensitive stomach). One of the tumors had ruptured, and Bampa was bleeding internally. His gums were turning white, he was anemic, and he was dying.

Our options were to try surgery and chemo, treatments not recommended for a dog of Bampa's advanced age, and often not effective because the type of cancer is almost totally incurable. We could bring him home with us and sit with him until he died. Or we could choose to hold him and talk to him while he slowly went to sleep without pain or fear. It was the hardest decision we've ever made as a couple, and probably in our lives.

Gray went next door to Subway and brought back a fist full of bacon to serve as Bampa's last (forbidden!) meal. We spent a couple of hours sitting with him, talking to him, bawling our eyes out over his furry face, and trying to come to terms with what was about to happen. Eventually, Bampa pulled himself up and looked purposefully at the door which the vet had told us to knock when we were ready for him to come and give the injection. It was as if Bampa was tired of all the drama and wanted only to rest. To be done.

So we said goodbye to our Bear-bear forever.

We will never forgot the King of Dogs, our little old Poop Sidewalker.

He meant more to us in our ten short months together than we could ever have hoped for, and he is the reason Gray and I will adopt the "unadoptables" and gather a rag-tag pack of bears around us until the day that we die.

Speechless

Well, I lost a Follower.

Can't say I blame It. I've been MIA for two weeks now. But there's a good reason, I swear:

I started drinking again. And it's magical.

But no, that's not why. Our Bampa died on the 26th. I need to write about his life and his death and what he meant to our fucking crazy clan, but I just haven't been able to do it, and writing about anything else just seems like a kick in the formerly-present, presently-former balls of my dearly departed Bear-bear. He deserves a proper tribute, and I've been avoiding it because...well...I don't know. Just because.

I haven't been in a creative writing mood lately, more of a DIY mode filled with sharp objects and deep splinters, so the thought of expressing myself verbally has been very much akin to scraping red-hot blown glass over my labia and then inserting the fried labia into my eyeball.

And so there. I'm not writing a post now. Because I'm not ready.

But things are Happening in our den, so I'll be back soon, probably with a hangover, but hopefully with actual words.

The Color Purple. It Sucks.

You have to be fucking kidding me, Universe.

It wasn't enough that there was a K-9 shit explosion in our bedroom this morning, one that required removing the bed skirt and scrubbing down a dresser.

Then our little dog ate a shit-ton of chocolate and had to be force-fed hydrogen peroxide so that she would vomit uncontrollably into the bathtub and threaten more K-9 shit explosions for the next two days.

Neither Gray or I was having a bad enough Tuesday, so you gave him a roaring headache and roiling nausea, then you decided to TURN MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND PURPLE. So purple was my hand that co-workers insisted I visit the company's EMT, who insisted I call my doctor's nurses' line, by whom I was told to go immediately to the emergency room, to which I was transported by a kind security officer, where I was stripped of my shirt and solemnly told I might have a blood clot...all while I shook my head and laughed and said, "This is ridiculous."

Gray raced to my side so that he could sit with me in the same ultrasound room where, in 2008, we learned that our little, tiny fetus wasn't visible on the screen. He sat there next to me as the vascular ultrasound technician squirted my neck and armpit and forearm with blue lube. He tolerated my bad jokes about armpit fetishes.

And then, Universe, you fucking asshole, you decided that there was nothing wrong with me. Literally. The emergency room doctor said his diagnosis is, "::shoulder shrug:: I dunno." He said he's been a doctor for 25 years and never seen anything like my purple hand and no blood clots. He said it might go away on its own but that I should return if it does not.

WHAT THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCK. This was supposed to be MY year. You know...the one where I didn't have to go to the emergency room for any reason? No miscarriages? No broken arms? No skull fractures? THAT is the year I ordered up.

And I didn't make it even a fucking month before I returned for a pointless trip to the emergency room. A very EXPENSIVE and pointless trip.

Sure, it's true that now I know I'm not going to die from a blood clot. The kicker is that I'd consider that option right now.

Despite the Medical Bullshit

July 17th, 2010 was the best day of my entire life. Everything else that has happened pales in comparison. Despite it all, 2011 will be hard pressed to top this year in which I got engaged, adopted our doggy son, married my best friend, went to BlogHer, bought our first home together, and celebrated it all with friends and family from all over the country.

Happy New Years, you losers.

Coulda Used the Camera for That One

So we're back from (rainy-ass) California and I have a slew of awesome mediocre photos to show you, but I haven't gotten around to downloading them onto Landers yet. I planned to spend the day Sunday doing laundry and unpacking and moving pictures from camera to hard drive. I slept instead.

Apparently travel is hard on the brain.

Monday and Tuesday after work I raced home and went promptly to sleep again for a few hours before bedtime. Right now I'm wishing I were curled up under my desk and snoring and/or farting happily away, but no such luck. While it's true there's a door I could close, my friends here know me too well to let me get by with office fart naps. At least without filmed documentation, and you know how I always forget to wear panties.

Last night, I sat down to finally transfer pictures onto Landers and my motherfucking camera battery was dead. Stupid thing hasn't been charged in 15 years and suddenly it's all worn out or something. That little battery fucker sleeps ALL THE TIME and he can't be ready for a quick download session. Asshole.

By the time he'd charged enough to use, I was asleep again.

Asleep, that is, until Gray sat bolt upright in bed and bellowed, "Jesus, did he fart?!!"

I thought Gray meant my camera battery and I began to silently tally the un-thought of uses for a farting camera battery. Then Gray, mumbling about stinky dog farts, stumbled around the bed and discovered Bampa sleeping soundly.

Along side his giant pile of shit.

That's right, our dog is deaf AND incontinent.

The best part? Though Gray was gagging and racing around, opening windows...I. SMELLED. NOTHING.

Anal Fissures Just Sounds...Geriatric

My intestinal workings have been...muddled since I took a tumble, mostly due to pain killers and odd dietary restrictions. While in the hospital, I ate almost nothing and sloughed off enough weight so that I was below my wedding day number, even though at the time of my wedding I was completely unable to lose another quarter pound despite hardly eating at all.

After the hospital, my family basically force-fed me, which was probably good because I couldn't exactly stand on my stork legs (still had the belly bulge, though - that thing will not DIE), and so I eventually gained all of the weight back (and a hell of a lot more). After about a week of eating five meals a day and laying either in bed or on the couch all of the time, I realized I hadn't yet felt the slightest need to take a shit.

Me? NOT SHIT? That was absurd.

I was already taking colace and Senekot to combat the poop-related effects of the pain killers, but still. Nothing. Not prune juice, not fruit, not laxatives.

Finally, after nearly two weeks, I felt something simmering in the lower furnace and I hustled (be it slowly, and with family chiding, "Where are you going? I can get it for you!" in the background) to the toilet, bore down with all of my might, and popped out several minuscule pellets of shit. Like a rabbit, I was.

That continued until I finally upped the doses of stool softener (every moment expecting to feel the tickle of a human-height turd tickle the back of my throat, hell-bent on escape however necessary) and the shower of pebbles increased until they almost made up the quantity of a normal Cat poop.

Eventually, my bowel movements were the talk of the household. Each time I emerged victorious from the loo, I'd raise my hands in victory and declare, "I WENT!" to the exclamations of my father, step-mom, and husband. And probably dog. It's hard to tell with him.

When the day came that a normal, non-rabbit shaped poop emerged like the sweet, sweet result of a love affair between a banana and a piece of granite, there were tears in my eyes.

No really. It hurt fucking bad, and it cracked open my ass, too. Fissures, if you please.

Eventually, things got back to normal (in the poop department)((mostly)) and I'm happy to report that I have ceased to bleed from every orifice of my body. (Did I mention I no longer ovulate? Yeah, apparently that's thanks to trauma. I'm hoping that comes back, too, so that we can. YOU KNOW. Have a family.)

Until the other night.

I was driving home when the sudden, unexpected urge to POOP! overcame me, and try as I might, I knew I could not resist the call of nature long enough to make it all the way home, so I detoured to a gas station, where I delivered what felt like a watermelon through my ass and into the toilet bowl, leaving more blood behind, and although I flushed, the turd remained.

It remained because it was positioned like the world's most horrifying bridge over the opening in the toilet and it wouldn't move despite repeated swearing and flushing maneuvers.

Terrified of leaving a Barbie-sized shit bridge for someone else to take care of (actually, I was worried I'd open the door and someone would be waiting to use the restroom, thereby KNOWING it was me who'd left the chocolate melon in my wake), I decided to take action.

I reached in and re-positioned my own shit. With my hand.

Now if that isn't taking charge of my life...then thank fucking god because I never want to do that again so long as I live.

Or so long as I'm sober.

On a Lighter Note

We got a lot of snow here this weekend. I was confined to the house (thanks to Nurse Gray) and therefore could only take photos of him clearing the snow. Nothing interesting, but also...nothing cold. Or slippery.

Or interesting.

Thankfully, some friends of ours had mercy and let us borrow their snow thrower. As you can see, the accumulation was rather deep on the driveway, so it would have killed Gray to shovel it all by hand. 

Our driveway, unlike most of our neighbors, begins on at the front of our house and continues all the way to the rear of our property. Then there's the front sidewalk, the side-sidewalk, the back sidewalk and the deck, then we have to shovel a path for walking to the garage, and another for rolling the garbage bins around the side of our garage, where most of the (SMART) neighbors have just a short pad to park their cars.

When the deck and yard was filled up with so much snow that Bampa was waist-high, and shovelling was pointless due to the crazy wind, he decided just to crap inside. We couldn't blame him.

The weather is much better this morning, but the driveway remains impassable. Gray is chomping away with the shovel until the snow is a manageable depth for the snow thrower, but he's also exhausted and probably losing his mind a little bit. Unless he's pretending he's an arctic explorer, in which case it's too late for him anyway.

Oh, and the Metrodome broke under the weight of the snow. HOORAY! No football today!

Bundle up, kids.

Wrath of an Angry...Everyone

I'm not feeling like my old self yet.

It's kind of like the very first day at a new job, except I've worked the same job for well over two years and I am, of course, beloved by all. Oh, and I feel this way whether I'm at home with my husband, on the phone with a bridesmaid (i.e. a GOOD friend), or at work. Part time. Where half the people didn't realize I was even gone.

But still, I'm nervous about how others perceive me now: my double chin (thanks, HCMC, for the enormous amounts of sodium you pumped into me) which is accompanied by a very significant weight gain, so none of my clothes fit, my very short (yet somehow already way outgrown) pixie cut, my stammering voice, my inability to remember certain words, an overall halting confidence in my ability to be funny, fun or fucktastic.

True, most of these insecurities existed before, but now they seem to be present in all social settings including between myself and close friends, family, and even here with you freaks.

I suppose any sorta-near-death experience makes a person re-evaluate certain aspects of her life - I, for example, have managed to cut ties with one friend, one family member, and completely alienate another (granted, easily-alienate-able) family member. JUST THIS YEAR. One of the best years of my life has also been one of the worst, for which I'm only partly to blame, but due to which I was already struggling to forgive myself and move on.

Now? It's like I have to come to terms with all of that shit all over again.

It's like waaaaay back when I first began this blog, I told you about my ex and his (much worse than mine) traumatic brain injury. I was his primary caregiver, although I'm pretty sure his family would argue with that statement. But we owned a home and a vehicle and dogs together, so fuck it. We may as well have been married at the time. You can ready about it here, if you're so inclined.

One of the very difficult parts of my ex's recovery was that he lost a LOT of short term memory, which meant that we literally had to rehash every single argument that we had ever had. EVER. Because he remembered part of the disagreement but not all, and part of his cognitive therapy was to work on remembering.

The original purpose of this blog, actually, was to let off some steam because caring for a loved one with TBI fucking sucks. SUCKS. It's terrifying and lonely and painful and disgusting and helpless and funny and not funny and exhausting.

And now I get to rehash my recent arguments, and while those were terrible, I now can add that I've put my existing friends and family through the same trauma. I've doubled my co-workers' responsibilities. I've been a bad patient who had to be sedated and tied to the bed. I yelled at my mother and my husband. I'VE FLASHED MY COOTER TO PEOPLE WHO DIDN'T WISH TO SEE IT. I was unconscious when it happened, of course, but still.

I've been a terrible, finicky, seriously un-funny person. Did I mention chubby?

And now my punishment has been dealt:

I think my dog marked his territory INSIDE MY BRA, but I can't smell to verify the validity of my theory.

Upside is My Shit Don't Stink

Um, yeah. So. Despite my best intentions to write here...you know, GET BACK AT IT, and stuff...it seems my concentration has been compromised and I"m much less likely to post to my blog than I am to take a nap or eat another Tootsie Roll.

I often complain, "Why am I so tired? Why do I sleep so much?" to which Gray responds, "I don't know, but that's what you're supposed to do. That's what the doctor's told you to do," to which I respond, "I hate the doctors."

Because really? REALLY? Sleeping 12 hours and then needing a 3 hour nap? And I don't mean just because I'm at home with nothing to do (although now I'm allowed to go online or read books or watch movies, whereas the first 4 weeks were "rest only" orders). If I get up and take a 10 minute shower, it means I will inevitably need either to hit the sack for the night or a really long nap. FROM TAKING A SHOWER. It's physically exhausting, just taking clothes off and putting them back on, standing in the water (now that I've outgrown the shower chair, that is), brushing my teeth.

So while I'm reading like my life depends upon it, and I'm doing all kinds of junior-high level cognitive worksheets (like, there's a map where all the streets are numbered and you have to name the streets based on vague clues), I'm having a hard time writing. Being creative in general, really.

I really hope it comes back, because I am noticing other subtle changes in myself that I do NOT approve of.

For example, Gray came running out of the bathroom yesterday exclaiming that he had a poop story that I would love, and he told me that his very own giant poop had clogged the toilet, but he was unable to bring himself to plunge because of the turds which remained in the bowl (it was "gross" he said, as if the plunger would otherwise be a showpiece), so he grabbed a doggie poo bag, two of them actually, and plucked his own shit from the bowl, disposing of it as he does Bampa's waste - it the outdoor garbage can. THEN he plunged.

The whole time he told the story, I was cringing away from him in disgust, adamantly wondering, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?!" and wishing he hadn't told me. (After he left for work, I had to go and scrub the damn thing down.) He responded that "of course" he washed his hands, and sulked away saying he thought I'd love a good poop story, which normally I would. Like this one.

Minutes later I couldn't resist warning him, "I'm going to have to blog about that."

"I figured you would," was his reply.

It appears that my injury has inflicted at least a temporary aversion to poop stories. ON ME! It's bad enough I can't tell a banana from a sirloin, a bottle of water from a bottle of Ensure. It's unjust that I can't enjoy so much as a glass of wine until next summer (which means it's a perfect time to get pregnant) but I also can't safely conceive while I'm on the medication I'm taking to help my brain recover, plus I couldn't taste the damn wine anyway!

There's something horrifying about the idea that I've literally knocked the love of a really good poop story right out of myself, and I hope desperately that it doesn't extend to my love of writing and blogging and making threatening phone calls to nursing homes...erm, forget that last part.

What I'm saying is SHIT.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go lay down.

American Picker

I have to stop buying things, which is particularly hard when I keep finding awesome deals on things we actually need but can't afford anyway, and by "need" I mean "prefer to have rather than not".

Craig's List is my gay lover in that I wish I knew how to Quit it.

I've furnished an entire house (and then some) by obsessively scanning the For Sale listings, weeding through the absolute fucking TRASH that some people seem to feel is worth a hell of a lot more money than they'll ever see for it, watching for the occasional gem of an item that I cannot live without. For example, I found our queen platform bed and mattress, never used except to stage homes, for $200. Only catch was that I had to go pick it up, which is hardly a "catch" when you're as used to picking things up as a business man cruisin' the hood.

Gray tried to cut me off and I threatened to hide his PS3 remote. Let's just say we reached an Understanding.

Our new place has hardwood floors, which rocks for us because OOOH PRETTY! but our poor dog can't stand on wood floors, he's much more likely to slide into a laying position, which is okay with us except that when he tries to stand up he looks exactly like baby Bambie on the frozen pond, which is to say he is a blur of limbs. We need rugs.

HALP ME.

Last night, I scored two matching 8' x 11' floor rugs for $150, which anyone who knows anything about ANYTHING will tell you is a damn good deal for area rugs of that size. They're in awesome shape, match our decor, and will prevent our poor dog from amusing us with another graceful face-plant. Plus, I got to spend an hour our on my deck with my new steam vac and my new floor coverings, singing the soundtrack to Annie at the top of my lungs and effectively ruining our relationship with the new neighbors. It was like Christmas, but with better presents.

I've also bought a guest bed, a brass headboard and foot board for the guest bed, a pineapple lamp, two chandeliers and two hardwired wall sconces, a couch, chair and ottoman for the sun porch, another couch for the man cave, an ottoman for the living room, and a bunch of other crap I can't remember.

Then there are the garage sales, which supplied us with a dozen dining chairs, and a pair of media cabinets. Not to mention all of the free stuff I grabbed from people's garbage: night tables, deck chairs, two antique trunks, step stools, wooden chairs and lamp shades.

I also bought a giant, wooden table that I found sitting in someones driveway. This will be our dining room table; that is, AFTER I've "Indoor-ized" it by pounding in rusty nails, sanding it waaaaay down so it doesn't stab our dinner guests, and sealed the surface in preparation for the inevitable wine-spillage.

Which reminds me that I bought a counter-height wooden table that I intend to use as a kitchen island, but not until I remove the existing kitchen island.

Which reminds me, I want to re-tile the floor while I'm at it, and I just happened to see a listing for slate floor tile on Craig's List...

Change of Address

Well, I've finally crawled out from beneath the pile of cardboard, packing tape, foam peanuts, pizza delivery boxes, cobwebs and DUST! Holy fuck, enough already with the DUST! I haven't stopped sneezing for two weeks and it's really starting to harsh my mellow, ya'll.

Moving is dirty. And also? It sucks.

Did you know that your shin bones are natural Hard Surface Testers? Especially in the dark of night, in an unfamiliar house, after you've slipped down four stairs in your socks and stood up full-tilt into the ceiling beam above the handrail and you can't tell if those stars circling your head are actually there or if you're just stoned again. That is the exact time your shin bones will encounter something of the most extravagant hardness, and also stationary-ness, that your brain will actually explode and for a second you won't even care that the dog is eating your eyeball off the floor.

Of course I also bang my shins any time a metal bed frame is involved. And I do mean ANY time.

We bought a second hand (eew, I know) bed from a woman on Craig's List because my grandmother is coming to stay later this month and I decided not to make her sleep on the floor after all. When we arrived, we realized that the bed was not dismantled and waiting for us in her garage, but instead was fully assembled on the second floor of her townhouse.

Since I know my history of shin-to-bed frame interaction, I promised the bed woman that although it was certain that I would injure myself while taking apart the bed frame, I promised not to get blood on anything. After I'd successfully whapped my poor right shin with the metal cross bar of the bed frame, I hurried downstairs to show bed woman the bleeding cut on my palm and to brag that I hadn't smeared it on the walls or anything.

I could tell she was very impressed.

Fast forward to a scene of Gray and I struggling to force a decidedly too big, non-bendy, queen-sized box spring up our very tiny, also non-bendy, Barbie-sized staircase, and witness my brilliant decision to place my already-lacerated palm between the corner of the box spring and the wall just as Gray decided to heave his entire body weight and all the righteousness of the heavens into his end of the box spring, and hear the resulting crunch, POP!

That was the sound of my thumb crumpling. And also, the staples from the corner of the frame entering the juicy meat of my hand.

Suddenly I'm hungry for pork tenderloin.

Anyway, so I'm still alive, although my shins would like to argue the contrary, and we are starting to get settled into the new house (which means A) that I can find my underwear now and B) that Gray has thoroughly tested the toilet's abilities) so hopefully I'll be here much more frequently henceforth.


That's the dining room back there. Can't you tell by the ceiling-high stack of mis-matched chairs?



Moving is hard work.

And also, I need some kind of self-exclusion form for Craig's List so that if I try to log onto the website, armed guards will show up and escort me (gently but with authority) back to Google where I belong.

A ninety-five-year-old house can only accommodate so many couches, you know?

P.E.C. for Short*

We dog-sat over the weekend for Flute Randi, whom I've decided to just call "Flute" from now on because I'm tired of typing her entire name, and really, how many penis-free "Randi"s do you know?

Flute went to New Ulm to get fucking blitzed on good ole' Minnesota beer at the Schellabration, that lucky bitch, and left with us her giant mattress spring wrapped in a buffalo muscle French terrier named Mac. Since I'm busy packing for our move, I thought it would be a good idea to have MORE fur in my house. I'm going to use it first as dog-scented packing material and then weave it into a fine wool and sell it on Craig's List.

Dis dog. He can haz adorablenezz.

Bampa hates having other dogs in the house, especially BOY dogs, and I think it has something to do with the fact that Bamps pisses like a girl, but it may also be because it means he has to share the treats. These two have met before, with mixed results, and I say "mixed" when I mean "hmmm maybe we should clamp Bampa's jaws shut with a rubber band like he's a giant, furry lobster".

Which is what we ended up doing, except with a Gentle Leader instead of a rubber band, but I can assure you if a rubber band of an appropriate size had presented itself, I would have used it instead. If I can put one in my hair, he can have one on his face.

The primary effect of the Gentle Leader was that Bampa spent the next 24 hours rubbing his face on every available surface, which was really very cute (unless it involved Gray's crotch) and which meant he was distracted enough not to notice when Mac moved in on his chick:

You can't see it, but my pretty pink lipstick is riiiiiight down there...

The red shirt in the photo is Kylie, and she's very clearly giving Mac the romantic signals (note the placement of one hand on his broad shoulders and the other in her crotch), and we were not surprised when this exchange resulted in a VERY! ENTHUSIASTIC! LIPSTICK! EMERGENCE! and we spent a short while discussing the implications of such a reaction.

I realized that if my virtuous, motherly touch ever provokes such excitement in Bampa, I will promptly chop off his lipstick with the nearest available weapon and teach him once and for all that incest is the work of the devil.

Or I'll take consecutive showers. I'm still undecided.

I have always been fascinated by the idea of the lipstick, though, and I believe my first eye-witness of the phenomenon was driving by a field in which an incredibly virile horse was grazing. I was very concerned for the health of that poor animal's private parts, which appeared to have been flipped inside out and then blown up like an unformed balloon animal. I was educated in the matter soon after, however, when I had the occasion to help a small Dotson get his rocks off.

Since I'm loathe to do any actual research, I must assume that the lipstick (aka Penile Extension Cord) was invented to accommodate the semi-long-distance mating rituals of the large-boned and multi-ton-weighing animals, and of course this line of reasoning  leads me to suspect that incredibly overweight people may also have a form of penile extension cord, or are in the process of evolving such, at the very least.

Having only reached a moderate level of chunkiness myself, I've decided that the answer to my question lies in only one place: Fattie fetish porn.

Stay tuned.

PS - He weally weally missed his mama. And also, his penis touched the chair, but Gray assured me that since he was "not lippy" at the time, there was no harm done.

PPS - I'm not even entirely sure that Bampa HAS a penis, such is the girth of his old man flaps and fatty tumors on his undercarriage.

*OMFG I just realized where the word "PEC-ker" came from!!!

Gratuitous Dog Photos. Because I CAN.

I almost don't even care that his farts smell like a three-week old sink full of dirty dishes smeared with rancid peanut butter. I've heard.

Perfect Time To Have Kids, No?

I'm considering a return to talk therapy, and holy christ, I was unprepared for how awkward that sentence would sound out loud: the verbal equivalent of that couple who walks around with their hands in each other's rear pants pockets, regardless of how impractical that may be when they're also, oh I don't know, trying to cross the street while making out and talking on a cell phone.

I know I stood up Dr. Crazy Socks last time, but I'm pretty sure he (meaning his wallet) will welcome me back into the crazy-fold with lots of, "So how have you been"s and "How did that make you feel"s.

I've been feeling really good, actually, considering the stress I've been under (and yes, I realize it's mostly self-induced stress, fuck you very much), but I'm still just a little big ::off:: somehow. Anxiety is slowly creeping into my brain, and as Gray pointed out last night, winter is approaching, and we all know how the onslaught of 6 dark months tend to = me in a corner with a spoon pressed perilously close to my eyeball, humming Edelweiss and stroking my stuffed lobster toy.

Also, I'm trying to figure out why I feel the need to be incessantly, exhaustively over-scheduled. I tell myself I LIKE DOWN TIME and I'm pretty sure I mean that when I say it, except when I look at my calendar for the next two months, I feel like I'm trying to emulate Barack Obama, granted with fewer black tie events and more dog poop, but I'm fucking booked solid, is what I'm trying to say, and all of these things I have going on are voluntary (besides my full-time, necessary for continued survival-type job and my part-time, why dear god am still doing this to myself college classes), and I can't figure out why I seem unable to just sit the fuck down already.

After work today, I'll be driving to the St. Paul campus (for the second time this week, and regardless that all my fall classes are online) to pick up and distribute the September issue of The Metropolitan newspaper. Then I'll hustle home to go for a walk with my dog and shovel down some dinner before biking over to my doggy client's house to take her for a walk. Then it's home to read Don Quixote for my Lit class for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

I don't even have time to drink during the week anymore. If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.

I'm supposed to meet my mortgage broker one of these nights to sign some documents in preparation for closing on our house on September 30th, which means I also need to start packing because HOLY SHIT WE ARE MOVING AGAIN IN ONE MONTH, but I should start packing until I've finished writing our thank you cards from the wedding, and I can't forget the writing deadlines, and then Kylie arrives to crash with us (meaning I'll want to do nothing but to paint her toenails and talk her ears right out of the room. Over several glasses cases of wine.) Regardless of this ridiculous time schedule, I find myself scanning the domestic "gigs" listed on Craigslist, searching for part-time cleaning jobs to make a little extra money because I have fifteen spare minutes every other Tuesday evening and I'll be damned if I spend that time enjoying myself. Plus, two people have told me I'm "crazy" since yesterday. Maybe I should look into that.

I think this post was a way of convincing myself I need therapy. I just don't have time to make an appointment.

Services Rendered

So I've started my new career as a newspaper columnist / slash / professional dog walker, and I have to say that it's awesome so far. Of course, I've only written one column for the University's paper and I've only walked one dog. One time. But still, I couldn't help but day dream last night as Libby and I strolled through the darkening SE Minneapolis streets...I could walk dogs all day long and maybe write a little in between "clients". That would be the life.

I believe I mentioned we're broke. I believe you'll remember that we started doing the TOTAL! MONEY! MAKEOVER! thing with Dave Ramsey and that it worked pretty fucking well (I paid off a small fortune in about nine months), but then we got engaged and every last cent *plus some cents we didn't have* went into paying for the wedding and associated festivities.  Then there was BlogHer. Did I mention shit is expensive in Manhattan? Plus there was luggage to check ($20/bag) and airport bars to support ($9.99/bloody fucking mary) and now we're just flat out broke as a couple of Summer's foot bones.

Here we are, post-expensive occasions and stuff, and I'm frantically trying to pull money out of my ass so we can get back on track with our budgeting and debt-paying and, oh you know, EATING.

Enter The Metropolitan. It just so happens that the editor of the paper is a member of my writing group and the production manager was the flutist in our wedding, and they were interested in adding a student lifestyle column, and what was that? I can make $30 an issue, you say? I'M IN.

Then I realized they were also in need of a business manager to do some paperwork for a total of two hours per week and I basically knocked over anyone standing in my way and demanded that I be given that position as well because A) I FUCKING LOVE PAPERWORK and B) bigger stipend, so here I find myself as the new business manager and contributing staff writer for The Metropolitan, student newspaper for Metropolitan State University. My first paid writing gig.

It just so happened that on the same day I heard about the newspaper gig (I totally just typed "jewspaper"...must be thinking of Jessica Bern today...), I also placed an ad on Craigslist for my dog-walking services, thinking if I could find one or two clients who needed me to walk their pups a few times per week, it would be a great way to make a little extra money AND get some exercise, especially while the weather is still warm and sunny.

Yesterday, I met my first client: Libby, the Australian shepherd mix. Her person works overnights and has a long commute, so Libby needs to be let out and walked between 7:00 and 10:00pm several times per week. She is super adorable and teeny tiny, but has some socialization issues and isn't very friendly with new people so her person tells strangers to stay away because she bites (which she doesn't), so I actually am getting paid to scare children and play with dogs.
 
Since I think I would love walking dogs full-time, I wondered what it would take to quit my job and walk dogs full-time like Jennifer Lopez in Monster In-Law, except my apartment will always be organized and mothers-in-law love me, except when I divorce their sons. Don't worry Sharon, your son is too awesome. So far.

I calculated would need to walk fifteen dogs every day to make the equivalent of my current hourly wages, not to mention I'd have to pay for private health and dental insurance. But then again, I wouldn't have to pay taxes, which is awesome in and of itself, and even if I get audited it would be like Will Ferrell and Maggie Gyllenhaal in Stranger than Fiction and my auditor would end up falling in love with my bra-less boobies and my incredible home baked goods. I would have to pick up a whole lot of dog shit, but I'd also be able to drink all day long because I could just ride my bike around from house to house.

Plus, I could steal enough dog treats for Bampa that we'd never have to buy them again.

It's like I'm scamming The Universe.

Whole New Kind of Doggy Style

My dog thinks I'm being murdered when really I'm just masturbating.

It isn't me making all the racket, it's the DVDs, and my dog is almost entirely deaf (except, of course, for the sound of dog food hitting dog bowl...that he'll keep hearing long after he's dead), so I don't know how he knows that people are screaming and yelling and stuff, except maybe he smells the lube and thinks it's a sandwich.

Regardless of the reason, he hears the action and comes galumphing up the stairs to fling himself against the bedroom door and, when he finds he's unable to force his way into the room, stands on the landing and hacking phlegm onto the floor as if to say, "Excuse me, young lady, but this type of behavior will not be tolerated. Unless you have a Milk Bone in there, in which case have I mentioned that I'm hungry?"

The whole thing is very awkward.

Satan's. I Checked the Label.

It's safe to say I just ate my weight in mushrooms. And by "mushrooms", I mean mushrooms, not *mushrooms*. Don't worry, I had bacon for lunch. No, I just hosted my first writers' group meeting, which is not meant to imply that it's MY writers' group, no indeed, it belongs to the six of us equally as per the custody agreement.

What?

Exactly.

Wow ::ree ree reeeee:: this fucker is RUSTY.

I'm sitting here on the couch after having cleaned TWICE today, once because my friends were coming over, once because my friends have left, and I'm listening to a song about the stitches sewn in a fake messiah's eyes, and that's when I realized that my dog is farting and also that I had to spell check "messiah".

Which actually explains a lot about my so-called "karma".

And then I lied to my entire writers' group about cleaning. Because I WILL CLEAN. It's genetic. Don't try to stop it. You could host this fucker at your house and somehow I'd find a way to clean first. There has got to be a way to harness this power.

If none of this is making sense, it's because I'm gearing up for BlogHer '10 where I will meet my destiny, also known as Jenny from TheBloggess.com (SHAMELESS LINKAGE), and who everyone knows is exactly the opposite of what people think of when they say "making sense", but who everyone ALSO knows has a great rack and a fucking huge wig collection.

Ok, I'm actually sitting here typing. Typing here on this thing. INSTEAD OF MASTURBATING. That's how serious I am about my craft. I'm forcing my itchy fingers to remain above the waist band, which eerily reminds me of my middle school Valentine's Day dance where the teachers walked around the dance floor with wooden rulers and actually measured the distance (in inches, thank god)((for the middle school boys)) between Crotch A and Crotch B. And in hindsight, I'm kind of wondering what the fuck those teachers were actually thinking, like, "Is this what my life has come to? The inches between Crotch A and Crotch B? At work? ON A TUESDAY? Where is the nearest bridge and hand me that rope just for good measure."

My dog just traded up his fart smell for a beef-flavored hoof smell. I'm not sure if it's actually a cow hoof or if it's a different kind of hoof soaked in beef bullion.

QUICK - What's the cheapest kind of hoof?

Whatever the cheapest kind of hoof is, that's probably the kind of hoof it is because the bag says "Made in China". And isn't it funny that I go out of my way to feed this dog holistic, organic dog food that is made with chicken bits instead of Styrofoam, and is fully of unicorn jizz and Obama juice, apparently, because it costs more than my health insurance, and then I buy $36.00 bags of blueberry-flavored, glucosamine-filled nibble treats. And then I hand that same dog a dead animal's foot to chew on.

And I don't even know what kind of animal it's from.

AND I ONLY SPENT $4.99 ON THE BOTTLE OF WINE I JUST FINISHED.

My priorities are officially fucked.

I'm Not Sure He Knows How To Use It. The Lipstick, That Is.

Where were we?

Oh yes, that's right: this is the part where I WRITE SOMETHING already.

What is it about hot weather? Yesterday was 96 and humid. I bought a plastic kiddy pool "for my dog" and sat with my feet in the pool until Gray got home from work and I considered that a productive evening. I guess by "productive" I'm including "didn't get heat stroke" as a qualifying accomplishment. Also on the list were "sample new box of pinot grigio", "pick up dog shit with plastic bag-covered hand", and "get Gray to eat kale again". No wonder I was exhausted!

Poor old Bampa bear is a hot mess because he has so much fur. He has almost as much fur as he has aversion to the kiddy pool I set up and filled for him. At first I thought he was going to love it because A) my previous dogs loved it and B) after I unfolded it from the backseat/trunk of my car and left it on the deck, I came back outside and Bampa was standing in what would have been knee-deep water had there actually been water, which clearly implied his intent to love it.

I dragged it out to the yard and filled it up (with much sprinkler detaching and fence-climbing)((in a skirt))(((in front of the impressionable neighbor boy))) and Bampa promptly ignored it. Not only did Bampa ignore the pool, but he ACTIVELY ignored the pool, which is to say that each time I tried to draw his attention to the Nice! Cold! Water! he looked very pointedly in the other direction, an urgent sniffing matter having caught his attention.

I put MY feet in the pool and cried, "Ooooh! Nice and cold! Come on, dog who doesn't speak English, understand my words and enter the pool of bliss with my feet!" to which he replied by walking over to the back door and staring intensely at the handle, obviously trying to will himself into the house with nothing but his hefty aversion to Being Wet.

Then I dragged him over the to pool and put his front paws into the water, assuming that his back paws would have to follow suit (right? RIGHT?) to which he responded by literally leaping backward with the force of Tigger on crack, and I was left standing over the pool with two fist fulls of fur and a bewildered expression.

On a mostly unrelated note, Bampa has a giant lipstick. Which...maybe now I'm glad he wasn't in there with my feet after all.