Archive for July, 2010
Ah, Facebook. It’s such a strange cocktail of misery and usefulness, that I hardly know where to turn. Lunatics and Facebook Moms and crazy political nutballs and high school friends and coworkers and LOOK, WE ALL KNOW THE PERILS.
However, I’ve just made the best discovery that I can’t seem to get over. A guy I know has a Photograph Face, which is probably also his Mirror Face. And although I’ve seen this person many times — recently, even — seeing his Mirror-slash-Photograph Face is weirdly intimate, as Sex Face feels not that far behind and JUST GROSS, MAKE IT STOP. Mind you, many women I know have Mirror and Photograph faces, but men! This is new. And worse, Mirror Faces are never — okay, RARELY — the most flattering face on a person! And yet, people THINK they are, because that’s the face they perpetually see in the mirror and … oh dear. When Mirror Faces become Photograph Faces, it’s never good.
One of my dearest friends (NO I AM NOT TELLING, but no, it’s not you, I promise) has a Mirror Face, and for decades (literally, DECADES), it has mystified me, for she is beautiful, but her Mirror Face is … well, not. It’s awkward and funny-looking, if I’m being honest, and yet there she is, fixing her lip gloss with Awkward Mirror Face, and it remains one of life’s greatest mysteries for me. The second she resumes life without Mirror Face, and steps away from the mirror, she is once again beautiful. Fortunately for all of us, Mirror Face is not Photograph Face.
You know, another helpful tidbit, now that more than a few of you will be meeting me in person, is that I have attention deficit disorder, and not in the cute way of being all, I have ADD! I can’t find the pretzels! No, I actually have ADHD in a kind of not-fun way sometimes, although I’m not really sure what to do about it, if anything. On the one hand, it makes me quirky and fun, and it is, in large part, why my life takes the strangest of turns — I forget things, I zone out, I trip, I fall, I end up with six dozen donuts instead of one because I got distracted by the new pockets in my jean jacket. You know.
I mean, I was in Target the other day with Kate, and I got distracted because I couldn’t find my BJ’s card, which led to a few other thoughts about where that card might be, and how I’d given it to Sam in Land’s End Canvas and then, OOH! Land’s End Canvas! I wonder if those pants will fit like these shorts! Let’s see how these shorts fit! And I’m pulling the tag out of the back of my shorts and realize that the reason — the original reason, for God’s sake — I wondered about my BJ’s card was because I was supposed to be getting out my debit card to pay. I had FORGOTTEN that I was in TARGET in LINE and ABOUT TO PAY. I’m not exaggerating. Like, I got lost in this crazy Other Place and … well, that happens a lot.
And while I realize that’s kind of a lame example, there are others where things have been more, uh, dire. Nothing life or death, but sometimes, HOO BOY, things take me longer than they should, because I get distracted and carried away and oh look! There’s that phone bill. In the freezer. Right. (Sadly, not kidding.) In a way, it was easier when I worked as a full-time professional, because I could organize my day to work around it — by setting time limits, and tasks and small deadlines throughout the day, I was able to do what needed to be done without it impacting my work too much. Being busy and on heavy deadline in a job like journalism is actually helpful for people like me, although you’d think it would be the opposite.
But with an unpredictable toddler? OH HEAVENS. Coping is kind of hard sometimes, because I’m all over the place, and even people who DON’T have ADHD can become distracted and lose their minds.
I was medicated once, a long long time ago, and frankly, it sucked. I didn’t feel like myself; I felt like all of the things that made me, me, were kind of gone. Creatively, I wasn’t the same, because distraction is a good thing for a creative person — one thought tumbles to the next, and before you know it, you’re in a place you never expected.
I think I just answered my own question, which is to go back to behavioral therapy basics and not even think about meds again. At all. Like, ever. But! If I seem spazzy or you think you suddenly lost me in a conversation or I say I’ll be right back and hours later, you’re wondering what the EFF happened to me, that would be why.
Happy Friday! Have a great weekend!
July 29th, 2010
If you’d told me before I had kids that one of the highlights of my day would be watching a chain reaction of toddlers melting the eff DOWN, screaming in succession, one after the other, complete with whining, I’d have told you that you were crazy. Because it IS crazy, but when they lose their shit like that, I’m sorry, it’s FUNNY. One of Sam’s playgroup buddies (a playgroup Megan and I actually took an active part in starting, which, who are we?) was tired, Sam was playing with the mom’s keys — keys she obviously needed to drive home, and when they were taken from her, RUN, JOEY, RUN; Lila was all done with all of it and just wanted to go to bed, and there we were, screaming and whining kids being lugged out the door like wild turkeys.
Toddlers, I’m sorry, are ridiculous, irrational creatures with no respect for those around them, and no clue about the havoc they cause. It’s a little like living with an infant in terms of cognitive reasoning, but they’re mobile, with the ability to move around and stuff, and it’s just absurd, the way biology allows this to happen. Yet it’s kind of hilarious, because who these kids think they are is beyond me. Every day is a push-pull of “I can do it myself! I don’t need you!” followed by, “WAIT! Where are you going? I NEED YOU, FOR THE LOVE! GET BACK HERE! DID I TELL YOU THAT YOU COULD LEAVE?” and so on.
Incidentally, part of the reason the playgroup happened is because I sort of fell in love with one of the moms after she dropped an F-bomb in My Gym. You can’t be an uptight sanctimonious douche of a mom if you’re going to let it rip like that during separation time, and I liked what I saw there, friends. I LIKED IT.
So! Since now seems to be the time to talk about it, I should once again mention that I’m going to BlogHer, so if you’re going, and you see me, please say hello. I’ll post more pictures next week so that you know precisely what I look like, if you don’t already, but for now, I’ll tell you that I have short hair, sometimes (but not always!) wear glasses and will likely be wearing pink Chuck Taylors during the daylight hours.
I will also tell you that I’m a mixture of amused and horrified by all the panic and prep going on — honestly, I’ve been nervous about precisely none of it, save for what I was going to wear (and uhh, leaving my kid for the first time, but I CANNOT EVEN GO THERE). If you saw my regular wardrobe, by the way, you would know why this is. I mean, I look reasonably put together (are we laughing yet?) during the day, but we’re talking bermuda shorts, Ts and flip flops. This is because I do things like take my kid to farms (blech!) and splash parks and swim lessons and not, say, jaunting around New York with people who will not squeeze their fruit pouch all over my chest and into my bra.
The point is, I was panicked about my wardrobe, not the people. Or the parties. Or the … what else are people panicking about? And people! I’m not even that SOCIAL! But reading all these tweets and exclusivity and private party angst, and I’m just like, DUDE. YO GABBA GABBA! Follow the rules of DJ Lance and we’ll be fine!
1) Do your own thing! When you want to play, but you get left out; When you want to go along, but get left behind; When you want to fit in, but there’s no more ROOOOOOOOOM. It’s better than to let it get you DOWN. (I think this was Foofa’s song and IT FITS)
So basically, if someone’s being assy and rubbing a private event in your face (and listen, they happen, but they happen EVERYWHERE, and no one is super-speshul for being invited to one vs. not), dust yourself off and, if you want to, come find me. I’m sure I’ll be lurking around somewhere awkwardly, probably holding Jennie’s hand. Or you could just go see New York, which is pretty awesome. Well, unless you’re me. I’ve been enough times to know that it just stresses me out, so if you’re that way, too, maybe we can hit the serenity suite. (What? I feel dirty! All those people! And there’s just NO END to the BUILDINGS! I NEED MY OCEAN. WHERE IS MY OCEAN?)
2) Everything is generally more fun when you include everyone! I can even sing this for you if you want to, in Toodee’s voice.
3) Don’t bite your friends. Or, more specifically, be nice. I mean … right? I’m really nice! And super-approachable. Yes, I get weird in large crowds, but that’s because I’m quietly panicking about all the people in the room and wondering where the fire exits are, and I’m not really kidding about that at all. If you approach me one on one, I AM SUPER-NICE, especially once I’ve found the exits and fire extiguishers. And also, a hugger. Oh, and I ask a lot of questions about you. I was a journalist. It happens. I WANT TO KNOW. Just a heads-up that I am super excited to meet you and will hug you. Unless you’re wearing a turban AND a romper, in which case I will probably just stare in abject confusion, but WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF THAT?
*Many people, but I like Ryan Adams’ the best.
July 27th, 2010
Last week was just awesome. Kate was here. Kate! My dear Vermont friend, and oh, I just love her so. It was such a joy having her and her 11-month-old son Jacob here, and while I normally miss Adam on business trips, I daresay it worked out better with him gone, because it was like girls night
out in the entire time she was here. We stayed up late drinking wine and talking, were zombies by day (since when does girls’ night in include 6:30 a.m. screeching wake-up calls?) and though it was a blast, I was effing EXHAUSTED by the time they left, because when I tried to sleep at night, I couldn’t, since I was STILL TOO EXCITED. It was ridiculous; I was like a little kid on Christmas Eve. I just kept thinking, KATE IS RIGHT THERE. AND THEN TOMORROW, WE WILL HAVE COFFEE AND PLAY WITH THE KIDS. AND THEN DRINK WINE AND TALK. AND TALK SOME MORE.
You’re never too old for sleepovers, it turns out, although there was no hair braiding, and no one did anything mean. God, do you remember that? Of course you do. I distinctly remember people doing the whole hand-in-water thing and worse, during a particularly vicious middle school sleepover in the midst of a row of some sort, people smearing Vaseline on the faces of their maligned comrades in an attempt to … clog their pores? I think? God, we were just not bright. Bra freezing would have been much smarter, and though I think there was some of that, I do believe I was the only victim of such shenanigans, which was fine, since I basically didn’t need a bra until I got pregnant anyway, and I think I just carried it home in a plastic Food Lane bag.
Which brings me to, oddly, the fact that Sam is entirely weaned. She was mostly weaned, and then I thought she would self-wean, and then I thought things would get better, and then I started sneaking it to her, like cigarettes under the bleachers, and then before I knew it, there we were, nursing again. And now we aren’t, and in the grand scheme of things, it was surprisingly easy. The hardest part was at first, when she regressed a bit and wanted to — please wait for it — SUCK ON MY BOOBS, WHILE WATCHING TELEVISION. Yes. Child wanted to kick back with some Moose A. Moose while chilling with her bag of
potato chips boobs.
I am happy about this, as it was more than time. But also, when I think about it, I’m sad, because it’s true: my girl is no longer a baby. Well, she still is in so many ways, like, uhh, vocabulary (“NAH? NAH?” apparently means “GIVE ME THAT BUCKET.” It also means, “HEY, I AM THIRSTY.” And in times of desperation, can be used for, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SIPPY CUP, OH WAIT THERE IT IS IN MY HAND, THANKS.”) And yes, I’m lucky that she’s a total snuggler. But still! Gah. The growing and the growing up, it is happening before my eyes.
I think I’d be sadder if I wasn’t planning another, and though there are no guarantees, I think knowing that I might at least get the chance to try this again really helps. Which is why my second child will nurse until s/he’s in grad school. What? Is that … odd?
The whole second child thing has been the subject of many of us, since there was a bit of a blogging class who had kids around the same time, along with many of my real-life friends. It’s hard, isn’t it? I’ve always known I wanted more than one kid, just because I’ve had such a positive experience with all of my siblings, in different ways. Despite more half- and step-siblings than most, I am the only product of my mom and dad, and frankly, it was a bit lonely going through their break-up alone, and navigating the muddy waters of the aftermath without another person to bear witness. It was … strangely burdensome, no matter how lovely my parents were (are), or no matter how difficult the time was. Maybe another person would have made it harder, maybe it would have been easier — I’m not sure. I can’t say I wish for my life or siblings to be any different — I don’t, for I am thrilled with how it all worked out, and my parents are amazing, all four of them — but it has made me think about how I want my own family to look.
And though I don’t see Adam and me divorcing (no, I really and truly don’t, but I realize that no one truly plans on it), for me, the experience of having, and in some cases wanting, witnesses to my childhood is most meaningful and/or desirable, and I want the same and more, for Sam. And so, (at least, but probably limited to) two it is. There was a flash of a time when Adam considered stopping at just one — just our perfect little Sam — until he realized that we were having the discussion on our way to his brother’s house. You know, the brother and his family that we love and miss and enjoy hanging out with. The one who gave the toast at our wedding. The one who cheered Adam on at basketball games growing up when his parents couldn’t go.
Yeah, that one. Two it is.
And so it begins — not today, but at some point. The misery of trying to get pregnant (and I don’t mean the MECHANICS of it, I mean the anxiety and the waiting and the … OH YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN), especially since Sam wasn’t exactly a piece of cake. The maybe-pregnancy, with the hope that I won’t barf my way through life the second time; the hope that I don’t see parts of every meal twice and sometimes three times. The hope I don’t lose my mind again and end up crying into the fifteen pounds of potato salad I was making for Adam’s company pot luck.
If we’re really lucky, the newborn stage. HA HA. The newborn stage! You GUYS! DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT MY NEWBORN STAGE WAS LIKE?
THIS. IT WAS THIS. (Thank you, Amalah, for offering me the opportunity to document, FOREVER, precisely what those months were like. I’ve referred to that thousands of times to remind myself that I am a rockstar.)
And then I just think we’re completely crazy, and that we should just call the whole thing off and use the money we’d save on a second child and go to Aruba. And then I remember WE NEVER GO TO ARUBA, which is the same conclusion I came to before I had Sam, and you see? You see how this is all very messy.
But still. I hope there are two. I hope we are that lucky.
*Indigo Girls. OH YES I DID. It’s like 1993 up in here!
July 25th, 2010
HA! Well, I don’t feel like such a dirty bird anymore. Truth is, I’ve washed my bathmats … twice? Three times? since we moved here, which was May 1. So … well, that’s less than some of you, more often than others, and honestly, I never spent much time thinking about DRIED PEE DUST, as so many of you have, and … dried pee dust? For real?
Now, I am sensitive to the pee molecule. I will never, and I mean NEVER, have a toilet seat made of anything that is not hard, non-porous, and able to be disinfected with a swipe of the product of your choice. This means nothing squashy, nothing fabric, and for the love of the baby Jesus, no FUR. Adam’s aunt has a squashy, furry toilet seat and I REFUSE to sit on it, because I AM SORRY. FUR HAS PEE. MUCH PEE. AND PROBABLY POOP TOO.
But bathmats … well, I don’t know. Mine are rubber-backed, and I just wash and dry them, which, I am told, could cause my entire house to either smell like rubber OR spontaneously combust, so if I disappear one day, it’s because I blew us all up washing out some stupid pee molecules in the damn machine. The news will simply report an explosion, but you’ll all know the real story.
ANYWAY, so yes, Sunny got her ass kicked by the neighbor’s dog on Friday night, and it was dark and stormy and we were on our FOURTH walk of the evening, because for a dog who likes to blow the contents of her but out on a semi-regular basis, sometimes she is just so goddamn PICKY about WHERE this assplosion happens, and I’m wondering how it’s possible that our floor is acceptable, but when she goes outside, it has to be in the PRECISE PIECE OF GRASS she’s been seeking for twentysomething minutes.
So there we are, trudging through a lightning storm, while I’m FREAKING OUT, because I am afraid of lightning and thunder, and I really believe that I’m going to be struck down and killed by my bra which is, for the record, the reason I no longer wear underwire, no matter HOW Braless African Villager these puppies get after nursing, and I’m sorry, where was I? OH YES — this … this THING just shot out of nowhere and ATE HER and SHOOK HER and AH! AH! AH! I was yelling AHHHHH! and then AHHHHH! and “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” and THAT was really helpful, all that yelling! Because YELLING peels a dog off of another dog! And right, of course RIGHT! I was just being punked! HA HA!
The dog’s … owner? handler? came shooting out, apologizing, claiming he got off the leash, when I’m sorry, THERE WAS NO LEASH ATTACHED and it is at this point that I do NOT need to tell you we’ve had two days of bloody diarrhea, right? RIGHT?
It turns out it was a pet sitter who let the dog escape, AND it turns out the owners are lovely people who are aware of their dog’s, uh, less than friendly feature, and I’d say all’s well that end’s well (uh, they want to be friends, it seems, and I LIKED THEM), except that I still have a dog who poops copious amounts of blood and (SORRY) mucus onto the floor, and no amount of friendly neighborhood barbecues are going to fix THAT little problem, let me tell you.
Speaking of mucus, did you know that mucous is adjectival, while mucus is a noun? This is something I, an actual no-shit professional editor, learned only recently, most likely because I can count on less than one hand the amount of documents I’ve edited that feature mucus, unless you count this here blog, which includes mucus more than anyone would like. As does my life.
Bottom line, Sunny’s on a low-dose antibiotic that supposedly heals up the freaky ulcers, and if that doesn’t work, she’s going on Prozac. Yes, Prozac. YES, MY DAMN DOG.
And with that, let’s all go to our happy places, which for me is a tiny person giving me a cheesy fake smile (SHE DOES THIS FOR THE CAMERA) while playing in her plastic pool. Wearing pajamas.
Happy Tuesday! Kate’s coming today! KATE!
July 19th, 2010
Whoo! Weekend of high drama: Sunny got eaten by a dog, there’s a mysterious coconut smell in my hair, my friend Kate is coming on Tuesday and I had deadlines AGAIN and this kind of sucks but the thing is, I have a question:
How often do you wash your throw rugs? Like, the ones in bathrooms and stuff? Just curious.
(See you tomorrow!)
July 18th, 2010
Although it is old news by now, I kind of can’t believe I neglected to mention here that I fell in the pool WHILE CARRYING SAM at last week’s swim class. Oh yes. It was … well, it was what it was. The sad thing was that she was acting rather excited, and kept strolling towards the pool as though she was looking forward to dipping her wee toes in, and then! It was time to get in! I was gingerly walking down the stairs and talking her through the entry process, saying, “The water is friendly! The water is going to be a little col–” BAM! SLIP! SLIDE!
DOWN THE STAIRS. SPLASH!
Of course. The kid clung to me like a monkey for the remainder of class, her low-grade pathetic whimper a horrible constant for an entire half-hour, rising and falling with the water level over her legs. She calmed down only when presented with a tiny plastic octopus, which she clung to with the desperation of … well, a terrified child in the pool, frankly.
But you know what the worst part of it all? The fact that NO ONE IN CLASS WOULD MEET MY EYES. I have a very thick skin and am not easily offended or embarrassed, and I realize not everyone would react the same way, but if *I* was laughing about it (because what can you do?), it was supremely uncool of those to act as though they were too horrified by my behavior to even look at me because COME ON. I FELL IN THE POOL. IS RIDICULOUS. NO ONE WAS INJURED.
Megan was on vacation and Erin (the only other person I know in class) missed the whole damn thing, as she was securing a floaty on her son. She later told me she heard a splash followed by several voices of, “ARE YOU OKAY?” and I was ALONE in my absurdity. ALONE.
When someone falls, my go-to reaction is to laugh, which sometimes gets me in trouble, but again, COME ON. FALLING IS FUNNY. Entire comedy sketches are built around falling! So unless you are seriously injured, just LET YOURSELF LAUGH AT THE FALLING. A bruised ego is no reason to act like it’s so stupidly serious. IT IS NOT SERIOUS.
May this week’s class be better. I hope. For the love.
And with that, I’m off for more summer fun. I hope you guys are having as much fun as we are! You know, FALLING IN POOLS and whatnot.
*Peter Gabriel and … someone else, I can’t remember who, and I am TOO LAZY to even OPEN iTUNES, that’s how much summer fun I’m having! AM RELAXED. LEAVE ME BE.
July 14th, 2010
Hi ho! We’re … well, something. Honestly, we’re probably doing what the rest of you are doing, which is merely surviving in this brutal heat. It’s like Florida up in here, which would be fine if I were actually IN Florida, but instead, I’m in Massachusetts, where this kind of thing happens only rarely, and when it does, everyone sort of freezes like a bunch of deer in headlights, and then we bitch about it non-stop. Of course, if the opposite happens, and it is chilly and raining, which is equally possible during the summer, we whine about it like someone ate our firstborn.
We’re miserable people, I guess.
On the Boston front, I’ve been meaning to tell you that after all of that hand-wringing and worry about how I was going to HATE it here and OH, THE STRESS, I … well, as it turns out, I’m home. This is where I think I was meant to end up. For all of its annoyances and failings and frustrations, I really, really love it here. I’d forgotten just how much. It all comes down, I think, to the type of people you can relate to, who make you feel most at home. And, having spent every minute here during the first ten or so years of my adult life, these are the people I recognize the most — the ones who seem like a reflection of myself, and my general outlook.
Oh, and Boston! If you haven’t been, you need to come visit. I am constantly surprised at how lovely it is, and I can say without further qualification that it is my favorite American city, although I may be biased. Maybe.
So there’s that loop. Closed, but in a good way, although I still miss my friends like peanut butter misses jelly. And now! Random bullets!
– What the everloving EFF is going on with True Blood? Look, I’m a fan — a big one — I mean, OBVIOUSLY. But there was all this ridiculous neck-twisting and crazy, upsetting … was that sex? and werewolves with some kind of Nazi tie to vampires and … what? Friends, if *I* am frustrated and cannot, for the everloving LIFE of me, figure out what’s going on, and why any of us are supposed to care, then I fear for the future of the show. Alan Ball, you are on notice.
Speaking of True Blood, you can catch recaps that may shed some light on the subject (or not, as they are probably as confused as we are) on Smart Pop, as done by the authors of A Taste of True Blood (I’ve got episode nine!), and as always, you can catch them on Mamapop, where Kdiddy continues to kill me, season after season. (“Debbie, bless her heart, looks like Tiffany after one too many mall tours.” HA HA HAHAHAHA)
This doesn’t really help me figure out what, exactly, is going on up in here, but at least I can be enterTAINED.
– I became violently, hilariously ill en route to a barbecue this weekend at, of all places, the Natick Mall — oh, excuse me, NATICK COLLECTION, because it is fancy now that it has a Thomas Pink — Adam was dropping his laptop off at the Genius Bar and I took Sam and … oh dear. OH DEAR. And then I ran! To the bathroom! In Lord and Taylor! WHICH WAS CLOSED FOR CLEANING! But I went in anyway and … well, that poor male cleaning guy. And then! There was more! So I went to Macy’s! And my kid SLEPT THROUGH THE WHOLE THING. Apparently high-speed stroller runs through public places followed by the sounds of her mother vomiting are SOOTHING.
(I’m fine now; I think it was something I ate, although I WAS mysteriously queasy on Saturday, too. But most importantly, because I know someone will ask, and then INSIST I AM WRONG: No, I am not pregnant. If I was pregnant, I would not be telling you this story, because I know you’d be onto me with this shiznit.)
(Also, we obviously did not go to the barbecue, which pretty much sucked, but I saw my options as staying home and being miserable OR throwing up at my friend L’s house in front of all of her friends and family. I opted against public humiliation.)
— Sam is at this delightful stage where her version of playing independently means playing with a toy by herself while in my lap, preferably on the floor, although she likes to wrestle on the couch, too. This includes the water table, which means I spent most of this afternoon soaked to the skin, as she found it HILARIOUS to pour water onto herself, and by extension, me. Over and over again. I’d like to pretend I find this irritating, because OH I JUST WANT SOME SPACE!, but in reality, I think it might be my favorite thing ever.
I am acutely, painfully aware at how fast this is all going, despite the fact that she is not yet a year and a half old, and I’m writing this part down for my future self, more than anything: I know people say to appreciate every moment, because it goes so fast and one day, they’re telling you they hate you and asking you to buy tampons, for the love of God, and I have to tell you, I am. I really, really am. I DO appreciate the way her little body feels all snuggled up on mine, and how desperately she wants nothing more than to be with me, her mama.
I have a genuine hormonal reaction when my kid’s all snuggled up in my lap on the couch watching Yo Gabba Gabba (we TiVo it, because I think I’m kind of in love with DJ Lance Rock). I’m just so RELAXED, and it’s not a mental response, it is very, very physical and kind of crazy.
— Speaking of my friend L and the ill-fated barbecue that wasn’t, I was at her house the other day, and PEOPLE! She was waxing philosophical about her Shark steam mop and said (FOR REAL!) that she envisioned her Swiffer WetJet being cast aside, singing mournful tones about a woman from afar, THAT IS HOW MUCH SHE LOVES HER STEAM MOP.
And then Elizabeth wrote about HER Eureka steam mop on Style Lush, and every night, I fantasize about steaming my floors. I have not yet bought either one, but I AM FANTASIZING. A LOT.
I think this means my life is very sad, at least on paper. Very sad, indeed.
*Damien Rice. And did you notice that starting last season, True Blood started naming their episodes for songs? I THINK THEY GOT THAT FROM ME.
July 12th, 2010
Oy, so OY. Many of you know this thanks to Twitter, but … oh man. Sunny. MAN. I didn’t know they were such high strung little beings, I really didn’t. And you know, all those people who tell you that having a dog is NOTHING like having a baby, let me just say that my dog has been exactly like a child, when it comes to the ass-pain factor. In the last six months, I’ve had more than one sleepless night thanks to the little
shit darling, and look, I’m down with my kid pulling this stuff, but my dog is a grown-up. A GROWN-UP. For goodness’ sake, she’s 34 in dog years! She’s MY AGE. The prime of her life!
Without killing you with detail, she had some bloody, uh, stuff, the other night. Then, suddenly it was all blood, and my entryway looked like a small family of rabbits was murdered and then stealthily eaten in their entirety by some kind of predator. At that point, I realized that perhaps the emergency vet might be a good idea, because, well, that’s not normal. It was decided that I would go, because I am totally not grossed out by anything, as it turns out, even copious amounts of blood shooting from my dog’s ass. Even when it gets on my HANDS, for chrissake, it seems I just CARRY ON.
It’s good to learn about yourself, I think.
The vet is in Waltham, which is a large-ish town that is both nice in areas and SO COMPLETELY SKETCHY in others (not unlike the town where I reside, frankly), and while I was thrilled to find out I was in the mostly un-sketchy area of Waltham, I was NOT thrilled to find out that even if an emergency vet clinic is located next to David Ortiz’s house in tony Weston, there will be the sketchiest people you’ve ever seen in your life in there. My GOD, people. There was yelling! Hysteria! BLOOD! Dog blood! Scary people looking VERY ANGRY and like they’re about to cut a bitch! A totally thuggy and terrifying bald white dude who looked like he was THISCLOSE to joining the nearest Nazi organization, if his tattoos were any indication, was in with his girlfriend, her mother and their (oh I am sorry to say this, as I hate stereotyping dogs) pit bull, who had, as it turned out, bitten his fourth victim. Police were involved. Euthanasia was recommended.
WAILING ENSUED. At one point, the girlfriend ran out of the clinic screaming, “BABY MURDERERS!” which, when you think about it, is a bit ironic considering that it was HER dog who bit a kid and … well, there’s no use nitpicking now, is there? Two other dogs came in, one bleeding, one having a seizure, and by this point, Sunny had bled all over the floor and OH, I WAS DONE. SO DONE. What started out feeling like a little kid-free vacation (how sad that a waiting room now holds allure) was quickly turning into a bloody nightmare, and seriously, who expects this at an emergency vet?
Oh, well, as it turns out, apparently everyone knows that they’re scary but me. Lesson learned.
The net/net of all this is that my dog, MY DOG, has stress-induced ulcerative colitis. And while I’m ready to admit that an interstate move is probably stressful on a dog, I am not yet ready to fully grasp how I am supposed to reduce the stress of this dog’s life, which is what the vet tasked us with. Come on. OH COME ON.
Would the lady of the house desire a manicure? Would she prefer fresh beef instead of kibble?
Seriously, people. Seriously! What am I to do? What kind of DOG gets … colitis? FROM STRESS.
I … I’m lost here. And yet, I also feel terrible for Sunny, getting herself worked up into such a state that she just POOPS BLOOD. It’s the lawnmowing that really does her in, is the thing. And yet, short of getting blackout shades on all the doors and windows, I cannot shield her from this reality. REALITY IS HARD, SUNNY. GRASS GROWS.
In other news, swimming lessons for Sam went reasonably well, despite all of my anxiety — we were at a low-grade whimper throughout, but there was no all-out screaming, and for that, I am grateful, and consider it a rousing success.
Gym class, however, took a terrible turn for the worse, when a Russian newcomer spied Sam’s toddler-walk, declared her pigeon-toed, and announced in a heavy accent that “She vill neet leck bresses! From HEEP TO VAIST! That child EES PEEJUN-TOAD! Is VEDDY VEDDY DANGERUSS!”
And then she kind of left. Which was awesome. Thanks, angry Russian Gym Grandmother! We’re all over that shit!
(Except not really, because Sam just learned to walk two months ago, and this is totally normal and FOR THE LOVE, LADY. FOR THE LOVE.)
July 7th, 2010