Middle-Aged, Tattooed White Trash

Next week will mark 27 years since my husband asked me out on our first date, and I'm sure I'll write about that story soon. It was really sweet, and tied together a bewildering assortment of small-town pitfalls that are hard to believe. Today I'm thinking about some of the slightly creepy "mind-reading" or "bizarre coincidences" that emphasize the almost supernatural mental communication that happens when you're that close to someone.

For example, one night around a year or so ago, I was getting ready for bed. Every night I apply a thick coat of Blistex to my lips, because they tend to get all lizardy if I don't. You're already aware that I have lots of big, hairy dogs. I turned out the light and settled into my mound of pillows. Tom was nearly asleep, thanks to his ability to go from fully awake to snoring loudly in about eleven seconds. Perturbed by something I'd thought frequently but never mentioned out loud, I asked, "Know what I hate?" Without missing a beat or even fully waking up, Tom said, "Dog hair in your Blistex." Bingo. Freaky.

Last night I was driving home from work and thought, "Hey, I've mentioned my tattoos, but haven't really said that much about them. That'd be a good blog. Some humorous angles there to explore." (Upon proofreading, not as many as I had anticipated. Sorry!) I began mentally composing bits of the planned blog, hoping I didn't forget too many of the good parts before I got a chance to actually put fingers to keyboard. (Which did not happen last night because Tom spent the evening monopolizing the laptop playing online poker, in preparation for our upcoming Vegas trip.)

I got home, and Tom was lying on the bed watching TV. I went in to change from semi-furry work clothes to extremely furry non-work clothes. As I was doing so, Tom said, "Hey, you ruined one of my tire tech's day today." Since I don't really know any of his employees, and hadn't ventured into his store in several weeks, this seemed odd.

"Oh, really? How'd I do that?" I was anticipating the heady rush of discovering my previously unknown ability to wreak havoc on the lives of men from a great distance. That'd be cool.

He proceeded to tell me that this particular tire tech had been talking about getting a tattoo, and he was quite excited about the design he'd chosen. He was describing it in great detail, and had a picture of the planned ink job. He was saying it was really awesome, from the book "Angels & Demons" by Dan Brown (an earlier title by the author of The DaVinci Code). He got up to the part about how it looked the same right-side-up as it did upside-down, and Tom said, "Yeah, it's an ambigram."

This stopped the guy in his tracks. Most people haven't heard of ambigrams. The one he was so excited about was the Illuminati Diamond, and says Earth Air Fire Water, and does in fact look the same whether you're upright or inverted. Tom informed him that he was quite familiar with the design, because his wife has that very tattoo on her right calf.

Bummer. Most tattoo-getters enjoy having a unique design, knowing that nobody else has that same image. I'd totally blown this guy's Grand Plan. I had done so, unwittingly, six years ago when I got the Illuminati Diamond as my first tattoo. Hee hee hee! I'm really glad he and Tom had that discussion, because had he gotten that particular tattoo, I'd have been seriously pissed. I imagine after The DaVinci Code became so popular and people went back to read Angels & Demons, a lot of them might have gotten an Illuminati Diamond tattoo, but I don't know any of them, and I don't want to. If you know of anyone, please do not tell me.

Which brings me to the actual topic of the day. See, today's blog would have been much shorter if I hadn't had to relate the story of the strange coincidence of Tom sharing that particular conversation right after I'd decided to write about my tattoos! Brevity is obviously not one of my strong points anyway. Some people complain that my blogs are too long, but hey, my blog, my rules. Deal with it.

I first contemplated a tattoo when I was in my 20s and working at the library in Indianapolis. There was a patron that I found pretty fascinating. She was very Wiccan and had tattoos and a pierced eyebrow, which wasn't as common back in the early 90s as it is now, and something about that called to my inner nonconformist. I designed a complex crest that involved a book, a rose, and crossed checkered flags, as well as my husband's and son's initials. Way impractical. I know now it would have had to be about a foot across for any of the details to be clear.

But at that time of my life, I was extremely overweight, headed straight for morbid obesity, and I didn't really like my body enough to feel like decorating it. Fast forward to 2002, and five months after my gastric bypass surgery. I was still several months from reaching my goal weight, but I'd lost what felt like a ton, and I was finally willing to show off bits of my body. At least my calf.

I'd recently read Angels & Demons (years before Brown wrote the popular DaVinci Code). In fact, he and I had been on the same email list for a while, and had frequently exchanged emails while he was writing Digital Fortress. Yeah, shoulda stayed in touch with that guy! I remember reading Angels & Demons while floating in my pool, and I loved the ambigrams featured in the book. Being of Pagan nature, the Illuminati Diamond, incorporating the names of the elements, really appealed to me.

I checked a copy out of the library again and made a copy of the Diamond. Off I went to Bear Nasty Tattoos. I had no good way to select a tattoo shop, other than a vet tech where I worked at the time had some paw prints tattooed on her wrist, and had gotten it done at Bear Nasty. Since she didn't appear to have hepatitis or be in other way damaged or traumatized, I figured that was good enough for me. We added some flowery vines around the Diamond, rounding the overall shape of the tattoo. I loved it, and another tattoo addict was born.

Two things. One: I got my tattoo a few weeks before my son got his first one. This was not part of the plan, but I am pleased that I got mine first. Don't want to be 37 and appear to be copying the 18 year old son. Two: Hell yes it hurt! For some reason, those who don't have tattoos seem to be required to ask that question. Ever been stung by a bee? OK, now imagine a bee sting that goes on for anywhere from 30 minutes to 4 hours. Fortunately, after about 10 minutes your nerve endings and brain enter into a pact to stop telling you that it still hurts. Totally worth it, though.

Tattoos seem to be a regional phenomenon. Back home in northern West Virginia, only "certain types of people" have tattoos. (Bikers, druggies, or sluts, apparently) Here, everybody has them. Where I work now, every single employee has at least one. Of course we're all kind of strange, but still. Even my super-delicious but slightly conservative (and needle-hating) husband has one now! The added benefit of getting a tattoo is that I knew my mother-in-law would absolutely not approve, and I take a strange delight in rattling her cage. I could almost hear her thinking, trying to figure out which of the three "certain types" I might be (Clue: The leading contender was probably Door #3, Monty). In the photo above, I just realized that since we didn't have a digital camera at the time, I think I got the image by actually laying my leg on our scanner. Funny. See? Ambigram! Earth Air Fire Water! Now either stand on your head or turn your monitor upside down (your choice), and it still says the same thing!

Having gotten one tattoo, I couldn't wait to get another one! Oh, but what to get? I wasn't going to go just choose a stock flash image off the tattoo shop wall. This is my body, which I no longer totally hate (well, maybe I still hate parts of it... topic for another day), and my body art must be unique!

Then one night I had a dream. I was in the trailer where I grew up, and throughout the house and yard there were all these flowering bushes. Around each bush was a cloud of hummingbirds. They ranged in size from a honeybee to a sparrow. I was walking around gently scooping them up in my cupped hands, admiring them, then watching as they flitted away. I have no idea what it all meant, but I woke up in a great mood, feeling optimistic and happy. OK, the next tattoo will be a hummingbird, but it has to be special. I spent some time looking for a good hummingbird picture online, with no success. None of them were quite right. Then one day I was in the bathroom at work, sitting there and not thinking of hummingbirds at all, and there was a huge stack of Kleenex boxes on the shelf in front of me. Lo, and behold, they were covered with pretty, pretty hummingbirds. I cut one off the box, made a color copy, and started modifying. I changed the colors, and lengthened the wings and tail feathers. This time I chose the tattoo shop where my son had gotten his first tattoo a month or so before, Cloud Nine. Scotty, who was from then on "my tattoo guy," did a lovely job, and Zephyr the Hummingbird took up residence on my upper left chest. He's sort of a totem.

It was about ten months before I went back for more ink. I wanted something Celtic. I know butterflies are a common "chick tattoo," and I'm not really a butterfly sort of girly-girl, but they are also a symbol of change. To me, they represented my metamorphosis from giant fatty to slender goddess. I drew the shape I wanted, and figured out a pattern of Celtic knots that fit nicely within the wings. I went to a paint store to get color samples to show Scotty, so he could get the shades just right. It turned out so well that I decided my little butterfly looked all lonely there on my lower back, so I designed two Celtic flares to go on either side of him, and had them done a few weeks later.

Did you know that those lower back tattoos are often referred to as a "tramp stamp?" I didn't. Even though I know it now, I'd still get the tattoo. I'm defiant that way.

(I don't really have a good picture of that one... something about having a camera that close to my butt, I guess! It's mostly in purple, blue and green. You can also see part of a later tattoo up in the middle of my back.)

Oh, I had it bad now. There were still some areas of tattoo-able flesh available, demanding adornment.

As a kid, I loved violets. I used to go into the fields and a small clearing in the woods, and pick them by the fistfuls. (No, I did not have many friends.) I'd fill every vase, glass and bottle in the house with the lovely purple blooms. Violets make me think of my peaceful childhood. I also have a knack for finding four-leaf clovers, and since I'd been going through a rough emotional patch, I decided to anchor my violet design with a much-needed bit of good luck. Off I went to Scotty, who refined my design a bit so it would translate to ink on skin, and I think it's my favorite tattoo of all. It encircles my left ankle and trails a bit down the top of my foot, and almost feels like floral jewelry.

I think it was another year before I got my last (so far) tattoo. I needed something doggish, and had seen a yin-yang that had wolf paws in it instead of dots. Removing the claw-print part made the wolf prints into dog paws, and I added some Celtic sun rays around it. By now Scotty had (inconsiderately) moved to a shop in St. Cloud, and I had to make the 40-minute drive there so he could do the honors. Tattoo artists are every bit as important as hair-highlighters, and you don't let just anybody near your bare skin with an electric device full of buzzy, ink-bearing needles. My son was going to school in St. Cloud at the time (and had quite a bit of Scotty's work adorning his forearms), so he came to keep me company through the 4-hour job. He took pictures and even video clips of the process! Ah, a mother-son bonding experience! Strange, maybe, but if you knew me and The Boy, you'd see it was highly fitting. The design is about 6 inches across, and is right between my shoulder blades.

And that's it! It's been almost three years since I got that one, and I'd really love another. The problem is that I am about out of good spots to put another tattoo. My back is pretty much done, with the lower back butterfly and the yin-yang between my shoulder blades. I think the best spots left are the inside of my right calf, or something very small way up on my right shoulder. I'd like something in remembrance of my Ripley, or something with my name and my husband's, maybe an ambigram if I can find someone to design it.

I don't know what took me so long to tell my tattoo tales! Maybe because it's winter and I don't see much of them. In the summer, when I wear a lot of camisole tops, cute-cute high heeled sandals, and low-rise capri pants, they're all visible, and I like when people stop me to comment on them. Tattoo people love to compare ink! The tricky part is finding a top that I can keep tugged low enough in front to cover my tummy completely, but which will ride up a tiny bit in the back so the butterfly gets some fresh air.

I'm so glad I didn't get any tattoos when I was a teenager. I'm sure I'd have gotten something wildly inappropriate, the name of some 80s band or an idiot boyfriend. Before the advent of laser tattoo removal, I'd have had to resort to a cheese grater to remove the offending design, and that would have undoubtedly hurt way more than the original tattoo.

Plus, had I gotten tattoos during my slender teenage years, then ballooned to twice my size (which I did), any tattoos I got would have been rendered absurd by the stretching of vast quantities of my skin. Remember using Silly Putty to take imprints of comics in the Sunday paper, then stretching them into ridiculously distorted shapes? That would've been the fate of any pre-fat body art I might have had.

By waiting until I was 37, I was able to choose designs that have meaning for me, and are likely to continue to have meaning as the years pass. At least I hope they do, because I can't afford to have them removed by a laser, but I do have a cheese grater.

Do NOT Mess With My Bookshelves!

I had a bit of a cyber-meltdown yesterday.

When I arrive at work each morning, I set up my laptop, open our practice management program, and then check the clinic email, my various emails, and my hometown online newspaper. Yesterday, I needed to venture out of my comfy office and spend the morning up in the clinic tracking and monitoring appointment flow. I’m trying to determine how the same staff that can rally and totally kick butt on a busy day can forget how to communicate or complete tasks efficiently on a day that is much less busy. Naturally, I was unable to uncover the answer, because everyone did a perfectly wonderful job with a moderately full schedule. It was neither busy enough nor slow enough to reach any sort of conclusion. I did, however, manage to read two issues of Animal Wellness magazine.

Upon completion of my semi-productive morning, I retreated to my office for my lunch break. My trusty laptop was waiting patiently, displaying the screen saver slide show of my dog pictures interspersed with ones of Cross Canadian Ragweed. (Mmmmmm, Cody…!) I checked my email and saw that I had a friend request for my Goodreads.com page. This seemed odd, because the person only had one book on his list, and it was nothing that I would read. I clicked on the “approve or deny” link, and instead of taking me to my Goodreads profile, it brought up a screen that said “Lori’s profile is set to private.” News to me. I purposely set my profile as public so I can meet other readers who enjoy the same types of books as I do. The welcome message at the top of the page seemed convinced that my name was Ilya. Puzzling.

I clicked “sign out,” since none of my personalities is called Ilya. Then I clicked on “sign back in,” and someone else’s email address automatically loaded into the sign in screen. Goodreads now believed I was Dave. Ooooookay. I went back to the sign in screen again. Now I am Kate. Since I am not, in fact, Kate, I began to get a trifle concerned. Repeat process (numerous times), and I am Olga, then Steve, then Robert, then Terresya. Holy Identity Crisis, Batman. I am now moving rapidly from concerned to alarmed, because I realize that while Goodreads thought I was Dianne (or any of my other alleged identities), I had full access to that account! I could add, edit or delete books, change reviews, change profile settings, add or remove friends, or even delete the entire page! I could have deleted a hundred people’s pages if I weren’t the honest, book-loving person I am.

Alarm gave way to full-fledged distress when I realized that countless random people had access to my account! This was Not Acceptable. Worse than that, it was Completely Unthinkable!

For at least a dozen years, I kept a book journal with authors, titles and brief descriptions of everything I read. I stopped two years ago because, as with most things, I tended to put it off until the last minute, leaving me digging through my book bag, under countless old date due slips, to locate the journal and record ten books as I sorted them on a table at the library before I could return any of the books. It got tiresome. Goodreads provides me, essentially, an online book journal. Since I’m pretty much always online, I’m much better about recording them, and I can quickly type up a full review rather than a hand-scrawled one-sentence summary. Even better, it gives me a way to share and compare books with friends.

To have someone tamper with my carefully recorded books, ratings and reviews would seriously piss me off. I have all my “bookshelves,” where I have lovingly sorted books into “to read,” “currently reading,” “read,” “fantasy,” “mystery - dog,” “vampire,” “just plain creepy,” etc. To have some clueless stranger messing with that is no better than having them dog-ear pages on my actual books, crack the spines, get cooties and boogers on the pages, or commit even worse atrocities against the written word.

I sent a series of increasingly agitated emails to Rachel (aka my son’s wonderful girlfriend, aka the friend who introduced me to Goodreads, aka my grand-dog’s mama… and I’m not sure which one of those “aka-s” is the most significant), who alerted me to the fact that there were business books showing up on my book list. I rarely read non-fiction, and if I do it will be about dogs, dog people, or memoirs by hilarious individuals who make me snort Diet Dr. Pepper out my nose. You know: GOOD books. Certainly not a business book, no matter how much Dr. Vet-Friend One tries to encourage me to do so.

At one point, by deleting someone’s email address that was automatically showing up in the sign in screen, I entered mine and was briefly signed in as myself. I saw these impostor books on my shelf, but the first time I clicked on anything (“edit,” “home,” anything!) Goodreads decided I was once again someone else. I couldn’t access anything about my account, but sure could access everybody else’s!

Panic time. Frantic email to Goodreads support staff is now in order.

“What's going on there today???? I got a friend request that I don't think is meant for me. Also, every time I click on goodreads, it signs me in automatically as other people! I've been Ilya, Betsy, Dave, Brian, Robert, Theresya, and about ten other people, and I have full access to these accounts! So who has access to mine??? I can't sign in normally, it assumes I'm someone else. I can't sign them out and sign in as myself, either! Help!”

Their reply followed:

“We tried to upgrade some software this morning, and I think this happened to everyone for about 5 minutes. We then flushed the sessions and rolled back the upgrade so it should be fine now. Sorry for the scare!
sincerely,
Otis”

No, Otis, I’m sorry, it is most definitely NOT fine now! And, honestly, I don’t think you sounded all that sincere. Clearly you do not understand the severity of the problem, and that it must be resolved immediately. I am just not hearing any sense of urgency in your simplistic, too-perky techno-nerdy reply.

I sent a few more emails, as my panic grew, because every time I tried to figure out what was going on, I discovered some new horror. Rachel tried to calm me down, but it wasn’t working. I even removed the Goodreads link from the Fermented Fur page, because doG forbid that someone would click it and get the impression that I read business books! Or that my name is Olga. Geez, I have a reputation (of sorts) to maintain, here!

I finally got another “reply,” only it wasn’t for me. Apparently someone named Kimley sent Goodreads an email describing the same experience that I was having (though admittedly in a less frantic manner). But since she was logged in as ME when she sent it, I got HER reply. Guess that did her a lot of good. Her reply from Otis, while otherwise word for word the same as mine, had one additional tidbit of information. He suggested that she try restarting her browser.

Oh.

Why the hell didn’t Mr. Otis Goodreads suggest that to me, like a half hour ago? Because it was a really helpful suggestion. It did, in fact, work. Of course it was so simple that it never occurred to me, because I went straight from rational and logical problem solving to hysterical damage control with no stops in between. I come in to my office, set up my computer, open the day’s required number of browser windows (three), as well as my practice management program and Windows Media Player (a girl’s gotta have her Ragweed), and get on with my day.

I spent the next fifteen minutes (logged in as my very own self) purging unwanted icky business books from my lovely, fiction-filled shelves, resetting my profile to public, and changing my password.

At last, crisis averted. I was able to post my informative review on “Dog Days,” (three out of five stars) and announce that I am currently reading “Like a Charm,” a paranormal story featuring a young librarian who can see and speak with ghosts in the small town of Sweet, Texas.

The cyber-world is once again safe for bookworms. No thanks to Otis.

Is There Any Such Thing As Too Many Dogs?

Despite my utter lack of social skills, I am still able to carry on a conversation on precisely three topics. These are books, auto racing, and dogs. It’s hard to find somebody “doggier” than I am, and once I start talking about dogs, I do tend to go on at considerable length. But since most of the world is less dog-crazy than I am, this often results in my having the same baffling conversations over and over.

When people find out that I have “lots of dogs,” (translation, more than they do, and they have one) they almost always say, “Wow, you must have a huge house!” I reply that no, I just have a tiny 1970s-era split level, and I’ve lived in apartments with more square footage. I add that it wouldn’t matter if I had a sprawling 8000 square foot mansion, because the dogs are going to be in whichever room I’m in anyway. Might as well live in a garden shed. Meanwhile, my mind is busy wondering, “Do people really determine how many pets they’ll have by how big their house is?” It bothers me on a lot of levels to know that some people probably do.

Another question that I get far more often than I ever would have thought, but which I’ve now come to expect is, “In the house???” Um, yeah. In the actual house. On my couch, on my bed, under my feet, on my lap (whether they fit or not, which they don’t), chin resting on the edge of the tub while I’m taking a bath, and parading contentedly along behind me every time I get off the couch. Where the hell else would they be? I adore them and want them near me.

I’m not sure if this next comment says more about my dog-mania or my housekeeping skills (or lack thereof). I announce the quantity and breeds of the dogs that live in my house, and the less-dog-enamored person gasps, “Oh my goodness! You must vacuum all the time!” No, I don’t. Fortunately, being a hermit and living 1000 miles away from the nearest relative means not a lot of drop-in visitors. (Confidentially, even if I didn’t have dogs I wouldn’t want people dropping by all the time.) Mainly, though, I just don’t freak out about dog hair. Doesn’t bother me. One or the other of us vacuums maybe once a week on the average. More often if one of the dogs is currently blowing giant cottony wads of coat. Anyone with this many dogs and who loves them as absolutely as I do learns to see dog hair as a positive addition rather than something to be ashamed of. Dog hair can be insulation during the cold Minnesota winter, a unique decorator accent, a fashion accessory, and frequently a condiment. I once saw a salt shaker set that had three pieces labeled “Salt,” “Pepper,” and “Dog Hair.” I wish I’d bought it! Somehow, I can open a can of soup, and before I get it poured in a bowl there are several long golden-or-Pyr hairs floating in it. Protein, right? I long ago decided it’s not worth worrying about. (People hair, on the other hand, grosses me out. Go figure.) People also never ask me to bring things to potluck dinners, which is fine with me since I don’t actually cook. Or enjoy potluck dinners.

The one comment that really gets me cranky, though, is anything indicating that the speaker feels I have “too many dogs.” Such as when they say, “You have too many dogs.” Um, according to whom, and what the hell business is it of yours??? What, exactly, does “too many dogs” mean, anyway? First of all, at this moment I have four dogs. One of them is currently attempting to nudge my laptop from its customary “laptop” location so he can put his big white (beautiful) head on my lap in its place, so as to better receive numerous ear-skritches. (OK, Brody, in a few minutes. I have to proof-read.) I have had as many as seven dogs at a time. At one point, we had three cocker spaniels and four golden retrievers. We again had seven dogs when Porsche the cocker and Sassafras the golden were no longer with us, and Gulliver and Ozark (Great Pyrenees mixes… Ozark is still with the pack) joined us.

I decided that rather than counting dogs, I would measure how many pounds of dog I had. In the three-cocker, four-golden era, I’d say we had about 400 pounds of dog. When it was two cockers, three goldens and two Pyr mixes, it was more like 500 pounds. We once had only five dogs, consisting of two “normal” goldens, two Pyr mixes, and Ruxpin the giant oversize golden, also adding up to very nearly 500 doggie-pounds. More bark for your buck, or something like that. Right now, with Sprocket and Darwin (goldens), Brody (Pyr) and Ozark (Pyr mix) we’re at 345 pounds. Barely anything at all! A tiny, minuscule quantity of canine poundage. In fact, I think I need to fatten these ones up, or go get a few more right now!

The definition of “too many dogs” clearly eludes me. How do you know? Is it when you can’t afford to feed them? No trouble there. I not only feed them, but due to my nifty job and the resulting discounts and freebies (thank you, manufacturer sales programs!), as well as my willingness to make my own raw food when not overcome with laziness, I feed them very, very well. My dogs probably eat better than your kids. I know they eat better than I do.

Is it when you can’t keep up with their grooming or afford to pay someone to do it for you? Again, I’ve got that covered. I do most of their routine grooming myself, and even did that when I had cockers and had to sit on the floor with clippers until I couldn’t feel my legs and had a back shaped like a question mark. My dogs might occasionally look a bit scruffy in between groomings, but overall they are exceptionally well cared-for. The furriest of the boys get to go see Tara at Little Suzie’s a few times a year for help with the undercoat. Most of the people who have the nerve to tell me I have too many dogs probably spend more on fancy coffee than I do on my dogs’ grooming.

Maybe it’s when you can’t afford the necessary veterinary care. Let me say this veeeerrrrrry slooooooowly. I... manage… a… holistic… veterinary… practice. I’ve been in this business for 10 years. Two of my best friends in the world are the two vets who own the practice that I manage. Veterinary care is not a problem.

But what it comes down to is this: It’s nobody’s damned business how many dogs I have. And by the way, Dr. Vet-Friend One has twice as many dogs as I do, plus about a dozen cats, some sheep, three horses, chickens and geese (I think that’s it, but I’m never sure) and has no more property or any larger a house than I do. She might, perhaps, be a bad influence. Dr. Vet-Friend Two has only three dogs, but they are all Great Danes, so we’re probably pretty close in a pound-for-pound comparison.

Here’s the thing. I don’t go on a lot of fancy vacations. I don’t have a closet full of expensive clothes and shoes. I couldn’t care less about jewelry (I just lose it anyway). I don’t go out to eat three times a week. I don’t have three, four, or five children (I have one, who is all grown up and doing very well). I don’t have a boat or an expensive new car, and I don’t collect antiques or anything of that sort. I have dogs.

Anything else I have, the dogs are more than welcome to share, because they give me a thousand times more in return. They love me all day, every day, whether I’m rich or poor, fat or thin, wearing a designer dress or fuzzy sweat pants. They make me smile when I feel like shit, and they comfort me when my heart is breaking. They listen to me when I’m spewing pure nonsense, and they’re thrilled to see me even if I’ve only been gone five minutes. They make me laugh with their goofy antics, and they make a walk in the park, a visit to the lake, or a stroll around my own back yard a magical experience. I love seeing the world through their eyes. They take a simple, pure, innocent joy in every sight, every smell, and every experience. Their unselfish nature always gives me something to strive for, and their uncorrupted link to the natural world keeps my spirit grounded.

So how could I possibly, ever, have too many dogs?

And if you say I do, I shall simply have to bite you. Because my dogs won’t. They’re better people than I am.

And now, for your dog-viewing pleasure, here are some shots of some of the dogs who have been part of our pack over the years.

Porsche, Cricket and Flash, aka "The Cockerpack." They were the first three dogs we got, between 1988 and 1991.

Our son in 1998 with the Cockerpack, and Ripley (the love of my life) and Sprocket (now our "Old Man!")

When we had four goldens (as well as the cockers): Sassafras, Ripley the love of my life, Seko (Tom's special boy) and Sprocket (still goin' strong!)

Me in January 2002, two months after my gastric bypass so I was still a little large, with (on the couch) Seko (Tom's special boy!), Sprocket (still here!), Flash, Cricket (look close, she's black, so about all you can see is her tongue), and Ripley the love of my life. On the floor are Gulliver (BEAUTIFUL Pyr/Golden mix) and Ozark (still part of our happy little pack).

I Live In Minnesota... Why?

I am not a native Minnesotan. I was born and raised in the northern panhandle of West Virginia. We got married at 18, because back in 1983 a positive pregnancy test was still a damned fine marriage proposal, and my father owned several guns. Just kidding! Dad said I did not “have to get married,” and in any case he actually liked Tom more than he liked me most of the time. We got transferred to the Cleveland area for Tom’s job when our son was only two months old. We moved once a year for a while, to Columbus and Zanesville, Ohio, then to Fort Wayne, Indiana. In 1988 we ended up in Indianapolis, and were there for eight years. This June will mark the 12^th anniversary of our relocation to Minnesota.

Whenever you mention to anyone that you live in Minnesota, you immediately get the Fargo jokes. “Yah, you betcha, real good.” Folks, for starters, Fargo is actually in North Dakota, and while some Minnesotans sound a little bit like that, the accent was greatly exaggerated in the movie. Plus, the jokes aren’t funny to actual non-Hollywood Minnesotans. They just make you look incredibly stupid. The other thing about which people feel compelled to comment is the weather. Apparently it is like the Ross Ice Shelf here year round, if you listen to non-residents. It’s OK if they believe that. It’s how we keep the riff raff from overrunning our borders and crowding up our beautiful state.

If I were to enlighten them, however, I would inform them that being pretty much smack-dab in the middle of the continent, it’s hot and humid here in the summer (those weather patterns shooting up the Plains from the Gulf States), and it’s not as cold and snowy in the winter as you think. We generally have a couple of stretches, ranging from a few days to a couple of weeks, of that nasty-ass sub-zero weather that gets reported on The Weather Channel, but mostly it’s just “winter.” We don’t even get that much snow. Back home in West Virginia, they’ve actually had more snow in recent years than we have. Our son had maybe two or three snow days in his entire junior high and high school life, and one of those was really for fog. To this day he feels he was cheated.

When comparing us to the average Minnesotan, though, I’m not sure why they ever let us across the state line. We do not hunt. We do not fish, not even “catch and release.” The catching part is remarkably difficult, and the release part is all well and good, but the fish still has a hook hole in his face. We do not own a cabin, a boat, a camper, a snowmobile or an ATV. Lacking any one of these should have been cause to deny us residency.

Minnesotans do know how to relax, though. It seems everyone but us either has a cabin “up north” or has a family member who does. (I’m thinking that my lack of social skills and hermit-like tendencies might explain my lack of cabin invitations.) Rush hour on Fridays is nonexistent in urban and suburban areas because most people take the day off so they can get started on their trip to the cabin. If Minnesotans are forced to work on Friday (because their bosses are from Iowa), they’re out of there by 2 PM. The parade of pickups and SUVs towing boats and/or campers lasts until dusk, so while rush hour is a breeze, heading north on Highway 169 or I-35 can be a challenge. Our neighborhood is completely empty on the weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day, which leaves the dogs working extra hard to find things to bark at.

Winter is only slightly different. Personally, I fail to see the purpose in sitting in a tiny shack trying to drag poor, defenseless, hungry fish through a hole in the ice. Plus, I don’t care how frozen that ice allegedly is. It’s still a lake, and if there are fish then there must also be water, and that water must be cold. I’m not taking even the slightest chance of finding that out first-hand. Many of these icehouses do have carpet, recliners, generators, space heaters and electronic devices. One thing they all have, though, is at least one cooler full of beer. Between ice fishing, snowmobiling, skiing and ice skating, Minnesotans don’t slow down much in the winter. Most of these things sound as if they involve some level of physical activity or discomfort, though, so I decline to participate despite the risk to my residency status.

At this point, I feel obligated to mention that the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul are actually considered quite cosmopolitan. They have a lot of theaters, museums, and fine dining, and are among the most literature-loving cities in the country. I love books as much as the next Minnesotan, but the other stuff (sadly) has no appeal to me. I’m such a barbarian. Or a hillbilly. I can never decide. The Cities also have an extensive skyway system to protect urbanites from the winter weather. You can literally get lost in them for hours and then forget under which building you parked your car. Do not ask me how I know this. I hate going downtown, and get lost every single time. The only time we ever risk venturing down there is when Ragweed is playing. I will risk much to bask in the Cody Canada glow.

So, what actually brought me to Minnesota? Technically, Tom’s job. He’d been working for the same automotive tire and service chain since we got married, but that company got bought out by another one, which was then in turn bought out by a Huge National Retail Chain which shall remain nameless, but it rhymes with “rears.” Life expectancy for those in his position fell to about two months, because they were bringing in management from the “parent company.” We came to hate that rears-rhyming company, and refuse to buy a stitch of clothing or a single tool or household appliance from them or any of their subsidiaries. So when a friend of his headed back to his native Minnesota to work for a similar company, we soon followed.

Truthfully, this was a move we really wanted to make. We love hiking, camping, and wildlife, and were thrilled with the prospect of living where we might see eagles, moose, wolves and bear. Thus far, we have only seen eagles, but we see them all the time. There are a couple of nesting pairs near our house, and it’s cool to be lying on a raft in the pool and have an eagle fly by a mere 20 feet over your head. We did see a bear track and some bear poop once, but that was while vacationing in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, back when we still lived in Indiana. But I know the wildlife is out there, if we could only afford enough days off work to go a bit further north and locate it.

We absolutely love the northern part of the state, and one or two trips up there a year isn’t nearly enough. We enjoy the Iron Range, the Boundary Waters, and the North Shore of Lake Superior. My moments that are filled with the most inner peace are spent sitting surrounded by woods and water, the dogs playing nearby, Tom napping in his hammock, and not a sight or sound of civilization to be found. One of these days we’ll quit our jobs and head up north with the dogs, where I will take up making mukluks and Tom will be a world famous wildlife photographer. That is the plan.

Until then, while we still have to work and attempt to pay most of the bills, at least we can see “up north” from where we are. That’s got to count for something, right? Within 3-4 hours, we can be in such a remote location that our employers and families would never be able to find us (also part of the plan). Although I guess they could just stake out veterinary clinics, and I’d be bound to show up at one of them sooner or later. I believe a disguise is in order. Ozark is going to be really pissed when I give him a perm and a poodle clip. The wolves will laugh at him, and his feelings get hurt so easily.

But that’s the price we must pay when we become part of the Wilderness Relocation Protection Program. If you’re looking for us, Google “Sven and Inga Olsen.” There are most likely only about 94 of them in Minnesota. We’re probably the only ones who will set tiger traps along the trail to our cabin, though, and not to trap tigers or any other four-legged intruders.

Lazy Winter Sunday

There must, theoretically, be a maximum state of laziness that can be achieved without lapsing into a coma, but I have yet to reach it. This is not for lack of trying. I consider each weekend a valuable research opportunity as I explore the limits of this phenomenon. Unfortunately, annoying things keep surfacing to derail my attempts. These things often include locating clean dishes on which to place the ultimate convenience food (sandwiches), straightening the bed so one or the other of us can laze about on top of the blankets all day (otherwise how would you know you weren’t asleep?), and repeated and highly resented trips to the sliding glass doors to let the dogs in and out. However, letting them out does prevent another potential interruption in my Sofa Slug Marathon - cleaning messes off the floor.

Yesterday I had planned to go to the library and then to Wal-Mart to get the makings for this week’s supply of raw food for the dogs. I did neither. As I lay on the couch, contemplating the best way to accomplish those tasks with minimum effort, I thought first about finding clothes. These needed to be relatively clean, and should, if possible, match. The matching part is somewhat optional in the winter, though, because I will be wearing a coat. Then I would have to locate my book bag, separate the library books from ones I’ve borrowed from friends, and decide which I needed to keep and which ones to return. I thought about the likely scene at Wal-Mart. It would be crawling with half the population of our small town, 80% of which would have multiple children under the age of five, and at least ¾ of those children would be screaming themselves stupid the entire time I was there. It’s like they follow me, relay-style, so that I’m never more than fifteen feet away from some kid in full tantrum mode, with tears and snot coating their blotchy little Kool-Aid stained faces. I decided to stay home.

Today promises to be even worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. I did have to do one chore that has probably already ruined the possibility of today being the Laziest Day Ever, and that was cleaning the dogs’ “Big Dog Platinum Drinkwell.” This thing holds 2½ gallons of water, has a filter, and the water continually recirculates, pouring merrily out the spout and back into the bowl, water fountain-style. The flow of water had slowed to a trickle, meaning that hair, dirt, food bits, and other assorted dog-crud was interfering with the operation of the Drinkwell. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a $70 high-tech water supply device burn out its motor, reducing it to nothing better than an ordinary water bowl, just because I was going for an All-Time Laziness Record. See, the Drinkwell was purchased to assist in my laziness quest, because regular bowls seemed to run dry about every 15 minutes, and this one only needs to be refilled about every day and a half. But occasionally the timing of its required maintenance is unfortunate.

I’m even planning my television-watching to cause minimum disruption to my day. Instead of checking for what is the best program on in each upcoming time slot, I’ve found it’s better to look for the longest uninterrupted stretch of bearable programming. That way, you don’t have to change channels as often.

I put off getting a bath, because it was too much effort to run the water and maneuver myself into the mandarin-and-lime bubbles. Then, once I got in, I stayed there reading until I was completely pruney, because it was too much effort to climb out and get dressed again.

Tom seems to be working on minimizing his activity today, too. I went in the bedroom, where he was lying on the bed reading an overdue library book, which is only still here because I was too lazy to take it back yesterday. He had some unopened mail beside him. I think he was trying to work up the energy to actually open it. Darwin had followed me (the Parade Rule) and hopped up onto the bed, knocking the mail onto the floor. Tom peered sadly over the edge of the bed.

“He knocked my papers on the floor.” Sigh.
“Yeah, he did,” I agreed, moving only my eyes to verify this fact.
“He’s a retriever,” Tom commented, hopefully.
I pondered this for a moment, leaning heavily on the bed. “No, they only retrieve stuff that other people relocate. It doesn’t count if he moved it himself.”

Knowing Darwin was not about to have a Lassie Moment, I sluggishly bent and retrieved the scattered mail. Thoroughly exhausted, I returned to the couch. Maybe I really should reconsider my ban on helper monkeys.

Darwin was antsy, but I didn’t want to put him out just then. If he decided to get caught in his endless car-chasing loop, I totally did not want to have to suit up and go out and attempt to apprehend and return the rambunctious retriever to the house.

Plus, he tore a toenail yesterday, which didn’t surprise me a bit. I noticed some spots of blood on the kitchen floor, and naturally I first checked myself for injuries. This was completely unnecessary, since I’m still not drinking and if I’d suffered a blood-producing wound, I certainly would have noticed. But old habits die hard, I suppose.

After determining that I was not the source of the blood, I checked Darwin. I had been a bit concerned about the fence-running and potential foot damage, because he’s basically running on a sheet of ice that is full of jaggedy divots and ruts, and he’s zipping through there at high speed with frequent sudden changes of direction. Dog toenails seem to function a lot like the studs in snow tires, but are apparently not as durable.

The D-Dog had torn the outside nail on his left front paw, and anyone who has ever clipped a dog’s nail too short knows they bleed like hell. Some peroxide (which he didn’t enjoy) and some stop-bleeding stuff, and he was fine. But first thing this morning, out there running the fence, he got it bleeding again, so I’m trying to keep him in as much as possible. He was pacing and fussing, and I was so not moving just then. I rolled my eyes in his direction, pointed weakly with one finger, and ordered, “You. Be less of an ass pain.” That worked for about ten minutes, but probably because I had just finished a bologna sandwich and still had crumbs on my shirt, which served as a temporary distraction while he figured out if I actually had more sandwich hidden upon my person.

When he finally did have to go out, so as to avoid the dreaded Lake Darwin appearing anywhere inside the house, I did something almost smart. It was a compromise, though, because while it did take more effort than just opening the door and letting him take off, it also eliminated the possibility that I’d have to go out and fetch him after he’d barked himself all foamy-muzzled and bloody-footed. I found an old 30-foot cotton training line in the laundry room, and went out with him. He got to do what needed to be done, could run around a bit, enjoyed dragging the line back and forth in front of Brody and repeatedly ensnaring his feet, but he couldn’t head for the fence, and had to come in when I was tired (which was about three minutes).

Oh, and I also had to clean Ozark’s rancid ear. I’ve been treating it for a week, and it was time to clean all the brown goop that has been oozing out. I don’t mind doing this, because it is an activity closely related to picking. But on a scale of 1-10 on the “Things I Want to Do Today” scale, Ozark rated the ear cleaning at -43. He immediately went outside afterwards and rubbed his de-gunked ear in the snow, and since he came back in has been lying by the aquarium casting baleful glances in my direction. I think I’m supposed to feel guilty. I don’t.

I was planning to groom Ozark today, too, having borrowed a Furminator from a golden-friend, but I am wearing a velour track suit and changing would be far too much trouble. Not to mention the actual grooming and resulting clean-up.

That’s it. I’m done. I started a really good book last night, an urban fantasy called “Dog Days” by John Levitt. There’s also some good stuff on TV about the coming End of Days according to the ancient Mayan calendar, which will be December 21, 2012. I actually give this theory a lot more credence than any of the other Doomsday Prophesies I’ve ever heard. Those ancient Mayans knew an awful lot of stuff they shouldn’t have been able to know, and combined with an almost identical prediction in the I Ching, I’m thinking if there’s anything I really want to do, I should take care of it by around September 2012, just to be on the safe side.

The really hilarious thing was that right in the middle of this program a commercial came on for Hom Furniture, offering no interest and no payments till 2012. Sounds like a hell of a deal, if you ask me, as long as life as we know it ends on schedule.

Now, before all this typing totally blows the laziness curve for today, I’m going back to the couch. Tom has golf on, and there’s no more lethargic, nap-inducing game on the planet.

Not Drinking Not Hard?

This marks Day 16 of my alcohol-free existence. I haven’t mentioned the tally lately because I’ve started to feel like some kind of fraud. No, not because I’ve been circumventing my abstinence by making meals with heavy doses of undiluted alcohol or sneaking nips of Tom’s Jack Daniels for “medicinal purposes.” (Neither of which have I ever done.) I have not had one single molecule of alcohol since I woke to find the majority of my delightfully-highlighted hair matted to the side of my head by copious amounts of my own blood.

When I tout my amazing accomplishment of staying sober, it seems as if it should have actually been a challenge, which thus far has not been the case. In reading stories of other people’s alcoholism, they frequently say that each and every day is a constant battle to resist temptation, and I have not even come close to having a drink. Saying that I’ve somehow avoided some great danger feels disingenuous. It’s like the Minnesota Bureau of Tourism proudly promoting the stunning lack of shark attacks here. Not exactly in the high-risk zone, you know?

The only slight temptation I’ve faced was last weekend when we went out to lunch. Walking by the bar, I felt a faint tug in the direction of the House Merlot, but it was as easy to brush off as a cigarette ash on my jacket. (Not the kind that’s still burning and making yet another burn-hole in my salmon-colored micro suede zip-up hoodie. Those are significantly more challenging.) The disappointment over not having that wine was comparable to forgoing an appetizer because you are short on time or cash. Yeah, for a second you think how much you’d have enjoyed that bruschetta, but in the scheme of things it’s so inconsequential that it barely registers.

I know I will face tougher challenges. Being someone with a high degree of social anxiety, any sort of human interaction has always been difficult. I am aware that I have used alcohol to mask my nervousness so that I might resemble a normal human being in these (supposedly) nonthreatening situations. However, I never mastered the skill of drinking merely to the point of attaining social functionality. I always had one more drink than anyone else present, and instead of matching their normal level of relaxed interaction, I became the one who talked too loudly, shared a bit too much, and was somewhat unsteady on her spiky-heeled boots when it came time to depart.

Two other potential challenges are vacations and concerts. Next month I will be facing both of these simultaneously. It’s easy to grant yourself permission to drink on vacation, because we all know that vacations technically exist outside the boundaries of reality. Especially in Las Vegas. That place is one giant, never-ending party. One’s blood alcohol probably jumps to 0.05 merely by getting off the plane.

On our second night there we will be attending a Styx concert at the House of Blues. No, I am not a “stuck in the 80s” girl, of either the Preppie or Valley Girl variety. But Styx was the first concert I ever attended, for my 13^th birthday back in 1978. I also saw them last year when I was in Vegas, as they were the “free concert event” sponsored by a veterinary pharmaceutical company for conference attendees. I managed, in my stealthy way, to slither through the crowd to the side of the stage, and was rewarded with both a guitar pick and a logo-printed hand towel.

Honestly, I’ve never seen the point of attending a concert unless I can be right up front, which is why I never attend stadium shows. Might as well stay home, save an assload of money, and watch it on DVD. (As long as Tom is there to operate the multiple, many-buttoned, slightly terrifying remote controls.) However, the two glasses of wine I consumed at last year’s Styx concert cost $11 each, which is several dollars more than I usually spend on an entire bottle, so I figure having limited financial resources will help me dodge that particular retro-music bullet.

Perhaps my biggest challenge is something that is so far not on my calendar, or even on the distant horizon. We love the band Cross Canadian Ragweed. They are the best live band in this or any other universe, bar none.

This is how a typical Ragweed Concert Experience tends to unfold. The concert date is announced, and we immediately order tickets. Yes, they are general admission, and we could theoretically purchase them at the ticket office moments before the doors open. This, however, would cause me far too much anxiety. I need that ticket, and I need it now. I carefully Mapquest the concert venue and begin worrying about what to wear. We send in and subsequently confirm our meet and greet passes. (Fan club membership has its privileges.) I watch the website daily, just in case disaster strikes and the show is postponed or (Noooooo....!!!!!) canceled. Vacation days are requested, because it is unthinkable that I would have to actually concentrate at work the day of a Ragweed concert, and there’s no way I’ll be able to work the next day, mainly because I will still be partially deaf, and my vocal cords will not yet have regained the ability to function normally. After the last concert, my hands were so swollen the next day that I had to remove all my jewelry to avoid gangrene due to the lack of circulation. I have no idea why.

On the day of the concert, we arrive at least three hours before the doors open. This allows time to check out the venue, make sure we know where we will be entering, and the shortest possible route to the stage. Tom is crucial for this, because he’s great at chatting up the security staff and getting the inside scoop on the expected procedure, as well as possible short-cuts. Fortunately, he loves the band as much as I do, and is willing to make the effort. Then we go somewhere nearby for dinner. The restaurant must be very nearby, because we prefer to be able to see the door of the concert venue. Nobody must be permitted to get in line ahead of us. During dinner, I consume several glasses of wine, for reasons that will become clear momentarily.

Following dinner, we make our way (in my case somewhat unsteadily) to the doors, at least an hour before anyone will be allowed in. We must be first. Our devotion to the band demands it. We’ve stood in bitter cold and raging summer storms, undaunted by threats of frostbite or lightning strikes. When the doors finally open, we rush forward, Tom’s old football skills being employed if necessary, and station ourselves right against the center of the stage. This is the only acceptable location.

Tom, being more assertive (and stronger) than I am, will make a couple of trips to the bar before the show begins, so that my blood alcohol level does not slip below acceptable concert levels. I am, when not at least partially inebriated, what can only be referred to as an extremely up-tight person. A Ragweed concert, though, requires a relaxed and uninhibited attitude. Hence the alcohol. A couple more drinks, and I stop worrying about everything and just immerse myself in the wonderful experience that is Cross Canadian Ragweed. I stand, literally at the feet of the spectacular Cody Canada. Estrogen, pheromones, and endorphins flood my middle-aged body. I kick off my shoes and lean on the stage, dancing, singing and screaming throughout the show. Cody himself is mere inches away, so close I could play his guitar if I reached out (and if I could, in fact, play the guitar, which I can’t). I never do that, though, because touching would be rude and intrusive, would piss off my husband, and Bodyguard Bert would object to such a breach of etiquette and remove me bodily from the area. He’s a very nice guy, but also very large, and although I have seen footage of him wearing a Speedo with ice dumped down the back, resulting in a nearly unobstructed view of his ass, he’s still not someone to annoy.

By now, the alcohol supply has been cut off, because neither Tom nor I will vacate our spot at the stage to go to the bar and risk not being able to get back through the crowd. However, the band is happily consuming beer and shots, and Cody frequently has a cigarette stuck under the strings of his guitar. Actually, by that point I probably want a cigarette more than a drink, and have at times briefly considered taking Cody down just for a hit of nicotine. The Tom/Bert threat has thus far kept me in line. Oh, and Cody’s wife, Shannon, who I am positive could seriously kick my ass, and would not hesitate to do so.

Cross Canadian Ragweed also hosts a cruise every summer, known as the CCRuise. We’ve toyed with the idea of going a couple of times, but were giving it more serious consideration this year. Now, though, I’m thinking we should stick with “cabin in the woods” instead, because I have seen the DVD of last year’s CCRuise and it appears to me that large amounts of alcohol may, in fact, be mandatory. Plus, I have to consider the fact that I would probably (“definitely”) feel compelled to know Cody’s whereabouts at all times, and place myself inconspicuously in the area so that I could observe him continually. Some, including my husband, would consider this stalking. I beg to differ. Still, it probably would not contribute to a relaxing vacation experience, especially without alcohol.

These will be the major challenges to my sobriety. Since I have yet to face (and conquer) any of them, I feel that I haven’t earned the right to be particularly proud of staying alcohol-free for a mere 16 days. Most of that time I’ve been working, reading, writing, dog-wrangling, or handling the other odds and ends of daily life. I don’t want to insult those who find each day a nearly incomprehensible struggle to stay sober, or in any way compare my situation with theirs.

But by the same token, I don’t want to put my own frequently delusional brain in a position where it can trick me into believing that I am not, in fact, an alcoholic. I understand that my alcoholism just manifests differently than many other alcoholics’. Not drinking isn’t what’s hard. Stopping once I start is where I screw up. Mainly, I have to run completely out of alcohol, pass out, or inflict serious physical injury upon myself. Sound like an alcoholic to you? Yeah, me too.

Perhaps I should write to Cody and explain my dilemma. Then he would invite us to the Austin, Texas area, so we could attend three or four consecutive concerts at which I would I remain completely sober. Only then would I have earned the right to brag about my accomplishment. He’d fall for that, right? On the other hand, he’d probably offer me a glass of something delightfully alcoholic, and mesmerized by his numerous charms, I’d slug it down before I remembered that I no longer drink, and subsequently take a header into Randy’s drum set.

So I’m thinking I’d better get a few more months of not drinking under my belt before I write to the Ragweed guys.

Us with Cross Canadian Ragweed. Left to right, Grady Cross (rhythm guitar), Randy Ragsdale (percussion), Me, Tom, Cody Canada (lead vocals, lead guitar, songwriter), and Jeremy Plato (bass). Notice how Tom has strategically placed himself between me and Cody. NOT that we hadn't just spent a half hour chatting with them in a private meet and greet, but in his book you just can't be too careful.

Woo Hoo, Voo Doo!

I played the part of a voo doo doll today, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

As the manager of a holistic veterinary practice, I’m exposed to lots of unconventional ideas. Many people have a hard time embracing forms of medicine that are outside the traditional. My son is a brilliant, linear-thinking science geek. (I added the “brilliant, linear-thinking” part, but he very happily accepts the “science geek” part himself, and he is a biologist by trade.) Whenever I mention homeopathy or flower essence therapy, I swear I can hear him rolling his eyes. While my own results with homeopathy were minimal, I see animals in our clinic have amazing results with the holistic treatment options that we offer.

Oh, did I forget to mention that this probably won’t be a very funny blog? This is all about telling you how amazed I am about what happened today. I’ll try to make you laugh twice as hard in my next entry, OK? (Please don’t abandon me!)

You’re all quite familiar with my injuries from my final (I swear) drunken stair-tumble. Of course the gaping, bloody head wound drew most of my focus in the days immediately after the Incident. The butt-bruise also demanded a certain amount of recognition, because I have a seriously bony backside and every time I’d settle in a chair, I’d go, “Ow, ow, ow, ow, DAMN!” until I managed to rearrange my various angular bits into a more comfortable position. Now my stitches are out and the wound is mending. I have even been able to pick some of the scabby parts off, which (as we already know) is one of my Favorite Things. This left the elbow bruise. That was originally of the least concern, but by now its visible bruise has faded and the scratch has healed. Yet the very point of my right elbow has still been really painful. Have you ever thought about how many times your elbow touches stuff every day? I hadn’t, but you’d better believe I have now! I’d heard of “bone bruises,” but wasn’t sure if that was a literal term, or just something someone said when they had a very bad bruise. I’d even started to wonder if I’d actually cracked or chipped it. I realized this morning that it hurt just as much today as it did the day after it got up close and personal with the entry way floor.

I mentioned this to Dr. Vet-Friend Two today, and she reached right for her acupuncture needles. She’s ¾ of the way through her veterinary acupuncture and Traditional Chinese Medicine course at the International Veterinary Acupuncture Society in Texas. She finishes next month. Up went my sleeve, and she placed two needles, one on the back of my elbow and one on the side. I’m not needle-phobic, so I wasn’t worried, but they didn’t hurt even a tiny bit. We left them in place for 20 minutes, and I continued to work at my desk the whole time they were there.

When we were ready to take them out, the areas around the needles had gotten pretty red. Dr. Vet-Friend Two explained to me that the type of injury I had was a result of Heat and Stagnation, and that the redness around the needles was a sign that the Heat was being released, and breaking up the Stagnation.

OK, here is where I’m going to sound like a televangelist or something equally ridiculous and obnoxious.

My elbow, which had hurt for over two weeks, without one bit of improvement in the pain, was completely better. Let’s see how many ways I can state this. It no longer hurt. Not even a little bit. It felt exactly like my other, uninjured elbow. 100% elimination of ouchies. All better now. Zero Pain-o.

Just by poking a couple of specialized needles into (and I’m a little fuzzy about this next part) either the neural paths or energy meridians, the things that were keeping my elbow from getting better were eliminated, and the pain went away.

I know, I know, the Chinese have practiced acupuncture successfully for thousands of years. It is an ancient and time-honored Eastern medical practice. But some cultures practiced other forms of medicine that I’d rather not experience (trepanation, for example). Still, it’s one thing to know intellectually that something, while originating in a culture vastly different from your own, has been of enormous benefit to countless people over the millennia. It’s a whole ‘nother thing to experience it’s incredible effects yourself. No, I wasn’t cured of a brain tumor or quadriplegia, just a lingering, annoying area of localized pain. But if two quick sticks and twenty minutes can fix that, I’m certain that it can do more wonderful things, as well.

I’ll be watching our patients’ progress over the coming months, and it’s very likely some of my own dogs will be showing up for help with some of their nagging problems. And you’d better believe that any health problems I have which might respond to acupuncture will have me sitting at my desk bristling like a porcupine if necessary. Yeah, you look at the needles sticking out of your flesh and think, “Damn, that should hurt.” But it truly didn’t.

Do not fear the Voo Doo Queen! She comes bearing sharp, pointy things, but means you no harm!

"C" is for Canine

Upon reflection, I’m going to have to give myself a “C” in the area of my dog-mom duties for yesterday.

My highest marks came in the area of doggie death matches. There weren’t any. This is also good because it means that it was unnecessary for me to flood my own kitchen again, and I didn’t suffer any additional breaking-up-dog-fight injuries. I did not, however, get to use my air horn, but as amusing as that might prove to be, I imagine I should probably still be grateful.

I also did my usual outstanding job in supper-preparation. I made Honest Kitchen dehydrated raw for Sprocket, because all his necessary supplements mix into it so well, and a mix of raw (Nature’s Variety lamb this time) and Nature’s Variety Instinct grain-free duck kibble for the other boys. This was actually a bit of a shortcut, because I've been making my own raw food. For the past couple of weeks, though, I've cheated and used the pre-made raw frozen meals because my neck and shoulder were still really hurting from the Unfortunate Stair Incident, and it takes a lot of upper-body effort to mix, smush, blend and portion 14 pounds of raw meat, vegetables and fruits. I take a twisted sort of pride in the fact that I put more effort into their meals than my own. I choose to believe it is a true compliment that they all snark down their meals in 30 seconds or less, or about six seconds in Darwin’s case. I refuse to dwell on the thought that they couldn’t possibly be tasting it, let alone enjoying it.

There was also a very sweet interlude during which Darwin and I were sacked out on the couch, his head on my chest so that I could rub his ears. He kept lifting his nose up so I could bestow frequent, affectionate little smooches. It was all rather idyllic. I was also, due to my compulsive need to multi-task, reading Antarktos Rising and watching the first of two (two!) new episodes of Chuck.

I totally blew it with regard to bark-control, though. It was -12F in the morning, and didn’t exactly become balmy at any point during the day. In the afternoon, after several unsuccessful attempts to lure Darwin back into the house from my semi-frosty post at the sliding glass doors, I was forced to don my Arctic Explorer gear and cautiously make my way down the Killer Steps of Death to physically transport the bark-tard back inside. If only it were that easy.

I don’t watch a lot of football, but I watch enough to draw one comparison. You know those little running backs? The ones who are half the size of everyone else on the field, but compact and solid muscle? They’re also supernaturally fast, and it generally takes about three guys the size of cement trucks to stop them once they get moving. Well, that’s Darwin. As he races along the fence line, barking like a maniac, I attempt to position myself to cut him off. He sprints right for me, then dodges at the last second, leaving me with nothing but a few golden hairs clutched in my rapidly-freezing fingers. Eventually, if I’m lucky, I’ll manage to snag him in the narrow area between the pool fence and the lilac bush, or in the back corner, as long as no cars come from the opposite direction to send him rocketing past me again.

At one point a few days ago, I took a leash and slipped the clip end through the handle, forming a lasso of sorts, thinking I could rope the speedy little booger like a rodeo calf. This did not go as planned. My cowboy skills are clearly lacking. I suspect I might actually need a horse to execute this maneuver properly. This is not an option for at least two reasons. 1) I’m a little bit afraid of horses, and 2) I think there’s a high likelihood that many hundreds of pounds of horse would be even more difficult to control than a 60-pound dog, especially if it is also neurotic. And living in our household, there’s a pretty good chance it would be.

At last, with frostbite imminent, biology helped me nab him. I happened to be in the immediate vicinity when nature required him to move part of breakfast out of his system in order to allow his recently-gobbled supper to take its place. That’s the only way I got a hand on him. I did courteously wait approximately three milliseconds after he finished before latching onto his collar, but it was a calculated risk. He could have burst back into action at any instant, and with his load being considerably lightened he would have achieved warp speed before I could even turn around. I got him back inside, but since it was my fault that he was out there barking in the first place, I can’t truthfully claim that as a victory.

My other failure today also involved a biological process, but this one of a more liquid variety. I was determined to wait until at least 8 PM before letting the boys out for their last potty-break, because the fewer times I might potentially have to trudge out there to haul Barky-Boy’s butt back inside the better. We’d recently had our doggie-mommy snugglefest on the couch, and I was feeling partially redeemed for my earlier laxity. I went into the bedroom to chat with Tom for a minute; I don’t know what he was watching in there, but it wasn’t Futurama, and that’s what I wanted to watch as I waited for the second episode of Chuck. (What NBC was thinking when putting an episode of that ultra-retarded Celebrity Apprentice nightmare in between my long-awaited two new episodes of Chuck I cannot begin to imagine.)

The dogs, of course, had followed me. It’s a parade every time I get off the couch. It’s a good thing I try not to do that often on my days off, because otherwise those dogs would get really, really tired. I informed them that it was just about time to go “o-u-t,” but by the time I got to the door, Darwin had sprung a leak. There was a large piddle-puddle by the door, and a dribble-trail led away from the scene as he scurried around the table at my approach. The dribbles made a series of dark curlicues on the carpet, which might or might not have spelled, “Thanks a lot, Mom.” Who knew that dogs could pee sarcastically?

I felt especially bad about this, because in the two months he’s lived with us, Darwin had not had a single accident. This, despite having lived his first three years in a garage. So I knew he felt awful about it. I received further proof of this when he went outside, did whatever it was he still needed to do (though I can’t imagine he could have had much left), and came right back in without a single bark. Or maybe no cars happened to pass during that time. I didn’t look. I was de-tinkle-izing the floor.

This led me to the conclusion that if I want to stop him from running the fence and barking at cars I could simply refuse to let him out until he pees on the carpet. For obvious reasons, this is an unacceptable solution.

I won’t be able to improve my grade today, since I work all day and have a raw feeding seminar to attend tonight, but I will be with them all weekend. Wish me luck, and listen for the air horn!

Forbidden Topics

I have been exchanging email with a reader, and this person is not even a friend or family member who is obligated, by either constant harassment or threat of familial excommunication, to actually read what I write. I have decided to bestow upon such readers the title of FFFans, and she shall forevermore be known within my realm as FFFan1.

FFFan1 is contemplating launching her own blog, and is giving some thought to what might or might not be suitable blog material. She is considering friends, family, co-workers, and how various topics might limit the groups of people she could safely encourage to read what she writes. Obviously, if she shares her blog with co-workers, she has effectively muzzled her ability to poke fun at or bitch about them or any aspect of her job. Ditto for the family. Scary, pointy-topped fence on which to teeter.

Since the dogs have been behaving themselves, despite my rising suspicion and paranoia about what they are undoubtedly plotting, I’ve had time to consider what is appropriate for me to include in my blog. Let it be said, I have a very high “too much information” threshold. Obviously. But that, as are most things, is mostly about how it pertains to me. When it comes to other people in my life and topics that I simply do not want to bring up for fear of starting a blog-war, I have to use a bit more restraint. (Yeah, and wish me luck with that, too!)

POLITICS: I am a raging liberal. I am strongly anti-Republican, occasionally anti-Democrat, and mildly anti-all-politicians on general principle, though I recognize them as a regrettably necessary evil. I don’t spend a lot of time information-gathering, analyzing and debating politics, primarily because I don’t find it all that interesting. They all lie; it’s just a matter of degree. In the end, all you can do is choose the candidate whose lies best serve your personal agenda. I tend to wait until positions have been stated, mud has been slung, and the dust has settled. Then I see who is left standing, and decide whether or not I agree with their decisions. I never fail to vote, but refuse to be drawn into a campaign two years before the actual date of the election. If people are interested in all the political machinations, there are plenty of other sites out there to read and engage in the debate.

RELIGION: Three words: Way. Too. Dangerous. My spiritual views are so far outside the mainstream that saying anything much beyond the fact that I consider myself a Pagan spirit is asking for trouble. Stating too strong a religious belief is just inviting the devout (of any faith) to try to convert, chastise, indoctrinate, subjugate, prayer-slam, or browbeat me into embracing a particular view. Three more words: Ain’t. Gonna. Happen. I find religion fascinating, but from a sociological, historical and intellectual standpoint. I consider myself spiritual but not religious, and I keep the particulars of that to myself. Believe whatever you want, but please leave me out of it. I am so not interested in having anyone tell me just how surely and expeditiously I am about to be transported directly to their religion’s version of Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect Eternal Salvation. I am equally disinterested in the wide variety of incomprehensible horrors to which they are certain I will be subjected. In my opinion, hell may very well be one endless tent revival. Or possibly being forced to spend eternity working in a daycare. (OK, now I’ve scared myself.)

On a related note, I also have serious issues with people who insist on making politics and religion synonymous. Why do so many people justify a particular law by making their god part of the argument? Frankly, anyone who claims to know what any god wants scares the living shit out of me, way more than some concept of a theoretical hell. Why can’t they just pass laws based on what is right, instead of dragging one deity or another into it? (Uh-oh. May have overstepped self’s own previously stated boundary. Shutting up now.)

MY WORKPLACE: I’ve been keeping references to Dr. Vet-Friends One and Two to a minimum, as well as those regarding other staff members. If it doesn’t directly apply to me and whichever story I’m attempting to tell, I’m not about to involve them. Sometimes this is pretty difficult, especially in light of yesterday’s employee evaluations and all the resulting anxiety, paranoia and borderline nervous breakdowns. With the exception of the doctors and our lead receptionist, the rest of the staff consists of females in their early 20s. That, on its own, should be enough to keep a blog rolling for decades, but I am not about to touch it. In fact, one of the strong points of my own personal evaluation was my refusal to get involved in any way with gossip, cliques, or drama. I’d say it’s because I’m just too old for that shit, but the fact is that I’ve always been like this. I consider myself Switzerland, steadfastly neutral, and intend to remain that way. Luckily, this is not difficult, because I am absolutely, totally, 100% sincerely not interested in any of it. I find our team members interesting, each in her own way, and I (thanks to my nearly complete lack of discretion) don’t mind sharing details of my own life. But I possess a basic detachment that enables me to mediate conflicts effectively, because I truly don’t care about taking sides or picking favorites. I just want everybody to get the hell along already, because we have a job to do.

IN-LAWS AND SIBLINGS: While I doubt any of my husband’s family will ever be among my blog-readers, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Tom is all squidgy about the possibility of any of them ever accidentally happening on to my blog and discovering details about our life that we’ve made a point not to discuss with them (which is pretty much everything). If I censor myself that much, there isn’t anything left to write about. But on the remote chance that they ever do read this, I must avoid the temptation to comment on any of the “unique qualities” (or “hilarious idiosyncrasies”) that exist in the family into which I married. I may often be candid, but I’m not stupid.

In the sibling department, I have two sisters. One is 17 years older than I am, and one is four years younger. Both are complex, successful, wonderful women, and both have lives that bear little resemblance to mine. By virtue of our being sisters, they have their own eccentricities that are just different enough from my own that the temptation to poke them with a stick from time to time is almost overwhelming. Then I remember that they know just as much stuff about me as I do about them. Delete, delete, delete!

BRITNEY SPEARS, PARIS HILTON, JESSICA SIMPSON, ETC.: Because my brain is not comprised of half-set Jell-O and random fruit chunks.

MY SON: You’d think that since I am at least 50% responsible for his existence, and maybe more than that since I actually carried him, birthed him, and have carried the resulting (and highly unattractive) stretch marks for 24 years, every aspect of his life would be fair game. Apparently, this is not so. Other than the occasional comment when something directly pertains to the subject at hand, I am forced, under threat of possible matricide, to ignore any and all amusing personality traits and embarrassing childhood stories. It’s bad enough that I have a blog, in his opinion, and he doesn’t even want to think about the MySpace page. I believe he used the word “mortified.” If he sees anything unacceptable on any of my pages, I’m in serious trouble. Since he is a biologist, I’m pretty sure he could find a way to rid himself of this source of embarrassment in a completely undetectable way. Hence, my uncharacteristic caution. His girlfriend has a “too much information” threshold nearly as high as my own, and therefore I could probably mention her a little bit, and she wouldn’t mind as long as The Boy didn’t get dragged into it by association. But I really, really like her, and I suspect that annoying her too early in their developing relationship might have undesirable effects, so I will endeavor to keep the filter between my brain and my keyboard working at maximum efficiency.

CATS: And that’s all I’m going to say.

MY HUSBAND: OK, this should go in the “Limited Immunity” category, if I had one. I shall try never to piss him off or embarrass him (too much). Unless it is absolutely necessary. I’m sure he’s aware the definition of “absolutely necessary” is wholly my own and may vary slightly from day to day, depending on my mood, whether or not I am currently annoyed with him in any way, how desperate I am for material, and possibly the ambient air temperature. I have the utmost respect for him, but if he didn’t fully comprehend the risks of being married to me when we said “I do,” you’d certainly think he’d have figured it out in the past quarter century. I’ve decided that the fact that he’s still here indicates a tacit acceptance of his fate.

GRAPHIC SEX DETAILS: Funny how the topic above led me to this one. That’s all I’m saying. I do, in fact, have a sex life, and that is already more than my son wishes to know. (And, in all fairness, I don't really want to know about his, either.) While I could wax poetic, and possibly pornographic, on the subject, for extensive periods of time (especially since I am no longer drinking and can remember all the details), I won’t. (My son can thank me later. Preferably with cash.)

ICKY MEDICAL DETAILS: I am aware that you have been exposed to an in-depth description of my whole head injury experience, but I really don’t consider that graphic. I feel obligated to inform you, though, that it takes a whole lot of nasty for me to qualify something as "icky.” I’ve had dogs all my life, and the stuff that comes out of them, from one end or the other, has forced me to develop a high degree of ick-immunity. Also, I’ve worked in the veterinary business for ten years. While I don’t have a hands-on job description, I still see plenty. I actually enjoy most of it. Everyone knows that if there’s an especially juicy abscess to be drained, or (oh, joy!) a cuterebra, I am to be summoned immediately. For those who don’t know what a cuterebra is, think of a plump, yellowish, wiggly, slug-like insect larvae peeking its blobby little head out of the breathing hole in its self-created cyst on some unfortunate animal. “Alien,” but on a much smaller scale. OK, sorry, that was borderline gross. I will promise to try to stay away from vivid descriptions of deformities, infections, excretions of all sorts, and anything that emerges from human or animal digestive tracts from either end. Fair enough? Just be warned that occasionally I may still be unable to resist telling you all about something that is just way too interesting to pass up, so read at your own risk.

ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS: Today is Day 14 Alcohol-Free. Maybe I should just be keeping this to myself, though. As soon as you tell people that you’re on the wagon, anyone who has ever been to AA or knows someone who has, feels compelled to point you in the direction of the nearest meeting. I object to AA for many of the same general reasons I discussed under “religion.” (If that comment made anyone want to provoke me into a debate on the subject, forget it. I’m not even getting into that. Suffice it to say that I have my reasons.) I am thrilled right down to my toenails that AA has helped so many people. But. It. Is. Not. For. Me. For those of you who sincerely care about my recovery and wellbeing, I am grateful. If I find I need additional help or support, I will get it. It just won’t be from AA.

THE WAR: I have simple, firm opinions on this subject. If you’ve noted any and all previous references to Republicans, you can guess what they are.

NATURAL DISASTERS: Because they clearly are not funny. Except maybe as they relate to California. I mean seriously! Floods, earthquakes, fires, mudslides, a Republican governor, and Hollywood. People obviously choose to live there for some reason, but thus far it escapes me what that could possibly be. (And no, that is not an invitation for you to tell me. It has no significance if I can't figure it out for myself. But don't hold your breath.)

Wow, this is a really long blog. I guess not finding time to write yesterday caused some sort of literary logjam in my brain, which has clearly let loose, resulting in this verbal torrent. Sorry if I’ve been the cause of anyone suffering eyestrain.

Even excluding all these topics, I am confident that I will continue to find plenty of subject matter for the blog. The world is just that ridiculous a place, my mental make-up is just that off-kilter, and I still believe my dogs are planning some sort of stunt that will break new comedic ground.

And I’ll feel compelled to tell you all about it.