The Power of Peeps

Before I share an extremely funny website with all of you, I have one more thing to say regarding my previous post. (Yes, I am still brooding about it.)

Is there really such a great market for Pet Tabs in Nigeria???

That made me feel marginally better.

Rumor has it that Easter is approaching. I suspect this is true for two reasons. First, not too long ago I remember hearing about Mardi Gras, and I know that as soon as that is over, Lent begins. I went to Catholic high school, so I do know what Lent is, believe it or not. (It has something to do with Easter, but not right away.) Second, there are Marshmallow Peeps in all the stores. I know this because Tom just produced a package of them from the cupboard, obtained when he went grocery shopping today. These particular Peeps will not survive the weekend, I guarantee.

Now I'm going to do something that I told myself I would never do on my blog, and that is to include a link to a website. Seems like cheating somehow, sort of riding on the literary coattails of someone else's work. But this is a site I first saw several years ago, and it's so darned funny that it would be a crime against humor if I failed to share it.

Imagine (if you will) a group of veterinary (or dental) technicians with a box of Peeps, an unused surgical suite, and a digital camera. At least one of the technicians also has a warped sense of humor. But anybody who can use the word "fluffathelium" (after having made it up just seconds before) is a comic genius.

It is important, however, that you click on the links for Phases 1 through 6, or you will miss valuable comedic material. The first time I saw it, I swear I laughed so hard that cerebrospinal fluid leaked out of my eyes.

Oh, no. As part of my extensive research in preparation for posting this, I have just discovered there is much, much more Peep material, all of it very, very funny! (I'm starting to forget about Nigeria already. Thank you, Peeps!)

So, here is the link for the original Peeps page that I wanted to tell you about.
Peep Surgery
But, lo and behold, the original Peep Surgery site was so well-received that there is an entire website devoted to scientific Peep research! Guess how I'll be spending the rest of my evening! (And no, at this moment I do not have anything more constructive to do. I spent the afternoon saving my clinic and an unknown American Express Card Holder from fraudulent Nigerians. I deserve some mindless fun!)

Die, Scammers, Die!

I have had the most frustrating, angry-making day.

First, I shall rant.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE??? Here we are, an honest, compassionate, hard-working veterinary hospital. We are a specialty practice, so many of our clients come long distances to partake of our wisdom and healing energies, so we often mail products out to them in between their visits. We also work closely with many rescue groups, because we support adoption over breeding. Yet we just came very close to being scammed out of $670.95.

My account of the events may be somewhat jumbled, because I just came into the process today. (Plus, right now I am incredibly pissed off.) A couple of weeks ago, we were contacted by a "Mrs. Sheila Jones." All communications with her, as she said she was hearing impaired, were via fax, email and IP Relay. (Do you see the red flags yet?) Now, there are lots of truly hearing impaired individuals who must communicate in this way. It is not unusual for us to handle transactions like that, and you certainly don't want to discriminate against someone because they need to use these methods in order to do business. Right? OK.

"Mrs. Sheila Jones" wanted us to order a large quantity of Pet Tabs (a vitamin which we don't usually carry, because it's synthetic and processed and we're more holistic) so that they could be distributed to some canine rescue or therapy group. Fine. We were willing to order the product, give a small "rescue" discount, and ship it, but no way were we about to ship it before we received payment. We're naive and gullible, but not entirely stupid.

Yesterday, "Mrs. Sheila Jones" contacted our front desk and provided an American Express card to pay the invoice so the item could be shipped. Today we received the DHL shipping label and related information via fax.

The shipping address was in Nigeria. Home of the internet scam. Red flags abound, whipping in hurricane-force winds, but the card had gone through successfully yesterday. The package was picked up by DHL, but by this time Dr. Vet-Friend One and I were in the loop, and our concern was mounting.

Shortly after the package was picked up, our receptionist received a call (via IP Relay again) from "Mrs. Sheila Jones," and while she was verifying that the package had been picked up about 45 minutes previously, an IP Supervisor came on the line and informed us that this was a suspected fraud call, and did we wish to continue. Our receptionist said no, and the call was terminated. She emailed "Mrs. Sheila Jones" and told her that we were very concerned that there appeared to be some sort of fraud involved, and that she might be getting scammed. At that point, since the AmEx card had cleared, we thought maybe some nice, elderly, dog-loving lady had been tricked into ordering all this stuff, shipping it to Nigeria, and then would not be paid for it. "Mrs. Sheila Jones" faxed back and said she was very legitimate, blah blah blah, and the spelling and syntax were so clearly non-native-English that it was another red flag. (I guess it had been all along, but now that we had the Nigeria piece of the puzzle, it was much more suspect.)

Then our receptionist received the only voice call in the whole process, from a man claiming to be "Mrs. Sheila Jones'" brother. Nigerian-sounding accent. Huge surprise, no? We terminated the call.

At this point, I got more heavily involved. A few minutes' research revealed that what we could expect for our kind-hearted efforts was to be notified in several days (as soon as the card-holder realized it) that this was a stolen card number. We would be out $670.95.

First call, DHL. I had expected the run-around, since the mailing label went with the box. We were neither the sender nor the recipient. But DHL paged their driver, and our shipment was returned to us within the hour. Huge kudos to DHL for their willingness to help a small business that really cannot afford to give away nearly $700. They were fabulous!

Next call, American Express. I had to file a case, because the card number we have is (surprise, surprise) not in the name of Mrs. Sheila Jones. Again, I expected a run-around. I was very worried that the cardholder was unaware that their number had been hijacked, and that our $670.95 was the least of their problems. I was told it might take AmEx up to three business days to complete their investigation, but they called back within an hour, informing us that it was a fraudulent transaction. So, whoever the real cardholder is had previously been unaware that they were being robbed, but now (because we are suspicious women, if a tad slow), they are aware and their account is protected because we reported it.

I guess the next thing I need to do is contact the FCC and report what we know. Which is precious little. We have an email address, a fax number, an address in Nigeria, and a stolen AmEx card number. Oh, and a super-fake name. I understand the IP Relay calls are essentially untraceable. Anyone can use it, accessing it online, and scammers hijack it all the time because you can call anywhere in the world with no long distance charges. Plus, you have voice anonymity. IP Relay can't refuse a call, because that has the potential for discrimination.

The really sad thing is that because IP Relay is used so heavily by crooks, actual hearing-impaired people who need the service (and for whom it was intended) cannot access it. And because it has been used so often for just this sort of scam, a lot of businesses will not even accept an IP Relay call, assuming it is a scam, denying the hearing-impaired one of their primary means of communication.

Sort of happy ending. I guess. We got our package back, so we can either return it to our supplier or sell it (we'll probably return it), and the cardholder is now aware that their information has been compromised.

So why don't I feel better? I'm stressed, frustrated, angry... just massively pissed.

Anniversary Angst

Being married for a quarter-century is a big deal. We will reach this milestone in September, and I want to do something special to commemorate and celebrate, but I’m at a loss as to what that should be.

As I have told you before, our marriage started under less than ideal circumstances, and it seems notable enough that I will share that story before further pondering how to make the anniversary memorable.

In August of 1983, I didn’t have much on my mind beyond starting college in a month or so. I had several scholarships, was going to live at home, and planned for life to go on pretty much as usual. My parents were about to head to the beach, and Tom and I were going to join them a few days into the trip, riding down with his aunt and uncle. It was expected to be another couple of weeks of swimming, sunning, and sneaking back up to the cabin on “beer runs” for some alone-time.

Shortly before Mom and Dad left, Mom and I had a chat. It went something like this:

Mom: You’re pregnant, aren’t you?

Me: No I’m not.

Mom: Yes you are. I can tell. (She was a nurse)

Me: No, really, I’m not. (It was MY body, after all, and I had always skipped a period every summer, though I have no idea why.)

Mom: Yes you are. Before you come to the beach, I want you to do a pregnancy test.

Me: OK, fine, but I am not pregnant. (I had a diaphragm, the obtaining of which was another story I might relate someday, and sometimes I even remembered to use it. And to put it away and not leave it on the bathtub rim or in the glove compartment of Tom’s car where it could theoretically be discovered by one of his parents.)

As is generally the case with mothers, she was right. I guess it’s handy to find out mothers are usually right just when you are about to become a mother. Also a tad ironic, no?

When we arrived at the cabin at the beach, I allowed Mom to say “I told you so,” and then we had to face the next hurdle. Telling my Dad. This was not something we were looking forward to. Dad adored Tom, but I was also such a Daddy’s Girl that his reaction was difficult to predict. It could range anywhere from pulling out the checkbook to fund a lavish (if hasty) wedding, to taking Tom out on the pier to “watch” the guys fishing for sharks.

When the moment of truth arrived, Dad was sitting on a shabby chair in the kitchen of the cabin watching Australian rules football on a tiny black and white television. Have you ever seen Australian rules football? A fast, hard-hitting, violently bloody sport played by men wearing no protective gear whatsoever. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time. But there was no turning back.

The conversation itself was somewhat anticlimactic. He asked what we planned to do, we replied that of course we would be getting married, and he told me that I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to. I said that I did want to, and that was that. You could almost hear the groans of disappointment from the sharks circling near the pier.

When we went home, we got to tell Tom’s parents. His dad took it in his usual stoic fashion. I think his mother was somewhat disappointed for about a millisecond, until she realized that this meant that she was about to be a grandmother. Apparently, this was her Purpose In Life. (And I have realized that she was considerably younger then than I am right now.) Her best friend had welcomed her first grandchild just a couple of weeks before, and while she was lagging behind, this was her chance to get on the scoreboard.

Preparations began, invitations were ordered, we got the priest from our high school for the ceremony, the reception hall was booked, relatives were recruited to bring food, a lot of liquor was ordered, and I went dress-shopping. I hated my dress. We went to a place called Wickham’s, which was a shop that rented wedding gowns, and I got one they were selling off, for a mere $35. It was hideous, but had an empire waist, all the better to hide any bulge that might emerge in the three weeks before the wedding.

A bridal shower was held, and my mother told me I behaved like an idiot. I was incredulous, having thought I’d gotten through it rather well for having to be subjected to such a ludicrous thing while in my bloaty, hormonal, emotional first trimester. I did, however, get a lot of gifts. The wedding took place, and Fr. McGough kept us smiling throughout the ceremony with amusing little comments to us under his breath. We lived through the reception and left on our honeymoon (all two days of it, at a state park about an hour away) during which Tom nearly severed a finger when his wedding ring got caught on the pull-cord on the outboard motor of the boat we rented. (Seriously, he bled all over the place. No, it was not an omen.) Then we came home and set up temporary housekeeping in his parents’ basement.

On a related note, my Dad felt he was personally responsible for disposing of the several cases of whiskey that were not consumed at the reception and was drunk for three days. My Aunt Joyce tried to block him in the driveway with her car, but he drove out the front of the driveway and around the trailer, and headed to Dragan’s Place (a.k.a. “Doggies”). When the posse came to haul him home, he was sitting on his favorite stool and cackled, “Ha, thought you had me, didn’t ya?” Drunk Daughter-Missing Daddies are so amusing, but in a sad way.

Hardly a stellar beginning, right? I am sure that if you took bets at the reception as to whether we would ever make it to our 25^th anniversary (or, in fact, our 5^th), the odds would have been similar to those of discovering the existence of an advanced alien civilization on the dark side of the moon. (Actually, that would be kind of cool.) Right now I’m wishing we’d taken that bet, because instead of trying to figure out how to do something spectacular for our anniversary, we’d be about to become stinking rich and buy a private jet to take us and the dogs anyplace in the world that struck our fancy at any given moment.

Since we are solidly in the debt-burdened middle class, we have significantly fewer options.

For a long time, I imagined that we would go back home sometime around the Big Day and have a recommitment at Oglebay Park, at which I would wear a sage green crocheted knee-length dress and an ivy head wreath with purple flowers and ribbons, and be barefoot. The ceremony would be conducted by a Shaman. We would get many, many presents, which is good because after 25 years all the ones we got the first time around are long gone. Well, truthfully, a couple of things remain. I have one knife left from a set that used to live in a butcher block holder, and an ashtray with our names and wedding date engraved in it. The ashtray probably survived because I took a 17-year hiatus from smoking. It’s also very durable. Tom once threw it, and it smashed into the screen door (leaving a dent), but the ashtray was unharmed. I also have two blue wineglasses (of a set of four) that lived only because they are rather ugly and I bought lots of pretty-pretty glasses over the years to hold my Merlot, and subsequently shatter when I overindulged and dropped or tipped them, or fell down the stairs.

Perhaps the most compelling reason for having an anniversary event back in West Virginia is the tantalizing opportunity to stand in front of everyone at the reception (assuming anyone showed up) and say, “I told you so!!!!!” Oh, so tempting!

We have lived our married lives far from familial involvement, though, so going back home has little true appeal, despite the possibility of so many gifts that we would need to rent a medium-sized U-Haul to get them all home.

We really enjoyed our cruise three years ago, though I never would have guessed myself to be a “cruise person.” Mostly I liked my balcony, and the really great tray of coffee and pastry delivered to my door each morning. But cruises are not inexpensive, especially when a room with a balcony is a requirement. (I may be poor, but I have delusions of richness.) Still, I’m not willing to cross it off the list just yet.

If the island in Gunn Lake that we rented last summer hasn’t yet been sold, or if the new owners are also renting it out, that might be good. Solitude in the north woods (complete with a hot tub on the deck) definitely suits our personalities. We don’t need to be around people to celebrate. In fact, we tend to be in a much more celebratory mood when left entirely alone. But we went there last year for our 24^th anniversary, and it seems that the 25^th should be something unique.

We aren’t really “beach people,” but I keep seeing the ads for those all-inclusive resorts such as Sandals. Though mostly they just make me smirk, because I remember when The Boy was in high school he and one of his friends said it would be cool if somebody bought the place and re-named it Flip-Flops. I wonder, though, if I’d really get my money’s worth at an all-inclusive resort. I can’t eat that much, I’m currently not drinking, I don’t do anything remotely social, and I’m not sure things like spa treatments, snorkeling and parasailing are included. Assuming, of course, that I would even want to do any of those things. I know I don’t like massages. Strange people touching my stretch marks (which I have pretty much everywhere) really makes me all squidgy. Also, I’d spend half the trip in my bathroom putting sun block on all my tattoos before daring to set foot in the tropical sun. I paid a lot of money for these things, and I am not letting them fade!

It also occurs to me that perhaps we should do the obvious and fly to Italy, so we could go to the Vatican and have our recommitment there. It makes sense, since at the same time we could get Tom’s name on the list for sainthood, having put up with so much shit from me over the past quarter century. He’s certainly endured more and pulled off more miracles than any of the hundreds of dead do-gooders and/or martyrs who were granted sainthood during the last Papacy. The fact that we’re severely lapsed Catholics might be a bit of a roadblock, and since I’m a self-avowed “militant agnostic,” that could count against him, too. Oh, well, he’s still a saint in my book. Another thing in the “cons” column regarding going to Italy is that I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to go to Italy and not drink a barrel of wine a day, so maybe I’d better avoid the region altogether. That stinks, because I’d really love to visit Pompeii.

One idea that actually might work would be going back to Las Vegas. You can usually find cheap air fares, and if we only went for a few days we shouldn’t be able to get in too much trouble (financially or otherwise). We could have our ceremony in one of the casino chapels (no Elvii, though!) which probably includes some nice comps and such. The obvious drawback is “no U-Haul full of gifts.”

I’m straining my brain trying to figure out a way to be away completely by ourselves and still get gobs of presents. I confess I am stumped.

Perhaps we could lobby all the family units to take up a (sizable) collection in the next few months, and we could use the proceeds for the anniversary getaway of our choice. I was under the impression that it was customary for the couple’s children to throw the Silver Anniversary bash, but we really shot ourselves in the foot with that one. We only had one child, and that was immediately after marriage (like, six months), so he’s only 24 and not old, organized or motivated enough to undertake such a project. Plus, like his mother, he’s rather hermit-like, and gatherings or galas of any kind are beyond the comprehension of his otherwise brilliant brain.

I guess what it comes down to is I want to do something big and wonderful, or just go out to dinner and have a quiet night at home. Trying to pass off a lame, mediocre getaway as a “25^th Anniversary Extravaganza” would just be pathetic. It’s either “really make a big deal out of it” or “the real gift is just being together.” Both are fabulous, because I really and truly do adore my Honey-Bunny, but the first one potentially involves gifts, something of which I wholeheartedly approve. (I believe I may have already mentioned that once or twice. But just think, getting lots of stuff without having to shop for it!)

What I really need is a time machine, because I must go back and make that bet on our marriage, then this whole debate would cease to be an issue. We’d be headed to a cabin on an island somewhere all wildernessy and remote, with a private pilot on call to take us and the dogs to New Zealand on a whim. Come to think of it, we should have a place in the northern and southern hemispheres, so we could rotate and always be able to avoid the ickiest winter months. I do enjoy the seasons, but would like to have the option to bail when it’s been below zero and icy for the third straight week and I’d like to step outside without my contacts freezing to my eyeballs.

We could also put Cross Canadian Ragweed on retainer, to come and do private concerts for us whenever we wanted.

Considering the odds on the bet, I could have put down the spare change in the bottom of my purse and be a trillionaire this September 16^th. Maybe money can’t technically buy happiness, but it can buy you a whole lot of places to be happy, as long as you love the person that you’re with. And I do.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

My life is undergoing some changes, and I don’t like it. Not that the changes are bad ones; far from it, in fact. But I dislike and distrust changes of any variety on general principle. Remember, I rely on habit, routine and familiarity to keep my world from spinning off its axis and being flung across the galaxy and into a black hole. Really. I’m sure that’s what would happen if I didn’t have a pretty good idea exactly what I was doing, who I would encounter, what would happen, how I would get there, what I would say, and when I would be safe in my furry little lair again. Every. Single. Day.

Truthfully, I shouldn’t be upset, because technically the change isn’t even mine. It’s my husband’s. He started a new job yesterday. Well, OK, that’s not entirely accurate, either, because it’s with the same company, but at a different store in the franchise. He’d been at one location for about five years, which is about three years too long for him. Throughout his career, he’s been either earning his way up through the ranks or serving as the go-to guy and troubleshooter. Either way, he would move to a new location, make it as profitable as possible, and then move along to another store in need of his outstanding management techniques.

Right before we left for Las Vegas, he worked his last day at the “old” store, including the celebratory turning in of the keys. Since he didn’t start at the other location until we got back, he was able to say while in Las Vegas, “I’m between jobs.” This is a guy who hasn’t been “between jobs” since he was ten years old and started mowing lawns and delivering newspapers, so even though it wasn’t precisely true, he still enjoyed saying it. I said it a few times, too, just to keep the ball rolling and demonstrate that I was in the spirit of things.

You might think that the changes in his work situation don’t have much to do with me, but you’d be (completely and utterly) wrong. We are joined at the hip, and the circle of our existence doesn’t actually include any other human beings, so if he has a hangnail, my entire reality is altered. No, this is not healthy, but that’s the way it’s been since we were newly-married 18 year olds.

Perhaps you are now wondering how this is going to translate into “change” for me. Let me count the ways!

First, my clinic is about 23 miles from home, and his previous store was a block away from the clinic. This was handy for many reasons, such as being able to pop in and take him lunch once in a while, having him come over to the clinic and switch cars with me if he needed to change my oil or investigate a “check engine” light, or picking up whichever dog I had to take to work with me that day so the poor critter didn’t have to stay those extra hours until I got to leave for the day. It was also quite handy when I had the Gaping Bloody Head Wound and needed him to come over in case Dr. Vet-Friend Two was going to shave large regions of my head, shoot me full of topical anesthetic, and stitch my shredded scalp back together. I guess now if I have any traumatic, disfiguring or life-threatening injuries, I’ll just have to hold my body parts in place until he can get there. Fortunately, I have both a glue stick and a stapler on my desk.

His new store is literally one mile from the house. He could pull the car out into the street and let it roll down the hill, and if he didn’t hit the stop light at the bottom, he could pull into his parking lot without ever touching the gas. I am (obviously) (very) jealous of this fact. The first clinic where I worked was nearby, a mere 2 miles from home, and while it was operated by Dr. and Dr. Satan (a husband and wife partnership of evil), it was nice being able to come home for lunch, and not have to face a long drive through traffic at the end of the day.

He has a little less control over his schedule, though, at least initially. He is a morning person (yet I manage to love him despite this unfortunate and highly annoying fact) and prefers to go in and work the opening shift, which allows him to be finished for the day by 3:00 PM. The dogs especially enjoy that fact, because in the past this has meant that their evening meal would be served by 4:00 at the latest. As far as they’re concerned, this allows for the possibility of another meal before bedtime, and they refuse to be discouraged simply because this has never actually happened. I also enjoyed having him home those few hours before my own arrival because then he would be the one to get the mail, feed the dogs… and fix me dinner. Not that either of us can actually cook, but he certainly made sure that he heated me up something or other and had it ready when I staggered in the door, weighted down by my empty lunch bag, purse, computer case and a bag of dog food.

Perhaps most importantly, I enjoy having him on the “good” couch while I’m enjoying my microwave-ready cuisine (and also reading, watching TV and petting whichever dog is nearest to hand) so that we can discuss our days and whatever absurd thing is worth an unbelievable amount of money on the Antiques Roadshow. Even if we don’t say anything for entire program segments at a time, there’s always the possibility that we could. And he just looks so darned cute lying over there.

For now, it is likely that he’ll have to work the closing shift at least a couple of times a week, playing havoc with the dogs’ idea of suppertime, and arriving home around 9:00 PM, which is perilously close to bedtime. OK, honestly, it is bedtime. I’m going to have to start leaving him notes about my day and the household events of the evening, because once I take my bedtime Benadryl and plop myself on our exquisitely comfy mattress, my brain cells are finished communicating until they receive eight solid hours of snooze-time. (Note: “Darwin drove me insane. Ozark drank a bunch of water and yurped it up between the couches. I cleaned it up. Mostly. I got to fire a client today. That was fun. I have to go in early tomorrow. See you Thursday.”)

Will I survive? Probably. It just takes me a while to accept things. When I worked for the library in Indianapolis, I almost quit over the fact that they decided we all had to wear nametags. In my defense, I have a very unusual last name, and working with the general public in the neighborhood where my branch was located had resulted in some lecherous (because I was cute) or hostile (because I was always right, and they were lying sacks of doggie-doo) patrons paying me undesirable amounts of attention. I preferred not to make myself any easier to find, should anyone feel the need. As a compromise, the Board decided we did have to have our last names on the tags, but they could be misspelled. The result was an entire library system in which the majority of the staff wore fake last names. The bizarre-o factor of that appealed to me enough that I withdrew my objections. I still have the nametag, which reads “Mrs. Whitham.” If I ever have to go on the lam to escape the DEA, it may yet come in handy.

What really matters is that he be happier in this position than in the last. The goal is for him to be able to re-focus on the things he likes to do and at which he is spectacularly good, without quite as much pressure. He needs the breathing space to not have to be the ultimate authority, and the one who has to swallow all the crap when things that are beyond human control manage to go wrong.

Because I love the big, hard-working goober, I will take a little extra Rescue Remedy, write a few extra blogs in the evenings, and wait until this new schedule pattern starts to feel “normal” to me. Since “normal” and I frequently miss each other coming and going, this might take a while.

Time Travel

As I was driving to work this morning, I was thinking about the traveling we did last week. Not the time we were actually in Las Vegas, but the getting there and getting home parts. For all the griping I did about it, it really wasn't that bad. Considering we spent a few hours at the airport, had a three hour flight, then took perhaps another forty-five minutes to get our luggage, find our transportation, and get on the road to the hotel or home - and all this putting us 2000 miles from where we started - that's probably close to miraculous. Just 100 years ago, how long would it have taken to get from Minnesota to Las Vegas? A whole lot longer than six hours, I'm thinking.

This got me thinking about travel experiences in my childhood, which were decidedly less comfortable and problem-free.

Every summer, we would spend two weeks in Nags Head, North Carolina. From our home in the northern panhandle of West Virginia, this was about a 14-15 hour trip. There may be more direct highways now, but back then Dad always went down through West Virginia, on twisty, nausea-inducing, luggage-scrambling, two-lane highways right in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. It looks fairly direct on a map, but maps lie like rugs. With all the hilly ups-and-downs and the "pass something three times from different directions before it finally moves to the rear view mirror" roads, it's farther than it looks and takes at least twice as long as you'd imagine.

There were several problems with these family vacations.

First, we had a Volkswagen Super Beetle. Bright yellow, if you were wondering. It did not feature air conditioning, or if it did we were unable to use it because the "wing" window had to be kept open to (theoretically) funnel my mother's cigarette smoke harmlessly out into the atmosphere. I'm a moderate smoker now, but Mom was a very heavy smoker. With my bronchitis and pollen allergies at that age, it's a wonder I didn't end up requiring a customized cart and my own personal oxygen tank. (Yeah, I know, if I keep smoking I can still look forward to that particular experience.) We made the entire trip encased in a Bug-sized bubble of air that resembled a London fog, in a temperature of approximately 714 degrees.

There were also some other basic comfort concerns. The back seat of the Bug would be put down, and suitcases arranged in a single layer on the resulting flat area. Blankets were placed on top of the suitcases, and my sister and I were placed on top of the blankets. Have you looked at how much space there is in the back of a VW Bug? The surface of the desk at which I am currently sitting is larger. Now place a 10 year old, a 6 year old, and a very nervous cockapoo in that space, atop thin blankets and uneven hard-sided suitcases. Keep them there for 15 hours. Are we having fun yet?

The first few years we made the trip, we would break it up into two days. Then Dad decided it was best to just get there and get on with it, and we began leaving at about 10:00 PM. The theory was that it would be cooler at night, there would be less traffic, and my sister and I would sleep most of the way. Yes, it was cooler. And there was seldom much traffic on Route 250 in West Virginia, what with half the drivers being pulled to the side of the road so one of their passengers could express their carsickness in its most satisfying form. I think my little sister slept some, but it was virtually impossible for me.

Once Dad got on the road, had the gas tank not occasionally needed attention, he would have never stopped. I think this is when I developed my astonishing cast-iron bladder capacity. My little sister, however, never developed this particular survival skill. She would start early, calmly announcing her need to visit an upcoming rest stop. Dad would drive by it. She would mention, more urgently, that she really needed to stop. Dad would "forget." Before long, she would be wailing, "I have to peeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Mom would finally toss a cigarette out the window and say, "Jack, we need to stop." Much grumbling followed, but eventually he would comply and my sister would rush to the nearest potty, one hand clutched between her crossed little legs as she scampered along.

Dad thought he'd found the perfect solution... in the form of an empty coffee can. We could take care of business, and he wouldn't have to add even two minutes to the drive time. I knew immediately that I would forgo urination from that day forward if it meant going in a coffee can right there in back seat of the car. At my sister's first plaintive, "I have to pee," he said, "Use the coffee can." Silence. "I have to pee." "Use the coffee can." Repeat until it turns into, "I have to PEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" and "USE THE GODDAMNED COFFEE CAN!!!!!!!" Then toss in, "But I caaaaaaaannnnnnn't!" Now stretch that over about 50 miles of twisty-turny road. Poor kid, she absolutely could not pee in that coffee can, no matter how badly she wanted to. With no other alternative, Dad would pull over and she would scoot into the weeds, returning so much happier.

The only exception to the "no stopping unless someone is dying or the fuel light is on" rule was granted to my mother. She strongly believed that there would be no fresh fruit or vegetables "on the island," which is separated from the mainland by a strip of water you can see across. In many places, you could read the t-shirts of the tourists on the opposite side. But because she believed we would be forced to eat moldy apples and limp lettuce in the kitchen of our little beachside cabin, she needed to stop at a farmer's market along the road shortly before the bridge that would take us to the Outer Banks. By this time I just wanted to get-there-already, and be out of that car for two weeks, but Mom would not be persuaded.

Then we got to do it all over again in reverse, minus the farmer's market, two weeks later. Every time we crossed the border back into West Virginia, we felt obligated to sing, "Take Me Home, Country Roads," even though we still had about eight hours of Route 250 (a.k.a. "The Vomit Highway") left ahead of us.

The truly amazing thing is that we'd go back again the next year.

Fermentés Fur

I'm giggling, and it's barely after 9 AM on a Sunday. No, wine is not involved. As usual, I checked in with FF this morning to see if I've had any unusual visitors. Apparently, I have! One of the referral links shows that someone translated my blog into French! How bizarre is it that I can look at my entire blog in a language that I do not even speak? I think I know a total of about four French phrases, half of which are of an R-Rated nature. I was president of my high school Spanish Club, though, so sometimes I can pick out a French word here and there if it is similar to the Spanish version.

I have learned, for example, that the following line:
"I do not like auto-flush toilets. Really, does anyone? Like we're going to forget to flush?"
translates into French as:
"Je n'aime pas les toilettes à chasse d'eau automatique. Vraiment, est-ce que quelqu'un? Comme nous allons oublier de rincer?"

How freakin' cool is that??? I wonder if I am as amusing in French.

I also turned up on a Google search of "Blistex on tattoo." Not nearly as interesting as being translated into French, though, is it? And I didn't even actually put Blistex on my tattoos. I was putting it on my lizardy-tending lips at night, but happened to mention this in the same post as the descriptions and stories of my tattoos.

But back to the French thing, which is totally fascinating me. In my "If It Weren't For The Nuts" post, Tom revealed the presence of a Snickers bar in his Blazer and his hopeless wish that I would fetch it (which I would not because it contains nuts, meaning there was no benefit in it for me to go get it, as I consider nuts in candy bars on a level with boll weevils in my mashed potatoes).

If we could converse in French, it would have looked like this:

"Tom: Je voudrais maintenant que j'avais fait comprendre un autre genre de candy bar.

(Je n'avais pas été écouté attentivement jusqu'à présent. Je lisais, Ozark et le suivi pour voir si il était saignée à travers son bandage des pieds ou de la tentative de décollage mâcher dit bandage. Toutefois, les mots "candy bar" capté mon attention. Ma Oreilles peuvent avoir même perked up, comme la pratique pour être un golden retriever dans ma prochaine vie. Je n'avais pas eu connaissance de la présence de tout le chocolat dans le ménage.)

Moi: Pourquoi? S'agit-il d'un Snickers? (Parce que je n'aime pas Snickers. Elle a des noix en elle, et à mon avis, les noix n'ont pas leur place dans des friandises.)

Tom: Ouais.

Moi: Oh. (Préparation à revenir à la lecture et Ozark-watching)

Tom: Parce que si ce n'était pas Snickers, vous pourriez aller chercher le sortir du Blazer. (Ce qui a été dit un peu cool.)"

OK, is it just me, or would we sound much smarter and more sophisticated if we could speak French? A pointless discussion about a nut-infested confection would sound as if we were discussing the opera season or which of our seaside homes to visit over the weekend. (I am assuming here that there actually is an "opera season" and that everyone in France has a seaside home, most likely revealing the depth of my white-trash ignorance.)

I wonder what other languages I could be translated into! I don't want to seek out the translations myself. That would be cheating. But I hope I get visitors from China, Italy, Japan, Portugal, the Canary Islands (I guess that one would have to be an audio file), and perhaps even Saturn.

This does not, however, inspire in me a burning desire to learn French. Oddly, I've wanted to learn Gaelic, which is only useful for conversing with about six people in Ireland or dusty linguistic scholars, and reading historical novels set in the era in which Gaelic was still spoken (like no later than the Battle of Culloden prior to the U.S. Revolutionary War, when the English squashed the Clans and outlawed the wearing of the tartan and speaking Gaelic, in an attempt to repress the Celtic spirit, the bastards).

My excursion into the blogosphere this morning has set me behind in my preparations for a full day of Sofa Slugdom, though. This means I should wrap this up and gather even more fur onto my track suit, all the better to camouflage myself on the dog couch. The wisps of smoke wafting out of what appears to be a giant dog-hair dustbunny, though, might give me away.

Au revoir!

(P.S. After posting this, I returned to the "My blog in French" place to see what it did to this one. Translates it into French, naturally, but the parts of it that were already in French stayed that way. Would have been funnier if it had somehow figured out the entire point of the post and translated the French parts back to English! Also, "Sofa-Slugdom" apparently does not translate, most likely because I made it up.)

Getting Googled

One feature of my hit counter is a Referral Analysis, or how people find my blog. It often says "Direct Hit," indicating someone has either bookmarked my main URL, or typed it in. Sometimes it shows particular links from specific posts, meaning they probably found it on Blog Catalog or whatever that other blog listing site is that I use. This could also be some FFFan sending a link to someone they want to direct to FF, as all wonderful, loyal readers should! (OFTEN, might I suggest, as I check the hit counter obsessively many times per day, and I get quite distressed when it fails to go up at a satisfying rate!)

The interesting ones are Google search strings. If I see one of those, I can click on it and see the search that was performed that led to my blog.

The other day, I did this and discovered that someone had Googled "white trash ambigram," which led to my Tattooed White Trash post, since one of my tattoos is an ambigram. Apparently, my listing must have been relevant enough to the purpose of their search that they clicked on it and visited Fermented Fur.

What, exactly, does this say about me and my blog, not to mention my tattoos??? Should I be insulted? Concerned? Amused? Flattered? Worried? Paranoid?

No, if you Google "Greatest Living American Humor Author," my name will never appear, nor will any of my work. But Google "White Trash Ambigram," and there I am. True, I embrace my tattooed-white-trashiness, so I shouldn't be offended. And I love my Earth Air Fire Water ambigram.

It occurs to me that I would also turn up on a search using such words as "drunken head wound," "falling down stairs while drunk," and other potentially unflattering combinations.

Was somebody looking for that particular blog post, like they'd read it already and forgot the site, so hit some key words to be able to find it again? (If it was one of you, FFFans, please let me know!) What on earth would lead someone to randomly Google "White Trash Ambigram?" Is this going to be a segment on some Jeff Foxworthy or Bill Engval thing on CMT? (doG, I hope not!)

And another example, so alarming I'm completely unsure what to make of it, involves the search words "brush dog scabs lunch." Best to just let that one go, I'm fairly sure.

Just something to think about, folks. Or maybe not.

"Spirit" Update

As I mentioned the other day, my friend Terresa, who was staying at our house while we were in Las Vegas so she could better supervise the Hounds, is sensitive to the presence of spirits. She noticed that a spirit is present in my downstairs hallway. She feels it is a male spirit, probably my father, and he stays in one spot in the hall, looking into the downstairs bedroom but not entering.

When we got home yesterday, I went down there and just told him that I knew that he was there, and would like to know what he wanted to tell me. Obviously, a spirit wouldn't use his energy to be present somewhere without a good reason. It may be just to watch over us, or to comfort us, or to let us know something. I wanted him to know that I was aware of his presence, welcomed it, and was receptive to anything he needed to convey. I am going to continue to do this, and to try to get myself more focused, and prepared to receive anything he may need to communicate.

This morning, I emailed T and asked what I should do, and what I should look for. She mentioned several things. She's seen spirits move things around, playing "tricks," pennies appearing in odd places, radio stations changing, and lights going on or off. She said they seem to particularly like electric or electronic things. This makes sense, as we are all partly electrical energy, and this may be easier for them to affect than physically moving solid objects.

I found this extremely interesting. Last night, I was in bed reading, using the light I have affixed to the headboard. Everything else in the room was shut off. Then, the lamp on the computer desk turned on. It has never done this for me before, ever. The dogs weren't near it, and it is plugged into a power strip, and nothing else was affected. She says the light did this for her one evening, as well.

So, was it this spirit, possibly my Dad, signaling that he is here, or was it just "one of these things?" I have no idea, but I intend to monitor such things, and to continue to make the spirit aware that I'm glad he's here, and we'll see what happens!

I wonder if that means I should behave as if "Dad is watching!" When T comes by on Thursday, if she's in the right frame of mind, she may see if she can tell me more. It's not really a gift that she has 100% control over, I don't think, but rather something that comes to her when it does, and she can't force it. If Dad really is around, we're going to have to figure out a way to chat, because (this being MY house), we're going to have to set down some ground rules!

Random Reflections

I don't imagine anyone wants to hear a step-by-step travelogue, so I'll just hit some highlights (and lowlights).

I do not like auto-flush toilets. Really, does anyone? Like we're going to forget to flush? I particularly dislike the alarming habit they have of flushing prematurely, while one is still seated there, unsuspecting. Startling, and darned uncomfortable, as your backside ends up being copiously sprayed with chilly toilet water. Unless they start issuing bath towels in the cubicles, this is a problem. If I wanted a bidet experience, I'd either have one installed in my home or move to Europe.

At the conference, the practice management sessions were held in the Four Seasons, which is at the far end of the Mandalay complex. This was conveniently located in relation to the tram stop, but inconveniently located for all other conference sites and activities. On the plus side, we had full coffee service there (since everything else, including food courts, were at the other end of the universe) and access to two balconies right outside the rooms for smokers. They also had bathrooms with doors that go clear to the floor, of which I also approve. On the minus side, the cybercafe, Expo, information booth and everything else were in the south convention center.

I did complete the survey on the last day of the conference, then left one additional comment card as it pertained to those of us in the Administrative realm. They offer lunch events for doctors, alumni receptions for doctors, a technician lounge, a technician dinner event... but nothing for administrative staff. Annoying, to say the least. Admins run the full gamut from reception to practice management, which I guess complicates things. Reception is theoretically lower on the organizational charts than technicians, though most sessions emphasize the importance of front desk staff. I appreciate that, having spent ten years in that precise position. Who is the first contact for anyone calling or entering the clinic? Who is the one who gets the brunt of outbursts from disgruntled clients? Who is responsible for starting and ending every appointment on a positive note? Yep, the very people who are often least appreciated. Practice managers, though, outrank everyone but the doctors themselves. Yet there is no reception, no lounge, nothing at all there for us. I think personal battery-powered wheelie carts would be a nice start, as well as a full (free) lunch area complete with cabana boys who give foot-massages. Just an idea.

This "technician" issue also cast a pall over the LeAnn Rimes show. Tom got in line at least two hours before the show, and was at the front of the line with two really fun ladies from Texas. I joined him as soon as I could, and we were among the first in the door, anticipating seats near the front. However, the conference had issued some VIP early admissions to those who were selected from people who took a survey at the sponsor's Expo booth. OK, fine. But then they also let in all the technicians from the technician dinner. Despite the huge amount of valuable time Tom put into standing in line, we were at least 35 rows back. Unfair? I think so.

On Thursday afternoon, we went to Downtown Las Vegas to Fremont Street. It's more "working-class Vegas," and has an arch over the whole street, on which they show a video show at night. The area is interesting, and something that needs to be experienced, but being budget-minded we took the bus there. $5 for a 24-hour pass, pretty good deal. We got off at Caesar's Palace so we could see that and the Bellagio. If I were someone who could/would shop at Versace and Chanel, it would be more fun. But you have to see these places, because they are so over-the-top spectacular.

But what is it about bus-riders? It's not like it's a limo or even a taxi. The bus comes when it comes, and when it's full, you do not get to board. What's hard to understand about that? Yet people were so cranky about it. You just can't be in a hurry, and go with the flow. It's not like the Venetian is going somewhere and you will miss it if you have to wait ten minutes for the next bus.

We really liked New York, New York, which was right across the walkway from Excalibur. The shops are cool, the design interesting, and the atmosphere very comfortable.

Still, next year I think we'll take a taxi down to the area around Caesar's at night. That seems to be the hub of the extra-fun stuff. You always think you could walk somewhere, because you can see it... but everything is on such a huge scale that it's much farther than you think, sort of like seeing a mountain across a wide plain. You keep walking and walking, but never seem to get any closer. Eventually, you drop from exhaustion and dehydration, and someone picks your pockets before stuffing you in a suit of armor in one of the casinos. Plus, in Vegas, crossing the street is taking your life in your hands, and going up the escalators to the elevated walkways and then back down adds time and distance. Given the number of women in stiletto heels, I think podiatrists should be located in every hotel and shop.

Vacations, for me, are all about the food. I can't and don't do power-shopping, but we all have to eat. I'd envisioned lovely dinners each evening, but that didn't pan out. Too often, I had to rush from my last session of the day and get ready for whatever the evening was supposed to be, not leaving time for a leisurely dinner. We ended up grabbing something at the food court and taking it back to the room more often than not. We had one nice dinner at the Italian place in our hotel, and a quickie dinner at the House of Blues before the Styx concert. Those were the dining highlights. Oh, wait, we did order room service one night, because we were just too tired to go out. That was nice! The full table, with all the bells and whistles, right in our room. Definitely appealing to my lazy nature.

I must report that I did not wear my black leather pants, despite my firm plans to do so. I mean, if you can't wear black leather pants in Las Vegas, where the hell can you wear them??? I thought about it, then was struck with a serious attack of age-consciousness. Yes, you'll see middle-aged women wearing all manner of outrageous things, and while they might not look bad in them, I sort of got thinking that we tend to look just a little bit foolish. Normally, I don't consider myself "old." But the sleep-deprivation seemed to add 10 years to my thin, sharp face, shadows that I hadn't noticed before... and Oh. My. Goodness. did my dad's Basset hound eye bags show up on my face practically overnight.

Despite my often-mentioned vanity issues, I don't really spend that much time in front of a mirror. When I do, I'm focusing on one feature at a time. Blush on cheekbones, mascara on eyelashes (which are never the same length and thickness on both eyes, requiring creative application techniques), eyeliner under the eye, try to get my stupid bangs to do something reasonable, etc. But I took a good look at my under-eye area and realized that it looked like I had two sharply-defined black eyes. If any of you ladies out there know of good products to hide this disturbing age-related characteristic, I'd like to hear about them.

So, I went with black jeans instead of black leather. Yes, I'm a coward. $10 was a great deal on $190 pants, but now it's feeling like a waste.

The other thing I realized about myself is my slight obsessive-compulsive (or maybe it's more superstitions) nature. I've mentioned before about how I need a comfort zone, and I define that by very odd little things that must not be allowed to vary. For example, once I determine my route through the casino to the tram, I have to take the exact same route every time. I can't go around the left side of the fountain, it must be the right. When I get on the tram, I have to sit against the window on the side of the bench from which I will exit. If I don't get that seat, I am slightly uncomfortable. Between sessions, I would dispose of my beverage cup, go to the balcony to smoke and check my phone for messages, prepare my drink for the next session and return to the seat on which I had left my notebook. Occasionally I would be forced to add a bathroom stop in there. When I had a session on the top floor of the South Convention Center, making it impossible to go outside to smoke and lacking coffee service, I didn't know what to do.

Well, that's all I can think of at the moment. I'll share some pictures later. Mostly, I'm trying to adjust to below-freezing temperatures and enjoying being around dogs again. I have a lot of blog-reading to catch up on, notes to type up (because if I wait till I get back in the office, it will never be done!), naps to take... oh, and probably laundry to do, but I'm blocking that out for now.

Home and Freezing

Just wanted to tell everyone that we're home safe and sound. Woke up in a place with 60-65 degree days, and it was 21 when we landed in Minneapolis at 2 PM! I hadn't seen my own breath all week, unless it was cigarette smoke. I will blog tomorrow, but thought I'd give all of you a quick note so you know to "stay tuned!" The dogs are great, but probably wish we'd go away again, because I'm suspecting they got a lot more interaction with their Auntie T here!

So, see you all tomorrow!

Before I Go Out Tonight...

Surprise! Guess who!? Hubby is already over in line for tonight's concert, and I'm in the room chowing on some takeout Chinese food before I head over. Thought I'd write to my FFFans again!

Two things I'm thinking about:

I have walked what little ass I had right the hell off. Yes, the Excalibur, Luxor and Mandalay Bay are all mostly connected. There's a walkway inside (way too long), and there's a tram, which I use all the time. The trip is under 2 minutes from Excalibur to Mandalay. But first I have to walk clear across my hotel to the tram station, then walk from the tram station to my conference location in Mandalay.

A couple of issues. First, most of the administrative team sessions are in the Four Seasons, which is at one end of the Mandalay complex. It is, fortunately, not far from the tram. The main conference area is in the north convention center of Mandalay, the opposite end of the universe. I need to go there for the pet expo thing, the information center, etc. It's a long walk!!! I believe it to be approximately 7.4 miles, though I might be a wee bit off about that. And the main convention area is not close to the tram. You know how I love my high-heely-boots, but today I had to break down and wear loafers to try to keep my bunions from bursting. I haven't walked this much (on purpose) since this conference last year.

Second thing... T tells me there is a spirit in my house. T may have to put in the comments exactly what she can do, but I think of her as a "sensitive." She can tell when spirit energy is present. She didn't sense anything at my house before... I asked, because I do not wish to live in a house that is all ghosty. By that, I mean I don't want to live in a house that is harboring the spirit of someone who died there. She says that's not what this is. She says it is a male spirit, and she believes it is my dad. Apparently he hangs out in the hallway downstairs right by the laundry room and Ryan's former room. She says he just looks into the bedroom but doesn't go in. Both my sisters and I probably feel we were Dad's "favorite." In reality, we all were with him for different periods and experiences in life. I was his "outdoor girl," working with him in the garden, listening to all his woodlore, enjoying walks in the woods as he taught me about things... I was a real daddy's girl. So I guess it's realistic that he'd want to check in on me and keep an eye on things. He had very strong feelings for Ryan, but they didn't see each other a lot, so I doubt he was bonded enough to Ryan to be here for him... plus, Ryan doesn't live at home and I would assume Dad would be aware of that.

I just realized that when T told me there were no spirits in my house, I think my dad was still alive. He died in May of 2000. So that would explain why she didn't sense him then, but she's been in my house a lot over the years and this is the first sign of spiritual presence.

I don't mind having a spirit in my house if it's someone I know, or someone who at least didn't suffer a violent death in my house! I'd like to have Dad there.

Anyway, T will keep us posted on the Spiritual Realm!

And, Rachel, this one IS short! Just so you know! ;-P

Quick Note from Vegas

Hi FFFans! Miss me? I tried to get online and blog quickly yesterday, but at the work station in the pet expo area I was unable to remember my login or password because usually I'm on my own computer and it helpfully remembers all that stuff for me. Hence, no blog.

I'm on a break between morning and afternoon sessions, and here's a quick update on what's happening out here. Not a formal (i.e. "well-written") blog, so consider this a lengthy postcard in cyber-form.

Observation while at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport: 99.9% of travelers are moderately to extremely unattractive. (We, of course, are in that other 0.1%.) I cannot understand how this can be possible, though, because once you arrive at your destination, the attractiveness percentage returns to normal levels. Either airports have some kind of ugly-ray to keep people from doing unseemly things in the gate areas during long flight delays, or my perception was colored by the stress and discomfort of travel.

There are many stress-making hurdles during travel. For me on this trip, they were:

• Get to airport terminal
• Get to correct airport terminal. (MSP has two terminals, the Lindberg and the Humphrey. I thought all commercial airlines flew out of Lindberg. It's the only one I've ever been to. On Saturday I learned that my assumption was incorrect. Apparently Sun Country flies out of Humphrey. We parked at Lindberg, got into the terminal, found out I was wrong (unbelievable as that may be), and we had to take a tram and the light rail to the other terminal, approximately 500 miles away. Tom insisted we were in Wisconsin, but I was thinking "hell" because we rode approximately 18 escalators, and they all went down. Yet at the end, we took one escalator up, and were at ground level. Now, there's not a lot of elevation change in central Minnesota, so this must be another of those strange airport phenomenons.
• Get checked in at Sun Country counter.
• Go through security. (I remembered to wear good socks and to leave the studded belt at home) Was not strip-searched.
  
• Wait at gate. Wait some more, because the incoming flight from Cancun was late. Watch arriving Cancuners parade by with varying degrees of sunburn. (Minnesotans who go to tropical places in February simply must do something to protect their pasty white skin!)
• Get on plane. (Finally!)
• Fly. Actually, I enjoy flying, but it is boring... "Are we there yet???" Sun Country does, however, serve you actual food instead of honey roasted peanuts, which I hate. We got a chewy microwave cheeseburger. It was awesome, because I was starving. Oh, and there was also a cookie. I gave mine to Tom.
• Get off plane.
• Rush from airport to have two much-needed cigarettes, having bummed a light from a fellow smoker since I had to pack my lighter so the airline could feel safe that I wouldn't set fire to anyone or anything while awaiting my cheeseburger. Usually I take matches for this, but couldn't find any in the junk drawer at home.
• Locate and claim luggage. (All there! Yay!)
• Locate shuttle
• Arrive at hotel
• Check in. I'd requested a $10 upgrade to a Strip view. They didn't have a Strip view smoking room left, so we got a view of the opposite side but NOT in the middle of the hotel overlooking the casino roof again. (We can see the Bellagio, Palms, and our hotel pool area) For our inconvenience, we got one of the newly remodeled rooms with a wide screen plasma TV. Tom is ecstatic, and has claimed the flipper for his very own.
  

OK, that's all the first day stress. We ate Quiznos in the room. Too tired to go out.

Day Two involved getting the lay of the land and registering for the conference and getting my goodie bag. Also, hitting the information booth and stocking up on free notebooks and pens. I brought my own, but these were FREE. (I'm cheap, remember) I also brought my ten different colored pens and markers to make note-taking less dull. I had afternoon sessions, then we got ready to go to the House of Blues to see Styx.

We had a light dinner at the HOB, and (get ready for this) I ordered a glass of wine and did not finish it! This has never before happened. I sipped till I felt a faint warm glow and an unknotting of my natural tenseness, then I stopped! This is a very good sign!

The show was awesome! Tommy Shaw and James Young, the two original members, look fabulous for being in their mid and late fifties (respectively). Tommy still looks hot, and JY still has the same wild demonic glee. Lawrence Gowan, who took over for the gone and not missed Dennis DeYoung does the vocals and such better than Dennis ever did. He is also a total maniac. Think "over-the-top Shakespearean actor." He climbs his keyboard and looks like he should have a plumed hat clutched to his breast, the other arm extended beseechingly as he says something insane and flowery to some fair maiden. Their drummer, Todd, kicks so much ass. I also can't figure out why I didn't notice bassist Ricky Phillips a LOT more last year. Total yum. Think of the guy in the Hobbit movie who died in the first installment when he started to wig out because he wanted to steal the ring from Frodo to help restore his people's kingdom or something. Long light brown hair, goatee, very very nice. They also brought out one of the founding members, Chuck Panozzo, for three songs, and it was cool seeing him again, though he looked a little stunned, like he just woke up and wasn't sure why he was there.

Another thing about attending a concert while not intoxicated: You notice all the other drunks and can laugh at their antics. There were several, and I laughed a lot. Nice being on the other end of it!

Yesterday was all-day sessions, then we went out to dinner (great Italian here at the Excalibur) then gambled for a while. Tom did very well and cashed in like $150 on a $20 investment. I did not do nearly as well. I didn't quite wipe out his winnings, but it was close.

Today I had morning sessions, and came back to the room on the break, and must head out again soon. Tom is out taking pictures somewhere. He will go early (like at 4:30-5) to get in line for the Leann Rymes concert. He likes her and must be up front. I'll finish up classes, change, then go meet him.

It's been in the mid-60s during the day here, not that I've seen a lot of outside. Well, not true. I do go out and smoke between sessions, and we had lunch in the grass outside Mandalay Bay yesterday, under some of those funny-looking pine trees. You know - tall, straight, scaly trunks with fronds on top. Tomorrow and Thursday I only have morning sessions, so we'll get out and do some sightseeing in the afternoons/evenings. I think we're going downtown to Fremont Street on Thursday, because it might rain tomorrow afternoon. I've bought a few things, and will undoubtedly buy more. Money goes farther when your bar tab isn't in triple digits.

Terresa reports the dogs are doing well. (I almost abducted a golden Service Dog yesterday. I settled for walking close enough to get some golden fur on my pants.) Darwin has adopted her for his very own, and Brody and Darwin have been "guarding" her, reluctant to allow her husband into the bedroom at night. They seem to have the "petsitter" thing confused and think they are her chaperons. No fights, which is good. Sprocket isn't feeling well, and T may take him over to my clinic for a chiropractic adjustment and exam if he seems to really need it.

So that's the report from Sin City! I'm staying out of trouble, learning a lot of stuff, and getting some great ideas to take back to our practice. I notice my page count is low the last few days! What did I tell you? I said visit, re-read, comment, and refer others, people! Don't get out of the habit of reading FF!

Miss you all!

Unexpected Development

I have a confession to make. Those of you who have been following some of my recent difficulties may be shocked, so brace yourselves.

Today, I shopped.

Not only did I shop, but unlike my recent outings to Kohl's and the Mall of America, I bought things.

As I was laundering my way through the Mt. Kilimanjaro of laundry piles, thinking about which things to pack for tomorrow's trip, I realized that with very few exceptions, my clothes looked like shit. I was used to them. Maybe I had somehow convinced myself they still looked like they did when they were new, sort of like how Tom and I can look at each other and see the 17 year olds we fell in love with, despite that being 26 years ago. (I think he's cuter now, but I'm starting to fray at the edges.)

(Side note, I realized that in all my recent posts I said it was now 27 years since our first date, but I just recalculated. It was 1982. 26 years ago. I told you that math is my arch-nemesis. This is proof. I'm surprised none of you numerically inclined people caught that. Are you sure you're reading my blogs closely enough?)

OK, back to the clothes. There was very little that I felt good about putting in my suitcase and dragging a couple of thousand miles to wear in front of a bunch of other people who probably shop on a regular basis. So, as soon as Maybe-Kim had finished my lovely fresh nails (amid much smiling and nodding), I took myself off to Fashion Bug. There, I did something I have not done in an actual store for several years. I bought jeans.

About three years ago, or whenever they were invented, I discovered the Victoria's Secret Uplift jeans. I knew my size, so I began buying them for a fraction of the retail price on eBay. I was captivated by the concept of the inner panels lifting my saggy middle-aged posterior, though in truth there isn't much to lift. I have no ass, sad to say. But what tiny bit I do have is formed by the Uplift jeans into a slightly butt-like shape and is not drooping. My family is genetically ass-deficient. Even when I was fat, I had little in that particular area. Everywhere else, yeah, but my butt was flat as a pancake. A very, very wide pancake.

I had failed to plan ahead and order more Uplifts in time for the trip, so when I realized (at the last minute, obviously) that I only had one pair that was still in decent shape, I had to shop. At the risk of incurring the wrath of women everywhere who dread jean-shopping because they believe they are cursed with big behinds, I have to say it was a delight! (Note: my jeans size is small because I have no ass. If I could have some shape in the ol' caboose, I would gladly take it up a size or two!)

Remember that in 2001, I was a size 22. And this is the very same Fashion Bug in which I sat in the fitting room and cried the first time I was able to fit into a size 12. I hadn't bought anything on the "regular size" side of the store in at least 15 years.

Today, I selected 3 pairs of jeans and entered the fitting room. I tried them all on. They all fit. They all looked great. (Little happy shopping victory dance!) Two were a size four, one was a six. I ended up buying one of the fours and the six. I'm not even freaking that I have almost sort of gone up a size with the purchase of the size six. I'm not going to smush into a four just to prove a point, when the six feels better. Plus, the sixes have cute black sparkly rhinestone things on the front up near the waistband and on the back pockets. I like sparkly black rhinestone things. Or I do now.

Jeans are my friends. I am never, ever going to look good in a bathing suit again, with a tummy that would look like a shar pei, if that particular wrinkly breed of dog also came equipped with stretch marks. But I do love a nice pair of jeans. Once I drop all my loose belly skin into the jeans and secure it behind a sturdy zipper and thick denim, life is good. I love jeans. I was so darned chipper (and I am never chipper - I despise chipper) that I bought two sweaters. The jeans were 50% off and the shirts were on clearance. You do recall, of course, that I am cheap.

Then it was off to Wal-Mart, Your Source For Cheap Plastic Crap. And today, my source for two sweaters, which cost a total of $21.

Now I have a suitcase full (full) of decently-acceptable clothes. It's not the veterinary conference attendees I'm concerned about. For those of us in the business, any clothes that don't smell of anal sacs or cat pee are just fine. But there are plenty of people in Las Vegas who are not there for the conference, and I'd rather not look like some stupid Midwestern Hick come to the Big City.

For anyone who is keeping track, I am taking the black leather pants. It is Las Vegas, after all. But I am not taking the black leather mini skirt. My son should be greatly relieved. And Beautimous Girlfriend should be ever so proud of me, since I seem to have temporarily broken through my Shopper's Block. I'm thinking that when it's time to buy my spring work clothes, she should come along to keep me motivated and focused.

And now, the packing is 90% done. The cleaning is only about 10% done. I always put off cleaning as long as possible, in case perhaps Cinderella's mice show up and need something to do. I'd hate for the cute little rodents to be disappointed. We don't leave here till at least noon tomorrow, so I still have time, if the mice fail to show up. (Actually, I think we do currently have mice, but they have thus far neglected to do any cleaning.)

Will I blog in the morning before we leave? I have no idea. I actually didn't think I'd write today, and look at this! I can't plan. But if stuff starts rattling around in my head, sooner or later it's going to be a blog.

What did I do before Fermented Fur? Well, I probably got a bit more housework done.

Procrastinating

The time is rapidly approaching when I will have to venture out of the house into the unpleasant -8 degree day to run all the errands that must be completed in preparation for tomorrow's departure. Before I do so, I (of course) have a few additional thoughts that I am compelled to share.

I've traveled with Tom numerous times on his business-related trips. Years ago, his company used to hold an annual managers' meeting. A couple of times it was at a very nice lodge in the town where the headquarters was located, but since that was also our hometown, it wasn't exactly a travel adventure. But it was a nice lodge, and yummy dinners, so it was still fun. Once it was in Orlando during the winter, and that was a great getaway. Most notably was the cruise three years ago. I never thought I'd enjoy a cruise, but it turns out that I did. I loved seeing the Mexican Riviera ports, but my favorite thing was sitting on the balcony of our cabin watching the sunrises or sunsets (depending on which direction we were heading) and watching the ocean.

This is the first time that he will be traveling with me on my business-related trip. He is even enrolled in the spouse program, which will provide him a place to hang out during part of the day (if he so chooses) and get a nifty continental breakfast. There are also activities, but we missed signing him up for the Wolfgang Puck Cooking Class. I waited too long, and the classes filled up. A shame, because Hell's Kitchen is his favorite reality show. I think he harbors secret thoughts of screaming, a la Gordon Ramsay, "Listen, you f**king donkey, that looks like a dog's dinner!!!" Which, actually, in our household would be a compliment rather than an insult, as we've already established that our dogs eat better than we do.

While I harbor no strong feelings one way or the other about Las Vegas, Tom has long wanted to go, so I'm glad we were able to swing that this year. I hope it lives up to his expectations!

He has mentioned several times over the last couple of weeks that perhaps I should do our taxes before we go. I'm still unsure how I ended up being the one to do our taxes every year, given my mathematical dyslexia. I surrendered control of the checkbook in 1990, shortly after we bought our first house, because balancing it every month with all the house-related purchases we were making was simply too confusing. So I did not balance it for about three months. I also forgot to record a surprising number of transactions. I believe it took him and several bank employees quite some time to sort out the resulting mess.

But I'm the "computer person" in the household, so I buy a nifty tax program each year, dutifully fill in the required numbers and answer the questions, and we end up with a tax return that so far has not landed us in federal prison.

I'm not sure what to expect this year. This is the first time we will be unable to claim The Boy or any portion of his Higher Education Expenses, but we also have a home equity line of credit now. I think (hope) that the interest on that is also tax-deductible. My tax program will no doubt resolve that for me, as soon as I get around to installing it. I hate doing the taxes. It doesn't take long, but it never fails that each time I get settled in and start, I discover that I am lacking some critical bit of documentation. This breaks my momentum, which was not all that powerful to begin with. It could be days before I sit down to try again.

This year, I have a particular aversion to tax preparation, partially because of the "I have no idea what to expect" thing. The other reason is that I totally do not want to know how bad it is, how much we owe, before going to Las Vegas. This strikes me as like calculating your body mass index the day before Thanksgiving. Sorta casts a pall over the previously enjoyable event. I just want to go, have a good time, spend what we want, and worry about the tax thing later. We are not extravagant people. Our idea of blowing a lot of cash probably makes the Las Vegas Department of Tourism roll their eyes and consider telling us to come back when we have real money.

And now I have stalled as long as I can reasonably justify. Time to bundle up and head out!

The Joy of Dogs, Explained

I have frequently attempted, in my meager way, to explain the human/canine bond... and failed. I think I've hit some of the elements of what having dogs in our lives does to nourish our souls, our connection to the natural world, the reminder to experience and enjoy each moment, to embrace the small joys, and to try not to take the universe so seriously. I've discussed how they help us to shake off the accumulation of life's daily stresses and slights and disappointments. But I've talked in generalities.

Curt and Duncan, in the latest post on While Walking Duncan, give one perfect, simple, example that largely defines this phenomenon. It's like that one clear, flawless musical note, that makes your heart ache with its beauty, and simultaneously makes you just a bit sad that everyone in the world can't hear that glorious tone.

I'm really going to miss my dogs during the six days that I will be gone! The irony of a veterinary conference without dogs has not escaped me.

Take a few minutes and check out this post, "After," and then go hug your dog and thank him or her for gracing your life with canine clarity.

Thank you, Curt and Duncan. I hope you don't mind my sharing this post here on FF.

Sharin' the Love

Just wanted to announce that I have (finally) passed along the "I Love You This Much" award that Curt bestowed upon my humble blog a week or so ago. It took me a while, because I'd been so obsessed with writing my own blog (and possibly developing carpal tunnel syndrome in the process) that I hadn't been reading a lot of others other than his. Didn't think it would do to return it to him. Too much like re-gifting something to the same person who gave it to you. Seems like a bad idea, no matter how love-worthy he and his blog (and his DOG... OK, Ken and the cats, too, but mostly Curt and Duncan) may be.

Lately I've been reading a blog by M., called The Skin I Am In. Some of her posts are "wet your undies laughing and snort soda out your nose" funny, while others are very deep and introspective, examining issues that many of us have had to confront in our lives. She's a talented writer, and from what I know so far, she seems like an awesome human being. Drop by and give her blog a read!

And as an additional Valentine's Day note... this is typically a big holiday for us, because of the whole first-date thing. Last year Tom surprised me at work with a two-foot tall golden retriever Valentine and a bag full of goodies and gifts. The cool part was he'd already arranged with Dr. Vet-Friend One for me to leave at noon, and he whisked me off for an overnight stay at a hotel about an hour away... in the jacuzzi suite!

This year, with trip preparation (he's cleaning and vacuuming the family room as I type), we've elected to celebrate our Valentine's Day when we get to Las Vegas. Of course, there was a card and a heart-shaped box of cherry cordial Kisses in my car when I got ready to leave for work this morning. He's one in a billion.

Departure Preparations

Well, all the plans I had made regarding how to get everything done that I need to do before leaving for the conference in Las Vegas got totally blown to shit. I don't know why I didn't expect that.

Due to staff illness, I ended up working today (Thursday), which was to be my "get stuff done at home and run all my errands" day. True, I am off tomorrow now, but the library is not open, so we will be stopping at the library on the way to the airport, because not having an appropriate selection of reading material is not an option. But since I had to cover the front desk this morning, this leaves me a half day (this afternoon, as soon as I finish my abbreviated lunch break) to do the full day of work I had planned for tomorrow.

So, FFFans, I have absolutely no idea if I shall be inspired to blog tomorrow in the midst of laundering, packing, erranding, nail repairing, and miscellaneous cleaning. I might! Also, it is possible that I will post the occasional short blog from the road, because there are free internet stations at a few locations for the conference-goers.

But this does not mean that you shouldn't check my blog daily! You should! Check it often! Actually, I want you all to consider this like summer re-run season or the writers' strike. Re-runs! Re-read the archives! Comment on a post you didn't comment on the first time around! Share this blog with at least one other person daily!

And try not to miss me too much (please miss me just enough!).

Oscars? Blah! Go, Westminster!

After watching the final night of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show yesterday, it was probably inevitable that I’d have to at least mention it today.

Let’s get my standard disclaimer out of the way first. In general, I strongly discourage people from breeding their dogs. This not uninformed opinion comes from many years working in the veterinary industry, as well as breed rescue organizations. I see so many poorly-bred dogs with health and temperament problems and entirely too many sweet dogs who are homeless. At the veterinary hospital that I manage, we do not give “breeder discounts,” but we do provide a substantial discount to non-profit rescue groups. This is our way of staying true to our ethics and helping out those who need it most. (I could possibly have worked more italics into that paragraph, but I am not sure how.)

One example is a family acquaintance who recently got a Rottweiler puppy and has now decided to get a second puppy, with plans to breed them as soon as possible. Does this person know jack shit about Rottweilers? Nope. One of the dogs is already showing food aggression, and this person has no clue about training and behavior modification, if this even is a problem that can be worked through by a knowledgeable owner, or whether this dog has a temperament that should under no circumstances be passed along to puppies. Does this potential breeder know what the breed standard for the Rottweiler says about how it should look and how it should be put together? Does this person know what the primary hereditary conditions are for the breed, and how to screen the dogs for them before breeding? Not a chance. (I do. I looked it up. Hip and elbow dysplasia, heart disease, and eye conditions such as progressive retinal atrophy are the main ones. All of which can be debilitating and/or fatal, and at the very least will sock their unsuspecting owners with budget-breaking veterinary bills.)

If this “breeder” doesn’t come around before committing canine reproduction, there will be a litter of Rottweilers who may well suffer physically and have temperaments that will only serve to perpetuate the “Bad Rottweiler” stereotype. This is the kind of clueless breeder I detest. A well-bred, well trained and socialized Rott is one of the most gentle and stable dogs in the world. In fact, while I was doing therapy dog work, Rottweilers were second in number only to golden retrievers in our group. The woman to whom I passed the directorship has Rottweilers, and one of hers was just given a state “outstanding service dog” award for his work in hospitals and schools.

There are some unscrupulous show breeders who get a championship on a dog and then begin breeding puppies in large numbers, because they are worth more. We call these “show mills.” They don’t always use appropriate care in placing puppies in the right homes, or follow up to make sure the puppies are well cared for. So these people are also on my shit list.

Breeders who reach the pinnacle of dog showdom are rarely this type of breeder, so I am happy watching their dogs compete and excel. Their ultimate goal is to produce the ideal specimen of their breed, which should be (but too often isn’t) the goal of every single person who makes the choice to bring another dog into the world.

Ranting completed, I can (finally) return to last night’s show, which featured my two favorite Groups, the Sporting and the Working dogs.

Sadly, the golden retriever did not even make the cut, also known as the “good pile,” when the judge pulls a handful of dogs from the lineup for an additional look before determining the winner. I reached the totally objective opinion that this indicated that this particular judge had been brought in off the street and had apparently never seen a dog before. Or maybe that’s just me. When I saw the golden (a female named Treasure) I made all my usual googly-oogly, giddy happy sounds, and my eyes welled up. I do that with a lot of breeds, but none so extensively (or as emphatically) as with goldens.

(Treasure)

Apologies in advance to my lovely, Poodle-mama friend. (By the way, Poodle-mama, I got the Ron’s Ear and Itch Powder yesterday, and have applied it to Ozark and Darwin – neither of them is speaking to me at the moment – and will keep you posted regarding results!) Hopefully the last part of the next paragraph will redeem me a bit in her eyes.

One thing that worries me when watching a dog show is when certain breeds, the Poodle (any size) for one, win the Groups or Best In Show. It’s not because I harbor any prejudice or dislike for Poodles. Quite the opposite. I love them! Their intelligence, affectionate personalities, beauty and athleticism place them on the short list of dogs I would one day like to have in my life. But I get the impression that a lot of people who watch televised dog show events do not normally follow the dog fancy. I suspect that when they see a show-clipped poodle win, they think that dog shows are all about silly, fussy haircuts and fancy appearance. True, these people are idiots, but for some reason it still bothers me a little. The exception (in my irrational brain) is black male Standard Poodles, who have the most intelligent and expressive faces, and regal bearing – though they can also be playful, exuberant clowns (and that clownishness is a very good thing!). Even in a show clip, these are definitely not “sissy dogs!” (As proof, I’m including a couple of pictures of Poodle-mama’s splendiferous Poodley-boy, Reckless, in full “Jility Jester” mode!) For whatever reason, their white-coated brethren, with their shaved butts and testicles bouncing in the breeze, don’t pull it off nearly as well.

I love Westminster. If you read my blog about the Land O’Lakes Kennel Club show in St. Paul in January, you know that I love dog shows in general, but there is undeniably something magical about Westminster. If I had been there this year, I would have been able to attend my first Dog Writers Association of America dinner, which would have been awesome. (Just reading the menu made me drool like Homer Simpson holding a doughnut.) I must find a way to go to Westminster at least once in my life. (The drawback being that it is in New York, and I have zero desire – and a lot of aversion – for ever visiting The Big Apple.)

Still, I want to be in that huge arena, surrounded by magnificent dogs and the people who adore them. I want to be near so many others who understand and celebrate the Canine Race for the perfect companions that they are. Imagine being with people who completely understand that dog hair is a good thing, that it makes perfect sense to organize every aspect of your life around your dogs, and that it’s much better to spend your time and money on having the perfect dog than the perfect house.

Just listen to everyone cheer as each dog circles the ring! Every dog is recognized and honored, even if those present do cheer just a bit more loudly for “their” breed. I nearly swooned rapturously to the floor when Best In Show started. The arena was darkened, and as each of the seven Group winners entered the ring to make their introductory circle, spotlights swooped and glided right along with them. The crowd roared. This was a Broadway-level production, and it was all for the dogs! Which is, really, exactly as it should be. I watched it all as it is meant to be watched, on my comfy dog-couch, one furry boy draped across my lap and the other three arrayed in prime snoozing position on the floor nearby.

One quick factoid about my dogs. Every one of them was a rescue dog, discarded by people who failed to see their blinding perfection. Some were simply a bad match for the family, or too much trouble. At least one (Darwin) was abused. Though they aren’t show champions, or in Ozark’s (and possibly Sprocket’s) case not even a purebred, they are all my Bests In Show every day (even considering the occasional Doggie Death Match and persistent fence-barking).

None of my particular favorite breeds made it out of their Groups to Best In Show, but that’s okay. Every dog there was amazing, and my “pick” of the seven group winners did take the prize. Big Beagle Congratulations to Uno, this year’s Best In Show! He, of course, celebrated in the center of the ring, amid his trophies and giant purple and gold ribbon, with a flurry of joyful beagle-barks which couldn’t even be heard over the standing ovation of the crowd.

A standing ovation. For a 15-inch Beagle. I love it!

Perhaps tomorrow I will have to go out and buy some enormous purple and gold ribbons and a spotlight or two so I can show Sprocket, Ozark, Brody and Darwin just how special they are to me every day!

(And now, naturally, I must share with you photos of some of my other favorite breeds. These are all breed winners from this year’s Westminster.)

(Clumber Spaniel)

(Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever)

(Tibetan Mastiff)

(Great Pyrenees)

(Alaskan Malamute)

(Bloodhound)