Blog Backlog

So many bloggish thoughts are backing up in my head, and now that I finally have a day off, some of them are starting to leak out. That's a good thing, because blogstipation is so uncomfortable.

Hey, interesting factoid, and I've decided to interpret it as a sign. I just got to watch an episode of Dead Like Me, the best series ever on Showtime. Of course, since it a) was so incredibly awesome, and b) I liked it, Showtime, in its infinite "wisdom," canceled it after two seasons. They re-ran it on Sci-Fi for a while, but it was just on a local cable channel. It was one of my favorite episodes, too. I have Season 1 on DVD, but since I have no idea how to operate our DVD player I rarely got to watch them. This episode was Season 2, anyway. So I loaned Season 1 to Dr. Vet-Friend One, and haven't gotten it back yet.


Then, when DLM was over, I was delighted to find Shaun of the Dead on the Comedy Channel. Funniest. Movie. Ever.

What does this have to do with being a "sign," you wonder? Dead. Death. It's a theme. May is dead, long live June!

I just went out on a quick errand, and was grossed out yet again by the masses of box elder bugs swarming all over the exterior of my house. I'm pretty sure they're harmless (they have been so far), but masses of anything with that many legs has a certain ick factor all its own. Plus, some of them are hooked together in what I am sure they find a very satisfying way, but it merely magnifies their ickiness unless you, too, are a box elder bug and looking for a date.

(Currently dateless box elder bug. Multiply by 113,000, some single and some in pairs, and visualize all over the front of my house.)

Last topic for today...

My doorbell rang a while ago. It never rings, because I do not encourage visitors in any way. Pretty much just The Boy and Fabulous Fiancee, and they don't have to knock (but I do still require a 24 hour notice before any visits - trust me, it's better for all of us that way).

But one thing that I was going to put on my "Things it took me at least 40 years to learn" list - because I thought some people might not find it as blindingly obvious as I do - is that just because your doorbell rings does not mean you have to actually answer the door.

Unless there's a guy in brown shorts with a big brown truck parked in my driveway (not just any guy in brown shorts with a brown truck... I'm talking UPS here), or someone holding one of my dogs by the collar (indicating a previously undetected escape), I'm not opening the door.

I could claim it is for "security" reasons, woman home alone, blah blah blah... but of course I'd be lying. I just don't care to needlessly subject myself to unwanted human interaction. I don't want to buy your cookies, candy, wrapping paper, or coupon books. I don't care to discuss your religion or political candidate. I couldn't possibly give less of a shit about your survey. I don't want your discount coupon for carpet cleaning or driveway sealing. (Not if you're bothering me at home to deliver it. Try some direct mail, people.) I imagine if my garage is on fire or there's a rabid coyote in my yard, I'll figure it out soon enough.

Fortunately, I have not fostered a situation in which our neighbors feel they should pop over and invite us over to throw a few burgers on the grill. Of our four direct neighbors (one on either side, and two right across the street), I don't remember the last time I've spoken to any of them. In most cases, it has undoubtedly been years. A couple of them I may never have spoken to at all. This does not bother me. I smile and wave, attempt to not allow my dogs to be too annoying, and leave everybody the hell alone. Tom does talk to them on occasion. He's way more social than I am. I'm glad he does this, because it leads them to believe that we are not total freaks (or at least not both of us).

Anyway, the doorbell rang, and I peeked out the window. Guy in a red baseball cap. No UPS truck, all dogs present and accounted for. Go back to the Sofur and watch Brody, Darwin, and Ozark bark themselves into a lather six feet over the guy's head. He went away. Good decision. Brody already has the screens in the bay window more or less shredded, and I'm pretty sure he could wedge the windows further open and drop on an "intruder" like a polar bear with delusions of panther-dom.

Actually, that might be kind of fun to see. I almost hope the guy comes back.

Eureka!

There may be hope! It came to me this morning why last week sucked so much ass. It's still May! Regular readers know that May is a love/hate month for me. Too many emotionally intensive family "anniversaries," mostly pertaining to death. On the positive side, it generally heralds the full transition from winter, to spring, to summer here in Minnesota. (This year, not so much.) Memorial Day Weekend had become my "Goodbye - and Good Riddance - To May" celebration, but last weekend just didn't seem to do the trick.

I think there are a couple of reasons for this. First of all, it was absolutely not a typical Memorial Day Weekend. Yes, there was lots of auto racing, but there is supposed to be some sun-and-pool time. Even if it rains, it should be warm. This year offered temperatures in the 50s and 60s, followed by a hail storm that beat the living shit out of all the symbolically summery flowers I planted. Zero pool-time.

The second reason is that Memorial Day was early this year. I know it's a predictable cycle, and this is just how it is every several years, but May 24, 25 and 26 left me with the entire rest of a work-week looming ahead which was still tainted by May-ness.

So, since I didn't get to purge May from my cosmic energy through traditional May-banishing methods, and then had to face the four most brain-and-nerve-killing workdays of my career, it's no wonder everything was about as thrilling as an infected cluster of hemorrhoids.

The good news? Rituals or no rituals, pool time or no pool time, today is the last day of the month. At the clinic, the first of the month typically means an especially heavy work load, and the fact that it's also on a Monday this month won't help. I still have personnel issues that will drive me further toward the border of Crazy Town, and other major projects that will demand tons of dedicated focus... but it will no longer be May. That has to help.

Really. It has to help.

(Ironic Post Script: In 1st grade, for our class play, we did a celebration of all the holidays on the calendar. I portrayed... the Month of May. This pretty much got me May Day, where a bunch of other first-graders danced around a May Pole, and I still remember the stupid lyrics to the damned song. "On a morning in spring, when the yellow birds sing, we will dance in a ring, around the May Pole." More wasted brain cells. I also got Memorial Day, which involved the singing of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Cheery. I wore a purple floral print dress, and my mom made me a plastic headband with a bunch of purple and white flowers tied to it. The Universe has a totally sick sense of humor.)

Brain Cells: An Endangered Species

OK. That’s it. I’m done. I don’t care if I have three hours left in the workday. (Though, technically, I am on my lunch break and totally not writing this on the Dr. Vet-Friends’ dollar.) But I shall soon clock back in from my lunch break – which is the first one I’ve been able to take all week – and have to face the fact that my brain wattage for the week is used up.

I must begin devising strategies that will make me appear to be busy and productive. This, as you can imagine, will be almost as hard as actually being busy and productive, due to the lack of still-functioning brain cells available for the devising process.

I know you’ve noticed the scarcity of blog posts this week. Believe me, they’re rattling around in my gear-stripped brain, but I haven’t had the time or energy to work them out of there and through the keyboard and up into cyberspace. I have been in mental and emotional hyper-drive since I walked through the clinic door at 7:30 Tuesday morning after my long weekend.

I already shared the whole “I hate to hire people” situation. Remember how much I hated it? Three days ago? By now, you’d have to take that hatred up by a whole order of magnitude.

Aside from discovering that I had to immediately launch a search for a new receptionist, then discovering that what I really needed to do was hire two, because we were somewhat understaffed at the front desk to begin with, I also had to mediate the Employee Conflict From Hell. I started to write an entire rant about that, but when I hit 3000 words and was maybe half done, I realized that is a story I just have to keep to myself. The Reader’s Digest Condensed Version is the front desk staff hates, distrusts, disrespects, and wants to send to the nearest dungeon the entire technician staff. The feeling is mutual.

Did you ever see the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond in which Debra buys one of those “cut the side of the can” can openers? This purchase and various other contributing factors lead to Ray and Debra having a fight. The episode features the scene being played out three times; once from Ray’s perspective, once from Debra’s, and once from a neutral perspective (maybe Robert’s). The script and actions of the characters are identical. But through tone and interpretation, not to mention whether you placed the tuna can in the sink or flung it there, the story is entirely different.

That’s totally what I’m dealing with here, with my otherwise great staff.

Then I learn, much to my dismay, that the Dr. Vet-Friends are not entirely blameless. Not that they’re doing anything wrong, but their reactions and responses in certain situations make things worse instead of better. When I shared this news with them, the Dr. Vet-Friends initially freaked out and came very close to running upstairs and just smiting the lot of them (and, frankly, I wouldn’t have stopped them, even though it would have served to prove the staff's point), but then settled down and agreed to reflect on changing some of their behaviors.

I so have my fucking work cut out for me.

I spent all day Tuesday frantically trying to deal with the resignation and subsequent employee search, digging out from the long weekend and the two days I was off before that, the plans to transition our practice to “paperless” (met with the computer network guy), and interviewing two candidates for an open veterinary technician position.

Wednesday consisted of receiving and reviewing what eventually amounted to about 70 reception resumes and holding the dreaded “conflict resolution” meeting. Add to that drowning in the logjam of paperwork and other tasks resulting from spending all of Tuesday and Wednesday dealing with personnel issues.

I did spend a delightful two hours on Wednesday with the Dream Applicant I mentioned before. I was sure I’d found the hideous bottomless crevasse that would make it impossible for us to come to an agreement that would result in her working here, but it seems we may have found a way around it. She’s coming back in Monday morning to talk to the Dr. Vet-Friends, and hopefully accept a job offer that is ridiculously below her ability level and pay rate, but is in many ways perfect for what she wants and needs at this point in her life.

Thursday was my day off. Yeah, right. I was in the office for five hours, and took an additional three hours of work home with me, just so I could start today with some hope of getting my head above water. Trying to work out a staff schedule when you have new people, people leaving, people who might be hired, summer help getting ready to start, etc., makes my brain swell. All this thought-intensive work is extra fun because all this stuff on my mind has pretty much put “sleep” right the hell out of the question. I’m lying in bed thinking, “I’ve got to remember to tell Dr. Vet-Friend One about…” or “What if I tried…” or “I need to re-write…” or "I'd better not forget to..." Happy little bedtime stories in my head about an alternate universe in which I am younger and hotter and single and meet Cody, who immediately realizes he can’t live without me, are not possible.

Which brings us to today. I’ve re-configured our feline surgical service structure, finalized the changes we’re making to the time we schedule for various appointments (going longer), have the pieces in place to adjust those prices before we open Monday, talked to our software support people to make sure I’m not going to fuck up anything beyond repair when I do this, caught up on some of the long-overdue administrative tasks (“Dear Dingle Family, so sorry Fluffy died weeks and weeks ago, but here’s a pretty card, and we made a donation to a local rescue in her memory.” By this point, I don’t even remember who Fluffy is.), contacted a bunch of front desk applicants to arrange an initial interview for Monday…

(Deep Breath)

… and now I am done. Brain shutting down. Battery drained. Nerves shot. If I try to make one more intelligent, rational, professional decision at this point I will run out into the parking lot and crawl under the dumpster with all the rapidly shriveling earthworms that perished in yesterday’s rain.

I am going to spend this weekend doing everything in my power to avoid thinking. I will read fluff and crap. I will sit on the couch and absorb canine adoration directly into my bloodstream. I might even go lie out in the sun (if one can believe the weather forecast, which is doubtful). But I will not do anything that in any way resembles “thinking.” (Note: Blogging does not count as thinking.)

I need to give my weary brain time to recover to the point of functionality, because I have to come in super early (I’m always very early, so “super early” means at least an hour before anyone else gets here) on Monday so I can get the appointment structure and new prices in the computer before we open, as well as mark all the existing appointments – because we have to charge them the old prices – and still be ready to meet with our potential new front desk person (the “too good to be true” one) at 8:30, then launch into the weekly reports, the end of the month stuff, the beginning of the month stuff, the billing, the reminders, welcome our new technician and get all her paperwork in order… and then conduct a group interview for the front desk applicants at 1:00.

(Another Deep Breath)

Two weeks from today we will be leaving on our weekend golf resort thing with Dr. Vet-Friend Two and her husband. And 20 days from today is the Ragweed concert. I have never needed two “getaways” more! (It would probably be smart of the band to check their bus – including the luggage compartment and undercarriage – very carefully before they leave Minnesota.) (Stowaway Roadtrip: Reckless and cool, or just plain pathetic? Hmmm.)

Did I forget to mention that I do really, truly love my job? I do!

Usually.

But I’m so going to need more money.

7:00 PM UPDATE: Yup. Shoulda known. Dream Applicant just emailed. She's had time to think, and realizes she would ultimately be frustrated in that position once she got settled in and began to seek additional responsibilities and challenges that simply are not part of the job. So I have to hire two more for sure. Sigh.

Idiots Need Not Apply

I hate hiring. It doesn’t matter if it’s for technicians or front desk – I still hate it.

However, at least when advertising for technicians, most people understand the words “certified or certificate-eligible veterinary technician.” Sure, we get the occasional people who perhaps worked in a pet store or volunteered at the humane society, and sometimes even those who have no animal handling experience but have extensive history (personally or professionally) with holistic medicine. Sometimes those work out, and may be worth the effort of an interview.

But hiring for front desk spots is a royal pain right in my ass. We’ve had two solid receptionists since the fall, though in the past few weeks some major tensions have been manifesting between the “front” and the “back,” meaning the receptionists and the technicians. “They don’t respect me,” “They don’t understand the pressures of my job,” “She always…” “They never…” “She’s lying,” or “She’s being dramatic.” Oh, holy hell, just shut up and do your jobs!!!! I have a meeting scheduled between the receptionists and my two senior techs tomorrow. But what do I find on my desk the first thing this morning, my first day back after my five-day (largely unfulfilling) “vacation?” A resignation letter from my newest receptionist.

This would be less troublesome if she’d at least given the mediation process (tomorrow) a chance to sort through the hurt feelings and perceived slights on both sides. But if she’s not up to dealing with a problem head-on and with a certain level of maturity, so be it. It also comes while I am still right in the middle of interviewing and hiring a new technician, after the disastrous error in judgment with our last hiring event. (I had two candidates to interview for that position today.)

So, the first thing I did this morning was place an ad on Craigslist. The applications began flooding in within minutes – literally. I got at least forty resumes today. All of which I needed to screen, highlight good and bad points, email some for additional information, and begin to evaluate which will be worth my time to interview.

This brings me to why I hate hiring for reception positions. Remember how I said most applicants for technician positions at least have some of the main requirements listed in the job description? This is not the case with receptionists.

Believe me, I am not belittling receptionists; quite the opposite, in fact. Veterinary reception was my entry into this business, though I had nine years of “front desk” experience in public libraries before entering the field. I was a veterinary receptionist for ten years. I know how demanding and stressful it is, and the level of skill you need to do it well. I was very, very good at it, though I hated it. I loved all the duties involved in the job, but hated the package deal. But because I know the job so well, I expect a certain level of competence before I am even willing to waste my time (or the applicants’) on an interview.

I feel compelled to mention at this time that the whole “front vs. back” animosity has never existed in any veterinary practice in which I ran the front desk. I wouldn’t have it.

Which leads me to a number of totally rhetorical questions that occupy my mind as I screen dozens of resumes.

Why would you send me an application, and then be “out of town” for two weeks?

Why would you mention three times in your cover letter alone your outstanding “attention to detail?” Seems to me that triple redundancy indicates you didn’t proofread yourself well – if at all.

Speaking of proof reading, “Outstanding costumer service” might be very valuable in a theatrical supply company or in New Orleans around Mardi Gras. Not so much in a veterinary hospital. Also? Capital letters and punctuation are a customary part of the written English language. Use them.

Back to the cover letters – It clearly says in the ad to be sure to include a cover letter. Yet at least a half dozen hopeful candidates failed to do so. Those resumes went right in the trash. Do I want to start our working relationship having to tell you three more times, when I’ve already told you once in writing, what I expect you to do?

Why do so many people seem to believe that because they are able to answer a phone that they are qualified to be receptionists? I specifically mentioned a number of job requirements; you have none of them. You’ve worked in a department store or waited tables, or you’ve worked in child care. While these are all very important jobs with their own specific skills, none of them have anything to do with being a receptionist, let alone at a busy holistic specialty veterinary practice.

If you are going to actually bother to send a cover letter (as requested), wouldn’t it be a good idea to personalize it in some way? Mention my name – it’s in the ad – the name of the practice, or for that matter at least indicate that you are aware that you are actually applying for employment in a veterinary practice? When you use words like “an asset to your firm,” or stress your background in accounting, you only prove that you are mass-mailing your resume to every single administrative job you come across. I’m not desperate (yet), and I have never been stupid.

If you are going to apply for a job, is it a good idea to then tell the manager who contacts you (this would be me) the fifty things you have going on that make it impossible for you to interview any time before a week from next Wednesday? What, first of all, makes you think I would care? The only thing I care about is that I wasted precious time reading and evaluating your resume, then deciding to waste further time calling you so that you can tell me you’re too busy to interview anytime in the foreseeable future. One thing I guarantee I’ll never say: “Oh, that’s OK; you’re so special I don’t need to interview you! Just c’mon in and bring your social security card, fill out a W-4, and we’ll get you started whenever you can find time to drop by.”

The expected starting salary range is right there in the ad. Why would you send me a resume that states that your minimum starting salary is a good $3-5 more than that? (And, to go one step further, why put both of us through an interview and then announce it?)

One resume, though, was so superior to any other that I received that I’m almost afraid to call this person. She’s not only done “the” job, she’s done MY job. (I’m trying not to feel threatened by that, but instead to focus on what we could learn from each other.) But the reasons for her seeking a job that stays in the business without the level of stress and responsibility that she’s had in the past make perfect sense. It almost sounds too good to be true, so I’m tempering my excitement until I gather up the courage to call her. Oh, could it possibly be that one perfect applicant will spare me countless phone calls, emails and interviews?

I’m sure something will rear its head to screw it up. She’ll require too much money, or better benefits, or have some bizarre schedule demands that we cannot accommodate. She’ll have a drug problem or seven kids and unreliable daycare. I don’t know what it will be, but I have a sinking feeling it will be something.

In the meantime, I still have a truckload of resumes to screen. I figure when I hit 100 I will have to pull the ad. I hope to have at least a handful of qualified applicants in that batch.

But, job-seekers…? I find floral design fascinating, OK? Yet soooo not relevant. And if I were looking for someone proficient in both face and body waxing, I’m pretty sure I’d have mentioned it in my ad.

Write intelligently and coherently. Work in some creativity and enthusiasm. Have at least some of the basic job requirements. Be available when I contact you, and find time to interview. Be clear about your abilities and expectations. Be honest and personable.

Is that so much to ask? Really? Because if it is, I'm going to proceed with my original plan to move into the North Woods and make mukluks. Oh, wait, I want to do that anyway, so maybe that's not going to have much dramatic impact. I'll have to think of some sort of protest that would make more of an impact, but right now my brain is too muddled from reading all these half-assed resumes.

Not Exactly Pool Weather

This is why Darwin has not yet been introduced to the pool - one of the reasons, anyway. It's been in the 50s and 60s most of the weekend, and yesterday when it was a bit warmer, we got severe storms. You know how when you watch the radar and see red heading your way, you know it's time to be concerned? Well, when it's a giant blob of white bearing down on your neighborhood, you need to move beyond concern (or in our case, get the camera and stand at the sliding glass door like a couple of nit-wits). White on the radar indicates Very Much Badness. The tornado touch-downs were about 10 and 30 miles east of us, thankfully.

The 200 or so petunias and other summery flowery things I planted on Saturday largely got beaten all to hell, but I think they'll recover.

An Excerpt

This is from Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn, which I am currently reading. Amazing writing. The story is unspeakably disturbing and bleak, yet poignant. I just read this passage and wanted to take a moment away from the book and share:

"...It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood.

Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, "Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we'll make it right." The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia.

Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites.

We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting a lollipop or a toy bear's worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skulls for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness."

New Darwin Pictures

I can't deny it any longer. He's perfect. Darwin had his first official grooming today, and the whole shop fell for his charm and overwhelming cuteness. Tara thinks he was from show lines, because she says he'd fit right in at an AKC conformation show. I know this to be true, having noticed the sorts of dogs that make it in the show world. He is the right size (most goldens you meet are far too big), right build, has a lovely coat, and that adorable teddy bear face. Even his naughty habits are precious.

Of course he totally knows how to play me. But enough talk! Let's look at the pictures I just took!

Are Shoe Trees Deciduous?

I am wearing painfully cute shoes today. Emphasis on “painfully.”

To be honest, they’re not as painful now as they were this morning. They just needed to get accustomed to my feet, and vice-versa. It’s all working out now that the day is half over.

Yesterday, I was forced to abandon my plan to indulge in a totally self-destructive flaunting of my credit card “customer service” experience and wear the green canvas espadrilles. I wanted to do it, truly, but in the end I had to face one cold, hard fact. They look like clown shoes.

Never mind that they triggered the panic button at Wamu-Central and virtually had me charged with stealing my own identity. But seriously? If someone wanted to steal someone’s identity, they could do way better than mine. Here’s a suggestion, cyber-criminals. If you want to dabble in identity theft, do not choose someone with a very modest (“pathetic”) income, two mortgages, about $5 of available credit, and a highly questionable credit score. I am not worth the effort and use of your sneaky (but undoubtedly impressive) hacking skills.

At any rate, the green shoes (photo in Monday’s blog) are just too hideous. I might never wear them. Which is why I rarely spend more than $15 on a pair of shoes. I have a hard time distinguishing between “cute and trendy” and “bizarre and laughable.” By the time I figured out the truth about the green shoes, it was too late.

But back to today’s painfully cute shoes. Exhibit A:

At first, I thought they were going to be “bizarre and laughable,” but now I’ve determined that they are, in fact, “cute and trendy.” I have several facts to support this. 1) They are white with pink trim, and perfectly match the pink Capri pants I am wearing today. 2) They have the shoe-lace accent that makes them look sporty. 3) They have a high heel, which makes me feel all grown-up and sexy. 4) The pink and white reminds me of a dress my big sister gave me – possibly made with her own two hands – which was white, sleeveless, had a drop waist, and had these cute pleats inset in the front which were lined with pink and white checks. I remember wearing it when she took me to see 101 Dalmatians at the movie theater in Downtown Wheeling. I think we rode the bus. I’m sure I have many of these details wrong, but you’ll have to excuse me, because… I was three years old. But, whatever. I like the shoes. Even though I blew my shoe budget on them, paying $18, three full dollars over my usual price-break point. Worth it to have shoes with no less than four supporting facts to confirm their cuteness.

I don’t know what’s come over me lately. I am not a shoe person. At all. For much of my adult life, I have tended to have one pair of shoes at any given time, and they were of the “Reebok Athletic Shoe” variety. I usually had a pair of flat sandals for summer, and maybe some boots for heavy snow, but that was it. Then I had my weight loss surgery and could wear heels again for the first time in over 15 years. I invested in a couple of pairs of high-heeled boots for winter and some fun sandals for summer. Now, suddenly, I have more shoes than I’ve ever had in my life. I have something like six pairs of shoes for work, three pairs of high-heeled boots, four or five pairs of high-heeled summer sandals, two or three pairs of flat sandals… and one pair of Reeboks that I only wear if we’re walking the dogs (once in recent memory). Oh, there are probably a few pairs of “dress” shoes, but since I never go anywhere that involves wearing dresses, those are somewhere in the closet and I have no idea of their exact numbers or locations.

I don’t even like shoes. I’m profoundly opposed to footwear in general. When I was a kid, summer meant “toss those shoes under the bed and only get them out for Sunday School.” If I had my way, people would have have feet like Hobbits, with nice, thick soles and fur on top. OK, some of us have feet like that anyway, but I don’t. My feet are really quite cute. Not that Tom can confirm this. He is less of a “foot person” than I am, and is very firm in his belief that my body ends at my ankles.

Yet here I am with all these shoes. I’m in no danger of becoming a Sex and the City, Manolo-wearing shoe whore, but I find myself needing to consider the purchase of some sort of shoe rack. I thought only people like Imelda Marcos had those. But the rows and piles of shoes along the side wall of my dining room (this is where shoes live in our house) are getting ridiculous.

I wonder what kind of shoes I wore with that cute little pink and white dress.

Ready For Ragweed

Thirty days till Ragweed!

Yes, it is once again that time, which comes all too rarely, when Cross Canadian Ragweed makes a swing through this part of the country. If I lived in Texas or Oklahoma I could probably see them on a more or less monthly basis, but here I am in the Upper Midwest. Perhaps it’s time to move.

I have extremely mixed feelings about this show, though.

First of all, it’s at the Minnesota Zoo, part of their Music at the Zoo series. They have a very nice little amphitheater, but it’s still outside. I avoid outdoor concert events because of uncontrollable factors such as heat, humidity, unseasonable chill (it is Minnesota, after all), mosquitoes (Minnesota again), rain, lightning or hail.

My second concern is the fact that this show has seating. As in “buy a ticket, and you are placed in this section, this row, this seat.” This is not the norm for a Ragweed show. I’ve never been to one yet that had anything other than general admission. (They like their fans up close, standing, dancing and screaming. I am very good at these things.) General admission suits our plans quite well, as we line up a minimum of two hours before the doors open, since it is a requirement that we are right against center stage. Seriously? A seat??? What am I supposed to do with that?

A contributing factor to my seat-dissatisfaction is that the tickets went on sale to the public (i.e. ME) at 10 AM yesterday, and I was ordering my tickets at 10:00:01, but because they’d been available to zoo members and people who bought package deals from the promoter prior to this, the best I could get is center section, sixth row. Five rows of people between me and the stage??? I don’t think so!

We expected these less than ideal seats. While we were not pleased with the concept of “seats” for a Ragweed show in the first place, not to mention having to be several rows back, we consoled ourselves with the knowledge that our fan club membership grants us one meet-and-greet a year.

Which leads me to my third problem with the upcoming show – no meet-and-greet at this venue. I have no idea why. Apparently they are unaware that this merely forces Tom into detective mode. Within moments of our arrival at the zoo, he will have scoped out the venue, the layout, the location of the tour bus, nearby restaurants, etc., and will have formed a plan for our own meet-and-greet. Oh, don’t misunderstand. We are never pushy, obnoxious or intrusive. As with real estate, these things are all about location, location, location. We’ll merely place ourselves in a likely spot and wait. Then (hopefully) there will be a polite “hello,” a handshake, perhaps a hug (they’re huggers), and possibly a photo… and then we’ll be happy.

We do have two other options, but they’re simply not workable at this point. The guys play in Eau Claire, Wisconsin the night before our show, and in Weston, Wisconsin the night after. Theoretically, we could get tickets for one of those shows (general admission), drive there, and execute our normal concert-attendance plan, complete with official meet-and-greet. However, doing so would guarantee at least one day off work (subtract about $125 from my next paycheck), gas money, and most likely a one-night hotel stay because we don’t want to drive a couple of hours home sometime after midnight. Oh, and we’d have to pay someone to take care of the dogs. So this option would, in addition to tickets, cost us about $300.

It would all be so much simpler if they’d just do a meet-and-greet at the zoo show. I don’t know what it is about this venue that makes it un-do-able. There has to be a) their bus, b) a backstage area, and c) some sort of VIP accommodations, any of which would be appropriate. It’s not like there are thousands of Ragweed fans around here, as there would be at any venue in Texas. We once had them to ourselves for an entire meet-and-greet, and there were maybe 10 people at the one last year, which took place on the sidewalk beside their bus. (The zoo doesn't have at least one option better than that???)

Regardless, I’m sure we are far and away the most devoted. Who else watches their most recent concert DVD at least once a week and knows every single note and camera shot? (By the way, far too many crowd shots during Alabama. More Cody, less 23-year-old girls in skimpy tops waving beer cups, please.)

We actually gave some thought to skipping the show altogether. It’s bound to be somewhat disappointing for us, despite the fact that Cross Canadian Ragweed is incapable of putting on a less than amazing performance. But the other night, once again watching the DVD, we had to ask ourselves whether we would be able to endure sitting at home on June 19, knowing the concert was going on only about 45 minutes away. Answer: Nope.

So, we’ll be there. In our (grimace) “seats.” Will I be stationed right at the edge of the stage, mere inches from Cody? Probably not, though one wonders whether this will turn out to be one of those events where people abandon their seats at the first guitar blast and move to the stage. Highly unlikely, though, and I’m not one to give Security the slightest reason to notice me.

I guess the bottom line is seeing Ragweed under imperfect circumstances is still way better than not seeing them at all. Damn their awesome talent, amazing hotness, and rock-your-ass-off shows.

Love ya anyway, guys!

The Dangers of Tacky Shoes

Nothing - but nothing - is ever simple.

First thing this morning, I booted up my computer and attempted to do what I do each and every month. Grudgingly, but it's not like I have a choice. I logged on to make this month's credit card payment.

I've said it before, but it bears repeating. I am not someone who should ever be trusted with a credit card of any kind. Actually, I'm probably the credit card companies' favorite kind of customer. Give me a card, and I'll start out with the best intentions. Use only in moderation, for emergencies, and keep that minimum payment in the "doesn't make me want to step in front of an oncoming train" range. This never lasts. Before long, I'm forced to monitor just how far I have to go before said card is maxed out. But I never, ever fail to pay (except one month, when I just forgot), and they make a fortune in interest just on my account alone. They should love me.

Yet today when I logged on, I discovered that my online access was blocked. They helpfully provided the "customer service" number in case I wanted to chat with someone and clear up this pesky little problem.

Did I mention that I was at work? I'd tried to make this payment when I first arrived, 40 minutes before my scheduled start time (this is typical for me), so that I could be finished with personal business before the official start of my work-day. I called the number, was on hold, and eventually had to hang up, because I was at work. Normally, I'd say, "Screw it, I'll deal with it later at home." However, at home I only have my cell phone, which is not comfy clutched in my paw for extended periods of time, and it's too tiny to hold with my shoulder. No, I don't have an ear piece. Plus I know, sure as shit, that about the time an actual "customer service representative" came along, my battery would die.

I tried again later, but after 20 minutes on hold I once again had to hang up.

Finally, kamikaze-like desperation kicked in, because this payment is due the day after tomorrow. I do not want to be late. I punched in the toll-free number again, put it on speaker phone so I could continue to work (worst hold music ever), and waited. And waited. And waited. After 32 minutes, I detected a change in the brain-deadening sounds emanating from the speaker phone and picked up the receiver. Someone vaguely humanoid seemed to be on the other end. Imagine my surprise.

I understand that identity theft is a very real problem in today's world. I appreciate all efforts to keep my information secure. But can we ponder this just a tad? Huh?

I use my card in a very limited number of places, and then only when it's a few days short of pay day and I'm low on cash and in need of something that can't wait till Monday. Wal-Mart. SuperTarget. Holiday. Very occasionally at Bruegger's Bagels or the Liquorette (that last one not so much these days). I also use PayPal, always small amounts, for the cheap clothes I buy on eBay. This is my entire credit history. It has not varied since I've had this card (though the Liquorette used to appear much more often). Yet for some reason three of my recent PayPal transactions (for $20 or less) triggered some sort of panic in Wamu-World.

"Oh my GOD, someone is using Lori's card to buy green canvas espadrilles with little striped bow-things on the toes! They cost her $15!!!! Sound the alarm!!!!" OK, I admit, the green shoes are not really "me," but I wanted cheap green shoes to go with the white Capri pants I bought. They have blue and green floral outlines on them, and I got a bright green t-shirt to go with them. (I might chop off the little stripey bows on the shoes.)

(The culprit. A little tacky, perhaps, but a fashion crime at worst... hardly worthy of suspicion of identity theft.)

After I verified the purchase of each of the three pairs of shoes I bought on eBay, paying via PayPal - and I had to go into my email to even accomplish this, because who remembers the PayPal ID of every vendor from which you buy a $15 pair of shoes? - the real interrogation began.

Oh, goody, it's a quiz! She accessed some public records database so she could ask me extremely obscure, tricky things.

First question, which business or corporation have you ever been affiliated with? Ms. Customer Service read off three maybe-real companies, then hit North Star Humane Society. Yep.

Next question, in which city or town has (insert The Boy's name here) ever lived or owned property? This was followed by five towns in which he has not now, nor has he ever lived. Actually, at this point I was being a little contrary, because they might well consider his current address to be Minneapolis... but it isn't. So I said none of the above. (Yeah, I know, could've totally shot myself in the foot over that one.)

What is the approximate age of The Boy? Ah, good for me, I knew that one, since I was actually there when I gave birth to him 24 years ago. But why this fixation on my son's particulars? I thought this was supposed to be about me... and my credit account.

With which of the following addresses in Indianapolis have I ever been affiliated? Let's be clear about one thing. I haven't lived in Indianapolis for 12 years. It is entirely possible that address is one of those bits of information that wouldn't stick, since I'm so busy remembering my library card number, junior high locker combination and birth dates of people I haven't seen in 30 years. Hallelujah, I got that one right!

Then came the discussion of just how I normally pay my bill. Why??? I have paid it online ever since I can remember. I might have sent a paper check a few times when I first got the card, years ago, but who remembers??? Ms. Customer Service seemed vaguely disappointed with my answer. Who did I bank with before? Before what? There was no before. I've had the same bank for 12 years, and most definitely since I've had this freakin' card.

At this point I felt compelled to point out that it has been over 45 minutes since I dialed "Customer Service," and all I wanted was for them to allow me to log onto my account so I could give them a ridiculous amount of money. Yet what options do I have? If I hang up, I get to start the entire process over again at a later date, and it's going to be no less inconvenient (or annoying) then. And what if she asked me the name of the stupid red-headed boy who used to pick on me at the bus stop when I was in third grade? Or the VIN number on the car I drove when I took my driver's test? Because those are bits I definitely do not remember.

Beside the fact that if I allow my temper to get the best of me and slam the phone down, there is the very real possibility that by the time I get this stupid mess fixed my payment will be late. Then they freeze the card, and it doesn't matter if it's one single day late. I could still find myself at the gas station with fuel, lunch and cigarettes to be paid for, and a declined credit card. So, no options.

Did they even question the much larger amount, for a much less typical purchase, that I made to the golf resort where we'll be going next month? Nope. Did they question a single thing I used the card for in Las Vegas? Nope. Apparently nobody ever steals someone's credit card information in Las Vegas. Silly me. But canvas espadrilles, from a source that has seen lots of transactions on my account, requires a 50-minute gauntlet before I can give them money.

So, if you are a cyber-criminal, feel free to steal unsuspecting victims' credit card numbers and buy air line tickets, fancy hotel reservations, jewelry, electronics and hot tubs. But do not, for the love of god, buy cheap shoes online. They'll lock you up and throw away the key.

The (Not-So) Merry Month of May

May is in many ways my most favorite and least favorite of months. I mentioned in April, when I was getting all whiny and maudlin, that May holds a lot of somber "anniversaries" for me, including the deaths of both of my parents. Yet it was also "Indy 500 Month" when I was writing for Indy Car Racing Magazine, and hence great gobs of fun.

Since moving to Minnesota, though, I've gotten in the habit of taking a couple of days off around the long Memorial Day weekend and launching my own private "Farewell May, Welcome Summer" celebration in the comfort of my own home and (ideally) pool.

This was looking highly doubtful through all of late April and early May, as we continued to have snow in the forecast - just when you'd thought winter had finally moved on to the Southern Hemisphere or wherever it goes when it leaves here. Then, even in the absence of snow, the expected warm-up seemed to be stuck out over Nevada somewhere. Yooo-hooo! Mid-May here in Minnesota! Can we have some warmth, please?????? My feet have been frozen for so long that I need at least three days over 80 degrees to learn if full circulation is ever going to return. It keeps teasing, but it's 54 and raining right now. Not exactly swimmy-pool weather.

Which brings us to the pool. If you take a look at Brody's picture over in the side bar, you'll notice he is lying by a spectacularly sparkly blue pool. That was last summer, and the green things on the fence around the pool haven't fully leafed out yet this year, but they're trying.

Tom uncovered the pool a couple of weeks ago, and it was more or less as expected. Before closing the pool down for the winter, it has to be drained below the skimmer intakes, stocked with chemicals, and covered. When you remove the cover, the water is always a lovely shade of brown. The problem this year was that the pump, which the pool guys installed new when they did last fall's shut-down, wouldn't prime (and thus begin to pump water). Tom spent an entire evening on it, then called out the pool guys, and they couldn't figure it out. Well, since it was NEW when they INSTALLED it, they damned well better figure it out. Instead, Tom went out to fiddle with it before he went to work the next morning, and got it started.

Whew! Because if you can't run the pump to vacuum the pool and get all those lovely toxic chemicals circulating, you will never have a pretty, sparkly pool. You have a large, stagnant cesspool. The day after he loaded it with chlorine, the brown turned to bright grass green, and finally made the transition to clear and inviting.

A bit of advice? If you live in Minnesota, a pool is a huge waste of time and money. It's useful about two weeks a year. The rest of the time, you (Tom) get to dump it full of expensive chemicals and waste hours keeping it clean. In our case, the pool was here when we bought the house. We'd had an above-ground pool in Indiana, and thought it would be a good thing. It is. Sometimes. Just not most of the time.

I instructed Tom to make sure to turn on the heater on Wednesday. I work through Wednesday, then I have five days off for my mini-vacation. The pool must reach at least 83 degrees before I'll risk it. If I wanted to give myself a hypothermia-induced heart attack, I'd have gone out and rolled in the snow. Like, last week.

I was quite concerned about the weather forecast, but today I found this:


Ideal? No. I'd like to see some mid-80s on there, and skip those nights with numbers that begin with "4." But given some of the Memorial Day weekends around here, this will do. Although, for the record...? It did NOT reach 62 degrees today. So perhaps my optimism is misplaced.

My plans? Well, on Thursday I am taking Darwin to see the crew at Little Suzie's for his first official grooming since he joined the family. I already warned them... they're going to be charmed right out of their socks. Then, wait for Tom to get home. Friday, he has to work, but when he gets home I think we're going to go get the annuals for planting in the barrels and planters in the pool/patio area. Saturday I will plant them.

Hopefully somewhere in there I shall be slathering SPF 8 all over myself, hitting the tattoos with an SPF 45 stick, and trying to lose some of my winter-white pallor. I don't have to actually get in the pool. I'm quite happy to float on it. And I'm eagerly anticipating Darwin's discovery that the pool isn't just a big hole in the yard, but is actually Fun Central. He's going to love it, I am sure. Once that discovery is made, I'll have my work cut out for me to keep him out of it. I told Tom I'd have him trained with a snorkel by Sunday. Tom wasn't interested in that at all. He suggested I work on training him to vacuum the pool. As long as he's not allergic to chlorine...

(This was Sprocket swimming in our pool several summers ago... obviously retrieving a tennis ball. When he was younger, he would fetch till he sank!)

Sunday is Race Day. The Indianapolis 500 in the early afternoon, and the Charlotte 600 in the evening. There have been years that we pulled an old TV out by the pool and watched the races right in the water, beverages in hand, and with Tom occasionally swimming race-laps around the pool, only to spin out and crash in Turn 4. (It was really, really funny at the time. I mentioned the beverages, right?) I suspect this won't be one of those years, but there are numerous indoor activities in which we might participate, should it be too chilly for skinny-dipping!

Monday, as Mondays of holiday weekends always are, will be the day to lie around trying to recuperate from several days of Way Too Much Fun (we hope!) and seeing which of us can concoct the most believable reason why we can't possibly go to work on Tuesday.

If we weren't both so damned responsible, we just might go through with it.

Ta-Daaaaa!

So? Isn't the new blog design fabulous??? It should be, because it was created by none other than Fabulous Fiancee. Add to her many sterling qualities that of "talented template creator." I can't imagine the time and effort spent juggling all the details in the code to meet my nit-picky specifications, but I think she (along with the rest of the known universe) was sick of listening to me whine about dots and vomit-making pink.

Since Fermented Fur is about more than just my dogs (though they are probably the stars of the show), I opted not to have dogs in the header. I love violets, though, and I love purple and green together, so that was the theme. Further depicting my love of violets, today's photo is a repeat appearance of the picture of my violet anklet tattoo.

Please leave us a comment and let us know what you think of Fabulous Fiancee's creation!

Inside Brody's Brain

I don’t know what’s up with Brody lately.

When he came to us on December 31, 2006, almost a year and a half ago, he was 19 months old. He was a champion counter surfer and dedicated barker. After a few months of being very careful about what we left on the counters, thus depriving him of any of those self-rewarding opportunities, he seemed to lose interest in that. We got very good at hiding food that we weren’t ready to refrigerate or throw away in the oven, microwave, or on top of the cabinets. Eventually we could leave some things out for a while without worrying too much about them, as long as we were somewhere in the vicinity.

When Darwin arrived on November 21, 2007, Brody seemed offended by his very existence and tried to murder him any time Darwin looked at him sideways or in any way seemed to be acting too uppity. While I’m sure Darwin had no designs on Brody’s self-determined role as pack leader, his outgoing personality seemed to annoy Brody in some deep, doggie way.

Being a Great Pyrenees whose parents are both working livestock guardians, he has the typical aloof Pyr personality. He needs to patrol the yard and alert the world at large of any and all perceived threats, including people, dogs, bikes, leaves, squirrels, deer, clouds and menacing shadows. While he occasionally sought out attention and cuddling, this was infrequent and not particularly effusive.

He also more or less ignored Sprocket, which is how Sprocket likes it. Sprocket prefers to be semi-invisible within the pack, receiving direct attention only from us, unless he’s in the mood for a low-key tug of war session. He sometimes works his way into a game with the other dogs, generally when they’re lying down wrestling a little, so he can lie down with them and sniff and nibble without too much exertion.

Within about the past month or so, Brody’s behavior has changed significantly.

The first (and least definite) change is his barking. He doesn’t seem to be as focused on it, though he certainly does still bark. He’s a Pyr; to stop his barking altogether, you would have to remove his head. He will sprint over to the fence and warn away whatever he thinks is encroaching on his territory (the world), but stops as soon as it moves away. Then he goes and lays back down under his tree and waits for the next attempted invasion. In the house, he will still run up to the bay window and bark (and slash the screens if necessary), but it doesn’t seem to be as often. Or maybe I’m just comparing his barking to Darwin’s crazed fence-running bark, which does make Brody look downright quiet.

Then there’s his behavior toward Sprocket. He has become fixated on the old dog. In the last several weeks, he’s started following him around, licking his head, sniffing him, and trying to hump him. I worry that he can sense something wrong with Sprocket that has so far escaped me and the Dr. Vet-Friends, and is in some way “caretaking” the senior member of his pack.

Brody has also become way, way, way more cuddly. While he used to get on the Sofur, it was usually with his head-end facing away from me. Now he is often getting up there and positioning about the front 2/3 of his 90-pound body across my lap (and major abdominal organs). He will either put his cheek right against my face and totally lean into me, or bury his head in my chest. If I stop nuzzling and snuggling him, he paws at me to continue. Very un-Brodyish.

Being a Pyr, he always avoided water. If you are a Pyrenean Mountain livestock guardian dog, getting wet would be very unhealthy. Other than rolling in the snow, he has always preferred to not so much as get his paws wet. But before we uncovered the pool last week, he was focusing on the water on the cover and even slipping his front feet out on it. Very curious behavior, coming from him.

Then on Tuesday he had a resurgence of the counter surfing behavior. I was making sandwiches for work (3. It was going to be a long day, and I was PMS-ing.), and the pool guys were out back, checking to make sure the new pump was running right. Tom had just gotten it to prime and start up that morning. I stepped onto the deck for under a minute to tell them it seemed OK, and that Tom would call them later to discuss it. When I stepped back into the kitchen (and I was never more than 10 feet away), the sandwiches were gone and Brody was lying on the floor directly beneath their last known location licking his chops. He stayed there for the entire hour before I left for work, as if hoping I would attempt to make more sandwiches. This was impossible, however, because that was the last of the chicken.

He and Darwin stopped trying to kill each other a few months ago. In fact, the blog I wrote about their battle in the kitchen (And In This Corner…) was their last one. We got an air horn after that, as a tool to help interrupt a fight, and have yet to use it. Tom is quite disappointed by this, pointing out that I didn’t get him the paint ball gun, slingshot, or helper monkey, just the stupid air horn, and he’s not even allowed to use it. He wants to use it to stop annoying barking episodes, and I have to say I’m considering it. He does have a point about the helper monkey.

Now not only have they stopped trying to kill each other, but they are playing really, really well together! It’s best if Ozark stays out of it, though, because when they get too rowdy it makes him nervous, and he sometimes gets agitated. So he goes under his end table and play continues. Brody and Darwin will wrestle, run, chase, and do all those other fun doggie activities. They do that cute thing (well, I think it’s cute) where they lay down with their paws around each other, making horribly evil-looking snarly faces and going, “UNNNnnnng! RRRrrrNNNnnngggg!” (I call it “my mouth is bigger than your mouth.”) Before, if either of them even thought about exposing the tip of a single tooth, the battle was on. Our obedience instructor told me when I consulted her after one of the death matches that it could take them about six months to settle things between them, and that’s turned out to be just about right on the mark.

But I just don’t understand what’s up with Brody! In some ways it seems that he’s maturing, but other behaviors seem to be unrelated to maturity. He will turn three years old a week from today. Maybe each of these changes in his behavior has nothing to do with the others, but it’s hard to tell, since so many changes seemed to happen so closely together.

I’m glad he’s more snuggly (except when his elbow is buried in my liver). I’m glad he is barking less (or seems to be). I’m glad he’s not trying to eviscerate Darwin. (I’m sure Darwin’s innards are just as cute as his outards, but I don’t particularly want to verify this.) I don’t even mind if he’s overcome his phobia about the pool. I’m somewhat concerned about the fixation he’s developed for Sprocket, in case it’s because there is something wrong with Sprocket that he’s trying to manage or tell me about. And the hump-attempts aren’t good for an old dog with a failing rear suspension. I’d rather he continue to avoid counter surfing, but that was mostly my fault anyway.

So, what do you think? Is my Pyr-Boy just growing up, or is he undergoing some sort of psycho-dog transformation?

And most importantly… what’s next?

(Look at this FACE! We didn't know him when he was this small - I got the picture from his old owner - but could this puppy ever grow up to be naughty? Really??????)

Be Honest...

OK, folks. Be honest. If you saw the green version yesterday, is this pink more or less obnoxious? I truly hate them both. They may be gone before you lay eyes on this. I'm beginning to have a nostalgic feeling for the dots that I was sick to death of two days ago. They might return soon.

The only thing I got out of this episode is that I like having pictures of the dogs in the side bar, sort of a "cast of characters."

I want some sort of funky blue, green and purple theme, maybe with a bit of something floral or leafy in it. And it can't reconfigure the hell out of everything and not give me any options to move stuff back where I want it! (Helpful if the code is in ENGLISH, eh?)

Please love the blog, love the blogger, but it's OK to hate the template. I do!

UPDATE: OK. I couldn't stand it. The pink was making me all vomity. The dots are back. The dogs are still there. If anyone knows of a good site that has lots of blogger-friendly templates (like that actually work) please share!

Blog-Repair

Just a "heads up" to my regular readers. I've taken it into my head that I want to play around with my blog template and design. This would all be well and good if I had the faintest idea what the hell I was doing, but since I don't, the results are unpredictable.

As I start fiddling with this and that, things may disappear, reappear, random things might show up... I have no idea. I'm pretty sure my widgets will go bye-bye temporarily, but I have too many stupid ones right now, anyway. Other than my personal information, links and Goodreads, it's just junk I've accumulated.

So, don't panic. Keep hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. Remain seated until we have come to a full and complete stop. Whatever. But if you see changes you like, or see something totally screwed up and happen to be able to tell me how to un-screw it, please let me know!

UPDATE: OK, very, very, very bad idea. I had a template I found that I thought I liked, but once uploaded, it was a mess. Stuff was so totally where it didn't belong, and there was too much that it didn't allow me to put where I wanted. The blog area was too narrow, the sidebar was too wide, and now I'm bummed. Blogger just doesn't have any other semi-interesting templates. They really, really need more.

YET another update... I picked this greeen-looking thing. I just needed to look at something different for a while. Needs something, though. I'm done caring about it for today.

Auto Grab-Bag

I’ve been pondering several car-related topics, none of which seem interesting enough to stand alone, so I decided to just lump them all together and see what happens. One way or the other, I have to get them out of my head. (Too many other voices in there already.)

It might be possible that the upper quarter of my gas tank is missing or riddled with holes. I have no evidence to support this, but since I haven’t had more than ¾ tank of gas in the car in over a year, I would have no idea if it had somehow gone missing.

I wonder how many other people do this. As I’m filling my gas tank, when the display shows about $20, I start getting nervous. By the time it hits $25 (if I hold out that long) I just have to terminate the gassing-up process. I know it makes absolutely no sense, because I use the same amount of gas either way and just have to stop at the gas station more often, but I simply cannot stand there and pump an entire paycheck into the gas tank.

The following segment required complex mathematics (punching numbers into the calculator) and exhaustive research (sending Tom to the garage to look at my car’s owner’s manual). Let’s start with the numbers. My car has a 15-gallon gas tank. My car gets approximately 25 miles per gallon for the type of driving I do while commuting to work. The clinic is about 25 miles from home, so I use 2 gallons of gas every time I go to work. Gas prices here have recently jumped to the $3.75 per gallon range.

This means it costs me $7.50 to drive to and from work. I spend about the first 33 minutes or so of each day just to pay for the gas that it takes to get there. Every day. If my gas tank were totally empty, it would cost me $56.25 to fill up. I do not drive a truck or SUV… I drive a little red Cavalier. When I put in my $25 just-short-of-anxiety-attack quantity of gas, that gets me a bit over 6 ½ gallons. This is less than half a tank. So, since I usually add gas when I hit about the ¼ tank marker, this explains why I haven’t had over ¾ tank of gas in so long.

Tom, on the other hand, is averaging about 35 days between fill-ups, since he started working so close to home. (Bastard.)

My next car-related topic involves almost getting killed a couple of weeks ago, when I was watching Odin. (Fabulous Fiancée, don’t panic… clearly we are all fine.)

I am a polite, courteous, patient driver. This is because I hate to drive, and I live in deathly fear of being in an accident. I use my turn signal, I don’t tailgate, I travel the same route and change lanes in precisely the same places every day. I don’t like variables. I also, unlike many drivers, know how to merge. You proceed down the exit ramp, monitoring the traffic on the road you are about to enter in order to locate an opening, and speed up to a comparable speed so you can blend into the opening without disrupting the flow. Simple? Apparently not. Oh, and I also get into the left lane, traffic permitting, when I am on the highway and someone is on the ramp attempting to merge, so as to give them plenty of space to enter the roadway safely.

The day in question, I was coming up the ramp to merge onto Highway 10, as I do every day that I work. The highway traffic was heavy, and there were two vehicles in the right lane right about where I should be planning to merge. The first one could have moved over to give me room to merge, but didn’t. The second one couldn’t get over because there was another vehicle in the left lane. This forced me to slow to a near stop, because there was nowhere to go, other than over the hill on the side of the road. Not a particularly appealing option. Meanwhile, a car was coming up behind me at a ridiculous rate of speed. Yes, I know you are supposed to come up to speed on an on-ramp, but not if the car in front of you is at a near stop due to there being no opening in the traffic! This person saw me at the last possible second, locked his brakes, and skidded to a smoking, diagonal stop a mere whisker from my rear bumper.

Odin had been sitting on the seat beside me. If we’d been rear-ended, would the air bags have gone off, or is that only in front-impact collisions? Do I even have a passenger-side air bag? If not, poor little Odin would have launched into the dashboard like a 10 pound furry missile, in a most damaging fashion. This would have been Very Not Good.

When we both eventually made it onto the highway safely (though I had almost had a heart attack), what did I do? I stayed in the right lane and refused to make eye contact with the person in the car that nearly obliterated me and my grand-dog, because I figured it was entirely possible that in his mind it was my fault because I was a giant idiot and nearly stopped on the on-ramp. Like I had a choice!

This is why I hate to drive.

And my final car-related trauma involves the fact that I recently got new plates on my car. The beginning of this is a good thing, because Tom went and got them for me and put them on, and I never had to waste one second thinking about it. I don’t know what the cycle is, but for several years (like maybe since I’ve had this car!) you just get a new registration sticker to put over the old one on your same plate. This is important to me, because for some completely incomprehensible reason I feel the need to know the license plate of every vehicle we own (3). I have some sort of bizarre obsession with taking the three letters at the beginning of the plate number and have some sort of word, phrase or anagram for them. The three numbers that follow (being numbers, which are inherently sneaky and slippery) are harder for me, but it helps if they in some way rhyme with the word/phrase/anagram.

So imagine my discomfort when I went outside at work and wondered who had that car just like mine. It wasn’t mine. That wasn’t my license plate. Then I put it all together. My car. New plates. Different letters and numbers. Must immediately come up with new anagram!!!!! I’ve got the letters down now, but the numbers still keep sliding out of my head. They don’t rhyme with the anagram I’ve created, in typical uncooperative numeric style.

We won't discuss the fact that I got in my car, drove to work, got out of my car, etc., for at least one day (could've been more, you never know) without noticing that I had new plates on my car. Remember the whole "I don't notice the world around me, and that's probably why I fall down so much" thing? Consider this yet another example.

Then I noticed the Taurus Wagon that Tom drives to work also has new plates. More changes. More memorization. Where will it end???? Of course if I could purge my junior high locker combination or my Indianapolis library card number from 12 years ago from my brain, I might have room for all these numbers, but my brain doesn’t work that way. Some stuff just sticks.

Now, for the time being, I am done talking about anything car-related. This leaves dogs, my hair (Which I’m getting done tomorrow! Yay!), the weather, and all the other meaningless but somehow amusing topics you have all come to know and love.

But since I'm getting my hair done tomorrow, you can pretty much guess what our next topic is likely to be.