New Image, New Direction

The past two weeks have been pure chaos at work. The sudden departure of Dr. Vet-Friend Two forced us to implement our name change right away instead of "pretty soon," and that has brought about a billion details that must be addressed. Some of them had to be done immediately, and some had to be planned, but put on hold until our name change was finalized with the Secretary of State.

We got our paperwork back yesterday, so now I can (and must) move forward on dozens of things as quickly as possible. The image above is our new logo, to go with our new name! (Kudos to Wade of Cross Pollination Design for the fantastic image!) Now, mailing labels must be created to mail the "name change" post cards I designed and ordered last week. Our little worker bees have been calling avian and reptile clients, notifying them that we no longer will be seeing their birdies and lizards (etc.). We've been interviewing surgeons, and are talking with Wade about possibly designing our new website. To that end, I will have to purchase and set up a new domain, and arrange for our old address to forward to there. I've been designing our new business cards and other material (The Boy helped greatly there, helping me edit an image to use), all our handouts will have to be re-done, and I'm working with the people to get our big sign, awning, and window lettering updated to the new name.

Whew! Oh, and all of that? Doesn't mean I don't still have to do all the other stuff that already pretty much filled every workday. This includes all the in-house accounting and financial data entry that I learned to do last month. (Payroll: NOT something you want to mess up!)

There's more. There's much more. But if I sit here and actually think about all the other details, I might crawl under the bed and refuse to go to work tomorrow. Then Dr. Vet-Friend would show up with the rabies pole, lasso me, and drag me out, kicking and screaming. I don't imagine either of us would enjoy that much, so I'd better stop dwelling on the subject and think about something else.

On another topic, Brody is at this moment getting his de-undercoating at Little Suzie's, so I should use the New Dyson while he's gone. Tom went golfing, but called a while ago, admitting they were going to have to abandon that plan. Not surprising, since it's been raining and storming since about 8:30 AM. I'm just waiting for Tara to call and tell me to come get the Great White Mouse Hunter.

Speaking of mice, I didn't find any in the pool this morning. Then again, I didn't get up till 7:00, and may have simply missed the 5-5:30 AM "open swim" session. I don't see any rodent-shaped debris at the bottom of the pool, though, so either they never showed up, swam and left, or mice cart away the bodies of their dead for appropriate ceremonial rites.

OK, time to fire up that Dyson, so I'm ready to go fetch Brody-Bear when he's done! Don't forget to read my weight loss surgery story if you haven't already, and to check out Notes to Self!

A Blog You Can't Skip

I almost never do this, but today I have to. I was catching up on my bookmarked blogs, and read a post that I simply can't stop thinking about.

I mentioned Notes to Self when I was nominating other blogs for the Brilliante Award last week, and I hope many of you visited it. Now, you need to do it again.

A little about the blogger, Jenn. She is a widowed mother of 2 and 4 year old daughters. Her husband, Stephen, died of a rare soft tissue neurosarcoma last October at the age of 32. They were together six years, and had already endured the loss of a son, Will, who became ill at less than two weeks old, but held on until he reached 11 months.

Yet Jenn's blog is not about pity or hopelessness. It is so uplifting and positive. She shares funny stories about her girls, a recent trip to Minnesota to see Jen Lancaster at a book signing, dieting, and daily life. She also manages to pay appropriate tribute to her late husband, to remember and reflect on the events they shared, and to work her way through the grief without sounding maudlin or morose. The love shines through, the loneliness, yes... but there is a beauty there that will touch you and haunt you. This blog can make you laugh out loud or choke on your tears, but it is always, always beautiful.

Go. Go now. Visit Notes to Self. Go to the post dated July 27, called "So to Speak." I'm not providing the direct link to that individual post, because I want you to have all her recent posts available right there on your screen, so you can scroll through them, browse, and find something there that speaks to you.

And after you read "So to Speak," I dare you not to be wiping tears from your eyes. And if you are with someone that you love so deeply that losing them would be to lose the most precious part of your soul, I dare you not to take the next available opportunity to say "yes."

Skinny Girls Shouldn't Be Fat (Part Two)

(My photo marking my entry into the bariatric program at Unity Hospital. I weighed in at 254# that day. The jeans are size 22.)

(OK, I couldn't wait till tomorrow to post this. I want to tell the whole story, once and for all... and the good part is coming up!)

It’s a big decision, this sort of surgery. I had the Roux-en Y gastric bypass procedure, in which the stomach is surgically divided, and the top portion of the small intestine is bypassed. A piece about 18 inches further down is brought up and connected to the new, tiny stomach pouch. My eating habits, my digestion, how my body breaks down and absorbs nutrients, everything from one end of the process to the other, is forever altered. And, of course, there is the risk associated with any major surgery. I didn’t care. When you can face surgery that involves someone with sharp implements and cauterizing tools rooting around in your innards and say, “Oh, well, the worst thing that could happen is I might die” you know you’re at the end of your rope.

I have never, not for one single second, regretted having the surgery. I got through the two weeks on a liquid diet without a hitch, and watched the pounds begin to vanish. At first, it was like missing a bucket of water out of Lake Superior, but as long as the scale was headed downward, I was a happy camper.

Every few weeks, I’d get to go get some smaller clothes. Even as someone who hates to shop, I made an exception in this case. Shopping was no longer a cruel reminder of just how enormous and miserable I was. I’d just get a few things each time, knowing that they would soon be too large. The first time I put on a size 12, I sat in the Fashion Bug fitting room and cried. (Really, a total tears and snot cry-fest.) I’d never have to shop on the “Plus” side again. I went out of the room and excitedly told the sales clerks of my victory. (I never do that, talk to strangers just for the hell of it!)

By spring, I was a size 10, and luckily my friend Terresa’s mom had a bunch of size 10 clothes she wasn’t wearing anymore, and my summer wardrobe was taken care of.

(Remember those size 22 jeans from my pre-op picture at the beginning of this post? Here I am, with both legs in ONE leg of those very same jeans! Note my gigantic grin!)

How did this change my life? Well, when I took my son shopping for school clothes one year when he was in high school, I had to sit down on a bench at the mall about every fifteen minutes, due to pain in my feet. That was now a thing of the past. I could breathe, my heart didn’t pound from going up seven stairs, I could fit in airline seats comfortably, and I could get off the couch without a forklift. I could reach my toenails to paint them, which was amazing since I had essentially not seen any body parts below the swell of my substantial gut for years. I could wear cute clothes and high heels. I got tattoos, because I no longer hated the thought of calling attention to my body. I could now see water on both sides of me while soaking in the bath tub, though it now does take a lot more water to actually fill the tub (I was responsible for a lot of water displacement at 250 pounds).

It’s now been over seven and a half years since my surgery. While I never regret my decision, it hasn’t all been easy. Medically, it’s been a breeze, and I was very lucky in that regard. Some patients have complications that cause them to get “stuck” frequently if they swallow a morsel of food that is too large to comfortably exit their stomach pouch. This only happened to me a few times in my early post-op days, while the outlet from the pouch was still healing. (Somehow, vomiting doesn’t feel very productive when your stomach is the size of an egg. You gag and gag, but barely anything comes up.) Some patients have chronic diarrhea or nausea. There is always a risk of infection.

One complication (or benefit) of gastric bypass is “dumping syndrome.” This happens if you eat foods that are too high in sugar or fat. These things don’t partially break down in your pouch the same way that they did in your old, larger stomach before moving into the intestine for absorption. Symptoms may include rapid heartbeat, hot flashes, nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea. Fortunately, I almost never had this, and now only have it if I eat over about 15 grams of processed sugar. I get hot flashes and a rapid heartbeat for about a half hour. While it’s uncomfortable, it is a useful deterrent to prevent the patient from eating too much of the wrong things. Sugar was my downfall. I could lie on the couch and eat most of a bag of Hershey’s Treasures almost without taking a breath. This physiological reaction now prevents me from doing that.

Some patients are unable to eat certain foods at various points in their recovery, or even for the rest of their lives. These might include breads, certain grains, or certain types of fats or sugars. I have no such restrictions, other than the previously mentioned refined-sugar-dumping.

Many patients are so focused on the physical changes they achieve that they forget about the psychological ones. Most programs, including mine, include a psychological evaluation, and frank discussion with your dietician about the many changes your mental state will undergo as your body changes. The divorce rate when one partner undergoes gastric bypass is astronomical. Other addictions tend to surface (hence the manifestation of my semi-latent alcoholism).

My psychological state was by far my biggest problem in the years since my surgery. (Yeah, I know; Big surprise. Stop talking now.) I’d spent so many years hiding in my cocoon of fat that I had been insulated from the rest of the world. Part of that is my natural tendency, but it was amplified by my obesity. In many ways my psychological maturation stopped in my early 20s, which probably explains a lot of my immature, selfish, irrational behavior in recent years. Only because of Tom’s never-ending patience and strength, and his incredible capacity for forgiveness have we survived to the brink of our 25^th anniversary. I’d gone from seeing myself as the same non-person that society saw me as, to realizing I was attractive and valuable. When you’ve hated yourself for 17 or 18 years, that can be a difficult feeling to handle properly.

About a year and a half after my surgery, I had what can only be described as a breakdown. I had become so self-absorbed that much of the real world ceased to have any impact on my thoughts or my behavior. The stress that this caused led to my not eating enough (and starting smoking again), and I dropped to 116 pounds, a size 2. This was, in truth, too thin. Even though I have a small frame (my wrists are barely 5 inches around), I was approaching a Body Mass Index in the danger zone. Luckily, with Tom’s help, I got through that and eventually stabilized around 124 pounds, a size 4, and stayed that way until the last six or eight months. I’ve since gone up to about 138 pounds, a size 6, and to be honest I’d like to get back into the upper 120s (But not enough to actually exercise to achieve it, apparently).

(This was during the "probably too thin" phase. My head looks too big for my body. It was a good problem to have for a change, though!)

So, where am I now? I continue to take my vitamin and mineral supplements, as I must for the rest of my life. Failing to take them, as I did several years ago, leads to serious problems. I can eat essentially whatever I want, but in smaller quantities. I feel healthier than I have in years. I’m definitely happier. My smaller body does have that extra skin still attached, sort of like wearing a full-body leotard a few sizes too large. I have flabby upper arms, tiny tissue-paper type wrinkles around my knees and upper thighs, a zillion stretch marks, a little bit of a belly apron, and my formerly glorious cleavage now resembles two water balloons with three-fourths of the water drained out. But, luckily, I don’t have enough extra skin to warrant additional surgery to remove the excess. (Good thing, because I don’t have insurance anymore!)

The bariatric surgery community refers to this “obesity to surgery to a whole new life” as The Journey. It certainly has been a journey, and I’m grateful I was able to make it. It was, in truth, a journey back to myself.

(Smaller than I am now, but my Body Mass Index now is right at 23, and the normal, healthy range for women is 19.1 - 25.8, so I'm still pretty happy! In my pre-op picture, my BMI was 43.334. Anything over 40 qualified for medically-supported gastric bypass surgery.)

No matter who I am now, or who I appear to be, I will always harbor that fat girl somewhere deep inside. I cry when I watch documentaries about the super-obese, living in care facilities and undergoing radical surgery. I also cry watching things like The Biggest Loser, hearing their stories… and I cry when I see the changes in their confidence and happiness as they begin to look like who they always felt they should be. I will never ridicule or dismiss anyone because of their weight. Ever. Because inside, I will always be just like them.

Skinny Girls Shouldn't Be Fat (Part One)

(Several months ago, I asked readers which topics they’d be interested in hearing stories about. At that time, the most often mentioned choice was the story of my history of morbid obesity followed by gastric bypass surgery. I wrote the blog at that time, but it was over 3000 words, which is a little long – even for me! I planned to break it into two parts, but I wanted to include lots of pictures, and I never got around to tracking down a good selection. Then other subjects caught my interest, procrastination set in, and I never shared this very personal story. Today, I am ready to do it. Below is Part One. Part Two will post tomorrow. If any of you have struggled with your weight, or have had a friend or family member who was obese, I hope you’ll find something meaningful in my story. I would also like to hear from other gastric bypass patients. This isn’t a particularly funny story. It is, however, an important one. It illustrates the changes my life has gone through, leading me to the person I am today.)

Around the age of 9 or 10, being a skinny kid started to bother me. I began noticing the sharp angularity of my high cheekbones, and the way my chest displayed a faint roadmap of blue veins (and absolutely nothing else). I became aware of my knobby, often scabby knees and bony elbows. Perhaps because I noticed these things and began emitting some kind of vulnerability pheromones, other kids began to tease me. I mentioned earlier how someone once said if I stuck out my tongue I would look like a zipper, and how that hurt my still-forming self esteem. I have no recollection of who the little bastard was who said that, but the fact that I remember this well over thirty years later says something about how deeply the barb penetrated.

(Me, Age 11)

As I started junior high, I found myself surrounded by girls who were taking on a distinctly womanly appearance, while I still didn’t look all that differently from the boys in my class. A foray into padded bras and exaggerated makeup only made me look ridiculous, like a seven year old playing dress-up in mommy’s clothes (if mommy happened to be a hooker).

When I finally began to “blossom,” even that wasn’t enough. Why is it that teenage girls are completely incapable of ever being happy with their bodies? Even if you didn’t have a school full of boys who either ignored or rejected you, and girls who knew that the best way to tear you down was to insult your body or your wardrobe, you still found countless faults with what (in hindsight) was actually a fantastic shape.

I wasn’t voluptuous, which was what I most wanted to be. I was, by the time I was 16, 5’5” and 120 pounds. Nothing wrong with that. But I was dismayed by my “barely-B” bra size, and disgusted that my jeans were typically a size 5 or 7. After all, my first boyfriend broke my heart and took up with a girl two years younger than I was, who was a size 3 and a C cup, which as far as I was concerned summed up my stunning inadequacies.

I was also convinced that I had the grossest, jiggliest saddle-bag thighs in the world. Which, in case you were wondering, I now know is impossible when you weigh a hundred pounds and some change.

(Me, age 17, summer of 1982. I was convinced my thighs were beyond disgusting. This is also the first year Tom went on vacation with me and my family. He took this picture.)

What I wouldn’t give now for those high, perky, firm barely-Bs! I remember my younger sister, who was a bit on the chubby side when she was young, commenting on my tiny, flat stomach as we were in our trailer’s miniscule bathroom competing for mirror space while getting ready for school.

Within a couple of years, all that changed.

After my son was born, barely two months after my 19^th birthday, I did manage to lose most of that “baby weight.” That isn’t what set me on the road to obesity. Let’s review the events in my life from May of 1983 to May of 1984. I graduated from high school, spent three weeks in Mexico, came home, got pregnant, withdrew from college before ever taking my first class, got married, lived in my in-laws basement for five months, endured my new husband being laid off for a few of those months, moved into our first apartment, gave birth, my mother died, and we got moved to Cleveland for Tom’s job.

Quite an eventful year.

Once we were in Cleveland, I was in the grips of clinical depression, but I didn’t know that for another 17 years. I was home alone all day with a baby (hardly my natural environment), while all my friends were off at college. I needed my mom, but she was gone. Tom was working long hours to take care of us, and when he had to go back to work after his two-hour lunch break when he had to work a 12-hour day I used to sit on the couch and cry.

We moved annually for those first few years, so that he could be promoted within the company and take better care of us. In a way this was exciting. It gave me something else to do. It kept me from making friends (not that I really wanted any), and it kept me from going to school or getting a job, but I wasn’t actually interested in anything like that, either.

I was not unaware that I was very, very large by this point. After a few years, I was around 180 pounds. I remember the rare phone call from my older brother, and the first thing he always asked me was how much I weighed. I stopped talking to him for a long time.

(Me, The Boy, and Tom, about 1986)

I did all the things overweight women do. I bought a leotard and tights (it was the ‘80s) and joined a gym, and went a total of about three times. I tried every diet that came along. I bought a work-out video, and tried to force myself to exercise at home. I avoided social situations even more than usual, stopped letting people take my picture, and avoided video cameras like a plague. I bought stretchy pants and tunic tops, and tried to pretend I wasn’t fat.

I did, however, enjoy finally having cleavage.

My first total meltdown came shortly after Thanksgiving of 1988. We’d moved to Indianapolis that year, and Tom had several friends among other company managers in the area, and they tended to congregate at one particular apartment in the complex across the road from ours. That Thanksgiving, I had managed to consume two pumpkin pies within the space of two days. Every time I got off the couch, I would cut just a tiny sliver (just a miniscule little morsel of pie), add some Cool Whip, and consume it as I wandered back to the couch. I was aware that this was not the best idea in the world, but what else did I have to do? I’d just started working part-time at the library, but otherwise little in my life had changed.

Then we went to a Christmas party at Tom’s friend’s apartment… and someone there had a video camera. These guys were single, so there were lots of pretty (not fat) girls there, and the camera got lots of use. When I saw the tape later, and saw myself, it was like getting hit in the head with a shovel. Who was that behemoth with my husband??? She had my oh-so-lovely hair, but she’s shaped like a Weeble, for shit’s sake. Oh. My. God. It’s me.

I weighed 213 pounds.

(Me, Christmas 1988. I had probably JUST begun trying to lose weight. LOVE the bi-level haircut and acid washed jeans!)

In the next four months, I lost over 60 pounds. I got back into size 10 jeans. How did I do it, you ask? A diet of my own making. Dexatrim, Diet Pepsi, and Wheat Thins with bits of cheddar cheese. And an exercise bike. Real healthy, huh? But I didn’t care. All that mattered was never seeing that bloated, doughy face on a video or in my mirror ever again.

(May of 1989, dressed for "Wild West Days" at the library where I worked. Ride 'em, Cowgirl!)

I maintained my weight loss for a little over a year. Then it started all over again. Fat is sneaky. You gain five or six pounds, lose three, gain ten, lose four, gain eight… and before you know it (or so it seems), you can no longer stand the sight of yourself. You don’t gain it all overnight, so you manage to convince yourself you don’t look that bad, and you aren’t really suffering any health effects. But you’re wrong.

(Me with Ripley-My-Love at our first Therapy Dog Visit, December 1998)

By early 2001, I was 254 pounds. My jeans were size 22. Emotionally, I was at an all-time low. Society either blames or ridicules the morbidly obese, or fails to even notice them. Women, especially, bear a stigma. My intellect has always been one of my strengths, but society tends to subtract IQ points for every pound you are overweight. I was short of breath all the time, and my face turned beet red with the slightest exertion. My back ached, and my ankles were painful and swollen. I developed heel spurs. I had horrible acid reflux all the time. I don’t even want to think what my blood pressure or cholesterol must have been. I was sick and tired of being disgusted with myself every minute of every day. I knew that if this was all my life was ever going to be, it just wasn’t worth it. I also knew myself well enough to realize that this pattern would continue, and before long I’d be over 300 pounds, until I eventually dropped dead of some weight-related disease.

That’s when I decided to have gastric bypass surgery. A client at the vet clinic where I worked had had the surgery, and that was the first time I’d ever heard of it. I got online, found a local surgery support group, and learned that the first step was to attend an informational meeting at the bariatric surgery department at a local hospital. I went, and never looked back.

(END OF PART ONE. TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR THE "JOURNEY BACK TO MYSELF," STARTING WITH MY 254# PRE-OP PHOTO.)

Rodent Rescue Repeat

Something suspicious is going on in the rodent world. Once again, before 5:30 AM, Brody discovered a mouse swimming in the pool. I’m pretty sure it’s a mouse now, because I think voles have shorter tails. I probably need to research that. But if these guys would just stay the hell out of my pool, I’d be spared the necessity of answering this crucial question, which would be fantastic because I really don’t have the time.

This mouse was in much better shape than the one yesterday (if, in fact, it is a different mouse at all), apparently having gone into the drink not too long before he was discovered. Tom had returned the pool net to the patio area, since yesterday it had been downstairs somewhere so he could repair some tears in it. I scooped mousey-boy into the net and began raising him out of the water. You’d think he’d be grateful, but was he? No, he leaped out of the net and back into the water (which made Brody eight different kinds of crazy) several times before I basically dipped and flung him in the general direction of the fence, where he rustled through the grape vines.

Now I have serious questions. What is going on with these mice? I haven’t fished a mouse out of the pool all summer, and now I’ve done so two days in a row. I have several theories.

1. This was the same mouse, and he either has suicidal tendencies or was brain damaged in his near-drowning yesterday and returned to the pool as the result of a post-traumatic episode.

2. These mice were contestants in some kind of rodent reality show, the object of which is to last the longest in the giant, chlorinated ocean. 5:00-5:30 AM is prime time for mouse television viewing.

3. These are teenage male mice, and this is their version of Jackass.

Butch: Hey, Ralphie, bet you can’t swim across that pool, bite the dog on the nose, and then swim back.

Ralphie: Sure I can, Butch, just watch me!

(Splash, paddle-paddle-paddle, gasp, sputter, glug)

Ralphie: Hey, Butch, little help here?

Butch: (Coming from the bushes) Snicker, snort. What a moron.

4. For some reason, Brody has become the nemesis of all the neighborhood mice, and this is an assassination attempt. They are trying to lure him to a watery death, and the Suicide Swimmer is bait.

5. They are not mice at all. They are lemmings.

I suppose it could also be a well-planned diversionary tactic, keeping me focused on the back yard while hoards of mice are moving into our laundry room. I hope that’s not it, because I really don’t enjoy tracking mouse-trap casualties on the whiteboard in the kitchen (much). At one point a few years ago it read: “Lori, 11: Mice, 0.”

Ultimately, I just hope Brody’s bladder doesn’t explode. He’s so focused on patrolling the pool for mice that I think he’s forgetting to go out in the yard to take care of necessities. Which, of course, could also be part of the mice’s global dog-destruction plan.

I would feel a lot better if I could decide if these mice are really smart or really dumb. That would help me narrow down the possibilities.

Go-Go-Rodent-Rescue!

I’m not at my most mentally acute at 5:25 AM. Or at 6:25. Or, truthfully, 7:25. This morning at 5:25 I was in the shower when I heard Brody barking outside. Admittedly, Brody does bark outside a lot. Every day. Until I go outside and chase his fluffy Pyr-butt into the house before the neighbors call Animal Control. But this was not his usual guardian-type “Brrrrrrrr-ROO-ROO-ROO!” It was a constant series of short, staccato, emphatic yips, and he sounded a bit agitated. The last I’d seen him, he was near the pool, an area in which he doesn’t tend to spend a lot of time due to the risk of accidentally dampening his paws. Brody isn’t a fan of anything moist, unless it is frozen and piled in drifts in the yard.

I told myself I’d just quickly finish my shower, and then go see what his problem was. Then I got thinking, “What if the big idiot fell in the pool?” He’s never been in there, so he isn’t aware of the stairs at the shallow end as a means of exiting the dreaded aquatic death trap. I began picturing a 100-pound, soaking wet, massively furry, coat-blowing, freaked-out, pissed-off Great Pyrenees – who would take until September to dry – and decided I’d better get out of the shower and see what was going on.

I wrapped a towel around myself and ventured out to the sliding glass doors, where I observed Brody lying by the pool, front paws draped over the edge, staring intently at something in the water, and barking like a broken record. (Dated reference. You might want to insert “skipping CD” for that last phrase.) Clearly, further investigation was in order. I hopped back in the shower to rinse off, then threw on some clothes and headed outside.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what was inspiring Brody’s bark-fest. There was a mouse (Or, possibly a vole; I don’t really know the difference) swimming in the pool. Actually, he was drowning in the pool. He’d paddle frantically for a few seconds, slip beneath the surface, then fight his way back up. I had to help him! (Or her. Since I can’t distinguish between a mouse or a vole, especially in the still-dark early morning, I’m not likely to be able to identify rodent gender. But I’ll continue to call him “he” just for the sake of consistency.)

I’m an animal-lover, obviously. I go out of my way not to kill things, at least as long as they stay in the Great Outdoors where they belong. If this mouse (or possibly vole) were pooping in my silverware drawer, I would immediately set a death-inducing trap to put an end to his intrusion once and for all.

I looked around for the pool net, and didn’t see it. I did see the pole on which the net belongs, but the net was nowhere to be found. I stuck the pole in the water, and Mr. Mouse tried to climb up on it, but it was too narrow and slippery, and he kept falling off.

Next, I grabbed a beach towel that was lying near one of the Adirondack chairs, and tossed that onto the surface of the water, thinking he could scurry up onto that and I could pull him out, without having to risk actual hand-to-mouse contact. He did not see the carefully thought-out logic, and refused to approach the floating towel.

Finally, I picked up a stainless steel bowl, waited for drowny-mouse to get close to the side, and scooped him to safety. I deposited him in the mulch near the fence, hoping Brody didn’t pounce and eat him. That would have been bitterly ironic after my heroic efforts to keep the little rodent alive. Brody continued to monitor the pool for wildlife, and I watched the mouse (or vole) huddle by the fence and begin to groom himself back into composure.

This was a lot for me to accomplish by just after 5:30 in the morning! I’d only had one cigarette, and barely a sip of coffee before heading to the shower. Plus, it totally blew my morning routine, and we all know how I thrive on routine, especially in the early morning hours when independent thought is far more difficult than it is later in the day. I almost decided I should take the morning off, to give myself time to regain my equilibrium, and to reward myself for my stellar humanitarian efforts.

But, alas, duty called, and it was necessary for me to get my rear in gear and hustle in to the clinic to keep chaos at bay for one more day.

I hope Mr. Mouse (or Vole) returns my good deed by staying out of my pantry and silverware drawer. If he is foolish enough to pack up his entire rodent family and move in, I will have no qualms about smushing all their little heads in my decidedly not humane mousetraps. I have rules. Just stay out of my house, and we’ll get along fine.

Self-Serving Challenge

(Hold the presses, folks... I think I've got it covered! The Boy did a lovely version of the image at left, without the noisy background, and I found a nice paw print, batik-style graphic and designed cards using both. Now it will be up to Dr. Vet-Friend to decide which we'll use. Plus, our logo design guy is happily slaving away producing an official logo for us. But I'll leave this blog entry, because it has such pretty pictures in it!)

OK, FFFans, I have a challenge for you! Well, it's not really a challenge, if I have to be honest - and I should be, I guess - but more of a plea for help.

As part of the whole "changing the clinic name because we don't see birds or reptiles anymore" project, I need some artwork. We're having a new logo designed, but I don't like to use logos on our business cards and magnets. I like to use some purty-purty art depicting the species we see in the practice. I've been cruising the cyber-world, burgling images at will, and I've found some decent ones, but nothing that says, "YES, this is the one!"

Here's what I need. I need a collage of images, either art or photographs, containing a dog, a cat, and at least one small mammal (bunny, guinea pig, even a hedgehog). No birds or reptiles may be present! Ideally, it would be a tall, narrow image, such as I could use at the left or right margin of a business card. Even more ideally, it would be of a "right-angle triangular" dimension, so it could be in one of the lower corners of the card, leaving lots of room for text on the main part of the card. If there's something new-agey or holistic-y about the image, so much the better!

Are any of you graphically gifted? Do you have friends or relatives who could be coerced into giving this a whirl? I'd love to have a pool of great designs to present to Dr. Vet-Friend, so we can get moving on this project!

If you are up to the challenge (or wish to "save Lori's last remaining bit of sanity"), let's see what you've got! You can email any designs to me at ripleygold@gmail.com.

I swear eternal gratitude!

(This is the image on our cards now, but it has to go because it has a bird and a reptile in it. We never did see fish, but the bowl was a nice visual element! The white background is also nice, because it doesn't interfere with the text I need to include, and I don't have a sharp end point where a more "backgroundy" image would end. The images above in the post are nice, but I think would take up too much of the card.)

Mind Boggling

I'm currently reading The Last Oracle, by James Rollins. His books are always complex, scientific, action-packed, information-intensive thrill rides; I have yet to read a bad Rollins title.

I just discovered that he did a fantasy series under the name James Clemens, but our library does not own the first title, Wit'ch Fire. I might see if I can find it in another system, or buy it online.

Another interesting side note, Rollins' real name is James Czajkowski, and he's a veterinarian. Clearly, with the success of his novels, he's not practicing at the moment, but did have a successful practice in Sacramento.

The reason for this post is to share a truly mind-boggling excerpt. Since Rollins does an incredible amount of research for his books, I would assume the following is accurate:

Malcolm tapped the side of his head with a pen. "Then we'll start here. The human brain. Composed of thirty billion neurons. Each neuron communicates to its neighbors via multiple synapses. Creating roughly one million billion connections. These connections, in turn, create a very large number of neural circuits. And by large, I mean in the order of a ten followed by a million zeros."

"A million zeros?" Painter said.

Malcolm looked over the edge of his glasses at Painter. "To give you some scale. The total number of atoms in the entire universe is only ten followed by eighty zeros."

If this is true, my brain is truly overwhelmed! No wonder I don't know what's going on in my own head half the time. It might explain a lot, actually. No wonder we haven't made much sense of the workings of the human mind. There are 12,500 universes worth of atoms inside each individual brain in the form of neural circuits.

We might as well give up.

On the plus side, my attempts to kill off brain cells probably has a long way to go, with all those extra synapses.

If we ever figured out how to fully utilize our brains, we could do a whole lot of good... or bad.

A Brush With Canine Chaos

Note to self: Never, ever, ever leave a big bowl of peel and eat shrimp on the end table while stepping to the kitchen to retrieve the bread and spinach dip. Not even for five seconds. Not even when the kitchen is a mere eight feet away from the end table. Because no good can possibly come of it.

I imagine in most households, this would not be a problem, but I have dogs. Lots of dogs. Large, furry, unruly, undisciplined, opportunistic dogs. Mainly Darwin.

As I rounded the corner by the refrigerator, spinach dip in hand, Darwin's whole head was deep in the bowl, happily snarking down expensive peeled, de-veined, tail-on shrimp. Naturally, I charged to the rescue, removing the furry, drooly head in question from the bowl, while informing him what a bad, bad dog he was.

Brody also decided Darwin needed to be disciplined, and that I wasn't doing a good enough job of it. So he pounced. The fur-flying whirlwind that I had not witnessed since January returned in full force. I tried edging between them, but when their teeth are firmly fastened in each other's neck ruffs, that proved to be a bit tough.

Tom, pissed off but also thrilled to finally get the chance to use his air horn, arrived on the scene and deployed the air horn. The dogs failed to notice. Seriously. They didn't even flinch. I guess the decibel level of the air horn (which is, in fact, pretty damned loud) is insufficient to penetrate the wall of snarl-sound surrounding dogs bent on committing mayhem upon one another.

Tom was profoundly disappointed.

I waited a moment to see if the fight would fizzle out on its own - it didn't - and then resorted to the tried and true technique of grabbing the nearest available tail and dragging one of the dogs (this time, Darwin) across the room. Tom edged between the combatants, and we shoved them both outside.

As is typical with my dogs, once the fight is interrupted, they forget all about it. They galloped outside to pee on things and find stuff to bark at. Meanwhile, I picked shrimp up off the floor, and debated whether the shrimp remaining in the bowl were too dog-slobbered to eat. (I probably would have eaten them, being immune to dog germs, but Tom threw them away.)

The only conclusion we could reach was that instead of the air horn, Tom should have been permitted to get a monkey, who surely would have been better at fight-stopping.

And, as always, there wasn't a single mark or injury on either dog. I, however, have bruises on the tops of both feet, and a 3-inch "scratch" on my calf. It looks like a bloody scratch, but is actually just below the skin surface. I must come up with a better technique for fight-stopping which enables me to stop being collateral damage.

Of course, I also have to remember not to leave delicious temptations within the reach of nearby dog-muzzles, too.

Back in the 21st Century

Aaaaahhhhhhhhh. Everything is all better now. I have internet access at home again!

Amazingly, Mr. Charter Dude showed up yesterday, within the designated time period, and fixed the problem. Apparently we just needed a new modem.

He did mention, however, that our old modem was "the kind we give people when we don't have any good ones." Which would imply that ours was of the "not-good" variety. Yet some goober installed it a year ago, knowing it was "not-good." This does not fill my heart with gladness (or confidence), but I'll push that aside for now, since I can once again do critical computer-related tasks such as check to see if we could possibly sell our original Indianapolis Motor Speedway brick for enough money to retire (answer: no), or if Cross Canadian Ragweed has posted any new concert dates within driving distance (answer: also no).

Within the space of 20 minutes, I was catapulted from the Stone Age, through the Bronze and Iron Ages, the Dark Ages, the Renaissance, the Victorian Era, the Industrial Revolution, and back to the Age of Technology right here in the good old 21st Century. I still have a bit of vertigo from this rapid trip through time, but I'll be OK now.

Because I can get online! At home! And it's a zippy-fast connection again!

Considering how much money we pay Charter every month, it's really not so much to ask.

Summer Favorites... Sort Of

I’ve noticed that some writers have recently been doing blogs listing their favorite things for this summer. I thought that would be a fun thing to do, so I started thinking about it. Surely my summer favorites would be unique and quirky, good for some chuckles. Right?

I began considering my favorite books, TV shows, movies, clothing, places, foods, nail polish colors, beauty products, and events. After devoting the majority of my brain cells to this task during my entire drive home on Wednesday, I came to a startling realization.

I don’t have any favorites.

Well, fine, I do have favorites, but none of them appear to be specifically related to this summer. Cross Canadian Ragweed is still my favorite band (Peace, Love & Ragweed, forever and ever!), but that’s been true for the last five or six summers. Their release, Back to Tulsa, is my favorite DVD, but it came out last year. (Buy it! I desperately want to chat with people who have seen it and love it as much as I do!) I still eat a bunch of freeze-pops and frozen chicken & vegetable potstickers, but that’s been the case for a long time.

I’ve read a lot of good books, but nothing that stands out as a mind-blowing new title, or a fantastic new author. The last author that has really earned my devotion is Jen Lancaster, and I discovered her over the winter. I don’t go to movies, primarily because my Itty Bitty Book Light would undoubtedly attract annoyance, ridicule or hostility from my fellow movie-goers. TV sucks, other than re-runs of Two and a Half Men, and that’s not new.

I haven’t been getting my nails done, and I haven’t had a pedicure since last July, so I’m using the same nail polish that I’ve had at home for ages. I haven’t discovered an amazing new swimsuit or clothing brand, or a kind of fabulous new bra or shoes.

I haven’t found an incredible sunscreen or moisturizer, or some new line of beauty products. I haven’t been to a memorable new restaurant or festival, park or vacation destination.

The sole exceptions are:

Bacardi Peach Red Rum, or Peach Red Yum (as I’ve been calling it). This is hardly worthy of a whole blog, especially since I’m supposed to be trying not to drink too much of this delicious summery alcoholic beverage. (Sometimes I succeed.)

And:

Andy Capp’s White Cheddar Steak Fries, which are a corn/potato snack food. They are light, crispy and crunchy, delightfully flavorful (mmmmm, salt!), and they sell a generous snack-size bag for 99 cents at the gas station. I also have the Dr. Vet-Friend addicted to them. I’m sure the fact that they are so delicious means that there isn’t another junk food in the world that is even remotely as bad for me.

Why don’t I have any new favorites? Well, I’ve already mentioned why I don’t go to movies. As for restaurants, we don’t like to drive far in search of our dining experiences, in part because we usually have a couple of drinks when we dine out, and do not want to risk gaining the stigma of a Whiskey License Plate. So we still go to the same couple of places very close to home. We’re saving our vacation for our anniversary in September, so we haven’t had a trip other than our weekend in Biwabik, and that doesn’t count because 99% of that was spent in the villa. We don’t visit local festivals or fairs, and don’t go to amusement parks. (All of those are too potentially hot, dirty, crowded, buggy, rainy, or child-infested.) I don’t go out and meet friends for lunch, mainly because my Inner Hermit insists I stay at home. (Hence the fact that I don’t really have any friends.)

I don’t have extra cash to cruise for new clothes or beauty products, and Maybe-Kim at the nail place probably thinks I’ve moved to Guatemala.

Our day-off recreational activities remain essentially what they’ve been for the past few years. Only the variety of alcohol I drink has changed (Peach Yum), so that doesn’t count.

Oh, yeah, one other “favorite” that I have this summer and did not have last summer would be Darwin. (He is, as I may have mentioned, the cutest dog I have ever seen.) I know, just as with children, we’re not supposed to have favorite dogs, but everybody I know with multiple dogs does. Maybe people with children do, as well, but I avoided that parenting dilemma by having only one human offspring. There is no way I will ever have only one dog.

(Side note: On the Today Show at this moment there is a story about Sir James Dyson, the guy who invented/owns the Dyson Vacuum Company. Perhaps another favorite? But admitting I have a favorite vacuum cleaner is just too horrifying and possibly humiliating. Plus, it’s too new, so until it stands the test of time I can’t bestow that status upon it.)

This appalling lack of fresh, new favorites leads me to one conclusion. I am in a terrible, terrible rut.

But does this bother me? It shouldn’t, as I am a creature that thrives on and feels great security with routine and a lack of unpredictable occurrences. Yet somehow it does bother me. Does it bother me enough to prod me out of my rut and into new experiences? Probably not. Still, I don’t want to be dull and stagnant.

On Wednesday, I left work an hour and a half early, getting home around 4:00. What did I do with this extra time? I lay on the couch, trying to read, but mostly thinking about how bored I was and watching the clock to monitor how long it was before I could realistically go to bed. (Answer: 8:45) How pathetic is that? We should have dashed out to dinner at a restaurant we don’t typically visit, or taken a couple of dogs to the park. But I didn’t want to do either of those things. Both reeked of “too much effort.”

Maybe it’s not truly a rut at all. It could just be a chronic case of laziness.

I don’t know if that’s better or worse than a rut, but I’ll take it.

Grumble Grumble Grumble

Just a quick note to FFFans. I have not had internet access at home since last Saturday, and then for only about three minutes. (Thanks, Charter.) Today, being my day off, means that I have no internet access at all, or I wouldn't if it weren't for the oh-so-wonderful Hennepin County Library. I did, however, write a blog this morning at home, and will post it tomorrow. The topic? Summer favorites. And my realization that I don't have any. I just logged in to my email and saw that some of you left comments on my last couple of posts, and I'll reply to those, also, as soon as I can.


Curt mentioned that it's simply barbaric to be deprived of internet access for any length of time, and I completely agree. He said it was like the Stone Age. But, you know what? Those Geico Neanderthals seem to have cell phones and all the other 21st Century technological necessities, so in reality my home is currently pre-Stone-Age in that regard.


Charter will (allegedly) be coming this Saturday to figure out what's wrong and (allegedly) "fix" it. Time will tell. I'd like to be optimistic, but experience has proven that to be a largely fruitless exercise.


Poor planning in my errand-running forced me to spend extra money, by the way. One stop was to involve a trip to the liquor store (Yeah, I know; shut up. Thank you.) and the purchase of a bag of ice. I'd sort of forgotten about the ice, and the meltability factor, when I planned my route. Clearly ice-buying has to come last in the sequence, instead of first, due to the car/sauna similarity. The library didn't open till noon, so I had time to kill. Flash-back to the outlet mall situation a few weeks ago. So I headed to Stop #2, Kohl's, a bit early while I waited for the library to open.

This left me with a surplus of browsing time. I have a Kohl's charge card. (See, I told you I can't be trusted with those things.) So I shopped. I got the green t-shirt I needed to replace the only shirt I had that matched my white/blue/green Capri pants (spilled coffee on it; it was not alcohol-related). They did not have white, closed-toe, casual shoes with a slight heel, so I struck out there. I did, however, find a cute little summer dress on clearance ($7.20!) that I'm sure Tom will appreciate on me. I also got a turquoise sweater mini-dress (1/2 off, and ditto about the Tom thing), and other incidentals (including a cobalt-blue Old Fashioned glass, in which to put the ice later). Other than the t-shirt, none of that was planned. And after I leave here, I still have to get the ice (etc.).

For a "quick note," this is rather long. Typical. And this is doubly impressive when you consider that about two paragraphs in, I got kicked off the computer I was using, selected because it was a little more out of the way than the others. Apparently they like to reserve that one for "research," though that is not posted at the computer station. If I hadn't worked in public libraries for 8 years, I might've gotten pissy, but I know how it goes. Rules, order, politely pointing out to patrons how dim-witted they are... But since Blogger has a "saved draft" function, I didn't have to shove anybody's head into the book return slot. Plus, this is my only internet option at the moment, unless I want to pack up the laptop and head to Panera Bread and their free wi-fi access. And I still have another stop on my agenda for today, then it's home to await Tom's arrival (most likely wearing one of the cute new dresses).

Try not to miss me too much, and I promise to write tomorrow!

Checks & Balances

While I think the whole ineffective Economic Stimulus Package was nothing more than George’s lame attempt to make people like him (or at least not despise him) as he prepares to (finally!) leave office, I was looking forward to getting some of my money back just as much as the next tax-paying American. I actually thought we’d get to do something fun and frivolous with at least a little bit of it.

Tom wanted to buy a golf membership. He doesn’t ask for much, works his tail off, and if playing golf makes him happy, I want him to be able to do it. If you’re going to play a lot of golf, it makes sense (and saves some money) to buy a membership. He has a golf discount card that The Boy got him for Father’s Day, but I also think that just saying he belonged to a golf club would make him all giggly inside.

I was thinking I’d use part of the check to buy our new wedding rings, instead of further stressing my overburdened credit card. I also thought it would make me feel a lot better to pay something extra on my credit card, so I could stop paying ridiculous interest on at least a little bit of money.

Then, I don’t know… maybe I could get my hair done without fretting about the cost. Maybe I could start getting my nails done again. Maybe I’d finally order a tube of that fancy-schmancy Kiss Me mascara I keep hearing about and which my patchy, unruly, scraggly eyelashes could desperately use. Or maybe I’d get a new pair of dangly sterling silver earrings because the only pair I have (recently purchased at Kohl’s) makes my ears hurt.

See? No big, thrilling plans. Just a little extra breathing space between paydays, and maybe a small treat or two.

But what really happened when the $1200 check came?

We knew we’d need to get tickets to fly to Florida for the wedding of The Boy and Fabulous Fiancée, which is fine. That will be a wonderful, memorable, magical day, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I was glad the check was coming so we could get the tickets and not have to worry about saving up to afford them. But there went $700. (When I told “the kids” which flight we’d reserved, they booked themselves on the same flight, and even requested seats right across the aisle from us. How sweet is that???)

This left us with $500, and at least a chance of still managing to do something fun or self-indulgent with the remainder.

Until Sunday.

Brody is in full coat-blowing mode, and our carpet has been more white than tan. You know how it looks when you get that first coating of snow? All white, with small bits of brown grass showing through? That’s our living room. Have you ever met a Great Pyrenees? Have you ever been near one that is blowing his coat? If you have, you are still removing Pyr-hair from your nostrils and ear canals.

Sunday, I got out our trusty 10-year-old Sharp vacuum cleaner, and as soon as I’d done the living room and was about to move into the dining room, it stopped. No whirring, grinding, smoking or smelling hot. It just stopped, as if you’d pulled the plug. It had done that once before, and it’s clearly something electrical. Tom fiddled with it, but this time it was terminal. We cannot be without a vacuum. Especially right now!

So, off Tom went, and he returned with a new Dyson vacuum, which I understand dog-owners find to be really effective and reliable. Plus, it has "attachments." I've heard of these things, meant to allow people to clean upholstery, drapes, stairs, baseboards, and hard-to-reach spots. Doesn't that just sound like more work? And why would I want to pay extra money simply for the means to do more work? I didn't buy them for the Sharp for just this reason, but Tom is very responsible that way. Plus, they came in the box with the actual vacuum.

And there went that last $500.

Tom “test drove” it through the living room, where I’d already (allegedly) vacuumed earlier. By the time he did the living and dining rooms, he’d filled the dirt-cup twice! Now I have to wonder, despite the fact that the Sharp did pick up the hair, how well it had truly been working lately! The Dyson did not unplug itself and go tearing down the street waving its attachments in horror at the sight of all the filth, so that’s a good sign. I hope it manages to last as long as the Sharp did. Before that one, we’d never had a vacuum last longer than about six months to a year.

In general, this is the story of our lives. If we find ourselves in dire need of money for something unexpected and urgent, some resource always turns up. But when we think we’re getting a tiny bit ahead, something comes out of nowhere and smacks us in the head. And the checkbook.

Am I glad we had the check? Sure, because I knew we’d need to get the plane tickets, and if something broke (like the good ol’ Sharp, or the washer, or the car, or the computer, or the – doG forbid – dishwasher) we had the money right there at that moment to repair or replace it, instead of freaking out. I just would’ve liked to have had a teeny-tiny whisker of stupid, wasteful, mindless fun before it was all gone.

I almost feel like I should take our old, faithful Sharp and bury it in the back yard.

Brilliante Blog

Curt tagged me with the Brilliante award from While Walking Duncan, and now I am charged with nominating seven other blogs to receive it. Honestly, I don't think I read seven other blogs regularly, and some of them wouldn't be interested in such recognition. I don't want to repeat any that Curt listed, but I am going to repeat one, because it's such a favorite of us both. The nominated bloggers are supposed to copy this graphic, and post it on their own blogs, nominating seven other bloggers, then leave a comment for the nominees on their blogs. (How many times does one need to use the words "blog" and/or "blogger" in one sentence? Apparently, at least four. And a few years ago I'd never even heard of the word.)

Let's start with The Skin I Am In, a very well-written, sometimes funny, sometimes poignant, always insightful blog. The blogger has been out of touch lately, and I hope she resumes regular posts soon! I've missed her!

The duplicate choice is Mackenzie Speaks. Who doesn't want daily thoughts and wisdom from a gorgeous golden retriever??? I sure do!

Will Work For Shoes makes me laugh like crazy with every single post. She has a complicated and interesting relationship with her mom (recent trip to the beach... hilarious!), and notices lots of the weirdisms in the world, and has some witty observations and insights into pop culture. I was directed to her by FFFan1, who I think may have encountered her through Jennsylvania.

Recovering Californian is by author Melissa Lion. She is also a freelance book reviewer, and has a completely uninhibited view of life. She's in Oregon now, but on a recent business trip back to California, she went gay-bar-hopping with her brother in law. She has a fondness for video blogs (of herself), including one where she realized she didn't know how to cook hotdogs, and needed to learn. This blog is smart and wacky simultaneously.

Notes to Self is written by a young widow with two small daughters. She lost her son and her husband in the last few years, and I don't know how she manages. Her stories of her life are always upbeat and positive, usually quite funny, and show a huge amount of strength and insight. I want to give her a hug!

Fabulous Fiancee turned me on to People Reading, written by a San Francisco resident. She goes out every day and finds people reading interesting things in public places. She takes a picture of them and their book, and a little about why they are reading that book, as well as what their usual reading tastes are. It's fun to see someone reading something I've read, but many of the books are obscure or super-intellectual titles I've never heard of. Good way to broaden my horizons!

I wasn't sure if Fabulous Fiancee would want me to list her blog, as she tends to be more private about hers, but she says it's OK! So, stop by But I Digress and see what's up in the life of Fabulous Fiancee and The Boy! (And Odin. Mostly Odin.)

OK, is that seven? Can I stop now? Are these like chain letters, blog-style? Are they terribly annoying, or a great way for bloggers to support one another? Don't care. Just visit my favorite blogs!

PS