More photos from Hedgehog Hell
Hopefully, you've read the previous blog so you understand these photos. These are the AFTER photos (after going to PetSmart, that is):

Above: The Hedgehog Stare-down. Middle: Freckles gets her own Hedgehog. Right: Hedgehogs gone wild! FWP celebrates the arrival of the hog.

Above: Lucy is so worried about her hedgehog she keeps it by her side, even when eating dinner. Middle: Sleeping with the hog. Leads to loud snoring. Right: Hedgehog hangover.

Hedgehog Hell
Oh dear, there is trouble in doggy paradise.

I ordered $150.00 worth of dog food on line, which is a good thing. (I know, I know, you’re wondering how two small dogs need that much or that expensive of food. Just go with it.) In the box from JB Pets was a free squeaky toy—an even better thing. But, two dogs looking in the box from JB Pets and only seeing one squeaky hedgehog is a bad thing.

Let me re-iterate: one toy, two dogs, bad news.

Lucy took an immediate liking to Mr. Hedgehog, as seen in the photo. She’s not giving it up, either. She carries it everywhere, including to bed, to her dinner plate, on walks. She only drops it for a millisecond while getting a drink of water or eating a treat, and even then she really doesn’t want to drop it. Lucy keeps her paw on it when the toy is not directly in her mouth. You can see by the photo of Freckles that she is sad and lonely without a hedgehog of her own. Sigh.

The pacifist of the group, Lucy has taken on a whole new persona—she is a hedgehog-hog. A mean, paranoid hedgehog-hog. She even growled at Freckles today when Freckles got too close to the hedgehog. Freckles looks morose…all she wants is one chance—one chance!--at the hedgehog. Lucy has two words for Freckles and they are not “thank you.”

The hedgehog makes it hard for Lucy to breath. She makes these snoring, grunting, gagging sounds. LBP can’t afford to lose any more brain cells, so this is troubling to me—she needs all the oxygen she can get.

I see that I am going to have to buy Freckles her very own hedgehog at the local pet store or I’m going to have to pay for therapy and doggy Prozac for Freckles. It’s cheaper just to get the toy. FWP is not used to being anything but the top dog in all situations. The hedgehog might push her over the edge. I don’t dare try to take the hedgehog from Lucy and give it to Freckles, as that would be a fate worse than death to our younger, not-at-the-top-of-the-pack dog. This is her moment of glory and she is going to take it for all its worth.

Those of you who truly know me know what I do next.

I put the dogs in the car and head off to PetSmart. I put the dogs in the cart and push them up and down the aisles looking for Hedgehog Twin. The gods were with us--there was ONE lonely hedgehog hanging on the rank--and, on sale! I buy the toy (and some treats, of course, quite to the wife's dismay...after all, I did just get $150 worth of dog crap yesterday) and off we go.

We take the twin home but of course no one now wants to play with the old hedgehog...they both want the new one. I bang my head on the wall. The wife decides that washing them both will make them "equal" and thus each dog will want there own. This sounds like a great idea to us but a very bad idea to Lucy. She actually sits next to the washing machine, staring upward. She KNOWS her hedgehog is in there!

There is no consoling her until the wash cycle is done. Both dogs are handed their own hedgehogs (a little soggy, but who cares--they'll just be covered with drool within minutes).

You know how this is going to end. Both dogs still want the same hedgehog, although I can't tell if it's the new one or the old one. Just like kids, they want the same thing.

There is no such thing as a free hedgehog, eh?

Mouse Heart Transplant Surgery

I've been so busy concentrating on whitening my teeth with those horrendous-tasting strips and watching "Dancing with the Stars" that I almost forgot to keep the blog going. I figure it's time for an all-time favorite story. I swear to you this is true. (The mouse here is NOT the mouse of the story but plays the real mouse on TV. Never mind.)

Anyway, I was at this "team-building" training for work.

(I'm not telling you which employer as that could lead to problems. You'll have to figure it out yourself or ask one of my closest 100 friends. I will give you a clue that it is one of my jobs in the mental health field. That should tell you a lot. It's a fine line between staff and client.)

Team building--You know what that means--sitting around, doing stupid exercises, pretending to care about each other, pretending to care about what anyone says, doing more stupid team-building exercises, praying that someone pokes your eyes out so you can leave. So, we're doing this exercise where we are each supposed to say something we are proud of from our childhood. One by one, we tell our happy memories--normal memories of proud childhood moments. We're smiling and nodding and listening. I will be the last person to talk--I follow after our boss. So, I'm sitting there, thinking about how I am going to talk about how I was elected to be the Lieutenant of the Patrol Squad in sixth grade (you know, the nerds who stand on the corner wearing those orange belts--nerds helping people cross the street). I'm smiling and listening and ready to tell my story, when my boss says, "I completed successful mouse heart transplant surgery when I was ten years old."

Silence.

I am telling you--this REALLY happened and this lady REALLY said this!

We are stunned into silence. Successful mouse heart transplant surgery? At age 10? In the basement? In 1965? Did they even know about heart transplants in 1965????

Suddenly, my stupid story about being the Patrol Squad Lieutenant seemed so pitiful. How was I supposed to say that after someone just said she completed successful mouse heart transplant surgery?

For some unknown reason, no one questions this, even though we are a very well-educated group. Perhaps it is because no one wants to challenge the boss. Perhaps it is because some people at the team building meeting actually believe this crap. Perhaps it is because people are TOO STUPID to realize this is impossible.

Mouse heart transplant surgery! Successful, at that!

I want to scream out, "you've GOT to be kidding me! You are FULL OF SHIT!" I'm sitting there thinking about these teeny little mice, with their even-teenier little hearts and this lady sitting in her basement lab, pulling one teeny little heart out of one and sewing it into another. How many zillion mice did she have to kill to do this? Was there a pile of dead mice next to her work area? Where did she get the mice from? Where was the Humane Society? How did she keep the heart beating? How did she get the heart beating in the "new" mouse? Where were her parents? Did she have to do mouth-to-mouse rescue breathing? What happened to the mouse once the surgery was complete? How does she define "successful," anyway?

Yet, no one says anything. A few moments of silence and I say, "Boy, being the Lieutenant of the Patrol Squad in sixth grade sure doesn't compare to successful mouse heart transplant surgery." What else can I say?

Obviously, the team building is over. There is no team building when someone says she has done such a monumental thing. It shatters the very reason for being at the training in the first place. We leave, with not one of us challenging the ridiculous story. Our team is not built. It's destroyed. (Um, there is no "I" in team but there is an "M" and an "E"....in MICE.)

Every once in awhile, one of us will bring the story up and we laugh and we lament why we never said anything. We make little CPR-ish movements with our hands, like we are reviving Stuart Little or something. We draw pictures of dead little mice with little hearts flopping all around the table. I draw Mickey Mouse with stitches running up and down his chest. Heck, you can't have a bad day when you are laughing about successful mouse heart transplant surgery. And so, we laugh.

A few words not about me

You know, my blog is just a big self-indulgence, so I think it's only fair to take a few minutes away from myself and implore you to look at http://kathyperu2006.blogspot.com because she's actually doing something in the world while I'm sitting her watching TV and eating chocolate. Kathy is working with orphans in Peru for several months. Take a look at her photos and read her stories. She's got big "cajunas" to do what she's doing. Kiss kiss.

There is no "I" in Team (but there is an "M" and an "E")

In the spirit of the Olympics being held at this very moment, I thought I'd share a sporting memory of my own. I'm not proud to own this story....

A friend, the wife and I decided to enter a team triathlon. Why, I don't know, as none of us had been training and the wife didn't even own a bike. In a moment of stupidity or delerium, we entered the event--which, by the way, was being held in the middle of July. So, the wife borrows a ten speed--a TEN speed!--for the event and I dusted off my jogging shoes and our friend dug out one of her swimsuits from high school or something (she was in her late thirties, so imagine that puppy). We drove to the trialthon, being held about 25 miles from home. Friend was going to swim, the wife was going to bike 15 miles and I was to run the 10K. When we arrived, the parking lot was already full. Zillions of buff-bodied athletes surrounded us.

I wanted to pee right there and then. What the hell were we thinking? We hadn't trained. Wife is using a TEN speed. I'm not in shape to run six miles. Don't puke, don't puke, don't puke becomes my mantra.

We register, get our team number plastered all over our body with permanent magic marker, put the ten speed in our little team spot and watch our friend go off to the pool. They were swimming in heats and she was assigned to the last heat. That was only the beginning of our problems. We stood around waiting for her turn, watching the swimmers run out from the pool to the bike area...then, bikers would hop on their thousand-gear bikes and zoom off into the hills of the country side. It took an eternity for Friend to swim her laps--she was one of the last out of the pool. It was getting really, really hot out and the sun was beating down. I think I saw my team number melting on my skin. Finally, the wife was able to hop on her bike and off she went. Friend decides she has had enough of the fun and leaves. Drives off. Adios. Caio. She leaves me standing there all alone to contemplate the run before me. It's just me and my jogging shoes and my melting tea numbers.

What seems like hours later, I'm still standing there, waiting for the wife to return. Problem is, almost all the bikers have returned and most of the runners are even back from their run. I'm waiting, waiting, waiting. I hear the event staff talking on their walkie talkies about a biker who has just thrown up and is the last one on the course. I look around. No one else is waiting that I can see. It must be the wife puking. Dear god, this is NOT good. I listen more. They continue to talk about how bad this person looks. I do not want to be part of this disaster.

So, what better thing to do than to abandon my teammate? I make an executive decision. I'm watching the event staff put away some of the equipment. I see them stare at me and look at their watches. I go to the start line and hand my watch to the timer. I say, "Please give this to the biker when she comes in. She'll know it's mine. Tell her I started running without her." He looks at me quizzically and says, "But you'll be disqualified." Like I care. It's ten million degrees out now, there is only one runner out on the course and I'm going to hold up the staff for days. I smile and start the run.

It's embarrassing enough to be the last person on the course. It's another thing when they follow you in a car and pick up the cones as you run. I felt like I was getting a little push from the sag wagon. I sweat, I sweat, I get dizzy, I run, I sweat. There is NO WATER on the course, as they've already picked that up. Great. So, I'm parched and sweating. I pray for death.

After a week and a half, I get to the finish line. Standing there next to the line is the wife and her ten speed. She is NOT amused. The staff event has cleaned up the area and all that's left is the timer. No after race drinks or fruit, no enteretainment, no prizes, no participants. She stares, glaring at me. How am I ever going to explain this to her? She is a competitor. She doesn't quit. She is not the type to give in. I begin to think she is going to shove my watch up my ass.

It's a long, silent, painful ride home (and thirst-filled--I still had nothing to drink). Through cotton-mouthed lips, I try to explain that they had been talking about her puking on the course, looking awful, being only half way done. She glares at me, barks out that she had not thrown up and was second to last in crossing the line. They had been talking about the person behind her. Oh dear.

I get the "THERE IS NO "I" IN TEAM" lecture and that's all I get. My explanations do nothing for my lack of sportsmanship. I didn't want to make the event staff wait longer. I was embarrassed to have to be the last runner, especially when everyone had finished before I had started. I....I.....I.....

....it's ten years later and I'm still not sure she's totally forgiven me. Every once in a while, she'll say, "there is no "I" in team...., and then she adds, "but there is an "M" and an "E."

I'm all for me.

I promise that the next time anyone asks me to run in a team trialthon, I'm going to throw myself in front of a bus.

Cha Cha Cha...Chi Chi Chi

Super Bowl Sunday 2006 found me sitting across from a Western Herbalist (as opposed to an Eastern Herbalist, I suppose). She was perched in front of her probably very expensive and obviously very new Electro-dermal screening (EDS) machine. Oodles of bottles of who-knows-what surrounded her very being.

Shouldn't a Western Herbalist wear a cow girl hat and some spurs? Or, at least face the west wall?

For some reason, when I made the appointment I thought this would be a fun way to spend Super Bowl Sunday. After all, it was a sporting event of which had no bearing on my life--none of my teams were involved.

The friendly herbalist handed me a chunk of metal wrapped in a wet paper towel. She told me to hold it in my left hand. Being the compliant type, I did as told, depsite not knowing why I was holding it or what it would do. I supposed it was like holding a lightening rod...well, without lightening. She explained that there are energy pathways in the body called meridians and that these meridians are related to every organ and system in the body. There was some talk about the flow of energy called the "chi."

All I could think of was "Dancing with the Stars" doing the cha cha cha, but she say chi, chi, chi.

EDS is, in her words, a non-invasive, painless method that meausres the body's energies using acupuncture points. By finding the energetic imbalances, she would be able to find what herbs and natural remedies I'd need to get back in balance.

 I'm out of balance? Like that's gonna be a surprise to anyone. I put M&Ms in my cereal. And, let's not even get started on my mental health. Balance isn't exactly my middle name.

For 90 minutes, I sat and watched the computer make little graphs corresponding to my organs, all while holding that piece of metal in my left hand. It was hypnotizing, if nothing else. The little bars in the graph were yellow for not enough, green for just right and red for "Oh shit, you are in so much trouble--your organs are going to fall out."

Lucky me--there was A LOT of red going on in my session. EDS must not respect my love of chocolate and sugar-filled products. That or the EDS's favorite color is red.

I started to get nervous. Baby Jesus, please don't let my organs fall out.

I start to get angry. This is so unfair. I don't drink alcohol. I don't do drugs. I don't drink pop. I'm a vegetarian. I walk.  Sometimes I jog. Besides my thyroid, I'm good as gold. I'm healthy.

EDS says I am not. EDS gives a loud and clear message that I am in need of saving. EDS says I should go find my check book.

Turns out, per the lightening rod thing, I needed things like energy endobiotics, Xymatics, Gammaxyme, yeast fungus drops, some herb for hormones that looks like little rabbit droppings, a "five flower" tonic for stress and a mind-body tonic for this or that. What the hell these things are, I do not know but the herbologist seems to think I won't survive the week without them. Five flowers? Why not or four or six flowers? Hell, I'm allergic to some flowers. I can't imagine five flowers in one place, all waiting for me to ingest them. Please tell me one of the flowers isn't ragweed. And, let's not even talk about purple cone flower. I'm getting clogged up and itchy just thinking about it.

The list of needed products was horrifying. And, expensive. My red lines were gonna cost me a lot of money. Cha cha cha, chi chi chi, cha, cha, cha-ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching!

I contemplate my choices. I considered how I can start a regiment of various herbs and such and see what happens....

...or, I could lve my life as is and call it a day, spending my money on a chocolate cake shake from Portillos and Dove Dark chocolate for sustinance along the way.

The herbal grrrrl wins out. Well, partially. I agree to take a few of the suppliments and herbs and organ-saving tinctures. I can't and won't give her all my discretionary monies for the month. I have a life to live, lady. 

I handed her a check and muttered something about how my chi better be flowing right out my ass by the time I get done taking these products.

I don't think she was entertained by my comment. I think the only thing that she envisioned flowing right out my ass was....well, not flowing out...I think she envisioned her EDS lightening rod being shoved right up my ass. Plugged in. Electric waves shooting out. Measurements flowing in....

Bet that would lead to a whole lot of red lines. Just sayin.'
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