Monday, December 31, 2018

End-of-year Babbling from the Addiverse

It's New Year's Eve. Another year in the books. Lots of fabulous things transpired over the past 364 days. Lots of fun, laughing, good food, laughing, road trips, laughing, triumphs of various nature, laughing... you get the idea. I hope you enjoyed 2018. If you did, keep that good thing going. If you didn't, write a new story. If it was a mixed bag, embrace it-after all, life usually ends up being a mixed bag. I celebrate you. I celebrate the wife. I celebrate me! May 2019 bring you much joy, health and love. I hope it brings you good food, good friends, good fun and much time spent with dogs.
********************************

I went on vacation with two lovely ladies last week. I daresay fun was had by all. Two dogs & three people on a quick jaunt down the West Coast in a Jeep. Since we live in three different States, we made plans to meet at the San Francisco airport and work our way to Los Angeles.

Now, I want you to picture the two traveling companions. What do you "see?" Imagine? Assume? Hmmmm. I'm gay, so my traveling companions must be gay.... right? We met in San Francisco. That's SUPER-gay, right? We're in a friggin' Jeep. These fun ladies are arm-in-arm in most photos. They are with me, the "known gay," they are wearing baseball caps and look mighty sporty. They must be a couple.... right?

For the record, they are straight. We met in San Francisco because it was the most sensible meeting place for the start of our vacation endeavors. It never dawned on me that people would assume I was traveling with two gay women. Even dear friends--gay AND straight--immediately assumed that I was traveling with two gay women. My traveling companions were assumed to be gay by various people viewing the photos, hearing the stories and/or seeing me in the mix. Guilt by association, they call it. Thankfully, they don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks.

For the new year, I encourage all of us to challenge our assumptions. Eradicate "guilt by association." Embrace friends, as they are friends. I embrace you, no matter "what" you are. Feel free to embrace me, too. Just let me know you're coming in for a hug so you don't scare the shit out of me.
*******************************
I confess: I ate gluten during my end-of-year vacation. I'm such a rebel. When I received results of my lab work in mid-December, I was bitter than my "numbers" had worsened instead of improved despite years of being gluten free. Those numbers made it tough to keep the gluten-free thing going. I thought of drowning myself in a gluten-smothered pity party, but the wife reminded me that I feel better when I'm gluten-free. She's right--I experience very few headaches and my knees don't hurt anymore.

That said, when those delicious, freshly-made, still-warm-directly-out-of-the oven balls of gluten crossed my path on vacation, I decided to say yes. Gluten be damned, I was gonna eat that cinnamon roll. It's not like the world would stop turning or giant vats of poop would come shitting out my ass. I said yes and held that warm, oozing dough of love in my hands. I inhaled the most delectable fragrance. I stared lovingly at the dripping pile of cream cheese frosting. I am here to tell you that this freshly-baked ball of goo was BY FAR the most delicious cinnamon roll I have ever consumed. It was a religious experience. I aim to be gluten-free in 2019 but I've decided that if something that amazing crosses my path, I will most likely say "yes" once again.

Life is short. Eat the gluten.
*********************************
As for the actual vacation, I daresay many people found my decision to go 2000 miles to hang out with two women I've met in person only once or twice to be a weird, even questionable, decision. I didn't think it weird at all. Thanks to social media, electronic means of communication and a passion for our dogs, we know each other quite well. Perhaps we are kindred spirits. Perhaps we're just sophomoric weirdos with the same likes in life, a sense of adventure of a similar nature. No matter. I enjoy their willingness to talk about bodily functions, ability to laugh at themselves, spirit to do things that brings life to the daily grind and shamelessness to profess love for their rescued dogs. Thankfully, the wife finds us to be harmless middle-aged women with a passion for ridiculousness. (Yes, the wife was invited into joining the road trip but she politely declined. Chicken.)

Our vacation adventures involved spreading the ashes of a beloved brother on Christmas Day night. (I am guessing no one else reading this can make that claim.) This pre-planned event made total sense to us. It was important, symbolic, cathartic. I was truly honored to be invited as part of this sacred event. I'm sure the guy working on the wharf thought we were three crazed women dangling over the railing for no particular or rational reason as part of Christmas happenings. What was envisioned didn't quite transpire, as the guy on the wharf approached us just as we were about to distribute the ashes into the ocean--he told us to move along as he was closing the wharf for the night. All we could do was laugh, seal the container and move down the wharf as to not get locked in.

We laughed about this for the remainder of the trip. I daresay her brother was laughing at us the entire time. Thankfully, we we were able to stop laughing long enough to ensure the brother's ashes were spread on Christmas Day night.
********************************
Another year in the books. Another year ready for adventures. (I can't believe it's 2019. Wasn't it just 1980?) Dare to dream. Dare to ask. Dare to take action. Dare to live.

May your focus on the good, find the good, be the good.  Happy New Year from the Addiverse.    :-)



Saturday, December 15, 2018

Champions

Here is the final chapter to this round's dog obedience adventures. How could I not finish the story?

We went to the final class as planned, filled with expectation of defeat. We prepared ourselves not to pass, satisfied with the amazing progress accomplished in the short time we were enrolled. The wife insisted Bandido would pass, but we both knew Rosita would not. She was a social butterfly, not a student of commands. Her personality plus would win her friends but her limited obedience skills would not win her an award.

In a stunning turn of events, Rosita became a doctoral candidate of obedience. The wife and Rosita entered the ring, prepared to run the gauntlet. I readied my camera, hoping no one would notice I was taking photos. Student and handler looked proud, ready to take on the commands as given.

My jaw dropped to the ground when the testing started. That damn dog was doing everything exactly as commanded. She heeled, sat, walked fast, walked slow, spun, waited, stayed and returned as requested. She did every single thing except lay down. She walked next to the wife with a heel of perfection.

I'm not sure who was the most surprised--me, the instructor, the wife.... or, Rosita.

Due to physical limitation, Rosita is unable to lay down on command. This technically is a problem in the world of obedience, as "down" is one of the commands. The instructor had Rosita sit on command and then circled PASS on the score sheet. She wrote, "looks cute!" and gave our party pup special dispensation due to physical limitation.

She passed. Not only did she pass, she was also awarded "Most Improved." A certificate AND a ribbon! The wife was giddy with delight.

This photo says it all. Certificate, ribbon, smiling wife and.... a stunned Rosita. Her expression is priceless.

I think it's important to note that the wife had never attended dog school before. I took our dogs. So, this is like a double-win.

I think it's also important to note that Rosita peed on the welcome mat on her way out the door. Perhaps she was giving a final "piss on you!" to those who did not believe it possible for her to pass. Sure, the wife and dog left me and Bandido to clean the mess. I see how they are.

Bandido and I had to follow this miracle of the Lord, which was a pretty tough act to follow. We didn't do as well as Rosita, but we finished with a passing score. I think Bandido and I were so distracted by Rosita's performance that we were off our game.

The wife has taken to calling Rosita "The Champion." It's been very humorous to watch the wife be so pleased with this raging success. Upon waking day after passing obedience class, the wife announced, "I hear The Champion is awake!"

It is noted that the dogs' skills have not generalized to "real life." That's okay, as they are both so much better on a leash (read: Rosita is better on a leash; Bandido has always been fine for me), both seem a bit more confident and a bit more comfortable. They still both freak out on walks when we see another dog. They remain tentative of strangers. All in all, it worked out handsomely.

I decided before the end of class that I wanted to keep taking Bandido to some form of training. She needs all the confidence she can get and it challenges her to go to class--she seems bored without challenge. The wife announced early on that she didn't want to go to any more training....

....but, that changed once The Champion passed the class. All of a sudden, the wife wanted to take The Champion for more training. Same class, more practice.

I'm still speechless. This from the lady who dreaded every week of class. Dreaded. Once the wife was handed that ribbon, she was sold.   Everything changed. Now she's talking about next session.

No decisions have been made regarding continued obedience training... but, I can tell you, if there is a ribbon involved, the wife and The Champion will be there. But, next time, they can clean up their own pee. They may be champions but we're no minions.
****************************************************



Saturday, December 01, 2018

Opt-Out-Opt-In-Sure

The wife purchased a fruit-brand watch this week... which matches her brand new fruit-brand phone, which matches her fruit-brand tablet. Today, she is taking her life into her hands... she is going to try and sync the three of them. This has disaster written all over it. Thankfully, I have errands to run.

While she was out buying a watch, I was trying to refill a prescription. This should not be an adventure, considering I've been on the same medication for a decade, from the same doctor, at the same pharmacy, from the same place of employment. Imagine my surprise when I went to pick it up and the pharmacy tech looked up and asked me, "Do you know the price of these prescriptions?" As I've paid the same generic price over the years, this question caught me off guard. As you can imagine, I was quite tentative in my response. When she indicated the price of my usually-costs-me-about fifteen bucks was going to almost $500.00, I choked. I may have spit out my gum. I may have grabbed my chest. I may have blacked out. After I regained consciousness and was able to once again make coherent sentences, I asked why on earth this could be. She told me, very politely and rather apologetically, that I should call my insurance company's help desk.

I forgot about the change in our insurance. Thank you, new insurance company. I forgot I might have to play your game.

The pharmacy tech inquired if I needed the phone number to the help desk. I assured her that I most certainly did not. I politely declined the medication, internally fired up to rip someone a new asshole while externally acting like a rational human being.

What I really wanted to yell was, "THOSE ARE MY CRAZY MEDS, BITCH! DO YOU WANT ME TO BE CRAZY? THIS HAS CRAZY WRITTEN ALL OVER IT!" But, it isn't her fault I didn't play the insurance game. It's not her fault that the price of medication is absurd. It isn't her fault that I didn't want to pay full price.

No offense to the mentally ill. I mean you no disrespect. Please do not poop on my blog parade. 

When I got home, I pulled out the insurance card and called the most-probably-not-helpful help desk. I got the forty-seven different options animated voice greeting. None of the choices made any sense. I gave it my best guess and picked the option that sounded the closest to resolving my issue and waited. And, pushed buttons. And, waited. And, pushed more buttons. And..... and, finally gave up. (I always feel that is the goal--beat them down until they give up.)

I chewed on the best course of action. I figured the company's website had to be the best bet. Think I could remember my password or even my user name? Think I could remember if I even had an account? No. So, I played the "let's get you an account" game, only to find I did have an account. This meant I got to play the "let's rescue your password by asking you five specific questions of which I don't remember ever answering" game.

Once on the insurance company's website, it took me awhile to figure out how to solve the problem at hand. Finally--wa-la! I accidentally pushed the wrong button, which ended up to be the correct button. I hadn't change my prescription status on the website--on the account of which I didn't remember having. I had not opted out of mail order med service. Hence, my meds were authorized via mail. Buying them at the pharmacy would require me to take action.

I studying the instructions, determining that if I wanted to pick meds up at the pharmacy instead of using the company's mail order system, I could sell my soul and jump through their 87 opt-out hoops. I shoveled some chocolate into my mouth in an effort to stay calm and focused.

Me: Do you care about mail order meds?
Me 2: I have no issue with mail order meds. What's to care about with mail order meds? They come in the mail, you take them, it's paid on line. No, I don't care about that.

Me: Do you care where where your meds come from?
Me 2: I don't care where my meds come from as long as they are in my possession.

Me: Do you know you'll save $1.37 on your order if you get them via mail order?
Me 2: I don't give a rat's ass if I save $1.37 on my total bill by using mail order. Did I mention I care only that the meds are in my possession?

Me: So, don't opt out and use mail order.
Me 2: Duh! This doesn't solve the immediate, actual dilemma: I need the medication now, not in 5-10 days via the mail.

Me: Oh. Yeah, that.
Me 2: Did I mention THOSE ARE MY CRAZY PILLS???!!!!!!
Me: Maybe once or twice.
Me 2: So, how do I get those pills NOW?
Me: [awkward silence]
Me: Well, you could pay the expedited price.
Me 2: [beeeeeeeeeeeep--edited for PG-rated viewers]

Me: So, I'm opting out of opting in.

I dug through the drawers, pill boxes, briefcase, closets, pants pockets, glove box....eventually scraping up enough pills to get me through the five days it would most likely take to get the mail order. I made sure I checked all the boxes needed, unchecked the boxes not needed, made my request for the refill.

Wait, how can it be a refill if I have never used this service before? I decided to not dwell on this. I prayed to the Gods of Insurance and let it go. We'll see what transpires. You'll know soon enough. It's a race against time.

I will be reading my insurance information word for word later today, as I am about to enter the "medical loop" in regards to my thyroid. I went to the doctor this week to talk about my goiter and ended up being referred for an ultrasound, lab work, mammogram, colonoscopy and exam by endocrinologist. I'm sure there are pre-authorizations, co-pays, deductibles and uncovered services in the mix. Oh goody! Wonder what buttons I am supposed to and not supposed to push?

Don't get me wrong: I'm grateful I have insurance. I'm grateful I can afford these services. I'm grateful my biggest issue is having a goiter and needing to use mail order to get my meds. I will try my best to remain calm, cool, rational, polite, focused, understanding as I navigate the medical loop....

....but, let's make this clear: if those pills don't arrive in the mail sooner than not, all bets are off. 

...and, if that fruit-brand watch doesn't sync with that fruit-brand phone with that fruit-brand tablet, I won't be the only one in need of medication. You have been warned.
***************************************



Sunday, November 18, 2018

Eight Paws, Three Weeks

Good news! We are still alive and haven't been thrown out of our six-week dog class yet. Stressed but alive and well. We have crossed the half-way mark with nary a scar.

Let me give you an idea of how much the wife is enjoying obedience class. The morning of class she woke up and said not good morning... or how did you sleep... or what's the weather... she said, "Oh god, we have to go to dog school tonight."

Put it immediately in perspective.

Week Three of Dog Obedience brought us a surprise: Rosita was made for agility. She is not exactly stellar on a leash--she is more a kite on a string. She remains a loud mouth, looking to play with every dog in the building, blessed with attention deficit beyond compare. And, she still can't lay down. Literally--she can't lay down. Thankfully, the instructor now agrees there is something physically "wrong" that prohibits Rosita from laying down. We've been saying that from Day One. Not being able to lay down might keep the fluffy white dog from passing class, but that's fine with us. We're just excited she can sit on command and is walking better on a leash. That's like earning a PhD in Rositaland.

Lucky for us, the instructor decided to make Week Three about obstacles.... a tunnel, something to hop over, stairs... an agility course for beginners. We thought it'd be a disaster.... a DISASTER....

...until Rosita ran through the tunnel with glee... hopped over the gate.... scampered up the stairs without missing a beat... prancing between obstacles....

I'll be dipped in shit. It's the best she's ever been in class.... by a mile. She was a natural!

Bandido looked like she was going to die when I asked her to go up the stairs. She refused to go in the tunnel. And, screw that gate--she was going around, not over. It took numerous trips around the ring before Bandido decided this might actually be okay to try a few things. By the end of class, she too was okay but there was no prancing. It was more resignation that fun for her.

Of course, Rosita had to remain on her leash. After all, she was great at the obstacles but all those distraction of the other dog classes going on at the same time would be too big a temptation for Miss Social Butterfly. Maybe someday she'll be able to run free, but today is not that day.

I think the night's successes were most appreciated by the wife. This obedience gig has been really tough on her. Seeing Rosita excel made her night... hell, it probably made her week.

Week Four won't bring this kind of fun but at least there was a break in the exhaustion of the grind. Everyone comes home after class and goes right to bed. I'm not sure if that's funny, warranted or pathetic.

I have faith that Bandido will pass the class with flying colors....

....I have faith Rosita will be honored with "most improved" in the class. After all, she has improved beyond my wildest dreams, even if she is a kite on a string....

....I have faith the wife will live through three more classes. THAT might be the biggest accomplishment of all. I may have to get her a certificate indicating that she is the "most improved handler." She has come further than all the dogs combined. A true compliment, indeed.

Three more weeks. We can do it. Sit. Stay. Pray. Gobble Gobble.

Sunday, November 04, 2018

Old Dog, New Tricks

In a moment of weakness, I decided to register the dogs for obedience training. It is not that they don't need it and it's not like we all won't benefit.... I just didn't think it through. There are plenty of quality places to take dogs for training. There are happy places, friendly places, basic of basic places. Our dogs don't need much more than sit, stay, come, heel, wait, leave it and heel. Heck, they don't even need heel. I could've chosen many places of which to go. but I chose the place closest to our house.

Don't get me wrong. This place is well-known. I know many, many people who have taken their dogs there and it's been a great thing. It's not like it's a bad place. Let's just say it's a..... serious place. Seriously--I am not a serious person. Our dogs are not serious. None of us have intention to be serious. So, it's seriously funny that non-serious beings ended up with a serious bunch of serious dog trainers.

How we lived through Week One, I do not know. 

I originally planned only to take Bandido, but the wife indicated a desire to take Rosita. I was mighty skeptical about that, but so be it--if she wanted to take the dog who needed six months to learn her name to obedience class, so be it. I told her I would pretend not to know her. I paid the money and wrote down the date.

Mistake #1: I didn't seek information of any kind on what we might need to bring for the first class. I registered through Facebook and Event Bright. It never dawned on me that there was probably something to know about the first night. In my infinite glory, we arrived with dogs and  tickets to demonstrate paid registration. (I had a pocket full of Cheerios and some poop bags, so it's not like I didn't consider SOME things that might help.) The ladies at the front desk barked at me (pun intended) that they needed to see the registration. That, I had. Then, they growled about vet papers indicating completion of shots and fecal floats. Well, piss. That, I did not have in hand.

I pondered this a moment, all the while they glared at me. I told you--these were SERIOUS dog people. I remembered I had an email with the papers they needed. Imagine how happy they were while I scrolled through my emails, looking for the attachments from the vet. They finally shooed me away and told me to bring the papers next week.

For the record, I DID find the email and was able to shove them in their faces at the end of class. Take that, bitches. (A little dog humor there. Bitches. Get it?)

Mistake #2: Our dogs wear harnesses. Not one other dog in the place--and, there were dogs EVERYWHERE--was wearing a harness. No wonder our trainer, who I do not believe smiled one time nor was she even remotely entertained by me, looked disdained by our lack of preparation, lack of conformity and the sight of harnesses. There was no explaining why Rosita wears a harness. There were only scowls. Thankfully, I did have the dogs wear their collars along with their harnesses. I think that's the only thing that kept us from getting thrown out.

Mistake #3: Thinking we'd start at the beginning. Let's face it. Rosita knows NOTHING. Well, she knows her name and she knows how to sit if you are holding a treat and scream at her for 5 minutes, but beyond that.... The wife had never attended dog training before, she knew little of nothing, either. Bandido is a smart cookie but she's leash reactive around other dogs, so I was hoping this would be more of a meet and greet. Imagine my surprise when the trainer jumped right in to having our dogs heel and sit and whatnot.

Imagine the wife's surprise. Hell, imagine Rosita's surprise.

Saying that it did not go well is probably an understatement. Rosita was everywhere except next the wife. The party pup wanted to play with all the other dogs... and, there were dogs EVERYWHERE. Agility dogs. Therapy dogs. Show dogs. Advanced dogs. It was like a five-ring circus. Poor Rosita couldn't focus for even a moment. She was like a kite at the end of her leash.

At one point, I traded Rosita for Bandido, hoping to give the wife a few moments of sanity. Bandido was too terrified to misbehave, so I figured that would also help the wife. It was soon obvious that the "driver" didn't make much difference with Rosita. She was still happy, giddy and very distracted. I gave her back to the wife.

The trainer finally had enough of Rosita. She attached the leash to Rosita's collar and had the wife start dragging her around the circle. Soon Rosita was honking. THAT'S why she wears a harness--the collar must press on a place on her throat and it leads to this horrible honking and look of terror.

I voted for honking over the sound of the trainer. I'm sorry, Rosita.

Mistake #4: Not bringing quality treats. Trainer lady did not find my Cheerios worthy. She asked, "Don't you have treats?" She then handed us some form of jerky product to use. I can't help it that Bandido was too terrified to eat cheerios and Rosita was too distracted to care. They love Cheerios at home and it's what I use to train. Piss on you, dog lady.

Mistake #5. Pretending to be a show dog. Okay, that was pretty funny. Well, to me. The trainer asked us to go fast while walking the ring. I decided that Bandido and I would pretend to be in a dog show. I actually said aloud how we were in a dog show.  Bandido and I pranced around the ring, all the while I laughed. It was like the best of best scenes from "Best n Show." As we zipped by a few employees on the outside of the ring, I announced how we were in a dog show. Ha! I heard one of them laugh. The others? Not so much.

To say I dread Week Two is an understatement. At least I know to be armed with treats and to have Rosita in a collar. But, I won't be serious. I may look for a "Best in Show" t-shirt to wear. Heck, I might look for a t-shirt for Bandido to wear. I will DEFINITELY quote Best in Show as I prance around the ring. So, if you hear I said, "You've got your Busy Bee--do you want your Busy Bee?"  you'll know I've stepped training up a notch.

Pray for the wife and her kite. She's gonna need all the prayers she can get.
***************************************************

Saturday, October 20, 2018

List This

The wife is out of town this week, so I'm in charge of the house. If you are wondering what the heck there is to be in charge of, let me whine as giving myself free therapy. Pity party ahead.

Let me put this in perspective for you: I forgot to do my football picks because I was so distracted by the wife being gone and having to do these wifely duties.THAT'S a problem.

I've always wondered why the wife keeps written list upon list. Her teeny, tiny writing keeping track of her duties and actions. I scoff at lists. I mean, if I can't remember what I'm supposed to do, I should be ashamed of myself.

Color me ashamed.

There is a lot to remember when dogs are involved and more than one form of employment is in progress. I could fake it when it was just me and me and one job. But, I've found myself backtracking more times than not, remembering things after I should have done them (aka the football pool) and...

...wishing I had a list.

So, I made a list. I own my judgmental ways regarding lists. I should probably have a "get your head out of your ass" list, but I mainly have work lists because I figure that includes the things I should not forget. A dog list is easy because I do a lot of these things already, so it's in my head, not in writing. I should probably put it in writing so I don't forget to fluff their beds. 

Walk the dogs. Change the water bowls. Feed the dogs. Clean the dog dishes. Fluff the dog beds (two). Check the water bowls. Put away all the toys. Walk the dogs. Feed the dogs. Clean the dog dishes. Fluff the couch cushions (of which dogs perch). Give a kong. Clean the kongs. Did I change the water? I don't remember. Change the water bowl. Walk the dogs. Repeat.

Not so bad. I know. Rather pathetic. I own it. A list in my head counts almost as much as a list in writing in the Addiverse.

I can never decide if it's worth putting everything away as I use it/do it or just leave it because I can and I'm just going to use it again, anyway. For instance, the dog leashes. When the wife is home, the leashes get hung up after every walk. When she's not home, I ask myself: why would I put the dog leashes away when I am going to use them three times a day minimum? Or, there's the dog walking clothes, currently plopped on the living room chair. Do I bother to put away the dog walking clothes I wear every morning or do I just leave them on the chair? And, what about the bed? I'm going to get back in it in 14 hours, so why make it? Do I worry about putting clean clothes away immediately upon completion of drying or is okay to leave them on the bed until I wear them again (of which I am going to do)?

Take a guess what I do. Go ahead--I'll wait.

Correct. I don't make the bed; I smooth it out in preparation for the next night's sleep. I haven't put the dog leashes away but I do keep them by the door so it's almost like I put them away. My walking clothes are on the chair. And, my clean underwear is on the bed.

I know the wife worries about me forgetting the "big" stuff (read: big stuff in her world/doesn't exist in my world). Garbage Day happened while she was gone. That's a big stuff list. So, I sent her an email assuring her, and I quote:

Yes, I remember it is garbage day.
Yes, I recycled my cereal boxes.
Yes, I know I don't have to take out the recycling bin but I am going to because we have enough.
Yes, I will remove my car from the garage before moving the bin.
Yes, I remembered to include the poop with the garbage.
No, nothing exciting in the mail.
No, I didn't return the sweaters. I'll wait for you to return.
Yes, the avocados are ripe so I will be eating all of them within the next two days (yikes!).
Yes, the counter is messy.

I hope this eased her mind a wee bit. I mean, I even got the recycling bin back in before it started to rain.

Lest you think otherwise, the house is not in shambles; in fact, you probably wouldn't think much of it if you were to visit. It's just not at wife-level of being. The dog beds are indeed fluffed. The water dishes are clean and full of water. The dog dishes are drying after being washed. There is order to the chaos.

The wife comes home tomorrow night. I will be very glad to see her, for a variety of reasons. The biggest reason is, of course, that she is missed. I'll have everything in order by then. It won't be hard to get things in order because they are already teetering on being as is supposed to be. I mean, the dog leashes only have to go two feet from where they are. The underwear will have been worn. But, I gotta say, I'll be glad when I don't have to have a list that reminds me to fluff the dog beds. I wasn't made to fluff dog beds....

...or, fret about eating all those ripe avocados.....

...or, return clothes to the store....

...or, bringing the recycling bin in before it rains.

I stand corrected. I beg forgiveness from all you list keepers, dog-pillow fluffers and organized folk. I openly admit that lists are an appropriate tool for even the lamest of us.

I still won't keep a list but I salute you for your prowess. Go ahead--tell me to "Kiss my List." I've earned it.

Just don't make lists of lists. That freaks me out. There's only so much I can take.

**********************************










Saturday, October 06, 2018

Giveth and Taketh

What a month September was. Too dark and stressful for my tastes. There were some highlights to save the Addiverse from certain doom. Let's focus on the positive, shan't we?

Two words: Murphy Brown. Thank god for the return of that show. If you didn't like it decades ago, you won't like it now. But, for me--loved it then, loved it now. A true bright spot in a long month.

Ask and receive. Many of you already know this story, but I'm telling it here for proper documentation for all generations to come. The wife and I were at a Packers' game, seated in her beloved Lambeau. While I enjoy going to the Mecca with her, being a gluten free vegetarian in Lambeau sucks. I had eaten as much gluten-free, veggie stuff as I could find (plain nachos, anyone?) but chocolate was nowhere to be found. (Who doesn't sell chocolate? What is wrong with that place? Did the sense I was from Illinois and hid it from my view?) I turned to the wife and quietly whined,

"Oh, how I wish I some chocolate!"

As I'm looking at her, I see a gold flash by our feet.

.....I look down and there rolled--and, stopped--a fun-sized Reeces peanut butter cup. 

I can't make this stuff up.

I looked around to see if anyone had dropped it and now was looking for their little piece of heaven. Nothing. I scanned the crowd to see if anyone was smiling like they rolled chocolate toward me. Nothing. I picked up the piece of candy, looked at it, looked around again....

....then, I unwrapped it and ate it.

After all, the Universe giveth. I taketh.

Of course I ate it. Did you really have any doubt? I've eaten ice cream cake from the garbage. Heck, it was wrapped. It wasn't warm, it didn't look damaged, it was wrapped. I popped that puppy into my mouth pronto. For the next quarter, I kept looking around. I never saw anyone eat any candy. Thank you, Universe. next time I need to dream big... perhaps whine about how I wish I had ten million dollars.

On a different front, I've been teaching an on-line class. I use the word "teaching" lightly, as I've never taught an on-line class before nor have I ever taken one. It's hard to design a course of which you have no idea of what it should look like, how much work would be required, how to tell if students are even doing anything. I'm not sure if the students are laughing, groaning, swearing or praising. It sucks the life force out of me, all this thinking and starting from scratch. The "live" class is so much easier as I have taught it several times and I've taken actual classes. I have a vision of what a class "looks like." The "live" class design as been complicated by the on-line version as I've had to make sure the work for the two classes be comparable. Let's just say the live class is getting the better end of the deal.

Yes, I've asked the younger generation about their on-line classes. Their answers are quite varied. Some had to be in front of a computer at a certain time every week. Some had to be on camera for class. Many had to complete work but do so at their leisure. All had discussion boards. Most didn't give on-line classes rave reviews. So, why are they becoming so popular?

I've taken on-line training at work but nothing like a semester-long class. I'm going to have to take an on-line class to get a better idea of what should be happening. Or, I'm going to have to hire a traditional age college student as a consultant and have them sit with me while I create the remainder of the course.

As for tonight, I'm going to a concert/movie. The orchestra plays the movie score while the movie shows on the big screen. A novel concept, I must say. I've attended such an adventure before and really enjoyed it. Tonight will be no except. The only thing that could make it better is....

....you guessed it. The only thing that could make it better is if a piece of chocolate rolls down the aisle and lands at my feet.

Are you listening, Universe?
**********************************************************

Saturday, September 15, 2018

Fired

Between studying for a major business trip, teaching classes, doing my "real" job, watching the neighbor's house on fire and taking an unplanned camping trip, the Addiverse hoppin.' In fact, last week was so busy that I didn't have time to make my football pool picks. That's sacrilege.

Let's talk about the fire. It's a lot more important than getting stuck camping.

I wasn't supposed to be home--on a whim, I had left work to take a very late lunch and thus was on the premises at an unusual time in the afternoon. The wife was outside, doing something domestic while I sat on the couch. All of a sudden, she's flapping and yelling and screaming--something about the neighbor's house being on fire.

When you first hear those words, they don't make much sense. In fact, looking back, I'm guessing my first reaction was inappropriate, as in Sweet Brown saying, "Lord Jesus, it's a fire!" I stood up and realized the wife was serious. She was on the phone with 911, sounding desperate. I jumped into action, albeit without shoes or socks....

....because all I could think about was the dog that was stuck in the burning house.

Before I go any further, let me reassure you, no dogs die in this story.

The fire was spotted by sheer accident. One of our neighbors, a guy who is more likely to be drinking beer in his garage than anything else, saw the flames and yelled to the wife to call 911. He's the hero here. Without him, the house would've been engulfed and the dog would most certainly have died a miserable death.

When I got to the front door, I could hear the dog. It was barking nonstop. I started pounding and pounding and pounding. I didn't think anyone was in there except the dog, but one can never be sure. I tried using my shoulder to open the door, but I'm too wimpy and the door was too strong. I ran to the side garage door, with hopes this would help but it, too was beyond my strength.

That's when I heard it.

Have you ever heard fire? I never thought about it and I guess I've never heard it. I mean a real fire. Not some campfire. I'm talking about a house on fire. The crackling and popping is loud. Fire roars.

Roars!

I looked around the corner and could see the flames. Besides hearing the fire, I could literally see the fire crawling up the house. Fire is fast. I was stunned. It was consuming the house right before my eyes.

In the distance, I could hear sirens. I could also hear the wife pleading with 911. She was getting exasperated, tired of answering their questions. All she wanted to know if someone was on the way. "What do you mean, I'm sure the house is on fire? I'm standing here looking at the flames!"

I couldn't get the dog out. I started looking around to find something to use to break a window. The cracking and popping and whooshing and roaring was getting louder. The fire wasn't near the dog yet.  I couldn't find anything of use. As I'm frantically searching the front yard, two police officers walk up. I scream at them that there is a dog in the house.

To say they didn't look concerned is an understatement. Maybe they were assessing the situation. Maybe they were afraid of dogs. Maybe they were mad that they were missing their break. Maybe a dog in a burning building wasn't on the top of their priority list. I don't know. All I know is I was getting frantic and they were looking like Barney Fife. When the one guy finally turned to his partner and asked, "Should I break down the door?" I screamed YES!

Breaking down the door was harder than I thought. I knew I couldn't break it down with bare feet, so I was hoping for success with his big shoes. The guy took about ten big kicks to get it open. By this time, one of the engines was pulling up to the curb.

I rushed into the house. Yeah, yeah, I know you're not supposed to run into a building on fire. But, the fire wasn't where I was and there was no way in hell I was going to let a dog die in a fire. Any of you would've done the same thing. Smoke detectors were blaring, the dog is howling and shitting, and the two police officers and I are trying to catch the dog. Understandably the dog was scared shitless (literally and figuratively). I noticed it had a collar on and figured if I could only grab the collar, we'd have it made.

Little did I know I'd only have one chance. I squatted down and used my best friendly-person voice. The dog (I couldn't remember her name) was having nothing doing. She tried to bite me (a friendly-I'm-scared-warning snap), circled around, evaded the police and...

....shot out the front door.

I don't mean ran. I mean SHOT out the door. I have never seen a dog run so fast. By the time I turned around, she was already half way down the block, with no signs of stopping.

The neighbors and I did what we could to catch/stop/slow down/find the dog but she was so fast and we were too slow. Soon, she was out of sight. I hopped in my car, still barefoot, and drove to the area she was last seen. Twenty minutes later, I returned home. I felt so defeated.

The house was still on fire. There were fire trucks and squad cars everywhere. The news station and the newspaper reporter was there. Gawkers from around the block were there. And then....

...the owner of the house was there.

Can you imagine coming home from work to find your house is on fire and that all this commotion is about your house being on fire?

Her first words: "Oh my god, my dog is in there!"

I guess it was good and bad news. We were able to assure her that the dog was safe from the fire, had been rescued, no smoke inhalation known.... but, the dog had run away and no one was able to find it. She was crying, more about the dog than the house. I would be, too.

I called the Animal Services with hopes they could keep an eye out but they weren't having any of it--after all, "ma'am, I can't take a report on a dog that's not lost." Um, what? She added that they don't look for dogs. I tried to remain calm but she was pissing me off. I told her the dog had run away in the fire and that all I was asking was to leave word that the dog was missing. I didn't anyone to look for her. She repeated how she couldn't take a report because "there's nothing to attach the report to."

I thought of a few places she could attach it.

It was at that point that I realized we don't know our neighbors. Oh, we wave hi as we walk by and I could probably tell you who drives what car, but up close, I didn't know who was who. The lady whose house was on fire didn't recognize me. I didn't recognize the lady who drives the gold van. The wife didn't know what the husband might look like. You get my drift. We neighbors in location but not in spirit.

About the time her husband arrived, Animal Services called. They had found the dog. A good Samaritan reported that an injured dog was hiding on her porch. Animal services was able to confirm that this was the dog who ran from the fire. As the lady was understandably shook up, I drove with her to pick up the dog. All she knew is that the dog was hurt and that she was hiding on a porch...

...two miles away.

Upon arrival, I stayed back. The lady was sobbing, the dog was crying and the high school kid who found the dog was standing there smiling. The dog was obviously hurt. Animal services didn't know if the dog had been hit by a car or not, but it was obvious that there were some pretty significant injuries. I took a step toward the lady to offer help, but the dog growled at me. I'd growl at me, too. After all, I just scared the dog by pounding, screaming and lunging.

I called the Animal Emergency vet to alert them this dog would be arriving shortly. I had limited information--I didn't know if the dog was spayed or how old or even the last name. Hell, I couldn't tell them that the dog was or wasn't hit by a car. All I could tell them is that the dog escaped a fire, had run for miles and was now having trouble walking. I did the best I could.

To make sure the dog arrived safely, I followed her to the Animal Emergency Vet. They were waiting upon our arrival. The dog was taken back immediately. A friend had arrived, so I quietly backed away and returned home.

The fire was still going but was under control. About half the house was lost. The other half was water-logged. The husband was busy talking to the fire inspector/chief/big wig of some type. It was time to go home.

I don't know how this story ends. I know that the dog had to stay at the hospital, may or may not have been hit by a car and had burned off the pads of her feet, probably running so far, so fast. I did get to see a photo of her. All four paws were wrapped. She was wearing the cone of shame and had a tube in her noses. She was going to live.

I await word about the recovery process but it might awhile. The neighbors are staying elsewhere as they can't stay at their house. I know I will see them sooner than not. Until then, I can only guess. I pray there is a very happy t this story.

The cause of the fire is known. It was quickly discovered. It doesn't matter how the fire started but I'm glad they know. I'm glad no one's hurt besides the dog. I'm glad they had insurance.

So, if yo are around a fire, and I hope you are not, listen to the roar. Watch (from a distance) how quickly fire spreads. And know that you too would rush in to save the dog. If you see a neighbor, stop and say hi. At least know what they look like. A name is a bonus but start with a face. That way, we can help each other.

Crackling. Popping, Roaring. Consuming. Fast. May you never have the pleasure of witnessing or having a house fire. Happy thoughts to that fast pup and to the house owners. It'll take time but you'r home will be your home sooner than not. Here's to healed paw pads and healed body parts in general.

Monday, September 03, 2018

End of Summer Educator Blues

I doubt the words schooler actually exists, but it's my blog and if I want to make up words, so be it. 

...About my photos--lack of photos, that is. Somehow, I have severed the link between my photos and this blog. I was messing around with my settings last week and must've done something stupid while trying to make my settings more secure. Looks like I made things too secure. I'll work on it. But, for now use your imagination for illustration purposes.
********************************************


Beginning of August.... it starts.

Actually, it starts on the Fourth of July. A hot summer day. A holiday. A celebration. The end of Summer. 

Wait, the end of Summer? Isn't it just getting started?

Not for the teacher. July Fourth is the beginning of the end.

There is nothing worse than a teacher on the Fourth of July. Well, maybe a teacher who is anticipating a snow day and it doesn't happen, but other than that, there is nothing worse. It is known far and wide that July 4th signals that the summer is half over. Non-teachers look at this day as a holiday, a day of celebration and fireworks.

Not teachers. It is a day of terror. 

I am married to a teacher so I speak as an authority. Since she's been teaching for 35 years, my resume it quite extensive. I dread the Fourth almost as much as she does, as I know the muttering and whining and complaining will be the feature, not the festivities.

As at least three-quarter of our friends are teachers, that makes for a lot of commiserating. My advice to them is: Stay in the here and now, people!

Once the Fourth of July has passed, the next hurdle is when stores put the back-to-school displays out for all to see and the back-to-school ads start showing up. Oh, the pain! Insult to injury. You can tell when someone is a teacher and they enter Wally World, only to run smack-dab into the school supplies now placed at the front of the store. There is a guttural, primal scream. Blood spurting from eyes, followed by the fetal ball on the floor next to the greeter. Oh, how the wife hates seeing school supplies.

Any other time of the year, she loves school supplies. Not during the summer. It's a bad omen. Might as well give up and declare summer over.

Teacher friends: I am not making comment on your summer vacation. The teachers I know did not take a teaching job so they could have summers off. It was part of the package. You work like dogs all year. I begrudge you nothing about having summers off. I am glad for you. I see you work during the summer, whether it's preparing for the next year, pinning classroom ideas on their Pin Boards, teaching summer school or working a second job (of which I hope none of you were doing)--you have earned their keep. The teachers I know love their jobs, even those counting the hours until retirement. They are educators. 

For you, I honor you, I write for yo "The End of Summer Educator Blues"

The school bell rings
The year is over
Grades posted, classroom emptied.
Summer vacation has arrived.
Time to relax and to have fun...
Just a few minutes later, the Fourth of July arrives.
Painful and depressing
Lamenting--how it is possible that a month is so short?
The speed of summer time hours is so cruel.

The Fourth of July passes.
School supplies surface.
In an instant--just a blink of an eye
August arrives.
The blues cloud the remaining hot, sunny days.
Friends are frolicking in the summer beauty
The schooler--the educator not frolicking anywhere.
Distracted by the turn of the calendar
Summer can be no more.
August First:
My summer continues
August First:
Teachers' summer crashes down like a tidal wave.
The end of summer educator blues blanket you,
smother you,
sadden you.
I raise my fist in the air and shout,
"Stay strong, school warriors!
I chuckle
I cheer
Until next year...
....well, until the two week Christmas break....
....well, until the next unscheduled, beloved snow day....
Summer blues washed away
by new students, new markers, new teacher institute topics, new year...
New you.
Blank slate for a new year.
Wash away those blues.
Everything is back to normal.
Labor Day has arrived....

Welcome back to School.
*************************
May you have a most wonderful year. Kiss kiss.





Sunday, August 19, 2018

Gotcha

I know you are sick and tired of hearing about my dogs. I know my friends are REALLY sick of hearing about them. Bear with me one more time--just a few more paragraphs. It's their anniversary/birthday, after all.

We celebrated their one year with us by attending the TracysDogs Gotcha Day event in Darien, IL. Now, I don't usually write about specifics in blogs (to protect the guilty--er, I mean innocent), but today, I shall make an exception. Thanks to TracysDogs, everything my friends have been telling me about rescuing finally makes total sense. I heard what they said, but I didn't hear what they said. Now, I hear it loud and clear.

We spent the day with other alum pups as well as with new families, which was more than fabulous. Think of all the gushy adjectives you can and slap them on this day. The majority of our time was spent with two specific alums and their delightful owners. We are kindred spirits on many levels. It was Rosita and Bandido's first time hanging out in a hotel room (well, as far as we know). It's also the first time they've gone to a dog-friendly restaurant.

Photo: Rosita and Bandido making new friends.

For the record, Rosita did not poop in the hotel room and Bandido did not pee in the room. I was certain both of these things would happen. I tried to be vigilant as I didn't think bodily functions on a hotel rug would be appreciated by anyone.

Too bad it was Rosita who peed in the room. Sigh.

Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.

I was mortified. Little tinkles, but urine nonetheless.

Four dogs in one hotel room is mighty entertaining. There's not a lot of room to run or hide or escape. Rosita did manage to escape the room and zipped into another room but other than that, it was confined quarters. It didn't take long for the pecking order to be established. Soon everyone was getting along handsomely. Okay, so it took longer than a few minutes but it did eventually happen. After spending the day together, they formed their own little pack. That came in handy as the day progressed. After all, there is safety in numbers.

Pictured (clockwise, starting at 9 AM) at the hotel: Senorita Martiza Bandido; looking away (probably for a place to pee) Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia; Dexter; and, Mr. Beasley. The owner of Dexter shall remain anonymous.

Surprisingly to us, Rosita hopped on the bed without effort and certainly without second thought.... surprising to us because she does not sleep in a bed at home. I daresay that's not the first time she's been in bed--she was a pro, second nature. She went right for the pillow and was proud to stake her claim. Bandido did not jump on the bed or do anything exciting.

We did learn that Bandido does NOT take kindly to being mounted by any other dogs. Who can blame her?

Lunch at the restaurant went pretty well, too. The only time things got rowdy is when another dog walked by. It got a little loud on the patio. I don't think any table food made its way to the mighty mutts but they seemed happy enough to be outside and safely tucked under a table. Photo: Dexter, Mr. Beasley, Rosita and Bandido peeking out from under the table. They had been laying down but my attempt to capture a photo led to everyone hopping up. Dang.

The wife and I hope to find local dog-friendly restaurants. We'll see. We don't live in the most dog-friendly towns, so we may have to travel to enjoy dinner with the grrrrrls.

For this Gotcha Day, forty five or so lucky families met their new pups for the first time. Yes, the first time. These are basically sight-unseen adoptions; you meet the dog for the first time when they get off the bus. Oh, you know lots and see photos and talk to adoption specialists, but the unveiling is the moment the face-to-face contact is made. There is lots of ooooohing and ahhhhhing as each dog comes off the trailer.

A wee bit about TracysDogs: The organization goes once a month to the kill shelters in Texas/Mexico border towns. Facing certain doom (after all, dogs are euthanized at a ridiculous pace on a daily basis--on an unimaginable scale), Tracy and her team pick dogs to take back to the ranch and rehabilitate them as needed. They don't discriminate--sick dogs, mangy dogs, pregnant and recently-pregnant, old dogs, puppies, dogs with distemper, dogs with heartworm--any dog can make "the cut." Tracy has the gift of finding the "right" dogs. I know she'd love to save them all but somehow she makes heart-wrenching decisions on who gets in the van. She probably cries through the whole thing.

It takes about an hour for all the dogs to meet their new families. Some dogs pee on the spot. Some dogs pee on Tracy's team, including on Tracy herself. Others don't miss a beat and have their tails wagging with happiness. Some dogs don't look exactly thrilled but it'd be hard to be on a bus for two days and then be handed to some strangers. Life probably wasn't very good before being saved from euthanasia, so trusting strangers immediately is understandably not their strong suit.

In case you think otherwise, let me assure you: THIS is what it's all about: Tracy hugging an adopter, Tracy and the new mama crying. The team gets to know the dogs and tell their stories.

Sometimes, it's hard to let go.

The dog in this case is a distemper survivor. This little pup was very, very sick and nursed back to health by this team.

This dog would have had zero chance if Tracy hadn't rescued her. Zero.

(Distemper is cruel. Look it up... and, vaccinate to protect your beloved pup from ever having to worry about it.)

We are fortunate enough to know the lady who adopted this lucky dog, so we will be able to follow the antics of this dog. I'm sure there will be lots of funny stories.

As with all adoptions, I'm not sure who is luckier: the dog or the new family.

It's hard to imagine Bandido and Rosita were on the chopping block. For some reason, Tracy saw something in them and thus these two party pups are alive and living the dream in Illinois.

Yes, rescuing local is wonderful. Vital. I know there are local people who totally disagree with our decision to rescue from out of state. But, to me, rescuing is rescuing and thus I can't say enough good about this organization. We would have loved to rescue locally but that was not to be. Thank god we were deemed too old by a local rescue. Had they not found us too old to even consider us, we now have two TracysDogs and couldn't be happier.

If only Rosita would stop leaving gifts in the house....

And, so it was the perfect way to celebrate the one year Gotcha Anniversary of Bandido and Rosita. It was made all the more perfect when Tracy had a little "chat" with Rosita about all the barking she was "sharing" in the PetSmart. Happy Gotcha Day, perritas! Gracias for a great year.

****************************************
The best way to learn more about this group is to talk to the new families. But, seeing as you probably won't have the chance to do that, go to their Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/TracysDogs/) or their website (www.tracysdogs.com). Note that TracysDogs is all one word, no punctuation.

Saturday, August 04, 2018

Rocky Mountain Bye

Ladies and Gentlemen: It only took me 56 years, but I FINALLY got tossed out of a restaurant. 

I'm actually pleased about this development. After all, what is life if you are not deemed--at least once-- in need of being rudely removed from an eating establishment?

In case you think I was swinging naked from the ceiling fan, you are going to be very disappointed. I was eating dinner (well, trying to eat dinner) with seven other friends during vacation in the Rocky Mountains. Sober friends. 50+ year old friends. Boring friends. (No offense to friends in attendance but we are quite boring on the naughty-in-restaurant behaved scale.) On-vacation, laid-back friends. Food-loving, 20% tipping kind of friends.

I'm not sure how to fully capture the events which transpired during this most-lousy eating experience. You know it's not good when the best part of the meal is getting escorted out of the building.

Let's see... where to begin? Shall I start with the waiter who did not know the difference between brisket, chicken and pork sliders, this at a barbecue joint? Shall I focus on the wrong meals, served ridiculously "late" after watching other patrons get their food, eat and leave before we were served? Or, shall I talk about my gluten bun after telling the waiting three times--and, pointing it out on the menu to make sure he understood--only to be told by the owner that there is nothing gluten-free on the menu, followed by a "did anyone die?" condescending slap? Or, perhaps start with the hostess explaining how it's hard to hire good help and that our waiter doesn't understand English and really didn't have time to get training?

I have a photo of the menu, in case the owner cares to see it. Duh. It's your menu. Middle of the page. Smack dab in the middle of the page: "Gluten-free substitute $1.50."

I don't have a photo of the waiter. I do know where to get a photo of the owner, in case you want to see what an asshole looks like.

For the record, I spoke directly to the owner, hostess and waiter all at the same time, away from the crowd. I was friendly, polite and to the point. I talked to the waiter, who indicated he had no idea what gluten-free meant. I gently, encouragingly suggested he learn about this--pronto. I handed him his tip--yes, I still tipped him--with a final word or two about increasing his understanding. I then turned to the owner, who then rudely asked if anyone died and pointed out that I had been fed. He barked at me that there wasn't anything gluten-free on his menu. I didn't demand he go get a menu so I could show him. I was too stunned by this man's unprofessional behavior to do so.

It got ugly from there. My back was to a lot of it, sorry to say. I am really disappointed that none of us thought to videotape the nonsense that transpired from this point. It would have been gold to have this guy on video. Maybe then Yelp! would believe my review.

The owner got all puffed up, arms crossed, mouth spewing hateful ridiculousness. He growled the whole way out as he pushed us out the door. My mouth literally dropped open as I watched the scene unfold.

Oh, what I would pay to have this ass on film as he tossed eight middle-aged women out of the place. It had to look ridiculous.

I can't refer you to my Yelp! review, as I was deemed a "ranter" by their computer program. This means my review and my star rating of "1" is not included in the calculations or recommended reviews. I guess they don't want gluten-free people to know the owner doesn't care about such dribble. After all, no one died.

Ha! Trip Advisor printed my review, so at least there is a wee bit of satisfaction. Take that, asswipe. (This was my first negative review on Trip Advisor. It was tough to post because I stick with the positive experiences. Alas, I couldn't not say something about this adventure.)

In case you're Googling, yelping or open-dooring a place to eat when in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, make sure to AVOID patronizing STEAMBOAT SMOKEHOUSE. I don't need Yelp! to get the word out. I have my own blog and I can blog what I want to. Their food wasn't even good. It was okay. Why would you settle for just okay when there are plenty of other places to eat?

Here's a hint: If you use Yelp!, make sure to check out the "not recommended" reviews. That's where you'll find the ones that were deemed inappropriate by the computer system. My review is there, as are many reviews about the ridiculousness of this establishment. Whether it's the owner saying disgustingly rude things to locals to being treated like scum while trying to eat dinner to how others were thrown out by this guy, the information is there. Seriously. Take a gander.

This guy can report me for this blog or he can post hateful comments. Good. More attention for me! More proof the guy's an ass.

I should thank him. I mean, it took me over a half-century to get thrown out of a restaurant. He's the one that helped me achieve this status. It's almost a badge of honor at this point. So thank you, rude man. Thank you!

I'm sorry (cough cough) to say the remainder of our vacation was downright uneventful in the dining department. We had many delicious meals with nary an incident. The most exciting thing that happened after that meal-from-hell was the wife's case of altitude sickness. She didn't die from that, so I'm guessing the Smokehouse owner wouldn't care one rat's ass.

I love food. I love going to restaurants. I love new dining experiences. I love that I was thrown out of a restaurant. I love that I didn't die from a gluten-filled bun. I love that I never have to eat at that place again.

I love that I'm a vegetarian who can tell the difference between pork, beef and chicken and can read a menu. Hey, I bet there's a job open in Colorado........




Monday, July 23, 2018

Hopping the Gauntlet

Walking the gauntlet. Running the Gauntlet. Hopping the Gauntlet. That's me and the wife, 4:45 AM.

Our neighborhood is by no means rural in any capacity. Our 'hood was built in the 1990's, with big trees ripped out and foliage stripped from the ground. It's a normal, boring subdivision. Oh sure, we've got some squirrels and a few destructive chipmunks and lots of birds, but it's not like we live in the middle of nowhere. 

Usually, we see a bunny or two hopping around. Cute, furry, hopping, innocent. Natural predators seemed to keep them in line. We have a neighborhood hawk who seems to enjoy a lagomorph lunch (aka bunny on a bun) now and then. A few brave souls gave their lives to passing cars. We've seen a mangy coyote now and again but that's about it.

Until now.

The bunnies must have had a REALLY good spring as they are running amok. Everywhere you look, there are freakin' bunnies. They've mowed my hostas to the ground. TO.THE.GROUND. They've pooped little turds as far as the eye can see. They've infiltrated our yards and our lives.

When I say there are bunnies, I mean THERE ARE BUNNIES. A family of five teenage bunnies hop around together in a little bunny pack. There are big bunnies, little bunnies, fast bunnies, frozen bunnies (the kind that don't move even when you're standing three feet away), hopping bunnies, feisty bunnies (doing bunny kung fu moves), naughty bunnies, destructive bunnies. Some run down the sidewalk. Others stick to the lawn. 

It is very safe to say that natural predators are slacking on the job.

The only dead bunnies I have seen this year is one smooshed by a car (only one--almost impossible odds, in my mind, considering the volume of bunnies in the 'hood) and one killed in a most Wild Kingdom way...the carcus is right by our deck. Yuck. 

Enter the dogs.

Our dogs are bunny-crazed. I imagine almost any dog, given the chance, would be bunny hungry. Freckles and Lucy used to love chasing bunnies but that was it. Chase and be on with it. Out of sight, out of mind. They didn't bark or go on and on. They just gave a chase and then turned attention back to the task at hand. 

Have you ever heard the phrase "running the gauntlet?" According to the all-knowing Internet, running the gauntlet "has also been used, informally, to express the idea of a public but painless, ritual humiliation such as the walk of shame or to indicate a series of difficult trials that one must overcome."

The wife and I run the gauntlet every single morning. Every. Single. Morning.

Case in point: It is 5 AM. Sunday morning. The neighborhood is really quiet. It's dawn. Tranquil, beautiful, perfect temperature to go for a nice morning walk with the dogs. We start our walk all smiles and relaxed.

And then it starts. We begin our running the gauntlet. 

Bandido is always the first of the two dogs to see a bunny. She starts growling and barking and pulling on the leash. Fair enough. She's easy to get back in line. A firm "no" goes a long way with her. But, Rosita....

....dear god, you would think a wounded animal's screaming was being blasted through concert-sized speakers. A poodle yipping is bad enough. A poodle screaming takes it to a whole 'nother level. It's completely obnoxious, painful and embarrassing. I'm sure the neighbors absolutely hate us when she starts with her none-too-pleasing vocalization of bunny-praise.

To give you an idea of what she sounds like: A neighbor heard her and asked if she was okay and if she had stepping on something. It's that much like screaming in pain. It echos. It hurts my ears.

Since there are bunnies everywhere, this is absolutely horrific. The wife and I look ridiculous when we are walking. We use code words, we point, we change sides of the street, we run, we've even turned around to avoid bunny screaming. 

I used to look for money on the ground when walking. Now, I scan ahead and watch for bunnies. I can see bunny ears peeking out of the grass before I see anything else. I can see a white tale in the brush. I can see a bunny sitting on the curb (a seemingly favorite thing for them to do) a block away. But, despite my bunny-spotting prowess and proactive actions, Rosita still seems to find a bunny so she can let out a most piercing, shrill, painful scream.

I've tried everything to shut her up. I mean, I've even tried bopping her on the nose (I hated trying that, but thought a little Bunny FooFoo action would help, bopping her on the nose), getting in her face, blocking the scene with my body, picking her up, running the other way. All I manage to do is scare the shit out of Bandido and look like a fool. Rosita couldn't care less. Positive reinforcement/reward doesn't work with ol' oblivious one. Even her favorite snack and favorite squeaky mean nothing to her when a bunny is sighted. 

And, thus we hop the gauntlet. It is definitely based on public humiliation. It has morphed into the walk of shame. It is a difficult trial to be overcome. 

On the positive sign, hopping the gauntlet is the reason the wife has lost 15 pounds. We basically speed walk through the neighborhood in an effort to keep the shrill barking to a minimum. Or, at least so we can spread the wealth. We try to traumatize various parts of the neighborhood on different days of the week. 

I am going to take our dogs to obedience school this fall, with the hopes this helps whip Rosita into shape and, more importantly, to make sure this owner is doing what she should be doing. A better bet would be hiring some hawks, hunters and scrawny coyotes to cover the neighborhood. I might try investing in those horse blinders, so she can only see what is in front of her. Buying some good running shoes would help. 

Maybe we can sponsor a bunny relocation program....

....or, hold a neighborhood rabbit stew cooking competition...

...or, maybe we'll keep hopping the gauntlet as is and give Christmas gifts to all the neighbors that absolutely hate us.

Hopping down the bunny trail....

...oh, how I hate that song. 

***********************************************************







Sunday, July 08, 2018

Mutts in Recovery

It's been 11 months since we got our rescue pups. Each day, we learn something new about them and them about us. They've grown leaps and bounds, with many miles to go.

Today, when Bandido jumped out of my parked car and ran to the neighbor's fence (not on the itinerary but necessary in her mind), I reached to grab her after giving a stern "NO!" She slunk down and got teeny, weeny--cowering in terror.

Terror.

I looked down at her, surprised. Her brown eyes looked up at me. The pain I saw bordered on being too much to bear.

I felt horrible. She felt terrified.

Bandido hadn't done anything horrifically wrong. She had just deemed it appropriate to take a gander at the neighbor dog. Of course, she can't gallivant around the neighborhood. It's my duty to keep her safe and to teach her what's okay and what's not. It's not okay to zip across the tundra and harass the neighbor dog without permission to run.

This got me once again thinking about the life she must have had on the streets of the TexMex border. Usually, the wife and I make up hilarious stories about their life before joining our family. We laugh about their supposed antics, add to the story as we go along. We know none of it is true. What we do know is that she had puppies right before being rescued, was covered in mange and was painfully thin. Having puppies, mange and hunger was the least of it. With that in mind, I say to the person(s) who abused Bandido, our most fabulous rescue pup:

Bandido has been here almost a year. Despite being treated with nothing but love and kindness, she still cowers and slinks around--truly terrified at times. I can tell she was badly beaten, probably left for dead, certainly not cared for. I look at her spine and know that someone physically harmed her--deformed from a beating, maybe hit by a car, or god who knows what. I choose not to dwell on that.

I am so glad you were shitty enough to let her run away or to throw her on the garbage pile or leave her for dead. Because of you, we now have an amazing dog. She is incredibly smart, amazingly loyal, and ridiculously food-driven. She's a lot healthier now, not that you'd care. She doesn't have mange, her broken teeth have been removed, her confidence has grown.

I no longer set an alarm clock. Why? Because like clockwork, Bandido wakes me up every day at 4:45 AM. No matter what time she goes to bed, her internal alarm clock wakes her precisely at 4:45 AM. I love this. Thankfully, I am a morning person. She must know that. I admit I'd like to sleep in a few more minutes on the weekend, but getting up is the least I can do for this scruffy pup. Not only do I have a faithful companion, I have a clock that doesn't need its batteries replaced.

It's hard not to get angry at you when I think about what Bandido endured because of your abuse. In fact, I probably look like this crabby chihuahua when I think about you. I'd like to bite your leg. Hell, I'd like to poop in your shoes and pee on you while you are sleeping.

I know, I know--she's "just" a dog. But, in this crazy world, this "just a dog" is just what I need. She makes me laugh. She brings me joy. She keeps me on my toes. And for that, I am grateful.

So, thank you for letting Bandido go. I plan on giving her the life she most certainly deserves. I'll comfort her when she is scared. I'll feed her when she's hungry. I'll keep her safe when there is danger. Best of all, I'll love her just the way she is.

Scruffy.
Toothless.
Tentative.
Intuitive.
Ridiculous.

Perhaps I'll start a recovery for dogs abused in the border towns. I'll call it "Mutts in Recovery." Therapy, food, bully sticks and warm beds free of charge. I won't count on a donation from you.

I, for one, am confident that she will fully recover from her PTSD (post traumatic Texas disorder). I am not as confident that you will become a better person as time goes on. One can hope.

One can hope.
*****************************************

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Got Pride?

I seem to be on a two-week rotation. Hmmm.

Update: Senorita Rosita Luisa's teeth are fabulous. Thank you for asking.

Today is Gay Pride Parade Day in Chicago. It's also my day of birth. Win-win! Perhaps I can find some rainbow cake to eat so I can have a two-for-one celebration.

Now, I know there are a WHOLE lot of people who (1) don't think there is a need for LGBT pride day/week/month, (2) don't accept the whole LGBT thing, and (3) think all those dykes on bikes and underwear clad dancing boys are going to hell. So be it. It's my pride and my birthday, so I'm sticking to it.

Don't you be shitting on my parade.

In this day and age with an astonishing 40% of Americans drinking the hate-filled, fear-based  Kool-aid, a parade like this is needed--more than ever. It's just a matter of time. First, they came for the "colored." They are now onto the "illegals." They're gonna need a new demographic soon enough. Think I'm kidding? Just look up the beliefs of the white-haired man standing next to our propaganda-pooping dictator-wanna-be.

I've seen some pretty awful things in my life, up close and personal. I have some hate-tainted days of which I would rather forget. I've been spit on, yelled at, prayed upon, threatened and assaulted. So, I have data of which to base my concerns in this day and age of ridiculousness.

I was talking to a co-worker last week. This person spontaneously went on and on about today's reverse-discrimination, how the blacks are this and that, how those illegals are sucking up all the entitlements, sponging off all of us, causing crimes, blah blah blah. I didn't say anything--mostly because my jaw was on the ground. He went on to say how "it's gonna happen soon" and how "we" have had enough. Meaning? This fifty-something lower-class white man isn't gonna sit around and take it from those blacks and illegals and no one is taking his guns and... you know the drill. (I'm not reading into this. I'm not making this up or exaggerating. I'm actually being nice about what he said.) While trying to move the conversation elsewhere, I mentioned how our new neighbors are quite the piece of work (that's a whole 'nother story). The response? "I bet those neighbors aren't European Americans, are they?"

I know "this" is out there but I wasn't expecting it at work. He and I work in a "snowflake, liberal" field which helps those in severe poverty, those marginalized by our country, those found "lesser than." I serve those who receive entitlements. People of color, people with mental illness, people just trying to survive. People. That's who we work with: people--unfortunately slapped with labels and filled with mental illness for which they did not ask.

Why this guys works with "us" is beyond me. After all, we are basically what he hates. I work in a field that definitely does not believe in his "those kids SHOULD be separated from their families--teach them a lesson" kind of mentality.

If someone like "this" works in a field like ours, it says a lot. It says that 40% is crawling closer and closer and that we should be very concerned.

So, a gay pride day/week/month/parade IS needed. This is no time to stop partying in the streets. Besides, it is still legal to discriminate based on sexual orientation in more states than not. It'd be easy enough to go backwards to the days of Stonewall.

I'd love to go to the pride parade today....it IS really fun... but, there are no bathrooms and the traffic is horrific. Read: I'm too lazy and too pee-filled to go. I went to the parade on my birthday many years ago--I'm guessing something like 1990. We went with a gaggle of friends. It was indeed fun and love-filled and colorful and surprising and silly and safe. I fear that today won't be safe. I know, I know, I shouldn't have fear, as thoughts are powerful. But, the memes on Facebook--and, my co-worker--remind me that life might not be as safe-feeling as it's felt in the last decade.

You might be wondering if my co-worker knows I am gay. I have no idea how you could know me and NOT know that. Have you seen me? I'm a walking gay billboard. That said, he's never met the wife and I don't usually talk to him about anything other than the projects of which we're doing together and he certainly hasn't said anything suggesting he knows anything about anything. I fear that I might be on his agenda. Yes, agenda--I don't know what else to call it when someone says "the storm is coming." 

Today, I shall focus on my day of birth. The wife is busy making my annual Lemon-Blueberry cake. The dogs are happy and behaving and have clean breath. Pentatonix is playing.

And, that storm? 

I.am.the.storm. We've got this.



Sunday, June 10, 2018

My Canines' Canines

We live in a ridiculous time. So says the wife. She is 100% right. Our country has lost its' mind. So, instead of commenting on the ridiculous, I shall comment on the status of our dogs' teeth.

When I was younger (read: four decades younger), I wanted to be either a pilot or a dentist when I grew up. That changed when I learned dentists had the highest rate of suicide and that my eyesight was too poor to fly the friendly skies. My path went a much different way, although I did end up being an orthodontic assistant for five years.

For the record, I never once felt suicidal while tighting wires and poking brackets. No one liked us but I suppose the sadistic part of the job made it downright fun. Besides, what's not to love about orthodontics?

Also for the record, my eyesight did not improve. I still couldn't be a pilot. Eye surgery isn't an option unless I want to have my lens removed and replaced. Since I'm not going to be a pilot, I'll keep my lens for the time being, thank you very much.

Had dog dentristy been a "thing" back in the day, my path might have been down the doggie trail.

Bandido had some dental work done last week. She had five broken teeth pulled out and it was noted she has three of her larger teeth missing. I'm not kidding when I say life on the streets of the Tex-Mex border is brutal. God knows how her teeth were broken or lost but I am sure it's not because she was living the life of leisure. She is now the proud owner of a cute gap on both the top and bottom of her smile. Once the sutures are a thing of the past, I'll make sure to take a photo. For now, this photo will suffice.

Rosita is having dental work done this week. Hopefully, she just needs a really good cleaning. I could see Bandido's broken front teeth but I don't see anything of the sort with Rosita. If she needs any teeth removed, I'm guessing because they somehow rotted during her short tenure on the planet.

Our beloved Lucy (rest in peace) had to have nine teeth pulled out at one time when she visited the doggie dentist. They were all loose, so they basically fell out for the dog dentist. Who knows why that happened to her--it was weird enough that she was at the dentist to get a molar extracted, as its root was growing out of her snout. She had a bad dental thing going on. Here's a gross photo of the tooth they removed from Lucy's snout. (She's still a bit giddy from being knocked out for surgery. That's one big tooth for one small dog.

Freckles, god rest her soul, also had dental issues--she didn't "grow" all her teeth. In fact, her canines-- you know, the scary fangs--never showed up. She had little nubs for teeth. Try as she might, her bark was definitely worse than her bite. She could give you a good "front teeth scraping" of a bite but a puncture wound would be impossible.

We have definitely have doggie teeth theme going on. 

When I reflect on it, I would've loved to have been a dog dentist. It would be a combination of two passions: teeth and dogs. The thought of going to veterinary school does nothing for me but the idea of dog dentistry is intriguing. At this stage of the game, I'd have to settle for being a dog dental technician, if there is such a thing. Although I could fake my way through biology, I coudn't pass chemistry classes to save my soul (nor would have any desire to try--I left chemistry behind in high school, thank you very much).

I took a few minute to check up on this potential field (not that I'm looking for a new career). To become a dental vet tech (no looking into being a dog dentist--that's for current vets to do), it takes at least two years of training plus an internship. To be certified, it takes a bazillion hours on the job....

.... perhaps I should start by brushing my own dogs' teeth before looking into doing anything with other people's dog teeth. Seriously, I'm the one who needs to get with the program, not with the doggie school program.

Have you ever tried to brush a dog's teeth? I can tell you that Bandido does not take kindly to it. I had enough trouble trying to get a DNA sample from her cheeks. She's gonna have to get with the program, because brushing is now in her routine. I'll be happy with once a week. One can't be too greedy. Rosita doesn't understand what the heck is happening, so I can fake it with her. But, Bandido? It's gonna involve a lot of swearing (me) and squirming (her).

I'll keep you posted about Rosita's trip to the doggie dentist. I'm sure it will be entertaining, one way or another. Here's hoping I don't have any photos to post.

My canines' canines. Sounds like a great title for a book or a poem or a video or a lecture...

...or a blog.

Please tell me they don't floss dog teeth. I'm so not ready for that.