Grover the Spirit Guide, Moriah the Medium

If you thought the posts about my dogs were weird, wait until you read about Grover & Moriah, cuz it puts the dog stories to shame. The Addiverse is one strange, strange place.

Grover, aka "The Grover," is a spirit guide. Not just any guide, he's my guide. (Feel free to sing "My guy" at this time, substituting guide for guy.) Photo to the left: I am dressed as Grover for Halloween. I'm sure he's proud of my effort to reproduce him in human forms. Rock on, Violent Femmes!

The Grove is an 80's punk rock type of guide, with an affinity for booze, cigarettes & leather. It figures that I'd get a guide like that. Trust me on this. I was introduced to him by Moriah Rhames, medium to the stars and the little people like me....although he's been with me since birth. (I think he was on a bender when I was getting married--no help there from ol' Grove.) She told me he doesn't like the music I play in my car (country western since getting old), so I've thrown in a little Punk and New Wave to make sure he keeps me safe while on the road.

(Speaking of Moriah, you really should read her book, "How to be a Happy Medium." It cracks me up. Grover gives it two bourbon bottles up. You might have a Grover of your own and not even know it.... )

So, Moriah tells me all this oujui oujui stuff, like there are seven angels standing behind me and that they are there to kick my ass. I know that when the angels start showing up, it's not really a good thing. I'm going to get my ass kicked.

She goes on to talk about the "three stadiums-filled" with spirit guides and 12 relatives that have come to see/be/visit with me. I don't see anything but I certainly don't argue. I don't want to piss off those seven angels and a punk rock spirit guide. I am very skeptical but listen further. I'm all for getting my money's worth, if nothing else.

I do not know this lady. She doesn't even know my first name. She does not know where I live or whom I live with or what I do for a living. We have just met. I figure she'll just talk about generic things that anyone could say and I'll give her info without even knowing it and I'll leave after my 30 minutes are up and we'll all have a good laugh.

My skepticism is wiped away when, out of the blue, Moriah blurts out," Stop being so constipated. And, by they way, you've always been constipated and you always will be constipated, so stop worrying about it."

Is this lady kidding me?

I HAVE always been constipated and I'm always talking about being constipated and I'm always trying not to be constipated. Every story I tell has to do with poop in one way or another. Ask my friends, family or co-workers. I'm sure they are sick of hearing about my poop (or, lack of it, in this case). I have on only a billion occassions said, "Stop being so constipated." There is no way this lady could have just pulled that sentence out of her ass (pun intended).

I'm listening now.

After 35 minutes, she asks me if I have any questions. I do and indicated I want to ask about my dog. Before I can answer, she starts talking about how the one dog is pissed off about the other dog we have. Moriah goes on, talking about how the older dog, "Zha Zha Gabor," is irritated that the young, "ugly" one gets any attention. I am confused for a second because I never told Moriah we have two dogs. Without me ever asking, she answered one of the two questions about the dog. Woof.

She indicates that the dog wakes me up in the middle of the night because my relative is visiting and has a good sense of humor--he tells the dog to wake me up. This makes me laugh. I would have a dead relative that likes to bother the dog so I wake up.

The session ends with Moriah talking about "the stupid Kraut" and how this dead relative really likes this person. She apologizes for the derogatory term being used and asks who the German is in my life. I shake my head and tell her I don't know anyone in my life that's German. She insists on this and says, "the person you live with. The Dumb Kraut. He likes her and protects her, too." I stand up to leave, as my session is over--and, then I freeze. Jesus, I LIVE with someone who is 3/4 German! (I've only been with her for over 20 years...you'd think I'd recognize that she's German when asked.)

So, I now talk to Grover when I am walking the dogs or riding in the car or pondering things at work or contenplating decisions now and then. I'm sure my psychiatrist would just LOVE to hear that.

Grover tells me not to worry about that and to get busy playing some kick ass punk rock.

I'm all for that.

How to humilate your dog
Freckles Warrior Princess is not the type to wear a pink dress....but, for those oh-so-special occasions, a little lacy number is always in fashion. Here's FWP modeling her latest partywear.

(What she's thinking: "get this goddamned dress off me before I bite the piss out of your calves.")

Freckles used to be a certified "Canine Good Citizen" dog & a registered therapy dog, but then we got Lucy and Freckles became evil and now she is known as a "Canine Bad Citizen" Dog. It's downright embarrassing (but not as embarrassing as that pink dress).

(Okay, so it's not really very normal for a grown woman like moi to have a blog about her dog and then put a photo of the dog wearing a pink dress on said blog, but I had to wait 16 long years before the wife finally, finally, finally agreed to letting me have a dog...so, if I want to have a blog about dogs, I certainly will. Sixteen years, people!)

Freckles is a --gasp--pet store dog. (We claim ignorance, as we didn't learn about the whole puppy mill thing until AFTER we purchased her. We have since proclaimed our dismay over puppy mills and pet stores and the likes.) The wife picked her out, as she seemed to be the calmest one of the bunch. (We later learned that she had such a bad case of Ghiradia that she could barely function. But, that's a different poop story.) It was a tough start to life--I almost killed her by accident the first night with this horrific flea collar, then I almost squished her under the garage door, and we won't mention the ghiradia-soft-serve-poop that lasted for months). Freckles was very gifted in obedience class---the trainer called her "the hardest working Shih Tzu in America." Although her teeth are a disaster and her butt shoot is a little off to the side (it's hard not to look at when she's walking down the street), I was impressed. This dog was worth waiting 16 years for!

Then, it happened. We got Lucy and Freckles went to hell in a handbasket. More on that later.

Lucy and Freckles

Left: Life is so much better when not wearing a dress and when lounging on the couch. The dog on the right is Lucy, the diarrhea dog (see previous post). Freckles is the one smirking in the back.




Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia
Ah, now this is better--here's Lucy with her official Xena Warrior Princess Chakram. If you have to ask, don't bother.

Lucy is NOT a pet store dog. She's a certified "shot-out-of-a- dog-at-some-lady's-house" kind of dog. I got to meet Lucy when she was only four weeks old and two years into Freckles tenure with us. Lucy was lively and obnoxious and hilarious. I took photos of her and chased the wife around the house with them. I begged for dog number two. As you can see, all that whining and begging got me what I asked for....

Welcome to the Addiverse: The inaugural blog

Welcome to the Addiverse.....forget the universe, this is the Addiverse...and, what a strange place it is. No editing. No spell check. No grammar patrol. Mundane ramblings of no redeeming value. Therapy for me; laughs for you.

The ice cream cake roll photo has nothing to do with anything besides illustrating my love of delicious, usually-naughty, always-chocolatety sugar products. It's an addiction. I am powerless and its unmanageable. Ask me if I care.

Now, about dog diarrhea....

Meet Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia: a 17 lb shih tzu/maltese mix, affectionately named after Lucy Lawless and Gabrielle, Bard of Poteidaia, who is defintitely NOT a foo foo dog but more like if Ellen DeGeneres was a dog, she'd be Lucy--why she's so big, we have no idea but the mama swears she really is shih tzu and malteze but we remain skeptical). Today, she got into some disgustingly rich raccoon poop after running away on my watch. I know better not to let her go outside without her leash, but I learn the hard way. Anyway, she runs straight across the street--never a good thing--and flocks right to this giant pile of the most vile-smelling poop on the face of the earth. I put our other dog (Freckles Warrior Princess--a shih tzu/lhasa mix with a bad attitude and a worse underbit) in the car and go to get Lucy.

I can smell her from the street. This is not a good thing.

I swear she is smiling and she is definitely rolling around and eating this mess, getting all covered with the present from the neighborhood critter, smacking her lips in delight. Dear god, my eyes were watering when I picked her up--this was no regular poop. She's covered with shit and I'm trying to carry her at arm's length and Freckles is watching from the car wondering what the hell is going on. I haveto get Lucy into the house for an emergency bath. I leave the car and carry her at arm's length.
I can go get the car later.

Lucy is loving every minute of the tasty poop she is licking off her fur as I'm trying to carry her....and then....

When I get to our house, I immediately sense that the wife is NOT amused that (1) Lucy was off her leash when I know she is just going to run away, (2) that Lucy had indeed run away and had rolled in poop, (3) that Lucy now smelled like something that died three months ago, (4) that I smelled like something died three months ago and (5) that Lucy has been eating this crap (literally).

Now, I know you don't know the wife yet, but let me just say she is very fastidious-obsessive-compulsive-clean-rule-following woman and she is NOT entertained by me, poop or Lucy at this moment.

The bath went swimmingly (pun intended). Soon, we were smelling fresh as daisies. All seemed to be going fabulously in the Addiverse.....

Well, all that poop eating led to Lucy getting sick. I'm talking exploding diarrhea. Not just a little case of shooting poop--we're talking shit flying everywhere. For days.

The wife was no longer speaking to me or Lucy at this point. We were both in the dog house. Freckles, having more brain capacity than me and Lucy together, was smart enough to lie low and wait out the storm from somewhere under a bed.

Due to the poop patrol needs, I slept on the floor with Lucy, as every time she woke up and stood up to go outside, poop would machine-gun right out of her poor little butt. Woof! So, when she'd wake up, I'd grab her and run out the front door. I had to take two days off work to stay home with her....after all, it was my fault she was shooting shit.



I finally had to take Lucy to the vet 'cuz the diarrhea wasn't getting any better and I was tired of not sleeping and because the wife was getting more irritated by the mili-second. (Who can blame her? Cleaning up diarrhea every two hours isn't very fun and the new carpeting really didn't need such initiation.) I try to scoop up some poop for the vet to look at, but it's REALLY hard to pick up dog diarrhea. I got some in the baggie and off Lucy and I went.

Of course, the vet and the assistant get this HORRIFIED on their faces when they hear the words "raccoon feces." It is an obvious thing that it must be a very bad thing for dogs to eat racoon poop. I guess there's some bad juju with raccoon poop--trust me, I did a lot of research on the web and found this poop to be a bad, bad thing--for people and for pets--and these ladies didn't do anything to calm my sleep-deprived nerves. They sent us back home with directions to feed the Bark of Poteidaia some rice with hamburger.

(Side note: the web is amazing--who woulda thunk you could find photos of raccoon poop on the web? There are all sorts of pictures of it. Close ups, in various settings, with different textures. Is this a great world or what?)

Suffice it to say, it took several more days and an injection from the vet (for Lucy, not me) to get things back to "normal" in the Addiverse. None of us have had the balls to find out if we have the yucky raccoon worm problem that is out there. I figure time will tell. Time and poop. Time and poop.

As for me, ask me if Lucy's been outside without her leash since then....

....okay, maybe once. Lucy and I live on the edge.

Don't tell the wife.
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