Wednesday, January 31, 2018

I would make a terrible action star.

I have a black eye. Courtesy of Walter the Wonderdoodle.

He's a baby. And he weighs 60 pounds. And he isn't quite sure what to do with his body. And he is only moderately well-behaved, for which I take at least partial responsibility.

But I was trying to be a good mom. Really, I was. He'd been cooped up in the house all day, so I got some tennis balls out. Of course, all of our dog toys are stored in the refrigerator. It's the one place where Walter and Li'l Frank are all, "Oh, so, shit just got real. That's really put away."

So, I got two tennis balls out so that the kids could run off a little energy before going to bed. And since it was late and I've all but given up on keeping our wood floors nice, we played ball in the house. As you do.

I grabbed at Walter and caught him ... but he didn't stop. He kept running, bringing me along with him. What stopped my forward trajectory was an upholstered dining room chair.

You know what part of an upholstered dining room chair isn't exactly upholstered? The top corner. Yep. That part of the chair may look upholstered, but it is pointy and hard. I hit it with my eye socket.

Now, I love me some Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. He is funny and self-deprecating and his Instagram feed is kind and inspiring.

But within about 10 seconds of ramming my tender eye area into a chair, I thought, "The Rock is a lying liar!"

In his movies, if he gets partially blown up or breaks his entire body, he's still all, "We've got to save the kids" or whatever. And he keeps moving. And he always has some sort of cut that really needs stitches but he keeps going and you think, "Oh, it's not that bad."

But within 10 seconds of my Major Facial Injury? I was crying like a baby into my icepack and asking my husband to take the dog outside and beat him. (My Guy demurred because he's not a monster.)

Y'all? My face hurt so badly. And if you saw me, you'd be all, "Yeah, you've got an inch-long bruise on your face. So ... what else is new?" And then I'd be all, "YOU MUST RESPECT MY DEBILITATING WOUND!"

It's a few days later and I'm still amazed by how tender my delicate ladyeyeball area is. And although the black eye is fading into yellow and green, I still feel like I was somehow treated wrongly. The bruise should have been bigger, darker, or perhaps accompanied by flashing neon lights so that people would understand the depths of my suffering.

I would make a horrible action star. I am the anti-Dwayne. Instead of running off to save the kids from the earthquake or whatever, I'd be all, "Uhhh. You guys? This really hurts. Can someone tend to me? What? The dinosaurs have hijacked the Pentagon? But I'm actively bruising ..."

I guess we all have our special gifts.

Monday, January 29, 2018

Detergent, defeat ... and redemption.

I have the cleanest spare tire in all the land!

That is the only silver lining I could find, and I'm going to stick with it.

I bought a bottle of laundry detergent at Target. And then, like a fool, I put it in the trunk of my car. When I went to unload my bounty of cleaning supplies, paper towels, and trail mix, I found that the detergent and fallen on its side ... and the cap hadn't been secure. The trunk of my car was soggy with Seventh Generation Free & Clear.

Now, I got a new car a few months ago. I traded in my grey '03 Honda Accord for ... a grey '17 Honda Accord. I keep my stuff nice, so that '03 was in great shape. But finally having a new car has put me on high alert. No, I will not be parking by that hoopty that screams, "Free door dings." And I won't be hauling mulch in this car anytime soon.

But failed to see the danger of detergent. Oh, the detergent.

It got on everything. I will spare you the details, but here are the low points:
  • The detergent soaked the carpet in the trunk and dripped down into the compartment with the spare.
  • Liquid detergent is sticky and hard to clean. If you Google it, the results are basically, "Dude, you are fucked."
  • I ended up with my ice scraper, all my reusable shopping bags, and my ancient-yet-beloved suede messenger bag drying in my bathtub. It took forever to rinse them off.
  • I sopped the detergent out of the carpet using two rolls of paper towels. It was not the most ecologically friendly option, but I was desperate and mired in defeat.
All told, that's three hours of my life I'll never get back. At the end of it, I found myself, wine in totally dry and chapped hand, watching "RuPaul's Drag Race."

My Guy suggested we go out to eat. He is smart like that and also probably feared my wrath.

At the Mexican restaurant, I decided to continue my run of imbibing moderately priced white wine. Yes, I know Mexican restaurants aren't known for their stellar wine selections. I didn't care. I ordered a class of pinot grigio. The waitress clearly was not prepared for such a non-tequila-based request, but she scribbled something on her notepad. Then, she asked to see ID.

It was my turn to be totally unprepared. I dug my wallet out of the very bottom of my purse, figuring she'd been instructed to card all the people all the time. She apologized as I handed her my ID. And then she started laughing.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" she said. "I don't believe it! You're older than my mom!"


"Your skin - how do you get it to look like that?"

And then? Then I rose above my station in life. No longer was I the shrew who'd been hunched over the trunk of her car for hours, bemoaning the roving packs of young ruffians who were obviously loosening the lids on bottles of detergent merely for sport. No. I morphed into a gracious, gorgeous woman, ready to lead youth onto the righteous path of proper skincare.

My Guy jumped in first. "She moisturizes like 17 times a day."

I eyed him, them turned to the waitress. "You are so kind. All it is is sunscreen. Use sunscreen every day."

She looked at My Guy. "And moisturize? I should get some moisturizer?"

She was all of 20 years old, if that. "A moisturizer that has a sunscreen in it will treat you right," I said in my effervescent, naturally gorgeous way. I did not mention my recent realization that my skin looks good because I have a fat face.

The waitress put her hand to the soft spot between her chin and her check. "I'm already noticing changes and I don't like any of it!"

Now, here, admittedly, I got a little "Oh, honey, get used to it." But she thanked me for the advice and went off to get our drinks. I tried to convince My Guy that we should adopt her.

Later, she approached the table apologetically, with urging from another waiter. "Umm, I'm sorry, but we don't have pinot grigio. But we do have chardonnay ... or merlot." She pronounced the latter as it really should be pronounced: mer-LOT.

I smiled and said the chardonnay would be fine.

After she left, My Guy and I smiled at each other. "I love her," I said.

He shook his head. "We can't take her home. But we're going to have to tip her sooooooo much."

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Fat, dachshunds, dental care, crying in public, and why I shouldn't be allowed to leave my house.

I made a very kind vet tech cry today. It was an event 11 years in the making.

Let me explain.

Li'l Frankfurter has a long history of being too thin. When I first met him eight years ago, he was thin-ish but fine. Then, six months in? He had emergency surgery to remove carpet backing from his intestines. I don't have any carpet in my house (see also: dogs). He'd had the carpet backing in his system for months, if not years. It messed his gut up.

We had great success working with a holistic vet and Li'l Frank gained weight. And then those tricks stopped working and the vet moved out of the country and well, he just got thin. Too thin.
It hurts to look at this photo. I'm not gonna lie.

In August, we started seeing a new holistic vet. My baby boy has gained and gained and gained and is now a new dog. When you weigh five pounds and gain another four? It's a game-changer.

Now, he looks like a dachshund! Behold, the thick layer of neck fat! My Guy refers to it as Frank's "neck cankle." And our friends now refer to our once-sickly doxie as "beefcake."
So phat. And demanding!
It's such a blessing. And you know what blessings mean: dental hygiene!

I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to teach Li'l Frank how to floss. However, he now weighs enough to withstand a dental cleaning with the new vet.

Now, in the past, I have been a little chippy, if you will, about the veterinary! professional! dental! cleaning! But Frank's mouth was a stinky mess. It was time.

Today was the day. The kid had three little teeth pulled and came through like a champion.

When I picked him up, the vet provided a report card, complete with Li'l Frank's photo. Except they gave me two report cards - one with a photo from September, and one with a photo from today.

I know. I know!

And that "before" photo was after he'd gained a pound because we forgot to take his photo when we first started seeing the new vet. My poor boy. But look at him now - so furry! So robust!

So, I was already a touch delicate. I had been worried that the anesthesia would be troublesome, or that the kid would need to have all his teeth removed. But we were looking at the best possible outcome. And I was reminded of just how far my little boy had come.

The vet tech shared my relief and went on and on about how well Frank did and what a good boy he was. She also mentioned that before they put him under, he dropped a giant deuce in the middle of the table, because that's just the kind of guy he is. We laughed.

Then, she showed me before and after photos of his teeth. She pointed out his top, front teeth.

"These teeth are really worn down," she said. "Does he chew or ... is he in a kennel a lot?"

"Well, my best guess is that he was a puppy mill dog, so ..."

She was visibly relieved. "Oh, that makes perfect sense! We see this a lot in puppy mill dogs. They get so agitated that they chew the bars of the cage. And see this curve on the back of his canines? A lot of the time, they'll hook their canine teeth around a bar and just work it, trying desperately to get out."

Now, I will admit that I want to kill this dog at least once a day. But he is a trusting, kind, loving spirit. And the idea of him being treated so horribly, of being so desperate to get out of a cage that he wore down his front teeth and wore grooves into his canines? Well ... I started to cry in the middle of the vet waiting room.

"Oh, honey, I didn't mean to make you upset!" the vet tech said. Then she teared up. "The good news is that nobody here cries alone. I can't help it."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry! It's OK - he's so spoiled now. I just ..." I didn't have the words. So I asked about some post-op instructions even though I already knew the answer.

I got Li'l Frank home and he is appropriately loopy. Right now, he's curled up in a blanket on my lap and making sounds like a pigeon. And I kind of can't stop crying.

I know I am doing right by this dog. But sometimes I'm amazed by how much the world hurts. It's like the bitter cold air right now - it hurts to coexist with it. My heart seems to grow more and more tender and I just can't even stand the thought of some things. It's like the world is one giant ASPCA ad.

So, I'm going to dote on this big little dog who sounds like he is leaking air. I'll focus on that and hope my face stops leaking fluids.