Anti-depressants and Indian food.

Listen. If that title isn't an SEO gold mine, I don't know what is.

Today was my follow-up med check with my doctor. You know, the appointment in which you have to be somewhat crazy ("Please refill my prescription.") but not too crazy ("Like, I don't need to be committed or anything."). It's a fine line. It stressed me out.

My doc is so, so nice. We talked about how I'm feeling (Better but anxious like worrying is my J-O-B.). We talked about adding another med (In theory, I'm against any med that makes you need another med, but at this point? I DO NOT FUCKING CARE.). And then she gently said, "You know, some people just need to be on these medications. Their brains don't produce these substances and there's no stigma to being on medication long-term."

And then I cried just enough to get red-faced and blotchy.

And then it was OK. Except I was all blotchy and had that "Oh, she just cried" look. And we get health care through my husband's work, so the clinic is in his actual office building. And I was meeting him for lunch, in the cafeteria, amongst hundreds of his peers.

Sigh. I just decided it was fine. My handbag arsenal consisted only of lipstick, and adding more pink to the situation wasn't going to help.

I met My Guy and he showed me around the café ... which is redonkulous. He works for a tech company and the cafeteria is a lot like Google, except you still have to pay for your food. But it's basically the fanciest food court you can imagine with all sorts of options.

I'm a vegetarian, so finding non-lettuce food can be a challenge. But the Indian station had several veggie options. We ordered at the fancy kiosk. And then I waited for my food at the Indian station. It's all very high-tech - they have a video board and you can watch your name move up as they fill orders.

I waited, the only white person. And let's be honest: that is just fine, because white people need to have that experience. But also? Indian food is amazing! White people need to get with the program!

So I waited, and the guy behind the counter was yelling at people and quickly filling orders. Finally, it was my turn.

I stood at the counter. And the fast-moving yelling guy just stopped and looked at me.

He looked at the food. And he looked at the little white lady in front of him. And then he said, "This is hot."

I just looked at him. Because duh.

He tried again. "This is SPICY."

I waited a beat. "Yeah?"

Finally, he was sort of like, "Your funeral, lady" and threw some food in a container and threw it at me.

I got racially profiled at lunch!

For the record, the food was spicy but it wasn't SPICY. It was "I drank a bunch of water" spicy, not "Give me all the dairy products to put in my mouth forever" spicy. It was delicious and I ate all of it.

The lunch date with My Guy softened my heart about, you know, being on 17 antidepressants until the end of time. (OK, two. Two antidepressants.) Because he is cute and funny and was impressed that his little white lady wife ate all the spicy Indian food after the trauma of being racially profiled.

I mentioned this story to my friend who is Fake Asian. She grew up in Iowa but is Korean but ... SHE GREW UP IN IOWA. She reported that when she's out with white friends, she can order Thai food that's a seven on the one to 10 spicy scale and the waitstaff doesn't blink. But if a white friend orders a seven, the waiter is invariably all, "Oh, are you sure? That's super, super hot."

Are people with less pigment genetically incapable of eating spicy food? Did I miss something?

To be fair, I was blotchy at lunch. Maybe the fast-moving yelling guy thought I'd already ingested something too spicy. You know, something like Sprite.

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!"

Whut?

"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."

Death and Mexico.

Because I strive to celebrate the absurd and find the humor, I'm going to tell you how it really went down.

I took a long-awaited girls' trip with three of my most wonderful friends. We went to Cancun. They all flew together on a flight that ended up being delayed. I found myself with hours to kill at the Cancun airport.

As I sat down in an airport bar, my phone buzzed. It was my husband, asking if I had landed. Yep. Just ordered a Dos Equis Amber. Then he asked if he could call me later. Huh?

I got it out of him via text. Big Doodle had taken a dramatic turn. My Guy would call me in a bit.

And so I sat in this airport bar where no one spoke English. I tried to keep it together. I thought about how I had said to My Guy the night before, "Listen, I know you think I'm nuts, but if something happens with Big Doodle, don't deal with it by yourself. Call someone. Call Todd or Josh or any of those guys. You don't have to be alone." And he had given me that universal tone that husbands use, that tone that says, "I love you but you're crazy but I love you so I'm gonna pretend I'm totally vested in what you just said." And so I let it be.

But back at the airport bar, I realized I'd said what I said because I'd had a premonition. That giant dog was waiting for me to leave. My mom said he was still alive due to my sheer will. Maybe he was afraid of disappointing me.

My Guy called me. It was sometimes hard to hear him over the blaring Mexican pop music, but he said Big Doodle was in obvious pain and couldn't urinate. He was going to take him to the vet the next day and was calling to ask ... permission.

Of course. Oh, honey. I don't want that dog to suffer for one second. By this time, I had tears streaming down my face. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I'm not there.

Also ... he did realize the vet was open late tonight, right?

Oh. He would call them immediately. We hung up. I cried into my beer and realized that cocktail napkins are not at all absorbent. My husband texted to say he was headed to the vet. I put my chin to my chest and tried to be invisible. I was thankful no one was attempting to talk to me. Even the waiter was actively ignoring me.

And then, the Mexican pop music clouds parted. And "Young Turks" by Rod Stewart started playing.

Why? Who is to say? Maybe the people of Cancun really want young hearts to be free tonight. Maybe time really is on their side?

Then, "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang came on. I was aware that it is against NATO and the United Nations and probably the Geneva Convention to cry during "Celebration." So I stopped. And then the Mexican pop music started again.

I went to find my friends.

After an adventure wherein I discovered that I was at the wrong terminal and I got fleeced by a cabbie giving me a ride to the other terminal but I didn't care because I was barely holding it together, I arrived at the proper terminal. I took one look at my friends and started crying. We got in the shuttle van to the resort.

They were kind, but it was late and the ride wasn't short. Everything looked so distorted and not right, and all I could think was, "I hate Mexico. This is the worst. Mexico is the worst." And then my phone rang.

It was my darling husband. He was crying. I started crying. He told me about our sweet, geriatric boy, about how tests had suggested the cancer had spread from his bladder to his kidneys and liver. He said it was the right thing to do, that our boy was so tired and ready to go. My Guy held our pup as he crossed over.

I apologized to him for making him do this by himself. He apologized to me that it happened while I was gone. We both cried and apologized. And then my van pulled up to a very nice resort.

I got off the phone, got out of the van, and sobbed. My friends put their arms around me and made sure our luggage was unloaded and everything was OK-ish. I felt like all the skin was peeling off my face.

And then? Then, I realized that the bellhops and concierges who had initially greeted our shuttle had scattered. I had noticed the looks they exchanged. Friends, I'm here to tell you that men's reactions to women who are sobbing is universal. There is no language barrier here. They all panic and gladly run in the other direction.

Finally, the greeters drew straws and the loser timidly came out of hiding to offer us scary blue champagne. He tried not to make eye contact. Since I figured I looked like that guy from "Mask," I couldn't blame him. I had stopped crying, but I was clearly hideous.

--

The first two days, I was just exhausted and sad. By day three, I was starting to feel a bit more human. An all-inclusive resort didn't hurt, nor did time with my friends on the beach and by the pool.

It all got real when I got home. My Guy had moved the giant dog beds out of every room. Lil' Frankfurter greeted me like he'd never expected to see me again. And then I spent about a week thinking I'd forgotten to let Big Doodle inside, like he was still in the backyard, chilling in the shrub where he liked to lounge while surveying his domain.

Grief is crazy. The flavors are endless. This particular grief is tempered by knowing that we had been on borrowed time for quite a while. It's sadness and relief and loneliness for a very, very good dog.

I decided I don't hate Mexico. Much.

Goodnight, sweet prince.

The joke is that I had to marry my husband because I fell in love with his dog.

Who wouldn't love this face?

It's funny because it's true. Or partly true. I love my husband. But that gigantic man-dog labradoodle of his? Well, we fell hard and fast.

On our very first date, My Guy and I met to walk his two labradoodles. I walked Big Doodle and I was astounded by this Hyundai-sized furball. He was a perfect gentleman.

A few months later and our relationship had progressed to such a point that one night when I stopped by My Guy's house, Big Doodle did what can only be described as "losing his shit." He was so excited to see me that he jumped up and down, squealed, brushed up against me, and cried. I ended up sitting on the floor of the kitchen while my 80-pound loverboy sat in my lap and licked my hair, still squealing.

"Hello, laaaaadies."

Whenever I'm feeling sad, I think about that. Sure, I might be (fill in the blank with horrible thing du jour), but a dog loves me that much. And I love him right back.

It's hard to see someone you love decline. But My Guy and I have been doing just that for a while now. Big Doodle was diagnosed with bladder cancer in the summer of 2015. And he hasn't had any hip sockets to speak of for, well, a long time. But always, we had a boy made of fur and love.

A few weeks ago, he stopped being able to go up and down stairs. My Guy and I took turns sleeping in the guest room with our boy so he could more easily go outside a few times a night.

It was the kind of "new normal" that could last a few days or a few months. Except that Big Doodle decided it was done. He failed quickly and died a few days ago.

He was bright-eyed and full of joy until the end. Our hearts hurt, but we know it was time.

Lil' Frankfurter gets it and is understandably needy. No one is going to the bathroom without his supervision right now - he refuses to be alone.

They were often mistaken for twins. Obviously.

I get it.

It's a bittersweet time. I feel privileged and blessed to have had such an amazing dog in my life. He was the special friend of many neighborhood kids and was known to lick a random baby in a stroller while we were out for a walk. I have uttered the words, "Can my dog see your baby?" because he was so drawn to small folks.

Enjoying the adoration of his fan club.

Our vet said Big Doodle was quite literally the nicest dog she'd ever met.

He knew how to enjoy every moment.

Me, too.

I'm glad he's at rest. But my heart is a little bit broken. I'm so thankful I got to be his mom.

You are a very, very good boy.

In which you're just gonna have to get your own snacks and toilet paper.

Did you feel a slight seismic tremor yesterday? It was a woman saying, "Fuck right off." Except in nicer language.

My pal serves on a volunteer board of four men and four women. Every year, they have a big to-do board retreat. It's off-site with tons of food and a program and it's just A Thing. Yesterday, the woman who has planned it for the last several years asked for help.

Woman No. 2 immediately volunteered. Woman No. 3 is gravely ill and so was off the hook. And then? Then, the entire board turned and looked at my friend, Woman No. 4.

They just looked at her. They fully expected that she would / should be the person to volunteer.

(I know. I know! This is the part of the story where my eyes rolled so far back in my head that I could see myself having a stroke. Because all women have been there, right? We've been there, we've just done shit because it needed to get done, we've been the person who is suddenly responsible for some shit job because for the love of all that is holy, no one else seemed to notice that SOMEONE NEEDS TO BUY TOILET PAPER REGULARLY. My friend's situation has played out time and time and time again.)

But my brave, strong friend was not having it. Not on this particular Thursday. No.

She said, "I'm happy to help. But I'm not OK with this being an all-woman committee."

All the men just stared at her. The male board chair turned red, laughed nervously, and said, "Well, why not? Nothing wrong with that, right?"

And Woman No. 4 said, "Nope. We need gender diversity. The board is nicely balanced with four men and four women. The planning committee needs to be balanced, too."

And then? Silence.

And more silence.

Finally, the guy she knew would eventually volunteer did. The board moved on. And the guy sitting next to Woman No. 4 leaned in and whispered, "No, thank you. I already had my turn organizing that retreat."

To her credit (or not?), my friend did not immediately start screaming, "What, Bruce? What? You helped carry some trays of food into the building six years ago and now you're off the hook for infinity? What? Are you even capable of feeding yourself? Because you seem pretty spineless to me!"

Instead, she gave him The Eye. But the entire conversation caused a slight seismic shift in the meeting and, hopefully, the world.

At home, my friend's husband laughed and said, "You're just lucky none of the men said their wives could help."

Then she killed him and made it look like an accident.

There's so much unaccounted labor. Unvalued labor, unpaid labor. Who schedules the meetings? Who sends the reminders? Who makes sure the supplies don't run out? Who never gets thanked or paid for this work that just magically gets done? This work that half the population doesn't even seem to realize exists?

I think we should get t-shirts made that say, "If you weren't stranded without toilet paper today, thank a woman."

In which my husband saves the day yet again.

I'm sorry to say that I'm not feeling funny. I'm sad and everything is terrible. People are hating each other and it makes me sad. My 12-year-old labradoodle is having trouble walking and has stopped sleeping through the night and it makes me sad and very, very tired. The oak mites are still dropping from the sky and biting poor, innocent people and it makes me sad and itchy and welty.

So, to combat this, I'm delving into a deep well of joy. Obviously, I'm talking about the notes I've scribbled hither and yon, based on conversations with my husband. My Guy pretends to be a mild-mannered software architect, but really? Really, he's the funniest human alive. Here are a few of his direct quotes.

"I'm sorry to say we no longer eat on Thursdays."

"I ain't refurbishing no damned IHOPs."

"He has curry sweat."

"My jokes are varied and rich."

"You don't know shit about beach towels, but I do!"

Sometimes, you have to find joy in the small things, the one-off comments, the way the light of the super moon reflects off your geriatric dog when he decides he needs to sit on the patio at 2 a.m. This is one of those times.

What's keeping you afloat? And can I have some?

What's your breaking point?

I found mine.

We are in the midst of a kitchen remodel, so our house is filled with dust and the basement is now our primary living area. I work from home, so I basically never leave our basement. If you need me, you can find me underground, attempting to work and simultaneously comfort our sweet geriatric Big Doodle, who is very unsettled by all the traffic and noise in our house. Lil' Frankfurter isn't as emotionally invested, but barks about every two minutes, just to cover his bases.

There's a lot of panting.

But one of the calming activities for our pack is our daily walk. Combine that with our usual afternoon session of TENNIS BALL MADNESS in the backyard, and you have a couple of pooches who just might be too tired to freak out at full-force. Or at least that's the idea.

It's autumn. The days are lovely. Walks are pleasant. Except ... my fair city is in the midst of an oak mite infestation of epic proportions. These microscopic bugs drop from oaks and bite whatever they land on. You can't see them, and they are immune to bug spray.

Every street in my neighborhood is lined with trees. Oak trees. Big, huge oak trees.

You can see where this is going.

I have oak mite bites all over my neck and décolletage. I know they are oak mite bites because my book club got real personal the other night and we all compared bites. Everyone has them, so I'm not a total leper.

However, as we have seen this summer, I tend to have crazy reactions to bug bites. Or, as my brother so aptly put it, "Ugh, you have a weird relationship with insects. Weird and potentially fraught with inflammation."

Needless to say, my neck and lady décolletage aren't just covered with oak mite bites, but with giant, welty bites that hurt. I must say that I'm pretty proud of how I fashioned what appears to be a scarf ...

... but is actually a dishtowel wrapped around an ice pack. Because a) I was able to find a clean dishtowel amongst the kitchen remodel madness; and b) I finally bought a real ice pack for $2.69 instead of just using a bag of frozen peas. I have passed some sort of adulting milestone. Also? The ice pack can also be microwaved and become a heat pack. I had no idea such a thing existed! This technology is amazing!

So, I've been trying to keep it together, me and my neurotic dogs and painful oak mite bites and fashionable neck accessories and dust-filled house with no kitchen. I was pretty successful.

Then, my husband called me. He has to travel for business in about a week and wanted to know if I'd like to tag along. This was sweet of him, and is a perk of working from home. But leaving in the midst of a remodel and abandoning our neurotic dogs who can't be boarded didn't seem like a smart move. I pointed this out.

My darling husband considered for a moment and then said, "Oh. I forgot about the kitchen."

I clutched my ice pack and surveyed my basement lair. He forgot. He forgot because he gets to leave every day. He forgot.

I got gracious because when there's a homicide, they always investigate the spouse and I'm a bad liar. We both agreed it wasn't a good time for both of us to be gone. Fine. We moved on and I only held the tiniest of grudges.

Later that night, I realized that at some point, some worker had removed the light fixture from the ceiling of our kitchen. The fixture that we were still going to use in the kitchen. It was nowhere to be found.

I had a bad feeling. I emailed the contractor, whom I like very much. His response was basically, "Hmm. Well, if you don't see it laying around, it probably got thrown out. Were you going to use it somewhere?"

Yes. We were going to use it RIGHT WHERE IT WAS.

You wanna know what my breaking point is? My breaking point is when people remove my light fixture from the ceiling of my house and then throw it away. That is my breaking point.

And to add insult to injury? If you weren't sure, you could have asked me. Because I never leave the house. Because I'm in the basement with a freaking-out dog and a freakin' ice pack. Man up, look past the welts, and ASK. Ask before you remove pieces of my house and throw them away.

Words were said.

Thank God My Guy and I take turns freaking out, because he was calm and nonplussed. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake. We can get another fixture," he soothed. Eventually, I believed him. But not before gaining some valuable self-awareness.

This. This is my breaking point. Good to know.

The seven stages of a husband sharing a cold with his wife.

As told from the not-at-all biased perspective of the poor, put-upon-yet-saintly wife.

Stage 1: Oh, look, a mancold.
I admit it. I had pretty much zero sympathy when My Guy said he felt crummy. I am a warrior queen and never get sick. And he's refused to see an allergist for the allergies that have made him miserable for years, so, uh, whatever.

Stage 2: Hmm. He's actually pretty sick.
There was no denying. He was miserable. This wasn't allergies. This was a big, bad cold. So big and bad that I got up in the middle of the night to move to the guest room because the mucusy snoring was ... uh, intense. I felt guilty for my previous indifference and plied My Guy with meat-based meals created with my loving, vegetarian hands.

Stage 3: Oh, no he did not.
I felt rage. White, hot rage. Because I determined that my darling husband had used my pillow. The pillow that I sleep on. The pillow where I rest my face. He had defiled my sacred space by breathing and coughing and gooing on my pillow ... and then not telling me. And letting me use said pillow. I moved into the guest room permanently.

Stage 4: Everything hurts and I'm dying.
It came like a wave one bright Thursday morning. One moment I was working at my desk like a normal, productive member of society. The next, I had aches running throughout my arms and legs and I was sneezing my head off.

Stage 5: Don't look at me.
I retreated from the world and my marriage. I gathered my off-brand Robitussin (conveniently named TUSSIN!), my Kleenex, my menthol cough drops, and my dogs in the guest room. My Guy would come visit and lay down next to me. He apologized. I told him to stay away from my pillow. He retreated.

Stage 6: Why am I still actively dying?
My Guy got The Sickening worse than I did, but mine seemed to hold on longer. It required Canada Dry Ginger Ale and Lay's Barbecue Potato Chips. It would accept no substitutes. My Guy and I were both still exhausted all the time.

We felt like this. But way less adorable. And with more mucus.

Stage 7: Perhaps, one day, we will be together.
After what could have been four days or seven years because my feverish mind just can't tell, I moved back into the bedroom I share with my husband. We eyed each other wearily but were thankful for the return to normalcy. We hugged apprehensively but, like nervous 14-year-olds at a junior high dance, we were too nervous to kiss. Getting up the nerve for actual lip-to-lip contact could take years.

How YOU doin'?

My Guy and I have noticed an alarming trend as of late. And that trend is the dearth of people who genuinely inquire about our wellbeing.

It sounds pretty "Woe is me!" But hear me out.

It turns out I married an introvert-who-pretends-to-be an-extrovert. Like me. And upon comparing notes, we've both admitted similar experiences. In gatherings and conversations with friends and family, we both ask questions. We listen actively. We work to make the other person feel important and loved.

And ... we don't get a whole lot of that back.

I thought it was just me. But My Guy admitted it happens to him all the time, too. So, I've been paying closer attention.

In a recent three-hour convo, we were asked about our dogs. And our house. And that's it. This, from close relatives.

It's kind of a bummer. But it's become a self-fulfilling prophecy of keeping shit close to the vest, because now when people to ask how we are? We are so shocked by the inquiry and, dare I say, leery of the intent, that we respond with a nicety instead of a more in-depth, accurate response.

I guess if you talk about yourself for two hours and then ask in passing how I'm doing, I don't feel compelled to bare my soul to you.

Is this the introvert's lot in life? Are my husband and I just horrible people? Or is it now such a luxury to be listened to that it makes people high and incapable of functioning? And by "functioning," I mean "holding up their side of a two-sided conversation?"

Part of it might be that our peer group is knee-deep in KIDS! and so talks about KIDS! quite a bit. Obviously, we don't have a horse in that race, so there's no "And how are your young'uns?" in response to our query. But by the same token, I'm super glad your kid is taking swimming lessons and therefore won't drown. However, I didn't actually want to talk about it for 20 minutes. When I was practicing active listening and nodded my approval at learning how not to die around large bodies of water? I was just being nice. I wasn't asking for more detail. I already know how to swim.

But I've seen it with other groups, too. With people who are supposed to love us who actually just ... want stuff? They want time. They want attention. And these are people we love, and we're happy to oblige ... to a point. But after hours of talking about you, well, aren't you tired? Because we are. And we love you. But even we are sick of talking about you.

I'm not saying we're saints of conversation, or even terribly nice people. I'm saying that upon discussing this recently, I asked My Guy, "How did we get here?" And he responded with, "Well, it certainly wasn't by having people genuinely ask how we're doing."

And then I laughed and laughed. Because at least we're in this terribly lonely place together. But seriously. What happened to basic human interaction?

And yes, if you were to ask? I'm OK but I've been sad for a few weeks. And now My Guy has given me a horrible cold and I want to be gracious about it because it wasn't on purpose but I also want to kick him in the skull. Thanks for asking.

Zombie-ing for beginners.

It's been a summer of varmints and bugs and gross stuff. First, the ever-popular mice. Then, I got stung by a wasp. And there was some eye rabies in there, too. Good thing I've already locked in My Guy because if it weren't for that whole legally binding marriage thing? He would be outta here.

I figured The Rule of Three applied, so I was done. Mice, eye rabies, wasp. I was free! Except I was mistaken.

The wasp sting didn't heal. And then I got what are called "satellites" - basically, a rash away from the original sting. Grooooooss. And one of the satellites was huuuuuuuge. I broke down and went to the allergist.

Now, the allergist was all prepared to do venom testing and find out if I'm cray-cray allergic to wasps and need to walk around with a $750 epi-pen hanging around my neck at all times. Except she took one look at my giant satellite and was visibly disappointed.

"Oh, that's not a satellite. That's a spider bite."

She deflated just a touch. I recoiled. A WHAT?

So, basically, I got bit by a spider in the middle of the night. And now the bite is all inflamed and angry and itchy and gross looking and clearly no one has ever suffered as I am currently suffering. But instead of providing me with a careful treatment plan, the allergist told me two things.

Take some Zyrtec. And watch for necrotizing tissue.

You know. Tissue with necrosis. Tissue that is dying and rotting on my person.

Ewwwwwwwwwww.

So, My Guy and I have become mildly obsessed with the spider bite. I was all pouty and sad, so we went out for tacos last night. We had to wait 20 minutes for a server, and my sweet husband chalked it up to no one wanting to be around my possibly rotting shoulder. Later, as I responded to a work email, he kept helpfully suggesting, "Don't mention the shoulder! Avoid all shoulder talk! You can't let them know!"

At least now I have an easy way to taunt him. "Don't make me rub my shoulder on you."

It's all fun and games until someone's body starts to rot. Is this what it's like being a zombie? You get bit by a zombie and you feel a little weird, but you aren't sure if you really got bit, so you just watch to see if your body starts rotting? Do potential zombies meditate and use essential oils in hopes of staving off the zombieness? Would an ice pack on the zombie bite help?

I'm not sure how any of this is supposed to work. So, I'm taking Zyrtec and icing my shoulder and watching for giant chunks of my body to fall off. Oh, also? I'm burning down my house because SPIDERS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Artist's depiction of this blog after my entire body rots and falls off in chunks, which my dogs will obviously try to eat because everything in my house is gross. See also: spiders.

Stings suck, or why I will no longer be bullied by the wasp lobby.

I've been spending a lot of time outside. Not because I like outside, but because my dachshund cannot be left unattended.

He loves tomatoes.

And now that my tomato plants are finally bearing fruit, he views my tiny garden plot as his personal salad bar. I say, "Frank! Get outta the tomatoes!" approximately 437 times a day.

So, I was standing next to the tomatoes, keeping watch while Lil' Frankfurter pretended to be looking for a place to potty. I was just standing there, you know? So, I decided to pull a weed.

Note to self: Pulling weeds is for suckers. Because I evidently interrupted a wasp. And to show his displeasure, that wasp stung my arm. Twice.

I like to think that I didn't start screaming "FUCK!" repeatedly until I was actually inside my house. For any neighbors who might report that that was not the case? I apologize.

But there I was, screaming "FUCK" in my kitchen, holding an icepack to my tricep while trying to open a Benadryl one-handed. I had forgotten how much wasp stings hurt. And how stupid individually wrapped medications are.

Then I took the Benadryl and forgot everything. My arm kind of hurt, but I was floating along. Nothing could faze me. Lil' Frank wanted to eat some tomatoes? Fiiiiiine.

But the next day? The next day, my arm featured a bright red welt about the size of a Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pie. It was hot. It hurt. It itched. And, according to the interwebs, it was "a large localized reaction."

Woe, woe is me! I kvetched about my sad, sad plight to pretty much anyone within earshot or within sight of the welt I'd covered with a paste made of baking soda. I'm turning into my grandma, but with way more whining.

One of my pals asked, "What do wasps do, anyway?"

It was a valid question. If I got in the way of a wasp who was researching leukemia or working on a road crew, that was one thing. But a wasp who was just chillin' in my yard, where he does not pay rent? That seems like something else entirely.

So, I did some research. The interwebs informed me that wasps are super-important. They do basically the same work as bees, except they aren't as beloved. And, if wasps go away? ARMAGEDDON. Mass environmental destruction. Fire raining from the sky! Dogs and cats living together!

I think we can all agree that this is propaganda from the wasp lobby. Big Wasp is behind all of these lies. Here's the truth:

Wasps are the payday loan sharks of the insect world.

Sure, some of them are bookies or own vaping emporiums. But for the most part? These greasy, too-much-cologne-wearing, pinky-ring-having slimeballs do nothing but rip off hardworking folks like you and me.

That wasp robbed me of an entire workday as I mellowed in a Benadryl stupor. And now I will never be a tricep model, as the welt is still evident. That's not even getting into the emotional scars.

So, friends, I beg of you: Do not get your information from Big Wasp. Do your own research. The next time a Facebook friend posts a pro-wasp link, don't just mindlessly click "Like." Seek out independent sources that aren't part of the pro-wasp media or under the wing of the wasp lobby. We have to think for ourselves.

Years ago, Mom, Poochie, and I stood at the sliding glass door, cheering as Dad sprayed Raid into one end of our metal jungle gym and then ran like hell as a swarm of wasps flew out the other end.

This "Leave It To Beaver"-like tableau is on my mind and close to my heart, especially in light of recent events. Dad? Thank you for teaching me what is right.

Watching movies like an adult.

I was in junior high when "Dirty Dancing" was big. And lemme tell ya, that movie was a revelation.

BFF and I loved that some of the oldies our parents listened to - and by extension, we listened to - were suddenly cool. And another close friend had a pirated VHS copy of the movie and watched it every single day after school.

Personally, I spent my afterschool times listening to the radio, waiting for "She's Like the Wind" to come on. Then, I would put down my homework and stare off into the distance. Sure, I was an awkward tween with glasses and braces and a perm. But somewhere out there was a Patrick Swayze lookalike who compared me to wind.

Wind, which is the flow of gases. Somebody thought I was mega-gaseous and mega-amazing.

All of this is lost on my sweet husband, my boy-man of a life partner who is five years my junior. We have a movie deficit for the years 1986 through 1999. While I was devouring "Dirty Dancing," he was into all the Ernest movies. While he was watching "Jurassic Park" with his junior high classmates, I was seeing no movies because I didn't have a car and there wasn't a theatre within walking distance of campus. Also, I was broke. And too busy drinking beer.

When I went away to college, my husband was in junior high. JUNIOR HIGH.

So, I guess this is being a cougar. We make fun of each other's lack of movie viewing. And we occasionally force each other to view movies of the "Ohmigod I can't believe you haven't seen this" ilk. This means that I recently saw "Varsity Blues" for the first time.

My Guy was really enthusiastic about this movie. "I can't believe you've never seen it! You love football! You will love this movie!"

And I did. I enjoyed it like you enjoy store-bought desserts. Tasty, but probably not worth the calories and not the best ever. But fine.

However, "Varsity Blues" did leave some unanswered questions.

I would like to know what high school football program would allow a student to take over head coaching duties mid-game and then would allow another student to have bottles of beer on the field after a big win. What town is this? What is happening here? And isn't glass dangerous? Wouldn't it at least be cans? Where did the beer come from? Was it in the trainers' ice chest? Does that mean there wasn't enough water? Were the players dehydrated? Is that safe? Why was James Vanderbeek's girlfriend so grouchy and anti-football all the time when she came from a football family? What high school boy would turn down a girl in a whipped-cream bikini? And, the biggest question of all: What high school actually has a teacher that moonlights as a stripper in the same town?

I guess these queries don't occur to 19-year-olds viewing the movie because My Guy was completely taken aback. Watching the film as an adult was a totally different experience.

"Uh, these are all good questions, but ... they won the game! Didn't you see, they won the game?" he asked.

Clearly, he was working hard to hold on to the "This movie is AWESOME" experience of his youth. He had no desire to look at "Varsity Blues" with the cold eyes of an adult.

I let it go. I didn't want to ruin it for him. And besides, this is probably why I haven't watched "Dirty Dancing" lately. Why was it OK that all these people were infantilizing this teenager by calling her "Baby?" Didn't her parents notice she was gone all the time with those ruffian dance kids? What in the world is Johnny going to do in the winter when he's run out of dance money and eating ketchup sandwiches? Or will it not matter because he'll be in prison for statutory rape? Because you can't tell me that Jerry Orbach is just going to let Patrick Swayze get away with this, no matter how well Baby executes The Lift.

Ahem.

I'm great fun at parties.     

What movie of your youth has lost some of its sheen in the cold light of adulthood?

In which I have eye rabies and fight with my husband.

Because I'm an adult lady and super fancylike and also dignified? I try to keep it classy. And one of the best ways to keep it classy is to not have pink eye.

Sadly, I have failed this basic tenet of fanciness this summer. I have pink eye, and I've had it for a few weeks. But don't worry - I have been assured that it cannot be spread over the interwebs.

When I got pink eye, I did the smart thing and saw my eye doctor immediately. He was like, "Hmm. It looks like one thing but it might be another, but let's do the cheap eye drops and see what happens."

Sadly, he did not prescribe a regimen of pouting and complaining about the pink eye. However, I figured that was an important part of the process and took that on myself. I figured it couldn't hurt.

But the eye drops did hurt. They hurt a lot. I figured that meant that were working. It was only after the treatment was over that I realized I'm allergic to one of the main ingredients in the eye drops.

I am not the brightest star in the sky. Besides, I was too busy obsessing over the fact that I was going to be pink-eyed and glasses-clad for The Official Family Photo that my mom was coordinating. Because when you're super fancylike and also dignified, you generally don't want to be photographed when you have the modern equivalent of leprosy. But I took one for the team, me and my gunky eyes.

I called the eye doctor again and was forced to 'fess up about the allergy - which, to be fair, he didn't catch, either. But he was incredulous, like, "So, the drops hurt really badly, and you kept using them?"

Clearly, he is a man. Any woman would be like, "Ah. That sounds like thongs and hair color and any form of hair removal. Of course you keep going."

So, now I have new eye drops. Eye drops that cost $260 but that I paid a mere $60 for, thanks to a manufacturer's coupon. Who says drug companies are gouging patients?

Anyway, I updated My Guy on all of this. He eyed me suspiciously, and then looked at the sleeping dachshund in my arms. "You know why this is happening, right?"

I looked at my sweet husband. "Because I'm paying a karmic debt for being so awesome?"

He shook his head solemnly, paused a moment, and then let me have it. "No. No, you have EYE RABIES because you let this little dog with the BIG POOPY MOUTH kiss you!"

I clutched my hand to my chest. If I had been wearing pearls, I'd have been clutching pearls.

"There's no way those two things are related," I said.

"What-EV-er," My Guy replied. "Lil' Frank eats poop. Then he licks your face. You probably have Zika and emphysema and ringworm, too!"

"You think EVERYTHING is ringworm! I had strep throat and you tried to treat it with Lotrimin Ultra!"

"It would have worked, too, if you'd just given it a chance."

"You sound like the bad guy from every 'Scooby Doo' who says his plan would have worked, too, if it weren't for you meddling kids."

"The bad guy says it because it's true!"

"I have eye rabies from an undetermined source. Lil' Frank doesn't kiss me on the days he's eaten poop. We have an agreement. And he never kisses my eyes."

At this point, My Guy shook his head and walked away. He tried to act all bad and mad, but he scooped the dog out of my arms so they could cuddle. Because I'm not the only object of dachshund affection.

Besides, how could anyone blame this face?

"C'mere and lemme kiss ya."

Mouse Scourge, Part II: The Reckoning.

Don't even try to tell me I shouldn't write B movies. Check out that title - clearly, I have the gift.

So, I know you've been waiting with baited breath to hear how the whole there-was-a-mouse-in-the-kitchen-so-I-covered-everything-in-blood thing went down.

Well, I set the hardcore traps that my dad gave me. You know, the ones that you can only get at the farm and home store? Yeah. They are serious.

So, I set the two traps. Sadly, they didn't go off immediately. Instead, my rodent antagonist had decided to mess with me. I kept everything out of my kitchen drawers and then kind of forgot about it. I had to emotionally distance myself from the whole mouse/kitchen situation. It was just too much.

That night, I woke up because so help me Oprah, someone broke into our house. I could hear him (or her - no judging) sneaking around downstairs. I woke my exhausted, finally asleep husband and we both remained in bed, stiff with adrenaline coursing through our veins. I wondered when My Guy was going to grab his softball bat and if I shouldn't just go ahead and call 911.

After a minute of listening, My Guy said, "It's the mousetrap." Then, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

He abandoned me.

But, considering that I was then unable to sleep for the next three hours, I can say definitively that we were not burgled. And examining the trap the next day showed ... no mouse. Just tiny little claw marks in the trap's peanut butter.

Basically, the mouse had gotten a little bit trapped, made a whole lotta noise, and then escaped.

I set the trap again.

That night, no noises. Or maybe we were burgled but the dudes (or dudettes - no judging) were really quiet and with the house in such disarray, I didn't notice anything missing.

But turns out, there were no noises because the trap did its job. Inside my bread drawer was a dead mouse approximately the size of a Honda.

That was the good news. The bad news was that I was home alone.

I immediately shut the drawer with the dead mouse in it and started walking around my house, clapping purposefully. Like a pep squad girl who is a little bit off. I was clapping because hurray, we caught the mouse! And I was clapping because oh no, we caught the mouse and now we have to do something with it, and by "we" I mean "me" and I am completely freaked out.

See, the trouble with the really nice traps from the farm and home is that you can only get them at the farm and home. And there isn't a farm and home anywhere near me because I'm a fool and moved to the city, away from such places. These were hardcore traps, not the kind that you could just throw away without a second thought. There were traps of country folk. Folk who could kill a snake with a shovel and not think twice. (Hi, Melissa!)

I thought twice. I thought three and four times about what I was going to do about that dead mouse.

Then, I realized it was Saturday. My Guy was just out gallivanting around. He would be home within an hour. An hour wasn't enough time for there to be a noticeable increase in dead-mouse decay.

The carcass could wait. I could delegate. Because I am a leader and a strong woman and in no way would need to turn in my feminism membership card simply because I asked my life partner to complete a specific task in our home.

And so it was.

He made the Honda-sized mouse go away. I let scalding water run over the empty but certainly reusable trap. Order was restored.

In case you're wondering, no, I'm not going to become an exterminator.

Don protective headgear. Breakfast foods are falling from the sky.

Mercury is in retrograde, which is the excuse I'm using for the fact that I accidentally texted a client and asked if she wanted chips from Chipotle.

Oh, hell.

I guess of all the texts I send my husband, that was a pretty innocent one to accidentally send to a client. At least it wasn't "Why are there no BBQ potato chips in our house? EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE." Or "Today was a good day. Didn't hafta use my AK." Or "Come hooooooooooome. Take me out for pizza before I eat allllllll the potato chiiiiiiiips."

Yes, those are actual texts I sent My Guy. Clearly, chips are a vital component of our union. And texting is an important mode of marital communication.

A few days ago, My Guy didn't text me. He emailed me because more weird stuff was going down, and he had super important things to say. And what he had to say was this:

So, I almost got into two wrecks this morning and a pancake randomly blew onto my windshield.

Say what?

Wrecks? OK, fine. People drive crazypants on the road that leads to My Guy's office. But a pancake?

I was filled with so many questions. Did someone throw it out of their car? Was it dropped by a bird? Who was missing their breakfast? Did you eat it?

My unflappable husband responded:

The pancake was so weird. The light just turned green and I was beginning to move and it just plopped down right in front of my face. I have no idea where it came from. A bird seems the most likely culprit. I forgot my wallet sized syrup so I didn't eat it.

The fact that he was unprepared and didn't have syrup on hand is obviously very upsetting. But where did the pancake come from? Was it a sign? Was My Guy actually adopted and his real last name is International House of Pancakes, and he's the long-lost heir to the IHOP fortune, and oh, by the way, he will now be Earl of Pancake? It had to be something like this because who has a flippin' PANCAKE fall from the SKY right onto their windshield - specifically the part of the windshield where they look?

I guess I asked too many questions because he didn't respond. Some thing about having "a real job." Whatever. But, of course, I cornered him about it when he got home.

Yes, he used his windshield wiper to brush the pancake off. No, it didn't smear. Yes, he wasted a perfectly good windshield pancake. No, he didn't think it was a sign. Yes, he was certain he wasn't adopted. No, he didn't think he was in line to be the next Earl of Pancake.

I was not deterred. Was he absolutely sure he wasn't going to be Earl of Pancake? Because I like fixing up old buildings, and, you know, instead of being responsible for some big manor house, he'd be responsible for the upkeep on all those old-school chalet-style IHOPs. We have one near us and I want to love it but it's always sticky and smoke-filled and makes me feel like I might have contracted Ebola.

Anyway, My Guy became - dare I say it - defiant. He will not be assuming any duties tied to the earldom of Pancake. Actually, his exact quote was, "I ain't refurbishing no damned IHOPs."

Well, then. I guess we aren't aristocrats after all, not with that attitude. But if the windshield pancake wasn't a sign of some life calling, then it must be a sign of END OF DAYS. Because c'mon - pancakes are raining from the sky.

Or, maybe it's yet another story about birds dropping random stuff on people, like when a hawk dropped a dead bird on Alice's dinner plate. Either way, everybody get a helmet. Because I'm pretty sure that even a pancake gathers pretty good velocity when dropped from a few hundred feet.

Further proof I'm turning into my mother.

It's the season of Mother's Day, so you know what I'm going to talk about: liquor.

My home state of Iowa only had state-owned liquor stores until 1987. They all had blue signs with white reflective lettering, like road signs. No fancy fonts or extra letters, just the business at hand: LIQUOR STORE.

I liked the LIQUOR STORE in my hometown because it had those magic doormats that make the door swing open when you step down. Is there anything more magical? No, no there is not. And yes, yes this means that my mom took me to the LIQUOR STORE as a kid. Because drinking wasn't a big deal, and so she raised kids that didn't run off and get drunkety drunk drunk at the first opportunity and drive off a bridge. Because we are chill.

Anyway, all the booze purchased at the state-owned LIQUOR STORE had special state stickers on it. Thus, liquor appropriated from the state was marked. And, in a way, dated.

Because now, my brother and I chide our parents for still having liquor in their home that has those state stickers on it. Meaning, it was purchased in or before 1987. Because Mom doesn't drink enough.

A perusal through Mom's liquor cabinet means moving some jigsaw puzzles out of the way to access the back of a basement cabinet. There, you'll find creme de menthe, peach schnapps, Southern Comfort, and a 4-pack of Bartles & Jaymes. The creme de menthe is for brownies. The peach schnapps and Southern Comfort are for the punch I accidentally got drunk on in 8th grade. And the Bartles & Jaymes is for when Mommy has HAD IT.

All of these items have the Iowa state LIQUOR STORE sticker on them. Meaning they are at least 29 years old.

This has been a source of good-natured ribbing. We'd poke fun at the alcoholic antiquities and Mom would just shrug her shoulders. "What if I need it?"

It was all fun and games until last weekend. My Guy and I were tasked with providing drinks for a Mexican dinner with friends. We settled on La Paloma, which promised to be a refreshing drink with a bit of a kick. Basically, lime, tequila, and Fresca. And who doesn't love Fresca?

As My Guy was getting ready to go on a Fresca run, I pulled the tequila out of our liquor cabinet. Because I keep house much like my mother, our liquor cabinet is the top shelf of our coat closet. Who needs hats and gloves when you have a good Scotch?

So, I grabbed the bottle of Jose Cuervo. It was about 2/3 full. And it had a sticker on it. A sticker from ... the state of Texas. I'd bought the tequila duty-free in Mexico and carried it back across the border, like a good bargain shopper. Which is all well and good except that I haven't been to Mexico since 2003.

Oh.

This could be bad.

I did a little research. Tequila doesn't really go bad, but it can get funky and less potent. I opened the bottle and took a research swig.

Ick.

Describing the tequila as "chunky" would not be inaccurate. It burned, but not as much as the realization that I am, in fact, becoming my mother. Dancing in inappropriate places? Check. Deciding you don't give a shit? Check. Storing liquor until it's practically a solid "just in case?" Checkety check check.

My Guy staged an intervention and poured the offending tequila down the drain. I had to look away.

I guess, like my mama, I don't drink enough. Perhaps this is something the 2 of us can work on together. Just not with La Paloma. My Guy liked it but I felt like it was going to put hair on my chest, which isn't a look I'm going for. Because I'm a lady of grace and dignity, dammit. Just like my mom.

Labradoodles are horrible at keeping secrets.

So, it seems that the number one way to deal with a stress fracture is to pout. I've been doing a lot of pouting, and a lot of couch-sitting. And a lot of being super-mature, obviously.

A few days ago, I had just had it. I'd run errands and been to the grocery store, and I was beyond wiped out. Everything is hard when you can't walk normally. Woe, woe to me!

So, I retreated to bed and Netflix. And it was cold. And my husband was out of town. And so I threw a sheet over the bed and hoisted my 80-pound labradoodle up on the bed so that the entire pack could watch Netflix and chill.

Big Doodle loved it. Looooooved it. He stretched out and sighed repeatedly, signalling that he was finally - finally! - up where he belonged. Cue the song from "An Officer and a Gentleman."

But the thing about Netflix and chill is that it can't last forever. Especially when your husband is on his way home from the airport, exhausted, and hoping to collapse into bed. So, after several hours on the bed, I attempted to convince Big Doodle that it was time to get on his own bed. Off my bed.

This did not go well.

Big Doodle stood up on the bed, circled his wagons, and then flung himself across the bed. If you doubt that a dog can take up an entire queen-sized bed, you are mistaken. Now, not only would My Guy not be able to use the bed, but I wouldn't either. There was only space for Mr. Stretchy, Big Doodle.

I got him up again. He sighed, acted like he was going to get off the bed, and then collapsed with his head on my pillow. He then proceeded to look as pathetic and adorable as possible.

Of course I took a picture.

Finally, I scooted his booty to the edge of the bed, and little by little slid him off the edge. He let out a noise that can best be described as "pissed-off yowling."

I stripped the extra sheet and all its dog hair off the bed and felt pretty pleased with myself. I'd gotten rid of the evidence before My Guy came home! The Doodle-on-Bed would be our little secret.

Except Big Doodle didn't get the memo. For the rest of the night - nay, for the following 3 nights - he worked his way around the bed, resting his chin on the mattress and sighing heavily. Sometimes the sighs were accompanied by a pissed-off sneeze. Other times, a forlorn "Hern" sound. But it was always pathetic.

It took about 3 minutes for My Guy to get fed up with the drama dog and ask, "Why is he doing that? Did you let him on the bed?"

Meeee? Nooooo!

In which I consider eating glass. As you do.

So, about a hot minute after I was all, "I have a stress fracture and haven't gone to the grocery and now we're going to starve and die unless I go to the grocery and use the motorized cart to give oblivious and rude shoppers tickets?" Yeah. Well, I determined that I had just enough stuff in the house to cook up some tortilla soup.

I was totally Becky Home-Ec-y. I was stretching my grocery dollar. I was being creative with my ingredients on-hand. Sure, the recipe called for an onion that I didn't have. No problem! I'd use a pepper and throw in a little garlic. It would be a taste sensation. I was the best wife on the planet, and a culinary visionary.

While the peppers were simmering on the stove, a stack of cookbooks on top of my fridge collapsed. This sent a very cool antique jar careening across my tiny kitchen.

Miracle of miracles, the jar didn't shatter. Yahoo! Sure, I'd just learned that I had a broken bone in my foot. But that was evidently the extent of my crap quota. I put the jar back on top of the fridge and straightened the books.

You know where this is going.

The books collapsed again. Either I have a poltergeist or I live in an old house where nothing is square. Either way, the books collapsed and the jar flew off the top of the fridge. Again.

Then? Then, the jar didn't shatter. It ... self-obliterated?

The metal lid was left. But there were no large pieces of the jar left. The glass had hit the edge of the stove and exploded into millions of teeny, tiny shards. My kitchen didn't look like a glass had broken. Instead, it looked like I'd dropped a box of glitter.

I wasn't doing the best job of keeping it together anyway, and I have to admit: this broke me.

When My Guy got home about 20 minutes later, he found me vacuuming the kitchen counters and drinking right out of the wine bottle. As you do. Because there was no other way to pick up the glass, and I needed some liquid assistance.

He asked what I was doing. And I may have cried a tiny bit when I explained that it had NOT BEEN A GOOD DAY.

Then, we both stood over the pot of half-started soup. I rested my head against my husband's chest, and we silently stared into the abyss, trying to decide if the soup-to-be was filled with glass shards.

Finally, My Guy said, "That's totally going to kill us. We should order Chinese."

This is adulthood.

And yes, for those keeping track? This wasn't the first time I considered whether or not food filled with shattered glass was edible.

Grace.

I'm trying to have it. Grace, I mean. I'm trying to appreciate the every day joys and not worry about the couldas or shouldas.

So it is loving an old dog.

He's had bladder cancer since at least last summer. I've been driving him 40 minutes each way to the holistic vet, sometimes once a week, sometimes every 2 weeks. They all love him, and he gets very excited when he figures out where we're going. He lets them pump him full of all kinds of things, and he is never upset or afraid. He is just his loving, happy self.

"Thank you for choosing to adorn me with a Christmas bow and not a disco elf costume like that of my smaller canine brethren."

But I've been upset and afraid. I'm doing that for both of us, although he'd never ask me to carry that mantle.

At Christmas, I got a call from our beloved dog sitter. Big Doodle was limping. Like, really, really limping. She offered to take him to the emergency vet. "Oh, we'll see how he's doing when we get home tomorrow, don't worry about it," I said.

She wasn't kidding. Our boy wasn't using his back leg at all. Seemed to have no concept that he even had a back leg. Drug it around like it was an almost-forgotten security blanket.

More vet visits and 10 days of the entire family avoiding all stairs in solidarity, he has some use of his leg. Maybe this is the best it will get. Maybe it will get better. It probably won't get worse. But we're starting to really look at his quality of life. We have this privilege and burden.

For his part, Big Doodle is happy, if perhaps a bit bored. He's not in pain. He's not sure why we're not going for walks - I guess he doesn't see the correlation between "I can't walk" and "Why aren't we walking?"

He's sleeping a lot. Like old dogs do. And he is old, even if he never got the memo. He's 11 years young, and still as sweet and spazzy as when I met him almost 7 years ago. His dad and I had a blind date, and agreed to walk dogs to get to know each other. Big Doodle was my charge, and it was instant love. The joke is that I married My Guy because I fell in love with his dog. Like most jokes, it's funny because there's a kernel of truth to it.

"I've always had a way with the ladies."

I know we have done and continue to do everything we can for this sweet dog. But I'm having trouble letting go of the idea of fixing it. After a certain point, there's nothing to fix. It just is. And we've had wonderful bonus time with this fine, fine boy.

But it's hard.

It's hard, and I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. My legs work just fine, yet it's the guy who's down a paw who has to convince me to get moving.

I'm trying to embrace the grace, to enjoy these days for what they are. To let go of expectations or desires and to be present. To savor what's here.

What's here is a lot of dog pee. And I'm trying to laugh about that. Because maybe I could get a giant squeegee like they use on astroturf. And that would be kind of cool.

But what else is here is a big ol' dog who is happy to be here, who feels just fine and is glad to see us. There are no greater riches.

2015: A Retrospective

It's that magical time of year when I binge on "Best Books of the Year" lists and "Hey, Remember These Folks Who Died" retrospectives. There's just nothing like the week between Christmas and New Year's for media that was lovingly created months ago for this, The Week of No Working.

In that spirit, I should have written this post eons ago, or at least kept notes throughout the year. But no. No, I'm going with the events that are still memorable at the end of the year / beginning of the new year since I couldn't even get this posted remotely on time. Here are the highlights of my 2015:

Greatest adventure: I could say going to the UK or doing a "I'm 40!" fake triathlon. But really, those experiences and those of their ilk have one constant: My Guy. Not to be all sap-o-rama, but marriage is a great adventure. Everything is more fun with him. I try to remember this when I'm trying to figure out where I could hide his body.

Best medical revelation: When I did my annual health assessment for insurance, I learned that I'm on the verge of being a junky. Evidently, all sleep aids automatically put you in the "elevated risk" category for substance abuse. Oh, OK. Today, I use melatonin. Tomorrow? Heroin. Of course.

Most poignant reminder of our frailty and the precariousness of our every day: Oh, my sweet, sweet Big Doodle. We've had our ups and downs this year, and every day I'm thankful for your kind eyes and loving disposition.

"I have cancer? Is that like a rawhide?"

My husband's favorite discovery: Chopping spinach before putting it in a salad. It's easier to eat than those awkward, unwieldy leaves. Direct quote that I am not making up: "Chopped spinach is the greatest development of Q4." Yes, he speaks Corporate.

Best gift idea ever: For my birthday, my family filled a container with little slips of paper, each stating something that one of them loves about me. I ugly cried while reading the slips. It was so humbling. If you need a gift for someone you love, do this. If you need a gift for someone you don't love, don't do this, because it would just be an empty container. Just regift them an empty container and don't mention that it should have love notes in it but you don't love them. You know.

Most joyful movie-going experience: Star Wars. Duh. I felt a thrill at the opening credits and was delighted throughout. It was like being a kid again, but with beer. Because they sell that at theatres now.

Most life-affirming gathering: All of my cousins, aunts and uncles, and various and sundry kid-type people gathered for a family reunion. There were 34 of us, so it was a gigantic undertaking. Huge kudos to my brother who coordinated the event and organized things like photo slide shows, Q&A sessions, and surveys. When my grandma was in her 80s and not in the greatest health, she attended a family reunion and reported, "It was better than any medicine." Now I get it.

Funny, these highlights tend to focus on the people in my world. That's hard for this little introvert to accept, but whatever. As long as we can be together and not, like, actively interact, that's cool.

What were the high points of your 2015?