Don't mock the elderly.

So, the Geriatric Poodle has been on anti-senility drugs for about two weeks now. Anti-senility drugs that run $99 a month.

He weighs 12 pounds. So, that figures to a little less than 28 cents per pound of not crazy dog per day.

See? I’m totally justifying the $99 monthly bill. Twenty-eight cents is the money you’d throw in the bottom of your purse and forget about! Isn’t a life partner’s sanity worth the change in the bottom of your purse?

Gah.

So, he seems to be a little more with-it as of late. He still wanders around somewhat aimlessly, but he has managed to do new things like find his way off the deck.

Score one for the expensive drugs. Having a poo-free deck is a value-add.

Geriatric Poodle wanders around the yard, and he seems to be happy doing it. Usually, he runs the perimeter, following the fence line and getting about 27 leaves caught in his fur. Good times.

This morning, however, I looked out the kitchen window to find my sweet boy walking in a circle – a circle of about two feet in diameter.

He wasn’t chasing his tail. He was walking. Exploring, really. In a two-foot circle.

He made himself dizzy and he fell down.

He got right back up and started walking in a circle again.

I called out to Mr. Wonderful to come have a look. “Do you think he had a stroke?”

About that time, Geriatric Poodle walked straight into the one tree in the yard.

Mr. Wonderful guffawed.

And then, the poodle was up and running again. Circle, circle, circle. The size of the circle varied a bit. That made me feel better. We decided that his tail was up and he was happy, so we’d just let him be.

I felt guilty for laughing. Really, really guilty. And then I laughed some more.

And then? About 20 minutes later, Lil’ Fluff found his way back up on the deck and to the door, where he barked and demanded to be granted entrée. Just like old times.

He’s happy. He’s confused, but he’s not hurting. And he finds joy in exploring outside. He finds comfort sitting on my lap.

My mom told me I need to face the music and realize that it’s time to help him go.

And then, I ran over her with my car.

Ok, not really. But part of me does want to reply that she should be thankful that I won’t put her down when she goes blind.

Please, God, may I be doing the right thing. With the dog, I mean.

Things that suck about Corporate Behemoth.

I really shouldn't blog about the specifics of work. My blog is anonymous, but really, it's just not good form to blog about work.

So, I really shouldn't blog about the hour and a half I spent on the phone with IT yesterday.

And I shouldn't mention the complete ineptitude of the IT guy, who couldn't fix the issue with my monitor and instead told me to steal someone else's monitor to replace mine.

Nor should I mention how I asked the IT guy a question, only to be met with silence on the other end of the phone. Silence, followed by heavy breathing. I mentally ruminated on the social ineptitude of all computer folk.

Finally, I asked, "Are you ok?"

IT guy: "WHAT?"

The IT guy fell asleep while we were on the phone.

Finally, our time was over. I nearly cried with frustration. And five minutes later, IT guy called me back.

I really shouldn't blog about how the IT guy had the mouth-breathing IT guy in his cube, talking him through how to fix my problem. Mouth-breathing IT guy who always talks to my rack, not to my face.

And I shouldn't expose Corporate Behemoth by blogging about how annoying IT guy attempted to morph into charming IT guy, talking about his dog, when he got off work, and how it was *just him and his dog.*

Dude. Just fix my fucking monitor.

Mr. Wonderful's take on it was lovely in its simplicity.

"Next time this happens," he said, "Tell him, 'Oh, yeah? When I get off work, it's just me and my boyfriend.'"

That made me laugh. But my women's studies minor is enraged.

Mmm ... burrito ...

Two weeks without posting? Don't mind if I do!

See, I was gonna post, but a bunch of people died and then there was an accident and I was sick and we lost electricity and my computer crashed and the dog ate my homework.

Ok, not really.

And please, gods of karma, I'm joking. Like I'm always joking about being pregnant with a burrito after I visit Chipotle. Joking!

I didn't post because ... I have no good reason.

But I've been thinking about blogging, and that means something, right? I've been thinking about it so much that I dreamed that I visited Mrs. G. and stayed at her house. And I invited myself to a school pageant her son was in and everything.

Mrs. G.: I'm not pregnant with a burrito and I'm also not a stalker - I swear!

So, to get back on the wagon, I'm doing something I've been meaning to do for a while: updating ye olde blogroll. Visit these fabulous writers. I'm a crappy commenter, but I enjoy their writing on a daily basis.

bloggedy blog blog

I am bossy

Minnesota Matron

Surrender, Dorothy

Tales From Clark Street

One inspiring thing and two things that make me sound old.

All courtesy of the Oscars!

1. Diablo Cody winning best screenplay for Juno. Thanks for giving us outsiders a little hope ... although I hope that I don't have to work as a stripper to get a writing gig.

2. My favorite part of the Oscars, just like every year, is The Dead People Montage.

I know. I know!

3. Except this year, it was a little harder to follow because, umm ... the font size on the name banners was too small.

I'm going to go take some Metamucil and go to bed.

Like, you should, like, like yourself?

"Take a moment to not miss junior high today."


This important philosophical statement is brought to you today by the Shoebox Blog. Love the cards, love the blog.

And, really, I needed to find this quote today. My inner junior high misfit has gotten quite the workout lately.

You know, like, when, you have, like, really high expectations? Of yourself? And, like, you, umm, are being unrealistic? And, you feel, like, really bad? All the time? And think everyone, like, thinks you're a loser? Like?

Like, that's me? Like, right now? And I'm, like, 32?

Yes. I'm 32 and it has been decades since I have been mocked for my inability to serve a volleyball over the net. I'm 32 and I've (knock on wood) mastered the fine art of feminine protection and no longer worry that the gigantic pads that my mom bought are visible through my Zena jeans. I'm 32 and I'm successful and have tons of great friends and no longer spend my evenings counting blackheads and wondering if any boy could possibly like me as much as Patrick Swayze liked Baby in Dirty Dancing.

I am old enough to buy beer.

I am not, evidently, too old for damaging self-talk.

Seriously. I have been Crabby McCrabberson lately. Work is crazy stressful. My blue corduroy skirt betrayed me. And the vet says I should consider putting Geriatric Poodle on anti-senility drugs.

I'm overwhelmed. But mostly, I'm just mad that I'm not somehow smart or magical enough to make everything just FINE.

So, I'm crabby with myself. And I'm projecting that on to other people. Like darling Mr. Wonderful.

I realized that part of my trauma over him teaching how to ski is that he is a jock. And jocks make fun of choir kids like me, right? So, my inner junior high misfit was holding her breath, waiting for him to mock me.

We talked about this. It's totally unfair for me to have such ridiculous expectations of the man who loves me. Plus, as he so rightly pointed out, you get two options: mockery or poontang. He opts for the latter, so the mockery wasn't in his realm of comprehension.

Sigh.

So, I'm trying really hard to get a grip. And realize that I do, in fact, have it going on and am not a complete fuck-up. And nobody thinks I'm a fuck-up except for me.

And really, every junior high kid thinks he's a misfit. And none of them are. Because being awkward and unsure is what being in junior high is all about.

I just didn't realize that that came part and parcel with being a grown-up, too.

One giant plus to now versus then: I'm no longer growing out The Perm That Wouldn't Die. Thank god for small favors.

Really smart thoughts on a Saturday.

Running errands today, I saw a bumper sticker that made me laugh out loud:

Evolution: I give it two thumbs up!

Ha!

And then, I saw a car with a Hawaii license plate.

Now, how does that work? Of course, somebody's probably legally a Hawaii resident, but their car just happens to be in the Midwest. I know, I know.

But I prefer to think that that little mid-sized sedan drove a really, really long way. Like, across a bridge. A bridge where, hopefully, they have really nice rest stops where you can sleep in your car without fear of pirates. Arrr!

Which makes me think of a joke Mr. Wonderful told me the other day.

A guy finds a genie. The genie will grant him one wish. The man wants to see Hawaii - but he wants to drive.

The genie goes ballistic. "Dude, that is one hella-long bridge! There's no way! Pick something else."

The man thinks for a moment. "Ok, then. I'd like to understand how women's minds work."

The genie looks at him. "How many lanes do you want on that bridge?"

Ha ha ha. Evolution: I give it two thumbs up!

Just leave me here to die!

Mr. Wonderful and I went skiing on Saturday.

Actually, he went skiing and I went falling on my ass.

My beloved is very hunky and athletic. He ran track and played football and was a flippin’ ski instructor. He’s a serious golfer.

I, on the other hand, am … a life-long reader. And sometimes, I manage to walk and chew gum at the same time.

He took me to the local ski area on a really nice day. He had the same idea as approximately 287,465 other people. It was packed.

And it was the very, very first time I’d ever had skis on my feet.

We spent time on the bunny hill. I fell down. He told me to get up. I just stared at him. How are you supposed to get up when you have no earthly idea how?

So, we addressed that challenge. I kept falling down. And getting in the way of the little kids who were trying to take group lessons.

In an effort to get some more space, Mr. Wonderful suggested that we try the next-sized hill. We got on the chair lift.

My first clue that something was horribly, horribly wrong came with the utter relief I felt at sitting down. And then the sheer terror I felt as the lift went up, up, up.

There was no bar across the front of the chairlift seat. I made the mistake of looking down.

I ended up holding on to the side of the chairlift with both hands. I kept my eyes closed.

We got to the top and, miracle of miracles, hopped off without much fanfare. They didn’t have to stop the lift on my account, which is a wonder.

But here’s the problem with chairlifts: they transport skiers to the top of high mountains. And then? And then, the skiers have to get down those mountains.

Upon surveying the “hill” before us, I filled with panic. And Mr. Wonderful admitted that gee, this hill was a bit steeper than the bunny hill. And icier, too.

So, we started our way down the hill, which I lovingly began to think of as The Hill of Death. I kept falling. I wasn’t good at stopping. I tried really, really hard not to cry.

At one point, I turned to Mr. Wonderful and said, “Just leave me here. Just leave me here to DIE!”

He now admits that he considered this a viable option.

But, lovely man that he is, he didn’t leave me to die. He helped me get down that blasted mountain. And it only took us 45 minutes. I almost wept with relief.

And then we sat in the lodge. The end.

Ok, not quite. I sat in the lodge. Mr. Wonderful skied. I then skied some more on the bunny hill. After I successfully slalomed through the five little squishy targets set up for kids, Mr. Wonderful proclaimed that I had mastered skiing. And I proclaimed, “Good! Now I’m done!”

Ha ha, funny. Cha Cha can’t ski. Ha ha.

Except …

Except it really bothered me. And it opened up an emotional can of worms that I didn’t realize I had been toting around.

Mr. Wonderful is athletic. His daughter, the Ladybug, is athletic and knows no fear – at 4 years old. And, the former Mrs. Wonderful is athletic. Tall and thin and athletic.

She’s a fucking runner. A runner!

Let me just fondle my asthma inhaler and ruminate on this for a moment.

I find myself feeling dumpy and completely uncoordinated and unattractive. Instead of family vacations where Mr. Wonderful, the Ladybug and I all frolic in some sort of athletic family activity, they will frolic and I will sit and get fat. They will ski and I’ll sit in the lodge and watch my ass grow.

Jumping to conclusions based on a rough first outing on a ski hill? Don’t mind if I do.

At one point on my long journey down The Hill of Death, I turned to Mr. Wonderful and said, “We all have our special gifts.”

And he said, “Yeah, and skiing isn’t one of yours. And that’s ok.”

I’ve toyed with the idea of being a gym teacher, just so I could put the close-handed smack down on any punk that makes fun of anyone. I’d tell the kids that we all have our special gifts. For some kids, it’s math. For others, it’s kickball.

I was a mathlete. And I’m a good singer. And I’m a supposedly confident grown-up with a successful career and life.

I’m just sort of channeling my inner, miserable seventh-grade alter ego right now, even though I wasn’t the last kid picked on the ski hill. I was the only kid picked.