You're the reason Mommy drinks.

So, Lil’ Frankfurter is back at the vet. Or, as I’m coming to think of it, his day spa. He barfs and refuses to eat in the morning, so I take him in. Then, as soon as I leave, he’s all, “Why, yes! I’d love to eat!” And they dote on him and my tab climbs and climbs.

Basically, he won’t eat for me because I put pills in his food. The vet gives him the meds via injection, so Lil’ Frank’s sensitive palate can enjoy his luxurious prescription canned dog food.

The vet promised to cut me a deal on the injections. Frank is booked at the day spa again tomorrow. And yes, I know how to shove the pills down his throat, but this seems to be the path of least resistance. At this point, I just don’t want him to bite me again.

The people at the vet are sooooo nice. Like, ridiculously nice. Today, as I was dropping off the kidlet, the office manager said, “Cha Cha, I’m so sorry about your week. I know this is stressful.”

As I left, I realized that I haven’t cried all week.

That’s weird for me. I’m a crier. It’s a skill that’s been passed down from generation to generation. My mom and I typically cry in weird places like the floor of the bathroom, or in a laundry room. I’m also particularly adept at crying while driving because I think that people can’t see me.

The other day, I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw that the woman in the car behind me was sobbing. So, it’s not just me. I wanted to pull over and hug her, but, well, that would shatter the illusion of being invisible.

Maybe I haven’t cried because I’ve never actually thought Lil’ Frank was going to die. Or maybe I’m too tired. I feel like I’m on autopilot. Maybe I’ll freak out later … later, when I’m eating Ramen for three months because all of my money went to the vet.

Or maybe I’m just a badass and everything is just fine and I’m just fine and it’s all just fine. Dammit.

Poker face.

When I first met Foxie Doxie, he was being fostered by some friends. They were having a party, and Foxie got overwhelmed by the six whole people in the room - so he retreated. He took a nap between the wall and the back of the couch.

My sweet Foxie is a gentle soul. I'm coming to appreciate more and more how depressed he was after Geriatric Poodle died. And the last two days? Well, he's been more sensitive than usual.

Lil' Frankfurter was home last night, then spent today back at the vet getting IV fluids. More on him in a moment.

But Foxie Doxie?

Well, Foxie has spent the last three days literally hiding under the covers. My bed is a disaster area in general, since I've cloaked it in my oldest, shabbiest linens in case of further vomit, blood, what have you. But Foxie doesn't seem to mind - he's literally willing the world to go away because gosh darn it, he just can't handle it.

Dude. I am so there.

I am exhausted. I appreciate that I got about five hours of sleep across Monday and Tuesday. But how can I still feel like I got hit by a car?

Oh, yeah. The stress. The worry. The mixed emotions of desperately wanting Lil' Frank to be ok / worrying about what I'm supposed to do next for Lil' Frank / wanting to strangle Lil' Frank with my bare hands for running up $2,100 in vet bills. Yes, that's $262.50 per pound of dachshund.

So, Foxie? Make room. I want to bury my head, too.

Except ... isn't this the most pathetic, precious thing you've ever seen, ever?

The paparazzi? So annoying.

Can't a guy convalesce in peace?

Big trouble with a little dog.

Lil' Frankfurter's destructive habits are well-known. He has enjoyed destroying various paper goods - envelopes, the stray newspaper, boxes. He redecorates by pulling Foxie Doxie's bedding all around the house. And he rips toys apart.

And now? He's destroyed his digestive system.

Lil' Frank started puking his guts out on Sunday night. Allll of Sunday night. Like, I got maybe two hours of sleep Sunday night. We were at the vet's office when they opened on Monday morning. X-rays showed that the kidlet had a foreign body in his tummy. We went home with the hopes of passing it.

We went back last night because he couldn't stop gacking and was totally disinterested in food. He slept until about 2 this morning and then paced the rest of the night.

Yes, we were at the vet again this morning when they opened.

New x-rays showed that the foreign object hadn't moved. We went to the emergency vet for an endoscopy. The emergency vet didn't like the look of the films and so did an ultrasound. The ultrasound showed the small intestine was involved. I hauled Lil' Frank back to the regular vet. He had surgery this afternoon.

My kid? Was chock full o' plastic and fiberfill. From his toys. They had to make three incisions to clean him out. He weights eight pounds. I don't know where they fit three incisions.

This is a little different than the time he ate the dental floss.

One of the darling vet techs took him home with her tonight so that she could monitor him. She gave me her cell, called me when they got to her house and got settled, and promised to call if anything should change in the middle of the night.

I've spent most of the day in the car, driving from one vet to another. I've slept maybe five hours in the last two days. I want to throttle Lil' Frank's neck. I desperately want him to be OK because we're just getting to know each other. I want to stop figuring the cost per pound of all of this veterinary care.

Right now? We're at about $190 per pound of dachshund.

Foxie Doxie knows something is up and refuses to leave my side. He's gonna have to figure something out, as I'm about to go get in the bathtub. Yes, you can sleep in my bed and lick my face. But I draw the line at sharing a bath.

Yeah, I'm a bitch like that.

If you don't have your health ...

Yesterday, there was an article in the paper about concierge health care. Basically, you pay a monthly membership to a doctor. In exchange, you get same-day or next-day appointments that last as long as you need them to and a doc that's always on call. There's no insurance to mess with, and in-office lab work is included.

Now, the doctor they interviewed said that they highly recommend that you maintain health insurance in addition, just in case you are hospitalized or get really sick or something. But oh, by the way, the concierge doctor's office features wi-fi, spa robes instead of paper gowns, and heated exam tables.

This all sounds very "ladies who lunch." However ... I must admit that I am really intrigued. The idea of having one doctor instead of a cadre of specialists would be awesome. At this point, I know what I need - I just need a doc to write the scripts. I don't think my gynecologist, allergist, and psychiatrist should be all that put out.

Plus?

Well, last time I had my super-fun lady doctor appointment? The gyn that I had been seeing for nine years walked in and introduced herself, saying, "I know you typically see Dr. Ward, but welcome."

I sat in my gown, about to flash my goods at this doctor who obviously didn't know me from a can of paint and was speechless. Then, I noticed that the back of the chart she was toting had notes from a previous visit that read, "Patient will practice rhythm method of birth control."

Oh, HELL no!

Yeah. She had the wrong chart.

Now, as I was leaving the appointment, I overheard the doctor letting the office staff have it for giving her the wrong chart. Accidents happen - I get that. But we're not talking about taking the car in for an oil change - we're talking about my private lady parts. My private lady parts that will never, ever depend on the rhythm method. Ever.

But that's another story.

I'm a little terrified that I'm considering paying $125 a month just for the luxury of having a doctor who knows my name. Is this how it works in the city? Corporate Behemoth is futzing with our insurance, and my gyn went out of business (gee, wonder why?). And yet? There are so many people without health care of any sort that I feel like a spoiled princess for even giving this a second thought.

Almost emotionally mature.

Don't worry, I didn't send Alice's response to Ex-Ex. In fact, I didn't respond at all. Instead, I'm going to wait until he replaces his stolen TVs. Then? I'm going to break into his house and steal the new TVs and donate them to a charity of some sort. And I'm going to leave eggs hidden in the attic and basement so that the entire house stinks, just like his black, black heart.

Or maybe not.

But it's stuff like that that makes me think I should have my own sitcom. Then I remember that my life is mostly about punctuation and cleaning up canine bodily fluids.

However ... Hope was right. The new boyfriend? Guy With Two Dogs. I just sort of realized that I wasn't seeing anyone else ... and I didn't want to. I only want to see him. A lot.

As my mother said so joyfully, "You finally let your guard down and let yourself really like him. I'm so glad!"

Me too.

I think I know the answer.

Once upon a time, in a house a few miles away, I was burgled. Or, rather, Ex-Ex and I were burgled. Which was only cool in that we got to go around saying, "We've been burgled!"

Two teenagers and their uncle literally broke down our back door. They took electronics, a blender (really), and a bottle of Kahlua. I guess it's the beverage choice of deadbeats.

I discovered the scene, called the cops, and had the distinct pleasure of seeing every pair of underwear that I owned strewn about the bedroom - a byproduct of the punks digging through dresser drawers. I arranged for a neighbor to board up the door. And I called Ex-Ex, who was traveling for business.

He yelled at me.

I stayed in a hotel because none of my friends were home. When I arrived at the police station at 7 a.m. the next morning, responding to a call that they had recovered our stuff? Well, I was treated to a show from a rather angry woman brought in by a bounty hunter. I sat in my little Gap jeans and fleece jacket, clutched my little Coach bag and kept my eyes on the floor in the too-small waiting room. I found myself rocking back and forth to the time of my new mantra: "I am a bad-ass bitch. I am a bad-ass bitch."

I had the door replaced. I navigated the insurance nightmare. I cleaned up the house - including the dust the cops used to lift prints - before Ex-Ex got home. I wanted to save him from the trauma of seeing our home ransacked.

It was all fine. But really? It's not an experience I would wish on anyone.

So now, seven years later, I receive this e-mail from Ex-Ex:

Well, our old friends are back. I guess every seven years they deem it appropriate to break into my house. This time, they were quite brazen and kicked in the front door, then stole my two televisions. Thought you of all people would appreciate this latest turn of events. Considering the last experience with the insurance company, I'm considering not filing a claim.

How are you?
Ex-Ex

Why? Why, why, why are you contacting me to tell me you got burgled? Bet you're amazed at all the work involved in cleaning up from such a mess, huh? And how can I not respond to this message without outing myself as a Grade A bitch?

Luckily, Alice came to the rescue. She drafted this little ditty:

Funny how life operates in cycles. May the next cycle be that someone who slowly rips your heart out and screws you out of money tries to be your friend and e-mails you about things as if you give a shit.

Cheers!
Cha Cha

Oh, I do so like that Alice. She's got style.

So. Do I send the message? Or do I ignore the whole business and instead return to my own regularly scheduled programming, where I have discovered that I kind of have a boyfriend and I am more than kind of falling really hard for him?

I believe the children are our future.

On Friday, I journeyed to my alma mater to speak to English majors about, like, having a career and stuff with an English degree.

I was excited. And terrified. I was nervous about crashing and burning, a la Randy Watson in Coming to America.



And I figured they asked me to speak because they had a hard time finding English graduates who are, you know, employed. And not living in their cars.

But I went, and I was one of four panelists. The first three? Well, we kicked ass, talking about how our English degrees prepared us for a myriad of interesting careers. But the fourth dude? Basically talked about how he went to LA to be a screenwriter, ran out of money, returned to the Midwest, and has a job he hates because he has a wife, two kids and a mortgage.

Yay! Congrats on choosing a super great major, kids!

I loved my time at Large Midwestern University. I transferred as a sophomore and didn't know a soul. I chose to major in English because those were the classes I liked. I became more myself in the three years at that school.

And yet? I looked around that very familiar campus and had to laugh. It looks so different. They're slowly but surely replacing all the dorms. The bookstore is nicer than a fancy department store, and the rec center looks like something out of The O.C. This is not my school anymore.

I walked around, figuring I could blend in. When some guy held the door for me and gave me That Look, I realized that at best, I was a nontraditional student. But more than likely? I looked like someone who just didn't belong.

I was shocked by the footwear. On a rainy day, most students were wearing flip flops. This was both cold and completely against any fashion choices that would have been made in my day. Then, there were girls wearing wellies, which was adorable and practical. However ... since when is it cool to wear sweatpants tucked into Uggs?

These are totally not my people.