dogs

This is a story about a whining, spoiled bitch. Not me, the other whining, spoiled bitch in our house.

My dog is the spoiled brat daughter I never had.

She rules the roost, runs my life and continuously sucks all the oxygen out of the room.

Her boxer-shark puppy stage is now simply a distant memory of hyper-energetic fur and razor-sharp teeth reeking their constant havoc. No human arm or furniture leg escaped unscathed—we all have the scars to prove it. Yet, these days I’ve almost grown nostalgic because this second stage—tween-boxer—is a fucking nightmare.

She is just a month shy of her second birthday which in dog years makes her about thirteen and a half, which explains the entitled, leg stomping, bitchy attitude—and the whining.
Good Lord almighty in Heaven, the whining!
Will it never cease?
What horrible sins have I committed that my penance would be such as to be subjected daily to this bitch’s endless whining?

It has become the soundtrack of my life.

And it has no basis in reality.

That’s the thing, it’s not like she’s locked up in a kennel, or left to fend for herself on the mean streets of LA searching for scraps to eat or a cardboard box to call a bed.

OH HELL NO!

She is the most pampered, overindulged, spoiled dog you will ever meet, which makes this whole “my life sucks—that walk was too short—why don’t you guys have kids for me to play with?”  dissatisfied dog act that much harder to swallow.

The other day I had to go for an early morning blood test so I took her with me in the car because I was tired of hearing: You never take me anywhere.

My plan was to get the test and then drive home via Burbank (completely out of my way) and drop her off at her favorite daycare facility Bow Wow Bungalow, to spend the day playing with her friends.

She played the sad-sack card whining the entire time.
I just turned the music up louder.
Which made her up the ante with a howl/cry.
Those cries are hard to drown out, so I had to crank up the volume even louder and proceeded to drive on.
I looked back at her in the rearview mirror—stink-eye—the death stare shot directly back at me while she twirled her hair and popped her gum.

If you had the misfortune to be sitting next to us in the stop-and-go traffic on the 405 that morning, you would have been accosted first by the music—Lady Gaga at full volume like those hoodlums at the stop lights that play their music so loud it registers on the Richter Scale.

If you had looked over you’d have seen a frazzled, middle-aged mother in a station wagon, screaming obscenities back at her petulant, whining, teen aged…dog. Who by that time was looking in the other direction, ignoring me completely, muttering under her breath “Talk to the paw”. (See photo above)

For the entire hour-and-a-half round trip drive, she whined and complained—right up until the street just before Bow Wow—then when she realized she was about to enjoy a day at Doggie Disneyland and she suddenly changed her tune.

Her face broke into a big smile and her whining turned to yelps of surprised anticipation. Her Velveteen Rabbit ears perked up and I think I even saw her wag her tail.

Oh sure, NOW she was filled with gratitude.

“Love you mommy, love you! You are the bomb! I’m so happy, you’re the best mommy ever!” she cried with joy all the way up the stairs, her little nub of a tail wagging furiously as she disappeared into the bowels of this dog Utopia.

Dammit she reminds me of me, I lamented on the blissfully silent drive home.

Hey, don’t laugh, I’m no different from you.

I whine and complain, pop my gum, stomp my feet and twirl my hair, the duration of pretty much every journey I undertake in life.

“Where am I headed? Where is life taking me? Why is this taking so long? Uhhhhh, this sucks, It’s not at all what I want to be doing!

Bitch, moan, complain—with a howl/cry and a stink-eye.

Wow, that’s identical to the tween-boxer’s backseat behavior.

I played the role of the Universe that day—I knew the destination was going to be off-the-charts fantastic for her. All I asked is that she shut up and enjoy the ride.

My little dog played me. She was void of even a whiff of patience. She thought she knew better. She second guessed every second of the trip.

She bitched and moaned because in her mind we should be at the park.

But I/The Universe had bigger, better plans for her/me.

Fuck. Lesson #1002847 learned.

Carry on,
xox

*Sad-sack stink-eye face.

When you’re grieving a loss it is impossible to escape the memories. No place is safe.

Every room, chair, blanket, toy, vomit stain, neighborhood walk, and piece of grass is a minefield of emotions.
That applies to the loss of a dog.

For a human being you can just multiply that by a quadrillion.

Since daylight savings time had the bad taste to pick last weekend, the weekend of her death to bestow upon us its gift of an additional hour of daylight, I had the poor judgement to sit out in the backyard and write.
My bad.

It was one of her favorite places.
It is dog Disneyland, containing all the essentials required for canine happiness.
Grass, toys, balls and frisbees, and the arms with which to throw them (ours), so our OCD dog could wrangle you into a game of catch no matter what other plans you had made for yourself.

Nap? Nope – Catch.

Settle in and read a book? Nope – Catch.

Bar-B-Q, talk with a friend, write a book? Nope, nope and double nope. But good try.

Time for a relentless five-hour game of catch!
You get the picture.

The boxer-shark puppy, Ruby, did not inherit the ball, frisbee, play catch gene.

She inherited a whole myriad of other traits that are even more annoying, like digging up lawns and eating expensive furniture, but that particular “play catch/fetch” gene? It skipped her entirely.

If you throw a ball her way it will hit her in the head and then she’ll watch it as it rolls right past her. Believe me, I just tried to play fetch with her on Sunday.

But that was then –– this was Monday evening.

We were sitting in back, remembering the old girl and crying.
Okay maybe not we, me, I was. My husband I’m sure was thinking: please for the love of God woman, give it a rest.

But grief didn’t care. I was grief’s bitch. Grief was the boss of me.

Anyway…after a half an hour of hearing me carry on, waxing poetic about how Dita would be playing ball right now, Dita would be next to me with the Frisbee,something had to give. With an exasperated sigh the puppy got up off the ottoman, stretched, sauntered over and picked up a tennis ball in her mouth, brought it over to me and dropped it at my feet.

Then she looked up at me with her big soulful eyes, so full of compassion that said: Shut the fuck up already, Here! Throw the God damn ball!

I half-heartedly picked it up and gave it a sideways toss onto the grass, never for one minute expecting what happened next. Instead of watching it whizz by her head like she usually did, the puppy bolted out to the lawn, stopped its momentum, picked it up in her mouth and ran it back to me… Just like Dita.

I jumped to my feet,“Did you see that?” I yelled, wiping the tears from my eyes to clear my vision. Had I imagined it?

My husband straightened in his chair. “Do it again” he said.
And I did; over and over for almost a half an hour. She fetched every ball, just like Dita. As a matter of fact EXACTLY like Dita. Same energy level, same ferocity, she even made the same little growl when she picked it up off the grass.

“If I bounce this ball and she spikes it with her nose, I’m gonna lose my mind” I announced very enthusiastically to my bewildered husband. “Because then I’ll know. That dog isn’t Ruby, that is Dita in that puppy body, playing catch with me so I’ll stop being so sad.”

And on the next bounce she did. She spiked the ball off her nose and caught it in mid-air. Just. Like. Dita.

“If I hadn’t just seen that with my own eyes…” my husband said, shaking his head, eyes welling up with tears.

Here’s the thing:

Our animals, family members, and all the people we hold so dear would never want us to suffer over their loss, that I know for sure, so I think they give us the gift of their presence, even just for a minute, to lessen our grief, and let us know they are near.

I’ve heard and read numerous stories about occurrences that cannot be chalked up to coincidence.

Favorite perfume in the air, music they loved on radio, seeing their name everywhere, even an athletically challenged, previously uninterested puppy playing an all-star game of fetch.

All that just to let us know that they’re fine, they are with us and for God sakes stop crying!

Addendum: That incident helped me to really feel her near me, which then in turn gave me comfort –– she didn’t feel so far away. I feel so much better AND I tossed a ball Ruby’s way this morning…it hit her in the leg and rolled unnoticed into the bushes…just sayin’

Carry on,
Xox

*this is a little trip down memory lane from last July. In honor of Dita, but also reminds me what a handful they were together!

This weekend, in a heroic act of immense bravery we took BOTH dogs, the boxer shark puppy, Ruby and the old girl, Dita, on a road trip up north to the Mountains of Santa Cruz.

Seems we were spurred on by a false sense of confidence, fueled by hope (and the need to get away, eat and drink too much and the lure of a good party) and by the fact that the couple who’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary we were road tripping to see, are dog lovers and had recently lost their old girl, and needed a dog fix.

Our friends usually have a room in their home with our name on it, except this time, since so many family members were coming into town and they had a full house.

No biggie, we’ve stayed at the local dog friendly hotels in the past, easy peasy – with one dog.

Now one mature dog and a seven month old boxer shark puppy isn’t two dogs; the number multiplies exponentially by the misbehaving, excess energy factor and the general havoc wreaked; making it seem in stress and aggravation as if there are nine wild, howling hounds.

I’d like to file a grievance right here and now with the Canine Powers that be.

I was misled to believe that the old dog would co-parent the puppy; giving us a helping paw with the potty training and pass along all the amazing traits that had made her such a well-behaved joy, and our home such a well oiled machine.

What a fucking lie.
The exact opposite has occurred.

The older girl now eyes with intrigue, all the raucous misbehavior that had never even occurred to her, like jumping up to the kitchen island to eat our dinner while our backs are turned.

She hits her forehead with her paw, like “Doh” and feels she has a lot of catching up to do.

Dita had the training of a service dog…..not anymore.

The puppy’s bad behavior has begun to rub off on her.
Ruby has cajoled my sweet old girl into barking (unheard of) ignoring orders to sit and stay, flipping us off and sticking out her tongue at us behind our backs, making long distance phone calls and smoking behind the garage.
They are both behaving like thirteen year old teenage bitches.

If this trip had a title, it would be called the “what’s the worst case scenario dog and pony show?”

“Well, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” was our default expectation.

Those two could assume the roles of furry terrorists. They could trash the room like a couple of drugged out, over sexed eighties rock stars, they could jump on party guests, muddying white pants, overturning lavishly decked out buffet tables and leave two big poops in the middle of the lawn. That was our worst case scenario  speculation. We wanted to steal ourselves for the worst, like soldiers preparing for battle, so we could be prepared.

We have a doggie door at home, which in my opinion is the best invention since sliced bread.
It is better than sliced bread. I will happily slice my own bread, if my dogs can take themselves out to shit in the middle of the night.

When we go away, we are privy to our dog’s bathroom habits, of which we are blissfully otherwise unaware.

In other words, we have to wake up, get dressed, get a leash, walk down a long corridor, traverse stairs, find a patch of grass, and indulge Ruby’s urge to go star-gazing and maybe relieve herself of a thimble full of pee at 3am.

Then, back at the room, the minute you get everyone settled, get undressed and climb back in bed, Dita, who had been feigning coma sleep, yawns loudly, shakes and lets you know in no uncertain terms: now she has to go out.

I know they hatched this plan when we left them alone in the car while we ate lunch on the way up. They are now laughing the uproarious laughter that only the naughtiest of dogs can hear.

I’m certain of it.

I’m telling you, Mean Girls.

The Worst Case Scenario Dog and Pony Show.

I knew I had to stop this madness.
I had to nip this thinking in the bud, or it would become a self-fulfilling prophesy.

As I always say, it’s all in the energy of our expectations.

Why couldn’t we hope for the best instead of expecting the worst?
We had to.

I decided to rename the trip to the BEST Case Scenario Tour, where every thing turns out BETTER than expected, where the girls are well-behaved, everyone sleeps through the night, there’s no crying (Raphael) and everyone has fun.

Once I suggested we change our expectations, the vibe shifted.
Although we were still hyper vigilant at the party, we let them run free without leashes, playing with the kids and even ended up abandoning our plan to put them in the van once the food was served.

Truth be told, they played so hard with all the kids and the other dogs, smiling their big toothy dog smiles, (including a one hundred pound, big lug of a Great Dane puppy) that they were far too exhausted by the time the food was served to cause any trouble.
They fell asleep in the car two seconds after we left to go back to the hotel, slept through the night without a whimper and had sweet dreams of the best dog day EVER.

Did they suddenly become the best behaved dogs in the world? Or did we just chill out and stop expecting mayhem?

Hmmmmmmm, hard to tell.

What was the Best case scenario?
Exactly what happened.

*You can substitute the word dogs with children, co-workers or in-laws, it’s all the same.

Tell me about your dog/kids road trips. I’m sure you’ve got some stories to share.
Remember when you share it helps the tribe!

Sending big, wet, dog kisses,
Xox

I’m not one to quote the bible, but HELLO? The truth is the truth. Isn’t this where all the confusion in life stems from?

We, myself included, meditate, take walks, listen to music, do yoga, chant, and kiss our dogs, in order to line up with that Essence, that Being, that voice inside of us that is wise and kind and has our back. Our true Master.

The Captain O Captain of our ships.

Then we, and I’m definitely included here, get knocked out into left field by attempting to serve another.
Our demanding boss, our overreaching mother, our unreasonable, dissatisfied spouse, our spoiled, over indulged, checked-out children, even the guy at Target who wants us to move to another line.

The entire world is loud and full of jackassery, and I must admit it gets my attention MOST of the time.

All the petty, insignificant things have a way of making it to the top of my list and hey, listen, I’d be happy at times to ONLY SERVE TWO masters.

So, I call Bullshit!
I just have to say BACK OFF!…ENOUGH!…PEOPLE!
Get in line.
Take a number.
Single file.
I’ll listen to you one at a time, and I reserve the right to send you back to the end, until you learn to behave yourselves.

I can no longer serve two (hundred) masters. I now realize my limitations and I’m no longer ashamed. I’m actually relieved.

You see, in trying to make everyone around me happy, I wasn’t living my best life, which turned me into one crazy ass bitch, and then I was no good to anyone. Least of all myself. I began to lose my ZaZaZu which makes life no fun at all, and Janet a very, very dull girl.

Wanna hear a truth? YOU are NONE OF MY BUSINESS.

So I’m gonna disappoint a few of you. I’m takin’ to YOU Target guy.

I will NO LONGER toe the line.

I will NO LONGER sacrifice feeling good to make you happy.

I will NO LONGER take you to the park twice a day and throw the ball incessantly like one of those pitching machines, so you can just stop your whining. Once is enough. It’s not ALL about you! My existence is not about being your beck and call girl, you little bitches.
(Sorry, a little dog rage.)

But…
I WILL laugh more,
Sleep longer,
Wear comfortable shoes,
Write sassier,
Live louder,
Wear impossibly cruel, high heels,
Be a walking contradiction,
Stop apologizing,
Be mystical and believe in magic,
Drink carbonated, sugary beverages occasionally,
Be bolder,
Take chances,
Watch silly singing shows,
Say fuck whenever it strikes me,
Eat after ten,
And walk BY MYSELF once a day, without the dogs, for my own sanity and peace of mind.

I’m committed to only one Master now, and she knows what’s best for me.

How about you? You in?

Carry on,
Xox

“Youth is wasted on the young” ~ George Bernard Shaw

I was just thinking about that today.
About youth and aging.
About perky tits and chicken neck waddle.
About going from looking in the mirror and worrying if you have enough concealer to hide the zits, to being completely helpless without the assistance of a supersonic magnifying mirror made by NASA to apply anything besides Chapstick.

By the way, what happened to my lips?

Every morning I send out a search party to find my upper lip.  It disappeared around five years ago, and I miss it.  If you see it out on the town, wearing a wildly undefined coat of Chanel red lipstick, please tell it I’m looking for it and to come home.

What I was really pondering, was my ability as a young woman, to fluctuate between being utterly fearless, to riddled with insecurity, indecision and doubt.

It was quite a swing, the speedball of emotional cocktails – and I know I’m not the only one.  You can’t hide.  I can sense you there.

Things that used to terrify me, sending me into a cold sweat, have now become second nature. And vice versa.

These days I have no problem letting someone know if they’re out of line. I have mastered the art of confrontation (which when done well, really is an art) to the point where it doesn’t even feel like a disagreement and often we all end up laughing, hugging, singing Kumbaya, and taking a selfie.

I also spontaneously hug people – in public.  Complete strangers. It can be triggered by the most random of things, a great haircut, a cool tattoo, an interesting laugh, what they’re eating, a cute dog or if I happen to see them crying.

As a younger woman I would have rather died, run over by a clown car full of disapproving authority figures.

Back then what I lacked in depth, I made up for in reckless abandon.
I was born with very little modesty.  I’d show my boobs to anyone who’d ask ( yes there were requests), pee without closing the door, and walk across a beach or crowded pool party in a bikini without a cover up.

I know! I was oblivious. There are pictures.

Now just recalling that makes me sick to my stomach.

I’d also sing at the drop of a hat.  At the top of my lungs.  That is until I turned thirty and developed crippling stage fright, which only released its grip on me after fifty when I no longer gave a fuck.

I care less and less about making a fool of myself, which is one of the HUGE benefits of getting older. I cannot overstate that.

 If only I’d felt that way back then. I’d be Lady Gaga by now.

As I established earlier this month, the older I get, the less fucks I give.  I have a limited amount left and I don’t want to waste one.
I’m a Nazi about only spending time with the people I want to see, doing the things I want to do.
I no longer give a fuck about chipped nail polish, carrying the “right bag”, who the latest, greatest anything/anyone is, how big your diamond is, how much grey hair I have, the ebb and flow of the stock market, keeping up with the Kardashians, or who wore it better.
I have bigger fish to fry.

All I give a fuck about is my health, my family, my husband and what my dogs think of me.

A friend complained to me recently, ” Oh God, I don’t need any more friends, I have forty years worth, and I don’t see enough of the ones I have!”

Not me! It seems I make new friends faster and more easily as I’ve gotten older.

Either people have become less discerning, or I’ve suddenly become much more interesting and engaging. (I’m not sure which one bodes better for me.)
Maybe it’s true that like a fine wine, I have improved with age. The jury’s still out, but what I DO know is that I’ve become infinitely more approachable.
And curious.   

I was so busy being self involved when I was young, ( if it had been an Olympic sport, I would have medaled), that I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else.  I also thought I knew it all.  Now I’m certain of ONE thing only:  I don’t know shit about shit.

Here’s the thing,  other people seem SO frickin’ interesting to me. Everyone’s doing something fabulous that I need to hear about right now! Their lives are complex, multi-faceted nuggets of wonder and goodness. When did that happen?

In my opinion, youth is wasted on the young because of their lack of appreciation. Also, because in not knowing any better, too many fucks are wasted on frivolous shit that doesn’t matter a day, let alone a year or ten years later.

And by the fact that in the moment – being young seems like it will last forever.   Doesn’t it?

Curious to hear what you think.
Big love,
Xox

Thankfully for me personally, this year didn’t suck.
There have been some years in the recent past that could not end fast enough for my taste, (you know who you are 2009 – 2010).

I’m not sure I can say the same for the world at large, but I’ll let the journalists who are fond of charting those kinds of negative things, write about that, and you can choose which to read – humor or horror.

This is my blog, so naturally it’s funny and it’s all about me ;-).

This year was pivotal in a couple of ways.

First, it was the year that I finally came out of the closet – as a writer.
I owned it. Full time.
I went on a Mack Daddy writing retreat with other Mack Daddy writers and they didn’t vote me off the island. I’m writing a book based on this blog, co-writing a musical and helping a friend edit her book. Seems I bought the T- shirt and drank the kool-aid – and I couldn’t be happier. Who knew?!

Second, I gave up any and all hope I still held, that George Clooney would settle down and get married…to me. That was a hard one – we had something.

I used to sell him jewelry back in the day, and bake chocolate bundt cakes for him when he was just ER George Clooney, not GEORGE CLOONEY the movie star.

We used to tease each other.
I’d bring up “Facts of Life” storylines, tell him his credit card was declined – while threatening it with scissors, and make supermodel jokes because he was too thin (which he was, despite the cake) – and he’d put his arm around me or call me “his girl” and watch my face turn poinsettia red while I geeked out.

I helped him refine his taste in jewelry.

You’re welcome Amal.

I’m telling you, we had it.

Oh timing…you are a cruel opponent.

This was also the year we got our boxer-shark puppy which has been a blessing and curse.
I’ve written about maybe two percent of the shenanigans she’s pulled.

She’s a bitch, a trouble maker and a giver of NO fucks.
If she were human, she’d smoke cigarettes, have earphones permanently implanted, a bright blue mohawk and a pierced tongue. She would be the Girl with The Dragon Tattoo.

Currently she has mange. Or man-gee as my French husband calls it.
Yep, MY dog, who is bathed twice a month, and lives the life a Kardashian would envy – has mange. A friend I told recently, sympathized, “Oh yeah” she said, sipping a cocktail, “It’s like when your kid gets sent home from the expensive private school with head lice”

I can only imagine, but I felt a special bond, a kinship with her – she’s shared my mortification.

All kidding aside, it’s been a pretty great year.
I found my calling, expanded my furry family, and witnessed a Clooney miracle.

Gratitude. I’m filled with gratitude for the blessings that came my way, and hopeful that the ones that seemed to skip over my house will re-visit me in the coming year.

So y’all, how was your 2014? Are you happy to see it end?
What are some of the highs and lows you can share with the group? I’d love to hear about it!

Whoo Hoo! Come on 2015!
Xox

I’m kinda loving life right now, and I’m proudly, and publicly unapologetic.

Here are just a few of the things that fill me with appreciation.

My health

My hubby (he’s a saint)

I’m at a quandary here, I don’t want to put my beloved dogs before my husband, or after my family…they ARE family, so..
My family (which includes my dogs)

My amazing friends (old and new)

Writing (non-fiction, fiction, essays, the whole caboodle)

My morning walks and hikes with Sally (some of them, the ones that don’t hurt)

Christmas carols (belongs in my Hall of Fame)

Diamonds (they are my best friends)

The fact that I live in Los Angles California, USA.

The fact that I can write this blog without fear of reprisals or repercussions (except maybe occasional embarrassment)

Chocolate (I know it’s high on the list, don’t judge)

Our motorcycle trips

Being inspired (by people, what I read or see or taste or…)

Singing (Karaoke with Orna)

Coffee

The smell of Christmas trees, pine scented anything

Driftwood

Laughing, humor, being silly

False eyelashes (I’m obsessed)

Airplane travel – all travel really

Red nail polish, well…all nail polish

Movies (at the theatre, I love the surround sound and the big screen)

Rainy days

Fires in the fireplace

Hummingbird nests

The color blue

Peanut butter (chunky of course)

Lazy Sunday afternoons reading (just a memory these days)

My garden (nature in general)

White twinkle lights

Tears of joy

The smell in the house on Thanksgiving or any time Raphael cooks

I’d love you to share some of yours! Come on! Be as un-cool as me!

Xox

..or late at night.

I want to start a feature called What The Hell Wednesday, where we marvel at the extraordinary things that happen – on a daily basis – in our lives.
Are you in?
Great!
Okay. I’ll start.

Over Thanksgiving weekend our old doggie had another seizure (two in ten days).

Since the vet was closed for the Holiday, and Dita seemed to recover in under ten minutes (tail wagging, ball in her mouth), we decided to forgo an emergency visit, observe, and wait until the vet re-opened.

On the outside that’s what it looked like we were doing, but on the inside we were freaking out, consumed with worry, thinking this could be “goodbye”.

You see, our previous dog had a seizure, followed by another every day, until we had to put her down. All within a week. My husband and I both have post traumatic seizure syndrome.

That night, while acting cool, calm and collected (for Dita), I laid in bed and awfulized, working myself into a tizzy (albeit a quiet one).
My thoughts were racing. Don’t kid yourself, you know how this ends was what that practical bastard in my head kept repeating over and over.

Fears greatest hits – on an endless loop.

My husband had anesthetized with pie. I was not so lucky.

I meditated. I listened to my tapes. Finally it got so bad I asked for help.

Please, you’ve gotta help me with this, I write about gaining control over fear, but I’m spiraling over here.

I must have pleaded for a minute or two when a very calm voice came through: It’s not like the other dog, they’ll be able to control it with medication.

Uh, okay. They can do that? With dogs I mean? They have meds for seizures?

It’s not like the other dog, they’ll be able to control it with medication.

But what if…

It’s not like the other dog, they’ll be able to control it with medication.

That’s all they said, exactly those words, over and over, until I calmed down and went to sleep.

A couple of days later, at the vet, after numerous blood tests and X-rays; as he brought the old girl back into the room, I KNEW what the Vet was going to say; I’d even told my husband.

“It’s not cancer like your other dog, we can control it with medication.”

I swear. Verbatim.

Asking for help, then listening for the answer=good.

Spiraling out of control=not so good.

AND even if things look the same, they are not!

What The Hell! I LOVE when that happens!

Now it’s YOUR turn. Please share your best WTH story in the comments below. I know everyone would love to read them – especially ME!

Big Love,
xox

Mary had a little lamb,
Whose fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went.
The lamb was sure to go.

I had a couple of revelations last weekend.

The first one I’m not proud of, but I think it’s important to know yourself, and I’ve become uncomfortably acquainted with my lack of tolerance for anything that whines, cries, looks to me to entertain it, or needs my constant attention and approval. In other words, it was validated once again, that I would have made a terrible mother.
I just lack that gene I guess.

The second I’ll tell you about later.

My husband was off racing high performance sports cars.
I know.
I want to come back as him in my next life, as MANY others do, so….take a number and get in line.

This left me alone with the boxer-shark puppy and the old girl, and when they are left with only one parent, they become dogs in sheep’s clothing.
They follow me EVERYWHERE and it’s been driving me INSANE.
And the whining. Hello? It’s torture.

Yet, there they are, every day. One with the face of an angel and the body of a super model and the other with a snaggle tooth, a limp and the face of an old Hungarian bubby.

Even in the bathroom. Which reminds me of the stories my sister used to tell about her two toddlers crying and knocking on the bathroom door, while she tried to have a moment. I thought those stories were a riot. Shame on me. I should have had more compassion.

Note to self: My compassion gene seems to be missing as well.

My two little lambs cry outside my bathroom door, and the puppy has taken to body slamming it in hopes of getting inside to drink from the bidet. Who taught them THAT filthy habit?

They have taken it upon themselves to become my two tiny tyrant time keepers.
They make sure I wake up at six sharp, by licking my face and play/fighting either right on top of me, or positioned close enough to where I get sprayed by flying drool, covered in hair and can feel the heat of their sweet and sour dog breath on the back of my neck. They want to make sure that I’m aware that it’s six AM and they’re STARVING.

They can’t understand how I can find happiness outside of chasing a ball, chewing on an orange plastic pretzel, or licking my own ass.

They whine if I’m in the kitchen past their boredom tolerance time allotment, which is approximately three minutes.
Same with writing, watching a movie, and any other task that seems mundane….to them.

Yesterday I was in the shower, the one place I can find some peace (although the puppy is just on the verge of joining me in there as well) and I was contemplating throwing down some kibble and water and leaving for the weekend (to pick up my Mother of The Year Award). Shit, the puppy would totally be fine, she is my renegade.
The older dog is the do-gooder, people pleaser. If I gave them each spare change and sent them out to buy me a cow, Dita, the old girl, would return home with a prize, grass-fed Heifer. Ruby would saunter in pregnant, with magic beans and a hell of a story to tell.

The two of them will get up from a sound sleep next to me on the couch, to follow me in circles (I do lead them in circles to see if I can shake um) following me outside – to the kitchen – around the bedroom – into the den and back – whining the whole time.

They double team me, telling me their big doe eyed doggie lies to convince me I’m a hack and a terrible person.

Which brings me to the second revelation:
We all have doubts, fears, worries and obligations that follow us around like whining little bitches, demanding our attention, just like these two canine creatures. Except…my thoughts are more like wolves in sheep’s clothing – merciless predators.

The stuff that follows you everywhere, stealing YOUR time, and convincing you that you’re no good.
They don’t have to wake you up at 6 a.m. because they don’t let you sleep –– at all.
Yeah, those guys.

Husband (he now only has one name, like Cher and Elvis) isn’t bothered by any of it.
He never hears the whining, he doesn’t mind the wake up calls and he doesn’t trip over them like I do all. day. long.

They are just dogs. And THAT is the reason in a nutshell why he maintains his level-headed, good-natured sanity, while I take the slow slide down the rabbit hole. (Slight exaggeration) He has the innate ability to let things roll off his back. They don’t stick. And THAT’s his trick to life. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

I’m working on it.
Don’t sweat the small stuff.
Got it.
I don’t have to trip over my doubts and worries, or watch them follow me around in circles. How about if I just tune out their chatter, like husband tunes out the whining?
Okay, good idea.

Now, what about the old girl and the puppy?
Those two furry obligations? They are the trouble I’m willing to keep in my life.
The others….not so much

What annoyances can you ignore and which just HAVE to go? Tell moi.

Big, big love,
Xox

*Those cushions were white five minutes ago.

Last night on the bike path I passed a well-dressed citizen, walking along with a bottle of water. I was stunned to see him finish his water and hurl the bottle into the woods.
I stopped and said, “Hey, please don’t do that.”

He looked at me with complete surprise and said, “what?” as if he didn’t understand what ‘that’ was. His conception of the world seemed to be that there was two kinds of stuff… his and not-his. The park wasn’t his, so it was just fine to throw trash, in fact, why not?

The challenge we have in the connection economy, in a world built on ever more shared resources and public digital spaces is that some people persist in acting like it belongs to someone else. When they spit in the pool or troll anonymously, when they spam or break things, it’s as if they’re doing it to someone else, or to the man.

Too often, we accept this vandalism as if it’s a law of nature, like dealing with the termites that will inevitably chew exposed wood on a house’s foundation. It doesn’t have to be this way. Over and over, we see that tribes and communities and organizations are able to teach people that this is ours, that it’s worth taking care of and most of all, that people like us care for things like this.

Seth Godin, whom I love, and also has the audacity to blog EVERY DAY, wrote this today, and as usual he hit the nail on the head about what I was sitting and stewing about this morning.

He was articulate. 

I’m REALLY hoping this doesn’t turn into a rant.

I wrote yesterday, in a humorous way, about someone in the neighborhood choosing to put out rodent poison, and the consequences. By this morning I was finding it as funny as a root canal.

I get it – I REALLY do. But here’s the deal.

The Eco system in our neighborhood is out of balance.

Since California has been suffering through its worst drought ever, the wildlife in the hills above our neighborhood has taken to the streets. The coyotes have come down and have been feasting on our free range cats. I lost my two Siamese in the space of a week a few years back.

About a month ago a couple of people in the hood pulled out sixty years worth of mature trees along with tons of ivy. Apparently the ivy had provided a lovely home for these rodents, and has for the sixty years it’s been there. 

They now find themselves on the move.

Since the coyotes have finished off most of the neighborhood cats that were keeping the rodents in check, their population has exploded this summer and we’ve seen and heard them in our Bougainvillea.
They’re not near the house, but the yuck factor in the evenings when you can hear and catch a glimpse of them is high.

Like I said – I get it.

We have contacted pest control who basically will come out and poison them. The other options are just as heinous; sticky tape that traps them (they either stay stuck and starve or you have to kill them; or traps, which often aren’t a quick kill. 
I hate killing anything. I carry spiders outside.

Anyway, they’re suffering.
Again, I am not a lover of rats and when they’ve gotten into the house we’ve resorted to killing them with a trap that electrocutes them instantly. We took the time to research our decision.
Still awful, but fast.
They never know what hits them and I’m okay with that if they’re eating my insulation and wiring and making a nest in my kitchen towel drawer, and in fifteen years we’ve had to kill maybe six. Previous to my cats dying, they did the dirty work for us. 

Here’s the parallel with Seth’s tale:
When I do that, it only affects ME and The RAT.

Whoever poisoned the rodents, took the easiest, cheapest, way AND they have started a chain reaction of collateral damage that will push the neighborhood that much further out of balance.
Not to mention the now FOUR suffering mice that we’ve found in our yard the last 24 hrs and have had to put out of their misery. They were dying a long, drawn out death, while my puppy played with them, and contemplated eating them.

We have owls and hawks who will eat the poisoned rats, so will the few feral cats that are left, and a couple of dogs that don’t know better. The squirrels and possums and raccoons will eat the poison and die horrible deaths too.

That poison doesn’t discriminate, and the wildlife is hungry this long, hot summer.

All because someone didn’t care about anyone or ANYTHING else.
They wanted the rodents to go away. Just like that guy didn’t want to carry around an empty plastic bottle.

I get it. I really do.

What I’m getting at is this: there are those of us that give careful consideration to others and the affect our actions will have on those around us. It is more than just MY rodent problem, it is OURS. Your decision has now affected the neighborhood, everyone’s pets, the wildlife and general peace of mind. 
Waking up to suffering animals and having to be hyper vigilant with my dogs is a pain in the ass.

Please, please, please my darling people, don’t throw your plastic bottle in the woods and don’t throw poison down and leave a mess for everyone else to clean up.

Be concious. Look around.

It screws up the balance.

It’s OURS not just yours.

I ranted huh? I’m Sorry……Thanks for indulging me.

Xox