January 10, 2012
How do I know it's the first day of classes?
Hmmmm. . . .
1. Stephen was dead to the world this morning because he was up late working and therefore unable to wake up to drive Em to school so I couldn't leave the house early, thus nullifying my desire to come into the office by 7.00 am to ensure enough time to prepare for today's classes, as was previously planned.
2. I was almost sideswiped on my way to Starbucks, after dropping Em off at school, or as she refers to it, "the rotting hell that consumes my life."
3. At the Starbucks counter I happen to glance in my purse and am struck with the realization that I don't have my office keys because Em was working on a project in my office last evening and upon her return home, forgot to put them back in my purse, prompting a phone call to her inquiring about my keys and a drive back to the "rotting hell" to collect them from her.
4. So preoccupied with getting my keys, I leave Starbucks without putting the requisite cream and two sweeteners into my coffee, thus forcing me to steal someone's coffee cream from the 3rd floor fridge, and replace the sweetener with actual sugar, so now I can feel my heart racing and I am worried about how this excess energy may manifest itself in my ten am class.
5. In my office, I am confronted with an 8x11 purple piece of paper upon which Em has written in bold, black marker, "Mum, read my unfinished essay -- psych phobias. It sucks, just so you know. Feel free to ADD anything. Love you, Em :)" Because I have time to rewrite Em's paper.
6. I read on People's website that Kevin Bacon's dog died which reduces me to a sobbing mess ten minutes before my class begins.
And it's not yet 10.00 am.
Good thing supper is already prepared.
I don't know if I would trust myself near any heat sources.
Title Lyric: Bad Day by Daniel Powter
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
The angel says what would you want her to do, if she was in your position?
January 9, 2012
Sick.
Insomnia.
Anxiety over syllabi not yet completed.
Up at 3.30 am to finish reading through grant applications only to drag my sick and weary self to a meeting where others had not even finished reading the applications let alone make a decision about who should receive a grant.
Ask me how thrilled I was.
Come on.
Ask me.
Frankie and I took a time out yesterday morning.
Stephen at Quaker meeting.
Kids both in bed.
I should have been sleeping, but as sleep seems to be playing hide and go seek with me, and Frankie was staring at me with those big brown eyes, I decided to take an hour for just him and me.
Packed him into the back seat of Em's car and off we went to the farm for some r and r.
Pulling out of the driveway, wondering if Mr. Man was going to park himself in the passenger front seat, I realized it was the first time I had ever gone anywhere with just Frankie.
And cried the entire drive to the farm.
Fortunately for both of us, I was saved from a tear-filled walk by the arrival of another car, complete with driver and two dogs, all of whom were in the mood for some of their own r and r.
Meaning I spent an hour talking dogs with a total stranger while Frankie frolicked and romped with a two year old weinheimer and a mixed breed.
Who really was a mix of everything.
Frankie had such a good time.
Even though the weinheimer was more aggressive than he was used to.
Leading Frankie, toward the end of the walk, to stay beside me, worn out from the running, chasing, to rest his snout in the palm of my hand, reassurance that I wasn't going to go anywhere without him.
Sometimes, you just need to step out for a while, talk with strangers and enjoy watching your dog romp on a Sunday morning.
Maybe if I did this more often I would suffer less from anxiety caused insomnia.
One of the things bouncing around my brain over the past two weeks has to do with power.
Ironically, if I was on my deathbed, I would not have the right to decide whether or not the quality of my life was sufficient enough to warrant continue living.
Think Sue Rodriguez.
Tracey Latimer.
But, I do have the power to make that decision for another living creature.
I don't anticipate coming to any sort of resolution, at least not one I'm comfortable with.
Over and over I go around this conundrum in my mind.
If I can make life and death decisions for one living being, how come I cannot make them for myself?
Something to think about.
Last evening, tired from hours of reading grant applications. . .
. . ."is this a working supper?" Stephen inquired last evening. . . .
I sat down in my spot, to watch a couple episodes of Big Bang Theory.
Frankie on the couch.
Sleeping.
Dreaming.
Until he farted.
Not one of his silent-yet-stinky farts.
No.
This one was loud, obnoxious and scared the shit (no pun intended) out of Frankie.
Jumping off the couch, he looks at where he had been lying peacefully just a minute before, and then to me as if I could explain what interrupted his peaceful slumber.
Aggressive methane, little man.
Happens to all of us.
Title Lyric: Decisions by Ne-Yo
Sick.
Insomnia.
Anxiety over syllabi not yet completed.
Up at 3.30 am to finish reading through grant applications only to drag my sick and weary self to a meeting where others had not even finished reading the applications let alone make a decision about who should receive a grant.
Ask me how thrilled I was.
Come on.
Ask me.
Frankie and I took a time out yesterday morning.
Stephen at Quaker meeting.
Kids both in bed.
I should have been sleeping, but as sleep seems to be playing hide and go seek with me, and Frankie was staring at me with those big brown eyes, I decided to take an hour for just him and me.
Packed him into the back seat of Em's car and off we went to the farm for some r and r.
Pulling out of the driveway, wondering if Mr. Man was going to park himself in the passenger front seat, I realized it was the first time I had ever gone anywhere with just Frankie.
And cried the entire drive to the farm.
Fortunately for both of us, I was saved from a tear-filled walk by the arrival of another car, complete with driver and two dogs, all of whom were in the mood for some of their own r and r.
Meaning I spent an hour talking dogs with a total stranger while Frankie frolicked and romped with a two year old weinheimer and a mixed breed.
Who really was a mix of everything.
Frankie had such a good time.
Even though the weinheimer was more aggressive than he was used to.
Leading Frankie, toward the end of the walk, to stay beside me, worn out from the running, chasing, to rest his snout in the palm of my hand, reassurance that I wasn't going to go anywhere without him.
Sometimes, you just need to step out for a while, talk with strangers and enjoy watching your dog romp on a Sunday morning.
Maybe if I did this more often I would suffer less from anxiety caused insomnia.
One of the things bouncing around my brain over the past two weeks has to do with power.
Ironically, if I was on my deathbed, I would not have the right to decide whether or not the quality of my life was sufficient enough to warrant continue living.
Think Sue Rodriguez.
Tracey Latimer.
But, I do have the power to make that decision for another living creature.
I don't anticipate coming to any sort of resolution, at least not one I'm comfortable with.
Over and over I go around this conundrum in my mind.
If I can make life and death decisions for one living being, how come I cannot make them for myself?
Something to think about.
Last evening, tired from hours of reading grant applications. . .
. . ."is this a working supper?" Stephen inquired last evening. . . .
I sat down in my spot, to watch a couple episodes of Big Bang Theory.
Frankie on the couch.
Sleeping.
Dreaming.
Until he farted.
Not one of his silent-yet-stinky farts.
No.
This one was loud, obnoxious and scared the shit (no pun intended) out of Frankie.
Jumping off the couch, he looks at where he had been lying peacefully just a minute before, and then to me as if I could explain what interrupted his peaceful slumber.
Aggressive methane, little man.
Happens to all of us.
Title Lyric: Decisions by Ne-Yo
Sunday, January 8, 2012
I'm guilty for that, I'm guilty
January 8, 2012
I just don't want to work this morning.
Really.
What I want to do is crawl back in bed, Frankie by my side, Jasper curled up beside me, and sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Fitfully.
Not the I'm-sick-and-not-sleeping-well-sleep.
I hate that sleep.
Awake at 1.30 am playing Bejeweled Blitz on my cell phone because I'm too tired to do anything else, but apparently not tired enough to sleep.
Regardless of how crappy I feel, I must, I MUST go for groceries.
We haven't gone since before Christmas.
Goblet is looking more like a plump, juicy roast and less like the 20+ pound cat she is, in all her glory.
Stephen off to Quaker meeting, while I either sleep or work.
And when he returns, drag myself out of the house for the horrors of the Superstore on a Sunday afternoon -- the Sunday afternoon before classes resume both at the university and the high school.
Pushy shoppers who are convinced their mission is more important than the mission of anyone else perusing the aisles.
Or those shoppers who use the grocery store as their social meeting place, clogging the aisles preventing the rest of us who have better things to do, other things to do, wanting to get the hell out of there before we go postal and start taking people out.
Or Stephen, who meanders through the aisles, pointing out this and that, glancing at the sodium content of this new item, or that new item.
Provided he has remembered to bring along his glasses.
In which case I have to stand there and impatiently read the sodium content to him.
Before he'll hustle himself along until the next shiny object catches his eye.
I loathe grocery shopping.
What I didn't do yesterday was visit my mother.
No matter how committed I am to visiting her, how much I want to have the Saturday evening beans and brown bread fare, the nursing home is less than accepting of people coming in to their sterilized environment bringing with them their germs.
Coughing.
Hacking.
And not even my mother's disappointment is worth facing the glaring stares of the nurses once they realize I've come in bearing germs and bacteria which could infect their residents and increase their workload.
Still, I feel guilty when I don't go.
Even if I have a legitimate reason.
Women's guilt has nothing to do with logic.
In fact, women's guilt is the exact opposite.
Illogical.
Doesn't matter what the reason, overcoming guilt is something that is simply beyond my abilities to challenge.
More energy than I have to dedicate to eradicating it from my being.
Other things to do.
Besides, if I didn't feel guilt, I worry I wouldn't feel anything at all.
Title Lyric: Guilty by Usher
I just don't want to work this morning.
Really.
What I want to do is crawl back in bed, Frankie by my side, Jasper curled up beside me, and sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Fitfully.
Not the I'm-sick-and-not-sleeping-well-sleep.
I hate that sleep.
Awake at 1.30 am playing Bejeweled Blitz on my cell phone because I'm too tired to do anything else, but apparently not tired enough to sleep.
Regardless of how crappy I feel, I must, I MUST go for groceries.
We haven't gone since before Christmas.
Goblet is looking more like a plump, juicy roast and less like the 20+ pound cat she is, in all her glory.
Stephen off to Quaker meeting, while I either sleep or work.
And when he returns, drag myself out of the house for the horrors of the Superstore on a Sunday afternoon -- the Sunday afternoon before classes resume both at the university and the high school.
Pushy shoppers who are convinced their mission is more important than the mission of anyone else perusing the aisles.
Or those shoppers who use the grocery store as their social meeting place, clogging the aisles preventing the rest of us who have better things to do, other things to do, wanting to get the hell out of there before we go postal and start taking people out.
Or Stephen, who meanders through the aisles, pointing out this and that, glancing at the sodium content of this new item, or that new item.
Provided he has remembered to bring along his glasses.
In which case I have to stand there and impatiently read the sodium content to him.
Before he'll hustle himself along until the next shiny object catches his eye.
I loathe grocery shopping.
What I didn't do yesterday was visit my mother.
No matter how committed I am to visiting her, how much I want to have the Saturday evening beans and brown bread fare, the nursing home is less than accepting of people coming in to their sterilized environment bringing with them their germs.
Coughing.
Hacking.
And not even my mother's disappointment is worth facing the glaring stares of the nurses once they realize I've come in bearing germs and bacteria which could infect their residents and increase their workload.
Still, I feel guilty when I don't go.
Even if I have a legitimate reason.
Women's guilt has nothing to do with logic.
In fact, women's guilt is the exact opposite.
Illogical.
Doesn't matter what the reason, overcoming guilt is something that is simply beyond my abilities to challenge.
More energy than I have to dedicate to eradicating it from my being.
Other things to do.
Besides, if I didn't feel guilt, I worry I wouldn't feel anything at all.
Title Lyric: Guilty by Usher
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Running to the future with you right by my side
January 7, 2012
Stephen and Emily were gracious enough to share their sore throat, coughing, diarrhea with me.
Three days before classes begin.
Thanks.
Love you both, too!
Frankie continues to mourn Tikka.
We all do.
But we have things to distract us from the pain of loss.
Grant applications to adjudicate.
Dissertation proposals to revise and resubmit.
Syllabi to prepare for next week's beginning of classes.
Frankie has. . . . .
Us.
Trying valiantly to keep him occupied.
A more-than-full-time-job on it's own.
THE only time Frankie has ever been completely and utterly exhausted has been after a three or four hour romp on the beach, running in and out of the ocean, chasing birds, digging for treasure.
Not really possible during this time of the year.
We're trying our best to make him feel special.
Extra drives in the car.
Little nummies in his food bowl.
Walks as often as possible during the day.
Last night, for instance.
Clad in only my pjs, I put on my full length winter coat, complete with hat, mitts, and miner-like headlight, and joined Stephen and Frankie on an evening stroll through the farm.
Something about being up there at night, snow falling around you, just you and the people you love that makes those night time rambles so enjoyable.
Especially when you can see where you're going.
Always a plus for someone as clumsy as I am.
Clumsiness not made any easier with weight loss that has resulted in too big boots, meaning with every stumble, I am on the verge of falling over and becoming the turtle on it's back in my full length winter coat.
Wearing my Blundstones makes me feel the same way I did as a kid when I'd wear my mother's heal.
Feet flopping around inside my boots as I try to maintain enough purchase to preclude falling over.
All while keeping my face down to ensure that no hidden ice patches sneak up on me and take me out.
Now going out for this ramble was lovely.
But the fever that returned upon our return home was not.
Putting me back in bed, a punishment for thinking I could actually go outside when I was sick.
While I was convalescing, Stephen took the tree down, cleaned up the spruce needle detritus littering the living room floor, and packed the decorations in their box to wait for next Christmas.
Which HAS to be better than this Christmas.
Has to be.
Classes resume Monday.
Meeting at 9.00 am.
I'll be spending the weekend working to complete my syllabi.
I've added some new books to the mix.
Articles that will, hopefully, engage my students to do more than sit in their chairs looking at me with mild interest on their faces.
Something like this:
Title Lyric: Running by No Doubt
Stephen and Emily were gracious enough to share their sore throat, coughing, diarrhea with me.
Three days before classes begin.
Thanks.
Love you both, too!
Frankie continues to mourn Tikka.
We all do.
But we have things to distract us from the pain of loss.
Grant applications to adjudicate.
Dissertation proposals to revise and resubmit.
Syllabi to prepare for next week's beginning of classes.
Frankie has. . . . .
Us.
Trying valiantly to keep him occupied.
A more-than-full-time-job on it's own.
THE only time Frankie has ever been completely and utterly exhausted has been after a three or four hour romp on the beach, running in and out of the ocean, chasing birds, digging for treasure.
Not really possible during this time of the year.
We're trying our best to make him feel special.
Extra drives in the car.
Little nummies in his food bowl.
Walks as often as possible during the day.
Last night, for instance.
Clad in only my pjs, I put on my full length winter coat, complete with hat, mitts, and miner-like headlight, and joined Stephen and Frankie on an evening stroll through the farm.
Something about being up there at night, snow falling around you, just you and the people you love that makes those night time rambles so enjoyable.
Especially when you can see where you're going.
Always a plus for someone as clumsy as I am.
Clumsiness not made any easier with weight loss that has resulted in too big boots, meaning with every stumble, I am on the verge of falling over and becoming the turtle on it's back in my full length winter coat.
Wearing my Blundstones makes me feel the same way I did as a kid when I'd wear my mother's heal.
Feet flopping around inside my boots as I try to maintain enough purchase to preclude falling over.
All while keeping my face down to ensure that no hidden ice patches sneak up on me and take me out.
Now going out for this ramble was lovely.
But the fever that returned upon our return home was not.
Putting me back in bed, a punishment for thinking I could actually go outside when I was sick.
While I was convalescing, Stephen took the tree down, cleaned up the spruce needle detritus littering the living room floor, and packed the decorations in their box to wait for next Christmas.
Which HAS to be better than this Christmas.
Has to be.
Classes resume Monday.
Meeting at 9.00 am.
I'll be spending the weekend working to complete my syllabi.
I've added some new books to the mix.
Articles that will, hopefully, engage my students to do more than sit in their chairs looking at me with mild interest on their faces.
Something like this:
Title Lyric: Running by No Doubt
Thursday, January 5, 2012
I need to get back to place where I belong. . .
January 5, 2012
All my plans and activities were cancelled yesterday.
A result of my body's betrayal.
Most of the day was spent sleeping.
A futile attempt to ignore the brain twisting pain raging in my netheryeyah.
I wasn't the only one who was at the whim of his body yesterday.
At three, Frankie is still learning about himself and his body.
Case in point: the spontaneous and frantic thrusting of his hips yesterday morning for no apparent reason.
The hip thrusting wasn't an issue.
But the look on his face was priceless!
Looking at me with a combination of utter panic and fascination flitting across his face in equal parts.
Me trying not to laugh.
Typical 21 year old male.
If you believe the 7 human years for one dog year.
Given yesterday's impromptu display of his manliness, I do.
Stephen brought Tikka home yesterday afternoon.
I couldn't go.
Emotionally or physically.
The healing I thought I'd experienced was a facade.
Seeing her in her permanent resting place, knowing she was finally home, caused a release of pain and tears of such ferocity.
I had assumed I was all cried out.
Apparently not.
Rather than fight it, I just let it happen.
Let the tears flow, the pain wash over me.
Frankie at my side, resting his snout on my leg.
Sniffing the urn.
Knowing, I think, she was there.
At least she's here.
With us.
Never did I think that I'd welcome the return to classes.
The routine more than anything.
Knowing that I could tell you exactly what I will be doing at any time of day.
Not like now.
Aimless.
Work a bit, read a bit, sleep a lot, eat some, walk Frankie.
Time to return to routine, to normalcy, to the comfort of my everyday world.
Not that I can't find comfort here when I need to.
Last night, in my spot, watching Big Bang Theory, I look over to the couch, and see Frankie and Jasper.
The lion and the lamb.
Don't ask whose who.
That entirely depends on the time of day.
Title Lyric: Coming Home by Diddy
All my plans and activities were cancelled yesterday.
A result of my body's betrayal.
Most of the day was spent sleeping.
A futile attempt to ignore the brain twisting pain raging in my netheryeyah.
I wasn't the only one who was at the whim of his body yesterday.
At three, Frankie is still learning about himself and his body.
Case in point: the spontaneous and frantic thrusting of his hips yesterday morning for no apparent reason.
The hip thrusting wasn't an issue.
But the look on his face was priceless!
Looking at me with a combination of utter panic and fascination flitting across his face in equal parts.
Me trying not to laugh.
Typical 21 year old male.
If you believe the 7 human years for one dog year.
Given yesterday's impromptu display of his manliness, I do.
Stephen brought Tikka home yesterday afternoon.
I couldn't go.
Emotionally or physically.
The healing I thought I'd experienced was a facade.
Seeing her in her permanent resting place, knowing she was finally home, caused a release of pain and tears of such ferocity.
I had assumed I was all cried out.
Apparently not.
Rather than fight it, I just let it happen.
Let the tears flow, the pain wash over me.
Frankie at my side, resting his snout on my leg.
Sniffing the urn.
Knowing, I think, she was there.
At least she's here.
With us.
Never did I think that I'd welcome the return to classes.
The routine more than anything.
Knowing that I could tell you exactly what I will be doing at any time of day.
Not like now.
Aimless.
Work a bit, read a bit, sleep a lot, eat some, walk Frankie.
Time to return to routine, to normalcy, to the comfort of my everyday world.
Not that I can't find comfort here when I need to.
Last night, in my spot, watching Big Bang Theory, I look over to the couch, and see Frankie and Jasper.
The lion and the lamb.
Don't ask whose who.
That entirely depends on the time of day.
Title Lyric: Coming Home by Diddy
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Swim in a deep sea of blankets. . .
January 4, 2011
The 5 am walk was actually a 6.15 am walk this morning.
Tired, I just didn't want to leave the warmth of my bed.
It's cold outside.
Not that Frankie minds.
But I have to put on so many layers that if I ever fell, I'd lay there like a turtle on my back waiting for someone to come and turn me over.
Provided Frankie didn't attempt to eat them first.
Yesterday, around 4.30, Stephen and I took Frankie to the farm.
It was colder then than it was at 5.00 am.
Man, it was cold!
Frankie running around like a newly released prisoner.
Other dogs frolicking with him.
Chasing him.
Because while my boy is all boy with people, he is actually very submissive with other dogs.
We encountered friends of ours and their two black labs.
So while the walk was cold, it was warmer with the company of friends.
And watching Frankie run around with other dogs.
Enjoying the companionship he misses so much.
Even if it was fleeting.
Of course, our little man loves sticks.
LOVES them.
And once he clamps one between his teeth, getting it from him is most unlikely.
In spite of the fact that he wants you to get it, throw it for him.
Usually, we have two sticks.
One to distract him.
The other to grab when he isn't looking.
Loving the looks of stunned amazement on his face when he comes back and sees that you have a stick in your hand.
When he has one in his mouth.
How DOES that happen?
His latest conquest was unique indeed.
At least 7 feet long.
Wider at one end than the other.
And Frankie hell bent and determined he was going to have this stick.
Or tree branch to be more specific.
He ran around with the behemoth branch in his mouth, tipping him to one side or the other depending on which side the heaviest end was located.
His companion dogs tried to get the behemoth branch from him to no avail.
They gave up.
He didn't.
Whacking us in the backs of the knees as he ran behind and then around us.
Smacking us up side the head when we were looking in the opposite direction.
Not giving in, there was an heated tussle when we finally made it back to the car.
Stephen, Frankie and the stick.
Stephen won.
But not without a struggle.
Frankie does not give up his sticks willingly.
Only thing stronger than Frankie's will is Stephen's will not to have the behemoth branch in the back of the car.
Poor Frankie.
No matter how strong his will, he'll never defeat an OCD clean freak.
One of the suggestions from Annette the greatest dog trainer in response to Frankie's mourning was to give him extra TLC.
Ask me to do something difficult.
In spite of the iron clad rule that no dog shall rest his hind quarters upon the cushions of the newest couch, Frankie has found a way to circumvent the house axiom.
Duck blanket resting on the dog hair magnetized burgundy couch, he snuggles up in his corner, sighs deeply, and eventually falls asleep.
Stephen saw him resting comfortably atop the blanket.
Sat down beside him.
Told him not to get too comfortable.
And then turned to me and said he didn't mind him being up there if I didn't mind him being up there.
But. . .
Because there is always a but with Stephen. . . .
"He can't be up there without no blanket underneath him!"
Really, Stephen.
No blanket.
Vacation time must be leading him to verbally digress.
Speaking Geary.
Definitely time to go back to work.
Title Lyric: Body is A Wonderland by John Mayer
The 5 am walk was actually a 6.15 am walk this morning.
Tired, I just didn't want to leave the warmth of my bed.
It's cold outside.
Not that Frankie minds.
But I have to put on so many layers that if I ever fell, I'd lay there like a turtle on my back waiting for someone to come and turn me over.
Provided Frankie didn't attempt to eat them first.
Yesterday, around 4.30, Stephen and I took Frankie to the farm.
It was colder then than it was at 5.00 am.
Man, it was cold!
Frankie running around like a newly released prisoner.
Other dogs frolicking with him.
Chasing him.
Because while my boy is all boy with people, he is actually very submissive with other dogs.
We encountered friends of ours and their two black labs.
So while the walk was cold, it was warmer with the company of friends.
And watching Frankie run around with other dogs.
Enjoying the companionship he misses so much.
Even if it was fleeting.
Of course, our little man loves sticks.
LOVES them.
And once he clamps one between his teeth, getting it from him is most unlikely.
In spite of the fact that he wants you to get it, throw it for him.
Usually, we have two sticks.
One to distract him.
The other to grab when he isn't looking.
Loving the looks of stunned amazement on his face when he comes back and sees that you have a stick in your hand.
When he has one in his mouth.
How DOES that happen?
His latest conquest was unique indeed.
At least 7 feet long.
Wider at one end than the other.
And Frankie hell bent and determined he was going to have this stick.
Or tree branch to be more specific.
He ran around with the behemoth branch in his mouth, tipping him to one side or the other depending on which side the heaviest end was located.
His companion dogs tried to get the behemoth branch from him to no avail.
They gave up.
He didn't.
Whacking us in the backs of the knees as he ran behind and then around us.
Smacking us up side the head when we were looking in the opposite direction.
Not giving in, there was an heated tussle when we finally made it back to the car.
Stephen, Frankie and the stick.
Stephen won.
But not without a struggle.
Frankie does not give up his sticks willingly.
Only thing stronger than Frankie's will is Stephen's will not to have the behemoth branch in the back of the car.
Poor Frankie.
No matter how strong his will, he'll never defeat an OCD clean freak.
One of the suggestions from Annette the greatest dog trainer in response to Frankie's mourning was to give him extra TLC.
Ask me to do something difficult.
In spite of the iron clad rule that no dog shall rest his hind quarters upon the cushions of the newest couch, Frankie has found a way to circumvent the house axiom.
Duck blanket resting on the dog hair magnetized burgundy couch, he snuggles up in his corner, sighs deeply, and eventually falls asleep.
Stephen saw him resting comfortably atop the blanket.
Sat down beside him.
Told him not to get too comfortable.
And then turned to me and said he didn't mind him being up there if I didn't mind him being up there.
But. . .
Because there is always a but with Stephen. . . .
"He can't be up there without no blanket underneath him!"
Really, Stephen.
No blanket.
Vacation time must be leading him to verbally digress.
Speaking Geary.
Definitely time to go back to work.
Title Lyric: Body is A Wonderland by John Mayer
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
And you spend your life just thinking. . .
January 3, 2012
My brother came for dinner last evening.
It will soon be a year since Kat passed away.
He is hurting so bad.
And yet he gets up everyday.
Puts one foot in front of the other, whether he wants to or not.
Seeing him made me realize that we have to work through our pain.
Through the hurt, the gaping holes, the voids so big that you could drive a deuce and a half through them.
A line of them.
If he can move forward everyday, even half-heartedly, I can surely work through the pain and loss of losing Tikka.
I have to.
Annette the best dog trainer in the world is now also working at the SPCA.
This is a good thing.
She called me yesterday.
Expressed her condolences about Tikka.
Talked about a companion for Frankie.
The dog we were contemplating, the male lab. . .not such a good choice.
A lotta boy.
As is Frankie.
And two "lotta boys" strike me as being a bit more than we can manage.
Especially given that Frankie isn't just a lotta boy, he is the ONLY boy.
And perhaps wouldn't take kindly to another male coming into his territory.
The female Stephen was drawn to. . .doesn't like cats.
Aggressive towards them.
We so need that.
Four cats and a dog who doesn't like them?
So the best thing, it would seem, is to take our time.
Not rush into anything.
Wait for the right, confident, laid back female. . . .
. . .just like my Tikka. . . .
. . . to come along and be the best companion for Frankie.
Given the circumstances, I can wait.
I can wait.
Somewhere out there is a lovely dog looking for a good home.
She'll come.
I know she will.
With our new found resolve, Frankie I woke up at 4.30 am, laid in bed talking and cuddling until 5.00, when we got up and went for a walk.
A leashed walk.
Which for Frantic Frankie is a big deal.
A 5.00 am leashed walk works well for Frankie.
No pedestrians to get in his way, on his nerves.
No cars passing to and fro, back and forth, irritating him with their lights, their cars.
Just Mummy and Frankie.
Alone.
Cool early morning air.
Lots of unfettered sniffing.
Under these circumstances, I can control my 80 pound beastie boy.
With the understanding that the more we do this, the better he'll get at it, to the point where I can take him out.
In public.
With people and cars.
Plus, I've been somewhat off the SFL wagon the past couple of months.
Dealing with waves of looming chronic depression that seem to have, for whatever reason, chosen now to roll on in and out, unexpectedly.
Catching me unawares at the worst times.
They're all the worst times.
Challenging me to eat things I should not be eating.
Challenges I keep losing.
Doctor's appointment tomorrow.
5.00 am Frankie walks.
One foot in front of the other.
Taking time.
Being patient.
Knowing that this resolve may flicker.
But at the end of the day, it's all about making sure that you move forward.
Even if it is hard.
And it is.
Title Lyric: You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive by Brad Paisley
My brother came for dinner last evening.
It will soon be a year since Kat passed away.
He is hurting so bad.
And yet he gets up everyday.
Puts one foot in front of the other, whether he wants to or not.
Seeing him made me realize that we have to work through our pain.
Through the hurt, the gaping holes, the voids so big that you could drive a deuce and a half through them.
A line of them.
If he can move forward everyday, even half-heartedly, I can surely work through the pain and loss of losing Tikka.
I have to.
Annette the best dog trainer in the world is now also working at the SPCA.
This is a good thing.
She called me yesterday.
Expressed her condolences about Tikka.
Talked about a companion for Frankie.
The dog we were contemplating, the male lab. . .not such a good choice.
A lotta boy.
As is Frankie.
And two "lotta boys" strike me as being a bit more than we can manage.
Especially given that Frankie isn't just a lotta boy, he is the ONLY boy.
And perhaps wouldn't take kindly to another male coming into his territory.
The female Stephen was drawn to. . .doesn't like cats.
Aggressive towards them.
We so need that.
Four cats and a dog who doesn't like them?
So the best thing, it would seem, is to take our time.
Not rush into anything.
Wait for the right, confident, laid back female. . . .
. . .just like my Tikka. . . .
. . . to come along and be the best companion for Frankie.
Given the circumstances, I can wait.
I can wait.
Somewhere out there is a lovely dog looking for a good home.
She'll come.
I know she will.
With our new found resolve, Frankie I woke up at 4.30 am, laid in bed talking and cuddling until 5.00, when we got up and went for a walk.
A leashed walk.
Which for Frantic Frankie is a big deal.
A 5.00 am leashed walk works well for Frankie.
No pedestrians to get in his way, on his nerves.
No cars passing to and fro, back and forth, irritating him with their lights, their cars.
Just Mummy and Frankie.
Alone.
Cool early morning air.
Lots of unfettered sniffing.
Under these circumstances, I can control my 80 pound beastie boy.
With the understanding that the more we do this, the better he'll get at it, to the point where I can take him out.
In public.
With people and cars.
Plus, I've been somewhat off the SFL wagon the past couple of months.
Dealing with waves of looming chronic depression that seem to have, for whatever reason, chosen now to roll on in and out, unexpectedly.
Catching me unawares at the worst times.
They're all the worst times.
Challenging me to eat things I should not be eating.
Challenges I keep losing.
Doctor's appointment tomorrow.
5.00 am Frankie walks.
One foot in front of the other.
Taking time.
Being patient.
Knowing that this resolve may flicker.
But at the end of the day, it's all about making sure that you move forward.
Even if it is hard.
And it is.
Title Lyric: You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive by Brad Paisley
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