Month: December 2011

New Year’s Resolutions

In the past, I’ve set the bar low, or as my friend Dan says, “created winnable games”, but I’m going to challenge myself a little bit this year.

1. I will dress better. A few days ago, as I “dressed up” by taking off my navy blue hoodie with paint on it and put on my navy blue hoodie without paint on it, I realized, this has to stop. But it means I’ll have to…go…shopping…I can’t feel my legs…(breathes into paper bag). How am I going to accomplish this resolution when just thinking of trying on clothes sends me into paroxysms? Help, girlfriends. Maybe a standing monthly shopping date?

2. I will continue to floss 2-3 times a week in my car at red lights. I would resolve to floss daily, but after about 18 years of that resolution, it’s smelling a little gamey, and a few times a week is better than nothing. This is not setting the bar low; it’s just knowing thyself. Myself. Thmyself.

3. I will not engage in political or religious debate on Facebook. It makes me not like people who, in person, I really like, and I’m certain the feeling is mutual.

comic from xkcd.com

4. I will make my bed. Life just seems more orderly when my bed is made. To make this easier on thmyself, I turned my bed around, set it at an angle for minimum bed-making gymnastic maneuvering, and bought one of those bed-in-a-bag sets from Bed, Bath, & Beyond. It was $180, marked down to $99, and I had a 20% off coupon, so for 80 bucks, I got a TOTALLY CRAPPY OPPOSITE-OF-FLAME-RETARDANT bed set. Seriously, it might spontaneously combust. It had those anti-theft things on it in the store, so I couldn’t open it and feel how polyester it was. And then, by the time I got it home, I was committed. Anyway, I basically just have to pull up the comforter to make my bed, and that’ll be easy. The 59 decorative kindling pillows that came with it might have to go in a closet.

5. I will reduce my intake of refined sugar. Oh, Jesus. This one makes me jitterier than clothes shopping. Here’s my plan. I can have sugar (and by that, I mean dessert items—I’m not talking about the quarter-teaspoon of sugar I have in my coffee; that stays) after 7:00pm on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. That might seem like a lot to you, but it’s about four days a week fewer than my current intake. We’ll see how this goes. I have no faith in myself on this one.

6. I will talk to myself like I talk to my dogs. Less: “You’re a silly monkey” and “Are you one of the two best dogs in the world?” More: “You’re cute, sweet, friendly, capable, smart, personable, honest, and caring, with leadership qualities.”

7. I will get into a romantic relationship. Jitteriest! How will I do this? I will go on dates. At least one first date a month (unless I find him before December, which will void this contract). That will be twelve possible matches. I’m going to work the Law of Averages.

So. What are your’n?

DW


Look what I saw walking down the street yesterday.

I made a U-ey and parked about forty feet away from him. I said, “Hey!” and squatted down. When he turned around, I put my hands out to the sides. He broke into a slow gallop and flopped himself into my arms.

He was a little shorter and thinner than Violet, maybe 50 pounds; his head, however, was like a damn double-wide mobile home. He wore no collar, but he wasn’t dirty or too skinny. I gave him some stale crackers that a friend had left in my car a couple months ago and looked around. Nobody was out looking for a lost dog. In fact, no one was out on foot at all. That street is really trafficky, and people drive way too fast down it so I hoisted him into the Outback and took him home.

I was a little worried about introducing him to the pack. Redford has been less-than-mellow at times lately, and Violet’s knee is still all jacked up. Plus, Double-Wide was intact, or unaltered, as they say…whatever, he still had his balls, which can translate into aggression.

But I let Redford into the backyard with him anyway. They scampered and cavorted. Redford fussed at him a little bit, but DW quickly submitted, and the pecking order was established.

"Handsome-off," said my buddy Phil.

I switched out Redford and Violet, and

guess who got along like gangbusters.

I reluctantly—reluctantly because I was already wicked fond of the little guy—sent a message to my neighborhood listserv, left a voicemail with Animal Control (they were closed for the holiday), put a post up on Craig’s List, tacked a “Found” notice on the neighborhood grocery store’s bulletin board, and uploaded photos to Facebook. I asked everyone who walked by my house if they’d heard of anybody missing a dog. One girl said, “Oh, he’s been out for a minute. I seen him yesterday.”

The little guy didn’t know any commands, not even “Sit”, and when we headed out for our two-and-a-half-mile neighborhood loop, he acted like he’d never been on-leash. He jumped around, snatching the lead in his mouth, and criss-crossed a million times, wrapping me up in a nylon boa.

He wasn’t totally housebroken either. I kept hearing Violet do her Enforcer Bark, the one she uses on Redford when he’s about to take something off the counter or he’s standing too close to me while I’m cooking bacon. I’d turn around and find everybody staring at each other, and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Later, I found little yellow drips on the floor and the bookcase and the chaise and realized Violet was being the big sister.

I got a response from Craig’s List, but it seemed spammy, and the pics they sent of their “missing dog” looked nothing like DW. Indeed, a second email came in this morning from a different address but with the same pictures of “Cowboy”.

Late last night, I spoke to somebody who knows about these things, and that person said, by law, strays have to be turned in to the shelter in case somebody’s looking for him. They keep him there for five days and then do temperament testing to see if he can be adopted.

So, I just went to the Animal Protection Society of Durham. DW tried to make a girlfriend first thing. Balls. But he was really nice about it. If he’d had the ability or know-how, I think he would’ve sweet-talked her a little first.

They scanned him for a microchip. I wasn’t surprised to find out he didn’t have one.

I have a friend who works at the shelter, and she said she’ll keep an eye on him. She even said she’d consider fostering him if it came to that.

And then I said goodbye to DW, and they took him in the back. And I boo-hooed.

I loved him already.

 

Impermanence

I can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s squirrel. Thich Nhat Hanh says we must surrender to impermanence. I’m trying. I just wish this lesson would stop presenting itself to me in such a violent way.

Like one day last May, my friend Erika looked in a bush beside her deck to find a nest, lovingly and painstakingly constructed by, she would discover, a mama robin. And the next day, resting inside the nest was an egg, about an inch long, turquoise.

Twenty-four hours later, she looked in the nest and found two eggs.

The third day, three.

A few days passed. She spread the branches and found three tiny, ugly-ass animals, with feathers and everything, eyes open, all smooshed together.

She shared each development photographically on Facebook, but I, as the mother of her dog Barley’s favorite playmates, got to witness in person the tiny miracle unfolding.

Each day, those little dudes became more and more undeniably birdlike. They chirped. They flapped. They opened their beaks in anticipation of morsels.

Their mom would scold Erika and me from another bush every time we came too close to her treasures.

Then one day in mid-June, as I was about to hitch up the dogs to take them home from their playdate, my friend and I peeked through the leaves one last time to ogle Mother Nature’s work.

I guess the birdies had developed enough to feel fear and to do something about it, because before we could blink, one baby robin had flopped itself out of the nest in a whole-hearted, yet thoroughly ill-advised, attempt at flight. It made a large arc but plummeted very soon to the ground, where to our horror, Redford plucked the shrieking thing up in his mouth. I started screaming. Erika started screaming. Redford dropped the flitting bird on the ground, and he and Barley barked emphatically at it. I ran at my dog and smacked his big head, and the robin limped through the air over behind a bush.

And for the second time in a few weeks, I stood there, watching a bird draw its last breath.

Its leg was broken. I don’t know if a broken leg kills a baby bird, or if it sustained internal injuries, or if it had a heart attack from terror. I picked up the dead body, no saran wrap this time, realizing in that moment that Redford had killed the one at my house too.

I spent awhile trying to process the simultaneous red-orange rage and steadfast love I felt toward my dog. It remains hard for me to fathom that those two emotions can exist at the same time in one psyche, but they say it’s true for parents of children who do terrible things. They love the child but hate the act. Love the sinner but hate the sin.

I was also mad at myself for scaring that bird out of its asylum.

But the fact is, as my brother told me after Boonie died, each animal acted according to its nature. Humans are curious about the wonder of life. Birds try to fly. Dogs kill birds.

Squirrels run in front of trucks.

It’s all nature, and the nature of nature is that everything’s impermanent.

Goddammit

On my way to work this morning, a squirrel sprinted across the road toward the car in front of me. It missed the little guy by a hair, but when he got across to the other lane, a truck tagged him. He ran to the edge of the road where he launched himself in the air, cartwheeling toward the bus stop, as if he could fling the pain away. I was going, “Oh no! Oh no! No no no!”, and blood pumped through the veins inside my elbows making me feel nauseated and weak. I had trouble gripping the steering wheel. By the time I looked in my rearview mirror, he was nowhere in sight.

I hope he died. I hope he died fast.

And I wish the Universe would stop trying to teach me this lesson. I hate it.

57 Things, or Rules, to Stop or Start Doing in the New Year for Your Life to Be Better and to Make You More Happier

Lately, I’ve seen a lot of lists floating around the internet. Things like Three Rules for Life, Five Things to Stop Doing in the New Year, and 12 Things Happy People Do Differently. I started thinking about that last article and, since I have a terrible memory, decided to do some research on myself via my blog.

1. Express gratitude. I searched for the terms ‘thankful’ and ‘grateful’, both resulted in “No posts found”. Hm.

2. Cultivate optimism. Ditto, ‘optimism’ and ‘optimistic’. Yikes.

3. Avoid overthinking and social comparison. I do the former with help. I do not do the latter.

4. Practice acts of kindness. A little, itty-bitty bit.

5. Nurture social relationships. Ever since I learned about the importance of appreciating my friends, I think I’ve done a good job of nurturing social relationships.

6. Develop strategies for coping. In my fashion.

7. Learn to forgive. I simply don’t do this, especially with myself.

8. Increase flow experiences. The author describes this as “completely engaged in the activity that you’re doing”. I’m working on it.

9. Savor life’s joys. When I’m not clinically depressed, I can.

10. Commit to your goals. Yes. But I don’t set goals nearly enough.

11. Practice spirituality. No results for ‘spirituality’, but apparently I say ‘god’ in nearly every goddamn post. Usually within the word ‘goddammit’.

12. Take care of your body. Cleanin’ and jerkin’ since August 2010.

So what did I learn from this little exercise? Maybe 2012 should be the year I learn to:

  • be thankful;
  • look on the bright side;
  • stop being jealous;
  • let shit go;
  • set some goals; and
  • pray.
  • And stop saying goddammit.

Luddite No More

It’s time, folks. Amy is going to trade in her DumbPhone. The other day a friend of mine said, “What do you DO without a SmartPhone?” I told him I have to look up directions to a place before I leave the house. And if a question pops into my mind, I just have to sit there and be curious about it. Honestly, how do I live like this? It’s barbaric.

But seriously, I’m thinking of going paperless-calendar for the first time in my life. I’ve had a daily planner for as long as I can remember, and I’ve resisted the digital calendar for years, but it seems a little ridiculous now that it could be available so promptly and easily. Also, I dig those bitchin photography programs where you can make your pictures all sepia and whatnot. Not to mention GPS and indulging my curiosity at every whim.

So I’m going to get an iPhone. (Some of  you will exclaim, “No! Get a Droid!” to which I will respond, “What is that I don’t even.” But go ahead, do your worst to convince me of your heathen ways.)

The question is, do I pay the extra $100 to get a 4S? From what I understand, the only major difference between it and the plain old 4 is Siri, a $15 app that’s been around for two-and-a-half years but recently got bought up by Apple so they could make a brazillion dollars on it. (I know a guy who knows this stuff.) And as cool as it is that when you say, “Tar,” Siri replies, “Heels,” she and I also seem to have political differences.

Are there other magical things I’d be missing out on if I didn’t get the 4S?

(Also, I just looked it up, and I’m eligible for an upgrade on February 17… I don’t think I’m going to last that long.)

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