Month: March 2013
Retrobruxist Friday 3/29/13, or On Being “Desperate” (Now with Norovirus!)
Ugh. Norovirus. Or food poisoning, or something. When I wasn’t exploding from both ends, I was curled up on my pull-out couch with the dogs, moaning. Moaning! I literally moaned for, like, 15-minute stretches. Then I would watch two episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and then I would turn it off so I could moan some more.
Seems to be gone now (knock wood). I’m vertical today, and I’ve eaten a banana and some Rice Chex.
In other news, my dad swung through town earlier this week. :)
Talking to my sister on the phone: “Amy picked me up in the middle of the melee at RDU. I was nervous because of the guy on the goddamn lawn mower going back and forth.” (It was a cop on a Segway.)
Amid bon mots, he said something about how I seem, here on the blog, “almost desperate for a relationship”. Isn’t that the worst word to hear about yourself? Desperate? Wasn’t that the ultimate high school take-down? “God, she’s so… desperate.”
But he’s right. I do seem, here on the blog, almost desperate for a relationship. I’d even take out the ‘almost’.
That’s for two reasons. First, both ends of the spectrum, the one that goes from “Victorious Is What Happened” to “Cyclone of Despair”, are compelling, but the middle? Not really, right? The “I Got a Solid Eight Hours So My Day Wasn’t Too Exhausting” and the “Grocery Store, PetSmart, and Home Depot in One Outing—High-five, Me” that make up most of my life, I mean, I’m pretty excited about them, but they make for vanilla reading. So, I’m going to write about the times when I’m either feeling a sense of hope or one of catastrophe. And granted, the latter happens more often and is usually funnier.
So that’s the main thing. You hear about my being desperate to be in a relationship because that’s what’s interesting.
The second thing is that I’m desperate to be in a relationship.
Not desperate. But yeah, kinda desperate. Two reasons, I like companionship, and I want kids. In the post I just linked to, I said I wasn’t an extrovert. But I am. I’m an extrovert. Being around people energizes extroverts (and saps the energy of introverts). I definitely get energy from being with people.
However, I’m shy. People say, “Isn’t that the same as introverted?” No. Shy means I’m scared of people I don’t know. Like, all of them.
I’m scared of people, but I need people—ain’t that the worst?
Anyhow, it’s got me thinking, that’s probably why pretty much all my dating in the last four years has been online. Because I don’t make eye contact with people I don’t know (because I’m scared of them) when I’m out in the real world, so it’s hard to connect. Maybe I should try that? Eye contact? With people I don’t know? My hands are sweating.
**********
Three years ago, I wrote a POWM! I write POWTRY!
Two years ago, 70,000 people heard me tell a story.
A year ago, I was trying to control the controllables. Maybe making eye contact with strangers is controlling a controllable? Or maybe I try a different website. A friend recently sent me this one, which takes a sort of different approach to the whole online dating thing… I’m gonna go lie back down and moan some more.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, The End
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 9)
Day 1
As it’s ‘Nita’s last full day with me, we take a big walk and schedule extra snuggling sessions in the morning
and the evening.
Day 2
I drive to High Point to meet Lainey for the drop-off. ‘Nita’s very happy to see her new mom and her five-year-old human brother because she’s always happy to see everyone, but—and I’ma go ahead and anthropomorphize the shit out of her right now—she seems confused and concerned as I get in the car and drive off.
People comment that I can just change the name! and transfer admin rights! and that it’s easy!, and I know that but I don’t want to. I want to keep her page exactly as it is. It represents me and ‘Nita and our relationship, plus what do I know?, but I think it’s a good portfolio item for my new career.
Day 3
Redford and Violet are a little weirded out—they run to the spare room and check the crate when we come inside—but happy, I think, to have 100% of my attention.
I try to teach Violet how to snuggle belly to belly. She tolerates it for a few minutes before repositioning herself at my side and making it clear she prefers that I just rub her chest k that’s better thanx.
Day 4
Lainey makes a new page for ‘Nita. Except now she’s Ruca. And not nearly as funny.
Day 5
Friends keep asking if I’m going to foster again but with that oh-god-don’t-do-it tone.
And I get it. It’s difficult, and people who love you don’t wish you difficulty.
But really, fostering has given my life meaning. For a few months at a time I have a purpose. For a few months at a time there’s a reason that the world is better because I’m here.
And it is better. Better for the dogs, better for the people. Let’s not mince words: ‘Nita would be dead right now if I hadn’t fostered her. She was scheduled to be put to sleep the day volunteers from CCB walked into a shelter in Wake County, pulled her, and delivered her to me.
And what a tragedy that would’ve been. ‘Nita made me happy. She made her 300 Facebook fans very happy. And from what I gather, she’s making her new family very, very happy.
So no, I’m not going to foster again right now, but I probably will again in the future, and let’s not pretend that’s not a good thing.
Retrobruxist Friday 3/22/13, or a Decree
Two things happened. A month ago, a friend got a job at a small marketing firm in Durham. About a week later, an acquaintance who was thinking about adopting ‘Nita left me a voicemail. In it, he said, “You’re doing a great job marketing her on Facebook.”
Something happened in my head, something like: marketing job –> me marketing –> marketing job for me
I’ve been wanting to make a career change for a while now. My desire was shorn up by reading this essay a student wrote three years ago. Wow. I’m not that teacher anymore. I’m not “happy almost all the time”. I don’t “laugh a LOT”. I’m definitely not the “BEST TEACHER EVER”. I’m glad I used to be, or at least that I was for that kid, that year.
But I’m burnt out. (I hear that’s a thing that happens to teachers.)
So now I’m looking for a new job/career. Possibly in marketing. And it’s going to inspire me and challenge me and play to my strengths. I hereby decree it, and the Universe will make it so.
**********
Two years ago, I asked you Avid Bruxistists about the ratio and content of similarities/differences in a partnership, and you guys totally fucking brought it in the comments section.
My readership is small, but it is full of smarty-pants. Smarty-pantses? What the plural of smarty-pants? Is it like attorneys general? Smarties-pant?
**********
A year ago, I was struggling. Seems to be a pattern here—late winter suuuuuuuucks. However, I am tapering my amino acids again, and I’m not freaking out. Yet. Plus, Daylight Savings Time loves me and wants me to be happy.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Fayshun! Amy Goes Rogue, and It Doesn’t Go That Well
We’ve gotten to the point in Amy’s Fantastic Fashion Voyage when you’ll be seeing some of the same items as before but in different combinations. As I mentioned, after our excursion to the outlets, we put all my purchases on Kate’s bed, she laid out ensembles, and I took pictures of them with my phone. I never would’ve put the following items together, but I have photographic evidence in my stream that it’s a legit outfit, so don’t fight with me.
I liked this outfit OK. I mean, it’s a skirt, so I was uncomfortable as hell all day. Also, I feel like I look real hippy (wide-below-the-waist, not peace-love-drugs) in this skirt, but Kate said. Kate said.
Next up is an item you haven’t seen yet. Kate fell in love with this stripey blazer from Ann Taylor Loft, and she promised I could pair the polka-dotted cami with it (even though it looked real trippy to me), so I did.
But I also messed things up with an unfortunate choice of pantaloons.
Also not ATL, trouser jeans from <hangs head> Coldwater Creek. Stop laughing! I swear they looked good when I bought them a year ago! They’ve just gotten all weird and squeezy in the wrong places from the laundry. I showed this photo to Kate, and she said, “Oh. They have side pockets?” I admitted as much. She said side pockets were a no-no.
So, Take 2: Same blazer, white tank, grey Gap slacks, schmutz on mirror.
Kate gave this outfit the stamp of approval. Feeling like Matlock [let the record reflect that the Avid Bruxist has never seen Matlock], I said, “But, Kate, these pants that you made me buy have (dun dun DUN) side pockets! Ha!”
She said it didn’t matter because they weren’t jeans.
But… jeans are pants.
Aren’t they?
So confused.
That wasn’t the only time I tried to slip an item from my old wardrobe into the mix. This attempt was a little more successful, I think.
I showed Kate and our friend Lindsay this picture and asked, “Would this outfit be a good candidate for a statement belt?” Kate said yes, a skinny belt right at the smallest part of the waist (so high!), and I could get one cheap at Target. When I asked what color, they both started shouting,
PURPLE.
YELLOW.
RED.
PINK.
ORANGE.
They basically named all the colors. I went to Target yesterday.
So far, a hit and a miss, but then I realized it was Skirt Week. I didn’t want to wear the navy one again (it’s so short!), and I didn’t want to wear the pencil skirt again (it’s so tight!), so I pulled out a skirt from the back of my closet.
That evening, Kate was lifting on one side of the gym, and I was lifting on the other. Between sets, I mouthed, “I wore a skirt today,” and pantomimed to illustrate.
She made all kinds of sexy gestures back at me.
At the end of the strength segment, I went and got my phone with the picture on it. Before I showed it to her, I said, “Listen, it was a skirt I’ve had for awhile.”
Kate cocked her head and frowned. “Yeah?”
“It was a hand-me-down from a friend…” She started to shake her head.
“…in maybe 2004?” I said. Kate coughed.
I said, “It’s paisley. Is that bad?”
And Kate took a lap around the gym to compose herself.
Now I was proud of myself, as usual, for just putting the damn thing on. (I also wore my TALL BOOTS, which [sadly] are super-uncomfortable because I’m a short person, so they kept jamming into the fat part of my inner-knee-thigh area. They also rubbed pills into my motherfucking tights.) Whether Kate had a problem with the skirt’s pattern was unclear, but she did say, “It’s too long for you. It doesn’t hit you in the right spot.”
Wah. I don’t get this “right spot” business. The paisley one hits me just about where the pencil skirt does, and Kate said the pencil skirt is “made of magic”. Harrumph.
She said if I want to keep the skirt, I need to get it hemmed. Nope. To Goodwill it goes.
Back to Kate-sanctioned articles of clothing:
Those orange pants. I like them. I do. It’s just, my lower half kinda draws the eye all on its own just with its… volume, you know? It’s hard to come around to the idea of adding the sartorial equivalent of a neon sign.
Speaking of strapless bra, ready yourselves, steady yourselves, hold onto your nuts for the I’m-here-for-sex outfit: dark Gap jeans, Banana Republic top, pointy Nine West flats, and purple pleather jacket (not pictured, but you’ve seen it).
I didn’t feel like I was there for sex. At best, I felt like I was there for a poorly-timed kiss next to my car after an awkward second date.
In actuality, I was there for an evening with my friends after which I went home alone to my dogs. As per uszh.
Coming soon: JEANS.
(Anybody want to go jeans shopping?)
The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 9
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 8)
Day 1
Except that I stay up too late writing the last CrossFit post, so it’s after midnight by the time we hit the couch. No! Bad Amy!
Day 2
Lainey writes to say she got word that they’re approved! We exchange celebratory messages. Her 7-year-old wants to let me know, since I’ll be sad, that I can visit her any time and that they’ll send lots of pictures.
You’d think CCB would’ve let me know first. :/ I email the president to make sure it’s true before I announce ‘Nita announces on Facebook.
We head to class. ‘Nita really is tremendously smart. She learns so fast, and her behavior has improved exponentially. The instructor doesn’t even have to put up the screen. ‘Nita makes one or two aws—like “Aw man, I’m not even going to get to say hi to the other dogs?”—at the beginning, but that’s it.
Day 3
Because I have a 3:30 appointment in Chapel Hill after work, ‘Nita’s in her crate for 10 hours. I desperately want to go to the gym, so we do a quick 20-minute walk. The dogs are like, What even was that?, because we always do the 2.5-mile loop. I put her back in her crate and feel guilty as hell. About going to the gym. Is this what parenthood feels like?
Day 4
It’s a nice afternoon, so people are out and about in the neighborhood. Just as I open the screen door to let ‘Nita go potty, I notice three girls on bicycles pedaling in slow circles 100 yards away. ‘Nita tenses. I’m almost able to grab her but miss by this much as she flings herself over the rail and jets toward the bicycle girls. I yell, “SHE’S FRIENDLY,” and by the time I reach them, all three girls are cooing and petting her. But I’m peeved. I can’t trust her to be out there by herself for one second. I snatch her collar, hitch the leash to it, and fuss at her all the way home.
Once we’re inside she won’t stop wigging out—jamming her nose against the windows and barking—about the bicycle girls. I have to put her in her crate for a time-out. Eventually, she calms herself.
This caption is my favorite ‘Nita-ism that I’ve come up with.
Day 5
Fun with iPhone apps.
Day 6
Gorgeous day. After the gym, because I like to torture myself, we do our usual long walk, and then I mow the lawn. I can hear ‘Nita’s protests from inside the house. (She’s in her crate though because I learned the lawn mower lesson the hard way with Tulip.)
Day 7
Lainey and I finalize plans. Mid-day Tuesday, I’ll meet her in High Point for the handoff.
It’ll be a huge relief not to have to rotate ‘Nita and Violet anymore. Of course it’ll be a huge relief. And Redford and Violet deserve the attention I’ll be able to pay them once ‘Nita’s gone. Of course they deserve it.
But damn. I’ll miss that snuggly dog.
Retrobruxist Friday 3/15/13, Plus Mullings
I’ve been mulling amy a’s post from Wednesday. I do that a lot—mull. Just mull and mull. Some might call it “ruminating” or “perseverating”, but I prefer “mulling” because then I don’t feel like such a crazy person… Hahahaha. Like anyone believes that. Anyway, here are my ruminations/perseverations/mullings:
1. amy a and I are almost exactly the same age, so it’s possible that it’s not too late for me to find someone. Hope!
2. I can’t think of anybody who’s there on the periphery that I might have been overlooking. Despair.
3. I really do believe I’ve taken a good hard look at myself, and I’ve worked on my own shit. And I think I’ve been clear about what I want. I do want “something simple and stable”: a fun, supportive, committed relationship with somebody who wants to have kids with me. …I clearly have some blind spot. There’s something I’m not seeing.
4. I’ve always thought timing was bullshit. I thought, if you’re each into the other, you’re into each other; everything else is just excuses. But now I’m rethinking that.
5. “In my efforts to always be in control of my life and heart, I’d forgotten the joy of love is not being so wary of it all the time.” I’m so wary. All the time. Is this the blind spot? That I’m wary? That I put too much effort into being control of my life and heart?
6. “And the 20 years of dating and relationships of all shapes and sizes? Well, they just let me know that when I finally was ready, I’d have years of experience cementing the fact that when you know when it’s right, it is.” Please, god(dess)/whoever, let me be able to say this at some point. Soon?
7. I can’t stop boo-hooing about this. I love you, amy a. Also, fuck you.
**********
Three years ago, Violet was giving me a heart attack.
Considering my CrossFit post from this week drove 12 times my normal traffic, how about I give you The Blue (D)evil from two years ago.
Nothing I wrote this time last year is worth reading. :(
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Guest Blog: Eating Crow
Hey! You’ns remember last week when I had writer’s block? And remember guest blogger amy a, who has stepped in twice before during dry times for the Avid Bruxist? (Her first post was called Dating in One’s 30s: A Guide for Those Who Don’t Fucking Have to Do It; the second, The Relationship I’m in Already.) Well, my own word faucet seems to have opened back up, but she sent me this and told me, “it’s kinda me eating crow from my last blog,” and I read it, and as always with her stuff, I started having lots of feelings, plus who doesn’t love it when somebody eats crow? Also, who doesn’t love my run-on sentences?
Anyway, I feel like this piece is important for me—I’ve read it three times, and I’ve gotten progressively more teary each time—so I’m posting it. Tomorrow, maybe the fashion post, or the teaching one, or another shitty movie recap, but tonight—tonight I’m going to read this ten more times and take a hard look at myself.
So about a year ago, I made a decision about curbing some bad dating behavior on my part. Oh, it’s not like I was going on a string of bad dates at the time, in fact, I was on hiatus. I just decided to take it seriously. Or take myself seriously in relation to it, that is.
If, as Ghandi says, you gotta be the change you wanna see on this planet, then I had to take some really hard, embarrassing looks into my dating world. Sure, I had fun with it. I got to date a lot of guys on occasion, who for the most part weren’t looking at anything past that, which was fine, because I wasn’t really either. Kinda like how I never wanted to own a home because the thought of some permanent place of dwelling made me claustrophobic, even though I’ve lived at the same place in NC since moving back here 4 years ago. And I lived at the same place in LA for the last seven years I was there. Huh. Go figure. Yeah. Was it possible I was kidding myself?
Yes, yes it was. I’ve done some pretty ballsy things in my life. I moved to LA to pursue my acting career. I drove across country in the days before cell phones (gasp) and lived to tell the tale. I walked into offices of big wigs and somehow didn’t get kicked out but instead booked parts. I lived with and broke up with addicts and found my dignity tarnished but intact. I moved back across the country a month after shooting my last gig in LA because I decided over that last year that I no longer wanted the life I had there. I soul searched and found my passions again, and lost them, and rediscovered them. And even though I thought I never wanted something simple or stable—I certainly protested it long and hard enough that over the past year—I started to listen to exactly how loudly I was doing so.
So I stopped. And I took a hard look. And what I wanted was not what I thought I did. And it certainly didn’t reflect what I was going after. And then I went out on a date or two, and even though they didn’t work out, I could respect myself for how I handled things. I calmed down. I opened up. And then I fell in love with someone who had been there all along, in the periphery.
Timing is everything, it really is. In my efforts to always be in control of my life and heart, I’d forgotten the joy of love is not being so wary of it all the time. That letting someone who really would have my best interests at heart into my life can be the most liberating thing ever. I was so tired of holding on so tight my whole life. If I stopped fighting it, and just relaxed, it really could be easier than I ever thought.
They say when you know, you know. And I did. Years ago. I knew so much that even after he bought me a plane ticket to see him, I decided last minute not to go because I knew it’d get serious. And then even after we started talking again a while after that, I still knew. But I didn’t listen. That was too easy. I was too busy trying to be in control of things and date men who didn’t take me as seriously and had at least one Monumental Tattoo or Monumental Problem because that meant I could keep them at some sort of arm’s length. And then almost certainly not get what I really wanted. And then continue the cycle.
So, when I did slowly just start staring right at what I always wanted but was too afraid to admit to, it was quite stunning that I started getting it back a hundred fold. And it really was like breathing. And of course I kicked myself a thousand times for not doing it sooner. But it’s highly likely I wouldn’t have known how to deal with it then.
We met at a camp in high school for gifted kids. We ran in similar circles in college. We reconnected over Facebook a few years ago. And when I saw him in person for the first time in years, it was right out of a movie. Seriously. Like, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in “Sleepless in Seattle” type fireworks. And everything made sense. We got engaged shortly thereafter. And the 20 years of dating and relationships of all shapes and sizes? Well, they just let me know that when I finally was ready, I’d have years of experience cementing the fact that when you know when it’s right, it is.
As always, I’ll let you readers comment first. Thank you, amy a!
This Is What CrossFit Does to a Person
Saturday was my friend Craig’s birthday. He and I are both grown-up fat kids, so naturally, celebrating meant eating all the processed carbohydrates we could get our hands on that day. The topic of pre-CrossFit pictures arose at brunch. He showed us a photo of himself at 280, two eighty, and I said, “Craig… where are your ears?” He said, “My cheeks are hiding them.”
People have told me I look different from when I started CrossFit, but honest to god, I usually don’t feel that way. However, I did think of this one photo of myself in which I was pretty sure I looked different, so I pulled it up at brunch, and today I’ma show it to you, internet. Now, let’s all just agree to ignore whatever is happening with my hair, OK? I was going for bangs, but I have a cowlick, and also I go to the Aveda school for haircuts because it’s cheap, and I don’t know, OK?! I don’t know. Drop it already.
Also this was pre-makeup tutorial, so all I knew how to do was mascara and lipstick (of a questionable hue).
If you can direct your attention to anything other than my hair or the giant… zit? mosquito bite? cowpock? on my upper arm, you’ll see what I looked like at my brother’s graduation from law school in May of 2009.
I mean, let’s be generous: the photo is taken at the absolute least flattering angle, and I’m holding a baby, so my arm is squished up against my body… but there’s no denying that I’m a chunky monkey.
What did you say? You said you want more photos? Well, OK!
[And let me just stop right there and say that I’m 100% anti-fat-shaming. I think that people of all sizes and shapes can be beautiful and strong. Plus, fat-shamers do little except make the fat person hate herself, which (if she’s like me) will make her go eat more, resulting in more weight gain, and congratulations, assholes, on making the situation worse. So I’m not intending to fat-shame myself or anyone else with this post. (Nor should you. If you jack up my comments section with fat-shaming, I’m going to ask you politely to eat a dick.) Nope, I’m not going to fat-shame or body-bash. I’m going to illustrate something. I have a point to make. I’ll get there. Bear with me.]
Here I am in June of 2006 at my brother’s wedding:
Just barin’ my midriff, awkwardly, in November 2008:
A friend’s wedding in May 2010:
And now, because I love you and appreciate your readership, I’m going to give you a gift. This is not something I do lightly. This counts as the Embarrassing Photo of the Week for all of 2013, deal? It is with great contemplation and no small trepidation that I give you Fourth of July 2009:
Sorry, I thought I’d try some misdirection. It probably worked for a second. He is so very cute.
OK, we can talk again about the unflattering angle and lack of makeup, but mm-hm, let’s all take a minute to observe exactly how hard my inner lesbian was punching a heavy bag inside me trying to come out. A lesbian friend looked at this picture on Saturday night and said, “When I’m in the act of having sex with women, I’m not as gay as you are in that picture.”
I swear I’m into dudes.
I digress.
So August 17, 2010, I start CrossFit, and I go four times a week, up to this very day. I lift, I jump, I run (ugh), I sit up, I push up, I pull up. I do my best to get harder, better, faster (sorta), stronger. Most definitely stronger.
Here I am this past Saturday, after the first Open WOD:
Here I am at Kate’s birthday in November:
OK, granted it was after the makeup tutorial, and granted I’m wearing a slimming black wrap-around dress, and granted my boobs are buttressed like whoa, but I think even in my face you can see the difference.
In fact, here:
Different, right? You’re still looking at my boobs, aren’t you? It’s OK.
Let’s look at another example. This is me at the State Fair last October:
You can see, I’m still wide at the hips, the circumference of my arms is still considerable, and my middle is still kinda squishy, but there’s a difference between that and my pre-CrossFit days, right?
The fact is, until I get my eating issues under control, I’ll always be overweight—I know that.
But here’s the kicker, and you’re not going to believe me, but I swear to fucking god it’s true. You ready?
I haven’t lost weight since I started CrossFit.
The most I ever weighed in my life was 177 pounds, and when I got on the scale at the doctor’s office ten days ago, it said:
1… 7… 3.
That’s right. 173 pounds. A 4-lb weight loss in two and a half years.
So. My point. (I told you I had one!)
CrossFit will not necessarily make you lose weight. If your only concern is a number on a scale, this shit is not for you. CrossFit will not necessarily make you skinny. If skinny’s what you’re after, you’ve got to eat less. (And for some of us, that’s harder than for others.)
CrossFit will, however, change your girth. CrossFit will make you stronger. CrossFit will change your body composition. CrossFit will remove some of the fat and make you gain muscle and therefore make you feel (and yes, look) better.
Plus, it’s fun, and you make friends. Does this sound like a CrossFit commercial? Well, I guess it is. (Hey, CrossFit HQ, you want to make it rain for your girl, or?)
Maybe you can’t afford CrossFit. That’s legit. It’s expensive. All I’m saying is, if you want to look/feel better, consider diverting your focus from the scale; instead, lift a heavy thing, and run a little bit.
All I’m saying is, find some friends who’ll do something physically challenging with you four times a week.
All I’m saying is, there’s a community WOD at CrossFit Durham every Saturday. It’s free. Come on. I’ll go with you.
Costa Rica, last September:
(Makes you feel like you need to do handstands *everywhere*. You’re such an asshole. Nobody cares about your fucking handstand.)
Oh, and my friend Craig? These days he’s a Studly Dudley, and you can totally see his ears from the front.
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The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 8
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 7)
Day 1
‘Nita has been doing a lot better about not lunging at cars on our walks. Today though, halfway through our loop, a car pulls out of the Kingdom Hall parking lot, and ‘Nita bites my butt. You heard me. She doesn’t break the skin or anything, but it’s not a nip; it’s a chomp, enough to make me shriek, enough to leave twin bruises, one on the top of the cheek and one on the bottom. [This is when Dan NJ will say, pics or it didn’t happen.]
I holler at her and hold her neck to the ground. She kisses and wags.
What’s she got against Jehovah’s Witnesses, I wonder.
Day 2
Redford and ‘Nita, who is tethered to my chair, wrestle on the floor or the living room. Violet approaches gingerly but with tail twitching. She and ‘Nita do a little tag team action on Redford. Maybe Violet’s ready to make friends?
Day 3
‘Nita tries her hand at motivational speaking.
She can’t keep a straight face, but people like her anyway.
Day 4
There is some drama within the foster organization. The president, who resigned three weeks ago and moved to Sarasota, is accused of some financial… let’s say, less-than-transparency. People quit. For a moment, CCB’s future is uncertain. I may have to get this dog adopted out myself.
Everything eventually gets explained, to some people’s satisfaction more than others’ (I think I’ll be directing my energies elsewhere in the future), but the important thing is the organization is intact, for the moment.
A volunteer does the home visit for Lainey, the woman who lives near Charlotte, and it supposedly goes well. :)
Day 5
I write to Lainey and tell her about ‘Nita’s progress:
She’s really doing great on her manners. She learns fast. My only concern is her issue with wheeled things. She’s gotten better around cars. I’ve learned that if I keep her on the side opposite the traffic and if we stop when one goes by, that’s effective about 80% of the time. Bicycles and motorcycles and scooters are another story. She jumps and makes monkey noises and will just not let up until the thing is well out of sight—the other day, she almost jumped out my car window when a motorcycle went by! Scared me to death. And I worry about her getting hit by a car if she got off the leash.
I’m going to ask the dog trainer about how to handle this stuff. If you were to adopt her, would you be willing to continue working with her on it?
Lainey replies that after we met she started researching, and she’s found a trainer who is willing to come to her house. She thinks agility would help control her predatory drive.
Yes. Good answer.
In the evening, I’m walking through the kitchen with ‘Nita on the leash when everything explodes. In a moment, she and Violet are on their hind legs, Violet’s chin clamped in ‘Nita’s mouth, ‘Nita snout in Violet’s, and it’s LOUD.
I wrestle them apart and wonder what the fuck. Then I see the food bag. I had emptied a bag into the bin and then left it on the floor. Violet had been investigating the empty bag earlier. I think ‘Nita showed a little too much interest in it as we walked through the kitchen, and Violet was policing.
Whatever, I’m so sad and mad and scared, especially when I check the dogs out, and each is bleeding from the face. ‘Nita appears to have superficial cheek and nose scratches. Violet has several holes punched through the bottom of her chin.
I rub Neosporin on their wounds and fret.
Day 6
‘Nita’s lip is all swoll up. I email, call, and text the president of the organization: Should I take her to the vet? The org’s vet is closed on Saturdays… maybe I could cajole mine into seeing her? I need to know soon though because the office closes at noon. After that, our only option with be the emergency vet, which will cost four times as much.
I hear nothing for several hours.
Finally, the pres calls and says just put hot compresses on it three times a day, and if it’s still swollen on Monday, we’ll get her seen someplace.
‘Nita’s outside with Redford when a rollerblader comes by. She jumps the gate to get to him. Fortunately by then he’s tromping along the gravel road (yes, I live on a gravel road in a city—I’m fancy like that). I shout, “SHE’S FRIENDLY!”, and she just runs over and wags at him.
Day 7
Sundog morning:
We head to south Durham to go for a walk with TULIP and her mom! Tulip gives me lots of snuggles and kisses. Her mom says that’s the warmest welcome she’s given anybody. I think that girl remembers me. :D
Redford and ‘Nita are sunbathing in the afternoon. ‘Nita vaults the fence again to go visit the rollerblader. He holds his cigarette aloft in one hand, pets her with the other, and says, “That’s OK, girl. You can come holla at me anytime.” She’s such a flirt.
Sundog evening:
Nothing like Auntie’s magical dog yard.