Category: Animules

Wherein I talk mostly about dogs.

Reasons Why 2012 Was Great, Even Though I Hated It

My friend/coach ATD recently wrote a blog post called 10 Reasons Why 2012 Was Great. When I saw the title but before I read the post, I was like, “OH HELL NO 2012 SUCKED AND I’M SO GLAD IT’S ALMOST OVER PHFTHTHPT.” But I thought about my tendency toward the negative and my attempts to cultivate gratitude, and I figured I’d give it a try. I didn’t think I could come up with 10 things, but maybe five, you know? I jotted down 11 in a matter of minutes.

1. Working with people that I like. If you let me, I’ll bitch all day about my job, but truth is, I’ve never had a better teaching situation, so I’m gonna try to STFU with the complaints.

2. Time with the Scott clan. Particularly my nieces and nephews.

They are hilarious.
They are hilarious.

(The eldest/scribe was concerned that Santa might get his fingers snapped in one of various rodent traps that were… necessary at my dad’s house this year. The cheese in the fridge was fair game, but Mr. Claus seemed to be OK with the pretzel treats and whatnot.)

3. Tubing down the Dan River with my friends. I don’t have any photos because nobody has a waterproof camera. That’s probably a good thing.

4. Doing the Tough Mudder. So great. Also, really, really terrible.

5. The Monti. Hosting, putting my name in the hat, just sitting and listening. I enjoyed it all, and I learned so much each time.

6. Fostering Buffy and Tulip. Buffy’s mommies fostered a male dog after they adopted Buffy and ended up adopting him. Talk about paying it forward! And Tulip’s mommy is—well, I’ll put it this way: I can’t imagine a better situation for her. (Go to Tulip’s Facebook page, and scroll down to her status update for December 7. Tulip’s mommy and I wrote it together.)

7. Wire-Watching Zombie Squad. Four friends and I get together most Sundays and throw ourselves into a big pile on the couch and watch an unhealthy number of episodes of The Wire. And I love it. I just fucking love it.

8. Seeing Reggie Watts live with my buddy Kyle.

Do it if you get the chance.
Do it if you get the chance. It’s an experience like no other.

9. When Margo came to visit. I love Margo.

10. Being a CrossFit Durham athlete. I’m not “in shape” by any standard, but I’m definitely in the best shape of my life, and I’ve made so many new friends there.

Also the fact that Dave lets us go rogue and do ridiculous things. Exhibit A: the enTire Mile, an event conceived of by Shiv, during which six of us, taking turns in pairs, flipped a tractor tire an entire mile. Just for the hell of it.

Six of us flipped a tractor tire an entire mile.
That’s me on the left and Shiv on the right.

11. Costa Motherfucking Rica.

Being me, I also wrote down things that sucked about 2012, and I was startled how few I could come up with:

  • having a career that’s not my calling;
  • being thwarted at our first attempt at the Tough Mudder;
  • suffering from depression;
  • taking two big risks that didn’t end the way I wanted them to; and as a result,
  • still being single.

And, with the exception of the Mudder (which we got to do later), those are Big Things. I’m not going to say they’re not, or that they didn’t suck real, real, real bad. But you know what? There are a lot worse problems than not having your career dreams fulfilled, and my depression is probably a lifetime affliction that I’ll just have to manage, and I learned a lot about myself in the face of failure/rejection.

Moreover, I’m not really single right now, am I? It seems I have a Dutch boyfriend.

Treat, a Play in One Act

Setting: Present Day/Kitchen

Characters:
DOG-pit mix of approximately five years
DOG-pit mix of approximately three years
THE OWNER-middle-aged, single female

Curtain opens. Both DOGS sit by the door and look back and forth between THE OWNER and the treat jar.

THE OWNER: (indignant) You think I should give you a treat for just coming inside?!

(beat)

THE OWNER: OK, I’ll give you a treat for just coming inside.

Curtain.

The end

IMG_3568

Retrobruxist Friday 12/28/12

Hope all you Avid Bruxistists are having a lovely holiday or two or eight nights or however many days Kwanzaa is. Seven, right? Seven. Pretty sure it’s seven.

I just looked it up. It’s seven. Is it me or does the Official Kwanzaa Website need a graphic designer like whoa?

Three years ago… well, I figured out how to turn off the IM function shortly thereafter.

Me, Dad, last-minute shopping at Walgreen’s. Terrible consequences. Two years ago.

I can’t believe it was a year ago that I found this guy. I still get sad about him sometimes. But he meant two 2012 miracles for me. One step back, two steps forward.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 12/21/12

Happy End of the World!

Three years ago, I was—shock!—dating. Go to that link, read it, and pay close attention to #3. I may have a real interesting update in the near future. Like, tomorrow night.

Two years ago, I was watching boys at the gym. The funny thing is I’ve gotten to know all three of the dudes I mention in this post, and I can’t imagine them now as anything other than my bros. Which is good because they’re all taken. As is every other worthwhile dude on the planet. What.

P.S. Look at my dogs! Oh my god, they are so cute.

I was contemplating impermanence this time last year. Still am, of course. The events in Newtown have kind of forced the issue, haven’t they? Six years old. Six. Three hundred weeks. Two thousand days. That’s all they got.

It’s weird how we chronicle our unknown number of days, or what makes us aware of their passing. A lot of people cross boxes off a calendar. Some people write in a journal. Me, I’ve been acutely aware of my life ticking away since I started using a

giant, geriatric pill box.
giant, geriatric pill box.

I empty compartments four times a day, and at the end of the week, when I shake the box and it doesn’t rattle, I know another week of my life is gone. Another week. One week as the numerator, and yet there’s absolutely no way to know the value of the fraction because the denominator is and always will be—whether because of the End of Days or America’s boner for the freedom to own assault weapons or cervical cancer or whatever—incalculable. Best live as one whole, I guess.

Shanna’s Fosters

You guys, my friend Shanna, a true doggy-angel, rescues and fosters dogs (pit bulls and chihuahuas mostly) through various organizations. To her, it’s not about one organization or the other; it’s about the dogs. She finds great dogs, whisks them away from certain destruction, takes them to her house, and makes it work—despite the fact that she has four dogs and a cat of her own.

As you may remember, Tulip got adopted through her own Facebook page, so I helped Shanna start one for her fosters.

Right now she has two sweet babies who need homes. There’s Bella, who’s

6 pounds of snuggly lovin.
five pounds of snuggly lovin,

and Tank,

Tank
a pit bull who was abused and neglected (he has the scars and heartworms to prove it) and is nonetheless a 60-lb hunk-a sweetness.

Oh, that empty stare? That’s ’cause he’s blind.

If you’re so inclined, will you please Like her Facebook page and, better yet, Share it? And put the word out to people who are in the dog market (or not) that these two silly monkeys are ready to be adopted.

Thank you, Avid Bruxistists, for indulging my doggy fervor once again. I love you for it.

Come Here, You

When I first got baby Violet, my brother and sister-in-law drove an hour to my place to meet her. This was when I lived in that mill house in Hillsborough. Bruce is allergic to all things furry, so we decided to take the puppy for a walk — outside, he would be able to breathe at least a little bit. I put Violet’s tiny collar around her tiny neck and clipped her tiny leash to it (she weighed about 25 pounds).

On our stroll, she was, as puppies are, all over the place — zigging and zagging, chewing at the leash and getting under foot, too excited because of the smells! sights! air! life! to pee or poop. We were all delighting in the 100% present-in-the-moment-ness that is the life of a puppy. But as we headed back to the house, the tiny clip on her tiny collar popped open and she was free — FREE! — and she started to bolt.

I. freaked. out.

I’d had this dog for, what?, a day or two?, and already she was going to get lost in the woods across the road and starve or, worse, hit by a car? People drove so fast on my road! Panicking, I yelled, “Violet!” and ran after her. She thought that was pretty great and picked up her pace.

Behind me — histamine response be damned — my brother squatted, opened his arms wide, and said, “Come here, you!” in a decidedly silly-sweet tone. Violet’s head jerked around. She went bounding toward him, and he scratched her head, and she flopped on her back. And I walked to them and clipped her tiny collar back on.

I don’t know why my brain recalled this incident yesterday or then why it occurred to me that this, sweetness/silliness/arms wide open/”Come here, you!”, would be a much better approach to dating than the cynicism/fear/arms forming an X in front of my face/”Not this shit again” that is my current one. But it did.

So with that, despite the fact that I overdid it on Gluten Sunday yesterday thus I’m battling fatigue, and that I’m PMSing (bonus: pyimples!), I’m off to meet Mr. OBD.

Come here, you.

Thanks

I’m thankful for dogs
My dogs,
Two foster dogs, and the three mommies who said
Ours
Mine

For my mom who gave me room to make
big mistakes
Look at all that room,
all those mistakes
For Dad, an old dog who tries real hard
to learn new tricks
from his pups

I’m thankful my sister
made a decision to drop out of Bryn Mawr
for some guy
22 years and counting of that guy

I’m thankful my friend humored me and emailed my brother
on his 30th to say
Happy Birthday
and that my brother emailed back

I’m thankful for the little pitchers
the eldest who says Yes
as often and with as much enthusiasm
as her dad (that guy)
for the huggy loud destructive one
for Darfy, even when sharing’s hard
for the one who wrinkles her nose with every Cheese
and the little guy that roars

I’m thankful for Cat, Kate, Cat & Kathleen, Erika & Heather
the Pod
and Zombie Squad
Durhamites, CFDers
Chapel Hill peoples, Seawell School and Lab! Theatre
Cuttyhunk friends
Margo
and Dan New Jersey

I’m thankful for stories
for the Monti, for Jeff
for this
for you
who read
who listen

Thanks

 

Retrobruxist Friday 11/16/12

Redford was just a baby three years ago, and a lil’ goof-bucket. He’s still a goof-bucket, but giant, and an affection bully, busting into your embrace of another dog or another person ’cause what if your love runs out before you get to him? Man, I love that boy.

Some of you have become Dan NJ fans recently. I’ve been president of his fan club for a long time. Two years ago, I wrote about some advice he had given me back when we were roomies in Astoria, Queens. Excellent as the advice was, I extrapolated poorly from it and decided I needed to maintain a dog-shaped space in my house. 

Meh.

I mean, if you set them end to end, you can fit so many dogs into 747 square feet, right? (Yes, this means I’ll probably foster again soon. It’s seemed like there’s one too few pit bulls in my house lately.)

NOTE: There remains a man(or woman!)-shaped space in my bed, for which I’m still recruiting. However, I don’t want to date to do it. I don’t want to email or evaluate prospects. I don’t want to set up dates, go on dates, or follow up after dates. I don’t want any of that. Somebody just come over and get in my bed, for Christ’s sake.

Sometimes I like to think I’m old. About five years ago when I got my first gray pube, I figured life was pretty much in the wrapping-up stage. And a year ago, meeting a cute boy ten years my junior made me start counting my liver spots. 

But the fact is, saying it’s too late, I’m too old, is a racket I’ve been running since I was, like, 12. I think that’s when I decided I was too old to learn to ski.

It’s not too late, really for anything. My grandma started windsurfing when she was 58.

And I’m not actually old. If I start running that line of bullshit again, you have permission to tell me to STFU.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Liar

Depression lies.

Depression tells you that that one’s too young — he can’t possibly want what you want out of a relationship, so don’t even ask — and that other one, he’s too straight-laced — he’d bolt at the first sign of the real you.

And do you really want him anyway?

Depression says you’re too tired to walk the dogs, it’s too cold to walk the dogs. Then you’re an asshole for not walking the dogs.

God, you’re so fucking lazy.

Depression tells you that that thing you posted on your friend’s Facebook wall? She didn’t realize you were joking and now she thinks you’re mean. And it won’t stop saying it.

You’re mean.

Everyone thinks you’re mean.

Depression whispers that it won’t work out. It’ll never work out.

Depression says there’s something wrong with you. Like, fundamentally wrong with you. That’s why shit is so messed up.

It’s your fault. You caused it.

And depression? Depression is an excellent liar.

**********

I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It’s just, for the last couple weeks, I’ve been lied to a lot.