Animules – Page 7

¡Pura Vida!

You may recall that, back in September, I vacated Durham for a week in Costa Rica with my super-friend Shiv (a.k.a. my sister-wife). You’re most likely saying to yourself, “Well, that must’ve been pretty dope,” and if so, YOU ARE A GENIUS AND TOTALLY CORRECT.

Evidence:

We stayed at the base of a volcano for a coupla/three nights.

We went to a hot spring spa and sat in 100-degree waterfalls that came off that volcano.
There was a parrot named Estefanía who lived at/around our hotel, and

she would harass the workers until they gave her bananas

or “bañañas” as Shiv and I took to calling them for no good reason.

All breakfasts included fried plantains. All breakfasts everywhere should include fried plantains.
We ziplined over the jungle.

Waterfall — Seriously. Will you look at that.

Shiv Ziplining — Shiv=badass (She kept wanting to go upside-down and stuff, and the guides were like, “OK, crazy lady.”)

We went on a gorgeous hike.

Also,

We met a baby sloth named Cheu, and

Cheu's Itchy Armpit — He also slothfully scratched his armpit for a long time. It was adorable.

We had two fantastic beach days.

Here I’m doing the Handstand Everywhere You Go requisite for people who do CrossFit. (I’m both proud of and embarrassed by this photo because, hey, that’s a pretty good handstand but, Jesús, you could land planes on my thighs.)

(I know. I need to cut that shit out.)

My favorite picture of the trip: Shiv en la bahía.

The only obstacles we had to overcome, other than the torrential rains for the first few days, were the incorrigible scavenger animals. To wit, the raccoons and coatis:

But also one morning, a band of capuchin monkeys terrorized/delighted (tomato/tomahto) the restaurant where we had our breakfast. I had wondered why the waitstaff didn’t put boxes of sugar packets on the tables — you had to ask for them — but it’s because the capuchins are junkie-monkeys. They will run through the restaurant, snatch the sugar packets right off your table (sometimes the whole box), and

The funniest part was that if they happened in their caper to grab any packets of artificial sweetener, they would throw them on the ground. (“Pump that garbage in another monkey’s face,” said the capuchins.)

[Side note: I told my 10-year-old niece this story, and she wrote the following poem.

Monkeys Don’t Like Splenda

I was sitting in the restaurant, (I was on vacation,)
I was taking lots of pictures I would send to my relations.
I got a big white envelope; it didn’t say the sender,
All it said upon its face was; MONKEYS DON’T LIKE SPLENDA.

I sat eating bananas, pondering those words,
I was in Costa Rica, but it did seem quite absurd.
Maybe they were picky eaters, or didn’t like the food,
Either way, this or that, I thought it was just rude.

I asked the waitress, bout the note, the manager’s the sender,
Each table gets one, and it’s true, that MONKEYS DON’T LIKE SPLENDA.

Then a monkey raced down and grabbed the sugar packets,
Dumped the Splenda, dumped the box, and just made quite a racket.
I learned a quite good lesson; that healthy isn’t ALWAYS good,
Cause if monkeys don’t like Splenda, I don’t think that I should!

I’m not biased or anything, but I’m pretty sure my niece is a genius?

End side note.]

Shiv and I sat on the beach late in the afternoon of our last day. Pieces of the navy blue mountains across the bay, which itself turned slowly from aqua to slate, chipped off and floated skyward. A lone trawler chugged its way toward the open Pacific. The branches of the guayaba tree stirred above us, and every time we stood up to leave, the yaw-kish of the waves hitting the beach lulled us back to our chairs,

while the sun became an ever-tinier pink sliver and disappeared.

The common Costa Rican expression pura vida means a lot of things, including hello and goodbye. If you say it about a person, it means s/he’s good people. But it also translates loosely as “Life is good”.

Which, in Costa Rica, it certainly was.

Pura vida.

Retrobruxist Friday 10/19/12

A week ago, I submitted The Foster Chronicles (Buffy’s) to my writing workshop for critique. So it was with more than a little agita that I went to class last night. The folks in the class are nice and supportive but frank; if something doesn’t work, they say so.

I needn’t have worried so much. People liked my stuff a lot. In fact, two people said some version of “I don’t read blogs, and I’m not a dog person, so I was skeptical, but I really got into it!”

One guy did say, “As a blog this is fine. For writing to keep someone’s interest or tell a story, it doesn’t work for me.” In his other notes, he kept referring to Buffy as ‘he’, so it’s clear it really didn’t hold his interest.

And there was some confusion. One woman wrote that I shouldn’t underline things so much, not realizing that those things were hyperlinks, and just about everybody put a big question mark next to where I wrote “What is that I don’t even”.

But overall, it was validating, and I got some ideas about how to turn it into a larger piece, even one where I fictionalize it and weave it together with another, totally different, painfuller thing I’ve been going through for the past four months.

Now. All I have to do is do that. No big.

*****

Three years ago, I was figuring out that dogs are pretty much fourth graders.

After failing at Match and OKCupid, I decided eHarmony was worth a shot two years ago. That was dumb.

I did NOT celebrate ANYtober this time last year.

MOAR FUN WITH PHOTOBOOTH:

Photo on 2012-10-18 at 21.59 — Don’t I look like the old woman from “Goonies”?

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 10/12/12

I was suffering through a pretty extended period of terminal insomnia three years ago. I thought it was from grief, but turned out the Effexor I started taking right after Boonie died was the culprit. When I decided to go off it a little while later, the wake-ups stopped. Now the same thing is happening, but I’m not on meds so I don’t know what the hell. Sometimes it shows up when I start a new job or move to a new city or something, but there’s no major circumstantial upheaval right now. So I don’t know. But it sucks.

Two years ago, I was soliciting career suggestions. Still am! (If you guys had actually come through with my request for a bajillion dollars, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.)

Thing is, I love teaching: I love my content area; I really like my school and the people I work with; I dig the vacation schedule; my administration is supportive; and the kids, the kids are hilarious. But the parts I hate about my job, I hate so bad, namely (1) frequent, long, useless, pointless meetings, (2) 7:20am start time, and (3) stupid, stupid hoops to jump through, passed down from people who have never been in the classroom or were there so long ago they haven’t the foggiest recollection what it’s like.

And those things, minus maybe #2, would be true for any teaching job. So maybe teaching’s not it for me?

But what is?

(Send one bajillion dollars now.)

A year ago, I wrote one of my most commented-on posts. You think it’s about dating? Guess again.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Twofer: A Real Post PLUS Retrobruxist Friday 9/28/12

A few words before we Retro it up here. My point with yesterday’s post was not that I think I’m an ogre… an ogra… what’s the feminine of ogre? I don’t think I’m an ogress. I think I’m aight.

And this next part is weird, because from what they tell me, a lot of women experience the opposite, but many times, I’m reassured by what I see in the mirror. [Oh, god, am I going to go here? Shit, might as well.] I generally walk around in my life kind of thinking of myself as a slightly greasy, chubby, waddling Oompa-Loompa with temperamental skin, and when I catch my look in the mirror, I almost always go, “Hey, that’s not so bad!” I mean, I definitely have times when my reflection makes me cringe, but more often than not, it’s a relief. Photos too. I’m weirdly photogenic, which is nice.

Thing is, I want to be the kind of person who sees the above photo and the one of the fat, ugly, stoned skeptic that Jeff took and says, “Psh, neither is reality.”

But the fact is—OH THIS IS SO PATHETIC—I don’t. I look at the above and think maybe someone could love that person, and I look at Jeff’s picture and say, good god,

i-have-to-rep-my-hermit-life-to-the-dog-and-the-mailman-if-i-ever-see-him — it’s gonna be me and 15 dogs.

What I wanted to get across in yesterday’s post was not “Please, everybody, reassure me that I’m beautiful”; it was “I need to stop caring about this superficial bullshit which is not who I am”.

I want to care MORE that I can live through difficulty, write a meaningful story about it, have the courage to get onstage and tell it to 200 strangers, and do it well enough that the audience is moved and the judges think it’s the best story of the night, and LESS about the fact that Jeff took a picture of me from a weird angle, which made it look like I had some sort of growth on my neck, while I was probably crying and definitely squinting into the bright lights. I can’t control every image that makes it to the internet and every perception that every person has of me. I need to let that go.

Here was my big plan to pull off this caring-about-appropriate-things thing: I asked Jeff for the photo, and I was going to post it on this very blog on the World Wide Web. Alas, he felt so bad about contributing to my distress* that he not only deleted the photo from Facebook; he deleted it completely.

So. The best I can do is try to re-create it for you. It looked a little something like

*Two things: (1) I used those iMessage screenshots without his permission. I am an asshole, and I won’t do that again (sorry, Jeff!); (2) he was nothing but lovely during the whole situation and really believed that he was honoring me and my story with the photo; and—OK, three things—(3) just so we’re clear, as depressed as I’ve been in my life, I’ve never, ever contemplated suicide. The whole bit about offing myself was pure histrionics for comedy purposes, but suicide is not funny, and I won’t joke about it anymore.

On to the Retro!

Three years ago, I was trying to teach my students show-don’t-tell. It’s still the hardest thing in the world to teach.

Redford was already 18 months old two years ago, but he was my baby. Still is.

I hosted the Monti StorySLAM for the first time one year ago. Crazypants. I can’t believe that was a year ago.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Epilogue

Don’t know Tulip? Her story begins here.

Tulip settles into her new home while I’m on vacation in Central America. Her mom, “Ann”, sends me messages periodically updating me on her progress: Tulip took a walk with her adoptive sister (I’ll call her Ridley); Ridley keeps barking at her but Tulip’s being great; Ann, Ridley, and Tulip all slept in the same room without incident (albeit with Tulip in the crate).

Ann is taking it slow, which is necessary, and seems smitten with Tulip. It makes my heart happy.

Every day in Costa Rica, I see dogs with no collars running down streets and roads. Why are they all running? I want to pick them up, but then what? It makes my heart heavy.

My friends keep telling me that I’m to take a break from fostering—I loved Tulip, yes, they say, but it’s been too stressful. And they’re right. I know they’re right. I need to decompress. I need to snuggle with Violet and Redford.

But it’s a struggle. Carolina Care Bullies needs fosters all the time. And adoptive families. They post about this dog:

Pumpkin Patch 1 — Her name is Pumpkin Patch.

She is three to six months old. And a tripod.

Pumpkin Patch 2 — Her right rear leg had to be amputated after she was hit by a car.

And I want her. I don’t just want to foster her—I want her to be mine mine mine.

But even though I want to say yes, I think I have to say no this time. For my dogs. For my friends’ dogs, who I want to be able to babysit. For my finances. For my sanity. For the sake of other things I want to do and pursue. So I can say yes to those things.

So when CCB asks if I’ll foster again, which I’m sure they will, I will tell them regretfully no.

I hope I can say no.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 26 (The End?)

Tulip’s story starts here.

Days 1-2

Breakfast, dinner, walk, snuggles. Usual stuff.

Day 3

The woman who put in an application for Tulip—I’ll call her Ann—emails to ask if she can hang out with her for a while in the evening. I tell her of course she can. They chill at her house for several hours. When she brings Tulip back, she seems loathe to leave her.

Day 4

Usual stuff again.

Day 5

I’m going on vacation, and Ann is out of town, so another of Tulip’s Facebook friends offers to take care of her for the weekend. I drop my foster dog at let’s-call-her-Stasia’s house in the evening. The next-door neighbor has seven dogs. There is fence patrolling.

As I leave, I realize that, if all goes well, this will be the last time I’ll see Tulip as my foster dog. It’s possible I tear up a little bit.

Day 6

I head out on vacation.

Day 7

Ann picks up Tulip from Stasia’s house, and so begins Tulip’s trial in her new adoptive home.

(Stasia emails to say that Tulip was wonderful all weekend and now she’s missing her like crazy.)

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Epilogue

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 25

Here’s the beginning of Tulip’s story.

Day 1

I give Tulip her heartworm preventative and flea/tick treatment. I take Violet and Redford’s doses out of the cabinet and set them on the counter to remind myself to apply them when they come inside.

As I sit at the computer, Tulip finds something at my feet and munches it. I don’t know what it is, but it’s gone by the time I realize what’s happening.

A few minutes later, I go back in the kitchen and notice there’s only one dose of meds on the counter. I search for the second. Nowhere. Is it possible my foster dog ate a tube of Revolution? Yikes. I observe her for twitches and/or explosions. Nothing.

Day 2

I still can’t find that tube.

Loose dog again on the walk. He gets real close, and Redford goes bananas. A woman driving by says, “Do you need help?” I tell her, yes, can she please put her car in between the loose dog and my dogs until I can get far enough away? She does. Kindness of strangers, saving my ass all over the place these days.

Day 3

At 8:30pm, before our walk, I drive my car around the loop hoping to catch a better glimpse of the loose dog in order to give Animal Control a description tomorrow. He’s not out.

We do the short loop just to be on the safe side.

Day 4

The babysitter picks up Tulip after work. Do you think Tulip could learn to get along with other dogs?, she asks. I tell her, based on the one session with the volunteer from CCB, yes. Because she was thinking maybe her dog, the one she has joint custody of with her ex, needs a sister…

…!

Days 5

I get a phone call from Tulip’s babysitter. Tulip crapped on the dining room floor, and is there a signal she uses to indicate she needs to go?

Dammit.

I tell her no, she hadn’t pooped inside since her intestines were infested with worms months ago.

Day 6

I get a Facebook message from the babysitter saying Tulip took about 24 hours and “now it’s like she’s lived here her whole life”. She thinks Tulip’s “found her home” if [CCB] will let her do it and if she can be OK with her pooch.

…!!!!!

Not getting my hopes up though.

Day 7

The babysitter emails to say Tulip has developed a fan club in the neighborhood. She’s met dogs without incident and settled in like she’s lived there her whole life. The babysitter can bring her back to me after supper “or just keep her forever”.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Still not getting my hopes up.

I tell her she can keep her as long as she wants. In her next message, her tone seems to change a little: The president of CCB hadn’t responded, and she really wanted to hear her thoughts and ideas about handling any introductions. “And who knows?” she adds. “She might not even think that Tulip coming here for a furever home is a good idea. We’ll see.”

…?

She brings Tulip back to me at 8:30pm and tells me she spoke with the organization. They’re going to do a home visit and meet her other dog.

But she already submitted the adoption application.

Must not. Get. My hopes up.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 26 (The End?)

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 24

Don’t know Tulip? Start here.

Day 1

It’s dark. By the time all of us see it, the cat luxuriating in the street gutter is a mere four feet away. Redford and Tulip are like, “DIBS ON THE NOMS. JINX BUY ME A CAT.” I manage to control Tulip, but in the melee, Redford ends up standing on his hind legs with his claws in my upraised forearm. I walk away from the cat, pushing him. He’s bunny-hopping backward. For a moment, I’m doing Krav Maga against my dog.

Big old welts in the flesh of my forearm when I get home. Asshole.

Feremin! — Tulip considers starting a band.

Day 2

After my airport debacle, Tulip gets to play at Auntie Wa’s house again. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

Day 3

Day 4

I hear Tulip scrabbling at the door. When I open it, I see she has scratched two scratchy spots in the deck. Is there an animal living underneath my deck that she’s trying to get to? Because that’s what I need. An animal living under my deck.

CCB likes to have pictures of the dogs with their foster people so I attempt to snap a picture of me and Tulip together.

I try again.

Day 5

Redford and Violet’s bestie Barley the Dog comes over for a four-day slumber party while her mommies are out of town. She learns the dog shuffle in a jiffy.

Day 6

In preparation for future travels, I’m trying to line up doggy-sitters for Tulip. She goes for a test-drive slumber party at a prospect’s house. (Don’t get excited; this woman won’t adopt Tulip because she has joint custody of a big female pit/lab mix with her ex-husband.)

I get a call about 8:00. Tulip’s peed on the carpet twice; do I have any suggestions?

Tulip! >:/

No, I don’t. Redford gets confused by carpet too (“It’s grass! But inside!”). I tell her just to let her out as soon as she comes out of the crate and every couple hours.

Day 7

I pick her up from the sitter. The woman says there were no more potty incidents after our call. Phew.

Tulip got hella cuter in the last 20 hours.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 25

Retrobruxist Friday 8/30/12

Three years ago this week, I wrote the first of several letters to my baby boy, Redford. You’re still my baby boy, buddy, even if you weigh 80 pounds!

I put up a new profile on OKCupid two years ago. So glad that worked out for me (mwop mwop). By the by, I closed up shop on OKCupid a few weeks ago. I just can’t, y’all. It was not fun. It was the opposite of fun. If-and-when I managed to sort through the mostly terrible prospects, I dreaded every date. I’ll either find that the love of my life is the friend of a friend of a friend or I’ll be a spinster. That’s how it has to go.

One year ago—yes, this, look at this and then reread the paragraph above. I’m going to start looking in the mirror every morning and saying, “You look beautiful and you sound perfect. I’ll tell you this every day.”

(…Booooooooooo hoooooooo hoo hoo hoo.)

Fuck This Shit O'Clock — Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 23

Don’t know Tulip? Start here.

Days 1-4

I don’t know. All the days and breakfasts and poops and walks are blending together. I do know that every night we have to take a detour to avoid the loose dog from last week, except one night when a different dog, a white dog that clearly belongs to the yard he runs out of, riles the shit out of my pack and makes my heart pound out of my chest.

Leashes, people.

Fences.

Come on.

Here’s Tulip chewing on a deer antler/being cute:

Day 5

We have an appointment with a volunteer from CCB to work on manners. She shows me how to get Tulip to approach a dog and then interrupt her and get her attention so she doesn’t come across as so intense to the other dog. The woman also suggests that I tether Tulip to something stationary in the yard and then walk Redford or Violet by her on the leash, let them realize it’s all good. Tulip doesn’t spend any time off leash during the session, but it’s a start.

She enjoys the hot dog treats.

Maybe we’ll take a treat-based class.

Day 6

I’m busy squeezing an 8-month-old’s chubby thighs (my brother’s kid, not a stranger, though I don’t blame you if you wondered) and don’t get around to working with the dogs. We do go on a walk, and sure enough, we have to turn around because of the loose dog. Grrrr.

Day 7

Tulip and I go to Auntie Wa’s house. Tulip patrols the fence for 45 minutes and then my niece and nephew chase her around the yard for another half an hour.

When she gets tired of running and flops, they take turns jumping over her.

She’s going to make some family with kids really happy one day.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 24