Category: First-World Problems

This would be the category in which I bitch about my ridiculously privileged life.

Yo Soy El Machete

I needed to borrow my sister’s truck to help a friend transport a grill, so I headed up to her place on 4th of July morning and found Wa, brow knitted, picking up yard waste. A few minutes prior, she told me, she had startled a copperhead who was resting underneath a bush, and it had slithered its way across the yard. And now she couldn’t find it.

And I don’t exactly want to French kiss snakes, but my sister— You know how we all have a thing? Snakes are her thing. Last year, a black snake got into her house, and we agreed she pretty much had PTSD for months afterward.

Now, another snake. She called my brother-in-law who was an hour away with the kids, and he reminded her of the machete in the shed, which she fetched. Then she tiptoed around the perimeter of the yard until she called to me that she had found the snake again.

“Right there,” she said, pointing.

I looked. “Right where?” I said.

“Right there, under the fence.”

I moved closer. “I can’t see it,” I said.

“Under the slat with the hole in it.” I squinted. I turned my head. I leaned in. Oh, shit! Right there. If it was a snake, it’d woulda bit me.

As it were.

At first, I was all, Hat tip on your camo, little man. And then I stepped back and was like, why are my knees all gushy?

About then, Wa’s neighbor came over, and we pointed out the viper. Honest, I was kinda hoping he’d jump in and say, “You ladies go put your feet up inside; I’ll handle this varmint.” But he just kept looking at it… and looking at it… and frowning, and I thought, I’ma have to kill this reptile mydamnself.

The animal poked his slithery head out from under the fence, and for a minute, I felt bad for him. He looked kinda skeered. But then I imagined my nieces and nephew, skipping barefoot to the trampoline, and I was all, Oh hell no, you’re gonna die today, little friend.

The neighbor-man put the shovel on one side of the fence and nudged the snake my way. I took a deep breath, lifted the machete, and went all Game of Thrones on his ass (neck).

I wish I could say I got him in one whack, but my hands were shaking and it took two for sure. And then I whacked him again for making my hands shake. Asshole.

Neighbor-man pulled him out from under the fence, laid him on a paving stone, and gave him a chop with the shovel for good measure. Thanks for nothing, neighbor-man.

For reference, that slab is four foot square.*

Naturally,  I had to let Facebook know. (Click for bigger.)

Twice.

On that one, my old boyfriend from Mexico was all “Huh?” so then I had to brag in Spanish.

So there you go. One of my friends commented that, with this act, I earned a place on her speed-dial. Another told me he was going to call me Machete from now on.

You know, whatever. No big. I kill víboras cobrizas con un machete. It’s what I do.

*Give or take 2.5 feet.

The Collapsation of the Sensation of the Mirror of the Memories in Which We Are Living

This is why, when people ask what “my type” is, I say funny and smart.

If Reggie Watts asked me to marry him today, I’d be all, “Siri! What time does city hall close?!” And then I’d remember I don’t have an iPhone 4S. Hopefully, he’d have one, or else I’d have to look it up on Google, and that would take a minute, and maybe in that time he’d change his mind. :(

Also, I just remembered it’s Sunday, and city hall isn’t open on Sunday, so I need all of you to get ordained right now, and keep your phones set to loud on evenings, weekends, and holidays, on the chance that I meet Reggie Watts and hornswoggle him into marrying me.

Racket

I got my pie-hole looked at the other day. You know, scraped, flossed, buffed. My teeth look good, the dentist said, except for those chips and hairline cracks in my incisors and the divots in a handful of molars from my spectacular bruxercising.

I asked once again how much a mouthguard would be. A real one, not the $12 jobby I got at Target.

Five hundred bucks.

We’ve never checked with my insurance company whether they’d cover it because my dentist has always said it wouldn’t unless I have gum disease, but I ask him to send a “determination” this time anyway.

He was right. I got the letter. They’ll pay $0 toward a mouthguard for me.

I don’t get it. I’m actively grinding my teeth out of my head, and they won’t pay, but somebody with gingivitis gets half a thou. Maybe I should stop brushing and flossing, and in a year or two, I’ll get what I need.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 7

Day 1

When I got Redford and Violet, I taught them to wait for their food. They must sit and wait until I say, “OK,” before they start to eat. I can walk ten feet away and they’ll just sit there waiting for me to give them the signal. And drool.

I practice with Tulip. I tell her to sit and start to put the food on the floor. She lunges at it.

I pick it up, tell her to sit, and bend down again. She hurls herself at it again.

Last time, same story, but as she’s bolting toward the bowl, I say, “OK,” so at least she’s hearing the signal.

Day 2

We try the food thing again. She works herself into a frenzy. I manage a quick “OK” as she catapults herself onto her breakfast.

Day 3

What am I doing wrong here? She will not wait for her food.

Nelly texts me to say her circumstances have changed and it doesn’t look like she’ll be able to adopt Tulip. :(

Day 4

I decide to create a website to help Tulip find a fur-ever home. I get as far as setting up a username.

Day 5

She waits a half second for her food!

Day 6

She does not wait a half second for her food.

I spend about eight hours making this tumblr blog. (Will you please share it on your Facebook and/or Twitter? And encourage your friends and/or followers to do the same?)

We go for a walk in the rain. Back at the house, I leave Tulip sitting on the deck step tied to the railing, as usual, so I can unleash Redford and Violet. This time, it takes a little longer than usual what with the drying off. When I go back out to get Tulip, I find she has flung herself over the railing onto the deck.

Day 7

Tulip’s out; Redford and Violet in. Redford starts agitating—grumbling and sprinting back and forth between the living room window and the kitchen door. I look out the door. Tulip is across the street sniffing around. Guess I can’t leave her on the deck by herself anymore.

I call her. She looks up but doesn’t come. I head back into the house to grab a treat and, by the time I reach the door, she’s sprinting back.

She’s really cute when she runs.

Tulip and I attend the first session of her Feisty Fido class. We both learn a lot. I think this is going to be good for us.

She waits a full one-Mississippi for her food. Woot!

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 8

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 6, Days 4-7

Day 4

My mom visits and gives her foster granddog a present: a soft blanky (“because she’s so snuggly”) with a picture of a doggy and a kitty on it. The doggy on the blanket is not a pit bull. We discuss the fact that they probably don’t make blankets with pit bulls on them. A quick google search proves us so very wrong.

You can even get a pit bull slanket (90% fleece, 10% treacle).

My eyes!

Day 5

I awake at 5:20 to the familiar backwards-gulp sound (uh-ggg, uh-ggg, uh-ggg) of a dog fixin’ to thow up. I jump out of bed and flip on lights. Redford’s fine; Violet’s fine. Tulip has yorked a big pile of grassy mess onto her new blanky. I let her outside for a while, clean up the mess, and open the window to air out the room. Then I settle down on the couch, hoping to go back to sleep for half an hour. Tulip curls up in the crook of my knees and shnores. I lie there listening to the birds shriek at each other until my alarm goes off.

When I go out in the evening, Tulip goes in her crate with no padding over the plastic tray because it’s in the wash from the barfing. While I’m gone, she eats the damn crate tray.

It is et.

Later, I will be walking through the kitchen barefoot in the dark and kick that jagged part, slicing open the ball of my left foot.

Day 6

Tulip is outside. When I go out to check on her, this is hanging out of her mouth.

In the previous few days, I have wrestled this

and this

from Redford and Violet.

I get emotional like always. And then I go to the farmers’ market and buy chicken. I feel ridiculous.

Day 7

I buy Tulip a new pink tennis ball to play with. Within five minutes,

it is et.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 7

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 5, Days 4-7

Day 4

I’m so tired and so sore, from work and from workouts. I decide to take the dogs on the shorter loop.

As I leash up Redford and Violet, Tulip worries (as usual) that I might not take her this time (even though I always take her).

Half an hour later, at the back door, I must zone out for a second because, for some incomprehensible reason, I untether Tulip first. Then Redford, but by the time I go for Violet, Tulip and she are already at it. Snarling. Teeth. Jumping. Clashing.

All the articles online say don’t yell—it makes it worse—but I’m yelling. “Stop! Stop! Stop! Goddammit!” Though Violet’s still on the leash, she’s attempting to fight Tulip off, and Redford is trying to defend his sister as well. We’re all going around in circles on the deck.

The articles also say, to break up a dogfight, you need as many people as there are dogs involved. Each person picks up the hind legs of a dog and walks backward. I’m by myself, and I literally, at one point, yell, “Oh, god! Help!” Who I expect to help me is unclear, but I am so scared.

I finally wrestle Redford and Violet into the yard and close the gate, shutting Tulip on the deck by herself. I don’t know if her heart rate’s up, but mine sure as shit is. I sit on the steps and pet Redford and Violet. When I glance back at Tulip, she’s wagging. It’s been five seconds since the fight. A rage boils inside me. For the first (and, I hope, only) time, I feel violent towards my foster dog.

I don’t act on my feeling. I breathe and pet my babies, then I take Tulip inside and put her unceremoniously in her kennel. She whines. I tell her to be quiet.

Violet is licking her right haunch. I flip on the light and take a look. She’s bleeding, there on her hip, and above and below her left eye. I wash her wounds and feel very, very sad.

Fifteen minutes later, I realize my thigh stings. I look down. My pants are torn, and my leg is bleeding.

Looking back, the skirmish lasted probably thirty to forty-five seconds, but in dog years, what is that?, like a fortnight or something. It certainly felt like it.

Day 5

I notice Tulip has a scratch on her right cheek. (I guess Violet got one jab in.) I wash her wound and feel very, very sad.

No walk today.

Day 6

My thighs are covered in bruises from the spat.

I realize Tulip may have to go to a one-dog household. That, or to an owner who’s willing to do some hard work.

No walk today.

I sprint out the door to make it my friend’s birthday dinner on time, realizing on the way there that my dark purple shirt is now fur-trimmed and I don’t have a lint roller. Ah, the perils of taking snuggly naps on the couch with one’s foster dog prior to social engagements.

Day 7

Between thundershowers, I gird my loins and talk the doggies for a walk. It’s amazing to me that they can walk on the leash with their sides touching, no problem, but the unstructured meetings explode into rage-fests.

Tulip poops and pees on the walk!

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 6, Days 1-3

Stop It

Here’s the thing about compulsive eating, and if you’re an alcoholic, addict, or other type of self-destructor, you can sing along with the bouncing ball: I swear to god I want to change. I want it so, so bad. I would compromise my morals if I knew that it would take away the impulse to do damage to myself.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I had a conversation on Saturday with a friend of mine that went something like this:

Me: I need to start running, but I’m slower than [our mutual friends who run].

Him: You can keep up with them.

Me: I’m way shorter, and my BMI is way higher.

Him: You can change your BMI.

Me: Well, see, I eat too much.

Him: Do you drink enough water? Water will make you feel full.

Me: Doesn’t matter. I eat when I’m not hungry. I’ve developed some pretty messed-up coping strategies to deal with my emotions.

Him: Well, now that you know that, do you want to continue doing it?

Me: No. I’ve been working on it for about eleven years.

Him: What do you eat during a day?

I recited a list, explained that I eat, for the most part, healthy stuff, but just too much of it because it helps me suppress feelings.

Him: If you take out 350 calories a day—just substitute a big glass of water for one of those snacks—you’ll lose a pound every ten days.

Me: (sigh)

I know this. I know it. I understand the math. I get how calories work. I grasp the concept of energy out versus energy in.

I just can’t stop it. And don’t think I’m not trying. I’ve read books, seen therapists, been in groups, taken skills classes, meditated—shit, I even went to eight sessions of hypnosis. I’m trying. I really, really am.

But some people seem to think this is the solution:

When somebody offers me the “stop it” therapy approach, it actually makes the problem worse. Since that conversation with my friend, I’ve been shoving food in my face like it’s performance art.

And not to blame him; his is a perfectly reasonable solution. I just have an unreasonable reaction to it.

I’d bet most people have something they wish they could just stop doing. Maybe it’s too much food, drugs, sex, gambling, surfing the internet, or watching TV. Maybe it’s being passive-aggressive or getting themselves into unhealthy relationships. Maybe it’s sniping at their significant other. Something that they know is bad for themselves and their relationships but they just feel compelled to do.

I guess, if you don’t have any self-destructive behaviors, there’s no way you could empathize with the struggle of someone who does. But if you don’t have any self-destructive behaviors, then god love ya. Be thankful. And when it comes to offering advice to those with addictions or compulsions, kindly just stop it.

P.S. This post is dedicated my friend, M, who shares my struggle and was told today by another male friend of ours to stop it.