Category: First-World Problems

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

Comfortably Numb

Given that Violet needed to remain pretty calm and still for a couple months to let the knee heal, the doctors recommended keeping her on a sedative. A pharmaceutical study at State offered to give her Trazodone or a placebo for the first month, and known Trazodone for the second month, and pay $100 toward my follow-up x-rays.

Sold.

I got her home, and the study drug didn’t seem to be doing much. Once she came off her pain meds, she was rarin’ and ready to go. I was convinced I had gotten the placebo.

After two weeks of giving her those little white pills and filling out surveys, I was freaking out. She kept trying to play, and I kept not letting her. She would cry and throw herself against the door when I left the house with Redford. We were both miserable.

Finally, when she goaded Redford into wrestling with her while my back was turned and he stepped on her and made her yelp something awful, I emailed the vet student and study administrator I had met with and told them the story. They shipped me known Trazodone right away and, when even it didn’t seem to be doing much, we upped her dose several times. Still, the moment I’d let her out to go potty, she would sprint across to the deck and out to the tree to check it for squirrels.

On Tuesday, at Redford’s appointment, my vet said I could give Violet regular old Benadryl, for a cheap option. I went out and bought a $15 bottle of it. Two hundred capsules.

He said the dose was 1 milligram per kilo of dog (25 mg), but that I may want to start with a half-capsule. No, thank you. I wasn’t taking chances. I gave her a full capsule. On 25 mg, she chewed the heel of one of my new Danskos. On 37.5, she ate the bottom of the spare bedroom’s door.

Maybe the Trazodone was working somewhat after all.

Anybody own a tranquilizer dart gun?

Shut Up, or Lessons from the Universe, Part 3

Second date with FOT last night went pretty well. Some of you (Dan, Cat, etc.) will be pleased that he picked up the check, I said I’d chip in, and when he said, “Nah, I got this,” I shut up and let him pay for dinner.

I’m not sure whether we have “it” or not, but we had a good time, so there you go.

I have been fantasizing a lot. But not about FOT.

And not about my girl-crush. (Sorry, Margo.)

About

this guy.

On our first date, FOT told me his co-worker had found a puppy and was trying to find the little guy a home, and I asked FOT to send me a picture or two. I KNOW, I’M A DUMBASS. SHUT UP.

Before I even saw him, I wanted him. I wanted him to be mine mine mine. The words “baby” and “pit bull” have a similar effect (though in a much more pleasant way) as “mayonnaise” and “burpees” for me. I lose all strength and integrity. I will lie, cheat, and steal to get my hands on them. (On the baby pit bulls, not the mayonnaise and burpees, of course.) Mammalian crack cocaine.

Then I remembered

this girl.

And my bank account. And I knew I shouldn’t do it.

That’s when FOT sent me the pictures.

Shut up! Look at him. Sunbathing. In the ivy. Sunbathing in the ivy!

I lost my ever-loving mind. I was all, “DON’T CARE ABOUT MONEY WILL SELL MY BODY MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE.” I wanted to stick my face right in his neck and stroke those silky ears.

I started thinking I’d do it, you know. One more dog. What? Mr. Wonderful and his Doberman certainly aren’t banging down the door to fill up the dog-shaped space in my house. I’d fill it myself. No big whoop.

Well, guess who’s turned up lame now?

This guy.

I picked Redford up from his babysitter yesterday, and she told me he was limping. Oh boy is he limping. Today the vet prescribed him some pain meds and told me to keep him from exercising. (Good luck with that.) If it doesn’t improve in a few days, he’ll have to have an x-ray. Could the solution be surgical? Yes.

So I’d just like to extend both middle fingers right now to the Universe for teaching me that lesson (Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Date’s Co-worker’s Foster Dog) in the nastiest way possible.

(And ten thousand people are dead in Japan, so I’m gonna shut the fuck up now.)

The Blue (D)evil

Much to my dismay, Dook University won the ACC championship this weekend. Their win was demoralizing on several levels. First of all, those bastards totally owned my Tar Heels.

I mean, handed their ass to them.

Second, and arguably more painful, the Blue Devil victory meant we had to do “The Blue Devil” at CrossFit today:

The double-under plays hard-to-get, and then she’s the ficklest of mistresses. It took me a month to be able to do one. Pretty quickly, I started getting two in a row. About six weeks ago, I did eleven. Eleven. And then, like Keyser Söze, poof! they were gone. Now I’m back to one or two, and when you miss a double-under, the jump rope is going so fast that you whip some pretty remarkable welts on your hands, arms, legs, even face. Adding injury to insult, as it were.

Anyway, 125 double-unders would’ve taken me somewhere between 47 minutes and two hours (and required a first aid kit). Coach Dave didn’t have that kind of time. He said the WOD should be under 25 minutes, so I took the substitution: 375 singles.

The air squats were OK. My right knee has been feeling a little tender, but I busted through sets of more than fifteen. (Paul, did you do those 100 unbroken? I know you did, you Lucky-brand-jean-wearing honey badger.)

For the kettlebell swings, I went 25 pounds, ten less than prescribed. Then I flopped through four ugly-ass burpees at a time. If you ever want to find out if I’m withholding state secrets, make me do burpees. Or eat mayonnaise. I’ll cave immediately. Make me eat mayonnaise and do burpees, and I’ll sign an oath that I killed Kennedy. Even though I wasn’t born.

Rx on the thrusters was 75 pounds. Ha! Seventy-five pounds. I slapped tens and fives on a 15-lb bar, convinced I’d have to strip off the fives to get through the set. And after the fourth rep, I did drop the bar. But then, I don’t know, some sort of weird feeling came over me. I think it’s what other people call “resolve” or “perseverance” or some horseshit like that. I was like, “I’m going to do every last thruster with those 45 fucking pounds.”

My resolve started to crumble on the next rep. I could get through only three thrusters at a time, and that was with every ounce of will that I had. Twenty-five seemed ludicrous. My body started to quake.

With everybody cheering and telling me to get my hands back on the bar, my muscles screaming for rest, I grunted through the last six in a row.

Time: 25:19

Normally, I’ll write a little reflection on the WOD in my notebook. Something like, Pull-ups: switched from blue and red bands to green band on third round. Or Weight seemed too easy on the front squat at first, but it turned out to be about right.

Today, I wrote one word:

Cried.

Ass-Clown

I was still effing sore from all the ridiculousness that was yesterday’s WOD when I walked in the gym tonight. Every pull-up felt like I was hoisting a corpse. Plus Coach Rich made us do box jumps and bear crawls for the group warm-up. I looked at him half-way through and panted, “Are you sure this isn’t the metcon?” (That’s metabolic conditioning for you non-CrossFitters.)

The strength segment was presses. That was fine. But jeez maneez, the second part was 3 rounds of:

Well, I snatched thirty-five pounds, which was twenty less than Rx, and HSPUs are, shall we say, a tad beyond my capabilities at this point. I put my knees on a box, derrière in the air, and do them like that.

And of course, the running. Bleah. Blech. Blechity-bleah. I’m so slow. So…

…

…slow.

I’m slow anyway, but I knew I’d be extra-specially so today since I was already plumb wore out.

The 200m turn-around spot is at the second oak tree up the hill from the gym, which sucks until you head back and then it’s not as sucky. Even I feel OK coming down that decline. I’m not speedy or anything, but I don’t feel like I need to drop to all-fours.

The only problem is when I do a late WOD, and it’s dark, and the street lights are on. It’s not that I’m scared or anything. It’s that there’s this low stone wall, see, and—OK, let me explain.

This is what my ass normally looks like from the side. (I may have done a little graphic lipo on my stomach and thighs here.)

Point is, I have major junk all up in my trunk. This is well documented.

But when I’m running down that hill in front of the gym, and the street lights are on, the way my shadow lands on the stone wall makes my butt look

like this.

The hot guy who stole my sister-wife, Kristen, away at the Valentine’s Day shindig was running behind me at one point (because he was that close to lapping me). And before the WOD, I noticed he wasn’t actually a hot guy. He was a ridiculous specimen of male beauty. Beardy and tatooey and muscly and blue-eyed.

Yikes. I did not want him to catch even the slightest glance of the carnival fun-house shadow of my posterior on that wall.

So I ran.

I ran like my legs were steel springs.

I ran as fahst as a leppid.

…Of course, I’m absolutely sure that Hot Man’s entire focus was on me, not himself, during the WOD. I’m pretty sure everybody’s focus was and is always on me. Because I am the center of the universe.

(I’m very self-absorbed sometimes, have you noticed?)

(But to be fair, my ass’s shadow does make it look like planets orbiting it would not be out of the question.)