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

Retrobruxist Friday 9/14/12

I started raging against the “You’ve lost weight!” machine three years ago. I rage on.

Two years ago, I accidentally let a student read questionable material in the classroom.

This week, one year ago, North Carolina did a bad thing. On May 8 of this year, NC did a worse thing. Amendment 1… Fracking…. Defunding Planned Parenthood… Hard not to think my home state is going down the shitter.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Shit Show

[This post is going to be lousy with #firstworldproblems. I know a girl (she’s 11) who has a prosthetic leg, so all of the words henceforth can go in the chapter of the Avid Bruxist narrative titled Complaints About Shit that Doesn’t Matter in the Grand Scheme. There’s my disclaimer. And yet…]

In February, five friends and I registered to do the Tough Mudder Mid-Atlantic, a 12-mile course with 25 obstacles, obstacles to be overcome by doing such things as swinging across monkey bars, climbing over giant piles of logs and/or hay bales, and getting electrocuted.

The things I was worried about were myriad:

  • Running 12 miles. Not the hugest deal—my sister and I lumbered a half-marathon a few years ago—but, this time, I would have to do a reasonable job of keeping up with my teammates, all of whom (a) own legs at least nine inches longer than mine, (b) weigh 50 pounds less than me, or (c) participated in the 2011 CrossFit Games.
  • Doing some of the obstacles. See, there were some I planned to stroll right around: Everest, for example, a huge quarter-pipe, slippery as a snake, up which one must fling oneself and hope that another Mudder grabs at least one body part with which to hoist one the rest of the way. I was planning on skipping that one. But it was the obstacles I knew I should do but was really unsure about that caused some agita. For example, there’s a series of about a dozen shoulder-deep trenches filled with water, spaced five feet apart, over which I was supposed to jump, and I just knew—I knew—I would fall in and not be able to hoist myself out, and my teammates would have to double back and drag me out by the armpits. It was gonna be real embarrassing.
  • Using wet and muddy port-a-potties. While wet and muddy. Gross.
  • Getting electrocuted.

Turns out I worried about the wrong things.

Friday evening, my gang and I drove 280 miles to Germantown, MD, where we had booked two hotel rooms for two nights. On Saturday morning at 7:20, we received a text from the Tough Mudder management telling us that, because of traffic delays, we needed to use an alternate route to the site. OK. Odd that there were congestion issues before the first heat had even run, but OK.

Our start time wasn’t until 1:00, so we had breakfast, got dressed,

When I say Hercu, you say ‘Lisa. Hercu!

ran to Target for last-minute gear, and headed to the course (about 20 miles away) at 11:30. Plenty of time, we thought, to get there, get registered, and get psyched up.

Approximately five miles from the course, traffic stopped completely. We sat there for half an hour and then, using our handy telephones, navigated our way to a back entrance.

Ooooh, Mudder Nature, what are you cooking up?!

This time, we got to half a mile from the course before we were stopped. One hour later, we were still a quarter-mile away (correct my math, but I think that’s a quarter-mile an hour). That’s when the skies opened. After another 45 minutes, we arrived at the parking lot, which was 20 acres of nothing but mud. We watched even SUVs having to get pushed out by already muddy Mudders who had completed the course.

Hope sprung eternal, tho’, and several members of Team ‘Lisa grabbed IDs and the it’s-your-fault-if-you-die-doing-this-bullshit waivers we had signed and sprinted through the rain to the registration tents.

The final heat of the day was scheduled for 2:40. It was 2:35. As we ran back to the car to check on parking progress, we heard them over the megaphone announcing last call. We could do it! We were sure!

But, woe!, the attendants were (probably wisely) not allowing cars into the mudbath/parking lot. We were ready to ditch the car on the side of the road, but right then, a group of Mudders came out saying that site management had closed all the obstacles, and if we were to start, we’d basically be doing a 12-mile mud run.

The obstacles are the point.

Fuck.

Team ‘Lisa conferred and decided we would just get up at sick:30 in the morning and do the course the following day. We were Tough Mudders; we would prevail!

In the middle of the night, TM management sent another text saying that, due to safety concerns (flooding from the storm on the course), the Sunday event had been canceled.

Well, see, but the part about safety concerns wasn’t true.

I mean, even at that moment, it rang false because, um, the nature of the event is to slog through a 12-mile flood, but later, news reports indicated that Mother Nature was not the problem. TM management pointed the finger at uncooperative local authorities, who in turn blamed TM management for overselling the event. But the upshot was the mayor pulled the permit.

Shit show.

On the part of TM, I think it was a case of good ol’-fashioned hubris. They’ve been the popular jock strutting around the fieldhouse of mud-runs for a long time. They stopped showing up for practice, didn’t listen to the coach (sanctimonious jerk, though he was), and got their asses handed to them in the Friday night game.

As for the police department and mayor’s office, a.k.a. sanctimonious jerk coach, I do believe there was a lot of hitching up of pants and saying, “You big-city folks might do it that way where you’re from, but not in my town.”

Since then, TM management has backed off the “safety” charade and said essentially, “Even though local authorities were being badge-waving pissants, the responsibility lies with us to make a good event for you, and we failed.” (Which is true. They’re projected to take in $75 million this year. How ’bout you’ns invest in some goddamn ombudsmen?) They’re offering refunds(!), which they never do, or free transfers to upcoming events.

Team ‘Lisa is determined to triumph, so we’re requesting entrée into Tough Mudder Carolinas late next month. (That would give me seven weeks to generate some real good worries.) Alas, TM Carolinas is not on the list of approved transfers that was sent out today, so who knows if they’ll let us in?

All in all, I’ve gone through a lot (of #firstworldproblems) in the last few months. The chapter title for the summer of 2012 will be Wherein Our Heroine Learns to Deal with Disappointment.

I guess we all need struggles, right?, to learn and grow and change… That’s what life’s about, right?, learning and growing and changing… So I guess I should be thankful, right?, for all the learning experiences…

Nah. Summer 2012 can eat a dick.

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?)

Retrobruxist Friday 9/7/12

Former boss/dear friend/reader/Avid Bruxist cheerleader Margo started her campaign three years ago. Actually, probably earlier than that, but she made it explicit then. I’M TRYING, MARGO. YOU KNOW I’M TRYING.

(And failing.)

Two years ago, CrossFit made me feel bad about myself. That’s interesting—it still does! (Running.) And it also makes me feel really proud of myself! (Olympic lifting.)

I’m inspired by all these people.

One year ago, I missed an opportunity and was sad about it. There’s more to that story… and all I can say is phew. Sometiiiiiimes I thank God fer unanswered praaaaaaayers.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Dinocroc vs. Supergator

The illustrious head_of_fema and I got together yesterday afternoon to view another awesomely bad movie, Dinocroc vs. Supergator, which he owns on Blu-Ray, natch. Matt had first suggested Halle Berry’s Catwoman, but when I read that D vs. S included David Carradine “in one of his final performances [before he killed himself jerking off in Thailand]”, I knew it was time for us to see some people getting eaten. Getting et.

By the way, previews included Dinoshark (exactly what you might imagine from the title) and Cyclops (“A general will be betrayed. Alliances will be forged. Revenge will be delivered,” said they. “Passive voice will be used,” replied I.)

…And now I’m thinking Roger Corman should probably produce Dinoshark vs. Cyclops.

OK, onward!

Alarms are blaring at Drake Industries Research Lab in Hawaii. “Everybody out now! It’s escaped!” yells a blond MILF in a lab coat, never mind that if it has escaped—just an idea but—maybe everybody should stay in. At 0:46, the Dinocroc or the Supergator, one, has its first white-coated snack. (Matt and I never figured out which beast was which. All I know is one had a lopey T-Rex gait, and the other ran low to the ground and wide, like Tulip.)

Dr. MILF hides behind a palm tree and gets on the phone. She calls Drake (David Carradine), who is smoking a cigar and having his blood pressure taken by a stripper nurse—oops, sorry, stripper doctor. My bad. He gets the low-down on what’s happening at his research facility from Dr. MILF, who then watches the other beast bust through a wall and flatten a dude. So many white-coated people get et.

Next up are the credits, including sweeping shots of Hawaiian landscape and a theme song, evocative of the Spaghetti Westerns of yesteryear, which will play relentlessly throughout the movie. And hurt my feelings.

A couple is lying on the beach (“Fully clothed. Interesting,” remarks Matt). They debate whether to stay there or go to a waterfall.  She runs; he follows. [Many superfluous shots of them running through tall grass.] They arrive at the waterfall. “Come on. Let’s get wet,” says the dude, in a totally non-sexual way. Way to blow an opportunity, guy.

He tells her she’ll look prettier—no shit—if she gets him a beer, and she—no shit—goes to get him one. Serves him right: one of the beasts, who had apparently Flat-Stanleyed himself, rises up out of the shin-deep water to snatch the dude under. Girl turns around, can’t find her beau, and then gets et by the other beast. So far, the two beasts are like ships passing in the night. Ships that eat people.

Two dudes are arguing on the phone. Paul is some sort of investigative reporter or something?, and he’s saying he’s found some sketchy stuff at Drake Labs, like maybe they’re using the growth hormone not on plants as they’re supposed to, but on animals. The other guy, Mark, is telling him… I can’t remember, but there’s a homoerotic what-are-you-wearing moment at the end of their conversation.

A young blond in a uniform (we learn later she’s a conservation officer, ohhhh) docks a speedboat and goes up the pier to speak to her father, the police chief, with whom she shares an inappropriate amount of personal space. He reports that something strange is afoot; they found clothes and backpacks at the waterfall. Blondie should check it out but not without backup. She punches her dad flirtatiously. Ew, Electra.

Meanwhile, Drake sends in mercenaries to kill the beasts a la Predator. But you know what? They’re just in it for the money, so you know what else? They all get et. Ha. That’ll teach them to be so greedy.

Victoria, a British Natalie Imbruglia impersonator, beats up a bouncer to talk to Drake. Not sure why she has to beat up the bouncer, since she works for Drake and so does the bouncer, but I think it’s to show how tough she is. Drake recounts an anecdote about this pizza place on the Lower West Side of Manhattan, where he grew up; on their boxes was written, “You’ve tried the rest. Now try the best.” And he instructs her to call The Cajun. (This scene was done eleventy billion times better in Pulp Fiction.)

Cut to The Cajun, a hot guy with a rifle (but no discernible accent, Matt points out), who cuts himself with a Bowie knife and drips his blood in the water. His phone rings, and he simultaneously talks to Victoria and shoots an alligator in the face.

Paul, you remember Paul, who turns out works for the federal government, duh, is fishing. His lover(?), Mark, calls him and says he’s had intel that proves Paul was right! Fishy shit going on at Drake! Keep digging! Build a case!

Cassidy, the blond ranger who’s maybe probably having sex with her dad, reappears in her speedboat, which breaks down at the dock where Paul is fishing. She peruses his computer files while he checks her propellers and knows he’s not an engineer as he claims. He offers her a ride in his Jeep. (Now I’m concerned because the cover said these beasts can outrun SUVs!!!)

They have this conversation:
Paul: Why did you become a conservation officer?
Cassidy: I love animals. I hate seeing them hurt or exploited.
Paul: What if I killed a wild boar?
Cassidy: I’d throw you up against the car and handcuff you.
Paul: Is that a promise or a threat?

Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Paul! Are you flirting with her? I thought you were having sex with Mark! I have no time to be confused, as they hear a roar and speed off in the slower-than-mutant-reptile-mobile.

I’m going to paraphrase a little here for the sake of Internet space:

  • Some bikinis go to the waterfall and ask a nature photographer to snap pics of them; he says, “OK, one roll,” because apparently we still put film in cameras.
  • Bikinis & photographer = et
Paul and Cassidy find a field of two-story mushrooms, which have no relevance to the rest of the story. Dr. MILF runs down the road. They help her into the Jeep, and the requisite Jurassic Park scene commences, with the more upright of the two reptiles chasing the car. Cassidy’s bullets do nothing, but the exploding crossbow of The Cajun, who just happens to be in the river next to the road, slows him down enough for them to get away.
  • A movie producer asks the hotel clerk for a room stocked with food, liquor, and cheeses (that’s right!: food and cheeses) for three, if you know what I mean. (I think the producer’s telling the clerk that he’s invited for a three-way, but later it turns out to be the producer and two chicks, in a hot tub.)
  • Producer/chicks = et

In the hospital, Dr. MILF explains how Drake misused federal funds for this project. Paul videotapes it. Once everyone’s gone, Victoria jabs Dr. MILF in the neck with a syringe full of cyanide (MILF: “What are you doing?” Victoria: “Something bad”). Paul catches her, but she defibrillates him and gets away.

The Cajun has the brilliant idea to get the Dinocroc and the Supergator together and let them duke it out. They’ll use helicopters and explosives to bring them together. The Cajun and Paul get in separate helicopters* and use heat-seeking electronics to locate the (cold-blooded, notes Matt) reptiles but then go back home because they didn’t bring the explosives with them? Seems like they could’ve made one trip. But I’m not Cajun so I don’t know.

*Cassidy kisses Paul square on the mouth with tongue at this point, in front of her dad/lover, but just minutes before Mark had told Paul to “watch [his] 6”, which I understood as phone sex. I DON’T KNOW, PEOPLE.

  • A tour guide is taking a group of tourists around an abandoned hotel, which had been devastated by a storm years prior.
  • Tourists (after some truly spectacular bad acting)/tour guide/bus driver = et

Paul tells The Cajun it doesn’t matter that the MILF is dead because he sent her videotaped testimony to a friend.

The Cajun: What kind of friend?
Paul: The serious kind.

EVERYONE NEEDS TO STOP BEING SUCH A SLUT.

Paul’s serious friend has made his way to Hawaii at this point and shoots Victoria. Drake’s stripper doctor comes down the stairs. “Who are you?” asks the serious friend. “I’m Drake’s nurse,” she replies. (Me: “Earlier he called her ‘doctor’!” Matt: “She must have a PhD in nursing.”) Drake has a heart attack and dies. Of autoerotic asphyxiation. In Thailand.

Back at the abandoned hotel, Police-Dad and Cassidy have a Moment:
P-D: You ready?
Cassidy: I’m your daughter, aren’t I?
P-D: And I’m lucky to have you. I should tell you that more. And have more sex with you.

[I added the last sentence.]

(Me: “They just had a Moment. He’s gonna die.” Matt, indignantly: “SPOILER ALERT!”)

  • Police-Dad = et

Cassidy cries for exactly 34 seconds and then gets pissed. “It killed my dad. I’m gonna kill it.” She leads it through a tunnel into a field, where Paul and The Cajun are crouching behind a tractor, sharing a homoerotic touch.

This whole movie is nothing but sex.

The beasts collide! It’s finally the vs. part of the movie!

While one is killing the other, Paul comes up with a convoluted plan to finish off the victor, involving an explosive and a tub of rainwater. And guess what. It totally works.

The Cajun, Paul, and Cassidy walk off into the sunset, probably to have sex with each other. And Mark too. They shouldn’t leave Mark out.

Overall, super-fun and recommended. I just wish, since everybody was apparently having so much sex, they would’ve showed some of it on screen instead of making me picture it all in my mind. It was hot in my mind, though.

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.

Tulip considers starting a band.

Day 2

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

Day 3

There is couch-snuggling.

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.

But Tulip won’t look at the camera.

I try again.

Nope.
No.
Huh-uh.
Close, but she won’t stop moving.
Come on.
Tulip, seriously.
I try smooching her into stillness.
“Oh, we’re smooching now?” she says.
Smooch.
Smooooooooooooooooooooch.
God, that was exhausting.

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.

She IS. She totally is.

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.)

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.