Thursday, July 02, 2009

My Doggy is AOK

Apparently no one reads this blog, which actually works out well for me, because it's like pretending to have my own magazine without any real risk. The little lady inside the computer just fixes it all up for me with colors and pictures and a pretty font. The Poochsta is fine, and my doggy friends were appropriately supportive. Big Kid and I went and got him from the vet and showered him with all kinds of attention and now he is napping. The whole 3-day incident was scary for us. He is glad to have a new rawhide to chew.

Now we need to figure out how to sneak Dog of Dogs into a hotel this weekend. A post for another day.

The Poochsta

As I write this post, my dog, Georgie, The Poochsta, The Budge, Dog of Dogs, is at the vet. He has a heart murmur that is new. It might be a take-a-pill variety murmur, or it might be a more serious type. George is the quintessential dog. He greets and wags and gives kisses. He brings his favorite toy, just to show it off, but if you want to play, he will do that too. His tail is extra-long. He is a shiny boy: half black lab, half Australian cattle dog (maybe - Dads are hard to verify), and he is a long and lean doggy machine. The tail is exactly the height of our coffee table and strong enough to wipe your glass right off.

Don't get all I'm-not-reading-about-another-dog. The purpose of this post is that I am writing about my dog and am not writing about my children, my husband, how everyone else is doing, and I am not calling my parents because they would be very upset and worried too. So this is all about a woman and her conventional married life and how the secret to managing it all is a dog named George.

He swims, he fetches sticks, he eats sticks, and he does two laps around the house after I hose him down and dry him off. When I take him to the beach in Maine, he runs, a long-legged glorious race at the edge of the waves. People literally stop to watch his sleek body dashing after oblivious birds high up in the sky. For me, it is a yoga-esque moment to witness the pure physical joy he surely feels as his legs stretch and his body speeds across the blond sand.

After my brother's death, he sensed we were sad, and he became more affectionate. He also started his circus trick. He sits up like a person, butt and tail totally tucked under, back completely straight, front legs resting lightly on a human's lap. At times he can balance like this with one or no arms. Nose is pointed out regally. He talks when he wants something.

At this point, Dear Reader, and the proverbial dog, you are like why am I reading yet another description of yet another dog? Well, he's not just any dog! He is The One Grateful Child. For example, he has a song. I am not saying who sings it, but no one ever objects:

He's the Georgie Boy
He's the Poochie Pie
He's the Georgie Georgie Georgie boy.

He's the Puppy Pie
He's the Georgie Pie
He's the Puppy Puppy Puppy boy.

No, I do not expect you to say Wow! I expect you to learn the song. Learn it! Georgie and I sing it slowly, but you can sing it to any tune you like. He enjoys it but please do not sing while he is sitting up watching t.v. He is not allowed on most furniture, but some nights, he can be found with an interested brown-eyed gaze watching a show with us, again, sitting up like a person as his two front forearms limply hang down. Also, he's a wicked kisser, but a true tough dog, as he interprets that. He sticks his black nose out the back window and sniffs ferociously when we are driving. He chases squirrels off the deck. He takes this very seriously and he knows the word squirrel. He lowers himself to the ground slightly, his fur poofs up, and he trots around the house, protecting us from large and small creatures alike.

Now go learn my puppy's song. He's my most loyal fan, my most affectionate listener, and the vet is taking a helluva long time to call back.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Birthday Jerk

I forgot Chrystal's birthday. That's okay, you say. We're all adults, who really cares? Let's see, if I had remembered her birthday more than just one year out of the thirty I have known her, it might be a bit more okay. If she did not remember my birthday every year, it might be a bit more okay. Chrystal and I have always been friends. There was never a stretch when we were out of touch, or when our friendship was in question. That's just weird. She was in Canada for college, I was in Pennsylvania. She studied math, I studied sociology. She attended my high school graduation, my college graduation, and everything else. The night before I was married, we took a bath together, and she shaved my legs.

There is a lovely museum-quality (it's actually from a museum, so I think that makes it museum-quality) calendar on my wall with birthdays on it. I proudly watched Chrystal's birthday approach with great enthusiasm. It was listed under an etching of a gardenia, or some other hoity-toity flower. This year I would remember! What would I buy her? Well, nothing, that's what! I bought her nothing. And as the day approached, I ignored her birthday as I rifled through the pile of clothes just under the museum-fucking-flower-quality calendar.

She called me a few days ago. June 22. Whaddayadoin, I asked. She said she was on her way back from dinner at The Four Seasons, a way swanky restaurant and hotel. I was like why do you spend so much excellent time with your family? What's so great about them? And then she told me: it's my birthday. I didn't have the heart to let the whole day go by without telling you. I was crushed, really. Another year, another one missed. Do ya notice who the jerk is in this scenario and who the kindhearted person is? If you missed it, I am the jerk. Arg! I could have sent flowers at that point, but did I? Take a guess!

One year, back when Chrystal Husband One hadn't yet revealed his lack of parenting IQ , I threw her a surprise party. It musta been fifteenish years ago. I was making up for lost birthday time. Everyone loved it. Chrystal was happy. People drank beer, sat on the couches, and talked graduate school. Chrystal smiled a lot and we joked about my rehabilitation as birthday friend. I basked in the glow. I was a good person back then, and Husband One gave me all of the credit I deserved. Western Mass was lovely that June.

Then there were all the years that followed. I confused the 22d with the 23d. I called several days late. I forgot completely. I called on the 22d about things completely unrelated. I called on July 23d to say Happy Birthday. Do I forget other birthdays? No, not usually. It's not my forte, but I remember my sister, my brothers, my kids, my husband, certain friends, my parents, etc. okay there are probably others I forget, but certainly not with such vigor and routine. There is one friend who has a birthday on May 23, and I suspect that his 23 and her 22 somehow became mangled in my mind and it was never the same after that. Also, Chrystal is Chrystal, and the very consistency of our long friendship makes it a rather shabby omission, to say the least.

Back to this year. I was contrite. I had forgotten her birthday, yet again, in a year when she has been so tired with her many responsibilities that it would have been extra-helpful for me to remember. I did not remember, though. I, jerk, forgot. She seemed to be amused, and I truly felt bad. So we made a tentative time when I could take her out. Perfect! She called to confirm today and mentioned tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is the one night when I absolutely cannot take her out. I am going to a small event for which I have already made the commitment. Chrystal is going away for a conference, and I, Jerk, the supposed best friend, will have ditched her for perhaps the twentieth time. I am Ass. Or Jerk. You choose.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Vegetables Are Not Funny.

I read a book about an owl. I have told this story so many times it's ridiculous, so I will shorten it, like this: I read a book about an owl and then I decided not to eat animals. I do not mind if you eat animals. I do not mind removing the shrimp from the moo-shoo. I have nothing to preach about and I am not converting to a new religion. It's just something that happened when I read about the owl's feelings. Yes! I said feelings, and then I looked at some chicken, or watched a dumb commercial, and I thought that looks disgusting and I don't wanna eat it.

I had the same reaction to blue cheese, only for my whole life. I looked at it, smelled it, and I thought, gross, it's not even food. I don't care if other people eat it, I just do not want it. Naturally, The Men in the household think this is hilarious. (My apologies if you are mother to a boy. One day he will be A Man.) My son (referring to the vegetables, not the manhood) says "it's a phase." I say maybe it is. How should I know? Maybe I will miss sushi and start eating fish again or maybe one day I will want meat but I don't right now. So for awhile Ball & Chain kept putting big hunks o' meat or fish in front of me as if I'd change my mind instantaneously or maybe just to see what I'd do? He stopped that when I had green beans and potatoes one night for dinner, without complaint, and his salmon sat in the pan uneaten.

Still, they think it's funny. They tell very bad jokes about dead animals. I come from a family of butchers and I have eaten liver, chicken neck, giblet, and all sortsa other stuff. It's not like the jokes about meat are going to make me queasy. My great uncle useta greet us at his butchery with a bloodied apron, a big smile, and a friendly lollipop. What a sweetheart, really. I didn't think about the apron because I was used to it. A buncha pigs stuck in a cage and suffocating on their own methane? Well, that might make me a but queasy.

Today they were wondering about shumai, the Japanese dumpling. What if it has pork? Won't I miss it? Not right now. How tedious. What makes vegetarianism so funny to people? Have I inflicted it on my family? No. Have I served tofurkey? No, but we all like tofu with stir-fry. Rugelah has never liked chicken and Ball and Chain as always pretended that it's a phase. She just turned 13! The gal does not eat the chicken! There seems to be a perpetual family moment when one decides to take vengeance and move the joke one step further, or leave the joke be, and hope it dies. Not like an animal, like a vegetable. I am not sure whether to serve tofurkey for real, or simply wait to see when the next animal-slaughter joke lands in my plate. Hmmm.