Sunday

The dog is getting older and the white hairs on the black and the sad brown eyes and the husband and me the same old arguments why even bother hoping for something different and the neighbor making too much noise on a Sunday morning and Rugelah up in the middle of the might with wild insomnia me ready with the Benadryl because at this point I don't know what to do and then it all adds up to something like the mediocrity of life. Let's diagnose me maybe and say here is a woman with a history of depression or here is a woman with a history of anxiety or trauma or some such crap and then we could have a right field day with those terms but also we could just say that some days or many days have a particular mediocrity to them, particularly when the humor seems to have drained out, the sun shines through leaves and splatters onto the floor and it really doesn't matter one bit.

If I Cry

If I cry when my daughter says something hurtful to me, does that make me oversensitive? What if we have just returned from grocery shopping, and I am asking for her opinion and she looks down at the not-gracery bag in my hand and asks what it's about? If it's about a certain something, she will say yes, and something else, she will say no. What kind of crap is that? I just sent her prattling about the store, finding whatever little foods she wanted. I just picked her up from her precious dance class. I just fucking gave birth to her and grew her up for the past thirteen fucking years and now I am like the landfill for every hangnail that does not bend in the proper direction for her.

I am wondering why I accepted her parameters on my day tomorrow when it is the yahrzheit of my brother's death (the anniversary)? She does not want to see me crying, but if I happen to cry, well. Well! If I happen to cry!? Don't go all "she's upset too" on me, Reader. I am the Queen of Putting The Kids First and fast becoming the Queen of Regretting Putting The Kids First.

Sometimes I think of Roseanne's old show. That's sick, I know. But the original show was hilarious because she let it all roll off and she knew exactly what her kids were doing to manipulate and even if you do not remember, I do, and maybe the dog does, that she did apologize, and she did care, and she did talk to her kids. In real life, if there is such a thing, of course, she is probably a very screwed up mom. I am pretty sure she is. But in not-real life, she never would have been close to tears because her little mini-teen gave her a mini-slam.

What is with me? Why can't I attain the toughness of an absolutely fictional character? Even as I write this, I know the answer, but really, what the fuck? Why did I let my daughter dictate how I will behave on my brother's yahrzheit? I know why. Because I wish I had been able to control some of what happened four years ago, and I want to pretend for her that she has some control now. My brother's death was a random act of evil and he died with two other wonderful men, just sitting at a red light. She cannot make sense of it, and neither can I. Sometimes she asks why it had to be him. Sounds so cliche, but she wonders.

If I am sobbing my face off, I will go to my room. Otherwise, she will have to deal with my sadness. And if she is sad, and she is crying, of course I will comfort her. That's what I always do.

Bad Bad Shot

Did anyone ever give you a picture of yourself that was a really awful picture and you were standing right next to two other people in the photo and the other people looked absolutely excellent like better than they ever did in person? And did you take the picture with you later and examine it and try to figure out just exactly how you managed to contort your face in such a way that you gave yourself extra skin where none really exists and your teeth slanted even though they are straight and your glasses somehow were halfway down your nose? And after you examined the picture did you realize that the donor of said picture had actually asked you to deliver the extra copy to another human being and that there was no choice but to "lose" the picture quickly?

If that ever happened to you, it might bother you for days thinking that you really look like an altered, horror-movie version of yourself, and you might have to make an appointment to get your hair cut and do all sorts of things before you calm down and realize it's just a photo. There will still be bad dreams, though, and you will simply have to wait to get a proverbial hold of yourself.

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.