Guess I only write sad animal things in here now. Anyway, hi!

I’m having a "feel all the emotions" week and it’s making it hard to concentrate on or accomplish much of anything. Which...fine. Sometimes this is just how life is. But it sucks.

Last year at this time, almost exactly to the day, we found out that Mara had cancer. Specifically, anal sac adenocarcinoma or, as we maturely called it, "butt cancer." She had a mass on her anal sac (heh) and one of her lymph nodes. I won't bore you with all the fears and tears and options we ran through at that time, but we decided to start with surgery to remove the masses. She came through it great! There were some follow up steps, including an experimental (but free!) vaccine and oral chemo which, did you know that was a thing? Crazy. We were hesitant, but it had no negative effects on her, really, and was keeping the cancer from spreading. For a time, anyway.

She had a follow up appointment last week, and they found a mass on another lymph node. It hadn't been there a month ago when they did an ultrasound, so they took a sample. We found out yesterday that the mass is cancerous. Because of fucking course it is. I don't think either of us were surprised. When they told us there was another mass that had appeared that quickly, what else was it going to be?

I'm mostly OK. Mostly. It fucking sucks, but I've been mostly holding it together, if only because we still don't know what all the options are yet.

I just keep doing this thing where I'm, like, poking my feelings? To, I don’t know, see how much it hurts to think about Mara not being here this time next year, or when we move into a new place, or, fuck, not being here at all FULL STOP?

I don’t know why I keep doing that. It turns out it hurts a fucking lot, is what it does. And it makes me cry every time, and my eyeballs feel like they’re going to dry up and fall out of my head already so I really don’t want to cry anymore.

Meanwhile, Max is acting weird and apparently has arthritis and then he started eating dirt obsessively (wtf?) and we don’t know why. He gets to go back to the vet on Monday, so I’m hoping they can figure something out. I don’t know. I know this is normal (I mean, not the dirt-eating thing but, like, dogs having issues). He’s getting older, of course he’s going to have medical issues. But why does it have to be happening when we got such terrible news about Mara?

Life is supremely unfair, and I know that, but I don’t know why the universe feels the need to show me evidence of this all at the same time. It's rude.

At the same time, I know that we are very lucky. We’re lucky to have at least some funds, though they are not unlimited, to help our dogs with these issues. We’re lucky to have back up plans for moving and upcoming travel, should we need them. We’re lucky to have one another, so we can lean on each other when we’re having I AM NOT OK moments. I know all of this.

I also know we’ve been really lucky to have the last year with Mara, something I’ve thought and reminded myself of often since this time last year. We didn’t know if she’d make it through the surgery she had. And she did! And she has been acting normal (well, normal for her) ever since. We’ve been really lucky to have that time. The cancer she was diagnosed with is an aggressive one. We were lucky to have that time to enjoy her and, yes, even to take our time saying goodbye to her. Pet owners don’t always get that.

Still. It fucking sucks ass, is what it does. And no amount of luck with change that.

Goodnight, dear void.

Oops I haven’t been writing again SHRUG EMOJI. Oh, me. To be fair, after Joe and I got back from vacation a couple of weeks ago, we both got super sick or just had colds but whatever, either way, I didn’t feel like writing or doing anything that wasn’t lying on the sofa and whining about how I didn’t feel good.

Also, sometimes, it’s just hard to get back in the swing of things when you get back from vacation, unless the normal swing of things is just coming home from work, half-assing the easiest dinner you can think of, and then watching ER reruns until the end of time and by end of time I mean until you’re trying not to fall asleep on the couch because George Clooney is long gone and you don’t recognize any of the characters on the show anymore because seriously, why is Shane West. Not why is Shane West here, just...why was Shane West ever a thing.

Anyway. Hi.

I haven’t blogged in a hundred thousand years because...I don’t know, blogs don’t exist anymore and I’m pretty sure no one will even notice that I’ve posted this, but there’s something nice about screaming speaking quietly into the void.

I have been trying to write more frequently but it happens in spurts (grossest word) and usually I’m too tired after work to do much of anything. My new job (which is not really new anymore) is busy all the time but even busier in the summer because that’s when we need the most volunteers and most of my job = finding volunteers who want to clean up lots of poop and potentially get bitten by wild animals who hate them. Honestly, who WOULDN’T want to do that (I’m being serious) but it does take finding the right kind of person.

SIDENOTE: if you think you might be that person, please look up wildlife rehabilitation centers in your area and see if they need volunteers SPOILER ALERT they probably do but also heads up, you can’t cuddle the animals because it turns out WILD ANIMALS DON’T LIKE THAT. If you absolutely MUST cuddle animals, I don't blame you, but please look into animal shelters because those animals are in great need of cuddles.

Anyway. Turns out working is tiring DUH.

Things I’ve been trying to write include:

1. Daily journal entries. I average about 2-5 of these a month. 
2. Book reviews for Cannonball Read, a project in which you’re supposed to read and review 52 books over the course of the year. I’ve written...7. (But I’ve read at least 46, if my calculations are correct, and they probably aren’t. 
3.  A novel. Yeesh, who isn’t. 

I have been experiencing zero to middling success on the motivation and word count fronts but OH WELL. A quote popped up in a book I read recently (which one, I have no idea):

“Any time spent is better than no time spent.”

I’ve been trying to take it to heart. It’s always been difficult for me to not give up on things that take a long time to complete, or that I can’t focus 100% of my attention on, but I guess that’s what GROWING AS A PERSON is all about. Ugh.

I wish I could rewrite the ending on this one

I have most Mondays off, so on nice days, I go hiking at one of the many parks in the area. Last Monday, I spent most of the morning and early afternoon hiking and, on the way home, tired and muddy, I drove through Lincoln Park, a small residential park with a few trees and a pond. As I drove by the pond, I noticed a woman in the middle of the road. In front of her was a duck, struggling to drag itself out of the street.

I pulled over and got out of my car, and at that point, the duck, a mallard, had managed to get himself into the grass. He seemed comfortable enough, though wasn't moving to walk or fly away, despite his wariness of the humans standing around him. A man who'd also been driving by told the woman and I that he had called animal control. He drove away and the woman, who had a car full of kids, soon followed him, thanking me as she left. 

“I guess this is my problem now,” I thought, and went back to my car. After texting some friends and Joe, I came to the conclusion that I’d wait for animal control but try to find another option in the meantime. I called Brukner Nature Center, which does wildlife rehab, and the woman I spoke to told me that, if I was able to capture the duck, I could bring it to them. Knowing what animal control would do should I leave the duck there, I decided to at least try to capture him. How hard could it be to capture an injured duck? 

SPOILER ALERT, it turns out it’s super hard! 

Joe left work early (which is ridiculous and also why I love him) and stopped to get a box and some towels. We tried to capture the duck once he got there, but it FREAKED OUT and also all the other pond ducks and geese came over to see what we were doing and swarmed around us like a bunch of duck-zombies, hungry for brains bread, and in the midst of all the confusion, our duck got into the water. 

So. At that point, we could have given up. But instead we went to Meijer and bought a net. 

We rushed back to the pond and saw the duck, which we (stupidly) named Lincoln, sitting on the little plank-ramp that the ducks use to climb out of the water. He wasn’t able to climb all the way out, so he was just sitting at the end. And unfortunately, every time we got near him with the net, he swam away to the middle of the pond where we couldn’t get to him. 

We decided to leave for the night, since it was getting dark, and try again in the morning. We tried for an hour the next morning, but were still unsuccessful. I came to visit Lincoln during lunch and again after work, each time feeling more and more useless. When I visited him that night, I was at first hopeful that he had gotten out of the water, as all of the ducks were huddled together in the grass next to the pond. But as I walked the path, I soon found him, still in the water, on the complete opposite end of the pond. He was still swimming away every time I got near him, but not quite as quickly. And he was all alone. 

I went home and cried to Joe, but we decided that, at that point, we should probably just let it go. He didn’t want to be caught. I’d spoken with someone from the parks department earlier that day, who told me that it’s extremely difficult to catch a duck that doesn’t want to be caught, but that they would try to catch him the following day. It made me feel a bit better, but I still felt like I’d failed in some way. If only we’d been able to get him before he got back in the water. If only. 

The next day, I went to work as usual, hoping that the parks department would have better luck than I did. Joe texted me around lunchtime, saying he wanted to try one more time to catch Lincoln. It turned out that my kind-hearted husband, also feeling badly about the duck, had gone by to see whether the parks department had been there. They hadn’t, and Lincoln was still in the water. He wasn’t swimming away as he had been the day before, so Joe thought maybe we could catch him this time. 

All of our duck-catching gear (which at that point consisted of two towels, a box, work gloves, a net, some bread, and a dog crate) was still in the back of my car (because you never know when you might need to catch a duck), so we were all set. We got to Lincoln Park and formulated a plan. I was cautiously optimistic but trying to tamp it down, as my optimism had gotten us nowhere so far. 

On our first attempt, Lincoln swam away again. He slowly made his way to the other side of the pond. I decided to stay on one side while Joe walked to where we thought Lincoln was headed. He crept up to the edge of the pond, slowly dipped the net in front of Lincoln, and Lincoln swam right into it. Joe scooped him out of the pond, easy as anything, and made his way toward me. 

Guys, I wish I could adequately describe the jubilation I felt as I watched Joe walk toward me, Lincoln safely in the net. I dropped the bread I was holding and sprinted to the car to get the crate ready. Joe deposited Lincoln into the crate and we made our way to Brukner, hoping that we’d gotten him in time. 

Brukner is about a 40 minute drive from where we live, and we spent the entire trip alternating between excited chattering and sitting in happy silence. Every now and then I’d break the silence with, “REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU CAUGHT A DUCK?” and we’d start laughing hysterically. 

(We also later realized that there was a guy fishing in the pond the entire time we were trying to catch Lincoln, someone who watched us scoop him into a net, put him in a dog crate, and then quickly drive away. I hope we gave him a fun story to tell on Thanksgiving.) 

Once we arrived at Brukner, we were able to transfer Lincoln into their care easily. I filled out a form, they gave us a patient card so we could call and check on him, and we were done. We both went back to work, feeling happy that we’d tried our best to help. 

I wish I could say that this story has a happy ending. 

Brukner was closed on Thursday and Friday, and when we called on Saturday, they told us that Lincoln had died. They did everything they could, even taking him to an outside vet, but, after all that, his injuries had just been too extensive. 

I wish I had something deep to say here. But I don't. It just sucks. 

Even now, a few days later, I still find myself tearing up about that duck. I spent five days fixated on him, thinking about how to catch him or what was happening to him at Brukner. Our giddy happiness at having caught him turned into an impressive display of grief (we cried a lot and then impulse-bought a brass duck statue that we found at a vintage-y store) for an animal we’d known less than a week. 

If I’m honest, lately I’ve been feeling frustrated about the many terrible things happening in the world, things that I cannot change, or situations that have no easy fix. And here was a situation in which I could actually do something. There was a hurt animal in front of me. I knew exactly how to help. Someone else gave me the knowledge, I had all the tools. And I still failed. 

I keep wondering how my week would have gone had I driven home a different way. Or if I had just ignored the situation and driven by instead. I probably would have worried about the duck for a bit, then placated myself with thoughts that someone else probably dealt with it. Maybe that’s how the people I met last Monday are feeling. Several people happened upon Lincoln while I was waiting for Joe to get there with supplies, and each one seemed supremely relieved when they realized I’d taken ownership over this sad little duck. I'm a bit jealous of them, really. They can at least tell themselves that the duck was probably fine, since someone was there helping. I wish I could have done more.

Still, as disappointed as I am, I just keep reminding myself that there are ways to help. 

Brukner Nature Center, and other organizations like it, can always use donations, whether the donations are monetary or items like animal food or blankets. If you’re able to give, they’ll put these items to good use, helping animals like Lincoln, or educating children and adults in the community on how to safely interact with wildlife, both healthy and injured.  

I know that, because of organizations like Brukner, many other animals are successfully rehabilitated. I’m so thankful that a place like this exists in our community and that, when faced with this situation, I had an expert (other than Google) to talk to. I wish there had been a better outcome for Lincoln, but we happily made a donation so that the experts at Brukner can continue helping animals like him. It doesn’t feel like much, not really. But sometimes it has to be enough. 

NaBloPoMo: Day 1

Willow: Carpe diem. You told me that once.
Buffy: Fish of the day?
Willow: Not carp. Carpe. It means “seize the day.”

Hey, so remember last year when I quit my nice HR job to work part-time at an animal shelter? And how most of my family (and probably my friends) thought I had lost my mind? At the time, I knew it was the right decision, even if others in my life didn’t understand it. Still. I’m not going to pretend it was always easy. Money was tight, my schedule was erratic, and I had no idea if this part-time position would ever lead to anything more.

A few months ago, while working with potential adopters, I met someone at the perfect time. Don’t you love how that happens? I’m sure it’s entirely coincidental, the pure happenstance of meeting someone who passes along a lesson you really need to hear, or it’s something our TV-addled brains just put together for us, wanting to turn our lives into a story with a satisfying narrative. But I don’t care. It’s the greatest feeling, meeting someone who turns out to be the exact person you were supposed to talk to that day.

It was a busy day at work, like always. I had been meeting with people all day, was in fact outside in one of the yards introducing some dogs to each other (you know, normal stuff), when someone came to tell me another person was waiting. I went inside to meet him and, through the course of his interview, realized I was talking to one of the nicest people I’d ever met. Like Heather Anne Hogan nice. (Psst, that’s really nice.)

He was there to meet a few dogs, as his dog had died a few months prior. He wasn’t sure he was ready to adopt another dog and was, in fact, still going to a grief support group for the loss of his pet. We talked a bit about Oak Tree Corner then, and how so many people are uncomfortable talking about grief, or even the idea of grief, and how certainly there are people out there who just don’t understand how hard it can be to lose a pet.

He didn’t end up adopting a dog that day, but during our conversation, he asked me how I ended up working there. I explained that I’d been working in HR for a long time but wanted a change, to do something where I felt like I was making a difference in the world.

In all honesty, in the days and weeks before I met this man, I’d begun to wonder if I’d made a mistake leaving HR. It hadn’t really been so bad, had it? It was a nice enough job. The money was better. The hours were better. I’d been thinking, you know, that maybe I should go back. I felt like I wasn’t contributing enough to the household. I wasn’t making as much money as I had been. My hours, I’m sure, were hard on Joe, since I worked most weekends, and often late-ish on Saturdays and, once I got home, I was usually exhausted. Good exhausted, but still exhausted.

Still, I couldn’t imagine going back to HR. It felt like giving up every time I thought about it. And when I mentioned it to this man, this near-stranger I’d met twenty or so minutes before, he said, “Oh, god, no, never go back.” You see, he, too, had once worked in HR, for more years than I had, and he also hated it, so he left and started his own business and never looked back.

“Don’t do it,” he said, looking me right in the eye. “You’ll regret it.”

I don’t know why I accepted this advice. Unsolicited advice usually makes me go homicidal and, in fact, want to do the exact opposite of whatever I’d been told, because apparently I’m still a child. But I think I was able to take it because it was exactly what I needed to hear, exactly when I needed to hear it. It’s what I knew to be true, deep down, under all the fear and doubt.

A month later, I interviewed for the job I currently hold, a full-time position (at the same company) that I love. The money and the schedule are better, much more in line with my previous full-time position. The difference now is, I’m so much happier when I’m at work. The days are so busy. There’s so much to do. But I’m EXCITED to be there. I love going to work and there are days when I accidentally stay late because I’ve gotten so distracted by whatever I’m working on that I didn’t realize how much time had passed. AND EVERYONE IS SO NICE. Plus, you know, if I ever need a break, there are plenty of fluffy animals around to distract me.

I used to come home from work full of complaints about the day. It was exhausting, and I’m sure not super fun for Joe to listen to. Now I come home and can’t wait to talk about the wonderful people I work with and the animals I work for. So Joe is still sick of hearing me babble, just for different reasons.

I guess my point is follow your dreams or whatever? Even if you’re scared? I don’t know. I still feel like I’m faking my way through this whole “being an adult” thing most of the time, but I think I’m getting better at it. So there’s hope for anyone, I suppose.

ROONEY MARA!

So, those who follow me on Twitter or Facebook or Instagram (in other words, those tools I use to distract me from doing some actual blogging/writing), may already know this, but Joe and I got a new dog!

She is the weirdest dog ever and I love her.

(I’m sure most of my friends and family, upon hearing that we had some “big news,” expected it to be about a baby but nope. Sorry!)

Anyway. She's a year old, some sort of beagle mix, and her name is Mara but she already has some nicknames, including:

Marabelle
Crazy Eyes
Mad Eye Mara
SWEET GIRL PUPPY FACE

and, my favorite...ROONEY MARA.

(Thank you, Billy Eichner. I can’t find a video of Billy Eichner shouting ROONEY MARA but just trust me that it’s hilarious, OK?)

When I started working at an animal shelter, I figured it was only a matter of time before I fell in love with a dog and brought it home. In fact, I soon started coming home at least once a week, regaling Joe with tales of some new dog I was obsessed with. But he never took the bait. Which...in hindsight was a good thing because A) those dogs were awesome, but would have been a disaster in our house and B) then we wouldn’t have gotten Mara.

I met Mara when I took her to an adoption event about a month ago. The point of taking animals to these adoption events is to hopefully get someone to, you know, adopt them, or at least generate some interest in the dog, so maybe someone will see itand, like, go home and think about it for so long that they’ll suddenly realize they simply HAVE to go back and adopt it.

I guess this time, that someone was me. I actually called Joe and told him to come to the event so he could meet her, thinking that if I was being ridiculous (again), he’d talk me out of it, but then he knelt down in front of Mara and she perched her front paws on his knee and licked his hand and BOOM we were DONE. WE ARE SUCH SUCKERS.

Still, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to rush into anything, so we decided to wait and see if she was still available in a week. Plus also, you know, introduce her to Max and make sure she didn’t like to eat cats. She passed both tests with flying colors.

Phoebe doesn’t really like her, but then again, Phoebe doesn’t really like anyone. Unfortunately, Mara, so far, has not shown Phoebe the deference that Max does, so there’s been a lot of hissing and “NO MARA”-ing, but I suppose that’s to be expected.

We were prepared for a second dog. It’s something we’d been talking about since we moved into our house. There were things we knew, like that our expenses would double, the dogs might not get along at first, Phoebe might riot and puke and pee on all of our stuff, but we were pretty sure we could deal with it.

However. (There’s always a however.) There were things we did not consider. For instance, it turns out Mara is allergic to grain. So that’s been fun! There were a couple of nights where we didn’t sleep, because Mara was up hacking and LICKING THE DAMN FLOOR, which I don’t think is bad for her but it’s really, really unsettling. Also, there was one night where she was acting like she was going to throw up, so I let her outside and then went to the basement to look out the window at her and was climbing over the couch when I fell and ended up knocking over some water I’d left down there and so there was shattered glass just, everywhere, and I thought maybe Joe was going to murder me.

Anyway! Since that escapade didn’t end in divorce, I feel pretty good about the solidity of our marriage. Whew.

It’s been about two weeks now and I think things are finally starting to get to the new normal. Even Phoebe seems to have accepted yet another interloper in her world. Max was pretty perturbed the first few days that Mara was here, mostly, I think, because of two reasons. One was the aforementioned middle-of-the-night hacking, which disrupted his sleep, and the second is that she doesn’t seem to care if Max is lying somewhere she wants to be, she just jumps up and crowds right into him...which disrupts his sleep. He’s getting used to it, though, and has stopped giving us, “why did you do this to me,” looks.

That’s actually one of my favorite things that Mara does. She just makes herself comfortable, wherever she may be, which then causes her to do one of my other favorite things. She seems to hate falling asleep, I assume because she’s afraid she’ll miss something, so she holds her head up and her eyes just fall slowly closed, until she jerks her head and wakes herself up. IT’S ADORABLE YOU GUYS.

She lost.

I was sort of worried that there was no way I could ever love another dog as much as I love Max but it turns out I can and now I love Max even more? Love is so weird. I sometimes think of love as this exhaustible resource, like I should hoard it to myself because I might run out eventually, but duh, obviously this is not the case.

hold onto your butts

I can't believe I haven't written about this yet. I guess I've been busy...um...watching The United States of Tara in its entirety over the course of a week. PRIORITIES.

Christmas came and went, as it does, and very quickly, as it ALSO does, and faster and faster each year. But, lucky woman that I am, I got to open one of my Christmas presents early.

I came home from work one evening, exhausted and stinking of puppies (which is pretty standard these days), and trying to work up the energy to go to my work Christmas party (which wasn't too difficult, it's just that I need to work up energy for any kind of extended social interaction where small talk might be expected), when I noticed a card sticking out of my Christmas stocking.

Inside were two tickets to Newport Aquarium's Penguin Encounter. See:

Craziest eyes to have ever crazy eyed.

My response to opening this gift was something like, "What? What? What does this mean? Does this mean...oh my god...oh my god...what does this mean? Does this really mean we get to meet penguins? Like meet meet them? Like shake hands?" for, oh, about half an hour? And then for the rest of the week? JOE IS SO LUCKY.

It was awesome, you guys. The encounter itself lasts only about twenty minutes, which passes far too quickly, but it's great. I'd go again. Like, SO MANY TIMES AGAIN. I'd pay five times as much if it meant I could spend twice as much time with the penguins. I briefly considered asking for a job application once it was over. I mean, how different are penguins from dogs really?

When you arrive at the penguin encounter, a penguin handler makes you wait five minutes while he or she tells you about how you can't pick up the penguins and cuddle them like little babies unless you don't have a particular fondness for your eyeballs anymore. (Still. It's tempting.)

After the liability spiel, you're finally allowed in the room with the penguins. When we went, there were about eight penguins roaming about the room. You mostly just sit in one place and have to wait for the penguins to approach, which is difficult. I really wanted to get up and waddle around with them but I don't think that's allowed.

The handler picks up various penguins and you're allowed to, like, pet them on the back and wings. They're so soft! I wasn't expecting that. And they sometimes make sounds like braying donkeys. Definitely was not expecting that, either. Anyway. Here are some pictures of penguins. That's what you're here for, right?

HELLO I AM A PENGUIN.

I named this one Donkey because she made donkey noises. CREATIVITY.

Blueberry tried to steal my umbrella. I guess cause it was blue.

Newport Aquarium opened in 1999. It's open every day (except major holidays), there are five penguin encounters daily, and each encounter has a limit of 12 people. Assuming the penguin encounters started when Newport Aquarium opened, over 300,000 people have taken this tour. It's fairly easy to buy a ticket. It's not all that expensive. Anyone could do it. But I don't care. It still feels special. Like, I touched a penguin! Who cares if so many other people have done the same? Extraordinary experiences don't become any less extraordinary just because others have experienced them.

I'm not sure when my obsession with penguins began. It was probably always there, along with my obsession with, oh, all other animals. I know seeing this video a million years ago definitely didn't help:

And this latest penguin encounter has only strengthened my resolve to have my own pet penguin someday. I'LL SPARE NO EXPENSE.

the one where I quit my (seemingly) great job and start something new

Lately, my favorite routine is coming home from work and baking while I listen to Welcome to Night Vale. It's not something I planned. I don't do it every day, or even every week. Just whenever I feel like it.

It's new. I like it.

***

About a month ago, I left my old job. The next day, I went to Myrtle Beach with Joe's family, and, when I got back, I started a new job. So. You know. Things have been a bit crazy around here. My new job is completely different from anything I've done in the past. There's office work, sure, but I have a much more active role in daily goings on at the company. I love it, of course, but it's taken some getting used to. My schedule is completely different, so my body is tired and my brain is confused. But it's been perfect, really. Exactly what I needed.

The job I used to have wasn't terrible or anything, but I couldn't wait to leave it. I worked for an arts non-profit, located downtown, and I worked in a beautiful building with great people. But I didn't get to do any of the fun stuff. I didn't get to interact with the public when they came to shows, see how excited they were. I didn't get to talk up any of the upcoming shows, unless I happened to be at a career fair, because I was in HR.

HR never really gets to do any of the fun stuff. HR is behind the scenes, which I actually prefer, but sometimes you just want to DO, you know? Don't get me wrong, it's important to have an HR department. (Just trust me on this, naysayers.) But I didn't want to be part of it anymore.

***

I went to the annual SHRM (Society for Human Resources Management) conference back in June. It's the largest HR conference IN THE WORLD, boasting something like 28,000 attendees, and all of them were extremely passionate about HR.

All except me, it seemed.

Every morning, there was a keynote speaker. The first day it was Hilary Clinton, the one speaker I was actually excited about, but we missed it because our flight got in too late. The second day was Blake Mycoskie, the creator of TOMS shoes. The last speaker was Mark Kelly, with a special appearance by Gabby Giffords (and holy shit was that something).

It was the third day, the day of some speaker I don't even remember, that I had a bit of a breakdown. An existential crisis, if you will. I got up at one point to use the bathroom and, rather than try and find my seat again in the cavernous auditorium, I sat on the floor in the back, leaned against the wall, and tried to pay attention.

It was then, in the midst of thousands of people clapping for "strategic thinking," and "game-changers" and [insert other annoying buzzwords here] that I thought, "What the hell am I doing here?" How could all of these people bring themselves to care about this shit, let alone at 8:30 in the morning?

But I sat there, almost in tears, wondering how in the world I'd ended up in this place, and sent desperate texts to Joe.

Yes, you could say I was being a bit overdramatic.

***

This epiphany or whatever you want to call it made me start to think about what I wanted. And then later, on the way home, there was an incident, one in which my boss said some, just, unbelievably rude and crazy things to me (this was not outside the norm of her behavior), that just about broke me (straw, camel's back, all that). I fumed the entire way home and practically ran out of the airport once we landed. I went into work the next day ready to turn in my notice. It was crazy, and irresponsible, and obviously I didn't do it, but I really, really wanted to. I've never come close to doing anything so irresponsible.

Instead, I started applying for jobs. Which is as equally frustrating and soul-crushing as is going to a job day after day that you hate. I found myself applying for HR jobs, because that's what I'm qualified for, with a sense of resignation. I wondered why I would want to leave a company I liked just to work another HR job. I wondered what the other options were.

***

Lo! But behold, a shining light in the distance, brought to me by the magic of social media! Someone on Facebook posted a job for an Adoption Counselor at a nearby animal shelter. This person would get to work with animals and make sure they found good homes. Puppies! Kittens! YOU GUYS.

"Shit," I thought. "I'd better apply for this."

So I did. And I interviewed. And I got it.

It's part-time. It doesn't pay as well as my old job. But I love going into work. I love it. I don't come home hating myself and the world. I don't cringe every time I open my work email or get a text from my new boss. No one snaps at me or assumes I'm an idiot or micromanages everything I do. People trust me. It's magical! I'm happier (ask Joe), so much happier that I can't believe I wasted so much time being unhappy in my old job.

SPEAKING of Joe, this is really all thanks to him. I was unsure about taking this job, being part-time and less pay, but he was adamant. He pushed me, in a kind way, into being brave and trying something new. This is what he does. That's why he's the best. 

I don't know where this new path will lead. Maybe I'll work with animals forever in some way. Maybe this is just a thing I'll do for a while. Maybe (HOPEFULLY) I'll use more of my free time to write and be able to make that into something. WHO KNOWS. I don't. And for a person who plans EVERYTHING, including their own free time, that is a pretty big fucking deal.

[this is gross]

A couple of weekends ago, Maxenwald Baxenwald (credit: Heather Anne Hogan) scared the shit out of us.

(WARNING: This will not be the last time I reference shit. This might be too gross for those of you with weak stomachs but I'm not sure there are any of you around here anyway so never mind.)

I woke up around 7:30 that sunny, Saturday morning, got up to go to the bathroom (thinking I'd go right back to bed) and was greeted by a frantic Max whining to go outside. On my way to let him out, I glanced down the stairs to the basement and noticed that he'd pooped on the floor. OH JOY, I thought, WHAT A PLEASANT SATURDAY MORNING ACTIVITY IT WILL BE TO CLEAN UP DOG FECES.

Such is the life of a dog owner, however, so I let Max out and went downstairs to inspect the damage. That's when I saw everything else. Not only had he pooped just...all over, but he'd peed and thrown up twice. I was worried, obviously, but the real gut-punch was when I noticed the blood.

I gasped (like, LITERALLY GASPED) and rushed upstairs to wake Joe. My first impulse was to run into the room and scream, "WAKE UP SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH MAX OH MY GOD WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP," but I didn't want Joe to have a heart attack on top of whatever was happening with Max, so I took a deep breath, gently shook Joe's shoulder, and calmly said, "hey, something's wrong with Max, he has blood in his poop," which is still probably not the best way to wake up but seemed better at the time than my first plan. Joe jumped up and went outside to make sure Max was OK while I called the vet to make an emergency appointment. I had to give Joe the phone, though, because I couldn't stop crying long enough to make the call.

Situations like this really highlight that the whole marriage thing (or couplehood thing or partner thing or WHATEVER THING) is a partnership, a delicate balance of strengths and weaknesses. I was hysterical, worried that something was terribly wrong with Max, while Joe remained calm and tried to calm me down. Considering I don't show emotion if I can help it (unless the emotion is, I don't know, sarcasm?), my breakdown took both of us by surprise.

Joe offered to clean up the mess in the basement, which was very chivalrous, but after I heard him dry heave a few times, I sent him upstairs so we wouldn't have to clean up human puke on top of everything else.

(I suppose this means that if our kids ever do something disgusting with bodily fluids, which I think is a given, I'll be in charge of clean up. Looks like kids are off the table!)

You guys, it was really, really disgusting. I'm pretty OK about stuff like this, blood and puke and snot (oh my!), both from my years of baby-sitting and from having cleaned up Phoebe's barf for years. Hell, once a kid threw up into a bucket while sitting on my lap and I was fine. But the smell...it rivaled the time the basement in my college apartment flooded with sewage and the stench seeped its way into every bit of space available, so there were a few moments where I had to stop and try to think about happier smells. Lilacs and freshly baked pies. Laundry! Sweet, sweet laundry!

Joe and I talked about it later, as we sat in the vet's office, like we were sharing war stories. I explained to Joe how I'd packaged the samples for the vet (they always want poop, what's up with that?) and how I was surprised I'd managed to be so methodical about it (poo in bag in container in another bag PLUS PAPER TOWELS EVERYWHERE), since I'd been sobbing quietly to myself the entire time.

"Well," he said. "You were upset, sure, but you're still a Baxla."

Baxlas are a very logical species, you see. We are methodical in everything we do, whether it's making sandwiches or paying bills or apparently collecting poop for the vet. This logic overpowers even extreme pet-worry-related hysteria and, I can only assume, other emergencies as yet unforeseen, which I think makes us a bunch of Spocks?

Spock loves animals, too.

Max is fine now, of course. He did not enjoy his vet visit (I mean, would you enjoy it if some stranger stuck his finger up your butt*?) but I think he enjoyed recuperating since we fawned all over him even more than usual.

Loving animals makes us fucking stupid. We adopt these pets, bring them into our homes, spend almost as much time with them as we do our significant others, and we do this with the knowledge that this unconditional love is only temporary. If we're lucky, we get our pets for 15 years. If we're very lucky, our pets are healthy for most of those 15 years. And if we're very, very lucky, those 15 years don't fly by at the speed of the Millennium Falcon, which, as you know, made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. So, you know. Make of that what you will. 

*please don't tell me if you would

joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea

Saturday morning (and, OK, early afternoon), Joe and I were catching up on our stories (The Office, Archer, etc) and in the middle of my grousing about Brian the Boom Mike Guy, I declared that we should go on an adventure. Not an outdoor adventure, mind you, because it's been below freezing pretty much every day for the past million and a half years, and I couldn't think of any outdoor activities that wouldn't involve me whining a lot or one or both of us losing a body part to frostbite. I did some quiet Googling and thinking (it was hard, you guys) and decided that we should definitely go to Newport Aquarium, which I was PRETTY sure was all or mostly indoors. I didn't verify this before I bought tickets, though. I just bought them. BECAUSE PLANNING IS FOR LOSERS.

[Note: This is so untrue. I plan things like crazy. I plan them so much that it annoys even ME and so one of my goals is to be more spontaneous and not worry if, say, we get to an aquarium and it turns out to be all outdoors and it's 20 degrees and snowing CARPE DIEM SEIZE THE DAY THANK YOU MR KEATING.]

My gamble paid off, luckily, because we only had to be outdoors during the walk from the parking garage to the aquarium. And, I don't know, maybe during the warmer months, they have stuff going on outside (dolphins? manatees? SHAMU?) but just the inside was fine, really. There were, like, probably at least 100 fish inside. MAYBE EVEN 200.

I'm kidding. I'm sure there were more than that. Unfortunately, it seemed like there were as many children running around as there were fish in tanks. I wouldn't have minded the kids so much if they were in tanks, too (ZING!), but really the majority of the children were either well-behaved and/or adorably excited, which I couldn't fault them for BECAUSE OMG PENGUINS OMG SEA TURTLE OMG GIANT ALLIGAAAAATOOOOOOOOOR AHHHHHHHHHHH!! If anything, I was mad because these excitable children were all up in my business while I was trying to get my face as close to the glass without either A) smearing it or B) scaring the fish.

While we were there, not only did I get to watch penguins frolic for half an hour, but I also had the opportunity to A) scare a small child who I thought was lost by asking him if he knew where his mom was and B) bond with with another kid over spider crabs. This is a spider crab and, even if you're not Ron Weasley, I think you'll agree that it's the creepiest fucking things you've ever seen:

Oh my god! Expecto patronum EXPECTO PATRONUM!

On the way home, we stopped and had dinner with Joe's brother and sister-in-law and our adorable nephews, which was the perfect way to end our adventure, mostly because there were no spider crabs at their house.

Joe and I tend to be hermit-like (LIKE HERMIT CRABS) most of the time, though Joe is slightly more prone to leaving the house than I am. I consider sitting at home in my pajamas and not talking to anyone to be one of the most enjoyable things a person can do, but sometimes I have to make myself put on pants and leave the house like a normal person might, if only so I don't turn into Nell. And anyway, I made up for all my pants-wearing on Saturday by sitting in pajamas all day Sunday, binging on TV and junk food while I waited for the Super Bowl Puppy Bowl to start. AMERICA!

oh, deer (YEAH I WENT THERE)

I'm sure it will surprise no one that Joe and I don't really know any of our neighbors. We've waved at some of them and I introduced myself to our neighbor on one side once but I've since forgotten her name. HOWEVER. I'm fairly certain that when she picks up sticks and twigs and junk from her yard, she throws them over our fence, into the overgrown bit of ivy that we will never ever be rid of, making it look even shittier than it normally does. I can't prove it because I've never seen her do it BUT I HAVE MY SUSPICIONS. Oh yes. And if you'd told me 15 years ago that this is something I would be angry about, I would have...I don't know, called you a liar? Cried? Both?

Anyway. We met a new neighbor the other night. Joe and I try to take a nightly walk after work, at least on nights we're both home right after, and lately there've been some deer roaming the neighborhood. The other night was no exception. There was a deer hanging out in our neighbor's front yard, but something BRAND NEW was happening. Another neighbor, a tall, lanky, middle-aged guy I'd seen a few times before, always wearing the same sweatshirt, workout pants, and baseball cap, was throwing something at the deer.

"What the hell? WHY IS HE DOING THAT?" I shouted.

"Cause he's a dick?" Joe answered.

We walked toward the scene as the guy hurled something else at the deer. As we got closer, the guy held out an apple and asked if we wanted one.

"Um, no, I'm not hungry," I said. The guy explained that deer love apples and I realized with relief that he had been FEEDING the deer, not trying to hurt it. Which was great because I'd briefly considered setting some dog poop on fire on his porch but didn't really want to put that much effort into my revenge plan (yeah, I realize that's not that much effort BUT IT'S STILL EFFORT, OK).

The guy, who introduced himself to us as Scotty, then proceeded to tell us about how deer love apples and he feeds them all the time and sometimes they follow him to Domino's NO NOT DOMINO'S SUBWAY THEY FOLLOW HIM TO SUBWAY and did we see the little path through the brush there because he put that there so the deer could come through that was his idea he did that for the deer so it was easier for them to get to his house that's his house right there, well, really it's his dad's house but the deed has his name on it and he used to be a professional golfer but now just rakes leaves all day can you believe how many leaves there are he just raked leaves yesterday and now he has to rake them again today but he saw the deer so he ran inside to get some apples and feed the deer because did you know deer like apples?

YOU GUYS SCOTTY JUST KEPT TALKING. Joe and I tried to walk away a few times, but he just wouldn't stop! Joe started to walk faster, whisper-shouting, "DON'T LOOK BACK DON'T LOOK BACK." AND YET HE KEPT TALKING. He's probably still there, talking to no one! Or the deer! OR THE GHOST OF NAPOLEON'S DEAD MISTRESS WHO KNOWS?!

"Why can't we ever have normal neighbors?" I asked, thinking of our old  neighbor, Poltergeist Lady. But Joe explained that, to our neighbors, we're probably just as weird, if not weirder, which I suppose is true. I mean, once I learned that deer eat apples, I told Joe about my plan to lure deer into our yard (something I'd been threatening to do since I learned there were deer in the neighborhood) which was to go into our backyard, gather some apples from our apple tree (which the deer can't get to because of our fence), and arrange them in a pleasing fashion in the front yard, because, you know, the deer won't eat them unless they're presented well. I must have had an absolutely maniacal look on my face because Joe spent the next five minutes asking if I was OK.

AND YES. Yes, I'm OK. Or I will be, just as soon as I lure the deer to our yard with a beautiful apple arrangements, ensuring they like me best. SUCK IT, SCOTTY.

some housekeeping (and whatnot)

1. I decided to create one of those Life Lists all the kids have been talking about (you know, since like five years ago) but still haven't thought of 100 things. I'm filling it slowly. I'm up to 35, which is going to take me a year to fulfill just by itself, so I can't say I'm in a huge hurry to think of the next 65 things. I think I'm going to keep the list itself private, at least until it's all written, except for #35. I'm quite fond of #35.

Some of you may know how often I use FutureMe. I send my future self a letter on every birthday (well, except for last year, apparently) and randomly whenever I feel like it. It's kind of like getting a note from the past. Actually, it's not kind of like that at all, it's exactly like that. ANYWAY.

Number 35 on my Life List can be described thusly: I'm going to send myself a FutureMe letter every week for a year. Each letter will be set to be delivered a year from when it's sent. So next year, starting on June 12th, I'll start receiving a letter from the past once a week.

So that'll be fun! Or depressing. (Both?)



2. Update! The groundhogs are gone (relocated gone, not dead gone). Did I already tell you guys that? I was kind of sad for a couple of days because I missed watching them frolic through the yard. Oh well, there are always YouTube videos. Joe saw some chipmunks running under the shed the other day. I guess they heard there was a vacancy and a groundhog hole is probably like a mansion to a bunch of chipmunks, so they wasted no time. Chipmunks are bad for the foundation or whatever, much like groundhogs, but they will probably not claw Max's face off, so we're not too worried about them BECAUSE ALSO...

3. We're totally going to tear that shed down. I AM SO EXCITED TO USE A SLEDGEHAMMER. But first we have to remove the roof, and there might be wasps living in part of it, so we have to kill those first. I wish we didn't have to kill anything, even wasps, but they will not listen to my polite requests to "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, STINGING MACHINES AHHHHHHHHH," when I see them in the backyard, so killing it is.

4. The rest of the house is going to (hopefully) remain standing, so I hope it doesn't miss the shed. We're thinking of having a Demolition Party so we don't accidentally maim ourselves tearing the shed down on our own. It's BYOSledgehammer. Bring your friends.

5. You know what's crazy about having a house? You have to, like, take care of things yourself. Like, no one has taken it upon themselves to come water my flowers (only they're not MY flowers, I didn't plant them and so I feel no ownership over them) so some of them are dying. And there are some crazy plants growing that are also sort of dying, but I think that's OK because they might be weeds? I tried to go out one weekend and trim everything, because it looks a bit jungle-y in our garden, but there were bees and wasps all over and I think we've gone over how I feel about stinging things. You win this round, bees.

(OK, and all rounds.)

"I use him to hunt moose!"

This is the conversation Joe and I had this morning as we were getting ready for work. As is the case with most of our morning conversations, I babble at a still-half-asleep Joe while he responds with a lot of one syllable answers and a general air of what-the-fuckery.

Me: Do you wanna hear about the dream I had last night?
Joe: Sure.
Me: Well. I was looking through all these dogs that needed to be adopted, right?
Joe: OK.
Me: And there was this one dog. I don't know what kind of dog it was but in my dream I kept calling him a Norwegian Elk Hound.
Joe: WTF? Is that even a real dog?
Me: I think so? I don't know what they look like but Mulder talks about one in an episode of The X-Files.
Joe: Oh, of course.
Me: Anyway, it was just one of those really big dogs with really long legs and a kind of a pointy, fuzzy face? Like, if it put its paws on your shoulders, it'd be taller than you.
Joe: Like Marmaduke.
Me: Sure, whatever. Anyway. This dog's name was Mutt.
Joe: OK.
Me: And he only had one eye! So I wanted to adopt him.
Joe: What?
Me: And we were really worried about Max not liking him because Mutt was a boy dog but we introduced them to each other and Max loved him!
Joe: Aww.
Me: So that's what I dream about now. Adopting one-eyed dogs named Mutt.
Joe: I love you.
Me: ANYWAY. I'm going to get on Petfinder today and see if I can find a giant, one-eyed dog named Mutt.
Joe: Um...
Me: COME ON WHAT IF I FOUND ONE WE'D HAVE TO GET HIM.

*****

OK, after Googling pictures of Norwegian Elk Hounds, I can safely say that is NOT the kind of dog I'm looking for.

I'm not Mutt BUT I'M SO PRETTY. 

This dog looks more like Mutt, only Mutt only has ONE EYE, remember? Please remember, you have to help me find him.

This could be Mutt's relative, who knows.

For your reference, here is what Mutt probably looks like currently. Be on the lookout!

Arrrrrrrrrr, matey!

I need a check-up from the neck up

I’ve been scared of bats ever since I was a little girl. When I was five or so, I was spending the night at my aunt’s house and I woke up at one point to find a bat sitting on my chest. I screamed bloody murder, woke up the entire house, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Except not really because no one believes it actually happened. They think I dreamt it. It’s one of those things everyone still laughs at me about, like the time I forgot to get off the bus in Kindergarten or when I started sobbing over my oatmeal one morning because I didn’t want to go to church (PMS). I’m of the mind that, whether or not it ACTUALLY happened, it was still traumatizing enough (at a very impressionable age, I might add) that I’ve been terrified of bats ever since.

Enter: our recent trip to Mexico.

We went to Mexico for my friends Mary’s wedding. It was a pretty great trip, as far as trips go, and a REALLY great wedding. We got to Puerto Vallarta last Thursday in the early afternoon, with plenty of time to go swimming and enjoy a few drinks by the pool. The wedding itself was on Saturday and, since I was a bridesmaid, I got to go to the wedding location early with Mary and the other bridesmaids.

The wedding was held at a more private location than the resort. It was only accessible by a 45 minute ferry ride, which sounds like it might suck BUT IT DIDN’T YOU GUYS WE SAW WHALES! WHALES! A mom whale and a baby whale! The captain let the boat idle for a bit so we could watch them. We also saw some baby pelicans but...come on. Whales > Pelicans.

But what of the bats, you might be asking? I’m getting to it.

Once we got to the wedding location, we had some relaxation time (seriously, it was scheduled) until about 1, at which point we ate lunch and started getting ready for the wedding. This involved showering, since we’d been lying on the beach for two hours, and there being a limited number of showers, we didn’t have a lot of extra time. Maybe we should have scheduled less relaxation time, who knows.

A friend and I decided to use the spa bathrooms, which were kind of rustic in that they were made to look cabin-y and didn’t have very much hot water. Other than that, they were fine. Each spa bathroom had a shower to the left, just as you entered, and a separate stall beyond the shower, where the toilet lived. The ceiling was high and sloped up to its highest point just over the toilet.

Anyway, so I went into my bathroom and started getting my stuff ready in the semi-dark, because either I couldn’t find a light or there wasn’t one. My friend knocked on the door to borrow some soap and, as we were talking, she looked up and shrieked, “THAT’S A BAT UP THERE.”

Now. I did not freak out. In fact, I was mad that she’d pointed it out to me, because I didn’t have my glasses on so, at that point, it just looked like a big dark blob and I probably never would have noticed it. My friend was all, “I’m sorry...I’d offer to switch bathrooms with you but I don’t think I can shower with a bat.” I glanced at the bat-like blob again. He was just hanging there, sleeping. I tried to tell myself he was a nice bat, like Batty, who was the only nice bat I could think of at the time. He’d probably just sleep through my shower, right?

So I took one for the team. I decided to shower in the presence of a bat, because god forbid I throw the entire wedding off because I was afraid of a teeny tiny animal. I was all, “He’s far enough away. He’s not even over the shower, he’s over the toilet. I just won’t pee. Unless he comes at me, in which case I will pee all over myself.” True story. As I showered, I barely took my eyes off of the bat. Which is why I noticed immediately when part of the bat separated from the rest and started flying around the bathroom.

“EEK!” I shouted. I seriously did. I shouted EEK. It turns out that’s a real noise. And you’d make that noise, too, if suddenly you were showering with two bats.

At that point I had shampoo in my hair, plus I was, you know, naked, so I couldn’t go running out of the bathroom screaming. I continued my shower, my eyes wide, staring right at the bats, one of which was still fluttering around the ceiling, while I made whimpering noises and crouched under the water. I decided not to close my eyes again, not even if I got soap in them, which is how I noticed that another part of the bat separated from the first bat and started flying around the bathroom.

This is a representation of my thoughts at that moment: WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK THERE ARE THREE BATS IN HERE I’M OUTNUMBERED THREE BATS THREE BATS THREE BATS OH MY GOD I’M GONNA DIE MY BRAIN IS EXPLODING THIS MUST BE WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO LOSE YOUR MIND GOODBYE MIND I’LL MISS YOU!

Because YOU GUYS THERE WERE THREE BATS IN THE BATHROOM WITH ME. WHILE I WAS NAKED AND DEFENSELESS IN THE SHOWER! AND I’M ALREADY AFRAID OF BATS. HOW WAS I TO SURVIVE THIS? HOOOOOOOOOW?

I mean. I did survive, obviously. With (most of) my mental faculties intact, even. I took the fastest shower of my life, all the while watching two out of three bats flutter menacingly around the room. I’m surprised I didn’t cut myself terribly while I was shaving, lose a bunch of blood, and pass out on the floor, at which point the bats would whip out their vampire fangs and finish me off.

In the end, I lived to tell the tale. TO EVERYONE. I tried not to make too big of a deal out of it, though. I mean, sure, I battled three bats and came out victorious but my friend got married while wearing heels IN THE SAND, so who is the bigger hero here, really?

Lazy Monday

1. HYPOTHETICAL for everyone. I know it's supposedly bad luck for a black cat to cross your path, but what if you're in your car? And what if you stopped so the black cat could cross because you could see it waiting by the curb like it might dart under your car as soon as you drove by? So you waited for it to meander across the street, glancing casually at your car as it went, and once it reached the grass, it turned to look at you as if to say, "hey, thanks, buddy." That's not bad luck, right? Because you were doing a good deed? Please don't poop on me, Universe.

2. I got an email from The Future today. Mostly it was full of inspirational "you can do it" stuff, but it ended with this: “PS: I hope you still love Doctor Who because HOLY FUCK that is a great show.” I don’t really know what to say about that.

3. Joe and I went looking for a new coffee table this weekend, which was really an excuse to go to thrift stores and buy things we don’t need. I really wanted to buy this awesome wooden duck statue but Joe took it away from me and put it back on the shelf and I was like, “but no, it’ll be a great conversation piece!” (which really meant that I wanted to buy it so every time I saw it, I could shout, “BONSOIR CANARD") and he was all, “sometimes you need to be saved from yourself.” Anyway, it was only $5 so I think I might sneak back there sometime this week and buy it. Anyway again, my point is:

4. the only things we ended up buying were books, because show us a used book section and we will walk out of that store with SOMETHING. In my case, it was a handful of books from my childhood (Christopher Pike! Babysitters Club! Judy Blume!) so look for those reviews soon.

5. We were in the car with Joe’s parents, on the way back from Joe’s birthday dinner in Cincinnati, when we discovered (from Twitter, of course) that Whitney Houston died. I don’t want to get all maudlin about it (it’s not my tragedy) or comment on the perils of celebrity or the dangers of addiction (I think we can all agree that this blog is definitely not the place for that kind of serious), but I will say that the first thing I wanted to do was call my mom, who used to play Whitney Houston tapes for my sister and I on the regular, and used to let us stand on the sofa and dance whenever this video came on VH1:

The birds, the bees and the monkey babies, Mulder.

You guys, I think Max might have PTSD. See, he's terrified of thunderstorms, right? I feel like this is well-documented...on this blog. But anyway. We didn't have him last year during the July 4th festivities but we assumed that he'd be afraid of fireworks since they make even bigger BOOM FUN noises than thunderstorms.

We discovered that, yes, he is just as terrified of firecracker booms as thunder booms when we were out walking one night (Independence Day Eve Eve or something) and someone set off some amateur fireworks because of course they did. Max stopped for a moment, looked at us in abject terror, and then took off as fast as his little legs could carry him. But he was mostly fine after a bit because they had been far away so they were just little booms.

We decided to walk him around before ten on July 4th, because the real fireworks started at ten and we knew we would never get him outside at that time. We thought we were safe. We were wrong. Because some jackhole in the block of condos next to us set off a huge, esplodey firework just as we had Max to that point. Oh my god, you guys, I thought he was going to reach light speed, such was his haste to get back inside. We couldn't even get him to pee, which was a problem, because we have him on a very strict pee and poo schedule. We talk about Max's poop (or lack thereof) at least five times a day. It's weird. Such is the joy of pet ownership. Anyway.

I tried to take him on another walk that night, after the fireworks were over, but he would barely come out the front door. He went out long enough to pee and then he raced back inside like there were bombs falling outside, which I guess maybe he thought there were? I felt so bad, though! He looked so sad and pathetic so I just gave him extra treats and cuddles.

I thought that would be the end of it, but every night we walk him around nine o'clock, which is the same time he almost got blown up in a firecracker. We try to take him on the usual path, and it happens to be the same path we took him on the night of July 4th. I thought this would be no problem. I mean, dogs don't really have long memories, right? But he won't even go that way! He will during the day, he's fine, but he refuses to walk that way at night. Do you think he thinks there will be another FIRECRACKER BOOM EXPLOSION? But yeah, that's how he got PTSD.

This is (very) slightly related, but I'm trying to convince Joe that we need to get a pet pig. He was all, "we can get a pet pig after we have a baby," but I think he's just saying that because he hopes that if I have a cute baby, I won't want a cute pig but that's not true at all because I'll probably just want a cute pig even MORE because a pig (probably) won't pee and poop on me, PLUS BONUS it will make adorable oinking noises AND will have a curly tail. If I get a baby with a tail, I'm gonna be pissed.

But my point is (I guess) that it should go: Dog, Pig, Baby. Like, obviously, you get a dog before you have a baby because you have to make sure you can keep another living thing (besides yourself) alive. But I think you should get a pig between the dog and the baby because a pig is a pet like a dog but it's pink and hairless like a baby so it's the perfect transition between a dog and baby. I mean, it's practically a baby. It's a practice baby! Anyway, I think Joe's just worried that if I get a pig, why would I want a baby? Actually, that's a really valid point.

Whatever. Did you know you can adopt pigs from Petfinder? Don't tell Joe.

this blog is about to reach a new low

Last night, while Joe and I were sleeping, Max woke up, went to the living room, threw up, and then dragged his bed over the puke. Like he was hiding it.

WHAT.

go directly to heaven, collect two adorable mastiffs

So I just got this email that there are two mastiffs available for foster/adoption in the Dayton area. Here they are:



and



LOOK AT HOW CUTE THEY ARE.

Here is the what the email said:

These two young mastiffs are super sweet and friendly. They were due to
be put down today, but thanks to a mastiff lover who went and picked
them up (thanks Lindsey) we got them into boarding last night. They are
getting their shots, wormed, and baths. The owner didn't give much info
on them. If you know of anyone willing to foster one or both of them
(they are very attached to each other), please let me know!! HART has
offered placement in their rescue if I can find fosters. I do have 54"
crates I can lend to someone and I can furnish the dog food. Thanks!

The Clinton Co. (Wilmington, OH) Dog Warden just picked up a male and
female English Mastiff who was surrendered to the county because the
owner is moving. The owner has not supplied names, medical history or
any info about the dogs. I do know that they have mostly lived outdoors
or in the garage. The Warden says they are nice dogs -- just huge!

Clinton Co. is a very rural and depressed community. The Pound has 20
kennels to house dogs. Currently, dogs are doubled, and in some cases,
tripled up in kennels. The Warden is forced to euthanize due to lack of
space and already has the vet scheduled to come in on Wednesday to have
relief on the quantity of animals.... he will be housing the Mastiffs in
an outdoor kennel tonight.

SUPER SAD FACE. If you would like to adopt/foster these dogs or know of someone who might, please EMAIL ME and I will forward you the foster lady's contact information.

Seriously, though, if you adopt them you will get so many karma points for heaven. Is that how heaven works? Being nice to animals?

Also, if you could please share this with others, that'd be great, because I think approximately 20 people read my blog and only a handful of those people actually live in Ohio.

show me that smile again

I went to Zumba (yes, ZUMBA) on Saturday for the first time. While I spent several songs marching in the wrong direction and flailing my arms about wildly, I enjoyed it and I'm going back tonight. It tricks you into exercising and it turns out exercising is good for you. Who knew? Anyway, the plus side of going to this Zumba class is that there's no set cost, it's all just donations to the instructor, AND it's really close to my house. The negative is that it's at a church, not that that's bad, but there are some churchy elements. Like scripture reading before the class starts (but it's short) and I'm pretty sure there were one or two Christian rock songs played during the class, but I was too busy trying not to run into people or fall down to really notice. This said, I don't really care because while I am not churchy, I do not begrudge others their churchiness (I don't know).

AND. The instructor told us before the class started that Kirk Cameron was coming to give a talk about marriage or preparing for the End Times or something, I don't know, I wasn't really listening because I was too busy mouthing, "OMG MIKE SEAVER MIKE SEAVER!" to Nancy while my 18-year-old cousin just stared at us blankly because I'm pretty sure she doesn't know who Mike Seaver is. The shame, the shame.

Anyway, I'm trying to decide if it's worth the price of the ticket to possibly accost see Mike Seaver in person. Probably not.

So, yeah, since I went to Zumba, it meant getting up early (on Saturday!) and regretting my decision to drink coffee beforehand. It was fun, though, and the fact that I keep telling people I'll meet them there means I can't flake out unless I have a really good excuse. Wanting to stay home and watch The Soup is not a good (enough) excuse.

After Zumba, I went home and was faced with this tough decision: Do I continue being productive since I'm already up and aboot? Or do I reward myself for getting up early with TV and loafing? The answer was a little of both, because Joe and I finally went to the bank to begin the long, arduous process of merging our moneys, but when we got home, I watched an episode of Doctor Who and two episodes of Grey's Anatomy (from season 2, when it was still good...ish).

I was about to start the next episode when Joe called and was all, "...um...so...I found a dog," and it was one of those times where I just wasn't sure how to react. I thought he was calling to tell me he was on his way home, not that Max might soon have a new friend. But, no, this dog was wearing tags, so we couldn't in good conscience keep her forever and hug her and squeeze her and call her George.

At first I was like, "take her to SICSA, maybe?" hoping they'd know what to do and then I remembered that I had a computer in front of me, and everyone knows that Google can solve anything. I got on SICSA's website, which led me here in a matter of CLICKS. Apparently, if you find a lost dog, you can find the owner's address and phone number just by entering the dog's tag number. I had no idea our county did this. I'd imagine your county does the same.

I plugged in the tag number and luckily the owner's current information was in there. I called them and a little girl answered the phone. I told her my name and that my husband had found a dog and that's when she squealed, "THEY FOUND CHRISTY!" and my heart melted. They didn't live far from us so I called Joe and told him where he could return the dog, and he said the whole family was outside in the front yard, waiting for him to bring their dog back. I want to cry a little, you guys, WHAT THE HELL. Anyway, I think our Dog Karma is really high now, so hopefully if Max ever gets lost (NOOOOOO), he'll find his way back to us, or someone will find his way back to us FOR him.

Are you there, internet? It's me, Jennie

I find that sometimes I don't write in here because I feel like I tell you guys the same things over and over. Like, haha, the other day I said something stupid and everyone made fun of me (true)! Or, I spent all of Saturday watching season 2 of Buffy (also true). Or even, JENNIE LOVE DUCKS (truest of all). I'm pretty sure I've even used the title of this post before. And I'm pretty sure I've SAID I'm pretty sure I've used the title of this post before AHHHH OMG meta tornado save the ducklings!

So that's why I don't post sometimes. It's not because I don't love you guys. In fact, it's just the opposite. I love you TOO much, so much that I've pitched a tent on your front lawn and spelled "I LUV U" in a gasoline-fire in the grass and now I'm standing there with my boombox blaring some Peter Gabriel and WHY WON'T YOU COME OUTSIDE AND TALK TO ME. Or at least let me in to use the bathroom.

Now let me tell you about my weekend, in which I said some stupid shit, spent most of my days watching Buffy, and then talked about how much I love ducks. ZING!

But yeah, you know what? I do love ducks. And you know what else? I went for the best run ever yesterday and you want to know why? Hardly anyone was in my park.

Here's what, internet. A week or so after Joe and I moved to the new place, I went for a run to make sure we'd moved to a running-friendly neighborhood. Because where I lived last year? Not so running-friendly, unless I wanted to drive somewhere else to run which seems wrong in some way, don't you think? Anyway, so I decided to go run around this one pond but then I discovered that there was no path around the pond! Which would be fine, if I wanted to run through goose turds but I didn't want to run through goose turds so I just kept going on the sidewalk because I wanted to see where the sidewalk ends (Shel Silverstein FTW!) and you know where it ended? In a park. An awesome park with lots of trees and a nice running path and a community garden (I think?) and geeses and duckses and frogs, oh my! No lie, you guys, I ran around that park with a big, stupid smile on my face and when I got home I was all, "JOE! I FOUND A PARK! And it was awesome! I saw some ducks! And geese! And a frog! Well, I HEARD a frog! Also, guess what?! I saw an albino squirrel! It looked at me!" because I am five, apparently. And also Dug from Up.

So now that is my park. I get very angry whenever I go there and someone else is using it. Effing hell, man, GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I SICK MY GEESE-GANG ON YOU! You don't want to mess with my geese-gang. Nesting makes them loco.

I don't know where this park came from because it wasn't always there and it looks pretty new and they keep updating it with cool stuff. Like, last night I discovered that they had put in these little information boxes and you could push buttons and some nice lady would tell you all about crayfish and maple trees and stuff. Not like, crayfish IN maple trees because that would be weird. It's an awesome park but it's not a magic park. That I know of. I will keep you all updated.