Do You Realize?

Of Dogs and Death

It's 4:35 a.m., and I'm sitting in my living room, listening to our dog struggle mightily to take in enough oxygen to keep her little body alive. My husband & I were in bed, with Poogan at our feet making the same brave attempts to breathe, taking turns lying down beside her and in our regular positions in bed. As we lay there with our heads next to hers, petting on her, my husband posed an interesting idea, one that some might find painful. The idea was simply this: Might Poogan be more comfortable downstairs, instead of on the bed? We made the decision to go downstairs. We put Poogan in the floor, in the spot where she loves to lie, and we went to the sofa to camp. She's moved about downstairs as she wishes, and, not surprisingly, she's not stayed with us for more than a couple of minutes.

This was so hard for us to do. As human pet owners, with human emotions and attachments, we want to be there with our pets for every one of their last moments. But do they want us there? We like to think that, yes, they are put at ease by having us there, but I actually think the opposite might be true. I think having us there, hovering, doting, worrying, only adds to any anxiety they may be feeling. They are dogs, and dogs are not humans. We share some of the same emotions, yes, but not our attitudes of death.

Think of how dogs choose to die, if given the choice. Alone. Away from their pack. Even domestic dogs do this. I grew up with animals, and I could never understand my parent's gentle but mysterious explanations when a dog "went off to die." But I've always known that they do. And yet, in a dog's final moments, we still want to "be there for her (or him)." In times of grief, rational thought need not apply.

When I die, I do, indeed, want my "pack" around me. I don't think I want to be alone. But, then, I'm only human.

Crash

Yesterday was not my day. I was rear-ended in traffic, for the second time in three months. As if that weren’t coincidental enough, consider this: I have been hit by other drivers no less than seven times in the last seventeen years. Adding to the absurdity of this number are the almost unbelievable stories that go along with most of them. (I emphatically assure you, however, that they are true.) I am a walking example of Murphy’s Law, as it applies to motor vehicles.

For example, when I was eighteen, I was traveling down the narrow, recently paved country road on which I lived. As I came around a sharp curve, I noticed there was a large truck speeding toward me in my lane. I swerved into the ditch to try to avoid hitting him, but he was too far in my lane; a collision was inevitable. I was so shaken up (as this sort of thing hadn’t yet jaded me) that I let the driver convince me that, since I had hit him, the accident would be my fault; luckily, he was such a nice guy, he said he wouldn’t call the police since his truck wasn’t damaged too badly. What a guy. Shaken, I drove home, where my mother told me nicely what an idiot I was for falling for that line of bullshit, and we called the police. It turns out the guy also lived on this road, apparently had several outstanding arrest warrants, and he was drunk when the accident happened (he was dead drunk an hour after the accident, passed out in his floor). I had to pick him out of a police photo line-up so they could add a DUI to his charges.

Another time, I was stopped at a stop sign when I was rear-ended by a girl I had gone to school with. She had a passenger in the car. No one was hurt, the cars were only slightly bumped and bruised, and so after the police made their report, we went on our merry way. A couple of days later, I got a letter from an ambulance-chasing slimeball personal injury lawyer, offering to sue the other driver for me. What a guy. I threw the letter away, not even considering this a remotely legitimate reaction to the wreck, even though the other driver was, indeed, at fault. A few days after that, I got another letter from the same ambulance-chasing slimeball personal injury lawyer, informing me that the passenger of the other car had retained his services & that she would be suing me for “loss of consortium” on her part; I was being charged in the suit with “negligence in stopping.” Are you kidding me? I was stopped at a stop sign, moron! I had to answer ten pages of questions regarding my personal life and driving record and the accident in question, and I had to drive to Atlanta to give a deposition. After all that pain in my ass, the other party dropped the suit. Surprise, surprise (since they had no grounds for anything anyway).

Still another time (Yes, there are more!), a girl hit me as I was pulling out of a parking lot. The police were summoned, insurance cards were checked, reports were made, phone numbers were exchanged. She told us she “knew a good body shop who would give us a good deal.” What a gal. We went with her suggestion even though we wanted a different body shop. After the work was done, we found out that the girl’s insurance had been canceled for non-payment of premiums the day before she had hit me, which she had conveniently not told either us or the officer. When we confronted her & asked that she pay for the work, she agreed and said she would. She then filed for bankruptcy rather than pay anything. So, in the end, we had work done by a body shop we never would have chosen, and we had to pay for it ourselves.

If I’ve learned anything from all these driving experiences is that whatever’s going to happen will happen. (Also, if the person at fault offers to do something nice, do not believe them.) I AM still searching for that invisible target on my car, though. I’m painting over that sucker.

Where in the world is Do You Realize?

I know I have been conspicuously scarce lately. Lots of reasons, few of them good.

Mostly affecting my blogging is the fact that my video card went kaput on the laptop. While I don't mind hijacking hubby's computer long enough to check in on Facebook, I really feel guilty about taking over long enough to compose a blog post.

Secondly, we've finally found a residential treatment center for Youngest. For insurance purposes, he had to spend time as an inpatient first, though, and then move directly to RTC, so for two weeks we've been caught up in insurance hassles, eeeaaarrrrly morning inpatient visitation, driving, and settling in at the new RTC.

All this will be included in a post soon, hopefully. As will my thoughts on Sarah Palin (and I have a lot of them). As will my answers for the meme for which I was recently tagged. I miss the blog, and I miss my readers (both of you)! (If anyone misses my endless wit and crazy shit that much, you can always hit me up on Facebook.)

Second Letter to the Person Who Stole My Purse

Dear Degenerate Asshole Madam:

Thank you so much for arranging for the return of my purse  cash  keys and wallet with the broken zipper. It was also kind of you to remember how much I loved the scavenger hunt my husband put together when he gave me my purse and for you to arrange something similar by shoving the keys and wallet underneath a mattress in a skanky rattrap motel. It was really a fucking cowardly act thoughtful touch. The man in the motel office was so nice when he passed them to me underneath the bulletproof glass barrier!

What kind of fragrance do you wear? I'm just wondering, because the wallet smells of Eau de Fish Fry. A vast improvement over the simple scent of leather! And thank you for rubbing off all the magical Florentine fairy dust that made that wallet so special, replacing it with your skanky hand grease special essence.

I'm so excited about next week, because I just know you're planning another hide & seek game for my purse, since you forgot to leave it under the mattress with the wallet & keys. I can't wait to see where you put it! A crack house, perhaps, or maybe in your john's boyfriend's car?

Fuck Thank you very much,
Lori V.

And it just keeps coming...

So, the week from hell is still barreling relentlessly forward.

Today I found out I could possibly have a parotid gland tumor; I have a CTScan scheduled for Wednesday and will get the results next Monday. A huge percentage (80-99%, depending on whom you believe) are benign, but require removal anyway, because they just continue to grow.

Also today, I was so distracted I ran out of gas.

Also also today, Youngest got himself bitten by a rat. Not a pet rat. A real, bona fide, disease harboring rat. And so we spent our evening in the emergency room.

What lovely experiences could tomorrow have in store that could even remotely compare to the week I've had thus far? I can hardly stand the anticipation.

I'll start posting again more regularly when I can dig out of this dung heap. This exciting and interesting dung heap. But a dung heap nonetheless.

Texas Longhorn Game Day Fashion 101

I went to visit Eldest at school this weekend. It was the weekend of their first game (Saturday), so I got to experience Austin in full game-day glory. Can you grasp the concept of 150,000 people shoved into one relatively small area, all dressed in burnt orange? I felt positively blasphemous in my turquoise tank top.

Now, normally, Austin fashion falls into the "anything goes" category. It's quite the melange. There's a bit of every possible fashion sense to be found in Austin, which makes it pretty groovy in my book. You'll always be grounded to the Longhorn aesthetic by a goodly number of students in their "Hook 'Em Horns" orange gear, but it's usually a small smattering, just enough to remind you of where you are. The goal of fashion in general here is to wear what you like, like what you wear, and hope that a little piece of you shines through.

Game days, on the other hand, are a completely different story. The entire city's fashion aspirations magically align, and suddenly everyone looks fantastic in burnt orange. The goal suddenly becomes totally different. A little more challenging in some respects. On game days, it is imperative that you wear something, ANYTHING, in the only color that exists on the color wheel: burnt orange. However, you still want your personality to make an appearance, so the big trick is to search for clothing items that are your style but made in that one hideous, unifying color. The entire second floor of the Co-op is reserved for women's clothing (with a stunning array of styles but not much in the way of color selection)! I saw girls in cute little shift dresses in burnt orange, polos in burnt orange, flip flops in burnt orange, Soffe shorts in burnt orange, baseball tees in burnt orange, and on and on it went; it was truly a sight to behold, this veritable ocean of orange threatening to pull you under in its insidious current.

Something strange overcomes you when you go to Austin. Even those of us with no school spirit to speak of suddenly have the urge to "throw the horns" and buy something hideously orange. Even me. Yes, even me.

Letter to the Person Who Stole My Purse Yesterday

Dear Degenerate Asshole Madam:

Yesterday you hit the jackpot. You scored yourself a Louis Vuitton Batignolles bag! Congratulations! Oh, you don't know what that is? Its the fine-ass purse you stole off the back of some distracted, unsuspecting woman's chair yesterday. That woman would be me, and I'm fucking enraged slightly miffed.

Yes, I understand that you probably needed the cash in my wallet for your next meth fix diapers. I get that; really, I do. But couldn't your skanky ass you have just taken the cash and left the wallet? I've had it for six years; it's one of the few things I bought for myself at the market in Florence. The zipper doesn't even reliably work anymore, but it's filled with memories.

Yes, I know that you thought my credit cards would come in handy. But I had those cancelled before you made it to the corner store for your Mickey's Malt Liqor and cigarettes, bitch school supplies. And the DMV knows my driver's license number was stolen, so the driver's license won't do you a damn bit of good, even if by some miracle you looked even slightly like me or thought of stealing my identity. (But I know you weren't planning that, silly.) You can use my Kroger Shopping Rewards card if you'd like, though. I didn't cancel it.

Yes, I realize that you think my purse looks fantastic with your crack whore chic wardrobe. However, that purse will never hold memories for you. You'll never be able to say your husband picked it out all on his own one Christmas, then sent you on a scavenger hunt to find it, filled with Butterfingers, at the end. But you'll have memories, too, girl. Like, remember that one time I saw that woman minding her own business at Subway and she forgot her purse and so I stole that mofo? Those were the days!

Oh, yes, I'm certain that my son's Nintendo DS will make one of your young 'uns very happy. But what will the other five think of you playing favorites? Oh, I know; just tell them they can have something out of the next purse you steal. That will fix everything.

Thank you for making my life a nightmare for a few days, having to have my car towed and re-chipped because you now have my damn car keys, having to have my safety deposit box drilled out because you now have my damn bank key, and having to change the locks on my house because you now have my address and my fucking house key, too!

Fuck off and die,
Lori

P.S. I really and sincerely hope that karma is real and that you will be reincarnated as a pubic louse living on a meth addict.

For those who were wondering...

...Shaun & Stan's memberships were denied, Tori & Dean went on a mini-vacation, SuperCr3w pwned, The Amazing Race is almost here... and Opcon-A Opthalmic eyedrops, when used too liberally in a single eye, can cause one of your pupils to dilate, sending you into a frenzied inventory of your current brain function and motor skills, paranoid that you are suffering a brain aneurysm.

But, luckily, you aren't.

And neither am I.

And that was a totally hypothetical situation.

Maybe...

Discourteous...

...people drive me batshit crazy! I'm on a "discourtesy sucks" tear right now. My neighbors, they have no common courtesy. Drives me nuts.

On Monday, we're supposed to receive a package from UPS from Amazon. Said package never comes. On Tuesday, I spend forty minutes of my day waiting in the Guantanamo-Bay-prison-cell-sized UPS office while they look quizzically at the computer at the "Delivered" status and digging through the warehouse and trying to reach the driver. They finally reach the driver, who proceeds to say, "Well, I know I delivered something to 1274 Whispering Pines (neighbors who are rarely home), but I didn't have anything for 1270 (us, who were home all day Monday). Ummmm, you know what Brown can do for me? Don't be hiring fucking dyslexics for drivers; that job requires reading skills to deliver my shit! So I go next door, and... SURPRISE! The neighbors aren't home. Later that night I trudge over there again, and the neighbor hands over my package. My package that is properly addressed, and my package that has my name and telephone number emblazoned on the address label. Might this inconsiderate boob of a neighbor have taken 30 seconds to pitch my package on the correct doorstep or even give me a jingle to tell me to come get my own fucking package?

Also on Monday, I notice a strange red truck parked on the curb next to our house. It's a framing contractor, and we're not having any work done. Our neighbors (different unthinking neighbor), however, are, and there's another truck in front of their house. There was plenty of room for this framing contractor to park in front of the correct house, but he'd rather park next to a random stranger's house, one who doesn't want his creepy ass parking there!

Last night, we return from errands in Plano to find our across-the-street neighbors having a party, with two party-goers parked in front of our house, one of them blocking one end of our driveway! AAAAAARRRGH!

Now, I understand that since our house sits on a corner, it has more parking real estate available than others. And I understand that since we have a circular driveway, we could theoretically use the other end of the driveway. But part of what we paid for this house no doubt was the "corner lot" distinction. And why should I be required to back out of our driveway with one car to let the other car out, just so that some idiotic boob can park wherever he wants? And, maybe it's just me, but if I need to have someone park in front of a neighbor's house, I'm going to go knock on their door & ask them or at least give them a heads-up and give them the opportunity to say, "Fine, but please don't block my motherfucking driveway! Thank you for asking!"

</rant>

More Green Reviews: Water Conservation Stuff, Part 1

Those of you who spend any time here probably remember that we've recently been having some renovations done to our upstairs. I had reached the point at which I refused to walk barefoot on our carpets, which I was afraid harbored MRSA or possibly a hantavirus (even though I've never seen a rodent upstairs... that's why they're called irrational phobias, people). We'd also been sharing one shower (the five of us) off and on for two three years because we were too  lazy  indecisive  overwhelmed with daily crazy  busy with other things to repair the master shower's multitude of leaky problems. And so, we ripped up the carpet, tore out both showers and bathtubs and toilets and realeased West Nile Virus and black mold spores and replaced it all with new shit (and shitters). Kohler's brand-spanking-new Persuade toilets with Dual-Flush technology, to be precise. These were purchased, along with their also-brand-spanking-new Forte 1.75 gpm handheld shower heads, as part of our attempt to reduce our water usage a little (since we're kind of stuck with that damned money-and-water-sucking pool for now). Oh, and I got a new energy-and-water-efficient washer and dryer, since our old ones were older than our youngest teenager and were randomly and unpredictably leaving holes and rust spots in our clothing and using approximately 300 gallons of water per washload. Even so, we found someone at hubby's work who took them off our hands, so they didn't go to the landfill.

With all of this water conserving doody in our house, I reckon that damned cement pond in our backyard is now truly justified, right?  </sarcasm>

The toilets and showers we had in the upstairs bathrooms were water hogs. In the second bath upstairs, the one we had to share for a couple of a few years, the water diverter on the faucet didn't fully function, and so water poured from both the shower head and the faucet for the duration of one's shower. This would have been ideal if we'd had a small leprechaun needing to bathe each time we stepped in the shower or a sailor bailing water out of the tub as if we were a sinking ship. Alas, we had neither, and so we wasted copious amounts of water in the shower. For a good while, I kept a 3-gallon bucket under the faucet to catch water & then used it to mop floors or water gardens. Unfortunately, I was the only one who would remember to use it, and I already take the shortest showers in the household (except for Youngest, who simply doesn't shower more than once a week, brave water conservationist that he is). As for the toilets, I don't know how to tell how many gallons they used per flush, but if I had to guess, it would be in the neighborhood of thirty-four. Seriously, after seeing these new ones, it seems quite ridiculous.

Since I've blathered on incessantly and not ever gotten to the point here, and this post is already exceeding my pissant-sized attention span, I will cover each of our new water-savvy appliances separately, in separate posts, on separate days.

Dual-flush toilets, it seems, are nothing new in Australia and Europe, where they seem to understand the whole conservation issue a little more intuitively than we wasteful Americans. Here, stateside, however, dual-flush toilets are still "new-fangled." There are two flush options: 1.6 gallons for sizable solids, and 0.8 gallons for liquid or smaller loads. (Or, for those who prefer more directive, one button for pee and one button for poop.) The toilet looks differently, mounts differently, and flushes differently than traditional toilets. I most love that there are no screws and caps on the base around which boy piss accumulates and requires toothbrush scrubbing to clean. It's amazing.

One would think that, given the tiny amount of water in the bowl, that there would be more clogs or would be harder to keep clean than other toilets. I was skeptical myself. However, we've tested both flushing options multiple times by now, and I haven't had any complaints. Apparently, the flushing mechanism for this type of toilet lends itself to less clogs than traditional American toilets.

As a related aside, here's an interesting fact that I found on several plumbing websites. Because of the differences in plumbing technologies in various countries, a European or Asian toilet often has a brush next to it as a matter of course, to take care of "skid marks," which Europeans and Asians find normal and acceptable, but which we North Americans find disgusting. However, North American toilets often have a plunger next to it, which Europeans and Asians find distasteful. When I think about it in those terms, I most definitely would rather take care of a skid mark or two than a toilet boiling over with shit and toilet paper, yo.

Some people have mentioned that the bowls are harder to keep clean, but... how can I put this delicately... this one must be designed by geniuses who conducted many embarrassing experiments based on anatomy, because somehow, even though there are only about three teaspoonfuls of water in the bowl, the poop seems to be attracted to it like a tranny to a shoe sale. When flushed, the water pressure has almost always been enough to wash away any stuck bits. And, if you have to flush a second time, it still doesn't waste as much water as a typical American 3.5 gallon flush. (Admittedly, we haven't gone to eat all-you-can-eat Chinese or the local greaseburgers-with-a-side-of-greasefries joint in a while, so I might change my review a little then.)

Stay tuned for my review of LG's Tromm Steamwasher and matching dryer, as well as Kohler's brand-spanking-new Forte 1.75 gpm handheld shower heads.