Day 23: Weekend Update: Out of wine

The tissue box on my coffee table

I thought about doing one of those "sharing a bottle of wine" posts, but I'm out of Chardonnay. Lucky you. You get to see inside my head after I've had a glass of water to drink.

One of the weird things about writing a blog like mine -- one that has no theme and is rarely updated these days unless it's November -- is that I can never predict which posts will get attention. (The only reason for writing a blog is to get attention. I can't think of any other reason, can you?) About 98% of the time I'm writing after midnight, so I write, revise, edit, and publish all within anywhere from an hour to three hours. I go to bed not knowing what the response, if anything, will be to the piece of my heart I spread on this blank page like peanut butter.

The weird thing is, I can write something I think is brilliant decent. Maybe even better than decent. Something that has several clever plays on words, and a few funny bits, and a touch of poignancy. I pat myself on the back and go to bed to dream of the three comments I'll see under the post when I wake up. In the morning I check my Facebook and the comments here and .... nothing. Not even a like. I have to look out the window and make sure I'm not the last person left alive on Earth. I'm not. 

And then I might write one that I'm afraid sounds like I'm a whiny, insipid bitch and that nobody will read to the end, and much to my surprise that will be the one that strikes a chord with you guys. Like last night's post about mean memes. So far, it's November's most popular post, going by the number of comments. (Most of them are on Facebook so they won't be archived here.)

I don't think that says as much about the post as it does how very sick we all are of the lack of civility in this country, a lot of it driven by what we see on Facebook and what comes out of the White House. It's demoralizing. It wears our skin thin. And yet we don't dare look away ... it's like weighing myself before bed and first thing in morning every single fucking day. I just can't look away.

Several people have asked me how Crow is doing. I wrote about how he injured his leg here. He's better, but he's still limping. He's off his heavy meds and his spirits are good. He keeps sneaking up the stairs when I'm up here at my computer, so he can lay on his bed next to my desk like he's used to. Tonight he got up here and Sassy was on his bed, so he came over to me and begged for pets. He doesn't usually do that, so I petted him, which meant Sassy came over for pets too. As soon as she did, he limped over to his bed and reclaimed it. Pretty tricky.

I think he's going to have to go back to the vet for his constant ear infections though. (I could have bought a Lamborghini with the money I've spent on vet bills for his ear infections. If anybody has a cure for chronic ear infections, please share it.) I'll have the vet look at his leg too. I think it just takes time to heal from an injury like that.

I was listening to the podcast I mentioned in the first post this month, 10 Things that Scare Me. I don't usually pay attention to the ads and announcements, but I finally heard one of the producers say they want people to share their lists on their website and it might end up on the podcast. So I'm going to do that and maybe I'll get on! If you write your own list, you should share it too and let me know.

I've thought about doing a podcast here, but I don't really know how to produce such a thing. And then I thought maybe a vlog, but it would be me sitting in a dimly lit room with the Netflix fireplace playing off to the side, the dog snoring in the background, my face lit by the screen of my little laptop, reading my little post. I dunno. It doesn't sound that appealing to me. Also, what do you look like after midnight? I don't think any of you need to see that.

I'm in the middle of Brittany Runs a Marathon. (See trailer below.) In a minute I'm going to hit publish on this post and watch some more of it until I fall asleep on the couch. I love movies where the fat, lazy, loser girl does something that turns her life around and suddenly she's not a fat loser any more. I guess I still hope I can change the inevitable epitaph on my tombstone. Like I'll write that book or get that cool job or ... hell, I don't even know any more. I'm sure as hell not going to run a fucking marathon. I guess I'll go with finishing that movie and going to bed before 3:00 am.

Day 4: Fuck Monday

via GIPHY


Fuck Monday. That's all I have to say tonight. Fuck Monday.

OK, I lied about not having more to say, but what a day. It started when the doorbell yanked me out of a deep sleep early this morning. Crow, in spite of or because of his injured leg, practically threw himself down the stairs, which, if you ask me, he shouldn't have even gone up last night, but by the time I figured out he was on his way up, it was too late to turn him around and besides I was in bed. I rolled over and closed my eyes to try to squeeze another half hour out of the night, but Coraline, who didn't have school and didn't have to be up either, decided it was a good time to practice her piano lessons. Given what I pay for them, the girl had better learn to play well enough to support us in my old age. I got up. Why not. Sleep is overrated. Fuck sleep.

The vet's office didn't open until 1:00 so after I finished with one of my part-time jobs (I have several in this great economy), I loaded poor Crow in the van and headed to the vet. She doesn't have an x-ray machine so until we can determine if it's just a sprain or needs more expensive attention he's on heavy drugs, bed rug rest, and restricted movement. It other words I have to take him out into the fenced back yard on a leash so he can do his business but not run around the yard every time he goes out. The vet said it could be weeks. Then she charged me $156.00 and told me to come back next week. So she can charge me more. Fuck unexpected vet bills four months in a row.

We got home and I had just enough time to scoop the poop in the back yard before Coraline's piano lesson. I have a whole blog post coming up about poop, because poop is pretty much my life and not just on Mondays, but let me just say here that two dogs can produce an unbelievable amount of poop between them. Like half a 13-gallon bag in less than a week. That's 6.5 gallons or more a week. I can't even. Of course I stepped on some random turd and had to change shoes, but you probably expected that. Fuck dog poop.

Off we went to piano lessons, arriving late because I hit not one but two minor traffic jams. At least I got half an hour to sit on the couch in the waiting room and scroll through Instagram. After lessons we hurried to the 5th/3rd bank at a nearby Kroger where I was supposed to have an appointment to meet with my Girl Scout co-leader to open a checking account. When I got there, they knew nothing about our appointment, and said it would be at least an hour before a "banker" could see us. I called my co-leader and told her I couldn't wait. This was our second attempt to get a checking account. We're going to try again later in the week. Because it's worked out so well before. Fuck bankers.

Back home I turned on the oven to preheat. I'd bought some expensive cauliflower-crust pizzas at Kroger because I couldn't face cooking a whole meal. While the oven heated I took Crow out on his leash and walked him around in the rain that started the very second we stepped outside and apparently ended as soon as we came in. He didn't go. Fine. I baked the pizzas and we ate them and they tasted like dog poop. I ended up throwing out the leftover two halves. Fuck pizza.

I did have a ray of hope though. This little laptop I'm typing on is one I bought about a year ago. The battery stopped charging, and, although I've tried many things, I haven't been able to fix it. I can use it plugged in, but that defeats the purpose of a laptop. I thought it was a malfunction of the AC adapter plug, which can't be fixed, but tonight my son Drake sent me instructions for going into the bios and flashing it or something. I was excited even though the word "bios" terrifies me. I followed the directions and even made some up. I hit the button to do the magic bios flashing and .... this update can only be done if the battery is above 10%. It's at 4%. Did I mention it won't charge. I tried once more just because I love that feeling of deep, gut-burning disappointment. Same. Fucking. Result. Fuck Dell.

Fuck Monday.

I hope your day was better than mine. Tell me one good thing that happened to you today and I'll try to think of something to add in the comments too. It might take a while .....

Day 3: If we were sharing a bottle of wine ...

This is a thing I do when I have too many random thoughts going through my head that I want to write about. I pretend we're sitting on my porch sharing a bottle of whine wine, and I blog about what I would tell you as we rocked and drank and talked. Feel free to talk back in the comments. 

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd tell you I'm worried about my standard poodle, Crow Cocker. Coraline* and I defeated Fear #2 from Day 1 today and took Crow and our other dog, Sassy, for a walk on this sunny, cool fall day. It was lovely, and Crow managed to hold his poop until we got to the soccer field/track at the school for the arts where I used to teach. It's fenced in so I took the dogs off their leashes and let them run. Crow ran down a hill toward the school, even though we were calling him to come back. Coraline ran after him and by the time she got to him he was limping on his front foot. She didn't see what happened, and I couldn't find a wound, but he couldn't put much weight on it.

We tried to walk home, but after a block it was apparent he shouldn't be walking on his sore foot. Several unacceptable options ran through my mind. The best one seemed to be tying him up at the back of an abandoned church, walking home as fast as we could, and coming back with the van to drive him home. Coraline tried to insist she should stay with him, but I told her she's too young to stay alone by an abandoned church, even with a 115-pound poodle who, even crippled would give his life to defend her.

We hurried as fast as we could, but it was hard to walk away as he watched us, knowing he didn't understand why we were leaving him. We were probably only gone 12 minutes, but by the time I pulled into the parking lot, a woman in a black SUV had parked there and was out of her car taking a photo of him. Great. I hoped she wasn't going to flip her shit about my abandoned dog. We got out of the van and Coraline ran to Crow while I went over to talk to the woman.

I explained what had happened. She lives next door and she was understanding. She hadn't wanted to approach him, so she was going to take a photo and post it to see if anybody knew who he belonged to. After we talked she told me if anything ever happened again to come to their door and they'd be glad to help. We got him in the van and brought him home.

Now he can barely walk on his poor leg, which looks like it might be swollen, so off to the vet he goes tomorrow. Yay. Another vet bill.**

If we were sharing a bottle of wine I would show you this video and say I have so much admiration for people like Cecily King. People who come up with a crazy idea and then they follow through and do it. It's a scary time in this country and it's going to get worse, I have no doubt of that. But we can't give up. That's not an option. So if encouraging messages spray painted on sheets hung on overpasses can help people get through the day, get help, do good deeds for others, then I'm glad people like King are out there doing things like hanging sheets on overpasses. It reminds me to ask myself what I can do to make someone's day better, even in some small way.




If we were sharing a bottle of wine you might ask, like another reader did, why I said "And Jeffrey Epstein didn't kill himself" at the end of my fear of running out of toilet paper on Day 1. First, it seemed like the fear of being too poor to buy toilet paper was the appropriate place to put it. And second, if you're not on Facebook a lot, you might not know that it's a ... what would you call it? A verbal meme? Rather than explain it, I'm just going to post some examples below and then call it a night. The clock says it's not quite midnight, but my body thinks it's close to 1:00, the bottle of wine has been consumed, and tomorrow is a work day. Gotta pay that vet bill, you know.

The next two are plays on common meme tropes (I think I made up another phrase, Pat). 

And finally, this video, which, now that you know the joke, is the funniest thing you'll see all week. It's worth it just to hear someone scream-laugh off camera.






*Coraline is my 8-year-old granddaughter who lives with me.
** If we were really drinking wine together you'd know that my daughter left four cats and a dog at my house mid August. Three cats have been rehomed, but they needed shots and flea meds; same with the dog. We still have one cat and the dog and they will stay with us. Anyway, the vet bills were unexpected and high for 6 animals. I don't know how people who have multitudes of animals do it.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine: From Poodles to 3-ways

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I would tell you I can hardly believe the growth the vet removed from my standard poodle Crow's head is benign, because that's not the way shit has been going for me, or for that matter a lot of people, lately. I already mentioned that the vet I took him to gave him the wrong drug. I was utterly prepared for the worst. Apparently the vet didn't get all the margins though, so it's possible there's a shoe with my name on it hovering over my head.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd say I'm not really a control freak, but I hate going into the bathroom at the farmer's market where I work and seeing that my favorite of the two stalls is occupied. It reminds me that I am actually sharing a bathroom with a bunch of strangers.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd mention I'd read a few essays out of a memoir titled There Are No Grown-ups: A Midlife Coming-of-Age Story by Pamela Druckerman. It's about a woman who's recently turned 40. The book is well written, and I found her essay about giving her husband a three-way with herself and another woman for his birthday interesting -- although the statistics about how many women have sex in their 50's and 60's are fucking brutal --  but I didn't read the entire book. I'm not interested in turning 40. It happened so long ago I could no longer give advice about how to do it.

I am interested in the format though, which is pretty similar to writing a blog. I thought maybe I'd outline a book about turning 60 ..... Then I realized I'd have to be married and living a somewhat interesting life or my advice wouldn't be relevant to pretty much anybody. She's an American who lives in Paris with her husband Simon. (Simon is also the name of my boyfriend, but he's imaginary and her husband is real enough to get a 3-way for his birthday.) I am a 60-year-old (still getting used to that) divorced grandmother who's raising her 7-year-old granddaughter, and whose 27-year-old daughter moved in with her two dogs and two cats four months ago, and who works a variety of part-time jobs to keep the household in heat and dog food and gas for the van where I spend a good chunk of my day every day.

I have not got a handle on how anybody should turn 60. And I certainly don't have time for sex with one person -- which would have to be covered in such a book -- even if suitable horny partners were lined up on my porch patiently waiting to get into my comfy yoga pants, much less a 3-way. Publishers wouldn't be lining up either.

Anyway, if we were sharing a bottle of wine, you'd be turning into a pumpkin, and I'd probably lick the last drop out of my glass and say, "Are you going to drink that?" And you'd say, "No, go ahead." And of course I wouldn't. Of course I wouldn't. I'd just say, "Good night."

If we were having a glass of wine: Day 19

Some bloggers write posts that start "If we were having coffee ... ." I rarely drink caffeine though, and I write during a time when I might be drinking a glass of wine and most people are sleeping, so I write "If we were having a glass of wine ..." posts. Let's sit by the fire and talk.



If we were having a glass of wine,I would tell you I don't think Kroger employees should talk to customers while the customers are peeing. Some people have shy bladders that clam up midstream when a stranger talks from outside the stall about how busy the store has been that day. Not that I have a silly shy bladder, of course. Just some people do.

If we were having a glass of wine I'd tell you I'm a little worried about my pumpkin pies this year. I started to cook up a big orange Cinderella pumpkin, but I realized my refrigerator is too full of turkey dinner stuff to store a couple of gallons of pumpkin puree. So I grabbed a white pumpkin that was about the right size and cut it in half. Instead of the bright orange flesh I expected, it was white inside too. So I think my pumpkin pies are going to look pretty anemic this year. I wonder if anybody will even eat the my pale ghostly pies. Oh who gives a flying fuck. I don't really like to share anyway.

If we were having a third glass of wine I would fill you in on the status of butt plug plugging. You would ask me to fill you in, because apparently butt plugs are fascinating enough that numerous people have asked me about them as if I were an expert, which I'm not. I would share my disappointment that Jennifer from Plug Joy didn't respond to my email in which I shared my butt plug post to let her know I'd fulfilled my end of a bargain we didn't exactly shake hands on. I would have to say I think it's pretty fucking short-sighted to ignore my attempt at paid advertising when I not only wrote that post, I also inspired women at my church who have never plugged their butts to look into the practice. For all I know, brown paper packages have already landed on their doorsteps. Surely that was worth even more than $20.

And just to be clear, I would probably have to assuage your curiosity and admit that I neither vajazzle nor do I buttazzle. In fact, I wear very little jewelry, especially in my bottom area, which I do not consider my most attractive feature, even should I plug a fake pink diamond in back there. I certainly don't judge others who like a more decorative anal area. You do you. And if you do do you, and since we're on our third glass of wine, I'd have to ask if you can sit down with that thing in and does it make you have to poop. Moving on.

If we were having a glass of wine I would tell you my 100-pound standard poodle Crow Cocker had to have a growth that looked like a brownish-red balloon taken off his forehead. When I arrived at 5:00 after a crazy busy Friday, I hoped I could make Coraline's performance at her school's harvest feast, even though I knew I'd miss the dinner. It started at 5:30, and the drive back to the city would take 45 minutes and then I'd have to drive another 20 to the place where the dinner was held.

He wasn't ready. When the vet finally called me back it was to confess that she'd given him the wrong drug when she tried to put him under. It was a drug that usually wasn't given that way, straight into the bloodstream. She had to call doggy poison control, which cost $60. She generously said I wouldn't have to pay for that. They recommended she push IV fluids through him for two hours to clear out the unwanted drug. Two fucking hours.

So I sat on an old church pew and read a magazine for 2 1/2 hours while an exceedingly obnoxious woman tried to wake up her miniature Airedale called Willy by clap clapping her hands over and over and over again and talking baby talk in a high-pitched voice. Clap clap "Wake up, Willy." Clap clap "Do you hear the kitties, Willy? The kitties are meowing, Willy." Clap clap Clap clap Clap clap "Is your tail wagging? Is your widdle widdle tail starting to shake, Willy?" Clap clap Clap clap "See the kitty, Willy? Is the kitty going to get into that chocolate, Willy?" Clap clap Clap clap Clap fucking clap I'll bet Willy wished he could get a perpetual morphine drip. I considered choking her out with Crow's leash, but I didn't want to do anything that would prolong my wait.

Finally he got to leave, but only after I had paid $170 for my little jar of tumor. And entirely missed the school dinner.

If we were on our fourth glass of wine I'd confess that in spite of my jokes about dating and how it's not something I plan to waste my time doing, I sometimes miss sharing my life with another responsible adult. I feel like I'm slipping further and further behind and it would be nice  -- maybe -- to have someone else around to help fix the things that need fixing in an old house and to do the dishes after I cook and to help put clean sheets on the bed and to go on vacation with and ... well, it doesn't bear imagining, because I really don't see myself sharing my life with a romantic partner ever again. But there are times when I miss sharing responsibilities with another grown up. I would tell you that, but we'd both know my dismal track record and agree I'm better off alone.

By now I'd be falling asleep on the couch and the Netflix fireplace would have burned down four times, and you'd be thinking I'd done all the talking .... again. Sorry. That's what the comments are for. 

What would you tell me if we were having a glass of wine together? It's just us here, and I'm already half asleep. I won't remember in the morning.

Day 1: Chewy makes me cry

Way back in 2011 I started an annual tradition of writing a blog post a day for NaBloPoMo or National Blog Post Month, which was sponsored by Blogher. Somebody started it as kind of a joke to go along with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), and for a few years it stuck. And I stuck with it because I won $250 from Blogher that first year, and I liked getting paid to write. Turns out that $250 was for 6 years of writing. Unfortunately last year another women's blogging platform, Sheknows, bought out Blogher, and now Blogher is only a couple of blogger conferences and NaBloPoMo is gone.

Everything changes ...... but I think I'll continue my tradition. I won't have the support I've had the past 6 years. No public place to share my posts and get encouragement from other women bloggers across the continent. I've made some friends through NaBloPoMo, and I'll miss that. But I'm still going to do it, damn it. So this is my first of thirty posts this month. May the gods help me, because life is full right now.

I have some really big news I want to post about, but I'm saving that one for when I have more time. Today I'm going to tell you what made me cry. 

I was upstairs changing the sheets on my bed when I heard the doorbell. I wasn't expecting anybody, but I still ran down there. I've heard an unexpected ring of the doorbell can mean someone with a million-dollar check is standing outside with a camera crew. I smoothed my hair as I hurried to the door .... just in time to see the Fedex truck pull away. That's odd, I thought. I didn't order anything.

On the porch lay a flat shiny package from Chewy, the people I order my dog food from. That's odd, I thought. My packages from them usually weigh about 35 pounds.

I carried the package into the kitchen and slit it open. Inside was a card and a small flat square wrapped in tissue paper. Written on the envelope was "To Reticula and your furbaby." I opened the card, and it didn't really make sense to me ... until I opened the package.

Inside was a portrait of my standard poodle, Crow Cocker! A real portrait painted by a real person! Signed and everything. I was stunned. I felt tears pool up in my eyes, sap that I am. You would too, right? Look! C'mon. How cool is that?

What an unexpected and kind gift from a company that must have thousands of customers. I remember sending a photo of Crow to one of their customer service representatives a couple of months ago, after I'd ordered some chews along with my auto-order of 70 pounds of dog food. I didn't check the ingredients, even though they were right on the order page.

Turns out they had sorbitol in them, which is a laxative. A very effective laxative for those of us who are sensitive to it. I won't describe for you the mess I found all over one area rug and my old hardwood floors the next morning. Let's just say 140-year-old floorboards have space between them, and I had to use my toothbrush. On the floor.

Crow hates to have
his photo taken

I left a scathing review, and expected that to be that. It wasn't. A short time later I received an email from Chewy expressing their apologies and telling me my money had already been refunded. I emailed back, and they responded a couple of times. Each time I heard from a different representative; nevertheless, as always, their customer service was excellent.

One of them asked for a photo of my "furbaby," so I sent her this one. Our conversation was over and that was that.

Last week two boxes appeared on my porch holding 70 pounds of dog food, and as always, I appreciated the convenience and the price, which is better than I can get anywhere else. Also, if I don't like what I've ordered for some reason -- even if I screwed up my order -- they will come back and pick it up for free. I already loved this company.

And then they made me cry by doing this! 

I don't get paid for endorsements here in Reticuland, so if I make a recommendation, you know it's coming from my heart. If you've got pets, at least check out their website at Chewy.com. Maybe order some food and have it delivered to your door. They've got about a thousand brands, shipping is free if you order enough, and did I mention they're really good people? Even Amazon doesn't give service like this.

See you tomorrow! I'm doing this. I mean it. I really mean it.

Public service announcement: Dog farts

I didn't have time to write tonight because I've been researching dog farts. Listen, you can laugh, and you can even commiserate, but you don't know. This dog farts more and stronger than any dog I've ever known. I live in a big house with many rooms. He fills it up. The house. Fills it with farts. There's no escape. We live in a cloying, noxious cloud of dog-butt emissions in every room.

He even wakes me up in the night. I've been sleeping with a floor fan on already, even though it's not at all hot yet, just to keep the air moving in my bedroom, so I don't suffocate in my sleep. I wake up with my eyes spurting tears, gasping for air, swearing. I've ordered a gas mask from Amazon, but I'm afraid even that won't help. My imaginary boyfriend Felix won't even spend the night here any more.

I've tried lighting candles, of course, but they can't keep up, so my house just ends up smelling like lavender dog farts. I finally stopped because I was afraid I'd blow my house up, and I wasn't sure how I'd explain that to the insurance company. Accidental dog fart explosion?

I'm surprised the neighbors haven't complained, but maybe they don't want to get close enough to my house to complain. They've probably ordered gas masks from Amazon too.

I'm not sure how he can bear spending as much time as he does (and it's a lot) licking his balls with his nose is right down there in the gas-ass zone. I'm surprised he doesn't pass out. I suppose the male of any animal that can lick his balls will go at it under any conditions.

I have been feeding him the same dog food for the past 4 months, so it's not a food change issue, although he's worse if I feed him meat. Which makes no sense because dogs are supposed to eat meat. It's hard to tell what makes it worse though, because it's a nightly occurrence. Yeah, it mostly happens at night when we're stuck in the same room together -- either the living room or the bedroom.

My research told me exercise might help. He gets lots of exercise, so that can't be the answer. Or maybe he eats too fast. What does that even mean? He eats like a dog. How do you determine what's fast eating for a dog? I've tried simethicone, the ingredient in GasX. First I tried one capsule, but that didn't touch it. Then I gave him two. Zero reduction in silent, but deadly, emissions. I considered just giving him the entire bottle, but I'm not sure how much GasX constitutes an overdose in a 55-pound dog. Not that I care much at this point.

Finally my Google search turned up someone who recommended yogurt. Swears by it. Says a tablespoon gives her at least 2 days of relief. It's not something I would have thought of, because I've never heard of humans eating yogurt for fart control, but OK. I just made half a gallon of yogurt. I decided to give it a try.

Last night I scooped out some yogurt with a tablespoon and held it down for him to lick off. He didn't wake me up once in the night. And then this afternoon, I hit him with another tablespoon of the magic.

Guess what? So far, not one stinky fart tonight, and it's after 1:30 am! Zero. He's laying right beside me with his butt pointed my way and ..... nothing.

So let this be your public service announcement of the year. Yogurt gets rid of dog farts. Or at least it has held them at bay for 24 hours.

***********

Or, that is, it held them at bay until I wrote all of that above. Fuck me. Just as I was about to hit publish, my nose was hit with the horrible, rotten egg odor once again. I can't fucking win.

I guess it's back to Google. You can tear up my PSA and throw it in the trash. If you don't hear from me again, for god's sake, don't open the door. Save yourself. Good night.