What Did My Dog Eat ?

   There are many many instances in my life wherein the line between pride and shame is so thin as to be non-existent.  This used to concern me.  Not so much anymore.  I am finding that the more you accept about yourself, the better you sleep at night.  I don't know whether to be ashamed or proud of that. (see ?)

    The cereal aisle at the grocery store is one example of the part of the shame/pride continuum that I think makes other countries hate us and want to blow us off the planet.

Armageddon is just around the corner - and yet we have no less than 165 different cereals to choose from.  It's just wrong.  Or is it ?

   Television continually jumps back and forth over the shame/pride line.  Every day I am amazed at what is televised.  The part that concerns me the most is that this weird shit is only televised because....someone will watch it.  From TimberSports (a fave), crisis-oriented dessert-making, a swamp family catchin' gators, people with unholy amounts of children (ho hum), an ancient drunken babe running a biker bar in Texas, to young British tarts going to finishing school (Ladettes to Ladies - don't miss it)  Literally something for everyone.  And it just keeps getting worse/better.

    There is a new show on TV called "What Did My Dog Eat ?"  My new favorite.  As luck would have it, we stumbled upon a WDMDE marathon the other night.  Television at its finest.  And what you see (aka what they eat) is what you get.  Some of the delicious combinations included : muscle relaxants and tampons; rat poison, a slipper and a tennis ball; cereal box, a thong and a book, a 12 foot leash, and (my all-time favorite) $800 cash.

   This last one had a real cliff-hanger feel to it : "When my chocolate lab began throwing up $20 bills, I knew something was wrong."   Wow.   I would hope that the missing $800 might have emerged as an early concern.  But then, what to do first ?  Induce vomiting until the bastard yaks up all 40 of them bills ?  Hope against hope that you won't be digging through dog shit for cash ?  Kill him and cut him open on the spot ?   Call 911 ?

   All of these hungry dogs get taken to the vet, who immediately orders a DOG scan (CAT scan pun sort of intended...sorry).  We see the items in question in the dog's gut.  There is probing, worrying, disbelief - and the inevitable doggie surgery.  (We even got to see the vet pull out, like, a 9 foot furry stiffed toy.  Who eats that ?).  Then, post-op - it is an extra bonus if Fido gets wheeled out wearing the Cone of Shame.  (Is there a dog who wears one without looking humiliated ?  They know they look a fool...)

   No dog lover I (unless he's eating some awesome weird shit) - I then pontificate on and on about the sheer expense of such a venture.  And these people seem willing to pay any exorbitant amount to get the tampons and twenties (I liked their first album) out of their damned dog. 

     I'd be more likely to say "Now look what you've done, you silly ass ! 

           Hope them 27 pacifiers (fact !) feel as good coming out as they did going in."    Sit.  Stay.

Exercise THIS

  

So many of us..deconditioned Americans are headed for The Gym :  the bike, the steps, the elliptical, the Pilates, the ab crunches the core workout boot camps.  Slobs in sweats are a dime a dozen.  We have mats and resistance bands and weights and water bottles and sunglasses and towels.  Most don't want to look great, necessarily.  Most just want to live.  Just a little bit longer.      I see all of these planet-mates "getting back into shape" - but the only ones who have made it there seem to be the uber-toned and, therefore, smug instructors.  Yeah - so I can bounce a Kennedy half dollar off your butt, so what ?  I guess I only intermittently want to stay alive.  Otherwise, I'd look like you.  Bitch.  I come in looking janky - leave looking even worse.  My rastiest t-shirts, funkiest sweats.   A bucket of water and a pole and you all fitness bunnies'd be making hella tips right now.          I "joined the gym".  I know - right ?  People who know me choke with laughter at this.   The only exercise I generally push toward is the one big sit up getting out of the bed daily.   Or is it a crunch ?  (for Christ's sake)  "Crunch" - sit up is SO 2000-late (ed. note : This will be a fertile ground for me to harvest observations and lay down incomprehensible edicts.  Worth the monthly fees.)  The modern gym rat cannot do it without music.  Fact.  People have been know to turn around and go the hell home if they have forgotten the iPod.  With tunes, you can do no wrong.  You are insular, and, unless you get sweated on (eew) or some asshole decides to scream into his phone (who's that lady on the treadmill with the pursed lips pointing to the "no cell phones" sign ?).  You can totally ignore other people - you are all there doing the same thing - no need for pleasantries.   Adjust the speed on the 'mill to match the drumbeat in the song.  Just don't fall down, and you good to go.  Turn up the music.  DO NOT sing aloud.  Others can, and will hear you.    I now know that "cardio" isn't an EKG.   "Elliptical" isn't a large circular thing that you strap yourself into, in a star shape, and have someone roll you around..  "Spinning" does not actually involve spinning.  "Pilates" is not the man who crucified Jesus Christ.  "Rep" has little to do with one's "reputation".  "Core" is not the center of an apple.      When it is good, it is very very good - and when it is bad, it is horrid.  I was managing the treadmill/weights/bikes thing for a while.  I was getting a (not) cute electronic report monthly : "Trudy Sanders !  You have lifted the equivalent of 2.5 African elephants and burned off 18.25 ice cream sundaes!"  BFD.  I find myself focusing on the .5 elephant not accounted for, and, ice cream not being my thing, I wonder how many cookies I have burned off.  Sometimes, a bag of peanut M&M's can knock out a couple of laps on the treadmill.  There is a "reward scale " - after 3 months, I had, like, 9,000 points . Yay me !     The first "reward" is offered at 100,000 points. It is....(drum roll please...) "feeling better".  Just seeing that put me in the negative points column.  Where can I find a conversion scale for rage and calories ?  I then tried to take 5 classes a week - 2 BodyWorks, 1 Pilates, 2 Core Express.  Yeah, right.  And, yes, I DO want fries with that.      For about 3 classes, I did, I guess, feel an endorphin or 2 trying to infiltrate my tortured body.  I figured that things were working.  With any luck, I'd become pathologically addicted to "working out" and become a big (yet toned) bore.  Then, the snark and the pissiness and the....just disbelief came along.  You know what ?  I SO don't enjoy this at all.  It is not fun, I am still in hideous shape, and I hate everyone even remotely connected to the YMCA and the fitness craze.  I don't breeze in with a pithy greeting - swipe my damned card and don't make eye contact.  Yeah - watch me take TWO towels.   Where is the joy ?  The chemical peace ?  The natural high ?  The Buddha-like sense of well being ?    This is when I figured out my own truths about exercise and physical fitness.  I am not pushed forward by "feeling better", "looking great" (as if), or "moving without pain".  The only time I ever felt truly motivated was....by spite.  Just anger and outrage and "I'll show this bastard !"        We had a sub in one of my classes, and we instantly seemed to understand one another.  I planted myself in the back of the class, he immediately stood in front of me, and it became the front of the class.  He made us start over if we didn't count loud enough.  He had a quirky and eclectic mix tape that he blasted.  He had me at  "I can't HEAR you !"   I edged right into full military cadence and inappropriate shouting.  Who's in the Army now, bitch ?   I swore under my breath - and he introduced himself to me as he actually lay on the floor right up in my grill and watched me struggle through some Girl PushUps.  He said : "Ooh - someone dropped the "eff bomb" up here !"  and  "We can't start up again because Trudy is still on the floor."  Bastard.  I'll show him.  I kept swearing and complaining - he kept pushing.  It worked.   A match made in heaven !      I think I love him.   I don't need peaceful yoga music and crooning teenaged instructors - I need rock and roll and some smart-assed bastard who will beat me soundly into the ground and fuck with my head for a few hours a week.  So I run to the schedule board to see if i can attend every class he teaches : alas, he has ONE CLASS a week.      I am currently taking up a collection so I can hire him as a personal trainer.  He pisses me off and I love it.  It could actually work.   Possible win-win-win.

Service Dogs (6/22/10)

Anyone who claims to know me,

     Knows that I hate animals..there, I've said it. . Especially dogs, but that is a whole 'nother offshoot of hatred.  The only way I like an animal is if it is sitting on a plate next to a big baked potato.   That's what I'm talkin' about.  When I used to "teach" 2 year olds, I had to, of course, read aloud from several thousand cutesy animal-themed stories per week.  Frankly, I couldn't have given a rats's ass what the brown bear saw or where the hell he was going.  I even said out loud to the cooing toddlers one day : "Sorry - Teacher Trudy doesn't like animals.  Let's just drink up our apple juice so we can go play on the swings, shall we ?"

    I do this thing where I make my family uncomfortable in public by openly cooing and fussing over pets (esp. tiny purse dogs) - they say that it makes their blood run cold.  I'm all - "oh my God - look at that sweet little sweater !  Does he have a matching hat ?  What a good good boy !"  I love to do this, as it feels evil and wrong and (almost) no one is the wiser. Last week, I saw a Purse Dog in a backpack riding on a scooter, his smelly little disgusting head flapping in the breeze  I tried to pretend I was concerned that it didn't have a helmet - and Chief nipped that right in the bud : "Don't even..."

      So, yesterday, I go to the Why with Sparky to get all up in my cardio and shit.  I tread on the mill, do a few "reps" of my weights, and then settle in for a few mindless miles on the bikes.  I pop on the music, turn on the (attached !) fan, and start a' pedalin'.  I mock Sparky, as she is watching a Harry Potter movie on her iPod as she pedals.    Muggle/nerd alert !  I like this one particular bike, and am loath to ride any other. 

      Sparky to my right, some woman to my left, and.....WAIT !  What do I see beside me on the goddamned floor ?  IT IS A MINIATURE PET CARRIER !!!!   Of all the gym joints in all the world, there has to be a fucking mini-pet all up in my grill AT THE GYM !   The human gym !   What are the odds ?  I hate my life.  I am riveted, and cannot take my saucer-sized eyes off of this unbelievable sight.  I look at Sparky, and direct her to the travesty in question : she looks worried.  She must have seen a Look on my face or something.

    I have so many scenarios busting through my sweaty little head : shall I kick it and sweetly say "oops - sorry - wasn't expecting a pet at the gym in my exercise bubble."  Or I could just start fake sneezing and will myself into a non-existent pet dander allergy.  I can't even see what kind of a creature it is - it could be a goddamned raptor or a cobra or something.  I am so in a state of shock and disbelief.  Dialing 911 isn't out of the question - but there is no cell phone use allowed, and I, for one follow all gym rules and regs.  Dog toting bitch.

   I am overcome with a burning desire to tattle on her, so I adjust my workout thusly.  I am concerned that she will leave before me, and then my plans are shot.  Suddenly, my workout starts to resemble Miss Gulch feverishly pedaling as she kidnaps Toto In Kansas.  I am a pedaling fool - there may even be sparks flying.  Sparky knows to ignore me - once she saw that there was a pet, that was it.  Dog Bitch has her readout area covered with a towel (and a book - don't get me started on people who read and exercise at the same time - WTF.)  I cannot track her mileage or calories or anything.  I keep looking death rays at the "pet" - but am trying to be good so I don't tip her off on my tattling plans.

    Finally, I can take it no more - 4 miles and I have work to do.  My hand to God - the Pet Carrier is actually in my way as I dismount - I so wanted to throw myself on the ground screaming.  I apply a little subterfuge : I stop at the FittLinx station to log in my workout, sanitize my hands, and leave the room in search of an official.  I spot some babe in (inappropriate) high heels, and ask, stridently : "Do you work here ?"  She does, and I ask : "So, are we allowed to have pets in the gym now ?"  She instantly hates me, and the feeling is oh, so mutual.  I feel the need to get my bitch on.  She smarms at me : "Well, we do have a few service dogs..."  Me: "Oh, like seeing eye dogs for the blind ?"  She asks for a description of The Pet - she seems to recognize it.  I say : "well, that's great, but you don't want me tripping over somebody's house pet in the middle of my workout -that'd be on you if I hurt myself."  She asks if The Pet is blocking the aisle.  Me: "You've seen the amount of space between the bikes, right ?  He IS the aisle.  Plus, my allergies are acting up now."  She really hates me now, so I get her where she lives and reiterate what a shame it would be if a paying gym member in good standing hurt herself on a "service dog."

    I then run back to the exercise room, and hide in plan sight on the weight machines.  Timmy and Lassie are still biking, the bitches.  The high-heeled woman does a pass-by, and then sends a toady to ask the animal-lover to move her fucking dog out of the way.  All the way home, I rant at Poor Sparky : I could, then, bring a service alligator if I put a little vest on him ?  How about a service manatee ?  A service anaconda ?  A service killer whale?  A school of service piranha?  I could put a vest on Sparky and lay her in everyone's way, and there wouldn't be a damn thing anyone could say or do.

    A small victory, my tattling - but the phenomenon of the Anything Goes "Service Dogs"is upon us. At the Apple Store last week, I saw a (tiny) dog, and said, out loud  : "So, then, it's okay to bring dogs anywhere a person wants now ?! "  Wait for it : it was wearing a Service Animal Vest.  Which, somehow, makes it okay.  I just was spitting nails.

   I mean , maybe the Dog Bitch is intractably mentally ill and she a can only go to the gym if she stuffs a dog in a box and brings it with her.  Hell, I had to force myself to go work out, and I didn't need a boxed animal.  I long for the old days where a "service animal" was a fucking-well German Shepard seeing eye dog being walked by someone in dark dark glasses and a big ass harness on it.

              Seriously.

Arachnid Break

Is what I am taking now,

      So, I had to rush-clear the top of the microwave yesterday (those who...know my kitchen are all a-gasp at this ) for matters electrical.  I had 4 minutes from bed to electrician (and remember - sick and no coffee).  Untold amount of shit in a bag.  The top of this appliance, like so many other household area, resembles an....archaeological dig. (Fact : last time I was in my closet - I actually found a part of a party hat from my...bachelorette party.  I have been married for 22 years.)  My favorite thing I found in the rubble this morning were teeny-tiny clothespins and a cereal box laser ring.  Score.

    So, I follow around the mess from yesterday - kind of like combing the beach after a tsunami.  I opt for the bag 'o' crap.  A few layers in, I see an enormous black shadow.  I almost think I can hear that ghost-towny whistling from The Good/Bad/Ugly.  I muster all the murderous rage I can (surprisingly close to the surface - hey, who left that laying around ?) and begin to shout and corner and squish.  It is a colossal being.  BLACK.  Black like my soul.  My first instinct is to saddle it. I let down my guard for half a breath - and guess who is s still alive and charging ?  Yep.  Huge and black.  And coming right at me.  Dammit !

     I have no recourse : I gag and seal up the bag, roll it up like it's on fire.  I am screaming.  Then, I rubberband the bitch.  Out the front door it goes.  Bam.

       I called Chief at work, to warn him of the Spider Bag outside the front door.  He said okay and had to take a call on the other line.  A call more important than mine ?  What part of "spider bag" didn't he understand ?  But later he called back and said that it really better be a big spider.  I reiterated : it was angry and advancing rapidly toward me.  I don't just bag up and exile this shit for my health.

    Later, I pick Sparky up and warn her of the Spider Bag.  She takes it in stride : my child who, somehow, sees nothing I do as being ridiculous.  (Missy, her elder, is regularly appalled at me : when I text her vignettes from my day, I get back things like "Jesus Christ, Ma !", "Oh My God !", and "Never cease to amaze...")

   So, dinner is served (Chief take the trouble to set a place at the table for the zit on my chin) - and no one seems very het up about the bag.  After the zit clears the dinner dishes, Chief starts to dump the Spider Bag in the garbage (? !). Who in their right mind would just bag a spider ?  I shout : "That is not trash - it is household items.  The Spider is in there - doesn't anyone care ?!"  

   I'm starting to think that I am the only one.

July 28, 2008 2:31 a.m.

   Oh God,
  I am not kidding here, but... like... a bomb was just lobbed onto the roof of my house and it sort of has me dumbstruck and agitated.  Actually, it's been a few hours..

      I am nonplussed.  The arson team ( 2 women, let's hear it for the  gals ! ) the bomb squad, fire department, and police have all finally left the block. The entire street was cordoned off for several hours, and there was talk of evacuation.  5 police cars, 3 fire engines, and several cars and armored vehicles.  It was fucking surreal.  The sheer number and color of flashing lights was enough to pitch a person into a seizure.  The (terribly frightened) Girls have had chamomile tea and been tucked into bed.  There is an 8 inch (gaping) hole in our roof, plaster all over the living room floor, and a nice hole in the ceiling. (Thank God Chief had just moved the homemade (warm no more) peach cobbler off the stove, as there is explosives detritus under both skylights in the house. Chuh.)
     I cannot even describe the absolute terror we felt/might still feel.  There we were, gathered as a family unit to watch a TiVo'ed 'Dog the Bounty Hunter' after a kick-ass lasagna dinner - and we hear (not unusual around here) fireworks going off.  No big, right ?
       Right on the very heels of the crackling little "fireworks",  though, was the single biggest/loudest explosion I have ever heard/seen/felt.  (The fire dept, said they SAW it from 9 blocks away.  They were on their way before we called.  Maybe because it was on our actual fucking ROOF was why it seemed so loud).   We are accustomed to the occasional M-80 or whatever - causing all manner of car alarms to whinny.  Kids these days.  This particular bitch rocked the entire house, and we immediately saw a FUCKING HOLE IN THE LIVING ROOM CEILING.  There's christing plaster all over the joint.  We see the hole, we think 'gunshot !', and we all run, screaming "stay down, stay down !!", to the back of the house.  Practically goddamned army-crawling in my own hallway.  What is going on?  Are we on TV ?
      Chief lingers to look for the phone, I am huddled on The Girls' bedroom floor, they are sobbing.   I tell them everything is all right, even though I don't know if this is true or not. I grab a cell phone and call 911, Chief is on another phone doing the same.  The kids are agitated - and, when I get some perspective - I'm going to wonder how it is that they just...flew across the room and immediately dropped into a perfect "army crawl" to the back of the house.  My little war vets.  Mommy's angels.
      So Chief checks on us,  then goes outside for a meet-n-greet with the emergency responders.  I secure the ladies, and go outside myself.  I am thrumming and shaking.  I see the Chinese neighbors outside, and some white guy with a dog.   I hear snippets of things like "...the neighbors next door"  and "...fireworks exploded."  I make a nanosecond judgment (best kind, I've found) and think "if those goddamned  neighbors have a cache of effing fireworks in their house, I will, in fact, kill them.  Dead." 
       Nothing seems like it is actually happening.  My heart is making my blood make heretofore unheard sounds and sensations.  (Last week at Lucky, my BP was 170/something.  I wonder what it is now.)  I hit the ground running, and apparently screaming and swearing to quite an amazing degree.  The family cowers in the living room and listens.   I scream at the unsuspecting Asian : "What the FUCK is going on here !  I have a fucking hole in my fucking roof !  Somebody better fucking tell me what the fuck is going on !  Fuck me !!!"    You get the picture.  I am clearly upset by the events that have transpired, I have 2 very upset children huddled together on the floor.  I have tunnel vision - I can see nothing around me but a slight blur - I am existing in some kind of a weird-ass vaccuum.  I am aware of nothing.  Plus, if I don't express myself sufficiently when under duress, I'll get an ulcer (the one medical problem I don't currently boast.  Fuck it.)
      It comes to pass that someone has shoved a ...box of firecrackers under the gate next door, there is smoke billowing out, and we cannot for the life of us figure out how this translates to a hole in our roof.  Okay, so they're apparently victims too, but I ain't takin' back any of my 'fucks'.  No suh.  (Put those on reserve for the next time you pepper MY lawn with YOUR stinking ciggy butts or leave your house to move your car from the space in from of YOUR house to the space in front of MY house.  Fecking fecker.  You think you've seen an "explosion" ?  Don't touch that dial, dickweed.)  The scene is quite chaotic, and I run between making phone calls, emoting out in the street, and re-huddling with The Girls.  My poor poor babies.  I call my sister, Aunt, as I am in shock.  I am slated to visit with her out of town.  Time to throw a bomb at my day planner, then :  I cannot be away from the family/house now.  No kids will be home alone for a bit, I think. 
      I call my pal Lynnie (who is absolutely convinced that we.. know the perp, ( i.e. one related Prince of Darkness who actually wants me....dead.)   Lynnie wants to cancel her trip to Ireland, wants us to all come over to her house.  She leaves tomorrow, and she wants to come right over.  I only hold her back by saying that the block was cordoned off with guards posted and she'd have to walk a long way and never get in anyway.  Gee, if I had a dime for every time I said "don't bother coming over - the block is roped off and you'll never get past the armed guards" - well, I'd have one thin dime.  No less than 15 people have come in and out of the house. (The women, notably, were the only people who shook our hands and introduced themselves and called us by name and said they were sorry this had happened and said what their job was.   A little human goes a long way. )  But I figure the cops and firemen are pretty self-explanatory, and the Bomb Guy was just this tough dude like you see in the movies.  Pinky ring and all.  Walked right out of the fucking "Sopranos".  (I hatehatehate that he keeps repeating : "...a few inches in either direction, it would have taken out either your bathroom or your kitchen".  He says "taken out" with an irritating calm.  TAKEN OUT ?!)  Most of the....staff have taken pictures (Sparky was the first on the scene with camera, cell phone, iPod.)  At maximum capacity, we had 8 people on the roof.  (Or was that 8 tiny reindeer ?  I'm so confused and weary).  I ridiculously asked Missy if she was having a Vietnam flashback as we were being questioned by the arson squad...
     It chills me to my very core that the fireworks were a "separate issue" - they are now saying that a bomb has been lobbed onto the roof of our house.   Bomb Guy sez : "It could be an M-1000, but it was surely at least a half a stick of dynamite in power, maybe stronger.  This is not a 'firework' - this is a lethal explosive device.  Do you know anyone who's really mad at you ?"  Um, well, define "mad".  
      This makes me start to pee myself.  Someone has lobbed a bomb at my house.  Lobbed.  A bomb.  At my house.  A bomb.....at my house.  The hole is there. This is not Beirut.  This is so fucking un-American.  What are we - Anne Fecking Frank ?  There is a hole in my roof.  From an explosive device. Lobbed (why always "lobbed"?).  Pitched, tossed thrown, launched, catapulted, projected, flung, heaved, chucked, propelled, let fly, sailed, billowed, wafted, crashed, exploded, destroyed, darted, strewn, cast, plunked, dumped, dropped, aimed, fired.  At my house.  There is a hole.
     Well, there is so much more to this interesting 'you are there' account - but I am no longer sure that... 'I am there'.    I've actually had such a bad headache for about 4 days, plus I "slept wrong" a few days ago.  The latter may  sound minor, but for those of us who have "slept wrong" - there is nothing minor about not being able to move your neck and your head is pounding to begin with and now your neck is shot and then...you guessed it : a fucking bomb gets lobbed at your house.  Maybe I  should get a massage.  I can't move.
 The really weird part is going to be when I "wake up" tomorrow and realize that this was not, in fact, all a dream...  right ?