Desperate Housedogs

Yesterday marked the end of my first week at my new job.  To celebrate the fact that I lasted 5 whole days, they reserved 2:00 - 4:00 for a welcome reception in my honor.  I suspect it was really more so my employees could stop by and see who I was.  I've only been in my building twice in the past week as they have had me in meetings, driving/getting lost around the city, and hobnobing with other management the rest of the time.  I was looking forward to sitting in the staff lounge and see who showed up.

In between the party and meeting one of my program coordinators I decided to stop home for some lunch and to let Edgar out.  I spent the morning in senior staffing, touring group homes (not the most uplifiting experience), and hanging out at the methadone clinic (very enlightening and entertaining).  I got home and discovered houndini was back. 

I will take accountability for this as my reinforcement methods were weak that morning because a) I was late, and b) I wanted to see if he was getting the concept and gave him the benefit of the doubt.  Stupid me.  Edgar had managed to chew up an orange highlighter on the white carpet, eat my thank you notes, destroy my jewelry box (no jewelry inside), and gnaw on a prescription bottle.  As I was beginning my "bad dog" routine on Edgar, I mistook his closing eyes as him being sheepish.  He then began to careen a bit and I realized something was off.  He had a mushed yellow capsule stuck to his fur.

The pill bottle was his.  It was the sedative the vet gave me just in case the card ride didn't go so smoothly, but since he was a dream dog we hadn't even cracked the seal.  It seemed Edgar got a bit bored and pulled a Desperate Housewife move and o/d on the pills to help pass the time kind of like Lynette who started eating all of her children's Ritalin when she was coping (maladaptively, mind you) to being a stay at home mom when all she wanted to do was work in an office.  I began to panic.

First I called work and explained to my boss, who happens to LOVE the addictions field, that Edgar and Lynette had some similarities and that I would not be in attendance of my own party as I was now rushing to the local pet ER.  I left this all in a rambling message that no doubt probably left him rethinking his decision to hire me as my bits of crazy were just beginning to show.  I then mapquested the one referral Ihad from our neighbor to vets and scooped Edgar off to the car. 

I began to think about my previous life as a vet tech and remembering that this particular med caused dogs' blood pressure to drop and thus caused liver damage.  I stepped on the gas a bit more firmly.  The pet ER looked like a renovated funeral home, but whatever.  The tech had hot pink hair, nose rings, and like most Indiana natives, reeked of cigarette smoke.

"I am a terrible mom," I announced handing the chewed up pill bottle to the tech while Edgar slept soundly in my arms like a limp rag doll, "We just moved and he pulled a houndini, ate a highlighter and these.  I used to be a vet tech so I know how stupid you think I am as a pet owner, but he needs help and I'm beginning to think the worst like liver damage."

The tech and other customers looked at the crazy woman standing there.  "These things happen."  And she showed me into an exam room.

Edgar began to rouse a bit and would go from falling asleep to waking up, realizing where he was, shake with fear uncontrollably, and then drift back off to sleep.  This happened about 10x before the vet came in.  She called him a handsome fellow, examined him, reassured me, double checked the dosage/weight and announced she needed to call the prescribing vet for the exact amount of original pills.  Great.  Now both states would know I'm a neglectful mother.  At least J wouldn't know.  He was on call and wouldn't be home until tomorrow morning.  I began to imagine the "I told you so's" regarding where the pill bottle was located and my terrible engineering skills for barricades.

Just as the vet came in my phone rang. 

"Where are you?  I came home for an hour nap and Edgars missing. Looks like he destroyed some stuff."

Great.  "We're in the Pet ER.  I'll have to call you back.  Edgar overdosed."

"Is he ok?  Are you ok?"

"Yeah. The vet's here.  Let me go talk with her."  I pretty much hung up on him.

The vet smiled and announced Edgar was within dosing range, but extremely high on that scale and we could be sent home with a steroid shot and promise of close observation until midnight.
 
I took Edgar, the sleeping puppy, home.  The doped up dog curled up to my sleep deprived husband.

"I'm so sorry I let this happen.  I promise I will be a very good mother of our future children."
 
He began to laugh.  "Yeah, this is what we hear all the time in our ER.  'I don't know what happened. I left the room for a quick second while he was playing with the pills and then they were gone!'"

"You won't have to call social services on me, I promise."  I said, " I really will be a good mom."

"Yeah, by that time you will probably be in charge of social services." He laughed.

Cross to Bear

When I was little I would do sleepovers at my grandparent's house.  There are certain things I remember about my visits.  Grandpa would always get up before dawn and make orange juice/banana shakes for breakfast. Grandma would do loads of laundry because my brother would inevitably slide down dirt hills and fall into ponds. Grandpa would make paper airplanes. And that their bed was always made with a cruifix above their heads. 

My Grandmother was devout Catholic and my Grandfather was a recovering Mormon.  As long as he didn't have to accompany the family to church every Sunday he was fine with them being raised with the Holy Trinity.  I really think he is more of the agnositc/atheist category.  And yes, this is the angry-last-sacrament-didn't-work-because-I'm-still-alive-the-next-morning-Grandmother, and "good luck" Grandfather. 

When my Grandmother died, Grandpa embraced his bachelorhood.  The cupboards are empty, fridge bare (save for a few deli fried chicken pieces, iceberg lettuce, oj, and hotdogs), and no stinkin' cleaning lady was coming in because he said, "I don't make dirt."  As time has passed, my Grandma's presence is making a comeback.  Before I left Salt Lake I noticed a photo of her reappearred in the living room.  I really missed that photo and was glad to see it back. 

My Grandpa has relocated the cruifix, however.  It now resides in the laundry room.  I suppose the fabric softener is truly blessed now.  Not really certain why it is there and I doubt he could tell me why other than, "It seemed like a good place," or something like that. 

I mention the cruifix only in light of my recent proclaimation of faith and marriage.  I am getting used to things like sharing the fridge with a vat of lagered beer waiting to be bottled, sharing a laundry basket which now doubles its size in half the time, and sharing a bed with yes, a cruifix on the wall above our heads.  This is not my cruifix nor my cross to bear.

It seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. 

The morning that I was leaving on my 3 day trek across flatland USA, my father was misty-eyed.  He looked like a lost puppy watching my mother and me load the car.  He wasn't particuarly sad about me leaving, but more so Edgar.  To me his parting words were, "Have a nice life."

"Dad!  Have a nice life?!  That's like saying, 'Good Luck!'"

Yup, apples and their kin.  No matter if I change my last name, my paternity shines through.

Wedding Photos

My wedding photos just showed up on my photographer's blog.  Of every expense for the wedding, finding Davina was worth every penny.

http://illtakeapictureofthat.blogspot.com/

Hoosier Houndini

It seems the escape artist is making his comeback.  After the wedding, honeymoon, and really really long drive to Indy while reading the Dog Whisperer's book, Caesar's Way, Edgar is up to his ways again.

I introduced him to his "den," aka the kitchen, upon arrival making sure that I was the alpha leading him into the house.  We then set up barricades with wedding gift boxes and barstools to let him settle in.  That night we left him only once to take my Mom to her hotel and when we came back all was well in Hoosierville.  He cried when we left him in his den for bedtime, but that ended shortly as well. 

Yesterday, feeling very encouraged, I left again for about 30 minutes.  I set up the barricade just like the night before.  When I came home, Edgar greeted me at the door, chewed up CD case all over the living room floor.  Houndini was back!  This was even after his two walks (to help his migrating instinct and tire him out) as well as a rousing game of fetch which ended when he was too hot and laid down on top of the ball.  So much for Caesar.

Houndini made his first appearance when I lived back in SLC.  I would leave him for work barricaded in the kitchen.  First I used a very expensive x-pen (aka movable metal fences/playpen for dogs.)  He figured out how to use his paw to either push or pull them so he could get out.  He was always sitting in the window sill when I came home.  So then I used chairs to reinforce the x-pen.  Again, Edgar used his clever wits to pull the chairs then the x-pen and voila!  The x-pen went back to Petco.

I resorted to Home Depot.  Plywood, foam insulation tape to protect the floor, and cinder blocks.  Ah ha!  He was foiled!  Until....  one day I came home and thought it smelled so nice!  It smelled just like the lemongrass vacuum beads from Restoration Hardware I had used to clean two days ago, but surely that scent couldn't have been that strong, I thought to myself.  When I opened the back door I found a very proud canine.  He had somehow figured out how to jump on the kitchen counters, tear open the vacuum beads bag, knock over the sugar bowl, eat all of my garden produce and spit it out, chew up the sponge, knock over the knives, dig up the potted geranium in my window sill, eat my check register, and knock over my cookbooks.  (See photos.)

Now I knew I couldn't yell at him as I've read dogs live in the moment and will not corrleate punishment with deeds unless you do it right in the act.  For instance, grounding a dog or withholding dog park priveledges will not work.  But oh, I was mad and he was just happy to see me. 

When J proposed to me in January, he knew Edgar was part of the package and he loved him too.  However, I worried how he would handle his alter-ego, Houndini!  Last night we left again and J constructed the barricade.  It was now a battle of wits between him and the dog.  But when we came home, Houndini rested in the kitchen without tearing the house apart.  Perhaps Monday when I go to work won't be too bad, or perhaps I'm deluding myself.

Shotgun Confirmation

The last two weeks leading to the wedding have got to be hell on earth.  Last week I finally pulled together all of my necessary documentation for the Catholic Church in order to my fiance and I to actually marry.  Baptism records, pre cana weekend certificates, affidavits of faith, and a natural family planning class certificate.  I thought we had everything in.  On Thursday the parish secretary tells me we have a problem.
"I don't have your confirmation record."
"Yes, I'm not confirmed."
"But you are Catholic?"
"Yes."
"But you are not confirmed."
"Right."
"Yup, we have a problem."

When Father Stan and I began this process months ago he said getting babtized in the Escipopalian church wouldn't be an issue eventhough I had my first holy communion and confession at St. Ambrose.  I beleived him.  But now I wasn't so certain and I called him.
His response was perfect type B Father Stan:  "Stupid beroucrats..  I fix.  I call you back,  We do Procalmation of Faith"

I called the church back and the secretary said that somehow the fathers talked and all is ok.  Just some small paperwork needs to get done.  Be here on Tuesday with a sponsor.  I interjected that I was bringing my first holy communion certificate and that is when she stopped and said, "Oh no, honey, you are getting confirmed."

I talked to Father Stan about that time and he said we would just do proclaimation of faith, no big deal and be done.  As I recall, several younger generations must take classes months before Easter and then be with their sponsor in order for it to go through.  No week classes for me

Nope.  For me.  I'm showing up with my Dad to Our Lady of Lourdes tomorrow at 10:00 AM  I can't believe Dad agreed to be my sponsor.  Neither of us knows where to find the Nicean Creed.  There is only one response that is appopriate to this. "Lord, hear our prayer.". 

Girlyfriends

This past weekend, I spent an incredible 48 hours with my best friend.  She is also my maid/matron of honor.  It was our version of a bachelorette party.  Just us, some wine, great restaurants, a pool, and of course, a spa. 

There are things that girlfriends do that your spouse or significant other just can't.  Weekends away truly lets you indulge in these and it simply fills your soul.

1)  Girls can gab with the lights out until one of them falls asleep.  Guys typically fall asleep quite fast and don't want to hear about the latest gossip or process the fall out you had at work/home/etc.

2)  Girls can be caddy.  At one point in time we began giving nicknames to those we saw around us.  "Lashes" was the older woman with huge fake eyelashes, cowboy boots, and some sheer animal print blouse.  We commented about the lovely turquoise couple who had matching shorts/tee shirt/hat ensemble.  And truly who could forget the 10 year old in kitten heels and a tank top to show off her training bra?  (We criticized the parent on that one.)

3)  You can reminisce about past boyfriends and mistakes you made without having someone feel threatened.

4)  Its perfectly acceptable for matching nail polish.

5)  Attempting to tie cherry stems into a knot with your tongue is ok (even if you can't do it anymore and your last successful attempt was in 1995.)

6)  PJ's, sleeping in separate beds, eating chocolate cake and watching chick flicks is a nightly occurrence.

7)  You have someone to giggle with about how strange an herbal wrap is and if Helga or Tatiana were better suited for the massage profession.

8)  You can appreciate the beauty of the mountains of Snowbird and not have to conquer them with a hellacious hike or bike ride up to the top, but just sit by the pool.

Perhaps if I were younger I would have enjoyed more of the bar scene with a pretend veil covered with obscene objects and wait for guys to buy me shots.  This was something more my speed, and something I hope will become an annual tradition.

We've Got Spirit, Yes We Do!!!

Ok, so I've reached a new low.  I just spent the first hour and a half of J's absence watching "Making the Squad."  Let me clarify.  Making the Colt's squad. 

Back in junior high I actually was campaign manager twice for two girls both "running" for cheerleader.  (Could you have predicted my bachelors being poli sci at this point, not so much, but the irony is funny.)  They both won. 

As I watched the girls "interview" post dance routine (aka, shaking their booties and flipping their hair in time to the hip hop), I was astounded.  Not by their answers like, "Oh my god, I just want whirled peas," but more by their names.  I actually watched the end to see who made the team and what their daytime profession is.  Hillari, Stacee, Megin, Destini, Tiphanie...well, you get the point.  Most "Destini's," "Celestial's," and "Nevaeh's" (heaven spelled backwards) I know are allegeded sexual assault victims, not cheerleaders.  I almost fell off the couch when one of them claimed they were a social worker.  Most of them were office managers, interior designers, senior property managers, or students.  I noticed a few of them actually tried out in their sorority sweat shirts, after all, DePaw University in Indiana has the largest Greek system in the Nation.  It also happens to be the birth place of my sorority, Alpha Chi Omega.  Two of them had Delta Gamma sweat shirts on...the known "prettiest" sorority on campus at the U of Utah.  Could we ever get away from this popularity contest?  What was worse, I apparently somehow identified with them as I was in a sorority and I was a social worker.  Good hell, please tell me this is a nightmare!!!

I thought when I had made it to my professional career, all of that was behind me.  Not a freekin' chance.  One of the health unit coordinators was trying out for the Utah Jazz squad.  She considered me a friend.  One day, when it was slow, she did her try out routine in the middle of the hallway between patient rooms.  All I could do was say, "Wow."  Not because it was horrible.  Her plastic surgeon would have been proud the way she moved her chest and thighs.  I said, "wow," because on some level I was jealous.  I would never want to be her.  I would just like to be able to move like she did (and I suspect all of my ex-boyfriends and fiance would have liked me to have been able to move that way too.)  It was sexy routine and not at all appropriate for a children's' hospital.  Moreover, I couldn't understand how her husband (a Notre Dame grad) was ok with her trying out showing her moves to thousands of horny men staying actually watching the half time show at games with binoculars vs. making the most of the time in between sports time and running to the loo.  It wasn't too far from the male domestic violence offenders group I once ran when the guys were getting together after the judicial mandatory group to go to a local strip club to watch one of their wives perform. (I'm so not kidding about this...I actually got invited to come along.)

Will high school ever end?