Yes I Am THAT Person

It has taken great acts of self-control to avoid perusing the strollers, the car seats and the cute little holiday-themed footy pajamas at stores. I have moments of weakness where I'll bring home the cutest outfit that I just HAD to buy. After a few moments of contemplation and dirty looks, shame soon overtakes me and I put the outfits in a box at the back of a dark closet.

But this weekend, I crossed the line. The BIG line. I purchased a bike trailer. It has a little sling-type seat with two five-point harnesses. It has a rain guard and mesh windows. Heavy duty velcro strips lock the flap doors in place. It's lightweight and super-cute. It was difficult to maneuver out of my garage at first, but I eventually got the hang of it. With great care I pulled out blanket after blanket to line the trailer. I even put little treats in the pockets on each side so there was no fighting. I packed a veritable picnic for them to consume once we reached our destination. I loaded them up, donned my helmet and pulled out of our cul-de-sac, two little hot dogs in tow.

See? I told you that I was THAT person. I have sometimes carried my dogs around in purses (he was tiny). My house is dominated by the boys to whom I will be serving as long as they are around. I have purchased those goofy Halloween costumes and made the boys wear them. I purchase toy after toy for them to destroy (hubby thinks I should just let them eat money but I don't think it would be nearly as fun as a loofa dog). But this latest foray into the dogs-as-children world of merchandise was a disaster.

The screaming began shortly after I was 50 yards from home; shrill, eardrum splitting shrieks of pure horror. So I pulled over and put my hand inside to pull out a treat that I was saving for the ride home. No dice - in fact I received a nip on the hand in their desperate attempts to flee back home. A few neighbors started coming out of their houses to see what all the commotion was. Embarrassed, I smoothed out the velcro and started pedaling furiously toward my destination.

All along the way, it sounded as if I was toting a traveling tornado siren. They never calmed down and they never let up; I became worried that their incessant digging at the mesh windows would cause a rip that they could escape from. In the half mile trek to the park, we set off every dog along the way into a barking frenzy. My dear hubby, who was biking along with Maisie at a nice leisurely pace, conveniently dropped behind us far enough so that no one knew he was with us. Once I came to a stop...silence. In fact, I could walk the bike along the way and they were fine. But as soon as I started pedaling they went crazy.

I was hopeful that after an hour or so of running around at the park they would be calm on the way back. But they were just as bad on the way home. I pulled into the garage and let them out; I was exhausted. Indy immediately jumped out of the trailer. Paulie jumped out only to jump back in right away. He sniffed around and then laid down. Looking at me with the defiance that I've only seen in dachshunds and a handful of toddlers.

I'm not ready to give up yet. While they've hated every stupid costume I've ever made them wear, they eventually give up and resign themselves to the fact that I will put them in clothes occasionally. I have the same hope for the trailer.

The Newcomer

After the untimely passing of Indigo, our black lab, the average height in our house dropped considerably. Gone were the days of fencing off the kitchen so that our four legged friend would not counter surf for goodies while we were gone. The large bags of dog food started lasting for months instead of weeks. Indigo was a shedder and no matter how often she was brushed, groomed, even vacuumed - our house had a constant layer of 2-3 inch black fur everywhere. It drove me nuts! But soon the fur finally disappeared. And so the baby gates, large bowls, gargantuan leash and lint brushes were packed away deep in the dogs' closet. The vertically-challenged boys eventually came to an agreement that they would share the duties of the King. The transition was tough for them and the agreement was not immediate. Except for the occasional dog fight a serene quiet and cleanliness settled over our house. And I liked it.

But then I forgot. Being dragged along like a rag-doll on the leash, expensive medications, the never-ending fight to keep her off the furniture (and out of my bed!), coming home to find pieces of our fence chewed all to hell as well as our dogs missing, entire meals being pulled off the counters and devoured...yeah, that was all long forgotten. The irritation of having dog fur everywhere was not even a fleeting memory. Thoughts of the constant drooling that only big dogs can manage (gag!) had faded.

I know that my husband likes big dogs and he knows that I do not. Two little 10-pounders was my idea of the perfect set. But when I saw that longing in his eyes as he played with Ruby - my brother's basset/lab mix - the idea was formed and the madness began. It was a compromise: a medium-sized dog. I found her online at a shelter in Kansas. I have to admit, she was pretty darn cute. And so I made the call and arranged a trip to bring her home.

Fast forward to two months later. The volume of fur has broken my vacuum cleaner. (The replacement part won't be in for another week and I already have the shakes.) The boys have finally started to forgive me for bringing Satan's dog into their home. The counters must all be cleared of anything that even remotely could be ingested (she's much taller than I imagined she would be) and all doors shut. She has separation anxiety so badly that her new cage looks like it was dropped from a vehicle at 70 mph. And although her cage sits under the basement stairs in the laundry room, I'm still waiting for the inevitable citation from the men in blue for a noise violation because she barks that loudly. Also it turned out that she was sick - some nasty contagion that could have killed the little ones and she was heartworm positive. She doesn't realize how much bigger she is than the boys - or maybe she does! - because to "play" she runs at them full speed and body checks them so that they roll about 5 feet. Indy set the ground rules very quickly and so she doesn't bother him much. But I think it's hard to take Paulie seriously anyway, so he bears the brunt of most of her "playfulness". (This triggers that mama bear instinct in me and makes me so mad.) The large bags of food now last for 3-4 weeks instead of 3-4 months.

The memories are all rushing back to me now and it's too late. Maisie will be 1 year old in a week and so I'm settling in for the long haul because it was, after all, my stupid idea. My husband is so happy - he spoils that dumb dog like you wouldn't believe. I've thrown my hands up when it comes to her discipline...it's a losing battle. It's also hard to convince him why my rules are different for the boys vs. this 50 pound monstrosity. But they are very different. In fact, I told him, we all need to get used to Paulie and Indy not be classified as dogs anyway. They get up on the furniture, they sleep in my bed, I take them places when I can and I even make them homemade treats on occasion.

I'll admit it - as guilty as I only sometimes feel about it - I'm not a big fan of the new dog. I've come to this conclusion: I'm not a "dog person" like I always thought I was. There are other dogs that I love of course - Charlie my labradoodle nephew, Mason my min pin nephew, Zoe my mini schnauzer niece - but I'm not around them as often as I'd like and that is probably why I still love them dearly. I'm relatively certain that I am just an Indy- and Paulie-person. And that suits me just fine.

Good Times Had By All

I have never been much of a concert-goer. I prefer studio tracks as opposed to the incessant ramblings of drug-addled rock stars that seem to forget their own music halfway through a song and end up singing a completely different song by someone entirely other than themselves. Add a dose of being shoulder to shoulder with drug-addled fans - some of whom clearly sprinted to the concert from six miles away. Directly from their job on a sheep farm. Where they have been pulling a 72 hour shift with no time for a shower. (Yes a-hole at the latest concert I attended, I'm talking to you - grab some Lever 2000 on your way back down the hill.) You can throw in to that mix my ever-advancing age-related grouchiness (I haven't always been this way...so shut up) in general. But there are a few bands that I like enough to endure the messy, grimy, smokey filth of a concert. Last week, one of those bands came to a town near us.

It was pouring down rain on the ride to this latest event. Sheets of rain I tell you and so I stopped at a Target on the way to pick up an umbrella for me and a poncho for the hubby. In those 10 minutes in the store, the rain stopped. (This to me was like all those times where my hair was not cooperating and so I made an appointment for the next day to have it all chopped off and wouldn't you just know it...my hair is straight out of a magazine the day of the cut.) And as soon as we arrived, it was looking like we would have clear skies all night long. Wrong!

The venue at this particular concert is breathtaking to say the least. And I'm not just talking about the view. No, I thought I was going to have to lie down at least three times on the hike up to the entrance. The worst part is that it doesn't look bad. So as we start out, I'm chatting away with our friends, making jokes and talking about our upcoming vacation with them. About a quarter of the way up, I had to stop talking altogether and concentrate on getting my oxygen level back up to at least 90.

The concert started on time (!) and the headlining band was the first on the set! The opening band (can you call them that if they don't actually open?) came out after the first song and so began a night of nearly 4 hours of great music with a ten minute intermission. The band seemed lucid this time (1 out of 3 times now) and it was truly enjoyable.

The rain started again in earnest about 15 minutes into the concert. I started scrambling for the umbrella and threw on a poncho. Soon though I realized that I didn't care about the rain. It was THAT good! So good in fact, we didn't even notice at first when we all became enveloped in a cloud of smoke so thick that it was hard to see that the people directly in front of us were passing a huge joint amongst themselves. And so we stood there rain soaked, watching and listening to one of our very favorite bands on the side of mountain, while the skies poured down on us. It never did stop raining until we left. But oddly enough, none of us cared.

Vindicated

There was a study done that drew a connection between hair color and aversion to dentistry. More specifically, the presence of the MC1R gene is the reason that red-heads have an aversion to dental work. This gene produces melanin, which gives color to skin, hair and eyes: red hair (somewhat check), pale skin (check!), freckles (check!) and blue eyes (check). While I don't have Bozo/Annie/Sideshow Bob colored hair, there is still a lot of red in my hair. I finally feel more than a little vindicated and much less like a big baby.

You see, I have always hated the dentist. I imagine that some of you are nodding your heads in agreement...but let me just stop you right there. I don't just have your average aversion to having your teeth and gums scraped and the so-called "pinch" from the occasional shot of novocaine. The drive to the dentist makes tears spring to my eyes. I start to sweat profusely and my blood pressure goes through the roof. You know those bite-wing x-rays where they put those little plastic things in your mouth to take x-rays of specific teeth? The moderately rough edges that dig into my mouth make me cry. My gag reflex kicks in whenever I smell that same smell from the flouride treatments I would endure as a child. I still clearly remember hanging over a sink, with too-big mouth trays full of poorly flavored flouride gel with some other poor child (typically my sister) at the sink next to me. I would rest my head on the faucet willing the timer to go faster.

It seems that any one of my dentists (and there have been many!) never fully believes me when I explain my higher-than-average anxiety related to dentistry. He pats my shoulder and gives me the same platitudes that he offers to any normal person. I've grown tired of trying to explain to the dentist that I'm not, in fact, a typical patient that is comforted by those inane comments.

It could be that I have just been through more traumatic dental events than the average person. A quick run-down of these events are:

1. My bottom front baby teeth didn't ever come out on their own. The adult teeth that should have pushed them out just grew in behind the baby teeth. I ended up have all four of them pulled. (I was truly horrified to hear that my little niece has just gone through the same thing.)
   
2. I didn't just get braces. I had oral surgery after the spacers were put in so that a hole could be made in the roof of my mouth. A post was attached to a tooth that had embedded itself in my sinus instead of growing downward. For the next two years, that tooth slowly was pulled down and in place by the metal that had taken up residence in my mouth.
3. While the details are still disputed around this event the end result is still the same. I caught the business end of a flying folding chair the day before my braces were put on and shortly after that hole was installed. I lost the lower half of my front tooth which was then embedded in my lower lip. The scar still shows when I'm wearing certain shades of lipstick. The tooth chips on a regular basis and is in constant need of patching. The option for permanent replacement makes my eyes tear up - titanium post screwed into my jaw?...yuck and no thanks.
4. I've had two root canals. The first one I had a single shot of novocaine that didn't help at all. The dentist continued despite my protests. The pain continued for nearly three days after the 2 hour procedure.
   

I have explained these events to my latest dentist - who seemed to genuinely want to hear why I didn't come to the dentist more often. Instead of the usual routine and script, my dentist made the comment that those dentists were sadistic and that he would be different. While I am still skeptical I feel a little more trust than I've ever felt before.

As my next appointment quickly approaches I find thoughts of why I should skip it creeping up in my mind. Thankfully, my husband is aware of the appointment and will make me go anyway.