You Go On, I'll Stay Home

Poor Olivia. Yesterday, when I asked if she wanted to go "bye-bye," I'm sure glorious visions of Central Park or Iron Horse Train danced across her little canine mind. She probably wasn't figuring she'd accompany me on a visit to Scout's House for an article I'm writing about the rehabilitative center for animals.

And I'm doubly sure she wasn't counting on sampling their equipment, such as the underwater hydro-therapy treadmill specially designed for dogs and cats. 

She doesn't look too thrilled, eh?

But upon our return home, I made it up to her with a nice two-mile walk--during which, at the point of no return, the clouds burst open and drenched us with a "last-day-of-summer" rainstorm. We were soaked to the point of soggy.

All of which may leave my girl thinking that some days "bye-bye" ain't all it's cracked up to be. 

Date with a Bad Boy

Yeah, I've been absent from blogging lately, but there's a good reason. Really. 

I've met someone. He's handsome, smart, shy, a bit quirky, and just about the most interesting man I've ever met.  And he's a serial killer but hey, like your fella's perfect?

Yes, I've discovered Dexter, the Showtime series about a guy who holds a day job with the Miami Police Department as a blood spatter analyst. Oh, and he kills people in his spare time. But Dexter is a serial killer with morals, mind you. He only offs those who deserve to die. Rapists who are free because of legal loopholes. Pedophiles who are careful to cover their tracks. Murderers who fly under the radar. Bad people, bad bad people.  

Still, the premise has never appealed to me in spite of its popularity over the past eight seasons. Because c'mon, how could anyone sympathize with or like a serial killer? What does this say about society when a killer is our hero?

But for years, every morning on my hour-long drive to work, I've been listening to Vinnie on Alice Radio talk about his favorite television show, Dexter. Dexter this, Dexter that. Dexter, Dexter, Dexter, that's all he's talked about. How great is Dexter. How riveting is Dexter. Did you see Dexter last night? Such a great show, Dexter. And finally, I caved in. I had to watch at least one episode of Dexter so I could then mentally chastise Vinnie for his lowbrow taste and commend myself for favoring more classy fare like Downton Abbey. Besides, Bates the butler was kind of hot as a jailbird.

What is it with me and bad boys?

Anyway, I ordered Dexter through Netflix. And plowed through Season One. Season Two. Season Three. At the shocking season finale of Season Four I practically tripped running up my stairs to get to my computer so I could change my Netflix orders from one disk at a time to two. My mental apologies to Vinnie. He was right. The show is THAT good, although it does concern me a bit that I'm so enamoured with a serial killer.  But really, his victims are getting their comeuppance. And Dexter Morgan, well, he's just so gosh-darn cute.

I have issues, yes.  Not to mention only four seasons left before Dexter permanently signs off with Season Eight. Sigh. What will I do without my favorite serial killer?

Hmmm...I hear there's this dude named Walter on a show called Breaking Bad.

Puppy Love

I suppose these expressions on my face (see above) encapsulate what most women feel like when they hold a baby--a human one, that is. Me, I'm missing the mom-gene. Never longed for children, never imagined myself pregnant, never stuffed a pillow under my blouse and pretended I was carrying precious cargo.

Oh, I like kids. Other peoples' kids.   

But show me a puppy or kitten or calf or doe or any other baby animal and my heart absolutely positively explodes with a ferocity of seismic proportions. Like this baby pygmy goat I'm holding in the first photo: three-month old Queenie. She was a part of the petting zoo that came to visit our preschool last week. As I held her, she nuzzled her little head under my neck and I could feel the two rough spots where her horns would one day grow. I inhaled her delicious scent of milk and hay and found myself contemplating, "She's not that big, she could play with Olivia and fit through the doggie door, plus I have nice patio garden...."

Seriously, folks. What would I do with a goat? Holding Queenie made me lose all perspective.

As with Bella, the puppy Mt. Bernese in the second picture; she was doing her best to teeth on my necklace and I was so enamoured with her sweet puppy breath and velvety fur, she could have been trying to devour diamonds around my neck and I wouldn't have noticed. I didn't care that Bella would eventually weigh 150 pounds and have the potential to take up roughly one third of my living room. All I could think was, "I SO want this dog."

On second thought, maybe I do have the mom-gene. Just for the four-legged variety.

Words To Live By

"Today me will live in the moment unless it's unpleasant, in which case me will eat a cookie."

~Cookie Monster

Retirement and Tomatoes

If I spent as much time studying and monitoring and pruning and observing and tending to and fawning over and checking on and obsessing about my retirement fund as I do my tomato plants, well....

I could have retired when Duran Duran was still a Top 40 band.

My neighbors must think I'm a nut job. I'm on my bedroom balcony morning and night, following the progress of my four plants no less lovingly than if I'd birthed them myself.  I'm making sure the heavy vines have adequate support, pinching off dead stems, and watching for invasive bugs or hungry birds. The cherry tomato plant is already producing, but it's the heirloom ones that I'm lusting over. Come to mama, babies, come to mama.

As for my retirement fund? Gulp. According to the slightly crazy financial guru Suze Orman, I'm about 20 years behind the eight ball and can retire around the same time that North West is old enough to legally change her name. And so I've given Robin, my financial advisor, full reign to manage what chicken feed I've squirreled away. She's been a busy gal: I'm getting almost daily notices alerting me that she's trading here, swapping there, selling this and buying that. 

I just hope she's better at managing my meager monies than I've been these past few years, otherwise I'll have to plant more tomatoes. 

They may be all I have to eat. Come to mama, babies, come to mama.

Taking a Break

Back in July!

Dog Day Afternoon

So yeah, I'm back in the chemo ward for another dose to treat The Blood Thingie--a blood disorder that my doctors describe as "a major bummer, but it won't kill you." 

They suggested another round of chemo in an attempt to halt the progression of nerve damage that has numbed my feet and is gradually creeping up my legs. They're even hoping for possible nerve regeneration as some patients with similar conditions have recently experienced through an ongoing, low-level chemo maintenance program.

Whatever it takes, folks. Whatever it takes.

After my first infusion Friday, I returned home not feeling all that great. Rituxan isn't the hair-loss-sick-as-a-dog type of chemo, but I did have to take a few drugs to prevent a possible reaction and the cumulative affect of everything left me a little queasy, lightheaded, and exhausted. Now would be a good time to take a nap.

I had just closed my eyes when Olivia came to the side of my bed and stared at me. She never joins me on the bed despite my encouragement that it's okay, girl, really. Jump! Jump!  Instead, she prefers her oh, so deliciously smelly pillow on the floor. 

This time though, to my surprise, Olivia jumped on the bed, towering over me and still just staring. She methodically sniffed my body up and down, up and down, sniff sniff sniff. Then she circled two or three times and spooned my side, resting her knobby little head across my chest. With my arms wrapped around my dog, smelling of oatmeal shampoo and froggy breath, we drifted off to sleep until a ringing phone woke us up three hours later.

Olivia's nose, that canine marvel equipped with more than 220 million olfactory receptors, told her that something was off. Something was coursing through her human's veins that didn't belong there. Something had to be done to comfort her human.

And that's just what my sweet girl did.