Maybe in a few years

There is a picture of me as a baby sitting on a sofa at my grandma's with a little tabby kitten. Her name was Kimbie. We had her until I was 18 and eventually had to have her put down (she had abscesses in her mouth and the vet thought they were cancerous). As long as I have been alive, we have always had at least one cat, but I remember always wishing we had a dog. When I would encounter a puppy or a big, drool-ridden dog at a friend's house, I would swoon. There was no doubt in my mind that I was a "dog person," whatever that means. Fast forward 20 years... I'm not a dog person.

We got Ruby from the shelter after deciding that having a dog was the best way to keep me feeling safe when my husband is working out of town. Seriously, I have these crazy paranoid fears that people are standing in front of my window and just staring in at me while I sleep/stalk people on Facebook. It's a little out of hand, but add spiders into that mix and I will have a full-on panic attack. Think I'm joking? One time I encountered a "silver fish" that was literally stalking me around the living room. It crawled across my leg, so I flicked it off and bolted across the living room, and that little shit FOLLOWED ME!  I hopped up on our pub chair, and called Eric... who was in Washington DC at the time. Yeah, believe me when I openly admit that I have issues. Anyway, a dog. Safety. Companionship. Giving Clara what I never had growing up. All that good stuff.

It didn't work out.

Ruby was the only dog in the shelter at the time that was approved to be placed with children of any age. She was super sweet, adorable, and would let Clara climb all over her and snuggle without any complaint.

She was also a puppy, which meant her energy level was through the roof. Which was okay, until I started going to school again. While I was gone we would leave Ruby inside and play with her as much as having a baby would allow. This is not as simple as it sounds. Have you ever tried to walk a dog and a baby in a stroller at the same time? How about putting the almost 30 pound baby in a sling and walking the dog that wants to run? What about the backyard, you say? Have you ever experienced the horror of your baby trying to pick up a piece of dog shit? Clean it up, you say? Have you ever experienced a baby who only takes one mediocre nap during the day, giving you about 2 hours to squeeze in cleaning, studying, making dinner, showering and playing with the dog? Perhaps some women can handle this, but I am not one of them.

Please make no mistake, I am aware that this is our fault. I'm aware that I didn't consider the pros and cons of owning a dog before rushing out and getting one. I thought I did, but I guess I didn't. Neither Eric or I had ever owned a dog, and we were not at all prepared. We were not prepared for a dog that needed more than 2 walks and numerous play sessions every day. Not prepared for what we would be losing to chewing. We actually made amends with the chewing, realizing it was mostly our fault for leaving things out. We were not prepared for a dog that, when excited, would launch herself at every person in her vicinity, hurling her entire body weight through the air and knocking that person senseless.  Especially not prepared for that person to be my 1 year-old baby. We were not prepared for how aggressive Ruby got when she was bored, not trying to hurt and only wanting to play, but being way too rough for our baby, our cats and me. My arms were chewed on numerous times in a less than delicate manor. The biggest problem, aside from the terror inflicted on our cats, is that I was yelling at her all the time. I'd get so frustrated and overwhelmed with life, and Ruby was the closest source, so I'd yell. About everything. Always. I realized that Clara spent a considerable amount of time hearing me yell about things that didn't even matter, and that is NOT how I want my child to remember me.

But then... there was night time. No matter how energetic she was, she would always lay next to me on the couch and lie under my feet, and when it was time for bed she would follow me to the room. She'd either lay down in her bed next to mine, curl up with a sigh and sleep, or she'd hop up and sleep against my legs. When I woke up she would stay in bed with me until I got up. Sometimes when she was particularly impatient, she'd lick my face and lie across my stomach until I got up.

If Clara was crying over the monitor and I didn't hear it right away, Ruby would stand over me and whine until I woke up and got her. She'd run into Clara's room, hop up against the crib and try to lick her face, which of course made Clara scream with delight.

Even though at the core of things, Ruby was a great dog, we just weren't the right family for her. At least not in this phase of our lives. She deserves to be with a family who has the time to play, to take her on hikes or who at least has a bigger backyard than our little shoe-box property. She needs kids who want to play with her and don't get frustrated when she smothers them with kisses and knocks them over with her enthusiasm. Make no mistake, I am going to feel like shit every time Clara wakes up and immediately points to the hall and says, "doggy!" I am going to feel like a hypocritical coward every time I feel unsafe at night or lonely in bed. But Ruby is with a family (who we know, if we ever want to visit) with a huge backyard, another dog and two little boys that are ready to run with her until she drops. And I know she will be much happier.

If you think I'm deplorable, please reserve judgment. This was a really difficult decision, and I already feel like a selfish jerk. If it's hurtful or harsh, please keep it to yourself. And about me being a dog person? Maybe we'll try again in a few years when Clara is older. Maybe. For now I'll settle for being the crazy cat lady.

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A rant about some feminine matters.

No, this blog is not about my period. At least not yet. Sometimes my posts end up in a very different place than I began, so really it's anyone's guess as to what topic this post will end on. But for now it is not about my period. It's about feminism. Well, kind of. 

Okay, so I'm a long-time Sex and the City fan. Nod, fist pump or groan here, whatever your stance, I don't really give a shit. I like it, and while I respect people who don't like it (to each their own and all that), I don't really understand people who adamantly don't like the show. Unless you're a man. Or a woman who doesn't like awesome TV shows with full-frontal nudity. I maintain that this show offers a bevy of insight to the female psyche. And on another level I just like seeing what bat-shit crazy outfits SJP dares to wear in public. And why does she wear a bra with everything? Her boobs aren't that big. Sometimes you can forego a little extra support to avoid everyone seeing your lacy black bra hanging out of your dress. Or just wear a strapless! If you can afford couture clothing and $400 shoes that are never duplicated in an episode, you can afford a friggin' strapless bra.

If you've never seen the show (gasp!), I will fill you in. There are four women that live in Manhattan and are best friends. Carrie, who is a writer, wears ridiculous clothing and spends more than she makes. She's small and thin, kooky and witty, and has issues with men. Samantha, who is a publicist, is the oldest of the bunch and has sex with anyone with a hard body (no pun intended). She's sassy, brassy, and--being the whore of the group--has issues with men. Charlotte, who originally is the manager/curator of an art gallery and eventually becomes a housewife, is incredibly uptight and kinda prude. She comes from old money and is often aghast at the outlandish behavior of her friends, but is sweet and has issues with men. Miranda, who is a lawyer, is the sarcastic redheaded ball-buster who delivers one-liners like it's her job. She's the most self-aware of the bunch and has issues with men. Cue hilarious antics regarding common relationship and life struggles.

Moving right along in this blog post that wasn't supposed to be about Sex and the City, there's an episode in the second season where the four women are sitting together at lunch/brunch/coffee/vats of alcohol discussing their recent relationship woes/struggles/victories/embarrassing sexual escapades. Miranda, the one that everyone thought was a lesbian until she let her hair grow out and had a baby with a man, gets frustrated and tries to change the subject. When nobody can stray from their man topic, she gets pissed off and storms out after delivering the following thought:   

"How did it happen that four such smart women have nothing to talk about but boyfriends? It's like seventh grade with bank accounts."

BAHA! 7th grade with bank accounts. Oh, Miranda, you slay me. 

But seriously... have you ever noticed that women talk about men? Like... a lot? 

It's arguable that the reason women talk about men is because we as a gender are very focused on relationships, romantic or otherwise, and our interactions with other people. I have my own theories, mostly that the majority of (straight) women get their validation from male attention, and blah blah blah something something we need better hobbies and stuff. Don't get me wrong, there's no shame in discussing men or your relationships with them, as long as we learn from things and grow. So often we don't do either of those things, and we just get stuck on some kind of emotional plateau. Worrying about the difference between "love you" and "love ya" is fine in high school, but as a 28 year-old, perhaps you should be investing your time elsewhere, like worrying about whether or not there will be a 3rd Sex and the City movie (I love this franchise, but come ON people. Enough is enough). 

The root of this rant is a radio show I heard while driving home tonight. It was a radio station that plays pop and mostly top 40 music, so I'm not entirely sure what I expected, but I was a little disgusted with the discussion happening between the three women on the air. First they were talking about whether or not they "can do" monogamy. One of them came out with this gem:  "I really enjoy being able to say, 'next, next, next' to guys and do what I want with them and then move on without any emotional attachment. But I mean, not in a slutty way." 

Wrap you head around that while I move on to the next part.

They segued into the topic of flirting vs. hitting on. Let me say that again. They were debating the difference between a man flirting with a woman, and a man hitting on a woman, and whether one is closer to adultery than the other. The hostess of the show maintained that flirting is harmless and is just something men do to be friendly to women, but that hitting on a woman is a clear move toward sex and is punishable if you're in a committed relationship. She also said that women are so often "desperate enough" to "misread signals" of men who are "only wanting to flirt a little bit". 

.............Am I the only one flabbergasted by this entire concept? Yeah, okay, I'm not saying that a guy who is married should be sent to the stocks for being friendly to another woman (unless he's my husband), and I GUESS if you consider being friendly the same thing as flirting (which I don't), you shouldn't worry about it. But to say that women are so stupid that they shouldn't get worked up by a man showing interest and being friendly to them? That is both insulting AND goes against the idea that "YOUR HUSBAND IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER DON'T DISCOUNT ANY MAN YOU SHOULD KEEP UP YOUR STANDARDS BUT DON'T BE SO PICKY THAT YOU WIND UP ALONE AND MISERABLE WITH 34 CATS!!!!" that this radio show also seems to promote. Can't we please just stop all these inane conversations and confusing ourselves? As if women don't have enough to worry about between the menstruating and the being arrested for naming rapists, let's add another level of bullshit called DIFFERENTIATING BETWEEN FLIRTING AND HITTING ON. Oh my GOD I want to smash something right now. Seriously, I haven't been this worked up over a topic on this ridiculous show since the hostess told a caller that her gaining weight was the reason her marriage is falling apart. Yeah, I know, I probably shouldn't listen to it anymore, but it's like a train-wreck. It makes me sad but I can't look away.

My friend is always telling me how lucky I am to be married and out of the singles' scene. I usually brush these thoughts aside because married life is not always perfect, but if it means that I have to have one fewer conversation about stupid shit like whether a guy flirting with me is actually interested in me or whether I'm just misreading his signals and holy crap this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, I wholeheartedly agree. 

Love means never having to say, "I need some privacy so I can poop."

When I was pregnant and visualizing what life would be like as a mother, I was worried about a lot of things. What childbirth would be like, would I poop on the delivery table, would I have to have a c-section, how I would survive at home the first few weeks basically not knowing whether anything I was doing was right or wrong. I knew things would change when Clara came. I knew that I would have to sacrifice a lot of things, like sleep, social life (ha), quiet time and freedom. What I didn't realize was that, between a baby and a dog and two cats, I would NEVER be alone in the bathroom again. Ever. 

Think about that for a second. Never before have I appreciated that alone time as much as I do now, because I rarely get it. Any time I need to use the bathroom at home, I have to turn it into a game. I find Clara and get her to chase me down the hall, which she loves doing. I get her to follow me to the bathroom so that I can pee and keep an eye on her. This means the door never closes. Usually I will be going to the bathroom and she will be wandering around in the bathroom, climbing into the shower stall or trying to climb up into my lap, or grabbing my glasses off the counter and making a run for it. Now that we have a dog, Ruby joins in. This morning they both were fighting over my glasses (DKNY makes some very durable frames, by the way). If Clara is asleep, Ruby whines at the door until I let her in, and then she just lies on my feet until I finish up, waits for me to flush, then drinks out of the toilet. If Ruby happens to be outside and Clara is asleep, Callie (one of the cats) comes in and sticks her paws under the door until I let her in, then she sits in the shower stall across from the toilet and just stares at me. Oh, what a glamorous life I lead. 

I really love being a mother, but if you ever want to be able to poop alone, you probably shouldn't have kids.  Or a dog. Or a cat. You should probably just live alone in the woods. But watch out for bears. 

Reformation and Reclamation

Ever since The Great Coldstone Shaming of 2012, I have been really contemplating things in my life. I mean, I've always been a very pensive person and have always spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on my life and the things around me, but I have really been examining my choices, particularly regarding my weight and my personal development. I have been thinking about school, weight, career aspirations (or lack thereof), our family, and trying to figure out what really makes me happy and what I need to do to capture more contentment in my life.

I have a good life. I have an amazing husband and the most beautiful and funny little girl you could ask for. We have a nice home and family around us, and we don't go to sleep hungry. As difficult as it is for us to maintain, I have been blessed enough to be able to stay home with my daughter instead of having to truck her off to daycare, and I am appropriately grateful for all these things. But that doesn't mean that I don't have regrets, frustrations or heartache. 

My personal struggles are not particularly secret. I've dealt with depression and anxiety for a long time, weight issues for a shorter time, and both of these things have set me up for "issues" of other kinds, like uncontrollable spending habits and a complete disregard for educational authority. ......Okay, so the educational thing is more of a choice than a victim circumstance, but I maintain that it is at least related. But seriously? Shit has been hard.

Let's begin with the obvious. My weight. I haven't always been fat. Those who have known me for a long time will remember that in junior high and even high school I was pretty much the same size as everyone else, even though I always felt way bigger. Well, except my boobs, those have always been ridiculously advanced for my age. But the point is that I didn't come from childhood obesity or anything. I think when it started was when I got my license and started getting fast food. I was very active in high school, being a member of something like 13 performing groups, playing in a community soccer league and working as a nanny during the summer. I was able to eat mostly what I wanted because I was busy enough to burn it off. I actually remember thinking to myself at one point, "Hey, maybe I'm like those girls who can eat whatever they want and never get fat!" Fast forward 10 years and this is the perfect plot to a movie featuring Adam Sandler dressed as a woman in a fat suit. 

My personal delusions aside, I guess I just never learned how to nutritionally take care of myself. I have always eaten what I wanted when I wanted it. My weight has been steadily increasing since I hit my 20s, and I have attempted many different diets (Weight Watchers, LA Weightloss, Paleo, Smoothie diets, Veganism, etc). They never work because, ultimately, I don't want to follow them. Weight Watchers has a saying that goes, "Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels". What a crock of shit! Shrimp pasta with garlic-butter sauce tastes way better than being thin feels! Anything with ice cream and caramel sauce tastes better than being thin feels! And pizza? Well...let's stop this before it gets dirty. My point is that when I was thin, I didn't feel thin. I didn't feel pretty most of the time, except when I was receiving validation from a guy, which is a whole different can of emotionally insecure worms. Being "thin" never did anything for me except make me feel like I wasn't thin enough. Being fat has a certain comfort to it. I don't really have to worry about trying too hard because I will still be fat regardless of how successful I am. I will get looks from people either way, but being fat usually elicits a look of pity rather than one of jealousy-bred hatred. Though it may have been unintentional, I definitely chose to get fat. And I have known this for a long time. 

But having Clara has changed some things. Before, I didn't really LIKE being fat but I didn't care enough to do anything about it. I had a guy who loved me and thought I was beautiful regardless of how many chins I had. My friends were still my amazing friends who laugh at my jokes, and I could still find clothes SOMEWHERE that I fit into and felt cute in. Despite being morbidly obese, I'm actually pretty "healthy". I don't have high blood pressure, I don't have terribly high cholesterol or glucose levels, I don't have gallstones and I can still haul my fat ass around on foot when I need to and get a reasonable distance before tiring out or quitting. But is that truly health? I think we all know that it isn't. Now that I have a little girl to think about, I realized that if I don't change my habits, she is going to develop them and go through a childhood and adolescence and probably adulthood with weight battles and health problems and that is the last thing I want for her. I might deal with being a fat adult, but I don't know how I would have dealt with being a fat kid. As it  was, when I was going through puberty and growing a fuller body frame, some boy in my class started calling me "flubber" and I wanted to deck him every time, but I just cried instead. I don't want that for her. 

So we have been making changes. We eat fast food sparingly instead of regularly. I try to cook every night and make our own bread so that what we're eating isn't completely full of preservatives and chemicals. We are making an effort to drink as much water as we can stand (with the heat that isn't much of a battle, thankfully), and now that we have the dog I have been trying to play with her and walk her as much as I can. But things aren't going as planned. Now that I actually WANT to lose weight and be healthier, I am finding myself physically barred from doing so. My knee hurts really, really badly whenever I walk or stand for more than a few minutes. My shins ache, my calves are cramping up, my feet cramp up into claws that I can't un-clench and my back huuuuuuurts a lot. A lot. This sucks and I'm hating myself for letting it get this far. 

Cut to scene of me sitting in front of my computer, researching LAP band surgery and eating cookies, a completely typical Monday morning activity. Sigh. If only it were that easy. In any case, I want to change. I want to be better than I am and that involves losing weight, finishing my annoying educational goals (at least the short-term goals) and working on my emotional health. Thank God for support groups and comedic memoirs to get me through these difficult times.

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Dog days

If anyone had told me before that dogs are basically goats with less annoying voices, I probably would have thought twice about getting one.

A long time ago I was house-sitting in a mansion for my bosses. This place was gigantic and they had four kids, so they had alarms installed on every door to the house. Whenever a door would open, a beeping sound would go through the whole house, and sound again when the door closed. I had taken a bath in the jacuzzi tub because I am an absolute sucker for jets. I cannot pass them up. Sometime during my revelry someone came into the house, but I didn't hear the doors. It was late at night, probably around midnight. I was climbing into bed in this ridiculously huge master bedroom with floor to ceiling windows, and Rufus, the family's harlequin Great Dane, started growling. I don't know if you've ever heard a very large dog growl, but it is scary. It sounds like thunder. I was instantly anxious and when he got up and walked to the door with his fur standing on edge I started freaking out. I listened carefully and heard a soft rattling sound coming from the kitchen down the hall.. I started talking really loudly and shouted at Rufus to "GO GET 'EM!" He went bounding through the house, barking that terrifying bark, and I armed myself with a golf club that had been sitting near the bed (why is it that rich people feel the need to sleep with their putters?) There was a door slam, barking, claws scraping against the hardwood floor, then I heard the door alarm sound once, then twice. Whoever it was had left the house.

Ever since that incident I have never felt comfortable being alone in a house at night. Now that I have my daughter, I'm especially uncomfortable with the idea. Whenever my husband is out of town for work, I am somehow convinced that someone is breaking into our house or scraping on the window, and I end up just standing in the hallway, clutching my cell phone, debating about whether or not I should call the police. Usually my humiliation at the idea of reporting a bush scraping the house siding wins out and I just go to sleep and have nightmares. However, when my husband mentioned to me that he was going to be working out of town a lot this summer, we decided to get a dog. We have two cats and I love them almost as if they were my children, but seriously, cats are terrible in a crisis situation. They sleep really heavily and if they happen to wake up, they just run into the garage. THANKS A LOT, assholes. FYI, nobody will be here to feed you when I get killed by a jumpy burglar.

So anyway, we adopted a puppy from the local animal shelter. Her name is Ruby. She's cute. She's happy. She's affectionate. She lets my baby crawl all over her with very little complaint. She eats everything that gets left on the floor, and some things that are close enough to the counter's edge for her to swipe. Everybody's heard about dogs eating shoes and homework and all that, but I didn't realize they actually EAT things. I thought they just chewed things up and left them in pieces. No. Eat. Eaten. Digested. Pooped out in the backyard.

The list of things Ruby has eaten so far include a shoe, a pillow, a measuring cup, a plastic sand shovel, a rope toy, part of our bed comforter, a tennis ball, pine cones, a snail shell, and a refrigerator magnet. This is not unlike my daughter, who will also try to eat anything she finds on the floor, including a very disturbing incident where she ate a piece of cat poop that she mysteriously found. More on that later.

Thus far, owning a dog has solidified my belief that I am mostly a cat person. Here's the thing. I love dogs. I think they are cute and fun and awesome animals. I just happen to appreciate the independent nature of cats more than the loyal and somewhat dumb personality of dogs. Dogs are so needy, and they freak out if they don't get their energy out and they have smelly breath and insist on covering you in drool. My dog also thinks she's a small dog/cat/parrot and perches on the back of the couch around my shoulders. It's funny until she gets my neck with one of her gigantic claws. It's not AS hard as I thought it would be, but owning a dog (more specifically a puppy) is like having another baby... only that baby can jump and reach your face with her tongue and runs as fast as a car and tries to eat your cats. Also? Training a dog is a bitch. I just get so frustrated when she doesn't listen to me the first 400 times I say something (see the parallelism of dogs and babies?) and I eventually just get pissed off and put her outside. But then when I let her back in she is so excited to see me that she needs to jump! and bark! and lick! and nip! and roll! and tummy rub! tummy rub! tummy rub! and chase the cats! and this goes on for awhile.

Sigh. I don't regret getting Ruby. She really has been a nice edition to the family so far, except for the stress that the cats are under. One cat bolts into the garage as soon as he catches a whiff of the dog, and the other cat that will actually stick up for herself doesn't have claws, so it isn't that effective. Ah well. Everyone tells me that it gets easier once they start picking up on their obedience training, so I guess I just have to be patient. Grumble, grumble. In the mean time I will just have to be satisfied that there is yet another creature in my house who wants nothing more than to sleep on my feet and get belly rubs. And it IS pretty cute when Clara feeds her things from her high-chair tray. And snuggles her. And when Ruby's shepherd instincts kick in and she tries to herd Clara down the hall. And when she jumps into the baby pool and snaps at the water.

.....yeah, okay, maybe there's hope for me becoming a dog person.