My Dogs Are Tired

I haven’t been writing lately.
Haven’t felt too interesting.
Or maybe I’ve just been too exhausted.


I have six puppies in my house right now. It wasn’t my idea to have them (thank you, whore dog) and as they’ve aged they’ve become more work than I had even imagined. The heaviest is currently around 12lbs, or the same weight as a newborn baby. Multiply the waste of a newborn baby by six, and you have what I am cleaning up every day. I pray you never have to deal with that much poo. They scream like they are being beaten whenever they want anything. And they try to escape. This morning I decided that as a group I shall call them, “The Screaming Houdinis” and now think it’s a good band name.

These puppies have consumed my life.
And I love them so much it is distracting.

I don’t have much that is ‘mine’—don’t have a boyfriend and haven’t had one in quite a long time. The people and living loves in my life I share. I share them with their significant others or children, or their parents, or their ‘real’ owners. I love in the collective. Patsy Cline is the first thing I’ve ever had that was mine. She’s mine to love, mine to care for, mine to worry about and mine to throw money at all her problems. Having her has opened up parts of my heart I didn’t know I didn’t know. Strange to say it about a dog, but it is nonetheless true.

If the world doesn’t end on Saturday then next week holds my 30th birthday. I’m wholly engrossed in the unmet expectations that such a milestone brings. I’m not where I thought I’d be when I was 16, or 20, or even 25 and in that I’m melancholy. But on the whole I’m happy. I drink less than I did, because I go out less. And I feel good about myself. I’m starting to like the way I look. I’m good at my job. I’m healing from the losses of the past year. Slowly.

There is a subtle little mustard seed of restlessness that has taken root. I’m quietly considering leaving Asheville, but don’t know where I’d go instead. It feels like my time here is coming to a close, but the great What’s Next has never been more murky. Maybe I stay.

The Loveliest Bit

Hello, reader.
Kind of you to stop in.

I haven’t visited myself much lately. Been feeling more…private. Maybe it is a bit of whiplash from the speed of social media, maybe it’s a season or something else; I’m not sure. But I’m keeping words closer. I don’t go out as much anymore and I am thankful for this. Maturity or fatigue? Conversations keep more of a reality to them. Though the other week an old friend from VA came through town for a Friday night and we ended up in an alley with some of my friends, dancing in a spray painted square on the asphalt before hitting one last night spot, where the entire (and I mean ENTIRE) crowd broke into a spontaneous sing-a-long of the Cardigans’ “Lovefool” even as the bouncers turned the lights on and ushered patrons out the doors. It was the loveliest bit of fluff.

My new awesome job has me working nonstop (she says, as she pauses between emails to write this post) and my big trips start next week when I fly to Dallas. The next three months are straight gameface time. I’m already tired just in the preparation but I’m thoroughly enjoying what I do. It has pulled me away from writing, but I think I’m just using that as an excuse. Writing scares me as much as it saves me. It calls out to others in the storm while forcing me to realize the storm exists.

My sweet Patsy Cline had puppies two weeks ago. This was unexpected, shocking, miraculous, totally gross and several other words associated with the miracle of life. I’ve drafted a post on this, roughly entitled “What to Expect When Your Whore Dog Is Expecting” but that is for another blog site. I’ll let you know if it comes out funny. I don’t tend to be funny in writing; don’t know how to translate the timing required for humor into paragraph form.
There is more, as there is every spring. I’m basking in the drama-free, in the regretless day, in the intentional and the lovely. I spend part of my day staring at 6 sleeping puppies. Life in abundance.

“April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.” –E. St.V. Millay, Song of Second April, v1

Anticipate

I haven’t posted since I got my new job. I am shocked and appalled by this.

To be fair, I’ve actually written a few blog posts but they are tucked neatly into word documents on my laptop that haven’t yet made it to eyes other than mine.

I wrote four entries for my church’s Lenten devotional and though they were short I was surprised how much they took out of me. And how much I loved writing in that way.
2011 has been quite different that I’d assumed. 2010 was a year of death and loss, but in a way it was predictable—many of those losses I could anticipate, even as I couldn’t fully comprehend their scope.

2011 has been just the opposite. In the first two months of 2011 I got laid off, got a dog and got a new job, three actions I did not expect were I asked on January 1. I’ve begun to at least attempt to do some freelance writing in between but have found my time sucked up by the aforementioned canine and occupation (and I decided to watch the entire series of “Alias” which didn’t help the time suck). Those three sonic booms have drastically shaped my every day.

I didn’t set out to get a dog. She appeared because some friends found her and couldn’t keep her. No one came forward to claim the little 30-lb beagle stray. I named her Patsy Cline. She is what the Cajuns call a lagniappe—a small, unexpected gift—who has blessed me in her own ways. I can’t believe the joy and stability she’s brought. I walk 3-5 miles a day now; I get up at a decent hour and don’t stay out too late. I worry about another life that belongs to me. I love her and that is frightening.

My new job has me traveling to seven cities across North America in the coming months with the potential for more in the future. I love to travel and am thrilled at this addition. I’m ready to get moving again.

Spring is the season of resurrection. Somehow I forget that every year and get waylaid by the senses it brings. This year I’m feeling it more acutely than ever before.

The Tuesday Void

“From her roost the water hen stretched out
Her purple-green neck
The kingfisher's quick glance
Shook water droplets from his crown
And I thought love would always be
That brilliant on the wing and wild.”
Ibykos, 6^th Century BC

Hey look it's a Thursday and I'm writing about a recent camping trip. La De Da. Jonathan and I went back to Black Balsam, the place where we first camped almost two months ago. It was late as we drove up and the headlights cut noncommittal swaths through the fog that laid heavy in every fold and crease; the tall spruces sharply protesting against the sea. Along the side of the parkway multiple pickup trucks with cages were parked and Jonathan said, almost to himself, “Must be bear season.” The hunters were out training their hounds to track in the Tuesday void.

Black Balsam was as beautiful and chilly as I remembered and the waxing moon held its groggy eye just above the treeline. The fog brainwashed the stars into submission. I stepped out of the van into a silence punctuated only by hounds. The howls were distant but hauntingly present; I thought of The Hound of the Baskervilles and I shuttered. Natural and yet foreign to the place.
The next day we drove to the southern terminus of the Parkway and did a short (yet vertical) hike up to an overlook. About half-way up the trail we stopped to catch breath and bearings and the flora was humming. Literally humming. Every single bush and shrub and tree was full of bees, beetles and insects pretending to be either and somehow all were singing to the same chorus. It was as if the sound came out of the earth; like rocks were humming along and we had stumbled into their sing-a-long. Remarkable.

On the way down the trail we picked over the last wild blueberries of the season and I found myself humming.

Blanket Statement

I haven't been posting actual updates in a while and I don't know why. Here's what's been goin' on:

* Slappy went back to the Sloans on Sunday night. I woke up on Monday morning and suddenly had all this time; I was 15 minutes early to work. I miss that little weiner dog. Sometimes.

* I've been terrified to actually start laying the tiles. I get this "Holy crap Jane spent a lot of money on these and you better not screw this up, Spooner" feeling and then I freak out. But I finally got over that and thus the tiling has actually begun. It looks really good so far. Hopefully all the full tiles in the hall and dining area will be laid by the weekend. Gulp. Since I've only been working on this project for what feels like, oh, 9 years.

* July 4th: best one ever. Hands down so much fun. BBQ at Clark and Nancy's (luckily missed the water balloon fight) but ate lots of grilled American awesomeness and drank from a small keg of Pisgah's Pale Ale, which is the best of the local ales (though French Broad's 13 Rebels is the best ESB and Green Man's IPA is off the hizzy) before they had their own little fireworks show. Right before dusk we headed down to Adam's warehouse/shop in downtown where we all climbed out onto the roof and watched the fireworks. We were so close the booms were setting off the car alarms around us. After the fireworks most people cleared out but Margarita, Johnny, Yeatman and I stuck around til way too late, playing darts and talking over each other.

* The night before Johnny and I had headed out to Black Mountain to watch "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" as it was screened in the backyard of a mutual friend's house. Sitting in lawn chairs, drinking a Sam Adams Summer Ale, watching a favorite movie: priceless. Then we went to a campfire with friends and stayed up much too late laughing and eating roasted brats.

* Quizzo on Monday: I got in an argument with the MC about Martha Washington's maiden name. Seriously. And I won the argument. If only Mr. Gillespie could see my mad US History skills now he would have just given me a blanket A in AP History all those years ago. (By the way, it's not Custis like everyone thinks. That was her first husband's name. It was Dandridge.)

Cinderblock Love

So, for the past three weeks, I've have a wiener. A wiener dog that is. The one and only Slappy, Leslie's pride and joy (and by pride and joy I mean pain in the ass), a seven year old tan dachshund dog. She is very, very sweet and snuggly and dances and somehow manages to poop her body weight daily. I'm serious, drops it like it's hot like 4-6 times a day. It's a freak of nature that dog's digestive system, like her food is rigged with some colon blow. (I'd post a photo of Slappy but my camera is broken) She really is a sweet creature and she's come to actually like the cat; they touch noses now and then the cat tries to molest her. That's what Slappy gets for befriending a cat, let this be a lesson to you potential cat people: stay away. Now Slappy is probably the most low maintenance dog that has ever lived, I mean a walk around the circle and those little two inch legs are tuckered out. But she does do two things I can't handle: the aforementioned fecal barrage and the occasional vomit. Can't handle at all. Like I actually threw up a little bit this morning because of it.
I've said it before and I stand by my claim that I have the maternal instinct of a cinder block. Like if someone hands me a baby, I just sort of stare at it then try to engage it in conversation, like, "So...what do you think of the Democratic Primary process?" or "What's your favorite podcast?" questions I wouldn't even ask an adult but I freeze up around babies and suddenly I sound like a wannabe correspondent for "Morning Edition". It's the same with babies, kittens, dogs, probably lizards and/or bear cubs I just don't have the frame of reference. That cuddling, maternal thing just isn't there. Slappy and I have an understanding in our cuddling: it's the take it or leave it variety, not the suffocating needy sort. That I can handle. A little bit. In small increments of time. I mean normally I don't even have a houseplant I take care of. Being responsible for someone else isn't a forte of mine.

Once a child is somewhere between the ages of 3 and 12 and 16 and death I'm totally fine, but birth to three and 12 to 16 I'm right out. See? Cinder block. Like put a cinder block in nerdy glasses and a smartass t-shirt and it would look like me as a babysitter, which is why I haven't baby sat since I was 13.
Yeah you keep that mental image.

Big Girl

I got a shout out on Norman the Pug's blog today.
I'm going to be pug/housesitting from Saturday to Thursday in South Asheville, so yay for that.
Anyway, I thought it was a funny shout out.

Dog in a Pond

Yesterday Jane had the flu and was stuck on the couch. I had the day off and was planning to rip up some flooring but it is rather loud and dirty and probably isn't a good thing to do when one is convalescing in close proximity, so I took Nant (Jane's sweet sweet dog) and we went up to Windy Gap to play and see some people. That dog ran herself HARD. We played lots of fetch, lots of tennis balls into the pond, lots of swimming (which I believe is life-giving to the heart of most lab-mixes). It was a joy just to see her so joyful. I needed something really simple and clearly exuberant to experience and it filled that. She was sound asleep in the car on the way home and had to be given some baby aspirin for her creaky old bones, but I still think she had a time.
I talked to my dad for a half hour last week and it was so much fun and positive and hilarious...he sounded like my dad again. I have missed him sounding like that. Dearly.
Tonight: Kathleen Edwards at The Grey Eagle. I'm pumped. I'm getting some Twin Cousins Alligator Balls (seriously) and a Pisgah Pale and I'm going to sit on my little butt and enjoy some good tunage.

On a completely separate note, I got disc one of "My So-Called Life" which is the first three episodes and here's my confessions:
* I now identify so much more with Angela's mother and her teachers than I do with her. Wow, age. I think, "Angela! Listen to your mom!"
* I now also think that Angela would do better to stick with Brian Krakow rather than Jordan Catalano, because Brian will probably develop good personal skills in college and go on to be very stable, successful and loyal while Jordan will barely graduate from high school and probably won't do anything with himself. And that, ladies and gentlemen, means I may be too old to be watching this show in the same light that I recall it in.

Tuesday Notes

• New Years was insane. But even being in the same room as Margarita, Rita and Jane seems to make everything better, so of course it was. And then there was this South African UN Pilot that played into the whole thing but that's what I'd like to call a side story.
  

• All of YL staff is currently in Orlando at the All-Staff conference, which is why I am currently watching Slappy and Homer, which means our little house has a pack of dogs running through it this week. Whoa boy.

• One of my favorite things about living in Asheville is breathing in the same air as some of the most creative, passionate and kind people I have ever met—people who believe creativity is not a hobby, but a lifestyle. I love this. It makes me feed my creative side, which very often has a serious case of stage-fright. When did a fear of rejection and failure override my sincere desire to simply create?

• Joe Gibbs resigned as head coach of the 'Skins yesterday. When he returned to the 'Skins in 2004 it was the closest thing I've ever experienced to Christ's return, and I say that without any sort of exaggeration or irony. I was at my dad's house and we watched the news on every channel, just to hear it be said again. Then we pulled out the VHS of the 'Skins Super Bowl run of 1992 and watched it. Ok, so I'm a bit of a fan. Whatever. To say I'm upset to lose him again is a bit of an understatement. I hate the owner of the 'Skins, so I can't wait to see how he messes this one up.
  

• Dear Seattle: I sort of hate you. For the second time in 3 years you knocked us out of the playoffs. Take your strong coffee, computer programs, fairy boats and grunge music and shove it. Your “Real World” season sucked.

• I won another t-shirt on a shout-out question at Quizzo on Monday. It was about the Wyoming primary, which no one paid attention to as it was only for the Republican side. I paid attention because of the presidential drinking game I have going on with about 12 people from college. Mixing politics, competition and drinking is a wonderful idea. Booyah. Drink for freedom, bitches.

Notes

This is what happens when a dachshund dives into a pumpkin pie. Awesome.

My two most prized possessions are handmade for me by people I love dearly. Every day I look at them and I am thankful. One is a two-sided, stuffed corduroy quilt my grandmother made for me for Christmas in 1993, the other is a 250-year-old two paned window my dad refurbished and made into a mirror and gave to me for my birthday in 1995. I would run into a burning building to save these two things. They remind me I'm loved.

The other night I made myself a dirty, dry martini and drank it while taking a bubble bath. It was even better than it sounds. Best idea EVER.

Getting married doesn't make you a “grown up”. Having kids doesn't make you a grown up; neither does owning your own home. Cooking your own Thanksgiving dinner for guests: grown up. Way to reach adulthood, Leslie.

Things I've grown to appreciate as I've gotten older: olives, tempaeh, The New Yorker, dominoes, well-tailored clothing, binoculars, good bourbon, NPR, punctuality, slippers (or shoes like them), Lowes.

If food coma is an American art form, I am DaVinci.

Since I was robbed I've cleaned out my car a few times. Thanksgiving Day I was putting something in my back seat and, looking down, found my camera. It was behind my passenger seat the whole time. Next to the stolen piggy bank. But it was never spotted by the jerks. Thank you Lord.

I talked to my dad for 18 minutes the other day. Normally an 18 minute conversation with someone isn't something to note, but if you consider that with my dad, conversations typically average about 58 seconds then with a complicated mathematical equation that I don't know or care about you will see that an 18 minute conversation with my dad is equal to talking to someone else for about 4.57 years. Straight.

Surefire cure when you are feeling down and out: The Best of Sam Cooke.

Pumpkin Pie: easiest thing to make. Ever. 2008: the year of the pies.

I desperately need to go home for Christmas and see my family. It's been too long and I feel like I've hurt them being away for so much time. And I just really want to sit out in the mud room with my dad, drink coffee and discuss something.

Song of the fall: “This is Not Your Year” by the Weepies.

Dear Middle School,
Is there any way you could give the right side of my face back? It really doesn't go with the whole adult theme the rest of my face is into. Pimples aren't yet retro, Middle School. If you could clear out by that big Christmas party, I'd appreciate it.

Two Sides to a River

My friend asked me the other week if I could housesit and puppy-sit for him this weekend, so currently I'm sitting on his plush leather couch, watching CNN in HD and the puppy is sound asleep...for the moment. Next minute he may be up, just peeing wherever he deems fit. This experience once again reminds me that I am not parental material, as it seems to be a lot of work and I am inherently lazy, selfish and narcissistic. And I like my mornings and my sleep too much. And don't do well with stray fecal matter. Last night I was up every two hours, taking the 6-week old weinreimer out to relieve himself, and then he was up for good at 8. (which wouldn't be bad if I hadn't been at work til 11:30 last night and will be again tonight, so 8am is a little early)
I don't mean to sound whiney but at the same time I'm tired and cranky, so maybe I do. It is such a strange adjustment to have this precious little creature that needs to be constantly monitored; who cries when he's hungry or tired, who doesn't know when he has to go out, who wants to be held whenever he's not toddling around, getting into things. When I'm at work I call the person who's watching him to check in. So odd. I love River and love that I get to watch him, but this experience is just confirming that this mothering skill is not one I own. I respect the hell out of those that do, I simply know that I am not one of them.
(Now he is trying to chew on my foot)
Did anyone see all the press about Sen. Barbara Boxer's comment to Condi Rice about the personal investment in increasing the troop numbers in Iraq? Boxer basically said, "You and I don't have a personal investment in this; my kids are too old and my grandkids are too young and I understand that you don't have any immediate family that would be of age to fight," and somehow it has become a case of Boxer belittling Rice for being a single woman with no children. I frankly don't see it as an attack. Some are made to be mothers, some aren't and by including herself in her statement Boxer made it clear it wasn't an attack on Rice. Don't be so defensive or sensitive, Condi.
(Now River is asleep on my arm so I'm typing with one hand)