Kickin' Asphalt

This column apeared in today's Bozeman Daily Chronicle:

It started as a mere snicker. A tee hee that morphed into the kind of laughter that suggests a Depends might be in someone’s future. And it was coming from the backseat.


I should have kept my mouth shut. Since I’m not known for that, I naively asked, “What’s so funny?” Little did I know it was me.

“Mom,” Older Boy said, in between spasms of laughter, “have you SEEN your arm?”

I then asked stupid question number two. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It sort of just hangs there,” Older Boy said poking it. “You have, like, an arm goiter.”

Younger Boy chimed in. “It’s like tether ball,” he said. “Let’s smack it and see how many times it goes around!”

Charming.

Now I will admit I’ve been lax in my fitness efforts. After getting a brand spanking new resurfaced hip last year, I babied it. I pampered it so much it wouldn’t have been surprising to see me wheeling it around town in a Bugaboo Stroller singing it lullabies.

Actually, I was terrified to use it. And I was under strict orders not to. Not by the doctor but by The Husband. “If I ever see you running again I’ll tackle you,” he told me. But what’s the point of having a new hip if you’re not going to use it?

Since Older Boy took up running, I’ve been a little antsy to lace up my shoes again. But I knew it would have to be on the sly and I’d have to fake a hot flash if busted. I looked forward to everything about running again but one thing: starting over.

It would be just like the day I joined the running craze of the early 1980s. Armed with my copy of The Diet Pepsi Guide to Running, I was twenty-one and ready. The book covered all aspects of becoming road ready – eat plenty of carbs, fat grams are your sworn enemy and hydrate with plenty of, you guessed it, Diet Pepsi. I laced up my pristine white Nikes with a red swoosh and opened the book to the training schedule: Day 1: 3 minutes. Surely that was a mistake. Only three minutes? That was the dumbest thing I could imagine if I wanted to be a Real Runner. I was going to Really Run, for a Really Long Time. And I took off down the street like Usain Bolt.

It was the first and last time that I ever ran that fast.

Two minutes and forty-seven seconds later I was lying on my back in the front yard red-faced and gasping. But I got my first taste of those brain tingling endorphins – the runner’s high. And I was hooked.

Then I got up the nerve to enter my first race. And I was slow. Really slow. A three-legged dog beat me. Old folks outside Dosker Manor Nursing Home offered me hits off their oxygen. They were rolling up the chutes when I got to the finish.

One race under my running shorts, I decided my goal was to run a marathon before I was impossibly old at forty. I beat my self-imposed deadline (the only thing I’ve ever beaten) by a mere three weeks.

At thirty-nine, I was trying to outrun what I thought was the first mile marker for middle-age. At forty-eight, it’s a lot more complicated because now I’m trying to outrun arm goiters, a meno-pot and the occasional hot flash.

But I’m going for it.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be fast. But I don’t care; I’m gonna kick some asphalt anyway. At least until I get cold-cocked by my arm goiter.

These running socks were apparently designed by and for the peri-menopausal woman.

Disorder in the Court

Older Boy was asking me about my time spent as a prosecutor the other day.  I reminded him that often he'd come to the office with me if I was the attorney on call, the cops would entertain him by spinning him around in the conference room chairs and put State's Exhibit stickers on his head while I prepared a search warrant.  But he wanted to hear about the people.   Here's some of the stories I remembered most of which I couldn't tell him.

A woman came to the window in our office, slams her hand on the counter (the obvious choice to get our attention) and announced, "I need to get a Public Attender!"

An 18-year-old has the extreme lapse of judgment to commit felony robbery 3 days after his birthday.  His mom is mortified, calls me up and has two words for me, "Scare him."  So there we are in big boy court at the poor kid is shaking in his boots.  He's obviously well prepared by his public defender because he's "Yes Ma'aming" the judge.  I almost feel sorry for him.

We're about to go through the part where the judge makes sure he understands the charges and all of the costs he could be responsible for by pleading guilty.  The judge says her spiel, he has to repeat it back. All of us in the courtroom know this by heart and barely listen.  But on that day, our young defendant added a new unexpected twist.  The judge said to him, ". . . and you understand that you can be held responsible for the costs of prosecution?"  Eager defendant replied, "Oh yes ma'am, I know I have to pay the cost of prostitution."  Maybe he wasn't as innocent as I thought.

My final favorite was from a defendant's sentencing statement where they have to write their version of the crime. Usually it is a long stream of consciousness tomb that goes from DNA to the present.  It typically rambles on how their momma didn't love them and their daddy left when they were a baby ending with "and that's why I done it."  But this was the first and only one I can recall that was so honest and accurate, and therefore memorable.  A female defendant wrote three simple words that truly summed it up, "I f#&^ed up."  Now that's a statement.

Ready or Not

When I was a kid, the catchy airline jingle was "Delta is ready when you are" voiced over the scene of a giant jetliner cruising along in a clear blue sky with snow capped mountains in the background.  But times have changed.  Now it's more like, "Delta - we're ready whenever we damn well feel like it."

The Husband left to do his little teaching gig in New York.  When I dropped him off at the airport for his flight on Northwest/Delta, he did have a one very large suitcase holding stuff he never wears around here like ties.  He got on the plane.  Apparently his luggage had other plans. 

Now it would be different if he played hide-and-seek with the suitcase.  If he left it somewhere in the airport and at check in told the agent, "Find it!" perhaps I would be more understanding here.  But no. He, along with everyone else on this overbooked flight schelpped it up to the counter and heaved it onto the scale.  The ticket agent took it. A baggage dude put it on the plane.  When they decided there was too much weight on the plane, said baggage dude played eenie-meenie-miene-mo and pulled nineteen pieces of luggage off the plane, one of which belonged to The Husband.

This conundrum is further compounded by the fact that Delta and Northwest are in the process of becoming one airline.  One airline whose computer programs apparently are currently incapable of communicating with each other.  So he flew Northwest.  His bag flew Delta and went the scenic route through Salt Lake, Cincinnati and then New York probably in the ever-elusive quest to snag some airline miles. 

Dare I say that the customer service 800-number has been less than helpful?  They are very good at pointing out the obvious - "We don't know where your bag is."

Like I had to call to know that.

They seem to lack a basic understanding of the concept behind customer service.  Having worked my way through college in said industry, I am well aware of the meaning.  Now the customer, that would be the one paying you for goods or services, is entitled to be dealt with in a helpful and courteous manner.  Back when I worked in it, there was the added credo of The Customer is Always Right. 

Har-de-har-har.

I had to wear to a god awful polyester uniform to my hotel job where I worked ten-hour shifts at the front desk on weekends.  It was a three piece suit, turd brown in color, with a bow tie.  And it looked every bit as awful as it sounds.  But I had to have a greet each guest with a smile while wearing this fashion disaster even though they were about the chew on my ass because the ham and cheese omelet they had for breakfast was posted twice on their account.  My bad.

There were a few perks.  Free meals, which any college student will tell you is a great deal.  And there were celebrity citings since our hotel was next to a major concert venue.  I saw Billy Joel in the lobby one Sunday and caught a glimpse of Stevie Wonder once just to name a few.  But these alone do not make up for a crappy, minimum wage job where people spend a good deal of time yelling at you for things that are not your fault. 

Nevertheless, you still have to smile and be nice.  And at the very least, pretend to care.

But these days, I'm just not feeling the love.

After countless calls to the Why Are You Calling And Interrupting My Free Cell Game -1-800 number, they finally told me there was nothing they could do today because my airport was closed.  This was 3:00 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon.  What they didn't know is that I can see the airport from my front yard.  So I decided to pay a visit to see if perhaps they were willing or able to help me.  A very kind woman did just that, told me it had been expedited and should be arriving as we spoke. 

But that didn't exactly happen. 

Turns out, I could have driven it there faster.  And next time, I probably will.  Because it got there three days after the fact.

Delta, I have been less than enamoured with you since the one and only time I ever flew your airline the toliet was broken.  So I sat cross-legged and miserable for my two hour flight.  Let's just hope you pay more attention to detail with the hydraulic system and the engines that you do to the luggage collection and having a functioning  pooper.  Because I am not impressed.  And your CEO is about to get a letter, not that he will give a shit any bigger than the customer service folks.  But that's okay, it'll make me feel a lot better.

Of course, it doesn't help that all this is happening while my hormones are on a playful jaunt through peri-menopause land. 

Delta, I'm ready - for a road trip.

Interestingly, upon leaving the airport the car in front of me had the bumper sticker "Practice Random Acts of Kindness."  How about "Practice Random Acts of Competence?"  I would find that even more surprising.

A Very Close Call

In my lifetime with dogs, I have never, ever had anything like this happen.  It still freaks me out and I can't believe it happened.

It was a near tragedy.  All because of this:

The real culprit in this case was the family size bag.

Now what could a Cheetos bag possibly have to do with this?

The answer is lots. 

It was a Saturday night this summer.  Younger Boy was on a sleepover and we were hanging out watching movies with Older Boy.  Around midnight, we went outside to look at the stars.  I specifically picked up anything Leo could get ahold of, including the empty family-size Cheetos bag Older Boy had finished during the movie and put it up where I thought the pup couldn't get it.

Turns out I was wrong.

We weren't outside more than ten minutes.  When we came in, I thought it was one of those "Ha ha ha, look at the puppy, isn't he cute?" moments. "Look, he fell asleep in the bag of Cheetos," I told the boys as they came in. But a sense of dread crept over me as I realized he hadn't jumped up the second he heard us come back in the house.

Leo didn't move.

I pulled the Cheetos bag off his snout.

Leo didn't move.  Because Leo wasn't breathing.

We start poking and prodding him, screaming his name. 

Leo didn't budge. 

The Husband went into his medical emergency mode from years of training.  In fourteen years of dental/orthodontic practice, he has never (thankfully) had to use any of his life saving skills that he is required to practice and renew every year.  Until now.

He started chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth on the puppy, which of course doesn't work because a human can't form a seal given the shape of the dog's mouth.  In a fit of quick thinking, he sealed Leo's snout with his hand and did mouth-to-nose. 

Nothing.

All I can do is unhelpfully stand there screaming and crying.  After several minutes without success, The Husband sadly looked up at me and said, "He's gone. I'm sorry."

There is a relatively new 24-hour vet place about five minutes from our house.  I'm screaming we have to try.  We have to take him.  The Husband gently informed me that we should go, but it is to take his body there.  He picked up Leo, whose lifeless body hung limply over his arms like a wet towel.  I'm still shrieking we have to move faster. 

The Husband gently placed him in the back of the Subaru and we exceed the speed limit en route.  Older Boy in the back seat said, "Mom, I think I hear something."  It's hard to imagine he could hear anything over my howling.  I choked back the sobs and tell him to not to get his hopes up.

After we arrived, The Husband walked to the entrance slowly because we all know this is going to be a sad, sad final walk. There was no need to move quickly because the dog was dead.  When I lifted the hatchback, however, I experienced one of the most shocking moments of my life.

Leo was alive.

He's lying there, looking dazed and confused, shaking his head.  Of course, I screamed, "He's alive, he's alive!" The Husband comes running, picked him up and whisked the slighty stunned puppy into the back room of the vet office.  I hope they will administer drugs to me.  We tried to fill out paperwork but are shaking too badly to hold a pen.  At that point, we also noticed that none of us are wearing shoes.

A kind woman escorted us to a waiting area. About four minutes later, the vet brought Leo in on a leash who seemed to bear no ill-effects of the near tragic experience.  "This dog was looking at the light," the vet said, looking about as shocked as us.  "All his vital signs are good, but let's watch him for the next hour or so to be sure."  So we sat in the vet room, shoeless and shivering in the air-conditioning, waiting and watching.

Leo was fine.

He sniffed around the room until he grew bored.  Then he sat at the door and looked at us with an expression that said, "I'm ready to go now, what are you people waiting for?"  When the vet came back in, he told The Husband that his quick thinking saved Leo's life. 

A call from our regular vet on Monday morning confirmed The Husband's herioc status.  "Do you know the odds of reviving a dog that has stopped breathing?" she said.  "It's very small.  Your quick thinking saved his life."  Not only do I have my dog back, I also have a hero.

I'm one lucky woman.  One who will never, ever have Cheetos in her house again.

Remember kids, junk food really can kill.

Puppy Love

Seventy pound Leo who is under the misguided impression that he's a lapdog.

I have written before about my pup, Leo the Destructo Dog and Obedience School Dropout.  I even wrote a column, which I am reprinting below, in praise of his puppy breath.  But this column, which appeared in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle on August 1, 2009, was almost a posthumous one. 

I have actually had nightmares about it, but I'll tell more about that tomorrow.


Puppy Love

The kids were older. Life seemed settled. And I wondered what to do next. Too old for another baby, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of: I got a puppy.


There’s no two ways about it; I’m a dog person. Always have been, always will be.

I’ve had a dog (or two) by my side since I took my first steps. I’m so used to having a four-legged friend that I couldn’t resist a wiggly bunch of puppies that I spotted surrounding a bowl of milk when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. The Husband and I knocked on the door and asked if we could buy one of the tiny creatures. The woman gave us a puzzled look, rolled her eyes and said, “Take one. Take them all.” We picked out a female, who we named Crash, and rode off on our bikes before the woman could change her mind.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for puppy breath.

Crash turned out to be a clever, slightly timid mutt who knew her place in the canine lineup of our village pack of dogs. She was smart enough to avoid the snarling conflicts that would erupt and fast enough to jump in when the pack was distracted in a brawl. Crash had been such an integral part of our life; I couldn’t bear to leave her behind. So I didn’t.

Upon our arrival back home, our shy hound morphed into the Queen of Mean and Fierce Protector of the Castle. She got a sister, a soulful-eyed, black lab named Shelby with an obsession with tennis balls and any body of water. But Crash remained the sovereign ruler of her domain. She endured three cross country moves and two real-life babies. Despite her obsessive devotion to our family, Crash hated everyone else. And she wasn’t afraid to go Cujo on anyone who dared enter her kingdom.

And then one day I realized that my faithful, slightly eccentric companion was old. Even at fourteen, Crash still liked her walks even if they were shorter. But her face was turning white and her eyes started to look rheumy even though the vet said Crash possessed hybrid tenacity, which I assumed was vet-speak for good mutt genes.

“It’s time to get a puppy,” I told The Husband starting to choke up. “I need a back up dog, for when . . .” I couldn’t even say it. So that’s when Hank joined the family. A shelter pup that someone found in a dumpster, this tiny ball of fur morphed into an exceedingly goofy, yet regal looking, faux Golden Retriever who is prone to excess drool. Crash lived three more years; I’m pretty sure out of spite.

When it was just Hank, I started to get wistful for the jingling of another collar. “We can just look,” I said as we drove toward the shelter. But when that tiny tornado of black, brown and white fur dove into my lap it was love at first sight.

Guess I’m still a sucker for puppy breath.

Leo is a party on four legs. Whether it’s been five minutes or five hours, he greets you like you’re Bob Barker and he won the showcase. He doesn’t just wag his tail; he wags his whole body with an unbridled enthusiasm that is pure canine joy. Despite weighing seventy pounds now, Leo operates under the delusion that he’s a lap dog. Although he looks like he was put together from a box of spare dog parts, I don’t care. I’m smitten.

So I guess I’ll always have a bad case of puppy love. At least as long as there’s puppy breath.

Sweet Shelby, Bless His Heart Dumb, Hank and the Queen of Mean, Crash.

Naughty by Nature

I had a change of heart regarding my Speaking in Tongues - Part I post and will put it back on the blog in the very near future.  Isn't the purpose of a blog to have a forum to say exactly what you want? 

I am naughty.  A little potty-mouthed.  Downright bawdy at times.  Extremely sarcastic.  A friend once told me (you know who you are) "you are funny because you see the world through smart ass goggles."  

So this is my place to be an even bigger smart ass.

Virginia Woolf needed a room of her own.  I need a place to say the f-word, or any other combination of  words I choose. 

So there.

It's just like my theory on television and censorship - if you don't like it, you can always change the channel. Or turn it off. 

But I'm really hoping you won't. 

Speaking in Tongues - Part I

Post deleted 9-12-09. While it was extremely cathartic to write, it was very, very naughty. If you happened to read it, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am indeed a real mother.