Trapped at my house with my two best friends

Seems like lots of people already are having cabin fever thanks to Snowpocalypse 2012: Pacific Northwest. Not me. Remember, I spent two straight weeks in a chair without going farther than 20 steps out the back door. We had Christmas lights on the front of the house for more than a week before I even saw them.

I’ve been waiting eagerly for snow for months and I’m so happy that my trip to Hawaii last week didn’t interfere with my enjoyment of this weather.

Here’s where I was a week ago:

I’m not sure when exactly I became one of those ladies who can’t travel because she doesn’t want to be away from her dogs, but I had a hard time leaving them for a whole week. Rob’s parents usually dogsit, but since they were the ones taking us on this trip, that wasn’t possible. I kept telling myself I was being irrational. Like, would I REALLY rather stay in freezing, gray Washington and go to work instead of spend a week in Waikiki? No, of course not, but it took me a full day of vacation before I could let myself relax completely, give in to paradise. And oh, my, was it a wonderful trip. We all got along so well and it was absolutely worth leaving my doggies for seven days, although really, I think we should give some thought to going to a beach resort that accepts German shepherds.

Rob took these pictures the day we left and I looked at them longingly every day:

After we got back last week, I worked from home for a few days, went into the office Friday, had yesterday off for Martin Luther King Jr. Day. And now…Snowmageddon! Mind you, I have my computer at home and I can get as much done here as I would if I braved the icy roads, so technically, I’m still working. Everyone else in the universe is playing. Snow Day!

Also, I have a new camera, so it’s actually my JOB to learn how to use it by taking these pictures:

Dog year in review

I’ve been waiting to say goodbye to this year since Feb. 2. I might be a little premature in doing so now… something else awful could still happen! But today was my last day at work for the year, and I’m in the mood to do some reflecting.

In a way, 2011 was the worst year of my life. Isis’ death certainly was the low point of my last 25 years.

Something wonderful happened this year too. We found Mia. More precisely, Rob’s sister knew someone who was looking for a home for an apparently abandoned dog. Our Mia.

Never mind how anyone could abandon any dog, we can’t imagine how anyone could abandon Mia. She’s a wonderful dog and obviously was meant to be ours, which she proved by hopping in my car within minutes of meeting us, saying, “All right, let’s do this!” She didn’t even ask us anything like, “How many walks will I go on a week?” “What sort of diet will you be feeding me?” “How many hours will I be left alone each day?”

Rob said the other day, “Can you believe there was a time we weren’t sure if we were going to take Mia?”

She’s done wonders to restore peace, balance and happiness to our home. She’s been an excellent mentor for Leo. Even though I’m pretty sure she’s the one who told him how to escape the yard via the creek. Of course, she would never stray from our property, but Leo’s made a break for it twice, so we’re going to go ahead and fence that side of the yard.

And now we have two dogs, just like I always wanted. (Of course, one of those dogs was supposed to be Isis. We still have Isis-shaped holes in our hearts, as a fellow student in my memoir class described it.) I walked them both this morning on the wooded trail near our house, bundled up in fleece long underwear and a wool hat, admiring the frost growing on broken branches like a glistening white fungus. I meant to walk just Leo, but Mia slipped out the door ahead of us, so I grabbed her leash and took her along.

A few years ago, I had the sad realization that I never would be able to walk Isis safely on that trail. The path is too narrow and winding, so joggers and other dogs came upon us with little warning, triggering Isis’ vicious barking frenzy. I tried walking her during off-hours, but the last straw was having her pull me off my feet and drag me through the mud so she could sink her teeth into a black lab’s butt. The lab was unharmed, but its owner was not amused.

I thought I would never walk that trail again, not foreseeing a time when I would have a different dog, dogs even, who could be trusted on that narrow, winding trail. I used to be jealous of a guy I’d see walking two mellow rottweilers. Now I’m the woman walking the two huge German shepherds. They’re not perfect in public. Leo likes to grab Mia’s leash and at specific points on our route, they devolve into a National Geographic display of wildlife, rearing up on their hind legs and snarling at each other. All in play, of course, but tell that to the passing motorists who just catch the tableau of two entwined dogs with their leashes tangled around me.

Walking them was the highlight of my day.

The critical reader

I’m a harsh critic. I can’t help it. I will find fault with your book even if you are a soldier who rescued a little puppy from Baghdad. I’m probably supposed to make allowances for memoirs written by people who aren’t “writers,” but that’s what editors are for. You don’t get a free pass from my criticism just because your story happens to be particularly amazing. You got a book deal. Isn’t that enough?

I’m not completely heartless. I admire Jay Kopelman and all he went through. I just can’t stifle my tendency to edit books in my head while I read them.

Take Jaycee Dugard‘s powerful memoir, A Stolen Life. I mean, after all that poor girl went through, how can I possibly criticize her book?

The book jacket warned me, “A Stolen Life is my story — in my own words, in my own way, exactly as I remember it.” Later she discusses her strong desire to keep her family’s privacy and hiring a PR rep. She said she resisted writing the book. So my suspicion is, the deal she made was that the book would be printed just as she wanted it, with little interference from the publisher.

And in fact, the book reads as though it’s been published exactly how she wrote it and in the order she wrote it. She writes a bit about what happened to her during the abduction and captivity and then there’s a bit of reflection, under the heading “Reflection” about how she felt while she was writing it. I think that’s a perfectly wonderful way to write a memoir. Sometimes it’s the only way. At one point, she tells us that she’s procrastinating writing the part about the worst abuse by cleaning her computer screen. Heartbreaking.

In another place, she interjects a bit about her feelings toward her biological father who tried to get in touch with her in 2010, after she was freed. I’m merely saying that if I were a book editor, I would have gently suggested moving that section to the end and rethinking the use of the reflections throughout. They didn’t work for me as a reader. That’s all.

Still, Jaycee’s is a truly remarkable and devastating story, and that comes across, so what do I know?

She includes some of the journals she kept while being held captive for 18 years. Two things strike me. 1) Even after 10-18 years away from her mom, she misses her and thinks about her all the time. 2) She struggles with body image issues (no doubt as a result of being subjected to so much sexual abuse). Even while completely removed from mainstream society (although exposed to mainstream media such as TV), she hates her body and yearns to get in better shape.

In those journals, on March 28, 2006, 15 years into her captivity, she lists her dreams for the future. No. 9 is “Write a best seller.” (No. 1 was “See Mom.”)

Well, this has been no fun at all

Day 12.

They told me my throat might hurt for 10-14 days following my tonsillectomy. For this I was prepared, and planned to take whatever narcotics necessary to alleviate the discomfort.

Some people feel well enough to go back to work after 3 days, but in about 7 days, scabs start to heal and that causes more pain, especially in the ears. I was prepared to need a full week.

They TOLD me it would be the worst sore throat of my life. I thought, bah, how bad could it be?

My tonsils were causing a somewhat minor, mostly irritating problem and would continue to do so for the rest of my life. I reasoned that having them removed was worth the risk of two very unpleasant weeks.

I’m not sure it was worth it.

The first two days were fine. Boy was I a trouper. Days 3 and 4 were excruciating. That was to be expected, but I figured 5 and 6 would be better. They weren’t. I was in the same amount of pain, requiring a narcotic rotation every TWO hours. The doctor told me I should substitute the oxycodone with ibuprofen, to see if I could extend the time period between doses of liquid vicodin/tylenol to six hours. Yeah, right, like ibuprofen is going to do anything. But actually, I was almost out of the oxy and didn’t feel like it was doing anything anyway. Turned out the ibuprofen did about as much.

On Day 8, I started taking the drugs less often, but felt the same amount of pain. Not the worst sore throat of my life, but something entirely different. A swollen tightness blocking food or liquid from passing. Wicked, searing pain in my ears. A complete inability to swallow anything. Tiny chunks in cream of broccoli soup scraped past my scarred throat like gravel. So did mashed sweet potatoes. I pressed a hot compress against my ears so often that I singed the skin a little, but at least it soothed the ache inside.

During this time, I never left the house. I slept in a reclining chair with a humidifier aimed at my elevated head, waking every few hours to heat up the compress, eat some ice chips or watch another episode of Friends. Nick at Nite played marathons of Friends all Thanksgiving weekend. That was a highlight.

I also watched dozens of episodes of Felicity and Ally McBeal via Netflix and the entire first two seasons of The Vampire Diaries. I was surprised that I didn’t get tired of this routine. Sleep, watch TV, try to choke down some oatmeal, macaroni and cheese or ice cream. Repeat. I could do this forever, mostly because I couldn’t begin to fathom doing anything else, I was in so much pain.

I had complicated thoughts that I wanted to express, but it hurt too much to make the effort to form the words.

The worst pain came in the morning, probably because sleeping with my mouth open dried out my throat, despite the humidifier’s best efforts. I felt better in the evenings, maybe because at about 4 o’clock I started to look forward to Rob’s coming home. The evening of Day 9, I felt more like myself. This is it, I thought, I’ve turned a corner, tomorrow I will be better. I will turn on my computer and blog about the experience.

I felt shitty again the morning of Day 10. I did turn on my computer, but only to pay the mortgage. I felt just a tiny bit better that evening. Yesterday I was able to do a few more things on the computer. Speak a few more complete sentences. My mom said I sounded more like myself on the phone. And last night, I slept lying down in a bed. (Although Rob tells me I made horrible noises that were beyond snoring. He said, “No wonder your throat hurts.”)

Today, I woke up, showered, dressed and sat down at the computer like a normal person. I might even walk the dogs.

The pain is about a 6 out of 10, after being an 8 or 9 most of the time for days. I guess that’s progress. Someday I might be able to eat food again. Perhaps in time for Christmas, because all those cookies I’ve been seeing on TV look awfully good.

Under anesthesia, under the knife

I’m having my tonsils out tomorrow. I know, so retro, right? The procedure itself is supposed to be quick and easy, but the recovery is awful.

I’ve been under general anesthesia once before, to have my wisdom teeth out when I was almost 19. The only surgery I’ve had since was a ganglion removal in my wrist, for which I was given a local … and will boast to anyone who will listen that my dreamy hand surgeon said if he’d known how involved it was going to be, he would have put me under. I was such a champ.

I have been preparing for this week’s grand affair by acquiring a cool mist ultrasonic humidifier to keep my throat moist, Throat Comfort Yogi tea, Zico chocolate coconut water (you know, to rehydrate), and thinking of soft foods to eat: oatmeal, scrambled eggs, macaroni and cheese, smoothies.

Also, very importantly, I have loaded up a bunch of television series in my Netflix instant queue. People, Netflix isn’t charging enough! I can watch the entirety (or near entirety) of Buffy, Angel, Felicity, thirtysomething, Vampire Diaries, seasons one and two of Glee … and so much more.

So be prepared for such outdated observations as, “Seriously, how could Felicity ever choose Ben over Noel? Noel is the perfect man.”

You’d think in anticipation of having to spend as much as a week on heavy narcotics that I would have been more active over the weekend, but no. I had coughing and sneezing fits on Friday and Saturday. Even though I didn’t feel like I was getting a cold, I worried that this something would keep me from having surgery tomorrow. Certainly it would not be fun to sneeze with enormous tonsil scabs forming in the back of my throat.

Also, my neck’s been hurting, probably from sleeping awkwardly to accommodate two monster German shepherds in our bed. Yeah, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

As a result, I spent more time on the couch this weekend than I should have, dwelling in such questions as why in the world did Felicity obsess about Ben for four seasons, when beautiful, kind, smart, funny Noel was there all along?

I needed to talk to someone about this.

Me: Did you ever watch Felicity?
Rob: No.
Me: But you know the basic premise? There’s this love triangle …
Rob: All I know is that it starred a girl with curly hair.

In more current affairs, how do you think they got those zombies in the barn in The Walking Dead? Don’t you think Lori should just have the baby? I mean, the fate of the human race is at stake. And did you see The Simpsons? It was about writing a tween blockbuster novel by committee, structured like a heist film. Brilliant.

I paid full price for @mindykaling’s book

Mindy Kaling is one of my comedy heroines. Right up there with Tina Fey, Amy Poehler and Julia Louis-Dreyfus.

I always thought she was funny in her tertiary role on The Office, and was impressed when I noticed that she had a writer, producer and sometimes directing credit. I “liked” Subtle Sexuality on Facebook after watching the video for Male Prima Donna.

Following her on Twitter is what solidified our completely one-sided friendship.

When her book, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) came out a few weeks ago, I asked Rob to get it in audio form, because it’s so awesome to hear comedy writers read their own stuff. In the book, she talks about how falling asleep watching Dave Chappelle made her feel like they were friends. Well, that’s what it’s been like the past few weeks; Kelly Kapoor tells us funny stories every night before bed.

The best part is that Rob thinks she’s hilarious too!

His review: Once you factor in her creative talents in authoring & narrating humorous tales, Mindy’s hotness skyrockets through the roof. Gorgeous and brilliantly witty. She is the second smartest & hottest & funniest girl next to Kari.

Awww.

So when I found out she was going to be signing her book in Seattle, even though I’d already listened to most of it, and even though I can’t remember the last time I paid cover price for a book (sorry, authors), and even though the UW Bookstore required you to buy the book there to have it signed, we happily drove down there and paid $25 for the book and the privilege of saying “You’re my favorite Twitter friend.”

Know what else is cool? And I can say this with some authority since I grew up in Los Angeles and have seen my fair share of celebrities close up. Mindy Kaling is considered more of a “real person” than a “model/actress” type (which she notes in the chapter where she describes having to audition for, and be turned down for, the character of “Mindy” in a pilot she wrote!). And yet, compared to all of us schlubby Pacific Northwesterners, she looked famous. Glamorous and put together. And was so gracious.

/fanletter

What’s to eat?

I became a vegetarian in 2000, and now I feel bad about eating bananas.

I’m reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I suggested it to my book club after we read a dystopian downer called The Windup Girl, which had something to do with food being an endangered species controlled by Calorie Companies. I didn’t care for it. At. All. But it did make me want to read some nonfiction about the state of food in the world.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle I like. Some of the reviews I read complained that it’s not fair to expect regular people to grow their own food. Kingsolver and family have a lot more resources than regular people. And does she have to be so smug?

I don’t think she’s smug at all, I think she recognizes that the year of eating locally isn’t possible for most people. That’s why she wrote about it, to share the experience with those of us who don’t have the money or wherewithal to move to the Appalachians and pluck our own poultry. While the book contains recipes, it’s not a cookbook, it’s a fantasy memoir. Here’s what life would be like if you could afford to live off the land for an entire year. (I know, weird, right? Living of the land appears to be more costly than eating at McDonald’s every day.)

A neighborhood branch of a grocery chain is having a closing sale. I went there yesterday with ideas of buying all the local produce they had. (Wait, what’s in season right now?) I walked out with Ecuadorian bananas and $274 of other stuff. It was a ridiculous spree that also included organic cotton socks and a snow shovel. I don’t know what happened. Rob was with me, but I was the one putting most of the stuff in the cart.

I mention the bananas, because even though I am inspired by Kingsolver’s book, I still walked into the grocery store, looked at the produce section and thought, “I have no idea what to get.” When did I lose the ability to feed myself? Bananas are something I know how to eat. I slice them and eat them with peanut butter on toast.

I’m a fairly lousy gardener, but Animal, Vegetable, Miracle makes me want to grow tomatoes and potatoes. How cool would it be to grow my own carrots? I picture myself pulling the leggy orange roots out of the dirt by their weedy green hair. Of course, then I’d have to worry about deer eating my groceries. And keep my diggity dogs away from the beds.

The least I can do is buy from the farmers’ market or co-op.

I’m not a strict vegetarian anymore. I started eating seafood again in 2007 when I regularly came face to face with the harvesting process. I feel good about that. I still feel bad watching fish gasp their last breath, but I’m comfortable decapitating a shrimp or putting a live crab in a steaming pot of water. Hey, if you’re going to eat it, you better respect where it came from.

That’s basically the message of Kingsolver’s book, and here’s the craziest part. I found myself looking forward to the chapter about harvesting poultry. It still makes me sad to think of the deer and cows who die to feed my dogs. I went to a sheep farm a few years ago, and couldn’t relate to the woman who raises those fuzzy little critters to eat. I wanted to read in detail about how Kingsolver dispatches the toms and roosters she and her daughter so lovingly reared. It helps, she says, that testosterone-fueled birds aren’t so fun to be around.

Also, what? The chicken on your table is actually a rooster! Your Thanksgiving turkey is a tom!

What do I have to be anxious about?

I had an anxiety dream two nights in a row where I was late to the airport. In one dream, Kris Jenner was supposed to pick me and my dad up and drive us. She was late. I hope by including “Kris Jenner” in this post it will boost traffic to my blog. Khloe Kardashian was there too. We missed our flight, which was a problem because it was a direct flight from New Delhi to Bellingham, and they only had one flight a day.

Last night, I dreamed that Rob and I were at my mom’s old house and we didn’t have enough time to go to a museum before our flight that night. I had prepaid for the museum tickets and we wouldn’t be able to use them. I came up with a brilliant plan that if we missed our flight on purpose, we could rebook for the next day without having to pay a change fee, thus giving us time to go to the museum. But I couldn’t find the airline phone number on its website.

I started writing this post thinking these dreams are so weird because I have nothing in the world to be anxious about. I have nothing but time. I spent the first half of this day honoring veterans by napping on the couch.

But as I typed the sentence about rebooking a flight, I remembered that yesterday, I wanted to change the return flight for an upcoming trip to make it easier to pick up Leo from the kennel.

Ah ha. How could I forget? I practically cried about this yesterday. I am exceedingly anxious about going away and leaving the dogs. Rob’s parents are the best dog sitters ever, but they are going on this trip with us. I am worried I won’t even be able to enjoy myself because I will be so worried about the dogs.

I don’t want to board Mia, because I’m afraid she’ll think she’s being sent to live in yet another home. I told her months ago that she would live in this house the rest of her life, but I don’t really know how much English she understands. So we’re having someone come stay with her. Dealing with Leo is a lot more to ask of someone. We boarded him last Thanksgiving and he did fine. Why am I afraid the very same kennel will ruin him this time around?

Short of changing our return flight, the best solution will be for Mia’s dog-sitter to pick Leo up the night before we get home. But will Leo even get in the car with her? Will she have to drive my car and bring Mia with her?

Unfounded anxiety, right? Oh! Except in the book Lost Dogs about the Michael Vick case, one of the rescued dogs got away and got killed while she was being dog-sat. So yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.

I can’t quit you, Glee

Glee was there for me during a really hard time last February. The Super Bowl episode and the Valentine’s Day episode a few days later made me smile after the worst week ever.

Yes, last season’s “Blame it on the Alcohol” and “A Night of Neglect” episodes were misses, but “Comeback,” “Sexy,” “Original Song,” and “Prom Queen” won my heart all over again.

Remember the Celibacy Club’s performance of “Afternoon Delight”? Comedy gold.

So, sure, I was disappointed in last week’s “Pot O’ Gold” episode. Sorry, but Damian McGinty irritates me. I liked him fine on “The Glee Project,” but in his debut as Rory Flanagan, his performance grated on me. So smirky. The writing didn’t help, but I kinda suspect he can’t act. He is awfully cute, so I’m thinking the producers felt the show needed a dreamboat who skews a little younger than Puck (sigh). I’m getting pretty old myself; is Blaine too manly for teenyboppers?

Speaking of Puck, we all saw that kiss with Shelby coming, right? At least they gave Idina Menzel something else to do than hold the baby awkwardly and gaze at her dreamily.

I commend them for having a whole episode without a solo from Rachel, but Blaine’s “Last Friday Night” was the worst example of a gratuitous number that had nothing to do with the story or characters.

Which brings me to last night’s “The First Time.” Now we’re talking. Actual character development, emotion, solid performances. The use of songs to tell the story. (Although I was surprised to discover I don’t really like most of the music from “West Side Story.”)

Not the best episode ever, but good enough that I can suspend disbelief that Rachel and Blaine would still be on book just a few days before opening night, and that McKinley High has TWO female teachers who are virgins. And that Blaine would visit Dalton wearing high waters with no socks.

Because, come on, how sweet were those love scenes to the strains of “One Hand, One Heart”?

A love letter to Rob and Disneyland

Rob loves Disneyland. I grew up in L.A., so Disneyland always has been as familiar to me as the county fair. We discovered Disney’s California Adventure, the theme park next door, on our first visit to Los Angeles together. Since then, we’ve been to the pair of parks in Anaheim a bunch of times and in 2007 we spent 5 days at Disney World.

A magical place. The Happiest Place on Earth.

Totally.

During our first visit in the summer of 2004, we swung circles inside a giant citrus on a ride called Orange Stinger at California Adventure. We hadn’t yet been dating a whole year. I had moved 2 1/2 hours away to Olympia, but our relationship had continued to grow. I flew with the cartoonish sound of bees buzzing in my ears, wind in my teeth from smiling so big and I couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy.

Orange Stinger has been replaced with the Silly Symphony Swings, which has better music, but feels much shorter. I miss the orange.


I was recovering from a cold during our most recent visit to the Happiest Place on Earth, and though I flagged a bit after a lunchtime glass of sangria, I was reminded of how much I love Disneyland and how much I love Rob at Disneyland.

My midday energy slump gave Rob a chance to show off his resourcefulness, cheerful easygoing nature, and irritating ability to fall asleep anywhere. At 3 p.m., we entered Disneyland proper for the first time of the day, having spent the morning at Cal. Adv. The lines for the renovated Star Tours and Ghost Galaxy Space Mountain were prohibitively long and they weren’t giving out any more Fast Passes.

At that moment, there wasn’t another single thing I wanted to do at Disneyland and felt like we might as well go home. Rob suggested walking to Critter Country and as we passed a display of carved pumpkins, I didn’t even think I could make it there.

Trying not to be a buzz kill, I suggested a quick trip on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. I’d been losing my voice, so I didn’t want to scream, but the ride was exhilarating as ever. Even with a head cold, I love a roller coaster. The 15-minute line, though, was brutal. I suggested that we find a place where I could just rest while Rob ran around Critter Country or wherever. He said, “No, I’ll rest with you.”

We found a nook next to Davy Crockett’s Canoes, which weren’t running. I was tempted to duck the rope and nap ON a canoe. Rob took off his shoes and used them for a pillow, laying down on the concrete behind a boulder. I tried variously to relax by resting my head on his belly, on my shoes, and sitting with my back against the boulder. Earlier, when I struggled to put one foot in front of the other in Adventure Land, I thought I might actually be able to fall asleep if I just closed my eyes for a minute. Not so. Rob, on the other hand, was snoring.

Still, I was rejuvenated by the brief respite. With 20 minutes until we could use our Fast Pass at the Haunted Mansion, we strolled over to the bridge to Sleeping Beauty’s castle and sat on a bench watching waves of costumed families arrive for Mickey’s Halloween Party. This was a highlight, just sitting together smiling at baby Wolverines and Captains America. Entire groups dressed as the cast of Peter Pan. Heavyset teenage girls dressed in short, corseted dresses invoking Sexy Minnie, Sexy Cinderella, Sexy Wicked Queen. (I can mock, I own the Sexy Wicked Queen costume.)

Because we’ve been to Disneyland and California Adventure so many times and will go many more times, we can shrug off disappointments like not getting to ride Star Tours or Space Mountain. I didn’t even realize until this minute that the only rides we went on at Disneyland were Haunted Mansion and Big Thunder Mountain. At California Adventure, we hit The Little Mermaid, Twilight Zone Tower of Terror (twice), Silly Symphony Swings, California Screaming and Soaring Over California. Rob always wants to go on Tower of Terror more than once, and I always feel a little bit like, “Really? Again?” But the rises and falls of that haunted service elevator are randomly determined, and the combination during our second ride may well have been the best. ever.
On our way out, we discovered the Wilderness Explorer Camp at the Redwood Creek Challenge Trail, which I compared to a dog park for children, where parents can take their kids to run out all their energy on ropes courses, rock walls and tire swings. We cut through the Grand Californian Hotel to get to the tram and discovered a lovely, enormous lobby with cushy chairs and a live pianist. We mentally bookmarked the spot for a future midday nap.
Disneyland brings out the best in us. I love Rob’s sense of wonder at discovering two new places we haven’t seen before. My feet were aching, but his enthusiasm is contagious. I said, “Yeah, let’s have a look. Let’s find out what my animal totem is.” (First try it was beaver, but I did it again until I got the salmon.)
We used to stay until closing, but we were ready to go at about 9. As the tram pulled up to the Mickey and Friends parking structure, we heard the first explosions of the fireworks show. We disembarked and sat beside each other at the tram stop, watching the fireworks light up the theme park, a safe distance from the crowds, just the two of us.