At about midnight last night, I heard Shelby jump into the bathtub. Knowing that Shelby is not usually a fan of baths, I stopped what I was doing, paused to listen to her little dog-nails clatter against the tub, and started to walk towards the bathroom. Then I heard vomiting. (In the past, if she starts to even gag, I always drag her into the bathroom, because cleaning the tub is so much easier than cleaning carpet. Apparently, I don’t have to drag her in there anymore.) There she was standing in the bathtub, shaking, tail between her legs, and head down.
Over the next hour, she threw up a few more times. She eventually climbed out of the tub. I followed her and watched her every move. She licked a paw. She looked for and found her stuffed Pooh Bear, who she knows as “baby”. She walked a few circles around her dog bed and pawed at the blanket, finally laying down when she had gotten it just right. Okay, all good signs. Very normal Shelby-girl behavior. I sat on the bed, still watching her. She watched me. She licked a paw again. Got up and walked in another circle. And then she vomited again.
And again.
As I was trying to clean the carpet and she was standing in the tub (by choice), I called the emergency animal clinic. That conversation, from what I can remember in between sprays of Resolve and scrubs, went something like this:
“Nashville Pet Emergency Clinic. How may I help you?”
“Hello. I am trying to decide (scrub, scrub) if I should bring my dog in tonight. She has thrown up (spray, spray) several times in the past hour and seems to be shaking (scrub, scrub) and not feeling well at all. She is just over 3-years-old (spray, spray) and has never acted like this or thrown up this much before (scrub, scrub, scrub).”
“What kind of dog is she?”
“The best kind. The Shelby-girl kind. The kind that is so smart that she gets in the bathtub to throw up.” Okay, what I really said was that she was a 55-pound lab mix (which does just not do her justice).
“How many times has she vomited?”
“Six times in the past hour.”
“Six times? Oh, yeah, that is not good. You might want to bring her in,” he says. “Did she get into anything or eat anything she shouldn’t have today?”
“No, I don’t think so.” (scrub, scrub)
“Does she have toys? Could she have chewed up or eaten part of a toy?”
“No,” I said. If only he knew that Pooh was not just a “toy” but a “baby” that she grooms, carries out to the car, and snuggles with at night. And, yes, while Pooh is missing his ears due to her incessant licking, Shelby is a good mom. She would not eat her “baby.”
“Yeah, you might want to bring her in to see us. I mean it could just be an upset stomach but it could also be something more serious that would be life threatening. We just don’t know.”
Helpful.
“Okay, I will see you soon,” I sigh, as I am looking at Shelby hiding behind the shower curtain.
“Great. We will see you soon. And just so you are aware, there will be a basic visitation fee of $95.00. Any other treatment or service will be discussed and added on from there. But we can talk about all that when you get here and we assess her. We’ll take good care of her.”
(You better give her a damn dog massage and some puppy-acupuncture for $95.00.)
On the way to the clinic (which happens to be on the complete opposite side of town from where I live), Shelby threw up twice in the car. At this point, there wasn’t much to throw up. But what little there was landed on the shifting gear, floor mat, and middle console. (Shelby says sorry, Amber.) Thank goodness for those left-over fast-food napkins that I stash in the glove box all the time.
Shelby does not like visits to the vet. She likes to be nosey and smell everything. She loves and usually remembers where they keep their jars of treats. And she is usually fine with the staff. Until they touch her. Then she goes Kujo. She cries, yelps, growls, hides, and eventually gets muzzled. The only thing different about last night is that you can’t really muzzle a dog that is vomiting – creates a bit of a choking hazard. As I am laying on her on the floor to restrain and calm her on one end while they take her temperature from the other, the vet asks me all the same questions about what she has eaten, chewed on, or gotten into. I answer the same – I don’t know of anything. They want to do x-rays “just to be sure” she doesn’t have a piece of rawhide or other obstruction in her intestine. And they can do that for me “real quick” for about $332.00 out the door. Unless, of course, she needs surgery to remove an obstruction. I tell them I can’t afford that. The vet says that she understands, that, if needed, the surgery would be “more affordable” to complete through our normal vet and could wait until they open in the morning. I tell her I meant I couldn’t afford the x-ray. She says, “Oh, okay.” Some IV fluids, nausea medicine, and $190 later, we leave with the advice to check in with her regular vet in the morning and a promise to bring her back in should she start throwing up again.
As we are checking out, the vet assistant says that Shelby weighed more than they thought she would from looking at her. “She sure is stout,” he says.
Is that what they are calling it now? Stout, really?
“Yeah, she is on weight-control food and I take her for two walks a day so I don’t know what else to do really,” I say. Polite smile.
“I wouldn’t worry. She isn’t obsese. She just weighs more than you would think. Like some people. She’s stout.”
Then, as I watch Shelby sniff the counter in hopes of dog treats, I remember that people always say that pets take on the personality and sometimes even the physical look of their owners. And I also remember that Shelby’s regular vet once wrote in her file that she was “food motivated.” But she is pretty darn cute, so there might be some truth in all that.
Our follow-up appointment at the vet is not until 4:00 this afternoon but I “shouldn’t leave her unattended’ until then just to watch for any changes in her behavior or condition. So, I took a sick-day and am sitting here on the couch with the infamous Shelby-girl. She is lazy, sleepy, and a little "stout" – all very normal. Let’s hope the vet thinks so too.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Fashion Forward
Let me say upfront that fashion is not high on my list of priorities (or areas of expertise). I like what I like because of the color, pattern, way it makes me feel, or that it actually fits what has been called my “disproportional lower half.” (And if that is the case, I’ll take two, please.) I don’t own anything created by a designer, unless the Daisy Fuentes line of big-girl jeans available (exclusively, I might add) at Kohl’s counts. I try to avoid malls. Something about the fluorescent lights, in-door play area, Kate Gosselin haircuts, and mall walkers frightens me. Not to mention those little kiosk (which is such a mall word) salespeople that are always trying to touch, lotion, or draw you in with the latest skin cream, clip-on ponytail, or hermit crab. And I don’t think I have ever bought anything at a boutique, but I do have some one-of-a-kind items from various thrift shops (where I do most of my shopping, in my one-woman protest against consumerism and waste). Nothing in my closest or on my shoe rack cost me over $40. In fact, the outfit I am wearing as I write this cost me approximately $14.00 pretax (underwear and bra not included, but rest assured that those aren't anything you can't find at Target or in a pack of 3).
But I am clean, groomed, matched, and well-put together (most days). As we all should, I have my own personal style.
And, as usual, I also have a few opinions to share. (Can’t say I didn’t warn you.)
With that disclaimer, listed below are some of my fashion pet-peeves as of late, in no particular order. Things that have just been rubbing me the wrong way, like my thighs under a skirt on a long walk.
‘Tis the Season
Seasons change and so should your clothes - for obvious reasons, like preventing hypothermia or heat stroke. Dress for the season, not all seasons. I am not saying you need to have separate winter and summer wardrobes that never overlap in those times of seasonal transition called spring or fall - but dress appropriately, people. If you are wearing spaghetti straps and shorts, you probably don’t need to be wearing that winter hat or scarf. If you need a winter jacket due to the wind chill, I am going to need you to find something other than sandals to wear with it. Stick to one season please – you will have your chance at the others.
Trend Whoring
This occurs when you are no longer able to make appropriate, reality-based judgments about what looks best and most flattering on your body, because you have become so intent on following a trend. I don’t care how popular skinny or ultra low-rise jeans are or were at one point – they are not flattering on most people (myself included). And I know that summer means stores full of clothes with little material or support, like bikinis, strapless dresses, and halter or tube tops. Be careful out there, folks. When shopping, bring a (true) friend that will tell you what you need to hear, not just what you want to hear. If you are a trend whore, those are often not the same message. And, remember, just because they make it in your size, does not mean you should wear it or that it will look good on you.
Ass-essorizing
Accessorizing can be tricky. At its best, it can add sparkle to your shine. But one wrong move and it can make an ass of you. Leaving people with a lot of questions. Should I wear a necklace if my shirt has a detailed neckline? What if it is a turtleneck or mock-turtle? How many rings are too many? Does that change if I am wearing bracelets or a watch as well? Are colored socks still okay? If so, which colors? When and how many ways can I accessorize with a scarf/pin/headband? One accessory too many or the wrong accessory can ruin a previously fine outfit. There is a lot of gray area there. When in doubt, don’t wear it. You don’t want to end up like an overly decorated Christmas tree - so much hanging that you actually lose sight of what it is all hanging from.
Home-ly Choices
Don’t wear house shoes past the end of your driveway. That means not to the grocery store, gas station, or (God forbid) work. I don’t care how long you are going to be gone or where you work. And please don’t attend parent-teacher conferences, softball games, or dinners out in pajama pants. There is something to be said for keeping things in the family, or at least the house.
Fashion Faux-Pa and Mama-Me
Please do not let me see you with a spray tan, permanent eye-liner, and a fresh pedi-mani if your children are not clean and clothed appropriately. That is not cute. Like adults, small people like being clean and comfortable too. Please make good choices for your children. Wipe their faces, comb their hair, and wash their hands. Put a warm coat and mittens on them in the winter (not in the summer though – what we talked about above regarding appropriate seasonal dress applies to all ages). Make sure they wear seat belts, sunscreen, and clean diapers. Yes, give them some choice to be creative – let them flaunt a cape, dress-up tiara, or rain boots when it is not raining. But insist on shoes while they walk across any parking lot or public bathroom. Those are not times for freedom of expression.
Most importantly, please remember that this is not about how much money you have to spend or being hip to the latest and greatest. You can have all the money and clothes in the world, and still look crazy as hell. I am not suggesting that anyone give into the consumer craze of retail (and all it entails). I am just asking that we all make good, everyday choices with what we have available to us. Personal style is possible on any budget. Hope you find yours.
But I am clean, groomed, matched, and well-put together (most days). As we all should, I have my own personal style.
And, as usual, I also have a few opinions to share. (Can’t say I didn’t warn you.)
With that disclaimer, listed below are some of my fashion pet-peeves as of late, in no particular order. Things that have just been rubbing me the wrong way, like my thighs under a skirt on a long walk.
‘Tis the Season
Seasons change and so should your clothes - for obvious reasons, like preventing hypothermia or heat stroke. Dress for the season, not all seasons. I am not saying you need to have separate winter and summer wardrobes that never overlap in those times of seasonal transition called spring or fall - but dress appropriately, people. If you are wearing spaghetti straps and shorts, you probably don’t need to be wearing that winter hat or scarf. If you need a winter jacket due to the wind chill, I am going to need you to find something other than sandals to wear with it. Stick to one season please – you will have your chance at the others.
Trend Whoring
This occurs when you are no longer able to make appropriate, reality-based judgments about what looks best and most flattering on your body, because you have become so intent on following a trend. I don’t care how popular skinny or ultra low-rise jeans are or were at one point – they are not flattering on most people (myself included). And I know that summer means stores full of clothes with little material or support, like bikinis, strapless dresses, and halter or tube tops. Be careful out there, folks. When shopping, bring a (true) friend that will tell you what you need to hear, not just what you want to hear. If you are a trend whore, those are often not the same message. And, remember, just because they make it in your size, does not mean you should wear it or that it will look good on you.
Ass-essorizing
Accessorizing can be tricky. At its best, it can add sparkle to your shine. But one wrong move and it can make an ass of you. Leaving people with a lot of questions. Should I wear a necklace if my shirt has a detailed neckline? What if it is a turtleneck or mock-turtle? How many rings are too many? Does that change if I am wearing bracelets or a watch as well? Are colored socks still okay? If so, which colors? When and how many ways can I accessorize with a scarf/pin/headband? One accessory too many or the wrong accessory can ruin a previously fine outfit. There is a lot of gray area there. When in doubt, don’t wear it. You don’t want to end up like an overly decorated Christmas tree - so much hanging that you actually lose sight of what it is all hanging from.
Home-ly Choices
Don’t wear house shoes past the end of your driveway. That means not to the grocery store, gas station, or (God forbid) work. I don’t care how long you are going to be gone or where you work. And please don’t attend parent-teacher conferences, softball games, or dinners out in pajama pants. There is something to be said for keeping things in the family, or at least the house.
Fashion Faux-Pa and Mama-Me
Please do not let me see you with a spray tan, permanent eye-liner, and a fresh pedi-mani if your children are not clean and clothed appropriately. That is not cute. Like adults, small people like being clean and comfortable too. Please make good choices for your children. Wipe their faces, comb their hair, and wash their hands. Put a warm coat and mittens on them in the winter (not in the summer though – what we talked about above regarding appropriate seasonal dress applies to all ages). Make sure they wear seat belts, sunscreen, and clean diapers. Yes, give them some choice to be creative – let them flaunt a cape, dress-up tiara, or rain boots when it is not raining. But insist on shoes while they walk across any parking lot or public bathroom. Those are not times for freedom of expression.
Most importantly, please remember that this is not about how much money you have to spend or being hip to the latest and greatest. You can have all the money and clothes in the world, and still look crazy as hell. I am not suggesting that anyone give into the consumer craze of retail (and all it entails). I am just asking that we all make good, everyday choices with what we have available to us. Personal style is possible on any budget. Hope you find yours.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Truth in the Trash
I got away from the city this weekend, away from the smog, cement, and city lights. With Shelby-girl in the passenger seat, I drove away from Nashville with the music up and windows down. As I left behind the familiar, my heart was full with the feeling that a weekend in the woods was just what I needed. I was imagining a cabin with a hot tub, sitting on a porch swing, walking through the trees, and maybe a good glass of wine. No schedule, e-mail access, or hair dryer needed. As we passed over the county line, I turned to Shelby and said, “This will be good for us, Shelbz.” She pulled her head back into the window, leaving the glass with a fresh trail of slobber (clearly, a sign of agreement). I was sure that a few days away from routine and responsibility would give me clarity. This would be a weekend of retreat really.
I wasn’t going alone. And this wasn’t my trip. My mom and her friend, Reuben, jokingly bid on the cabin during a silent auction at a St. Patrick’s Day charity event, expecting to be outbid. As the auction closed, we all giggled and planned on each of us bringing someone for the weekend. However, as we all admitted over brownies and milk in the hot tub Saturday night, none of us had anyone to invite. (Truth be told, I had invited someone and he wiggled his way out of it - the thought of which made me eat just a few more brownies than I had planned or could healthily digest).
The cabin is nicknamed the Tree House, appropriately as the house is built on a plateau surrounded by trees. Beautiful, but steep drop-offs coupled with a thriving population of s-q-u-i-r-r-e-l-s meant no walks without a leash after all. The four of us did go on one walk though, about a mile down hill toward the lake. Down, down, down – steep but easy, scenic, sunny, summery, and all very stupid. Afterall, what goes down, must come up (even in flip flops). Long (sweaty) story short – I remember sitting down half way up, my heart beating in my ears, with an inhaler in one hand and a fresh, hot bag of dog poop in the other. To climb back up to the Tree House, I called on muscles in my legs and ass that I didn’t know I had. Even Shelby laid down at some point, panting in protest of continuing the hike from hell. Needless to say, that was our first and only “nature walk.”
The first night there, we decided to sample the local cuisine. Our choices were limited. Option #1: “Grab a Hunk” pizza slices (yes, that was the actual name on the box) from a gas station that also served as a live music venue and deli. Option #2: A family-owned restaurant at the end of a boat dock, on the left just past the pontoon boats and live-cricket bait for sale. Clearly (or maybe not so much), we went for option #2. The restaurant was so noticeably slanted to one side that Reuben and I commented on it as we walked in (sideways). My mom claimed we were exaggerating until she set her glass down and it slid towards the end of the table. The fried pickles were great (as are most things fried and dipped in ranch), but I ended up sending my “fresh hand-patted” burger back. As I so eloquently found the words, “It tastes like the way wet dog smells.” The following day, we ventured out a little further, past Me-Maw’s Diner and several places that bragged of being “biker-friendly”, and were relieved to find a Pizza Hut for lunch. I think we all actually cheered as we pulled into the parking lot.
We also found the Appalachian Craft Center, the humble home and gallery of in-residence artists and students from Tennessee Tech. It was at the end of a wooded and winding road over the river, very Robert Frost-esque. Solar-power panels, sunflowers, and post-consumer art all gave it the feel of a liberal, ecofriendly, free-spirited community. I was envious of the talent and the lifestyle, wishing I had pursued my dream of being a photographer or had the courage to live so simply. Which then got me wondering again about my purpose in this world and if I was where and who I was meant to be. All leaving me to rely on drowning my doubt and regret in more brownies and Mike’s Hard Lemonade waiting back at the house – never did find any wine.
I didn’t sleep well either. Because black-haired Shelby was banned from the new tan carpet in the bedrooms, she and I slept in the living room. I slept on the denim couch and she slept on the tiled floor – which would be fine for most dogs. Not once-stray-now-spoiled Shelby-girl. She whined (and licked whatever limb of mine escaped from the cover of the blanket), begging to be freed of the torture of tile and allowed on the couch. So, I had to stay up and show her who was boss, had to put her back in her place… I rubbed her belly until she fell asleep on the floor. After I had finally fallen asleep too, I woke up because my legs were on fire. Okay, there was no actual flame – just a painful burning sensation from the 23 chigger bites on my feet and ankles (I counted).
I kept thinking that I had not escaped any of the things which I had hoped to let go of for the weekend. Somehow, even in the middle of the mountains, miles away from home, I had still managed to be reminded of my bad luck, chronic single status, extra chub, and other life woes. The only thing that had changed was that now my legs were coated in Benedryl spray, my ass was sore, and I wasn’t sure that the brownies were going to” work out” as planned.
As we were locking up the Tree House, we could not figure out what to do with the trash. There was no curb-side trash can or dumpster outside or in the area. We bagged it all up and put it in the car, thinking that if worse came to worse we would just take it home (day old dog poop, cracked eggs, and all). I remembered though that the marina had a dumpster. So, on our way back to the highway, we stopped by the boating dock. I watched my mom get out and toss the bag into the bright blue dumpster.
And there was my moment of clarity.
I realized that I have to stop carrying my worries and doubts with me. I won’t ever be able to escape from any of it until I take time to pull over and simply toss it out. I have to let go of those things I can’t change. Until then, no matter where or how far I travel, it will be right there with me, stinking up and overpowering everything else around it. It will take room from the other things I have packed in my life, the things that make me smile. I know it won’t be easy though, as some of it is compacted deep down into my soul.
My mom got back into the car, brushed her hands off, and said, “There. Much better.”
I drove away thinking, “Yep. It will be.” And smiled when I felt Shelby’s wet nose on my neck as she rested her head on my shoulder from the back seat. Clearly, another sign of agreement.
I wasn’t going alone. And this wasn’t my trip. My mom and her friend, Reuben, jokingly bid on the cabin during a silent auction at a St. Patrick’s Day charity event, expecting to be outbid. As the auction closed, we all giggled and planned on each of us bringing someone for the weekend. However, as we all admitted over brownies and milk in the hot tub Saturday night, none of us had anyone to invite. (Truth be told, I had invited someone and he wiggled his way out of it - the thought of which made me eat just a few more brownies than I had planned or could healthily digest).
The cabin is nicknamed the Tree House, appropriately as the house is built on a plateau surrounded by trees. Beautiful, but steep drop-offs coupled with a thriving population of s-q-u-i-r-r-e-l-s meant no walks without a leash after all. The four of us did go on one walk though, about a mile down hill toward the lake. Down, down, down – steep but easy, scenic, sunny, summery, and all very stupid. Afterall, what goes down, must come up (even in flip flops). Long (sweaty) story short – I remember sitting down half way up, my heart beating in my ears, with an inhaler in one hand and a fresh, hot bag of dog poop in the other. To climb back up to the Tree House, I called on muscles in my legs and ass that I didn’t know I had. Even Shelby laid down at some point, panting in protest of continuing the hike from hell. Needless to say, that was our first and only “nature walk.”
The first night there, we decided to sample the local cuisine. Our choices were limited. Option #1: “Grab a Hunk” pizza slices (yes, that was the actual name on the box) from a gas station that also served as a live music venue and deli. Option #2: A family-owned restaurant at the end of a boat dock, on the left just past the pontoon boats and live-cricket bait for sale. Clearly (or maybe not so much), we went for option #2. The restaurant was so noticeably slanted to one side that Reuben and I commented on it as we walked in (sideways). My mom claimed we were exaggerating until she set her glass down and it slid towards the end of the table. The fried pickles were great (as are most things fried and dipped in ranch), but I ended up sending my “fresh hand-patted” burger back. As I so eloquently found the words, “It tastes like the way wet dog smells.” The following day, we ventured out a little further, past Me-Maw’s Diner and several places that bragged of being “biker-friendly”, and were relieved to find a Pizza Hut for lunch. I think we all actually cheered as we pulled into the parking lot.
We also found the Appalachian Craft Center, the humble home and gallery of in-residence artists and students from Tennessee Tech. It was at the end of a wooded and winding road over the river, very Robert Frost-esque. Solar-power panels, sunflowers, and post-consumer art all gave it the feel of a liberal, ecofriendly, free-spirited community. I was envious of the talent and the lifestyle, wishing I had pursued my dream of being a photographer or had the courage to live so simply. Which then got me wondering again about my purpose in this world and if I was where and who I was meant to be. All leaving me to rely on drowning my doubt and regret in more brownies and Mike’s Hard Lemonade waiting back at the house – never did find any wine.
I didn’t sleep well either. Because black-haired Shelby was banned from the new tan carpet in the bedrooms, she and I slept in the living room. I slept on the denim couch and she slept on the tiled floor – which would be fine for most dogs. Not once-stray-now-spoiled Shelby-girl. She whined (and licked whatever limb of mine escaped from the cover of the blanket), begging to be freed of the torture of tile and allowed on the couch. So, I had to stay up and show her who was boss, had to put her back in her place… I rubbed her belly until she fell asleep on the floor. After I had finally fallen asleep too, I woke up because my legs were on fire. Okay, there was no actual flame – just a painful burning sensation from the 23 chigger bites on my feet and ankles (I counted).
I kept thinking that I had not escaped any of the things which I had hoped to let go of for the weekend. Somehow, even in the middle of the mountains, miles away from home, I had still managed to be reminded of my bad luck, chronic single status, extra chub, and other life woes. The only thing that had changed was that now my legs were coated in Benedryl spray, my ass was sore, and I wasn’t sure that the brownies were going to” work out” as planned.
As we were locking up the Tree House, we could not figure out what to do with the trash. There was no curb-side trash can or dumpster outside or in the area. We bagged it all up and put it in the car, thinking that if worse came to worse we would just take it home (day old dog poop, cracked eggs, and all). I remembered though that the marina had a dumpster. So, on our way back to the highway, we stopped by the boating dock. I watched my mom get out and toss the bag into the bright blue dumpster.
And there was my moment of clarity.
I realized that I have to stop carrying my worries and doubts with me. I won’t ever be able to escape from any of it until I take time to pull over and simply toss it out. I have to let go of those things I can’t change. Until then, no matter where or how far I travel, it will be right there with me, stinking up and overpowering everything else around it. It will take room from the other things I have packed in my life, the things that make me smile. I know it won’t be easy though, as some of it is compacted deep down into my soul.
My mom got back into the car, brushed her hands off, and said, “There. Much better.”
I drove away thinking, “Yep. It will be.” And smiled when I felt Shelby’s wet nose on my neck as she rested her head on my shoulder from the back seat. Clearly, another sign of agreement.
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