The other day I was reading old posts in a recently ended blog,longest acres.I came across a post from December about the writer’s pig, Oscar. It’s likely some of you have read this before, but I wanted to share because while the subject is unusual (a woman’s love for her pig) it is warm and sweet and sad and ultimately really just about a mother’s love. And it’s a beautiful love story.
“There were all these men dressed in camo and everyone was making turkey calls. Last year apparently people had made so many turkey calls in the atrium that wild turkeys had flown into the parking lot, which caused a huge mess as you can imagine. So they weren’t allowed to do that this year.”—My mom describes for me her experience staying at the same Nashville hotel as the National Wild Turkey Federation Convention last weekend.
Girls do this thing. When they’re interested in someone or date someone or have unrequited love for someone, they talk to their friends about them. But they don’t use the name of the someone. They use a nickname.
Some girls use simple nicknames. I have a friend that the second you tell her you’re interested in a guy, she immediately begins to refer to him by his initials. Like instantaneously. You’re like “Yeah, so I went on a date with Michael Thomas” and she’s like “Cool, could you pass the bread? So what’s MT like?” It takes a minute to catch up.
Some girls prefer to base the nicknames around the guy’s profession—like The Bartender or The Doctor. Which works fine. Until you inevitably meet another bartender or another doctor. And that’s awkward. Others base it on something with a guy’s looks. My personal favorite of those is the guy who for six months we called Beard Boy because of his thick beard during my friend’s initial encounters with him. Then, one day, many months after the crush had ended, we ran into him and the beard was gone. In its place was a mustache. Naturally, I now call him Mustache Man.
I have one friend who is particularly creative. She likes to take the initials and turn them into something else with a somewhat similar initial set. So now, Walter Ford becomes WF and suddenly he’s just known as Wake Forest University. Or Matthew Douglas becomes MD and he’s now known as Muscular Dystrophy.
This becomes especially tricky in public settings like when you go to an event and your friend is like “Oh my gosh, it’s Muscular Dystrophy” and you’re like “Wait, I thought this was a benefit for Multiple Sclerosis” and they’re like “NO. MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY.” And you’re like “Fine then. Chill. So the proceeds go to Muscular Dystrophy.” And they’re like “For the love of all things, I’m not talking about the disease, MD is right over there with another girl!” And then you think “Wow these nicknames are annoying.”
I don’t know why girls do this. Guys don’t go to all this trouble. They either call a girl by her name or something along the lines of “that chick who____.” But girls are weird. As a group we tend to talk too much about guys so it’s important that Mustache Man have a name because believe me, he will be discussed an absurd amount. I mean, not only did you have a few dates with him six months ago, but then you ran into him again last week? This calls for hours of discussion.
I’ve been making an effort of late to refer to guys whose name enter discussion by their actual name. It’s hard though, because this is discouraged heavily by my people. My people being women. But it seems like the normal adult thing to do. Of course, this is only moving forward. I don’t even remember the names of the other guys. Sorry, but Mustache Man will forever have to remain just that.
I’ve often heard mothers say that having a second child isn’t like multiplying the first child times two. It doesn’t mean that your work doubles. Or that the stress doubles. It means that it is multiplied exponentially.
Well, while I’m sure dog ownership is no where close to the stress levels of motherhood, the same standard applies.
I’m not a person who gets stressed easily. Exams never did it. Guys have never done it. Work rarely does it. In general, I tend to just kind of think that things will work themselves out and so I do what I have to do to live the life I want and then I move on.
Then I got Pawley. She is a sweet puppy who loves to fall asleep with her legs stretched behind her and prefers stuffed animals to rawhide and she slides on hardwood floors because she has soft puppy paws. I love her. (Mothers will also tell you that the joy is multiplied exponentially with the second child.)
But ohmygosh having her is kicking my ass.
I’m sleep-deprived. I feel like I constantly smell like puppy. Or Clorox cleaner. I’ve lost the ability to have conversations about anything other than house training. I do Pawley’s laundry six times a day. I’m exhausted. I’m stressed. This has made me sick. And therefore more exhausted. I know there are other people who manage to have two dogs, a house, and a job and they make juggling it all look easy. In fact, there are people who make having CHILDREN, a house, and a job look easy. HOW DO YOU DO IT????
There are Mommy blogs for struggling mothers out there. I think it may be time for someone to start a single-dog-parent-blogging site. I would join it. We could share about the hard times and the triumphs. Sibling rivalry, sleepless nights, paying bills… this is good stuff. I’m ready to capitalize on the single-dog-parent market.
She is just overweight (which I knew) due to stealing puppy chow and well-endowed in the breast department (which any casual passerby can see).
I had already declared that this was going to be my last trip to this vet. I’ve been dissatisfied for a while and now, with the addition of Pawley, it seems like as good a time as any to change. Today’s experience, which included four extremely anxious hours at work, one confusing phone conversation in which it sounded as if the vet tech was telling me they’d performed emergency surgery on Rosie, a $100 unnecessary ultrasound, and a general total lack of competency, has cinched the deal on the vet switch.
Of course, the good news is I don’t have multiple puppies and a birth to worry about. But, I have to admit, a tiny part of me had my hopes up that maybe, just maybe, Rosie would be a mom after all.
This morning Rosie had a vet appointment. She needed a vaccine update and to have her nails trimmed. I’d made the appointment last week. Over the weekend though, she developed yet another infection on her paw and so, when I went to the vet, I asked for them to treat her for that too. They said they’d need to keep her there for a few hours. I said fine, but I asked if when I came back I could talk to the vet about all of the weight Rosie has recently gained. And then I dropped her and returned to work.
Ten minutes ago the vet called and said “Is there any chance Miss Rosie is pregnant? She’s gained a lot of weight and her mammary glands are swollen. We don’t want to give her the vaccine if she’s pregnant.”
And then I stopped breathing. Because, of course, there is a chance. Rosie and Creamer were left unsupervised. Things could have gone down. She would be late in her pregnancy right now. I said, yes, there’s a chance. So she asked if they could x-ray her to find out. I said yes.
And now I’m waiting to hear back. And thinking about the fact that I already have one puppy at home. And the vet bills. And the insanity of puppies. If Rosie is in fact pregnant, then she will be giving birth VERY soon.
I feel like one of those women on TV who go to the bathroom thinking they ate something bad at dinner and then a baby drops out.
On Saturday I went to Lowe’s. In my opinion, I spend way too many Saturdays at Lowe’s for a person who is not a)in the construction business or b) Tim the Toolman Taylor. However, since purchasing a home, I frequent the store.
This Saturday I was there to purchase new bolts, knobs, and keys for my doors. Mine needed replacing. Inevitably, when I go to Lowe’s, I feel like an idiot. This is partially because the guys who work there look at me like I’m an idiot and partially because when it comes to home improvement, I actually am an idiot.
However, Saturday took this to an entirely new level. Because Saturday I met Raymond, the manager of the hardware department at Lowe’s. Raymond is an older man with bifocals— which were very useful in him making the point that he thought I was the stupidest person he’d ever met. He would look down at me through the bifocals, eyebrows raised, and shaking his head. That generally made his point quite nicely.
Raymond and I had issues from the start. He didn’t like my choices for my front door. Then, he didn’t understand why I was confused about what I would want for my back door. Then, when I announced that I wanted different color knobs on the front and the back, he said “No one ever does that.” And so I said, “But that’s the way they are right now.” And he said “So you should fix it.” And I said, “But Raymond, I like it the way it is.” And then he looked through his bifocals at me.
My friend Joe installed the knobs on Sunday, but on one of them, the key won’t work. So, I had to return to Lowe’s that afternoon to ask why this was happening. Luckily, Raymond was busy in the plumbing department, which is how I ended up talking to Jason who told me I’d have to return that knob. I pictured Raymond’s face when I brought back the knob, broken, and all of the mess of parts. I imagined the bifocal stare. I mentally weighed the monetary cost of hiring a locksmith versus the emotional cost of dealing with Raymond again.
“Vanity Fair: Who are your heroes in real life?
John Cusack: Let’s go with Jesus. Not the gay-hating, war-making political tool of the right, but the outcast, subversive, supreme adept who preferred the freaks and lepers and despised and doomed to the rich and powerful. The man Garry Wills describes “with the future in his eyes…paradoxically calming and provoking,” and whom Flannery O’Connor saw as “the ragged figure who moves from tree to tree in the back of [one’s] mind.””—
A few weeks ago, as I was about to board a flight, it occurred to me that I might need a snack. So, I bought a bag of fried wasabi peas. I opened them about half an hour into the trip and munched on a few. Then I took a nap and when I woke up the stewardess was coming by with drinks. I ordered cranberry juice because, for some reason, it’s my favorite thing to drink on planes.
Then, I threw back a few wasabi peas and took a gulp.
And then my mouth exploded.
I started yelping to my friends in the seats next to me. It wasn’t a bad feeling. It was just strange. Like the most intense version of a wasabi pea ever. I talked about the experience a lot after that.
Last night, my friend Christy gave me bag of mix from Trader Joe’s called “Wasabi Wow!” It contains wasabi peas and cranberries! It’s like someone else knew! So, naturally, I thought this mixture must be well known. So I googled it. And discovered that the only other person ever impressed by the mixture was some guy who blogged about it while he was stoned. Not exactly the best source.
I tried to tell my editor about this and halfway into my story she was like “Wait. Are you seriously still talking about wasabi peas and cranberry juice? You’ve been rambling on for like twenty minutes.”
So, I wanted to know if anyone else had ever tried it. So I asked Twitter. And no one responded. I feel like I’ve made the discovery of a lifetime and no one else even cares. Like, if Christopher Columbus had found the New World and then everyone back in Spain was like “Seriously, Chris, are you still talking? Can’t you see we’ve got bulls to fight here?” Or whatever it is Spaniards say.
Anyway, I’m going to find someone else who has experienced this. Or I’m going to make one of my friends be a guinea pig.
Earlier today, Kevin Jordan, who completed his first semester at Wake Forest this fall, underwent kidney transplant surgery at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. Kevin was recruited to Wake Forest to play baseball, but fought a…
“There’s a rumor that we’re going to get a tapas bar uptown. But in Shelby a lot of people don’t know what tapas is. So they think we’re getting a topless bar uptown.”—This morning I told my mom about Charlotte’s Ritz-Carlton’s new wine bar. And she, in turn, shared the restaurant news from my hometown.