The Billy Lab Report. By Jack Daniels Robbins

Hi, it’s me, Jack!
Yep, Jack! The dog. I like dirt.Do you have food?

My Mom is at work. Work gives you money. To buy food! Lots and lots of food! I love food. My Nana has been giving me food this week. And not just crunchy food, the slurpy gooey kind of food, too. She’s nice.

But Mom said I should tell you my tummy is doing good. Wait… I mean, well. (We’re working on my grammar.) I like dirt! Did I tell you that?

They took out a big part of my intestine. Which is part of your guts. And guts are gross- I like gross stuff- like the possum I played with one time! He was gross- sticky and kind of smelly. That was cool.

OK, I have to go dig now. ‘Cause I like dirt! And rocks, too. But now when I pick up a rock everyone starts fussing and going “NO, JACK, NO!”

What’s wrong with rocks?

Licky-face for everyone!

The Littlest, Perkiest Loser

Dear NBC:

Last night I watched the season premiere of The Biggest Loser on DVR. Loved the 50 states theme! That could have gotten hokey, but you kept it on track. Loved that Caroline Rhea is back! She seems sincerely interested in the well being of the contestants and she isn’t some stick figure herself, which makes her even more endearing. Loved that Bob returned! He’s a great trainer, he’s genuine, and did I mention he’s hot? (A note: I think Bob finally coming out of the closet would make a super addition to the finale this year.)

And then the lady trainer came zipping down next to Bob. And my inner dialogue went like this:

Yay Jilli-…wait…. that’s not Jillian!
Who the hell is that?
Why is she so damn perky? And why is she doing that cheerleader jumpy thing?
Does she really think we’ll believe those boobs came with her body?
SHE’S going to be the tough-as-nails trainer?
But what about her hair? She can’t sweat and keep her hair like that?

NBC, I am ashamed of you. You dump a great person like Jillian for this fluff? It’s not hard to figure out what happened here. Jillian was terrific- but not tremendously “feminine”. Her gravely voice and lean, cut body weren’t unattractive, but hardly conventional female beauty. She was aggressive in training the contestants; nobody would have ever called her sweet. (Not that she was uncaring. Oh, and she got the results!) Again, not typically “female”.
She’s been replace by a large-breasted conventionally pretty woman who is (so far) the portrait of stereotypical kindness and caring. She’s been replaced by a woman who is so keenly aware of how she appears to everyone that she has to constantly remind us all that she’s “not a Barbie.” Jillian was replaced by a softer cuter kinder version of the female trainer that will be more palatable to gender-norms-obsessed conservative America.

And this from a tv show that’s supposedly sending a message of self-esteem and acceptance regardless of appearance?

Shame on you, NBC.
Bring Jillian back.

Sincerely,
One Disgusted Female Viewer

Billy Lab: The Post-Op Report

Good grief.
Jack did not have a tumor. What he did have was a HUGE (volleyball-sized, I’m told) callous-like thing where something he ate had TORN OPEN HIS INTESTINE and his body had tried to heal itself up. He also had a digestive track packed full of sand and rocks.

Now it’s time for obvious Q&A with Lauren:

Q: How on earth did the dog live through that?
A: We don’t know. The docs don’t know. He is a miracle of veterinary science.

Q: Why didn’t you take him to the vet sooner? He could have died!
A: We would have taken him sooner… IF HE HAD GIVEN US ANY INDICATION HE WAS SICK! Vets tell you to watch for changes in appetite and behavior. He had neither.

Q: How’s he doing now?
A: Very very well for someone who had their bowels excavated less than 24 hours ago. He’s resting comfortably, as they say.

Q: When does he come home?
A: Tomorrow. And he’ll be spending next week in Spartanburg with Nurse Nana who will see to his post-op care while Mommy & Daddy work overtime to pay the vet bill.

Q: Oh yeah… how much is this going to cost?
A: We’re not going to ask that question until we have to pay in order to get our dog back.

Q: How are you going to keep him from doing this again?
A: Good freakin’ question. There’s a handsome reward (o.k.- we’ll make you dinner and get you drunk) for anyone who gives us the magical solution!

Billy Lab Update

Seems that in addition to "a lot of rocks in his stomach," the vet has also found a large tumor on Jack's small intestine. They are removing a portion of said small intestine right now. :(
Poor sweetie.

New Breed: Billy Lab

Poor Jack.
Loyal readers will recall that our sweet doggie Jack has a history of interesting digestive episodes. He has the eating habits of a billy goat with a tapeworm, so this latest development shouldn’t surprise anyone.
About a week and a half ago, I took Jack to the vet for his annual visit and to address some weight loss issues. They did a bunch of tests and found nothing, but decided to deworm him just in case. 10 days later he was back at the vet, down another 3 ½ pounds and with what I shall politely call some potty problems.
Again, bloodwork and other tests showed nothing remarkable, except for some slightly altered levels in a few proteins. Phrases like “exploratory surgery” and “ultrasound with biopsy” and “masses in the abdomen” began to be thrown around. But our vet (a funny, kind, practical woman we adore) suggested that we first take an abdominal x-ray to see if it showed anything obvious. Jack apparently supported this idea – he cooperated long enough to be x-rayed without sedation.
The vet came back in with the x-ray and said “Leave it to your dog…”
To which I replied “Oh God… .what did he eat?”
Vet Lady: “I don’t know… but there’s a lot of it.”
Me: “Well… there was that Texas ball cap. And the three toys he chewed up last week. Oh, and he likes paper napkins a lot. He gobbles up rocks on walks. Did I mention the toy plane? He only got half of that….” (you get the picture)
Vet Lady: "Wow..."
Me (looking at x-ray): “Is that half a tennis ball?”
Vet Lady: “Hmmm… could be.”
Me: “What is THAT? Some kind of twine? String?”
Vet Lady: “I won’t really know until I get in there. But see those bright white flecks? That’s probably metal.”
Me (to the dog): “Nice work, Jack!”
Jack: *slurp* *lick* * BELCH*

So the result is that our boy is going under the knife as I type. Neither I nor the vet nor anyone in the vet’s office can tell what he’s got in there, but whatever it is, it’s blocking his colon and parts of his small intestine. The good news is the vet assured us this did NOT look like a tumor or other naturally-occurring mass. So provided we can keep him from eating half a landfill again, he shouldn’t have any more troubles after the surgery.

Right.

Will they let me use my flexible spending account to put back money for next time?

Terrier Wishes & Gamecock Dreams

Another post on the topic of perspective, folks, but this one slightly less serious.

The University of South Carolina Gamecocks played the Wofford Terriers yesterday. As predicted, USC won. But not by much. 27-20, as a matter of fact. Here’s where perspective comes in.

USC is a VERY large public university with an incredibly well funded athletics program, the expenses of which include the multi-million dollar salary of one Steve Spurrier. Wofford is a small, 1,2000 student private school (Husband’s alma mater, by the way) that has a very nice size endowment for a 1AA school, but usually has about 8,000 in attendance at their games compared to USC’s roughly 70,000. You’d have to superglue two of Wofford’s linemen together to get one of USC’s.

This match up was supposed to be a veritable bloodbath at the hands of USC. Husband and I joked as the game began- that Wofford was essentially entering the Coliseum and their players should watch out for those pesky lions. The injury report could read “Smith- decapitation by lion- out for season”. Can’t you just see Spurrier giving the emperor-esque thumbs down? The trainers could attach a laurel wreath to that @#$@#%$#@ stupid ass visor. We figured Spurrier could give some good playing time to the guy who replaces the urinal cakes. You get the idea.

AND USC ONLY WON BY SEVEN POINTS. Wofford was the David and USC was the Goliath. To make matters worse, there was some … um… sketchy officiating, shall we say? Wofford got mistreated by the refs a couple of times which should have only made the routing by USC even worse. But no. USC barely squeaked out the win by subverting a Wofford touchdown in the last moments.

As usual, the local media outlets refused to be bothered by reality. To hear “Gamecock TV” and other local sports reports tell it, the game went something like this:
USC showed up early, studied for a few exams, donated a kidney each, and had a prayer circle. They then proceeded to thwart a terrorist attack, save a litter of homeless puppies, help a few old ladies across the street, cure cancer, and win the game by about 700 points. Steve Spurrier was officially declared the second coming of Christ and the players were awarded Nobel Peace Prizes.

The delusional allegiance to USC football baffles me. They play like second-string high school kids and barely beat a team they should have stomped, but it’s treated like a bowl game win against Ohio State.

On another note, I’ve coined a new football term. You’ve heard of “coughing it up”, right? Here was last night’s conversation:
Husband: Uh-oh… he **coughing noise** coughed it up
Me: Oh, honey… that wasn’t a cough… that wasn’t some mild-mannered dry heave. He vomited that football. That was a SPEW.
Husband: Man, if I was a commentator, I’d totally use that. ‘Lee, he vomited that football like an airsick guy with a hangover at an exorcism!’

Better Days, Worse Hotels

Feeling a little better today. It’s a strange business, this grieving. Yesterday was a deep dark hole. Today is better- easier. Tomorrow? Who the hell knows. That’s tomorrow.

I’m headed to Ocean City, Maryland on business today. The website photos remind me very much of every generic cheesy boardwalk hotel in Myrtle Beach. You know the places… décor in pinks and turquoise with seashell motifs, nautical themed restaurants with roped pilings and fake seagulls. Great cheap spots if you’re headed to the beach with a gaggle of elementary-school aged kids who will enjoy having a miniature golf course on every corner. Icky. We’ve been making fun of this place for weeks now and the running joke has been about how many of these hotels have BOWLING ALLEYS in them. Yes, bowling alleys. In the hotel. No SPA, mind you, but rental shoes galore! In the spirit of these tacky accommodations, we’ve come up with the klassy boardwalk hotel trifecta. You must have:
A bowling alley
A lazy river
A ferris wheel
Of course the ferris wheel can be within 4 or 5 blocks and still count. (They are hard to actually fit into the hotel proper.) You also get extra credit for having more than 4 miniature golf courses visible from the front door of the hotel. Oh, and SUPER extra credit if you can get a hotel bowling shirt embroidered with your name!

So the full report on the hotel and the shenanigans of my trip when I return. I’m traveling with Wally and we’ll be seeing V.D., so it ought to be interesting! In the mean time, will someone please take a casserole by my house so that Husband won’t eat Applebee’s boneless buffalo wings all three nights????

Selfishness

I’m filled with a lot of sadness today, but not for the reasons you might think and I’m struggling with my own selfishness. Yes, I have thought of the families of the victims of 9/11. It would be difficult not to with every news source on the planet doing a blitz of five-year-memorial coverage. And yes, I am sorry for their losses. It was an awful, tragic, hateful, ugly thing for their loved ones to be ripped away just for going about their business in the wrong place at the wrong time or on the wrong plane. It’s not that I don’t recognize their pain and it’s not that I don’t care about what they suffered, what our country suffered, that day five years ago.

But I find I don’t have room in my heart or in my head for their sadness today. My own sadness is not yet five months removed, much less five years. True, my tragedy was on a much smaller, much quieter scale. Just one life was lost and not a word of it was on the news. I completely appreciate how my baby's death pales in respect to what happened in NYC and DC and Pennsylvania. It wasn’t a violent cataclysmic event that affected the psyche of a nation or the course of history.

But it affected my psyche. And my history. And those of my sweet Husband and our families. And we are not yet recovered. In fact, I think my own recovery has just begun. In the weeks immediately after Cecilia’s birth, I was the portrait of carefully measured mourning. I applauded myself for my own stoicism- for handling things so rationally, so logically. I acknowledged my grief, but I was never overcome by it. I returned to my normal daily life quickly and seemingly without incident. I was very proud of how well I’d done and how little bother I’d been to anyone.

What’s that phrase? “Calm before the storm?” In this case, the storm consists of alternating floods of anger and sadness that threaten to drown me; they are so all-consuming. I’m furious with the woman in the department store who is short with her two little children. Does she have ANY idea how lucky she is? I begin to cry when I see tiny pink feet peeking out carriers and strollers. Fortunately I am sane enough never to consider it, but a small dark part of me understands how a woman who has held her baby’s lifeless body could come to a moment in her grief when picking up that beautiful newborn from the grocery cart and simply walking out the door would be too much to resist. I can’t even begin to describe the sickening mixture of resentment and sadness brought on by the sight of hugely pregnant women.

I’m well aware of my selfishness and of how irrational I’m being. My logical mind knows that none of these people had anything to do with the damned missing chromosome that robbed us of Cecilia. It has certainly occurred to me that I’m awful for not just being happy that someone else doesn’t have to endure what we went through. I’m sorry, but I’m just not feeling that charitable.

And I’m sorry if I can’t muster a moment of properly somber silence for the victims of the terrorist attacks. Forgive me if I don’t attend the memorial services and freedom marches. I truly do wish their families well and I can appreciate that I am a horrific bitch for my callousness towards their plight on what should rightfully be their day of remembrance. It's just that my memories are all too fresh- my baby should have been born next week, but she died four months ago and there just isn’t room in my heart for anything else. I doubt there will be for some time.

Cryogenics in the Workplace

So. Cold. In. Office.
Blankets. Please. Send. Blankets.

Seriously, folks, the inability of corporate America to use climate control systems with any degree of success is a major blight on this country’s reputation. We can put people into space, but every office building on the planet must remain at sub-zero temperatures? WTF???? For a supposed superpower, we sure are subverting our own workforce. Note to the “powers that be”: it is very difficult to type when you CAN’T FEEL YOUR FREAKIN’ FINGERS!

The absurdity of it just kills me. I have to wear layers of clothing to allow for the temperature in a building that has an elaborate electronic thermostat system. My nose runs from the cold when I’m sitting at my desk. I rarely worry about refrigerating my lunch… spoilage? Not on this building manager’s watch! The women who work downstairs have blankets and quilts in their cubicles for use/wear in the meeting rooms, which are even colder than the office space. I have actually looked forward to printing large documents because it means I get to sit with my icy digits pressed up against the heat radiating from the printer! My laptop is a Dell, but let me just tell you, there is absolutely no chance of my battery catching fire- it’d have to burn through the layer of permafrost first. It’s 1:15 p.m. and the diet Coke I’ve been sipping since 11:00 a.m. is still chilled to perfection.

So here’s the million-dollar question… WHY? Are they trying to stave off absenteeism from illness by creating an environment in which no bacteria stands any chance of survival? Do they believe that warm=sleepy=unproductive? Is someone running a secret black market kidney transplant business on the 4th floor?

This issue weighs heavily on my mind. (And this snowsuit is weighing heavily on my body…)

Be careful what you ask for...

I am the Training Manager. When people need training, they fill out a form requesting said training. The form asks a lot of generic questions- name, phone extension, department, etc. But since we have offices in something like eight states, the form also asks for the location of the employee(s) to be trained. The form I received today responded to the location question with:
"At desk."

Another edition of... Funny Husbands Rock!

Me (yawning while talking): YOOODOTADOFFUNNN?

Husband: Um…

Me: What? You didn’t get all that?

Husband: I’m sorry, the subtitles didn’t come up.

Even in his tremendously-stressed-about-work state, he's a funny monkey! :)

My Favorite New Song: "Here It Goes Again" by OK GO

What does it mean when the temperature drops to a high of 83 and you start pulling out hoodies? (Note to self: get iron level checked.)

Cute Old People & Celebrity Duets

And now, select conversations from my recent visit with Mom & Pop… (p.s.- thanks again for coming up, you guys! J)

Upon their arrival
Me: Wow… you guys made good time!
Pop: Yep, your mother went to sleep.

Mom (eyeing up scraggly fake “tree” in my office): Um… Lauren… what is THAT?
Me: It’s nature. C’mon, let’s go.

Pop (to Mom, early in the morning before his Parkinson’s meds have kicked in): Can you put my socks on for me?
Me: That’s so cute!
Mom (bending down with socks in hand): You should see me trying to do this before he has pants on! NOT cute!

Pop (to waitress): Does that Italian sausage pasta dish come with asparagus?
Waitress: No, but it’s a big ol’ dish of pasta- it’s enough for you to eat on for days!
Pop: Bring me some asparagus.
Waitress: You want asparagus AND the pasta?
Pop: Yep. And Bailey’s Irish Cream on the rocks, please.
Me: Wow.

Pop: Which side of a hurricane is the bad part?
Smartass Me: Uh, Pop, it’s a HURRICANE. I think the whole thing is pretty much crummy. Just ask Louisiana.
Pop (ignoring smartass me): It’s the Northeast side, right? That’s the worst of it?


My parents are entirely too cute for their own good- I get such a kick out of them. They’re like two little living caricatures- seriously, they’d make a very funny, very sweet cartoon.

On a pop culture side note-
We watched (o.k… watched when I wasn’t sleeping) Celebrity Duets the other night.
OH. MY. GOD. This show may be the signal of America’s impending descent into ruin. If this lil’ piece of “entertainment” makes it, there’s no hope for us. If this is what holds our attention, we are doomed; just start watching for the horsemen and the orange sky. Seriously, folks…plague and pestilence can’t be far behind a duet by Cheech Marin and Randy Travis.
(Yes, I saw it. No, I don’t want to talk about it.)

Food, Emergency Contraception, Jordan Knight...

Hmmm…

Here’s a quandary for you…

Does eating half a package of Starburst and a full package of Twix COMPLETELY negate the health benefits of the steamed broccoli and carrots I had for lunch?


Dammit.



Coworker Wally says yes, but I don’t think so. Maybe partially negated, but I still got the vitamins and other good-for-you-crap in the veggies, so I disagree.

But in other health news- HOORAY FOR THE FDA!!!! Plan B is now available without a prescription and women in this country are relieved of one more Puritanical bullshit control over their bodies! Granted, you have to be 18 to get it- we’ll have to continue to work on that. In the mean time, I think I’ll start some kind of network of women over 18 who will purchase Plan B for teenage girls who need it- the Underground Emergency Contraception Railroad. We can pass out fliers at high schools- “Need a Plan B? Call us!” I can see it now… late night patrols of drug stores and if we see some overly anxious looking teenage girl lingering by the EC, we’ll swoop in to make the buy. I like it! Personally, I think birth control pills and condoms should be handed out on the first day of school with the locker combinations. But until I am Empress of the Universe, I guess I’ll settle for making surreptitious pharmacy purchases for frightened adolescent girls.

Time for some commentary on the world of entertainment!
WHO IN THE SAM HELL DECIDED TO LET JORDAN KNIGHT MAKE ANY MORE MUSIC??? Really- didn’t we suffer enough when he was in New Kids On The Block (or NKOTB for you early 90’s hipsters)? I had a girlfriend in junior high who was totally in love with him. And I was like “but he’s gay?!” and she was like “nuh-uh, he’s so not!” He supposedly loves Jesus now, but let me state that for the record that if he does, he loves Jesus in that way… because he’s GAY!!!! Hello? What the hell ever happened to gaydar? This kind of denial isn’t healthy, people. This is how poor gullible women have gotten their hearts broken by hetero-posers for years, i.e.- Liberace, George Clooney, Lance Bass...

I truly despise the new Fergie song. I wish the London-London-London-Bridge-London-Bridge had come crashing down on her head when she was writing it. But did she write it? I need to investigate. If she didn’t, she clearly chose her songwriters shortly after a full frontal lobotomy. “Hey… go see what that deaf/mute who doesn’t speak English is doing for the next few hours!”

On a more positive note, get yourself a copy of Pink’s new album! Not only is it a good listen, but you just can’t hate on a record where she slams W with the help of the Indigo Girls! (See "Dear Mr. President".)

Speaking of politically charged things… here’s your anti-right-wing humor for the day…

http://rightwingnytimes.cf.huffingtonpost.com/

Smooches!

Poor, poor Altima...

Highway Adventures

It’s official. Gastrointestinal problems are the root of all our family’s problems.

Yesterday at work, it became clear that my own tummy was decidedly unsettled. I made the crucial decision around 2:00 to head for home as quickly as possible because I have a very strict set of rules about what should and should not go on in work restrooms. I got in the car and onto I-20 just PRAYING to get home as quickly as possible to suffer my indignities in the privacy and comfort of my own home (and potty.)

And then it happened.

(Inner Monologue)
Wait… that SUV in the middle lane… he’s coming into my lane. MY LANE! He doesn’t have room- that’s not going to work!!!!
BRAKES! BRAKES! I have brakes- must use them! Quickly!

SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! Why is my car SIDEWAYS???!!!!! WHY CAN’T I GET IT UN-SIDEWAYS????!!!!!! WAIT- now I’m the OTHER SIDEWAYS!

PLEASE GOD, LET THAT SEMI-TRUCK SLOW DOWN!!!!

(*insert large crunch/crash noise here*)

WHY WON’T MY STEERING WORK??!!!

SIDE-OF-ROAD, SIDE-OF-ROAD, PLEASE SWEET JESUS, LET ME JUST GET ONTO THE SHOULDER!!!!

Yes, folks, I braked to avoid the SUV who came into my lane, went into a sideways skid, tagged the front of a semi truck, and wound up on the side of the road shaking like a cold mini-daschund. (Note: Is it bad that I immediately called Husband and left the 911 notification to the other driver? I don’t think so. A woman has her priorities.) At this point, I forgot about my tummy troubles- your body also has a way of prioritizing. I was fine until I got home and my troubles resurfaced with a vengeance.

I’m fine. Not a scratch on me, just a little sore from tensing up every @#$#@%$@ muscle in my body in anticipation of certain doom at 70 mph. The car? Well…. we’ll see. But I can’t imagine the way my wheel was twisted and all that fluid gushing out from under the front end were GOOD signs.

The man in the SUV did stop and apologize profusely; apparently he just “didn’t see me”. And to his defense, my little Nissan Altima isn’t exactly Hummer conspicuous. We’ll see what he says when my insurance adjustor starts insisting that HIS insurance cover the expense of this little snafu.

The semi-truck? Just a mashed up bumper. I will say this:
That truck driver is the reason I’m alive today.
His quick reaction and response (by braking and moving to the right lane) are what kept me from going UNDER the trailer of the truck. So my special thanks and the love of my entire family to Mr. Spanky Gulledge (yes, that is his legal first name and if you make fun of him, I’ll personally kick your ass because he may indeed be my guardian angel.)

So now the fun begins- hassling with insurance companies, police reports, and getting me into another vehicle. But as I told my big sister last night, I’m surprisingly at peace about it all.

(Inner Monologue again)

La la la…. Still alive, so I don’t care!

As I said, priorities, people. My sweet Husband came and smooched me and all was well.

Tastes like chicken... and sock lint

And now, because I know you're dying to hear about it, more news about my dogs' digestive issues...
I went out in the backyard to throw some ball and change out the water dish this morning. As anyone with dogs knows, rule number one in the backyard is... (everyone all together now...)
"WATCH WHERE YOU STEP!"
So I did. But in the process of doing so, I noticed something odd.
Fuzz.
Yes, fuzz.
Another basic premise of dog ownership: if you are concerned about something that seems to be coming OUT of your dogs, it is far more pleasant to first search for remnants of whatever they were eating than to examine the results of the digestive process. So I went on a little hunt around the backyard and found several tattered pieces of fabric softener dryer sheets.
Right.
One mystery solved (the fuzzy poo caper) and several more pertinent questions raised:
1. How did the aforementioned dryer sheets get into the backyard? We don't have an Old Man Dithers on the block, but I do suspect some meddling kids were involved. (And they got away with it too, dammit!)
2. What made them seem like tasty snacks to the puppies? Last I checked, Downy had not entered into any joint ventures with Beggin' Strips.
3. Will this make them sick? And if it does, can they wait to see a doctor until their vet visit on Friday?

Questions 1 and 2 will probably remain great mysteries of the universe. You know, like the pyramids and the popularity of The Simple Life. But everyone seems to be feeling just fine, so at least we can put number 3 to rest.

Next time, we're getting a pet rock.

Letting Sleeping Puppies Lie

The Patient




We had a little sick doggie episode last week. Jack (our “special” child) shuffled into the house on Monday night and lay down. He barely picked up his head all night. He didn’t want water, he didn’t want to play, and *GASP* he didn’t want TREATS! Jack is normally what an unkind elementary school kid would call a spaz- bouncing everywhere, giving us the licky-face. (The licky-face is a patented Jack move in which you swing your head from side to side while flapping your big ol’ tongue out at someone and flinging drool far and wide. It never fails to make the vet giggle.) Jack is also notorious for eating just about anything he can get his snoot into, which I fear may have been the root of this little episode. Neither one of our dogs has what you would call a refined palette. Jack has a particular affinity for paper napkins, for pete’s sake. (To his credit, he at least seems to have a preference for the ones made mostly of recycled material.) We have a pear tree in our backyard that is shedding fruit, some of which is rotting beneath low, prickly branches because Jack’s parents are too busy and lazy to pick it up. It remains my theory that our boy partook of some questionable fruit and got his tummy in an uproar. But I digress…

Jack would have none of his usual shenanigans on Monday night. And then I went outside and discovered he had thrown up earlier in the day. Needless to say, I was concerned. And by concerned, I mean obsessing and freaking out. I called my mother-in-law, Saint Lynn of Assisi; my sister, whose house is the unofficial no-kill shelter of Upstate SC; my vet; the emergency vet (mine was closed); and my out-of-town-on-business Husband (four times). After consulting at length with these folks, I decided to keep an eye on Jack over night and reevaluate in the morning.

I then proceeded to set up camp. The puppies got to sleep in the den for the first time ever (accident-free, might I add!), but not without me first cordoning off the kitchen and den areas so they couldn’t get far. I won’t give you the details of my elaborate fortress, but it involved a baby gate, a dining room chair, an ottoman, a large overstuffed den chair, a couple of twin bed sheets, and a small reading table. After securing our quarters, I decided to sleep in my jeans and t-shirt just in case Jack had to be rushed out for medical attention in the middle of the night. I put Jack’s bed right next to the couch (where I’d be sleeping) and put his water bowl nearby to try to encourage him to remain hydrated in spite of his gastrointestinal distress. With the stage set, I let Jack and his sister Daisy into the house. The puppies promptly lay down on their respective beds and sacked out big time.

And Mama lay awake all night.





Daisy, unconcerned by her brother’s plight




Every few minutes I was obsessively checking his respiration and feeling him to see if he was feverish. I felt his tummy to be sure it wasn’t hard, possibly indicating a bowel obstruction. When he moved in his sleep, I leapt up; sure he was about to vomit, potty, or die (or possibly all three.) Sure, I dozed off a couple of times, but never for more than a few minutes. I was on red alert. I am embarrassed to admit that at one point, I even took my comforter and pillow and LAID ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO HIS DOG BED because I thought his breathing sounded funny. This went on aaaallll night long. Jack never actually had anything close to a medically emergent situation, but dammit I was prepared.

I was highly relieved when Jack got up at 5:00 and drank some water. I was even more relieved when at 6:30, he gobbled up the treats I offered him. By the time I left for work at 9:00, he was back to “gardening” (read: excavating 99% of the backyard) and running amok. (I love that word… amok, amok, amok! hee hee!)

So all was well in Doggie Land! Jack seems to be entirely recovered and Mama seems to have caught up on her sleep. But then, this morning, Husband went out to feed the pups and didn’t come back in for quite a while. I walked out in the garage just in time to see him disposing of the possum carcass that was in the backyard.
And guess which Dynamic Duo was due for their shots two weeks ago?
*SIGH*…

To the vet on Friday, then!

Never would have seen THAT coming!

Just took a quiz that delcared me to be 56% a "Lady".
I find this quite surprising considering that earlier today I burped so loudly that someone a few offices away felt compelled to check on me.... (sorry, Mom!)
Tee hee... speaking of me belching... here's a funny story. Let me preface this story by saying I can burp VERY loudly. Seriously, folks... I'm a 5'2" woman of not very large proportions, but I can belch like a 250 lb. trucker on a beer bender. I work with and also socialize with a very nice, very gay man we'll call Wally. Wally is impeccably groomed and while I've heard him say and do things that are hilariously vulgar in social situations, he is usually the portrait of good taste at work. On day, we were in the hallway outside a meeting space where a large group of our coworkers were hashing out very serious fraud-related issues. I'd just finished something like my 12th diet Coke of the day and I proceeded to let loose with a foghorn-esque belch. Wally looked up and started to laugh until I said (LOUDLY and in an admonishing tone) "WALLY!"
Then I walked away. :)
The moral of my story is this... if you can blame a bodily function sound on someone else, do so. If you can blame it on your proper friend/coworker and tell other friends about it over drinks later, even better.

The View & Other Ignorant Bullshit

Why, Lord? Why would a smart, accomplished woman like Barbara Walters put her name and reputation on the inane, ill-informed drivel that is The View? Has she gotten a tad senile in her golden years? Does she think by surrounding herself with the likes of that half-wit Elisabeth Hasselbeck she’ll appear smarter? Or hip? Or younger? *SIGH*

In case you haven’t seen the clip, dear Elisabeth went on a bit of a rant in the discussion about the Plan B emergency contraceptive pill. The child basically spun out and dissolved into a loudly half-shrieking-half-crying dervish of overly simplistic moral platitudes. Barbara had to step in and settle her down. The worst part of the whole fiasco is that neither she NOR Barbara had their facts straight. Elisabeth went on a rant about the value of “life” and how it begins at conception and she feels sooooo strongly about that- apparently strongly enough to turn into a screeching whiny mess on national television. And dumbass Barbara fuels the whole misunderstanding by saying Plan B prevents implantation. PLAN B PREVENTS CONCEPTION! Even by Elisabeth’s definition of “life,” Plan B doesn’t constitute abortion. The segment dissolved (as these kinds of conversations often do) into an emotional wreck sans fact or logic.

Repeat after me folks: Plan B is not RU-486. They work in entirely different ways. Plan B prevents ovulation after unprotected sex. RU-486 either prevents implantation or causes the body to shed the uterine lining housing an already fertilized and implanted pregnancy. Plan B is basically putting birth control pills (which work by preventing ovulation) on fast forward. Plan B PREVENTS ABORTIONS by giving women a way to prevent fertilization in the first place and avoiding having to terminate an existing pregnancy!

Now, is RU-486 abortion? Absolutely. And it’s legal. Get over it. Someone made the point on a message board I read that the hair we leave in our combs or the skin cells in our bedsheets have more genetic information in them than does a blastocyst in the early weeks of pregnancy. The real kicker is that RU-486 actually mimics a natural process in the body! Do people really think every single egg that gets fertilized comes to term as a baby? A huge, huge percentage of fertile women who have unprotected heterosexual sex (whether for purpose of procreation or as a result of tequila- whatever) will conceive, but never know it because the body just doesn’t let the egg implant or sheds it before the pregnancy gets all that well established.

Oh, I know, I know… that’s “God’s will”. Isn’t there any room in people’s thinking for the concept that perhaps humans exercising their free will is “God’s will” as well? Why would God have given us this kind of thought, this kind of power over our lives, if it weren’t a part of his/her plan? I believe in God, but I also believe that everything happens as it is intended. Are we so arrogant that we believe we, as piddly humans, can subvert God’s plan? Lives come into the world or don’t as God intends it, whether through the seeming cruelty of nature or through choices we’re moved to make in our lives. But don’t think for a second God doesn’t have a hand in AAAAALLLLLLLL of it. Stick this in your brain for a while… by trying to force limitations on the choices of others, you’re actually subverting God’s will yourself.

Random, Trivial Stuff...

O.K… for starters, I am SO getting this shirt!
http://www.spreadshirt.com/shop.php?op=article&article_id=1269217&PHPSESSID=7538e4cfe232755f2285292a51e90d1e#top
‘Cause they are. So there. :P

Today’s post will be trivial in nature, because it’s too hot to think or get riled up about anything. And because I just finished a mind-numbing assignment for work and my poor lil’ neurons have been pushed to the limit already this week.

Damn that Justin Timberlake and his catchy pop tunes!!! Has anyone else been walking around muttering “Get ya sexy on…” to themselves? I’m sorry- I am not normally a JT fan. Frankly, I find him annoying most of the time, but this damnable collaboration with Timbaland may have me converted. Have you read the lyrics? No? Go here:
http://artists.letssingit.com/justin-timberlake-lyrics-sexyback-ft-timbaland-hhxkg21
Lil’ Justin’s got some freak in him! All I know is I like it. But I don’t have to like that I like it. I suppose I should keep this song as my private guilty pleasure, but I’m a dork and the world should know it. (Besides, it has Timbaland in it! Timbaland! Doesn’t that get me just a little street cred?)

Speaking of things sexy- my husband is HOT. Have I mentioned that in the last few minutes? No? Well, he is. No fooling, folks. I just live for the sight of that man running around shirtless. I know I bitch a lot about his gym rat ways and his tendency to get me up at six in the morning to go work out, but DAMN it pays off. I had convinced myself for many years that I didn’t like the typical well-muscled sculpted male body look. LIES! LIES! LIES! I don’t know how I ever conned that man into being hot for my very mediocre body, but bless the sweet sweet voodoo that did it!

On that note, let me introduce my dear readers to something Husband and I like to call DHG/WS. That’s Disproportionately Hot Girlfriend/Wife Syndrome. Many Hollywood types enjoy this condition. The most severe case I can think of is Rick Ocasek of the Cars and Paulina Porizkova.
http://www.baltimoresun.com/entertainment/visitor/bal-vg-localcelebs-photogallery,0,7010681.photogallery?coll=bal-visitor-utility&index=17
See what we mean? You take a less-than-stellar looking guy who has somehow wound up with a woman who, in most real-life scenarios, would not give him the time of day. I, on the other hand, suffer from DHHS (Disproportionately Hot Husband Syndrome for those of you slow on the uptake.) Same story, just reverse the gender roles.

Complete topic shift. Is it wrong of me to be enjoying this Mel Gibson fiasco? It’s always nice to see fine upstanding “Christians” who really aren’t get exposed. Does a heart good to see karma knock these Jesus-posers off the pedestals they’ve built for themselves. I just wish the world paid half as much attention to the good that people who really try to live up to Christ’s example are doing. (Oh, that was WAY too deep for today- back to the fluff!) hee hee!

Has anyone watched The Simple Life season that’s on as of late? Those wacky pranksters, Paris and Nicole, take over for ordinary housewives and hilarity ensues. And by hilarity I mean completely self-absorbed, seemingly continually half-stoned, stupidity. I watched a few moments of a recent episode in which Nicole “did the laundry”. She put the clothes and big ol’ mess of Tide in the SWIMMING POOL. C’mon, Nicole…this is just laziness- you’re supposed to be the semi-smart one! Even Paris figured out the washing machine! As you might imagine, the Dad of the house was not amused by Nicole’s domestic hijinx. Just moments later, Paris had a 10 minute battle with an ironing board and wound up (I kid you not) using the irons to make grilled cheese sandwiches and cook bacon. Wow. At this point, I realized I should know better and switched to the History channel. I now believe wholeheartedly that Nostradamus was a visionary and the end is near.

I have GOT to get rid of our cable tv…..

Smooches!