What would the holidays be without family...relaxing?...enjoyable?...stress free? Oh, did I say that out loud? I meant boring, sad and stressful .
I love my family. Really. But based on last week and Christmas of last year, I am thinking of joining the witness relocation program. I hear Antarctica is lovely this time of year.
You see, the problem is that my parents have thankfully enjoyed good health, my father in particular. He prides himself on the fact that he has not needed a doctor since he was in the navy, so last Christmas, when tragedy struck, it was, well, tragic.
The day after Christmas, my dad was literally blown off his feet by an unexpected gust of wind and thrown to the ground. Fortunately, he just ended up with a boo boo on his bottom and a pulled muscle, according to the ER doctor. And our doctor five days later. And the x-rays. And Web MD. And Marcus Welby. And the entire cast of Gray'sAnatomy, and The Practice.
But no matter what everyone told him, he was convinced he might never walk again...and have to live with us instead of flying back to Florida with my mom.
For an entire week, we had to hear, in great and excruciating detail, about his boo boo. We were treated to vivid descriptions of the size, location and severity of the bruise. We lived through his brave attempts to walk five feet without the walker, cane, forklift, or tow-line. We grinned and bore hearing about the indignity of sitting on a glorified whoopee cushion for meals.
We tried to distract him with the Food Network, Angry Birds and his granddaughter, but nothing captured his attention or imagination the way his boo boo did. He just knew the doctors were all wrong and he had broken something. He was sure that he had at least torn a ligament or severed a tendon. It was the beginning of the end. He would end up bedridden for the rest of his days, eating gruel and making macrame potholders.
So, to ease the pain (ours), we gave him drugs. The doctor had prescribed pain pills and muscle relaxants, but the man who was never sick or injured a day in his life didn't want to take them. We told him it was him or us, but those drugs were going to put someone out of their pain.
This, of course, opened up a whole new set of issues.
While I am totally consumed with my dog's poops--size, frequency, form and texture--I really, really, really do not need to even know about my father's.
"Do you know that it says here this medication can cause constipation?" he demanded, waving the sheaf of papers at me that now come with every prescription.
"It also says it can cause you to cluck like a chicken or spontaneously break into the dance of the sugar plum fairy, but hey, let's look on the bright side, and maybe it will just make you feel better and your biggest worry will be finding a six-fingered glove for the new thumb that will sprout."
Every day, we got a potty update, along with dire predictions of being unable to board the plane for home when the holiday ended.
"I'm fine flying back alone," my mother chirped, seeing a light at the end of her tunnel.
I believe our response was something along the lines of, "Look, we love dad to death, but he is getting on that plane if we have to buy an extra ticket and strap him to our back like a piece of carry-on luggage."
Fortunately for everyone involved, he got on the plane.
Last week, it was my mother's turn. She had a doctor's appointment here, so she flew in the Sunday before Thanksgiving.
Monday morning, I drove her to the doctor, and waited for her. After about a half hour, she came out, looked surreptitiously around the empty waiting room, and said, "I'll tell you what the doctor said later."
Thinking she meant in the privacy or the car or back at the house, I nodded in agreement. No such luck.
As we entered the elevator, the crowded elevator, she launched into a blow-by-blow account of her visit...which would have been fine had we been at the eye doctor, but we had unfortunately been to a doctor for women's issues.
I am still waking up at night in a cold sweat.
At first, I tried to pretend I was just some poor, random stranger this woman had targeted to share intimate details with. "Uh huh," I murmured half-heartedly as she used the V word for, like, the forty-seventh time in three minutes. I wondered what the penalty was for pulling the fire alarm. I even briefly contemplated actually setting myself on fire. My mother, oblivious to the lack of response, chattered on.
"So you thought the doctor was nice?" I desperately tried to nudge the subject onto a path strewn with less personal information when I could no longer pretend I didn't know her.
"Oh, yes. She said..." And she was off and running again with things that had people bailing out of that elevator like it was a 70's disaster movie, and the director had just called "Action!".
And the best part of it was, it never ended. Not in the lobby, not in the elevator down to the garage, not in the car, not at Toys R Us where we did some Christmas shopping. I kept hearing about parts of my mother that I don't even want to know exist. And there was no escape.
By the time she flew back to Florida, I was waxing nostalgic over my father's boo boo and ensuing poop issues.
Can't wait for Christmas this year.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Friday, November 25, 2011
Who's Training Who?
I have decided that I am not cut out to be a dog trainer. And the dog knows it.
The problem is, I grew up with cats. You call a cat and they walk away. You tell them to sit, and they walk away. You offer food, and they walk away. To be fair, there are some exceptions to those rules, such as: 1. the cat doesn't feel like walking away. In that case,they will curl up with their back to you and yawn. 2. They have a use for you. They may need an itch scratched or a warm, comfy place to sit, and 3. you offer something really good to eat like shrimp, fresh Maine lobster or ahi tuna, lightly seared. They actually may deign to sample it, if the presentation is up to their standards.
I loved my cats, but I accepted early on that I merely existed to serve their every whim and never tried to train them. Period.
But a dog? They are supposed to be trained. They want to be trained. They beg to be trained. And it's a piece of cake, right? Yeah.
Based on these totally erroneous assumptions fostered by doggie propaganda films like Benji, Lassie, and Rin Tin Tin, I decided to give it a shot.
The first thing I did was buy every book I saw. I got Dog Training for Idiots, Dog Training for Dummies, Dog Training for People Who Are Too Stupid to be Idiots or Dummies. I watched all those training shows on the dog TV channel: AKC Training, How to Train Your Puppy, How to Train Your Dragon, The Dog Whisperer, The Horse Whisperer, and The Ghost Whisperer. Anything that I thought might help. And what a colossal waste of time and money that was.
You see, the problem was, all those things are for training perfect dogs who live in fantasy land.
Make the dog walk on your left, at your heel. Don't let them pull ahead, they tell you. Uh huh. That is supposing your dog will walk AT ALL!
Unlike every dog these people worked with, our dog would go approximately five feet, then throw herself down on the street as though she had just trekked across the Sahara, pulling a covered wagon loaded with bricks.
Firmly tugging on the leash and using a firm, commanding voice elicited a look of utter contempt from the dog and sympathy from passerby who were surreptitiously googling "animal abuse hotline" on their smart phones.
Training her to use her crate as a "safe place" went equally well. Throw in some treats, they all said. Get her comfortable with the door open, then close it and she'll be in "home sweet home" and happy as a clam. Snort (I don't know how to write this sound, but it is the only one I can think of to adequately describe my reaction to this faulty bit of reasoning).
I threw in her favorite treats. Chloe, who will eat leaves, the carpet pad and rabbit poo as though they were the latest offerings of a five-star master chef, looked at me like: I hope you don't think I'm going in after that because I know it is a trap. Not only am I cuter than you, I am also waay smarter.
Alternatively, she would approach the crate as though it held a rabid rattler, brace her back feet against the open door and stretch her neck as though she was that slinky dog to grab the treat and then run like crazy with her prize as far as she could go.
As far as using treats to train her to follow simple commands? Yeah. That went great...as long as we were in the privacy of our own home where no one could observe her caving in and actually doing something I said. Oh, and as long as I had a fist full of treats.
First we worked on sit. Sit. Treat. Sit. Treat. By day two, she would see the treat bag and automatically sit before I could say anything. I guess I was too slow with the treats, so she figured she'd just cut to the chase.
By week five, she knew sit, down, stay, heel, off, out and leave it. If she even suspected I might possibly have a treat, she would run through the list like an olympic athlete sprinting for the finish line. She would flip, flop, hop, skip, jump and then throw herself down before I could even clear my throat. She seemed to think that since she had done it all, I should just dump the whole pile of treats all at once and stop wasting both our time.
Take her outside and give her the same commands? Not only did I have to show her the treat, I had to offer it up for approval before she would consider entertaining my request. Sit? For a carrot? Whaddya have rocks in your head mom? I will sit, but I want a hot dog or at least some chicken. I also don't feel like staying, unless you want me to walk, in which case, I will be happy to jump up and down in a complete frenzy before throwing myself in the middle of the road and then rolling over on my back and going limp when you try to pick me up.
And so we got a trainer.
Sit, said the trainer, and she sat.
Heel, said the trainer, and she heeled.
Walk, said the trainer, and she walked.
Then we went home.
Sit, I said. She rolled her eyes.
Heel, I said. She sat.
Walk, I said.
Look, she said, you are not the trainer, so get it out of your head that I'm going to listen to you. Unless you have something really, really tasty for me. Now, where did you put those hot dogs?
The problem is, I grew up with cats. You call a cat and they walk away. You tell them to sit, and they walk away. You offer food, and they walk away. To be fair, there are some exceptions to those rules, such as: 1. the cat doesn't feel like walking away. In that case,they will curl up with their back to you and yawn. 2. They have a use for you. They may need an itch scratched or a warm, comfy place to sit, and 3. you offer something really good to eat like shrimp, fresh Maine lobster or ahi tuna, lightly seared. They actually may deign to sample it, if the presentation is up to their standards.
I loved my cats, but I accepted early on that I merely existed to serve their every whim and never tried to train them. Period.
But a dog? They are supposed to be trained. They want to be trained. They beg to be trained. And it's a piece of cake, right? Yeah.
Based on these totally erroneous assumptions fostered by doggie propaganda films like Benji, Lassie, and Rin Tin Tin, I decided to give it a shot.
The first thing I did was buy every book I saw. I got Dog Training for Idiots, Dog Training for Dummies, Dog Training for People Who Are Too Stupid to be Idiots or Dummies. I watched all those training shows on the dog TV channel: AKC Training, How to Train Your Puppy, How to Train Your Dragon, The Dog Whisperer, The Horse Whisperer, and The Ghost Whisperer. Anything that I thought might help. And what a colossal waste of time and money that was.
You see, the problem was, all those things are for training perfect dogs who live in fantasy land.
Make the dog walk on your left, at your heel. Don't let them pull ahead, they tell you. Uh huh. That is supposing your dog will walk AT ALL!
Unlike every dog these people worked with, our dog would go approximately five feet, then throw herself down on the street as though she had just trekked across the Sahara, pulling a covered wagon loaded with bricks.
Firmly tugging on the leash and using a firm, commanding voice elicited a look of utter contempt from the dog and sympathy from passerby who were surreptitiously googling "animal abuse hotline" on their smart phones.
Training her to use her crate as a "safe place" went equally well. Throw in some treats, they all said. Get her comfortable with the door open, then close it and she'll be in "home sweet home" and happy as a clam. Snort (I don't know how to write this sound, but it is the only one I can think of to adequately describe my reaction to this faulty bit of reasoning).
I threw in her favorite treats. Chloe, who will eat leaves, the carpet pad and rabbit poo as though they were the latest offerings of a five-star master chef, looked at me like: I hope you don't think I'm going in after that because I know it is a trap. Not only am I cuter than you, I am also waay smarter.
Alternatively, she would approach the crate as though it held a rabid rattler, brace her back feet against the open door and stretch her neck as though she was that slinky dog to grab the treat and then run like crazy with her prize as far as she could go.
As far as using treats to train her to follow simple commands? Yeah. That went great...as long as we were in the privacy of our own home where no one could observe her caving in and actually doing something I said. Oh, and as long as I had a fist full of treats.
First we worked on sit. Sit. Treat. Sit. Treat. By day two, she would see the treat bag and automatically sit before I could say anything. I guess I was too slow with the treats, so she figured she'd just cut to the chase.
By week five, she knew sit, down, stay, heel, off, out and leave it. If she even suspected I might possibly have a treat, she would run through the list like an olympic athlete sprinting for the finish line. She would flip, flop, hop, skip, jump and then throw herself down before I could even clear my throat. She seemed to think that since she had done it all, I should just dump the whole pile of treats all at once and stop wasting both our time.
Take her outside and give her the same commands? Not only did I have to show her the treat, I had to offer it up for approval before she would consider entertaining my request. Sit? For a carrot? Whaddya have rocks in your head mom? I will sit, but I want a hot dog or at least some chicken. I also don't feel like staying, unless you want me to walk, in which case, I will be happy to jump up and down in a complete frenzy before throwing myself in the middle of the road and then rolling over on my back and going limp when you try to pick me up.
And so we got a trainer.
Sit, said the trainer, and she sat.
Heel, said the trainer, and she heeled.
Walk, said the trainer, and she walked.
Then we went home.
Sit, I said. She rolled her eyes.
Heel, I said. She sat.
Walk, I said.
Look, she said, you are not the trainer, so get it out of your head that I'm going to listen to you. Unless you have something really, really tasty for me. Now, where did you put those hot dogs?
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Happy Birthday (Or How I Got Out of Cooking Breakfast Ever Again)
Long ago and not so far away, I decided to surprise Tim for his birthday by bringing him breakfast in bed...and I have been banned from making breakfast ever since. (hehehe)
It was his first birthday after we had gotten married, and I wanted it to be special, so I racked my brain for ideas. A rose petal strewn coverlet? Chilled champagne and strawberries? A candlelit dinner with softly playing violins in the background? A little something secret from Victoria's? Scrambled eggs in a toast cup? Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner!
I mean, really, what says I love you more than "the incredible, edible egg" floating in a toasted cup made of Wonder Bread? It just screams romance and celebration.
So I got up early, snuck out into the kitchen and transformed into a cross between Martha Stewart and the Barefoot Contessa. I mixed and cut and buttered and stirred, until I had produced a feast fit for a king, served up in such a way that the Iron Chefs would have been gnashing their teeth out of jealousy.
Setting my creation on the tray complete with artfully folded napkin ( I had mastered the difficult triangle shape in preparation for the big day), I breezed into the bedroom and set the meal before my victim, er, love of my life with a flourish.
"Um, what is this?" I remember Tim peering down at the tray, poking the food gingerly with his fork as though it might poke back.
"Breakfast," I informed him, pleased with my creative use of breakfast food and a muffin tin. Had the Food Network been around then, I felt sure they would have come knocking at my door. Maybe not.
"I know it's supposed to be breakfast," Tim jabbed at it again, a little harder this time, and watched closely for any signs of aggression. "But what is it actually made from? Anything I might recognize?"
"It's a scrambled egg in a nest.". This was not going quite as I had envisioned it.
In my scenario, Tim was supposed to be scarfing down the sumptuous repast I had lovingly slaved over while gazing at me adoringly. Instead, he was shrinking back away from the plate as though it contained some sort of mutant creature that might suddenly lunge for his throat at any moment, while eyeing me suspiciously as though he suspected I may have taken out a really large life insurance policy on him.
"No, really. What did you do to the, um, okay, we'll call it an egg?" Tim apparently decided I had sufficiently wounded it to the point where he could safely gather some of it up on his fork. Although he did hold it at arms length just to be on the safe side. "Is it cooked?"
"No. I served you a raw egg." Birthday or not, there was only so much I could take. Hmm, maybe Vickey's would have been a safer choice. I mean, would he actually have said, "Black? Lace? Really? What were you thinking?"
"Well, it just looks a little...undercooked. And what is this cup made of?". He banged the side of my cute little toast cup with the knife like he was kicking the tire of a used car he suspected might break down after he drove it five feet.
Note to self: next year, go with the rose petals, because apparently he would find them more appetizing than my current offering. At least he wouldn't be looking at them as though they might do him some bodily harm.
"For your information, the eggs are cooked perfectly. They are not supposed to resemble a rubber product from the Acme gag gift catalogue, which is how you apparently like them. And I'll thank you to stop chipping away at the toast as though you were trying to tunnel your way out of Sing-Sing."
"Okay. Okay. I was just saying..." Tim took a deep breath and gamely shoveled a forkful into his mouth...and then gagged. "Nope. Can't do it, " he gasped, reaching for the juice and downing it as though it was the last vial of anti-venom on the planet.
"Fine." I grabbed the tray. "That's the last time I'm making you breakfast."
"Can I have that in writing?" he called after me as he scrambled out of bed and rushed into the bathroom for his toothbrush, paste, Listerine, Scope and Clorox. "Seriously. I'm not saying that just to be nice."
And so, this morning, for his birthday, I gave him the gift he wanted more than anything...no breakfast.
And we all lived happily ever after.
It was his first birthday after we had gotten married, and I wanted it to be special, so I racked my brain for ideas. A rose petal strewn coverlet? Chilled champagne and strawberries? A candlelit dinner with softly playing violins in the background? A little something secret from Victoria's? Scrambled eggs in a toast cup? Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner!
I mean, really, what says I love you more than "the incredible, edible egg" floating in a toasted cup made of Wonder Bread? It just screams romance and celebration.
So I got up early, snuck out into the kitchen and transformed into a cross between Martha Stewart and the Barefoot Contessa. I mixed and cut and buttered and stirred, until I had produced a feast fit for a king, served up in such a way that the Iron Chefs would have been gnashing their teeth out of jealousy.
Setting my creation on the tray complete with artfully folded napkin ( I had mastered the difficult triangle shape in preparation for the big day), I breezed into the bedroom and set the meal before my victim, er, love of my life with a flourish.
"Um, what is this?" I remember Tim peering down at the tray, poking the food gingerly with his fork as though it might poke back.
"Breakfast," I informed him, pleased with my creative use of breakfast food and a muffin tin. Had the Food Network been around then, I felt sure they would have come knocking at my door. Maybe not.
"I know it's supposed to be breakfast," Tim jabbed at it again, a little harder this time, and watched closely for any signs of aggression. "But what is it actually made from? Anything I might recognize?"
"It's a scrambled egg in a nest.". This was not going quite as I had envisioned it.
In my scenario, Tim was supposed to be scarfing down the sumptuous repast I had lovingly slaved over while gazing at me adoringly. Instead, he was shrinking back away from the plate as though it contained some sort of mutant creature that might suddenly lunge for his throat at any moment, while eyeing me suspiciously as though he suspected I may have taken out a really large life insurance policy on him.
"No, really. What did you do to the, um, okay, we'll call it an egg?" Tim apparently decided I had sufficiently wounded it to the point where he could safely gather some of it up on his fork. Although he did hold it at arms length just to be on the safe side. "Is it cooked?"
"No. I served you a raw egg." Birthday or not, there was only so much I could take. Hmm, maybe Vickey's would have been a safer choice. I mean, would he actually have said, "Black? Lace? Really? What were you thinking?"
"Well, it just looks a little...undercooked. And what is this cup made of?". He banged the side of my cute little toast cup with the knife like he was kicking the tire of a used car he suspected might break down after he drove it five feet.
Note to self: next year, go with the rose petals, because apparently he would find them more appetizing than my current offering. At least he wouldn't be looking at them as though they might do him some bodily harm.
"For your information, the eggs are cooked perfectly. They are not supposed to resemble a rubber product from the Acme gag gift catalogue, which is how you apparently like them. And I'll thank you to stop chipping away at the toast as though you were trying to tunnel your way out of Sing-Sing."
"Okay. Okay. I was just saying..." Tim took a deep breath and gamely shoveled a forkful into his mouth...and then gagged. "Nope. Can't do it, " he gasped, reaching for the juice and downing it as though it was the last vial of anti-venom on the planet.
"Fine." I grabbed the tray. "That's the last time I'm making you breakfast."
"Can I have that in writing?" he called after me as he scrambled out of bed and rushed into the bathroom for his toothbrush, paste, Listerine, Scope and Clorox. "Seriously. I'm not saying that just to be nice."
And so, this morning, for his birthday, I gave him the gift he wanted more than anything...no breakfast.
And we all lived happily ever after.
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