Bosco has been long over due for a hair cut by oh, about eleventy four weeks. The boy couldn’t see. Yesterday at lunch Avery kindly dropped pre-chewed rice chips (which were hideous; I didn’t blame her for purposely projectile vomiting them) onto the floor as a gift to Boss. He’d usually be all over pre-chewed hideous rice chips like a Fat Kid on pre-chewed hideous rice chips, but his bangs were so long he couldn’t see his prize. He could smell it (the delicious smell of flattened burnt rice using Sweet Mesquite Barbecue as deodorant, but failing miserably), but he couldn’t see it. He frantically ran in circles around the shrapnel, searching the floor, “looking” up at me (or whatever it is you call it when you simply tilt your head upwards without the aid of eyes) telepathically asking for help finding the “food” (or whatever it is you call it when you flatten burnt rice and cover it with Sweet Mesquite Barbecue powder).
Side note: I use parenthesis too much.
Side note side note: I also use italicized parentheticals too much.
I made the decision about eleventy four weeks ago to take him to a new stylist. I had been taking him to the same groomer for nearly his whole life, but lately I’ve been getting the feeling that we were no longer welcome. Sure, they’d take our money, but only if they had to. I could tell by their tone when I called to make an appointment.
“PAWS N’ CLAWS!!! MAY I HELP YOU!?!?!” Notice the many exclamation points and the caps lock? Yeah. You kind of have to talk like that with a room full of dogs barking, thinking it’s their Mommy calling. RUFF, RUFF, GET ME OUTTA THIS HELLHOLE, MO-THER, RUFF.
“Hi, I’d like to make an appointment for my dog to get groomed, please,” I say as I read from my script.
“AND WHAT’S YOUR DOG’S NAME!?!?!?”
“Bosco.”
“oh…siiiiigggghhhh…when are you bringing him? (so I can fill my Thermos with Jack Daniels in the morning)”
You see, Bosco has an interesting voice. And he’s emotional. And he’s wiggly. And he has an interesting voice. Interesting in that it is incredibly high-pitched and relentless. I can’t even properly describe how annoying it is. And when he’s emotional (like when his mother drops him off at a strange place and then just leaves), he barks and yips and cries and whines for the duration of his stay. Hours on end.
So, I set about finding a new stylist. I spent weeks researching places, calling references, reading resumes, test-driving with stray dogs. And by all that I mean I totally forgot until Tuesday when I noticed my dog no longer had eyeballs.
A new place opened up around the corner from my work a couple of weeks ago, so I called them and they had an opening for yesterday. I gave her plenty of warning about his little…quirk. I told her he’s never bit anyone, but that she’s going to wish that biting was his only flaw after two hours of his unique vocal acrobatics. When she said that she was used to it because she had a little dog of her own, I said “You don’t understand anything, lady. You will want to punch him in the throat. Trust me. I love him and I want to punch karate chop his larynx.“ But she took the appointment and I chuckled at the unsuspecting dog lady and her impending misfortune. Sucker. You were adequately warned.
True to form, when I dropped The Dog off, he was yipping and crying like a champ. A champ on helium. I’m not sure what her initial thoughts were, but I’m sure she was cringing on the inside.
Two hours later, she called me at work to tell me that he’d be done in twenty minutes. Translation: Get Yo Dog. He was incredibly handsome (as he always is; he’s lucky he has his looks) and smelled like a baby. Still yipping. She said he was a good dog, but I think she was just being polite. He was good in that he didn’t eat her. That doesn’t mean good; that just means she, unfortunately, can’t sue me for bringing this kind of joy into her life.
What dog lady doesn’t know is that her reward for not complaining? He’s coming back! Sucker.
***
You’re a handsome devil. What’s your name?
***
Dobby, House Elf
Bossy, House Dog
Yoda, House Jedi
Separated at birth, no?
Rememberance Day is a day to reflect and pay tribute to those who fought for our freedom. To commemorate those who sacrificed themselves in times of war. To remember those who died ensuring their children’s lives and their children’s children’s lives would be better.
To veterans of wars past – I thank you for what you did.
To those fighting now – I thank you for what you are doing. Stay safe. Come home soon.
***
This Remembrance Day, I choose to remember those who have passed in my life. I have been lucky not to have lost many, but those I have have meant the world to me and I miss them all dearly.
Grandpa
I remember your scruff – getting a kiss from you was like grinding my face with a cheese grater. It was like you prepared for our visits by shaving the week before.
I remember your song. I don’t know the name or whether you wrote it or not, but I remember your song. I sing it to the girls. It’s my favourite lullaby.
I remember you taking your dentures out to eat. I remember thinking that it was the funniest, coolest thing ever to be able to remove your teeth at will. I wish I could do that.
I got from you my short legs, strong nose, and fighting spirit.
Papa
I remember the way you pronounced American cities incorrectly on purpose. Hi-why-ee, De-troy-ett, Los Angel-eeze, Kiss-a-me (Kiss-a yourself!). It was like “screw phonics – I’ll say it how I wanna say it.”
I remember your miniatures (how can I forget? they live in our playroom) and the 18 years you worked on that doll house.
I remember your love of sweets. Dessert should come first so that you’re never too full. You would spend $5 on gas to drive to another town to get a $1 ice cream cone.
I got from you my quick metabolism, my small lips, and my introspect.
Grandma
I remember you the most, but I think that’s the nature of Grandmas.
I remember you could dress up a track suit like nobody’s business. Just add a strand of beads and a pair of heels and you’re good.
I remember you were always singing or humming or air-piano-ing or dancing. There was a soundtrack for every occasion.
I remember sleepovers. Papa would stay in your bed and you and I would sleep on the pullout couch in the living room. You’d make me warm milk. Now that I’m a mom, I can probably guess that you were desperate for me to fall asleep.
I remember you trying to teach me to play the organ. I failed, epically, but that wasn’t because of your lack of trying. It was because I have a gimpy, useless left hand.
I remember the smell of lilac. I can’t remember if you had lilac perfume or if you were allergic to it, but when I smell lilac, I think of you.
I remember you would let us wear your wigs. You were never ashamed that you had to wear a wig and we could dress up in it when we asked. They were the itchiest things I’ve ever touched.
I got from you my frizzy hair, my big feet, and the song in my heart.
***
Today, remember those who fought for us; remember those who are fighting. Remember those who have made a difference in your life. And because we don’t often get to while they’re here, honour them now by remembering the difference they made, even if they didn’t know they were making it.
Lately, like in the last few years, I have been getting more and more…well, crazy. I’m deathly afraid of heights like I never have been before. I envision our house burning down and people breaking in and stealing my kids. I’m a panicker and I never used to be. I try to keep everything inside, but it can be so hard.
I get claustrophobic in crowds of people. I’m pretty sure that’s not even the proper term, claustrophobic. I think it might be Social Anxiety, but I just learned that on google, so that’s probably not right either. I know! I’ll tell you my symptoms and you tell me what I have, ok? It’s like going to a psychiatrist without having to talk to anyone in person, which is kind of part of the problem.
I hate talking to people. Well, I hate talking to people I don’t know; people I know are ok. I usually don’t talk to them because I’m huffing or lazy. I’m also ok with customers because there’s usually some sort of script; they have a finite number of questions they’re here to ask and there are a finite number of answers I can give them. Strangers in social situations make me nervous. Which makes it kind of difficult to co-run Mom’s Night Out. When Carly can’t make it, I panic. I’ve never told her outright (but she’s probably guessed) that she’s my social crutch on Wednesday nights. Thank you, Carly. I’m especially a mess when she can’t make it and a new person attends. I’m sort of supposed to be introducing them and making them feel relaxed and comfortable, when I’m actually freaking the freak out. I hope I’m good at keeping this on the inside.
I avoid running into old friends; even ones who were considered close. If I see someone from a distance, I purposely avoid them. I take a different aisle in a store, I avert my eyes walking down the street, I pretend to be distracted by the kids. I don’t want to see them, I don’t want to tell them about my life, I don’t want to know what they’ve been up to lately. And this is not because I’m an awful person (mostly), but because that would require speaking. And, again, I’m not so good with the talking words at people.
I think it’s because I’m horrible, and I mean HORRIBLE, at small talk. When there’s a lull in a conversation, I blank. I get tunnel vision, my mind wanders to, oh, nothingness, and I look away. I must seem cold and rude, but I’m really not. I just can not speak to people I don’t know, or haven’t known for a while.
This spills over to the telephone. Besides to my mom, I avoid making phone calls at all costs. I email. A LOT. Email has delete and backspace and spellcheck and you can save an email while you google something interesting to say. I will occasionally make required phone calls at work, but only when the person doesn’t have email (who, in 2009, doesn’t have email?), after I take many, many minutes to psych myself up, literally write a script of what I’m going to say, and call at a time when I hope they won’t be home and I can leave a message. We even have audio call display at home so the phone, in its computer generated voice, can tell us who’s calling. We only answer the phone if we know who it is. In fact, we don’t get off the couch if we don’t recognize the name.
I have panic attacks in crowds, which makes Christmas shopping awesome. I get sweaty and my heart starts racing and I can feel myself getting more and more anxious and feel like I have to get the hell out of there before my head explodes. I get grumpy and short-tempered and flustered. I feel like I can’t breathe.
This year I’ve decided to be finished before the huge crowds start. I’ve got most of the girls’ presents bought. I’m determined to be finished the vast majority before December 1st. I might ban television during the last few weeks before Christmas so that Eirinn doesn’t change her mind on what she wants.
I have three things coming up that are causing me mental grief already.
1) I have a date with Carly to go Christmas shopping. I’m hoping that the stores aren’t too crowded when we go (during the day, during the week) and that if I lose my mind in front of her, she won’t disown me as a friend.
2) I have a date with my very dear friend Steph. I haven’t had a date with Steph in about ten years. We’ve stayed in moderate contact over the years; the odd email here and there, the occasional message through Facebook, usually a visit at Christmas time. But we haven’t had a one-on-one date where we go out, just the two of us, with the singular goal of talking and catching up, in about ten years. I love Steph dearly, and miss how close we were so many years ago, but I have to say I already have nervous little butterflies when I think about it too much.
3) My G.D. birthday. My mom has asked me what I want to do. AH has asked me what I want to do. AH’s family has asked me what I want to do. Carly has asked me what I want to do. And I really do want to do something. But the thought of being the center of attention, or at least the reason for an occasion, makes me kind of vomitty. A sweaty, nervous, vomitty mess.
As does most things that involve me opening my mouth to speak. And I think now that I have acknowledged my fears and anxieties and trepidations, it will either get better or much worse. I can either do something about it, actively, to try to make me ok with talking to people and being around mass quantities of them. Or I can know what situations are going to bother me, which is becoming more and more like every situation, and avoid it altogether, which equals avoiding everything. I’ll either get better at life or go totally agoraphobic and fail completely.
Do I take the blue pill or the red pill?
Step #1 – Ensure your mother is a) sleep deprived, b) distracted by the screaming banshee that is the source of said sleep deprivation, c) frustrated by the injustice of it all, and d) quick to give anything to prevent the flaming cess pool that is a house with two screaming banshees. You have to be willing to become a screaming banshee if any of the first three criteria is not met.
Step #2 – Eat three (3) bowls full of Buttery Popcorn flavoured mini rice cakes right before dinner. Threaten transformation into screaming banshee to mother by escalating a whimper into a full fledged whine if she wavers on handing over the rice cakes.
Step #3 – When dinner is served, refuse to eat anything but the crescent roll. Scowl menacingly at the broccoli and the mashed potatoes.
Step #4 – Turn into a melted pile of stanky, whining bratness when told to eat broccoli and mashed potatoes.
Step #5 – When given a time out, crank the whine to 10 on the dial. While you’re at it, lose your poop. Turn into an insane, hyperventilating, wailing mess of a child.
Step #6 – Cry. Cry buckets of poison tears out of your pink eye that will ebb and flow into the buckets of non-poison tears from your healthy eye. That should do it.
There! When you wake up in the morning (because at that point your parents will make the executive decision, based on the velocity of which you turned from a normal child into Linda Blair, that it is bedtime) you should have two gunked-up, swelled-up, effed-up eyes instead of one. Good job!
And the moral of the story is: Don’t eat too many snacks before supper. YOU WILL GO BLIND.
Conclusion #1: Eirinn has two pink eyes.
Conclusion #2: Avery is to blame.
Conclusion #3: Eirinn’s impending blindness is just another reason why I need more sleep.
I just realized that within the span of a week, I posted pictures of Avery pooping and Eirinn’s festering pink eye. If there was ever any doubt, I am certain now that when I get old and decrepit and start calling them Blair and Serena, the two of them are going to pool their pennies and shove me in an old age home. And not one of those fancy homes that has an in-house movie theatre and the orderlies make sure you don’t have crap in your diaper. The other kind.
