Not-so-silent night

So imagine this: you take your family to a church Christmas pageant somewhere in Pennsylvania.

You get seats, the lights go down, and the pageant begins. There are kids in robes and soloists and teenage holy parents and an older guy playing the Angel Gabriel. There are live sheep. There's even a live (though female) Baby Jesus kicking around up there in the manger.

As everyone admires the beautifully lit and arranged tableau, and heavenly peace fills the room, a cherubic blond 2-year-old standing on his dad's lap announces, at full volume:

"There's Baby Jesus! He's just a baby. I'm a big boy and I go poop in the potty!"

Hopefully you were one of the people who thought this was funny.

So nice to see my family's genetics hard at work.

Must-have gifts

1. EZCombs. Do you like updos? Do you want to look like Sarah Palin? Of course - we all do! Take a gander at the TopsyTail for the new millennium!

2. Glass bat fan pull. I don't know about you, but the idea of a sleeping bat dangling from my overhead ceiling fan doesn't make ME squeamish at all! Just in case you like cohabitating with bats, and really need one hanging over your bed, this item is handblown and only $45!

3. Is there a science buff on your list? How about some giant microbes?

4. Do you want to decrease productivity? Then you need a book on how to procrastinate! Only $9.95. But if you really wanted to procrastinate, would you even get around to reading a book?

5. Speaking of productivity, these will inspire even the laziest employees toward new levels of "success."

6. Just in time for Chanukah - instant conversion! You can order now and probably receive one of these before the menorah is fully lit. Make a mockery out of Judaism for the low, low price of $5.99.

7. Tired of all those annoying people trying to get store credit? Get yourself one of these! The grammatical error is sadly typical of handwritten notices in business establishments nowadays, giving this the perfect authentic touch at only $3.95. Your welcome.

8. While this unique hands-free book light is appealing to me since my Itty Bitty Book Light is always in the way of my page turns, I cannot help but wonder whether this is like a nicotine patch equivalent for people addicted to their Bluetooth hands-free headsets.

9. Can someone explain to me why the world needs pet strollers? Do cats want or need to be perambulated? And what happened to actually walking your dog? But this place has so many models, I'm getting all caught up in trying to pick my favorite!

10. If you weren't already annoyed by forced holiday frivolity, stop by your Hallmark Gold Crown Store and pick up the 2008 version of Irritating Animated Hallmark Holiday Object From Hell. $14.95 with your purchase of 3 Hallmark cards (none of which "sing," I hope).

Bonus! For further entertainment, here are five more gift ideas that will make everyone love you. Everyone!!

Puppy love

So Joe Biden is getting a new puppy and people are already giving him static about getting the dog from a breeder instead of from a shelter.

Well, yes, it would have been better PR, not to mention saving a dog's life, had he opted for one from a shelter. There are many German shepherds living in shelters across the nation. They're huge when they grow up, they eat a lot, and they are scary looking. Any one of those things can cause owners to give them up. Especially now.

But in Pennsylvania, capital of the puppy mill, it's not P.C. any more to get your dog from a breeder. I guess the Bidens, being from Delaware and all, didn't get that memo.

Don't get me wrong: I hate puppy mills, and I hate it that unscrupulous people are making money off of suffering animals. But let's not tar all dog breeders and kennel owners as evil profiteers. Some of them actually work very hard to improve bloodlines, perpetuate good traits, and avoid hereditary conditions. Raising healthy dogs for sale or breeding (well, raising even one healthy dog) is neither a cheap enterprise nor a big moneymaker. Believe me, you don't see dog breeders living in McMansions and cruising around in a Lexus SUV.

Shelter adoptions are great, but not for everyone. Ethical breeders have every right to do what they're doing. And the Bidens have every right to pick the dog they feel will best suit their situation.

In Biden's defense:

1. He's owned several shepherds before and is familiar with this breed and its needs. He isn't just doing this because he's always wanted "a big black dog."

2. He and his family have researched their breeder. They're not calling some shady classified ad or stopping at a "Puppies 4 Sale" sign along the road. And they're not going to a pet store. In other words, they're being very responsible. Much more responsible than many would-be dog owners.

3. This dog is not going to have a normal dog's life. Instead of taking walks and snuffling around in the yard, he's going to live in a gilded cage of sorts, and need to adjust to a lot of situations a normal dog wouldn't. Given that, they are probably better off getting a puppy who is so young it won't have a basis for comparison.

4. A shelter dog that's been abandoned, neglected, confined, or abused could react to being in a guarded fishbowl in any number of unhappy ways. Lots of visitors and strangers in the house? Rotating and armed security staff? Press corps encounters? Not a good place for a traumatized dog. Heck, even a normal dog might not enjoy all this. If I were Barney, I'd probably bite reporters too.

5. Finally, if you were going to be Vice President, with all the potential threats on your life and nutjobs who will try to infiltrate your world, wouldn't you WANT a big intimidating breed that makes people nervous? From a breeder who breeds K9 officers? Duh.

I truly hope the Obamas, inexperienced dog owners that they appear to be, are considering this along with Malia's dog-allergy situation.

UPDATE

Biden announced that, in addition to the puppy, the family will be adopting a shelter dog. Little "Champ" will have a buddy! Everybody wins!

That is all.

'Tis the season

So we're off to another holiday season.

It's sort of hard to tell when the season starts anymore, since certain radio stations around here start with the all-Christmas format by the first weekend in November. I accidentally discovered this when the kids went out for dinner with our babysitter (who drove my car) and then requested Christmas music when we got in the car the next day. I thought maybe she'd had a Christmas CD, or that they were hallucinating from too many Chicken McNuggets, but when I turned on the radio, there was Andy Williams heralding the most wonderful time of the year! GAAH!

While I would normally groan about this insanity, I soon discovered that voluntarily listening to Christmas music in November was like a magic drug that keeps my kids quiet in the backseat. They ask for it, they get it. Even when they don't ask for it, they get it. Heck, I'll take Air Supply's version of "Sleigh Ride" over bickering, crying, hair-pulling preschoolers anytime.

Though I still draw the line at a certain few songs. In that case, I switch over to the other radio station with Christmas format.

Someday (along with my spiel about how I had to walk to school all by myself) I'll tell the kids about how radio stations stuck to their normal format but mixed in more and more holiday songs as December went on. Then you'd get the 24 Hours of Christmas format for, well, 24 hours. Quaint concept, huh? I feel so old.

As a child of the '80s, I always felt like the holiday season couldn't quite kick off until I heard "Do They Know It's Christmas" and "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)." And on a less respectable note, "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" and various versions of the "12 Days Of Christmas." I'm not as into the silly songs as I used to be, though I wish the local stations would give me the pleasure of hearing "The Chanukah Song" once in awhile, because it still cracks me up. I'm wondering if Adam Sandler has offended Philadelphia in some way, because you never hear that any more.

I do worry that hearing this music for as long a period as we do these days takes away some of the associations I have with it. It used to all coincide: getting a tree, decorating the house, getting people presents, secret Santa candy canes and holiday concerts at school, and hearing these songs here and there on the radio for the first time of the season. The music was almost rationed out, just enough to get you all excited about the holidays, but not too much to overload you. So when I heard a certain song, all those associations came rushing back. Now, while I still love the music, it doesn't seem quite as special or evocative. I'm glad it keeps my kids entertained, but it's flattened out my own memories and made them less powerful.

I'm trying to get excited about the holidays this year, and to make a good effort at creating our own family traditions. The kids are now old enough that we can do fun stuff with them (The tree farm! The Nutcracker! The neighbors' holiday lighting displays involving moving reindeer and inflatable snowmen!) and it means something. Tonight we went to the Holiday Stroll, and both kids raced eagerly up to Santa and hopped up on his knee to tell him their Christmas wishes. This is pretty major, because just the sight of the jolly old soul across the room was enough to induce paralysis last year, and our one attempt to take Melrose to see Santa the year before resulted in tears and hysteria.

Melrose was excited to report afterward that "Mommy, Santa says he has lots of Barbies at the North Pole!" That's all she wants. Magoo, meanwhile, has asked for balls, books, and dinosaurs. We will certainly enjoy the small scale of Santa's haul for this Christmas, not only because our outlay will be pretty small, but because it doesn't take much to please them.

I look back at Laura Ingalls Wilder's account of Christmases of her childhood, and the ecstasy she and her sister felt over receiving homemade rag dolls on one Christmas, and a tin cup, a sugar cake, and a penny on another. There is such a beautiful simplicity in their small celebrations and the sense that each little gift was kept carefully and cherished for years to come. One of the things I loved most about those books was their detailed descriptions of each treasured possession. This family didn't have much, but they appreciated what they did have, and Laura remembered these things in exquisite detail as she wrote her books at sixty-something years of age. In a society as cluttered with throwaway junk as we are, it's a refreshing look back to how things could be, and maybe should be.

I got your number on the wall

As if last week wasn't already upsetting enough, on Thursday morning I started getting creepy text messages on my cell phone from some guy named Jamie. First he called and left some incoherent voicemail around 2AM. Then he sent a couple of texts.

I was being a nice, naive person and assumed maybe he got some girl's number in a bar and was drunk-dialing or had a couple of digits wrong. So I called the number and left a message on Jamie's voicemail indicating that he had the wrong number.

I'm not trying that again, although I doubt it would have made any difference. He already knew I was female from listening to my voicemail, which he probably knew he would get if he called at 2:36AM.

So then there were a couple more texts. And a couple more texts after that. The messages were general enough that I knew he didn't know me and was probably some kind of annoying individual spammer, but it was still unsettling to get increasingly lewd messages wanting to know if I was feeling sexy. Where could he have gotten my number to begin with? Now I was both freaked out and annoyed; not only was this creepy and weird, but it was costing me money.

DH is in charge of our cell plan so he called our service provider to see if we could put a block on incoming calls and texts from Jamie's number. We were told that they could block it, but we would need to pay extra for them to do that. Gee, thanks, guys. Also, if he really was obsessed with me from afar, he could conceivably start contacting my number from a different phone.

Option Number Two was to ignore the harassment and hope he'd get bored and move on to other victims, but he could theoretically continue texting ad infinitem, which we'd then need to pay for. Mmmm, not so good.

We ended up going with Option Number Three: I get a new cell phone number.

While I'm relieved that these unwanted contacts have now stopped, I'm also pretty annoyed at this cretin. For all I know, he is randomly calling cell phone numbers all over the country, determining which numbers belong to females by calling overnight and listening to their voicemail, and if so, bombarding them with lewd text messages and racking up their monthly bills. Due to Jamie's obnoxious behavior, I now need to tell dozens of people (including my kids' schools, my security alarm company, doctors, coworkers, service people, companies I do business with) that I have a new phone number, and it's not even in my original area code.

I don't know of any way to bust this sicko, but I wish I did. I could file a police report, but it's probably not worth the time - not to mention, where would one do this? He's not from this region. In an attempt to be my own case detective, I went to one of those websites where you can look up phone numbers and the number is assigned to someone in Collinsville, IL, just east of St. Louis, MO. I wasn't willing to pay for the more specific information these sites claim to have; Jamie has cost me enough already. What would I do with this information anyway? Fly out there and surprise him when he gets home? Enroll him in the Turd-of-the-Month Club? Sue him with what little is left of my 401k?

While this is not even a blip on the radar of true crime, I still feel harassed. And I worry that this kind of activity could quietly increase as an insidious and potentially unstoppable form of spam. Under current legal definitions, this is not advertising and thus not spam, but it's definitely unsolicited and unwanted contact from an unknown person, and causes the victim both money and hassle. I don't know of any law that would bar this, nor whom one would contact to report this type of intrusion.


UPDATE:
A friend of mine googled Jamie's phone number and turned up a Craiglist posting he made. So we now know his name and hometown. I'm mulling over filing a report with his local police department. Just wish I'd made better documentation of what he did before we switched over my phone number. Maybe my phone company can help....

George 12/25/1999 - 11/17/2008

And the beat goes on

My George is still very sick. He has now gotten to the point where he will eat only small quantities of chicken nuggets and bologna (yes, fed to him by hand). Over the last week we have vacillated between thinking he's perking up, and thinking this is it and we need to take him to the vet and put him down. DH and I went so far as to discuss when to do this, should things deteriorate further. But we wanted to hold off on a decision until he went in for a recheck today.

The latest conclusion is that his extreme lack of appetite may be attributable in part to the meds he was put on to help retain his protein. On top of the kidney disease and adrenal tumor, of course. So he is going off that for now in the hope that he will get some appetite back, start to eat his special kidney disease formula dog food, and regain his lost weight and vitality. The surgical courses of action that might be performed on a young dog are too risky and invasive for him, so we're just going to treat him with medication/special food and see how he does. If this is successful, we might get another year out of him. If he continues to refuse most food, we probably will have to put him down, and very soon.

Through all of this, he still has remained the same sweet, loving dog, just a very tired one who sleeps much of the time. He still follows us around the house, jumps up on beds and couches, shrieks when he wants to come in, and hangs out in the kitchen during mealtimes to see if he gets anything (even though he then refuses pretty much everything offered). Between activities, he retreats to his bed or any soft nest and snoozes, curled up in a ball. Gretzky often spoons behind him with his chin on George's side. I'm not sure what he thinks about all this; he's certainly not saying.

Me, I've been an emotional roller-coaster wreck. One day I can barely hold it together because he's lethargic and refusing food, which makes us think he's starving to death, wants to die, and we need to end this before he suffers. The next day he seems more lively, snuzzles his grubby face all over my clean pants, eats a decent meal (if you can call 6 or 8 chicken nuggets a meal) and even plays a little outside, and I'm wondering what the heck I was thinking yesterday?

I've also jumped into my foxhole-prayer mode. Big time. It's sort of ironic that the one time I took the dogs to the annual Blessing of the Pets at church, George became desperately ill within weeks. Not that I don't recommend having one's pets blessed, nor am I accusing my church or the blessing process of causing his problems, of course - I just think the timing is almost humorous. Each dog was given a St. Francis medal for his collar. I couldn't figure out how to attach them (granted I can't even figure out how to attach their rabies tags!). I've been carrying the medals around with me since George got sick, almost as talismans.

So anyway. Prayers. I say them in the car, at my desk, in the shower. The other day, I lay on the bedroom floor next to a sleeping George, put my arms around his emaciated little body, and prayed. I expressed thanks for his life and all the love and joy and silliness he's brought us. I prayed that he would be healed and given more time here. And that if he couldn't be healed, that we would receive clear signs on what to do and when to do it, and that his death would be peaceful and without pain. And that we would accept his loss and be grateful for the short time we'd had him in our lives. And that once he left us, he would be taken to rejoin his lost brother Duncan at the Rainbow Bridge until it was time for us to come calling and take them with us to Heaven.

Since then I've been watching for signs either of healing, or of further decline. And obviously I'm not getting clear signals either way. But our vet still seems to think he can pull through this, so I'm still praying, and waiting for signs.

Anyway, if you're still there reading, thanks for your patience as I exhaustively document his progress or lack thereof. And please send good thoughts encouraging him to eat!

Waiting on the world to change

Today is amazing. It's not often that one can consciously be part of a historic moment in time. As a historian, that is beyond mind-blowing.

I went to vote at our township building first thing this morning, stood in line for a merciful 35 minutes, ran into all kinds of neighbors and acquaintances. Even though we're in an unincorporated area, it felt like a cozy small town. Everyone greeted those they knew warmly, and an undercurrent of excitement made all the standing around worthwhile.

Even though the people in line with me were voting for different candidates, it really felt like we were all together, hanging on this precipice in time, using our voices, hoping and praying for a change that will turn this free-falling country around. Hoping that whichever candidate's oval we blackened would help our future. Instead of feeling like we're fighting over control of our battleground state, it felt like we were all striving toward a common purpose, and that each action by each one of us was tremendously important.

We Democrats are hoping the third time is the charm. I remember that tumultuous election in 2000; DH and I had been married a year, and we'd just moved into our first house in DC. We sat up for hours as the pundits tried to figure out the whole Florida thing and couldn't. We went to bed thinking there would be answers in the morning, and when we got up nobody knew the answers. And then the waiting went on for weeks, and the bad partisan feelings surfaced and exploded as the election spiraled into a debacle.

In 2004, we'd just moved here, with Melrose approaching her first birthday. We stood in line for over an hour each to cast our ballots, grousing about the inconvenience, but realizing fully how critical it was. (We actually got off pretty easy on the waiting, unlike the record-breakers of Gambier, Ohio). Again we sat up late watching the returns, again it was too close to call that night, but the end came much more quickly. And again, at least to us, it sucked.

Today really felt promising and empowering, and that things were already changing for the better. As I stood in line and a young woman ahead of me approached the registration table, one of the poll workers called out "New voter!" The entire room cheered. I felt light and optimistic and on the brink as I left the township building and headed to work. Having finally done my civic duty after all this waiting was a relief. I don't think anyone got much done today, myself included. Around midafternoon my colleague in another office e-mailed me that she was itching to go home. I too felt like climbing the walls, ready for the day to end and the polls to close so we could settle in and watch the results.

So now, as we've done the last two times, DH and I are planted on the sofa in front of the TV for our third presidential election night. We've driven past other polling places where people are spooled around the building in patient, umbrella-wielding lines, and marveled at the determination driving people out of the woodwork to vote. We're glad we did what we needed to do this morning, and that it's all out of our hands now. We're watching and waiting for the answers, and praying they will come sooner and be more definitive. They're already calling Pennsylvania for Obama, and that makes me so proud, and so encouraged.

And all day I've had John Mayer stuck in my head:

One day our generation
Is gonna rule the population
So we keep on waiting, waiting on the world to change

Dog update

George has now seen a dog radiologist and a dog neurologist. They believe he has two issues going on.

The trouble walking and controlling his legs is attributed to some kind of a stroke. No brain tumors, no apparent injuries, but clearly there's some disconnect between his brain and his lower spine. There is nothing that can be done other than getting used to it.

With the weight loss and lack of appetite, he has been diagnosed with kidney disease. His kidneys are basically dumping much of the protein he eats, and making him feel crummy. This condition is incurable but they are giving him medication to treat it and help him retain his protein and get some weight back.

So. The problem now is getting him to EAT. He is now refusing to touch pretty much any dog food and only wants people food. Fed to him by hand. So much for the days when we'd plop a bowl of kibble (or anything else) in front of him and he'd inhale it. They said older dogs sometimes get finicky, but this is almost comical. We're feeding him hamburgers by hand, and trying to trick him into thinking we eat canned dog food so then he'll want some. I feel like a nut, but whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.

Still wondering

In a nutshell, we still don't know what's wrong with George.

The non-nutshell version: I took both dogs, and Melrose, to the vet with me on Thursday to get their annual physicals. I was dumb enough to feed George (on leftover spaghetti meat sauce, which he LOVED) before we headed over to drop off Mr. Magoo at school and then go to the vet from there. After we came out of the school and I was getting Melrose back in her seat, the carsickness hit. I heard that godawful gushing sound as George vomited up his saucy breakfast in the back of the minivan. Lovely. I whipped open the back hatch to get him out before he destroyed any more carpeting, and he stuck his head out and barfed again into the parking lot, just missing my right foot. Meanwhile Gretz, who is probably the smartest of us all, leaped out of the car and tried to escape across the parking lot. One of the teachers helped me catch him, and I then had to try and keep the two dogs contained but not walking in the mess. I grabbed a couple of old towels I luckily had in the car and cleaned up the back as best I could, but it was too late to do much, and the pavement...well, not much I could do with that.

We raced off, and in the midst of being grateful that none of the parents I know witnessed this scene, I realized that it was still peak drop-off time and other parents no doubt would be parking in our spot and having to walk through the mess. So I called the director and apologized profusely that my sick dog had ralphed all over their parking lot, and offered to come back and clean it up as soon as we got done at the vet. She just laughed and said not to worry about it, they'd just get out the hose. Miss J, I owe you big time!

At the vet, I handed over our samples. They weighed George and he had lost 15 pounds, roughly 25% of his regular weight. The poop samples came back negative for worms, but the blood tests showed that both dogs had a strong positive for Lyme disease, which is pretty much a given when you have herds of deer roaming through your woods on a daily basis. So, pricey antibiotics were added to the bill. With physicals and basic tests for both dogs, shots for Gretz, and more in-depth bloodwork for George, we ponied up nearly $500 to continue not knowing the cause of George's problem.

George did have some elevated chemical levels in his kidneys, which resulted in our being referred to the specialty vet center, the place where we've gone for his cancer treatments, the place where everybody knows our name, and you better believe they're always glad we came. Seriously, you can hear that cha-ching! sound every time the doors close. They are sending us for an ultrasound. Yes, I am taking my dog for an ultrasound.

In terms of his trouble walking, the vet thought it probably was not an injury or orthopedic problem. The problem probably is the result of his losing so much muscle mass as part of his overall weight loss. While it was deeply troubling that my dog is starving to the point where his muscle mass is being lost, in another way I was relieved that hopefully he doesn't have some irreversible paralysis or arthritis setting in. If we can get him eating again and gaining weight, hopefully his strength and tone will return.

So Tuesday, I'll be dropping off the kids, working from here during the morning, and schlepping him down to the mega-vet to have his innards probed. Having been through many an ultrasound myself, I was eager to see his insides. I asked if I could watch, but apparently non-human patients are not allowed to have company when they get wanded. So I'll hit the post office nearby, and then chill in the waiting room while he's having his thousand-dollar procedure. Which hopefully isn't going to lead to yet another thousand-dollar procedure.

We thought maybe the Lyme antibiotics were helping him feel a little better - he ate well yesterday, but then we ran out of spaghetti sauce, and he turned up his nose at pretty much every other dog-specific food we've offered since then. He's basically living on our leftovers right now. I'm going to fry him up some discount hamburger and see if he'll deign to try it.

Much as I deplore negligent dog owners, after getting hit with a bill like that, it's really not surprising that many people just don't bother with veterinary care for their animals. How many people can afford $250 for a dog's annual physical and shots? If that's a stretch for you, what happens when the dog gets sick or slices his paw open or eats something not meant to be eaten? Just in the ten years I've had responsibility for a dog, it seems like the costs have skyrocketed. You'd think that things like vaccine and antibiotics would be generic and cheap at this point. Not. The shots seem to get pricier all the time, and the antibiotics are probably fancier than anything my own doctor would give me.

And Frontline! Dang, dawg! All the vets want your dog to be on this miracle anti-tick treatment, it's almost a necessity in this area, but it is SO d*mn expensive. We started using it years ago because one of our dogs had bad reactions to other anti-tick/flea treatments, and now it seems like it's the only thing that works to combat deer ticks. Don't get me wrong, it's great, but it seems to get more expensive every time I buy it. How long does it take for someone to come up with a knockoff, or for a generic version to become available? When you hear about people trying to buy it from a vendor in Australia because it's cheaper overseas, you kind of wonder how much is enough.

While I realize that vets, like any other doctor, have been through years of extensive training and education and deserve to be paid well, you'd also think that to ensure that veterinary care is accessible to most people, the prices wouldn't be so pricey. Would more people care for their dogs proactively and properly if it was cheaper to do so? And you better believe that Frontline would sell like hotcakes (and probably be even more profitable) if it was actually affordable to most people. So many more dogs would be protected from Lyme disease if more people could afford to apply the stuff religiously once a month. At this rate, I may just have to go back to old-fashioned tick and flea collars (at $16 a pop, a real bargain compared to Frontline).

Sadly, you have to wonder many of the same things about health care for humans. The Philadelphia Inquirer has been running this amazing series about people who "fall through the cracks" of our health care system. What's scary is that so many of these stories could happen to any one of us - some combination of a job loss and a catastrophic health crisis could suck you right down into an uninsured morass. When you have a football-sized tumor in your abdomen and people who are supposed to help you keep passing you on like a hot potato because you don't have insurance, and nothing gets done until the newspaper gets involved, that is just tragic and wrong.

Worried sick

I'm not too happy at the moment. I can't get anything done at work. My house is a mess. My son is suddenly in the realm of potty training and I am getting fed up with all the accidents. My babysitter isn't calling me back. I lost one of my favorite earrings yesterday.

These annoyances all pale next to this: My older dog has something very wrong with him, and I am worried sick.

George is a cream standard poodle, age 8.75, literally the happiest, most affectionate dog I've ever had. He never stops wagging his tail, and has an unfailingly merry disposition. He nuzzles and burrows his face on you, loves to shake hands and give gentle kisses, and plays happily with humans and canines alike. He cries almost hysterically if he is separated from us but knows we're within earshot. He is not foofy by any means - we insist on a utilitarian 'do, which is good because he seems to find and walk through any plant on the property with burrs or sticky seeds. He has the softest coat of any poodle I've ever met.

He was my first puppy. We got him as newlyweds to both satisfy my genetic third-generation need for big-poodle-ownership, and provide a buddy for Duncan, DH's yellow Lab who came along with the marriage. He's definitely a big, though high-strung, personality and has kept all of us on our toes. Funny stories about his many adventures are part of family lore.

George has had a number of dramatic and expensive health issues in the last 4 years. He got bloat and needed emergency surgery (which entailed me dragging him and infant Melrose to the emergency vet in the dead of night, since I was home alone when this happened). Then he had this insidious though supposedly benign cancer in his mouth and jawbone, which meant removing part of his lower jaw. And a lot of money from our bank account. Then there were two or three new tumor scares, all on his mouth or ear, involving more biopsies and removals, and a lot more money, although they all ended up being small unrelated growths.

When we went on vacation in August, our dogsitter noted that our other dog (Gretzky, an energetic German shorthaired pointer) was stealing George's food and acting protective of both food bowls. I then started monitoring during feeding time and shooing off Gretz if he started invading George's bowl. George has always been a good, fast, clean-plate eater, but as the fall has gone on, he's seemed somewhat less interested in food but still eating most of it, with some coaxing.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that he had suddenly gotten really thin, so we started monitoring the food more intensively. Instead of demolishing his meal as he has most of his life, he's started getting all finicky with dog food, eating a few bites and turning up his nose. At the same time, he is wildly ravenous to the point of stealing people food right off the table, eating garbage, and scavenging in the trash can. We tried switching kibbles to see if that would regenerate his interest in dog food but then noticed he seemed to be having a hard time chewing it. Maybe his half-jaw was getting worn out, we thought. We switched him to soft food and fed him lots of table scraps as well, trying to get weight back on him.

As this has been going on, with some meals getting inhaled and others being ingested in small steps, he has been the same old happy puppy. No personality changes whatsoever. Meanwhile, I've been hovering anxiously, roiling in guilt because I haven't been a good dog mom lately. I haven't been diligent with the heartworm pills, or the (outrageously expensive) Frontline, and honestly, I should have noticed the weight loss sooner than I did.

This weekend his back legs seemed to stop working right. He doesn't seem to be in pain, no limping or crying or refusing to move, but he's not able to fully control his hind legs and is having trouble balancing on his four. This does not stop him from following me up and down stairs, running around the yard, begging in the kitchen, jumping onto the couch, or even humping Gretz, which is one of his favorite activities ever. He doesn't seem the least bit upset by his skidding legs or frequent stumbles, although he does seem a little confused that things aren't working as usual. And the tail is still going, and the face is still smiling, and the snout is still finding illicit goodies to snarf down.

I wanted to get him right into the vet this week, but DH is traveling and he was concerned that if I brought him in and the news was not good, he didn't want me to be here alone to cope with it. Melrose is off school on Thursday so I'll take her and both dogs to the vet first thing (both dogs need shots anyway).

I'm hoping and praying this is some temporary thing, like a sports injury. Or yet another bout of Lyme disease, which he's had before. Maybe he wrenched his back or broke a bone while wrestling and rolling around in the yard. At the same time, I'm thinking about strokes, or spinal damage, or some invisible cancer invading his lower half. I'm envisioning those people with partially paralyzed dogs who build little carts for the non-functional end of their pet's body.

With all these illnesses, we've had to ask the question of how far we'd go to save him. I've seen people spending thousands to put their dogs through chemo and physical therapy and all kinds of human-like interventions. While I couldn't set a dollar limit on our investment, I know there would be some breaking point where we decide just to let him live out what's left of his time with us, keep him comfortable, and let him go when the time comes. I'm wondering if that's what's going to happen now.

For any of my dogs, I hope that like our beloved Duncan, they and not we will decide when their time is up. But with an irrepressible personality like George's, his twinkling joie de vivre even right now when he is skinny, eating erratically, and falling over himself, we might have to be the ones to make the call, to decide when and how he leaves us. And I don't want to have to make that decision. It was hard enough to admit just in the last few days that something was clearly wrong enough to get him in to the vet. I've been resisting, not only because of being alone, and the sure-to-be hefty bills for tests and procedures, but being afraid of knowing what is happening. Because what is happening may be really bad, and there may be no way out of the bad.

The subject of my worry is now enjoying an illicit grooming session on the sofa next to me, almost intertwined with his "brother." Tomorrow I'll be out stalking both of them as they take care of business, because it seems I need to obtain some "samples," if you catch my drift. If you're still reading, please think of us with fingers crossed at 9AM Thursday morning. The comedy of obtaining samples aside, I'm trying to hold it together until then.

Holding out for a hero

(YES, I like Bonnie Tyler and the Footloose soundtrack. I even have it on my iPod. Is there something wrong with that?!!)

I keep getting into conversations lately with people about the state of world affairs - well, American affairs, really. And while we don't all agree on politics, and I'm not even going to go there (here or anywhere else), a universal sentiment is that this will be a very interesting election day. And that we all want someone to step in there and save us from a plunging economy and subprime mortgage fallout and the disappearance of our 401Ks and stock portfolios and other financial security blankets. We may differ in who we think would best be our savior, but the desire for a savior is universal. Something's gotta give.

I just returned from a girls' night out with my neighbors at a BYOB near here. Let me tell you, I am a convert to the Pennsylvania BYOB cult. Bring your own wine, drink a ton of it, don't spend any money on pricey alcohol (because it's a bottle that's been hanging around the house awhile, which someone probably gave you as a host gift, meaning you never spent a cent on it). I had probably $30 worth of wine, but only paid $30 for my actual food. Which was excellent. The French onion soup was delicious. The chicken Marsala hit the spot. And any dessert named Chocolate Thunder is going to be well worth it.

So much for trying to behave myself this week. Maybe I should start my own BYOB in my office, just for me!

Apropos of nothing...

I can't believe I came across this article and this video in just one day!

Reason #37 that I will never be on reality TV

Let's just say up front that I am already not a fan of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I think their approach is well-intended but way over the top. I think demolishing a functional house and throwing up a new one is stupid and wasteful (why not use that money to either remodel/fix up the place or find a new house more suited to the family's needs?). It bothers me that the makeover recipients often don't have the means and support to handle the downside of the changes to their lives, like higher property taxes due to their ballooning new digs, or unwanted aspects of celebrity status.

And finally, unlike seemingly most women in America, I do not swoon at the sight of Ty Pennington.

My sister had the opportunity to attend one of the reveals, and from all indications, much of the crowd was made up of semi-hysterical women hoping to catch a glimpse of Ty. Yeah, it was cool to see the family get their new house and yell "Move that bus!" and all, but Ty was wayyyy more scream-worthy.

Of course, nerd that I am, I'd be standing there assessing the construction details while screaming women are stampeding around me to see if they can get closer to Ty. But I digress.

Clearly, I don't think like a TV producer; such creatures are not known for practicality or unglamorous solutions. But after reading this article, there is no way on God's green earth I'll ever convert to EM:HE fandom. No way, no how.

I'm not sure which is more disturbing: the show being like a revivalist cult for its employees and devotees, or the revelation that Habitat for Humanity could build 24 new houses for needy people with the outlay required for one of these obscenely excessive makeovers.

The info on how they stage the show was fascinating in the context of all the reality TV out there - moments that look spontaneous are actually rehearsed and interviews with the subjects are the results of multiple takes. It's a little unsettling to get a glimpse of the man behind the curtain, and in some ways this type of information shatters certain illusions.

On the other hand, it helps to explain how these shows work, because certainly you wonder why everyone seems to be in sync and outside people never seem to interfere with the proceedings. How come votes on Survivor usually only split two ways instead of being all over the map? How come you never see people (ticket agents, taxi drivers, etc.) encountered by The Amazing Race contestants acting all star-struck or being shocked by their first encounter with each team and its camera-crew entourage? How come tasks on The Apprentice never get derailed by star-seeking bystanders, and everyone goes straight to their seemingly-random seats in the Boardroom instead of bumbling around like normal people?

I guess now I know that if I ever get on House Hunters, my true remarks will end up rescripted.

Real statement: "Why the hell would you ever put wall-to-wall over these nice floors?"
TV statement: "Well, it's a nice carpet, but it would have to go!"

Real statement: "Are these people f---ing colorblind? Why would you ever paint your living room magenta?"
TV statement: "Whoa, now that's a different color. It's not really me, though."

Real statement: "Mirrored closet doors. Again. Does EVERY damn house on this show have mirrored closet doors? Can we pleeeease go see a house without them?"
TV statement: "This bedroom is a nice size. Wow, those mirrors really brighten things up in here!"

Real statement: "Wow, this tacky 1970s wallpaper is awesome. Awesome! Can we keep it?"
TV statement: "Hey, look at that! Ha ha. Interesting. But we'll need to strip that and repaint."

Real statement: "Check out this closet! It's bigger than all the closets in my current house combined!"
TV statement: "It's a very nice closet, but I actually was looking for something a little bigger. And the master bathroom only has one sink."

Paul Newman (1925-2008)

Paul Newman's death is sad news for the big world of movie/theater fans, and for the smaller world of Kenyonites. He was a gifted and generous individual, who managed to avoid all the Hollywood pitfalls and have both a successful acting career and a loving family life. Not to mention all the lives he has touched through his philanthropy.

I've never met him, but since he attended my alma mater and lived near my hometown for most of his later life, he was always on the corner of the radar screen, the kind of person you hope you might randomly run into at the gourmet market or at an alumni event. Kenyon has put up a nice tribute to him on its homepage.

I love the photo montage with the image that shows him goofing around with friends on the Peirce Hall stairs during a school dance weekend. How many hundreds of Kenyon students have had their photos taken there, or will in future? Enough have passed through that the stone stair treads are worn down. I always noticed those worn treads as I went up and down. I love that this photo shows that Mr. Newman was once just a regular college kid, with probably no idea of the great things he would go on to achieve. At that point in time, what did he expect to do with his life? Did his dreams of that age come true?

Condolences to the Newman family on their loss. And to Mr. Newman, a big Kokosing Farewell from your fellow alumni. You will be missed.

5Kate

I survived the 5K!

It was definitely a much harder (i.e. hillier) course than the last race 3 years ago (then again, pretty much anything would be hillier than Kelly Drive). Still, it was not nearly as awful as I'd feared. I probably pushed a little too hard with the pacing because of the race excitement and the burning desire to pass at least a few (old, slow) people. I had a hard time regulating my breathing too and had to shut off the iPod a couple of times just to get my breath back in sync. I paid for my initial energy burst about a half-mile before the finish where we had a long, gradual uphill stretch. At this point I became convinced that cardiac arrest/projectile vomiting was imminent, and ended up having to walk a minute or two. Still, I made it in under 39 minutes, which for me is excellent. So all in all, a good day.

Fireside Chats

Well, the party is over and all survived - except our hammock, which was destroyed by a pod of rampaging tweens. But that was our only casualty. It couldn't have gone better. It was a really good night. Nice weather, nice people, nice food. Nice cleaned-up house. Nice locked-up dogs (you scavenge off people's plates, you lose!). We had enough food that people ate most of it but we didn't get to the point of almost running out. We had way too much fruit salad and should buy less in future. We need to have more forks on hand next time, or at least have both of us know where extras are stashed. Athletic equipment for kids = good. Rented wineglasses for adults = good. Wild hammock play for big kids; popsicles for toddlers = bad.

And I really want one of these; our neighbors loaned us theirs and it was heavenly once it got dark. DH put our kids to bed, everyone else with kids went home, and we and our diehard neighbors hung out on the patio enjoying the fire and the beer and the September chill. What an invention - it's like a campfire, a fireplace, and a woodstove all rolled into one. The former Girl Scout in me welcomes any chance to sit by a cozy outdoor fire and look up at the stars. But I'll skip toasting marshmallows. I prefer my s'mores free of marshmallows, kind of like the way DH likes his strawberry shortcake without the strawberries. Beside the point, but still tasty!

Even amid all the laughter and the jokes and stories going around, part of me was reverently standing back and thinking, Ah, yes, this is the best. This is what I've always wanted. Because it was just so easy for me to be part of this group.

I am still socially insecure, don't get me wrong. I suck at small talk and kibitzing. The seemingly endless round of back-to-school events of late has reinforced this as I awkwardly try to make small talk with the parents of my kids' classmates, and worry that everyone knows everyone else better than I do. Even at work events, I still sometimes get that uncomfortable sense of not quite fitting in. It's draining to be social in these situations.

But with most of our friends these days, it's so comfortable that I experience sheer relief and joy in social situations, and actually long for more. For once in my life, I don't feel awkward or left out. I don't feel like I'm competing for position in a hierarchy, or being grudgingly tolerated. I feel unequivocally accepted, appreciated, and sought out. And that is such a gift. I can't even explain what a gift that is for me, just to feel like an insider.

Don't answer me

I'm probably crazy to be posting right now, because I have too much to do around the (very dusty and messy) house. We are having our now-annual fall party Saturday, and this year it has grown to 74 attendees. Yep, 43 adults and 31 kids will be joining us for drinks and dinner Saturday night. I'm not insane. Really I'm not.

One of the things that attracted us to this house, along with its 200+-year-old charm, was its eminent suitability for large gatherings. Big yard, big patio, and space to park everyone's cars.

Growing up I always dreamed of having the kind of property where you could have your wedding in the back yard. My grandmother was married in the beautiful shaded back lawn of her parents' house, and later inherited the house. My parents' wedding reception was held in the same place, and the setting was stunning. It was a summer wedding and they had a huge tent and dancing on the lawn under the massive trees, and the band played from a round terrace on the side of the hill above the yard. The whole thing as seen in photos seemed like a fairy tale. The suburban houses I grew up in and my tiny first house in Maryland didn't have such yards. Not even close.

But then we moved to the country. This was the second house we looked at, and I fell in love with the property before I even got out of the car on that hot day in June. Literally the first thing out of my mouth when I climbed out was "Melrose could have her wedding here!" We had found the fairy tale yard! Big trees, big lawn, and even the round stone patio. The house does not have a huge modern kitchen with a granite-topped island and Viking stove (which seems to be essential for today's homebuyers). We don't even have a master bathroom, and our powder room doubles as a pantry. But dang, we have room for parties. And yes, maybe even a wedding.

But getting back to this party, we have learned much about entertaining from the various shindigs we've hosted thus far. For one thing, you can never have too much white wine, and you almost always have too much green salad. But a more startling revelation is that just a few days before any event, there are always a handful of people who haven't RSVP'd.

While hardly a problem on a world scale, I realize this has become a common and chronic complaint among those hosts who care about etiquette. For a casual event like this, I get a little annoyed, and then assume half of them will show up and go about my merry way. More formal events with catering mean this is more than a small problem. We had such an event earlier this year and four days beforehand, we still hadn't heard from some stragglers and we needed to give the caterer our numbers. We called and left messages. We called again. Nothing.

Then DH came up with the brilliantly passive-aggressive idea of including the stragglers in a group e-mail providing directions, as if they had already said yes. That got us the desired response almost immediately. I highly recommend it.

What annoys me more is when, again with a more formal event, people say they are coming, you give the caterer the numbers, and less than 48 hours ahead of time, they bail for some asinine reason. One guy this summer was like "My friend is coming into town and I need to pick her up at the airport." I can understand a medical issue, a family crisis, or a true emergency, but an airport run? Is this really worth our paying for your uneaten meal?

But this thing Saturday is not a formal event. Just hangin' in the back yard, eating, drinking, and catching up with various friends and neighbors of all ages. I am looking forward to it, but I'll be looking forward to it a lot more once I banish the dust bunnies, and the crud in the microwave, and the maple tree detritus all over the patio....

After the hurricane

Follow-up on the balloon saga from the company owner. It appears they are resuming operations, as I noticed last week. I hope they can move forward successfully and keep the balloons flying.

Monkey on my back

To my immense surprise, we spotted Gracie flying over the township on our way home from school. What a happy sight!

Melrose is very busy adjusting to Pre-K at her new school. She has been a line leader, gone to the library and gym, and learned to play a game called Cookie Monster. She is also outraged by the unfairness of the fact that "the big kids" get to be grownups sooner than she does. She has gone from being one of the oldest kids at her old school to one of the youngest kids at her new school, and I imagine that's pretty disconcerting.

Magoo, meanwhile, is fascinated by the fact that we drop Melrose off in a car line in the morning. Having spent my childhood walking to school and milling around on the playground before the bell rang, or being dropped off in front of the school by my parents with nobody watching, the car line concept is pretty weird to me. It's like an invisible red carpet rolled out for each kid - a teacher or administrator is there to greet them and help the younger kids out of the car. The smaller kids are actually escorted to the door. The only thing missing is the paparazzi. Next year Melrose will be eligible to take the bus, which will make the morning routine easier.

I find it really odd that all the schools have these 15MPH zones out front when nobody walks to school anymore, there are no pedestrians, and often there are no sidewalks. So what is the point? I can understand lowering the speed limit to 20 or 25 in a school zone, but 15 seems excessive, given that everyone enters and leaves by car or bus, and there are no pedestrians to mow down.

Many kids don't even walk to the bus stop. All the smaller developments around here have stops at the entrance, and even if they have a bus shelter for the kids, nobody uses it. In the more spread-out developments, the kids get driven from their cul-de-sacs to the stop. You'll go by and all the parents and kids are parked in their running SUVs waiting for the bus; sometimes you'll see a few of the moms getting out of the cars and hanging out together with their coffee mugs once the bus has passed. They'd probably sue the school districts if their little darlings had to (gasp!) walk to the end of the (very quiet) street and wait (horrors!) all by themselves along a busy road for the bus to come.

Hey, I did it. I survived. And I am officially one of those old curmudgeons who snipes to their kids: "When I was your age, we didn't have car lines. We didn't have buses. I had to WALK to school. Almost a mile. In the heat, cold, rain, snow. With menacing dogs, rushing traffic, mutilated roadkill in the gutter, and occasional harassment from bullies. Carrying my backpack, lunch box, social-studies diorama and violin case. And when I got to school I was minimally supervised until we had to line up to go inside!"

Helicopter parenting and liability issues aside, I have one theory about the reasoning behind today's aggressively-non-pedestrian elementary school commute. It is a single word: backpacks. These things are huge! I can't believe all the stuff these little kids have to haul around. When I was a kid, it seemed like our backpacks were proportional to our sizes. Now most kids have the appearance of Santa Claus with this outsized thing on their backs. Maybe the reason nobody walks to school or more than a few houses to the bus stop is that the backpack weighs as much as the kid carrying it!

More details

Further info on the balloon accident. I don't even want to imagine how terrifying this experience must have been, after a peaceful sail on a beautiful night. What a heroic man. Those people truly owe him their lives. I wish Mr. MacPherson the most glorious eternal flight imaginable.

Over the rainbow

Some truly sad news from my neighborhood: one of the two AirVentures hot air balloons shown in my earlier post landed and burst into flames last night, in a field a few miles from my house. I'm not sure which of the two was involved, but I know it was one of them because we saw them aloft over the neighborhood about 15 minutes beforehand. Melrose and I were coming home from an errand when she spotted them some distance away. As we came closer and drove down our street, the blue one with the butterflies was just a little ahead of us, off to the left. We lost sight of it as we got to the house. Little did we know what would happen just a few minutes later.

The pilot of the balloon, Earl MacPherson of New Jersey, was killed and the seven passengers sustained burns and were hospitalized. All are expected to survive. At least one passenger may have been saved because MacPherson was standing between her and the fire. My heart, thoughts, and prayers go out to his family, friends, and fellow pilots; to the passengers aboard last night; to the owner and employees of AirVentures; and to the homeowners and witnesses who were part of the aftermath and undoubtedly traumatized by the experience. I've seen Mr. MacPherson several times preparing for launch and climbing aboard the balloons, and always marveled at the careful and professional efficiency of the balloon crews in rolling out and inflating these gigantic things.

I'm also grieving because these beautiful creations are, in a way, our balloons. They launched and landed in and around our neighborhood and in-season we'd see them most evenings as we headed home. The blue balloon Butterfly has been flying for a few years with a checkerboard companion, and the green balloon Gracie was new this year, replacing the checkerboard one. They usually flew as a pair. My kids and I have watched them take off many times and are familiar with their usual trajectory. No matter how used we are to seeing them, we are invariably thrilled when we spot them. One of them, we will never see again. The other is probably grounded for the time being.

Although I'm hoping for the best, I worry about what will happen to AirVentures. First of all, the loss of a pilot is devastating. Add to that the loss of costly equipment and a season's revenue, and the time needed for an investigation, etc. I truly hope they can continue their business, which has made our county an even more beautiful place. For the meantime, I guess, there will be no magical hot air balloons drifting over our corner of Chester County. The sight of these colorful and enchanting spheres soaring overhead brought us untold pleasure, and they, along with their pilot, will be missed by many. Adults and children alike.

We decided not to tell the kids (ages 2 and 4) what had happened, and distracted them when it showed up on the local news during breakfast. As Magoo and I drove to school this morning, he asked, completely randomly, "Mommy, we see the doggie balloon today?" (Gracie, the green balloon, has a pattern of flowers and a brown and white dog).

"No, sweetie, there won't be any more balloons for awhile."

"Are they sleeping?"

"Yes, sweetie. They're sleeping."

And I wish with all my heart they could wake up today.

UPDATE:

This story is getting picked up by national news media. If AOL counts as such. Oddly, the AOL piece has more details on what caused the fire than the Philly-area stories published this morning. Unlike earlier reports that said it caught fire and crashed, they're now saying it landed and then caught fire.

Rolling, rolling, rolling...

Somehow we survived the weekend without drowning in Hurricane Hanna's intense rainfall. Our official DBRM (dog bowl rainfall measurement) shows about 3.5 inches. I'm just glad our trip to the shore was last weekend and not this one. And our plants are happier than they've been in weeks.

It's been a crazy week with Melrose starting at her new school (and getting sick and sent home on Day 2) and Mommy and Daddy struggling (Mommy rather unsuccessfully) to overcome post-vacation fatigue and dig out from piles of work. Knock wood Melrose seems to be over her illness, I caught up on some of my sleep deficit this weekend, and hopefully we will all have a better week. Mommy needs to be better about concentrating and staying motivated, along with being better about eating lightly and exercising diligently. She hasn't been good about any of this in some time, except the exercise.

Back to first person. I have been working hard with the running lately. Other than racing to catch a train, I'd never run on purpose in my life until 4 years ago, when I tried it in desperation to lose some baby weight and successfully ran a 5K. I kind of fell off the wagon after that, and one more kid didn't help matters. I tried to gear up for a 5K last summer but we ended up going out of town the weekend of the race and I slacked off afterward.

Right now I am getting ready to run a 5K in three weeks. I don't care about my time, just about finishing. My goal is to do the entire thing running, but I went over to check out the course and they weren't kidding when they mentioned "rolling hills." Covered bridge notwithstanding, this has me a little concerned. Also, I haven't built up to running more than 1.75 miles straight. This has me a lot concerned.

I've done one 5K before. This was in 2005, when Melrose was 1, and I was about 15 pounds lighter (despite all the exercise, this number appears to be climbing, sad to say). I used this awesome program, which I can tell you works, since I am the ultimate couch potato (in more ways than one, as my college friends will attest). It was also a flat course. Completely flat, and along the Schuylkill riverfront with a nice view of Boathouse Row. The road I run on near here is rural but more or less flat - a couple of small rises here and there, but not "rolling."

Adding to my insecurity is the fact that my brother is a triathlete and my brother-in-law a marathoner. The latter has been a very kind and patient mentor, and has even offered to join me on my little races as motivation, but given my 13-minute miles, I hate to put him through the torture.

The key after this 5K is to keep signing up for subsequent 5Ks, just to force myself to keep in shape. Assuming I don't have a heart attack on the covered bridge, my next goal is to run in the Valley Forge Revolutionary Run 5-miler next spring, and maybe a 10K after that. The following year, if I really am a glutton for punishment, I would like to work up to the 10-mile Broad Street Run, if only because it would be really cool to run through the city holding up traffic all over downtown Philly. But that's as far as I could go. And for a person who has never been an athlete, completing any race at all is pretty darn good.

To keep in shape and maybe take off some of this blubber, I'd like to be able to run 3-4 miles as a regular workout. Then I could be like this enviably petite, skinny, smug mom at one of Melrose's friends' birthday parties who accepted a small slice of pizza, saying airily "I think I deserve this - I ran six miles this morning."

Don't worry. If I could do a six-mile run just for the heck of it, I wouldn't mention it later at the party. Probably because I'd be too busy beating people away from the pizza with a stick while inhaling as many slices as possible.

The sweetest thing

There are many reasons to love living in Chesco, but this is my favorite:

The poison mind

So the strep is slowly diminishing. Now I have poison ivy. All over my legs. While the itching is driving me nuts, what is making me even more nuts is that I have no idea where I got it. I'm suspecting either one or both dogs. They got baths last weekend after all this started, and I washed their bed, but I have no way of knowing whether my decon got all the poison oil off them, or whether they spread it to places like our carpets and sofa and other places. I'm also washing pretty much every piece of clothing I've worn in the last 10 days in case there is oil on those. Trying not to touch anything in my own house is getting a little old.

Today's Philly newspaper was incredibly depressing. First of all, these people should be kicked out of the human race. This is an outrage. You neglected your severely disabled child until she died alone and starving with her skin rotting off, and then you sue the City of Philadelphia for not doing its job? You've got to be f***ing kidding me. It makes me cry to think of what that poor girl endured, and what she could have been if someone had cared for her properly.

And then these guys. They should both be put in wire cages and infested with vermin for a couple of years, then brought out to the compost heap and shot because their owners didn't want to drop $50 on their care and maintenance. I wish their victims could come back to life and collectively chew their limbs off one at a time. No name I could call them would be insulting enough.

Here's what I don't get. Everyone complains about puppy mills, especially here in Pennsylvania where they abound, but maybe, instead of changing state laws*, we should be outlawing selling dogs in pet stores nationwide. The pet stores (and their clueless customers) are the reason these profiteers make a good living from mass-producing dogs in substandard conditions. Take away the pet store market, and it's going to be hard for these scumbags to make money, plus the clueless general public won't be shelling out to a pet store because they see a cute little puppy in the window. A decent breeder wouldn't sell animals to pet stores. Only a profiteer would. So why not eliminate that option altogether?

As for me, I think when the time comes, we'll be adopting our next dog from a shelter. Given the not-so-savory reputation of our fine state's dog breeding industry, I'd rather not contribute my money toward furthering the work of this so-called enterprise. Not to knock all the good and legitimate breeders of greater Pennsylvania, but given the mass rescues that have been going on, I'd rather rescue a needy dog from a date with the needle than pay to create an expensive new one.

*While Rendell's proposed dog law changes are well-intended, they also create some major obstacles for keepers of sporting dog packs - but that's a whole 'nother post....

A little unwell

OK. So I went to the Minute Clinic first thing Saturday morning. I saw a practitioner whom I overheard introducing himself on the phone: "Yes, I'm Michael Richards. R-I-C-H-A-R-D-S. Yes, like the guy who plays Kramer on Seinfeld..."

Anyway, he was a very nice guy and did his best to help me out, even pointing out that my evil insurance company had not jumped on the bandwagon to join seemingly every other one in existence in covering this service. "We're still negotiating with them." Heh.

So $69 later, my strep diagnosis was confirmed (good thing, because I am losing the ability to open my mouth without agony at this point, making culturing unlikely without a crowbar). I walked out of there with prescriptions for an antibiotic, a steroid, and Tylenol with Codeine due to severe pain. I picked up my beautiful drugs and headed home to ingest them, eagerly anticipating relief, and hoping I'd feel somewhat better by the end of the day, or the next morning.

Nope. Not happening.

It's a little better, but not much. The sleeping is better, the swallowing is somewhat better, but the ability to eat and drink has not returned. I've now tried ingesting a variety of narcotic and non-narcotic pain relievers in different combinations, because the Tylenol with codeine didn't even make a dent. I've been subsisting mostly on chicken soup and herbal tea, both warm. Plain water or any flavored beverage stings. Salt water is soothing so I've been using it as a chaser for pretty much everything, but it's not good from a hydration standpoint.

I did seem to hit a sweet spot yesterday afternoon and choked down a small meal and some white wine during a friend's 40th birthday party. But otherwise, pretty much any substance entering my mouth and passing down my throat is making me flinch.

I was also dumb enough to read those little handouts that come with the prescriptions. One of the side effects of one of my medications was the development of a "black, hairy tongue. This symptom usually disappears when medication is discontinued." Usually?

I had to spend today working in Maryland, so I called my doctor's office (now that they are back from their lovely three-day weekend) to see if I could come in so they can give me some miracle drug that will actually get rid of this nasty thing. They were, of course, swamped by all the people who have been waiting for help since Thursday, and can't get me in until late tomorrow afternoon. So I'm sitting here obsessing about antibiotic-resistant disease strains and whether I have one.

Also, I'm very hungry.

Just to make this even more annoying, you'd think three days of essentially fasting would take a few pounds off.

Nope. That's not happening either.

Off the track

If anyone out there can explain how to get a site tracker working on Blogger, please do so. I've now tried two different trackers and neither one is working, probably because I couldn't figure out where to plug in the HTML code. Please!!

Why?

Because I'd really like to know what bizarre Google search terms are landing people here.

A medically unpleasant week

It's been a rough week around here. We got home from travels with the family on Monday evening. As I was reuniting with my buddy George, I noticed a lump the size of a marble on one side of his throat that was not there a week ago. So, we're on Round 4 with his "benign" tumors. He went to surgery yesterday and came home from the vet last night looking like Frankenpoodle with his neck all shaved and stitched back together. They sure gave us our money's worth on the incision length and sutures, and they damn better with what this is costing us. No wonder these people are so happy to get us right in there when we need to see them. They know every time we walk through the door with this poor lumpy dog that we're good for $1,000 and up.

Meanwhile, since Wednesday afternoon I have developed the sore throat from hell, accompanied by low-grade fever, ear pain, aggravated tonsils, and chills. Literally every swallow feels like I'm being stabbed in the tonsils, and trying to swallow anything besides my own spit is like being stabbed twice. I've tried every home remedy known to man. Hot stuff, warm stuff, cold stuff, carbonated stuff, fruity stuff, salty stuff, bland stuff, numbing stuff, and lozengey stuff are all painful to ingest. Ibuprofen and Tylenol are doing squat. Sleep is difficult at best. I got up at 5AM this morning of my own volition, wishing I had access to one of those dentist vacuums that sucks all the spit out of your mouth, just so I wouldn't have to swallow for awhile.

Of course things started to get really miserable today, when I was trapped in a hot van with a bunch of state DOT people doing a field view two hours from home. In 93-degree weather. At lunchtime, I snuck in a call to my doctor to see if I could get in there at the end of the day. But nooooo! They're taking a long weekend and the office has been closed since last night. I probably should have called the backup doctor at this point, but I had to attend to matters at hand.

So I finally get home around 7, decide the pain situation is now too much to handle, and call the backup doctor. After a good long wait, I hear back. He's all "If this is bothering you so much, why didn't you go see someone yesterday?" Um, because I work and had to travel? Because I thought I would feel better by today? Because I've never had a sore throat go on this long? Because I haven't had strep since I was probably 18, so why would it pop up now at 35?

He then cemented his membership in the Antibiotic Nazi Club and flatly refused to prescribe me an antibiotic for the strep throat or bacterial infection the Internet has convinced me I have. He did say there is this Minute Clinic at the nearby CVS with a nurse practitioner who might be able to see me.

(Note to self: Find a doctor like my mom's, who will write an antibiotic prescription at the slightest fever or cold symptom)

So I call CVS. Yes, they have a Minute Clinic. And it just closed. But there is hope - they reopen at 10AM tomorrow. I might not have to suffer til Monday and risk developing rheumatic fever, which the Internet warns might happen if you have strep and don't take an antibiotic right away.

So then DH demands to know whether this Minute Clinic takes Blue Cross, or will a visit there mean a hideously expensive non-covered and non-refundable bill. Having offended in this manner at least once before, I call Blue Cross to check our coverage. A voicemail sweetly apologizes that their entire system is being updated and is offline today and tomorrow, and thus the call center is not accepting calls. At all. Please try back on Sunday!!!

You've gotta be kidding me.

Current plan of attack is to somehow get through tonight, which should be doable if I can find that hidden stash of Vicodin I swear we still have from when Magoo was born. Then head to the Minute Clinic in the morning, and ask them if they take my benefits, and if not how much it will cost to pay off the nurse practitioner to get me drugs that will either get rid of this evil malady or at least dull the pain.

Moral of the story: Get sick at the beginning of the week next time. And ignore anyone who tells you it will probably go away in another day or two, and hie thee to the doctor.

Oh, and how I used to think I was so special growing up because I was the only person I knew who still had their tonsils? Not so much. I want those suckers out. OUT! I've now had 4 bouts with tonsillitis since last fall. Don't want any more.

Your own personal Jesus

I was recently browsing the blogosphere and came across this post by someone I knew in college. TRP lives in the Pacific Northwest, recently moved to a new city, and he and his wife are looking for a new Episcopal parish to join. However, a lot of the places they've tried out have made them uncomfortable, and would definitely make ME uncomfortable too.

A few people have been giving this guy a hard time in comments and even other blogs, saying that he is shallow and narrow-minded because he only wants to worship with people exactly like himself, and that the true meaning of Christianity and the value of organized religion is getting lost in the details of worship style. But I was reading this post and thinking, "Right on, brother. You are brilliant. And very brave in your candor."

See, I've recently been through the church search myself. Although I didn't have experiences as squirm-inducing as his (unwanted hugging? public identification as a visitor? newcomer-stalking?), there were definitely places we felt uncomfortable, and we ultimately ended up going further afield to find a place we liked. And yes, little details do matter in terms of overall comfort level and ability to focus on worship. Even if they seem like shallow stylistic details.

Some of the discomfort TRP alludes to seems to reflect the rising prevalence of "contemporary"-style worship, even in old mainline denominations. By contemporary, I mean decidedly informal services incorporating "praise bands", song lyrics projected on a screen, people holding up their hands while singing/dancing along, and casual dress. Generally it's a lot more "participatory" than a traditional service. A lot of parishes seem to be experimenting with this of late, although it usually occurs at an occasional or late service. They sometimes dress it up as a "family" service or get the youth group involved, but there it is. Contemporary.

This makes a lot of old-school people uneasy. I'll be the first to stand up and say that while contemporary worship may be great for some people, and I understand that mainline denominations are worried (with good reason) about their numbers, and it's good to try new things sometimes, and I appreciate these efforts to reach more people...I also can't help thinking that this trend is fixing something that ain't broke.

People are supposedly attracted to this contemporary evangelical-style worship because traditional services "turn them off" or "aren't relevant." I guess I have a hard time understanding why the traditional Episcopal liturgy (Rite I, Rite II) and music would be a turnoff. Even when I try to look at it from an objective point of view, I find it a beautiful and meaningful liturgy, generally free of thees and thous and other potentially scary and unfamiliar words. I'll admit Rite I is a little formal for most people, but it's still interesting to be part of it from time to time. Rite II is, in my mind, a nice update to it - understandable but still lovely. And in a denomination in which, at least in most cases, modern and even liberal societal stances (i.e. social justice, ordination of women and homosexuals, etc.) have been integrated with the traditional worship style and episcopal organization, I'm just wondering why anyone would feel Rite II Episcopalianism is so irrelevant and off-putting as to be supplanted by or replaced with evangelical-style worship. In other words, what's wrong with what we have?

I've also noticed over the past 15 years or so that Episcopal churches are clearly making an effort to be more user-friendly, particularly to those who are new. Examples of this include: paragraphs in the programs indicating when people are supposed to sit, stand or kneel (even through the priest usually tells you what to do - "please stand" etc.); printing the entire service in the program (rather than simply providing worshipers with page numbers in the Hymnal and the Book of Common Prayer); providing crayons and coloring books to entertain kids and keep them quiet (instead of making them actually try to learn how to behave at church). It's as if their expectations of worshipers, and the ability of worshipers to follow along, has been lowered.

I have really mixed feelings about all this. On one hand, it is important to make everyone feel as welcome and comfortable as possible if they are new or searching or from a different religious tradition. And yes, it is convenient not to be fumbling between your program, hymnal, and prayerbook. And as a mom, yeah, the crayons can be a lifesaver at times. I appreciate these efforts to make churchgoing "easier" in some ways.

But on the other hand, some of it seems almost a little, well, patronizing for people who are already familiar with Episcopalianism. I mean, you don't think I can read the number, open the right book, and find the right page? You want to kill more God-given trees because of this belief of yours? You don't think my child is capable of sitting quietly and listening to at least some of the service, or that I'm capable of insisting my kids do so? Do you think I'm a dummy who can't figure out that I'm supposed to stand up and sit down when everyone else does? Or that it would be the end of the world if I happened to do the wrong thing?

Granted, I grew up with this particular brand of worship. But I've been to Catholic services, and other Protestant services, and evangelical services, and multiple Episcopal churches - and inevitably, when you first visit a new church, there is ALWAYS a need to sit back initially and figure out how this congregation does things. Normally one can do so by listening carefully and watching what the other people are doing. It's normal, and OK, to feel a little out of place or clueless when you first go to a worship service at a new place, or in a new denomination or tradition. But I don't see how trying to eliminate this process, and making services seemingly idiot-proof, is going to help the numbers. Are you really going to join a church because you don't have to touch the hymnal or the prayer book ever again, or because they have detailed instructions on what to do when?

I've been to a number of contemporary worship services, primarily in evangelical contexts. I was curious, and had friends who were part of these churches who encouraged me to join them and check it out. I went in with a very open mind. And it's definitely not for me. For one thing, you feel a lot of pressure to very publicly show your love of the Lord (raised arms, dancing, clapping, saying "Yes, Jesus" when you agree with something the minister or leader says in prayer, etc.). For another thing, other people doing these things definitely distracts me from feeling God's presence. Thirdly, you get evangelized. Big time. People are almost too excited to meet you and beg you to come back, or tell you within two minutes of being introduced that they'd really like to study the Bible with you. I felt stalked before I even left the building, but also annoyed that these people thought I was a heathen in need of saving just because I wasn't already part of an evangelical organization. My rather extensive history as a Christian meant nothing to them - it was like I didn't speak their language even when I said I'd studied the Bible before. I hadn't been officially saved, so they needed to do it.

Contemporariness in an Episcopal context is not usually quite as intense, but I'll admit that it's something I associate with nondenominational evangelical churches, and that this is not a positive association for a lot of personal reasons, as noted above.

So TRP, I wish you and your wife the best of luck, and pray that you will find a church home even better than the one you recently left behind when you moved. But I still don't get that clapping on 2 and 4 thing...I'm probably one of the dorks who claps on 1 and 3.

If I clap, that is. I usually don't get into situations where it's called for.

We're baaack!

From vacation, that is. I'm enjoying my creature comforts again, but missing Lake Winnepesaukee big time. After a childhood in which the primary non-chlorinated bodies of water I swam in were polluted, rocky Long Island Sound, freezing Atlantic Ocean in Maine, or murky inland Connecticut lakes, I am now so spoiled by the privilege of swimming and paddling in that lovely clear body of water. I love that lake so much, I don't even want to go in swimming pools anymore (not that I have one at my disposal). And the lake was the perfect temperature. Refreshing but not icy.

Note to self: leaving at 5AM for an 8-hour drive results in better-behaved children in the backseat than leaving for the same trip at 3PM.

Also, this is turning into the week of shorn sheep around here. George has finally reached such an extreme hair length that he must be shaved down (so much for looking like a furry but goofily adorable white poodle). As of Wednesday, he will look like an emaciated spindly-legged freak, but he'll be a lot cooler.

I too am in desperate need of both a trim and highlights, and will be receiving both soon. This seems especially urgent now that I've discovered a small cluster of gray hairs in the vicinity of my usual part.

And Melrose and Mr. Magoo were taken to the Hair Cuttery today for a badly needed trim (for her) and a first haircut (for him). I've been very conflicted over getting my sweet baby's hair cut, considering he barely had any hair until about a year ago, and in recent months it has gotten a little long but this length resulted in adorable little duck-tail curls all around the sides and back. DH, having been a child during the 70s, had no issues with long-ish hair on little boys. But today I decided the time had come, now that the kid is sleeping in a big-boy bed and talking back (and is going to have to pose in his grandparents' Christmas-card photo in a few weeks). Magoo couldn't have been better behaved - no tears, no tantrums, no big-chair phobia. He walked out with a cute little-boy haircut, a lollipop, an envelope of clippings for Mommy to weep over in the future, and a certificate commemorating his graduation from babyhood. *sigh*

In other random news, I am watching CNN and they just showed this video involving Madonna and John McCain. Awesome.

Evacuation instructions

I'm all for unusual and quirky public monuments, and I've certainly seen a few tasteless sculptures in my time, but this...this just leaves me speechless!

Riders on the storm

I never thought I'd see the benefits of living in a treeless subdivision, but I'm seeing it now. We got whupped last night by a severe thunderstorm, and our beloved mature shade trees once again proved what a liability they are. Oddly, this episode was almost a repeat of a similar storm we had two years ago. Both times:

• it occurred around 7:30pm on a very hot day
  
• I was home alone with 2 kids and 2 panicky dogs
• Violent winds smashed trees and branches all over our property
• The power went out
• No damage to buildings or vehicles, but several near misses

Lessons learned from last time that proved useful in this instance:

• Put the patio umbrella down when it looks like rain
• Bring in small moveable items
  
• Have a working generator capable of running your well pump
  
• Keep your cell phone charged at all times
• Keep your trees trimmed
  

Despite above preparations, we still lost a bunch of trees and large limbs; I still had to extricate our cars and driveway from fallen branches; we still had ruined patio furniture (our wonderful $50 chaises from Target were punctured by falling limbs, but the ugly 1970s white table my in-laws foisted on us WILL NOT DIE); we still needed to take a day off from work to deal with the mess.

Ways this time was better than last time:

• Power outage only lasted one night instead of four days
• DH was half an hour away instead of 5 hours away
• Cable, cell service, and phones did not go out
• The generator (purchased after our old one failed to work in previous storm) worked like a charm, so the fridge and water system did too
  

Ways this time was worse than last time:

• Many more trees/limbs down in our yard
• Much more severe damage to standing trees
• Much closer calls with trees falling on buildings

It was amazing how much destruction can happen in just 10 minutes, which was about the duration of the worst part of the storm. Melrose and I watched it from an upstairs window on the downwind side of the house. The dogs panted at my ankles as branches smacked down on the roof and trees bent and whipped outside. Once it calmed down I could see it was probably as bad outside as last time. In our yard at least, it was worse. Our big old maples were still up but pretty ravaged. Our cherry tree in the front yard was split in half. One of our beautiful horse chestnut trees had snapped off right at the base. Big limbs were down all over the yard, including some on the house, barn, and cars, and more were blocking the road.

But I can't complain. I don't think anyone would after watching this video on the Today Show. Even as I sweated and dragged what seemed like 1,000 large tree limbs across the yard into the woods for hours; even as I got scratched and bruised and dotted with bug bites; even as DH and his dad and countless neighbors brought out the chainsaws to combat a seemingly endless mess of destroyed trees; even as I snapped photos of our bedraggled lawn and fallen trees and broken gutters, all I could think of was this young family's house, and the very land it stood on, swirling off into the river.

My family is safe. My house is safe. The power is on. It's a beautiful day. No complaints here.