Miz S

Special Dog Post For blackbird.

April is 14 years old. Doesn't she look noble? And furry?

We've been having daily thunderstorms, and poor April thinks she is in hell.

Do you remember the time she tried to dig her way through a door during a thunderstorm?

We had hoped that since her hearing is not what it used to be, this storm season wouldn't be too hard on her. But she can still hear that thunder just fine. She has spent the past many days and nights pacing and trembling, poor girl. She keeps trying to find a room in the house that doesn't have any thunder in it.

She has refused to sleep on her pallet in our bedroom for the last two nights because she is afraid the thunder is going to GIT HER in there.Instead, she is sleeping on the bare wooden floor in Evangeline's room.

Ha! She's dumb.

She also refuses to go outside if it is raining (which it is ALL THE TIME NOW, where the hell do I live? Seattle?), no matter how long it has been since she last peed. We actually argue with her about it. We open the door and say, excitedly, "Outside, April! C'mon girl! Outside! April! Here! Aaaaaaaa-pril [coaxingly], here! APRIL! {menacingly] I mean it! OUTSIDE!"

And the whole time she just stands there, staring at us meaningfully, then looking away as if we have offended her deeply.

I usually end up saying, "FINE! GOD! NEVER MIND!"  Josh then uses his command voice and advances upon her threateningly and she finally goes outside, but she gives him this sidelong look and you just know she is thinking "What an asshole!"

Christ. I am one of those middle-aged people who talks about their pets all the time because my kids are all grown-up and I don't have any cute stories about them anymore.

There Are No Bad Dogs. But There Is One Very Bad Cat.

Pushkin rests after his early morning exertions.

I was whipped last night. This felt like a long week at work, I guess because of preparing report cards and writing comments. Also, I got another new student yesterday which is always slightly stressful. She is a sweet, funny, little thing but very low in reading. I have to get her to a level 16 by June and she is about a level 3 or 4 right now. That's an almost impossible feat.

Anyway, I went to bed at 7:30 pm  which is ridiculously early, even for me.  I'm a big fan of the early bedtime because I get up at 5:15 during the week, but I normally manage to wait until 8:30 or 9 before I crawl into bed.

At 5:30am the dogs woke me up because they are used to being fed early. I went downstairs to feed them and let them outside to pee. While I was standing there holding the door open for Rosie, Pushkin came streaking towards me out of nowhere. I made a valiant attempt to slam the door shut before he could escape and he ended up pinned in the doorway, with his front and back legs scrabbling. It was kind of funny. I reached down to grab some fur and loosened the door just a touch so I could pull him back inside. That extra quarter of an inch was enough to let him squeeze through. Zoom! He was gone. The dogs were all excited at this point and did a little half-hearted chasing of him in the yard. He ran right across the frozen pond and I was hoping the ice was thin enough to break because it would serve the little bastard right.

I was swearing a blue streak and stomping around the yard BAREFOOT calling him. I went back inside and got cat food and banged the can with a spoon saying, "Here, kittykittykitty! Here, you little fucker! Come to Mama! Mama's going to kick your ass!"

He just ignored me and hopped the neighbor's fence. So I decided to go back to bed and let him freeze to death out there. I figured I would tell the girls that he died of natural causes.

At 7:30am Josh went downstairs and found him at the door, peering hopefully inside.

Hmmph. I think we should have made him stay outside longer.

I didn't get up until 9:30, which means that I slept for 14 hours. That's a long time to sleep. Maybe I'm having a growth spurt?

It's A Christmas MIRACLE!!!

Us love Jebus. Us want to go to church. There are foodz there?

I went to church this morning at 7:30am. Some of you are rolling your eyes and saying "What the fuck?" and some of you are nodding your heads and saying, "She's finally seen the light! Praise the Lord!"

I can't help it. I'm a born-and-bred Catholic and I yearn for churchly goodness at this time of year despite my preference for lazing around on Sunday morning. When I go to church, I find it half embarrassing and weird and half fulfilling. Don't ask me to explain. I got nothing for you.

Anyway, I told Josh last night that I was going to 7:30am Mass and he said, "Do you want me to go with you?"

And I said, "GOD. NO."

Josh likes Mass way too much, in my opinion. I mean, you know, for a Jewish boy. He sings the songs so heartily that it almost seems like he's being sarcastic, but he's not. He just LIKES to sing hymns.  He also says all the responses and kneels and stands and sticks his fingers in the holy water and, and, IT'S JUST WRONG.

Anyway, I set my alarm for the crack of dawn and somehow found the strength to follow through and get up. I drove to the church in Georgetown that I used to go to with my kids sometimes. I like it because it's a Jesuit church and the Jesuits are all radical and shit. I fumbled my way through Mass because it's been, oh, about a year or so since I last went. And I embarrassed myself during the Handshake of Peace because I think I shook too many people's hands. It was awkward.

But THIS was my favorite part: there was a man there with an amiable-looking yellow lab that was wearing a blue service dog vest. Dude. Once I saw that lab sleeping peacefully on the floor by the pew I just couldn't focus on godly matters.  And when the man went up for communion the dog went up, too! It was so cute!!

Now, this man did not appear in any way to be handicapped, but I totally understand that he may have a condition that is not obvious. That's not my point. My point is, I want to put service dog vests on my dogs so I can take them everywhere. If I could take my dogs to church I would totally go every week, I swear. The only problem is that my dogs are just not that well-trained and everybody would know that they weren't really service dogs. Rosie would be jumping up on random people's laps to get attention and April would be freaked out by the organ or something.

Anyways.

Church was fun. I might even do it again next week.

Now go forth and sin no more, you damn heathens.

Again With The Old People Theme.

One time I was driving my kids home from school when I heard Sasha, way in the back of the mini-van, say a quiet little "aw" with a genuinely sympathetic tone in her voice.

"What?" I said eagerly. "What?"

I was excited because she was 13 or 14 at the time and had entered a dark and uncommunicative period, punctuated by rude behavior and angry outbursts. Hearing this quiet and sympathetic murmur from the back seat made my heart leap in gladness. She has a heart! Her teenage phase is over! Wow, that was quick!

I turned out to be wrong about the teenage phase being over. But she was aw-ing because we had just passed an old man who was fumbling with a hammer and nails, putting up a Lost Cat notice on the telephone pole. An old man looking for a lost pet. It really was sort of pathetic and sad.

I was reminded of this yesterday when I came home from work and listened to a message from my mother that the sick cat had been put to sleep at the vet's that morning. Old people putting their cat to sleep. An old lady whispering to her cat, who still purrs, while the vet administers the injection. How fucking sad is that?

My parents are bereft. He was an unsatisfactory pet in many ways, as my sister Julie pointed out to me, but they adored him. His memory will live on because whenever we walk in the house we will smell the faint odor of cat piss. He expressed himself by spraying liberally, mostly on my father's side of the bed, but also on the couch in the living room.

It's not as if he ruined their house or anything, because a parade of previous pets had also all left their various scents and stains. My mother really goes for bad animals that no one else will have.

My father and my nephew dug a grave in the backyard. It was not an easy task because the drought has baked that Maryland clay into one gigantic brick. They were not able to dig very deep, so they put rocks on top of the grave to discourage any marauding animals. Let's all hope that there is not a macabre postscript to this story.

I picked up some Thai food and went over to visit them. (I am the Good Daughter! IN YOUR FACE, SIBLINGS!) We reminisced about the many, many other pets that are also buried in the backyard.

I was glad that I went over.

Off to work now. I had to use my mean teacher voice yesterday because DAMN this is a chatty bunch of kids who WILL not shut up. Oh, and little Estafania stole some shit yesterday and was cheerfully unrepentant, although she did seem sorry that she got caught.

More news as it develops.

Zen And The Art of Complaining.

I hate it when I post about how much FUN I'm having, how WONDERFUL my life is, and then I find out that someone I love was simultaneously having a crappy time. This is because in my ideal world everyone I know is ecstatic at the same time, with only teeny-tiny bouts of minor annoyance, all experienced simultaneously, to help us appreciate our happiness even more. Miz-topia! Woo! I think this might be because I feel, what? Guilty? About being happy? What is that all about? Oh, right. It's about me being slightly nuts.

Anyway, I will tell you with some guilt that I had a lovely, long, relaxing weekend with Josh. And then Tuesday morning came and it was back to work. Insert a heavy sigh here. Hey! I wonder if I'm getting burned out. The common wisdom used to be that teachers burned out around Year 7, although nowadays it's much sooner. A lot of teachers leave the classroom before they are tenured (Year 3). I am at Year 8. I can't tell whether my weariness is because I always forget how hard the beginning of the year is, or because I haven't bonded with my kids yet, or whether I am just sick to death of trying to find my way around obstacles. I really shouldn't be writing about this, because I don't want to focus on the negative side of my job. It doesn't help me. BUT. I need to be aware and recognize the symptoms of burn-out, because there's nothing worse than a teacher who doesn't want to be teaching anymore.

Anyways.

After work today I have my five-week post-surgical checkup. I don't want to overshare here, but tomorrow IS my anniversary and it would be nice if the doctor says that my husband and I can get reacquainted, *wink, nudge*.

The only other news I have is that Pushkin is sneezing a lot and looks like he doesn't feel well. In all likelihood, this means that we will probably end up celebrating our anniversary at the vet's office, damn it.  Thus, my heavenly weekend will be balanced out, mid-week, by disappointment, annoyance, and expense. And order will be restored to the universe.

Hard Eyes.

I only have time for a very quick post this morning because I am really trying hard to use my time wisely, get to work early, and then leave at a reasonable hour. So let's use bullets, shall we?

• The boys in my class this year are sweet and uncomplicated for the most part. There is one who worries me because his family life is not very wonderful (8 kids, scary dad, submissive mom, chaotic life), but he seems to respond to positive attention so that's a good thing.
• The girls are a piece of work, I'm afraid. There is one who is a leader, and not in a good way. She has a reputation as a thief (the notes from the Kindergarten teacher said "check her backpack every day"), and indeed she already tried to make off with a pair of dollar store scissors that I would have been happy to give to her if she had asked.  She's smart, oh my God she's smart, and she has hard eyes. Why does a 6 year old girl already have hard eyes and a wall built up around her?
• Yesterday after work I took the dogs to the Rich People's park near our neighborhood, where a group of Rich People congregate every evening with their well-bred dogs. They talk amongst themselves and ignore friendly commoners. Three of the Rich Dogs would NOT leave my Rosie alone, apparently she smells VERY sexy, and their stupid ass owners would NOT call them off. I stood there, with my dogs on a leash, Rosie trying to crawl up my legs, April wrapping herself around me, while the Rich People chatted on, oblivious. One dog was particularly insistent that Rosie be his bitch. Every now and then a woman looked over where I stood, STRUGGLING TO KEEP MY BALANCE, and called, "Natty Bo! Come here, Natty Bo!"  Well, Natty Fucking Bo would not come here, and while I felt that kicking him would be going too far, I did try very hard to step on his toes. The owner finally, FINALLY, came to get her dog, and never even made eye contact with me or said sorry or anything.
• I was so pissed at myself for not being assertive and saying something like, "Could you leash your fucking dog because clearly it is not under your control?" that I cried. But not where anyone could see me.
• Later Josh and I went for a 3.5 mile walk, wherein I ranted about irresponsible people for at least 1.5 miles. At one point, an SUV came flying down a road, so fast that we turned around to look and had the following conversation:

     Josh: Man, that thing might roll over. That would be horrible.
     Me:   Yeah. Horrible slash fun-to-watch.
     Josh:  Honey, I think you're losing your soft side.

This made me laugh.

Now I must take my hard eyes to work. You guys have a great weekend. And do not fucking piss me off or I will KICK YOUR ASS.

Through Suffering I Shall Be Purified.

As usual, work is kicking my ass BUT GOOD. I don't mind working hard, but I mind that it doesn't matter how hard I work because I am never, ever, ever caught up. And it's not just me. It's every decent teacher that I know. And this is only the very beginning of the year. I don't want to be this tired all the time. I don't want to come home from work and immediately sit down in front of the computer to do more work. I hate being this exhausted and I hate donating so much free labor to my school district. But I love the kids and I love my teacher friends and I have to work.

I'm sorry, because I know I complain about this every year. I must sound like a broken record.

I will tell you this:  I would not want my daughters to go into teaching. At least, not into public school teaching.

*  *  *

I think it has been well-established, as recently as a few days ago, that I am a complete freak in matters pertaining to animals. I still remember feeling sick and shaky at the age of 9 or 10 halfway through reading Black Beauty, and hiding the book in the basement so I would never have to even see the cover again. I rescue spiders, the poor little things, scurrying desperately out of the way of the broom.  I would happily have a pack of dogs and cats if I didn't have to go to work every day. Etc.

Occasionally I am accused of anthropomorphism.  I still smile when I think of how  Jane described me to her readers when she finally decided to link me (after months of shameless ass-kissing on my part.) She said something like this: "...Miz S, whom I applaud for her breathless, scattershot wit but deplore for her tendency to anthropomorphize..."

I agree that it is silly to attribute human feelings to, say, spiders. But I have no doubt that sentient creatures such as dogs share at least some basic emotions with us. Fear, loyalty, affection, anxiety, a sense of humor, boredom, to mention a few of them.

But even I thought I was being ridiculous last night. I came home and fed and walked the dogs, which is my usual routine. What I wanted to do next was sneak out of the house with just Rosie, leaving April home alone. (Josh was out playing softball.) I wanted to go for a long-ish walk, uphill and down, to try and de-stress after a long day in the trenches of first grade. April is getting older (she's 12) and can't really do the long walks anymore. But I just couldn't leave her home alone. I had hoped that she would just go lie down and veg out somewhere and I could slip out with Rosie, unnoticed. But...she kept WATCHING me. REPROACHFULLY. As if she could read my intentions with her doggie ESP.  I would saunter nonchalantly towards the door, pretending that I was just going to take out some recyclables, and she would suddenly get up and stare at me. "What?" I said. "I'm just taking out the trash!"

Etc.

I never did get out for my walk.

*  *  *

I Hate People. And Lack Of Sleep Frees Me Up To Say What I Am Really Thinking.

You do not have to love animals to be my friend. But if you are mean to animals, or treat them with scorn, I will not be able to abide you.

Hey! I have an idea! If you have a bunch of little kids, and you feel stressed out a lot, and you are pregnant, and you're not really a dog person to begin with? DON'T GET A FUCKING DOG.  Because soon you will complain about how the dog is so "needy" and the dog is always wanting affection and, and, FOOD for crying out loud, and the dog craps on the floor after being inside for 10 hours. Oh, and it's ill-trained because no one takes the time to train it. It just gets yelled at for doing shit that dogs do. And you will pretend to feel bad about hating and neglecting the creature that you VOLUNTARILY TOOK ON,  and you will ask for absolution from your blog readers, and some of them will make the sign of the cross and bless you because they are sycophants.

For God's sake, be kind enough to find a good home for that poor dog.

Puppies! Bunnies! Rainbows!

Check out the fruit bouquet that sweet Kim at Petroville sent me. It looks like flowers! But it's fruit!

I lied. There are no bunnies or rainbows, but if you scroll all the way down you will see some pictures of cats and whatnot.

I am feeling waaaaaaay calmer about this whole insulin pump debacle. For one thing, Evangeline rolled her eyes at me and said, "I wasn't crestfallen, Mom. I was already thinking that it sounded like too much of a hassle to get trained on the pump before I leave for Russia."

Oh. Well. I thought she was crestfallen. I guess I was projecting.

Also, after a long conversation--where I tried very hard not to get tearful-- with the diabetes educator at Children's Hospital, it turns out that she was already not entirely pleased with the amount of hoop-jumping that would have to be done to get Evangeline on a pump before she leaves for Russia AND there are going to be upgrades and changes to the pumps in the next 6 months anyway AND even if we had $6000 to plunk down for a pump right now, it makes no sense to do that because once we change our health insurance, the new provider might say they won't cover any of the ongoing costs associated with the pump because it was a pre-existing piece of equipment.

Exhaling now.

In the meantime, special kudos to both sets of grandparents who immediately offered to buy as many damn pumps as we wanted--Evangeline shall have an insulin pump for every day of the week, by cracky! Not that they're super-rich, but they are super generous. How sweet is that? 

AND...last night I went to bed at 11-ish and slept all the way through until 9am. This is worth mentioning because I have been having horrible sleep issues ever since I got back from the hospital. The worst night was Tuesday night, when I was wide awake until 5am, and then slept until only 8:30am, which could explain a little bit of the general weepiness we've been seeing around here.

But now I'm happy! Woo!

Do not roll your eyes at me, bitches.

You may discuss my personality disorder amongst yourselves.

Oh wait, one more thing and then I swear I will shut up about diabetes and A1c's and glucose, etc. Evangeline sent the following message to her friends after her doctor appt the other day, and it amused me. I reproduce it here for your amusement because I am all about the sharing.

"Allow me to take a moment to brag: I am an impossibly good diabetic. I just went to the doctor, and my A1C is 5.3. I doubt that means anything to anyone, but take my word for it: it doesn't get any better than that. That means that for three months, I've had an average blood sugar of about 99. And since the range of acceptable blood sugars is 80-120, that roughly translates to "Evangeline is amazing and deserves to have her feet (which will probably never have to be amputated due to diabetic complications) washed and kissed by prostrate pilgrims."

Okay, here are a few pictures for you. April was left out for some reason, and I am too lazy to go back and pull another one off the camera. But don't worry, she is still the first doggy wife. Sorry, but the first picture of Pushkin doesn't enlarge. All the other ones will enlarge if you click on them.

"What the hell? Are those puppies and bunnies outside?"

Rosie helps Evangeline check her email.

Working as a team here to catch a moth.

Under the desk doing their paperwork, I can only assume.

I will not be around tomorrow, as I am off to the farm to have a sibling summit with my brother the Goat Daddy, my sister Julie, and my other sister Sarah who has finally agreed to descend from the Adirondacks. So, you guys all have a great weekend, okay?

Beginning To Understand The Concept Of "Rest".

I sent this picture to Robyn the other day because I knew she would appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of it. Every evening, moths get inside the house when we let the dogs in and out. Pushkin ignores them because he is smart, but Nash gets all frustrated and runs around the house looking up at the ceiling and making little sad kitty noises. Occasionally I will pick him up and try to help him catch one. Since I couldn't pick him up the other night, Sasha did, but she's too short to help him reach the moths, and he was batting helplessly at them while I was rolling on the floor laughing hysterically. It really does not take a lot to amuse me.

I was bored last night so I changed my Typepad template to one of their new designs. I think it's pretty, but I also think it might be taking longer to load. I can't tell if it is the new design or if it's just my internet connection that is being cranky. Do me a favor and tell me whether you think it is taking longer or not.

Also, I decided to add categories. I thought it might be helpful if I was trying to remember something that I wrote about the pets, for example, or about Evangeline and her totally useless pancreas, or Sasha and how damn funny she is.  I have not yet gone through all my old posts and categorized them. I guess that will be something I could work on today while I sit on my ass and rest.

Yes, it turns out that there must be some reason for resting after surgery, because I was a mess yesterday after I got back from Children's Hospital. All exhausted and shaky and self-pitying.  Don't feel sorry for me, because we all know that I am a stupid-ass. Normally, Evangeline would have gone by herself. But the appointment this time was at the hospital in DC instead of at the easy-to-drive-to satellite clinic. Evangeline was nervous about getting lost, and since I love to be needed I said that I would go with her. I really didn't think it would be a big deal.

Whatever. I'm an ass. So today I have vowed to do absolutely nothing. There will be lots of jobs for Evangeline to do when she gets home from THE DRINKING PARTY she was at last night. I think you will enjoy this: Evangeline and her friend Caitlin and some other college friends were all spending the night at Caitlin's house last night. They were going to watch the movie Carousel and drink every time there was some dialogue that was degrading to women. (e.g., "It is possible dear, for someone to hit you, hit you hard, and it not hurt at all.") I'm a big fan of Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals but damn I hated that movie.

Josh allowed her to take alcohol from our house because she forgot to get Sasha to buy it for her before Sasha went to the beach with Paul and his family. (Are you following all this?)

Fine, go ahead, judge me for my permissive parenting style. She'll be 21 in 9 months and she's ridiculously responsible and level-headed.

Where was I? Oh, right, I was rambling. And defending the lack of drinking parameters around here.

SO. I have more for you, but if I tell you everything NOW, I will have nothing for TOMORROW.

Carry on.