No Good Deed

My sister’s 3 year old Corgie passed away two days ago. Her name was Lucy, She had a cocked-ear, bright blue eyes, and a peppered coat. She was one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever met.

The dog was usually in her crate when my sister left, but recently began experimenting, letting Lucy out to roam the house for periods of time. All was going well, so the trend continued.

Two days ago, knowing that she would be gone for an extended period of time, she left the crate open for Lucy. Somehow, and this is quite a feat for a small dog with nearly non-existent legs, she got into a closed garbage can, and fished out a small snack bag where she proceeded to get it caught on her face.

She suffocated underneath the living room table where my sister’s 11, 8, and 4 year old found her.

The family jumped bag into the van, rushed to vet, my older niece holding the dog all the way begging her not to die. The vet took the dog from them, consulted with my sister, and they decided to tell the kids that Lucy was “very ill” and that a she should be given a shot to put her to sleep.

I didn’t get it at first, but then it occurred to me: they were trying to give the kids some control back over a situation. The kids agreed, and Lucy, already a few hours passed, was “put to sleep”.

The kicker of it was that the bag Lucy caught on her face was random garbage someone left on my sister’s lawn. I’ve encountered this personally, where someone leaves a half-eaten chocolate bar on my grass where Puppy Dog gets at it requiring an emergency vet situation. The point being, this isn’t a random event. I am pressed to know any friends with pets who haven’t experienced a similar situation where one person’s garbage becomes another person’s pet killer.

And in the larger context, this happens every damn day. Someone can’t be bothered to carry their trash until such time it can be properly disposed of. It ends up in our streets, storm sewers, the ravine down alongside my house-holy crap there’s a lot down there, where it poisons fish, chokes birds, and pollutes our water.

And maybe we care less about the fish and birds because they don’t cuddle with us on the couch, but I am damned if I understand what possesses people to behave this way. Because at the end of the day, it comes back to us all, instant Karma style.

I’m pained for my sister. She feels terrifically guilty. She needs a hug but she’s on the side of the country. And as I listened to her on the phone, crying over her family’s loss, I can tell she is outside, keeping the conversation away from the kids…and probably still picking up more of someone else’s garbage.

You’re Going To Hell

In looking for a graphic for the last entry, I came across rather interesting quiz. Yes, I’m sucker for online quizzes, so I took it and was rewarded with the information that I could reasonably expect to live in the 5th Circle of Hell.

That’s the place where the Wrathful and Sullen reside. Thinking back to the quiz, I’m sure my answering “yes” to the question of whether or not punching someone in the face who has it coming is a correct thing to do is what landed me there.

So, I passed the quiz around the lab at school and I was shocked that the little cretins with whom I work were only being sentenced: Circle One where supposedly the Unbaptized and the Virtuous Pagans party down.

This quiz maker clearly does not understand the hoi-polloi with whom I study. If Circle One is truly their fate, that is, assuming that the Christian-Judeo idea of Heaven or Hell even exists, and I’m damn sure they don’t, then the Circle One ought really be renamed for the Hooligans and the Unwashed.

Now, maybe this is an age thing. I’ve been around the block more times than these babes, hence, increasing my opportunities for hell-going experiences. Then again, maybe the little bastards lied on the quiz.

Either way, the quiz is junk. I took it twice and somehow managed to graduate a level. At present, should I believe in this ridiculous hoo-haa, I can now expect an upgrade to the 6th Level of Hell reserved especially for the Heretics.

Which now that I think about it, is probably more my crowd anyway.

Get On Your High Horse

I’m coming up on final exams, going out of my mind trying to keep up with the workload and all the while saying to myself: Just two more weeks. Just two more weeks.

And as crazy as it sounds, even though being around a bunch 20 years olds all day is not my idea of a good time, I am going to be applying to PhD programs in the fall.

The logic for this is simple: I enjoy my field of study, there’s few of us out here who do it at a collegiate level, and probably most important: at my age, if I don’t do it now, while I’m in “school mode” I won’t do it. Ever.

This is a pretty recent decision on my part, and recently, I have begun sharing my decision with others.  My father responded with the question “What do you not like about real work that you have to hide in school?”

A close friend responded: “Dude, when are you going to get back out in the real world?”

Another friend: “Who needs that much education in their head? You’re obnoxious enough as it is.”

I’m a little thrown by the reactions I have been receiving. Since when did becoming highly-educated become the mental equivalent of being a slacker? How does trying to become an expert in a field automatically equate to one being a boor? Okay, I’ll grant the obnoxious part, but only out of my friend’s jealously of not being able to beat me at Trivial Pursuit.

More importantly: What the hell is it that Americans have against education anyway? We elected a President 8 years ago on the qualification of his beer-buddiness and looked how that turned out. Said same president appointed a director of FEMA whose greatest qualification was being president of an Arabian Horse association, and on that note, may I remind you of a little event called Hurricane Katrina?

And what about college does not reflect the real world? I have conflicting personalities I have to navigate at all times. I work my ass off 60 hours a week reading, writing, and producing projects that are used outside academia. And I still have to prove I’m as capable as a man, if not more. I’m not some 24 year old who decided they didn’t like getting up and going to work at 8 am. I put in 15 years of professional experience and decided I better make change in my life before I died of an ulcer because I hated my job that much. I don’t study in some Ivory Tower. I work in a grubby, dirty, sticky lab with bad flourescent lighting and inconsiderate labmates. I rarely see my husband, I see less of my dog, and I have no life. Sounds like effin work to me.

And to father I respond: Are you freakin kidding me? I do believe you have a 30 year old sibbling of mine living in your basement, who has been down there since his teens by the way, and who is one step away from joining a Star Trek convention.

And to my friend I respond: read a newspaper once in a while, or better yet, a book. That, or stop challenging me at trivia. Some people know cars, other people know geography, I know tons of random and ridiculous facts of useless information. Sue me. My winning the game does not make me obnoxious. Obnoxious would be me calling you a drooling idiot because you didn’t know who wrote The Carpetbaggers. Which was Harold Robbins, but that’s not the point.

So enough bitching. I have to get back to work here. I have a paper due.

Moon Over Maine

Lessons Learned from a 24 hour trip to Maine and back:

1. US Airways sucks ass, per usual, but this abusive relationship is done. I am breaking up with them once and for all. They can find someone else to torture with their ineptitude.

2. The Philadelphia Airport sucks it even more, seriously, how much can a person hate one place on the planet?

3. #1 + #2 = 9 (as in Dante’s ninth circle of Hell)

4. Getting anywhere is usually more than half the battle anymore

5. Dark & Stormy’s are ass kickers

6. Given #5 I expect Turkish Prawn left a mighty big boot print somewhere on my booty

7. Holy Hell, does this chick have the most rockin’ voice ever! No kidding, I heard her at a party and she rocked Motown like a world class diva. Hear for yourself and if you don’t absolutely love her, you’re a tone-deaf Philistine who shall be dead to me.

8. #5 + #6 + #7 = a fabu going away party

9. Miss Portland, miss Maine, miss friends

10. Damn, I hated coming back here.

…But I Play One on TV

“Hello, this is Sailor Man. You might remember me from such productions as ‘Our Wedding’ or its mad-cap sequel: ‘Our Honeymoon’. If you are receiving this message, you might be my wife, although it has been a long time and I may require a photo identification to verify the veracity of this claim. Should you even remotely recall our relationship, no matter how vague, please do call me at…..”

I bit the bullet and turned off the land line months ago, during the elections, when I was being plagued by political robo-calls and collect calls from prison searching for some whackjob named Jason. And as much as I loathe cell phones, I appreciate their utility, not enough to remember to turn them on after having turned them off during class, mind you, but I appreciate them nonetheless.

I must have had the phone off since last Friday as when I turned it on this morning there were a dozen messages. Not all from Sailor, but the last one, printed for you above, was the most recent and biting.

Bad dog! Bad dog!

It’s what goes through my head when I know I’ve fucked up. Puppy dog, big as she is, cringes and shrinks magically before my eyes whenever I rebuke her. So that’s the image I have of myself when I screw up. Time is precious, any time with Sailor, even if it is on the phone, is precious too and I missed it. He’s at sea, must take advantage of any and all cell phone range.  Missed him. Again. Damn.

Yellow Submarine

It’s appropriate that the Sea of Tranquility is located on the Moon: within site but forever out of reach…like Michaelangelo trying to touch fingers with the Old Man “Dammit! Stretch! Reach!“

Life in general feels like that right now. In exactly 20 days I have 12 papers, 3 presentations and 3 final exams coming home to roost. You know, if it weren’t for all the damn busy work these professors load on me to justify their existence and make it appear like they’re doing something, I might actually learn something.

I’m screwing around tonight. I should be outlining a paper or four, performing analysis or some such crap, but I’m on strike, for the next 12 hours anyway. I ordered pizza, I’m drinking wine (I make it a rule not to drink the last month of term), and I just discovered my next Future-Mr-Inmate-If-I-Wasn’t-Happily-Married-Husband-Man in the form of Nathan Fillion in a crazy little show called Castle. And dammit, where has that been all my life?

Tomorrow it’s back to work. Crazy like a fox. Nose to the proverbial grindstone. The next couple weeks are going to be the most hellish I have seen yet. But it will pass, hopefully my GPA doesn’t take too hard a hit, and then I’ll settle back into my summer time bubble and try to enjoy a little down time.

For the next 12 hours I’m just trying to remember how to float. And breathe.

And the Award Goes to…

Emma over at Eriepressible tagged me for the Honest Scrap Award, to which I say danke schoen, Darling, danke schoen.

The Award and Rules:

This award is bestowed upon a fellow blogger whose blog content or design is, in the giver’s opinion, brilliant.

Regurgitation of the Rules:

1. When accepting this auspicious award, you must write a post bragging about it, including the name of the misguided soul who thinks you deserve such acclaim, and link back to the said person so everyone knows she/he is real.

2. Choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. Or improvise by including bloggers who have no idea who you are because you don’t have seven friends. Show the seven random victims’ names and links and leave a harassing comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog. Well, there’s no prize, but they can keep the nifty icon.

3. List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself. Then pass it on!*

So here’s my list:

1. Blonder Than You. I like this blog because it’s gleefully naughty, terrifically dirty, and almost always cheeky. But I LOVE this blog because Suicide Blond is fantastic at throwing emotional curveballs when you least expect it.

2. Ill-Doctrine: Yeah, I know, it’s a video blog, but Jay Smooth rocks my world with his ability to tackle complicated social politics in a way I thought had disappeared when Dave Chapelle left television. And the man does it with great humor, integrity and style…sorry, Dave, the torch has been passed.

3. Indexed. Anyone who reads this blog regularly enough knows I loves me my geekery. The broad who writes this blog is a genius at combining elements of social studies, basic logic, and pure snarkery

4. Saudi Eve. A Saudi Arabian female trying to tackle work and and a personal life in a society I simply wouldn’t ever want to live in. I first came across her during the Israel bombing of Lebanon in 2006. Her entry for that time crushed me and I know I haven’t looked at that region in the same way since.

5. If you Want Kin… Who would have ever thought that white girl from Detroit would have so much in common with a teacher from Brooklyn of Jamaican descent? But time and time again, I find my thoughts, favorite poets, writers, movies, and other life passions reflected in her writing. I don’t know this woman, but I feel a stronger kinship with her than I do with most my blood relatives.

6. Fox and Maus. My buddy ole pal from my little island off the coast of Maine. I like Turkish Prawn’s New England sensibility, plus he gives me news from home.

7. Computer Nerd Composer. What can I say? Hildi is my favorite Viking from one of my favorite countries.

And my 10 Honest Confessions:

1. Walk by my house on a summer evening and you can usually hear me rocking out, top of my lungs while doing whatever it is I am doing inside. Sometimes it’s Opera, sometimes it’s Irish ballads, lately, it has been  a lot of Elton John, circa 1970’s.

2. While I appreciate Aretha Franklin, I really don’t think she is the greatest female rock singer. And to be really honest, I think she kind of sucks. I can easily list dozens of other women with better voices.

3. The older I get the more I want to go back in time and be even more reckless than I was already.

4. I’m honest to the point of being mean. I’m trying to work on that.

5. When Sailor is gone, I can go months without shaving my legs…in the winter anyway…

6. Despite the tattoos, dirty jokes, and perceived social aggressiveness, I’m actually a little conservative and can be quite shy.

7. Although I love my family, with the exception of my sister, I don’t like them very much as people.

8. I won the freakin’ lottery in the In-Law departent. My mother and father in-law rock.

9. My husband is so nice, so thoughtful and so good to other people that I feel unworthy sometimes.

10. My dog is my longest and most successful relationship.

Morbidity and Mortality

Morbidity and Mortality, or M & M’s, is a practice where doctors discuss the events surrounding the death of a patient and how they may either prevent futures deaths of that nature or how to perform a better job in general when faced with such events. It sounds sick and twisted, but I get how it can be a useful practice. If we did a post-mortem on all our mistakes in life, we’d be the better for it.

So I’m managing a contract on behalf the school. Lot’s of undergrads, young students, kids really, some of them girls. Thankfully, I have a pretty even-keeled bunch. My cohorts, however, have a much different group of students. And that is where the problem lies. I’m 36, I have years of experience managing companies and people, my fellow managers are 23 without such experience.

There is a young girl, recently turned 21, who is on another team and is going through some “stuff”. My fellow managers have not yet noticed only to say that she is behind on work and may need replacing. They don’t know what to say, what to do, and they are going to turn it over to school faculty to deal with. Clearly, this is something I don’t need to be involving myself with. I am busy with school, busy with life, and no time to be dealing with the turmoils of a 21 year old girl.

But said 21 year old girl is in a class with me and when she got out of her seat the other day, we happened to lock eyes and then I saw it: she’s ready to break. And by break, I mean, utterly ready to lose her shit…mind…shit, whatever…

So I invited her out for a drink, forced her really. I heard her story: break up with her first serious boyfriend, ending an unhealthy friendship, moving out on her own, a sick parent…basically everything that throws you into a tail-spin. She tried to justify it by saying she was just stressed. I told her it was deeper than that and that she was a mess. She admitted she was and began to cry.

I don’t have time for crying. I don’t have time for this girl’s problems. I’m so swamped with school and life at any given time that I can barely keep my head above water. I don’t have time for this girl and her tears.

But she got to me.

She did, she got to me. I know what it’s like to have your world fall down around your ears while trying to deny to yourself that your world isn’t falling down around your ears. I know what it’s like to be cut-off, to not have anyone to talk to. I know what it’s like to be so overwhelmed by the coming weeks that you can’t see your way through the next 24 hours. She got to me.

Mostly though, I know what it is like to be surrounded by women, older women, women with experience, who have been there…and frankly, these women, they could give a damn that you’re there now, in the trenches. They make you dig your own trench, even if that trench is being dug in the wrong direction. Because they are busy with their own lives, or they feel there is something to be learned by digging a trench alone, which truth be told, teaches you nothing. Digging a trench may make you stronger, endure more, but it doesn’t make you smarter, doesn’t prevent you from making the same mistakes that required the trench digging in the first place.

And while I hate those women, I also want to be them. I don’t have time for this. This 21 year old girl and her problems. My own problems are much bigger. But she got to me.

So I heard her out, she received a talking to, and then we made a plan. We planned how she was going to get through the next 24 hours. Then the next 48. Then the weekend. Come Sunday night, the planning starts anew.

She has my number with strict instructions to call if she needs to melt down. Another thing I don’t have time for and I fervently hope she keeps it together and doesn’t call. But if she does calls, I know I’m sucker enough to answer.

We’ll be meeting for coffee once a week until the end of term. Even if she thinks she’s better, I’ll be the judge and the meetings will stop when I say they stop. Another damn thing I don’t have time for.

By nature, I’m not a particularly good or even nice person. I try, but I usually fail. But Sailor is a nice person, the nicest I know, and I am surrounded by so many nice and good people I wonder why I can’t be the same. My instinct is to take care of myself, my needs, and be selfish with my time. Sure, the girl got to me, but the instinct to pull away remains the same. To not be a nice person. I’m willing to admit that this now, what I’m doing with this girl, is abnormal behavior.

But I’m in it now. I’m hoping for the best. I hope she can pull it around. I know she will because I will make her. I’ve gone out on a limb, now I expect acorns. I’m hoping my involvement remains minimal. I’m hoping this won’t be a massive time suck. I’m hoping there are no more tears.

Because while I want to be a better person, I don’t have the time for it.

Lord of the Ring of the Bathtub

I have come to a few conclusions:

Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson: Pansy. Ghengis Khan, William the Conqueror, Alexander the Great, Oliver Hazard Perry: Mamma’s Boys.

Yeah, that’s right, I said it. And I don’t care that Admiral Lord Nelson won the Battle of Trafalgar, until said sailor dude has wrestled a 120 mastiff into 1940’s, high-side, ceramic tub with a damn slippery tile floor and ceramic commode conveniently in the way, his victories are for nothing, NOTHING, I tell you!

After spending yesterday afternoon with my in-laws and their friends drinking ourselves stupid and playing dice games, I came home to a tremendous stink in the house. Now, granted, puppy-dog was due for a bath anyway, but she got into something that I can only describe the smell as “death on a shit-stick covered in rotted-corpse sauce”.

So into the tub she went. And three hours later, we were still engaged in battle. I would no sooner have her in my sights with the soap bottle and water cannon when the dog would tack her sail and nimbly escape my grasp. Multiple escapes led to multiple chases throughout the house and basement where I would eventually corner the dog, haul her back upstairs, and back into the bathtub. More water ended up on the floor and myself than on the dog or into the tub.

This dog, my dog, has the fortitude of MacArthur, the cunning of Wellington, and the tenacity of Napoleon. With my dodgy back and alcohol fueled ill-temper, I had enough of her shenanigans and finally tethered the beast to the hot water nozzle in the tub. This of course led to a decisive victory.

..and me, lying on the living room floor, waiting for the spasms in the back to cease…

As Nelson lay dying on the deck of Victory, his reported last words were: “God and my country”.  And mine? “You are so going to groomers next time!”

It is my belief that part of being a good military leader is knowing when to call in the commandoes and mercenaries, or in this case, the dog groomer.

It Starts with T…

A mere 40 arbitrary days after smearing oneself with burnt whatever and you get to celebrate the encore performance of a dead Nazarene on stick with pagan bunnies and psychedelic eggs whilst eating cocoa bean by-products from Central America! Top it off with multiple airings of the “Sound of Music” and you, my friend, have the fixins’ for a perfect weekend.

Dammit, I love Easter!!

I don’t know what it is about this holiday that makes me all crazy nut-so insane, but it does. And alas, Sailor Man is off to sea at present so I am wholly unable of yelling him to put some clothes on when he’s talking on the phone to my mother. Not that he walks around naked. And he certainly would never actually talk to my mother on the phone (best not to engage mom in that fashion…at all..took him years, years I tell you, to learn that lesson).

So I am denied my fun.

Seriously, I have got the trouble bug something fierce and that itch needs to be scratched, I tell you. It’s been many, many moons since I’ve gone out to a bar pretending to be a dyslexic stripper from Arkansas with a backwards tattoo on my ass….and I’m surrounded my college kids all day who truly do not know how to go out and create mischief.

Sigh…I really need to get out…something about this time of year makes me wanna howl at the moon…