Swimming with the Sharks

When I was born, I was my father's first child and my mother's second. July 12, 1967. I can't say I remember the day exactly but I'm sure I cried at some point. My father working and my mother delivering. That was the whole eight years of their marriage. Separate. When they were  together, they were explosive so dad went to work or escaped in some other fashion but mostly work. Anxiety traveled right down the umbilical cord to us, my brother from a previous marriage, myself and my younger sister.

I was extremely quiet, hoping no one would notice me at all. If I closed my eyes maybe my life would flash forward and then I'd be done. Well, I'm 42 now and I probably have a way to go since everyone in my up line is so freakin' healthy and live forever.

The fondest memory I have of my father is one day when he came home from (before we were in bed, for once), he got on all fours and let me ride around on his back like a dad. At that very moment I had a real life dad. That was the best day for me. I was about three and I remember it crystal clearly.

Cut to living in Malibu. Although we lived at the beach in a beautiful three story house overlooking Pacific Coast Highway, all I can remember is my parents screaming at each other. I was five. I would sit in my room and talk to Jesus. Mostly because He'd come to visit quite a bit. He used to sit on the end of my bed. He was cool. All I remember was how much pain I was in and that He kept telling me I was his special girl. Ok.

My brother, Walter six years my senior, taught me how to ride my bike without my training wheels. I was so proud although I fell and hit the curb on my way back. But I did it and he cheered me on.

I was in Kindergarten. I went to school and was coloring with my left-hand. My teacher abruptly walked over to me and yanked the crayon right out of my left and and demanded I only use my right hand. I cried. When she walked away, I switched back to my left hand. I kept it inside and went home with a smile as I wanted nothing to do with adding any more turmoil to our house. It was not a home. It was hell.

My Simone-y, Smackrel, Sausage, Samoomoo, My Manire

It feels like someone put a gun to my chest and fired. No, more like a canon. In death, I celebrate her life. I think of the times she threw up in my car because she got car sick, ripped all cable line from the house, ate every single strap on my new lounge chairs and ripped the patio posts right off with nails showing out of both ends. She never failed to greet me with a smile and man could she smile, even when she ate a wasp and her face was swollen equal her body weight. The basis of her personality was so gentle and mellow yet she had the stubbornness of all the bulls in Spain.

Probably one of my favorite/morbid stories of Simone is when my cat, Alvin, died tragically. Being emotionally distraught, I decided to bury him in the backyard so he could always be with me. After a day or two, Simone, 1, smelled a project coming on. . . .coming on strong. I would go to work and always look forward to coming home to see my happy, wiggly baby. I would burst open the back door and there would be my happy wiggly dog. . . . .although now, along with my dug up dead, deteriorating cat, Alvin.

My mortification was beyond anything I can describe other than I had to relive the death of my cat over and over again each night when I got home from work. I came up with a plan as I dragged his lifeless, chubby body by this skinny legs back to his grave for the third and, hopefully final time. I put hot sauce and lots of black pepper on top of his grave so if Simone felt the need to dig into her project, she would be deterred.

The next night I hesitantly opened the back door and there was my happy, wiggly baby sans my dead cat. I thought, I'm a genius. My plan worked.

That night I slept confidently and soundly until I woke up out of a dead sleep at 2 am to the most horrific smell in my tiny one bedroom house. I saw that Simone got sick; and I mean really soupy sick all over the living room rug. I was up all night cleaning and airing out the house. Simone seemed fine once she got it all out of her system although there was no sleep for me. Just as the sun began to rise was I able to breathe through my nose again and I slept for a few more minutes until I had to go to work.

When I woke up, I thought to myself, wait a minute. I walked through my huge backyard all the way over to where Alvin was buried and lo and behold, there was his leg sticking straight up from his grave and half of it was missing, the half that was in Simones' sickness.

For a split second, just a split one, I had really bad thoughts toward my happy, wiggly baby. It was a Friday. I needed to remove her from the premises until I could figure out what to do. If I put her in a kennel, there was a great likelihood that she would get colitis as she did nine times out of ten when she was kenneled. With my hands tied, off to the kennel we went but this time, I brought my shoes, blankets and clothes to leave in the kennel with her so she could be near me while I was gone. I rented out the biggest one they had and I sat in there with her for almost an hour with all my leave behinds to help her get comfortable and to adjust. Although I was pretty frustrated with her, she smiled and said with her eyes "Mom, I'm a dog. I'm doing what dogs do." I told the kennel people I would be back on Monday to pick her up.

I went to work that day on about 10 minutes of sleep. I made it through the day. I got home and called my friend Janet for help on what to do with poor Alvin. Janet was my first choice because a) she loved Alvin and would have his best interest and heart and b) she was an architect with a degree from Sci-Arc, the school best known for testing the limits of architecture. Her senior thesis was a 40 foot long display of Wilshire Boulevard. Someone with that kind of mind would surely have an answer of what to do. And I was right.

Janet came right over and told me to get in the car. I didn't ask too many questions, I just trusted. We soon pulled into the parking lot of Home Depot. I followed her in and she lead me down the cement isle. We quietly purchased the cement mix and some accessories. We went back to the house, put on our masks, mixed the cement. We dug up poor Al. We placed his now hairless body into a box, dug a deeper, wider hole and placed him in. We poured the cement on top of the box of Al, let it dry and threw a piece of sod over the top. During the entire process we hardly said a word. We washed up and just stared at it and nervously giggled. It was weird.

On Monday, I picked up Simone from the kennel, colitis free, brought her home and she urgently ran to the backyard to resume her very important project. She sniffed and looked high and low, shrugged her shoulders and instead settled on a rawhide under the big oak tree and was perfectly happy.

And this my friends was Simone. This is one story of many. She will live in my heart forever. Funny, silly, curious, stubborn, soft, gentle, obstinate, loyal dog who ended up being one of the best pet therapy dogs at Children's Hospital of Los Angeles.

Toasty Posty

I'm no professional writer and ugh, hold please, I must change this font. Ah, that's better. Isn't Times New Roman in the grave with all the newspapers? I mean really.

My own perfectionism often prevents me from moving forward. Does anyone out there feel this way? Sometimes I wonder if there is some sort of relation to Autism for me. I must have things a certain way or I obsess, don't sleep and on and on. I have to admit that this is a good thing if you're one of my clients, not so much if you work for me or live with me. I'm often baffled how people can move forward when their line in their t is crooked. Is this normal? I'd say, probably not. Maybe people don't worry about things like that so much.

I would love to live on a ranch. A big ranch, with lots and lots of acres so we can have more animals. Our dogs can run and run forever.

No Agenda

I have no agenda here, right now. Lying amongst dogs and feeling warm. We have four yellow labs and sometimes it's a lot. Actually, it's a lot most of the time but I feel incredibly empty when they're not on top of me, stepping on me, licking my face, fighting over who's going to get the most attention and so on. It's warm, comforting and I always know that everything is going to be Ok when they're with me.

I can't believe I'm awake and Andy went to bed. I've always fancied myself a bit of a night owl and a tad of of a control freak *wink* so when Andy and I first started dating, of course, I lost the remote control (pun intended but can't find the italics button) and thought "he'll be asleep soon and that remote will be all mine, no more History Channel and back to my reruns of thoughtless 90s sitcoms". But that's not the way it worked out at all. He'd be awake until at least 1 or 2 am and I just couldn't compete so I finally gave in and learned a lot in the process. Although there have been those rare occasions when he would doze off and I would quietly reach my hand across his chest to the remote, he'd growl and grab the remote in his sleep. Is this innate in every single man on earth? I'm thinking yes, yes it is.

We've been watching a lot of PBS recently. Who knew it was so good? Lots on the Holocaust. Heavy heavy stuff and really amazing stories. We watched a story of six women in their 70s and 80s who survived Auschwitz telling their stories whilst laughing and flirting with the interviewer. If they can go through something so intense, live to talk about it and enjoy what's in front of them right now, we'll I'm inspired beyond words and if they can go through that, I can go through anything and I mean anything.

Ok, so Andy went to bed and I'm very proud to say that I've moved on from thoughtless 90s sitcoms but I do admit I'm watching reruns of Monk. I just can't let it go. I loved that show. Hey TS, if you're reading this, please come back. Perhaps do a reunion, but not like the The Brady Reunion. That was cheesy and unrealistic because you know the entire series was realistic and that's the way we liked it.

I'm dyslexic, left-handed, 2 + 2 never = 4 and although I type about 70 wpm, I can't type as fast as all the things that are going on in my head. So, this will probably explain a lot as you read my posts. It's just my thing. I like my thing, I'm Ok with it.