Saturday, August 28, 2010

Werewolf in Ithaca


I booked an appointment with a Behavior Specialist at my Veterinarian’s office to learn a few tricks for training Huck. Believe me, this felt like I was calling up a dog whisperer.  But I am in a place where I’d rather try the new wave method than yell at or beat my dog because I don’t know any better.

She asked me to describe our routine and what was going on at home. I am pretty good at schedules and consistency, so I didn’t need a lot of coaching there.  I described how Charming Baby was afraid of the dog. Bless Sam’s heart, he thought the dog was trying to “hug” him every time Huck jumped up on him and asserted his dominance. I knew better than to think I had a cross-species rapist on my hands, but I didn’t know how to empower my son or get the dog to stop “hugging.”

It was a simple fix. Dogs are pack animals and they need to know their place. Instincts will drive them to vie for the alpha position. After I explained what was going on, the Vet said, “Right now your dog thinks he’s above your children.”

“Really?” Little fucker.

“A dog’s place is determined by how and when he gets his food. You need to have Sam feed him. That will tell him he is below Sam in the pack.”

Sure enough, as directed, Sam started putting the bowl down, then, when Huck goes for it, he picks it up and commands, “Wait.” When Sam is good and ready, he puts the bowl of food down and says, "Okay."  Then the dog gets to eat.

Huck doesn’t whine or whimper, he sits there patiently watching Sam and then happily eats when we let him.

The Vet assured me it is not cruel to play this on a dog. A dog just wants to know where he stands and once he's figured that out, he is happy.

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand…

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

It’s a Riot


 
I was defriended on Facebook.  I have an average amount of friends, with a hefty amount of posts to wade through, but this “friend’s” posts were extra special-- funny, creative posters for his rock band’s shows, so I noticed them missing right away.  I scrolled through my list of friends to be sure of my demotion.  Yep, I was deleted.

To be fair, I have done this to a few people.  I know you can just “hide” them instead and be rid of their status updates forever, but sometimes I just want to clean house all the way.  I like to purge.

At first I felt rejected, but the more I think about it, the funnier it gets.   What crossed his mind?  “That Lisa Barnhouse and all her photos of Ithaca!  I can’t take it.”  It wasn’t like I was uploading shots of my compost pile (that’s next, BTW). 

Maybe his wife made him do it…they got into a big fight and she went through his friend list and started pointing to all the ex-girlfriends and commanded, “Out!” 

Or it’s payback, after all these years.  I was the one who made up the lie that I didn’t need a date for my homecoming dance because I allegedly had to “work the event” and then took someone else (he went to a different school).  I think that ended our brief relationship, if me riding around on the back of a Vespa scooter constitutes a relationship.

Probably I’m not cool enough for his punk rock star life and he only tolerates friends who look like they work for Satan on his profile.  Even if I do own a pair of really excellent black leather boots and know every word to every single Clash song ever written.

Whatever the reason, it really makes me want to laugh, or grab a microphone and some drum sticks, and yell at the top of my lungs

“ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…

White riot, I wanna riot, white riot, a riot of my own!”

Monday, August 16, 2010

You Dropped Your Ice Cream


If you grew up in southern California, or in a city, or with a television, or female, you probably spent most of your life watching your weight.  It began in fourth grade for me.  My lucky little brother was thin as a rail and no matter how many scoops of Rocky Road he stuffed down his face, he never got fat.  I, on the other hand, knew how to count calories by the time I was nine years old.

After my chubby pre-adolescent years, I enjoyed a nice run of being skinny.  A growth spurt and newfound interest in boys pulled me away from chasing the ice cream truck to swimming extra laps and taking up running.  By high school I was living on vegetables and Diet Coke.

I can chronicle the battle through college, my wedding (Jenny Craig, anyone?), a 50-pound weight gain with my first pregnancy, a failed pregnancy in-between my two boys that left me full of hormones that were near impossible to shed, and so on…

Until last June.  I took the boys out for ice cream as an end-of-the-school-year-treat and I upset Charming Baby by staring at his ice cream cone the whole time like a hungry dog.

“Sam, please let me have another bite.”

“No, I already gave you a taste.”

“Come on, Sam, just one more bite.”

“No!”

First Born Prince tried to help, “Mom, you can have another bite of mine.”

“Thanks, Charlie, but it’s Sam turn to surrender Mommy Tax.  Fork it over, Sam.”

He gloomily handed me his cone and then ate the remainder of his treat shielding it from me so I wouldn't beg for more.  As we left the dairy store, I realized that not only had I been ruining my ice cream time for thirty years, but now I was starting to take down my son’s enjoyment.  I made a vow to always get my own cone from that point onward.

I am having the sweetest summer of my life.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Whack-A-Mole


I thought I was going to school for creative writing last week, but instead got an education in what it’s like to be a full-time working parent. I was so busy, there was no time to even call my best friend and complain about it. The Professor was out-of-town, I was enrolled in a 9:00 to 5:00 creative writing course at Cornell (which meant I had to get a lot of shit done before 8:30 and after 5:30), and we also just adopted a six-month-old, fifty-pound coonhound. Make no mistake, that alone would snow the average person under.

It really felt like every time I turned around, something popped up that demanded my attention. I ran out of food, wine and patience by day three. My standards for meal planning slipped to opening the cupboards to let my sons graze for their dinner. I was rushing them into bed each night so I could tackle the homework assignments that were due by 7am the following morning.  My new triage plan made no allowance for lengthy bathing or tooth brushing either.

The people I know who pull it off are major badasses. I am in awe of anyone that can simultaneously raise a family, manage a career, and run a household. Not to mention they seem to find time to work out and maintain a social life. I think it takes more than Red Bull and a Blackberry to make it happen, but those seem to be key. For all of you who take it on, you are amazing and I salute you.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Is it me?



From:  Real Simple
Subject:  If You Do Just One Thing:  Organize Your Earrings
Date:  August 2, 2010

I love getting the daily e-mails I signed up for from Real Simple, a magazine targeted at busy women trying to streamline their lives to make room for what’s really important.  I clicked on the link to the article, thinking it read, “If You Do Just One Thing, Organize Your Earnings.”  I was excited at the prospect of getting my personal banking under control in three easy steps. 

Your Keep-It-Together Check List
Prevent a mad morning search for your earring’s mate by displaying your hoops and chandeliers on sturdy wire attached to a pretty painted frame. 

I can see wanting to prevent a mad morning search for your human mate, but how would having orderly accessories help me?  There can’t possibly be that many women wanting this information.

I wanted to learn how to be more efficient with my money, not with dressing myself.  The Professor pays bills automatically.  I think it happens while he is sleeping.  All accounts payable are set up to be paid up to a certain amount.  If it’s over the pre-approved limit, he gets a copy of the bill e-mailed to him for review.  I am still dealing in papercuts and stamp glue highs.  I realize that is akin to getting on my horse and going over to the trading post to drop off some eggs as payment for the flour I got to make bread last week, but what do you want from someone who still reads the paper on paper?

That article is ridiculous and borderline offensive.  I know this makes me sound like I really do ride around on a horse to do my errands, but the article and Lady Gaga’s popularity are signs that the end is near.  I can only hope that it is quick, painless and happens before banks stop using paper checks.



Sunday, August 1, 2010

Working Like a Dog


My mom left Friday morning after her first visit out here. I was happy the weather was good so she could experience bucolic Ithaca at its best. We took her to all of our favorite places and I think she favored the Farmer’s Market. She said seeing all the hippies was “refreshing.” I would have started crying when her plane took off if I weren’t so relieved to not have to tell her to stop loading and unloading the dishwasher.

My mom’s visit was perfectly timed. We got lucky at the shelter with Huck right before she arrived. Not only did she get to meet him, she was a huge help with breaking him in to our household.

Huck is mostly coonhound, which is a working breed. You have to occupy a dog like that with jobs or they will misbehave—tearing up your yard, furniture or whatever they can unearth. So we’ve been walking, fetching and swimming non-stop. Huck thinks he’s assisting us in some long crazy hunt for Lord knows what.

I get this dog down to his core. Even though I have more free time now than ever in my life, I am no toy poodle. I like to work. I shudder to think of the messes I would make if I wasn’t focused on a set of goals. Although a two-martini lunch date does sound good.

I think the best part of putting in a solid day is the sweet reward at the end. My mom and I spent the late afternoons of her visit in deck chairs (she reading, me drinking wine) while Huck napped next to us. There is no better feeling for breeds like us.

 Huck, 6 months old