Run, dog, run.

Fucking Hell.

Yes, I know, most people do not find their Sunday afternoons marred by such horrific language, displaying not only an utter lack of articulate usage of more appropriate words, or consideration that perhaps, that isn't the best way to begin any sentence. Then again, those are the only fitting words today. Bore some resemblance to Dr. Suess books.....

See dog.

See dog run.

See skunk.

Run, dog, run!

See Mom.

She Mom run.

Run Mom Run!!

See dog bark at skunk. See Mom swear. See color drain from Mom's face. (insert: Fucking. Hell here.)

See several other dog owners backing away from scene, dragging their barking, howling, ruff raised dogs in the opposite direction, lest they too come one heart beat away from stroking out, visions of a smell permeating a home faster than they can gather the tools to suppress odor. How right now, we cannot bathe out of doors, as it's a mere 51 degrees, and while I firmly attest to the You're So Stupid You Deserve To Be Cold And Clean, I do not agree to drop gobs of money on a stupid dog that got pneumonia solely due to my intense irritation. Not to mention, the water's cold too, so, you know, I'm not all up for getting that cold and wet either.

And I can attest: there is indeed, a God. A Higher Power. Guardian Angel. Call Him/Her whatever you wish, they were on my side: Fucker Up I'm Going To Kill Her did not get sprayed. The skunk, either old and blind, delirious with fatigue (or fever - please no no no no) failed to even fully turn around to expose the, shall we say, Business End. The tail went up, that's for sure. Pucker stopped, trying to get at least one synapse to connect - I could smell the smoke she thought so hard - I'd like to say she backed up, but then, lying isn't my thing.

I just stood there.

I'm not good with wild life. Yes, I've healed the odd ailing chipmunk, releasing him back to his natural habitat with a belly full of acorns and a forepaw on the mend. I've pronounced more birds DOA than I care to admit, after they beat themselves senseless on the sliders facing the back deck. I've met bucks and does at the back deck stairs, seen bunnies up close and personal - all of these animals undoubtedly are more afraid of me, than I of them.

That is not the case here.

I like skunks. They have such panache, such showy, confident coloring.

I prefer them from a distance. Like strip bars. I know they exist, I don't need (or want) to see them. Both provide a service to certain aspects of nature I don't fully understand. Ignorance is bliss, you know. Usually, I'd not believe that - I do enjoy the odd tidbit of information, not only as they are usually interesting, but fabulous conversational openers, or, topic changers. Someone says something to which I cannot respond? Simple. I slip in the "Did you know.....?" How, for example, according to this study I read, Asian women do not go through menopause. Scientist attribute this fact to having a diet rich in sea food, rice, and very little processed flour products. Evidently, Japanese ladies also do not suffer from cramps.

Now, being Celiac, where I eat a large number of things not including flour, I can assure you, a diet rich in non-flour delicious products has no bearing whatsoever on cramps, or attitude. Ask anyone around me ...er...then...and they'll be happy to tell you not only am I a pain in the ass, who's also in pain, I generally haven't a clue as to why I'm being such a pain in the ass. Not until a few days later. Changing my diet has not changed that.

See? Something like that opens all sorts of doors conversationally. So many topics to choose from, most often followed by the remark that I know the strangest things...where did I get that...to which I calmly, truthfully answer: I read a lot.

The key to using that phrase though, is to drop it in such as way as to not make anyone standing near you feel undereducated or clueless - as though anyone literate would know these things, if only they picked up a newspaper, visited a waiting room for hours on end with nothing to do but read back outdated issues of weird magazines, or cruised the Weird News section on internet websites. Just because the first time I noticed one of these items - I recall it specifically - it was in the Wall Street Journal doesn't mean everyone who reads the Journal would have noticed it.

Hard to miss, it was on the front page, above the fold, with a rather bold headline reading:

Ice Berg Lettuce Making A Comeback

I was in California. I took a brief moment to ponder if that had anything to do with this article - but no, as it's called the Wall Street Journal, for a reason. I was waiting for my friend E at his place of work, (Boeing) where he was some kind of engineer. He told me what he did about a dozen or so times - I never fully got it. Then again, as for stimulating conversation, I needn't have: I had all the info I needed right at my fingertips, including a verifiable, trusted source. No one disputes the Journal. Everyone talks about lettuce. Er. Maybe not everyone. Everyone who knew me at that time did.

It wasn't fascinating just because I happen to be a fan of the Ice Berg Lettuce Wedge; but noteworthy as someone else at The Journal was interested in Lettuce too. And they liked Ice Berg - for so long a lettuce thrust into the center of a thorny debate over whether or not eating leaves to weeds remains a better choice than the crisp Ice Berg. If arugula or any other fancy multi-colored lettuce that comes in the same bag carries more nutritional value than Ice Berg. Ice Berg, the author pointed out (I firmly agree) isn't just lettuce, but the building block to a great salad, one with infinite combinations of color, texture, taste.

Weeds? Everyone puts a low-fat vinagrette on it. There's no surprise, no experimentation. Weeds. In a bowl. Covered in oil and vinegar.

Kind of ties me back to the skunk - a lot like fancy lettuce. It's pretty, it's natural, packs a wallop, but always comes with the same dressing. Sure, he has the element of surprise on his side, but really, that's it.

Yes, in case you're wondering, that is what I thought about as Pucker and I navigated our way out of the forresty section of our walk. I patted myself on the back - doing nothing essentially relayed to my fully trained, smart puppy that she would be wise to do nothing as well. So proud of ourselves I hardly paid any attention to where we were going, which is most likely why I didn't notice the that Pucker had led us right into the clawing distance of those ugly, nasty, ill-mannered Guinea Hens taking up residence up here too.

See hens.

See hens charge.

See Mom and Pucker run.

See us run home, throw open the door, slam it closed, eyes bugging out, chest heaving, mouth agape.

See Mom comment.

Fucking. Hell.

Fallen....

I've fallen, quite hard, may I just say. Several times, in fact, in the last few weeks alone....not in love, or like, or hate, or indifference.....

Out of my fucking twin size bed.

The first time, I chalked it up to being unused to the size of my new nest; but as with driving an unfamiliar car, you get used to where it begins and ends, adjusting automatically for any size differentiation. Not so, apparently, with a bed. Part of it perhaps, is that I'm still a lousy sleeper at best; one can stay in decent shape tossing and turning their way through a supposedly 8 hour night. There are nights I'd swear they stretch 18 hours. Oh, I've considered catching up on my email correspondence, finding something mindless on TV.....instead, I lay there, in the dark, eyes like pie plates, awaiting the blessed relief of sleeping.

That's not, by the way, when I fall out of bed.

Oh, no. My life could never be so simple. I fall out when I finally do fall asleep, much to my horror and great annoyance. I'm starting to wonder if Lois thinks I'm engaging in some sort of formal, tribal solo sex ritual; or simply raising a herd of unruly goats in my bedroom. Part of that is true: not the solo ride on the O train - that's not my thing....but the goat part. Yes, there are indeed nights I tumble out of this twin by my own hands, twisted into blankets that have formed nooses around a limb, my neck, the footboard. It's a talent, I guess; not one though that extends my resume any. More often than not, however, I've realized I don't so much fall out of bed as much as get shoved quite HARD in the back out of bed.

By. My. Fucking. Dog. (Cum. Goat.)

I've whacked my still sore face and head on both tables, on either side of the bed, somehow managing to nail the sharp corners each and every time. Quite the feat, since one of them is octagonal, and I keep turning it so a flat side faces the bed. So far, I've only knocked over the lamp once, thankfully not destroying the lightbulb. All this time, I kept thinking it was me. My fault.

It's not.

It's Fucker's fault.

On the one hand, I'm flattered she loves me so much she enjoys snuggling close; especially as I'm sleeping alone these days. Except. I'm not. I'm sleeping with her. She's a bed hog. She sleeps under the covers, steals the end of my favorite pillow, blows horrific gas in my face, drools on my legs, and then, just in case I might actually have moved after finally nodding off, the selfish bitch shoves me out of bed. She's not even apologetic. Nope. She stretches all the way out, once I've whacked my face, hit the floor, started swearing - making deep, satisfied groaning noises.

The first couple of times? I figured she fell asleep too, moved, and since the beds so tiny, I kind of fell off trying to groggily move away from her.

No ma'am.

This is premeditated, hard core, Alpha Bitch shoving going on. The whole I'm Still Sleeping, I'm Not Aware Of Your Flight To The Floor act is getting not only old, but downright dangerous on her part: I'm so exhausted I'm lethal. I've enough issues sleeping as it is, I do not need 20+ additional reasons clawing me in the back on my way into La La Land. Last night, for example, when she did it, thinking I was asleep and I wasn't?

Well.

Let's just say, she got the shock of her life. That's right. What goes around comes around: I had no compunction whatsoever shoving her too big for her fur ass right off the other side of the bed. Now, we're both on the floor, both of us pissy, but only one of us gets to growl: me. She made some pathetic I Cannot Believe You Just Did That noises; I was not impressed, nor moved. The clawing at the edge of the bed, testing the waters, if you will, on whether or not it was safe to return to the warm spot on the bed? Met with stern resistance.

She ate my retainer, two pairs of panties, and the new Ziploc freezer containers I bought to freeze the seventy gallons of chili I whipped up. They weren't even out of the box yet. This, after I bought her a long line so she could enjoy today's weather while I detailed the car! What kind of thanks is THAT?! Just who does she think she is?

I wanted to stand there, make a huge production of removing her toys, so she was essentially grounded - but I know what happens when I do that. She retaliates. On furniture. With shoes. Obviously panties, a habit she knows pisses me off to no end. I get it, she wants to sleep in bed too. Don't we all.

So I've fallen all right. I've been hurt. So this time, when I fall from grace?

I'm taking the bitch down with me.

Remember me?

Flowers awaited my arrival home from the hospital (nearly two weeks ago now...I've been a little under the weather) - stunningly beautiful flowers. Flowers so me I cried. Mostly, flowers make me all misty eyed; these?

Well.

Quite the flowers, shall I say.

The two sets of ribbons, tied in bows, over the green three inch satiny one? To die for. The flowers however, left me speechless. A lot of time, effort and thought went into those flowers; someone who knew me quite well sent them. Once in a lifetime flowers, sent by someone who was a once in a lifetime kind of guy - the kind of guy that we if each didn't get all mired down in our own ... stuff ... could have been, The One. I snapped a shot of those blooms, in full, dewy, fresh from the delivery truck glory; another, as they've slowly faded. Rest assured, they're still here. I refuse to let them go quite yet, as, perhaps, in lots of ways, I refuse to let him go. Not that he's aware of that - he's cut all contact, not that I blame him. I wonder though, if late late late at night, he thinks of me as I do him, wishes things were different; that I didn't expect him to be a mind reader, and he didn't drop the ball.

The roses, baby ones in vivid pink, full size in gorgeous, creamy, pale yellow snuggled up with oversize blue centered white hydrangea - some of my favorites. No. All of my favorites. Classy. Elegant. Fragrant. Pristine. Full of hope, healing, love, and best wishes. Heartbreakingly, perfect flowers. From a heartbreakingly not perfect guy....there are days I consider sending a letter, thoughtfully composed, hand written, on stationary so crisp it crackles; I find words fail me. How to tell someone, I forgive you, really I do. I expected too much. But you knew me, so I thought you knew what I needed, because, dammit, I didn't totally know what I needed. You knew, I knew. And, let's face it: I did know. I couldn't tell you, anymore than you could make yourself follow through.

I'd love to say I miss you, I think of you often, in fact, not a day passes when I don't think of something that reminds me of you - even little, stupid things: they moved where the bbq lives in the store. That annoys me. I imagine, it annoys you too. I know we would laugh. But I don't want to open a wound that may very well be on the rapid track to healing, I'm trying to respect your request to never contact you, let you erase me from you memory sticks of photos, even though I never got a copy of them, and I wanted one.

I'd love to tell you what I learned, out of this whole experience: that I'm important too. Needing someone to be there for me isn't a bad thing, it's a good one, as it means I've let you in that far. That you being by my side through something scary is important to me - that I didn't want anyone but you there. You made choices I wish you didn't; voiced it, softly, but gave you the out you seemed to want. You took it. Oh, I'll always be strong enough for other's, but I'm not always strong enough for me - I don't have to be. That's what loved ones are for....to pick up the heavy bag, carry - or hell, drag it along - for a while.

If someone loves you, they remember you.

Remember me, as I'd remembered him.

Other flowers arrived; just as beautiful, but different. Steaks were sent from family, in the hopes of indulging hopefully sooner, rather than later. Someone went so far as to send in The Maids, a four woman cleaning crew who did such a fabulous job I'm afraid to walk around! The floors, especially the kitchen one they did by hand, on their knees, as I used to do when I was young, in the house I grew up in. The same way I did over 600 square feet of tile in my Dream House, when I separated, and Fox wasn't home, as I'd no idea what to do with my time besides clean and bake.

I did a lot of cleaning and baking then. I did a lot of second guessing, third guessing myself then as well.

Walking away isn't easy, staying isn't hard; the hard part's come and gone, when I realized, deep down, he didn't remember me. I still adore my flowers, still think of him each and every time my eyes land on them - which is a lot, I'll be honest, as they're in a place I see first thing every morning, last thing every night- I miss loads of things about him, and about us together. Fear's a demanding, silent mistress; those flowers remind me of that as well, keeping me at further than arms length, untouchable, by the phone, off limits via email.

In case he ever wonders? He's unforgettable, a piece of my past, my history, I'll always cherish. He's helped to make me who I am, and for that? I'll always love him. Perhaps not the way he wishes, or in the manner that he'd choose; he may not see it for the compliment that it is.

I'll remember him, always.

Like I learned to remember me.

Twin

I've hit upon (okay, so it wasn't my idea, but I'm running with it) quite possibly the last idea of them all, to get Fox to sleep in his own room, his own bed, all by himself. Yes, I am well aware that several folks' kids still sleep with them; that there is that theory that all kids grow emotionally at their own pace....he'll sleep alone before college....but quite frankly? Since he damn near outweighs me, and is nearly my height, kicks like a mule and is a bed hog?

I've had it.

If anyone is going to hog the bed, the covers, the sheets, kick someone so hard they fall out of bed? It's going to be me. Thus, I've (I'm still in shock I'm shuddering) taken all temptation of my ultra fabulous so comfortable I can hardly get out of real live Temperpedic bed, placed it lovingly in the basement, only to install a (gasp) twin bed in my room.

The room, on the upside, looks a good deal more spacious than before.

The downside?

It's a twin bed. I've not slept in one of these since college, or perhaps on a stay somewhere with some family, who only had a twin for company; when this occurred yesterday, I took to aping that stupid Spongebob episode, where he stayed at work...at night.... you know the one:

Look at me, I'm laying.....in a twin bed.

This is me, reading...in a twin bed.

This is me not having sex....in a twin bed.

Look at me, recovering from jaw surgery....in a twin bed.

This is me bitching....in a twin bed.

I hit my head on the flipping headboard thing (I've not had a headboard in YEARS) last night; my feet hit the footboard, and regardless of how much Fucker Up and Shoot Me adores her own bed, when it's snuggled in her kennel, she absolutely refuses to sleep on the damn thing when it's next to my twin bed, deciding instead, there is plenty of room for us both.

There. Is. Not.

Fox came in three times last night, to be re-tucked in; he wanted to build a nest on the floor - all my fabulous nesting material now locked away, up high in a closet, forlornly sending me nasty looks when I go to get dressed. I feel its pain, really, I do. I don't enjoy sleeping under blankets meant for an 8 year old. There are dolphins staring at me on these sheets - while I may have been okay with fish staring at me in highschool? I find it downright creepy now. I'm so going to buy over the top girly sheets, with some ridiculously pink froth of a blanket, so that for the next year or so, I'll try to enjoy sleeping on a twin bed.

I'm finding imagining that a bit of a stretch too. Work with me here.

Sure, there's room for that cutie rug that didn't fit in here with my California King; and perhaps, another dresser, should I find a way to get the blasted heavy bitch downstairs - perhaps, I'll even figure out how to invest in cheap under the bed storage solutions. My bed, is after all, finally, off the floor.

But. It's. A. Twin.

I put a totally positive spin on it for Fox; he thinks it's a great idea. That whole No Room At The Inn thing, forces him to find alternate sleeping locales. Hell, at this point, he could sleep in the oversize tub for all I care. So long as he's no longer draped over me, with my 2:30am clenched teeth caterwaul Get OFF Me, I suppose, the ends do indeed justify the means.

Now I just need to deal with my twin sleeping issues: Fox, and Pucker Up. She will learn to sleep on the floor, on a bed of her own, with a blanket of her own, as her sleeping either between my legs, or, last night's unsuccessful sleeping attempt - on my back - are drawing to a rapid close.

I'm rather hoping the two of them sleep together upstairs - this is, after all, the vision I had when I got the damn dog: small child, small dog, nestled together in bed, snoring....I did not envision them nestled together, snoring, in my bed.

I hope to God, we're moving in the right direction. I'm praying for a long overdue bedtime miracle, Virginia Wolfe style....

A Bed of One's Own.

Even if the damn thing's a twin.

Siiiiigh

I'm having one of those days.

The no good really horrible everything that could go wrong has, days.

To start? I swapped the laundry out, and broke a nail. Not the tip off one, so I could file it down, no I ripped the damn thing right and proper across the nail bed. I'm pretty sure I fainted. Or I should have. I was going to give super glueing it a shot, but, well, the last incident with glue (and a hot glue gun) didn't go as well as planned, so I'm staying far away from something that could glue me to my steering wheel.

I need to leave, for an appointment.

Only, it's also raining, so hard I can barely make out my car, sitting there forlornly in the driveway. I threw Pucker out on the deck this morning; she huddled under the two inch gutter, trying to stay dry...only to bolt out the front door, to frolic in the rain. Frolic I tell you! What the hell is the matter with her? It's exactly the same rain, only this time? There's WET GRASS under her paws. Personally, I would totally have peed on the floor if I were her, instead of parading around, nose to the ground, getting soaked.

Wet beagle odor is overtaking the whiz odor. Seems she did go inside too. Sigh.

It is not beautiful.

I am not enjoying the cheese danish I bought, from one of those Big Chain stores, because it is not as the box clearly displays, cheese, but apple.

I am not in the mood for apple. I'm not even sure I care for apple danish. Come to think of it, no, I don't. Especially when I wanted cheese, and the box said cheese.

I'm supposed to be napping, eating healthy and all that stuff as surgery on the jaw is next week, and I'm barely squeaking by with the whole "Gee, I'd no idea I had pneumonia last week!" - for the record? Baby doctors at MGH do not, indeed, appreciate being asked if they read the x-rays correctly, or if the x-ray machine had been recently recalibrated, as I'd read online somewhere that there was an x-ray machine that made everyone look like they had a broken skull, only they didn't. The machine was working funky.

That didn't really fly as well as I'd planned.

I'm not sure questioning the baby doctors endears me to them, which might, come to think of it, be a good idea, since they'll all be standing around watching this surgeon dig in my face. I'd hate to think I'd pissed off the one he might choose to hold my head in place. Most likely mouthing off at them, using my Big Words from my anatomy class proves anything other than I was in the mood to be a complete and utter ass.

It's raining, so hard that I'm nervous to leave, as the last time it rained this hard, I blew up a car. I'm not in the mood to repeat that experience. Honestly, I'm starting to pick up the thread that I'm not in the mood to do much of anything, save for go back to bed, begin today all over again.

I don't see that happening.