Lola and Lucky

Yeah, so already we're back on the chain gang of dog ownership. I didn't think it would be so quick, but I always knew deep down that there were more dogs to come for us. I am a "dog person" and knowing that there are so many homeless, unloved dogs out there kills me. So I knew we would open our hearts again.

Lucky the puppy came to us about a month after Luke passed. If I already blogged on this skip ahead and read about Lola. Anyway, we were in a PetSmart looking for a ramp for Rumer because she was having so much difficulty getting in and out of the car for her vet appointments. While there, a man came in holding this incredibly cute puppy and as we were ooohing and ahhing over it he told us we could have it, that someone had abandoned it in the parking lot and he had found it under a bush, shaking in fear. So we figured it was destiny, kismet, fate, whatever and we took the little guy home - now that I think about it I believe I have blogged on this already. Damn middle aged brain.

About a week after Rumer passed away, we took a trip to a place in Ennis, Texas called Camp Wolfgang http://campwolfgang.org. Camp Wolfgang is semi-famous in the DFW area because it's founder, Wally Swanson, was apparently a very wealthy, hotshot Dallas lawyer and mover-shaker before he chucked it all to rescue German Shepherds in honor of his beloved Wolfgang. His Wolfgang passed away of almost the exact same thing as Luke (tumor in front of the heart) at almost the same age, 8. So I had read about Camp Wolfgang in the past and had from time to time browsed their website marveling that so many wonderful, beautiful dogs could wind up homeless. So we drove up there on a Sunday, Lucky puking in the backseat (the dog gets carsick like you wouldn't believe). There were over 200 dogs there waiting for a home. Trying to pick a dog under these circumstances is daunting to say the least. The girl who worked there, Ashley, advised us to take a female since Lucky is a male (not for much longer, I say) and she took us around and showed us females in the age range we were interested in. I didn't want to go over 3 years of age and was really looking for something in the 1-2 year range. We ended up choosing two dogs for a "meet and greet" to see how they acted with us and interacted with Lucky. The first dog was kind of hyper, which is to be expected in these circumstances, but she didn't really "grab" us. The second dog clearly wanted to eat Lucky so she was ruled out immediately. We were going to leave as we didn't come with the expectation that we'd be taking a dog home that very day. Ashley mentioned Holly, who I didn't remember. She took both my husband and I back to the kennel where Holly was housed. I had overlooked Holly because she was 4, maybe older, and that was beyond my age range. But my husband wanted to meet her so we brought her out. Amid the chaos of 60-70 dogs barking and jumping and carrying on, Holly was cool and calm. She didn't bark; she didn't lunge; she just followed us calmly to the field. She got on well with Lucky and my son was able to hug and touch her right away while she sat very calmly (and rather regally) by his side. So we brought her home and renamed her Lola. She didn't respond to Holly so I don't feel bad changing her name. And she's named after the tranny Lola of Kinks fame, not the showgirl Lola of the Manilow song. We don't do Manilow. Anyway, she's worked out great. Her only problem seems to be a blazing case of "leash aggression" directed at other dogs which we are seeing a trainer and having her evaluated for tomorrow. She was supposed to start obedience classes on Thursday, but I think she's going to need private lessons first lest she scare the shit out of the other dogs and owners in class. She is sweet as can be but can look pretty fearsome when she wants to.

Having the two of them has been a balm for our hearts. There are still days, just about every day, actually, where I miss Rumer and Luke so bad it's like a physical pain in my body. For years everything has been "RumerandLuke". It was like one word. Now it's Lola and Lucky. You can't help smiling watching the two of them, especially Lucky or the "tiny terror" as he's been nicknamed. Though he's not tiny at all. Last vet visit two weeks ago, he was nearly 30 pounds at 15 weeks. He's gonna be a bruiser. But he's a goofball with a tenacity that I don't think I've ever seen in any other dog. He's like the Terminator or something.

Lucky and Lola; Lola and Lucky. Has a nice ring to it...

R.I.P. Rumer (March 15, 1993-October 9, 2007)

We got Rumer in April, 1993 when she was six weeks old and eight pounds. She was a mutual anniversary gift. I named her Rumer after Demi Moore's kid, yeah, shallow, but it was a unique name. I never knew another Rumer other than mine and Demi's. When she first came home to us, she wouldn't eat so my husband would sit on the floor and hand feed her. I knew then that he would make a great father, even if I didn't want children. Rumer was my child; the surrogate child for the woman who never, ever wanted kids. Turned out the future had different plans for us, but hey. When we lived in Birmingham and later Fairfax, Virginia, Rumer's best friend was our best friends' dog, Nikita. Nikita was a Siberian Husky and very beautiful and we all got a lot of joy watching the two of them play to the point of exhaustion.

Rumer was supposedly a registered German Shepherd and we paid a breeder in Jasper, Alabama $200 for her. Quite obviously, she is not 100% GSD, but she had all the traits that make the breed so popular. She was powerful, loyal, loving, defensive of her home and her people and just an all around great dog. She didn't like kids, but like I said, we weren't planning on any so that was ok, too. When we did have our kid, Rumer accepted him into the pack from the first day he came home. I have pictures of me sitting in our oversized chair, cradling my baby, with Rumer practically wrapped around my shoulders looking down at him, too. I have lots of pictures of the two of them laying nose to nose on the carpet, too. She never so much as looked at him funny. She loved him and defended him from the beginning. When Luke came along, she accepted him as well and they became best buds.

Rumer lived a great 14.5 years - that's really old for a shepherd and she had great quality of life until about the last week or so. Letting her go was the hardest thing I've ever done, even harder than Luke, I think. We had her twice as long and she was a link to the person I was before I was "mom", maybe the link to what I think of as my truest self.

The grief of losing two devoted companions in such a short time is sometimes overwhelming. It feels like being knocked over by a giant wave and pummeled at the bottom of the sea until you aren't sure you're going to come back up. But you do; you break daylight and swim like hell for shore. Some days you make it to shore and it's good. Sometimes you make it and you just lay there exhausted by the effort. Sometimes you get knocked over again right away and dragged back down to the bottom. I know it will get better with time, but right now that wave keeps coming and sometimes it's so hard it literally knocks the breath out of me. I almost had to run out of the grocery store this afternoon because of some stupid song playing on the store system. But I bulled through it.

We are starting over again. Having Lucky dropped in our laps was a good thing, I think. We knew we wanted a companion for him so we have already adopted another dog. These guys in no way replace the beloved Rumer and Luke. They are just the next generation. Two good dogs who needed good homes and love and we have both, so now they are becoming part of our family. I know Rumer and Luke approve. I know that Rumer has introduced Nikita and Luke and they are all playing and running and doing everything they love to do but couldn't do on earth anymore.

Dreamin'

I dreamed last night that my 14.5-year old shepherd, Rumer, was young again. Her face wasn't white anymore and was the same orangy-tan color as the rest of her body. Her body was lean and strong and she leapt and played like she used to. She is in kidney failure refusing most food except for hot dogs and McDonald's cheeseburgers. Morgan Spurlock she isn't so she can't continue much longer on that magnificent diet. Her rear legs give out on her more and more and frequently her front legs cannot be trusted either. It will not be long before she is frolicking with Luke on that fucking rainbow bridge.

On a lighter note, we do have Lucky. Lucky was indeed one lucky pup. He was abandoned in a PetSmart parking lot on a day that we happened to be there so he got to come home with us. I really felt fate had plopped him in our lap to ease the pain of losing Luke and the inevitable loss of Rumer. There are days when I believe God himself is delivering divine punishment upon me for some long-forgotten sin I committed. But we are lucky to have Lucky and he is Lucky to get us, too.

R.I.P. Luke (Spring 1999 - July 30, 2007)

Luke's "battle" with cancer was very short lived. He died just ten days after we got the diagnosis. He died on a Monday evening surrounded by all his "people" and a few kind strangers. Luke loved running, trying to fit two tennis balls in his mouth at one time, chasing squirrels and heavy petting. He came to our bedside every morning pawing at the mattress demanding his morning love. He followed me to the bathroom every single time I had to go because he knew I was a captive audience and with nothing else to distract me, I'd pet him. He snarled at the cat when she tried to get her fair share. He sat at (and on!) my feet in the evenings while I watched tv. He loved his best friends, Christian (his human friend) and Rumer (his canine companion). I think it was a blessing that he passed first as I don't think he would have been able to function without her. Frankly, he hated the cat, but like a good dog, he tolerated her because he knew we loved her.

Luke was a good dog and he is missed.

Summer from hell....

And no, I'm not just talkin' about the Texas heat. At the risk of pissing of the gods or whatever and having them punish me by showing just how much worse things can be, I'm going to blog about my shitty summer thus far.

We went to Greece right after school got out. STOP ROLLING YOUR EYES!!! Everyone always rolls their eye when I bitch about going to Greece because most people don't go to Greece so they have the Travel Channel fantasy in their head and not my reality. The reality is that I have to be stuffed to the gills with xanax to even get on a fucking plane going outside the U.S. anymore. Thanks Bin Laden and Thanks Bush for making Americans ever so popular even with the non-Muslim extremists. Then it's the long ass haul over there, hours and hours crammed on the plane with no where to go, weird fucking people and always, always, always, someone's awful, awful kids. Although, the return trip is usually when we get the worst kid behavior. Must be something about how you are crossing the international date-line or some shit. Anyway, in Greece we're basically stuck in Athens because my in-laws are elderly and can't get around much and would (rightfully, I suppose) take great offense if we took off for more pleasant parts. Athens is noisy, dirty and smelly and I've seen the Parthenon and the Acropolis more times than I can count so they hold no particular thrill anymore. I am a 43-year old woman with a bad back - one degenerated disk and two bulging disks in the lower back - and I am relegated to sleeping on a twin cot with a 2 inch thick mattress for 10 days. Needless to say I pack enough drugs to land me in federal prison for 25-to-life if I was even caught with them. Actually, I have prescriptions, so I'm legal, but I'm sure they would raise questions. Anyway, we get that trip out of the way and I kiss the ground at DFW airport when I get home, looking forward to a long, lazy summer of Starbucks, community pools, playdates and Rescue Me on FX.

Within a week, I'm at the dentist with an abscess. This abscess is in a part of my mouth where I've probably laid out $10,000 since my kid was born dealing with a relentlessly screwed up tooth. Bone implants, multiple root canals, botched crowns, etc. - had I known back then that this tooth would be such an odyssey, I'd have yanked it then. Instead, I'm yanking it 10-years and probably ten grand later. Expensive lesson, but those are usually the ones that last, right? On the upside, I got some pain meds. Get tooth yanked. Only get laughing gas because shitty insurance won't pay for me to be sedated and I'm too cheap at this point to pay the extra $200 myself. It didn't hurt, but it was definitely traumatic. No matter how hard I sucked on the laughing gas, I wasn't laughing, and I couldn't rid my mind of the image of my dentist up on the chair with both feet planted on either side of me, tugging with all his might to get this friggin' tooth out of my head. There's just something horrifically disconcerting about that. Then he had to pull the roots out one by one. Fucking tooth. Upside: more pain meds, haha.

Then the worst so far. My 8-year old shepherd mix, Luke, was coughing and not eating well and just generally not his spastic self. He's never been sick a day in his life so I blithely figured he had a small piece of tennis ball caught in his throat. His main thrill in life is tennis balls but he sometimes takes them apart. So I take him in thinking this will be a quick and simple thing. Twenty-four hours later we have a fatal cancer diagnosis. He has a malignant tumor in his chest, just in front of his heart that started bleeding into his chest causing the coughing and lethargy. The vet stabilized him and we were sent home with orders to keep him comfortable and to love and spoil him until the "time" comes, which could be days or weeks or two hours from now. That was last Thursday.

Friday morning my kid gets up and within five minutes comes running to me sobbing, saying that he's sure he's got fluid in HIS chest, he can't breathe, what's going to happen to him, etc.? He definitely had something respiratory going on but I think mostly he had a panic attack related to what's going on with the dog. But instead of making him wait and worry until we can get an appointment with his pediatrician, I take him to the "doc-in-a-box" around the corner where I have them see me too, since I seem to have a lot of respiratory crap going on too. I get a steroid shot in the ass, he gets some antibiotics and off we go. Saturday I felt great enough to go for a walk, all the sobbing over the dog has left me about 11 pounds lighter and dehydrated. Sunday, I crash bigtime. Monday manage to drag myself to the doctor and find out I have the fucking flu again! Probably my kid had it too, he just got over it a little faster. Another shot in the ass, another round of tamiflu, which makes me want to puke for some reason, and here we are on Wednesday.

Today is a good day, though. I took Luke back to the vet because I was afraid he was having trouble breathing. If the tumor begins bleeding into his chest again, it will put pressure on his lungs and he will have trouble breathing. Being that I never particularly paid attention to how he breathed before all this got started, I didn't have a basis of comparison, so I was worried that he seemed to be laboring. The good news is he's fine, lungs sound good. He's no paler or anemic than he was last week. How do you tell a dog is pale? Their gums - should be a nice healthy pinky, coral color. At his worst last week, Luke's were off-white. So maybe my summer is taking an upswing....

Dear DFW Driver,

When you keep ten cars from getting through the light because you sat running your mouth on your cell phone while traffic passed you on the right and left, I reserve the right to shove said cell phone so far up your ass that your teeth play "My Humps" the next time you get a call. Deal?

And since we're on the subject, on the freeway, the left lane is reserved for passing; it isn't reserved for YOU. Use it, leave it, use it again, but don't hog it like it belongs to you and you alone. Usually you are talking on the phone (see above) but that's no excuse. Move the fuck over. I recently drove all the way from New Orleans to Dallas and didn't encounter one, not one, left lane hogger until I crossed the Texas state line. And there they were: the SUV hoggers, the massive pick-up truck hoggers, all just hoggin' that lane because apparently it had been reserved for them and them alone. You are not the pace car and this isn't the Indy 500. Get outta the way! I reserve the right to mount dual RPGs on the front of my car to move you out of the way if necessary (I'm in the process of importing an Iraqi explosives specialist as we speak). I also reserve the right to drag you from your car and beat you senseless because it's the only way to stop future generations of left lane hogs as I'm pretty sure it's a genetic defect.

Oh, and one more thing: those blinky things on the sides of your car, on the front and back? They are called "signal lights" and are used to "signal", i.e. "communicate" to other drivers what your intentions are. Therefore, please use them. And don't use your left turn signal to signal a right-hand turn. It may be "opposite day" in your world, but the rest of us are on real time. Kapish?

Bushisms...

I was just reading in the paper that the continued uptick in violence in Iraq is probably due to the insurgents attempting to embarrass Emperor, er, President Bush before his State of the Union Address. Surely Al-Quada has access to the five or so editions of "Bushisms" already in print. They would know that the Prez needs no help in embarrassing himself. In fact, self-embarrassment is one of the few things he is actually competent at. Every time he opens his mouth it's embarrassing. Maybe we should get together and send the jihadists copies of the "Bushism" books and they will see that they can stop the violence if all they are attempting is embarrassment for the President. He's doing a "heckuva job" of that one all by himself.

The long, slow plod to spring...

Let me start by saying I am NOT a winter person. Not at all. I was born and raised in Florida and my blood and my body just are not adapted to the cold. Anything below 75 degrees has me reaching for the carbs and the sweats. The two years I spent living in the D.C. area - one of those years marked by a "100-year snowstorm event" that completely buried my Miata for a full week - still wake me from my dreams with the shivers. Now I live in Texas and I have solemnly vowed never to move any farther north. All subsequent moves must be in the southern direction. Note: I reserve the right to change my mind and begin trekking northward should this global warming trend continue. By my calculations Montreal will be a beach resort by 2069.

But even here, in moderately temperate Texas, it does get cold and we've been in the midst of an unusual cold and wet spell. Again, here in Texas even if it does get cold (like 32 degrees) it doesn't last long. Usually within two days or so, you are back in the 70s and taking the top down on the Miata, basking in the glory of your sensible decision to live in a sensible climate. But not this year. It's been cold, cold and relentlessly grey. The only upside is a "snow day" we got last week when the roads iced over. It's endlessly amusing to sit home all day watching the local media frenzy at the impending doom of the "ice storm".

What makes all this even worse is that I am a school employee and I am Pavlovian-ly (this is a reference to behaviorism and slobbering dogs) attached to the school schedule. We are conditioned to begin school by counting down to the Labor Day holiday which is usually only a few weeks away. Then there's a longish uninterrupted stretch until "Fall Break" in early October. "Longish" being only four weeks in "real" time but more like four months in "public education" time. Then the real fun begins. Another four weeks until Thanksgiving break and then another three-and-a-half weeks to the granddaddy of all school breaks: Christmas. Or "Winter Break" in public education-speak. Then after that long, lovely stretch of free time, we are back in January with only MLK Day to look forward to. And now the long, slow plod to spring break, made more difficult by the intractable cold - and my friends to the north can just shut up. I know in Northern terms 30s and 40s isn't "cold"; it's sandal weather. But I'm a Floridian and we remain proudly candy-assed when it comes to the cold. So I drag through the days, never warm no matter how tropically high the thermostat is set. My winter energy use is probably responsible for that big chunk of ice that fell off Canada not too long ago. I make no apologies. I'm thinking on this cold, gray January day that maybe global warming can be a good thing. Imagine a swimming pool with an infinity edge at the top of Mt. Everest. Of course, I'd never go there; I'm afraid of heights.

Crafty or crazy?

So I'm watching The View (a guilty pleasure) and they have this "crafty mom" who does a segment on cooking for/with kids. But she makes all the foods into toys or faces, like apple slices with marshmallow teeth. Every friggin' thing is just so cute and cuddly. Am I the only one that feels like she's bordering on cannibalism here? Then she mentions something about how all this crafty cooking shit makes kids "self-sufficient" and flash forward twenty years to this geek named Skippy who's cooking for his girlfriend and serves her up food with cute little faces and carrot ears. Skippy ain't getting laid anytime soon.

And a segment on GMA (really, I'm on auto-pilot at this time of the morning) and they are talking to twenty-something girls (sorry but none qualified as "woman") who feel all this pressure when they read about other girls their age that have achieved so much and are making so much money and how they feel inadequate. Ok, you want inadequate? Watch one of those specials about some 12-year old who raised a million bucks for Afghan refugees while your biggest accomplishment to date (as a 43-year old) is getting out of bed and getting dressed. Now THAT's inadequacy. On the other hand, that 12-year old has nowhere to go but down. Me on the other hand, could still peak. If I could only get out of bed. And no, I'm not depressed. Bed is the sane option when faced with another day. There is no war in bed, no one to piss you off, no one to ask you questions that really aren't any of their business and then you have the endless internal debate on whether to slap them down politely (which means they'll be back) or to slap them down permanently (which means they'll never speak to you again and their kid will be shitty to your kid until one of you moves away). Sigh. So many questions. Frankly, it's a sign of mental illness to bound OUT of bed every morning. The only thing luring me out is coffee and the urgent need to pee...

Teenage Wasteland

Seems like an odd title for someone staring 43 in the face. And yet as "Baba O'Reilly" blasts through the speakers it's like I'm 13 all over again, under the covers covertly listening to WDIZ out of Orlando dreaming of bigger and better things than this rural trailer park and the tiny little life I'm stuck in. Parents drinking and fighting, fucking telling me what to do. That's the amazing power of music; it's like a time machine at your fingertips. Just plug in the tune and there you are all over again at whatever age and stage of misery or joy you were at when that particular song got embedded in your brain. I'm finding a lot of comfort these days listening to my "oldies". My "oldies" consisting not only of The Who and The Stones, but Circle Jerks, Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, Fear, Stiff Little Fingers (gotta love SLF) - all of the great punk bands of the 80s. Although I admit to being painfully startled when I dusted off the Circle Jerk's "Live Fast, Die Young" and realized I had aged past two chorus' of the friggin' song. But hey, better that than actually dead I guess. The other weird thing is that the world has turned on it's edge again and all the shit these bands screamed about back in the day are happening all over again. Just different countries, different names, but the shit is all the same. Power mongers, corporate greed, manufactured wars, scary fuckin' presidents. Fuck, it's like 1981 all over again.

No point to this I guess except some sort of inarticulate ode to the power of music and its continuing role in my life. It seems like most people my age have kind of left music behind or graduated to "grown-up" music. We were at dinner at someone's house and I swear the hostess put on friggin' smooth jazz lite or something - completely took my appetite away. (note to self: investigate smooth lite jazz as diet aid). But I'm thinking, is this really what my people listen to now? I mean, I know I'm old and shit, but I still drive around with the music blasting so loud the side mirrors shake and I'm screaming along to the music. Just like when I was 12, 15, 17, 21, 35 etc. I hope I NEVER get too old (or deaf) for that.

No eulogies at my funeral, please. Just turn that shit up loud, especially "Gotta Get Away", by SLF. What a send-off...

Dear Britney:

I know you're "country", but Victoria's Secret has been making underwear for a VERY long time. Please buy some. Or if you do choose to go commando, just:

A. Wear a longer skirt, or
B. Learn how to keep your legs closed.

I vote for B as the best choice for mankind in general. There are too many mini-K-Feds running around as it is.

Sincerely,

The World

you know it's time to quit your job when....

you work in elementary education (I'm not a teacher) and all you want to say is "if you don't shut your mouth NOW, I'm going to cut out your tongue and staple it to your desk". And that's the highly edited version of my thoughts.

I don't like kids. Never have. In fact, it's not hyperbole to say that I loathe kids. Ok, ok, I used to loathe kids, now I just dislike them. My kid is fine; I've raised him to be tolerable. A small number of his friends are fine in small doses. But by and large I'm not one of those women who "just looooves" kids. I think anyone who "just looooves" kids is either medicated, a pedophile or clinically insane. Seriously. So how the HELL did I end up working with kids? It plagues me, this question. The simple answer is schedule. Nothing beats being off when your kid is off so you don't have to worry if your daycare provider "just looovvees" kids in all the wrong ways, if you get my drift. So, I work around children in a school setting. To say I self medicate regularly is putting it lightly. I call it my "pretty box": I get paid pretty good for part-time work that's not, let's face it, terribly hard. I get holidays off, two weeks at Christmas, summers. And my day is over by 3:30 p.m. So in that sense, it's perfect. However, there could be no other profession more poorly matched for my personality than working with kids. Butcher, maybe.

Honestly, most days are ok, but there are those like today where I feel like I've been run over by a train and I only work with these kids two hours a day. They are "LD": learning disabled, which mostly means ADD/ADHD/dyslexia and many of them have learned a set of unattractive behaviors or have learned to use their diagnoses as their fallback excuse for not being able to..... whatever it is you are asking them to do. And I'm sure their disabilities play a role. I'm just not sure that's the complete picture. I think a lot of them learned to manipulate their world and get everyone around them to absolve them of personal responsibility because of their "problem". One child in our class is particularly manipulative. You can tell just by how she changes gears/tactics when you put the screws to her regarding her behavior.

I've worked in a school setting for nearly three years now in various capacities. Frankly, I want to go back to criminal law. At least criminals were polite and treated me with a modicum of respect and dignity. I never wanted to shoot myself in the head after spending time with one of our clients/defendants. Which is more than I can say for many a child and parent these days....

Five Years....

I remember thinking on that day, five years ago, wondering what this would feel like in one year? Five years? Ten? What would things be like? Would we be under siege the way it felt like we were on that day? Or would we somehow find peace?

Everyone has a story about where they were and what they were doing when this all began. I always feel ashamed talking about my story. After all, I was safe in Texas, far from the epicenters; I knew no one who died that day. I've never even been to New York. But I think a little something in all of us died that day. Innocence, maybe. Even for those of us who didn't think we had any innocence left in us. We discovered that we did and that moment of discovery was followed immediately by it's merciless death. Even now, five years later, the idea that four airplanes could be hijacked simultaneously and crashed into buildings still has an air of the surreal. Surely that didn't really happen. But it did, as I witnessed again this morning as I watched real-time replays of that day's events.

My son was three-years old at the time, almost four. He had begun preschool in August and Tuesday was a "school day" for him. His day started as always, with Clifford the Big Red Dog on PBS. I couldn't help but notice all the networks were tuned to the same story so I went to the second television to watch and see what the news was. At that time, everyone was still speculating - we were still innocent. Perhaps a private plane had strayed; perhaps the pilot had collapsed with a heart attack. All speculation centered on a tragic accident. In another 18 minutes, when the second plane crashed right there before our eyes, innocence died and we knew there was no accident. I was shaken and called my husband at work. He was difficult to find because he works for an airline. Not one that was involved on that day, but still, they were going crazy. I think they were a little ahead of the general public in terms of knowing that there were hijackings going on and that all those planes in the air were potential weapons searching out targets. My husband told me to take our son to school as usual. On the drive over, I heard about the Pentagon. My God, the Pentagon. I feared we were truly at war - not with terrorists, but another country. I took my son to school, kissed him goodbye and stopped in the school lobby to watch televion coverage with the other parents. The first tower fell. I went home and spent the rest of the day watching helplessly.

I didn't cry until about midnight that night. Watching the crawl under the news program and it mentioned how many children were on board one of the planes. And I thought of the sheer terror those children and their parents must have felt. What do you tell a child when you know and they know that death is imminent? How do you comfort anyone in those circumstances? I wept and continued weeping off and on for weeks. I thought my tears would never end. I cannot imagine the pain felt by those who actually lost friends and family. Who lived through that terror of not knowing up close. I wept everytime I saw the scar on the New York City skyline. Those two buildings, a testament to what greatness humans can achieve, brought down in a few hours. Gone forever. A scar, an amputation on the world's greatest city.

So every year, I bear witness so I won't forget that day, those feelings. I watch the news coverage; I watch my DVDs and cable documentaries. I look back and remember what it was to feel "American" for the first time. I've always taken my country for granted and never gave much thought to my national identity. I did then and I do now. But I was so proud (oddly) in those days following. We were all Americans; we exemplified, at least for a moment, what this country is really supposed to be. But that's gone now, too. Vaguely remembered like the New York skyline before 9/11.

Attack of the massive mammaries...

I'm no prude, really. I watch Real Sex on HBO and porn with the spouse from time to time. If I weren't so cheap I'd order Skin-a-Max just for the daily soft-core porn. I don't believe that a woman's sexuality ends at a certain age or with the arrival of motherhood. And believe me, I giggled mightily while consulting the thesaurus for synonyms for "breast" and "boob". But I have to say the way women dress when attending elementary school functions baffles me. Why, oh, why must third-graders be subjected to your massive (fake) chest? Your cavernous cleavage? I realize you spent a lot of money on them - well, your future next-ex did anyway -and so you want to show 'em off, take 'em out for a spin. I get it. But aren't there other places better suited than a second grade party to take the girls out for a ride? Who is the target audience, exactly? The teacher? The dads? Erections are wildly inappropriate at grade school functions and could lead to erroneous incarceration and felony charges. So let's cut the dads a break, huh? If the other mothers are your intended quarry then perhaps you could arrange a private showing for those that might be interested. As for me, I don't want to see your titty-crack, ok? It's distracting. At the third-grade ice cream party the stripper, er, mom who was serving had such a spectactular set on display that I didn't know whether to thank her or stuff a fiver down her cleavage. Hell, I could have swiped my credit card through there. Furthermore, I'm certain it confuses the children. The breastfed ones begin to regress and want to nurse again; the bottle-fed ones recall the scent of silicone and begin calling out longingly for their "binkie". It's too much!

It's also demoralizing. One would hope that the post-feminist, 40-something woman would have a definition of sexy that didn't look like amateur pole night at Scores. One would hope that with age came at least a little wisdom and a realization that beauty isn't so narrowly defined as blonde, busty and bronze. Yeah, strippers are universally the three b's; but real women shouldn't have to be. What's worse and that so many of these woman are mothers.....to DAUGHTERS. I can only wonder what sort of sick role modeling is going on there. Hell, even for the sons. The idea that a young boy's idea of womanhood is being molded by his mother this way is depressing. Isn't that what Playboy is for? I mean isn't a mother's job to set the bar high and then watch while the culture slowly chips away at it? These moms seem to concede from the outset that, yes, women are merely hair, tits and a vagina.

Don't get me started on the moms with the low riders so low that I can read the washing instructions on their thong....

It's the MWPs, stupid

Forget WMDs, that's soo 2003. Out here in suburbia I'm always on the lookout for MWPs. And they always seem to be looking for me. Why? I'm a slacker. I was a slacker before the word "slacker" came along to describe me. And I'm still slacking now that the term has become passe'. Slacking is not allowed in the modern 'burbs. No. No way, no how. "Productive" and "competitive", those are the buzzwords of the modern suburbanite. Especially the modern suburban mom. Double especially the modern suburban mom who doesn't work (except at the gym and on her tan) and has made child-rearing her "job". I used to think that was a good thing, the "job" approach, that is. But everything in moderation. "Moderation" being another profanity in the land of tract housing. Mothering these days, especially in certain socio-economic strata, has become a competitive sport. No one wins, mind you, most especially the children of the competitors. But that's irrelevant. What matters is the competition.

So what exactly is a MWP you ask? It is a Mother With Plans and there is no other demon in heaven or hell that I avoid more assiduously. In fact, my diligent avoidance of said species is almost strenuous enough to strip me of my slacker creds. But they are out there, even in summer. Maybe most especially in summer. These are women who are not practiced in the art of spending downtime with their kids. "Downtime" being another sacrilege out here. Downtime with the kids being downright unthinkable. How will I tan? How will I work out? How will I get my mani/pedi/massage? My ME time? So they make plans. With you. They want to schedule. They want commitments. They want activities, destinations, itineraries, recreation, PLANS, something to count on. All things I DON'T want, ever, most especially during my summer. MY downtime; my reprieve. All I want to do is pull the drapes and watch "Trainspotting" over and over.

See, I work in a school so I'm around their kids for the entire school year. I sympathize with the mom who doesn't want to spend time with their kid; frankly, if some of those kids were mine, I wouldn't want to spend time with them either. I don't want to spend time with them now. But those kids couldn't be mine because they would never have been allowed to live being as obnoxious as they are. I have an extremely low tolerance for obnoxious children (and their parents, the two being quite closely related) which means I can't be around 98% of the population under the age of 18. How I ended up working at a school is another post - not to mention six months of therapy sessions.

So the MWPs. I've been reduced to hiding, scanning phone messages, not returning calls. We just returned from 11 days of vacation, which was great. But we just got back late yesterday evening after traveling all day long via plane. All that stripping and re-dressing at the security checkpoints is exhausting! I just figure normal people need at least one day to recover from travel. I need 5-10. Especially when I return from places as beautiful and culturally rich as Hawai'i and Seattle, WA. I mean, I'm returning to DALLAS, TX, fer crissakes. Ain't shit here; I need a little time to ease back into the vapidity of life here. To accept that I'll never live in Waikiki. But there it was, at precisely 11 a.m. this morning (I had barely been up, being that I crossed several time zones in the past few days) the Mother of all MWPs calling me up to "welcome" me home. Thank god I didn't answer the friggin' phone. I'm pretty sure she had some "plans" to discuss with me.

So they are looking for me and I'm avoiding them. Such is my life. Can't tell them to fuck off completely because my kid does need a social life. I just wish his social life didn't involve me. At all. One day. He's young yet. But that means more years with the MWPs. At least until I go back to full time work. The MWPs don't usually socialize with the "others". "Others" being those with a LIFE.....