Monday, November 3, 2014
The reactions varied from amused to horrified when I informed people I was getting a puppy.
“A puppy? What kind of puppy” they’d either demand suspiciously or squeal excitedly, depending on how they took the news.
“A Doberman puppy! 7 months old!” I’d exclaim, exclamatory, hoping to assuage their fears and stoke their excitement. At this point Carly almost always felt obligated to step in with a “But really the term ‘puppy’ is kind of misleading. She comes up to here.” Holding a hand flat near waist-level.
“Well yeah” I’d concede, “I mean sure. Mila weighs like 65 pounds. But she’s the sweetest little thing!”
Several years ago I reached the conclusion I wasn’t really a “Dog Person”. Hold the horrified gasps and let me state for the record: I love dogs. Hell, until I was twelve I wanted to be a dog. I’d lumber around the house on hands and knees, diligently sniffing every houseplant and burying the remote control under couch pillows.
I spent hours memorizing dog breed encyclopedias, fantasizing about Rover’s Rescue Resort: a giant parcel of land where I would grant society’s outcast dogs a second chance. I imagined dogs lifted from hopeless and meaningless existences transformed into doting canine companions under my stern but gentle leadership. I figured thirty dogs was a good place to start, after that I might need to hire help.
I grew up with dogs. Big dogs. Rottweilers and Labradors with their blocky heads, guileless slobbering smiles, and boundless energy. When I left my parents’ house for college I longed for nights curled up by the woodstove with the dog and a book. I missed long, rambling walks with nowhere to be but everything to discover.
Then I worked in a Doggie Daycare. Every day I was surrounded by dogs. Herding dogs, hunting dogs, companion dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, and everything in between. Barking dogs, humping dogs. Dogs that ate poop, and dogs that ate puke. To say nothing of the dogs that puked up the poop that they’d eaten. There were dogs obsessed with tennis balls, and dogs obsessed with dogs-obsessed-with-tennis-balls. Now, I loved my job 90% of the time. But there was always immense satisfaction in closing up shop, biking the five miles home, and spending a quiet evening with my cat.
(Sidenote: or not spending a quiet evening with my cat! Turns out that’s the great thing about cats. If the food bowl is full and the litter box clean, they frankly don’t give much of a damn what you do after work. Try explaining that to a dog. “I’m sorry I delayed coming home to dote on you, I just wanted to grab a quick drink! You know, unwind with coworkers!” and his unconditional love and forgiveness will burn a hole in your guilty, booze-sodden soul.)
This peculiar tension between being a Dog Lover, but not quite a Dog Person culminated in what I call the “Deejo Incident”.
Deejo was a regular daycare attendee, a 4 yeard old Australian Shepherd/Pug X who vaguely resembled the lovechild of a mastiff and a baby seal. His owner was in the process of relocating from Missoula to L.A., where she intended to pursue a career as a singer/songwriter. She mentioned her intention to rehome him one afternoon, while Deejo trotted happily around the room inspecting every dusty corner for biscuit crumbs.
“”Poor little fella” I thought, “being uprooted and sent to live with strangers.”
In what I considered a magnanimous display of generosity, I offered to adopt him. I’d recently moved into a house that allowed dogs. I’d also recently taken to having organic vegetables delivered to my doorstep, and re-paying my student loans. With these steps in the general direction of adulthood, I was hungry for more. A lingering part of me suspected dog ownership was nearing the pinnacle of Responsibility. Likely in the realm of marriage, and childbirth.
Fast forward six months: sunrise on a weekday. I’m lying in bed, staring hard at the ceiling while Deejo burns guilty holes into my booze-sodden soul with his unconditional love and admiration. The second I woke up I could feel his eyes peering over the edge of the bed, begging me to love him. This had become a point of contention between us, his need to constantly gaze at me. For months I’d been shifting my knee, or book, or laptop to break the direct line-of-sight. And for months he’d been subtly, creepily shifting his body weight to reestablish it. That morning, waking up to his horrible, penetrating gaze the thought crossed my mind: I’d rather kill myself than deal with you right now.
I know it sounds dramatic, but it was a real turning point. Two weeks later, Deejo was uprooted and living with strangers. I mean, a nice family on a farm. Don’t worry! I didn’t kill my dog. There really is a nice family, and they really do live on a farm. A mastiff farm, where they bred giant working dogs. Deejo was the perfect fit: a miniature mastiff more easily coerced into a 4 year old daughter’s princess tutus and tea parties.
Three years since the “Deejo Incident”, the memory of his probing gaze and unwarranted affection still haunts me.
But when my Work Wife approached me with her dilemma, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to dip my toes into dog ownership. As a newly enlisted police cadet, she would be training in Salem for several months. Though her family supported the career change, they were less than ecstatic about the prospect of caring for her 6 year old child and a rambunctious 65 pound, 7 month old Doberman puppy.
The plan was simple. Sunday evening through Friday morning I’d be responsible for feeding, walking, and chauffering Mila to and from daycare. W.W. would foot the bills, purchase the kibble, and supply any tools deemed necessary (ex. treats, chew toys, and the despicable Gentle Leader that made walking Mila even remotely manageable). Friday night W.W. would pick Mila up from daycare, leaving my footloose and fancy-free social life unencumbered. Cadet training would end mid-February, and Mila would go back to her normal life. This timeline guaranteed I couldn’t slip into the helpless pit of depression evoked by the prospect of nursing Deejo into old age.
And really, maybe I’d enjoy dog ownership! Of course there would be hiccups. That Cat’s absolute hatred of dogs, for example. Or the fact that I habitually spent 3-4 nights per week at Carly’s house instead of my own. Perhaps the fact that I’d be juggling the stress of 50 hour work weeks, Sober October, and dog ownership simultaneously. But I wasn’t deterred.
The first week, Mila liberated me from the alarm clock. Who wants a shrill sound when you can have a giant, clumsy paw clobbering you in the head? Or, better yet, a cold damp nose somehow finding your exposed, sleeping flesh? My alarm served as a negligible afterthought. I never had to “set” the puppy. I could rest easily knowing she’d wake me up well before dawn.
The most interesting mornings were the mornings I forgot to drape clothes somewhere near the bed. Waking up I’d find 65 pounds of unrestrained joy standing between my naked body and sweatpants. Over the course of three weeks I perfected a lumbering stagger, something between a pirouette and an advanced martial arts feint. It’s a sport, really, keeping your bare ass out of reach while an inquisitive cold nose looms torpedo-esque in the dark.
And that nose. Never underestimate a Doberman’s nose. I swear she could stand with all four feet in the living room, and still rest her nose on my dinner plate in the kitchen.
I would like to see a study proving that dog-ownership hones humans’ perception skills. I can now easily discern the sounds of Mila sneaking from her bed into mine, or tip-toeing up to the cat food dispenser. From my second story loft I can differentiate between when she’s hurdling the couch, and when she’s simply using my roommate’s bed to come off the top rail on an unsuspecting roommate's dog. Walking into a room, I feel equipped to interpret each displaced crumb, unusual puddle, or kitty litter pebble like a seasoned detective evaluating a crime scene.
My foray into part-time dog ownership lasted two weeks, five days, and approximately 12 hours. And, surprisingly, I wasn’t the reason it ended. Mila upgraded. She traded in her 10 hour days of daycare for a 2-acre fenced yard and a stay-at-home girlfriend in Wilsonville. I can’t blame her. In all honesty, I’m a little jealous of her.
This experience has taught me two things. 1) You can simultaneously love something desperately, and still want to throw it out a window. 2) Responsibilities are better when you don’t have to shoulder them alone. I would have cried more than once without Carly patting my head while murmuring reassuring things like, “She’s just a puppy. It’s only going to get worse. Accept it.” And accepting it. Accepting that there’s only so much a human can control, and a puppy isn’t one of them 99.9% of the time.
All my love, darlings.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Nine months ago I picked up Infinite Jest for the second time with every intention of powering through. I believed my first failed attempt had prepared me for this undertaking. Now, cocooned in my bed on an autumn afternoon, it’s apparent that didn’t happen in the timely manner I’d hoped for.
Let’s start with the physical proportions of your behemoth. Over 1,000 pages with 388 endnotes, and a whopping 3.5 pounds. David Foster Wallace, your book is inconvenient. I couldn’t prop it up on the elliptical while mindlessly churning out miles of sweat, or pace around the house with it loosely grasped in one hand while brushing my teeth. From the start you demanded my full attention, and settled for nothing less. I frequently felt like a child: sitting upright, clutching the book with both hands, reading until my arms ached.
It’s safe to say this book left its mark on me. Literally. Remember the sunny day I vowed to read 50 pages in one sitting? Sprawled on the beach with 32 ounces of beer, a bottle of water, and ample snacks I was mentally and physically prepared. Six hours later, after emerging from the tangled vortex of a 10-page endnote, I hit that 50 page mark around the same time my second degree sunburn started blistering.
Before now I’ve never read a book and the dictionary side-by-side. I have no doubt you did this intentionally. I’ll admit there were times I resented you for stretching the boundaries of language beyond good old Merriam-Webster’s capabilities. You manipulated the etymology of myth and medicine in ways I may never fully comprehend. Portions of this story read like a lexical temper tantrum. Do you realize there have been whole dictionaries dedicated to your creation?
It’s aptly titled. The joke is that you spend an infinite amount of time reading it.
Perhaps the worst things about reading this book was the inevitable question: but what’s it about? There’s no concise answer. The main characters are a prodigious teenage tennis player, a recovering drug addict/ex burglar, a subversive Canadian wheelchair assassin, and a horrifically beautiful veiled woman. Themes include depression, substance abuse, athletics, marketing and media, suicide, teenage angst, politics, pollution, and familial tension. You also managed to touch on incest, materialism, agoraphobia, love, and genetically mutated feral hamsters the size of Volkswagons.
As isolated as I felt reading it, I can’t imagine how you felt writing it.
David Foster Wallace, human beings are absurd. We’re repellant and alluring. We’re self-conscious and vain. We’re occasionally noble and martyred and affected. We wake up in gutters covered in our own shit and vomit, and still sell our last shred of dignity for another ounce of pleasure. But of course, you knew this. You possessed a concise and poignant view of the human condition, and chose to leave it of your own accord. I know, I know. The only advice I received when I started this book was to avoid reading it through the lens of your suicide. But you unknowingly cast the shadow of your death across every page.
"Any man can slip out there. All it takes is a second of misplaced respect." pg. 169
I hope you’ve found more resolution than this story. Honestly, Infinite Jest is one of the most ridiculous and horrifying pieces of entertainment I’ve ever consumed. But also challenging. But also rewarding. David Foster Wallace, thank you. I know you’re responsible for this overwhelming and unexplainable feeling of accomplishment. I have to get back to my Real Life.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
It all started with my knees. This spring, two years post-op, I decided to rejoin the world of organized sports. After extensive googling I found the NetRippers Football Club, Rose City’s LGBTQ soccer club. This May I dug my cleats out of the crawl space, aired out the hand-me-down shin guards I wore throughout high school, and trekked to the Adidas Complex for my first Saturday afternoon practice.
You guys, I loved every minute of that first practice. Sprinting with purpose, letting muscle memory take over, working as a team toward a common goal… I was hooked.
As you may recall, I’m not the best at moderation. I started with Futsal. 44 minutes of high-impact aerobic activity once a week. Over the course of three months, this turned into two indoor soccer teams, an outdoor league, and a weekly Futsal match. By September I was playing 3-5 nights per week, sometimes multiple games a night.
The pain started after that first practice as a nagging tightness in the left knee. Not pain, exactly. More like an uncomfortable awareness that I have a knee, when typically I remain casually oblivious to my body’s existence. When Futsal started, the knee ached more acutely. Occasionally the rapid start/stop would cause buckling and sharp pain. After games I’d hobble upstairs to my bedroom and elevate it to reduce swelling. I started bracing the left knee for stability.
Six weeks ago, I was sitting at work while both knees crackled with some sort of maniac electricity. Imagine electrified ice water caught circulating just under your skin. Or the tip of a very small knife inserted beneath your nerve endings. They hurt when I sat. They hurt when I stood. They didn’t hurt when I walked, but they ached dully in a swelling-and-inflammation way. The only thing that alleviated the pain was squatting. Not crouching in a squat. That hurt too. No, the only relief was actively moving my body up and down in a squatting motion, pausing with my thighs at a 90 degree angle to the floor.
A week later I ceded, and dropped out of the soccer world.
Without soccer, I am relearning my body. I listen to the aches caused by miles of running on poorly rehabilitated joints. I’m learning to be strong, not only physically but mentally. Accepting limitations, giving myself time to heal. I am relearning the word grace.
Handstands don’t require strong knees. Three weeks now I’ve padded barefoot into my loft and thrown my body against a wall. The first step is building strength. Training your upper body to bear weight: palms flat against hardwood, fingers splayed. Strength. How the shoulders ache and burn at every new angle. Heels against whitewash. I walk these hands back, walk these feet up. Hold. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds. Remember how to breathe. Forget how to count. Don’t worry about falling.
Across the city, Camille writes I feel a little Twilight Zone-y. She says The world is upside down. I say I’m learning to do handstands. My world is upside down. I’m not afraid of falling.
I have a friend back home who wears gravity the way airplanes wear sky. The way ships wear oceans. Effortless, like she was made for this; her body inverted and stock still. She has always been flat planes and sharp angles. I am not her. This does not come easy. Heels against the wall. Weight shifting forward, elbows locked. Balance. Breathe. Do you remember the last time you weren’t afraid to fall?
I hope you’re well, dreamweavers.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Things I’ve learned in my adult life:
The word "ergonomic" pertains to my life.
I’ve long considered myself a fairly resilient human. It doesn’t take much to make me comfortable. I’ve used the same pillows since 2008. I rode my bicycle for over a year before replacing the tattered, cushion-less seat. I rarely consider the arches in my shoes, my lack of air conditioning, or the other myriad implements designed to make every-day living painless.
But after two years of slouching at my desk for 40 hours per week, I recently experienced Back Pain. Not satisfying, exercise related muscle fatigue. Not the slightly unpleasant tension associated with marathon Netflix watching. This was pinched nerve, shooting-fiery-agony Back Pain. For three days I prayed a very tall person would scoop me up and aggressively shake me until the pinched nerve became somehow un-pinched.
Due to MacGyver-esque utilization of a large rubber band ball, I can walk without dramatically clutching at my lower back. But the painful memory lingers in the back of my mind. The lesson: posture matters, and not even just a little bit. Seriously, it’s a real thing that you should all consider and probably be a little bit concerned about.
Driving barefoot is not illegal.
Considering my mother spent 95% of my childhood barefoot, I have a strange concept of what humans can and cannot do without shoes. Grocery shopping, hiking, marathon-running? A-ok! Operating a motor vehicle? Oh hell no.
[Sidenote: barefoot bike riding. How often does the toe of my shoe become lodged in my bicycle chain? Never. How often do I worry my toes will be ripped off my foot after becoming lodged in my bicycle chain? Always.]
I don’t know who told me driving barefoot was illegal. I do know the idea became deeply engrained in my brain, influencing my perception of the world and my position in it until approximately two weeks ago. For years I’ve felt a secret thrill getting away with barefoot driving. The same thrill I get from jay walking. Or hacking into my roommate’s Hulu Plus account, which she totally gave me permission to hack into. The little things keep me going.
Anyways. I don’t want to ruin it for my fellow thrill seekers, but driving barefoot is totally not illegal. Strongly discouraged, and considered the tiniest bit reckless. Still not illegal.
I’ve been a lifelong sunscreen shirker. When asked if I need sunscreen I’ve historically cocked an eyebrow while raising my arms in an outstretched, who- the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to gesture.
To everybody I’ve scoffed at: I’m so sorry. You were right. Sun safety is a legitimate concern and I’m sorry I ever doubted you. There’s nothing cool or sexy about weeping sunburn blisters. Or peeling silver dollar-sized clumps of dead skin from your ass and thighs. It’s actually rather embarrassing to raise a flurry of white flakes when picking your pants off the floor. Not a few flakes, a veritable blizzard. A skin blizzard. A blizzard of skin. Human skin. My skin. Human flakes.
I’m sorry to say I haven’t turned the corner on sunscreen avoidance. But I’m ready to acknowledge the validity of sunscreen use. I’ve come to terms with my mortality, and accepted the sun’s undeniable dominion over my pasty, Oregon skin.
Glitter and baby oil are equally difficult to remove from your hair.
And your bed. And your car. And the couch. And any clothing worn 48-hours post encounter.
Keep it real, dream weavers. I believe you too can make it through the night.