The Word Of The Day - Borborygmi

You would not believe the sounds that can come out of that tummy

Yep.  It's 4:00 am here, and I'm up out of bed.  So you know it's Moose related.

He's a good boy, but part of being an aging studmuffin is tummy issues.  Specifically, tummy rumblings that can be heard from the next zip code.  (That would be the borborygmi.  I just love that word - it's so onomatopoetic.) And when your stomach sounds like a garbage grinder, it's hard to sleep - and if you're Moose, if you're not sleeping, ain't nobody sleeping. 

He'll start with a low, soft whine, then if that doesn't get a response, he moves to more offensive weapons (for example, the vulturing - climbing up on top of my head, so that I can *feel* the rumbles, not just hear them.)

So, in an attempt to give Roger a break and let him get his last hour of sleep, I've moved out to the living room with the boy and a bag of treats - generally, if I can get a few treats into him, the stomach settles down, and we all can go back to bed.  We'll see... 

Taking One-Upmanship Too Far

So... I mentioned yesterday that Carrie Fisher's book, Postcards from the Edge, kind of helped me find my way to a good relationship with my mother.  She and I got past my teen years, learned to live with each other as adults (and then she ran away from home to Denver just when she was getting interesting... but that's a different story.)  And then we learned to be good friends - well, best friends, really.  Very few people can say that about their mother, I think... I'm extremely lucky

But there's something... For some reason, whenever something happens to one of us, fate tries to one up it with the other one.  If I catch a cold, she's bound to get pneumonia.  If she falls and breaks her leg, I'll get in a car crash.  Heck, she even followed up my uterine cancer diagnosis by getting diagnosed with both uterine cancer *and* potential breast cancer. (I won that one, though - mine wasn't operable, her version was a couple of surgeries and she's fine.) 

So when I read today about Debbie Reynolds' hospitalization, I knew exactly what was going on - her body realized Carrie was getting all the attention, and had to react.  But damnit, this is taking things way too far.  Mom, you're on notice...   don't even think about it. 

Carrie Fisher, the Role Model I Desperately Needed

I loved her - mostly because she wasn't perfect.  She may have been a princess, but she was a princess who showed her seams.  She wasn't polite, she wasn't elegant, and she was never shut away in a tower - even when she was cast as needing rescue, she pretty much rescued herself.

She was honest - sometimes brutally so.  And she showed me that naming your issues, claiming them, can release you from them much more than hiding and denying them.  She guided me in dealing with some of my own issues, and she helped me realize that you are not responsible for the cards fate dealt you - you're just responsible for how you deal with those cards.  Never be ashamed of your mental state - although sometimes you should be shamed by your reaction to that state. 

But mostly, I was grateful for her insight into dealing with an unusual mother/daughter relationship.  When you are as close to your mother as I am, sometimes it's hard to realize that you don't have to be her (or to blame her).  That there is daylight between you.  The quote from Postcards From The Edge that really struck me was "I don't know your mother, but I'll tell you something. She did it to you and her mother did it to her and back and back and back all the way to Eve and at some point you just say, "Fuck it, I start with me."" The freedom to let resentment go gave me the freedom to come back, and to look at my mother honestly and realize how wonderful she truly is.  That's one hell of a gift - worthy of any princess.  Thank you, Carrie!
 

Goodbye, Tiny Dancer

Daisy and Dancer beating up Hank

Dancer was a good dog.  Always and forever, a good dog.  She was sheer joy on the hoof - always moving, always dancing, always up for a party.  She came into Mom's life like all the other dogs before her - rescued from an unfortunate situation, falling into the good life, loved for as long as we could before she danced on to a better world. 

She and her sister Daisy were hard to tell apart from each other... both small, dainty blondes.  But while Daisy was beautiful, Dancer was cute - almost the definition of cute.  She had her share of bad hair days (sometimes incredibly bad hair days) but she had her own inimitable style.  She was not necessarily a lap dog - she liked her independence, but if she favored you with her attentions, you had better be prepared to pet her extensively and exclusively.  No reading, no playing on the computer - she let you know she was ready for petting now.  And one of her other nicknames was "the Klingon" - so named for the fact that you could get almost a 180 degree vertical before she would let go of your lap (or lack thereof.) 

She also took her cues from her older sister - she was there for the party.  If there was something going on, she wanted to be there, in the middle of it, and there was no one that she considered a stranger.  Whenever she stayed at my house (and there for a while, it was about half the year), Daisy would go off to bed when Mom did, but Dancer stayed up until Roger and I went to bed, followed Moose into  the bedroom, jumped on the bed (and then onto me) and demanded cuddles until she determined that the party was over, and then jumped down and headed in to snug with Mom. 

She was also the chief instigator of Psycho Puppy Hour every night.  Regardless of how low energy the rest of the day may be, right around 8:00 at night (or whenever Mom got out her purse and car keys), she took it as her sworn duty to attack her sister and begin the tussles.  I'm not sure what it was about a little trip that brought out the Viking in her, but she definitely let it loose. 

She had been slowing down lately (really, ever since her partner in crime, Daisy, passed a couple months ago), and she had stopped being interested in food last Friday.  Then today, on the way home, she went for one last walk (well, carry, really), with our Mother- and then she was gone along on her way.