Moose has a fan club

My boy in one of his "not so fierce" moments

Because our house was apparently built on an ancient ant burial ground or something, we have to have a quarterly "pest" service.  The guy comes out, checks out the rat traps around the outside of the house, sprays some anti-ant stuff, makes sure Moose's nemesis (the damn raccoons) aren't making a resurgence, etc... Oh, the joys of being a home-owner.

Anyway, today was the day - the guy shows up, knocks on the door, and Moose proceeds to go insane defending the house (as usual).  When I go to the door, the guy mentions that he was here a couple of years ago, and the minute he pulled up to the house and heard the full-throated welcome, he remembered Moose (yep, he even knew the name.)  Apparently, Moose has a rep with Halt.  And Delivered Dish, and the UPS guy, and Fed-Ex... let's just say his bark is legendary.

Thoughts On Orlando, Sort Of

I am not trying to co-opt the grief the actual survivors and their friends and family are feeling, by any means.  I mean, hell, as a straight, white, married female in my fifties from just about as far as you can get from Florida, I really have no business commenting on this tragedy.  Which is probably why I messed up so badly when I tried to talk about it.  But then again...

I have this friend.  Not really a friend, so much as family - I jokingly refer to him as my emergency back-up gay husband.  I think my mom loves him as much as I do - and I know that my family in Utah has accepted him as one of their own (he's Muncle Daniel.)  He lived with me and Roger for several years, until recently when the stars finally collided right and he fell in love with a really great guy.  They're getting married next month, and I'm so incredibly happy for him - but now my heart aches for him as well.  This terrific guy is scared now.  He's thinking about getting a gun for self-protection, and I can not say he's wrong to feel this way.  He lives every single day of his life with this little nugget of fear just because he's gay and our society has not been kind to gay people for most of his life.  So something like Orlando happens, and he's reminded, yet again, that the world is dangerous.  And I'm reminded, yet again, that my family is in danger. 

So, I'm angry.  Not that my anger is going to do anything, but I can't just be quiet about this anymore.  And it feels to me like a big part of the tragedies lately has been assault weapons - people who have a grudge against the world being able to do a lot more damage before they get taken down.  But my trying to say anything just gets drowned out in a sea of dogma.  Hell, I posted a link quoting some doctors saying how much more difficult it was to deal with wounds from assault weapons than it was to deal with the typical Saturday night special, and even that ended up somehow with a fight about how the Second Amendment should be absolute, how could I possibly suggest otherwise, oh, and by the way, Hillary needs to go to jail.  I've got people so busy correcting me over the capacity of a Sig (apparently it's 30 rounds, not 50) that they're never going to look at whether or not we really need to have military grade weaponry in the hands of civilians in the first place.  We're not talking from the same universal facts, let alone a reasonable range of opinions - and I know they felt the same about me.  So... I retreated from the battlefield, bloody but unbowed.  I don't know what we can do to fix this...  but I really hate arguing about it when I know people aren't listening. 

Revenge Against The Moose

You know I love my boy, but this morning, starting about 5:00, he started in with the licking.  Licking whatever he could reach, softly whining, pushing me out of bed - I've tried explaining the concept of retirement to him, but he's not having it.  If he's awake, Mom must be awake.  So, this isn't going to be one of those complimentary posts...

Moose was already a teenager when we got him through our slightly shady Utah connections (he was smuggled across the state line by Mom and Sherri from a Utah rescue when the Portland based doxie rescue was found to have some seriously unreasonable requirements.)  Some of his personality traits and habits were already formed.  Most things weren't so bad, but I found one particular personality trait that's just (frankly) embarrassing to his hippy liberal mom - my son is a classist.  In fact, at first I was worried that he was a racist, but turns out that he's perfectly fine with people of color - as long as they aren't homeless people of color.  But when we're driving along, he is perfectly fine, happy to be riding, until he sees someone with a sign along the highway, or pushing a cart along the street, and then he goes absolutely insane with the barking.  It's as if he finds it to be a personal affront that they are allowed on *his* street.  Fortunately, he's a homebody, so we don't take him driving much...

The world is too much with me today

Or perhaps it's just that I'm too much with the world.  I am seeing anger and frustration and fear on the face of my family - and I can't fix it.  Much as I want, I can not do anything to make the world a less frightening place - not even use my words, which is the only weapon I really have left. 

I try to see the good in the world, but I don't know if that really helps any.  A thousand acts of kindness can be drowned out by one horrifying incident.

I would work for gun control, but let's face it.  This specific incident was not because of insufficient gun control, but because an asshole used a gun to mow down his fellow human beings.  Concentrating on the gun aspect just gives us a reason to fight each other and ignore the underlying reasons why it happened, not how it happened.

I would fight for better mental health services, but I don't think that would have helped either.  This man probably didn't think of himself as sick, just angry.  Wrong, so wrong, but angry.  Why he felt that his anger was worth more than other human being's lives is something that should be explored, but again, it won't help at this point. 

I just can't see a way past this... and the more I think of it, the more depressed I become.  So I think it's time to retreat until my soul develops scab tissue, and I can be part of the world again.

Ok, I'm a Sexist

In at least one particular instance, at least...  I've been dealing with various iterations of OB/GYNs since Hank showed up, and I've realized that when it comes to my female bits doctor, I want someone of my own gender.

It's not from modesty - after all, I was part of the Rocky Horror caberet, and once you've changed clothing in a fire escape with 20 other assorted (really, really assorted) people, you really don't care that much about who is looking at your unclothed body.  (The whole experience also kind of broke me of the whole Playboy Centerfold comparison guilt - no one looks like that.  Ever.) 

It's mostly just that I want a doctor who actually knows what menstrual cramps feel like.  Someone who can understand that when I say "pain", I don't mean stubbed my toe - I'm talking writhing, fainting, body being turned inside out.  I know, guys get the whole vulnerable bits on the outside that are subject to being whacked, but the pain from that doesn't last for 4 days at a time.  So give me someone who knows...

Game Night

Watching a special last night on Carol Burnett, I saw a skit with The Family playing a game of Sorry.  While it was entertaining, I couldn't help looking at it and thinking "Amateurs!  You're only drawing metaphorical blood - my family, on the other hand..."

To say the women of my family are competitive is an understatement.  We grow up playing cards, starting with Spoons and Go Fish, moving on to Spades and Garbage, with an occasional foray into Canasta. If you've never played Spoons, it's essentially musical chairs with cards and kitchen spoons.  Once a player gets 4 of a kind and lays it down, everyone grabs for a spoon - last one out is eliminated.  Blood has been drawn before - literal blood (Cassidy should not have been foolish enough to try for my spoon). 

We've also been known to play full contact Pictionary - never go up against my mom and Aunt Sherri.  The sister pair bond is strong with those two - Sherri can draw a straight line and my mom will yell out Monday Night Football (which was, of course, correct.)  Trying to avoid the high fives and back slapping is the hardest part of the game. 

But the true Adams family game has always been Rook.  For non-Mormons reading this - it's a trick taking game that uses a special deck.  We all learned to play from Grandma and Grandpa - well, we learned to play from Grandma, and we learned how to occasionally cheat from Grandpa.  They had a group that they would play with every week, and no camping trip was ever complete without a dogeared pack of Rook cards.

But now that the 21st century is firmly in place, I don't play cards anymore - unless...  The final prep for any visit from my mom is clearing off the table and unearthing the scorecards.  Some family traditions are worth keeping.

Dog Days of Summer

Hot Dog On A Hot Tub

Fuck climate change - it's definitely global warming here in Portland.  Today's high of 97 was 15 degrees hotter than the normal temperature for this time of year, and 6 degrees warmer than the previous recorded high.  That, and they say it's going to be worse tomorrow.

I could tell it was hot because of the suspicious silence around our neighborhood.  I live at the top of a little cul de sac, and all of my neighbors have dogs, and all of the dogs have definite opinions.  Opinions that they are normally willing to express at full volume during the day.  Today, however, was canine-vocal free until just about 15 minutes ago, when Moose went back out and started a debate with Roady next door.  Frankly, I thought he was trying to keep up our family's side - with Daisy heading back home, someone needs to keep him in his place.  Normally, the fluffy one is the instigator, but Moose can keep up his end of the conversation when necessary. 

Since it's still 93 out there, it was a short conversation, but still... he got his point across.

Dammit, Cancer - you had one job!

(This one is going to be squicky for the guys out there... last chance to turn back.)

I've always had a bad relationship with my period - it started out with getting my first one *way* earlier than expected, and at the worst possible time (when I was staying with Dad temporarily, rather than Mom.  I think he was more scarred by the occasion than I was, but not by much.)

Things didn't get much better over the years - I was wildly irregular (not having one for 4 or 5 months, then getting one that lasted 2 weeks, that sort of thing.) Also, while most of the time, it was just a standard chore to deal with, every once in a while I'd get hyper-cramps - you know, the kind of cramps where you feel like passing out from the pain.  Cramps where the only possible way to avoid killing random strangers was to grab a bag of bad chocolate (Hershey level bad, not Brachs level bad) and some Harlequins and hole up in the bedroom for a day or two.  Lizzie Borden level cramps is what I'm talking about here.

Anyway, one of the few positives from developing uterine cancer is that my uterus shut down for business, essentially.  At one point, my doctor gave me this test to check to see if I was menopausal - the scale went from 1 to 9, 1 being the equivalent of menstruating right now, 9 being fully transitioned.  I, of course, was a zero (because I refuse to be normal), which Mom claims means I haven't hit puberty yet.  But anyway... no more bleeding, no more PMS, no more cramps. 

Until today.  Today, Hank let me down.  Again.  Back to the curl yourself in a ball and hate the world type cramps.  And that's on Oxycodone - I can't imagine what this would feel like straight.  Listen up, Hank.  Get in line and do your job, or I'm going to have to trade you in for fibromyalgia or some other easier-to-deal-with disease. 

Occupy The Back Porch!

The girls on a rampage

I wrote a while back about the new pet fountain that we introduced for Moose.  After a couple of days of resistance, he took to it and came to accept it - and Daisy and Dancer loved it. Success (unlike the dog door, which no one has yet figured out - we're still working on it.)

Anyway - came out this morning and the area around the fountain was soaking wet.  After changing out various parts, we determined that there was a leak, and I used my one super-power (shopping) to get another one coming, but in the meantime, we put a regular bowl down and moved the fountain out to the back porch to deal with later.  Moose dealt with the uproar like a trooper, but...  the girls are out on the back porch drinking from the busted fountain.  They may not get flowing water the way they like, but they will not be reduced to a bowl once they've seen the bright lights/big city way of drinking, damn it!  Viva la revolution! Down with the man!

My Body Does Trigonometry

When you're an insulin dependent diabetic, your life revolves around basic arithmetic. Blood sugar levels are carefully (or sometimes not so carefully) monitored, you know to take x amount of long acting insulin (in my case, 80 units) in the morning to get you through the day on a relatively even keel, and then you take x units of short acting insulin with each meal, based on how many carbs you're eating - x being (again, in my case) generally around 70 units, but that can go up or down based on what your base blood sugar is when you check it.  It's basic algebra, boring - but it keeps me alive.

But then again...  last night, about 2 in the morning, Moose insisted I wake up - whining, nudging, all the usual signals, because I was going low blood sugar - sweating, shaking, dizzy...  when I checked, my blood sugar was 68.  (Normal for most people is between 80 and 120 - I tend to run a little higher than that, so when I hit below 70, I need to adjust *now*.)  I got up, drank my emergency apple juice (that's about 15 carbs) and had some popcorn (about another 30 carbs worth) and waited a bit until I was back up to 135.  I then ate a grilled chicken thigh (emergency protein to keep me going once the immediate carb load wore off) and went back to bed.  So, that's 45 carbohydrates - no insulin, but 45 carbs. 

So how the hell is it that I woke up this morning to a blood sugar level of 295?  I've always had a strong dawn phenomenon - where my system releases some sugar first thing when I wake up.  Most people have it a little bit - I've got it in spades.  Anyway, to adjust for that, I'm supposed to take 40 units of long acting insulin to get me through the night - which is probably what caused the low that hit me, but it shouldn't be pumping in twice the sugar that anyone needs in their system.  How am I supposed to adjust for this?  There is no algebraic formula that's going to work here.  Oh, well... apparently, my endocrine system has been studying trigonometry, deciding that algebra is for wimps. 

How is this still a thing?

I know, I know - it's a John Oliver trademark, but it fits.  So... beer commercial for Modelo Especial (or something like that) - listing out all the skills you need to be a man. First off... if you're taking your manhood qualifications from a beer commercial, you're out right there, but...

Anyway - starts out with "If you want a job, you learn a skill." Down with it so far.  "If you want a house, you save for it" - well, short of winning the lottery, it's going to be hard to save enough for a down payment in Portland anymore, but ok... "You want bigger muscles, you lift heavier weights" Going a little off the rails here, but yeah...

But then... "You want a girl to marry you, you ask her father" Seriously?  No.  You want a girl to marry you, you treat her well, you love her, you establish a relationship that can last - asking her father should be the last step on your list (or possibly no step.)  I mean, yeah - I'm happy that Roger gets along well with my family (gets along well may be understating it - if we ever break up, I'm pretty sure that my family would sue for custody), but he's not married to my family.  The other Roger (my dad) has no ownership of me.  Even if we had a better relationship, he still would have no say as to my disposition in marriage. 

Which is why I'm wondering...  how is this still a thing?

Easing Into Retirement

As usual, I'm resisting change, but things are slowly settling in - I've updated my Facebook page for one thing.  I'm going out to lunch with Mom and a friend tomorrow, without worrying about timing or coverage.  I've switched over to a retirement-based wardrobe (funky pjs for the win).

But I still keep running into reminders - for example, the phone.  I had been in the habit of keeping a charged-up phone in the bathroom.  When I was teleworking, since I had my work phone forwarded, I wanted to make sure I didn't miss a call.  Yesterday, I actually let a call go through to voicemail... you can't imagine how freeing that felt.

The Phases of Moose

There are times when I'm pretty certain that Moose was born to be a Frenchman.  I could easily picture him leaning up against a lamp-post in a blue striped muscle shirt, an unlit cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth (unlit because hey, no opposable thumb, but still...)  He's very much a lover man, happy to just snug up against you, with occasional snack breaks (also very French - he does love his food).  But then...

Nights like tonight, something gets into him.  He gets firmly into Teutonic Terrier-ist mode, patrolling the backyard (or the kitchen, if we ground him due to potential noise complaints from the neighbors.)  He's not sure exactly what he's protecting, or who he is protecting it from, but he will not rest until he's sure the situation is firmly under control.  You can hear him muttering "einz, zwei, drei, vier" under his breath as he makes each circuit, looking up to make sure I'm safe each time, then back to the rounds.  Even once we go to bed, he'll still get up a couple of times during the night, just to check things out and make sure everything is in place. 

As he gets older, he gets more and more French, but every now and then...  I can see him looking for his tiny German helmet.  I suppose it's genetics...

Sunshine on the Patio

I had a reminder today of the value of taking life in stride.

We took Mom out for brunch for Mother's Day at Portland Seafood.  I knew it was going to be crowded, so I made reservations - unfortunately, when we got there, the only table they had was one that I couldn't fit at (high top, and there was no way I was going to be able to hoist myself up onto the bench.)  But instead of fretting, we just went with the flow.  10 minutes later, they decided to open up the back patio.

It was lovely - perfect weather, low 70s, mild breeze, shade so that I didn't turn into a lobster.  The service wasn't speedy, since we were off by ourselves, but we had a great time talking, so it didn't matter.  And the patio was quiet - so we could hear each other (not always the case in a restaurant.)  The food was tasty, the mimosas were great...  all in all, it was a fantastic way to spend time on Mother's Day. 

As opposed to the guys they were sitting just as we were about to leave, who were grumping about their reservations not being immediately honored and not having a high chair set up when they got there and...  It just reminded me that the flow can lead you to some really wonderful places, but you have to see the place once you land there.

Moose's Morning Chores

Pre-dawn hours:  Little to no chance of actually getting Mom out of bed, but we'll soften her up for the push later by crawling up on top of the pillow and vulturing her.  Maybe lick her eyeball a time or two, just to remind her we're here.

6:00ish:  Mom's in the bathroom - time to check for the 20th time to see if Daisy and Dancer are willing to accept me into the pack on Grandma's bed.
6:01:  Accompanied by a canine chorus of "Repel invaders!  Repel invaders!", slink back to Mom's bed and resume snuggle position.

7:30ish:  Dad's up - time to work on Mom.  Start with the paws propped up on her hip, staring at her sleeping face.

7:45:  Begin basic subvocalizations - the whine that cuts deep into every mom's soul.

8:00:  Ok.  Time to go hardcore.  Dig under the blanket and commence operation Tongue-Lashing.  Lick everything that's not covered by clothing until she gives in and gets out of bed.

8:10:  Mission accomplished - she's out of bed and into the chair.  Climb up on her lap, spend 10 minutes lovingly gazing into her eyes while she gives me my morning massage, and then resume 20 hour beauty sleep.  Job done.

State of the Body Post

So... latest news.  On the cancer front, I had my scan, and Hank is maintaining his stability - no increase in growth, he's just hanging out compressing my bladder and being chill.  In fact, Dr Steiner is putting me down to yearly scans now, since he seems to be uninterested in threatening my life in any meaningful way (yeah!). 

On the rest of me front...  I finally decided to get serious about documenting my issues with walking/standing for more than a couple of minutes at a time, starting with pulmonology.  Oddly enough, my arterial blood gas test was normal (which is terrific, considering it was awful last time I got it done - the bi-pap really works for me.)  However, when she took me for a walk around the office (about 200 feet, maybe?), my heart rate started spiking about half-way through and went into the danger zone (155-160?), so I guess cardiology is next.  Not a big surprise, this has been happening since I was about 30 - but I've got to get it documented now, since I am pursuing my SSDI claim. 

Still not sure exactly how I feel about disability - Objectively, I know that I am disabled.  I can't walk, I can't get through a day without changing pants two or three times, I have to sleep 12-14 hours a day.  I'm just not sure how to prove it to the Government, and I feel a little guilty about trying.  On the other hand, I've also been paying into the system for 30 years, so I'm not sure why I'm feeling the guilt.  Oh, well...  I've got an appointment next Thursday with a lawyer - we'll see how it goes.

Red Light, Green Light

Back in my way younger days, there was a game we used to play (similar to tag) called "Red Light, Green Light".  Whoever was It would stand maybe 20 yards away from everyone else who was lined up, turn their back and yell "Green Light!"  Everyone would then rush toward them until they turned around, yelling "Red Light".  If It managed to catch you moving, you were out of the game, and the object was to be able to touch It without getting caught.

Dancer plays Red Light, Green Light with me all the time.  She'll start out at one end of the couch, wait for me to look away, sneak a little closer...  She's very good at it - I almost never catch her actually moving, it's just that suddenly, there's a dog in my lap that I wasn't expecting.

Cherry Ripe

I survived a Costco trip on Saturday, today.  I know, it seems like a minor victory, but hey...  I dare you to brave the wretched masses on a copious free sample day.  Over 1,000 parking spaces and every one of them filled.

Anyway... we scored fresh cherries - the first I've seen this season.  What is it about cherries that make them so damned delicious?  I'm thinking about developing an inverse correlation theory of food - the harder it is to process/eat it, the better it tastes.  For example, oatmeal?  Easy peasy, no muss, no fuss... and no taste, unless you add a bunch of flavorants.  But cherries?  You have to individually pit each little tiny morsel - and when they're perfectly ripe, there is no better taste out there.  Nothing to add, no need to gild the lily - just perfect taste.  Same for shrimp - pain in the patoot to peel each one, but so worth it. 

Survival of the Hungriest

Sick day today (one of those stupid, inexplicable fevers that Hank likes to throw my way). Anyway, I went to the fridge and grabbed a piece of cheese, and I swear Moose was trying to hamstring me all the way back to my chair. Apparently Havarti brings out his inner wolf, and he figured if he could just bring me down, the cheese would be his. See if I share any of this with him now. (Ok, he's giving me the soulful eye, so I probably will - make that he's giving the cheese the soulful eye. Such a transparent pup.)

Third Annual Memorial Wake/FU Hank Party

I'm getting together tonight with some friends to celebrate - partly it's a delayed birthday party, but it's also my third annual Wake.  Three years ago tonight, I was waking up from surgery to stop my bleeding and about to find out that my uterus had been invaded by Henry the VIII (or Hank, as I call him.) 

Three years later...  I'm in a better space.  I'm getting ready to retire (15 more work days and counting), Hank has turned out to be settled in and not spreading the way we were afraid he would, I'm a lot closer to family and friends than I was...  All in all, mentally, I'm doing great.  Physically, not so much, but hey... one out of two isn't bad. 

So... on to the next year.  With ham, funeral potatoes, and Kevin's incredible salad.