Tag: homefront

Sweet Dreams

sleeping dog lie

I had a hard time falling asleep last night.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I was reading a book* on the couch from about 10:30 p.m. to 1 a.m. when I woke up realized I was thirsty and that I needed to brush my teeth.

Boosted by post-nap energy, I watched funny videos with The Big Guy on his phone. We then groaned through that Buzzfeed list about why we need to burn down the Internet. Short answer, the person tweeting about their 80HD and the other person gay bashing because Rosetta Stone didn’t sit on that bus for nothing. Think about that.

So after doing enough Internet to feel very superior, I went up to bed.

I usually fall asleep within approximately 32 seconds of my head hitting the pillow. Last night, it was closer to ten minutes. That’s a hard time falling asleep for me. (Don’t hate insomniacs. You have other gifts.)

In those ten minutes I decided what to wear to work and what to have for breakfast so I could be super efficient and jump out of bed without hitting snooze and take the dog for a good morning walk. I spent the night with some weird dream about being on a train and having to balance luggage while carrying my friend’s sweet baby. Let’s not try and interpret that one.

The alarm fired about four hours after I fell asleep. I leaned over to turn it off.  You have to swipe right to turn it off, or you have to tap to snooze. I accidentally tapped and at that moment someone put an arm around me so I snuggled back in. Totally not my fault.

The other alarm in the room tripped and the arm de-enveloped. My cue to get up. I was thinking that the arm would have coffee waiting for me if I stalled. I closed my eyes and sank a little lower under covers.

Pop went the snoozed alarm and it’s time to get up for real. I sat up.

I did my lazy technique of making the bed. You can avoid walking all around the king size bed to straighten the sheets if you sit in the middle. From this position you can pull the sheets up and shake them out so the bed is just about made. Super efficient.

I started pulling up the sheets. I moved the pillow next to me. It was still warm from the arm. I put my head on the warm spot and thought about that nice strong arm. I fell back to sleep. The dog missed his long walk.

* This is a common euphemism for falling asleep downstairs.

Posted on by docthink 0

Brown + Dog

Great big super scary UPS truck

Who is it that says dogs are colorblind? They are very wrong. My dog most definitely knows the color brown.

This I know because he desperately hates the UPS truck. And its denizens. (sorry drivers!)

This I know because whenever he sees a UPS truck he yells at it. Loudly. At the top of his lungs, and, totally, by the way, at the top of my patience.

The truck rolls down our street, he furiously barks.

It stops and delivers Zuilly or Zappos or Amazon across the street. He goes off.

And, sorry and so sad and so very wrong, when a poor driver has to come up on our porch for our delivery. Super sorry, since I’m a very active Amazon Prime member. Poor driver endures shock and awe from the red-coated full-throated beast. Really, I am sorry. Really. I am.

Total hate from our sweet oversized over-bellowed hound.

In our house it’s awful. So awful that would yell at him to shut the eff up. Where “eff” is a very different word, but Loyal Reader, I don’t want to say this word in front of you.

I did some research and found that when I was yelling AT him to shut up, he thought that I was yelling WITH him. What? So I’m screaming at him to shut up and he’s like, YEAH! We are getting those muthafuckas to leave us alone.

Dear Lord, what have I begot?

Next round. He yells at the UPS driver and gets all physical. He knocks over all the flowers, and I see that all the pillows are on the floor. He’s on the couch standing in kill stance. YELLING at the top of his lungs and throat and whatever else a hound dog has. Trust me, it is loud. No. Seriously. LOUD.

So I walk up and grab his collar and say in a whisper, “This is not your job. Leave it.” And I repeat this about twenty million gazillion billion times, always in a whisper. [while in my head I am screaming YOU STUPID SHIT DOG SHUT THE FUCK UP, but he never hears this. He just hears the gentle whisper.]

“This is not your job. Leave it.”

And I drag his 85 pounds of muscle ass off of the couch where he is in total KILL mode. That means that all four of his strong-ass legs are planted strong, that his tail is rocket straight, that his muzzle is pointed and strained toward the perceived [totally wrongly because there is no threat] danger.

As I drag him by his collar he pulls back to the bullshit threat. Bullshit because there IS NO THREAT. But, because he is still doing his job since he is the dog in the house, I continue to whisper to him the alternative. [Whispering is getting increasingly difficult, if you couldn’t figure that out on your own. Just saying.]

He fights me for the effort that it takes for me to pull him off–and this is a SIGNIFICANT effort. I don’t go to the gym because I build super-body-strength since I am pulling this freak around. Maybe I should thank him. Or give him a doggie-treat.

Anyway, he pulls back so he can alert from his spot looking out the window. He is up on the couch. He is protecting us all. Standing on the couch gives this big dog another couple feet. So he’s at about five-feet at the snout, and he’s at full yell.

I’m pulling him off the couch, [pretending to] always whispering, but, frankly, if that stupid effin’ dog knocks me over [again!!] I will likely maybe lose my shit.

I’m pulling him off the couch with all my weak-strength and all the time gently whispering that it’s not his fukcing job and walking him away from the window and, then, magically, when we walk into the next room he suddenly becomes complacent.

What?

I walk him toward the bathroom, and as I get closer he knows that he needs to go to a place and pull himself together.

We call it “Puppy Time Out.”

I escort him, at this point easily, to the bathroom and put him inside. I tell him to chill out.

And, he does.

Seriously. This dog is smart. He knows that once I gather my strength and pull him off the couch it’s over. Totally over. And he needs to pull himself together. And sit pretty. It’s over. And the damn truck will be gone. And he will sit, like a little dream whip, in a little ball, on the couch.

“Stop, Doc!,” you say. “So why does this indicate color awareness??”

When he sees someone on the street [i could do an entire separate series of his street insanity] wearing a boxy brown jacket, he wants to do great bodily harm to him.

I know this because my arms are much longer than they were the day before we saw that poor man standing on the other side of the street with his brown HH or North Face or whatever brown coat with a hood.  I was frantically holding that mass of dog-muscle away from the guy with the brown jacket as he was punished via very loud and vicious-sounding barking. I was so embarrassed. If the guy was wearing a blue or red or green or khaki jacket, no yelling.

[But if he was wearing a church lady hat, all bets off. The dog hates hats, too. That is another post.]

I don’t get this. Like at all. But I love my crazy red dog.

Posted on by docthink 2

Fairy Tail

sleeping dog

The dog is such a princess.

An eighty-five pound, 38 inches tall, deer-legged, red, short-haired, long-eared princess.

The past few days have been exhausting in the “doing his business” category. He needs to find just the right spot.

The ground’s been covered in snow, outside of a path in the center of the sidewalk and the plowed strip in the street. Somehow he knows that under those twenty-three inches of snow is sidewalk and not grass. He is obviously very picky about going only on organic matter. He’s like the princess, and the pee.

Sorry, dad joke.

Posted on by docthink 0

Snow Drift

43ee4-img_4840

The snow. It’s coming. And it will cover us all with feet of whiteness.

Like my covers.

I don’t want to stir. When I move, I switch from warm to cold.

The Spouse is in the Wasatch Mountains and, I am sure, with his own snow issues. Me? I’m home. In that big bed. With the somewhat ugly sheets.

On top of those percales is a heavy woven cotton blanket. It’s a super neutral beige. If the somewhat ugly sheets were white, the contrast would be pretty. The sheets are somewhat ugly, though.

I used to have duvets to add color to the bedroom. A big bed is such a vista suck, so the topper makes the difference. The last duvet was a rust paisley print that lost it’s charm very quickly. The rust was oxidized–like it took the air out of the room.

Today’s duvet is a pure white with a white ric rac border. Very subtle, and very good with that beige. It’s odd–and awesome–that it makes that neutral cotton blanket a colorful contrast versus a background.

On the foot of the bed is a quilt that my mother-in-law stitched. It’s primary color is a dusty rose and it has some creamy white. It functions perfectly as a foot warmer on top of the comforting fluff of white duvet that hides the feather comforter that lays across the beige tightly knitted blanket on the somewhat ugly sheet.

The house is old and almost drafty. During storms I hear the winds ripping under the roof, making a noise that makes me dig deeper under my pile of linens. In the morning, I dig even deeper.

When it’s cold, the air in the bedroom is cold, too. Shielded by layers of covers, my body heat is cached and reflected back. I wake up underneath the pile of bedding. The tip of my nose is cold. I pull the sheets up and tuck my face in. I move my right hand to stretch, and I feel the cold mattress. I pull my hand back close to me, where it was before, where it warmed up that spot.

I wonder how long until the alarm rings. I don’t turn to see the clock. It would disturb the temperature balance. I slide down the pillow a little, burrowing deeper into the sheets. I open one eye and see that it’s still dark, but on it’s way to light. I pull my knees up, closer to my body. I tilt closer to deep breathing and try to push my creeping to-do list out of my head.

Posted on by docthink 2

Pressured and Cooked

mmmmm. black beans and rice.

Pulled my hand out of my coat pocket to put the key in the door and get out of the cold.

Dog needed to go out, but I had a plan. Didn’t care that it was late and a long day. Did. Not. Care.

Fact is, the mantra that kept going through my mind–and occasionally out of my mouth–had to do with the few number of fcuks that I was giving today. Very few. As in NO fcuks.

But I had an idea. And it was a good one. First, though, to the dog and his duties. No reason to take off my coat, and scarf, and mittens, and hat, and boots. Hang the key next to the door, release the kraken, I mean dog, and let the business be done. Done! Next.

So let’s feed the beast. He needs to eat, too. And he’s likely hungrier than me.

I’m eyeing that pressure cooker in the pantry as I’m scooping the kibble. It’s next in my sights. It won’t get away. Just have to feed the dog.

The best part about cooking is the physicality; the chopping, the stirring, the crumbling, the spicing, the shaking, the dicing, the washing. The can of tomatoes and two cans of black beans that I open. I love catching the opener on the lip of the can and turning the crank. It’s an amazingly smooth mechanic. I would never use an electric can opener when I can turn a handle and watch the can spin around as the blade penetrates the lid and slices through the metal.

I get the pressure cooker out of the pantry and place it on the stove top. I proudly look at it’s shine since I Bon Ami’d it last time. I love it when it shines. And when it steams.

It’s 8:50 pm and I start. I grabbed the olive oil, but remembered that I have some cheap OO in the pantry. No reason to use the EVOO when I have a just OO. Switch on the gas and put a few swirls of the cheap OO in the pan. I reach in the fridge for the red pepper and gleefully find and grab a celery stalk. This is gonna be great. Chopping the celery and pepper I hold the large onion for last. It seemed a little squishy so I wasn’t looking forward to peeling.

Turned out it was perfectly healthy. In moments it was peeled and chopped. Dumped the cut goods in the pot and turned to the garlic cloves. I smashed them and cut them. I don’t know why the recipe said to mince. They end up flavoring the oil and then dissolve under pressure. I do it the easy way.

I add the bay leaf and measure out the basmati rice–only to realize that I’m about a third short of a full cup. Seriously? I thought there were three bags!?! I guess we ate it. I have some volcano rice, but that takes longer to cook. I’ll just use the remains of that box of short grain abrioro rice. Still a little short? Okay, a few tablespoons of that volcano rice will make a cup.

This entire rice drama took about 35 seconds.

Rice in the pan, stirred and coated then add the thyme and pepper and pour in the water. Okay water and some old cooking sherry. I’m on a roll now emptying the random containers in the pantry and filling up the recycling bin. More flavor and more space. Winning.

Top it off with the can of fire roasted tomatoes, set the top on and up the heat to high. Wait for the steam. It teases me–not sealing tight but still spewing from the regulator. I shake the pot a few times. It seals up, and I lower the heat.

Next it’s chopping up those pimento stuffed olives. I take the last three olives out of a jar that gets tossed in the recycling bin and find a second opened jar in the fridge. Winning again on that shelf space.

It’s been five minutes so the rice is done. I turn off the heat and let the pressure release on its own. Five more minutes and I remove the top and stir in the beans and the olives. Fill a pretty red bowl, add a little hot sauce and sit down to eat at 9:20 pm.

Just in time to catch up with the errant spouse.

A good night.

Posted on by docthink 0

Lavender’s Thursday Dilly Dilly

Bottle of Mrs. Meyer's lavender dish soap

Standing over the sink, washing the dinner dishes, I couldn’t think of what day it is. I knew what day I wanted it to be.

I switched to lavender scented dish soap two or three months back. It started with lavender candles, went to lavender counter cleaner and settled in with lavender dish soap.

The dish soap is my least favorite of my lavender infatuation, mostly because it smells like soapy lavender, and I have an irrational fear that it tastes like it smells and that the smell won’t rinse off. Irrational because I still think that thought after months of zero evidence that there is any residual taste or even smell of lavender. It rinses off just fine.

I made an amalgamation of leftovers in a bowl for dinner, so the dishes were primarily containers from the leftovers and some dishes and silverware. There were two round containers with screw on blue tops, one large cube with a snap blue top, and a glass rectangle with a clear top that you need to slap the edges hard to seal. The glass rectangle is heavy. My plan was to switch from the eventually disposable plastic containers to all glass, but the size options don’t meet my food storage needs. Also, they don’t stack as well.

I don’t know why I was so confused about the day, but I definitely struggled to tease it out. At first I thought that it was Thursday, but quickly realized I was a victim of wishful thinking. Yes, I wanted tomorrow to be Friday. Nope, today had to be Wednesday. I was pretty sure. I looked at the container lid in my hand and smelled the lavender smell. I counted the days I remembered this week and Wednesday seemed mostly right. I rinsed the lid. I volunteered to wash the dishes tonight because I wanted to have my hands in the warm water.

I took a step back and leaned toward the calendar. I looked and saw that Wednesday was the 13th. It seemed like today was the 13th. Was that right? Maybe it was the 14th?

I put the next well-rinsed container in the dish drainer. I picked up the plastic encased sponge and the next dish and strained my brain for a clue of what day it is. There was nothing–absolutely not one thing–that I could come up with that was routine, that was a marker for this day, whatever day it is. The water ran from the faucet as I put more soap on my sponge.

What day is it today?

My brain turned to my Mom’s trips to the hospital over the past few years. The nurse would lean in on her and say [loudly because my elderly Mom was hard of hearing and didn’t listen anyway], “HONEY, DO YOU KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS TODAY? WHAT YEAR?”

I used to think that was a dumb and unfair question. In the hospital one day is like another. There weren’t markers of time other than when meals are brought. If they wanted to know if she was confused, there would be fairer questions. Of course she’d get it wrong.

I stood there over the sink, sponge hanging off of my hand, brain starting to smoke as I turned my day over and inside out searching for an elusive cue. I looked into the running water and pushed fog away. I remembered that I cancelled our regular Thursday meeting today. A marker! It’s Thursday.

Which means tomorrow is, indeed, Friday.

I finished the dishes and wiped down the counter, grateful that there wasn’t a test today on today.

Posted on by docthink 0

All Comes Down

Dog reviewing the lit up Christmas tree.

I’m doing it this weekend.

Unlike in many, many, many years in the past, when it would stand until the branches bowed convex and were favoring the brown side of green and when the needles had become little weapons stabbing you to protect their ornaments until they sacrificed themselves to carpet the carpet with their barbed edges awaiting an unsuspecting stockinged foot. So sneaky. But not this year.

Yet, this year’s tree was not without its own dramas. It begins with a process.

First, I placate my conscience by making sure that the proceeds for a pricey fire-hazard farmed for my holiday pleasure goes to a “good cause.”

Then there’s the search for the right tree. It has to be a very tall tree that isn’t too wide (old house with small rooms and high ceilings). I really like the impact of a TALL tree. It’s so impressive.

I don’t like the really long needles, so there’s that. And I can’t ever remember the type tree that we usually get. White pine? Douglas Fir? Fraser? Colorado Blue Spruce? Some people know. I don’t. But I know what it should smell like. And the smell is key. I usually grab a branch and run my hands along it to feel the needles and, if it feels good, I sink my nose into its cold body and take a big whiff, because when you get your tree it needs be cold and smell like cold and sweet pungent pine.

So it looks and smells right, but, and this is critical and based on prior trauma, will it stand upright for the duration? This is when we hold it and spin it and study the trunk, because depending on the cut and any squirrely bend in the tree, you can find yourself rehanging ornaments all season. Or, as in one year, someone might just pick it up off of the ground and javelin it across the room accompanied by a volley of sharp words not appropriate for you, Loyal Reader.

After much scrutiny, unwrapping and review of trees in the secret stash and a highly supervised and exacting chainsawing of the bottom branches, we brought the tree home. (Also after a most excellent and celebratory hot toddy and bar snacks.)

Guess what? The damn tree was unstable in the tree stand.

Yup. So there was much additional doctoring of the branches, backs and forths with hacksaws, crosscut saws, heavy duty pruners, and likely a switch blade. It stood, but if a heavy truck drove down our street, it would surely drop.

It was time for the big gun. But that was not without some regret as the Big Gun’s solution included screwing the tree stand into a block of wood that ended up breaking in half and then taking a pair of these bad boys

and posting them on top of that plank for additionally stability. This is where the size of the tree is important since you can almost–almost I say–cover them with a tree skirt and still have room for presents underneath in the front.

The next day I climbed the rickety ladder–I mean why buy a new ladder when you can continue to use the one that your Spouse found in the shed at the group house he lived in 30 years ago?–to place the star on the top of the tree.

Heavy star tree topperI got the star about four or five years ago. Decent tree toppers are almost impossible to find and this star has faceted mirrors to reflect the lights on the tree. I was ecstatic that it didn’t light up with some garish LED lights that looked more like a downtown Cincinnati bar sign (drink bush lite here). It would light from the tree itself. But when you buy something online, you might find yourself focusing on how it looks, because, well that’s what you see online, a beautiful star on a beautiful Pottery Barn tree in an amazingly beautiful curated holiday scene. You don’t recognize, for instance, that the star weighs 75 pounds and there is no discernable way to attach it to the tree.

So you get on the rickety ladder and braid together some old bread ties so they are long enough to wrap around the top of the tree and the tree topper (you don’t do the braiding until you are on the top of the ladder because, I don’t know, you like to swing back and forth with a 75 pound fragile star in your hand at the top of a rickety ladder while crocheting wire ties together?!). And you do this same thing every year because, I don’t know, Christmas?

Anyway, you get on the top of the rickety ladder with your ties and your star and start the process of braiding and then affixing it to the top of the tree. Lot’s of twists of lots of ties.

And then, and then, and then—you notice that the tree is starting to list to starboard. It seems strange since there are 100 pounds of weights holding it down, but it pitches anyway, and there is no time for additional analysis. It’s time for action. From the top of the rickety ladder you un-secure the twist ties that you really really twisted while trying to hold the tree upright and trying to keep yourself from losing balance and tumbling off the ladder onto the tree.

You know just what is needed. The tree needs to be tied to the wall. And you need a Bulleit.

And, today, it’s coming down.

Posted on by docthink 0

Hating Waiting

my wedding and engagement rings

A friend asked me if I saw things differently since I found out that I had stupid cancer. I said that it doesn’t make sense to wait. Do things now. Remodel the kitchen? Cool trip? Just do it. My friend called it the tyranny of now.

But that really isn’t true. I’ve been waiting.

Time is suspended during treatment. There’s a treatment plan, but you have to wait to see if it’s working. You need to see if it knocks you out. Or not.

Do I start something that I might not be able to finish? Do I end up either having to push too much–setting myself back–or throw in the towel because I can’t do something?

So, I kind of hang back. Suspended in time. Waiting for this to be done.

I’m not tyrannized by any “now.” My tyranny is this stupid illness. It’s stopping me. But, I always knew there was an end, and, right now, I think I can see it.

One of the first parts of my treatment was to have the stupid tumor tattooed. I had to go to the hospital and have it done under general anesthesia.

When you go under general you can’t wear makeup or nail polish. And you can’t wear any jewelry. Not earrings. And not rings. Not a wedding ring.

My wedding ring is a small, simple gold band. I never took it off. And it was very comfortable on my finger. Very comfortable–in like it didn’t want to come off. The pre-op nurse and I bonded over the fight we had getting the ring off my finger. After we wrestled it off, she put it in a small bag. It was marked bio-hazard. She handed it to my spouse for safekeeping.

The next part of my treatment was the chemo, but I knew that surgery would follow. Since I had such grief getting the ring off, I decided to wait to put it back on until I was done.

A few weeks ago I had surgery to remove the tumor. Tomorrow I have another surgery to remove some lymph nodes. Then this stupid cancer should be gone.

I am bringing my wedding ring to the hospital. And I am putting it back on. Then I will be done waiting.

Posted on by docthink 1

Bang a Gong

big ole gong

There is ritual at the chemo bar. Like any neighborhood joint.

You heard about the place. It has it’s own je ne sais quoi. The first time you walk in there are a bunch of regulars. You think they are looking at you, especially since you are obviously–in your mind–new. Do you go up to the bar? Sit down? It’s not a really big deal, but you hesitate.

Then someone always takes care of you, and you get an idea of the rhythm.

No idiots. No bombs. No shooters. No specials. No politics.
Relax. Drink. Be cool. Behave.

My chemo bar is full of alot of regulars, but the bartenders nurses do their best to make you at home.

There is never any rush at the chemo bar. You choose your seat and someone brings your specialty mix. People are lined up around the perimeter in their heated chairs, some with companions, some alone. Some come in to get a shots or advice. Those are the seats away from the windows.

At first, it seems like a melancholy joint. There’s sick people getting sicker to get better. (Yes, chemo is like being hit by a truck.) And while this is an exclusive guest list, nobody wanted to be waived in.

You wonder if you’re supposed to make eye contact? Nod? So you try it. You start to recognize other folks who recognize you. People nod back. Some smile. You see how the bartenders nurses not only support the patients, but each other. Folks cut up. A little. Okay, some folks cut up.

When you have your last chemo infusion at my chemo bar you can bang the gong. I have seen it done. There is a sense of #winning when someone who has been through grueling treatment is done. Some people are there every week for a few months. Many of them following surgery and maybe radiation.

My last of three chemo treatments was Monday. My former Vegas EMT and current biker chick bartender nurse said I could bang the gong. But I have surgery next. I am not done yet. I didn’t want to make the gods angry by taking an early victory lap.

But, I am glad to have the infusions behind me. I’ll be back for bloodwork for the next few weeks. But under my breath so as not to offend the powers, I will be singing this, since it somehow makes sense.

Well you’re dirty and sweet, clad in black
Don’t look back and I love you
You’re dirty and sweet, oh yeah
Well you’re slim and you’re weak
You’ve got the teeth of a hydra upon you
You’re dirty sweet and you’re my girl.

Yeah. Teeth of a hydra. Bring it on. Bang a gong.

Posted on by docthink 1

Almost Cut My Hair

A comb with a bunch of blond hairs. That used to be in my head.

I washed my hairs today.

Normally, I wash my hair. But I don’t have enough left to call it hair. Hair is a bunch of hair. Hair is a pony tail. Hair can be braided. Hair whips around your face when the windows are down in the car in the summertime.

Hair takes in and gives off the smell of shampoo, of a campfire, of the scent of your partner.

Hair is something you flip when you have an attitude. When you dismiss someone. Or when you’re flirting.

Hair is something I play with when I’m thinking. I tuck it behind my ears. I brush it away from my face. Not so much twirling it, but placing it. I’ve seen this annoyance on video. I bet the experts would tell me to stop.

Hairs is all I have left. The hair came out in huge swaths. It seems that everything in the house now has a clump of golden locks on it. It’s tiresome.

But it’s my mane. Was my mane. Is now in the trash.

Time for a clean sweep and a new beginning. I will miss my hair, but not so much my hairs.

Posted on by docthink 0