Boy, are my pets in rotten moods lately. As usual they tend to take it out on me, like it's my fault their lives are falling apart. And of course their lives are totally falling apart. It's constantly ninety degrees, they don't get free-fed anymore, I'm at work eight hours a day, I don't let the cats go outside, and for the love of God, why do I never let them kill spiders?
My animals always let me know in no uncertain terms that they are pissed. Willow pees on the floor. She likes to mix it up too. Sometimes she pees on the plastic litter pads outside of the boxes downstairs, and sometimes she pees on the plastic sheet under her cage upstairs. Puckett yaks up her food. When she's really mad she poops in my shoe. Percy also yaks on the floor, but when he's really mad he releases his anal sacs all over my foot and leg to remind me that one does not mess with something that can release an overpowering stench.
If I painted a white stripe down his back, Percy could totally double as a skunk.
To be fair, my pets are probably pissed at me because I haven't been home a lot. If I'm not at work, I'm in recovery, on a date, or at the coffee shop, writing. I can't write at home. My pets get in the way and don't allow me to get anything done.
Meanwhile Willow has peed on the floor three times this week (to be fair, she has gotten better since she no longer pees on the carpet). Puckett barfed twice. Percy barfed once and released his anal sacs twice, and Tess has this annoying habit of pooping in the exact place she runs through when she's chasing flies outside. I've read that animals don't like to eat, play or drink water in spots where they eliminate. Cats especially are finicky about this which is why the litter boxes are downstairs and their food bowls are in the kitchen. The only exception to that is Willow's cage. Her litter box and food bowl are both in her cage, and if she doesn't want to eat where she shits then she should start thinking about maybe not peeing on the floor. Tess, however, has no such reservations. Her favorite place to chase flies is in the corner of the backyard where my little crab apple tree grows. It is also her favorite place to poop. She races around that tree several times a day and every time she tromps through the piles of shit she leaves behind. I clean them up almost every day in the summer, but my God, can that dog poop. I don't get it. She eats once a day. I fill her bowl up whenever it's empty because she is not a hog and only eats when she's hungry. Usually she only cleans the bowl once or she snacks lightly throughout the day until the bowl is empty. I have no idea where all this crap is coming from. For a dog who eats so little, she sure does poop a lot.
The cats, on the other hand, eat constantly and so they also poop constantly. I clean litter boxes three times a day, sometimes four depending on how smelly Percy decides to be. That's his other trick. When he's annoyed or huffy with me he somehow manages to generate the stinkiest nastiest dump any animal is capable of and usually right in the middle of my lunch.
It's been a smelly week.
When I'm in a rotten mood I generate emotional shit. Of course one thing that will put me in a rotten mood is having cleaned the house and litter boxes top to bottom only to have Willow pee on the floor, Puckett yak on it, and Percy release some kind of stink so that the entire house needs airing out. This happened the other night. I fed my animals as soon as I got home from work. The house stunk to high heaven indicating that Percy had recently been to the box so I cleaned all the litter boxes. Willow proceeded to pee on the floor once all the boxes were clean (really, Willow?) and then Percy promptly barfed up the entire contents of his dinner all over the steps and then on the carpet downstairs. He then went to use the litter box again.
It was a double whammy.
I yelled. Willow fled. Percy released his anal sacs. Then he gave me the snottiest, shittiest look I've ever seen on that cute little black face and marched off.
I had to bleach everything - the floor, the litter boxes, the steps. I am here to tell you, nothing smells worse than a male cat's anal sacs. And no male cat takes greater pleasure in grossing humans out with it than Precious Percy.
One probably wonders why I keep these little bodily fluid factories around, but honestly the good really does outweigh the bad. My emotional shit is worse than anything physical these three furballs can generate out of whatever orifice. They put up with a lot more shit from me than I put up with from them. My animals pick up whatever mood I'm in, so if I'm feeling pissy, they get pissy. When I'm anxious and I make them nervous, causing the dog to pace and the cats to race through the house or scratch their scratching posts incessantly. When I'm in a little too good of a mood, the cats race through the house, bouncing off the walls, and Tess leaps and bounds around me, usually narrowly missing my face with a paw she's waving around. She and Percy like to wrestle. Puckett and Percy also like to wrestle. When I start dancing in the kitchen, the dog dances with me and the cats bounce all over the place like little rubber balls of fur. If I dance or do Pilates downstairs, the cats all join me in a bit of Downward Dog and Planking, though the cats' idea of Planking is stretching full length on their sides either beside me or underneath my "Plank." By the way, trying to hold any Plank position for ten counts while a tail runs back and forth under one's nose is almost impossible.
Honestly, my pets are neurotic because I'm neurotic, so therefore their physical shit is generated by my emotional shit.
It can all be construed as my fault. I may yell, but I'm not going to punish them for that. As usual I bring all my shit and theirs on myself. Theirs just happens to be more tangible, smells terrible, and is overall disgusting. There is no doubt, however, that emotional shit is more toxic than anything that comes out of a cat. Negative self-talk, depression, anxiety attacks, the constant spinning of one's mind imagining all the things that can go wrong are enough to lower the quality of one's life a lot worse than a few piles of kitty poo. I am not a glass half full kind of person. I never was. I was always a bit more pessimistic than optimistic, preferring to call myself a realist. I like to prepare for the worst, that way I'm never disappointed. I like to base decisions and outcomes on what is most likely to happen due to history rather than what the most positive outcome might be. I never like to get my hopes up to high. I've been too jaded. The funny thing about negative thinking and always expecting the worst is that it puts one in a rotten mood, and as demonstrated by my cats, rotten moods only produce more shit. Because it has finally sunk in that shit only begets more shit, I've changed my outlook and tried something new: positive thinking, gratitude, and self-care and most importantly positive self-talk, because honestly cutting myself down is no fun. I would never speak to a dear friend the way I talk to myself sometimes, so why should I treat myself any differently? As much shit as they produce, my cats don't shit all over themselves, so why am I shitting on myself?
And you know what? I think it's working. Having a more positive outlook on life has improved my writing, improved my relationships with friends and family and coworkers, and improved my attitude at work. It's also possibly attracting a better class of men and weeding out the worthless ones who aren't for real. Little by little, even with my bad days and my funks, I'm feeling better and less hopeless about stuff in general. I smile more, I laugh more, and I'm finding nuggets of fun in my day to day life.
I really am a professional shit shoveler which qualifies me for recognizing my own shit and starting to shovel it. It's a stall-full, I'm not going to lie, but shovelful by shovelful, it's getting dumped in the wheelbarrow and taken to the manure pile.
Now if I can just figure out how keep up with shoveling the physical shit of my pets. They may eventually bury me with it.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Patience is a Virtue
I'll be the first to admit that I have zero patience. Patience is a virtue I seriously lack.
Interestingly my cats share this lack of virtue with me. Cats are notorious for their patience. No one can sit by a mouse hole, hour after hour without moving a muscle like a cat. I've seen cats fixate on a hole for an entire afternoon waiting for some creature or other to crawl out unsuspectingly, and their patience always pays off. They always end up with a snack or a toy or a little of both, the remains of which they leave on the doorstep as testimony of their excruciating patience.
My cats have no patience. As soon as I open my eyes in the morning Percy is wailing for food, Puckett is sitting by the bed staring at me, and Tess is pacing around the bedroom, begging to be let out. If I don't jump out of bed immediately, Percy jumps up on the bed, races across it, and jumps down the other side. He'll do this over and over until I either get up or throw him across the room. Otherwise he will race through the house, thundering like a herd of elephants and ensuring that there is no way I'll go back to sleep.
When Precious wants his food, he wants it now.
This can happen at any given time of day. As far as he is concerned, Percy always wants his food. If I wander into the kitchen at midnight for a drink of water, he's sitting by the cabinet expecting me to get his bowl out even though all meals stop after nine.
This can happen at any given time of day. As far as he is concerned, Percy always wants his food. If I wander into the kitchen at midnight for a drink of water, he's sitting by the cabinet expecting me to get his bowl out even though all meals stop after nine.
This lack of patience also factors in when playing with bugs, spiders, and inanimate balls of tin foil. My cats don't sit patiently, watching bugs come to them. They pounce almost immediately, tear the poor things apart, and leave carcasses of legs and carapaces all over the carpet for me to find. I try to save the spiders, but I'm usually too late. By the time I get to them, a paw has already mashed their little eight-eyed faces into the ground.
There is nothing sadder than a mangled spider body.
Flies are luckier only because they can fly. My cats have no patience with that either. They will sit and gawk as a fly buzzes around the room, but as soon as it lands somewhere they are on it like ticks on a hound dog. Sometimes they don't even wait for it to land. They throw themselves at the French doors in the bedroom, running their paws across the glass, and genuinely freaking out as the fly calmly buzzes away and traps itself in the light fixture. My cats never catch flies. Occasionally they catch a moth or two.
If feels like I'm always waiting for something: to hear about the budget at work so I know what my next year of work will look like; a date I'm looking forward to; my bread dough to rise; the next Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Star Wars movie to come out; The BFG movie to come to the movie theater; my vacation; spring to get here so I can start my garden; the Christmas season so I can decorate my house with lights and tinsel.
I can be patient about some things. Standing in line at the grocery store doesn't bother me. Waiting my turn at the doctor's office doesn't bother me. Hanging out while my car gets an oil change also doesn't bother me. With these types of situations I have infinite amounts of patience as I bring a book and read. I will wait all day for appointments.
Waiting on perpetual tardiness bothers me a bit more. Everyone runs late. However, when it becomes a habit that I am ALWAYS waiting fifteen or twenty minutes on someone who is supposed to be meeting me for dinner or a movie or whatever, then I do get irritated. But I am also one of those people who doesn't mind dining alone or watching alone. If someone is taking too long, I'll just go ahead and order without them.
And on that subject, I no longer wait by the phone for some man to call. He's not calling, I'm off doing something else fun. Why women wait on these calls that never come, or when they do are unsatisfactory, is beyond me. If a woman wants to see a movie, she should go see it. If she wants to have a glass of wine, she should have it. If she wants to go skydiving and he promised her, but isn't delivering, then she should go sign herself up for that jump. Men like women to rely on them as their heroes, but if they aren't delivering, then a woman has to be her own Prince Charming. If a guy is going to make me wait, then he will immediately be replaced by someone else who is more fun, better looking, and more inclined to deliver on their promises. I'm talking about those men who make promises to call or do something together and then never do. I'm not talking about men who have busy lives and may not be able to drop everything right then and there to take me to the opera but still have every intention of doing so when he can. Kind, generous, and considerate men have lives and that's okay. Jerks who make me wait with unfulfilled promises and half-assed pursuit are not worth the time it takes to delete their phone numbers from my phone.
I also have zero patience for drama, people who generate drama, and people who try to drag me into their drama. And I definitely get very impatient with people who ask me over and over and over for advice on the same issue when I've already given them all I can on the subject. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. The definition of how to make Anita lose her patience the quickest is to ask me over and over the same question and expecting a different answer (albeit, the one you want to hear, rather than my honest opinion or advice).
I have the least amount of patience (or rather NO patience) waiting for my life to start. Okay, granted my life has already started and I'm doing things in my life that I enjoy while working towards several goals, but really this process is taking too damn long and I'm getting sick of waiting. I want my best seller and writing career NOW. I do the work involved, but I still want it NOW. I want that novel done in a day, dammit. I want my quilt to be finished NOW. I'm tired of looking at that stupid half-finished knitted blanket. I want it done NOW too. And this dating process is really getting on my nerves. I want the love of my life to walk up to my doorstep already so I can get off these stupid online dating sites and stop dealing with broken hearts from my bad decisions. Again I do the work involved to get there. I've been working on myself to attract a better class of men (and the emotionally constipated ones are getting dropped off the side of a cliff). I read my devotionals. I'm in recovery. I'm working on my mental health issues while being open enough about them so as not to appear to be hiding them. I'm getting to know people and taking the time to date rather than jump headlong into a relationship with someone I barely know (because of chemistry).
As per a wonderful little book called "You're Late Again, Lord! The Impatient Women's Guide to God's Timing" by Karon Phillips Goodman, I'm in the waiting room, working on my control issues and trying to come to terms with the idea that things happen on God's timetable not mine. My long wait is a result of my avoidance of certain issues that are now bubbling over the surface and forcing me to address them. Thus, the waiting room. I'm not ready for the things I desire because I'm still working on myself, and a year and a half in working on myself already feels like a lifetime. Take into account the many times I've backslid, and it could be another five years in the waiting room. Backsliding is my own fault. Every time I think I've got my sheep together and my poop in a group, I get cocky and start reverting to old bad habits. The inevitable backsliding happens and BAM. Back in the waiting room. Every time I start to think "Hey, I can handle this! I'm taking the reins!" I stumble and run the wagon off the road, putting me right back into the waiting room.
Then I wonder why I'm frustrated and depressed. Once again, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. For someone who hates waiting, I sure do everything I can to ensure that I will keep waiting. Also, if I'm constantly waiting for something or looking ahead at something, I miss out on the present. One of the lessons I'm learning in my waiting room is to live in the now and enjoy the present. It's hard, but I have moments of brilliance.
I'm usually in such a rush that I miss things, and I realized the other day that maybe there is another way. One of my suitors is most decidedly not in a rush. Not that I have a crazy amount of men chasing after me, but on an online dating site, one always has several people one chats with. This one is one of my favorites. We have had three dates. The first date was pretty awkward - a lot of getting to know you small talk and uncomfortable smiles. The second date was a hike. Still a bit awkward, but at least we got to walk (and the rattlesnake provided excitement and drama). We went out for dinner and drinks for the third date. This guy moves slower than molasses on a winter morning and it's actually brilliant in its simplicity. So many men are like a fart in a skillet, bouncing from woman to woman. They start off coming on super strong, swept away by strong chemistry, and then things fizzle out just as quickly as they heated up and they are on to the next thing. That's exciting when a woman is in her twenties. After several situations like that, it becomes confusing, hurtful, and more than a little annoying. How can someone be all about me for two weeks and then suddenly just disappear? Are feelings really that shallow? These men demand everything upfront, right away, and then there's nothing left to wait for and they get bored. Lovely. My suitor, however, takes his time. He apparently has patience in spades. There is that cliche, "Good things come to those who wait." And wait and wait and WAIT...
In the words of Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer: "We have a lot of fun, but I want smoochies!" Okay, maybe it's not that bad. I'm glad he's not trying to paw me in the backseat of his truck. This guy is a slow burn. Like I said, brilliant.
In a world where everyone is in a constant rush and instant gratification is a way of life, I can see how we all got to a place where slowing down and waiting is just an inconvenience (I blame Google, by the way - talk about your instant gratification). I have also noticed that when I get what I want immediately when I want it, I'm not necessarily satisfied because I didn't hold out for the best. My cats seem to be in the same boat. They demand their food, gorge it, and then either yak it up all over the carpet or else want to eat again five minutes later. The dog is bad too. She begs for her treat, gobbles it down, and then she's magically by my side again, sitting in front of the cabinet like she's forgotten that she just had a treat. She's also pretty demanding about that treat. If I haven't given it to her as quickly as she'd like, she's got her nose nudged up against my hand and her whole body pressed against my legs. Too bad I can't do this with the universe: press myself up against its legs, stare at it with big eyeballs, and silently plead "Where's my best seller? Can I have it now? How about now? Now??"
There is a method to the madness, I'm sure. There is a reason we get stuck in the waiting room for months, maybe even years. While one waits, one learns valuable lessons, but I'll be the first to admit that waiting can be excruciating and there are days when I wonder what's the point and does my life really have a purpose other than going to work and Netflix? That's when I try to take control and make things happen the way I want them to, so that I don't feel so useless or futile or like I'm letting my life march by without me. It's an illusion, of course. We never really have control over anything. We just think we do, or we wish we do because waiting is so hard.
Perhaps that's why most cats play with their prey for so long? They enjoy the element of control since they get to decide how long the game plays out and who inevitably wins, like small furry gods. Meanwhile they cultivate their patience because these games can go on forever and they never seem to get bored of them.
Not my cats, though. My cats have no patience for patience, and the only thing they enjoy controlling is me. Meanwhile I have no control over anything, including my cats, and my time in the waiting room stretches longer and longer.
Good thing I have a stack of magazines and books to read while I wait.
Flies are luckier only because they can fly. My cats have no patience with that either. They will sit and gawk as a fly buzzes around the room, but as soon as it lands somewhere they are on it like ticks on a hound dog. Sometimes they don't even wait for it to land. They throw themselves at the French doors in the bedroom, running their paws across the glass, and genuinely freaking out as the fly calmly buzzes away and traps itself in the light fixture. My cats never catch flies. Occasionally they catch a moth or two.
If feels like I'm always waiting for something: to hear about the budget at work so I know what my next year of work will look like; a date I'm looking forward to; my bread dough to rise; the next Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Star Wars movie to come out; The BFG movie to come to the movie theater; my vacation; spring to get here so I can start my garden; the Christmas season so I can decorate my house with lights and tinsel.
I can be patient about some things. Standing in line at the grocery store doesn't bother me. Waiting my turn at the doctor's office doesn't bother me. Hanging out while my car gets an oil change also doesn't bother me. With these types of situations I have infinite amounts of patience as I bring a book and read. I will wait all day for appointments.
Waiting on perpetual tardiness bothers me a bit more. Everyone runs late. However, when it becomes a habit that I am ALWAYS waiting fifteen or twenty minutes on someone who is supposed to be meeting me for dinner or a movie or whatever, then I do get irritated. But I am also one of those people who doesn't mind dining alone or watching alone. If someone is taking too long, I'll just go ahead and order without them.
And on that subject, I no longer wait by the phone for some man to call. He's not calling, I'm off doing something else fun. Why women wait on these calls that never come, or when they do are unsatisfactory, is beyond me. If a woman wants to see a movie, she should go see it. If she wants to have a glass of wine, she should have it. If she wants to go skydiving and he promised her, but isn't delivering, then she should go sign herself up for that jump. Men like women to rely on them as their heroes, but if they aren't delivering, then a woman has to be her own Prince Charming. If a guy is going to make me wait, then he will immediately be replaced by someone else who is more fun, better looking, and more inclined to deliver on their promises. I'm talking about those men who make promises to call or do something together and then never do. I'm not talking about men who have busy lives and may not be able to drop everything right then and there to take me to the opera but still have every intention of doing so when he can. Kind, generous, and considerate men have lives and that's okay. Jerks who make me wait with unfulfilled promises and half-assed pursuit are not worth the time it takes to delete their phone numbers from my phone.
I also have zero patience for drama, people who generate drama, and people who try to drag me into their drama. And I definitely get very impatient with people who ask me over and over and over for advice on the same issue when I've already given them all I can on the subject. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. The definition of how to make Anita lose her patience the quickest is to ask me over and over the same question and expecting a different answer (albeit, the one you want to hear, rather than my honest opinion or advice).
I have the least amount of patience (or rather NO patience) waiting for my life to start. Okay, granted my life has already started and I'm doing things in my life that I enjoy while working towards several goals, but really this process is taking too damn long and I'm getting sick of waiting. I want my best seller and writing career NOW. I do the work involved, but I still want it NOW. I want that novel done in a day, dammit. I want my quilt to be finished NOW. I'm tired of looking at that stupid half-finished knitted blanket. I want it done NOW too. And this dating process is really getting on my nerves. I want the love of my life to walk up to my doorstep already so I can get off these stupid online dating sites and stop dealing with broken hearts from my bad decisions. Again I do the work involved to get there. I've been working on myself to attract a better class of men (and the emotionally constipated ones are getting dropped off the side of a cliff). I read my devotionals. I'm in recovery. I'm working on my mental health issues while being open enough about them so as not to appear to be hiding them. I'm getting to know people and taking the time to date rather than jump headlong into a relationship with someone I barely know (because of chemistry).
As per a wonderful little book called "You're Late Again, Lord! The Impatient Women's Guide to God's Timing" by Karon Phillips Goodman, I'm in the waiting room, working on my control issues and trying to come to terms with the idea that things happen on God's timetable not mine. My long wait is a result of my avoidance of certain issues that are now bubbling over the surface and forcing me to address them. Thus, the waiting room. I'm not ready for the things I desire because I'm still working on myself, and a year and a half in working on myself already feels like a lifetime. Take into account the many times I've backslid, and it could be another five years in the waiting room. Backsliding is my own fault. Every time I think I've got my sheep together and my poop in a group, I get cocky and start reverting to old bad habits. The inevitable backsliding happens and BAM. Back in the waiting room. Every time I start to think "Hey, I can handle this! I'm taking the reins!" I stumble and run the wagon off the road, putting me right back into the waiting room.
Then I wonder why I'm frustrated and depressed. Once again, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. For someone who hates waiting, I sure do everything I can to ensure that I will keep waiting. Also, if I'm constantly waiting for something or looking ahead at something, I miss out on the present. One of the lessons I'm learning in my waiting room is to live in the now and enjoy the present. It's hard, but I have moments of brilliance.
I'm usually in such a rush that I miss things, and I realized the other day that maybe there is another way. One of my suitors is most decidedly not in a rush. Not that I have a crazy amount of men chasing after me, but on an online dating site, one always has several people one chats with. This one is one of my favorites. We have had three dates. The first date was pretty awkward - a lot of getting to know you small talk and uncomfortable smiles. The second date was a hike. Still a bit awkward, but at least we got to walk (and the rattlesnake provided excitement and drama). We went out for dinner and drinks for the third date. This guy moves slower than molasses on a winter morning and it's actually brilliant in its simplicity. So many men are like a fart in a skillet, bouncing from woman to woman. They start off coming on super strong, swept away by strong chemistry, and then things fizzle out just as quickly as they heated up and they are on to the next thing. That's exciting when a woman is in her twenties. After several situations like that, it becomes confusing, hurtful, and more than a little annoying. How can someone be all about me for two weeks and then suddenly just disappear? Are feelings really that shallow? These men demand everything upfront, right away, and then there's nothing left to wait for and they get bored. Lovely. My suitor, however, takes his time. He apparently has patience in spades. There is that cliche, "Good things come to those who wait." And wait and wait and WAIT...
In the words of Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer: "We have a lot of fun, but I want smoochies!" Okay, maybe it's not that bad. I'm glad he's not trying to paw me in the backseat of his truck. This guy is a slow burn. Like I said, brilliant.
In a world where everyone is in a constant rush and instant gratification is a way of life, I can see how we all got to a place where slowing down and waiting is just an inconvenience (I blame Google, by the way - talk about your instant gratification). I have also noticed that when I get what I want immediately when I want it, I'm not necessarily satisfied because I didn't hold out for the best. My cats seem to be in the same boat. They demand their food, gorge it, and then either yak it up all over the carpet or else want to eat again five minutes later. The dog is bad too. She begs for her treat, gobbles it down, and then she's magically by my side again, sitting in front of the cabinet like she's forgotten that she just had a treat. She's also pretty demanding about that treat. If I haven't given it to her as quickly as she'd like, she's got her nose nudged up against my hand and her whole body pressed against my legs. Too bad I can't do this with the universe: press myself up against its legs, stare at it with big eyeballs, and silently plead "Where's my best seller? Can I have it now? How about now? Now??"
There is a method to the madness, I'm sure. There is a reason we get stuck in the waiting room for months, maybe even years. While one waits, one learns valuable lessons, but I'll be the first to admit that waiting can be excruciating and there are days when I wonder what's the point and does my life really have a purpose other than going to work and Netflix? That's when I try to take control and make things happen the way I want them to, so that I don't feel so useless or futile or like I'm letting my life march by without me. It's an illusion, of course. We never really have control over anything. We just think we do, or we wish we do because waiting is so hard.
Perhaps that's why most cats play with their prey for so long? They enjoy the element of control since they get to decide how long the game plays out and who inevitably wins, like small furry gods. Meanwhile they cultivate their patience because these games can go on forever and they never seem to get bored of them.
Not my cats, though. My cats have no patience for patience, and the only thing they enjoy controlling is me. Meanwhile I have no control over anything, including my cats, and my time in the waiting room stretches longer and longer.
Good thing I have a stack of magazines and books to read while I wait.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Rattlesnakes on the Path of Life
Somewhere along the way, my life has gotten off course.
I've had better weeks. This last one I ended with a huge bowl of chocolate, double dark chocolate, and chocolate peanut butter gelato topped with a huge pile of homemade whipped cream.
It didn't help.
I blame the rattlesnake I encountered Tuesday evening on a hike with my dog and one of my gentleman suitors. If spiders are good luck and I welcome them scurrying across my life on a daily basis, rattlesnakes are the opposite. I like spiders. I despise snakes. Snakes in general get a bad rap in literature, particularly in the Bible. I've always considered them as a symbol of evil, duplicity, betrayal, or at the very least, "Proceed with Caution."
In my years of living in Wyoming I have never encountered a rattler. Bull snakes, water snakes, and the cute little black thing that shared the backyard with Tess for a couple of summers are the only snakes I've seen since moving here. All perfectly harmless, more scared of me than I was of them. On my hike last week, my suitor and I were strolling along having a conversation while Tess bounded this way and that, sniffing everything. This head popped up out of the grass along the path and the air filled with the sound of a hissing rattle. I've heard rattlers on TV, but I've never heard the real thing. Someone told me that it's one of those sounds all humans instinctively recognize whether they've ever heard one or not. I jumped to the other side of the path, swearing. My companion moved between me and the snake, and Tess obliviously gamboled about several feet ahead, completely unconcerned that her human nearly stumbled into a deadly snake bite. Truthfully I was more worried about Tess. She's never seen a rattler either, and while she is very good about listening to me when I order her not to go near or touch something, she would be more inclined to blunder over a snake while sticking her nose in piles of grass than she would be to purposely challenge one. The only exception here is if the snake attacked me. Then I can't vouch for how Tess would react, and the last thing I want is for my dog to lose her life due to nasty bitch-snake bite.
I leashed my dog immediately.
The snake was quite pretty actually. I thought rattlers are brown with a perpetual bitchy resting face, but this one was almost emerald green under its markings which is why we didn't see it until we were almost on top of it. Its appearance did nothing to soften its attitude, however. It flicked its little forked tongue, weaved its head back and forth in striking imitation of the Real Housewives of Atlanta head wag, and rattled loud enough to warn off every creature in the mountains looming above us.
I'll take this moment to point out that on the way to the hiking path, a skunk ran across the street in front of my companion's truck, so I don't know if I want to blame the crappy week completely on the snake.
Things went downhill since the hike. My car battery died. My phone battery died. My brakes died. I ended up pumping a good chunk of money into my car, and while that was a bummer, it was still better than having to buy a new car. The ridiculous Cheyenne-esque wind destroyed my flowers, and it was 90 degrees all week causing high tempers, short fuses, and an overwhelming desire to drown oneself in a pool of ice water. The weather combined with my PMS did nothing to improve my mood all week long. I broke my favorite mug featuring Snoopy as the Vulture by catching it with my elbow and knocking it out of the cabinet, a feat I never would have been able to accomplish in a normal week considering I stash that mug in a relatively safe place. I had three dates last week and several texts from other suitors, and while the attention is flattering, I'm pretty exhausted. I'm not used to being the popular chick (and there are only so many evenings in a week). They are all lovely men, but I still don't know any of them very well, and seeing them once a week or every other week doesn't help with developing intimacy.
Or maybe it's as I feared, and I'm just one big dating disaster.
Perhaps this is just what "dating" is all about. As a serial monogamist generally attracted to morons, I am not familiar with the concept of just "dating."
As long as I'm confessing my sins, I also subjected myself and the Paleontologist to the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie that I was sure was going to be a complete stinker. It wasn't too bad actually, kind of reminiscent of the old cartoons I used to watch as a child, Unfortunately that caused me to go on a nostalgic rampage of wishing I was still twelve when the only problem I had was whether or not I missed that cartoon on Saturday mornings because I overslept. I definitely wasn't worrying about a full time job, how to pay all my bills, dating, was I going to die alone, or who was breaking my heart. My small group recovery didn't do much to raise my spirits as it usually does, and I even felt like my daily devotional and my Bible were judging me based on this last weekend's readings. In other words, even God is breaking my heart right now (but it's only fair since I break His continuously).
Worst of all, other than Tuesday night hiking with my dog, I have barely spent any time with my animals due to dates, work, and the heat rivaling the bowels of hell. That heat makes them avoid me like it's my fault the weather is being so obnoxious. Percy hides in the coolest place in the house, Willow banishes herself to the top of her cage so she can sit by the open window (and continues to protest by peeing on the floor), and Puckett doesn't want to get any hotter by snuggling or being around others with elevated body heat. This is understandable considering her thick fur coat, her layer of fat, and the fact that she is a cat with a high normal body temperature.
Looking back the week really wasn't all that bad. The crappiness was only magnified by the heat, the wind, and the PMS. I tend to overdramatize. The crappiness did, however, get my attention. And also, researching snakes as symbols and spirit guides, I discovered that they actually symbolize healing, transformation and life changes, and an increase in energy. Running across a snake in life can mean a major life transition and a period of personal growth. I have to say, that is more spot on than the Bible reading I had this last weekend that prompted me to throw my Bible across the room in anger at feeling judged. But then,maybe that reading wasn't completely off either. My life has gotten completely off course which I am definitely not comfortable with, but the appearance of that rattlesnake got my attention as well. There are definitely transitions happening. I am definitely going through personal growth from my recovery and moving through the steps. And while I don't have as much energy as I'd like (I blame that on the Snickers bars I've been eating for breakfast), I do know that tweaking my diet back to healthy eating and reinstating Pilates every morning will help with that. I don't always like what my devotionals (and my rattlers) are telling me, but I have faith that it's stuff I need to hear and work on. I thought I was doing fine for awhile, and then I stumbled again and am back to struggling. I am learning a lot about myself dating different guys and getting to know many people rather than fixating on one guy and obsessing (like the serial monogamist that I am). Dating like this has also dragged me out of my comfort zone and forced me to socialize in a manner I'm not completely comfortable with. It's helped with my confidence, and while I can get discouraged and jaded, I refuse to give up as I've done in the past. Small group sharing in recovery is also out of my comfort zone. I hate sharing my issues with strangers, but I have made new friends from this and now they are no longer strangers.
I don't know what I'm transforming into, what I'm transitioning to, but I do know the journey is terrifying and exciting at the same time.
Kind of like nearly stepping on a rattlesnake in the middle of a placid, pleasant hike.
I've had better weeks. This last one I ended with a huge bowl of chocolate, double dark chocolate, and chocolate peanut butter gelato topped with a huge pile of homemade whipped cream.
It didn't help.
I blame the rattlesnake I encountered Tuesday evening on a hike with my dog and one of my gentleman suitors. If spiders are good luck and I welcome them scurrying across my life on a daily basis, rattlesnakes are the opposite. I like spiders. I despise snakes. Snakes in general get a bad rap in literature, particularly in the Bible. I've always considered them as a symbol of evil, duplicity, betrayal, or at the very least, "Proceed with Caution."
In my years of living in Wyoming I have never encountered a rattler. Bull snakes, water snakes, and the cute little black thing that shared the backyard with Tess for a couple of summers are the only snakes I've seen since moving here. All perfectly harmless, more scared of me than I was of them. On my hike last week, my suitor and I were strolling along having a conversation while Tess bounded this way and that, sniffing everything. This head popped up out of the grass along the path and the air filled with the sound of a hissing rattle. I've heard rattlers on TV, but I've never heard the real thing. Someone told me that it's one of those sounds all humans instinctively recognize whether they've ever heard one or not. I jumped to the other side of the path, swearing. My companion moved between me and the snake, and Tess obliviously gamboled about several feet ahead, completely unconcerned that her human nearly stumbled into a deadly snake bite. Truthfully I was more worried about Tess. She's never seen a rattler either, and while she is very good about listening to me when I order her not to go near or touch something, she would be more inclined to blunder over a snake while sticking her nose in piles of grass than she would be to purposely challenge one. The only exception here is if the snake attacked me. Then I can't vouch for how Tess would react, and the last thing I want is for my dog to lose her life due to nasty bitch-snake bite.
I leashed my dog immediately.
The snake was quite pretty actually. I thought rattlers are brown with a perpetual bitchy resting face, but this one was almost emerald green under its markings which is why we didn't see it until we were almost on top of it. Its appearance did nothing to soften its attitude, however. It flicked its little forked tongue, weaved its head back and forth in striking imitation of the Real Housewives of Atlanta head wag, and rattled loud enough to warn off every creature in the mountains looming above us.
I'll take this moment to point out that on the way to the hiking path, a skunk ran across the street in front of my companion's truck, so I don't know if I want to blame the crappy week completely on the snake.
Things went downhill since the hike. My car battery died. My phone battery died. My brakes died. I ended up pumping a good chunk of money into my car, and while that was a bummer, it was still better than having to buy a new car. The ridiculous Cheyenne-esque wind destroyed my flowers, and it was 90 degrees all week causing high tempers, short fuses, and an overwhelming desire to drown oneself in a pool of ice water. The weather combined with my PMS did nothing to improve my mood all week long. I broke my favorite mug featuring Snoopy as the Vulture by catching it with my elbow and knocking it out of the cabinet, a feat I never would have been able to accomplish in a normal week considering I stash that mug in a relatively safe place. I had three dates last week and several texts from other suitors, and while the attention is flattering, I'm pretty exhausted. I'm not used to being the popular chick (and there are only so many evenings in a week). They are all lovely men, but I still don't know any of them very well, and seeing them once a week or every other week doesn't help with developing intimacy.
Or maybe it's as I feared, and I'm just one big dating disaster.
Perhaps this is just what "dating" is all about. As a serial monogamist generally attracted to morons, I am not familiar with the concept of just "dating."
As long as I'm confessing my sins, I also subjected myself and the Paleontologist to the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie that I was sure was going to be a complete stinker. It wasn't too bad actually, kind of reminiscent of the old cartoons I used to watch as a child, Unfortunately that caused me to go on a nostalgic rampage of wishing I was still twelve when the only problem I had was whether or not I missed that cartoon on Saturday mornings because I overslept. I definitely wasn't worrying about a full time job, how to pay all my bills, dating, was I going to die alone, or who was breaking my heart. My small group recovery didn't do much to raise my spirits as it usually does, and I even felt like my daily devotional and my Bible were judging me based on this last weekend's readings. In other words, even God is breaking my heart right now (but it's only fair since I break His continuously).
Worst of all, other than Tuesday night hiking with my dog, I have barely spent any time with my animals due to dates, work, and the heat rivaling the bowels of hell. That heat makes them avoid me like it's my fault the weather is being so obnoxious. Percy hides in the coolest place in the house, Willow banishes herself to the top of her cage so she can sit by the open window (and continues to protest by peeing on the floor), and Puckett doesn't want to get any hotter by snuggling or being around others with elevated body heat. This is understandable considering her thick fur coat, her layer of fat, and the fact that she is a cat with a high normal body temperature.
Looking back the week really wasn't all that bad. The crappiness was only magnified by the heat, the wind, and the PMS. I tend to overdramatize. The crappiness did, however, get my attention. And also, researching snakes as symbols and spirit guides, I discovered that they actually symbolize healing, transformation and life changes, and an increase in energy. Running across a snake in life can mean a major life transition and a period of personal growth. I have to say, that is more spot on than the Bible reading I had this last weekend that prompted me to throw my Bible across the room in anger at feeling judged. But then,maybe that reading wasn't completely off either. My life has gotten completely off course which I am definitely not comfortable with, but the appearance of that rattlesnake got my attention as well. There are definitely transitions happening. I am definitely going through personal growth from my recovery and moving through the steps. And while I don't have as much energy as I'd like (I blame that on the Snickers bars I've been eating for breakfast), I do know that tweaking my diet back to healthy eating and reinstating Pilates every morning will help with that. I don't always like what my devotionals (and my rattlers) are telling me, but I have faith that it's stuff I need to hear and work on. I thought I was doing fine for awhile, and then I stumbled again and am back to struggling. I am learning a lot about myself dating different guys and getting to know many people rather than fixating on one guy and obsessing (like the serial monogamist that I am). Dating like this has also dragged me out of my comfort zone and forced me to socialize in a manner I'm not completely comfortable with. It's helped with my confidence, and while I can get discouraged and jaded, I refuse to give up as I've done in the past. Small group sharing in recovery is also out of my comfort zone. I hate sharing my issues with strangers, but I have made new friends from this and now they are no longer strangers.
I don't know what I'm transforming into, what I'm transitioning to, but I do know the journey is terrifying and exciting at the same time.
Kind of like nearly stepping on a rattlesnake in the middle of a placid, pleasant hike.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
What Becomes of a Broken Heart?
When it comes to love, animals are infinitely easier than humans. They are easier to love, they love more easily, and the only way they can break one's heart is to take that final walk over the Rainbow Bridge.
The first animal I lost devastated me. She was also the first animal I completely connected with. I love all animals, but some are just special and connect with our hearts differently. It's the same with people, I think. We can be kind to each other and tolerate each other - love thy neighbor, God says - but that doesn't mean one wants to be friends with everyone. In that same vein, I love all animals, but that doesn't mean I want to own all of them (and definitely not the wretched beast with the high-pitched yap barking outside my back door all morning).
I met Colleen when I was fourteen. I had just started volunteering at the animal shelter. I had always wanted a dog, though my parents forbid it which was their right, of course. My dad wasn't a fan of big dogs and my mom didn't want the responsibility. That would change a few years later when my first shepherd, Flag, came into our lives and my father cried harder when he died than any of the rest of us.
But I digress.
I went to work one morning and found a tiny tri-color collie puppy in one of the kennels, all alone. She looked at me, I looked at her, and I was immediately hit with that thunderbolt of love at first sight. I've only felt that one other time, and not even with Puckett. After I finished my chores I spent a good hour in the kennel with her, snuggling her and keeping her company. My coworkers laughed and teased me about "spoiling the puppy." Even my mom cooed over her when she came to pick me up.
For four weeks, I couldn't wait to get to the animal shelter every day so I could play with Colleen. She imprinted on me and when I let her out of her kennel, she followed me everywhere. She played with the other puppies, but she never let me get too far out of her sight. When she was in her kennel she watched me go about my business, her eyes following me as I worked back and forth in the kennel area. Logically, I know this pup imprinted on me because she was four weeks old, barely weaned, and orphaned with no littermates, and I was the first person who offered attention, comfort, and love to her in a strange cold place. Emotionally, I know that's a load of crap. That puppy adored me and the feeling was mutual. She was mine in every sense of the word but legally. Even my mom and coworkers commented that Colleen never seemed to take her eyes off me.
My dad wouldn't let me adopt her and I cried for two days. I don't blame my dad. He's not as empathic or emotional as I am, and he doesn't attach as easily. It is what it is, but once I knew that I couldn't take Colleen home I went about the business of trying to peddle her off to prospective adopters. I wanted her out of that place as soon as possible. I wanted her to have a good home even if it wasn't with me. It was not to be, however. By the time Colleen turned turned eight weeks old, she got very sick and my mother offered to take her to the vet and pay the vet bill to get her treated. The prognosis was parvovirus, and in such a young dog the treatement was too expensive. The shelter decided to euthanize her, and I still believe the way events played out that that little puppy belonged to me and always would. Either she would live with me, or she wouldn't live at all.
As I said, the only way animals can break one's heart is to die. I cried for months. This tiny puppy I'd only known for four weeks has made a huge impression in my life even twenty years later. I have one picture of her and one drawing, but I still remember every detail of her. Her huge brown eyes, her soft black coat, her little white paws and white tail tip, and the heart shaped blaze on her forehead. I've seen lots of dogs with similar coloring, but I've never seen another one whose blaze forms a perfect heart at the top of its head.
Colleen was the first to break my heart. Even though I've had a lot of disappointments over the years, I can say that only one person has truly broken my heart to the same extent as Colleen. I"m going to come right out and say dating is tedious, and being single looking for love is an almost impossible task. I've been on plenty of dates lately. My mother is no help when she says one should feel an instant spark upon meeting someone and that's how two people know they are meant to be together. It happened for her and my dad. Here they are still married and still making people sick with their happy lives together. I think they are a rarity. Few people get to have that and they are lucky. I haven't felt a spark with anyone yet, not that they haven't all been super nice guys. I just don't really know any of them very well. Evan Marc Katz is also no help with his constant, "Choose the right men" and "Don't let chemistry blind you," and "Dating is a skill." A skill I apparently suck at, thank you very much, Evan. By his philosophy the more men I date the better chance I have at finding true lasting love and happiness, but only if I learn to weed out the frogs from the princes properly (by paying for his coaching services, of course). If we go by my mother's philosophy, then I should be with my drug-dealing Felon, and he already walked away from me with his "I don't deserve you and you will always be too good for me" nonsense. And now he's gone and broken my heart again. On the heels of losing August again, and that was shattering enough (incidentally, he also gave me the "You deserve better than me" speech, whatever the hell that means), I learned that my ex-boyfriend has barreled once more down the road of stupid decisions and gotten himself tangled in another drug bust. This is what the rumor mill is churning out and I haven't found written proof of it yet, so right now it's just hearsay. It did come from fairly reliable sources, however, and it just figures. This would be the Felon's second offense, he got off easy the first time around, and now he's looking at ten years. Don't get me wrong. He deserves it. He obviously didn't learn his lesson. I am well rid of him because if we were still together this would now be my problem too. It shouldn't bother me one bit.
But it does.
I'm not over him, but I am past him. That just means that while I no longer want to be with him and I actually really think he's a dumbass, his doofus decisions still have the ability to affect me. One doesn't stop caring about someone because that person is a moron. Just like one doesn't stop caring about a little puppy twenty years later, just because she died. I had truly thought him better than that. I even told him that, and when he said he would most likely land in jail again I told him I didn't believe that, that I believed in him. So it's no wonder my heart is broken. It's broken for him, it's broken for his three year old son, and it's broken for myself because I feel like an idiot. I wish things were different just like I wish things had been different for me and Colleen, and even me and August. Between August and the Felon, they are going to drive me to drink. We can love, but we can't control those we love. The price for loving animals and people is the risk of having one's heart broken.
It is up to us whether our hearts grow back twice as big, allowing for new loves, or if they remain broken.
The first animal I lost devastated me. She was also the first animal I completely connected with. I love all animals, but some are just special and connect with our hearts differently. It's the same with people, I think. We can be kind to each other and tolerate each other - love thy neighbor, God says - but that doesn't mean one wants to be friends with everyone. In that same vein, I love all animals, but that doesn't mean I want to own all of them (and definitely not the wretched beast with the high-pitched yap barking outside my back door all morning).
I met Colleen when I was fourteen. I had just started volunteering at the animal shelter. I had always wanted a dog, though my parents forbid it which was their right, of course. My dad wasn't a fan of big dogs and my mom didn't want the responsibility. That would change a few years later when my first shepherd, Flag, came into our lives and my father cried harder when he died than any of the rest of us.
But I digress.
I went to work one morning and found a tiny tri-color collie puppy in one of the kennels, all alone. She looked at me, I looked at her, and I was immediately hit with that thunderbolt of love at first sight. I've only felt that one other time, and not even with Puckett. After I finished my chores I spent a good hour in the kennel with her, snuggling her and keeping her company. My coworkers laughed and teased me about "spoiling the puppy." Even my mom cooed over her when she came to pick me up.
For four weeks, I couldn't wait to get to the animal shelter every day so I could play with Colleen. She imprinted on me and when I let her out of her kennel, she followed me everywhere. She played with the other puppies, but she never let me get too far out of her sight. When she was in her kennel she watched me go about my business, her eyes following me as I worked back and forth in the kennel area. Logically, I know this pup imprinted on me because she was four weeks old, barely weaned, and orphaned with no littermates, and I was the first person who offered attention, comfort, and love to her in a strange cold place. Emotionally, I know that's a load of crap. That puppy adored me and the feeling was mutual. She was mine in every sense of the word but legally. Even my mom and coworkers commented that Colleen never seemed to take her eyes off me.
My dad wouldn't let me adopt her and I cried for two days. I don't blame my dad. He's not as empathic or emotional as I am, and he doesn't attach as easily. It is what it is, but once I knew that I couldn't take Colleen home I went about the business of trying to peddle her off to prospective adopters. I wanted her out of that place as soon as possible. I wanted her to have a good home even if it wasn't with me. It was not to be, however. By the time Colleen turned turned eight weeks old, she got very sick and my mother offered to take her to the vet and pay the vet bill to get her treated. The prognosis was parvovirus, and in such a young dog the treatement was too expensive. The shelter decided to euthanize her, and I still believe the way events played out that that little puppy belonged to me and always would. Either she would live with me, or she wouldn't live at all.
As I said, the only way animals can break one's heart is to die. I cried for months. This tiny puppy I'd only known for four weeks has made a huge impression in my life even twenty years later. I have one picture of her and one drawing, but I still remember every detail of her. Her huge brown eyes, her soft black coat, her little white paws and white tail tip, and the heart shaped blaze on her forehead. I've seen lots of dogs with similar coloring, but I've never seen another one whose blaze forms a perfect heart at the top of its head.
Colleen was the first to break my heart. Even though I've had a lot of disappointments over the years, I can say that only one person has truly broken my heart to the same extent as Colleen. I"m going to come right out and say dating is tedious, and being single looking for love is an almost impossible task. I've been on plenty of dates lately. My mother is no help when she says one should feel an instant spark upon meeting someone and that's how two people know they are meant to be together. It happened for her and my dad. Here they are still married and still making people sick with their happy lives together. I think they are a rarity. Few people get to have that and they are lucky. I haven't felt a spark with anyone yet, not that they haven't all been super nice guys. I just don't really know any of them very well. Evan Marc Katz is also no help with his constant, "Choose the right men" and "Don't let chemistry blind you," and "Dating is a skill." A skill I apparently suck at, thank you very much, Evan. By his philosophy the more men I date the better chance I have at finding true lasting love and happiness, but only if I learn to weed out the frogs from the princes properly (by paying for his coaching services, of course). If we go by my mother's philosophy, then I should be with my drug-dealing Felon, and he already walked away from me with his "I don't deserve you and you will always be too good for me" nonsense. And now he's gone and broken my heart again. On the heels of losing August again, and that was shattering enough (incidentally, he also gave me the "You deserve better than me" speech, whatever the hell that means), I learned that my ex-boyfriend has barreled once more down the road of stupid decisions and gotten himself tangled in another drug bust. This is what the rumor mill is churning out and I haven't found written proof of it yet, so right now it's just hearsay. It did come from fairly reliable sources, however, and it just figures. This would be the Felon's second offense, he got off easy the first time around, and now he's looking at ten years. Don't get me wrong. He deserves it. He obviously didn't learn his lesson. I am well rid of him because if we were still together this would now be my problem too. It shouldn't bother me one bit.
But it does.
I'm not over him, but I am past him. That just means that while I no longer want to be with him and I actually really think he's a dumbass, his doofus decisions still have the ability to affect me. One doesn't stop caring about someone because that person is a moron. Just like one doesn't stop caring about a little puppy twenty years later, just because she died. I had truly thought him better than that. I even told him that, and when he said he would most likely land in jail again I told him I didn't believe that, that I believed in him. So it's no wonder my heart is broken. It's broken for him, it's broken for his three year old son, and it's broken for myself because I feel like an idiot. I wish things were different just like I wish things had been different for me and Colleen, and even me and August. Between August and the Felon, they are going to drive me to drink. We can love, but we can't control those we love. The price for loving animals and people is the risk of having one's heart broken.
It is up to us whether our hearts grow back twice as big, allowing for new loves, or if they remain broken.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
An Excellent Judge of Character
Puckett is an excellent judge of character. I have mentioned before that she is more reserved with bestowing her good opinion than any of my other pets, and therefore hers is more worth the earning. She is not one of those cats who hates everyone and prefers complete solitude. She definitely likes people and other animals. She just reserves her praise and love for people she deems extremely worthy.
People that come over to my house generally ignore Puckett, mostly because she hides in the bedroom or downstairs in the living room. Occasionally she will join me and my company just to see what is going on. Meanwhile Tess is under the table on my feet, Willow is trying to climb into some unsuspecting guest's lap, and Percy is parading around the kitchen, his chest puffed out, as if he wants everyone to applaud.
Tess, Percy, and Willow are attention whores. Puckett is too sure of herself and has too much dignity to ingratiate herself to others beneath her notice.
That is only until she meets someone that she really likes. Then she behaves like any other lovesick school girl, giving her crush big mushy eyes and purring so loud it sounds like a 747 coming in for a landing.
Case in point, besides me, the Cowboy is Puckett's favorite person. This could be because he feeds her when I'm gone, and also he was a fixture in the house for three years so she had to accept him. Of course the Cowboy is of wonderful character so I doubt Puckett would have allowed his presence in the house for so long if she didn't like him. In truth had she made a habit of never showing her face in three years, I would have rethought my relationship with him. Even now when he comes over she will come greet him with haughtiness as if to say, yes I still like you, but you left and I refuse to be hurt again.
Another interesting example. A few weeks ago I had a little bout of serendipity as my twenty-three year old from last August has been weighing on my mind. The fact that Puckett was involved doesn't really surprise me. Like my witch kitty, Mindi, Puckett appears to have mystical abilities at times. I didn't handle things well when I ran August off last summer, mostly because I wanted him to leave town and go live his life away from here, but still, my actions and how I treated him have bothered me. I got my chance to make things right recently when I nearly tripped over him at a bar where he was having drinks with his parents. A few months ago I would have slunk out of there with my tail between my legs and my good friend, the Paleontologist - who always seems to witness these run-ins with exes - chasing after me, waving a glass of wine. This time I walked up to August, fully expecting him to tell me where I could stick it, but he was, as usual, perfectly lovely, and I was able to apologize and explain my behavior. The incident was so serendipitous because, as I said, I've been thinking about him a lot. I had a dream not too long ago where I got the chance to apologize to him, and then Saturday before running into him, I had noticed that Netflix had just added the Minions to their queue so of course I had to watch it. That was our first date.
Puckett enters the scene later when he and I had a longer conversation than at the bar. He stopped by and we sat on my couch, talking about everything. Apparently he missed me too. Puckett jumped up on the arm of the couch and proceeded to make a complete ass of herself. I have never seen her behave so unapologetically affectionate towards someone she didn't know. Her behavior mirrored mine in that she was completely emotionally available, almost like she had sympathy pains for what I went through earlier that evening. It's an interesting feeling, sort of a mix between an adrenaline rush at seeing him after all this time, and wanting to toss my cookies all over the floor. On the one hand, it's thrilling to grab hold of a chance I thought was gone forever, but on the other hand there was the very real risk that the chance would end up dumping me right off a cliff.
Meanwhile Puckett continued to embarrass herself. She practically slipped into his lap and purred so loud I wondered if a Harley was cruising by. They shared a moment, her rubbing against him and gazing at him with her big mushy eyes, and him scratching her behind the ears and snuggling her. Puckett may have done that once with the Cowboy, but otherwise I am the only person she snuggles that way. Usually she would just use the Cowboy has a bridge to get to my lap and quite possibly assumed he deserved a quick snuggle for his cooperation.
I have to admit, I was almost a little jealous. Of August? Of Puckett? I can't really say. Puckett's my baby and I'm the only one she is completely open with, and yet, I've definitely missed him and I wouldn't mind giving him a snuggle.
As I said, Puckett is an excellent judge of character. I got a lot of flack for August last summer. I got a lot of opinions and comments against any kind of real friendship with him just because of our age difference. And like an idiot, I bought right into them. I knew I saw something in him, and I'm wondering now, along with emulating Puckett's confidence, if I shouldn't also listen to her when it comes to judging the character of others. Not only does she reserve her good opinion for those with the best character, but she also reserves judgment for most people until she's gotten a better feel for them. She's not going to jump all over someone right off the bat like the other pets do unless she is absolutely sure they are amazing inside and out. It really shouldn't be that hard to accept that Puckett judges character well. After all, she picked me. When I approached her at the animal shelter, sick and bald and depressed, she still managed to raise her head, rub against my hand and purr, letting me know that she judged me as someone special.
Self-love, self-esteem, and self-confidence are all things we struggle with. We second guess ourselves because we don't deem ourselves as smart or as insightful as the next person. We don't trust our own instincts. We don't listen to our gut feelings when others are squawking around us, telling us we are wrong. We are always looking within for our faults, and therefore, when others put doubts in our minds we listen to them, because how can we possibly know what we are talking about? I will be the first to admit that I struggle with trusting myself and believing in myself. Rationally I know I'm not an idiot. I have some pretty awesome friends so my judge of character is pretty sound. We all make mistakes, but my true people are solid people. Sometimes even when it looks strange to everyone else and the odds are stacked against me, maybe the bravest thing to do is to stand up for myself and say, "Yes, I think this is good. I appreciate your thoughts, feelings, and concerns, but I trust my judgment on this."
I wish I could say all's well that end's well, but while Puckett and I both left August in no doubt of our feelings, he still has a few stars and rainbows to catch of his own. I hope we can remain friends. Only time will tell. Whatever happens, I believe he is of sound character even if he doesn't quite believe it yet himself. Perhaps he needs a Puckett of his own to help him through some of life's greater challenges.
Once again Puckett has taught me a valuable lesson about life. Once again she has demonstrated a quality that is worth cultivating. Self-esteem and self-confidence don't mean that one is a narcissistic asshole. It only means that one thinks enough of oneself to let the world know they are worthy of demanding respect. After all if you don't respect or love yourself no one else can.
People that come over to my house generally ignore Puckett, mostly because she hides in the bedroom or downstairs in the living room. Occasionally she will join me and my company just to see what is going on. Meanwhile Tess is under the table on my feet, Willow is trying to climb into some unsuspecting guest's lap, and Percy is parading around the kitchen, his chest puffed out, as if he wants everyone to applaud.
Tess, Percy, and Willow are attention whores. Puckett is too sure of herself and has too much dignity to ingratiate herself to others beneath her notice.
That is only until she meets someone that she really likes. Then she behaves like any other lovesick school girl, giving her crush big mushy eyes and purring so loud it sounds like a 747 coming in for a landing.
Case in point, besides me, the Cowboy is Puckett's favorite person. This could be because he feeds her when I'm gone, and also he was a fixture in the house for three years so she had to accept him. Of course the Cowboy is of wonderful character so I doubt Puckett would have allowed his presence in the house for so long if she didn't like him. In truth had she made a habit of never showing her face in three years, I would have rethought my relationship with him. Even now when he comes over she will come greet him with haughtiness as if to say, yes I still like you, but you left and I refuse to be hurt again.
Another interesting example. A few weeks ago I had a little bout of serendipity as my twenty-three year old from last August has been weighing on my mind. The fact that Puckett was involved doesn't really surprise me. Like my witch kitty, Mindi, Puckett appears to have mystical abilities at times. I didn't handle things well when I ran August off last summer, mostly because I wanted him to leave town and go live his life away from here, but still, my actions and how I treated him have bothered me. I got my chance to make things right recently when I nearly tripped over him at a bar where he was having drinks with his parents. A few months ago I would have slunk out of there with my tail between my legs and my good friend, the Paleontologist - who always seems to witness these run-ins with exes - chasing after me, waving a glass of wine. This time I walked up to August, fully expecting him to tell me where I could stick it, but he was, as usual, perfectly lovely, and I was able to apologize and explain my behavior. The incident was so serendipitous because, as I said, I've been thinking about him a lot. I had a dream not too long ago where I got the chance to apologize to him, and then Saturday before running into him, I had noticed that Netflix had just added the Minions to their queue so of course I had to watch it. That was our first date.
Puckett enters the scene later when he and I had a longer conversation than at the bar. He stopped by and we sat on my couch, talking about everything. Apparently he missed me too. Puckett jumped up on the arm of the couch and proceeded to make a complete ass of herself. I have never seen her behave so unapologetically affectionate towards someone she didn't know. Her behavior mirrored mine in that she was completely emotionally available, almost like she had sympathy pains for what I went through earlier that evening. It's an interesting feeling, sort of a mix between an adrenaline rush at seeing him after all this time, and wanting to toss my cookies all over the floor. On the one hand, it's thrilling to grab hold of a chance I thought was gone forever, but on the other hand there was the very real risk that the chance would end up dumping me right off a cliff.
Meanwhile Puckett continued to embarrass herself. She practically slipped into his lap and purred so loud I wondered if a Harley was cruising by. They shared a moment, her rubbing against him and gazing at him with her big mushy eyes, and him scratching her behind the ears and snuggling her. Puckett may have done that once with the Cowboy, but otherwise I am the only person she snuggles that way. Usually she would just use the Cowboy has a bridge to get to my lap and quite possibly assumed he deserved a quick snuggle for his cooperation.
I have to admit, I was almost a little jealous. Of August? Of Puckett? I can't really say. Puckett's my baby and I'm the only one she is completely open with, and yet, I've definitely missed him and I wouldn't mind giving him a snuggle.
As I said, Puckett is an excellent judge of character. I got a lot of flack for August last summer. I got a lot of opinions and comments against any kind of real friendship with him just because of our age difference. And like an idiot, I bought right into them. I knew I saw something in him, and I'm wondering now, along with emulating Puckett's confidence, if I shouldn't also listen to her when it comes to judging the character of others. Not only does she reserve her good opinion for those with the best character, but she also reserves judgment for most people until she's gotten a better feel for them. She's not going to jump all over someone right off the bat like the other pets do unless she is absolutely sure they are amazing inside and out. It really shouldn't be that hard to accept that Puckett judges character well. After all, she picked me. When I approached her at the animal shelter, sick and bald and depressed, she still managed to raise her head, rub against my hand and purr, letting me know that she judged me as someone special.
Self-love, self-esteem, and self-confidence are all things we struggle with. We second guess ourselves because we don't deem ourselves as smart or as insightful as the next person. We don't trust our own instincts. We don't listen to our gut feelings when others are squawking around us, telling us we are wrong. We are always looking within for our faults, and therefore, when others put doubts in our minds we listen to them, because how can we possibly know what we are talking about? I will be the first to admit that I struggle with trusting myself and believing in myself. Rationally I know I'm not an idiot. I have some pretty awesome friends so my judge of character is pretty sound. We all make mistakes, but my true people are solid people. Sometimes even when it looks strange to everyone else and the odds are stacked against me, maybe the bravest thing to do is to stand up for myself and say, "Yes, I think this is good. I appreciate your thoughts, feelings, and concerns, but I trust my judgment on this."
I wish I could say all's well that end's well, but while Puckett and I both left August in no doubt of our feelings, he still has a few stars and rainbows to catch of his own. I hope we can remain friends. Only time will tell. Whatever happens, I believe he is of sound character even if he doesn't quite believe it yet himself. Perhaps he needs a Puckett of his own to help him through some of life's greater challenges.
Once again Puckett has taught me a valuable lesson about life. Once again she has demonstrated a quality that is worth cultivating. Self-esteem and self-confidence don't mean that one is a narcissistic asshole. It only means that one thinks enough of oneself to let the world know they are worthy of demanding respect. After all if you don't respect or love yourself no one else can.
Puckett has conquered the bear.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Protection in the Hearts of Animals
At the risk of making this blog sound like a support group, my name is Anita and I struggle with anxiety, depression, and emotional unavailability that stems from my being an empath.
What does this have to do with the pets? Well, above anything else they are my sanity. As much as I like people, the combination of anxiety, being a severe introvert, and having empath abilities means that people in general drain me. I have social anxiety so large groups of people, strangers, and extremely social people trigger me. As an introvert, I need a certain amount of time alone to recharge and regain my footing. This means that not only do I need to be alone physically, I also need to be away from the phone, the computer, and any other social outlet where people might be able to reach me. As an empath, I absorb and read the emotions of others, meaning that not only do I sense what people around me are feeling, I soak those emotions up like a sponge and mirror them back until I'm not sure if what I'm feeling is authentic me or just someone else's emotions.
Being around people is exhausting. Animals on the other hand deflect these issues. Other than small issues like kicking litter everywhere, peeing on the floor, screaming at the top of their lungs for food, and trying to trip me on the stairs, my pets do not engender feelings of anxiety. In fact they help soothe them. Walking Tess is possibly the best therapy when it comes to bringing me down from the ledge of an anxiety attack. Walking is good exercise anyway, and if I turn off my phone and refuse my text messages, I get at least an hour of complete solitude with just my dog. Animals are also good for introverts. Just because introverts need solitude to recharge from too much social interaction doesn't mean we are hermits. We like people and we don't like to feel lonely any more than the next person. Animals are good buffers. I am never alone with my brood - not even in the bathroom, as all four of them will stalk in while I'm in the middle of my business - and yet they do not drain my energy. Some of the best times are lying in my bed with a book, three cats sacked out on the bed, and a dog on the floor.
Animals themselves are empathic which is why one of the key signs of being an empath is an affinity with animals, almost as if one draws animals like a magnet. My aunt is like this. She's that person who walks down the street and animals will just start following her. I'm not quite that in tune with the animal spirits (well, maybe with spiders). but they will gravitate towards me, particularly during large parties where I don't really know anyone. At these same parties, I gravitate towards the animals as well. If there are no animals, I will gravitate towards the children, particularly babies. Animals take on the emotions of their owners and mirror them back. They have a sixth sense for feelings, and high emotions tend to make them anxious. I relate to that. Instead of absorbing their emotions like I do with people, I find myself relaxed and calm around animals. There is no need to bottle one's emotions around animals - they don't judge, they love right back, and they don't walk away when one tells them they mean the world to them. Unfortunately, animals also make it easier for me to hide emotions from other people. My feelings are safe with my pets. I can't say the same with people, and that is a big reason why I bottle and have become emotionally unavailable.
Because of all this I've put myself in therapy to try to learn to deal with my emotions, break down my unavailability, and reign in the anxiety. Let's be honest - my anxiety drives my pets right up a wall. As empaths themselves, when I feel anxious, out of control, and slightly crazy they feed right off that and start to act anxious, out of control, and crazy themselves. Percy has been tearing through the house. Tess paces and follows me to the point where I have actually tripped over her and down the stairs twice now. If I didn't know better I'd think she was secretly trying to murder me for making her feel anxious. Puckett keeps hacking up furballs on the carpet and Willow is more spazzy than usual, and that's saying something. She's gotten clingier, needier, and can't seem to get her butt into the litter box.
Therapy has helped and I've decided to put my twelve steps into motion and see where it gets me. The steps include learning to let go of control (what? you want me to let go and let God and TRUST?? Are you insane???), forgiving those who have wronged me, and making amends with those I have wronged. Basically I am to unload my feelings on these poor, unsuspecting souls.
So I did. I may be terrified of heights, rattlers, loneliness, and the sight of my ex, the drug dealing felon, but what terrifies me the most, above anything else, is telling people how I feel, authentically, and with no holds barred. That's some scary shit. It's easier to just pretend everything is fine. I put my steps to the test by engaging in an emotionally-charged conversation last week with someone whose apology was long overdue. This included admitting how badly I treated him and telling him my feelings. On the one hand I got exactly what I wanted since the situation has been haunting me and I've been wanting to set the record straight. On the other hand, show my vulnerability? Oh, HELL no. To me that always felt on par with opening the door to my heart and saying "Here, come on in. Help yourself to the laptop, the silver, the Smart TV and the expensive bottles of wine. If you don't, well then hey, I'm just lucky for trusting you!"
Let go and let God, right?
This is why telling my dog how much I love her is so much safer. I hug my dog, I love on her, I tell her how much life would suck if she wasn't a part of it. She rolls over and demands a belly rub. Then she wants a doggy pop. There is no risk. The dog is a sure thing. People are not. One always runs the risk of having one's heart ground into the dirt with a boot heel. Paws don't do that. One's heart is protected between paws.
After my "Big Conversation," I had an anxiety attack and freaked out all weekend. The conversation didn't even go badly - in fact, given the circumstances it went quite well. I may have absorbed some of his feelings as well, so I was twice the wreck. Being completely vulnerable and emotionally available put me in a panicked tailspin that kind of derailed the whole weekend. The last time I did that - incidentally when I told the drug dealing felon three years ago to drop his current relic and come back to me where he belonged - it blew up in my face and I spent the rest of the evening huddled against the wall with my fingers in my mouth. The door has been shut and bolted ever since. Until now.
Now, thanks to therapy and my being sick to death of living like an emotionally constipated zombie, I'm unloading feelings and fuzziness all over the damn place. I'm in a perpetual state of feeling too much and wearing it all over my sleeves. This is supposed to make me feel better and make me more available to people so they will find me more pleasant to be around. Being open with one's feelings is supposed to show trust, respect, and vulnerability to other parties so that they know that person is honest and authentic. According to renowned psychotherapist, Sean Stephenson, vulnerability and authenticity are the foundation of building connections, and who doesn't want to make connections?
(I'm going to plug Sean's book here for a moment: Get Off Your "But": How to End Self-Sabotage and Stand Up for Yourself.)
I get to wait and see now what the consequences are of my opening the floodgates. At any rate, however it goes, rejection or acceptance, I think I'm glad I did it. It felt good to finally be honest about my feelings. Whatever else happens, at least now he knows. Let's see, who else can I unload on?
That's the problem with uncorking it. Once the feelings pour out, they are impossible to stop, sort of like an eruption of champagne. This must be why my pets are so openly affectionate with everyone that happens by. Bottling doesn't feel good and eventually one explodes in a nuclear meltdown. I have to face it; bottling feelings, not trusting anyone, constantly second-guessing, and obsessing over who is going to hurt me next are exhausting ways to live. I'm tired of being so neurotic. It's time for a change.
What does this have to do with the pets? Well, above anything else they are my sanity. As much as I like people, the combination of anxiety, being a severe introvert, and having empath abilities means that people in general drain me. I have social anxiety so large groups of people, strangers, and extremely social people trigger me. As an introvert, I need a certain amount of time alone to recharge and regain my footing. This means that not only do I need to be alone physically, I also need to be away from the phone, the computer, and any other social outlet where people might be able to reach me. As an empath, I absorb and read the emotions of others, meaning that not only do I sense what people around me are feeling, I soak those emotions up like a sponge and mirror them back until I'm not sure if what I'm feeling is authentic me or just someone else's emotions.
Being around people is exhausting. Animals on the other hand deflect these issues. Other than small issues like kicking litter everywhere, peeing on the floor, screaming at the top of their lungs for food, and trying to trip me on the stairs, my pets do not engender feelings of anxiety. In fact they help soothe them. Walking Tess is possibly the best therapy when it comes to bringing me down from the ledge of an anxiety attack. Walking is good exercise anyway, and if I turn off my phone and refuse my text messages, I get at least an hour of complete solitude with just my dog. Animals are also good for introverts. Just because introverts need solitude to recharge from too much social interaction doesn't mean we are hermits. We like people and we don't like to feel lonely any more than the next person. Animals are good buffers. I am never alone with my brood - not even in the bathroom, as all four of them will stalk in while I'm in the middle of my business - and yet they do not drain my energy. Some of the best times are lying in my bed with a book, three cats sacked out on the bed, and a dog on the floor.
Animals themselves are empathic which is why one of the key signs of being an empath is an affinity with animals, almost as if one draws animals like a magnet. My aunt is like this. She's that person who walks down the street and animals will just start following her. I'm not quite that in tune with the animal spirits (well, maybe with spiders). but they will gravitate towards me, particularly during large parties where I don't really know anyone. At these same parties, I gravitate towards the animals as well. If there are no animals, I will gravitate towards the children, particularly babies. Animals take on the emotions of their owners and mirror them back. They have a sixth sense for feelings, and high emotions tend to make them anxious. I relate to that. Instead of absorbing their emotions like I do with people, I find myself relaxed and calm around animals. There is no need to bottle one's emotions around animals - they don't judge, they love right back, and they don't walk away when one tells them they mean the world to them. Unfortunately, animals also make it easier for me to hide emotions from other people. My feelings are safe with my pets. I can't say the same with people, and that is a big reason why I bottle and have become emotionally unavailable.
Because of all this I've put myself in therapy to try to learn to deal with my emotions, break down my unavailability, and reign in the anxiety. Let's be honest - my anxiety drives my pets right up a wall. As empaths themselves, when I feel anxious, out of control, and slightly crazy they feed right off that and start to act anxious, out of control, and crazy themselves. Percy has been tearing through the house. Tess paces and follows me to the point where I have actually tripped over her and down the stairs twice now. If I didn't know better I'd think she was secretly trying to murder me for making her feel anxious. Puckett keeps hacking up furballs on the carpet and Willow is more spazzy than usual, and that's saying something. She's gotten clingier, needier, and can't seem to get her butt into the litter box.
Therapy has helped and I've decided to put my twelve steps into motion and see where it gets me. The steps include learning to let go of control (what? you want me to let go and let God and TRUST?? Are you insane???), forgiving those who have wronged me, and making amends with those I have wronged. Basically I am to unload my feelings on these poor, unsuspecting souls.
So I did. I may be terrified of heights, rattlers, loneliness, and the sight of my ex, the drug dealing felon, but what terrifies me the most, above anything else, is telling people how I feel, authentically, and with no holds barred. That's some scary shit. It's easier to just pretend everything is fine. I put my steps to the test by engaging in an emotionally-charged conversation last week with someone whose apology was long overdue. This included admitting how badly I treated him and telling him my feelings. On the one hand I got exactly what I wanted since the situation has been haunting me and I've been wanting to set the record straight. On the other hand, show my vulnerability? Oh, HELL no. To me that always felt on par with opening the door to my heart and saying "Here, come on in. Help yourself to the laptop, the silver, the Smart TV and the expensive bottles of wine. If you don't, well then hey, I'm just lucky for trusting you!"
Let go and let God, right?
This is why telling my dog how much I love her is so much safer. I hug my dog, I love on her, I tell her how much life would suck if she wasn't a part of it. She rolls over and demands a belly rub. Then she wants a doggy pop. There is no risk. The dog is a sure thing. People are not. One always runs the risk of having one's heart ground into the dirt with a boot heel. Paws don't do that. One's heart is protected between paws.
After my "Big Conversation," I had an anxiety attack and freaked out all weekend. The conversation didn't even go badly - in fact, given the circumstances it went quite well. I may have absorbed some of his feelings as well, so I was twice the wreck. Being completely vulnerable and emotionally available put me in a panicked tailspin that kind of derailed the whole weekend. The last time I did that - incidentally when I told the drug dealing felon three years ago to drop his current relic and come back to me where he belonged - it blew up in my face and I spent the rest of the evening huddled against the wall with my fingers in my mouth. The door has been shut and bolted ever since. Until now.
Now, thanks to therapy and my being sick to death of living like an emotionally constipated zombie, I'm unloading feelings and fuzziness all over the damn place. I'm in a perpetual state of feeling too much and wearing it all over my sleeves. This is supposed to make me feel better and make me more available to people so they will find me more pleasant to be around. Being open with one's feelings is supposed to show trust, respect, and vulnerability to other parties so that they know that person is honest and authentic. According to renowned psychotherapist, Sean Stephenson, vulnerability and authenticity are the foundation of building connections, and who doesn't want to make connections?
(I'm going to plug Sean's book here for a moment: Get Off Your "But": How to End Self-Sabotage and Stand Up for Yourself.)
I get to wait and see now what the consequences are of my opening the floodgates. At any rate, however it goes, rejection or acceptance, I think I'm glad I did it. It felt good to finally be honest about my feelings. Whatever else happens, at least now he knows. Let's see, who else can I unload on?
That's the problem with uncorking it. Once the feelings pour out, they are impossible to stop, sort of like an eruption of champagne. This must be why my pets are so openly affectionate with everyone that happens by. Bottling doesn't feel good and eventually one explodes in a nuclear meltdown. I have to face it; bottling feelings, not trusting anyone, constantly second-guessing, and obsessing over who is going to hurt me next are exhausting ways to live. I'm tired of being so neurotic. It's time for a change.
Percy has no problem being emotionally available.
Puckett just shows off her vulnerability (and underbelly).
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
No Regrets and No Time Wasted
As I've struggled with getting older, I have also struggled with my pets aging, particularly Tess. I hadn't really thought about it much until her ninth birthday this past March, when it suddenly hit me that Tess isn't going to live forever, and nine is the equivelent to about 50 or 60 in human years. Tess is a senior citizen, while I am still middle-aged. True, I'm on the wrong side of 35, but since beloved and gorgeous actresses like Jennifer Aniston and Cameron Diaz have taken 40 by the balls and dragged it kicking and screaming into the 21st Century as the new sexy, vibrant, desirable woman, it's not bothering me so much. I much prefer a Jennifer Aniston to a Miley Cyrus or a Selena Gomez anyway. Thanks to the new science of aging putting a new spin on 40 and even 50, 40 has become the new 30. My "scary age" was actually 34. Once I hit 34, hyperventilated, drank a bottle of wine, and cried, 35, 36, and even 37 were a piece of cake (literally as I made sure to eat a lot of cake on all of those birthdays).
Through all these birthdays in my thirties, Tess has been a true and faithful companion. I define my thirties by owning Tess because I adopted her right before my 30th birthday. We share a birth month. I picked her up right after her birthday and a couple of weeks before mine. She was my thirtieth birthday present to myself.
Still, even though I know Tess is getting older and she is nine now, I haven't worried too much until the other morning when I took her for a run. If I take Tess for a run in the morning before work, it's early enough that I can take her to the dog park and there is no one else around. She likes to chase the cars through the fence. We haven't gone in awhile because I've been taking her on different routes and letting her run loose along the river, but she still remembers racing the cars and trying to beat them to the end fence line. That particular morning she started her usual race and made it two or three times before she trotted unsteadily over to me, huffing like she was about to explode. She actually sat at my feet for a moment to catch her breath. My dog does not sit when she's outside unless I instruct her to. She is always moving, always has her nose in a clump of grass, and as long as I've had her, I've never known her to take a rest while she's on a walk. Resting is for in the house at night or on the porch in the backyard when I'm at work.
That's when I realized my dog is old. She is slowing down. While her spirit is still willing to run and jump and play, her body isn't quite so forgiving anymore.
Percy and Puckett are both eight. Puckett might be older, but since I have no idea what her true age is, I'm going with eight, like Percy. Willow is around six. The cats are still in middle aged territory like me.
The car, my little green 2004 Honda Accord, is reaching senior citizen status as well, and the other day I panicked when the starter had issues, thinking I might have to buy a new car. If that's the case I"ll be devastated. That car has never given me an ounce of trouble which is more than I can say for the pets. I love that car. It's paid off, it's cute, it runs well. I have never had to take it in for anything more serious than an oil change (and body work when idiots run into me). It turned out the starter issues were just a bad battery and once that's switched out, the car will be fine.
Age is a funny thing. Logically it's just a number. I'm 38 but I don't feel "thirty-eight," whatever that feels like. I remember being eighteen and thinking thirty was old. I still feel like I did in my twenties. My energy level is the same, I look the same, and other than some bouts with depression and loneliness, I feel mostly the same. The things that have changed since my twenties are mostly my own perception. For example eighteen-year-olds irritate me to no end now, where I used to be quite tolerant of them. People in their twenties amuse me with their "have it all figured out" attitudes when I know that really, they haven't even begun to scratch the surface. I have a much lower bullshit tolerance than I used to. I own a house and I no longer take shots or go on weekend party binges. Now when I date, I'm looking for potential long term mates so I assess men differently than I did. In my twenties, hot played a pretty large role in whether I'd go out with a guy. Now, kindness, honesty, and how does he make me feel are more important. Don't get me wrong, he still has to be able to give me the shivering fits, but I'm not looking for Brad Pitt here. Things like whether he makes more money than me, does he wear socks with sandals, is he taller than me, and does he look like a great big dork don't really factor in. I kind of like great big dorks. I think geeks and dorks are sexy.
That old cliche of knowing the things you know now when you were much younger is alive and well. Had I known then what I know now I probably could have spared myself a lot of heartache. But I would have passed on some fun experiences too. I spare myself a lot of superficiality now. I no longer have the patience to wear a lot of makeup or spend a lot of time on my hair. I'd rather walk my dog. I also know now that what I put on my body and in it makes a huge difference in how I feel physically, so I watch what I eat and I use natural skin care products (coconut oil and avocados are my favorite). I may still be vain - I will make damn sure I look like this until I'm fifty - but I don't have time to be superficial. The more I worry about stupid stuff that doesn't matter, the less time I spend with my dog, enjoying every precious moment I have left with her.
That's another thing that aging changes. Sure, I look the same, feel the same, and mostly act the same, but now I am well aware of the hourglass. The sand is running out. Thirty-eight is still young. I still have a few years left to have a baby, but that window is shrinking. When I was in my twenties I thought I had loads of time. Now I know I have more like three years. I have time left to publish those novels. I have time to travel through Europe and visit Hawaii. I have time to find a husband and get married. But my time with my dog is limited, my time with my parents is limited, my nieces and nephews are no longer babies and growing up, and while time marches on, we eventually stop. We don't think about that in our twenties. The experience and wisdom of aging tunes us into that feeling of "Where has the time gone?"
Let's make the most of the time we have left. More walks with the dog. More phone conversations with the parents. Visits to my nieces and nephews. Telling people what they mean to me and making amends if I've wronged them. I've already started. Nothing lasts forever. Let's have no regrets.
Through all these birthdays in my thirties, Tess has been a true and faithful companion. I define my thirties by owning Tess because I adopted her right before my 30th birthday. We share a birth month. I picked her up right after her birthday and a couple of weeks before mine. She was my thirtieth birthday present to myself.
Still, even though I know Tess is getting older and she is nine now, I haven't worried too much until the other morning when I took her for a run. If I take Tess for a run in the morning before work, it's early enough that I can take her to the dog park and there is no one else around. She likes to chase the cars through the fence. We haven't gone in awhile because I've been taking her on different routes and letting her run loose along the river, but she still remembers racing the cars and trying to beat them to the end fence line. That particular morning she started her usual race and made it two or three times before she trotted unsteadily over to me, huffing like she was about to explode. She actually sat at my feet for a moment to catch her breath. My dog does not sit when she's outside unless I instruct her to. She is always moving, always has her nose in a clump of grass, and as long as I've had her, I've never known her to take a rest while she's on a walk. Resting is for in the house at night or on the porch in the backyard when I'm at work.
That's when I realized my dog is old. She is slowing down. While her spirit is still willing to run and jump and play, her body isn't quite so forgiving anymore.
Percy and Puckett are both eight. Puckett might be older, but since I have no idea what her true age is, I'm going with eight, like Percy. Willow is around six. The cats are still in middle aged territory like me.
The car, my little green 2004 Honda Accord, is reaching senior citizen status as well, and the other day I panicked when the starter had issues, thinking I might have to buy a new car. If that's the case I"ll be devastated. That car has never given me an ounce of trouble which is more than I can say for the pets. I love that car. It's paid off, it's cute, it runs well. I have never had to take it in for anything more serious than an oil change (and body work when idiots run into me). It turned out the starter issues were just a bad battery and once that's switched out, the car will be fine.
Age is a funny thing. Logically it's just a number. I'm 38 but I don't feel "thirty-eight," whatever that feels like. I remember being eighteen and thinking thirty was old. I still feel like I did in my twenties. My energy level is the same, I look the same, and other than some bouts with depression and loneliness, I feel mostly the same. The things that have changed since my twenties are mostly my own perception. For example eighteen-year-olds irritate me to no end now, where I used to be quite tolerant of them. People in their twenties amuse me with their "have it all figured out" attitudes when I know that really, they haven't even begun to scratch the surface. I have a much lower bullshit tolerance than I used to. I own a house and I no longer take shots or go on weekend party binges. Now when I date, I'm looking for potential long term mates so I assess men differently than I did. In my twenties, hot played a pretty large role in whether I'd go out with a guy. Now, kindness, honesty, and how does he make me feel are more important. Don't get me wrong, he still has to be able to give me the shivering fits, but I'm not looking for Brad Pitt here. Things like whether he makes more money than me, does he wear socks with sandals, is he taller than me, and does he look like a great big dork don't really factor in. I kind of like great big dorks. I think geeks and dorks are sexy.
That old cliche of knowing the things you know now when you were much younger is alive and well. Had I known then what I know now I probably could have spared myself a lot of heartache. But I would have passed on some fun experiences too. I spare myself a lot of superficiality now. I no longer have the patience to wear a lot of makeup or spend a lot of time on my hair. I'd rather walk my dog. I also know now that what I put on my body and in it makes a huge difference in how I feel physically, so I watch what I eat and I use natural skin care products (coconut oil and avocados are my favorite). I may still be vain - I will make damn sure I look like this until I'm fifty - but I don't have time to be superficial. The more I worry about stupid stuff that doesn't matter, the less time I spend with my dog, enjoying every precious moment I have left with her.
That's another thing that aging changes. Sure, I look the same, feel the same, and mostly act the same, but now I am well aware of the hourglass. The sand is running out. Thirty-eight is still young. I still have a few years left to have a baby, but that window is shrinking. When I was in my twenties I thought I had loads of time. Now I know I have more like three years. I have time left to publish those novels. I have time to travel through Europe and visit Hawaii. I have time to find a husband and get married. But my time with my dog is limited, my time with my parents is limited, my nieces and nephews are no longer babies and growing up, and while time marches on, we eventually stop. We don't think about that in our twenties. The experience and wisdom of aging tunes us into that feeling of "Where has the time gone?"
Let's make the most of the time we have left. More walks with the dog. More phone conversations with the parents. Visits to my nieces and nephews. Telling people what they mean to me and making amends if I've wronged them. I've already started. Nothing lasts forever. Let's have no regrets.
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