The Secret They Don't Tell You When You Agree to Grow Up

The thing about being an adult that they don't tell you as a kid is how roaringly, howlingly, utterly demoralizingly BORING it is most of the time. What I would give for an hour of all-out, all-consuming imaginative PLAY, the way I did when I was a kid. The real world is an utter drag at least 90% of the time.

That was my facebook post this evening. And its disgustingly true.  I don't know what I expected from adulthood, but it wasn't this. My life is sometimes little more than a loop of letting dogs in and out, washing the same damned dishes and clothes over and over, driving, and worrying over money. No wonder I stopped keeping house. What's the point?  Really, it's just going to get dirty again. 

What if I entered a life of complete surrender to entropy?  What would happen if I just failed to do any life maintenance work at all?  

I'll tell you what, besides homelessness and starvation....even more boredom. Maintaining the little buggery buggeries of life is sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane... and I barely manage those. 

Once in a while I pause, look around myself, and realize that my life is completely going to shit.  In some cases, as noted in an earlier post, this is quite literal.  And even now, with my not-house-trained pup, shit continues to be... not a figurative expression. But it's amazing how I can KNOW there's dog poops on the rug next to the laundry room... and just not give a damn.  It's not going anywhere. I can pick it up any time. Entropy. 

When I was married I became convinced that my husband's body somehow manufactured bits of paper and small coins.  They were everywhere;  every surface seemed to have a little pile of wadded or folded up paper and change. Now I look around and must conclude that my person is manufacturing books and small toiletries.  Within eyeshot at present I see a bottle of hand creme, a tube of yeast infection cream (in the living room, yes, but not for the reason you're thinking.  It's also used to treat ringworm on Lucky's paw... which I'm beginning to despair of ever curing and I've started referring to him as "zombie paw"), a dog brush, an empty tissue box with a wad of black dog hair in it, one sock, a tube of chapstick, and a nail clipper. And god only knows what's in my sofa.  

Sometimes I want to scoop everything up, put it in a box, and shove it out to the curb. Would I miss it?  Really?  I'm not sure. And imagine coming home to a room empty of all objects except furniture and a stereo. Hell maybe I could opt out of furniture as well and just revel in the empty space.  IT would be like being Japanese.  It would be like coming home every day to a new house:  you know, that New House feel, where everything is clean and empty and feels bigger and more hopeful than your old, dirty, crowded house that smells like wet dog?  LIke that. 

Things.  Things and chores.'

And dogs.  Okay. 

Actually, I shouldn't complain. This year is off to a glowing start.  The ex is moving back to his hometown, with his babymomma and family, more than 900 miles away. This in itself is cause for joy. I may actually not set eyes on him again for four years, until our son graduates  high school.

I will soon have an actual OFFICE at work, no more gray cubicle corner, but an actual office with walls (which, granted don't go all the way to the ceiling, but hey) and a WINDOW.  Like human people. THIS is my year.

So things are good.  But this week has been an unhealthy one. G got strep throat, which I remember from when I was a kid and I know how awful it feels, like you're trying to swallow a bundle of needles; and Scipio got some sort of infection that has made one side of his little ratty face swell up and has given him a red rat-snotty nose and a really miserable wheeze when he breathes.  A sick rat is a really pitiful thing. So I took the kid and the rat to the doctor.  No, separate doctors... and now I'm administering antibiotics twice daily to both of them. I am Florence Frickin' Nightingale. Angel of mercy.

I of course do not wish my child to be ill, ever.  But now that he's 14... well, it's sort of nice when he really needs me, and wants to snuggle up and hold my hand, and lets me smooth his hair back and put my hand on his forehead. I guess I will always want to do that. So I take my little pleasures where I can find them before he feels well again and jacks back into the Matrix.

Leaving me alone... in this utterly boring and eventless adult life I've been sentenced to. I see more blogging in my future.

Hashtag This

Earlier this week as I was driving and listening to NPR, I had a flash of insight.  I realized that I was getting really annoyed every time I heard them say "hashtag" or "Twitter."  That made me ask myself:  Why am I so annoyed?  What possible difference could it make to me?

I find the whole hashtag trend incredibly irritating, and I hope it passes soon.  Though initially designed to allow people to follow particular topics on various social media platforms such as Instagram and Twitter (rrrrgh), for the most part they serve no communication purpose except  to comment on what the person posting them has just  posted.  Basically its being used as a way for someone to comment on their own comment. This is the sort of digital navel-gazing that makes me grind my teeth about social media.  Everybody's presenting the best self they can make up, shouting to everyone who will listen (and many who prefer not to) about how cool or progressive or connected they are.  It's a method of self-validation, or worse... passive-aggressive braggadocio.

"Now I need to go buy an expensive uniform for my adorable child to wear to the equally expensive and trendy school she was just accepted to!  #bigdealacademy #mykidsismarterthanyours "

Nobody ever even posts the reality of their daily lives, much less the corresponding hashtag telling you how to respond to it.  Imagine if you will:

"Saw myself naked in the mirror this morning and burst into tears. #imunlovable  #hatemyself."

or

"Had a fight with my husband over what to have for breakfast. #divorcepending #marriedandstilllonely."


There are several studies out now about how depressed Facebook can make you because you're "comparing your outtakes to their highlight reel."  (Apologies, I don't remember where that quote came from.) But I would argue that it's not even a highlight reel.  It's an imaginary reel in many cases.  The people in your Facebook feed who need or want to shore up their self image in some way will present themselves as joyfully and spontaneously taking part in whatever will seem to support that need, be it buying organic produce, photos of their family at their absolute best, or dining at the very latest restaurant (complete with photo of food and #proudfoodie or whatever).

I realize I'm a curmudgeon about this.   This is partly why I hope the trend fades.  Then I can stop being annoyed by it.

I told a friend about this little episode and how it made me feel sort of like technology trends were leaving me behind because they get on my nerves so much.  She said "You're just putting that limitation on yourself.  Let it go. You can say you don't choose to participate, but it's not leaving you behind, you're just not taking part."

Positive-thinking people really get on my nerves...

Puppy Poop and Perspective

There's nothing like 12 weeks of puppy diarrhea To put your life in perspective.

That's what I've been doing since early July:  getting some serious perspective on my life.  Because back in early July, I adopted a sick puppy.  Well, I didn't actually adopt him right away. It started out with a two-week dog-sitting gig, and ended up as a sick puppy adoption.

Lucky, at the vet, looking apprehensive. 

Lucky is the brother of my friend John's dog, Tabs.  The parents of said brothers,  belong to John's friend Clayton, as did Lucky, at the time.  Clayton was in the process of moving and I agreed to keep Lucky and his dad Ryker until the move was complete.

Day one I knew I'd taken on more than I expected.  Because, you see, Lucky had a poop problem. Specifically, he had a liquid poop problem.  All over the house. This in itself is upsetting enough, but when you factor in the truly unearthly smell of this poop, you have a really exceptional puppy poop experience.

All over the house.

Coccidia.  Little fuckers. 

So, I took Lucky to the vet, sure that he had worms and there would be a quick fix.  What he had was coccidia, a single-celled critter that lives in the intestines of dogs and causes diarrhea, mainly in puppies because they have not yet built up an immunity to the little buggers.  It's harder than hell to get rid of, both in the dog and in the environment.  Believe me, I've been fighting this battle for  more than 12 weeks.  The best way I've heard of to get rid of coccidia in your environment is to burn it down, apparently. Though a 10% ammonia solution may or may not work.  Freezing, apparently, doesn't do it... just puts them in a cryogenic state from which they will presumably wake up mad as hell and eager to reproduce.

We are currently battling round four of coccidiosis in Lucky.  Many hundreds of dollars have been spent on Albon (the sulfa drug that doesn't even kill them, just suppresses their ability to reproduce, the little fuckers), various antibiotics (to kill the bad bacteria that also colonize Lucky's intestines because his immune system is suppressed by the coccidia) and probiotics (to replace good bacteria).  I have spent countless hours on my hands and knees, in rubber gloves, scrubbing liquid puppy poop out of my carpet.

Three times now we seemed to have prevailed, as evidenced by wonderful, adorable, oh-so-pleasant and easy-to-pick-up-off-the-rug solid puppy turds, lying like Tootsie Rolls on my rug.  (It's amazing how excited I can get about solid dog poop on my carpet these days.  There's that perspective I was talking about.)  These victories were short-lived however, and the Squirts returned each time.

After nearly a two-week remission, during which time I became foolishly confident that this time we had won, the little demons are back. Off we go with another sample to the vet, more Albon, more probiotic.  They should name an exam room after Lucky.  Or maybe, more appropriately, a bathroom.

This time the vet is sending the sample off to The Lab for further testing to discover exactly what species of coccidia we're dealing with  (kaching!).  This will tell us if he's getting reinfected from his own poop in the yard, or if he's getting it from some other source such as birds or rabbits.  Stay tuned. I suppose it matters... but the fact is that Lucky is a veritable vacuum in the back yard, Hoovering up bugs, leaves, grass, bits of trash, bark, dirt, and whatever else he comes across.  He also digs for gophers.  So unless I'm prepared to pave over my yard or go over the whole thing with a flame-thrower (which frankly I'm considering at this point), I'm screwed.

So, I urge you to learn from my example and benefit from the hard-won perspective I have gained:  If you're not scrubbing liquid puppy poop out of your carpet, you're doing pretty damned good.