Cutting the fat

I'm not just talking about the kind that you eat. That I've been actually relatively successful in doing these last few months. No, I'm talking about life's fat - the unnecessary, extraneous bullshit that weighs you down; the extra crap in your life consisting of things, thoughts, and even people that fetter your mind, clutter your space, and consume your valuable time and energy.

Shortly after I moved back to Buffalo, I was having a conversation with a random stranger in a bar. I don't remember his name, only that he was older; he was the kind of wizened old guy who speaks in proverbs not because he doesn't know what else to say, but because he genuinely believes in their messages. So we got to talking about my travels and my move back to Buffalo and my search for a new job. I told him where I'd lived and worked before and where I thought I'd go after this stop. He took a sip of his beer, and without turning to look at me said, "So what are you running from?"

I thought about it for a second and said, "Well, I guess I'm running from...myself?" He turned to me and said, "maybe it's time to face yourself head-on and stop reinventing yourself every couple of years, and figure out who you really are." The whole thing was like a surreal scene from a made-for-TV movie on Lifetime. But he was right. And ever since then, I've been working toward that. But even still, it's not enough sometimes, and I heap more and more on my plate until I get so overwhelmed that I melt down...and that's when the trouble starts, and I start burdening friends and family with my neurotic episodes. As one friend put it to me recently, "You're all right, you just need to chill the fuck out."

So I've recently begun thinking of what to do after school. The original plan was to finish and then leave Buffalo for bigger and better things, perhaps back to Chicago, possibly to sunnier climes in pursuit of a job or a graduate degree. However, I've gotten used to the idea of actually staying put for once in my life, and I'm currently holding records in the job and dwelling departments - I've been working at Starbucks and living in my house longer than any job or apartment I've ever had. Considering that I've been at Starbucks for almost four years and have been in my house for four and a half, that's a pretty weak reflection...but they're records nonetheless. I'm saving my thoughts on living in Buffalo for another post, but suffice to say that I'm staying.

I realize that I can be a tough person to keep up with. Part of my anti-appeal for a lot of people is my unstable nature, my inability to stay in one place or stick with one thing for very long. Think about it - those of you who have known me for any considerable length of time know that every time you talk to me, something else has changed, some new crisis has developed, some relationship is in the wings or on its way out (and usually with considerable drama orbiting around it), I've picked up another job or a new commitment...to quote Gilda Radner, "it's always something."

The point is that while I've spent the last few years being extremely selfish, self-centered, and carrying a big "fuck 'em if they can't accept me as I am" chip on my shoulder, I do realize that perhaps I should take Scott's advice and just chill out a little. I've bitten off a lot more than I can chew in the last few years, but this is how I operate. If I don't have thirty things going on at once, I won't do anything. So this is not a matter of dropping commitments or scaling back my activities (although I did have to sacrifice my drum lessons for the rest of the semester), but more a matter of stepping back and taking stock of what's most important to me and then prioritizing from there. I need to look for healthy outlets for my neurosis and stress, instead of foisting new episodes of "The Deedee Show" on my immediate friends all the time.

I've always had a tendency to draw attention to myself, to be the life of the party, to move into what Sally calls "Circus Clown Mode" when I'm in a group situation. And when I'm in a good mood, comfortable with myself, and in a decent place in my life, I can be very entertaining, even in my most cynical, self-deprecating approach. But when I'm stressed out, or my esteem is low for whatever reason, or I'm feeling exceptionally pessimistic, my approach lacks the shine of my inner comedienne and instead comes across as whiny, bitchy and needy, putting everyone around me on edge. That is what I need to change.

Maybe I'll try yoga. If I can find room in my schedule. :-)

The healing process apparently involves more quadrupeds

Everyone keeps telling me, "The fastest way to recover from your grief is to get another dog, and get one right away." And while, yes, I will admit that dogs are awesome and the loss of Alex has left a gaping hole in not just my heart but my life in general, I'm just not in a place where I can bring a new dog into it. I swear, some people are worse about me getting a puppy than those folks who get on my case about having kids. The big difference, of course, is that I'll eventually be able to shut the puppy people up. Just not for a while.

So yesterday I went to the SPCA to pick up Alex's ashes (which, incidentally, are in a HUGE box; I was a little taken aback with the size of it, but then I remembered that Alex was a pretty enormous mutt), and just for the hell of it, I walked through the adoption kennels. They had some pretty interesting dogs, though a little heartbreaking on the pit bull side (nearly 2/3 of the dogs up for adoption were some mix of pit). There were a couple of Great Dane mixes - and naturally they were the ones I gravitated toward, given my love for Danes and Dane mixes. There was a Great Dane/Basset Hound mix that was so weird-looking you couldn't help but fall in love with him, and a Dane/Lab mix that was absolutely beautiful and reminded me a lot of Alex.

After I got my fill of dogs, I wandered through the front area where they keep the cats and the small animals. I hung out and admired the bunnies, laughed at the ferrets, and then moseyed on over to the bank of cages where they keep the pocket pets. Guinea pigs, hamsters, a couple of gerbils...and then I saw it: a black and white hooded rat with some of the prettiest markings I've ever seen, including a really interesting head spot - and she was a girl! She was all by herself, and that's primarily what prompted me to do this:

Me: (Checking pocket and finding $17) "Hi, how much is the adoption fee for rats?"
SPCA Lady: "Rats are five dollars."
Me: "I'll take that one you have over there."

I was given all the requisite paperwork to fill out, the adoption contract and the pledge to take proper care of the animal, etc, etc. I even get a free vet visit! Not a bad deal for my five bucks. And so I have brought the number in That Crazy Rat Lady's colony to lucky 13. Now, I know that seems like a lot. And, well...it is. But she was all by herself, and rats just don't do well in solitary situations. If there had been two or more in that cage, I would have just admired them and walked away. If this rat had been male, I would have not taken it home (but would have definitely called someone I know with boyrats and alerted them). Nevertheless, some things I think are just left up to fate, and this I believe was one of them.

She doesn't have a name yet; I'm waiting to see what her personality is like and try out a few names on her and see how she responds (that's how I named Nancy, my first rat). Right now she's in quarantine in a separate cage, but if all goes according to plan she should be moved into the big cage by week's end. So...without further ado, I present to you the newest member of the Planet Deedums Mammal-rama!

The most difficult choice of my life

*Warning: Emotionally charged and really long post*

On Wednesday, October 17 at 2:30 p.m. Alex the Wondermutt was put peacefully to rest. It was the most heart-wrenching experience of my life, and the most difficult decision I think I've ever had to make. But at the age of 15 years, five months, Alex was ready to go.

She had, in fact, been trying to tell me this for quite some time, but I was selfishly unwilling to accept it. I kept thinking it would get better, kept thinking that perhaps I was overreacting, kept ignoring the people who said, "you know, Dee, maybe it's time to let her go." I kept saying, "but she's eating just fine, she's still cognizant, and she's still healthy for her age!" I didn't want to make a hasty decision in case there was something that could still be done. Yet I saw the struggle she had with walking and with getting up and down the front steps. I watched her once-strapping stature and robust frame wither and droop, felt the bones protruding from her hips, her ribs, and her swaybacked spine. I cleaned up the bathroom accidents on a daily basis (sometimes more than once a day). I listened to the hacking cough and looked into cataract-clouded eyes. All the signs were there, and although I saw them all, I didn't really see them closely enough until last week.

That Monday, I had a conversation with a customer of mine, someone who works closely with animals. I told her about Alex and how I thought it could be time to let her go, but that I just couldn't bring myself to be ready. She gave me a little food for thought to chew on, mostly stuff about "quality of life" and such, and assured me that no matter what, I had to remember that I'd been extremely blessed with more than 15 years with Alex. Considering Alex's size and breed composition, this in itself was miraculous. She told me that the decision was ultimately mine, but that I needed to look to Alex and make my decision based on what the dog was telling me.

I had a huge project due on Tuesday, one that had me upstairs in the studio all the rest of that day after I got out of work. It was a 28" x 36" pastel-on-paper piece which had to be done while standing, due to the nature of the composition and the medium with which I was working. For the first couple of hours I worked with my iPod blasting away at my eardrums, dancing around as I pasteled myself into a frenzy of color-stained fingers and dusted hair. Then I took a break, coming downstairs to get something to drink, and when I opened the door I saw it. Alex had been up on the sofa while I was upstairs, and had apparently not been able to get down before releasing a torrent of pee all over one cushion. She stood next to the coffee table, shivering and looking very guilty, and slunk off into the corner when I gasped and cried out an expletive (just because I loved this dog doesn't mean I didn't still get pissed off when she did something wrong). It was at this point that I began thinking about what Diane and I had discussed earlier in the day.

I went back into the studio, but this time I left the earbuds out, and I worked in total silence, listening only to my thoughts. I thought about the last 15 years, and how up until a couple years ago, Alex's days had been filled with walks and playtime, with toys and treats. I thought about how she used to get so excited when I'd come home, dancing around and wagging her tail, dragging me down the street on her leash...and then I thought about how now I had to wake her from her silent slumber and help her down the steps upon coming home. We couldn't really take walks anymore; we'd get to the corner and she'd want to turn back because her legs hurt. If we walked any further, she'd be out like a light for the next eight hours. I thought about how the weather was going to be turning soon, and how the cold had started to aggravate her arthritis in recent years. When she was younger, she couldn't get enough of the snow (part of the excitement of the first snowfall every year was getting to watch Alex go bonkers over "the white stuff!"), but now it was a source of exacerbation and pain. By the time I finished the piece that night, I had boiled it all down to one question that I asked myself: For whose benefit was I really keeping this dog around?

On Tuesday morning (after cleaning up a pile of poop off the kitchen floor), I went to school and continued to think about the situation. During a break between classes, I called Alex's vet and told them everything I'd thought about. It was their opinion that yes, perhaps the time had come to say goodbye. I called the SPCA and asked about the arrangements. And then I called some friends and asked if they would be willing to accompany me the next day. By the time I'd gotten to my afternoon class, I'd worked myself up into an emotional mess. I ended up coming home early and spending the afternoon hanging out with her until it was time to go to my evening class. And that night I took a pillow and a blanket, and I camped out on the dining room floor. Alex came and laid down next to me on the blanket, and we slept like that the rest of the night. At one point the two cats joined us, and it was like a big old furry slumber party.

Wednesday came too soon. I wasn't leaving to take her in until 2:00, so I spent the morning sitting quietly with her, petting her and telling her how sorry I was that I had to say goodbye. We took a stroll around the neighborhood, and I let her wander and linger as long as she wanted. I let her eat grass and eat dirt. I let her stay outside and root around in my garden while I put the sheet on the back seat of my car. She watched me with curiosity, and I felt a pang of guilt when I saw how excited she got when she figured out that we were going for a ride in the car. Shortly before 2:00 I loaded her up and we pulled out. We went to McDonald's and I ordered three double cheeseburgers with no pickles (pickles were one of the few things that she didn't like) but in a comically bittersweet moment, I realized I'd forgotten to order them without ketchup, too, and I laughed at the red mess she made.

At 2:00 we met up with my friends. We were meeting at Starbucks, and it seemed as though everyone was working that day. I was met with an outpouring of sympathy, which only made me cry that much harder. Because there were three people going with me, we took two cars, and as we proceeded I drove in silence, one hand on the wheel and one hand behind me, scratching Alex between the ears.

It's strange now when I think back on what happened next; I don't remember really saying anything. I remember telling the woman at the counter that I was there to put my dog down, and I remember giving her my license and Alex's information. Then in a really bizarre turn of events, my boss emerged from the back room (she's a volunteer there). So now I had four people with me. It was like a posse of support. My boss tried to pull some strings to get them to let me back into the room where they were going to perform the euthanasia, but to no avail. I would be allowed to go back once they were done, though. I accepted this, kissed Alex on top of the head, scratched her snout, and told her I loved her. I told her that Lepew would be waiting for her on the other side, and that I would see her again someday, too. I then watched as she was walked away, the last time I would ever see her alive. She looked back at me as if to say, "it's okay, Mom. I'm ready."

After what seemed like eternity but was really only about ten minutes, I was led into a room, and there she was. She was lying on a table, wrapped in a pink flowered comforter. What emerged from me was the unmistakable cry of grief, the cry that had come twice before and has a sound unto itself. It can't be described, but if you've lost a loved one, you know the sound. I don't know how long I stayed like this, but I collapsed over her body, sobbing and shaking, not even realizing until Meaghan rubbed my back that everyone had come back there with me. I was told that it was quick and peaceful, and that Alex had gone willingly without a struggle, without a fight, and that she had, without a doubt, been ready to go.

Afterwards, I had Meaghan drive my car back to Starbucks, and we sat and had coffee for a while. I couldn't bear to come home right away, not to Alex's bowls and bed and toys still around the house. I wasn't ready to face the house without her presence. On Wednesday night after I came home, I sent out the obligatory email. I made some phone calls. I decided I would make a little tribute to her on my myspace page, so I got out the photo album. Her bed was still on the floor and I thought it might be good for me to dispose of it. But as I walked toward it I realized I wasn't ready to toss it just yet, and I laid down on the floor and rested my head on it. I ended up falling asleep that way, and for the second night in a row, I slept on the floor.

These last few days have been a rollercoaster of ups and downs. I know things will even out with time, my heart will heal, and I'll stop crying all the time. I'll be able to come home and not feel a lump in my throat every time I open the front door and remember that she's not here anymore, and eventually I'll get used to life without a dog. One of these mornings I'll get out of bed and not look for shoes to put on right away to take her out. Someday I'll not think about how I need to rush home in between classes to walk her. I'll have to start remembering to pick up food that falls on the floor. When you do something every day for over 15 years and then it's not there anymore...it takes some adjustment.

This truly is the end of an era. Having had Alex since I was 21, she was with me through thick and thin, through every trial and tribulation, joy and celebration of my adult life. She was like a fixture. A big, stinky, furry, destructive, yet lovable fixture, always there through every move, every relationship, every life event. She had a long, happy life, and I was blessed beyond reason to have her as long as i did. Even still, there will never be a day in my life that I don't wonder if I really did the right thing. But I have a feeling that she's having a good old time tearing something up wherever she is. Hopefully the folks in charge of the Rainbow Bridge remembered to put away their hardcover books.

Rest in peace, Alex. May 6, 1992 - October 17, 2007.

A once-in-a-lifetime event: Meeting Henry

Tonight I met the greatest hero of my life, Henry Rollins. Some of you might remember a little over a year ago when I posted about my homage-in-ink to him on my back. Well, tonight I got to show him - in person - just how much he means to me after his spoken word show, thanks to a connection I have with the venue's management. We took some photos, I got his autograph on my favorite book of his, Black Coffee Blues, and we chatted for about ten minutes.

Ironically, he had talked at length during the three-hour performance about meeting his heroes and turning into a blushing, blithering idiot in their presence, like an 11-year-old meeting the newest teen sensation at a strip mall appearance.

So anyway, after the show I was escorted to the back door by security where I waited for Henry to come out. After he finished signing autographs and chatting with the small group of fans on the sidewalk, he came over to me, and the entire little speech I'd prepared for weeks was no longer on the tip of my tongue. What came out instead was, "Henry, I want you to know that I'm trying REALLY hard not to be an 11-year-old at a strip mall right now." He laughed, and I went on to tell him how big an impact he's had on my life.

When it was all over, I thought, "wow, that was a lot more laid-back than I thought it would be!" He's really down to earth, very friendly, and extremely humble. This, 0f course, has much to do with my admiration for him. I was very surprised at how composed I remained; I did not pass out, I did not pee my pants (and yes, I was worried about both of those things happening). But aside from my flushed appearance and giddy smile, I think I held myself together quite nicely.

But then I realized that I never even told him my name! Duh! Well, anyway, here are some photos of the excitement!


Waiting in front of Henry's bus, book and Sharpie at the ready!


We were talking about Chicago and all the shows I saw when I lived there.


Okay, now he was impressed with the tattoo, but in this picture I can't figure out if he's thinking, "Oh, yeah, check this out!" or "This chick is whack!" I know what I was thinking - "Holy shit, Henry Rollins is holding my hair!"


One final parting shot. A little blurry, but I like it anyway.

And just for the record, it really feels incredible to be able to check off a goal on your life's list! I don't know how to thank the people who made this happen, but I can assure you there is a very special place in heaven for them! Or at least some free coffee...

I don't even really like baseball!

I wish people could be more grown-up when it comes to expressing feelings and desires. I include myself in this list, of course, as I am notorious for saying everything BUT what I mean to say, circumventing the issue at hand and at times getting all cryptic and weird. Then I take my frustrations out and vent to people who aren't even part of the situation, and end up tangling more people than necessary into the web o'drama.

*Gratuitous Baseball Metaphor Alert*

If we all had more balls to just step up to the plate and take a swing, the world would be a much happier place. Even if you strike out, at least you know you've struck out and aren't left standing there wondering whether to drop the bat and run or retreat back to the bench. And sometimes you surprise yourself and hit it out of the park. But so many of us never even pick up that bat.

Cheesy analogies aside, why is this? Is it fear of rejection? Trepidation in the face of the unknown? A gunshy attitude based on previous experience? The desire to "spare" others' feelings? Why can't we just come right out and say, "Hey, you really pissed me off," or "I dig you" or "Yes, those pants make your ass look big," or "Sorry, I'm not into you that way," or countless other sentiments? Granted, one is required to be relatively tactful and diplomatic when offering such statements, and few people possess the necessary tools for being so. Even still, if we all started being more honest and straightforward with each other, there would be some broken hearts and disappointments, sure, but there would be a hell of a lot fewer misunderstandings.

I am Veruca Salt.

I want the world
I want the whole world
I want to lock it all up in my pocket
It's my bar of chocolate
Give it to me
Now!

-Veruca Salt, in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

As I stated in a previous post, I have issues with delayed gratification. I want everything, and I want it yesterday. And this bothers me.

I was originally going to post this in my diet blog because I figured out that a lot of my food issues stem from the instant gratification compulsion, i.e. I don't have the patience to cook. But then I realized that so much else in my life, so much of what drives people - and myself - crazy about me is the fact that I'm simply too damn impatient. I hate waiting. This may be behind my chronic tardiness as well. If I'm late, I join the action in progress and don't have to wait around for it to start. It also has a lot to do with my housekeeping issues. I want my house to be clean, but I don't have the patience to clean it. I unwittingly sabotage relationships because I don't stop to savor the stages of development, and tend to come on way too strong way too soon. Despite my best intentions, I always screw it up. But yeah, I'm sure you get the idea.

So this week we started learning how to "throw" in ceramics class. For the record, I hate that fucking class. I'm not good at it, I'm not particularly interested in it, it's obnoxiously messy, and the teacher is a straight-up jerk sometimes. He does a marvelous job of making me feel really stupid, in fact. Anyway, the other day I was sitting at my wheel, fighting with a spinning lump of wet clay (and wearing a good deal of it as well) and all I wanted to do was turn it into a bowl. Just a bowl. Nothing fancy, nothing extreme, just a god damned bowl. Well, it's a lot harder than it looks, and I couldn't even get the stupid thing to stay on the wheel, let alone get it centered or shape it into anything that looked remotely like a bowl. In fact, at one point I looked at my creation and thought, "Wow, that's a really great rendition of a pile of dog poo."

This semester sucks.