Read Them and Weep

In this case, the tears may be just as much for boredom and sorrow, as they are for joy. But two out of three isn’t bad. Here’s my take:

“Cross Country” — James Patterson… Let’s get this out of the way quickly. Pass. I was in need of some adventure reading to take my mind off of business while traveling, and thought for sure Mr. Patterson would not let me down. Wrong. The synopsis spelled intrigue and mystery — with no mention of societal grandstanding. But the book? Right from page one we’re knee deep in the horrendous violence of war-torn Nigeria. My thoughts of pleasurable escape turned into guilt and sorrow for not liking the book. Mr. Patterson has cloaked this mystery in humanitarian activism and set it in DC with a multitude of chapters in Africa. I kept wanting to toss it aside, but was internally torn with wondering whether or not that meant I didn’t care about the genocide and unspeakable crimes happening to those people across the globe, or simply did not like the book. It was incredibly perplexing. Doubling my frustration was the fact that I cared NOTHING about the central character, who somehow survived everything from gunshot wounds to pistol-whipping to starvation and beating in prison to a CIA kidnapping, all on minimal sleep and with nothing more than a broken nose. Oh, and he’s a detective AND a clinical psychologist. In the end, I finished the book and swore off James Patterson for a while.

“World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War” — Max Brooks… A wonderfully sane approach to an outrageous topic. This guy weaves “personal interviews” of WWZ survivors into a global account of catastophic proportions. Some professional reviewers have likened it to a modern day Welles’ “War of the Worlds” broadcast, and I’d have to agree. The realness completely overrides the absurdity of the fact that a Zombie virus has basically wiped out the world, and every country has been forced to deal with their survival separately. It’s an interesting political commentary on our unified response to a global disaster. Take a chance. Read it.

 

“The Road” — Cormac McCarthy… Since first diving into Mr. McCarthy’s voice with “Blood Meridian” (and yes, I had both my thesaurus and dictionary out the entire time), I fell in love with the guy. His “Border Trilogy” and multiple earlier works are all worth a read. “The Road”? It falls right in line, but surprised me in its hopelessness. It’s hopelessness was beautiful. How do you write that? Oddly, it too, follows a global disaster, and the changes in society and humanity, but focuses on a father and son, and their journey to stay human and reach someplace they really aren’t sure exists — but hope it does — to live in relative safety from the dangers of the new world. It’s heavy-hearted, but not heavy-handed. I admit I’m biased, and maybe I enjoyed it so much just because it was Mr. McCarthy’s next work, and I had been combing the bookstores in anticipation. But I still enjoyed it. And I’d definitely recommend it.

How I See It

Or not. Literally. And last night’s adventure in sight was completely appropriate as we were celebrating Chris’ 40-something birthday with two friends.

We headed to Rosa Mexicano at Lincoln Center. Yeah, yeah, a bit over-priced (1 Corona and 1 Margerita at the bar — with house Tequila — came to $18.50) but when you think about that guacamole made-to-order right at your table? You forgive the price, revel in the attentive service, and enjoy the evening… as long as you can read the menu. Thank god it’s Mexican food and you pretty much know your favorites at this point in life… If you don’t? You sure as hell won’t find it on the menu. It’s there, oh, I’m sure it’s there, but who can read it? Not one of us at the table!

The funniest realization was that even if you knew what you wanted, if you weren’t intimately familiar with the Spanish language or cuisine, you were in trouble: Mariposa de Huachingo, Arrachera con Camarones, Alambre a la Mexicana — all lovely titles, but what exactly were they? Ni idea. Nada. And none of us had brought our reading glasses. Vanity wins. We lose.

And when the bill came? I labored over it, Chris labored over it, and finally we gave in, passed it across the table to ask for a third opinion and determine if we were seeing a 9 or an 8, a 64 or 84, and, oh, by the way, can you just tell me the final bill? Miserable. And until my statement comes? I’ll truly have no idea of what it really was… We were laughing so hard — Chris had actually prepared ahead of time with his reading glasses, and then changed coats at the last minute, leaving the holy objects behind at home. We were in trouble from the start.

After dinner, however, we met friends at Serafina for a drink, and were immediately vindicated as the two of them sheepishly passed a pair of reading glasses back and forth in order to read the appetizer menu. Our laughter wasn’t truly appreciated until we explained our experience at dinner. And then the next 30 minutes were spent swapping blurred, double, near and far sights.

Ah, life is good. Even the parts of it you can’t see.

Quote of the Month

It’s not quite the end of the month, yet, but I have a feeling this one can’t be topped. Thank you, Chris.

I was snacking the other night. 10 PM. Starving. Raiding the cupboards. Peanuts, almonds, crackers, even looked closely at dry cereal. Then I heard: “Stop eating! I didn’t marry William Shatner!”

Really? William Shatner? The former hottie gone soft? The captain gone capsule? The actor so in tune with his Boston Legal “Denny Craig” character — and himself –  that he lets “puffy gawker” quips be written into the script and delivered by Heather Locklear? THAT William Shatner? Really?

THEN

NOW

Once I got over the horror of the slur, I actually laughed out loud. The delivery was perfect. The source authentic. And yeah, I’m a little puffy. Now where did I put the Hagen Daas?

Rude Awakening

Literally… a RUDE awakening. I guess maybe I deserved it. But I definitely wasn’t ready for it. Are we ever? I’m coming off a rough week, a rough few months, a rough three years. Multiple cross-country moves. A few job changes. A number of losses of family members, friends, and pets. And this month? Last week came to a screeching halt at 9:05 PM on Friday, after a week full of new business propasals, industry award entries, business travel, current client program executions, all kicking some serious 46-year old ass. But I can take it. Par for the course. Part of the job. You take it in stride, keep your head down, and focus on getting through.

With that in mind, picture me walking to my local market to do some grocery shopping, and happily running into a friend with whom I used to play volleyball regularly — four years ago. “Hey (name witheld)! How are you!” “Alan? Wow, hi! How are you? I thought you were in Minnesota?” And the conversation continued with average normalcy until our parting, when he gave me that slow once-over (head to toe, as only a NY gay can do), and simply said: “I didn’t even recognize you. Take care.” And off he went.

Me? I stood there in the rain giving myself the once-over, and noticed the MN all-weather boots, the jeans from target (yes, 34 x 34, because I’m a little more rotund than I used to be), a Winter ‘08 puffy coat, and a Nike ball cap that I know should never be worn in public, but what the hell, right? And then I remembered my face from the mirror this morning — the dark circles under my eyes, the jawline that seems just a little puffy right now (not to mention the cheeks), the less then vibrant skin tone. The wear and tear of the last four years and, specifically, the last six months. And I remembered that the last time this guy had seen me was on the beach in Fire Island playing some serious beach volleyball in an all-day tournie in which my team placed second. I was ripped, lean, vibrant, and, most importantly, healthy. And THAT was the rude awakening.

As I walked to the market, I forgave “player x” — he was always known for being less-than-tactful, anyway — but I realized that I need to get back in the game. And fast.

Why I Hate NYC

I know, dramatic, right? But equal time for the trials of living here must be paid… So… our quick”zip-car” trip across the river to Target for supplies (we needed a Midwestern suburban fix) turned into a trek equal to my pioneer heritage. Getting there was a breeze. The shopping was bliss. The return trip was quick — no traffic in the Holland Tunnel… Then the real fun began.

We headed up the West Side Highway, only to discover that a bike race had closed it down — but had no idea exactly how much of it — and we were routed to 10th Ave. We made fairly good time until around 34th Street. Then gridlock. Standstill. We could almost hear the frozen goods whimpering in the trunk. We extend the zip-car for another hour. And we take a few deep breaths.

20 minutes later we’re at 40th Street. We can see the parking garage where we have to drop off the car, but have a car-load of groceries and supplies that will be grueling to carry the four blocks to our apartment, so we decide to stick it out and try for the left turn on to 42nd street that heads to 11th Ave, where we live.

20 minutes later we’re at 41st Street. Count the blocks. One. We extend the zip-car for another hour. The worst part? Not knowing! How can we be 4 blocks from home and have no idea why we can’t get there? Ridiculous. And so is this story. Getting  boring. I’m wrapping it up.

We swing a right, head up 8th Ave, turn left at 48th, only to discover that they’ve shut off 11th Ave at 47th, so we can’t turn down that way either. We shout obscenities at no one in particular and swing back the other way, hit 42nd Street, get all the way to 9th Ave, where the traffic cops force us to turn right and head uptown. AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!! The ice cream is mush. The zip-car is extended AGAIN. And the conversation between us and the traffic cops gets ugly fast.  I’m trying to have a controlled conversation with the woman, while Chris is in the passenger seat channeling Satan. Spittle flying. Head spinning. Love me a Scorpio. He’s yelling at her. I’m yelling at him. She’s laughing at us. Not pretty. Just not pretty. In the end, we have Minnesota ID on us, so couldn’t prove our address anyway, and were forced to move on.Two blocks away from home. What is this, a police state?

We head around the block AGAIN, return the zip-car, load up like pack mules and head toward home, only to discover that in the 7 minutes it took us to go around the block and park the car, the barricades had been removed, and all roads were open. Now the traffic cop HAD to know that they were ready to open the roads. She HAD to. But noooooo. Move along, sir. Move along.

By this point Chris and I are not speaking to each other at all. Not a word. Too volatile. Pedestrians were parting around us like Moses parted the Red Sea. They knew better. We get past the police station at 10th Ave., noting the flag flying at half-mast by a thread of a rope, tattered and torn, well after 911, and that sends Chris off on ANOTHER tyrade about New York’s finest, traffic cops, and politics in general, all the while trying to keep the ice cream from dripping down his leg. I’m walking ten paces behind (how very Japanese wife of me) and see him pause, side-step, and go completely silent. There in the middle of the sidewalk is a large, freshly killed rat. Disgusting. I busted out laughing. I laughed so hard, I dropped my grocery bags. It was just too perfect. What could have topped off such a New York morning than a fresh rat kill? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At that moment, I hated NYC so much I fell in love with it all over again.

Why I Love NYC

In the words of one of my favorite bloggers (Through the Looking Glass — a must-read), “Oh, that’s where I left my blog…” I won’t belabor the point, or the post, but simply get back to it.

Every once in a while I meet someone or observe a happening in NYC that involves a character that no one could actually write. No way. Because the eccentricity levels are beyond imagination, and the personality and physical package are just too much for one mind to envision. That’s why I love New York City.

In Soho, at a dive of a coffee shop — where of course the coffee rules — a woman, clearly a regular, popped in while Chris and I were making a coffee run before some of the shops opened. How did I know she was a regular?The person behind the counter visibly shut down. Chakras closed. Face walled off. She left us defenseless. But the next 10 minutes were pure NYC bliss…

• She commented on the lighting — “Honey, you got a couple of bulbs burned out, unless you like it like this…” and as we were leaving, again called out, “You want me to come back there and fix that light for you?”
• She personally answered Chris’ query to the woman behind the  counter about blueberry muffins with a full run-down on EVERY parcel of food in the display case. including what was normally in stock, and what they were out of.
• And, when she engaged the two men behind us in conversation, was so surprised by the bass quality of one of the men, juxtaposed to his youthful appearance, that she responded with this: “Your voice is full of wisdom and age, but your face? It kind of looks like a grown-up Dennis the Menace or something.”

Ah, it’s good to be back… And I can’t tell you where that glorious little coffee shop was… Somewhere in Soho west of Wooster and east of West Broadway between Houston and Spring, a half a block up from a cute little park… just look for the dim lights and a woman asking to help brighten up the place a bit…

Fiction Addiction

The latest works that have brought me pleasure. Excellent reads, all of them:

Hood (Stephen R. Lawhead): I’ve always been a fan of all things Robin Hood (except, of course, that horrible film with Kevin Costner and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio), and this falls into that category with a wonderful mix of historical fact and fiction. Check it out… and the sequel “Tuck,” is now available and on my reading list, as well.

The Gargoyle (Andrew Davidson): As earlier noted, this book grabbed me from the initial paragraphs and didn’t disappoint through to the end. The characters were well-developed, likeable, loveable, and missed when the story ended. I still think this might be my best read of the year.

The Likeness (Tana French): You remember that I often have difficulty diving into murder mysteries of the English/Irish ilk… This proved absolutely worth the investment. Well-told, and well-paced, its lead character narates through the voice of a murder victim (think Lovely Bones, but more action and less heavy tragedy). Give it a read.

The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint (Brady Udall): Okay, this one is just something else entirely. It initially caught my eye because the author had woven a Mormon foster family into the story. In my high school days, Native American (called “Lamanites” by the Mormons) students were always in our schools through Mormon foster family placements, so I was amused and interested that this author would have introduced such a piece of Mormon fabric into this book, and that it should play so prominently. But the rest of the book outshines even that piece of the story, and is wonderfully amusing, tragic,  gritty and rewarding. Read it.

The Weekend of our Discontent

Adequate. Mediocre. Vanilla. Common. Pedestrian. Passable. And, yes, Average. Bored, yet? I sure am. And worse? I’m still hungry. I’ve just described every meal and snack I’ve had between Friday night at 5 PM and Sunday afternoon at 3 PM. Friday evening found us at Yum Yum, Too in Hell’s Kitchen/Midtown West. Not bad, but not memorable. And the drinks? Overly sweet with minimal alcohol.

Saturday mid-morning found as Time Warner Center’s Whole Foods where the flatbread pizza was just that: flat. Crust too thick. Toppings cold. Completely unsatisfactory. Saturday night we ordered in: Chinese from Wu Liang Ye. Online reviews were positive, the restaurant touted as upscale and authentic, but the meal just didn’t deliver. Weak flavors in bland dishes. The reheat Sunday at lunch was a little better, but still unsatisfying. And it arrived in under 15 minutes. Just think about that for a moment. 4 blocks over 2 blocks up, full meal delivered in under 15 minutes. Fresh? Not!

Sunday afternoon brought treats from Cupcake Cafe on 9th Ave. The cake portion was dry, and the icing was heavy crisco- or shortening-based, to keep the flowers looking pretty. Unfortunately, it didn’t help in the flavor department. When I think cupcakes, I admit, I think Magnolia Bakery or Crumbs. I crave the rush and the crash. I admit it. But getting that from one of these at CC? No such luck. Three quarters of it went in the trash. If you know me, you know that says something.

That brings us to tonight. I’m afraid to go out. Afraid to order in. Even afraid to cook. The opportunities for run-of-the-mill, so-so, second-rate, undistinguished, unexceptional and uninspired are the ONLY overwhelming possibilities. Is it possible to actually look forward to a Monday morning?

Stupid, Embarassing, Redundant Modes of Transportation

Necessity is the mother of invention, true, but there are certain variations on a theme that should just never be explored. Not that the result is not exhilarating or genius, just that there are certain individuals who should never be given access to the result. Okay, okay, I’m getting to the point. Adult males should avoid the following at all costs: The recumbent bicyle, the Segway, and the scooter. Just walk away. Please, for the sake of the rest of the male population, just walk away.

There is nothing smart or sexy about a recumbent cycle. Let’s just appreciate it from afar for an interesting take on a bike. But let’s not ride it. Ever.

A Segway is like a poor man’s unicycle (an invention relegated to circus use by men in top hats, tails, tights, or any combination of the three). And the Segway has starred in two mall cop movies. Need I say more? And why the flocking instinct? Segway tours? It’s like watching geese fly South or quail families cross the road, but with humans. Makes a grown man proud.

Dude (yes, I said “dude,” because it applies here), just LET. IT. GO. Even the word scooter screams adolescence. I don’t care what big city you live in, and how convenient you think it is. You look stupid. Have a friend video you commuting to work on your “awesome scooter” and force yourself to watch it. Don’t be proud. Be embarrassed. You look stupid. Just stop it.

Vote for Geronimo & Samson in the Holiday Kick Start Video Contest.

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Geronimo and Samson are making a guest appearance in this Holiday Kick Start Video contest — my videography is a little shaky, but they make up for it in their enthusiasm. Enjoy!

Shock and Awe

I never thought I could use the phrase “recoil in horror” in a sentence honestly until today.

“I recoiled in horror upon discovering that a daughter of my high school girlfriend friended me on Facebook.”

It’s true. Both that I recoiled in horror and that a daughter of my high school girlfriend friended me on Facebook.

Next steps:
1. Close Facebook account
2. Try to figure out how she found me and why she knows me
3. Scedule appointment with a shrink to deal with my aging issues
4. Call high school girlfriend to find out just how old her daughters are (triplets) and why only ONE of them is friending me on Facebook. I do have an ego, after all.

Eastward Bound

We made it. Another truck. Another trip. Another home. NYC it is. And this was the first time in four years it was NOT over a holiday. We’ll actually be in a home over the holidays and not in the cab of a moving truck!

Here are a few photos of our adventure…

Enjoying the sun in our new window…

I think it’s all here…

Geronimo’s the better navigator

Samson’s gotta go…

Yo quiero Taco Bell

Having a little snack…

WordPress for iPhone

In trying to see just how “connected” I can get, I’ve downloaded the WordPress app for my iPhone. Mobile posting? Why not? I mean, I’m already updating my Twitter account via my Tweetie iPhone app, and that gets posted to my blog, so this is just one more stop on the road to complete digital addiction. Next stop? Having my blog updates announced via my Twitter account. Fairly adventurous for someone whose posts actually bore himself…

What a Flossing Shame!

Shame. Guilt. Remorse. I know, feels like we’re talking religion, right? Wrong. We’re talking DENTIST. What is it about a trip to the dentist for a teeth cleaning that can make years of Mormon guilt pale in comparison? Even after miserably trying to make up for lost time the night before and morning of, you still know that when that plastic-coated chair of doom tilts backward, the light shines blindingly down from above forcing you to look away or shut your eyes (religious parallels duly noted), and the gloved and masked technician speaks to you in tongues, (literally, god knows none of us can really respond intelligibly with our tongues tied up in gauze, suction, or “bite wing” paraphernalia) you are busted. No arguments. No discussion. No way out. Busted.

It’s not like when you go to your family doctor for a yearly physical and know that anything going wrong or not looking so good within your body can be chalked up to age, heredity, or plain old bad luck. It’s not your fault. All’s forgiven. All’s fair. Sympathy abounds. Nooooo. Not at the dentist’s office. When you go to the dentist and something doesn’t look good, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. And if you aren’t good at placing blame on yourself, the smug technician clucking behind the surgical mask is only too happy to help. “Are you flossing regularly?” Are you flossing at all?” “How often are you brushing?” “Are you brushing for two minutes?” “Are you using a soft full-head or medium full-head?” “Have you tried a fluoride rinse?” And, my personal favorite, “Has it really been over a year since we’ve seen you?” I mean, come on! You’re the one having to use a jackhammer to clear the plaque away, enough with the patronizing!

And when all is said and done, and you actually DO NOT have any cavities, receding gums, or general tooth dysfunction, the dentist still never really congratulates you. There’s always an apology cloaked in a compliment. “Well, your teeth are actually in pretty good shape,” or “whatever you’re doing, keep it up” or even “hmmph (thoughtful frown), looks good (condescending bobbing nod), let’s get you in here sooner next time.” Like getting you in sooner might somehow help provide a better chance to actually get the drill out! Even when you’ve a reason to celebrate, you feel guilty about celebrating too much, because clearly there is still an opportunity for improvement. You’ve got no cavities. Your teeth are still white. Your gums are in good shape. And somehow, you still walk out of there feeling… well… shame, guilt and remorse. I’m so looking forward to my next visit. Maybe I’ll even floss the full week before…

Deja Vu

Today’s post will be very economic. In fact, it’s already been written. Just check out the archives for “Life in the Desert,” “The Bird Hates Cinder Block,” “Deer X-ing,” “Parrots, Packing and Penske,” and “Safe, Sound and Sub-zero” on this blog. We’re East Coast bound. The island of  Manhattan for good (did you hear me knocking on wood?). I’ll be sure to share  stories from the road — and maybe a few pre-road, if the opportunity presents itself.  The move is just 7 days away, but of course we’re already packed. We’ve done this too many times. Check back soon. I admit I’ve never been one to make a long story short. Or a post a tweet. But I do try to make it entertaining…

Cover to Cover

Some new reads for anyone interested…

A definite must-read. Written by David Benioff — so very young, I might add. I’m impressed with his wisdom and wit for an author his age. Definitely a gift. The story is about a guy who has to write a story about his own uneventful life, so he finally gets his grandfather (retired in FL) to tell him “about the war.” The rest is an incredibly moving story about his grandfather and another young man fighting to stay alive during the seige of Leningrad. I’ve not read anything of late that weaves humor and tragedy so effortlessly. Absolutely one of my favorite reads this year.

Written by P.D. James. I frequently have a tough time getting into the British writers and their mysteries. American writers of the genre tend to right for the jugular, while the British authors take their time introducing a multitude of characters and widening the story line every chapter. Once I settle in, I enjoy them. It just takes some patience for me to settle in. This one was worth it. The characters came to life vibrantly and the plot thickened with a history among its characters and the location of the crimes committed. While not a must-read recommendation, it’s certainly enjoyable.

Written by David Guterson. I first discovered David Guterson in a bookstore in Ketchikan, AK. I loved that bookstore. It introduced me to some of my favorite authors that summer, David Guterson being one of them with “Snow Falling on Cedars.” I struggled with “The Other” for quite a while. I just could not get involved. I felt like it was moving at a snail’s pace, and I didn’t have the time to wait when I needed to escape. But, I respect Mr. Guterson, and decided to stick with it. I was rewarded. Loved it. I was completely taken by the central character, his flaws and his loves. Very well written and worth the time investment.

Written by Jane Austen (yes) and Seth Grahame-Smith. Yes, it’s really called “Pride, Prejudice and Zombies,” and will simply make your day if you are a fan of Ms. Austen. Just imagine the entire novel with the subtext of a Zombie plague running throughout. Elizabeth and her sisters are all skilled assassins, having trained abroad in China (apparently Ninja fighting techniques are a must for Zombie warfare…). All of the characters stay true to themselves with the added impetus of the zombie plague; the heroics and barbarics of such a plague and how it alters their characters is interwoven into the original plot lines with intelligent humor. It’s actually more entertaining a read when picturing the latest film actors and actresses in these roles. Imagine Dame Judy Dench battling Kiera Knightly via “Crouching Tiger/Hidden Dragon” theatrics in a dojo on Elizabeth’s father’s property when Lady Katherine (Britain’s foremost Zombie killer) discovers there may be a relationship between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Of course, Darcy realized she loved him when she let Lady Katherine live! Ah, you must read it for yourself. It’s quick and fun and silly and thoroughly enjoyable.

Written by Andrew Davidson. I’m only 110 pages in, but was hooked within the first paragraph. Written in a narrative voice by a burn victim, it literally mesmerized me within minutes. I’ve never read anything by Andrew Davidson, but the brutal honesty with which he introduces his central character is riveting. It might be my best read of the year, yet… I’ll let you know when I’ve finished. I actually look forward to bed every night and get frustrated when I’m too tired to read!

Limited Recline

Air. Travel. Sucks. Three words that roll right off my tongue and onto the Tarmac… where they linger for hours on end. I could rant and scream about the injustice of it all, but I’ve decided I won’t. No. Not me. I’m going tell you what I LOVE about air travel…

• You get to see a side of humans you just never thought possible. Can flight attendants really be that heartless? Watching individuals clearly incapable of lifting a piece of luggage over their heads struggle and struggle with near amusement on their faces? Amazing.
• You get arrive at your gate only to discover that the plane you’re boarding is so small, no carry-on bags bigger than a computer case will fit in the overheads, so you must tag your own bag, and even load and unload it upon departure and arrival. How much was that ticket? And you charged me for the bag I already checked?
• You get to enjoy the aromas of McDonald’s, Cinnabon, Quizno’s, California Pizza Kitchen, and even the occassional home-made fish snack ALL AT ONCE in a CONTAINED SPACE!
• You get to rub shoulders (and elbows and knees and even feet) with some of the finest specimens of humans in their various stages of evolution… and, yes, some still have gills. Or smell like they do.
• You get to hear details of business transactions, sexcapades, and parental woes – of which you care absolutely nothing – over cell phone conversations by passengers who have never, ever heard the phrase, “inside voices”
• And, my personal favorite, you get to be subjected to some of the most vapid conversations by passengers oblivious to their own stupidity. My favorite occurred this morning… “I thought this nail polish was going to be more olive; more dirty martini olive.”

Steroids and Bald Dogs

Canine Cutaneous Vasculitis or Alopecia. You decide. But either way, Chloe is going bald. It doesn’t look bad on her, per se, but it is a little odd for a 2 and a 1/2 year old Dachshund to be losing her hair… Or for any Dachshund to be losing its hair. It’s not like they have a ton, you know. But Chloe is. And why? Therein lies the rub.

If you thought a second opinion was important among doctors of humans, you might want to give even more attention to your vet. Apparently, a vet we went to misdiagnosed Chloe’s condition over a year ago and prescribed Synotic (remember the steroid I put in my eye? yeah, that one), a topical steroid that was supposed to keep the chafing of her ears in check. We were told if we didn’t apply it daily for the REST OF HER LIFE that her ear would continue to atrophy and we’d have to cut it off. If that wasn’t enough to scare us into it, just the thought of a gay household with an animal that wasn’t symmetrical or otherwise perfect put us into a near coma. Could we go out in public again? Do they make prosthetic ears for Dachshunds? Would she need therapy? Does our pet insurance policy cover it? The questions were endless. Shallow, but endless.

So a year later, we notice Chloe is starting to go bald, in addition to her little ear condition, so we take her to another vet. Two biopsies later, we discover she was “over-prescribed” with the Synotic, and should never have been using it for this long or for this particular condition. Her body had been absorbing the steroid for so long now that her hair follicles had moved into a state of dormancy, as had the hair. No growth. No life. Resting. Resting hair… which is a nice way for saying bald. Yeah, bald. Our new vet assured us it was just cosmetic (clearly she had no idea the terror a phrase like “just cosmetic” could bring to this gay couple) and that otherwise, Chloe was healthy. So, we’ve taken her off the steroid (I still use it occasionally when I’m in the mood for a little eye pain) and are hoping that after a month or two, her hair will start to “wake up.”

All I can say is thank god she is still a European size zero. At least we have her weight under control. She may be bald, but she is fiercely thin. The fashionable fall sweaters she’s going to have to wear to keep warm in the mean time are just going to HANG off her — as it should be.

I’m Pregnant!

I’m somewhere in my second trimester, I believe. Or did believe. It was a dream, actually. Bordering on nightmare, but incredibly memorable all the same.

Oddly, I was “far enough along” in my pregnancy that I could cradle my baby (okay, that sounds weird) with my hands interlocked under my distended stomach, or actually rest my arms over the top of my swollen stomach like I’ve seen so many of my family members do over the years. And it was so uncomfortable on my back. The muscle tension — or pressure rather — was fairly constant. But that’s not the half of it…

No one would actually believe I was pregnant. Now I know the difference between a pregnant stomach and simple obesity, and this was pregnancy. But no one would believe me. I kept trying to get other pregnant women to get me to see their doctors, because no doctor would see me if I just showed up on my own. The doctors all thought I was crazy and refused me treatment. I was so concerned about the health of the fetus, because I drink occasionally — okay, moderately. All I could think about was the fact that I didn’t realize I was pregnant (again, that sounds weird) until I was fairly far along, and I was terribly concerned about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. The fact that no doctor would see me and confirm the health of my baby was really disconcerting (more disconcerting than the fact that I was pregnant? Well, yes, actually, as being pregnant didn’t seem extraordinary to me at all).

I spent the whole dream in turmoil over my health, the baby’s health, and then the horrible realization that I had NO IDEA how this baby was going to get OUT of me. But still, oddly, that fact was less concerning to me than the fact that no doctor would see me or help me.

Now lest you think (did I really just write the word “lest”?) that I am a stranger to pregancy, let me put your mind at ease. Years ago, in another dream, I gave birth to a baby boy with the largest head I have ever seen while lying on a kitchen table, (named him after my brother Michael, FYI, in that dream)  attended by my mother as midwife. Yes, my mom delivered my baby. Hello weird. Hello therapy. This was the most excrucatingly painful dream I have ever endured (probably precipitating the fear in my more recent dream of exactly HOW the delivery would take place) awake or asleep. It was physically brutal. But I digress (if you can actually digress lower than dreaming you are pregant when you are a 46 year-old male)…

My preganancy never came to term, and I never found a doctor who would see me. And I’ve spent my entire day trying to piece together the goings-on in my waking life that might have triggered such a dream, all for naught. Ni idea. Nada. But I can tell you this… I simply glow when I’m pregnant.

8 Pt. Font Is Not My Friend!

Yes, I’ve been touching on aging as a theme to a lot of my posts lately. I can’t quite seem to avoid it, so may as well make it a topic of discussion. So… Let’s talk Cafe Lurcat — our favorite Minneapolis restaurant. Stellar service. Excellent food. Beautiful views of Loring Park. But the print on the check is just so damn small!

Just the other night, Chris and I enjoyed a fab dinner at Cafe Lurcat. As we wound down, the bill arrived and Chris took it to analyze. The mood lighting was such that a little help by candle light was required. Remember, Chris refuses to wear reading glasses in public. Alan wears contacts that float more than they settle, so I’m as inept as he is when it comes to fine print. As Chris held the bill in front of him — way in front of him — and positioned the candle for the best lighting, it went out. Poof. Darkness. We both busted a gut, knowing that either of us reading the bill accurately without the candle was a crap shoot.

I looked around for a candle we could steal from another table, but that just felt too conspicuous (like two guys passing a restaurant check back and forthing and holding it at arms’ length isn’t conspicuous at all…) I then took the bill and held it at several different angles. No luck. Chris took it back and held it at several more. No luck. Neither of us could truly make out what we owed the restaurant. We couldn’t stop laughing, and finally agreed upon what we thought the bill might be, and adjusted the tip accordingly, just in case we were more than a little off. As we left the restaurant, we didn’t catch any angry glares, so we assumed we made the right call on the tip. But then we had to read the parking valet ticket…

Oh, and this is just vision. Short term memory? Forget about it. Literally.