Unconditional Love? Yeah, Right!

If you are a dog lover like myself, then you'll be happy to know that there is a gadget out there that can translate your dog's barks and behaviors into words. Yep, if a wag of the tail or a lick on the face isn't enough to suggest "I love you," then you may want to invest in the BowLingual, the nifty little gadget that can bridge the huge communication gap between you and your dog. 

On the other hand, if you're a cheap ass like me, then allow me to save you the $213 you will have to fork out to purchase this lying piece of shit. 


I figured I knew everything about Kenora, my dog of fourteen years, but according to the BowLingual, I don't know Jack. 


To save you the heartache from learning what it is your dog is really thinking, allow me to demonstrate my *interpretation* of what the BowLingual (BL) had to say about the relationship between me and my furry K-9...

Me: I dread going to work and leaving Kenora by herself. Does she pine after me while longing for my return?

BL: Ahem. Ahhhh... no! Sorry!

Me: Really? You sure? Alright, then. *sigh*


When we're just hanging around the house and I look over at her to find her staring intensely at me, is she thinking about how much she loves me?

BL: Not exactly. Unless, of course, you are a Beggin' Strip posing as a human. 

ME: Wow, that was just cruel.

Sometimes, when I go out of town, I leave her with my friends, Sue and Terie. Upon my return, Kenora always gives me the cold shoulder. Is this because she prefers living with them over me?

BL: NO. It's because they have something you don't have: a cat. Cat shit is like crack for dogs. She is ignoring you because she is withdrawing from cat shit, so don't be so goddamned sensitive. Now go kiss your dog. 








Me: I love getting together with the girls, as does Kenora. Does Kenora get all wound up and excited because she feels a sense of camaraderie amongst my friends?

BL: Sure, if that's what you want to call it...

Me: You sure are sarcastic, aren't you? Tell me this... how many times a day does my dog think about me?


BL: 

+ 

+

=

you do the math!

Me: Quit being such a douche. 

When Kenora looks at me, does she find me beautiful?

BL: Yes, of course she does...*sneer*

Me: Okay, that's it! Now you're just being a big fucking asshole. You know what, BowLingual? You have no clue what my dog thinks. We've been together long enough for me to know exactly what she is thinking...

 BL: Hate to break it to ya, but...

Me: Scew you! I'm sure most pet owners think this... but I know the bond between me and my dog is soooo strong, she would save my life if I were ever in danger. Yeah, that's right! And you know what else? Her heroic act would, no doubt, land us an interview with Oprah, or at the very least, it would get her featured on the cover of People...

BL: You think so? 

Me: No, I know so!

BL: Okay, prove it!

Me: Alright. I will! I'll play dead and then you'll see how loyal she is to me...


(grabbing neck in the universal sign for choking)




*gasp*




*gurgle*




(falls to floor)




Okay, I'm dead....




"Kenora..." (one eye slightly opened)




"Mommy's dead..."




"KENORA!"




"Kenora, c'mon girl!!"




"Here, Kenora! Look!"




"LOOK OVER HERE, Kenora..."




"MOMMY JUST DIED!"




"Kenora!!!"

BL: Pffft!


Me: Fine! Point taken. 

The Gift

I was approaching the end of Grade Eight, and still... nothing. I prayed to God—much like Margaret did—but, still... nothing. I prematurely lined my undies with maxi pads the size of small decorative pillows in hopes that their super absorbent powers would suck the lining of my uterus right out of me... but...still... nothing.

I was menstrually retarded, and it was a humiliating truth I had to face whether I liked it or not. I was tortured by all my friends coming to school and acting all smug while they waved their sanitary products in my face. While they were getting excused from gym class because of menstrual cramps, I was running to the bathroom between dodgeball sets to see if, by the grace of God, my vagina had finally taken pity on me by giving me the go-ahead to enter womanhood. The dumb bitch was against me. 

I know it's called the curse for a reason—as I would learn in later years—but at the age of thirteen and being the last of my friends to start menstruating, I considered it more of a curse not to have my period. It was like I was excluded from an elite group of girls who, with just one brown stain, had suddenly figured out the meaning of life. In just a couple of cycles, I was left alone in a world where it was assumed that the greatest stress in my day was whether I had authentic adoption papers for my Cabbage Patch Kid®, not whether I should forego wearing white pants to school. This, for me, was devastating. 

Like all things in life, that for which you desire the most—love, a great job, money—comes when you least expect it... 


I was playing Kick-the-Bucket in our cul-de-sac with a bunch of neighborhood kids. I had already made it to home base and was waiting for the rest of the kids to come out of hiding. As I was standing there, all of sudden, I felt it; the warm, slow, thick "blub." At first I thought I had pissed myself, but, no, this was different.

Suspecting my prayers had finally been answered, I ran home and locked myself in our downstairs bathroom. As I pulled down my pants, I kept reciting in my head, "Let it be it. Let it be it. Please, God, let it be it!" Little did I know, I would be uttering these exact words on several different occasions later in my life.

There it was. It...was...IT!

"MOM, come down here! Mooooooooom! HURRY-UP!"  It was a simple request that came out as a shrilling scream due to my overwhelming excitement.

My mom, in a state of sheer panic, came to my beckoning. Within seconds she was outside the bathroom door. The urgency in my voice must have lead her to believe that I had severed my femoral artery while shaving my legs, what with me being a novice groomer, and all. 

The force with which she banged on that door was more suggestive of a mother trying to rescue her children from a burning building than a mother who was about to witness her daughter's first period. 

"What,  Rachel? What is it?" Bang, bang, bang. "Let me in!" Bang, bang, bang. "The door is locked!"

Shit, I locked the door. With my pants and my espresso-colored stained undies around my ankles, I waddled to the door like a Japanese geisha in training.  

Upon opening the door, she entered, out of breath from having raced down our entire staircase in only four swift steps. 

I didn't have to say a word. She just looked at me, saw the look on my face, and then looked down at the evidence I had been so proud to have discovered seconds earlier. 

"Ooooh, darling," she beamed, cupping my face in her hands. "You're a woman!!!"  

And with these words, I started bawling. She thought I was crying over the fact that I thought my vagina, quite possibly, was excreting shit. Little did she know these were tears of joy. 

"There, there, Rachel! Don't cry," she said, trying to console me. "This is normal!"

Like she had to tell me this was normal. I'd been feeling abnormal for months, fearing I'd been afflicted with some sort of syndrome that would render me androgynous. Damn right, this was normal. 

The next day, I went to school feeling proud, mature, and quite confident that all of my friends would know just by looking at me. They did not. I had to tell them. In detail. 

Unfortunately, having had their periods for all of two months, my friends were not the least bit excited by my news. It was, like, "Welcome to the club," *eyes rolling* "How did you do on that math test?" 

It was, to say the least, anticlimactic.  

After school, I went home to find my mother waiting for me. She had a gift for me. 

"This is just a little something to welcome you in to womanhood." 

What could it be? A tennis bracelet? A Swatch watch? A diamond encrusted chastity belt? 

She handed me a Gund® stuffed animal. It was a pig. Named Hamlet. 

This is where the story gets a little confusing for me...

By giving me a stuffed animal, was my mother somehow suggesting that I was on some sort of precipice, in danger of falling out of her reach forever? Was Hamlet her last-ditch effort at holding on to her little girl? 

Or...

Was this gift symbolic? After all, it wasn't so much a stuffed animal, as it was a stuffed animal that was, well... a pig. Was my mother trying to tell me something?

"Here! Here's a pig. Yeah, you might be excited about this monumental moment now, but just you wait until once a month, every month, you feel like you actually morph into a pig. You will bloat up, fat as a pig. You will eat like a pig. You will feel disgusting and dirty like a pig, and people won't want to be around you. Because, guess why? You'll be a pig!"

Was this her way of saying...

"Welcome to womanhood!" 

Hemlet Pink Pig - Gund®

"Oink, oink!"

Twenty-Something vs. Thirty-Five-Plus-Something. Guess Who Wins?

I went out the other night for what seemed like the first time in ages. Yes, it was nice to see my friends, but I really have to ask...what in the hell was so appealing about going out in our twenties that made us want to do it every weekend?  

After much consideration, I believe it all boils down to this: going out in our twenties was easy. We had less to worry about. 

Allow me to illustrate...

Getting Ready:

A Twenty-Something's Preparation for a Night Out:

A Thirty-Five-Plus-Something's Preparation for a Night Out:

Advice for the aging: Try pancake makeup. Or, try this...

Picking Something to Wear: 

Advice for the aging: Try these...

 A Twenty-Something's Closet:

A Thirty-Five-Plus-Something's Closet:

Shoes and Accessories: 

    Twenty-Something:           Thirty-five-Plus-Something:

Advice for the aging: try these...

or, better yet, this...

A Twenty-Something's Purse: 

A Thirty-Five-Plus-Something's Purse:

I've only listed a few of the differences. Don't even get me started on how big of a pain in the ass it is to figure out who is driving, where we are going to park, and blah, blah, blah, blah.

Like I said, it was nice spending time with my friends, even though I couldn't hear a single word they were saying because the music was so freaking loud my ears are still ringing. Yeah, I know, I'm sounding old, right? Well, just to share with you how eager I was to get home, this is how I found my things the next morning... and, no, I wasn't drunk.

This is what happens when you wear Spanks and high-heal boots. I'm surprised I didn't have a portable potty in that big-ass-purse I lugged around all night. 

So, yes, it appears that my club-hopping days are over. But worry not, I'm still super cool... 

The Real Bums of Travis County

I am uninspired to write anything new, so I am forced to rely on some old Facebook notes...


I remember hearing on Oprah, once, that many people are a couple of paychecks away from being homeless. Without researching this alleged fact, I have spent the last year of my life putting away as much money into savings as I possibly can. This has given me a sense of security in knowing that should something unforeseen happen, I am covered. And though I feel ashamed to admit that my life savings could only get me through a month or two of unemployment, I am reassured, thanks to Oprah, that I'm not that different from the rest of the people in this country; I have company in being poor. 

Given the desperate times we are currently facing, I know that "unforeseen" events are becoming a reality for many people. Fortunately, I consider myself extremely lucky to have a job that is somewhat "depression" proof—depression, of course, referring to economic hardship, not the feelings one has while sitting in a closed garage and sniffing the fumes from an idling car. 

As a labor and delivery nurse, I know that people, regardless of the times, will always engage in sex. And sex, when practiced without elementary precautions, leads to babies. Despite the grim economic forecast, many people, even if unemployed and in debt, delightfully participate in this act of recreation without considering that it can lead to procreation. And though many financial critics consider this a huge strain on our economy, I selfishly look at it as job security. 

I am not tooting my own horn, for I know that my employment is based on social need and not one of merit. Knowing this makes me feel a little guilty and undeserving at a time when others are losing their jobs and, consequently, their homes. 

I often wonder if this guilt prevents me from making eye contact with all the homeless people who walk the streets of my city. Lately, it seems they are becoming more and more prevalent. I never notice them on my way to work, which makes me wonder if 0630 a.m. is too early for ANYONE to start their work day. On my way home, however, I see them standing on every corner, of every intersection, holding their cardboard signs while begging for any little handout they can get.

By looking at these guys, you can tell that some of them don't really belong on these corners. Their appearance, though shabby, does not always suggest "down and out." Heck, if some of these guys took a shower, got a haircut, shaved, and wore a decent outfit, I'd go so far as to say that I'd even be willing to date some them. 

These posers leave me with no choice but to believe that they stand on these corners out of pure laziness and with the potent belief that society owes them something. For this reason, it usually takes me a great deal of restraint from rolling down my window, making them think that I am about to give them money, and instead offer them advice on how to correctly spell one of the misspelled words on their cardboard resumes— words like "naybor" or "mony." If I didn't fear for my physical well-being, I would be happy to inform the "Homeless Vet" that Brodie Animal Hospital is currently taking applications. I never do this, though, because who am I to judge if someone is destitute enough to take out a lease on the corner of a major intersection? 

The pseudo-bums just piss me off. The real bums of Travis County, however, leave me feeling very uncomfortable... 

On my way home tonight, I came to screeching halt at a red light. This left me at the front of the pack. I always hate being the first car at a red light, especially when a legit bum is pacing outside my window. Doing everything possible to avoid his stare, I will lean over to change the radio station, or I will take a fake call on my cell phone. It takes more effort for me to avoid him than it would to roll down my window and just give him some money. 

Tonight was different. The pressure was unbearable because the guy standing outside my window wore tattered clothes, had not showered for what looked like a decade, and hopped around on one leg. Exhaustion resided in the deep crevices of his face, and his whole existence was washed over with a pain that many of us are lucky to never experience. His cardboard plea was simple: "I need help." All three words were spelled correctly. I decided to give in and...well...give. 

I rummaged through my purse to find all of $1.25. I felt cheap for giving so little, but it was all I had. I rolled down my window, held out my offering, and as he took the money from my hands, his eyes met mine. There it was; the eye contact I had been long avoiding. As we looked at each other, I realized the very reason I have always avoided such glances. In his eyes, behind the glazed-over numbness from years of pain, I saw a person staring back at me who was disturbingly too familiar; I saw myself. 

It wasn't just financial misfortunes that put this man on this corner. He stood there as a result of a long line of unfortunate circumstances—a history of a multitude of pains which leaves the mind no choice but to surrender its sanity.


In that split second, I recalled all the painful situations I have encountered in my own life and how difficult it was, during those times, to cope. I, fortunately, got through. But my misfortunes probably paled in comparison to his, and I could tell that this man had suffered more in one week than I had suffered in a lifetime. If the tables were turned, where would I be standing? 
 
He took my money, unfazed by the little amount I had to offer, and with gratitude in his eyes and his voice, he said to me, "You are blessed." 

As I drove away, I realized that this was my first "epiphany." I feel ashamed to admit that I could profit off somebody else's misfortune, but it took this destitute man to make me realize something that has always been staring me in the face. "You are blessed." These were not words of gratitude. For a measly $1.25, he stated an invaluable fact. I am blessed. 

We may be a couple of paychecks away from losing our homes, but how many tragic events would it take to render us hopeless, leaving us with no other option but to take refuge on some corner while soliciting the help of complete strangers? I have no clue. But to safeguard my mental well-being, I have compiled a long list of all the things for which I am grateful, and I have stock-piled them into a mental savings account. This has given me a sense of security in knowing that when faced with that one horrible occurrence that threatens to push me over the threshold of sanity, I have way more than 30 days worth of gratitude to fall back on. I won't be covered for just a month; I will be covered for a lifetime. And for the first time in my life...


I am rich. 

Losing My Religion

Okay, I am sure this will piss a few people off. This is not an argument for, or against, religion. It was written light-heartedly... 

The beautiful Susan Gagne as Eve

I originally intended this post to be about P.M.S.. I had this great idea of blaming Eve for the painful menstrual cramps I suffer from on a monthly basis. Somewhere along the line, I remember hearing that painful menstruation was part of the punishment God gave to Eve for eating the forbidden fruit. Thank God for the Internet (turns out I don't own a Bible) because after researching this topic, I found out that painful periods weren't part of the deal. I don't know where I heard this, but I am pretty sure it was from someone who, I had assumed, knew what he was talking about (i.e. minister or Religious Studies professor). This just goes to show you how much of what is written in the Bible is up for interpretation. 

Allegedly, God punished Eve by ensuring she would have great pain while giving birth, not while menstruating. Now, this I can attest to—not personally, but from watching hundreds of women give birth. Suffice it to say, childbirth is no walk in the park. However, if it's up for interpretation, the line "I will multiply your sorrow," to me, refers to "that time of the month." This way, I can at least blame my P.M.S. on some gullible woman who was naive enough to listen to a serpent. What's worse is this serpent seduced her with an apple, for God's sake. I repeat, an apple! Not a piece of chocolate or a thick chunk of finely-aged cheese, but an APPLE. Now, in all fairness to Eve, I will admit that I, too, have been stupid enough, at one time or another, to fall for the empty promises of some back-stabbing snake (bitterness not intended), but I am pretty sure I was enticed with something other than a piece of fruit. 

As I continued reading Genesis, I was deeply disturbed by the line, "your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you." What the...? I know the dude gave her a rib, but c'mon, really? No wonder I have a fridge magnet that depicts a bride and groom walking down the aisle...underneath, the caption states, "One more thing I will never do." Not to sound like a raging feminist, but I think I might have to find myself a new religion. 

My ignorance surrounding the Original Sin lead me to research the Ten Commandments. I was curious to see how many of them I actually remembered from my religious upbringing as a child. I decided to write them down. Turns out, after Googling them (yes, Google is now listed in the dictionary as a verb), I had a few written down that aren't even on the list. Namely, Thou shalt not drink in excess, Thou shalt not have premarital sex, and Thou shalt not lie. Hmmm? This makes me wonder if maybe my parents had their own agenda when relaying biblical stories to us at bedtime. 

As I went down the real list to see how many of them I don't obey, I was shocked to learn that I am a very naughty girl. 

I really wish God would have given Moses a third tablet that stated a disclaimer. One that read something along the lines of, "If you commit greater than five of these, you are destined for hell." Better yet, I wish one's compliance for the Ten Commandments was graded on a learning curve. If this were the case, I would at least have a small chance of avoiding the nickname "Crispy-Fry" in my afterlife. 

This is how I did: 

Thou shalt not have any Gods before me: I believe in one God. I just hope He isn't as mean and unforgiving as the one depicted in the Scriptures. 

Thou shalt not make onto thee any graven images: This one kind of goes with number one and basically says we should not worship any idols other than God. I believe this makes for a strong argument as to why that God-awful show American Idol should be taken off the air. That being said, I am the first to admit that I am guilty of worshiping any guy who stands behind a microphone with a guitar in his hands. 

Thou shalt not use the Lord's name in vain: Guilty. See above paragraph. 

Keep the Sabbath day Holy: I wonder what my manager would say if I went to her with this excuse as to why I can no longer work on Sundays. I would strengthen my argument by quoting the one song I remember from Sunday school, "for the Bible tells me so." Something tells me I'd still be working on Sundays. 

Honor thy Mother and Father: I have a long history of disobeying this rule. It started at a young age when I purposely locked my parents out of the house. Unbeknownst to me, the dead bolt would stick when in the locked position. This resulted in my mother having to climb through our kitchen window. My first mistake was overtly showing my amusement by laughing at her while she tried to contort her body to make it fit through a window that was one third her size. My second mistake was lying about it. I now know I should have received a "get out of jail free" card since the act of lying isn't listed as one of the Ten Commandments. I had blamed my younger brother, Cam, who, at the time, wasn't even tall enough to reach the dead bolt. Needless to say, I received my first of many spankings. Redemption came later in life, as a teenager, when I would honor my mother by emulating her as I copied her technique while getting in and out of my bedroom window late at night. And though my parents would disagree, I feel I showed them a great deal of respect by letting them get their well-deserved sleep; using our front door at two o'clock in the morning would have surely prevented this.

Thou shalt not kill: I really wish it would specify just what, exactly, we can not kill. Does it apply to insects, rodents, and plants? 'Cause if it does, I am screwed. 

Thou shalt not steal: Guilty. While some people may consider the act of taking toilet paper and cleaning supplies from their place of employment as theft, I consider it part of the employee benefit package. My experience with real stealing started, once again, at young age when I stole a toy fishing rod from my friend's sandbox. My father made me promptly return it with a lengthy apology that outlined why I took the rod, why it was wrong, and what I would do in the future to rectify my evil ways. Did I mention I was five? Apparently, this humiliating experience left a bad taste in my mouth because when all my friends were going through their shoplifting phase (all through high school), I could only conjure up the balls to shoplift on one occasion. While they were at the Bay stuffing the entire spring collection into their over-sized purses, I was at Shopper's Drug Mart, shaking uncontrollably as I tried to figure out a way to slide a small tube of lipstick up my sleeve. The incident sent me into a full-blown panic attack; I was looking over my shoulder for a whole month in fear that some undercover cop was going to nab me and whisk me off to jail. This was the first and last time I ever shoplifted. I am also proud to say that I now buy my own toilet paper and cleaning supplies (just to clarify for my current manager, who may very well read this). 

Thou shalt not commit adultery: Finally, a sound argument for the benefits of staying single. 

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor: I wonder if this applies to passing gas and then blaming it on the person who is sitting next to you. If it does, I have a few friends who are in for some serious trouble. 

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house or wife: I can't say I have ever coveted my neighbor's wife, but then again, he's not married to Jessica Alba. I will admit, however, that I would do pretty much anything to have his green, plush lawn. I am also guilty for taking my dog on long walks in up-scale neighborhoods just so I can enviously peer into well-lit mansions. I have always been fascinated by how the other half lives, and my voyeuristic tendencies have provided me with a lot of great decorating ideas. 

So, there you have it. As you can see, my afterlife is looking pretty grim, which is why I am contemplating Buddhism. Judging by some of the pictures I found of Buddha (again, by way of google), I am quite confident that if he has commandments, one of them states..."thou shalt eat a rich diet and imbibe lots of alcohol to make for a well-rounded belly. After such gluttony, thou must rub thine belly with satisfaction to obtain good fortune." 

In all seriousness, I don't know what religion suits me best. But does it really matter? After all, don't all paths lead to God? I just hope I don't have P.M.S. when that path leads me to my final destination, otherwise, Eve and I are going to have a little sit-down.