May 2006

What’s the point of the big Playboy bunny logo plastered on everything, exactly?

For 99.9991% of the population, it doesn’t symbolize that they’re a Playboy Bunny. Does it symbolize, “Hey, I like porn”? Is it supposed to be manly? Is it supposed to be risque? Or sexy?  Seeing it plastered on some guy’s car, shirt or, worse yet, on a pendant just makes me think he’s closeted and trying to overcompensate. Seeing it on a woman just makes me feel sorry for her.

Don’t get me wrong; I like cooters as much as the next person – my own and others’. I just feel no compulsion to wear clothes with the logo on it or slap a sticker on my car to signal it to others. I mean.. really. Can someone please explain?

At the grocery store, a very crabby-looking elderly lady scowled her way over to me (I was fondling red peppers at the time) and quite literally grabbed me by THE HAIR. I was startled enough to stand very still. People don’t generally GRAB you unless they’re either about to harm you or save you (or, in the case of Coffee, toss you down on the bed and .. uh, never mind) and I wasn’t sure whether this woman was going to pluck an angry wasp from my hair or beat me with a sack of onions. Little lady held my hair and, in a very thick Italian accent, shouted, “YOUR HAIR IS BEAUTIFUL! SO BEAUTIFUL!”

I thanked her, and smiled my biggest smile (mostly because I was still sort of stunned by the hair-grabbing) and she petted my hair a few more times. “AT FIRST I THOUGHT IT WAS A WIG BECAUSE YOU DON’T SEE HAIR THIS COLOUR, DO YOU?”

I admitted that it’s not a colour normally found in nature. I also noticed that much of the people shopping in the produce department were now officially staring at us. I’m pretty sure my face matched my hair. She un-scowled and smiled a little, “YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL! BEAUTIFUL HAIR! IT SUITS YOU! SO PRETTY!” and then she wandered off to grab someone else’s hair, or, uh, something.

I would be lying if I didn’t say that I grinned my way through the rest of the store, through a conversation with the cashier about tofu and the entire way home.

Vanity, they name is Dana.

And little old ladies ROCK.

This morning I took the dogs on an epic wander in the rain. It felt good – not too warm, not too cold – and there were, apparently, many many things worth sniffing. It never ceases to amuse me when one dog stops to sniff and the other tears over to the same spot like there might be hidden treasure in the tall grass. Noses touching, they snort and sniff and I feel more than a little left out. Asking, “Whatcha’ smellin’?” doesn’t get me any closer to an answer, surprisingly, and I can’t quite bring myself to sniff a lawn beside them. Though I admit to considering it on more than one occasion.

I also have to avert my eyes when they’re peeing on a lawn, or pooping, and not because they’re particularly modest or can’t perform under pressure. No shy bladders on these dogs. No, the problem is that they start to do their business and I suddenly feel the urge to do mine, too. You know how some people see vomit and immediately ralph up their own breakfast? Apparently I have that same issue with… dog shit. I have learned to take care of my business before clipping leashes to collars – I don’t think my neighbours would appreciate seeing my big white ass unveiled in their front yard.

Once both dogs were soaked to the bone we headed home and I tucked them safely into their crates to dry off. Both of them seem to feel it’s appropriate to rub their wet bodies all over anything that doesn’t move (fast enough) – the sofa, the carpet, the wall or my pant leg – and I gotta’ admit I’m not a big fan of soaking-wet furniture or clothes. I also try very hard to keep my house from smelling like eau des chiennes, but there’s only so much Method air freshener in the world. You can imagine that neither dog is thrilled to be trapped in their crates after such a glorious romp. If you tilt your head you might even be able to hear them protesting.

I’m now freshly showered with soap and shampoo and tap water instead of rain – so I’m going to put on a pair of shoes, find my car keys and go wander the aisles of the grocery store for a while. It’s time for me to terrorize little old ladies and flirt shamelessly with little old men. When I get back, I think I’ll curl up with a book and the (hopefully dry) dogs and listen to the mourning doves in the rain.

Have a good day, ok?

I know that I have more ‘food issues’ than other people do. I’ve accepted that.

But I need to know:  what kind of a person would buy homemade beef jerky from ebay?!

And why are there SO MANY PEOPLE SELLING IT?!

*shudder*

My arms and legs are numb. Completely and utterly numb – no sensation – and my skin is freezing cold. I begin to sweat everywhere else. My face is red and overheated and beads of sweat are building on my chest and back. It became very hard to breathe. I know I’m heading into a panic attack, of course, but why? What did I do to cause it? Can I make it stop before it gets worse?

Why are all of my muscles – every last one of them – clenched like rock? I can’t get them to relax, no matter how hard I try. This starts to freak me out – I’m trembling and every muscle is tightened as hard as it can. My body is so tense that, if you asked me to, there’s no way I could hold a glass of water. I couldn’t unclench my fingers.

My body becomes agitated. Uncomfortable. I can’t get comfortable because I’m tense and sweaty and numb and cold and it’s very hard to breathe. Where did all the oxygen go? Oh, that’s right, I’m hyperventilating. Breathe in.. Breathe out. I need to get out of here. I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE.

The problem, of course, is that “here” is inside my own damned body.

My stomach starts to roll around inside me – I feel sick, I need to pee – and I go to the bathroom. My legs are so wobbly I’m afraid I might collapse. That’s okay, though, since I might get lucky and hit my head. Sweet, merciful concussion of sleep.

Return to bed. Can’t breathe, can’t feel my hands or feet. Too hot. Too cold. Pounding heart. My mind is racing racing racing to figure out what’s wrong. NOTHING is wrong. It doesn’t matter how many times I repeat that, either, my brain keeps releasing chemicals to the contrary. CHEMICALS I DIDN’T ASK FOR!

Coffee brings me a Clonazepam – the first I’ve taken since December – and I curl up into his arms. This should soothe me. It doesn’t. It does, however, restrict my oxygen intake to such an extent that I stop hyperventilating. Now I am simply agitated and panicking. Why isn’t the Clonazepam working? WHY?

The agitation increases. I want to pace around the house – but my legs are too unsteady to support me. No matter what position I’m in I feel like I can’t breathe deeply. I feel like I’m gasping for air. My chest aches. My muscles ache. Maybe we should call 911? Maybe we should go to the hospital? I feel horrible. I’m dying. I’m very clearly dying. I can’t breathe. I start yawning incessantly – a combination of being tired, Clonazepam and lack of oxygen – which makes me feel like an idiot. I’m dying but I can find time to YAWN?!

And suddenly it stops. Peace returns. I relax my body completely.

I roll over to sleep, finding a cool spot on the pillow. Fluff the duvet a little, whisper goodnight to my worried husband. Cloooooose my eyes.

BLAM! Can’t breathe! Can’t feel my limbs! Muscles-tensed up! KILL ME NOW.

I roll over. I roll over again. On my back, I feel like my lungs are being crushed by my breasts and my duvet. On my side I’m too hot. On the other side I feel sick. I flip back to my stomach. A little better now.

Breathe. Focus on breathing. Focus on.. OHMYGODI’MDYING ICAN’TBREATHE. Breathe. In.. Out.. I know this is a panic attack because I just WENT THROUGH ONE FIVE SECONDS AGO. But why do I still feel like I’m dying? How funny would it be if I was really dying but didn’t know because.. oh god, that’s not helping. That’s NOT helping. Think of something else. ANYTHING ELSE. Breeeeeeeeeeathe. Breathe.

And then it’s gone.I fall asleep almost instantly.

This morning I felt like I had just come off of the biggest, wildest bender of my entire life. One that was SO AMAZING that I’m waiting for the pictures someone else MUST have taken of me dancing naked on top of my own car. I sure as hell don’t remember any of it – and I don’t WANT to remember the panic attacks.

Meh.

Imagine yourself as a child lying on your back, gazing up into a cloudless sky, and blowing soap bubbles through a plastic ring. As a bubble drifts up into the sky, you watch it rise, and this brings your attention to the sky. While you are looking at the bubble, it pops, and you keep your attention right where the bubble had been. Your awareness now lies in empty space.
-B. Alan Wallace, “Tibetan Buddhism From the Ground Up“

It is somewhere around 20 degrees celsius here and the sun is shining. After a quick walk this morning, I decided to take the dogs on a very long walk in the very bright light in order to wear them out. My mission was successful in that we only made it 3/4 of the way to my chosen destination before Daisy started tossing herself into the shade of any tree she could find and refusing to move. The beag, similarly, was staggering around like a drunken child. Nothing is funnier than a worn-out beagle, by the way.

We made our way around the block – down into the industrial area where the roads are extra wide and there is very little traffic other than gigantic trucks. The plan was to hike down to the beach where we could chase seagulls and splash in the lake for a bit. We aborted the plan about 2 miles from the beach. There was NO WAY I wanted to have to CARRY the dogs home. That, and I was getting a little weirded out by truck drivers honking, grinning and waving at me. Apparently pink-haired women are popular with industrially-employed men. Who knew?

So I turned them around and we hiked back home. We checked out lawns and trees and trucks and garbage bins. All told, we were gone for about 45 minutes of wandering – nothing major – but since we took a new route it was clearly overwhelming for their little pea-brains. They sniffed, snorted, pooped-on, rolled-on and otherwise molested the great outdoors with reckless abandon. We may have permanently disabled the beag’s snoot with all the new scents.

Both dogs are passed out on the floor at my feet which is a really great way to start an afternoon. I’m sweaty from being in the sun while wearing a black t-shirt (duh) so I’m going to have a nice long shower in a few minutes and then I think I’ll go crazy making myself some lunch and reading some library books. And then, if my neighbour is STILL mowing her lawn I’m going to club her over the head with the mower and put a condom on her dog statue. (That will make sense some day when I take a picture of her statue..)

CANCER (June 21-July 22): Every one of us has at some time in the past created a monstrous thing–a terrible relationship, a big mistake in judgment, or a wrong move that damaged our credibility, integrity, or income. According to my reading of the astrological omens, it’s a perfect time for you to atone for your own personal monstrosity–to make amends, seek forgiveness, and fix what’s possible to correct. I also urge you to analyze the unconscious patterns that led you to act in such a distorted way. Any hard-won understandings you gain now will serve as beacons that’ll help prevent you from veering so far off course again.

We have secret codes in our house. Some of them are super-secret, and thus shall not be written here.

Some of them are really rude, and thus shall not be written here.

Here are the secret codes pertaining to the dogs:

Snack Hole – what the beagle seems to think the dishwasher would be more appropriately called. We are frequently required to hiss, “It’s not a snack-hole, beagle.” as she stuffs her head into the opened door and tries to find a.. snack.

Little Tokyo – the idea that Tokyo’s apartments are very tiny has always amused me. When I wash my hands in the powder room here in our house, I usually leave the door open – this, apparently, is an invitation to the dogs. They believe it’s a good time to come sniffling around the floor, trying to see what I’m doing with the sink, and checking out the contents of the garbage container. As a result, neither the dogs nor I can move once we’re all crammed into the tiny, tiny room. This is called “hanging out in Little Tokyo”. The bathroom upstairs is “Bigger Tokyo”. My ensuite does not have a dog-related name because the dogs never get anywhere near it.

Beago Commie Bastard – the nickname given to the beagle when she is looking particularly snarky for some inexplicable reason.

Dead Birds – dinner for the dogs. Feeding them the BARF diet (biologically appropriate/available raw foods) means that dinner actually is dead birds. This reminds me that I need to put up my post about the BARF diet and our dogs. It has, erm, photos.

Flavour Packets – mouse/rat poison. Back when the beag poisoned herself by sourcing out the only package of poison in the entire house (the one we forgot, somehow) we decided that, as a beagle, she probably thought it was a super-yummy snack. Since it was in cellophane, it probably seemed even MORE yummy – everyone knows that human food comes in cellophane and dogs must consume it any time it’s found at eye-level or lower.