Zeus - The Proust Questionnaire

The Fitty Pound Pittie digs deep into his psyche, instead of the backyard, and horks up some personal morsels.

What is your current state of mind?
Hungry.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Snuggling with my humans.

What is your greatest fear? 
Being left alone.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Um, Lassie?

Which living person do you most admire?
The man human. He’s the alpha. I think that means the boss.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
What does deplore mean? (dislike) Oh. Well, I guess sometimes I don’t feel so smart.

What is the trait you most deplore in others? 
What does deplore mean? (DISLIKE) Right. I don’t like mean dogs. Or mean people. You sound a little snippy right now, come to think of it.

What is it that you most dislike?
Being left alone. Didn’t you already ask me that?

What is your greatest extravagance?
When my humans let me snuggle in bed with them.

What do you most value in your friends? 
My dog friends? (whatever) A nice smelling butt. 

What is your favorite journey?
Riding in the car. Duh.

What is your most treasured possession? 
My soccer ball. If I stick my nose in the hole I chewed and then breathe really hard, the little blond girl laughs and says I sound like Darth… something.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Not eating the other dog’s food. I mean, it’s just sitting there.

On what occasion do you lie?
Huh? I lie down when I’m tired. Stupid question. 

Which living person do you most despise? 
The mailman!

What or who is the greatest love of your life? 
The little blond girl. She smells nice and scratches my tummy and feeds me and lets me outside.

When and where were you happiest? 
Snuggling with my humans! You keep asking me that, too.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? 
I wish I could stop chasing cats and squirrels. The lady human says, “Fucking relax already!” but I really, really can’t help it.

What do you consider your greatest achievement? 
I learned the whole obstacle course in the back yard!

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be? 
The little blond girl would be here all the time

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? 
Being left alone! Why do you keep asking me that?

What is your favorite occupation? 
Occupation? (job) Oh. I bark when people walk past the house.

What is your most marked characteristic? 
I have a big brown spot on my butt.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction? 
Benji. He seems super smart, especially when he steals those sausages. Mmm, sausages. I'm hungry.

How would you like to die? 
DIE??? WHA-- (never mind)

What is your motto? 
Hmm. I guess it's “What about love?” You know, from that Heart song? Are we done yet? I'm super hungry.

Cozying up to Chaos.

I used to thrive under pressure. I worked a ten-hour day, ran errands on my lunch hour, picked up dinner before catching the bus home and did some freelance writing on the side. My house was clean and tidy, my pets were well taken care of and I threw dinner parties that involved recipes from Gourmet Magazine. When I left my job for a six-month sabbatical, three people took over my various responsibilities. Even when I started freelancing from home as a software developer, I became so engrossed in my projects that I would forget to eat or even get up to pee until I was in dire pain. And I was never more productive than when I was under a deadline, particularly if I'd put off something until the last minute. Case in point: I took on a fairly large programming job when I was seven months pregnant. It would have been impossible for me to finish it in two months, so I just figured I'd keep cranking it out after Grace was born. Hahahahahah!

I started working on Soft Landing (you know, my NOVEL?) before I had Grace, and tinkered around with it for years. Only when Grace was around two did I find the inspiration to quit messing around and get to work. (Until Grace was two, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Grace had a part-time nanny (hi, Sandi!), ostensibly because I was still finishing the aforementioned project, along with tweaking programs for some past clients. When Sandi was there, however, I usually napped or went grocery shopping.) So I was the mother of a toddler, still working, and I managed to write a book in my free time.

These days, it can take me a whole day (while Grace is at pre-school, mind you) to do the things I used to do on my lunch hour or after work. Even then, it's never done. Chaos reigns here in The Cave, and in my oddly dysfunctional brain, I can't convince myself to spend any significant time writing unless everything is in order. Which is absurd, because everything will never be in order. It's a problem. I know it's not a terribly original problem, that even writers who love to write will find countless reasons to not write. But I have a limited window to finish my current novel, and it's getting smaller and smaller.

We live in the midst of unpacked boxes, dirty dishes, unfolded laundry, toys strewn everywhere and tumbleweeds of dog hair floating about. My own personal nemeses are stacks of unopened mail and unpaid bills; missed appointments and unanswered emails; half-finished paperwork and neglected correspondence that taunt me every time I glance at my desk. I know women who manage to keep up with life's chores while working full-time and raising kids. I am no longer one of those women. I try to blame part of it on being a single mom, but that's just weak. I have plenty of time to take care of business; I simply choose to spend (waste?) my time on other things. I've become that flaky woman who always seems to be spinning her wheels, complaining about all there is to do.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with an old friend and he asked me what I do all day. I was completely stumped. I could have lied and said I write, but it's been so long since I've done any serious writing, I've lost track of the characters in my novel. This is not a good sign. I have days of spectacular productivity, days where I am so disgusted by the state of the apartment that I do everything at once: laundry, dishes, paperwork, grocery shopping, etc. I feel good about it afterwards, but then, rather than taking advantage of my freedom from household tedium to write, I reward myself by hanging out with friends, spending too much time online and, of course, blogging.

I'm realizing that waiting until my life is in order to get serious about writing doesn't encourage me to keep chaos at bay. Because I'm not one of those women anymore. I need to get comfortable with that fact, to learn that I can do what's necessary and let the rest wait. I need to make writing a bigger priority than worrying about unpacked boxes and unfolded laundry. In fact, writing should be at the top of the list, along with keeping Grace alive and nurturing relationships that nourish me and keep me sane. (Okay, almost sane.)

I've joined a writing group. We meet once a week to share our projects and provide/receive feedback. My objective was purely selfish: to light a fire under my ass that will help me finish my novel. But it turns out I've stumbled into a group of writers who are not only smart, fun and funny, they are also intimidatingly good at what they do. I've been inspired by what I've heard of their work, and I've received feedback on my novel that surprised me by its insight and, well, total awesomeness. I got lucky, and I'm going to take advantage of this chance, and challenge, to stay focused on writing and, I hope, make some great friends in the process.

The dishes are washed. The laundry is (mostly) done. Grace is happy and healthy and with her father for the next few days. I'm going to pretend to not notice the boxes stacked around the apartment, and the mess on my desk. (Except for Grace's kindergarten enrollment, which I need to complete and deliver to the school — which starts NEXT WEEK. Last-minute Laurel prevails!) Other than that, I'm going to plant my ass on the couch (which smells faintly of pee due to an ill-timed nap by Gigi), and get to know my characters again. I'm pretty excited about this.

My new mantra: I love to write. I love to write. I love to write.

Stressed? Who, me?

Note: I've incorporate posts from the original "Grace Under Pressure" blog into this one. I began mommy blogging so that I could post pictures of Grace for friends and family, but it morphed into a series of mostly cheerful, witty posts that were fun to write but not necessarily representative of my whole life. I started this blog when my husband and I split up, as a way to vent honestly about my struggles. Not surprisingly, it's been a bit of a downer. Perhaps the two will balance each other out. Regardless, Grace is the most important part of my life, which is not always upbeat and cheerful, and it seems silly to exclude her from the big picture.

So, stress. This is a week I haven't been looking forward to. Tomorrow morning, John and I will go through what I hope will be the last round of mediation before our divorce is finalized. BIG! FUN! Then Grace and I will tour the school where she will start kindergarten in the fall. I'm ambivalent about this and have put it off until the last possible day. Yes, it's an exciting milestone, but it's another transition for her, and I worry it will upset the equilibrium (or semblance thereof) we've worked so hard to achieve since moving.

Later this week, I will be visiting my parents in Sequim for the first time since my accident almost a year ago. This will be my longest road trip since then, and I will be driving the same stretch of road for the first time. This will be the first time I'll walk into that house without being greeted by Max, which I can't imagine. Most important, I haven't seen my father in almost a year, and this will be our first visit since his surgery. I can't wait, but I don't know what to expect.

I have been living very much in the present lately, with a vengeance. Grace continues to be the grounding force in my life—when she's here. Since John and I have switched to a more equal parenting schedule, however, I find myself with almost four days a week of freedom to not worry about anyone but me. This is new territory for me, and while being in the moment is supposed to be a good thing, I've managed to do so at the expense of taking care of business: paying bills, writing, unpacking the last few boxes, being thoughtful and deliberate, and deciding what I want my (and Grace's) future to look like. Future? Yes, I know that's a dirty word regarding living now, but a minimum of planning is required in every adult's life, particularly when you're a parent.

I like to think I've made some good moves, rekindling friendships I had neglected for too long, making new friends and generally trying to stay out of my own head when it starts to feel unhealthy. I'm also struggling to feel physically healthy again, but my little bout with food poisoning hasn't finished messing with me yet. I've been told that stress can cause this. Duh. (Apparently, stress can cause anything, most of it bad.)

I know the best way for me to deal with life's uncertainties is to focus on what needs to be done now. When I spin it that way, I can almost imagine a life where I can keep living in the moment, while striving to find that balance between too much freedom (indulgence) and too much worrying (overthinking).

I will wave my magic wand and make it so.

Misc. drivel...

Things I like to do alone:
- go to a movie in the theatre
- write
- eat breakfast or lunch at a greasy spoon
- clean
- do laundry
- look at art
- nap
- go to the dog park with Brady
- take road trips
- shop for necessities
- sleep

Things I like to do with someone else:
- jog
- read in bed
- travel
- talk about miscellaneous drivel
- garden
- cook
- make big decisions
- shop for recreation (almost never happens)
- go out for drinks/dinner
- take Grace somewhere fun
- sleep

Please excuse the mess.

Life under construction — check back soon. I've decided to take the blog in a different direction: how a newly single, unemployed, forty-something mom can raise a child (and a dog) in a basement apartment, spending (consuming) as little as possible. So far? Pretty tedious: no dishwasher, no microwave, no back up when one of us is sick. It's lonely, but I need to remember that my network of friends is just a phone call away. (A cell phone call; no land line, no cable TV.)

Day one: leaking upstairs tub creates rain in Grace's bedroom. More to come.

Gotta teach that kid how to scrub toilets...

"Mommy, what's that stuff in your potty?"
"Uh, nothing Gigi, it's just dirty."
"Do you suppose we should clean it?"
"Well, yes, I suppose WE should clean it."
(Pause while I consider my options.)
"Or we could watch a movie and cuddle on the couch."
"Ooooh, can we watch the pig movie?"
(We've watched "Babe" about a hundred and forty times now.)
"Sure, bug. What a great idea!"

Priorities, Gigi, priorities.

Grace's spaces.

Grace would prefer to be outside almost all of the time now, and I can't say I blame her. I've actually had to chase her around the yard to get her to come inside, usually with one or both of us in various stages of undress. Brady's the same way, even if it means putting up with the shrieking human child stroking her back with a stick.


Gigi totally digs the fountain.


Yes, she got quite wet right after I snapped this shot.


Tending to her flower bed. It's starting to bloom now.


Brady skulking around the perimeter of the compound making sure every square inch has her scent.


This looks like some sort of apology, if I recall correctly. Brady doesn't look too impressed.

Before and after.

I'm not really springing back into action post-accident. In fact, I am not at all myself, and my normal self isn't exactly an energetic little ray of sunshine to begin with. According to the Portland ER doc who saw me when I woke up disoriented, dizzy and unable to string a sentence together, this is common with head injuries, but as far as I'm concerned, it just sucks. On days when I take care of Grace, I struggle to find the energy to keep up with her, physically and mentally. She knows something's wrong. Brady knows something's wrong. Even the guy who gave me the rental car must have figured something was wrong, because it took him a full ten minutes to convince me that I wouldn't have to pay anything. I just couldn't comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, because I knew as soon as we stopped talking, I would have to climb behind the wheel of a car (an ivory PT Cruiser!) and drive home. I was actually shaking, and not with gleeful anticipation.

My life seems like a series of befores and afters. Before and after John and I split up; before and after last summer's health issues; before and after losing my job; before and after meeting Michael; before and after the ongoing legal issues with the house; before and after Grace was potty trained (yay, Grace!); before and after Max died; before and after the accident.

Could be the concussion, could be the chemical imbalance in my brain prevailing over my meds, could be that this last year has just been unusually stressful, but I'm having a really difficult time regaining my sense of who I am and what I should be doing. Taking care of Grace is draining, but I know what's expected of me; when she's not here, I'm adrift. Normally, I would write. In fact, I'm dying to get back to my novel. The hurdle? My laptop died, and when I sit down at my desktop computer to write, I feel like I'm working, and I don't want to feel that way about the one thing I love to do. I have nothing against working (my lack of employment notwithstanding); I just want to continue to experience writing as something that brings me joy and fulfillment and keeps me in the moment, endlessly. That may sound spoiled, but I'm funny that way. So tomorrow I will focus on one step at a time: get up, shower, bring desktop computer to The Mac Store, trade in for a laptop. The most challenging leg of this adventure will be the part where I have to shower. It still hurts, and I have to confront my cuts and bruises in the mirror.

On a positive note, think of all the water I'm saving by showering every other day. Also, I'm stationary quite a bit more since I've lost my mojo, which Brady loves. This dog wants nothing more than a warm body to lie on, and the occasional decomposing animal to eat. What would I do without my little family?

Max: 1994 - 2009

I made an unplanned visit to my parents' last weekend to say a final goodbye to their dog, Max. (Read his story here.) He was a magnificent dog, but fifteen years is a long life for a shepherd/husky mix. His mind and soul were still there, but his body was tired and every time he fell, a little bit of his dignity chipped away. He still walked every day to the end of the driveway with my dad to get the mail, but it could take a while and he could no longer carry anything back, which must have been awful for him.


A trip to the beach in Ocean Shores last March.

The day before he died, we lifted him into the car and drove to the beach, where he meandered forever and resisted going back to the car. He ate an ice cream cone on the drive home (an old treat from his agility training days), and enjoyed a cheeseburger back at the house (an old treat from his therapy dog days). Later, my mom fried a steak for a bedtime snack, and we all had a few bites. It was a good day.


Tuckered out.

He happily finished that steak the next day while we waited for the vet. The weather was perfect and we put him in the shade so he could be outside, which he loved. He went peacefully, with the hands of the three people who loved him most stroking his body. After they took him, we cried and sat around trying to convince ourselves it was the right thing for Max. It was.


His credentials.

My dad and I used to joke about starting a Church of Max, because he was all about love — pure, unconditional, joyful love. There wasn't a malicious bone in his body (except for that one unfortunate squirrel incident), and I swear he had a better sense of humor than most people I know. He was so smart, he learned what "walk on the beach" sounded like when spelled out. And he smelled yummy, behind his ears where his fur was all velvety.


Last week, in the garden.

We're heartbroken now, but so grateful he came into our lives. I don't at all like the idea of a world without his unique energy, especially for my parents. But I like to think some of his love for life rubbed off on all of us and will stay forever. Stay, Max.

Discovery.

We've spent a lot of time outside lately, enjoying the weather and exploring our new yard. We've tried to be patient, rather than tearing out anything that looks like a weed or that we can't identify, and we've been rewarded with surprises that just keep coming. (We've added touches of our own.) It's such fun to see the beauty unfold through Grace's eyes.


I'm not a big rhody fan, but these were pretty spectacular (made more so by Michael deadheading them, which is a pain).


We have two bushes, one on either side of the front gate, and we had no idea they would bloom so beautifully!


Potential. You should see them now.


It's hard to resist blossoms like these; I wish they lasted longer.


Our hummingbird magnet, right outside the kitchen window.


This is one of my favorite plants, golden euonymous, and I will plant it wherever I live, for it's burst of color and indestructibility.


We thought the violas were goners, but they're thriving.


We waited too long to get the alyssum in the ground, and it's still touch and go. They, and the lobelia, would stand a much better chance if Brady would quit stomping all over them.

Doggie down.

Brady broke a nail. I noticed her incessantly licking a paw, so I kept yelling at her to knock it off, until it finally occurred to me that something might be stuck in there that needed to be addressed. (I maintain this state of denial as long as possible, because if I do find something amiss on the little angel's body, there is no way in hell she will let me examine it properly or do anything to remedy the situation. Michael doubted me on this the other night when I mentioned she could use a grooming; he suggested we trim her ourselves and I burst out laughing. To prove my point, I got up and retrieved a pair of scissors from the kitchen, and as soon as I entered Brady's line of sight, she poured herself off the couch and slunk into the farthest recesses of the house.)

Anyway, the nail was at a right angle to the toe and had been bleeding, so I called the vet thinking they could do a quick nail trim for twenty, thirty, maybe fifty dollars, tops. And then the adventure began. Unlike my previous dog, Dutchie, Brady LOVES going to the vet. She jumps on the scale and sits patiently; she makes herself comfortable on the couch that wraps around the room (for which I'm pretty sure Dutchie's ongoing care paid); she wags ecstatically at everyone who pays her the slightest attention; she trots happily to the exam room and greets the vet with enthusiasm; she politely accepts a treat and enjoys a quick scratch behind the ears. The trouble starts when her canine intuition tells her that she is no longer being petted, but examined. Then all bets are off, and they whisk her to the back room where she must be muzzled and restrained by numerous vet techs. It's a real hoot.

Apparently a broken nail that exposes a good deal of quick is rife for infection, so they treated it as though she'd had some sort of organ transplant. The bandage seemed excessive; the antibiotics made sense; the painkillers — well, who am I to pass judgement when it comes to painkillers? I do love that pinhead of a dog, as evidenced by previous veterinary emergencies. But if she's going to continue straining the budget, she's going to need to start bringing something to the table, financially speaking. The total bill: $224. The look of outrage on Grace's face when she saw Brady's fancy bandaid? Priceless.

The stuff that Brady's dreams are made of.

The squirrels relentlessly pilfer seeds from the bird feeder inches from our kitchen window. I've seen ONE bird, but at least three squirrel heists. (The underbelly of a squirrel is not nearly as cute as you might think when it is dangling outside the window while you eat your granola.) Grace goes into some sort of spastic overload when this happens; if Brady ever sees what's going on IN HER OWN YARD, she will likely launch herself onto the kitchen table and through the window.


Boldly eyeballing us through the window. Cheeky bugger.


Even Grace's hysterics didn't deter him.


Pretty nimble.


Seriously, how is this possible?


Greedy little dude just kept eating. I can relate.

Pretty dog. If only she ate weeds instead of poo.

Gittin' down and dirty.

We spent lots of quality time with Mother Earth this weekend. Grace was not nearly as helpful as I thought she'd be, given her experience planting vegetables and fruits on day trips with her old school. Mostly she wanted to pick up dirt, rocks, watering cans or garden tools, then either throw them or put them in her mouth. Also, no matter how many times I insist plants are living things and that I can hear their screams when she rips off their leaves, she remains unconvinced. (I'm kind of glad she's not that gullible.) But it was good exercise running after Grace to keep her from inflicting serious harm on herself, us or the plants, and meanwhile Michael got the entire front bed planted. I suspect we irritated a few neighbors with Gigi's shrieking, Brady's barking at everything that moves and my yelling at both of them to BE QUIET FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!


I got Grace some of her own gardening tools so she would feel like a valuable member of the team (okay, I got them because they were cute). When I told her to go get her blue bucket, she disappeared, then came 'round the corner of the house like this. Swear to God.


Monkey see, monkey do.


Grace kept picking up dirt and sprinkling it on the plants. I asked her to stop but she informed me that the plants were hungry and she was feeding them.


I was not allowed to wear my hat. It looks way cuter on her, anyway.


Both were tuckered out after lunch, Grace from "planting weeds" and Brady from carrying out her duties as the compound's security detail.

Sick kiddo.

The worst part about Grace being sick (like, barfing sick) is knowing how awful she feels and not being able to do anything about it. That, and the fact that she is heartbreakingly stoic. Also, since I can't bring myself to force her into the bath, I clean her up as best I can and then later, while she's watching "The Secret Garden" for the four hundredth time, she says, "I smell barf." We all smell barf, honey — IMAGINE POOR BRADY. (Who, while we're on the subject of vomit, recently got into the compost, came into the house and promptly threw up coffee grounds and egg shells. Good thing it's a rental.) Anyway, send healthy, stomach-settling vibes Gigi's way.

Believe it or not, this is progress.

I can't believe Brady stayed put while I got the camera.


I wish I could say that Brady and Grace have a love/hate relationship, but there's precious little love going on. Usually, when Brady dares venture into Grace's room or near any of Grace's things, Grace gestures wildly and yells, "Go away Brady! Don't touch that! Mommy, SHE'S STEPPING ON MY BLANKET!" For some reason (possibly because I've begun comparing her to Colin in "The Secret Garden"), last night Grace relented and had a little fun with the canine creature. Brady may look miserable, but believe me, she's so happy to be getting attention, she allowed this to go on for quite a while, tolerating Grace feeling her forehead and pretending to give her medicine. (Grace has been sick, I've been sick, we've all been sick, so the taking and/or giving of medicine will be a part of Grace's playacting for weeks.)

Paradise, part III

Until my mom sends the photos she shot, this concludes the Sequim vacation series. I promise.


My mom has been collecting old ladders, and I love how they look scattered about the orchard.


These trunks captivated me for some reason. They look like bones that have been picked clean. Very wintry.


It won't be long before all the buds start blooming and my parents' property is awash in color.


I'm afraid I've seen Max for the last time. He probably wondered why I kept lying on the floor next to him, crying.


Big bunny. GIGANTIC TV. 'Nuff said.

Sleepwalking dog

I stole this from dooce.com, as usual. Don't watch it with a full bladder.

This is pretty cool...

It's not what you think.

This is the subtle approach Brady takes to begging when we're having an especially tasty (meaty) meal. I don't notice it so much anymore, but it can be awkward at dinner parties when guests aren't quite sure whose hot breath they feel on their thigh. When I was growing up, my father could cause the dogs to flee the dinner table with a quiet, "We're eating." I don't have that kind of steely control over Brady, but at least she matches my pants.

Right now she has a couple of projects going on in the backyard that have me mystified. She digs holes. This makes perfect sense in the summer when she needs someplace to cool off after she's laid in the sun so long her core temperature has reached dangerous levels. But now it's so cold the ground is hard, so she must be after something. My hunch is that when I tossed that steak bone into the back yard after dinner a few weeks ago, she didn't see its path from my hand to the ground, so now her walnut-sized brain is certain that steak bones magically appear out there and she must find them.