I watched my dog do a handstand

The Dog, ,

I-watched-my-dog

My dog has this thing she does where she tries to be much taller than she is; she puts her rear legs in the air and pees in a front hand-stand. For real. She clearly picked this dominance-seeking behavior up in doggy day care, as I’m a bad puppy mom who left her there from time to time while I went to work each day. I would have taught her better manners if I were around, but alas, we cannot have it all (contrary to every feminist blog I can’t escape). I suspect she picked this up from a gang of smaller dogs, maybe the chihuahuas (never really trusted them–pointy ears and noses is too much pointy anything). Nevertheless, she’s picked it up and now I have to gently push her bum down to remind her of better manners when strangers walk by so that she’s not scooped up by a casting director for the next season of American Horror Story.

When 9 PM rolls around, she gets up from her fifth nap of the day to look at me with a bit of judgement, as if to say, “seriously, it’s past our bed time mommy.” Then she sighs heavily and spins on her haunches to go into the bedroom without me.  She’s quite independent when she wants to be, and she’ll decide what her energy level is, thank you. She has no dimmer; the switch is either fully on or fully off.  And Caesar’s rules of “no touch, no talk, no eye contact” aren’t tolerated in her world. You will acknowledge her, or she will die trying.

In the mornings, she can’t be bothered to get up from the bed unless or until there’s food involved.  And once it’s clear that “barkfast” is on its way, only then will she leap from the bed to plop down on the floor, scratch her back on the carpet, and stick her butt in the air (no, not to pee) to stretch her front legs. And just as she finishes stretching, her little butt, which has a white stripe up the center just like a reindeer’s, she plops over and promptly goes back to rest until “barkfast” is served.  For emphasis, she sometimes does this adorable little howl while she’s stretching to let me know she’s got a strong opinion on the matter.

So some days I push her handstand bum down to feign politeness and other days I just let her go and say, “go on witycha bad self, Rudolph!”  Either way, she’s my unique fuzzbutt and I wouldn’t trade her bum-in-the-air-pee-style for anything.  I’m in love with this sturdy gal, quirks and all.

I said farewell to a sassy mentor

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I said farewell to a sassy mentor

I’ve had several mentors in my life thus far, and all of them have a special place in my sassy heart.  I can’t imagine the person I would be if they hadn’t taken time to help me understand my life, my career, and my world in the way that they did.  Though they have all been memorable, I feel as though I was part of a privileged secret society while working with my current mentor.  When she recently announced that she would be retiring, she said it so matter-of-factly that I just jotted it down on my task list in our regular weekly meeting.  It wasn’t until I started writing a farewell speech to her that I understood the magnitude of her decision.  My eyes suddenly sprang a leak I wasn’t expecting (which got me the aisle seat on the plane from a sympathetic businessman, but totally screwed up my mascara).

There’s no good way to say goodbye to someone who has had such a profound impact on my career.  It seems impossible, and honestly, I’m still in denial.  She’s legendary.  She cares about people, demands common sense, and she doesn’t suffer fools.  She’ll tell you in a heartbeat if you’re wrong, but in a way that only she can, she makes you feel somehow better for hearing it.  And she’ll follow it up with, “but what the hell do I know?” to leave you enough room to draw your own conclusion.  And even if she shuts you down, she’s just as likely to be taking up a fund from the rest of the team for your sick pet after the meeting.  It’s so rare to find such an equal combination of competence and empathy.

I’ll never forget the very first conversation I had with her after she was told we would be working together.  I had only been in meetings with her as an observer – as someone who watched people’s faces sort of contort in fear when she disagreed and shut something down.  I knew I’d have to summon my inner cheerleader to psych myself up for this call.  “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and dammit, I’ll make her like me!”

So I found an empty office, took a deep breath, dialed her number and after saying hello, her very first words to me were, “It will never work.  Never.  This is insane.”  (Gasp!) I know now that the words were in reference to my hefty workload, not to her confidence in my abilities, but nevertheless, my cheerleader had a big black eye.  From that day forward, I knew I wanted to earn her trust and respect, and if I could do that, I was pretty sure I had found the unicorn of mentors.

After several years of working closely with her, traveling to conferences and sales meetings, and seeing some remarkable successes and working through some notable trials, I’ve learned more from her than she knows and more than she’ll rightfully take credit for.  I thank her for being tough, fair, irreverent, (usually) right, and most of all, for being my very own cheerleader (sans black eye).  Thank you for everything you’ve done for me and for so many others throughout your career.  Screw the mascara – this post is worth it.

I turned up the air conditioning

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I turned up the air conditioning

At the risk of making an obvious observation in Houston, Texas in August; it’s hot.  Actually, that may be generous.  It’s more like the pits of hell have opened up and let loose the biggest rinadad morgue scorpion chile pepper belch the Earth has ever experienced and blew it over a hot lake of steaming lava.  [Note: thanks Google for confirming the hottest pepper ever found, circa 2013.]

When I came to Houston from California a couple of years ago, I showed up just in time for the summer weather festivities.  This is a place where one air conditioner is just amusing.  [“Oh, aren’t you cute!  One little air conditioner to keep your left toe cool – you’re such a dear.”]  People have two, TWO full-sized air conditioners just in case anything happens to one of them.  Now I’m not an engineering expert, but I’m pretty sure if we need that much help making the air work for us for half of the year, there’s something wrong.  On the other hand, it gives me great confidence in our exploration of Mars.  Yes, I’m quite certain that Houston is a testing ground for inhabiting spaces in which we just shouldn’t be breathing things.

Let’s also take note of necessary grooming modifications this time of year.  I’m currently looking for a support group for long hair.  Texans have a reputation for “big hair” and I’m pretty sure it’s not their fault.  In our defense, spraying our hair so that it could double as a a roll of bubble-wrap is really the only way to look halfway normal until you get to the car.  After that, all bets are off.  Folks, this is a town where they actually have a “haircast”  (for those of you who aren’t familiar, it’s a forecast just for your hair) every morning so you know if you’re about to have a good hair day or a bad hair day.  While this is amusing, it’s also useless.  If it’s June, July, August, September, or early October, you’re going to have a bad hair day.  In my support group, we’ll discuss up-dos that don’t require an advanced underwater basket weaving degree.

For now, I’m rolling up my hair into a lackluster bun and dreaming about the day in October when I’ll let my hair down, Rapunzel-style to find out how long it’s gotten so that I can dry it, curl it, spray it, and find a hot date to pop the crap out of it, bubble-wrap style.

I found a puppy

The Dog, , ,

Emma_Dec2012

Or rather, a puppy found me.  I’ll never forget how this cantankerous little fuzzbutt came into my life.  I had it in my head that I’d know – truly know – I was an adult as soon as I could take care of something else and keep it alive (bonus points for happy and alive).  I had grown up with a Boston Terrier, and by God, I was going to get a Boston of my very own and name her Emma just as soon as I was a certified adult.  (No idea where that name came from, but once I want something, I generally abandon all good judgement to get it.)  Browsing a cute-overload site with puppies seemed like a logical distraction from preparing for my final meeting with the graduate committee to defend my work later that week. Surely, this second degree was the milestone I had been waiting for!

On page 12, after I thought I had seen all of the Bostons there were to see (strangely, none were in Boston), I saw her.  She had these adorable little floppy Gizmo ears and a sweet innocent look about her that made me think I needed to save her.  Aww – so sweet – what’s her name?  Emma.  Yep – her name was already Emma.  [In fairness, I’m sure there are a bazillion Emma Bostons out there, but I needed a sign, so work with me, people.]  Where was she?  Bentonville, Arkansas.  Well that ended that.  I wasn’t going to make Gizmo-Emma fly alone across the country.  Hell, no.

So I closed my laptop and sighed loudly enough for my boyfriend at the time to hear me. He asked what was wrong, and I told him: perfect puppy, imperfect location.  “Where is she?” he asked.  I told him and he got this incredible grin on his face.  You see, he had a business meeting in Bentonville (home of Wal-Mart, folks) the next week.  My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.  I looked at him and said, “well, I can’t fight that.  Go get her.”  He agreed, we shipped a pet carrier to his hotel and a few days later, we had a bundle of insane joy in our apartment.

So in a million years I don’t think I’d ever work with a breeder to get a puppy again (rescue, rescue, rescue!), but years later, Emma is still that ridiculously cute little Gizmo, which is a good thing.  If she weren’t so damn cute, I might have put her up for adoption about a dozen times.  I’m still not sure I’m an adult, but I do know I’m in love with this fuzzbutt and if you’re in my life, you’d better be too.

I quit my diet

The Diet, ,

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Ok, I didn’t quit. I have something akin to Brokeback Mountain syndrome when it comes to diets.  “I wish I could quit you [insert utopian diet of choice this week].”  But I refuse to quit.  I’m no quitter.  Quitting a diet means I’m giving up my fantasy of descending from a helicopter to my [insert important year] class reunion looking like Sofia Vergara, wearing a white dress and watching women push their dates’ bottom lips up from the floor.  Oh no, to give that up would be to admit complete and utter defeat.  Not an option.  So I threaten to quit, but never do.  (Note: I may or may not have that dress in the back of my closet.  It looks awesome on my right thigh, because that’s all I can fit in it right now, but I’m keeping the dream alive.)

I’ve read a few books about how ironic it is that smart people have trouble losing weight.  It’s counter-intuitive.  You know all the right things to do, you know all of the socially acceptable ways to be, but for some reason, you just can’t stop making love to that vanilla frozen custard in the dark.  It’s like a LITERAL “booty call” while I’m watching Scandal.  The frozen dessert texts me and says, “Hey girl, I know you’re missing’ a lil’ something’ in your life, and I’m pretty sure it’s that empty pocket in your right derriere.  Let me fill it for you.”  And I often find myself texting back, “Yeah, sure.  Liv doesn’t have to chose between the President and the mega hunk who are fighting over her, so why in the hell should I have to be a responsible adult?”

For those of you who are not overweight, congratulations!  Either you have killer genes, or you’re doing an admirable job of modifying your rockstar lifestyle.  Well done, you!  For me, I have moments of glory, where I finish a bike ride or 5K and think, “So this is what those svelte female athletes mean when they proudly declare they crave water the way I crave Diet Coke!  I will now immediately become the next after picture in every magazine I avoid at the supermarket and Ellen will invite me on her show and ask to dance with me to celebrate my phenomenal new body!”  And the joy is intoxicating…for about 48 hours.  Then all of my super lame habits creep into my world again and I’m back to being book smart and body stupid.  (Please hold. I just got a new text from the custard. I wish I could quit him too.)

You know, one of those books I mentioned is called Change or Die.  The cover is even modeled after a stop sign: completely blood red with the title in dumb block white text.  But seriously – this is well documented research where doctors told obese and/or heart diseased patients they had to change their behavior or else they would soon DIE, and they still didn’t change!  Yep – too much work.  I think I’ll just go ahead and sit on the couch and DIE.  My point is that inertia is a powerful thing, folks.  It’s the yin to our “intoxicating water & dancing with Ellen” yang.

Now I get out there and do a moderate amount of activity and I grab fruit and veggies instead of carbs much of the time because (much to my chagrin) I actually am a responsible adult, but I can certainly do better and do it more often.  While I ponder how to change this mysterious balance for the long term, I think I’ll go get some water.  And by water, I mean Diet Coke.