Saturdays

Sundays have been my favorite day of the week for a long time, as evidenced here and here (yep, that's 2005, people!), here, and, of course, here, where I pontificate on my longstanding love of Sunday.

Sundays, move over; Saturday is in the house.  Saturday is totally my new favorite day.  I still love Sundays; Sundays are awesome days full of teaching yoga, breakfast with good friends, and food prep afternoons....but Saturdays?  *sigh* Saturdays are my new boyfriend.

Saturday morning I'm up early to enjoy the full duration of the day.  Spin classes and yoga take up the morning and the early afternoon.  Come 2pm, I'm home planted in the Great Red Chair of Sleep watching the Food Network.  Gatsby and I venture out mid-afternoon for a walk and he finds his Saturday joy sniffing and snorting and running around.  Other than that, I don't leave the house. 

Maybe I should...I probably sound kind of anti-social.  But here's the thing:  Monday-Friday I interact with around 200 people directly, and am in the presence of more than 2000.  On Sundays, I directly interact with around 50 people.  Saturdays?  I can limit my direct interaction to 2 people if I choose: my spin instructor and my yoga instructor.  I need not speak to anyone else.  So, in a way, Saturday is my day to refuel.  To practice as much self-care as I can possibly manage in a 24 hour period of time.  Sometimes that self-care involves other people--friends, family--but more often than not, once I'm home from yoga it's the Kelly-n-Gatsby show for the win.  

So, while I will never lose my deep love for Sunday, I am very happy to welcome Saturday to the fold of days that make me feel very happy and very lucky.  Tonight, my self-care involves the Wild game, Sliver (don't judge me), Ben & Jerry's pumpkin cheesecake ice cream, and chex mix.  Gatsby is barking up a storm protecting our castle from some unknown, unseen threat.  Life is very, very good.

2013 Cleanse Conclusion: My Spidey Sense

Today, the last official day of the cleanse, was an absolutely fantastic day. A cleanse resets the body, so food tastes better, the body moves a little smoother, the mind thinks a little clearer...everything is just, well, easier.  Here is a list of the awesome things I did today:

1.  Slept through the plows clearing the road in front of my house and my driveway.  More importantly, Gatsby did too.

2.  Returned to spin class with one of my favorite instructors, Natalie, for the first time in two weeks.  Natalie is an animal on the spin bike, and I get my best calorie burn from her.  I told her that this was my first post-cleanse workout, and she was all "Holy shit." I said don't worry, if I fall over I'm clipped in, and winked at her. She yelled "Don't say that!"

3.  Grocery store trip #1 for grapefruit, which I was desperately craving.  Got home and didn't have time to eat desperately craved grapefruit before heading to yoga, so I enjoyed an UltraClear on the way instead.

4.  Yoga.  Felt as amazing as spin class in a completely different way.  Spent a good amount of time in handstand.  Appreciated that I didn't have a gut full of diet coke and other crap.

5.  Grocery store trip #2 for post-cleanse staples. Also to inadvertently demonstrate to the woman at the meat counter that I am something of a roast beef connoisseur.  I don't know how that happened....she asked me about the difference between two types (the best she could offer me was that one cost $3 more than the other) and I waxed poetic about flavors, herbs, and sweetness for far too long.

6.  Home to make Gatsby's day complete, make pesto for tonight, and NOT GRADE PAPERS.

A most glorious day, indeed.

Sunday Bliss

I have always loved Sundays.  See evidence of this here, here, and here.  Sundays are brilliant days.  It's the one day of the week where it's perfectly acceptable to be a social hermit, to run errands in either your Sunday Best or your curlers, or to wake up and not move from your bed until the next morning.  There's no judgment from anyone.
I teach two yoga classes on Sunday mornings, so my days of sleeping in are no more--but it's okay.  Instead I begin my day at 7am with one group of yogis, then go to breakfast with Friends A and J.  We enjoy a delicious breakfast:

Then we part ways, usually.  I go to teach my second yoga class, and they go off and do whatever creates their Sunday Bliss.

Today our Sunday Bliss was combined into a bloody mary/mimosa afternoon of total joy.  We snacked, drank, and sat on their patio and solved all the world's problems.  An engineer, a PhD, and a teacher all sitting around gabbing--now THERE's some problem-solving action.

Now, all the windows are open, Breaking Bad is on the DVR, the smell of other more ambitious people's grilling is wafting through my house, and I'm contemplating which book to pick up.  Gatsby is chilling on the fireplace marble dreaming his doggy dreams.

Bliss.

This is me, under a rock.

The rock is made up of:

Not enough yoga classes
Too much grading
Too much confusion with it being November, dark, and 70 degrees
Too much homework
Too much self-doubt with my writing ability on said homework
Not enough confidence that I know my shit when it comes to writing
A messy house
and,
A neglected hound named Gatsby

So, I'm perched under the rock, holding it all up (barely), and vowing that I will never, ever drive myself into the ground like this again.

I wanna yoga. Now.

Rainy day yoga

I subbed out my early class this morning--just couldn't do it. Slept late in the rain, now I'm heading to yoga in Minneapolis. I love rainy days...I love yoga. Today should be a good day. Plus, Gatsby, the furriest dog EVER, is finally getting his trip to the beautician today, the lucky boy.

An open plea to dog owners...

Please use a leash on your dog!!!!! Or take your large dog who needs to be run around to a dog park. The following has happened, oh, a billion too many times:

My little dog is on his leash either being walked by his responsible dog owner (who also cleans up his poop--novel idea) or lounging quietly on the patio. Off-leash dog (large or small, take your pick) comes *tearing* up to my little dog and begins to fight with him. Insanity occurs, with lots of barking and yelping and snarling and sounds that I never hear come out of my animal. My heart races as I scramble to pick him up out of harm's way, placing myself in possible danger as well. Irresponsible owner of off-leash dog comes running up, yelling at his/her dog with a terse "sorry" in my direction. Grabs his/her dog roughly for not following instructions and walks away.

One of these days, either my dog or I or both will be hurt by one of these dogs and it will be the sole responsibility of this irresponsible dog owner who is so casual about dog ownership that he/she just assumes "Oh my dog listens to me." Well, no, your dog doesn't listen to you. Not when there's a tasty smaller dog within reach.

Solve the problem! Walk your dog on a leash. Then you're not embarrassed when your dog "disobeys", your dog isn't strangled when you grab him and peel him off of my dog, and my dog gets to live another day. See, everybody wins. AND, it's a law in the neighborhood, so you're even being a good citizen. What a nice thing.

Stick a fork in me...

I'm done with summer classes.

I'm sitting here in the Great Red Chair of Sleep with the entire day spread out before me. Gatsby needs to go to the vet and I need to go to the chiropractor, but other than that, the day is mine. I do not need to go to chemistry, take a quiz online, study flashcards, go to lab, or think of Normandale in any way, shape or form.

Bliss.

Tomorrow night is the Social Reincarnation Soiree---about 20 people coming to my house to hang and celebrate my doneness. I guess maybe I should spend part of this day of doing nothing cleaning the house. Hmmm..... or maybe I'll just curl up with Leif Enger's amazing Peace Like a River. Decisions, decisions.

Go away! Wait, come back! Go away! Wait...

This last week was one of the most stressful I've had in a long time. I went back and read through my teaching posts to give myself some perspective. Tomorrow is Craig's funeral. The last time I went to a funeral that was held in a gymnasium it was for my own English teacher in high school. I know that I will draw significant parallels tomorrow between myself now and myself as a fifteen year old.

No doubt it's due to the events of the week, but over the last few days I've felt so unbelievably needy I almost can't stand to be with myself. I've become obsessive, paranoid, and, what's worst, I feel lonely. I almost can't be by myself. That's so damn annoying. I'm a loner--I always have been. I've savored my time alone to the point that occasionally I'll actually cancel plans with people in order to spend time with my numero uno: me. I'll turn off my phone. But now, I'm reaching out like crazy to anyone who will listen. But, my friends are the type of friends a loner person can have--they're busy people, always off doing things. So they're not really around. And that's okay, 99.9% of the time. This week, though, not so much.

It's Friday night. I'm watching the National Spelling Bee, playing games on pogo.com, and hanging with Gatsby. I plan to make popcorn later, do some math, and read my book. I need to get back to where I'm okay being in my own head. This is just very, very strange to me.

Happy Birthday, Gatsby!

It's my little guy's second birthday today. I remembered at about 5:30 in the middle of biology and thankfully did not miss his big day. He, of course, was quite concerned. He's now settled down on his blanket chewing on the nastiest-smelling bone Petsmart sells. But, he's loving it and that's what matters, right?

Happy birthday, Snuggs :-)

A little warning, if you please, dear Mr. King

Last night I was knocked slightly off-kilter when Jessie grabbed Blaze by Richard Bachman/Stephen King and said, "Hey, what's this about?". I looked at it, took it from her, began turning pages, read the back, read the inside flap, and finally gave up. "I have no idea," I said. "I don't think I've read it." As I allowed the shock of the idea that an unread King book has sat in my house for God-knows-how-long, I remembered that Duma Key was sitting on my front step, freshly delivered from Amazon.

Today after Jessie left, I cracked open Blaze and began to read. As I did, flickers of familiarity came over me and I realized that I had, in fact, read this book. Though it bothers me that I cannot remember the book, it's a consolation to know that I read it in a day. I'm not becoming addle-brained.

The unease stuck with me, though, as I cracked open Duma Key. That same tone of familiarity was sticking in my head as I read the first few pages of the first chapter. I kept thinking "I've read this. I KNOW I've read this." But of course that would be impossible, since the book has only recently come out.

Then I read this line: "It was what happened to Monica Goldstein's Jack Russell Terrier, Gandalf" on page 20. And I remembered. Monica Goldstein's Jack Russell Terrier, Gandalf, met an untimely end in a battle with a mustard colored Hummer in King's story Memory, which appeared in the summer 2006 issue of Tin House. I read it and it maintains its place in my world as the most emotionally horrific story I've ever read.

I was not prepared to re-read the most emotionally horrific story I've ever read, sitting here on a Sunday night when my ex-boyfriend got married yesterday and my favorite neighbor stopped over today to say goodbye because he's moving away. I was looking forward to some good old-fashioned horror. So please, Mr. King. Stephen. May I call you Stephen? Please, when you're going to repeat a story that is downright psychologically damaging, a story where a Jack Russell named Gandalf might as well be a Cavalier King Charles named Gatsby, a story that I vowed to never read again even though I loved it so, please give me a little warning. I don't need a phone call or a personal note or anything, but maybe something along the lines of "First chapter published as Memory in Tin House Vol 7 No 4"....think about it next time, would you? This Constant Reader would appreciate it.

Just as an aside, I'm on page 35 of Duma and, even with the emotional scarring, it's promising to be one Hell of a book. Pick it up, yeah?

Second verse...

After rehearsal today I bundled Gatsby up and returned to the vet. To say that he's being surly is an understatement. He laid on the kitchen floor yesterday from morning until night, only moving when I brought his leash to him and carried him outside. He did his business and returned to his blanket. And mind yourself when you walk by, because rather than a tail-wagging happy Gatsby, you're going to get either growled at or nipped at, depending on the angle and how close to his "possessions" (read: blanket, my t-shirt, bone, food dish) you get.

The only thing worse than an only child is a sick only child.

The vet upped his meds and added a muscle relaxer, so hopefully he'll be more himself in a few days. In the meantime, I'm staying out of the kitchen.

Not cake

Well, the math placement test was not cake. Not even a sweet pastry. I got at 95% on the elementary algebra, which was the first part of the test. I did NOT get a 95% on the college math portion, which was the second part of the test. I got a bit under half of that percentage. So, I tested into Intermediate Algebra. Yippee.

Gatsby update: several people have emailed and expressed concern for Gats. He's doing much better painwise and can walk/sit/lay down again. He's really pissed that he can't come upstairs (or go back down once I carry him up), but so far doesn't seem to miss his walks and toy time...I don't think he's all that interested. The good news is that he's responding to his pain meds which means that it was a slipped disc for sure (opposed to Lyme disease, a kidney stone, etc.)

Math. *shudder*

The long and short of it

This was the longest short week in school teaching history. At least my school teaching history. Between Gatsby's slipped disc (yeah, my dog is walking like a 90 year old man....when he can walk at all) and tomorrow's math placement test, a potential poetry workshop and balancing work/theater/conferences, well, I'm plum tuckered out. Yeah, I said that, you read it right.

Gatsby spent a very miserable day at home but now is on drugs and bed rest. Apparently dogs can slip discs. While it's painful for him and a hassle for me, I'm so glad that he's okay. The vet today and poetry class tonight prevented me from studying for my math test tomorrow (all part of Operation: DBH, beans to be spilled in an upcoming post) but I think I'll be okay. I need to keep my head on my shoulders, remember formulas, and remember that I totally schooled the GRE and this test will be (should be!) cake compared to that.

That's all I got...OH, except I signed up for Yoga. Yep, sure did.

Gatsby is listless

My "only child" dog is a) sick; b) having an existential crisis; or c) upset that I'm suddenly gone for eight hours a day again.

When I'm home, Gatsby crawls up onto my chest and lays down with his head right under my chin. This is adorable and makes me feel completely needed, but he also makes it impossible to do simple tasks by doing this. When I'm getting ready to go to work or out with friends, he sits on my feet as I stand in front of the bathroom sink.

I think it must be very difficult for dogs to understand the lifestyles of their owners. All Gatsby is concerned with is food, sleep, going outside, and me. Since I'm gone, he has also decided that food is unimportant. He should adjust within about two weeks, if I recall last fall correctly, and hopefully before he starves to death. He is not too listless to eat bones, though, so I think he'll live.

Happy birthday, Gatsby!

My little puppy turns one today. It's hard to imagine that he's no longer a "puppy"--we went and bought Adult Dog Food and, while I'm happy with the new assortment of flavors, it was still a little sad.

He still maintains his puppy-ness, though, in energy and attitude. This morning, for example, he had no problem bounding through the snow drifts that are twice his height. His motto appears to be "keep moving, push through, don't slow down for anything". Probably a decent motto.

Can you resist this face??

I know I can't!

I've pissed off dog people

Lord help me. Actually, in this case, the Lord may not be enough.

Here's my tale.

Gatsby the Adorable is nearly seven months old. He has never been fully potty trained, although he's been damn close for about three months. He still has accidents in my house, at my parents' house, and at Greg's house. Normally we just clean it up and I briefly wonder if I'll ever have a trained dog.

Greg is getting new carpet, and I will die if Gatsby has an accident on his brand new shag. I'd be pissed if I got new carpet and Gatsby went on mine, so I can only imagine if someone ELSE'S untrained dog was the first to mark it. So, the pressure to be 100% trained has escalated.

I decide to reach out to other cavalier owners for some help. BIG mistake.

Here is my request for help.

The first response was an all caps bold (in case I'm hard of reading) demand to not spank my dog. Got it. Spanking is bad, I will discontinue the spanking. Duly noted.

But wait!! Obviously the clearly stated, all caps, bold type was not enough. FIVE other people need to state in FIVE different ways that I should not spank the dog, including someone asking if I would spank my child if he/she had an accident (if my child was four years old and shit on my carpet, yeah, I would spank him/her. No question.) and someone else telling me that I'm psychologically damaging my dog and he'll eventually respond by biting the face off of my child (probably the same one I beat whenever he/she has an accident).

Now I really understand, thank you. Thank you also for the warm welcome to the site. Oh, wait, no, none of that. Thanks for the advice on the issue I actually asked about, oh, wait....Well, I can't say that no one did that. Some people towards the end gave some excellent suggestions (including the end of the 'you're psychologically damaging your dog' post) and were very warm and helpful. Thank you to those fine people.

I'm guessing that PETA probably has a line on my home and by the time I get home from class tonight there will be a note on Gatsby's kennel demanding that I complete a parenting course before the return of my dog.

Meanwhile, Gatsby, in all of his beaten, abused, psychologically damaged glory, is hanging out on the floor at my feet chewing on a rawhide.

I can't get to sleep...I think about the implications

Awhile ago I talked about my proclivity towards extrapolation. In spite of acknowledging this about myself, when the extrapolation train comes barreling at me, there is little I can do to stop its passage.

Last night at about 1:50am I woke up to Gatsby trying to crawl into bed with me. This meant that he had somehow escaped from his kennel, and I had a sinking feeling that he had finished tearing a hole in the side of it by the zipper. I brought him back downstairs and not only had he done just that, but he had also pooped on the floor, something he also did yesterday morning before I left for school.

I duct taped the hole shut from both sides, and shoved Gatsby back into his kennel while scolding him. He was scared because of my voice--I was quite pissed--and then I went back to bed.

While I was doing this, Extrapolation came with both guns blazing.

I laid in bed and thought about how Gatsby should be potty trained by now and why is he still having accidents? It's poor training, which means that I've failed in spite of my reading book and attending obedience classes. Gatsby can sit, he can come when I call him, but he still shits on the living room floor. I start to think that I'm going to have "one of those dogs" that poops and pees everywhere and that eventually I'll have to get rid of him because he'll become too difficult to handle. My little baby Gatsby. This makes me cry.

So it's 2am and I'm crying in bed. And I'm tired and stressed out from the first week of school, so the tears are alligator style and are best kept to oneself.

Then, I hear Gatsby rustling so I go to yell at him again to go to sleep. I wonder why it's so hard for him to go to sleep. Never mind that I'm at school for nine hours, and he's used to having me around all day, that he's used to ONLY being in his kennel at night, so when he's there while I'm at work he thinks he's serving his eight hours and that when I let him out he's out for good...never mind all that.

Instead of thinking logically, I start to think of how I will raise my non-existent children. If I can't discipline and potty train a dog properly, what chance do I have with kids? And I see the results of bad parenting every day. I don't want to be a bad parent. But what choice do I have? I'm a pushover. I hate it when people and animals are hurt--even emotionally--and this will lead to my children running all over me and I'll have those kids that beat up their parents and kill them for a non-existent inheritance.

At 3:30 I went back down to Gatsby's kennel and brought him upstairs with me. Only when I put him in bed did I notice that he had messed with the duct tape and had gotten a piece wrapped completely around his paw. I eased it off and he sighed and went to sleep at the end of my bed.

I don't get what I'm doing wrong. He is supposed to be potty trained by now, right? What am I missing?

Ahh....sweet, sweet football

It's the biggest sigh of relief all summer since the last day of school.

I've got my windows open with a marginally cool breeze flowing through my house,

My dog is keeping a close watch on any interlopers that may come near the patio,

I'm doing curriculum planning but I don't need to be,

And last, but not least, I'M WATCHING FOOTBALL.

Sweet football, the Raiders vs. the Eagles, and I am one happy girl.