Evel Knievel Don't Got Shit

Sorry beforehand, for the poor writing.  This is a bit of a manic update about yesterday's activities.

The boyfriend and I went for a romantic walk through a graveyard yesterday, ignoring all signs that said dogs must be on a leash. Mountain View cemetary is really the place to go see outrageous mausoleums, and given that Watson is the home-schooled dog, we didn't think it was right to deprive him of the history lesson. He ran about like the uncultured idiot he is.
In fact, as we stopped to look over a blocked off drop to concrete, noting the awesome graffiti plastered on the sides, he idiotically ran right off the wall.
It was another of those moments, when time slows down, and you hear yourself scream, and you have time to think of all the consequences before he even hits the bottom. After about 3 lifetimes, he finally did hit the concrete...on his back...25 feet below. he screamed, even louder than me, and kept trying to get up and walk. The boyfriend took off, running around, looking for a place to get through and climb down to the dog. I used up all the calm I had left and found a spot in the fence he could climb through, and spent the rest of the calm telling him, "Just take your time. Pick him up like I showed you, and go nice and slowly. It's ok."
We tried walking him to where we parked the car, switching off carrying him, but at 50+ pounds on uneven footing, it just wasn't working. When he was in the boyfriend's arms, I held his head and pet him gently. When I pulled away, I noticed there was blood all over my arm.
Oh my god....he's bleeding.
Go get the car.  I'm going to stay here with him.  There's no way we can carry him all the way back.
So I ran.  And the whole time I thought about Harry Dresden, in the Dresden Files books, when he always talks about how he practices running, just in case.  And I always think shaddup!
But now I was wishing I'd heeded his fictional wizardly advice, because I was out of breath and only halfway there, the hill still ahead of me.  I trudged up the hill, all the time thinking about this little puppy Watson was, and how our only job was to make sure he didn't kill himself.  I was failing my job.
Got to the car, jumped in and started driving before taking the time to think of the route.  This is an extensive cemetary, and no road leads in the direction you'd think.  Took me forever, and questioning two startled strangers, before I found them again.
Then: traffic.  Fucking East Bay traffic.  Like the world moves in between 4 and 7 pm on weekdays.  Goddam nightmare, is what it is.
We have to drive to Berkeley for the emergency room.  Watson goes onto the table and starts shaking, the shock wearing off.  The doctor comes in and hears what happened, checking his ears, his heart, his bones.
"He's ok.  He's extraordinarily lucky.  I can't believe it, but not even a broken bone."
And I start crying.  Big time.  It didn't occur to me till then that I was convinced that Watson was that dog that you only get a short time with, but shows you how good dogs can be.  He's a good boy.
The doc gives him a couple shots for the pain and warns us he's going to whine because he doesn't understand why he's all spin-ny.  "No jumping.  No activity for a couple days."

We actually bought him steak.  Cheap steak....but we're vegans, and this is a big deal.  This is LOVE, people.  I cut it into strips and froze it, so when he gets extra sore he can have a meatsicle.
Dog, being the indestructible smarty-pants he is, has learned already to just whine an extra bit and he gets steak.
He's a good boy.  A lucky boy.  A sore boy.

Old-Timey San Francisco

Speaking of hipsters (weren't we?), I saw a TON of 'em last night, gathered together like sardines in the Hotel Utah Saloon.  Together, we banged the tables, drank our shots of whiskey, and partook in some banjo-plucking ambiance.  Because nothing says San Francisco circa 2010, quite like a bluegrass band from North Carolina.

The boyfriend and I arrived early, so as to get a good seat against the wall and rub some elbows with those of the elbow patches.  I've never seen so many fedoras and newsboys in the same room, and I half expected them to draw a line and pick their sides.  "I'll have you know, sir, this is an honest to goodness newsboy and I am dressed in my finest herringbone blazer for that touch of irony which you lack."  "Well fuck you, sir.  This is a wool fedora in JULY!  Now, gather 'round, my unnecessarily warm counterparts!  We shall have an ironic standoff!  You people in the newsboys, you can bob together by the stage, because as everyone knows, the real hipsters sit in the back."

I'm not sure where I fit in with this crowd.  I like to think I held my own, there on the sidelines, watching the magic go down.  In the meantime, I enjoyed me some good music.

We went there to support a friend and cheer on his awesome band, Walking in Sunlight.  Please do check them out.  But then stayed for the raucous twang of Emily Bonn & the Vivants, and finished the night off cheering for Chatham County Line.  All 3 acts were stupendous, and did me the favor of transporting me in time.  I felt like I was ensconced in Deadwood, and expected Al Swearengen to make his way into the room, bowie knife in hand.

Too Much to Share, Really

A foreword: this is more personal than I'm comfortable with, but it's real, as far as that goes.  Pouring something out has made me feel better and free of it.  Letting anyone else in goes against my better judgement.  Be warned, is all I'm saying.

I'm 29 now and have been thinking of you recently.  So hard to let go.  Like it'll be breaking off a piece of me.  Me beneath the covers.  You telling me I'm beautiful, and I disagree but believe, because the two can co-exist here.
Saying goodbye to you is saying goodbye to odometers, cold tiles beneath my feet, waves breaking, elton john sung at the top of our lungs, coils of smoke, october nights, first snowfalls, thunderstorms, red plastic cups, driving at night.
I wonder if in the moments I miss you, do you stop walking whatever sidewalk, in whatever city, and all of a sudden think of me?  Do you start to sing Elton John songs?
Or, maybe it's all reverse.  Maybe I get sad because you decided to stop and think of me.

Going for the Grammy

This morning I forewent coffee in favor of health.  I read that caffeine increases stress hormones, which can facilitate in the production of fat.  So, small steps, I thought.
And now, at 5:30 pm, I can tell you it was all a huge mistake.
Not a single interesting thought has entered my head, my preoccupation instead being with how comfortable my bed is and how happy it would make me.
Indeed, the most taxing thing I've done today is practice singing.  Arguably, it was much more taxing for anyone home upstairs, forced to listen to the death rattle below.

Singing is one of my bucket list achievements.  It is shaping up to be a slow, agonizing year towards 30. The dog began to cry in the midst of my octaves.  Believing he needed some bladder relief, I let him out, only to witness his mad dash to freedom.  Instead of trotting to the side yard, as always, he ran so fast down the drive that his front legs caved while the back two continued to push.  All the way to the car, parked on the street.

Once back inside, not even through my first octave, he pulled all the stuffing out of his bed, spun in circles, and then growled.  Puppy is a harsh critic.

How does this all tie in to my lack of coffee?  I have no idea.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

In Which I Fail an IQ Test

With nothing better to do on a Friday night, I decided to take a page from Hyperbole and a Half, and test my dog's IQ.  There are 6 different tests, and before starting, the rules warn to treat it like a game and not get upset or concerned if the dog can't figure his way through one of the 6 puzzles.


Puzzle 1: show the dog a treat and then let him see you put it beneath a can.  Then, allow the dog to work his way to the treat.
I knew this one was going to be difficult when I was failing it for him in my quest for a can.  I looked in the recycling, only to see that damn!  boyfriend emptied that.  So, clear thinking individual that I am, I went for the trash, reaching for that can of beans that boyfriend took out of fridge last night for security's sake.  The stench alone managed to cut straight through my snot-riddled head and was the physical manifestation of stink.  For the second night in a row, can of beans knocked me on my ass.
After all the vomiting, I decided on a measuring cup.  Put treat under it, dog stared lasers through it, and quickly got down to business.  Neither the measuring cup nor the treat stood a chance.

Smarty dog! I squeeled in delight.
Then dog decided everything on floor must be a treat and ate about 800 ants, a piece of paper, chewed on my hand weights, and then careened throughout household on epic quest for morsels.
Not so sure how to judge that one.

Puzzle 2:  Throw towel over dog's head and judge how long until he finds his way clear.
Yes!  Doggy is like Odin! and is clear in seconds flat.  Except towel must have been covered in weird puppy hormones, and dog's red rocket shoots out.  I bend down to save towel from floor and dog goes manic, spinning in helicopter mode, knocks into my legs.  I reach for new bookshelves, only to stub my toe, knock them over, and fall all crazy-like to floor, clutching shelves.
Maybe I should be taking an IQ test.  Dog 1, Caitie 0.  Bookshelves....less than stellar.

Puzzle 3: with dog sitting about 6 feet away, make eye contact.  After a few seconds, smile broadly.  Faster the dog responds to smile and comes over, smarter dog is.
Dog can't help but be charmed and races over.   I am nearly charmed right back, but then red rocket brushes my hand, and suddenly I feel dirty and ashamed.  Go to your spot.
Dog 2, Caitie 0.  Bookshelves still sulking.

Puzzle 4: Show dog another treat, and place treat under tea towel.  Encourage dog to find treat.
Jeezus....dog is wicked smaht.  Perhaps dog could help me find keys...
10 seconds, guys.  This dog is potentially much smarter than me.

Puzzle 5:  Place treat in spot dog cannot reach with head, and must use paws to pull it closer.
Dog just invented tools!  Dog may as well have invented the Gopher.  He used mangled toy, and swept it under table, pulling treat out.  Dog is going to Harvard.

Puzzle 6: have dog seated away from you.  After he is settled in, using tone you'd use to say his name, instead, call, "Refrigerator."  If dog looks, but does not respond he's apparently discerning the difference, and thus is smart.
Shit.  Dog has flunked out of Harvard.  Dog comes racing out of his bed when called, "Refrigerator."  I think perhaps dog is so smart he knows that food is kept in refrigerator, and is showing entirely understandable reaction.  Same reaction I show when I hear "refrigerator" called.  I have dog go back to bed, wait a few minutes and call, "Closet!"
Dog turbo-jets out of bed, careening into my legs, once again angering book shelves.  But of course!  Dog knows shoes are kept in closet and shoes mean walk!  How could I be so short-sighted?  Dark murmurs begin to creep in.
"Sarah Palin!"   I whisper from bedroom.  Dog bolts in, and jumps on bed.  Obviously, he is attack-ready.
"Aerobics!"  In a flash, dog is at my side.  Dreams of Harvard have fallen by the wayside.  Dog should know by know that fitness has no place in this home.  I...am ashamed.  Dog sits, looking at me with tilted head.  Desperately trying to understand why I haven't given him a cookie.

In Which I Get a Massage

There was a poster of the muscular system on the door of the room I was placed in, waiting for my massage.  Practically nekkid, lying under a thin sheet, staring at the muscles of a friggin god.  It makes a person feel, at the very least, humble.  Realistically, I felt more  like a beached whale brought in for the autopsy.  Then I think how funny it would be if it was the muscles of just some average schlub, with bad posture and a trick knee.  I would like to see them standing together.  I wonder what schlub's butt would look like, and if it would be better than mine.

The lady came in and started to raise the table, prompting my need to comment that I felt like I was at the dentist.  Which then prompted her shushing me.  Now I feel like I'm in school.
"Just try to relax," she instructed.
How do I relax when a gore-tastic Superman is over there staring at me?


You know your brain is being a little too chatty when you spend 60 minutes wondering if you're laying correctly on the table.  She lifts your leg from under the sheet and you attempt to assist.  "Just relax," she says again.

If I knew how to do that, I wouldn't be here.

What, You Don't Like Funny?

I touched him! you stage whisper to me, after Paul Mecurio runs through the audience, collecting high-five's.  And I think you should be up there, making people laugh.  I know, at the very least, you won't be like that warm-up act, doing an impression of Carol Channing singing David Bowie.
What's a Carol Channing? and I shrug, no answers to give.  But there he is, screaming at the audience, powering through his last ten minutes before he can vacate the stage and spit in all our drinks.
Then the professional takes the stage and I hear your sigh of relief, and the audience begins to wake up.  He looks at everybody and damn near yells at a lady for not clapping.  "I won a fucking emmy!  You better goddam clap!  What is that you're wearing?  You look like a stripper!"
I sink into my seat, knowing that most of his act is talking to audience members and magically turning the mundane into funny.  We arrived early, hoping to get a good seat.  In our minds "good seat" meant as far away from the funny man as possible.  The man seating us, though, decided "good seat" meant smack dab in the center.  So I make it my mission to laugh at every joke, since he picks only on the ones that are clearly too good to be there.
"Where are your husbands?  Camping?  Sure they are."

We laugh all the way home, wondering why more people don't see comedians.  Their only goal in life is to make you laugh.  How could that be bad?  Only if he talks about Carol Channing, that's how.