My tale of woe

I sort of make it a practice not to talk too much about my health. Mainly because I fear you'll find it horribly boring. I know I do.

Also, you know how you just don't want to talk about certain things, lest they come true?

Or don't come true? Either way? The jinx factor. I believe in it.

A week ago Sunday -- the twenty-first -- as I got ready to go to church, I was thinking: I have GOT to get something up on my blog. It's been ten days. They'll think I died and forgot to tell them about it.

I felt wonderful, though; as far as I knew, nobody was gassing up a hearse for my funeral.

(And just so you know, the reason I had not posted in so long at that point, is that my blog server host was having technical difficulties. That is why if you commented on my last post -- the one about bridesmaid dresses -- I never saw your comment, or anybody else's either. So I was reluctant to post again until the problem was resolved. It's fixed now, but the comments were lost.)

We had a great day at church. Outside it was beautiful and balmy, as late January tends to be in the Midlands of South Carolina.

As I walked into the auditorium for Sunday School, I greeted some ladies who are my friends. We hugged and exchanged pleasantries. Then one of them said it (to me): How are you feeling? No sign of that flu going around?

I laughed and assured her I was feeling fantastic. Not a smidge of the flu at our house, haha, knock on wood, fingers crossed, et cetera.

(The flu has hit South Carolina hard this year. Nine people died from it in our state only last week.)

After a peaceful afternoon, TG and I went back to church that night. Later in the evening, we were sitting in our TV room watching a movie.

I began to notice that every other time I took a breath, I had to cough. You know: that tiny tickle down in your chest that triggers the reflex.

During the night, it got worse. By the next morning, I still felt okay and I told myself just to get busy and not worry about it. Probably nothing.

As I worked around the house however, doing laundry and whatnot, the coughing became much more ominous. I began to feel rough around the edges. Finally, in late afternoon, I faced the possibility that my goose was most likely cooked.

Barely one month after my Christmas cold, I was coming down with (I thought) bronchitis.

But I was wrong; what I really had was the flu. In comparison, a cold like the one I had in December is like a day at the seashore. The kind where you don't get sunburnt and nobody kicks sand onto your towel.

For several days I was plagued with persistent fever. Chills. Headache. All-over pain. Cough. Malaise. Absence of appetite. The total package. Did I go to the doctor? No. I was too sick to leave the house. Besides, there's nothing any doctor can do about the flu. It is a virus.

And that is how I lost an entire week of my life. Appointments had to be canceled and moved to this week, where they'll have to be accommodated along with others that were already on the calendar.

TG's birthday came and went on Thursday. I managed to drag myself around the kitchen (wearing disposable gloves) and made a German chocolate cake, which I sent with TG to Andrew's house that night, where he celebrated with three of our four kids plus Dagny. They grilled steaks.

Meanwhile, folks at our church are still dropping like flies. Fist bumps instead of hugs and handshakes? Not getting the job done. It isn't funny any more.

And now my TG is sick. His version is a winter cold and cough -- not flu (we don't think), for which I thank God. But TG gets sick so seldom. Yesterday it rained hard all day. He stayed under his blanket on the couch instead of going back to church for evening services. That hasn't happened since Skippy was a pup.

I didn't go at all yesterday; I am still coughing so much that the thought of being confined in a pew, unable to splutter and hack loudly and at will, practically brought on a case of the fantods.

As for my schedule, in addition to playing catch-up with appointments, wedding planning will switch into overdrive as we are now only a few weeks out from Andrew and Brittany's big day, followed by Erica and Chad's.

Between those two events, in late March, I will undergo my second (of two, haaahaha) total hip replacement.

The first one -- last March -- was so easy, it was hardly worth mentioning. Recovery was swift and I never felt like a sick person at all. May history repeat itself.

I still don't know what I am wearing for my Mother-of-the-Bride outing in May. I ordered a dress which came last week, but I was so deathly ill that I have yet to do much more than hold it up in front of me.

But I don't think it's going to work. Maybe I'm wrong; I hope so. Because if you think I looked at hundreds of bridesmaids dresses online? I've looked at thousands of MotB gowns. I'm sick of the sight of them.

Meanwhile I think at least my blog is fixed. If you comment on this depressing post, I'll likely see it.

I hope all is well in your world and that neither you nor your loved ones have the flu. Or a cold.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday

The dog days of winter

I promised to share with you how we came to acquire Rizzo.

It's a charming story.

When Javier died last April, I said what lots of recently-bereaved dog owners say: I'll never have another dog. Never. It hurts too much when they die.

But then weeks and months go by, and the dog-longing begins with just missing so much their sweet presence beside you in the chair. Missing their little puppy ways and cute antics. Not to mention their unconditional love.

Kind of like when a sleep-deprived new mother thinks, I can never do this again! But then, in practically no time, she's struck with baby hunger.

Naturally the longing is offset -- for a while, at least -- by the freedom from responsibility.

No dog means never having to worry about whether he's inside or outside, if it's time to take him on walkies, the possibility he'll pick up fleas, giving him baths and clipping his nails, getting his shots updated, how far to go (read: how much to spend) when he needs medical care, and does he really like his new sweater or is he just enduring it?

You know. Things like that. And on and on.

At any rate, and all of the above notwithstanding, three-or-so weeks ago I became afflicted with a serious craving to obtain a new dog. It wasn't the first time, but it was by far the worst time.

I told TG. Lie down until the impulse goes away, was his sage advice.

But he said it with a twinkle and I knew if I went through with it, he would like a new dog as much as me. (I don't mean he'd like the new dog as much as he likes me; I mean he'd like the new dog as much as I would like the new dog.)

A breed we've both admired for years is the Dachshund. I know all of the problems inherent with the breed; trust me. I do. But they're adorable and besides, I was more or less fixated on getting a miniature.

So I began my online research about breeders of miniature doxies in South Carolina and Georgia.

What did I learn? Well. First I learned that a purebred miniature dachshund from a reputable breeder can cost anywhere from nine hundred to twenty-five hundred dollars. 

And up.

Okay. That wasn't exactly within my budget -- you'll learn what that was, later -- but I kept looking and even put out a few inquiries and talked to one or two breeders who had puppies available from new litters.

I spent most of an entire rainy day working on it and went to bed dreaming of soft brown eyes and scritching warm little ears and practically imagining I smelled a whiff of puppy breath. The whole canine yards.

And then I woke up the next morning. It was that extremely cold Saturday we had recently. There was even a dusting of snow.

As I made my coffee I was chuckling inwardly. A DOG? Whatever had I been thinking? Silly idea. Forget it. Or at least table it.

I told TG that he could stop worrying about my having contracted dog fever. He pointed out that at any rate there was no need to rush. You can pick out a dog any time, he said.

I agreed. There are always dogs in need of loving owners. TG left to run errands. I settled in to drink coffee and look at more dogs on the Internet.

?????

And so it was that I stumbled -- I use that word because I have no memory of how I arrived at it -- upon a website that featured dogs in dire need of rescuing. It was one of the dog services outfits in Columbia. One I'd never heard of.

The site said each dog cost seventy-three dollars. Cats were sixty-eight. Idly, while sipping, I scrolled through pictures. And I came to this:

There was a short bio. His name was Stevie. He was a Chihuahua mix, about a year old, and housebroken.

I was ninety-nine percent sure this was my dog. Forget waiting. Waiting is for sissies. I called the number.

The lady who answered was so nice. I asked how they knew Stevie was housebroken. She said the folks who had brought him in to the shelter had found him on the side of the road. They'd kept him for two weeks and reported that he was polite about asking when he needed to go outside.

After learning what time the shelter closed that day, I said thank you and hung up. We had just enough time if we left within the hour. But wait! Was there any need to rush? I mean, was it a life and death situation?

I called back. A different but no less nice lady answered. I asked if, in the event I did not come out that day and claim Stevie, there was any chance he would be euthanized (I wasn't sure they weren't the dog pound).

Oh no. No, no, no, no. Certainly not, she assured me. And they were closed the next day -- Sunday. Chances were pretty good Stevie would still be up for adoption on Monday.

But I had to see Stevie that day. And so we went. The nice ladies told me where to find him -- down a hall and to the left, open the heavy door, look for cage number thirteen.

I'm sure they're doing the best they can with what they've got, but it was awful back there. Cold, dark, cramped, and most unfortunate-smelling.

We found cage number thirteen -- a four-by-four concrete space with a chain-link gate and a steel slide-up doggy door leading outside. Stevie came through that door just as we approached. Another small dog -- Waffles, according to the sign -- also occupied the tiny cell.

I opened the gate. Waffles wandered out. TG caught him and put him back, and picked up Stevie. He handed Stevie to me and I took him in my arms and we left that terrible place and went out to the Get Acquainted Area. They had given me a lead for him and I took him outside for a two-minute walk.

I picked him up and carried him back inside. I looked at TG, who only smiled. I went to the desk where one of the nice ladies looked at me. Yes? she said.

Yes, I said.

That will be thirty-five dollars, she said. 

?????

THAT was my budget. (Turns out there was a special on Stevies that day.) I grabbed my wallet and handed her a fifty (yes; my wallet is stuffed with fifties) before she changed her mind.

Stevie -- who by the way is half Chihuahua and half Dachshund, or a Chiweenie -- came with recent neuter surgery (December 28th), all of his shots for a full year, and a microchip. He'd been tested for heart worms (negative) and they sold me a year's worth of medication to keep him that way, for only thirty-eight additional dollars.

A few technicalities later, Stevie was mine. I held him all the way home. He seemed a tiny bit scared but not enough that he cried. We stopped at the pet store to buy him some supplies, including soothing oatmeal shampoo, kibble, a crate, a leash with matching harness, food and water dishes, and a chew toy.

At home he got a bath and we settled in to snuggle. Erica came over to meet Stevie, who by that time had been renamed Rizzo. (First Baseman for the Cubs, my favorite player on my favorite team. Our previous dog, Javier "Javy," had been named by the kids after the Atlanta Braves Catcher.)

He really is housebroken. Rizzo's worst flaw -- other than, mostly he refuses to come when called -- is that he seems to think he's a squirrel. As in, he incessantly nibbles on acorns to the point that the back deck was becoming heavily littered with shells. 

TG and I performed an intense acorn clean-up as they are toxic to dogs. But if there is an acorn out there, Rizzo will find it. He begs to go outside for that very reason, but mostly I watch him carefully so as to save him from himself.

Rizzo is everything I dreamed of in a new dog. He's young enough to still be cute like a puppy, but old enough to enjoy lots of cuddling and long naps and getting massaged and nibbling at my fingers while we watch TV and just in general being there to love on and play with.

He sleeps all night in his crate without complaint. He's clever about moving the baby gate so we do have to be creative with that when going out and leaving him alone, so that he's confined to the kitchen.

I have a dog. I love my adorable thirty-five-dollar dog. I wish everyone a dog as precious as my darling Chiweenie, Rizzo.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesdog

Make America Great Again

Years ago I acquired a book entitled The Lüscher Color Test.

Within the book are eight small oblongs of cardboard, each a different color.

What you do is, you line up the pieces of variously-colored cardboard and you look at them. Then you begin choosing the colors in the order in which they appeal to you.

You can't spend too much time fretting about the actual shades of the colors. They're not what you might expect. No matter; they are what they are.

The idea is to simply and honestly choose the eight colors and line them up in the order in which you like them, from best to least. Someone (maybe even you) makes careful notes of your selections (the cards are numbered on the back).

Then you do it a second time, without attempting to consciously make the identical selections you made the first time. Again, notes are made of your picks in correct order.

At the end of all this, either you or a friend can consult the part of the book that is designed to explain what your selections mean.

Because yes; they mean something. Turns out (if you buy into the whole thing, and I do), they mean a lot. It's actually an intensely revealing psychological test, not just a parlor game.

That's all I'll tell you about the Lüscher Color Test. If you want to know more, buy the book and have fun.

The reason I'm conveying all of this to you today is this:

The test's author, Dr. Max Lüscher, insists that the colors you reject are every bit as important as those you accept.

In other words, just as much can be read into the color(s) you pick last, as the one(s) you pick first.

Here's the takeaway.

On election day I rejected a candidate to exactly the same degree that I selected one. In fact, I would have voted for just about anyone rather than cast a vote for Hillary Clinton.

I would've let my hand wither and drop from my arm before doing that.

But that doesn't mean I was firmly aboard the Trump Train at that time. I had my reservations -- as in, some nagging doubts that this unpredictable, unscripted man was the best choice to be the forty-fifth President of the United States.

But no one else presented themselves as a better choice, and I was adamantly, vehemently #NeverHillary.

Besides, there's something appealing about a politically-incorrect loose cannon. To me, anyway.

And it's not as though anyone expected him to win.

During the tumultuous election cycle, my TG (a Cruz man until that dream went by the wayside) made a wise observation:

Let's say you have a dozen eggs. Six are rotten and six are cracked. You can do nothing with rotten eggs, but you can do any number of positive things with cracked eggs.

Cakes and omelets come to mind.

Mr. Trump may be slightly cracked, but Hillary Clinton is rotten. It's practically her middle name. She's all the rotten eggs. There's not one thing you can do except throw her out.

I've grown to love Donald Trump. It happened before the election; I was so thrilled on election night, I could not sleep. I could not stop rejoicing and no, it wasn't only because it wouldn't be Hillary. It was because it would be Mr. Trump.

My doubts were gone, and for all his faults, they remain a thing of the past.

Looking back, I believe the turning point for me began with listening, riveted, to Mr. Trump's seventy-five-minute speech at the Republican National Convention in July, during which he graciously accepted his party's nomination.

Here is one minute of it:

When he said I am your voice, I felt both elated and grateful. Finally. Finally I may have a President who speaks for me. It had been a long, long time since I felt that way.

My elation has sustained itself and it has grown. Today I will be watching every moment of the inauguration. Tonight, we are having a party with family and friends, to celebrate.

I'll wear my Trump tshirt and my two commemorative buttons.

All day (and every day) I will be praying for Mr. Trump, for his safety, for those who work so hard to ensure he is kept safe, and for his family.

Most of all, I will pray for America, that the destruction of the past eight years may by God's grace be reversed, and that our beloved country will truly be made great again.

As President Trump says: Greater than she has ever been before.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday :: Happy Inauguration :: God Bless America

New year. New day. New dog.

Meet Rizzo the Chiweenie.

I'll tell you all about how he came to be ours, next week.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend