nibbles.

This blog is fuller of leftovers than a hoarder's fridge. I'll attempt to make a meal of them, as part of a larger attempt to fill my mind's stomach.

Sometime last summer

I don't believe people ever truly eat calamari because they like calamari. I believe they only enjoy the dipping sauce and the breading, and the fact that they are putting squid in their mouths is something they're willing to overlook in their pursuit of deep-fried appetizers.



"C-sections are sad. I've never seen one where all the puppies made it."

A normally bubbly senior technician makes this morose proclamation as we're prepping the surgical suite for the arrival of an emergency cesarean section. The owner called about ten minutes ago. Leia the miniature Dachshund has been in labor for two and a half hours with nary a puppy to be seen. X-rays taken a month or so ago revealed 6-7 puppies resting comfortably in her uterus; if not one of those precious little Dachslets has made an appearance yet, we're at the point where surgery might make the difference between life and multiple deaths.

Trembling on a steel exam table, Leia looks more like a wire-haired basketball than a dog. Her belly is impossibly swollen, her normal weight tripled, veins standing out like writhing worms against the turgid earth-toned skin. She's straining with all her might, but nothing is produced save a foul brownish liquid. Something is blocking the birth canal. Dr. Homie - his first cesarean! No pressure, though, of course - gently probes the orifice in question, and makes his proclamation. "There's a puppy turned sideways. We need to go to surgery."

ed. note: all the puppies made it. I photographed them afterward. The mother is glassy-eyed, in a morphine daze, probably just glad to not be feeling anything anymore, not even the grasping mouths of the six healthy bundles of soft squeaking life latched onto her; the bundles themselves are wriggling, wormlike, all crinkled ears and silky fur and tiny jelly-bean toes, taking their first breakfast in great gulps, unaware of their dramatic entrance, unaware even of light or sound (eyes and ears tightly shut for weeks still as they are), aware only of warmth and sustenance and brother and sister. 

Sometime in July

There is a fun adventurous thing that happens sometimes where I'm all

Let's go to bed. It's late.

and then I'm all

1. The entire internet.
2. My best friend lives in Switzerland. What time is it in Switzerland? Is he awake yet? Let's send him a text. 
3. I'm kinda hungry.
4. This movie is due back at the library tomorrow. I should probably watch it.
5. No response yet? Fucker must be sleeping in. Oh no, what if he's ill? I should text again and ask if he is feeling OK.
6. Maybe I'm not that hungry. Maybe I want a beer.
7. I don't have any beer. OK, I'm hungry. 

I am a lucky woman. No one wants me to have children.

For many of my unlucky sex, it's considered a waiting game from the minute they manifest ovarian activity; when's the baby coming? Oh, I'm not sure I want to be a mother. Don't worry, you'll change your mind. You'll be sure soon enough, once you realize it's your entire

purpose
in this world.
literally, biologically, it's what you DO

so you ought to get down to the very important business of Doing It.



..but not until after marriage and with a pre-approved heteronormative partner if you'd be so kind thank you goodnight.

ed. note: he is still my best friend, but he has moved away from Switzerland and to parts nearer yet equally objectionable in some ways, and he does not require me to have babies, only to occasionally rub his shoulders in their particular sore spots, and to participate in partnered crossword puzzles, and to let him accept my idiosyncrasies with more grace than I myself do. 

8.11

Friday: hunting food
Saturday: high AF, amazing dinner
Sunday: mushrooms, sassy waiter
Monday: recovery, chill'n, Indonesian food, UH OH
Tuesday: space cake on the plane was the best idea

ed. note: this was the bones of the body of an account of a fragment of my trip to Europe. I invite you to use it to construct your own account of events that transpired.

10.26

Nothing happened yesterday. Read all about it today.

On Friday we got lunch at Sullivan Street Bakery. This bakery has the unique distinction of being chock-full of BREAD, glorious BREAD, which is my favorite. I got a sandwich that involved soft-boiled egg, broccoli, and plentiful cheeses, and devoured it messily, joyfully, with little regard for the well-being of my clothing.

Later, after K had finished cursing at his computer for the day and I'd had a beer, we browsed apartment listings in Manhattan. Here is what I learned from that experience: whoever is photographing apartments for lease in Manhattan has a severe fetish for corners and radiators. They don't seem terribly interested in providing an actual sense of the space, but holy cows, if you wanna see some pictures of the corners of rooms, they have got you COVERED, son.

Saturday I was born 29 years prior to that date.

Nothing happened yesterday. I reveled in it.

Today, we look at apartments. May God have mercy on our souls, feet, and pocketbooks.

ed. note: there are indecipherable things happening here involving dates. All that needs to be known is that Sullivan Street Bakery makes incredible sandwiches and you ought to try them if you're ever nearby. That's the take-home message here. 

11.4

It always feels like these trips last simultaneously forever, and not long enough.

ed. note: this was very likely all that needed to be said at this point. I consider this entry complete.

day 1

For my birthday, my brother bought me a plane ticket to New York City. Seeing as how I happen to find New York City about as pleasant as a plague of locusts at a dinner party, this might at first glance seem to be a gag gift bordering on the malicious. However, my beloved K, my CFF, the gentleman and scholar who is my favorite person in the entire universe, having surpassed even Stephen Fry and Neil deGrasse Tyson (the nail in their coffin was when K gifted me with a pair of socks bearing a songbird pattern and the words "Pimpin Ain't Easy)... this freewheeling man-about-town has of late transferred his residence yet again, and now bases his nefarious operations where else but in the introvert-paralyzing, subway-redolent, admittedly-adorable-dog-jam-packed borough of Manhattan.

Aw, dammit.

So I went to New York City for a couple of weeks. Let's start that story now.

We went to Chelsea Market for lunch today, having, as usual, slept through any hour that could reasonably be called breakfast. Chelsea Market is currently decorated for Halloween. A waterfall of blood pours down one wall, which is almost certainly a health code violation. Deformed infants pop from carriages with tinny wails, observed by lackadaisical children who probably saw scarier stuff on the subway ride over. Cobwebs dangle, threatening to drop into cups of gelato and artisanal sandwiches. We ate "Japanese-inspired Mexican" at Takumi. Whoever received this inspiration was probably quite high on a number of cool drugs, but I can't complain about the food, because it was a burrito that contained edamame, and who the hell am I to complain about something like that?

K abandoned me to go to work and make them fat staxx. I was left alone, full of burrito, confused, lost, purposeless except for one burning, singular motive - I knew I had to find somewhere to buy toilet paper, because at the apartment, we were all out.

Here is something fun about grocery shopping in Manhattan: it is the worst experience ever and you should never do it, you should just starve and die and go away. I ended up buying toilet paper, paper towels (cleanliness!) and a two-pack of toothbrushes (value!) at a CVS, paying double what I'd have paid at the Trader Joe's in Chelsea for the breathtaking luxury of not having to stand in a line that wound LITERALLY TWO THIRDS OF THE WAY AROUND THE STORE, YOU GUYS. IT'S OUT OF CONTROL. THIS WAS AT 3:00 PM ON A WEEKDAY. SORRY FOR THE FULL CAPS, BUT COME ON, THAT'S JUST OUTRAGEOUS, WOULDN'T YOU AGREE?

The act of obtaining personal necessities robbed me of all my remaining strength and energy. I returned back to K's swank, albeit sterile, high-rise corporate housing (permanent lodging TBD, will probably be less schmancy, but considerably more personable, god willing) to complain about everything to all of you people, and drink the beer that I bought at this store that reminded me of Madison Market on cocaine. This beer is called "Raging Bitch," which is why I bought it. Here in Manhattan, I am a quietly raging bitch, going about my day seething on the inside in a powerfully West Coast style that no one here understands.

Briefly.

All other things being equal, there's not much we vet assistants enjoy more than bursting open a nice, juicy cat abscess.

In a little less than two weeks, I go to New York to visit my clever beau, and to go on missions throughout the city, exploring, prowling in search of carousels and high-quality pastry. Until then, I'm working and working, distractedly watching the occasional movie, cuddling as many animals as will hold still long enough, and acting casual.

Tonight's film, I watch in the apartment of my best girl and her best man. They've got a spacious Columbia City two-bedroom with funky furniture and art on the walls. One cat, Jibs, is aged and haughty. Her huge, lamplike eyes and alert, vaguely judgmental ears give her the appearance of a conservative owl who's just seen something that offends it on a deeply personal level. The other cat, Hoagie, greets everyone from family to strangers at the door, wagging his tail like a dog. Picking him up is like picking up a warm, hairy, delighted sack of potatoes - heavy, soft, and thrilled just to be loved by you.

Tomorrow: declaws, hugs, the word "sir."

grüzi.

My arrival in Zurich was timely, inasmuch as it coincided with the highest point of my physician-sanctioned drug trip. Plagued with claustrophobia and a general fear of fun, I load myself with sedatives any time I need to spend more than an hour aboard a plane. For international flights, that means usually about 3 doses' worth of Happy Fun Sleepy Time. This flight, though, I mistimed, thinking it was longer than it was. So, one minute, I was happily stoned out of my mind, watching Avengers: Age of Ultron and wondering if a dose of Valium would maybe mellow James Spader out a bit; the next, I was expected to disembark a plane (!), navigate the Zurich airport (!!), get through customs (!!!), and locate my CFF in Ankunft 2 (!!??!!). Sounds impossible, I know, but you know what? MADE IT, SUCKERS. Can't keep a good dog down, not even with a healthy faceful of benzodiazepenes.

After a really revolting welcome-to-Zurich-I-like-you public makeout session, K hauled me back to his apartment, where I performed the ritual post-international-travel showering that feels just slightly holier than a baptism, and then fell asleep and drooled all over the bed. I awoke to K shaking me in a companionable manner and demanding to take me grocery shopping. The grocery store in Zurich is a wonderful place full of ice cream and bread; we collected delicious goods, went home, ate tremendous sandwiches, and went to sleep at an outrageous hour.

At this point, I made what is surely the first of many revelations of this three-week period of companionship: K snores like nothing of this earth when sleeping on his back or RIGHT side, but only produces a sort of quiet, whuffling hum when on his LEFT side. That being said, who cares, because he refuses to sleep on his left side for longer than a few minutes. I've just had to start pretending I'm in bed next to a Mastiff with a head cold. As soon as I think of him as a dog, I stop finding it irritating.

Yesterday, K went to work, and I was SUPPOSED to work from home and make mac and cheese for dinner. Instead, after K left, I popped into the shower, where I noticed a mild pain in my head. I shrugged it off, dressed, prepared for the day, noticed the pain was intensifying a bit; laid down in bed, picked up my phone, looked at the screen, and experienced a sensation not unlike having a javelin thrown into my right eye by a screaming jungle pygmy. I carefully set my phone back down, closed my eyes, and slept the sleep of the migraine-damned for about six hours, plagued with dreams of killing people I loved, waking periodically to pain that was worsening rather than improving. It was, I was quite certain, The End.

K got home around 7:00. Ignoring my pleas to be left alone to die, he forced me to take Advil and drink water, then rubbed my back and told me stories until I was capable of sitting up without vomiting or screaming. Since mac and cheese was a lost cause by then, we settled for more sandwiches, somewhat smaller in scope than the previous night, and a liter of ice cream split between us, eaten methodically, yet companionably, in silent reverie on the couch, with our legs over one another's, just to maintain connection.

Again we stayed up too late. I awoke at 6:30 AM with K wrapped around me like a cozy, friendly python, and pondered my personal circumstances, feeling lucky, seeing life spread out in front of me like a patchwork quilt.

Today we ate French toast and bacon for brunch, and when I say "we," I do mean I ate bacon. It was delicious and sustainably sourced because this is Switzerland and I regret absolutely nothing because daaaaayuuuuum it was delicious. We laid down for a bit, talked comfortably about uncomfortable things; and then it was now, and now I have to make macaroni and cheese, finally, because there's not a lot that's nicer than cooking for someone you really really really like.

I am glad to be here.

jet.

Into an airport, checked in, through security, and to my gate in 20 minutes. I do believe that this, fellas and dames, is a personal record.

It's also more than likely entirely attributable to the fact that this is PDX, the tamer, more civilian-minded cousin of SEA, replacing SEA's fast-striding Business Swagger with a relaxed, it's-8-AM-but-sure-the-brewery-is-open-I-mean-why-not stroll. I used to work at this airport, 12 years ago, at the ripe old age of 16. Back then, TSA was more an afterthought than the wacky, lurching hybrid of rape and inconvenience it is now. I worked for a company called Huntleigh Dispatch. We formed the First Line of Defense in front of the TSA goons' scary monitors, and our sole responsibility was matching people's IDs with their boarding passes for eight hours straight. Three days a week, from 4AM to noon, I stood in sensible shoes (Reeboks, now classic, should've saved them) and scratchy blue polyester pants, admiring the passports of beautiful, tired people from exotic locales, wondering if I'd ever be slick and dangerous enough to get a hold of one of those puppies for myself.

I'm pleased to report that no matter how you parsed that last sentence - whether it was one of the passports or one of the people I was so eager to possess - I have, at this late stage in my irresponsible life, ended up a proud owner of both; though one of the two would probably prove somewhat more retaliatory if they heard me refer to myself as such. (Yes, I have a very aggressive passport.) Indeed, it's because of my passport and my tall, eccentric, yet compelling reason to use it that I'm currently at this airport, breathing its unique fragrance (huurgh) and wondering why the F I'm always either so early or so late and can never just be on goddamn time for once.

YES, you heard me! IT'S VACATION and I'M GOING TO EUROPE AGAIN. Probably for the last time in a while, as K has once again caught a bad case of wanderlust and decided to pursue his unique destiny in New York City rather than in the quaint, yet somehow sterile confines of overpriced, underwhelming Zurich. Because he has not yet done all the traveling his bizarre amalgamation of personality traits demands, he has invited me to come hang out with him and tool about the country for a few weeks. I have agreed to do so, because I find him good-looking and charming, am consistently impressed by his banter, and admire his exquisite taste in restaurants.

We will spend a few days in Zurich after I arrive, me more than likely refusing to be extricated from bed except to watch Adventure Time and consume ice cream and liquor, before visiting Amsterdam, where I will snicker self-importantly at their oh-so-fancy "legal marijuana" and probably fall into a canal. Then it's on to Vienna to visit the world's oldest zoo, admire the pandas in all their sexually insufficient glory, and sweat nervously every time I see someone who looks like someone I might have known from Salzburg. Finally, we go on to Budapest, to bathe (separately, PG-ratedly) in what I've heard are some sort of famous baths, and probably go clubbing until our eardrums fall out and our legs turn to string cheese. Then we finish up in Zurich, taking a weekend to recover and regret everything before K heads to Belarus to reclaim his ancient birthright as its ruler (or visit family or something, whatever, I don't know) and I return to the great state of Washington fragmented into a million jet-lagged, emotionally-perilous pieces and attempt to go to work the morning after I fly in.

It's gonna be damn great. Stay tuned.

tube.

Wayne is a wrathful cat. We conjecture that it might be because she's fat; it might be because she's got a dude name; it might be because she was born under a bad sign. One way or another, when she boards at our hospital, Wayne is a sort of sport unto herself, with bored assistants taking it upon themselves to get uncomfortably close to her kennel and crow "WAYNE! KITTYKITTY! WHO'S A KITTY?!", thus prompting a chorus of hissing so enraged that it often sends Wayne into a sneezing fit of wrath.

Last week, when Wayne was boarding, I noticed that she has a habit of staring at the right-hand wall of her kennel. I remarked on it offhandedly; the senior assistant to whom I brought it up speculated that she was probably musing on the potential edibility of her next-door feline neighbor. We shared a hearty chuckle and moved on, but it was too late - Kit had overheard. Kit is a quirky young lady who's headed off to veterinary school in the fall, and let me tell you right now, you want to get a pet in four to six years and have Kit be that pet's vet, because good lord, are you and that pet about to have some fun.

Within moments, Kit had whipped up a solution to Wayne's blank-wall-staring problem - a television "screen" made of paper, permanently stuck on the same pencil-drawn channel, which appears to be showing a program about a happy rabbit.

Kit placed this television on the right-hand wall of Wayne's kennel, and ever since then, Wayne has watched TV, meditatively, with great focus, pausing in her observations only to spit brief wrath at passing doctors and nurses. When we enter the treatment area in the morning, we ask, "What's Wayne watching today?" Kit, or one of her cohorts, answers, "Same thing as yesterday. She never changes the channel." And the day moves forward.

mail.

My life is packed to bursting with tiny, inexplicable joys, floating up and bursting like soap bubbles, sparkling seconds of sudden clarity, the bright revelation that sorrow and suffering are not the core around which the Earth is built, but rather the by-products of its revolutions, energetic waste products that we must dispose of by processing them appropriately, not by wallowing in them and proclaiming them to be only sustenance upon which we live.

It is the size of these joys - molecular - as compared to the size of the sorrows - ponderous, lumbering behemoths - that skews perspective. A headcount reveals that the joys outnumber the sorrows a thousand to one, but that's no help when your electron microscope isn't handy and all you can see in front of you is the weary black hulk of a broken heart, matted, shaggy coat soaking up all that soap-bubble light until you can't even remember what it was to be clean.

My father wrote me a letter. It's not that we're not close, because we are, but it's more the occasional-text close rather than the extended-correspondence close, ya dig? And yes, texts count, for me, as being close, because it takes EFFORT to write one of those darn things, really wears on the thumbs, I find. Everyone in my generation, take note: the arthritis will strike you texting-fingers-foremost. You heard it here first.

In the middle of a letter of profound emotional intensity, heavy with love and care for his only daughter, dysfunctional though she may be, my father writes:

While the circumstances of our difficult times are uniquely our own, and our respective responses are determined by countless variables, we share many common elements. Not the least of those is jeans... at least that's what everyone says. I don't know why our mutual preference for blue, slim-fit, pre-washed should make a difference, but it does, I guess.

Read these sentences a couple of times, oh you who are probably a regular taker-in of this very blog, and you may recognize them as exactly the sort of thing, potentially word-for-word, that I might write, given the proper circumstance.

We love the way we have learned to. My mother taught me the value of emotion for its own sake - the headiness of being able to give another person your whole heart and revel in the giving, the challenge of simultaneously loving oneself and loving the rest of the world, the need to value everything, regardless of its difficulty or horror. I struggle still to internalize my mother's lessons. My brother does a far better job, which is, I suppose, why he and I are so closely bonded - I see in him the kind of love I hope someday to be able to give.

My father, on the other hand, taught me the words for love. The words are long, polysyllabic, colored with metaphor and analogy. Occasionally they're run-on sentences, though always properly punctuated. They are typed on a word processor and signed in a near-illegible slanted script. They are what comes out of your mouth when you allow yourself to take someone's hand, look them in the eye, and tell them how you feel. They fluctuate wildly between soaring proclamations of unconditional care and multilayered puns just to take the edge off. Why would you put this kind of effort into talking if you didn't feel like your conversational partner was worth every phoneme?

When you're talking love, words hurt to say sometimes, an utterly physical pain, a stab in the throat and gut, a full-body cramp. Letting them out can be like draining an abscess, pouring them forth until there's nothing left, and then sometimes the person to whom you spoke simply stares blankly, they were expecting something else, a hug? a kiss? a what? something that means more than words, you think, but there is no such thing. Not everyone speaks the language of words when it comes to love. This was a shocking realization for me, and one I am not sure I'll ever be able to come to terms with in its entirety. I can strive, though, and I will, because what is life without effort, what is speech without struggling to find the words?



Words are what I use because they are the truest thing I know - words, always words, nothing but words, I am so full of words I could give them to you forever and still have more for you, only for you, there are words I have never said that I am saving specifically to say to you. 

goodbye.

A little dog died yesterday.

He was a Pug, a classic, classy specimen of his breed; deep, perpetually worried face folds, a tight ice-cream-cone curl of a tail, ears like crushed velvet. He came in first on Saturday, vomiting, inappetent, and again yesterday morning, worse now, lethargic, painful, snapping when his belly was touched. Friday night, he had eaten part of a towel. Inconclusive x-rays notwithstanding, it was time to proceed to surgery.

I held his guts while the doctor sliced so carefully into them, extricating the foul-smelling chunk of "linear foreign body" that filled him from small intestine to colon. I kept an eye on his heart rate and respiration; I was pleased to see it remain so steady, bracycephalic (literally, "short-headed," used in medical terminology to denote flat-faced breeds such as Pugs, Bulldogs, Mastiffs, and the like) dogs being the anesthetic risks that they are. When surgery was done, I helped clean him up, put him away in a kennel, still intubated, snuggled in blankets and hot-water bottles, another assistant assigned to monitor him while I attended to the tidying of the surgical suite.

When the commotion started, it took me a second to notice. The assistant monitoring the Pug noticed that his breathing was shallow; she called over a doctor, and the doctor couldn't find a heartbeat.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of Atropine, Dopram, Epinephrine, chest compressions. Fifteen minutes hooked to pure oxygen, yet another assistant manipulating the bag, breathing for the patient who could not. Fifteen minutes of doctors cursing, assistants tight-lipped and silent, the hospital holding its breath in sympathy. Fifteen minutes of watching him go grayer, watching his flanks refuse to rise, his eyes and tongue dry slowly under the surgical lights.

He died there, under our hands, for no reason at all, a little dog who was sick, who went to sleep and never woke up.

The doctor made the call to the owner. We swaddled the little dog in blankets, placed him tenderly into a kennel, prepared him for a viewing, should the owner desire. A junior assistant wept quietly to herself while washing surgical tools. The rest of us knew better - these things happen, we said, especially to bracycephalic breeds, especially during traumatic surgery, arrhythmia, drug reactions, he was septic, a hundred reasons why the dog who should have survived, did not, a hundred justifications, a hundred reasons to go about your day, a hundred reasons not to cry.

When I left the hospital, he was still there, swaddled, silent, cold. Later that night, I crept into bed, buried my face, and wailed into the pillow, enraged, confused, shocked, appalled by nature and reality and the horror of my profession, the vile sucker punches that Fate sometimes delivers us when we're only in the ring fighting to save a life.

I went into work this morning as usual. I worked the day without a hitch. I remember an angry tabby cat; a Labrador who leaked urine post-surgically and whose bladder I had to express manually in his kennel while he gazed at me apologetically with morphine-dull brown eyes; a Shepherd cross who cried and cried after her biopsy, quieting only when I held her head and soothed her as her additional sedative took effect, sending her into restless, but blissfully painless, half-sleep.

When I got home from work this evening, I took a bath, sat down at my desk, did some web development, and then cried, and cried, and cried, for a little dog who should still be alive, whose tail was like a Dairy Queen soft-serve ice-cream, whose ears were soft like velvet, whose name I can't even state here due to client confidentiality, but whose name I will always remember, because he was the first dog whose surgery I assisted with who subsequently died without any reason to die, and because he, as all dogs are, was beautiful, and deserved to live forever, and because I love him.

R, wherever you are - Dog Heaven, a new dog body, another place - I hope you are loving it. I hope you can breathe freely, as you never could when you were a Pug, handsome though you were. I want you to know how fiercely you were loved in your last days. I hope you had a wonderful life last time around, and will have an even better one this time, if you are indeed going for another round. I barely knew you, but I adored you. I can only imagine how beloved you were by your family and friends.

R, you were a good dog. We miss you. We won't forget you.

childhood.

People who walk into my kitchen sometimes get confused and think I have a child.

I'm an insatiable refrigerator-art connoisseur. Anything of interest gets pinned up there, with magnets or, once I've run out of those, Scotch tape, taking its place in the prestigious art gallery of Stuff I Like to Look At When I'm Making Toast.

Currently holding pride of place are two mixed-medium pieces, combining crayon with colored pencil, depicting the following:

1. A group of Chinese giant salamanders, rendered in fetching purple, wearing party hats, sharing space with a collective of bees, also hat-bearing, entitled "Happy Birthday Emmy,"

2. The adorably tragic face of a pug, entitled "Pug."

These artworks were gifted to me by my friend Fern, who is nine. I am consistently astounded that a nine-year-old, who's got important stuff to do, including but not limited to Minecraft modding and inventing a dragon language, takes time out of her busy schedule to create original works for little old me.

When people draw attention to them, I assert their origin with the sort of submissive dignity that I feel is situationally appropriate, but the joke's on them if they think that attitude extends any deeper than theatricality. Secretly, I value these drawings more than I value my laptop, my TV, my $200 20-eye Doc Martens that I've had since I was gender-queer, and any of my jewelry except, coincidentally, the necklace Fern made for me in craft class, which has bee beads and a speech-bubble pendant that says "OMG."

Getting caught up in adulthood is all too easy. It is important to have friends who bring one back down to earth, and encourage one to notice bees, party hats, Chinese giant salamanders, the captivating colorburst of crayon and colored pencil made one.

dichotomy.

I love language. I love dogs. I love the feel of mechanical keyboards. I love writing rather than typing. I love vintage Littlest Pet Shop toys. I love my cat. I love squishing into a tiny little cozy ball under my comforter when it's cold out. I love spreading out like melting butter on my sheets when it's hot out. I love to read. I love making schedules. I love to write. I love bourbon. I love oversize blueberry muffins. I love being able to fix computers. I love the hoodie I'm wearing right now, which I recently realized I've had for over ten years. I love pens that write really, really smoothly. I love to shower. I love the smell of my Old Spice deodorant. I love my tattoos.

I hate feeling like I talk too much. I hate it when dogs whine incessantly. I hate that nasty crunchy feeling when crumbs get stuck in a keyboard. I hate when my writing gets spidery and drugged-looking because my wrists are starting to cramp. I hate the fact that I misplaced a giant tub of Littlest Pet Shop toys sometime over the last fifteen years, and might never find it. I hate cat litter stuck to my feet. I hate having to get out of my cozy bed into a freezing apartment. I hate hot nights sweating under the pressure of too many blankets and not enough sleep. I hate bad books. I hate never having enough time. I hate not knowing what to write about. I hate being drunk. I hate the fact that I will never stop worrying about my weight or how much I eat, no matter how wise, trusting, or thin I am. I hate not being able to fix computers. I hate pens that don't have any damn ink in them. I hate being dirty. I hate the fact that the smell of my Old Spice deodorant will never stop reminding me of someone I once adored, who wore the same deodorant as me. I hate my body.

For every action, there is, always has been, and always will be an equal and opposite reaction. The words of love are often simpler, more concise, more acceptable than the words of hate. It's important to acknowledge the existence of both, as denial serves no purpose whatsoever. It's also important to strive to make the first paragraph longer, more detailed, more emotive, and generally of more import than the second.

I will continue to strive.

hooked.

When not horsing around with web dev gigs from the comfort of my thrift-shop desk, I play ringmaster to a an entirely different sort of dog-and-pony show. Yes, those two words on my "about" page aren't just remnants of a bygone era; I work five days a week as a veterinary assistant at a full-service animal hospital, and let me tell you, son, the shit I deal with as a developer at least doesn't stain quite as badly as the shit I deal with in my fur-covered niche of the medical field.

Confidentiality rules mean I need to be quite a bit more privacy-conscious when writing about my work experiences at the hospital, but I don't see why I can't share a few careful anecdotes with y'all, especially when they're just so freaking entertaining, so, here goes.

Along with our vaccine protocols, we administer regular doses to our canine patients of a broad-spectrum dewormer called Pyrantel pamoate. It's a thick yellow paste, flavored, I'm told, of cake batter. I was told this by a fellow assistant who offhandedly mentioned to me once that he doses himself with Pyrantel every few months, "because I figure, hell, you can never be too careful, right?"

At first peek, this endeavor, the endeavor of asking a dog to consume something flavored like dessert, sounds like a walk in the park. I ask you, those of you who have dogs - what would your dog do if you offered him or her a spoonful of cake batter? You don't even need to waste your time replying, because I know good and dang well what that dog would do. They'd nom that stuff so fast they'd send the spoon flying - or, if they were a Labrador, they'd swallow the spoon, too, just to make sure they got the last bits.

Now, I ask you, what would Timmy the Hypothetical Lab do if, instead of a spoon, you offered him his liquid Duncan Hines in a syringe? And also, you're pressed for time, so it's important Timmy noms quickly, and also, you happen to be syringing Timmy his yum-yums in the middle of, say, a Middle Eastern war zone? NOW you've got a more accurate picture of what it's like to try and deliver a dose of Pyrantel to Timmy, the squirming, kicking, foaming hellbeast who would RATHER DIE WITH HONOR THAN DRINK THE YELLOW DOOM-OOZE YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO BUTCHER ME WITH, TATTOOED LADY

I've got to admit, it's not always exactly like that. Like medications themselves, resistance comes in flavors. Take, for example, Mack the Shetland Sheepdog, a visitor to the hospital today. Mack accepted his vaccines, his toenail trim, and the embarrassment of a rectal temperature with the dignity of a true purebred, but, when it came time for his Pyrantel dose, he accepted the proffered syringe, even made a show of not flinging his head violently about as I depressed the plunger - then, once the syringe was empty, he looked me dead in the eye and spat the paste right into my face. Right, if I'm being accurate, into my own mouth, which happened, probably due to my casually commenting "He's being so good for this!" to be stupidly open.

Good news, readers. If I had hookworms before, within 24-48 hours, I definitely won't have them anymore.

Another of today's hospital patrons, sensitive Lizzie the English Mastiff, simply froze in horror for all of her treatments. When Pyrantel made its way into the equation, Lizzie lowered her head and allowed the liquid to dribble sadly out of her jowls, taking no action to either rid herself of the inconvenience or participate in its intake. Lizzie just didn't damn well want any part of this whole fiasco, that's all.

Snowflake the West Highland White Terrier was one of the aforementioned head-flingers, spattering the assistants, walls, table, and neighboring countries with cake-battery goodness. Monkey the Papillon gritted his teeth so tightly it was physically impossible to pry them open, and when we tried, he emitted a horrifying squeal and tried to apply said teeth to my hand. This earned Monkey a fashionable stint in a muzzle and the ignobility of Pyrantel delivered into a corner of his clamped-shut mouth, while all the while he raged, scrabbled, and bubbled golden foam. After it was all over, of course, we removed the muzzle and Monkey pranced happily back out to his devoted owners, assuring them with his high-flung tail and cake-flavored kisses that he DEFINITELY won that round.

Yes, after a day spent squirting all manner of substances into every imaginable mammal orifice, it's easy to go home feeling like a rapacious monster.

When King walked through the door, I was pretty sure at least I'd be able to hand off the mantle of "monster." King's fluffy mane of thick red hair and startling-to-the-ineducated blue tongue marked him as what is, in my book, the most grievous of mixed breeds - that which includes Chow Chow in its genetic grab bag. Chows are notorious among dog professionals for their poor behavior around strangers. Ask any vet assistant what to do with a Chow or Chow mix, and "muzzle" will be one of the first ten words out of their mouth, guaranteed. The second I laid eyes on King, I was already mentally fitting him for said muzzle, and planning how I'd get that syringe of goodness down his gullet without losing >1 finger ( =< 1 was too much to hope for.)

Imagine my shock when King accepted the syringe with not so much as a flick of the falsely cyanotic tongue, obligingly swallowing as I gently filled his tummy with liquid pastry. When all was said and done, King sported nary a fleck of yellow upon his chestnut whiskers, and I boasted ten intact fingers, even after counting twice.

After 10+ years of work in the pet care field, dogs, like CSS and IE9, continue to surprise me. Also, if anyone's on the prowl, I'm single, and hookworm-free.

exas

Anxiety is a wonderful, fascinating condition that causes those who cope with it to occasionally go two or more weeks without checking their mail, because there's always a chance that there will be something absolutely horrifying in there.

Yesterday I checked my mail for the first time in two weeks, and I found the following:

• Something about car insurance
• Seattle Public Utilities bill for $7
• Card from my mother extolling me to "stay true to [my] path and day by day, all will be well." Check for student loan payment was enclosed.
• Card from my small, daring friend-for-life Breezy, featuring a kitty in a raincoat, proclaiming that "One day at a time, we will figure this bullshit life out."
• Postcard from K's visit to France, cover art a vintage travel poster, informing me that his trip "didn't change my life, how unfortunate. But I'm about to go have a huge ice cream, so I guess that's still pretty good."

Where I'm going with this is the same place I tend to go with these things, which is that it is rarely as bad as I expect. 

Four hours of web dev today, three of it at the hospital. The more I see of WordPress, the more I appreciate it as a reprieve from actual coding while simultaneously resenting it for encouraging me to build a skill set with zero applications outside of its own twisted little universe. 

I'm rewatching the entire series of Friday Night Lights in the background while I work. Texas is so much more romantic on Netflix than it will ever be in real life. I still want to go to the Texas State Fair, though; preferably with Moon Base so that I can say "one of my exes came with me to Texas." 

sunlight.

Pray for Seattle as we suffer through a 70+ degree spring day. We don't know what to do with ourselves, you see. Do we party party party all day long, or do we simply let the garrulous sky's blue-eyed beauty remind us that no loveliness is permanent and that according to the weather forecast everything will turn to shit definitely no later than tomorrow night?

Just as surely as my beer will run dry, my fauxhawk will grow overly tall and begin drooping regardless of intensity of hair product, and I will consume the very last of the chocolate-caramel truffle cookies I've been hoarding in that tin with the little dogs on it, every stunning Seattle spring afternoon gives way sooner or later to the wet gray dryer-lint sky of a dreary, deadening Seattle spring morning.

Yes indeed, readers, nothing gold can stay.

RECALL, though, that: I am gainfully, even joyfully, employed, and can therefore buy more beer, yes, more beer, ever more and more beer; that haircuts exist (I have heard, though anyone laying eyes upon me these days can tell that I have yet to see conclusive proof of this rumor); that I am a pimp at baking and can make more cookies any fucking time I please; and that even here, in the Rainy City, motto: "Don't Get Mad: Get SAD(Seasonal Affective Disorder)!", city of losers, nerds and madmen, winter and even spring have been known at times to give way to summer.

sit.

I'm housesitting right now for my friend Dr. Homie. He and his wife are in the Philippines, presumably living it up, possibly getting typhooned. I am in his delightful Eastside home, sharing a bedroom with a cat, a dog, and a series of spiders who are perfectly happy to mind their own business as long as I'm on board with that plan.

The cat is a handsome longhaired gentleman, white with black patches, including a fetching smudge on his nose which gives him a studious, ink-spattered appearance, like an 18th Century London novelist staying up late nights to finish his latest masterpiece. He enjoys snuggling, chirping fetchingly for kibble, and, due to an unfortunate combination of inflammatory bowel disease and food allergies, recreational vomiting of the kibble he consistently begs for. His nickname, due to dignity, poise, and a dramatic familial last name, is "Detective Jack."

The dog is small, chubby, and idiosyncratic. Best guesses peg her as a cross between a Chihuahua and a Pomeranian - Chihuahua swagger accentuated with spitz plushness makes her a highly desirable commodity. She washes her face like a cat, refuses to walk farther than a block, and spends nights snuggled up next to my thigh, a minuscule, fluffy hot water bottle with a good attitude. She enjoys coconut chips, belly rubs, and performing a trick called "kiss-kiss," which is really more of a love-bite than a kiss and which she will perform only on me and Dr. Homie's wife, never on Dr. Homie himself, being, as she is, a discriminating sort of dog. Her nickname, due to a combination of large, antenna-like ears and enormous eyeballs, is "Mosquito Face."

Though I am infested with awesome, I am also plagued by low self-esteem at times. However, the fact that every single one of my friends who has pets has at some point requested that I housesit for them - that makes me feel like I've got something going for me.

back.

A MONTH? ARE YOU EVEN SERIOUS WITH ME RIGHT NOW?

So I fell off the writing wagon, and that's not a thing of which I'm proud, but it's a thing which occurred, and no sense dwelling on it, and no way to climb back on but by writing, which I'm doing right now, so, good for me, damn it, good for me.

(note that it was slightly more than a month.)

A number of stressors accumulated; I managed them, up until the point where I was only pretending to manage them, which I did right up until the point where I could no longer even pretend, and I dropped all the balls I'd been juggling, fell down, twisted my ankle, bumped my head, caught my ankle in the Big Top tent rope, and brought the whole bloody circus down around me.

Note at this point that I've deleted three different paragraphs in which I attempted to explain the nature of my absence. It's harder than it looks, this coming-to-terms-with-it thing. I'll let it rest at "I was sick," and assure my readers that "now I'm getting better," and that'll be the end of it.

A FAR MORE important thing to discuss at this time is the fact that my CFF (Cosmic Friend Forever) K is coming to town in about 24 hours, and I can't even pretend to be restraining my excitement, because I haven't seen that jackass since November, and I am already preparing my hug muscles to unleash upon him a squeeze of mammoth and horrifying proportions.

He doesn't read this blog - actually, I suspect he may not even know it exists - and is therefore unaware of my diabolical and potentially rib-cracking plan of affectionate attack. Please do not inform him. Everyone loves a surprise!

touchdown.

I still love my Pack. Hell of a game. I've got mad respect for a QB that can shake off such a bad first half the way Wilson did, and his boys pulled out all the stops; crazy as their fucking crazy fans drive me, Seattle is a team to whom I'm never sad to see Green Bay lose. I'll be backing the Hawks in the Super Bowl for sure. The Pats were the last team to win back-to-back NFL championships, if I've got my data right; let's see if Seattle can't wipe that record AND hand the East Coast's second-nastiest case of scabies (Big Ben's boys always get the top spot there) its walking papers in one fell swoop.

(it's worth mentioning at this point that, if you didn't know it already, though I myself was born in the chain-link coziness of White Center, my family is Wisconsin born and bred, and, like alcoholism, vowel lengthening, and a fervor for dairy, the Packers run in my blood.)

After my post-Infinite Jest-not-that-traumatic-but-still-stressful-disorder, I flirted briefly with a linguistics text that turned out to be - horror of horrors - not really intended for peop le with any linguistics training at all!!, churned through Laline Paull's unique but messy The Bees in un unexpectedly tidy 48 hours (reports of "Watership Down with bees!" were greatly exaggerated) and ended up panickedly speed-downloading Haruko Murakami's IQ84 via Amtrak Wi-Fi. And that's where I am now, following weirdly calm people down staircases of distorted spacetime, looking out my window at backlit blackness from the train tracks, listening to Ladytron because that's what I do, and realizing it's somehow Sunday all over again.

The youngster to my right keeps eyeballing my beer - Amtrak beer! Only $RIDICULOUS a serving, and thank god it's local - and I feel like he's teetering on the brink of asking me to pick him up a Something if I go back for more, but forget that guy. He can just be patient and wait til he's, oh, say, 16, like I'm pretty sure I did. (memory's fuzzy from all the beer since then.)

The train whistles arbitrarily, but passionately, and I empathize. Sometimes it's hard to control yourself when you know you've got a captive audience.



It's taken me most of the day to come to terms with it, but I'd do it with Richard Sherman, and I'd even let him be on top, and dude, I'd look right into those crazy eyes and ask him math questions, and he would answer them accurately because motherfucker is way smart.

But I don't think he wants to do it with me because he only has like half a left hand right now and that is a bigger concern what with the Super Bowl and all.

dirty.

"That no single moment is in and of of itself unendurable."

-- David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

"To endure oneself may be the hardest task in the Universe."

--Frank Herbert, Dune

We are forced to acknowledge that, although it's difficult, it's possible; so we are robbed of the license to claim it undoable, deliberating only between Abiding (Wallace's term; "hunkering down" in "the space between heartbeats") and admitting/claiming that the struggle is more than we were prepared for, and we're through trying, thankyouverymuch, that's all, folks.

The surprise should never be that some people choose the latter; it should be that anyone chooses the former.

After approx. 4 months behind the pages, I finished Infinite Jest this afternoon, and now, I confess, I'm not sure what to do with myself. The thousand-plus-page book became less a book than a state of being; a long-term relationship with a view of the world that simultaneously thrilled and terrified me. Now that I've turned the last page, is that relationship over? Do I simply assess who I now am as a person, and move on from here? I feel like I've been fundamentally changed - like I am not occupying the same space I did four months ago. Am I the only one who has noticed?

The copy of Infinite Jest I finished belongs to the same person to whom I recently lent my copy of Dune. I don't have the faintest idea when I'll see this person again. This lack of knowing nibbles away a little piece of me, every minute I'm too slow to stop myself from remembering it.

You shouldn't hate something you don't know. You can't truly hate something you've never even had the guts to love.

It seems lately every time I open my mouth, pick up a pen, or touch a keyboard to write anything that doesn't include variable declarations, I am assailed by these same swords of guilt, of shame; don't air your dirty laundry in public, they've always said. As someone who thinks of their writing as readable, I think of my laundry as "well-worn," "artfully rended," "faded, in a trendy manner" rather than "dirty" per se. That's wrong, though. It's all just as dirty as the next guy's last day's leavings. I just don't see any reason not to throw it on this world's great towering laundry heap, the Concavity of our collective pain, great fans of prose blowing the stinking feelings northward, towards a captive audience that will maybe one day put a stop to it, once and for all.

bewilderment.

Last night, I was restless and achy, so I went to see Inherent Vice at the local Regal.

The only Thomas Pynchon work I've read was The Crying of Lot 49, recommended to me by K, whose recommendations are less "recommendations" than "demands, on the level of a hostage-taker negotiating with the frantic family." Luckily for me, I loved Crying. It was a dizzying stumble through a city and maybe a brain or two; a weird adventure of the sort one might have on a daily basis without even noticing, except this time someone noticed; only tolerable because the protagonists were as confused by the proceedings as I the reader was, and if they could accept it, slammed as they were right into the middle of it, then by golly, so could I.

Inherent Vice is, if the movie's anything to go off of, more of the same—and devastatingly, thrillingly so. As noted, I haven't read the book off of which this film is based. I've been told, though, that Crying is fairly typical of Pynchon's writing style, so I approached Vice as a film with the hope of seeing on the screen the atmosphere I so loved in Crying—that franticness, that befuddlement, those moments of unsettling tenderness and heartbreaking humanity interspersed with pure, unadulterated drugged-out pants-on-head crazy. And boy, oh boy, did I ever see exactly all of those things.

Word on the street is that Paul Thomas Anderson wrote the screenplay by typing up the entire novel and selectively deleting. Paul Thomas Anderson himself being pants-on-head crazy, it wouldn't surprise me if this were true. It also doesn't surprise me to hear that Pynchon gave the screenplay his blessing. I can't adequately judge the screenplay, having never read the book, but to my uneducated eyes, it was a thing of goddamned brilliance.

Pynchon's language is weird in the truest Dr. Thompson sense of the word. Like most of my favorite authors, he writes like a man whose vocabulary of experience is on a level above that of most people you know—because it is. He's one of those people who sees the fantastic, the diabolical, and the insane in every aspect of mundane life. But, while most of us get driven to distraction if we notice the madness, Pynchon nods, makes note of it, and shrugs it off, ambling through the madcap acid trip that is everyday life with the dry observational humor of a society lady at a cocktail party. Depending on who you ask, Pynchon is either babbling to himself in a corner, or the chillest cat you've ever laid eyes on, and that's why I love the guy. And who better to star in a film based on this dude's writing than the ultimate babbling cool cat, Joaquin Phoenix?!

Joaquin Phoenix is Vice's protagonist, a dude who fixes things in spite of himself, a mild disaster of a human being who bumbles his way into every possible fiasco and yet still comes... if not out on top, at least out. Phoenix's character is a hero to every loser and a shining example of what's wrong with society for anyone who's ever spent most of their time obsessing over the finer nuances of Right and Wrong... people like, for example, the jerkface jock-cop (who just might just want to be loved) portrayed to creased-pantsed perfection by Josh Brolin.

Setting Phoenix and Brolin opposite one another—seeing them act together, in the dialogue scenes of which they are, intelligently, given quite a number—is just a fucking treat. The audience is paralyzed with hilarity at the sheer nonsense of their interactions; the petty jabs, the petulance, the sheer vitriol, obviously loathing each other with every denim-and-corduroy fiber of their beings. Yet simultaneously, we see that these two men have every reason to love each other, every reason to be best friends, brothers even, because who among us hasn't had that one best friend who was as different from us as we could imagine, whom we hated the same way we loved, fiercely and without reserve? That's Phoenix and Brolin's relationship—except instead of coming out hugging, they came out of that ring swinging, and it's beyond repair, what they might have had, and that kills us to see, even as it brings tears of laughter to our eyes.

I could write all night long about this film, I really could, but most of it would be gibberish and no doubt inferior to the experience you, dear reader, could take away just by going to see the damn thing yourself—or, hell, by reading the novel! Read Pynchon, you losers. You read me, for chrissake, and I'm peanut shells on the floor of a dive bar compared to him. Novel or no novel, GO SEE THIS FILM, I urge you; revel in the languid tidepools of its language, the sudden cold-water plunges of its humor, the seasick dizziness of its honesty. Don't try to chart its path; let it wash over you, curling waves of feeling and nonsense and profundity, and emerge damp and rimed with salty cynicism, flush with swells of passion that you might later let break, cyclical, crashing, on the shores of your mundane, weird everyday life.

recognition.

If at some point I were to lie dying - unlikely, I don't like to lie down for too long, aggravates the back and slows thought - and if during that time a nameless Someone were to ask, offhandedly, "What did you do?" - with the understanding that whatever I did was about to give way permanently to all the things I had done - I would say:

I loved too well, or not well enough, depending on the season and the weather and on the voice of the person to whom I proclaimed love; I tried too much, too often, with too little commitment to the yield of the effort, and as a result, I was always three-quarters-pleased with half a result; I never forgot anything, no matter how hard I tried, and I was constantly straining to recall something I suspected might have been a dream.

There's no way around it but to admit that I miss everything I've ever lost, because if I didn't miss it, it wouldn't really be a loss, it'd just be something that isn't around anymore, and I probably wouldn't even remember it.



These are all just words, but I like the look of them here better than I like the sound of them in my head.

the best loves last less than a season.

"We all have to decide for ourselves how much sin we can live with."

My brother lent me the first four seasons of Boardwalk Empire on DVD, and I've been indulging over the past week, when I'm not deep in the HTML5 trenches.

It's a good show; thus far, not a great show. I've just finished season one. Perhaps it improves, as things of this nature frequently do. The fact of the matter is, HBO has forced itself to hold itself to a higher-than-usual standard. Ever since the age of Deadwood, Six Feet Under, The Wire and the like, HBO can no longer be content with "yeah, sure, it's a good show". Now HBO must strive for "I would rather watch this show than fulfill several of the basic functions which underlie my continued existence in modern society." HBO's little cross to bear, I suppose.

One thing this final episode of S1 has elicited in me is the thunderous realization of how intoxicating it is when someone tells you that you know them in a way no one else does. Think on this. It's a drug, really, isn't it? What this person - and always, it is a person with whom you are involved, entwined, in whom you are somehow Invested - tells you is that you, YOU, of ALL people, you who deserve nothing (if you think of yourself the way I and others think of themselves) who have somehow groped and grabbed and bumbled through the muck of their clean exterior to the bubbling pure swamp beneath - to a place that, for whatever reason, yours are the only eyes to see. Maybe once, another person saw this - the more tragedy, then! - or maybe not; one way or another, now, you are this place's sole lessee, its sole resident besides the Owner, your beloved, the one who let you in the door. And what a drunken hideous roller-coaster rush this gives you, the knowledge of what you know, though frequently you have no idea what they mean when they tell you its meaning.

And the sick, reeling horror, the drop in the gut, the recoil when you realize that none of this is of any use to you, and that in the end, you, being as you are, human, keep only that for which you have use.