The Baseball Game
There are many things in my life I can proudly boast as an accomplishment. I’ve been able to snag Hannah Montana tickets at face value, and then have my picture taken with ex-Governor Blagojevich while we were waiting for our daughters. Or, front row tickets for Jimmy Buffett at Wrigley Field that I later sold at 10X face value. I’ve even managed to snag 18 tickets to the impossible to get “Wrigley Field Ice Skating” on New Years for family and friends. I’ve organized the only girl’s lacrosse program in Chicago, which is even more remarkable considering I have no clue how to play lacrosse. I figured out a way to rent a CTA train for the holidays and took 309 friends through the city on our own chartered “Santa Train” without anyone falling through the tracks or losing a limb. Delaney and Jack have both played a little league game at Wrigley Field. The list goes on and on, but apparently absent on the list is the elusive, “I got my boys in to a competitive baseball league in Chicago.”
It all started on a relatively warm February day when the Welles Park baseball sign-up was scheduled. Living in the city, we all know from experience that when the registration states ’10:00 a.m.’, in reality you need to show up hours in advance like a groupie waiting for their beloved rock star to appear. And in this case, the rock star was none other than an 80-game league for our sports crazy 5 and 7 year old. I inquired near and far, on Facebook, via e-mail, via telephone with the question, “What time do you really need to get in line at?” With answers ranging from “Whenever you get up” to “Move to the suburbs” and every variation between, we settled on a 5:45 a.m. target time. Yes, you read that right – Dave would draw the short straw and stand in line outside for more than four hours in a meager attempt to appease the sport gods and draw the elusive spot for both Jack and Max. Surely, no one would be crazier than us and actually get there earlier.
A mere hour later, Dave came home with his head hung low. “Bad news babe, there are no spots open for Jack, but I was able to get a spot for Max. The first person in line got there at 2:30 a.m.” What? 2:30 in the morning? Who is that crazy to park themselves outside 7 ½ hours before registration even starts? “Well, then it wasn’t meant to be, because there is no way I would even attempt to stand in line at 2:30 a.m. That’s nuts.” And with those words, we quickly formulated a Plan B.
Plan B comprised of finding yet another competitive baseball league, perhaps one without the snob appeal of Welles Park, to get Jack in to. “Dave, try Horner Park – I see signs for sign-up and they have a rolling sign-up, no crazy stand-in-line business.” Dave ventured out into the unknown, pointed the car towards Horner Park with a single minded focus on getting Jack into a ‘quality’ baseball league. Dave no sooner signed over the $150 check, turned to walk out, when a mom in line behind him started yelling and crying hysterically that the organizers were a bunch of crooks. Living in the city, and having had been under the spell of Blagojevich for too long, these were words as common in the city as, “Hi, how are you today.” Dave perked up his ears to hear the Treasurer exclaim, “Hey lady, I lost my job, I only do this for the money.” Only do this for the love of money? What about the love of baseball? And with that, Dave raced home and decided to do a little online investigation to see exactly where our check was headed to. I soon received a phone call from Dave, “Su, I can’t believe this. Horner Park is a bunch of crooks. Literally. The management team from last year are all in jail on embezzlement charges. There is no way that Jack is playing in that league.” And with that, we quickly formulated our “Plan C”.
We were hoping against hope to not be in a position to even consider the dreaded Plan C- Hamlin Park Baseball League. Hamlin Park is well known throughout the Northside as the best baseball league, and also the hardest to get in to. And to top it all off, registration was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on Valentine’s Day which also coincided with “Single Mom vs. Three Kids weekend.” Dave was off to Pebble Beach to work…err…golf, while I figured out a way to entertain all three kids to utter exhaustion. Dave called me up excited that he had come up with a plan, “Listen honey, I called my brother John and if you can take the kids to Schaumburg on Friday the 13th, John will meet you, pick them up, and take them to his house for an overnight. Just think, you could spend the afternoon in Schaumburg at Legoland, get rid of the kids for the evening and trek back to the city so you can get up early and stand in line outside in the cold for Hamlin Park baseball registration. Then on the 14th, after you get the boys registered, head back out to Woodstock, take the kids to Chuck E Cheese for Valentine’s Day, spend the night at John and Sarah’s, and then head home on Sunday stopping at Medieval Times to cap off President’s Day weekend. Sound good?” First of all, what part of Schaumburg sounds good under any circumstance? I’m fairly certain I car will stall when reaching the city limits and crossing over in to the suburbs. And for another thing, let’s remember Dave is in Pebble Beach, golfing (for work of course). Somehow the equality of our marriage is seriously out of kilter and I immediately retort, “Dave, I think I would like to work in California too.” To which Dave replied, “Be careful what you wish for.”
After mentally preparing myself for the better part of a week to stand in line, outside, for 7 ½ hours, Friday the 13th showed up with a vengeance. As I rallied the kids after work to get on their winter coats, I walked outside to the garage, to find out that the change in temperature was rendering my key in the garage side door useless. To which Jack replied, “Mom, I’ll get a broom to prop open the window so you can break in the garage.” It appears that while reading may be a struggle for a blossoming 1st grader, we are teaching the finer points of city living and street smarts. How many other 6-year olds know the secret of breaking into a garage? Upon leaving the city limits, I was amazed to find the car did not stall, but upset to find that it appeared I now had a flat tire. Thankfully with the run-flat tires, I motored on and simply ignored the blinking, flashing, warning lights on the dashboard. Seeing how splendid the day had already gone, should I have been surprised to find out that the major attraction at Legoland was under construction? “Miss, I’m sorry to tell you that the Jungle Ride is under construction, but here are free tickets to comeback before March 20th and enjoy the ride.” Let’s be clear, city folks try to spend as little time as possible venturing to the suburbs and this trip was clearly headed down the path of a Friday the 13th to remember – “Thanks, but you can keep the tickets. We will not be needing them.”
After finally exchanging the kids, and cars, with my brother in law, I headed back to the city in the hopes that I might actually be able to get a little bit of sleep before becoming “The first person in line at 2:30 a.m.” No sooner did I turn down our street in John’s car did I realize that this day was one for the record books – I had no key to get in to the house. While the broom works to break in the garage, the house itself it like Fort Knox, all tripped up with ADT wires and sealed shut for the winter. Thankfully, our neighbor Jill held the magic key to the house and with just a tad bit of effort to figure out which one of the 50 unmarked keys in Jill’s possession was actually ours, I made it safely inside to the comfort of my bed.
In preparation for my outdoor adventure, I did as any creature of comfort would do – I begged for warm clothing from anyone that would listen. While my winter work coat was long on style, it was clearly short on warmth. With snow flurries in the forecast, I needed the outdoor equivalent of a Snuggie. An acquaintance at work offered me her full-length fur coat. “Sandy, while I certainly appreciate the offer, I don’t think a full-length fur coat outside at 2:30 a.m. in the city is such a good idea. You might as well offer to spray paint a target on the back of me while you’re at it.” So I settled for borrowing Jill’s ultra-warm, Eskimo approved full length North Face jacket. With a few additional comforts added – like 7 hours of movies and television shows downloaded on my iPhone, three magazines, a book light, three pairs of gloves, two hats, one scarf, one blanket, and a folding chair, I was officially ready to become, “Super Mom”.
I slept fitfully in fear that my alarm wouldn’t go off and I would have to tell Dave that I was unable to get Jack in to the most competitive league in the city. Before you knew it, my 2:00 a.m. wake-up call arrived and I quickly donned my snow gear, I could easily have been mistaken for the Pillsbury Dough Boy or the Michelin Man with the amount of puffy warmth I had piled on. I jumped in the car and raced over to Hamlin Park in full anticipation of being the first in line and possessing the highly coveted spot for a seven year old. After rounding the corner on Hoyne Street, my heart began to sink as I realized I was likely not going to be the first person in line. I quickly scanned the side streets looking for a parking spot so I could race out of the car and jump in line. Of course, in the process of trying to parallel park the car in a very tight spot, I gave the car in front of me a wee-little love tap. Who knew there was someone in there? “EXCUSE ME! DID YOU KNOW YOU HIT MY CAR? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?” What? Seriously, now I have to deal with road rage on top of Hamlin Park rage? “Miss, I apologize if I accidentally hit your bumper , but I don’t see any scratches or any damage.” “NO DAMAGE, I FELT YOU HIT THE CAR WHILE I WAS IN IT!” “Well, I’m sure you did, but now, I’m going to race over to Hamlin Park, get in line and we can discuss this later. Like when the sun comes up. Like in 7 hours.” And with those words, I was literally off and running while I heard her exclaim, “GET BACK HERE!” at 2:30 a.m.
With adrenaline racing through my body, knowing I was not first in line but under the shroud of darkness not knowing exactly how many people were really in line, I stumbled upon what appeared to be a settlement camp for the upwardly mobile within the confines of Hamlin Park. There were tents, sleeping bags, lounge chairs, fires burning in garbage cans. It was like a scene out of a movie, or more appropriately in my case, a horror film. I was half expecting to see Christopher Nolan yell ‘cut’ as a promo for the next Batman movie. But sadly, the 100 or so people milling around, and passed out in various snow angel positions on the ground, had my heart sink that I would not be able to call myself “Super Mom” and my well laid plans were suddenly awry. I inquired where the line ended, or started, and was quickly pointed to the “Lady with the Clipboard.” “Hi, I’m here to add my name to the list.” To which was almost immediately replied when finding out the age of my children, “Sorry, no more spots, that division is completely full.” Full? At 2:30 a.m.? Registration doesn’t even start for 7 ½ hours? After sulking, and then sulking some more, I finally inquired to those around me when they had actually gotten there. “Yeah, we set up camp around 7:00 p.m.” “We’ve been here since about 8:30 p.m.” OK, here I thought 2:30 a.m. was aggressive, these individuals had been camped out in the snow 15 hours before registration began. Sigh.
And so is the tale of Living La Vida Chicago. We’re not quite sure what Plan D is, but with news of my baseball demise, offers ranging from “Move to Oswego” to “Does Jack like bowling” to simply trying to figure out how I can be the Clipboard Lady next year surfaced. This was not my day, and it wasn’t even Friday the 13th anymore. Happy Valentine’s Day Su.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Oprah Winfrey Show
The Oprah Winfrey Show
I’ve had the great fortune over the years to make “Oprah Wishes” come true for friends and family, using my connections to secure some of the hardest tickets in town. I’ve often been asked, “Well, don’t you want to go see Oprah too?” The truth is, while I certainly admire the conglomerate known as the Harpo Dynasty, my television habits gear more towards Grey’s Anatomy and Lost rather than “My Favorite Things.” But with 40 looming ahead, and the knowledge that Oprah isn’t taping forever, I did the unthinkable. I sent Oprah an e-mail a few weeks ago.
“Dear Oprah. You’re the coolest Daytime Diva that I have yet to meet. While I can’t promise you fame or fortune for tickets, since you were able to clearly achieve both of those without my help, I can only appeal to the sensible side of you and request a few spare tickets for a soon-to-be 40 year old living in the city of big-Oprah-shoulders. Any opportunity, for any show, would be greatly appreciated. Oh yeah, I’m also chronicling the last year of my 30s and I’m running out of material, here’s a link to my blog, perhaps the tickets will help me create at least another post.” And with a click of the mouse, I sent my pathetic, hardly sincere e-mail to the black hole of Harpo Studios, also known as the ‘Audience Reservation Department.’
Imagine my surprise when my cell phone rang with the ‘Unknown’ blocked number on my screen. I was with my girlfriends at lunch, “Oh, geez, blocked calls are usually only client calls. I’m skipping this one.” Yet something, likely one of Oprah’s Angel Network fairies sitting on my shoulder whispered, “Are you sure? What if it’s a good phone call?” and so I answered the phone. “Ms. Bermingham? This is the Oprah Winfrey Show. We received your request for tickets and we have set aside two tickets for tomorrow’s taping, can you make it?” “Umm, sure. Wow, you actually read my e-mail, it didn’t go into the spam trap? I’m shocked.” And with those words, I suddenly found myself the most popular girl at prom with the hard-to-get Oprah tickets.
One of the things I read about, and mentioned on the phone call, was to wear bright colors if you’re in the audience. Bright colors? Seriously? My entire wardrobe is built around a single color – BLACK. Hardly the choice of bright colors. I raced home from work certain that I must have saved one ‘bright color’ ensemble to wear to the show. “Dave, does navy blue count as a bright color?” “How about gray, that’s brighter than black, right?” “Wait, I have smoking red-hot boots, those are bright…of course, no one will see them unless I kick my feet up or get first row status.” With a desperate phone call to our neighbor Tracy for anything remotely bright, I pulled together a gray dress from my closet, with a borrowed red scarf that matched the smoking-red-hot boots. I was now Oprah bound.
Emily Haite and I arrived at Harpo at the pre-determined agreed upon time and found ourselves 39th in line. That, we figured was a good thing – 39, I was beginning to feel the Oprah love already. Clearly she understood that it was my 39th year, I was 39th in line, I’m beginning to feel the schwag coming and beginning to believe that maybe Oprah would do a mid-year “My Favorite Things.”
We were herded, like cattle, in to a waiting area with all forms of communication stripped from us except for our God given talents; after all, if Oprah could make billions talking, surely we could all endure a crowded room making friends without the benefit of our iPhones, Blackberries, or even something to write with. We were surrounded by a sea of bright colored, heavily made up individuals – I was beginning to think that my black wardrobe would have actually stood out better than my red-hot boots. Our ‘neighbors’ that sat patiently with us for hours on end flew in specifically to see Oprah from Seattle. “Seattle, really? Her show is shown outside of Chicago? Wow.” Others talked of trying for 10 years to get Oprah tickets. Another individual came from Africa for the show. And sheepishly, I had to admit that we lived down the street, sent an e-mail and voila, here we were. I was beginning to feel like an imposter in the tidal wave of Oprah Mania.
It appears that none of us actually knew what the show topic was. While I was thinking that “My Favorite Things” would have been cool, I began daydreaming of different topics that I would find interesting. “Moms who drive mini-vans and hate it.” “Are you too old to be on Facebook?” “Moms who have photos of Blagojevich. “ “Bloggers who have no audience.” And then I started dreaming of celebrities that I might enjoy seeing, “How about Clooney and the last episode of ER?” Even Dr. Oz seemed like a show that was worth my sudden departure from the office. And then, without too much warning, it was time to enter the studio.
For those of you that have been to the studio, you know that it’s rather small, intimate, and really there is no bad seat in the house. “How many are in your party?” There’s a party? Who-hoo. “Oh, just two of us.” And with that, they led us to the row of the brightest colored individuals that were in the audience. “Here, you can sit in our Caribbean, island-inspired row. These fine ladies’ outfits, and matching headgear, will ‘pop’ nicely against your drab gray.” All I could think of ‘Well, at least I’m not sitting behind these ladies, because surely I would not be able to see Oprah.”
After settling into our seats, Emily and I scanned the studio. “Those aren’t photos for this show are they?” “I don’t know I haven’t been to Oprah either.” All across the studio were photos from the Iraq war. Now, let me put this disclaimer in here, I’m very proud of our armed services and I don’t take it lightly that they secure our freedom each and every day. We owe them a debt of gratitude for literally putting their lives on the line so that peons like me can walk freely and even scam a ticket to the Oprah Show. But – in the world of topics that I wanted to hear about, war stories was not one of them. I have enough personal war stories to fill an encyclopedia, real-life war stories in Iraq are not on my Top 10 Things to do on a Wednesday afternoon. Clearly you could see the disappointment on my face. Emily said, “Su, don’t look so disappointed. Look positive. After all, isn’t that what Oprah talks about in the Secret?” To which I retorted, “Well, I’m secretly positively hoping they change those photos before Oprah gets out here.”
The audience wrangler came out and tried to whip up the audience in to a frenzy. “And where are you from? Come out here at let’s do the booty dance,” she called to someone in the middle row. “This is Mrs. Motion, from Wheaton, and we’re all going to the do the booty dance with her.!” Booty dance? Is there a broken booty version for people like me? Wheaton? Seriously, did she bring my ex-in-laws with her? I thought they had that invisible fence around Wheaton? And before you knew it, the wrangler announced, “And here’s the host of the show, Oprah Winfrey.”
As they were not shooting live, Oprah had an opportunity to interact a bit with the audience while they were trying to adjust her microphone. Oprah jokingly complained of ‘trying to follow her own advice in my magazine, but this whole weight loss thing is hard.’ For those of you that believe Oprah truly is larger than life, well, she is. And she was wearing black. I guess she didn’t get the internal ‘bright colored’ memo. Oprah then went on to talk about the day’s topic for the show, “Walter Reed Medical Center.” Seriously, Walter Reed? I’m going to spend the next hour listening to stories about soldiers rehabbing at Walter Reed? Ugh.
It’s likely a good thing that I never pursued a career in medicine. Rather, I just use the medical services provided to me and thank my lucky stars for good insurance. Talking about surgeries and injuries are totally fine if they’ve happened to me. However, if they have happened to someone else, my insides literally turn inside out, the nausea creeps over me like a bulimic, and I look for the easiest way to either escape or roll myself up in to the fetal position. For sixty minutes, we heard horror story after horror story about how each soldier lost their limbs, how long they had been in rehab. And while most of the audience was crying, I was trying very hard not to throw-up in my purse.
I decided the best strategy to not embarrass myself on the Oprah Winfrey show (who’s the girl who puked under the seats?) was to simply stop listening to the stories and focus on something else. And when you have the grand dame of daytime television sitting in front of you, it’s not hard to figure out what to focus on. “If Oprah makes $100 million dollars a year, which is roughly $275,000 a day, and she utters approximately 1,000 words per hour, does two shows a day, then each word is worth about $140 per word spoken. I wonder if ‘amputee’ counts more than $140 when combined with other words like it, the, a, etc. I wonder if I could calculate the cost per letter when Oprah talks.” And with that, I spent the rest of the time in total admiration of the fact that Oprah is truly a money machine. She opens her mouth, and money flies out.
The show ended with Oprah taking photos with the war guests. And simply because Oprah knew that none of us had cameras of any sort with us, she reached up, and yes – grabbed her own boob and gave it a squeeze. If each word was worth $140, then this historic action in front of a studio audience was worth at least a $1,000,000. That would be the $1,000,000 photo if only I had a secret camera on my bright red borrowed scarf. But alas, her action could only be seared on my brain and perhaps that was Oprah’s way of saying, “Hey, sorry I didn’t give you keys to a car, or frankly any parting gift, not even a prosthetic limb on a key chain, I’m giving you instead a visual that you can take home with you.” And that my friends, is the story of my day with Oprah.
I’ve had the great fortune over the years to make “Oprah Wishes” come true for friends and family, using my connections to secure some of the hardest tickets in town. I’ve often been asked, “Well, don’t you want to go see Oprah too?” The truth is, while I certainly admire the conglomerate known as the Harpo Dynasty, my television habits gear more towards Grey’s Anatomy and Lost rather than “My Favorite Things.” But with 40 looming ahead, and the knowledge that Oprah isn’t taping forever, I did the unthinkable. I sent Oprah an e-mail a few weeks ago.
“Dear Oprah. You’re the coolest Daytime Diva that I have yet to meet. While I can’t promise you fame or fortune for tickets, since you were able to clearly achieve both of those without my help, I can only appeal to the sensible side of you and request a few spare tickets for a soon-to-be 40 year old living in the city of big-Oprah-shoulders. Any opportunity, for any show, would be greatly appreciated. Oh yeah, I’m also chronicling the last year of my 30s and I’m running out of material, here’s a link to my blog, perhaps the tickets will help me create at least another post.” And with a click of the mouse, I sent my pathetic, hardly sincere e-mail to the black hole of Harpo Studios, also known as the ‘Audience Reservation Department.’
Imagine my surprise when my cell phone rang with the ‘Unknown’ blocked number on my screen. I was with my girlfriends at lunch, “Oh, geez, blocked calls are usually only client calls. I’m skipping this one.” Yet something, likely one of Oprah’s Angel Network fairies sitting on my shoulder whispered, “Are you sure? What if it’s a good phone call?” and so I answered the phone. “Ms. Bermingham? This is the Oprah Winfrey Show. We received your request for tickets and we have set aside two tickets for tomorrow’s taping, can you make it?” “Umm, sure. Wow, you actually read my e-mail, it didn’t go into the spam trap? I’m shocked.” And with those words, I suddenly found myself the most popular girl at prom with the hard-to-get Oprah tickets.
One of the things I read about, and mentioned on the phone call, was to wear bright colors if you’re in the audience. Bright colors? Seriously? My entire wardrobe is built around a single color – BLACK. Hardly the choice of bright colors. I raced home from work certain that I must have saved one ‘bright color’ ensemble to wear to the show. “Dave, does navy blue count as a bright color?” “How about gray, that’s brighter than black, right?” “Wait, I have smoking red-hot boots, those are bright…of course, no one will see them unless I kick my feet up or get first row status.” With a desperate phone call to our neighbor Tracy for anything remotely bright, I pulled together a gray dress from my closet, with a borrowed red scarf that matched the smoking-red-hot boots. I was now Oprah bound.
Emily Haite and I arrived at Harpo at the pre-determined agreed upon time and found ourselves 39th in line. That, we figured was a good thing – 39, I was beginning to feel the Oprah love already. Clearly she understood that it was my 39th year, I was 39th in line, I’m beginning to feel the schwag coming and beginning to believe that maybe Oprah would do a mid-year “My Favorite Things.”
We were herded, like cattle, in to a waiting area with all forms of communication stripped from us except for our God given talents; after all, if Oprah could make billions talking, surely we could all endure a crowded room making friends without the benefit of our iPhones, Blackberries, or even something to write with. We were surrounded by a sea of bright colored, heavily made up individuals – I was beginning to think that my black wardrobe would have actually stood out better than my red-hot boots. Our ‘neighbors’ that sat patiently with us for hours on end flew in specifically to see Oprah from Seattle. “Seattle, really? Her show is shown outside of Chicago? Wow.” Others talked of trying for 10 years to get Oprah tickets. Another individual came from Africa for the show. And sheepishly, I had to admit that we lived down the street, sent an e-mail and voila, here we were. I was beginning to feel like an imposter in the tidal wave of Oprah Mania.
It appears that none of us actually knew what the show topic was. While I was thinking that “My Favorite Things” would have been cool, I began daydreaming of different topics that I would find interesting. “Moms who drive mini-vans and hate it.” “Are you too old to be on Facebook?” “Moms who have photos of Blagojevich. “ “Bloggers who have no audience.” And then I started dreaming of celebrities that I might enjoy seeing, “How about Clooney and the last episode of ER?” Even Dr. Oz seemed like a show that was worth my sudden departure from the office. And then, without too much warning, it was time to enter the studio.
For those of you that have been to the studio, you know that it’s rather small, intimate, and really there is no bad seat in the house. “How many are in your party?” There’s a party? Who-hoo. “Oh, just two of us.” And with that, they led us to the row of the brightest colored individuals that were in the audience. “Here, you can sit in our Caribbean, island-inspired row. These fine ladies’ outfits, and matching headgear, will ‘pop’ nicely against your drab gray.” All I could think of ‘Well, at least I’m not sitting behind these ladies, because surely I would not be able to see Oprah.”
After settling into our seats, Emily and I scanned the studio. “Those aren’t photos for this show are they?” “I don’t know I haven’t been to Oprah either.” All across the studio were photos from the Iraq war. Now, let me put this disclaimer in here, I’m very proud of our armed services and I don’t take it lightly that they secure our freedom each and every day. We owe them a debt of gratitude for literally putting their lives on the line so that peons like me can walk freely and even scam a ticket to the Oprah Show. But – in the world of topics that I wanted to hear about, war stories was not one of them. I have enough personal war stories to fill an encyclopedia, real-life war stories in Iraq are not on my Top 10 Things to do on a Wednesday afternoon. Clearly you could see the disappointment on my face. Emily said, “Su, don’t look so disappointed. Look positive. After all, isn’t that what Oprah talks about in the Secret?” To which I retorted, “Well, I’m secretly positively hoping they change those photos before Oprah gets out here.”
The audience wrangler came out and tried to whip up the audience in to a frenzy. “And where are you from? Come out here at let’s do the booty dance,” she called to someone in the middle row. “This is Mrs. Motion, from Wheaton, and we’re all going to the do the booty dance with her.!” Booty dance? Is there a broken booty version for people like me? Wheaton? Seriously, did she bring my ex-in-laws with her? I thought they had that invisible fence around Wheaton? And before you knew it, the wrangler announced, “And here’s the host of the show, Oprah Winfrey.”
As they were not shooting live, Oprah had an opportunity to interact a bit with the audience while they were trying to adjust her microphone. Oprah jokingly complained of ‘trying to follow her own advice in my magazine, but this whole weight loss thing is hard.’ For those of you that believe Oprah truly is larger than life, well, she is. And she was wearing black. I guess she didn’t get the internal ‘bright colored’ memo. Oprah then went on to talk about the day’s topic for the show, “Walter Reed Medical Center.” Seriously, Walter Reed? I’m going to spend the next hour listening to stories about soldiers rehabbing at Walter Reed? Ugh.
It’s likely a good thing that I never pursued a career in medicine. Rather, I just use the medical services provided to me and thank my lucky stars for good insurance. Talking about surgeries and injuries are totally fine if they’ve happened to me. However, if they have happened to someone else, my insides literally turn inside out, the nausea creeps over me like a bulimic, and I look for the easiest way to either escape or roll myself up in to the fetal position. For sixty minutes, we heard horror story after horror story about how each soldier lost their limbs, how long they had been in rehab. And while most of the audience was crying, I was trying very hard not to throw-up in my purse.
I decided the best strategy to not embarrass myself on the Oprah Winfrey show (who’s the girl who puked under the seats?) was to simply stop listening to the stories and focus on something else. And when you have the grand dame of daytime television sitting in front of you, it’s not hard to figure out what to focus on. “If Oprah makes $100 million dollars a year, which is roughly $275,000 a day, and she utters approximately 1,000 words per hour, does two shows a day, then each word is worth about $140 per word spoken. I wonder if ‘amputee’ counts more than $140 when combined with other words like it, the, a, etc. I wonder if I could calculate the cost per letter when Oprah talks.” And with that, I spent the rest of the time in total admiration of the fact that Oprah is truly a money machine. She opens her mouth, and money flies out.
The show ended with Oprah taking photos with the war guests. And simply because Oprah knew that none of us had cameras of any sort with us, she reached up, and yes – grabbed her own boob and gave it a squeeze. If each word was worth $140, then this historic action in front of a studio audience was worth at least a $1,000,000. That would be the $1,000,000 photo if only I had a secret camera on my bright red borrowed scarf. But alas, her action could only be seared on my brain and perhaps that was Oprah’s way of saying, “Hey, sorry I didn’t give you keys to a car, or frankly any parting gift, not even a prosthetic limb on a key chain, I’m giving you instead a visual that you can take home with you.” And that my friends, is the story of my day with Oprah.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Wack-O Jack-O
There are many things in my life that are constant that are good – weekends with the kids, flannel sheets in the winter, dinner dates with my husband. And there are many things in my life that are consistently bad, or weird, or a combination platter of the above. Travel curse, medical mysteries, running in to my ex-FIL in weird locations, Dave never loading the dishwasher (“…but I rinsed the dish babe!” “But is that dish going to walk itself to the dishwasher now, honey?”), work never being done, Dave’s annual ‘mancation’ and Jack’s inherited Kmart-blue-light-special GI issues.
This past weekend Dave embarked on a five-day journey to what is affectionately termed in my world as ‘mancation’. It’s really a ruse for Dave and his buddies to find more excuses to drink and be kid-free, under the guise of skiing, after all, when asked, “So, what did you do this mancation”, the answer is almost always, “We (fill in the blank), then we grabbed a drink.” Over the years I’ve managed to rack up enough ‘mancation’ credits to do an around-the-world in a year ‘momcation’ sans husband and kids. But alas, as all moms know, momcation isn’t a real word, because in my life momcations don’t exist, just like the word. I digress.
The key to a happy ‘mancation’ for the family left at home, is a well conceived plan that involves plenty of wine, kids activities, and someone else to help. As such, I did as any enterprising working mom would do, I Facebook’d my sister-in-law Sarah ‘inviting’ me and the kids to visit for the weekend. “Oh yes, the kids have been dying to see their cousins Devon and Daphne…hope you don’t mind, and yeah, by the way, can I bring the dog too? Seriously, I’m not flying, there should be no curse this time. Oh yeah, one more thing, I’m still on Percocet, so I’m hoping that I can pretty much become a pile of goo at your house while my kids run rampant and my dog needs to be let out.” And with hardly a question or comment, Uncle John and Aunt Sarah said, “Sure, make the trek to Woodstock, this will be fun.”
Now, I should probably back-track and tell you a short story about my middle child, Jack. As a baby, Jack was affectionately referred to as Bubba, primarily due to his size and appetite for anything that we ate. Over time, Jack lost his trademark identify, having stretched himself out to be the skinniest member of the family (all while maintaining an extraordinarily large head, thus making him appear rather pin-like) and virtually eating only cereal. It’s true, we were raising Seinfeld. Upon entering kindergarten, Jack kindly requested that we stop calling him Bubba in front of his friends, and simply refer to him as Jack O. Of course, the issue with naming your child a common or popular name is that there is the potential of other kids with the same name, and thus using the first initial of your last name. Jack O. quickly turned into Jack-O, which then turned in to Jacko. And in the process of Jack renaming himself after the King of Pop, he also managed to single handedly change his diet to only cereal, and therefore created his own set of unique plumbing issues only relieved with intervention, medication, and pleads of “just sit there and get your game on boy.”
After playing with their cousins all day, and running themselves in to a stupor, we were getting ready for bed, when Jack complained, “Mommy, my tummy is hurting me.” “Jack, too much cereal? Try sitting on the toilet and let the magic happen buddy.” Apparently, Jack had waited for what appeared to be at least five days to unleash the hounds in to John and Sarah’s bathroom. While trying to sneak off to bed, without even flushing the toilet, Jack was stopped by Uncle John, “Jack, dude, wipe your butt…and the seat, geez, what did you eat?” To which I was called upon and greeted with a six year old sunny-side up evening hello, “Mommy, did I get it all?” Ugh, I’m getting bonus points for my ‘momcation’.
“Jack, go to bed, I’ll take care of this.” And after flushing the toilet, washing my hands like I had an OCD, I turned and looked to my horror of Jack’s evening present never making it down to the sewage system of greater Woodstock, but rather staring at me in the face. “Umm…John, Sarah…do you have a plunger?” To which Sarah shows me the wimpiest plunger that clearly has not spent a moment in our house, because unfortunately, this is not an unusual occurrence after Jack has left the building. To my disappointment, the plunger did no good, which meant we had to call in the big guns. “John, surely you have a Plan B plunger, one that save for ‘special occasions.’” To which John replied, “Hey Sarah, get you get out the Black Plunger, please?”
The Black Plunger held hopes of working, after all this was the industrial strength, janitor wielding version that could likely suck a small child into the depths of the unknown just by looking at it. I was certain this would do the trick. But being a mom, and now, being a mom heavily medicated thanks to my own broken booty issues, I turned over plumbing duties to the man in the house, John. “Geez, I can’t believe this isn’t working. What in the world did your son do in here? I think I read that maybe if you put some petroleum jelly on the end of the plunger, it might work better.” And in an effort to outdo even MacGyver in plumbing magic, we applied Vaseline that is good enough for a baby’s bottom - and even better - good enough for the plunger to wipe out the lasting effects of one said grown baby’s bottom. Sadly, even the ‘sure to work’ petroleum jelly was a bust.
“John, any chance you might have a Plan C?” And magically, or more like shockingly, they did. From the great bowels of the basement came the plumbing auger with a retractable coil that frankly, made me want to recoil in fear that this is what we’ve come down to in the darkening hours of the night. And John made yet another attempt to rid the toilet of Jack’s presents once and for all. “I think it’s working….take that back, it’s stuck.” Geez Jack, are you growing diamonds in your butt? Did you really crap out coal? I thought Santa brought him presents, did I miss the coal under the pillow that he swallowed and now is finding its way some place in the plumbing in John and Sarah’s house?
To my horror, as I paced the hallway on the first floor, I heard the cries from my sister-in-law, that no homeowner (or visiting home owner) wants to hear, “John, stop what you’re doing. The basement is now flooding from the toilet. I want to sell the house.” Seriously, Sarah said, “I want to sell the house”. Not only is Jack’s butt now responsible for a plumbing bill that I don’t want to see, but Jack’s butt may be responsible for the Woodstock Oliveira’s to leave their home in search of a better property, with a better bathroom, and better plumbing. This may go down in history as the most expensive crap ever.
And magically, after what appeared to be hours of attempting to fix the problems, and prayers on my part that John and Sarah wouldn’t disown the Chicago based clan, the toilet was fixed. Kind of. Meaning you just couldn’t put any toilet paper in it. But hey, they have two other bathrooms, who care if one doesn’t really work, right?
I always envisioned that my little Jack would simply be called Jack. Not Bubba. Not Jack O. Or Jack-O. Or heaven help us, Jacko. But now, I must say, that Jackass has a whole new meaning in my world, making Wack-o Jack-o a moniker that I can even warm up to.
This past weekend Dave embarked on a five-day journey to what is affectionately termed in my world as ‘mancation’. It’s really a ruse for Dave and his buddies to find more excuses to drink and be kid-free, under the guise of skiing, after all, when asked, “So, what did you do this mancation”, the answer is almost always, “We (fill in the blank), then we grabbed a drink.” Over the years I’ve managed to rack up enough ‘mancation’ credits to do an around-the-world in a year ‘momcation’ sans husband and kids. But alas, as all moms know, momcation isn’t a real word, because in my life momcations don’t exist, just like the word. I digress.
The key to a happy ‘mancation’ for the family left at home, is a well conceived plan that involves plenty of wine, kids activities, and someone else to help. As such, I did as any enterprising working mom would do, I Facebook’d my sister-in-law Sarah ‘inviting’ me and the kids to visit for the weekend. “Oh yes, the kids have been dying to see their cousins Devon and Daphne…hope you don’t mind, and yeah, by the way, can I bring the dog too? Seriously, I’m not flying, there should be no curse this time. Oh yeah, one more thing, I’m still on Percocet, so I’m hoping that I can pretty much become a pile of goo at your house while my kids run rampant and my dog needs to be let out.” And with hardly a question or comment, Uncle John and Aunt Sarah said, “Sure, make the trek to Woodstock, this will be fun.”
Now, I should probably back-track and tell you a short story about my middle child, Jack. As a baby, Jack was affectionately referred to as Bubba, primarily due to his size and appetite for anything that we ate. Over time, Jack lost his trademark identify, having stretched himself out to be the skinniest member of the family (all while maintaining an extraordinarily large head, thus making him appear rather pin-like) and virtually eating only cereal. It’s true, we were raising Seinfeld. Upon entering kindergarten, Jack kindly requested that we stop calling him Bubba in front of his friends, and simply refer to him as Jack O. Of course, the issue with naming your child a common or popular name is that there is the potential of other kids with the same name, and thus using the first initial of your last name. Jack O. quickly turned into Jack-O, which then turned in to Jacko. And in the process of Jack renaming himself after the King of Pop, he also managed to single handedly change his diet to only cereal, and therefore created his own set of unique plumbing issues only relieved with intervention, medication, and pleads of “just sit there and get your game on boy.”
After playing with their cousins all day, and running themselves in to a stupor, we were getting ready for bed, when Jack complained, “Mommy, my tummy is hurting me.” “Jack, too much cereal? Try sitting on the toilet and let the magic happen buddy.” Apparently, Jack had waited for what appeared to be at least five days to unleash the hounds in to John and Sarah’s bathroom. While trying to sneak off to bed, without even flushing the toilet, Jack was stopped by Uncle John, “Jack, dude, wipe your butt…and the seat, geez, what did you eat?” To which I was called upon and greeted with a six year old sunny-side up evening hello, “Mommy, did I get it all?” Ugh, I’m getting bonus points for my ‘momcation’.
“Jack, go to bed, I’ll take care of this.” And after flushing the toilet, washing my hands like I had an OCD, I turned and looked to my horror of Jack’s evening present never making it down to the sewage system of greater Woodstock, but rather staring at me in the face. “Umm…John, Sarah…do you have a plunger?” To which Sarah shows me the wimpiest plunger that clearly has not spent a moment in our house, because unfortunately, this is not an unusual occurrence after Jack has left the building. To my disappointment, the plunger did no good, which meant we had to call in the big guns. “John, surely you have a Plan B plunger, one that save for ‘special occasions.’” To which John replied, “Hey Sarah, get you get out the Black Plunger, please?”
The Black Plunger held hopes of working, after all this was the industrial strength, janitor wielding version that could likely suck a small child into the depths of the unknown just by looking at it. I was certain this would do the trick. But being a mom, and now, being a mom heavily medicated thanks to my own broken booty issues, I turned over plumbing duties to the man in the house, John. “Geez, I can’t believe this isn’t working. What in the world did your son do in here? I think I read that maybe if you put some petroleum jelly on the end of the plunger, it might work better.” And in an effort to outdo even MacGyver in plumbing magic, we applied Vaseline that is good enough for a baby’s bottom - and even better - good enough for the plunger to wipe out the lasting effects of one said grown baby’s bottom. Sadly, even the ‘sure to work’ petroleum jelly was a bust.
“John, any chance you might have a Plan C?” And magically, or more like shockingly, they did. From the great bowels of the basement came the plumbing auger with a retractable coil that frankly, made me want to recoil in fear that this is what we’ve come down to in the darkening hours of the night. And John made yet another attempt to rid the toilet of Jack’s presents once and for all. “I think it’s working….take that back, it’s stuck.” Geez Jack, are you growing diamonds in your butt? Did you really crap out coal? I thought Santa brought him presents, did I miss the coal under the pillow that he swallowed and now is finding its way some place in the plumbing in John and Sarah’s house?
To my horror, as I paced the hallway on the first floor, I heard the cries from my sister-in-law, that no homeowner (or visiting home owner) wants to hear, “John, stop what you’re doing. The basement is now flooding from the toilet. I want to sell the house.” Seriously, Sarah said, “I want to sell the house”. Not only is Jack’s butt now responsible for a plumbing bill that I don’t want to see, but Jack’s butt may be responsible for the Woodstock Oliveira’s to leave their home in search of a better property, with a better bathroom, and better plumbing. This may go down in history as the most expensive crap ever.
And magically, after what appeared to be hours of attempting to fix the problems, and prayers on my part that John and Sarah wouldn’t disown the Chicago based clan, the toilet was fixed. Kind of. Meaning you just couldn’t put any toilet paper in it. But hey, they have two other bathrooms, who care if one doesn’t really work, right?
I always envisioned that my little Jack would simply be called Jack. Not Bubba. Not Jack O. Or Jack-O. Or heaven help us, Jacko. But now, I must say, that Jackass has a whole new meaning in my world, making Wack-o Jack-o a moniker that I can even warm up to.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Broken Booty
The Broken Booty
Daisy the Wonder Dog was pitched online as a “lab-mix puppy who is lovable, adorable and great with kids.” Somewhere there was no safety warning posted that may have diverted our attention to another dog, had it said, “Daisy the Wonder Dog, while appearing to be a docile dog, actually has a secret agenda to take down Su.” No, apparently, I would have to learn this the hard way.
While Dave went with Jack to pick up Daisy Christmas Eve morning, I took Delaney and Max to American Girl for our traditional brunch (well, traditional with Delaney, Max was the ‘bonus add-on’). I will admit up front that after discussing the morning activities, Dave and I decided that it would be in the best interest of all involved if Max did not go to fetch Daisy the Wonder Dog. After all, this is the4-year old kid who beat up the school security guard, prompting a mandatory meeting with the school administration and just about every social service organization imaginable. The last thing we needed was for the foster parents to say, “You know what, that Max…hmm…he’s a little pit-bull, huh? We may need to rethink the adoption.” Instead, we sent our lovable teddy bear Jack who oozes charm, good looks and suffers from middle child syndrome, making this pick-up the perfect gift for Jack.
After an eventful morning at American Girl, from taming the wild child at a girly brunch, to Delaney exclaiming, “I’m not feeling so well…” “Here, throw up in my hat, no one will notice!” (true story, I think we are forever banned from returning) I was anxious to come home and find out if our lovable new pet would fit in with the family. “Su, meet Daisy.” “Daisy, meet Su.” As we sized each other up, I said, “Now Ms. Daisy, let’s just remember who’s the boss here. No, not Dave – although we can pretend when he’s around – that would be me. Got it? I’m in charge.” To which Daisy looked at me with her puppy dog eyes and muttered, “Yeah right. I’m all cute looking, you’ll fall in love, and then watch out. I can take you down. Game on, girlfriend.”
While Dave gathered the troops for church, and I stayed home to hold back Delaney’s hair while she prayed to the porcelain gods, I volunteered to take Daisy the Wonder Dog for a walk. Now Dave got some fancy, weird looking leash that had a handle by the collar, as well as the end of the leash. Not being briefed on how exactly to use the leash, I awkwardly bent down to walk her by the handle close to her collar, which made it appear to any passerby that I was likely suffering from a severe case of scoliosis, or attempting to ‘get on the same level’ as Daisy the Wonder Dog. Needless to say, walking half twisted with a 35-pound puppy was a challenge for someone as non-athletic as me. One would think those high-school cheerleading moves would have helped as I twisted myself into a human pretzel being led by the dog, but alas old age, snow and being pathetically out of shape rendered me useless in the battle of “Su vs. Canine.” One chirp of a bird, and Daisy was off leaving me in a pile on the sidewalk.
When Dave came back home from church, noticing both Delaney and I laying on the couch, he asked, “What happened to you?” “Well, I took Daisy for a walk. I think I pulled a muscle. And by the way, what is up with the leash?” Dave replied, “That leash is to help her know who’s in charge. Clearly, it sounds like she was walking you, not you walking her. You have to teach her who’s in charge.” I retorted, “I know, I know, Daisy and I had that conversation earlier, I think she’s trying to kill me.” I swear I saw Daisy give Dave a wink that said, “I know, we’ll pretend like Su’s in charge, but I’ve got her figured out.”
Three days later, on December 27th, after learning from the vet that our lovable lab-mix was most likely a pit-bull mix (“You don’t live in a condo do you, she might be a prohibited breed for some associations” – great, I guess this is good that we have a house, right?), we packed up the car, the kids, the dog and ventured to the great white north, also known as the lake house in Michigan. After settling in, Dave took the kids out to his folks house leaving me alone with Daisy. “Daisy, listen, let’s get this straight. I’m in charge, I’m the alpha dog. You may have upgraded your status from Lab to Pit-Bull, but once again, let’s get this straight, I’m in charge. You cannot kill me, ‘K?” I believe Daisy rolled her eyes as I reached down, with the crazy leash, and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
In our walk, I decided that with my new Wii Fit Christmas Gift, I would start the almost-new year out right and go for a long walk. We have 15 acres in Michigan, and I was going to search out every nook and cranny of the property with Daisy, putting to rest, any questions of who was in charge. After stepping out the front door, and walking behind the house, I suddenly realized that “Snow, ice, birds and hills” make for a bad combination when Daisy the Wonder Dog is on a walk. I tumbled down the icy hill doing my best “tuck and roll” but realized that only helps if you’re on fire, not ‘pretend sledding without a sled.’ Daisy, realizing that “Hey, ‘Mama Dog Owner’ has fallen down and can’t get up” ran over by my side waiting for me to get back up. I would like to think that Daisy did this simply out of sympathy and concern for her owner that has treats in her pocket, but truth be told, she probably came and sat next to simply to rub in my face that in the battle of Su vs. Canine, Daisy is clearly winning.
As Dave came home, and saw me with my bloody leg propped up, he said, “What happened to you?” And after retelling the story of how Daisy was trying to kill me today, Dave said, “Remember, she needs to know who’s in charge. You need to walk her, not vice versa.” OK, sympathetic husband, I’m hearing you loud and clear but now we’re in war mode. The battle is clearly on.
We made our way back to Chicago with no further incidents. I was looking forward to our traditional Kenmore-street progressive NYE party, where past and current Kenmore residents get drunk from one house to the next without any concerns of driving. Bliss! Dinner was at our house, and Daisy the Wonder Dog charmed all the neighbors. “What type of dog is she? She’s so cute.” Pit-bull, only cute until she is trying to kill you. “She’s so sweet, ah, look how great she is with the kids.” Kids yes, owners, well, that’s another story.
As we made our way to our neighbor Jill’s house, Jill said, “Hey, why won’t you bring Daisy with you. I’m sure Bella, our boxer, would love the company.” And having just enough alcohol in me, I enthusiastically responded thinking that this would be a great idea. I kept one eye on Daisy, and one eye on my glass of wine. At 11:30, as we began the parental, “Geez, is midnight ever going to get here, I can barely stay awake” chant, I asked a very simple question to Jack. “Jack – do you know where Daisy is? “ It appeared that I spent too much time eyeing my glass of wine, and not enough time keeping an eye on Daisy. “Oh yeah, Mommy, I think she’s in Jill’s basement.”
Remembering that Jill has cats, and they reside in the rafters in the basement, I thought it would be a good idea to get Daisy out of the basement – after all, cat fights are best between girls, not cats, and definitely not between Daisy and Jill’s cats. “Daisy, are you down there?”, I said as I stepped on the first step. And just as Daisy was saying, “Yep, I’m down here. Whaddya going to do about that, girlfriend? Game on, come on down,” I slipped on the first step of a long flight of slippery, hard, non-carpeted wooden stairs.
I’ve often heard when faced with imminent danger, people have their lives flash before their eyes. When faced with imminent injury, I had the longest conversation known to man with myself, “OMG, I can’t believe I am falling down an entire flight of stairs. Where is Dave? How come he is never around when I’m injuring myself? I really hope this doesn’t hurt too bad in the morning. I can’t believe the dog is winning. She really is trying to kill me. How many freaking steps are there – did Jill dig her basement out an additional eight feet ?” And as I found myself in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, Daisy the Wonder Dog comes over to me, gives me a quick lick on the cheek, and then promptly runs up the stairs, the equivalent of giving me the doggie-finger with a triumphant wag of her tail, “I’m winning, you’re losing. In fact, I can guarantee you, you will be a SORE loser.”
In an effort not to embarrass myself any further than necessary, I stand up, dust myself off and hobble back up the stairs to the festivities above. “Here Su, champagne, perfect to ring in the New Year.” Perfect, more alcohol to take the edge of my butt, that was clearly on fire – perhaps that tuck and roll maneuver would have been a better option than the ‘let me ride down the stairs on my tail bone, one bump at a time.’ After ringing in the New Year, I sheepishly admitted to Jill, “Hey, umm…I took a tumble down your basement stairs. I think I need to go home and take some Tylenol.” Jill quickly responded, “Su, you should have held on the hand railing, those are the worst stairs. I broke my hand last Christmas falling down the stairs.” O.K., that would have been good information to have perhaps 45 minutes ago.
I woke up on the 1st of January with a pain-in-the-ass, slightly hung over, stupor. “Dave, do I have any bruises? I can barely walk.” To which Dave responded, “Huh? Did you fall or something?” Oh, yeah, that’s right, Dave was nowhere to be found while I became one with Jill’s stairs. I relayed the story to him to which Dave replied, “You know, it’s not fair that you keep on blaming Daisy. It’s really not her fault that you are so clumsy.” Since I can’t blame Daisy according to Dave, I quickly yelled for the kids and once lined up next to my bed, “Kids – which one of you stepped on a crack and broke my back?” They all pointed at Max, with Max responding, “I was only kidding Mommy.”
I sent a text to our good friend Pete, also our pediatrician, inquiring what I could do about a bruise quickly taking over my entire back-side. “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’s nothing. And frankly, even if it was something, there is nothing anyone can do. Tough it out.” And with those wise words of a pediatrician that could only offer up Children’s Tylenol for my sore booty, I did just that. I toughed it out for the day, and then finally on the 2nd tried calling my doctor. “I’m sorry, but the office is closed today for a staff meeting. “ Ugh, I can barely walk, and my doc is at a staff meeting. I will muster on, and yet one more day passes without any medical help. On Saturday, the 3rd, having taken just about enough of the pain, and the sideway glances from Daisy the Wonder Dog, I finally talked to the on-call doctor. “Well, I would love to prescribe something for your pain, but really, you need to get an x-ray. We have no openings until Monday, so I would suggest you head over to the ER.” Now, anyone that lives in Chicago knows, don’t go to the ER unless you are 1. Brought in by an ambulance or 2. Get hit by a bullet. Those are really the only two things that will ins6ure you are seen quickly, otherwise expect to spend 4-6 hours waiting in the chairs. “That’s okay, I’ll wait until Monday.”
After 5 long days of eating Tylenol like they were candy, barely able to sit or move, and responding to Dave’s questions of “Hey, do you think you could walk the dog” with a snarl and growl, I headed to Northwestern Memorial to get the tailbone checked out. As I was walking out of the door to drive myself to the hospital, Daisy gave me that look that said, “Geez, kinda sorry about all of this. But I’m not done with you yet. You just wait.”
I checked in on the 4th floor, waited patiently for my number to be called and hobbled back in to x-ray. “Yep, looks like you fractured and dislodged your tailbone. Nothing we can do about this, except give you some good drugs.” And as I was leaving, fairly depressed and thinking, surely, things can’t get any worse, I look up only to see my ex-Father in law sitting in the x-ray lobby at NMH. Seriously? “God, I know you have a sense of humor, but this is not funny! When I was born, did my parents sign up for one of everything? Don’t they have an invisible fence around Wheaton shocking anyone that tries to leave the premises? Ugh….that Daisy….” And without the ability to run or hide, I hobbled out of NMH with my tail between my legs – ironic since Daisy has yet to show me her tail between her legs – having given up and throwing in the white flag in the great battle of “Su vs. Canine.”
Daisy the Wonder Dog was pitched online as a “lab-mix puppy who is lovable, adorable and great with kids.” Somewhere there was no safety warning posted that may have diverted our attention to another dog, had it said, “Daisy the Wonder Dog, while appearing to be a docile dog, actually has a secret agenda to take down Su.” No, apparently, I would have to learn this the hard way.
While Dave went with Jack to pick up Daisy Christmas Eve morning, I took Delaney and Max to American Girl for our traditional brunch (well, traditional with Delaney, Max was the ‘bonus add-on’). I will admit up front that after discussing the morning activities, Dave and I decided that it would be in the best interest of all involved if Max did not go to fetch Daisy the Wonder Dog. After all, this is the4-year old kid who beat up the school security guard, prompting a mandatory meeting with the school administration and just about every social service organization imaginable. The last thing we needed was for the foster parents to say, “You know what, that Max…hmm…he’s a little pit-bull, huh? We may need to rethink the adoption.” Instead, we sent our lovable teddy bear Jack who oozes charm, good looks and suffers from middle child syndrome, making this pick-up the perfect gift for Jack.
After an eventful morning at American Girl, from taming the wild child at a girly brunch, to Delaney exclaiming, “I’m not feeling so well…” “Here, throw up in my hat, no one will notice!” (true story, I think we are forever banned from returning) I was anxious to come home and find out if our lovable new pet would fit in with the family. “Su, meet Daisy.” “Daisy, meet Su.” As we sized each other up, I said, “Now Ms. Daisy, let’s just remember who’s the boss here. No, not Dave – although we can pretend when he’s around – that would be me. Got it? I’m in charge.” To which Daisy looked at me with her puppy dog eyes and muttered, “Yeah right. I’m all cute looking, you’ll fall in love, and then watch out. I can take you down. Game on, girlfriend.”
While Dave gathered the troops for church, and I stayed home to hold back Delaney’s hair while she prayed to the porcelain gods, I volunteered to take Daisy the Wonder Dog for a walk. Now Dave got some fancy, weird looking leash that had a handle by the collar, as well as the end of the leash. Not being briefed on how exactly to use the leash, I awkwardly bent down to walk her by the handle close to her collar, which made it appear to any passerby that I was likely suffering from a severe case of scoliosis, or attempting to ‘get on the same level’ as Daisy the Wonder Dog. Needless to say, walking half twisted with a 35-pound puppy was a challenge for someone as non-athletic as me. One would think those high-school cheerleading moves would have helped as I twisted myself into a human pretzel being led by the dog, but alas old age, snow and being pathetically out of shape rendered me useless in the battle of “Su vs. Canine.” One chirp of a bird, and Daisy was off leaving me in a pile on the sidewalk.
When Dave came back home from church, noticing both Delaney and I laying on the couch, he asked, “What happened to you?” “Well, I took Daisy for a walk. I think I pulled a muscle. And by the way, what is up with the leash?” Dave replied, “That leash is to help her know who’s in charge. Clearly, it sounds like she was walking you, not you walking her. You have to teach her who’s in charge.” I retorted, “I know, I know, Daisy and I had that conversation earlier, I think she’s trying to kill me.” I swear I saw Daisy give Dave a wink that said, “I know, we’ll pretend like Su’s in charge, but I’ve got her figured out.”
Three days later, on December 27th, after learning from the vet that our lovable lab-mix was most likely a pit-bull mix (“You don’t live in a condo do you, she might be a prohibited breed for some associations” – great, I guess this is good that we have a house, right?), we packed up the car, the kids, the dog and ventured to the great white north, also known as the lake house in Michigan. After settling in, Dave took the kids out to his folks house leaving me alone with Daisy. “Daisy, listen, let’s get this straight. I’m in charge, I’m the alpha dog. You may have upgraded your status from Lab to Pit-Bull, but once again, let’s get this straight, I’m in charge. You cannot kill me, ‘K?” I believe Daisy rolled her eyes as I reached down, with the crazy leash, and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
In our walk, I decided that with my new Wii Fit Christmas Gift, I would start the almost-new year out right and go for a long walk. We have 15 acres in Michigan, and I was going to search out every nook and cranny of the property with Daisy, putting to rest, any questions of who was in charge. After stepping out the front door, and walking behind the house, I suddenly realized that “Snow, ice, birds and hills” make for a bad combination when Daisy the Wonder Dog is on a walk. I tumbled down the icy hill doing my best “tuck and roll” but realized that only helps if you’re on fire, not ‘pretend sledding without a sled.’ Daisy, realizing that “Hey, ‘Mama Dog Owner’ has fallen down and can’t get up” ran over by my side waiting for me to get back up. I would like to think that Daisy did this simply out of sympathy and concern for her owner that has treats in her pocket, but truth be told, she probably came and sat next to simply to rub in my face that in the battle of Su vs. Canine, Daisy is clearly winning.
As Dave came home, and saw me with my bloody leg propped up, he said, “What happened to you?” And after retelling the story of how Daisy was trying to kill me today, Dave said, “Remember, she needs to know who’s in charge. You need to walk her, not vice versa.” OK, sympathetic husband, I’m hearing you loud and clear but now we’re in war mode. The battle is clearly on.
We made our way back to Chicago with no further incidents. I was looking forward to our traditional Kenmore-street progressive NYE party, where past and current Kenmore residents get drunk from one house to the next without any concerns of driving. Bliss! Dinner was at our house, and Daisy the Wonder Dog charmed all the neighbors. “What type of dog is she? She’s so cute.” Pit-bull, only cute until she is trying to kill you. “She’s so sweet, ah, look how great she is with the kids.” Kids yes, owners, well, that’s another story.
As we made our way to our neighbor Jill’s house, Jill said, “Hey, why won’t you bring Daisy with you. I’m sure Bella, our boxer, would love the company.” And having just enough alcohol in me, I enthusiastically responded thinking that this would be a great idea. I kept one eye on Daisy, and one eye on my glass of wine. At 11:30, as we began the parental, “Geez, is midnight ever going to get here, I can barely stay awake” chant, I asked a very simple question to Jack. “Jack – do you know where Daisy is? “ It appeared that I spent too much time eyeing my glass of wine, and not enough time keeping an eye on Daisy. “Oh yeah, Mommy, I think she’s in Jill’s basement.”
Remembering that Jill has cats, and they reside in the rafters in the basement, I thought it would be a good idea to get Daisy out of the basement – after all, cat fights are best between girls, not cats, and definitely not between Daisy and Jill’s cats. “Daisy, are you down there?”, I said as I stepped on the first step. And just as Daisy was saying, “Yep, I’m down here. Whaddya going to do about that, girlfriend? Game on, come on down,” I slipped on the first step of a long flight of slippery, hard, non-carpeted wooden stairs.
I’ve often heard when faced with imminent danger, people have their lives flash before their eyes. When faced with imminent injury, I had the longest conversation known to man with myself, “OMG, I can’t believe I am falling down an entire flight of stairs. Where is Dave? How come he is never around when I’m injuring myself? I really hope this doesn’t hurt too bad in the morning. I can’t believe the dog is winning. She really is trying to kill me. How many freaking steps are there – did Jill dig her basement out an additional eight feet ?” And as I found myself in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, Daisy the Wonder Dog comes over to me, gives me a quick lick on the cheek, and then promptly runs up the stairs, the equivalent of giving me the doggie-finger with a triumphant wag of her tail, “I’m winning, you’re losing. In fact, I can guarantee you, you will be a SORE loser.”
In an effort not to embarrass myself any further than necessary, I stand up, dust myself off and hobble back up the stairs to the festivities above. “Here Su, champagne, perfect to ring in the New Year.” Perfect, more alcohol to take the edge of my butt, that was clearly on fire – perhaps that tuck and roll maneuver would have been a better option than the ‘let me ride down the stairs on my tail bone, one bump at a time.’ After ringing in the New Year, I sheepishly admitted to Jill, “Hey, umm…I took a tumble down your basement stairs. I think I need to go home and take some Tylenol.” Jill quickly responded, “Su, you should have held on the hand railing, those are the worst stairs. I broke my hand last Christmas falling down the stairs.” O.K., that would have been good information to have perhaps 45 minutes ago.
I woke up on the 1st of January with a pain-in-the-ass, slightly hung over, stupor. “Dave, do I have any bruises? I can barely walk.” To which Dave responded, “Huh? Did you fall or something?” Oh, yeah, that’s right, Dave was nowhere to be found while I became one with Jill’s stairs. I relayed the story to him to which Dave replied, “You know, it’s not fair that you keep on blaming Daisy. It’s really not her fault that you are so clumsy.” Since I can’t blame Daisy according to Dave, I quickly yelled for the kids and once lined up next to my bed, “Kids – which one of you stepped on a crack and broke my back?” They all pointed at Max, with Max responding, “I was only kidding Mommy.”
I sent a text to our good friend Pete, also our pediatrician, inquiring what I could do about a bruise quickly taking over my entire back-side. “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’s nothing. And frankly, even if it was something, there is nothing anyone can do. Tough it out.” And with those wise words of a pediatrician that could only offer up Children’s Tylenol for my sore booty, I did just that. I toughed it out for the day, and then finally on the 2nd tried calling my doctor. “I’m sorry, but the office is closed today for a staff meeting. “ Ugh, I can barely walk, and my doc is at a staff meeting. I will muster on, and yet one more day passes without any medical help. On Saturday, the 3rd, having taken just about enough of the pain, and the sideway glances from Daisy the Wonder Dog, I finally talked to the on-call doctor. “Well, I would love to prescribe something for your pain, but really, you need to get an x-ray. We have no openings until Monday, so I would suggest you head over to the ER.” Now, anyone that lives in Chicago knows, don’t go to the ER unless you are 1. Brought in by an ambulance or 2. Get hit by a bullet. Those are really the only two things that will ins6ure you are seen quickly, otherwise expect to spend 4-6 hours waiting in the chairs. “That’s okay, I’ll wait until Monday.”
After 5 long days of eating Tylenol like they were candy, barely able to sit or move, and responding to Dave’s questions of “Hey, do you think you could walk the dog” with a snarl and growl, I headed to Northwestern Memorial to get the tailbone checked out. As I was walking out of the door to drive myself to the hospital, Daisy gave me that look that said, “Geez, kinda sorry about all of this. But I’m not done with you yet. You just wait.”
I checked in on the 4th floor, waited patiently for my number to be called and hobbled back in to x-ray. “Yep, looks like you fractured and dislodged your tailbone. Nothing we can do about this, except give you some good drugs.” And as I was leaving, fairly depressed and thinking, surely, things can’t get any worse, I look up only to see my ex-Father in law sitting in the x-ray lobby at NMH. Seriously? “God, I know you have a sense of humor, but this is not funny! When I was born, did my parents sign up for one of everything? Don’t they have an invisible fence around Wheaton shocking anyone that tries to leave the premises? Ugh….that Daisy….” And without the ability to run or hide, I hobbled out of NMH with my tail between my legs – ironic since Daisy has yet to show me her tail between her legs – having given up and throwing in the white flag in the great battle of “Su vs. Canine.”
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Rescue Dog
Part I -The Rescue Dog
K.C. was our timeshare dog, lovingly cared for by Kathy, but living the high life through our credit cards. The vet bills seemed to escalate for the 15-year old pooch, culminating in the $800 tumor removal the Christmas of 2007 reminding us that, “You know, dogs grow old, and then they get expensive.” Considering that K.C. only lived with us for about 3-4 weeks out of the year, we calculated that it actually cost us approximately $50 per day to have her stay with us in the mere effort to give the kids the illusion of having a dog. “Mom, can we get a dog?” “You already have one.” “Where?” “With Kathy. She’s your timeshare dog – she lives with us a few weeks of the week, but we pay for her the entire year.” “That’s not fair mom, we want a full time dog, not a time share dog.” “But time share dogs, while more expensive, are easier to take care of.”
And before we could fully explain the benefits of owning a timeshare dog with the kids, K.C. was gone. As Dave was doing his dead-dog duties, which apparently included Dave bringing home the deceased dog to the dinner table, Dave made an appointment with the grief counselor at Blum. As Dave says, “Well, I brought K.C. to Blum Vet and in an effort to look forlorn and shaken up over K.C.’s passing, they sent in the grief counselor. And frankly, she was kinda hot, so I just tried to be more sad and pathetic.” Well, the one thing the counselor said was when telling the kids, don’t beat around the bush, just be direct. Perfect, Direct-Dave, with his wife, Indirect-non-confrontational-Su could get the job done.
“Kids,” Dave said, “sit down, we have something to tell you.” “Are we getting a brother or sister?” Umm…no, that wouldn’t be it, I swear I have to start that Weight Watchers thing soon. “How about a new Wii game?” Are you giving up your allowance money? “Well kids,” Dave continued, “K.C. was a well loved dog and has been with our family for a long part-time. K.C. won’t be coming back to visit us anytime soon.” Nice Dave, leave the kids with ‘soon’ to wonder if K.C. is going to be making a reappearance in an urn or on the dinner table, again. The glazed look on our three kids would imply that this conversation was not going as well as planned. Plan B – use the Counselor’s approach, be direct. “Alright, fine, K.C. died. She’s never coming back. Do you get it, do you understand, she’s dead. Really dead.” Ah, clearly the direct approach worked as the waterworks began. After dabbing the kids eyes with tissues, Dave asks the kids, “Do you want to talk about this? Do you have any questions?” Only one question, that they virtually all said in unison, “Does this mean we can finally get a real dog?” And so began the journey to The Rescue Dog.
I will admit that I was relieved to be freed of the responsibilities of doggie duties, even if we only did it a few weeks of the year. Months passed with the constant pleads from the kids, for anything that they did that remotely smelled of being good (i.e. report cards, not teasing, Max wiping his butt, etc), “Does this mean I can get a dog?” Please Max, wiping your butt on your own is a skill that your college roommates and future spouse will be grateful for, not something that you should do simply because you want a puppy.
After much discussion, some behind-the-back ‘let’s go pet the puppies after church at PAWS’ maneuvers, we (Dave and I) decided that yes, we could get a dog. I, for one, preferred the small yippy lap dog, Dave on the other hand preferred the 100-Pound Burmese Mountain Dog (just in case he wanted to scale Mt. Everest and needed a dog to be his Sherpa), but city living dictated that we both compromise and search for the 40-50 pound dog. And the kids, if it had four legs and licked them, that was all they wanted.
On December 20th, Dave and I had managed to get rid of all of the kids for assorted sleepovers in an attempt to escape the Christmas rush and head downtown for a night at the Sofitel to celebrate our anniversary. Oh, what the heck, “Dave, we can’t check in to the Sofitel until 4:00, the kids are gone, do you want to go see puppies at PAWS?” And with hardly a twist of the arm, we made a pit stop to PAWS at 3:30 just prior to closing, to see the latest dogs that were in need of a home. After circling the rooms a few times, Dave longingly looked in the window of a room with a wee-little, barely born, Lab-mix puppy. “Look Su, he’s perfect!” He? What about our agreed upon non-shedding, she-dog who wasn’t a puppy? “Please, please, please can I have the puppy?” Geez, this is like bringing your four year old out on date, but with sadder eyes and a bigger pocket book.
According to the guys in charge at PAWS, they are serious about their adoptions and have ‘rules’ in which they must follow. “Well, if you would like Comet here, you’ll need to start the adoption process immediately and take the dog home with you…today.” “Oh, and don’t forget, we don’t let the dog leave until he meets every member of the family.” Let me get this straight – I figured out how to get rid of every child of mine to have a single overnight in the city, and now I’m looking at picking them all up to meet a dog, forgo our night at the Sofitel, simply to get a non-she-definitely bigger than 40 pounds-shedding-male dog? These are dogs that need to be adopted, right? It’s harder to adopt a dog in Chicago than it is to get a mortgage. “Dave, I think we need to sleep on this. As in, sleep at the Sofitel, keep the kids at their overnight, make sure this is what we (or I) really want. We can come back when they open at 11:00 a.m.” And with that, and some relative assurances that since PAWS would be closing in 30 minutes, most likely Comet would be ours in the morning.
At 10:55 a.m., Dave patiently waited on one of the coldest days in Chicago, to be let in to PAWS. “Is he here? WE WANT COMET! MY WIFE CAVED IN! I WON!” (I can only assume this is what he said as I sat in the car too cold to move). And out came sad, pathetic looking Dave – probably giving me the same look he gave the ‘hot’ grief counselor (but this was genuine) – “Someone adopted Comet 15 minutes after we left.”
After following Mopey-Dave around the house on Sunday, and feeling a tad bit guilty for not pulling the trigger when asked, I simply said, “Why don’t you go to the Chicago Animal Rescue with Delaney, they have a herd, I mean litter, of lab-mix pups that look kinda cute. And while you are there, I will sift through the 10MM listings on Petfinder.com for our perfect adopted dog.” Dave ran out of the house like I gave him a new lease on life with Delaney in tow, while I did what I do best – sat on the couch with the computer and searched away.
When Dave got home, with the reports about Belle, the 21-pound 7 week old puppy (“No honey, she’s not going to get that big”…right) I narrowed the list of possible on-line pups for Dave to look at. I can only imagine searching on-line was probably like using match.com or eharmony.com, but for the canine set. “Too ugly.” “Too big.” “Too small.” “Bad teeth.” “Is that their real hair?” “Too high maintenance.” Truth be told, I was looking for a big enough dog to satisfies Dave’s desires, not too big so I wouldn’t freak out, a dog that wouldn’t bark, one that could tell us when it needed to go outside, one that wouldn’t shed, one that would be good with the kids, not jump up on the couch, not sleep in our bed, not need too much exercise, a lap dog, a lazy dog, etc. Frankly, I think I was looking for the perfect stuffed animal, while Dave was trying to mend his PAWs broken heart with a canine companion. So, while Dave tracked down the next steps and lengthy application process for Belle (please – home visit, phone interviews, referrals and recommendations – even Roland Burris did have this lengthy of a background check to be seated in the Senate), I tracked down the whereabouts of Daisy the Wonder Dog.
“Dave, I was just interviewed by Chicago Canine Rescue. Apparently, I answered all of the questions correctly because we were approved to adopt Belle. But just one small…umm…big thing we should talk about. Belle is going to be 80+ pounds when she’s fully grown, not really sure if that is going to work in the ‘plan.’” So, with that one “I’m apparently going to continue to break my husband’s heart” phone call, it was full speed ahead to find out if Daisy the Wonder Dog was available, and if the FBI would now be doing our next application check.
Dave made the journey with a couple of kids from the Friendly Confines to Highland Park where Daisy the Wonder Dog was being fostered by a way cool family, while Su enjoyed an evening out with the girls. I raced home (okay, not really) to find out that unbelievable, but Daisy actually met all of my crazy requirements for a dog. She was the live stuffed animal I was looking for, but hadn’t met, and guess what, Dave is smiling again which made everything well in the world. And with a few more phone calls, some random but easy paperwork (sure you don’t need to come to our house, what about fingerprinting us, background checks, hey we’ll even offer up one of our kids in exchange for the dog), Daisy made her way home on Christmas Eve and was the perfect Christmas gift for the family. We have all fallen in love with her- even though our lab-mix…err, actually pitbull-mix…is trying to kill me. One has to wonder who actually needs the rescuing, but that’s a story for another day.
COMING UP SOON, PART TWO – HOW I BROKE MY BOOTY (or How is Daisy trying to kill me today)
K.C. was our timeshare dog, lovingly cared for by Kathy, but living the high life through our credit cards. The vet bills seemed to escalate for the 15-year old pooch, culminating in the $800 tumor removal the Christmas of 2007 reminding us that, “You know, dogs grow old, and then they get expensive.” Considering that K.C. only lived with us for about 3-4 weeks out of the year, we calculated that it actually cost us approximately $50 per day to have her stay with us in the mere effort to give the kids the illusion of having a dog. “Mom, can we get a dog?” “You already have one.” “Where?” “With Kathy. She’s your timeshare dog – she lives with us a few weeks of the week, but we pay for her the entire year.” “That’s not fair mom, we want a full time dog, not a time share dog.” “But time share dogs, while more expensive, are easier to take care of.”
And before we could fully explain the benefits of owning a timeshare dog with the kids, K.C. was gone. As Dave was doing his dead-dog duties, which apparently included Dave bringing home the deceased dog to the dinner table, Dave made an appointment with the grief counselor at Blum. As Dave says, “Well, I brought K.C. to Blum Vet and in an effort to look forlorn and shaken up over K.C.’s passing, they sent in the grief counselor. And frankly, she was kinda hot, so I just tried to be more sad and pathetic.” Well, the one thing the counselor said was when telling the kids, don’t beat around the bush, just be direct. Perfect, Direct-Dave, with his wife, Indirect-non-confrontational-Su could get the job done.
“Kids,” Dave said, “sit down, we have something to tell you.” “Are we getting a brother or sister?” Umm…no, that wouldn’t be it, I swear I have to start that Weight Watchers thing soon. “How about a new Wii game?” Are you giving up your allowance money? “Well kids,” Dave continued, “K.C. was a well loved dog and has been with our family for a long part-time. K.C. won’t be coming back to visit us anytime soon.” Nice Dave, leave the kids with ‘soon’ to wonder if K.C. is going to be making a reappearance in an urn or on the dinner table, again. The glazed look on our three kids would imply that this conversation was not going as well as planned. Plan B – use the Counselor’s approach, be direct. “Alright, fine, K.C. died. She’s never coming back. Do you get it, do you understand, she’s dead. Really dead.” Ah, clearly the direct approach worked as the waterworks began. After dabbing the kids eyes with tissues, Dave asks the kids, “Do you want to talk about this? Do you have any questions?” Only one question, that they virtually all said in unison, “Does this mean we can finally get a real dog?” And so began the journey to The Rescue Dog.
I will admit that I was relieved to be freed of the responsibilities of doggie duties, even if we only did it a few weeks of the year. Months passed with the constant pleads from the kids, for anything that they did that remotely smelled of being good (i.e. report cards, not teasing, Max wiping his butt, etc), “Does this mean I can get a dog?” Please Max, wiping your butt on your own is a skill that your college roommates and future spouse will be grateful for, not something that you should do simply because you want a puppy.
After much discussion, some behind-the-back ‘let’s go pet the puppies after church at PAWS’ maneuvers, we (Dave and I) decided that yes, we could get a dog. I, for one, preferred the small yippy lap dog, Dave on the other hand preferred the 100-Pound Burmese Mountain Dog (just in case he wanted to scale Mt. Everest and needed a dog to be his Sherpa), but city living dictated that we both compromise and search for the 40-50 pound dog. And the kids, if it had four legs and licked them, that was all they wanted.
On December 20th, Dave and I had managed to get rid of all of the kids for assorted sleepovers in an attempt to escape the Christmas rush and head downtown for a night at the Sofitel to celebrate our anniversary. Oh, what the heck, “Dave, we can’t check in to the Sofitel until 4:00, the kids are gone, do you want to go see puppies at PAWS?” And with hardly a twist of the arm, we made a pit stop to PAWS at 3:30 just prior to closing, to see the latest dogs that were in need of a home. After circling the rooms a few times, Dave longingly looked in the window of a room with a wee-little, barely born, Lab-mix puppy. “Look Su, he’s perfect!” He? What about our agreed upon non-shedding, she-dog who wasn’t a puppy? “Please, please, please can I have the puppy?” Geez, this is like bringing your four year old out on date, but with sadder eyes and a bigger pocket book.
According to the guys in charge at PAWS, they are serious about their adoptions and have ‘rules’ in which they must follow. “Well, if you would like Comet here, you’ll need to start the adoption process immediately and take the dog home with you…today.” “Oh, and don’t forget, we don’t let the dog leave until he meets every member of the family.” Let me get this straight – I figured out how to get rid of every child of mine to have a single overnight in the city, and now I’m looking at picking them all up to meet a dog, forgo our night at the Sofitel, simply to get a non-she-definitely bigger than 40 pounds-shedding-male dog? These are dogs that need to be adopted, right? It’s harder to adopt a dog in Chicago than it is to get a mortgage. “Dave, I think we need to sleep on this. As in, sleep at the Sofitel, keep the kids at their overnight, make sure this is what we (or I) really want. We can come back when they open at 11:00 a.m.” And with that, and some relative assurances that since PAWS would be closing in 30 minutes, most likely Comet would be ours in the morning.
At 10:55 a.m., Dave patiently waited on one of the coldest days in Chicago, to be let in to PAWS. “Is he here? WE WANT COMET! MY WIFE CAVED IN! I WON!” (I can only assume this is what he said as I sat in the car too cold to move). And out came sad, pathetic looking Dave – probably giving me the same look he gave the ‘hot’ grief counselor (but this was genuine) – “Someone adopted Comet 15 minutes after we left.”
After following Mopey-Dave around the house on Sunday, and feeling a tad bit guilty for not pulling the trigger when asked, I simply said, “Why don’t you go to the Chicago Animal Rescue with Delaney, they have a herd, I mean litter, of lab-mix pups that look kinda cute. And while you are there, I will sift through the 10MM listings on Petfinder.com for our perfect adopted dog.” Dave ran out of the house like I gave him a new lease on life with Delaney in tow, while I did what I do best – sat on the couch with the computer and searched away.
When Dave got home, with the reports about Belle, the 21-pound 7 week old puppy (“No honey, she’s not going to get that big”…right) I narrowed the list of possible on-line pups for Dave to look at. I can only imagine searching on-line was probably like using match.com or eharmony.com, but for the canine set. “Too ugly.” “Too big.” “Too small.” “Bad teeth.” “Is that their real hair?” “Too high maintenance.” Truth be told, I was looking for a big enough dog to satisfies Dave’s desires, not too big so I wouldn’t freak out, a dog that wouldn’t bark, one that could tell us when it needed to go outside, one that wouldn’t shed, one that would be good with the kids, not jump up on the couch, not sleep in our bed, not need too much exercise, a lap dog, a lazy dog, etc. Frankly, I think I was looking for the perfect stuffed animal, while Dave was trying to mend his PAWs broken heart with a canine companion. So, while Dave tracked down the next steps and lengthy application process for Belle (please – home visit, phone interviews, referrals and recommendations – even Roland Burris did have this lengthy of a background check to be seated in the Senate), I tracked down the whereabouts of Daisy the Wonder Dog.
“Dave, I was just interviewed by Chicago Canine Rescue. Apparently, I answered all of the questions correctly because we were approved to adopt Belle. But just one small…umm…big thing we should talk about. Belle is going to be 80+ pounds when she’s fully grown, not really sure if that is going to work in the ‘plan.’” So, with that one “I’m apparently going to continue to break my husband’s heart” phone call, it was full speed ahead to find out if Daisy the Wonder Dog was available, and if the FBI would now be doing our next application check.
Dave made the journey with a couple of kids from the Friendly Confines to Highland Park where Daisy the Wonder Dog was being fostered by a way cool family, while Su enjoyed an evening out with the girls. I raced home (okay, not really) to find out that unbelievable, but Daisy actually met all of my crazy requirements for a dog. She was the live stuffed animal I was looking for, but hadn’t met, and guess what, Dave is smiling again which made everything well in the world. And with a few more phone calls, some random but easy paperwork (sure you don’t need to come to our house, what about fingerprinting us, background checks, hey we’ll even offer up one of our kids in exchange for the dog), Daisy made her way home on Christmas Eve and was the perfect Christmas gift for the family. We have all fallen in love with her- even though our lab-mix…err, actually pitbull-mix…is trying to kill me. One has to wonder who actually needs the rescuing, but that’s a story for another day.
COMING UP SOON, PART TWO – HOW I BROKE MY BOOTY (or How is Daisy trying to kill me today)
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