My Latest and Greatest Fear

There is an older man a block or so up the road that I see nearly every morning.  I’m usually on the opposite side of the street from him as he walks back and forth to the corner, only covering about a 15 foot span of sidewalk.  This morning I saw him when Charlie and I hobbled out on our morning walk and he was still walking back and forth about 10-15 minutes later when Charlie and I turned back for home and breakfast. It seems strange that he just walks back and forth rather than walking the length of the street or down a different path to get a change of view.  Then again, maybe it is no stranger than spending hours on a treadmill. I’ve never talked to him – the way he turns his head when we near makes me think he’s not the biggest fan of dogs – and I’ve never seen him talk to people that pass him.

So my latest and greatest fear is this man.  Not the man himself but the idea of becoming like him.  What I fear is becoming some cantankerous spinster who mutters to herself and her dog about “kids these days” and becomes the resident neighborhood crazy lady/busybody.  Every neighborhood has them.  Mine has one already –you know the type, she knows what everyone is up to, she hardly ever leaves the house, and she has an opinion on everything. 

I feel like I could be shaping up to be her apprentice or mentee.  I find myself talking to my dog more and more frequently.  I feel that somehow this is normal in the house, but I became a little alarmed at my willingness to talk to him openly in public.  If I start using a cutesy voice or imagining he is talking back, I hope that someone – my sister probably – will have the nice men in white coats come get me.  I have also taken to falling asleep on the couch fairly early in the evenings – definitely not a good sign.  And sometimes, when I’m supposed to be meeting up with friends to hang out and its rainy or gross or I’m just a little cranky or tired, I end up looking longingly at my yoga pants, sofa, and glass of wine and/or ice cream carton and wishing I was staying home.

This fear of cranky spinsterhood and notoriety as neighborhood nut has replaced, or at least bumped down, my other formerly heightened singleton fear of choking on something in my house and not having anyone to give me the Heimlich.   For while I love my dog perhaps a little too dearly, and know that he would save me if he could, he is somewhat lacking in the opposable thumbs and height departments that would be required to save me from choking on an improperly chewed chip.  I used to have an agreement with a similarly single friend that we would call each other every other day or so to make sure that neither of us had perished in our homes without anyone realizing, but we gave up our macabre mission after a few months.

On the questionably bright side, my fear of becoming a curmudgeonly singleton has not replaced my fear of falling down the steps and having to wait until my dog walker came to get Charlie the once or twice a week she stops by or until the sounds of my yelling and Charlie’s whines and barks to get outside, alert the neighbors to my demise.  That fear has intensified since my multiple foot and ankle injuries that have taken me out of the running – literally – for my half-marathon plans (see numerous posts, including This Boot Ain’t Made for Runnin’ and I Hate To Run, for more information).  Thankfully I will be heading back to the sports orthopedist on Monday for a check-up, hopeful (fingers crossed) removal of this lovely fixed ankle walker/ginormous boot thingy, and starting of physical therapy soon so I can get back to actual activities instead of staring wistfully at runners, walkers, and toddlers who can totally smoke me as I hobble along.

Naming my singleton fears like this has added yet another fear, that maybe I’m starting to sound more abnormal than the guy I dated that was afraid of electricity (see There Is Nothing to Fear…but Electricity Itself?).  Or the one that hated seat belts and the disabled (see At Least I Got To Hit Some Balls).  Nah, he is still way weirder.  And on that note, I will haul my weird singleton self to the gym for some bumpy and awkward recumbent bike riding and then off for a few errands.  Tonight I have plans for Moroccan food and some much needed time with my DC ladies who will hopefully take the pity out of this party and add some funk to my dysfunctional state.  This time I will remain strong and no matter how bad the rain and how comfy my yoga pants lounging would be, I will brave the elements and socialize.  Who knows, I may even attempt to chat up some single guy who possibly has his own fears of persishing alone in his apartment until he is eventually eaten by wild dogs.  Do single guys even think like that?  There are so few left in this area to ask.  And I probably shouldn't use that as a pickup line, right?

But before I sign off, thanks to those that have contacted me about my post earlier this week, For Better or Worse. It has been a hard road for my family and the past few months have been especially difficult, but it helps so much to know that we're not alone.  Whether it is Alzheimer's or another disease or trauma facing your families, sharing your stories and your time with me means so much. My thoughts and prayers are with you even when I am not physically there.  When it gets rough, remember to laugh whenever you can. The old adage is corny but true nonetheless, laughter is the best medicine.

For Better or Worse

It had been well over a month since Charlie and I visited the nursing home where we volunteer.  I felt the familiar pangs of guilt building over the weeks, but since I had sprained my ankle it was difficult to get around and nearly impossible to get Charlie enough exercise where he would be calm enough for a visit to the home.  Yesterday I decided we had to attempt it, especially because after the weekly “running of the dogs” Charlie was reasonably tired.  The weekly “running of the dogs” is what takes place on Sunday mornings at the field near my uncle’s house.  Since my aunt passed away over a year ago, these weekly meetings had become even more important –not just to keep my uncle from being too lonely, but to have fun connecting with the family and let the dogs be their most fun, doggish selves.

So after leaving my uncle’s house and getting Charlie and me reasonably cleaned up, we headed out.  My dog absolutely loves these visits and I enjoy them myself (although sometimes it’s a little awkward when I run into the relatives of dates gone wrong – see Putting the Aww in Awkward for more details on that one).  He almost can’t sit still long enough for me to get us in our uniforms – him with a blue bandana with a picture of a wheelchair and a dog, me with a name tag indicating my volunteer status and a bag of treats nearby to entice him to tricks or hold his attention if need be.

We have a routine down and make our way through the lobby and upstairs to see our regulars, then back to the common living areas to see if anyone else wants to see Charlie.  It was a little trickier this time since I’m still hobbling around on this ankle boot and since it had been so long since we’d visited, Charlie was even more exuberant than normal.  Our first regular is actually more of a cat person than a dog one, but she likes looking at him and seems to enjoy our conversations so Charlie puts up with her feline preferences. 

It was our second visit that has me thrown still, over 24 hours later.  Mr. Vince* is the regular we’ve been visiting the longest.  He has a picture of Charlie on his refrigerator and arranged for me to meet his oldest daughter and her husband so they could see the canine superstar.  I’ve seen him slowing down with each visit, but the past year it seems his decline has sped up even more with a diagnosis that meant he couldn’t get a needed hip replacement, lessening his mobility and dampening his spirits.

He used to be a bit of a rascal –stirring up trouble in the nursing home like when he didn’t care for the fare at Easter dinner and made a poster in protest.  He loved giving the dining staff a hard time.  He went on all the field trips and loved to sit outside; seriously he had the tannest knees of any person I’ve ever met, from sitting out on the bench for hours.  When Loretta* moved next door, suffering from a recent stroke, he really seemed to pick up, piling on the charm.  They were inseparable.  He even devilishly told me he had painted her toenails one summery afternoon.  I noticed that her picture started appearing on his walls with greater frequency.  But as she started to improve and he started to worsen, I heard less of Loretta’s* charms. 

When we visited yesterday, he wanted to catch up on all that he had missed in the past month.  He was very concerned about my ankle and warned me to take care of myself so I didn’t end up in a wheelchair like him.  I assured him that I was being a good patient and switched the topic back to him, to hear what I had missed.  I figured he would tell me of a few visits with his daughter or about how his other daughter never comes by, and he did talk about those things.  But he also told me that in the month since I had last seen him, his wife had died.

I was completely floored – I had no idea his wife was still alive.  He had been alone in the nursing home since I met him about 3-4 years ago and while I had seen pictures of his wife and he mentioned her occasionally, it was generally in the past tense, or in talking about the last dog that they owned.  The way he talked about her yesterday, it was clear that she hadn’t been well for several years and that she had been in some sort of home or institution for a long time, apart from him.  And in the years I’ve known him, he’s told me about every trip to Cracker Barrel, every concert, every bus trip to Pennsylvania, but he’s never told me about visiting his wife. 

Not wanting to pry or be callous, I wasn’t sure what to say.  I think I just held his hand and offered my sympathies and coaxed Charlie over to sit closer to Mr. Vince* and do what I couldn’t do with my clumsy words and uncertainty.  As best as I can figure, her illness must have been severe with the onset happening earlier than his decline.  There was something about the way he described the beginning of her illness and her behavior that reminded me of how my family sometimes refers to my mom, and I wondered if his wife had some sort of mental or emotional illness that had eventually consumed her. 

A confirmed singleton who’s longest relationship clocked in at under a year, I can’t imagine what it would be like to spend all your life with someone and then to have move apart, not because of changing affections, but because you could no longer take care of each other or take care of yourself.  When discussing this last night over dinner with my sister, we both said we could never see our parents making that decision.  In this case, we said we could never see our mother agreeing to put our father in a home, even if it was the best thing for him, for it certainly will come to that as his Alzheimer’s rages on, robbing him of himself and us of our father.  But years ago, before he became ill, he never would agree to get our mother help for what now seems to be obvious to everyone, a very severe case of bipolar disorder, self-medicated by way of the bottle. 

Some people might think it sweet –not that my parents each have their own illness, but that they won’t let each other go.  I can’t see it that way, because for me it is more than just some impossible and enduring love story.  For me, they are my parents and father’s unwillingness to come to grips with my mother’s problems, now too late as he can’t hold on to anything longer than a few minutes, and my mother’s unwillingness to be separated from him, even to get him help, doesn’t seem sweet.

But then there are days like today when I see them together, and I think, what the hell do I know anyway?  I think that I know best, that they could get better treatment, be more active, not fade so fast, were they not together.  But really I have no way of knowing that is true.  And there is a part of me, I don’t want to admit it really, but this part of me that thinks or maybe even knows, that were they to be separated, they wouldn’t survive.  So even if because they stay together, they don’t get out of bed or eat or take their medications for days on end, maybe they wouldn’t get any better if they did it my way.  Sadly that is most definitely the case for my father as this vicious disease takes hold and there is no cure.  But even if I can’t understand how they choose to live, and I fight against their seclusion and slipping further into illness, maybe to them, being together is more important than being well.  And even though I want to scream and jump up and down until they hear me about taking their medicines and getting some exercise and eating, and the way they choose to keep going on makes me want to bang my head into a wall, in their own way, they’re happy.  Considering everything, happiness is not a small feat.

This post is dedicated to all those that have Alzheimer’s disease and those that spend their days and nights caring for Alzheimer’s patients, through good days and not so good days. 

And this post is in honor of my father.  I can still see you in there and I love you more than I can say. 

Don’t forget Alzheimer’s Action day is 21 September.  It is far past time to put an end to this disease.

The Day Before the Day

I was going to talk a little bit about that elusive prey, the single man in the DC-MD-VA area, and how unlike a single gal such as myself, he manages to go about his life probably un-self-medicated by the numbing blissfulness of the Twilight Saga and season two of the Gilmore Girls.  But I’m struck by the day or rather how this is the day before the 10^th anniversary of when everything changed. 

There are these moments that define generations, for better or for worse, and September 11^th certainly was that.  Such horrible acts of destruction and hate followed immediately with such selfless acts of courage and sacrifice do not occur frequently and when they do, the command our attention and sear their images into our collective memory.

Everyone of a certain age most certainly remembers where they were when they heard the news.  I was in a nondescript, windowless government building in a not-so-nice part of Washington D.C. and in the melee of orders to move to the first floor, then outside, then back in, I saw the smoke rising from the Pentagon.  And when we were finally released and the Metro was closed, as a very kind friend drove me home, I saw that sign of my country’s strength and power burning.  Watching the coverage numbly on television, I tried to get in touch with a roommate visiting her family in NY and my best friend from high school who lived in the city that had been so brutally shut down.  I dimly remember talking to my cousin in South Carolina who wanted to make sure I was ok and hearing tearfully of how my big strong brother had to be restrained from driving his truck through barriers over bridges to come rescue his baby sister from out of harm’s way. It felt surreal to me and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how it felt for those whose personal worlds were shattered, ended, or forever and inextricably altered.

And then I went back to work.  Grimly and fearfully and with the idea that what I was doing was supporting our nation, but so afraid that due to my inexperience and youth I would fail and people would be hurt.  It was a long couple of months and then suddenly and strangely things sort of went back to something approaching normal.  At least for me.  I knew that things would always be a little different than they had been– whatever feelings of safeness and sureness that had comforted me before, that was gone.  This new reality of different types of alerts, and searches and seizures, and wondering if when you flew, or rode the train, or worked in your office building, if that would be the last thing you did, that was hard to shake.  I tried very concertedly not to watch repeated coverage of the events or panic about what terrors lay in store for us next. 

But now, all the scenes are being replayed as we prepare for the 10^th anniversary.  New alerts, new terrors, new worries, old fears.  What stands out, though, are the stories of hope.  The man who on 10 September promised a man tickets for a sporting event for his son to see his first car race, and made sure that even after the planes went down and the father never returned home, that the son still got to have some type of adolescent joy amidst the grief.  How the man in charge of security for a financial firm evacuated his group from the South Tower and then went back in to make sure everyone was safe and sound.  The chaplain who ran into the building along with the firefighters he served and who some survivors picture as leading the angels to greet those that were lost and take them safely to their eternal rest. 

And the countless men and women who were moved the events of that fateful day to lead lives of service and duty and remind us that although there are people in the world who are capable of unthinkable acts of violence and hatred, there are those who see all that and yet choose to care, to love, and to work to make things better. 

That is what I will try to do in remembrance of 9/11 and in looking to the future.  For although I don’t think we can go back to the way things were 10 years ago today, I do think we can choose compassion and hope instead of fear and anger.

And on that note, I’m going to hop-along outside with this glorious walking boot that so firmly encases my left leg and take my faithful canine companion out into the glorious sunshine that has ended the deluge of the past several days.  And then I’ll be off with my wondrous sister for one of the best sing-alongs imaginable, the Sound of Music.  I apologize in advance to those sitting near us as I plan on singing my heart out in my own special, tone-deaf manner.  I promise to at least make it entertaining.

This Boot Ain’t Made for Runnin’

Before I get underway in this latest post, I have to ask, where are the pickup lines that I so humbly requested in my last post?  C’mon, friends, help me out here!  Do you really want to set me loose on unsuspecting dudes with such winning lines as “You look really sweaty?” Well, maybe you do, but I’d be a little more likely to try this if you give me some better advice in terms of opening lines I could try out. 

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

It is with great sadness and no end of disappointment that I must announce that I am no longer training to run a half-marathon in November (see I Hate to Run for more details).  Turns out that I didn’t just twist my ankle as over-achiever that I am, I sprained my left ankle, tore my ligaments, and yes developed plantar fasciitis in my right foot.  I twisted my ankle that fateful Tuesday when confronted with a neighbor callously singing DW’s praises (see Love Hurts) and although I did stop running and wore a brace for a while after the initial injury, I didn’t take as good of care of it as I should.  So after a weekend in West Virginia where I only slightly modified my usual walks and hikes and a week of taking longer walks with Charlie than I should have, it is perhaps not surprising that I messed up the same ankle again so easily. 

The Friday before Hurricane Irene I was already scheduled to see a podiatrist for my right foot and I was a little behind schedule that morning so when I saw the guys come to pick up the recycling, I hurried out of the house with my blue container, stepping precariously in a new hole in the parking lot, and seriously rolling my ankle.  I’m proud to be environmentally conscious, but seriously this was a little ridiculous.  Hobbling back to the house nearly in tears I hopped upstairs to get my brace, iced my foot briefly, ran into work and then made my way to the doctor’s. 

The podiatrist’s office looked a little like someone’s older aunt’s sitting room.  It was jam packed with weird chachkas, art and furniture from the 1970’s, and all the other patients were older and teetering around on canes and walkers.   I shouldn’t have been surprised when her receptionist, whom I’m convinced was more than a little stoned, decided that he had to chat me up incessantly as I attempted to fill in all the required forms.  I heard pretty much his whole life story, including how he really hated office work and was getting ready to go on a massive hunting trip in Colorado and I figured out why such an unlikely sort was the receptionist at an older podiatrist’s office: he was her nephew.   

The doctor was perfectly nice, but I wasn’t too thrilled with her attitude toward all physical activity as she said not only would I not be running or walking distances for a while, but that she would advise against it period even after I had recovered.  She said I could swim a bit but that was it.  After taking an x-ray with a machine that was probably new sometime in the early 1960’s, she decided I had sprained my ankle and possibly had a small fracture, put me in an air cast and wanted to see me in a week and I hauled my increasingly unhappy self back to work.  I wasn’t too convinced though as she said she wasn’t used to treating acute injuries so thankfully I talked to a colleague a few aisles over who was recovering from some serious injuries and trying to get back into shape for a half-marathon and he recommended I try out the doctors he went to so I got an appointment for the following Monday.

In the meantime, all hell broke loose in the form of Hurricane Irene.  Along with almost everyone else in the region, I lost power Saturday night.  I don’t know how this happened, but I woke up a little before 3:30 in the morning, convinced I had to check out my sump pump.  It’s a good thing I did as it was nearly flowing over.  Now I recommend you sit down before you read this next part, as the picture I’m about to put in your head could have you rolling on the floor in laughter.  At that point, I was wearing a sleep shirt, air cast, crocs, my glasses, and a head lamp that I used both for light and to keep my hair back as I bailed out my sump pump hobbling back and forth from the pump to the sanitary tub.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and I almost busted a gut laughing at how ridiculous I looked. 

I bailed pretty much non-stop until 11:30 in the morning.  A while before 10am, my neighbor took pity on me and sent her husband and father over to spell me for a while and then my sister came over to help and to walk Charlie.  I almost wept with joy when the power came back on at noon and the sump pump starting churning away. 

Monday morning I drive to Annapolis to meet my new BFF sport’s orthopedist who had the most awesome first name ever (hint: she also doesn’t like the movie Rocky) and unfortunately she discovered that I had badly sprained my ankle, torn ligaments, and would be in this ginormous fixed ankle boot for at least the next four weeks.  24/7 except for showers.  And then we’ll have more x-rays and see how I’m doing.  She said that the air cast the other doctor recommended would actually make me worse in the long run as my ligaments would heal improperly and I would be more likely to sprain it again.  And that I most definitely should not swim as the kicking motion would not do lovely things for my ankle.  The boot is not a lot of fun in the day and it becomes even less so when I attempt to sleep in it.  To add to the fun, my power went back out Monday night, just a little bit after when my sister had departed the house after putting her groceries in my fridge for safe keeping since she lost her power the day before.  I became seriously more dangerous in the dark. 

What I’ve noticed and what is a little disconcerting, is that quite a few men –upon seeing me in the boot—ask me if I hurt myself from kicking a man.  At least five men have asked me this so far – some ask how many guys I kicked, some ask if I kicked him in the head or in the shins, some ask if he learned his lesson.  I just talked with a friend who had to wear a similar boot for two months (!!) and she said men had also asked her the same thing and she thought it meant that sometimes, men admit that they deserve kicking.

And that brings me to the sad sight that just greeted my eyes, DW leaving his house with some Slutty McSluttrash (ok, she didn’t look slutty at all – she looked vaguely like a model from an L.L. Bean catalogue – they kind where she would be hiking through the woods or petting a golden retriever) and getting into their 4wd vehicle to go off and do fun summer activities in the lovely non-hurricane weather.  I think I would not have let this bother me as much if I wasn’t so couch-bound in my current hobbled state but as it was, he was lucky that I didn’t have a bag of dog poo handy as I would have nailed the car as they drove off.

So right now I have to admit that I’m feeling more than a little sorry for myself.  Natural disasters and injuries seem to suck a little more when you’re on your own.  Although a lot of husbands and partners probably let their wives/sig others do most of the work when cleaning up after a disaster, I’d like to think that they would at least help out in bailing out a sump pump for hours on end, especially if their wives were injured.  And it would be nice to have someone help me walk Charlie more.  I’m not supposed to walk more than ¼ mile at a time and Charlie is used to way more exercise than that, as am I.  He doesn’t look particularly thrilled with me now so I better take him out for one of those brief jaunts and then try to play a little fetch with him in the casa.  And then I promise, I’ll try to put a halt to all the whining and focus on some wining instead.  It would help if I had some good pickup lines to ponder whilst I recover and figure out what, if any, will be my next moves in the dating arena.

Before I go, two things I learned during the hurricane.  First of all, have a head lamp ready at all times.  It is pretty much the best accessory known to man.  I like mine more when I’m wearing it whilst outside in WV, drinking with my family and watching the dogs run around or geocaching, than I do while attempting to prevent my sump pump from overflowing.  But it is always one of my favorite things.  Secondly, never underappreciate your sump pump.  In my opinion it is one of the most underrated appliances as you never really think about it ‘til it’s gone.  And I’ll throw in a third as I try to shake off the pity party, no matter how bad you have it –whatever it is—someone else always has it worse, so try to keep some perspective.  I may have had no power, an overflowing sump pump, and an injured leg, but I know of people who lost much more and are still recovering. Thanks to good neighbors and as always to the best sister ever, things never became impossible.  I still have my faithful dog at my side and although I lost a lot of food with the power out, I did not lose anything from the bar J

What's your Sign?

I was at the cupcake shop this week with some friends (of course now that I’ve typed this up I just want more cupcakes…hmmm…) and one of them spotted a reasonably attractive guy at the front of the line.  At this point both of them started gesturing emphatically for me to approach said guy in some capacity and kept reiterating in not-so-indoor voices, “Go get him!”  The other maneuvered around to determine that the guy was not wearing a wedding ring, and once that was confirmed they became even more determined in their commands.  I almost started inching towards him, but I couldn’t think what the hell I would say to him.  This was definitely not an optimal situation in which to strike up a casual conversation.  First of all, the people between us in line would surely think I was trying to hop the queue and given the deliciousness of these particular cupcakes, would possibly beat me to death with their purses.  But let’s brush that aside and say I momentarily took leave of my senses.  What in the hell would I say to him when I got up there: “nice cupcakes!”, “what flavor did you get?”, “can I buy those for you or reimburse you as you have already paid?”  Or if I was feeling more brazen, “what kind of cupcakes did you buy me?” or even “those will taste really delicious after you take me out for a drink.”

Those all kinda fell flat but it made me think about the lack of general pick-up lines in my repertoire.  I haven’t been on the dating scene in a few months now and even when I was, it was mostly online and the guys tended to make all the cheesy moves.  I’ve never been really sure about how to approach a guy in real life.  Some people say women don’t need lines, that all they need to do is make it clear that they are interested and guys will be tripping over their feet to lavish them with attention.  I’ve found that line of reasoning to be a pile of crap so I think I need to develop some go to lines in case I find myself in a situation where there is a prospective gentleman that I want to woo. 

Years and years ago, I came up with lines for me and a few other friends but for the life of me now I can’t remember them.  Well, that’s not entirely true, I do remember the line I came up with for a friend that is blessed in the ta-ta department.  I said she should just sidle up to a guy, look him directly in the eyes and say, “So (dramatic pause), do you want to see the goods?” Strangely enough, we could never get those words out of our mouths without bursting into fits of hysterical laughter.  My line was one that I thought up applied only if I ever met a jockey, and although I really can’t remember it now, that is probably for the best as I think it was more than a little off-color. 

Earlier in the month, the same friend from the cupcake shop wanted to take a road trip to some town on the Eastern shore that contained the hot fisherman featured in a photograph in the newspaper.  We decided that as I approached said fisherman, I should try something like “I don’t know what type of bait you’re using, but you caught me!” But again, the likelihood that I could deliver that line without my ears turning bright red and basically sputtering in laughter are pretty slim.

So for realsies, I need some lines for actual situations that I could find myself in.  Like at the gym – what would I say to the cute guy on the treadmill next to me?  “Wow, you’re really sweaty!” or “Don’t worry, I’m not actually going to pass out.  It just looks like that when I run.” And what about the grocery store, if I see a guy I want to introduce myself to, what would be a good line to open up with?  Should I pretend I need something from a high shelf and ask him to help me reach it?  Should I pretend I don’t know how to cook and ask him what I should do with those parsnips? Or on the rare times when I actually go to a bar and see a guy who appears single and with whom I’d like to mingle, should I really use the old standby, “Come here often?” or  should I try to buy him a drink?  Help me out, people.  Who knows what the hell I’ll come up with on my own since I once went up to a guy I liked (granted this was in elementary school) and told him that for someone who was that short, he really had big feet.  Save me from myself, dear readers and help me come up with some viable lines that would have a guy actually interested in talking to me rather than running away at high speeds.

Love Hurts

Tuesday night I drove to Arlington to meet some friends as we said goodbye to a friend and his wife who were getting ready to move out of the country for a few years.  I had thought his wife, originally from Germany with most of her family still living there, would be excited to return to her homeland, but she really wasn’t that stoked.  She’s leaving the home she had built in that island paradise of Hawaii, a career that she enjoyed, and moving without knowing where or even if she was going to find a job, a place to live, or a plan for what happens next all because her husband had a great opportunity and really wanted to go.

With an intro like that, you’re probably thinking that this blog is going to be all about the things that people are willing to give up for love.  But since this is my blog, it’s actually about what happened before I made it to that dinner.  I have said in previous posts that I was so over DW it wasn’t funny.  Well, sadly I have proven that untrue as the mere mention of his name and wonderfulness by a neighbor riled me up so much that I twisted my ankle and busted my knee. 

Rewind to Tuesday post work.  I hauled butt home to walk my faithful canine before driving across town to say goodbye.  Just a block from my home I see a neighbor with a new dog.  I didn’t know her too well – she lives on the other side of DW and she and I had never really talked too much.  But she was nervous about her new dog, and seemed anxious to chat.  So we let our dogs meet each other and they got along really well, so well in fact that she felt she had to comment about how embarrassed she was as her dog had not liked DW’s dog and had in fact snapped at him, and wasn’t that horrible as DW is just the nicest guy ever, don’t I agree? GAH!!! She literally went on and on about what a great guy he is, and how fantastic his dog is, yadda yadda.  And I found myself agreeing with her and then getting a little melancholy about why he has now decided to seemingly ignore me and pretend that we never hung out or went on our was-it-a-date-or-was-it-not-a-date.

After leaving her, I was muttering somewhat angrily and not paying attention to where I was walking and I tripped on the curb, twisted my left ankle, heard a disturbing snap, and busted open my right knee.  Really not ideal for someone who was attempting to train for a half-marathon and had just found out that she probably has plantar fasciitis in her right foot.  So I hobbled around for the rest of the walk, trying not to bloody up my new dress, hurrying home to ice my ankle, and get out the door before I totally missed the going away dinner. 

But the dinner itself was pretty great.  A little bittersweet as the few of us that gathered together have known each other for a long while but haven’t really spent time with one another for many years and to get together to say goodbye when you’re not sure when you’ll see each other next, is a little sad.  The stories and times we share are wonderful, but in the past.  The memories caramelize and you start thinking of them as the “good ol’ days,” which is totally oversimplifying what happened and the decisions we made.  But it’s nice to stroll down memory lane, even if you’re hobbling a little from all your multiple foot injuries.

I drove home thinking about how our lives had diverged and how everyone had seemed to keep growing and changing, while I felt a little like I was stuck in a repeat episode of some of the less fun times of the Diary of Bridget Jones.   That all changed when I got home to the ecstatic waggingness of my four-legged soulmate.  He was ecstatic to see me even though I had been gone most of the day and was definitely not as mobile as he would have preferred.  When I bent down to hug him, he did that doggy sigh thing, like he was saying, “you are the bestest person ever and I couldn’t be happier.”  So yes, love hurts and crushes bruise, but love also heals and makes you happy to be you, realizing how lucky you are with the love and the life that you have, even if it’s different than what you had planned.

Adrienne, Unplugged

I have not been on a dating website for almost five months.  The signs of withdrawal are slowly subsiding.  No longer do I nervously check my inbox with hope/fear at what awaits.  Almost 150 days have gone by since I last went on an awkward first date with someone I had not seen in real life before that day (see Deal with the Devil for my last online date).  I feel like most of the emotional and mental scars from those horrible dates have started to heal.  Although DW still seems to have fallen into that single guy black hole in his near total avoidance of my gaze, when I occasionally see his car or house out of the corner of my eye, I’m no longer torn by the need to know why he stopped talking to me and the urge to hurl eggs, rocks, or bags of dog poo at him.

To further celebrate my unplugged nature, I recently took my own advice from Lonely Planet and decided to combine my love of travel with my love of family, dogs, hiking, and beverages by totally unplugging and joining my uncle and cousins in West Virginia for a long weekend.  Of course, it would turn out to be the hottest weekend of all time and I would be heading to the land of no central air.  But if you’re not going to go big, you might as well go home so I dove into the experience.

First of all, you know it’s a good time if you get to stand outside wearing a headlamp and drinking a beer while dogs run around you, gleeful in their abandon and lack of leash-wearing.  According to the book of Adrienne, it is nearly impossible to wear a headlamp and not have fun.  If you have found yourself in such a situation, you obviously were not with me for the mere act of putting on a headlamp makes me giddy.  Couple that with a slightly humid night with no noise other than the sounds of crickets and my cousins laughing, a few stars poking through the clouds, and a very cold beer and I think you have something close to perfection. 

Secondly, I got to swim with my dog.  Now normally when we go to the cabin, the dogs get to do all the swimming.  But as it was hotter than the hammered down hinges of hell, I broke my rule of letting no human eyes see me in a bathing suit and we all swam with the dogs.  Watching my dog swim is the best.  He loves it.  “Love” is not a strong enough word.  If you looked up the definition of “ecstatic,” it would be a picture of my dog in the water fetching a stick and wagging his soggy tail.  Swimming with him was even better.  I swam out to get the sticks that had gone beyond his reach and he looked almost like he would laugh to see me fetch.  It was also great as my cousin’s dog got to practice saving us whenever any of the humans made the mistake of putting our shoulders below the water.  Note to self, remember that waving your arms and saying “I’m fine, really, fine!” only spurs him on to greater acts of heroism.

Third, I get to be as goofy as I want around these people.  They’re family, so they’re a little nutty themselves and appreciate my special brand of lunacy.  I get to practice my loon calls, make up and sing songs at the top of my lungs about the cooking show I want my uncle to start so that I can meet and marry Paula Deen’s single son (trust me – there’s a well-developed plan there…ok probably not well-developed, but there is a plan), drink well before 5pm, geocache in the mountains and on the side of country roads, sing along to John Denver outside of the 7^th Inning Stretch, wear my hair in pigtails, get entirely too dirty and not care, see my dog chase his friends all throughout the woods, attempt to run myself (nowhere near as fun or pretty but I did it!), eat homemade mint chocolate chip ice cream my cousin made especially for me (even better when served for breakfast), and make blueberry pancakes the size of my face for all my family. 

Unfortunately it’s not the most restful of va-cays as every time the dogs hear something outside, they all start barking.  Plus they love to get up well before 6am.  But most days, it is totally relaxing just to chill.  Not to text or wait for a text.  To let all the news just happen without knowing how each pundit will sell their story.  Cell phones don’t work there.  The TV is mainly used for my cousin to watch John Wayne movies.  There’s even an outhouse from the days when the only running water was the pump outside.  Particularly helpful on the nights when the power goes out and you’ve made good friends with Mr. Daniels or Mr. Walker.

And when it rained, we all took naps.  Even the dogs managed to sleep a bit without getting amped up at all the sounds outside.  I’m pretty sure that the cabin is my dog’s favorite place on earth.  Although there is sometimes more family drama than I’d like, I wouldn’t trade those times for anything.  For there is something to be said about sitting on a porch with your family, laughing so hard about some silly joke that you’re almost afraid you’ll pee, hearing the thwap-thwap sound of your dog’s tail.  While it’s sometimes unbearably sad there as we miss my aunt and remember where she’d sit with her coffee and binoculars to watch the birds, and how she’d roll her eyes and say that my loon impression sounded more like the mating call of the bull moose, and how she is to this day the most organized woman I’ve ever known, being there together, even when there are tears and drama, I can hear her laugh and feel her love.

I’m going to try to make it back up there at least one more time this summer.  Again it will probably be the hottest weekend of all time and I doubt I’ll get much sleep.  But as long as I have my Charlie, the fam, plenty of beverages, and of course my trusty headlamp, the heat and the sleeplessness won’t be all that bad.  Air conditioning and restful nights are overrated when there’s the option of laughing yourself silly, praying for a breeze to come, and pressing a can of Bud Lite with Lime against your forehead.