post op post

I went to pick the puppy up from the vet after getting her spayed, still feeling guilty and way too maudlin. She bounded out to greet me, wiggling and waggling, and has not missed a beat since. She doesn't seem to notice her stitches, has not slowed down one iota. At least one of us isn't neurotic!


Rite of Passage

This morning at six the dogs woke me as usual, or at least one of them did. Bunny's ten years old, yet still wakes up like a child on Christmas morning, each and every morning, trying to push it earlier and earlier. Her tail wags madly and pounds the wall, the table, the metal cabinet. It's akin to being wakened by a brass band playing a Sousa march, and every morning right on cue I get grumpy and scold her into sitting down so her tail will stop its crass tintinnabulation. This lasts as long as her attention span, which is to say two seconds at most, and the band starts up again.

The other two dogs, Mrs. Beasley and the puppy, Bosco, blink and yawn and stretch like sensible dogs, then Bunny leads the way, hopping, whirling, ricocheting off the walls, the heater, the furniture, while the rest of us stagger towards the garage door, and outside. I scoop kibble from a bin into three bowls while three dogs squat and pee in unison. Bowls are strategically placed so Bosco can't get at Mrs. Beasley, who eats about ten times slower, having long outgrown the chug-a-lug style favored by puppies and less refined beasts of her acquaintance.

This morning was different though. Instead of eating, Bosco was whisked away to the vet to be spayed. I had a very hard time leaving her, and my eyes welled with tears as I did. I've always gotten dogs after they've been fixed, and this first experience was quite traumatic, even though it's her who has the real trauma. I know intellectually it's the right thing to do, but I kept thinking of her plump little pink belly and getting all maternal and mooshy.

I'm supposed to keep her calm for a couple of weeks after I bring her home tomorrow. Riiiight. Keep. a. puppy. calm. Yah... I can't even keep a ten-year-old dog calm for crying out loud! She and I may both need sedatives by the time this is over.


The Real Thing indeed

Saturday night I went to the high school play, Arthur Miller's 'Twelve Angry Men,' expecting to grimly sit through it, because by the weekend I'm in the mood for comedy, having had enough real-life drama during the week.

I try to go to every production, about four per year, to support the drama kids, and their wonderful teacher, who is a very busy local professional actor. He does a top-notch job involving them in all aspects of theater, far beyond what most high schools can offer.

This production featured three of my students, and a few others I knew, and much to my surprise, they pulled off a riveting performance from beginning to end, and I found myself loving it, despite my initial bad attitude. The main antagonist, one of my students, was totally convincing, and I was able to forget they were kids, forget I knew any of them. It was wonderful, and I was very proud of them.

Today I went up to San Francisco, to a fancy theater, and saw the last performance of a Tom Stoppard play, 'The Real Thing.'
The glossy playbill was full of page after page of benefactors, lists of those who had given over $100,000, those who had given a mere $25,000, and on and on. Much to my surprise, it was just awful. Boring, empty, pretentious. I didn't care about any of the characters and neither did any of the three friends I went with. It was so bad that by the second act I just sat back and took a nap.

I guess if I was asked which play should be named, 'The Real Thing,' I would have a difference of opinion with Mr. Stoppard.


You read my mind...

A friend sent me this link (click on the title of this post), and it expressed so well my post-election sentiments, except for one thing; I AM checking out real estate prices in Vancouver! And off-leash dog parks, and job opportunities, and immigration policies. It sounds like heaven on earth; public transportation, sophistication, landscapes and oceanscapes, a cosmopolitan feel, moderate climate, French-as-a-second-language. Near enough to my parents that it's not a burden to visit. Affordable. Lots of lofts for sale at prices I can pay, until I realized that they were listed in Canadian dollars, so they were even CHEAPER! I'm thinking I'll go check it out over Spring vacation, visit again during Summer vacation, and see if I can make it happen.

I really like my job here, although I constantly feel overwhelmed and never caught up, but I do feel well-used. I think a college or university level job would be a better fit. More students who are there voluntarily, and eager for what I have to offer. I love my sullen, hormonally-distracted teens, and my adult classes, but colleges classes allow me to be much more rigorous and intellectually challenging. The diversity is more fun, too.

I've noticed a distinct pattern in my adult life; every eight years I go through a complete molt. I change location, job, appearance, almost every facet of my life. It's never a conscious decision or result of boredom or anything like that. Something just comes along and POOF, away I go. I'm in year seven of being a high school teacher on the Monterey Peninsula. For the last several years I couldn't see beyond my present situation, couldn't imagine why I would leave or what I would do, but this may be the next gig coming up on the horizon. Too soon to tell, but I'm pondering, googling, checking it all out.


Election Day

Early this morning, driving to work, I stopped for a red light at a major intersection in the ghettoish little seaside city where I live. There across the street, standing in the cold were dozens of people, every last one of them black and dressed in what was obviously their finest clothing, suits, ties, elaborate hats, smiling and waving for all they were worth, and in front of them an enormous sign that just said, "VOTE!"

Without a second's hesitation, and with no conscious though whatsoever, I choked up and started crying. Sure, later I could put some words to it, ponder it, realize that they were the embodiment of the fact that people died, actually died so we could have this day, and this right, and they were there celebrating the fact that their voices could be heard and their vote could count. Desptie the cynicism and despair and lies and skullduggery, they were there reaffirming the hope and idealism of that fact, and it was hugely touching. And yes, you betcha I'm voting!