R.I.P. Big Brown Dog, ???? - 2009

God, I don’t want to write this post. I would rather be doing anything other than writing this post. But I have to get it out of me and move past this horrible Stage 1 of grief for the sake of my sanity, my sleep, my little boy I need to be present for.

Our Big Brown Dog is gone. I have had pets before, loved them intensely, and lost them for various reasons, usually old age. The loss of this one goes so far beyond the pain of the others, for various reasons. But mostly we just weren’t ready for the shock of him leaving us so soon.

A few weeks or so ago, I noticed he just wasn’t that enthusiastic about his food anymore and was losing a bit of weight. He was still eating every day, so I didn’t think much about it. He was still very active, going on hikes and long walks with me, and of course, always engaged in his favorite activity of squirrel-chasing. But he seemed a bit down, and I chalked it up to his being lonely without another dog in the house. We adopted a second dog, and within the first two days, it was apparent she was not a good fit. Rufus watched her like a hawk, especially around McLean, and seemed to be extremely territorial with her when he has never been like that with other dog visitors in our house. The other dog lunged at McLean threateningly when he crawled too close to a toy she had claimed as hers. Then she full-on attacked Rufus over another tennis ball toy in the backyard and a horrible fight ensued. Derek managed to break it up with the garden hose on full blast, but she got Rufus pretty good. His ear and cheek were torn up and bleeding profusely, and I took him to the emergency room vet, planning to take the new dog back to the rescue guy when I returned that night.

Over three hours later, the vet told me my dog’s wounds were going to be fine, but that he was in kidney failure, and had been for some time. He would have to stay overnight to get fluids into his system and flush out the waste products from his bloodstream. He ended up having to spend three nights and four days in the hospital, hooked up to an IV. I visited him every day and walked him, promising him I would return for him when it was okay to bring him home, but he didn’t understand. The staff told me he cried inconsolably for hours after McLean and I left.

When we brought him home, antibiotics, antacids, special dog food, etc. in tow, he was ecstatic, and we had hope that after some much-needed rest and ridding him of the kidney infection, he could lead a normal life and we would monitor his kidney levels. But it wasn’t to be.

The first few days, he slept a lot, ate a little, and was just generally happy to be home, following me from room to room. Then a few days later, he refused to eat anything. I tried every food imaginable. He never peed in the house. He never cried or complained. McLean kept going into Rufus’ bed and laying his head on Rufus’ head in sympathy. He didn’t understand why Uncle Rufus seemed so sad.

The unbearable heat and smoke in the valley were taking its toll on our cabin fever, so I took McLean to the mall to play in the little kid play area. We came home an hour or so later, and Rufus was curled up in his bed, and he was gone. I think he waited for us to leave so I wouldn’t have to see him die. Because that’s the kind of dog he was.

Rufus was so much more than a dog to us. He came into our lives so serendipitously. You know how everything happens for a reason? The only reason I moved into that tiny little apartment in the middle of Crack Den, Venice, was to pick up Rufus. He was the first big thing that Derek and I did together. We shared and loved and adored Rufus before we even shared living space.

The day we moved out of that place before taking possession of our new home in Encino, Rufus had been in the backyard while our stuff was being moved out of the apartment. When I brought him in so the landlord could inspect the place, Rufus sniffed every corner of the empty place and cried hysterically. He knew we were leaving, but he thought we were leaving HIM there, too. He cried and howled and stayed glued to my side until I finally loaded him and Babe into the car to make the trip over the hill to our new house. He was so excited in the new place, he could hardly contain himself. He loved his new house and yard so much, but mostly he just loved that he was with us. As long as he had us nearby and knew we were okay, he was okay. But if I cried, Rufus cried with me and it killed him if he couldn’t fix what was wrong.

One day while walking him and Babe in our new neighborhood, this older man in a nice car stared at us as we walked down the street, turned his car around and stared at us again. I was getting creeped out when he finally pulled over and asked what kind of dog Rufus was. “I don’t know,” I answered. “He’s a rescue.” The guy looked wistful and sad. “I had a dog looked exactly like your dog,” he said. “Bull mastiff. Had that dog fifteen years, and it was the best dog I have ever had in my life. Broke my heart when he died. I hope you know what you’ve got there.” I reassured him I did, that he was an awesome dog and we loved him very much. But I had no idea how little I appreciated him.

It sucks how guilt plays such a huge part in the grieving process. When I was pregnant with McLean, Rufus figured it out when I was a couple months along, and frequently would sniff my belly area and then look at me and whine excitedly. In the beginning it was cute, but as my pregnancy (and hormones) progressed, Rufus became more protective and anxious, following me not just to every room, but to every part of the room I was in. I couldn’t take a pee without him supervising, and as everyone knows, you pee about ten thousand times a day when you are pregnant. I became so annoyed with him. I was hanging around the house more than I was used to, very sedentary, taking up so much more space than I was used to, and here was this big dog constantly underfoot. It was like he couldn’t wait for that offspring to pop out of me so he could play with it, but my god it drove me nuts! I remember that still, very small rational voice in my head telling me “Someday you are not going to have this dog anymore, and you are really going to feel like shit for being impatient with him.” But I didn’t listen. And it’s things like that that I think about now that he is gone.

Coming back to the house is a dreadful experience now. It’s like my own home seems an unfriendly place now that there is no Rufus on the other side of the front door, butt wriggling, happily whining that I am home safe and sound, making me feel like the biggest, most important person in the universe.

It sucks having visitors come to the door now, too. He would growl and bark with suspicion, until it was determined that the person was a loved one, and then he couldn’t wait to shower that person with the warmest, most loving welcome imaginable. He was overflowing with happiness and love for friends and family, but all intimidating “Don’t Even THINK About Effing With My People, Jacko, You Just Keep Steppin’” to all others – salespeople, gardeners, UPS guy, etc. He had the absolute best radar of a person’s or another dog’s intentions I have ever seen. And if you were planning on hurting one of his loved ones, well, you would have to go through him first, bitch. I no longer feel safe. And my house doesn’t feel like a home.

I feel like vomiting a lot and I don’t sleep well at night. I can’t stop thinking about him and how he probably was suffering toward the end, but was being brave and still proudly doing his job. It kills me that he died alone, and that I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye, rub his beautiful, soft ears one last time and tell him that though I didn’t tell him nearly often enough, I have always loved him and always will. It kills me that when we buried him, I had to cover up his sweet, handsome face that even in death looked sweet, like he was only sleeping. I can’t imagine the pain of this ever becoming less, much less going away. I have moments where my higher self reminds me that we were so lucky to have him for the time we did, because he has changed us for the better. McLean got to have him for his first dog, a big meaty hunk of a hound who was so excited to welcome him into the world, would have died for him and never got jealous of him, though he had every right to.

It’s hard for Derek and I to comfort each other right now, because neither of us can be strong for the other. We are struggling with the same painful loss.

There’s some quote that goes something like this: “Every day I strive to become the person my dog thinks I am.” That’s what I’m taking from all this. I’m sure we will have other dogs in the future, and they will be wonderful, and I am going to strive to be that amazing person that Rufus saw in me. And somehow go on and accept that our pets are not meant to out-live us. It sure hurts when they go, but it is inevitable.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Poor Big Brown Dog

He’s the only dog in the house now, and thus, the only object of McLean’s tight little grabby fist.  Feel for him, people.  He is showing so much tolerance and patience.  It’s not easy being constantly squealed at and tugged at by a tiny little person with Larry David hair.

I call this one the "Chuck Norris thigh-choke-you" maneuver:

Heaven

Dear McLean,

Some days you are just hungrier than others.  About once a week or so, there is a 48-hour period during which you must eat every hour and a half and you let it be known with your newfound strong lungs if the grace period for the current feeding has expired.  I suppose it takes a lot of food to maintain the title of Longest Baby In The World, which is why I don’t complain about it.  Somebody’s got to empty these giant milk jugs and it might as well be you.

But something sounded different when I put you down for your nap today.  You had already eaten and been changed.  You made this pleading cry that I hadn’t really heard before, and it wasn’t just naptime fussing.  You had just eaten, so it couldn’t be that.  I had just changed your diaper due to a huge assex (that would be ass explosion for those of you not familiar with my vernacular), so it couldn’t be that.  You were so very tired from being up half the night eating, but you just couldn’t sleep.  You can’t talk yet, but you kept repeating “ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma. . . “  I went in and picked you up and held you against my chest and sat in the easy chair.  You wrapped your long little arms around my neck and lay your head on my breast and promptly fell asleep.  You just wanted Mama, and that was all.

A few silent minutes went by and then suddenly Uncle Rufus came running in from the living room, whining anxiously like he always does when you cry.  Only this time he wasn’t whining at you.  He was whining at me.  “WHAT IS WRONG????” his wrinkled up brow and concerned eyes pleaded.  Your mama was crying like a baby.

I have long believed that we create our own heaven or hell right here on earth.  A shift in attitude can bring the greatest joy into the most hellish of circumstances.  And likewise, all the money and fame and accomplishment in the world cannot bring true happiness to anyone.  It’s an inside job.  This is something I want to teach you as you grow up.  You are not responsible for my happiness, but in that moment that you slept on me, I felt heaven on earth in the very depths of my soul.  The only other moment that came close was the day I married your father.  And as I sat there with you, I thought how incredibly fortunate I am.  I am the richest woman in the world.  I’ve been through some heavy times in my life and had terrible moments of despair.  But they were all like cobblestones paving the way for me to have you enter my life. 

When we made the decision to have a baby, I didn’t know at the time that I needed you, specifically you, one in a billion you.  But here you are.  To say “I love you” just seems so very inadequate, but it’s all I have.  I love you.

Of course, I couldn’t very well explain this to Uncle Rufus, so I just told him it was okay and, believing me, he curled up on the monkey rug and the three of us stayed that way for at least an hour until you woke up, ready to eat again.  Ready to hang out in our little slice of heaven.

Love,

Mama

The Agony And The Ecstacy

So I took Little Man to his 2-month check-up at the pediatrician the other day.  The agony over whether or not to vaccinate, and when and which ones to use, rages on.  I had hoped by now I would have a much clearer opinion on the subject, but basically have narrowed it down to this:  I know there are a few nasty things out there that my child could actually still contract and I am okay with giving him vaccines for those specific diseases, in two-month intervals, and in mercury-free, single-dose injections.  I just don’t want him injected with anything just yet.  He is so young, and the first two years are when so much brain development takes place.  I’m just not okay with it.  Add to that the thought of someone taking a needle to my precious little baby’s skin and the thought just makes me want to fly into a Mama-Bear hysterical fit. 

But my pediatrician, God bless her, has been really helpful in grappling with the indecision.  Not one to take the “I am Doctor and know best” approach, something I really hate, she explains the risks and benefits of everything thoroughly without the hard sell and adds a good dose of sympathy:  she, too, is a mother, and has had to wrestle with the same issue and feels my pain.  She also relays the information in a mother-to-mother respectful way, which I reciprocate to her.  I am quick to tell her I am not some shithead who reads a few things on the internet and suddenly thinks they have a medical degree.  I take my opinions from several sources, keep an open mind, and settle on whatever makes the most sense for me.  But this issue is really making me nuts and I would appreciate any feedback from others who have also struggled with this.

Meanwhile, our little boy is doing great.  He is now up to 11.1 lbs and 24.5 inches long.  He is a tall boy!  He still breastfeeds with gusto and is having more awake time during the day where he smiles and kinda does this little giggle thing.  It kills me, it’s so cute.  He sleeps about 12 hours per night, except for two feedings, after which he conks right out again.  So I get a good deal of sleep, it’s just broken up into three and four hour sessions.

And now for the hard stuff.  It’s hard for me to even talk about it because I will break down into tears like some deranged mushmonger (yes, I did just invent that term).  I love him so much, it nearly breaks my heart, every minute of every day.  There is no respite from the pain of loving him – it is always there.  I remember reading a quote from Erma Bombeck that said something like deciding to have children was like deciding to have your heart go permanently walking around outside of your body.  And now I understand what that means.  And he is so sweet and loving and trusting that the rare occasions he actually cries feel devastating to me.  This part of motherhood is something I never could have prepared for, and is something I struggle with every day.  I’m not used to that weight on my heart yet, and don’t imagine I ever will be.

It is also heartbreaking how fast it all goes.  When friends who have children see my son, they remark how tiny he is and how it seems like just yesterday that their son/daughter was that little, while I am thinking holy crap!  He is two months old already and is HUGE compared to when he was born and has changed so much in so many big and little ways.  My days are full of nothing but feeding him, feeding myself, and getting a shower and maybe a walk in there, but they seem to be rocketing toward unpacking his college dorm room with lightning speed.  Every morning when we get up, it seems he has grown taller, has a new facial expression, makes a new cooing sound, has more hair on his head, has a different color eyes.  It just happens so fast and you want to have the presence of mind to savor every single minute.

Uncle Rufus also loves the baby, and as I expected, has not demonstrated an ounce of jealousy over being unseated as the #1 baby of the house.  He whines painfully whenever McLean cries, he gives him a good sniffing-over every time I set him down between boobs during feedings, he parks himself in McLean’s room for most of the day and considers himself to be a vital part of the McLean Care Team.  It’s really cute.

The pug, on the other hand, just can’t be bothered.  But she’s old, and is far more concerned with the timely delivery of her chicken leg in the morning.

I would have to say that all around, we are one happy little family, and I thank God profusely every day for all that I have.  I have finally found an occupation that I really and truly love.  Mommy.  It suits me.

L'Artiste Patisserie

We have driven past this place every freaking day on our way to work as long as we have lived in our humble home, and it is one of those adorable-looking, relaxing, patio-having, delicious-tasty-treat-making type places that always makes me give a wistful glance out the passenger window as we pass by and go “Sigh! How do I sign up to get a gig where I can go to some great yoga class in the morning, have a facial, then go hang and drink coffee and eat delicate French pastries until the afternoon at this adorable little French place whilst reading some swanky publication like W or French Vogue or something like that? What do these people do for money who get to do this on a weekday morning like they have nothing to do and all day to do it? Besides hooking? Could somebody please let me in on it, ‘cause I would really like to sign up.”

Depending on the day of the week, this kvetching could continue all the way past Mulholland.

Anyhoo, Mom and I had plans to go to breakfast on Saturday, so we decided to walk The Big Brown Dog and the Portly Pug to this adorable little place and give it a try. It does have an outdoor patio area, so dog situating is easy to do.

Right away, we were struck by how friendly and helpful everybody there is. You order your food at the counter and they bring it out to you when it’s ready. The coffee (choice of medium or dark roast, in addition to the usual cappuccinos, lattes, espressos, etc.) was served in those giant cup and saucer rigs and was serious quality joe, grown locally in North Hollywood, I was told by our server.

Breakfast is served all day, and includes things like baked-on-the-premises croissant sandwiches, prosciutto and havarti omelettes, and orange-vanilla brioche french toast, hello? Are you drooling yet? Geez! I opted for the scrambled egg and cheese croissant, while Mom had an omelette. Both were absolutely fresh and delicious and large (had to take half my croissant home and it supplied a very easy and tasty breakfast en route to Big Bear the next day). Our giant coffee cups were never empty and there was never a shortage of smiley-happy people coming by to give some lovies to the attention whores-- I mean four-legged furry creatures--who live with me. Mom and I shared a blueberry tart thingy, which wasn’t too sweet, but was not sweet enough for Mom’s taste. I ordered a genoa, basil, mozzarella sammich to go for Homeslice and he raved about it later.

Let me be blunt: this place rules. I will be spending every Saturday morning there, if at all humanly possible, eating French goddess food and caffeinating and dreaming.

And if anybody figures out a gig as per my specifications above, you know where to reach me.

L'Artiste Patisserie
17312 Ventura Blvd. (at Louise)
Encino, CA 91316
(818) 386-0061

I'm Not L.A., But My Dog Sure Is

There are a lot of preconceived notions about people who live in L.A. -- that we are all in the entertainment business, that we all have plastic surgery, that we all eat pink tofu and rollerblade to work. I do none of the above; shoot, I don’t even eat at The Ivy or shop at Kitson. But let me tell you about the most L.A. member of our little family: The Big Brown Dog.

Back when I lived in Venice, Rufus was found by my neighbor Anita, wandering the streets of Koreatown. She said he looked like he could be mean in a street-pit-bull-don’t-eff-with-me kind of way, but had such a sweet face, she took a chance, slapped a cheapie leash around his neck and took him home. He had apparently never been inside a car before as he seemed a bit perplexed as to what to do once inside. So he decided it would be a good idea to lick the entire interior of her car on the drive from Koreatown to Venice.

He was a mess -- no collar, skinny, strange growths on his hips and elbows, and forehead skin so saggy that it weighed down upon his eyes so that his eyelashes constantly curved inward and scratched his eyeballs, leading to eye infections. He seemed to be smiling all the time, but couldn’t keep his poor little eyes open since they were so irritated. He always had tears running down his brown furry cheeks and snot running out of his nose from the kennel cough he had picked up.

A different neighbor took him in and fostered him, and I would frequently bring Babe over to play with him since I recently had to put my other pug down and didn’t want her to get depressed. Derek and I fell in love with him. It wasn’t hard to do and didn’t take long. We took him in and every day since, have wondered how we ever managed to live without him before.

There were pills and special ointments and eye drops and salves in his daily care. We didn’t mind -- he would sit so still and stoic and let you put whatever crap you wanted on his beat-up body or in his eyes. He never once lifted his leg in the house. He didn’t chew anything he wasn’t supposed to, except for once, the very corner of the coffee table. He gave it a little nibble like “hmm, wonder what this tastes like?” and I gave him a little look, said “No, that’s not okay” and that was the last time he ever did that.

The eye infections became worse and he would cry and paw at his face. Derek and I looked at each other and decided we had to say goodbye to a bunch of money so we could get his eyes fixed. The surgery involved cutting the skin around his eyes and sewing it up to tighten it. He had to be put under for it -- always a scary proposition for animal or human -- but his quality of life was suffering and we had to do something.

Afterward, it was like Christmas every day -- I can see! I can see! I can see! He had stitches big enough to make him look like he was reprising a role from A Clockwork Orange, and had to wear one of those big giant awful conehead things to keep him from tearing the stitches out. He was so big, and our apartment so small, he would bash that conehead thing into everything. But he could see, and oh, the joy that ensued! It was around this time that The Super Happy Ass On Fire Can You Feel My Jungle Heat? Dance was born. It was the only way he could fully express his glee. It was the best money we ever spent.

Then he started throwing his back out. The vet couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. We would give him painkillers and muscle relaxants, he would take to his bed for a day or two and then be fine. Then when we moved to Encino, the back problems stopped completely. We figured the stress of living in The ‘Hood and defending the house from constant attack by gangbangers, crackheads and burglars (oh yes, caught a burglar in our backyard, people!) was what was causing his back problems since they never resurfaced after the move to suburban bliss Encino. Until recently. His back started hurting him again, only this time not going away after rest. He would bend down to pick up a morsel off the floor and cry out in pain. He would get up from his bed a certain way and cry out in pain. Our new Encino vet took x-rays and couldn’t find anything wrong with him, gave him more muscle relaxants, which he hates taking. He is subdued. I go for my run and can’t take him with me, which causes him to look at me with such defeated disappointment, it's just too heartbreaking for words. He has become depressed, afraid to move.

I became desperate, calling alternative healers all over town the Friday before New Year’s, trying to find somebody, anybody who can help my poor dog. Not only is it difficult to find alternative animal healers, but nobody was working, everyone was out of town for the holiday. But one man called me back. He only makes house calls since the health department will not let him bring animals into his human practice (which he has done for 12 years). He agreed to come over the very next day and adjust Rufus, which he did in only a half-hour. Rufus enjoyed most of it and was his usual “Oh poke me and prod me if you must, just keep loving me” kind of way. The doctor zeroed in on the problem area and surmised that he may have a slipped disc. He prescribed light rest and light massage after the adjustment, and another adjustment in a few days. Rufus slept a lot that day, and then the next day -- WHAMMO! -- new dog!!! He raced up and down the hallway first thing in the morning, did a couple of new versions of The Super Happy Ass On Fire Can You Feel My Jungle Heat? Dance. Gave me a big huge waggy smile. Thank you, God, our puppy is back.

So that is the short story about our L.A. Dog. He gets chilly and whines to come in when it is cold out, i.e., when the temperature drops below 70.

He has had an eye tuck.

And now he has his own chiropractor.

How I Spent The Shoppingest Day Of The Year

I have gone to the hills behind Serrania Park (off De Soto) for about thirty years now. I have gone there since before there even existed a Serrania Park. Back when all those fancy homes back there were nothing but a ginormous dirt lot (where my 8-year-old self once spent a terrifying spell on a spooked, spastic runaway Arabian horse who was the offspring of a very famous racehorse, so the blinding speed had the effect of being raced off to one’s untimely death, but that’s a story for another day).

We used to go horseback riding back there, but in later years after the horses were long gone, it became my ultimate hiking destination. The majority of the hike is a fairly steep, butt-blasting climb, providing breathtaking views of the aforementioned fancy homes, the Santa Monica Mountains, the golf course, and on a clear day, the entire valley. I have gone to this hike over the years for many reasons:

1) To mend a broken heart. You’ve heard of chicken soup being Jewish penicillin? Well this hike is the Sad Sack’s valium. Not only does the exertion get your endorphins going and thus, actually incites a mild drug reaction that bumps you out of depression, but the views and the smell of sage and the gorgeous silence distract you from your pain and make you realize that all this beauty is larger than your petty little problems and hurts.

2) To lose weight. I have been known to dump a good 10 pounds or so just by doing that hike two or three times a week for a few weeks. With zero dietary restrictions. It is a caloric Hoover From Hell. Srsly.

3) To bring friends and make them tell me their secrets. There is something about hiking that makes people an open book. They will start yapping about what is really eating them, sometimes even crying, hyperventilating, laughing hysterically, confessing. It is the strangest phenomenon. Something about that hike is like truth serum. It’s cleansing.

4) To be alone. Hardly anybody ever goes there when there is the much more famous Runyon Canyon where you can go and spot celebs and such. But that isn’t really my speed and I prefer to not have a million other people’s energies swirling around me when I am trying to settle down my own, thankyouverymuch.

Only one time in all the years of going on the Serrania hike, have I ever had an episode that made me not feel so safe being there alone. This icky pervy man wearing nothing but a speedo appeared out of nowhere, out in the middle of the trail, and tried to convince me that there were snakes about and that I needed to go with him to this area behind the bushes to find a stick (you think I’m making this up, but I swear it’s all true!) to scare off the snakes. When I said “not so much, thanks” he said I could also go back there and meet his girlfriend. Yeeeeaaaah, you have a girlfriend back there. And I’m the Queen of Sheba, you friggin’ tool. As I was in Heartbreak Recovery Mode as mentioned in #1 above, I was too lost in my own sorry thoughts to be afraid that Pervy Speedo Man was following behind me at a brisk pace until it dawned on me -- he may have a friend lurking about waiting to do an ambush on my sorry ass. Oh shit! So I started running. You know, so that if somebody darted out from the bushes, they would at least have to hit a moving target. I turned to check behind me and Pervy Speedo Man was running too! He and his floppy dingle-dangle were chasing my ass! WTF?! As I rounded the next corner, my mind was racing. What the hell was he planning on doing? It’s not like the speedo left a lot of room for weapons. Then a feeling started spreading throughout me and it spread like a virus: Extreme pissedoffedness. Extreme, people. Similar to what I felt years later when that wanker messed with the wrong Valley Girl in Encino. I’ve been hiking up this damn hill for YEARS! These are MY hills, asshat! I have had no fewer than THREE pervs try to pick me up during my childhood in the valley, and now this dude was seriously wanting to have his ass kicked by me. Who the FARFEGNUGEN does he think he’s dealing with???

I turned and looked behind me again. Nobody. Gone. Poof, like a puff of perv vanished into thin air.

As I got to the bottom of the hill, another woman was going up. I told her about Pervy Speedo Man and she turned right around and went back to her car. And I reported him to the police. Never found out what happened to him, but after that I was determined not to let his pervy ass turn me off of going back there alone, I am SO SURE. Of course nowadays, it’s not an issue since I bring The Big Giant Snarling Vicious Brown Dog with me whenever I go, and he has that charming effect of conveying the sentiment “YOU’LL GO THE FART AWAY IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, SHITHEEL” to any passersby with less than honorable intentions.

Anyhoo, new to the list of reasons to do the Serrania hike is the following: to kill your post-Thanksgiving-too-much-food-and-drink-hangover. See, we were supposed to go see Derek’s family up north for Turkey Day, but as it turned out, Homeboy got sick and we couldn’t run the risk of exposing his Grammy (who just turned 102) and the kidlets to his germies, so we had to stay home and I, in a fit of stunted family visit sadness, saw fit to kill my sadness with a bottle of champagne, half a bottle of wine, and I am told, a few shotgunned beers. Yeah. Have yourself a very Lushy Thanksgiving, Valley Girl. But the hike fixed me up, and there was nary a perv in sight.

And for that, I am thankful.

Berfday and Godbaby Extravaganza

Oh man, I love me some godbaby. She is just flat-out and hands-down the most adorable, happy, smiley, radiant little creature on the planet. But I'm not biased.

I held her, I played with her, I read to her, I listened to her views on Little Brown Nut Hare vs. Little Rabbit. I was hoping to read her the all-time children's classic Everybody Poops, but alas, it was not amongst her extensive collection. [Note to Godbaby-Mama: This is a must-read. So is Captain Underpants And The Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants.]

I watched in awe as she sat on the floor and giggled in response to The Big Brown Dog constantly sniffing her, licking her head, nibbling at her diaper. She just simply was not fazed by him one bit, but he was sure fazed by her. I've never seen him so nervous before, and I realized he hadn't yet really been around someone that young, and a 9-month-old baby is quite akin to a very drunk person: they wobble, they teeter, they fall unexpectedly, they make strange noises. I think he was afraid her little drunk ass was going to fall over all the time, not to mention all the great smells coming out of her diaper. Forget butts -- diaper smell is THE SHIT, people!

Here he is, all like "Awwwwwwyeah, diaper booty gettin' in mah bed!":

The below photo is mildly deceiving since Babe also took quite a shine to the Young Juliette. She doesn't ordinarily display a particular fondness for persons under the age of 21 now that she is older and just can't be bothered. But she wanted to sit next to Juliette at all times. Not lick her, not sniff her, just sit beside her and look proud. It was so cute.

But in this photo, she seems to be saying "Oh heyall naw bitch, you ain't getting in this bed! You're cutting into naptime, punk!" And it's not even her bed -- it's actually Rufus' bed that he graciously shares with her when her own bed is just not deemed as being sufficient for Her Royal Pugness:


And here she is again, giving you the ol' stinkeye:

So I got sick the day before my berfday (WTF???) which really blew, but I still managed to have a great one anyway. Several adoring fans came over to oooh and aahhh the Darling Godbaby, but here are a couple of preliminary photos from Jillie until I get mine out of jail in the camera:

Here's me and MY FIANCÉ (squeeeeeeee! love saying that!) -- pigging out for a little pre-berfday celebration at Buca di Beppo in Encino. Man, I love that place. You walk in hungry, and you leave full for a week. And Bonus: it's within stumbling distance of our house.
But the real treat was having my precious friend in the house for four days, and remembering all over again how great she is, and how God was smiling on me the day I was placed next to her at that shark tank-- I mean law firm-- all those years ago. I love you, Jillie-pew:

Babe's First Slumber Party

Now most of you who know Babe know that she is the friendly, outgoing, attention-whore sort. But the arrival of the Big Brown Dog nearly three years ago forever changed the level of attention she gets because A) Rufus is an even BIGGER attention whore; B) Rufus is just plain bigger and will thwart her attempts at getting lovies every chance he gets; and C) Rufus is so damn freaking cute (still looks like a puppy, even though he is huge and beefy) and funny (still entertains us daily with the strategically-timed recital of the Super Happy Butt Wriggle Can You Feel My Jungle Heat? Dance, and smart (is currently completing his thesis on Deconstruction of the Suburban Compost Pile).

But let’s be clear: Babe is no freaking slouch either. Pugs were bred hundreds of years ago for the express purpose of being companions to Chinese royalty. When it comes to breeding, she is built for one thing only: to be as adorable and cuddly and charming as caninely possible. But at some point a year or so ago -- could be her older age, or just no longer giving a crap -- she just sort of threw in the towel and let the big guy get the lion’s share of attention and petting and squealing and cooing while she just loped off to her bed for another nap.

So I recently received an invitation to attend an intimate slumber party at my dear friend Milli’s house to check out her pad and sleep out in her little Shangri-La backyard, and that dogs would be welcome. So I packed up my blanket and pillow and Babe’s little leopard print faux fur bed (no, she’s not spoiled) and schlepped over to Milli’s house. Little did I know, I was about to make Babe’s millenium.

First of all, there was only one other dog there to compete with, Milli’s chihuahua mix Chela (aka “Scoops”). And she is WAY smaller than Babe. If Babe were so inclined, she could totally trounce Scoops. But Babe is about the love, so that wasn’t an option. Then, there was this yard full of all sorts of interesting plants and waterfalls and smaller-dog-butt to sniff. That alone is like Disneyland for Babe. She got to poop on a strange lawn -- always a treat. Then there were chicks, a bunch of them, passing out lovies for FREE and lavishing unrestricted praise upon Babealicious like it was freaking Christmas. Then she was given handouts of cauliflower, a new and exotic treat the likes of which had never before been savored! It was a magical evening for a neglected pug.

But the best part came early, very early the next morning whilst we slumbered in the tent, sleeping off the mojitos. Babe was in her bed at my feet (placed as far from earshot as possible to reduce at least some of the decibels from her deafening snoring).

It should be noted here that my dogs have always had their own beds since I don’t believe in having dogs in bed with you. It’s not only confusing for the dog, thinking they are on the same level with you and thus, not buying it when you try to train them, but also rather unsavory when you think of all the dog poo that gets mashed between a dog’s toes when he performs the post-poop hind leg scooting ritual. Yeeaaaah, not for me. I like my bed pristine and dog poop and dog hair-free, thanks. I give them plenty of cuddles and snuggles throughout the day -- they can live without being next to me for eight hours every night.

So there we were in the tent, and as the morning light began to permeate the tent, Babe awoke and realized, holy shit! -- she was in bed with three chicks! Dear lord, what have I done to deserve such unadulterated bliss?!!! This sort of thing only happens in a pug’s wildest dreams!!! She went from one warm snuggly body to the next and was cuddled and pet and cuddled some more, and she squealed and looked around at the scene before her and I swear, the look on her face was something I have never seen before. It was like when a Buddhist master reaches the highest level of enlightenment: This was the Holy Grail of Pug Existence. Where could she possibly go from here? What on earth could ever top this? Then the tent was unzipped and wheeeeee! -- more smelling to be had out in the beautiful yard!

Later that morning as I arrived home, I noticed what a pig sty my own house had become. After being gone for five days last week, then starting back to massage school, I haven’t been home much to clean or pay attention, but the squalor was becoming more unavoidable, and it stood out in sharp contrast after being in Milli’s beautiful, clean zen-like pad overnight. So I did what any girl would do. I put on the soundtrack to Flashdance (amidst Derek’s “Oh Dear Lord” looks) and started to clean my ass off, while Babe, my little party girl, slumbered happily back home in her little bed, having had the time of her portly little life.

I Love Encino In The Spring

Do you see why I'm such a homebody lately and don't want to join the land of the living? Why go anywhere when your pad and its surrounding flora looks like this:

My favorite Big Brown Dog taking time to smell the flowers:
"What? It's not as good as eight-hour butt, but it's okay I guess." My favorite Pugnacious taking the time to give you the ol' hairy eyeball:I stained and finished these teak chairs and table myself. Pretty cute, yes? You have to twist your body into all sorts of positions to adequately stain something. Who knew I was a contortionist? Anyway, this is now my fave place to sit and chill. This was once a carport when the house was built in 1949, but now is a section of yard we refer to as "The Slab". I think it looks like some cute little Italian villa now. I'll take this over Skybar any day: Me and my forehead, kickin' it and being happy: