End of the Leash

My apologies to Inner Circle

Going to the doctor is absolute torture for me.  My fear of germs and phobia of touching door handles or stair rails surges to code red at the doctor’s office.  I start profiling patients while I am checking in to make sure I don’t sit next to anyone that has the potential to cough on me.

I thought I was going to have a full meltdown when I took my youngest for a sports physical in the middle of the H1N1 epidemic.  We entered the waiting room to a good 30 people all wearing masks. As I sat holding my breath and squirting Purell on my hands,  my daughter decided she needed to get her Ipod out of the car.  Giving her the keys, I looked up just as she was about to push the handle to open the office door. Flying out of my seat screaming, “DON’T TOUCH THE DOOR KNOB!”  I slapped her arms away from the lever so fiercely that my keys went flying in the air landing at the feet of the masked lady I had previously diagnosed as having whooping cough.

Attempting to avoid a history of germs at the Coliseum

If it isn’t the germs that do me in, it is the waiting.  My favorite trick they pull is when they get your hopes up by bringing you back to the exam room only to leave you in solitary confinement.   When the nurse finally came in and took my blood pressure, her question of, “is your pressure normally high?” sent me over the edge.  Unable to contain my sarcasm, my response of ,”Only when I experience shitty customer service” was met with more time in the box before the doctor graced me with her presence.  (For the record  I did suggest the nurse meet me at the car and take it before I enter the building but she didn’t think this was amusing either.)

Looking back what I really think increased my blood pressure was making me wear these:

Straight from Project Runway

That’s right nothing says humiliation more then squeezing into a pair of small/medium paper shorts then asking me to do a series of squats so you can see me grimace in pain.  I don’t know if it was the fear of my ass ripping out the backside of the paper or the shear exertion of aerobic activity I was being required to do to gain my referral, but I could feel my perspiration causing my shorts to stick to me like a gigantic human Paper Mache craft project.  Full anxiety setting in I continued lunging as the sweat started running down my backside.

Satisfied with my flailing my doctor decided my geriatric hip and I earned a spinal referral and a x-ray.  Leaving me in the room the doctor instructed me to get dressed while she wrote out the appointment approval. I attempted to peel the shorts off of my ass which were now stuck to me like a layer of blue skin.  Mortification complete, I headed to X-ray where the technician checked my paperwork and pointed me to a changing room and instructed me to get undreseed and put on a gown.  A gown!  I felt like Cinderella!

Oh Thank you Jesus! No blue shorts!

Medium my sweaty ass!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dc-6-7lOJlI

Back to August…

The running with my husband was going so well I suggested we do a spontaneous long run. Frankly this is why I should not be in charge I don’t always listen (as my husband will tell you) – I kind of half listen and then wonder what is happening later.  I should have been listening to my body; clearly I let my enthusiasm get the best of me but the fact that he agreed to my brainstorm had left me quite giddy.

A birthday gift from my loving family

The weeks since we had been training there was also a lot of moaning and rolling going on in our bedroom.  Unfortunately it didn’t involve 20 years of hot martial bliss (sorry kids); it involved the agony of my hip and my husband pushing me to the edge of the bed.   This was the only way I could get up out of it since I could not roll over on my own.   I could hardly move; getting out of bed was impossible, lying was impossible, sitting was impossible.  I was miserable.  I was not alone in my suffering my supportive spouse was feeling it too since my tossing and turning had left him with about 4 hours of sleep a night.

Why I thought the long run would be a good idea I have no clue.   It started out well but a half mile in I was in despair.  My husband turned to me during the home stretch and proclaimed “Let’s finish this out, run hard! Sprint!”   Run hard?  Sprint?  Where was the man that hated running?  Suddenly I was training with Carl Lewis.  I attempted to tell him this was my sprint but I couldn’t speak because of the sobbing I was doing.  Now I would like to tell you I was crying because of the ache in my hip that now radiated down my back and leg, but really I think I was crying because:

A)  I realized I was going to have to actually go to the doctor

B) I wanted to pop my leg off like the discarded Barbie at the bottom of the toy box

C)  Being Irish, I grasped I couldn’t possibly get one of my relatives drunk enough to agree to give me their good hip

Reading a text had become a little blurry so with my secondary vision insurance kicking in I knew it was time to make an eye appointment but what really prompted it was these:

BCGs

I love my husband but I hate these glasses

REALLY- how could you not love him but who decided these would be good look for our Active Duty members?

As every vision impaired military member knows they are called BCGs, military issued Boot Camp Glasses but affectionately called Birth Control Glasses by our military-  That’s right, because if you wear them you are never going to get laid!

They are RIDICULOUS!

I arrived at my appointment early and I should have known I was in trouble when they had no record of my insurance that I had spent days prior making certain that they had obtained.  Three phone calls and an approval later I sat filling out my paperwork.   What I failed to remember when I entered the office was that the local karate school had moved in next door.  The first cry of “Ki-Ai” startled me enough to make me drop my pen but the 37^th  “Ki-Ai”  made me want to increase my answer for question #4;  “How many drinks do you have a week?”

An hour later my name was finally called.  I was brought to the back by my doctor who looked like she was 18 but since she laughed at my jokes regarding the karate studio, I figured she must be fantastic!  This was until she told me she was just getting me set up, closed the door, and left me sitting alone in the exam room. I did a quick survey and concluded this woman was stressed out.  Her desk was a mess and who the hell leaves their Coach bag on the floor?

Does she not know the superstition, "A Purse on the Floor is Money Out the Door”?

She wasted no time and jumped right into the exam, “Okay which is clearer one or two?” she said flipping eye charts.  “Well neither, one looks like I drank red wine and two looks like Patron” I responded.   “Okay then 3 or 4?” she asked.  “Uhhh can you do it again? Okay four-Four is fantastic.”

“The blurry vision is because you have astigmatism.”  I nodded acting like I knew what she was talking about.  “Have you had glasses for distance?  No? Well my suggestion is that you get something for the astigmatism and you will need a stronger reader too.” She said walking out of the room as she went to get the prescription for my old glasses.  As soon as she was gone I Googled astigmatism, well actually I Googled “What is ‘a stigmatism’?” and I found out that I am illiterate and have another deformity, (see Shock The Monkey). I need to quit going to doctors!

Then she came back with the big question- “Can “We” dilate your eyes today?”

“Will “We” be able to drive?” I asked since apparently we were in this together and I was concerned for her safety as well.

“Oh no problem you just won’t be able to see anything close up and you will be extra sensitive to light.”  Well that sounded perfect for safe driving conditions on a bright sunny afternoon, “Umm okay.”

“Your eyes look very healthy. You are good to go just let me get your prescription. I will meet you at the front desk.” I was handed two papers that on closer examination I could NOT read.  She wasn’t joking about not seeing anything at close range.

I drove home grabbed my husband and went to the eyeglass store- whereWaynewas waiting for us.  We were on first name basis with Wayne since we had spent the morning with him getting my husband glasses that would get him laid (and by that I mean by me).

Wayne inquired how my day went, “Well I can’t see shit right now Wayne but I guess the day went okay.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           “Right, let’s get you set up-wow your eyes are REALLY dilated!”

Blinded by the light

“Okay so do you want to go with the same lenses as your husband, scratch proof and the bifocals with the lines or the bifocals without the lines?” Wayne asked.

“I don’t have bifocals I just have readers” I corrected Wayne who must be confused after a long hard day.

“Well your prescription you gave me is for bifocals.” Wayne told me

WHAT?!!!

“You didn’t see what she wrote?” my husband asked.

“I can’t fucking see!” I yelled.

My husband was now double over laughing, “You have bifocals!  No more old man jokes!”

“Well this is fucking bullshit! I am so depressed… I have old eyes.” I cried out to the two of them.

“Do you want me to just make them readers?” Wayne asked sympathetically.

“No Wayne, I want you to make me young.  Oh yeah and a you can make me a drink.”

My apologies to Gorillaz

Back to August…Let the training begin

In case you missed last week my husband, or as I like to refer to him as THE POOR BASTARD, (See House of Estrogen) had agreed to start running with me.  If you are new to the blog this was a big deal.  I have previously documented how much he HATES running but to make it clearer, he recently stated if he had to pick between shoving a chopstick under his finger nail and running he would need time to think about it.  Ecstatic that he had agreed I was determined to do everything in my power to make this a positive experience and change his mind about running.

Negotiations quickly began:

• I insisted on him getting actual running shoes- he agreed
• He insisted we not get up at o’dark thirty and that we run AFTER work- I agreed
• We both decided we would need a training programming- We agreed on a walk/run program

At this moment I knew I had him, “You know there is an app for that.”   I saw his eyes light up as he headed for his laptop.  An hour of research done and 2 downloads later our phones were equipped with our new running plan.

Day One- 5 min warm up followed by intervals of eight 1 minute runs/1.5 walks, then a 5  minute cool down.                                                                                                                                                                                    I started my dynamic stretching routine while he sat flipping between Sports Center and Jeopardy.  “What is the Renaissance?  Let me know when you are ready.” He said without looking away. Twenty minutes later we walked outside.   I put my earphones in and hit the app, “WARM UP BEGIN” it said to me.  I strided down the driveway when I heard my husband say, “Ok ready?  Let’s synchronize so we start at the same time.” The panic on my face gave me away.  “Did you already start?” he asked. I began shaking my head no, then yes, and then I just shut off my app and told him I would follow him.  He walked down the driveway shaking his head too.

Starting with my normal walk pace, (which is faster then my running pace due to growing up with an older sister with a good 4-5” height advantage.  Living in Florida, I learned early on that I had to take two steps to her every one or be lost in a sea of geriatric mall walkers while shopping with her.)

My sister...Long, tall, woman in a purple dress!

I felt my husband grab my elbow and mouth words at me – “What?” I yanked out my earphones- “Just go ahead!”  He sounded a little annoyed before we had even gone 20 feet. “Sorry, I will slow down.”   This was met with my husband throwing up a finger forward and taking off running, clearly my 5 minute warm up was over. One minute in and he held up his hand to stop.

This pattern continued through our neighborhood:                                                                                  Walk!                                                                                                                                                                         Run!                                                                                                                                                                           Walk!

Thank God for walk, I had started to work up a sweat.  Really it wasn’t that bad except for the fact that my calves started tightening every time we walked. Changing my music, my husband jogged past me- quickly pointing to his app and gave me his sign to run.  Crap, that was a fast walk.  I jogged up behind him and noticed him studying the phone – Suddenly I was flashed the sign for walk-

I took my walk opportunity to stop and stretch out my calves when I looked up and was running again, what the hell? I quickly jogged to catch up when he mixed it up and threw in a new sign, a turn around with a run sign.  I got three steps in when I ran up the back of him- I gave him a puzzled look and tried to check my watch but before he could respond I got the run sign again- We ran, and ran,  AND ran some more – surely one minute had passed- we kept running when I noticed he was looking even closer at his phone and stopped dead in his tracks.

Hands raised he shouted out his mantra, “Fuck-FA FA Fuck!”   He held out his phone to me, “I must have been hitting the next button when I was running.  The whole fucking thing started over and now I have no idea where we are at on it.”

Negotiations quickly began:  We agreed on a 5 minute cool down.

TEAM Cool Down

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RF9fqx4H_Cg

My apologies to Eminem

So where were we…let’s rewind-

It was August, so for me that means once again it was hotter then balls. And once again I had committed to run some ridiculous race, with an even more ridiculous distance. I had fattened up thanks to a European vacation (and never dropping my winter coat) and my new summer BFF Patron  and I were getting along smashingly. Perfecting my skinny margarita (that would be patron over ice) and in full gluttonous glory my husband shocked me into reality one night, “How many weeks do you have left before the race?” I looked up over the salted edge of my glass, “I have plenty of time.” (At this point I am sure you are assuming I was in the bag and with my next question I will prove your assumption to be true.)

“Why do you want to train with me?”  He looked up from his computer and said, “Ok”.   (This is the part where I now thought I had too much to drink.)

“Really?” I countered. Clearly I was in shock and unable to form full sentences.

“Really.” He replied.

“Stop.” I verbosely answered.

“All right if you don’t want me to…”

I attempted to get definitive clarification by pointing at him; “YOU… are going to go run with ME?” then pointing back to me so there could be no confusion.  “Ok” was all I got back from him as he turned back to his computer.

I turned to look at how much WAS left in the bottle. OK? O-KAY? WHAT?  This is a man who HATES running! Swears he will only run when being chased.  Who proclaims he is in the 3 mile a year club, (only running when he has to pass his Physical Readiness Test). Quite frankly the only other times I have seen him race, is to the bathroom on the occasions after consuming too much sugar free candy.

Oh laugh if you must but it would be a disservice if I did not give you this disclaimer:

***Consuming too much sugar alcohol will make you shit yourself***

How do I know this you ask?  I know this because of a personal experience ten years ago involving sugar free peppermint patties, the Atkins diet and Las Cruces Valley Mall.  Yes my friends you read that correctly… only after a decade can I admit that after eating a bag of deadly candy this dieter almost shit her pants in a mall.

For your safety and self-respect let me take you back in time…After 2 weeks on the Atkins diet I was looking forward to a little treat at the movies. My husband had picked up some sugar free peppermint patties. Ignoring his warnings I dove in not stopping till the whole bag was gone. “Those suckers are great!” I exclaimed as we exited into the mall.

Then my husband made the fateful decision that he needed new shoes so we walked to JC Penney’s. As we entered the store my stomach started to rumble, and by rumble I mean it sounded like thunder. On top of it, the weekend happened to be “Tax Free” and we could barely get through the aisles.  Everyone we knew was at the mall, as we pushed our way to the shoe department the pains in my stomach started to increase and I felt the cold sweats descend on me. Leaning against the shoe rack I whispered to my husband I was going to have to find a rest room. He turned to me, with an alarmed expression, knowing I will blow a kidney before using a public toilet.  The gravity of the situation sinking in I started a fast walk around the store in dire search of the restroom sign. Walking in a circle I ended up doubled over in front of husband.  Giving up all dignity I yelled at the sales associate, “Where are the bathrooms?”

“CLOSED!” she smiled and informed that I would have to use the one by the food court.

I broke into a full run with my 5 year old chasing after me, “Momeeeee I want to go!  I have to go too!” I grabbed her tiny hand and started in an all out sprint towards the smell of Sabarros and Panda Express.   Dodging between mall walkers, I was running so fast at one point that she dropped to her knees and I was dragging her behind me.  Terrified each step would bring disaster I finally spotted the restroom sign and turned to face a hallway that must have been a half mile long.  Knowing I would never make it walking at my daughter’s pace I threw her on my back while praying to Jesus there would be no line.

Slamming open the door open I shoved my daughter in a stall and screamed in tongues for her not to touch anything. I grabbed the toilet seat cover like a magician yanking a table cloth accidently ripping it to pieces.  Grabbing the next one I positioned her and told her not to come out till I said it was okay.  I jumped in the stall next to her while unbuttoning my jeans.  Squatting my legs shaking sweat dripping off my face; I will spare you what happened next but let’s just say I lost 5lbs that day.

A little voice called from the next stall over, “Momeeee, I am done. Are you?” “Yes” I said weakly.  Standing up the 2^nd wave of cramps hit me, “No! No stay there, mommy isn’t done.”  6lbs, yeah, 6lbs that day.

Pass the peppermint patties and let the training begin.

"Sugar alcohols are slowly absorbed by your body, so eating excessive amounts of sugar alcohols can lead to bloating and diarrhea."

My apologies to Buster Poindexter…

 August swelter is upon us, the humidity has been so bad I feel like I am walking around in a wet Snuggie 24/7.  (For the record I have never worn a Snuggie but was quite jealous of Super-Girl’s (for those of you that don’t know her-see Red Wine, Mistakes and Apologies) warmth and comfort at a soccer tournament last fall as Martha Stewart, Wet Runner, (if you need a refresher see, Hotter Than Satan’s Balls and Vacation Interrupted) and I took turns publicly cuddling with one another in attempts at warding off hypothermia.

They make great snuggle buddies!

Not only does she know how to dress for inclement weather but she makes some really good appetizers!

 The Kenyan and her giant head agree with me too.  We have to force her to go outside to relieve herself.  One summer after my husband gave our Aussie her summer buzz I decided to treat the Kenyan to a nice summer hair-do as well.  Never having used grooming clippers I was unaware that the clipper blades can fall off mid buzz!  Let’s just say I slipped a few times. Truthfully it was so severe that we had to shave all the hair off of her except for her tail and her GINORMOUS head, which now seemed even bigger compared to her naked dog body.  She was so ridiculous looking that I wouldn’t let anyone walk her in daylight.  What made it even worse was she thought she looked fantastic.  Unburden of her Sasquatch coat she proceeded to trot around like a deranged Lipizzaner Stallion. (Let it be noted that due to this incident I have been banned from giving any family members haircuts and am no longer allowed to go near the clippers.)

Enduring record high temperatures we decided to go shopping with the girls. I woke the Kenyan from her mid-morning nap and broke the news she would have to go potty before we left.  True to form she suddenly became deaf and fell back into her coma.  I would have to resort to bribery, “Who wants a cookie?” The Punk immediately ran out the door without looking back.  Moving just her eyeballs, she scanned the open door and felt the heat swarm over her.  She closed her eyes.  This was going to take tough love. “LOLA GO!”

Slowly she stood up and then started her favorite yoga position “downward dog”.  Finishing her stretch she turned and started heading upstairs to continue her nap.  “Lola!”  She turned and trotted towards me but stopped at the threshold pushing her abnormally large noggin up against my leg.  This is her equivalent of the dog hug.  “All right- you don’t have…” was as far as I got when my husband intervened, “GO! NOW!” he shouted.

Walking three full paces out the door she stopped in her tracks.  It was like she hit an invisible force field.  Stunned and disoriented, her pupils attempting to dilate from the scorching sun, she looked around blinking unsure how she had gotten here or why she was standing in this oven.  Shouting, “Go potty, Lola!” from inside the house snapped her out of shock.  Three more paces and BAM!  Only half way across the deck she sunk back into her heat trance. I walked out the door and stepped on the deck, it was like walking on hot coals. My feet burning, clearly the deck that would ignite at any moment, I screamed, “Get to the grass!”  The two of us sprinted down the step.  The Kenyan’s mouth foaming she immediately assumed the position, did her business, and ran back inside faster then a McDonald’s cheeseburger moves through my body.

Back in the wonderful world of air conditioning the Kenyan climbed the stairs; undoubtedly she would need a siesta to recover from this little endeavor.

Resting with her baby

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nrhf_zgtmAg 

Dr. Paul Bearer

Now scarred for life welcome to my morning run…

Walking outside the smoke from the NC wildfires brought instant flashbacks of The Fog.  Convincing myself that no leper-ghost-fisherman would be chasing me down in the dark the Kenyan and I took off around the corner of the house. Immediately she began shaking her head violently. Before I realized what she had run into I felt the spider web hit my face.  I began flailing uncontrollably along side of her, searching in vain for the spider I was convinced was in my hair, (Arachnophobia anyone?).  Still smacking my head every two feet and with the Kenyan’s ear permanently flipped backward we continued on.  Passing the lake the lookout duck sounded his horn alerting everyone that the serial bird/rabbit killer was in the vicinity.  The Kenyan, clearly multilingual, got very excited that her presence had been announced and began doing her signature spazz zig-zag pattern down the street.  Attempting to rein her in, I pulled her closer to me and then I realized we were right next to a cargo van!  “Put the lotion in the basket” rang in my head, (Silence of the Lambs) I followed the Kenyan’s lead and zagged to the right with her. She took this as an invitation to make a break for the neighbor’s cat that had been lying covertly next to the storm drain.  (Stupid cat had she not seen Alligator?)

The leash stretched tautly and the jack-ass at the end of it rising on her hind legs had no effect on the cat.  She appeared distracted staring at the lake, not moving.  Tuning around I watched the high grass bend at the lake edge.  “JESUS, now what?” I said to the Kenyan and the cat, now both looking in the same direction. 

Then it emerged, like something that had been in toxic waste…a gigantic goose!  This was no ordinary goose, this goose had anger issues, this goose had no fear and this goose began walking across the street towards us.  The cat, being shady, bolted. The Kenyan not sure what the hell was going to happen decided she was now well behaved and immediately sat behind me.  I turned and started walking slowly towards the house my pace increasing with each step till we were in a full on sprint.  Not looking back, my heart racing, I listened intently for waddling behind me.  The Kenyan smartly cut across the yard back through the spider web, gasping I threw open the front door and quickly locked it behind me. “Good run?” my husband asked?

My apologies to Salt and Pepa…

Sports are now winding down for us and not only have I not blogged, not exercised, and not dieted I have gained practically all my weight back and on top of that I have a new addiction.  YES, ladies and gentlemen sign me up for another 12 step program.  I am a salt addict.  That’s right I am jonesin’ for some sodium.  How does this happen you ask? Truly it could be traced it back to my love of all things associated with tequila (recently my mother questioned the large bowls of limes in my kitchen) but this time I am blaming the children.  That’s right those little precious angels I squeezed out of me, (did I mention they had heads the size of bowling balls).

  2 kids playing 2 different sports meant that we had practice or games 5 nights a week.  My husband and I racing in opposite directions, across God’s country to make it to games being played at the same time- Switching sports back and forth could be confusing- for instance, I learned early on there is no yelling in tennis!  (Yelling,” YES!”, after your kid wins a long volley is frowned upon.)  Also in soccer if it rains and there is lightening everyone heads for the bus and calls it a day.  I figured this would hold true for tennis as well but no, in tennis you have a rain delay.  This caused me quite bit of anguish one evening. 

Seeing ginormous thunderheads rolling in I decided not to stop and pick up a drink and a snack for the game because surely they wouldn’t play.  When I pulled up to the court my daughter sat huddled in the drizzle with her teammates.  I got out of the car and she informed me they were going to try and play through but she thought that any minute they would have to stop.  I got back in my car and watched for the next 30 minutes as they poor girls played in the downpour.  Out in the distance I saw a big lightening bolt. PRAISE JESUS!  My stomach rumbling I quickly texted my daughter “Are they canceling?”  She shot me back 2 words, “RAIN DELAY” – “Damn!” my stomach groined. 

 I started rummaging around my car there must be something in here to eat.  Score, I found my snack bag from Saturday’s soccer game.  Dumping it into my lap one empty Red Bull, one empty iced tea, 2 empty bags of sunflower seeds all mocked me. I continued in vain till I hit the pocket of the passenger door. It was…a bag of pumpkin seeds; not the small bag either the big bag.  Rejoicing I got back in the front seat and proceeded to munch away while playing scrabble with my niece on my iPhone.  The rain began to ease up as I munched away trying to beat her third 7 letter word, (I still think she is cheating).

Scrabble Genius or Cheater Cheater Pumpkin Eater?

Suddenly I heard a small boat engine starting up- when I looked up the coach was bringing something out to dry the court that resembles the Dynamic Industrial Renovating Tractormajigger (look it up) from the Cat In The Hat.   My daughter suddenly appeared in my window and informed me that they were going to dry the court and then would resume play.  I responded lovingly, “You are shitting me?”  Or that was what I attempted to say.  My tongue had swollen to twice its size from the huge dosage of pumpkin seed salt and I sounded like a deranged Daffy Duck. “Ya thittin me?”  She smiled and ran back to her team.  Parched I frantically searched under the seats for half empty plastic bottles, Gatorade, anything!  Opening every cap on the dozens of beverages that had been rolling around my car floor for weeks; I madly tilted them back for a drop of anything wet.  Why now had the rain stopped?  I couldn’t even fill the cap of a dried up Dasani bottle.  My phone blowing up I grabbed it.  Text from daughter, “It is too wet.  We have to play again tomorrow.”  Text from my husband, “I am at WalMart do you need anything?”  Reply, “Yes can you get me a drink and pumpkin seeds for tomorrow?”

My apologies to Ben Harper and Looney Tunes…

Spring sport schedules have descended upon us and the Punk and the Kenyan quite frankly are pissed.  Longing for the days when air brakes, screeching from the big yellow bus, would wake them from their afternoon siesta; delivering an angel, well actually a child, A HEAVENLY CHILD I tell you, (who had been threatened with losing phone privileges) to immediately harness and saddle them for their late day jaunt through the neighborhood AND THEN to reward them with a cookie when returning.  Now forced to wait 2 hours longer for everyone to walk through the door, only to ignore them, their attitudes have turned quite bitter.  The Kenyan has taken to sulking in the master suite only to be lured down with the promise of people food.  The Punk has just gone ape shit; racing through the house taking down anyone in her path all the while barking madly.  Getting home tonight, I gave my daughter fruity snacks as an appetizer and told her I would cook dinner after running the Punk.  The Kenyan using her bionic hearing was suddenly glued to my leg.  I tried to explain to her what an asshole the Punk had been and I needed to drain her energy but she just turned her back and went upstairs to the bedroom.  Laced up and leash on we headed out.  It was like watching Bugs Bunny jump up and down on all fours, “Dog pile on the rabbit, dog pile on the rabbit!”  I was half way down the road by the time she stopped jumping and caught up with me.  Slobber hitting my shins for the last half of the run the Punk was in her glory and we are back on schedule.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GkFiRVXpjfc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcqdzJ-nnpE

I am not the only one that put on a few lbs this winter; we are now referring to The Punk as “The Chunk”.  She has been put on a diet and told she too needs to “get with the program” and lose her “winter coat”.

She took the news remarkably well

  Getting ready for our 3 mile hike this evening I decided to be a responsible pet owner and actually bring a poo bag.  After too many close calls with The Kenyan and tired of looking like a deranged magician, having a plastic grocery bag shoved up my sleeve, I broke down and went to our local pet store and bought a “waste” baggie dispenser that attaches to the leash.  The dispenser has a roll of bags that you rip off as needed.  Sounded like a plan to me…so off we went.  In her glory skipping next to me the Punk was delighted to come upon my neighbor driving by.  Greeting her by attempting to jump through the passenger window she then patiently waited while we chatted for 5 minutes. Bored by the conversation the Punk decided whimpering neurotically was the most effective way to get me moving again.  Crossing the intersection we came to the official “go” spot.  Waiting for my blessing, (that would be when I shout “GO POO!” at the top of my lungs) the Punk assumed the position.  Creating a pile that could have been mistaken for the work of a grizzly; I opened the Velcro flap on my waste dispenser and grabbed the end of the roll.  Pulling the end of the plastic bag I ripped the entire roll completely out of the container.  Spiraling in the air the roll began to unwind itself like streamers being thrown from the Love Boat.  Miraculously catching the end I began to reel in the roll of 50 bags.  Finally getting to the end I ripped off an individual bag. Shaking it violently it unfolded and opened to the size of a sandwich bag!  Clearly these were meant for rabbit poops not BIG dog dumps.  Looking at the pile and back to my sandwich bag I could hear myself at the next visit to the grocery store…”Plastic please.”

How many lawn bags do you think I can get in here?