What happened to Otis.

So Remington Roscoe Otis Basset Hound (now known as Otis, or -- occasionally -- Otis Von Odiekins)has a new family, but he's still part of ours ... husband's aunt and uncle took him. When I checked in after a week, she said it felt like he was "custom-ordered" for them. And I really did like him and this means I can still visit. What could be better?

Remington Roscoe Otis the Basset Hound

I have a temporary dog. Only temporary. Hence the name ... or no name. If I refuse to call him by one name, then he can't be my dog, right?

Anyway, I adopted him from the animal shelter yesterday because I have been obsessing about this dog since I had animal services pick him up from my house two weeks ago. Obsessing because I thought he would be claimed by his owner. I mean, when I almost hit him as he wandered in the middle of the street, I was sure we'd be able to find his home. He had a collar and license, is neutered, and has an ear tatoo and a tracking chip ... all linked to the same person with a disconnected phone number and, I guess, a new address. So, since animal services tries to track down the owner, I figured it was best if he went with them. Then, when no one came forward and I discovered that I sent him to the pound (which isn't a no-kill shelter, duh) I realized that I could be responsible for the death of this big, goofy, long-eared, droopy-eyed doofus of a basset hound. And I couldn't live with myself. And now I have this dog.


Scratch that. Now I have three dogs. Two permanent, one who has to stop looking at me with those sad eyes or he may be.


This is all standard guilt-ridden-act-of-emotion-that-ends-up-ruining-your-life fare. But I'm okay with that, at least for now. That's because I've got some good karma on my side. Get this: yesterday, before I picked him up, I had to go by my vet to get proof of my dogs having up-to-date licenses and shots. I'm with my husband because I'm taking him into work and we're going a different route than normal because of the stop. We're stopped at a light and this car turns in front of us with -- and I'm really not making this up -- one of those magnetic signs on the door that says "[location removed]bassetrescue.org." How freakin' weird is that?


So, I've emailed that organization telling them my story and hoping they can help. I'm totally happy to be Remington Roscoe Otis' foster mom, but he eats a ton and isn't exactly crazy about being left alone, so I'm pretty sure he's not a good long-term addition to my household, where my dogs have bladders of steel and barely look up when I walk in the door after 12 hours. (Okay, that's not true, but they are old and used to hanging at the homestead and usually greet us -- with much glee -- then pee, poop, eat, and reassume their lounging positions.)


In the meantime, I'm hoping he learns to sleep somewhere other than in our bed (I gave up last night at 3 when I just couldn't fight it anymore), doesn't eat anything he shouldn't and learns to deal with his separation anxiety issues. Karma help me.

Kickball Hero

Bottom of the final inning. Our team up by one. Two outs, tying run for the opposition stands at third, winner is ready at second.* Kicker comes to the plate, scans the outfield for the gap. Assesses his opening. Finds his opportunity to be the hero.

The first pitch moves toward the plate, slowly … slowly … a bit of a bounce lifting it from the red clay of the infield. The kicker approaches, sets his stance, then lofts the ball to near right, just short of the outfield grass and out of reach of the fielders, who are playing deep.

The ball flies high, comes down fast, appears it will drop. But, wait. There’s the first baseman, leaping into the air. Stretching his body toward the red orb; snatching it from its trajectory. Pulling it into his chest and falling, falling, man and kickball now crashing to the ground. Fast. Forceful. The air leaves his body, he doesn’t move.

He never releases the ball.

His eyes slowly open, showing his confusion. “What happened? Did we win?”


*The facts have been altered slightly for effect. What’s a good story without a tiny little bit of embellishment, right? Fact is, we were ahead by about 10 runs, but the first baseman/hero in this story was actually more than confused, he's currently spending the night in the hospital for a concussion ... the scan didn't come back clear so he's being held for observation. I figure he deserves a good story, at the least. Also, this has been modified twice, because my math/scoring abilities are, well, pretty much crap.

No Good

I just wrote a post -- long but compelling, I swear -- but somehow deleted it and now I don't have the energy to rewrite. So, I tried ... that's all I can ask of myself, right?

What's a combine?

As in the farm machinery. I'm from small town South Georgia, so I should know. I mean, if you leave my hometown from any direction, it's pretty much farm land. When I was growing up, it was pine trees to the north (pine trees are a crop, really), peaches to the east, sod to the south (grass is also a crop; again, really) and peanuts to the east (these grow in the ground like potatos, by the way, not on trees). Now, it's pretty much pine trees and sod, which is sad. If you've never seen peach trees bloom in spring, you probably wouldn't understand, but there was a time when I was in high school that I cried seeing the peach trees along my favorite country road uprooted, their roots like spiders' legs curled toward the sky. But that's another story.

Anyway, you would think I could pretty accurately tell you what a combine is, right? Actually, you might wonder why in the hell you would even care. You probably wouldn't, but it came up during our kick ball game last night (I play recreational kickball ... yet another story) when I told a teammate that we should call him "The Combine." He's a farm boy from Iowa and I was noting that the opposing team seemed a little intimidated by 300 pounds of said farm boy barreling at them at top speed (which can get scary if you think about how much forward momentum that kind of girth can create). So, somebody said, "What's a combine?" And, since I like to act like I know everything ... and since I was the one throwing around the term like I did know what I was talking about ... I answered: "It's a big piece of farm machinery ... it's called a combine because it turns the soil ... you know, combining it to make it ready for planting."

Okay, so that's not it.

Iowa Farm Boy clarified that it actually is something that harvests, not something that prepares soil. According to Wikipedia (which, since it's updated by 17-year-old geeks who don't have social lives, is obviously the indisputable, accurate source for all things) that's correct. Here's the link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combine_harvester. I was close ... it is named after what it does ... it's just that it combines several tasks rather than combining something.

So, I learned something and now you (my non-existent readers) have too. Use the information wisely.

I've already failed. Four days, two blogs. Zero entries that are entertaining in any way. That's probably because I'm in a total funk. Okay that's probably not it ... I'm lazy and easily distracted, two traits that don't exactly bode well for consistency. But I am feeling pretty foul. Menstrual, plus big-time dental work this morning (two crowns, side-by-side -- wouldn't want one to be lonely), stressed about money, uninspired at work, and living in a lovely three bedroom two bath home that may be classified as unfit to live. My husband's a remodeler. Fairly recent gig. Building a business by building what other people want ... kitchens, new bathrooms, even a new poolhouse for his parents. But for us, we don't have a wall between our kitchen and the garage. Or a stove. Or two showers that work. Or a roof that doesn't leak. Or a yard that has grass. Or a home of our own because once again we've opened our home to a friend who's staying with us for a while. In the incomplete house. On a mattress on the floor of the living room. Really. Paying jobs come first. Family next. Friends next. Then ... then ... then we can consider doing something for ourselves. Don't get me wrong. We're in this together. I'm just as guilty. But something's gotta give.

Only Day 2 and already not sure what to write. Maybe I'll explain why the blog name is it what it is ... apropos, since my subconscious obliged early this morning.

But first, don't worry, this isn't a blog about my dreams, though sometimes it might be. First off, I don't remember most of my dreams ... I usually just hear about them from others. That's because I tend to be what I like to call an "active sleeper." Meaning I don't just dream, I talk, I walk, I generally act out whatever's happening. This often means I wake up more tired than when I went to bed ... so I often feel like I'm sort of drifting through my life, trying to figure out if it's really happening. Thus, sleeptalking ... night and day. It also means that my poor husband -- a light sleeper, god bless him -- is treated to a show most every night. He takes pretty heavy-duty sleeping pills ... no over-the-counter drugs here. I wonder why.

Anyway, I did wake up this morning really upset. I dreamed my best friend -- who lives thousands of miles away, but whom I talk to at least every couple of weeks or so because she's been my best friend since I was, oh, 5 -- was dying. I don't mean she just found out she had some life threatening disease, but that she was actively dying ... in the hospital, gasping for air, but talking to me on the phone, telling me she didn't want to die and me telling her I didn't want her to die either.

So, I woke up and tried to tell husband about it and immediately started crying. Because I'm a loser and knew it was a dream but couldn't shake it. Mind you, this was a little strange on several levels.

First, I'm worried about her. She's pregnant with her third child and I know she loves her children, but I worry that she feels stuck. Her husbands is nice enough, but I don't think he's exactly "present," if you know what I mean. She'll never say it, but I get the feeling she works her ass off -- for pay and at home -- and he doesn't do much to offer support.

Second, she and I recently both lost our grandfathers. Really weird situation. I was in our hometown for my grandfather's funeral. It was really tough because I basically talked to him on the phone while he was taking his last breaths ... he'd had a massive stroke, so I don't know he heard me, but I had the chance to at least let him know it was okay to go. I'm sure I'll write more about him later, but the point here is that I wasn't able to be with him when he died and since we were really close, it was very difficult.

Oddly enough, I was able to see BF's grandfather right before he died. While I was in town, I stopped to see him in the nursing home where he'd recently been transferred after finding out he had rapidly spreading cancer. I grew up taking trips with BF's grandparents, so he was like a second grandfather and I'd recently seen him after he'd had heart surgery ... and seemed to be doing well. Anyway, he was very much out of it this time, obviously in pain, obviously struggling. She was on her way down to see him, but didn't make it. I did. I was there literally within the last few hours before he died ... and I wonder if he didn't think I was her.

So, dreaming about this death thing is a little weird on several levels, so while this blog isn't about dreams -- or death, I hope -- hell, I don't know what it's about -- but this post is, I guess. I still haven't figured out what the hell it all means. And now my laptop battery is dying, so I guess it ends with death. Appropriate, I guess.

I guess I'm committed

The only thing I'm consistent with is inconsistency ... so I'm not sure why I think I'll be able to commit to blogging. I'm hoping that having this forum and atempting to write something every day will finally help me do what I've been trying to for a while -- write what I want, not just for work. We'll see.