You want kids? Test drive a puppy.

The culture of my neck of the woods is intensely family oriented, a trait for which I typically have no disagreeance. I may not completely “go with the flow”, but it is what it is and that’s okay. I support the idea of loving and enjoying the family you’ve got - and with my own few exceptions (of course) I’m with the crowd on this one. But here’s where I sort of break down the norm: The nature of local custom also extends to the continuing creation of families, implying young brides and young mothers. (In that order, mostly.) We’re talking 19-21 year old newlyweds. God bless ‘em. As a 27 year old single female without children, I’m outside the general demographic. On my 23rd birthday, one of my best friends assessed my situation by stating via birthday card: “This old and no boyfriend?! You may as well start collecting cats now… you’re destined to be the weird cat lady.” 

Well, desperation-based-cat-collecting isn't really my thing. I'm more a dog person anyway. I have two. 

Charlotte (Lottie) and Savannah (Nana)

And I tell myself that when other people MY age are talking about their blossoming family of 5, my modest family of 3 gives me some edge in those conversations. I can pretend it's comparable, right?  

"Oh? You're having problems potty training your 3 year old? That's too bad. My 2 year old has been trained since she was 4 months old... Have you tried rubbing her nose in it?" .... .... .... yeah, maybe not. 

So maybe it's just practice for the real thing? And my girls give me a lot of practice. 

There was one night, not too long ago, where I left one of my babies alone while mommy had a well-deserved night out with some friends. (I justified: 2 years in dog years is like 14... so she could handle herself, don't judge me.) I came rolling in around 2am to find my Savannah, and consequently my dining room, a bloody mess. (It was a blood bath, I'm not exaggerating.) She was freaking out, crying like a human baby. My kitchen blinds were demolished. I wondered, while trying not to pass out at the sight of her blood, if she was so distraught in my absence she tried to hang herself (I work with at-risk youth, it's how I'm trained to think), or if I had forgotten to feed her and she thought the blinds looked like a sharp-plastic version of a bone. Then, I panicked.  

I scooped up my puppy, threw her in the bath, tenderly bathed away the blood and gently pressed on her tummy to see if she would make those human-baby noises again. Having some sense not to call my vet at 3 in the morning, I called the first animal hospital's number I found, it was a pet ER about 50 minutes away from me -- I practically had my keys in hand, bound to break every speed law to get my baby some help.The lady on the other side of Pet-911 calmed me down so that she could understand me between my dry-sobs. I followed her instructions and was told I "probably wouldn't need to drive Savannah in... she probably wouldn't die before my vet's office opened the next morning." Which was a little comforting. I wrapped the now happy pup up in a towel and rocked her back and forth, really sobbing now. "If I can't take care of a puppy..." I cried, "how can I ever expect to raise a child?". Yes, the sleep-deprived, trauma-stricken, female mind will go there - every time. 

I called my vet's office and left a message for them to call me the second they were in. The next morning, or 4 hours later, Nana and I were in the small exam room with the vet who probed and worked his pet-voodoo magic. His diagnosis was cut-up gums and severe separation anxiety (apparently, a single mom who works 2 jobs is damaging to a young dog's psyche, enter: extreme guilt.) for which he said he'd call in a RX for an antibiotic and some Prozac. I joked with him "Prozac? Great, and what should I give Nana?" 

"How about a friend?" was his response. 

And that's where Charlotte (Lottie) came from. We rescued her from the local shelter... she's fun if you like dogs with by-the-book adoption issues. 

It makes sense, doesn't it? Because, if you can't take care of one -- get another! Maybe the problems will work themselves out! (Sarcasm?) We're just like any other slightly dysfunctional family: One of us is on Prozac, another wants all of your attention or none of it, and then there's the one of us who might be critically re-considering the whole desperate-cat-collecting thing. 

It's easy to spot (and be critical) of those people who should NOT be parents, right? I'm just a little distressed by the babies having babies these days -- so, I've come up with an ideal solution. I've decided that for every wedding I'm invited to, I'm gifting the newlyweds a puppy. I know, it's genius. Either it works according to plan and we rescue cute little critters WHILE saving a few children from ever suffering at the hand of ill-prepared parents. 

Or I'll never be invited to another wedding... nor will I be asked to baby/puppy sit. Ever. 

And that's what you call a win-win. 

The Groupon Disaster

Remember Sunday mornings as a child? When mom would slave over a hot stove to make burnt french toast and insist we all eat as a family? That’s when you’d bring in the Sunday paper and everyone would descend to rip away their favorite part first (personally, I was after the comics). Mom always ended up with the scraps, or what we felt were the boring parts: the coupons. That didn’t phase her though! She’d pore over those for most of the morning neatly clipping ads for toothbrushes, steaks, and baby wipes. She would sound so happy about saving .19 cents on deodorant, it was confusing.

I remember thinking as a child: “That must be what it means to get old. You have to enjoy the coupons.”

Now that I’m older and pay my own way in life, I totally get the high that comes from saving a few pennies. It’s like you’ve won something, beat “the man” at his own game, and you’re sneaking away with the best deal ever. This is what makes Groupon so addicting. But, tell me please, have you ever found any addiction without its dark side?

Let me tell you about the recent burn I’ve received from Groupon-ing to illustrate.

I may have mentioned that I work in an entirely male environment? Boys home, male employees, men therapist-bosses? Very little estrogen. To remedy the obvious heartache this inflicts, the other estrogen related coworkers and I like to “get out”, as often as our schedule permits, to rebuild/rejuvenate/relax. As work has been extremely tense of late, we decided to take part in a manicure/pedicure “deal” found via Groupon.

What we expected:

•           A semi-swanky salon with calming décor, and maybe a little Kenny G playing in the background.
•           Those really cool massage chairs with the foot tubs. I mean, if Wal*Mart has ‘em, shouldn’t everyone?
•          A rainbow of colors to choose from as far as nail polish was concerned.
•           A little peace and quiet while we let all of our work stress seep out into the hot water at our feet.
•           Nail techs that spoke a language we understood. (I mean this last part with the least amount of prejudice, I assure you.)
•           To walk out of the salon feeling like we could pull off the last few weeks of sandal season with confidence and pride.

Not asking TOO much, right? I mean, we were willing to give a little on the Kenny G thing.

What we got:

•           A ghetto salon inside a strip mall with filthy floors, questionable utilities, and Carly Rae’s “Call Me Maybe” (radio’s newest rape victim, I mean chart topper.)
•           Office Max chairs with vibrating pillows at the back, a plastic liner placed in what looked like crock pots that nearly burned my piggies off.
•           7 Colors of nail polish.  5 of which I’m sure were part of my collection at home.
•           The entire, extremely detailed, scoop on the nail techs’ co-worker whose boyfriend just landed himself in prison (again) which was a source of huge distress for her. Same missing coworker has it tough because she has $16,000 in medical bills – THIS because the aforementioned boyfriend BROKE HER FACE.  As a BONUS we learned: What a hip piercing is, and how you get one. (Because one of the present nail-chicks was uncomfortable while her “skinny pants were munching her hip piercing”), And the other nail-chick’s husband has monkey feet.
•           Nail techs who spoke English, but made me prefer I didn’t. (See above)
•           One of the worst looking manicures/pedicures I’ve ever had.

I don’t feel like my standards are really that high either. My first ever pedicure I walked away with a flesh wound. I stepped into a hot tub with a shiv that took out part of my big toe, freaked out the Asian fellow assigned to my feet who immediately doused my toe in alcohol causing me to utter (for the first time ever) the glorious “F word”. At which point the small Asian man said “We do you manicure instead”. Even THAT manicure looked better than the paint I’m staring at in horror as I type this. One coat of copper, obviously smudged, cotton STUCK to the still sticky top coat—and I PAID FOR THIS!?! I think my co-workers 7 year old could have painted my nails better!

It was while I was browsing the Wal*Mart health and beauty section for polish remover that I really discovered I had been had. The money I thought I saved with the Groupon I was now spending to correct the error of my ways. No savings. I had actually lost. My ugly penny-copper nails were a painful reminder that sometimes saving a few pennies  just isn’t worth it.

-Mag

Cheaters never win … Ever.

I’m 27 years old. I have 3 diplomas which hang on my wall at home, I know how to budget and account for my own finances, I know how to spell words that sounded like magic spells when I was  5, and I know how to drive a car. This vast amount of knowledge would make a younger version of me stop and stare (what can I say? I was easily impressed as a child). But! Younger me and I had something in common, as far as knowledge gaps go, until just recently.

We both believed the state of Alaska was an Island... you know, completely surrounded by water. Like Australia or Hawaii. - - - I say this last bit to illustrate the fact that at least I know what an island really is, which perhaps makes the above obvious falsehood just that more tragic.

Oh, but I know the truth now. I had a conversation with a friend who plans to make a trip, by car, to Alaska in the coming months. When he told me, I just stared at him incredulously.

“What?” he said, confused my by disbelief.  

“You’re going to DRIVE to Alaska?” I said.

“It’s not THAT far. We’ve driven farther.” he said.

“Is there, like, a bridge or something?” I asked, seriously.

“What are you talking about? A bridge? I’m going up through Canada, I do have to cross the border there’s no way around that… no bridges.”

“No, I know that. But what about the water?”

“What about it?”

“How does one DRIVE to an Island?!”

“I’m going to Alaska. It’s not an Island”

“It’s not an Island. Like, at all? Seriously?” (Okay, maybe I didn’t completely understand the whole “island” thing after all)

“Seriously. It’s attached… to Canada. Are you just playing? Did you really think it was an Island?”

“Noooo. Pff, no. …… Maybe.” 

And while my friend nearly peed himself laughing at me, I tried to explain myself.

“But! All of the maps! They just have Alaska floating off in the middle of nowhere!” I nearly yelled at him.

More laughter.

“Seriously. Most people get there by boat though, that’s why they have cruises there!.. Right?!” I was pulling at straws here, I knew I was wrong. Oh so very wrong. Alaska was not the Island I always believed it to be.

“How can you really be this old and not know simple geography?” he asked between tears

And then I realized why, I was being punished by God. Because cheaters never win. Ever.

“I cheated on my geography quiz in 5^th grade.” I said sheepishly.

“What?”

“I cheated.”

“You… cheated. Well, clearly. How did you ever graduate grade school?” his tone was mildly offensive.

“Shut up. I really wanted to go on the 5^th grade campout. I had to pass the ‘50 states’ quiz to go. I had failed it once before because I just don’t study. So I just kept the study guide in my desk and peeked at it when the teacher wasn’t looking.”  (And how Mrs. Petersen never caught me is beyond me.)

“I don’t know what to say to you right now. I don’t know which is more unbelievable: The fact that you cheated or that you really thought Alaska was an island.”

It was the only time in school I ever cheated. And I really do think God is punishing me. I can just see him up there, shaking his head in disappointment, and pointing his finger downward at me. “You may never know geography now." He'd say. "You will be cursed to look like an idiot all your life, but especially when your friend wants to drive to Alaska, all because you cheated. Choice and Consequence, my child.” 

You know, I really do stink at geography. 

I wish I never would have cheated.