The many faces of Boo...

Pardon me while I anthropomorphize my dog, but I have lived with this creature for nigh on to nine years, and I know all his moods and expressions. Boo is a little fluffy black dog with white markings, a mix of something and Tibetan spaniel, though he was billed as a Pekingnese mix by his breeders. That means he has a little squatty snout, not quite all the way flat, with a deep crevice over his tiny nose that requires the assistance of a Q-Tip to clean. Interesting fact about short-nosed dogs - their palate is just as long as a long-nosed dog, and sometimes gets caught in their throats, causing an alarming amount of snorting to ensue. I have been assured that this is not life-threatening, but I am quick to slap Boo on the back to help him dislodge it promptly. He also seems to have a very long (and very pink) tongue. He can lick his eyebrows. Which brings me to his morning face, eyes kind of at half-mast, tongue flicking in and out, in and out. When fully awake, he stands on my belly with his tongue lolling out, his Get-up-dammit expression. Every day, after I make the bed (with Boo on it, of course, it's kind of tricky), I open the blinds and Boo pricks his ears and his eyes get huge, and you just know he has never seen the front yard before, surprise! If I pick up one of his squeaky toys (he only likes the plush ones, which he eagerly disembowels) and throw it, he becomes Boo Roger Ramjet, lays back his ears, gets this crazed look in his eyes, and races around madly, stopping suddenly to reverse direction. When he gets the toy, he is likely to shake the hell out of it, a regular 18 lb killing machine. Boo gets regular doggy massages, where he lays his head back, half closes his eyes, and would purr if he had the equipment. But my favorite Boo look is the one I get when I poke at him in the evening, usually when he is sprawled out on the bed on his back, with all his business hanging out for the world to see, snoozing away. He will flip over and gaze at me over his shoulder with the What-the-hell-can't-you-see-I-am-sleeping look. And I do mean gaze. He will just stare at me until I apologize and promise to leave him be. So don't tell me dogs don't have personalities. Boo is the best dog in the world. When I come home, he rears up on his hind feet, making happy little cries, and does his Give-me-ten welcome, whether I was gone ten minutes or ten hours. Life with Boo is sweet. Messy, sometimes smelly, but sweet.

Me and my pain...

I have emerged from the last little rocky boat of psychic pain, a little unsteady and with a whole bunch of new insight. It wasn't any different than if I had whacked my thumb with a hammer. Man, that hurts! I always feel that it is unbearable in the beginning, but, of course, it isn't. And it only hurts at that level for a few seconds. Then it settles into this kind of continual moaning pain, throbbing with my heartbeat. I apply ice, and maybe some arnica, if I can find it, and persevere until it settles down. Notice that I do not yell at it, or say that I shouldn't be hurting like this, or feel that it is unfair. In the weeks that follow, I forget about the pain, until I bump up against something that triggers it again. That is always a surprise, when that happens. And it always does. Happen, I mean. That is the stage I am in at this moment. A stray thought will start the pain up again. It is only a shadow of the original, though. The only thing different from the hammer blow and this process is that I am not sure of the instrument of my torture. I have needed to do some sleuthing in the messy mire of my subconcious mind to find the source. It is old, essential pain this time, something hard-wired into my screwy psyche. Whatever, I am still glad to be me, glad that I have friends who will listen to me piss and moan, glad that I have a mind that can do the detective work, and a heart that can still break, and be patched up, yet again.

Blame it on Harry...

So, long time, no write. What can I say? Harry arrived a week ago, and I spent most of my time either reading it, or thinking about reading it. Actually, I read very slowly, knowing that finishing would be a time of withdrawal. This book did an amazing job of tying together all the threads that were dangling out there, and funnily enough, actually provided a wondrous sense of closure. I had to laugh at Time Magazine, who stated that the thing that was killed in the Harry Potter novels was God. The Almighty was substituted by that piddly human emotion, love. Like what is God if not love? Really, people, get a grip! There are obvious Christian symbols in this series if one wants to see them. Like Voldemort's sidekick is a snake. Let's see, who else used that symbol? And Harry always questions his motives before acting, not unlike that other guy. And the end of the last novel, well, you read it and see the striking Easter Sunday correlation. It was all about innocence and evil, guys! Sort of like the Bible.

Oh, give me a break...

The new issue of Time features a comprehensive article on addiction and brain activity, like someone will make a breakthrough and invent a pill to cure alcoholism, drug addiction, compulsive gambling, etc., etc., etc. Every once in a while, one of our fellowship will wistfully wish for such a pill, and the rest of us at the meeting will kind of titter behind our hands. What Bill Wilson so wisely understood (and he was a towering intellect, just read his book) was that alcholics have much more than a drinking problem. In fact, the drinking is just a symptom of a much more far-reaching, pervasive disease, one I think of as self-loathing. So he and the first 100 recovering drunks came up with the 12 steps, clear directions that gave actions that could lead to a transformation by cleaning up our act. Only by doing the necessary housecleaning and changing our victim mentality could we accomplish long-term abstinence. If, indeed, there were such a pill, as soon as the addict felt better, she would inevitably stop taking it, the same way the mentally ill do, because she would begin to believe she was cured. Doesn't make sense to sane people, but alcoholics are not particularly sane. Yes, that includes little old moi. At least I know where I am nuts. Now, that's progress!

And then there was IMax...

You know, when I was a kid, most movies were still black and white. Color movies were very rare indeed. Television had not been invented yet, and we listened to soap operas and mystery shows on the radio (I remember doing that on the way home one night with the kids in the car, early in the 1980's, a revival spooky ghost story, and the kids were terrified - says something about leaving stuff to the imagination, huh). So I am still pretty amazed by how far we have come in our technology in my 63 years here on the planet. Today, I saw the Harry Potter movie on a screen 80 by 100 feet, with multitudes of speakers, in a theater that seated 600 thrilled people, with the last 20 minutes in 3D. I was just mesmerized. Okay, maybe it was not high art. But man, it was exciting. Even my oh so sophisticated kid got all stirred up when she saw they were handing out those glasses. And gosh, poor Harry, losing Sirius and still stuck going home to those horrid Dursleys. Saturday, the new book arrives. Oh, man, that's heaven, a movie and a book all in the same earthly week!

Long time no write...

Well, that just goes to show ya'. The more time I have to get things done, the less that happens. Let's see. I survived my little pity party, now am feeling pretty healed. Boo got his annual bath, always an event in this house. It was hella-hot, so I plunked my little guy in half a tub full of warm water, and didn't let the dearth of dog shampoo deter me. He got scrubbed with Dove shampoo, and now smells just like me. I was worried that he was getting fat till after this event. Apparently, his girth was all hair, and it apparently was all being held together with dirt, because as soon as I dried him off, most of it fell out. All over the house. He is now sleek and soft and ever so trim. During my little spate of unhappiness, I went to the movies. A lot. After Shrek, I saw Ratatouille (funny, sweet, totally wonderful) and the new Die Hard movie (funny, smart, totally gratifying gratuitous violence) and most recently, Golden Door. Now, there's a film that shows what film can do. It illuminated a part of history that is both ignominious and fascinating, the immigration system at Ellis Island. We got to follow this simple Italian family from their rocky (really ROCKY) roots to their successful entry into the States, followed by this Englishwoman groupie. It took a half hour into the movie to decide that I liked it, mostly because it was so artsy and very subtle, really different from our American fare. And we sat in the last row, where I was behind this guy with a big round head that blotted out a lot of the subtitles. Then it got so amazing that I totally forgot that guy. Gee, I love it when that happens! And tomorrow, oh boy! Kiddo and I are headed for the Metreon to see Harry Potter at the IMax 3D theatre! Fandango.com!

And now for something completely different...

That will sound familiar to all you Monte Python fans out there. Life is, after all, mostly ludicrous, right? Right. Lately, as you may have read, I am experiencing speedbumps on my highway of life, and feeling kind of low. So I had a choice. I could dig out the chips and soda, impress a mold of my butt on the couch and watch old episodes of Dog , the Bounty Hunter, or Bridezillas. Or, I could take my butt out to meetings and church and around the neighborhood, dog in tow. That is called getting into action. I already do lots of service for others. Time to reel it in and take care of number one. And the strangest things happen when I set foot on this path. Electrical appliances often die on me. This time it is my blow dryer, the one I bought to replace the one that died during my last spiritual crisis. Poor thing is just sputtering. And yesterday, the panic button went off in my car, you know, honk, honk, honk. Admittedly, the keys were in my pocket, but I was in the back of the house, and the car was in the driveway out front. And as if that wasn't enough annoyance, my kitchen sink is all backed up. I hate it when that happens. So I am sitting here, listening to the tapes a friend made of the music of our youth (he's even older than I am, so some songs are a little obscure even to me), awaiting the plumber. Yes, I did the Liquid Drano thing. Twice. Stubborn clog just laughed at me. And I must be getting better, because I laugh every so often, too. Mostly at myself. After all, if I learn to laugh at myself, I will never be without a source of amusement.