with eternal gratitude to @jenniferalaine for snapping this pic!

This girl is happy. Yes, she’s exhausted and her liver is sobbing quietly and pleading for mercy, but more important is that awesome grin. She kept it well into her first few days home from Vegas and the the sparkle slowly faded. Oh, the tragedy.

I started thinking about that happiness and how to keep it around more often, for longer. As much as I wish I could go to Vegas with fifty-odd fabulous people once a month, both my liver and my budget would soon revolt. Enter Project Permagrin. Is it a life list? No, I’m thinking it’s a life well lived list. Because life is the stuff we do to survive, and these are thriving things. After today, it will live on as a separate page and a breathing document that I can make additions or changes to. Feel free to make suggestions for additions, and/or tell me how pretty and interesting I am. I could use an extra dose of self-esteem today.

ring a chapel bell
have my picture taken under the Eiffel tower
follow the fall color from Maine to Georgia
stay in a Ritz Carlton hotel
visit a topless beach
publish a book
drink in Casablanca
make a family
take a retreat at a monastery
spa treatment from Grove Park Inn
learn to waltz
get another tattoo
hike Cattails Peak
spend Independence Day in Boston
swim in the Pacific Ocean
and the Mediterranean
pet big cats (preferably mountain lions)
send a card a week for a year
own a greenhouse
write a poem every day
have another German Shepherd
visit all the Great Lakes (i’m missing a few)
visit Alaska
family vacation to Tahiti
take a solo vacation every year
assist a beekeeper
visit all of my grandparents’ graves
receive a standing ovation
study botany
keep an orchid alive
camp in every mountain range in the contiguous US
pay it forward- mental health care
own an Ingrid Bergman Mont Blanc pen
stay at Peaks of Otter lodge
drive the Pacific Coast Highway
learn to throw pottery
visit Israel
establish a second chance fund
photograph bears in the wild
photograph edelweiss in the wild
meeting a sitting First Lady
visit a planetarium
drive cross country
go storm chasing
visit Scotland
knit a sweater out of fisherman’s wool
attend a rose bowl parade
see the northern lights
spend a week in Scottsdale
have a koi pond with a pagoda
ride in a hot air balloon
roast a whole pig
do a perfect cartwheel
hand feed ducks
swim with dolphins again
be hypnotized
take my sister to Rome
go ice skating again
take a hot yoga class

As I walked past the kennels along the wall, I spotted a small Russian Blue/Siamese mix. We made eye contact and he let out a little sing-song meow as he rubbed his face against the wire door. I asked to hold him, and he curled up against my chest and tucked his head under my chin as if he had waited all his life for my embrace. After a few minutes of cuddling, the wasbund insisted I put him back to look at a silver tabby kitten. I reluctantly obeyed, but Ivan had another idea. The minute they put him back in his sad little metal box, he began to scream and smash his face frantically into the wire door.

I tried to concentrate on the six week old kitten, but I couldn’t. My tears came quickly and forcefully. I stepped back from the wall of cats and shook my head.

I can’t take it. We’re taking him home. Bring me that cat.

We thought he was maybe two months old, he was so small and thin, but he was actually six months old. He’s named for the Russian czar Ivan the Terrible; he was found behind an elementary school and developed an insane appetite for scraps. Our kitchen trashcan was raided nightly while we slept, and I felt so sorry for him the night he managed to turn it completely upside down, so he wasn’t even rewarded for his efforts. I did not feel sorry for him when I discovered the bites he stole from the tomatoes I left to ripen on the counter.

Ivan never lost his taste for scraps. His favorites were refried beans, canned string beans, creamed corn, twinkie filling, boston creme donuts, yogurt and ham. He had a special cry for ham begging- a ham song- and anyone who dared open a package of lunch meat in a two mile radius was serenaded. One Christmas, Mom left the end of the ham wrapped in tin foil on the stove top overnight. We awoke to a kitchen floor covered in chewed up bits of tin foil and a very full cat deep into what can only be described as a ham coma. His weight topped out at 19 pounds a few years ago. Just a month ago, he eviscerated two Krispy Kreme whipped cream filled donuts while we slept. My sister found them frosting side down on the kitchen floor, and when she picked them up she realized they were hollow. Ivan chewed a hole through the pastry, carefully extracted the filling and discarded the rest. Just like the naked pizza crust he always left in the box, licked clean of even the tomato sauce.

Ivan never inspired ire, no matter what his offense. He was entirely too charming and sweet to reprimand. He loved everyone. Other cats, dogs, people big and small. Ivan is by far the friendliest cat I have ever known, a complete and total lap whore who truly did not understand why another animal wouldn’t co-exist peacefully with him. He could smell a nap brewing anywhere in the house, and there he was, ready to curl up with whoever was sporting heavy eyelids.

He sensed a heavy heart just as easily. In those first chilly days after the split, after I lost my cherished marmalade monster, after the wasbund took Adicus, I drowned in the wreckage of the life I had imagined for myself since I was seventeen. Ivan came to bed with me every night, chirping and mewling, smashing his face into my hands, curling up against my chest as I wept my way to the sweet escape of exhausted sleep. The increase in his chatter and antics in our waking hours seemed eerily like a concerted effort to fill an empty house and the space that hope left vacant in me.

Over the last few months, his appetite waned to nothing. He had a cold for a few days this winter, and when he recovered fully and quickly I heaved a sigh of relief. When I came home from my trip to see my parents, he wasn’t in great shape. He was tired and weak, though he still kept his schedule- including making his rounds of the property, he just didn’t have his usual spark.

He trotted off down the driveway Monday night, just before I came home, and we haven’t seen him since. He’s never prowled this long without coming home. We called for him all day and searched the yard. Ivan answers my call with a reliability that humans never manage; he would call back to me as he sauntered up to the porch.

Part of me wants to hope that he’ll show up for breakfast, but mostly I know better and it just seems cruel to entertain the possibility of anything better than a confirmation of the knot in my stomach and the ache in my poor, raw heart.

lazy will the loam come from its hiding
return this quiet searcher to the soil…
-the decemberists “don’t bear it all”

I fought it all day long. B would have seen it in my eyes and she would have drug it out of me and made me admit it and she would have stroked my hair and held me while I cried. Missing her, missing that unspoken translation of emotional current just made it all that much worse.

The voice starts before I’ve had my coffee, reminding me how lazy I am, how many things have gone undone, how much time and money I waste by simply breathing. My sister brushes past me; my misery is invisible to her, and she doesn’t know that when she goes out into the driveway to talk to my parents that the voice is selling her down the river. Telling me that they’re making fun of you, that they don’t want to talk to you, they don’t love you, they never have.

No one has ever loved you, and no one ever will. You are more trouble than you’re worth.

I argue with the voice, I try to push back. I always do. The fight drowns out everything else, and I’m driving to my hair appointment thinking about all the people in this life that I love so much, who have proven their love for me in nothing short of breathtaking gestures.

My dear friend carefully sections off my hair; drying, straightening and thinning each section in slow, sure movements. I dare to look my reflection in the eye, and the voice whispers:

You’re wasting your money, you ugly fat little girl. You’ll starve for this later because you thought it mattered, but you’re just squandering what little you have left on turning a pig’s ear into a silk purse. You’re making a fool of yourself- an ugly, fat little fool of a girl.

I close my eyes and choke off the bitter laughter rising in my throat.

I know I’m being ridiculous. I know that the voice is wrong, so very wrong, almost comically wrong.

Yet I believe just enough that I cannot bring myself to ask for help, to ask for the love and reassurance that would chase it away and force it into silence. Because the voice has already convinced me that anyone I asked would look at me with pity and not love or compassion. Because the voice has already aroused my suspicion for all living things and the motivation behind their actions.

When I fumble at the front door with my purse and a few groceries, I realize my sister’s dog has locked me out. I curse him as I dig for my keys, and again when he greets me as I open the door. He becomes the verbal target for all of the ugliness I’ve endured all day, and about three quarters of the way through my rant, I see myself. Wild-eyed, angry and snide, yelling at a poor sweet dog whose only crime is being so excited to see me that he jumps up on the door.

I crawl into bed and surrender. Slow, long sobs and huge, hot tears.

The voice slips into this opening.

look at you, a loud-mouthed shrew, an insufferable bitch, screaming at a poor sweet animal. does it make you feel better to dump your pain on someone else? to pass your smallness around and be feared? that’s why no one loves you, why no one ever will. because you are a stupid, fat, ugly shrew. a silly mean cow that thinks she has a place in this world. you have no place in this world. you are nothing.

My cries grow sharper, and my sister’s dog curls up with his head under my chin, nuzzling and licking my jaw.

It makes my heart ache for Adicus. Which is something I’ve refused to admit, that I avoid cuddling with my sister’s dogs because it’s so much salt in that wound.  And so I cry for him too, for having lost him, the cruel end of our story- for not even knowing how he is, for not wanting to endure everything I must to know that he is happy and healthy, and for how fucked up that is. That you love someone so fully, that you create a life together, and the end of that story is that you aren’t even willing to make contact to check on the poor goddamn dog.

As hard as I try, I can’t see hope. I know that tomorrow the voice will just be a whisper, and the next day it will leave me entirely. I understand that the voice is wrong. There is a sense of shame in believing it at all, in succumbing to it.

It’s just that in this moment, all I can do is weep while it screams at me.

That doesn’t prevent me from being surprised and scared when I realize I’m getting my ass kicked.

Everything is okay in the larger sense. I know where I’m going, and I know how to get there. This is just the part of the trip that always fucks me up. Like night time construction. The road is all bumpy, the lanes shift, traffic moves too fast for comfort but too slow for my taste. The bright lights that make work safer for the crews blind me, so that I navigate the mess half blind, heart racing, white-knuckled at ten and two, praying for smooth open road up ahead.

My frustration with the uncertainty at work boiled over yesterday. I had a very frank and frantic discussion with a Human Resources executive, and he was kind and concerned and helpful- as he always is- but he doesn’t have the key to my chains. If it is rattling around in his pocket, he still has to pretend that all that clinking is spare change.

I called the doctor’s office and told the PA about Friday’s incident. As I predicted, I got my lecture on skipping meals. In a more unpredictable move, she wrote me a prescription for a blood sugar meter, asked me if I was still living alone, and directed me to give instructions to my friends and coworkers should they find me unconscious. Which reminded me yet again that despite the kindness of strangers, despite my overwhelming number of blessings in the form of loving friends, I am no one’s responsibility. If some how, some way, I should have another episode like Friday’s while I’m home alone, I could die. And just when I was chiding myself for being overly dramatic, the pharmacist who very sweetly took the time to show me how to use the meter, said just that. This is very serious, you need to pay close attention to your body, to your meals, to your test results when you are home alone. Because you could die. Which I still think is awfully melodramatic.

The third person to remind me how much sugar is in alcohol got the defensiveness and fear in the form of anger that the first two helped build. These people are worried about me, they’re worried about me getting sick if I drink. I’m worried about me too, it’s just that I’m more worried about going completely fucking insane if I don’t do something to calm my frayed nerves. Sadly, it is my doctor’s concern that I not rely too heavily on anxiety meds when I’m anxious that leads me down the path of least resistance. Still. I hardly think that a few drinks a few times a week constitutes a lecture or any concern, and as far as the sugar? I’m being very careful to eat at least a little something every four hours, per the PA’s instructions. And if I normally enjoy a few drinks, don’t I need to understand how that affects my blood sugar?

The last straw, the very last straw yesterday was the mail. I stayed late at the bar, both because I was enjoying myself and because I have to be able to drive myself home safely and legally, because I can’t just not go home. Because there isn’t anyone to drive me home. I pulled up to my mailbox in the wee hours of the morning and pulled out a postcard with a picture of a beautiful German Shepherd on the front. Adicus is due for his rabies booster. The dam broke, and I sat at the mailbox,  in the opposing lane of traffic in a small break between switchbacks, laid my head on my steering wheel and let my wracking sobs pierce the cool night air.

In one small part of my life, someone else took the wheel yesterday. I turned over the file, put all the information in their hands, and they decided for me, and I let them. The relief washed over me. All the wondering and pondering and doubting and guessing- gone. In one instant. It isn’t that I’m relieved of owning the decision- you are never relieved of ownership- but the removal of power was better than heroin.

I am okay. I will be okay. I know where I’m going. I know how to get there. I know that if I concentrate, I can navigate this current construction zone.

In the same breath, though, I am beyond exhausted. I’m tired of driving. I passed the sign yesterday that says “no more rest stops for 75 miles”, and my limbs felt like lead and my eyes hurt and I could only put the windows down and turn the radio up loud and trust in my own ability to push ahead.

I wonder if I will ever stop missing that sweet loving dog, who, in his own dog way, protected me and looked out for me, who always came to me at the height of my desperation and laid his chin on my thigh with a deep whiny sigh and let my tears wet his fur while he nuzzled me in an attempt to comfort me. I’m here, I know you hurt, I love you, I see you and I hurt, I want to help.

I wonder if I will ever stop feeling cheated for being on my own. I wonder if I will ever find anyone that I can develop enough mutual trust and love with to let them take over when I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I wonder if I’ll ever again have someone to drive me home.

Who’s gonna tell you when
It’s too late
Who’s gonna tell you things
Aren’t so great
You can’t go on
Thinking nothing’s wrong
Who’s gonna drive you home tonight

You can’t go on
Thinking nothing’s wrong
Who’s gonna drive you home tonight
“drive” – the cars

Very soon, too soon, I will have to say goodbye to you. I will see you again, but I’m not sure when.  Please understand that your Daddy and I both love you very, very much. We both know that you are the best dog in the whole world, and it is our love and pride that motivate us to do what is best for you whether it is easy for us or not. This isn’t easy for me, not at all. The last thing in the world I want to do is say goodbye to you, but Mama and Daddy aren’t together anymore, and Daddy has more time for you. He can take you fishing, he can fetch you more. You deserve the best life we can make for you, and I’m consoled in knowing that you will have it.

The past few months have been precious to me. I did the very best I could to be the kind of Mama you deserve despite the fact that I’m not home much. That’s what it comes down to, my love: my best is not good enough for you. Not when your Daddy can do better. It’s not fair to any of us. So you’re going with your Daddy, and he will have the joy I’ve had for the past few months, and I will endure the pain and emptiness that he has endured. Our goal is that you not suffer any more than absolutely necessary, and I’m proud that we’ve done such a good job of it. You are going to be well loved and well cared for.

I want to tell you how grateful I am to have been your Mama.

Thank you for being such a good boy, for listening so well, for following the rules. Thank you for the times you didn’t follow the rules, because those were some of my best memories of our life together. Thank you for protecting me, for worrying about me when I was sad or sick or scared. Thank you for being such a good friend.

You’ve taught me leadership; how a leader carries themselves and how good leaders accept their status gracefully. Any doubt I had about my  maternal instincts and my capability to give a child the best part of myself is gone now, because you’ve given me the chance to see it in action.

I will miss you so very, very much. The kisses you cover me in when I come through the door. Your intelligence and witty humor. The tenderness and affection you give so freely. My heart breaks knowing that you won’t be here to lay your head in my lap or herd me into the kitchen to get your fetch ball. I will even miss fetch- throwing you the ball and cheering you on as you race after it and bring it back to me again, eyes bright and shining with hope that I’ll throw it again.

I’ll miss my co-pilot, the excitement you show over the slightest trip to the gas station, and the way you choke me with my seat belt when you’re trying to stick your head out the window. I’m grateful for our trips- the way you rest your chin on my armrest and lick my elbow till you drift off to sleep.

The cats will miss you too, I’m sure- your naps, your baths, and your sweet habit of breaking up their fights with the barn cats next door.

I’m grateful to you, my darling Adicus Badicus, for simply being the best dog a girl could ever have. You be good for your Daddy and go have the best life a dog can- one full of love and time and company and fetch and fishing. Mama will always love you, and she knows that she’ll bury her face in your fur again someday.

I love lilacs and avocados
Ukuleles and fireworks
And Woody Allen and walking in the snow
But you’ve got to know that

You’re the love of my life
You are the love of my life
You are the love of my life
You are the love of my life
From the moment I first saw you
The second that you were born
I knew that you were the love of my life
Quite simply the love of my life

I love Lucy and pumpernickel bread
The Statue Of Liberty and standing ovations
And falling into bed
But get it through your head that

You’re the love of my life
You are the love of my life
You are the love of my life
You are the love of my life
From the moment I first saw you
The second that you were born
I knew that you were the love of my life
Quite simply the love of my life

You can drive me crazy
You can drive me anywhere
Here are the keys
Just do as you please
It may not always be easy

But you’re the love of my life
My heart is riding on a runaway train
You are the love of my life
through all the pleasure and pain
From the moment I first saw you
I knew it right away
I knew that you were the love of my life
Simply the love of my life
You are the love
The great love of my life.

-Carly Simon “Love of My Life”

The whole week was a lot like an acid trip. I mean, I couldn’t feel the hair growing on my legs or anything, but it had that surreal quality to it.

Dad’s visit was incredibly productive. I’m so grateful for all of the hard work he did to help me get the house ready for winter. I’m not so grateful for the bender he went on the last night he was in town, but I’ve long ago resigned myself to the fact that Dad usually has a bender up his sleeve. What do you say to a man who gets falling down drunk after he’s stacked your wood, fixed your toilet, repaired your smoke detector, spent a chunk of his hard earned cash at Lowe’s on your behalf and cleaned your house from top to bottom? He even dusted.

There was a situation at a get-together on Saturday.  I will only say that gun safety guidelines exist because weapons can be unreliable, no matter how experienced the handler is. I held a .45 shell in my hand that night that could have easily ended up in someone’s head. Bad things can happen to good and careful people. Just sayin’, ya’ll.

The week ended the way that it started, with Adicus and I up on the Parkway, fetching and shutterbugging. I didn’t stay out long; the tourons were too much and I thought I’d capture the fall color on my own sweet little patch of Paradise.

view from a nearby road

adicus does the parkway, yo

from before i hit my touron tolerance limit..

view of my backyard from my garden

view from my backyard.

loves backyard fetch the bestest.

I’ll be making up for lost time here this week, so stay tuned for a lot more posting.

The wind was bitter and the cold damp air reminded me more of winter than fall. The color was incredible, though the pictures don’t do it justice because it was so dark. Adicus and I played fetch and took pictures all afternoon. Cruising down the parkway, with the dog in the back seat, familiar music on the radio. Except I’m in the driver’s seat now. It feels good, stopping when I want for however long I want, and heavy with responsibility.

When I stop at the Linn Cove Viaduct, I’m greeted with light snow. It occurs to me that going over Mount Mitchell on the Parkway may not be the safest way to get to Asheville. I debate as I drive. When I got to NC 80, the Park Service was just shutting the gates.  We came into Old Fort, got on I-40 and drove back to Haywood County, bringing a cold rain with us.

Despite the weather, it was a wonderful trip, and it gave me back my sense of wonder and brought me that sense of deep comfort, of fitting into my miniscule place in the world. As I sat in my cozy house that night, with the dog in my lap, the dull ache of accomplishment filled me from the toes up.

Sunday was bitter cold, and I spent most of the day dutifully holding the couch down. I settled in for a nap some time around three. At five, someone honked their car horn from my driveway, softly, tentatively, and the honking and subsequent barking and jumping around woke me out of a dead drooling sleep.

Still dressed in my pjs, I answered the door. I had bedhead and sleep lines. It was not a pretty sight, I’m sure.

My very sweet, very pretty, very well kept housewife neighbor was standing at my porch door. She had a big pile of silver shiny things. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. I smiled at her and resisted the urge to stretch. She was talking. Something about honking the horn to keep from startling me?

They were having a birthday party for her daughter. She thought I might like a plate. She knows how hard it is to cook for one. She’s been there. She’s been thinking of me. I should come up for coffee sometime. I am smiling and nodding and saying thank you, and saying something about always cooking too much food, when I bother. She is noticing my hair and my decision not to dress for the day and she’s still smiling and she’s handing me the plates, covered in foil, and I’m thanking her and agreeing with her about the coffee, and she’s talking about getting back to her company, and I’m smiling and waving as she gets back in her car.

Adicus and I come into the house and I put the plates on the kitchen counter. I stretch and fix my hair, and Adicus wants to go outside, so I let him out. I sit for a minute on the porch and try to process what has just occured, but I’m not sharp enough yet. My stomach growls, so I go into the kitchen and warm up the first plate in the microwave for a minute or two, and I sit down on the couch with a glass of juice and this plate. A few pieces of honey baked ham, corn and green beans, and a yeast roll. I’m eating, and as I start to eat, I start to cry. I’m still very disorientated at this moment, and I put the plate down for a minute and cry harder, then wipe my eyes and blow my nose and look bewildered at this ham and wonder why the fuck I’m crying because Noelle brought me a plate?

As I start to eat again, I realize. I realize that the last time I had honey baked ham was when the neighbor ladies came to my sister’s house after Mark’s service. I remember them piling a plate high for both of us, and insisting that my sister have seconds. I remember hating this for my sister, the death ham, so sweet, and we were starving, but it’s death food, every bit of it, brought by kind souls who think of you in concern and pity and know that you need to eat but are unable to oversee such a simple part of daily living because your life is a total shitstorm because you lost someone.

I realize that though no one has died, I have lost someone, and my neighbor lady, a very sweet and kind lady who has a master’s degree and the nice house on the hill and a husband and a little girl and two dogs and she stays at home, has thought of me, with concern and pity, and she brought me divorce ham. I’m touched and everything is good, and I finish it all, including the dessert plate, except I let Adicus have the pumpkin pie, because he asked for it, but I hate her for it too. I hate her, and I feel guilty for hating her, and I will go up the hill one day to have coffee, because I’ve always liked her well enough, and she asked me to, and she’s very sweet, but I hate her and I hate myself for hating her.

When I finish with dinner, I head straight into the office. Into the room where the ex stayed after we split but before he left. That moment is frozen in time in this room, with clothes piled on the floor next to a makeshift bed and the smell of dust and dead dreams. He had agreed to let me pack up his things. So I started. I cleaned and packed and sorted and cleaned and packed and sorted some more. There is more to do, there are more boxes to pack, and more cleaning and rearranging to be done, but it’s okay.

As I slip into bed Sunday night, I feel more like the girl who took the dog for an adventure on the Parkway and less like the girl who ate pity ham in her pj’s at six o clock on a Sunday afternoon.

Now I just have to find the time and the courage to go up the hill for coffee.

My project was loading the fourth quarter forecasts, which I did with very little trouble, despite being given a forecast with formulas that didn’t add up and a process that probably should require a programmer’s degree.

R is back from the beach, so her and B and I giggled and schemed all day.

Angela, over at PaganMomBlog, took our budding IRL friendship to a whole other level by nominating me for the Mountain Xpress’s Blogapalooza Award- “Blogger You’d Most Like To See Naked” and “Funniest Tweeter”, and then she pimped our noms (she’s up for “Best New Blog”, and “Rising Tweeter” -I hope she wins!) in a note on Facebook. I’m tickled pink and scared to death of winning.

I got a phone call from a dear friend I’d  not spoken to in some time. One of those precious people that says “so do you have time to tell me how you’re *really* doing?”

Taco Bell for dinner, with an extra taco just for Adicus.

We played fetch for a long time tonight and he did a great job dropping the ball, as opposed to chewing it for an hour between throws.

The color is starting to come in slowly, and *fingers crossed* should be perfect for my Parkway trip this weekend.

I was entirely too tired to face class tonight, but we had no graded homework and I did well enough, if not as well as I would have liked, on last week’s test.

My boss is out of the office for the rest of the week.

Last, but certainly not least, I booked my trip for Chicago and planned my route for this weekend.

Just one of those great days when everything seems to work out.

I went through my archives, and I can’t see where I’ve told this story before, so here goes.

When I was a little girl, changing the kitty litter was one of my chores. One week, I was late getting to it, and Daddy insisted that it be done before he got home from work the next day or my was gonna be grass. Of course, I woke up late and had to rush. I dumped the box into the trash bag and went to fill it back up….

We had no kitty litter. What’s a girl to do? I can’t leave the box empty! What can I use to put in there until Daddy and I could get some more kitty litter?

Back in the day, Daddy shopped at Pace (just like Sams), and so in my frantic searching for a replacement, I came across a twin box of Grape Nuts. Perfect. Right size, right texture, there’s enough here. It will do in a pinch, and I am certainly in a pinch.

So I ripped open both bags and filled the kitty litter with Grape Nuts, and skipped off to the bus stop, thoroughly satisfied with my solution.

When Dad got home from work that night, I told him that I changed the kitty litter, but we have to run out and get more litter. Of course this confused him. How did I change the litter if we were out, and if I just changed it, why would we need to run out right now? So, proud as a peacock, I explained the situation. We headed off the the  store and picked up some Tidy Cat and when we got back home, Dad said I needed to go ahead and change it again, because Grape Nuts have no odor control.

Have you ever let Grape Nuts just sit in milk? Do you know what happens? They absorb it all, and when they do, they swell up into a big pile of mush.

I took the lid off of the kitty litter, and there it was.

Grape Nuts mountain, a la cat piss, with a few turds for presentation. The mountain of mush flowed over the edges of the litter pan and on to the carpet. I called Dad for reinforcements. He came into the room, looked at the litter overflowing with swollen cat piss Grape Nuts and turds. That was when he bust out laughing, shaking his head as he went to get the shop vac. We cleaned it up, gagging and laughing the whole time, and then Dad had to clean out the shop vac. It smelled like wheaty toasted cat waste, and was so mushy and gummy that we ended up having to let a few spots dry on the carpet for a few days and just cutting it out once it had dried to a ammonia and grain cement type mixture.

No one in my immediate family has eaten Grape Nuts since.

Happy TMI!

Rach, if you’re out there, don’t read this one. Seriously.

With the ex moved out, Adicus and I have had to renegotiate our relationship. I agreed to fetch him more if he would quit busting the screens out of the the living room windows to get outside when I’m not home. He agrees that I’m in charge until a strange car pulls into the driveway, then all bets are off. He sleeps in the bed, not at the foot like he used to, now he stretches out like a human, his doggie head resting on the pillow beside me.

Yesterday, though, he took things a little too far.

I was lucky enough to get my monthly gift for the second time in two weeks this week. Go figure. After I came home from work, I was peeing and changing clothes….

Whenever I come home from anywhere, whenever I use the restroom in any manner except for makeup and brushing of teeth, Adicus must inspect me and/or whatever I’m in there doing. A little sniff here, a little sniff there. I guess he’s checking for cancer. Who knows. I discourage it, but I’m not too strict about it. He’s a pack animal, I’m the alpha bitch (huzzah!), and he’s just doing what dogs do. Until last night.

As I sat there, peeing, he rested his chin on my knee, as he often does, so that I will rub his muzzle and tell him how handsome and smart he is. I did just that, and as I reached for the toilet paper, in one swift motion, before I could figure it out and prevent it?

He licked my dirty pantyliner.

Yeah. I was horrified too. I mean, he’s dug them out of the trash and eaten them in the bed before. That’s how I ended up with one of those little metal trashcans with the foot pedal that lifts the lid. Somehow, though, it was much, much more disturbing to see him lick the pantyliner that I was still wearing.

Also? He licked it the way he eats his favorite treat- soft serve ice cream- tenderly, slowly. He savored the taste of my pantyliner.

I made him stop, replaced the pantyliner, and then he and I had a little talk about boundaries.  I think he understands now.

Happy TMI!