Category Archives: Daily grind

Weekly Column 3: A Dog’s Life

Buddy, my dog, my first born, is 15. I got him my sophomore year and as my dad says getting him was the best purchase this shopahollic ever made.He put up with the craziness of college, people coming and going at all hours often blowing odd substances in his face.

He endured the lean years when I boycotted toys because he ate and pooped them all out.Unfazed, he adorably brought me pieces of slobbery lint and coughed them up in front of me wagging his tail so that I would try to throw one.Then he would retrieve it (though wet lint doesn’t travel far) as if it was the best ball in the world and enthusiastically continue the cycle.

He survived eating an entire bag of blowpops which came out the other end like taffy that had to be pulled and pulled, by hand to get out.A job I handed off to my then roommate as I was late for work.I should say SHE survived that one.(Seeing as she is currently my closest friend, she barely holds a grudge.Though she hasn’t been able to look at a piece of gum since.)

He out-lived his long time love; a very attractive and preppy bean bag pillow who he constantly abused after sex, by biting her and swinging her vigorously from side to side.Then he would ignore her till their next rendezvous.Hmm… sounds like one of my exes. One fateful day he bit too hard and when he swung her, she profusely bled itty-bitty styrofoam balls.For weeks he somberly attempted to meet for trysts but she was a shell of the booty call she once was, and eventually we buried her… in the trash.He tried to date other pillows but I think for him, they could never compare.

He withstood living with my dad who for a month forced him to wear a girly Israeli flag bandana that read SHALOM.My dad would take him to dog-runs hoping to attract the right king of bitch.Unfortunately, Buddy technically male, but snipped at birth, had some tendencies and enjoyed other dogs balls a little too much.But, my dad never wavered in his love, saying only, “As long as he’s Jewish.”

He won over my husband who raised with cats, swore Buddy would never move in with us, only to find himself as in love as anyone else whose path Buddy ever crossed. And when he moved to NYC he adapted to the concept of grassless pooping and even got used to the salt lined streets that sent him into a crying limp until I could find a patch of snow to pack up under his paw for relief.

He tolerated my son Jake who quickly stole the limelight making our once Golden Child feel like a dog for the very first time. He took it in such stride that he became body guard to this little human that was pulling his tail and trying to ride him like a pony.In 2006 he had a proper Bark Mitzvah with brunch, candle-lighting and thirty in attendance.(Picture included).He barked through his haftorah so beautifully that had Randy Jackson been there he would have said “Yo, Dog, dat was the bomb.”

Now he is 106 and pees and poops so much that I spent a month cutting a gorgeous 20×16 shag rug.Everyday razoring out another chunk till it was a sorry 2×3 backdoor mat.He pants like a sex caller throughout the night, and requires being let out what feels like every 27 minutes.He trips out the door without fail and then spryly bounces back in like this perfect beautiful puppy. In moments of spunkiness he laps my pool table like a greyhound over and over and over and over.He is deaf and mostly blind though he can still read lips.He walks on a tilt because of a herniated hip and often completely loses footing as his legs uncontrollably spread eagle beneath him.And if you are carrying food he’ll take your arm off to get it.Unless you say “easy,” then his jaw quivers so gently, he could remove a tic tac without touching skin.

Every morning when I wake the first thing I do is look at him asleep so sweet, like horse that has fallen sideways.Then I look at his stomach for rise and fall.I am morbidly hoping that he has gone peacefully in his sleep so that I will never be confronted with the other option.My father asked where I will have him buried when he goes.A pet cemetery is too creepy.The truth is I’m one of those crazy people who think, maybe I could just have him stuffed.Not like eyes open greeting you at the front door kind of stuffed.You know asleep in a ball chin on paws kind of thing.But then I imagine my cleaning lady having to dust him and like Rosie from the Jetsons raising him over her head to vacuum underneath and I think maybe just an urn will do. It’s a dog’s life … I’m glad he shared it with us!

Not flossing could kill you!!! REALLY – Flossing and Heart Disease and Other Craziness

In case I have not made it clear, I’m a serious hypochondriac, but can’t seem to find the time to worry. That may be a good thing. Unfortunately, I also don’t often find the time to shower, eat, or have an intellectual conversation with my husband (that might not be a time thing). And now, this news comes up and kicks me right in the teeth. If we as a nation don’t start to floss, the outlook is pretty grim.

In the past two weeks alone, I think I’ve read like 15 articles about flossing sure I’ve been on the ADA site, but I’ve also read an entire chapter in my Dr. Oz book.  Yes, It seems that flossing can not only cause the ever dreaded gingivitis, which I’m already up countless nights worrying about, I’ve read about flossing and heart disease — how it can harm your arteries, your lungs … and one article may have claimed it could harm your cat.(Unless I misunderstood it, which I doubt.)

We’re really being inundated with the flossing thing?

The whole “to-do” has made me increasingly fearful of not flossing. Each night, as I drag my tired ass into the bathroom to wash up, I look down and there it is, right next to my Sonicare, ominously staring up at me.The box practically opening and shutting — puppet-like — begging me, “Don’t forget me … I’ll be the end of you …I’m mint flavored and waxed … think about your heart, your gums, your cat!”  I know, you’ve had the same talks with your floss.

Frankly, we all have the same response too: “Tomorrow,” we say “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Why does something so simple seems so hard, so time consuming, so utterly dorky?

I do not know, but I vow to start flossing everyday from now on … starting tomorrow.

The Traditional Pedicure | The Suburban Jungle

So I am finally getting a long overdue pedicure.This current span has been about 2 months or 68 days, but who’s counting?I like to let the nails grow unattractively long in the true spirit of martyrdom.Then I wear sandals and constantly draw attention to how badly I need a pedicure, by saying things like “How badly do I need a pedicure?”

The trick is to go as infrequently as possible and only surrender when your nails split and a jagged edge pulls threads in your sheets, thereby making a 3 AM roll over feel like chewing on metal.Most importantly do not, under any circumstance, remove the polish.This way you have undeniable proof of your hectic schedule.It implies that your “me time”is so sparse that you don’t even have enough to simply wet a cotton ball.

Today I arrived with the red so far at the tip it looked as if I was starting a new trend in French pedicure.Sarabeth, whose real name is Choi Jae Hua, or Yi Hae-Won or something else I can’t pronounce, looks at my feet with a “Tsk.”“I know it’s been a long time,” I say with the joy of squeezing in one last sympathizer.Then she looks up at me and asks if I am aware there is a Pokemon sticker on the bottom of my foot.“Oh, my son was looking for that, if only it were so easy to find my keys.” She then asks if it’s okay to remove it.“Well if you can’t work around it.” I’m not sure if she can hear me; my chair is set on high-multifunction-10.Its “Human Hand” technology is loudly knocking me out of my seat while it heats my tush, vibrates my thighs, froths milk for my cappuccino, and sorts my mail.

I lie, well shimmy, back trying to enjoy my favorite part, the massage.I can’t seem to relax.I am so keenly aware of every left over scrub granule that is kneaded into my legs. Worse, I can sense her daydreaming of the family she has left behind and I’m sure she’s totally resenting me for not shaving, detesting America for making her touch feet, and cursing her boss for making today “$20 Tuesday.”I finally start to relax as she coincidentally realizes she has massaged long enough.She halts to do the required Korean calf knocking, which she follows with the “Ten Toe Pop” event.She’s seems let down when she can’t get a good snap out of the last two toes (not unlike that annoying handshake of the mid-nineties).

“Okay, pick you color” she says pointing to the wall.I can’t decide between “After Sex” or a hue one shade darker, “3 Bottles of Whine.” I don’t understand why all the colors are sexual innuendos.In the end I go with “Popped Cherry,” which is a medium shade of…well, you get the picture.I spend most of the polish application staring at the tranquil paintings of nude women relaxing on furniture.The woman in the painting across from me appears to be giving herself a breast exam on a plush sofa.

I decided to heighten my relaxation by purchasing a 10 minute massage.I swiftly wriggle myself into the pretzel seat after viewing a short video demonstration by Cirque De Soleil.Then she literally beats the tension out of me.“Excuse me Sarabeth, that knot you’re trying to knead out, I think that’s bone.”She ignores me as she does not recognize the sound of her own name.No matter, she manages to pummel it smooth regardless.Then she grabs my wrists, pulls my arms back and relentlessly yanks trying to crack my shoulder blades.She ends with vigorous karate chopping to the back of my neck.Sarabeth then signals someone, and an EMT rushes in with the Jaws of Life to free me from the chair.I walk away totally relaxed, one arm carelessly dangling from the socket.No worries. I’m sure it’s nothing an good orthopedist can’t fix.Why do my attempts at tension release always seem to stress me out?