The five most common words in my household

I'm beginning to think that my husband's vocabulary is limited to 5 words.

"NO! DON'T! RAJA, STOP BITING!"

Every morning I lie in bed for as long as possible, trying to squeeze the last drops of dreaming from my brain. However, it's been impossible to get that last snuggle in with the sandman since we got our dog from my sister's neighbor, Greg.

Now, I love my dog, but somehow I feel duped.

"Rachel, I met our dog today," my husband said one Saturday afternoon."He's so cute! They call him fuzz-monkey because he has a patch of white on his face. Greg said that he's the best dog of the bunch!"

This is where the duped part comes in. Now, I'm not sure who duped me. It could have been Greg, it could have been my husband, or it could have been the dog.

My bet is on the dog. You see, Raja is the best dog when other people are around. He's calm(ish), he nibbles on toes rather than diving for them like he hasn't had a meal in a year, he chases toys when they are dangled in front of them instead of lunging for any uncovered, sensitive piece of flesh you may have accidentally left exposed, and he runs circles around the room instead of trying to figure out the best way to jump onto the couch to bite your feet. When others are around he doesn't draw blood. No, not at all. When other people are around he's an angel.

It's only when my husband and I are alone with him that the inner vampire comes out. I thought about stringing together a necklace of garlic, hanging crosses up around Raja's sleeping space, or investing in a gallon of holy water, but all of these seemed a little extreme. I don't want to kill my dog! I just want him to behave. So, I've enrolled him (and myself!) in a doggy obedience course.

Hopefully after I've trained my puppy to stop biting, the sandman will hang around to cuddle in the mornings again. I feel so cheap when he leaves right after I wake up.

I'm no June Cleaver

There are few things that rid me of any speck of motivation I may have as quickly as the thought of doing housework. It's amazing the number of things I need to cross off of my to-do list before I can vacuum the carpet or (God forbid!) clean the toilet. When a pile of dishes in the sink is looming, I suddenly find it pressing that I best someone across the globe in Mario Cart Wii, google "Nancy Grace", or even (as I'm doing now), start a blog.

I wonder, if June Cleaver had access to the internet in 1957, would she have had such a spick-and-span home, or would she have a blog devoted to women's lib with a picture of a burning bra on the title page? Would Beaver and Wally have trotted off to school in dirty, wrinkled shirts carrying PB&J sandwiches while she sat in front of the computer writing about the injustices plagued upon the female gender?

"Last night Ward came home stinking of whiskey again. I can't believe that he leaves me here to clean the toilets and cook dinner while he goes off to the men's club. Why can't he, for once, cook the dinner while I get a mani-pedi?"

I for one think that would have made for a much more interesting show.

What does Heaven taste like?

I just ate the one type of cookie I swore I would never eat again. Nutter Butters. It's like heaven just died and fell down to earth to land on my tounge.

Who knew heaven was crunchy with a peanut butter filling?

The Hole

My dream weekend consists of watching Nancy Grace reruns and eating rocky road ice cream straight out of the container while lounging on the couch with blankets piled up all around me. Occasionally I might play a game of Wii Mario Cart, sew a few seams or knit a few stitches on one of my many ongoing projects, but the majority of my time would be slothful. Gluttonous. Full of unnecessary rest and relaxation.

I haven't had a weekend like this ever since we got our puppy. Oh, I love Raja, but I dream of the day that he will stop leaping at my face and chewing up the carpet.

Raja's newest "thing" is chewing on the wall next to our kitchen. I've patched The Hole (the one that's been laughing at me in my dreams) a few times already, but for some reason he keeps going back to that spot. I've sprayed it with bitter apple, I've put him in puppy time-out, I've lunged at him, arms clawing at the air, screaming, "NOOOO!" Nothing has worked. It's like he knows that chewing on the wall is the thing that will bother me the most, so he stops by for a nibble any chance he gets.

Now, anytime I sit on my couch I see It. The Hole makes my pulse race because I worry that I will never be rid of It. When I'm 60, I'll look over at my husband, eyes wild with insanity, and scream, "THE HOLE! THE HOLE! WILL WE EVER BE RID OF THE HOLE?!?"

It's the stuff nightmares are made of.

Comfort

I don't think that I'll ever be able to eat a grapefruit again. I came to this conclusion at about the same time the doctor was drawing his diagram on the dry erase board of the tiny, windowless consulting room my sister, my brother and I were sitting in.

I was looking at the carpet when he began talking to us about the grapefruit-sized cancerous mass that had invaded my mother's body. The carpet was dark gray Berber with flecks of colour. In my mind the flecks were red and blue and purple, but honestly I'm not certain of the exact colours today. They wove themselves together as tears sprouted from my eyes, but I remember trying to concentrate on the fibers so I could remain strong enough to ask important questions before the doctor left the room.

What did a 60% 5 year survival rate mean? What happens now? What does radiation do? And chemo, what exactly is chemo? Why did this happen to my mom? Is this genetic? Is there anything we can do to help her through this?

It felt like time raced by at some moments and slowed to a crawl at others. I'm not sure how long we were in that room, but after the doctor had answered our questions and left us alone, my brother, sister and I sat in silence for a moment. Then, I stood up and erased the picture the doctor had drawn on the board - it seemed as if it were too private for a stranger to view. We gathered our things and walked out of the room. Someone else would be needing it shortly, and I prayed silently that the next people visiting that room would be receiving happier news than we had just heard.

Our group trudged upstairs to my mother's hospital room to wait for her. In the elevator there was silence. It was as if we were mourning something. Perhaps we were mourning the belief that everything was okay, that the doctors were simply overreacting. After the doctor confirmed what we all were wishing not to hear, there was no way we could be in denial any longer.

That moment of realization was frightening - the moment when I realized that my mother would need a respite from being the caregiver. That she would need to be cared for and cheered up. She would need to be comforted rather than be the comforter.

But my mother is so strong. In the hospital, as she lay in the bed with tubes and IVs plugged into every part of her body, she told me that she felt lucky. She felt lucky to have more time to be with her family, that she caught the cancer in a very early stage, that the odds were on her side. She felt lucky just to be alive and have the chance to fight.

And my mom will fight. She's happy, she's active, she smiles and laughs. She has such a positive outlook about her illness.

Even though I thought that I would need to comfort her, she is still comforting me with her actions and words. And she amazes me more every day.

Total Truth Thursday - Procrastination

I have to say that I am, perhaps, the worst housewife in the world. I know I've written a short post about this once or twice (or more) in the past, many, many moons ago, but I think that my homemaking skills have only decreased with age.

I know that it has to do with procrastination, distraction, and the inability to stick to one task and see it through. I'll see a paper towel that my puppy chewed up, and I'll think, "I'll pick that up once I've finished cleaning off the table." However, while I'm cleaning off the table, I'll keep looking at that paper towel, and before I know it, I'm not cleaning off the table anymore because I've decided that I need to open the windows to let in the fresh air. Then, I'm looking at the table and the chewed up paper towel, and ,with half of the windows open, I'll begin wondering when the last time I washed the curtains was. This of course leads me to the goal of washing laundry. If you can't tell, it all spirals downhill from there. Suddenly I find that it's 4:30, my husband is coming home from work, and I've accomplished absolutely nothing.

Really, I've been meaning to clean this for nearly a month now. But, since my craft room looks nearly the same, I don't have any idea what to do with all of this! Well, I guess I CAN find a place for the trash...

The strange thing is, that this doesn't happen anywhere other than at home. At my past jobs people have always commented about how organized and detail oriented I was, and how great my follow-through skills were. But, it's like my house is a giant hole of distraction. The Adderall I've begun taking for my recently diagnosed ADD has helped a bit, but only enough to get the laundry down from the top floor and into the living room where it sits. Perhaps for all of eternity.

I can hear my mother telling me that laundry doesn't belong on a chair, or next to a sewing machine for that matter.

 I guess it's time I picked up the paper towel.

I did it! I actually did it! Now, when my husband comes home and asks me what I did today, I can tell him I picked up a paper towel. I'm sure he'll beam with pride. ;)

xox

I've spent a while trying to write about my father. The eulogy at his memorial service was strange. It was as if the minister was speaking about a man I never knew, a man I never would know.

My relationship with my dad was always troubled. We were so different once I grew to young adulthood, and I can hardly remember a time we weren't clashing over some subject. He told me once that having children was the worst mistake he ever made. He played golf rather than attending my wedding. He kicked me out of the house on my 16th birthday. He took $600 from me and claimed the bank stole it. He introduced me to drugs. He bought guitars rather than food for his children. He never paid child support unless the state garnished his wages. I spent a third of my life not talking to him.

But I still loved him. I still love him. With all of my heart. He was my father, and while he wasn't perfect, I am a part of him. He is a part of me.

I remember when I was a child and he would tuck me in bed, he would rub his beard stubble on my face and tickle me. I would squirm and scream, and he would tell me he loved me. He took me fishing and he would always put my worm on the hook. I loved his laugh. It was deep and full of humor. He told terrible jokes with the worst punch lines. I'll never look at a lawn chair without hearing his voice, "What do you call an Irish lawn chair? PATI O' FURNITURE!"

I remember when I was 14 and having a difficult time at my mom's, he gave me a place to live. He told me then that he would always be there for me when I needed him. I believed that.

My father taught me to love myself, and to accept and cling to the differences that made me who I am. He told me that there was never a reason to feel inferior to another person. I was as worthy of a person's respect as they were of mine. He taught me to challenge the norm, and to fight for what I believe.

I am who I am in large part of my father. Although our relationship was always tumultuous, I wouldn't have given up a second of it.

I love you dad, and I wish I could have said that while you were still here.