a comedy of errors

Sometimes my life just feels that way. Sometimes ALL of our lives feel this way.

Yesterday I did too much. Vacuumed because the coat of dog hair on my dining room rug was really getting to me. Grass out back is shin-high, so I used the weed eater. We have a tiny back yard, so it took 5-7 minutes, 10 minutes max. Mistake. Most of ya'll (friends, family, other blogger friends) know that I had a cone biopsy two weeks ago monday. It was a good thing- removing some bad bits before they got REALLY bad. Yesterday's activity loosened some clots and I was a mess- put on bedrest for the afternoon and night, up at dawn to make an 8am doctor's appointment way way out east of here. Poor Gary had to drive me. And I'm fine, I just have to not do anything that would break a sweat. No midnight dance party tonight. No more weed-eating. No problem!

Before that happened, the first thing on our schedule was to put our dog down. Luther was crazy from day one. Anecdotal crazy I can deal with. He passed that point. Attacking the mail, biting little boy unprovoked, biting me when I tried to keep him from destroying the mail. I've had labs for 10 years. My dad has had them for 20. I've had 2 besides Luther (thankfully Birdy is still with us), but I've never seen a lab like him. After trying prozac (yes, the people kind) for more than a month, and after our kennel (owned by a wonderful couple who specializes in behavior training and offer classes that didn't put a dent in his brand of insanity) refused to have him back, we realized that there was a single solution. We steeled ourselves to taking him in, because when you start rationalizing that you don't really want to add to your family because of a pet, something is wrong.

Because I took our beloved 15 year-old chocolate lab, Pete, down last year, Gary offered to do this one. But his car wouldn't start. Wouldn't jump. Little boy is at a friend's house, we both go to the vet's, go get new spark plugs, blah, blah, pick up the boy. Change it all out, car still won't start, won't jump. So Gary takes my car to work, I call the repair shop and the tow guy. Tow guy comes, starts the car with his big 'ole battery magic thing, says that I can either give him $35 and get a new battery, or he'll tow it and I can have a $200 battery. Here I heave a big sigh. I can't drive a stick. And I've been ordered off my feet for the day. We have a $200 battery (-Edit-and another $170 in new belts, which we found out were falling apart. So I guess it's a good thing the car got towed?). And I'm going to re-learn how to drive a stick (last time, in 1994, at 18, sliding backward down an ice-covered hill in Winston-Salem, NC)

So please, laugh with me. And please don't think that I'm feeling sorry for myself, because I'm not, especially since I just read my friend Molly's essay on mothering during difficulty. My child is a trooper. Today's payday, and I've got the battery covered in this week's pottery sales. We made the right decision for our family, I learned what exactly my limits are, and that my friend Michelle, an OB/GYN nurse in SC, is a fabulous friend to have on call. It's so much nicer to call a friend to find out what to do than to a) bother your doctor if you don't need to (I did), or b) go directly to the ER (I didn't). Here's to the weekend, some nice wine, someone else's cooking, and a fresh batch of kid videos from our neighborhood video store. No pottery news, I'll get back on that next week. Oh! And, this picture is me in 2001, I think. I was 26 and sassy. Short hair did that to me.