Perfectly Normal

Good news! According to the literature I keep receiving in the mail (exactly how did I get on all those lists?) I am just another run-of-the-mill, standard-issue, typical, textbook-case, grieving human being.  Which I suppose should be of some comfort, but mostly it makes me feel like a weak-minded, emotional, overwrought, spineless wimp. Ugh.  As a rule, I don't have much patience for those people – and suddenly I find myself one of them.  Very disconcerting.  Rest assured I'm working on trying to rise above it – it certainly seems feasible.  If Dad were here he'd know how to do it. Did I mention Dad?  Oh oh.  Here I go ...............................................

It's like the movie Somewhere in Time when Christopher Reeve reaches into his pocket in 1912, finds the penny from 1979 and is thrust, kicking and screaming, back into the reality he does not want.  I can only pretend to be unaffected for so long before the facade cracks and it's all right there again.  I'm up to about 30 straight minutes of successful faking at this point.  If I continue at this breakneck pace I'll be able to make it through a whole day in... let's see... approximately... crap, I have no idea.  I'm no accountant.  If Dad were here he'd know. Did I just mention Dad?  Oh oh.  Here I go again ............................................

• Feel tightness in the throat or heaviness in the chest.
• Feel unexpected emotional swings.
• Feel restless and look for activity but find it difficult to concentrate.
• Wander aimlessly forgetting to finish things you've started to do around the house.
• Have difficulty sleeping.
• Experience an intense preoccupation with the life of the deceased.
• Need to tell and retell and remember things about the loved one and the experience of their death.
• Feel mood changes over the slightest things.
• Cry at unexpected times and in unexpected places. (My apologies to the staff at Walgreens and P.F. Chang's and Holiday.)
• You are no longer the person you once were. Loss has changed you.
• Grief is a long, time-consuming process; a roller coaster ride full of ups and downs, highs and lows. The ride tends to be rougher in the beginning; the lows deeper and longer. Gradually though, over time, the highs and lows become less intense.
• It takes time to resolve grief. Be gentle with yourself. Do what you feel is necessary when you are comfortable doing it. What other people did, when they did it, does not mean you will operate on the same schedule or do the same things. Follow your instincts. It is critical not to increase the level of stress you are already experiencing. Avoid making significant changes such as moving or a new job for at least six months. (If past experience is any indication, that shouldn't be a  problem.)
• The end of grief is not the end of memory, but the end of memory with pain.
• You can find life beyond loss - a changed life, but life nevertheless. Slowly over time, you will find joy again.

*******************

Oh good.  I'm told I will find joy again.  Far be it from me to question the authorities on this sort of thing, but I wish they had specified precisely where one might expect to find the aforementioned joy.  Maybe that'll be in tomorrow's mail.

What it's Like

My whole life I knew my father loved me unconditionally. I knew I mattered to him. He made me feel worthwhile and important. It wasn't something I sat around thinking about on a daily basis, "Oh boy! I am soooo loved!" It was just this intangible thing that was part of my life - and there was no better feeling in the world than being special to my dad.  That feeling was always there; so familiar and constant it often went unnoticed - like background music.

When he died, the music stopped. Now that, I noticed.

The silence is deafening.

A Sign

You know that thing people say when someone close to them dies - that they can FEEL the presence of their departed loved one all around them? That they know he/she is watching over them? Their guardian angel?

What a bunch of crap.

Maybe I should try to put that more delicately... What a bunch of wishful thinking. It ranks right up there with, "I know we'll see each other again." I can't decide if that's an incredibly pleasant and comforting way to think, or if it's just childish and pathetic.

I try to feel my dad's presence. I get nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. And if there's anyone's presence I should be able to feel, it's his. I even asked him to give me sign -- anything at all -- to let me know he is still with me.

The closest I came was when I was doing laundry and couldn't find a sock I'd washed. (One of Dad's old GoldToe black socks that my son needed to wear to the memorial service. Kids these days don't own black socks - at least, mine doesn't.)

I looked for that sock everywhere. Not in the dryer; it's empty. I checked twice. Not stuck to any other clothes; I checked them all twice. Not still in the washer. I checked twice. Not on the floor. I checked everywhere. Twice. So, I gave up.

I did another load of laundry and when I opened the dryer to put the clothes in, there was the sock - the heretofore mysteriously missing, nice, clean, fluffy, dry sock. Ta da!!! There you have it; clearly a sign. (Not a sign of a desperate mind... a sign from my dad, of course.) "Yes, doubting daughter. I am here watching over you and you CAN feel my presence. See??? Here's my sock. Proof!"

Either that, or the sock was snagged on the top of the dryer barrel when I'd looked for it earlier (did I mention I looked twice?) and it fell down in the interim.

Hard to say. Though I suspect if Dad were going to give me a sign he wouldn't use the age-old "missing sock" trick. It would be something much more dramatic - like maybe an apparition standing in the doorway holding a fishing rod, or a bottle of Tanqueray Gin appearing on the kitchen counter, or a lengthy conversation in a dream.

I'd like that.

I Had a Purpose

In the beginning, I could bring him back. It was only temporary, but it was possible. I could spark a memory. I could make him laugh. We talked for hours. I took him places. He still engaged. I could distract him from his dismal existence.

Eventually all I could accomplish was getting him to smile. I talked; he tried. I read to him. I fed him, washed his face, cleaned him up, and sat with him until he fell asleep in his chair.

In the end, I was just there. I'd like to think he took comfort from my presence, but that's only wishful thinking. He didn't know who the hell I was and he no longer smiled. My visits meant nothing to him; I couldn't alleviate his torment; he was anxious and angry. I went to see him less often when I undoubtedly should have gone to see him more. Maybe my visits weren't pointless. Maybe he was even worse when I wasn't there. I'm sorry, Dad.

Once upon a time I had a purpose. I eased his mind. Then I was utterly worthless. Then he died.

-The End.

So This is Grief

I'm not sure how to describe this feeling. I don't know if it's physical or mental - this unwelcome malaise. It feels like I'm coming down with something. I haven't been to a doctor in ages - maybe there's something wrong with me. Or maybe this is plain old garden-variety exhaustion from not sleeping. Or maybe, just maybe, this is how I will feel for the rest of my life.

I understand death; I knew my father would die. I just didn't expect part of me die along with him.

So this is grief.

Does the fog ever lift, or do you simply get used to it?

The End

My father died today.

I'm surprised the earth is still spinning. I'm surprised the sun is still shining. I'm surprised his death didn't cause a rip in the space-time continuum and destroy the universe.

It seems as though there should be some sort of acknowledgment by the world that my father is dead, but as far as I can tell the only thing that has changed is me. Half of me is missing. Does that ever come back? I doubt it. I think you must just grow accustomed to being empty. The problem is that the emptiness fills with sadness.

I will never see him again. I will never hear his voice again. I will never be his daughter again. I will never matter to anyone the way I mattered to him again.

He was everything to me. I don't know who I am without him.

I suppose the sun will rise tomorrow and life will go on - same old, same old. How can that possibly be?

It can't.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

My Father is Dying

My father is dying. I think it's just a matter of days. I sit next to his bed and watch him breathe. That's it. I am of no use to him whatsoever. None.

We are hyper-alert to any grimace or moan. (More morphine, please.) We will NOT allow him to suffer. (More morphine, please.) Our father MUST NOT be permitted to experience even one second of pain. (More morphine, please.)

They bring the dose up too slowly. Apparently conventional wisdom says it's better to approach this cautiously over a period of a few days. "Yes, clearly he's experiencing pain. We'll give him a little more and wait to see if that stops it." It doesn't. They try a little more. Nope; he's still groaning and calling out for it to end: "I can't do this. Please help me."

We're trying, Dad.

I suppose the fear is if they give him too much he might die. One must never hasten a suffering man's inevitable death. Much better to drag out that death and let him languish a few days longer until we find the minimal amount of medication needed to stop any sign of pain or torment. Then let's let him lie there a few more days beyond that while his organs slowly shut down until he finally draws his last breath. Under no circumstances should he be given so much medication it might end his life before he has suffered through every last second of it.

It's too bad he's not a dog. A vet would never permit him to endure this prolonged, agonizingly slow death.

How fucked up is that?

Insane Rant

It occurs to me, after reading the writings of Jared Loughner,

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/TheRange/archives/2011/01/08/the-crazed-internet-rantings-of-jared-loughner

that my Telephone rant is just one step away from crazy.

Make that two steps.

Okay, three - tops.

Telephone

I'm not much of a telephone-talker.  I never have been.  I remember back in junior high and high school when my friends would call and could have talked all night long if I'd been receptive to the idea.  I wasn't.  Those were the days before the fine invention of call-waiting; those ancient times of rotary dials and busy signals. Depending on who I was trying to call, I knew that busy signal could potentially last for hours.  It wasn't only teenage girls who suffered this affliction, it was often their mothers, too - it's definitely a female predilection.  Frankly, I never understood it. Thankfully my mom wasn't one of those incessant, yammering yakkers; I don't think either of my sisters were, either.  I suppose there are some who might consider my phone aversion bordering on anti-social.  Maybe so.  I would counter that the diarrhea-of-the-mouth contigent are narcissistic and needy.  So there.

I know most people screen their calls these days.  I know most people don't answer when they don't feel like it.  But there's always that nagging feeling one gets when the phone rings; as if one is required to pick it up.  We had this discussion at a party the other night, and the consensus was that no one felt compelled to be held hostage to a ringing phone.  Many confessed they didn't even bother to check to see who was calling, and some revealed turning off the ringer altogether.  Wow!  What mavericks!

If someone leaves a message that requires a return call, then of course it would be rude to ignore it.  Otherwise, all bets are off.  Our informal poll indicated phone calls are now primarily placed when they serve an actual purpose - killing time doesn't count.  Well, what do you know - it turns out my family wasn't freakish after all.  (If I had been at all concerned about this, just imagine how relieved I'd be.)

While there are still some old-school phoneaholics out there who think it's perfectly normal to call several times a day and are incapable of gabbing for less than twenty minutes a pop, it now appears those mind-numbing, inane conversations about nothing-in-particular have evolved into being reserved for chatting with long lost acquaintances, seldom-heard-from relatives, and like-minded individuals who share the propensity to blather.  Thank goodness they have each other.  The problem lies with those clueless people who are completely oblivious to the cues being given by someone who is vainly trying to get off the phone.  Or maybe they aren't really oblivious at all and are so egotistical they've managed to convince themselves they're somehow entitled to our attention; that we owe it to them to listen.  Phone bullies.  Talk about being held hostage!

We all suffer from the delusion that we are infinitely more interesting than we really are, and that the world desperately wants to hear everything we have to say.  In fact, some people think they're so damn interesting they actually start their own blogs as an outlet to pontificate.  How pathetic can you get!  Oh well.  At least reading can be done at your leisure and if you find yourself bored out of your mind you can always disconnect at anyti

Another Stage

When Mom started hitting, kicking and biting, Dad was shocked.  I explained to him this was all part of the disease; that it was actually a common behavior; that it wasn't MOM.  He was acutely aware of his plight at that point, and he understood his diagnosis.  He watched Mom go through various stages of decline as she succumbed to dementia, and he was fully cognizant of the fact he was witnessing a dress rehearsal for his own demise.  So one day when Mom kicked me and tried to bite my arm for the umpteenth time, Dad suddenly turned to me with a stricken look on his face and very quietly asked, "I won't ever do that, will I?"  I can only imagine the horror, fear and helplessness he must have felt – it broke my heart then and  it breaks my heart now.  I assured him he would never try to hurt me or anyone else like Mom had.  He looked doubtful, but he so desperately wanted to believe me that I think he actually did.  I wanted to believe me, too.    

He is now hitting and kicking the caregivers where he lives.  He hasn't gotten to me or my sisters yet, but I imagine it's only a matter of time.  I wonder if this new development follows any sort of typical timeline.  Mom became combative in September of 2005 and didn't die until February of 2009.  Do you suppose this means Dad will live another 3½ years?  Probably not.  At least, I hope not.  The thought of him suffering another 3½ years is more than I can bear.

The next step, of course, is to contact his doctor to see if we can get Dad some anti-anxiety medication.  It worked pretty well for Mom in terms of ending the behavior – though it definitely ushered in the start of the zombie stage.  That sounds harsh, doesn't it?  Maybe it is.  But it has been my experience that being a zombie appears to be infinitely less terrifying than being confused, angry, and tormented by everything and everyone around you because none of it makes sense.

I know this type of medication will result in Dad being even more unsteady on his feet than he already is, and I know he'll fall even more often than he already does. But giving him no relief at all is not an option – unless you're a cold, heartless bitch. So the doctor will prescribe something, eventually we'll get the dosage right, and inevitably he will fall.  If the fall should only injure him – if he breaks a hip – then undoubtedly he will end up being wheelchair-bound or bedridden.  If the fall should kill him – well, what if it does?

I try to picture my dad walking and talking and laughing.  I try to imagine what he would say to me if he could.  I try to remember what he was like when he was still himself.

I can't.

How's Your Father?

Occasionally some long lost acquaintance of dad's will come out of the woodwork and ask, "How's your father?"  The politically correct response is, "As well as can be expected, I guess.  He's hanging in there."  This banal reply will usually suffice.  I'm always poised for further inquiry, but no one wants to know more - to be perfectly honest they don't really even want to know that much, but they have to ask.  It's only polite.

How's my father?  He's miserable.  He struggles to do the simplest things.  He can barely form a sentence.  He doesn't know who anyone is and he doesn't remember his past.  He is only truly at ease sitting in his chair in his room, for that is the one space left that he still understands.  There are no surprises there, no perplexing unfamiliar faces, no unusual disorienting surroundings, no mind-taxing stressors. His world is so small.  I could easily make the mistake of thinking I should try to broaden his horizons if I didn't recognize this is the only place he feels safe.  The joy he used to feel on an outing has been replaced by anxiety.

How's my father?  When I tell him I'm his daughter he looks surprised.  When I tell him he has three daughters he looks distressed.  The conversations that used to bring him pleasure now torment him because he knows he should know. Recounting tales of our family's antics once served to jog his memory and make him smile - now those same stories upset him.  I'm not sure he even believes what I'm telling him.  I suppose if I had no memory of an event and someone insisted I was there, I wouldn't believe it either.  He is alternately suspicious, sad and distraught. It's hard to comfort him; I can no longer rely on snippets of history to make him happy.

So, I have adapted.  Instead of spending time trying to coax him back into reality, I now concern myself with cleaning his fingernails and his ears; dismantling and washing his electric shaver; restocking his diaper and toilet paper supply.  When that's done, my mission is no longer to try to engage, it is to placate.  We (meaning I) talk about the weather.  His "outing" consists of being pushed in his wheelchair through the hallways of the building.  It is the same level of interaction I would have if I visited a nursing home and took a complete stranger on a walk.  I am nothing to him.  Therein lies the problem - because he is everything to me.  I'd give anything for just one day - one hour - with him as he used to be: full of life and humor and wit.  Just one hour when I could talk to him and he would know who I am and remember that he once loved me.

Maybe next time I see him I'll get lucky and he'll be better - it comes and goes. Mostly it goes.  I know the time is fast approaching when his mind will be completely gone.  Once he reaches that point, I wonder how much longer his body will continue to function.  Months?  Years?

How's my father?  Languishing.  Has been, is now, and will be until the day he mercifully dies.  Thanks for asking.

Not Forward or Back

If I allow myself to think of her
nothing is bright
What used to be
what could have been
none of it fulfilled

She spent her life trying not to fall
off the edge
Fighting to balance
not forward or back

Too long in that place
Colors faded to grey
Maybes stopped
Somedays stopped

Everything lost
trying not to fall

Dream

I had the best dream last night!  I was walking down a marble staircase into a ballroom filled with hundreds of tables.  Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a full orchestra was playing in the balcony.  Men were dressed in tuxedos; women in beautiful long gowns.  I was walking towards the center of the room when it suddenly occurred to me I wasn't supposed to be there.  This must be some sort of mistake.  Why would I be invited to such a lavish affair?  I felt like an idiot and started to leave; hoping to escape unnoticed before I was forcibly removed like the party-crashing Salahi I obviously was.  At that precise moment, Prince Charles put his hands firmly on my shoulders, turned me around and started guiding me back to the tables.  He was trying to find the place card with my name on it, and we kept walking and walking and walking.  We passed tables filled with entertainers, actors and actresses (both living and dead).  I was wracking my brain trying to figure out what I was doing there.  Had I written a screenplay or something?  No.  I was sure I would have remembered if I'd done anything noteworthy.

I was about to explain to Prince Charles that I had happened upon this fete quite by accident, when much to my amazement, he found my name.  Sitting at my table was Cher, Madonna and Lady Gaga.  Good god.  Why on earth was I here?  Would I be able to bluff my way through the evening?  I started to sit down when I noticed the occupants of the next table: Ricky Gervais, Conan O'Brien, Larry David, Martin Short, David Letterman, and Steve Martin.  There was one empty spot at their table with a place card belonging to someone whose name I didn't recognize.  I quickly swapped that card with my own, and took a seat.  (Not that sitting with Cher, Madonna and Lady Gaga wouldn't have been entertaining, but given my druthers...)  As I sat down I was waiting for these six men to tell me I didn't belong, but for some inexplicable reason they didn't seem to find it the least bit peculiar that I was there.

The night began when the master of ceremonies took the stage.  It was John Boehner - Weeper of the House.  He started to speak and immediately began crying.  It got so bad he had to be removed from the podium, and in his place stepped Johnny Carson.  Johnny Carson!!!   Between Johnny and the men at my table, I was laughing all night long.  I can't ever remember feeling so...  light. (What's really weird is that even though it has been hours since my dream, I can still recall that feeling.  It's hard to put into words.  It was as though everything else just melted away and I had a temporary pass to pure happiness.)  As we were talking and laughing in this grand ballroom, I kept thinking the only thing missing was my dad - my dad from 20 years ago.  (I wish I could have summoned him from my subconscious and put him at the table with us.  He would have been in his glory.)

My newfound friends and I made plans to meet the next day; they were going to help me find a place to live.  (I'm assuming it was Los Angeles.)  I couldn't wait to move someplace warm and make a fresh start; I had something wonderful to look forward to!  We sat there talking until it was time to go; though mostly I was just listening to the conversation and laughing.

I think I woke myself up by laughing out loud.  Seriously!  I don't know if such a thing is actually possible, but I do know I've woken up crying before, so it stands to reason one could wake up laughing.  As I slowly regained my senses, I realized it had all been a dream.  My happiness evaporated as I was thrust unceremoniously back into reality; what a terrible disappointment.  It was only 3:30am so I tried desperately to fall back to sleep in the hope I could continue the dream and recapture the joy I felt - as if that could ever happen.  (I'm here to report it cannot.)

I'm not sure what this dream meant - if in fact dreams are supposed to mean anything at all.  I only know that for those few hours I had the best time!  (I wonder what that translates to in real time - a few minutes?)  I suspect it's probably not a good sign that a fantasy world provides one's happiest moments, but it's better than not having those moments at all, isn't it?  (Well, isn't it?)

P.S.  Where was Camilla?

P.P.S.  I can't explain why I was privy to such a remarkable, joyful, vivid dream. I've been taking a lot of guaifenesin and sudafed lately; maybe that had something to do with it.

P.P.P.S.   I never saw myself.  I wonder what my dress looked like...

Complaint

Two scoops of raisins my ass.

Blow by Blow

• 5:20am - Check email for interview offers.  None.
• 5:25am - Let dogs out. Little one doesn't want to go because it's cold.  Have to push him out the door with the toe of my fuzzy slipper.
• 5:40am - Can't find my reading glasses anywhere.  I just had them; it's driving me crazy.
• 5:44am - Find reading glasses on my head.
• 6:00am - Drop shampoo bottle on my foot in the shower.  Bend down to pick it up and the conditioner bottle falls on my back.  (Note to self: keep bottles on bottom shelf in future.)
• 6:40am - Take son to school for baseball meeting.  Pick up his friend on the way, which is odd because he has his own car.  When I ask why he's not driving I learn he got a speeding ticket for going 27 mph over the limit.  (Note to self: time to prepare a lengthy diatribe about the privilege and perils of driving - which my son will promptly ignore.)
• 7:10am - Go to McDonald's drivethru for a large coffee with 2 creams.  In the time it takes to drive from the cashier to the order pickup, I suddenly can't remember how to lower my window.  I keep pushing a switch and it keeps locking and unlocking the car door.  Decide I'll just have to open the door to get my coffee.  Can't get door open - it's locked.  Press switch to unlock car door - we've established at least I know where that mechanism is located.  Get coffee.  (Note to self: should I get tested for the Alzheimer's gene?)
• 7:15am - A few blocks from home I see an enormous bald eagle swoop down 30 feet away from me and grab a rabbit.  Wingspan appears to be 8 feet across. Stunning, awesome, amazing.  (Note to self: must go outside with dogs from now on and stand next to them while they pee - possibly armed with a broom.)
• 7:30am - Go online and search 7 employment websites.  Tailor resumes to fit positions and send out 13 applications.  Get automated response from each one: "Thank you.  Because we receive hundreds of replies we don't have time to contact you.  Don't call us, we'll call you."  Not holding my breath.
• 11:47am - Off to doctor.  Waiting room is packed with people who are undoubtedly carrying a variety of deadly infectious diseases.  Get in line to sign in and watch man in front of me sneeze, blow his nose, then pick up pen.  Dig through purse for my own writing implement.  (Note to self: would it be too Howard Hughesian to wear latex gloves next time I have to go to the doctor?)
• 11:51am - Finally take a seat.  Simple woman sitting beside me strikes up conversation about kleenex.  I try to appear to be immersed in a 4 month old Sports Illustrated magazine.  It doesn't work - conversation progresses from kleenex to mucous.
• 1:56pm -  Drop off prescription at Walgreens.  Old man in line in front of me doesn't understand why he can't get his medication.  Turns out he forgot he picked it up yesterday.  He laughs, shakes his head and walks away.  Twenty minutes later while I'm waiting for them to call my name, the old man shows up again and tries to get his prescription.  I wait to see if pharmacist does anything. She doesn't.  I ask the old man if he's with anyone.  No.  He drove himself.  His memory isn't what it used to be.  (No shit.)  I ask if he needs any help.  He looks at me like I might be a serial killer and leaves.  I could follow him to see if he gets home alright (no doubt confirming his serial killer fears); instead I hang out by the door and watch until his car pulls away. Did I wait because I wanted to see if he could drive or did I wait so he'd be long gone before I hit the road?  (Note to self: initiate legislation requiring annual driver's test starting at age 80.)
• 2:48pm - Son home from school.  He's not wearing his coat, hat, or gloves.  Want to comment on it, but bite my tongue.  No sense starting World War III.  I wonder at what age he'll be smart enough to dress for the weather.  
• 2:49pm - Ask son if he has much homework.  He grunts and rolls his eyes - his patent response.  Then, my fatal mistake: I ask a second question.  I ask if all the kids from last year's baseball team were at the meeting this morning.  He goes ballistic and screams, "I'm sick of you asking questions!  I'm not going to sit here and go through all the names of the kids at the meeting!!  So don't ask me!!!  It's none of your damn business!!!!  Why the hell do you care??!!!!!"  I know it's a rhetorical question, and I fight the temptation to answer.  Yikes.  I don't know why that set him off.  Seems like everything sets him off these days.  As long as we don't speak to each other everything is just dandy - shades of his father.  It's hard to balance my parental responsibility to demand that he behave like a decent human being against the desire to walk away and avoid escalating the conflict.  What's worse - letting it go, or inciting a riot?  Probably letting it go.  The problem is that somewhere along the way I lost all authority.  I wish he was still a little boy; I could simply pick him up and put him in his room.  He's bigger than I am now, and it is clearly evident that civility and respect are inversely proportionate to height.  If he grows another foot he'll be shooting a high power rifle from a bell tower somewhere.  On the bright side, he's the model of decorum in public, and people regularly comment on what a great kid he is.  Apparently temper tantrums are reserved strictly for mothers.  Come to think of it, I was horrible to my own mother when I was a teenager - in a snotty yet decidedly less volatile way.  Can't help but think she'd be relishing this comeuppance.
• 3:45pm - Appointment for son's sports physical.  As we walk into the medical building a man and woman are coming out.  The woman is crying.  I imagine all sorts of scenarios.
• 4:00pm - Spy a Highlights magazine at the doctor's office.  Didn't know it was still around.  Excitedly turn to hidden pictures page.  All the hidden objects have already been circled in red crayon.  Some things never change.  I'm just as pissed about it now as I was when I was seven.
• 5:43pm - Make dinner.  Dogs are standing under the cutting board hoping something will hit the floor.  It'll never happen; I refuse to let them have people food.  Turn to scrape contents of cutting board into pan, hit the side of the stove with the edge of the board and promptly dump red peppers, onions and garlic on the floor.  Dogs move in for unexpected feast.  I yell.  Dogs back away, albeit momentarily, then creep in for more.  I yell again, dogs scramble and run downstairs.  Don't have anymore peppers.  Used the last of the onion.  Go to freezer and pull out two frozen dinners.
• 6:30pm - Son reports one of the dogs stinks.  Upon inspection, I find several pieces of garlic embedded in the hair on dog's back.  Put dog in sink for bath. During washing phase she makes a break for it, jumps out of the sink, slides across the countertop and leaps to the floor.  She leaves a trail of water and soap in every room of the house and on every piece of furniture before I catch her.
• 6:56pm - While in the bathroom using hairdryer on dog, I knock a bottle of makeup onto floor.  Glass shatters everywhere.  Why on earth don't they use plastic bottles?  How absurd.  (Note to self: send scathing letter to all cosmetics manufacturers.)
• 6:57pm - Gingerly set dog outside bathroom and close door so I can clean up the mess.
• 7:00pm - Son shouts upstairs to report dog is still wet.  Yes, I know.
• 7:05pm - Son lets dogs outside.  I start to yell downstairs to explain the eagle situation, but it's too late.  Have visions of dogs being carried away like Toto and the flying monkeys.
• 7:08pm - Son reports wet dog came inside covered in ice crystals.  You don't say.
• 7:23pm - Bathroom floor is spotless.
• 7:30pm - I want to watch the Fran Lebowitz documentary.  Son wants to watch string of mind-numbing "reality" shows ranging from car repossessions, to pet exterminations, to swamp people, to bounty hunters.  We compromise and watch a basketball game and hockey game simultaneously.  It occurs to me I have never seen my son watch a single show without changing the channel.  Is this ADD?  ADHD?  Perfectly normal?
• 8:00pm - Son suddenly remembers he has homework.  Yeah, right.  I turn off the tv and pandemonium ensues.  What should be nothing more than a minor skirmish becomes a major hullabaloo.  (Note to self: might be a good time to take up drinking heavily every evening from now until son leaves for college.)
• 9:38pm - Son reports he needs plastic folder for paper due tomorrow.
• 9:45pm - Leave for Walgreens.  Half expect to run into confused old man trying to pick up the prescription he already picked up.  Don't see his car; probably just missed him.  I arrive 5 minutes before the store closes and when I walk in the door the cashier shoots daggers at me.  Part of me wants to be kind and simply get in and get out; part of me feels the urge to linger and start asking inane questions about various brands of moisturizer.
• 10:10pm - Deliver folder to son.  Let dogs out.  (Note to self: google "Do eagles hunt at night?")
• 10:36pm - Start harassing son to get to bed.  Wonder at what age he'll be smart enough to go to sleep when he's tired.
• 11:31pm - Son is in bed.  Remembers his favorite red shorts are dirty and wants to wear them at basketball practice tomorrow.  Would I mind doing a load of laundry now?  Yes, I'd mind.  "Thanks for nothing."  You're welcome.
• 11:33pm - Check email for interview offers.  None.
• 11:38pm - Wash face, brush teeth, and suddenly feel pain in foot.  Stepped squarely on 3" long shard of glass.  As usual, appropriate sized bandage does not exist.  (Note to self: send scathing letter to all bandage manufacturers.)
• 11:49pm - Clean bathroom floor.  Again.
• 12:06am - In bed.  Dog jumps up and lies next to me.  Smells like garlic.