A Dog's Life

Many of us have memories of a favorite pet from childhood.  My family's dog Ralph came to us when he and I were both one.  My mom said that during my toddler years he would follow me around the yard, guarding me from trouble.  Of indeterminate parentage,  Ralph taught me the unconditional love only dogs can offer.  He made me a dog person before I even knew what it was to be a person.

Yet, if you had told me that I would one day spend what roughly equals a mortgage payment on medical bills for my current dog, I would suspect you'd been dipping into the kitty's catnip.  However,  I recently financed (yes, financed) cancer treatment for a dog who only cost $250 brand new, straight off the show room floor (complete with new puppy smell).

Granted, this is not just any dog.  Jack is a 6-year-old yellow lab who is known and loved by the entire neighborhood. He was named after the dog in Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House series and the main character from the book I, Jack by Patricia Finney.  As a puppy he loved nothing more than chewing up anything left unattended:  shoes (especially if they were new), the kids' toys (several Polly Pocket dolls lost limbs one summer afternoon) and even the pump hose while it was still attached to swimming pool, thereby flooding  the entire backyard with water.  Luckily for us all, he grew into the best dog ever.   He knows how to sit, spell (W-A-L-K) and when to act ashamed ("Uh-oh, Jack, what did you do?").  He is a bird dog extraordinaire--pheasants and ducks alike quake at the mere mention of his name.  He is the giver of kisses and the healer of broken hearts.  Jack is a good dog. 

So when we found the lump on his lip the size of a blueberry and the vet mentioned the dreaded C word, I was more than a little upset.  I knew Jack couldn't stay with us forever.  Maybe one day when he could no longer keep up with the younger dog retrieving the birds, after our son went off to college, when our girls had grown past the age that a snuggle with the puppy boy made a bad day a little brighter, I knew we'd have to let him go.  But not yet.

My husband's parents were originally farmers.  Any animals they had served a purpose:  cats killed mice, dogs kept away coyotes, pigs were bacon.  My husband always told me he'd never let a dog sleep in our house--they'd be in a kennel outside.  Today our dogs each have a memory foam bed next to the fireplace.  He always said that he wouldn't pay large amounts of money to keep a dog alive--he'd just go back across the street and buy another lab for $250.  Yet we agreed that Jack was too good of a dog to let go without a fight.  And this kind of fight costs roughly the same as our house payment. 

Yesterday the vet removed the tumor, took chest x-rays and an aspiration of his lymph node to see if the cancer has spread.  Now we wait and see if our future holds a dog named Jack.  And while we make payments on his medical bills, we love him and spoil him and let him give us as many kisses as he wants. 

When the day comes that Jack is no longer a happy dog, when going for a walk no longer makes him wag his whole self with excitement, when his body no longer lets him enjoy this life, I will have to let him go.  That is what good pet owners do.


Jack is the dog our kids will remember their whole lives.   He will be the dog that sets the benchmark for every other pet they ever own.  When they come back to visit us as grown ups and we reminisce  about the old days, I know Jack will come up with every other memory.  Remember when we first got Jack and his coloring was so much like Sam's we said they were brothers?  How about when he was a puppy and used to stand on top of the dining room table?  Or how he ate half of that birthday cake and then got sick all over the house?  Now that was a good dog.

White Girls Can't Hula

(I am a week and a half into my Lenten Facebook Fast and realized that without my addiction, I have lots to do.  Like lots of stuff I wasn't getting done because I was busy dinking around on Facebook.  So, being busy, and therefore exhausted, I also haven't been writing much.  I was determined to get something written tonight, when I discovered this post I started in January and never finished.  Here I give you the reason why I'm giving up my Caucasian Membership Card.)


I recently returned from a family trip to Hawaii and I have come to a startling conclusion:

I am entirely too white.

Yes, it's true--with a ethnic background made up exclusively of Northern Europeans, I spent a week in tropical sunshine and never got more than a shade past pasty.  I have tried to embrace my milky skin tone, but having married into a family of olive-complected sun-lovers does tend to give one a bit of a complex. 

How I look to Hawaiians

While I would have liked to come home with a Coppertone tan, I realized during our trip that it was more than my skin color that pales in comparison to the Hawaiian natives.  It became clear as I listened to tour guides, talked to locals and watched the dancing at a luau that perhaps my personality was also too white.  Have let myself slip into a stereotype of a "typical" Caucasian American?  I might as well been wearing Bermuda shorts, socks with sandals, and camera draped around my neck.  As the locals talked about traditions and local culture, I felt like I must seem pretty bland and boring to them. 

While I don't mean to suggest that being a Caucasian American is a bad thing, let's face it, we don't always embrace differences, which doesn't make much sense, living in a melting pot of a country. (Give us your tired, your poor--unless they speak a funny sounding language or worship a god other than our own.)  We also don't have the best reputation when dealing with native people (smallpox anyone?) or those with skin color any darker than taupe (I'll take a side of segregation and Jim Crowe laws, please).  What did we Northern European Americans contribute to the cultural landscape?  White bread, fast food and strip malls, to name a few. I can proudly say my own ancestors brought you Ballard and lutefisk.  (Ohh, how exotic!)

One of the bus drivers in Honolulu explained the meaning of aloha as "sharing the breath of life" and that Hawaiians used to greet each other by breathing through their noses into each other's face, thus sharing their spirit.  "Haloe", he said, meant "one who doesn't share the spirit."  Apparently some non-natives took offense to strangers exhaling in their face. 

I have decided to be haole no more.  I will breathe in your face and accept the spirit of my fellow humans.  I will learn about other cultures and step out of my comfort zone. 


How I think I look in Hawaii

I will not wear socks with my sandals.


A recent issue of Sunset magazine has an article about the Hawaiian lifestyle, by Kaui Hart Hemmings, author of The Descendants. In it she describes the kind of laid back life style and spirit of community many would envy.  I am ready to embrace my place as a true Hawaiian cousin.

I may have been born an uptight white girl, but I believe I have the soul of a wahine (who just happens to burn unless she's wearing SPF 30 sunblock). 





(In researching the term "haole" I stumbled across an article entitled Haole? The Unbearable Whiteness of Being.  I wish I would've come up with that title first.)


I'm with Stupid

It was my great misfortune to be born into an intelligent family.  I am the youngest of five children and whatever nugget of wisdom I came upon was already old news to my siblings.  I remember coming home from first grade bursting with the knowledge I had gained that day, excitedly sharing with one of my brothers my new found facts.  I was told in the most bored way possible (which can be achieved only by an older sibling to an occasionally annoying little sister): "Well, of course, everyone knows that."  I was the youngest, the smallest and knew the least.  No one asked for my opinion.

This did not squelch my thirst for knowledge, but only drove me to learn more.  I became an avid reader, got good grades in school, attended college and got my BA in English.  I still assume everyone knows more than I do, but this just makes me want me to keep learning.

Now, I am no Einstein; there are many things I do not understand.   There are gaps as big as the universe in my comprehension of such things as actuary tables and football, calculus and insurance policies.  However, I try to consider more than one side to any argument, gather as much information as I can, and carefully weigh all facts before forming an opinion. (I also hate to be wrong, which makes it sometimes difficult for me to come down firmly on one side or another.)   I will freely admit to many unflattering character traits:  I am a mediocre house cleaner, at best; I will choose to eat apple fritters over vegetables and wonder why I'm not losing weight; and I rarely remember to floss.

But I am not stupid.

Which is why I feel compelled to remind those on social media  (or the news media, or any particular religious group or political party):  Just because I don't share your opinion doesn't mean I don't understand the topic.  Facebook is a great place to catch up with old and new friends, share recipes and ideas.  I have no problem with you voicing your political or religious views there.  But please, for me, your oldest friend from high school/new acquaintance/fellow soccer mom, don't make broad statements against those who might not share those views.  That political figure you didn't vote for?  Guess what, I did.  That group of people who don't think your religion is the only way to heaven?  Might be me.  People who prefer dogs over cats?  Guilty as charged. 

Am I a bad person because I don't agree with you?  I hope you don't think so.  Remember, it's me, Kristin/Kris/Krissy/KLAG.  We used to finger paint together/skip study hall/stay up all night complaining about our parents/boyfriends/jobs.  Don't you recognize me from over there?  I am not crazy because we're on different sides of a debate. We're just on different sides. 

You can rest assured that I weighed the same facts you did, I considered the "what ifs" and "what fors" and might have come to a different conclusion.  Please do not group me into the "you're either with me or you're wrong" group of those who may (or may not) be ruining our country.  Just because I took 2+2 and got 3+1 or 5-1 instead of 4 doesn't make me against you.  I just see it in a different way.

I try not to take it personally, but I have to say the presidential race was tough on me.  So many opinions being shared so vehemently.  I try to remember that these are people that I know and respect, friends and family.  People who have taken 2+2 and gotten 4, while I was composing an essay on what the number 4 means to me.  I'm trying to be open minded and take it all in stride.

So feel free to share with me whatever you're passionate about.  Tell me how your day was, boast about your kid, promote whatever cause you want.  Un-friend me for my opinions if you must, just please don't call me stupid.

Candy Revolution

I don't know if you've seen them, hanging out in front of the local grocery store in their blue vests, stopping people and asking for money.  They always have impeccable manners and a winning smile, pawning off boxes of candy on their unsuspecting victims.

They are Camp Fire girls and they are out to take over the world.

It seems innocent enough:  young children raising money for an organization by selling mints and Almond Roca--even their candy supports a local company (Brown & Haley out of Tacoma, Washington).  They ask politely and they always say "Have a nice day" if they're turned down. 

I suggest you don't turn them down. 

The Camp Fire organization promises to give young people the "opportunity to find their spark, lift their voice, and discover who they are."  Sounds like a call for uprising to me.  They send out these fresh-faced minions in their badge-covered vests, weaseling their way into the community with their Almond Caramel Clusters and sweet smiles.

The next thing you know, the whole country is living the Camp Fire way of life.  They will teach your children manners!  They will encourage our young people to participate in charitable giving (one local group collected donations for a no-kill cat shelter) and involve themselves in the community (marching in Christmas parades and making Valentines for veterans).

They want your children to spend their summers outside!  At camp!  During these indoctrination "summer camps" your children will learn to swim, in lakes, and breathe fresh air.  They will roast marshmallows and sing songs of revolution, such as Tarzan of the Apes (in which the radical Tarzan proclaims his love for "bananas, coconuts and grapes") or Black Socks ("They never get dirty, the longer you wear them the stronger they get").

Once they learn the Camp Fire way, these youngsters will grow into responsible adults, with a sense of camaraderie and money handling skills.    They will become community leaders and contributing members of society.  They will possess the secret of the Creamy Smooth Mint Patties.  There will be no stopping them.

What can we do about this coming coup?  I suggest you stop politely when approached by the Children of the Blue Vest, ask what they recommend, and then open your wallets to them.  They will remember those who've supported their cause and will find room for you in their brave new world. 

And when you see that other subversive group, the Girl Scouts, peddling their cookies next month, give 'em a wink and the secret hand shake.  Tell them the Camp Fire Girls sent you.

 

 

(The Camp Fire organization is made up of both girls and boys, but I 've only come to know the female of the species.  My apologies to the young gentleman revolutionaries for excluding them.)

 

 

 

 

Hollister Knows Breast

Recently at a Houston mall some moms got into trouble with the mall cops for breastfeeding their babies at a Hollister store.  If you're not familiar with the Hollister chain, it's where anorexic teenagers with too much money go to have their hearing damaged--oh, and to buy clothes.  When you walk into the store you will notice two things:  it is too dark to see the clothes and too loud to hear what the sales clerk is saying.  "I think she just welcomed me to the store.  Or did she say I was too fat and old to shop here?"  Just smile and nod...

Which makes me wonder why anyone would want to feed their baby there.  It is loud and dark and full of sulky teenagers.  How can this be healthy?  They may be well fed, but you will probably have to teach them sign language.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am all for breastfeeding.  I successfully breastfed three babies past the age of twelve months.  I often fed my babies in public and was never once asked to leave or given a dirty look.

Why, Kristin, how is it you managed to give your baby the best choice in nutrition, at any time of day, without having to stage a militant rally? 

Umm...I didn't flash my boobs?

Before you had children, did you walk though public places with your breasts hanging out or did you keep them in your shirt?  (Spring Break freshman year doesn't count)  Why is that once you reproduced the rules changed?  The pictures these women posted on Facebook of their Nurse-In shows several side-boob shots (okay, also seen at every major awards show) and several full boobie shots with baby attached to the end (kind of like a baby pastie).   

I understand the argument these women make.  Breastfeeding is not dirty--they should be allowed to feed their babies any place and not have to huddle in a smelly public restroom.  When my children were newborns, they ate so often it sometimes seemed that I should just leave the darn things out.  And I know some babies resist being covered with a blanket, but if you can't be discreet perhaps it's time to rethink the breastfeeding-in-public thing.  Or move somewhere that's a little more comfortable with bare breasts, like Rio De Janeiro, or some place featured in the old National Geographic magazines.  (And honestly, Honey, the girls don't look quite as good as they did freshman year.)

The thing that bothers me the most about these stories is it makes breastfeeding mothers look like some sort of weird, new-age hippie freaks.  (You know, like Alicia Silverstone or Mayim Bialikok.)  I never chewed my children's food for them, nor did I carry then around twenty-four hours a day until they were bigger than me (and I had developed a herniated disc).  And I say once a child can sit up at the table and order for themselves off the menu, it's definitely time to wean them. 

Breastfeeding is a wonderful experience for both mother and child.  But not for the others shoppers at the mall.

The funniest thing about this story would have been the reaction of the Hollister employees to a nursing woman. ("OMG!  That lady has her boob out!  Eww, totally gross!")  The store manager asked the woman to leave, telling her she couldn't do that on Hollister property.  She told him
"It’s Texas. I can breastfeed anywhere I like."  Apparently hungry teenagers in over-priced clothes are outside the jurisdiction of the state of Texas, as the manager informed the woman "Not at Hollister." 

Ah yes, Hollister does know breast.


(Spell check didn't like how I spelled "boobie."  Too bad, spell check.  Boobie, boobie, boobie.)

Kristin's 2012 Review

Facebook wanted to show me my 20 Biggest Moments of 2012, which included a someecard and lunch at Burgerville.  Wow Facebook, you must think I lead quite the life--just a step up from Crazy Cat Lady and the video game store clerk who spends his whole paycheck on the Assassin's Creed series. 

Perhaps I should make a "Biggest Moments" list of my own, those that may have not received the most "likes", but are a better indicator of how I fared in 2012.

1)  My son turned 16.  While it would seem that this was more of a big moment for him, anyone who has a child with a new driver's license and the impulse control of a two-year-old will understand why this is also a big moment for me.

2)  I went on a trip to Minnesota where I met several people who, while I may not be related to by blood, I am proud to say I am part of their family.  And I learned that in the Land of a Thousand Lakes it is perfectly acceptable to wear a life jacket like a diaper.

3)  I voted.  I won't tell you for whom, but I will tell you that I read the voter's pamphlet and watched as much of the debates as I could stomach.  (Okay, I voted for the guy who played French horn with the UW Husky marching band in the Rose Parade.  I'm a sucker for the French horn.)

4)  My older daughter turned 13, thus enabling her to join Facebook and curtailing all the embarrassing stories I usually share about her.

5)  I wrote a blog post that got the biggest response in all my (3) years of writing--361 views!  It didn't hurt that I wrote about a local character who had already won over our entire community.   I simply put into words what everyone else already understood to be true.  But it did make me think that maybe I really should keep writing.

6)  I attended a lot of soccer games, yet only the last few were in wet or cold weather.  It was a good year for soccer parents.

7)  I visited my father in the nursing home and realized that while he's still here, a good part of his personality is lost to me.  However, I also understand that personality lives on in each family memory, in each story my siblings and I tell about growing up as an Alvick.  (And maybe one or two of my character traits.)

8)  I played tourist in downtown Seattle for the day, where I realized I know nothing about art.  Luckily, my 10-year-old daughter does and kindly guided me through the Seattle Art Museum.

9)  I took a trip to Hawaii with my extended family--husband, kids, in-laws, nieces and nephews. Nothing impresses people more than a family of 16 traveling together.  While there I realized that I may have Seasonal Affective Disorder--I was happiest just soaking up the sun on the beach.  And drinking mai tais. ( Maybe I'm actually suffering from Alcohol Affective Disorder.)

10)  Looking back on 2012 I think that I had a pretty good year.  Nothing monumental happened, no life changing events, just a bunch of happy little blips that kept me getting up every day, sometimes even with a smile on my face.  I mean, you can't have lunch at Burgerville every day.

Mayan Calendar vs. Zombie Apocalyse

As we head into December, it was inevitable that the whole Mayan calendar/end-of-the-world thing would resurface.  The U.S. government, however, asks that you not even go there.  They say the theory about a deadly comet crash is untrue ("definitely not"). The world will not end on December 21st, so please stop scaring the children.  (And really, what's more frightening:  sudden and irrevocable end of life on earth,  or teetering over the fiscal cliff and having to live out the rest of  your life eating dog food and heating your home with coal, John Boehner telling you "I told you so" all the while?)  Apparently it's not just us Americans playing Chicken Little--the Russian's have jumped on the end-of-the-world band wagon., too.   But they're bringing vodka as part of an apocalyptic kit (which also includes heart medication and a pain reliever).  If the world was ending,  I think a headache would be the least of your worries.  The vodka could come in handy, however.

The whole Mayan calendar craziness has been talked about, blown out of proportion, debunked and then talked about some more.  So let me ask you:  when you get to the last page of your calendar, say December, and you go to see what's happening next month and there are no more pages, what do you do?  Freak out and stockpile the bottled water?  Or go to the office supply store and buy a new calendar?  The Mayans, it's true, were very advanced for an ancient civilization. Besides their calendar making, they developed a writing system and left behind many examples of art work.  But did they have iPhones and their amazing maps?  What about Honey Boo Boo or Walmart?  (Okay, on second thought, perhaps it's best if we just end it right now.)

The U.S. government wants you to forget about the Mayan calendar thing, but they have actively promoted preparing for a zombie apocalypse.  (So let me get this straight--they don't want me to scare my children with the Mayans, but they want me to talk to them about zombies?)  They say that it's all tongue-in-cheek to get people to think about emergency preparedness, but they also said that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction and that its CIA agents were paragons of morality.   

Anyone who's seen the AMC series The Walking Dead could tell you zombies are the things of nightmares.  They are the undead, people!  Out to eat your flesh and infect your children!  The good news is that fear of a zombie apocalypse has spurred gun and ammunition sales.  Good news for the economy!  Bad news if you happen to be shuffling to get your newspaper in the early morning hours and your neighbor is a paranoid gun owner.  (What am I saying?  People don't read the newspaper anymore.  Wait!  I read the newspaper!!  Maybe I should start combing my hair and putting on some makeup before I head to the paper box.)

In times like this we should turn to the words of the immortal poet, Michael Jackson:




  Creatures Crawl In Search Of Blood
  To Terrorize Y'awl's Neighbourhood
  And Whosoever Shall Be Found
  Without The Soul For Getting Down
  Must Stand And Face The Hounds Of Hell




The answer then to our apocalyptic dilemma?  Getting down.

Cue the music and bring on the vodka.