Empty Nest. Sort of.

Last Wednesday I put Male Offspring on a plane to 0man. Took him about 18 hours and two layovers to get there. Before he even got off the ground, he was stopped by Seattle security, on account of he had two rolls bagged up in his pocket, courtesy of his friend who works in a bakery. "Hey Fred! Come take a look at this! This guy's carrying two big round things ... in his pocket!" The rolls were X-rayed and examined. Fred determined they were only rolls, after all. Homeland Security, working for America.

The Son called the next day, around noon.

Me: So, how hot is it over there?

Male Offspring: About 85F.

Me: Oh, that's not too hot, considering it's 0man in June.

MO: It's midnight here.

Oh.

Yes, I am jealous, thanks for asking.

So he'll be there at least until the end of the month. He may stay longer, but hasn't decided yet. The Ex has some fun stuff planned for him, like getting him certified for scuba diving, riding ATVs in the desert, and the like. Very cool stuff for a kid. They may even visit the Rich Man's Paradise of Dubai, where they can indoor ski and visit man made islands.

So, of course, a day or two after Male Offspring's arrival, Somali pirates conducted their first ever attack on a ship in 0mani waters. Wonderful. What are the odds? I just hope the kid wasn't scuba diving in the vicinity.

The Bohemian won't be home much this summer, seeing as how she got a paid internship with NPR and is currently kicking ass doing all sorts of web stuff at her new J-O-B. She is also preparing for her senior recital (!!!) in the fall and hanging out with her significant other. She called me the day her brother left.

The Bohemian: Oh, you'll be all alone in the house ...

Me: Your sister comes home tomorrow night, so there's actually only one night overlap.

The Bohemian: Like I said, you'll be all alone in the house.

Teen Demon is home for the summer. So to speak. Can she already have finished her first year of college? Kids, a little consideration, please -- you're making Mommy feel old. Not cool. So the Demon has a summer job as a cake decorator, making use of her awesome cake decorating skillz. She brought home a buttload of stuff, spent a day in cleaning mode getting her old room back in order, which included hanging a giant shoe holder and a Tupac poster up on her pink walls. Then she left to go camping and fishing.

My ass has been too damn busy to feel lonely though. Besides, the dogs are still here with me. Never underestimate the value of a captive audience.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VIII

Episode VIII: Shiver Me Timbers

Thanks to those who thought to call the authorities. I am not rotting among the worms and beetles in the crawl space. It's been sunny here.

My time in the sun, while incrementally addressing my Vitamin D deficiency, ultimately pulled me into yet another episode of housing woes.

There's a planter box in my front yard, about 8'x8', framed by landscaping timbers. The timbers go on to form a retaining wall that runs the length of my driveway. The previous owner -- you all remember him -- the guy who made $100,000 profit from a scant two years of home ownership? The guy who sold me This Old Motherfucking House about a week before the housing slump was announced? Yeah, well, he let grass completely overtake the planter box. Since moving in, I've been showcasing an 8'x8' square of monster grass. Oh, and a Japanese Maple tree. It's in the box, too. I wonder if my neighbors were ever able to reconcile their envy?

Male Offspring, adjusting his iPod about halfway through the de-grassing.

Male Offspring dug out all the grass for me, on account of my lameass frozen shoulder that can't operate a simple manual shovel. Grass roots run deep, people. Deep. Good thing the boy's got first class tickets to the gun show. We found Hens & Chicks (the plants, not the animals) buried in the grass. I rescued them, and replanted them. Took forever. Anyway, my yard was finally going to look nice! I bought plants. Perennials. Forget that annual shit. Go with the ones that come back every year. I also got mulch and peat moss and gardening gloves. Cute ones. The plants are still babies, but by midsummer that box will be bursting with bloomage.

Yeah baby, time for a little respect from the neighbors. That's right.

Right: rescued, replanted Hens & Chicks, plus other formerly buried plants.
Left: monster grass.

Anyway, everything was going fine, until I noticed the retaining wall was falling out toward the driveway at the point where it's supposed to connect to the planter box. Shit. Also the timbers at the front of the planter box were looking dicey. We took out a few pieces to assess the extent of damage, and found some serious rot going on.

Holy hell. I just wanted to plant some friggin' plants and lay some mulch. But that's not how This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

So I spent about $60 on galvanized steel brackets, a drill bit as long as my forearm, and some bigass galvanized screws. The plan was to remove enough dirt that we could pull the retaining wall back in place, reattach everything with the brackets, and call it a day.

Long story short, it didn't work. Apparently, a wood retaining wall is supposed to have vertical support posts sunk in concrete OR these things called "tie backs" -- pieces of wood attached to the wall's backside, buried in the ground, anchoring the wall in place. My retaining wall, of course, had neither.

Who chooses wood in this never-ending rainhole anyway? CheapAss former owners who make a quick profit and leave you with a fucked up house, that's who.

De-grassed dirt and rotting timbers exposed. See the wall falling out toward the driveway?

So we're going with the interlocking concrete block option. The DIY ones that don't need mortar. Yep. Time all is said and done, probably about another $500 dropped on This Old Motherfucking House. At least they won't rot before I sell this joint.

This shit was not even on my summer project list! Here's what was on my summer project list:

1. Re-tile moldyass shower tiles (this is going to be a bitch of a job).
2. Replace 80s wood vanity, fixtures, and cracked bathroom sink.
3. Replace linoleum floor with tile, and paint bathroom walls.
4. Install window blinds.
5. Replace rotting front deck.

Yes, CheapAss Former Owner used 1/2" thick untreated boards to build the front porch. In the Pacific Northwest. Bastard. New lumber and a nail gun or drill that can handle wood screws is going to be several hundred right there. I did not need another outdoor project, people!

Other possible items for the summer project list included:

6. Refinish wood floors formerly covered by urine-spotted burgundy carpet (another bitch of a job)
7. Replace fucked up, mismatched tiles of fireplace hearth.
8. Paint over uglyass dining room paneling
9. Paint TeenDemon's pink and orange walls. This requires some kind textured paint skills, since her walls were spackled by a blindfolded drunk at some point in TOMFH's history.
10. Install closet organization systems.
11. Replace 1980s ceiling fan in dining room.

None of this even touches my 1950s kitchen with its ancient wood cabinets shellacked in Paint Coats of Many Colors, and its olive green and brown laminate counter.

Seriously, I did not need this retaining wall bullshit. And it's got to be scheduled when Male Offspring is home, but he's working overtime on homework and finals so he can leave school early to go visit his dad in friggin' Oman until sometime in July.

Really, Son? You chose world travel, diving certification, and adventure over building a retaining wall?

For now, the front of my de-grassed, soon-to-be-beautiful planter box is not filled with gorgeous trailing plants. Rather, it is being shored up with big bags of mulch, so as to keep the remaining dirt and new baby plants from being washed into the street. Hello, Tackmeister? Nice yard.


I guess I'll have to wait a while for that respect from the neighbors. At least my new roof looks good.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VII

Episode VII: Where's the Heat

It's been a while between TOMFH posts, in part because I apparently skipped the mother of all disasters. I realized this today, upon trying to figure out what episode I was on. (Had I known this was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have paid more attention to the numbering from the beginning.) Click the home.improvement tag for the big picture of my lovely abode.

Anyway, while cleaning up the series numbering, I realized I'd never even mentioned replacing the gutter that fell down in front of my garage door, let alone replacing the roof.

Yes, the roof.

 Last October I actually had to replace the entire roof. I'm sure you all can imagine the cost. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction to discovering the sound of steady dripping, one rainy night at 2am, as I crawled through the attic portal in my closet, juggling my flashlight, plastic buckets, and the wood planks that served as a makeshift crawlway to prevent me from falling between the rafters and crashing through my living room ceiling. Yes, it would've been one hell of a ranting, railing, TOMFH post, but apparently I was too traumatized to write about it.

So. Moving on.

Today's episode. The water heater stopped working.

Yesterday I was home sick. That's another thing -- looking back over my TOMFH series, I realized these things often happen while I am sick. Just one more way this house sticks it to me.

Anyway, a sick day seemed an opportune time to address my maddeningly slow internet, so I called the cable guy. Then I realized he'd have to get behind the TV cabinet. Seeing as there was enough dog hair back there to build another dog, I got out the vacuum. And promptly blew a fuse.

So when Male Offspring said the water wasn't very hot for his shower, I figured I'd blown the water heater fuse too. No biggie. We flipped the breaker switch, figured we'd be back in hot water by morning.

You know where this is going. It wasn't the fuse. Of course it wasn't.

It won't surprise you to know that my water heater, like my furnace, is located under the house. Of course it is. I crawled into the dark maw this morning, but couldn't actually get to the damn thing, due to to the expert job Teen Demon and I had done wrapping it in its own special "water heater blanket". So the damn brokeass thing is warm and cozy, while I am reduced to scrubbing my goosebumps in a cold shower.

No, I am not yet that desperate. I stink. You all know how I am about the cold.

So I am now "troubleshooting". The son remembered that the water had seemed unusually hot the last couple of days. Best case scenario, it overheated, tripping its auto shutoff dealy thing, and I just need to reset it. Those of you who are longtime TOMFH readers know that this most certainly will not be the case. Mid-level scenario, I will need to replace the thermostats, or possibly the elements. As with the oven, I think I can do this myself, although draining the thing will be a bitch, seeing as how it's in the crawl space, below ground level. Worst case scenario, I will waste my money on replacement elements, and after much aggravation, end up buying a whole new water heater, paying some guy with plumber's crack $5,000 an hour for installation, and crawling back under there to wrap the new heater in a new cozy insulation blanket. It's a given that no one will be available for install for at least three days, and I will freeze my ass off taking cold showers, because that's the way This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

If you don't hear from me, tell the authorities to look under the house.

Luis Ramirez's Murderers Walk

Last August I wrote about the murder of Luis Ramirez. Today I read that his murderers, local football heroes in the small town of Shenandoah Pennsylvania, have been officially deemed not guilty of murder by an all-white jury. Apparently they are merely guilty of "simple assault".

I am sickened, but not surprised.

My original post was called Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football, because it was as much about the particular dynamic between small rural communities and their football heroes as it was about the brutal murder of Luis Ramirez. When I read the details last summer, my first thought was, these boys are going to walk.

Shenandoah is a small town of 5,000 in Pennsylvania. I went to high school in a town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. When I read the quotes from local police, the histories of the accused boys, and the comments of some of the townspeople, it was familiar territory. Not the murder, but that certain feel within an insulated community of "born 'n raised" folks and the relationship they have with their football team. It's not something that can be found or understood in cities, or even the suburbs. It's not something easily explained. But it is real. Real enough that I knew - and I bet the people of Shenandoah knew - that in the end, these boys would walk.

What message does this verdict send, as our country becomes more and more polarized, the anti-immigration crowd becomes more strident, and Swine Flu is associated with a nationality, a skin color? What message? Will the next drunken mob of high school heroes, amped up on testosterone and hate, take heed from this verdict, or will they feel righteous and invincible?

Last August I hoped justice would win out in the end. I hoped I would be surprised by the verdict. In the end, those boys walked. And I am not surprised.


Photo: Joe Spring, New York Times, Sep-07

The Brick on Bionics

So I bought a new computer. Finally. There was a suitable mourning period for The Brick, longer than most, but considering that he served faithfully - if not always efficiently - for what, nine years, it was the least I could do.

I hope he isn't looking down from eHeaven, betrayed that I moved on too quickly.

Anyway, my research into different brands, models, and options was all for naught because I suddenly developed what my Dad refers to as a hair up my ass. Mainly because I have to do a PowerPoint presentation for my advocacy group by the 16th, and I have to do my damned taxes. By the 15th, as you all know.

Yes, I procrastinated the taxes again. So what. That shit is stressful.

So, with the proverbial hair chapping my ass, I got off work Friday afternoon, rushed to Costco before they closed, and just picked one. While Costco has great prices and customer support, they do not have a lot of choices. I think there were maybe nine computers, total. The huge $1150 top of the line and the tiny netbook were out of the question. Two others were Acers, which the Costco guy said were actually more dependable than HP in his experience, but I just couldn't imagine crowing, Yeah baby, bought me an Acer! So that left roughly four HP models and 1 Dell.

If my IT buddies from my old job had seen me choosing this computer, they would've called me a girl. And not in a good way. Of course I looked at specs first. Both the Dell and one of the HPs had roughly the same specs. So what was the final hand wringing about? Important stuff, that's what. The so-called girl stuff.

The HP: smaller, but with funky graphic designs on the lid and where your wrists rest.
The Dell: plain and clunky, but with a backlit keyboard. Bigger screen.

Okay, size matters, but let's not lie - the real issue was backlit keyboard vs. cool designs. Also, the HP touch pad was that shiny glossy silver. Fingerprints and grubby smudges all over it. Nasty! You could practically see Little Johnny's booger trails overlaying the evidence of Uncle Frankie's earwax exploration. Gross! The Dell's touchpad was slightly textured, more matte, kind of a slick Teflon feel. No fingerprints, no greasy trails of Costco customer nastiness.

In the end, I went for the Dell Studio 1537. Intel Core2Duo, 2GHz processor, 500GB drive, 4GB RAM, wireless N, 64bitOS (Yes, Vista, dammit, but I was at the point of ohfuckit. I'll upgrade to 7 next year).

I was pissed off, however, to later find that this particular model comes in colors. Granted, it's not the funky graphic designs of that cute little HP, but still, I can handle clunky a lot better if it's lime-green clunky. Or orange. Or red. Yes, I could've gotten colors at Best Bitch, but that's a shopping experience for those who 1) walk in knowing exactly what they want, or 2) are willing to put up with sales bullshit from some teenager who's working part-time for weed money. Oh, and 3) are willing to pay out the ass for the same model that Costco sells for cheaper. That too.

So here I am on my plain, black, no-nonsense new Dell. Clunky, as opposed to funky. Like a sleeker, lighter, powerhouse version of The Brick. (Gentlemen, we can rebuild him, we have the technology. Better than he was before. Better. Stronger. Faster.) Maybe it was some weird subconscious way of holding on to The Brick. You know, like when people pick boyfriends who are really like their fathers?

I know some say Dell sucks ass, but The Brick did last over nine years. He was the Methuselah of laptops. I know people who've had four or five computers over the course of The Brick's lifespan. Of course, The Bohemian also had a Dell, and it gave her the blue screen of death in its third year, but that happened immediately after she lent it to a friend who is not above surfing spammy porny sites. You figure it out.

Anyway, decent enough specs to last me a good while: I can blog, I can PowerPoint, and I can do my goddamn, motherfucking, sonofabitching taxes.

But ... I am really pissed off that the backlit keyboard turned out to be white. WTF, Dell? Everybody knows you use blue for some shit like that! At least red, damn. Anyway, this could be a major issue. Good thing Costco has that 90 return policy.

The Hell That is Frozen Shoulder

I have Frozen Shoulder. Again. I had a it a few years ago, before I started blogging. Never heard of it? Neither had I. It's officially called Adhesive Capsulitis. See, your tissues freak the hell out and form bands of tight, inflamed adhesions throughout the capsule surrounding your glenohumeral joint. This scarred and inflamed capsule constricts the joint, locking it into its own private hell. Range of motion is severely restricted, pain is basically comparable to having your shin broken with an axe, and duration can range from a few months to two years or more.

This shit hurts, people. It has three stages:

• FREEZING: this is when you're basically wracked in pain. All the fucking time. Two kinds of pain, actually: chronic pain that is worse at night, and acute just-kill-me-now pain when you accidentally move past your ever-decreasing range of motion. This is where I am now.
• FROZEN: this is when the pain supposedly starts to fade, but the capsule has basically locked your arm into a very limited range. Good luck wiping your ass. This is the time to introduce excruciating physical therapy, in order to try and coax your shoulder into moving again.
• THAWING: this is where your motion is supposed to gradually come back. It's not very common to regain your full range of motion. The agonizing PT is continued through this phase.

So yeah, I had this three or four years back. Took over a year and a half to run its course. I remember when I was diagnosed. I thought Frozen Shoulder sounded stupid. Like some wimp-ass diagnosis for big crybabies or hypochondriacs. Adhesive Capsulitis sounded better, but still. Didn't sound like a "real" condition, like torn rotator cuff, or bone spur, or something badass like that. I soon found out different.

Frozen Shoulder is not for pussies, people.

Put it this way; I had three babies with no drugs. Two of the offspring were just under nine pounds, one was just over nine pounds. No drugs. I made it through shin splints in basic training with only Ben-Gay for relief. Hell, I made it through basic training, period.  I had two wisdom teeth pulled with only local anesthetic. I can do pain. I'm a woman. But dealing with that Frozen Shoulder wore me down. It was rough.

And it's back.


The other night my shoulder suddenly seized up in a cramp. (This would be the aforementioned "acute pain".) I screamed like a girl and cried. Literally. Screamed and cried. Male Offspring was about to take me to the emergency room. Of course, he probably just wanted to drive, but still. He gave me what he called hug therapy afterward. This is from a teenage boy, folks. If I had to deal with that pain for the length of a labor ... I couldn't do it. I'd be screaming for the drugs in five minutes.

When my shoulder started hurting a few months back, I figured I had wrenched it somehow, you know, with my active lifestyle and all, and didn't think much of it. But as time went on, I had to face the fact that I was having a relapse. According to the literature, relapses are extremely rare. Surprise, I'm one of the lucky few who get to experience that rare treat.

Whee.

This time is worse. Worse because I know what I'm in for. The first time, I could trick myself. You know, say things like, "Maybe I'll be one of those people who heal in a few months." or "The physical therapy will speed up the process." Complete bullshit, but it had a psychological placebo effect. This time, I know what's up. I don't think I can do this again, people. It's like getting scared of childbirth once you're already pregnant. Ain't no getting out of it now - you're in it for the duration.

And my neck's not long enough to gnaw my arm off.

I can't tuck in a shirt, let alone reach in a back pocket. I can't hook my bra. I can't reach across to wash my other shoulder. Shaving under that arm? Please. Deodorant is spotty at best. Taking a coat off sucks.

Washing, drying, and styling my hair mostly one-handed is frustrating, painful, and makes me mad as hell. It also renders me unable to let go of my anger and resentment toward Laura, the heifer who butchered my hair. Every day I hate her more, and I'm not generally into hate, except for George Bush. I'm telling you, every day it festers, and that shit's not healthy. Catching her in an alley while armed with a pair of pinking shears has replaced winning the lottery as my main fantasy.

Showering has become a dreaded ordeal and leaves me feeling like a big crybaby. I've considered going to work in pajamas rather than face getting dressed. And my pajamas aren't pretty, people. Sleep is difficult. That's an understatement. I'm ODing on Valerian and Unisom. I don't want to go on prescription pain relievers or sleep aids, because of the length of time involved with this thing. I mean, popping hard drugs for a couple of weeks or even a month is one thing, but when you're talking upwards of a year, that's something else. Who wants to end up like Rush Limbaugh?

The worst is making involuntary movements - like if you stumble and try to catch yourself, or automatically reach out to catch something, or if something startles you and makes you jump. Agony. There's a fraction of a second between the time you make the movement and the time that agony slams you like a rabid water buffalo on crystal meth, when you realize what you've done. That's the fraction of a second you consider bashing your head on concrete to knock yourself out. But there's not enough time.

To add to the fun, it's my right shoulder. I'm right-handed. I already mouse left-handed at work, so that's okay, but I'm starting to do other things left-handed. I'll be ambidextrous by the time this shit's over.

I've heard of some people who get bilateral FS. That's right, both arms at once! How the hell do those guys wipe their asses? Or drive? Or eat? Or do anything? Holy hell. If that happens, you'd better hope you have a partner or a live-in aide, because I don't see how you'd manage. It sucks having FS as a single person, even with only one arm affected. Basically, I can reach forward, to a certain height, with no problem. Any other direction is a definite no-go. At least I can type. Good thing -- that's pretty important for my job, hello. Like anyone needs a reason to stand out in this economy.

There is a surgical treatment option, but my HMO wouldn't go for it. Likewise the cortisone injections I've heard some patients get. The only treatment my HMO approves is physical therapy. Cheapass bastards. Last time, they did a few initial sessions with me, but basically handed me some papers with instructions and cartoon illustrations and told me to do it on my own at home. Then they collected their copay. But hey, we've got to guard against the evils of "socialized medicine" because US medical care is the best in the world!

Actually, maybe I was better off doing it at home. Check out this poor bastard. I can't even imagine being able to move my arm up that high, so he must be coming along nicely. Pay no attention to the screams. It's all about progress in physical therapy. No pain, no gain.

Brutal. My former drill sergeant is probably a physical therapist now. The one who got kicked out for trainee abuse. Anyway, this whole thing is making me really pissy.

I mean more than usual.

The Bohemian's Travels

Speaking of soccer ...

The Bohemian is back from China. Yes, she went to China, and no, that has absolutely nothing to do with soccer. Don't rush me, I'm getting there, ok? So the Bohemian went to China with a small group of singers from her University choir, sponsored by the State Department. Ten cities. That child has been more well-traveled than I am for about 8 years now. She was in Ghana over the summer, and now China. She's also been to Venice, Belgium, and Toronto without her dear mother. I'm hoping she'll move to Costa Rica one day and buy a house with an extra bedroom, but hey, that's just me.

Anyway, she and the rest of her singing crew were such a hit that they bagged an invitation to sing at another venue.

South Africa, 2010.

Yes, the World Cup, people - the friggin' World Cup.

The Bohemian is beside herself. Naturally.

Seattle Sounders FC: Real Sound Football

Seattle steps up with some real football. Fußball, fútbol, foci, fotbal, or - as we Americans insist - soccer, it doesn't matter what you call it, "the world's game" has finally come local.

Actually, I lie. I do care what you call it. I hate calling it soccer. I think it should be "football" and "American football" or "US football". Are we the only country in the world that doesn't recognize it as just football? OK, never mind, that's another rant. I'll call it soccer so everyone will know what the hell I'm talking about, and so I won't look like a pissy, purse-lipped grammar-control-freak pain in the ass. Even though I pretty much am.

Soccer is here, and in the big leagues, too: a brand spanking new MLS expansion team. For you US football fans, that's Major League Soccer. Pretty much analogous to an NFL team. Yeah, baby. That's right.

So I'm pretty excited.

I remember the '06 World Cup, not so long after I moved here. I was using vacation hours to go home and watch those matches. And I didn't have that much vacation time saved up back then, either. I was stoked. I was also floored that no one seemed to know what the hell I was talking about! I got comments like, "World Cup, what is that, sailing?" or "Oh, I didn't know soccer was that popular." What? Sailing? Are you serious? You didn't know it was that popular? Um, the World Cup final is THE most watched sporting event ever! It's actually US football that's "not that popular", in the big scheme of things, people. Jeez. Some perspective, please. Don't get me wrong, I love American football too. Go 'Hawks.

In fact, what is it with this either-or thing with US football fans? The whole soccer v. American football thing? It's like you can only like one or the other. If you ask someone whether they like soccer, the reply is likely to be, "Nah, I like real football." Yeah? Me too. I like real football and American football. What does one have to do with the other? US football is not a replacement for soccer. It's not even similar. It's not like baseball and softball, for Pete's sake. You might as well say, no, I don't like golf, I'm a croquet man myself. Or, nah, I'm not much into tennis, ping pong is my game! Oh, that sounds silly? Yeah, well that's about how related soccer and US football are, people. You don't have to choose. I've always thought that was some kind of weird sports dichotomy.

Anyway. They won their first regular season game 3 - zip against the New York Red Bulls. Hell yeah.

They're apparently the first football club to have their own marching band, Sound Wave, which is pretty friggin' awesome.

They've already sold more season tickets than any other MLS club. New as they are, too! That's impressive. Apparently the fans did Qwest field proud, rivaling Seawhawks fans in noise level, and standing practically the whole time. Yeah, baby. Hoo-ah.

Anyway, MLS in Seattle, folks. Next game is this Saturday. Bring beer.

Xylitol: Sugarless Gum Can Kill Your Dog

Last week Batman ate some Orbit Sweet Mint sugarless gum. The rogue canine taught himself how to pull open the junk drawer.  The top drawer. He pulled out a box of gum from Costco, along with a bag of hinges, instructions for the thermostat, a couple of magic markers, and some pizza coupons. I don't know how many packs of gum were left in the box, but in hindsight, I don't think it could have been many.

Oh. No wonder you look so guilty. Foolish Labradog, how much gum did you eat? Did you learn nothing from that emergency surgery situation? Yeah, that's right, hang your head, I'm talking about the Great Tampon Escapade, not to mention the Toothpick Incident. You'd think that would've cured you from indiscriminately snarfing down whatever you come across.

Well, when you're blowing bubbles out your ass, don't come whining to me.

But then, I thought, I'd better look this up. Just in case. And I was stunned. Orbit has an ingredient called Xylitol, a natural sugar alcohol, first harvested from the bark of birch trees in Finland and found in various fruits, vegetables, berries, even mushrooms. Xylitol has been used in Europe for some time now, but didn't find its way to the US market until about 2003. It's used in sugarless gums, candies, and in some baked goods.

Xylitol is great for humans: it's natural, has no aftertaste, is as sweet as sugar with only 40% of the calories, and studies have proven it actually reduces cavities. Something about the way it interacts with bacteria in the mouth. It's a godsend for diabetics, as it does not require insulin to metabolize, therefore does not impact blood sugar levels. And it tastes great. There are even studies suggesting a possible use in fighting osteoporosis! Great stuff, right? So what's the catch?

The catch, for dog owners, is that it can kill your dog. And it doesn't take much. I was lucky I didn't come home to a dead dog last week, people.

Dogs metabolize Xylitol much differently than we humans do. We process the stuff slowly. Dogs' bodies metabolize it all once. Xylitol tricks the dog's body into dumping massive amounts of insulin into the system, but guess what, there's no actual sugar there for the insulin to act on. The dog's blood sugar levels plummet, and acute hypoglycemia sets in.

Within 30 to 60 minutes, a dog can present with lethargy, ataxia, seizures, and even unconsciousness. Basically a diabetic coma. If it is not addressed quickly, the dog can die.

The other problem dogs face, in addition to the hypoglycemia, is liver failure. This can be accompanied by internal bleeding, due to clotting abnormalities. Even a dog exhibiting few hypoglycemic symptoms can end up with liver damage, or even acute hepatic failure. The liver damage may not manifest until 12 - 48 hours after ingestion, and it can be permanent.

There is no antidote for canine Xylitol poisoning. The acute hypoglycemia can be countered by inducing vomiting if the ingestion is discovered quickly, and/or by administering a dextrose IV solution. However, if the hypoglycemia is not treated quickly, liver damage or failure can follow, and vets are not able to do as much for that.

If you see any of these symptoms in your dog, especially if you suspect your dog may have had access to sugarless gum, candy, or sweets, get your dog to the vet immediately:

• Weakness or lethargy
• Pale gums
• Ataxia (uncoordinated movements)
• Depression
• Vomiting or diarrhea
• Hypokalemia (decreased potassium)
• Seizures
• Collapse
• Unconsciousness
• Liver dysfunction and/or failure

If discovered quickly, and you're sure about what your dog has ingested, you can induce vomiting using fresh hydrogen peroxide, 1tsp (5cc or 5ml) for each 10 lbs of body weight. (I've done this with Batman before, and it took 4 or 5 tsp. He weighs nearly 70 lbs. I did it with Mason once, it only took 1 tsp.) CALL YOUR VET FIRST: depending on your dog's symptoms, s/he may advise against inducing vomiting to avoid possible aspiration into the lungs, or if more than two hours has passed since the ingestion. Activated charcoal does not effectively absorb Xylitol in the stomach.

After hours, you can call the ASPCA 24-hour emergency poison hotline directly at 1-888-426-4435. They may apply a $60 charge, but you don't have time to waste if your dog has eaten this stuff. If this happens after hours, take your dog to a 24-hour emergency animal hospital. You guys know I don't say that lightly -- I know how much that shit costs.

What happened to Batman? He showed few symptoms, but that is apparently NOT typical. He was lethargic, but not terribly. I paid $160 to have the vet run complete blood work and liver enzymes on him, and tell me he was going to be fine. My vet said a few dogs seem to react more mildly to Xylitol than most. Apparently Batman is one of those few. I feel like he cheated death. I swear that dog has nine lives.

Let me stress, that is not the norm. I read story after story on the Internets about people coming home to dead, unconscious, or seizing dogs. Dogs DIE from this. Not just a few here and there, either. Others are euthanized because the damage to the liver is too severe in the end. Some dogs are under critical care treatment for days or even a week. This is nothing to mess around with, folks. It happens fast, and it doesn't take much. A couple of sticks of some gums can kill a smaller dog. Batman is the exception - extreme illness or death are the normal results. Or maybe he just didn't eat that much? I read about a dog named Copper who died from eating the exact same gum that Batman ate.

By all rights, Batman should've been dead by the time I got home.

Most Americans don't know about Xylitol. Many vets are still unaware of the dangers. The number of cases is rising quickly, as more and more products use Xylitol. If the owner is unaware that Rover got some Tic Tacs from the car, or snatched some gum from an open purse, those incidents get chalked up to an unknown cause, so the number of deaths is probably higher than reported.

For the record, other sweeteners like sorbitol and mannitol are not harmful to dogs. The gum Batman ate had Xylitol listed as "less than 2%", with sorbitol as the first ingredient, and mannitol also listed. Other gums, like Trident, have higher amounts. Orbit made a new line called Orbit Complete, in which the main draw is the high levels of Xylitol. Like I said, it's great for human teeth.

There is pressure on the FDA and manufacturers to use warning labels. The FDA says they're in the business of people, not animals. The manufacturers are afraid people will think the product itself is bad, when actually it's just the way dogs process it. So, no labels yet. Greedyass corporate bastards. Capitalism at its best.

So no cookies, gummy bites, muffins, mints, or gum for Fido. I'm glad we still have Batman. I read a lot of heartbreaking stories about people who lost their animals. Be careful with your canine friends, people.

Steele - They Love Him, They Love Him Not.

So Michael Steele is having to backtrack again. Remember when his party got their panties in a bunch about his "sea of white faces" comment at their convention? Then recently, he had to apologize for calling Rush Limbaugh's rhetoric "incendiary" and "ugly". Now he's in hot water for saying maybe abortion should be left up to the states, and implying that it's a matter of choice. Mercy. The Repubs had him backtracking so fast on that one, I'm surprised the man didn't trip over his shoelaces.

Watch out Mr. Steele - the far Reich isn't down with that whole marching to a different drummer thing. They prefer a nice uniform lockstep. Like the Borg. No dissension in the ranks.

I really don't see what all the apologizing is about. I mean, come on, Rush Limbaugh is a right-wing radio host. He gets paid to be incendiary. Saying he's incendiary is not an insult, it's a job description. And the Republican convention WAS a sea of white faces. I mean, damn, I'd have been scared to be there, and I'm white.

And states' rights -- aren't the Repubs all about states' rights? Wasn't that whole "war of Northern aggression" thing over states' rights? Well, when it comes to women's bodies, they're apparently not for states' rights. My bad. I guess big government up in your business is OK in that case.

Yeah, I'm pretty disgusted with that slum love comment he threw at Bobby Jindal, and some of the ways he's going about his mission of Republican change make me cringe, but I have to admit, I feel for the man. The Repubs are just salivating all over themselves, they can't wait for him to fail. They are on his ass like, well, white on rice.

I'm sure Steele knows what's up. Whether he can say so publicly or not, he's got to know the Repubs didn't give a good goddamn about diversity in the ranks until they saw the Dem candidates for president. Then all of a sudden, up they pop with Palin, Jindal, and Steele.

Kumbaya, y'all.

I think Steele genuinely does want to bring change to the Right. Granted, his methods are odd, but let's face it, ANY way the Right tries to bring hip hop to the ranks is going to seem odd as hell, right? I don't agree with most of his views -- hello, Republican -- but I can see that he sees his party imploding. He sees they need to branch the hell out, quit letting the wingnut evangelicals run the joint, bring in the young people. Balance out the old white men. So he's trying to make change to save his party, poor guy.

Problem is, the GOP doesn't really want to change. They know they need to -- thus their new shining stars -- but they don't want to. They don't want Steele to actually do anything different. They just want him to stand there, look diverse, and do what the hell they tell him to do.

Gee, Michael, we didn't expect you to take this Change thing seriously! Stop fooling around and get in step!

So as much as I'm delighting in the ongoing right wing implosion, I'm thinking what they're doing with Michael is pretty fucked up. They put him in place to illustrate change, but that's all they wanted to do - illustrate it. Once they saw him taking it seriously, using his position of power to do things differently, they got nervous. Now they're circling like sharks, waiting for him to step too far out of line, and at that point, it's win-win for them: they get that cookie for hiring the Black guy, without actually having to deal with him being in power. They can say it's not their fault. They tried, but gee, he just wasn't up to the task. The unspoken message being, of course, those people just aren't up to the task. Which allows the good ol' boys to get back to normal. I can see them now, mopping their brows with their handkerchiefs, "Whew! That was close! I thought he was one of the good ones, too!"

I'm no more a fan of Mr. Steele than I am any other right winger, but I hope he hangs tough. Either way, his party is pretty much in the toilet for the forseeable future. Come on, Mr. Steele, look around. Those old white dudes are basically pushing you out on a plank. If you decide to jump ship and come to Blue side, let us know.