I read an article a while back by a guy whose wife went on a business trip, leaving him home alone with his teenager. Since it was summer vacation, he decided to make a list of Six Movies All Parents Should Watch With Their Teens, “essential viewing because of their cultural and historical relevance.”
My husband and I tried to make our kids culturally literate in all aspects of their lives. They’ve had all the cool music seep into their subconscious — on vinyl, no less — Sinatra, Queen, Boston, Earth Wind and Fire, Tom Lehrer, Billie Holiday, Pat Benatar, Green Day, and The Beatles, to mention just a few renowned troubadours held in the highest esteem in BeckyLand. They learned how to swing dance. They’ve seen as many Broadway shows in person as we could afford to attend, and the rest on DVD and video. They’ve eaten all kinds of food from when they were tiny. They’ve read widely and deeply in many genres. We traveled with them as often as we could. We watched with them the popular TV shows of the day, which was, admittedly, much easier in the 1990s and 2000s when there were fewer channels.
I will say, the day they laughed at the second or third layer joke in The Simpsons was a proud day for me. Not ashamed to say I wiped a wee tear.
So here is the list that guy proposed:
All the President’s Men
To Kill A Mockingbird
RBG (the new biopic about Ruth Bader Ginsburg which I haven’t see yet)
I don’t necessarily disagree with any of those, and his covers the historical portion of cultural literacy a bit better than mine, but here’s my list:
The Princess Bride
True Grit (John Wayne version)
Sleepless in Seattle
The King & I … or 1776 …. or The Sound of Music … or Camelot
Stand By Me … or The Sandlot
So, what would be on your list? Keep in mind we’re talking about young teenagers becoming culturally literate here. (Which is why I had to leave off one of my all-time faves, Shawn of the Dead. Such great, gory zombie fun! But probably not for tykes.)
Mostly I hang out with other writers or people who absolutely don’t care that I’m a writer. (I’m looking at you, Dad.) But occasionally I find myself in the company of someone who thinks I am simply fantastic for no other reason than there are books published with my name on them.
It inflates my ego more than a summer supply of beach toys.
But that doesn’t last long, for I know the truth about my “glamorous writer’s life.”
For instance, I know that sometimes I must hand-deliver a sandwich bag full of dog poo to the vet’s office.
And that is not a glamorous dog I own, either. Trust me.
Today marks one year since my spinal surgery. You remember, that day they sliced through the fascia in my upper back, hand-cranked my muscles out of the way, chipped away part of my spine, scooped out that benign meningioma, then whispered to my nerves an admonition to behave.
Remember? No? Honestly, me neither. But I’ve been re-reading all the notes I took before and after surgery, the texts I sent myself in the middle of the night in the hospital so I wouldn’t forget anything, the Facebook posts charting my phenomenal victories. “Two laps around the kitchen in my walker … woohoo!”
I was fastidious about keeping notes because one, that’s how I roll, and two, because when I found out I had this tumor and needed surgery, I searched — and I mean SEARCHED — for first-person accounts. But there were none to be had. So I knew, if I survived, I’d have to write one.
There are some interesting passages in my notes.
“You can do a lot of things with words, but describing pain isn’t one of them. Shooting, stabbing, aching, throbbing, twinging, cramping, seering … none of these describe anything happening to me.”
“When that pain roars back it’s like a bullet train. Fast and directly at me. Feels quite personal. Like a betrayal.”
“I can absolutely see people just giving up. Pain is hard. Moving is hard. Everything is hard. Here [in the hospital] they just do stuff for you. Or they don’t and you realize you just don’t care.”
This fascinates me because I honestly don’t remember much pain.
“My neurosurgeon came in to check on me [the next day], and was very pleased with himself. Said I was fully cured. I disagreed with him just the teensiest bit.”
“These texts to myself don’t make any noise. Once in awhile, though, it makes my “sending” noise and I wonder who I just told all my poop info to.”
This is hilarious in retrospect because I had obviously been cogent enough to turn the sound on and off, but I acted like it was a highly unusual rift in the Universe.
Mostly my middle-of-the-night texts were perfectly lucid. And then there was this one: “I hope I don’t have to muster all the persistence/hope/etc. I’d prefer it to be thrust upon me.”
And, yes, I was on drugs …. “Your leg pain brought to you this morning by Sleeping Too Long On Your Left Hip. Side effects include cursing, saying bad words, expletives, and grandiloquent language. Treatment includes pancakes and finger weapons. Pew-pew-pew.”
When people ask how I am these days, I tell them the truth. Still numb across my upper back, my right underarm, my lady bits, and my left leg. My balance is weird, so it always looks like I’m walking just the teensiest bit drunk. Still some things I can’t do — walk barefoot, run without looking like a walrus on the beach, jump, or hurry for any reason.
But that’s about it. Can’t really complain, considering all the slicing, cranking, chipping, and scooping. Unfortunately, my recovery after 12 months isn’t vastly different from my recovery after 2 months. Except I’m less cranky today. And I still can’t clip my toenails very easily.
The difference between 2 months and 12 months is clearly one of acceptance. I’ve lost perspective after all this time about how I really am, versus how much I’ve simply adapted to my limitations.
But I continue to surprise myself. I still work with my personal trainer. Last night she had me do single-leg squats with my foot behind me on a chair. Neither one of us thought I could do it. For the first set, I glommed onto her for balance while getting myself sorted. For the second set, I glommed onto her and then she gave me 15-pound weights to hold and walked across the room. For the third set, she stayed across the room. Afterward she said, “You couldn’t do that before your surgery.”
So, yes, acceptance and attitude. But I would like to find an ending for this tale of sound and fury so I can start crafting my memoir. I was thinking about signing up for the Colfax Half-Marathon, but am so relieved I came to my senses. Running like a walrus on a beach for two blocks of a 13-mile race is a lousy ending to a memoir. Worse if I actually croaked while doing it, which is the likely scenario.
Then I was thinking that the ending would be when I went to soap up my armpit and it magically felt like an actual armpit, but that doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen any time soon. Or perhaps ever.
And then I was thinking, maybe the ending will be when I can tap dance. But I wasn’t really doing that particularly well before the surgery.
So now, I don’t know. How do you think I should end my story about an ordeal that hasn’t technically ended?
It’s been eight weeks since my surgery. I’m cranky and I have a litany of woes. For example, taking a shower hurts my skin. My knee buckles randomly and unexpectedly. My balance sucks. I’m still numb in my entire left leg, my right underarm, across my upper back and in my lady bits. (It dawned on me yesterday that list comprises half my stupid body.) I don’t know if I should be doing something I’m not, or stop doing something I am. I have very little core strength. And yesterday I realized I could rest my finger in the indentation of my incision and feel the upward splay of my back on either side. It feels like the Sydney Opera House back there.
Shall I go on?
I feel weak, flabby, confused, frustrated, and pissed off. And I’m tired of feeling weak, flabby, confused, frustrated, and pissed off.
But before anyone gets twitchy with the platitudes, yes, I know how lucky I am. I can drive. I can type. I can walk, talk, squawk, doubletalk, and jaywalk around the clock while I listen to Johann-freakin-Bach, but I can’t clip my toenails.
And, yes, I know it’s only been two months “and these things take time” so I should have patience. But I don’t. Not one thing has changed in the last couple of weeks. Except maybe my optimism.
So if you feel the urge to remind me that I’m lucky or that I should just be patient, well … don’t. Just don’t. It’s not helpful and makes me go all spider monkey. And if you do, I will be forced to creep through the cover of darkness and stab you repeatedly in that well-meaning place where your wisdom, compassion, and common sense resides. Repeatedly.
And I simply don’t have the energy.
Instead, tell me, you know, something else. And while you’re considering your comment, please enjoy these exquisite demotivational posters from Despair.com that seem appropriate today.
Maybe “easy” isn’t quite the right word, but now I can boast that I have a leaf guy, a doggie dermatologist, AND a neurosurgeon on speed dial.
I’ve been whining for several months about a pain I’ve been having in my upper back. It started as a knot under my right shoulder blade. I assumed it hung around so long because nobody could reach it — not me or my trainer, chiropractor, or massage therapist. Eventually it moved from there, but still we couldn’t pinpoint exactly, nor treat it effectively.
I wasn’t particularly worried. The pain stabbed me early in the morning, but always let me sleep. Worst pain was when I had to blow my nose. Luckily that only happened once or twice a day. Exercising didn’t hurt, and if I set my timer to remember to move around every hour or so, I was fine. A couple of ibuprofins did the trick to alleviate most of the pain. And I didn’t even need to do that every day.
But clearly, something was wrong, since it was hanging around. I went to my doctor who said it sounded like some nerve damage, maybe a pinched nerve. By then the pain would occasionally shoot around my right side, under my arm. We set up appointments for lab work, an ultrasound to check my gallbladder, and an MRI.
Labs and ultrasound completely normal. My MRI was scheduled for 6pm on Friday, January 6, 2017.
Halfway through the MRI a radiologist and nurse magically appeared and they and the technician started acting differently. Their cryptic “noncommunication” spoke louder than any words.
I got home, knowing something was wrong. Before I left the imaging department, they gave me a CD with the MRI on it. My husband and I plugged it into the laptop. Nothing jumped out at us. No neon-colored blob with flashing arrows and aa-oog-ah horns like I expected based on the technician’s cryptic warning to call my doctor before noon on Monday if I hadn’t heard from anyone.
Within a couple of hours — 9pm on a Friday night — a doctor called. She scared the shit outta me by telling me I had a 2.3cm mass pushing on my spine, “probably a benign meningioma” but it “can’t wait until Monday.”
She said she’d talk to the neurosurgeon on call and report back. She called me 30 minutes later, less frantic now. The neuro will call me on Monday to schedule surgery. Because I was walking and talking fine, and not in serious pain, the impressive size of the mass is less worrisome. I could have been growing this thing for years. Apparently, I’m only “urgent” and not “emergent.” Pfft.
I checked my calendar. I have stuff to do In January, not the least of which was going to see the Tony award-winning “Fun Home” at the theatre, something I’ve been looking forward to for two years!
On Monday, January 9, I spoke with the neurosurgeon’s nurse who answered my immediate questions and set up an appointment for Friday 13th (which she assured me was the luckiest day).
She said after that appointment they’d schedule surgery within 2 weeks. We discussed the fact that they’re not worried about delaying like that, so I decided I wouldn’t either.
I felt much more calm after talking to her, finally feeling brave enough to google “spinal meningioma.”
Turns out I’m not such a special snowflake after all. Read this and this.
All week I’ve been back and forth in my head about whether I’ll be able to get to the theatre on Sunday the 15th. (Tomorrow for those of you keeping score.) The doctor who called the night of my MRI told me that I need to call 911 if I have “tingling, weakness, numbness, or loss of bladder/bowel control.” But that last one is kind of a no-brainer, don’t you think?
However, all week long, little by little, like an incoming North Sea tide, I’ve had a creeping numbness spreading over me. I didn’t call 911 — surprise — because I knew I was seeing the neurosurgeon at 1:00 on Friday the 13th. Besides, I’ve been told that’s the luckiest day. It’s not a numbness that renders me paralyzed or anything. More like I’ve had novocaine shots all around my torso down my legs to my toes. To see me walk, you might not know I’m doing it a bit goofy, planting my feet very methodically and a bit wider than normal. But just like an inflamed taste bud on your tongue, it seems like it’s a thousand times worse than it really is.
But I still packed my hospital Go Bag with all the important stuff — books, Kindle, charger, pens and notebook, comfy clothes for when I’m discharged. I was sure when the neurosurgeon saw me and I described my numbness he’d scramble his staff like so many fighter jets and I’d be whisked across the street to the hospital.
But you know what he said?
“Yeah, your spine’s not working so good right now.”
Kinda love him.
He’s calm and very, very patient. He answered all my questions and told me how many of these operations he’s done before. I told him I wished that number was higher. He deadpanned, “I do other stuff too, you know.”
He told me to go to the theatre on Sunday. So I will. And I’ll enjoy every minute.
I’ll spare you all the gory details of the surgery, although I want to remember to ask somebody to take photos for me. Suffice it to say, this tumor is in my upper back, filling the space in my spinal cord between T2 and T3. It’s pushing the nerve way off to the side. He’ll go in, snip it out, then smooth everything back where it goes, all over the course of three hours. Remarkable, eh?
Surgery isn’t technically scheduled yet but I suspect it’ll be late next week. I’ll be in the hospital about 4 days, depending on my pain (again, ay caramba!), but no bed rest afterward. Up and at ‘em, with restrictions like no lifting, no exercise other than walking, and such. Follow ups at 3 and 6 weeks.
I’m writing this on Saturday afternoon January 13th and I’m beginning to find the humor in most every part of this situation.
For instance, in the shower this morning I was irked that the water wasn’t getting hot enough and kept nudging it up. Then I remembered. “Oh yeah. I’m numb.”
They gave me some special soap to use before I come for my surgery. Because apparently, my homemade lard-and-dill pickle shower gel suddenly isn’t good enough.
They told me I’d be able to do light housework. I told them they were wrong.
They told me it might take up to three weeks for the anesthesia to clear from my system and that until it does, I might find I get weepy or angry for no reason. I caught my husband’s eye and said, “See? It’s been the anesthesia all these years.”
I’ll be here all week, folks. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.
And I got to make one of my favorite stupid jokes. I asked the doctor if I’d be able to play the piano after my surgery. He said of course I could. “Great! Because I couldn’t before.”
He laughed and all was right with the world.
It’s been suggested that Nala can be my service dog while I recover. But in her befuddlement that I was trying to nap the other day — something she’s never seen before — she literally jumped on the bed and sat on my head.
I’m thinking her talents are better used elsewhere. Not sure where. Just elsewhere.
While this is major surgery — very delicate and very scary — I don’t really have a choice about it. As with all experiences, I’ll blog and write about it because that’s how I process and remember information. I’ll post updates here and on Facebook. I’ll also keep trying to find the humor in my situation. Mainly by encouraging my surgeon to do this …
In an effort to turn back my aging, creaky clock, I’ve started doing yoga again.
The benefit of being an aging, creaky clock, of course, is that I know myself pretty well by now.
I know I don’t have to taste watermelon any more because “maybe this time I’ll like it.” I won’t. I don’t. You can’t make me, Sam I Am.
I also know I can find people in the world who, for the right amount of money, will come to my house and do everything I find distasteful. I believe they’re called “housecleaners.”
And I know I will never leave the house to exercise. I have gone to gyms, pools, and yoga studios in my carefree youth, but the promise of good health simply cannot overcome my steadfast inertia. It’s like a religion with me.
So I was delighted when a friend of mine waxed poetic about a website called YogaGlo, where you can stream all kinds of yoga practices for every skill level, every time limit, every body part for something like $18/month. You can perform feats of zen-like dexterity on your carpeted bedroom floor where falling out of your Double Eagle or your Firefly pose won’t break your delicate hip or ego.
I’ve been with it for a couple of months now and am truly loving it. I’m becoming more flexible, my back and neck don’t hurt so much, I sleep better, I’m stronger.
And I’m laughing more because the instructors say entertaining things like …
• Expand through the heart as if your collarbones can smile
• You put it into park and you put your coins in the meter and you allow the weight of your body to drop
• Breathe some space into your hips
• You’re letting your muscles peel away from your bones so you can become a puddle on your mat
• Soften your inner groin
• Shift your gaze from the outer world to the inner world
• Soften your eyes
• Melt the crown of your head into the floor
• Move deeper into your human
• Exhale through the outside of your hips
• Bring a whole new level of intelligence to your foot
I don’t know how to do any of that yet, but I’m going to keep trying.
Maybe I’ll ask my foot for help.
What words of wisdom have you heard from your yogi?
My husband and I are in a bit of a food rut. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, and in fact, it saves us time, money, and energy to eat the same lunch every day. Wait. We don’t eat the same lunch, we each get our own, but we’re eating exactly the same thing every weekday. You knew what I meant.
We jumped on the SALAD IN A JAR bandwagon.
It’s been a couple of months and we’re really loving it. He takes his to work every day, but I have mine here at home where I work.
I’ve been posting about our journey on Facebook and someone commented that they didn’t understand why I would need to do this if I worked at home, perhaps picturing a woman with my name and hairstyle who wasn’t quite so lazy as me.
But I am lazy, er, efficient and I have the misfortune of a history of gaining weight due to not eating enough. A ridiculous problem to have, but there it is. I tend to get very involved in my writing and the other work I need to do, so I forget to eat. Or I postpone it. This means I either grab something easy that I can eat at my desk, or I end up so ravenous that I storm through the kitchen like a competitive eater at the county fair.
So, now, with my Salads in Jars, I mitigate my damage by setting an alarm to remind me to eat, and looking forward to it because it’s also the only time I allow myself to do my beloved crossword puzzles. And because it’s Real Food, it takes real time to eat, giving me ample guilt-free crossword time.
When we decided to do this, I sent out a call to my Facebook peeps and they gave me some basic info to begin with.
• Wet ingredients on the bottom, dry on top.
• Find a very long fork or a bowl to dump them into. Unless you enjoy getting salad dressing all over your fingers. This was excellent advice because I was all set to tip it back and slurp it down like a drink.
• The plastic lids are a lot more convenient and dishwasher friendly. This might be good advice, but I had already bought the metal ones and we wash dishes by hand so it’s kind of a moot point. I was smart [read lucky] enough to buy the wide mouth jars because that definitely matters.
Here’s what I’ve learned along the way.
May 25 — Our journey begins.
May 30 — Prepped our first dozen Salad-in-a-Jar lunches. Took 40 minutes with hubs doing all the chopping and me, you know, directing. Without the cost of the jars, these salads are $3.46. (I got a dozen wide mouth 32oz jars for $12.) Now we’ll just have to see if we like having salads every day and what the last couple ones look like. Right now, though, they’re purty! One thing I hadn’t thought about was whether we had enough room in the refrigerator for 12 quart jars. Luckily, we did.
May 31 — Day One Salad-in-A-Jar. One smaaaaall problem. The olive oil had solidified in the refrigerator. (See it there on the tomatoes?) Turned out to be no big whoop. Five minutes or so while I filled a drink and got my crossword ready and it was fine. Gave it a stir and presto! Everything crisp and delish.
June 1 — Day 2 Salad in a Jar. Today I got it out of the fridge and shook it, to unsolidify the olive oil. Clearly, I’m stronger than I look. Despite my vigor, just bruised the lettuce a bit. All still crunchy and delicious.
June 2 — Day 3 Salad In A Jar. Started eating before I remembered to take a picture. Still good, crunchy and delicious. Halfway through our stash.
June 6 — Today is Day 7 of Salad in a Jar. Day 3 was Thursday and I didn’t have one Friday-Sunday. Happy to report everything is still crunchy, but a couple of the cucumbers that were sliced thin are a bit wilty. Except for them, all is delicious.
June 8 — Blech. Ten days is too many for Salad in a Jar. But all in all, an excellent experiment.
Here’s what we’ll do from now on.
on Sunday, we’ll make five days worth of salads for each of us
we’ll chop the cucumbers bigger and make sure they’re closer to the top
and even though it was perfectly fine to have the oil and vinegar in there, we don’t really need to, so we won’t. Hubs can keep a bottle of dressing in his fridge at work. It will make cleaning the jars easier, too.
June 19 — Salad In A Jar experiment continues! This week we’re trying to quantify and simplify so we don’t have to think. No salad dressing, and no cucumber because we got a bitter one last time and it put us off. Here’s our new recipe. I’ve written it in the order it goes in the jar. That way hubs knows what to chop up first so I’m not standing around twiddling my thumbs.
2 pkgs cherry tomatoes
1 can of beans (garbanzo or black, rinsed and dried a bit with paper towels)
1 head cauliflower
3 large broccoli crowns
1 red bell pepper
1 red onion
1 bag lettuce
1 pkg chicken breast from the deli (or a small summer sausage)
green olives (I put 6 or 8 in each jar)
sunflower seeds (1T per jar)
1 pkg blue cheese
1 bag spinach (or kale from the garden)
This time it took us less than an hour from leaving the house to grocery shop (for the salads PLUS our other food for the week) until the salads were in the refrigerator and the kitchen was clean.
July 11 — I forgot we put black beans in our Salads inJars this week and had a fleeting thought we added candy. Which is hilarious because black beans do not look like candy. Not any that I’d eat, anyway.
Have you played with Salad In A Jar? Any other good tips? What do you put in yours?
Because I only do for others every minute of every day … and because I’ve been named Mother of the Decade … I was asked recently for advice on how to shower Mom with affection on her upcoming holiday.
As I think about it, though, I guess it could have been a ploy to keep me from talking about myself so much, but we don’t dwell on unpleasantness like that in BeckyLand.
At any rate, here are some inexpensive ideas for those of you hit hard by the recession. Remember, it doesn’t mean there has to be a recession of love.
• Get busy on a stylish macaroni necklace for the mom in your life. The more glitter the better. In fact, spill a bunch on the carpet. Moms love that.
• One year I brought a new baby boy home from the hospital on Mother’s Day. I had to return him a few days later at the request of the hospital administration … some legal mumbo jumbo about kidnapping and indictments. It might not be the right gift for everyone, but it was a fun way to celebrate before my prison sentence.
• Hand-letter some “Hug Coupons.” These are best if you live near her. And have impeccable hygiene.
• Give her a six-pack of beer. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that there are six hours on Sunday afternoons. Mother’s Day is no exception.
• If you still live at home, move out. If that’s not quite feasible because you’re, say, between “this many” and 34-going-on-35, then at least give her a written timetable for when she might get her life back.
• Bestow upon Mom one of your grimiest, most used toys, elaborately and lovingly wrapped in the Sunday funnies. She’ll appreciate the humor that makes it look like you “forgot” Mother’s Day. Again.
• Bring her a carefully crafted breakfast in bed that includes a Mom-sized portion of Teriyaki beef jerky, a fruit roll-up with maple syrup dipping sauce, and a can of Mountain Dew. Include a straw and a couple of napkins from Burger King. Make it elegant.
• Everyone knows moms never get enough time to themselves to indulge in their favorite relaxation activities, so help her by managing her time for her. Read the current issue of Mad Magazine to her through the bathroom door while she soaks in the tub. Be sure to shout so she hears every calming word.
• Go to the mall with her and mock hoochie girls. That’s some good bonding time right there. Really, a gift for you both.
• Start doing your own laundry. But in a good way. Not the way that requires her to grab the mop and call the repairman.
• Transplant spider glands into your body so you can spin your own silk to make her a pretty scarf. (Granted, some of these ideas are more complicated than others. I guess it just depends on how much you love your mother.)
• Friend her on Facebook and make a conscious effort not to delete all the messages she writes on your wall. You don’t have to send her a L’il Green Plant though. Some things are obvious.
• Sneak a peek at the appointment book at your local day spa and smuggle your mom in as “the two o’clock.” Be sure to get there early. Oh, and before you go, remind her to wear sneakers as there might be running involved. Call it “cardio” if you must, but don’t refer to a police chase through the downtown streets.
• Quit playing wii for ten minutes so Mom can yogafy herself in the exertvputeraryden room. Or if you just can’t drag yourself away, would it kill ya to invite her to wii bowl once in awhile?!
• Clog her inbox with adorable videos of cute widdle puppies like this one …
• Put on a show! Act out all the parts in her favorite movie. Or Star Wars.
• Nominate her for Mother of the Year. This is really an idea for next year because, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve already won for this decade … But it will give you the jumpstart over your siblings a mere twelve months from now. THEN you’ll be her favorite.
• Better yet, let Mom agonize over and analyze every little thing in your life — from your poop to your diet to your clothing choices to the way you drive to your love life to how you raise your kids, whether you have any or not. Seriously. This makes her happy.
I hope I’ve helped make your Mother’s Day celebration special. And to my own mom I say, “Hey … Wanna wii bowl?”
What will you be doing for your mom this Mother’s Day? Which of these things are you hoping for from your kids?
Nala the WonderDog was recently diagnosed with Discoid Lupus Erythematosus (DLE). Colorado, where we live, has an extremely high rate of auto-immune diseases, both in people and in pets. And they don’t really know why.
Just like “people lupus,” DLE is an immune disease, but instead of affecting the whole body, it mostly just affects her nose.
Over the course of about 18 months, she has slowly lost the black pigment and cobblestone texture of her nose. No other symptoms, and it doesn’t bother her one bit.
There’s no cure for DLE, but symptoms can be managed with a topical ointment my dermatology veterinarian prescribes. [Yeah, read that again. I have a doggie dermatologist.] I expect to receive it in the next day or two and I’m told within a couple of months, we’ll see her nose return to its former glory. I’ll report back.
In the meantime, and forever, I’m supposed to put sunscreen on her widdle nose before she goes outside for longer than 10 minutes. It has to be broad-spectrum, at least 30 SPF, waterproof, and non-toxic.
I’ve been doing this for a couple of weeks, kinda sorta, and I’ve come to the conclusion there are Four Stages of Dog Sunscreening one must pass through.
First Stage — Oblivious
This is where you think “how hard can it be?” You dab a bit of sunscreen on your finger, rub it on her nose then walk away, thinking your job is done. That nose is licked clean before you even cap the tube.
Second Stage — Reasoning
Here, you apply the sunscreen using the same logic you would with your children or recalcitrant spouse, saying things like, “We can’t go outside until you put it on” and “All the other husbands are doing it.” It’s very similar to telling a child (or a recalcitrant spouse), “You can’t have your dessert if you don’t eat your veggies.” Unfortunately, reasoning of this kind is wasted on dogs who eat sticks, bugs, grass, and all manner of things you wouldn’t think to bribe them with. “Dessert” holds no special meaning to a dog, unless of course, it’s delicious, like zinc oxide.
Third Stage — Bait & Switch
This is where you apply it with your right hand, while you’re doling out love with the left. (Or versa-dextrous.) “Who’s a good girl, standing so still while getting sunscreened?” … scritch, scritch … “Who’s Mommy’s favorite?” … knead, knead … “Who’s getting more attention than my children ever did?” … pat, pat, scritch, scritch
But ultimately, you realize that none of these strategies are really working as you’d like. Which leads us to the
Fourth Stage — Hopeful
It looks like this: dab – lick – dab – lick – this time’ll be different – dab – lick – dab – lick – dab – lick – this time’ll be different – dab – lick. Repeated until one of you passes out from ennui. Hint. It won’t be the dog.
This is very much an example of “pilling a duck.” What ridiculous things do you do for your pet?