It's All Going to the Dogs

Laverne and Shirley actually brought me the paper Saturday morning.

“Read it! Read it out loud!” they barked, their little tails wagging in anticipation.

“Why the sudden interest in current events?” I asked my dachshunds, thrilled that they actually fetched me the paper. Then I spotted the Wall Street Journal article on animal rights in Switzerland.

Voters in Switzerland would be going to the polls the next day, the article said, to vote on a referendum that would compel every town in the country to provide legal representation for animals.

Switzerland, more commonly known for its cheese and tight-lipped bankers, is also the most pro-animal-rights nation on the planet. For example, prospective dog owners must take a four-hour course before being allowed to purchase a pet. By contrast, new parents in our country don’t get that much instruction before leaving the hospital with their infant.

In addition, “social” Swiss animals – birds, pigs, fish, and yaks, to name a few – cannot be purchased alone. They must be provided a companion. Every a sole needs a soulmate, I guess. And get this: sick fish cannot just be flushed down the toilet. Swiss law dictates they be quickly bashed in the head or placed in a mixture of water and clove oil dissolved in alcohol.

Bella, the kitty cat, piped up: “Send me to Switzerland. I’d love to get away from these stupid dogs, and I could make a nice living taking care of all the sick fish.”

“Here’s something you would like, Bella,” I said to my kitty, “In Switzerland, it is illegal to deprive a pussy of human of human contact for more than 24 hours.”

“Whatever.” Bella jumped on my head and dug her claws in. “That law benefits humans, not cats.”

If the measure passed, the article went on to say, animals in Switzerland would be guaranteed the right to an attorney. And if they could not afford an attorney, one would be provided at the expense of the government.

“The only animal I know that can afford an attorney is Trouble, the Maltese who inherited $12 million when Leona Helmsley died. And I’ll bet that dog has a rich lawyer,” I said.

Laverne and Shirley ignored my snide remarks and howled in joyous support of the referendum.

“What would you two possibly need a lawyer for?” I asked.

The first complaint filed by their attorney, they explained, would be for my failure to provide proper nourishment.

“Your bowls are never empty! How can you say I don’t feed you?”

The key phrase, apparently, is “ proper nourishment.” According to Laverne and Shirley, dachshunds require fried eggs at least every other day to maintain the shine in their coats. Dry kibble is the equivalent of feeding my kids Cocoa Puffs for every meal.

“Okay. I’ll try to do better,” I promised. “Is that all?”

They were just getting started. The shock collars had to go. Air conditioning in the summer would be a new requirement. They needed crushed ice, not cubes, in their water dish on days when the high would be over 80 degrees. But their biggest beef? Recently, our vet recommended that I purchase health insurance for my dogs, citing a dachshund’s propensity for back problems and the age of my dogs. Laverne and Shirley are pissed at my refusal to purchase medical and dental insurance. They’re scared I’ll just put them down and buy a $400 purebred replacement the next day.

I decided to change the subject and went back to the Wall Street Journal. The biggest proponent of the Swiss referendum, according to the article, is a 51-year-old Swiss attorney named Antoine Goetschel, who is the animal rights public defender in Zurich. Last month, he took an amateur angler to court for abusing a 22-pound pike. The fisherman had to fight the fish for ten minutes before reeling it in, and that, according to Goetschel, constituted prolonged fish agony that could be considered cruel.

“I could’ve popped that pike in two minutes,” the 7-pound Bella boasted.

I continued reading. “Goetschel is a vegetarian who has no pets and avoids taking medication because of his opposition to research on lab animals. He became interested in animal rights at the age of 23, when an accident left him unable to speak for 10 days, helping him understand the plight of animals who can't express themselves.”

“I have no use for vegetarians,” Bella sniffed.

“A lawyer who can’t talk is appealing,” I pointed out.

“We need someone like him!” Laverne and Shirley yapped in unison. “A voice insisting on equal rights for all, starting with mandatory health insurance.”

Wait a minute. Lawyers, government, and mandatory health insurance. Where have I heard that before?

Assholes Anonymous

It seems the Fundamentalist Police have a warrant out for my arrest. Anonymous has filed a complaint against me for rebellion, alcohol consumption, cursing, crude references to sexual activity, and trying to destroy 40 years’ worth of ministry. For a complete list of the charges, go to http://graceadams-sandpapers.blogspot.com/2010/02/combatting-assholiness.html

She’s right. I’m rebellious. I haven’t washed my hair in three days, and I left my bed unmade this morning.

As for the boozing and bad language, I plead guilty as charged. In fact, just so everyone knows how bad I am, in the past week I’ve had two beers and a glass of cabernet. I’ve said “ass” six times, “shit” twice, and “hump” four times.

Just so we’re clear, I only said the word “hump.” Since I’m not married, I didn’t actually hump. That could get me stoned.

But trying to destroy 40 years’ worth of ministry? I’m not guilty of that. First of all, I wouldn’t do that. I love the church, and I love my family. Secondly, it’s impossible. Thinking I could single-handedly take down that institution is giving myself way too much credit. I’d have to have an ego bigger than my ass to think I was that important. (Dang. I said “ass” again).

Basically, Anonymous wants me to shut the hell up because, in her words, she’s feeling very protective of my brother, seeing as how he must feel so betrayed over the breakup of MY marriage.

This woman drives a tricycle.

She has, however, graciously offered to drop the charges if I will see a counselor on the other side of town and only write things she considers helpful to humanity.

My counselor in Roswell will happily confirm my presence in her office more than fifty times in the past two years. Good thing I sold my soul for money, or I wouldn’t be able to afford the expensive therapy.

And here’s a helpful hint for humanity, something my therapist has been trying to hammer into my head: Don’t let people like Anonymous stop you from telling the truth. For the first thirty-five years of my life, I tried to live up to the impossible standard of being perfect so that no one would ever say the preacher did a bad job of raising his daughter. Quite frankly, perfectionism doesn’t work for me. I’m human. That’s my truth.

Unfortunately, Anonymous appointed herself the judge and jury in my case. She won’t appreciate my truthfulness. And since I’m so unrepentantly trying to hurt my brother, who she feels the need to protect, I’m screwed.

I hope there’s enough spandex on the planet to cover her tricycle-riding ass.

And I hope they serve beer in hell.

A Pain (or two) in the Neck

Recently, a neighbor took the time to walk across the street and ring my doorbell to inform me that he is unable to sit on his front porch in the afternoon and enjoy a glass of wine because my dachshunds bark too much.

Seriously? It’s been cold enough to freeze the balls off the monkey statue next to my pool (pictured above), and you’re sitting on your front porch with a glass of wine? The only other time we’ve talked, you were putting your garbage in my yard so that the truck would get it on their “return trip” down our street. I’ve got news for you, neighbor: I’ve never seen a garbage man go both ways. I wonder if you're really rowing with both oars.

But being the good neighbor that I am, I have already contacted the Invisible Fence people about purchasing bark collars for my dogs. The reason I haven’t done it sooner is that they already wear the Invisible Fence collars to keep them in the yard, and I didn’t want them to be confused about why they were getting zapped in the neck.

It’s too bad Puppy Tweets aren't available yet.

What are Puppy Tweets? Mattel is getting ready to roll out a product that allows dogs to use Twitter. The special collar is pre-loaded with 500 phrases, and every time the dog moves or barks, the owner receives a new Tweet.

Some of the pre-programmed, generic messages an owner could receive via text are

*I bark because I miss you. There I said it. Now hurry home.
*It’s not the catching of the tail. It’s the chase.
*Can we get some sparkling water for the toilet bowl?

Kind of boring, right? Had Puppy Tweets previously existed, here are some of the messages I would have gotten from my dachshunds:

*I bit the UPS guy. Animal control has been called.
*When am I off quarantine for biting the tax assessor?
*Get us a new bed on your way home. We were bored today and ate it.
*You forgot to feed us so we ate all the pansies in the pots.
*It's 27 degrees outside and the stupid neighbor is on his porch.

My dachshunds already have their regular collars (necessary for displaying the rabies tags in case they bite) and their Invisible Fence boundary collars. If I add a bark collar and a Tweet collar, they’re going to look like the Burmese Pai Dong Long Neck People, the ones known for stretching their women’s necks with brass rings.

So the doggies and I have come up with a solution. We’ll forego the bark collars and wait for Puppy Tweets, provided they promise to only bark when it’s REALLY important for them to send me a message. Acceptable TWEETS are as follows:

*Luverne is trying to eat from the cat’s litter box again.
*UPS guy is here. You have a package! If you want, we’ll go ahead and open it for you.
*The cat told me she is going to kill you in your sleep tonight. Get rid of the cat.
*Your kids are throwing a party. They’re giving us beer to buy our silence. You’d better come quick.
*The dumbass across the street is putting his garbage in our yard again.

Come to think of it, those are pretty much the only things they bark about anyway. And let’s be fair -- their brains are the size of an Everlasting Gobstopper, and that’s what they’ve been programmed to do. They, at least, know that garbage trucks don’t go both ways down the same street.

Steamy Seductions

Okay, I give up. Winter’s won.

I’m not throwing in the towel because it’s the fourth time this winter that I’ve seen significant snow in Georgia. And for all you northerners, the Atlanta definition of “significant snow” is a simultaneous snowflake sighting and a mob at the Publix akin to Black Friday at WalMart.

Neither is my dachshund’s refusal to go outside the reason for my surrender to the season.

The way I know that winter has won? I actually consumed a hot beverage this morning. I risked scalding my tongue to get my insides warm.

It’s like this: I don’t drink coffee. I never developed a taste for it. And why would I sip hot tea when I can gulp Chick-Fil-A unsweetened iced tea? It’s kind of like the old adage that “wine is fine but liquor is quicker.” I drink tea to quench my thirst, and cold goes down faster than hot.

In fact, I’ve estimated that in my lifetime I have consumed enough unsweetened iced tea to float a mid-size cruise ship. My kids have already been instructed that upon my death I wish to be cremated and sprinkled in the drive-thru of Chick-Fil-A.

But here’s the irony: my house has a built-in Miele coffee system, an expensive machine that has a steam nozzle and other features appealing to coffee enthusiasts. I can program it to speak to me in German, Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, English, Italian, or French. It has a counter that will display the number of cups of coffee or espresso that have been dispensed since it was purchased. It even has a security system that I can set to keep people unfamiliar with the unit from using it.

Even crazier is the fact that I, the one who does not drink coffee, am the one who ordered the machine. And it’s been used exactly six times in seven years. I don’t know how to set the language or the security system, and I haven’t ever gotten the German warning that means it’s time to descale the unit after 100 coffees.

My thinking in purchasing the Miele coffee system was that it could be used to circumvent my then-husband’s serious Starbuck’s addiction. Why not put in our own mocha machine? I thought. That, combined with the fabulous office he had over the garage, the beautiful pool, the home theater, and the fully-equipped home gym, meant he never needed to leave the house.

My plan didn’t work so well. As it turns out, it didn’t matter what was in this home. He liked to get his mochas elsewhere.

A month or so ago, he began texting me in an effort to have me meet with him so that he could present some options for paying the money he owes me. To my mind, there’s only one acceptable option, and that is for him to pay me the money he owes me. But I guess he needed to try. The conversation went something like this:

HIM: Coffee tonight 630 pm

ME: Excuse me?

HIM: Coffee starbucks

ME: I don’t drink coffee.

HIM: I forgot . . . organic water with a twist of lime

(Okay, you did forget. It’s unsweetened tea. And there’s no such thing as organic water)

HIM again: I bring the lime btw

(At this point, I’m grossed out and stop answering his texts, which strangely continue throughout the course of the day)

HIM: ??Yes?

HIM: Ok I will see u then

HIM: Seriously just biz . . . .

HIM: Seriously if u can’t that’s fine just let me know


Needless to say, I didn’t show up at Starbucks that day. And while winter may have won today, it will be a Kalte Tag in der Holle before I ever succumb to his steamy seductions.

That’s German for “cold day in hell.”

English Supermodels, Klingons, and other Potential Beauties

I was on the phone with my sister the other night during the witching hour, more commonly known as bedtime.

My sister interrupted our conversation to say to one of her twins, “I told you to go get your pajamas on.”

I heard my niece reply, “But I haven’t had a bath yet.”

My sister said, “You don’t need a bath tonight. It's already late. Just go put your pajamas on.”

The response cracked me up. The child answered back, “But we haven’t had a bath in 2 ½ weeks!”

My sister won, of course, and the kid went to bed without a bath. The story is funny because what parent in the history of the world hasn’t fought with a child over taking a bath? And the parent/child bath fights always evolve over time, going from the child hating baths to using a bath to delay bedtime to becoming a teenager who takes 45-minute showers, leaving the rest of the family with no hot water. I distinctly remember the last shower war I had with my children because it was completely different from any I'd ever encountered.

During the summer of 2007, I took my three children to London for ten days. I booked us at the Enterprise (hotel, not spaceship, although the bellman could have passed for Spock). That particular hotel was appealing because it had a room with a private bath and four single beds. That way, my son didn’t have to sleep with a girl, and I could still get us all into one $400-per-night room.

Turns out, that’s where the Enterprise’s appeal ended.

The hotel had no air conditioning. The four single beds had exactly six inches between them and were jammed against the walls. We had to open our suitcases on our beds to get clothes out of them, and then slide them under the beds when we slept. The window opened exactly 3 inches and was covered with a net to keep the pigeons out while still affording the luxury of being able to hear them coo throughout the night. Luckily, England was experiencing a cold snap in July, because if it hadn’t been fifty degrees outside at night, I would have had to sleep naked on the linoleum bathroom floor to keep from sweating, and one of my children might not be alive today.

Not that I got much sleep anyway. All three of my kids experienced serious jet lag, so the first night, they were up until nearly four o’clock trying to figure out why the television only had three channels – the BBC, CNN, and one with 24-hour Wimbledon coverage.

The next morning, we almost missed our tour bus because I couldn’t wake my kids up, and then none of us could figure out how to use the shower, which was basically a garden hose duct-taped to the bathtub spigot. There was no shower curtain, and a sign threatened that flooding the “loo” could get your arse kicked out of the Enterprise (or at least land you in the brig with Scottie, the Irish bartender). The spigot itself was downright confounding; water came out either Baltic-sea cold or hot enough to boil a lobster in. Warm was not an option.

The ensuing fight was over whether or not to ditch the Enterprise and its shower for the $700-per-night Marriott down the street. The kids insisted on moving. Since airfare had already cost me $4,000, I voted to stick with the Enterprise.

I won.

After about four days in the Enterprise, my older daughter, who was completely fed up with the shower and the four-inch square mirror over the bathroom sink and operating on approximately three hours of sleep, was debating whether to use our electrical outlet adapter to charge her cellphone or dry her hair. I overheard her say in frustration, “I hate this place. I can’t achieve my full potential for beauty here. A guy who would be all over me at home wouldn’t look twice at me here.”

I wanted to laugh. Instead, I said, "We're in England, not exactly the biggest breeding ground for supermodels. Diana was a freak of nature. You half beautiful is good enough. Now throw some clothes on, and let's go."

I’ve thought about her words -– "full potential for beauty" -- several times since a reader informed me earlier this week that my attitude makes me unattractive and unlovable.

I guess perhaps I have a different beauty barometer.

The most attractive people I know are those who have given up on the need to impress others. Simply put, they’re real. And since they have no need to fixate on their own flaws, they’re not particularly interested in pointing out the flaws in others.

And some of my favorite people in the entire universe are cynical, sarcastic, snarky, and hysterically funny. They're lovable because they've suffered and have survived with their humor intact. Their cynicism and sarcasm are the tough outer shells protecting their exquisitely tender and compassionate hearts.

You know what I think keeps us from reaching our true potential for beauty? Trying to be anything other than what we are. And trying to force our opinion of how others ought to be on them. It’s called perfectionism, and it’s as ugly as a Klingon and as stinky as a second grader who’s gone 2 ½ weeks without a bath.

Combatting Assholiness

Dear Anonymous:

Thank you for your comment regarding Tiger Woods' apology. Obviously, you think you know me. You know I graduated from a Christian school, so I’m assuming you’ve known me for a long time, at least since I was in high school.

Here are the words you use to describe me: sad, bitter, unattractive, pathetic, and rebellious. Oh, and I need to grow up. Apparently, you think my behavior is much like that of a defiant and disobedient teenager.

I can’t argue with your opinion of me.

But you're not terribly familiar with me, because you’ve also written, “You have a hope of a beach house and the hope of finding someone who will love you now.”

I already have the beach house. It’s fabulous.

And I have someone who loves me. That, too, is fabulous.

My lover does not find me unattractive. In fact, my lover finds my bad attitude quite hilarious. My lover loves my humor and understands that without it, I’d be the sad, bitter, and pathetic person you believe me to be. As my friend Grant (aka Sister Louisa) says, “Humor is God’s lubrication when life screws you.”

My lover knows that I am grateful for everything I’ve experienced. Because if my husband had never left me, I might have never met my lover.

My lover believes I should tell the stories I tell. Because in the past, back when I was the grown up, buttoned up, perfect model of a great attitude you say I should be, I was afraid for anyone to know the truth of what a wreck my life was. What people saw wasn't me. It was what I believed I should be based on what people told me I should be -- straight from the Bible what I “should” be.

Here’s the deal: stop shoulding on me. You’re right when you say that bitter is unattractive. But inauthentic is more unattractive; it’s actually just chocolate-covered shit.

God and my lover want me to be me, to tell the truth, to laugh, and to be happy. Trying to be what I think people expect of me doesn’t work for me. Taking care of myself does. That’s the kind of positive model I hope to be, the model for simply being myself.

The lover I’ve found, by the way, is me. And I’m a happy girl.

Hugs and kisses,

Sandi Grace Adams Hutcheson, who is not afraid to be who I am.

Oh, and one more thing: you might feel better in the long road if you have a little nip of the “recipe” every now and then. Getting laid might not be a bad idea, either.

Year of the Prom Dress

For her seventeenth birthday, my younger daughter asked me for a prom gown. She’d had it picked out for a long time, this dress of her dreams. But no store in the Atlanta area had the dress in stock, so we were forced to order it online.

I know that ordering a dress online when she hasn’t even tried it on is, well, crazy. But about this time two years ago, a smallish package addressed to her big sister arrived on our doorstep. Big sister called home from work to ask if a package had come.

“Yes, what did you order?” I said.

“It’s my prom dress!” she happily shouted into the phone.

I looked at the box. It was exactly six inches square and two inches thick. Obviously, she wasn’t going to be wearing much to the prom.

But when she got home and opened the box and held that dress up, a long white Grecian style made of silky-sheer organza, it was so breathtakingly beautiful that I wanted to cry. That's her, above.

Ordering a prom dress online worked out in the past, so I confidently took younger sister’s measurements and compared them to the chart before placing the order. I paid for the dress with my American Express card, knowing full well that my pals at Amex really, really like me and that if the dress isn’t delivered to my satisfaction, they will take my word over thepromdress.com’s. Plus, we had just over two months until the prom. What could go wrong?

That was January 23. One month ago. We still haven’t received the dress. And now I’m nervous about canceling this order because what if it takes a month to get a replacement dress? I would have already filed a complaint with Amex and told thepromdress.com people what they can do with their dress, but my girl has her heart set on this dress. So I called the company last Friday and asked what the problem is.

The problem, it seems, is the Chinese New Year. I swear to God, they actually said that Chinese New Year has delayed the dress.

2010, it seems, is the Year of the Bad Customer Service.

Now, I haven’t thought about Chinese New Year in years, not since I decided that I like Thai food and sushi better than Chinese and stopped going to the restaurants with the Chinese calendars for placemats.

I remember looking at those placemats when I was a kid and thinking, Wow! 1993 is twenty years from now. I wonder where I’ll be in 1993, if the world hasn’t ended by then.

In 1993, I thought, Wow! The new millennium is almost here, and I wonder if Y2K is really something to worry about. Will the world as we know it end because of a computer glitch?

In 2002, I thought my world had actually ended. I was a sad, sad girl, having found out about my husband’s affair. I remember wondering if we would still be together ten years down the road, and I wondered if I would still hurt so badly in ten years.

I don’t wonder -- or even worry -- so much about the future any longer. I’ve learned that while details are highly unpredictable, I pretty much can set my clock (and calendar) by the fact that I’m in for a great ride. Or, as the Jimmy Buffett/Martina McBride song so poetically puts it:

I’m just hangin’ on while this old world keeps spinning
And it’s good to know it’s out of my control

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned from all this livin’

Is that it wouldn’t change a thing if I let go

I do wonder, however, if I will live to see April if a prom dress doesn’t arrive in March. And 2010, incidentally, is the Year of the Tiger. Maybe he can figure out a way to use the Chinese New Year excuse.