Happy Halloween

Strutting It

On Saturday I dragged myself out of bed for another early-morning-weekend-race. But this time it was a little easier to pull myself out from under the covers because a) I wasn't anticipating any trenches full of mud, walls to scale, or angry drill sargeants like the last time, b) I already had my nap scheduled for later that day and c) the Real Boy was signed up to do this race with me! You know I'm a big advocate for all animal shelters and the local SPCA specifically, so I was glad to have the chance to raise some money for the cause by participating in the 6th Annual Mutt Strutt!

Falcor was VERY reluctant to get out of bed. Due to the language barrier (we're working on it) I wasn't able to explain to him exactly what we are doing, and he is not a morning Boy. He stays in bed as long as we do, often longer, holding his pee for incredible lengths of time. I had to pick him up and actually carry him to the door at 7a.m. so we could meet our ride in the driveway. He was not amused. When Ashley and her Biggest Beagle In The World, Ryder, showed up, he got more excited though. Falcor and Ryder are tight, and I think it suddenly dawned on him that not only were we going on a car ride with his buddy but also that Enid was still inside the house. A mommy-and-me outing was much deserved, since the Real Boy has been more than welcoming to his new sister.

We met at the race site with a brood of other friends who love their pets and animals in general enough to run a few miles on their behalf. We were quite the neon green team, with an array of dogs to drag us on the 5K.

Falcor was excited to be around so many other dogs, and well-behaved considering all the stimulus. But all that enthusiasm ended up backfiring when he took off like a shot as the race started. He, apparently, felt a serious sense of competition with all the other pooches on the run. He was, apparently, unaware of the fact that his legs are approximately 5 inches long, while many of the Greyhounds, Labs, Standard Poodles and Great Danes around us were taller than me. The Real Boy would need to take at last 5 strides for each of theirs. He chugged on like a sled-dog though, pulling me behind him. It's actually humiliating to have a stumpy little dog show you up as a runner.
After two miles he gave up on the pulling and resort to simply keeping up the pace. Both Falcor, with his stumpy legs and chubby neck, and Ryder, with his pleasant plumpness and desire to sniff every square inch of ground in the world, finished the 5K and ran every step of the way. Good job boys!

Real Boy Meets Real Girl

If you know me, or at least read this blog, you know of my incredible love for my dog, Falcor the Real Boy (pictured above). Some may even call it an 'obsession' or 'unhealthy fixation', but those people just don't know the joy that the Real Boy brings with his expressive looks, playful gait, loving cuddles and sound fiscal advice. So it came as a shock to many of our friends and family when we up and got another dog. But if the new addition to our family seems sudden, rest assured that it was months, maybe years, in the coming and even after we met the Real Girl, we felt trepidation. Would Falcor be sad? Feel betrayed? Would it be unfair to the new dog? Could we even have any love for a new dog when our current dog is canine perfection? My mom and sister, showing some eerie genetic synchronization, both uttered the words "But I don't know if I have enough love for another dog!" when I told them the news. Trust me ladies, I hear you. Dave was even more hesitant than I was, if only because he is more practical and less prone to dramatic gestures towards unwanted creatures. And so, on a fateful Wednesday, my lunch break found me wandering through an SPCA fundraiser downtown. Crate after crate of sad dog lined the parking lot, and I had the urge to sell all our worldly possessions and move to a farm where we could keep dozens of them. We'd need a really big bed though, because we have a strict one-bed-for-all-family-members policy, but I wasn't thinking that far ahead.

I called Dave and, as expected, he began to feel very conflicted. Those animals need love and homes and treats and walks in quantities that just aren't available at the SPCA, despite the amazing and heroic efforts of all the wonderful people who work there. Truth be told, the story is the same at every shelter across the country (SPAY and NEUTER your pets already!), there are people doing the best they can with what they have for too many animals. And animal lovers like ourselves want to think that we can do at least a little bit by taking an animal from the shelter to our house, where we can obsess over it while it stares at us with a confused look and a cocked head. Even more compelling was the fact that we found Falcor at this same shelter two and a half years ago, and it was the best thing to happen to us. Wouldn't it be logical to think that another wonderful dog could be living in this same place?

On the other hand, Falcor the Real Boy holds a very high rank in our house. He is treated like a person, spoken to like a person, sleeps in bed like a person. He gets more belly rubs and walks than the average dog could ever dream of having. We give him credit for extremely complex thoughts and emotions that I'm not sure are even scientifically possible for a canine. We were afraid that one of those complex emotions would be sorrow, because he would somehow think the new dog was a replacement, which would lead him to having feelings of inadequacy. We didn't want him to feel threatened or unloved. We have a mental illness.

So we walked around the fundraiser over analyzing the meaning of each movement of the dogs. We even took two out of their kennels and walked them around. We even went so far as to choose one, get in line, and have our application approved. But in the last moment, Dave's cold feet spoke up and he suggested, wisely, that we risk losing the dog we had chosen and wait a day to bring Falcor to the SPCA the next day. If he met the dog and hated him, the case would be closed. We decided he deserved, after these years of loyal service, at least a say in the matter.

The next day we nervously drove to the SPCA. Nervous that we'd find a dog we liked. Nervous that we wouldn't. Nervous that Falcor would remember the place somehow and think we were returning him, subsequently dying of a heart attack. Mixed emotions, to say the least.

Dave waited outside with Falcor at the entrance to the fenced-in grass area where dogs can meet. I went inside to discover that the dog we had looked at the night before was gone. Another family found and adopted him, which is good news for the dog, but put me in a pickle. Is this a sign that we don't need another dog? That it's not time? Or simply that he wasn't the right one and the other one is waiting for me in the kennels? My bleeding heart led the way and I went out to check if there were other potential candidates...I mean we did drive all the way there. I made a list of SEVEN dogs that were potentially our new dog. And I ranked the list by sadness. The saddest looking dog, who wouldn't even come to the front of the kennel when I called her, got put on the top of the list. (In case you don't know, we chose Falcor because he was the saddest dog in the kennel, with no apparent will to live. Since it worked out, I used the same strategy again.)

When I showed up with this dog Dave was a bit surprised, firstly because it wasn't the dog we had agreed on the night before, and secondly because she looks like Falcor's long lost sister. Falcor put on his best self and warmed up to her immediately. They sniffed and snorfled and ignored each other. It seemed like an amicable enough start. But when, after investigating the surroundings a bit, Falcor began his playful teasing called "Little Barry Sanders" that he normally reserves for special occasions, Dave was sold. And so was I. We signed the papers, paid the unbelievably modest $76.50 for the dog (including recent spaying, shots, bag of food and a leash) and went on our way.

The days since have gone better than we ever could have imagined. Enid, named after the abandoned and underestimated middle name of my best friend Jess, fits in with our routine perfectly. She sleeps soundly through the night, under the covers, just like her brother. She walks with the same happy saunter. She loves to indulge Falcor in his desire to be chased. She likes watching T.V. with Dave and I. The dog park brings out the best in her. She hasn't peed in the house even ONCE (knock wood). And she's a bit of a daddy's girl, which balances out the well-known fact that Falcor is a momma's boy. She's about the same age of Falcor, but instead of spending the last two years being loved like crazy, she's been on the mean streets giving birth to at least two and probably more litters of pups, and she has the saggy nipples to prove it. Her life has been harder, but she's just as cheerful (and pouts even less) as Falcor.

We make sure to show Falcor that he is still the top dog. He gets his food two beats before she does, walks out for walks and in from the yard first, to maintain the rank. He gives her a growl if she gets too close to his bone, and she respects his warning. Not only does he not mind her presence, he seems to enjoy her company. They play together, sleep together, and he defends her honor at the dog park if another dog gets a little too curious about her saggy lady parts.

Just days after her adoption, it seems silly to think we were worried that we wouldn't have enough love for another dog just because Falcor is so sweet. But when you think about it...I was an unreal kid, but my parents popped my sister out and somehow managed to love us both! And where would I have been without her? Lonely, that's where. And now I realize that Falcor can avoid only-child-loneliness with Enid around, aided by the fact that we made a conscientious effort to choose the right dog and introduce her the right way.

The Volkslauf 2008

One week ago today I was running the Volkslauf, a local Toys For Tots fundraiser put on by the Marines at a training course out in a poo-scented field north of Bakersfield. So, in the name of a good cause, general physical fitness, and a tiny bit of masochism, the girls and I suited up. We met at 6:30am (on a Saturday, no less) to purposely run through fields of mud, chain link, brick walks and water-filled trenches. Also, it was about 47 degrees. Also, our outfits coordinated. (above L to R: myself, Ash, Jenn, and Amy before the race, caffienated and still dry) Meet the cast of this freak show!

Ashley, a.k.a. "Pippi Wetstockings"
Jenn, a.k.a. "Energizer Esmerelda"
Amy, a.k.a. "The Little Engine That Didn't Want To But Was Peer Pressured"
Lane, a.k.a. "Mighty Short Legs"

We started out quick-like, and spent the better part of the next hour hoisting ourselves and others over walls of various types and sizes, climbing rope nets, crawling through tunnels and generally trudging through mud pits. And we jogged a bit in between. The race ended with a SWIM through a 6 foot deep trench of mud water that was approximately 2,000 miles long. Actually, it was probably about 50 yards, but seeing as how we were fatigued from all the climbing/crawling/running of the past 50 minutes and we were fully clothed and wearing running shoes, it was the longest swim of my life up until now. There were well-intentioned Marines all along the side of the trench shouting to the swimmers "If you can't swim or get too tired, come to the side of the trench where it's shallow!!!!" Pardon me sir, but I'd rather drown with my pride intact than limp to the finish line in that fashion.

By the end of the race I was tired but feeling as though I was ready for more! Or for a hot tub and a nap.

Normally, you think men wouldn't want to pose in a picture with a woman soaked in mud-water, who reeks of poo and body odor. But these are MARINES! They're tough. And too polite to say no.

After the requisite photos with Marines, we beetled to the car and got naked in the parking lot. Why, you ask? Well, silly, it's because you can't put on a one-piece footed pajama unless you disrobe first! Obviously!

Don't we look so warm and cuddly? Sidenote: These are, quite obviously children's pajamas. How big are today's children? Jenn is like 5'9'' and fits in there with room to spare!

We (and by we, I mean everyone but poor Amy who didn't enjoy it all that much) are already planning to do this again next year, circumstances permitting, but the LONGER version! I'm a glutton for punishment.

Vote No

Having an election around the corner brings out the colors of our society in various ways. In our neighborhood, those colors show through yard signs stuck in front yards. The McCain/Palin Obama/Biden ratio in our neighborhood is actually pretty even. There are a smattering of signs for local elections which I'm not informed enough to form an opinion on. But, perhaps not surprisingly but disappointing nonetheless, most of the people who have gone out of their way to put a sign in their yard are focused on the referendum regarding gay marriage rights in California. It shouldn't be too hard for you to decide what side you are on when the ballot measure itself is titled "Eliminate Rights of Same-Sex Couples to Marry." They are certainly not mincing words. In May 2008, the California Supreme Court overturned previous referendums and other legislation that specifically defined marriage as between a man and a woman, declaring that such definitions were unconstitutional. Since June of this year, same sex couples have had the right to marry in California. Now the opponents of that right are working to eliminate that right. Again.

Voting 'Yes' on Proposition 8 is to support the idea that same-sex couples do not deserve the right to be married, and will threaten even their rights to domestic partnerships. Voting 'No' upholds the idea of equality for all. And while to me the choice seems easy and obvious, my heart hurts to see that many of my neighbors don't see it that way. A walk through my neighborhood will show you that Proposition 8 is higher in priority to many people than local, state or federal elections. And most of my neighbors who have found the time to put up a sign plan to vote 'Yes' and take a step backwards. Not only does this make me feel sad for the state of affairs in our society, it makes me question my place in this kind of community.

I feel afraid that people put priority on eliminating the rights of others based, I assume, generally on religiously influenced moral beliefs. Separation of church and state anyone? I hate the hypocrisy of conservatives who believe that government should play no role in our private lives (they want to be able to buy guns without background checks, no?) but want a constitutional amendment to restrict the private lives of others. I have to shake my head when I listen to propaganda (ahem...I mean commercials) that suggests that gay marriage is somehow desecrating the great institution of heterosexual marriage. Last time I checked, emotional and physical abuse, adultery and divorce were widespread in marriage as it stands now. These same commercials make sure to tell California voters that should this proposal be defeated and gay marriage be allowed to exist, gay marriage will be taught in school. What does that even mean? Remind me again of when we had a unit on marriage of any kind? All the ethnocentric, nationalist bullshit currently taught in school takes up most of the time, I don't see a unit on 'My Two Mommies' as a real threat to the joke of an educational system we are currently operating.

My entire personal belief system does not revolve around gay marriage, or any other individual issue. But the underlying idea marital equality represents is a pillar of who I am. To think that someone could tell me that I couldn't marry Dave because it wasn't in accordance with their beliefs is insanity. To realize that Dave and I had the right to commit our relationship through marriage simply because we are from opposite genders is absurd. I do not believe in restricting the rights of others based on fear, ignorance or religious tradition. I do not believe heterosexuals, whites, men, the rich or Americans have the exclusive rights to righteousness. I can't believe that someone who would vote 'Yes on 8' would have much to offer me as a friend, despite the fact that I do respect their right to advertise their beliefs on their lawn. I will continue, mostly because of hard core Midwestern conditioning, to greet my neighbors when I see them out, to wave as I drive past them at the mailboxes. I hope, with all sincerity, that I can be as tolerant to them as I want them to be to others. But if, by chance, the Real Boy were to drop a load on a lawn holding one of the 'Yes on 8' signs, I might find myself without a bag that day.

Splish Splash

Last week we decided to hit up the Self Serve Pet Spa down the street. Falcor isn't exactly a breed that needs a groomer, but he sheds like it's nobody's business and lets other dogs lick him all over. So sometimes he needs a bath. Giving him a bath at home is a workout, kneeling into the tub, and then trying to dry him with a towel before he escapes my grasp and rubs all over the couch. We heard about the Spa, rumored to be owned in part by a Canadian, and had to check it out. We suited up in aprons and put the dog on the table. Falcor was so excited about the outing in the car, that his disappointment was all the more poignant once he realized he was going for a bath, and in public no less.
We combed the Boy out with the Furminator before his bath. This little comb worked WONDERS on a very sheddy pooch. He tried to hate every minute of it, but by the end he had his signature grin.
By the time we had him in the tub, he had resigned himself to the fate of a bath. So sad, so very sad. We lathered him up, swabbed out his ears, used a deshedding formula, and squirted something in his eyes before giving him a complimentary blueberry facial. Which he was rather peeved about, but it smelled delicious and made him look like an adorable Smurf for a few minutes.

Boo hoo.
After the very convenient bathing experience (helped along by superior customer service...why are dog lovers always the most awesome people?) we blowed the Real Boy dry for the first time in his life. He hated it, really despised it, but came out so fluffy and adorable that he couldn't help but get excited. Plus we bought him a pig's ear to reward him for his good behavior during the hygiene regimen. Have you ever seen such a look of joy on a clean dog's face?

Putting Some Om In My YeeHaw

When you first tell people you're moving to Bakersfield, their reaction often has some reference to air pollution or social conservativism or Buck Owens and Merle Haggard. That is, of course, if they've heard of Bakersfield at all. In some ways, it's a good thing that we had no choice in the matter when we first moved to Bako, because all those negative reviews might have had me headed elsewhere. But our Bako Reunion Tour, after a two-year hiatus, is completely voluntary. We lined our choices up in a row and chose to pack up and move back to the San Joaquin Valley. And while the dusty, sun-drenched, landscape might be just as people have described, the people themselves aren't as easily categorized. Calling Bakersfield or Kern County the 'Texas of California' isn't completely off base. Superficially the similarities are clear: the cowboy hats, agricultural landscape rimmed by rough mountains, the oil pumpjacks filling fields and taking up space in the parking lots of an endless row of commonplace chain businesses. The similarities also run deeper, as this stereotypically Republican district finds me feeling a little blue in a sea of red beliefs. But you'll also find pockets of individuality, shiny little pebbles of traditional and modern culture that give a city, on the verge of being swallowed by sprawl like so many other mid-size towns in America, it's own flavor. Have you ever brunched at The Crystal Palace? Or sampled tri-tip (I leave experimental meat-tasting to Dave) ? Or had dozens of mom-and-pop Mexican food restaurants to choose from? All these, and other non-food related examples that escape me, wonders can be found in Bako!


One of those pockets smells like incense and sounds like 'Om' and is filled with people of all political shades of blue, red and purple who need to sweat through yoga class to find their zen. The InnerBodyWorks studio is a relatively long standing member of the hopefully successful downtown renaissance project that Bakersfieldians are undertaking. And besides the yoga lessons I've learned there of late, I've also discoverd a microcosm of the community where I might be able to blend in a little better than at, for instance, a rodeo or country-western bar.


On Sunday, after class, Ashley and I, joined by Dave and Hud, attended a Vegan Potluck at the studio. We even proudly contributed a Chocolate Hazelnut Biscotti taken from the Veganomican cookbook I get for my birthday (thanks, Alley!) because you simply can't show up to a potluck empty handed, vegan or no! I made no mention of my desperate love of cheese amongst this sea of lovely vegans, but I sampled (and throuroughly enjoyed) every dish. I met some of the people next to whom I practice yoga every week (turns out they have names!), and socialized with people *gasp* outside of the hockey-network! I plan to attend next month as well, and will venture deeper into my cookbooks from something else to wow my fellow yogis and Bakersfield neighbors!

Source.

Dance As Though I'm Watching

I know you're out there. Or that you aren't out there. What I'm trying to say is that I have my ways of knowing whether (or not) you are reading my blog. And when you read it, I know how many times per day/week/month, and how long you spend reading it per visit. And I've known for quite some time, since March at least. You see, I may not be that savvy when it comes to technology (in my world, the camera phone is a new invention), but I have friends who are. If you are feeling that your privacy has been invaded a bit, blame Liz. She taught me how to use Google Analytics.

At first I didn't really understand the purpose of this kind of tool. My friends in the blogging world were talking about how many hits their blog was getting, which of their posts was most popular, by what route their readers happened upon the blog. All these things interested me mildly, but my curiosity was peaked when I realized that I could tell exactly who was reading, or not reading, my blog. Granted, unless I know your IP address I can't single you out from other readers who reside in the same city. But many of my friends, readers and miscellaneous others live in places where they are the ONLY person I know.

For example: If you were reading my blog from one country, then moved to a new city where you are the only person I know, then moved again to another country, I have been tracking your progress. And well done you for keeping up with the blog! But seriously, seven times in a day? Another example: I thank those of you who take your lunch hour to check my blog routinely, it's for you that I write. But the IT guy would die if he knew you were sipping your Diet Coke over the keyboard, you're just asking for the blue screen of death.

Google Analytics has other information for me, as well. For example, did you know that 15% of the traffic to my blog comes from hits off search engines? The most common search words that lead people to my blog are: traveling circus (makes sense), travel with circus (not as glamorous as it might sound), bobby pins (love 'em), lane bonk (it's Clark-Bonk to you), nude circus (pardon?), elderly nude (what?) and public sauna. So essentially, people who end up on my blog are either searching for me specifically, or are pervs with unruly hair looking to run away with the nude circus. We call that diversity.

Another 35% of traffic to my blog comes from referring sites, which basically means other bloggers/friends who have a link to my blog on their site. Andrea leads the most lemmings to my words, followed closely by Lynn and then Caitlin. One way of thinking of these ladies is as the pimps of my blog, sending the clients my way. It's my job to lace their drinks and get them hooked. I hope my blog does the same service to you ladies! Other referring sites are more random. For example, while checking Analytics for the purpose of writing this blog entry I discovered that a couple dozen Bakersfieldians have been linked to my blog by the bloggers at the local newspaper! Maybe I should be flattered, but I think linking without telling is a bit of a blogging faux pas! No?

I'm not telling you all this to get you paranoid and find Jason Bourne type ways to access my blog without leaving a trace. I'm telling you because it's a rather passive aggressive way of thanking those of you who miss me enough to check out my blog periodically. Not everyone is a comment-leaver, so I'm glad I have a way of feeling you on the other end of this internet connection. And if we've never met but you've found my blog through a mutual friend, please stay a while and soak up some of my wee wisdom! And if you were searching for nude, elderly circus but stumbled up me instead, welcome! But leave your clothes on please.

You Never Get There

In my quest for physical fitness and mental health, I've made many unexpected discoveries about myself. Did you know my right leg is slightly shorter, if that's even possible, than my left? But none was more shocking than the realization in 2005 that, wait for it, I like running. This is shocking since, for years, I towed the line of an anti-runner. I hike, snowshoe, ice skate, walk, roller blade, bike and swim. I'll play tennis or try beach volleyball or climb a rock wall. But I was adamant, truly obstinate, on the statement that I was not a runner. Asthma, short legs, and even shorter attention span; I had all kinds of excuses.

But on fateful day in a Gold's Gym in Columbia, SC I had a change of pace. Tired of walking on the treadmill, I decided I'd take it up to a run for 60 seconds. And after that first minute I felt inspired to go one more. And another. That first day I ran 10 minutes at a decent pace before my ankles starting screaming and my breathlessness took over. And I was sweating and hot and winded and addicted. Addicted to running as the only form of exercise that has truly ever made me feel love and hate for an activity at the same time.

My running years, as I now call them, began slowly. I eased into it wisely, which is rather unlike me, because the aches and pains I felt warned me not to get too confident. Since that time I've gone through running phases. Phases where I run every day, phases where I run once a week. Phases where I love the treadmill, phases where I can't stand to run inside.

I've learned the joy of running with partners (thanks to Alley, Jess, Sherry and Hilary for making some very long runs seem shorter) to keep me you moving. As some runners say, four feet go farther than two. When you get in the right rhythm, a run with a friend can push you to lengths you would never have reached solo. Any boredom or complacency that comes with running alone is gone when you have a friend to encourage and entertain you. And you you are thinking "I'll be damned if I give out before that bitch does." And you know she's thinking it too, that sneaky little bitch. Which is why trail runs with my sister or long flat stretches in Holland with Sherry are some of the longest runs I've ever gone on. I love those bitches for those runs.

I've discovered the hypnosis that can be found in a long solo run. I have a permanent mental play list, from the slow beginnings ('Gone Til November' by Wyclef) to the sprinting conclusions ('Throw It On Me' by The Hives and Timbaland) of long runs with only yourself to blame for when you decide to quit. I've been inspired by the gentle, motivational words of Cassy, a devoted-wife mother-of-three lover-of-running believer-in-Beethoven who reminds me that mental clarity is a place that can sometimes only be found at the end of several miles of agony. I've been inspired by the more boot-camp-eque mantra of my sister Alley, a life-living costume-creating peace-making rabble-rouser, which is something to the effect of 'There are people who don't even have legs, and you're complaining about running another mile!? Run, you lazy piece of crap, RUN!' Sometimes she even ends the mantra with 'Get moving, fatty!'

The bottom line is that no matter how much bursitis aches, no matter how cold the world seems in the morning before other people are up, no matter how much I want to turn around after the first 120 seconds, I'm hooked on running. I keep running and running, realizing the beauty is that you can run all you want, but you never get there.

Next week will be my first official foray into the world of competitive...well, competitive anything really. I'm registered and ready for the Volkslauf. Stay tuned for that debacle.