Things I learned today

First: The pup Brogan is "turning orange."

That's the prognosis laid out by the groomer today unless I start having his coat hand-stripped. So I have a choice: Blonde-black brindle? Or orange?

In my opinion its more of an auburn color, but I believe the groomer intentionally used "orange" to indicate her displeasure with that outcome. She wants to hand-strip him. And she's going to get her wish....

She also gave me a reminded me how frequently I'm supposed to bring him in for grooming, but she did it in a way that I found very cunning. S2 and I were talking yesterday about how Couples Therapy was creating a "meta-meta" perspective on interactional dynamics, and the groomer's attempt to chastize me without sounding like it reminded me of that conversation.

But I digress.

While I was waiting for the groomer to come out and turn me into a "better" dog owner, I watched four women in their mid-20s -- beautiful little socialites with too much money and time on their hands -- giggle and gossip at the counter. One of them was trying to put what looked like minature Air Jordan high tops on her twitching, nervous dog. It appeared to be a Chihuahua, but its particularly bulging eyes reminded me of a mini Boston Terrier.

A funky, trembling little meth dog with Bette Davis eyes is it was.

And it did *not* like those shoes the woman was putting on it.

"Well, when we were up on the mountain last week," the owner said to her friends, "we took him out in the snow, and you could just tell he didn't like it. He had his coat and hat on, but we didn't have *anything* for his feet!"

You know, the truth is: These days of breeding to miniature has simply created some dogs which should not go outside. You should just train them to use a litter box and leave it at that. This dog was one of those. S2 has a new kitten, and delicate as it is, that kitty has more zest, gumption and strength than did that freaky little dog.

Second: Speaking of S2, another lesson today involved just how awful it feels to hurt a child. And how it is additionally unsettling to hurt the child of one of your friends. Ugh!

Little Pea and I were playing hide-and-go seek. First, she hid under the couch. She wouldn't come out until I pulled her and let her slide on the hardwood floors. Second time, she hid under the bed. I reached to her leg to do the same thing, but this time when I pulled her out, she got whacked in the head by one of the braces on the bed frame. I felt the bed move and heard the dull thunk on her head, and my stomach turned inside out even before she started crying. She hit that thing pretty hard.

Kids are pliable, and she recovered. But I wouldn't be surprised if the poor thing had a bump on her head from that.

S2, by the way, told me not to worry about it. But in my little fantasy life -- completely unrelated to reality whatsoever -- my guilt induced a scenario in which she pointed at me and said with an Australian accent: "That dingo whacked my baby!"

Taught me something about myself in the process, though. Growing up in my home, I had an example of parenting that included beating the tar out of the children. At some point, I started defending myself, so I've thrown quite a few gnarly punches in my time.

As a teen and young adult, I read so frequently that children treated violently by their parents grow up to be violent with their own children that I came to believe it was inevitable I would do so. I didn't want to be that kind of person, so I decided a long time ago that I should never have children. Even if I wanted them.

Over the years, I've come to know it's not inevitable. There may be statistical significance about multi-generational violence, but I'm a unique individual capable of making my own choices. There are many ways in which I will not repeat the lives of my parents.

Fortunately, my adult life has not been full of the kinds of tragedies in which I've hurt anyone, much less children. Generally, the only time I make children cry is when I look at them. So the accident with Little Pea this afternoon was a shock to my system. It reinforced for me that I'm not the kind of person who hurts children. I would be a safe parent. (Physically, anyway. My neuroses would cause their own special types of damage....)

Third: On the matter of parenting, a trip I made to Freddy's today with S2 and Little Pea reminded me of another good reason not to be a parent. I'm afraid of Big Box stores, and I think motherhood would force me to go into them more frequently than I could bear.

It's always something.

Fourth: Some people are total sticks in the mud. I'm throwing a Mardi Gras party on Saturday, and the Rather Shy Classmate for whom we are also celebrating a birthday on that night told me that several of our colleages at school were "concerned" about the Bacchanalian nature of said party.

"They are disturbed," Rather Shy Classmate said. "I tried to explain to them that it wasn't an orgy or what have you, but one of them told me, 'Look, we're going to be *counselors.* Should we really be doing stuff like this?' "

I groaned and said, I hope you told her *not* to come. There is no room for moralizing at Mardi Gras. None.

RSC said that another classmate, a New Orleanean who evacuated and joined our graduate program as a result, started teasing the two or three sticks in the mud who were expressing their "concerns" one day after class. "He started making Mardi Gras sound even *more* mysterious and dangerous," RSC said. "He really got them a little whipped up. It was funny."

I groaned again, and so RSC added, "No matter what happens at the party, we should spread all sorts of dark rumors about what happened."

Just what my reputation needs.

So the party is looming. No telling who will come or what they'll be wearing when they get here.

I, however, will be wearing a fabulous new Carnival mask made by the same woman who created the one I wore last year. Like last year's, this one has some significant plumage. I love big feathers. I'm beginning to think I was a Vegas show girl in a previous life. (I don't have the body, but I've still got the knockers!)

Fifth: Speaking of things which I am not, let's add prairie school marm to the list. That look just did not work for me. When S2 saw a photo of me from 1988, the first words out her mouth were, "Every teenage lesbian should have assistance when they're shopping for dresses."

Seriously.

I was wearing a long, blue "prairie" dress, tapered at the waist, with large white lace doily flaps on the shoulders. Tremendously hideous. Seeing that photo made me laugh my ass off.