I'm in love with a pitbull.

My friend, Kelli, who runs the dog rescue I have fostered for in the past, was going on vacation to see her son and needed to piecemeal all her dogs out to friends and family for a little over a week.  I volunteered to take one.  I asked for a small female; one who would fit the doggie door but not cause the male canines in my house to go on a mass peeing spree as they competed for turf.  She said she had just the dog; a little sweet youngster who just wanted to be loved - and she would fit through my doggie door.  Sounded perfect!  Another girlfriend of mine had just adopted a lhasa apso mix that was just precious so I was secretly excited for a young baby to come stay with me for a while.   

I met Kelli the other night at Petsmart (our usual meeting spot) to make the exchange.  She got out of the car and out behind her trotted a gorgeous pittie.

Shit.  That was not at all what I was expecting.

I had only that morning sprung it on KC that we were going to have another dog for "about a week," I had not prepared him that it would be a pit.  My husband's experiences with pitbulls have not been what one would call positive.  They have all been while he was at work on the Southside and they have all belonged to dopers or gangbangers who haven't exactly trained them to be friendly to the Boys (and Girls) in Blue....Less than a week ago he made a comment on one of my Facebook posts about getting chewed up by a pitbull.

"Your dad is going to kill me."  I said to Dear Daughter before I exited my vehicle.

I walked up to this beauty and her butt started to wiggle.  And I mean wiggle.  Like she could be in a Sir Mix-A-Lot video with her moves.  I knelt down and was met with a big ol' wet, sloppy kiss on my face.  Dear Daughter saw that as her cue that it was safe for her to get out too.  She listened as Kelli told us more about 'Brindie,' who was named for her wonderful fur; this included a lot of gushing about how great a pup she is.  Brindie jumped in the backseat of my car, put her nose between the two fronts seats, looked eye-to-eye with Dear Daughter and immediately kissed her, then turned and laid down.  She didn't make a noise the whole ride home.  We got out and DD ran inside to shut the door to the dog's room.  (Yes, my dogs have a room - don't judge.)  Brindie came in, sniffed around, then I let her outside - where my pack, that knew something was up - they could just smell it, charged through the doggie door and up into this sweet girl's business.  I had kept her on a leash; I wasn't yet sure how things were going to go between her and my rude brood.

Pepper, who I was most worried about, was surprisingly the most welcoming.  Frank and Baxter were complete jerks, to say the least.  Tink just saw this giant and ran to hide out of her way.  Zippy quickly followed Tink's lead.  Daisy, my old lady, wasn't sure what to think.  After letting them sniff her, she then tried to sniff them.  They were not very reciprocating in that department.  When I saw that she wasn't going to instigate any fights, I took her off her lead.  She shyly made the rounds around the yard and then came to me immediately upon being called.  We introduced her to the doggie door.  It took one time through and she had the hang of it.  So far so good....

I waited patiently for KC to come home.  Soon, I hear his car pull up and so do the dogs.  They start barking, spinning, and jumping.  He walks through the door and is swarmed by his furry babies - all vying for his attention.  He goes through his hellos to all of them, taking the time to pick up his favorite dog, (yes, he openly has a favorite) Frank, the poodle.  Brindie approaches him cautiously and he says out loud, "Oh boy.  Who's this?"  He makes the mistake of kneeling down and is immediately rushed by the pack, each aggressively wanting his affection.  He pushes them all out of the way and approaches Brindie, who promptly takes the submissive posture of laying down and showing her belly.  He rubs her belly, gives her a couple of pats, and gets up.  Taking that as an invitation, she gets up and jumps on him.  "No, get down," he sternly tells her and she runs off.

Whew.  Next step - feeding time.  Kelli must have fed her before bringing her to me because she took a couple bites and spit them out.  I didn't know it at the time and was worried she wasn't going to eat my food.  I found out the next morning that I had nothing to worry about; she ate like a champ.

She has continued to charm us.  Kelli wasn't lying - she is a big, goofy lovebug.  She sleeps on the couch in the dog's room (she is sacked out as I write this) and follows me whenever I change rooms.  She's got "the lean" down; whenever she's near, she has to be touching me by leaning against me to let me know she cares.  She wants to play with the other dogs so badly but she's so big, she's like the dog version of  Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in that my dogs "never let poor Brindie, join in any doggie games."  She also loves Dear Daughter, so much that DD came in my room last night to let me know how upset she was with me for bringing this dog home.  "How am I supposed to let her go back in a week, Mom?  She's such a good dog!  Why can't our dogs be that well-behaved?  I just love her!"

And that seems to be the consensus in the house; at least the human consensus.  Even KC.  Of course, he remains steadfast in his favoritism of Freakin' Frank.  Which probably contributes to Frank's continued jerkiness.  But that's another post.

Beautiful Brindie

If you are looking for an amazingly sweet, loyal, well-behaved,
gorgeous canine addition to your family - I highly recommend you meet Brindie.  She converted KC, who was staunch in his "no pitbull" stance.  She will steal your heart the first day you bring her home, if not before.   This angel deserves a family where she will be loved forever because she will definitely love and be loyal to you forever.  We love her and if we were a bigger dog family, she wouldn't be going back to Kelli.  Our loss is your gain.

You are disgusting, Ernie Chambers.

There are days that I just want KC to be done as a law enforcement officer.  I want him to turn in his badge, turn to the haters with a salute and say, "good luck."  Those times don't happen very often but they are starting to come more frequently.  Today is one of those days.

I just finished reading an article where Ernie Chambers, a state senator from Nebraska, stated during a legislative hearing that if he carried a gun, he would shoot a cop.  This was after he compared the police to ISIS - you know, that cuddly little group that beheads anyone different from them.  To make matters worse, Judiciary Committee member Laura Ebke of Crete said most of the committee didn't consider Chambers' comments on Friday out of line at the time.  How the f@#% do you not find that "out of line"??

They didn't find it out of line because our society is being trained to hate the police and label them all as racists when they do their jobs.  It's trendy, it sells, and... it's bullshit.  I'm not saying there are no bad cops.  There are.  But you know what?  The good cops hate them more than society does - they taint the profession and put every single person who wears a badge at risk.  I want to throat punch people who yammer on about how the police protect their own.  Wanna bet?  Good officers want them gone more than anyone.

Here's a few tips.  If you encounter law enforcement, be compliant.  Black, white, brown, red, or yellow - if you don't comply with their commands, things are going to go south very quickly.  If you believe you're 'above' being respectful, for God's sake, at least don't be disrespectful.  Don't be squirrely.  Believe it or not, most officers have great instincts and your fidgeting is a huge warning sign.  I find it fascinating when watching Cops with KC, he will say, "He's going to rabbit." right before a suspect takes off running.  (Now granted, suspects running is a Cops' staple, but it's so interesting to me that he knows right when it's going to happen.)  In short, don't be a jackass.  But if you're breaking the law, you're probably not open to listening to that piece of advice.

Let's get to the elephant in the room.  Race.  I can't speak for all officers, or any of them really.  I'm just around a lot of them and listen to their conversations and observe their conduct (usually) outside of work.  (I say "usually" because I've been on some ride-alongs in my tenure as a veteran officer's wife.)  What I have seen is this: race is merely an identifier, like hair color - blonde, brunette, red, gray... you get the gist.  It's behavior that is the driving force on how your encounter will go, on or off the clock.  When they're working, pulling a white man over who doesn't have license plates but has a "FREEDOM wasn’t won with a REGISTERED GUN." bumper sticker is a red flag that he could be an anti-government extremist and therefore, a possible threat to the officer's safety.  He could also just be someone who bought a used car with some interesting bumper stickers and hasn't received his plates yet.  Guess what - the cop is going to err on the side of you being a zealot until he learns otherwise.  Sorry in advance if that's you with your new car, but I'd like my husband to come home at night so too bad if you're offended.

The problem today seems to be if you happen to be of a different race than the officer.  The media has made that quite the issue: apparently they believe white officers are no longer allowed to arrest anyone of color because it has somehow become "racist" if they do.  I. Can't. Even.  How about we start focusing on BEHAVIOR?  Instead of immediately assuming it's the color of skin, maybe it's the actions and words?  When Henry Gates was livid with the cops for demanding proof that he lived in the house that his neighbors reported he was breaking into, I have to tell you, I didn't get it.  I didn't get it because if the police did that to me, I would THANK them for making sure it really was MY house, not just take my word for it.  It was Gates who made it about race by assuming he was being targeted for his skin color rather than his behavior.  Before you start spouting on that "I don't know what it's like," you're right - I don't.  But I do know my heart and think I know those around me.  It's not about race, even when people try to twist it to be.  I had an African American student who used to use the 'N-word' when greeting his buddies.  I frequently and with fervor explained that was not acceptable to which he would respond that "it was okay because he was black."  Uh, no - still not okay.  Same student cussed me out in front of the entire class and when he was called in for discipline his father stated something to the effect of his son being targeted because he was a black man.  Noooo, he was 'targeted' because he was incredibly disruptive and disrespectful.  When KC was doing undercover surveillance in a very affluent neighborhood, the president of the Neighborhood Watch called the police because he knew my husband "didn't belong."   Police came, got the scoop, and let the man know it was okay but wouldn't elaborate.  Not satisfied, the man then approached KC wanting to know what he was doing there.  It was never about race, it was about behavior, which the Neighborhood Watch fellow took (probably rightfully) as being shady.  Had KC been black he could have easily in his mind made it seem that it was about race instead of suspicious activity.

Is there racism today?  Sadly, yes.  But it's not all one-sided; and it's not all only black, brown, red, yellow, and white.  The popular, new color to discriminate against seems to be blue, as evidenced by an elected African American official's public comments about shooting cops and that, disgustingly, being deemed acceptable by his peers.  Police lives matter too.  So shove it, Ernie Chambers.  You're no better than what you are accusing others of being.

It would behoove all of us to pressure the media to start focusing on people's behavior rather than their social status, skin color, or attractiveness.  But not being inflammatory and reporting the facts doesn't sell; boobs, race baiting and police hating does.

God help us all.

It's my money and I need it now!

While I appreciate Hughes Federal Credit Union keeping my information safe and secure; this bullshit of having to send a text every time I try to login online is getting old.  Especially since they send it to my husband, rather than to me.  Even using *my* login credentials, the one that I created, they still send the verification to my husband’s cell phone.  Which is not particularly convenient when my husband is not home, but even when he is home it’s annoying.  But in addition to being inconvenient and annoying, it’s also misogynistic as all get out.  Really, Hughes?  I need my husband’s authorization to access *my* account?  Like I’m a child?  My husband is a pretty great sport in he just immediately forwards the text to me but what if my husband was not available?  Or worse, an asshole?  What if he controlled every aspect of my life and, thanks to your practices, has your help in controlling my money?  

Let me give you a scenario:    I want to go to the grocery store so I go online to see how much money I have in my account.  I try to login and the credit union sends my husband the verification code needed (EVERY DAMN TIME) in order to access my account (even though I am using the same computer each time and the correct password).  In my real-life scenario, KC would simply send the information on.  But let’s say I’m Beaten Betty, this simple act of inquiring about how much money I have now becomes a major ordeal.  Do I face the husband’s wrath and have the information sent to him or do I make the drive to the credit union first, unload the kids, wait in line to get my balance and then go to the store?  Anyone who has had to wait in line with kids knows it’s an enormous pain; and now I’m having to do it twice (the credit union and then the store).  Meanwhile, my husband can do the same simple act in a matter of minutes.

Not cool, Hughes.  Not cool.

"I wanna tell her that I love her, but the point is probably moot."

I'm very fortunate to have friends of different ages.  They each make my life richer and diverse and for that I am so grateful.  But there's something to be said for friends of your generation.

Rick Springfield is coming to Fox Theatre for an "intimate concert," which just translates to that's the biggest venue he can fill anymore.  I don't care, his was the very first concert I went to (I think I was ten) and I've seen him several more times throughout the years and I'm going again - and I'm dragging KC with me.  I start to think of what friends of ours might be interested in going with us and I start imaging how different phone calls with different friends might go.

Our much younger friends:

"Hey!  Rick Springfield is going to be in concert on April 9th; do you guys want to go with us!?"

"Rick Springfield.  You know, Jessie's Girl.  I've Done Everything For You.  Dr. Noah Drake...."

"Yeah, he's probably on Spotify.  Seriously, you've never even heard Jessie's Girl?!?  Didn't you ever watch General Hospital when you were younger?"

"I don't know, like 1982."

"The year you were born?  I see."

"Well yes, $90 is a lot of money for someone you've never heard of."

Our much older friends:

"Hey!  Do you remember Rick Springfield?"

"Well yes, I liked his music.  That's why I was calling - to see if you wanted to go to see him in concert."

"You're right.  Very different from Led Zepplin."

"Well, he kind of looks like Eric Clapton...."

"Yes, $90 is a lot of money to pay, even when you like the music, so I understand."

My generational friends:

"Hey!  Rick Springfield is going to be in concert on-"

"Yes, really!  April-"

"I know.  I had such a huge crush too.  Remember rushing to my house after school so we could watch General Hospital?"

"I know, Dr. Noah Drake!"

"Remember when we were in high school and he did that concert at the farm over off of 5-Mile Road?"

"Yes, Corey Hart was his opening act!  I forgot about that!"

"Anyway, April 9th.  I think he's aged really well."

"Only $90!"

"It's a date!  I can't wait!!"

And that's why generational friends are awesome.

Fruit salads.

I don't mean to brag, but I'm married to a pretty great guy.  As I was reflecting on that fact earlier today, I realized I need to add the caveat, 'for me.'  I'm married to a pretty great guy for me.  I don't mean like I'm a 6 and my spouse is an 8 so I married 'up', I mean he and I are a really good match. I can think of a few people that would be absolutely miserable hitched to him.  For starters, he's pretty dang anti-social; unless he's gotten to know you, then he's the life of the party.  The trick is letting you actually get to know him.  I have plenty of social butterfly friends for which that would be a deal breaker.  Secondly, he's ridiculously tall.  This makes dancing, skiing, and skating a thing of the past for me.  I can only dance a song or two with him before my neck starts hurting because I have to tilt my head way back in order to look at him when we're that close.  He has pretty much refused to ski or skate because, as he puts it, he "looks like Lurch" on skates or in ski boots.  Another possible deal breaker for someone.  So, he's not without his shortcomings.  I say this preemptively for the story I'm about to tell.

My daughter announced the other night at dinner that she wants to marry a man just like her dad, but that it probably won't happen because her dad is perfect and there's no men in her generation that could measure up to how great he is.  She continued on about how lucky I am to have a husband like him.  I agreed (because I do agree) but then I asked her why I should be considered 'lucky'?  Didn't I  deserve that?  She gave me the guilt-ridden, obligatory, "you're a great catch too, mom"  but then continued to gush about her dad.  He cooks, he's handy around the house, he's got a good job so he can take care of his family, he's handsome, he's funny, he loves his wife and kids, he likes animals, he's a good athlete.... this girl had a list!  I realized that she sees KC through my rose-colored glasses and that worried me.  It's taken 20+ years to get my rose-colored tint just right.  This shit didn't just happen.  It's taken a lot of work and commitment on both our parts.  Behind-the-scenes arguments over the years that our kids never saw.  Compromises that were made after they went to bed.  Frustrations, tears, anger - these are the things that we went through but that made our relationship stronger.  She didn't see that - she just saw her parents got along all the time with, what seemed, little effort.  On one hand, I'm glad that my kids were raised in a home that they felt safe and knew their parents loved each other and them; on the other hand, I'm worried we made it look too easy and have set them, especially my list-making daughter, up for failure because they didn't see the effort that it sometimes took (and at times, still takes!)  I love that KC is the yardstick for which Dear Daughter will measure her future suitors.  The problem is she is using her dad today, not her dad 20 years ago, and that is really an apples to oranges comparison.  Her dad was great and all 20 years ago but he was far from the perfect designation we would give him today.  (I know what you're thinking and trust me, I realize and publicly acknowledge that I've also come a long way over the years.)  There's no way any boy can live up to the KC that would be considered today's oranges but he might be able to measure up to the younger, apple version KC.  The problem is how do we get Dear Daughter to believe apples turn into oranges without her settling for a lemon.

I think the bug guy saw me naked.

Since being diagnosed with MS, I am very routine-oriented.  The body memory of how I do things every day keeps me on track when my cognitive memory fails me.  So when KC is home, he throws my routine in a big ol' tailspin and I get very discombobulated.  Which annoys me.

My husband is an early riser and he enjoys the morning from the minute he gets out of bed.

I am much slower to embrace the beauty of the day.

When he gets up, one of the first things KC does is goes around the house and opens all the blinds.  Because we live where it's sunny 350 days a year, that means our house is flooded with daylight and sunshine.  I do open the blinds, eventually, it's just much farther down my list of things to do.  I prefer to gradually let the sunshine in as I become more acclimated to having my eyes open - not have them blasted all at once.

So, the fact that I don't open the blinds until after I've been awake and moving a while is part of my routine.  We have a room separate from our bedroom where we get ready; my closet and the bathroom is part of this room.  Having this setup was especially nice for my husband when he worked midnights; he would not be bothered while he was trying to sleep and now that I don't have to wake up with an alarm, it's particularly lovely for me when KC is getting ready.  This room is one of the rooms that KC opens the blinds for when he's home and messing with how things get done every day.  When I get out of the shower, I walk back and forth from my closet to the bathroom while I'm getting ready.  This part of the routine involves me being naked or partially naked because I get dressed in stages.  It's a very long explanation why and probably only makes sense to me.  And since I'm usually home alone with the blinds closed, it really doesn't matter.

One Friday, not too long ago, KC was home and up-and-at-'em long long before I was.  I got up and went straight to the shower before even talking to anyone.  (It's just better that way for all involved.)  I fell into my routine and started getting ready.  Back and forth from the bathroom to the closet.  Pretty soon I hear the doorbell ring and the dogs go nuts.  We were expecting the satellite TV repairman, but not until the afternoon; why was he here three hours early?  I hear KC go outside and talk to someone so I quickly get dressed and go to put the dogs outside so the man can work in peace without having his butt sniffed every time he bends over.  (I really have tried to teach them manners, but at the end of the day, they're still dogs.)  As I'm walking down the hall, KC comes back in.

I ask, "Why is the Dish guy here so early?"
Kasey replies, "Oh, that wasn't him, that was the exterminator.  He just wanted to tell us he was here."
"He never does that.  That's weird."

That's the truth.  We have had the same monthly pest service company for almost 12 years and, unless he is spraying inside, which he hardly ever does, I can't remember a single time he rang the bell to just let me know he's here.

Then I hear him driving off.
 "Wow, that was fast," Kasey says. 

I go back to my bathroom and finish getting ready.  But now I'm annoyed.  Why would the bug guy let us know he was here?  Just because he saw KC's car in the driveway, he decided to let us know he's here?  Oh sure, he's going to be all professional with a man, but not with a woman.  Such b.s.

I chide myself a little... I try to give him the benefit of the doubt,  He knows KC's a cop, maybe he was worried about getting shot.  Or maybe he wanted us to keep the dogs in the house when he's in the backyard.  No, the dogs never bother him.

The more I think about it, the weirder it gets.  He is always here a good 20 minutes, at least.  Today he was here five.  He wouldn't have even had to time to spray the backya... then it hits me.  He had already sprayed the backyard when he rang the doorbell.  While I was walking back and forth -naked- from the closet to the bathroom.

I come out to the kitchen and dramatically announce, "I think the bug guy saw me naked."
KC chuckles, "Why would you say that?"
"Because you're home and you screw up my routine.  Thanks a lot." and I storm back to my bathroom.

Poor KC.

I am a police officer's wife.

Thank you to every police officer out there risking his/her life, every day.

My husband has been spit at, shot at, punched, and kicked. He's been in more wrestling matches and foot pursuits than I can count. More than once, criminals have tried to run him over with a vehicle. People scream obscenities at him as they drive down the street. On their way to jail, bad guys threaten his family. He's been first on scene when children have been killed, when moms have been murdered in front of their children, sons have committed suicide, and dads have been shot. He's saved children who were being held hostage, and gingerly taken women who were beaten and raped to the hospital. He's served numerous warrants to armed and dangerous individuals, recovered lots and lots of stolen cars, and yep, he's written hundreds, if not thousands, of traffic tickets and, of course, been told he should be out looking for real criminals as he hands the offender his citation. And still he puts on his vest with a smile as he heads out the door every morning. 

"He signed up for that."

You're damn right he did. Every time he goes to work, he willingly protects and serves the citizens of his community to the best of his ability and training. But nowhere in the manual does it say he should die while protecting and serving. In fact, he's been trained to do just the opposite. Anyone who wants to Monday morning quarterback decisions he makes to keep his brothers and sisters in blue, as well as himself, alive needs to know that most agencies are hiring; by all means, put your application in.

He despises dirty cops and the black mark they put on his profession and the distrust they create in his community. Yet, because of the uniform, he is still lumped in with them when "fuck the police" is chanted by angry mobs.

I'm not even going to speak about prejudice, and he's been accused, other than the idea that he would target someone because of race, religion, or creed rather than behavior is offensive, to say the least.

So I am struggling with all that's being said on the Ferguson issue. I don't know that community, I don't know Michael Brown or Officer Wilson. But I do know Officer Wilson's wife - but for the grace of God, I am her.