24 Hours

24 hours ago my life was completely different.

24 hours ago I was almost happy.

24 hours ago I didn't know that my life was about to take a drastic turn.

24 hours ago I was sitting on the couch, watching tv, waiting for the US friendly with Mexico to start, with Princess curled up on my legs, just as she did almost every single time I sat on the couch. If I was sitting, she was next to me.

24 hours ago I didn't know that Princess would only be with me for four more hours.

23 hours ago Princess threw up, which isn't exactly abnormal for dogs. She didn't seem to be breathing very well, though, so I woke my parents up for backup. She settled down, though, and got back on the couch with me, cuddled up a little closer than normal. I knew she wasn't feeling well, but I thought it would pass. My parents went back to bed, thinking she was ok-ish.

I went to bed after the soccer match was over. Princess wouldn't get up because she was sick, so I carried her little self to bed. I've done that a million times. I've carried her all over the place because she's so stubborn, but she's only 50 pounds and easy to carry.

She snuggled in really close, like she does when I'm upset or she's upset. She was still having trouble breathing, but only sometimes. I wasn't sleeping because I was listening for her in case she needed me.

She needed me. I just couldn't do anything to help her.

An hour after we went to bed, Princess started throwing up again, or trying to. She wasn't able to sit up. She was choking, but seemed, I don't know, sort of paralyzed. I tried to help her up, so she wouldn't choke, but she was limp. She couldn't support herself. And then she had what seemed like a seizure.

And then it was over.

I lost her. I lost her. I lost the only reason I've had to be happy in 4.5 months. I lost the only reason I get out of bed some days. I lost the most precious little girl who threw herself at me every time I walked in the door, who ran into the room looking for me every time she came in from going outside, who would sleep on her back with her tongue hanging out, who snored louder than an old man, who insisted on a belly rub every night before going out for the last time and before going to bed, who would sit like a little meerkat with her paws in my hands for as long as I would sit on the floor with her.

I lost my little dog who had the saddest eyes, who mourned her brother's death for months, who was so much like Dewey that it is like losing him all over again.

I haven't recovered from Dewey. I was only surviving because of Princess. Now she's gone, too. There is no dog pushing their way through two other dogs to get to me when I walk in the door. There is no dog that looks for me first thing when they wake up. There is no dog curled up on my lap. There is no dog to sleep in my bed.

For the first time in over 20 years, I don't have a dog.

I don't have a dog who sleeps on me.

I don't have a dog who wants to be as close as possible to me.

I don't have a dog who thinks my only crime is not paying them constant attention.

I don't have a dog who puts me above everyone else in the world.

I don't have a dog.

Going, going....

My advisor is leaving my school. In three months.

I think I'm traumatized.

Got FOMO?

This is my life. There is no escaping FOMO for me. Either I am the one with FOMO, constantly checking emails, Twitter, and Facebook, not to mention texts, or someone I am with someone who has FOMO and is annoying me.

I'm pretty good about ignoring my phone when I'm hanging out with people because it infuriates me when people ignore me for their phone.* My best friend, on the other hand, is terrible. He is constantly texting - even while driving, making me yell at him - or checking email or Facebook and it drives me nuts. We can be out to dinner or having drinks or just watching tv and he is constantly on his phone.

Why can't people enjoy the people who are actually making an effort to spend real time with them, rather than focusing on what other people, who aren't with them, are doing? Whatever happened to enjoying the moment?



*Seriously. I really do make an effort. Avoiding work is one thing, but I think it's terribly rude to ignore people you are with and I just don't do it (much).

Enough is Enough is Enough

Have you heard the latest rape news? It happened in Canada, so you may not have, but here's a link to the story of Rehtaeh Parsons, a 17 year-old girl whose family just took her off life support three days after she hanged herself.

Why did she hang herself? Well, year and a half ago, four boys thought it would be awesome to rape her, DOCUMENTING THEIR ACTIONS BY TAKING PICTURES OF THE FUN TIME and then, because that wasn't hilarious enough, what did they do? You guessed it. They shared those pictures with everyone in school and their town.

Does this sound familiar? Nauseating shades of Steubenville, perhaps?

Parsons tried to hide what happened from her family until she could no longer handle the pressure and abuse from the community. Because, you know, it was clearly ONE girl's fault that she was raped by FOUR boys.

I will never understand what makes people think it's ok to rape and think it's ok, no - hilarious, to brag about rape. I will never understand what makes people think it's ok to blame the victim of a horrible crime that didn't end with the rape (it never does), but continued up to and including the time she hanged herself because of the torment she faced and the humiliation she dealt with every single day?

Despite the physical proof that she was raped, everyone in the town saw the pictures, after all, the RCMP didn't have enough evidence. They couldn't be bothered to even interview the "alleged" perpetrators right away. The mother was told that, regardless of the rape, there wasn't really a crime because the distribution of child pornography, which is what it's called when a 15 year-old girl is involved, was somehow not a crime, but a "community issue."

They are, in a strange way, right. That it was acceptable to the community that this happened is a "community issue." That it was ok for her mortification to be increased exponentially by the sharing of those photos and by the sick, twisted reaction to those photos is a "community issue." That it is ok for four boys to rape a girl is a "community issue." How they responded to that crime is a "community issue." When things will change is also a "community issue" - a world community issue. How many times do we have to hear about these rapes, these shamings, these blamings of the victim? When will that change come?

Shame on the community. Shame on the RCMP. They are just as culpable in this girl's suicide. I hope every single one of them who knew about the crime but didn't investigate or didn't take it seriously is haunted by her suicide for the rest of their lives. It is the least they deserve.

Time bomb

Apologies to the writing group members expecting to get straight to the writing group post. Just click on the link at the right to go straight to Week 12 or scroll down. I normally try not to post over the weekend, so as not to throw anyone off, but I'm kind of freaking out a bit and need to unload because I can't sleep.

Thursday I took Tank to the vet because he has seemed...off. He doesn't do his whirling dervish dance before meals. He's a bit lethargic. He doesn't give as many kisses as normal because he's been laying around a lot. He's just not been his usual adorable lovebug self and we were worried, particularly since Winnie was put to sleep less than a month ago.

Thursday turned out miserably, needless to say. After a lot of whining and shaking in the vet's waiting room (he really does not enjoy leaving the house, no matter where we go, not just the vet), he had a bunch of tests done and some x-rays. His spleen was very enlarged, so Friday he had to have an ultrasound. The ultrasound showed spots on his enlarged spleen (spots are clearly worse than just an enlarged spleen, which is bad enough) and on his liver, too. But his tests came back ok, so now an oncologist is looking at his x-rays because of the liver spots.

The vet wants to remove Tank's spleen Monday morning because it is so enlarged, but we can't decide what to do. We won't get any information on the liver spots until Monday afternoon at the earliest. No one wants to put him through major surgery if he has liver cancer, too, because that's just cruel, particularly because he would have to stay at the vet's for a few days of recovery. On the other hand, we are running the risk of having his spleen rupture, which would be horribly painful for him and horribly traumatic for both him and us. No one wants him to suffer like that, obviously, but we're not ready to say goodbye because he's happy, just not as happy and silly as he was two or three weeks ago.

But what if we agree to the surgery and the vet notices that he's riddled with cancer? Again, there's no point in removing the spleen when he doesn't have long to live, in that case, but then, as my mother pointed out, it would be cruel to wake him up and wait for the spleen to rupture, which will happen and most likely soon. I hadn't even thought about that. I can't even think that Monday might be the last time I see him. I start crying at the very thought.


Tank will be eight on May 1st. He is the baby of the family; his sister is the baby, too, but Tank is beyond sweet. He's never been in trouble. I don't think anyone has ever even raised their voice at him. He's just, in a word, precious. He sleeps with me and he fights his father and sister to get the closest to me for cuddles. My lap is basically a revolving door for the three of them; Tank, being the sweetest, usually loses out the most because his sister is way too pushy and his father, the handsome one pictured on the right is far too stubborn not to get his way, has also lived with me and been completely spoiled for his entire life but I don't even care. He's perfect and it doesn't matter. But, Tank. Tank.

We are having a really, really hard time coming to terms with all of this. It's too much. It's too awful. It's Tank.

Death Break

Oh my god. I am dying. I really think I am. I alternate between freezing cold and breaking out in a sweat. All of the dogs want to lay on me, as if, in doing so, they will magically cure me, or at least win a prize for being closest to me when I die. I can't sleep because I just hear the wheezing, creaking, rattling sounds in my chest as I try to breathe. I'm certain this is what they call the death rattle.

I keep getting email notifications that my ILL books have arrived. My dissertation mocks me.

And I should be in the Bahamas, getting ready for the rehearsal dinner for my best friend's wedding.

It's a cruel, cruel world

Yesterday I sent this email to a friend:

"I'm on Spring Break! I couldn't be more ready for it, too. I've been desperate for a break. Yesterday, before class, I was thinking about Friday's upcoming class and how I already knew a few students weren't going to be there because they were leaving school early. I asked them in class how many were planning on not being there and, after convincing them I wasn't going to be mad but only wanted to know because I might rearrange what I was planning to do for World War II. Over half of them confessed they weren't going to be there Friday. Eight students said they would be there. EIGHT. I'm supposed to drive 45 minutes at 7:00 in the morning to teach a maximum of eight students because, let's face it, some of those won't actually show up. The other half started to demand extra credit for being there because time with my hilarious, brilliant self clearly wasn't enough incentive. So. I told them I was willing to cancel class IF they agreed to watch a documentary on WWII and complete an assignment on it (so I know they watched it) and hand it in in class Monday after break. Naturally they jumped at it. I look like the coolest prof ever AND I don't have to get up at 6:00 Friday morning AND my Spring Break starts early, too. Sometimes even I am surprised by my genius."

Well, my gloating came too soon. The universe hates me. It is mocking me. I was too happy that I canceled class today. I'm sick. I feel like my head is going to burst. And someone must have used my throat as a toothpick holder while I was sleeping. It's raw and sore and I sound like I smoked three packs a cigarettes a day for 60 years. It took all my energy to turn my computer on after I dragged my sorry self out of bed and laid on the couch for awhile.

My triumph has turned to agony. Well played, universe. Well played.

The Philadelphia Flower Show - When "British" is Anything But British

I went to the Philadelphia Flower Show Tuesday for the first time since I was a little kid. It's supposedly the largest indoor flower show in the world and I've wanted to go for the past few years because it is pretty cool, but, well...Canada.

This year was different, obviously, and, even better, the show had a British theme. No way was I missing it. My bff (of niece and nephew fame) wanted to go, too, because she is a complete Anglophile, in addition to her father being from Northern Ireland. So we made a day of it, having lunch at Reading Terminal, and it was lovely, except...it wasn't.

It wasn't British. I'm very used to Scotland (and Northern Ireland and Wales) getting ignored as being British. Scots complain of it all the time, but it does happen and if it frustrates me, I can only imagine how frustrating it must be for an actual Scot.

I was sure the Flower Show would be different. After all, since the 17th century Scots were at the top of the field in botany and gardening and, since the 18th century, after the Union, Scots were the head gardeners of English noble estates through the 19th century, if not up until World War I, although I'm not sure about the precise end date because I can't find my notes on a fascinating talk by Cairns Craig, who is a genius. History aside, there is just so much you can do with British gardens, right? I mean, there's the lovely little rural cottage with flowers all around it, there's structured formal gardens with box hedges, there's all the gardens created from seeds brought back from the colonies and explorations.

You can even be cliche about Britishness and still have an interesting show. Double-decker busses, anyone? Fast blacks? Buckingham Palace? Big Ben? Castles? "The Secret Garden," perhaps? Jane Austen? Downton Abbey??? That's only a little popular right now. Also, HARRY FREAKING POTTER, for crying out loud!

Do you want to know what the exhibits were? There was a good exhibit with a river, a wood hut, and some tropical flowers to show the explorers' contributions to British gardens. There was also a cool '60s themed bit with some hippie stuff and the Rolling Stones peace sign. There was also a kind of interesting Mad Hatter tea party for Alice in Wonderland, but it wasn't that exciting, to be honest. It had all been done before. There was a very lame London Fog exhibit with giant umbrellas hanging and very few flowers. My first thought, upon seeing the umbrellas, was that there was a Mary Poppins exhibit, but, no. Even that would have been better than a bunch of umbrellas. (P.S. the fog is gone, so, yeah, there's that)

From there, it quickly went downhill. There was a double-decker bus...made out of cardboard, not flowers. There are no red flowers in the world?

There was a Jane Austen exhibit that was just...I have no words. Here's a picture:

It was mostly pansies. Pansies for Jane Austen! Right next to it was a display about Beatrix Potter's cottage. It looked nothing like her actual cottage, though, which, by the way, is online and you can see tons of information on her garden on the National Trust's website. That presumes a willingness to do a little research, though, I suppose.

There was a garden path with about ten daffodils to represent Wales. Poor Wales. Northern Ireland didn't fare much better. There was an admittedly giant display about Derry-Londonderry, probably because it's the 2013 U.K, City of Culture. The display, however, was a giant cardboard wall with two men shaking hands over it. I almost died. Way to sanitize hundreds of years of oppression, resistance, and warfare, guys, but there were also no real flowers. Through the walls was tiny little path lined with a few flowers. This was a flower show, right?

What sent me over the edge, however, was - you guessed it - the ONE display pertaining to Scotland. Here it is:

It was a small golf display. It looked nothing like any Scottish links I have ever seen and I've seen a lot. It was overly manicured. It could have been Augusta National for all anyone knows, except that they stuck the Union Jack and the Cross of St Andrew in there, so it must be a British course. Please notice the stuffed gopher (a la Caddyshack) near the hole because that's classic British, no?

It's not just that the show was lacking in non-English representation. I love England (please don't tell!). I don't consider myself a Scottish historian, but a British one, so I understand the complexities of British identity and the repercussions of those complexities. It really wasn't just about pathetic attempts at non-English displays. It was barely even English. It missed the very essence of English gardens. There was some English ivy in a hanging pot. One hanging pot. They didn't even try to put the ivy on a cottage wall. There was not even one single English rose in the show - not in any exhibits, not in any of the table displays, nowhere. The bff was particularly upset about the lack of English roses.

If you want to be cliche about Britishness, while I'd rather you weren't, at least get the cliche right. Play to what people know and love and do it really, really well. This was just laziness and from a show of this size and renown, I expected so much more.

Blindsided by faith

Let me preface this post by saying that I am a terrible Catholic. The last time I went to Mass was in Edinburgh a few years ago, on a whim, when I found a cute church and weekday Mass was just about to start. I thought it couldn't be a coincidence, so I went and found myself struggling to remember the long-forgotten prayers that I never practiced enough to have them entirely engrained upon my memory.

For me, a beautiful church is a wonderful thing and Catholics did build beautiful churches. I like to sit in churches, staring at the architecture, the stained glass, the idols. Perhaps this is why I study religious history. Perhaps that also has something to do with my interrupted Catholicism. I never went through confirmation, so I'm not entirely certain I can call myself Catholic. I certainly don't take communion because that just feels wrong to me, as if I'd be an impostor.  When I was eight, I told my parents I refused to Sunday school anymore (I really did not like my Sunday school teacher. She was awful.) I didn't realize, however, that they would take this to mean I didn't want to go to church anymore. That wasn't the case. I went with my dad and my nana every Sunday and then we went to breakfast afterwards, which I really liked. Sadly, refusing Sunday school meant the end of going to church and I actually was sad about that, even though I never told anyone that really. It's still difficult to admit. I have thought many times about going through the confirmation process, but my disagreements with the Church on so many issues has always stopped me. The tradition and ritual that I love about the Catholic Church has not been enough to overcome my sadness and indignation at the treatment of women, of homosexuals, and of its victims.

To say that today's news, the resignation of Benedict XVI, has...shaken things up is an obvious understatement. There are times when my long-neglected Catholicism rears its ugly head. It usually involves my Catholic guilt, which, let me tell you, must have been instilled in me from birth from my grandmother because it is some seriously powerful stuff. I, however, would not have expected to be as upset by this as I am. I am REALLY angry. I feel betrayed. Popes do not resign. Popes especially do not resign for health reasons. Coming from the successor to Pope John Paul II this is a particular slap in the face. PJP2's decline was very long, very public, and very painful to watch. Benedict XVI has been in office for eight years. Yes, he's 85 years old, but surely he knew the toll being pope would take on him, on his health. The entire world watched PJP2 as his health failed, so surely Benedict was well aware of what could happen.

Popes just don't resign. Resignation signals that the pontiff is just another job, like CEO of a business (and, yes, there are many who would claim that the Catholic Church is precisely a business and I'm not disagreeing, but this is not the vein I choose to discuss right now), but it's not a job. It's a calling. Right? That's what we're told over and over. Men of faith get called to the church. That means, or at least it should mean, that they stay with the church 'til death do they part. The only way out is death.

The timing of it all is particularly perplexing. He announces his resignation two days before the start of Lent. That's appalling, but it gets worse. His resignation will go into effect halfway through Lent. Are you serious? We could potentially be without a pope for Easter. EASTER! And does this mean the papal conclave will be under pressure to elect another pope before Easter? Yes. Of course it does. Rome can't be popeless for the resurrection of Christ.

So, what is going on? You have to wonder. It's the Catholic Church. There is always something they are not telling us. What is it this time? Anyone can see Benedict has changed over the past few years. He looks weaker, more frail. Is that just age? His resignation would suggest otherwise, but the Church is silent on the specifics, as usual. I find myself angry at this, too. We need a reason - a specific reason - for this resignation, for such a betrayal. I would find it easier to be sympathetic if we were told that the pope is suffering from Alzheimers or was given two months to live and those two months were going to be horrifically painful. I certainly don't wish that on him, but I don't think we should be left wondering what is happening, why this is happening, why he is abandoning the Church.

There is another side to this, though. I feel bad for Benedict. I can not imagine the struggle he must have gone through to decide to resign. How does a man who dedicates his life to the Church and to God decide that he must leave it? How does one who achieves the highest honor relinquish it? And how does a man who leads millions in their faith turn his back on them?

There are so many questions. I'm sure that, in time, we will get our answers. But, for now, the Catholic Church remains silent.

UPDATE: I've been listening to some of the responses from the Catholic Church and from, well, everyone. I think I'm starting to come around and be a little more understanding. Benedict's recognition that he is no longer physically and mentally able to lead the Church, make doctrinal decisions, etc. must have been terribly humbling. I can only hope it will benefit the Church. I'm certainly not one of those people thinking this means his successor will be more liberal in its views on birth control, women, homosexuals. I wish, but it's been seven years of Benedict, not 70. There's been no real major shift and I don't expect it coming from the conclave anytime soon, probably not even in my lifetime. And so my standoff with the Church continues.