Change?

I want to chop my hair off and go blonde. Maybe stick my tongue out a lot and use foam fingers in inappropriate ways.

I want to workout every minute of every day so I can be sleeker. Different. Like Jennifer Grey's nose.

I want to look at the world and not hate it. Not all the time. But a lot of the time.

I want to succeed. In anything. Anything at all.  Business. Without really trying.

I want to stop burying my life in taking care of the dog and live. With the dog, of course. He ain't going nowhere. But do I worry about him at the detriment of my own life?

I want change. They say it does you good.  I say it just slides out of the coin purse and pools in the bottom of your handbag.

I've been failing a lot the last week or two. Saying the wrong thing. Having people hold grudges for assumed slights when I can't even see where there was fault. I've been sleepless. So sleepless that up until my writing this at 1am, I've been staring at the blinking green light that indicates my cable box is still not working.  Over and over it blinks and over and over thoughts flit through my mind. I take drugs. They don't work til too late and then I'm sleepy in the morning. Viscious cycle.  Was sick. Lost Bailey. Tried to be strong for my family. To be there for them. But who's gonna be there for me?

Eh. Vomitous blog. Positive is that I'm gonna be too busy the next few days to even think about anything but surviving an ill prepared emcee gig and a writers conference. Who knows. Maybe selling PMS will be my success. Or maybe not throwing up from nerves tomorrow will be one.  Fingers crossed. Now to sleep. Here's hoping.

This is not a fun blog.

Sorry.  It's just not.  Go read The Oatmeal or 27bslash6 if you want fun.

Dogs are awesome. They love us, unconditionally.  I needed that about three years ago.

I had moved home after passing out alone in the living room/rent was raised.  I was a mess. Depressed. Thin. Full of self loathing and derision.  Why had I been so stupid?  How was I back at my parents house at 29? Why couldn't I do things right? Dumb, dumb, dumb. And slowly, I got better.

My parents were a gigantic help. I mean, they're rock stars.  Equal parts badass and comfort. But what got me through the worst of the worst was a little furball named Bailey.  Bailey loved me when I didn't love myself. I would find him laying next to my bed, looking up at me as I curled in a fetal position and cried. During bad weather, he would run into my room and shake while thunder rolled and I tried to calm him.  I would put him on my bed and try to soothe him.  I was there for him, and he would always be there for me.

My parents would go away and it would be Bailey and I rambling around the house. Up at 6am. Let him out. Feed him. Fall asleep on the couch for a little while, snoozing as I heard him plop beside me with a grunt. One such occasion saw the onslaught of tropical storm weather.  I cleared out the downstairs closet in case of a hurricane, cleared off the couch cushions and made a cozy bed for the two of us in view of the Weather Channel and that cleaned out closet.

He is a sheltie. He is beautiful. He is neurotic. He is sick.

I was on the phone with my mother yesterday. My very strong, very independent mother.  We were discussing a writer's conference we are going to together, and were discussing the need for doggy care for Kevin. I said, "Well, you're gonna need to get someone to watch Bailey."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "We have an appointment on Thursday. He hasn't been eating.  He's been throwing up what little he does eat.  He's skin and bones and I'm not going to let him suffer."

I've never been around when we've lost a pet. Our first dog, Gizmo, went to live on a farm. An actual farm, not the fictional one that parents create when a pet dies. Our first sheltie, Maggie, died while I was in Europe and it broke me. Our second sheltie, Shelby, died during a hurricane in a horrible way. My mom was there for both. I understood why she was hesitant to tell me. And I realized I'm stronger than I was then.  I know it's better for him to pass peacefully than in pain.  He helped me in my time of need, and I'm gonna be there for him in his. It's still hard. But it's the right thing to do.

I called my brother and sister last night to tell them the news.  Both expressed a desire to say goodbye.  I'm going to be there tonight to say goodbye, myself.  All of us are sad.  But we're gonna deal with it together.

I'm gonna hug my weird furbaby extra tight today and tomorrow. Ya'll wanna do the same? For me?