Every Pogo poops… On the pad!

I’m not really in the mood to write, but I want to save this memory, so forgive me if this isn’t up to snuff.

Last night, Zach was lying on the floor playing with Pogo. Pogo padded off to the Wee-Wee pad and did his business, looking at Zach. Then he bounced back all happy and playful, an obvious pride splayed across his fuzzy little face. Course we gave him a treat for being a good boy — first time he’s gotten a treat other than at the vet’s during shots. So back and forth, four times in a row, he went on the pad, then got a treat. Over and over again, like he was holding in little bits so he could get more treats. Then for some odd reason he peed on the carpet. He walked while doing it, right over to the towel Zach had been wearing just a few minutes prior, and stopped to finish peeing on the edge of the towel. What a conundrum…

Again, no song title.

I feel like a turd for yesterday’s entry. I’ll just chock it up to PMS.

I don’t feel like looking up any lyrics right now.

So there are all these fires in San Diego, people evacuating, losing their homes… And all I can think about is that my husband decided not to take the half-day he was offered at work, and is instead helping out with disaster stuff.

I’m so proud of him for that, that’s so sweet. But he works late all the time, and all I can think about is these military families and their husbands coming home early and their wives greeting them with a big hug and holding them close. They all get to enjoy each other. But here I am, still waiting…

I know how incredibly selfish that is. But this is my journal, so I’m going to vent. I’m not proud of the way I feel, but I’m so tired of us losing time together. I know, we could be losing our home, yada yada. Trust me, I KNOW that. But he works late all the time. Then there’s this one time he could be off early…

I signed up to work at the call center if they need help, just waiting to hear back from them. Figure they won’t have too many people available during normal working hours, so they should be getting back to me.

I’m tired of him constantly working late with no comp time. When we first came to San Diego we were promised surprise half days when there wasn’t anything to do at the office, but that doesn’t happen. They always find something to do — completely useless somethings. I just want to be surprised. *sigh* How often do I have to say that?

He needs to get home so we can call his mom about our wedding plans. I was in tears last night because the wedding is in about nine weeks and I still don’t even know if we have a caterer, a band, a florist… And I know we don’t have a reception hall. Which means I can’t do invitations yet.

This is just one of those times when I want to be put first, even though I know right now the needs of others outweigh mine. I know it’s irrational. I’m proud he’s helping out, I’m just upset that I don’t get to enjoy the excited phone call that he’s off early, the unexpected embrace, the precious time…

And I’m incredibly worried about the wedding planning.

“Brainstorm, take me away from the norm.”

I stayed up ’til 11:30 last night waiting for the NaNoWriMo boards to open, but alas, no dice. So I slept. Then registered this morning after dropping Zach off at work.

Yay! The forums are a little screwy, and the site is enduring its first crash as I write, but that’s okay. I’m anxious and want to get back on there, but I’m glad to have at least registered at this point.

But I’m tired, my stomach feels awful and I’ve accomplished no housework this morning. That’s kind of been a trend since Friday morning. I have to actually get something done today, but for now, I’m hitting the couch. I’ve just felt disgusting lately…

“[mood] Swing, swing…”

So there’s always that time, you know, during a month, when a woman has peculiar emotions. Two months ago I was very, very happy. It caused me to be affectionate and giggly. How odd… I’m usually a crying mess.

Last month it was just kind of a passing thing, no change.

This month I find myself full of energy and turning into a compulsive house-cleaner. Excellent! It was about time I sifted through that giant pile of laundry on the closet floor. And did the three loads or so of dishes. And cleaned off the coffee table… Thank you, hormones, for FINALLY kicking. What a nice surprise! Wonder what next month holds in store…

“We’ve been pulling out the nails that hold up everything you’ve known.”

I haven’t done lengthy creative writing in a very long time. Sure, a couple pages of flash fiction here and there, occasionally I indulge in writing some absolutely rotten poetry, but for the past four years, my creative writing has taken a backseat to being a journalist.

But journalism requires creativity as well. You have to know how to talk to people to get the right quotes, the interesting story versus the story everyone else is going to get. You have to put it together in a way that garners interest from the public. I can sit down and write a 1,500 word feature story on establishing, maintaining and repairing credit, then turn around and write a 750 word editorial on animal rights, then the next day cover an awards ceremony for a Vietnam veteran and turn it into a story that gets picked up by external news sources before I even promote it. One of my recent favorites was a story I did on a Marine saving a three-year-old from drowning. The Red Cross didn’t know this happened, read my story and ended up giving this Marine their annual military hero award.

I was a damn good combat correspondent. (It’s not cocky — it’s confident.)

So maybe I need to start interviewing my characters. Maybe I just need to create a person in my head and hold imaginary conversations with them. I can picture a teacher who’s sitting in a jail cell and just imagine the interview I would conduct if I were still in the newspaper business. Maybe I just need to be schizophrenic!

This WarmUp is really giving me a chance to dive back into creative writing, and I appreciate the things it’s teaching me about myself. I love to write, but this is different than what I’ve grown used to. Now I just need to get back into the creative writing habits I was in before I joined the military.

What a rollercoaster this is turning out to be! I understand grammar and storytelling, but I had completely forgotten just how different it feels to create something not from interviews and observations, but instead, just from my mind.

I love it.

“If someone said three years from now you’d be long gone…”

I can’t do it immediately, but when Zach and I have arguments, the best way I can move on is to think, “He could be gone any day. Accidents happen, and you need to cherish your time together.” It makes me so emotional I want to cry. It makes me want to kiss him with even more passion than I just put into whatever confrontation we just came out of. I hate to think of something happening to this wonderful person with this beautiful smile, those dimples, that mind… Bodies can endure so much, but sometimes they’re so fragile. One wrong move and it can all shut down… Even now, I just want to throw my arms around him and feel his heart. I want to feel his skin and his bones, the body that protects the soul I hold so dear.

When someone said count your blessings now
‘fore they’re long gone,
I guess I just didn’t know how
I was all wrong.

…

But I keep
Your memory,
You visit me in my sleep,
My darling.
Who knew?

I love you, my Zach.

“Run away, try to find that safe place you can hide.”

The dog. He poos. Everywhere.

I love my dog so much. But no matter how much you love something, it’s never fun to clean up its poo.

He’s so good at letting us know when he needs to go out and pee, but when it’s time for #2, he just runs somewhere in the house and hides. He does it quick, too. At first he was just doing it in our bathroom, but when we started shutting the door, he took it to mean he could poop anywhere. Usually carpeted anywhere.

Thing is, I’m a little worried. Last night he pooped outside. Yay, good dog! Lots of praise and happy voices. But right after he pooped, he cowered, tucked his little tail between his legs and looked up at me like he did something wrong. I don’t think he’s getting the point. I’m sad to say that I think we’re accidentally training him that pooping in general is bad, which is why he runs and hides to do it.

I’m so tired of poop, of him looking at me like I’m mean, of me feeling like a bad guy. I pop him on the butt. Nothing abusive, don’t go all PETA on me — I’m an ASPCA supporter, I do volunteer work at animal shelters (at least I used to when I lived in a smaller city where I could) and I send letters to congressmen, governors and even President Arroyo (Philippines) about the dog meat trade. But when Baxter’s bad, he gets a mini spanking. Then he sulks off somewhere and looks at me with these “Please don’t be mad, I can’t help pooping” eyes.

You know that kids’ book, “Everybody Poops”? I need a version of that for my little furball.

Pooping is okay, Baxter! Just not when it’s in my house.

“Maybe it would be cool if I rocked it old school.”

“Testing, 1, 2, 3, can anybody hear me?”

I used to be quite the blogger. Then I quit for the longest time. Well, here it goes again. Don’t expect anything all too interesting; this is mainly just for my benefit. It’s not that I mind visitors, it’s just that I doubt my life is really all that interesting to anyone who’s not directly involved with it.

At least not yet.