To be honest, I think that after being laid-up after knee-surgery, many of my so-called "passions" have been boiled-down (at least for now)to the bare essentials.  Gone are the days of creating four-star, six-course meals; tearing through the stacks at a local-bookstore and pouring through my find with a steaming cup of coffee warming my palm and coating my palate; spending my nights at some crowded concert-venue or club; or wandering the strip in Vegas (also with drink in hand) with a group of friends-- only to eventually lose what's left of my paycheck at some nameless penny-machine.  Though I'll regain some of these much-loved abilities in time, it has brought to mind something that will forever bring me endless amounts of boundless joy, no matter my condition: my dogs (Jesus I sound old.  For the record (since to most of you I'm but a faceless string of sentences stamped across your glowing-screens), I'm only thirty!).

I always swore to myself (after watching my mother coddle our German-Shepards for decades) that I would never turn into the type of woman that dressed my critters up in ridiculous ensembles and spoon-fed them their supper (warmed to perfection in the family microwave) from the cradle of a gilded-spoon.  My mother, however, is a different story: 
She has always been the sort of crazy-lady that would throw her own husband out of bed to make room for her pets, or drag a 130-pound "purse-puppy" into a crowded shopping-center with an illegally-obtained "service-vest" (purchased on the sly from a trainer at the dog-park).  For years, my brother and I teased that we weren't her children, we were mere unpaid caretakers for her precious pets.  She laughed it off of-course, but it was ultimately confirmed when (on the eve that that particular joke was born) my mother served the precious pups my brothers' ten-dollar hamburger: Fifteen-minutes after he walked in the door he made the classic-mistake of heading to the restroom, instead of safe-guarding his supper from the vultures hovering-around the vicinity. My father and I saw her eye the near-empty paper-sack resting on the kitchen counter-- she tore open the bag (before we could utter a word), stole a bite for herself, and ultimately [nonchalantly] tossed the remainder of the contents to her furry-minions, congregating at her feet (it was sort-of tragically-hilarious watching him eye the dogs jealously over the rim of his bowl of soggy Lucky Charms... I was never sure if the growls I heard came from a self-conscious dog, or my brothers' empty stomach). I don't think my kid-brother has ever let my mother live it down.  To this-day, whenever he brings food to her home he will tote the greasy-sack along with him from room to room, pathetically guarding his spoils like a wounded-animal at the carcass of a fallen deer.  
I used to roll my eyes at how sad my mother appeared-- showering these creatures with (what I deemed at the time) unnecessarily endless, nay boundless, amounts of affection-- and a continuous flow of food (simple kibble just wouldn't do, either).  My friends, immediate-family, and I used to laugh behind our hands at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.  Giggling as we watched her struggle to hoist one after another of these behemoths into her convertible simply to take a trip to the tanning-salon, or out for something as minor as a pack of cigarettes.  I watched everything incredulously, with an air of teenage superiority-- vowing (as I mentioned earlier) that I would never become that... well...Ludicrous.  I watched and waited for her to grow aged and lose it entirely, with a pack of wild-dogs to eventually overtake the house.  A handful of years later I would eat my words.

I acquired my first dog when I was barely 21 as a gift from a boyfriend who was fleeing the state in order to escape the iron-fist of mi familia.  She was a tiny ball of black, white, and silvery-grey fluff with bright-blue eyes. She fit comfortably in the palm of my hand.  She was the little Klee-Kai that changed my life.
(Though I know that for most of you parents out there, my loose characterization of acquiring an animal being similar to having a child might come off a bit...annoying... but bear with me.)
I held her in my arms and became acutely aware that there was this entire tiny life, depending on me. From this moment forward I had to do the right thing.  
I poured through book after book about proper feeding, training, and the like.  I threw myself into my new-found parenthood with gusto-- refusing to feed my "child" from a bag of dog-food.  Instead I bought her meat and grain, following a recipe in a holistic pet-care book.  My little Marley became my whole world, my little "road-dog"-- accompanying me everywhere I could get away with taking her. I was aware of my hypocrisy.  Comparing myself to my mother was pointless in my mind-- it was apples and oranges, really.  After all, I was still relatively sane.  I wasn't dressing up a massive 130-pound MALE German-Shepard, or using cheap trickery to smuggle the dog into the grocery store (yet) for Christ's sake! So, I was still in the green...wasn't I?

After about five-years of contented bliss with my Klee-Kai (Marley Aynne) at my right hand, a profound longing overtook me-- not unlike that of a mother whose babies have all become independent, unruly teens.  I yearned for a new "baby".  (I know, I know-- you can't compare the love of a pet to the love of a baby, but I can't have kids of my own so... cut me a little slack.)  Two years after I obtained Marley I met my ex, and throughout our eight years together (well, it was after perhaps five years that the "urge" struck me once more) we ran through a slough of animals... but mostly of the reptilian-ilk. They were nothing like my four-legged companion...that was what I yearned for.
Eventually I wore him down and I ended up with a "red-toy" Chihuahua. I suppose that's where the parallels began.

When we uprooted ourselves and moved into my ex's parents home in Las Vegas (nowhere near any of my relatives in the Las Vegas-area) I took to raising my new "infant" much as I had her "older sister".  Brodie too, fit neatly in the palm of my hand and she melted my heart with her big green eyes and long-lashes.  In the absence of any family or friends I lavished all my affections upon the little princess-- spoiling her as any woman would for the newest member of the family.  
I poured myself into "mothering" her and as a result she picked up some pretty maddening habits.  She refused to sleep on anything that wasn't soft, she refused all the way around to even partake of anything that remotely resembled dog-food (vegetables and bread were out of the picture as well), and she developed a severe case of "separation-anxiety" (refusing to let me even go to the restroom alone!  To this very day she still has to sit on my lap in my most private of moments!)...and it consequently rubbed off on her "older sister".  One day when I fell severely ill and an ambulance had to take me in for treatment the two of them dug a hole the size of our living-room through the carpeting, padding, and wood underneath-- exposing the concrete below.  As time wore on, the condition worsened to the point that I had to give up a lucrative office position in order to stay home with the pair in order to save our apartment from utter-destruction (not to mention halt the complaints from our neighbors-- since my Klee-Kai (acting true to her "mini-husky" heritage) had taken to howling for the entire duration of our work-day.  
Even "baby-sitters" refused to care for them after awhile.  Brodie would throw little Chihuahua-sized temper-tantrums-- literally screaming: "Ma-Ma" for hours at a time in my absence.  I had to begin carting her everywhere I went.

Then one day as I struggled to load my "children" into my pickup truck, I caught my reflection in one of the tinted-windows on the passenger side.  I was wearing an old jean-jacket of my mothers' (I was painfully unaware of the excessive-heat. My hair was draped in a tangled mess across my forehead-- glued in place by sweat from the hot summer sun.  For an instant I saw the face of my mother gazing back at me-- equally disheveled and flustered-- as she loaded-up her own pack of decked-out dogs.  My jaw dropped and I attempted to correct my vision by blinking it away.  I pulled a chunk of lunch-meat from my pocket, eyes still locked on the mirage mirrored before me, and (splitting the meat in two) I tossed the pieces in the direction of my unwieldy animals (already beginning to wilt under the pressures of postponing their presumably deserved treat-- producing a communal-chorus of high-pitched whines and cries).  I could hear the vows I had uttered so many times throughout my youth to "never end up as a "crazy-critter lady" like my mother echo in my ears.  Flashes of ridiculous ensembles and resentful family-members flooded my mind's eye.  I stood in the driveway in the hot summer sun stunned by the realization that despite my best efforts, I was slowly morphing into the woman that would spend months quilting a feather-down bed for my "children", forsaking all others, and using the remaining material to create cuffs, collar, and coat (it didn't help anything that part of my plans for the day included purchasing my Chihuahua a new sweater for the winter-months).  It was a frightening epiphany for any young-girl to have.  Not only had I become my mother, but I was slowly trans-morphing into a different sort of... hmmm... "special", I suppose?
I shared the experience with my younger brother.  He found this hilarious. From that moment on he referred to me as "the crazy cat lady" (he refused to acknowledge my small critters as DOGS.  According to him, I was lucky that he even identified them as CATS.  Once they grew, he would consider re-classifying them).  A month later, my shame diminished and my love for them grew by leaps and bounds:

One morning, out of the blue, Marley awoke me with a start-- whining, crying, clawing at me.  Her eyes were fully dilated and she was panting so hard that long strands of drool spilled from between her teeth.  Naturally I assumed that she was sick and had to go outside-- so, rubbing my eyes I escorted her to the backyard.  Once outside she wouldn't leave my side, I had to drag her by the collar to the grass so that she could use the bathroom.  Groggily I brought her inside and headed back upstairs to lay back down.  Midway up the stairs I started getting incredibly dizzy, I barely made it to the hallway at the top of the stairs.  The world seemed to slant beneath my feet.  When I fell to my knees my Chihuahua (Brodie) joined Marley-- they were both panicked out of their minds.  The last thing I remember before the world went dark was the sound of the pair howling in unison and Marley grabbing hold of the back of my shirt.
My body began to seize uncontrollably and the two of them refused to let me out of their sight.  In attempts to wake me Marley rolled me on my side and pulled me (miraculously) into the bedroom, seconds before the seizure made me sick.  It saved my life.

I ended up in the hospital for months thereafter.  Upon my return the pair were ecstatic, the bond between us grew.  I found myself lavishing more affection on them in the form of treats and constant stimulation (especially after learning from the ER docs that Marley had officially saved me from an untimely end).  They became my best friends.  The closer we grew, the more I thought about my oddball mother.  Each time I saw my reflection I could see that I was turning into her.  However, I had (have) an excuse...right??  It is because of them that I am still able to walk the earth... Right??
Despite the fact that I have become what we all eventually become (the spitting image of our parents in the most annoying way possible) I have embraced it... I happily live with the two creatures that love me above all else... and keep me motivated each and every day.  I push forward with the knowledge that they truly adore me.  As I love them.  Even if I occasionally show it by lavishing Brodie with ridiculous clothing and make them fat with a dinner far better than my own.  They are my passion of passions.  My little life-savers. I have (unfortunately) become "The Crazy Cat-Lady".  But I choose to accept it with a thin veneer of dignity. 
However, I still refuse to quilt them a thing.  ;)

            

A Glimpse from a Broken Mirror

As I wandered listlessly through the perilous jungle of the YouTube catalog (trigger-finger readied above the mouse)-- attempting to avoid the coma-inducing "how-to" videos, wading through the inescapable quicksand-like trappings of grainy "home-mades", hastening my pace 'round the thousands of adds masquerading as videos (waiting like tigers in the trees), and whilst side-stepping the thousands of gag-reels-- I came upon a heroin-addled, crack-slinging, former wife and mother trudging through the filthy streets of a down-town Canadian slum, thanks to National Geographic's "Drug, Inc." series.  I listened intently as she wove her woeful tale, noting the striking similarities between her life and the lives of so many within my familial-fold. 

     Her initial introduction to heroin began innocently-enough and the story is a familiar one (if you find yourself enticed by shows of this nature): She was a happy wife and mother, dabbling on occasion in recreational drugs in social-situations, and her life was turned on its ear after an injury.  Her claim is that she met a physician that prescribed her an "absurd amount of narcotics, that hard-wired her to morphine".  Her doctor was investigated by "the feds" and he pulled her medication; a few days later she ended up on the wrong side of the tracks "learning to sling crack" in order to support her drug habit, feeding the beast with a cheap substitute for her beloved drug of choice-- heroin.  

     My heart bled for the woman, especially after experiencing something similar myself (well, not the desperate heroin addiction). Five or six years ago, after I relocated from Colorado to Las Vegas-- and while under temporary long-distance transitional pain-management care-- I was no longer able to contact my physician... out of the blue.  I didn't know what on-earth to do, or where exactly I was supposed to turn!  Since I was several thousand-miles away from her, I didn't even know what was going on!  Was the woman sick, dead, or worse?? A few weeks later I was forwarded an ominous video-clip from a friend in the area:  my beloved doctor was under investigation for improper billing practices...and she was all over the local news.  My head was swimming.  What was to become of ME?  I had been under her care for years on the back of a horribly botched tumor surgery and my own dosage (like the woman in the YouTube-video) was relatively high-- as dosages go.  
     Without my medication to assist me along I began to go into serious with-drawl.  Without my doctor's-office in operation even retrieving basic medical charts and histories (to be transferred and confirmed for whatever new doctor I chose to see in my new locale).  It was about that time that some very serious medical phenomena began to manifest itself.  It sounds funny to say, but, I thank-God that it did!  Without those complications I would have never been able to undergo continuing treatment for my care.  
     As I watched this disheveled, filthily-desperate woman-- living on the streets of Canada-- It was like peering through the looking-glass.  "There but for the grace of God, go I..." 

     Continuing through this gritty documentary they follow the trail from Poppy-plant to your downtown street-corner.  They paint some very desperate (almost propaganda-like) images-- pointing primarily to the Middle-East and groups like Al-Qaeda for the growth, production, and distribution of local heroin.  Where that paints a powerful image, I believe that there is only partial truth to this.  So many other groups have their fingers in this process-- granted many may have their roots to farmers in other countries-- but prior to 9/11 I had personally seen multitudes of other documentaries, movies, and the like that could trace the illusive "Poppy" to "south-of-the-border", or even to local growers in places as localized as California! 
      I think that this was both an astute and an incredibly manipulative ploy on the part of the film-makers-- patriotic though it may be.  I can see the sort of frenzy they were hoping to create in the hearts and minds of the American-viewers.  I'm sure that they thought to themselves (on the back of the recent-tragedy): "How else can we use this documentarian vehicle to effect change?"  I can see the gears turning as they chose their on-site locale-- and I'm certain that in an attempt to prey upon certain sympathies-- they settled on an area that was a hot-bed of recent hysteria, believing (naively) that they could potentially knock the needle from some local patriots' arm.  I think that it's a lofty ambition, albeit a dangerous one.  It's safe to say that whilst effecting change, they also added to the growing sentiment of hate.

     I can't let this moment go without a chance to discuss my most favorite element of this particular YouTube docu-movie of sorts:  The HEROES.
     So often in my own life I have wondered if there was ever an end in sight for this particular problem.  As aforementioned, I have/have had family members that I've been watching spiral ever-downward in their own addictions (as in the intro, to prescription-medications), and I have been waiting for the penny to drop with them for some time (since they are loooooong past the time where our pleas for their lives matter much).  They will either succumb and pass away, or perhaps (as is my undying hope) find some sort of "program" and turn back the hands of time-- becoming the once essential family members that they once were.   
     My favorite of the proposed solutions is unfortunately effectuated by the Swiss (though I'm sure that public sentiment is not on my side here).  They have a program that seems a little close to our "methadone-clinics", however, several times a day they provide addicts with pharmacutical-grade, clean, sterile, heroin; clean, sterile, needles; and a sterile environment in which to administer their "drug-of-choice".  They don't administer enough to get them "high", but they supply their patients with a mere "maintenance-dose" a few times a day-- in exchange for their participation in supplemental-treatments (i.e. psychiatric care, group therapies, etc).  The program is radical, forward-thinking, and incredibly astute.  I say this because, just as I've seen family and friends become addicted to various substances, I've also seen them swap that addiction for that of methadone.  Contrary to popular belief, it IS just as addictive and abuse-able as other drugs in the spectrum-- especially when you mix them with other medications (Xanax in particular)--and ultimately they end up either addicted to the substitution, or running back to their precious needle.  Why not cut out the middle-man and make it safe and accessible under supervision??  They stated in the documentary that crimes and disease among the addicted were down by a whopping SIXTY-PERCENT in a relatively short period!!!
      
       I know that I've left quite a bit out (as far as the documentary is concerned) but I wanted to address the major bullet-points that affected me the deepest, closest, and most personally.  Watching this documentary brought me into the world of a heroin-addict, from A to Z and all in-between.  
      In essence, it moved me in various ways-- playing on my emotions each time: filling me with a sense of dread, regret, shame, disgust, and resentment-- ultimately coming to a close with a brief glimpse of hope-- hinting at the potentiality of a semi-"happy-ending".   
       Watching (as I've mentioned before), was likened to watching a life flash before my eyes... or lives... of those that I love and hold dearest to my heart.  It was like viewing their eventual paths, in technicolor-- briefly glimpsed through the filthy shards of a broken-mirror.  Their images sullied and riddled with their own disease, their empty eventualities unfolding before me.  How long before it shatters?  I hope to God it mends.

http://youtu.be/kYiuRyLnZOk 
  

Blast Off in Social-Media

     Today was the beginning of my foray into the world of technological media.  The trip has been fraught with a number of beasts to be slain-- and I left many broken, bruised, and battered electronic devices in my wake...
    Well, truth-be-told it was less the devices that were battered bruised and broken, so much as my fragile ego.  I was under the misapprehension that I could spread my wings wide and take on this "Writing for Social-Media" class head-on, that in a snap I would be able to master all the world-wide-web had to offer and freelance offers would fall from the heavens... no such luck.  A web-site built primarily for children beat me to a bloody pulp (figuratively of course) over the course of the past three days, and I am now drowning in additional work.  Thank you Glogster for making me truly feel my age... and thank-you for sending my feminist "I am woman, hear me roar" mentality into a permanent back-pedal (it is for reasons such as this that I formerly left all the technological-matters to my ex-- ha, ha).  I think I am going to head into the kitchen and take my frustrations out on one of the few pieces of electronics that I have no problem with: The fridge!!
    So, Glogster, these next couple pounds are FOR YOU!!