I Probably Wouldn't Qualify to Get Discharged from Rehab, But At Least the Dog is Still Alive

Sometime after I graduated with my B.A. in psychology, I watched that Sandra Bullock movie, 28 Days.   

The premise of the movie is that Bullock is a recovering alcoholic who is sent to rehab for yes, 28 days.  When getting ready to be discharged from treatment, the therapist tells her that she will only be ready for a new relationship when she can first successfully keep a plant alive for a year and then keep a dog alive for a year--in that order.  Only after she has succeeded at both will she know that she can handle a romantic relationship.

I thought this was funny, but brilliant.

I mean, at any given moment, the state of my apartment is reflective of the state of my life.  When things are going well and I’m in control, the floors are clean, the bed is made is every day, and the laundry is done regularly.  When I’m not in control (aka ever since I started medical school), laundry lays in unattractive mounds until a mass washing can be done at 10 p.m.- 2 a.m. Bathroom counters aren’t wiped down until there are toothpaste stains in the sink.  And the plants?  Save for roommates who take pity and keep them alive, they die.

Admittedly, my year off has been much better.  The apartment is clean, there is real, healthy cooking done every day, and amazingly, there is a small dog who has survived four whole months with The Lawyer and me.  (OK, full disclosure:  We did totally forget to feed him one night.  By “we,” I mean “The Lawyer,” because that’s who he lives with, but it doesn’t matter, because we're both responsible. Remi survived and it's not like he's never gotten a treat in his life.)

Evidence:

He gets bones that are bigger than his body. He's FINE.

Last night, though, I lost it.  I was at The Lawyer’s condo trying to find an article of clothing on "my" side of a built-in unit in his bedroom.  When I couldn’t, I literally started throwing things on the floor.  Pants and shirts and neatly folded socks were angrily heaved into a pile on the floor as I ranted about how hard it is to find anything in the tiny city built-ins at his condo.  When I was done, I unceremoniously picked the bundle of clothes up, shoved them into the closet, and forced the door shut.

It was not my proudest moment.

This weekend is, however, graduation weekend of the class that I started medical school with.  In addition to the endless Facebook postings from these people, I turned on the TV this morning and ABC was freaking live broadcasting the damn graduation service. 

Everywhere I turn, the reminders are taunting me.

The thing is, I’m genuinely happy for a lot of people.  They are nice, hardworking, amazing people and they are going to make fabulous doctors.  Others, though?  Let’s just say that money, corruption, and power have gotten them to places in life that they don’t really deserve.   

And I resent it.

It’s easy to point out liars, cheaters, and drug abusers, when you're on the same rung, and to think, “Well, it’s going to catch up with them in the end.”  But THEN, when you—who refuse to lower your ethics and morality—end up humiliated, thrown into the dregs, and taking a leave of absence just to regain your sanity, turn on the TV to see them on stupid Sunday morning TV?  I literally want to punch them in their cocaine snorting faces and make them bleed.  (Sidenote: I'm sure this is healthy.  Second sidenote:  Yes, I just said that some of my medical school classmates have used cocaine.  This is not libel if it's true, which it is.  Third sidenote:  Dating a lawyer has taught me something. Win!)

Also, there seems to be a marital virus spreading in the water of the current graduating class.  I am not exaggerating when I say that every weekend, at least four members of the graduating class are getting married.  If they’re not married, they’re getting engaged.

I want them to be happy, I really do.  But, when I was engaged my first year of medical school and called it off, so many people threw it in my face like, “Well that’s what you get for not taking school seriously.”  I know that a lot of girls were just mad because they're materialistic, snotty bitches and my similarly materialistic banker boyfriend, who is also the son of a jeweler, had given me a three carat engagement ring (that I didn't even want).  Regardless, I was taking school seriously.  And I was also taking my relationship seriously.  I would have done everything in the exact same way again, because I still believe that choosing to attend medical school in a city where my fiancé was employed was the right decision.

Now that some of these same people are graduating, it seems like secret companions are crawling out of the woodwork to claim them.  There are people who I’ve never heard mention a boyfriend posting wedding pictures.  Others have been dating people long distance (sometimes in another country) for years and are suddenly getting married.  And while I don’t want to be all, “You will be one of the 70% of marriages who fail” (Because really, who says things like that?), I really do think that they don’t know what they’re getting into.  Suddenly, deciding to live with a spouse whom you’ve only known long distance, while you are a medical resident, makes choosing to attend a medical school in the same city as a fiance sound not so crazy.  Am I right?

I don’t regret what happened with Rich, but I still do harbor resentment about being treated like everyone else knew better than me.  I know that a lot of them are getting married right now, because that's the current "thing" to do, and they've been moving as a pack in their social behaviors for four years now.  I was, however, older than many of them at the time that I made the decision to stay in DC for Rich, and I do think that life experience counts for something.

So, that’s where I am right now.  I’m bitter, hurt, and throwing things on the ground in anger.  But hey, the dog is still alive! So, there’s that.

Because He's White

On Friday afternoon, I was driving past The Lawyer’s office on my way to his condo in the city.

As I have been known to do, I called from I-395 and asked if he wanted a ride home.  It was, after all, nearish to the end of the day and sometimes I’ve been known to do nice things like pick my boyfriend up at work, so that he doesn’t have to walk home and get coated in pollen.

As I exited I-395 at 12^th street, though, traffic was heavy.  In fact, at the intersection before his building, I got caught as traffic slowed to a stop from a red light in the distance.  Usually this isn’t a problem because traffic starts moving soon enough that if you’re caught in the intersection, you can inch through while the light is still green. 

Occasionally, though, something worse happens.

Just as traffic is clearing and your turn to roll through is perilously close, the light changes and a hundred pedestrians pour from the sidewalks right in front of your car.  Then, you’re trapped just outside of the crosswalk—not necessarily blocking traffic behind you, but also not fully clear of the intersection.

Well, this happened on Friday.

Also, because of road closures that I couldn’t see from the highway, The Lawyer had texted me to say that he’d be standing on a different corner than usual, but I didn’t see that text message, because I don’t text and drive.

So, there I was trapped behind the masses of pedestrians when I noticed that The Lawyer was standing on the opposite side of the street from where I was stopped.  I suppose that I could have waited for the next light, made a series of right turns in the midst of the road closures and one-way streets and then, just tried to loop back to him.  But, anyone who lives and drives in DC just rolled their eyes and cussed out loud when I made that suggestion.

I didn’t do that.

Instead, I rolled down my window, yelled The Lawyer’s name, and motioned for him to cross the street quickly, while he had the crosswalk to do so.  I mean, I wasn’t going anywhere—being blocked by human bodies crossing in front of me.  He saw me, ran across the street, and hopped into the car.  Shortly after he got in, the pedestrians cleared, and I proceeded forward. 

Then, I heard police sirens.

Again, the people who live in the District are all, “Woman, say something interesting!” because there are always sirens.  There are always dignitaries and road closures and random police activity that you have to move out of the way for.  So, that’s what I did.

I stopped in the right lane to let the police car with sirens in the left lane pass me by. Except, it didn’t.  The police car pulled up next to me and motioned for me to roll the window down.

What the…?

So, I rolled the window down and a heavily accented Indian officer yelled for me to pull over.  In rush hour.  On a one-way street with lane closures.

(Do police not pull up behind people with their sirens on anymore?  I’m confused.)

I’m sure the people who were trying to get home on a Friday afternoon were so grateful to have me further limit their passage by blocking one of the only two lanes open.  Unfortunately, I’m a law-abiding citizen up in here and I very politely pulled over and waited.

When the police officer got to my window, I had my license, registration, and insurance card ready.

“You were blocking the intersection!,” he barked.

“Yes, I know.  I’m sorry, it was because the pedestrians started walking before the traffic ahead of me cleared and…”

“Ma'am!,” he interrupted.  “You failed to clear that intersection!”

I started to talk apologetically again, but was interrupted by,

“And, you picked him up!,” he said, motioning to The Lawyer sitting in the passenger’s seat.

I already know that as a brown person in this area, I never get let off for anything.  I was born in this country, am a cautious and law-abiding person by nature, and am training to be a doctor (Aren’t cops and doctors supposed to get along because of the mutual benefit?  No?  OK, nevermind.)  Yet, I’ve actually missed flights because I’m held up by an 18 year old TSA agent who wants to open every single cosmetic bag in my carry-on at security, as I get paged by my airline for final boarding.

I’ve had cops come to my window with $200 in tickets already written because I’m missing a registration sticker (True story.  If you move to Fairfax County, you will need THREE—one for tags, one for state emissions, one for COUNTY inspection.  If you miss one, neither your inspection facility or the DMV will tell you and then you will not know, because nothing is clear or integrated online.  But the cop will totally fine you and then call you a liar when you are genuinely dumbfounded and ask which sticker you’re missing.  I fought in court and got all charges dismissed, though.) 

I’ve also been randomly yelled at by police while parking my car in The Lawyer’s neighborhood and questioned by the secret service when I was two blocks away from the medical school.

Anyway, I digress.

I knew I was going to get ticketed, but the most annoying part of this encounter was the other number of flagrant traffic violations that were happening around me at that very moment.  In fact, while we were sitting in the car waiting, a taxi cab REVERSED ON A ONE WAY STREET to pick up a passenger.  During rush hour.  On a street that already had lane closures. Right in front of the cop who had stopped us. 

In the car, The Lawyer and I started making guesses as to how much the fine was going to be.  Then, to cut the tension, The Lawyer matter-of-factly announced,

“I bet it’s because I’m white.”

I laughed.

I mean, in an airport or on a DC street, I am clearly the one who will land us in jail because of my skin color.  But, say we’re at an Indian social gathering full of clucking aunties looking for a wife for their socially awkward computer programmer son?

Well, the reason that there is violence and hatred and everything wrong in the world is because a respectable Indian girl of marriageable age and education is disrupting the natural flow of the universe by dating a white man.

I suggested that I should have pointed out to the Indian cop that we’re not married, and had a birth chart or headshot, at the very least, ready.  We were so pleased with ourselves and our hilarious jokes until the officer came back to the car.

This time, he had a big grin on his face and was much more jovial.

“You know, I really would have let you go,” he said, as he approached the car. “Except that you stopped and picked him up.”

Again, there was an accusatory finger point and a glance of dismay at the white man seated in the car next to me.

Like usual, I didn’t get let off, and was handed a ticket.  This time, though, finally--it was the white guy's fault.

Pretty, Like the Color of Poison

On Friday night, The Lawyer and I were relaxing in the living room when he started sneezing uncontrollably.  Between the non-stop head wracking, he was also blowing his nose and wiping his eyes.  He had been fine all day, but that was the turning point.  We both started searching for the Claritin frantically.

Earlier that day, we had had the windows open.  Despite both of our spring allergies, it was painfully hot on Thursday.  We had a choice to make:  Overheat now or pay the price for antigen exposure later.

So, we opened the windows and waited for the inevitable allergic response.  It didn't help that Remi hadn't seen The Lawyer in two weeks and took every opportunity to gleefully jump all over him.  Normally, this would be fine, but normally, his coat isn't full of pollen from these:

I'll admit that the trees in the city look spectacular right now.  When I got back from Florida last week, this is what the balcony at my apartment looked like:

Gorgeous, right?  

Kind of like a coral snake that's beautiful to look at, but will KILL YOU if you get too close.

We're medicating heavily in these parts and trying to limit our time outdoors.  Remi, on the other hand, cannot get enough of his outside time.

Here he is making friends with a little pug that lives next door.  The pug couldn't get to him to say hi, so he ran the entire length of the fence until he got to the part where he could poke his head through to sniff.  Is this not the cutest picture ever?

(Please note the fallen blossoms, aka SATAN'S SPAWN, on the ground.  Our little puppy is getting full body wipe downs after walks, until the blossoms are gone.)

On Southern Crassness and Pitbullying

Earlier this week, I was walking Remi along a long, shady street in my mother's neighborhood.

It's the main street through the neighborhood, and the one that separates The Lawyer's parents' house from my mother's.  There are two elementary schools off of the road, as well as numerous crossing guards at different points.  In the mornings, it is an idyllic picture of suburban America:  shady sidewalks, kids on bikes, crossing guards, elderly people on their morning walks.

The only thing that really stands out is the dearth of people out walking their dogs.  I noticed it the first day that I was home, when Remi and I egregiously stood out.  In fact, a neighbor in his yard actually stopped and asked me something like,

"Is the only reason you're out walking to walk your dog?"

Umm...yes.  Do people not do that anymore?  (Because let me tell you, dog walkers are making a KILLING in DC.)

I quickly learned that Florida dogs apparently don't get walked.  They have fenced in backyards that they run around in and poop in and this antiquated idea of having to physically and mentally stimulate a dog is hilarious to South Floridians.  Regardless of the norm, though, Remi got all of his regular walks outside.  My personal opinion is that dogs need exercise and many who only get let into the backyard start to despise it as the "fishbowl" to which they are confined.  Besides, my mother doesn't even have a fenced yard.

Remi, the old school puppy, still getting his walks outside.

So, when a woman came out of her house to say something to me while I was walking on the perfect, shady idyllic street that defines our neighborhood, I presumed that she was going to ask me not to let my dog run in her yard.  It's not like Remi is all up in the yard or anything, but he does like to deviate from the sidewalk into the little strip of grass near where people's mailboxes are (see above photo).

I should note that the particular house from which the woman came out of also does not have a fenced in yard.  Instead, a sad-looking pitbull is chained to a horizontally running line that appears to span half the length of the yard.

Before getting a dog, I would have been terrified of a huge pit bull yanking on this flimsy line every time I walked by.  Now that I have Remi, though, I recognized that her behavior was probably more from jealousy and discomfort.  She would probably love a walk, or at the very least, to be set free from her chain.

I was prepared to apologize and promise not to let Remi poop in the woman's yard, as she got closer.  Instead, I was completely unprepared and dumbfounded by what would come out of her mouth next.

"Excuse me," she said with an annoyed huff. "I know you're just trying to walk your dog, but could you walk faster or something?  My dog is pregnant and I don't want her to snap the line!"

Umm...WHAT?

I couldn't even believe that she would have the audacity to come out of her house and ask me--a responsible dog owner exercising my dog, like you're supposed to do, on a public street--to "walk faster" because her tied up, pregnant pit bull, who is sweltering in the sun all day, might break the line and presumably escape or attack someone.

I mean, who says that kind of stuff?  What kind of person actually believes that they are in the right by accosting passersby because their dog, in their yard, gets riled up by dogs and humans walking by on a public street?

When I relayed the story to The Lawyer, he said to me,

"Don't you think you need to do something about it?  Doesn't a pregnant dog tied up outside all day sound like animal cruelty to you?"

It did seem cruel and I recognized that immediately, as well as the fact that she's probably breeding this poor dog to make money.  But, I'm also not one to interfere and I really did feel like Remi and I were safe, even though the dog's barks were menacing.

But, when that woman came out of her house like a hornet to imply that I'm the one who is responsible for her dog's behavior?

Well, that changes the situation completely.

Yesterday, when Remi and I were on our morning walk, the woman came out in her bathrobe again. She looked annoyed and actually shook her head, like, "Wow, you'll never stop, will you?"

It was our last day in Florida and I probably should have been ballsier and said, "You know, you really should bring your dog inside or fence your yard, if she's such a problem."  Instead, I said nothing and just kept walking.

Then, I called animal control and reported her for animal cruelty.  They said they'd dispatch someone today.

It's not just that this dog is pregnant, tied up, and sweltering, but elderly people, little kids, and yes, a few other dogs, walk on that street too.  I assure you that Remi is not a 15 pound killer shih tzu who is instigating street fights with pit bulls.  If the tie is unstable enough that the owner is worried about the dog breaking it, that's a public hazard.

Remi, the neighborhood menace, showing off his signature move of rolling around in the grass and getting stinky.  The fear!  The intimidation!

I hope she gets fined, especially since I'm sure that she's also breeding without registration. At the very least, though, I hope she learns a little more Southern gentility when it comes to living peaceably with her neighbors.  I wouldn't want to have to release my dangerous attack dog just to prove a point!*



*If you didn't pick up on my sarcasm, Remi is the happiest rescue dog ever who would probably sniff and lick this woman, before rolling over to beg for belly rubs.  He might bark--but only if he's hiding safely behind me.

He Smells Like Poop, But I Think He Likes It

Last Tuesday, Remi and I packed ourselves up and headed to the airport before dawn.

This past week was my mother's Spring Break (she's a public school teacher) and next week, it will be The Lawyer's sister-in-law's baby shower.  It seemed like a good time to kill two birds with one stone, so my little dog and I prepared for the trip.

I had no idea how Remi would do on a plane, but in preparation, I had put his new airline carrier under The Lawyer's coffee table and let him play in it.  He seemed to love it in the comfort of his own home, but in the airport?  He was NOT having it.  He squirmed around and knocked into my body as I carried him, so finally The Lawyer and I took him to the pet release area where we chased him around.  Then, we slipped him a half of Dramamine.

(Before you judge me, the vet said it was OK.  Plus, a drugged puppy is a quiet puppy.  You're WELCOME, fellow US Airways travelers.)

The Lawyer's mama met us at the airport with water and treats for Remi (spoiled!).  Then, we went to lunch, sat outside with Remi, and headed home.

I was worried about how Remi would behave in my mother's home, as well as how she--who is not a dog person--would handle a small, sometimes stinky dog exploring her home.  So far, so good.

Day 1: Remi charms my mother into opening the curtains so that he can see out the window better

Day 2: Remi displays blatant favoritism for my mother.  Notice that he has moved all of his toys, as well as the little mat by the chair, to suit his comfort.  He does this every night now.

Remi spent the first two days exploring every. single. room. and not sleeping.  Both nights, he was knocked out so hard that he didn't even snore.

There is no time for sleeping when there is so much to be explored!  Plus: LAWNS! People have  half acre sized LAWNS!

Then, the following day, he'd be at it again.  We've had a good vacation and The Lawyer is afraid Remi's going to be underwhelmed when he gets back to DC--home of one bedroom apartments and no backyards.

Remi's favorite backyard spot.  He can sit in the shade here and watch the kids in the schoolyard behind my house.

Oh, well.  One week longer in paradise.  As for the title, just take a guess of what Remi found and threw himself into on his walk the other day.  JUST GUESS.

I had to employ some rubber gloves and extra shampoo for this clean-up.  So much for big, tempting backyards to romp around in.