Poop!

Meet my two dogs:  Alex, a 13 year old lab/beagle mix, and Hunter, a 2 year old beagle/hound mix. 

I got Alex in a parking lot in Fryeburg, Maine, and he was the only blonde haired dog in the litter, the rest being black.  He does have a little black patch of hair on his back though as a shout out to his brethren.  Alex has been everywhere with me:  back and forth between Maine and DC, on a small plane out to North Haven, multiple campaign offices across Maine and every single piece of furniture I own, as evidenced by the trail of hair he leaves behind.  He’s a very mellow dog and permits me to sleep late in the morning.

I stopped at Wagtime here in DC to pick up treats for Alex one evening.  The owner Lisa asked me what kind of dog I had and after telling her, told me I should come out back and see the rescue dogs that needed a home.  I thought no way as I nervously walked into the back room.  Amongst all the yelping and frenetic activity, there was Hunter lying alone on a dog bed looking sad and lost.  Lisa explained that I could take him home for a night or two and that even if I didn’t decide to adopt him, any night outside of the shelter would do him good.   She also explained that Hunter had been rescued from a kill shelter in Virginia which absolutely made my heart break.

So I returned the following Friday and picked up Hunter for a doggy holiday in my Dupont condo with Alex.  Lisa posted a note on Facebook that Hunter was on a sleepover and said, “Be a good boy Hunter.  It’s up to you now.”  Well Hunter behaved perfectly, and he never went back.  Most importantly, he seemed to understand the first and foremost point of going outside for a walk.  I signed the adoption papers a week later, and it was then that Hunter yelled Gotcha! 

Hunter is polar opposite to Alex.  He sleeps right next to my head at night, and he is nervous and hyper.  He can put a flock of seagulls to shame with his high pitched warning howl.  He is starved for attention which admittedly I can’t always provide, but I seek solace in the fact that his life is far better with me than the shelter or the near fate he almost suffered in Virginia.

Lif e with the two dogs has been good except for the pooping.  Yup – I said it here on the blog – the first dirty word so to speak I have used.  While it is significantly better than when Hunter first yelled Gotcha and proved to be completely clueless to the point of going outside, we still have frequent issues with the concept.

Just this week during a 2 day rain a thon, Hunter refused to go to the bathroom outside, far preferring the comfort of a heated home.  If he was human, you know he would have a fur cover on his toilet just to keep his bum warm on the porcelain in winter.  They do work well I must admit because my grandmother used to have one.  Rather than go outside in the rain, Hunter would just look up at me after Alex had already gone 4 times with an expression of, “Are you kidding me?  I am not squatting out here in the rain.”

I love the looks I get when the dogs do in fact decide to poop outside.  One man recently said to me a minute or so after Alex let one rip on a patch of dirt between the sidewalk and the road, "Excuse me sir, can I ask you a question?"  I thought to myself that my answer didn't really matter seeing he had already asked me a question.  "Yes,"  I said.  "Did you pick up after your dog?" he asked.  I stared at him in disbelief and answered, "Um - of course.  Right here in the little red bag in case you missed it."  I love self righteous community policers.  I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, get back in his little yuppy Volvo and drive back to the suburb, but I refrained.

Then there was the woman last week who twisted her face in disgust as Hunter, for once, actually pooped.  I wanted to tell her, "Get a grip lady.  It's poop.  We all do it and just like my dog, I am sure yours stinks too."  Again, I refrained.

Back to the problem at hand.  I have tried everything from quarantining Hunter to the kitchen to only feeding him at night to longer walks.  Nothing seems to work.  Amazingly, Alex has learned how to push his way through closed doors which paves the way for Hunter to leave behind special treats in off limit areas like my bedroom.  Ugh!

But the problem now is I think that Alex has joined in the bad behavior and is content to let me think it is all Hunter.  Whenever I lecture Hunter, which sounds to him like the teacher in a Charlie Brown film, Alex just sits there all patronizing like Lucy and thinks to himself, “Silly Hunter, when will you learn?” 

I am considering putting different food colorings in their food to catch the guilty culprit.  If the poop is blue, it’s Hunter!  If it’s green, then it's Alex!  But if it’s purple, I am not sure what I will do!

I am really hoping that all of this too shall pass.  It’s frustrating, but in the end, all worth it.  Dogs provide you a sense of responsibility and keep you grounded.  They don’t talk back, and they are always glad you’re around.  I don’t consider myself the best pet owner on the planet, but they do help me to maintain a sense of purpose.

Are we there yet?  Hell no!  But like the signs in the Bible that indicate Armageddon, I am convinced that no poop for a month will be a sign that we’re getting close.

1000!

This weekend, Are We There Yet?, received its 1000th view!  Thank you so much for reading and for all the support and words of encouragement many of you have given to me. 

Also, I want to send a special shout out to those of you outside the United States who have tuned in:  China, Russia, Belgium, France, Italy, Canada, Vietnam, United Kingdom, Australia, Singapore and Iran!  I would love for you to leave a post and let me know how you found the blog, a little about yourself and what you thought.  Hey - you might even be featured in a special post!

And by the way, no parking ticket this weekend, and the Jeep is safely parked below ground at the US Capitol!  Have a great week everyone.

I Fought the Law and the Law Won

There isn’t much in common between my life in Washington, DC and my life in Portland, Me, except for the fact that I’m a marked man in both by parking enforcement.  The only difference between the two cities is that in Portland I know them on a first name basis.

“Hey Joe,”  I called.  “You can’t get me today.  I got one of the six residential parking spaces in the Old Port this time (which is a feat unto itself given that hundreds of people live in the Old Port).  Joe just smiled and thought to himself, “Maybe this time but I'll be watching you.”

One evening last year, my mom came to pick me up for dinner and saw Joe writing me a ticket on Milk Street.  She hailed Joe and said, “Is my son getting another ticket?”  Joe laughed as he introduced himself and said, “Tell your son to get down here quick, and he won’t be towed (thereby saving me $75).”  She called, I ran, and Joe thought to himself again, “Silly man - I told you I'd be watching.”

Double tickets!  

Here in DC, I could have bought a parking space with my condo for a mere $55,000 back in 2006 which is almost as much as I originally paid for the Maine pad.  Thinking this was a ridiculous price to pay, I told my realtor to break apart the space from the condo at closing and much to my disbelief, it sold for the $55,000 asking price, and the buyer paid cash!  I thought, “What an idiot!  That’s outrageous.  I’m the smart one!”

Well, the joke was on me apparently because 4 years later and I’ve probably racked up that much in parking tickets.  Hyperbole?  Maybe, but it’s starting to irritate me.

I now find myself in a constant game of cat and mouse seeing if I can stay one step ahead of parking enforcement and keep moving my red jeep to a new highly coveted secret location.  I’ve even been known to get up early just to move it to a new space with a note left behind that reads, “Ha Ha – fooled you again!”

Secret Location!

But alas – they always seem to track me down, and I’m tired of running.  Maybe it would help if I renewed my residential parking permit that expired back in the summer of 2010, but I digress.

So I’m waving the white flag.  I surrender.  Game over!  With what feels like the arrival of spring on this gorgeous DC morning, I’ve decided that on Monday, after one more park, move and hide episode, I am driving my jeep to the Capitol and leaving it there.  I shall join the masses and ride public transport.  I thought of the Ab Fab episode where Edina proclaims to her daughter that anyone can ride public transport to which her daughter curtly replies, “I know – that’s the point.”

Given the fact that the May 8^th Congressional Cemetery 5K is approaching, maybe I’ll even start running, er walking, the roughly 5K to and from work.    Until then, after I finish my coffee this morning, I need to walk the block to where my jeep is parked.  Perhaps I’ll be lucky, and there won’t be a $25 ticket.  Somehow I doubt it, but at least this will be the last one – that is in Washington anyway.  See you in Portland Joe in mid March!

I am sure I will be singing after that visit to Maine - I fought the law and law won!

I Just Need A Little Jo Anne Worley

Saturdays in Washington usually mean one thing, and that’s Showtunes at Jrs!  As someone who loves the theatre but unfortunately can't perform in shows anymore because of my travel schedule between Portland and Washington, this 3 hour weekly romp through musicals of old and new fills a special void for me.  

Showtunes at Jr's

Whenever I go to New York City, I frequent a little basement establishment in the Village called Marie’s Crisis which features a live piano player, singing bar tenders and a jam packed crowd of Broadway hopefuls.  Marie’s Crisis even tops the weekly Jrs show because it’s live.  One of my best friends Chad is on special assignment in New York City and loves Marie’s Crisis as much as I do – well maybe not quite as much but suffice it to say he enjoys it.

Marie's Crisis in NYC

I called Chad this afternoon to see if was enjoying all that the Big Apple has to offer, and I was shocked to hear that after being gone for almost 3 weeks, he hadn’t been to Marie’s Crisis yet, but that it was on his to do list.

Chad and I met through mutual friends several years ago on an outside patio on 17^th Street and despite our respective political views in the nation’s capital mirroring James Carville and Mary Matalin, we’ve been terrific friends ever since.  What I like most about Chad is that we travel really well together and on our sojourns, we always try to get in some sort of musical performance be it a show or singing karaoke into the wee hours of the night.

Chad and I en route to Hawaii

It was during Chad’s first trip to visit me in Maine that he imparted the magic of Jo Anne Worley to me.  With the top of the Jeep down and sunglasses donned, Chad belted at the top of his lungs, “I just need a little Jo Anne Worley,”  en route to Ogunquit for yup, you guessed it, an evening of showtunes at the Front Porch.  Not familiar with Jo Anne Worley, I asked Chad to explain, and his description of Miss Worley went something like this, “You know her Boo.  She’s the warbling singer with the over the top voice from Laugh-In fame.”  It became a trademark saying between us and I would always beg for Chad’s “I just need a little Jo Anne Worley” whenever we traveled after that.

Jo Anne is indeed over the top.  She’s full of life, she’s super funny, she’s got moxie and maybe even a little touch of crazy – the good kind.  That’s why I like her, and that’s how I like my Showtunes – over the top. 

So here’s to you Chad and the city that never sleeps.  You just need a little Jo Anne Worley, and I bet you can find it at Marie’s Crisis.  When I visit in April,  it will be a part of the required itinerary complete with a hot dog from Papaya around 4 am. 

Until then, I will have to settle for my weekly Showtunes fix on 17^th Street.  The magic begins around 5 pm and while you might not see Jo Anne Worley there, you might be lucky enough to hear an impersonation of her from Blaise toward the end of the evening.

Blaise or Jo Anne Worley?

Call On Me

In between rounds at the bi-weekly trivia game at Jr’s, one of my dearest friends, Jim, announced that he needed some new material from ITunes to include in his workout mix.  Rising to the occasion, I grabbed a piece of paper and informed him that I knew the perfect song for his repertoire.  Trying to avoid the spills of lady drinks (aka Rose Kennedys) on the bar, I wrote 5 words on the slip of paper:  Call on Me – Eric Prydz.  Then, we went back to the game and managed to place third after an abysmal start.  Being a school night and all, we called it a night at the conclusion of the game.

The following morning, while having my daily iced coffee, I received the following email (expletives removed) from Jim via Facebook, “So I look in my shirt pocket this morning, and I’m like Omigod, some guy named Eric Prydz said ‘call on me’ but didn’t give me his number.  Then I googled it.  D’OH!”  Nearly spitting out my iced coffee, I doubled over with laughter as it was perhaps the funniest thing I had heard in weeks, especially given the racy video that accompanies the song on You Tube.

But it made me think.  No one actually gives out their phone number anymore.  In fact, no one ever calls anyone anymore.  Tweets, texts, emails – you name it – short quips and status updates have replaced meaningful conversations either face to face or over the phone, and I am as guilty as the next person.  In fact, I would venture to say I have a downright phobia of talking on the phone and have even removed my land line here in DC although I keep the land line in Portland just to remember the good ‘ol days.

Don’t get me wrong; I have a love affair with Facebook, and it’s allowed me to catch up with some old friends which would have otherwise been impossible in the midst of our busy lives.  But have I really started using the “check-in” application on Facebook?  Yup – guilty as charged.  In fact, I get a special thrill about checking in at certain places like the gym and leaving out the frequency of other check-ins like Jr’s thereby confusing people that I lead a super human life committed to healthy living.  Once an intern asked another staffer of mine who Peter’s friend Jr was because she had heard me speak of him often?  The staffer laughed and replied, “Oh that’s just a bar he likes to go.” 

But in between all the electronic check-ins this morrning, I decided to nervously pick up the phone and actually check in with an old friend and colleague whom I haven’t spoken to in over a year.  The conversation actually lasted more than 2 minutes, and we employed the full use of complex sentences complete with proper subject and verb agreement.  In those ten minutes, I learned a lot and even laughed a little.  And amazingly, like riding a bicycle for the first time in years, I remembered how to do it:  communicating in real life and not over an electronic device that relies on satellite signals.

Most importantly, we got to share updates on our dogs that we got together in a parking lot in Fryeburg, Maine 13 years ago this May.  They both have gray hair now, they both move a little slower, they both have had unsightly lumps and bumps that are commonplace for dogs, and they both are a little hard of hearing.  But I learned that my friend’s dog has cancer, and it caused me to think back on all the joy both of our dogs have brought us.  Our two dogs even flew together on a small plane out to the island of North Haven because we had missed the ferry for a staff retreat.  We thought about putting scarfs over their heads and sunglasses on as they deplaned just to invoke a little Jackie O drama, but we didn’t. 

My Older Dog Alex

You never know how long you will have with a beloved pet, but you come to appreciate each moment a little bit more the older they get.  And it’s exactly for learning this kind of information that we should put the blackberry down and pick up the phone once and a while.  We might just have a meaningful human interaction that is actually worthy of a status update or check-in.

Soccer Practice

It was a gorgeous October afternoon in 1989, windy but sun shining bright.  Coach Lofgren began practice by announcing we were going to have an intra team scrimmage rather than doing the normal routine.  Immediately dread came over me because that meant shirts and skins, and I knew I would inevitably be relegated to the skins team.

And sure enough I was.  So wanting to throw up the pizza and salad I’d had for lunch that day in the cafeteria at Biddeford High School, I took off my shirt and skulked to my position on the field as fullback and waited for the ribbing to begin.

Now I should preface this by saying I really enjoyed my teammates and many of us remained close friends during high school.  As such, the teasing was never meant to be mean, and I could occasionally find the humor in it. 

“Hey Chandlah,” yelled one of my teammates from mid field in a classic Maine accent.  “Where did you get your moon tan?  Working at Wellby Super Drug all summer?”  I let out a sigh of relief because at least it wasn’t a fat joke and truth be told, there was in fact not a speck of summer bronze in my skin.  Thinking back, soccer season was the only time of year I even approached being in shape. 

I loved the sport as it was really the only one I ever played.  I’m pretty sure I can thank my dad, who played three sports during high school and college, for instilling in me a love for the game.  Much to his dismay, I never really could dribble a basketball, let alone get it in the hoop.  Maybe that’s why when substitute teaching physical education (yes, it’s true – don’t laugh) at a local junior high school after college, I called “off sides” in a basketball game with eighth grade boys.  Let’s just the say that the male members of the faculty, who heard about my error within minutes of class ending, had a good time at my expense.  In any event, I know my Dad was proud I did play one sport and that I played it pretty well.  I guess that is what being well rounded is all about.

Unfortunately, I took being well rounded to a new level and somehow made eating a part of my curriculum vitae.  Fatty, chub, man boobs, pudgy, - you name it, I’ve heard it all.  And if I didn’t hear it, I had certainly thought it.  Every time I looked in the mirror, I would remember those trips to Sears to the Boys Department in the late 1970s where you had three choices in size – slim, regular and husky.  I was never greedy; I never felt a need for slim, but just once I would have liked to buy a pair of regulars.  But my body didn’t agree, and the pair of huskies and I would go home together, a match made in heaven.

My problem with weight would only grow worse after high school as the dreaded college pounds crept on one by one and I began a lifelong rollercoaster of ups and downs with a new diet around every bend.  Sometimes, I wish I had a do over, that I could go back and  become the athletic, muscular guy I always secretly admired.  But as the song from Rent, one of my favorite musicals of all time, goes, “forget regret or life is yours to miss.”

So in late 2009, after a dreadful annual physical that revealed everything from high blood pressure to dangerously high cholesterol, I decided to do something about it.  I changed my diet, started exercising and even hired a personal trainer.  It felt good going back to my high school reunion last summer having lost almost 50 pounds.  I considered taking off my shirt for the event, but alas, still no tan.

I still have a ways to go to my goal of 155 pounds  – the recommended high end weight for my age and height.  I don’t know if I will get there, but I am actually having fun trying, and I both feel and look healthier.  Maybe the 5K will help me to get there.

One thing I do know though, you can’t stop living just to lose weight.   Maybe that’s why I ordered the lasagna last night at Floriana’s, my favoite local Italian restaurant in DC.  You can’t change the past, only the future.  I am thinking chicken cutlets are in order for dinner tonight and a viewing of Johnny McGovern’s Soccer Practice.

Serendipity

Admittedly, no post was planned for today, but when you are “present in the moment”, you discover things that would otherwise go unnoticed.

At approximately 3:17 pm this afternoon, one of my interns placed a letter on my desk, a letter I would have typically transferred to the circular file.  The letter was dated January, 2011, but because all mail sent to Congressional offices is irradiated at a facility in the Midwest, we receive it about one month later.

The letter was written by Patrick Crowley, Chairman of the Board of the Association for the Preservation of Historic Congressional Cemetery!  One week ago, I didn’t even know the Congressional Cemetery existed and so, to receive a letter from them a mere 4 days after my visit on Sunday was serendipitous indeed.  (See Post from Monday - Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Gay Men’s Chorus Concert)

Before noticing the date at the top, I began to read the letter and secretly hoped that Chairman Crowley had heard of our pilgrimage to this historic site and wanted little ol’ me to become the national spokesperson for their preservation efforts.  Or maybe he would want me to perform a costume karaoke benefit harkening back to my performance days in Portland, Maine!  Could this truly be happening?  Doubtful – so I reached for a chicken cutlet to slap across my face and quickly snapped out of it as the true intent of the letter became clear.

Generically sent to Hill Staffers, it was to announce that this year they would be launching a 5K benefit event called Dead Man’s Run to help restore our country’s first national cemetery as it ascends to the rank of National Historic Landmark.  In short, it was a recruitment effort to register Congressional teams for the run.  Ok – exercise and not singing.  Hmmmm?

The significance of the moment not lost on me, I chatted with others in the office about forming a team and sincere interest ensued. The 5K run is slated for May 8^th.

So here’s the deal.  We’re going to do it!  Let the games begin.  With the nicer weather coming, I’ve been looking for a reason to start training hard again, and this might just be it.  There’s also those  last pounds to lose in the effort to reach the ever elusive goal of 155, which I was sorely reminded of this past weekend as my good friend Gary announced he had in fact reached his goal.  And boy does he look great!  Not that I am competitive or anything.

Maybe the answer to “are we there yet?” begins and ends at Congressional Cemetery, symbolically I hope and not literally.  They say all roads lead to Rome, but for me I am starting to think most roads at least lead somewhere up to Capitol Hill, perhaps more specifically the Congressional Cemetery.