June 4, 2012

Sometimes shit’s a mess and then you have to hire a doggie therapist. Yeah, you heard me.

I never thought that I would hire a therapist for my dog.

My name is Fran and I approve the use of doggie therapy.

I can hear the choruses of first world problems/you’re an asshole ringing from the rafters. I know.

But when you’ve thrown your life up into the air, you’re waiting for the internet installation guy, you’re bawling your eyes out because a song you loved in 7th grade randomly plays on your iTunes, and your dog won’t stop howling like she’s goddamn dying when you step out of the apartment for five damn minutes to change your laundry – you need professional help because your shit is a hot mess.

A life coach? No.

A therapist? Yes.

A doggie therapist.

I couldn’t take it anymore; I was really at the end of my rope. Fran would freak right the hell out every time I left her – I was bringing her everywhere just to avoid leaving her in the apartment alone. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t quite feel like getting kicked out of my apartment/moving again; my hair was starting to fall out.

(My hair wasn’t actually falling out, but I was worried it would. I really like my hair and would prefer that it remain on my head.)

I called my vet, and after a long and patient discussion with me, she suggested a dog therapist. I hung up the phone slightly dazed.

A dog therapist? I looked down at Fran. Everyone goes to therapy at some point, why not Fran? I thought. I mean, I go to therapy and in the Yearbook of Life my picture is right next to “Most Likely to be Well-Adjusted…Eventually.” Maybe the therapist could adjust Fran into the realm of only barking every other time I went to change my laundry. It was worth a try. I dialed the doggie therapist’s number and left a message.

“Hi, my name is Cara Courchesne and I’m calling because my dog is having um…anxiety issues? I think? I just moved and um, Dr. Moore – errr…sorry, your last name is Moore – Dr. Demuse suggested you and I think maybe it might be, uh, Fran ugh, Jesus Christ, stoppit…down. GET DOWN… helpful if you and I were able to chat. Can you call me? Please? My number….”

I hung up and sighed. Fran looked at me with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. “She’s not going to call me back, you know,” I said to Fran. “She’s going to think I’m a nutcase because I’ve just left the most discombobulated message imaginable.” Fran yawned all “Or because you think I need a therapist.”

“You do,” I responded. “And that’s her job, Fran. She doesn’t judge people who call her. Duh.”

Half an hour later, the therapist (graciously) called me back and I had an appointment for the following evening. She was coming to my house to observe Fran in her environment.

Half an hour before the appointment, I was juggling Fran, a bag of groceries, my work bag, and my keys and trying unsuccessfully to get into my apartment. I finally let myself in and as I walked into the kitchen, the bottom of the grocery bag let go and out crashed a bottle of wine and a six pack of beer. The bottle of wine shattered, as did three of the beer bottles.

Fran immediately bee-lined it for the spilled wine (signs of an alcoholic dog – this is why therapy is important).

“FRAN!” I shrieked. “OUCHIES! GLASS! OUCHIES! NO! OUT! AGGGGHHHHHHHJESUSJUMPEDUPCHRIST!”

Every good dog owner has a baby gate. And by that, I mean every dog owner whose dog is not the best-trained four legged creature in the world has a baby gate. I shoved her into the living room, gated off the kitchen and surveyed the mess.

Then I realized that not only was the doggie therapist going to be at my apartment in 20 minutes, but my house was going to smell like I was the one with the alcohol problem, not Fran. “Fuck,” I muttered, picking up a roll of paper towels. “I’m about to be declared an unfit mother because my house reeks of booze.”

I looked at Fran. “See what you’re drinking is doing to Mommy?” She wagged her tail.

Two hours later, Fran and I were happily sitting on the couch. She was exhausted from her therapy session and I was happy, feeling like things were going to work out after all. The doggie therapist had given me a lot of ideas to try and told me that Fran was so smart (and food/treat motivated) and I’m so loving with her that she would be fine in no time.

The therapist did, however, immediately pick up on the fact that I am also sort of a mess recently (um, always) and talked to me about my own anxiety and how Fran can probably feel it. I was essentially getting two therapy sessions for the price of one. Fran and I were in couples therapy.

To sum it up, a few things I’ve learned in the last few weeks:

-Just like people, animals feel anxiety. But unlike people, animals don’t have as many mechanisms with which to handle their anxiety. Although Fran takes care of me in a lot of ways, I have to be okay to take care of her. (It’s basically Rule Number One of the Animal Parents’ Pledge.) The more okay I am, the less anxious she feels, the less she barks, the less likely it is that I’ll get kicked out of my apartment. All of these things are good things.

-I can’t get out of the shower and then walk naked to my bedroom. Instead of living in a second and third floor condo, I now live in a first floor apartment. The dude next door was working on his car and did a double-take when I walked by. Now he waves at me.

-When the pilot light in my gas stove goes out, it’s okay to just turn off the gas (it’s not like I use the stove anyway) and wait for someone to help me turn it back on so I don’t blow my apartment right the hell up.

-Don’t think for a minute that going out into the hallway in your underwear to put last night’s bottle of wine (Fran’s) in the recycling bin will be okay. It won’t be. You will run into your upstairs neighbor’s boyfriend. It’s like Murphy’s Law or whatever, but it’s actually called Cara’s Law. It happens.

-(I understand that it seems as though I have problems with keeping my clothes on while I’m at home. It’s true. I do.)

-When you allow your dog to start sleeping on the bed, there is no off switch for the ass chewing on the bed. It’s all or nothing – you take the ass chew with the spooning. You’ve been advised.

-I generate a shitload of laundry all by myself.

-Sit with anxiety, because you can’t go around it. You can only go through it. (Fran’s not the only one who has been to therapy.)

-Believe your vet when she says that your dog needs to see a therapist. Even if you think it’s batshit, it’ll be the best $85 you’ve spent in a long time.

And it won’t fall out of the bottom of a grocery bag and make the rest of your house smell like a bad combination of beer and chianti.

Posted in being grown, mommyhood, new leaf, pets, undomesticated | 4 Comments »

May 30, 2012

Getting pulled over in the name of a freshly scented ride home – worth it.

All dog owners know that dog shit is a problem.

You have to have a bag to pick it up, sometimes you have to have more than one bag on one walk (I mean, really, Fran?), and sometimes you don’t have a place to put the bag after you’ve picked it up.

And the stink is not contained by the bag. One must often be creative regarding shit bag disposal and it’s not pleasant or convenient. One morning, I had to climb on a roof in the rain to reclaim a bag of dog shit I had left just outside of a window on the roof the night before. It sucked, but who got to say they had climbed on a roof to capture a fleeing bag of poop before 7 AM? This lady.

Yesterday afternoon, this lady was pulled over by a state trooper because I had a bag of dog shit hanging out of my window. It is perhaps inappropriate (or uh, perfect appropriate) to use the phrase I shit you not at this juncture, but really – I shit you not. Fran shits you not as well; she was in the car.

And it was her shit.

I breathed the sigh of relief we all do when you realize that a.) you’ve been speeding slightly more than you should have and b.) the state trooper passes by without turning on the blue lights. My sigh of relief was short lived, however, because he glanced at me, slowed down, and pulled into the lane behind me. I groaned and Fran rolled over in the passenger seat and snorted in her sleep.

The blue lights came on.

Seriously? I thought. What was that? Just teasing me about not pulling me over? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

I put the car in park and went to roll down my window. I realized that I had to somehow simultaneously maneuver the attached bag of shit without the trooper seeing. Why did I care about the trooper seeing me do it? you may ask.

I don’t have an answer for you.

Experienced dog owners will tell you that sometimes, you have to bring your doggy poop bags home despite a long distance (say, my hour commute from work to home) and the smell that may be wafting from said sac. However, if you’re smart, you’ve realized that you can stick the poop part of the bag out the window, anchor the rest of the bag over the glass, shut the window, and have yourself a fresh-smelling ride home sans shit stench.

I rolled down the window and (expertly) caught the bag. I put it at my feet and reached over for my license and registration.

“Hi there,” the trooper said, leaning over in the rain. I was hoping it was the super trooper who pulled me over a while ago because I was guilty of busting too good of a move while driving. It wasn’t.

“Hey,” I said trying to smile.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I hate this question. I really, really hate this question. It could be a trick, getting you to admit to something that you were doing but the trooper hadn’t seen. Then they’ve nabbed you for the reason they pulled you over AND because you just admitted to listening to Ke$ha. That’s like three tickets right there.

“Nope,” I said.

“I was wondering what that black bag you had hanging out your window was.”

I stared at him. Fran started to growl. It was like she didn’t want to talk about her poop with a stranger and really – who can blame her?

“Um.” I tried to control my giggle as I reached down to pick up the offending bag. “It’s my dog’s poop bag. Full of you know, poop.” Fran barked, all “Stop talking about my shit!“

“Oh! Oh lord,” he said, chuckling. Then he cleared his throat. “You know you can be fined if you litter from your car?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It was lock safe and anchored by the uh, the shut window.” I pointed.

“Good. Great. Well. Um. Have a good afternoon, ma’am.”

“You too, sir.”

I rolled up the window, again anchoring the poop bag and catching a wave of Eau de Fran. Getting pulled over in the name of a freshly scented ride home – worth it.

image via

Posted in only me, pets, travels | 1 Comment »

April 26, 2012

Redneck Barbie, learning about duvets/shams, and who the CHRIST spends $100 on a TRASHCAN?

First of all, this is apparently a thing to aspire to:

My birthday is in about a week. This is my only gift request. I won't put it on my car like this Redneck Barbie Doll, but I will hang it on my refrigerator.

I don’t even know what it means.

I saw it when I was on my way into the dentist yesterday morning. If this doesn’t scream GET EXCITED FOR A CLEANING AND LYING ABOUT HOW MUCH YOU FLOSS, I don’t know what does.

In other important and world history-altering news, I’m in the process of a breakup and am moving into my own apartment. It is heart-breaking; I cry at the most random shit; it sucks; it is really hard; I am okay. It also means that instead of moving in with someone who already has all things apartment-related, I have to go out and get said things. First, however, I have to learn what some words mean and decide how much I want to spend on a trashcan.

I went to LL Bean because I decided I was going to splurge on one thing: bedding. A single lady needs a good bed in which she can play Big Spoon this this Lil Spoon:

You're jealous and that's okay.

LL Bean is where I met Bill. I began by asking Bill his thoughts on the various stitching differences in comforters. After I chose a comforter (baffle stitch, if you must know), Bill said, “I think you’ll probably want a duvet.”

Now, I’ve always wanted to know what a duvet is, but I’ve either been too embarrassed to ask or not actually given enough of a shit to look it up. I swallowed my pride.

“What’s a duvet?” I asked.

Without skipping a beat (maybe he gets these questions all the time?), Bill said, “Think of it as a comforter cover. So you can take it off and wash it.”

“Ohhhh.”

He paused and looked like he decided something. “Are you new at this?” Bill asked.

I wasn’t entirely sure how to take this question. Am I new at this? At almost-27 and until now duvet-less, I guess I could say yes, I am new at this. I don’t want my apartment to look like I just graduated from college, but I’m also not looking to outfit my entire apartment with the most upscale shit I can find. I can’t honestly say that duvets have ever been on the top of my Priority List.

“You could say that,” I said. “Hey, I probably need some sheets, huh?” We walked toward the sheets.

As I looked at the display, I exclaimed, “Ooooh! Shams! I’ve always wanted to know what a sham is. Is that the thing that kind of ruffles around the bottom of your bed so you can’t see under it?”

Bill laughed. “No,” he responded. “A sham is like a decorative pillowcase.”

“I don’t need that shit,” I said.

“Nope, you’re right. You probably don’t need that shit,” he admitted.

Bill and I were on the same page.

A few days later, I was at LL Bean again, eying a couch I had seen during my Linen Lessons. A woman in her early sixties was eying the same couch.

“What do you think?” I asked, plopping down.

“I love it,” she said.

“Me too,” her friend chimed in.

“It’s LL Bean, so if we both want it, it’s not like there isn’t enough to go around!” the first woman smiled.

We started talking couches. During a comment about foam cushion versus something I can’t remember and probably won’t ever care about, I realized, I’ve never talked couches. I’m talking couches! Couches turned into Why is a young girl like you buying a couch by herself? and Oh I just broke up with my boyfriend and I’m moving out.

“I’m Molly,” said the first. “This is my friend Sue.”

“I’m Cara,” I said. Before I could ask what they thought about the slipcover fabric, they insisted on buying me lunch.

I need to go through some horrible shit and look like I haven’t slept in days more often, I thought to myself. That and I keep forgetting to eat meals unless someone invites me or tells me to eat something. I was scoring points on both the hanging out with new people and remembering to eat categories.

After my (totally lovely) lunch with Molly and Sue, I drove back to Portland and decided that essentials such as toilet paper and a plunger needed to be purchased. I went to Target, where of course they were remodeling so I had no idea where the fuck anything was located. Toilet paper? Next to the iPods. Of course.

“Where are the trashcans?” I asked a passing Target employee. She looked as desperate to find an answer as I felt.

“Ummm…. Across from the cash registers and next to the little girls’ underwear.”

“Of course,” I muttered. “Thanks.”

I found a trashcan, but not before noticing that there was another trashcan that looked like it could keep Fran’s snout away from my used tampons better than anything. That shit would practically be on lockdown, I thought, intrigued and slightly giddy. I looked at the price.

“NINETY-NINE NINETY-NINE?!” I shrieked. “What the FUCK?!”

I texted my sister. Who the CHRIST pays $100 for a TRASHCAN?

That’s some important ass trash! she responded.

“Ridiculous,” I muttered as I typed back Haha you said ass trash.

Apparently, Tom the Target Employee of the Year had heard my shrieking.

“Hi there! Sorry everything is such a mess! Can I help you?” he asked, slightly overzealous than the trashcan/little girl underwear aisle required.

“Nope, good, found a trashcan,” I said. “The one I found isn’t one. Hundred. Dollars,” I added.

“Um. Good. That is so great. Can I help you with anything else?”

“Nope! Good!” I said. “Already bought a duvet and as for shams, I don’t need that shit!”

Posted in new leaf, undomesticated, what now? | 5 Comments »

April 8, 2012

Maybe I was feeling Whitney a little too much.

It was Friday – I wasn’t feeling NPR Morning Edition.

I was feeling Madonna. Roxette. And most importantly, Whitney.

Maybe I was feeling Whitney a little too much.

I wonder if that’s possible.

I thought that I was in the clear, because you know, I’m an experienced commuter. I watch other people’s taillights and make sure that when I see flashes of red, I slow down; I assume there’s a state trooper that I haven’t seen yet. I keep my cruise control on 74 mph. I was basically all set.

Except I didn’t stop jamming enough when I drove by this particular state trooper and there were suddenly blue lights in my rear view mirror.

I admit that as I drove by him, Whitney and I happened to hit that crucial moment: “IF HE LOVES ME. IF HE LOVES ME NOT. HEYYY. IF HE LOVES ME. (Then there’s some serious build-up here.) IF HE LOVES ME NOT. OHHHHHHHHHHHH HOW WILL I KNOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” There was no going back – Whitney and I were totally in lockstep and I was COMMITTED.

I wasn’t going to let her down.

I pulled over to the side of the highway and turned down the volume. By the time he reached my car, I was laughing.

“Something funny?” he asked as I rolled down my window.

“Um. Yes. I think you pulled me over because I was dancing,” I responded.

To my surprise, he laughed too. “Well, that and I felt as though I needed to check if you were intoxicated.”

I didn’t bother to point out that it was 7 am. “I’m on my way to work,” I said. “I’m definitely not drunk.” Drunk? Am I a bad dancer? I wondered. No. Whitney and I are pretty much a golden duo. No one would accuse us of being bad dancers.

“You’d be surprised how many people are drunk on their way to work,” he answered. “What were you listening to?”

I paused, knowing exactly how (at this point in the history of These Great United States) cliche my answer was. “Whitney Houston.”

“That’s pretty cliche,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Sad what happened to her.”

“Yeah,” I answered. “Tragic.” We both looked down as if to say a silent Whitney prayer.

“So. License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”

I looked up and laughed again. “Seriously?”

“Protocol. I pulled you over, I have to check.”

I sighed, and leaned over to pull the documents out of my glove box. Only me. Honestly.

“Thanks,” he said as I handed him the documents.

I surprised myself with the brief thought that I should turn Whitney back up and start jamming out again. I had been at that critical moment in the song.

I didn’t have much time to think, because my friend the trooper came back.

“You’re all set,” he said. “Just, uh, keep the rockin’ out to a minimum.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “Thanks.”

Before I pulled away, I started the song over again. You can’t just go back into a moment like that – you gotta ease into it.

Posted in awesome dance moves, only me | 3 Comments »

April 5, 2012

Keep calm and always carry two poop bags.

So, first of all, this.

Nothing says Happy Easter like a couple of marble dogs dressed like the Easter Bunny and Miss Daisy.

These people were begging for me to take a picture.

Second of all, a Smith student called me the other day and I gave her what I now consider to be a choice nugget of advice.

When I was at Smith, I was one of those students who called alums asking for money. The alumnae office lures you in with promises of the best paid job on campus and you think Three hours a night? Ten bucks an hour? Hey I’m poor and I like going out for beers, too! All over it! and then three shifts later, you have seven papers due, four books to read, no one is answering their damn phone, and you might attempt to hurl yourself out the window of the call center. Except it’s in a basement, which in of itself makes you contemplate harming yourself or someone else.

Now that I’m an alum, when I see the 413 area code come up on my cell phone, I politely don’t hit ignore so it goes directly to voicemail…I just let it go to voicemail. But now they are bombarding me with postcards of the poor (and I mean poor in a they don’t have money AND a oh you poor woman kind of way), cute, sweet, students who are making the phone calls.

So, the other day, while walking Fran, I picked up my phone when 413 called.

A really sweet girl named Sarah was on the other end and asked for a moment of my time. Fran had her nose halfway up a tree, so I figured yeah, I had a few minutes to spare.

Trying to be a good alum, I asked, “So, how’s Smith these days?”

When you have your Call Center Hell Training, they tell you that the alums are super excited to talk to you and want hear about what’s going on at Smith. They also make it sound like you’re only going to be talking to old ladies who lunch, ladies who are going to whip out their checkbook – because they don’t use credit cards – and promise a check of $500 to you over the phone.

They don’t tell you that some women will be trying to get three screaming kids to bed and will scream at you “PUT ME DOWN FOR $20. HERE, TALK TO MY HUSBAND, HE’LL GIVE YOU THE CREDIT CARD INFORMATION…. STEVE JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WILL YOU GET THAT OUT OF HER MOUTH? SHE’S EATING THE GODDAMN CAT TOY. PICK UP THE PHONE IN THE LIVING ROOM. PICK. UP. THE…. NEVERMIND. USELESS. HEY, CAN YOU CALL BACK TOMORROW?”

It really makes you want a couple of kids and a husband. And a cat.

“Smith is so great,” she gushed.

“No. Really. Are you tired? How many papers do you have to write? Don’t you hate calling alums?” I struggled to balance the phone in the crook of my neck while I stooped to pick up Fran poop.

Sarah paused. Maybe she thought I was a Smith alum Call Center version of a Secret Shopper.

“It’s okay,” I urged. “You can tell me. I’ve totally been in your position.”

“Well, it’s the best paid job on campus, and–”

“And they give you candy that you eat too much of, soda you drink too much of because you’re trying to stay awake, then you crash, right? What time is it…1 pm? You still have another two hours left to go. That sucks.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty shitty.”

“The worst is when they make you call parents of current students.”

“Oh my god, I know. It’s so bad. I told my mom not to answer the phone.”

“Wise move,” I said.

“So you graduated in 2007?” she asked. “What was it like then?”

It was my turn to pause. I mean, I know I’m about to go to my fifth year reunion, but it’s not like I had to hike up my petticoats to run when I was late to class.

We're definitely not wearing petticoats.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” I responded.

“What do you mean?”

“Nevermind,” I said. “It was really great. I loved it.”

Just then, Fran decided to poop. Again. And of course, I had already used and thrown away the only poop bag I brought.

“If you had one piece of advice to current students, what would it be?” she asked.

“Keep calm and always carry two poop bags,” I responded.

 

 

Posted in oh shit, pets, reasons why I'm awesome., what now?, while walking Fran | 1 Comment »

Tags: ,
March 9, 2012

I saw a heron swallow a lizard. Whole.

Jay and I went on vacation to Grenada and accidentally booked the honeymoon package instead of the couple’s package.

Which meant, among other things, that I got a free bottle of Prosecco. We were supposed to go on a sunset cruise as well, but we decided we weren’t interested. I was picturing the wind in my hair and it being totally romantic, but when you’re on a lazy vacation….

Some random highlights:

  • Guys were walking around with machetes like it was their job. Which, apparently, it was. They cut palm fronds with machetes. From a step ladder. Like the metal kind you use around the house. I had never even seen a machete before. As a result of my watching in amazement, they handed me a coconut to sip some coconut water. Twice. Jay’s response: “I wonder how OSHA would feel about hacking at a palm tree with a machete from a step ladder?”

    Coconut Coconut

  • I read 8 books, because all I did was drink vodka and read books. Above, where my coconut sipping glory is captured, you can see Mockingjay poking out from under my bum. Don’t judge me. I want to be Katniss Everdeen, minus the whole needing to kill people to survive thing. I asked Jay if he’d go to the Hunger Games movies with me and he responded by asking if I wanted him to take me to a Justin Bieber concert, too. I’m so glad he knows what I like and is supportive.
  • As part of our honeymoon package, we also had a couple’s massage. I was all, ooh sexy sexy, purrr! But in fact, it’s just bizarre. Not bad, but definitely not sexy sexy meow meow. Because what are you going to do, talk? In front of the massage therapists without including them in the conversation? “Oh yeah, those waves were really nice today.” “They sure were.” “….” No, you’re not. It’s weird.
  • For the first time, I had grafted limes in my vodka tonics. Grafted limes are a cross between a lime and an orange. Delicious. If you find out where I can get them in Maine, I’ll let you send me a bottle of Ketel 1. I have some tonic already; don’t worry about that part.

    grafted limes.

  • I saw a heron swallow a lizard. Whole. Really. I don’t have a picture of it, because I was too horrified/amazed/stunned to take out my camera.
  • Because Jay and I both read twenty fazillion books, we ran out of books we brought. FEAR NOT. We raided the resort library. However, we found that said resort library had a lot of Tom Clancy and books in German. Having never been super into conservative douche canoes and never having taken German, this wasn’t particularly helpful. So, I took a cab to a nearby bookstore. It turned out to be a bible bookstore. I ended up with a few Phillipa Gregory books, but hey. It was better than Douche Canoe Tom Clancy.
  • We went hiking. We were walking around St. George’s and decided to up to a fort. And it was a hike up some stairs. Some people might not call it a hike, but I would because it involved inclines and huffing and puffing. We got to the top and found that there was a gym (with no one in it) pumping out the loudest reggae ever. I think no one was pumping iron, because the hike up to the fort is exercise enough for like, 4 days. The view was worth it. Mostly. After I stopped sweating and huffing.

To sum it up, we ate a lot, I drank a lot (sometimes water or juice), we read a lot, we slept a lot. It was relaxing and really fun, except for the part where I started having the flu on the plane ride back. But, the way I see it, as long as my vagina doesn’t try to assassinate me while I’m traveling, it’s a successful trip.

Posted in love and laundry | 2 Comments »

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February 20, 2012

Mommy wants to go home and have a glass of wine.

I now know that we are notorious in our neighborhood.

While walking Fran this late afternoon, we paused so that Fran could sniff a seemingly unremarkable spot for oh, 24 minutes. As I stood waiting for her, I mumbled, “Franny, let’s go. Mommy wants to go home and have a glass of wine.”

Reason Number 2893457 why I probably shouldn’t be a parent.

I had almost convinced her that there were many other spots to sniff when a family of three came walking down the street. I recognized them as people who live on our block.

They’re the ones with the screamy little girl, I thought. While outside in our backyard during the summer, I can sometimes hear Screamy announcing that NO SHE DOES NOT WANT TO GO IN THE HOUSE FOR DINNER AND NO SHE’S NOT DONE PLAYING HOUSE WITH THE CAT.

Hey, I can relate.

Despite the fact that she’s a little…loud when she doesn’t get her way, Screamy is kind of cute. She has blond curly hair and is pretty engaging. She smiles a lot. I find myself sort of liking this family, although we’ve only said a passing hello on the street a few times. The father is clearly a stay at home dad, which I appreciate; and the mother, well, glares at me a lot.

I smiled and readied a friendly, “Hello!” while winding Fran’s leash up around my hand. She tends to be able to smell the blood of those under the age of 14, as she doesn’t really care for the younger generations.

“Black dog, black dog!” Screamy started to sing.

Before I could say my friendly, “Hello!” Glarey said in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, “Honey, stay away from that lady and her mean dog.”

Well. Shit.

I stood there sort of stunned. Not only are we basically famous in our neighborhood, not only was I referred to as “that lady” and by Glarey no less, but…. Well, I suppose that calling Fran a “mean dog” in relation to a kid is probably not uncalled for, but that lady?

Really? What, do I exude a Ladies Who Lunch aura? In my hoodie sweatshirt and jeans, I’m that lady?

I don’t even have a poodle.

“C’mon Franny,” I said pulling her leash. “This lady wants to go have a glass of wine.”

image via

Posted in mommyhood, pets, while walking Fran | Leave a Comment »

February 6, 2012

me and my lack o’ thong

When I turned 26, my body began a rebellion.

thong tha-thong thong thong

It’s not something I talk about much, and without going into too much detail, I’m in a fair amount of pain rather often. This blog is about all of the bullshit that happens to me; most of it is bullshit that I can look at, laugh at, and hopefully make others laugh at as well.

I’ve been thinking about my visit with an area specialist and thinking if I could spin this out into a funny blog post. I’ve had a spat of quacky doctors in the last year, some of which I have written about, because I did in fact find it amusing.

The thing is, I don’t find my visit with the local specialist funny, but I want to write about it anyway.

Let’s call this local specialist Dr. Yadda Yadda.

Now, I had to wait for an appointment with Dr. Yadda Yadda for six months. Since July, I had waited for this appointment, slated for January. Every time I was in pain, I would think, January 18, January 18, January 18. January 18 came and I was ready, complete with a list of symptoms, questions, dates of various appointments and blood tests.

I sat waiting for Dr. Yadda Yadda in an exam room with signed and framed photos of Roger Clemens, former Boston Red Sox pitcher. I was working on the crossword I had stolen from the waiting room when he walked in with a med student.

“Hi, you must be Cara,” he said, shaking my hand. “This is Dr. So and So; he’ll be shadowing me during your appointment today.” I thought it was interesting that he didn’t ask if it was okay for Dr. So and So to shadow my appointment, but it seemed like small potatoes. Besides, if this guy was going to help me, I wasn’t going to get stuck asking questions about why he didn’t ask for my permission.

We went through the normal, so tell me what’s going on, mmhmms, ah-has, I sees. I went through my list, having memorized exact dates, how things felt, and anything else I thought he might find useful to know.

He stood up. “Okay Cara. I want you to strip down to your bra and underwear, put on that johnnie, and we’ll be right back.” Strip down? I thought. 

Before I could position myself as comfortably as I could on the exam table, Drs. Yadda Yadda and So and So had already returned, sans knocking or asking if I was ready. For the third time in a span of about ten minutes, I thought, Hmm. Odd.

Dr. Yadda Yadda went through my ranges of motion, making notes to Dr. So and So aloud like, “She’s in shape, nice and thin body, she’s not going to have such and such issue” to Dr. So and So. I raised an eyebrow. We were getting into territory where I didn’t care whether I had waited for months for this appointment. Strip down? No knocking? Nice and thin body? Really?

The real kicker happened when he asked me to stand up with my back to him. I stood and turned.

“Good thing she’s not wearing a thong!” Dr. Yadda Yadda said to Dr. So and So. “Sometimes these young ladies come in here, forget they’re going to be examined and they have a thong on! I can’t possibly continue an exam at that point.”

I looked Dr. So and So straight in the eye and my eyebrow went up a notch further. Was I honest to Christ hearing this? Dr. So and So seemed to gulp and look incredibly uncomfortable. Yes, I decided. I am hearing this. I stood straighter.

“Okay, Cara, bend over and touch your toes for me. Going to check your spine.” Dr. Yadda Yadda tapped my back.

So, not only was he going to comment on my underwear like I wasn’t in the room, but he was also going to then make me bend over in front of him. Stunned, I did as I was told.

“Your spine is perfectly normal, great range, better than most people your age. Do you do yoga?” he asked, not at all picking up on the change in the room.

I nodded slowly and looked at my feet.

“Okay great. We’re going to step out. You put your clothes back on while we’re gone.”

I nodded again. Dr. So and So looked at me, unsure of whether to say something. He didn’t and left behind Dr. Yadda Yadda.

When they came back in the room, Dr. Yadda Yadda didn’t have a diagnosis for me. The lack of diagnosis is one of the most frustrating things I’ve ever experienced. It’s not like I went into the appointment hoping he would tell me I have the early signs of something bad, or early onset something or other. I wanted an answer, but I didn’t want a bad one. I suppose that’s what everyone wants when they go to the doctor’s.

I left, unsure of what I was thinking or feeling. I didn’t have a feeling that I “should have” said something to him; I just felt empty. I felt powerless and like I had been treated as though I’m not a person. I felt like the last six months had built up to an appointment where I would find an answer, and instead, I got a specialist in his mid-50s talking about my lack of thong like I wasn’t there.

Recently, I composed and sent him the following letter:

Dear Dr. Yadda Yadda,

I’m writing in regard to my appointment with you on January 18, 2012.

I was referred to your office in July 2011 and waited until January 2012 to have an appointment with you. My referring physician and my hand therapist told me you are among the best specialists north of Boston and I should be happy to be seen by you and your office.

I was disappointed and frustrated by your lack of professionalism during my office visit with you. I’m writing to tell you not because it will impact me to do so, but because I hope that other women seen by you don’t have to suffer the same indignities.

When you told my to turn around (while I was in my bra and underwear) so you could check my spine, you noted to your med student that you were happy I wasn’t wearing a thong because when “young women forget and wear a thong, I can’t possibly continue with an exam.” To be quite frank with you, I was disgusted by your comments for a variety of reasons. I will only name a few:

  1. I deserve be seen by a medical professional without having to deal with sexual harassment. I experience sexual comments directed at me fairly frequently outside of the medical realm and should be safe from that (even indirect sexual comments) when I enter your office.
  2. If find that you absolutely need to make such comments, you should be professional enough to withhold your comments about my underwear until you leave the room.
  3. You should be professional enough to conduct an exam on ANYONE, regardless of the state of their underwear, because they are your patients, not sex objects.
  4. You are not setting a good example for your med student by acting as though that type of commentary is appropriate.
  5. You embarrassed me.
  6. The imbalance of power that exists between a patient and a doctor (never mind a clothed and not-clothed person) is acute enough and does not need to be punctuated with comments about thongs or anything else inappropriate.

I’m not sure if you have ever made such comments to other patients and they have just perhaps not felt as though they could respond to you. Maybe you have received feedback about this and just don’t care. I am generally someone who can immediately respond to such comments, but to be honest, I was stunned that you would be so unprofessional. I hope that this is not the standard of care with which you set out to see patients.

Please consider this letter and the way you interact with your patients. Patients who walk into your office are scared, are in pain, and don’t need additional stress accompanying their office visit.

Cara Courchesne

image via yusrasblog

Posted in being grown, body politics | 9 Comments »

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February 5, 2012

So, I quit Facebook and Twitter. For a week.

As part of my 25 things, I decided that I would quit Facebook and Twitter for a week.

I came to the realization that I’ve been slacking quite a bit in terms of my 25 things, and decided to pick one that would be “easy.”

So, a few weeks ago, I decided to sign off for a week. And it was different than I thought.

I didn’t have any grand notions that people wouldn’t be able to contact me if I wasn’t on Facebook, or that people would miss me all that much. I was sure that my little crazy corner of Facebook wasn’t going to collapse from lack of snark. I mean, I’m a narcissist (see: having a blog, posting pictures of me and my dog on the ole FB, enjoying telling stories in front of a crowd, me in general since I was in 8th grade, etc.), but I generally hold my narcissism in check…umm…right?

What I didn’t realize was how many times per day (or even per half day) I open a new tab to “just check” Facebook/Twitter to see what people have posted, what’s new and interesting, or if anyone has responded to my latest flame throw about what a bunch of anuses a certain political party (begins with an “R” and ends in “epublicans”) happens to be.

I also didn’t realize how many times I tap the Facebook and Twitter icons on my phone to entertain myself when I’m waiting in line at the bank or standing in my kitchen waiting for water to boil. It’s a serious amount that I didn’t notice until I erased the apps from my phone and couldn’t tap them anymore.

I had to remove the Facebook and Twitter crack so that I wouldn’t crave the crack. It wasn’t easy.

But, all in all, once I got used to not checking FB and Twitter, not much exciting happened during my detox. I didn’t die; no one missed me all that much; I still managed to get up-to-date news (Hey, did you know that the NYT still has a homepage and not just a Twitter feed/FB account?! Ha! Me neither!); and I actually read more. After a harrowing experience at a doctor’s appointment, with a finished (stolen) crossword, biting my nails, bouncing my legs up and down, and waiting for the nurse to call my name, I made the intelligent decision to do what I used to do before I had a cell phone: I carried my book around.

WHO HAS TWO THUMBS AND CAN STILL READ BOOKS?

This lady.

Posted in 25 things | 1 Comment »

January 22, 2012

Don’t tread on me or my lady parts designated for reproduction.

I’m taking a break from my regularly scheduled programming (i.e., writing about my vagina and issues related to my inability to iron) to write a post about the importance of reproductive choice.

Which is kind of related to my vagina.

94% of Americans believe that there is no right that is more consistently under attack than a woman’s right to reproductive freedom.

I totally just made that statistic up.

But wouldn’t it be grand if it were true?

If that many people believed that, we wouldn’t have things like personhood measures (their tagline is protecting the unborn by love and law. I am not evening shitting you right now. And I refuse to link to them. Sorry. Google it.), potential presidential candidates who act like they have the right to control their daughter’s access to healthcare would be laughed out of the race, and there would no longer be people who choose candidates based on a bizarre need to control every uterus in the United States.

But really, it’s more likely that I will eventually learn to not be a domestic disaster.

In all seriousness, reproductive choice is a crucial issue and it is consistently in danger of not being a legal right. And just like there are smart, brave, wonderful people like my friend Jen LaBarbera on the front lines of keeping abortion legal, there are equally smart (but not brave and wonderful) people working to push personhood ballot measures and getting out the vote for anti-abortion/anti-choice candidates who impact women’s health policy.

Anti-choice candidates (and let’s be real here – we’re mostly talking about Republicans) are campaigning on the idea that we need to get government out of the way and let American people live and breathe the freedom for which our Founding Fathers fought so valiantly. I truly don’t understand the inherent contradiction that comes with being simultaneously anti-abortion/anti-choice and so anti-government.

I also don’t understand how that’s not readily apparent to, um, everyone.

In addition to supporting (with donations, volunteering, and spreading the word) organizations doing great work to keep abortion and birth control legal, safe, and accessible, it is crucial that we vote for (and encourage others to vote for) candidates who understand that legislating against choice is dangerous – to women’s health and to our democracy. Addtionally, be aware of the language you use around choice and reproductive freedom; don’t call someone who is anti-choice “pro-life” because there is nothing pro-life about being anti-choice.

And don’t tread on others and/or their lady parts designated for reproduction. It would be very anti-freedom of you.

 

 

 

Posted in being grown, political banter | 5 Comments »

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