My Heart

My dog died.

The Femme Fatale was always a supporting character on my blog, rarely making appearances because she was an ever-present constant in my life. I've had her since I was 19; I was never an adult without her.

She got cancer. The things that we thought were not cancer turned out to be cancer. Last November she had an operation on her elbow to remove a soft-tissue tumor. Then in January, she had another operation to remove a growing fatty tumor on her hind leg. It turned out that the elbow cancer was more dangerous that the hind-leg cancer, but it was the latter that killed her.

I tried to take care of her. When she had elbow surgery, she had to be in a leg cast that prevented her from going up and down stairs for a month. I took time off work while she recovered. We live in a second floor walk-up, so we carried her up and down those stairs until she eventually figured out that she could use her cast as a launching pad.

Six weeks later we were back at the surgeon's office. Her hind leg kept growing and growing. She had surgery in 2009 to remove a fatty mass, and I thought this was the same thing. Cut out the mass and we'll be good to go. But the pathology came back stage 1 cancer, and it was impossible to get clean margins on the tumor without disfiguring her hip. I did not want to disfigure my senior dog. She was 14 and beyond her life expectancy. We hoped and prayed that the fatty tumor would take its time to grow back.

While the Femme Fatale healed, she became a brand new dog, sprinting around my dad's backyard. She acted like she was 2, not 14 and a half. But this wonderful last hurrah only lasted for a few months. The tumor came back, and because there was a fresh blood supply from the surgery, it came back faster. She was gone in 6 months.

It was terrible and it was traumatic and it still makes me cry. I did things and I saw things that I was not prepared for as a non-medical professional. The sight of blood still feels like a gunshot to my own heart. But I did them because I loved this dog. She was my heart.

I hoped every day that I would come home from work and find her gone so that I wouldn't have to make the life-ending decision. But neither life nor death works that way. I made Abraham call the vet because I couldn't and we loaded her into the car and she stuck her head out the window on the way there.

It's not fair.

The things you love should have to be there forever; they shouldn't be allowed to leave you. I changed without her. My heart was irreparably broken. I couldn't process stessors the way I normally could. I didn't realize how much I had relied on her for my own emotional well-being. I couldn't lay on the floor and stroke her fur. I would dream about her standing by my nightstand and begging for snacks they way she had only weeks before.

The response I received from my other pet-loving friends was the only thing that helped. A friend of my mom's went to the animal shelter the same day and bought every single dog there a Frosty Paw in the Femme Fatale's name. My work sent flowers, something they didn't even do when my grandparents died. A friend made a donation to a husky rescue in the Femme Fatale's name and sent me a shadow box to display her collar. Another friend sent a card with her picture on it. Another friend had a blanket made with pictures of her. I'm very lucky to have such thoughtful people in my life.

I don't want to end this on a depressing note, so I'll speed up the timeline. Two months later we went to a Petsmart to look at the "ugly" dogs as I called them at the time. "They aren't pretty, so I know we aren't getting one," I had told Abe at the time. But the husky rescue had one girl who looked just enough like the Femme Fatale but also was just different enough. A red husky, taller and leaner, with one blue eye and one hazel eye. One eye to see heaven and one eye to see earth. She came home with us the same day.

We honored the Femme Fatale's life by saving another dog's life. The new dog was an owner surrender to a high-kill shelter in Tennessee. She was pulled by a lady who worked there until a rescue could make room for her. I'm grateful for that lady.

The hole in my heart for the Femme Fatale isn't filled. I don't think it will ever be. She is the first love of my life. I still miss her every day and think about her every day. I wonder if the two dogs would have liked each other. Probably not; the Femme Fatale was very much an only dog. But it feels good to laugh again.

Basic

I don't know how it happened.

After hearing some statistic from a friend that Atlanta gets more rain per year than Seattle, I gave myself permission to buy new rain boots. I had grown tired of my wellies (they are too cumbersome to me) and wanted my old ones again. The boots I wore when I mucked out horse stalls as a teen. I did not realize that they were back in fashion and backordered until three years from now. But mine had arrived and I put them on, because it was Atlanta and it was raining.

Then I put on my leggings because anytime I wear elastic waist pants is a happier time for me.

And it was chilly. So I stopped at Starbucks, which was inside the grocery store where I was shopping. I wanted a hot black tea, mainly to hold because it was chilly, and sometimes to sip.

That's how it happened. I was grocery shopping in my LL Bean boots, leggings, and a little red Starbucks cup.

I was a basic bitch.

In Love and War

At our final wedding of the year—wedding #8 for anyone who's counting—my friend Pam looked at me and said, "You know, statistically all of these marriages won't work out."

I was taken aback. Pam is the sweetest, kindest person I know. She always has a smile on her face and is always thinking of others. It was out of character for her to think so darkly. But the thought itself was also frightening. Pam was right.

"Yes, there's the statistic that half of marriages end in divorce, but it can also be broken down further. The younger you are when you marry for the first time is a factor. The divorce rate for first marriages in your thirties and forties is shockingly low."

I was referring to a TLC documentary I saw years ago called Sextistics: Your Love Life. The 51% divorce rate is true. However, if you get married in your forties, the divorce rate is 7%. Marriage in your thirties: 16%. And finally, marriage in your twenties: 77% divorce rate. I find a lot of comfort in these statistics.

Pam sipped her glass of champagne. "16%? That's still one of us."

I responded by being the mean girl. I speculated which one of us I thought it would be.

***

Abraham IMed me this morning when he got to work. He said he had sad news: friends of his announced that they were divorcing. Because they are Abe's friends, they are a little older than me. I like them; we just aren't super close because they don't live nearby. There's a little girl involved.

I put my head down on my desk and cried. I can't articulate why. Perhaps now that the weddings were over, the real work was starting. The love bubble had burst. Maybe it was that I knew how that little girl was going to grow up, and my heart was broken for her. It felt like the beginnings of an avalanche. This family is this the first. The first of others.

Menobster

A quick Google search for "lobster menorah" does not disappoint, despite lobsters being not kosher. But I guess you wouldn't eat your menorah, would you?

May I present the Menobster:

He can be purchased from here.

Also the smugly funny Gloucester Clam reported on the World's Largest Lobster Pot Menorah in its article, Hanukkah: It's a Trap!:

Pun intended.

Mr. Sparky, More Like Mr. Sparkless

My hands hurt.

My hands hurt because this reader and writer has been working with her hands. I have cuts and band-aids on the majority of my fingers. Swiping the iPhone has become an increasingly difficult task. But I've also gained confidence. I have trimmed windows and laid tile and I now know the difference between mortar and grout.

The last step to the kitchen remodel was to hang our new light fixtures that I bought eons ago. I made an appointment with Mr. Sparky, an electrician chain. Mr. Sparky quoted us $1,400 to replace working light fixtures with working light fixtures.

"The handyman I spoke to said he would do it for $200," I stammered.

"Yes, there is a market for handymen," Mr. Sparky replied. "Do you have a working smoke detector?"

Abraham--dear, sweet Abraham who doesn't know when people are being rude to him--chippered that yes, we do have a smoke detector.

"Does it have a new battery?"

"Well--" Abraham began.

"Yes," I interrupted. "It works great. And you just insulted us, so you can get out."

Mr. Sparky grabbed his tool box. "I hope you know a great architect who can rebuild your house after it burns down."

WHAT. I slammed the door on him. I cannot believe I invited this company into my home to have them treat me this way. I challenged him on his price and his go-to response was to tell me my house was going to burn down? Your house is supposed to be your safe haven from the outside world, and this company just trampled all over it. We are in our 30s--we will need electricians for about 60 more years--and Mr. Sparky just ensured that we will never use them or recommend them.

I was outraged. "WHO DOES THIS TRADE SCHOOL HIPPIE THINK HE IS?!" I shouted at Abraham. I ripped open the box to the track lighting. White wire connects to white wire. Black wire connects to black wire. Mr. Sparky can shove his $1,400 bill up his asshole.

"Please calm down." Abraham pleaded with me. "I don't want you messing with electrical work."

"I CAN DO ANYTHING I PUT MY MIND TO!" I was both antagonized and cocky. "I'M SMART. I CAN BE A DOCTOR OR A LAWYER. I CAN HANG THIS LIGHT FIXTURE."

"Just wait an hour before you start."

"STOP TELLING WHAT TO DO. I CAN DO ANYTHING I WANT."

I put the light fixture together. I flipped a breaker and dragged a small step ladder into the kitchen. I unscrewed the ceiling fan and started disconnecting wires as Abraham watched nervously. White from white. Black from black. I noticed the grounding wire was never connected to the box; I was already smarter than the person who installed this fan 20 years ago.

And then there was a blue wire. The blue wire was not in the single YouTube video I watched. And this blue wire was connected to the pull-chain that controlled the fan setting. The only way I could figure to detach this blue wire was to break the little plastic box it was inserted into. That or cut it with wire cutters, which we don't own.

Then I got a headache. I was hungry. It was 2 p.m. and I had cut the power off to the kitchen.  I put those plastic toothpaste caps on all the exposed wires and flipped the breaker back on so I could make soup.

***

And that is the story of why we have had zero lighting in our kitchen for the last 5 days.

"Can we call the handyman now?" Abraham gently asked. "Or do you still want to do this yourself?"

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

We lasted 30 days without plumbing in our kitchen. On Friday our contractor hung the remaining cabinets, installed our granite counter top, and hooked up our new sink and faucet. It felt surreal to sit in our new kitchen and eat Lucky Charms out of a paper bowl and see the changes. The kitchen should still be 32 years old, not days old.

When I was shopping for the the new kitchen, I was not shopping for me. I picked out whatever was the most popular style of cabinet and variety of granite to help the resale value of the condo. But my style is still present. Over the weekend we shopped for backsplash and lighting. I stared at tile after tile, hating everything. Everything looked cheap to me. The only thing I liked were stainless steel subway tiles, which is what we bought. At home Abraham took a square foot of tiles and held them up between the counter and the cabinets, and I think it looks really, really nice. These subway tiles are the only thing we paid full-price for; everything else we bargain shopped.

Abraham, my mom, and me craned our necks at the lighting options at Lowe's. I was insistent on track lighting because we desperately needed task lighting. We saw a model we all liked, but we couldn't find the box. An employee told us that the model had been discontinued long ago, but they never took down the fixture. My mother informed them that we would have no problem buying the display model, so the guy huffed up the ladder and unwired the fixture from the circuit. Then he gave us 60% off the cost. Another great deal for us.

As if we weren't gluttons enough for punishment, we went range shopping to try to get a Labor Day deal. I fell in love with a 5-burner, gas-operated Frigidaire convection oven. The prices weren't as low as I hoped for, but they did offer 36-month 0% interest on appliances. Abraham already had the store card, and I giggled when he financed the $770.00 oven for 36 months because it seems completely absurd.

Next on our list is to hire someone to install our light fixtures and beg my mother to come over and help us lay the tile for our backsplash. We also need to buy molding for the kitchen window to dress it up a bit. Then sometime in the future we need a new dishwasher, but I am so completely exhausted by this renovation that I am in no hurry. My 4-day weekend was spent in go mode. We haven't put our dishes away or set anything up yet; our entire kitchen is still on the floor of the guest bedroom. I am ready for everything to be done, but I am exhausted from putting in the work.

Hello, is it me you are looking for

I'm here, I still read blogs every week day, but I've just become more of a lurker. I've spent this year reading like a maniac. I've read over 30 books so far, which I feel has made me more passive: reading instead of writing. Lurking instead of commenting. It's a lot less effort.

I've also been knitting most nights of the week. It's meditation to me. I kept my promise when I wrote that I was going to maximize my savings and spend the rest on yarn. I'm adding hand-dyed wool skeins to my stash about every two weeks, which is a heck of a lot faster than I knit. And when I lost some of my knitting needles in the move last year, I bought all new wood sets. I found a wood table beside a dumpster one day: a nice table that had folding leaves on either side. It just needed a little TLC. I immediately loaded it into my car and took it home. I painted it silver. Now I have my very own craft corner in the spare bedroom. It makes me happy to have my own space.

I never heard the term "DINK" before a couple a weeks ago. Dual Income, No Kids. Abraham and I took our DINK money and are renovating our kitchen. Abraham's condo is a year younger than I am and has never been updated. We are getting new wood cabinets to maximize the small kitchen space and granite counter tops. We are also upgrading the sink and faucet; we haven't made a decision about the oven and dishwasher yet, but we feel it's probably not far behind. So far we've been without a kitchen for 20 days and counting, but we're hoping it will be done by September. We sacrificed time in favor of cost savings. (We also sacrificed a little customer service in favor of cost savings.) And genius me asked the contractor to save some of our old wood cabinets to put up in our laundry room, so the laundry room is getting a free upgrade as well.

And all of this is still less stressful than planning a wedding! We still have four more weddings this year, and I'm a bridesmaid in Mel's and Jenna's. By February of next year every single member of my friend group will be married. It really did happen that quickly.

I'd like get away for a weekend with Abraham. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in plans and events that I feel we haven't had a lot of time to ourselves. I'm thinking Charleston, since Abraham has never been. But a part of me also really wants to go to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. There is a ton to do there, including Dollywood. Dolly Parton has a theme park and I've never been. In the next six months we already have trips planned for Chicago and Nashville and another cruise through the Caribbean.

I've slowly been working through the conversion process to Judaism. When a friend found out I was converting, she confided to me that she's always felt like she should be Jewish, even when she was little. My story gave her the confidence to begin her own conversion. We are going through different rabbis and synagogues, so our experiences are very different. She also has a partner and a child who aren't Jewish, so she's going through some difficulties that I'm not. The other day someone made a Jewish joke that I understood and Abraham didn't, and I was so proud of myself. So I feel like my studies have been effective thus far.

The Femme Fatale, my beloved Siberian Husky, is beginning to show signs of age. She's 13.5 years old, and I've started her on glucosamine for the touch of arthritis she has in her hind legs. I always cheer for her when she treks up stairs now. She also has two lumps: one lipoma on her hind leg and one soft tissue lump on her front elbow. Neither are cancer or bother her, so I don't want to put her through so many surgeries. She's still happy and plays and loves to eat and go for walks, and I hope she stays that way.

So that's what I've been up to. I started a couple of blog posts about the wedding itself. Maybe I'll get around to those one day.