Sometimes I struggle with what to put on this blog. How much info is too much? Where do I draw the line? How far can I push my toe over it? Where does my story end and when does it become someone else’s story to tell? How much of our shared story do I own?

Sometimes, though, I just need to write to get it out and deal with the consequences later.

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I don’t remember what it was like to feel connected. To be on the same page. To feel like we’re part of the same team, with shared goals and shared dreams.

We co-exist—mostly peacefully, sometimes not—and we sort of dance around each other, careful not to startle, to hurt, to make too much noise.

It would almost be easier if it were loud around here, if we were tripping over each other, in each other’s face.

This doesn’t go back to any one thing. There wasn’t one single problem or drama. We’ve gotten out of sync. And it’s been hard to get aligned again.

But I want to. I need to. He is the air I breathe. My heart. My soul.

Yesterday I published a post about dog shows. That post sat in my drafts folder for almost a year because I was trying to condense way too much drama into one post. There’s really no way to get the flavor of all the drama in 600 words, though. I could write a novel on what happens in the ring. There’s an obscene amount of crazy that goes on with dog shows. Best in Show captured a lot of it, but it didn’t even scratch the surface.

Best In Show—Best Movie Ever!

When you buy a purebred dog, especially if they’re a show dog, theoretically, the breeder has chosen the parents carefully, eliminating health issues — or at least pairing dogs that will balance each others’ strengths and weaknesses. They look at the lineage of the parents and grandparents to make sure there isn’t a history of eye problems, hip dysplasia or another genetic disorder.

You know where I’m going with this, right?

Back in September, Gracie’s breeder contacted me and gave me some names of orthopedic specialists. I had agreed to take Gracie to get X-rays after she turned 2 so I could continue the documentation of the lineage. It was also good info to have in case I decided to breed Gracie because the owner of the other dog would want proof that Gracie wasn’t going to pass on any bad genes.

Because I wasn’t thinking about breeding Gracie, I didn’t rush out to get the X-rays.

In late December, out of the blue, Gracie’s breeder called me at work, freaked out because I hadn’t done them yet. I told her that I thought I didn’t have to get them done right away. That’s when she totally became unglued and freaked out. It turns out that her two female dogs—one of which was Gracie’s mom, Sascha—were in heat and they were scheduled to be bred in a couple of days. The hitch was, the owner of the dogs she was breeding to wanted proof that Sascha’s first litter was healthy.

December is so insane at work that I barely have time to walk down the hall to the bathroom during the day—forget about leaving for a few hours to take Gracie to get X-rays.

I told her that if she could make an appointment the next day, she was welcome to meet me at my office and take Gracie herself (at MY expense, natch). She agreed, picked up Gracie, took her in, and dropped her off at my office when they were done.

I bent over backwards to help her out. I didn’t have to, because honestly? That wasn’t my problem. If her breeding was hinged on Gracie’s health, then she should have given me more notice—don’t call me  48 hours before you need them.

At first glace, the vet who did the X-rays said he thought they looked good (or so I was told). However, to get the certification, the X-rays get sent to three orthopedic vets who view them independently. They submit their results to the orthopedic board and it’s basically a majority rules thing.

With Gracie, apparently, two out of three vets thought there might be a problem. Their findings indicated that there might be a mild hip dysplasia. However, because they didn’t sedate or anaesthetise her, there’s a chance she moved—is IS pretty wiggly. It might be a bad X-ray.

This information? I found out by accident.

Gracie’s breeder was supposed to have the paperwork sent my house—of course, it conveniently went to hers last month—where she sat on it and never said a word. The other breeder is the one who found the results online—or rather, the lack of results (they don’t get posted if there’s a question). Gracie’s breeder was confronted by the other breeder and was forced to tell me. Stupid me—I thought we were still waiting for the results.

The breeder’s words said that everything was fine, it was a bad X-ray, nothing to worry about. The panic in her voice said something else entirely. I’m still not sure if the fear came from the fact that I caught her trying to hide info from me, or if it’s because she was afraid Gracie really has a problem. Most likely both.

And we still don’t know.

Gracie’s in heat and I have to wait 6 to 8 weeks after her heat cycle to re-take the X-rays.

To keep us all entertained while we wait, the breeder has created a drama worthy of an Academy Award. She’s mad at me because I’m mad at her. I don’t like being lied to. Duh. Of course I’m angry.  She’s mad at the other breeder for talking to me about it. The other breeder, by the way, is someone I know—I see her at dog shows all the time and we went to the same agility classes. The other breeder is pissed at Gracie’s breeder for lying and twisting everything around. We’re all mad at her because none of us have gotten a straight story from her as far as we can tell. (Got all that?!)

I like dog shows, as cheesy at they are. They’re kind of fun (if you’re in to dogs). 99% of the people who do this genuinely love dogs and treat them well, and make sure they’re healthy and happy. The people who show Gracie are awesome because they treat her well and they keep the whole thing fun—if we win, we celebrate with pitchers of margaritas; if we lose, we console ourselves with pitchers of margaritas.

To be clear—I’m not saying that Gracie’s breeder is in that 1%.

As much as I want Gracie to win that one last point, I’m keeping her out of the ring for a little bit. I’m considering waiting until she gets her X-rays redone in May. Most likely, I’ll have her shown before that, but it’ll be on my terms.

And Gracie’s.

Looking a little dubious about the whole thing.

Because really the only thing that matters to me is Gracie. And her health. The rest of it is bullshit.

Some of you know that Gracie is a “show dog.” I put that in quotations because it has the same stigma as saying your daughter participates in beauty pageants—only with more hair (barely), but minus the spray tan and sparkly tiaras.

If you haven’t seen that TLC show Toddlers and Tiaras it’s a behind-the-scenes look at child beauty pageants. The mothers all claim their daughters love getting dressed up and are having fun, and the second their kids say they don’t want to do it anymore, they’ll let them quit. These are the same moms who are standing up while their daughters are on stage, acting out the routine in the audience, pointing to their big smiles and reminding their little girls to smile big toward the judges.

Dog shows are sort of like that. All of us who compete in conformation (theoretically the dogs aren’t put up against each other; the judges are determining how well your dog conforms to a breed’s standard) are all convinced our dogs are having a tons of fun in the ring. They want to be there. They love to be there. Gracie is a ham, so of course she is all about being the center of attention. She also jumps up on every grooming table she passes when I walk her through the show grounds, so of course I think she loves to be groomed.

Maybe it’s true, maybe not.

I got into dog shows because I was contractually obligated to do so. The owners of Gracie’s father would take her into the ring. All I had to do was make sure she was clean when I dropped her off and they’d do the rest. Sounded easy enough.

I had no idea what I was getting into. Before her first show I scooped her into the bath tub, filled a big bowl with water and dumped it over her over and over to get her wet. I used a random dog shampoo that I got at the pet store. I dumped more water on her to get the shampoo out. I scrubbed her with towels and set my own blow-dryer on fire trying to get her dry.

When I showed up with her the next day, her handler and the team (yes, there’s a team) very gently told me she didn’t look so hot and then grilled me on how I bathed her. They went to work brushing her out and trimming her feet, fluffing her tail and even putting a little mousse in her coat to keep her groomed. But before I left that day, I was taken over to one of the booths to buy some appropriate shampoo and a good brush and comb and was told I should consider a professional dryer. Thank god I got the AKC discount through her handler because that blow-dryer cost more than mine—it was about $250 after the discount.

The next time she was shown, I used the new hose that hooked to the shower, the fancy shampoo and her industrial-strength blow-dryer. When I showed up with her I got props for my grooming skills, but I quickly realized bending over her to groom her on the ground was not only ineffective but it was wrecking my back. So I bought a grooming table. Fortunately, I found a grooming supply company that offered reasonable tables and it didn’t totally break the bank.

I put a huge investment into this. Supplies, supplements, special food, entry fees, travel fees, handler fees. Oh yeah, and time. I thought it would be fun, but I did go into it with the attitude that I’d show her, get her points, and be done with it. I wanted to just have a dog.

But I underestimated my competitiveness.

I hate to admit it—I’m extremely competitive. I’ll take the most minor thing and make sure I’m the best at it, and apparently dog shows are no different. I found myself sizing up the competition—even the dogs that show in our group—and comparing Gracie to them. If Gracie didn’t win—even if she did act like a moron in the ring, jumping, barking and sniffing the ground for food—it was like a personal affront that the judge didn’t pick my dog. My Sweet Grace Face. Because seriously? She is the cutest damn dog (she’s the cutest bitch if you want to get technical!) in the show circuit.

So here we are, just one point away from Gracie becoming a champion. And it’s been a hard damn point to earn.

Type, type, type.

Pause.

Delete, delete, delete.

Pause.

Type, type, type.

Pause.

*Sigh with frustration.*

Backspace, backspace. Select All. Delete.

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That, in  a nutshell is what blogging has been like for me for the last year.

Yeah, the last YEAR. 12 months. 365 days.

In the beginning it was fun because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing and just threw stuff out there to see what stuck. I think I did some of my best—and funniest—posts in the first 12 months of this blog.

And then something happened. In fact, a whole lot of somethings happened.

For one thing, I got bitter about my job for a while. And bitterness + snark doesn’t end up being too funny. It’s just Bitter Squared.

I got busy with Previously Mentioned Job That Made Me Bitter. And although I had tons of posts swirling around in my head, I didn’t really have the time to get them out. Shit, we’re friends here right? Let’s be honest: I didn’t MAKE the time. So some of them got lost in the flotsam of my brain. Others were filed away in my drafts folder on WordPress, destined to die a slow, hidden death.

45 drafts? That's kind of pathetic, right?



In fact, right now, there are 45 drafts sitting there. 45! Some are just clever titles and I figure someday I’ll have the perfect post to go with them. There’s a series of drafts with an opening sentence. Or even just a few words. I actually have a handful of drafts that are about 1,000 words or so—but I can’t figure out how I want to end them, so rather than muddle through or force it, I do nothing. I wait. And I hope. I hope I get the inspiration I need to write that last god-damned sentence or paragraph or in one case, just a few words.

I’m amazed that I’m managed to eek out 264 posts—but looking back, I wish I either spent more time on about 100 of them or didn’t write them to begin with. I’m better than some of the crap I’ve published here.

The other something that happened is that I’ve felt compelled to figure out what my niche is.

I’m not a mommy blogger (I don’t have kids and there aren’t plans to do so). I used to sort of be a doggy blogger, but I haven’t even written much about Gracie—or dog shows, or dog show people—here lately. And what’s sad about that is that it’s a fucking goldmine of great stories. I’m not a midlife blogger—although the argument could be made that at 40, technically I am. I’m not a food blogger, and I don’t write about cocktails (much).

I write about whatever happens to be on my radar at the moment. Sometimes it’s me, sometimes it’s work or my dog. I write about the exceptionally bad reality TV shows I watch, the books I’ve been reading, and a host of random topics that amuse me. Like my rants about Costco.

I don’t know what kind of blogger that makes me. And does it matter?

Also? At some point I started to self-censor. Even before I type a single word, I’ve edited myself. I’m not sure why. I think part of it is because I just don’t want to put too much out there about The Job That Used To Make Me Bitter, arguments at home or any of the other landmines you can trigger when blogging. There’s too much crap going on with everyone else—why would you come here to read about MY crap?

My husband—god love him for this—tells friends, co-workers, acquaintances, the dude at Starbucks, anyone who listens—that his wife has a blog and “It’s-amazing-and-oh-my-god-you-need-to-read-her-she-cracks-my-shit-up!” (No, really, he doesn’t talk like a 13-year-old-girl, but that’s how I like to imagine it). So I never want to put him in the position of walking into a meeting or an event and have someone walk up to him and say, “Dude, that was a douche move on your part. No wonder she’s pissed at you!” Plus, you know, someday he might want to be President of the United States. Or I might. (Okay, stop laughing.)

I’m mad at myself because I’ve gotten hung up on stats and all that other crap. There’s a lot about that online this week, and it resonated with me because I got caught up in what this blog isn’t instead of what it is. I’ve been paralyzed because I hesitated to write anything, and then I felt so compelled to post something—anything—even if it wasn’t something I was proud of.

Don’t worry—I’m not taking myself—or this blog—so seriously. In fact, it’s the opposite. I’m trying to relax. Enjoy the Zen of Blogging and all that shit. I am so grateful for the readers who come here regularly, who comment and who have gotten to know me (and me you) through this blog.

I’m trying to write more and delete less. Isn’t that the first rule of writing? Just write; don’t edit.

I may hit publish less frequently, but that’s not a bad thing.

And in case it was unclear, I’m Misery in this scenario. And I seem to be driving everyone away.

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Aggressive. Confrontational. Unhappy.

These aren’t words that I’d use to describe myself, but in the past month the two people closest to me have (separately) told me that, oh hell to the yeah, these words totally apply to me.

It was easy for me to tell myself that the first person who told me this was full of crap. I immediately went on the defensive, turned the situation around and aggressively denied that I was aggressive.

In the last 24 hours, someone else told me that I’m über-aggressive, argumentative, confrontational and clearly unhappy.

My first response? “Go fuck yourself!”

Awesome, right? I have no idea where the hell they get off saying these things to me. I’m clearly not aggressive.

Ehem.

So now it’s two against one. I’m clearly in the minority on this one. These two people know me pretty well, so if they think I’m this angry person looking for fights, then I guess I need to take a look at myself.

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I’m not depressed. I’m not particularly unhappy. But in the past two years I made some changes in my life, and as a result, my routine changed quite a bit.

I used to work out all the time. I was so dedicated to hitting the gym three to four times a week that I was pretty inflexible with my plans—if my husband called and spontaneously invited me to go out for dinner or something, if I was already set on going to the gym, I did. It was my hour or so to myself and I think I clung to that. Plus, it was practically a job requirement for me to work out, which was a great motivation to take care of myself.

Gotta do my Jane Fonda

When I switched jobs, my schedule became unpredictable and it got harder to get to the gym regularly. Around the time I started that new job, our dog Callie passed away. Not long after, we got Gracie, and dealing with a puppy (and a new job) became more work than I realized. Plus, my weekends pretty quickly were taken over by dog shows, and weeknights leading up to shows were dedicated to grooming her.

In the blink of an eye, two years passed and I’ve set foot in the gym only a dozen times.

I feel like shit.

I’m tired all of the time. I’m sick all the time. I have no energy. That mixture makes a cocktail of equal parts cranky and aggressive. Being sick and tired all the time annoys everyone around me because it all just gets fucking old.

So today I hit the gym. I didn’t feel like going but I talked myself into it.

When I lumbered up the stairs to the workout room, I cranked up my iPod and hit it hard. I did some cardio and weights, but then I found the heavy bag and wailed on it. I used to take a boxing class and it was such a great workout and a phenomenal release for any aggressions.

I’m tired but it’s a different kind of tired. I feel good. I feel like I’ve accomplished something. My blood is pulsing through my body and the oxygen is flowing, which is giving me more energy. And I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.

Tonight I’m going to pack my gym bag and put it in my trunk. That way I have no excuses.

I hope this is the answer. I hope getting back to they gym will help me channel my energy more productively because I don’t allow a lot of people to get too close, so if I manage to drive two people away, that leaves…well, me. And I can’t stand myself that much either, so I’m screwed.

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UPDATE: This morning I woke up all happy and well-rested (and more than a little sore) after training yesterday. I was determined to be all kinds of happy and non-confrontational, but the first words out of my husband’s mouth to me were totally sarcastic. No “Good morning! How did you sleep?” Instead, he jumped into my shit about something. I swear to God, throwing that out there at me first thing in the morning is equivalent to putting a full bottle of vodka and a jar of olives in front of an alcoholic. I’m powerless.