HRPTSD

Shortly after we first moved to Texas, I called my dad and asked for my mom. He said she was sitting outside in the garage turning on the car to see the outside temperature, so she would know how miserable to feel. I thought it was funny at the time. My dad and I bore the heat better than my (step)mom, possibly because we’re Jews. I’m pretty sure that all Jews are programed to move to hotter and more humid climates as they age. Florida is all the evidence you need of that. 

However, after suffering the hottest summer on record pretty much ANYWHERE, of ALL TIME, last summer, I’m more inclined to see it her way. We had over 100 days over 100 last year, and almost no rain at all, obliterating all heat and drought records ever set. Brown lawns, dead trees, dead bushes, miserable pets, and more miserable people all became par for the course. I celebrated every weed that grew on my “lawn” after the few rainy days we got this “winter.” Both weeks of winter, that is. At the first rain last “fall” (we had about two days of fall) I stood outside like a crazy person, face to the sky, pretending the light mist I felt was real rain. The boyfriend tried to hustle me in before the neighbors saw me. I still can’t complain about rain. Maybe ever again. Last summer ruined summer for me. Even this heat-loving Jew has had enough of hot. The promise of snow cones and swimming and watermelon cannot revive me.  

All of this leads me to the conclusion that I have a serious case of what I am now calling HRPTSD. Heat-Related Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’m thinking of starting a support group. Symptoms include:

• A freakish obsession with weather.com. At any moment in time I can tell you the 10-day forecast, the hourly forecast for the next day and a half, even the most minute sliver of a chance for rain, and anytime the night-time temps will dip below 70 (so the air conditioner won’t have to kick in).
• An insistence that it’s cold when it’s 80 degrees or less. I will wear long sleeves and sweaters when it’s 75 degrees out. Sometimes, that actually feels cold to me. I know that can’t be normal. I mean, right?
• A refusal to use heat even when it’s cold out. The boyfriend had to suffer through some darned cold nights and mornings, because I had it all calculated out that at some point in the day the temperature would rise high enough to require air conditioning, and if we could just get or keep the house as cold as possible, there was less chance of needing the air to kick on. The akita loves me for this. The boyfriend does not. Having electricity bills more than double over the last year has contributed to this symptom.
• The use of a feather comforter year-round.  I seem to remember one time hearing that feathers breathe. The feathers are SMART. After all, they work for ducks in all temperatures, right? So I believe that they will know when to keep me warm and when to keep me cool. This also has not won me a lot of points with the boyfriend.
• An obsession with the 68-degree water at Barton Springs.  I daydream about dipping into the cold waters, and just bringing down my core temperature. I sneak out of the office whenever I can. I go on moonlight dips. I dream about it.
• A nonsensical rage whenever the temperature seems unfair. It’s only April, and we’re closing in on the mid- to high- 90’s already. This makes me very, very angry. And whiny. The boyfriend will come in and see me on Facebook and say “you’re not posting about the weather again, are you? They’ll think you’re nuts.” Think what you want. The weather pisses me off. And I’m pretty sure you need to know about it. Regularly.
• A refusal to walk outside for any distance. 2 blocks to the bus seems REALLY far when it’s 110 degrees. I am therefore driving distances so short the car doesn’t even have time to get below 500 degrees before I arrive. I don’t care. I’m not walkin’.

I love Austin. It’s hard for me to imagine living anywhere else. But I’m not sure I have another summer like that in me. And yesterday was 95 degrees and it’s only APRIL. So listen up San Francisco, Portland, and Denver. I’m on the wrong side of 40 but look younger, love sushi, sunsets, cinema, and long walks on the beach. As long as it’s under 90 degrees. Currently in a long-term relationship with a quirky, eccentric, fun-loving city, but willing to step out for the right situation. Your pic gets mine. Must love dogs.

Tale of the Tail

We have had a crisis of epic proportions in our household. A disaster heretofore unimagined and, in fact, presumed impossible. A disaster which has called into question my belief in the supremacy of physics and basic biology (or at least anatomy).  

Sad, limp tail

Our akita’s tail has unfurled. Her proud, bouncy, beautiful, tightly-curled tail is hanging like so much limp spaghetti. Yes, I realize this is a First World problem. But it rocked our world. Is it permanent? Is it dangerous? Will her spine be impacted? IS IT OUR FAULT?

I tried to envision the discussion with the vet.

“Hi, my dog’s tail is straight.”

“What?”

“Her tail. It’s straight.”

“OK. Are you on drugs?”

The research actually suggested it might actually be our fault. Which led to depression and guilt all around. We gave her a hose bath last weekend, and this can apparently lead to something called (I kid you not) “cold tail” or “frozen tail.” A friend suggested that Kuma is smart enough to have looked the symptoms up on the internet and faked it to avoid future baths. I like this theory. She’s certainly smart enough to have eaten any hose we stupidly left within her reach. She leaves the pieces scattered on the driveway as a warning to other hoses.

In all reality she probably sprained it. Like Lazarus, the tail is showing signs of revival. It is trying – really trying – to regain its once-majestic curl. It looks more like a wounded snake trying to escape from her rump. But at least it’s something. After a week and a half, I’d begun to despair.

I’ve also been forced to face my own shallowness. Who cares if her tail is curly? Would I love her less without it? What if she were an ugly dog? Would I still love her? AM I A BAD MOM? (Yes, dog mom, I know, but I’m childless, so let me have my anthropomorphic dreams.)

But, like the honey badger, Kuma don’t care. She’s her junebug-chasing, cat annoying, treat mongering, kong-loving girl.

Moral of the story: spring for the warm bath at Dirty Dog. It’s worth a few bucks to avoid the angst. Kuma wins again.

The formerly glorious tail

You Might as Well Laugh Now

My experience has been that if it's gonna be funny later (and it will be, trust me), you might as well laugh now. And I spend a lot of time laughing. Mostly at myself. Wait, that's a lie. Mostly at others. I can't help it. I thrive on laughter. And making people laugh. So welcome to my new blog, If It's Gonna Be Funny Later. Because you might as well laugh now. And later. What the heck, live it up!

Send me funny stories to share, anecdotes, life lessons. Funny pictures. Anything that will spur laughter. Even if it hurts a bit at first.