Aug Bear

There is a love greater than the love you have for yourself - although sometimes I meet people that make me doubt this fact. Then I go over to my sister's home and I walk in their front door and am immediately enveloped in the ever present love that happily resides there. As you enter this palace ruled by a little boy, I see what unfailing love can look and feel like.

My sister used to work at Neiman Marcus for many years as the resident PR persona. She was undoubtedly the most stylish and put together person I'd ever seen. She was surely always in direct contrast to me...disheveled, hair messed up, heels half broken off and a piece of food that couldn't wait to assume its traditional role in between my two front teeth.

The life at Neiman Marcus was dazzling to me. Another place filled with perfect people and endless money all effortlessly flowing from the shopper's cashmere coated pockets. It was easy to see why she was fascinated with this superficial and self-fulfilling world.

I would occasionally try on this life for size but it never seemed to quite fit. It was always a bit stifling and unrealistic for me. I was sure they could see that I was an "other". A person that got 60% off their designer garb and a free pass to the hottest fashion shows. At the time, I thought it was quite unfortunate that I couldn't be part of this elite society.

However, the older, and possibly wiser I became, I realized that I was never meant for this life because I always knew that there was another person or thing that was higher and more important than myself.

My sister soon found this out as well - she left the land of superficiality for a non-profit helping in-need children. Although she didn't know if that was where she was meant to be in the future, I knew it was a step in the right direction.

Then my sister got engaged, and the spotlight was back on her. It suited her well. She was beginning to devote her life to Freddy but he was gracious enough to still allow her the much desired time to focus on herself (on occasion of course).

As you loyal blog readers know, my sister then conceived the most perfect being in this cold, sometimes shallow world. His presence brought instant light, warmth and hope. I watched as little Aug bear rocked my sister's being. She transformed herself into a perfect mother (still clad in designer clothes;). For the first time, I saw her love someone more than could be imagined. She cared for him like every minute was her last. Andrea had reached the powerful moment when she loved something more than herself - and what a beautiful and infinitely awesome thing that was to see. I can never get bored of watching that.

So when I peeled myself away from Augie's loving spell, I arrived home tonight and looked over at my baby Guido - I kept staring at him until I saw a furry little Augie standing in his place. I loved him more than myself and would give anything to make him happy. I know some people think that you should not care for your pets this much but to me it's just the first lesson on how to be a good mother...how to be selfless, generous and ever-forgiving. And I didn't see anything wrong with that. So call me the crazy dog lady but I've got a soulmate in that little furry maniac and I am hoping that one day he'll make a fabulous big brother...just another person to devote my life to and give selfless, crazy love.

Self-Imposed Anxiety

Oh poor, poor Guido. Little did he know that his mom would turn him into a nervous ball of fluffy, frizzy unmatched fur.

Sure, Guido started off being crated (for approximately two days). But due to my extremely high level of anxiety and paranoia, I was convinced that Guido was gradually beginning to despise me. He was planning a sinister plan to escape from my wretched home if I did not take him out of his crate immediately.

I could see it all over his face and in his pitiful cry...he could not bear the thought of not having me around for at least 23 hours of the day. Being the stellar mom that I am, I chose to grant his wish and decided to devote 23 hours of my day to this little munchkin. I was already the crazy dog lady to most that know me, so what could a few more hours of my day do devoted to man's best friend.

The problem arose when I decided that I actually needed to work again. Every pain staking minute that went by when I was away from my Italian son, resulted in heart palpitations and chronic nail biting. He thought I was going to leave him. He thought I was a terrible mom.

I could picture Guido picketing outside my place. "Dead beat mom! You left me again!! Please take me to a place where I am loved and appreciated."

My anxiety got increasingly worse each day when finally my boyfriend had to stage an intervention.

"Lauren, you can go to dinner and a movie without paying someone to stay with him. You are not a bad mom. You will only be gone for three hours."

"Oh really, Mark? Do you see his brown beard switching to gray at an exponentially fast rate? This dog is in doggie hell right now. I am aging him - quickly. He is probably chasing his tail for hours, looking for possible escape routes and cursing my name. I cannot handle this thought."

"Lauren, it's me or the dog right now. We need to at least be able to go out on a date."

A part of me instantly saw a silver lining to this situation...finally, HE is begging me to go on dates. I could get used to this. However, the more rational part of me thought, screw this. Guido is a way better cuddler.

My anxiety regarding Gui didn't stop at leaving him, though. It unfortunately came with me to the dog park. One day he met a Vizsla that seemed nice enough. She was slightly bigger than him but not by too much. Ten minutes into their playtime, Guido let out a yelp followed by a growl.

Supermom to the rescue!! "GUI!", I shrieked and leapt forward. I swept up my poor fur ball and instantly started crying.

"Your dog should NOT be out here if she is mean to other dogs. Look at my dog! Do you see the terror on his face? He will never be the same with dogs now! I can't believe this!"

This poor man....he seriously looked white and was obviously not expecting my outburst. Nor was I for that matter. I had no idea what came over me. For a fleeting moment, I saw my mom in her exact persona embodied in me. All of her protectiveness and sometimes craziness (sorry mom) was clearly passed on. I needed to get ahold of myself - fast.

I noticed that the more paranoid I acted, the weirder Guido got. I realized that my self-imposed anxiety was rubbing off on my furry friend. Every time I would leave and start crying, Gui stood at the door crying. This was a new behavior for him and the last thing I wanted to do was perpetuate it.

OK, yoga to the rescue and some much needed de-stress time with little Stiffey. Let's hope that does the trick!

Poop...yep, I said it

There are some people that feel entitled to everything they come across. There is one thing in common among all these people...they do not pick up after their dog.

Nothing irritates me more than walking behind someone that lets their abnormally giant Great Dane poop in front of my building and then saunter off like they've got somewhere better to be and that they have the God given right to pass up their responsibility of pooper-scooper-dum.

I have to admit, that there are times, that I will call these people out and act like a lunatic, yelling at them while they hurriedly walk away.

"Buddy, don't worry. I'm behind you with bags just so that I can clean up your dog's poop so our entire city doesn't become over run by rats."

Ugh...some people.

I think part of the reason why I am so sensitive about this, is because I have been on the receiving end of poop.

What do I mean by this? Well, I'll tell you.

My first poop experience was three years ago. Flaunting a brand new pair of Cole Haan heels, I pranced to the EL, so excited that I could finally show off my new investment.

Once I got on the EL, I noticed a foul smell. I looked around for the typical unkempt person that you always make a b-line from once you see, but there was no such person in sight. A stinky baby maybe? Not so much...

I slowly began to work my way over to the other side of the car, when I noticed that the smell was following me and that people were staring at me, and not to admire my new shoes.

"Crap," I thought...literally. All over my shoes. Covering the sides of the beautiful polished leather. Even though I was four stops away from my work, I jetted off that train like my ass was on fire.

Second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth time (yes, it has happened to me that many times), I have been knee deep in some irresponsible owner's issue. Except now, it's my issue.

In an effort to de-poop myself, I have gone so far as to hose myself off in some random person's yard, hoping that they will have sympathy for me and not call the police on some girl that looks like she could be homeless.

Why have a dog when you can't pick up after him/her? It just doesn't make sense to me. Don't people know that dog poop is a rat's delicacy? At night, they migrate towards their favorite dessert and I certainly don't want it to be anywhere near my home.

I have decided that the "Please pick up after your pet" signs are no longer working. Instead, I am going to begin posting signs that say, "Pick up your dog's poop, otherwise you will be immediately labeled as an irresponsible asshole." Or maybe we could punish them by letting them live a day in the life of Lauren - the girl that perpetually steps in poop. I bet they will think twice after that.

But I really want to know, has this ever happened to you? Or am I the only unfortunate one? (Please don't make me feel bad about myself:)

Patience my dear, patience

ME - "Guido, buddy, give me a few minutes. Actually, give me a few hours."

CANE - "Mom, I'm ready to party (panting profously). Look around you...I smell bones, rawhide, bacon, grass, poop and ENERGY (saying at a furiously fast rate). It's time to rage!!!"

ME - "Gui...the only people outside right now are those nut jobs that decide to go run five miles before the sun comes up. And let me tell you, I refuse to be one of those people. I will not step out of this house until the sun hits the sky like a big pizza pie (Italian reference that only an Italian can make)."

CANE - "Mom, I hate you. I am going to pout now."

ME - "Guido, you'll get over it once you turn 20, now go back to sleep."

I am a nice, positive person...most of the time. The only time this ever changes is when I don't sleep. In fact, when I miss out on sleep I get easily agitated and turn kujo on my nearest and dearest. My sleeping never used to be an issue. I would always manage to get my ten hour minimum (don't be jealous).

But ever since my munchkin came along, I have been on edge. Not anything having to do with him directly, just the fact that I get hourly urges to put him on A.D.D. medication, so that he can chill out for a bit.

I have been utterly perplexed on how to go on with life and business when I cannot think through my foggy headed sleep deprivation. I have been walking around with no makeup on, with shorts on that look like Umbros and my hair slopped on top of my head in a soaking wet heap. The idea of waking up 20 minutes earlier is just not an option.

There are few people that can wake me up at 4 a.m. but when my little furry dust mop wakes me up to go to the bathroom for the 20th time, I can't help but love him.

Fast forward six hours.

I don't hear Guido.

He must be sleeping.

"Sleep is for suckers mom."

I search around my house until I find him chewing on my favorite (not cheap) hallway rug. From there, he went on a single handed kamikaze mission destroying my shag rug, Louis XIV refinished vintage armchair and armoire that I labored 2 straight days redoing.

They say that puppies are cute for a reason but Gui better start batting his eyelashes STAT because he is slowly ruining my perfect home aesthetic. (if he attacks my pillow collection, he's getting shipped back to Wisconsin)

It's moments like these when you have to call on your patience. My patience would probably have been greater if I had more sleep but the only advice I can give is to take that little munchkin and get a good sniff of his puppy goodness. I love Guido even if he kills everything pretty in my house because he will make so many more beautiful memories fore the rest of his life.

Grandma Lucy

If you meet Grandma Lucy, you are one of the lucky few.

She is frank. Candid. Hilarious. Absurd. And awesome.

To know Grandma Lucy, is to adore her.

Everytime I am around her, I wish that I could take those memories and store them in the vault of my mind where the most treasured, and hysterical moments live on.

My grandma is a reality TV junky, Buffalo soothsayer and my improv hero.

This post may be a bit chaotic in structure, but I just want to give you a pleasurable sampling of Grandma Lucy-isms.

When I went to college, my grandma called me and briefed me on what to do and not to do while in the throws of my crazy new environment. Her most memorable piece of advice went something like the following.

"OK, so I was watching 20/20 and you really need to be careful about people slipping stuff in your drinks. One pill and next thing you know it, you're face down with your a** up in the air. Those guys are sons of a bit****."

Point taken Lucy.

Another legacy grandma passed on, was created on Christmas Eve two years ago. My grandma has never been the best driver but she took it to a whole new level that day. My dad was sitting in the living room (ironically, underneath our family portrait) reading a magazine. About to doze off, my dad was awakened by my grandma crashing through the garage into the living room where the family portrait almost decapated him. When my grandma emerged from the car, the only thing she muttered to my dad was, "I think someone stole my checkbook."

My grandma loves to tell my aunt to go to hell and about what celebrities are annoying her that day. Lately she has it out for Katherine Heigl.  Don't ask me why.

When I call her for our weekly conversation, my grandma has already memorized the obituaries for that week and what Italian is getting married, divorced or  moving to his mistresses home.

Lucy stays up until 3 a.m. and for some reason, takes it upon herself to repeatedly wake up my mother and I to see if we want to watch Nancy Grace at 2 a.m. 

My family recently went to the Turks and Caicos, and Grandma Lucy was gaming to go. She was very perplexed as to what swimsuit to buy, but she finally decided on a polka dot tankini. Instead of worrying about showing too much skin, she asked my aunt if she looked too "matronly." Gotta love the Italians.

I am truly blessed to have a family with a sense of humor, and even more blessed to have a family obsessed with dogs. I am proud to call Lucy my grandma and hope I can live up to her standards as the coolest grandma on earth.

A Beginning

I have always been close with my sister. When we were kids, we used to confide in each other about whether Joey or Jordan was cuter. As time progressed, we whispered secrets to one another regarding crushes and must-have shirts and dresses.

When I went to college, I focused on friends and parties but I always knew I could call my sister. Then I moved to Chicago and we were the inseperable duo we used to be when we were hunting down imaginary friends behind the refridgerator.

My family is the perfect example of the millennial generation unit. We are always connected. I talk to my mom three times a day (at least) and my sister exponentially more. Some people think it is too much, but for me it's just right.

So in 2006, when Freddy came along, I was scared my access to my sister would gradually ween. A year later she got married and I was the #2 best friend now.

Since the wedding, I was used to not having her 100% of the time but I had no idea what was in store for me when baby Augie came along.

Those of you who know me, know that as maternal and nurturing as I am, I did not inherit the pregnancy gene. What I mean by that, is that I cannot wrap my head around the thought of carrying a ten pound baby inside my 115 pound frame. I hate the idea of growing hair on my stomach, my ankles swelling into my legs and my face looking like I was permanently punched.

My sister must have been able to read this on my face as each day she got bigger, I stood back in horror. My little itty bitty sissy was twice her size, but to my surprise she couldn't have been happier. She loved having this human life inside her.

I was so proud of the way she never complained and went into labor calmly and elegantly as only she could.

Aside from being ready to constantly pass out in the labor and delivery room, I was in awe. I still can't believe that a live, eating, breathing actual human came from my sister. As my mom said, it can only be explained by chalking it up to a "miracle".

Initially, I was scared to death to touch the baby. I was convinced that I would be an utter failure at an aunt/mother figure and drop Augie on his head.

I didn't end up dropping the baby (thank God) and instantaneously realized that this baby was worth all the physical discomfort that pregnancy brings. Unbeknownst to Augie, he also just gave me another reason to always be by my sissy.

I may not be ready for motherhood yet (who am I kidding, I'm definitely not ready), but I am ready for the next logical step in my life. Ladies and gentleman, I am................................................. getting a new puppy!!!! Stayed tuned next week to meet the one and only - GUIDO.

Toys

"You are amazing...seriously. I am in awe. Totally obsessed."

My boyfriend repeated these types of outstanding compliments over and over again. Instead of soaking them up, I stood in my kitchen shaking my head.

How did I get myself in this situation? Since when did I become second fiddle to something smaller and plainer than me??

Well, I guess it happened precisely when the new iPhone came out. I instantly became less important.

I have never seen anything like it. My boyfriend sleeps next to it, holds it constantly even if we're hugging and stares at it for so long his eyes water. It was the apple of his eye.

Every time I think I am getting a little bit of QT with him and the conversation is rolling, I will ask him a question and the inevitable follows.

"Wanna find out? I can look it up on my phone."

Ugh. No, I don't want to find out. Want to know what I feel like doing? I feel like throwing that thing out the window as far as I can see and watch it die a slow, screen breaking death.

One day I was so frustrated that my precious alone time was being monopolized by the phone, I huffed out my front door in a fury. Hopeless and indignant, I decided to call my personal adviser - my sister.

She enlightened me. "You have to create boundaries." The phone will not be allowed within five feet of us if we were hugging or talking over dinner. The phone will be turned off when sleeping. And most important, the phone is not the source of all things good and wonderous.

I was familiar with these boundaries. The most important part of being a dog owner is setting limits. Let the dog know who's boss.

When you get a new puppy you are always practicing letting your puppy know when to play, when to eat, when not to bite, where not to sleep and when to sit.

Sometimes they listen. And sometimes they fight you. Sometimes you give in (most of the time). Sometimes you don't (very rarely).

I hoped to prove a more successful track rate with my boyfriend and his love.

I've been practicing asserting myself lately. Occassionally, hiding the phone from him. Telling my dog to get off the couch and allow room for my boyfriend and I to be lazy. I figured I needed to be equal in my boundary setting actions.

But even after all these efforts, the second you're not looking, they're back at their toys. Boys will be boys I guess. Astor is back at his ball I hid and Mark is back on his phone. I am still trying to be the boss, but I always have online shopping as my toy and my boyfriend is letting me getting away with that for now.

Milo the Maniac

His name is Milo. He is 20 pounds of pure adrenaline. His white fluffy coat should not be mistaken for weakness. He is a maniacal killing machine. The great white killer is his persona when in the great outdoors. If there is a chipmunk or snake in sight, he will find it and take care of business.

In the house, though, great white is an attention hog. All he wants to do is lay in your arms and get tummy rubs. This personality is called Mi-Bear. He nuzzles as close as he can get until he covers at least 60 percent of your body.

The first time my boyfriend met Milo, he was preying on a poor innocent baby rabbit. He greeted Mark with a red stained beard and glassy eyes. Not the best introduction. Mark soon realized that Milo suffered from multiple personality disorder.

Was every dog like this? Did they have a carnal, killing side to them that could be repressed inside around people, but not in their natural element?

To an extent, I guess we all have different personalities. My best friend named her different side, Denise. Denise loves to dance. Denise also loves to call me at 4 a.m. on weekdays. I do not like Denise.

In a less ostentatious manner, I guess I have a few identities. Professional Lauren. Social Lauren. Kid Lauren. And my favorite, doggie Lauren.

It's fun to be able to wear different hats..put on appropriate outfits and act the part. I guess it's a flash back to childhood when you could be an astronaut, archaeologist and magician on the same day. Inside your amazing imagination you can be anything you desire.

When I come home to see Milo, though, the one personality I always want to see is genuine Milo. Plain, old, crazy whacked out dog.

This goes for my human friends too. After a night out on the town, I love to come home and hang out with my boyfriend. No forced conversation, extra-chipperness or uber-social antics. I wash my face and I am able to embrace my natural "Lauren." She is somewhat of a loner and loves zoning out to reality TV.

It's still fun to embrace other arenas that are outside my comfort zone or bring out a different side of me, as long as when I come home, I am the same old, boring, sensitive, loving - me.

My mouth

I have a terrible habit of putting my foot in my mouth. Case in point...one day I was walking down Southport with my sister and saw a sweet little black dog. Naturally, I went up to pet it. Attempting to compliment this adorable little guy, I told his owner that he had the most beautiful blue eyes. My sister immediately jabbed me in the side. I obviously still hadn't put two and two together. The owner let out a slight laugh and said, "Honey, those are cataracts."

Wow. I'm a girl of many words but at this point, I chose to just walk away, shamed.

What is wrong with me?? How could I have not put this together? I'm a dog lover and have been around plenty of old dogs.

A second example of my idiot-dum, occurred this past weekend. I was hosting one of my best friend's engagement parties and couldn't be happier by the show in attendance. But when a crowd comes along, my awkwardness follows suit. For some reason I can't keep it together around a lot of people. I mix up the order of my words and try to bust out jokes that either lay flat or die completely on arrival.

My friend was used to this but she was not used to what I was about to say. When I was trying to tell her how happy I was for her and what a good guy she found, I proceeded to go off about all the women that would want to date or marry him and how she needs to watch out.

Good intentions, totally wrong execution.

I think I have a clinical disorder where my obstinate mouth fails to follow my brain and hopelessly dribbles out nonsense. There should be a treatment for this before I offend everyone around me.

Luckily, I'm only with people 1% of my day. My job is right for me on so many different levels and an apparent benefit is that I won't affront people on a daily basis.

There is a dog that I walk that I have always felt a deep bond with. She is a little cooky and ticks off most dogs around her.

After studying her behavior, I realized what it was. When she met another dog she would either go right for the jugular or to the less desirable parts. There was no, "Hi, it's nice to meet you, my name is Dog. Now can I please smell your butt?" It was more like, "Move it buddy, I'm going to smell your butt whether you like it or not."

Poor girl. She was obviously never versed in dog etiquette and scared off most friends before she could make them. This was my kind of girl, though. We were the offensive team together. Watch out Chicago, we will single-handedly scare off your dog and owner simultaneously.

Now my dog on the other hand, was always very polite. He would give the standard kisses and smells and would always have deep conversations before ever offending anyone.

I decided from now on before I talk, I will vow to ask my dog what he would do, because all the dogs in the neighborhood seem to be in love with him. Leave it up to my eloquent little buddy:) Maybe I will start taking tips from him now on.

Bureaucracy

I cried numerous times this week. But there was only one cause of my angst - bureaucracy. First perpetrator? My health insurance company.

Lets play out the scenario. Three conversations prior to my sinus surgery, I was assured that 90% of my surgery would be covered. Now, my health insurance company decided to have amnesia because it was apparently all my responsibility to bear. So, I decided to embark on a fact-finding mission.

During my first call, I was greeted by that infamous woman - the automated operator. I imagine the person that created this female (lets call her Jane) thought her voice would evoke calm and peace. To me, though, this voice had the uncanny ability to drive me to pure insanity in less than 30 seconds.

Today, we were off to a bad start. Jane was prompting me to give my health insurance policy number but "could not understand" me after four tries. Maybe she couldn't understand me because she repeatedly interrupted me while I was beginning to say my ID number.

Instead of transferring me to the real operator (the humane thing to do), Jane was dead set on getting my information before I could speak to anyone. I found myself screaming into the phone in the middle of Jewel - 8 - 0 - 3 ....A few women walked by me wondering why my face was beat red and why I was so mad at my phone, but a young guy sauntered by and gave me a knowing look. He knew all about Jane and her inability to comprehend numbers.

Finally, Jane decided to let me speak to her cohort. By the time I reached this poor woman, I was so exasperated that I had to catch my breath. I proceeded to tell her that 'Jane' was impossible to deal with and that I almost had a nervous breakdown trying to get through to her.

The operator was not interested in Jane or her peskiness, instead she informed me that she had no information regarding my case. Three people, and still no information. Apparently there was only one person that could help me finalize my claim - Jennifer. The problem was that Jennifer wouldn't call me back and I was beginning to think that this was purposeful as I left her more than five cryptic messages, each one getting more desperate and irate.

Normally, I consider myself a patient person, but today Jane just threw me over the edge. On top of all of that, I was knee deep in parking ticket issues with the City of Chicago. I am convinced that simultaneously dealing with these two organizations could send someone to the asylum.

The next stop on my bureaucratic meltdown was the post office. There were eight people in line and two postal workers. In a normal working environment this would take 10 minutes, but at the post office it naturally took 30. When I finally got up to the desk, the oblivious postal worker decided it was her obligation to fill in her fellow colleague about her weekend plans. I sat there dumbfounded.

"Excuse me miss, do you not see me here? The lowly US Post Office customer that is about to go postal on this place unless you take care of me soon and stop talking about your weekend of debauchery???"

This conversation played out in my head many different ways until she finally came back to me. But right then and there, I completely lost my gumption.

The point is that these bureaucracies unfortunately exist and they can either drive you insane or you can learn how to deal with them. I can assure you that crying is not the best coping method but I can also tell you that I know one way to let it roll off your back.

Meditation didn't work so well and either did yoga, but coming home to my dog and laying around petting his long, awesome pony tail ears did the trick. It's amazing how dogs can calm you down. So if you're in the middle of a bureaucratic crisis? Take some time to give your dog a belly rub and everything will seem OK in the world.

My week of nothing good

There are certain procedures that are categorized as "elective surgeries." By elective, I mean totally sadistic, wholly unnecessary and completely miserable. This is exactly what "elective" means when qualified by the word "surgery."

When thinking about a change of profession, you typically go through a check list in your head as to the difference in salary, location and hours. You don't usually think about how your allergies will be with your new job. So when I decided to create a company called, "Dogs Deserve It", I failed to keep in mind that I was painfully allergic to my future clients.

When confronted by a dog that sheds, my eyes swell up, I immediately loose my sense of smell and my chest usually starts itching. This has never stopped my dog obsession, though. I have learned how to deal with it and to my boyfriend's chagrin, mastered the art of nasal irrigation. It's not pretty but it works.

I have always debated on getting sinus surgery so that I can live a more pain-free dog loving life. But I've always come up with a million reasons why it wasn't the right time.

However, after my third sinus infection of 2010, I was ready to take on the beast. When I went in to meet with my surgeon, he made the recovery sound like a week laced with lollipops and gumballs. He reassured me that the post-surgery pain killers would make the experience very tolerable and dare I say it - pleasant.

I could envision it now...four days of blissful sleep, mounds of fashion mags to read at my leisure and continuous HGTV.

It turns out that my surgeon was a liar. Not only was he lying about the recovery, but he was vastly toning down the extent of my procedure.

My pain was not numbed by pills. In fact, I threw them all up sooner than I could swallow them. My face was so swollen that it looked as though I bathed in dog dander for two straight days. What was worse, was that my boyfriend was going to see me in one day.

There was no makeup you could put on to cover up the fact that you basically looked like you just got a very expensive nose beating. I was in too much pain to cry and all of the nasal splints were damaging my ability to ever produce a semi-female sounding voice. Right now I sounded like a bad version of Barry White.

My dad upon seeing me, called me Rudolph and Cyclops. Leave it up to a man to make such astute observations.

Two days into recovery and I was hopeless. I wanted to rip my nose off my face and simultaneously go on a 25-mile run. The only thing that kept me going were my dogs. I can't even put into words exactly what it meant to have a constant companion by my side. Aside from giving my face a few weird looks, they were non-judgmental. My dogs were my normalcy and peace that I longed for.

Milo would lay on me all day, only getting up to go outside and play with his brother. I spent the next few days in suffering but I passed the time how I usually do, hanging out with dogs. I never got down a pain killer, but being around dogs definitely made my mind drift away from the pain.

Now that my face is unswollen and I can breathe again, my boyfriend asked me if I would do it all over again. It's easy to say never again but as I walk into a client's home that houses a golden retriever, I smile and think that I can hang out in here for awhile and roll around in dog hair without looking like cyclops.

Country

I was never meant to live in the country. When I grew up, I dreamt of city lights and bustling passerbys. The only passerbys I witnessed in the country were either cows or deer. This just didn't do it for me.

I think I knew I would move to a city when I was ten. My mom used to ask me where I wanted to live when I got older and I would describe a penthouse on Michigan Avenue.

Obviously, I was a savvy kid. I knew what I wanted and it was not being 2 miles away from any type of civilization.

For a good 15 years though, I think my parents were in denial. They thought as I matured and the years passed, I would eventually end up back in Wisconsin...my heart yearning for the serenity and goodness that the state provides.

Instead, I ended up becoming more immersed in the city vision. Maybe it's the whole Sex and the City persona you adopt in college when watching entirely way too many episodes and dreaming about independence. Whatever it was, I knew I was destined for urban life.

In my dream city now, I take solace in the chaos. I would hands down rather be lulled by the sound of speeding cars than pestering, chirping birds. In fact, when I go back to Wisconsin I bring ear plugs specifically for the purpose of drowning out this doldrum.

I really wonder, though, if a city is the best environment you can raise your dog in. I always notice that my dog seems a million times happier when he is in Wisconsin. He is at home with the 500 species that live right outside his front door and takes comfort in being able to kick up actual grass rather than stones.

Have you ever thought that maybe your dog is talking to other animals outside? I've seen those You Tube episodes where dogs become best friends with birds or even stranger, 500 pound bears. Maybe it's because they all have some universal carnal language. Whatever the case, they bond and seem entirely way too happy to be coexisting together.

When my parent's dog comes to the city, he goes into shock. I am always tempted to go knock on my neighbors door and tell them not to judge me. It is guaranteed that he will bark at everyone he trots by, will lunge as he gets out of the elevator, ready to take on the thin air, and howl as he walks outside - a warning signal to anything non-animal approaching.

He is never happy about coming to the city. The various things I love like the gated in parks and people filling the streets, do not amuse or liken him to Chicago. After the first hour here, he usually goes into fits of anxiety and exhausts himself.

So was Milo right? Was it unnatural to have dogs in the city? I guess it may not be the best place where a dog reflects on his primitive nature, but it is certainly filled with a million dog lovers. You can shop with your dog, eat with your dog, go to do playgrounds and bring your dog to work. In my world, this seems like some pretty cool doggy opportunities. So maybe it's wise to let your dog have the best of both worlds. He now can hang out in his city apartment or travel to his country home. Not too bad of a life for a dog.

What to choose

Each morning when I wake up I decide what to pack for lunch. Should I have an everything bagel with veggie cream cheese? Or what about a delicious Genoa salami sandwich? If I don't prepare myself for this choice, I usually stand in front of my refridgerator for a good 20 minutes staring aimlessly. Then I finally make my decision - painfully. Salami sandwich it is.

But for the rest of the day I am dreaming of a veggie bagel, ugh.

I am deluged by options. I wish that someone could reach inside my brain, analyze all choices and relegate for me. The craziest part is that people seem content with a million stimuli and options.

I once asked a waiter for my hamburger to be done "medium OK" because I couldn't make a decision between it being done medium or medium well. Without even looking up from his pad, he smiled and sad he would put the order right in. No strange looks or questions. I think people are now hardwired to think that this is normal.

This past weekend, my boyfriend's mom told me that whenever he comes home, it's never just them hanging out. It's mom, Mark and his Apple. Why just pain yourself paying attention to your mother when you can pay attention to your mom, surf sports on your BlackBerry and read the news on your computer, all at once!

I'm not saying I don't this, because I most certainly do. But I sometimes wish I lived in the dog world where things were much simpler.

Wake up and your choice for breakfast is????? Dog food. The same dog food you've eaten for the past 7 years of your life.

What to drink? H2O. What to do all day? Sleep and smell.

I love getting psyched up to take my dog on field trips. I think it is part of my job as a pet owner to provide him with weekly adventures. Our most recent excursion was chuck-it in the park, then a walk to the nursery and then to Wiggley Field. After all this excitement, I was expecting him to come home and jump on my lap in praise.

Not so much. Instead of cloaking me in thanks, he went to the bathroom to lay down on the cold tile.

Trying not to be offended, I realized that all of these doggy pleasures don't mean much to him. He's content being home relaxing with his favorite person - muah.

Recently, I've been trying to conduct weekly experiments. I come home, try not to sprint to my tv or Ipod, or run to grab my laptop. Instead I make a cup of tea, meditate and look around my house thinking of new decorating ideas. I try to take one task at a time, not being bogged down by too many options or forms of technology to distract me.

But one thing I will still continue to take pleasure in is watching Animal Planet while petting my dog and dreaming about a new puppy. Why have one dog, when there are a million more out there to meet!

The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Once upon a time there lived a dog named Harley. Harley resided at a lovely cobblestone home on a wooded court. To the outsider, Harley resembled a show dog. His features were perfectly appointed and his coat was always milky white and soft. But to the insider, we knew better.

Harley had more lives than I can count on one hand. I have witnessed him jump out of the window in a car exceeding 50 miles per hour, eat freshly fertilized grass and burn off all his paws on a freshly tarred road. Yet, like a keen, embattled soldier, this dog survived. Not only did he survive, he flourished. He lived each day like it was his last and set out each morning on a new destructive mission.

My family got Harley when I was 10 years old. We picked him up at the Wisconsin state line where he was curled up in his bed in an angelic ball. Carefully transporting him into our car, Harley greeted my sister by peeing on her 20 minutes into the ride back home. I guess this was his warning sign to us. This was only the beginning...first my sister's pants and then the whole house. Pure annihilation.

When my parents were researching what dog to get, they thought the Bichon seemed like a reasonable choice. Hypo-allergenic, fluffy, small and sweet.

Either they switched Harley at birth or he was abducted by aliens at some point, because this was not the dog that fit the aforementioned description.

Harley spent 17 joyous years giving my poor father absolute hell. First his dog, then his daughters. My dad just couldn't win.

Everyday a different neighbor would call and tell us that they either found Harley cleaning out their grease pan or dumpster diving in their garage. Harley would go house to house like a traveling garbage collector, taking in his favorite pork and beans and bacon at his leisure.

Harley had even traveled miles when he smelled a giant barbecue going on in a neighboring subdivision. This is not a joke...this dog could literally sniff out a grill in the next county.

Many of my friends have been witness to Harley's antics. When my good friend Patty came to visit me, Harley was in a full body cast from his paw-burning, raw food eating, spastic car jumping episodes. On top of that, the only visible part on him was his eyes which were completely swelled shut from allergies.

The natural response would be to pity him. But to know him is definitely not to pity him. He loved his life. He lived on the edge. I grew up loving and idolizing him despite his craziness.

This "Harley experience" has made me a much wiser dog lover. People go into shelters or others homes expecting dogs to behave much like their model citizen owners. But the truth is that no dog is perfect. In fact, most are as far from perfection as you can get. Sometimes it does have to do with their upbringing or training, but for the most part dogs are just quirky. Some have anxiety, some are mischevious and others are paranoid. And if you're really lucky, they're all three combined.

My family and I laugh now thinking of Harley and revisit stories that never cease to amaze us. Although my dad smiles when he talks about chasing Harley done Golf Hills Drive, I can still remember the grimace and teeth clenching that went on that day and many others. But when he left this world, I can't remember a day my parents were any sadder.

So if your dog is driving you insane, take solace in the fact that you probably couldn't have had a more trying dog than Harley. Laugh at their craziness and appreciate every moment with them because even 17 years wasn't enough.

Prevention

If you look in my medicine cabinet, you will find the following: Epicuren anti-oxidant serum, Epicuren moisturizing/age reversal lotion, Fructis eye wrinkle prevention, Prevage anti-aging serum.

OK, so there may be a slight obsession with aging. Yes, from a physical perspective I would rather not look like a leather handbag when I get older. My college friends used to tease me that I would turn out like Magda from Something About Mary. That is enough to scare a girl into spending half her salary on anti-aging serums.

Each time I visit my parents at home, I notice a new line on their faces. Did that line come from their frequent facial gestures? A chronic angst? Habit? Or by enduring 28 years with me?

Whatever the cause, I wanted to take my hand and smooth them away. I wished my fingertips were laced with a miracle potion that could transform them back into the vision I had of them when I was 2. Their skin looked dewy and luminous, still waiting to battle life's stresses.

My mother's skin always smelled fresh and her hands always silky. Now they are more weathered and dry. Her face still beautiful, but slowly being sapped from age.

But my obsession with getting old isn't really just about getting wrinkles. Being elderly scares me.

I do not want my parents to need my help with life's basic functions. Something about this seems demoralizing and humiliating. Parents are fixtures of strength.

In reality, I have only one necessity in life and that is my parents. Not having them is incomprehensible. Evidently, I am not one of those people that can approach aging with keen wisdom and calm reassurance. I panic.

So, when I realized it was my dog's 8th birthday coming up instead of celebrating it with doggy ice cream and treats, I chose to ignore it.

It seems that a dog is a puppy and then the next blinking moment, he is rocketed to old age. This is not fair. Not fair to him and not fair to me.

But I had to make a choice. I could look at him and analyze his graying hair or sagging stomach or continue to see him from puppy eyes.

I guess the innocence associated with children and puppies is the best way to approach life. You appreciate your parents, your elders, your dogs regardless of age. You aren't reminded that with each passing day we get older.

So although my bevy of anti-aging lotions may not help me reverse time, I think I'm becoming OK with time passing. And for now, I think I may just bring home some snausages home for my buddy's 8th birthday.

We Need To Talk

Lauren - "Dad, can I talk to you?"

Dad - "Sure, Lauren. What's on your mind?"

Lauren - "Well, I've been thinking about a career change."

Dad - "OK, what arena were you thinking about moving into? Would you work for a politician or go into mediation like we were talking about?"

Lauren - "Ummm, not exactly. I was thinking of opening my own business."

Dad - "That's great. I think opening up a consultancy would be good for you. You could take some clients with you, right?"

Lauren - "Well, that's not exactly the type of business I wanted to open."

Dad - "What then? PR, legal?

Lauren - "I want to open up my own dog walking business."

Dad - "Have you lost your mind??"

Lauren - "Yea, I think I just may have..."


This conversation was followed by similar, futile dialogues and months of anxiety ridden days. There where weeks where I would avoid phone calls from my father. I had let him down. A bright, promising career in strategic communications and I decided to leave all of that to become a glorified pooper scooper.

My whole life, I had a fear of disappointing my parents. I was no stranger to grounding and the agonizing "we're disappointed in your actions" talk. I tried to get away with the usual teenage mischief but for some reason I always failed miserably at not getting caught. Some ridiculous mishap would end up doing me in.

My hippie wannabe years didn't impress my parents too much either. They couldn't figure out why I chose not to shower and wanted to make my own clothing. Luckily, I saw a young couple with two babies selling grilled cheese at a Phish show trying to get enough money to go to their next show. Instantaneously, I realized that being a hippie was no longer a desirable future career path. That night I quickly put a comb through my hair and took a scalding 30-minute shower. No more nomad for me.

I have to admit, though, I doubted myself for a long time. Was I going to be a failure with this company just like I failed at being a hippie? On the eve of my 5-year college reunion, would I have to tell people that I was "in transition" or "trying to find myself"? No...I had too much pride for that. If anything, I would work until my business thrived just so I could avoid this inconvenient question and response.

It's always difficult to go into something blind. No matter how you say it, I really had no idea what I was doing when I started my own business. I spent endless hours on the phone with abysmal bureaucratic state agencies. Who knew it took more than 6 departments to form an LLC! After navigating this labyrinth, I begun the legal, insurance and painful tax process.

I soon realized that the saying "money begets money" should be a warning tattooed on all new entrepreneur initiation packets.

Debt has a way of instilling the fear of death in you. If I was not successful, I would be broke. Or even worse, I would have to go back to a desk job.

For the next 6 months while forming my company, Debt lingered over my head. New insurance? Hello Debt. Cool web site? My good friend Debt became attached to my hip. I couldn't get rid of him now.

I became aware that the only way my buddy Debt would disappear was if I abandoned all online shopping and started busting my butt getting clients. I have to say that getting the clients was far more enjoyable then quitting the shopping.

I still might not be rich, but I can proudly say that I am not a failure. I get questions from people all the time, "How did you do it? You just quit your job and decided to start this? You didn't have another job as a safety net?"

My answer always is, "No." No safety nets or promises. Just a whole lot of fear and hope. I never thought I would be here. Maybe it's not as prestigious as a PR consultancy, but I own my OWN pet care business and I'm proud of it.

Album of the Year

Rewind seven years ago and you'll see me in the height of my college days. My aspirations before politics and dogs all were syphoned down to one thing - music. I was convinced that I was meant for a career in music.

Signal my ridiculous 1-year guitar class and worthless purchase of a guitar. After 6 months, it became painfully obvious that I was not destined for a life of guitar strumming and rock n' roll. My guitar teacher at the time let me down softly saying, "Kid, this just may not be your thing. You ever think of the piano?"

Enter my radio DJ career. OK, this is laughable. I had the genius idea of starting to work on our college radio station working as a DJ on a show I liked to call "Acid Jazz." I am seriously embarrassed to write that. After I found out that the radio station reached about 75 people a day, I quickly became bored talking to myself on air. I used to do shoot outs to friends in neighboring dorms but when I asked them if they heard me, there was always an awkward silence followed by a change of subject. So, OK, maybe I wasn't meant to be DJ Jazzy Lauren but I was still convinced that music was where I had to be.

Last ditch effort and definitely my most genius, create a UD Concert Board! Our musical scene on campus was bleak at best. So I did my research and created a concert board that would trump everything we had at UD (not that that would be too hard to do since the only music was my DJ spinning and the on-campus band Ducksauce - enough said). The first day back to school my eyes shone. They were filled with promise and hope. Maybe I had found my musical career after all! I set about bringing people on staff but the board fizzled out as my recruiting efforts were focused on attractive single guys instead of experience, ugh.

After exhausting all my options, I was depressed. What was I supposed to do if I couldn't live a life of rock n' roll? One year later my friend Aaron introduced me to The Good Life's "Album of the Year." For a week straight, I spent every attainable hour crying at the beauty of the music, scrupulously over analyzing every word, every poetic lyric. I became the dreaded "emo" overnight. But more importantly, I realized that my greatest contribution to music could be just to admire, observe and adore it.

Now everyday I wake up and hum a song to myself, carefully selecting my life theme song for the day. It got me to thinking, though, that my song always changes tune when I am with each of my dogs. So I decided that I am going to share something very special with you - my doggy play list.

Dog #1 - "Respect": Aretha Franklin. This dog is a diva and I love it!!
Dog #2 - "Layla": Eric Clapton. She's such a doll..I'm sure the boy dogs would do anything for her:)
Dog #3 - "Purple Haze": Jimmy Hendrix. This guy is as crazy and awesome as this song is! No frills.
Dog #4 - "Three Little Birds": Bob Marley. Definitely the chillest dog I know. He lets everything roll off his back.
Dog #5 - "Can't Stand It": Wilco. Everything is melodrama with this guy.
Dog #6 - "I'm Every Woman": I wish I could have as much confidence as this girl! She struts her stuff when she walks.
Dog #7 - "Bad Boys": Inner Circle. Very naughty dog.
Dog #8 - "I Will Always Love You": Whitney Houston. For my favorite MAN in the world


Two things are absolutes in my life - music and dogs. And both make me feel pretty darn good.

Lets Work

"Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air." - Ralph Waldo Emerson.

This is how I lived for the past eight days. I basked in tropical breezes, engulfed air so sticky you could taste it and perfected the art of doing nothing.

I am a vacation elitist. You have to pass a very specific test to own your vacation claim. Many people say they go on vacation but actually spend most of their time worrying, working or planning their lives upon their inevitable return. To me, this is not a vacation. This is relocating your work to a different climate, country or state.

On my vacations, my mind becomes a vacuum. Nothing exists there except the air and sun. Thoughts of ice and work attempt to penetrate my state of nothingness, but when I am on vacation nothing can intrude my vortex.

I have always prided myself on being able to relax. I consider myself the aficionado of sleep. You could say that I have an affinity for all things serene. I can easily sleep for 12 hours daily and have no problem taking a nap after my work day. Those that know me are often left in awe by my mastery of sleep. I once saw on the Today Show that people significantly shorten their life span by doing the following three things:

1) Let stress rule their lives
2) Abandon healthy eating habits
3) Deprive yourself of sleep

As I watched these factors being rattled off, I pompously sat on my couch eating Kashi, fresh off of a 11-hour sleep. Call me self-righteous, but I think I am just plain smart.

My life wasn't always like this, though. For most of my lack luster career, I slaved away at a PR job where 12-hour days were the norm and uncomfortable business casual clothes were expected. Every morning I would wake up feeling robbed of what was most important to me. I adopted a coffee drinking habit and worked high off caffeine for most of my day. Everyday I struggled to stay awake after my noon-hour gorge and cursed my 12-hour desk job. I knew I wasn't meant to live like this.

When I would come home from work, I enviously greeted my dog. He had spent the entire day of doing my job.

The Europeans and dogs have us all beat. They live the life of siestas and long lunches. Have you ever noticed how dogs are always happy? This joy has to be attributed to their love of sleep.

When my entrepreneurial tenor could no longer be held in, I knew that I had to create a company that would a) deal with dogs and b) allow me to sleep. My new company could allow me to live a dog's life through and through.

My work week now consists of plenty of long days and nights of doing all things DDI, but I always allot time to "be"...to sleep...to rest...to be with dogs. To be me.

Great writers like Mr. Emerson are known as great because they eloquently state the obvious. He was my predecessor in the "be" appreciation. You may not be able to go on vacation anytime soon, but you can live a dog's life...work a dog's week. Sleep more and then tell me how you feel. I'm sure you'll be greeting your dog with a smile.

The Injustices

Has anyone ever watched Dateline, 20/20 or one of the other televised newscasts that always sucks you into watching 50 minutes instead of the 5 you originally intended? No matter how disinterested in the story I am at first, I always find something compelling about it in the end. And, low and behold, within 20 minutes, I am more than likely in tears.

I have a hard time with life. In fact, more times than not I question what goes on in our world and find myself deeply distraught. I choose to listen to NPR all day, when I know I should listen to something easy...mindless. Inevitably, I am wrapped up into one of the world's many problems. Tragedy in Darfur, Russian journalists being prosecuted, suicide bombers in Iraq. These problems rock me to my core...bother me to the point that I cannot concentrate and usually end up in a tied up mess of nerves.

Three years ago I became totally, 100% selflessly engrossed into the Eric Volz story. I would dream of making a crusading trip down to Nicaragua to show him my unending support. I would write him letters encouraging him to stay strong and telling him that justice would prevail.

But did justice prevail? In this case, yes. What really bothers me though is how easy it is to forget about the world's wronged. I know this is deep stuff but seriously, we hear about tragedies in far off countries and forget them as soon as the radio or tv goes off.

So what can we do? Well I can tell you what I do.

I have a big secret. Huge actually. Behind my family and boyfriend's back I take weekly trips to taste the forbidden fruit. Sensing fear in my mom's voice every time I talk about going, I ultimately decided to start sneaking out...so reminiscent of my teenage days.

Weekly, I secretly go to PAWS and will tell no one. I know what they all think. She'll come home with one. My pushover heart will collapse in the wake of big brown eyes staring a hole right through me. I can't blame them for thinking this, though. While watching my favorite reality tv on Bravo, I caved to the ASPCA commercial (ugh, that Sarah McLaughlin) and called to donate for what most likely will be eternity. I could never take away my precious donation from dogs in need! I also have been endlessly emailing permanent adoption facilities about a disabled dog I met in PAWS one day.

I know some people may think that loving or helping dogs is not adequately addressing the world's injustices, but for me this is my tangible way to make a difference. Every time I see a dog running around without an owner in sight, I stop, hoping to find an owner or bring some type of hope or solace for that dog.

So call me a crusader, zealot or champion of the dog, but I'm just out to curb the injustice that I can. Have you picked up a cause? If not, start going to PAWS or another no-kill shelter and I'm sure you'll think of something.

It looks just like the sun

I experienced something today that I have never experienced before. It took me by complete surprise. Usually driving through the city is like maneuvering through an obstacle course. This unpredictable course is littered with foul mouthed speeders, perpetual crawling turtles (either from out of town or elderly) and Chicago newspaper vendors that decided it was their duty to stand smack dab in the middle of racing traffic.

I practice my best yoga breathing before I leave to go on the road. Each morning I take three deep stomach breaths. One breath...I will not be bothered by those that will cut me off today. Second breath...I will not get annoyed by drivers that clearly should not have passed their driver's test. Last breath...I will not be tempted to slam on my brakes when a car is tailgating me.

OK, I was ready to brave the most dissident and reckless environment in the world (or at least my world) - the City of Chicago roadways. Despite my best relaxation efforts though, I almost always end up swearing off driving by the end of the day.

So today began with my typical ritual and I left my house ready to brave another gray day. However, today was different. As I appeared outside from under the cover of stale heat and gloomy fluorescent lighting, I saw a perfectly clear blue sky. This is not something us Chicagoans are usually privy to. No clouds, no slush. The omnipresent sun beamed adoringly on us as it melted away all the gray darkness.

I knew immediately that today was going to be different.

All morning I was greeted by people giving me the right of way, smiling as they stopped at stoplights and driving more like my mother than Mario Andretti. I could not believe my eyes. Today might be one of the only days for the past four months that I didn't disdain every moving vehicle. The glorious sun had erased the city harshness that you get so used to adapting to as a coat of survival.

With my new sunny outlook on life, I went on my usual dog stops. To the dogs, though, this was just another day. Sunny or dark, arctic temperatures or tropical climate, my dogs all enjoyed life equally every day. I was somewhat jealous of them. Being in Chicago for 5+ years, I was beginning to think I suffered from seasonal depression.
On winter days, I would ruminate for hours about why I lived here and would fantasize about other places that sounded so much more appealing...you could lather on tanning oil, wear sunglasses on a daily basis and complain when it hit below 60.

But dogs have a way of slapping you back into reality. They were obviously not bothered by this weather, so why should I be? I am here, with them and that is a blessing in itself. I liked this simpler way of thinking.

So for now on, I am going to approach dejected winter days with a kinder heart. I will drop the melancholy attitude and appreciate what is beautiful about winter. I will drive with a shred of sanity and ignore other drivers. That will be my creed.

But for the time being that will have to wait...until I get back from my Caribbean vacation, because even dogs need some time in the sun once in awhile.

Ti parli dog?

I speak a different language. I get scoffed at by strangers and am judged by passerbys. I know what it feels like to be looked at differently by ignorant English-speakers.

My ex-boyfriend spoke Swiss German and at first sound, I didn't like it. It sounded like everyone had a giant piece of phlegm permanently stuck in their throats. When languages were created, who on earth thought that "eigentlich" sounded good? I don't exactly think English is the prettiest of languages but Swiss German was way worse.

After months of dating him, though, I began to hear words that were more pleasing to the ear. I loved "wilkommen" or "unter". I felt a false air of sophistication when I said them. Maybe I could even trick native Swiss speakers into thinking that I was recently initiated into their elite culture...Not so much, all the Swiss saw right through me. To them, I was just another one trying to imitate their sacred language and invade their country.

So after all was said, I found that Swiss German was actually quite elegant. My stupid American ignorance got in the way to see the beauty of the language.

Now, as karma has it, I am feeling the way that so many foreigners must feel once they arrive in our country. Not welcome nor accepted.

In my language, each one of my words is laced with emotion and vigor. No word is said without a change in pitch or without fervor. My friends hang on my every vowel pronunciation or consonant stress. See, I personalize my language for each of my friends.

Some are called "princess" others "buddy." Each day when I walk outside, the cacophony of the city melts away when I am deep in conversation with my friends. I have six straight hours of peace. In my language, no one is criticized, judged or belittled. Everyone is put on a pedestal and loved unconditionally. All of my praise is reciprocated by kisses, hugs and tail wags.

So I may be judged by strangers, but I can guarantee that I happier than most. Once you enter my secret language society, there is no going back. You will find the time to think outside of the city chaos, time to breathe, time to listen to what your dog is telling you. Is he pulling on the leash and jumping from left to right on the sidewalk? Slow down and relax your heart before you take him on a walk. Is he crying when you leave? Calm yourself and ease your anxiety. Your dog is only anxious if you are.

When you genuinely speak to your dog, he will give you some valuable advice. Take time out to love and you will be loved. Take time out to be quiet and you will receive serenity.

These are all secrets I have learned from my dogs and that is why I think the English language should be intertwined with dog. This post may come off as preachy but I can assure you I am not preaching. I am simply encouraging you to speak dog for awhile and see what happens.

Guest Post - My Best Friend Forever

When Lauren first told me about her blog, I wasn’t surprised to say the least. One of the reasons our friends are as close as we are, is because we all have a slightly obsessive love for dogs and don’t think there is anything wrong with it. Once our friend Faith, in an attempt to describe me to her boss (who I was about meet on a business trip he was taking in Madrid where I currently live), compared me to a chocolate lab. Her co-workers thought it was the strangest comparison ever; I thought it was the best compliment I had ever received.


My chocolate lab Cali reminds me how great it is to have a dog every day. Though she has a love for eating my socks for attention and likes to disobey my authority in front of strangers, it is hard to stay mad at her. While I was home for the holidays this year visiting Cali, ahem I mean my family, she was so excited to see me that she followed me everywhere I went and asked me to play catch at least 20 times a day. But towards the end of my trip I knew I had to tell her that I was leaving again to go back and finish my last semester of grad school in Madrid. I put it off as long as I could until finally, with about an hour to go before I had to catch my flight and with all my bags packed and by the door, I told her I was leaving. As I turned my back for 30 seconds to talk to my mom, we both heard Cali eating something and knew she had gotten into one of my bags. Of all the bags I had by the door (yes, I know, after years of traveling and moving I still haven’t learned to take my dad’s advice and pack light), she chose my purse. And of all the crap I had in my purse, what did she choose to tear up? My plane tickets. Of course. My first instinct was to yell at her and try to get her to spit them out before she completely ripped them to shreds. But when my dad heard the yelling and came upstairs to see what she had done, he said to me, “She knows you’re leaving and didn’t want you to go.”


So say what you will about dog lovers and their sometimes overly obsessive ways, but I am proud to say Cali is my BFF.

It's a man's world

What is it with guys and Home Depot?? I usually contain myself to the flower section when I visit there, but during my last trip I wasn't so lucky. I walked aimlessly through every aisle attempting to locate winterization tools for my windows. My search through this store ended unproductively an hour later but turned out to be an eye opening experience. As I walked past what seemed like a trillion of the same tools and pieces of wood, I noticed that all the men there had an expression on their face that (in my humble opinion) should have only been reserved for their wedding day...presumably the happiest day in their lives. They had this wanderlust look in their eye like "If only I could live here....". At one point, I walked past a group of five guys huddled around a pint sized t.v. eagerly watching and studying a video. I imagined the Rocky theme song playing in the background as the blank screen revealed a brand new, shiny, orange power tool. When the reveal manifested, there was a gasp among the guys. At that moment I was convinced - men could easily replace women with power tools. They were infatuated. As the song track of Rocky played in my head, I peered down more aisles and envisioned men grunting as they do when bench pressing twice their body weight. Power saw? Ggggrrrrrr. Black and Decker drill?? Double grrrrrr.

I needed to escape. This was a man's playground that I was not welcomed in nor enjoying. When I left, it got me to thinking. My dog is a male and I am proud to say, lifts his leg to pee. I once naively thought that he lifted his leg at every plant or even dirt because he really had to relieve himself, but as I found out, he was doing this to prove he was a MAN. He may not be the biggest dog on the block but he still wanted to let every man know where he had gone first.

I am convinced that the Chicago epicenter of the alpha male dog population is at the dog park. It is the dog "Home Depot." Inevitably there is always one dog rounding up the others, taking laps and antagonizing the other dogs before they enter. On my most recent trip, it was a German Shepherd. The moment he set eyes on my 30-lb wingman, I knew it was over. He circled the park anxiously awaiting our arrival. I was hoping that some other dog would take away his attention from us, but much to my dismay, he was there to jump on top of my poor little buddy upon our entrance.

So I know that there are a million unspoken dog park rules, but today, I was not about to follow them. I decided to step in and put this alpha male in his place. What I failed to remember was that the German Shepherd was basically my body weight and that I was wearing a white jacket. Not for long. My jacket quickly turned brown and I was forced to grasp the railings to support myself.

My dog got away but a few minutes later, I could not believe my eyes! My precious mini-me was participating alongside Mr. Alpha. Together this awkward duo ruled the dog park. Peeing on every corner and charging every newcomer. Each time I tried to get his attention, he was too pre-occupied with his new "male" friend. I had been replaced yet again. First time by a power tool and now by the dog park ring leader.

Sitting there pathetic and alone, I saw an opening. In came a Bernese Mountain dog ready to take charge. Seconds later my buddy had had enough and was ready to come back to the woman in his life.

I realized that dogs need their male bonding time just as much as men. Let them go to their man cave, run around, pee on things and prove their manhood. We may not understand it, but that's what makes us love them. So for now on I will not be afraid to enter Home Depot. I will parade my dog around the aisles and respect each man's love for power tools and all things "manly." Eventually, they will come home from their fantasy land and if we're lucky, help us around the house a little bit.

Coiffure

I am obsessed with my hair. Not the typical obsession where you brush your hair all day and look in the mirror admirably at your gorgeous locks. My obsession is much more sadistic. I am obsessed with having the hair that I do not have. In fact, I hate my hair. It is a combination between curly, frizzy and thin. It never goes the direction I want it to, almost always frizzes out and never stays straight, even after hours of prepping and styling.

From an early age, I decided that I was not satisfied with curly hair. My mom, being the nicest woman on earth, let me embark on different ways of getting to where I wanted to be. Unfortunately, this was a painful and arduous process. The antiquated chemical straightening process practically burned off my scalp and even after going to the stylist for a good hour before my eigth grade photograph, my hair ended up looking like squeaky from the little rascals. Needless to say, I was an awkward child.

I had hoped and wished that 20 odd years later my hair would eventually straighten out but much to my dismay, it is only getting curlier...

I have met many dogs during my life, but it occurred to me with my most recent client that there is definitely a hair hierarchy between dogs. Some are wire haired, others curly and some soft and smooth. I think I would most resemble the poodle. So when I met "Jack", I was immediately envious. He had the most beautiful black, soft hair. His ponytails (ears) were perfectly cut, not a hair out of place and his white paws stood in perfect contrast to his dark body. Jack knew he looked good. I felt pity and shame for my dog who always looked like he had just gone through a drive through car wash where they failed to embark on the last portion of the cleaning and grooming process.

Was this shame self-imposed? Am I just putting my feelings on him or does he really feel this? He must be mad at me for not keeping him up to Jack's standards. In fact, in a totally failed attempt to make him more prim, I saw a glint of shame on his face.

I decided to take my dog to a new groomer that seemed very reputable and sophisticated. Putting my trust in her, I gave her permission to groom him as she saw fit. I could hardly contain my excitement as I came back to pick him up but when he came out I was shocked. Speechless. What had she done to him? She robbed him of his manhood! He was BALD. His ponytails were gone. His scrappy tail was shaved. She made him look like a hairless cat. I couldn't even look at him. I didn't know whether to cry or laugh. When I finally looked at him I immediately knew what I needed to do. He was ashamed and wouldn't move. I knew I had to pick him up and act like nothing happened. I am sure my mother thought the same thing as she saw my hair hit the humidity before my 8th grade picture. You cannot show your disappointment, but love them anyways.

For the next week my poor puppy walked around without his usual swagger and refused to meet other dogs. Were they judging him? I wanted to yell at them like a protective mother would. He was never quite the same after this experience, so I opted to keep his hair long to the point of matted, instead of subjecting him to this scrutiny again.

After this painful groomer visit, I decided to join my dog in his obscurity. There was no point trying to mask what you have. There is vanity in the dog world just as much as in the people world. No one has the perfect hair they want regardless of how much you try. So I decided that you can either obsess about it or get over it and sport the frizzy, matted hair you have. For now, my dog and I are sporting the hair we were gave and slowly getting our swagger back.

My Retirement Home

I live with a senior citizen. He eats breakfast at 11 a.m., sleeps all day and goes to the bathroom hourly. How did I get myself into this situation you might ask? Well...basically, I can't say no. My mom warned me about this problem since I was young, as she saw that I could never say no to my sister.

So here I am with my senior citizen. At first I gave him free reign of my home, but as with most senior citizens, it was too much space for him to mosey through. Too long of a distance between the bathroom and the bed. I found this out the hard way when I stumbled to the bathroom at 3 in the morning and found hundreds of poop pawprints leading me to the grand prize - diarrhea. So what did I win???? Two hours of cleaning on my hands on knees scrubbing away all of my hard worked anally clean floors. After burning out my nose hairs and drying out my hands (I inherited my Polish mother's love for bleach), I asked myself how I got into this situation.

On December 15, a lovely young lady came to me asking for her to care for her aging dog who would have otherwise been banished to a crate for 8 hours a day at a nameless boarding facility. Of course, I was unable to turn her down and so began my new role as caretaker for the elderly.

After numerous, audible cries of desperation exited my body, a brilliant thought came to my mind. Why aren't there retirement homes for dogs? You know, round them all up and put them together in a big room with no stairs (bad for the arthritis), heated at a balmy 80 degrees with endless amounts of designated naptimes. This alleviates the guilt you have for not being there for your aging friend and allows them to not feel so depressed that their life may be coming to an inevitable end. Surrounded by others in this same situation will make old age seem tolerable.

As my senior citizen unknowingly carried his poop paws all over my new home, I couldn't help but feeling a slight tinge of disdain. Disdain for him to ruin my palace of perfection. That disdain quickly changed, though. I shot him a knowing look...I knew what this was. He was livid with me. Livid that I took him away from the only thing that seemed familiar to him - his mom. He was grasping for the familiar and when he didn't find it, he was pissed. I understood this need for something comfortable. It was evident to me that old age is obviously not any easier if you're a dog or human. You need someone to come home to that allows you to take that much needed sigh of relief....that smell of your beloved one that allows you to breathe again. Anyone that says dogs are not like people, has not experienced the various ways they speak the same language as us. They love. They long for companionship. And they never forget the one that they come home to.

So, for now, I will attempt to be this person and will care for my senior citizen like I hope my future kids will take care of me. And just maybe, I'll start a retirement home for dogs.

Let the journey begin...

I have always loved dogs. When I was 2, my mom told me that I peered outside intently and pointed at a dog and uttered "dudden." This was my intuitive way of identifying a creature that would, unbeknownst to me, bring me so much joy, sadness, laughter and lessons.

I can imagine that this was not exactly what my parents wanted my first word to be. Most first words are "momma, daddy, nonna...". The names of people most important to you. But I am not surprised this was my first word. I'd like to think that I was smarter than the average 2 year old and knew the very importance of dogs.

I was never a "normal" kid. I used to lock myself in a closet for 6 hours at a time and play Barbies by myself. I always found amusement and intrigue with the simple things and always found in enjoyment being by myself. As I got older we got my first dog, Harley (Harley, or the devil reincarnate, will be explained more in other posts), and I knew that I finally met my soulmate. I could babble on for hours to him and he said nothing. He layed lovingly next to me while I played Barbies and longed to be by myself. He was the perfect companion.

So, "dudden" seems to only be a fitting first word for me.

When I was 27 years old, I had the typical quarter life crisis. Hating my job and being diagnosed with a serious health concern, I am here now - savoring dog time for my career.

I threw the idea back and forth about blogging but it always seemed like an egotistical thing to do. I mean, you are basically saying that someone actually gives a crap about what you think and write!! At 28 years old wise, I knew better than that. Plus, my writing prowess was anything but stellar. But through my journey with my dog and the dogs that I see everyday, I felt an urge to tell the world what these amazing creatures were whispering to me. Lessons and stories everyone could benefit from. So alas! Here I am, writing to what I presume is no one. But the solidarity I loved when I was young, I can feel again in cyberspace...on my blog. So each day I will be here - sprawled on my couch, by myself but with the world's best companion typing nonsense that I hope you enjoy. At the very least, I hope you are entertained.