The Death of Gabby

The recent deaths of friends’ and family members’ pets have me thinking about the recent passing of my guinea pig Gabby.

Gabby was with us for nine years, and despite her critter size, played a huge role in my life. She greeted me every time I walked in the room with her squeaks, and clamored for attention–and food–when I would cut up vegetables. She even squeaked when she heard the sound of a tuna can hitting the counter because she knew celery wasn’t far behind.

We adopted Gabby (Gabriella) with her sister Izzy (Isabella) when they were just days old. They were sisters. Gabby was tiny because Izzy was a bully and would take all of the food. Gabby soon compensated for that–perhaps even over compensated–when she was moved to her own cage and didn’t have to fight Izzy anymore. She grew to be quite a porker–pun intended.

Izzy and Gabby

Sadly, in June I noticed Gabby had cold-like features. She had runny eyes and a sniffly nose. And she had stopped eating and drinking. This came at the end of a extremely trying week in which Paisley had a mysterious pain that resulted in a trip to the ER. Paisley was fine; Gabby was not.

Now, this is the third guinea pig in 12 years that has gotten sick on me. The two times before I rushed to vets, getting instructions to care for them, and nursing them the best I could — giving them meds, hand feeding them, using droppers to give them water. I believed the vets when they said there was a cure. There was not.

So, I should know by now that when a guinea pig shows symptoms of sickness, there’s no saving it. But I called the vet anyway. What I really wanted was for the vet to say yes or no if a guinea pig can survive the symptoms I described. But no, they said they needed to see her. So, because I couldn’t simply let her suffer without a proper diagnosis, off to the vet we went.

Upon seeing Gabby, the vet looked very concerned. At that point, she should have said to me there’s nothing she can do. Go home and let her die in peace. But noooooo. Instead she led me to believe there was hope — like the times before — and suggested a round of tests, medications, special food, and an injection of fluid under her skin because she was dehydrated. That was to the tune of $180.

“OK,” I think. “I can do this. Gabby can do this. She will recover. This time everything will turn out OK.”

I was so wrong. Forty-five minutes after I got her home, my poor little Gabby went into her hutch, curled up, and died. I believe the trauma of the vet’s visit caused her to have a heart attack. I paid nearly $200 for the vet to kill her.

All of this transpired while my daughter was getting ready for her 8th grade dance. I noticed Gabby was dead while Paisley was getting ready, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to ruin her night. But during a last-minute return to my bedroom Paisley was near Gabby’s cage and noticed she wasn’t breathing.

“Mom!” she called to me. “I think Gabby’s dead!”

My heart sank. Now my little girl was going to have a horrible night–a night she was greatly looking forward to.

I came out of my bedroom, checked Gabby like I was unaware of her state, and confirmed for Paisley she was dead.

After Gabby Died

Paisley and I shed some tears, but she did not want what happened to ruin her night. Fortunately, she had a fantastic time at her dance. She spent the night at her best friend’s house while I was left taking care of Gabby and all of her things.

I was heartbroken. I couldn’t bear to look at her things, so I immediately threw her cage, water bottle, food container, etc. into the dumpster. The hay and unused bedding went into my car to be given to my friend who has a rabbit. And Gabby was wrapped in a towel, put into a shoebox, and also put into my car.

I didn’t know what to do with her. I have no property on which to bury her. I could bury her in the yard of the house I shared with my ex-husband. I could let her “swim with the fishes” in the lake near my condo. Or I could drive around with her until I found the best place.

Gabby stayed in the back of my car for one week. Yes, one week. Fortunately, she never started smelling.

Eventually I decided to put her body in the lake near my condo. It’s pretty — lots of wildlife in and around it — and close by so I could think of her whenever I passed it.

So, at 11:30 p.m., in the dark of night, I crept over to the lake with Gabby still wrapped in the towel but now in a tote bag. I found a nice spot. Took her out of the bag, unwrapped the towel and placed her into the water.

Now, not ever being in the mob, I thought Gabby’s body would sink. Not the case. Her body rose immediately to the top. I pushed it down. It came back up. I tried to put it under grasses growing in the water. It resurfaced.

“Great, now what do I do?”

I used the towel to take her body out. I look around and notice a nice area of bushes, trees and flowers and decide to bury her there. Of course, I don’t have a shovel of any kind, so I use my hands to dig her grave. (Fortunately, it was mostly sandy soil.) I quickly put her in the grave, cover her up, whisper a goodbye, and walk back home.

I walk around that lake often. And each time I pass Gabby’s grave, and think about how wonderful a pet she was.

New Year’s Resolutions — Or How I’m Going to Get Happy in 2010

The start of 2010 hasn’t been very rosy. Granted, it is better than last year when my professional life was in the toilet. Now that it is under control, it’s time to focus on my personal life and get happy — really, truly, deep down happy. While I can laugh and have fun moments, sadness isn’t far from the surface. This is the year to change that. Here’s how I plan to do it. I think I’ll stick it on the fridge, my bathroom mirror, and my computer monitor so that I don’t forget. Feel free to do the same.

Live in the moment: I need to stop worrying about the past and what might be coming down the road. For when I do that, I neglect the people around me and I withdraw from life. I need to enjoy every moment.

Treasure family and friends: When I’m with them I need to give them my full attention and all my love and care. I cannot take them for granted. I might be in the grumpiest of moods, but I cannot neglect or be mean to the people I love.

Do what is right for me: I cannot do things to please others. I must do things that are right for me and my daughter.

Get happy: I need to discover what makes me happy and do those things. And enjoy them fully.

Be strong: I need to develop the strength to do what is right for me — and hold on to it. I can’t let others’ feelings, words, or actions weaken me.

Top 10 Things I’m Thankful For

When I worked at TechTarget, often at Thanksgiving I would do a top 10 list of things my readers could be thankful for. The first was for the IBM AS/400-iSeries-System i crowd. Fiercely loyal people, iSeries users love their midrange server and hate anything that competes with it, including Microsoft. That first year, the number one thing they could be thankful for — there’s no Bill Gates.

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I thought I’d do my own top 10 list of things to be thankful for. What am I, a 42-year-old, recently re-employed woman with a pre-teen daughter and a failed marriage, thankful for? Let’s take a look:

10. That I look younger than my age — Thank you, Dad, for the fact that I have no gray hair and few wrinkles, save for those

Thanksgiving Chapel in Dallas

laugh lines that are starting to rear their ugly heads, and thank you, Mom, for my thinness. But as you can see from numbers 9 and 8, I believe my natural features need a little help.

9. My colorist & hair stylist — Thank you, Tawna, for the magical work you do coloring my hair, transforming my natural drab brown into golden blonde, and thank you, Harris, for knowing just how to cut my hair. Until I went away this past summer I had no idea how great you are. I went to two different colorists and stylists in Boston, and none did what you so ably do to make me look fabulous.

8. My trainer — I work out on my own, but without Josh to push me to the limit and figuratively kick my butt each week, I would not be in as good shape.

7. JetBlue — It might seem odd to have this company in my list, but with this airline I can easily and usually cheaply get back north to see my family, friends and co-workers. Plus, who wouldn’t love the free snacks, TV, roomy seats, crew, and customer service? And they fly direct from West Palm Beach, Fla., to Boston.

Lie to Me

When you think about lies and people being untruthful, you might picture mean manipulative people — like the stereotypical sales person trying to get you to buy something, the guy you meet in a bar with his 101 pick-up lines, or politicians saying what people want to hear in order to get elected. But in reality, a lot of good people who generally live honest lives tell lies — myself included. They tell them not because they’re looking to gain from a situation, but because they want to others to feel good or to feel better about a situation.

Sometimes it's OK to lie (Photo by Leo Reynolds)

Think about it: Humans created the idea of heaven to ease the fear of dying. Parents tell their children about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny to make Christmas and Easter more fun. Husbands and boyfriends tell the women in their lives their butts don’t look fat in those jeans. Women smile and say thank you, when their boyfriends or husbands buy them a slinky negligee for their birthday when what they really wanted was a pair of comfy sweatpants.

I am not always able to tell those white lies. If I don’t like a gift, it shows on my face. If someone asks me if they look good in an outfit, and they don’t look good, I tell them so. Ask me my opinion on a situation, and I’ll tell you exactly how I feel. You might think it’s good to be so honest, but my actions have hurt people’s feelings. When dinner is made for me as a surprise, I should say thank you and eat it — or some of it — regardless. I should not throw a fit like I did with the infamous Sloppy Joe supper made by my boyfriend years ago.

As a parent, however, lying is part of the game. “Mom, can I have some candy?” “Let me think about it.” “Mom, can we go to the mall?” “Maybe.” “Mom, can I go to Horror Nights with Amanda?” “We’ll see.”

The true answer to all of those questions was “No.” Why didn’t I just say no? Because I didn’t want the battle. While our kids are young, we can get away with those responses. Soon, however, they figure it out — “No, maybe! Maybe means no! Why caaaaaan’t I!”

Why Do I Workout? To Look Good, Of Course

I know the benefits of eating healthily and exercising. But the truth is, I do those things — or try to do those things — because I’m vain. I worry about what I will look like if I don’t take care of myself.

It wasn’t always like that. When I was in my teens and 20s, I ate junk and cared very little about the benefits of exercise. Exercise was a way to socialize. In high school I played sports — basketball and softball — and made friends with fellow jocks. In college I took aerobics classes (complete with my Olivia Newton-John outfit and headband — “Let’s Get Physical, Physical”) and joined a gym because I wanted new friends and I needed something to do other than study and go to bars.

And after college, forget it. I worked as a reporter where Dunkin Donuts coffee and doughnuts was my regular breakfast and late-night deadlines meant eating pizza or subs. Exercise was walking to and from my car and sometimes taking the dog for a walk. Fortunately, I did not put on a lot of weight. I was blessed with good genes, I guess. (Thanks, Mom!)

But as I started thinking about having children, I became concerned about my physical being. I knew that I should exercise. By then Jane Fonda’s aerobics videotapes were the rage, and I bought one complete with the step to go with it. (I still have that step!) I got pregnant and soon added pregnancy exercise videotapes to the collection.

Take Time to Enjoy the Moment

When we’re children and teenagers, we try to rush the future. We always want to be older than we are. We don’t want to be 9; we want to be in double digits and 10. We don’t want to be 12; we want to be 13–officially a teenager. We have high hopes for turning 16 and 18, and even higher hopes for turning 21. There are so many age milestones to reach for, and we don’t appreciate the age that we really are. That is, of course, until we get “old.” Then we realize how fast those years go by, and we tell younger people not to rush it.

An email has been passed around for years about getting older. It’s been attributed to comedian George Carlin, but it’s actually from actor and comedian Larry Miller. It captures exactly how we as a society perceive aging.

You BECOME 21, you TURN 30, then you’re PUSHING 40. Whoa! Put on the brakes, it’s all slipping away. Before you know it, you REACH 50 . . . and your dreams are gone.

I’m at the point where I’m putting on the brakes, trying like hell to slow the passage of time. And yet I still have difficulty enjoying the present. Mostly I have difficulty enjoying the moment. I take great pleasure in planning things, but when it comes to doing what I planned, my mind goes elsewhere. If I’m doing something that should be fun, I think about work that needs to be done. If I’m away from Paisley, I think about how I should be with her. If I’m in Florida, I think about being in Boston. The last day of a trip is especially difficult. The flight could be at 9pm, but I’m so distracted by what is waiting for me upon my return and what could happen when I leave, that I can’t just relax and enjoy the day.

My Birthday: 42, Looking Back at 12–and Ahead to 52

Today I turned 42. How the hell did that happen?! I look at my 12-year-old daughter, listen to her sing her favorite songs, watch her giggle with her girlfriends, and hug her as she cries over a boy, and it seems like just yesterday I was that girl.

Fortunately — or maybe unfortunately — I still do those things, but on a different level. Get me with my girls, and I can be as goofy as any 12-year-old. Put on my favorite tune, and I still sing with abandon (when no one is listening, of course). And I still shed tears over men who were once boys — and I guess sometimes still act like boys. But now I have my life experiences to guide me, reassure me and keep me going, whereas when I was 12 there were so many unknowns and fears.

I would never want to go back to being 12, nor would I want to relive high school. Those years are just too tough — girlfriend fights, boyfriends (and breakups with those boyfriends), parents who drive you crazy, battles with your sister, school. And when one thing goes awry, you think your world is coming to an end. You don’t trust that there will be better, happier times. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s and 30s that life calmed down, and I began to feel comfortable with — and to accept — who I am.

Breaking Boundaries

On June 5 I began my journey to Boston to start a new job and possibly new life. I’ve named my journey “Breaking Boundaries,” as I am physically breaking boundaries by crossing state boundaries and I am breaking figurative boundaries — attempting to break out of my way of thinking and doing things. More than anything, it’s a journey to discover what I really want to do and what gives me joy. It’s a difficult journey, but I need to do it. I need to experience it — even if it reduces me to tears every other day.

My journey -- Breaking Boundaries (Photo by Rafael Gomes)

My life in Florida as it was, was holding me back. I was confined to a certain role that was too small for me, too restricting. During the past six months I thought long and hard about how to change it. I decided to go back to the place that has always made me feel happy — Boston. I created a plan and fulfilled it — got a full-time job and have relocated there. Don’t ever let it be said that I can’t do what I say I’m going to do. But now that I’m here in this life, I’m questioning it. Actually, I started questioning the decision when I started packing, and several times during the drive north considered turning back, but I am going ahead with it to learn if my fears and doubts are true or if happiness truly resides here.

As I start my second week of work, I am feeling a slightly better about the change. However, when I stop and think about everything that’s going on, I feel fear deep in my stomach like the bottom is falling away bit by bit, I’m on edge, and I’m often on the verge of tears.

I question whether a full-time job that requires me to be in an office for nine hours a day is right for me. I question whether I can work such a job and care for my daughter if she lives here with me. I fear that having such a job means losing quality of life, as I have little to no time for social activity. I fear getting trapped in a job and losing my creative outlets. I wonder if my return to the Boston area is an attempt to relive my previous life here.

I’m too old for this stuff

I may not be too old for celebrity crushes, but I’ve discovered things that I am too old for. Most of these I’m able to avoid, some I still think I can still do but later regret, and some I’ll probably have to deal with until I get much older. Regardless, they’re all things I think I’m too old to for.

Pimples! – Why, at age 41, do I still get these?! They were supposed to have stopped by now. Ugh! I got my first pimple when I was 10. I remember it vividly because it reared its ugly head right before my first day of fifth grade. Not only was it the first day of school, but it was the first day at a new school. Super! That one eventually went away, but later came puberty and the accompanying pimple problem. We’re told that the pimples and acne will go away when we get older. But that didn’t happen for me. Here I am still dealing with this problem.

I'm too old for the hangovers that come with drinking a lot of wine (Supplied by FreeFoto.com)

Drinking too much alcohol – In college and even high school, my social life involved many parties and drinking lots of alcohol. I could chug beer and do shots of tequila throughout the night and shake off a hangover the next day with a couple of Tylenol and glass of orange juice. Those days are gone. The problem is, sometimes I forget that. Every few months I enjoy my drinks too much and end up paying the price the next day. Now my recovery involves sleeping away most of the day until the pounding headache and nausea finally passes. It’s an incredible waste of a day, and I always hate myself for doing that.

Unplanned sleep-overs at a friend’s house – It used to be that if I were too tired or too drunk to drive home from a friend’s house that I would simply sleep there. A sleepover! Not anymore. You will NOT catch me sleeping on someone’s couch, in a chair, or on the floor ever again. I need my bed, my toothbrush, my contact lens case, my pajamas — my own stuff. If I sleep anywhere but at my own house, I make sure I’m well prepared.

Worrying about getting pregnant – For most sexually active women, there’s only one small time in their lives when they don’t worry that they might get pregnant. And that’s when they’re trying to get pregnant. Other than that small window of time, they hope and pray that Aunt Flow visits every month.

Fitting in: How I discovered where I belong

From the time we enter our elementary school years until we enter our senior citizen years, we are always trying to fit in. Where do we belong? With what group of people do we share interests? Where should I live? And if you’re a pre-teen or teen, how do I get into the “popular” group?

My 12-year-old daughter is dealing with that last struggle right now. She attends a wonderful high-tech middle school in Boca Raton, Fla., a wealthy community. Most of the students who attend that school, however, have parents who give them anything they want. Every day my daughter deals with the fact that she doesn’t own an iPhone or some type of smart phone and she doesn’t wear Abercrombie clothes. She also doesn’t look like the “popular” girls. She doesn’t have straight-straight hair, she has acne, and she has started getting a little figure. All of that, she says, makes her different — puts her outside of the “popular” girls group. Oh, the tragedy of being different!

Boston -- Where I fit in (Photo supplied by FreeFoto.com)

I know exactly how she feels. I tell her that things will get better — that middle school is, and has always been, difficult for girls. I tell her to not try to be friends with everyone but find close friends and stick with them. They’re the ones who matter most, not the bitchy Boca snobs who look down at you because you have curly hair. I tell her to do activities that she loves and that she’ll make friends with kids in the same clubs and groups.

What I don’t tell her is that the struggle to fit in will continue.

I can think of just a couple times in my life where it wasn’t so hard. Ironically, one of them was during middle school. Somehow, I was in the “popular” group. I don’t know how it happened because we were not wealthy, I wore mostly second-hand clothes, I was not considered pretty, my family situation was different than “normal” (my mother was divorced and had recently announced that she was gay), and I was the new kid. We had moved to a small city in Vermont from Springfield, Mass. By middle school girl standards, I should have been an outcast. But they accepted me.

The real struggle to fit in started in eighth grade when my mother moved us to a tiny nearby town — Roxbury, Vt. I had to leave my “girls” behind and start all over again — new house, new school, new people to try to befriend. On top of that, now I was living in the country! That’s no place for a city mouse like me.