The bed hog/dog

I am back, happy to report, in the connubial bed after three weeks of camping out on the futon in our TV room. I'm not sure who's happier with the arrangement -- the WPS and me. . . OR Ben, our dog.

While I was in the more awkward stages of post-foot surgery (read, foot elevated about 3 feet over my head), Ben was a loyal companion. He slept with me almost every night, but not without looking quizzically after the WPS as he toddled off to bed in the guest room next door. I do know Ben would quietly slip off the bed at least once or twice at night to check on the WPS' breathing, and at least two nights, he hopped up on the WPS' bed and hunkered down for the duration, but not before giving me a sheepishly apologetic glance.

Like any good herding dog, Ben does not like it when "the flock" is separated.

So, when the WPS and I clambered into bed TOGETHER for the first time in weeks, Ben visibly brightened. And promptly launched himself into the "sweet spot" between our feet. He curled up contentedly, tail feathered over nose, closed his eyes, sighed and drifted off to sleep. Or so we thought.

We realize now he was mulling over the next steps in his diabolical plan to TAKE OVER THE BED.

Actually, he's not diabolical. I said that for dramatic effect.

But Ben has taken over the bed. We think it's because he loves us.

After weeks of living in bedrooms divided, Ben seems to have developed an insatiable need for "touch." And, at night, in bed, this means stretching across our bed horizontally so head and paws are draped over my feet with rump and hind legs pressed against the WPS. Or vice versa. Several times a night. Ben is, if anything, an equal-opportunity pup.

The WPS and I agree. It's like sleeping on ledge. With sound effects.

Nevertheless, we can't, won't, begrudge Ben his comfort. He's been a patient dog the last few weeks. We know the sleeping arrangements will change in a month or so when the summer heat sets in. And there's something comforting about reaching out in the dark, ruffling Ben's warm fur once or twice and feeling him burrow back in acknowledgement.

I guess we need a little "touch" too.

Postscript: I tried to grab a photo of what this sleeping arrangement currently looks like, but there was something not quite right about a flash going off in our bedroom at 11 o'clock at night. Some things are just best left to the imagination.

My new right foot: A fashion conundrum

I have graduated to shoes!

At my appointment last Wednesday, my foot guy gave me the all-clear to don the "loosest pair of shoes you have." I had just what the doctor ordered -- my well-worn Columbia dog-walking/snow-busting/dig-in-the-dirt/schlep-all-over-the-muddiest-parts-of-Manuel-Antonio-National-Park-in-Costa-Rica slip-on walking shoes. They're golden.

But herein lies the fashion conundrum. Because of their time-honored utility, the Columbias also are currently the ugliest shoes I have. And this does present some challenges when it comes to accessorization in the world of fashion.

There was something to be said for the surgical shoe. With its sleek lines, low profile and chameleon-like characteristics, you could possibly bust it out for almost any occasion.

It does goes well with jeans and a Keen walking shoe.

Throw a Keen sandal and a pair of clamdiggers into the mix, and you've got a nice summer vibe going.

Matched up with a kicky little patent leather Clark sandal, you could even carry off a skirt in the pinch. (I think I'd wear nylons, though. The combination of fading bruises and a lingering tinge of orange Betadine on my right foot is a little, shall we say, unusual right now.)

Alas, not so with the Columbias.

"The look" basically starts -- and stops -- with jeans. This about as good as it gets.

Because the wheels begin to come off with the clamdiggers.

And, frankly, there's absolutely no way you're going out the door in a skirt.

Indeed. It IS hard to be glamorous.

The obits

Spoiler alert: This post may strike some as M.O.R.B.I.D. and/or C.O.M.P.L.E.T.E.L.Y. I.N.A.P.P.R.O.P.R.I.A.T.E. Now that we've got that out the way. . . .

Lately, I've been more than a little bit obsessed with obituaries.

No -- my latest surgical skirmish has not spawned some new dark interest in profound existential questions like what is the sum meaning of one's life? is there life after death? and, most existentially, what happens to your blog and Facebook page once you move on to the Big Wall in the Sky?

Nope, no one can accuse me of such profundity. Because right now, my obit obsession centers solely on pictures of the dearly departed.

It's amazing the kerfuffle obituary photos can cause. Even Miss Manners has weighed in on the appropriate use dead people photos.

I say, whatever. Whatever blows your hair back.

Love your 40-year-old high school graduation picture? Bring it.

How about that one of you sitting on the dock at "The Lake,"

sun-scorched and balmy with Bud Light?

Sure, why not.

(Note to self: "The Lake" would be a worthy Bermtopian topic as we head into summer.)

A funny-hat Shriners photo?

The what-the-heck-it's-only-money-head-and-shoulder glam shot

taken on your 5oth birthday -- after getting your first tattoo?

Good times, good times.

Or a perennial Bermtopia favorite: The quick candid a buddy grabs at about Day 3 of the epic elk-hunting/bass-fishing/wood-cutting trip of 1989. You know the one -- redolent with cigarette and camp fire smoke, Jack Daniels whiskey, men who don't bathe and dead-animal musk.

Yes-ssss-sss.

Seriously, I think these are all worthy obit pix. At the end of the day, it's all about capturing the essence of the deceased, right?

Well, essence is good, but personally, I'm aiming for panache in my obit pic. The one that screams "Remember me for the free-spirited Audrey Hepburn-esque gamine I always was and always will be." (Hummmm. I already see a problem here: The last time I was gamine was back somewhere in October 1972. . . for about 45 seconds.)

THIS is panache when it comes to an obit pic.

And this, not so much.

I think I've got my work cut out for me.

Ice-aholics not-so-anonymous

Hello. I'm the Queen and Supreme Goddess of Bermtopia. And I'm an ice-aholic.



The first warning signs of ice addiction emerged when I was a child. When we went to restaurants, I loved to fish the ice out of my Shirley Temple and crunch on it (well, after the maraschino cherry, that is). Ditto for water glasses. Drove my parents crazy.



As I grew older, it was "Would you like a little diet Coke with your ice?" And even today, as much as I love a good G & T during the summer, a good jolt of ice is just as important as the Bombay Sapphire.



For me, ice is the penultimate analgesic. I use it for all types of ailments. . . from oven-scorched knuckles to lower back pain, plus everything in between. (Don't even talk to me about moist heat. It's so over-rated. Well, unless you've got a sty. Then it works pretty well. Ice, not so much.)



Which brings me to my present state of addiction. Since my foot surgery March 25, I've basically been one large ice pack. It seems Nerve Central for your foot is based around the ankle. Apply ice to that sweet spot and you are pain free for hours, and I seriously mean hours.



BUT -- when the ice pack reaches room temperature, which usually occurs around 2 a.m. when the Wonderfully Patient Spouse is in a well-deserved-hard-earned-deep-sleep-that-I-don't-want-to-interrupt-over-the-frivolous-issue-of-a-warm-ice-pack, is another story.



I will go on record that I have a high threshold for pain. It's a Scandinavian thing. But what happens once the ice pack reaches room temperature isn't exactly pain. It's more like The Ultimate Annoyance -- persistent, forceful jabs of energy, like dozens of tiny jolts of electricity, laser-locked on the nerve endings in my foot. Pretty soon my foot is bouncing around the bed around like a possessed potato in an Ace wrap -- and I'm thinking Need. Ice. Must. Get. Ice.



I really don't want to wake up the WPS -- nor do I want to gnaw my foot off at the ankle just to get a good night's sleep. Therefore, I activate the time-honored Ice Addict Emergency Management Plan: I flip on the light and clunk down the hall to the bathroom.



Inevitably, this evokes a physiological sympathetic response in the WPS. (Seriously. This kind of stuff happens all the time afer 35 years of marriage.) Once he's completed his own midnight pit stop, he sticks his head in my room and says, "Need anything?"



"Oh, an ice pack, if one's handy."



I'm shameless. And I'm an ice-aholic.

My new right foot: Crutch walking

No, not a new Olympic sport. But it should be.

An update: I failed Crutches 101 spectacularly the week following my surgery. By spectacularly I mean my right -- surgical -- foot absolutely refused to obey any and all new neuro-instructions I sent it. Instructions like, No, you may NOT step on that step and No, you may NOT bear weight on your poor, pathetic stitched-up tippy-toes. As a result, we had many scenes of me, on crutches, rooted to the floor as my right foot peddled furiously in mid-air, trying to find some worthwhile job to do. It was not pretty.

Noting this failure as I flailed into my first follow-up appointment last week , Dr. T, the foot guy, did what any self-respecting foot guy would do: Introduced me to the wild and wacky world of crutch-walking. My right foot was much appreciative. It is now once again gainfully employed.

Once you get the hang of it, crutch-walking is pretty simple. Your two crutches and surgical foot kick out first, theoretically all at the same time. (The boys and I had to work on this for a couple of days.) Non-surgical foot brings up the rear as crutches and surgical foot, together, do some light weight-bearing. My over-achiever right foot is happy -- and it's definitely easier (and kinder on woodwork around the house) than wheeling around with my knee up on a walker.

There are, of course, some limitations. For one, you can't really carry anything since your hands are full of crutch handles. And occasionally, one crutch will snag up in the carpet, making for an interesting few seconds of see-sawing back and forth suspended between two stubborn sticks that each believe they have the territorial imperative.

Nevertheless, while I'm certainly not going to sneak up on anybody (fyi, old-school wooden crutches creak like the dickens), win a foot race or dominate the hammer throw, crutch-walking is definitely an improvement on Crutches 101.

Stowing your crutches, however, is another story. When you're on an ambulating roll, crutches work together like a well-primed machine. But, if I need to find a temporary home for them, my crutches are transformed into two energetic toddlers, slipping and sliding in different directions with little, if any, concern for my safety or convenience.

And, without fail, at least once or twice a day and without any provocation, my crutches will spontaneously slam to floor, sending Ben skittering out of the room with a guilty look on his face -- and prompting an "Are you all right up there?" from the Wonderfully Patient Spouse. (The first couple of times this happened, the WPS actually sprinted up the stairs to make sure I hadn't broken my neck -- or even worse, screwed up my foot surgery -- but now, except for Ben, we're all savvy to the crashing-crutches routine, hence the shout-out rather than First Responder mode.)

All in all, I'm much happier crutch-walking. And I'll be looking for it at 2012 Summer Olympics.

Looking for love in all the right places

Nyjer thistle seed socks.

Easily one of the best investments we've made in recent years. Our dividend? A lively, colorful colony of American goldfinches, aka spinus tristis, Eastern goldfinch or wild canary, who have taken up residence in and around our garden.

It's spring, and the gentlemen, in particular, are making their presence known -- quickly trading in their dull ochre winter coloring for a bright lady-pleasing yellow. And although the finches won't nest and start their broods till late June-early July, the guys aren't wasting any time.

Although usually somewhat circumspect, using the foliage and branches of the cherry tree for protection, our male goldfinches proudly perch on the top branches of the tree these days, puffed out like feathery lemons. (I counted about 8 a couple of days ago!) They fill the backyard with a light, reedy song -- letting the ladies know they're ready, willing and able.

Even our incorrigible gang of sparrows seem a bit subdued by the goldfinches' springtime transformation. At least for now.

My new right foot: Ben

We've completed Week One of "My New Right Foot" and I think we've gotten the routine down.

Well, everyone except Ben. Simply put, he is mystified by this strange turn of events that has me home 24/7 but completely useless when it comes to walks, working in the backyard and fetching treats.

He IS a happy camper that someone is home all day who's not opposed to sharing a futon and down comforter with him. BUT the walk thing has him completely and unequivocably flummoxed. To whit:

It's no secret the dog knows how to tell time. Like sunrise, he stirs about 6:30 a.m. each morning and is standing at attention at the side of my bed at 7 -- the time we normally leave for the park. His cognac eyes sparkle with anticipation. . . until I wallow on over onto my feet and he spies the accursed surgical shoe. (I think he goes to bed each night praying this odd human footwear will somehow evaporate overnight.) His ears sag -- and then collapse backward when I tell him, "Not this morning. Go find dad."

Be assured, Ben is NOT walk-deprived. He's out the door with the WPS by 7:30 most mornings. It's just that, well, it's DIFFERENT for a dog of Ben's sensitivities.

Afternoon is no different. By 4:30, Ben is upright and rigid on the futon, eyes darting back and forth from my foot to the bedroom door. By 5, he pulls out all the stops and goes "cute," resting his head on the bed and fixing me with an unwavering, unblinking, soul-penetrating stare. Thankfully, the WPS intervenes and breaks the canine guilt chain.

Walks completed for the day, he's a different dog. Back up on the futon, wrestling me for comforter real estate, he's content to hunker down while I read and watch TV. But I know, although Ben's happily sprawled out next to me, he's wondering when life, as he defines it, will be back to "normal". . . when that strange shoe goes away -- and those funny sticks that currently prop me up are back in the closet.