I actually stopped to smell the roses

Today, I woke up in a crappy mood. A really crappy mood. I'm so over this weather that I went to bed at 9pm last night - unwilling to let my allergy-infused day last any longer.

I'm ready to start my period. Barksdale is on a new thing - he wakes up in the middle of the night, wanting to go out. Really, it's just a ploy for some attention, and I'm determined to not give in to his wet nose nuzzling my face. When that doesn't work, he goes down and nuzzles my feet.

So.. not much uninterrupted sleep these days.

Crabbiness abounds - couldn't find anything to wear. Had to take out the garbage this morning. Ice on the streets. Still.

Cold. Blah. Two days away from payday and every bit of it has to go to pay bills, the mortgage, and homeowner's insurance.

Double blah.

Walk into work. Ugh. A cog in the capitalist machine. Except I work for a non-proft, so.. a cog in some other machine? The DoGood2000?

Still not feeling any better about life, but I do manage to hold the door open for another building cog, er.. resident.

Sitting on the receptionist's desk is a small bouquet of flowers, which... this isn't really a spoiler by now, is it?... I stopped to smell.

Despite my stuffy nose, they smelled good. Refrigerated florist good, which is to say - not so good. But still... I stopped to smell the freaking roses and I feel a little bit better.

Mark Bittman - a kindler, gentler Anthony Bourdain

I'm quickly becoming addicted to TED Talks, the online lecture series hosted by TED, a non-profit devoted to "ideas worth spreading". One of the best things they do is award three $100,000 awards every year to people who have an idea they believe will change the world.

Every morning, I just pull up a lecture before making my coffee and smoothie, and by the time I'm ready for my shower, I've been inspired, enlightened - or sometimes pissed off.

Here's an older speech I found by Mark Bittman, where he rails against fast food, factory farming and cow farts. Even though he's not a vegetarian, he presents a compelling argument for consuming less animal products.

When two bad habits make a right

Leesil often accuses me of "stuffing", but I prefer to think of it as "tidying". If the house is cluttered, and someone's on their way over, I have no qualms about wholesale sweeping of crap into a bag and putting it in the cupboard to deal with later. Leesil, on the other hand, is fascinated with hoarders and if the Sunday paper isn't in the recycling bin by Wednesday, starts mumbling about interventions and ladies with 27 cats.

This is the first time in my life I've ever owned a dishwasher (that works), and there were many, many times that I'd slam a sink's worth of dirty dishes in the oven while frantically straightening up before someone rings the doorbell. Incidentally, in the only other comes-with-dishwasher home I've lived in, I used it to store plastic grocery bags.

See... I like things neat, and I think that's close enough to clean.

I will admit that there is one time when I freely indulge in stuffing - when we're packing the car for a trip. Knowing that two people, one dog, assorted magazines/books, snacks, electronics, and our luggage has to fit comfortably in a Mini Cooper is enough for me to break out blueprints and consult Navy-wife moving guides.

Most of the detritus, by default, lands on the passenger side of the car, and Leesil's not dumb - she'd rather drive for hours than sit with her feet perched on a stack of reading material and discarded water bottles.

It was especially bad on our holiday drive to Florida - packed with presents, dog food, etc.

We were running late and I was throwing stuff into bags willy-nilly, knowing that halfway down 95 I'd be rummaging past work papers to reach my allergy medicine or ipod.

Sure enough, at some point, I'd started re-arranging things - dog bowls under the seat, small items in the glove box (the second largest storage area in the car).

A week later, we're home - safe and sound. The car's unpacked, but not washed or cleaned out yet. Leesil's tootling around town - saving lives and jeopardizing others by talking on her cell phone while driving.

She gets pulled over - PISSED! It's her personal belief that social workers should be exempt from parking, speeding and illegal U-turn infractions because they're busy saving lives. Not sure that I agree with her, and I'm pretty sure MPD doesn't either.

The cop asks for her driver's license and registration, so she goes into the glove box, where -- ta da! A pair of my pink panties is lying on top of stashed parking tickets.

Needless to say, she didn't get the ticket, and I've gotten a free pass on stuffing for another week or so.

I am a self-centered bastard

Sunday morning. It's cold and rainy, but I've got the NY Times and the Post to keep me happy. I'm thinking that the Leno/Conan brouhaha will be front and center in the Styles section, and I'm looking forward to a more in-depth analysis than some internet based "TEAM CONAN" crap.

But all I see are stories about Haiti, and I'm just not ready to deal with it yet, so I decide to take the dog for a walk.

Now, this inspires in me a feeling of grandiose moral superiority usually reserved for someone who.. say... just performed life-saving CPR on a stranger.

But not me.. the sheer act of putting on boots, raincoat and loading Barks' neck down with training collars.. let's just say I'm pretty much Mother Teresa in my head right now.

We get to the park and - probably because I'm being so selfless - there's a nice big stick right inside the entrance. Karma.

This means we'll get some cool playtime without the worry or distraction of other dogs. Stick throwing ensues, and I'm even inserting a little bit of training in the mix, so I'm feeling especially good about myself right now. I tell myself to stay out here for 30 mins. at least. I'm soaked and freezing cold, but this feels like the type of "giving" required of dog owners and I feel good about it.

5 minutes in, and a car pulls up. I put the leash back on, and wait to see who gets out of the car. I recognize the car, but can't really place it. Might be Leon and Cairo, might be Hercules and KC's owner - not sure.

I can see the owner eyeballing us from the front seat, so I decide it's best to just leave. Either it's someone who knows us and doesn't want to risk a fight, or it's someone with a "problem" dog like Barksdale and they've had the same thought: playtime away from other dogs.

Either way, our session's cut short and I'm trying to talk myself out of a full-blown internal hissy fit.

I see who it is, and sure enough.. it's a much bigger dog that Barks went after the other day.

I love this dog and love his owner, so just wave and smile and head over to the "bike trail". The trail that borders the Metro track, and is full of mud and tar, and for some reason is strewn with garbage right now. Seriously... huge bags of garbage are torn open and lining the trail.

Don't get me wrong - I normally love walking along and checking out the graffiti on the abandoned buildings. It's a cool little urban retreat - quiet and toxic with dredged oil pits, slabs of construction material, and muddy holes. But it's beautiful and I've found some pretty amazing pieces of abandoned steel there.

I also feel a bit weird about the trail. To construct it, the city has had to clear out a homeless encampment, and that leaves me a bit conflicted. I came across the encampment once, and it was a small, fully functional city - bathing facilities, sleeping area, etc.

Some of the homeless have moved over to the trail - for a while there was a stack of blankets and a small children's mattress at the entrance, but for the most part, it's been pretty quiet, albeit strewn with garbage.

But I've had my heart set on hanging in the grassy field and I'm annoyed.

Why were we the ones to leave; we were there first?

Why didn't I think to ask her to keep him on the leash so that we could work on his socialization skills?

Now he's going to need a bath when we get home.

It's cold outside. I'm wet already.

Why why why whaa whaa whaa...

And then I see it.. a small cardboard sign. Perfectly lettered, almost as if it was drawn by a 14 yr. old girl. There was even a small drawing of Woodstock in the corner.

There was a lot of information packed onto that piece of cardboard:

Disabled.

Complications from back surgery.

Hungry.

Help.

And suddenly.. my stupid jockeying for a bit of unclaimed space in the city seems even more ludicrous, selfish and petty than ever.

I know that when this walk is over, I'm going to head back to my home, turn up the heat, and drink a cup of coffee. In warmth and comfort. And the dog will be bathed and wrapped in a thick, dry towel. All of which seems like such an unbelievable luxury to me as I stand in the rain and look down at the sign in the mud.

I look down at the dog, click my tongue and say "C'mon pal, let's get you some exercise" and we jog down the path - thankful, chastened and wet.

Surely, there must be some mistake

One of the cool things about living in DC is, depending on how crazy you get at guest registries, you can get junk mail from pretty impressive places. National Arboretum. The Smithsonian. 9:30 Club.

So, it wasn't really a surprise to see a small white envelope from the NIH (Nat'l. Institute of Health - a BIG employer in the area) stuffed in amongst the Ikea and pizza place fliers. What did catch me off guard is that it was from the Mental Health division. Even that I could explain away. "Must be something to do with Leesil", I quickly thought.

Oh HELL NO! Someone has obviously mixed up the DOB fields in their Excel file and put me on the wrong mailing list.

That's the only explanation I can come up with.

Barksdale the Wonder Dog

If a person's lucky, at least once in their life he or she will own a dog that melds into your life in such a way that you can't imagine a life before the dog. A dog that will gambol ahead on long walks, but come back to check in periodically - nudging your hand with a wet nose as if to say "Hey, it's fun chasing squirrels; I wish you could join in".

When you find a dog like that, you willingly walk through the snow so that he can potty in his favorite spot. You envision buying a farm so that he can enjoy his old age lying in an apple orchard by a creek. You wake up every morning to him curled up at your feet, and you go to bed each night hearing the soft thump of his tail.

Barksdale's not that dog.

Barksdale's the dog that it took me 2 months to teach how to shake hands, but after 30 seconds, has the game "get the broom" seared into his head, turning every (rare) house-cleaning session into a battle of wills.

Barksdale's the dog that has cost us nearly $3000 in vets bills and broken leashes in the 7 months that we've owned him. He has eaten shoes. Books (his favorites are dog-training manuals). Sheets and towels. Disposable razor blades. Dog dishes. A cactus. The prickly kind.

Because we rescued him from Baltimore, and because I'm the kind of dork who will name a dog after an obscure cultural reference, we named him after a drug dealer on "The Wire", and he has lived up to that name in more ways than I can imagine. He uses his varied skills for evil, not good and his mere presence can clear the dog park of the neighborhood's more upstanding owners.

I live in constant fear that he will ultimately go down in a blaze of gunfire after charging one of the many cops patrolling the streets around our house.

Right now, we're working with a dog trainer, who is on the verge of referring us to a dog behaviorist. Who will no doubt in turn refer us to a hypnotist. Who will then probably gently suggest we buy an apple farm - with a creek - away from people, cars, and other distractions.

Believe it or not, he has come a long way in the 8 months that we've owned him. He no longer barks at plug-in air fresheners, nor does he freak out if someone walks by under an umbrella, ella, ella. He hasn't chased the homeless guy in our neighborhood in nearly 3 months, and he now sits, stays, shakes, "gets the hat", lies down, and comes - sometimes - when you call him.

Our training sessions are equal parts street theater and Dog Whisperer. He's afraid of loud noises, so I'll careen around the field by our house pushing an abandoned Home Depot shopping cart, laughing so that he thinks it's a game. He loves to feel as if he's pleased us, so I'll often fall to my knees in rapture if he performs the slightest task correctly. It's truly embarrassing.

Last night, Barks and I had one of our epic "who's the boss" moments, er.. 45 minutes. It ended with him DRAGGING me across the living room floor by the hoodie on my sweatshirt while I fought to keep the zipper from decapitating me.

And somehow I still think I won that one.

It's warm in my heart this Saturday

Surprisingly - given the hell that I went through trying to get to sleep last night - I woke up refreshed and convinced that it was a nice sunny Florida morning here in DC.

Let me tell you - if you've ever been so frustrated that you start throwing pillows at the person sleeping next to you - and you're not at a slumber party - then this is nothing short of a miracle.

It's been a week since our epic 20 hour(!) drive back from St. Pete, and I've been waging war with some bugs in my throat ever since. My strategy, which includes kale soup with chiles, grapefruit from Joellen (thanks so much), vitamin C and bitching non-stop about the weather, seemed to be working.

Until last night - hence the pillows.

Today, I felt much better and able to tackle one of my New Year's Resolutions:

Eat in a Conscious Manner

My conscious eating revolves around three things I grapple with:

Healthy eating:

Even though I've been a vegetarian nearly my entire adult life, I still find it easier to pop in a fake chikn patty than chop, shred, saute, etc.

This year, I've resolved to remove as much processed food as possible from my diet.

Second, I want to be as responsible as I can to the people who grow, pick, and prepare my food. This means buying locally (easy to do in season at the many farmers markets we visit; not so easy in the winter), buying organic, and third...

Not Wasting Food

See, I have grand plans for healthy dinners, but there are lots of good restaurants in DC, and I find my fridge full of rotten broccoli, mushy ginger, and slimy peppers way too often.

These three things are so intertwined that it's impossible to even assign a hierarchy to them.

One is simply not possible without the other.

Purchasing outside the big-ag system is more labor-intensive, costly (no thanks to gov't. subsidies), and time-consuming. But it's worth it to me, and I enjoy doing it.

Which is all a very soap-boxy way of saying that I used the following ingredients to make some pretty yummy Pumpkin Pear muffins for breakfast this morning:

Left-over pumpkin from a soup recipe gone awry

That last bit of oatmeal that's not enough for a full bowl, but too much to throw away

Not mushy YET ginger

One of two pears that were definitely in the mushy stage

So.. waking up, pulling up a Neko Case playlist on LaLa, and whipping up some healthy, conscious breakfast bread was a pretty kick-ass way to chase away the no-sleep blues.

And I can now tackle cleaning up the oatmeal box I gave the dog to play with while I cooked.