Matty and the Dog

When Prokofiev decides to remake Peter and the Wolf as a killer new story titled Matty and the Dog, I am not certain what instrument will play me.

Today, though, I would need all the instruments in an orchestra to come surging forth at once to create a one-time only (I hope) situation that left pee on the floor of the elevator area on the third floor at work. Dog pee, so everyone can breath a sigh of relief both that I did not pee at work and that I won't be talking my evacuation system. Not much anyway.

A flourishing piano would represent my vet, who put Claren on a course of Temporal P for her itching. It does help, a lot, but it makes Claren drink a ton, which makes her need to pee frequently.

Perhaps, a jolly whistle would start next. A friend who always has a million meetings found some free time to get outside with me and Claren for a walk at lunch. Unfortunately, we left at 11:30, a little earlier than usual for Claren's midday constitutional.

Claren came back from the walk and had two big drinks of water. I would like to say I didn't notice, but clearly I did. Maybe since I am hard of hearing, I just did not hear the swelling music. It would get louder; I did not notice.

Then, a while after lunch would come the rum-tum-tums of my stomach. I have been shuttling back and forth between schedules for a few weeks and I am all right, just not real good in the stomach area. This is probably no different for anyone, but I am willing to bet it is more of a pain for me to get to a bathroom. It also means Claren's full bladder gets jostled around as she walks back and forth from the bathroom.

I am not sure there is an instrument in the orchestra that could be the fire alarm that went off when I was in the bathroom. I was just washing my hands so it wasn't that bad, but since I am in a chair, I can't go out. I just wait in a stairwell, and by the time I got to the stairwell, everyone one had already passed by. And that cost me a chance to send Claren out with one of my friends.

After the drill finally ended, Claren was a mix of plaintive horn with her big eyes pleading with me to go out -- I said "soon" -- and goofy kazoo, running around when we finally left.

But I had to go the bathroom and went, ignoring that Claren stood at the door to the bathroom, not following me to the stall as she always does.

We made it to the elevators, and she just squatted down and peed. She did stop when I said DON'T, but that made things worse. I then had a dog with a half-full bladder and pee on the floor and no one around.

The entire orchestra would be playing a dirge or something now as I hopped on the elevator, got outside as quick as I could and let Claren run alone to the grass. While she was peeing Dad was driving up, so I left Claren with him and went back in. I just told the guard at the front desk who told me they'd clean it up but was so blase about it I am honestly not sure.

I am worried that this blog that is very anti-company is going to report that morale is so bad workers are peeing in the halls.

Matty and the Dog is going to be an interesting piece of music.

Like a poor little bunny

I fell getting off the couch for dinner tonight, and I could just not get back in my chair or on to the couch.

You know those nature shows where a trapped animal just gets more and more flustered and exhausted, and you know that it is doomed, even though if it just relaxed and looked at things clearly, it could easily escape. But no, the eagle swoops in and with its great talons rips the poor bunny who was just stuck in some brush.

It was kind of like that, although relaxing doesn't help me get back in my chair and the talons are the arms of my 72-year-old father who did not admit helping me up hurt him.

Want to go to a Springsteen concert, Natalie Portman?

I do wish Natalie Portman would hurry up and fall for me; I am getting too much practice being an also-ran.

I have written that Claren is good practice for my future life with Ms.Portman because Claren is obviously the star and I am easily overlooked.

This morning at brunch, for instance. All the little kids walking by Claren looked; one even blew her a kiss.

The Claren worship took an unexpected turn when an older lady asked if she was Marley. I am pretty sure she meant Marley, the dog from the movie Marley and Me, not say Jacob Marley from a Christmas Carol or Bob Marley.

My dog is being mistaken for a movie star.

I see this as only another plus when I am pitching woo at Ms. Portman. She won't have to hide from the paparazzi. Claren will have the attention and she will lap it up.

Ms. Portman may have to wear her disguise on our first date: I propose to take her to the Bruce Springsteen concert next week her in DC, and I would leave Claren at home.

I wasn't planning on going -- I went in Boston and I don't know that that concert can be topped. But my wonderful brother and his super-freaking-cool wife gave me their tickets because she can't go. I may have to explain things to the head of disability seating who my brother sweet-talked to get the tickets. That will be Ms. Portman's job.

Just let me marry Michael Chabon and that's all

I read an article this morning about some woman who had written a book called "Bad Mother." Apparently, Ayelet Waldman got that name after admitting in The New York Times that she loved her husband more than her kids.

I was a little wary of her right there until I saw that she was married to Michael Chabon. Truth be told, I think if I were married to Michael Chabon I'd love him more than my kids. Come on, this is Michael Chabon. Kavalier & Klay, Summerland, Escapist comics, not to mention a Simpsons appearance. He is a catch, Ayelet, and I like gals.

Unfortunately, that is not the whole story. A chapter details her decision to have an abortion, "to end his life, she wrote in Salon, after a genetic test revealed a bad problem.

I hate genetics.

Because of genetics, I guess I can prove to people that I am really disabled, that I am not living a huge con game for the perks: parking, service dog, babes (two out of three).

But genetics has not figured out how to cure or even treat me even though Freidriech's ataxia has been the "hot" disease for years now, according to one of my neurologists. Genetics has not cured cancer, either. The cold is still around, too.

Genetics or medical fundraisers say, "We are this close!" or "We have come so far!" Maybe get back to me when you start curing stuff instead of just determining why things happen.

But no. Genetics just discovered a problem with this "baby" (she calls him that), and left her with no good choice, certainly no easy one.

In the story I read, the writer mentions a doctor who had a mentally retarded son and told Waldman that she loves her son "desperately." But the doctor said her son would not be around if the doctor had to do it again.

I cannot begin to comprehend the hardship involved with being severely disabled, mentally or physically. I whine a lot, but I know I am pretty lucky all in all.

But I cannot believe that the retarded son would prefer to not exist. I wouldn't.

I may go to bed dreaming of being married to Michael Chabon, just to avoid thinking about genetic testing, abortion, disability, not existing, etc.

The Lorax would be pissed

I have always liked Dr. Seuss' Lorax. He is not for everyone, I guess, like my kindergarten niece who is scared of him and about a million other things.

It is not that I am real environmentalist. I mean I like trees, but I love development and cities. Pretty hard to use a wheelchair in fields.

It might be because I am not much of a talker; the Lorax is and best of all he talks for those who don't talk themselves. "I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues." How can you not love the guy?

They started development in the field Friday. Not our house, not yet. Why you would start anything on a Friday is beyond me but whatever.

It was no fun to see, but we all knew it was coming. All I really minded was the trees, and they weren't even nice trees. It was just sad to see these things that survived so much torn up by a big old machine.

If I were the developer, I'd watch out for a furry, little, orange man.