Mischa’s misery

Something I have introduced in Mischa’s life is showers. He is your typical dog and loves to roll in anything mucky, and after a while he does not exactly smell like roses. When you add his farting abilities to the list you may well wonder why I kept him.

I’ve managed to get his farts down to a bearable level by putting him on a diet of two small meals per day and solely on dog food. He does not get leftovers, and the only time he gets something that falls outside the recommended for dogs category is when someone feeds him something behind my back. Ok, there are exceptions. If I have boiled white rice leftover after dinner I will mix a little of that into his food. And the odd grated carrot and spoonful of olive oil. Yes, I spoil him rotten.

The coat-stench, however, is something that occasionally has to be tackled by a shower and copious amounts of shampoo. Daily grooming, even with the furminator, is not enough. And the undercoat works like a magnet on dirt.

The first time I bathed him I spent half an hour wrestling him into the bathtub. Then I spent another half hour wrestling him back into the bathtub. He was a slippery as a wet bar of soap even before we got started.

Next time I had read about this wonderful trick to smear peanut butter on the inside of the rim to get him to willingly jump in and remain there while licking the sticky substance off. Total failure. He doesn’t like peanut butter. And that says a lot about the world’s number one scavenger who will normally eat anything from mouldy bread to old bones covered in hair and dirt, taste other dog’s pee and lick the space where his balls should have been. I know. A delightful image. But the peanut butter was a waste of time. So I tried to dot pieces of sausage on the rim along the wall. It worked! And kept him there for exactly the nanosecond it took him to inhale all the pieces and leap back out. This was even before I started him on his diet in earnest and goes to show that when there is sausage involved, the dog can jump.

Since I moved I now have a large handicap-sized shower instead, and that makes my life a lot simpler and Mischa’s life a lot more miserable. Because now there is nowhere in that room where I can’t reach him with the shower. And that just makes him so indescribably miserable not even Disney could have drawn a sadder, big-eyed puppy.

He is, however, getting more used to it. And today we hardly wrestled at all. I think there is something about this body-rub that isn’t so horrible, even if it involves shampoo all over. The dull bit is trying to get it all out again. His coat is so thick it takes well over ten minutes to rinse him. And that is the point when he starts acting up and shaking himself and generally being a nuisance. And since that leaves me as wet and soapy as him I have learned that I may as well have a shower while we’re at it too, so it’s ended up being a joint venture.

Today we went to Donau Insel with Thomas and his kids, and the first thing Mischa did was to roll in the mud. There is a lot of it now after the Danube has been over its edges for a while with the latest floods, and no, it does not smell particularly nice. He had a great time, kept leaping into the New Danube (Neue Donau) and rolling in whatever muck was available. Though I dried him off as well as was possible and gave him a brush afterwards, he was still less than delightful and sweet-smelling by the time we got home. So it was shampoo time again. With his new shampoo which is far more expensive than mine with no perfume and made for dry skin and so on and so forth. I repeat; yes, I spoil him. I don’t have kids. Give me a break.

This time he walked calmly into the shower and stood there, head down, misery and doom shining out of him. He knew there was no escape. We went through the lengthy introductory wetting-process — is coat is both difficult to get wet all the way through and dry again after. He was still calm. Then it was shampoo time. He remained calm through that too, even seemed to enjoy the body rub. Well, he is a male, if ball-less, and he was being shampooed all over by a naked Scandinavian woman. Most men would not protest. When I reached for the shower head for the rinse he nearly slipped soapily out of my grasp, but I was prepared and wedged him back into place and rinsed and rinsed with him looking ever more as if he was ready to stick his paws in his air and cry “shoot me now — have some mercy!” — the whimp.

I almost got his towel around him before he shook violently, covering the dry bit of the bathroom in water, soaking the wooden door, and then went on a crazy run around the flat leaving a trail of water on the floorboards and bumping into walls with screeching breaks. I do wonder why dogs do that.

By the time I finished my own shower and re-joined him he was looking so down-trodden it would have broken any normal person’s heart. But not me. I know how to cheer him up. I bring out the hair-dryer. I’m being serious here. The moment he sees the hair-dryer he turns into a large, hairy ball of joy and literally tap dances around me until I get it plugged in, put a towel on the floor for him to sit on and turn it on. Then his face just melts with the sheer enjoyment of being dried and rubbed and cuddled to make up for the torture of the shower.

And when he leans closer to me, nuzzling his head under my chin, I know I am forgiven.

S lives in a soap factory

I hate filing systems that include “miscellaneous”. What do you put there?
Anyway, as I was saying, soap. Went to a party last night. Parties on Wednesdays should be outlawed. Especially when one is trying to live a New and Disciplined Life. Yes, I was the one who drank all that wine, no one forced me.

The party was in a soap factory. Um… I may have missed out some information here. First of all, the party was hosted by our business manager in her partner’s flat. She also lives in the same factory… I’ve missed out on some information again. Sorry. S and her partner live in separate flats in the same building. An arrangement I actually rather like. And the building is a former soap factory. And — the place totally defies description.

I think I woke up drunk this morning. I even dragged Mischa jogging in spite of my state, a cross-eyed, staggering jog with a confused set of stretching exercises at the end. At which point Mischa flopped over on his side and fell asleep again. Had to wake him up before I could drag him home. At work I’ve been tweeting incoherently about the most disconnected topics probably irritating the shit out of several of my Facebook friends with the automatic tweet updates. Tweeting is a little like holding a one-way conversation with your own brain while making absolutely no attempt to make sense of it. Rather revealing of the real me.

I’m digressing again.

The soap place was huge and white and the flats enormous open-plan spaces. It’s the kind of place I have always dreamt of having. So I hate them. We spent the evening plotting to kill them and hide the bodies. And then we drank their wine and ate their food. At one point I blurted blatantly to J, S’ partner, “what the hell do you do for a living??” which of course is the kind of thing one doesn’t say so I said it, not knowing that he is an acknowledged painter. And I guess an art collector — half the space was an art-gallery. J assured me that most of the things were of no monetary value, they were just things he had collected on his travels but how do you get twenty clay pots each the size of two basketballs into your suitcase?

It was somewhat like walking into a Woody Allen film with people milling around looking at the art and these enormous abstract oil paintings trying to seem to be holding deeply intellectual conversations while plotting to kill the host in sheer envy.

There were enormous quantities of drink and we totally lost track of how much we had, at least I did, and I know I babbled like a lunatic at everybody about everything and I have absolutely no recollection of what I said, how loudly I said it or who I said it to. So for all I know I may have plotted to kill the host together with the host. In which case I am unlikely to get invited again.

Spacious luxury!

At the end of May, Louise finished clearing out the “spare room” where she had left all of Max’ stuff after he died in November. It didn’t bother me that it took her a while. Even without that room I felt I had more than enough space. The rooms are large, the ceilings high, the light — exquisite.

However, as of 1 June I had that extra room, and I immediately moved the bed out of the living room and into the (new!) bedroom. I moved a lot of stuff around, and the result is that the entire flat looks empty and there is a slight echo everywhere. I have been offered a lot of stuff to fill the space, stuff I have turned down because I love the emptiness! I so love the space I, for the first two weeks, kept all the doors open and just circled, again and again, admiring the space, the light, the — everything. And it is of course easier to hoover if there are not too many things in the way, and that sort of thing counts when one is sharing a flat with Mischa, the dog that moults for Austria in the Olympics. He is perpetually surprised by my appearing through a different door each time he sees me and can’t quite get the hang of the quickest or easiest route from a to b. He is like Bambi on ice when we play football around the flat; his paws just can’t get a grip on the varnished floorboards and he slides around running into walls and doors.

I did accept one thing to take up a little space. Louise gave me a set of nesting tables which just doesn’t fit in with her taste but which is totally up my street. In walnut tree. Old, fine, light, with spindly legs — just beautiful. I seem to have developed the taste of a little old lady and will soon be putting doilies on everything in sight and little ornaments all over the place and spend all my time dusting them while humming and talking to myself.

I have loads of plans for the space. Not to fill it as such but to make the most of each room with colour, materials, matching the furniture better… which means that some of the IKEA style has to go. It will take time. That’s ok. And one of the first things I’m going to do is build a four-poster bed with Thomas’ help. I’ve looked around on websites and in furniture stores and they are way expensive, so I thought since in general they consist of four poles and some material (very general here), why not just make one? I shall post pictures once it’s done. It is bound to be a huge success.

I’m feeling good these days. I guess the anti-depressants are working.

The freedom to wear a burqa

I Twittered this two days ago:

President Sarkozy — my new hero.

And on being asked what I meant posted this link.

I then got this reply from a friend who has been teaching English in Riyadh for a while:

“He’s pathetically uninformed, as he has been on issues such as these since he took office. Forcing someone NOT to wear something is just as bad as forcing them to wear it. Many Muslim women prefer to wear it, for religious reasons or otherwise. Would you honestly rather see these women locked in their homes, Ina?”

At that point I was wondering if I had to wear a burqa for him to have enough respect for me to get my name right. Anyway, this was my not overly eloquent reply:

“I think you’re totally barking up the wrong tree. I would like men of those cultures to have enough respect for those women not to call them whores for NOT wearing big, black sacks. I would like them to be evolved enough to take responsibility for their own sexuality NOT to blame women when men rape.
There is a lot more to the burqa than meets the eye.
In Europe we used to burn witches. We got over it. Is it not time for the Arab nations to get over their hatred of women too?”

In return I got this considered answer:

“I respect that, Ine, but you assume, like most westerners (as I did) that the burqa is a “symbol” of subjugation to women for all Muslims. It is only a symbol in OUR eyes. If they believed the Christian cross symbolized imprisonment, would we? I’m not denying that men rape and beat their wives, but this occurs among all societies and religions, is … Read more a product of education and opportunities, and not what we friggin’ wear. Believe it or not, I’ve met plenty of muslim men who don’t beat their wives, who are more “evolved” than any European will ever be, and whose wives feel happy to wear the burqa because they are free to. FREE to, Ine. I’m not barking up the wrong tree, I’m saying this is complicated and Sarkozy is simplifying the issue for political purposes and nothing else.”

Hey! I didn’t have to wear a burqa for him to, eventually, get my name right after all! Progress! But that’s hardly the point here. But look carefully at his two main arguments. He asks me if I would want to see those women locked in their homes and then tells me they are FREE to wear the burqa. Um. That’s where he lost me. Because that doesn’t sound like any sort of freedom to me. Only if you are free not to wear one can you also be free to wear one. At least to my mind. So in this respect, I am the one who is free to wear one, whereas they will have to remain in their homes if they choose not to. Which is not a real choice.

I would love to hear what others have to say, but preferably not white Canadian men who teach in Riyadh… Or white Western men in general. Best of all: I would like to hear what burqa-wearing women have to say on the topic. That would be far more interesting than anything J or I — and especially Sarkozy — might have to say on the topic. Suffice it to say, I choose not to wear a burqa, I choose not to wear a hijab, but my stance on the former is 100% negative, whereas the hijab I have no problem with. After all, it is a lot more appealing than the Christian symbol of a tortured, bleeding and dying man nailed to a cross. I even think I would resort to the hijab if I were to loose my hair instead of a wig. Or I’d just have my scalp tattooed.

Sorry. Rambling. Over and out.

Swine flu comment

And a big thank you to Bettina for this image which so well illustrates the latest scare.

Status update

Though my last post touched on the topic of giving and receiving advice, I did not refer to the various bits of advice that has come my way over the past month. It’s gone from the silly to the absurd to the sensible and been offered by family, friends and total strangers. Among the medication advice was mostly suggestions of alternative medicines. Which is very nice if you are a True Believer, which I am not. Both my parents are pharmacists, and it would take little short of a miracle to convince me of the usefulness of a cup of herbal tea against exhaustion and depression. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against a cup of tea. Proper black tea with milk. But there’s a time and a place — such as after the accident Kevin and I had a few years ago where a wheel fell off our hire van and the treatment when we were taken to hospital consisted of shaking broken glass out of our clothes and giving us cups of tea. THAT was the right time. That was proper trauma treatment, that was.

Luckily I have not been shouted at or told nasty things like: why don’t you just go hang yourself you nutter, there is no hope for you! which is the sort of thing one opens oneself up to when admitting publicly that one is cracking. Mostly it has been friendly, and sometimes downright sensible. Such as the advice given by someone (hi!) about getting some therapy. Sadly, my doctor seems to think that the talking cure is a form of superstition and he is not superstitious. After pressure from me he eventually gave me the business card of a guy whose English seems to consist of the two words “humane balance” printed on his card and whose services are not covered by any Krankenkasse, so I can’t afford to go there just to practice my German.

So for now I rely on my friends to hold me up when I’m down, the anti-depressants to keep the blackness at bay and Mischa to need my care so I don’t just think about myself all the time. And then I’ve gone back to work where I try to ease myself into some sensible work routines and where I’ve set the rule not to take work home with me. I run every morning (I’m very proud of myself for still doing that, and Mischa is beginning to look at lot fitter and has more energy now than I know what to do with). And I’ve actually set time aside for a summer holiday; three whole weeks of virtually no plans. Except working on my cabin which is in the process of being rebuilt into a mansion, courtesy of my mother. Eventually it will be expanded into a village and one day I shall rule the world.

Until I am ready for the world and the world ready for me — got to keep things in long-term perspective here — I’ll stop bothering you with The Dark Side and start looking for all those funny little things that regularly come my way and make life worth living.

Have a nice day/night wherever you are and whatever you do. Thanks for your thoughts, advice and attention.

Keep passing the open windows.

Ine

Advice received – advice not given

I don’t give people advice. Of any sort. Especially not the unsolicited kind. I generally assume that people know themselves better than I do considering that they spend all their time with themselves and I don’t. I also assume that they  generally know better than me what to do, even when they ask my opinion.

I wasn’t always like that. I used to dole out my superior opinion right left and centre whether I was asked or not. I always thought I knew better, that those who didn’t ask me simply didn’t know that I had the answer to their unspoken problems. And so it was my duty to inform them and relieve them of their ignorance. I wasn’t irritating at all.

One thing I never offer advice on is beauty products. Not because I don’t use them; I’m pretty much stocked up for years to come. But because my complete and utter lack of interest in the topic outside the practicalities of applying them myself is fairly — bottomless. I could not actually tell you what products I use. I can tell you that they come in bottles. And jars. And such. But manufacturer or recommendations I can not offer.

Let me tell you what I do know.

I use waterproof mascara. I always have. I realised that I had no choice being a user of hay fever eye drops in the summer. And later I started wearing contact lenses, which was my other excuse. Once I found a mascara that was really good called “totally waterproof” which I bought because it was called just that, but I have never found it again because I can’t remember who makes it. So now I’m using one in a blue plastic dispenser with an awkwardly big brush. That’s all I know about it. And that it’s fairly good at staying where it is supposed to be.

My eyshadows are all picked for their colour. Somtimes I’m lucky and find that they stay smoothly on my eylids all day, and sometimes they end up in stripey smudges or on my chin, and when that happens they go in the bin.

When I first started using eye-shadow I used one in bright blue, thinking that it would highlight my blue eyes. And I did at the time not use mascara or eye-liner. So it clearly looked a little odd. I kept doing this until my best friend at the time who was about to embark on a career as a catwalk model grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and showed me how to do it and told me what colours to pick. Her training was merciless and resulted in me being very good at putting make-up on with a near-professional result each time. And now I even use colours that actually do highlight the blue of my eyes. But she was unable to train me in the art of picking and sticking with a particular brand. The mere mention of brand names seem to short-circuit my brain and make me want to die. Colour and price are my guides.

As for skin-care products, well, once again I am forced by the nature of my dry skin to choose mild products. I have dry, sensitive skin, and in winter I also get atopic eczema from lack of sun (it doesn’t JUST give you cancer). As I can’t afford expensive products I once more have to let price be my guide, and also if the product is for sensitive skin, dermatologically tested and ph neutral. Here in Austria I have found that the chain dm produces its own line of skin products that’s actually quite good and affordable, but which of the products I use of theirs I can’t tell you. Though I seem to remember that one of my shampoos with accompanying conditioner is one of theirs because mum, the last time she was here, liked it and wanted the same so I had to take a second look at what I had actually bought.

So — sorry, Caroline! When you get here we’ll have to go to dm together, and then you can teach me all the things I don’t know about skin products! But please forgive me if I fall asleep at the first mention of L’Oreal or Maybellzzzzzz…..

Issues

Sorry about the silence. I’ve been dealing with

issues.

Such as getting used to anti-depressants (am now on a new type as the first one left me unable to sleep, which really didn’t help anything, just to state the obvious).

And finished the court case. ’nuff said; will tell all about that later. Suffice it to say that we are not in prison.

And started jogging to get in shape and hopefully feel better through being in better shape. Well, at least Mischa is beginning to benefit from the fitness regime. He looks great!

Went on the Toy-Run “dress rehearsal” today. It was wonderful. It ended in one of the children’s homes that the charity supports and the kids put on the most wonderful rendition of the little swans from Swan Lake; some of them overweight and in black leotards with bright pink tutus, they performed an imitation of the original choreography. I loved it! Did a short video of it but have not had the time to upload it so the sample will have to come later. The actual Toy-Run is on the 21 June this time. I’m pondering how to attach a cuddly toy to my little Kawasaki Ninja so it won’t fall off during the run. Last year I had two flags and a small “rescue cuddly-toy” with me, but they all fell off… I clearly made a shit job of attaching them.

I’m going to bed now. Am going back to work full time as of tomorrow. Am sort of looking forward to it.

And you thought IKEA was bad

A while ago I fell in love with this chest of drawers. It was called an “Apotekerschrank” and had lots of drawers. But I kept putting off ordering it for various reason. Such as being short of money and stuff like that. You know, the usual.

Eventually they — Dänisches Bettenlager — dropped the price and I thought, what the h***, might as well go for it. I was convinced it was a great idea, that when I paid €35 to have it delivered it would be carried to wherever I wanted it and voilà, there it would be, the perfect chest of drawers in the perfect spot, ready to be filled with my imperfect clothes.

Ah — no.

Tuesday morning there was a ring on my door and a guy shoved a piece of paper in my face with my name on it, asked if that was me and on confirmation disappeared down the stairs. Not to reappear. So eventually I trotted down to see what had become of him and found a hydraulic trolley with a pallet and two large parcels on it  right outside the front door, but still with no sign of the man with the van.

After a couple of minutes’ dejected and confused waiting I eventually spotted him walking leisurely towards me from a long distance, and on finally reaching me he told me there was no loading bay anywhere near and he’d had to go to the North Pole or something. Then he started to unload the trolley, pallet and all, right there on the pavement.

“??” I said.
“I only have to deliver to the address”, he said. “This is the address, I deliver.”
“I have paid a small fortune for delivery — do you expect me to carry that myself? It weighs more than me! And what do I want a pallet for??”
He shrugged and repeated the previous, pulled out a piece of paper and said “That’s me”, pointing to his name on the paper — “me, the driver.” Then he pointed to the number above the door and said “Address. I deliver.”

I could see no way around it. I had to resort to crazy-woman-with-nothing-better-to-do so I screamed at the poor man that this was madness, that I could not be expected to cart 70 kg worth of boxes, plus a pallet I didn’t need, up two flights of stairs, that this was no service at all.

He offered to do it for me if I paid extra.

I resorted to even-crazier-woman until he shouted “what do you want? Do you want me to take it back?!”

I said yes. Actually, I yelled YES!!! with at least three exclamation marks. And stalked off in my very best stalk.

And that’s the point when crazy-woman paid off and driver buckled, ’cause driver was not allowed to return with the goods if customer was indeed there and I KNEW HIS NAME. So the end of the delivery was that I did not have to accept the pallet and that we carried the parcels up together.

But I did not tip because crazy-woman is very mean that way. Hm, come to think of it, my German has never been better than it was then…

So, there I was, with two heavy parcels of Royal Oak Apotekerschrank from Dänisches Bettenlager. And my brain short-circuited at the thought of putting it all together. When I looked at the drawings I saw nothing but a mess so I left the parcels in the spare room with all of Max’ things and fell asleep. Falling asleep is generally what I do these days when my brain overloads. Except at night when I should sleep. It’s great. Works a treat at keeping me crazy.

When I later cried out my despair to Kevin he came over and sorted it all out with me as his assistant handing him screw-drivers and screws as he told me to. I’ve never seen him so calm. Usually it is me who assemble stuff quietly and patiently, only swearing occasionally, and Kevin who swears like a trooper and flies off his handle at irregular intervals. Talk about reversed roles. I actually like assembling things. It’s a little like complicated Lego. But this totally ruined several evenings and the mess on the floor had Mischa tip-toeing between screws and metal and wood parts for drawers. He’s quite good at that, even when walking backwards he is able to avoid stepping on things.

Right now he’s lying on the floor next to me with a look of “I’m a poor, starving, neglected puppy and nobody loves me” so I think I had better prove him wrong by taking him outside for a groom and then giving him a shampoo. That should make him feel loved.

Oh bum

So what did I achieve by taking my mental state to the Internet? Well, first and foremost I’ve received advice regarding natural remedies (herbs and such), yoga and meditation (as long as I don’t have to chant I am all for it), and offers of various shoulders to cry on.

But the downside, the BIG downside is that I have upset my parents. And when their worried e-mails signalled just how much I at first really regretted writing about this. I wished that I had gone on pretending that all is well, that I am Superwoman, capable of working ridiculous hours, caring for a dog, dealing with my grief as well as Kevin’s, owning a stupidly wonderful old MG, being a wild biker chick and nothing, nothing would ever faze me.

Yeah. Did that come back to kick me in the teeth, or what?

If I had not admitted that I’m breaking I could have caused myself some serious, lasting, damage. I don’t know what kind. I’m not that experienced in the department of mental injury. I just knew it had to be NOW or forever hold my peace. And that was just no longer an option.

I’m not ok. I hurt. But I have just done one thing right: I have admitted it. And now I am trying to do something about it.

I agree that the Happy Pill is a dodgy route to go. But I have a good doctor I trust and who is doing close follow up. I’m seeing him again tomorrow, and then we will be going over the initial side effects and see how we can reduce them. And, as my mum pointed out, pills are not a solution when there is a problem; just taking anti-depressants and going back to work to try to catch up with a work-load that is already too big for me is not going to help in the long run. So once I get my brain on a more even keel (that’s what the pills are for) then it is time to tackle the things that started this whole thing in the first place.

But as long as I am at the stage where I can’t take in information, where I can’t remember a conversation minutes after it took place, when a simple chat with another person leaves me totally drained — as long as this is the state I am in I can’t sort it all out.

So for now I am observing the side-effects of the pills with mild interest, allowing myself to let go and being totally open about it. Because I know one thing. There was another me before this. A me I want back. And I have already glimpsed that light in the other tunnel — I just need to find the tunnel. I know it’s around here, somewhere.

And now it’s time to care for that dog. Mischa! Walkies!