The Dog In The Road

Yesterday, when my sister and I were coming back from a trip to Wal-Mart (something we do a lot when we're both home for breaks), we decided to take a back road to get home. It's a road we use a lot when we're heading to Wally World or Pizza Hut, both of which are located on the east side of town. It passes by a Berean church, a few residential areas, the Catholic cemetery, and a retirement home, and we often find ourselves cursing the frustrating but understandable 30 mph signs; it's so easy to cruise on the stretch at 45 without realizing. The stretch allows us to avoid turning onto the highway at a high traffic area. 

"So I have a song to play for you," Heidi said, scrolling through the lists of songs on her iPod. She tapped her finger on the screen and set the player on the dashboard, reaching to adjust the volume. "I don't know if you've heard this before or not."

"Oh really?" I asked, tilting my head. As soon as I heard the opening notes, I glanced over at her and back to the road in front of me. It was Gotye's "Somebody That I Used To Know", a song I'd played over and over since she had introduced it to me weeks ago. "I have heard this, actually. Remember? You posted it on my wall?" 

"Oh yeah," she said, and cracked a joke (at that point we were in a pretty silly mood). 

We passed the cemetery and turned onto the second leg of the route, a hilly stretch that passes by the church and the retirement facility. The closer we got to the church and North Street, though, we started to notice something in the roadway. 

"What is happening?" Heidi said, in her usual tone of a statement rather than a question. "What is that? Is that a dog? A person crouched over?" 

"I don't know," I said, slowing down and coming to a complete stop about ten feet away. It was a brown and white dog, and it was picking and pulling at a section of roadkill that had been sitting in our lane. "Ugh, that's so gross. What should I do?" I checked the mirrors to see if there was someone behind me, and then ahead to see if there was anyone coming from the opposite direction. There was no one. 

"Honk at it," Heidi said. 

I did. The first time, the dog didn't do anything. I waited a few seconds for it to move, and then hit the horn once more. The dog just looked up at us, a string reaching from its mouth to the half of roadkill it was picking at that was now hanging an inch from the ground.*

We yelled in disgust, shielding our eyes. Heidi laughed a little. "Oh my God! Is this really happening right now?!" she said. 

"Why did you do that?" I yelled at the windshield in direction of the dog, who had ducked his head and resumed its picking. I honked again, two sharp blasts, hoping that it would scare the dog into moving off the road. It didn't.

"Heather, you have to move around it," Heidi said. 

"No! The last time something like this happened, the raccoon got spooked at the last second and ran directly into the line of my tires. I don't want to risk hitting the dog if we try to move around it." 

"Seriously?" Heidi sounded more annoyed at the situation than at my story. She looked back at the dog. "MOVE!" she yelled. The dog looked up at us again, disinterested. 

"What do I do?!" I thought about the possibilities we had. I could reverse down the road a bit, turn into the church parking lot, and go back to the highway, turn right, and head back past Lakeview and Hardees to head home. That was a lot of work, but I did not want to hit the dog--I would never get over it. "Heidi, get out and see if you can shoo it off the road and I'll move the car and then you can get back in..."

"No. Heather, we have to move. You're going to have to move around it--"

"I don't want to!"

"It'll be fine. I don't think it's going anywhere. Just go slowly." 

I sighed and then crept forward keeping an eye on the dog and the road ahead. "Watch the dog," I said, turning the wheel to the left a little to change over into the other lane. "Keep an eye on it."

"I know. I'm watching. Just go slowly," she said. 

I watched the dog from the corner of my eye as we moved around him, scared that it would get spooked and run in front of my car. I remembered Dad telling me about the dog he'd had as a kid that got hit by a snowblower, and the kid who'd hit it coming to the door in tears to let him and my uncles know. 

But as we creeped along beside it, the dog picked up his meal in his mouth, and casually walked around the back of the car safely to the side of the road. 

"Really?" Heidi cried. "Did you seriously just do that, dog? Just walk away?" 

"Did that seriously just happen? Like, how does that even happen?" But I was relieved.

This morning when we were heading back on the same route coming back from Wal-Mart (Mom asked us to pick up some drinking water), Heidi looked over at me from the driver's seat. "Hey. Remember that one time?" 

"That we saw that dog? Yes. I do." I said. 

*I apologize for how graphic this is. It was disgusting. I felt like I was in a movie. 

"Make Lemonade"

When I was in high school, I made my way through all the YA books both the public library and the school library had. Well, all the ones that sounded good, and I tried to read as many as I could. One of the books I picked up was a book written in poetry form (I think either blank verse or free verse, and because I'm such a terrible English major, I can't remember which is which--my deepest apologies) called True Believer. I remember feeling really affected by it because it was so unique in comparison to the kinds of things I had been reading before.

A year or two after reading it, I was browsing the school library's collection of YA books*, and I found a book called Make Lemonade by Virginia Euwer Wolff. I found out that ML was the first of a trilogy that included True Believer, the second book in the series.

After I'd finished reading both in the series, I tried looking on the internet to see what the third one was called and instead found out that it had not yet been published. When I had to read True Believer again for my Lit for Adolescents class a few years ago, I looked again, my love for the series renewed**, and found out that the third book had not yet been published. I asked my professor if she knew anything about it, and she knew no more than I did.

After I got back from getting my hair cut earlier today, my roommate Prairie was sitting at the dining room table with my battered but loved used copy of True Believer. She had recently finished Make Lemonade and I suggested reading TB since she loved the first book so much. She commented on how much she loved the book so far.

"There's supposed to be a third one in the series," I said, rinsing off the saucepan I'd been washing and putting it into the dish drainer. "I don't think it's out yet, though."

"Really?" she said, turning the book over in her hands and inspecting the cover.

"I think so. Gimme a sec and I'll see if there's anything about it yet online. I don't even know what it's called..." I dried my hands and got on my laptop and did a google search.

I pulled up Virginia Euwer Wolff's website and clicked on the books link. Among the covers shown, I noticed one that looked pretty recent, a book called This Full House, and clicked on it.

As soon as I saw the name LaVaughn, I flipped out. "I think this is it! It has to be!"

I had to double check, just to be safe.*** It came out in 2009, and I didn't know until two years later. But no matter. Finally, after years and years, the trilogy is complete. I can't wait to read it.


*I think this is where I found it, because I don't recall the public library having it, but it could be the other way around. I can't remember for sure. I just know I read both books and they came from either library.

**Because reading it the second time made me love it even more.

***I'm not a big fan of the cover design. It makes me think of the covers for series like Pretty Little Liars, as seen here. It doesn't seem to fit the nature of the series, but ultimately it doesn't matter, because the story is what counts. You know?

Little Known Fact #3

I am extremely self-concious about many things: my writing, my drawings, my "cartoon fingers" (as one of my best friends once affectionately called them), my social skills, etc. The thing I am most self-concious about, however, is my chubbiness and my weight.

When my grandparents (Dad's parents) were still alive and we would make our annual trip up to Michigan, there was one summer in which some local boys would come to the park just across the block from my grandparents' house and harass my sister and I. They yelled, "Chunk-EE, Chunky Soup!" at me. I had never met them before, and we were only ever in Michigan for a week or two each year.

There was at least one girl in my class in Junior High who consistently referred to me as "Heifer". Up until that time, I had been called "fat" or "fatso."

Almost every time I go shopping for clothes, some kind of disaster arises.

When I was in second grade, I really, really wanted to become a gymnast (as the Olympics were being held in Atlanta, GA that year). Mom had found a simple body suit-type thing that resembled a gymnastic unitard for me, and I was so thrilled to have something to practice my "sweet routines" in. I was so excited about this outfit that I put it on and ran down to our-neighbors'-down-the-block's house to show Audrey, the oldest girl of the family and the one I remember wanting to impress the most. She was sitting on the stoop of another neighbor's house with Amy, who was in high school. When I ran up to them, Audrey looked up at me, and burst out laughing.

"What?" I asked shyly, my face falling. "What's so funny?"

She doubled up even more, her blond ringlets framing her face. "Nothing--" she tried catching her breath--"The dog peed." I don't remember how Amy reacted. She seems to fade into the memory.

I think I knew in that moment that Audrey was lying.

When I walked into my boss's office earlier this evening to get a band-aid for my thumb, and stood there talking with her and one of my coworkers, my boss turned to me.

"Heather, you were doing so good on that diet you were on last year. You should get back on it. You were loosing all that weight..."

I clammed up and busied myself with trying to get the finger cot I'd pulled out of the first aid kit over the band-aid and the rest of my thumb.

"Is that a touchy subject?" she asked.

I sighed. "Yeah..."

She may not have meant it the way I took it. I don't know. My reaction, however, was truth: this single interchange and the little discussion that followed it made me want to curl up in a distant corner and cry.

A Few Brief Thoughts on Learning

The reading we were discussing in French Lit today included a couple essays from the French essayist Montaigne. The excerpts we had to read discussed the concept of death from Montaigne's point of view. Back at the beginning of the semester in my non-fiction class, we talked a little about Montaigne as one of the earliest essayists (in the traditional sense of non-fiction, anyway) in history. He's well known, and his writing is highly regarded.

When we talked about him in Adv. Non-Fiction, we discussed how the word "essay" derives from the French "essayer," which means "to try" or "to attempt". Essays, therefore, are one means for the writer to make an attempt to make sense of the world in relation to their own viewpoint; it can also be a kind of attempt to make a point (as in an essay supporting and promoting a certain argument).

Today, we talked a little about the origins of "essais," the French for essays. Again, "essayer" is the word from which it derives. 

For some reason, when my professor asked us what it meant in English, and we answered "to attempt," I had a moment of clarity. Essays are attempts. An attempt. I knew I made the connection back at the beginning of the semester, but it seemed to finally click, and the connection between these two things, French literature from the Renaissance and the art of writing non-fiction (essays in particular), solidified itself within my mind. True to the humanistic spirit of the Renaissance, Montaigne's essays explore and exemplify the idea of individual thought. 

I've been fascinated with the idea of coming to some sort of understanding through the act of writing, particularly how memory can assist with that in addition to the intriguing idea of a kind of fallible  memory. (This, of course, is thanks to the amazing Non-Fiction writing class I'm currently in.) Memoirs, for instance, are reflections upon an event or more that may be connected in some way. These reflections attempt to make sense of who we are as human beings, as individuals, as one small part of the collective human race. There is so much freedom in this: non-fiction (including the memoir) can be anything, explore anything. Montaigne is trying to come to an understanding of his own views on death in relation to the viewpoints from various philosophers of and before his time.

Understanding. Attempting to understand, to make these connections in what we know, what we remember, and what we may not know. 

I have random moments similar to this fairly often. I will be sitting in lecture, and something--or everything--will suddenly click. Perhaps there is an overlap, or even repetition in the information. Perhaps it is also an honest interest in what we're learning. I love those grand moments of understanding. Little by little, the world starts to make a bit more sense. Perhaps this is what my answers to the Sorting questions on Pottermore indicated when I was officially sorted into Ravenclaw.* Maybe, maybe not. 

I think it simply comes down to learning and how this (an many other kinds of learning) continues. Our minds, as well as our capacity and desire to gain knowledge, is an intriguing thing. 

*I explain more on this (and other thoughts on Pottermore) later; I'm still in shock. But a good kind of shot. It's hard to wrap my mind around it...

How My Weekend Went*

On Saturday I woke up at 4:45am with an excruciating pain on my right side. At first I thought it would pass (like a brief, random stomach pain), and so I took some Motrin and tried going to the bathroom. Two hours and many attempts to go to the bathroom later, I was still in pain, and it felt like it was spreading.

My first thought (and dreaded fear) was that it was appendicitis. I looked it up on the internet--I can never remember what side the appendix is on--and my fear intensified as I read each symptom. I kept thinking of that episode of Sister, Sister where Tia and Tamera both wake up in the middle of the night with intense pains and thus are carted off to the hospital, where they both have their appendixes removed and fight the temptation to look up their birth parents.

I finally went down to wake Emma up at 6:30, when I was convinced I was going to die if I didn't get looked at. I had to knock twice before she came to the door, bleary-eyed and clearly not completely awake.

"Can you take me the E.R.?" I asked. Pippin, Emma's cat, slipped past her feet and ran into the nearby bathroom. He jumped up on the seat and started drinking out of the toilet. "I have a huge pain in my side and I don't know if it's appendicitis and I'd rather go in and find out for sure rather than wait and possibly have it get worse."

"Where is the pain?" Emma asked as she rubbed her eyes, her brow furrowed.

I told her that it had started somewhere in the back right, and had moved around the side of my torso and was making its way down. "I'm so sorry to wake you, but I am really worried, and in pain, and I'm sorry to ask you to do this, but..."

Emma didn't say anything, and I started to worry that she was going to say no. I stood there for a few minutes, unsure what to say, and then ran back upstairs. I pulled on some semblance of clothes, grabbed my purse and all necessary accoutrements and tried going to the bathroom once more to no avail. When I came out, Emma was waiting in the threshold dividing the kitchen and the dining room, her purse over her shoulder and still bleary-eyed.

"I'll be in the waiting room," Emma told me once we had arrived at the hospital and I was giving them my information. I told the man behind the desk about my situation, and he gave me an armband and directed me to talk to a nurse in a room just off the main entryway.

Finally, I ended up in an examination room. They took the samples they needed for tests. The woman who took a blood sample was really nice. She had beautiful dark hair that had been braided and curled, and she asked me about my New Moon shirt. We talked briefly about the Twilight movies, and I told her that the shirt was my pajama top and that I was deathly afraid of needles and that I was sorry if I reacted immaturely. Another nurse hooked me up to an IV, informing me that the medicine might make me a little nauseous and drowsy, and to be aware. The doctor came in to talk with me; she said my symptoms fit that of a kidney stone. I had a CAT scan, and was brought back to the examination room.

As I waited, I sang "Teenage Dream" under my breath to distract myself from the needle that was in my arm and the strange feeling in response to the medicine.

The doctor came in about ten minutes later to let me know that the tests had confirmed that I had a kidney stone. Needless to say, I was relieved. As long as it wasn't appendicitis I was happy. She gave me a prescription, and I was released shortly after 8:45.

Emma had fallen asleep in a little ball--she's a hobbit--on two waiting room chairs that she had pushed together. I poked her to wake her up and we left to pick up my meds on the way home. I called my parents as I was waiting for the prescription to be filled to let them know what happened. I started the conversation with "Don't freak out, but I was in the E.R."--which will always cause some sort of freak-out, regardless of the reason for which you were in the E.R.

I can't swallow pills. It's a psychological thing and I know it's immature, but I can't help it; if I know the pill is in my mouth I can't force myself to swallow it for fear that I am going to choke. The pills I was told to take could be crushed and put into food. I bought a pill-crusher and it has been a bit of a hassle to crush them up and take them with applesauce, but at least I'm taking them. As of today, I have been able to successfully swallow the pill in two pieces. Crushing it to a powder makes it taste awful; the least amount of powder left over, the more the applesauce remains tasting like applesauce.

I spent the majority of Saturday sleeping. I threw up twice, as it's imperative to take the pills with food, which didn't register then in my medicated mind. I ate soup and crackers on Sunday, hoping that I wouldn't throw up again.

Since Sunday, I've been feeling progressively more like my normal self. Today has been the best, I think; I haven't felt dizzy and though I'm still tired, I feel much better. I passed the kidney stone on Sunday, and have been working through the rest of my medication. I was behind on homework from not being able to do any on Saturday, and stayed up late on Sunday night to try to catch up.

Monday was probably the worst day post-stone. I was tired from the limited amount of sleep the night before, and with the combined side-effect of fatigue from the medication and two work shifts, I felt miserable. I sent a text to my sister.

Me: My meds make me drowsy...
Heidi: That sucks. Is it for your kidney stone? Also can I name your kidney stone?
Me: HAHAHAHAHA Yes. And yes, you may.
Heidi (later): Your kidney stone should be named Iago. Either that or it should be named Bartholomue (sp?)
Me: I like Bartholemew. (sp?)
Heidi: Hee hee. Bartholomew(sp?) it is. :)

This conversation sent me into a fit of giggles for the rest of the day. It isn't the first time we've named our ailments, and I don't think it'll be the last. Oh the cleverness of us.

*I'm sorry if it's borderline TMI; I tried to keep the details as limited as possible.