Get a Dog (19 of 40)

Welp, if you have been in my life for the past couple months or following me at all on social media, you likely already know how this turned out, but in any event, here’s the recap. Sometime last November I got a wild idea in my head to give into the kids’ requests to get a dog. I remember the moment we told my parents over Facetime. They didn’t say it but the looks on their faces were something along the lines of raised-eyebrows-and-biting-our-tongues-because-our-adult-children-are-responsible-for-their-own-mistakes.

I knew what they were thinking. I was thinking it too. With everything that is on my plate, adding a puppy is a terrible idea…one I justified with an entitled pleading into the ether: “Aren’t I allowed at least one reckless and caution-thrown-to-the-wind moment in my life where everything doesn’t turn to absolute fuckery?!”

Spoiler alert. The answer thus far remains “No.”

So, after forking out a small fortune followed by weeks of preparation, a sweet four month old tri-colored 24-pound bundle of Bernedoodle cuteness was delivered to our door. And we were in love.

As has been a habit with all the pets I have acquired, he did not come alone. Turns out when you rescue month-old feral kittens from a bush, you get “accessory” pets as an added bonus. The weeks spent ridding the cats and apartment of fleas and mites were really…special.

And who could forget the time we discovered that one of our guinea pigs had what appeared to be a third butt cheek growing from his hindquarters?! In actuality, it was a particularly disgusting sebaceous cyst which has now morphed into a harden mix of crust and cheesiness. I like to refer to this as his “extra guinea,” a phrase that never ceases to elicit a good chuckle from me but always seems to offend Cash’s delicate sensibility. He recently told Ava and I that we are permitted to use the term…but only “behind his back.”

I digress…

Nocchi’s extra helping came way of a belly full of parasites. What should have been a quick 5-day-remedy, stretched on for months. Each time we thought it was under control, it would crop back up. Finally, the vet threw up her hands in defeat and sent us to a specialist. 700 bucks later and we were told to bathe the now 50-pound pup and sanitize the living area and all his toys daily for two weeks in the hope of ridding these ass-trespassers for good.

And I tried. I really, really tried. But between the full-time job, the solo management of a household, the responsibilities of single-parenthood, the injured back, the constant need to run off his excess energy, and the up-all-night-because-the-dog-has-diarrhea, I was spent.

To top it all, there was a final kick-in-the-teeth incident involving three hours of fecal decontamination. I’ll spare the details of here, but mostly because I’ve already told just about anyone who would listen of the horror that befell me. I had to resolve that even if relief was just around the next corner, I was not going to make it there, no matter how hard I wanted to.

The realization of this limitation was oddly familiar. It was a sentiment felt at the end of my marriage. There are times in life when a person just breaks.

It goes without saying that the ending of any relationship has responsibility on both sides. I can only answer for myself and as the years have gone on, I have only been able to see my contributions more distinctly. 

My limiting belief systems. 

My insecurities. 

My resentments. 

My difficulties communicating.

But no matter the reasons that brought us to a place of separation, the stark fact remained: I was no longer able to take a single step forward in the direction we were heading. I had broken. No amount of blaming, wishing things were different, or being told the devil was in my head (true story) was going to change that.

When I shared this similarity with my sister she said, “Maybe next time you can stop and reassess somewhere before you get broken.” Sounds like a good goal. She’s pretty effin’ smart.

So, even though things didn’t work out the way any of us had planned with Nocchi, he is happy as a clam with a sweet couple and a furr-brother and I am back to successfully managing the rest of the moving parts of our lives…for the most part.

And anyway, we still have a fair amount of pets to keep us busy. Check ‘em out below:

The Cats:

Rosieanna (aka Rosie, Rose, Wose, Rosie Girl, Princess, Wittle Wittle One)

She is pure perfection. She is tiny and soft and has the highest little mew that reflects just how dainty and ladylike she is…until she sinks her claws into your foot while you’re sleeping just to watch you bleed. Technically she’s Ava’s cat but she sleeps with Cash every night.

Moo (aka MewMew, King Moo, Moo Goo Gai Pan, Jelly Moo, Moo Puppy)

He is the, um, bigger-boned of the two. He always greets me at the door, and only tries to escape most of the time. He lost three of his nine lives in the first year: once by falling off the second story balcony and ping-ponging his way down a tree, once by jumping four-pawed onto hot electric griddle, and once by literally catching himself on fire. He is technically Cash’s cat, but he prefers Ava and her rough-rassle style over all of us (which, if you know Ava, means everything to her).

The Guineas (known collectively as The Fat Boys)

Henry (aka Henraloo, Henrals)

Not much to say. He’s cool. He eats veggies and bites us if we hold him longer than a few minutes.

Bread (aka Breadlesby, Señor Breadlesby, if you’re nasty)

He is the proud owner of the aforementioned third butt. I tell Cash there’s just more of him to love…and then Ava and I laugh about the "extra guinea" just out of ear shot.

The Romanovs (18 of 40)

When it comes to pop culture and history, I like to think I’m a bit of a jack of all trades, master of none. I retain plenty of random bit of useless knowledge but would struggle to hold my own in any real depth of conversation on the subject. I’ll admit it: I’m a headline-skimmer, but I do my best to maintain enough perspective so as not to think that makes me an expert.  

One random subject that I’ve wanted to be better informed on is the last Romanov family. I have to admit, the story does not disappoint: a reluctant monarch, an out-of-touch reign, a hemophiliac heir, a surprise execution and a rumored survivor. Throw in a sex-crazed spiritual advisor and you have the makings of a Lifetime movie the likes of which has never been seen!

Now I’m no scholar but I have listened to over nine hours of an eleven-hour audio book, watched 4 out of 6 episodes of The Last Czars on Netflix and spent roughly 2.36 collective hours on the internet researching this subject so I’m a close second. Allow me to present you with my takeaway.

The scene: Russia. Early 20^th century. The near 300-year imperial dynastic rule of the Romanov House has fallen into the reluctant hands of Czar Nicholas II.

The Czar: Upon being thrust into the position owning to the premature death of his father, Nicholas is quoted as stating, “I am not prepared to be Czar. I never even wanted to become one.” Let’s just say, homeboy probably should’ve quit while he was ahead. His reign would see the Russian defeat by Japan in the Russo-Japanese War, multiple civil uprisings with thousands of regime-enforced casualties, and the already-strained Russia involved in World War 1. In terms of his personal life, he was largely reported to be a soft-spoken, kind and devoted family man, even by his eventual captors. In terms of leader of the third-largest dynasty in history, however, he was regarded by many as an inept, out of touch and passive ruler. Can’t win ‘em all I guess.

The Czarina: Nicholas married Alix of Hesse, a German princess and the granddaughter of England’s Queen Victoria. Perhaps one of the most touching parts of this story is that the two were truly in love, even (insert self-righteous gasp here) sharing the same bed when it was the custom to have separate sleeping chambers. Unfortunately, Alix, or Alexandra as she would come to be called, was not well received by the Russian people. When 1400 revelers are stampeded to death at the royal coronation, probably best not to continue the celebration. Just sayin’.  

The Daughters: The couple went on to have four daughters in relatively quick succession: Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia. Of their first daughter, Nicholas is purported to have said, “We are grateful she was a daughter; if she was a boy she would have belonged to the people, being a girl she belongs to us.” It was a sweet sentiment that soured with each non-heir birth that followed though. By the time Anastasia came around, the Czar was so upset that he had to go walk off his frustration before he would even meet her.

The Czarevich: Turns out the fifth time’s a charm. Alexei was born in 1904 but the family's joy at finally producing an heir quickly turned to horror at the discovery that he had hemophilia. Passed down through the maternal line, the tell-tale sign was the continued bleeding from the umbilicus in the days after his birth. The family kept this a secret from even their extended family members, but the weight of their discretion and the future of the monarchy only alienated them further from the Russian people.

Now that we got all the basics out of the way, let’s get into the good stuff.

The Mad Monk: Allow me to introduce you to Gregory Rasputin. Though it is hard to tell where the man ends and the legend begins, this is a character worth talking about. (And, I might add, searching up on Urban Dictionary…fair warning, it won’t be kid-friendly, but it will be hilarious.)

Rasputin was somewhat of a renegade in the Russian Orthodox monkhood (monkery? monkmanship?). He came up in a radical sect that purported the practice of sinful acts as the way towards God. After all, God can only forgive you if you have something to forgive…or something along those lines. Something tells me this guy would’ve loved Vegas.

Widely known for his drunkenness and lascivious actions, he was also believed to have special powers and thus ingratiated himself to the Czarina when he was seemingly able to heal Alexei despite failed attempts by his doctors. In truth, Rasputin simply suggested the doctors leave him alone. Rather than being constantly poked, prodded and provided with aspirin, a blood-thinner, this likely allowed the child to rest and recover.

Alexandra became increasingly dependent on Rasputin and soon he was not only an advisor on spiritual matters, but on matters of the state as well. While Nicky made his way to the battlefield, Rasputin was rumored to have made his way into Alex’s bedroom. Given her piety and the Czar’s continued support of the Mad Monk, the speculation was likely not based in fact. Regardless, the public’s perception of the Czarina and the influence Rasputin had over the royals continued to deteriorate.

Try as they might, officials failed at their attempts to remove Rasputin from his influential position as right-hand man. Finally, a group of noblemen orchestrated a plot to murder him. Now Rasputin had a reputation as being difficult to kill, having survived several attempts on his life already. As the legend tells it, the noblemen served Rasputin a dinner laced with copious amounts of poison, none of which seemed to make him worse for the wear by the end of the meal. They decided to take matters into their own hands and shot him multiple times, which again he survived. Finally, they threw him in the icy river and he drowned. 

What a badass, amIright? ...except it’s not exactly true. Turns out his autopsy showed no signs of poison and only a single gunshot wound to the head, but the first version is so much better, so believe what you must. 

The Revolutions: Eventually the pot boiled over and for a myriad of reasons that I am not going to elaborate on, Nicholas II abdicated his throne and that of his heir Alexei after an uprising in February 1917. The former Czar and his family were quite literally exiled to Siberia. A provincial government was established but it was quickly overthrown by the Bolshevik party and Vladimir Lenin. 

The House of Special Purpose: Under the Bolshevik rule, the former royal family were held together in loose secrecy in the House of Special Purpose. They were held for 78 days and then told they must be moved for their own protection. Their guards wrangled them downstairs in the middle of the night and then opened fire.

The Execution: Having been hastily informed of the true reason for the late night move, Nicholas reportedly, muttered “What?” in disbelief before being shot dead. This set off chaotic and disorganized gunfire throughout the room, prolonging the deaths of the former Czarina, her children and the few remaining staff that was present for the family. It turned out that the royal family had sewn in jewels to their clothing, which acted like bullet-proofing. Eventually, the soldiers charged with the execution resorted to the use of bayonets to finish the job. A truly horrifying fate for all involved. 

The One the Got Away: For years after, rumors swirled that the youngest daughter, Anastasia, survived and somehow escaped. Women even came forward claiming to be her for years to come. It wasn’t until 2007, nearly 90 years later, that DNA was able to confirm that all members of family were in fact dead.

So there you have it: a nowhere near exhaustive look into the legend that is the last Romanovs. Although the story does not disappoint, the research, however, paints a potentially less scandalous picture. This inspires great philosophical questions of what ultimately matters: objective facts or personal perspectives when the latter distorts the former, but that is another day’s worry. Either way, now you too can wow your post-quarantine dinner guests with useless rabble.

 

 

Lobster Roll from Broad Street Oyster Company (17 of 40)

I'm not exactly sure where I got my affinity for crustaceans from but I'm guessing that it started early in childhood. I was born in Bangor, Maine and although my family moved to Tucson, Arizona long before I could form any memories of the East Coast, I think I idealized my state of birth and the thing it is arguably most famous for: lobster. I made a pact to myself early on that I would not eat one until I could have it the way God-intended: Maine-caught, fresh from the Atlantic, bright red and with a side of drawn butter.

And I managed to do just that. My ex and I honeymooned in Cape Cod in October of 2004. We took a day trip up the coast to see the fall colors and visit the place where I was born. On our way back, we stopped for dinner and the time had finally come for me to try a proper Maine lobster. Behold! 23-year-old me and Lenny the Lobster:

Turns out I like lobster, but I don't actually love it. Problem is that I spent so much of my life building up this delicacy in my mind that whenever I see it as an option, I feel compelled to get it. It represents something fancy, reserved for only special occasions and a treat of sorts. When Broad Street Oyster Company in Malibu showed up on my Instagram feed with a mean looking lobster roll, I knew I was going to have to try it. 

Now, visiting this restaurant in itself is an ordeal. If you ever want to try it for yourself, do yourself a favor and plan ahead. You can order online for a specific pick up time or you can wait in this super long line. 

I ordered ahead. Yay me! Even with that though, finding parking near the Malibu Country Mart is a total pain in the arse. I had to park a solid block and a half away. 

Getting to by-pass the line was nice after the long walk though and the staff was great. They have a wide variety of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. I had pre-ordered a sober-curious single serve of something called Kin Euphorics. When I got there, they were out of my request so not only did they work to suggest a suitable alternative, they gave me an entire bottle of the Kin Euphorics concetrate for me to mix at home! Very cool since I had been wanting to try it for awhile.

Anyway, I headed to the beach and even though quite a bit of time had passed from pick-up to get-in-my-belly, I enjoyed every last bite. Not a bad way to spend a few hours of a Saturday and the last day of my vacation if I do say so myself. 

Learn to Change a Tire (16 of 40)

Just after midnight a little over a year ago, I was driving home from Ventura after a shift at the hospital. The dashboard was illuminated with an extra yellow glow - a warning light that my tire pressure was low. It had clicked on during my drive in some eleven hours before but in my haste to make it to work on time, I relegated it to the moderate priority mental list and figured I’d deal with it tomorrow.

The tire, however, had other plans.

I heard a loud bang followed quickly by the fluhfluhfluhfhluflup of rubber rapidly beating against the asphalt. The steering wheel jerked a bit under my white knuckles, as I tried to maintain control of the vehicle. Somewhere in the back of my brain, a long-stored memory sped to the forefront: DO NOT HIT THE BRAKES! In that moment I wasn’t sure if the warning was meant in case of blowout or hydroplane but I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. (FYI, it’s both…your future brain may one day appreciate this.) Thankfully the 101 on this particular early AM was not overly occupied so I was able to pull to the shoulder and let the car slow on its own with relative ease.

I frantically searched for my hazard lights, cursing my laziness at not familiarizing myself with them when I had bought the car six months earlier. The warning light now taunted me: Tire Pressure Low. Add Air.

Exiting the vehicle, I cautiously walked around to the passenger side rear tire and thought, “Ummm…inaccurate.” Car programmers should really consider adding the prompt: Tire Pressure Non-Existant. Add Rubber to Giant Gaping Hole.

As I sat back inside the vehicle and pondered what to do, my singleness suddenly felt less safe and more lonely. When I was married, there was always someone to call; an assuredness of someone else’s investment in getting me home safe; someone to share the burden of the big, little and unexpected questions of what to do next. Things I can now admit I took for granted.

I never learned how to change a tire, although let’s be honest, changing one by yourself in the dark of night on the side of the freeway is probably not wise either. Thankfully, I found a service willing to come out in the drizzly wet weather (because what great blow out story is complete without rain?!) and fix it for me. I spent the hour or so awaiting their arrival alternately hawk-eyed for would-be murderers and documenting my plight on social media. All in all, I was home by 3am and no real worse for the wear. It was at that time that Learn to Change a Tire made it on the 40 by Forty.

Last weekend I got to visit family in Arizona and I asked my dad to help me. Although I’m arguably more teachable this side of 18, there seem to be fewer and fewer opportunities to really learn a skill from my parent anymore. I am so thankful for the chance to build another new memory with him in this way.

In case you too are in need of a lesson in basic car repair, I’ve listed the dad-approved step-by-step guide below. And you can trust my dad. He’s a professor. But also, his first words of advice were: “Consult the car manual.” Wisdom, and maybe a touch of liability insurance.

1. First, the obvious: Make sure the car is parked in a safe location, engine turned off, parking brake on, and all passengers outside of the vehicle. My manual suggested placing blocks on the front and back of the two wheels diagonally across from the flat tire, but I didn’t have any so I’m already failing you as a leader.

2. Locate the spare tire and the tools. Most new cars come with a jack and tool kit that includes a car iron and nut wrench. Mine was a handy-dandy combo tool, which was actually kind of annoying when it came to raising up the jack, but it got the job done eventually.

3. Loosen the lug nuts. Doing this while the tire is still on the ground is important because it keeps the tire stable and helps give counterpressure when attempting to hand loosen something that was likely tightened pneumatically. Make sure to only turn them once or twice though. Once the tire is elevated, you can loosen them the rest of the way.

4. Align the jack. The jack needs to be placed under the frame of the car to make sure it is stable when lifted. My car had a couple of notches in the frame (a little ways behind the front wheel and again a little ways in front of the back wheel) with which to align the jack. I hand-cranked the jack until the groove fit between the notches.

5. Jack up the car. I’m not sure why I thought this, but I assumed that jacking up the car was going to involve a pumping action. I pictured myself pushing on the tire iron and watching in self-satisfied glee as the car lifted with each downward thrust. I was ready to give these bulging biceps a workout but alas, my jack was less push and more twist. I was mildly disappointed.  

6. Remove the lug nuts. The car is up! You’ve shown remarkable restraint in not over-loosening them at the beginning and your patience is rewarded by…getting to do it now. You are however glad that you loosened those bad boys when you did because, holy cow, you never would’ve been able to do it in this position.

7. Out with the old and in with the new. Now, I must confess. I did not actually put the spare tire on. It didn’t really make sense since this was just a drill and it would be an extra several steps to put it on, take it off and then put back on the real tire. I did, however, remove the spare from its home and discovered some old candy and Ava’s long forgotten fuzzy purple pen. Imma call that a win.

8. Secure the spare tire. I’m sure you are as worried about the bicep disappointment as I was, but I’m happy to report that they got a workout from lifting that big, heavy tire into place and bracing it while I replaced the lug nuts. Dad tip! When securing the tire, tighten the lug nuts in an alternating pattern so that the nut opposite rather than beside the one you just secured is next in line. This relieves the pressure of having to hold the tire in place and helps provide a more even set against the wheel frame.

9. Lower the car. Using my two-fer tool, I back-spun the jack until the wheel touched the ground and then hand-cranked it the rest of the way out. Now that the tire is firmly on the ground, give those lug nuts a final what-for. I’m talking full body weight here people. You do NOT want that wheel spinning off into the great unknown without the rest of the car attached.

10. Replace and secure the tools. An important step for next time…and so you don’t hear them rattling around in the back somewhere until then.

Here’s hoping you or I never need to use the skills we’ve just acquired but good for us for being prepared anyway!

Epilogue: I was feeling super good about my tire-changing skills. So good in fact that I piled my two loves into the car and headed back across the desert for our 435 mile drive home. Imagine my dismay when about 200 miles in, the Tire Maintenance light came on! I silently chastised myself until I was able to confirm with the car manual that this was in fact a (very poorly timed!) scheduled tire rotation warning. I took it to the professionals anyway…just in case!