My dog just ate a stinkbug

My dog just ate a stinkbug. No really. She did. And I can’t help but wonder, are her intestines slowly filling with the noxious odor these little brown bugs put out when pissed?

I’m a victim of the Google generation—as in, as soon as something new happens in my life, I Google it. Never you mind the olden days of wait and ye shall see. No, I want answers. Quick, dirty, wildly varying answers that will lead me to near-hysteria as I self-diagnose my sore throat as something terminal. Bacterial and terminal. And possibly sexually transmitted.

So I just Googled stinkbugs. Actually I Googled “Can dogs eat stinkbugs?” Because if there’s one thing I like more than Googling random words, it’s asking Google random questions or throwing it ridiculous phrases to ‘cipher. All of my library research rules of logic go flying out the window and I just type shit in. Wild, crazy shit like, “Do deodorant stains come out of silk?” or, “How do I say ‘fuck my life’ in French?” No longer are we a generation of needing to understand a complicated language of symbols and conjunctions (search=north and carolina and civil and war and heroes) to do our intranets searches. OH no. We can type it in however we want. Hell, we can misspell it. Give it to her, quick and dirty. She can take it. She’ll turn around and seductively ask, “Did you mean to say…”home remedies for WARTS” (not wrtas)? Right. Yes. Of course that’s what I meant. And I’m always amazed at how frequently I find an accurate answer in those nearly 30,000 hits. (Let it be noted: I’m significantly less successful at self-diagnosed medical care). How does it work? How did Google get so smart?

And wouldn’t you know it, “poot-a-loop” from NC has had the exact same thing happen to her dog, Marley (surprised to hear Marley is a golden retriever? Because I’m not). Except her dog started vomiting. Violently. Maybe its because her owner’s online persona is “poot-a-loop”. I’d probably vomit a lot too. Just a starting point of the diagnosis. But not my girl. Oh no. Mine wagged her tail and looked for more stinkbugs to consume. Like they were stink-filled M&M’s and she just couldn’t stop at one.

Many a concerned and empathetic dog owner responded with helpful responses, like: “Dogs eat bugs, don’t worry.” Or, “Check her temperature and keep an eye on her, shouldn’t need to go to a vet.” And some dog owners responded with ‘tude. I’m sure all you fellow Googlers out there have gotten used to this by now, but sometimes these people make me want to scream and slam things down on the coffee table. Apparently there is a holy grail of dog parenting—a secret underground world of people who clearly have a deeper knowledge and wisdom on owning a dog. These people make no mistakes in letting you know that your little pound puppy mutt, you know, the one that chases her own tail, rolls in poop and eats STINKbugs, deserves better. MUCH better. And don’t get them STARTED on the benefits of dog acupuncture—its absolutely changed Muffy’s life. (I bet if I stuck needles in my dog too she’d turn her act around quick).

Or at least this is how I interpret the condescending tone of 85% of answers to these online queries. Something about the mask of the world wide web makes people think they have the right to pass judgment on the simplest of questions. Like, “Can dogs eat stinkbugs?” Response: “This upsets me. You know it’s expensive to have a dog. You should be willing to take it to the vet, if you’re a good pet owner and treating your dog with respect.” Um, I’m not sure you’re aware of the track record my dog has at the vet. I’ve considered renaming her Louis Vuitton, because that’s what I could have bought in FY2009, instead. But Louis Vuitton’s don’t chase their tails. Or bark at cats. Plus, she ate a bug. Not a bomb.

So among learning that I’m clearly a horrible pet owner and getting myself all worked up over nothing, I also learned that stinkbugs are attracted to light (perhaps also my vivacious outlook on life?). Also, did you know that stinkbugs are fairly new to the US? They were accidentally introduced to Eastern Pennsylvania. I mean, how does that happen on accident? OOPS. I dropped a whole mess of stinkbugs while I was in Amish country…hope they don’t procreate and spread. Now they’ve spread to New Jersey and Maryland. And now the story comes full circle. Thank you, tourists from Asia in Eastern Pennsylvania (hey, that's what Google told me. Don't think I'm spreading hate).

Oh stinkbugs. What a curious creature. I’ll hand it to you, nature. Pretty clever creating insects that emit horrible odors when messed with. Such a good idea. I was about to whine that humans don’t have such functions, and then I remembered: Oh. We do. And this, my friends, is why siblings fart on each other.

And just in case you were worried, Lucinda appears to be fine. In fact, I think she’s pretty pleased with herself. She actually prefers it if the things she hunts and kills stink—it makes her feel like more of a woman.

Thank you, Google. And thank you, poot-a-loot. I’ve learned a lot tonight. And I hope Marley made it through okay.

Biggest Failure

Last week my wife almost divorced me. Because of reality television. Yes, I know. I’m not really a lesbian. I’m not really married to my roommate. But sometimes there really is no denying the fact that we are totally plutonically married. Like full on I cook dinner and she makes martinis and takes out the trash. We even have the ultimate symbol of a lesbian marriage: a dog that controls both of our lives. Lucinda couldn’t function without her two mommies. She doesn’t care that we sleep in different beds. I mean, isn't that what most married people do anyway? Besides, it’s a spiritual marriage, or at least that’s what we tell the neighborhood drunk who likes to ask me out. And while I do have a thing for eccentric MALE artists, I believe he takes this role a bit too seriously and perhaps should lay off the handle of vodka he drinks a day. And maybe get a job. And take a shower. It was sad to see, however, how heartbroken he was to hear that I had abandoned the heteros and switched to the other side, albeit somewhat relieved (it finally explained why I had been denying him all these years).

And at times, my wife likes to remind me that I’m being absurd. Neurotic. And insane. Which, in truth, is far too often. And this is fine. It really is. Like I’m totally aware of the fact that I’m crazy. They say self-awareness is the first step to getting help, right? The other night I got so crazy about The Biggest Loser that I almost forced her out of our cozy little tv room. I disrupted our domestic bliss with my biting (hopefully also hilarious) cynicism. She threatened to go to bed early and read a book. In her room. With the door shut. All because I couldn’t keep my verbal diarrhea hatred from spewing out of my mouth. She said, “Jesus Christ, Linds. Why don’t you go fucking blog about this?” So I shut up and stored up all my bad thoughts for this blog entry. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And hating it. So here I am, fucking blogging about reality television. And for the record, this is so not what I’m in to.

Okay. Refocusing...

The Biggest Loser. I hate this season of The Biggest Loser. In my advanced, superior, cinematically-gifted opinion, I believe this show actually has become the biggest loser; the biggest, meanest, most over-exploited waste of television space on the air in 2010. I can’t even wrap my head around how much I hate this show this season.

Which is weird, because the first time I watched it, I was obsessed. I was into it. I was inspired by the stories of the people who were putting everything they had into losing weight and transforming their lives. By the end, I was really pulling for them. I think I even went to the gym a few more times (which would round out my yearly average to 7 visits, as opposed to my traditional 5).

So tell me why do I feel like I’m watching a horrible infomercial this season? Why do I feel like the trainers have transcended compassion and understanding and replaced it with misplaced anger and cruelty? Like am I just being overly defensive because I too am “medically obese” and think there’s no problem with having nachos as a meal? Like, is that really so wrong? C’mon Jillian. You know that Taco Bell you fake-gagged yourself over tasted delicious. When the cameras turned off you rubbed that Grilled Stuffed Burrito all over your face and moaned with pleasure. The people on set were appalled. Don’t try to hide it.

I can’t help but feel like the producers of this show have forgotten that at the core of this, these are people with legitimate diseases. With health disorders. Medical conditions. And extreme emotional connections to food, eating, and self-image. Important, symbolic, and even cultural reasons why they're obese. I don’t think making these people feel worse about their lifestyles is really the right approach. Like I hope there are suicide specialists working with the trainers, because if someone treated me this way, I’d definitely take up cutting. And maybe the eating disorder I’d develop would help with the dropping of 30 lbs a week.

Can we get some Weight Watchers up in this show? I’d much rather watch 12 contestants counting points at the Applebees and watching Access Hollywood on the tv while jogging on the treadmill like everyone else I know in the month of January, than see Jillian or Bob screaming at someone until they fall over with heat-exhaustion. And Bob, what’s up with the gaunt heroin-chic look this season? Trying to get a job as a Dolce & Gabbana model?

Like grab me a can of frosting, wife, and bring up a box of vanilla wafers. It’s time for the Biggest Loser.

Epic failure. Let’s hope Brett Michaels soon starts another reality show so that I can remember why I really do love reality television—washed up rockstars with diabetes looking for love with French prostitutes. I mean, what else is there in life?

sidenote: I've been told three times in the last week that I should have a reality television show. Between my ever-hilarious love life, my insane family, and my bizarre plutonic marriage, people would totally watch me. Maybe then America could watch a show about a girl who weighs more than 100 pounds with self esteem. What an idea.

additional sidenote: Cara is never allowing me to watch Biggest Loser again. Ever. And I’m okay with this decision.

Landing

Sometimes you just can’t sleep. Sometimes you feel things you just can’t explain. Sometimes you are so overtaken by emotions that you can’t quite pinpoint why you’re feeling so uncomfortable in your own skin. You find your eyes are welling up with tears at the simplest thing; crying for no real good reason.

I’m having one of those days today. Today I woke up feeling like I wasn’t supposed to be here today; like I should be somewhere else.

I can’t help but feel like my heart is burning a bit, missing Africa.

A journal entry from January, 2005:

After a grueling plane ride, we land. It’s like any other landing—they give the same speech, some protocol—I could be in New York, London, or Los Angeles. It’s not until I step outside that I realize: Shit, this is Africa. Kotoka International Airport, Accra, Ghana.

The heat immediately seeps into my skin, an abrupt change from the cold, artificial air my body had gotten used to for the last ten hours. I breathe in the air. I smell the faint scent of burning and a strong smell of earth; a smell I’ve come to love and know as Ghana. Sometimes it seems like the earth itself is sweating from the heat; a sweet, dark odor seeping from the pores of the red clay. It wraps around you quickly and quietly.

After stepping onto the tarmac, we walk a short distance to the terminal—a large concrete building. The building has been painted, Akwaaba, “welcome”. Just inside the doorway, people rest on mats in the hallway. Flying for this many hours always confuses my body; I have no idea what time it is or how long these people have been waiting for our flight to arrive. There seem to be people lingering everywhere. The airport is a good place to wait. Outside the front doors, people stand in large groups waiting to see who arrives. Families gather in anticipation; young, hopeful men stand around in hopes that someone will hire them to transport luggage or drive a taxi.

But indoors, the air seems stagnant and hot. There are bags stacked everywhere. A barely rotating luggage belt clanks around awkwardly, as bags pour in through the open hole that leads directly outside. Large metal carts rapidly move around and fill up by locals and Ghanaian-Americans who seem to know exactly what to do. There are very few signs and even less machines—no computers, no digitized screens, no moving walkways. If this weren't my third time here, I'd be lost. In America, this would be chaos. Here, it seems strangely under control. Calm, even.

The first time I came here, I didn’t know what to expect. I stepped off those steps, felt that heat hit my skin for the first time, and walked into the unknown—a whirlwind month of my early college years. I spent three weeks wandering West Africa with my eyes wide open, trying my damndest to absorb everything in sight. I attempted, feebly, to process what I was hearing and feeling with every ounce of myself. To look at everything with as many lenses as I had the capacity—to do my best to simply participate and observe.

I’ve learned, over the years, just how hard this is to do—to simply blend into the background, participate and observe. I was naïve to think it would be so easy, that I could just show up in West Africa and not be seen by everyone as a white, American obroni college student. Besides, our western brains are highly skilled to pick out imperfections. We’re well-trained in cynicism, sarcasm, and despair. It has taken me many years to begin to quiet those thoughts—to push them to the side—so that I can truly hear the music. So that I can really dance. So that I can be okay with darkness.

And here I am back again, landing in this beautiful land and preparing myself for a new adventure—a new learning curve. I’m so happy to be back. As soon as the dusty smoky heat hits my nostrils I can feel it. That it that changed my life two years ago. That it that has left me dumbfounded, heartbroken, and filled to the brim with curiosity, joy, and light. That it that has made everyone I know who doesn’t know Africa hate me for loving this place so much.

We’re met on the other end of the terminal by my dear friend Christine. I can hear her laughter as soon as I come through customs. She cries out with joy, as if in pain, and releases the most excruciatingly beautiful smile that no one could possibly stay upset or angry in her presence. The hug that follows this grin is even more joyful and suddenly the hours and hours on an airplane are non-existent. The heat is beginning to set into my bones and I’m so excited to be here—to be home. She squeezes me tight and says, “Welcome home, junior sister”, and lets out an outrageous cackle that lets me know she sincerely means it. I feel like I can’t contain my words; I ramble in circles asking how everyone is doing, checking in on her love life, her family’s health, etc.

There is a distinct feeling I get when I travel to a place that feels like home. Everywhere I walk, I hear the local greeting: “You are welcome.” This time, I feel that in the deepest of places.