What Asia Learned in Puppy Class

I'm so proud.

So Asia graduated the other day. How time flies! It seems like only yesterday she was a not-overweight, not-spoiled, not-crazy-haired little girl. I can still remember her very first "Oh my God what IS that I MUST have it!!" encounter with peanut butter.

But now she has an education. 

She's come to know the critical realities of Bil-Jac Little-Jacs liver treats.

Due to her "weight problem" (as the trainer politely termed it), she shouldn't have the "Liver Pate" allowed her puppy classmate. But she was allowed half of a Little-Jac for each "Good Girl!!" 

(How to make half of a Little-Jac: Take one Little-Jac from the bag, try to get your nail into it as if to divide it, attempt to press the crumbs that result into something you can squeeze between two fingers to make one "treat," try to get dog's attention away from crumbs that fall onto the floor.)

Asia took "Puppy Class" because she hadn't had prior training (as far as anyone could tell), even though she's likely over a year old. Her one classmate was an actual puppy, who started the class around Asia's size but, to Asia's growing annoyance, grew bigger over the six weeks.

What Asia learned:

1. The distinct sound of the Little-Jac bag opening and closing is something to get really excited about!

2. Check the floor for Little-Jac crumbles.

3. Randomly running around, sitting, lying, following, staying, etc. eventually leads to a piece of Little-Jac. Somehow.

4. When in doubt, sit and blink in irresistibly adorable fashion.

5. Puppies are just so totally immature.

6. Immature puppies who are bigger than one's self must be put in their place.

7. If standing on hind legs and waving paws in the air doesn't work, retreat to under-chair trench and prepare for major assault tactic.

8. Major assault tactic from under-chair trench: bark and growl in a soprano version of German Shepherd Dog roommate, successfully getting the trainer to glare at my human, the puppy and its owners to stare at me in a confused manner, and everybody else in the store to stop whatever they were doing to focus on me, and me alone.

9. Check the floor for more Little-Jac crumbles.

10. "Bye-bye" time is "I'm full" time, so no reason left to do anything the human wants. (And I get a car ride home for nothing -- saweet!)

Health Insurance on $83 a day

My husband and I are those "small business owners" politicians love to pretend they support. And since they're so determined to protect us from the evils of "European-style socialized medicine," we subsidize our friendly for-profit health insurance company to the tune of $2,510 a month, before co-pays, meds, etc.

Yup, that is over $30,000 a year, for a basic HMO, for two non-smoking people.

(No, my new job won't come with health insurance benefits, either.)

We're looking at cutting it down by taking on deductibles, higher co-pays, higher costs for medicines, hospital admissions, etc. We might be able to get it down to about $22,000 that way. 

Pretty soon, my (ancient) husband can go on Medicare. But for people age 54 and under, which includes me, our politicians are talking about changing that, never mind we've paid into it all our lives. Well thank goodness they aren't socialists, right?...

Anyway, I just found out I'm going to need a biopsy. On the one hand, we're finally getting something for what we pay -- um, yippee? On the other hand, if I were actually to get sick, the friendly for-profit insurance company might decide to drop us, or at least raise our rates even higher. 

I think I feel sick. 

Another Break from Not Dancing

You know the typical story of the young chorine who gets her big break when the star breaks her leg? Or storms off the set because the lighting isn’t right? Or runs off with the guy who always wears a tux?

Well my weekend was just like that! Kind of.

The dancer who had to bow out is actually the young one, while I’m the old less young one. And she just had the flu.

I’ve given up dancing onstage. I've given it up at least twice a year for the past ten years.  So I do need a break, but not the “Let me do the part!” kind. More the “Let me sleep til noon!” kind. 

I’d actually co-created this particular duet, five years ago, when I was less less young. But I was the part the not-sick dancer was performing. I didn't really know the sick dancer's part.

As we know, the older more less young we become, the more less good our memory is. (“So it’s leap, land, swivel, and turn to the right or the left?” “The right.” “Got it. Leap, land, swivel and turn to the – did you just say right or left?”)

“Just have fun with it!” everyone said, which is the standard thing you say when you know somebody is about to make a fool of herself. (Also, “The audience won’t know the difference!”)

The dress still fit, although a little tighter less loose than before. And in the end, it went okay. I just had fun with it. The audience didn’t know the difference. 

Then I RE-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-retired from dancing onstage. Until next time.

Meanwhile, don’t wake me before noon.