Hemangiosarcoma

That's the monster that took my Cassie from me this morning.

Her spleen had ruptured, and she'd been bleeding internally all night. She couldn't have withstood surgery. She was a 10-year-old Golden Retriever, and the breed's #1 killer is cancer.

She was my companion, my baby, and one of the largest joys in my life. At 10:30 this morning, she died with her head in my lap, much like she'd spent most of her time with me.

I've dealt with the death of people I loved. People who raised me. And yet, this pain is unsupportable. My pupski. My pain in the ass. My constant that, I always knew, wouldn't be so constant.

They go before you. I know that. But now, as I put away her food dishes, beds, bones and toys and struggle to sweep up all that blonde hair, I have a gaping wound inside me.

Here is a picture from just last year, after she'd laid in the backyard sprinklers and then came in to dry off. I laughed so hard. I loved her so much.



Goodbye, my girl.

The Art Director's Pain . . .

. . . set to music.

The Copywriter's equivalent? Exclamation points. Whenever something I wrote comes back from the client riddled with exclamation points (or, as we call them around my office, dog cocks), I want to scream.

For example, I'll do something like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000.

It'll come back like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000!!

Was the $300,000 not exciting enough before? And why two dog cocks? Does that literally double your excitement at the prospect of $300,000? Maybe getting you $600,000 worth?

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't need to scream at people to get your point across. And if you need to yell that loudly, then your product isn't that great to begin with.



So there!!

Um . . .

Listerine rinse recalled for contamination

Isn't this stuff supposed to KILL GERMS?

And so it begins

When Steve Sax threw out the first pitch and didn't throw it into the stands, you could tell it was going to be a long day.

So the Dodgers' opening weekend sweep of San Francisco was probably the last best moments of the whole season. At least I know what to expect.

sob

Get off my lawn

I'm 38 today.

Every year since the age of 33, as my birthday has approached, I've felt myself start to drag a little. Question myself more. Wonder who I am on a daily basis. I sleep less, because my mind churns every time the lights go out. And I wonder why that one day has made me feel that way.

It's not as if I'm a drastically different person on the morning of April 9th. My life has gone on, just as always. I get up. I work. I go home. My bills are still there. My dog still needs to be fed. There's still laundry to do and countertops to clean. Today is no different, except that today I get cake.

I've noticed more gray hair. They're those "resistant" grays that will soon require a professional color job, should I choose to keep hiding them. I seem to be buying better (or more expensive) eye creams. And I wonder when my attitude will start to reflect the number.

So far, it hasn't. I love to play video games and watch cartoons. I love devising semi-hazardous experiments using the microwave. I tell gross jokes and I laugh every time someone says "balls" or "box." Some of my t-shirts say things that would get me kicked out of PTA meetings. I burp, loudly, to make my son giggle. My last couple of book purchases have been Japanese manga and I've downloaded a lot more 70's punk rock lately.

Every birthday, the divide within myself seems greater. The older I get, the more I advance in my profession, the more responsible I become in society, the younger I act. Is this rebellion? Am I rebelling against myself or simply trying to be myself despite my age?

Every year, I try to just take a breath and let it be. But we all know that finding acceptance among others is much easier than finding it within yourself.

I'm happy to have this problem, really. As far as crises go, this one is mild. Its persistence drives me a little nutty, but I feel like the day I've reconciled the number with the attitude -- the day I begin to "act my age" -- I will have lost so much of who I am. I know that.

So, today, as I celebrate another birthday and look down the barrel of 40, I'm going to take a deep breath and let it be. And then have cake.