Curiosities of Life

One of the most remarkable things you learn about yourself, when you finally move out of your parents' house and start the rough journey of living on your own, is how objectively disgusting you are as a human being. Sure, your parents always told you "clean up after yourself, you filthy creature!*" but you never really believed them. You always thought, somewhere inside, that you weren't really that disgusting. You couldn't be! If you were like me, you reasoned it away: you don't really drink much, you don't smoke, you shower regularly, how could you possibly be a dirty person?

When you move out, of course, you discover that no matter how much you shower, how clean you live, you are a human and therefore are a base, foul - putrid, really - and venal creature. Not only that, but you are lazy. How do you know you're lazy? Because you let your apartment get to the point where you can truly appreciate how vomit-inducing you are. Normal people wipe up here and there, and don't have to dust off the Fantastik just to use it. But no, you - you - are not a normal person. You just leave everything until one day you look at your living space and nearly retch at the squalor that you suddenly recognize.

Well, that's what I do anyway. Maybe you all, gentle readers, are normal people, that clean your living spaces. I mean, I tidy. Sort of. And I try to keep things neat. But I don't actually clean all that often. Now, though, now I swear I will clean more. I can't be faced with the basic messy nature of my humanity on a regular basis like this.

In other, non-cleaning related news, I am planning on introducing a new feature to the blog that I think you all are going to really enjoy. It will probably emerge within the next few days. The only clue I'll give you is that it is somewhat in the same vein as the book reviews; less serious, though, certainly. I hope you all get a lot of enjoyment out of it - I've had a lot of fun thinking about how to pull it off. I'll probably start working on it in a day or so, so look for the first installment over the weekend!

* This may have only been my parents.

Patients are charming sometimes

I had a rare species today . . . a kind, polite patient. He was oriented, independently mobile, able to feed and toilet himself, and just generally awesome. So kudos to you, Mr. UK, you win the award for my favorite patient ever so far. You beat Mrs. Vicodin because, well, you didn't cry even once, and you remembered where you were from hour to hour. Which it wasn't her fault that she didn't, but it makes it so much easier when patients don't flip out because they forget where they are and why they're there.

Of course, the floor was not without craziness. One patient was screaming her head off all day (not mine, praise Jesus) and finally some little spindly old COPD'er got sick of it. He was sitting out by the nurses' station in a chair and he ripped off his nebulizer and yelled "SHUT UP BEFORE I COME IN THERE AND SMACK YOU IN THE HEAD!".

It worked, which was even funnier.

There was also the drug addict patient who informed one of the other students, in all seriousness, that she was going to be getting plastic surgery to have her "excess skin" removed.

Ms Morphine: *grabs her giant fat roll* See all this excess skin? Do you see it?
Student: Uh, yeah.
Ms Morphine: I'm getting it all removed. Because it's just skin, you know? I lost all the fat. I need to get all this skin taken off.
Student: Uh huh.

Ah, patients. At least she wasn't mine. *evil laughter* Of course, now I'm totally paranoid - my last two patients have been pretty easy, considering. No isolation, no dressing changes, no straight caths, no PEG tubes . . . My next patient will probably have all 4. Just you wait. And they'll be a drug addict, too, just to make sure I pay my dues.

Also, I thought I'd add this lovely link to a website about a Koi-assisted water birth. You read that right. The Nurse K forums produced it and my God. I can't imagine I ever considered that there would be other ways to birth a child. The Koi are beautiful healers, and I cannot even conceive the very idea that they would not be wonderful midwives. I am going to start work on my own Koi pond immediately, so that when I finally have a child the preparations will already be made, and my Koi and I will have had plenty of time to bond and grow together.

I have to tell you a little story . . .

I've returned from the wilds of Gettysburg, alive and well! The horse show went great. I braided some horses (poorly at first, but sweet Lord thankfully it got better), drank some beer and wine, ate some delicious food, watched a bunch of horses, and had a fabulous time overall. My mother rode the wonderful Miss Lola in the pre-adult hunters and did so very admirably. I was super proud of both of them - Lola turned on her little hunter mode, and mom mostly stayed out of her way and let her get along with it. They ended up being Reserve Champion after getting a second place in one jumping class, and eighth in another, and a first place in the hack. Much cheering was had, and then we all had a beer lol.

On a related note, I am currently typing this from pediatrics class and some people need to SHUT THE HELL UP. I hate ass-kissers. No one thinks you're funny, including the professor, and when you walk in 20 minutes late and then laugh super-loudly at everything the professor says that might be even vaguely misconstrued as a joke, you're just stupid and annoying. Which, I mean, let's be honest, they're probably that way at least 98% of their lives, so maybe it's just force of habit.

On the book-reading front, I'm slowly and steadily making my way through The Most Human Human. It's incredibly fascinating and I'm super cranky that I don't have more time to read it because I'm very much enjoying it. It's not exactly what I expected, but that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. It's been a long time since I've read a book that's not a story, and while this is a story of sorts - the author's story as he strives to earn that coveted Human title - the science and history that he's exploring are really, really cool to read about. I should stop talking, because eventually I'm going to write a review of this book, but I am very enthusiastic about it. Obviously. After I finish that, though, I'm debating what to read next. I'm thinking In Stitches by Anthony Youn; I have that, plus two more books on AI (Beyond AI: Creating the Conscience of the Machine, and On Intelligence by Sandra Blakeslee), and A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking to choose from. The AI books and Hawking's book are not super-heavy reads, but I think I might take a little break and read something lighter for a round.

Of course, there is the beach vacation I'm taking in August which will, I'm sure, include a lot of reading. So maybe I shouldn't get too worked up over what to read next, since I'll probably get the chance to read a few books while I'm there. But right now I'm leaning toward the light medical read.

So still in class, and homegirl Gina just walked in with a birthday cake for Liz and our mutual sister-figure Annie. Oh Gina lol.

Anyway, rambly blog post ending time? I went to the horse show, it was fun, I'm reading books, posting from class, generally being cool.

OH. And I have a Twitter now. Check it out, it's pretty baller: I'm gonna make social networking my bitch.

Survival

If not . . . thrival. Yeah.

Anyway, so clinicals are happening now. And unlike my classes, which were pretty painfully boring to write about (no one wants to hear about the fine line between obsessive compulsive disorder and obsessive compulsive personality disorder), shit actually happens in these! Literally. Crap.

My very first patient, who I will remember at least perpetually, if not fondly, was an elderly gentleman with a diagnosis of TERMINAL LAZINESS. Okay, not really, that's not a real condition, but it might as well have been. Left to his own devices, he would choose to lay all curled up in the bed, never turning or moving or whatever. Eventually, with some strong motivational words from the physical therapist ("there's no reason you can't feed yourself, sir") he took on a little more of his own care, but not before wasting a good deal of time in my morning running around after him ("Can you hold my cup for me?", "Can you feed me breakfast?", "I need the bedpan" which of course was immediately followed by "I don't have to go anymore", and other similar requests). Granted, he was my only patient, and believe me, I don't take that for granted at all, but as it was my first day in the hospital (EVER) I felt a little harried anyhow, and constantly having to drop everything so he could tell me how pretty I am (creepy) and ask where his tissues were (under his hand) got old, fast.

But patient #2, well, she's been lovely so far. She's pretty quiet, and compliant, and so very polite (you can do the least comfortable, most embarrassing procedure on her and she'll thank you for all your help at the end). She is a little addled and sometimes she gets kind of feisty, but after last week, I'll take it. Creepy is not okay, but feisty old ladies, fine. Plus I'm getting more comfortable, so besides being kind of poky on some things (bed baths will be my nemesis for some time, I think) I am getting more solid. 

Except for the part where I ripped an entire drawer of medication, syringes, needles and various other flotsam out of a portable med station thing. To be fair, my instructor did say "You have to pull on it really hard, it kind of gets stuck." But I suppose I did get . . . overenthusiastic. At least I provided entertainment to everyone who witnessed the event. And who witnessed me scrambling around on the floor to put all the little packets back where they came from.

Tomorrow is more of the same - feisty old lady, bed baths and meds, hopefully uneventful and without drawer-contents-ejection. And after clinical I leave I get to drive up to the ever-exciting metropolitan hub of GETTYSBURG! (Who's jealous? I know you are). There's a big show going on up there and my mom is showing Miss Lola for me, so I am going along to braid, cheer and provide comic relief.  Of which I am certain there will be plenty.

I would promise updates and photos, but we all know how good I am at that. So suffice to say I will attempt. Fingers crossed, everyone.

Backstory snip!

Here's a little backstory to the sequel . . . Working title is 'Narthecium' (the book, not this snip). I wanted to give people a look at how Greg and Jack met, but it doesn't really fit into the book, so I figured it's kind of like writing fanfiction, right? Except it's fanfiction to my own stuff, which is kind of cool. And it helps me get a better feel for my characters, so whoo hoo!

If it's got to have a title, call it 'Weighty Ghost', because it was written mostly to the song of the same name by Wintersleep. It's a lovely song, and I like to listen to it to remind me that life is just generally more enjoyable when you allow yourself to be totally happy every day, for no reason at all. I don't know if that's the message of the song, but that's what it's always meant for me, so nyah.

-

Getting a papercut hurt worse, Greg thought distantly, which was kind of funny, really. One would think that of all the things in the world, a papercut wouldn’t rank very high on the most painful list.

Certainly not above decapitation.

The world went fuzzy, the sounds muffled and tinny, like they were coming from a long way away, possibly on the other end of a metal sewer pipe. Part of him hit the ground, and he wasn’t really sure which part, because they were all blending together now. Someone was shouting. And then fuzzy went to black, and he felt very, very cold.

Very briefly, black flashed to a dark blue, the color of the night sky. There might have been someone – a Polynesian man, in a sharp suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in New York or Chicago – and that someone might have said something, touched him, even. Greg died.

And then Greg woke back up, seconds – not even seconds – later, jerking bolt upright, out of his body. He looked down at himself and himself, bleeding into the cracked concrete and gritty dirt, and scrambled to his knees, clear of . . . him. His body.

He stood up then, as people rushed around, and the guards shouted and hustled the other prisoners away. Jonas was pinned under a pile of guards, the knife flung free of his hand and lying bloody in a tuft of brown grass. Someone ran through him as he stood and watched, listened to the cheers and screams of the other prisoners, the guards yelling. He blinked, and then wondered why he’d done it.

He’d been twenty-eight.

The thought occurred to him, out of the mist of his own thoughts, that his at least his mother wouldn’t have to be ashamed anymore when people asked her what her son was doing.

A brace of guards dragged Jonas through him and the other man laughed like a lunatic, head thrown back, hands twitching and clenching in the shackles. A single guard knelt next to his former body, rag pressed to the seeping red slash in his neck.

Absently, he reached to his neck – the one he remembered having, not the shredded one on the ground – and felt the smooth, cool skin. Whole.

He opened his mouth, made to speak, and then closed it again.

Of all the deaths in his life, his own was the least expected.

“It’s rough when you see it, huh?” The voice, clear and strong, rather than wispy and trembling, like the half-hearted calls for help from the guard, almost made him jump out of his skin. Or would have, if he’d had any. “It’s alright, you’re through the worst part.”

“You . . .” he stopped, because his own voice sounded strange here; the words had a heaviness, felt as though they were hanging around his head. “Are you the Reaper?”

“Me? God, no. Here, come on, you don’t need to watch that.” A hand – solid, his brain elated, a little frantically – landed on his shoulder, and the prison yard faded even while the walls of a cell, tinted blue and grey, appeared. “Better?”

When he remembered he had legs, he managed to turn, wide-eyed to the other. “Name’s Jack.”

“You have a bullet hole in your head.”

Jack shrugged. “So? We’re both dead, either way.”

Greg looked around. “I’ve gone to Hell. I thought I might.”

“Hell?” Jack laughed, and it was a good laugh. Greg smiled a little. “Mautinode’s bad, but it ain’t quite Hell. No, my friend, you haven’t gone anywhere.”

Panic, unbidden and illogical, seized him. “I have to get back to my body. I’m going to be stuck here.”

“A little late for that.” Jack prodded him in the shoulder. “You’re a ghost, same as me. The dice, as they say, has been cast.”

“It’s die,” Greg said weakly. “The singular of dice. Die. Ahaha.”

Jack’s hand was still on his shoulder, and he rubbed it, a little comfortingly. “You’ll be alright when the shock wears off. What’s your name?” Greg was quiet, his translucent, blank eyes unfocused and staring. “Hey, man. Come on.” He shook the other prisoner and, not eliciting a response, sighed. “You drove me to this.”

The slap hurt more than the knife, too. Funny how those things work.

“You hit me!” Greg pulled his hand away from his cheek, staring at and through it. “And it hurt!”

“That was the idea.”

“I’m dead! It oughtn’t have hurt!” He tried to flinch before Jack’s first collided with his chest, but he couldn’t totally avoid the blow. “Stop it!”

“There you go, snap out of it.” The other . . . spirit, yes, that had to be what it was, looked inordinately pleased with himself. “Start again. I’m Jack, and you are?”

“Greg.” He rubbed his chest, just below the shoulder, where Greg had hit him. “What manner of demon are you?”

“Demon? You and your divine punishment. I’m a ghost.” He spread his arms. “Plain as bread and butter. So are you, now, Greg; allow me to be the welcome wagon.”

“I saw . . . that really was my body, wasn’t it?” He looked to his hands again, and also to the floor, since his view remained fairly unimpeded by the spectral manifestations of his memory.

Jack nodded. “Unless you have some reason to be popping out of someone else’s body. Demon, vengeful poltergeist, anything? No? Good enough.” He held out a hand. “Welcome to the division of the haunted prison that’s responsible for the ‘haunted’ part. Anywhere in these walls –” he flung his arms wide “– is fair game. Except the fourth floor, I’d avoid that.”

Greg glanced upwards. “What’s up there?”

“A demon. We try not to think about it.”

“Jonas lives on the fourth floor.”

Jack cocked his head. “Who?”

“He killed me.”

“Ah.” A shrug. “Well, might help explain his charming disposition, anyway.”

The recently deceased scrambled back a few sentences, grasping at straws, trying to forget the image of himself pale, twisted and bloody on the ground. “We?”

Jack slung a skinny arm around his shoulders and guided him toward the solid wood door. “Well it’s just been me and Lucas since ’33 – before that it was just Lucas. But hey, three’s company now, right?” He shook the shorter ghost. “Hey, man, come on – it’s rough but it’s all a part of life. Everything worth doing ends eventually.”

“But,” Greg pointed out, “there was nothing very eventual about it.”

“Maybe not to you but think about the rats in the kitchen. You’re ancient!”

“That’s not the most . . . consoling thing I’ve heard.”

“Well it’s something, and that’s what you’re gonna get. Follow me, I’ll introduce you.” He stepped through the door, Greg’s eyes widening as he watched. “Come on!”

Greg stepped boldly forward, and then his head made a hollow clunking sound when it hit the wood.

“You have to stop remembering being solid first. You’ll never get anywhere with haunting if you stay solid.” Another thud on the other side of the door. Jack sighed.

“Can’t I just use the handle? This’ll take ages.”

Jack snorted. “Greg-o, if there’s one thing you’re worried about here, let me assure you: it should not be time.” Thud. “Come on, it’s not that hard – you’re past the hardest part already!”

“Which was?”

“The part where you died.”

Greg stared at the door, hands braced on either side of the jamb, scowling at the boards. “Sorry if I’m not immediately receptive. I’ve died and entered the afterlife all in one day, and the afterlife is somewhat short of what I was expecting. I’m preoccupied.” Tentative, he prodded the door with a finger. And then he closed his eyes and tried to forget the fact that he was solid, and doors were solid, and that it was ridiculous to think otherwise.

Sticking your arm through a door hurts significantly less than anything else in the world.

“I knew you’d get it in the end.” Jack clapped him on the back when he was finally through. “Not that hard, was it?”

Greg turned to look back at the door, which besides being a misty color of blue appeared otherwise normal. “And that’s what . . . that’s my afterlife now? I’m going to float through things for all eternity?”

“Don’t see why it would have to be, and it’s more exciting than you’re giving it credit for. Wait until you get someone wound up about ghosts, that’s the ticket – almost makes you feel alive again.” Greg allowed Jack to guide him down the hallway, toward the stairs. A guard strode right through them. “Reporters especially love it – they’ve caught wind of the stories and it makes for good reading on a slow news day.”

“And that’s haunting, then? Getting the living to pay attention to you?” He looked around the hall. “What’s the point of ghosts?”

Jack’s permanent smile didn’t exactly fade, but it took on a much thinner line, and it almost looked out of place paired with his sad, tired expression. He laid his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “When you figure that out, Greg, before you go . . . you tell me.”

-

So there you have it, the death of Greg and the meeting with Jack. Who's a good guy, really, when you get past the fact that his definition of 'lawful' is very flexible. I have sort of written this once before, under the title 'Everything But Murder', but I fancy I like this version a little better.

Please, if you want to share your thoughts, comment! I'd love some feedback, I really would.

I live!

I'm alive, well, and happy to be back! Not that I actually went anywhere, but our brief off-air hiatus was mainly due to the fact that I totally retreated into my schoolwork. What can I say, this nursing thing is strenuous.

My first two days of clinical were happily non-fatal to myself or the patient. I am still not totally sure of this all yet, nor have I really got on my feet as far as doing a lot of things goes (ex: emptying the Foley bag or remembering to take temperature every time I take vitals, damn thing is easy to forget lol). That said, I'm not totally disgraceful at anything, and I think with a little time I'll be all over it. The trick is staying positive with myself while I go through that change.

I've been writing a little here and a little there. I'm really getting the itch to do a lot of editing on the first book, but I really want to wait for people to finish reading it because knowing myself I will just go and make it worse. I'd like to get the story coherent, and I think it is for the most part, but there are a lot of plot holes and a LOT of things I'd like to go through and fuss over to explain them. I'd like it if Tiberius were to show up a little earlier, for one thing. I'm also considering shortening the overall timeline of the entire story so that it doesn't take an entire school year to get through.

There's parts that I really need to get rid of. Miniature golf needs to go, but the way the story is set up right now it's the major part that establishes the relationship between the main characters. Grace could do with more of a part, but then again it might be fine with her the way it is - I'll see what people say. Overall there's a lot I want to work on but from where I'm standing I don't have the time to focus on it, so I'm just going to have to keep jotting down ideas and collecting them for when the time comes.

It's all very tedious, very complicated, and very frustrating. But hopefully, at the end, very rewarding.

In other news, it's the 1 year anniversary for my dog and me today! Hooray, RD! I remember last year when I saw him at the Humane League, frantically avoiding me at all costs, urinating furiously on everything in the visiting room, skulking around the edges of the room and thinking, "Yes, this is the one I must have. This is my dog."

On reflection, I may need a mental evaluation of some sort.

In which writing continuously vexes me.

Today, Sam Starbuck wrote up a post about writers and writing. As I've mentioned, I really admire Sam, although what he writes isn't exactly to my tastes; he's accomplished a lot and he's been very savvy about it. And whether or not what he writes is my "type" he writes a lot, and he writes very well. Enviable, indeed. So when the man talks about writing, you bet your buttons I listen up.

Anyway, Sam linked to this article about the importance of story to . . . well, a story. And honestly, it sounds so stupid when I write it like that but IT'S NOT. The article is actually really great and has some wonderful reminders in it for all writers, brand new or old hat. Roland is dead on when he says characters and story are so deeply intertwined that it's hard to imagine a character without a story and vice versa. I know I tend to take more of a "Frankenstein's Monster" approach to characters - which is a very apt metaphor for the long process of building up this character, who they are, what they look like, etc. - but it all sort of falls away and comes back together when I'm writing.

Example: My zombie character, Tiberius, died in 1863. Originally, when I was writing the character, I had imagined he'd be sort of overwhelmed and confused constantly because the world had changed so much, and that worked at first. It was reasonable, even. But as the story went on, Tib's character shifted and I realized that for the story to work, and perhaps because of the story itself, he had to be a lot stronger than that. And so I saw him shift from sort of a confused lost little lamb to a oft-bemused smartass. He still has a hard time "getting" modern America but rather than every little thing throwing him hard, he sort of rolls with the punches. It was an interesting change, and certainly not intended, but I'm quite happy with it nevertheless.

On a tangent, one of Roland's other points - "Lots of things happen, but the protagonist responds in exactly the same way each time. There is no sense of progression in the story" - is exactly what bothers the hell out of me about Twilight. GODDAMN BELLA DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT. She just languishes and waits for Edward. Someone tries to kill her? Languish. Edward is gone and possibly in danger? Languish. Out of laundry detergent? LANGUISH. And then Edward shows up with the Tide and they make out. Every. Single. Time.

Anyway, that article was really wonderful and everyone who wants to write something one day, or has written something, or just is interested in the craft of writing (lol pretentious) should definitely read it. It's given me a lot to think about, especially as I prepare to do my second read-through of my own story and really tear into it (DON'T MAKE ME TAKE OUT THE MINI GOLF SCENE NOOOOO).

Got out of bed today and I thought I saw a ghost

I honestly really try to keep the nursing/medical stuff to a minimum here, because there are plenty medical blogs out there written by nursing students and medical students and PA students and the whole gamut and I don't feel like my experience is particularly novel. But . . . I have my orientation today for my first clinical rotation.

That's right, clinical. They're entrusting the care of real people to me.

I don't think they could find someone less qualified if they tried.

Here's me, thinking that our first rotation would consist of us students trailing around after nurses like lost puppies, taking in every aspect of patient care, preparing for one day getting in on the action ourselves, perhaps helping out our nurse as the weeks went on. But no. No, we are assigned a patient. And . . . we are their nurse. Sure, our instructor checks our meds to make sure we're not overdosing anyone or anything like that, but other than that, it's all us. No other nurse. Just me and the patient, one on one, getting some serious QT.

I am not prepared for this.

I'm even less prepared because I have no idea who my patient for the first week is. I will find out next Tuesday, sure, but that's little consolation. I want to start preparing now. I want to know the meds and the H&P and everything so I can walk in there on Wednesday and be . . . totally confused. But less totally confused than I might be in reality, when I've only had a measly 24 hours to prepare! I WANT TO BE ABLE TO BE A LITTLE TYPE A.

I'm not a type A person, I'm really not, but I feel like for my first patient care experience? I should be allowed to exercise just a smidgen of that personality trait. What if I have to do something I don't know how to do? I mean seriously, what if I have to put in an IV? Do a straight cath? They never taught us that. I'm not IV certified in the hospital. WHAT ARE THEY DOING TRUSTING ME WITH THIS?!

They're . . . teaching me. I guess. They're giving me the opportunity to strut the stuff I've learned since last September. And I've learned a lot . . . really a lot, and I've done well but it's time for the real deal. It's time to get my hands dirty, to give an injection, to actually bed bathe someone (God help me), dispense meds . . . It's time for me to stop being a student and start being a nurse.

Intellectually I knew that would happen. Hell, it was the desired outcome. I'm just not sure I was ready for it to happen so soon.

Ashley's Fun List Time Presents: REASONS TO NOT GET A DOG

Let me preface this post by saying there are few things in my life that I love more than my dog. He is my very best buddy, and I would not trade him or give him up for a great majority of the tea in China. That said, getting a dog is not a decision that should ever be taken lightly, and indeed had I truly realized the impact dog ownership I would have thought about it for at least 2.68 seconds longer. I have compiled here the top 5 reasons to think long and hard about getting a dog, and why you should probably just avoid it altogether unless you have some serious mental deficiencies.

TOP 5 REASONS TO NOT GET A DOG

This face is not a reason to avoid getting a dog. Don't let that adorable expression fool you.

1. I'm going to get this out of the way right out of the gate: You will become obsessed (and I'm not joking, it will seriously become an intrusive thought) with your dog's bowel habits. My parents have long been well in-tune with their dog's bathroom schedule, and I used to make fun of them. But now I have a dog and, despite my best efforts, I myself have started mentally logging my dog's constitutionals. Last night I was frantically walking RD at one in the morning because he'd only pooped once in the morning. "He must need to go!" I told myself, bordering on frantic. "Please, he has to go! POOP, DAMMIT."

2. Hair. Shedding. It will happen, I don't care if you have a Chinese Crested. Dogs shed. Maybe you'll get lucky and get one of the dogs that doesn't shed a lot. But it will still shed. If you're unlucky, you'll get a dog that sheds roughly the equivalent of two or three smaller dogs' worth of hair each day. I have one right now. As I type, I am picking hair off my laptop screen so as to better see what I'm typing. You can brush, you can furminate, you can do everything short of shaving them, but there will be hair. Trust me.

3. You schedule will be totally destroyed. Thinking of going out with friends after work? Haha! You're funny. No, unless you want to come home to urine on your carpet and a depressed, shameful animal, you must forego drinks, at least temporarily until you have a chance to let your dog out. Want to go on a spur-of-the-moment weekend trip? Hope you have dog-loving friends that aren't going! Or a handy kennel on speed dial. Seriously, your schedule is straight borked the minute you welcome your furry friend into your life. It's like having a baby without the glimmers of hopeful expectations of being able to live vicariously through them later on.

4. Your furniture is no longer your own. Picture this: you come home from a long day of work, walk the dog, mark its bowel movement's shape, color and total weight by volume, take the dog back inside, change into your comfy clothes, wash your face and have glorious plans of laying on the couch and watching TV until your brain slides out of your ears like undercooked oatmeal. But wait! No, the dog is on the couch. No. Nooooo. Because you could make the dog move, yes, easily, but are you going to? When those big sad eyes meet yours and the dog pleads for a little attention, and a little relaxation? Suddenly the fact that you have spent a whole day working hard while the dog laid at home sleeping and licking itself is forgotten, and you have laid down on the floor. The dog has won.

5. Parts of your house will be destroyed. Yes, yes, your little poopsie-kins is well-mannered and sweet, sure. That's what we call denial. I love RD and that little fucker destroyed two of my doors. My parents love their dog an unreasonable amount and she's peed on their dining room carpet so many times it's a wonder the thing's not stained yellow. Look around your house. Dog damage is everywhere, but you are blind to it. But one day prospective buyers will visit, and tour, and think "my God, these people live with a ravenous pack of wolves." And you will see through their eyes and think, "Oh God, how did this happen?" Your answer, my friend, is snoozing on the couch. Shedding.