A Classic Family Moment

Several weeks ago I went to a meeting in town of parents looking to get some additional services in the schools for their kids. It was an interesting meeting. Afterwards, I called my mom to ask what she remembered about some similar services I received in school as a youngster. We had a good conversation, reassuringly so. My relationship with my mom can be quite a roller coaster. At the end of the conversation, she promised to think on it more and send me some links.

Late last Tuesday, I opened that email from her. I replied thanking her for her effort, and that I probably would be putting the issue on hold for a while as I looked for a new job since the company I was working for had shut down and I was laid off. I didn't hear back, but that's kind of par for the course. I figured we'd talk shortly - it's the holiday season and all that.

On Christmas Eve, my niece called to tell me about losing her front tooth. It was a funny and sweet conversation; she was so, so excited. Then she said Grandma was there and wanted to talk to me.

So Mom gets on the phone and we do our Merry Christmases and all that. I asked if she'd seen my email. Mom said, "Yes, I did."

And that was it.

She didn't say another word.

Then, "Well, I've got to go. Let me pass you on to your brother."

Ouch.

The Next Day

Goodness, what a 24 hours.

After the initial shock of the announcement in the boardroom yesterday morning, we all set about gathering our things, sharing contact info, downloading any personal information off our computers and saying good-bye. My exit interview was short and to the point. There is some severance and I’ll be able to file for unemployment. Just as I was leaving, several people were saying they had already received calls from recruiters, and one was “learning more” about a short-term contract.

I left the office at 1:30. I made a couple of stops on the way home and by 4PM was on the rowing machine, completing my Holiday Challenge (200K version). I let myself take a non-environmentally-friendly long, hot shower. Then it was time to pick up the kids, get them dinner, and when my husband arrived home, off to a Christmas gathering for the Sunday school teachers at church and a large cup of spiked eggnog.

I slept fitfully last night, even though I believe that it will all work out somehow. My husband is supportive.

The people with whom I was working are great people. I felt very optimistic about this team of people and what we could have accomplished. I think that optimism clouded my ability or willingness to see the signs of catastrophe from the greater organizations. Signs like not restocking the coffee in the kitchen consistently and no holiday gathering and not reprinting business cards since moving into the new (bright, shiny, no-expense-spared down to custom-made wallpaper) offices two months ago. I thought maybe we’d have a few more weeks, or maybe there would be a change in the management team. I didn’t expect it like it happened. And I wanted to believe it could and would turn around.

As I have told people about the end of my job, most people comment on the timing – just one week before Christmas. Truth is, the timing is never good for this kind of thing. No matter how it is handled, it sucks. And I think it sucks worse for other people. The guy in the cubicle next to me had been there two or three weeks, forgoing a yearly bonus at his old company to join us. And Monday was his welcome lunch. Seriously.

I feel anxious about the job search process because of my schedule. I work part-time, very specific days and hours, and it’s hard to go into an interview with that kind of need. But I’ll start working contacts I have, and try to stay positive. Tomorrow I am going to have lunch with two of my now former coworkers and hopefully our now former manager. I’ll also run a couple of errands I’d been wondering how I would complete with our usual crazy schedule.

Life goes on.

Remarkably Perky

For a group of people who have just lost their jobs a week before Christmas, we are a remarkably perky bunch. At least now we know what is going on.

My company is going out of business. It was announced at 10:30 this morning, and I'll be out the door shortly.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all that.

Speechless

Ever feel like you have nothing of value to add, even though you are extremely busy and much is going through your brain?

New Rule!

So that gift bags may be reused (recycling!), no more writing “To Cousin Neville, Happy Festivus from Aunt Bessie” on the bag itself. Use a gift tag.

Please.

Guilty

In early September, 1990, my husband (then fiance) and I adopted two kittens from the local humane society. These kittens were in adjacent cages at the shelter, but not litter mates. One, a noisy aggressive female tabby, was the last one of a litter that had been brought in by a family overrun with animals, and the other, a scrawny timid black and white male, had been a stray picked up off the streets of the nearby city. The female we named Zoe and the male we named Seymour.

Although Zoe was the bigger kitten, Seymour was the older kitten – about 12 weeks old by the shelter’s estimate to Zoe’s 8 weeks. Seymour was so skinny that you could feel every vertebra in his back. He was overrun with parasites. His coat was dull and patchy. I think our vet was surprised that we adopted him as it took literally months to get him healthy.

Seymour’s life on the streets must have been hard. We could not walk up to him when he was sitting on the floor for months (he’d run away terrified) and it was years before we could walk up to him when wearing shoes. His access to food clearly was sketchy when he was a stray because whenever we put food out, he ate every last morsel as if he had no idea when he’d eat again. As a result, by Christmas of 1990, Seymour was 18 pounds of black and white fur and we’d begun feeding Zoe on top of the ‘fridge (Seymour couldn’t jump he was so fat).

Seymour’s early poor nutrition also resulted in some neurological deficits. He is just the sweetest guy ever, but not the brightest bulb. We used to joke about looking in his big eyes and seeing synapses misfiring behind them. There’s just a vacancy to his gaze, but in a very adorable way.

Over the years, Seymour had his ups and downs. We tried letting the cats outside at our various residences, but Seymour was hit by a car shortly after we started that experiment. Clearly he survived that accident (summer of 1991), but he was an indoor cat from then on (in spite of escape attempts).

Seymour has lived in eight houses in three states, enduring five inter-state moves. He’s been terrified by and finally accepted three babies and a dog. He’s had tuna for Christmas dinner, and ice cream when we weren’t looking. He slimmed down, and became a mouser at the age of 14. He purrs when you look at him, and licks your hand like he’s a puppy. His coat is silky and shiny and he grooms often.

Zoe died two years ago, and since then, Seymour has relished his role as top cat. He tries to dominate the dog, swatting at her from behind the gate. He meowed more in the first six months after Zoe died than he had in the previous 15 ½ years combined. He’s taken back the top of our bed as his own personal lounging and sleeping space, sometimes giving us humans sideways sneers as we climb in at night. He’s slowly lost weight over the years to the point that he’s now on the skinny side again.

He’s lived a good life, really.

So last week when I looked at him and felt the sense that he was slowing down a bit, I wasn’t surprised, really. He is 17 ½ years old. I was feeling sadness for this turn in his life and a little acceptance, thinking about our time together. I told the kids some stories (remind me to write down the story of the squirrels and the shrimp sometime). I gave him more scratches.

Last Thursday, however, we noticed that Seymour’s lower jaw was swollen. I picked up my scrawny (again) kitty and took a close look at his mouth. A tooth was missing (lower left canine), and there was evidence of bleeding. Instantly I suspected that he had knocked out the tooth recently and some infection was making the jaw swell. This was the reason for the change in his appearance, the change in his manner.

On Friday, I took Seymour into the veterinarian’s office. While the vet agreed that the swelling could be the result of infection from the tooth, he did warn me that the tooth might have been lost due to some other underlying condition. He prescribed antibiotics, and then we talked about Seymour’s eating habits.

Seymour hasn’t been eating well for a while, but still has been a reasonable weight until recently. Neither wet nor dry food interested him much – a far change from his first six months with us. His water intake and relative hydration was fine, however. The vet tried heating up a bit of wet food to see if Seymour was interested in that – and yes, oh yes, he was. We left with some sample (ultra pricey) wet food, antibiotics, and hopes that our Seymour would be feeling better in a few days.

It didn’t take days. It took about 36 hours to see a difference. Several doses of antibiotics, several meals of warmed up wet cat food, reduction in the swelling and Seymour is a new cat. He’s 12 or 13 all over again. His eyes are brighter, though still a little vacant. He’s vocalizing and purring more loudly. It’s wonderful.

And I feel like crap.

I feel terrible that I didn’t think of the food thing, and that I didn't notice the swelling sooner. I feel so guilty that I started thinking about Seymour leaving us before his time – before it needed to be his time. I feel awful that I started letting go too soon. He’s been such a good pal to me for many years, and he deserves better than that.

I'm giving him more scratches - it seems like the only thing I can do right now. I hope he'll forgive me.

Quote of the Day

C said to me in the car just now:

"I really want to get serious about cake decorating. It's my destiny."

Someone has been watching too much Duff.

Here We Go Again

C has a broken toe. Another one. This one is the result of that insecure kid shoving him into a wall on Monday.

Some contact with school administration has been initiated.

Ick.

Too Far

No one is so important that they need to bring their Blackberry into the restroom and continue working on it.

I'm just saying.

Persona Non Grata

If the GM really does trade away my favorite rookie, I (and many others) will be seriously pissed off. If the trade goes through this week, the GM should just stay in Nashville and manage from afar. He will not be welcome in his own hometown.

This isn't like 2004 when he traded away Mr. Superstitious. Sure, that one was stunning at the start, but the validity of that trade became apparent within days. And rumors of discord in the locker room had been leaking for quite sometime. It was something that had to happen eventually.

This time, however, there is only love in the Nation for this rookie, and a very good one at that. So much joy for the game, so much energy, so much potential. He is so good for baseball in general and our team in particular. And since he'll still technically be a rookie next season, we might be able to have back-to-back rookies of the year.

I'm not saying the ace in question isn't worth trading for - he is. But not a trade at any price. And the rookie from Oregon is too high a price.

Maybe the GM is worried about the pressure on the rookie to live up to potential as a player and as a franchise symbol, especially in such a sports-crazy town. It's a valid concern. But let the kid prove himself, because my gut says he will - and with class and dignity. Give him the whole shot at the Big Show.

Kid Bits

C

C was in a choral performance on Saturday night. The local community chorus is directed by the music director from our church, so he asked the youth choir to sing with the community choir in one of their twice yearly concerts.

The concert was really lovely. I was and am very proud of him. Melodies are still gliding around in my head.

Choir music is not something with which I am very familiar. Although my mother has/had a lovely operatic voice, our church growing up didn’t have a choir or anything. Sure, hymns were sung, and the main service had a soloist, but no groups of church members singing, young or old. One of my favorite things about our church now is the music program. C really enjoys it, M can’t wait to join junior choir next year, and I love sitting in the pews listening. That C can have the experience of singing with a larger, more accomplished group and in front of a fairly sizable audience is wonderful. And next Sunday they are heading up into the city to sing at a downtown church as part of the outreach program.

M

On Friday night, M slept over at a friends house. The next morning, A, the mom, told me a funny story. I should preface this by saying that we tend to be a pretty snugly family, and we know this family quite well.

(Several years ago, when P and M were still in preschool, A and my husband arrived at about the same time for pick up. P spotted his mom and his friend’s dad first and went running toward them. M followed close behind. A held out her arms for a hug. My husband did, too. P zoomed right past A and literally jumped into my husband’s arms before anyone realized what was happening. We still laugh about that day.)

Friday night was quite windy. M and his friend P had set up for the night in the playroom. They had made a fort and slept in sleeping bags. Sometime in the wee hours, M got up, walked upstairs and crawled into bed next to A (J, the dad, was out of town). A barely roused and assumed that it was her own P climbing in with her and went back to sleep. Sometime later, P appeared at the bedside and woke up A. P told his mom that he really wanted to be with her, but also didn’t want to leave M downstairs alone. At this point A roused slightly more, looked over and saw my M in his bright striped PJs next to her. Surprised but still mostly asleep, A pulled P in between her and M and they all went back to sleep.

A was very amused when she really woke up the next morning, and had to really think back to what happened. P and M woke up with P tightly hugging M. P thought it was his brother next to him.

It’s so sweet to see that they are still little boys, not growing up too, too fast.

S

We’ve been having some bedtime struggles with S. I think it’s related to it being about time to give up the afternoon nap (*I* am not ready for that), or it could be something else. Regardless, we’ve been having issues with her making lots of noise in her room well past lights-out.

One night last week, S started calling out around 9:00. Lights had been out for about half an hour already, and I was a little annoyed. After a few minutes, I went in, ready to be fairly stern. S said, “I just want my stingray,” and pointed to a plush stingray on the high shelf above her bed on which we put most stuffed animals and such. Rather than fight her, I decided to just get it and give it to her. As I gave her the stingray, I told her it was time for sleep, no more playing, I love you and good-night.

S clutched the stuffed stingray tightly to her chest and started saying in her high, sing-songy voice, “Oooh, stingray. Nice stingray. I love you soooo much, stingray.”

I never knew a fish could be so cuddly.

Not Ready

Last night when I picked up C from the middle school dance, I saw a boy and girl walking down the hall holding hands.

I am so not ready for this.

Dirty Laundry

I have about seven loads of laundry to do and no way to do it in my own home - and no convenient laundromats. My washing machine still is not fixed.

We've now had two visits from the repair service. I've called the phone number to try to deal with this and get some resolution, but that has been fruitless. Several times I've been disconnected while the support person tries to transfer me. Mostly they pass the buck. Theoretically I have another service appointment on Friday ("between 8 and 5" - so helpful).

After the first attempt at repair, I mostly lost my patience with this process. I am sure that whenever a support person brings up my records, there is a flashing red warning message: BITCH! I'm not necessarily ashamed of that designation in this situation.

When things get to this level of dysfunction (and sometimes earlier), I don't deal with it well. I get very angry. Woe be to the customer support person in my path as I try to get to someone who can actually help me. And no, I don't believe them when they tell me that their supervisor is either at lunch or on a break, and the supervisor will call me back "right away." Persons at this level are never unsupervised. And call backs never happen. I'd sooner have a valid deed to a bridge in Brooklyn than a timely call back from a competent supervisor, if it happens at all.

I probably need to manage emotions better in these situations. I'll consider that. Until then, I'll just offer some advice: Don't buy any major appliances from Sears or ask Sears to repair any such appliance. They suck.

Thanksgiving Weekend in Pictures

Confused

Last month after M’s annual cardiology check-up, I was relieved. No leakage in the valve, the aortic root, while still enlarged, was not dilating at a rate greater than M’s overall growth, no meds required. I’d been very nervous about the possibility of an ACE inhibitor or a beta blocker to control blood pressure. Since there was no clear cut indication that such meds would be necessary, I thought we were set for at least another year. The message I heard was one of “good as we can get, keep doing what you are doing.” My husband heard that, too.

At that appointment, Dr. B was sure to check our home phone number against the records and specifically asked for my cell number in case he came across anything in the literature.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was about to get on the erg, I was cleaning up bits of paper on the floor in the study. On my husband’s side of the desk/bookcase unit, I came across a prescription. It was for M, it was for an ACE inhibitor, and it was dated 11 days ago.

I was confused. I was shocked. I didn’t know what it all meant.

I called my husband, who was at work, and asked about it. He said that Dr. B had given it to him at a meeting last week, that Dr. B had been to a big cardiology meeting and that other pediatric cardiologists were starting to do this as part of their standard of care.

By this time, I was in tears. Here we were, facing the prospect of putting an 8 year old on a serious medication, possibly for the rest of his life, and no one had bothered to mention it to me.

I was angry that Dr. B, who specifically asked for my cell number and checked our home number did not use either. He did not discuss this with me, or even ask to have a conference call about it with my husband and me. Dr B and my husband my be colleagues in the same business but I still deserve some respect for my role as the patient’s mother, and a careful medical consumer at that.

I am extremely hurt and angry that my husband kept this from me. That opens a whole ‘nother can of worms that I thought we were done with – and I just can’t go back there right now, at least not in writing here.

As for M, he came into the study while I was searching for information on this drug and he saw my tears. He asked what was going on, and as it directly relates to him and I don’t like to lie to my children anyway, I told him in the most reassuring way I could. I told him there was no final decision on it, that we’d be careful to make the best decision. I told him the tears were just how I found out about it.

Then he asked if he had done something wrong to need the medicine. Poor guy. Smart as he is, he is only eight. I reassured him that no, he had done nothing wrong.

So this prescription sits in front of me. I don’t think we’ll fill it just yet. After a long talk last night, and some searches, we can’t find any clear cut direction uses for M’s diagnosis.

I have so many questions. This isn’t like, say C’s asthma meds that we start and stop throughout the year as symptoms rise and ebb.

Since this years’ evaluation and measurement was so good, the decision doesn’t seem clear cut, so what changed?

What is the goal for the medicine? How much will we expect his blood pressure to drop from what it is now and how will we monitor it?

Where is the data that this is the right thing to do?

What if it isn’t working, or conflicting data comes up? How will we know it isn’t working? What then? If we start down this path, is it for the rest of his life?

Are symptoms of insomnia, nausea and loss of appetite appropriate for a skinny 8 year old boy who already wakes up at the crack of dawn each day?

We’re definitely going to get a second opinion here. As much as I have been pleased with Dr. B’s care of and attention to M’s condition, this feels too big to take on faith.

Meanwhile, I have the side effects for this med without taking anything.

Grump

For someone who claims to love Thanksgiving, I woke up quite crabby this morning.

After grumping my way through breakfast hour, finishing a tart, and making cornbread, I identified several sources for my foul mood. Among other things, my husband's job has been demanding the last couple of weeks. I've prepared for this holiday pretty much by myself, while trying to keep the kids appropriately occupied (not always successfully). My husband gets home late, wiped out physically and emotionally from his day, and isn't much help. This also means he isn't particularly emotionally engaged on the homefront. The kids need and want his attention, too, and we're all pretty much melting down at this point. Thankfully (See?! I'm thankful for something this day!), his bad work schedule ends tonight at midnight - but he'll be playing catchup on his regular stuff for a week or so, and so will we as a couple and a family be finding our way back to baseline.

Sometimes I resent my husband's job, and the demands it makes on all of us. This is one of those times. I'm not saying we need to make a major change, or that it's horrible or anything like that. I'm just saying that in the balance of things - in the choices we've made for our life - things feel a little out of balance right now. It will resolve soon enough.

The other thing that was making me grumpy is family. Due to some interesting family dynamics, we are pretty much left alone on Thanksgiving. I'd say ignored, but I don't think it's about ignoring, I think it's about intentionally not saying anything. It's assumed we'll go off and do our own thing, and that it won't involve family. Not a single family member has asked after our plans for Thanksgiving. It's just not discussed - even when I ask after other family members. Weird, huh? I'm fine having dinner with friends, as we are today, but it would be nice to be asked about our plans. And the years we have ended up having dinner with family (that I can count on one hand with fingers left over in the last couple decades), it's always been oddly last minute.

Late this morning, as I put the finished tart in the dining room, next to the pear pie, I looked around at the set table, the sunlight streaming in, the desserts...and I was fine again.

Grump over.

I went and exercised (a holiday distance challenge starts today), the potatoes are cut up and ready to be cooked, the turkey is about to go in the oven, the kids are mostly quiet (S is eating CinnaBunnies for lunch), and our friends will be here in a couple hours. Hopefully my husband will be home in a couple hours (he's the gravy master) and we'll sit down around 4:30.

I have much to be thankful for in my life.

Pomegranates

When I was growing up, a neighbor down the street had a pomegranate tree in their yard. The tree bore well, and there was no way the family could use all the pomegranates. At least that is what the couple dozen kids on the block told ourselves to justify "sneaking" to the tree to grab one.

To open the thick skins, we'd throw the fruits down on the asphalt of our dead-end street, sit on the curb, and pick through the membranes to eat the gorgeous little jewel seeds. As neat as we tried to be, there were always stains on our fingers and lips to give us away - and a big mess on the road. Our parents would scold us a little, but I suppose the neighbors from whom we swiped the pomegranates didn't mind so much or a bigger stink would have been made.

Several years ago, before this latest pomegranate craze really revved up, I spied some pomegranates in the market and brought them home. The boys loved them, and still do. Then one Thanksgiving, on the spur of the moment just before sitting down to eat, I put a handful of pomegranate seeds into the cranberry relish. And a family Thanksgiving tradition was born.

A couple years after that, when visiting my family, I noticed that my brother has a pomegranate tree in his backyard. I arranged a trade with him: he would send me pomegranates from his yard, and I would send him cranberries from the local bogs. That was really fun. My sister-in-law, who didn't much care for cranberry sauce before, liked the recipe I gave her and the pomegranate addition.

Last year and this year, there were no cranberries for sale from the local bogs (some bad production years), and my brother's tree didn't bear well. No matter. When the local bogs and their tree are bearing well again, we'll resume.

Meantime, I made my favorite cranberry sauce last night. It's this recipe. I have a pomegranate ready for the boys to take apart tomorrow morning while I work on other parts of Thanksgiving dinner.

By the way, a trick I learned from Sunset magazine (at least I think it was Sunset): the best way to separate a pomegranate's seeds from the white membrane is to do it in a bowl of water. The membranes float to the top and the seeds sink to the bottom.

Happy Day Before Thanksgiving.

How Do They Know?

Your Inner European is Irish!

Sprited and boisterous! You drink everyone under the table.

Who's Your Inner European?

You Are a Boston Creme Donut

You have a tough exterior. No one wants to mess with you. But on the inside, you're a total pushover and completely soft. You're a traditionalist, and you don't change easily. You're likely to eat the same doughnut every morning, and pout if it's sold out.

What Donut Are You?

Tongue-Tied

Yesterday evening we attended a small gathering of church people at a lovely woman’s house. The intent was for people from the church to get to know one another outside the realm of post-service coffee hour. I’d seen all but one of the other attendees around; the one gentleman I didn’t know usually attends the earlier Sunday service.

Conversation remained light, for the most part. Toward the end of our time together, some reference was made about the “troubles” in the church. I said something about it’s interesting to watch what is happening with these dioceses that are splitting. And that’s all I said.

Quickly this gentleman I had just met spoke up, “Well, I know personally the bishops of the four dioceses that are leaving, and they just feel they can not reconcile their theology with the church. That Jefferts Schiori, she’s a tiger, she is. She’s not a theologist, she’s an ichthyologist, with an emphasis on the ich.”

I was stunned. I quickly made a decision not so say anymore for the sake of a pleasant evening, and apparently the others in the room made the same decision, because there was silence for a moment before moving on to another topic.

After we left the gathering, I spoke to my husband about my shock over this gentleman’s obvious disrespect for the presiding bishop, his very possible misogyny, and his factual errors:

1) She isn’t a theologist, she’s an ordained person. She has an M.Div, not a Ph.D in Theology, or even an MA. There’s a difference. From the information I can find, neither are the bishops of the rogue dioceses theologists either.

2) As for the ichthyologist reference, certainly this is a reference, and an irrelevant one at that, to Jefferts Schiori’s previous career in oceanography.

3) And why the heck call her a “tiger?” The only reason I can see is to disparage her.

4) All this completely misses some of the major points of the conflict anyway. If the bishops don’t want to be in the church, they are free to leave, but they can’t take entire dioceses and church property with them. Among other things – many other things.

This gentleman and the bishops are scared white men. Afraid of change, afraid of smart woman, afraid of truly discerning messages that might challenge their status quo. They use their age and their position to declare that theirs is the only possible truth. But we already know that.

I also realized that what bothered me most about the conversation was this man’s personal attack on the presiding bishop mostly likely because of her gender – and that I didn’t stand up to that for the sake of a “pleasant evening.”

What the heck has happened to me?

I didn’t used to be this way. I would challenge what I thought was wrong. Granted, I would sometimes push too far in that direction, and knew that I needed to find better balance. Last night it seemed like the pendulum had swung too far the other way. Yes, it probably was a no-win situation, but to have remained so silent makes me disappointed in myself.

It's Only 9AM?

About 4AM, S woke up needing some comfort. She ended up coming into bed with us. That was fine.

At 5:30AM, my husband received a work call. He should not have gotten it. It was for a very small matter, and there is a chain of people that should have been called first. He was annoyed, and as he made several calls to find out where the protocol had broken down, his voice rose such that I woke up and could hear him well, even though he was downstairs.

I tried to settle back to sleep, but it was taking a while. Just as I got close...

About 6:15AM, S started crying that her tummy hurt. Uh-oh, I thought. I ran through various scenarios in my mind, how I would handle the day, the plans. We think she really just needs to poop, and helped her to the potty. Some progress. I settled her and I back down, hopefully for more sleep, but....

Shortly thereafter my husband started getting ready for work, making bits of noise around the room. Oh, well. So much for more sleep.

S decided she wanted to watch PBS, so I set it up for her. After my husband left for work, I went downstairs to get some coffee. While downstairs, I heard something fall upstairs. S had knocked a wine glass from late last night off my bedside table and it shattered.

After cleaning that up, I was back downstairs trying to motivate C to take the dog out. It is his responsibility to take the dog out in back morning and evenings for her usual business. After taking her out once to pee and feed her, I asked him to take her out again so she could poop, as she usually does after breakfast. C did take her out, but came back in rather quickly. Not enough time to let the poor dog do her stuff. I asked if she had pooped, and he said yes.

After a few moments of conversation and mom-looks, I learned that, no, she hadn't pooped, and he'd been lying to me on this topic intermittently. Today's excuse? It's cold out there.

Sigh.

So C is grounded for a while. This is not his first lying offense, but it has been a while. We'll have a long talk later about how he is trouble for the lying part, not the wanting to come in because it's cold part. And we'll talk about responsibility and how not giving the dog enough opportunity to relieve herself is not fair to the dog. Etc.

All before 9AM on a Saturday morning.