We went to Atlantic City on Saturday, and I didn't have a good time. I realize you can't gamble there and expect to win, but what I do expect is to at least have a few long streaks of winning before you completely lose that $20 bill you put into the machine. Let us schnooks think we stand a shot at winning for a few moments, you know? At least that's what keeps me going to AC three or four times a year. We've come out ahead exactly once, and that was a whopping $100 more than we started with. We've never come out with thousands of dollars in winnings, like other folks I know have, but I figure they must bet thousands to win thousands. Dan and I left with about $300 and returned with $100, so we lost $200, a lot for us.

My complaint is that I had such terrible luck! We went to four different casinos, from one machine to another, and I couldn't seem to get any kind of winning streak going anywhere. Dan was luckier than I was; he was the one who walked away with more than the $20 bucks he put into most of the machines. I couldn't get any spins on the Wheel of Fortune, and I actually went through 20 bucks at one cruddy slot machine and didn't win ANYTHING on it, not once!

That was unheard of, at least to me. They want you to keep playing, to at least want to stick around their casino, but the kind of luck I was having made me not just want to flee that particular casino, but Atlantic City altogether! Unfortunately, we were stuck there for a seven-hour stay.

At least the buffet was nice, but I pigged out on desserts. The creme brulee was to die for! At least I was running around the casinos, getting some exercise.

This was a trip sponsored by Dan's company, which meant a lot of Spanish people went along, specifically, a large group of loud, obnoxious, inconsiderate women. On the way there, they spent a lot of time talking and laughing raucously. If I'd wanted to watch the movie, I would have been shit out of luck, because they were so loud, I couldn't hear any of the dialogue, anyway. I actually was able to sleep for a while, which was nice, as I was tired.

On the way home was a different matter. Those same gals were drunk, and the level of their rudeness notched up many decibels. They weren't just laughing, they were screeching; they demanded the movie be turned off because they wanted to dance (and fuck anyone who wanted to watch the movie, or, like me, sleep)! The movie was turned off, but when no one could find a radio station with dance music, they began listening to their individual MP3 players and dance in the bus aisles (the bus driver did NOT look pleased at the passing around of beer cans and screeching, cavorting women). One, named Lolly, danced over and rubbed herself against my husband, so I abandoned all thoughts of sleep and sat up, watching, glaring, knowing they were probably trashing me in Spanish and not really giving a fuck.

We ran into traffic in Flushing, of course, lengthening our trip, and I think the only one happier than the bus driver when we pulled into the Smoke City parking lot was me.

Listen, I don't mind people having fun, but this was a bus filled with people, and I know not all of us were enjoying the show these girls were putting on. They didn't care, which is just plain wrong.

Yesterday, Dan and I went to the buffet and the gym, our usual Saturday excursion, and I did the shopping for the week. We both napped in the afternoon, but I was up at 2:30 instead of sleeping the entire afternoon away.

It's been a busy day here today, so much so, I didn't even get away for my usual walk. That's unheard of! I need to make a stop on the way home for gas and a few items at BJ's. Always something to do!

Love, Robin

A lot of folks think we should have given Bugsy back to Last Hope a long time ago, back when he first bit Dan on the nose. Believe me, we considered it. When we were first married, we bought Spock, a toy poodle, who, for reasons unknown, "turned" on us when we moved from our apartment into our first house. He turned from a mellow sweetheart into a vicious beast who attacked when you were in the middle of petting him, drawing lots of blood. This led to big problems when Brad was born. A biting dog and an inquisitive, tail-tugging baby do not mix, so we gave Spock to my brother. Sad to say, Spock didn't survive in Albany long; he was struck by a car and killed only a few months after going to live there.

Last Hope paid for a trainer to work with Bugsy and us, and it seemed to work, at least for a time. Perhaps Bugsy sensed how weak we really were, what pushovers, and that he could return to his old ways and terrorize and take over our roost once more.

Despite his bone-in-our bed shenanigans, Bugsy has sweetness in him--really! He'll come up to us on weekend mornings and lick our hands over and over, all affection and love. Sometimes, I just take him into my arms and pet him, rubbing his ears, which he loves, scratching his head (ditto), massaging his thick fur, looking into his sightless eyes and telling him how much I love him. Other times, I'll go over and pet him a couple of times and he'll snarl at me, a warning that if I don't leave him alone, his next move will be a bite that will draw blood from any one of my digits he can reach. So I leave him alone. Bugsy lets you know when he wants affection--and when he doesn't.

The thought of this blind, once-abused dog being returned to Last Hope after two years of having him in our home, of failing him, of seeing him perhaps being put to sleep because no one else will take him, makes my heart hurt so much, I can't even consider it, not seriously, anyway.

I guess Bugsy has me pegged--I AM a pushover. I love the little son- of-a-bitch, with all his faults, and I don't want him to die. He's bitten Dan, me, Brad--yet I don't want him to die. He's had a tough life, and it would just be too cruel for it to end prematurely.

Call me nut. Before he dies, he's going to know love--no matter what!

Love, Robin

Weird but true: A stingray jumps aboard a boat; an elderly Florida man fends it off and is stung in the chest. His lung collapses and he has a foot long, razor-sharp stinger imbedded in his chest.

A drunk, nude woman on Staten Island recklessly drives her car and strikes a man, sending him spiraling up into the air and down, killing him. There are pieces of him strewn everywhere.

A 25-year-old man is convicted of murder for driving his car the wrong way on a parkway, smashing into a limo returning from a wedding, killing the driver and a 7-year-old girl who was decapitated. The prevailing image for the jurors was, I'm sure, of the mother cradling her daughter's bloody, severed head in her arms.

This is why I named my blog "My Whackadoodle Life"--not so much what happens to me directly, but what occurs in the insane world around me and makes me wish I could go live on another planet with a better class of people. Then I realize that we'd just pollute, over-populate and otherwise screw up THAT planet, too, because we are the way we are. What's needed here is a whole new species that respects the world it's living on. We've pretty much proved we aren't it.

Changing the subject, Bugsy had a bone in our bed with him last night, so any movement on our part made him attack our legs and/or feet. He made contact twice, biting my toe and leg just below the knee. There wasn't a lot of blood, but it hit me how ridiculous it was that Dan and I couldn't even move in our own bed. We pulled off all the covers, Bugsy growling at us the entire time, located the bone, and took it away. That sounds like a mean thing to do to a blind dog, granted, but he was behaving viciously, and given how kind we've been to him, biting us and making us fearful to move in our own bed really is unacceptable--right?

Dan and I settled carefully back into our bed. Bugsy frantically scrabbled in the covers, searching for his bone. I felt guilty, but only for a few moments. If Bugsy is going to be bone-aggressive, he's not going to be rewarded with rawhide treats anymore. It's that simple. He CAN'T be allowed to abuse us!

It took quite a while before Dan, Snaps, Bugsy and I settled down for sleep, and the alarm went off only too quickly. Dan had today off; I've spoken to him twice by phone. I admit, I was a bit hurt that he didn't stop by to have lunch with me, but then again, I begged off taking a ride to the doctor with him at 4 PM because I want to go to the gym on the way home, then make dinner for Brad, Dan and me, so perhaps that's why. I'd hate to think he was being petty-nasty with me, but I will ask him about it later and tell him that he hurt my feelings by not wanting to get together with me today. Sigh. You've gotta communicate with your spouse!

For some reason, today I was reminded of Sharon, a woman Dan used to work with. In her early 40's, she was born with too-short arms, but had a great sense of humor, was excellent at her job and loved surfing the internet. She became sick with liver cancer and fought hard, but it got to the point where her doctor told her modern medicine had gone as far as it could go in treating her and she was going to die. Although they say cancer patients eventually arrive at a stage of acceptance, Sharon refused to go gently into that good night. "I'm not done living, Dad!" she complained as her pain increased and her strength failed.

When Dan and I attended her wake, her father said, "Sharon didn't want to die. . .she was so mad--she said, 'I was born with these fucking ugly arms and then cancer cuts my life short? Fuck THAT! It's not fair, Daddy!'"

I started to cry. Dan urged me to stop--I was upsetting everyone at the wake--but all I could think about was Sharon, who wanted more life and was pissed because she was taken away too soon, and how very, very shitty that was.

I'm sorry if this story depresses you. It saddens me to recall and write it. I haven't thought about Sharon in a long time. She's been dead at least five or six years now. I remember her wicked sense of humor and her laugh. I hope there is an afterlife, like there is in DEAD LIKE ME, and she's enjoying it to the fullest--with normal-length arms. I miss you, Sharon.

Love, Robin

The first updated blog I saw when I logged on here was titled "The Murder of My Son." Dear God, if anyone murdered my son, I know I would take justice into my own hands and murder that person right back, no questions asked. Well, maybe one--WHY??? Why did you kill my baby, the light of my loins and life, the best creation of my husband and me? WHY?

I know we have to let our kids leave the nest, but it's so very hard to let them go out into this terrible world where drunk people drive the wrong way down a parkway or take it upon themselves to use a knife, gun or fists to take away the life of another human being, often times someone they don't even know.

Take a breath, Robin. Slow that heart rate down. Your pulse runs too fast already, no need to urge it faster.

I didn't intend to write about this subject when I started today. But you know how things trigger you, make you detour from your original subject? That's what happened to me. Now, for the intended subject of my blog--dog piss.

Last night, I was trying hard to fall asleep, but it wasn't working. I flipped from side to side, annoying Bugsy and Snaps, who were comfortable, even if I wasn't. Then my hand encountered coldness on the sheet next to my pillow. . .no, wetness. Oh, no, I hadn't spilled anything, what the hell was that?

I sat up, turned on the light, climbed out of bed and examined the carpet. Bugsy had peed--one large pool, followed by a "Bugsy trail" (so cute when outside, not so cute on my rug) leading for several feet to the bed, up the carpeted steps we'd bought him, and yes, on my sheet!

Oh, shit!

The little bastard had just gone out with Snaps, but apparently didn't bother going down the deck steps--and when he doesn't go down those steps, he doesn't pee or poop. He prefers being leash-walked, but I want him to realize he can't always be; he must use the backyard as his bathroom, just like Snaps does.

Bugsy usually has excellent control, but his bladder was apparently so full, he couldn't hold it in, and once he starts peeing, due to a problem with his penis, he can't control stopping; that's why the Bugsy trail. I got down on hands and knees to scrub at the puddle on the carpet, then followed the trail around my bed and up the dog-step, grimacing as I went. I pulled all the covers, sheets and mattress pad off the bed, anxiously feeling the mattress itself for wetness. Fortunately, it was dry; the sheet and pad had soaked up the worst of it. I asked Dan to walk the dogs outside on the leash for a few minutes, just so I could take care of the mess, but he wasn't able to keep them out long enough. Snaps bounded upstairs and jumped on the bed while I was trying to make it. When I ordered him off, he refused to go. Tired, frustrated and pissed off, I yelled, "Get off the bed, Snaps!", but he still didn't move. So, cursing, I made it around him.

It took me a long time to settle back down and fall asleep after that. Since my pillow had gotten pee on it, too, I tossed that out into the hall and stole Dan's. I heard him bitching about not having a pillow when he came to bed, but frankly, I felt she who cleaned the pee deserved the one remaining pillow!

This morning I went in late to work so I could stop at HIP for blood tests. Dr. Jacob sent me a sheet filled with many blood tests and one urine test. When I got there, they handed me the fun-fun-fun fecal test--they want a sample of my poop! I was fifth to sign in, and was done by 8 AM, so I went right to work and punched on at 8:30. That means I can leave at 2:30! Joy!

I'm going to the gym after work today, just for a few exercises. The pool and jacuzzi are re-open, and I'm going in both tomorrow!

Love, Robin

Between Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I napped a total of 7 hours. Is that not horrible? It was my WEEKEND, for God's sake, and I slept much of it away!

Bugsy and Snaps enjoy when I say, "Who wants to take a nap with Mommy?" We go upstairs, Snaps really quickly and blind Bugsy very slowly and deliberately. Snaps jumps on the bed and snuggles down in the crook behind my knees. Bugsy climbs up the carpeted steps we bought him and barks at Snaps, ordering him away from his position. Snaps gives a few ineffectual barks and growls, but gives up the crook of my knees to Bugsy, who burrows in. Snaps jumps on the other side of me and presses into my belly. Thus I am sandwiched between my two no-longer-warrning doggies, whom I adore so very much.

Still, I'm sleeping too damn much! Steve called last night. He was on the road and speaking from his Blueberry. He sounded jaunty and happy. He praised me again for how good I looked when we got together for dinner recently. Nice to hear again, too! It was dark out already and nearing 6:30, so I was pissed at Dan for letting me sleep so late. I hadn't eaten anything all day except early breakfast at the buffet in Levittown, so I'd gone too many hours without food--very unsafe for a diabetic! Plus we'd exercised pretty rigorously at the gym, another concern when I haven't eaten. But Dan and Mike were playing with the computer and I guess I wasn't terribly important in the great grand scheme of things.

Dan and Mike went to see THE MARINE, a new movie out starring John Cena, one of their wrestler favorites. I could have gone, but why would I? Not exactly my thing. I had to do the food shopping, buy fruit and a cold cut for Brad, milk for the coffee club, etc. They got home not long after me, and about 3:30, I headed upstairs for my nap. Which might explain why I couldn't sleep most of last night.

I have a huge list of blood tests Dr. Jacob wants me to have. Since I'm wondering if my exhaustion isn't thyroid related, I want to get those tests done ASAP, so I'm taking tomorrow morning off to do so. My plan is to take 2.5 hours of sick leave and work 6 hours straight from 9-3. Whether I'll actually be able to get here by 9 AM is another matter, but I'll take however many hours of sick leave I need to--I have more than 1500 of them!

Saturday was the dog show at Farmingdale College. Since it didn't start until 11, I had time to run around to a couple of local garage sales. I got a short, heavy shelf for Brad to put in his office; Dan and I had to return with his car to pick it up.

One of my garage sale finds was a large rawhide bone. I gave that to Bugsy and another to Snaps not long before we left. Bugsy apparently thought Dan was going to steal his bone, because he attacked him, putting a hole right through his new sneakers, sock--and his toes. I sprayed liquid bandage on the foot, which was saved from worse damage by the sneaker and sock. Still, Dan bleated like a baby and drama queened like crazy, but I always have to remind myself that he has a very low pain threshold.

I screamed at Bugsy, calling him a bad, bad boy, (as I have on all the other occasions he's done this), ordering him, "GO AWAY!" I snatched away his bone (that's his fear, but doesn't he realize he LOSES his damn treats when he behaves this way?) Bugsy ran around, blindly searching for the bone, but of course, it was not to be found. He just doesn't GET it! Perhaps his short and long term memories were all destroyed by brain damage caused by abuse and he will NEVER learn?

Despite the trouble, we loaded both dogs into the car and took them to the dog show. They behaved very well, considering how crowded it was with both people and pooches. We collected Halloween candy and freebies. Dan ate a hot dog and I scarfed a cookie from a baked goods table. I gave a dollar to many of the dog charities seeking money, and we entered a couple of raffles. I remember so many more vendors last year, unless I'm thinking of an entirely different event, but this took place at exactly the same time last year, right around Halloween.

Saturday afternoon, we attended the opening of a new Ace Hardware store (which took the place of a closed Eckerd store that opened, then closed in the space of a few months). It's good to see something new open there. We got a free pail, a BEWARE OF DOG sign and a bottle of stuff that's guaranteed to clean soap scum out of the bathtub. Well, I tried it before my nap and it DID NOT work. There is only one thing that REALLY works on soap scum, and I'm going to give you the secret--OVEN CLEANER! That's right, what cleans grease from your oven will get the soap scum off your tub--but it smells, makes you choke and don't get it on your hands! And rinse it VERY, VERY well, or you're going to burn your ass when you take a bath. Bam is very similar to oven cleaner, by the way, but far less oomph. Use the real thing. Actually, my husband uses a steam cleaner on our tub, which works, but it takes a huge amount of elbow grease.

Which reminds me, when I was a little girl, I overheard my mother say, "You need lots of elbow grease to clean this!"

I went over to her, extended my chubby elbows and said, "Which elbow has the grease, Mommy? I'll give ya some of mine!"

She laughed and laughed, then explained to me what "elbow grease" means. Phooey. Hard work! I still wish I had some kind of magic cleaning grease coming out of my elbows!

Love, Robin