Tomorrow is the Farmingdale College dog event. We've gone to this for the past couple of years, and enjoy it immensely. They give away samples of dog and cat goodies; various rescue organizations beg for money; dogs demonstrate their ability to do tricks; animals needing homes are put on display and hopefully, adopted. There are snakes, lizards, large animals, small, some for sale, others just for showing. Dan and I pop dollar bills into jars and enter all kinds of raffles. Sometimes, we've even won!

They encourage you to bring well-behaved pets to this event, and I'd love to bring Snaps along. Dan insists if Snaps goes, Bugsy can't be left behind. What if Bugsy is in a biting mood? We surely don't need lawsuits from a dozen people if, scared, he gnaws on a bunch of strangers' ankles! I don't know if I'll be able to fully enjoy myself having to worry about the Bugster's potentially nasty behavior.

I love spring weekends, when there are fun, exciting outdoor events to look forward to. This is the best garage sale weather, too. I hate when it gets extra hot and sticky. Who can look at winter clothing for sale when it's 80+ and sweat is running down my back?

Speaking of which, Dan and I have gone twice to LA Fitness, the gym to which we now BOTH belong, together. It's hard, but I'm determined to slim down again. I will make time to go to the gym. While I don't have the proper clothing, I think I'll make a quick stop there on my way home today, do the bike and the waist slimming exercises. No bathing suit, so no swimming or jacuzzi. But I want to get rid of as much of this excess fat as possible, and if I can't lose weight, at least I can resculpt my body.

There are so many slim, pretty young thangs at that gym--you know, the ones I call the "two-pound girls". They have flat tummies with diamond belly button rings and tiny boobies. I hate taking off my clothes to reveal my giant, hanging tits and flabby ass, not to mention my hanging C-section flab, which won't go anywhere unless I get a tummy tuck. I think they should segregate the two pound girls from the 2,000 pound girls (like me); that way, we only have to look at girls like ourselves and not feel bad about our bodies. It would all be voluntary, of course. I mean, some women claim they don't care if other women make fun of them or talk bitchily about them behind their backs--but they are liars! We ALL care.

I'm just saying, we should have the option.

Between the ages of 16-19, I was a two-pound girl with enormous tits. I was slim, with long, silky, gorgeous hair--and I didn't know it. I slouched my shoulders, embarrassed by my bountiful breasts, and ruined my lower back. I needed surgery when I was 20 years old to remove one and a half slipped discs, which ultimately destroyed my back for a lifetime. I have never been out of pain since, and the older I get, the worse the sciatica running down my left leg becomes. The excess weight doesn't help, either. I'm hoping that if I lose weight, tone up, strengthen my back, perhaps it will quell the pain. It's worth a shot.

Love, Robin

You know how much I love dogs. We own two now, but it's not the first time we've welcomed two pooches into our family. Before Brad, there was Spock, a white toy poodle, and after him, there was Muffin, a black mini poodle. We loved the breed, and both dogs were sweet, easygoing, a cinch to housebreak and cooperative, adoring pets.

Until we moved from our dinky apartment into our first house. Spock turned from docile and contented to mean and nasty. He started biting us, drawing blood, often when we were petting him. We took him to a vet named, believe it or not, Dr. Barkan, at Basic Pet Care. His advice? "Lead in the head," he suggested. He was actually telling us to euthanize our dog because he'd gone crazy! We were stunned, but he wasn't kidding. Spock had changed, and not for the better. When we had Brad, it became apparent that either the new baby or Spock had to go. Brad liked pulling the dog's tail and ears. Spock rewarded this behavior with vicious snarling and biting. My brother offered to take Spock to live with him upstate, in his Albany home. Hoping to eventually bring Spock back into our household, we gratefully accepted Steve's offer. Sadly, only a few months after going to live with my brother, Spock was hit by a car and killed. My brother, who had grown very attached to him, was crying when he called to tell us the bad news.

That left us with Muffin, who quickly proved herself a motherdog supreme. Spayed though she was, she adopted baby Brad as though she'd given birth to him. Whenever he cried, she anxiously circled him, running back and forth between him and us, alerting us to his cries. When strangers approached his carriage outside, she whimpered and gazed at them, growling as if to say, "Are you safe? Do you have parental clearance? Are you permitted to gaze upon the royal child?"

Amazing in her determination and adoration, Muffin stayed at Brad's side, whether he was in his stroller, carriage, crib, or my arms being breastfed. His safety and good health were paramount. When he began getting constant ear infections, it was Muffin who barked to let me know each and every time the fever caused him to throw up.

I wish I could say that Brad returned her loyal love, but the truth was, he didn't seem to appreciate her constant, militant presence, and sometimes seemed annoyed by it.

As he grew up, I chided him, "Brad, this dog adores you--why don't you pay attention to her once in a while?"

Engrossed in school, sports and video games, he never had a good answer. Muffin was always there, always at his side (or, as he liked to call it, "Always in my way.")

When Brad was 13, Muffin turned 15 and was in amazingly good health. I was walking her every day. She had never been good on a leash, always tugging and pulling, but in her later years, she learned to heel beautifully and walked beside me, a regal queen. I so enjoyed our walks, and talked to her as if she were a person, sharing my disappointment that Brad never appreciated her attentiveness more. I imagined her saying, "Oh, mother, don't fret, that's children for you. He loves me, we both know he does. He's just so busy, too busy to say so."

On a Saturday morning in October, 1995, I woke up and realized something was terribly wrong with Muffin. She was leaning to one side; her eyes were cloudy and unfocused. She urinated on the floor, something she hadn't done since she was a puppy. Horrified, I called the vet, who said Muffin had most likely had a stroke. He advised us to wait out the weekend and see if she improved.

Dan and I barely left her side Saturday or Sunday. Unfortunately, she was no better on Monday, vomiting and dizzy. I called when I got home from work. "Bring her in," the vet said.

We asked Brad to come along. "We might not be bringing her home," I said hesitantly.

"Yes you will," he scoffed.

"Brad, she's 15," Dan reminded him. "That's 90 year old for a dog. If we don't bring her home and you don't come with us now, you might not have a chance to say goodbye."

He insisted he had homework to do, and I got the impression he was sure we'd be bringing Muffin home. After all, she'd been there when we brought him home from the hospital and he'd never known a day in his life without her. His world had always had Muffin in it, and always would, no matter what we said.

The vet examined Muffin carefully. He gently said, "While she isn't in pain, she's dizzy and nauseous, and that isn't going away. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I think you should put her to sleep."

I started to cry. Dan sort of made a gasp-choke noise. Hearing him actually say the words we were dreading was so hard. I thought he'd be able to give her a shot, a pill, something to reverse the stroke--to reverse aging!

I'll never forget the wallpaper in that little examining room, a repeating pattern: brown background with cavorting white puppies with red bows around their necks. Our vet's policy didn't allow pet owners to stay and hold the animal while the dog was injected; we had to say goodbye now and Muffin would be put to sleep later, after closing. We were too stunned to argue or say much of anything. I held Muffin in my arms and whispered in her ear, "You were the best dog in the world, girl, you're going straight to heaven."

Dan never cries, but he was sobbing when he gathered Muffin into his arms, hugged her tightly and muttered, "I love you so damn much and this just sucks!"

It really, really did.

Leaving her behind, still alive, was just awful. Muffin looked so forlorn, not understanding why we were going away without her. The bill indicated a huge fee for having her cremated and buried with hundreds of other dogs, but our town has a strict ordinance against burying pets on your property.

To this day, I wish we had taken Muffin elsewhere, but you can't think rationally under those circumstances. Or at least, we'd have had them put her to sleep, gone back and collected her body to bury in our backyard.

The worst was yet to come, however.

We returned home with an empty collar and leash, both of us crying. Brad blinked in disbelief. "Where's Muffin?"

"She had to be put to sleep," I said. "We TOLD you, Brad! We asked you to come along!"

He started to cry. Hard. "I didn't think. . .I was hoping. . ."

We were all hoping, of course. For a miracle. For the inevitable to be pushed back, just for a little while. But all life is finite, and the pets with whom we share our lives brighten them for so brief a time, and then are gone.

I've never been back to that vet, and I dream about that fucking wallpaper sometimes.

Love, Robin

Today is Tuesday. I had three days off in a row and really enjoyed them. Dan and I invited Mike to a BBQ yesterday. Dan and Mike have known each other since they were three and two, respestively, and he was Dan's best man, but Mike is usually late when you invite him over, and yesterday, he didn't even show up.

Dan was hurt and angry, understandably. We had defrosted and purchased stuff in anticipation of Mike's coming over, and for him to not only not show up, but not call to SAY he wasn't showing up was inexcusable. He said he went to his gym for the first time in ages, but left his phone home. So he couldn't go to a pay phone? He couldn't ask to make a quick call from the gym's phone? The point is, he blew us off and didn't call. This is from someone who is supposedly Dan's best friend. That went over very poorly with both of us, and it made me cry on Dan's behalf. I think it just sucks. I made BBQ'd chicken for Brad for lunch, but shortly after that, he left to go shopping with Ali, then went for a BBQ at Ali's house. That meant it was just Dan and me, and we both took a nap during the afternoon, with the dogs.

I was pretty tired, I'll tell ya! I went to Dan's gym with him, LA Fitness, which is right down the road from where we both work. I finally signed up, since my two year stint with Lucille Roberts is now over. I haven't gone there since we adopted Bugsy, which is a a year and seven months ago! I was paying $20 a month for 19 months without setting foot in that place. LA Fitness is $50 per month, and I had BETTER go there! I know I need to exercise along with diet, if I'm going to see myself become smaller. My H1C from HIP was 6.2, much, much better than my last couple of blood tests, and WAAAAAY better than ANY blood work for YEARS! I guess eating properly does make a huge difference, huh? DUH! Aw, shit, I know that! I just have to practice it, religiously, if I want to be a healthy diabetic.

By the way, Brad's pump failed yesterday, and he had to get on the phone with Medtronic, the company who makes the pump. Turns out he has some faulty infusion sets, because as soon as he used one from a different lot, the pump was fine. I guess he has some on his hands that need a recall, huh? It's scary when that happens, even when I'm just his mother, standing by, mentally wringing my hands!

However, Brad wasn't around most of this weekend, and spent most of Saturday in the la-di-da Hamptons at some rich house of a friend of Ali's. Yes, I do worry that he will prefer her life to our life and we will eventually lose him in every way that counts.

Dan and I spent about two hours at the gym yesterday. We worked on treadmills side by side, swam together in the pool, bitched together because the jacuzzi was out of order. I worked out on several pieces of waist-whittling resistance equipment, and hope to see a smaller me before too many months pass. Ideally, I want to go to the gym Saturdays, Sundays, and one or two days during the work week. It will be something positive Dan and I can do together, and push each other into doing.

Saturday, Dan, Mike and I went to see X-MEN III. I hadn't seen the first two flicks, but thoroughly enjoyed this one, anyway. I want to see the first two now, so I'm up to speed on the series. Some nice looking male tail in this movie, which I always appreciate!

The vinyl fence we're considering erecting around our property to replace the falling-down wooden one will probably have to be put on hold for now. Two estimates we've gotten thus far total at least $5,500, a lot more than we thought it would cost. Plus, there are additional problems--large tree stumps in the way that will have to be removed or pared down to make room for the new fencing. That's more money we just can't spare right now.

My boss, Gary, is on his yearly sojourn to Africa. He'll be gone four weeks!

Now that is some GOOD news!

Hope you got a bunch of your own.

Love, Robin

Today we have a diatribe. Why? 'Cause I'm pissed off!

I did a favor for a company at work today. I always try to be as helpful as possible, even after nearly 27 years on this job. So I pretty much begged for this favor to be done today, since the guy who requested it begged ME this morning. I was told it was gong to be very difficult to accomplish, but whined, "Come on, let's try, OK?" I probably batted my eyelashes, which couldn't have been appreciated, since I was pleading over the phone.

I got a phone call a little while ago that the favor was attempted, but the recipient of said boon neglected to do something to ensure the favor could be done--so it was undone. When I spoke with the same guy I'd spoken with this morning, he said something that further pissed me off, and I essentially said, as politely as possible, using different words, "You are an asshole, and this is the very last time I will go out of my way for you again!!!" Turns out we used overtime unnecessarily and I will probably owe someone a very bizarre and painful sexual favor in return--and what was supposed to happen didn't even happen, damn it!!!

OK, I'm cooler now. Writing it down always helps. Sharing it by talking helps, too, but putting it into words is even better.

I just want to go on record saying that I really hate doing favors for people who muck it up by doing something stupid, or neglecting to do something they should have done to ensure it would get done.

I'm thrilled that Taylor Hicks won AMERICAN IDOL last night. Katherine is just too rich and beautiful, and you KNOW she's going to do fine for herself. She didn't need the title as badly. Taylor comes from humbler roots, and I think he's going to appreciate the wealth and fame that comes from his win a lot more than Kat would.

On the other hand, I was rooting for Chris D. all along, and his abrupt, unexpected departure came as a huge shock. I'm sure he'll be fine, too. As for Mr. Yamin, he has insulin-dependent diabetes (as did Kevin Covais, the cute kid with the glasses who looks like that cartoon duck, which means two our of the final 12 had it, which is kind of weird, odds-wise), and I know he, too, will make his way in the world. As for Kellie Pickler, she MUST become a restaurant critic--just don't give her any food with eyes or from a shell. Her segments were just hilarious last night.

I don't think I've mentioned how much I love HOUSE, or Hugh Laurie, the actor who plays him. I cheered when he received a Golden Globe Award--he SO deserved it. He's British--yet speaks with a flawless American accent! You love to hate House; he's so blunt, crude and sexy. I eventually hope to see him in an erotic sandwich between Cameron and Dr. Cuddy (and I bet House would enjoy it, too).

In cause you're thinking I'm a dirty old lady, just remember, I'm the gal who used to write erotica for men's magazines, probably a good thousand stories when all was said and done. My mind doesn't just stray in the gutter, it PLAYS there, going "Wheeeeeeeeee!"

I keep thinking today is Friday. Actually, this is late in the week for me; I generally begin thinking it's Friday on Tuesday. It's going to be a three-day weekend, which is very nice. I don't have any grandiose plans, mind you, but I rarely do. I will just play it as it comes.

So, how have the season or series-ending finales been treating you? Any incredible shockers? I'll tell you what floored me--that they killed off Melinda's best friend/business partner on GHOST WHISPERER! Here they had us thinking the friend's brother had been killed in the plane crash, but it turned out the friend, on her way to find what had happened to her brother, got caught in the crash and was killed in her car! It was carried off brilliantly, but what a surprise! I really like that actress, too. I'm accustomed to main characters being killed off LOST, but this was like killing Rory off GILMORE GIRLS!

Hey, Memorial Day is coming--remember our vets. They gave up a lot for us--in too many cases, their lives.

Love, Robin

I take a walk every weekday during my half hour lunch break. Weather permitting, I go out from 10:45-11:15 with my itty-bitty SanDisk MP3 Player tucked in my pants pocket (I NEVER wear dresses or skirts; my legs are too veiny and ugly) and take a very brisk power walk. I work up a pretty good sweat. I think I've told you before that I let my mind wander, conjure and go wherever it needs to so I can feel good upon my return from work. Sometimes I ponder Real Life Stuff, like my son's winning the teaching position he most wanted, or how much I miss my deceased parents, or how pretty robins are and how nice it is that I was named for such gorgeous-hued birds.

Other times I fantasize about killing bin Laden with a knife while we're dancing, or being raped by a very hot cop, or. . .well, you get the gist. I don't actually choose what I think about, it just pops into my head and I go with it, whatever it is that day. It's like of like having one TV station I can't control.

During today's walk, I spotted a car parked here at my postal facility with a bumper sticker that gave me pause: Guns don't kill people, postal workers with guns do!

At first, finding it funny, I giggled. Then it hit me--this person was apparently a postal employee. Did that mean he or she owned a gun and might appear one day at work to show it to all of us and perhaps demonstrate its operation by spraying a bunch of us with bullets? I suddenly felt very cold.

Does this person have the right to affix such a bumper sticker to her/his car? Is such an act covered by the first amendment? Is is merely someone with a very sick sense of humor, or someone mentally ill, and one of my co-workers?

There are so very many of us in this building, too many. It's too scary to contemplate. I'm sure we have experienced our share of threats here, from people inside and outside the USPS. Would someone so foolish as to affix such a bumper sticker be dangerous?

It gives one food for thought, the kind that is rancid and sends the eater to the nearest hospital.

I made my own bumper sticker once. It eventually fell off, but I want to make another one. It said:

I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS, BUT NOT PEOPLE.

I don't really mean it, of course. I brake for all living creatures. But if you've been reading my blog all along, you know which ones I like better!

Love, Robin