It's been awhile since I posted an Ozy update. He's nearly a year old and the time has flown by. So many milestones for our little furry baby -- yes, that's right -- I called him a furry baby. He's almost completely house trained and only has the occasional "accident" now and again. Ozy graduated from puppy training school (albeit not at the top of his class), had his first professional photo shoot, all of his shots AND continues to defend his homeland from the tyrannical reign of all socks. Socks, after all, are his sworn foe. I suspect Ozy believes the socks are swallowing our feet and he doesn't appreciate that very much.
Some of the OzMan's favorite things include: chewing on jumbo beef tendons (otherwise known as Flossies), trying to lick our feet just after we get out of the shower, chasing our cat Sophie, laying on his bed in front of the fireplace, playing fetch with his rope bone, eating ANYTHING, going for walks so he can sniff and sniff and sniff some more, fighting socks, barking at us when he demands our attention, watching videos of himself (seriously!), going for car rides, burrowing under the comforter and cuddling up, doing his little swimmer strokes on the carpet after he is released from his kennel, greeting strangers every chance he gets, playing with his doggy friend Daisy, trying to eat dryer lint -- did I mention he eats EVERYTHING?
I thought it would be fun to do a little photo retrospective and show images of Ozy over the past year. Man, he sure has grown!
Newborn puppy Ozy:
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4 Weeks Old Ozy:
11 Weeks:
4 Months:
7 Months and his ears shot straight up!
9 Months (oh, that's my sister holding him):
11 Months and lookin kindy grumpy. Notice the ears are now floppy again:
"Memories, like the corners of my mind . . . misty water colored memories . . . of the way we were . . ."
Today was another milestone moment for both Ozy and his owners. We attended our first exclusive party. Only Boston Terriers allowed. I joined the Twin Cities Boston Terrier group which gets together monthly for play groups. It was utter mayhem. About 15 Bostons running around, butt sniffing, peeing, barking and having the time of their little doggy lives. Ozy loved it. At one point, he literally had froth coming out of his mouth due to all the excitement and sheer exhaustion. Gross, I know.
I tried to capture some of the moments, but these photos don't due the sensory experience any justice. The echo of barking, the smell of urine, cannot possibly be recorded. Oh how I wish it could.
Needless to say, we got home and Ozy crashed. Running with the big dogs takes a lot outta a guy. Whew. What a wonderful weekend!!
Spring, it seems, is upon us in the upper Midwest. All of the piles and piles of dirty snow are slowly melting away revealing soupy, muddy messes. My dog is having a wonderful time splashing in puddles and sniffing all that the snow banks had kept hidden for so long. Of course, Ozy's joy becomes our sorrow when he runs madly into the house only to leave paw prints on the carpet and sofa. Sigh. Spring, oh how we've missed you.
As much as we would like to welcome the sunshine and temperate clime, I simply can't. You see, I am nobody's fool. I refuse to be lured into a false sense of complacency by this trixy weather. Oh sure, it's all light winds, soft rains, 50 degrees with birds twittering in the soon-to-be budding trees. I can actually see grass. What a cruel temptress Mother Nature is. She plays with our emotions. No sooner than we start busting out our bermuda shorts and SPF 30 and, BAM, we'll be hit by a blizzard. Oh, don't you know it. So, I urge all of you to guard your feelings well. Don't open yourself up to the happiness of Spring just yet lest you be burned.
On that optimistic note, I'm sure you have all been dying for an ankle update. Last I blogged, I was about to get my air cast off. Well, it's been 2 weeks without the cast (8 weeks total since I broke my ankle) and things are o.k. The first week found me limping and getting around quite slowly. Unfortunately, I still had a lot of swelling and by the end of each day my whole ankle and foot were puffed up to roughly the size of a Ford Focus. Apparently, this condition is known in the medical circles as pitting edema and it is a common occurance in healing of lower extremity fractures. Good times.
Anyway, the past week has definitely been better. I'm able to walk much better and navigate the stairs. My swelling has subsided a bit, but not entirely. For those who are visually inclined, here is a photo of my foot today. Note, this is after a day of moderate activity where I was able to keep my foot elevated for several hours. It gets much worse when I don't elevate my foot:
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In case, you think this looks normal. It isn't. I typically don't wield cankles of this proportion. Just so you can get a sense of what usual looks like for me, here is my right ankle. Notice the sharp dimensions of bony protrusion, the definition around the foot and ankle. In other words, the non-cankle like appearance:
Yes, I know, I know. I could use a pedicure. I actually got one the day I removed das boot. It was heavenly. However, I think another pass through the foot scraper would be helpful. Skin does not do well when confined for 6 weeks in an air cast. I'm just sayin.
Another fun thing is I can't really fit into too many of my shoes yet. The puffiness keeps me confined to Uggs and the like. Today was truly a milestone as I was able to get a sneaker on for the first time. Hip, hip hooray! Who knows, maybe in another few weeks I'll be wearing 3 inch high heels . . . . NOT!
Despite my gimp leg, I have been able to get out and about. This week found me in the North Loop area of Minneapolis, otherwise known as the Warehouse District. For Twin Cities foodies, this is where it's at these days. Yummy-ness abounds.
First stop was Bar La Grassa for some birthday celebrating with the lovely Alison and Anne. Opening up in the Fall of 2009, I've heard nothing but good things about the Isaac Becker and Josh Thoma restaurant. The fare is sophisticated Italian with a unique flair. Delicious bruschetta and fresh pastas highlight the menu.
The space is dark wood, low lights with high, open ceilings. Elegant yet incredibly comfortable, La Grassa boasts an interesting scene of urban after work happy hour goers and the older suburban set. At one point, we swore we saw David Hasselhoff lingering by the hostess stand. Later, it seemed Father Time was hanging at the bar drinking a gin martini. John Forsythe anyone? Yep, he was there too. Ok, not really.
Come hungry and, better yet, come early. If you don't have reservations, you will definitely be hard pressed to nab a table after 6pm. My friends and I enjoyed a number of taste treats. The seared sea scallops were a great way to start our meal, but my favorite thing, by far, was the soft egg and lobster bruschetta. Oh my. This would make a killer breakfast. La Grassa, you had me at goat cheese and white truffle oil.
Today, Mr. Oz and I returned to the area and had lunch at another North Loop spot just a door down from La Grassa -- Be'wiched Deli. I would recommend.
The Be'wiched folks give the same attention to the choice of ingredients and flavor compliments as you would find in any high end, gourmet restaurant. They take the sandwich to a whole new level. Fresh. Spicy. Chewy. Move over Tom Colichio, Witchcraft has some competition.
For Mr. Oz it was all about the pastrami. I tried the roast beef, havarti, onion jam and creamy horseradish on a ciabatta. Next time I'm going to have to try the egg salad which, apparently, is to die for.
So, that's my restaurant 411 y'all. Enjoy!!
Been watching the winter Olympics this week and am amazed by the displays of athleticism and skill. My favorite sports, thus far, have to be alpine skiing and figure skating. My fear of high speeds and being out of control kick in and I break out into cold sweats whenever I watch those zooming skiers or the high flying snow boarders.
Some of the events, well, I just don't get 'em. The first is ice dancing. Artistic? Yes. Drama-filled? No doubt. Cool costumes? Ah ha. But, overall it seems to be more ballet than sport. And then there is the whole skeleton and luge deal. A dude DIED on a practice run. At what point does a person decide they want to go head first, 90 miles an hour, down a curved frozen track? How does someone get into this? Can you imagine the parental response to a small child's request to start practicing skeleton? No thanks.
"Mommy, I want to do the skeleton."
"What is that?"
"Well, I dress up in spandex and a helmet. Then I lay on a sled and fly head first down a track of sheer ice at almost 100 mph with little or no control over my own body."
"Hells to the No!"
Wouldn't it be cool if they just took the summer Olympic sports and turned them into winter Olympics sports? Swimming and diving outdoors in the cold? Gymnasts competing on a frozen balance beam and parallel bars? Javelin throw with ice spears? What about beach volleyball? Now, that would be something worth watching.
Go USA!
My oh my does time fly when your bones are mineralizing. Only 1 more week left wearing Das Boot, otherwise known as my air cast. I call it Das Boot because, well, whomever invented it must be a Nazi. And, while I recognize the helpful nature of its immobilizing properties, one cannot deny this molded plastic, foam and velcro'ed apparatus is truly an implement of torture. It really is. But, alas, soon we will part ways and I will not shed a single tear.
Last night I was wondering how it will feel to finally be walking on my two feet again without the assistance of my boot. Will I be able to put weight on my foot? Will my ankle swell up? Will it hurt? Will I need to use my crutches again? Right now I am all 'wait and see,' but am a tad nervous. Upon my doctor's advice, I've started to do some easy stretches. Flexing and pointing my foot and attempting to rotate my ankle has not been easy. The muscles are incredibly stiff. Luckily, I have my new found friends in the Facebook 'Broken Ankle' group to help me through. Apparently, there is a Facebook group for everything including bone fractures.
On a somewhat related note . . . . I'm contemplating starting my own Facebook group for people who really dislike their neighbors and would prefer to rant in a passive aggressive manner to their spouse and blog readers versus actually confronting the situation head on and doing something about it. Might need to work on the group name, but you get the gist of it, no? You see, I have a WTN situation otherwise known as the curious case of the white trash neighbors. They are a younger couple -- maybe late 20's -- who moved into our townhome complex about 4 months ago. At first, everything seemed great. They were nice enough -- waved hello when coming and going, smiled on occasion, did not wield pitchforks or axes, etc. They have a dog so there were a few moments when we would make casual chit chat while passing each other as we took our dogs out for a walk. No issues. Everything was fine.
Then winter hit and my annoyance level grew. First it was the dog situation. For some reason, the WTNs (aka white trash neighbors) like to stake their dog out in the front yard for stretches of time rather than take her for a walk or stand out there with her while she does her business. Now, I will admit that I've used a stake and lead with Ozy a few times in the summer months when it was really nice out and he was just dying to hang in the sunshine. But in the sub-zero dead of winter with snow piled a mile high? No way. I'd drive by and see this poor dog sitting outside shivering. Sad. It kinda reminds me of the old junkyard dog who's plight in life is to stand guard over trash. To compound this troubling scene, the WTNs don't clean up after said dog. Instead, poop piles dot the landscape of their front yard, which just happens to be connected to my front yard. It is disgusting. Seriously, poop clumps are everywhere. And, in case you wanted to get the full visual of junkyard, the WTN dude drives this old, rusted out white pick-up which is always sitting in their driveway. Now, far be it from me to criticize someone's choice in automobiles. Of course, not everyone can drive a nice car. I get it. BUT, this thing is about 2 seconds away from the junk heap. He fires it up in the morning and the rust bucket practically backfires. Can you say car up on blocks? Can you say eye sore? Yep it is.
So, you get the drift. Am I being too harsh and critical? Should I just live and let live? They make their choices and I make mine, right? Just as I was beginning to feel a little mean, the other night Mr. Oz and I were hanging out just watching a movie in the comfort of our living room when we hear this booming bass pumping. Heavy metal music blaring and literally vibrating the walls. The WTNs must have been having a party. I can appreciate wanting to let loose on the weekend, but the decibles were outta this world annoying. Ugh.
So, I ask you, dear blog readers, what is to be done? Do we suffer in silence and continue to pour out anger on the interwebs? Should we reach out to the townhome association and file a complaint regarding the dog turd situation and, perhaps, the noise if it continues to be a pattern? Do we just look for an opportunity to talk directly to the neighbors (and by "we" I mean Mr. Oz)? Or, better yet, maybe we should just pull up stakes and move?
Help, I need advice.
Broke my ankle last weekend. I blame winter and her frozen sheets of death covering the ground and choking all forms of life. I am really thankful there was no one with a video camera around when I went down. I shudder thinking about the possible visual replay of my fall all flailing and bouncing, twisting and shouting. Broken bones suck. They really do. First there is shooting hot pain, then swelling, then comes more throbbing pain. X-rays, storm trooper boots, crutches, bruising, more pain and imprisonment in your house for days on end are just some of the fun things one can experience after a broken ankle. But, such is life on the tundra of upper Midwest ice age-ville.
Since I have what my orthopedist calls a "middle of the road" fracture, I must keep my foot fairly immobile over the next couple of weeks in order to avoid surgery. Apparently, the rest of my ankle and foot look o.k. so if the break starts to heal and nothing shifts out of alignment, I'm good to go. This past week I've been confined mostly to my bed and couch. Due to the conveniences of modern technology, I've been able to work from home. Due to the wonder of modern pharmacology, my pain has been relatively dulled. Have you hugged your pharmacist today? You really should.
While I've been trying to stay positive, I have to admit a few moments of craptacular annoyance and depression have befallen me. I really can't complain as it could have been SO much worse. However, now and again, I lament my immobile situation. I get antsy just being at home and laying around doing nothing. There's the whole ordeal of taking a shower and going to the bathroom. Not being able to easily access things, get myself a glass of water, take my dog outside, etc. Bums me out. After 6 straight days trapped inside, I finally got to leave my house today. Mr. Oz patiently helped me into the car and took me to the mall. He ran in and procured one of these bad boys:
Yep, that's what the old folks call The Amigo! You too could use one of these if you should happen to become incapacitated or otherwise crippled. You just need to hand over your license and away you go just scooting about the shopping center. It doesn't go too fast, but there's really no need to play Indy 500 with The Amigo. She might not have power, but the tight turning radius can't be beat . . . able to cut through tight store aisles and round displays like crazy. And check out that handy basket. Sweet, no?
Seriously, it was nice to not have to crutch my way around. If that was my only option, there's no way I would have been able to go out. But I felt like an idiot. I mean, this electric scooter business is for senior citizens, right? What am I, 90? I got over it, but still.
First stop . . . GNC for a big bottle of calcium pills w/ Vitamin D. Momma needs to build some bone bridges y'all. I figure if I pop a couple of those calcium nuggets everyday, I'll be right as rain in no time. Second stop, Barnes & Noble for some magazines to occupy my time whilst I lay in bed and moan. Third stop, coffee shop. Latte = milk = calcium = bone building goodness!
At the end of my mall visit, I was almost sad to part ways with The Amigo. We had grown tight. My prowess at the wheel was bordering on mastery. Amigo, you truly became my friend. I'm sure I will see you again soon. But, not too soon.
Have you heard about baseball home run record holder, Mark McGwire? Well, it appears Mark fueled his power hits with some muscle enhancing juice (i.e. steroids) and he has finally admitted to cheating. In his announcement, McGwire was all sadness and regret. A few tears may have leaked their way out as he spoke of the difficulty in coming forward and sharing the regrettable news with his family and friends. In the same breathe, McGwire seemed to back peddle a bit as he tried to convince us that he was a proven home run hitter in his high school, college and minor league years -- pre roids presumably. He would have us believe that the performance enhancing drugs were not a factor in his stellar at bat performance. What?! Sorry, I ain't buying it. And then there is Tiger Woods. I won't even get into that whole situation.
Sports are not necessarily my thing. I'm not what you would call a baseball fan. I am familiar with the game and appreciate the history, it's slower pace and reliance on the strange combination of power, patience and precision. Baseball includes a great deal of tradition and pride. McGwire, like so many other recent players, has diminished the legacy of baseball as America's favorite past time. Beyond this, what I'm really disturbed by is the loss of heroes. Listening to the radio this morning and hearing the news of McGwire's fall from grace, I thought of the little kids who may have once admired the player. Perhaps they are older now -- teens or young adults. Maybe they wore his jersey, collected his baseball cards, idolized McGwire for his amazing feats on the field. To many, he was a hero . . . someone to emulate and look up to. He represented possibility, effort and hope. Not anymore. Same goes for Tiger. Turns out he's just a guy who had a cocktail waitress in every city.
Who are our heroes today? Do we even have any? Are heroes the stuff of Greek mythology and science fiction? Is it wrong to impart such high expectations onto a mere human? Is this too much of a burden to place on one individual? And, why does the fall of yet one more "hero" trouble me so greatly? I think we all need role models, people to look up to and pattern ourselves after, gold standards to measure ourselves against. It is in the light of comparison to these admirable examples that we are able to identify our own shortcomings, seek to make improvements and become better people. When we have no one to emulate, how low does our own bar drop?
Now, I'm not suggesting that we don't have great people walking among us each and everyday. We do. Beloved family, loyal friends, trusted colleagues, volunteers, kind neighbors are all around us. These people are heroes in their own right. Perhaps we need to talk more about these behind-the-scenes heroes, focus on the everyday and little acts of beauty in the world all around us. Stop focusing on these mega-stars and sports gods. They only seem to disappoint us in the end. And I, for one, am sick and tired of being continually disappointed.
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