The dog dies in this one

yes really, but only because the present and present progressive are sometimes interchangeable

I was going to write up a post for mid-January, but I sprained my foot, which sounds like an excuse because I don't type with my feet. But when everything from walking the dog, to grabbing a snack, to getting up and down the stairs takes about four times longer than it otherwise would, the limited free time for writing quickly becomes non-existent.

Around the time of the long weekend in January, I was finally going to write that damned post because getting around was proving a bit easier, but then I succumbed to the norovirus and spent six days in the fetal position on the cool tile, bargaining with the gods. I promised them everything, by the way. All of it. The summer tomato crops? Theirs. My next piece of art? Yes. My car, every last stitch of clothing I own, and the air fryer I've used every day since I bought it last year (except for the six days I lived in the bathroom). Lest you think that's all, think again. I offered them my grandmother's top secret recipes, including the ones for the magic meatballs that are supposed to make a person fall in love with you; the flowers my dog tries to roll himself in at the park; and the pens on your desk. Sorry about that, but I started running out of things I could see from the bathroom or things I could remember about my life outside of the bathroom, so I had to offer your things up as well. I hope you understand. Oh, and please leave some snacks out for the gods' minions when they come to collect the pens. And, well, everything else.

The one positive about my days being cradled by ceramic is that I was too tired, too weak, and too delirious to follow the news. The inauguration coincided with the worst day of the course and I had little choice in what to do between the brutal episodes wracking my body beyond gulping Pedialyte and winking in and out of sleep while Beauty and the Beast, my childhood comfort watch, played on loop in the background. Every once in a while, I'd glance at a group chat, but on the whole, I was thoroughly, comprehensively sick, and it was a blessing.

Since I recovered and returned to the world, I've watched as people in power—who I thought it was reasonable to expect should have a plan to cut Project 2025 out at the root—are trying to start the differential diagnosis two years and ten months after scans first showed the extent of the metastasis. Bewilderingly, I keep hearing the word "frustrated." Everyone is "frustrated." Democrats. Political commentators. Neighbors.

Frustrated is so 2017. I'm enraged. And I have no outlet for my rage because my foot it still healing and my body is a wreck from close to a week of spasms violently trying to make my intestines my out-testines. And have I mentioned that my dog is dying?

My dog is fucking dying.

He's got a tumor choking the nerve that powers his heart and his brain. The vet says even though by all outward appearances he could keep chugging along for years, his condition is actually terminal. There's no definite timeline, just the certainty that in a few days, maybe—if the gods are merciful—a month from now, he'll be gone.

And you know what? It all feels a bit too on the nose because we're currently facing down the consequences of what happens when an organism takes control that is seeking limitless growth in a finite system. But unlike is the case with my funny, sweet, charismatic, stinky dog, this was preventable. Most crucially: it is still operable and starting with some rocket surgery might not be the worst idea (even as I admit that it's been two decades since FBLA and I know next to nothing about the day-to-day business of Congress, so an expert in parliamentary procedure I am not).

What I am an expert in, thanks to years of chronic illness, is finding joy even when everything is going to shit. Trust me, the joy is essential. It nourishes you. It helps you recover. And it reminds you of what you're fighting for.

Here are a few things I've been doing:

• Snuggling the last ounce of patience out of my dog

• Spoiling the hell out of my dog and putting up with the unfortunate side effects of said spoiling. (I did say he was stinky and 78% of it is how his digestive system reacts to steak, which is his favorite)

• Wearing absolutely ridiculous earrings. Today I'm wearing ones that look like scissors because I was collaging

• Setting aside about thirty minutes every night before bed to do some kind of arts and crafts

• Having a neighbor over for dinner

• Belting along to the Gin Blossoms' greatest hits while marveling at the audacity of white teenagers in Tempe

• Reading 3-4 romance novels per week

• Watching one laughably bad movie every Friday

• Facetiming with my nibling, who has recently discovered their feet and seems to agree that baby toes are made for nomming

• Volunteering at my local library and working with the incredible librarians and community members preparing for the coming book bans and funding fights coming their way

How are you making time for joy?

-------

Reading with my eyes:

• "The Road to Unfreedom" by Timothy Snyder

• "The Design of Everyday Things" by Don Norman

• "Black Reconstruction" by WEB DuBois

Reading with my ears:

• "Mangoes and Mistletoe" by Adriana Herrera

• "A Night to Surrender" by Tessa Dare

• "The Chase" by Lynsay Sands

• "The Dixon Rule" by Elle Kennedy