By the way, before we even begin, let me mention something about things scatological.
(That’s an SAT word for poop and peepee, in case you didn’t know. I wanted to save you the trouble of looking it up. Because I want to make your life easier. I care, people.) I honestly don’t understand why people get squeamish about bodily functions, and I will say now, even though men might write me nasty emails, that I think this is gender-related. Because I have never known a woman to be that squeamish about poop and peepee, undoubtedly because we started changing diapers first. I know that men change diapers, too, but I bet they come to it after the seal’s broken, and by that point, they know they’re not allowed to express their squeamishness or they will get yelled at.
And then, in time, they get cured.
The cure for squeamishness is Get Over Yourself.
And nothing teaches Get-Over-Yourself faster than being a parent.
Anyway, if having a baby doesn’t cure you of squeamishness, a dog or cat will. If you own a pet, or a pet owns you, you will get up close and personal with poop, peepee, and whatever glop they’re hocking up on your rug, bed, or foot.
So what’s happening with Ruby is that, as she got older, she developed degenerative myelopathy, a back disorder that paralyzed her hind end. She uses a doggie cart to get around, and she’s otherwise happy and healthy. The vet told me the odds were that she would not become incontinent.
Proof that you should not take me to a casino.
Especially if you’re going to play craps.
Because I’ve been knee deep in the stuff, cleaning up when Ruby poops and pees on rugs, floors, and even her doggie cart.
What’s a mother to do?
I tried to anticipate when she would go to the bathroom and I put her outside in the backyard at those times, but that didn’t work. A dog’s poop schedule is as predictable as a presidential primary election.
Not that these two things are related.
End of political discussion.
I went to the pet store and got special diapers they make for dogs, but the small-dog-size diaper was too small. Corgis may have short legs, but they’re bootylicious.
I returned to the store and got the bigger size, and though it fit her butt, it was too big to use with her cart.
Ruby is the Goldilocks of paralyzed dogs.
Also, the tape strips on the doggie diapers weren’t very adhesive. They may have been strong enough for a chihuahua, but for a corgi, you need duct tape.
Don’t think I didn’t try that.
You haven’t lived until you’ve duct-taped a diaper on a dog.
The problem was that she required three diaper changes a day, necessitating a new duct-taping every time, and you may recall that I have a full-time job.
Those books you should be reading aren’t going to write themselves.
So then I decided to try regular baby diapers, but before I went to the store, I went online to the Pampers website to get an idea for sizing. The webpage said, “Need help finding your baby’s size? Tell us his age, size, and weight!”
Unfortunately, there was no setting for a twelve-year-old handicapped corgi.
I couldn’t even understand from the website which sizes the Pampers came in, except that there were flashy new lines named Cruiser and Swaddler.
I was looking for Pooper.
But they didn’t have them, either.
So I went to the store, where, long story short, I gave up on the Pampers altogether and went for the Depends because they didn’t have any tape and seemed like they’d fit Ruby better.
I bought them in the self-checkout.
I didn’t want to hear myself say to a cashier, “They’re not for me, they’re for my dog.”
Then I took them home and put them on her, easy as pie.
Did they work?
It depends.
So far, so good.
But don’t call them diapers, call them adult underwear.
Or adult dog underwear.
Princess Ruby and her royal carriage And they have Fit-Flex, so they “move with you”—or your corgi.
They’re a “neutral peach color,” which matches Ruby’s fur.
And they fit in her doggie cart.
So we’re rolling.
Problem solved.
And whatever adult underwear is left over, I know I’ll use myself.
Someday.
Or when I sneeze.
One-Piece of Mind
Francesca
My friend invited me to her birthday at Rockaway beach in May, but I didn’t exactly have my summer body back yet.
That usually takes until Labor Day.
So I had disproportionate what-to-wear anxiety. In my bedroom, I tried on every bikini I owned. None fit me the way I liked.
Or as it always is with bathing suits, I didn’t fit them the way I like.
Whether I had actually gained weight or it was all in my head, the effect was the same: dread.
Like most women, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with two-piece suits.
When I was a preteen, I was dying for a bikini. I hassled my mom constantly to let me get one. One-pieces were for little girls, and I wanted to be grown-up.
When I turned thirteen, I got one. It was white and had little embroidered yellow daisies along the edges. I absolutely loved it.
I just didn’t love it on me.
That bathing suit did not transform me into the gorgeous sixteen-year-old I wanted to be. Instead, it showed me I had a little potbelly and not-quite-there breasts.
My body confidence has gone up and down since then, but two things have remained true: I’ve never felt 100 percent great in a bikini, but I never went back to the one-piece.
Wearing a one-piece has always struck me as an admission of defeat. A capitulation to the notion that only certain bodies are “bikini-ready.”
Anybody who wants to wear a bikini is bikini-ready, damn it!
At the same time, maybe wearing a revealing two-piece is capitulating to sexual objectification. I don’t have to serve myself up on a platter to every man with eyes. They have to earn it!
But what if the reason I want to wear a one-piece is because I feel bad about my belly?
Not exactly stickin’ it to the patriarchy.
I’m so confused how to be a feminist at the beach.
We live at a particularly excruciating moment of feminism, where as young women, we are aware of a more progressive stance on body positivity, yet we were raised in and still live in a sexist society.
It’s not easy to hit the eject button on deeply ingrained beauty norms.
What if I’m a feminist who wants to look hot?
What if I’m body-positive but still struggle with body-confidence?
How do you snooze on the beach when you’re woke?
I was still unsure, but all I knew was I felt miserable in these bikinis. I decided to buy a one-piece to have the option.
Browsing the styles, I remembered that women have one get-out-of-body-guilt-free card: Breasts.
If God didn’t want us to flaunt them, She wouldn’t have put them out in front.
Sisters of the one-piece [credit: Maureen O’Connor]
So I chose a simple, black one-piece with a plunging neckline that laced up.
A good compromise between classy and trashy.
The bottom of the suit had a high-cut leg, very Bo Derek.