Rebecca Handler

The day after returning from England, I took my daughter prom dress shopping. She was thinking black or maroon but ended up with emerald. The woman who rang us up spoke in a thick Russian accent and was really pushing the department store’s credit card. No, I did not have a Macy’s card nor was I interested in one. But you could save twenty percent right now and there are no fees. No card thanks, just the dress. But what about your points? You can earn points. I am not interested in the card, thank you. Finally, maneuvering the dress into a plastic garment bag, she acquiesced and said sternly, “Ok but I will take all your reward points.” My daughter and I looked at each other, eyes wide, holding back fits of giggles. Later, over a suburban restaurant lunch of Caesar salads and Shirley Temples, we kept repeating, “I will take all of your reward points.”

That night, my husband and I went to see an all-female Japanese punk rock band, aptly described by Dave Grohl as, “the most fucking intense shit you’ve ever seen.” The lead singer dressed like an office temp, in a neatly tailored outfit, but sang like the boss had just killed her family. The only English I understood was when the lead guitarist middle-fingered the ecstatic crowd and screamed, “Buy our t-shirts!” On one song I later learned translates to “I Am Not Maternal,” the drummer stood up to get more bang. It was a wild night, and I can’t say I quite understood it. But I will remember how they made me feel. 

I had been in England to visit my brother, who is in a fancy fellowship program that is a very different kind of fucking intense shit. He is working in an office in a 500-year-old building with Beauty and the Beast sconces and ornate hooks for hanging your black gowns that you wear to dinner. One night at dinner, I sat next to the warden of the college, a kind, white-haired gentleman who, after inaugurating the meal with a Latin prayer, introduced himself to me using his first name which felt like fist bumping Joan of Arc. Over encrusted cod, I admired his refined language and imitated the way he nestled his fork and knife across his plate to symbolize he was ready for the next course. When he asked me what I thought of Oxford, I said, “I feel like I’ve landed on Intellectual Island.” He smiled, and then told me one day he’d like to write a suspense novel that is “sold at airports.”

Today the editor of the Merriam Webster dictionary announced, “It is permissible in English for a preposition to be what you end a sentence with. The idea that it should be avoided came from writers who were trying to align the language with Latin, but there is no reason to suggest ending a sentence with a preposition is wrong.”

“Why don’t we remember everything?”

I am driving up Clarendon, past the park that’s on the side of a cliff, the one with the steep wooden staircase. Clarendon Street in San Francisco is what my father used to call, “a good street to know.” It takes you to the Haight without driving down Lincoln, and can also get you to Market Street by avoiding Portola. Before GPS, Clarendon felt like a secret. I often drive this route, and whenever I pass the park, I think about how I’ve never climbed those stairs, and wonder what it’s like at the top. Sometimes I consider pulling over but never do.

My daughter repeats her question. “Why don’t we remember everything?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I think our brains deci—”

“I mean, why don’t our brains just store everything and then we can just look something up when we want to?” She rests her foot on the dashboard. “It wouldn’t feel like we’d have all this packed information in our brains, but,” she pauses, “it would be there if we needed it.”

“Some people have photographic memories and can remember what they had for breakfast three years ago.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

We drive in silence for a little while, and pass the street where our friends used to live before they moved to Marin to escape the fog. Today it is foggy and cold. We have just come from volunteering at Muttville, the dog rescue organization with the endless stream of stray Chihuahuas and free donuts. In the past six months, since moving back from Perth to San Francisco, we have, surprisingly, become a dog family, fostering and volunteering. I keep wanting to write about how fostering dogs is our therapy, but the fact that taking care of others helps you take care of yourself is not rocket science, so there’s not much else to say about that.

“I don’t remember much before fourth or fifth grade,” I tell my daughter, who is now staring out the window.

“Don’t you have a memory from kindergarten about how you got in trouble when you switched the inks in the markers?”

“Oh yea, that’s right.”

We are now six blocks from home, in traffic. The traffic is also something I will never write about because the only thing more boring than talking about traffic is writing about it. But I remember when San Francisco was less crowded, less expensive, with much fewer headphones. And coming home after nearly four years abroad is like moving in with an ex-boyfriend. You know why you fell in love with him, but you’re not sure you want to see him every day.

“I guess we don’t remember everything because we don’t need to,” I say, squinting and lowering the visor. The sun is setting. “But we might. Someday. That’s my point.” She picks up some dog hair from her black leggings.

Tomorrow I will drive up Clarendon after work and, for the first time, stop at the park. I will climb the uneven staircase, in heels, to finally see what’s up there. At the top of the hill, a dirt path will lead me to a bright green bench overlooking the city. The bench is in memory of someone named Lily
Allen-Hughes, and I will sit down, close my eyes, and listen to the traffic. I
will make a new memory that I will share with my daughter, who will  safely store it for me, in her wonderful mind.

When putting a diaper on a dog, it is important to first pull its tail through the hole. Otherwise, you will find yourself in the position of jamming two fingers through a tiny opening in the diaper and then grasping the tail in bemusement. After all, a dog’s tail is an extension of its spine, full of bones and muscles and nerve endings, and how on earth can you force a spine to curl and fit through a hole? You cannot.

Once the tail is through the hole, you have approximately two seconds to reach between the dog’s legs and pull each of the tabs up and around the belly to secure the Velcro. The dog can easily wriggle out of the diaper if it is not fitted properly, so get those tabs in place as soon as possible. Dogs are quick, even the old ones with bum legs. They don’t want to wear diapers. Who can blame them.

The dog diaper must be tight, otherwise the urine will seep out the sides. If you have taken care of a person in diapers, you know tighter is better. If you ask yourself, is the diaper tight enough, it is not, and you will discover this later, after a day at work or a night of sleep. Only when you say to yourself, perhaps this diaper is too tight, then you know it is tight enough.

Dog diapers look just like human diapers, except for the tail hole. They come in bright colors and have names like Simple Solution and Paw Legend. They can be tossed in the wash, and air-dry quickly.

If you can help it, try not to get sad when you see a dog wearing a diaper. Of course you cannot control your feelings, but if you are the kind of person who can coax your feelings into a general category, I suggest storing them under Humor (“How funny! A dog in a diaper!”), or, Miracles of Human Invention (“How lucky we are that someone invented a doggie diaper!”).

First thing in the morning, check the diaper. Do this outside if possible. Rip away the Velcro tabs and hold the diaper in one hand, away from your face. The weight of the diaper will suggest the level of activity. Although you might be tempted, do not smell the diaper to check for urine. There is no reason to do this.

If the diaper is dry, say something encouraging to the dog like, “Good job! I knew you could do it!” If the diaper is heavy with pee, it is best not to say anything at all. This is not the time for humiliation.

Stay outside with the dog for a while to air out the bottom, and to encourage outside pee time. Feel the cool morning breeze. Listen for birds. Try and imagine what the dog is thinking. If you are fostering this dog, think about its many days leading up to this one. Its mysterious life that you will never know. Briefly entertain the notion that you and this dog were meant to find each other, and then remember you think that about everyone. Look up at the sky. Sometimes calling out, “Good morning world!” can help put a smile on your face, and you forget for a split second that you are holding a diaper made for a dog. A dog that is doing the best it can.