Tuesday, December 18, 2012
How to Deliver Bad News That Sounds Good
My daughter and I have gone to see traveling Broadway plays for years. We know that when get our program pamphlet we need to open it over our laps so that we don't have to bend down to the floor to pick up all of the white pieces of paper that are bound to fall out. These are lists of substitutes who will be in the play. It makes me wonder what the main actors were doing the night before to cause them to miss the show. I am guessing they were partying together somewhere because there is never only one substitute. It's not like John woke up with a cold; it's like John, Peter, Mary and Jesse all went to an "All you can drink in 4 hours for $5.00" bar. None make it to our performance.
Last weekend was a first. No white papers fell out of our program. I could hardly suppress my excitement. We will finally see the best of the best. But when I looked at the list of characters, beside the main character, it stated: "Little Pete will be played by Mark, Blake, Sheldon, Luke, or Kingston." OK, I can deal with that. At least their names were important enough to print in the program.
Then just before the performance, a woman came on stage. She said she was the "assistant choreographer". The "assistant"? Hmmm. She started to tell us that we were in for an exciting, special night. The lead character wasn't going to be played by Mark, Blake, Sheldon, Luke or Kingston. No, we were the very lucky and special audience that got to see the premiere performance (ie, never on the stage before) of a new lead. And, the other exciting thing was that his family was there to cheer him on! Yipee! So, his name wasn't even pre-printed on a piece of paper stuffed into our program. He was that new! Oh, the crowd cheered. The family was even there!
Next the "assistant" started going through the rest of the list of substitutions. Even the Tree had a substitute. I wonder if they found a person dressed in some shade of green as they were coming in the theater and offered them the job?
After she finished the long list of substitutes, I was waiting for more:
"And the orchestra will be played by a cassette player."
"And the theater will be played by the parking garage across the street".
Make your way over there and "Enjoy the show!"
Monday, August 13, 2012
Hobbling In Las Vegas
I just got back from a trip to Las Vegas with my sister. I planned for five days of walking, slots, eating and viewing. I was going to see the free things, like seeing the ship sink, the volcano erupt, and the water dance. Since walking is the best way to get around, I was also planning on getting a little fitter and thinner. Oh, what a time I was going to have.
Notice the "past tense" in the paragraph above? The first night I was there, my sister and I walked to a casino, sat and played some slots and then headed out to do some site seeing. As I started walking, I felt a severe charlie horse in my calf and then heard a "pop". I knew that wasn't a good sign. We shortened our evening - well, we didn't actually "shorten" it in time, since it took me about 30 minutes to walk a couple of blocks.
When we got back to our hotel, I googled my symptoms and found that I probably had strained my calf muscle and that depending on the severity, it could take 2-4 weeks or longer to heal. This injury seems to be most common with runners, not with older woman who meander from slot maching to slot machine. But I had 5 days in Vegas and that wasn't going to slow me down - yeah, right. My sister was working so I had all day to do what I wanted and go where I wanted. I found that where I wanted to go depended mainly on crossing streets. And crossing streets was not as simple when one is hobbling and shuffling.
I began to watch when lights were going to change so I could get a head start. Those streets are wide and the time they give you to get across them is minimal. If someone set down one of those monkey with cymbals wind-up toy next to me and started us both walking at the same time the "walk" light came on to cross the street, I know that monkey would beat me. I would get to the middle of the street and the "19 second" sign would start to flash and I would try to limp faster. Limp and fast don't go together.
When I did finally get across a street I looked for the nearest casino. Casinos there are a good 2 blocks long and the entrances were usually at the end of those blocks. So basically by the time I got out of my casino, figured out which street gave me the longest time to cross and then hobbled to the closest casino, I had about 45 minutes before I had to do it all again so I could get back to the hotel before my sister finished work. I'm glad my eyesight was still intact so I could look at the cool places I couldn't get to. It's good to have a positive attitude.
I envied people with crutches and canes; I even looked around to see if someone needed help crossing the street so I could lean on them and do a good deed. But I was like the old car going 35 mph on the freeway. People passed me on both sides of the sidewalk while giving me looks of disgust and pity. I wanted to shout "I have a runners injury, give me a break", but hobbling in the heat takes too much lung power.
When the week was finally over, I hadn't physically seen everything I wanted to see. But I found that I did lose a little weight, since I think that limping and hobbling uses more calories than just walking. Maybe it was my lucky week.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Memories of a Dear Friend
I lost my special friend Betty recently and wanted to share some memories. We met while walking our dogs. I had just moved to the neighborhood after living in a house in the middle of the woods for 10 years, where my only neighbors were raccoons, deer and wild turkeys. Sure, that sounds ideal when you think of some of your own neighbors, but I had started to miss a little human contact.
It's amazing that she even started talking to me. I mean, I was perfecting the art of rolling out of bed and walking my dog in the clothes I slept in. Take time to brush teeth or hair - naaahhh. She was more than "put together". She wore colorful jackets, wide brimmed hats, and I was pretty sure she was fully groomed, no matter what ungodly time we insomniacs passed each other in the morning. Small talk turned into a close friendship. She was a number of years older than me, but her mental attitude and mine were about the same age. And her style - artist chic!
When I met her, she was planning a photo safari trip to Africa with a friend and I was planning my first solo trip to Europe. It ended up that we were leaving on the same day and were staying in hotels side by side near the airport so we could catch early flights. I was seeing many commonalities between us.
We were both sticklers for being on time. If I said I would pick her up at 8:30, she would be waiting outside at 8:29 knowing I would be exactly on time. Once, for fun, I told her I'd be there at 5:17 and there she was, waiting.
We had a favorite Mexican restaurant we would go to about once a month and would both order the same meals each time - with the same beer. I have to admit that I usually had her order the beer because I sometimes, OK often, forgot the name of it - and she never did. What a memory she had! She said that every morning she went on to the AARP website and did all of the daily puzzles. Hmmm, maybe I would have remembered the name of "our" beer if I had not spent my morning reading the celeb mags.
She did start me on the road to addiction - addiction to Hidden Object games! It started with her giving me one to try (doesn't it always?) and ended with a full blown obsession to those games. And she remembered the names of just about all of the hundreds of games she played. Just before she passed, I told her I had just purchased a number of new games, but of course I couldn't remember their names. A short time later she emailed me to remind me to tell her the names of those games. When I finally looked them all up she wrote back quickly to tell me how many stars they had been rated and that I made good choices. She probably had played them all long ago.
My friend was an artist and I admired her paintings, amazing quilts, and found object pieces. I am a quasi writer but she read my blogs and gave me positive feedback regularly. I was recently in Italy for 3 months with my dog and wrote a daily blog about my adventures. She couldn't figure out how to write a comment on my blog, but often wrote me an email with comments specifically about what I had written. She said every morning she got up, got her coffee and read my blog. She checked it again before she went to bed. That gave me motivation to keep writing, and to make sure my writing was worthy of her attention. I loved to make her laugh.
When I got home from Italy, I was eager to go to our favorite Mexican restaurant with her. But when I saw her I could see she was in poor health. She wasn't able to leave the house. Over the next few months her health started to slowly improve and finally about 2 months ago, we were able to start going out and have some fun again.
Whether it was going out to eat, shopping, going to a doctor's appointment or me coming over to fix some little problem she was having, the visits were always filled with smiles, intimate conversation and ended with us both saying "I love you".
On February 29, I thought we needed to so something special since that day only comes once every 4 years. She and our friend Carol were up for anything. We ended up going thrift store shopping, going to eat at that favorite Mexican restaurant and going to a psychic. We had planned to all go to the Psychic Fair at the end of the month, but Betty thought that it was OK if we went this time, since it was a month before that Fair.
We crazy ladies decided to all stay in the room when each was having their reading for support and to be able to help each other remember what was said; three brains equals just a little better memory than Betty's alone!
Before the reading, the lady told us that with all of us in the room, sometimes the feelings she would get about one person were really related to someone else in the room. I guess we were just too cozy to be able to separate our auras. A few times, that did happen. One in particular stood out to me.
She asked how Betty and I met and we gave our story. She looked at Betty and said something like (no, I can't remember it exactly) "You needed to meet her. You were in need of her as a friend. You were feeling down". I saw Betty nod her head a little. But as I sat there quietly, I know she was reading me. That chance meeting walking our dogs in the wee hours of the morning gave me over four years of an intimate friendship with a beautiful, loving and insightful woman. When she was ill I told her that she needed to get better because I couldn't bear not having her in my life. She said "We were meant to be friends. We were friends in a past life and will be friends in our next life." I am counting on it.
It's amazing that she even started talking to me. I mean, I was perfecting the art of rolling out of bed and walking my dog in the clothes I slept in. Take time to brush teeth or hair - naaahhh. She was more than "put together". She wore colorful jackets, wide brimmed hats, and I was pretty sure she was fully groomed, no matter what ungodly time we insomniacs passed each other in the morning. Small talk turned into a close friendship. She was a number of years older than me, but her mental attitude and mine were about the same age. And her style - artist chic!
When I met her, she was planning a photo safari trip to Africa with a friend and I was planning my first solo trip to Europe. It ended up that we were leaving on the same day and were staying in hotels side by side near the airport so we could catch early flights. I was seeing many commonalities between us.
We were both sticklers for being on time. If I said I would pick her up at 8:30, she would be waiting outside at 8:29 knowing I would be exactly on time. Once, for fun, I told her I'd be there at 5:17 and there she was, waiting.
We had a favorite Mexican restaurant we would go to about once a month and would both order the same meals each time - with the same beer. I have to admit that I usually had her order the beer because I sometimes, OK often, forgot the name of it - and she never did. What a memory she had! She said that every morning she went on to the AARP website and did all of the daily puzzles. Hmmm, maybe I would have remembered the name of "our" beer if I had not spent my morning reading the celeb mags.
She did start me on the road to addiction - addiction to Hidden Object games! It started with her giving me one to try (doesn't it always?) and ended with a full blown obsession to those games. And she remembered the names of just about all of the hundreds of games she played. Just before she passed, I told her I had just purchased a number of new games, but of course I couldn't remember their names. A short time later she emailed me to remind me to tell her the names of those games. When I finally looked them all up she wrote back quickly to tell me how many stars they had been rated and that I made good choices. She probably had played them all long ago.
My friend was an artist and I admired her paintings, amazing quilts, and found object pieces. I am a quasi writer but she read my blogs and gave me positive feedback regularly. I was recently in Italy for 3 months with my dog and wrote a daily blog about my adventures. She couldn't figure out how to write a comment on my blog, but often wrote me an email with comments specifically about what I had written. She said every morning she got up, got her coffee and read my blog. She checked it again before she went to bed. That gave me motivation to keep writing, and to make sure my writing was worthy of her attention. I loved to make her laugh.
When I got home from Italy, I was eager to go to our favorite Mexican restaurant with her. But when I saw her I could see she was in poor health. She wasn't able to leave the house. Over the next few months her health started to slowly improve and finally about 2 months ago, we were able to start going out and have some fun again.
Whether it was going out to eat, shopping, going to a doctor's appointment or me coming over to fix some little problem she was having, the visits were always filled with smiles, intimate conversation and ended with us both saying "I love you".
On February 29, I thought we needed to so something special since that day only comes once every 4 years. She and our friend Carol were up for anything. We ended up going thrift store shopping, going to eat at that favorite Mexican restaurant and going to a psychic. We had planned to all go to the Psychic Fair at the end of the month, but Betty thought that it was OK if we went this time, since it was a month before that Fair.
We crazy ladies decided to all stay in the room when each was having their reading for support and to be able to help each other remember what was said; three brains equals just a little better memory than Betty's alone!
Before the reading, the lady told us that with all of us in the room, sometimes the feelings she would get about one person were really related to someone else in the room. I guess we were just too cozy to be able to separate our auras. A few times, that did happen. One in particular stood out to me.
She asked how Betty and I met and we gave our story. She looked at Betty and said something like (no, I can't remember it exactly) "You needed to meet her. You were in need of her as a friend. You were feeling down". I saw Betty nod her head a little. But as I sat there quietly, I know she was reading me. That chance meeting walking our dogs in the wee hours of the morning gave me over four years of an intimate friendship with a beautiful, loving and insightful woman. When she was ill I told her that she needed to get better because I couldn't bear not having her in my life. She said "We were meant to be friends. We were friends in a past life and will be friends in our next life." I am counting on it.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Deer Me!
Deer are big, fast, some have antlers, some have babies, and they eat most everything in the yard. Although almost as many deer as people live in my neighborhood, that is the extent of what I know about deer. Well, that was the extent of what I knew about deer until this week.
I came home from walking the dogs and noticed what appeared to be a mound in my front yard next to the fence. My old eyes first thought it was a large mound of dirt - we do have fire ants here. Then I thought it might be a large plastic bag that blew against the fence - a much more acceptable option. But as I walked a little closer, I saw that is was a deer laying on the ground. It had a big belly and I was pretty sure it was close to birthing season. I had no idea what to do about it.
I called a neighbor who said that most of the time the deer give birth standing up but if they are having problems, they often lay down. Great, what do I do about a pregnant deer who is having problems in my front yard? Do I call a vet?
Deciding to get another opinion I called another neighbor who is pretty knowledgable about wildlife. I asked if he could just come by and see what he thought. He asked if it was breathing, and from my distant view - I wasn't going close - I couldn't tell. What if it jumped up and ran at me? Do deer have rabies? I could google, but I decided to wait for the expert opinion.
Soon my neighbor showed up and as gently as possible said "that deer is dead." I could see my IQ level going down in his estimation when he slowed his speech and enunciated his words when saying "Deer around here don't give birth for another two or three months. That swelling is from it being dead for at least a day or two." How did I not see it before? Now what do I do?
"You have a few options. We can drag it to the back of your truck and you can drive out to the country and dump it. You can call around to see if someone will take it away. Or you can bury it". I asked a rancher once what they did with a dead horse. He said they buried it. I couldn't imagine digging a hole big enough to bury a horse! Especially in rocky Texas!. Now I find that is one of my options. And in my opinion, it was the best. I just couldn't see myself driving around town with a dead deer in my truck. And how could I "fling" it out the back when I found a good place to do it? I didn't even want to get close to it in my yard. He said he would come back the next day to help me dig the hole.
After he left, another neighbor, a single "get-it-done" lady came over and offered to help me drag it down the street to her vacant lot and put it in the burn pile. Now, she lives about 1/2 a block away. "Yuck" was my first thought. Then I wondered what the other neighbors would think when they saw 2 older ladies dragging a deer down the road? I think there is a fine for killing a deer and I would not want to try to prove that it just up and keeled over in my yard. Besides, that thing would be heavy - and smelly. She then came up with the idea of bringing a wagon over and us hoisting the deer into the wagon to get it to her house. Now, the wagon is about 1/4 the size of the deer, and how would we lift the deer off of the ground enough to get it in to the wagon? And, how would we do it without getting too close to it? Maybe it's just me, but I couldn't even disect a frog in biology. I have to use a paper towel to pick up a dead insect. Carrying or even dragging a dead deer on to my truck or down my road did not appeal to me. So, it was back to the burying plan.
I got on Facebook to ask "how big of a hole do you dig to bury a deer". Responses were "Oh that poor deer", and "I'm so sorry for both of you." I would say "poor deer" also, if it hasn't chosen my front yard as it's last resting place. But no one gave me dimensions for a deer burial plot.
Deciding not to wait for my neighbor, I started gathering all of my digging tools and then looked for a place to start working. I just couldn't bring myself to get too close to the "poor" deer - sorry I lost my compassion for the deer hours ago and was feeling sorry for myself. I finally decided to dig close but not where I would have to look at it with each shovel full of dirt. I am not the most physically fit person - but I was on a mission. To reward myself for my hard work, I took a break every 15 minutes or so to get my strengh back. Cookies help. Every time I was sure I got the hole big enough, I would eyeball the deer, sigh in disgust, and dig wider and deeper. I think the deer in our neighborhood are overfed.
The next day, my neighbor came over and finished the job for me. I will leave out the gory details but suffice to say I could not have done what he did. I let him know how much I appreciated his help with this and was thankful that the ordeal was over when he commented as he was leaving "Just watch that dogs or coyotes don't dig it up". Ahhh, crap. I run to my computer to google "how to keep a deer buried".
I came home from walking the dogs and noticed what appeared to be a mound in my front yard next to the fence. My old eyes first thought it was a large mound of dirt - we do have fire ants here. Then I thought it might be a large plastic bag that blew against the fence - a much more acceptable option. But as I walked a little closer, I saw that is was a deer laying on the ground. It had a big belly and I was pretty sure it was close to birthing season. I had no idea what to do about it.
I called a neighbor who said that most of the time the deer give birth standing up but if they are having problems, they often lay down. Great, what do I do about a pregnant deer who is having problems in my front yard? Do I call a vet?
Deciding to get another opinion I called another neighbor who is pretty knowledgable about wildlife. I asked if he could just come by and see what he thought. He asked if it was breathing, and from my distant view - I wasn't going close - I couldn't tell. What if it jumped up and ran at me? Do deer have rabies? I could google, but I decided to wait for the expert opinion.
Soon my neighbor showed up and as gently as possible said "that deer is dead." I could see my IQ level going down in his estimation when he slowed his speech and enunciated his words when saying "Deer around here don't give birth for another two or three months. That swelling is from it being dead for at least a day or two." How did I not see it before? Now what do I do?
"You have a few options. We can drag it to the back of your truck and you can drive out to the country and dump it. You can call around to see if someone will take it away. Or you can bury it". I asked a rancher once what they did with a dead horse. He said they buried it. I couldn't imagine digging a hole big enough to bury a horse! Especially in rocky Texas!. Now I find that is one of my options. And in my opinion, it was the best. I just couldn't see myself driving around town with a dead deer in my truck. And how could I "fling" it out the back when I found a good place to do it? I didn't even want to get close to it in my yard. He said he would come back the next day to help me dig the hole.
After he left, another neighbor, a single "get-it-done" lady came over and offered to help me drag it down the street to her vacant lot and put it in the burn pile. Now, she lives about 1/2 a block away. "Yuck" was my first thought. Then I wondered what the other neighbors would think when they saw 2 older ladies dragging a deer down the road? I think there is a fine for killing a deer and I would not want to try to prove that it just up and keeled over in my yard. Besides, that thing would be heavy - and smelly. She then came up with the idea of bringing a wagon over and us hoisting the deer into the wagon to get it to her house. Now, the wagon is about 1/4 the size of the deer, and how would we lift the deer off of the ground enough to get it in to the wagon? And, how would we do it without getting too close to it? Maybe it's just me, but I couldn't even disect a frog in biology. I have to use a paper towel to pick up a dead insect. Carrying or even dragging a dead deer on to my truck or down my road did not appeal to me. So, it was back to the burying plan.
I got on Facebook to ask "how big of a hole do you dig to bury a deer". Responses were "Oh that poor deer", and "I'm so sorry for both of you." I would say "poor deer" also, if it hasn't chosen my front yard as it's last resting place. But no one gave me dimensions for a deer burial plot.
Deciding not to wait for my neighbor, I started gathering all of my digging tools and then looked for a place to start working. I just couldn't bring myself to get too close to the "poor" deer - sorry I lost my compassion for the deer hours ago and was feeling sorry for myself. I finally decided to dig close but not where I would have to look at it with each shovel full of dirt. I am not the most physically fit person - but I was on a mission. To reward myself for my hard work, I took a break every 15 minutes or so to get my strengh back. Cookies help. Every time I was sure I got the hole big enough, I would eyeball the deer, sigh in disgust, and dig wider and deeper. I think the deer in our neighborhood are overfed.
The next day, my neighbor came over and finished the job for me. I will leave out the gory details but suffice to say I could not have done what he did. I let him know how much I appreciated his help with this and was thankful that the ordeal was over when he commented as he was leaving "Just watch that dogs or coyotes don't dig it up". Ahhh, crap. I run to my computer to google "how to keep a deer buried".
Friday, March 2, 2012
I Hate Resealable Food Bags
I know those are strong words, but has anyone ever really been able to open those bags and reseal them? It is not possible. It doesn't matter which food you get in those bags, they all must have been invented by the same drunk inventor - who is related to the head of the big food companies.
I have tried sliced cheese resealable bags, sliced luncheon meats, salad mix and guacamole, and none of those bags reseal. Some make you think they are different because they give you a little groove to help you start opening the bag. But when you tear along that groove, it doesn't even open the bag enough to get to your food, so you still have to find another way to open it. If you aren't at home, and may have bought the food for a relaxing picnic in the park, you have the challenge of how to open the bag without the benefit of sharp tools. I try a plastic knife - no luck. I try the little blade or little scissors that come on a pen knife, if I remember to bring one. As precisely as possible, I cut or tear just above the sealing part and I still can't get to the food.
Finally I just stab the bag below the seal with a plastic fork or pen and pull the meat or cheese out - because I'm getting hungry. Now I have no chance to keep my food fresh by zipping that sucker closed but I have gotten rid of some of my frustration.
Depending on where I am, I can do one of three things. I can find a bigger zip lock bag or a plastic bag to put the food back in and hope it keeps for a few days. I can look for a paper clip or bobby pin to reseal the bag as best I can. Or I can eat the remaining food in the bag and throw away that "convenient" resealable bag. Depending on my hunger, I make my choice.
I think there should be a "truth in advertising" label on these products. "This item will most likely not reseal, so don't count on it. Always have a pair of scissors or knife handy when opening. Do not put the plastic bag over your head."
I have tried sliced cheese resealable bags, sliced luncheon meats, salad mix and guacamole, and none of those bags reseal. Some make you think they are different because they give you a little groove to help you start opening the bag. But when you tear along that groove, it doesn't even open the bag enough to get to your food, so you still have to find another way to open it. If you aren't at home, and may have bought the food for a relaxing picnic in the park, you have the challenge of how to open the bag without the benefit of sharp tools. I try a plastic knife - no luck. I try the little blade or little scissors that come on a pen knife, if I remember to bring one. As precisely as possible, I cut or tear just above the sealing part and I still can't get to the food.
Finally I just stab the bag below the seal with a plastic fork or pen and pull the meat or cheese out - because I'm getting hungry. Now I have no chance to keep my food fresh by zipping that sucker closed but I have gotten rid of some of my frustration.
Depending on where I am, I can do one of three things. I can find a bigger zip lock bag or a plastic bag to put the food back in and hope it keeps for a few days. I can look for a paper clip or bobby pin to reseal the bag as best I can. Or I can eat the remaining food in the bag and throw away that "convenient" resealable bag. Depending on my hunger, I make my choice.
I think there should be a "truth in advertising" label on these products. "This item will most likely not reseal, so don't count on it. Always have a pair of scissors or knife handy when opening. Do not put the plastic bag over your head."
Friday, February 24, 2012
I Need To Remember My Toothbrush When I Walk My Dogs
I am now the proud owner of two dogs. I thought that Seymour needed a companion and my life was getting a little too predictable. Zooey is our new rescue - cute as a walking 3 pound mop - but fearful of everything, including walking on a leash. Seymour had knee surgery 2 weeks ago, so has been practicing walking on 3 legs. Actually he is also learning to walk on only his 2 front legs when he wants to pee on something that is located on his bad side. Yes, the normal dog would just turn around, but no one who knows Seymour would ever call him "normal".
Back to our walk. Our neighborhood walk is a circle that is about a mile around. Both dogs get excited when I say "Let's go for a walk" after dinner. When I get them ready with their harnesses and right leashes, Zooey realizes what "walk" means and she runs for her bed, still leashed. Seymour, on the other hand, runs toward the door while attached to his leash. My arms are stretched like I am getting ready to fly. I pull Seymour toward Zooey, pick her up and open the door for Seymour so at least he he can enjoy his 3 legged walk.
As we start around the circle, I put Zooey down to see if she will get the hang of walking. I noticed that if she is facing any way but toward me, she doesn't seem to be able to move. She is like a little hot wheels car. The wheels/legs only go one direction so you have to physically pick it up and face it in the direction you want it to go. So as Seymour is straining to go one direction, I have to try not to pull him over as I go back to Zooey to head her in our direction. Then sometimes she will start walking, and sometimes she won't.
In the meantime, Seymour is playing his "poor me" surgery card by walking slowly, sniffing at every blade of grass, weed or tree he passes, and periodically circling round and round to get in the best position to pee a few drops. Fifteen minutes and about 50 feet away from our front door, I am unable to coax either dog to go back to the house. I am wondering if we will get around the circle before the sun sets.
Zooey decides she is ready to walk and Seymour decides he is ready to be carried - but not home, mind you. He wants to smell the air and look for deer from his perch in my arms. After a short time, he cranes his neck toward the ground; he is ready to walk again. It is now about 30 minutes into the walk and we have gone about 1/8 of a mile. Zooey periodically flops down on the street, content to sleep there for awhile. Seymour decides that he has to explore to the end of his leash, the direction opposite from where Zooey is snoozing. I finally stretch as far as i can toward Zooey so i won't topple Seymour over, and pick her up. I let Seymour continue his exploring, poor boy.
One hour and about 1/2 mile into our walk, the sun is starting to set. It will be pitch dark soon. No matter which way we go, it is still the same distance home. I can either carry both dogs or ask one of the neighbors if we can bed down in their yard until morning. But I forgot my toothbrush.
Back to our walk. Our neighborhood walk is a circle that is about a mile around. Both dogs get excited when I say "Let's go for a walk" after dinner. When I get them ready with their harnesses and right leashes, Zooey realizes what "walk" means and she runs for her bed, still leashed. Seymour, on the other hand, runs toward the door while attached to his leash. My arms are stretched like I am getting ready to fly. I pull Seymour toward Zooey, pick her up and open the door for Seymour so at least he he can enjoy his 3 legged walk.
As we start around the circle, I put Zooey down to see if she will get the hang of walking. I noticed that if she is facing any way but toward me, she doesn't seem to be able to move. She is like a little hot wheels car. The wheels/legs only go one direction so you have to physically pick it up and face it in the direction you want it to go. So as Seymour is straining to go one direction, I have to try not to pull him over as I go back to Zooey to head her in our direction. Then sometimes she will start walking, and sometimes she won't.
In the meantime, Seymour is playing his "poor me" surgery card by walking slowly, sniffing at every blade of grass, weed or tree he passes, and periodically circling round and round to get in the best position to pee a few drops. Fifteen minutes and about 50 feet away from our front door, I am unable to coax either dog to go back to the house. I am wondering if we will get around the circle before the sun sets.
Zooey decides she is ready to walk and Seymour decides he is ready to be carried - but not home, mind you. He wants to smell the air and look for deer from his perch in my arms. After a short time, he cranes his neck toward the ground; he is ready to walk again. It is now about 30 minutes into the walk and we have gone about 1/8 of a mile. Zooey periodically flops down on the street, content to sleep there for awhile. Seymour decides that he has to explore to the end of his leash, the direction opposite from where Zooey is snoozing. I finally stretch as far as i can toward Zooey so i won't topple Seymour over, and pick her up. I let Seymour continue his exploring, poor boy.
One hour and about 1/2 mile into our walk, the sun is starting to set. It will be pitch dark soon. No matter which way we go, it is still the same distance home. I can either carry both dogs or ask one of the neighbors if we can bed down in their yard until morning. But I forgot my toothbrush.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Am I Tasteless or Timeless?
I am starting to see a pattern and it appears to be telling me that I may not be as cool and hip as I thought I was. I regularly and avidly read the section of popular magazines called "who wore it better?". I always cover the answer while I study the picture with the eye of a frequent "Project Runway" and "America's Next Top Model" viewer. So you can see I am pretty well trained. I select my choice and look at the answer - 95% of the time I'm wrong. Maybe not "wrong" in my book, but "wrong" according to whatever low class people they survey to get their answers. I think that I can put myself together quite nicely, when needed. I can mix and match things in my wardrobe with items that even surprise me. But I can't seem to tell "who wore it better". That in itself didn't mean I wasn't cool.
Then I started reviewing things I bought through Amazon. I love writing comments about all of the cool things I now own. I take it very seriously but try to add a little humor to brighten people's days. I'm considerate that way. After a few weeks, I went back to my reviews to see if people gave me "helpful votes". Yes, I certainly got a few but not the big numbers I have seen on some reviews. Then I noticed that many of my cool products were no longer available. Unfortunately I don't think it was because they were so popular that they ran out of them. I think that most people just never knew they needed them. So my "anti theft strap" or as I call it now "a long plastic strap with a "thingy" on the end" and my cool folding dog dish are no more - unavailable.
Could my taste be in question or am I just ahead of the rest of the population? Am I style-innovative or style-less? Did I miss a season of "Project Accessory"? Does Amazon laugh at my purchases or are they in awe of my choices? Maybe I'm just uniquely eclectic - yeah, that's it. Come on world, catch up!
Then I started reviewing things I bought through Amazon. I love writing comments about all of the cool things I now own. I take it very seriously but try to add a little humor to brighten people's days. I'm considerate that way. After a few weeks, I went back to my reviews to see if people gave me "helpful votes". Yes, I certainly got a few but not the big numbers I have seen on some reviews. Then I noticed that many of my cool products were no longer available. Unfortunately I don't think it was because they were so popular that they ran out of them. I think that most people just never knew they needed them. So my "anti theft strap" or as I call it now "a long plastic strap with a "thingy" on the end" and my cool folding dog dish are no more - unavailable.
Could my taste be in question or am I just ahead of the rest of the population? Am I style-innovative or style-less? Did I miss a season of "Project Accessory"? Does Amazon laugh at my purchases or are they in awe of my choices? Maybe I'm just uniquely eclectic - yeah, that's it. Come on world, catch up!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Wanderlust Dog
They say that children watch and learn everything that their parents say and do. And when I say "everything" I mean when parents say "where did they hear that word?" everything. I think my dog child is doing the same thing.
We just got back from a long trip overseas and he was a trouper. He seemed to be very excited to be home. But now when I try to walk him in our neighborhood, he drags himself around like he is on his last leg. His tail is low, he walks so slow that I have to keep turning around to be sure he hasn't fallen asleep standing up. After walking about three houses away, he stops and won't move until I call him to me. Then he does a little hop to help me pick him up and is content to finish his walk in my arms. Do you know how stupid it looks carrying a dog on his walk? I seriously thought he might be dying of something. I took him to the vet because he has the beginning of hip displasia and started talking about surgery. These walks around the block were worrying me and I was ready to say yes to the surgery - poor guy.
Then I took him with me to do a little shopping and opened the door to get him out of the car to walk in the field of the Target parking lot. I went to gently pick him up - poor guy - when he just about jumped over me to get out the door. His tail was wagging furiously, he was prancing and running every way he could within leash length. I could barely keep up with him as he headed for the field while stopping to do a few pee drops on any tree or bush we passed. After about 20 minutes, we headed back to the car. When I opened the door, he put on is doggie breaks, back on the heals of all four paws, and refused to get in the car. I think this is one of the times he hates that he is only 7 pounds because I just lift him up, stiff legs and all and settle him back into the car.
By the time we are home, he has become Mr Gloomy Dog again. I kinda understand the feeling because I get excited when we travel. I think we can put off that surgery for now and instead get out the maps. He is so much like me - is it nature or nurture?
We just got back from a long trip overseas and he was a trouper. He seemed to be very excited to be home. But now when I try to walk him in our neighborhood, he drags himself around like he is on his last leg. His tail is low, he walks so slow that I have to keep turning around to be sure he hasn't fallen asleep standing up. After walking about three houses away, he stops and won't move until I call him to me. Then he does a little hop to help me pick him up and is content to finish his walk in my arms. Do you know how stupid it looks carrying a dog on his walk? I seriously thought he might be dying of something. I took him to the vet because he has the beginning of hip displasia and started talking about surgery. These walks around the block were worrying me and I was ready to say yes to the surgery - poor guy.
Then I took him with me to do a little shopping and opened the door to get him out of the car to walk in the field of the Target parking lot. I went to gently pick him up - poor guy - when he just about jumped over me to get out the door. His tail was wagging furiously, he was prancing and running every way he could within leash length. I could barely keep up with him as he headed for the field while stopping to do a few pee drops on any tree or bush we passed. After about 20 minutes, we headed back to the car. When I opened the door, he put on is doggie breaks, back on the heals of all four paws, and refused to get in the car. I think this is one of the times he hates that he is only 7 pounds because I just lift him up, stiff legs and all and settle him back into the car.
By the time we are home, he has become Mr Gloomy Dog again. I kinda understand the feeling because I get excited when we travel. I think we can put off that surgery for now and instead get out the maps. He is so much like me - is it nature or nurture?
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Allergy Season
Around here, allergy season is all year. Because of that, I am constantly on the look out for allergy medication that actually works. It seems like the best drugs for allergies are hidden behind the pharmacy counter. I finally decide to try those extra special allergy boxes I can only see from a distance.
To get them, you have to show your driver's license, sign something important and watch the pharmacy tech eye you up. I know they are looking for terrorist-looking people who need these pills to build something bad. I try to look as normal as possible with my runny, downward turned eyes (looking up hurts), the heavy breathing (my lungs sound like there is a party of mice in there), messy hair ( looking in the mirror means I have to "look up" - and as I said before - that hurts!) and wrinkled day old clothes (my chest hurts too much to lift the iron).
I croak, "Another hot one, huh? Is that the largest box you can sell me? I'm just asking because I have these allergies, really." I see them look over at the phone, so I back off with the pleading look.
I choose the 42 pack of 24 hour pills and head to the car with my stash. I'm tired, I'm sick and I need my drugs. Opening the stapled bag, I read the front of the box. "Non-Drowsy Extended Relief". I guess those drug manufacturers know what they are doing. I take 2 pills and drive home.
Eighteen hours later, I am still sneezing, wheezing and runny - but I'm wide awake. At least the "non drowsy" part seems to be working. Maybe that's so we allery sufferers can make it to a 24 hour pharmacy to purchase another kind of medication. Smart folks, those drug manufacturers!
To get them, you have to show your driver's license, sign something important and watch the pharmacy tech eye you up. I know they are looking for terrorist-looking people who need these pills to build something bad. I try to look as normal as possible with my runny, downward turned eyes (looking up hurts), the heavy breathing (my lungs sound like there is a party of mice in there), messy hair ( looking in the mirror means I have to "look up" - and as I said before - that hurts!) and wrinkled day old clothes (my chest hurts too much to lift the iron).
I croak, "Another hot one, huh? Is that the largest box you can sell me? I'm just asking because I have these allergies, really." I see them look over at the phone, so I back off with the pleading look.
I choose the 42 pack of 24 hour pills and head to the car with my stash. I'm tired, I'm sick and I need my drugs. Opening the stapled bag, I read the front of the box. "Non-Drowsy Extended Relief". I guess those drug manufacturers know what they are doing. I take 2 pills and drive home.
Eighteen hours later, I am still sneezing, wheezing and runny - but I'm wide awake. At least the "non drowsy" part seems to be working. Maybe that's so we allery sufferers can make it to a 24 hour pharmacy to purchase another kind of medication. Smart folks, those drug manufacturers!
Friday, July 1, 2011
Pre-Preparation
I'm getting ready to go to Italy and take a basic class in Italian. To get prepared I am:
1. Reviewing an Italian phrase book;
2. Listening over and over to the first CD out of 5 on how to speak Italian;
3. Reviewing an Italian Immersion training; and
4. Taking a course in "Italian for Travelers".
And I still can only say about 4 words in Italian (which I would not recognize if I saw them in writing) - "where", "excuse me", "good", and "bathroom". I'm not saying that those aren't very useful words, but I find myself with performance anxiety when I actually have to use them in a real situation. That is why I need lots of pre-practice before I talk my class in Italy. I also don't want my teacher to know I had all of this training before my class because that would mean they would expect me to know something. I really think that my brain is full and I have to unlearn something before I can shove more information in.
I need to dispose of all of the tidbits of gossip I know about starlettes and hunks - except for Johnnie Depp. My brain needs to declutter from addresses and phone numbers I had when I was a kid. And there is no reason my brain should continue to hold on to names of people I dislike.
Wouldn't it be nice to just click a button on the side of your head to defrag abd clean up the brain cells to make them more efficient? I know that Italian would come easier if I could do that.
1. Reviewing an Italian phrase book;
2. Listening over and over to the first CD out of 5 on how to speak Italian;
3. Reviewing an Italian Immersion training; and
4. Taking a course in "Italian for Travelers".
And I still can only say about 4 words in Italian (which I would not recognize if I saw them in writing) - "where", "excuse me", "good", and "bathroom". I'm not saying that those aren't very useful words, but I find myself with performance anxiety when I actually have to use them in a real situation. That is why I need lots of pre-practice before I talk my class in Italy. I also don't want my teacher to know I had all of this training before my class because that would mean they would expect me to know something. I really think that my brain is full and I have to unlearn something before I can shove more information in.
I need to dispose of all of the tidbits of gossip I know about starlettes and hunks - except for Johnnie Depp. My brain needs to declutter from addresses and phone numbers I had when I was a kid. And there is no reason my brain should continue to hold on to names of people I dislike.
Wouldn't it be nice to just click a button on the side of your head to defrag abd clean up the brain cells to make them more efficient? I know that Italian would come easier if I could do that.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Dog Language in a Storm
We haven't had a real rain in many months - until last night. The sky began to light up like an airport runway and the thunder started rumbling/grumbling. My dog Seymour started whining, circling and periodically hitting his head on the side of my bed while trying unsuccessfully to join me. I pulled him on to the bed and pushed him under the blankets, thinking that if he doesn't see the light, he'll settle down. Nope. In the dark, I could smell his chicken jerky breath and feel his little elbows digging into my chest. I tried massage and headlocks to keep him still while thinking that I should have brushed his teeth.
I finally set him back on the floor and tried to go back to sleep. Nope. He paced, tried going under the bed, into his crate, into a secret hiding place in another room, and finally back to whining and hitting his head on the side of my bed.
If the doggie door had been left open, he would have run out and hidden in the most weed-infested part of the yard. Since it wasn't, as he stood on my chest, nose to nose and eye balls to eye balls, I finally understood that he wanted my car keys. If he couldn't escape out the doggie door, he could get to security under the car seat, if he only had my keys - and opposing fingers.
Thankfully, his new doggie tricks didn't include learning to use the car remote and I wasn't about to leave the comfort of my bed to run through the downpour so he could go to the only place he thought he would feel safe. Was I a bad doggie-mommy?
Finally, sleepless, grouchy and losing my patience, I was about to toss him my car keys when the storm let up. Seymour quietly tiptoed back to his crate to sleep. All was fine in his life again. I was awake the rest of the night. Doggie communication can be exhausting!
I finally set him back on the floor and tried to go back to sleep. Nope. He paced, tried going under the bed, into his crate, into a secret hiding place in another room, and finally back to whining and hitting his head on the side of my bed.
If the doggie door had been left open, he would have run out and hidden in the most weed-infested part of the yard. Since it wasn't, as he stood on my chest, nose to nose and eye balls to eye balls, I finally understood that he wanted my car keys. If he couldn't escape out the doggie door, he could get to security under the car seat, if he only had my keys - and opposing fingers.
Thankfully, his new doggie tricks didn't include learning to use the car remote and I wasn't about to leave the comfort of my bed to run through the downpour so he could go to the only place he thought he would feel safe. Was I a bad doggie-mommy?
Finally, sleepless, grouchy and losing my patience, I was about to toss him my car keys when the storm let up. Seymour quietly tiptoed back to his crate to sleep. All was fine in his life again. I was awake the rest of the night. Doggie communication can be exhausting!
Monday, June 6, 2011
How To Get Along With Difficult People
I have taken more of these courses than I have fingers and toes and I still don't have all of the answers I need. Raised by a woman who was practicing to be a Jewish Mother, I have believed that any issue I have with someone else -or even any problem in the world must be my fault. Or if it's not totally my fault, I probably have one degree of separation from it.
Weinergate - was it partially because I'm addicted to perezhilton and TMZ - and always click on the picture that is blurred out to see the whole weiner - er picture.
Casey Anthony types - I should have worked harder in my Psychology Class so I could recognize people with memory problems ("So that new expanse is due to a good push-up bra?") from a full on loon?
Based on the courses I've taken, I found that I could present them, because what they call "difficult", I call "relatives".
My training would cover:
What do you do when people get mad at you and quit talking? "Be happy that you don't have to hear the stupid things they would say. Send them a Thank You card."
What about people who say mean things to you? "Look perplexed and point to your mouth and ears and start speaking gibberish and try to imitate what they are saying to you - with a gibberish accent." There is that weird disease where some people just start speaking with a foreign accent, so it could happen.
What can you do if someone is sabotaging your chance of getting a promotion by taking credit for your work? "Write the most important points of your work in code - pig latin would work. Then innocently ask her if she could read those points out loud." Even if you don't get the promotion, you will get some good belly laughs and we know that laughter is good for your health. The worst that can happen is that you will be the happiest, healthiest person in the unemployment line. Worse things could happen.
Those are the easy ones. I want a course on how to deal with people with a classified mental health problem. Those Narcissistic Personality Disorder types you have to team with who never make mistakes, need a mirrored glass as their computer screen and start every sentence with "I"? Or the bipolar-type boss who eggs you on to tell your jokes one day and puts a "Do Not Disturb - This Means You" sign on their door the next? These behaviors have not been covered in those courses - and I have re-read my notes.
I wonder if it is partially my fault that these are no course covering what I need? I'll have to ask my mother.
Weinergate - was it partially because I'm addicted to perezhilton and TMZ - and always click on the picture that is blurred out to see the whole weiner - er picture.
Casey Anthony types - I should have worked harder in my Psychology Class so I could recognize people with memory problems ("So that new expanse is due to a good push-up bra?") from a full on loon?
Based on the courses I've taken, I found that I could present them, because what they call "difficult", I call "relatives".
My training would cover:
What do you do when people get mad at you and quit talking? "Be happy that you don't have to hear the stupid things they would say. Send them a Thank You card."
What about people who say mean things to you? "Look perplexed and point to your mouth and ears and start speaking gibberish and try to imitate what they are saying to you - with a gibberish accent." There is that weird disease where some people just start speaking with a foreign accent, so it could happen.
What can you do if someone is sabotaging your chance of getting a promotion by taking credit for your work? "Write the most important points of your work in code - pig latin would work. Then innocently ask her if she could read those points out loud." Even if you don't get the promotion, you will get some good belly laughs and we know that laughter is good for your health. The worst that can happen is that you will be the happiest, healthiest person in the unemployment line. Worse things could happen.
Those are the easy ones. I want a course on how to deal with people with a classified mental health problem. Those Narcissistic Personality Disorder types you have to team with who never make mistakes, need a mirrored glass as their computer screen and start every sentence with "I"? Or the bipolar-type boss who eggs you on to tell your jokes one day and puts a "Do Not Disturb - This Means You" sign on their door the next? These behaviors have not been covered in those courses - and I have re-read my notes.
I wonder if it is partially my fault that these are no course covering what I need? I'll have to ask my mother.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Another Reason to be Single
I went to a lovely memorial service for the husband of a friend. It was filled with humorous stories, songs - and a photo montage of his life. It made me think about being in a long relationship with lots of history and memories - and photos. What if the long relationship ended with my mate passing away before me?
They would go through all of our photos and pick out the best ones of him to flash on a screen to the crowd of mourners. Of course they would need to choose the pictures where he looked best, but unfortunately I guarantee those would not be the ones where I looked even presentable in public. When he looked best, I'd have my eyes 1/2 open, my tongue lolling out one side of my mouth, or my head would be angled in such a way that it would look twice it's normal size.
I take awful pictures. Sure, I'd be upset that I lost my long time partner - but I don't think that should mean that I would also have to lose my dignity through displaying my monkey faced pictures. Also, I think the mourners would find it hard to ignore the woman in the photo (me) and I'm sure the crying would turn to hysterical laughter. Staying single is my way of saving some man the embarrassment of a humorous memorial service. I'm doing my part for mankind - and getting ready to go Photoshop my own pictures - just in case.
They would go through all of our photos and pick out the best ones of him to flash on a screen to the crowd of mourners. Of course they would need to choose the pictures where he looked best, but unfortunately I guarantee those would not be the ones where I looked even presentable in public. When he looked best, I'd have my eyes 1/2 open, my tongue lolling out one side of my mouth, or my head would be angled in such a way that it would look twice it's normal size.
I take awful pictures. Sure, I'd be upset that I lost my long time partner - but I don't think that should mean that I would also have to lose my dignity through displaying my monkey faced pictures. Also, I think the mourners would find it hard to ignore the woman in the photo (me) and I'm sure the crying would turn to hysterical laughter. Staying single is my way of saving some man the embarrassment of a humorous memorial service. I'm doing my part for mankind - and getting ready to go Photoshop my own pictures - just in case.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
What Are Friends For?
One day last week I was busy running around, packing, moving and going here and there around town. I wasn't dressed in my cleanest and prettiest clothes, but I was presentable. Toward the end of the day, a friend asked if I wanted to meet for dinner and since I was too tired to cook, and didn't want to clean up, we decided to meet at an outdoor casual restaurant. I was early so I walked around to the various shops nearby and finally headed to the restaurant. Now, the thing about my friend is if I had broccoli hanging on a tooth or my blouse totally unbuttoned, he probably wouldn't say anything. I don't know if he doesn't notice, is embarrassed to tell me or is going blind.
We left the restaurant, walking up the 3 outdoor flights of stairs, with him behind me. We hugged and I headed to the grocery store for a few quick essentials, ice cream, cookies and Diet Coke. I hurried into the grocery store and for some reason thought my pants felt looser. I reached behind me and felt a tremendous tear in my pants - a butt cheek sized hole.
Just then my friend walked in and I said "Did you know I had a hole in my pants?" He evasively responded "Do you have on any underwear?" in the same voice he would use to order a cup of coffee. "YES but it must have crept up" I panicked as I tried to nonchalantly dig around for my underwear. In a very calm voice he told me I needed to pull my pants up and my shirt down as he headed to the fruit aisle. Not caring if I had a camel toe, I yanked my pants as high up my stomach as I could while trying to stretch my short tee shirt down over my bum. He was pretty much at the other end of the store before I could ask him to check again. Maybe it's not as bad as it feels, I reasoned.
I did have those few groceries to get so I did my best to bend at the knees, hold down my tee and juggle my groceries in one hand. I had one recyclable grocery bag with me but it wasn't big enough to cover - my exposure, not to mention that it would have looked strange having a red bag stuffed into the back of my pants. I finally headed to the checkout while tugging one handed to pull up my pants, pull down my shirt and hold on to my groceries. Just as I was on the last stretch to a cash register, a young man behind me said "Hey lady, you have a hole in your pants". Someone finally verbalized that the Emperor Had No Clothes.
I thought about how many places I had been that day, how many people, including my friend could not have helped but notice my chubby cheek hanging out, yet no one gave me the "heads - or butts up". No one except for that young high school boy. And he didn't even laugh as he told me the news. That "hole in my pants" turned out to be a foot long split down the center of my right butt cheek. Friends should not let friends expose themselves - even if it makes for a great story.
We left the restaurant, walking up the 3 outdoor flights of stairs, with him behind me. We hugged and I headed to the grocery store for a few quick essentials, ice cream, cookies and Diet Coke. I hurried into the grocery store and for some reason thought my pants felt looser. I reached behind me and felt a tremendous tear in my pants - a butt cheek sized hole.
Just then my friend walked in and I said "Did you know I had a hole in my pants?" He evasively responded "Do you have on any underwear?" in the same voice he would use to order a cup of coffee. "YES but it must have crept up" I panicked as I tried to nonchalantly dig around for my underwear. In a very calm voice he told me I needed to pull my pants up and my shirt down as he headed to the fruit aisle. Not caring if I had a camel toe, I yanked my pants as high up my stomach as I could while trying to stretch my short tee shirt down over my bum. He was pretty much at the other end of the store before I could ask him to check again. Maybe it's not as bad as it feels, I reasoned.
I did have those few groceries to get so I did my best to bend at the knees, hold down my tee and juggle my groceries in one hand. I had one recyclable grocery bag with me but it wasn't big enough to cover - my exposure, not to mention that it would have looked strange having a red bag stuffed into the back of my pants. I finally headed to the checkout while tugging one handed to pull up my pants, pull down my shirt and hold on to my groceries. Just as I was on the last stretch to a cash register, a young man behind me said "Hey lady, you have a hole in your pants". Someone finally verbalized that the Emperor Had No Clothes.
I thought about how many places I had been that day, how many people, including my friend could not have helped but notice my chubby cheek hanging out, yet no one gave me the "heads - or butts up". No one except for that young high school boy. And he didn't even laugh as he told me the news. That "hole in my pants" turned out to be a foot long split down the center of my right butt cheek. Friends should not let friends expose themselves - even if it makes for a great story.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Head, Heart or Gut
I've been making a lot of pretty major decisions lately - or at least I've been trying to make them. My head, heart and gut are arguing over every decision and it's becoming annoying! But it's not as bad as people who let one body part always win in a decision.
I know some people who make all of their decisions with one body part (and I'm not talking about "that" one).
For example, if I am thinking about taking a camping trip across the country - just me and my dog - to places unknown, my body parts respond this way;
(Head) "Don't be crazy, you don't' know what you're going to be getting in to. You could die out there alone with only your dog". (My friends who only use their Heads rarely leave their comfort zone, which is no more than a 50 mile radius from their home.)
(Heart) "You know you love to travel and have some new adventures. You need to fill your soul with the beauty and serenity you'll find on this trip." (Friends who only use their Heart don't understand why hand-feeding a hungry shark ended badly. ("But they were so cute")
(Gut) "If you are even thinking of listening to your Head or Heart you need you head examined and a heart transplant. Nothing it all good or bad, you just have to be smart and prepare. What is worse is thinking later "I wish I had done that". Weigh your options and make a choice. Now, my gut also tells me there is room for another cream-filled donut and it won't hurt to try to do a flip on the trampoline, but that's another story.
Basically, I find that if I don't go through the process of listening to each body part, I can't come to the best decision for me. My gut is the mediator between my head and my heart. It's the voice of reason happily digesting a cream filled donut.
I know some people who make all of their decisions with one body part (and I'm not talking about "that" one).
For example, if I am thinking about taking a camping trip across the country - just me and my dog - to places unknown, my body parts respond this way;
(Head) "Don't be crazy, you don't' know what you're going to be getting in to. You could die out there alone with only your dog". (My friends who only use their Heads rarely leave their comfort zone, which is no more than a 50 mile radius from their home.)
(Heart) "You know you love to travel and have some new adventures. You need to fill your soul with the beauty and serenity you'll find on this trip." (Friends who only use their Heart don't understand why hand-feeding a hungry shark ended badly. ("But they were so cute")
(Gut) "If you are even thinking of listening to your Head or Heart you need you head examined and a heart transplant. Nothing it all good or bad, you just have to be smart and prepare. What is worse is thinking later "I wish I had done that". Weigh your options and make a choice. Now, my gut also tells me there is room for another cream-filled donut and it won't hurt to try to do a flip on the trampoline, but that's another story.
Basically, I find that if I don't go through the process of listening to each body part, I can't come to the best decision for me. My gut is the mediator between my head and my heart. It's the voice of reason happily digesting a cream filled donut.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
What's that Smell?
Two things that probably shouldn't go together - a hyper-sensitive nose and too much driving. Oh, and spending too much time in my mind and not enough time listening to the radio doesn't help.
As I was driving on the freeway, I started to smell fried chicken. On the freeway? Does the smell of fried chicken carry onto a traffic-logged interstate - or do I have a brain tumor? Using my scanning and driving skills, I glanced across both sides of the freeway and didn't see a sign with a chicken leg or a bucket. Were other people smelling fried chicken? I can't remember what the the Internet medical sites said about smell but I know there was something people with medical - or specifically brain - problems smelled that wasn't good. Traffic was building so I had time to ponder what could be making me smell fried chicken. I looked at the cars around me and didn't see telltale signs of greasy lips, large napkins or a chicken leg in any car. Oh, I hope I don't have a brain tumor. What would be the next symptom - seeing chicken parts in front of my eyes? I wanted the traffic to move so I could go Google. After about 5 minutes we moved from an inch to a crawl and - no more chicken smell! With great effort I lowered my shoulders from beside my ears and took a deep breath. It must have been a chicken restaurant.
No more than 5 minutes later, on that same freeway just further north the distinct smell of fried chicken hit me again. Is this like labor? Every 3-4 minutes I have a chicken episode? I don't feel sick but I am starting to forget things. I can not remember who starred in that movie about the teenagers who were put in detention - whatever that movie is called. Forgetfulness and smelling fried chicken. I hope I have my insurance card with me, just in case.
A few minutes later - no chicken smell. I sniffed deeply every few minutes the rest of the way home and everything was back to normal. No, I still can't remember who was in that movie but I'm feeling better about my diagnosis. I'm not sure if my hyper-sensitive nose is a curse or an early diagnosis blessing. When I got home I googled brain tumor symptoms and for some reason no one mentioned the hyper-sensitive nose issue. And none of the articles mentioned chicken. But if it's not a brain tumor, what else could it be? Does it have to do with too much driving? My nose is trying to tell me something - could I be hungry?
As I was driving on the freeway, I started to smell fried chicken. On the freeway? Does the smell of fried chicken carry onto a traffic-logged interstate - or do I have a brain tumor? Using my scanning and driving skills, I glanced across both sides of the freeway and didn't see a sign with a chicken leg or a bucket. Were other people smelling fried chicken? I can't remember what the the Internet medical sites said about smell but I know there was something people with medical - or specifically brain - problems smelled that wasn't good. Traffic was building so I had time to ponder what could be making me smell fried chicken. I looked at the cars around me and didn't see telltale signs of greasy lips, large napkins or a chicken leg in any car. Oh, I hope I don't have a brain tumor. What would be the next symptom - seeing chicken parts in front of my eyes? I wanted the traffic to move so I could go Google. After about 5 minutes we moved from an inch to a crawl and - no more chicken smell! With great effort I lowered my shoulders from beside my ears and took a deep breath. It must have been a chicken restaurant.
No more than 5 minutes later, on that same freeway just further north the distinct smell of fried chicken hit me again. Is this like labor? Every 3-4 minutes I have a chicken episode? I don't feel sick but I am starting to forget things. I can not remember who starred in that movie about the teenagers who were put in detention - whatever that movie is called. Forgetfulness and smelling fried chicken. I hope I have my insurance card with me, just in case.
A few minutes later - no chicken smell. I sniffed deeply every few minutes the rest of the way home and everything was back to normal. No, I still can't remember who was in that movie but I'm feeling better about my diagnosis. I'm not sure if my hyper-sensitive nose is a curse or an early diagnosis blessing. When I got home I googled brain tumor symptoms and for some reason no one mentioned the hyper-sensitive nose issue. And none of the articles mentioned chicken. But if it's not a brain tumor, what else could it be? Does it have to do with too much driving? My nose is trying to tell me something - could I be hungry?
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Winter and "The Dog"
I do like a bit of excitement in my life. I like the unexpected, actually prefer the surprises of life rather than the routine of a day. Well, except in one area - when walking my dog, Seymour when it is 16 degrees outside.
Even on a normal, cool morning, I never know if he will want to walk to the end of the driveway or the end of the earth. Usually, if I take him out wearing my bedroom slippers, a zippped-up lavendar sweatshirt over flood sweats, and my hair crying for a comb - he wants the long neighborhood walk. In my neighborhood, our houses are so small that no matter where you sit, you have a view of the front street. I like to believe that my neighbors are all looking out of their back windows as I am shuffling by but I also like to believe that I have a forgotten winning millionaire lottery ticket in my pocket - both are an equal fantasy. I will be on view.
Of course, when I take the time to look presentable, Seymour doesn't want to go farther than the end of my short driveway before he is ready to go in. The problem is, I know he needs to go "number 2" sometime so I can't deny him when he wants to go out.
It was 16 degrees this morning and Seymour is a bit of a wimp. He doesn't like rain or cold, which makes me do a happy dance. We usually don't make it further than the edge of the house before he starts returning to the front door. So when he looked at me expectantly, I put my cable-knit sweater on over my cotton capri pj's, threw my sockless feet into some shoes - and prepared for a quick outing. He's going to hate being outside!
Seymour had on his sweater and was preparing for a leisurely walk around the block - obviously we don't communicate well. By the time I got to the street, my body temperature had dropped at least 5 degrees and I could no longer feel if my hand was actually holding the leash. We were in front of my next door neighbor's house where Seymour rewarded me with a few drops of pee against the "doggie calling card tree" and my feet looked like I was wearing pale blue socks. Seymour's tail was high and wagging joyously as he continued to walk and sniff past a few more houses. Soon my ears felt like they were going to break off - well, they would have felt that way if I had any feeling left in my hands. My eyes were watering and the tears were freezing in zigzag lines down my face. Still Seymour pranced! How can a chihuahua in bare paws with only a sweater who is always shaking appear to be enjoying this trek?
When we got about 5 houses away from home, the wind was whistling through my light cotton capris and my sweater was doing nothing more than covering my bloodless skin, I knew I had to give it up. I figured I had given my neighbors enough to discuss for the next few weeks - the crazy woman dressed as if the temperature was going to suddenly rise to 80 degrees - so I dragged Seymour back home. No number 2.
A little later, he gave me "that look" again so I bundled up in my Uggs boots, a sweater and my down coat, lined gloves, a scarf, hat and thick winter pants. With difficulty, I bent down and snapped on Seymour's leash and headed outside, ready for whatever and where ever he wanted to do and go. We got to the middle of my driveway (where none of my neighbors could see how well prepared I was), Seymour sniffed, stood there for a minute looking like he was waiting for a bus, and then turned back around to go home. I refused to let him go in until he did something, so he grudgingly let a few more drops of pee escape in the front yard and happily headed back to the house.
I was having much more than my share of the unexpected and surprise from him today. I wanted routine. I wanted a quick outcome. I wanted number two. I wanted to enjoy watching other people struggle with their dogs - from the warmth of my living room - facing the street. Seymour wanted to go out again.
Even on a normal, cool morning, I never know if he will want to walk to the end of the driveway or the end of the earth. Usually, if I take him out wearing my bedroom slippers, a zippped-up lavendar sweatshirt over flood sweats, and my hair crying for a comb - he wants the long neighborhood walk. In my neighborhood, our houses are so small that no matter where you sit, you have a view of the front street. I like to believe that my neighbors are all looking out of their back windows as I am shuffling by but I also like to believe that I have a forgotten winning millionaire lottery ticket in my pocket - both are an equal fantasy. I will be on view.
Of course, when I take the time to look presentable, Seymour doesn't want to go farther than the end of my short driveway before he is ready to go in. The problem is, I know he needs to go "number 2" sometime so I can't deny him when he wants to go out.
It was 16 degrees this morning and Seymour is a bit of a wimp. He doesn't like rain or cold, which makes me do a happy dance. We usually don't make it further than the edge of the house before he starts returning to the front door. So when he looked at me expectantly, I put my cable-knit sweater on over my cotton capri pj's, threw my sockless feet into some shoes - and prepared for a quick outing. He's going to hate being outside!
Seymour had on his sweater and was preparing for a leisurely walk around the block - obviously we don't communicate well. By the time I got to the street, my body temperature had dropped at least 5 degrees and I could no longer feel if my hand was actually holding the leash. We were in front of my next door neighbor's house where Seymour rewarded me with a few drops of pee against the "doggie calling card tree" and my feet looked like I was wearing pale blue socks. Seymour's tail was high and wagging joyously as he continued to walk and sniff past a few more houses. Soon my ears felt like they were going to break off - well, they would have felt that way if I had any feeling left in my hands. My eyes were watering and the tears were freezing in zigzag lines down my face. Still Seymour pranced! How can a chihuahua in bare paws with only a sweater who is always shaking appear to be enjoying this trek?
When we got about 5 houses away from home, the wind was whistling through my light cotton capris and my sweater was doing nothing more than covering my bloodless skin, I knew I had to give it up. I figured I had given my neighbors enough to discuss for the next few weeks - the crazy woman dressed as if the temperature was going to suddenly rise to 80 degrees - so I dragged Seymour back home. No number 2.
A little later, he gave me "that look" again so I bundled up in my Uggs boots, a sweater and my down coat, lined gloves, a scarf, hat and thick winter pants. With difficulty, I bent down and snapped on Seymour's leash and headed outside, ready for whatever and where ever he wanted to do and go. We got to the middle of my driveway (where none of my neighbors could see how well prepared I was), Seymour sniffed, stood there for a minute looking like he was waiting for a bus, and then turned back around to go home. I refused to let him go in until he did something, so he grudgingly let a few more drops of pee escape in the front yard and happily headed back to the house.
I was having much more than my share of the unexpected and surprise from him today. I wanted routine. I wanted a quick outcome. I wanted number two. I wanted to enjoy watching other people struggle with their dogs - from the warmth of my living room - facing the street. Seymour wanted to go out again.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Night of the Living Dead - Shoppers Sequel
All I wanted to do was purchase a storage item. I found it online at a particular store and although I could have had it shipped to my house, I decided to save money and pick it up. Ninety minutes later with gas tank 1/2 empty, I was there. From the looks of the parking lot, there must have been major sales in this un-named store - I will just say that it rhymes with "I see ya".
Having only passed through this store once years ago, I quickly realized that I didn't know the rules. It didn't matter, I rationalized, I was only picking up one item and leaving. The first thing I noticed was that the store had very narrow and winding pathways that took you past various model rooms. The second thing I noticed was that everyone "lumbered" and "lallygagged". When I tried to pass them, I swear they all exhaled at the same time, thereby taking up more isle space. When that didn't deter me from trying to make a pass at the model kitchen room, I got looks like my mother used to give me when I asked what she weighed when we were in a check out line. It's like these people were possessed - and I'm wondering if it has something to do with something in those meatballs they sell there.
Anyway, I hurried, as much as you can hurry through the Night of the Living Dead Shoppers, while looking at the room signs to try to figure out which room would hold my storage item. It was interesting that we were all herded down these paths to nowhere in the store but periodically you'd see a sign that would say "Shortcut to Restaurant". I think that people finally give up trying to find their way back out of the store and just take that shortcut to the meatballs.
I finally found what I was looking for sitting in a model office. When I looked at the tag on the item, it said that I had to get it at the "self-serve" section, isle 9 bin 8. Where in the heck was that? I continued to wonder around the store, lost, dazed and starting to want meatballs, when miles - or days later - found the "self-serve" section. There were walls and walls of boxes and furniture. I was thankful I wasn't "self-serving" a couch because I had left my sumo wrestler friends at home. Unfortunately, my item was out of stock. Not to be deterred, I remembered that I saw a different item in one of the rooms that would also work. Ahhh, I was told, that self-serve item was back on the other side of the store, but there was a short cut - past the restaurant, I could take.
Back I went, past the people who had only gotten about 10 feet further than there were when I passed them the first time, and they were still exhaling and walking like they were wearing lead boots. Hours later I found what I needed and headed to check out - past the restaurant short cut. I was tempted to make a quick stop at the meatballs but I knew I had to find my way out before the store closed. I'm surprised they don't have model hotel rooms people can rent for the night. Whether it is exhaustion from winding around the store for hours or it's the meatballs, the shoppers in this store could give the cast of Night of the Living Dead a run - or drag - for their money. I'm glad I didn't eat the meatballs.
Having only passed through this store once years ago, I quickly realized that I didn't know the rules. It didn't matter, I rationalized, I was only picking up one item and leaving. The first thing I noticed was that the store had very narrow and winding pathways that took you past various model rooms. The second thing I noticed was that everyone "lumbered" and "lallygagged". When I tried to pass them, I swear they all exhaled at the same time, thereby taking up more isle space. When that didn't deter me from trying to make a pass at the model kitchen room, I got looks like my mother used to give me when I asked what she weighed when we were in a check out line. It's like these people were possessed - and I'm wondering if it has something to do with something in those meatballs they sell there.
Anyway, I hurried, as much as you can hurry through the Night of the Living Dead Shoppers, while looking at the room signs to try to figure out which room would hold my storage item. It was interesting that we were all herded down these paths to nowhere in the store but periodically you'd see a sign that would say "Shortcut to Restaurant". I think that people finally give up trying to find their way back out of the store and just take that shortcut to the meatballs.
I finally found what I was looking for sitting in a model office. When I looked at the tag on the item, it said that I had to get it at the "self-serve" section, isle 9 bin 8. Where in the heck was that? I continued to wonder around the store, lost, dazed and starting to want meatballs, when miles - or days later - found the "self-serve" section. There were walls and walls of boxes and furniture. I was thankful I wasn't "self-serving" a couch because I had left my sumo wrestler friends at home. Unfortunately, my item was out of stock. Not to be deterred, I remembered that I saw a different item in one of the rooms that would also work. Ahhh, I was told, that self-serve item was back on the other side of the store, but there was a short cut - past the restaurant, I could take.
Back I went, past the people who had only gotten about 10 feet further than there were when I passed them the first time, and they were still exhaling and walking like they were wearing lead boots. Hours later I found what I needed and headed to check out - past the restaurant short cut. I was tempted to make a quick stop at the meatballs but I knew I had to find my way out before the store closed. I'm surprised they don't have model hotel rooms people can rent for the night. Whether it is exhaustion from winding around the store for hours or it's the meatballs, the shoppers in this store could give the cast of Night of the Living Dead a run - or drag - for their money. I'm glad I didn't eat the meatballs.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The Gift of Food
I notice that I have reached that age when people who either don't know me very well but still buy me Christmas gifts - or people that do know me well - give me the gift of food. I'll admit that I sent my parents a gift box of various food - or simulated food- products. I had run out of things to give them. They are both in their 80's and there is very little they want or need. But they still want to receive gifts. I settled on one of those "tower of boxes" with a large ribbon around them to remind people that they came from one source. Unfortunately, they arrived about 3 weeks before Christmas, since I wasn't the one mailing them.
A week before Christmas I asked my parents if they received the box, and they said they did. In fact, they told me, it has been sitting under the Christmas tree. I cautioned them that there may be things in those boxes that should be refrigerated but they said it was cool enough by the tree. Ba-bye food products - I hope they enjoyed looking at those cute little boxes for 3 weeks because I'm thinking that they weren't going to enjoy looking at the fuzzy little mold in them on Christmas morning. When I called them on Christmas, they did not mention the boxes at all.
I'm guessing it wasn't quite cold enough under that Christmas tree!
But it made me realize that I am now becoming that person who is starting to get food for Christmas. I believe I still have a few good years left. And, they wouldn't be too short changed to get me something with a lifetime warranty. This year, for the first time, mixed in with my presents of scarves, books and gadgets, I have under my tree a box of cheese and sausage products. I wonder if it should be put in my frig? No, I think it's cool enough to stay under the tree for a few more days.
A week before Christmas I asked my parents if they received the box, and they said they did. In fact, they told me, it has been sitting under the Christmas tree. I cautioned them that there may be things in those boxes that should be refrigerated but they said it was cool enough by the tree. Ba-bye food products - I hope they enjoyed looking at those cute little boxes for 3 weeks because I'm thinking that they weren't going to enjoy looking at the fuzzy little mold in them on Christmas morning. When I called them on Christmas, they did not mention the boxes at all.
I'm guessing it wasn't quite cold enough under that Christmas tree!
But it made me realize that I am now becoming that person who is starting to get food for Christmas. I believe I still have a few good years left. And, they wouldn't be too short changed to get me something with a lifetime warranty. This year, for the first time, mixed in with my presents of scarves, books and gadgets, I have under my tree a box of cheese and sausage products. I wonder if it should be put in my frig? No, I think it's cool enough to stay under the tree for a few more days.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
My Life and the Poop Butt
I never thought my life would get to this point. I now spend an inordinate amount of time intently looking at my dog's butt for signs of activity. Now, I try to have a pretty active life myself, but that's part of the problem. My dog, Seymour loves to take walks. I swear that he has learned that the longer he holds off the "activity", the longer he will be allowed to leisurely walk the neighborhood, the side of the road, the parking lots and even take the furtive trips onto private property.
I used to enjoy looking at the flowers, trees, into neighbor's open windows and pretty much viewing everything higher than 6 inches from the ground. Now I focus most of my time on Seymour's butt. We seem to be at am impasse. I know that he has full control over his butt and he uses it to tease me. Most dog owners know about the poop butt phenomena. That little butt hole grows to a bit "O" when it is ready to do you know what. I get a little excited when I see that "O" but I try to do a happy dance inside my head so he doesn't notice. Once he senses that I realize what is about to happen, he puts that poop butt away faster than Clark Kent can change into Superman. How can he have that much control? I have to cross my legs when I hear the song "Singing in the Rain".
We have developed a dysfunctional walking routine. I take him to all of the places that will tempt him so much that he can no longer control himself - like the high weeds along the road, any area where another dog has been or his favorite - right beside my mailbox. He gets excited, expands that butt and even does his little squat dance in circles but then straightens up and continues walking with a smirk on his little snout. I've worn out 3 pairs of shoes in the last month while he has learned to dribble 3 drops of pee every few blocks - and can somehow hold is poop for days.
I appreciate that he has increased my walking to almost marathon distance, but sometimes I need to do things like oh, go to work or maybe even use the restroom myself. He doesn't take that into consideration at all. I'm trying to see the positive in this and am sure I'm not the only one with a butt-controlling dog. I see a popular children's book in my future - My Life and the Poop Butt, a story of a tired woman and her dog.
I used to enjoy looking at the flowers, trees, into neighbor's open windows and pretty much viewing everything higher than 6 inches from the ground. Now I focus most of my time on Seymour's butt. We seem to be at am impasse. I know that he has full control over his butt and he uses it to tease me. Most dog owners know about the poop butt phenomena. That little butt hole grows to a bit "O" when it is ready to do you know what. I get a little excited when I see that "O" but I try to do a happy dance inside my head so he doesn't notice. Once he senses that I realize what is about to happen, he puts that poop butt away faster than Clark Kent can change into Superman. How can he have that much control? I have to cross my legs when I hear the song "Singing in the Rain".
We have developed a dysfunctional walking routine. I take him to all of the places that will tempt him so much that he can no longer control himself - like the high weeds along the road, any area where another dog has been or his favorite - right beside my mailbox. He gets excited, expands that butt and even does his little squat dance in circles but then straightens up and continues walking with a smirk on his little snout. I've worn out 3 pairs of shoes in the last month while he has learned to dribble 3 drops of pee every few blocks - and can somehow hold is poop for days.
I appreciate that he has increased my walking to almost marathon distance, but sometimes I need to do things like oh, go to work or maybe even use the restroom myself. He doesn't take that into consideration at all. I'm trying to see the positive in this and am sure I'm not the only one with a butt-controlling dog. I see a popular children's book in my future - My Life and the Poop Butt, a story of a tired woman and her dog.
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