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.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
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.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Fall Back - on my Time Pieces - Please!
It's that time of year when I realize I have too many clocks and not enough instruction manuals. The good news is that the big wall clock in my living room is now right, since I didn't have the ambition to "spring it forward". The not so good news is that I have a pile of clocks I do not know how to adjust. My eyes have been strained from trying to figure out the strange markings on my clocks and the tip of my index finger is noticeable flatter due to pressing every button on each friggin' clock hundred's of times to try to get that little hour to flash and light up. I need to know the time!
Just in my bedroom, I have 3 clocks - 2 digital alarms because I can't figure out how to set one but it plays my CD,s - and a travel clock that only needs a dial turned to set the time and alarm. Guess which 2 of the 3 are not set yet?
Because I'm a little anal about being late, I also put my solar atomic watch (that does not seem to believe that the time has indeed changed) and my wind up watch on my bedside table. When I woke up, I looked at the various time pieces to try to figure out what time it was, but I eventually gave up and dragged myself down to check my finally accurate living room wall clock. I could sleep on the couch to be close to something that has the right time, but then I wouldn't have an alarm. Or I could set my alarm clock 1 hour earlier - or is it one hour later?
Maybe those of us who are time adjustment challenged should just mail our clocks that seem to want to move to another time zone - to someone in that location. Now, would I send them to someone on Eastern time or Mountain time?
Just in my bedroom, I have 3 clocks - 2 digital alarms because I can't figure out how to set one but it plays my CD,s - and a travel clock that only needs a dial turned to set the time and alarm. Guess which 2 of the 3 are not set yet?
Because I'm a little anal about being late, I also put my solar atomic watch (that does not seem to believe that the time has indeed changed) and my wind up watch on my bedside table. When I woke up, I looked at the various time pieces to try to figure out what time it was, but I eventually gave up and dragged myself down to check my finally accurate living room wall clock. I could sleep on the couch to be close to something that has the right time, but then I wouldn't have an alarm. Or I could set my alarm clock 1 hour earlier - or is it one hour later?
Maybe those of us who are time adjustment challenged should just mail our clocks that seem to want to move to another time zone - to someone in that location. Now, would I send them to someone on Eastern time or Mountain time?
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