(in progress)

We'll see, I guess

2011-02-23T16:27:00.001-05:00

On the radio they were talking about kids and weight and body image and eating habits and all the rest, and I couldn’t help but wonder: Why is it such a big deal? Am I really that naïve? Clueless? Stupid?

I just can’t understand why it’s so hard. And I’m a picky eater! I would think of anyone out there, I’d be in the position to judge. Which is not to say pass judgment, but rather I’m in the position to say if it’s a big deal or not.

I’m picturing my hypothetical, unborn and un-thought-of yet child. Or children, I suppose. But in my head I think of her as Gidgit and there’s just the one. As a side note, I think it’s probably pertinent to say that know the source of that particular nickname. Well, okay wait. I’m not completely uncultured. I know Gidgit was one of Sally Fields’ breakout roles way back when, so technically I know two sources. But that’s not what I think of first when I think of the name Gidgit.

What I remember is much further down on the culture scale. It’s from an episode of Roseanne. Remember when Jackie tells her mother that she’s pregnant? It’s supposed to be this big shock, and as part of the whole “I’m pregnant” hurrah, she continues by saying, “And if it’s a girl, I’m going to name her Gidgit.”

Of course, in the episode it was funny because the mom already found out, and Jackie was disappointed because her surprise was spoiled, but for some reason that name stuck in my head as generic-unborn-baby-girl-name. And I’ve latched onto it because it provides a way to refer to my someday-child by a name instead of “It.”

At any rate, I just don’t think it’s going to be that hard when it’s my turn to take responsibility for nourishing another human being. On the radio, the caller lamented over her own problems with body image growing up. She admitted that it made her hesitant to talk to her daughter about the issues in case she (the mother) said something that was unintentionally tainted by her own experiences.

Is it my security in my own body that makes me so self-assured?

It could be, but I think not. I am—for the most part—relatively secure, and have been for the whole of my life. But I just don’t think my security is the reason behind my certainty.

I think it has to do with my journey along the road of pickiness. I grew up an extremely picky eater, continue to be very selective in my eating to this day—to the point that I annoy myself, truth be known—and my dietary choices have been much scrutinized for the entire 32 years of my existence.

There is, to put it bluntly, an implausible fascination with any food item that does or doesn’t pass my lips. Not just a fascination, but also a running commentary to the world at large by anyone in my general proximity. “She’s eating carrots!” “Noodles again!” “Mmmm, mashed potatoes!” Healthy, frozen, unhealthy, canned, preservative-full and -free. . . it doesn’t matter. Nothing gets by the masses.

I’ve stopped trying to respond to this confounding dialogue. There really isn’t an appropriate response, and the inappropriate ones just leave me feeling like a jerk. So I smile at their keen observation and continue my meal while doing my best to avoid eye contact.

But it’s been this journey that has lead me to a point today in which I feel utterly secure in my original statement that it just isn’t that big a deal. I am already assuming that Gidgit will be picky, at least to a point, but I’m also already planning how to handle it. I’m making plans based on my experience and what I wish could have happened.

First and foremost: things would have gone a whole lot easier growing up if we could have pinpointed a conceptual theme to my pickiness. Two themes that go hand-in-hand, actually: I’m a purist. Texture matters.

I’m a purist. I like foods in their natural state (or, in the case of veggies, steamed with little to no sauce or garnishing). I love vegetables. I also like a lot of meats, but if protein weren’t an issue I could probably live as a vegetarian and be perfectly happy. As long as being a vegetarian meant getting to have Fillet Mignon every blue moon. Ha.

I do love vegetables, a pretty unusual variety for a “picky person,” but I don’t like them prepared all different ways. I could probably eat steamed broccoli until I explode, but don’t try serving me broccoli with bread crumbs or inside a breakfast burrito or . . . well, maybe broccoli isn’t the best example. I’m drawing a blank on different ways to serve it. But still, you can catch my drift. I can’t even count the number of times I heard this:

“But you like this! It has _____ (e.g., broccoli) in it!”

To which my only response is: “So?”

I don’t care that I like broccoli, or green beans, or corn, or peas . . . whatever. Don’t mix them in anything!

Conceptually: I like my foods pure. By themselves. Not mixed together. Even, perhaps especially, when it comes to foods I enjoy (like all of the above listed vegetables). That doesn’t mean they go together. Vegetables and other kinds of foods I like don’t usually go together either. It is never okay to mix corn and mashed potatoes, by the way.

This concept has been a part of me longer than I can remember. It is as much me as my brown hair and stubborn charm. Identifying it and accepting it would have avoided many a dinner fight, subsequent “leave the kid at the table until they take one bite—they’ll crack eventually,” and ultimate conclusion, “Sigh. Go ahead and go to bed, I guess.” Stubborn to a fault, I also had the patience of Job. “Just take one bite” never worked. Not even once.

And I think my knowledge about this, and my other conceptual issues, will only help me with Gidgit. Because wouldn’t it have been great to have been encouraged to verbalize why I didn’t like something?

That isn’t a reproach against my parents. I’m just saying: wouldn’t life have been much better if we hadn’t been fighting at the dinner table so much?! Imagine the peace if we’d just figured out the theory behind my so-called bizarre pickiness. After so many years of frustration (“What? I thought you liked _____?”)(because no one could keep my eating likes and dislikes straight—it just seemed completely random), I would hope I have at least one tidbit of knowledge to pass along to Gidgit.

The tidbit is in the why. I now know there are many types of pickiness out there. Taste. Texture. Smell. Principle (I don’t eat veal on principle; I’m sure the taste is excellent, but I can not condone the treatment of the calves).

In the house I grew up in, the why didn’t matter. Why I didn’t like something was irrelevant. Someone (usually my mother) had prepared a meal, “It’s not poison!” and “There’s nothing wrong with it!”, so there was no reason why I couldn’t eat it.

That’s true. There was no reason why the food was bad. Except that I was morally against the concept of it. Stew. Casserole. Chunks. In my mind, I knew that was the problem, but we didn’t talk about it. You know. We didn’t talk about it rationally.

I’m ready to not take personal offense to Gidgit’s reasoning why. I’m ready for Gidgit to change her mind, and like (or not) something now that she did (or didn’t) like then. I feel like I've always been the same, but I know it seemed that I changed my mind at random, and that was the most galling part to my parents. Unfortunately, I think it was just too complicated to understand in the hectic world of "Well, this is what's for dinner, so deal with it."

I believe it’s simply a matter of options. That’s what “they” say too . . . whoever “they” are. But they say that you should give your child a choice so they can feel in control. I like that idea. But I think it will be a matter of art and paying attention and plain blind luck when it comes to choosing which options to provide. Both should be healthy, but they need to be different enough to start learning concepts even when Gidgit is too little for helpful verbalization (“Eww, yucky!” really isn’t helpful).

So—always only giving healthy options—why would someone give two options that are both conceptually the same—perhaps prepared meals he or she is morally against? Between sewage and blended sewage . . . what would you choose? If Gidgit smells sewage when served a plate of asparagus, well my response is that an adult can lead a healthy life without ever having eaten asparagus. If it’s that big of a deal, then she doesn’t have to have it. And I certainly won't expect her to eat a dish that includes asparagus, if asparagus is the concept she's against.

Because in my house it will never be a sin to choose broccoli over asparagus, to choose asparagus over cauliflower, to want cabbage instead of green pepper, or to want green pepper instead of cucumber. FYI: I love all of those vegetables. But I don’t like cauliflower raw and I do like green pepper raw or sautéed. I detest cabbage raw, love it cooked. So giving me a choice between raw cabbage and sautéed green pepper . . . it’s not really a choice. But giving me a choice between sautéed green pepper and a bag of Doritos . . . I can tell you that now in my 30s I pick the healthy one, but I really couldn’t tell you what I would have chosen as a teenager.

What I can tell you is that I know at that time I couldn’t be trusted to make the right choice. When presented with options, and if the options include junk, I’d wager most teenagers and younger would go for the sugar, the salt, the preservatives. Like moth to a flame, they’re magnetically drawn to them.

So, ding ding ding! This is why I think the radio caller was making an issue where there wasn’t one. Why not just remove the temptation? No junk food. Is it that hard to only present healthy breakfast options? Plain wheat flakes or cereal with almond and fruit chunks? With or without milk. Yogurt on the side, fruit on the side, vegetable on the side (I guess, although personally I think that’s weird). Glass of milk, glass of O.J., class of cranberry juice. “On the side” is a big deal to me because I have such an aversion to anything mixed. Which is to say, some foods can be mixed, some absolutely can not. I always want to do it myself.

Back to the weird. That’s important too. Who cares if it’s weird to eat sliced cucumber in the morning with breakfast (on the side)? What does it matter? I’ll never forget one of the first dinners I made for my husband while we were dating: spaghetti with Ragu sauce, and for a vegetable—obviously on the side—I chose my favorite: broccoli. It sounded good that night, and didn’t seem weird to me, but I remember he thought it was about the oddest combination I could have come up with. Again, I’ve got to come back with: what difference does it make? Broccoli is a healthy vegetable. Just because Marie Callender doesn’t pair a spaghetti meal with broccoli for a vegetable doesn’t make it wrong. Good heavens!

I still don't know if I'm naïve, clueless, or stupid. Perhaps all three, perhaps none. I certainly hope Gidgit doesn't embarrass me by going into a detailed account of why she won't eat something when we're guests at someone's house.

Not to say I won't be secretly proud of her expansive vocabulary and undoubtedly witty repartee, of course.

Centerpiece

2011-01-18T08:29:00.003-05:00

Bubba always gets these bright ideas ... I'm not quite sure what he thinks sometimes!

My fourth unsticker

2011-01-11T12:12:00.002-05:00

Yeah, so these aren't happening every day, but with this one I can already tell I'm inspired to make it into a longer piece. I think this works well on it's own, but I am going to keep it going and see where it ends up.

Unsticker Four: "On a hot summer’s day, you discover a friend decorating a Christmas tree in their living room. The friend turns to you and asks, “Did you bring it?”+

Read it here: http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/.

Day 3 of the treadmill

2011-01-05T13:24:00.002-05:00

My husband and I have been wanting and wishing for a treadmill for about two years, and last week we finally broke down, picked one out, and--lo and behold--purchased it!

Today is Day Three of our new world of working out in the comfort of our own home, and also the third day in a row of getting up before 6:00 AM without wanting to die. I would lke to thank Steve Pavlina (whoever the hell he is) and his awesome post "How To Get Up Right Away When Your Alarm Goes Off."

All I can say is: bravo.

I wouldn't say I'm an Early Riser yet, but I am--shockingly--at least on the right path. Someday I might even break free from the relentless and interminable steel I'm a night owl and that's all there is to it trap.

In the three days since we've had the treadmill (I'm only counting from Monday even though the treadmill was delivered last week. It was a busy holiday weekend and I didn't start using it in ernest until this past Monday), I have arisen by 5:55 AM each morning, worked out for 25 to 30 minutes, and made it to work, showered, on time (relatively speaking). My goal wake up time is 5:30 AM, but didn't want to completely set myself up for failure, so I'm going to be sticking to 5:50 for a while.

Wish me luck!!

And, on a completely unrelated note:

Unsticker Three: "Write about a nighttime walk through the woods. What happens? Who/what do you meet? What is the weather like? What sounds can you hear? Does anyone/anything see you?"

Read it here: http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/

Georgie of the tornados

2010-12-22T14:08:00.000-05:00

'Nuff said.

Malabar Farm

2010-12-14T11:00:00.000-05:00

March 7, 2010: Malabar Farm

I forgot to post this!! I found it in my drafts. This was from last March.

Confession

2010-12-08T14:43:00.000-05:00

Although I'm not ready to change the name of my project, I'm getting a sinking feeling that I bit off more than I can chew. I love the idea, but I'm just not able to write every day, nor do I think anyone else would have the time and energy for the scale that I'm envisioning.

C'est la vie, right?

So, we're going to see how far I get and how frequently I end up posting (these first two are almost a week apart) and then I'll either adjust from there, or just keep plugging away stubbornly.

The stubbornness is genetic.

***

Unsticker Two: A person shopping the mall stopped suddenly and gasped, “Impossible! The fortuneteller promised me . . . ” What? Finish the story.+

Read it here: http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/

+Contributed by Rick O'Donnell.

Quote Elizabeth Edwards

2010-12-07T09:39:00.000-05:00

I don't follow politics and didn't really know who she is before reading this, but I read this in a CNN article about her failed cancer treatments, and it really struck a chord with me:

"You all know that I have been sustained throughout my life by three saving graces – my family, my friends, and a faith in the power of resilience and hope. These graces have carried me through difficult times and they have brought more joy to the good times than I ever could have imagined. The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered. We know that. And, yes, there are certainly times when we aren't able to muster as much strength and patience as we would like. It's called being human.

"But I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful. It isn't possible to put into words the love and gratitude I feel to everyone who has and continues to support and inspire me every day. To you I simply say: you know." (Elizabeth Edwards)

Back to the drawing board

2010-12-02T12:12:00.000-05:00

I've redesigned my blog (again) and I lit a new fire under my tail about my project of 366 Unstickers. I was--ahem--stuck about which direction I wanted to go with the project, and so just had let it sit on the back burner for a while.

Well, it's time to clean the kitchen, pull out the rubber gloves and the SOS pads, and scrub off the stove. Or something like that.

What am I waiting for, right?

So, here I go, off to the moss, hit the stone rolling, the racing rock gathers no ground. Time to up it mix. You know, right? Git 'er dun.

***

Unsticker One: My day started out with a cockroach and went downhill from there . . .

Read it: http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/2010/12/one.html

South of the border?

2010-11-19T13:00:00.000-05:00

Georgie the Burrito Baby.
Also known as our little Mexican Jumping Bean.
I think in another life he lived in Mexico.

When I look at this picture, I can not help but think about flying on a plane. Or, I suppose I should say, falling asleep when I'm flying on the plane. You know that feeling when you wake up suddenly and can feel that your mouth is hanging open? And you can't help but wonder:

Was I snoring?

I really couldn't tell you if Georgie worries about things like that, but judging from his relaxed demeanor, I'd guess not. In fact, it does not look to me that he has a care in the world.

As it should be.

Louisa May Alcott

2010-10-13T09:43:00.000-04:00

"Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead."
Louisa May Alcott

All for a pair of socks

2010-10-08T09:44:00.000-04:00

You know the insurance companies have finally gone too far when . . .

I have had two surgeries in the past 10 years to remove varicose veins (I wouldn't say the pictures are "gross," or that you're in need of parental supervision to view them, but they do show the extensive bruising on my legs post-surgery, so they're not exactly "pretty" either). I'm only 31, but both surgeons told me that wearing compression socks will help prevent more varicose veins in the future. Therefore: I do not care if it's nerdy, I wear my compression socks nearly every day.

If you were brave enough to look at the photos, I'm sure you're nodding your head in agreement right about now that you'd do the same. Taking out the veins was awful!

In defense of the socks, however, I do feel it is valid to point out that the "nerdiness" factor has almost disappeared in the last few years, most especially for women. Compression socks look like the pantyhose or dress socks that you'd wear with slacks.

Anyhoo. The most recent surgery was in January 2009, close to 2 years ago. After the surgery, the doctor had to write me a prescription to get compression socks.

That's right, I had to take a prescription into the medical supply store in order to purchase a pair of socks. I thought it was ridiculous, especially when I had to pay $50 for them and my insurance didn't cover any of it, but I decided there was no point in complaining if it's The Way of the World. I made a conscious effort to go with the flow. I had 2 other pairs of inferior compression socks (stretched slightly from their many washings, but still offering at least some support) so I felt no need to spend another $50 on a backup pair.

Until, darn it all, about 2 months ago I finally popped a hole in my good pair. My older, backup pair also gave up the ghost, right around the same time. And herein lies the point of my whole story:

Prescriptions are only good for a year. Even if I'd managed to keep track of my original prescription (I hadn't), it would have been worthless. I knew this, but I wanted another friggin' pair of socks.

Hello, rigor morale!

I figured I'd start with the surgeon. I called his office and asked to have a new prescription mailed to me. Apparently I'm the only patient in the entire vascular surgeon's practice that wears compression socks and has asked for a new prescription, because the gal that answered the phone was so confused she didn't even know where to start.

Really? I'm the only one? Not one single patient in the entire practice has ever asked for a prescription?

Finally she went to my chart and when she came back on the line, she explained to me (in tones that indicated she thought I was the idiot in this situation)(I won't disagree; who else but me would try to get their ducks in a row beforehand?) she explained to me that the doctor had written down that I needed "surgical stockings" and there is no prescription required for those.

I can just go to any drug store and pick them up.

Sigh. Yes, he told me to get surgical stockings when my legs were still swollen and sensitive from the surgery and I couldn't even put on the compression socks. You know, because I'd just had surgery. Hence the name surgical stockings. But, now I've recovered from the surgery, and now I want compression socks.

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Well, he didn't put the prescription in your chart." What kind of bogus doctor's office is this? I said, "Well, can he just write me a new one and then can that be mailed to me?" Was that not my original question?

Apparently it only just started to sink in because she finally told me, some 10 minutes into the conversation, that the doctor was not in the office and they didn't know if he would be coming back at all. WHAT?!

Skip to the end of a very frustrating call: the receptionist recommended that I go back to the store where I purchased the compression socks and have them fax the prescription, and they (the doctor's office) would take care of it from there. I failed to see how this really solved my problem, as with the doctor out of the office and no one covering for him, wouldn't I just end up in the store, standing by the fax machine and holding a pair of socks that no one will let me buy, while we all wait for the doctor's signature to magically get faxed back? And since he wasn't in the office and may not be returning, as she so cryptically repeated over and over, is it that far of a stretch to think that I'd be standing by that fax machine for a really long time?

I asked the receptionist if it would matter that he wasn't in the office.

Silence.

She repeated--verbatim--what she had just told me. She said I should go back to the store where I purchased the compression socks and have them fax the prescription, and they (the doctor's office) would take care of it from there.

Now I was silent. Was she kidding? I explained that I understood that, but since the doctor wasn't in would they be able to send anything back without his approval.

She started getting testy. She said I should go back to the store where I purchased the compression socks and have them fax the prescription, and they (the doctor's office) would take care of it from there.

I started speaking very slowly and reworded my question again. If there's no physician in the office, am I going to be standing at the store and not able to purchase my socks?

I'm sure you're smarter than I and can guess what her reply was. You got it! Exactly the same thing. I gave up and decided to go to the darn store and see what happened. I think my blood pressure rose 30 points during the course of that phone call.

All for a pair of socks.

All because insurance companies have too much clout and no one is willing to defy them. WHO CARES?! I wanted to scream. They're socks. For crying out loud, do they think I'm going to be selling them on the street?

Turns out the store did have record of my original purchase (but no prescription on file, I knew it!) and if they aren't billing any insurance then I can buy the socks without a prescription in hand. The store still contacts the vascular surgeon's office to request a current prescription, but they didn't make me wait . . . I just bought the socks and left.

I'm sure the doctor's office took care of everything promptly.

Gazelle's story

2010-10-08T08:50:00.000-04:00

Washington County Fair - I'd guess 1995 or so, but I'm not certain.

Birthday: May 21, 1983
Birthplace: Oregon

Gazelle has been my friend and pet since about 1992. She was my 4-H project horse until I graduated from high school in 1997, and she has competed at county and state fairs in Oregon. Note the picture above.

At some point before I graduated from high school, we discovered that Gazelle had a cataract in her left eye, but our vet did not recommend any aggressive treatment at that time. He explained that success rate of cataract surgery was very low, and most horses learn to adapt to the gradual loss of their sight (remember, it was the mid-1990’s - I think surgery options may be different now). When the cataract was discovered, we think Gazelle had already lost about 25% of her vision in that eye.

After I graduated from high school, I took Gazelle with me to college (about an hour and a half away from home). She stayed with me down at school until I earned my degree in 2002, and then the two of us went back home again. I believe gradually over the five years I was at schoo, Gazelle lost another 50% of the vision in her left eye, bringing the vision lost to about 75%.

Another four years later, in the autumn of 2006, Gazelle had eye surgery to remove eyeball that was damaged by a cataract. The surgery was necessary because the vision loss had caused her eye to atrophy and had become very painful. As near as I can guess, she was almost completely blind in that eye for about for about two years before the surgery, so it was a smooth transition. She didn't all of a sudden wake up, unable to see. It had been a long time coming.

The surgery took about two hours, and the vet completely anesthetized her on the arena floor. She had an IV and a helmet, and there were 2 assistants and an extra vet on hand. And of course I was there for moral support. After the vet removed her eye, tear ducts, and eyelashes, he inserted a silicone ball and stitched the whole thing closed. You can see it in this picture (one of my favorites of her):

Although I was there to be supportive, remember I never really wanted to be a vet. I was completely grossed out! I guess I was standing there swaying, looking pretty green, and all of a sudden it hit me that I better go sit down before I fell down. One of the assistants said she was just opening her mouth to tell me to go sit down, so she was glad I went on my own. When the surgery was over, the vet asked if I wanted to see the eyeball.

Thanks, but no thanks.

Cute aside: Dan and I met shortly before Gazelle's surgery. I knew he was a keeper when he asked if he could come visit me at the barn, and I told him that I would just be hand-walking Gazelle because she was recovering from surgery. He said he wanted to come anyway just to walk with us.

In June 2007, Gazelle, Dan, Blake and I made the long, perilous journey from Oregon to Ohio. I left Oregon because I was following Dan, and Gazelle was following me. Blake was just along for the ride, I suppose. The adventure across country was quite an ordeal, but everyone (including Blake) made it without any permanent trauma. We will never stay in a Days Inn again (“With convenient horse stalls available.” Yeah. Right. Gazelle still intends to write a letter explaining exactly what constitutes a “horse stall” to her, and it’s not an open-air pen on the side of a parking lot).

Gazelle is half AQHA, one-quarter Appaloosa, and one-quarter Missouri Fox Trotter. Her sire was a registered AQHA racehorse, and Gazelle is a direct (although immensely distant) descendent of Sir Barton, who in 1920 lost a match race with Man O’ War (irrefutably "the greatest racehorse of all time"). Sir Barton is most remembered as being the first winner of The Triple Crown.

-----Update-----
October 1, 2010

This is a picture of me standing in front of Man O' War's grave in Lexington, Kentucky.

I'm a good boy I am

2010-09-21T15:25:00.000-04:00

I have been using my litterbox!

For the most part.

"Serenity now" has no idea

2010-09-14T14:24:00.000-04:00

So.

I realize that I am very fastidious about word choice and sentence structure, even as applied to sub-par writings such as e-mails and text messages, and that my peccadillos and pet peeves are not shared by all.

I realize I'm a particular fool about following grammatical rules to the . . . well, to the letter.

I realize I judge people, oftentimes unfairly, for his/her/their lack of attention to his/her/their own writings.

I realize there are Bigger Things out there.

And yet. Still.

Can I just say it?

COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Prozac progress (part 3)

2010-09-03T10:37:00.002-04:00

Relapse.

Is there something behind me?

2010-09-02T10:39:00.000-04:00

Prozac progress (part 2)

2010-08-30T11:56:00.002-04:00

Update to Prozac progress

I'm frightened even to hope, but I think it is notable that for the past few days there have been three pees in the litterboxes.

I suppose I should point out that when the pee parade began a few weeks ago, the first thing I noticed was that the usual pee count in the litterboxes went from three (one for each cat) to two (but we still have three cats!). I didn't notice at first because although I clean the boxes DAILY (without fail), I don't always clean them at the same time each day. So two pees instead of three isn't necessarily a big deal because maybe I'm cleaning the boxes early and one of the cats went late the day before. Typically, if I only see two pees then the next day there will be four pees.

In theory.

Unfortunately, it's not an exact science and I don't always remember to count. Then the Pee Fiasco started at the beginning of this month, and the counting was a moot point . . . the house reeked so bad it didn't take a detective to figure out that of course he wasn't peeing in the box.

At all.

This whole adventure, while nauseating and seemingly endless, has only been about a month long affair. It took the first two weeks of August to figure out Blake had turned into a pee monster, get him scheduled for an appointment at the vet and tested for a bladder infection (negative!), and subsequently start treatment.

As of tomorrow, he will have been on treatment for two weeks. (Again, it's not really Prozac, but it is an antidepressant for humans. I can never remember the name--uh, starts with a B?--calling it Prozac is easier for me.)

For humans, it takes four to six weeks for results to start being noticeable.

Therefore, my conclusion is that the two week mark is an entirely respectable point to start noticing an improvement. Which is to say, I still may find evidence of "unwanted elimination," but hopefully it will start tapering off and soon disappear altogether.

I hope, I hope, I hope.

Ain't that the kick in the head (part 2)

2010-08-26T09:56:00.005-04:00

We just might have worked out a solution about the hard wood dilemma. Keep your fingers crossed; it may turn out to be a wholly stupid idea.

Or, worse yet, it may work out that it's not stupid, but impossible.

The decision to remove part of the floor, right or wrong, was not ours. We can't beat ourselves up over what was done in the past. All we can do is move on and do what we can to salvage the ass-wipe of a situation.

That being said, I truly think the party is over for the hard wood as flooring. We've debated the relatively few options that would let us use leave the hard wood visible, and none of them are appealing: either cover the subfloor with something else (hard wood, laminate), cut it out and replace with something else (hard wood, laminate) and do some kind of divider straight down the middle of the room delineating between the two floors; or, create a feature in the room (like a step) but basically do the same thing. We could move our bedroom into the living room and make the subfloor area our closet (which would mean moving the living room to the back of the house).

All of the ideas were scrapped as ridiculous.

We concluded that the flooring ship sailed 40 years ago when half of the hard wood was removed from the house and discarded. But if that old wood can never be flooring again, could it be something else?

I've been mulling it over and over and over, and a glimmer of an idea has taken shape as a remote possibility. Any interior decorators (or interior decorator wannabes) please DO voice your opinion.

The idea (no clue about logistics at this point, which is why I said it may turn out to be a good idea but impossible):

Rather than just cover up the hard wood with laminate and never see it again, we're considering taking out one of the planks and cutting it down (and refinishing, of course) and using it to replace the three windowsills.

Here's a shot of one of the windowsills. Look carefully under Blake's ass and you might be able to see it (har har):

The three windowsills in the room are about 8 inches wide.

This is the longest one--the front picture window.
Remember, Blake is the size of a small elephant

and his right ass-cheek is still falling off.

Hear me out. I absolutely do not want to commit a historical preservation sin that will land me in interior decorating hell. But, I really think this could be a neat idea.

First of all, if we don't do something, the hard wood will be covered up for probably another 40 years (the warranty on the laminate we chose is 30 years--40 years is a guestimate). Which is to say, the hard wood won't be lost, it should be protected from damage, but still: even though no one can anticipate what might happen in the next 40 years, if we cover it up we assuredly won't be able to enjoy the beauty of the hard wood. That's a Given. So is "out of sight, out of mind."

Secondly, the hard wood is the old style. Oregonians have no clue what the old style is (and before last Sunday, nor did I), so in case you're wondering what "old style" is: the planks are huge (not like the manufactured 2 to 4 inch wide planks you see at Home Depot -- rather, the size of a sheet of plywood, which is what we'd have to use to put in place of the one we take out). One plank should be plenty to replace all the windowsills.

Back to the "first of all:" that means there would still be the same unusable amount of hard wood that would be untouched and protected beneath laminate. In 40 years or whenever, when/if we (or someone else) take up the laminate, the situation is going to be no WORSE off, and no BETTER off, then where it is now. Still SCREWED because there still won't be enough to do anything with.

So although yes I can see there is a definite downside (once you cut it, you can't put it back), I still think it is okay because the whole point is that right NOW, before we've cut or altered anything, there isn't enough hard wood to use it as functional flooring. What's one more plank when half of it is already gone?

Also, it's is a neat idea because our windowsills are so uncool. In the picture, you can see it's a weird color. That's because I painted it. That's right, I painted our windowsills. I know that sounds like the sin that should land me into interior decorating hell, but trust me: the windowsills were so offensive to the eye, painting them was the only solution. Eventually we want to replace the windows anyway, so I didn't worry about it too much when I did it. It looks a million times better though because:

The windowsills, under the paint, are the leftover vinyl laminate from the kitchen counters! Avocado green marble vinyl/plastic/laminate (I have no idea what it really is) from 30-40 years ago! The windowsills! It was too bizarre; my brain couldn't even handle it.

Our goal timeline for replacing the three windows in this room is within the next 2 years, so we would probably just pull up the plank and keep it safe until we're ready to do the windows.

Any thoughts out there?

--------------UPDATE!!--------------

FORMICA!!! That was the word I couldn't think of. Our windowsills (that I painted) were originally avocado green, marble-style FORMICA. Major faux pas. Major UGH-O-RAMA.

365 Writing Exercises (update)

2010-08-26T09:00:00.000-04:00

I've been advised by my Writing Club to do 366 Writing Exercises to account for the years that are Leap Years.

Sigh.

I'm about 1/3 of the way through creating my list . . . hopefully I'll be able to finish it soon and start working on it. I've also created a name for my project: these are exercises for writers who are stuck. Which is to say, in the hopes that they will help the writer become unstuck.

It's 366 Unstickers!

365 Writing Exercises (the project begins)

2010-08-25T07:59:00.016-04:00

I realize this has been done by many a blogger, but I'm considering it a personal challenge to do it myself. Come take a ride with me!

I'm going to create a list of 365 writing exercises, and then do them all. That's right, my ambition knows no bounds. Currently, I'm working on #105 of the list. I'm not going to publish the list until I've got all 365 exercises . . . hopefully it won't take weeks and weeks, but I'm not making any promises.

Sometimes one exercise sparked an idea for another, but I hate seeing domino lists where a later one depends on a previous one. So although you may notice a theme that runs for several exercises at a time, you can still skip around or just skip one entirely and it shouldn't matter. That is to say, if you skip #X, then when you get to #X+1 you don't have to go back and do #X first. Anyhoo.

Wish me luck!

Oh, and as a side note: If appropriate and if the exercise is unique, I'll cite my source. Cited sources will be denoted by an asterisks (with the full citation below in the footer). If you think I should have cited a source, the omission is entirely unintentional. If no source is cited, that's either because it's a common exercise or variant used by many, or else I made it up!

Ain't that the kick in the head?

2010-08-23T11:44:00.001-04:00

Life can really be unfair sometimes. But don't worry, I'm not in the mood for Deep Thoughts on the meaning of life, or anything like that. No, instead I'm going to tell you a thoroughly superficial, wholly shallow story about the death of our Orange Shag. And it will bring tears to your eyes.

When the Orange Shag Adventures first began, anyone that heard about our awful shag carpeting would say to me, almost verbatim: "But you live in an old farmhouse, right? Does it have hard wood underneath?"

Sigh. If only. My husband and I are both active in our local historical society, and we would love it if we could restore existing hard wood as opposed to putting in laminate or even manufactured hard wood. On Saturday, we ripped up one section of the room and sure enough: subfloor. We already knew it, but since the carpet was probably 30 or 40 years old, I wouldn't say we were 100 percent sure about what was lurking under there.

Terrible lighting, I know, but still: there it is.
Pay special note to the lower right-hand corner of the picture.
We started by only removing the back part of the room.
As I took this picture, I was still standing on shag.

We started with the back section because that was where Blake had been peeing. I can't even express what a relief it was to get the worst of the stank out. We ran out of time on Saturday and just left the carpet only partially removed.

Skip forward to the next day (yesterday). We kept trucking along ripping up carpet, and discovered in due speed that underneath the remaining shag there is still some of the original hard wood.

Woe! Oh, woe.

Absolutely filthy, of course. But it had been cozily hibernating beneath a warm shag blanket for the past 40 years, why wouldn't it be filthy? I looked past the grime and felt tears sting my eyes. It would have been perfect.

Old, old planks (we can't be positive, but undoubtedly it's the original wood from when the house was built in the early 1800s). We're fairly confident in saying that because we can see the original sandstone foundation in the basement, so it is not unreasonable to suspect that this is original wood flooring. From local trees. Put in by pioneers.

Our hearts burst because we can do nothing about it. There's a line down the middle of the room. Half of the gorgeous wood flooring is gone. Apparently it was ripped out ages ago due to previous tenants and out-of-control pet stains (the irony is not lost on me).

There isn't enough of the hardwood left to do anything with. It's just enough to tease us with If Only. To tauntingly say, "This is what could have been! Muhahaha!"

It's a very small section; not big enough to transfer to another (smaller) room. Or if it is, just barely, then it wouldn't be worth it. How bizarre would it be to have our bathroom (the only room close to being small enough) original hard wood and the rest of the house laminate? Yeah, that's just too weird. We're left with no options but to just cover it up (gaahhh! I can't even say it!) with the laminate.

Does the fact that it breaks our hearts to do it absolve us from what is assuredly a historic homeowner's sin of massive proportions?

Even utterly filthy and in desperate need of refinishing, you can see how similar in color the laminate we picked out is to the existing, unusable hard wood.

The line between the hard wood and the subfloor (under the

sample) goes right through the center of the room.
The weird checkerboard pattern is just from the pad under the shag.

Prozac progress

2010-08-20T15:40:00.001-04:00

Unfortunately at this point I am unable to give a good report. Further observation is needed, and in my opinion some of the testing equipment is faulty.

My husband and a few others have done some initial testing, and their general consensus is the house seems to smell "better." They are wholly hopeful that the reek is slowly dissipating due to the fact that Mr. Prozac is no longer adding to the mess.

I'm doubtful, and I completely disagree about the alleged "improvement" of the stench. Blake has only been on the Prozac for a few days--in my mind not long enough to notice a behavior change yet--and to me the house stinks just as bad as ever.

The pungency hits you like a fart as soon as you walk in the door. I can feel my nostrils contracting and slowly pinching themselves off until the fine hairs inside seem to quiver and quake like autumn leaves about to drop.

I don't know if it's wishful thinking on my husband's part, or excessive sensitivity (okay, hypersensitivity) on my part, but either way . . . that carpet's gotta go.

You win, Blake. Tomorrow, the project begins.

------------------------------------

Post script: I've been dreading the moment that I have to admit this: Oh, the irony!

Dear semi truck driver,

2010-08-20T12:30:00.002-04:00

Driver's side, front tire and wheel well liner.

Yes, the shadow sticking out taking the picture is my arm,

but just so we're clear: that is not my head above it. It's the side mirror.

Dear semi truck driver,

When your tire exploded, thanks so much for just driving along as if a huge piece of it didn't land on the freeway directly in my path, causing me to run it over and henceforth rip out the lining of my wheel well. The dramatic smoke and debri from your tire took up the entire freeway and blinded me, and hearing the thunk-thunk-thunk of something wrapping itself around my tire while slowing down and pulling onto the shoulder did wonders for my blood pressure. I'm happy to report there are no blockages in my adrenal gland; the adrenaline was able to saturate my system at a top-notch rate of speed.

I especially liked that as I waited on the side of the freeway I was able to watch you, some mile in the distance, calmly changing your tire. Your beady eyes never once looked in my direction, and I know that not because I was able to distinguish anything from that distance, but just because you got back in your truck and continued on your merry way as if nothing happened. Yeah, that was swell.

When the officer stopped to check on me, he kept his lights going the entire time. We had such a nice chat about what happened. It was wonderful to sit there knowing that anyone who passed by would assume I was pulled over for a routine traffic stop and getting a ticket. Of course I didn't get a ticket.

It took an entire lovely hour for me to complete my statement and for my ride to arrive. We ended up cutting out the piece of plastic sticking out in the picture above, and I suppose I should be grateful that I didn't have to wait even longer for a tow truck, but still . . . that's an hour of my life I'll never get back.

I'm certain there must be some subliminal reason that semitruck rhymes with cluster-ffff . . . uh, schmuck.

Yeah. Cluster-schmuck.

That's a word, right?

An adventure in laminate

2010-08-19T11:34:00.002-04:00

Okay, so I realize all photos in this post are complete crap. But, I'm trying to document our adventures with the carpeting and the laminate, so what's a girl to do?

I started my search online. I wanted to get an idea of the price range (holy all over the place, Batman) and familiarize myself with the colors and how tree names (oak, birch, walnut) translated to my eyeballs (at least from the perspective of a computer screen). The room that Blake has utterly defiled has wood paneling on the walls that is going to stay, so the flooring that we choose will need to coordinate. To make matters even more complicated, we also have a matching wood coffee table and end tables (in a different shade from the paneling, of course) and dark leather furniture. I'm not even going to mention the cast iron wood stove on the red brick hearth (that I occasionally slip up and refer to as a "fireplace" -- so shoot me).

I had an idea in my head of what was pleasing to my eye based on my computer search, but when I picked up the samples I decided to think outside the box and try not to let that influence me. Kind of like when you're shopping and you try on clothes that don't look good on the hanger . . . sometimes they look better on. So we began with about 18 samples covering a vast range of colors.

The different ends of the spectrum that we started with:

Against the wood paneling.

Against the couch.

Our family picture from the Year End Project is the only one I could find that shows our coffee table:

There's the coffee table. It's not the same as the paneling.

A couple people have said that the lighter of the 2

middle shades looks better with the paneling.

That may be true but it looked terrible with the coffee table.

Good times, good times.

See how the carpet is discolored in the lower left of that first picture with the samples against the paneling? We have no idea why, but some part of the carpet-cleaning process is to blame. Probably not the cleaner because there were just patches of discoloration, and of course I cleaned the entire carpet with the solution. Sigh.

Anyhoo. Back to the samples. After looking them over all next to each other, I realized what I had preferred on the computer screen is also what I prefer in the living room with the other factors thrown in.

I made my decision--both by color family and which specific sample--and brought Dan in to look them over and make his decision on his own. I asked him to just start taking away the ones he didn't like based on his first impression so we could see what was left. I prayed that his eyeballs wouldn't like something wildly different from mine.

Hot diggity!

We both liked the darker end of the middle tones. I was so excited when the first ones he started removing were also my least favorites.

Our mutual, blind decision was that the redder cherries coordinated best with the wood paneling, existing furniture, and leather couch. That is to say, the darker end of the middle-tones.

I know you're loving the shag underneath the samples.

Which, by the way, looks especially orange to me.
Also, note how shockingly different the paneling and carpet look because I must
have had a different angle of the flash or something. Good grief.

What a relief that we agreed on a color family!! The samples above are all similar enough that I'm not even concerned. It's a potayto/potahto decision at this point. But, if you're curious, we decided on the furthest to the left.

Brazilian Cherry!

Orange shag saga begins

2010-08-18T09:14:00.003-04:00

The results are in: it's not a bladder infection. I'm relieved because I certainly don't want my cat to have a bladder infection, yet a teeny tiny part of me is a little disappointed because at least that would have been a clear-cut reason for the sudden flood of urine, with a simple treatment.

No such luck . . . .

The vet did have one thing for us to try. My vet assured me that it's a very common treatment, and I've since done some reading up and the Internet agrees with him, but to say I was shocked yesterday at this proposition would have been an understatement.

We're putting my cat on an antidepressant.

I have no idea if The Real William Blake ("TRWB") (who my cat is named after) was depressed in his lifetime. I know TRWB was not appreciated as an artist while he was alive; it was only after his death that he became an icon of the Romantics. Whereas, and only on the merit of the fact that he was unappreciated in his time and I need to perpetuate the stereotype of depressed/starving artists to make this work, I am going to theorize that perhaps TRWB was depressed and putting his namesake on an antidepressant is the mother of all ironies.

All jokes aside, it is pretty common. The pharmacist didn't bat an eyelash when I brought in his prescription. She even allowed me to put it under Blake's full name. So when I get refills, I can just call in and ask for a refill for William Blake (FELINE).

I've been doing some research on inappropriate elimination (nice way of saying they pee or poop outside the litterbox) and guess what? Anti-anxiety or antidepressants are frequently mentioned as a form of treatment (not sure if it is correct--and PS I don't really care if I'm wrong--but FYI, I use anti-anxiety and antidepressant interchangeably).

One more tidbit: if you start typing in the Google search box antidepressants then you will discover antidepressants for cats appears as one of the first suggestions. Are Google's suggestions alphabetical? I have no idea but I didn't think so (I thought they were listed by frequency of use). At any rate, if they are alphabetical, then I suppose this has no significance (oh well): antidepressants for cats appeared on the list before antidepressants for children.

The peeing has been continuing daily, and the work will begin this weekend of ripping up carpet and laying down laminate instead. We're going to cut out the subfloor in the worst areas, and seal the entire floor just in case there are any sneaky spots from Blake or any other pets from the past thirty years that we can't see. Between that and the Prozac, we should be good to go.

Wish us luck!

Here's Blake sleeping on the orange shag carpet. He's saying goodbye . . . the shag only has a few days left to live. Isn't he cute?

Good bye, Orange Shag! It's been thirty years.

We're not going to miss you.

Okay, okay, okay. I was kidding up there. Here he is:

It is shocking how well he blends in though.

The score

2010-08-16T08:52:00.006-04:00

Cat = 27

Carpet = 0

We've unwillingly hired an interior decorator

2010-08-12T09:50:00.003-04:00

I see how no other conclusion can be drawn from the sit'iation I'm about to describe: my cat is a GENIUS!

My husband and I are--in a manner of speaking--wholly dissatisfied with the flooring in our house. The bulk of our floors are covered by five inch shag carpeting (note: a slight exaggeration). One room in particular has an especially deep and hideous pile.

Adding insult to injury: it's also orange.

Blake, likewise orange, blends in so well that when he lies in the middle of the room he is virtually undetectable. Thank goodness for his white belly and preference for sleeping in the bedroom, else he'd be in constant fear for his life.

As a side note: I mean no disrespect to the previous occupants of our house by my disparaging comments. I'm sure when the carpet was new it was a well-loved, trendy novelty. But carpeting is not intended to last for 30 years, nor yet any distinctive style of anything (bell bottoms, Jordache jeans, avocado green refrigerators . . . all are supposed to go to the place where unsightly trends go to die). Not even the manufacturer expects their product to last three decades (or at least, they shouldn't). It's just time for it to be replaced. Plain and simple. Long overdue. Moving on.

It's awful. It smells. Countless paws have pittered and countless accidents have pattered across the swaying, amber waves. Blake is certainly not the first.

He won't be the last.

My husband and I have already discussed what type of flooring we want to replace the horrific shag. It's our dream to have hardwood throughout our entire house. No, it's not hardwood underneath. Since we're both of the "Go big or go home" (a.k.a. expensive) philosophy, we've not yet made it to the point of ripping up carpet. We want to do it right and are okay with waiting.

But I've been here for three years and the other day we started talking about it again. It was an especially hot day, the morning sun hit the carpet at a particularly pungent angle, and we both came to the conclusion: maybe we should just do the living room (probably 250 square feet) in laminate? It's definitely the worst of the entire house, and since we spend a lot of time in there . . . maybe we don't need to wait?

Blake was eavesdropping, apparently. He not only heard, but he also understood and agreed with our assessment. (That's what makes him a genius). He clapped his little paws together in childlike excitement! Hooray, no more orange shag, which is completley abhorrent to his little metrosexual sense of aesthetics. At last, something is going to be done. Relief.

But then . . . we didn't start working. And he thought, "WTF?" He thought, "Where's my laminate flooring? This orange shag sucks!" He thought:

"What can I do to speed the process along?"

And darn it all if the little schmuck didn't start blatantly pissing in the corner. While I was sitting right there!! When we're not home. Whenever he feels a tingle.

I know, I know. I'm taking him in to check and see if he has a bladder infection. That's what I'm supposed to do, and it will be done with due speed. But I highly doubt that a bladder infection is the answer. I think it's much more likely that his philosophy of beauty is just that offended by the monstrosity of the orange, and he's letting us know in no uncertain terms that the tangled shag has got to go.

My new interior decorator, if somewhat devious in his methods.

"The true method of knowledge is experiment."
William Blake, 1757-1827

Gold Star for: Bunny!

2010-08-10T13:10:00.002-04:00

Bunny is a little princess! She gets a Gold Star.

We keep Bunny shaved because she honestly seems to prefer it that way. When her hair gets too long, she mopes around the house and her fur starts looking greasy because she can't keep up with it. Although when she first gets shaved she looks a little silly--we call her a Fooferdoodle because she looks like a poodle--once you get used to it you'll notice that she is much happier with her bobbed haircut. She skips around the house joyfully and is more active period. She smiles more often.

At any rate, this past weekend I took her in for her regular grooming appointment. Her groomer is a gal that used to partner up with my veterinarian but has since branched out and now runs her own business. She broke away from the vet probably a year and half ago, and we've been loyal customers ever since.

It wasn't easy to remain loyal because I never knew her name or even met her when she worked at the vet. The staff at the vet's ran the show and I would just drop Bunny off and pick her up later. Every time they'd ask, "Does she need sedation? Is it okay to give it if she does?" And I would say, "Nope, and yes." But Bunny never needed to be sedated.

Skipping back to the topic of the groomer branching out on her own . . . At last I figured out her business name and number and I gave her a call. I told her who I was but didn't expect any bells to go off in her mind since I knew we'd never met. I described my "gray foofy cat" to her and she said, "Sure! I remember her. I'd be happy to make an appointment for you."

And that was that. For the past year and a half we've had steady appointments, but it was only just this past weekend that I found out the rest of the story. I've noticed before that the groomer, with her new office and big sign proclaiming her services and the fees for each one, did not have any cat services listed. I thought that was a little odd since I was there with my cat, I just dismissed it and never thought much about it. Until over the weekend when I asked if she'd also groom my mother-in-law's cat (who she did once in the past, while she still worked at the vet). Her answer shocked me:

She doesn't do cats!

But . . . Bunny is a cat! Well, I guess the truth of the matter is that if someone calls in to make an appointment, she refuses to groom cats! She has no prices listed because it's not a regular service that she provides! She charges me her old rate from when she worked at the vet, but will not take on any new cat clients! She hates grooming cats (they're wiggly and have skin like paper).

But, get this! She's glad to groom Bunny and (apparently) one other cat. They are the two exceptions to her rule: Bunny, a.k.a. Princess, and this other unknown cat are IT!

I'm so proud.

Even the dogs know it's a sin to disturb the Princess.
Wiggle-worm-Georgie, who leaves bruises on me from his pointy, pokey,
inconsiderate feet,will wait until she decides to get up and leave.
Neither dog will sniff her or bother her, and just crowd

together until the bed becomes available.

Too funny.

Shoot the hostage!

2010-08-10T10:45:00.002-04:00

Today I had to explain to my husband exactly what it means to have a Bad Eyelash Day. Am I the only one that suffers from this calamity? I wouldn’t think so, but it’s not something you necessarily talk about either. I’m curious if there’s anyone out there that has a clue what I’m talking about.

Basically, I have long, curly eyelashes. The kind all women “want” to have. I wouldn’t trade them for stubbies, hell no, but I will say: it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

It’s either the fact that my eyelashes are long, curly, that I wear mascara, or some mathematical equation involving all three. Whatever the result of the “if then” formula, an ordinary day can turn into a Bad Eyelash Day in . . . well, in the blink of an eye, I guess.

A normal person sheds eyelashes just like we all shed the hair on the rest of our bodies. If the fall out occurs at a faster rate then the re-growth, that’s when balding happens. Has anyone ever told you “You have a wish!” and meant that you have an eyelash on your cheek? So, you know that your eyelashes fall out on their own accord.

But did you know, sometimes the longer eyelashes break before they’re ready to shed and they don’t fall out! The base is still firmly embedded in your eyelid, but the end has snapped off.

If you have straight lashes, this isn’t really a problem. With or without mascara, man or woman, the broken lash just blends in with the rest of them. Perhaps you notice, perhaps not. Which is to say, if you don’t really lean in that closely to the mirror, it could very well go undetected. It will eventually grow back or shed out . . . much like if you snipped off one single strand of hair.

But if you have curly lashes, you’re screwed. Because more often then not, the darn thing breaks right at the bend of the curl, and then the nasty little sucker gets LOST along the way of the re-growth trail and curls the wrong damn way! Convex instead of concave? Concave instead of convex? Whatever, it’s a damn inside-out umbrella, and when you add mascara to the mix it’s a little pointy spear dragging across your eyeball at every blink!

You have to pull it out. Your day grinds to a halt and you spend the morning locked in the bathroom at work—ignoring periodic knocks indicating someone really has to go—and peering into the mirror trying to get a good grip on the little bastard so you can yank him out. Shoot the hostage!

Inevitably, you strike down a few innocent bystanders in the process. Hopefully it won’t be so many that you leave a gap in the crowd.

-----

After posting this, a song sprang immediately to mind. I just had to share:

When you're a skinny child of fourteen,
Wired with braces from ear to ear,
You doubt that you will ever be appealing.
Then Hallelujah! You are fifteen
And the braces disappear
And your skin is smooth and clear
And you have that happy grown-up female feeling.
How lovely to be a woman,
The wait was well worth while;
How lovely to wear mascara
And smile a woman's smile.
How lovely to have a figure,
That's round instead of flat;
Whenever you hear boys whistle,
You're what they're whistling at.
It's wonderful to feel
The way a woman feels;
It gives you such a glow just to know
You're wearing lipstick and heels!
How lovely to be a woman
And have one job to do;
To pick out a boy and train him
And then when you are through,
You've made him the man you want him to be!
Life's lovely when you're a woman like me!
How wonderful to know
The things a woman knows;
How marvelous to wait for a date
In simply beautiful clothes!
How lovely to be a woman
And change from boys to men,
To go to a fancy nightclub
And stay out after ten.
How lovely to be so grown-up and free!
Life's lovely when you're a woman like me!

Sidewalk saga

2010-08-09T14:31:00.002-04:00

Here is a picture of the front of our house, taken last summer (almost exactly a year ago; you can see the date stamp is June 26, 2009).

The door we (used to) use is just barely visible in this picture.
It's immediately left of the tree trunk (the right side of the photo), a little covered porch.

If you click on it, it enlarges nicely.

My husband and I don't use the front door because we don't have a sidewalk leading up to it, among other things. But mostly the sidewalk. We decided it was high time to remedy that fact. So, last week, the work began.

And now, the finished product! I've got to work on my flowerbeds!

If you think I'm exaggerating about the bugs

2010-08-06T14:54:00.000-04:00

Then here you have it. Undeniable proof. The bugs are as big as a car.

Now THAT'S a big nose!

2010-08-06T14:27:00.000-04:00

All of our pets have tag lines

2010-08-06T13:54:00.000-04:00

Izzy: "I need!"
Georgie: "Squirrel!"
Blake: "Fat man in a little coat."
Bunny: "FML."
Ernie: "Doh!"
Gazelle: "Do you know anything?"

Dead bug

2010-08-06T12:23:00.000-04:00

Super, duper cute, but I can't help but wonder:

What is she rolling in and what is she going to smell like when she's done?

Shhh! She's sleeping.

2010-08-05T23:23:00.002-04:00

It's starting

2010-08-04T15:31:00.005-04:00

Autumn is on it's way. I feel it. The days are hot and muggy, the mornings start at 70 degrees, and yet . . . it's there. Inevitable.

At the store, wild Back to School displays stand as incongruous wardens with their explosion of primary colors. I move through sections of pencil sharpeners and notebooks and lunch boxes to cheap, rough bedding and coordinating plastic dishware (in sets of four) to blenders and desk lamps to microwaves and mini refrigerators. Everything from kindergarten to college, from red, yellow and blue to pink, green and . . . more blue.

Banners hang from the ceilings, and moms shuffle kids through the store with their carts vomiting colors. New clothes, new backpack, new this, new that. I hear ecstatic cheers and depressed groans . . . it's all around me, and yet . . . I'm not a part of it.

I'm done with school. I don't have kids. I'm there to pick up cat litter and dog food and a few grocery items. Skipping by, decked out head to toe in Twilight, tweenage sisters add to their mom's cart and dash away before she notices. Walking swiftly, I sneak a peek at their sneaky loot and smile: matching hooded sweatshirts, in pink. Tired mom doesn't seem to notice, she's checking sizes and cooing to the toddler in the cart, swinging his legs and shrieking "Eee, eee, eee!" repeatedly.

Does she hear him?

I continue with my empty cart toward the pet aisle, in my quiet colorless world. Outside it's hot, but the air conditioning in the store is too cool by contrast and goosebumps snake their way up my arms and down my back. The wire of my cart is stark and seems to radiate cold. I pass more families, more moms with their kids, all doing their back-to-school shopping and choosing items with vibrant colors and straight lines. Rulers. Pencil cases. Crayons for the kids, for the teens a set of blue and red and orange pens . . . nope. Orange isn't allowed. Settle for black.

I smile at the argument ("Everyone else is going to have the same one!"), and continue down the aisle, thinking about stowaway sweatshirts and not my own neutral list. Autumn is on it's way, and this year I'm not even looking forward to it. I've always said that Autumn is my favorite season, and I don't think anything will ever make me change my mind about it being the most beautiful, but as the years go by the homesickness is getting worse.

Is it because my memory of details and the specificity of the seasons has started to fade? In September, when the sky is a particular shade of blue, I wonder: did it look the same or different in Oregon each September? I don't recall.

Standing in line, 10 items or less, I see the mom with her loaded cart waiting in the regular line next to me. The two pink sweatshirts are still amidst the notebooks and backbacks and lunchboxes . . . all matching, all in duplicate. Her girls are nowhere to be found, but the toddler is stretching a chubby fist toward the brightly wrapped candy bar display and grunting, "Uh, uh, uh, uh!" She ignores him, appears to be looking over the school supply list--or perhaps a list of inspirational quotes, who knows?--and I can't help but wonder if she told the girls to go pick out sweatshirts or if she is really that oblivious.

I start loading my 7 items on the counter and her girls at last appear. She smiles at them absently--have any of them spoken this entire shopping trip? The toddler is drooling copiously and bouncing up and down impatiently on a padded, squishy bottom, candy bars forgotten as he nmns toward his sister instead.

I sign for my items and walk away slowly as the little family starts transferring their load to the conveyor belt. The sisters glance at each other as one of them picks up the sweatshirts and adds it to the pile, most helpfully. The mom's eyes focus suddenly, calculating. Her thoughts were so plain I was embarrassed for her. Embarrassed that she gave them up so easily:

Is it worth a fight?

I stopped to shift my bags, look over a last-minute display of batteries and gum, and flip through a magazine . . . anything to delay actually walking out the door because I had to know. Was it worth the fight? The sisters weren't breathing--nor was I!--and the toddler was reaching toward the candy bars again. His grunts had escalated, tears and snot were now accompanying the drool on its slimy way down his chin, and creating a large dark spot on his blue t-shirt. We wait.

The mom's hawk eyes watch the sweatshirts inching ever closer toward the bored cashier with Sheila on her name tag. Sheila grabs things at random and the steady "Boop! Boop! Boop!" of her scanner clashes with the toddler's squawk. We all watch Sheila's lips move when she picks up the folders and counts them silently. The booping of the scanner waits, we all wait, until Sheila types in the quantity and picks up speed again.

Still, and discounting the toddler's unbelievable array of noises, no one has spoken.

The mom doesn't look back at the sweatshirts but instead grabs two candy bars at random from the display, throws them willy-nilly onto the advancing belt, and the entire parade troops up to the cashier to the rhythmic, high-pitched beat of the toddler's shrieks of glee.

Outside it's still hot but one of the trees surrounding the parking lot has started to turn. Although I know it must have looked like that when I went into the store, I hadn't especially noticed, and now it feels like in the space of one short shopping trip the entire world has suddenly shifted.

Patience is a . . . gene?

2010-08-03T10:23:00.054-04:00

I'm in the mood to rant and rave about idiocy, and not in the mood to be forgiving. So if you're the type of person that responds, "Yeah, that sucks. But you should still be nice to them because they're people too," then . . .

this is not your moment.

***

Typically, I try to be a pretty a nice gal. But I'm a hard-core visual learner, and when I'm actually in the situation of interacting with a person who learns differently (say, an auditory learner), it is a challenge for me to remember the other person is of course not stupid--they are just processing their environment differently from myself.

Case in point: when I used to give horseback riding lessons. I am in no way, shape, or form an athletic person. But I can mimic what I see. So if a trainer was working with me, and demonstrates something by looking like a moron and pretending to ride a horse, or if they describe it verbally in such a way that I could see what they're talking about, then I can probably do it. With varying amounts of grace, but obvious comprehension nonetheless.

What boggles my mind are the folks out there who have to go through every wrong thing first. No matter how well I demonstrate, no matter how beautifully I describe it, they won't get it until they've yanked the reins this way, that way, and the other way. They hear me say they need to pull the reins in the direction of yon, but still--STILL!!--have to try go hither and tither first. Watching the process makes my head spin around my shoulders, slowly expanding until it explodes against the arena wall.

In my defense, Gazelle has trouble being open-minded with these kinds of learners too. My lack of tolerance, or maybe just lack of patience, is a personality flaw of mine that I have to work on to be a better person.

But there is one thing that I absolutely can not, will not, understand or tolerate. It is wholly different than auditory versus visual versus verbal learning:

Helplessness.

I have examples up the wazoo. If I were to list them all the sheer volume would lull you into a state of ennui from which you'd never recover. But the point is: I don't have to be defensive or accepting about helplessness, do I?

At various jobs in my history I've always ended up in the indescribable position of Sherlock Holmes meets Larry the Cable Guy. I enjoy solving puzzles, following clues, and generally gittin'-r-done.

Sometimes it backfires, though.

Helpless people love git-r-done'ers. Their helplessness is like a disease. The bacterial infestation of helplessness senses the presence of a git r done'er, and starts breeding and multiplying and consuming at the cellular level. Common sense is out, incompetency and uselessness are IN:

A light bulb is out. (Tell the maintenance man!) Who?
The copier is jammed. (Follow the instructions on the display of the copier!) The display?
The toilet it clogged. (Go get a plunger!) A plunger? (It's behind the toilet) I didn't see it.
My computer is broken. (What's the problem?) It won't plunge the toilet for me.
We're out of paper. (There's a box in the supply room) Where's the supply room?
Where's so-and-so? I don't know. Are they in a meeting? I still don't know. Is s/he in the supply room? Silence. The bathroom? More silence but this time coupled with an incredulous look that always gets me in trouble for bitchiness. So, what you're saying is that you don't know? I don't know.

Ka-BOOM! Splatter.

I am so NOT country (part 2)

2010-07-28T15:24:00.002-04:00

I will never--EVER!--get used to finding leftover chipmunk bits scattered across my farm. My soul is inherently against this statement becoming commonplace: Watch where you sit! There might be a chipmunk tail and severed hand on your seat.

That is just not okay.

It's like a bad horror movie . . . any second now a derranged, cross-eyed cat is going to jump out from behind a tree with a chainsaw and an evil laugh.

And people wonder why I am scared to walk our dogs at night.

Gone fishin'

2010-07-26T11:17:00.001-04:00

I've been MIA lately, and all I can say is . . . sigh. Life happens. Whenever I take a break from blogging I always come back saying that I'm going to try to do better. I refuse to say that now, but I will say I am going to attempt to improve.

I figure it's probably about time I explained where I've been.

It all started a few months ago when my husband was approached about a new opportunity. Long story short, he went for it and got it: a promotion that involves a lot of international travel.

Which leaves me the single parent of our six children. And, I have to deal with a lot of commentary like this: "Your husband is in Italy? Why didn't you go with him?!"

Am I the only one out there that thinks that's a stupid and downright rude question? Because let's face it, there are only a handful of reasons that a wife wouldn't go with her husband on a work trip to Italy. Or France. Or Spain. Ad infinitum!

1) I don't have the vacation time
2) We can't afford the flight
3) I'm a philistine

Yup. That's it. With the exception of #3 that is (hopefully) an obvious joke, either of the first two answers would be an incredibly valid and profoundly personal reason not to accompany my husband. Not to mention an inexcusable invasion into my privacy to keep digging persistently. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there really aren't any other reasons why I wouldn't go. Why do I have to say anything at all?

After listing them all out I feel compelled to clarify that the reason I am not going with my husband is the first one. We have enough frequent flier miles that the flight really isn't an issue. However, it seems that no one realizes that he's out of town for two weeks at a time, then home for a few weeks, then gone again.

Tell me, have you ever had a job where you could take two weeks off every two weeks? Or every month, for that matter. Come on, why isn't this obvious?

I acknowledge that part of my annoyance is due to my frustration and disappointment that I don't get to go.

And where have YOU been young lady?

2010-07-22T21:05:00.002-04:00

The car ran out of gas.

The electricity went out.

I got stuck at work.

My cell phone died.

I slept through my alarm.

My dog ate my homework.

I got caught in traffic.

The dog wouldn't poop.

I had something in my eye.

I missed my bus.

I forgot I don't take the bus and had to call a taxi.

The clothes in the dryer weren't dry.

I couldn't find my shoes.

My nylons snagged.

I had a bloody nose.

Mrs. Cellophane?

2010-07-20T09:24:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I know exactly what he means . . .

If someone stood up in a crowd
And raised his voice up way out loud
And waved his arm and shook his leg
You'd notice him

If someone in the movie show
Yelled "Fire in the second row
This whole place is a powder keg!"
You'd notice him

And even without clucking like a hen
Everyone gets noticed, now and then,
Unless, of course, that personage should be
Invisible, inconsequential me!

Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda been my name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there...

I tell ya
Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda been my name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there...

Suppose you was a little cat
Residin' in a person's flat
Who fed you fish and scratched your ears?
You'd notice him

Suppose you was a woman, wed
And sleepin' in a double bed
Beside one man, for seven years
You'd notice him

A human being's made of more than air
With all that bulk, you're bound to see him there
Unless that human bein' next to you
Is unimpressive, undistinguished
You know who...

Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda been my name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there...
I tell ya
Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda been my name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there
Never even know I'm there.

Hope I didn't take up too much of your time.

Douglas the Blue Heron

2010-06-21T13:22:00.036-04:00

There's something about Blue Herons. They're just so cool. They make me think of pterodactyls.

What sound does a blue heron make, I wonder? In reality I think blue herons are pretty quiet, but in my imagination, they have high-pitched, screeching voices that would echo across our cornfield and bounce back from the treeline. I love to watch their stealthy steps as they stalk minnows and listen for the telltale swish of an unwary fin.

Xenophon again

2010-06-21T12:29:00.000-04:00

"When the time has come to dismount, the rider must never dismount among other horses or near a group of people or outside the riding-ground; but let the place where the horse is forced to work be the place where he also receives his reward of ease." (Someday I want to have this quotation hanging in my barn)

"It is correct also to exercise the horse sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, and to make the exercises sometimes long and sometimes short; for this is less irksome to the horse than being exercised always in the same place and for the same length of time." (And this one hanging in or around my arena)

Xenophon, The Art of Horsemanship, 430 BC - 354 BC

Xenophon

2010-06-16T15:15:00.003-04:00

"Besides, the mane, forelock and tail have been given to the horse by the gods as an ornament."

"The one best rule and practice in dealing with a horse is never to approach him in anger; for anger is a reckless thing, so that it often makes a man do what he must regret."

"Moreover, when the horse is shy of anything and will not come near it, you should teach him that there is nothing to be afraid of, either with the help of a plucky horse—which is the surest way—or else by touching the object that looks alarming yourself, and gently leading the horse up to it."

Xenophon, The Art of Horsemanship, 430 BC - 354 BC

I am so NOT country

2010-06-14T13:25:00.007-04:00

There are some aspects to living in the country that are to be anticipated, there are some that are less than desirable, and there are others that are downright, out-and-out positively horrific.

Even as a through-and-through city gal, I was not born yesterday. I fully expected to be presented with some or all of the following: mice and their droppings as an everyday occurrence. Shooting, trapping, or otherwise “getting rid of” animals such as groundhogs and raccoons. Roadkill. The constant, nagging fear of hitting a deer with my car. The subsequent thought of, “What if it doesn’t die straight off?” And bugs. Bugs, bugs, bugs. Of course I knew there would be “more” bugs in the country, but I must admit I didn’t expect hoards of them pounding on our windows every night screaming, “Let us in! Let us in!” I had no idea the crunching clash of their bodies hitting the glass in joyous suicide would be audible through a wall and a door.

I wouldn’t exactly say I was prepared for spiders the size of small rodents, but I took them in stride. And I could have told you before I moved that shooting animals like groundhogs and raccoons was never going to be hunky-dory with me. And so.

Last night. Nothing in my experience thus far could ever have prepared me for what I was forced to endure. Not the vermin, not the poop, not the bugs with their bodies inflated beyond all believable proportions.

I had started getting ready for bed first, and my husband stayed behind in our living room to finish up a few e-mails. I had just climbed under the covers to read for the few minutes I knew it would take for him to join me when I heard a resounding clang from the other room.

Wha-?!

I looked up as if I could see through the intervening walls and explain the metallic sound. The cat on the bed, the dogs in their crate, all of us were looking out the door and wondering. Then we looked at each other for an explanation. Nothing.

And then I heard the sound of my husband’s step and knew he had walked toward the bedroom. He spoke from the hallway and his words were hesitant and matter-of-fact in such a way that my city instincts knew this was going to be more awful than any of the other awful things I’d already lived through. He said:

Uh . . . we have a problem.

The dreadful words drifted over his shoulder and tickled my ears eerily. I said nothing and waited.

His voice was far away, even though I could tell by the pop and creak of the floorboards that he was right outside the bedroom. He was standing out of my line of sight, and by the hollow echo of his voice I knew his back was to me and he had spoken into the empty adjoining room. He didn’t want to stop listening—could he see something too?—and I strained and strained but couldn’t hear or see.

I sat up in bed slowly. We were both quiet. I could hear his slow, halting movements as he continued to hover in the hallway. What terrible thing was he going to tell me when he appeared in the doorway? I climbed out of bed and the tickle moved down my spine.

Finally he made it in and the look on his face was so queer I almost crawled back in and pulled the covers over my head.

What is out there?!

Did I scream it?

At last he decided I’d had enough suspense and explained the problem: somehow, some way, a bird or a bat managed to fly down the chimney and was now battering around in the dark hellish belly of the unused woodstove standing sentry in the living room.

Did you catch that it might be a friggin’ bat?!

We both crept out to the living room and waited together for more ferocious flapping. (Pause.) That was it! My husband explained that the loud clang I had heard earlier was him knocking on the stove to make sure of where the sound was coming from.

It was undeniable now. I looked at the stove in horror and could almost imagine the frenzied, rabid dance going on inside. As I thought the word rabid my heart stopped in sudden shock and a montage of all the television images I’ve seen of bats flicked across the interior screen of my clenched eyelids. Pink lips. Pointy teeth. Slimy, shiny tongues.

Crazed swarms pouring out of bell towers. Seething masses dangling and pulsing in the green, night-vision light of a camera suitable for a cave deeper than hell.

I’m an animal lover, blah blah blah! The fact that there is even a possibility of a bloodsucking, dirty, disease-ridden rodent beating itself to death in our living room while I stood in my pink bathrobe was enough to make my skin crawl.

In fact, the animal lover in me was as silent as the stove as I stared and listened to the devil wings thrashing around frantically. I wanted to scream: Get it! Kill it!!

Eyes wide, I started barraging my husband with questions. How did it get in there? How do we get it out*? Isn’t the chimney capped off? What kind of crappy cap was installed outside that a bird/bat can get in? Is the cap not functioning properly, or was it put on incorrectly? What if we were actually using the stove . . . what kind of cap would we have then? Who’s head is going to roll for this?

My husband smiled indulgently and shrugged, unconcerned. We’ll get it tomorrow, he said. It happens.

*I was informed that this is the professional process to remove the bird or bat: first duct tape a garbage bag to the front of the stove and then open the door. A quick prayer that the duct tape will hold is also a good idea. If you wait a few days before attempting this and the beast dies in the meantime, well . . . that is considered Ideal.

WHAT! That's it?! No one ever made clear to me that a regular part of daily life could include an entombed bat in my living room. Nor did it matter at this point that it "could be" a bird; I was only seeing a frothing, livid creature peering out from the vents of the stove. And my nonchalant husband casually covered the vents with duct tape, leaving me and my imagination in the company of those beady black eyes, and went peacefully to sleep.

Benjamin Franklin

2010-05-21T08:47:00.002-04:00

"Do not anticipate trouble or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight."

I need!

2010-05-20T15:00:00.023-04:00

I realized the other day that I really haven't written about Izzy much. Shame on me! I feel like a bad parent that's been caught playing favorites.

I suppose I have been. Blake, Ernie and Georgie are the three boys in the house. They are so easy to write about. The words appear on the screen by magic. They are . . . hmmm. What are they? They are buffoons. They are larger than life.

They are idiots.

Bunny and Gazelle are likewise easy to write about. They ooze personality out of their pores.

Not to imply that Izzy doesn't ooze too. She has just as much of a dripping, gushing personality as the rest of the pets, with slimy dollops sliding off the counter to land into a gelatinous blob of goop on the floor. But Izzy is a lady. Izzy is above all of the shenanigans of the rest of the crew. And she isn't spectacularly clumsy, nor clever, nor stupid. I don't know what to say about a normal pet.

(Pause)

Yeah, I really don't!

I'm going to try anyway. Izzy is the kind of kid that is fine being by herself. That is to say, she prefers to be with people, but she can fill the time with her own projects. She's the kid that likes to read and make mud pies, or play with legos or Nintendo. She's a perfectly happy, perfectly adjusted, and a perfectly friendly dog. She howls when you leave for work in the morning, but for the bulk of the day I imagine that she just sleeps or plays with her toys.

Izzy is more than friendly. She loves everybody. Her only downfall is she's a licker . . . she can get you from across the room. And not just a little slurp, either. The force of her rubbery tongue can part your lips. Blech!

But it's nice that I don't have to worry about her with strangers around. She likes kids too, which is unusual for an unsocialized dog with no manners. Our little neighbor who is about three years old came over for a visit and Izzy behaved to perfection. Georgie has small-man-syndrome and I have to watch him like a hawk, but with Izzy all I have to do is maintain a general-common-sense-type of awareness for things like squeezing or tail pulling. You know, the kind of stuff any dog owner should be aware of when little kids are around.

Izzy is just as funny as all my other pets that I write about regularly, but somehow she doesn't get herself into the same convoluted, comical predicaments. She chases with the laser pointer with a mediocre amount of grace, but isn't quite as enamored with it as Georgie. She loses interest quickly, or perhaps she's just being polite and stepping aside to let Georgie have his fun. Like an indulgent little mama.

But she isn't really like a mama. She's more like a little kid pretending to be a mama, and Georgie is her baby. He's her dolly.

Also similar to a little kid, Izzy doesn't know what she needs, she just knows she needs it. As soon as you walk in the door, she needs. She sits on the floor, wiggles her bum, looks at you with huge sad eyes, and whines. It doesn't matter that she can't speak with words--I can still understand her easily. Phonetically rendered, the sound she makes looks like this: oooh, oooh, oooh! Imagine hearing it in a sobbing, doggie voice: I nee . . . eee . . . eeed!

If you ask her what she needs, the ooohs raise up in pitch. And then, the best part of all, if you keep talking to her she'll actually grunt in frustratation because you didn't give in. Uhhh! Sometimes she farts at the same time, so that takes the guesswork out of what she needs.

Izzy is the most humanlike dog I've ever met. When you talk to her she watches you like she's following along intently. Then when you pause, she makes a noise like she knows it's her turn to contribute to the conversation.

An encounter with a spider part 2

2010-04-23T10:42:00.025-04:00

The story doesn’t end with the text message, of course.

The spider, which was apparently crawling around on the ceiling of the car just over my head for the first 30 minutes of my commute, chose a random moment in the middle of my Grapes of Wrath book on tape to descend smoothly and sharply into view. I stared in disbelief for a moment, shocked that I was seeing what I was actually seeing: a black and white, tarantula-style spider. (See footnote 1 below)

Before I lose all credibility and you start thinking I’m a melodramatic, over-exaggerating fool, let me just say that even to my panicked, distorted vision, I never really thought it was a tarantula. Of course it wasn’t even close—it was much too small—what I meant is that it was fuzzy just like a tarantula.

AND!

To give myself even more credibility: I will acknowledge that when the event first happened, I thought the spider was much larger than he turned out to be. Although, to be clear, he was no small fry.

Ominous and sinister, the spider dangled and did a macabre dance while the Grapes of Wrath continued unaffected. His legs fingered the air like he was a witch working over a cauldron, summoning up a spell. Its contorted, possessed body expanded and swelled right in front of my eyes. In my memory of the moment, the spider (including legs) was the size of a 50-cent piece. He turned out to be the size of a nickel, but we’re not trying to make any money here.

That’s when I started to scream. It surprised even myself because I’m not a squeamish, girly-girl type. Whenever I hear the scary movie scream, I wonder how they do it. I can't imagine having that kind of volume, and I had certainly never screamed like that before in my life. Normally when I'm surprised by a bug I would let out a yelp of startlement.

Turns out all I needed was some motivation because the screams went on and on and on, actually raised in pitch until I sounded just like the horror movie bimbo who should be running out the front door but runs up the stairs instead. The miniscule fraction of my brain that wasn't scared to death actually marveled at my newfound screaming ability, and wondered at the complete lack of control. I could not stop.

My only question is: what are you supposed to do when you have a supernatural spider in your car? Or any kind of spider, I suppose. What kind of survival advice would 20/20 or 60 Minutes give for this situation? I'm sure their advice wouldn't include having a meltdown like I did, but still. There are programs about what to do if you’re caught in your car in a blizzard, if you're kidnapped and stuffed into a trunk . . . but what should you do about a spell-casting tarantula less than 12 inches from your face?

Conveniently, instinct took over. Inconveniently, instinct did not forecast out the results of my actions.

Still screaming, I swiped at the spider with my arm—apparently having enough sanity left to scrunch my arm up into the sleeve of my coat so the spider wouldn’t touch my bare skin—but then I couldn’t find it.

73 miles per hour down the freeway with a demonic spider crawling evilly somewhere within the confines of my car or on my person. An exit beckoned ahead and I debated for maybe a millisecond whether it mattered if I was late to work.

I was pulling over on the wide shoulder of the off ramp when my screaming stopped and the Blair Witch caliber, raspy breathing started.

Where is it?!

Huge lungfuls of air did nothing for me though I gulped and gulped and gulped. My heart was racing while I tried to calm down and look for the intruder at the same time. Incidentally I noticed that we are well over-due for vacuuming out our car.

Did I kill it?!

Am I looking for a dead body or a moving, silent figure? Was it big enough that I’d hear it skitter across the temporary paper floor mats in our car? (See footnote 2 below) Is it making its way up the seat, the car door, the center console, the dashboard? A relentless, hairy demon trailing a sticky shining ribbon. I dashed my hand across my face and felt the web clinging to my skin.

Did I imagine it?!

That could not be possible. I insisted that to myself firmly, still with shoulders heaving and twitching. I absolutely did not imagine screaming—my throat was already feeling raw. But the sun was glinting behind me and reflecting off various surfaces in the car—was the spider an optical illusion? The over-production of adrenaline continued, but now I was feeling stupid too.

Barely holding it together, and unwilling to get out of the car due to being on the shoulder of the road, I decided the best thing to do was just pull it together and get to work. It’s just a spider, I’m a grown up, and I can’t take up residence in the grass on the side of the off ramp. I seriously considered calling my husband, but dismissed it reluctantly because what on earth would he do? I didn’t know if I was more afraid that he’d laugh at me, or that he'd be just as appalled (or even more appalled) than I was. It's only cool to share horrific moments when you've passed them, not while you're still living through them.

What I really wanted was to throw bravery out the window, get out of the car, and never get back in again.

I put it in gear and drove on.

The 15 minutes remaining of my commute was hellish. I felt like a thousand spiders were all over me. Was it on the rest behind my head? Were its prickly, sticky legs tiptoeing up my pantleg? Was it in my hair? On my coat? Back up on the ceiling somehow?

Due to a time warp, it took an hour to get the rest of the way into work. When I finally careened crookedly into a parking space I was panting and terrified, but relief began to knock on my door.

I still had to find the blasted wretch.

I leaped joyously out of my car and shook out my clothes and sanity. I gave an extra shake just to be sure, then took a deep breath and peered into the car.

It was sitting on the center console.

It did not matter that I was glad that I found it. "Glad." Right.

My heart stopped when I looked at its beastly face. It was ugly and had beady eyes and chest hair. It was looking right at me and all scrunched up from the gust of cold morning air coming from the open car door. It seemed to have a dialogue box over its head that read, “I dare you.”

I didn’t think. I took off my shoe and walloped it. The wily bastard was in the nook of the console but I thought my ferocity and frustration might get it anyway.

It didn’t.

He jumped backward into a deeper contour of the console and then came back out to mock me. Thus ensued several smashing sessions each followed by increasingly louder grunts of thwarted anger. Were the growls coming from me or the spider?

At last the devious demon got cocky and didn't jump out of the way quick enough. Dead! But he still got the last word because his flattened, juicy body bounced up from the force of the blow and somehow missed the wide open window to hell and fell down the crack between my cup holder and the console instead.

The cup holder in our car has one of those lids that tuck away into a little cubby for convenience, and of course that tiny little space was where the squashed spider ended up. To make matters worse, I couldn't just take off the lid to make the cubby accessible for the removal of the spider's remains. I discovered that while fussing with the lid; every time I closed it the lid would come up out of its cubby and push the corpse along until the body was pinched against the roof of the little nook where it was caught.

One leg poked out to cast obscene spells at the world while I contemplated this new dilemma. It was like an arm of the damned reaching out of a grave; I couldn’t leave it like that while I casually went in to work.

Luckily a coworker had arrived at the same time as me and I flagged him down while he was walking through the parking lot. Stifling a laugh at my dramatics, for of course he had no idea of the hocus-pocus going on in my car, he brought me a paper towel that he had in his car. Somehow I managed to get the carcass out of the crack.

I stomped him another one, just for good measure.

-------------------------
1) I did a Google Image search for "black and white jumping spiders" and lo and behold, there are LOTS of pictures of my nasty car companion. Check out the Wikipedia article and picture. Per Wikipedia, the spiders are easily identified "by their relatively large size . . . " Food for thought to anyone harboring any thoughts of the "she's a wimp" variety.

2) Yup, we have a Toyota. Yup, our floor mats were recalled. I only wanted to point it out because by the virtue of the fact that the mats in our car at this moment are PAPER, it's actually feasible that a large bug would make an audible sound when running across.

An encounter with a spider

2010-04-23T08:40:00.001-04:00

I sent the following text message to my husband after my morning commute. I think it pretty much sums everything up:

BIG ASS FUCKING HAIRY SPIDER IN THE CAR DANGLING RIGHT NEXT TO ME FROM THE CEILING GOING 73 MPH I ALMOST WRECKED OHMYGODOHMYGOD SCREAMED LIKE A HORROR MOVIE COULDN'T FIND IT HAD TO DRIVE 15 MINUTES WONDERING WHERE THE HELL IT WAS OHMYGODOHMYGOD IT WAS ONE OF THOSE HAIRY JUMPERS I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE I HATE BUGS I HATE SPIDERS I HATE OHIO OHMYGOD NOT FUNNY NOT FUNNY AT ALL

Serious business

2010-04-14T08:52:00.006-04:00

I figured out how to describe Ernie’s facial expression, and I tell you what . . . it was a revelation. I was looking at him last night, and remembering the day I described Blake’s habitual smile, and I couldn’t help noticing that Ernie rarely smiles. If ever.

Ernie is a very serious fellow. He has serious thoughts. I’m not quite sure what a cat with man-boobs could possibly be thinking about, but I’m sure it’s something like healthcare reform or environmental conservation.

The economy?

At any rate, I was getting ready for bed and putting on my pajamas when I noticed Ernie. He was in the room with me, and I had only noticed him in a vague way when I first walked in and started my nightly routine.

Then, for no reason at all, I really looked at him, and it was kind of spooky because was looking right back at me. Although my brain knew he was just hungry and hoping I’d walk to the door to go get his dinner, for a fraction of a second it seemed like he was trying to get my attention. Like he had to tell me something. And that was the lightning bolt moment.

Ernie's normal expression looks like he just said something horrific and shocking. So off-the-wall that you know it's a joke.

Isn't it?

“Florida fell into the ocean.” “Some famous movie star died in a freak accident at a basket-weaving contest.” That could never happen.

Right?

We've all been there. Someone tells you something completely wild, and then they look so deadpan you consciously set aside your foolish feeling and make a point to believe them. They hold a steady, severe look for a fraction longer than is strictly necessary to pull off the joke. The trick crosses the line into “That’s not funny!” and when they finally give their "Gotcha!" smile you wind up feeling gullible and stupid.

Which, I realize, is the funny part.

That's what happened last night with Ernie. As I peered into his worldly eyes, admittedly an impossible contradiction since I stand by my original assessment that he’s the dumbest cat on the planet, he had a look on his face that somehow made me believe he was the first to hear a heinous news story. He's a cat, of course he didn't actually verbalize anything, but the process was the same anyway: an unbelievable scandal, information delivered straight-faced, a pause while I contemplated the outrageousness and tried to keep from laughing at his stony silence. Then another pause.

His ability to hold the serious expression for so long made me doubt myself.

My smile faded. Could he possibly be serious? Is Florida gone? What could have gone wrong at a basket weaving contest?

I caught myself thinking: any second now . . . any minute he’s going to crack and I’ll know he was kidding.

Any minute now.

Continued diligence

2010-04-05T16:35:00.004-04:00

Blake's workout entails the following: 45 seconds of galumphing from one side of the room to the other (which includes resting time between each lap). Then two minutes of scraping (using my foot like a spatula to detach him from the floor and force him to keep going), followed by about another 20 seconds of running (more breaks, of course). I do some more prodding, or shoving more like, and usually I'll get one final lap out of him before he flat-out refuses to keep going. The whole ordeal takes no more than five minutes.

The emotional roller coaster that is patently visible on his orange, whiskered face is pretty dramatic. On second thought . . . Blake's journey is almost exactly the first few acts from the "All the world's a stage" monologue in As You Like It.

The journey begins with childlike, limitless enthusiasm. He's a little kid on Christmas morning. This is the part I wish I could describe better--it's when he actually does the running.

At first the infant,/Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;

I think it would help if I could first figure out what animal he looks most like. The most apparent answer is an elephant--he's so big and lumbering and slow. I'm dismissing it because of the obviousness.

For some reason I'm getting mental image of a human being running on all fours and likening that to Blake. What is it about Blake that makes me think of a person running like a dog?

You know, I think it's his back legs. When humans run on all fours, our legs don't work right and look awkward. Blake's back legs look similar when he's running; I have no idea why. Because he's so overweight? Is it a simple lack of grace? Whatever it is, it doesn't seem like his back legs are functioning properly. In a funny way, of course . . . not like he has a medical problem or anything.

He looks like an anteater or a possum. I don't know how to back up such a blunt claim; have I ever even seen an anteater run? Or a possum? Not that I'm aware of, but their humped backs and short hind legs . . . AH HA! I'm going to interrupt myself because I figured it out. It is his back legs; they seem too short in comparison to his oversized paunch. His bulging belly hides the natural bend of the mid-joint (uh, can't possibly be a "knee"?) and his hind legs appear to stay straight while he runs. That's what it is. OMG.

After the Christmas-morning-esque foolishness is over, when he starts getting tired, his emotional state changes from foolhardy to a transfixed fascination. The excitement is still there, but for the most part he's too tired to put in any energy. For the most part. His eyeballs will be following the red pinpoint of the laser until--seemingly at random--he'll jump sideways, an impossible kernel of orange, fuzzy popcorn leaping unexpectedly out of the pan. Then he'll go back to swiveling his head Exorcist-style as he keeps his eye on that elusive, damnable dot.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel/And shining morning face, creeping like snail/Unwillingly to school.

That's when the scraping and peeling comes into play as I try to get him to keep running. After a few more passes back and forth under coercion, the transfixed excitement slowly morphs into a dreamlike meditation. I think his fur must become heavy and his legs must be weak because all of a sudden he'll be glued to the floor.

After the collapse he stares at the brilliant red light and his eyes become unfocused as he remembers all the fun he had with the dot in days of yore. His head doesn't swivel anymore to follow it; instead, the cartoon bubble over his head shows a montage of all his favorite red dot moments. I swear there's a cheesy love song playing from somewhere.

That's when I poke him to try and get him going, and it wakes him up with a jolt. He'll take a half-hearted, drunken swipe at the spot on the floor and go back to his wistful recollections of the radiant speck of blazing red.

And then the lover,/Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad/Made to his mistress' eyebrow.

It isn't long after this that the emotional pendulum swings again, and lands with finality on annoyed. The more you encourage him to do "one more rep," the grumpier he gets. Now he's a little old man who hates things like Christmas cheer and noisiness and flamboyance. The singing, dancing dot is a cheerful peevish curse. Cat-like and fickle, everything Blake once loved about the laser is now a maddening irritation.

Then a soldier,/Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,/Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,/Seeking the bubble reputation/Even in the cannon's mouth.

When he gets to this state, I have to watch out for my ankles . . . when I try to make him keep going, I get a Venus Cat Trap wrapped around my leg for the effort.

I'll always remember: sleeping bag sledding

2010-04-05T13:38:00.002-04:00

I'll always remember "sledding" down the stairs with my bother and sister.

We used those old 80's style sleeping bags that had a sheen to them . . . probably 100 percent polyester, but who cares? Our stairs had a high pile carpeting (not quite "shag," but still, pretty thick for all that). It was nice and soft underneath the sleeping bags, but I remember if you really got cooking down the stairs that your bum would hit the edge of each step (thud, thud, thud, THUD!) and those last couple of thuds could really smart.

I remember I never let on to my siblings when it hurt . . . that would have ruined the game.

I also remember sometimes the out-of-control feeling was a little bit frightening, but I never let on about that either.

The official Jenny Craig weigh-In

2010-04-01T11:32:00.007-04:00

When I found out that Blake had slowly, surprisingly, crept up to twenty-five pounds, I decided something had to be done. I didn't know what, but we had to take him to the vet for vomiting and if ever there was a red flag, it was the sight of his greasy, dandruffy coat in the harsh light of the vet's office.

The poor guy could not reach his back to keep himself clean.

That was too much. I felt horrible. How did this happen? How did I let this happen? And how dark is our house?

It is my fault, obviously. I know it is. But when exactly did Blake make the transformation from "big-boned" to behemoth? I can't seem to recall.

On the one hand, I have excuses. In any small animal, a seemingly modest amount of weight can have a huge impact. The line between beauty and beast is thinly drawn at best. And also perforated like a coupon. So we probably did wake up one day and the line was crossed at some point during the night.

On another hand, I have angles. Yes, this should have been a red flag:

BUT!!! This is Blake at the same weight:

To me, he looks pretty good in the second picture. Big yes, but sleek coat, proportioned body, and alert (obviously alert, since he's looking out the window).

True, we should have see this coming. Blake has always been big-boned. He is a big cat. I need to measure him from nose to tail and compare to the average length I found on Wikipedia: 18.1" (not including tail). I am certain Blake is larger than that . . . I just don't know by how much. The dog crate in the background is 42 inches wide:

Even though his tail is cut out of the picture, just his body appears about the same length as the dog crate. That darn angle thing again makes it hard to tell. But this is a good news post, so moving on . . .

Blake has--officially--been on our version of a Kitty Jenny-Craig-esque diet since March 2, 2010. That was about two weeks after the first visit to the vet (for vomiting). The laxative pills ("kitty fiber") did not seem to be working, so I took him back to the vet and and they suggested a special food.

Side note and major ugh-o-rama, the special food is a pain in the ass. It's a canned cat food, and it costs $1.80 a can. And, to make matters worse, Blake does not seem to think it's the kitty equivalent of caviar.

If $1.80 a can doesn't seem excessively expensive, wait until I tell you how much he's supposed to have per day: 2 cans. That's over $25 a week. That's over $1,300 a year! I love my pets, and I'm willing to spend money on them, but Blake is only 6 years old. Seems to me that 14 is a pretty average age for a cat . . . if you tally up eight more years of this special food it would end up costing us over ten thousand dollars! No matter how you slice it, that's a lot of money.

I think it's okay to admit that I wasn't exactly thrilled at that prospect. But for now, to get his stomach straightened out, the cost is acceptable to us. For a few weeks, even a few months, it's not a big deal.

Blake doesn't seem to like it especially, so he is eating quite a bit less than the recommended 2 cans a day. I'm doing my best to make sure he doesn't go too far the other way (toward starvation), which can be just as dangerous as obesity. So I'm feeding him three times a day and I'm encouraging him to eat by giving him lots of pressure-free chances to eat. I'm also heating it up in the microwave because he doesn't eat as much when it's cold. I think he's slowly aquiring a taste for it because lately he's been eating a little more at each feeding.

The up-side of the special food is--and this is partly due to the expense and not wanting the other two cats to eat his food--we have been keeping Blake separated at mealtimes. That is when the light bulb illuminated.

Blake does not over-eat when he is uninterrupted and has a quiet space in which to eat. Cue: music.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah, hall-ay'ay-loo-yah!

It's been--forgive the repetition, but no other word will do--illuminating. I guess we never noticed how much Blake is capable of eating when the other 2 other cats were thrown in the mix. Our routine was that the cats had dry kibble out 24/7 (measured daily and given in portions, but still . . . it was pretty much always out). I think Blake must have been eating when he was bored. Pair that with the fact that he's a typical lazy cat and he's living indoors (which for cats is the least favorable situation with odds stacked against weight loss and healthy living), and . . . really, you're surprised that we get what we got? A twenty-five pound monster. It is what it is.

But then one unsuspecting day I read an article that had nothing to do with anything. Nothing to do with cats or healthy living or weight loss or dry food versus canned food. It was an article about keeping your house clean and there was a line in it that changed my world (and Blake's too, I suppose). Unfortunately I forgot where I found the article and I don't remember the exact quote, so this is me paraphrasing:

If you don't have time to do it RIGHT . . . it's okay to do it WRONG.

Amen, said Blake of the Leviathan Proportions. It was another illumination.

Prior to reading that sentence from the article, I had been of the school of thought that went like this: Blake is not really interested in playing or exercising. He won't do it. There's nothing I can do.

And after reading that sentence, I realized: something is better than nothing. If I can force Blake to exercise (even if it's just for 30 seconds), well . . . that's better than no exercise. Can we sing the Hallelujah Chorus again?

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah, hall-ay'ay-loo-yah!

So that's been It. Blake's Jenny Craig program. Keep it simple, take what I can get, don't give up because he doesn't feel like it. Every night before bed, we get out the laser pointer and he makes two or three running passes up and down the hallway. Then he poops out and doesn't want to move, so I use my foot like a spatula and make him get up and move around for as long as I can (that means, eventually even my spatula can't scrape him off the floor; he's too tired). Usually he only lasts about 5 minutes, which in the grand scheme of things and including those nights when I'm so dead tired that I don't feel like it either, is not that much. It is do-able, and there is no excuse not to.

IT'S BEEN WORKING! To anyone else out there that has a fat indoor cat, I beg you: don't give up.

Erase the phrases "Go big or go home" and "overachiever" from your mind. When I changed my way of thinking, that's when things started to turn around. I stopped worrying about everything I'd been taught in school and at home (like "do it right or do it over"). I stopped aiming for the exceptional, and I started accepting average and below-average as acceptable terms. It's a shock to the system, and I found that it helped to remind myself that this is not the same as school or work.

Small, pitiful, pathetic amounts of exercise are good enough. Mediocre is okay. It's okay if you don't shoot for the stars . . . in this case at least. It's okay if you get a 60 percent--a D!--because that is still a passing grade. A for Effort.

It's been over 28 days and on Tuesday Blake had his first official weigh-in. Technically, it's been a month and a half since the first visit to the vet when he got weighed the first time, but I didn't start the exercise program until we started the new food, which is why I'm using March 2 as the official date (I only say that because I'm not sure how accurate these numbers are . . . he could have lost some weight before we officially started--remember he was vomiting a lot).

The result: he has lost 3.2 pounds and now weighs 21.8 pounds. My goal is to get his weight down to 18 pounds; when we reach that I'll slowly wean him off the expensive food and figure out a maintenance diet with a more economical canned cat food. He's playing more AND is now able to clean his own bum. Yes, gross to say it bluntly like that, but . . . who cares? It was a proud moment all the same. I'm like a mama with a kid who used the potty for the first time.

My analysis: obviously my first mistake was allowing dry kibble to be out 24/7. My stubborn attachment to the fact that I was at least administering the correct proportions for three cats was the worst offense. Blake was definitely eating more than his share. It didn't matter that I was following the directions on the bag of food; since Blake wasn't following the directions it threw off the whole picture. While he's been on the special food I've started the other two cats on a different (less expensive) canned cat food. I've been leaving out some dry food and--shockingly--it's been working out great. They don't eat the dry food when they're bored the way Blake does.

The success of feeding everyone separately and having them each eat the bulk of their meals all at once (rather than grazing throughout the day) is the main reason why I've decided to make the switch to canned food. I've attempted to do research, read some articles about the matter, and there is so much controversy that I've concluded there is no way for the average consumer to sort through it all. Some articles basically imply that dry cat kibble is the devil, others are a little more forgiving. But--and here's the relief--it's consistent across the board (even from my vet) that wet/canned cat food is a good idea. If nothing else, it should be fed in addition to dry kibble.

My second mistake was blindly feeding all the cats together . . . we're going to keep Blake separated from the other two at mealtimes from now on. I think that innocent, simple decision will have the biggest impact of all . . . more than the dry versus canned debate and even more than his piddly amounts of exercise.

More to come!

A small request to the writers of the world

2010-03-25T08:41:00.028-04:00

(Not to imply that I think I'm such a great writer that I'm allowed to give advice . . . rather, this advice is coming from an observant reader.)

I'm listening to a certain book on tape, and I'm not sure if I'm going to make it through. I've heard lots of praise for the book, which is part of a series, but I'm not feelin' it. That being said, I have no wish to slander the author's name, nor do I want to make anyone who enjoyed it feel bad or embarrassed for liking it, so I will not be divulging the title of the book or any other definitive details like character names, etc. I figure these are good general guidelines that could be applied to a lot of books.

Number 1: Stop using the word quickly so much. Or at all! "I quickly popped the ravioli in my mouth." "I quickly walked to class." "I quickly brushed my hair." In the book on tape that I'm suffering through, 9.99 out of 10 quickly's are unnecessary. And there are a lot of quickly's!

Number 2: Swiftly is a synonym of quickly, in case you hadn't heard. Rotating between quickly and swiftly does not solve the problem. Just delete the word altogether . . . I think you'll be surprised that the sentence still makes sense. And your readers will stop having fits of Tourette's.

Number 3: Try mixing up your sentence structure. A little variety never hurt anyone, the chicken said to the other white meat. A little variety never hurt anyone, said the chicken to the other white meat. Or, tricky tricky, The chicken said A little variety never hurt anyone to the other white meat. We've got said the chicken and the chicken said and--I know this is crazy talk!--we've also got a quote in the middle of the description! "Wow," she said in disbelief.

Number 3.5: Speaking of that . . . in the same way that the simplistic sentence structure as noted in Number 3 is maddening, and replacing swiftly for quickly makes my mind go numb and eyeballs ache like they're being tortured, the author seems to think keeping a thesaurus handy and swapping out the word said will gussy up her writing: "Wow," she exclaimed. "Wow," he mused. "Wow," she retorted. "Wow," he whispered . . . Boring, boring, boring! "Learn how to write," she pronounced. "Get a clue," she demanded. "Not a chance," she said flatly.

Number 4: Perhaps the author should save their thesaurus for situations like: his/her "expression was unreadable" or any reference to "perfect face" "white skin" "sweet breath." I think the book would only be about 4 pages long, if not for the incessant repetitions on the appearance of the two main characters.

Number 4.5: No one is that clutzy. Let's shoot for a little realism! Just as over-focusing on someone's perfection gets dreary and irksome, spending too much time repeating a person's imperfections is equally annoying.

Number 5: What else? There is more to life than biology class, gym class, and the occasional hike in the woods. I'd like to hear about it.

PS: As subtle as I tried to be, I'm sure that if you've read the book then you know which one I'm talking about. Again, I'm not trying to make anyone feel crappy for their choice of pleasure reading. So in defense of the book: the story (what there is of it)(see Number 5) is actually very good, and I like it. I think it's creative and unusual. My interest in the story is the only reason I'm continuing to suffer through the book on tape. But the writing! Geez almighty. It's horrible.

And I think that's the unfortunate shame.

I have never received this much commentary on my hair in all my life

2010-03-23T10:40:00.005-04:00

I’m 31 years old, and I was born with a full head of hair. It’s thick and dark and beautiful (I sound conceited even to my own ears, but I don’t mean to). When a person has an undeniably great feature, isn’t it okay to just bluntly admit it like that? Is J-Lo vain if she says she has a great bum? Is Brad Pitt egotistical if he says he has a perfect face? Is Suzie Q Non-Famous-Person narcissistic if she admits she has gorgeous skin? I guess I don’t know, but I really don’t mean to sound any particular adjective by confessing I have beautiful hair.

Besides, like every other woman (or man, I suppose) with gorgeous hair (except Jennifer Aniston), it has done me absolutely no good. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t care. I tend to wear it in a bun, braid, or ponytail most of the time. When I do wear it down, it looks bad because I don’t know what to do with it and therefore don’t do anything with it. It’s too thick. It’s too long. It’s neither straight nor curly.

But I have a lot of it and that’s apparently what everyone envies.

And now here I am, a week and a half after getting it majorly chopped off, and I’m writing my third post about it. That is way too much talk about my hair!

Everyone is so shocked by my haircut . . . it’s like the running commentary on what I eat. “She’s wearing it down today!” I had three people say that to me and before 8:25 in the morning. The part-time maintenance man at work asked me if I got my hair done and when I said yes, he proudly stated, “See, I’m a man but I notice things!” He saw me twice last week and didn’t notice.

A gal that I don’t have much to say to had the exact same conversation with me this morning that she did on Friday (the last time I wore it down). I heard a gasp from behind me, and when I turned around she was standing there with her head cocked to the side and the kind of look on her face that is supposed to be reserved for babies. You know, the Isn’t she a widdle cutie-wootie? look. Not only did she have the look women give to babies, but she used the baby voice on me too: Look at yoooouuu. You are sooooo cuuuuuute! Somehow I made it through the conversation without my head exploding.

8:30 AM: Another comment. Different person, same comment as before: Cuuuuuuute! Sigh.

Is a new hairdo really worth all this? When is it going to peter out? How awful did I look before, for God’s sake?

I’m doing my best to be polite. I’m so annoyed I could spit, but I’m deliberately keeping my teeth unclenched and saying a simple thank you to all my admirers. I suppose I’m being ungrateful, but I think I’m so aggravated because my feelings are a little hurt by this sudden contrast. The more everyone carries on and on about how great I look, the more I feel like I must have looked really ugly before.

I’ve changed my mind. There is a difference in how people marvel at my hair, and it’s a writing challenge. Somehow I need to write the difference (because thus far in this post I’m coming off as a phony ingrate, and we can’t have that).

My feeling of aggravation is justified because two people in the hall just complimented my hair and it didn’t annoy me at all! I was very pleased by their comments (if slightly embarrassed)(the way a person should be when someone admires them).

And the difference is . . . ? Tone and emphasis.

Did you see the movie Mean Girls? Yes, with Lindsey Lohan. It doesn’t matter; even if you didn’t, the spiteful aura that surrounds and follows Lo Ho should be enough description. But if you did: remember Rachel McAdams’ character? The Bitch Queen. Her two-faced, malicious cattiness is well-portrayed. In a sickeningly sweet voice: “I looove your skirt/bracelet/shoes/purse/whatever! Where did you get it?” The word love somehow has three syllables. Whoever she’s talking to blushes and stumbles on their way. As soon as their back is turned, she makes a gag me motion with her index finger.

Back to real-life . . . I mentioned widdle cutie-wootie. That’s right. My co-workers are baby-talking me. Repeatedly! And, in addition to the baby-talk (as if that wasn’t bad enough) they are doing the Mean Girls thing and over-emphasizing their flattering remarks to the point of insincerity. Recall, I said one gal and I had the same conversation twice. Talk about laying it on thick. It's the fact that their praise is in boldface font that gets my back up. And underlined. And two point sizes larger.

Wow. I love your hair! It’s soooooo adorable! LOL!

The LOL and over-use of exclamation points gets me every damn time.

I'm bald! (Part 2)

2010-03-22T10:50:00.003-04:00

Not sure if the lighting is any better,
but at least I'm wearing makeup.

(Part 1)

Do you ever wonder why some people think some things are appropriate to say? Or even, why they're you're friend in the first place?

Crapola grammar aside, I'd really like to know the answers to both questions.

Number One: Really?

Where are the filters? Some people don't have the appropriate filters that I think I was born with. Have I ever spoken out of turn? Put my foot in my mouth? Dug my own grave? Of course I have. Of course! Hello . . . we all do that. Sometimes.

On occasion, I have spoken without thinking. So have you. So has everyone else on the planet. But what about people that do it all the time? How is that okay, exactly? When is it ever okay to tell someone to their face that they look, "Terrible!"? The answer: never! Especially if the "You look terrible!" is spoken with aghast, horrified shock. Believe it or not, this actually happened at work a few weeks ago. Not to me (thank God--I would have cried), but to a gal that sits in a cubicle near me.

To be fair, she did not look her best that day. Apparently she had been up crying all night; "problems at home" was the only explanation I ever heard. I don't like to guess a person's age, and I would never refer to a person as old, but it is a simple fact that she is older than me. As women age, crying all night gets harder and harder to recover from gracefully. That's another diplomatically stated fact, isn't it? So, setting the scene, the gal in the cubicle near me has lost almost all of her ability for elegant restoration from a night of crying. Someone walked up to speak to her, and when she looked up at him the "You look terrible!" was blurted out in stunned exclamation and obvious recoil from her appearance.

She handled the rude comment with much more poise then I ever could. On my side of the cubicle wall, I was livid. This was not okay! Unacceptable.

And now, number two: Are you kidding me?

Sometimes I wonder why I'm friends with some people. For some, it goes beyond a simple lack of filter; they are just plain mean!

So, I recently got my hair cut. Blah, blah, blah. I'm in shock, it's been hard to get used to. Good cause, yadda, yadda, yadda. (I've been repeating myself a lot at work, can you tell?) It is no secret that I prefer my hair long and I'm having trouble learning how to style my new do (which means, I've been wearing it in a ponytail a lot). I've also been very vocal about the fact that I like the way it looks in a ponytail; it does the little flip-doo that I so admire in other women with short hair.

And yet, someone thought it was okay to tell me that: 1) my new haircut makes me look so much younger now (how old did I look before?!), and 2) my short hair looks so much nicer when I wear it down. When I have my hair pulled back (any length) I look like a spinster.

WTF?!

That is a direct quote from a supposed friend. What a bitch! Did I look like a spinster at my wedding? Because I had my hair pulled back then.

And what about all these days that I've been wearing it in a ponytail since I've gotten my hair cut? Was she telling me that every day all week I looked like a spinster?

I was so shocked, I didn't respond at all. But now I hear it over and over in my head, and with each replay I wonder yet again, "Why are we friends, exactly?" I'm not really sure.

It is just not right or fair that people can open their mouths and spout such horrible things with no remorse or recourse. In fact, it's wholly unforgivable. Sure, we've all said things we regret, but what she said goes beyond "regret." It's inexcusable for any person to be that clueless to that degree. People who say things like that think they're being honest. They think the brutal truth is okay because it's the truth. They think laughing after saying something severe makes it less venomous.

I think that's horse shit.

I think it's just plain rude and hurtful.

It's not just me. I'm speaking generically but it's actually one despicable person that I'm talking about. My friend, no less. Why am I friends with such a deplorable human being? This isn't the first time she's said something that hurt my feelings or someone else's. I've heard her tell people they "look tired." That means they look like shit. I guess I can't think of any other examples, but don't worry . . . they're out there.

The "just kidding" thing is one of my lesser known pet peeves. I hate the phrase "just kidding" when used to soften a harsh statement. That's what people like my bitch-friend at work say so they can say something mean and not get in trouble for it. But they still said it. "You look like hell today . . . JUST KIDDING! Hahahahaha!"

I'm not normally violent, but just writing that last paragraph made me want to slap her. And my point of all this is I'm still searching the appropriate response to the JK Bitches of the world.

I suppose, "Shut the EFF up," is out of the question.

Brain wave! I just thought of the perfect response to JK Bitch, and apparently I've come full circle. It's the response I heard at the library a while back: "My personal appearance is none of your business."

I'm actually looking forward to trying it out.

I'll always remember: playing the Oregon Trail game

2010-03-17T11:20:00.001-04:00

This may come as a shock to some, but when I was growing up, computers weren’t a big deal yet. Hard to imagine, right? It’s true, we didn’t have a computer until I was in . . . high school? It was high school when I had one of those dumb “What did you do last night?” conversations with my friend, but I specifically remember how his answer, “Oh, I was just surfing around on the internet,” completely baffled me. Not because I didn’t understand what it meant, but just because I couldn’t comprehend why a person would spend time “surfing around.” What was so great about it?

Back to computers. Before our home computer, we had an Atari and a Commodore 65. I was never really into either of them, but when we got the home computer I discovered: Oregon Trail.

Now that was a great game! They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore. So simple. So uncomplicated. So brutal.

As addicting as SIMS, yet so much more real. SIMS, with wants like “Throw a party” “Meet someone new” and “Woohoo,” just can’t compete with real-life problems like diphtheria and cholera and being attacked by Indians. Or the utter anguish you feel when that damn wagon sinks in the middle of the river and everyone drowns.

I’m an animal-lover. I’m an anthropomorphist. And still: my favorite part of Oregon Trail was hunting. You’d wait in the field for a deer or a rabbit (sometimes an elk!) to run across and KAPOW! Dinner is served. Sometimes those wily bastards would get away, or you’d wait and wait and wait and get nothing. That was always so disappointing.

The real fun, and okay now THIS is actually my favorite part, was that we somehow made it into a Family Game. Not in the way you’d think—we’d each play by ourselves—but by using the tombstones.

Yes, it’s a little morbid, okay a lot morbid, but sometimes we would create a family with the sole purpose of killing them so we could make the tombstone at the end. What can I say? It wasn’t that challenging of a game, strategically. Once you’d won a few times you had to find new ways to keep it interesting. And the tombstones were saved on your hard drive, so the next person to play the game would see it somewhere along their route.

My brother Scott was especially good at coming up with clever messages that were just as entertaining as playing the game. I could always tell when it was one of his. He’d create a family with the last name Goober, and first names like Obadiah or Snooky. You’d be trucking along, playing the game and feeling proud for making it across the river, when all of a sudden you’d pass a tombstone that read: RIP, Seymour Winky. And then some witty epitaph involving a phrase like long-standing or stunted.

RIP: Seymour Winky. He was stumped by the hardships on the trail.

I'm bald!

2010-03-15T12:37:00.003-04:00

Or maybe I should say, "I'm naked!"

I decided about a year ago that I wanted to donate my hair. It was already long (ha! I've had long hair my entire life!) so whenever I went to the salon I just had a trim. I did some research and it didn't take long to figure out that I do not meet the criteria for Locks of Love. I have several strikes against me (the fact that my hair has been highlighted in the past was the biggest one)(also, you're supposed to donate 10-12 inches and that was a hard pill to swallow).

So, I googled "donate hair" or somesuch and found out that I don't meet Pantene's Beautiful Length's criteria either. What the poo? Doesn't anyone want long hair anymore? Why is everyone so picky?

Significantly down the Google list (and after playing around with my search terms), I finally found it: an organization that isn't as fussy: Children with Hairloss. Turns out, they're perfect for me. They're based out of Michigan, which means it's about as local of an organization as I'm going to find. They only require 8 inches of hair, and it's okay if it's gray or highlighted.

So . . . I did it!

Please pardon the poor pictures.The lighting was very harsh and I wasn't wearing any makeup. But you can still figure out what is going on. The first and last pictures look especially awful to me . . . she was having trouble with my camera phone so I had to hold my smile for a really long time, and it had started to sag by the time she actually snapped the picture.

Before:

We had to split my hair into two ponytails to cut it off because I have so much hair. It's hard to comprehend how much hair I had (and still have). It's actually pretty fine, not coarse like you would think by looking at it. It's dark and wavy, so everyone assumes that it's thick, but actually: I just have an awful lot of it.

During:

Gasp! It's off!

The first picture we took I had my arms by my

side and OOPS! It looked like boob tassles.

We had a good laugh about that!

I ended up with 10 inches to send to Children with Hairloss, and my hairdresser had to take about four more inches off on top of that (to style it). I added blonde highlights also . . . you really don't see them at all in these horrible pictures but they turned out pretty nice. I do think my new style looks cute, and I will get used to it eventually (by the time it grows back, I hope), but it's definitely dramatic.

After:

I did pretty good, if I do say so myself. I didn't cry! I thought I might because I knew it would be a huge shock, but I held myself together amazingly well. I was in the salon for FOUR HOURS because we had to re-do the highlights (my hair has been dyed enough that the color doesn't go on evenly).

And now? Well, I must say: there is a learning curve with teaching myself how to style my own hair. I feel like a gigantic moron right now; I don't know how to hold the brush and the blow dryer at the same time, and after 20 minutes still end up with funny kinks.

My morale is so-so. I'm glad I did it--this was a Good Thing--but it's just so shocking to be without my hair. I feel very sympathetic toward those whiney bee-otches on America's Next Top Model (sobbing hysterically: "I just (hiccup) don't (sniff, sniff) feel like meeeee!"). I'm not crying about it, but I don't feel like myself, and that's hard.

The worst part is when I'm washing my hair . . . I feel so naked! And, since the haircut was on Saturday, I've only had two showers since then and it hasn't been long enough to reprogram myself how much shampoo to squeeze into my hand.

Year end project (part 2) completed

2010-03-09T21:47:00.007-05:00

Project review: Year end project

Project details
Completion date: 2/19/10
Deadline met: No
Status: Success

Objective
Success of project will be determined by ability to achieve the following: A horrible holiday picture in which few or none of the project attendees are looking at the camera or smiling, to be distributed with pride among family and friends in our first annual Newsletter.

Preparation
No prep.
When the day presented itself that the project could finally be attempted, the project attendees switched roles and caused major confusion from a managerial perspective.

Itemization
Task 1: Camera setup
Notes: This item was scheduled to be completed by Papa, using a tripod. Perhaps this could have happened if we'd actually prepared and planned for the project to take place prior to the moment captured below. Due to the spur of the moment nature of the project attempt, it was Mama that ended up completing this task, sans tripod.

Task 2: Everyone together on couch.
Notes: This item was to be completed by Mama, but unfortunately due to fussing with the camera, the mutiny was handled by Papa instead. There was an indication of insubordination.

Task 3: (Bunny) Sit like a princess and fall asleep in a highly inconvenient location. Refuse to move.
Notes: Accomplished by Blake instead. Refusal to move had more to do with being frozen in fear (as opposed to laziness or being too comfortable to move).

Task 4: (Izzy) Lick all butts/faces in sight and make Mama and Papa laugh.
Notes: Over-achiever Izzy never has to be told twice. Performed to perfection.

Task 5: (Georgie) Wiggle uncontrollably until Mama and Papa start losing patience.
Notes: By happenstance, this project goal was achieved by multiple project representatives. All except Blake had a wiggle. The "losing patience" aspect of the task was deemed inappropriate for the project and replaced with extreme annoyance.

Task 6: (Ernie) Refuse to cooperate until Papa and Mama start arguing.
Notes: A last minute substitution was required due to non-performance of a normally disobedient member. When the original participant diplayed unusual signs of cooperation, Project Associate Bunny took over the burden of rebellion and executed her defiance effortlessly. Merit prize awarded for unsightly body position as demonstrated in the photo below. Note the impossible leg contortion.

Task 7: (Blake) Run off and hide when Papa and Mama start yelling at everyone. Bonus task: knock something over on the way out.
Notes: Was fulfilled by Bunny and Ernie immediately upon completion of Task 8. Bonus points awarded for expedience.

Task 8: Take the picture using delay feature of digital camera.
Notes: A special honorarium is available for payout to project officials Mama and Papa for overlooking the disaster on the coffee table in the foreground and the woven wood blinds in the background. Kudos granted from the committee.

Summation and analysis
With the exception of not meeting the proposed deadline, all goals (primarily, that all attendees come through the project without injury or dismemberment) were met satisfactorily and our pride is insurmountable.

Merry Christmas from our family

Quote of the day: the dude at the library (Updated)

2010-03-09T20:15:00.000-05:00

You know when you hear someone say something and it is so blunt, so true, you repeat it to someone else just to relish it for a little longer? For me it happens a lot when a person is very direct because I tend to me more reserved. Well, wait. I'm not really that reserved . . . diplomatic, I guess? Whatever. I never would have said this; let's just leave it at that.

My husband and I were at the library, which is staffed mostly by college students. For whatever reason, a lot of the kids running the joint have the alternative fashion look (or maybe I just think they're alternative because I'm such a square in comparison). Whatever, the gal that works the front desk has a half-shaved head (to show off the tattoo on her skull) and rings in her nose and lip.

As a side note (after re-reading this post) I realized that this is coming off . . . snotty? Snooty? Something. I am reminded of an exchange from Sex and the City: Miranda and Carrie are talking and at one point Carrie puts her hands up in the air and states, "No judgment." Miranda's response was priceless: "Sounds like judgment."

I have a feeling that is what happened with my entry. I, the author, am Carrie. No judgment! You, the reader, are Miranda. Sounds like judgment!

I truly don't mean to sound like I'm judging anyone at the library. The only reason I am even bothering to point out things like nose rings and lip rings and tattooed skulls is because I'm (trying) to paint a picture. Succeeding? Apparently not, and that saddens me. I feel like I was supposed to write a disclaimer at the beginning of this post: "The visuals created within do not have any alterior motives beyond simple imagery."

It's just a story. The staff at the library are characters. I'm describing their appearance.

That's it and that's all.

So. The fellow that works the information desk has sandy red hair and a dry sense of humor that he wears like a sidearm. He's younger than me, but not by much, and wears brown corduroy pants and tan sweaters. He looks like the kind of chap that would prefer to be playing Doom to working in a library.

I'm just sayin'.

We were standing next to the information desk while he was helping a small group of four kids who were probably all 10-years-old. I'm guessing they were there to use the computers, and the little ringleader made a comment about the employee's goatee. I don't know what the adorable punk said, but I sure heard Doom's straight-faced, unapologetic response:

"My personal appearance is none of your business."

It ain't over until . . .

2010-03-01T22:47:00.006-05:00

My husband and I have both been complaining about what an especially elephantine winter we've had this year. We've pouted over our pants, fussed about fat-rolls, and yet for the most part haven't done anything about it. What do you do . . . ten pounds here or there isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things, and I can certainly be a good sport in the spirit of fluctuation. All in fun, right? But when the moment comes that the buttons are popping off, well . . . that's the moment, isn't it?

Okay, well. There haven't actually been any buttons popping off. And, to be clear, neither of us look any different. When I complain to anyone else about the small amount of extra padding, they are inevitably surprised to hear my assessment of my own body.

So. We've had quite a bit of snow these past few weeks, and several inches of fresh snow in the past several days. My mountain-climbing, bungee-jumping, hiking/skiing/camping, and generally outdoorsy husband decided that it would be Great Fun to go snowshoeing around our farm.

Out came the skisuit, and out came the special insulating underlayers purchased against the day. The special layers that, incidentally, have not been used since last year. I walked into the bedroom to find my husband standing in the middle of the room examining a few inches of exposed belly in confusion.

"That looks a little snug, my love."

Now, had he said that to me, I probably would have cried. But, being a man, he actually laughed and agreed. Perplexed, he tugged at the hem and inched it over his navel as far as it would go.

Not very far.

He abandoned the effort as a lost cause and--letting it all hang out there--asked how long it had been since he'd worn this particular piece of his snowshoeing outfit.

I thought about it for a second, and could not remember a single occasion since last year. He couldn't think of one either. But, how was it possible that he'd gained this much weight in a year? All his pants still fit. All his other shirts still fit.

And yet: holy Britney Spears' midriff, Batman.

Nothing daunted, he kept pulling out winter clothes for his snowshoeing adventure, and with crinkled brow continued the process of getting dressed. He seemed to be thinking really hard about something . . . I could just imagine the calculations going on in his head: "Last night's dinner: tacos. Night before: spaghetti. When did I eat a bowling ball? I can't seem to recall."

Resigned to the tight squeeze, and surprisingly cheerful, I saw him raise his arms to shake out another shirt and hold it up, testing it's size without actually putting it on. More belly.

I watched fascinated as a struggle ensued between my entombed husband and the second layer of insulating liner. It was then I decided that maybe I should leave the room to give him some privacy. I certainly wouldn't want anyone to witness me wiggling in (or out!) of clothes in that fashion.

With one last transfixed look at the tangled mess of elbows and bare tummy--I couldn't really tell what was going on; was he coming or going?--I reluctantly started to the door. Shamelessly, I paused to pet the cat so I could sneak one last peek. Hey, we're married, remember?

Apparently my dawdling created enough time for him to decide, "Screw it!" and start wiggling back out. Just when I made it out the door I heard him exclaim in incredulity:

A Women's Small!

I whirled around and flew back in just in time to see him vehemently hurl my blasted shirt onto the bed in bitter, astonished relief.

I think something is outside

2010-02-25T21:39:00.001-05:00

My dogs have been barking like crazy off and on, and when they stop the house is quiet. I hear the growl of a plane passing overhead, and I can see snow whisping past the window. Were those footprints across the yard there when I got home, or are they new?

I'm not sure what it is out there, but it frightens me.

I'll always remember: the Tom Petty concert

2010-02-21T18:51:00.005-05:00

This story is from a few years ago, but unfortunately I do not have a very good picture.

Trust Wikipedia to know everything. Here's a picture of The Gorge Amphitheatre:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gorge_Amphitheatre

The Gorge refers to the Columbia River Gorge in the Pacific Northwest, and the amphitheater picture above is where I went to a concert with a couple of friends. We actually went to two concerts that summer, Tom Petty and Dave Matthews Band, and I think it was the Tom Petty concert that contains this particular memory. Truthfully, it's been long enough, and the concerts were close enough to the same time, that I don't really remember. Anyway, it doesn't matter.

We were sitting pretty far back, not quite as far as the photographer from above, and the concert was rockin'. My favorite part was that whenever an especially good song would come on (Free Falling!) a cloud of smoke would drift lazily across our heads, starting from right next to the stage. And it didn't smell like cigarette smoke!

We enjoyed the concert, and went back to our campsite to have a couple of beers and turn in. That's really all we're interested in--good ol' legal beer--but a lot of the concert attendees were enjoying a much wilder party.

Up to and including the crew in the campsite next to us.

We all got a good laugh at their silliness (that is, while we were still up and moving around), but eventually the fun wore off and they were just annoying. There were four people in their campsite, three boys and a gal, and they were having a hot diggity dog good time.

Eventually, we got sleepy and all went to bed, but our neighbors were still going strong. They had shifted the substance of their party into their tent (all four of them) and seemed to be making use of the enclosed space while working on their deep breathing. No explanation required, I hope?

We all lay in our sleeping bags, listening to the harsh whispers and shushing, wondering when they'd tire themselves out and go to sleep. Or just pass out and shut up.

I'm not sure how long we lay there listening, but slowly we realized that their hilarity had changed to paranoia. We heard one of the boys as he kept saying, "It's all good, man! It's all good." In our tents, bleary eyed and tired, we simply stared up at the ceiling and didn't say a word.

And then . . . it happened.

The exorcism of the sch'roomed-out chick via projectile vomiting. Copious, growling retches, again and again and again. From the depths of her gullet, a backwards waterfall.

A panicked feeling emanated out of their tent and crept around their campsite; we could almost see its shadow pass by our tent. We could hear frenzied scrabbling next door, rustling and sleeping bag zippers, one of the guys exclaimed that he stepped in it. In my campsite it was calm silence as we listened to the agitation next door.

Finally we were able to sleep, and the next morning when we got up, there they all were, tearing down their site too. We expected them to sleep late in the fug of the gal's vomit, but instead they were all up and walking around like nothing had happened. Horrified, we saw one of them casually ball up the tent and throw it nonchalantly in their car without regard for the contents no doubt still sloshing around within it.

I hate winter (Part 2)

2010-02-19T10:21:00.001-05:00

Technically this picture was from last year, but it's been awful snowy'ness for the past few weeks, so it could have been from this year.

Obviously since the person is standing next to the car, it wasn't too serious of a crash. But the fact that the vehicle is laying on its side is pretty bad for all that.

He was probably trying to pass that chick in the green Taurus.

---------------
PS
Oops, forgot to mention something. La Maestra makes a good point, but just so it's clear: I was stopped when I took this picture. If I'd taken it while I was moving, I'd have waited until I was closer!

Hey big spender

2010-02-15T15:28:00.004-05:00

For Valentine's Day dinner, my husband and I went out to dinner with our friends, another married couple. We had a bit of a debate at the dinner table, which I think was so interesting.

Now, I don't really want to give away the restaurant because this post is supposed to be in the Hypothetical World. All I'm going to say is that we were at a famous Italian chain restaurant that, for the sake of this entry, I will call: Pimento Greenhouse. Do with that what you will . . .

Now, at Pimento Greenhouse, one of their signatures is unlimited breadsticks. My favorite thing (since I don't really like bread all by itself) is to use the alfredo sauce as a dipper for the breadstick. This is a common enough occurrence that if you request it, Pimento Greenhouse will actually bring out a special dish of alfredo sauce just for this purpose. On this particular night I was very verbal about wanting the alfredo sauce for my breadsticks, but the dish is pretty small and I wasn't the only one dipping, so we ran out.

Either that or I'm a hog and ate it all myself. Could be.

When I asked our waitress to bring out more alfredo she made this regretful face and said that she couldn't without charging us. I thought that was weird, since everyone knows Pimento Greenhouse is swimming in alfredo sauce, so who even cares about giving away extra? But then the weirdest thing happened:

Our waitress did a nudge-nudge, wink-wink thing and said she'd sneak some out to us.

A serious debate ensued after she left . . . we were all shocked that a little extra alfredo sauce was such a big deal. Really, does Pimento Greenhouse employ someone to keep tabs on how much alfredo sauce is going to each table? Or, did our waitress just want to get on our good side for a better tip? Does she say that to everyone that wants more alfredo sauce?

Does she hope that her table will ask for more alfredo sauce just so she can act like she's breaking the rules by sneaking some out? How much is gratitude worth?

I immediately felt cheap; like I was being bought for the measly price of a cup of alfredo sauce. A teeny cup of alfredo sauce.

Our debate ran its course and was left unresolved. As dinner continued I'll be darned if it didn't happen again. Same response to a different request for more: can the person who had soup also have salad? "He's not supposed to; I should charge him more." There is no way this was a coincidence! Is there?

We went back and forth between feeling like we were getting a good deal and wanting to thank her, to feeling like we were getting misled and wanting to punch her.

In the end, we decided we probably got misled, but we thanked her anyway by giving an especially large tip. She was a good waitress, there was no doubt about that, and she probably earned it regardless of the Sneaky Debate. It was a busy night for Pimento Greenhouse, and she was being run off her feet. We got refills on our drinks whenever we wanted (only once was she a little slow), our food came out in a timely manner, there were no major screw ups. We were happy to give her 30 percent.

Although I can't help wondering how the math works out for what the extra shot of alfredo cost us.

-------------
PS: This is in response to the comments.
I just want to make sure everything is CRYSTAL clear. I absolutely love Pimento Greenhouse. It is one of my favorite restaurants. Although this post may have seemed very critical, okay I guess it was, I think that's all right sometimes. And, although our waitress was very nice and an excellent waitress (that snuck some breadsticks and extra mints to us just before we left, I forgot to say), most of my criticism was meant for her. There's a right and a wrong way to go fishing for a bigger tip. Giving great service, remembering what beverages we had and bringing refills without being asked . . . she did all that. She didn't have to make us feel guilty on top of it all.

Doggie circus

2010-02-14T11:28:00.004-05:00

Please pardon the low-quality picture.
I think I must have been laughing; couldn't hold my hand still.

Papa was putting on his shoes and I had my back to him when all of a sudden I heard him ask, "Do I have a dog on my back?"

I'll never understand how our pets get these bright ideas into their heads, or what they think they're going to accomplish sometimes! Crazy little circus clown.

Bird's eye baby

2010-02-14T11:02:00.013-05:00

I especially love how his cheek is squished and wrinkled against my side. I was holding him on his back like a baby with his head cradled in the nook of my arm, and he was so relaxed his jaw sagged open like when you fall asleep on an airplane. He only opened his eyes because I moved to grab my phone . . . after I took the picture, they slowly drifted shut again. He didn't move.

Izzy, in the background, was my elbow rest, and she didn't even twitch when I took the picture.

Twenty-five pounds!

2010-02-12T23:44:00.003-05:00

Took Blake to the vet today, and long story short: he weighs twenty-five pounds!

But, since when do I leave anything at just the short story?

Even before I knew Blake's official weight, I expected to get a chastising from the vet. Surprisingly it never came. He agreed I need to make a better effort to get some weight off (I brought it up myself; why bother waiting?), but he said his blood work was "Excellent!"

The vet showed me the report from Blake's blood work, and every single value was within normal ranges except the one that means he was very slightly dehydrated. Nothing alarming, he probably just didn't get to the waterbowl that morning. Such a good report from the Doc was exciting, but still frustrating. The whole reason I made the appointment for Blake was because I was convinced something was wrong. To hear there is nothing wrong gave me mixed feelings. Relief--duh--but frustration too because the last thing I want is to be faced with a puzzle that takes weeks (and oodles of money) to figure out.

Here are the clues that led up to taking Blake to the vet: for about two weeks he's been vomiting intermittently (but copiously)(ugh), he's been eating hair, and pooping the normal amount (that's a non-symptom)(I was asked three times at the vet's if he had diarrhea--no one could believe that he didn't). But his coat has gone from soft, fuzzy orange to greasy, dandruff'y . . . uh, well of course it's still orange. I couldn't decide if I thought he was moping; how much does he normally lay around? (Lie around? Does anyone actually know--or care?)

I've spent the last two weeks stressing about what on earth could possibly be wrong. I couldn't even decide if thought something was wrong. Back and forth, merry go round and round and round. Finally I couldn't stand the circus in my head anymore, and decided I would take him in to get some peace and quiet. Like in a cheesy horror film, I could hear a music box that sounded like it needed to be cranked. Every time I looked at Blake I could hear a flat doomsday harmonica.

And today at the vet's office, in addition to the slow whine of the music, I also could hear, over and over, the cry Blake did when I was stuffing him into his cat carrier this morning. He didn't want to go, he was scared and technically it's too small for him, but I had to get him in. His claws gripped the carpet so I had to push on his rump pretty hard. That's when he cried out and I let go. Of course he ran to the other side of the room, and I did a little weeping myself.

It doesn't matter when you know you're trying to help. Bully on me that I knew he needed to go into the vet, for a moment I just wanted to hold him like a child. But cats don't want to be comforted, and I had prophylactically closed the bedroom door so he wouldn't be able to escape. I pulled myself together and somehow managed to get him in. But his cry stayed in my ears the rest of the day.

At the vet I explained why we were there, and that was when the he suggested blood work. I could still hear Blake's voice echoing in my ears, literally because he continued to cry in his carrier, but also in my imagination from the morning. The fact that the vet ordered blood work validated my sense of wrongness. An ominous feeling clung to my skin like the stink of onions; they told me to wait until 3 to call and check on him. I heard them tell four other customers before me to also call in at 3 to check on their pets. Great. I'm sure that will speed things along.

I didn't bother calling at 3; they only have one phone line and I knew it would be pointless. I started calling at 4:15 but didn't get through until 4:45. They left me on hold for five minutes and when they came back to the line I was told that the vet wanted me to come pick Blake up and he would talk to me then. My heart raced and my palms started to sweat because at first it felt like I was in trouble. Like I had to go to the principal's office.

That was when my mind started playing tricks on me. Horrible, awful fears started creeping into my head, whispering together and drowned out only by the memory of Blake's frightful cry from the cat carrier incident. Spooky swishing whispers like in a scary movie, and I could see Blake's face--his eyes!--looking through the holes in the sides of the cat carrier as he stared at me, pleading and begging for me to make the fear go away. He trusted me to help, felt betrayed that I wasn't doing anything, had no idea that when the lady took him away it was all going to be okay. He didn't struggle but I could see his paws, stretched so wide he looked like a duck. Webbed duck feet, with claws.

He must have sensed that I didn't know if it would be all right either. I tried to reassure him, kept saying "It's okay, Blakey!" but of course I didn't know if it would be okay. My stomach felt hollow when I walked out of the vet's office with my empty cat carrier. I spent the day in a fog of imagining the worst, which didn't lift until I went to pick him up. The clear, fogless day revealed the truth contained in a bottle of kitty laxative pills.

You're probably wondering why I'm recounting all of this, and you know . . . I don't really know either. But I think it's something to do with the impulse we all have to tell someone when you have a nightmare--to bring the monster into the light. To purge yourself of demons by talking about it and sharing the burden. I hope you don't mind.

I'll always remember: Daddy teasing the Girl Scouts

2010-02-12T08:10:00.002-05:00

I was a Girl Scout for many years, all the way up until I graduated high school. Sometimes I liked being a Girl Scout, sometimes not so much, but I will always and forever remember the day my dad told one of the girls in my troop that we had a dead bird in our living room. Although I wasn't there, my family's sarcasm is so acute that I didn't need to be. I am still able to picture exactly what happened.

I remember the gal's name was Sherry. Even though today I wouldn't be able to pick her out of a lineup, I can still remember she had dirty-blonde hair with curls that always looked like they needed to be combed. She wasn't an especially clean kid, but when kids are 10 years old how many of them are very clean anyway? When I think of her I remember Koolaid mustaches and stained t-shirts.

I'm sure she turned out lovely. Again, I wouldn't recognize her if she was right in front of me. Now I'm not even certain her name was Sherry!

At any rate, one of the girls in my troop, who may or may not have been named Sherry and may or may not have had blonde hair, came in from our renovated garage where we had our meetings. Yes, we had the meetings at my house.

She probably went to use the bathroom in that hallway, or maybe to get a drink of water from the kitchen. I don't know, but somehow she ended up talking to my dad, who was sitting on the couch watching tv. Innocently.

My dad can be a scary guy. He's tall and formiddable, and the fact that he knows how intimidating he looks is just an inside joke with himself. All in fun though. All in fun.

I came by my anthoropomorphism honestly, straight from my mother. At that time in my life we had a small zoo at our house, to include a parakeet that lived in a cage that hung from the ceiling. Buttercup was the last surviving of our four parakeets that we'd had at one time. We only ever purchased one bird, which I think is funny. Two of our neighbors gave us their pets that they didn't want, and even the pet store gave my mom a bird once. They saw her in the store all the time buying birdseed, so figured she would be a good home for a bird that couldn't be sold because at some time in her life her wing was broken and it never got set right, so it stuck out.

It was Buttercup, the free bird from the pet store, that lasted the longest. She was a mean bird--in fact, she probably killed the second to the last bird, the blue one. I forget what we used to call the blue one?

Anyway, without her little buddies, I guess Buttercup didn't have much to do, and a lot of the time she would just sit quietly in her cage. When Sherry came in she didn't see her right away. Did we move the cage? I don't remember.

Sherry was probably nervous talking to my dad, and she asked him what happened to our bird. And my dad, unsmiling, said simply, "It died." Then I think his conscience thought better of the bluntness, or maybe he planned it all along, because without missing a beat he raised his arm and pointed at Buttercup, a convenient statue, and continued, "So we had it stuffed."

With a horrified glance, Sherry looked up at Buttercup, frozen on her perch playing along, and then over to my dad, serious and unreadable as dammit. Sherry gulped and tiptoed back to the meeting while dad went back to his tv show. And what I'll always remember is my dad's laugh as he proudly recounted the exchange.

To this day, wherever she is, Sherry believes my folks taxidermied our yellow parakeet.

Cross Countrypades

2010-02-10T11:18:00.001-05:00

You know, Cross Country plus Ice Capades.

. . . forget it.

Slogging my way in to work this morning, I slowly came to the realization that moving across the country has been grossly unfair. Mostly for weather-related reasons, although of course first and foremost for leaving my home and family. Dur.

But the effing weather! Oh my WTF?

I have to pause for a moment to recount a hysterical scene from a mediocre movie that you most likely haven't seen. New In Town with Renee Zellweger was so-so, but there was a part at the beginning that was plain ol' awesome. Renee's character lives in Miami as a big-shot executive, and she gets sent to Minnesota to oversee layoffs and streamlining of a factory. At the airport, wearing a sweatshirt over her power-skirt-suit, in the dead of winter, she looks out the door at everyone standing in their winter coats, shrugs and says, "How bad could it be?" as she starts carting her luggage out the door. The automatic doors open, she walks through the atrium, the interior doors close just as she makes it outside and gets blasted by the wind. You just hear her yell, "Son of a . . . " before the doors close and cut her off, then we watch her almost get blown over by the wind as she gets her cumbersome cart turned around to come back inside. The interior doors open and you hear the remnants of her swearing dying out as she trudges back in.

Subtract the power-skirt-suit, and that has been me on numerous occasions.

At any rate, despite its appearance, this post is not going to be another "I hate the cold" rant. I think it's been said enough times. Although, to be clear, I still get way more than the normal amount of commentary when I wear a coat indoors (apparently that hasn't been said enough). You'd think, since I'm cold all the time, it would have become commonplace to see me wearing a coat or a sweater or whatever. But no, I continue to be subjected to the dumbest question imaginable on a consistent basis. Even the UPS guy says, "Are you cold?" when he sees me wearing a jacket.

Yet this post is about driving. Surprise!

It is. We have almost made it through The Winter Blast of 2010. Wait a second. That was pathetic. Do over, and mean it this time! Use your whole body. Bring it up from your belly. Get your shoulders into it. Tilt your head back when you say the word blast. Put the ahhh into melodrama.

THE WINTER BLAAST

That's better. So, THE WINTER BLAAST is drawing to a close (I'm sure we'll still get a FREEZE OUT! and an ARCTIC BLAST and who knows what else). Yesterday was the worst day so far of this storm, and we were pounded with about 1-48 inches of snow. I'm only being a little bit silly -- some of the drifts are almost as tall as me. The snow is up to my waist when I'm walking the dogs. Yet in other places, where it's especially windy, you see bare pavement. I'm not really sure what the un-drifted total ended up being . . . maybe 8 inches?

Driving home from work yesterday was kinda scary. Not shit-your-pants scary, but my hands were locked at 10 and 2, and my the time I got home my shoulders were stiff from being hunched over the steering wheel for so long. My eyes were dry from not blinking enough. I saw 5 cars wiped out in the ditch or the center median (if they were in the center median, it was obvious from the tracks in the snow that they were originally driving west (opposite direction as me) and they had spun completely around and were now facing east). It took over an hour because most of the way I was only going 35 miles per hour.

But the worst part, worse than all that, was this stupid chick driving a green Ford Taurus. She is the reason women get tagged as bad drivers. Her hands were at 10 and 2 also, but don't think that will make a darn bit of difference when it comes to sympathy. At some point "caution" becomes plain stupidity, and I have no compassion for the overly cautious and their crippling idiocy.

I felt fairly comfortable driving 35 miles per hour. The roads were pretty slushy, but the plows had been out and it was more a static worry about ice than anything else. Sometimes I even popped up to 40 or 45, and lots of cars were passing me going 60 or more. Athough they were idiots; most everyone was plugging along at less than 50 miles per hour.

The green Taurus was going 30.

I could see her quite a ways back (how did I know it was a her?)(the feminist in me is outraged on her behalf to be pigeonholed like that, but . . . I'm just calling it like it is). I had to slow down a bit as I came up to her, and there was a car in between us so I didn't at first even know the green Taurus was there (the car between us--a man--was following too closely). Neither me nor the man in the SUV wanted to go around the green Taurus because the left lane was in really bad shape.

The SUV broke first. He pulled into the left lane, barely creeping, and a second SUV came flying up trying to pass all of us. Maybe it was that second SUV that actually broke first from way back in the train? I saw it all happen in slow motion, the second SUV used his brakes, fishtailed, and cracked into the back of the first SUV that hadn't gotten up to speed yet because of the damnable green Taurus.

It was just a fender bender. I could see the second SUV was not pulling all the way off to the side, like he was contemplating a hit and run, but then I saw him slow to a stop so I just kept trucking along.

And then I became the schmuck right behind the green Taurus. The left lane was still looking scary, and after seeing that accident I was nervous about passing her. 30 miles per hour wasn't much slower than I was comfortable going anyway, so I just kept my distance and stayed where I was. Not even grumbling because hey, she's just being careful, right?

Until she saw a bridge coming up and coasted down to 13 effing miles per hour!

Yes, I was the jerk that honked. She didn't look up. Stupid women drivers.

Ahem.

Then this morning, less than 12 hours later and now driving back to work, I realized this cross countrypades of snow and ice is not all it's cracked up to be. There are no figure skaters, no double-axels in a Mickey Mouse costume. It's just crap weather, bad driving, and scary skidding.

And somehow, some way, I end up the lead car. Why? I'm the newbee to this stupid driving-around-in-crap-weather . . . uh, crap. Yet I always end up being the brave bird at the point of the triangle, leading the way, deciding the speed. Like no one else can make the decision on what a safe speed is, and that way if they end up in the ditch they'll point to me and say, "Well, I was following her." But I don't know what the heck I'm doing!

This morning the ruts, which weren't even technically "ruts" because there was no landing strip of snow down the middle, so anyway the path of bare pavement was clear to see in the right lane. All of a sudden the path shifted so much that I was straddling the white dashed line, driving right down the center of the highway. Then the path moved over because the other cars who drove this way earlier realized their mistake and overcompensated the other way. All of a sudden I went from straddling the dashed line to straddling the expanding triangular white lines of the exit lane. I was halfway off the freeway before I realized what was happening! In my rearview mirror I saw the line of cars follow my example.

Is this like a right of passage? When do I get to just be a sheep?

Blake's special needs

2010-02-10T08:01:00.022-05:00

I've figured out what it is that makes me say Blake has autism. Just in case you don't like clicking on links when I post hyperlinks, I'm going to re-type the disclaimer contained within the post I'm referencing. It's very important:

"Remember folks, I'm an anthropomorphist. From my perspective, it is not an insult to human beings to talk about animals as if they were people. So, Reader: if you are insulted by me liking my cat to a person with autism, then obviously you haven't been paying attention to the fact that I'm specifically saying it's not meant to be an insult or joke, I do realize the gravity of having a mental disorder . . . do you realize the curse of anthropomorphism? So let's move on and give me an ounce of credit that for goodness sake I am not making fun of autistic people by saying my cat has autism!"

Moving on.

Blake is the happiest cat I've ever had. Not because his life is so great, although . . . come on. It is. All he does is sleep, eat and lounge all day.

He's so photogenic!

What a life, eh?

But he is truly happy almost all of the time. It's the strangest thing . . . he is always smiling. Check out the pictures in some of these posts:

That's enough. I don't even know if you're clicking on the links. Just in case you were on the fence about clicking on them, just so you know they are mostly just photos of Blake. So you don't have to scroll through a bunch of text. Anyway.

Look how he's smiling in every single photo. I feel like a detective and I'm proving my point by submitting evidence. Note especially the last link: see how Blake is smiling and Bunny is not? That's not just me, is it? Bunny is content, she is a perfectly happy cat, but she's not smiling and Blake is. I don't care if you're an anthropomorphist or not . . . it is a fact that he is smiling. And it's not because he's cheesing it up for the camera, but rather that's just the way his face looks all the time. Bunny is serious, Ernie is doofy, and Blake is smiley. That's his normal expression.

Except when there are people over.

He's like the Happy Clown Sad Clown theater mask. Wait, is the theater mask a clown? I may have made that up. Okay, so. I'm an idiot. But that's not the point. The point is: Blake has two faces. Happy and . . . Unhappy? Sad? Whatever the clown facial expressions are, Blake's second face is scared.

As soon as another human (not me or Dan) walks into our house, like you're turning off a light his face goes from happy to scared. It's impossible to photograph* so my detective self will probably never have evidence to post, but take my word for it: as easily as you can see the smile, you can also see the transition from smiling to scared.

*Because it happens too quickly. All I'd ever be able to capture on camera is his orange asscheeks disappearing around the corner.

When he gets scared, his eyes get wide. His forehead crinkles up because his eyebrows are raised. His space between his eyeballs and his whiskers (his cheeks?) is elongated because the corners of his mouth have dropped. He tucks his tail like a bad dog.

But still, it is the process of his transformation, the movement that is the alteration, that is most noticable, rather than the final result. You can see the change. Have you ever jokingly told someone bad news just to psych them out? It's mean to bluntly state it like that, but haven't we all done it? "Your car is being towed." [You watch their face change from smile to horror] "Just kidding!" [Relief]

Except with poor little Blake, it's not a joke. There's no relief until he's certain all strangers have left. Maybe it isn't autism anyway, but rather a severe case of anxiety disorder. Whatever it is, strangers are definitely traumatic on a scale of unbelievable proportions. His coping skills involve . . . nothing constructive, come to think of it. He hides. He looks scared. Sometimes he hisses, but usually he just freezes like a deer. If he completely falls apart, he might run away, but that's just to go hide somewhere else. He can't learn, he can't trust, he can't get over it, he is wholly unable to cope with the situation.

And now I'm not quite sure how to end this entry. Am I looking for agreement? Applause? I don't know either.

Guess I just have to hope for a photo-op so I can post my proof.

I am a square

2010-02-02T10:42:00.006-05:00

Dear Former Follower #60,

I'm sorry I had to block you, but your picture was shockingly inappropriate for my tame little blog. I like to write about my pets, I rant about grammar . . . now and then I'll post some feedback on a Current Event. Nakedness just doesn't go, if you know what I mean.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all about Shock Effect, and I love the unexpected just as much as the next guy. Who'da thought Winnie Cooper (that's me) would ever get a tattoo? Or three? So, although I absolutely get it, I just can't quite condone a nakey picture on my blog.

I apologize that my conservativeness is getting in the way of your licentia poetica. But when all is said and done, I am--irrevocably--a square.

I hope you don't hold it against me . . .

Uh, a grudge, I mean. I hope you don't hold a grudge against me. I wasn't talking about holding anything else against me.

Sigh.

Georgie's Snoopy face

2010-01-26T23:50:00.020-05:00

I had a moment tonight. I have not laughed this hard since . . . I honestly do not know the last time I laughed this hard. There were tears, real tears, splashing on the leather of the sofa beneath my prostrated cheek. My stomach was clenched so tight I was curled up in a ball. I scared the cat out of the room.

It was a good moment. Brief, just a flash of a second, but still an enormous moment. The repercussions being that I will never be able to look at my dog without laughing again.

Unfortunately, capturing an identical moment on camera is utterly impossible. There's just no way I could ever be that prepared with a camera. Even if I knew it was coming. And I had no clue what was coming.

Dan and I were innocently watching television. More trashy TV, of course . . . Make it or Break it, this time. Yes, the tweenage show about high school gymnasts. It's right down there with Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, and we love it. It unknowingly set the tone for the evening.

During the day the dogs are confined in one part of the house (which is, just so we don't sound like jail wardens, more space than I had in my 2 bedroom apartment). By having the dogs sectioned off it gives the cats free rein, keeps Blake from becoming a hermit because he can come out of the bedroom to eat, and (the least of our concerns, when all is said and done) also saves our leather furniture from the tornado of destruction that is disguised as Georgie. Right after we ate our dinner in front of the TV, Dan left the room to let them out, and I stayed on the couch, fast-forwarding through the commercial.

Izzy was the first to appear around the corner. She came thundering around the bend--a delicate elephant--and just before she hit the oddly located linoleum (our house is stupid) I saw her slow down and walk cautiously over what is, in her mind, a bizarre patch of slipperiness.

Georgie has yet to learn. Perhaps he can't learn. Perhaps it's all part of the fun? He's not a cautious dog, that's for certain, so maybe he does it on purpose. Whatever the answer is about Georgie's motivation, every night like a broken record, right after Izzy's dainty entrance, he pops into view like a fart and goes skidding across the linoleum. An unruly squirt, the size of chaos.

This time, like always, Georgie came a-flyin' around the corner, skating across the linoleum, and once his feet touched the shag he leaped into the air to sail over the ottoman and land next to me on the couch. No matter how many times I've seen it, the white and black flying blur is frightening enough to make me flinch and brace myself for the impact. How can such a small dog create that much force when he lands on you? I think it's his teeny, pointed feet. Ten pounds is a lot when it's concentrated on feet the size of needlepoints.

But this time my bracing was unnecessary. Something didn't go as he planned.

Somewhere he missed a step. He did the flying, the skating, the leaping, but then . . . it all went wrong. Instead of sailing cleanly over the ottoman, his foot touched down and threw him off balance. He jerked and wobbled, flailed for his center of gravity like someone who hits an unexpected patch of ice. Ever the vigilant gymnast, he managed to gain his balance and the interrupted momentum propelled him forward like a rock skipping across a still pond.

Except with Georgie a rock skip is more like a rudimentary vault, wholly unacceptable. Skipping rocks is something old men do when they're tired of fishing. My little acrobat decided that he would not, could not, come out of this botched job looking like an old man. He had to fix it or be damned.

Mid leap, mid skip, he thought fast and went for the glory. Instead of allowing his body to placidly finish its skip across the pond (er, ottoman) and land nimbly next to me on the couch (which is assuredly what would have happened), he used the foot touching the ottoman to spring shockingly upward. Somehow the angle of his body changed, became vertical, and for a freeze-frame instant he hung in the air--a twisted, grinning salmon. I heard the click of my mental camera, and always and forever will remember Georgie the Ham intentionally posing, unconsciously an imitation of Snoopy doing the Happy Dance on top of his doghouse. I was looking up at him from the couch, actually I was almost underneath him, and he was suspended mid-air. All I could see were his arms stretched wide, a white belly, and black ears stuck to both corners of a joyous smile.

If we'd had time, we both would have thought that he was going to make it. But the camera started rolling again, and the Snoopy impersonation melted away as the gleeful curlicue of his taut body continued its descent toward the couch. Neither of us were aware of the fact that he wasn't going to land next to me until he crashed into the cushy pillow of the cushion and disappeared to the floor.

Without any hesitation, he bounced up and started preening triumphantly. He dusted off his shoulders with a casual nonchalance, and peeked around for the Shakespearean chorus standing stage left and holding up perfect 10's. When that failed, he looked for applause from Dan and me.

But we were frozen, staring at him in disbelief. The scene was stuck, it kept replaying over and over in my mind. Oblivious to our uncultured ignorance and still jubilantly high over his victorious feat, Georgie came over to me and said clearly as if he'd spoken out loud, "I'm a-may-zing." He looked over his shoulder at Dan with a proud, accomplished, "Did you see that?" look on his face.

Dan and I collapsed. Blind with hilarity, we simply let go and allowed ourselves a few minutes of insane-asylum-caliber laugher. Georgie walked back and forth between us, confused and defensive.

"I do my own stunts," he explained seriously. The laugher rose up a level. "No really. I'm that talented," he insisted expertly. The laughter reached the point that we were actually silent. Georgie started pouting when he realized that we wouldn't--couldn't!--believe him, and then he gave up.

He's still sulking and muttering under his breath about the injustice of living with a house full of artless philistines who are completely unappreciative of his superior athleticism and ferocity in the face of danger.

See the linoleum behind him?

It's hard to explain because--again--the layout of our house is dumb.

Professor W can you hear me?

2010-01-23T18:11:00.095-05:00

Do you ever have powerful moments in your life that you don't realize the magnitude of until later? Perhaps it's much later.

I've been thinking about just such a moment, and since things are always clearer when I write, I thought I'd get it out of my head and into a post to see if I can bring it into focus.

It has to do with inspiration, but I don't think it was really an inspirational moment. In fact, when all was said and done, it was just an aside in an uneventful writing class in college. A writing class that in the end was just one of many.

I remember Professor W vividly though, for two reasons. Number Two: he had a huge crush on me, and Number One: explained below.

The crush is another story.

Okay, so we were in class one day, and Professor W was talking about the fictional disclaimer at the beginning of some books. The one that tends to vary a little bit but usually goes something like: "This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental."

It was his next comment that changed my life. He said, "Which, you know, they only put in there when it's all true."

All my life when I'm in the middle of reading a book I really enjoy, part of why I love it so much is because the characters feel real to me. I have a knack for getting so immersed in the story, the world around me fades. When I'm really into a good book, I don't even know where I am or if someone is talking to me. The characters feel like my friends.

It doesn't matter if the storyline is unrealistic, it's the people that are real. Remember Omri? He was in The Indian in the Cupboard. I was so fascinated with that story when I was young, and wished it was real because it felt so real when I was reading the book. I even had an old skeleton key, but no cupboard to use it on. I wasn't so stupid as to think The Indian in the Cupboard was a real story, but . . . I just wanted it to be real. Somehow, some way, with all my heart I wished that it really happened, that Omri had really lived. Perhaps he was still alive. Maybe I could meet him! Or Little Bear! When reading the story, it seemed possible.

Something about Professor W's comment pierced all the way into my soul. In a split second that lasted a length of my entire life thus far of reading books, I thought about each book individually and wondered, "Did it have that disclaimer at the beginning?" And then, "I hope so."

Somehow, without realizing it, I also thought about it from the other side of the coin. From my side. Without meaning to, I thought about how I wanted the chance to put that disclaimer at the beginning of a book that I had written. I shiver now to remember, I still want it so much, but at the moment in Professor W's class, it was just a passing dream. I wish I could thank Professor W, even though he obviously had no clue and assuredly wouldn't remember the moment even if I could tell him about it now. I just want him to know what it meant to me. I want him to know that, in part, his comment is what is driving me to write my book.

To this day, when I get a new book and I see the disclaimer on those first few pages with the copyright information, I get a ghost of a thrill, and I remember that day in Moreland Hall. I read the familiar words, sometimes stare for a few extra minutes at the typesetting. I think about the printing process and imagine the pages coming off the printer. The little blurb releases everyone involved from liability, but doesn't change the fact that the rest of the words contained in the book are the truth. The truth may be in disguise or hidden, but it's still there for anyone who knows to look for that sneaky sentence on the copyright page, innocently waiting. A quiet code.

A secret between the author and me.

My first and last movie review: Avatar

2010-01-20T21:00:00.002-05:00

My husband and I are huge dorks!

I've seen it. The Movie of the Century. And there are still 90 years to go. Now what?

Okay, I'm partially making a joke, but you've got to admit: it's a little bit funny. I can tell you this for certain: the DJs on the radio are having a field day. I can't drive to work without hearing about the supposed politics, the glory and the opposite-of-glory, the tree-hugging and the . . . who wouldn't want to hug a tree? Everyone has an opinion, but as of yet, no one's opinion has agreed with mine.

Hence this post.

My opinion is pretty simple. It's short and sweet. It goes like this:

Avatar was a wonderful movie. It was an interesting story that had nothing to do with politics, or at least no more so than buying a pair of leather pants or having a canoe in your living room or wearing a Christmas ornament for a corsage.

If that didn't make sense to you, then I can't help you.

Seriously, the storyline of Avatar was great and in no way political. It's Terminator I meets Dances with Wolves. It's Minority Report meets Troy.

It's a love story. It's a war between good and evil.

Yes, the glasses are a little trippy at first, but if you get motion sickness from watching it in 3D, then I'm not really sure how you're able to function in your daily life of getting out of bed and walking to the toilet.

Whaddya/Wha’dya think?

2010-01-20T14:38:00.006-05:00

I'm nervous about posting this and stirring up a hornet's nest. Does anyone else out there understand where I'm coming from? Perhaps you should have some honey before reading it (hornets like honey, right?)(if not, have some red meat instead)(I don't know anything about hornets, obviously).

There’s nothing like being misunderstood to get you all riled up. I think I’m going to just write it out and see what happens. Not sure if I’m writing it out so you can be the judge, or to defend myself (why should I be on the defensive?), or . . . what. The writer in me just wants to get the truth out there for the world.

Remember that. I'm a writer. I like grammar. I like words. Yeah. All that.

Well, I suppose I have to keep going now that I started.

I was speaking to a solicitor on the phone, and getting a little frustrated because the solicitor would not take no for an answer. It was one of those sit’iations where the solicitation ploy is to get you to agree to a “free trial,” and the when the trial is over you have to call to cancel. The solicitor said that they were just asking us to try it.

I’ve fallen for that before, and wasn’t having any of it.

First I clarified with the solicitor that what I thought was going on was what was actually going on. I told the solicitor that we already knew we didn't want it, so we won’t want to have to cancel something later on. The solicitor, who happened to be a woman, assured me that there is no fee for our free trial, that someone would call me back in three days, and that the free trial lasted for two weeks, and if we don't want it then we can just cancel it at that time. Nice, eh? So I said, “I don’t think you’re listening to me. We don’t want to have to cancel anything.” At last she got the message and we hung up.

I deal with this kind of thing
all
the
time
so although I get frustrated and annoyed, it doesn’t especially bother me. That is, until everyone else in the office—who can hear only my side of the conversation over the wall of my cubicle—decides to put in their two cents.

There was a lot of giggling, and a lot of celebrating my “I don’t think you’re listening” line, and that’s when I made my first mistake:

I repeated, including word pronunciation, the solicitor’s side of the conversation.

That didn’t at first seem like a mistake, as everyone laughed at my ridiculous attempt at mimicry. Mimicry is not my talent, although what I was trying to parrot was very apparent. What was funny was my botched job, not what I was actually saying.

Please note, at this point in the post I have not yet quoted the solicitor.

After my terrible job of quoting the solicitor, the writer in me had (what I thought was) a simple question. Here's the thought process: I was thinking about my imitation, thinking about writing in a general sense, and thinking specifically about writing down some of my work stories up to and including the one that had just occurred. And my writer’s brain hit a snag and I blurted out my question:

“Would it be spelled axe or aks?”

Whereupon an entire debate arose involving philosophy, mispronunciations, something about race that was just a stupid stereotype so I'm not exactly sure what the point was, and the gals in my office wanting to find out the answer definitively by asking “them” (who?!). The conclusion of the debate was, “I think you should leave that one alone.”

How did this happen?! It took me by surprise because I really just wanted to know the correct spelling of a word. The more I tried to insist that it was a spelling question, the head-wagging "Oh no, you di'n't!" everyone else got. And so on. I just wanted to shout, “Back up the truck! Where is this coming from?”

Really, can this not just be about spelling accuracy? Am I naïve? Stupid?

Apparently one or the other, because the philosophical part of the argument came next. It was also started by me, but I really didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. I unknowingly threw a log on the fire of the awful debate that I started.

(By the way, if we're still wondering if I'm naïve or stupid, then just so we're clear: my money's on stupid).

Truthfully, and with all the innocence of my heart, I only posed this next question to help clarify what I was asking in the first place. I thought if anyone knew the answer to this next part, then it would answer the first (axe/aks) part. I didn’t appreciate being put on the defensive, and (stupidly/naïvely)(same thing) I thought bringing in more information to the axe/aks would help me out.

It didn’t. It backfired in a major way.

I asked if the mispronunciation of ask was a word-replacement problem or more dyslexia-based.

Oh my Lordy be! Everyone’s panties were in a wad about that. I don’t know why. Why did it have to be about race? I don't understand how it got to the point that it did. Opinions were flying, necks were rolling so hard I thought their heads would fall off, and for some reason I was caught up in the middle of it all. Trapped by my tongue.

And more than a little angry. I have blogged about this concept before!

THE MOOT VS MUTE DEBATE IS THE SAME ARGUMENT, AND THE POST HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH RACE!!! No one told me, “You better leave this one alone,” when I brought up misusing the word moot (by pronouncing it mute). So what’s the big deal? Why am I all of a sudden the bad guy because I have a simple spelling question?

Why do people use an entirely different word, mute, in place of moot?

No one would have thought twice about it if I’d asked how to spell ain’t. Or rather, if they did think twice, it would be a confused curiosity as to why I didn’t know in the first place. But there wouldn’t be any underlying currents of hostility, there wouldn’t be a “You better leave this one alone” comment. Had I simply said, “How do you spell whaddya” (as in what do you think?), no one would have cared at all.

How do you spell the slang version of what do you?

I still don’t know the answer to my original axe/aks question. I still don’t know how to spell it.

I looked online, but stopped after a very short search, completely disheartened. And just so ALL Y’ALL know, on this website: http://www.slangsite.com/, on the A page, there is a listing for “aks” (example from the site: “It wasn't me, aks anyone!”) and a listing for “axe” (example from the site: “John wants to axe you a question”).

Put that in your butt and smoke it.

I guess at this point I don’t want to know the answer, because I’m sure it will be tied to an entire lecture about what a horrible person I am for inquiring about it in the first place.

I'll always remember: singing to Secret

2010-01-20T09:06:00.001-05:00

(Secret's Story)

Secret was in really bad shape that day I brought her home. My description of Ernie the day I found him is also accurate of Secret, although perhaps minus a few flea bites. She was just skin and bones and big green eyes.

And I'll always remember our back deck, and how we had a table in the corner and that was where we set up her bed. I sat with her a lot those first few days, and she was so scared, and I wanted her to know I was there and I wanted to help. But I didn't know what to do.

I finally decided I would sing to her, but (remember, I was five) I ran into a dilemma: I had trouble thinking of any songs that I knew all the words!

As an aside, can you? Even today, I know the chorus, or just a portion, of plenty of songs, but there aren't many in which I know all the words.

It was an itsy bitsy, teeney weeney, yellow polka dot bikini that she wore for the first time that day! Tra la la la la.

Wastin' away again in Margaritaville. Searching for my lost shaker of salt. Salt! Salt! Salt! Da da da da doo doo.

Papa, paparazzi! Doo doo DOO doo . . . love me!

And so on.

Not as easy as you first thought, is it? And, going back to your song choices, did you think of one yet that you know all the words to? Come on, let me have my fun. Play along and try and think of one. Forget if it's appropriate to sing to a sick cat or not, just go through your song file and come up with one that you could sing from start to finish.

[Pause]

Is it a Christmas song?

There I was. A little kid, sitting on the back porch, all alone, going through my limited choices of the 5-year-old appropriate songs that I could think of. I finally settled on Away in a Manger.

Even then I thought I was an idiot, but . . . Secret seemed to like it, and I guess that's all that matters.

Inspiration soup or pie or some other food

2010-01-13T21:41:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you really have to work for your inspiration, and other times you suddenly realize it's sitting right in front of you. Licking its butt.

I've been flatlining lately, and I've got to dig myself out of a hole. I think I've been making it too hard. All I need to be inspired is right in front of me. There are ingredients left half-hazardly on the counter, hiding in the back of the pantry, misplaced in the veggie crisper instead of the fruit crisper, and strewn across the counter--that damnable line of crumbs (when was the last time anyone had toast?!). My job is to throw the good stuff together, the interesting stuff, the unique stuff, and come up with a tasty concoction. Not a bowl of crap.

Mmmm, mmmm, good.

You look worried!

Tell me, what's wrong? You think I'm going to eat one of the pets because I'm using their pictures to demonstrate my Inspiration Pie?! Gasp!

That's just gross. Of course not!! You need to relax.

That's right. Now curl up with your bankie, and I'll explain the Inspiration Pie.

Okay, my ingredients are my pets after all, but only their personalities. The little pieces of their personalities come shining through sometimes, and when I look at them, I have to write. I have to share it with the world, show you what I see. So you will believe that I'm not crazy, nor yet obsessed, but merely . . . observant, I am thinking?

It's the anthropomorphist debate all over again, but I will never understand how a person could look at these photos and not see these traits:

Sass.

Innocence.

Mischieviousness.

Contentment.

Insolence.

Bliss.

Tomfoolery.

These are simply the ingredients of inspiration, and no matter where you find them (sneaking up on the counter looking for the random crumbs, or sprawled across the bed or the floor or the couch), there really is only one thing left that you can do with all these fixin's:

Feast, feast, feast until you pass out, completely sassified.

My cat is the model of womanly decorum

2009-12-23T11:48:00.004-05:00

When I came into the room, she was just sitting like this, looking at me as if to say, "What?"

Was she embarrassed? She just sat there, frozen and staring. Like I caught her in some kind of compromising position (which, of course, I did). Naturally, I went and got my phone to take a picture.

When I returned, there she still sat! Composed and unapologetic, and letting it all hang out there. Apparently she wasn't embarrassed after all. And, just as apparently, she's been spending too much time with the boys.

Pretty soon, Blake is going to be be the only one in the house with any amount of ladylike grace (aside from myself, of course). Izzy, the only other girl besides me and Bunny, missed the feminine train the first time she farted in front of us and craned her head around to sniff it. Talk about unapologetic.

But Blake! My little metrosexual. He has never ever farted in front of me. He is very conscious of womanliness and appropriate behavior.

Except for those damn phantom terds, which someday (when it's not so painful) I promise I will tell you about.

My husband and I are famous!

2009-12-22T20:29:00.007-05:00

Just kidding.

But seriously, check out this Target commercial. It's hilarious:

Foo. It was removed from http://youtube.com/. How disappointing!

It was a Target Commercial. They were opening presents and she got herself a flatscreen TV. She opened it up and said, "Wow! Thanks, Santa!" The husband said, "I thought we weren't going to spend that much this year," and she says, "But these gifts are from Santa!" Anyhoo.
The first time I saw the commercial, I had to rewind the DVR so my husband could see it. We were rolling.

My favorite part is when she says, "But these gifts are from Santa!" That is so me.

It came straight down the DNA food chain from my mom.

One more strike against Ohio

2009-12-22T13:34:00.004-05:00

Ever since I moved to Ohio and my husband and I started talking about our farm in the "This is Really Real!" sense, we have discussed what kind of livestock we will have on our property.

I have made it abundantly clear that I am only interested in having horses (plus our indoor pets, of course). But I have made it clear in no uncertain terms that I do not want any other typical barnyard animals: no chickens, no goats, no pigs, no cows, no ducks. Nor yet any of the less-typical barnyard animals: no llamas, no alpacas, no ostriches, no buffaloes. Buffoli?

Dan, on the other hand, has made it abundantly clear in no uncertain terms that he does want other farm animals.

My argument of No Other Species has numerous points of interest, the most noteworthy I have outlined below:

Number 1: Building a stable and stocking it with horses is my dream. I am going to be the one out there every day, cleaning, feeding, mucking, schlepping. I am not such a doofus as to think that the "Your pet, your responsibility" policy is going to work out without a single kink (regarding Dan's horse or horses). If the animal is in my barn, I'm going to be the one taking care of it. I'm not going to skip over Dan's animal and let it go hungry because he's busy when I'm feeding everyone else.

Number 2: Why? Why do we need any other animal species on our farm? We already have (or plan to have) canine, feline, equine, uh . . . fish-ine? Those are enough -ine's for me. Seriously, we're already going to be overloaded with what we have planned.

Number 3: Doesn't anyone care about the fact that I do not know how to care for most of the other barnyard animals? Typical or not-as-typical, ordinary or exotic, the only farm animals I've ever cared for have been horses. I highly doubt that a cow is vastly different in terms of needs (you put in some kind of grassy-roughage--and it's not too hard to figure out which type of hay/grain to feed--and then you clean up what comes out. Dur!). But what about the llamas that my mother-in-law is interested in.

That's just the first part!

To add insult to injury, Dan (completely oblivious to the argument) has requested a steer named "Dinner" and a pig named "Breakfast."

As an animal-lover I was sickened, as an anthropomorphist I was horrified, and as a human being I was disgusted by the the mere thought of "Dinner" and "Breakfast." We have had more than one philosophical discussion about this subject, and I have yet to see any humor or merit to the idea.

Until now.

While the idea of "Breakfast" and "Dinner" as pet names is absolutely abhorrent to me, I have decided to turn a blind eye to having a we-will-eventually-eat-it-steer on our property.

Trust me, that was hard enough.

The reason I am willing to allow this as a compromise (I refuse to acknowledge any animal named after a mealtime) came as a bit of a shock to me. But, as a grown-up, I reserve the right to change my mind.

"Stubborn and ardent clinging to one's opinion is the best proof of stupidity." -Michel de Montaigne

Right? Right.

Therefore, I've changed my mind. To clarify: I am not a vegetarian or a vegan or an anything. I'm just plain ol' picky. I have no aversion to eating meat, but I do have a big problem with seeing it alive beforehand.

It gives me the heebie-jeebies, to be honest.

But, again due to my pickiness, I came across a snag in refusing to allow a cow-we-plan-to-eat on our property that I did not anticipate. You ready?

I can tell the difference between Ohio beef and Oregonian beef.

!

Yes, I can. It is pretty extreme (even in my extremist point of view). (Intentional misuse of the following word:) It's gamey.*

*I have no clue what "gamey" actually tastes like. I have never eaten anything remotely resembling "game." I've never had venison, buffalo, elk . . . none of it. But Ohio beef tastes like what I imagine "gamey" is because it tastes tough and veiny and something-else-ier. What can I say? It tastes gamier than Oregon beef.

I resisted coming to this conclusion, let me assure you. At first I thought it was because when I first moved here we immediately were due to purchase "half a cow." It was a local cow butchered by a local butcher, and the first time we had spaghetti and I saw gristle floating around in the sauce, I almost threw up.

I thought it was because we didn't buy it from the store.

I tried to be a big girl, but after barely being able to gag down the meal I realized I couldn't pretend for the rest of my life, and finally confessed to my husband that the next time we buy a half a cow, I didn't want them to get any ground beef. I begged him to purchase all our ground beef from the store.

He grudgingly agreed, and the first time we used the store-bought ground beef I almost cried. Am I really this picky? How could that be? Meat is meat, a cow is a cow is a cow. Grow up!

But I couldn't. It was the same. Gristly. Tough. Gamey.

Dan, of course, thought it was hilarious. I did not. "Why, oh why! Why is it like this? What is wrong with the meat in Ohio?" I lamented.

And finally--finally!--it came out. Grain-fed versus grass-fed.

At least it was an answer. Dan assured me that there is a difference, and several folks that I have reluctantly shared this story with have all agreed. Grain-fed versus grass-fed can make all the difference in the world. And that, at last, is why I'm reluctantly and wishy-washily coming around to the fact that having our own steer would have some grass-fed advantages.

Yup, I'm willing to "go there" as long as one non-negotiable condition is met: it is only ever referred to as "the cow we plan to eat."

Brrr, it's cold outside

2009-12-22T11:02:00.000-05:00

I have a story about my husband. This video has no relevance to the story whatsoever, other than the fact that it is in fact my husband. He is Wii-boxing with his friend (who makes it into the shot at the very end of the video).

Anyhoo.

Yesterday, after a restless night, I awoke groggy and bleary-eyed. I went through my usual morning routine, but somehow managed to forget what is usually the very first step: moving my phone from my nightstand where the charger is, to my purse that I can't drive to work without as my keys are in it.

I made it to the end of the driveway (we have a long driveway), and skidded on some ice and was thinking about "What if I end up in a ditch?" when I realized I forgot my phone. I paused at the end of the driveway wondering, "Is it worth going back for it?" (of course, I was running late). Then I started replaying the ditch-scenario again, so of course I decided I better go back for it.

I put the car in reverse and (even though the car has a backup camera), I turned around to look behind me as I backed back down the driveway (the camera is great to keep you from running into objects, but isn't really efficient for navigation)(the image is skewed panorama-style, so it's hard to figure out where the hell you are).

I don't know if the story is hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-rock obvious at this point, but whatever you think I'm going to say, please try to let it go and just stay open. Don't skip to the end of the story, it takes the wind out of the author's sails.

Do you ever do that, or is it just me? I love reading so much, sometimes I get frustrated with my eyes and mind because I can't take in the page fast enough. I'll be so immersed into the story, I just can't wait to find out what happens next, and I get annoyed that my eyes are too slow. And I'm a fast reader! But apparently not fast enough because my gaze will involuntarily skip to the end to stop the torture of not knowing "What happens next."

It's wholly unsatisfying. Invariably it ruins the author's big climax, and I always wish I could have stayed patient. So, since I have learned that my eyeballs have no willpower, sometimes I will get a piece of paper (or I'll use my hand in a pinch) to put over the text so I'm forced to read it line-by-line.

After all that, I'm sure you're wondering: what on earth did I see when I turned around and peered through my back window into the snow-washed, morning gloom?

The sky had just started to lighten, but it was so thick with snow-clouds that there was only the barest hint that Night had started to loosen its hold. Our orange flourescent light was still shedding more light then the sun, and it tinted the white walls of our carriage house the way it always does, but also the ground that was just barely dusted with snow. Everything was still and orange as I backed down the driveway, and it took a moment for me to register that a little piece of the orange and gray scene was moving slightly.

It was my husband, looking very little, very pink, and very shirtless, and he was standing at the other end of the driveway, trying to get my attention but shivering so hard his elbows were clenched to his body. He was only wearing shorts and sandals, and looked so small and lost . . . like maybe he wanted to run after the car but knew it wouldn't do any good.

He was holding my phone.

The anti-anthropomorphic gene? **Updated

2009-12-22T08:20:00.004-05:00

**Update: I changed things around and added quite a bit. When I re-read it, it just wasn't floating my boat, and I hadn't gotten out all I needed to say. So here it is . . . the new and improved version:

Anthropomorphism. It's genetic, it's inherent, it's as much a part of me as my pale skin and incurable sarcasm. Anthropomorphism makes me me.

My question is (drumroll please): how can a person NOT be anthropomorphic? Is there an non-anthropomorphism gene too?

Now, I'm not so much as a fool as to say that everyone should be an anthropomorphist, or that it's a matter of educating the non-anthropomorphics. Nor do I really believe it's genetic (any more so then sarcasm, hot tempers, stubbornness). People learn/choose to be anthropomorphic (or not), we should celebrate differences, diversity makes the world go round, blah blah blah.

I'm just saying: I don't get it when people are so against anthropomorphism (that is to say, a non-anthropomorphic is actually anti-anthropomorphism).

I do not comprehend how a person can look at this picture of Gazelle and not HEAR her say: "So a horse walked into a bar and the bartender said, 'Why the long face?' "

The fact that I'm putting words in her mouth, not to mention the fact that I'm bestowing upon her a sense of humor which is an emotion that horses may or may not have the mental capacity to possess, makes me an anthropomorphist. Maybe I'm full of bunk, maybe I don't know crap about crap, but . . . neither do the non-anthropomorphics (definitively). In the end, it's always and forever only going to be a debate because NO ONE will ever possibly know for sure one way or the other. So, I suppose I can understand when a person is just not an anthropomorphic (doubtful pause), but . . . when a person is so adamantly against anthropomorphism, that's where I get all riled up. They don't know any better than I do, so why can't they let me have my fun? And, how dare they imply that any of my animals don't have the mental capacity to understand any emotion.

I could be wrong. Perhaps animals don't have the capacity of feeling human emotions. Or maybe there's some magic line on the emotional continuum between simple and complex emotions, and maybe animals can only feel simple emotions. Personally, I don't think so. I think when an inexperienced rider kicks Gazelle and pulls back (which means, in Horse, "Go forward, but don't!") it ANNOYS her. I can tell because she pins her ears, opens her eyes wide, swishes her tail, and snorts. Her horse brain may or may not have a "word" for that, but come on. It's annoyance, plain as day. I certainly get annoyed when I get conflicting or confusing instructions (Outlook help topic: "Go to Business Contact Manager" in the folder list -- WHERE THE HELL IS THAT?!). Why shouldn't a horse get annoyed too?

Gazelle understands humor, too. I'm sure of it because how else does one explain all the headaches she gave me for the three years I taught lessons? Not only does Gazelle understand humor and sarcasm, but she gives you exactly four chances to prove you know how to ride. And once you've used up your four chances (where is counting and math on this scale of complexity and mental capacity?), you may as well get off and try again some other day. After the fourth chance Gazelle categorizes you as an idiot and there's no way to recover (although you can be forgiven if you try again another time--where does forgiveness fall on the magic scale?).

Where's a non-anthropomorphist when you need one? I wish there would have been one around to see the way Gazelle used to look at me when a person had used up their four chances. She would stop, plant all four feet in the middle of the arena, look at me and say as clearly as if she spoke out loud in English, "Where'd you find this schmuck?" Undeniable proof, I say.

What about jealousy though? Simple or complex? I think if an animal is capable of feeling annoyance/humor/sarcasm/forgiveness, why shouldn't they feel jealousy or coquetry? Just try and tell me that my cat isn't pouting/sulking when he's sitting on the other side of the room, glaring at me because I didn't let him make biscuits on my stomach me (Blake does that--he's too fat, it gives me bruises!).

To me there is irrefutable evidence supporting anthropomorphism. The people out there that refuse to believe my assessment flabbergast me. Intrigue me? Make me mad? All of the above?

Now, I do like to practice what I preach when it comes to the To Each Their Own philosophy. And for the most part, I do (you know, except when it comes to making grammatical errors on purpose . . . why, why, WHY?!). But when it comes to the people out there who are not just non-anthropomorphists, but they are anti-anthropomorphism . . . how does that figure into my theory of genetics? I can play around that a person either does or doesn't have the anthropomorphic gene, but what about the people who are ANTI anthropomorphism? They are just as confused by me as I am by them.

I think I'm getting a little lost with my over use of the word anthropomorphism . . . .

Anthropomorphists: People like me who speak about/to/for our pets (and any other animals) like they are people. Which is to say: we talk about our pets, to our pets, and for our pets, and we do not distinguish in a re-captured conversation if the being speaking is human, canine, feline, equine, ad infinitum.

Case in point: I do a demonstration of Gazelle's response when she steps on your foot: [pointing to her missing eye emphatically] "I only have one eye!" She shouts it at you like you're an idiot for not having noticed.

Another case in point (and a double-whammy): I've compared Gazelle, with all the love in my heart and without any disrespect to the person, to Stevie Wonder. Her favorite thing in the world is falling asleep while listening to people talk, but as she dozes she likes to know where you're at so frequently she'll lean sideways to touch your arm gently with her nose; it looks for all the world like Stevie Wonder rocking side to side while he plays.

Non-anthropomorphists: These are the people out there that think I'm full of crap because animals are just animals. They think not only do animals not have feelings, but they don't even have the intelligence to have the emotional scope of a human being. When listening to one of my stories, they say/think, "Believe what you want, but you're an idiot." Most of these people do not own animals, did not have animals around as a child, and don't think it's sad that they didn't and don't. They smile at me insincerely . . . the same smile they would give to a 25 year old that still believed in Santa Claus.

The look isn't always given maliciously. In fact, in my experience, it's usually isn't. So perhaps I need to take back my quote above, "Believe what you want, but you're an idiot." I'm specifically thinking of an old coworker I had (that is to say, a coworker at a previous job, not an elderly coworker). This person, let's call her Jemima Davis (after Jim Davis, one of my favorite anthropomorphic cartoonists), is a very kind, intelligent person. She loves studying and all forms of academia, goes to a Unitarian church, and at the time I knew her was a high level manager in a very large company.

Jemima Davis not only doesn't have the anthropomorphist gene, she is also anti-anthropomorphism. All animals are "rats" to her. Birds = flying rats. Fish = swimming rats. Dogs, cats, horses . . . all rats.

How can you say such things, I would ask her, completely appalled. And offended! I tried not to be offended, because she wasn't calling my beloved pets rats. She was saying all animals are rats. But I took it personally, and tried my darndest to reform her by telling her anecdotes of my fuzzy family.

It was a lost cause. Even hearing about how Gazelle is a drama queen, how smart she is, how funny she is . . . it didn't help. I'd tell her about Blake and his princely lolling . . . she'd smile at my description, take joy in my joy, but at the same time she wouldn't believe it, didn't find joy in it herself. To me there is nothing better than seeing my pets happy, content, relaxed. To Jemima, a happy, content, relaxed pet only equals a mess to vacuum up later and a potential infestation of vermin.

I don't GET it! Pretending to know what our animals are thinking does not make a person crazy or soft-headed. I try to be so open-minded (rather, I try not to be close-minded) about different lifestyles and beliefs, but anti-anthropomorphism is something I just can not, do not, will not understand. When I come home from work and see our little doggies bouncing with joy, how can someone say it's NOT joy?

How could someone say those little faces aren't smiling? How could a person NOT see:

"Kiss me! Hug me! Love me!"

"So . . . what do you want?"

"Don't be mad, Mama. It's not my fault! He did it!"

"I love you."

"Where's my cocktail and full body massage?"

Izzy is the annoyed big sister.
Bunny needs a t-shirt that says, "I'm with stupid."
Or, perhaps, "Who farted?" Tough call.

"Hee hee hee."
Joey Tribioni hiding in the big box.

I guess I am a fool after all--I do think it's a matter of education. Always and forever I believe that the anti-anthropomorphists just need to meet my pets, and then they will understand.

Then they will believe.

Ernest Hemingway & Ernie's philosophical argument

2009-12-21T13:39:00.005-05:00

"But is not a good night's sleep supposed to be priceless?"

-Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls

Trashy TV and artificial limbs

2009-12-17T11:07:00.015-05:00

With regard to trashy television, my husband and I have officially sunk to a new low. I am almost (ha, but not quite) ashamed to admit what happened the other night.

Before I do, I want to give a little background as way of defense. First and foremost, all of our standard shows have been on hiatus for the past few weeks, and we've been getting desperate. It just seems that there is never anything good on TV! No House, no Vampire Diaries.

No Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders!?

What kind of lampoonery is going on here?

We only watch TV for an hour or two in the evenings, and lately we've been on a kick of watching reruns of Roseanne. But the other night we were in the mood for something different, and started flipping channels.

The first show we settled on wasn't trashy at all. We fluctuate between the trashiest of the trash, and educational / Nat Geo programs, with no rhyme or reason. This wide-swinging pendulum is part of what's so funny to me. So the first program we watched was The True Story of Mary Magdalene.

The Da Vinci Code was on the other day, so it seemed relevant. Plus it was interesting.

So we learned about Mary Magdalene, and how there is apparently no evidence to suggest she was Jesus' wife (that's a newer, romantic fancy that's all the rage since The Da Vinci Code). The intrigue is instead all about what she saw when Jesus was resurrected, and the inspiration that the "raised from the dead on the 3rd day" concept might have been all her idea, which (if it was) would make her the founder of Christianity. We concluded the program feeling educated and wholesome.

But it wasn't bedtime yet, the pendulum was still swinging, and we started looking for another show.

I pulled up the digital guide and we scanned through the options. The wide, wide path of the pendulum paused at the crest of its arc when we came to a gloriously intriguing entry on The British Channel:

Britain's Next Top Missing Model.

I paused in my flipping and did a sidelong glance at Dan to see if he was paying attention. He most certainly was! He didn't even notice I was checking him out because he was leaning forward to read the small font of the description.

"Eight young disabled women discover what it takes to be a model - but which of them will win a photo shoot and appear in a top fashion magazine?"

I'm not making this up!

We finished reading the description and I casually asked Dan if we should watch it for a minute. He gave himself away with his enthusiastic, "Yeah!" I eagerly flipped to the show and we were hooked. It was awesome.

The women, who are all lovely looking ladies, each have a different disability. One gal is missing an arm, another is deaf, there's a contestant in a wheelchair, and one gal was in a car accident and now has really bad ataxia. I can't remember all of the disabilities, but it was a really cool show to watch. Inspiring, I'd even say, because they were very matter-of-fact about their disabilities. Each woman was determined to achieve her goal of being a model in spite of her disability. Good on you, I wanted to say.

The trashiness didn't come until the very end. You gotta love British television! They don't edit out as much over yonder as we do hereabouts. The judges made their decision on who would not continue on in the competition (the gal with ataxia, if you're interested*).

*One reason they gave for cutting her was her overt sexuality. I don't know about that, so rather than be a gossip, let me relay one part of the show that stands out in my mind, and then you can decide for yourself: the ataxia girl was backstage with the production coordinator of the fashion show (the client!) and she announced to him, "I can't go down on you because you're gay." Again, you gotta live British television and their lack of editing! The other reason they gave for cutting her was because she didn't know how to keep her mouth shut and was really nasty to the other contestants ("You'll never be able to win this show, you should just go home." Or something like that to the one with chronic fatigue issues). Cougar issues aside, I've got to agree with them there. Idiocy is not a disability!

After the judges made their decision, the ladies all left but the cameras kept rolling while the judges had a conversation about the show and their decision to cut the girl with ataxia.

Or rather, while they had a HUGE disagreement. One judge did not think the decision was fair and had no problem with getting all up in the face of the other judge (Jerry Springer style). They all stomped and stormed around, arguing while the cameras kept rolling, and then at the very end one guy shouted, "Stop the cameras," and it was over.

We can not wait for next week!!