DowntheDrain

The Moon, Mars, and Monkey Grass

2009-09-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, I’m up and about during the wee hours. Jack says that my midnight is about the equivalent of 3:00 in the afternoon for most people. So obviously, I have to find some way to occupy my time besides watching reruns on television. (Not that I don’t do that too.) Sometimes I read. Sometimes I set up my recorder to tape strange sounds in the woods. Sometimes I go outside with my handy night-vision binoculars, but I can’t find them right now. Where are those things?!!

During the summer, the dogs and I have a ritual of running out to the pool and looking for the big bullfrog that takes a late dip around 1 a. m. All I have to ask is, “Want to look at the frog?” and they knock me down on the way out the doggy door. Of course, I use the real door, except for once last week when I locked myself out of the house by first locking myself in the garage, then once I found my way out because there were no lights and groped my way to the back door, I had to crawl through the doggy door.

Anyway, about a week ago, I scooped Mr. Frog out of the pool with the whatever you call that pool dipper thing, as is my habit, and put him in the monkey grass. Suddenly, Bear jumped into the monkey grass trying to catch the frog, and since Bear weighs about 90 lbs. I was very much afraid that he’d squashed our amphibious amie. I was even more worried when the big squishy guy didn’t show up for the next week or so. Bear was pretty inconsolable. He walked around and around the pool every night looking for the frog that he may possibly have flattened. Much to my relief, Mr. Frog reappeared last night, fit as an unflat frog can be. I know that I’m going to have to sit Bear and London down and talk to them about hibernation, but at least I don’t have a death on my shoulders. Not that one at least, yah ah hah!!

Now I noticed that not one news station mentioned the fact that during the last week of August, Mars was going to be closer to the moon that it had been or would be for another 5,000 years. Of course, that entire week was the cloudiest of the summer. However, I took my little camera, aimed it at the moon (I don’t have a tripod and I’m no professional) and snapped a few shots. Above is a photo of Mars to the left of the moon (like many current politicians). I sent this photo to Jack with the tag line, “A picture of your home planet. With love from Earth Woman.” Just in case any of you wanted to come back and see this phenomenon in another 5,000, I just saved you the trip! [Editor’s note: The person writing this blog is obviously under the delusion that not only more than one, but even one person is reading it.]

So what was the point of this whole message? The many benefits of staying up and howling at the moon, of course. How dense can you be?

[Editor’s note: The person writing the editor’s note is also the writer of this blog. How crazy is that?]

Time to Drink the Kool-Aid

2009-09-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

Lately, I’m doing everything I can think of to avoid thinking about the reality of life: it’s just too crushing. Like today I filled salt and pepper shakers. Actually that’s a lie. I just filled one pepper shaker. That was all the energy I could work up.

I went on an interview with a job placement group last week and felt like Methuselah at a frat party. Although I’ve actually never been to a frat party, but since I’m so damned ancient I can get away with saying things like that.

How old am I? This past Labor Day weekend was our 29th anniversary. My Mom called to impart good wishes and I thanked her but gently reminded her that our anniversary wasn’t until the next day. She asked, “Isn’t today the sixth?” By jingies it was our anniversary and we didn’t even know it. I went to get my cards out of the car and came back into the house to give them to Jack but he was nowhere to be found and he didn’t answer my calls. Then I heard him running down the stairs. I flew out the back but he was gone. Nothing like waiting until the last minute to make a romantic trip to the grocery for cards and flowers, Captain Obvious! But just kidding. I applaud his effort. This tendency is exactly why I like to go to card counters on Valentine’s Day, stand behind a group of men and yell out, “Procrastinators!” I’ve gotten some great reactions.

But don’t think I’m insensitive. Today I was coming back from an errand and playing the soundtrack to "The Departed." I was listening to the Irish song where the lead is yelling out “I’ve a sailor’s peg, ‘cause I lost my leg. Climbing on the topsail, I lost my leg!” I noticed that the car next to me had a handicapped sticker so I rolled up my window. Thoughty of me, right?

If you haven’t noticed, I’ve decided to pepper my language with old geezer type words since that’s what everyone has made me feel like lately. Maybe I should start calling interviewers, “Whippersnappers” and asking them where I am over and over again. I interviewed a guy (over the phone) for a magazine article the other day. I knew he was young by his voice and also by the fact that I’d seen his picture on the company’s Web site. Since he couldn’t see my Dorian Grey reflected-in-the-mirror hideous image, he didn’t know my age because I hadn’t called him a "young man" or referred to other ancient things like the Beatles. He was describing a Seniors Day event that his facility put on for “baby boomers” and he actually said this, “You know. We want them to know that they can still do things besides plan their funerals.”

Wow, good to know. He actually inspired me to put down by Funerals ‘R Us Planning guide, but only long enough to fill one pepper shaker. Now, I’m exhausted.

Free Manure!

2009-08-29T21:38:00.001-07:00

The other day I was driving down the road, and I’ve got to say, I was feeling pretty down. Then I saw this sign that said “Free Manure.” Well, damn! Finally there’s something that really is free and I don’t need any of it. That’s just another irony in the bullshit of life! But then, I thought, Wait a minute, angry person . . . Maybe that’s a protest sign. Yeah, “Free Manure!” Manure deserves to be free after all these years of being bagged up, churned under, or just left for stinking dead. Or maybe somebody named their kid “Manure” and for some odd reason things didn’t go right for that kid and now he or she is sitting around in prison and the proud parents have decided that kid should be free!

Anyway, I was just on my way to the grocery but I’ve got to say if you believe in all that is good and holy, “Free Manure!”

A Few Commercials and Why they Eat at Me:

2009-08-11T17:39:00.000-07:00

Dr. Tenlan, that doctor for Restasis, the prescription eye drops for dry eyes: I’m sure she’s a very nice person/alien (the other planet type), but I’ve seen lizards that blink more than she does and whose eyes are closer together for that matter. (Not to mention her Stephen Hawking delivery.) No wonder she has dry eyes! She assumed an earthly form but skipped human facial expressions training. Hint Dr. Tenlan: If you blinked more than once a day, your eyes might naturally lubricate.

The woman who comes over with her entire family to her elderly mother’s house for lasagna every Sunday: One Sunday she and her brood arrive at Mom’s only to find that Mom isn’t in the kitchen cooking away, but taking it easy in the den. “Mom, it’s Sunday!” she whines, automatically assuming that the octogenarian has Alzheimer’s. "I knew then that it was time to call the doctor," she opines. Maybe the poor woman is tired of making dinner for you every Sunday. Maybe she’s sick of lasagna. Maybe it's time for you to get off of your lazy, fat butt and make her something to eat or take her out for gosh sakes!

The young female (who is also a doctor) who rattles off the entire pharmaceutical info/warning sheet for Yasmine (a birth control pill) to her friends at a bar: First of all just the name Yasmine for something that’s going to make you gain 20 pounds of water weight and break you out worse than when you were 12, effectively preventing pregnancy due to enforced abstinence, just ticks me off! Yasmine. She’d be wearing her pretty little martini way before she finished that dialog.

Those cervical cancer immunizations commercials in which a slew of supposedly caring mothers announce that they’re having their pre-pubescent daughters immunized: With a shot that has never been tried, that no one knows what the long-term effects might be, and that the voiceover reminds doesn’t cure all kinds of cervical cancer. Thanks Mom!

Gross miscasting because someone must have known someone (wink, wink): One commercial has the daughter rolling her eyes and saying, “I always get grounded.” The mother counters that the daughter will lose that sassiness when she’s on her own. Let’s hope that’s soon, because the “teenager” is about 35-years-old! (About the same age as the klutz that played Liam Neeson’s daughter on the movie “Taken. She was not a day younger than 27, playing a 19-year-old that acted like a 12-year-old with the mental capacity of a four-year-old. I kept hoping Liam wouldn’t get there in time to rescue her from the white slave traffickers but I think they were pretty well fed-up with her and death was their preferred option.

Why do I even bother with critiquing these ridiculous gaffes? Because people other than me are getting paid really good money to come up with things like an animated set of lips with legs that asks questions of an animated, and poorly drawn ear that only answers, “No.”

Oh well.

Monday 'Til Midnight

2009-08-11T08:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard all the admonitions about hating Mondays—that’s a seventh of your week; thank God it’s Monday, yada, yada, yada. But these people must be writing Chicken Soup for the Soul entries and sipping mint juleps all day. Mondays stink and I try to lay low and survive the 24 hours until Tuesday. I could try going to bed early but since I’m a night person, I’d just be spending the time staring at the ceiling.

This Monday began with a wake-up call from Jack who sounded as though he were hyperventilating telling a story involving forgery, police vehicles, arrests, and so on involving a relative as victim that I can't discuss. Great way to start the morning.

Jack also tells me that he, himself, woke up with a black eye. Not guilty! What the heck! We haven’t figured that one out yet, but even though I’m up way after he goes to bed, beating the sleeping isn’t one of my activities. I’m too busy doing things like chasing bullfrogs.

Yes, every night between midnight and 1 a. m. the dogs and I go out to the pool to remove a giant frog from his nightly swim. Bear especially loves to run around the pool chasing the frog’s underwater path and usually blocking my attempts to catch him in my net. The frog seems to enjoy the whole thing. In fact, if he isn’t in the pool when we come out, he suddenly emerges from the monkey grass, jumps right past us, jumps in and swims around a bit. He then compliantly lets me lift him out after a few laps. (He has to be removed because the chlorine isn’t good for him and sometimes the frogs can’t get out and eventually drown.) This one seems to be an old pro, but I don’t want to take any chances. Besides, it’s a ritual for my two canines who jump up and run for the door when I ask, “Want to go see the frog?”

After deliberations with dogs over continually begging for treats, running through the house, and fighting with one another, I finally sat down to watch a bit of television. Yeah right. The rest of the evening was spent on HazMat cleanup duty that led me to leave this note for Jack:

Sweetie:
One of the dogs threw up—a lot—and Bear was eating it. I had to spray him with the bad dog water spray to get him away from it and put the vacuum over the spot after cleaning it because he was still licking the carpet. Very, very gross!

XXOO,
Me

P. S. How’s that for a love note?

Thank God it’s Tuesday.

I'm Baaack . . . I Think

2009-08-09T12:54:00.001-07:00

Over the past few months I’ve put my brain into even more of a self-imposed state of hibernation than usual due to a series of events including :

A fraudulent accusation by a nutcase accusing my son of purposefully kicking the back of her chair in a theater when he crossed his legs. She wanted him charged with assault! The kid’s never even been in a fist fight. The accuser and her husband were on police blotters, had aliases, but we couldn’t bring that up because she was the “victim.” I think they thought we’d give them a call and make an offer to make it go away, but we had nothing to offer. No telling how many innocent victims she’s had and probably continues to have. Never being in the courts for my entire family’s history, I learned that anyone can make any accusation and no matter how outrageous, the accused pays for the entire debacle. In England the accuser pays if the case is deemed ridiculous—as it was—but not in good old America! In short, we endured a several months long nightmare, or should I say daymare, because I barely slept through the entire ordeal. Case dismissed, but legal fees and moving him to another location because these people know where he lives (another courtesy of the court)—very pricey.

Moses, my 14-year-old pug and my little baby: we had to have him put to rest after months of trying to address with pharmaceuticals what may have been sinus cancer. The tests and the operations were just too cruel at his age so I gave it a try. It was rough going, so I finally had to make the call. After years of having that heavy little fire hydrant command my sleep position, I actually thought I’d sleep better even after all the grief, but so far I still can’t get quite as comfortable without his pudgy little body against me. Can there be too much flexibility freedom?

Bills without billables. The year for this freelancer has been a bit meager which means I spend my time looking for work or completing the little work that I find. I’m very tired of the whole shebang, but sort of stuck in a rut. Anyone know of a company that will hire geezers?

I have to have outpatient surgery. What a hassle! Nobody hates hospitals and medical procedures like I do, but hey, guess I better go while I can. I understand that soon I’ll be categorized as not worth resuscitating. Are they going to put that on the driver’s licenses along with the donor status? NWR!

Okay, so kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. My sense of humor may eventually make a comeback, but right now it’s in slo-mo. I’ve missed my little blogging habit though. It’s an outlet, so I’m plugging back in and hoping my generator will recharge.

And the Beat Goes On . . .

2009-02-02T19:26:00.001-08:00

Oh, the new year, full of promises such as the world is going to hell in a hand basket and all of those who have worked for a living and retirement for the past three decades should finally realize that any promises the government ever gave them—which were far and few between for working folk—were total BS.

So let’s move on. I asked for pepper spray for Christmas. Didn’t get it, but did get a night vision scope. When I asked for a coach gun for my birthday, Jack asked, “What is wrong with you?!” Just trying to be a good Boy Scout, I think.

Mom called early on a Monday a. m. and in a panic-stricken voice said, “I’m in big, big trouble!” Did she kill someone, rob a bank, pull up the pansies at her subdivision entrance? No. She had flushed her entire set of keys down the toilet at Publix. And . . . she had a bridge party at her house within the hour. Luckily, after some coordination, Jennifer, who works near the debacle, was soon to the rescue with a set of keys to Mom’s house which also held a set of spare keys to her car. “You can put this in that blog of yours,” said Mom. Here you have it Mama!

The first of the year is always slow for writers. Coupled with the psychotic Georgia weather—just shoot me. Jack is once again out of town which means that Bear, his favorite canine child, is ever vigilant, jumping between barking at everything that moves—today a wild turkey in the driveway—and sitting on top of me whenever I settle. That would be fine if he didn’t weigh 80-plus pounds.

Jack called and told me once again that I couldn't reach him via cell phone the following day because such communication-with-humans devices weren't allowed in the high security area where he worked. "That's so that no pictures can be made, no data recorded, and so on," he explained.

"And also for the most important reason," I added. "Because cell phones cause the aliens' heads to explode when you're all in the pod, and though their heads do regenerate it causes a horrible mess."

"Yes," he replied patiently, and then quickly changed the subject.

Today, a Monday, gloomy and alone, I watched a PBS special by Dr. Amen who wrote a book called “Change Your Brain, Change Your Life.” He had some good tips but I wondered if I could rebuild a brain from the medulla oblongata up, because that’s all I have left. So I called David to give him some of the doc’s hints about focus and concentration. I started with, “I just saw this guy on television who wrote the book ‘Change Your Brain, Change Your Life.”

“Mom, I am NOT getting a brain transplant!” David asserted. Then he went on to tell me about an ROTC field trip next Sunday which includes a trip in a C100 transport plane. Great. “Could you tell me about these things AFTER their completion?” I asked. I actually accept change (such as my only son talking to me in military acronyms) really quickly. For example, just this weekend I peeled the Tasmanian Devil and Yosemite Sam stickers off of our bedroom mirrors that David put there when HE WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD! Yes, I’m flexible that way and always on the forefront of change.

Oh well, out with the old and in with the new. But as I asked at a “FINAL DAYS” sales event with friend Denise, “Does that mean theirs or ours?”

Suffering is Relative

2009-01-18T18:18:00.000-08:00

I've been sympathetic with Jack about all the travails of his constant travel. Believe me, just one trip put my entire physical system into a state of hold for months, if you know what I mean. Apparently, I'm not built for world adventure, at least not in this life. Yet, Jack never seems to ask me about my miseries, career wise. "Career" what a lofty word. I don't know if I've ever been able to use that word seriously concerning myself.

The poor guy has decided to drive this Monday (with a coworker) to a military base in Indiana rather than deal with the Atlanta airport on Martin Luther King Day. (I think initial caps are okay for that esteemed day. Should it be in all caps, also in bold, in giant type? Is it ever enough?! I just don't know!)

While he was packing, I asked, "Tell me the truth would you rather drive to Indiana tomorrow or write an article about a contemporary furniture store in Peoria, Illinois?"

He thought for a second and said, "I think I'll pick driving to Indiana."

"So would I," I answered. "Can we trade? I'm beggin' ya!"

Solitary Confinement

2009-01-13T20:30:00.000-08:00

Since I’m somewhat of a night owl and also easily bored, I find some odd but rarely constructive ways to amuse myself:

*Jack was out of town so I got a piece of chalk and drew around all of the dog shapes that I could see in our kitchen floor tile.

*I turned out all the lights, went out on our bedroom balcony, and peered into the woods with my night vision scope. Then I creeped myself out by thinking, what if I saw somebody standing still out there in the woods looking up at me with glowing eyes? I ran in the house and locked all the doors.

*Jill and I went out to dinner and when we came back took turns walking like a zombie in the dark outside toward the person with the night scope. Jill said mine was the scariest because the dogs were attacking me as I tried to walk and their eyes were also glowing.

*I never have matching socks so I just wear mismatches—what does it matter with boots? I try to at least match seasonal themes though. I was holding one sock with Christmas trees on it and complaining that I couldn’t find another holiday scene sock when Jack said, “Why don’t you wear that sock with the pilgrim hats?” They were actually witch hats and that festive day had passed. So recently I decided to gather all of my mismatches. Unbelievable! I only found about six matches and threw away about 50 socks. There really is a place where they escape. It’s called Sock World and it’s in Gatlinburg, TN. We drove past it one day and David’s friend Dan said the store’s slogan should be, “For all your puppet needs.” Anyway, how can a person who almost never travels and when she does, never packs socks, lose at least fifty of them?! That effort took about an hour and it wasn’t as gratifying as expected.

*A world championship Tiddley-Wink tournament with myself. I won quite handily, thank you very much.

*Google myself. Pretty disappointing, but one Dr. Mary Gail Snyder must never sleep! She’s everywhere!

*Sometimes when I’m editing a manuscript that is extremely boring and I’m reading it for the umpteenth time, I read it out loud with a different accent—usually British, but sometimes German, or Japanese, even Gone With the Wind Southern.

*Talk to myself. My most common sentences are “What are you doing here?” “Why don’t you just shut up!” and “Okay, I’ve had just about enough of you.”

*Sing to the dogs. They clearly hate it.

*Take pictures of the moon.

*Draw smiley faces on the bottoms of my feet with a temporary (Do you think I'm crazy? Of course, it's temporary) tattoo pen while watching television.

*Look for frogs (a seasonal activity).

I guess I’ll stop there. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m weird or anything.

Dumb & Dumber 2008

2009-01-08T13:29:00.000-08:00

Dumbest Question 2008: From the local UPS store, I sent an edited manuscript to a client. Soon afterward the client sent me an oops e-mail that they had forgotten to notify me the company had changed its address. I called the UPS store to ask for a rerouting. The young store clerk seemed quite perturbed. She sighed audibly and asked me, “Well did you know this was the wrong address when you sent it?”

Most bizarre dog story 2008: During the holidays, my 12-year-old pug was sleeping next to me on the bed. In his defense, he’s getting aged, grizzly, and arthritic and has never been anything but a Teddy bear. Jack got up earlier than me and decided to pick the pug up. Suddenly I heard Jack yelling, “That S.O.B. bit me!”

“What?!” I’m groggily asking, as Jack in full temper re-enters the room from the bathroom, bleeding from the lip and grabs the old dog in anger. Old dog then bites Jack another time—once again on the face. At this point, Jack wants to kill the dog. I’m yelling, "Stop! Calm down!" David, home for the “holidays” enters the room asking, “What the hell is going on?!”

Conclusion: Dog still alive. Jack recovering but very angry (and I think justifiably a bit hurt, though he won't admit it, for two days). Sister Jennifer asked me how a man over six feet tall was bitten twice in the face by a pug. “Is it a flying pug?” she quipped.

When men hear this story they consistently state: “I would have killed that dog!”
When women hear this story, they consistently state: “Poor old dog; he’s just old and was startled.” (I’m going with that one.)

Strangest voting conversation 2008: My friend Jill and I went together to an early voting location. The line wasn't very long, but a voter volunteer went down the line handing out forms to be filled out. Jill asked him if we were at the correct location for our voting precinct. He eyed her for a minute and asked, "Do you have any hot chocolate?" After he assured us that we were in the right location, inquisitive Jill asked why the heading on my form differed from hers. He answered, "Because her hair is shorter!" pointing to me. Joining in, I then asked him why my form was printed in German. He looked momentarily stunned then blurted, "I bet you caused trouble in Sunday school" and re-entered the building. Actually he was right. I did cause trouble in Sunday school.

Most bizarre Christmas gift 2008: Night vision scope for me from Jack including instructions to “Invade the night!” Love it, but I see some trouble comin’ in 2009!

Second most bizarre Christmas gift 2008: I gave my neighbor a wooden sign printed with the words “No Peein’ Off the Porch” because I understand that, by his own admission, he does this regularly. He seemed to take it as law, whining, “But I like to pee off the porch!” Then I showed him my night vision scope.

Happy New Year Everybody! Gird thine loins!

"People are Strange, When You're a Stranger" (Jim Morrison)

2009-01-02T11:57:00.000-08:00

I do forget names but almost never a face. Many light years ago in my mid-twenties and dating Jack, I saw a couple walking to their car at Jack’s apartment complex. “Excuse me,” I called out. Aren’t you Jim Foxx who came to Knollwood Elementary in the seventh grade?” Totally befuddled, he answered in the affirmative. We had actually never talked back then and he moved away after a few months. Of course, he had no idea who I was. Why would he? I simply remembered his face, and in this case, his name.

While working at Emory University Clinic, I saw another elementary schoolmate. Isn’t your name Craig Pye and didn’t we both go to the Methodist Church retreat when we were about eleven years old? He was amazed. I didn’t tell him that I remembered when we were walking on a hiking trail with the church group. I was eavesdropping and heard him mention to a friend that he wished he were walking with a girl. A particularly mean teenager yelled, “You wouldn’t know what to do with one if you had one!” That was uncalled for especially since Pye was at a somewhat porky stage at the time.

Not long ago, Jack and I were at Sam’s and I got that someone-is-looking-at-me feeling. I turned and saw an Asian woman quite a distance away staring intently at me. She waved. In this case I felt very happy to see her. I walked the distance and we stood facing each other. She seemed reciprocally happy to see me. “How are you?” she asked. “I’m good, how are you?” I said. “Fine, fine,” she answered. We both seemed puzzled, but still glad to meet. When I returned, Jack asked, “Who was that?” “I have no idea,” I answered.

I also have long conversations with strangers. People I’ve interviewed for business or technical articles have told me intimate details of their relationships, cried on the phone about a pet that passed away, and have even sent me presents: homemade jam from a real estate magnate, a stone oil lamp from an international stone supplier, and a cooler full of deli meat from a sausage manufacturer. And just strange interchanges: Once passing my newly wedded boss on an office stairwell, I casually asked, “How are you?” “Oh my God, my wife is such a bitch! I think she’s actually insane,” he answered and proceeded to expand on same. “Wow,” I thought. “I usually just answer that question with ‘I’m fine. How are you?’”

Last night the phone rang and the caller ID simply said Atlanta, Georgia. “Who is it?” Jack asked. “The entire city of Atlanta,” I answered.

Actually it was a solicitor from the Georgia Vietnam Vets. I always try to give to the veterans, so I readily agreed to buy a pepper spray key chain that also sprayed the hapless perpetrator with a dye so that he could be quickly apprehended. “Sounds like fun. I’ll take one!” I told the woman. With the transaction over, we soon discovered that we shared the same first name and that we spelled it the same way. Then we discussed the spelling of her chiropractor’s name and the origins of certain spellings. Next she told me about having her pepper spray confiscated at the airport because she forgot she had it and having ridden MARTA there had nowhere to leave it. We laughed it up about asking a criminal to stand downwind before we sprayed him in the face and she shared the fact that she had used her canister on her ex-husband. “Let me tell you! It took that sucker down!” she exclaimed. After about half an hour we shared Happy New Year wishes with one another. “Who was that?” Jack asked from his chair. “Oh some lady with the Georgia Vietnam Vets,” I replied. “She once sprayed her ex-husband with pepper spray. Said it worked really well.”

At times I wonder when my eyes briefly meet a strangers’ and a sharp pang of recognition seems to hit us both as we silently pass, if we really did know one another in some alternate universe. Or, when we communicate with someone almost intimately and then never speak to them again—how did our paths cross? I’ve heard that everyone has a doppelganger, a ghostly counterpart or alter ego. (Oh, I pity the fool!) Wouldn’t it be strange, though, if we all came face-to-face at once? What if everyone could go to a certain bus stop at a certain time before the world ended and meet their own doppelganger for just a few minutes?

Just recently, while standing in line at the grocery (yes, I’m always at the grocery) the woman in front of me openly stared. “Hi,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask your name?” she queried. “You look so familiar.” I didn’t tell her that I hardly ever forget a face. Her name was Maggie something and ultimately we concluded that we’d never met. “Maybe I knew you in another life,” she pondered. “Good Lord!” I said. “You mean I’ve looked like this for at least two lifetimes! That simply isn’t fair.”

Christmas 2008

2008-12-29T09:14:00.000-08:00

Thank God that's over!!

Insomnia: A Christmas Tale

2008-12-09T05:03:00.000-08:00

Christmas was coming, and she was getting fatter. Just like Jack Sprat and his portly wife, juxtapositions between herself and her spouse, ironically also named Jack, came to mind. One was his blatant morning up and at ‘em disposition which contrasted starkly to her night owl schedule—a difference now being punctuated by his radio alarm which was at that very moment belting out country music (another conflicting taste) on the nether regions of the darkened world, a.k.a, the night table on the miles-away opposite side of the bed, while he cheerfully showered. It was 5:30 a. m. for damn sakes and he had beat the alarm!

“Let’s see, I forced myself to go to bed at 1 a.m. which means I’ve had 4.5 hours of sleep, if you don’t count the half hour it took me to get into a position that was agreeable to the comfort of the pug,” she thought as she reclined in her middle-aged puffiness. “Boy, speaking of puffiness that Candice Bergen really blew up, but she’s so good on Boston Legal,” she added. “What a great show.”

In his dotage, Moses the pug snored and grunted beside her as she tried to pull the covers over her backside which stuck jauntily over the tiny wedge of bed space which he allowed her. Suddenly she was overcome by gaseous fumes. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him eat that sandwich meat!” she chastised herself as the stench of digested chicken with the promise of more to come added to her discomfort. And now it was over, the incessant thoughts began . . . as she knew they would, so she ceased to embrace her somber musings with quotation marks.

It’s just a shame. All that we women go through and then wham, we get old and turn into Mrs. Claus. I can't believe I joined a gym last week. What was I thinking? Think of something that will make you go back to sleep. What was I dreaming? Some sort of conflict of course, various animals, couldn’t find my shoes, bathroom stalls with open blinds on the doors. No think of the beach, standing on the beach. Wow, I remember when I was young, brown, and lithe. Well I think that now but since I was borderline anorexic, I didn’t enjoy it at the time. But what is thinness except the absence of fatness? Is thinness a word? Of course it is as well it should be, by gosh, by golly. Have a holly jolly Christmas this year!

Wow, only a few more weeks before Christmas. I haven’t decorated the tree much less cleaned the bathrooms. I should just get up now.

By this time the Newfoundland mix giant rescue, Bear, had wedged into the room from his cozy bed (a.k.a. the sofa, even though he has a very comfortable bed of his own) in the living room with his American Eski-beagle-whatever could he be-mo companion and hastily painted a cold nose mucus picture on her foolishly unshielded backside. Spry Jack kindly escorted him from the room. Hmm, now what was I thinking? Life goes by so fast. What will become of us? Death. Tears welled in her eyes. No, stop! Change that thought process sistah! Pretend you’re a character on the Sopranos. I think I’d be an Irish arms dealer.

When I peruse my life, it seems to be one long string of questionably relevant events, dotted with dubious accomplishments, and inundated with unforgettably embarrassing moments.

She remembered her mantra (stolen recently from a dysfunctional woman on Dr. Phil). I can do this; I can do this. Sadly it was focused on the lofty goal of falling back to sleep. It wasn’t working. “Obviously I can’t do this. What if I was dying and these were my last stupid thoughts?” she wondered, once again introducing punctuation to her mediocre meditations.

"E=MC squared!" she whispered, because she was too lazy to search out the superscript on her keyboard. Take that Stephen Hawking! But she knew it wasn’t her original formula, so small solace was attained. Poor Stephen Hawking. Sorry I thought "take that." I really don't know why I did. Well, it’s all over. I might as well rouse the sleeping pug. I suspect he’s damaged my rotator cuff from lifting him.

She removed the rest of her body from the bed and stepped into a pair of flip flops. It’s the middle of December. Why the hell am I still wearing flip flops? As she plodded into the hallway, also known as the gauntlet of canines, she finally spoke aloud, "Today is Tuesday."

Home for the Holidays

2008-11-26T18:05:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is upon us and I have “officially” taken off a week of vacation for the first time in over five years. You see, when you’re a freelancer, taking off official time is like saying “I don’t need no more money,” and that’s never true.

The great thing is that David is home from college for the week and some of his friends are off at different times. Don’t get me wrong—his girlfriend suffers from some sort of viral sinus thing going around. I’m not glad about that but with the bad weather, and so on, we have some time with our only offspring, who continually cracks me up.

The first night we ate the chicken pot pie I made, one of David’s favorites, and he and I played Battleship into the wee hours. I’d forgotten how to play and tried to put pegs in the game board holes for his misses as well as mine. Much well-deserved derision ensued, but witty derision is the best. Good times. Good times. The next morning I thought I’d had a stroke because of my blurred vision but realized eventually that I had accidentally put on Jack’s glasses instead of mine. A good start to the week.

I’ve already sent out several e-mail apologies to friends and family for my e-mail rantings regarding my feelings about adopting mongrel vs. purebred dogs. I have both so don’t attack me. I’ll say no more because I don’t want to send out future apologies. I know I should be strapped into a Hannibal Lector mask and gurney to prevent further transgressions but no one is willing to step up to the job, even though I know many would enjoy doing so. If I could just get a slapping/offensive comments Tourette's medical necklace, I'd be in fine shape. I could state my mind, slap people across the face, and then ask for their understanding and sympathy.

Jennifer, Mom, and I went shopping and suffered several, ridiculous, but normal-for-us mishaps—Mom almost fell out of my Jeep, we had a near head-on collision, my card was rejected due to a computer error and then accepted after much public humiliation, and so on. Exiting Jennifer’s car to unload our bounty from the trunk, Mom dropped her gloves on the ground. I bent over to get them and Jennifer said, “I don’t know how we survive,” as she jumped out of the driver’s seat. Lucky that Mom dropped the gloves because it delayed us from being run down as the SUV rolled backward. Jennifer had forgotten to put it in park.

Jack told us a long story in Jack-speak in which he stated, “You know those Japanese. All they ever ask are questions.” It is difficult to do otherwise, don’t you think? But there I go. Whenever I ask something, it’s a question.

(Don’t get me wrong though. Jack is a mad scientist and my beautiful-mind sweetheart. I understand his language which is the product of a brilliant brain in overdrive. “Where are our black paper towels?” he asked me yesterday. Of course, he was searching for our trash bags which are black and in a roll.)

Lately, I’ve reverted to Spoonerisms, named after a pastor of the same name who was known for the inadvertent misspeaks that reverse the first letters of words in a sentence. I think it must be due to stress. “Yes I’m looing the daundry.” (Translation: Yes, I’m doing the laundry.) “I’ll be mere in a thinute.” (Translation: I’ll be there in a minute.”) Ultimately, I’m a liter wrosing the ability to speak. It may all be due to the fact that I’ve been trying to finish a book in record time so that I can take time off. Will it be worth it? Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, that ever- terrorizing event when the family gathers together in one room, and barring firearms, survives the love-in until the following year. If I could just get that mask and gurney . . . no apologies necessary, and no legal charges that could stick due to mental inpediments. Oh well, maybe next year.

I hope it’s wonderful for everyone, although I know that’s not possible. We are really very fortunate to live on our particular part--America-- of this strange rotating ball.

We can always hope for better things for everyone. That’s one of the things that Thanksgiving is all about, after all.

Love to everyone and God bless.

Workin' for a Living

2008-10-21T13:20:00.000-07:00

Everybody thinks that working at home is just great, and I’m not complaining but it certainly isn’t as ideal as most people think. First of all, if one is on a project that is somewhat boring—and that happens to me all the time--so many distractions are available such as friends, family, dogs, laundry, food, and saving bugs from drowning and going to a watery grave in the pool. I, single- handedly, have probably saved the entire population of wood beetles in North Georgia. I can’t stand to see them floating on the water, paddling frantically with their little spindly legs and getting nowhere, so I scoop them up with my net and dump them into the monkey grass where they are probably immediately consumed by other insects (or by one another).

You can learn a lot from insects drowning in a pool. In many ways they are like some people. You try to bail them out, but they keep jumping out of the net right back into their original circumstances. But I persist. I’m a one-person insect interventionist.

So I usually drag myself out of bed when some idiot calls me at 8:00 a.m. or so, known as morning business hours for many, but for me known as “I stayed up until 1:00 a. m. last night, you inconsiderate morny-mornington!” Then I do my best to stumble my way through a hall full of dogs that are eager to greet me and to keep one another from doing same. Dogs eat first, then me, and finally I sit down to work with a cup of coffee by my side. Now mind you, this is a flexible routine if I’m pre-warned that it must be flexed, and that’s all I require. Otherwise, I work away with hair greatly askew and pajama-clad until midmorning when I take my now-caffeinated body into the shower.

After 20 years, we are getting a new roof, by necessity, unfortunately. We’ve arranged with an insurance man to come and look at the roof before the project begins in the off chance that we may have some hail damage. I’ve prayed for hail damage as our neighbors have had one, even two replacements, but no such luck and I don’t think acorn damage counts. Even though I’ve been hit in the head with those things quite a lot now that fall is here and those damn things hurt. One even bounced through the door (propped open for dogs) and almost got me as I toiled at the computer.

Anyway, all I ask is for a pre-schedule-change warning but this morning as I saved insects out in the pool clad in my pajamas and in a generally frazzled state, a large flatbed covered with a tarp stopped at the bottom of our driveway and men began jumping from the cab. Oh my gosh, I’d been over this a thousand times with Jack. The roofers were to arrive on Thursday and it’s Tuesday! The dogs are going nuts. I run to the bedroom and frantically start to try and dress myself and make myself look better without first pounding down my Einstein hair with a focused funnel of shower water. There is no remedy. I call Jack who is at an airport in Texas. This week he went from Alabama to California to Texas. I saw him for five hours during the California/Texas layover. As I’m scrambling to get dressed, Jack is calling the roofing office secretary who calls the roofers to tell them they are scheduled for Thursday, not Tuesday. By the time I run outside they’re gone with only a big pile of shingles in the driveway as evidence that they were here.

Okay, now I can take a shower since I’ve worked up quite a sweat. While in the shower, the phone rings. It’s Jack telling me that the roofers are leaving and he’s getting on a plane. I get back in the shower and the dogs go wild again. I keep hearing jingle, jingle, jingle. It sounds like a cowbell. It’s too early for Santa Clause, but now I hear men calling and whistling and jingle, jingle, jingle running through the woods around our house. I get dressed and head down the driveway to discover the source of the annoying sound. My flip flop hits a rock and I catch my skidding fall with the front of all of my bare front toes. As I limp back to the house, a hound dog runs past me jingling all the way. I try to call it but it disappears into a nearby wooded lot. More whistles and calls from afar. Damn it! I get in my Jeep and ride in the direction of the calls only to find two men completely clad in hunting gear with rifles slung over their shoulders holding and patting the dog. I roll down my windows and tell them the dog was on my street. “I tried to call him but I didn’t know his name,” I say.

“Well neither do we!” Har-har-har. I’d like to ask, “What kind of an ass goes around shooting poor, helpless animals out of a field that is the only patch of undeveloped land left in the area?” However, I don’t think it’s a good idea to irritate armed men. So I turn around and go back home, only to hear jingle, jingle, jingle followed by canine madness. The guy is taking a leisurely walk down my street with his hunting dog, rifle in tow! Wow. At least the dog is wearing a bell so that the deer can hear him coming. Stupid is as stupid does.

As Christopher Walken says, “I’ve got a fever and the prescription is more cowbell!”

It’s now past noon. Guess I’d better take another look at the pool. Then I’ll get to work. Yeah, right.

Becoming a Dog

2008-10-06T18:20:00.000-07:00

(Bear and London as pups, six months ago.)

In my many hours of human isolation as a member of the pack, I think that I am becoming a dog. Although I will never meet such high levels as that species; I aspire to it. I would rather reach the spiritual level of a dog than that of a human, because that of a dog seems so much purer. Oh yeah, people will say that is because canines don’t have the intellect of a human. Thank Dog!—or the dyslectic equivalent thereof.

The American Indians, if I understand correctly, see wolves as mentors for the method of bringing up children and preserving society. Wolves are definitely a better role model than that of humans in many ways. However, it makes me sad that the Lone Wolf, the one that goes out on its own, is sought after and killed because of its threat to the rest of the pack. I wonder if Bear, our Newfoundland-mix rescue, fits into that category. David rescued Bear right before Bear was euthanized, and I later discovered that black dogs (and cats for that matter) are euthanized more often than any other animals.

Despite the fact that Bear has adjusted quite well with every dog (and person) around him, he looks like Stephen King’s Cujo—big, black, with large, white wolf teeth, and, at times of absolute affection (which are many), he nibbles you relentlessly not realizing the pain that he is inflicting. (We’re working on that, but it’s very endearing.) Honestly, I was horrified of him when we first brought him home and when he wouldn’t come in at night. I slowly backed away after trying my best to cajole him inside when he glared back at me with those glow-in-the-dark gold eyes. Okaay then, stay out here if you like. Do dogs judge one another by their covers? We’ll never know, but I can tell you that Bear’s cover was nothing but that—a sheep in wolf’s clothing. We rescued him from his first placement because the other dogs were attacking him, despite his threatening dogsona.

What a baby! He whines, cries, and begs like a spoiled child. He climbs on everyone’s laps and tries to curl into a ball, not realizing that he is a 75-plus-pound beast that looks like a killer wolf. He wraps his paw around your leg when he wants your full attention and relentlessly licks the smallest wounds, such as a mosquito bite, that he spots on your skin. We are still working with his need to jump up and wrap his big arms around anyone’s neck without invitation, as he did when I first said hello to the big fella. I said, “So this is Bear,” and he jumped up immediately and hugged me tight as if to say, please take me home and love me. That habit is a tough one to break, because it does tend to melt one's heart.

Tonight I took poor old Moses, who is deteriorating as I speak, on a trek through the woods to retrieve the mail. It was dark and I made the younger two rapscallions stay behind and me and my old pugmeister traipsed through the undergrowth. Moses seemed very happy, but breathless, as I stopped for him on several occasions. One of those stops was our pet cemetery filled with the memories of mostly dogs, but also rabbits, mice, and a memorable ferret, all loved ones who have added many happy stories to my life.

Last week at PetSmart a rescue pit bull being walked for a pit stop halted dead in its tracks and wagged its entire body as it stretched toward me. “Wow,” said the handler, “I’ve never seen him react to someone that way. Maybe you could take him home!”

I would love to have taken him home, but I can only afford three dogs right now, and truthfully, I can’t afford those. The thing that bothers me is those people who will only take the purebreds. In 30 years, I’ve had two purebreds myself, but the rest were these little mutts that make the best of pets. But even discarded purebreds are waiting to be rescued, for gosh sakes, if people didn’t have that puppy fixation.

Like I said, I’ve only had two purebreds in my life, but I can’t distinguish the joy I had from them from any of the others. This old Bear reminds me of Jack and these two most recent dogs (Bear and London, the American Eskimo-who knows what mix) despite my worries, took an immediate attraction to each other. Bear has a beastly approach, but is a sweetheart beneath. He growls sometimes, but craves affection, even though he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. He jumps into your lap with the impact of a fullback and receives hugs magnanimously. I fell in love with London via an online rescue, and when Jack tried to get me to cancel him due to Bear’s unexpected arrival, there wasn’t a chance that I could do so. The two fell in love at first sight.

London is like a little red fox devil. He wants attention, but only on his terms. He likes to cause trouble and aggravates Bear relentlessly and Bear puts up with his shenanigans good-naturedly, to an extent. London is a little loner with a bent sense of humor that nevertheless seems to get his feelings hurt unexpectedly. Bear and London are unlikely, but inseparable friends and companions.

Oh my God, we just adopted the better version of ourselves!

Deep TV

2008-10-02T21:19:00.000-07:00

Those Viva Viagra commercials aro so cringe-inducing that I have to leave the room when they're on, not because of the subject matter but because of the hokiness. What must they pay those guys to "star" in them? Somebody has something on those guys and it must be something horrible.

But the ones I really can't figure out are the Cialis commercials--what do two claw-footed bathtubs, side-by-side on an elevated deck out on the beach have to do with erectile dysfunction? First of all, who put those tubs out there, and why? Plus, if a guy is having that particular problem, shouldn't he at least try getting into the same tub as the woman? How do they get water in those things? If they have to load it all out in buckets, because I don't see any plumbing, the guy is probably too tired to do anything else. Water is very heavy. How many years have they been doing this? They don't need Cialis, they need indoor plumbing and one bathtub.

And what about those air freshener commercials with animated animals wearing clothes? What the hell does an octopus, a kangaroo, or a chameleon have to do with air freshener? Did somebody luck onto some free graphics discarded by Disney? In one of these ads, an elephant's husband is a centipede! Now that's just wrong.

I looked over at Jack and asked, "How can that be?!" (Of course, I had accepted that an elephant wearing clothes had a picture of her insect husband framed on the wall.)

"I don't know, hon," he answered with way too much disinterest.

Maybe the centipede should take some of that Viagra or Cialis because that couple's kids aren't elephants OR centipedes. They're not even elepedes or centiphants. Next thing you know, I'll be seeing those two on Cheaters or Divorce Court. Mark my words.

The Sopranos and Carpe Diem

2008-09-10T21:32:00.000-07:00

Once again Jack is out of town and I’m working my rear off because any and all jobs have converged into a two-week deadline after a summer of zero income. Meanwhile, we’re trying to put David through college. When Aunt Jennifer generously gave him a check to help cover expenses he thanked her profusely and said, “I only wish I was in a position to refuse this.” Don’t I know it!

I’m supposed to be focusing entirely on a book deal, but I can’t sacrifice my client base, and I’m waiting for pay-on-publication checks—as if!! The media’s political coverage has slowly turned my brain into an angry mush, if that’s possible. Well hell yes it’s possible! My brain IS an angry mush. It’s like a slushy soup in which the ingredients of apathy are mixed with equal parts of antipathy.

David is talking to me about his tests in required classes that have nothing to do with real life. I know it, but I must downplay that reality. Education could be fun if your life didn’t depend on it. Then again, you discover that even though your life might depend on it, it doesn’t do you that much good except for deleting one more demerit against you when competing against Susie or Charles with connections. So call me bitter!

Knowing that every day is precious doesn’t help when you can’t do anything about it. Yeah, I’d much rather be frolicking on a beach somewhere but seizing the day is a bit difficult when you’re transcribing interviews 24-7. Then friends Jill and Ray who took me out to eat Mexican tonight (hey even recluses need to get out once in a while) informed me that somewhere in Switzerland experiments are going on to prove the Big Bang Theory. Why?! The experiments involve some types of energies which are above your understanding, dear imagined readers—meaning that I have no idea either, but scientists are saying that such tinkering may create a black hole that swallows the earth, in which case, I have really been wasting my time this summer even more than I had previously presumed! Balls!

With my whole world collapsing in a continual downward spiral, including the fact that now there aren’t even any bugs to save from drowning in our pool—one of my prided community outreach endeavors—I’ve become captured by morning reruns of “The Sopranos.” In fact, the few minutes of indulgence while drinking my morning coffee persuaded me to rent the series again, and I’m beginning to think the so-called mob should replace the U. S. government. At least they get things done! (Just kidding, Big Brother '0 Mine.) [To all others: No I’m not kidding.] There’s some good philosophy going on in that fictional scenario. I love it when Tony Soprano (mob boss), alluding to the beliefs of one of his Hassidic “customers” asks his psychiatrist, “If this life shit is all about nothing, then when why do I have to keep thinking about it all the time?”

Well said Tony. Well said.

That Little Yellow Pill

2008-09-01T20:43:00.000-07:00

My nephew turned thirteen this month and we recreated his yearly birthday that we have had here for at least seven years. My rescue dog, Bear, escaped several times during the fiasco. He has no street savvy and seems to think that our retrieval efforts are a big game, running and smiling as we approach, then jumping right into the Jeep when we finally find him, stop, and open the door. Still, it's a bit hurtful. Don't you like us you big jerk?! As London, his best little companion cries for his return, it's difficult to not harbor resentment and lick wounds until I realize when he gets back he thought the whole thing was a romp and doesn't realize the danger he's in due to his lack of life experience.

Due to several different factors, I told Jack that this summer sucked and then it was over. That ticks me off, because I know how important time is. I've been deaf for the past few weeks due to "barotrauma" or airplane ear and today I watched a few episodes of "That 70s Show" during which the mother said, while posing her kid and his friends for a high school graduation photo, "Now smile for your mothers who spent the past 18 years of their lives living for you. And while you're smiling, think of what we're supposed to do now!!" As she runs out of the room, her son, says, "You're supposed to take that little yellow pill."

The other day at a department store, the lady asked me if I qualified for the senior discount. "What?" I asked, followed by asking what the age cut-off was. I didn't qualify yet which was doubly depressing, but I added, "I couldn't hear you because I just got off a plane and have barotrauma, not because I'm old." DAMNIT.

I wish I had a few of those little yellow pills.

Update: Irrelevant and disconnected thoughts

2008-08-19T20:29:00.000-07:00

This agoraphobic just traveled from Atlanta to San Francisco to Portland to Medford to Denver in less than five days. Sadly, I may never hear clearly again due to a condition called barotrauma. Can you hear me now? NO!!

Commercial watch: Please explain why an octopus married to a walrus is a spokesperson for air freshener.

The Price is Right: Who writes the garbage for describing the prizes and the showcases? Also, who watches this stuff? Unfortunately me, while on the treadmill.

Most of you probably don’t know this, but I actually wrote several missives to the Scrubbing Bubbles folks when they changed to a very unsatisfactory dispenser. My last e-mail began with “It’s a sad day . . .” which cracked up sister Jennifer. Well, laugh if you will, they discarded the dysfunctional dispenser sometime near the timeframe of my passionate complaints. However, now I see on commercials that they are daring to change it again. It’s time to get out my “It’s a sad, sad, very sad day” pen.

Son David was going to take German for his language requirement, despite our warnings. I guess he though that since it was his grandfather’s native language, he might take to it naturally. Then he got a Beginning German syllabus all in German. Oh yeah, that professor is going to be fun! Like Jay Leno said, “The Germans can be wonderful people, but you better watch out once they start marching!” (What? I’m married to one!) Anyway, David changed to another language. Smart move, in my opinion. You can always learn a language on your own time when it isn’t tied to your GPA.

While I was in Oregon, enacting a combo of “The Odd Couple” and “The Out of Towners” with my boss, Bear, the chewingest dog in America, ate my entire first season of “Reno 911.” (Oh, I know, you’re too sophisticated to watch that kind of humor.)

Endorsement: Hey, those Roasted Garlic Triscuits are fantastic if you don’t mind the after-breath.

What are the odds? – When I got on the plane in Atlanta I started to experience extreme itching in an area that I couldn’t obviously scratch, being wedged between two men. What is this?! I asked as my ears burst and I struggled to scratch my left breast without being noticed. Why can’t I just have a normal flight like everyone else? I thought, as I subtly wriggled and planned my escape to the dreaded airline bathroom. First they put on the movie, then turbulence (please stay seated), then the drink cart, and then everyone seemed to need to go. Finally, I made my way to the cubicle of terror and found . . . a tick in my bra!!!! He/she was still crawling about in shock I assume due to the altitude. Oh the horror! I hate these creatures, but can only trace it's origins to my extreme hugging of the multiple canines before my departure. They were one month behind on their Frontline treatments due to the fact that we can’t keep them from bite-playing for the six-hour requirements. I frenetically tried to wash it down the drain using the motion-sensory water flow.

Is there a Tick-in-Your-Underwear-Mile-High Club? Yeah, but I’m the only member.

Can I hear you now? No! And it’s ticking me off. (No pun intended.)

The airlines lost my luggage, but what once was lost, now is found. Hallelujah!

P. S. Jack met me at the airport with flowers. My boss probably thought, What the heck, she was only gone five days! But Jack understood what five days is for an anxious, crazy person like me and . . . he brought me flowers.

ADD Ramblings

2008-07-28T17:39:00.001-07:00

This just about sums it up for me:

"One day a beaver and a termite were walking down the road together. 'I can eat through a tree with my teeth,' said the beaver.

'That’s nothing,' said the termite, 'I can burrow through a tree.'

Then they heard a voice behind them. 'You two think you’re so smart, but you’re NOTHING!' It was a bitter old drunk lady." --Jack Handy

******

This weekend Jack was pulling out drawers and rummaging through cabinets in the kitchen—nonfood-oriented cabinets and drawers, mind you. “What are you looking for?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Then how will you know if you find it?” I foolishly inquired.

“Oh, I’ll know!” he replied.

O-kee-doh-key.

******

"Life is a constant battle between the heart and the brain. But guess who wins? The skeleton."
--Jack Handy

******
I went to the UPS store to mail our taxes (another year of extensions). This lady with a nasal voice and an abrasive NY accent (sorry, but not really) was going on and on about how another place hadn’t charged her as much for shipping a larger box the week before, so she was going somewhere else to complain some more. Then she complained some more about the packing cost. Then she complained that they put too much tape on the box, so where was she going to put the label when she supposedly got a cheaper price from the other place where she was going to complain? All of this in this high nostril tril while I was in the middle of my would-have-been brief transaction.

The guy helping me told her that he would help her with the package if she would just wait two seconds, but she said she’d drive her car up and get it herself because she didn’t want to have to carry it all that way. When she came back in, the UPS employee offered again to help. “No, I’ll just have to carry it myself,” she opined.

As she struggled through the door, it took her several times to get through—she bumped against the sides of the door repeatedly with the big package, struggling to see her way through--but I just leaned against the counter and watched. So did he. Then I said, “What a whiner! Anybody else, I would have held the door open or something, but I really didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, I agree,” he said.

Is that bad?

******

“Instead of a trap door, what about an area of the floor that just shoots up real quick and smashes the guy against the ceiling?”--Jack Handy

"People were always talking about how mean this guy was who lived on our block. But I decided to go see for myself. I went to his door, but he said he wasn't the mean guy, the mean guy lived in that house over there. 'No, you stupid idiot," I said. 'That's MY house.'" --Jack Handy

******

For some reason, David and I were talking about sunburn. I told him about my Dad’s (his grandfather’s) love of the latest trends. For example, I know he was the first in the neighborhood to bring home the “Peppermint Twist” album.

Anyway, in the early 1970s—yes people still were alive then who are miraculously living today—he purchased a sun lamp with an alternate therapeutic heat lamp bulb. Jennifer (younger sister, but in her teens, so age is no excuse) decided to see if the warming bulb would melt a caramel on her head. So she unwrapped a Kraft caramel, stuck in on her head, and fell asleep under the lamp. Sadly, she mistakenly had the sun lamp in the fixture, not the heat lamp, so she woke up with a terrific burn and a prominent white square in the middle of her forehead that was near to impossible to cover with makeup for over a week.

“Don’t we have any normal family stories that I can pass on to my children?” David asked.

******

“I hope I never do anything to bring shame on myself, my family, or my other family.”—Jack Handy

The Lunatic is in My Head

2008-07-23T13:38:00.001-07:00

(Dedicated to cousin Diana--no she isn't dead, but she thought I might be.)

Have you ever felt like a rat in a maze and you don’t even want the cheese anymore? That’s about how my summer has gone. Spending a lot of time alone while Jack travels—he recently returned from Cannes, France—I realized the other night that if someone trained one of those spy cams on me for any given twenty-four-hour period that Jack would have plenty of fodder to have me committed.

Just last night consisted of wandering out to the pool at midnight to make sure no frogs had drowned, talking a Newfy into coming into the house during a violent thunderstorm, and screaming, “That’s it! Where’s the bad dog spray!” as London (a combo of wit and wily) tortured the pug. As leaves, tree limbs, and nuts (besides me) hit the windows, I discovered that Newfy the Bear had already eaten half of a hundred-dollar bed I’d purchased for him. “Bad dog! Bad dog! No more bed for Bear!” I screamed as I hurled the huge mattress into what was once David’s room but has now become a giant catchall for any unwieldy object in the house—including unfolded laundry. Of course Bear didn’t care; he just reclined on the sofa watching my mad Bride-of-Frankenstein choreography enacted to the background of blasting thunder and streaks of lightning.

(An aside: Just the other night, Jack, suffering from jet lag fell asleep on his chair. David, home for the weekend, and I were watching a movie. Still asleep, Jack stood up with arms outstretched and started veering forward and backward while mumbling.

“Look Mom, it’s Franken Dad,” said David. So I guess Jack and I are an appropriate couple.)

Composing myself, I open an e-mail containing the story and a video of Christian the Lion, returned to the wilderness by his owners who had raised him from a cub. Now tears are flowing down my cheeks and I am sobbing aloud as my canines look at me with what-the-hell’s-wrong-with-her-now? expressions. Drying my tears, I turn on an old episode of “Seinfeld” and laugh and laugh (somewhat maniacally, one might say) until the Newfy lands in my lap with London the American Eski-Beagle-Basset-Mo attached. The impact leaves me breathless as the combined weight of over a hundred pounds hitting your ribs tends to do. And then “No Bite! No Bite!” as Bear begins to nibble on my buttocks with his giant white teeth. If you think raising a dog with good manners is difficult, try teaching manners to one that was raised with bad ones by somebody else.

What is that in the little one’s mouth? Oh my God, it’s one of those giant buzzing bugs and it’s still alive! It’s flying at my head! Loud screaming ensues. I have had enough for a day and my imagined spy cam now has some great close-ups of me in a full range of manic emoting: rage, tears, laughter, sorrow, pain, abject fear, and back to rage. Also some good action shots as I crawl under the table on all fours to pick up the shredded hot pink tissue paper that the pups have secreted from a drawer and turned into giblets. “No! No! That is not why I’m in that position!” Where is the bad dog spray, (actually just a spray bottle of water) when you really need it? Now a disheveled, near molestation victim of a mess, I decide I’ve had enough. The pug sleeps with me but this requires some maneuvering as the “pups” like to push their way past me into the bedroom, grab whatever suits their fancy, and escape out the doggy door into the woods to decimate their hapless victims.

Oh yeah! Say I’ve lost control! You try to hold back two dogs with your feet and squeeze through a door while holding an aged twenty-pound pug!

I’ve managed the separation but dare I venture out into the hallway to turn down the air conditioning? No, I decide not to take the risk. Exhausted I fall asleep, but there really is no rest for the weary. I dream that I’m married to Billy Bob Thornton who as it turns out is a twisted, mentally abusive SOB, at least from my experience as his wife. Nice, then mean, then nice he gaslights me by saying, “Now don’t be lak thaat” whenever I react.

“Okay Billy Bob, you’re out of here, because it’s morning,” I say as I get up, get outta bed, and drag a comb across my head. Later I go to get the mail. There’s an invitation to my high school reunion. DAMN IT! Does the torture never stop?

Notice to the class of 1800: Gail will not be attending the reunion. She is currently weaving baskets at a nearby facility for the unstable.

(At least he sent me to a place with arts and crafts.)

Time Flies

2008-06-16T18:03:00.001-07:00

It’s the Saturday before Father’s Day ’08. I’m preparing to go to dinner and Jack’s in the shower. We’ve decided to go to dinner the day before to celebrate because we know that the actual day will be crazy at all of the restaurants. David is coming home from Athens for the occasion. “So should we wait for David to go to dinner?” I ask.

“No, he says it will be too late,” Jack answers.

Then I have one of those out-of-body experiences. A chill goes through me. My God, I just brought my baby home! It’s a time-warp experience that makes me want to cry. “Jack, what happened?” I say. “It’s as if I was holding him for one minute and now I’m waiting for him to come for dinner on Father’s Day!? Where did the time go?”

Jack says, “I just don’t know.”

Why I'm Crazy!

2008-06-16T13:52:00.000-07:00

Jack and I are traveling across town to have our new rescue puppy, London, neutered. Jack likes to travel at the speed of sound and makes such abrupt stops that everyone in the car gets a wedgy.

At least twice, the puppy flies from his little bed in the back to the floor. Then I try holding him, but all the movement makes him carsick. I kick myself for not purchasing one of those doggy halters, but little did we know that in order to have the rescue association neuter London for free, we’d have to go to one of their designated facilities two hours away. “Don’t gas prices even out just paying for our own vet?” I want to know. Jack begs to differ.

He starts to program his GPS while he’s driving which results in another occasion for a sudden, heartstopping halt, less than inches from the car in front of us. Then the dialogue continues as follows:

GPS: Please turn right in 20 feet.

Jack: No way!

GPS: Now turn left.

Jack: No damn way I’m turning left!

GPS: Please make a u-turn now.

Jack: Yeah right! You’re out of your damn mind!

Me: I think you’re the only person I’ve ever known to use a GPS just so you can argue with it. Why are you using it?

Jack: Because this thing is incredible. Right now (pointing to the screen) it’s communicating with nine satellites. But I know a better route.

Me: I’m so confused.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, DRIP!!

2008-05-15T14:32:00.000-07:00

It’s the little things that push people over the edge, like when someone shoots another person for making a repetitive sound just one time too many. I once worked with a woman whose husband constantly sucked his teeth. We had to be around them at company gatherings and after a point, I didn’t want to be in the same room with the man for fear of exploding in a violent rage. Glasses could be clinking, music playing, people talking, but all I could hear was the suck, suck, sucking like the tale-tell heart. I eventually changed jobs, not for that reason, but in doing so I may have saved a man’s life.

When I’m home alone with the dogs, which is a lot—and anyone reading this should know that they are very, very vicious, cruel, violent creatures who would rather kill you than look at you—these little things in my surroundings start to drive me nuts, or should I say, nuttier. This doesn’t make me a very good companion for myself. For example, television commercials drive me crazy, and yet I continue to watch and listen to them. It must run in the family because my sister got so annoyed with a fellow employee for pronouncing the Toot in Tootsie roll (which she had in a bowl on her desk) like the toot that a train makes that she had to call him on it. The discussion got so involved that they wrote the company for the correct pronunciation. She was right. So for your information, it’s the short toot, not the long toot.

Anyway, one late, late night I was sitting here watching reruns of the “Price is Right” which is sad enough but what really made it sad was that I was watching it ONLINE! So I turned on the television to see a commercial with this beautiful young actress, can’t remember her name. She sidles across the screen and says, “Do you know what you really, really want? Well, I know what I want! A makeup that blends with my skin.”

Wow, what a deep thinker. Plus, life must be really, really easy for her. Not only was she really, really beautiful, but according to the commercial, she had already found the makeup that blended with her skin! Some people are just blessed.

Next comes a commercial for yet another new drug. Lately the side effects listing for these things have become so long that one would think people would rather just have the disease or malady that the drug supposedly treats. These are horrible side effects like anal leakage and possible aneurysm or death, but said in a chirpy voice they don’t sound that bad. Anyway, this particular new remedy, for whatever, was called Acifex. Yes, that’s right. People who probably make hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, who set up think tanks, take surveys, and then run their name choices past executives who make even more money—they all agreed on naming a medicine Ass Effects. When Jack is here, I yell out things, like, “They PAY people for this?” But he doesn’t seem to care. Why, why, how can people not care?!

Now for those of you who want to remind me of famine, plague, sorrow, and war, all the serious stuff that’s going on in this world, have no fear. Those things bother me a lot and I’m not just saying that either. But remember . . . it’s the little things that drive you crazy.