The Half-Way House of "Things"

It's finally become winter here.  It was so warm for so long, but just in the past few days the temps are in the 30s & 40s at night & evening & sometimes when we are driving off to go to school.  It's nice.  It's not so nice when you are running late & have a child who cannot find his jacket.  A jacket that has a clearly marked & repeatedly announced home.  Perhaps it's the constant reminders that cause him to tune out--next time I'll send a "We're Moving" card & see if that does the trick.  Either way, he seems to think that his things are itinerant, gypsy-like.  I do not.  Right there is where the clash begins.  

To remedy the homework, water bottle, backpack & jacket issues, I've created homes for these things, along with a ritual.  In theory, this is how it works:  we come home from school & the water bottles, snack bags & lunch bags (if we use them that day) go to the kitchen for cleaning; the backpacks go on a hook; and the homework comes to the kitchen table to be worked on, after hand washing & snackage.  Yes, it sounds regimented but the boys & I are easily side-tracked--once I lose them they don't want to come back.  I get back on track because I don't want to be cracking the proverbial whip all evening nor herding cats.  I also don't want to be doing homework right before bedtime.  Not. At. All.  Relaxing.  I can think of a dozen "better" things to do than that, like clean toilets.  At least that would show some immediate results due to my efforts.  Running around half-crazed trying to get little boys to do homework, not so much.

This morning, is also the morning that said little boy wore short sleeves & no socks--at least he wore jeans, which is more than I can say for the other one.  At any rate, off we went to school.  I felt bad because here I am with an undershirt, a long sleeved shirt, a wool sweater, scarf, vest & boots up to my knees, walking with a little, chilly boy in short sleeves, jeans & converse with no socks.  At least they weren't the jeans that make him looked washed ashore, these reached the tops of his shoes.  The other one had a hoodie on with shorts:(  who also kvetched the whole way in that the other one always made us late...

It's still only 53 degrees out & it's nearing pick up time.  My hope is that the jacket will be found & put back in its home, not a half-way house.  I also hope that Little Man didn't suffer all day but also didn't thaw out enough to get amnesia, forgetting the whole episode ever happened.  He seems to think that everything is "home" just where he happens to drop, leave or forget them.  These half-way homes will no longer do for me, although it's sometimes difficult to blame a child who has been raised by a woman who either thinks in stacks & piles or needs an absolutely clear space, depending on the stage of her thought process & work progress.  He's hosed.  I try to be consistent & that's the best I can do.  Sometimes, my thoughts are scattered as are my tables, counter & desk.  But, in all fairness he knows that putting specific items in their real homes is essential & necessary, especially when it means getting to school on time (even more so when he can't seem to get out of bed very well now that it's dark).

I'll work on my counter, tables & desk & I hope he does the same.  I don't know how much longer I can live in a half-way house.  

B Horror Movie Star

 



I've always joked that I was the star in my own B horror film. The one where the protagonist has been telling everyone there's danger afoot or disaster's on its way but no one will listen. Can you picture it? The black & white film depicting a woman standing in the middle of the screen, screaming for help, eyes bulging, bent arms tucked in tightly at her sides while her hands move to the sides of her face, claw-like--camera pans to where her gaze is fixed, to show the horror that only she sees & understands? Yup, story of my life. I say something & I get poo-pooed about my silliness or exaggeration (I'm sure you're prone to agree after that last bit) and then, it comes true! The horror. I suppose mostly horror just for me because often others have select memories. They forget that I mentioned it in the first place. In any case, I had a different kind of B horror movie experience last Friday--in an elevator, no less! Yes--the twist was that I was the horrible monster.

When I get in the elevator at work (I usually take the stairs; but, sometimes, in the morning, juggling heavy, heavy bags & coffee & the elevator always waiting--no real excuse--but, I take it) I always get asked, "3?" sometimes I get, "...4?" immediately thereafter. Admin is on 3 & another institution is on 4. That morning I chuckled and said to the woman, No, 2. For some reason I get that a lot. I'd like to think that it's because I look like a person who wouldn't take the elevator to the 2nd floor (shameful, I know--at least she was going to the 2nd floor, as well). In reality, I probably look like someone in admin. I don't look like a student. Eyeing me, she asked if I'm a student or a teacher. I said teacher. Looking at me full-on she asks, "Fashion Design?" I laugh & tell her no, English. Yes, here's where the horror comes in. The look on her face was priceless--she looked at me as if she were trapped in the elevator with some sort of flesh-eating space creature (to stick with the 50s B horror movie theme). I laughed. She mumbled something--because many kids her age seem to mumble or maybe I'm just getting old & don't hear very well anymore--and then says, "I wish you were my English teacher. I hate my English teacher." Wow. I then became the lesser of two evils--of the "I voted for him because I really didn't want the other one to win" variety. Just kidding; actually, it was simultaneously odd & sad. She sounded so dejected by the thought of her English teacher that I felt bad for her. These students really don't like their general education classes & those of us who teach them are pretty much horrors to them (or so I'm told). At any rate, her reaction to me being an English teacher still makes me chuckle & the look on her face was too much. I thought she was going to jump out of her skin. I've had people look at me in a lot of different ways, but that one was entirely new to me. As I tell my students, you learn something every day, right?

Tinker Bell, Strawberry Shortcake & Santa Aren't Real

I didn't say it, Conner's coworker did...

Conner offered to write out gifts tags from Santa for a coworker, so her daughter wouldn't recognize her handwriting.  This woman told Conner that she told her daughter that Santa isn't real.  Yes, she has a nearly 4 year old whom she told that Santa isn't real, just like Tinker Bell & Strawberry Shortcake aren't real.  Now how these three were lumped together, I don't know.  This woman's reasoning for it is that she doesn't want her daughter to be disappointed when she's 7 & figures out that Santa isn't real.  Seriously?  I think that Max figured out something was up with Santa earlier than that.  When he was 2 he noticed that Santa's block printing is just like mine.  I countered with the commonality of that kind of printing--So common!  Really?  Santa's printing looks like mine?  How nice!  The following year he noticed that Santa used the same kind of wrapping paper that we did.  I responded with, Santa likes things to match the individual homes--it looks better that way.  While I had thought about disguising these things, I thought I had a year more than I really did to do it.  How wrong was I!

So, Conner & I discussed why the Tooth Fairy doesn't live with this group.  We are supposing that since the Tooth Fairy doesn't interrupt any Christian holidays, she's off the hook.  Conner & this woman didn't even make it to the Easter Bunny, because that was my next question, as I'm sure it is yours.  I'm supposing he lives with them, too.  We had a big laugh because there are so many other things our parents lied to us about that Santa, the Tooth Fairy & the Easter Bunny were really the lesser of the so-called lies.  Yes, she felt she was lying to her daughter.  Yes, she's Christian but not in an overly proselytizing way.

My response was & is that I'm pretty sure that Max suspects, if not knows, that the Tooth Fairy isn't real but doesn't say anything.  He doesn't say anything because of his Santa Claus suspicions.  He openly & directly questioned the existence of Santa Claus when he was in Kindergarten.  We had a long talk about believing and even if we didn't think that he was a real person (he's analytical and the logistics, among so many other things, really made no sense whatsoever to him) it was about the spirit of Christmas and the love and the magic.  If he wasn't buying that, I added (for good measure) that if he didn't believe, Santa wouldn't come.  That's just how we roll around here.  A good dose of reality mixed in with fiction never really hurts, does it?  He even went so far as to ask if Stuart believed but he didn't, would Santa bring both of them presents?  No.  No he wouldn't.  Stuart would receive and Max would not.  That discussion, despite the fact that both boys both try to wait up for the Tooth Fairy, has stilled any voiced doubts about her existence.

I suppose that on some level I'm not a whole lot different in my fantasy/reality sort of dealings with these mystical figures than this woman.  It's just I won't get jumped in the daycare parking lot when everyone figures out it's her daughter who's spreading the word that Santa isn't real!

Retirement and the Dude

Once upon a time, we lived in an older home (wait, we still do...) that had older (actually, darn near archaic) equipment.  We had an air conditioning unit that was so old, the younger repairmen (yes, they were all men) did not know what to do when they saw it.  Essentially, the scenario went a little like this:

I show them the closet where the unit resided.  They look at it and don't say anything or do anything.  Well?  I think to myself as I look askance at them.  I repeat the story and they always responds with, "I need to call my boss/office/supervisor."  A sigh inevitably escapes my lips as I walk away so he can "talk."  More like describe the dinosaur he's looking at and beg for help.  The story always ends with, "My boss/the owner/my supervisor needs to come out and look at your unit.  Can he come tomorrow?" No fail.  No kidding.  Actually, once the owner was tooling around town and was able to swing by a few hours later the same afternoon.  No, never mind, I just didn't want Dude in my whatever closet if you get my drift.

I was in my early 20s and I wanted the man who was over 40 looking at whatever needed fixing in that house.  Seriously, he's seen it; worked on it; and/or is familiar with it.  He was schooled at a time when things were hands-on and computers didn't do the thinking for you.  It doesn't shock him like it shocks Dude, as if I had something illicit tucked away and he just happened upon it.  The older man looks at it and gets cracking.  Dude makes a lot of phone calls and a series of excuses.  Plus, I was forced to spend a lot of unproductive time with Dude.  No matter how nice Dude was I just wanted my archaic  home equipment repaired and to be left in peace.  I know I sound less than charitable but when a repair situation turns into something from a sitcom I really no longer want to be a part of it.  Especially when that event was consistent.

As I was pulling out of my drive some 20 years later, the drive of a different house but nearly as old, I realized that all of the repairmen I generally want in my home (a.k.a. "the older guy") are probably heading for retirement and that Dude is now just as middle aged as I am.  At least our "new" home has newer equipment and I have age as a leverage.  Imagine trying to tell Dude about how the ancient equipment works and what's going on with it when he's a) male and b) roughly the same age or barely older than you, a mere woman and a young one at that.

Once, Twice, Thrice--It still did not suffice

One of the paradoxes of motherhood (parenthood in general) is that I feel like a broken record but I can't let some things go--lessons to be learned!  morals to impart!  I have to reduce my rules down to threes so the people will remember (and hopefully) follow them.  What brought this to mind was the kitchen garbage.

"STOP!"  I say, rather loudly.  "Before you dump your plates into the garbage, I want you to make sure you get it in the center of the garbage can--not the side, not the lid, not the floor--dump it in the center of the can." 

For my younger son, I add, "Just like the toilet--not on the seat, not on the side, not on the floor--the center!"  They all get a big kick out of this little chant I've created for them--not the side, lid or floor, but the center!"

They also like the juxtaposition of garbage and toilet--the stuff of little boy giggles.  Thing is, I'm not kidding.  I often say things in all earnestness, emphasizing my seriousness, perhaps insisting there's gravity involved--all for naught.  I take that back, they do remember but they don't always do.  Sometimes, they remember after the fact.  In their minds, I'm sure, they're thinking that has to count for something.  In some ways, it does.  I have to take a deep breath and let it out, knowing that losing my cool & my mind will do no good--except perhaps cause more laughter.  Apparently, I'm an outright comedienne when I'm angry and my analogies and adjectives cause side-splitting laughter.

Glad I could be of service.  Just don't expect me to clean your mess.

Little Box

There's a little box--I suppose it to be like a tiny trinket or treasure box--that's deep inside me.  I file things away there.  I don't think I really realized I did this until I was forced to explain how I was feeling one day during yoga teacher training.

Everyone has their own meltdowns and breakthroughs during this process and usually these come somewhere during the middle of training.  I was past the halfway mark when mine arrived.  It came like an Arizona storm and left just as quickly.  It didn't bring enough water to help grow anything but it brought enough wind to make things messy.  If you've ever experienced a southwestern desert storm you'll know what I'm talking about.  The wind picks up and blows dust over everything and there may or may not be rain.  At least that's the way it's been for the past several years.  We don't have good monsoons (which I love) like we used to.  Monsoons that clear away the dust and bring blooms, humidity and skies that are somehow bluer and more interesting than the plain, hot, dry and intense summer skies.  After a good monsoon everything seemed different to me--I seemed to see with different eyes.  The summer weather we've been having now leaves me feeling stagnant and stuck.  I go through the motions of the day but that's about it.  At any rate, this meltdown did not provide any real clarity for me.  I just knew there was something ("IT") that I needed to find and deal with.  That's when I realized that I had a kind of kangaroo affect going on with my box.  I just took things (emotions, situations, stagnation, you name it) and filed it away for "later."  Some things are really jammed in there, perhaps that's why I can't quite get in there and clean house like I would like.

Before you think I've lost it like a mad dog or Englishman in the midday sun, you have to know that I'm the oldest child of old world-like parents.  They don't see life the same way as my contemporaries' parents do, which presents its own challenges.  Also, I was always the peace-maker and people-pleaser of the family.  Head "feather-smoother" should be one of my titles.  I also realized, today as a matter of fact, that the box of tools that are in my hand currently don't work for me.  Why?  Because I wasn't allowed (and didn't allow myself) my own set of tools, I was too busy fixing/helping/adjusting/you-name-it to tend to my own garden and find my own tools.  When I expressed myself it was either "inappropriate"or just plain not ok.  Growing up I laughed too loud, felt too deeply and talked too much.  I still do that, but it's not always as open.  I often skirt around the real issue, mostly because it's too much for others, in turn, becoming too much for me.  Years of not being fully true to oneself can really take its toll.  It's not that the "me" my friends and family know is false, it's just not the fullest expression of myself.  I know there's a whole lot more joy and creativity in there, waiting.  There's a whole different element of me waiting to spring out of my personal Pandora's box, if I would just let it.  I resist opening that box, even when the lid is clanking and rattling and beckoning me.  Too much will fly out and it'll be too messy.  I have to face my fears and stand up for myself.  I know that I have to deal with it and I've been trying a little bit at a time.  Mostly because I know that what I'm working with now isn't really working--it's very intermittent.  Life's a process and I finally have the resolve to accept that (versus just knowing it to be intellectually true).

Flanders

Here's Flanders.  He's the newest member of our family & a rockin' cool dude.  He seems to be adjusting really well.  I've finally got the computer and my cell talking again, so I can add pics to ye ole blog.  We're keeping the name he came with, although Little Man wanted to add "Bob" to it (Flanders Bob).  I told him it sounded a little piratey for me, but then Chief's been calling him, "Flanderson," and I've been calling him "Flanderooney" and "Hidey Ho!" (the latter came from his online profile that the AZ Animal Welfare League created for him--"Hidey Ho, neighbors!" was his tagline with his info following it). 

Here's from our ride home:

He really wants out of the back seat and into ours!  He finally got the picture and stayed safely in the back. 





Hot Beverage?

I like my hot beverages--coffee and green tea.  I'll drink black tea and some of that other stuff, but I really prefer green.  First thing in the morning and as an afternoon snack, however, coffee trumps it all--black in the AM and a sugary latte in the PM.  Black decaf after a dinner out.  It's pretty routine--certain times of the year it's like clockwork.  That's why I got such a chuckle out of Sheldon's character on the show, Big Bang Theory, when he noted that it's a "social custom" to offer someone an "hot beverage" when they are feeling down (at least that's what I vaguely remember--I was laughing too hard at "social custom" and, of course, "hot beverage").  I heard that months ago and I still cackle out loud when I say to Chief, "Hot beverage?"



via Google images

It's the little things in life.  Yes, I continue to drink hot beverages when the temps soar above 100 degrees.  They soothe my throat and placate my psyche, if the truth be told!  In astrological terms this is interesting because I'm a taurus ruled by the throat--my dad would say that this explains why I talk all the time.  hmmmm.  I'll leave you with that as I'm off to get my afternoon latte.

Buddy & Trigger

We started our search for a dog in a kind of official capacity last weekend by going to AZ Animal Welfare League's shelter.  There were a lot of furry faces to visit that it quickly became overwhelming.  In retrospect, we were so haphazard in our selection process last time.  We chose two male dogs who were roughly the same age, but they weren't litter mates and they weren't being kenneled together.  Trigger (who at the time was called "Trasher") was campaigning very hard to be chosen.  I could practically hear him yelling, "OOOH, pick me!  Pick me!!!"  Buddy was much more laid back with a kind of "how you doing" sort of vibe, who seemed very quiet.  Little did we know!  They were the only two we asked to look at, they seemed to get along and then we decided we'd take them both.  There you have it. 

Jon & I were talking about the dogs we saw and comparing notes when I remembered taking Buddy and Trigger home with us.  Trigger could not get out of the shelter fast enough.  He practically drug me through the lobby and jumped right into the back of the truck the second he could clear the gate.  With the look on his face and his extreme panic I would've expected him to reach down to give Buddy him a hand all the while shouting, "Come on man!  We have to leave now!  Hurry before they leave without us!"  Buddy, however, had spied a person arriving to turn in two cats.  He lunged and scared one of the poor cats under some lady's car and was way more interested in that whole scenario than jumping ship with Trigger.  It was quite a circus ride.  I had taken the dogs out to the truck by myself while Jon finished paying because Trigger was in a hell-fire hurry to leave.  Boy-howdy.  All these tucked-away memories have been popping up because of the dog search.  We are planning on going back tomorrow to visit and do a better job of getting everyone more focused.  Wish us luck! 

I really need to organize my photo library.  I have good pics of the dogs and can never find them when I'm looking for or needing them!

"Suggestion/Complaint" Box, a.k.a., the Bitch Box

I think I'm going to make a complaint box for our house.  One that's just for me and no one else--my own personal Bitch Box.  I will lodge the nastiest complaints in this box & later I will burn them.  (The irony is I say I'll do these things, yet I don't think I have the courage or the patience to articulate some of the stuff swirling around in my head)  I suppose I could "suggest" things to myself, but I don't really talk like that--the harshest I get there is "recommending" that some one "be quiet" or if really mad, "shut up."  I know, still not very nice.  That's why this box seems like such a great idea, today particularly.  I feel like the past couple of weeks have really worn on me & I no longer want to take it.  Thing is, where do you "put" it, whatever "it" happens to be?  Why you put it in the box and woe be to him who tries to peek in it, right?  You get enough complaints you can then burn them and start the merry process all over, again.  Kind of like the school run--you get in the car in the morning and drop the children off and do the same thing in the afternoon only in reverse, get in the car and pick up the children.  Cyclical, like the phases of the moon and the waves in the ocean or the fighting of politicians and the kvetching of the PTA moms (of which I am not, yet another story)--things you can always count on to reoccur.  Perhaps just having a Bitch Box in and of itself will cheer me and I won't have to complain.  We'll see about that.



Another Reason to Love Top Gear

via Google images

Our family enjoys watching the BBC version of Top Gear.  Chief & Big Monkey are motor heads of sorts, Little Man likes the squealing of tires, speeding and occasional wacky stunts the hosts pull and I just find the hosts funny and a little bit off.  I wonder aloud what it would be like to have The Stig's job.  We are currently catching up with back episodes on Netflixs and there have been 2 episodes from Season 2 where Jeremy has mentioned donkeys.  Love donkeys!  Makes me love the show even more.  Jeremy has 3 donkeys named Jeffrey, Eddie and Christian Scott donkey.  Too much.  He also had a tin bank that he put coins in on another episode.  For every car that had more than one person in it on the M-5, he'd put (can't remember how much) in it--for the donkey rescue!  Sadly, there more singletons on the freeway than carpoolers.  He kept shaking the tin, hollering, "Come on people!  What about the donkeys?"

Yes, people!  What about the donkeys?!!!

via Google images

Foster's Basket



via Google images

I scribble notes to myself on a pad, actually multiple pads and scraps of paper, & sometimes they don't always make sense to me or it takes a moment for the word or words to form a connection in my mind.  The other day it was "Arian Foster."  It was the last name that got me because I remembered about the basket--for a few days I kept referring to "Foster's Basket."  I don't know why I clicked on the link about a football player signing with Houston.  I suppose I wanted to know why he was overcome with emotions at his press conference.  Watching the clip, I was crying along with him. 

The story is that when he was little he was going to buy something specific for each of his family members, when he made it big in football.  He told everyone what he was going to get them and then they all asked, "What about your mom?"  He replied, "A fruit basket."  I have to chuckle because I think kids either get the ideal gift spot on or they have some crazy (to us, not them) idea come to them.  He was 7 when he made these statements and it became a running joke in his family.  They'd say to him, "When are you going to make good on the fruit basket?"  But, what really got me was when he was talking about how hard he saw his mom work and how she pawned her wedding ring one night to put food on the table.  He didn't want to have to do that to his children.  He went on to say that's why he works hard and doesn't complain too much (the article mentioned all that he had accomplished for the team but he wasn't really compensated for it, mentioning his salary ).  He said, "At the end of the day we are all people and all we want to do is smile...even when we were growing up and things were tough that's what he had, what kept my family going is that we smile through it all."  He was grateful for what had come his way and hearing him say that was so profound for me.  Here's a man who, at that particular moment, could demand more and probably get it but he was happy to have a job.  He came to that job and gave it his all and was satisfied with that.  He didn't have to worry about the lights being turned off or putting food on the table and, in part, that defined "success" for him.  That's food for thought (couldn't help myself)--but, seriously, it's something to really reflect on. 

So, every once in a while I remind myself of Foster's Basket.

(As a side note, he did have a fruit basket delivered to his mom at her work place!)

Strangeness at Costco

The boys & I were talking to a sample lady about these delicious little pizza-like items when a pushy woman came up and said to the sales lady, "Ahhm...do you have any fresh samples?  These look a little old."  No, they didn't--they were just the smaller pieces because they came from the outer part of the circle.  The sales lady was really nice and said some were just about done grilling and that's when we said "thank you" and went over to the case to pick up some up for ourselves. 

We finished our shopping, checked out and headed for the truck.  That probably took about 30 or so minutes, because there was a potty stop and a "venting machine" stop (see my post from last summer about the "venting machine"  http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5685134614121762039#editor/target=post;postID=374885236268043931).  When we got outside there were two police cars and officers talking to the same woman who needed "freshness."  At first it wasn't apparent what was going on.  Was she robbed?  Was there an accident?  As we got closer I noticed she was in an handicap spot.  I wondered why they would come to ticket someone in a handicap spot without a hanger or decal, not that I minded because someone who doesn't need that kind of spot but still uses it involves big kahunas and bad kharma.  As we drew closer I saw she had a hanger on her rearview--she gets around really very well and is about my age, not that appearances are always a good indicator as to why one has an hanger--but, she also had two gigantic dogs in the truck!  I'm talking Mastiffs.  It was at least 100 degrees on Saturday, the day this happened.  I can't imagine tooling around town, stopping for errands, with any kind of animal in the car.  It makes me think of the woman who left her ex-husband's dog in the car while she shopped in Costco and when she came out the dog had died a heat-related death.  She had the nerve to go back into Costco (after seeing the dog she fought her ex tooth and nail for lying dead) to return the dog food because she no longer needed it!  She even told the employee what had happened, that person then notified the authorities.  A friend posted that story on Facebook a while back and it really stuck with me.  Apparently, she didn't love the dog but her ex really did and somehow she won that battle (I cried like a fiend reading that sad story and the ex-husband's side of it).  Of course Facebook being the medium there were a lot of strange comments and a really heated discussion. 

I like to observe and I find people interesting, even the annoying ones.  I wonder what they are all about and why.  I classify and sometimes "label" (like I just did above), but I try not to judge--I try to discern.  However, in both cases I judge.  Both women have demonstrated self-centered actions, it's just in the Facebook case things did not turn out so well.  At least some Good Samaritan noticed "fresh" lady's dogs and called it in before it was too late.  At least she made it back to her car before it was too late.  We often say that's never too late, but this one of the rare instances where it potentially could be.

An Unintentional Dog Fest!

Yesterday, the boys & I were out running errands, one of which was going to Michael's.  Since we had to pick up stuff for the "Loving Pet Basket" for Max's class, we decided to go to the Colonade where we could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.  Could you really see me killing a bird, or anything for that matter?  It was hot yesterday--it hit the 100 degree mark--and Stuart was whining about not wanting to do anymore errands.  Michael's was our first errand, so you can see where the day might head if I didn't go for a save right then and there.  I said to him, "Maybe we'll get to pet some dogs while we are there."  We love that & I was hoping to motivate him enough so we could check this to-do off our list.  As we round the corner, I see a sandwich board with the most wonderful three words on it--Pet Adoptions Today!  Squeal with delight--we'll be able to say "hi" to dogs and get it out of our system.  The thing is, we fell in absolute love with three of the dogs.  One, however, wasn't for adoption.  He was being fostered until his mom got out of rehab and found a place to live.  That dog was a taller version of Trigger.  When I went to pet him he was all lovey.  At one point he slipped his head under my arm and laid his head on my chest while I petted him.  I about died.

However, the first dog we saw was a pure bred white and tan pitbull.  Max was in love with that one, Parker.  He was so loving and easy-going.  Max was one the floor with him, petting him and Parker was practically snuggling with him.  He rolled over on his belly and used Stuart's foot as a pillow, while telling Stuart & me to rub his head, while Max rubbed his belly.

Since we were at Petsmart to shop, we looked and talked some more with the adoption people and then went off to get things for the basket.  But, when we came back there was another dog who had just come back from being outside.  I asked about her & we got to pet her and hear her story.  Her name is Sweetness and she is even more mellow than Parker!    She just had pups who were all adopted.  Both dogs are in foster homes with multiple dogs and do well with them.  In fact Parker was attacked by another dog and didn't fight back.

Since Jon was on call I wasn't going to bring home a dog--Surprise!--without having him meet it first.  When we got home and the boys were doing crafts, I ran to their website http://www.valleydogs.org/ and looked up these fine animals.  I also read Sirius's story and fell in love with him, too.

Those of you who know us, weigh in.  What do you think?  Read their stories!

http://www.valleydogs.org/parker.html



http://www.valleydogs.org/sweetness.html

http://www.valleydogs.org/sirius.html



I Dreamt of an Housekeeper...



I used to have very vivid dreams, but, for the past few years I really haven't.  This morning, however, I had a dream that I had an housekeeper!  She was in her late teens/early twenties and her rates were unbelievably cheap.  She cleaned my entire house and when it was time to pay her she gave me some ridiculously low rate, like $50.  I think people pay $50 to have their yurts cleaned these days.  I was dumbfounded and didn't say anything.  Then she said $50 for each of us, because she had brought a friend to help.  I was actually relieved but confused.  Confused, because how did she manage to clean the house with her friend without me noticing and relieved that I wasn't ripping her off, even though she set the rate.  How's that for you?  I'm sure this has something to do with my FBI post http://throughabirdseye.blogspot.com/2012/04/dont-be-cheap.html.  It may also have something to do with me wanting my house magically cleaned, without actually having to do it myself or find someone. 

Little Red Shoes



Dorothy's Red Slippers, via Google images

We all have that favorite article of clothing or an accessory that we just can't seem to part with or perhaps we wear it until it's worn out, right?  When I was between 4-5 years old I had a little red pair of shoes that I absolutely loved.  We had bought them in Japan before we moved stateside, so there was no finding them in Seattle.  I think my mom even asked relatives to look for another pair and they couldn't find them.  Before we moved my mom even offered to buy another pair, exactly the same, and I still refused--because, after all, they weren't the same pair of shoes.  End of story.  We did that dance for a long time. 

Finally, my mom drug me to Nordstrom and made me find another pair of shoes.  (I'm pretty sure you wouldn't hear me say that now...)  The salesperson was horrified at my shoes.  They probably looked worse for the wear.  More importantly, they were 2 sizes too small.  He must've thought my mom was a horrible person (perhaps one of my mom's worst fears being a foreigner).  The salesman asked if my feet hurt and I said not much.  His response?  "How can that be?  Your toes are curled up so your feet can fit into those shoes!"  He asked why I wore those shoes and I flat out told him I liked them and didn't want another pair.  He badgered me into wearing the new pair home, much to my mom's relief. 

This is family folklore--proving that I'm a "stubborn" person and "difficult" to deal with.  Proof, you know?  I think my husband would like it if I clung to the things I have and "refuse" to buy anything new...but that's a whole different story, isn't it?

Don't Be Cheap!

These days, I get my news from MSN.  If I want to know more, which usually I don't, I go somewhere else and do more investigating.  In case you think I'm shallow, it's really self-preservation.  The news can easily become a black hole for me or I turn into Chicken Little watching and reading it.  At any rate, I took the time to see what the recent hub-bub was all about with the FBI and prostitutes.  I was pretty sure this isn't the first time those two groups have had interactions...however, I wonder if any one else thinks it's funny and ironic that these powerful men were brought down not necessarily by prostitutes, but by the fact that they were being cheap?  The article I read said that two of the men were both "serviced" (not my word, felt I had to add that) by one woman; they brought her to their room, (it was also mentioned in the article that they were supposed to pay a $25 guest fee which, clearly, they didn't) but wanted to split the prostitute's one person rate between the two of them.  I'm pretty sure they aren't math challenged and that one woman still did the work for two--so what were they thinking?

Kind of makes me think of when you go out with a group of people and you split the bill between the number of diners, regardless of what was ordered.  You do that when the portions are roughly equal and/or when you are good friends with your meal mates.  That's good for everyone because that kind of action (generally) comes out in wash.  There will be a time when your portion will cost more; besides, it's best not to quibble over an extra two dollars.  I tried to find the article again, because what these two agents were arguing over was a mere forty dollars.  It was either they wanted to pay forty each or the total (which I find hard to believe, but what do I know about latin American prostitute's rates?) was forty.  No matter how you slice it, it's chump change for them.  If it's not, then don't play!  Certainly don't think you're king of the hill.  Now these agents who were involved are stripped of security clearance and probably all out of jobs, just because two of the, I believe, twelve wanted to play but not pay (or at least not full price, which I'm also pretty sure there isn't a a buy one get one free sort of deal--if there is, the prostitutes are just shifting the full cost to the paying end).  We'll ignore all the other problems with this event and just leave the moral of this story as don't be cheap! 

If you didn't read it, the prostitutes went back to the lobby and complained to the police who there--I'm sure for this kind of nonsense, at a minimum for the $25 "guest" fee.  The police went to the agents' room and banged on the door.  The agents wouldn't let them in, initially.  That's when everything went to hell in the proverbially handbasket.

Think back to times when you or someone else was being "cheap" and how well that worked (remember I said "cheap" and not "frugal"--they have different connotations). 

Being Heard, Heeded and Creating a Lasting Mark

Being a parent is incredibly hard.  There are many days where the task is thankless and you feel as if you are not being heard.  As I've said to chief many a time--it's not that I want to be in control, necessarily, or the "master" of my universe, but I would like to be heeded, occasionally.  Ideally, you'd like your children to think for themselves and for that to happen, they can't always do what you say.  This is a frustrating fact.  They are their own people and they won't always agree with what you have to say or how you view the world.  As well it should be (although that's not what I'm thinking when I want something done, right now.  What you tell your children isn't always necessarily "right," either.  Try as you might.  But, that's not my point.  This thought really started with storytelling.

I'm reading a book entitled, Storytelling, in which Christina Baldwin writes, since the beginning of time we all want to leave a lasting mark (paraphrased).  My immediate reaction was, not me.  I just want to be heard (hence the reference to children/parenting above).  Really heard and listened to--choose to argue with me or ignore my words afterwards, but give me the chance to say my piece and have you hear it.  That's all and I don't really think it's that big of a request.  It'd be a bonus if you wanted to have deep dialogue about it, but that's another story, too.  Being heard or truly listened to applies to more people than we care to acknowledge.  Think about lawsuits.  All most victims want is an apology or some sort of acknowledgement.  Not so difficult when you think about it.  There might be less lawsuits if people apologized first and tried to work it out.  I know that sounds so PollyAnna, but I don't think it's too far from the truth.  Deep down you know when you are wrong--it's the ego that won't let you admit it.  If you've done something really wrong it's the additional fear of punishment, perhaps a denial cocktail mixed in, but that's also a different story. 

Isn't it great to have a conversation with someone who actually listens?  Not with someone who has to answer his/her cell or texts or interrupts with his/her own exploits.  I have conversations with girlfriends and we interrupt each other but that's not the interruption I'm talking about; mostly, because that kind of conversation is more of a stream of consciousness and all of the thoughts and ideas (which are sometimes interrupted by the person speaking) are eventually finished.  That's more of a magical snowglobe of thoughts, ideas and feelings.  I'm referring to the one-upmanship or the "let's talk about me" sort of interruption, which is very different from henhouse Hattie catching up with her best girls.  You don't even have to catch up with the girls to have that feel-good sensation of being listened to or appreciated (hint--sometimes in being a good listener you will be listened to and heard in return).  Make eye contact with someone and smile--sometimes that alone will tell its own story.  If we'd all slow down and see, feel and listen to our environments we might be pleasantly suprised by what we find.  You might actually learn something or make someone's day.

http://www.thegraphicsfairy.com/



Egg Collecting and Cooperation

http://www.thegraphicsfairy.com/

I have to chuckle at the varying strategies the boys have used over the years to collect the Easter Bunny's eggs.  I still have a very vivid picture of Little Man when he was 2 years old, shoving as much candy as possible in his mouth while searching for eggs.  He looked like a chipmunk his cheeks were so packed. 

As expected, in the earlier years it was every man for himself.  I'm sure a young child can barely think straight when thoughts of candy laying around the yard have entered the brain.  They didn't have a search plan, they just ran out into the yard and looked.  As they grew older, you could see them searching more systematically.  For example, they seemed to start at opposite ends of the yard and work their way in.  Of course there's the Squirrel effect and they would get distracted, leaving their system behind. 

This year, the entire week before Easter, they discussed and plotted how they were going to search the yard.  They even put an old basket on a makeshift pulley system in their fort for collecting the eggs.  While I was impressed and perhaps a little dismayed (because their plotting meant they were going to get up really early on Easter morning) their planning went out the window when they hit the ground.  I think mostly due to the fact that it was so elaborate and didn't mesh with their actual tendencies.  Plus, there is always their age and the Squirrel factor. 

Banjos, Mullets (sort of) and a TLC Rant

As we were driving past Bagby the Barber the boys remarked on going there and the first thing Max said was, "He cut my hair too short."  We went once and it took an incredibly long time--both the wait and the cut.  The boys were really fairly young--so you can do the math; we didn't go back despite the nice barber and the big screen TV.  And, yes, we didn't go back because Max's hair was a little too short and that seems to be seared into his brain.  He likes it short, but it was really short.  It might've been because Uncle Alex asked for his hair nearly bald--my phrase not his.  At any rate, we were talking about how we liked their hair cut.  I said I liked Max's on the shorter side, tight around the neck and ears with a little length on top.  I like Stuart's longer on top and shorter around the neck and ears but not as tight.  Max had a few comments about his and then Stuart busts out with, "I like mine shorter in the front and longer in the back."  You can imagine the look on my face and luckily I was driving so I didn't have to look directly at anyone.  Yes, it sounds exactly like a Mullet.  He even said, "If I could just move my whole hair back (taking his hand on the top of his head, pretending to slide his hair back like a wig which made his forehead taut) then it'd be better.  Sigh.  He's fascinated with hockey, too...

We were talking about instruments one day and Max kept saying he wanted to learn how to play the banjo.  Yes, you heard correctly the banjo.  My selection isn't that far off either (ukulele) and, of course, Stuart wants to learn the electric guitar.  Go figure.  That's a story in itself. At any rate, I forgot that Max is studying the Civil War and he's totally interested in it and wants to share things about it with us.  I think that's great.  The banjo, not so much.  But, at least it makes sense within the context of what he's learning.  I'm still curious about the faux mullet.

http://www.thegraphicsfairy.com/

I've deleted the rest of the story because it veered off into the TLC shows featuring 2 different families with 19+ children.  Oh, I have a lot to say about that and it's just not my place.  Plus, I originally titled this post, "Banjos, Mullets and Hillbilly Miscellanea" and I didn't want people to think I was calling these tremendously large families hillbillies.  That's really not where I was going with this, but I was so sidetracked by my thought about this picture.  The pic reminded me of a scene where all the girls were playing instruments and singing together.  The boys were fascinated by this ginormous family.  I didn't know that TLC featured more than one of these families and I really didn't think another one existed.  That almost sounds wrong in writing it, on so many levels.  I'm not sure what it was about that particular show that mesmerized them.  I even said to them you get an half hour and then it's bed time, so change the channel to the show you want to watch and that's it--time starts now...no response, so I asked if this is what they wanted to watch and they did.  Painfully, I sat with them and watched it.  I can say that won't happen, again.  One day I caught them watching Kate +8, which also fascinated them.  That time I think they were curious about all the brothers and sisters who were the same age.  It is really difficult explaining to children who understand babies grow in their mommies' "tummies" that all 6 of those younger children lived there at the same time.  I think it's difficult for many adults to fathom.  With that said, they don't go looking for these shows but sometimes the channel is on TLC and these shows "magically" appear.  It's like roadkill because they can't seem to look away.  Sometimes I can't look away.  The horror.  I think TLC is supposed to stand for "The Learning Channel" (could be wrong)--these days it seems to stand for "The Looney Channel."  Every sort of freakish human oddity seems to have a home and a show on that channel.  I won't even go into it--the boys know they aren't to look at the other shows and very quickly change it to something else.  Somehow, the shows about these large families momentarily slipped through the cracks.  Perhaps it's just fascination about other families.  We'll leave it at that. 

So, with one picture I've veered away from the odd (kind of hillbilly-ish) things about my children to odd families or people in general.  Odd doesn't necessarily mean bad--I actually enjoy a little odd from time to time--but TLC really makes me wonder what we are thinking at times and I'm not talking about What Not To Wear.

A Bunch of Bad Hair Days

Yesterday, I was feeling like a Cocker Spaniel. 



via Google images

Look how sad and droopy.  It was all about my hair.  My hair was flattened to my head, with a wavy mess trailing down.  It's a good look for this dog, but not for me.  Actually, the dog is very beautiful--I wasn't feeling beautiful, however.  No, my hair wasn't the silken and shinyVeronica Lake waves, either.  So, well after 10 years of not blow drying my own hair (the hair stylist does but not me) I decided to buy a fancy, schmancy blow dryer.  You know, shake things up a bit.  I thought it might give my hair a little lift and solve the occasional frizzy issue--you know, all the ionic talk.  The hairdryer arrived yesterday and I used it today...

Today, I feel like a Puli who has had a blow dry with a diffuser.



via Google images

I'm afraid I'm not winning this battle.

Easter Bunny Disaster and What Won't Happen This Year

http://www.thegraphicsfairy.com/

So, this is the first Easter where we do not have to let the dogs out at the crack of dawn, hoping they won't wake up the kids and that they take care of their business quickly--coming right back in so we can "hide" Easter eggs.  It'll be easier, yet strange.  It's also the first Easter where we don't have to keep an hairy eyeball on Buddy so that he doesn't get into the Easter baskets, either.  Again, easier but strange.  I'm just now getting over the fact that I don't have to push food back on the counters and put things up when I leave the house or even walk away from food for a moment.

Last Easter we came home from spending the afternoon at our friends' house to find Buddy sprawled across the foyer floor, unmoving.  (Yet another odd thing about Easter this year--we don't get to spend it with the two families we've spent Easter with for the past two or so years.  Sad and strange--we miss you Sarah & family!)  Usually, Buddy gets up to greet us or at least has something to say about it.  I started my usual chatter about his being too lazy to greet us and what's going on with you, when I noticed the foil wrapper on the floor, nearby.  I realized that it belonged to a large chocolate Easter bunny and I asked the boys who forgot to put up their bunny.  There was a moment of someone starting to get upset over the loss of a delicious chocolate treat, when I reminded them that chocolate is poisonous to dogs.  They know this because I'm very serious about it and, generally, they are very good about keeping chocolate away from the dogs.  We all get quiet and peer at Buddy.  He looked miserable.  In fact, it's the one time (prior to his final scare) that I was seriously worried about him.  His belly was bloated and he looked uncomfortable and then there's that poisonous factor, too.  As I'm rubbing his tummy and looking into his eyes, I decided I'd watch him for a little bit and see what happens--he's eaten chocolate before (counter surfing) and it didn't phase him.  This time the quantity was a lot larger and, honestly, frightening.  So we left him there and he rallied after about an half hour, albeit slowly.  He's way too curious about what we are up to after being out then to take it laying down.  After that he was back to his old self and so were we.

This all came up for me when Sharon asked me last Wednesday what we were going to do for Easter and all I could think of was what we weren't going to do.  Isn't that odd?



New Year's Review and Handbag Power



I love this!  The ladies at Lockheart sent this out for New Year's Day and I couldn't agree with them more (especially the ones with handbag and dogs).  The bottom has been cut off of this copy, which said, "Pay it forward."  While I agree with the concept, I have a difficult time with the tired phrasing.  I know!  Let it go!  However, for me, it's right up there with, "That's so random" and "If you will."  But, there you have it.




The chopped off copy bothered me so much I didn't post this on New Year's as planned, but it still works for me.  If you're one of those who enjoy training or taunting yourself with resolutions, this is a good time to reflect on what's worked and what hasn't and, perhaps, reassess.  Good luck and change that handbag!

Art Journaling With Snobs

Kathy & I like to go to art classes every once in a while.  It's nice to do something creative, especially with your hands.  We went to an art journaling class last spring or fall (honestly, sometimes time blurs for me), which promised to be a lot of fun.  The teacher had all of the materials we needed and she gave us prompts for the pages we created.  There were about four women who knew each other and a couple of women who came alone and then there was me and Kathy.  We are always so excited to get messy and create and spend time chatting; unfortunately, we show up and everyone is looking a little dour.  We enthusiastically say "hi" to everyone and introduce ourselves to the teacher and then proceed to sit down.  I suppose we were chatting to ourselves and then trying to connect with our neighboring classmates, but let's talk about talking to a brick wall or a rock.  The gal next to me had a very stoney personality and the woman next to Kathy wasn't really having it.  Whatever, we aren't fazed.  This is supposed to be a fun class even if the women here are really very serious, especially the woman next to me.  She hoarded the materials she wanted and then proceeded to bend over her project and work on it, without a word--very reminiscent of the classmate who uses her entire arm and torso to cover her paper so no one will "cheat" off of her.  It's as if the rest of us didn't exist.  It was actually pretty remarkable how little contact she made with the rest of the class.

The other ladies were serious but in a different manner.  They wanted what they wanted when they wanted it and seemed to pitch a little hissy fit if their materials weren't available or if they were unable to accomplish the technique they desired.  Up and down, searching for their "perfect" ephemera and bumping the already shakey card tables.  It was no problem when they did it.  There was no apology or even acknowledgement that they could be disrupting others.  However, when I stood up and reached across the table to get a different pen and accidentally bumped the table when I sat back down you would think I committed a very horrible crime.  No joke.  I felt very bad and immediately apologized, but the woman across from me held me in an icy glare for a long time (a throw down kind of glare--intense).  This is very same woman who kept bumping the table earlier but didn't seem to realize it.  Finally, I could take her insolence no more and I very firmly & slowly repeated, "I'm sorry!" and continued to look at her until she looked down.  I know, I could've and should've risen above it but I didn't.  I was really tired of the pissy kitty club and the "rules apply to you but not to me" parade.  Kathy and I came to class like a couple of labs who've just been told their going on a car ride--very excited and super friendly to anyone who crossed our paths.  For the non-dog readers, Labs, in general, are the meeters and the greeters of the dog world--happy, happy creatures who run all about and investigate in a good-natured sort of way.  This lady was like a cat walking up to a dog (a good natured one or one used to cats), that swats the dog for no real good reason and then looks at the dog with the attitude of "whatch you gonna do 'bout it?"  Pissy.  Kitty.  The kind of cat who's always getting the squirt bottle by its person because it does whatever it wants, just because.

Here's the thing, we are talking art journaling class--this isn't some art masterpiece course, it isn't even a course!  It was a simple, fun workshop to explore one's creative side.  That's all folks.  Hate to burst your bubble.  It's as if this lady was shopping at Kmart, expecting to find something on the level of Saks.  Ain't happening, so you probably should work with what you have and relax!  Have some fun, for crying out loud.  Life is a little too short to have a throw-down with me about bumping a table.  My table bump was so subtle that Kathy, who was sitting next to me, didn't even notice.  She couldn't figure out what was going on.  To be honest, neither could I.

We left with some journal pages that we were pleased with and some that we weren't, but we were o.k. with that.  When class was over, we thanked the teacher and left, while the other ladies were still whining that they didn't finish or they weren't happy with x or y.  Crazy labs gleefully left the building while pissy kitties stayed behind, perhaps looking for approval from the teacher.  Who knows.  Next time, I promise I won't bite the bait.

Mrs. B

Since Buddy's been gone, the cats have "moved into" our yard.  They stroll, run, hunt, snoop, frolick.  There is barely any urgency to vacate when they see us, whereas before they were just a blurr of color.  That's because Buddy has caught more than his fair share of cats, much to my dismay.  I have to admit that while I'm an animal lover, cats are not at the top of my list.  Probably because I'm severely allergic to them.  Despite that, there have been some cats that I've formed great attachments to. 

When we first moved into our current home, our realtor said to us, "Oh, by the way...the house comes with a cat."  Wha-what?!  No, no, no!  That can't be!  NO!  Allegedly a "stray" that the family took to feeding.  Jon and I just looked at each other.  I'm thinking they didn't want to bring it along on their next house flip.  We'll never know, but we decided she was a girl--very cute, black and white cat, with a nearly silent meow.

Our house sat empty for a few months while we tried to sell our other one.  We'd go and work on it in the evenings and slowly move small items in.  One night I was in the kitchen doing something and I felt like I was being watched.  I looked through the french doors and there she was, silent meow and all.  We eye-locked but she wasn't leaving.  I called Jon from the other room and very sympathetically exclaimed, "Look!  We have to feed her.  She's expecting it."  We stood there looking at the pitiful face peering back at us and agreed--we had to go the store and get cat food right now.  Yup, she wrapped us around her proverbial little finger from the get go.  We went out to see if she'd come to us, which was no problem whatsoever.  Jon picked her up and she loved it.  Yes, a quick trip to the store was in order.  Jinger named her "Mrs. B" after Mrs. Beasley and the name stuck.  That cat hung around through our first dog, Dutchess, and for the first year or so of Buddy and Trigger.  Then we didn't see her again.  Of course that made me sad.  I wondered about her for a long, long time.

Mrs. B and Dutchess had a little arrangement--they didn't bother each other.  We fed Mrs. B on the potting table and Dutchess wandered around the yard unperturbed by the little black cat.  In the winter they would simultaneously lay against either side of one of the kitchen doors (Mrs. B on the outside and Dutchess inside).  It looked like they were snuggling, only they had the door between them.  Made me chuckle.  Then it made me think of the 50s and 60s sitcoms where the husband and wife slept in separate beds (a little stream of consciousness for you). 

Mrs. B wasn't as fortunate with Buddy and Trigger--they did not have an arrangement.  We had to feed her on the roof.  This displeased Mrs. B and me, but what can you do?  I became very accustomed to her presence after Dutchess died.  That cat even wandered into our house a couple of times when the door was open (when we were between dogs).  She didn't stay, but she came right up to me to say "hi."  (Which, coincidentally is when Jon said to me, "You're getting way too used to that cat.  I think it's time we get another dog.")  Why, that cat even brought me a mouse once and a lizard another time (much to my dismay and delight).  You know, "She likes me!  She really, really likes me!"  She could very well have been someone else's cat who spent a lot of time at our house, but when she started bringing me "offerings" or "gifts" I wasn't so sure.  Perhaps I told myself this to "justify" my attachement to an animal I allegedly "dislike." 

It's been years since Mrs. B lived here.  However, I think we might have a "fill-in" cat for her.  A beautfiful calico has been hanging around here and he doesn't really run away from us.  He's very curious and when we first noticed him he'd go to different doors and meow.  The other day he came right up to the kitchen door and peered in--just like Mrs. B did.  Crazy.  I squatted down and peered back at him.  Stuart did the same  but then he moved towards the door and the cat ran away.  I'll keep you posted on cat watch.  I hate to admit it, but it makes me a little happy to have a friendly feline visitor.  At first, I was really concerned with the "alarming" number of cats using our yard as a byway.  I think I counted about five.  I thought they were feral, which means more cats to come...I mentioned this to someone who told me if they don't run away they aren't feral.  O.K.  I think this cat is someone's pet because he has such a healthy and beautiful coat and he's friendly and curious.  I also could be telling myself stories, too.

I'll keep you posted. 

Chuckle of the Day

This is the second time I've seen this photo and it makes me laugh, a lot.  Not a fan of Tori Spelling, but walking a pet goat kills me.



This is from the WonderWall--a "place" where I spend more time than I'd like.  Did you take note that the dog is in the wheel barrow--apparently little dogs who wear sweaters don't get to use their paws a whole lot (as a side note, I bet it'd work up some heat and keep warm by "hoofing" it). 

All around, this gave me a good laugh.  I'm not laughing at those folks, although I think they could be easy targets.  Sadly, I can kind of identify with walking a pet goat.  With that said, I won't be getting one any time soon.

Mutts & Minis, part II and a bonus story

When we were driving to Mini of North Scottsdale to see the Halo dogs, the boys were talking non-stop.  I mentioned that I wish there was some silence in the truck.  Chief agreed, "Yes, we need the cone of silence."  (From "Get Smart")  I laughed, which made me think of the "cone of shame" from the movie, "UP." 

We always get a kick out of referencing that movie for several reasons, but the oddest is because of an acquaintance's remark.  I had told this person that we went to see "UP" (when it first came out) and she said to me that they saw, that same weekend, "Transformers," for the second time.  There's a irrelevant story behind why she saw that movie for the second time, which was followed by, "I didn't like 'UP,' it was totally unrealistic."  Total silence on my part.  Later, I told Chief this and his immediate response was, "Was it the floating house or the talking dogs that she found unrealistic?"  We laughed and then he asked if she thought "Transformers" was realistic.  I told him I didn't even bother to ask, because the conversation was too strange to begin with.

For those who were wondering about our dog outing--there were a lot of cute dogs waiting for forever homes.  All but one was little--some larger dogs were already adopted by the time we arrived.  The Halo volunteers were awesome, so, eventually, we will go to their facility and see what they have.  We'd really like 2 larger dogs.  Stuart keeps saying 3.  Here's a dog similar (mostly coat and size) to the one I fell in love with:



google images

Sherman was his name and he had ginormous ears and a larger snout.  He was the most laid-back large, little dog I'd ever seen.  He was later adopted.

Little Man was so excited to see the dogs that he wanted to write them a note.  It was really to the people who brought the dogs and it was to tell them that he wanted to buy one of the dogs, but his dad said no.  The ladies thought it was so sweet of him to write the note--I had to explain what the "no" part meant, that Saturday was a day for looking and that we eventually adopt.

His Lordship is an Ass



We've been watching Downtown Abbey with great enthusiasm and last night Chief says to me, "I wish my wife would refer to me as "His Lordship" when I wasn't around."  We were watching the scene where the housekeeper gives Lady Cora an update on His Lordship's valet and Lady Cora refers to her husband as "His Lordship."  I made sure I heard him correctly, we have a hearty laugh and we continue watching.  A minute later I tell him that he's going to regret ever saying that.  He returns with, "I know I will." 

After we watch the show he was saying something silly and I give him the look and he says, "I know, His Lordship's an ass."  It took me a minute to figure out that he was referring to himself.  You see, whenever he's being jokingly rude I always tell him "he's being an ass" and he responds with "yes, I know, I'm an ass."  It's a funny exchange we do to rib each other--it's always preceeded by the look.  I roared with laughter and told him he'd done it--I'd have to blog about that one!

I'm not sure I'm prepared to start calling him His Lordship, even if in jest.  I had to stop calling his cell his "girlfriend" because the boys started calling it that.  Chief's cell would ring and if on the rare occasion it wasn't on his person, the boys would bring it to him saying, "It's your girlfriend," as they handed the cell to him.  You can see how that sounded and looked.  I don't think people would get our "Lordship" joke at all.  Do you?

If you get a spare moment and are looking for something different to watch, I highly recommend Downtown Abbey.  It well done.  Even for those addicted to nasty reality TV, because this is filled with backbiting and drama and a lot of good one-liners.  Tastfully, of course.  Maggie Smith's character, Cousin Violet, has a good share of them.

A Sign! Mutts & Minis

It's a sign!  I was talking to our pest guy, Tony, about Buddy--all the service people are asking because Buddy made it known that he was here & this was his house.  It was reciprocal entertainment, actually.  At one point Tony mentioned Halo rescue shelter.  Halo is one of his clients and when he's done working there, he goes in & plays with the dogs.  We chatted a bit more and then he said he was going to go home & hug his English Bulldog.  I'm surrounded by sensitive ponytail guys--it was very sweet.  You have to love that!  Coupled with the dogs are Minis--hear me out...while I love my Mini it's getting a little small for the boys in the back seat & hot, as well.  We've been looking at the Countryman (it's the kind of a silly looking SUV Mini--like a Mini on steroids, wearing platforms; it's the silver 4-door in the pic), but it fits the boys comfortably in the back, Jon can manage in the front while the boys are the back (can't in the Mini) and it's grown on me.  Besides, it's still a Mini.  I just had that conversation with Tony (the pest guy) last Friday and about a week ago I had the Countryman conversation with Tony (the mailman--he's a Mini fan & was chatting me up about my Mini).  This shows up in my inbox this morning:



Tell me that isn't a sign?  Please pass your comments on to Chief, so he can get on board, too.

Yes, they both are named Tony.

Profound Statement by the Wee One

http://www.graphicsfairy.com/



The boys were sick, again, on Monday.  However, Stuart rallied pretty quickly and was non-stop into everything.  As an aside, he's paying for it the past two days because he's feeling worse than he did on Monday because he didn't rest when he stayed home...we've had this lingering flu-like cold that has come equipped with a death-cough for weeks now.  Max was home with 103.5 temps off and on for a week, two weeks ago, but the rest of us has been gimping along.  It's not been pretty. 

Max felt bad for me when he finally got up, which was around noon--he was so exhausted from coughing all night and the lingering cold.  I told him not to feel bad, if you're sick you're sick there's no need to apologize.  He could tell Stuart was jumping on my last nerve by that point of the day.  He responds with how I had to stay home because of them and I told him immediately that my first job is to take care of them and you both needed the rest.  Then Stuart chimes in with, "Yeah, and your second job is to have fun with us."  He said that with all seriousness.

Food for thought.

Hard campaigning begins...now!

I asked Stuart to go get a book so I could read to him before bed.  He returns with "Dogs and Puppies," which is a child's guide to procuring and caring for dogs and puppies.  A kind of "things to think about" before you choose a pet book.  It's a good book.  I actually bought it for Max when he was in 1st grade, so he could think about all that went into dog stewardship.  It didn't get read a whole lot back then...

The funny thing is my yoga buddy (more on that later) asked me if we were going to get another dog.  I took a long pause and said, well, eventually.  I said the boys and I would like 2 dogs and I think Jon only wants 1.  However, if Stuart had it his way he'd get enough for a sled team.  No joke.  He thinks 3 is reasonable and in the cards for him.  He's really pushing for a sled team.  I think I've finally convinced him Daddy will never willingly allow us to get a Chihuahua or any other small dog--I think the tea leaves told me that one, wink, wink.  He talks about building a sled-like vehicle for our streets (versus the snow he wishes we had), which is really funny because when Buddy and Trigger were young and wild I saw a dog chariot in DOG magazine.  Before you scream animal cruelty, this article was about a woman who was rehabbing (Did I spell that correctly?  Is that really a word?) her dog after surgery for a torn ACL.  Playing fetch wasn't doing it and so she build this chariot so the dog could get exercise without reinjuring itself.  It was an interesting article and then I, too, became obsessed with a street chariot pulled my 2 dogs.  Seriously, the things I spend my time on!  Like those 2 could agree which way to go, ha, ha!  So when Stuart carries on about a team of dogs, I whistfully think about it before I espouse the party line (with tongue in cheek). 

There's actually a company that sells dog carts (see video link below), not quite what the lady from the article had built (hers was an actual chariot), but it still makes me roar with laughter.  I think Daddy's in big trouble.  Stuart is one hell-bent child and he likes to built and create.  I'll keep you posted on the dog front. 

http://www.youtube.com/v/nnNvJUWVX6U&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3%22%3E%3C/param%3E%3Cparam

Dogs and Delivery People

This is kind of a two-fold story.  Part of it has to do with dogs and part has to do with the mailman.  I preface today's story this way, because Chief was making fun of me (in a good way) about my relationship with our mail carriers.  It starts like this...

A couple of days ago, the mailman left a package for me at the front door.  I went to the porch to pick it up and went around the corner, to holler "thank you!"  Tony, the mailman, comes back and very quietly and tentatively asks, "Is everything o.k. with your dog?  I haven't heard him in a while."  I explain what happened and he tells me how sorry he is and how he knew that he made Buddy's day.  He most certainly did!  Nothing gave that dog greater joy than letting the world know that this was his home and he has his hairy eyeball on you!  He was yelling at the UPS guy the day before we had to put him down--stomach cancer be damned!  Nancy says that Buddy is in doggy heaven, kickin' ass and taking names.  I'm pretty sure he is, too.

At any rate, this leads to Tony telling me a story about his last two sets of dogs.  (I told him that Chief wanted a break between dogs.  The boys & I would love more, now.)  He had a Tibetan Terrier, who was allegedly as dumb as a box of rocks.  It was a kind of medium sized dog with long, silky hair.  Once, it was lost for two days and one of the other mail carriers saw a sign for him.  Tony went to the lady's house to get his dog, but the dog didn't want to come home because she was getting ready to cook bacon.  I told him my kids would probably do the same thing to me if someone was getting ready to cook bacon, but that's a different story.  At any rate, this dog's day finally came and Tony decided he wanted to be dogless for a while.



Tibetan Terrier via google search

He said he has some neighbors who were apparently a little odd about animals.  One day, the man rang Tony's doorbell and told him his dog was outside.  Tony tried to tell him that he didn't have a dog any more, but the man insisted.  He shows him a Lhasa Apso.  This dog is a lot smaller than his old terrier but similar in coloring and long haired.  The man then insisted there were two.  Where?  Around the corner peeks another one.  Apparently, they were brother and sister.  From no dogs to two and in no time!  Tony tried to contact the owner, but she had moved and left no forwarding address with licensing.  He even went to her old neighborhood to look for her.  He also had all of his carrier friends look out for signs.  No luck.  He's now the proud owner of two dogs, which he says are the smartest dogs, ever.  He even showed me pics on his cell. 



Lhasa Apso via google search

Now, as I'm telling Chief this story he's chuckling at me.  I'm becoming annoyed because I think he's making fun of my idle chatting about dogs.  No.  He thinks it's amusing that I'm "friends with all the mailmen"--his words.  He thinks it's even funnier because Tony never really talked to me before and this is the second time in a couple of weeks that I've mentioned him.  The first was our long conversation about our love of Mini Coopers.  He's been on our route for a couple of years now and he's just now warming up to me.  Always friendly, but on the shy side.  Pat, our old mailman, loved to chat.  Loved to chat and was no wallflower.  If he had a package for me, you better believe he was ringing the gate to let me know he was a coming.  So, Chief says, you're the only one I know who is friends with the all the delivery people.  I don't find that odd at all.  I think I'm pretty darn blessed to have such great delivery people coming to my house.  What I think is so funny are the stories these people tell me.  Yes, they are nice and have funny stories to share.  Who doesn't like to get to know someone better, especially when it involves a good-natured laugh?



Falcons and Owls

A couple of days ago, there was a big ruckus outside our house and I jumped out of bed to see what was going on.  I didn't find the source of the noise, but I did see a falcon standing in the waterfall of our koi pond.  I watched him for a long time before opening the door to count the koi.  That might seem a little OCD, but a couple of years ago something ate half of our koi, which at the time amounted to about 6 or 7.  I think that it was a heron; yes, I did see it out the window but didn't have my cell on me or I would've taken a pic.  I didn't see the heron until months after the koi were eaten, however.  At any rate, I wanted to make sure the poor koi didn't have more predators hanging around our house.  All clear, I went back to bed.

It's the middle of the day and I'm not feeling well and sometimes when I'm sick strange bits of my past float back into my consciousness.  I began to think about when I was pregnant with Max and I was so incredibly upset about the burrowing owls.  There was an huge article in the paper about these burrowing owls whose habitat was being destroyed by developers.  These developers were not paying attention to these nests or having the birds relocated, they were just mowing over their homes and building.  A woman who lived in the area described watching these owls come back to their nests, unable to find them, looking lost and terribly confused.  I WAS HORRIFIED!  Animal stories always get to me, but especially when it deals with moms and their babies.  Don't even talk to me about the practice of separating moms from their newly delivered babies or pigs suckling piglets through a grate.  To top it off I was hormonal and every story seemed to upset me.  I remember telling Jon that night about the story I read in the paper and how awful I thought this was and getting very teary and emotional while relaying it to him.  I think he chalked it up to hormones and that was about it.  Until the following week...

I went to the front door to let the dogs outside and I saw an owl standing on our water fountain, which at the time was still on our front porch.  The owl was looking right at me (we have a window to the right of the front door).  Even the dogs stood so very still while we all looked in awe at this oddity which was staring us right in the face.  I quietly called Jon.  He finally came and wondered what in the world would make the dogs so eerily quiet--they were so seldom quiet.  He was amazed by this bird, too.  When it finally flew away all I could say is, "It's a sign!  It's a sign!  Remember that article about the owls, it's a sign!  I'm supposed to do something about it."  Yes, I finally let the dogs out and yes, Jon thought I was nuts.  I was probably 7 months pregnant at the time. 

I went as far as to sign up for the Wild at Heart emails, which had info on events when you could offer help either digging new homes for these owls or transporting them.  I even offered to transport one when Max was about year old, but they had enough volunteers.  That was the end of that for a while because as toddlers they'd get in the way.  I still get the emails, but I haven't read them in a while.  Lame, I know.  I could probably start looking at them because the boys are old enough that I could take both of them with me.  Digging and excavating if right up Stuart's alley.  Not Max's favorite thing to do, however.  We'll see.