Category Archives: A question

I never had a dog

A question, Family, George, Pets, , , ,

I never had a dog growing up.  The family dog was given away when I was born–that’s in a much earlier blog.  I don’t know if my brother ever forgave me for that.  I wasn’t nearly as cute as the Scotties that were so popular back then.    My younger sister had a short-lived turtle named Tillie and a shorter-lived parakeet she named Budgie.  Miracle of miracles, I did get a cat when I was in    eighth grade but I never had a dog.

But George had grown up with dogs.  When he was in seminary, his sister gave him a puli, which is a Hungarian sheep dog.  She raised them.  Smart creatures, smarter than their owner plus prehensile paws.  She could wrap my arm in her paw and drag it to exactly where she wanted me to scratch.  She was grey and furry and just a darling.  (But she looked nothing like the gorgeous picture of a beautifully groomed  puli at the beginning of this blog.)  My first dog–and I had no idea what one did with a dog.  This is a picture of twenty-five year old George with his dog. 

Andy–her real name was something fancy like Andromeda of Sunny Brook Farm but she was just Andy, the runt of the litter.  Because I’d not had a dog before, I was amazed at her loyalty.  She wanted to go wherever I went.  She wanted to sleep with us.  She loved me unconditionally.

We had a double bed.  Andy took up a great deal of it.   One stormy night, Andy work me up.  I thought she needed to go out so I put on my rain coat, snapped the leash on her and took her outside.  She looked at me with confusion on her fuzzy face but did her business.    An hour later, she woke me up again.   The same thing happened: I got up, took her out, she looked confused but was a good dog.  I got little sleep that night because she woke me up every hour.  Remember, I had no experience with dogs.  I just knew I was worn out.  George explained the next morning that she was probably afraid of the storm.  She didn’t want to go outside.  She wanted to be loved and protected–inside but, nonetheless, she went out into the storm because I wanted her to.

Andy had one friend, a dachshund.  the two of them would run around the parsonage full steam.  However,   the dachshund had little short legs, so Andy would lap him.  I still remember Andy’s  romping,  happier than any creature who’s ever lived.

Being a lovely, sweet creature, she forgave me all my sins.  She adored me.  She followed me everywhere.  Since then, we’ve had Bridgette, Ginger, Pepper, Daffy, and Dream, but Andy was the first.  Now I live in a apartment and miss everyone of them.  I’ll be remembering them and sharing their stories every now and then. 

Do you have a story about a pet you’d like to share?  I’d love to hear it. 

What makes me cry

A question, Holidays, , , , , , , , ,

War for the sake of ego or profit makes me cry and also infuriate me.  The sight of draped coffins coming home to devastated families tears me up.  The memory of planes crashing into the World Trade Center makes me want to turn away but one can’t turn away from a memory.  One can’t ignore the sight of those throwing themselves from windows ninety stories up. 

Mistreatment of animals makes me cry.   The commercial showing the innocent cratures who’ve been mistreatment makes me furious at those who hurt them but makes me sob at how those cats and dog still only want love and care. 

The book The Yearling makes me cry.  The movie Brian’s Song–the first one with James Caan–always makes me dissolve in tears.

Racism and bigotry disguised as Christianity or patriotism makes me furious at the perpetrators and makes me weep for the mistreated.  

Rodney King’s words–“Can’t we all get along?”–makes me cry because I don’t know why we, all beloved children of God, can’t.   Thinking of the insults black men in the South had to put up with makes me cry which is why To Kill a Mocking Bird makes me sad–and angry and makes me do something!. 

Hearing that the tiny bodies of the Newtown children were so badly ripped up by the bullets used by the gunman that the grieving parents weren’t allowed to see them to ID them but had to identify their babies through photographs.  Then thinking about those parents  going home  do something with the Hannukah and Christmas presents their children would never open.

So many other things:  Nelson Mandella’s years in prison, the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.

And when events make me cry, then angry, I have to do something.  These emotions should kick me into action to change things.

What do you think?

What makes me laugh

A question, Musings, Pets, Reading, , , , , , , , , ,

I love to laugh. Imagine you do, too.   I’ve heard it’s good for one’s  health.  When I feel down, I watch one of the fifty-five episodes of the Big Bang Theory I have recorded.  What else makes me laugh?

On television, I love the  Headlines segment on the Tonight Show which shows funny headlines or newspaper stories.   My favorite was from many years ago.   Before he showed the newspaper clipping,  Jay Leno said, “I think the word they were looking for was Geritol.”   The newspaper story said that after the wedding reception for his daughter, the father of the bride reached for his genitals.  I always wonder what the reaction of the father of the bride was when he read that, poor man.  Hope it made him laugh after he got over the initial shock because I still enjoy it all these years later.   Also on the tonight show, I enjoy  most of the Photo Booth and Crime Blotter episodes.

Movies that make me laugh:  The original The In-Laws with Alan Arkin and Peter Falk.   I can recite the funny line like  “Serpentine” and “Mosquitoes the size of condors” and am hysterical when I remember  the flames on the side of the up-tight dentist’s car.   I love the movie American Dreamer about a romance writer with amnesia in Paris .  No one else has ever heard of it.   Almost anything John Cleese  makes me laugh.  John Oliver, too.

I’ve Got Friends in Low Places,   Itsy-bitsy, Teenie-weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini,   Love Potion Number Nine and Surfin’ Bird always make me smile.

 What else?  Books by Kristen Higgins, Janet Evanovich, Jane Graves, and Candis Terry.  Friends who support and care–well, they don’t always make me laugh but they make me feel good,  My sister-in-law Diane who has the most wonderful and outlandish adventures.  The sounds of a small child’s or children’s laughing fills me with delight.  I can’t help but  join them.

And the pets, of course.  My cockatiel who sat on my shoulder and shared my scrambled eggs at breakfast;  Mr. Scooter, the tuxedo cat who just hid on the table where he know he’s NOT supposed to be but the rattling of the pile of papers he’s on gives him away;  Maggie when she looks around to make sure no one is watching before she plays with complete abandon with a catnip mouse;  Ginger, the sociopathic cocker,  who ate purses to get to the candy inside; Daffy, another cocker,  who pranced and smiled when George did the dishes because she knew he’d give her scraps.   What would we do without our pets who make us laugh?

What makes you laugh?  I’d love to know. 

It is Friday, right?

A question, Celebrating, Church, Musings, Reading, , , ,

I have confessed previously my inability to have even the slightest and most hazy idea what day it is.   On Wednesday evening–I knew it was Wednesday because the cleaning crew comes on Wednesday, one of the few markers of time in my world–a local news anchor said, at the end of the broadcast, “Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday. “

If you don’t think that messed me up!  I searched for that morning’s newspaper and figured since the only one I could find was Wednesday’s, the next day would probably be Thursday.  I checked the guide on the cable and dashed through programs for today and tomorrow until I got to SATURDAY–then counted back.   Then I checked on the icons on the Mac screen–further proof the news anchor was wrong.  It gave me a feeling of smug satisfaction.

Not that it really makes any difference.  My daily schedule is get up, read the paper, write, swim, read a novel, watch the news with meals inserted at the right times.   Add church on Sunday.  My most important activity is–according to Maggie and Scooter–petting the cats and spoiling them but because that comes at whatever time they demand, it’s not written in the schedule.

I remember back–oh, so many years ago–when I was young and chanted, “TGIF”, looking ahead to a weekend stretching ahead empty and full of  adventures.    When I got older, the adventures didn’t hold as much appeal and, besides church, I spent six hours on Sundays grading papers and doing lesson plans.   That made weekends not nearly as tantalizing.

All of which leads to these questions:   Do you  cherish your weekends?  Why?  What do you do–or don’t you do–that you look forward to?

Tiny bubbles. . . in the windshield

A question, Confession, , , ,

I wasted the morning.  The entire morning.  Four hours–gone, never to be seen or lived again.

A few weeks ago, I noticed a little blurring on the back window of my car but this isn’t a story about the white car.  It’s about that wasted morning.   Because I’m always willing to leave the car or an appliance time to heal themselves, I ignored it.  Two weeks ago, I realized there were bubbles around the defroster wires but I could still see through it.  What are a few bubbles?  I could almost think of them as decorative.   But last week, the number had doubled, then tripled and the windshield wasn’t going to get better by itself.  I called the dealer and set up an appointment for Wednesday, explaining to the man who set the appointment that I had bubbles across the back window.

Many of you may know what the problem was.  I didn’t.  That’s why I called the dealer.   When I took it in, the customer service guy looked at the window and said, “That’s your glass tint.”   I had no idea what he meant.   In a voice dripping with “what-a-stupid-woman-you-are” he said, “The bubbles are in the tint.”   It was as if he were speaking a different language.  Did I have tinted windows?   And, if I did, isn’t tint something that’s brushed on?     Seems not.  Seems as if I am really stupid because everyone knows this.   As I was attempting to sort this out, the manager grabbed me, explaining this employee sometimes speaks too harshly as he escorted me into his office.  He explained well but said that, because this is a used car, the tint wasn’t under warranty.    Hey, if that’s the rule, I’m okay with that.

However, because everyone in the world knows all about tinted glass, I asked the manager, “Why didn’t they tell me this when I called?”   The manager answered, “Maybe you didn’t describe it well.”  Then he said and I am NOT making this up, “He couldn’t see the window over the phone.”   Yes, he said, “He couldn’t see the window over the phone.”   He apologized after losing a few layers of skin. I think I got over to him that this had been a rude and condescending comment.   Then he called the company that does their tinting, set up an immediate appointment, and got me directions there, all done very politely. 

The place was hard to find, taking me two trips down the frontage roads of I-35.   After I found it and handed my keys over, I settled in the waiting room.  After five minutes, a man came in.  I asked, “This will cost about $100?”  He said, “Yes.”  After a pause he added, “We don’t have a credit-card hook up yet because we just opened.  You’ll need cash.”    I never carry more than forty dollars with me.   Carrying a hundred dollars around would terrify me both because I’m a coward and I’m cheap.   And I lose things really easily.   I leaped to my feet–those of you who know me realize this was not a fast leap–and said, “Stop.  I don’t have that much money.”   Of course they don’t take checks so the man said, “Don’t worry.  We’ll just charge it to the dealership.”    Sadly, I have a deep vein of honesty.  George always said I was a twit.  I do things like give too much change back.     Nothing to do but go back home.

So, at 12:30, four hours after I left the house, I returned still with bubbles in the back window.   I took a nap.  But I do have one questions:  Does everyone out there know about bubbles in the tinted windows? 

I’m not a fancy lady

A question, Butternut Creek, Hysteria, Musings, Stuff, , , , , ,

The Romance Writers conference is in July.  Because I’m a RITA finalist, I have to come up with something  to wear.  Looking in my closet, I realize my wardrobe consists of jeans and knit tops, many with Cardinals or Power Cats on them.    I once had a pretty, flouncy dress.  I wore it in 1999 when I was a Golden Heart finalist and in 2004 when I was a presenter during the awards ceremony.  This spring as I cleared out closets, I thought, “I’ll never wear this again because ‘fancy’ doesn’t fit my life style.”  Some lucky woman bought it at Good Will and I’m out looking to replace it.

The search has been distressing but had it’s moments of fun.  I tried on a lovely black sequined dress which did not  look like me.  As I left the dressing room, I ran into Tracy Wolff–one of my favorite writing friends–and had such a great conversation that people came over and said we sounded as if we were having fun.  I’ve been pondering if they really meant, “You’re too loud.”   She got some great and very bright clothes.  I got a pair of jeans.

A few days later, I went to lunch with the beautiful and talented Katie Graykowski who offered me a couple of her fancy outfits.  Thanks, Katie!  Katie is gorgeous.  She’d look great in red velvet but it’s just not me.

Then I had an idea!  I had a black top with black beads around the top in my dresser.  I’d never  worn it because, yes, it’s fancier than I am.  Sadly, that shirt had been ignored for  so long that one-third of the beads had fallen off.  

How would you describe yourself?  Are you fancy or comfortable or do you just not care?

Why do people . . . ?

A question, Musings, Pets, , , , ,

There are times I ponder the deepest, darkest problems of society, the questions that reverberate within the human soul.    But mostly I just wonder about the simple stuff.  Today  I’ll share two of my shallow musings with you.

1)   Why do people like garden tubs?   They take a lot more water and space than a regular tub AND they are hard to get into and out of.  Now, I have to admit, they may not be hard for someone young who possesses good muscles and flexible joints, but I fear I’ll end up on a padded part of my anatomy when I get out.  And, let’s face it, we’re all going to be old, weak, and clumsy if we live long enough.  I could understand have a Jacuzzi.  There’s a reason for the odd shape and placement of a tub that swirls warm water around the bather, but with a garden tub, the water just sits there.

2)   Why do women pull their hair back in those plastic hair clips?   My cat sometimes loves to lick and play with my hair–not that I encourage this–after which it looks better than hair in those clips.  Perhaps women choose to do this because they can’t see the final result?  They don’t realize it sticks out all over?  I could NOT find a picture of the back of a woman’s head with a clip on her hair and looking awful.  My guess is manufacturers don’t want women to know how bad they really  look.

Opinions, please?

 

Rant Friday

A question, Musings, Stuff,

I need your help. please.  I’ve got some complaints–not a lot.  Stronger than pet peeves but not enough for a protest or a letter to the editor.    It dawned on me this is a great place to share my rants and ask  for your input but first I need a good name for this occasional series.    I’ve thought of Frantic Friday or Friday Freak-outs.  I used Rant Friday today because, well, because that’s what I typed.   So first request:  Can you help me with a name?

Here’s my rant.  I’m a careful driver. Okay, that’s not the rant.  That’s what we professional writers call “back story”.  It’s never interesting but, in this case, it’s necessary.   I’ve never caused an accident although several cars have run into the rear of my car because I have a really fast reaction time and because people usually follow too closely.   When I back, I check in the rear view mirror, look out the back windows on both sides, put the car in gear, then turn and look over my left shoulder as I back.

And what do I see behind me?  A small child tottering along behind my backing car, the car with the reverse lights on, while the mother strolls along a few feet ahead or behind.  She is not holding his hand.   Usually the mother seems aware of where the child is but does nothing about the fact that a bad driver could kill her child.  Why isn’t she?

I think the reason she does this is she really believes that the driver is law abiding and careful.  In addition,  the law says the driver must NOT run over either her or the child.  They’re safe here in this huge asphalt-paved space with cars weighing tons (I’m sorry.  I don’t actually know how much a car weighs but it’s a big, heavy metal thing that could smash any fragile human body) moving all around them.

But suppose I’m one of those drivers who doesn’t turn and look behind me?  Imagine that I back looking only in my rear veiw mirror and I can’t see that tiny little one behind me.   Or maybe I’m sneezing at the moment I should be looking out or maybe the driver is drunk or steps on the gas instead of the brake.  In everyone of those situations, the driver is at fault but does that make any difference if a child is gravely injured or dies because Mom didn’t think it would happen?   I can’t imagine being that driver and having such a tragic accident happen because I was careless and the child’s mother thought a walk through a parking lot was as safe as a stroll through the park.  I don’t think I’d ever get over it.  Please, Mom, for your sake and your child’s sake and for me, too, hold his hand.

Does this bother anyone else?

 

No new year’s resolutions here

A question, Confession, Holidays, Musings, ,

I don’t make new year’s resolutions for three reason.   I could probably dredge up more if I really wanted to explain away my lack of resolution about resolutions, but here are the ones I can think of.

1)  I don’t want to.

2)  I don’t remember to.

3)  No one keeps them.

Okay, the first two are self-explanatory so I will delved quickly into the third.  I once belonged to a work-out place for four years.   What long-time members hated was January because the gym was flooded with new members and became so crowded no one could get close to the machines or the weights or find a place in the exercise classes.   However, we knew that after the fifteenth, the number there would be cut in half.  We also knew that by February, for the most part it would be only us long-timers and a sprinkling of the dedicated resolvers. 

My belief is if I’m determined enough to do something, I SHOULD start immediately, not that I do.  If not, if it’s a gimmick like the new year, no resolution will last long.  Any one have a different opinion?  Did you make any resolutions you’d like to share with us?

The ugliest Christmas present ever

A question, Confession, Family, Holidays, , , ,

Before Christmas, I asked for your suggestion for a special present for George.  I told you what a great guy he is and what wonderful presents he gets me but I always fall short.  You came up with wonderful ideas.

For that reason, I’m so ashamed to tell you what I gave him.  Oh, there was salami, which he loves, and a bunch of soup mixes and chocolate.  And there were also. . . the sheets.

Do you know how hard it is to find an interesting set of sheets for a queen-sized bed?   I’m really tired of stripes and flowers and dots or plain.  A few years ago, I found a set of NASCAR sheets which were fairly macho.  Not that either of us watch NASCAR or cheer for Jeff Gordan but they had a different pattern and were cheap.

Just before Christmas, I found a great set of unique sheets.  They were very cheap, one of my prime reasons to buy because I really hate to spend money.  They were colorful–okay, pink and raspberry usually isn’t considered at masculine color–and had foxes in the colorful squares.  Foxes are macho, right?   Well, I thought they were foxes until I got home and put on my glasses.  Instantly and with a deep feeling of remorse, I discovered the creatures were not foxes,  They were skulls.  What I’d thought were little fox ears was a bow.  I have no clue why these skulls were wearing bows.  Oh, yes, and there were bones crossed under the skulls.  Macabre describes the pattern best but they only cost $12.00.  Hey, worth that, right?  For a set of sheets.

In the picture on the right, you see the true beauty of the gift:  the squares in raspberry and pink make nice and fairly straight lines.  However, you can’t see the skulls that I’d mistaken for foxes.

So, here a picture of the pattern up really close. 

Okay, is this the ugliest Christmas present ever?  Do you have an uglier one to share?  What’s you opinion.  Does George deserve an apology from me?  Do the skulls look at all like foxes to you?  And why are they wearing bows?  Does this make them girl skulls?