Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Born under a bad sign, or just up on the wrong side of the bed?


I love my sheets. Gorgeous, snow-white Egyptian cotton with some huge thread-count number, they feel as soft as a cloud against the skin. The trouble is that this type of sheets has a tendency to tangle about the feet and legs. That’s what I discovered as I picked myself up off the floor and rubbed the goose egg on my skull. Stupid sheets.

That was at 6:00 this morning. The day didn’t get much better as it wore on. After listening to my daughter howl bloody murder in my ear while I changed the dressing on her mostly-healed burned thigh and tripping over the cat (the little bastard ripped a couple of nasty furrows in my shin in the process), I was ready to by-pass the obligatory cup of tea and go straight for the brandy.

No time. The kid dressed, the breakfast made, it was time for her to shove food down her neck before the bus arrived. Now where the hell did she go?

It’s a small house, but a seven-year-old can disappear any time she pleases. I found her in the closet of the spare room, playing with her stuffed animals. Breathe. Count to ten. Calmly herd the child to the table, get her to eat.

Too late. She managed to get one bite down before the bus rolled up. That’s when she remembered that she didn’t know where she left her backpack—with all her homework in it. After a mad dash through the house and stuffing her into her coat and gloves, she was unceremoniously thrust through the door as the bus was pulling away. A loud and stern warning from her mother had the child running to catch the bus before it was out of sight. Yes, I’m a mean mommy.

Sit. Breathe. Take a moment for yourself. Eyes closed, head back on the couch. It’s going to be all right. Open one eye. Peek at the clock. Oh, hell! I’m going to be late! Another mad dash through the house. A quick pass under the shower and presto, I’m ready for work.

The drive was a regular one. I take it every day. It’s a boring run up the blacktop to the freeway exit and a mindless weave through traffic to get there on time. Today was different. My exit was blocked by a traffic accident. With a roll of the eyes, I move on into town. I hate town traffic. Half the drivers appear to have missed the part where you’re supposed to engage your brain before putting car in gear, and the other half are pissed off at the first half and anything else that moves. Today, I fit in the latter group.

A minor road rage fit and a few obscene gestures later, I got to the next exit to the freeway. Lo and behold! It’s been closed. WTF? During morning rush hour? Are the cops *bleeping* nuts?

Aaaaaargh! On to the next. A motorist cut me off. His only saving grace was that my piece of crap Saturn SUV wasn’t fast enough to catch him. Asshole. I got his plate number. I’ll give it to a cop friend of mine who owes me a favor.

Fortunately the next exit was clear and open. Good thing, too. I’m so far behind there’s no way I’ll have time to stop for breakfast. I’ll be lucky to clock in before getting that “look” from my supervisor.

I hate my job. I remind myself there are many people who would love to hate my job, but still live in the unemployment line. It doesn’t help.

Hungry, tired, bruised, bleeding and ready for a nap, I sat at my desk. Staring at the computer for a minute, I wrestled with the idea of just walking away, but obediently put on my head set and prepared for the onslaught of inane phone calls that make up my work day.

I cringed when I heard her voice, that voice that grates on my last, jagged nerve every day at the cube farm. It’s a nasally voice, always whining about something that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Where are my M&M’s? I’m going to need all the chocolate I can find to get through this day.

“Did you see your email? We have to take calls all day. No time off the phones at all.”

She said it several times, but I did my best to ignore her. That didn’t stop me from envisioning the ceiling falling on her, or her screams of terror at being swarmed by a million stinging bees… heh heh.

Another handful of M&M’s and a Dove chocolate bar. Get out the other headset, the one that covers both ears so I can block her out.

I checked my emails but didn’t see the offensive article that had her bellyaching incessantly. It was almost too delicious. I decided not to tell her that she’s the only one in our unit who got it. I had my time off the phones.

Big mistake. A few hours later when I was off the phones, she started in. I smacked my head against my desk in an effort to dislodge her voice from my brain. It didn’t work. My headache got worse.

She even went so far as the run to a supervisor to complain. When said supe came to me about it, I told her I had not received the email. The supe shrugged and wandered off. The whining got worse, like the buzz of a mosquito in my ear.

Swat! No, can’t hit the bitch. That would get me fired.

I snapped. I told the whiner to get her ugly face the hell out of my business and stop her constant griping. I told her that I was going to knock her into next week if she didn’t stay away from me, to do her work and shut fat mouth.

Oops.
That’s when I realized that this might just be one of several options. I might have a nasty case of S.A.D. I might be suffering from some other form of depression. Perhaps I’ve developed a mental illness that requires medical intervention.

Now I’ve done it, I thought as I watched the whiner make a bee-line to the supe’s desk. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I knew my ass was in tall grass now. After the whiner finished, she returned to her desk with a smug look on her face. I rolled my eyes. Whatever.

The supe called me to her desk. I was instructed to sit. She opened a dish of those little Dove Promises and offered them to me. I took one, unwrapped it, popped it into my mouth and waited. She offered me another. I devoured it. She smiled, asked if I’d like another. I told her no. She said that if I was finished enjoying my break, I could go back to my cube. Then she thanked me and told me to come back if I needed more chocolate.

I thought this over while I devoured a pound and a half of truffles. Then it dawned on me.

It’s all too clear now. The chocolate. The all-consuming desire to watch someone turn blue with my hands wrapped about his/her throat (okay, so that was the fun part). The vicious verbal attacks. The road rage (yeah, that was fun, too). The unbidden anger and irritability. The way people walk on eggshells around me (snerk, I enjoy that, too).

It sucks to be a woman sometimes. Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? I love getting away with this crap.

Thank heavens for chocolate and brandy. And Mozart liqueur. And chips. And margaritas. And more brandy. And ice cream. And supervisors with bowls of chocolate, who would love to snap at the whiners of the world, too.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Sunday, Bloody Sunday


It was a warm and sunny day—yes, even though weather-dude said it would rain, there was sun—and the children were playing in the yard.  A series of games, trivial disputes, and one lemonade stand and the kids were having a good time.  (By the way, where in the “kid by-laws” does it state that Mom does all the work of squeezing lemons, setting up the stand and supplying cups and ice and not get a free cup of product to sample?  The little squirts made me pay.)

There were three of them:  A little boy known as The Kid—a boy small for his age with a voice that sounds like it comes from the bottom of a well, the girl from down the street we’ll call Beth and my own Princess.  They’d made a killing on their lemonade stand, bringing in $9 to split three ways.  It would have been nice if they had at least offered to help clean up, instead of expecting me to do it.  Being the stellar mom that I am, I barked orders for them to haul in the chairs, the table, the pitchers and ice while I took down the stand.  Hey!  It wasn’t my mess. 

Finally, I was going to have time to do some quality writing.  Yeah, right.  Next came the squabbling.  They argued over everything until Mom finally put a stop to it.  The Princess was grounded to the yard for the day after having ignored her curfew the day before.  The other two children left for parts unknown.  All three were angry at each other and all three needed a break from same.

I needed a break.

Then the other two came back.  Mom laid down the law—“No more fighting or you can all go home.”  It’s not that I mind unfairness and petty crap, it’s just that I want peace.  Most parents understand about life’s being unfair.  For the most part, we don’t care.  We just don’t want to listen to it.  Period.

The Princess went out to face her two young friends.  They all made up and decided to play more. 

Now, if I had been smart, this is when I should have said, “That’s enough for today.  Why don’t you kids go home now?”  But I had finally found some peace and quiet inside my little living room/office and I wanted to spend some quality time with my computer. 

Ten minutes into the burial scene, the husband came out and demanded to know if I was going to bother to fix dinner. 

Sigh. 

He returned to the man cave and I pushed back my computer table.  That’s when I heard the screaming.  It’s nothing new to hear kids screaming in my yard.  I have a daughter.  Enough said.  This was different though.  Aside from the way the two girls were carrying on, I heard a third voice.  It was husky, rasping and full of terror. 

Another sigh.

Yeah, I know.  Most mothers would be running for the door, looking for whatever creature would dare to harm her child, but I’m not most mothers.  I don’t tend to get excited over the screams and histrionics of kids.  It’s usually nothing to worry about and when it is, a cool head is what’s needed to regain order and see to whatever the issue is.

Besides, I was tired.

So, just as I was standing to go investigate, the Princess came running in, jumping up and down with a horrified expression, screaming, “The Kid’s bleeding!  He’s bleeding real bad!”

&^$%$%^(&&^%$!!!

Both girls were screeching, the boy was clutching his bloodied head, rivulets of crimson streaming from his right eye.  His husky voice was a steady rhythm of cries so terrible it made my heart lurch—almost as much as seeing all that blood coming from the boy’s eye.

Stay calm, became my inner mantra.  I had to stay calm and make the kids settle down.  I asked them what happened and all I could get from them was that he fell from the wagon.  Ouch.  Bringing the boy in, I settled him on the couch.  Lucy, our fluffy little white dog was immediately at his side, trying to tend his wound with the rapid lapping of her tongue and the girls continued to scream.  The boy continued to scream.

I hushed them and tried to get the dog away, but damn, it was impossible.  Finally, I ordered them to take the dog outside and stay there.  Once the screaming girls were gone, it was no problem to settle the Kid down.  By then, I had managed to pry his bloody hands from his face and saw that both eyes were intact.  Whew.

A profuse amount of blood poured from his forehead.  The nearest thing I had was a box of tissues, so I slapped a pile of Puffs over the wound and told him to hold it there.  “Do you know your phone number?” I asked.  He answered in a shaking, weak voice.

While I dialed his home, I went for a wash cloth.  The last thing his parents needed was to see their little boy covered in blood.  I thought if I could wash off his face, neck, arms and legs, it wouldn’t be so horrifying for them.  When I came back out, the line had started ringing and his dad was at the door.

As luck would have it, Dad was out looking for his boy.  The girls were screaming at him that his boy was hurt and making it sound horrible.  I was back at the couch, peeling the tissue back to have a look at the wound.

A pinprick!  It was a tiny little nick in the skin that had caused all the excitement.  It was still gushing blood.  The stuff poured out of his head like someone left the faucet on.  For a moment I had an urge to yell at the boy.  I thought he was truly and seriously injured.  I was scared for him, wondering if he had a concussion, if I should call an ambulance, if I should make him lie down—and it wasn’t even a scratch.  I thought, “Dear Lord, he’ll be scarred for life.”  On top of that, I had been envisioning paying for stitches, scar removals and all manner of lawsuit expenses and the child had this little non-wound. 

After shoving the tissue back against the hapless child’s head in disgust (or was it relief?), I went to the door.  “I was just trying to call you,” I told the man.  “Don’t worry.  It’s nothing to get in a twist about, just a nick.”

The dad took it surprisingly well.  The Kid is a frail child, but he’s all boy.  Like most boys, he gets into scrapes and thumps on his little brother.  There are times when he can’t keep up with the other kids, but he sure tries like hell.  I think his dad was rather proud the boy could take a lump like that and still smile. 

The whole neighborhood was upset.  Everyone was running around checking on everyone else.  Mothers were driving from house to house, phones were ringing and gossip was passed.

All over a nick.  The Kid had already moved on, was in his back yard helping his mother pick strawberries. 

As for me, after spending a couple of hours cleaning blood out of the carpet and upholstery—and the white dog’s fur—I decided it was time for a drink.  I’m having a lovely glass of chocolate-raspberry port supplied by a wonderful friend from Canada and I’m grateful everyone is all right.  I can’t wait to see what surprises tomorrow holds. 

Monday, August 22, 2011

A Twenty Pound Dog in a Ten Pound Body.


That’s what we had.  If you’ve ever seen a Bichon Frise, you’d know that they look like powder puffs with legs.  Our powder puff was now ten months old and time for her to get her “big girl” shots. 

The appointment was set for Friday afternoon.  As luck would have it, I had Friday afternoon off.  Cool.  A full afternoon to torture the dog, run errands, and write. 

The dog didn’t take it so well.  Poor little Lucy loves to go bye-bye.  When I came home to get her, she was thrilled.  She pranced into the vet’s office like she owned the place, even trying to bully the resident pets in the little room. 

They were unimpressed.

Then it was her turn to go into the back room.  By the time the third needle was jabbed into her skin, she was looking at me with horror in her little black eyes.  “What are you doing to me?  What did I do wrong?  I promise I won’t steal anymore underwear, just let me live.”  That’s what she was saying with her pained expression.

The man squirted something up her nose and something else down her throat.  I asked, “Are you sure you’re not overloading her little system?”

“Nah,” he said.  “She might be a little slow tomorrow, but after that, she’ll be fine.”

When he pulled out another syringe, she was done.  Just as she’d seen her nemesis, Fuzzball the cat do on the furniture at home, she started to claw her way up my body.  By the time she reached my shoulder, he had stuck her again.  This time she wasn’t begging for deliverance.  This time she was angry and that anger was directed at me.

The man pulled out a treat for her, but she refused, sticking her nose in the air as if his hand were covered in so much cat pooh.  If she could have verbalized, I’m sure she would have told the whole lot of us where to get off.

As I went to pay the bill, I showed the receptionist how matted her fine coat was and explained I was looking for a good groomer to give her a nice summer cut.  Well, the woman quickly volunteered her services and the appointment was set for Monday.  (I should add that I had taken Monday off as well.  The last thing I wanted to do was run more errands, but so many things needed to be done.)

Saturday came and with it, our local farmer’s market.  Streets are cordoned off every weekend and stands set up where you can buy almost any produce that’s in season, as well as dog treats, handmade soaps, creams, elixirs, flowers, herbs, and anything else you couldn’t possibly live without.  It’s a fine time to take your dog for a walk and commune with the townsfolk. 

At first, Lucy was excited.  Then the heat got to her.  I told myself it was just that thick winter coat she was still sporting.  That had to be it, right?  Just the same, we cut the shopping short when she looked as if she might be in trouble.

When we got her home, she seemed well enough.  The next day was much the same.  She drank a lot, slept more than usual and didn’t play much, but that’s to be expected, right?

Wrong.

Monday arrived and I took the dog back to the vet’s office for her grooming.  Then it was back to the house, clean the place and make it ready for the insurance estimator.  Seems the “harmless” plumbing mishap of last year had left its mark on all the floors in the house.  They were disintegrating. 

After Super Insurance Dude was gone, it was back to the vet’s to get the dog.  Lucy was very glad to see me, or at least the tiny wiggly mutt they held out to me was.  I brought in a beautiful powder puff.  What they handed back looked like nature’s cruel joke on dogs.  No, worse than that, she looked like a caricature of a stick figure—done in pink and white.

And she was upset.  Boy!  Was she upset—and embarrassed.  The poor pooch didn’t even want to go outside.  If she could have found a hole to crawl into, or a towel to wrap about her nude body, she surely would have.  She wouldn’t even look at the two other doggies there.  The poor animal was mortified and only spared me one glance, once she knew she was safe again.  It was a killing look, laced with daggers and venom.  She was promising that I would get mine. 

She whined all the way home.  I thought it was because she was so upset, but when I put my hand on her to calm her down, I could feel the heat coming off her.  She was burning up.  When I got her in the house, she drank a bowlful of water and cried for more.  Once she’d had her fill, she seemed cooler and much happier. 

Most puppy owners know that when your dog drinks that much, a trip outdoors is warranted—and straight away.  It was bus time anyway, so I put her out.  She gave me that killing look again and quickly hid her nakedness under the parked truck in the drive.  She glanced back at me as if to say, “If anyone sees me, I’ll never forgive you.”

I was highly amused.

The bus pulled up and I waited at the door to see the expression on my daughter’s face.  Lucy crawled from under the truck with her head down, her little tail barely wagging and a foul glance back at me.

Pat the bus driver lost it.  He laughed so hard he was incapacitated.  As the bus sat idling in front of my house with the sounds of laughter coming from the bus windows and doors, the dog shot me another venomous look and went to greet the princess.

At first, my daughter thought she was some cute stray until Lucy jumped up at her.  That’s when her eyes almost bugged out.  She immediately bundled the embarrassed little dog in her arms and ran for the house. 

A few minutes later, when I looked out the window, Pat wiped tears from his eyes, closed the bus door and pulled away.  He was still laughing, but had managed to regain his ability to drive.

Poor Lucy.

At dinner time, Lucy started hacking.  Hard.  Her tiny body was wracked with vicious choking and coughing.  I thought it would pass, but it didn’t.

Two hours later, she was running a fever again.  I fed her a couple of pieces of Pedialite Popsicle and that seemed to help, but she was still coughing.  It got worse as the night went on.  By midnight, I knew there was no way she would be alive in the morning.  Out of desperation, I gave her a baby-sized dose of kid’s Motrin.  It was all I could think of.  The sad thing was quivering, gasping for breath and hacking her life away.

I was up most of the night, worried, checking on her, hoping…My worst nightmare would be if my daughter were to get up and find the pup already in rigor, so there was no sleep for me. 

When I got up at six to check on her again, her little was tail wagging, her black eyes shining.  I didn’t know whether to hug her or to punish her.  She still wasn’t herself, but she was much improved.

Tonight, she was back to normal.  By that I mean, we were chasing her through the house trying to get the stolen underwear out of her mouth, admonishing her for chewing on the girl’s new sandals and listening to the sounds of her old nemesis, Fuzzball, being tormented into a full-blown hissy. 

It’s good to have her back.  I think I’ll go to bed now.  Tomorrow, I’m going to call that vet and let him have it.  Never will he ever again have the chance to make my dog sick.  It was all too much for her little system.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Adventures at the Farm & Home


Or

Even the best laid plans can take you down that primrose path.

It was a day unlike most others.  The air was sweet with spring fragrance, the sun warm on my face.  The mood was light as a summer breeze.  It was a glorious day meant for enjoyment.

I had the afternoon off.  I was to pick up the princess from school and take her with me to the dentist for our usual checkups and cleanings.  After that, the day was ours to use as we saw fit.  I had such plans . . .

We were done at the dentist office by one.  Time for goofing off and . . . Shopping!

For those who don’t know me, I hate to shop.  Yeah, I know.  How un-womanly of me, but I seriously hate it.  However, there are times in life when one needs things.  The need of the day was to find some cost-effective way to corral our dog without fencing and without digging. 

Ah, I have it!  A wireless animal containment unit.  That’s right, a transmitter that sends out a signal and a receiver that accepts the signal.  That’s what we need, so let’s go get it. 

It’s humane, only lets off a tiny charge no stronger than the zap you get from running your shoes over the carpeting and then grabbing the doorknob when someone pounds ferociously on your front door.  I don’t know about anyone else, but it hurts when you grab that dang doorknob.  Always makes me squeal. 

But, hey, the little Bichon mutt is smart.  She’ll figure it out quickly enough and it’s better than wanting to kill her because Princess didn’t walk her and she crapped on the carpeting again.  This way, the pup can go out whenever she needs to without waiting for said princess to find her shoes, look for the leash she mislaid, get sidetracked when she sees something shiny and then go searching for the proper cleaning products when the dog can no longer keep her little legs crossed.  It’s just the ticket, right?

First stop was the farmer’s friend, our neighborhood Farm & Home Supply store.  They had just what I was looking for, but it was pricey, so I decided to shop around a bit.  Next was the store with the giant red “R” on the front of it.  I never did like that place.  The staff is rude, the place always smells like the inside of a barn and it’s hard to find what you want or need.  And they wanted an extra $30.00 for the same product (probably to pay for all the red paint for the sign out front).

Wal-Mart was right next door, so I decided to try there.  I hate shopping, as I already stated, so Wal-Mart is like a trip through hell.  Man, I despise that place. 

Anyway, I dragged the poor princess through the enormous Super Wal-Mart, seeking out the intended item, but it was nowhere to be found.  Finally, I spied one of those blue vests that tells you, “Hi, I’m *insert name here* and I don’t give a &%^$ what you need.  Chances are I don’t know what it is anyway.”

As luck would have it, this rather astute young blue vest was quite intelligent and willing to help.  He knew exactly what I wanted, and was very enthusiastic when he told me it was discontinued.  Ah, well, back to the F&H.

My second trip to the F&H was successful.  I snagged the containment unit from the shelf while Princess whined about not wanting to put a “vicious, cruel, mean shock collar” on her doggy.  “Sorry, kid.  It’s either this or we dig a hole in the back yard for the mutt’s carcass.”  She agreed to give it a try. 

So, armed with the new and expensive kit, we pulled out of our parking place and—oh, darn.  We still need groceries.  Crapola.  The nearest grocery store is the dread Super Wal-Mart.  Back to Wal-Mart, drag a tired Princess through the store again, choose food, make escape. 

Only two more stops and we can go home.  Stop number one: sweet treats for everyone.  Stop number two:  fountain sodas for everyone. 

The princess continued to point out the dangers of putting a shock collar on her sweet doggy, while I continued to press the point that someone had better finish the potty training of same.  It was a stalemate by the time we got home.  Neither side won.

It was after three when we pulled in the drive.  My day of lazy goofing off was growing short and I still hadn’t had a chance to do anything I wanted, so may as well set up the perimeter and start training the dog.  Following the instructions, one must first set up the transmitter—positioned within the house so as to get the best angle on the area outside where the dog will be able to roam—then set out the marking flags.

Per the instructions, I began to walk the perimeter, staking the flags wherever the alarm on the collar beeped.  Not so difficult, right?  Yeah, as long as you don’t touch the metal posts on the collar.

Static charge, my backside.  Apparently, I had the thing set to the highest setting and when I got zapped, the collar went flying.  I screeched, the husband (watching from a safe distance) laughed until I wanted to punch him and the neighbor kids watched with much curiosity.  Good thing they weren’t dumb enough to approach.

The perimeter seemed too small, so I moved the transmitter and set it on high.  Then I began the arduous task of re-staking the flags.  Since you have to hold the collar at the level the dog’s neck would normally be at, and since the dog is a tiny Bichon, by the time I finished I felt like Quasimodo.  When I straightened my back, there was a distinct snap, crackle and pop.  But it was done and I had only shocked myself two more times.  Too bad I forgot to adjust it to a lower setting.  *this is where to insert the rolling eyes icon*

Okay, time to put the collar on the dog.  She took one zap and learned quite quickly not to go beyond the flags.  I knew she would be a quick study. 

Oh, crap.  I forgot to reduce the charge.  Now guilt-ridden, I walked the miserable little fluff ball back to the house and removed the collar.  At this point, the indicator light on the thing stopped working.  I had no idea what setting it was on and I wasn’t about to test it myself.  Hey, I’m a quick study too.

Sigh.

Trip number three to the F&H was a little annoying.  I live outside town, so it’s not a quick jaunt to the corner store.  By now it was almost five.  Another sigh.

The people at the F&H were very accommodating.  When I asked to exchange it for a smaller collar—one that would better fit my little dog—they had no problem.  When I read the package and asked questions, they answered them in a knowledgeable way.  They seemed to know what they were talking about. 

Acting is a fine art. 

The collar didn’t work with my system.  Trip number four to the F&H was anything but happy.  I had made up my mind that I wouldn’t yell or be in any way rude, but that was before I pulled into the same parking place I had used on all the previous visits.  There was a resounding pop.  I had no idea what the noise was, but I knew it meant trouble.  When I got out of my car, I heard that telltale hissing noise that could only mean one thing.

Sure enough, there was a bolt the size of my thumb sticking out of the right rear tire.

Breathe. 

Don’t scream.

Don’t kick the car.

Laughing maniacally, I walked into the store.  The young man at the counter saw me and cringed.  I handed him back the collar and pointed to a few items on the packaging. 

“You said this would work with my system,” said I.

“This is for a wire fence system,” said he.

“Well, duh,” said I.

“Okay, I see the problem,” said he.  “I think we can fix this.”

“Oh, I know you can,” and I started laughing evilly again. 

The boy looked scared.  Smart boy.

He came back with the proper unit, scanned it about eighteen times with the little scanner thingy (that’s a technical term) and refused to meet my eyes.  With the transaction finished, I said, “My tire picked up some of your hardware in your parking lot.  Do you think someone here could help me change it?”

“How do you know you picked it up here?”

That was the wrong question to ask.  He was met with my frostiest smile (not a pretty thing, I’m told) and I answered with, “I’ve made four trips to your little store, burned half a tank of gas, ruined a tire and lost a day.  How do you know I’m not a homicidal maniac?”  When he started to back away, I said, “Because I heard the thing pop when I ran it over.”

Seriously, that boy needs to grow a pair.

Without looking me in the eye, he said, “We’re not allowed to do that for people.  I’ll be happy to call you a tow truck.”

“I’m going to pay $80 because you people can’t clean up your parking lot?  I don’t think so.  Tell your manager I’ll be back to see him tomorrow for compensation for all the gas and the repair to my tire.”

Out the door I went.  If the manager’s smart, he won’t open tomorrow.  Me Irish temper got the best of me.  I tore into my car, pitching stuff from the back out into the parking lot, tearing out the cover panels and releasing the spare and jack.  It’s not your normal little donut spare, either.  It’s nearly full size and weighs about thirty pounds.  Just as I lifted it, some jerk in a pickup drove by, pointing his finger and laughing. 

I lifted the tire over my head and pitched it at his truck.  Good thing he gunned the engine or there would have been a nasty dent in his passenger door.  As it was, the spare clipped his back bumper as he sped off.  When he offered me an obscene gesture, I smiled and waved.  I was feeling better already. 

After a quick call to the house to tell the man what was up and that his take-out dinner would be late, he said he’d round up the kid and come help me.  But I was still angry and knew how long it would take for him to get there, so I decided to fix it myself.  We country girls are like that.

I had the jack set in place and was about to loosen the lugs when a very nice young woman, carrying her small child, went in search of her husband.  Steve and Amy (names changed to protect the kindly) were very helpful.  If not for Steve, I would never have been able to get the tire off.  The lug nuts were wrenched on so tight; he almost couldn’t get them loose.

Good ol’ Steve had me back together in nothing flat (pun intended because the spare was quite low).  I thanked them both profusely and wished them a happy evening then placed a call to the husband’s cell.  He was already pulling in the parking lot by that time, so he dropped the princess off with me and left. 

I was filthy, fed up, and the dog still had not been trained to the new system.  The day was wasted, my mood was destroyed the F&H was still standing.  Lucky, lucky F&H.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Things I Do That Really Irritate My Husband

Aren’t you men out there glad you don’t have to live with me?  I’ll bet my husband envies you at the moment. 

I’m a fun-loving person with a passion for life.  If I get the chance to try something new, I jump in with both feet—such as the time I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane or the week I ran off to Mexico without him.

My man is a little more staid.  There’s no way he would have plummeted toward the earth from 12,000 feet.  Let’s be honest.  There’s no way he would have got on the airplane in the first place.  Unless it’s a commercial jet with all the comforts of home, he has no interest.

There’s nothing wrong with his way, mind you.  It’s just not the way I’m built.  The other day I realized that we’re getting in a rut and it just won’t do.  To him, the status quo is the best way to go.  “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

The poor man cringes every time I get that look on my face.  I don’t really blame him.  How would you like it if someone is constantly over-turning your life and pulling you outside your comfort zone?

One of his favorite comfort zones is food.  Most people enjoy eating.  We’re no exception, but where I’m more adventurous in my tastes, he prefers the old standards of grease and red meat.  For me, it was time for yet another change. 

As soon as I got home from work on Wednesday night, I started rattling those pots and pans.  The fragrance of teriyaki filled the air.  He walked to the kitchen expecting steak with fried potatoes and corn.  What he got was a lovely piece of glazed salmon over a bed of greens. 

Oh!  The horror.  Food intended for good health—could there be anything worse?  He ate the salmon and a mouthful of salad, then complained he was still hungry.  “Eat more salad,” I told him.  If I had just had my camera handy, I could’ve taken a great snap for the family photo album—such a comical expression. 

The next night it was taco salad, made with ground turkey and filled with more vegetables than his mind could get around.  It was too much.  When he said he had to go to town to run an errand, I warned him not to stop at McDonalds.  He stopped in his tracks on the way to the door.  He’d been caught and he knew it.

By Friday, he was ready to revolt.  He wanted meat ‘n taters and I was being such a pain.  I smiled and put a huge chef salad in front of him.  “Are you trying to kill me?” he demanded.

Last night I relented.  Promising spaghetti, I set to work in the kitchen.  Ah, more disappointment.  The pasta wasn’t smothered in a heavy red sauce swimming in ground meat and sausages.  Instead, it was tossed with sautéed veggies and tomatoes and served with a side of baked chicken breasts.  It was another Kodak moment.

This morning I fixed a big breakfast.  He was thrilled when I got the homemade garlic sausage from the freezer.  His excitement died away when it was served with an omelet of peppers, onions and egg whites.  Oh, and there were no fried potatoes—such a disappointment. 

I heard him on the phone complaining to a friend.  “For weeks,” he said, “she wouldn’t cook a thing.  Now she’s on some health kick and all I get is rabbit food.  I’m going to starve to death.”

If you took one look at him, you’d know starvation isn’t an issue.  He’s a big guy with plenty to spare, so a new diet will serve him well.  I think next week I’ll institute family exercise time.  One way or another, I’m going to get his energy levels back up.  If not, he’ll get left behind in the dirt.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

He Was Just A Boy

Over 60 years ago, a young talented musician enlisted in the army. He was no more than 16, running away from the regimented life his mother had carved out for him. His search was for adventure, heroism, the world in general.

A pretty youth, Jack McCormick was a virtuoso with a violin. After his father’s death while Jack was still a small boy, his mother struggled to earn enough for her son to study music under a great maestro. His talent blossomed, but the teen-aged Jack wanted more than the beauty of his strings to stir his imagination.

Studying the classical styles of all the greats before him left him empty. He wanted more. At fourteen, he began sneaking out at night, entering the honky-tonks and back alley bars to entertain with his magical fiddle. When his dear and beloved mother found out, his life as a honky-tonk man was over.

So Jack ran away. He wanted the world, but what he got was World War II.

On the verge of budding manhood, he stepped into the hell of war. When most boys were chasing skirts, working at the family business or finishing school, he was fighting for his life.

In his haste to escape his home, Jack had to leave behind everything including his violin. Homesickness became his worst enemy. It dogged his every step through Europe.

On a particularly rainy day, thousands of miles from home, Jack was assigned to guard some captured German soldiers. They were encamped in the open, no shelter to be found. It was cold; the men were injured and hungry. Sickness was making the rounds.

A run-off stream of rainwater had formed, wending its way through the prisoners, carrying with it the broken debris created by war. Among the items floating in the water was a violin case. A German officer grabbed it, found its strings intact. After tuning it, he began to play.

Jack watched from a short distance, his keen eyes looking on with longing. Still just a kid, his desire to touch it over-came his orders to patrol the area. Having learned a smattering of German in his travels, he managed to ask the prisoner if he could have a look at it.

The German, hoping to curry favor with the young boy, handed it to him with great care. Jack caressed the gentle curves of the beautiful instrument, plucking the strings, sighing brokenly. A picture of his mother in the dank little kitchen back home, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, formed in his mind. He felt the touch of home in the wood and strings of the violin.

Handing his gun off to a buddy, he gently cradled the instrument under his chin and drew the bow across its strings. His eyes closed as he lost himself in Mozart’s Violin Concerto in D. The glorious notes floated over the French countryside causing more than one hardened soldier to stop and draw breath. As the story goes, even the rain stopped, the clouds parting to allow the sun to bask in the splendor of the music.

When Jack finished and opened his eyes again, the German officer was silently weeping. Jack tried to hand the instrument back to the prisoner, but, in perfect English, the man told him to keep it. “It is meant for you,” he said.

Jack carried that old fiddle with him through every trench and battlefield until his tour ended. He took it home with him. It was the only instrument he would use, even when he was playing for Benny Goodman and his orchestra. Every day he wondered what had happened to the German officer who was so affected by his music. He never saw the man again.

Thirty years later, he was still carrying that old fiddle when he met and married my Aunt Alice. She was a beauty with the voice of an angel. It was love at first sight. They’d both been married before; both had grown children and grandchildren. They’d both suffered much in their lives, and saw in one another something akin to salvation.

I remember how he played. I loved to listen to them both. Alice would bring the house down with her powerful voice and Jack would lift it up again with the passion of his violin. When we lost Alice a few years back, we thought Jack would never recover. He did his best to carry on, finally moving away to be close to his children.

I got a call today. Jack is gone. He lost the passion for his music when the voice of his angel was silenced. He lost his life when cancer took its terrible hold. They both will live forever in my memory, and between them, he carries that old fiddle.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Termites!

That’s what she said, “Termites!” The word was presented in the half-panicked voice of an eight-year-old diva, our little drama princess.

I hauled my backside out of my chair to investigate. She said there was a hole in the wall and, “Termites are eating our house.” The laundry room was where I found her, jabbing a finger capped with a dirty fingernail toward the baseboard. Sure enough, there was a hole in the wall.

Now, the funny thing about this hole was the location. It was in the dry wall, not the wood baseboard. And the shape of it bore a striking resemblance to the toe of a small boot.

Rewind to a couple of days previous when our little diva was pitching a hissy about not being allowed to do what she wanted when she wanted. As I recall, she had gone into the laundry room to remove her muddy boots—as ordered. I remember the sound of a violent attack on said wall and the threat I didn’t bother to disguise that I hurled through the closed door.

Also, as I recall, she suddenly capitulated. She exited the room with her muddy boots removed, a sheepish smile on her face and promises to behave. Being a mom, I should have known something was up.

But all that lay forgotten as we tried to figure out upon whom to lay the blame. The husband denied any knowledge of said hole. Though it was big enough for the very tip of one of his over-sized clod-hoppers, it was too deep. For him to have made a hole that deep, it would have been much larger in circumference.

His denials were followed by the diva reminding him of the time he put a hole in the drywall of her room. Anyone who knows my husband knows that he’s somewhat of a giant. As with many of his size, he lacks a certain grace and things get broken. Still, his denials—and his embarrassment of being reminded of previous damage—were sincere enough I had to believe him.

In the meantime, Diva packed up her little shoulder bag and beat a hasty retreat to the neighbor’s house. Still pondering the mystery, I thought of the bag I had taken to work the day before. It was heavy, laden with munchies for my coworkers and a half-gallon thermos of hot water for the tea I require to get through the day. Could I have done it while leaving for work and not have known it? Could the thermos have caused such a dent?

No.

That’s when I remembered the hissy in the laundry room. It had to have been when it happened.

My theory? The child has been worried someone would notice the damage and begin to ask questions. Being a smart little diva, she decided bring attention to it in a way that would protect herself.

Blame termites.

Well, that didn’t work, so she brought up past indiscretions and laid it in her father’s lap, then got the hell out of dodge before the fallout. She thinks she escaped, is likely breathing a sigh of relief as she plays with the other drama princess in the neighborhood.

Oh, just wait ‘til she gets home.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Why I Want a Heart Rate Monitor

Why do I want a heart rate monitor? That’s a loaded question, one asked by the employee health program at work. So I decided to play along and write the required essay.

First of all, to understand my need, one would have to take a walk through my day. Take today, for instance. My intention was to get to the office early, knock out some inventory in over time and look good to the company.

Yeah, right.

As the bard said, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. My internal clock—perpetually on Mountain Time (unfortunately I live in the central time zone)—went off right on schedule. Translated, that means I woke an hour late.

A glance at the clock told me why my alarm didn’t go off. Fuzzball, the cat, was comfortably stretched across the snooze button. Taking a swipe at the cat, I missed by a mile. My finger nail flew off, nearly taking my finger with it.

The day was off to a thrilling start.

Glancing at the clock again—minus the now-hiding cat—I tossed back the covers and bounded to my feet. I made a mad dash for the bathroom, but came to a screeching halt when the hall floor jumped up to kiss my face.

I know I should be ashamed of the words flying from my mouth, but the kid was at Grandma’s for the week, so I let fly while searching for whatever tripped me. That’s when I saw the dog. Lucy’s tail swished back and forth, her proud visage warning she was up to no good.

No good? The dog was possessed of Satan himself. Not far from her wagging tail was the thing which had tripped me.

Now, most who know me understand that I’m a pragmatic person. I don’t own much in the way of frivolity. That’s why when a friend connected in the fashion world gave me a gorgeous pair of Prada heels in go-to-hell red I was thrilled beyond words. I’ve had them for years and they still looked new.

Notice the past tense?

My already-racing heart jumped into my throat. The delicate straps, the stiletto heel, the sparkling embellishments—all in tatters across the hall floor. And the dog, with innocent eyes and her little head cocked ever so slightly to the side . . .

I clutched my chest as I fought the urge to beat the Bichon with the remnants of my prized shoe.

No time to mourn. Clean up shoe mess. Stare malignantly at dog. Hit shower. No time for hair & makeup. No time for anything other than throwing on clothes and . . .

Clothes? Oh, no! I didn’t put them in the dryer the night before. I had nothing else clean that would be presentable in the office. What was I to do? With water dripping from my now-washed hair, I began to scrounge. The best I could do was a worn tee shirt and a pair of wrinkled capris.

Lucy was uncooperative. She decided she wasn’t going to spend the day in the kennel. My patience at an end, I chased the mutt all over the house, cornered her in the bathroom and snatched her off the floor. The cat took this opportunity to lash out at the dog he hates so much, but caught the back of my hand with a single claw. He saw the look on my face, withdrew said claw and retreated behind the toilet. I’ll attend to him later.

The dog’s white fur was streaked red with blood when I shoved her in the kennel. I had a few choice words for our little members of the animal kingdom, and after playing chase the brat mutt, there was no time left for making lunch.

I left the house ten minutes behind schedule looking like hell warmed over and spit back out.

Ugh.

Well, at least traffic would be an adventure. Of course, I was almost to town before I realized I’d left my security badge at home. The speed limit on the road to my house is fifty. I returned doing eighty.

Back on the road again, the clock in my car told me I would be about ten minutes late. Grand. I would have to make up time on the drive. I got about a mile away when I started to wonder about the garage door. Had I closed it?

Some people have the gift of a golden tongue. I, on the other hand, have a particular gift for foul language. I let fly with a string of oaths that would make a longshoreman blush. I called into question the parentage of the world, made allusions to the evil origins of dogs and cats, and was quite blasphemous in my assessment of life in general.

So I drove home again. When close enough, I could see the garage door was closed, so the neighborhood heard rubber squealing on pavement when I cut a sharp U-turn.

On the highway, I placed a hand on my chest and felt the frantic drumming. Breathe, I told myself. Stay calm, breathe, go to your happy place.

My happy place is never in the morning. It’s an ancient family curse, you see. Generations ago, one of my ancestors had angered a Gypsy. She put a hex on our entire line that turns us into screaming banshees once the sun comes up. If something goes wrong in this family, it happens in the morning. This day was merely typical.

So, once again on the road paved with good intentions, I dodged through traffic to my exit. As luck would have it, every semi-tractor and freight vehicle in a three-state area was in front of me on the four-lane. Lovely. They were doing sixty on both south-bound lanes and I needed to do a hundred. Road hogs.

It is said there are two seasons in Illinois: Winter and Road Construction. Winter ended four months ago, meaning every road you travel is obstructed with machinery, barricades, trucks and hot guys in orange vests (usually spitting out wads of dust and saliva as you drive by). Traffic slows. It crawls. And there’s always some idiot who thinks he can get ahead of the pack only to cause more issues ahead when he realizes he has to get back into the line of stopped traffic. This day, I was that guy. Still, I managed to get through the construction without causing a wreck. Ah, but there was more traffic ahead.

No problem. A little ducking and weaving and I was ahead of the pack. Well, most of it, anyway. Only one obstacle lay ahead of me, my old nemesis in the white Cadillac Escalade. (See Just Another Bleeping Day: https://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=306406831067) He’s a fun sort of fellow, always juggling his laptop, coffee, cell phone and the steering wheel. I see him nearly every day as he struggles to stay on the road while tending to business. Owing to my normal morning mood, I couldn’t help but mess with him a bit. When I made my move to pass, as I pulled along side, he drifted into my lane.

Of course I knew what would happen. It’s happened before. I hit the horn hard and loud and watched a fountain of coffee spray the interior of his vehicle when he was caught off guard. With a malevolent grin, I put pedal to metal and sped past. He gave me his usual one-finger salute. I didn’t care as I watched the speedometer needle move past ninety.

My exit loomed. My stomach growled. My clock said, “You ain’t eatin’ today.”

The light at the top of the exit hit red just as I approached. Red, like the evening sunset. Red, like the color of my eyes. Red, like the blood boiling in my veins. Red, like the van that cut me off just as I got there.

I have a new nemesis.

The red van took its time moving through the light once it turned green. I tried to pass, but the driver decided he wanted to be in the same lane as me, so he cut me off again. I swerved into the other lane, offered him a salute appropriate to the situation, and made for my turnoff. This time, I cut him off. Boy, was he mad. Guess he didn’t like having the shoe on the other foot.

The next light was red, too, but I was past caring. There was a throbbing in my skull and every pulse point kept time with it. The drumming in my chest increased its pace until I thought something was trying to get out. Visions of Sigourney Weaver with the caustic head of an alien baby protruding from her chest came to mind. Be still, my heart.

The car screeched to a halt in one of the few parking slots left. The clock told me I had one minute to race to the door, run up two flights of stairs, dash across the building, get to my seat, log onto the computer, clock in and take my first phone call.

Later that day, my supervisor told me I broke a record. It generally takes six or more minutes for the computer to boot up and for all necessary systems to be opened. According to logs, I did it in three. I just smiled and nodded. Even my computer understands mornings for me. It’s become quite adept at knowing my moods. Logging-in in less than three minutes is nothing. We do it every day, the computer and I.

I took my first call—out of breath, stressed and choking around the heart in my throat. It still pounded frenetically, still threatened to break the bones that held it in place.

Why do I want a heart rate monitor? It would be interesting to find out how fast my morning marathons push the rate of beats-per-minute. I might be setting another new record.

Windows to the soul

All I wanted to do today was wash my windows. When your windows are clean, your whole house is cleaner, the lighting changes and the world looks better. It’s a simple thing, but it does so much for one’s personal outlook.

It’s not an easy task, but not particularly difficult either. You have to open the window, take out the screen, take out both storms, close the window, wash the inside of the panes, go outside and wash the other side. Then you have to brush the dust from the screen, wash the storms and reassemble. It’s a fairly simple process—unless there are obstacles.

Couches are obstacles. My couch is over-sized with a solid wood and steel frame. I had it special ordered that way. In other words, it weighs a ton. It sits caddy-corner, with space behind it for a large fichus tree and a small trunk.

To get to the window—the last of the three I was washing—behind it, I decided it would be easier to just straddle the back of the couch, rather than move it. Well, that's the window that won't stay up on its own, so it was tricky to get the storms out. The thing has a tendency to just drop closed with no prompting from me. It’s possessed.

When it closed on my arm, I had the loose storm in my hand and almost dropped it out the window. I put my foot down behind the couch for stability, right on a piece of broken glass. How the hell did that get here? Who, in this house, would dare to break a glass and not clean it up—especially behind the couch?

I fell back against the fichus, uprooted it, had to move the couch to get it out. The floor under the couch was covered in household debris, so I had to vacuum. Then the tree had to be taken out the front door to be repotted. The trail of potting soil had to be cleaned, so the vacuum was brought out again. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After the jagged shard of glass cut into my foot, I enlisted the assistance of my reluctant husband who was hiding from the scene. He was carefully ensconced in his man-cave, watching “Enemy of the State” and rooting for the bad guys. After all, the bad guys are the true underdogs in these silly movies, right? They never win.

I lovingly called out to him for help by announcing he’d better get his backside in here before I decided to beat the windows out with a hammer. He stomped to the living room door and demanded to know what I wanted. That’s when I suggested his father might not have been of the human species and that he needed to fornicate with himself. I’m not a very pleasant person when irritated.

He would probably have answered me in kind except that he noticed the blood on the white couch, the two screaming girlies adding to my annoyance, the puppy chewing on the shoe that had fallen off my foot, and the look on my face. He went for the first aid kit.

What I needed was for him to lift the window ensnaring my arm, the one precariously holding to the dangling storm window, which grew heavier with each passing moment. I didn’t care about the throbbing pain in my foot. I wanted to save the expensive window before it hit the ground below and shattered.

I voiced this sentiment to him in very colorful terms that had my daughter and her little friend blushing and covering their mouths in shock. As I yelled the words through the house, he was rummaging around for a Band-Aid. Seriously?

In a fit of anger, I found the strength to yank the window up with one hand, pulled a muscle in my neck and managed to lower the storm down to the ground. By the time he came back, I had the upper pane out and was leaning out to put it on the ground as well.

Then he saw his fichus. He had that tree for more years than he’s had a wife. He accused me of stepping on it, of breaking it. First, the thing is taller than me. If I had stepped on it, it would have torn my foot a new one. Second, if he was so concerned about it, he would have taken care of it. Instead, the thing was so dry the roots broke free and the dirt crumbled away.

So, the couch had to be moved. I reached for the bandage in his hand. He jerked his hand back and told me he would do it. Yeah, I know how gentle he is. Didn’t seem like such a good idea to me, but I just wanted to get the mess cleaned up, so I let him. After cursing at him for mashing the adhesive onto my wound, I shoved the couch out.

Yuck.

Maybe I should move it out more often. There was a collection of cracker crumbs, pet hair, bits of candy, coins, pieces of toys, and other debris I won’t even try to identify. To say I was disgusted would be an understatement.

Once the mess was vacuumed away, the plant had to be moved. Thank heavens for large planters with casters. The problem was the tree was listing dangerously and every time I tried to move it, dirt fell from the pot. There was nothing for it but to get it out of the house, so I slung soil across the carpeting and out the door.

That’s when the flower pot was broken. It used to sit on my front stoop with pretty pink flowers of different varieties in it. Now it adorns the bottom of the garbage can out back.

I cursed so badly the neighborhood dogs were shocked into silence.

After cleaning up the mess and repotting the fichus—using all the potting soil I had on hand—I moved the planter back inside. It’s now installed in the dining room where it has a better chance of getting proper water to ensure it heals. (Hopefully, Fuzzball the crazy feline won’t try to climb it again and thereby finish destroying it, but you can never tell what the cat will do when the dog takes after him.)

I was exhausted. My foot hurt, my head throbbed from the squabbling of the little girls. As I walked back to the living room to vacuum up the potting soil, I stepped on the cat and tripped over the pup. What I need are more distractions.

Leaving the cowering dog and sulking kitty, I finished sweeping up the mess, washed the windows and put it all back together.

Putting it together was almost as much fun as taking it apart. The husband was hiding again, the window sash fell on my arm again and this time the girls had enough sense to be elsewhere.

Unfortunately, “elsewhere” was the front of the house—with the garden hose. They were taking turns spraying each other and everything else in a 15 foot radius. Now, just why they decided to stretch the hose all the way to the driveway at the front of the house is one of those mysteries that makes parents shake their heads in wonder. We have nearly an acre of ground, but they decided to play there. With the water hose. Right in front of the windows I had just washed—while my arm was trapped in the side window.

Did you know there are some species in the animal kingdom who actually eat their own young? Those are the smart ones.

Not only were the kids splashing water all over my formerly clean windows, but the windows were down on my car.

Need I say more? Should I describe the carnage?

Vodka is a wonderful thing. It soothes the soul, calms the mind, and saves lives. The kiddies are lucky I have a good supply on hand.