I threw my lunch together, tossed it in the car and took off. I had to get to work before Ms. Prissy Pants and get that note off her desk. I thought it was funny when I wrote it, but if she throws a fit, I could be fired. I’ve heard it a million times. When you write a note like that, hold on to it awhile. The recipient will not think it as funny as I did. “Goddamnit, why am I so hot-headed?” I thought.
I was approaching a parking lot driveway. The blue car appeared to be going to turn into the lane in front of me. I stopped. “OK! Go!” I waved it the go-ahead. The blue car was in front of me now. “Please let me get to work before Ms. Prissy Pants.” The light ahead turned yellow. The blue car could have made it thru, but it stopped instead.
“Shit!” I sat thru the yellow light and thru the red light. The light turned green and the blue car just sat there. I hit my horn. “Move, goddammit!” I hit my horn again and the blue car came back to life and started moving. A steady stream of oncoming traffic kept me trapped behind. My urgency seemed to make this car go even slower. “Jesus Christ!” I hit the steering wheel with my fist.
My mind was going forty miles per hour. The blue car was going twenty. It’s right turn signal came on and it slowed down even more. “Don’t roll it!” I yelled. “Thank God it’s going to turn.” We went several blocks like this then, for no reason I could see, it changed it’s mind and the turn signal went off. “Son of a BITCH!” I yelled. “Will you MOVE!”
As the blue car crawled along at 20 miles per hour, it was also intermittently hitting it’s breaks. It appeared to be breaking for shadows. “Jesus Christ Goddamn son of a bitch! What are you doing!” Another red light turned green and the blue car wasn’t paying attention. I laid on the horn. I could see the startled driver look into the rear view mirror, then start moving at the pace of a snail. I could feel my blood pressure crescendo and the top of my head ready to spin off into orbit. I was rocking back and forth in the driver’s seat. “Goddammit. goddammit. goddammit. goddammit.”
Finally, there was a short break in the oncoming traffic. I jerked the wheel to the left and sped up even with the blue car. The driver turned her head and looked at me just as I was hit head-on by an oncoming car. I recognized the driver just before I died. It was me.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Parks and Rides - Sue
Yesterday, Phyllis and I drove over to the park 'n ride where the bus picks up people to take them to the airport. We wanted to find it so that the morning that I leave, we won't be wasting time looking for it. Situations like that cause Phyllis to bite her nails and pull out her hair, stomp her feet and scream.
First, we went to where Phyllis had caught the bus a couple of years ago, maybe three. I forget. Anyway, it was at the old parking structure when the airport was down at the end of Martin Luther King Boulevard. But every entrance was blocked off there, and I screamed, "We can't get in there! We'll never find it!"
Phyllis's eyes got big. It's always best to remain very calm when Phyllis gets nervous, especially if she is driving and you are a passenger. Even if you feel like chewing on the dashboard and punching your fist through the windshield, resist that temptation because that will only get her more hysterical. (hysterical: Originally defined as a neurotic condition peculiar to women and thought to be caused by a dysfunction of the uterus.)
First we went this way, and then we went that way, and desperation gave way to humiliation, regret and finally, apathy. "We'll never find it," I said. "I may as well as never have been born."
"What's that?"
I looked at her like she was the most pathetic excuse for a representative of the human race to ever embarrass the rest of us. "To bring forth young, give birth to, to bear a child. What the fuck do you think it means?"
"Not that! That blue sign. It said, 'Park N Ride' that way."
Suddenly I sat up straight. I heard angels singing, not anything recognizable, but just a harmonious chorus of a long "Oh" syllable. Clouds parted and long rays of light pointed down at the next blue sign, showing us the way.
We made a couple of more turns, listening to the angels and following the rays of light and the signs, until we came to the new Park N Ride. There was a big, full parking lot, and shelters where the buses queue up. There was light everywhere, like being hugged by liquid warmth. There were a few people milling about, waiting for a bus, and they were all smiling, slapping each other's backs and telling funny stories. One man who looked Asian said, "Welcome to new Parks and Rides!" We waved and gave the "thumbs up."
Phyllis yelled, "I love sesame seed chicken!" Gawd!
We headed for home. "That wasn't so hard now, was it Phyllis?" I asked. Her eyes got big again, always an indication that she is having a violent emotional episode. She peeled out and took a corner on two wheels. I thought singing might calm her, so I sang a verse of a long "Oh" syllable, but she started chewing on the steering wheel. This was going to take some time.
I'm going to Florida for a few days, and God only knows how she's going to stay calm while I'm gone.
First, we went to where Phyllis had caught the bus a couple of years ago, maybe three. I forget. Anyway, it was at the old parking structure when the airport was down at the end of Martin Luther King Boulevard. But every entrance was blocked off there, and I screamed, "We can't get in there! We'll never find it!"
Phyllis's eyes got big. It's always best to remain very calm when Phyllis gets nervous, especially if she is driving and you are a passenger. Even if you feel like chewing on the dashboard and punching your fist through the windshield, resist that temptation because that will only get her more hysterical. (hysterical: Originally defined as a neurotic condition peculiar to women and thought to be caused by a dysfunction of the uterus.)
First we went this way, and then we went that way, and desperation gave way to humiliation, regret and finally, apathy. "We'll never find it," I said. "I may as well as never have been born."
"What's that?"
I looked at her like she was the most pathetic excuse for a representative of the human race to ever embarrass the rest of us. "To bring forth young, give birth to, to bear a child. What the fuck do you think it means?"
"Not that! That blue sign. It said, 'Park N Ride' that way."
Suddenly I sat up straight. I heard angels singing, not anything recognizable, but just a harmonious chorus of a long "Oh" syllable. Clouds parted and long rays of light pointed down at the next blue sign, showing us the way.
We made a couple of more turns, listening to the angels and following the rays of light and the signs, until we came to the new Park N Ride. There was a big, full parking lot, and shelters where the buses queue up. There was light everywhere, like being hugged by liquid warmth. There were a few people milling about, waiting for a bus, and they were all smiling, slapping each other's backs and telling funny stories. One man who looked Asian said, "Welcome to new Parks and Rides!" We waved and gave the "thumbs up."
Phyllis yelled, "I love sesame seed chicken!" Gawd!
We headed for home. "That wasn't so hard now, was it Phyllis?" I asked. Her eyes got big again, always an indication that she is having a violent emotional episode. She peeled out and took a corner on two wheels. I thought singing might calm her, so I sang a verse of a long "Oh" syllable, but she started chewing on the steering wheel. This was going to take some time.
I'm going to Florida for a few days, and God only knows how she's going to stay calm while I'm gone.
Stewed Tomatoes and Corn...Phyllis
Sue is one of those people who are right-brained and left-brained. There is a word for that, but if I go look it up, I will spend the next forty-five minutes surfing the internet, looking at shoes on zappos.com, looking at hats on hats.com, looking at suspenders on suspenders.com and checking my bank balance. I say she is right-brain/left-brain because she earns her living at a left-brain occupation, however all her interests involve art, music, writing, and other right-brain activities.
Sue is very good at all these things, but there’s one area…cooking…that she is, how should I say it?...a fountain of untapped potential. The kitchen is one place where she seems to think she doesn’t have to follow any rules. In the kitchen, she just makes stuff up. And…well, here’s an example:
Take some meat out of the refrigerator. Whatever is in there is fair game. Hahaha….get it? Game. Put that in a saucepan. Throw in a can of corn. Then plop in a can of stewed tomatoes. Serve it up in an empty cottage cheese container. Are your taste buds doing the Macarena?
“Do you want some of this?” she offers.
“No! Don’t even show it to me!” I decline.
Sue buys stewed tomatoes and corn by the case at Sam’s Club. When we start to run low, say when there are only about ten cans left on the shelf, she buys more. What does this have to do with right or left brain? Well, I’m just not sure which half Sue is using when she cooks. And I’m using immense latitude in using the term, ‘cook.’ One thing I will say about Sue, though. She is very generous with her cans of stuff. If I’m cooking something like macaroni and cheese, she will say, “You can put one of these cans of stewed tomatoes in there if you want.”
“Ok, thanks…no.”
Then one day out of nowhere, Sue announced, “I’m a raw foodist! I’m eating only raw foods from now on.” So, there were raw carrots, raw celery, raw broccoli, leaves, and grass. That lasted about a day and a half. Then she wasn’t a raw foodist anymore. Sue is a Midwest farm girl, a real meat, potatoes, corn and stewed tomatoes kind of girl. A real plop-it-all-into-a-saucepan-and-heat-it-all-up-together kind of girl.
I have to be fair, though. One time, before we lived together, she came to visit me in California. She made shrimp baked in butter and lemon over rice. That was delicious.
Sue is very good at all these things, but there’s one area…cooking…that she is, how should I say it?...a fountain of untapped potential. The kitchen is one place where she seems to think she doesn’t have to follow any rules. In the kitchen, she just makes stuff up. And…well, here’s an example:
Take some meat out of the refrigerator. Whatever is in there is fair game. Hahaha….get it? Game. Put that in a saucepan. Throw in a can of corn. Then plop in a can of stewed tomatoes. Serve it up in an empty cottage cheese container. Are your taste buds doing the Macarena?
“Do you want some of this?” she offers.
“No! Don’t even show it to me!” I decline.
Sue buys stewed tomatoes and corn by the case at Sam’s Club. When we start to run low, say when there are only about ten cans left on the shelf, she buys more. What does this have to do with right or left brain? Well, I’m just not sure which half Sue is using when she cooks. And I’m using immense latitude in using the term, ‘cook.’ One thing I will say about Sue, though. She is very generous with her cans of stuff. If I’m cooking something like macaroni and cheese, she will say, “You can put one of these cans of stewed tomatoes in there if you want.”
“Ok, thanks…no.”
Then one day out of nowhere, Sue announced, “I’m a raw foodist! I’m eating only raw foods from now on.” So, there were raw carrots, raw celery, raw broccoli, leaves, and grass. That lasted about a day and a half. Then she wasn’t a raw foodist anymore. Sue is a Midwest farm girl, a real meat, potatoes, corn and stewed tomatoes kind of girl. A real plop-it-all-into-a-saucepan-and-heat-it-all-up-together kind of girl.
I have to be fair, though. One time, before we lived together, she came to visit me in California. She made shrimp baked in butter and lemon over rice. That was delicious.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Angel Falls
I want to be an intrepid explorer.
The day after Phyllis melted a pound of butter on the stove, I was looking at photos of Canyonlands National Park, Utah, on flickr. If you're going to review places to visit, you have to do your research. There is one photo of a group of bicyclists standing on a cliff, and they are all smiling. They are set against a backdrop of Pawnee Buttes times a thousand.
This morning, I'm having four large, raw carrots and I'm dipping them in dill veggie-dip. The dip smacks of a zesty tang, and gives the carrots that all important zip that you just can't get from crunching carrots alone. Phyllis said orange vegetables have lots of Vitamin A. Or was it D. Whatever. Sometimes I feel like cooking, but only when I'm not busy researching places to visit. Yesterday, Phyllis and I made omelets. I did the chopping, and Phyllis did the frying. I chopped fresh, whole mushrooms, onions, pepperchini, and peppers from the garden. I had been more than willing to also cut up tomatoes, but Phyllis doesn't like soft, cooked tomatoes. I had bought the fresh, whole mushrooms, along with a four dollar box of fancy breaded crumbs to fry breaded mushrooms, but then Phyllis melted the pound of butter on the stove. It's just as well because I lost the four dollar box of fancy breaded crumbs.
We also put cheese and ham in the omelets. The cheese was from a jar of Tostitos corn dip cheese, and the ham was from what Phyllis had baked the day before, when the butter melted. I had taken the butter out of the freezer intending to use it for the fried, breaded mushrooms, and set it on the stove to defrost. Then Phyllis baked a ham. It was a good-sized, hefty hog's butt, so it took a few hours to bake. Phyllis spiced up the omelets and I'm telling you, I knew I was eating something. I've never had an omelet that came even within a mile of the quality of that omelet. I also had some cottage cheese on the side, but Phyllis skipped the cottage cheese for herself. She also said she couldn't finish her whole omelet, but I made short work of mine, despite the fact that it covered three-quarters of my plate.
There is another national park in Utah called "Arches," so named due to the numerous arch-like rock formations. There is one photo on flickr called, "Waiting for sunset at Delicate Arch." As the shot is taken looking left, I counted 64 photographers in a double row in what looks to be about a fifty foot stretch, packed in like dancers in a chorus line. I can't see how many there are if looking to the right, or how far that line extends.
If I'm going to write travel essays, I need to go somewhere that is hard to reach. Otherwise, heck, go there yourself and see it. One of my goals is to reach Angel Falls in Venezuela. If I make it to Angel Falls, I'm telling you, I'll know I am an intrepid explorer.
The day after Phyllis melted a pound of butter on the stove, I was looking at photos of Canyonlands National Park, Utah, on flickr. If you're going to review places to visit, you have to do your research. There is one photo of a group of bicyclists standing on a cliff, and they are all smiling. They are set against a backdrop of Pawnee Buttes times a thousand.
This morning, I'm having four large, raw carrots and I'm dipping them in dill veggie-dip. The dip smacks of a zesty tang, and gives the carrots that all important zip that you just can't get from crunching carrots alone. Phyllis said orange vegetables have lots of Vitamin A. Or was it D. Whatever. Sometimes I feel like cooking, but only when I'm not busy researching places to visit. Yesterday, Phyllis and I made omelets. I did the chopping, and Phyllis did the frying. I chopped fresh, whole mushrooms, onions, pepperchini, and peppers from the garden. I had been more than willing to also cut up tomatoes, but Phyllis doesn't like soft, cooked tomatoes. I had bought the fresh, whole mushrooms, along with a four dollar box of fancy breaded crumbs to fry breaded mushrooms, but then Phyllis melted the pound of butter on the stove. It's just as well because I lost the four dollar box of fancy breaded crumbs.
We also put cheese and ham in the omelets. The cheese was from a jar of Tostitos corn dip cheese, and the ham was from what Phyllis had baked the day before, when the butter melted. I had taken the butter out of the freezer intending to use it for the fried, breaded mushrooms, and set it on the stove to defrost. Then Phyllis baked a ham. It was a good-sized, hefty hog's butt, so it took a few hours to bake. Phyllis spiced up the omelets and I'm telling you, I knew I was eating something. I've never had an omelet that came even within a mile of the quality of that omelet. I also had some cottage cheese on the side, but Phyllis skipped the cottage cheese for herself. She also said she couldn't finish her whole omelet, but I made short work of mine, despite the fact that it covered three-quarters of my plate.
There is another national park in Utah called "Arches," so named due to the numerous arch-like rock formations. There is one photo on flickr called, "Waiting for sunset at Delicate Arch." As the shot is taken looking left, I counted 64 photographers in a double row in what looks to be about a fifty foot stretch, packed in like dancers in a chorus line. I can't see how many there are if looking to the right, or how far that line extends.
If I'm going to write travel essays, I need to go somewhere that is hard to reach. Otherwise, heck, go there yourself and see it. One of my goals is to reach Angel Falls in Venezuela. If I make it to Angel Falls, I'm telling you, I'll know I am an intrepid explorer.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee!...Phyllis
Know what really bunches up my bloomers? People who use clichés. When it comes to clichés, let's call a spade a spade. Come hell or high water, people, will you wake up and smell the coffee? Cliches are as useful as a screen door in a submarine and for me, they go over like a lead balloon. Some people will use a cliché at the drop of a hat. And to those people, I have an ax to grind. At the end of the day, you sow what you reap.
I don’t want to beat a dead horse. I don’t want to throw cold water while someone else blows smoke. What it boils down to is that I have a bone to pick. People who use clichés are just passing the buck. If you give them a penny for their thoughts, all you will get is a cliché. Well, a penny saved is a penny earned, I always say. It really pushes my buttons and I wish they would stop picking the low-hanging fruit.
That is why I am taking the bull by the horns. It takes a toll on you after awhile when all you hear are clichés. Well, there’s no time like the present and there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Things aren’t what they used to be, I can tell you that. People need to learn to think outside the box, is what they need to do.
Actions speak louder than words and clichés are piss-poor attempts to pull your leg. An idle mind is the devil’s playground and if those people would just put their money where their mouth is, I could let bygones be bygones. Really, people: The lights are on, but nobody’s home! Hello!
Say what you will, these people are really scraping the bottom of the barrel. I’m not one who sees the glass as half empty, but I can see which way the winds blow. My advice is to shape up or ship out. If you are tempted to over use clichés, stop and think. Then stick a fork in it. Tell it like it is, don’t sugarcoat it. It’s a no-brainer, so just nip it in the bud.
Now, I’m not the brightest crayon in the box and I’m nothing to write home about, but I know better than to rely on clichés to get my point across. I think we can all see the 800 pound gorilla in the room. You might think the ends justify the means, but right off the top of my head, my advice is this: If you’re going to talk the talk, you better walk the walk.
So, I’ll leave you with something to chew on: If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Someday, you’ll thank me for this.
I don’t want to beat a dead horse. I don’t want to throw cold water while someone else blows smoke. What it boils down to is that I have a bone to pick. People who use clichés are just passing the buck. If you give them a penny for their thoughts, all you will get is a cliché. Well, a penny saved is a penny earned, I always say. It really pushes my buttons and I wish they would stop picking the low-hanging fruit.
That is why I am taking the bull by the horns. It takes a toll on you after awhile when all you hear are clichés. Well, there’s no time like the present and there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Things aren’t what they used to be, I can tell you that. People need to learn to think outside the box, is what they need to do.
Actions speak louder than words and clichés are piss-poor attempts to pull your leg. An idle mind is the devil’s playground and if those people would just put their money where their mouth is, I could let bygones be bygones. Really, people: The lights are on, but nobody’s home! Hello!
Say what you will, these people are really scraping the bottom of the barrel. I’m not one who sees the glass as half empty, but I can see which way the winds blow. My advice is to shape up or ship out. If you are tempted to over use clichés, stop and think. Then stick a fork in it. Tell it like it is, don’t sugarcoat it. It’s a no-brainer, so just nip it in the bud.
Now, I’m not the brightest crayon in the box and I’m nothing to write home about, but I know better than to rely on clichés to get my point across. I think we can all see the 800 pound gorilla in the room. You might think the ends justify the means, but right off the top of my head, my advice is this: If you’re going to talk the talk, you better walk the walk.
So, I’ll leave you with something to chew on: If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Someday, you’ll thank me for this.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Monument - Sue
I have a dream that Phyllis and I will visit Monument Valley. Back when a real man knew how to wrastle a rattlesnake and a real woman knew how to boil up a pot of lizard stew, there was a land in Utah called Navajo Nation. Monument Valley is where I've been hankering to leave some hiking boot tracks. Going by the flickr.com photos and satellite images on maps.google, it looks like a heaven where a lady can hoot, holler and spit all she likes and all who hear her are the sage brush and cactus, and maybe a lonesome pinon pine. I'd sure like Phyllis to go with me, but she's pretty particular about how she spends her valuable vacation time. I don't know as she's got the Monument Valley yearning the way I do.
Maybe I can describe for her the star-studded cast we'll meet on the way there, like Landslide Peak and Elephant Mountain, not to mention Mesa Verde National Park, which features the ancient cliff dwellings of the Anasazi. Hello? Are you kidding me? People come from as far away as Cincinnati to go see that! And those prized archeological ruins are practically right in our own back yard, right behind the useless brick barbecue that was sealed off back in the 20th Century!
Of course, once we reach our destination, we'll see the majorley huge cliffs that upstaged John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara and Gregory Peck. We'll breathe in the crystalline oxygen and gaze at the sparkling sprinkles of the Milky Way in the blue-black night sky. At sunrise, we'll watch the panoramic vistas fill with liquid, golden light, and we'll burst into the first verse of This Land is Your Land, by Woodie Guthrie (even though we'll be singing on the Navajo Nation).
According to the movie at http://www.desertusa.com/monvalley/, "Visiting Monument Valley gives you a spiritual and uplifting experience that few places on Earth can duplicate... An 18 mile dirt loop road takes you through the heart of the park... You can also explore the monument by horseback." I don't know about Phyllis, but I could sure use a spiritual and uplifting experience. I was thinking that if we went in January, right when Denver was having its crappiest weather, it would make a great winter get-away. There wouldn't be many daylight hours, I concede, but let's not get greedy here. The angle of the sun will be great for low-contrast photos, and there may even be a dusting of snow to create a unique desert portrait. Also, the tourists will be fewer and let's not forget we won't have the summer heat to contend with. All in all, that will be the best time to go.
After I convince Phyllis that this will be the road trip of a lifetime, making unforgettable memories and stuff like that, I just have to figure out what to do with these animals who rule our lives. That could be the biggest monument of all.
Monument Valley... you may always be a dream to me, but I will always love you!
Maybe I can describe for her the star-studded cast we'll meet on the way there, like Landslide Peak and Elephant Mountain, not to mention Mesa Verde National Park, which features the ancient cliff dwellings of the Anasazi. Hello? Are you kidding me? People come from as far away as Cincinnati to go see that! And those prized archeological ruins are practically right in our own back yard, right behind the useless brick barbecue that was sealed off back in the 20th Century!
Of course, once we reach our destination, we'll see the majorley huge cliffs that upstaged John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara and Gregory Peck. We'll breathe in the crystalline oxygen and gaze at the sparkling sprinkles of the Milky Way in the blue-black night sky. At sunrise, we'll watch the panoramic vistas fill with liquid, golden light, and we'll burst into the first verse of This Land is Your Land, by Woodie Guthrie (even though we'll be singing on the Navajo Nation).
According to the movie at http://www.desertusa.com/monvalley/, "Visiting Monument Valley gives you a spiritual and uplifting experience that few places on Earth can duplicate... An 18 mile dirt loop road takes you through the heart of the park... You can also explore the monument by horseback." I don't know about Phyllis, but I could sure use a spiritual and uplifting experience. I was thinking that if we went in January, right when Denver was having its crappiest weather, it would make a great winter get-away. There wouldn't be many daylight hours, I concede, but let's not get greedy here. The angle of the sun will be great for low-contrast photos, and there may even be a dusting of snow to create a unique desert portrait. Also, the tourists will be fewer and let's not forget we won't have the summer heat to contend with. All in all, that will be the best time to go.
After I convince Phyllis that this will be the road trip of a lifetime, making unforgettable memories and stuff like that, I just have to figure out what to do with these animals who rule our lives. That could be the biggest monument of all.
Monument Valley... you may always be a dream to me, but I will always love you!
Monday, August 23, 2010
Please CC Management on All Correspondence...Phyllis
Staff:
As you know, our econometrics in the eleventh hour have caused our management team to extrapediately extract the max as we ramp up our reach-out across the board to enhance efficiencies and repurpose goals that resonate with our delagatorship.
Going forward, we will continue to dialogue with partnering entities to disambiguate shared peer management in order to divert the pig in the python effect and reduce presenteeism prevalent throughout our calander. We will address push back as we trend over this window of opportunity.
If you have any on-point magic bullets that will improve core competencies, please communicate your value proposition off line to me by 8/23.
Management
As you know, our econometrics in the eleventh hour have caused our management team to extrapediately extract the max as we ramp up our reach-out across the board to enhance efficiencies and repurpose goals that resonate with our delagatorship.
Going forward, we will continue to dialogue with partnering entities to disambiguate shared peer management in order to divert the pig in the python effect and reduce presenteeism prevalent throughout our calander. We will address push back as we trend over this window of opportunity.
If you have any on-point magic bullets that will improve core competencies, please communicate your value proposition off line to me by 8/23.
Management
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Evergreen - Sue
Finally, Phyllis and I both had a day off where neither of us had plans. We could do something other than obsess over how impossible it is to lose weight, despite the fact that we have cut ice cream down to once a day. The Health Department wasn't threatening us, nor Animal Control or the Department of Vehicles, so we had none of those crisis pending immediate action. Other items could be postponed: laundry, my weekly pedicure, Phyllis's laser treatment to permanently remove facial hair. We were ready for a drive to Evergreen!
Evergreen is nestled in the Rocky Mountain foothills at 7220 feet. It is not high enough to make my ears pop, but it got us clean out of Denver's air pollution. Phyllis is a pleasant traveling companion. She doesn't complain much about the music selection (classic 60's and 70's) or the fact that I have used the Miata as a waste recycler, where fast-food wrappers refuse to decompose. Nor does Phyllis complain about my taking the long and winding road on two wheels approaching blind curves. Can't waste time dawdling on a relaxing mountain get-away!
First, we went to Evergreen Lake, intending to rent paddle boats. The Paddle Boat Gods were against us that day because, come to find out, the lake had been reserved for a group of special-needs children. I had hoped that Phyllis would rise to the occasion and pretend to have special needs, whereupon I would act as caretaker, and we would be able to rent paddle boats. But if Phyllis had the thought, she kept it to herself, probably assuming, and no doubt correctly, that I would drop her when lifting her special-needs body into the paddle boat.
Undeterred, we drove to the main street and browsed a gallery where Phyllis found a puzzle made out of iron bits. The puzzle is meant to drive you insane as you try to untangle it without a hack saw. Trying to pry her hands loose of it was like trying to strip green off grass. I waited, ever the patient partner, ever the Old Faithful Fountain of Tolerance for Petty Foibles, until it was time for all-you-can-eat pizza and salad at Beau Jo's.
After lunch, a bit of shopping was due, where we met a clerk who seemed 30-ish and unabashedly claimed she had only been to Denver four times in her life. "Too many people," she said. "And you never know who you're going to meet up with at night." Phyllis and I were understandably taken aback. Denver is only 15 miles away! It has roughly a million more people than Evergreen, true, but doesn't one want to explore? All we could do was wonder at the nature of mankind, and upon personal reflection, I questioned whether humans and apes really have a common ancestor. Even apes like to explore.
A couple of miles back down the mountain was a park named "O'Fallon," where we waded in an ice-cold mountain stream, as if, after feasting and foraging, it was time to celebrate!
Evergreen is nestled in the Rocky Mountain foothills at 7220 feet. It is not high enough to make my ears pop, but it got us clean out of Denver's air pollution. Phyllis is a pleasant traveling companion. She doesn't complain much about the music selection (classic 60's and 70's) or the fact that I have used the Miata as a waste recycler, where fast-food wrappers refuse to decompose. Nor does Phyllis complain about my taking the long and winding road on two wheels approaching blind curves. Can't waste time dawdling on a relaxing mountain get-away!
First, we went to Evergreen Lake, intending to rent paddle boats. The Paddle Boat Gods were against us that day because, come to find out, the lake had been reserved for a group of special-needs children. I had hoped that Phyllis would rise to the occasion and pretend to have special needs, whereupon I would act as caretaker, and we would be able to rent paddle boats. But if Phyllis had the thought, she kept it to herself, probably assuming, and no doubt correctly, that I would drop her when lifting her special-needs body into the paddle boat.
Undeterred, we drove to the main street and browsed a gallery where Phyllis found a puzzle made out of iron bits. The puzzle is meant to drive you insane as you try to untangle it without a hack saw. Trying to pry her hands loose of it was like trying to strip green off grass. I waited, ever the patient partner, ever the Old Faithful Fountain of Tolerance for Petty Foibles, until it was time for all-you-can-eat pizza and salad at Beau Jo's.
After lunch, a bit of shopping was due, where we met a clerk who seemed 30-ish and unabashedly claimed she had only been to Denver four times in her life. "Too many people," she said. "And you never know who you're going to meet up with at night." Phyllis and I were understandably taken aback. Denver is only 15 miles away! It has roughly a million more people than Evergreen, true, but doesn't one want to explore? All we could do was wonder at the nature of mankind, and upon personal reflection, I questioned whether humans and apes really have a common ancestor. Even apes like to explore.
A couple of miles back down the mountain was a park named "O'Fallon," where we waded in an ice-cold mountain stream, as if, after feasting and foraging, it was time to celebrate!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A Family Outing...Phyllis
The two-lane interstate to Yuma from El Centro cut right through the desert. On either side of the blacktop, sparse, low sagebrush and cactus plants rose impossibly from the parched earth. Nothing moved. Even the insects didn’t venture out to huddle around the cactus flowers. The earth and sky merged into a shimmering white-hot horizon.
On the road in the distance, the blacktop shimmered. A small turquoise dot appeared as if emerging from water. As it got closer, the dot grew until it became a station wagon: Our station wagon. Mom and Dad were in the front seat chain smoking. Four kids were sprawled in back in a sweaty tangle of long legs and arms like half-grown lions.
“That’s where you live!” yelled Jeff and Dennis in unison, as we passed an abandoned wooden structure with no roof, windows or doors. Dad reached over and put his hand on Mom’s knee. She put her hand on his and took a long last drag from her cigarette and flicked it out the window, where it was immediately sucked into the open back window and onto my lap.
“Hey!” I yelled. The burning cigarette butt wasn’t much hotter than the air blowing into the window already. Air conditioning for the car was still several years into the future for us. So at this time, outings that involved driving through the desert were like trips through a blast furnace.
Mom poured a cup of iced tea from a thermos bottle and handed it back to us. We passed it around, each taking a sip from it. I carefully scanned the landscape to find an ugly, broken down structure for Jeff, Dennis and Janice to live in. Old buildings of any kind were few and far between on that desolate stretch. If one of the others saw one first, that's where I would have to live until I could find an uglier one for them to live in.
Janice was in college. She was an English major and going to be a teacher. She still went on road trips with the family then, but soon she would be off to San Diego State. Janice always started the singing on our road trips. We sang so loud, all of us. When one song ended, Janice had another one to sing. Eventually, we gave Mom and Dad a headache with our singing. “Shut up!” Mom yelled with her hands cupped over her ears. We laughed and stopped singing for awhile. Janice and I used to sing while doing dishes, too.
The hard, prickly desert floor gradually softened into pure sand and soon there were mustard-colored sand dunes in mounds like yellow snow. Mom told us these are the only sand dunes outside of the Sahara. Dad pulled over to the side of the road and we all got out to better experience the beauty. The heat made me want to vomit. Jeff and Dennis jumped out and started to run around, but soon found the sand was the temperature of molten glass. Janice got out, took a quick look and went right back to the car. Better to simmer slowly in the shade than to par boil in the sun. Mom and Dad scanned the scene shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. They walked a few yards up the road and looked some more. They walked across the road to take in the view from the other side.
“Can we go now?” My head had joined my stomach in revolt against the heat.
“OK, back in the car, everyone,” said Dad and we piled back into our sweaty tangle and continued on.
Our destination was the Yuma Territorial Prison. If it was 117 degrees outside, it was 125 degrees inside the prison where everything was made of stone that soaked up the heat and radiated it right back into your face. There was a little circular building where they displayed artifacts with little tags from the prison’s working days. There was a circular glass display in the middle and all around along the inside wall were more glass cases with more artifacts and more little tags. Mom started in the middle and read each tag one by one.
“Isn’t this interesting?” She proceeded to the next item. “Oh, my!”, “Isn’t this something!” Mom inched her way one by one through the display. This was going to take awhile because there were hundreds of items to look at. I went outside and found the others looking into the stone prison cells.
“Why are the beds so small?” Jeff asked.
“People weren’t as tall as they are now,” Dad said.
“Look! These doorways are just big enough for me,” Dennis said, fascinated that grown-ups in the past were only as tall as an 8-year-old boy.
Everything around me had begun to spin and turn white. I stumbled a few steps looking for some shade, then collapsed. When I woke up, we had left the prison and were parked in a restaurant parking lot. I was laying in the back of the station wagon. Mom had been putting ice and cold cloths on my face and arms. When I was able to sit up, we all went into the restaurant. It was dark and cool inside and we all slid into a big corner booth. Soon, there were hamburgers, French fries and tall nubby plastic cups of ice cold Coke. Dad said I still looked pale, but I felt great, like I had just emerged from a steamy fog.
On the ride back home through the desert, it was dark. The air was soft and cool. I laid in the back of the station wagon and listened to the chatter of my family and dozed on and off. I felt good.
On the road in the distance, the blacktop shimmered. A small turquoise dot appeared as if emerging from water. As it got closer, the dot grew until it became a station wagon: Our station wagon. Mom and Dad were in the front seat chain smoking. Four kids were sprawled in back in a sweaty tangle of long legs and arms like half-grown lions.
“That’s where you live!” yelled Jeff and Dennis in unison, as we passed an abandoned wooden structure with no roof, windows or doors. Dad reached over and put his hand on Mom’s knee. She put her hand on his and took a long last drag from her cigarette and flicked it out the window, where it was immediately sucked into the open back window and onto my lap.
“Hey!” I yelled. The burning cigarette butt wasn’t much hotter than the air blowing into the window already. Air conditioning for the car was still several years into the future for us. So at this time, outings that involved driving through the desert were like trips through a blast furnace.
Mom poured a cup of iced tea from a thermos bottle and handed it back to us. We passed it around, each taking a sip from it. I carefully scanned the landscape to find an ugly, broken down structure for Jeff, Dennis and Janice to live in. Old buildings of any kind were few and far between on that desolate stretch. If one of the others saw one first, that's where I would have to live until I could find an uglier one for them to live in.
Janice was in college. She was an English major and going to be a teacher. She still went on road trips with the family then, but soon she would be off to San Diego State. Janice always started the singing on our road trips. We sang so loud, all of us. When one song ended, Janice had another one to sing. Eventually, we gave Mom and Dad a headache with our singing. “Shut up!” Mom yelled with her hands cupped over her ears. We laughed and stopped singing for awhile. Janice and I used to sing while doing dishes, too.
The hard, prickly desert floor gradually softened into pure sand and soon there were mustard-colored sand dunes in mounds like yellow snow. Mom told us these are the only sand dunes outside of the Sahara. Dad pulled over to the side of the road and we all got out to better experience the beauty. The heat made me want to vomit. Jeff and Dennis jumped out and started to run around, but soon found the sand was the temperature of molten glass. Janice got out, took a quick look and went right back to the car. Better to simmer slowly in the shade than to par boil in the sun. Mom and Dad scanned the scene shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. They walked a few yards up the road and looked some more. They walked across the road to take in the view from the other side.
“Can we go now?” My head had joined my stomach in revolt against the heat.
“OK, back in the car, everyone,” said Dad and we piled back into our sweaty tangle and continued on.
Our destination was the Yuma Territorial Prison. If it was 117 degrees outside, it was 125 degrees inside the prison where everything was made of stone that soaked up the heat and radiated it right back into your face. There was a little circular building where they displayed artifacts with little tags from the prison’s working days. There was a circular glass display in the middle and all around along the inside wall were more glass cases with more artifacts and more little tags. Mom started in the middle and read each tag one by one.
“Isn’t this interesting?” She proceeded to the next item. “Oh, my!”, “Isn’t this something!” Mom inched her way one by one through the display. This was going to take awhile because there were hundreds of items to look at. I went outside and found the others looking into the stone prison cells.
“Why are the beds so small?” Jeff asked.
“People weren’t as tall as they are now,” Dad said.
“Look! These doorways are just big enough for me,” Dennis said, fascinated that grown-ups in the past were only as tall as an 8-year-old boy.
Everything around me had begun to spin and turn white. I stumbled a few steps looking for some shade, then collapsed. When I woke up, we had left the prison and were parked in a restaurant parking lot. I was laying in the back of the station wagon. Mom had been putting ice and cold cloths on my face and arms. When I was able to sit up, we all went into the restaurant. It was dark and cool inside and we all slid into a big corner booth. Soon, there were hamburgers, French fries and tall nubby plastic cups of ice cold Coke. Dad said I still looked pale, but I felt great, like I had just emerged from a steamy fog.
On the ride back home through the desert, it was dark. The air was soft and cool. I laid in the back of the station wagon and listened to the chatter of my family and dozed on and off. I felt good.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
A Change of Plans - Sue
I was leading my pony behind the metal barn my father had built for his construction equipment, his dump truck, bulldozer, welder and other things. It was a summer morning, perfect for the exploration of life. I was heading down to the little creek, where members of The Secret Society had built a raft which had quickly sunk, when my right foot caught on something sharp and cutting, and it stabbed just below and a little behind my ankle on the right side, in that soft spot right in front of the back tendon. I rested my left hand on my pony’s back to brace myself and bent my right knee. I lifted my foot to see a broken jar stuck on my foot, grabbing just above the edge of the tennis shoe. I pulled it off. It stung a little but not enough to make me cry.
There didn’t seem to be any need to change plans, so I continued on to the little creek that cut under the dirt driveway in a big steel culvert, the driveway that led to the big red barn with the white milk house and concrete silo. But after a few steps, I heard a squishing sound in my right shoe, as if I had already sloshed with one foot through the little creek. My tennis shoe was oozing red out of the ankle area. I didn’t want to go in the house and get it cleaned up, because I was having a good time with my pony, but the red oozing out of my shoe scared me a little bit.
I went up to the house and in the back door. My right tennis shoe left red tracks in the hall. My mother was in the kitchen. I held up my right foot and it dripped. Her eyes got big and she dropped a spoon. She let out a little sound that was like a cross between a squeal and a squawk. She scooped me up and ran me to the bathroom. She sat me on the toilet and took off my right tennis shoe and her hands got stained with blood. Then set me on the edge of the tub and stuck my ankle under running water. The water in the tub looked like weak sun tea.
She cleaned it out real good and put some smelly stuff on it out of a dark brown bottle. It stung and bubbled up. After awhile, it stopped bleeding and she bandaged it. She said I had to stay in the house for the rest of the day, so I sat at the dining table and drew pictures of horses. She threw my tennis shoes in the trash and wiped up the red tracks on the hall floor. “Just wait until your father gets home,” she said, and I thought I was in trouble for getting hurt, which didn’t seem like it was my fault. “I’m going to tell him about the trash out there, and you kids getting hurt on it.” Then I knew I would be okay. I got a glass of milk and two Oreo cookies.
There didn’t seem to be any need to change plans, so I continued on to the little creek that cut under the dirt driveway in a big steel culvert, the driveway that led to the big red barn with the white milk house and concrete silo. But after a few steps, I heard a squishing sound in my right shoe, as if I had already sloshed with one foot through the little creek. My tennis shoe was oozing red out of the ankle area. I didn’t want to go in the house and get it cleaned up, because I was having a good time with my pony, but the red oozing out of my shoe scared me a little bit.
I went up to the house and in the back door. My right tennis shoe left red tracks in the hall. My mother was in the kitchen. I held up my right foot and it dripped. Her eyes got big and she dropped a spoon. She let out a little sound that was like a cross between a squeal and a squawk. She scooped me up and ran me to the bathroom. She sat me on the toilet and took off my right tennis shoe and her hands got stained with blood. Then set me on the edge of the tub and stuck my ankle under running water. The water in the tub looked like weak sun tea.
She cleaned it out real good and put some smelly stuff on it out of a dark brown bottle. It stung and bubbled up. After awhile, it stopped bleeding and she bandaged it. She said I had to stay in the house for the rest of the day, so I sat at the dining table and drew pictures of horses. She threw my tennis shoes in the trash and wiped up the red tracks on the hall floor. “Just wait until your father gets home,” she said, and I thought I was in trouble for getting hurt, which didn’t seem like it was my fault. “I’m going to tell him about the trash out there, and you kids getting hurt on it.” Then I knew I would be okay. I got a glass of milk and two Oreo cookies.
I Feel Sorry for Bunny...Phyllis
I feel sorry for Bunny. The other cats don’t like her. Muffin and Sparky will sleep together sometimes. Baby girl will curl up with Muffin or Sparky, but no one curls up with Bunny. She sleeps by herself on my computer table. She’s very skittish. It takes her a long time to get comfortable on my lap, she turns round and round, starts to sit, then gets up and turns around again. The others just plop down and start purring.
The others are mean to her, they intimidate her and Muffin sometimes attacks her. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for her not to have the companionship of her fellow felines. Does she care? When they get close to her as when I’m petting a couple of them at once, she appears very interested in them and wants to nuzzle her nose in their fur. They put up with it if I’m there, but they would never allow it otherwise.
Bunny would have been happy being an only cat, with someone who would sit for long periods of time every day, an old person, perhaps. She is very affectionate and loves to sit in my lap and be petted. I just don’t sit anywhere for very long. I do make a point to sit and hold her at least a little while every day. If she could, she would sit for hours on someone’s lap and be so happy there.
These four creatures have been with me for about 13 years. They came with me from San Diego to Bakersfield and to Denver. I don’t think I’ve ever had a pet for as long as I’ve had these four. They are all very special to me, but Bunny is special in her own little Bunny way.
The others are mean to her, they intimidate her and Muffin sometimes attacks her. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for her not to have the companionship of her fellow felines. Does she care? When they get close to her as when I’m petting a couple of them at once, she appears very interested in them and wants to nuzzle her nose in their fur. They put up with it if I’m there, but they would never allow it otherwise.
Bunny would have been happy being an only cat, with someone who would sit for long periods of time every day, an old person, perhaps. She is very affectionate and loves to sit in my lap and be petted. I just don’t sit anywhere for very long. I do make a point to sit and hold her at least a little while every day. If she could, she would sit for hours on someone’s lap and be so happy there.
These four creatures have been with me for about 13 years. They came with me from San Diego to Bakersfield and to Denver. I don’t think I’ve ever had a pet for as long as I’ve had these four. They are all very special to me, but Bunny is special in her own little Bunny way.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Fly Who Started it All - Sue
One morning in Chicago, a street vendor was selling vegetables out of a cart. A fly buzzed by his face so he waved it away, and in so doing, accidentally hit his cart, causing a sweet pea to drop to the dusty concrete. A mouse happened to be staring out of the drain grate, and looking around to make sure the coast was clear, darted out to grab the sweet pea.
A cat was lying in the doorway of a shop and saw the mouse dart out. The cat was a calico and had long hair. It leapt into action towards the mouse, but the mouse had seen it coming and ran back to the safety of the drain grate.
It just so happened that Mrs. Pierce was walking her poodle up to the vegetable cart to get some fresh sweet corn. The poodle saw the cat leap out for the mouse, and jumped forward to chase the cat. Mrs. Pierce hung on tightly to the leash, but the sudden jerk made her lose her balance and she fell, breaking her right hip. The street vendor heard the crack.
He dialed 911 and tried to comfort Mrs. Pierce. He put the poodle up to her face so that she could see that her dog was alright, which was what she was worried about for the most part, though the pain felt like a hot stab in her hip. Soon a crowd gathered around, and a policeman had to make everyone back away to give her some air, and also to let the emergency medical technicians load her on a stretcher. The put the poodle in with her because she started screaming when they said they were going to leave him with the street vendor. On the way to the hospital, Mrs. Pierce called her son and told him to come to the hospital, and he would have to take care of the dog until she was able to come home.
The problem was her son was just on his way to a special presentation for a large account. His boss had told him that if he didn't get that account, he would be fired, because it had been two months since he had sold anything. His wife was due to have their first child any day, and he couldn't lose his job, not now, especially when he needed the insurance. But he was a good son, and he told his mother he would be there just as soon as the presentation was over.
Dogs aren't allowed in hospitals, of course, but for Mrs. Pierce, they made an exception. The reason was her father had built a wing of the hospital, and she said she had every damn right in the world to bring her dog in when what was she supposed to do? Let her dog run loose in the street and get run over by a car? Then where would she be with a broken hip and a dead dog?
A cat was lying in the doorway of a shop and saw the mouse dart out. The cat was a calico and had long hair. It leapt into action towards the mouse, but the mouse had seen it coming and ran back to the safety of the drain grate.
It just so happened that Mrs. Pierce was walking her poodle up to the vegetable cart to get some fresh sweet corn. The poodle saw the cat leap out for the mouse, and jumped forward to chase the cat. Mrs. Pierce hung on tightly to the leash, but the sudden jerk made her lose her balance and she fell, breaking her right hip. The street vendor heard the crack.
He dialed 911 and tried to comfort Mrs. Pierce. He put the poodle up to her face so that she could see that her dog was alright, which was what she was worried about for the most part, though the pain felt like a hot stab in her hip. Soon a crowd gathered around, and a policeman had to make everyone back away to give her some air, and also to let the emergency medical technicians load her on a stretcher. The put the poodle in with her because she started screaming when they said they were going to leave him with the street vendor. On the way to the hospital, Mrs. Pierce called her son and told him to come to the hospital, and he would have to take care of the dog until she was able to come home.
The problem was her son was just on his way to a special presentation for a large account. His boss had told him that if he didn't get that account, he would be fired, because it had been two months since he had sold anything. His wife was due to have their first child any day, and he couldn't lose his job, not now, especially when he needed the insurance. But he was a good son, and he told his mother he would be there just as soon as the presentation was over.
Dogs aren't allowed in hospitals, of course, but for Mrs. Pierce, they made an exception. The reason was her father had built a wing of the hospital, and she said she had every damn right in the world to bring her dog in when what was she supposed to do? Let her dog run loose in the street and get run over by a car? Then where would she be with a broken hip and a dead dog?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Pot Roast...Phyllis
I like the way Sue makes pot roast. Like a rodeo cowboy wrestling a steer to the ground, she wrangles the raw meat out of the package and plops it into the pot. Then she throws a bag of carrots in there. Why chop something up if you’re going to chew it up anyway? She sprinkles a package of spices and turns it on low. Before long, the house smells like Sunday dinner.
Sue works graveyard shift and I work swing shift, so we don’t get to have dinner together very often. Because I’m at work at dinnertime, my dinners usually consist of whatever I threw together before work; some crackers, a few slices of cheese, cantaloupe, whatever I can find. Sue is usually asleep when normal people eat dinner, so her dinner is in the wee hours of the morning most days. Sometimes I put together something for her to take to work. Otherwise, she will go to 7-Eleven and buy chips and a candy bar for dinner.
Sue cooks two huge pans of dog food every weekend, enough for Lisle, Pete, and Mac for a week. They eat better than we do. They get chicken, gizzards, rice and eggs every day. She holds Lisle’s bowl for her while she eats. She doesn’t hold my plate for me. When Sue comes home from work, she kisses the dogs and pats me on the head.
We had pot roast last weekend and we ate it while watching Count of Monte Cristo on TV. That was an excellent movie and I recommend it. The pot roast as usual, was exquisite. Although last weekend, I think I’m the one who made it. No matter. I like it better when Sue makes it. When Sue makes pot roast, it’s a treat.
Sue works graveyard shift and I work swing shift, so we don’t get to have dinner together very often. Because I’m at work at dinnertime, my dinners usually consist of whatever I threw together before work; some crackers, a few slices of cheese, cantaloupe, whatever I can find. Sue is usually asleep when normal people eat dinner, so her dinner is in the wee hours of the morning most days. Sometimes I put together something for her to take to work. Otherwise, she will go to 7-Eleven and buy chips and a candy bar for dinner.
Sue cooks two huge pans of dog food every weekend, enough for Lisle, Pete, and Mac for a week. They eat better than we do. They get chicken, gizzards, rice and eggs every day. She holds Lisle’s bowl for her while she eats. She doesn’t hold my plate for me. When Sue comes home from work, she kisses the dogs and pats me on the head.
We had pot roast last weekend and we ate it while watching Count of Monte Cristo on TV. That was an excellent movie and I recommend it. The pot roast as usual, was exquisite. Although last weekend, I think I’m the one who made it. No matter. I like it better when Sue makes it. When Sue makes pot roast, it’s a treat.
Why - by Sue
I am not famous. No one checks The Huffington Post to see what I did that day, and 50 years (or much less, probably) after I am dead, no one will ever know or care that I lived. All of the little souvenirs I have saved out of sentimental value will probably mean nothing to anyone. My father's watch, for example, will be one more rusting trinket in a land fill. Still, I wrote a memoir, and no one will care except, for the present, a few people whose lives have intersected with mine.
I did not write an autobiography for posterity, recording for historical purposes. I don't care whether future generations in the next century and beyond know when I went bird watching or started high school. Those dates are not important. I did not write a diary, just for my eyes. I wrote a memoir for anyone who might find it interesting. Maybe someone who just likes to read memoirs will enjoy it. Maybe someday my grandchildren will want to see what Maw Maw did way back in the 20th Century. Maybe it reads like a story, which is what I had hoped. But unlike a story, it's all true. I had recalled many events that reared their ugly heads as I clacked on my keyboard, complete with flaming nostrils, horns and warts. But they were only ghosts and I made them vaporize.
I wrote what I remember from true events, as accurately as I could. Some names were changed. And it's not memories of my entire life up until now, but only the first years, when the jello was still liquid and could be poured into any shape mold. I didn't write in any defined sequence or chronology. I wrote the emotions that came from events, and, like in anyone's life, are what shaped the mold.
I was asked why I would do such a thing. Why would I not just "move on?" Forget things. Let it go. Forgive. My answer is blank, other than the fact that I like to write, and always have. I went on my happy-ass way a long time ago. When I was eight, it was easy to invent stories with the main character overcoming odds, the result of an uninhibited, naive imagination. Now, it's impossible. There are rules when it comes to writing, and it should be honest. So, in a memoir, I allowed myself the pleasure of describing scenes and characters as long as it was the truth. It had nothing to do with "moving on" or letting anything go. It just had to do with writing. It had to do with crossing the first hurdle first, before mixing it up with made up stuff. I had to get the real thing out first, because that was what was boiling at the top.
I had it printed by an "on demand" printer, and it arrived yesterday. I have a few changes to make, and will order more copies. And then when it's completely done, who knows?
I did not write an autobiography for posterity, recording for historical purposes. I don't care whether future generations in the next century and beyond know when I went bird watching or started high school. Those dates are not important. I did not write a diary, just for my eyes. I wrote a memoir for anyone who might find it interesting. Maybe someone who just likes to read memoirs will enjoy it. Maybe someday my grandchildren will want to see what Maw Maw did way back in the 20th Century. Maybe it reads like a story, which is what I had hoped. But unlike a story, it's all true. I had recalled many events that reared their ugly heads as I clacked on my keyboard, complete with flaming nostrils, horns and warts. But they were only ghosts and I made them vaporize.
I wrote what I remember from true events, as accurately as I could. Some names were changed. And it's not memories of my entire life up until now, but only the first years, when the jello was still liquid and could be poured into any shape mold. I didn't write in any defined sequence or chronology. I wrote the emotions that came from events, and, like in anyone's life, are what shaped the mold.
I was asked why I would do such a thing. Why would I not just "move on?" Forget things. Let it go. Forgive. My answer is blank, other than the fact that I like to write, and always have. I went on my happy-ass way a long time ago. When I was eight, it was easy to invent stories with the main character overcoming odds, the result of an uninhibited, naive imagination. Now, it's impossible. There are rules when it comes to writing, and it should be honest. So, in a memoir, I allowed myself the pleasure of describing scenes and characters as long as it was the truth. It had nothing to do with "moving on" or letting anything go. It just had to do with writing. It had to do with crossing the first hurdle first, before mixing it up with made up stuff. I had to get the real thing out first, because that was what was boiling at the top.
I had it printed by an "on demand" printer, and it arrived yesterday. I have a few changes to make, and will order more copies. And then when it's completely done, who knows?
Don't Draw Pictures You Don't Want Anyone to See...Phyllis
It was 1962. I was standing at my desk after school in my blue cotton dress that tied in a bow in the back, white ankle socks and saddle shoes. My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Harelson, was sitting with a trash can at my desk. I knew this was coming. She had been standing behind me earlier that morning as I was frantically shoving things around looking for my spelling book.
“What’s this?” She pulled out a paper with a stick drawing of a girl with spots all over her face and big buck teeth.
“A picture of Susan”, I said. Susan’s desk was across from mine. It was a pretty good likeness.
Mrs. Harelson pulled out some more old papers. “Here’s your arithmetic paper you couldn't find last week,” she said as she slapped it down on the pile.. She pulled out an envelope and my heart stopped. “What’s this?” she demanded. “Rattle snake eggs,” I said. She opened the envelope and it jumped out at her…it was a button attached to a hair pin with a rubber band and twisted so that when the envelope was opened, the button spun around in the paper and made a loud rattling noise. It was meant for Susan. She jumped and I cringed. She threw it into the trash can.
She pulled out a wad of papers with more pictures of Susan stuck together with purple goo. “What’s this?” “Popsicle,” I said. My shame and humiliation were growing in proportion to her disgust. She pulled out a paper airplane I had made with a straight pin sticking out the tip. “What were you going to do with this?” she growled. “Throw it at Susan,” I said.
“Here’s yesterday’s spelling paper you couldn't find.” She slapped it down on the pile. “Here’s your report card. You told me your parents forgot to sign it.” She shoved it at me. “What’s this?” She held up a picture of a fat lady with glasses and a huge nose. “A picture of you, “ I said. She took a second look and threw it in the trash.
Out came more pictures of Susan, more pictures of Mrs. Harelson, the remains of a jaw breaker I had hidden, a huge wad of gum that I chewed on whenever her back was to the class, some pennies stuck together with something even I couldn't identify, an apple core, half a bologna sandwich, and a Barbie head with the hair cut off and a mustache drawn on it. She pulled out a library book, opened it to see when it was due and found still another drawing of her inside the cover. She was turning red as a hot poker and I stood and watched in silent horror as one by one she brought all my treasures and messy secrets out to the open.
When she was finished the trash can was full. My books and what was left of my papers were in a neat pile in my desk. “This is how I want your desk to look from now on. Do you understand me?” she demanded. “Yes, “ I said.
I ran home, threw my school clothes on the floor, got my blue jeans from under the bed, found one sneaker behind the door, found the other on the back porch and ran outside to play.
“What’s this?” She pulled out a paper with a stick drawing of a girl with spots all over her face and big buck teeth.
“A picture of Susan”, I said. Susan’s desk was across from mine. It was a pretty good likeness.
Mrs. Harelson pulled out some more old papers. “Here’s your arithmetic paper you couldn't find last week,” she said as she slapped it down on the pile.. She pulled out an envelope and my heart stopped. “What’s this?” she demanded. “Rattle snake eggs,” I said. She opened the envelope and it jumped out at her…it was a button attached to a hair pin with a rubber band and twisted so that when the envelope was opened, the button spun around in the paper and made a loud rattling noise. It was meant for Susan. She jumped and I cringed. She threw it into the trash can.
She pulled out a wad of papers with more pictures of Susan stuck together with purple goo. “What’s this?” “Popsicle,” I said. My shame and humiliation were growing in proportion to her disgust. She pulled out a paper airplane I had made with a straight pin sticking out the tip. “What were you going to do with this?” she growled. “Throw it at Susan,” I said.
“Here’s yesterday’s spelling paper you couldn't find.” She slapped it down on the pile. “Here’s your report card. You told me your parents forgot to sign it.” She shoved it at me. “What’s this?” She held up a picture of a fat lady with glasses and a huge nose. “A picture of you, “ I said. She took a second look and threw it in the trash.
Out came more pictures of Susan, more pictures of Mrs. Harelson, the remains of a jaw breaker I had hidden, a huge wad of gum that I chewed on whenever her back was to the class, some pennies stuck together with something even I couldn't identify, an apple core, half a bologna sandwich, and a Barbie head with the hair cut off and a mustache drawn on it. She pulled out a library book, opened it to see when it was due and found still another drawing of her inside the cover. She was turning red as a hot poker and I stood and watched in silent horror as one by one she brought all my treasures and messy secrets out to the open.
When she was finished the trash can was full. My books and what was left of my papers were in a neat pile in my desk. “This is how I want your desk to look from now on. Do you understand me?” she demanded. “Yes, “ I said.
I ran home, threw my school clothes on the floor, got my blue jeans from under the bed, found one sneaker behind the door, found the other on the back porch and ran outside to play.
Friday, August 13, 2010
I Rule the Universe - Sue
Since the kitchen is a no-fly zone, I burn a citronella candle when I make dog food. We don't have screens on the storm doors, and when I make dog food, it smells like Thanksgiving. There is no turkey in the dog food, but, according to Phyllis, it smells like Thanksgiving. This is what attracts every fly from a tri-state area.
I buy hamburger, pork meat cut up for stew, and boneless chicken breasts at Sam's Club. I get the cheapest brand there is, and then if any have red tags that say "marked down for quick sale," I snatch those up, and quick! I bake and then freeze the dog food, wash pans, and every morning, I steam up a bowl of rice in the rice cooker. I also add eggs, and sometimes, cottage cheese.
Mac usually likes to do the trampoline dance when I'm setting his bowl on the floor. Pete eats his from around the edges first and then towards the middle. Lisle likes to look at her bowl for a minute. I have to sit on the floor and hold it for her, so that it's raised off the floor. Saint Bernards are prone to bloat, and raising it off the floor, supposedly, reduces the chances of bloat. After she looks at the food, a hefty portion, she looks behind her, smells my face (leaving a drip of drool on my cheek), smells the food, decides its okay to eat, she digs in. Her head is so big, you can't see the food once she starts.
They also get boiled beef knuckles, liver, chicken gizzards and hearts about once a week. At all times, there is a a gravity fed tub of Science Diet lamb and meal small bites available, should they care for a between meal snack. You never know when a little something will hit the spot. Whenever cheese comes out, they each get a slice.
Most every day, I get out the scoop shovel and collect what they ate the day before. Sometimes I skip a day. In the winter, I may have to skip weeks, and then, during a thaw, I have a major catching up job. The dogs drag mud into the house and there is hair everywhere. You can even find hair under my metal filing cabinet, which lays flat on the floor. There is hair in my intimate apparel drawer, and hair in my grandmother's fine China set, which is stored in an air-tight vault and buried five deep in the crawl space.
I take Pete for a bike ride almost every day, even if I'm tired, and even in the winter, unless there is too much snow. If I don't take him for a bike ride, he will bug the shit out of me. He has enough pent up energy to light up New York City.
Mac gets brushed every day, for the most part because he likes it, and Lisle when she will tolerate it. Pete not too often because he doesn't shed much.
When I get home from work, I get greeted like fans mobbing a rock star. For a few brief minutes, until they're served their baked chicken, beef and pork with rice, eggs and cottage cheese, I rule the Universe.
I buy hamburger, pork meat cut up for stew, and boneless chicken breasts at Sam's Club. I get the cheapest brand there is, and then if any have red tags that say "marked down for quick sale," I snatch those up, and quick! I bake and then freeze the dog food, wash pans, and every morning, I steam up a bowl of rice in the rice cooker. I also add eggs, and sometimes, cottage cheese.
Mac usually likes to do the trampoline dance when I'm setting his bowl on the floor. Pete eats his from around the edges first and then towards the middle. Lisle likes to look at her bowl for a minute. I have to sit on the floor and hold it for her, so that it's raised off the floor. Saint Bernards are prone to bloat, and raising it off the floor, supposedly, reduces the chances of bloat. After she looks at the food, a hefty portion, she looks behind her, smells my face (leaving a drip of drool on my cheek), smells the food, decides its okay to eat, she digs in. Her head is so big, you can't see the food once she starts.
They also get boiled beef knuckles, liver, chicken gizzards and hearts about once a week. At all times, there is a a gravity fed tub of Science Diet lamb and meal small bites available, should they care for a between meal snack. You never know when a little something will hit the spot. Whenever cheese comes out, they each get a slice.
Most every day, I get out the scoop shovel and collect what they ate the day before. Sometimes I skip a day. In the winter, I may have to skip weeks, and then, during a thaw, I have a major catching up job. The dogs drag mud into the house and there is hair everywhere. You can even find hair under my metal filing cabinet, which lays flat on the floor. There is hair in my intimate apparel drawer, and hair in my grandmother's fine China set, which is stored in an air-tight vault and buried five deep in the crawl space.
I take Pete for a bike ride almost every day, even if I'm tired, and even in the winter, unless there is too much snow. If I don't take him for a bike ride, he will bug the shit out of me. He has enough pent up energy to light up New York City.
Mac gets brushed every day, for the most part because he likes it, and Lisle when she will tolerate it. Pete not too often because he doesn't shed much.
When I get home from work, I get greeted like fans mobbing a rock star. For a few brief minutes, until they're served their baked chicken, beef and pork with rice, eggs and cottage cheese, I rule the Universe.
Is That a Spider on the Wall?...Phyllis
Writing is a talent you are born with, but you can hone your skill and become a fairly decent writer. You have to have the desire of course, and you have to practice, but there are certain steps you can take that will get you on your way. Here's how I go about it.
First, I need an idea. Ideas are everywhere. Ideas are like television sets...everybody has one. Some people have three or four. I write down my idea on a piece of paper because tomorrow I'll forget my idea. Tomorrow I’ll forget I even had an idea.
So I have my idea picked out. Write that at the top of a clean sheet of paper. Now is where the real work begins. I find myself wondering if the kitchen trash needs to be taken out. And while I'm at it, I'm sure the trash can could use a good rinsing with the hose. While I have the hose out, I notice my car is dirty. No time like the present. Now with these things out of my way, I can concentrate on my writing.
I go back to my task. Stare at the paper awhile. Where's the dog? I haven't played with her all day. Dogs really need our attention. I help her find her ball and go out and play with her...give her the attention she deserves.
Now back to my writing. Do I need an outline? Or do I plunge right in? This takes some thought. Hmmmmm...I wonder how long it's been since I cleaned out the refrigerator. Well, that can't wait another minute! It needs to be done right now. Take everything out and really clean that sucker...inside and out. Top to bottom. Now I've made a mess on the floor. I'll have to clean that up. Who can concentrate on writing with a dirty refrigerator? I'm ready to focus on my writing now.
I go back and take a stab at the first sentence. Erase and try another. Do I like that? Well, I sure don't like that stain on the carpet! That has to come up right now. Spray some cleaner on it and let it soak. While I'm waiting for that, I might as well clean out the closet. Pull everything out and put it all back nice and neat. Now that stain is ready to be brushed out. Voila! Stain gone. Closet clean. Now back to this writing.
Ok, first sentence...first sentence...How long has it been since I changed the filters in the furnace? It's going to start getting cold in about three months and they really should be checked. Just what I thought. They're filthy. Better get the vacuum out and clean those right away. Dirty furnace filters can cause a fire. I just saved my home from a terrible disaster. And speaking of filters, what about the air filter in my car? How long has it been since I changed that? This can't be put off another minute. Go up to the auto supply store and buy one. I know how to change it myself. Now with a clear mind, I can go back to my work.
First sentence...ok, forget the first sentence. Second sentence...second sen...is that a spider on the wall? Look at all the webs in the corners. Those have to come down now. Put a t-shirt over a broom and knock those down. Wow! There were a lot of them! That shirt needs to go in the washer now. Might as well sort the dirty clothes and wash a whole load. Thank God that's out of the way.
Ok, back to work. Where's my pencil? Did I take it to the kitchen? Backyard? Here it is...Ok. First and second sentences giving me some trouble. Think...think...think...what year was Dog Day Afternoon made? I better look that up. Ah...1975. It was based on a true story about a bank robbery in 1972. It was nominated for an Academy Award. Now where was I?
Oh, yeah...first sentence...second sentence...I need a title. No, not that...Erase...scribble...erase...scribble...I don't like my hair, my feet, my face. I need a shower. I'm hungry. I don't like this chair. My back hurts. It's hot in here. Do the cats have water? What's on TV?
When Sue asks me what I did all day, I tell her I was writing. It's hard work.
First, I need an idea. Ideas are everywhere. Ideas are like television sets...everybody has one. Some people have three or four. I write down my idea on a piece of paper because tomorrow I'll forget my idea. Tomorrow I’ll forget I even had an idea.
So I have my idea picked out. Write that at the top of a clean sheet of paper. Now is where the real work begins. I find myself wondering if the kitchen trash needs to be taken out. And while I'm at it, I'm sure the trash can could use a good rinsing with the hose. While I have the hose out, I notice my car is dirty. No time like the present. Now with these things out of my way, I can concentrate on my writing.
I go back to my task. Stare at the paper awhile. Where's the dog? I haven't played with her all day. Dogs really need our attention. I help her find her ball and go out and play with her...give her the attention she deserves.
Now back to my writing. Do I need an outline? Or do I plunge right in? This takes some thought. Hmmmmm...I wonder how long it's been since I cleaned out the refrigerator. Well, that can't wait another minute! It needs to be done right now. Take everything out and really clean that sucker...inside and out. Top to bottom. Now I've made a mess on the floor. I'll have to clean that up. Who can concentrate on writing with a dirty refrigerator? I'm ready to focus on my writing now.
I go back and take a stab at the first sentence. Erase and try another. Do I like that? Well, I sure don't like that stain on the carpet! That has to come up right now. Spray some cleaner on it and let it soak. While I'm waiting for that, I might as well clean out the closet. Pull everything out and put it all back nice and neat. Now that stain is ready to be brushed out. Voila! Stain gone. Closet clean. Now back to this writing.
Ok, first sentence...first sentence...How long has it been since I changed the filters in the furnace? It's going to start getting cold in about three months and they really should be checked. Just what I thought. They're filthy. Better get the vacuum out and clean those right away. Dirty furnace filters can cause a fire. I just saved my home from a terrible disaster. And speaking of filters, what about the air filter in my car? How long has it been since I changed that? This can't be put off another minute. Go up to the auto supply store and buy one. I know how to change it myself. Now with a clear mind, I can go back to my work.
First sentence...ok, forget the first sentence. Second sentence...second sen...is that a spider on the wall? Look at all the webs in the corners. Those have to come down now. Put a t-shirt over a broom and knock those down. Wow! There were a lot of them! That shirt needs to go in the washer now. Might as well sort the dirty clothes and wash a whole load. Thank God that's out of the way.
Ok, back to work. Where's my pencil? Did I take it to the kitchen? Backyard? Here it is...Ok. First and second sentences giving me some trouble. Think...think...think...what year was Dog Day Afternoon made? I better look that up. Ah...1975. It was based on a true story about a bank robbery in 1972. It was nominated for an Academy Award. Now where was I?
Oh, yeah...first sentence...second sentence...I need a title. No, not that...Erase...scribble...erase...scribble...I don't like my hair, my feet, my face. I need a shower. I'm hungry. I don't like this chair. My back hurts. It's hot in here. Do the cats have water? What's on TV?
When Sue asks me what I did all day, I tell her I was writing. It's hard work.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
What's in Your Animal Shelter? - Sue
When we want to get out of bed, the animals have to get out first, in alphabetical order. That way, we can extricate ourselves from the sardine can. First, Lisle (Saint Bernard), then Mac (Irish Wolfhound x Mexican Chihuahua), Muffin (mouse-gray, purebred house cat from champion domestic bloodlines) and finally, Pete (Border Collie). The rest of the cats do not venture out of Phyllis's room, other than to go outside through the open window, weather permitting. Of course, the finches and parakeets are (finally) confined to cages.
My daughter said we live in a zoo, but what is a zoo without an Indian Elephant? I currently have my scout in Mumbai negotiating for an young bull in an animal shelter. Poor thing. Don't people think about the long-term commitment when they buy a baby elephant?
Phyllis and I went to Target and I got some tee shirts that are other than white, though still light colors. A white tee shirt, even if the front had a hand-painted copy of a vintage fruit label, would be a deal breaker. It would be like trying to turn Naugahyde into deer skin leather. White tee shirts are meant as undergarments for sweaty, hairy men, so they don't get armpit stains on their dress shirts. Colored tee shirts with pretty designs are for going out to breakfast at International House of Pancakes.
We also went to Sports Authority and I got a gel cover that fits over the street bike's bicycle seat, which is now on the mountain bike. Maybe Phyllis doesn't need extra padding on a bike seat, but I do. Then, we went to Hobby Lobby and chose two sets of fabric markers for our self-imposed Arts and Crafts therapy.
I started a tee shirt painting, copying a vintage fruit label from Delta Brand California Oranges of Riverside, California. It has a few big oranges, big green leaves and branches, and a few white blossoms. The tee shirt painting began with promise, like driving to Rocky Mountain National Park on a clear, June morning. All of the vintage fruit labels are colorful and stylish. The artists put creative ingenuity into those labels, back in the early Twentieth Century. They didn't have computers, and it must have been messy. Professional, computer generated art requires talent, but you don't get your hands dirty. Manipulating paint flowing off a brush requires an entirely different skill set than using a software program. You have to get just the right viscosity with paint, or you end up trying to restrain an unruly mob.
The tee shirt painting turned into a lightning storm while hiking above tree-line. Perhaps that was because I didn't bring the required amount of patience "to the table." I used an old, white tee shirt, as a practice piece, and in the end it was still an old, white tee shirt that was born of a practice piece. I finished it, salvaging scrap metal from a train wreck.
Anyone know where we can get a Nauga?
My daughter said we live in a zoo, but what is a zoo without an Indian Elephant? I currently have my scout in Mumbai negotiating for an young bull in an animal shelter. Poor thing. Don't people think about the long-term commitment when they buy a baby elephant?
Phyllis and I went to Target and I got some tee shirts that are other than white, though still light colors. A white tee shirt, even if the front had a hand-painted copy of a vintage fruit label, would be a deal breaker. It would be like trying to turn Naugahyde into deer skin leather. White tee shirts are meant as undergarments for sweaty, hairy men, so they don't get armpit stains on their dress shirts. Colored tee shirts with pretty designs are for going out to breakfast at International House of Pancakes.
We also went to Sports Authority and I got a gel cover that fits over the street bike's bicycle seat, which is now on the mountain bike. Maybe Phyllis doesn't need extra padding on a bike seat, but I do. Then, we went to Hobby Lobby and chose two sets of fabric markers for our self-imposed Arts and Crafts therapy.
I started a tee shirt painting, copying a vintage fruit label from Delta Brand California Oranges of Riverside, California. It has a few big oranges, big green leaves and branches, and a few white blossoms. The tee shirt painting began with promise, like driving to Rocky Mountain National Park on a clear, June morning. All of the vintage fruit labels are colorful and stylish. The artists put creative ingenuity into those labels, back in the early Twentieth Century. They didn't have computers, and it must have been messy. Professional, computer generated art requires talent, but you don't get your hands dirty. Manipulating paint flowing off a brush requires an entirely different skill set than using a software program. You have to get just the right viscosity with paint, or you end up trying to restrain an unruly mob.
The tee shirt painting turned into a lightning storm while hiking above tree-line. Perhaps that was because I didn't bring the required amount of patience "to the table." I used an old, white tee shirt, as a practice piece, and in the end it was still an old, white tee shirt that was born of a practice piece. I finished it, salvaging scrap metal from a train wreck.
Anyone know where we can get a Nauga?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Honk Honk, Said the Goose...Phyllis
I like material things. I’m not a hoarder, so don’t go there. But I do have a lot of interesting, unusual items. I have a small tin toy collection. I have a full size set of bongo drums and a tiny replica of the same set that’s about 1/3 the size. I have about 60 or 70 Pez dispensers, a genuine pith helmet, 6 die cast Volkswagen buses and beetle cars, and speaking of Beatles, I have an unopened set of all 4 Beatles action figures, two Rubic’s cubes which I can solve in just under two minutes. I have a pretty big key chain collection.
Yesterday, Sue bought me a new thing. It’s a goose honker call. It’s really beautiful. It’s made from some kind of hard wood. There is a simple design carved into it with a lathe. If you blow softly into it, it makes a low goose sound. If you blow hard, it makes a high sound, like the sound they make when they’re flying overhead. It feels nice in my hand.
We were at Big 5 to look for a bicycle seat. Sue said, “Remember I was going to buy you a present? Do you see anything you like?”
I looked at the yo-yos, watches, all the colorful shiny things they keep up by the cash register. I didn’t see anything I needed. I went over to the guns. “Do you want a gun?” she asked.
“Yeah, I want a handgun.” I was joking.
She said, “How about a Swiss Army knife?”
I already have one of those. It was my 5-year anniversary gift from Pacific Bell. It has a little brass SBC logo imbedded into the plastic on the other side of the Swiss Army cross. It has a plastic toothpick, tweezers, scissors, screw driver, bottle opener plus several size blades.
Then I saw a duck caller! I said, “Sue! Look at this!” She came over and we looked thru them. There was one for ducks, quail and geese. “Which one do you want?”, she asked.
“The geese caller, of course!” I love watching geese fly. I used to think they were migrating, but I learned these Canadian geese here in Denver migrated from Canada, but they never went back. When I see them flying overhead, they’re just going from one park to another. They never fly back to Canada.
The first thing Sue ever bought for me was a real didgeridoo. She bought it for me before I moved here. It’s the real thing, too. It’s about 4 ½ feet long. It takes some practice, but once you get the hang of it, it’s very loud. It’s also a very beautiful item.
Another thing Sue bought for me is a pocket trumpet. A pocket trumpet has the same length of brass tubing as a regular trumpet, but it’s coiled up tighter and so it appears smaller. I can play it some, but I really need to practice more. It was a super nice gift and it was really nice of Sue to buy it for me. And she bought me a genuine safari pith helmet and a Kindle. She has also bought me some books for my Kindle. And one time on a trip to Boulder, she bought me a marionette puppet. It has red hair, a satin red shirt, green vest and satin gray and black pinstripe pants. Sue is so generous with gifts that it’s hard to reciprocate.
Not that I don’t try. Just the other day, I bought her a whole case of Slim Fast.
Yesterday, Sue bought me a new thing. It’s a goose honker call. It’s really beautiful. It’s made from some kind of hard wood. There is a simple design carved into it with a lathe. If you blow softly into it, it makes a low goose sound. If you blow hard, it makes a high sound, like the sound they make when they’re flying overhead. It feels nice in my hand.
We were at Big 5 to look for a bicycle seat. Sue said, “Remember I was going to buy you a present? Do you see anything you like?”
I looked at the yo-yos, watches, all the colorful shiny things they keep up by the cash register. I didn’t see anything I needed. I went over to the guns. “Do you want a gun?” she asked.
“Yeah, I want a handgun.” I was joking.
She said, “How about a Swiss Army knife?”
I already have one of those. It was my 5-year anniversary gift from Pacific Bell. It has a little brass SBC logo imbedded into the plastic on the other side of the Swiss Army cross. It has a plastic toothpick, tweezers, scissors, screw driver, bottle opener plus several size blades.
Then I saw a duck caller! I said, “Sue! Look at this!” She came over and we looked thru them. There was one for ducks, quail and geese. “Which one do you want?”, she asked.
“The geese caller, of course!” I love watching geese fly. I used to think they were migrating, but I learned these Canadian geese here in Denver migrated from Canada, but they never went back. When I see them flying overhead, they’re just going from one park to another. They never fly back to Canada.
The first thing Sue ever bought for me was a real didgeridoo. She bought it for me before I moved here. It’s the real thing, too. It’s about 4 ½ feet long. It takes some practice, but once you get the hang of it, it’s very loud. It’s also a very beautiful item.
Another thing Sue bought for me is a pocket trumpet. A pocket trumpet has the same length of brass tubing as a regular trumpet, but it’s coiled up tighter and so it appears smaller. I can play it some, but I really need to practice more. It was a super nice gift and it was really nice of Sue to buy it for me. And she bought me a genuine safari pith helmet and a Kindle. She has also bought me some books for my Kindle. And one time on a trip to Boulder, she bought me a marionette puppet. It has red hair, a satin red shirt, green vest and satin gray and black pinstripe pants. Sue is so generous with gifts that it’s hard to reciprocate.
Not that I don’t try. Just the other day, I bought her a whole case of Slim Fast.
Calling All Geese - Sue
Phyllis and I had gone to Big Five to look for a new bicycle seat and tee shirts. True to my word, I bought Phyllis a present. I hope it will appease her for the time being, and she will reconsider murdering me in cold plasma.
I've been doing better the last few years than ever. I paid off my Miata and my personally commissioned oil portrait by a New York artist of Rachel Maddow. I've finally put that gambling thing behind me. I've cut back my tithe to a reasonable ten percent, and I don't squander nearly as much of my employer's weekly deposit on booze, dope and lavish parties with famous rock bands. So that is why, when it comes to buying Phyllis a present, money is no barrier. It's just sitting around here in piles like laundry anyway. I may as well bribe her with it. Are you sitting down? I got her a goose caller!
Don't you just want to pinch yourself? I know what you're thinking. What did Phyllis do to win a prize like me? Who manipulated the stars the day we met, and injected me with intravenous love sick? (We're gay, by the way, and that's a whole other story, so stay tuned. And contrary to the liberals in California, I wasn't born that way. I decided to be gay when I was 40 BECAUSE I JUST WASN'T A BIG ENOUGH SOCIAL PARIAH YET. Ahem, sorry for the outburst.) I'll tell you what Phyllis did. She tricked me into this whole thing. She moved here from a thousand miles away, JUST TO CONVINCE ME SHE IS NOT TRYING TO KILL ME. I'm wise to the whole charade, so I have to keep giving Madam presents or I get foreign objects in the lunch she makes me for work. That's how it's all going down. And that's why I don't have any more lavish parties with famous rock bands.
Lucky for me, the goose caller lit her up like Independence Day meets Christmas. With a little practice on her part, we should have half the Canadian Geese from City Park in our back yard, so instead of pooping in the park where all prissy park geese poop, guess what? Our back yard is going to be covered like the Virgin Mary at St. Peter's Basilica, only it won't be from pigeons. It will be from MUCH LARGER BIRDS. One added bonus is that Phyllis may learn to play the Star Spangled Banner on her goose caller, just to regale the neighbors, in much the same way she can fart to that timeless melody. Oh and, by the way, Phyllis got me a present too! An entire case of that nutritious diet drink, Slug Fast.
P.S. If Rachel ever comes to town, I'm going to invite her over for popcorn and a movie. I'll have Phyllis sprinkle the Parmesan cheese on the popcorn while it's still hot, just the way I've dreamed Rachel likes it.
I've been doing better the last few years than ever. I paid off my Miata and my personally commissioned oil portrait by a New York artist of Rachel Maddow. I've finally put that gambling thing behind me. I've cut back my tithe to a reasonable ten percent, and I don't squander nearly as much of my employer's weekly deposit on booze, dope and lavish parties with famous rock bands. So that is why, when it comes to buying Phyllis a present, money is no barrier. It's just sitting around here in piles like laundry anyway. I may as well bribe her with it. Are you sitting down? I got her a goose caller!
Don't you just want to pinch yourself? I know what you're thinking. What did Phyllis do to win a prize like me? Who manipulated the stars the day we met, and injected me with intravenous love sick? (We're gay, by the way, and that's a whole other story, so stay tuned. And contrary to the liberals in California, I wasn't born that way. I decided to be gay when I was 40 BECAUSE I JUST WASN'T A BIG ENOUGH SOCIAL PARIAH YET. Ahem, sorry for the outburst.) I'll tell you what Phyllis did. She tricked me into this whole thing. She moved here from a thousand miles away, JUST TO CONVINCE ME SHE IS NOT TRYING TO KILL ME. I'm wise to the whole charade, so I have to keep giving Madam presents or I get foreign objects in the lunch she makes me for work. That's how it's all going down. And that's why I don't have any more lavish parties with famous rock bands.
Lucky for me, the goose caller lit her up like Independence Day meets Christmas. With a little practice on her part, we should have half the Canadian Geese from City Park in our back yard, so instead of pooping in the park where all prissy park geese poop, guess what? Our back yard is going to be covered like the Virgin Mary at St. Peter's Basilica, only it won't be from pigeons. It will be from MUCH LARGER BIRDS. One added bonus is that Phyllis may learn to play the Star Spangled Banner on her goose caller, just to regale the neighbors, in much the same way she can fart to that timeless melody. Oh and, by the way, Phyllis got me a present too! An entire case of that nutritious diet drink, Slug Fast.
P.S. If Rachel ever comes to town, I'm going to invite her over for popcorn and a movie. I'll have Phyllis sprinkle the Parmesan cheese on the popcorn while it's still hot, just the way I've dreamed Rachel likes it.
A Better Way to Mop Up Spills...Phyllis
Pete doesn’t know anything because he never reads. I have never seen him even pick up a book. He can’t name even two former presidents, or the capitols of any state, including the one he lives in. He doesn’t know who his Senators are. He doesn’t know who the Speaker of the House is. He doesn’t know that Africa is a continent and not a country.
When it comes to world history, he couldn’t care less. Ask him his opinion on our involvement in Afghanistan, he will respond with a look as blank as my checkbook register. Ask him his views on evolution, church versus state, abortion, race relations, the Keynesian economics, Marxism, global warming, cap and trade… you’ll get a more intelligent response from Lindsay Lohan.
Pete’s philosophy, if you can call it that, is to live from minute to minute. He doesn’t care about anything in the past nor is he concerned about tomorrow. He doesn’t care about what is going on a block away, in the next county, or on the other side of the globe. It’s a very selfish way to live if you ask me. Selfish and shallow.
A conversation with him is like trying to discuss world affairs with Sarah Palin. It’s not going to go anywhere. And if Tina Fey is Sarah Palin’s alter ego, Pete’s alter ego would be…hmmmmm…Howie Mandel…cute and eager, but hello?...anyone home?
No, Pete will never invent any new software, or a better way to mop up spills. He won’t impact our culture with a new, innovative school of thought. He won’t write the Great American Novel, or win a Nobel Peace prize. But when I come home from work and Pete greets me with his wagging tail and his jiggly dance, I think he’s the smartest dog I know.
When it comes to world history, he couldn’t care less. Ask him his opinion on our involvement in Afghanistan, he will respond with a look as blank as my checkbook register. Ask him his views on evolution, church versus state, abortion, race relations, the Keynesian economics, Marxism, global warming, cap and trade… you’ll get a more intelligent response from Lindsay Lohan.
Pete’s philosophy, if you can call it that, is to live from minute to minute. He doesn’t care about anything in the past nor is he concerned about tomorrow. He doesn’t care about what is going on a block away, in the next county, or on the other side of the globe. It’s a very selfish way to live if you ask me. Selfish and shallow.
A conversation with him is like trying to discuss world affairs with Sarah Palin. It’s not going to go anywhere. And if Tina Fey is Sarah Palin’s alter ego, Pete’s alter ego would be…hmmmmm…Howie Mandel…cute and eager, but hello?...anyone home?
No, Pete will never invent any new software, or a better way to mop up spills. He won’t impact our culture with a new, innovative school of thought. He won’t write the Great American Novel, or win a Nobel Peace prize. But when I come home from work and Pete greets me with his wagging tail and his jiggly dance, I think he’s the smartest dog I know.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A Narrow Escape - Sue
I took Pete for a bike ride this morning, as per usual. First, Phyllis and I swapped seats from my bike to her bike. The reason is that the seat on Phyllis's bike was too worn. The front part was down to the metal. I had that seat since before I knew Phyllis, when I bought that bike that I had traded her for when she got me the street bike. So it's probably 10 years old. Maybe older. Anyway, Phyllis had to take the hammer to the allen wrench to get the seat off the street bike, and then I put it on Phyllis's mountain bike, which I use when I take Pete for a ride, due to its stability. Phyllis said that it looked funny, a "ten-speed" seat, as she called it, on a mountain bike. No one but Phyllis calls them ten-speeds anymore, because they have way more than ten speeds. Even mountain bikes have way more than ten speeds. But Phyllis doesn't know very much about bikes. That's okay! She knows a lot about other stuff, but those things are not germane to this account for now.
The bike seat that had been on my STREET BIKE was not very comfortable, partly because I rode with it as low as it could go. That was to keep my center of gravity low. Pete pulls hard on the bike, and when we go fast, it can be a little unstable. I think I am going to end up getting a new bike seat.
But there we were, humming along down the street, enjoying the beautiful morning. Bright sunshine, green trees in full August leaf and pretty flowers, all that. Nothing unusual so far, except for the STREET BIKE seat, of course.
Nearly home, just a few blocks away around the corner, and as we were passing two men leaning over an engine, with the hood open, of course, one of the men shouted, "Excuse me."
Well I was raised in the mid-west where you show civility towards people who approach in a civil manner. So I stopped. The two men walked up to me, one of them asking where I got that dog harness thing that attached to my bike like that. Pete growled at him because Pete had some sense that the man had evil intentions, so that made me wary. But still, I explained that I got it by googling "dog harness bicycle."
The man got a quizzical look on his face, and I didn't know if it was the word "google" or "bicycle," or what. So he asked me again and took a closer step, and then Pete growled even louder. Then the other man started to circle around. There were no other people up or down the street, no other cars, and that was when I started to think I might be in trouble.
I told them to have a good day and I continued on my way home, disaster averted. I told Phyllis I had a nice bike ride, and I did, other than the uncomfortable bike seat.
The bike seat that had been on my STREET BIKE was not very comfortable, partly because I rode with it as low as it could go. That was to keep my center of gravity low. Pete pulls hard on the bike, and when we go fast, it can be a little unstable. I think I am going to end up getting a new bike seat.
But there we were, humming along down the street, enjoying the beautiful morning. Bright sunshine, green trees in full August leaf and pretty flowers, all that. Nothing unusual so far, except for the STREET BIKE seat, of course.
Nearly home, just a few blocks away around the corner, and as we were passing two men leaning over an engine, with the hood open, of course, one of the men shouted, "Excuse me."
Well I was raised in the mid-west where you show civility towards people who approach in a civil manner. So I stopped. The two men walked up to me, one of them asking where I got that dog harness thing that attached to my bike like that. Pete growled at him because Pete had some sense that the man had evil intentions, so that made me wary. But still, I explained that I got it by googling "dog harness bicycle."
The man got a quizzical look on his face, and I didn't know if it was the word "google" or "bicycle," or what. So he asked me again and took a closer step, and then Pete growled even louder. Then the other man started to circle around. There were no other people up or down the street, no other cars, and that was when I started to think I might be in trouble.
I told them to have a good day and I continued on my way home, disaster averted. I told Phyllis I had a nice bike ride, and I did, other than the uncomfortable bike seat.
Monday, August 9, 2010
If They Took Off My Leash, I Would Run Away...Phyllis
“This is a very exciting time for our industry. If you are just here for a paycheck, then you might as well walk out the door right now.”
Our boss was giving us our monthly pep talk.
He was serious. It probably is a very exciting time for him. The industry is changing and growing. He and his peers move around freely, discussing policy, procedures, innovation, implementation. They work hard, they act and move. They are responsible for results and they need their freedom to fully develop their ideas. …They put policies and procedures in place.
The rest of us carry around little timers on our breaks and lunches. There is a weekly report that shows up red if you are one minute late getting back to your desk. If you are ten seconds late, it shows up yellow. Sorry sir, but this is not exciting or fun. Our production is monitored electronically, and so every move we make, everything we do is watched and recorded.
This is a boon for supervisors and managers. They don’t have to lead or motivate. They can pay lip service to leadership and motivation. But just in case they fail, they have reports to keep people in line with. “I want you to be free and independent, but I’m going to put this leash on you so you don’t go too far. Still, I want you to think big, have big ideas, and keep your eye on your timer, too. Do exactly what I tell you to do. Think outside the box, but don’t go outside the box.”
Like dropping a baby into a pool…he’ll either sink or swim. But sinking is out of the question. Sinking is not an option. So I’m going to put this floatie vest on you. You can’t sink. You also can’t dive or swim or go very far. But you can float and I can pull you around.
To be fair, I need a leash at work. I could easily spend my ten-hour shift reading and drawing pictures, discussing current events, playing practical jokes, planning my garden for next year, surfing the internet…if they took off my leash, I would run away.
Our boss was giving us our monthly pep talk.
He was serious. It probably is a very exciting time for him. The industry is changing and growing. He and his peers move around freely, discussing policy, procedures, innovation, implementation. They work hard, they act and move. They are responsible for results and they need their freedom to fully develop their ideas. …They put policies and procedures in place.
The rest of us carry around little timers on our breaks and lunches. There is a weekly report that shows up red if you are one minute late getting back to your desk. If you are ten seconds late, it shows up yellow. Sorry sir, but this is not exciting or fun. Our production is monitored electronically, and so every move we make, everything we do is watched and recorded.
This is a boon for supervisors and managers. They don’t have to lead or motivate. They can pay lip service to leadership and motivation. But just in case they fail, they have reports to keep people in line with. “I want you to be free and independent, but I’m going to put this leash on you so you don’t go too far. Still, I want you to think big, have big ideas, and keep your eye on your timer, too. Do exactly what I tell you to do. Think outside the box, but don’t go outside the box.”
Like dropping a baby into a pool…he’ll either sink or swim. But sinking is out of the question. Sinking is not an option. So I’m going to put this floatie vest on you. You can’t sink. You also can’t dive or swim or go very far. But you can float and I can pull you around.
To be fair, I need a leash at work. I could easily spend my ten-hour shift reading and drawing pictures, discussing current events, playing practical jokes, planning my garden for next year, surfing the internet…if they took off my leash, I would run away.
A Dog Who Does it His Way - Sue
I don't think it's called "killing someone" if you wait until the person is 98. That is called "euthanasia." It comes from the Greek word, "thanatos," which means "death."
I didn't know that someone at work asked whether the photo was a postcard. There seems to be this whole other life that Phyllis leads that I don't know much about. I don't know whether she really has a brother named "Jeff," or if he is just an imaginary brother. I don't know if she really has a bag of feathers, either, or if she just wishes she did.
I don't think my idea about listening to the police scanner and posting what they say on a website is going to work out. I still have to learn how to play the violin. That has been put on hold temporarily, maybe until the weather gets cold again.
Phyllis said she remembers when dry roasted peanuts first came out. The oldest peanut specimens from South America are about 7600 years old. Does that mean they only started roasting peanuts during Phyllis's early years? Two words: "peanuts" and "fire." They've both been around long before Phyllis played with feathers.
When I came home this morning, Pete jumped on me as usual. I turned my back on him, as usual, and he jumped on my back. I don't like that, but I let him do it when I first get home because he is so happy to see me. I can't suppress that kind of enthusiasm.
But this morning, when he jumped on my back, he scratched me and I bent my knee, just to deter him. He squealed like I was trying to pull his toenail out. I think I accidentally hit his weenie. It wasn't a real "kick," and it wasn't on purpose, but I wish I could have taken it back. I bent down and hugged him a lot. He sat still, as much as Pete can sit still, still wiggling, and buried his face in my neck. Within a second he had forgotten all about it. That is what is so endearing about dogs. If you accidentally kick their weenie, they don't hold a grudge.
Phyllis hasn't made vegetable and fruit juice in quite awhile, but when she did, Pete would go to the furthest end of the yard and curl up, waiting for the whine of the juicer to stop. No amount of coaxing would get him back in the house as long as the juicer was running. He is also afraid of Phyllis's Rubics Cube. I think if he was a human, he would have his own construction business, and he wouldn't take anyone telling him how to design or where to build his houses. He would know that it was HIS life, and he would do it HIS way. Sometimes he would make mistakes, but he would always learn from them, and no one would ever make him listen to an electric juicer, no matter what.
I didn't know that someone at work asked whether the photo was a postcard. There seems to be this whole other life that Phyllis leads that I don't know much about. I don't know whether she really has a brother named "Jeff," or if he is just an imaginary brother. I don't know if she really has a bag of feathers, either, or if she just wishes she did.
I don't think my idea about listening to the police scanner and posting what they say on a website is going to work out. I still have to learn how to play the violin. That has been put on hold temporarily, maybe until the weather gets cold again.
Phyllis said she remembers when dry roasted peanuts first came out. The oldest peanut specimens from South America are about 7600 years old. Does that mean they only started roasting peanuts during Phyllis's early years? Two words: "peanuts" and "fire." They've both been around long before Phyllis played with feathers.
When I came home this morning, Pete jumped on me as usual. I turned my back on him, as usual, and he jumped on my back. I don't like that, but I let him do it when I first get home because he is so happy to see me. I can't suppress that kind of enthusiasm.
But this morning, when he jumped on my back, he scratched me and I bent my knee, just to deter him. He squealed like I was trying to pull his toenail out. I think I accidentally hit his weenie. It wasn't a real "kick," and it wasn't on purpose, but I wish I could have taken it back. I bent down and hugged him a lot. He sat still, as much as Pete can sit still, still wiggling, and buried his face in my neck. Within a second he had forgotten all about it. That is what is so endearing about dogs. If you accidentally kick their weenie, they don't hold a grudge.
Phyllis hasn't made vegetable and fruit juice in quite awhile, but when she did, Pete would go to the furthest end of the yard and curl up, waiting for the whine of the juicer to stop. No amount of coaxing would get him back in the house as long as the juicer was running. He is also afraid of Phyllis's Rubics Cube. I think if he was a human, he would have his own construction business, and he wouldn't take anyone telling him how to design or where to build his houses. He would know that it was HIS life, and he would do it HIS way. Sometimes he would make mistakes, but he would always learn from them, and no one would ever make him listen to an electric juicer, no matter what.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
A Feather in My Cap...Phyllis
If I were going to kill someone, say…Sue for example, it wouldn’t be with a twisty tie from a bread wrapper baked into a delicious enchilada casserole. That would have my fingerprints and DNA all over it. No, I would do it slowly. I would plan it out little by little, over the course of 90 years or so. Like global warming on a polar ice cap, I will ever so imperceptibly yet relentlessly chip away. By the time Sue is 98 years old, she will be so feeble and infirm, I will be able to knock her over with a feather.
I do collect feathers…sort of. I rarely keep them. I usually pick them up, look at them and throw them back down. Sue and I have taken our cameras up to City Park a couple times this summer. That’s where I find most feathers. Sue is a very good photographer. I have a photo of the Boat House from City Park that Sue took. It’s hanging up on my cubicle wall at work. Someone recently asked me if it was a post card. I actually have a lot of her photos up at work and I get lots of people looking and commenting.
Whenever I find a feather I like, a reddish brown one with cream colored spots, for example, I keep that one and put it in one of my hats. So my collection isn’t all that big, but I am always looking. I once bought a bag of feathers from the hobby store, but I don’t like them much. They’re still in the bag packed away in a box. If I ever want to knock someone over with a feather, I have a whole bag of them.
Speaking of bags, I got to chat with my brother, Jeff yesterday. Jeff is an excellent source of movie recommendations. He even calls movies ‘films’. He is THAT knowledgeable. When he says a movie…I mean film…is good, you can bet your britches it really is good. He likes the same kind of movies…I mean films…that I like: Dark and disturbing with French subtitles. He said he has seen a few interesting movies…I mean films…lately and I have to remember to ask him for the titles. He also recommended Mad Men on AMC. So I’ll look for that.
Which brings me back to Sue. Our weekend is coming up. Maybe we can watch a movie together. I hope we go out to breakfast.
I do collect feathers…sort of. I rarely keep them. I usually pick them up, look at them and throw them back down. Sue and I have taken our cameras up to City Park a couple times this summer. That’s where I find most feathers. Sue is a very good photographer. I have a photo of the Boat House from City Park that Sue took. It’s hanging up on my cubicle wall at work. Someone recently asked me if it was a post card. I actually have a lot of her photos up at work and I get lots of people looking and commenting.
Whenever I find a feather I like, a reddish brown one with cream colored spots, for example, I keep that one and put it in one of my hats. So my collection isn’t all that big, but I am always looking. I once bought a bag of feathers from the hobby store, but I don’t like them much. They’re still in the bag packed away in a box. If I ever want to knock someone over with a feather, I have a whole bag of them.
Speaking of bags, I got to chat with my brother, Jeff yesterday. Jeff is an excellent source of movie recommendations. He even calls movies ‘films’. He is THAT knowledgeable. When he says a movie…I mean film…is good, you can bet your britches it really is good. He likes the same kind of movies…I mean films…that I like: Dark and disturbing with French subtitles. He said he has seen a few interesting movies…I mean films…lately and I have to remember to ask him for the titles. He also recommended Mad Men on AMC. So I’ll look for that.
Which brings me back to Sue. Our weekend is coming up. Maybe we can watch a movie together. I hope we go out to breakfast.
My Impending Death
Yesterday, I received a form letter from a literary agent who said that if I don't hear from her again within three weeks, to assume that she does not want to represent me. I found a book called "How to Get a Literary Agent" and downloaded it to my Kindle. I was inspired by Frank McCourt to write a memoir, and I'm not going to let either of us down. It took months to write it, and if it takes even longer to find an agent, then that is what I am going to do because it's all part of the process.
Phyllis is kind enough to make me lunch for work when it is her day off. Even on the days when she goes to work, she will cut up some musk melon or make a snack plate, something like that. Last night, I had chicken enchiladas. They were really good. Plenty of chicken, cheese, tortillas and black olives. There was also a special treat in one of the big bites I shoveled into my gaping maw, and that was a metal twisty tie from the tortilla package. I choked and had to be rushed to the ER. They had to drill a hole into my windpipe to get out the metal twisty tie.
I took Pete for a bike ride yesterday and there was a big loose dog that circled us. It looked like a wolf, and had probably come down from Canada to feast on pets. It took one look at Pete and ran for the hills because Pete is no one to mess with. He has that look about him, like someone who enjoys drawing blood, even when he is tied to a bicycle.
If we ever have to call the police due to an intruder or because Phyllis is trying to kill me, the police will probably shoot Pete because he will try to attack them. Think about this: was the twisty tie in my lunch an accident? Phyllis seems kind and gentle and likes to watch old movies on TCM. You wouldn't think someone like that could be a heartless killer, but you can't be too careful when it comes to your own life. From now on, I'm going to chew my lunch very carefully, and I'm going to be very nice to Phyllis. I'm going to buy her a present. It's going to be a surprise. It's going to be some t-shirts, but I won't tell her until I get them. That should make my lunch safe to eat.
The spice finch is still alive. We used to have two, but one died. When one of them was a baby, it got caught on a wicker nest and almost bled to death. Phyllis saved its life by building it a little ramp so it could eat and drink. The one that is still alive went through a period of a few days where it looked like it was dying, laying on the bottom of the cage and losing its feathers. Phyllis gave it food and water on the bottom of the cage, and it is fine now. Okay, maybe she didn't try to kill me with the twisty tie, because if you're going to save a little bird, you're probably not going to try to choke someone to death. It just doesn't fit the pattern. I'm feeling better about that.
P.S. That stuff about going to the E.R. was a lie. But it could have happened. That stuff about the wolf was also a lie. It really was a big dog, though.
Phyllis is kind enough to make me lunch for work when it is her day off. Even on the days when she goes to work, she will cut up some musk melon or make a snack plate, something like that. Last night, I had chicken enchiladas. They were really good. Plenty of chicken, cheese, tortillas and black olives. There was also a special treat in one of the big bites I shoveled into my gaping maw, and that was a metal twisty tie from the tortilla package. I choked and had to be rushed to the ER. They had to drill a hole into my windpipe to get out the metal twisty tie.
I took Pete for a bike ride yesterday and there was a big loose dog that circled us. It looked like a wolf, and had probably come down from Canada to feast on pets. It took one look at Pete and ran for the hills because Pete is no one to mess with. He has that look about him, like someone who enjoys drawing blood, even when he is tied to a bicycle.
If we ever have to call the police due to an intruder or because Phyllis is trying to kill me, the police will probably shoot Pete because he will try to attack them. Think about this: was the twisty tie in my lunch an accident? Phyllis seems kind and gentle and likes to watch old movies on TCM. You wouldn't think someone like that could be a heartless killer, but you can't be too careful when it comes to your own life. From now on, I'm going to chew my lunch very carefully, and I'm going to be very nice to Phyllis. I'm going to buy her a present. It's going to be a surprise. It's going to be some t-shirts, but I won't tell her until I get them. That should make my lunch safe to eat.
The spice finch is still alive. We used to have two, but one died. When one of them was a baby, it got caught on a wicker nest and almost bled to death. Phyllis saved its life by building it a little ramp so it could eat and drink. The one that is still alive went through a period of a few days where it looked like it was dying, laying on the bottom of the cage and losing its feathers. Phyllis gave it food and water on the bottom of the cage, and it is fine now. Okay, maybe she didn't try to kill me with the twisty tie, because if you're going to save a little bird, you're probably not going to try to choke someone to death. It just doesn't fit the pattern. I'm feeling better about that.
P.S. That stuff about going to the E.R. was a lie. But it could have happened. That stuff about the wolf was also a lie. It really was a big dog, though.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
I'm Not in the Dark Anymore, Robert Osborn...Phyllis
Today I subscribed to “Now Playing”, TCM’s monthly program guide. Now I will never be in the dark as to what’s playing on TCM at any given time. I’m looking forward to the interesting articles with rarely seen photographs, movie reviews and the challenging crossword puzzle.
I like to imagine myself going through each new issue with a highlighter, highlighting all the movies I want to watch. I like to imagine having interesting little tidbits to tell Sue when we watch a movie together. And I like to think that I’m just a little closer to Robert Osborn and the whole movie industry. I’m in the ‘know.’ It’s almost as if I were a member of TCM, if they had members. If they did, I would surely be in good standing.
So it’s not just a subscription. It’s an attitude. I will probably walk a little differently…carry myself a little more proudly. My inner life will be so rich and it will surely show in my eyes and on my face. I like to imagine that I will have a slightly enigmatic smile and people will wonder, “What does she have that I don’t have?”
So thank you, Robert Osborn. Now I will never be in the dark…as to what is playing on TCM…at any given time.
I like to imagine myself going through each new issue with a highlighter, highlighting all the movies I want to watch. I like to imagine having interesting little tidbits to tell Sue when we watch a movie together. And I like to think that I’m just a little closer to Robert Osborn and the whole movie industry. I’m in the ‘know.’ It’s almost as if I were a member of TCM, if they had members. If they did, I would surely be in good standing.
So it’s not just a subscription. It’s an attitude. I will probably walk a little differently…carry myself a little more proudly. My inner life will be so rich and it will surely show in my eyes and on my face. I like to imagine that I will have a slightly enigmatic smile and people will wonder, “What does she have that I don’t have?”
So thank you, Robert Osborn. Now I will never be in the dark…as to what is playing on TCM…at any given time.
The HazMat Lady
Here are some of the ways we amuse ourselves:
1. Watching Lisle drink out of the bird bath.
2. Watching the HazMat lady mow her lawn.
3. Looking at the sunflowers.
I was getting ready for bed and since the dogs use the sheet to wipe their feet, grabbed a clean sheet which had been dried on the line and stored on the shelf, all balled up instead of folded flat (by me). I don't have time to fold sheets. If it served a purpose, I would fold sheets, but once you lie on a sheet, it doesn't matter whether or not it was ever folded. Also, it's a waste of time to eat bread, which is mostly air.
"Help me," I said to Phyllis as I pulled off the dirty sheet, stained with muddy paw prints and feeling like sand paper. I had already taken the blanket to the back yard and shaken much of the hair and dried dirt off that.
We pulled the mattress away from the wall. We ran our hands along the edge of elastic on the clean sheet, looking for the tag so we we would know which corner to start with. Phyllis felt something that crinkled like paper.
"Tag?" I said.
"No."
"Candy wrapper?"
"Leaves." Phyllis cupped the palm-full of crumbled leaves and threw them towards the door. They floated to the carpet and disappeared.
We found the tag and stretched the new sheet over the mattress and then pushed it back to the wall. I hurried to cover it with the blanket before the dogs could wipe their paws on the clean sheet.
When you think of a bird bath, you think of sparrows and robins splashing about, cleaning and cooling. You don't think of a Saint Bernard standing next to it and lapping up a good drink. There is a bucket of clean water in the house where Lisle could drink. This is one example of a dichotomy. You don't think "dog" when you think "bird bath."
The HazMat lady lives across the street. When she mows her yard, she looks like a cross between an Egyptian mummy and a Muslim woman in full burka. We concluded she either has severe allergies, or her yard is loaded with land mines. Her yard is the size of a newspaper and it must take her all morning to spend five minutes mowing, what with having to get in full riot gear first. Her job is also a big secret because she wouldn't tell me where she works. "I'd rather not say," she said, smiling. She works at night, when she leaves the house to go to work. Phyllis thinks she must work for the county, something to do with juvenile delinquents, and she is afraid of recrimination. I believe she is in the witness protection program. The HazMat lady is mysterious, and we love her for that.
The sunflowers are about eight feet tall now. My sister, Kathy, warned us about that. She said that those things are going to get to be six feet, and they have surpassed that. She also warned us that they will have to be pulled out of the ground when they are dead. Still, we like to look at them, and Phyllis did a real good job planting, watering and feeding them. They are clearly the prettiest sunflowers in all of Denver, and the HazMat lady is no doubt envious.
1. Watching Lisle drink out of the bird bath.
2. Watching the HazMat lady mow her lawn.
3. Looking at the sunflowers.
I was getting ready for bed and since the dogs use the sheet to wipe their feet, grabbed a clean sheet which had been dried on the line and stored on the shelf, all balled up instead of folded flat (by me). I don't have time to fold sheets. If it served a purpose, I would fold sheets, but once you lie on a sheet, it doesn't matter whether or not it was ever folded. Also, it's a waste of time to eat bread, which is mostly air.
"Help me," I said to Phyllis as I pulled off the dirty sheet, stained with muddy paw prints and feeling like sand paper. I had already taken the blanket to the back yard and shaken much of the hair and dried dirt off that.
We pulled the mattress away from the wall. We ran our hands along the edge of elastic on the clean sheet, looking for the tag so we we would know which corner to start with. Phyllis felt something that crinkled like paper.
"Tag?" I said.
"No."
"Candy wrapper?"
"Leaves." Phyllis cupped the palm-full of crumbled leaves and threw them towards the door. They floated to the carpet and disappeared.
We found the tag and stretched the new sheet over the mattress and then pushed it back to the wall. I hurried to cover it with the blanket before the dogs could wipe their paws on the clean sheet.
When you think of a bird bath, you think of sparrows and robins splashing about, cleaning and cooling. You don't think of a Saint Bernard standing next to it and lapping up a good drink. There is a bucket of clean water in the house where Lisle could drink. This is one example of a dichotomy. You don't think "dog" when you think "bird bath."
The HazMat lady lives across the street. When she mows her yard, she looks like a cross between an Egyptian mummy and a Muslim woman in full burka. We concluded she either has severe allergies, or her yard is loaded with land mines. Her yard is the size of a newspaper and it must take her all morning to spend five minutes mowing, what with having to get in full riot gear first. Her job is also a big secret because she wouldn't tell me where she works. "I'd rather not say," she said, smiling. She works at night, when she leaves the house to go to work. Phyllis thinks she must work for the county, something to do with juvenile delinquents, and she is afraid of recrimination. I believe she is in the witness protection program. The HazMat lady is mysterious, and we love her for that.
The sunflowers are about eight feet tall now. My sister, Kathy, warned us about that. She said that those things are going to get to be six feet, and they have surpassed that. She also warned us that they will have to be pulled out of the ground when they are dead. Still, we like to look at them, and Phyllis did a real good job planting, watering and feeding them. They are clearly the prettiest sunflowers in all of Denver, and the HazMat lady is no doubt envious.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Life Saved by Cool Cloth on Fevered Brow...Phyllis
In the movies, they boil water in a crisis: She's having a baby, boil some water. We have to amputate, boil some water. This bullet has to come out, boil some water.
My choice of expression of love and concern is a cool cloth. I believe a cool cloth can bring a person back from the brink of death.
Sue had gone to bed and I was entertaining myself by drawing designs on a box with my Sharpie markers. The TV was on...it's pledge week on PBS and that's when they show all the good stuff. The other night, we watched a Pretenders concert followed by a documentary on sixties soul music hosted by Aretha Franklin. On this night, I was watching Red and Green...this is worth watching. He does the craziest things. For example: He took the door off his refridgerator and replaced the front door of his house with it. Then whenever he opened the door, all the lights in the house came on.
Another thing he did was run gasoline thru his garden hose and out the sprinkler. Then he threw a match on it and fire came out the garden sprinkler! Wonderful stuff! I recommend that show: Red and Green.
So, I was sitting at our table drawing on my box and watching Red and Green on PBS when Sue burst into the living room, past me and into the bathroom.
"I'm sick," she said as she flew past me.
"Are you going to throw up?" I asked?
"Diarreah," she said.
So I went on drawing and watching Red and Green. After awhile I noticed the sound of distant thunder had subsided and became silent. I got up and knocked on the bathroom door.
"You OK in there?" I asked.
A weak voice answered me, "No."
I opened the door and Sue was laying on the floor! Oh, my GOD! I went immediately into crisis mode. I knew exactly what to do. I got a cloth and soaked it in cold water, rang it out with a calm steadiness that would make Florence Nightengale look like a confused amature on crack.
Sue was white as Michael Jackson and sweating like a contestent in a hot dog-eating contest. I wiped her fevered brow with a calm confidence that said, "Don't worry. I'm in charge now."
"I think I can get up now," Sue said weakly after a minute or two. And she got up and I helped her back to bed.
Soon she was asleep. The curtains blew in and out with each snore. All was well again. Once again, the cool cloth revived the fevered brow, brought relief and restored order to the home.
My choice of expression of love and concern is a cool cloth. I believe a cool cloth can bring a person back from the brink of death.
Sue had gone to bed and I was entertaining myself by drawing designs on a box with my Sharpie markers. The TV was on...it's pledge week on PBS and that's when they show all the good stuff. The other night, we watched a Pretenders concert followed by a documentary on sixties soul music hosted by Aretha Franklin. On this night, I was watching Red and Green...this is worth watching. He does the craziest things. For example: He took the door off his refridgerator and replaced the front door of his house with it. Then whenever he opened the door, all the lights in the house came on.
Another thing he did was run gasoline thru his garden hose and out the sprinkler. Then he threw a match on it and fire came out the garden sprinkler! Wonderful stuff! I recommend that show: Red and Green.
So, I was sitting at our table drawing on my box and watching Red and Green on PBS when Sue burst into the living room, past me and into the bathroom.
"I'm sick," she said as she flew past me.
"Are you going to throw up?" I asked?
"Diarreah," she said.
So I went on drawing and watching Red and Green. After awhile I noticed the sound of distant thunder had subsided and became silent. I got up and knocked on the bathroom door.
"You OK in there?" I asked.
A weak voice answered me, "No."
I opened the door and Sue was laying on the floor! Oh, my GOD! I went immediately into crisis mode. I knew exactly what to do. I got a cloth and soaked it in cold water, rang it out with a calm steadiness that would make Florence Nightengale look like a confused amature on crack.
Sue was white as Michael Jackson and sweating like a contestent in a hot dog-eating contest. I wiped her fevered brow with a calm confidence that said, "Don't worry. I'm in charge now."
"I think I can get up now," Sue said weakly after a minute or two. And she got up and I helped her back to bed.
Soon she was asleep. The curtains blew in and out with each snore. All was well again. Once again, the cool cloth revived the fevered brow, brought relief and restored order to the home.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Toidy
What a night. Hailstones the size of watermelons. And the diarrhea!
I've got to hand it to Phyllis. What a trooper. She asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. But we just did the whole hospital thing with her teeth and I've had enough of that. I decided to tough it out on the bathroom floor.
This post was made by Sue Deutscher, the woman, the enigma. And just who, you must be asking, is Sue Deutscher? I fight for children who can't scream for themselves, dogs trapped behind chain links who can't bite for themselves, and postal carriers who can't tread on daisies ah, for themselves. I am, you could say, the working man's go-to girl for all jobs dirty and despicable. You can't fight crime with a teaspoon and an apron, I always say. You've got to get down in the grime and smell it.
Which takes me back to the diarrhea. First of all, the word comes from the 14th century, when not even the freakin Queen of Merry Old had equipment that flushed. And, as we are all painfully aware, it means "abnormally frequent intestinal evacuations with more or less fluid stools." More or less? Okay. I'll go with that. It's a broad definition. Fortunately for me, the walk to the toidy wasn't long, and all I had to do along the way was scare the piss out of Phyllis, sitting at the table engaged in Arts and Crafts.
"I don't feel good," I said, holding my volcanic abdomen.
"Throw up?" she said, concerned, as I passed.
"Diarrhea."
I spent hours in there. She could have built The Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks by the time she asked if I was okay. By then, I had decided it best, after, ahem, serving nature, to just lie on the cool floor rather than try to stand, pass out, and risk the bathtub versus my head. Finally, she said, "Are you okay?"
I asked if she could come in. Parenthetical phrase: The bathroom is only big enough for a miniature Chihuahua to take a piss. I had to move my legs away from the door in order for her to open it, no small feat when it already took all of my strength to keep my poor heart just barely beating.
"Oh, Sue!" she said. I LOVED that part!
And then I weakly asked if she could moisten my brow with a cool cloth, as I had, in my infirmity, perspired quite heavily, and, as we know, glistening with excrement is no way for a lady to present herself. SWEAT! I was glistening with SWEAT! For Christ's sake. Sweat, by the way, is a word that comes from the 12th century, proving once and for all that people needed a natural way to cool themselves BEFORE they ever shit in their pants.
In the third millennium B.C., only rich people had toilets. But in any time in history, only a truly rich person has had someone to wipe a hot brow with a cool cloth.
I've got to hand it to Phyllis. What a trooper. She asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. But we just did the whole hospital thing with her teeth and I've had enough of that. I decided to tough it out on the bathroom floor.
This post was made by Sue Deutscher, the woman, the enigma. And just who, you must be asking, is Sue Deutscher? I fight for children who can't scream for themselves, dogs trapped behind chain links who can't bite for themselves, and postal carriers who can't tread on daisies ah, for themselves. I am, you could say, the working man's go-to girl for all jobs dirty and despicable. You can't fight crime with a teaspoon and an apron, I always say. You've got to get down in the grime and smell it.
Which takes me back to the diarrhea. First of all, the word comes from the 14th century, when not even the freakin Queen of Merry Old had equipment that flushed. And, as we are all painfully aware, it means "abnormally frequent intestinal evacuations with more or less fluid stools." More or less? Okay. I'll go with that. It's a broad definition. Fortunately for me, the walk to the toidy wasn't long, and all I had to do along the way was scare the piss out of Phyllis, sitting at the table engaged in Arts and Crafts.
"I don't feel good," I said, holding my volcanic abdomen.
"Throw up?" she said, concerned, as I passed.
"Diarrhea."
I spent hours in there. She could have built The Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks by the time she asked if I was okay. By then, I had decided it best, after, ahem, serving nature, to just lie on the cool floor rather than try to stand, pass out, and risk the bathtub versus my head. Finally, she said, "Are you okay?"
I asked if she could come in. Parenthetical phrase: The bathroom is only big enough for a miniature Chihuahua to take a piss. I had to move my legs away from the door in order for her to open it, no small feat when it already took all of my strength to keep my poor heart just barely beating.
"Oh, Sue!" she said. I LOVED that part!
And then I weakly asked if she could moisten my brow with a cool cloth, as I had, in my infirmity, perspired quite heavily, and, as we know, glistening with excrement is no way for a lady to present herself. SWEAT! I was glistening with SWEAT! For Christ's sake. Sweat, by the way, is a word that comes from the 12th century, proving once and for all that people needed a natural way to cool themselves BEFORE they ever shit in their pants.
In the third millennium B.C., only rich people had toilets. But in any time in history, only a truly rich person has had someone to wipe a hot brow with a cool cloth.
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