My Four- and Two-Legged Children

The other day, the boy and I took Haaaaawleeeeee Pupster (aka Holly or You Dumb Dog) to the dog park for some canine play time. Before I moved to the great metropolis that is Northern Virginia, I had never even heard of a dog park. Huh? A park just for dogs? Um, why? Now I know why. There are two types of dog owners here: 1) those with multi-million dollar homes with big yards and paid employees whose sole responsibility is to care for the household tail-wagger; and 2) the majority of us with apartments or condos or townhomes with, if you're lucky, postage stamp-sized yards, with only whiny children to force to take out the dog to pee and poo. These cooped up dogs need a way to expend their energy.

So, alas, we have dog parks. Ours is actually kind of nice, a 90' x 150' shaded area with on-site water to quench the thirst that the pups work up during play time. It is covered only in dirt and mulch, so be prepared to come home with a blackened, mud-covered dog if you go there shortly after a good rain. I once saw a "dad" on the verge of tears when his lovely white Akita found a deep puddle and proceed to roll in it. Dirty dog. Funny to us other owners, but not to her person. I did cry out 'oh no!' in feigned sympathy for this guy's upcoming chore of giving a thorough bath and bleaching to the muck-riddled dog. Holly is a Border Collie - half black/half white, so she'll only been in need of 50% of such a cleansing the first time she discovers such slimy soaked soil. Right?



During our most recent excursion, there were plenty of other mangy mutts running around, so Holly was in doggie heaven. She's a herder, so loves to chase and corral the other animals, no matter their size. She's also uber-friendly and takes time out from her work to greet and love and kiss every human who wanders into the park. Lucky for her, she's quite adorable, so nobody seems to mind the unexpected saliva she is prone to heap on her victims.



Holly's play time lasted about 45 minutes, until it became evident that she was too pooped to run any more, and needed to go home for a doggie nap. She was ready to leave, but 13 year-old TER was not. He hadn't played at all - with Holly. Instead, he had made friends with a large, prissy poodle. This prissy poodle is named Rocco. He must have been gay, as all male poodles must be. That, or very secure in their sexuality. Really, when was the last time you saw a male poodle, much less one named Rocco, that had the appearance of a dog overloaded with testosterone - ready to bear his teeth and eat you in one bite? Never. They are just the prissiest breed out there. (I do not count any creature that fits in your purse as a dog - only as overgrown rats. If you can drop kick it, it is NOT a dog!)



I finally separated the boy from his effeminate friend and piled both he and Holly back into the car. That puppy immediately lay down on the back floorboard and dozed all the way home. That boy asked if we could go again tomorrow. I think he and Rocco made a date. They will have to reschedule. TER has baseball practice all week, and I'm sure Rocco the poodle has Doggie Ballet class or some such thing.

He'll Take That To Go

It is well-known amongst my friends and family that I am a devoted fan of Starbucks. Venti Skim Nonfat Latte is my stimulant of choice. I do not indulge myself in this $3.65 plus tax treat every morning, but somehow, on the days I do, the birds sing a little sweeter, the sun shines a little brighter, and my eyes dart back and forth with greater speed. Caffeine is the great equalizer for those of us who are not morning people, and have to deal with freakily cheery folks who have been awake since 4:30, have done two loads of laundry, washed the car, painted the neighbor’s house and recounted the votes of the Iranian election – all before clocking in at the office at 9:00 a.m.

This morning’s visit to a local House of Morning Invigoration was an extra-special pleasure, because I saw something odd. One of those things that makes your little head turn to the side, your mouth open a bit wider, your eyes squint, and your mind think “huh?”. Here’s what happened….

I noticed that the guy in front of me in line was kind of cute. This is apropos of nothing, but an attractive man is always a happy sight. Said gentleman exited the store about 30 seconds before I did with what I imagine was the beverage that puts some extra bounce in his step. Once I left the store and proceeded to my vehicle, I noticed that Cute Man was parked directly to the right of my car. Now, here’s the thing……..his mode of transportation was a motorcycle. Assuming that it must be quite a feat to drive a Chopper while joyously downing an espresso drink, I slowed my walk to the car so I could continue the observation of the fellow who was no longer Cute Man, but Gee-He-Must-Be-Coordinated Man. A millisecond later, he became Somehow-Related-To-MacGyver Man. It was not his intention to move on down the road with handle bar in one hand and a hot drink in the other. His procedure involved the strapping of the Starbucks cup to the back of the bike!!! Next to a back-pack looking thing on the back of the bike was some kind of uber-cup holder.

By this time, since I didn’t have the nerve to walk up to him, lean over and learn the process by which his liquid libation was to be successfully transported, I had no choice but to get into my car and place my drink in the cup holder bequeathed to me by Honda. I peeked out the corner of my eye, but was unable to see what I wanted, a system that must have involved straps, duct tape, bungee cords and various widths of rope. Bummer. Like an obsessed dork, I tried to follow him once we both left the parking lot, but I lost him. I had SOOOOOOO many questions for him. For example: Dude, how did you do that? Dude, why did you do that? Are you really so late for work that you don’t have time to partake of your drink while still at Starbucks? Was this some kind of dare? How much spilled out? Are you single?

This, I suppose, is one of life’s mysteries that will never be solved. It will always make me go hhhhmmmmm. Especially since I confirmed with my motorcycle-riding boss that strapping coffee to the back of bike is NOT something you see every day.

I wonder what he does when it's his turn to bring in coffee for everyone in the office.............

Reality bites

John and Kate Gosselin have separated. If you do not know of whom I write, you either live under a rock, or are one of those freaks who suspiciously claim to have never watched even one episode of reality tv. Oh, come on. There are now approximately 538,429 reality tv shows to be found (and joked about) on network and cable television. My favorite show title (and I swear I've never watched this one) is The Exterminator. eeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww The show I'm most ashamed to admit I've seen more than once is Scott Baio is 45 and Single. It was, and really only could have been, a train wreck.

A train wreck is now what many will call the beloved adults of Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Parents to eight kids, and married ten years, the couple have decided to separate. Conjecture abounds, most assuming that the shear spectacle that became their lives once the reality show about their family gained popularity is the sole cause of the split. This is likely at least partially true, but for purposes of this think piece, I choose to operate under the notion that this is not unlike many other 'regular' divorces.

I cried when Jon and Kate officially announced what most everyone had deduced, that they plan to go their separate ways. All televised evidence to the contrary, I kept my fingers crossed that they could work out their differences.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have never been married. Therefore, many of you will likely decide to tell me where to stick it after I make my comments on the subject.

I have friends and family members who have: divorced with kids; divorced without kids; divorced more than once; or wished they were divorced, but didn't pursue it because of the kids. Most sorrowful of all, I know couples who, in my unsought opinion, should never have been married in the first place. These duos are the most tragic to me. There are probably more reasons to NOT get married than there are TO get married. Too many couples have managed to either convince themselves that something is right when it is not, or have fallen into a situation they can't see their way out of. Do not castigate me for this assessment, for the same is true of all relationships, not just marriage.

Any divorce is markedly upsetting to me. In some kind of twisted paradox, perhaps this is because I never have been married. Somehow, whenever a couple I know personally, or just know of, decides to end what was assumed at the beginning to be a permanent relationship, it takes away another piece of my hope that love will win out - for better or for worse.........until death do they part.

My parents have been married for 38 years. My mother's parents were married 54 years before my grandmother died. No doubt they would have been married for 54 more had God allowed for an unlimited life span. These facts are glorious and keep me from becoming irrevocably cynical about the existence of everlasting love.

However, I notice far too many having to find their inner peace and sanity by disuniting from their partner, rather than clinging to them.

I really do not know what my point is here. What I do know is that I am disheartened by the fact that nobody has bothered to marry me, but am relieved that nobody has ever come to the conclusion that they don't want to be married to me anymore.

Oh Deer, I need some Carbs!

My dear son, TER, is a hunter. It's an outdoor activity that he and my brother, his dear uncle JET, have connected over. The boy has been joining the man at the Hunt Club for years. It has come to my attention that the rule is that What Happens At The Club, Stays At The Club. It is legend - the amount of liquor consumed, four-letter words hurled about, and the not-for-children movies shown to anyone who happens to be in the room at the time. Neither of the two would ever confess to such, but I would bet $5.00 that my 13-year old has already had his first taste of beer; or possibly whiskey, since that is a family favorite. Quality time in the form of Bulleit Bourbon Bonding.

I have never been to the Hunt Club, and feel in my soul that I haven't missed out on a thing. I'll drink my Jim Beam in my own home, in my own Diet Coke, thank you very much. If I want to be with a slew of rowdy, politically-incorrect drunken delinquents, I would just as soon plant myself in a nearby NFL locker room, the center of fraternal attachment. It is easy for me to not hang out at the Club for an even more discriminating reason. I do not hunt. It's simply not my thing. The idea of awakening at the butt crack of dawn to don unbecoming coveralls to track a dear deer just does not interest me. However, my son and my brother find this exhilarating. Barely conscious and freezing their disguised-as-woods hineys off, they climb trees to hang out on a stand, waiting for hours just to see if a doe or buck happens by.

My disinterest in the hunt should not be confused with a dislike of it. With a dear population that truly is out of control, there must be methods employed to control those Bambi-esque creatures of God. I do not feel that hunting is cruel and would never begrudge the men at the Hunt Club the pursuit of their 'hobby'. TER has now killed three dear in his career; the first kill was the most satisfying and we have a tasteful photo of the boy and his prey framed and hung on a wall of our home. All hoofed ruminants taken down by the members of the Club are butchered into various food items. This is the fact that makes it very easy for me to not disparage what some see as butchery. UNLESS......

I become responsible for cooking said meat. There has not been a time when I have consumed the venison in any form. ** They tell me that is has a beef-like taste, only more "gamey". And I don't think they mean Monopoly or Pictionary. Even though I have heavily drawn the line at my lips regarding what I will do with this stuff, I am still not thrilled with the prospect of making supper when TER requests some sort of venison. Tonight, it was venison burgers, to be made of the ground venison which has been in my freezer for many, many months. I had hoped it was successfully hidden behind the Eggo waffles and frozen peas, but I guess not.

So, oh, what the hell. "Sure, honey," I say, "Deer Burgers it is". When packaged, the ground venison is in the form of a loaf of Jimmy Dean sausage, only ickier. Forming the very red leaking meet into patties was part 1 of the job. Part two was cooking them on the griddle. While venison MAY taste like beef, it sure as hell doesn't smell like it. More ickiness. Fifteen minutes later, the burgers are ready and TER is practically jumping with delight at the stove when I slide his burger, now dressed with a slice of American cheese, onto the bun on his plate. mmmmm mmmmm The burger was yummy, so I was told. I'll take his word for it, 'cuz ain't no way I was going to formulate a first-hand opinion on the matter!! (Ham and cheese sandwich served as my dinner later in the evening.)

In the end, the masticated meat sat happily in TER's tummy, but the stench of the process of cooking it lingered in my nose. And not in a good way. Smells such as this, and Limburger cheese and the Korean Kimchee, are not chased out of a room by a quick spray of Lysol. These nasal offenders must be eradicated by the production of another vittle which produces an enticing order, so as to counteract that of the offending venison.

I chose bread. I love baking bread. By hand. No machine for me. Cooking (stuff I'm going to eat) is an activity that can de-stress me and sometimes even cancels the personal pity party I am having at a given moment. Kneading the dough is very cathartic and a fantastic way to physically eliminate some anger. And it makes the kitchen smell heavenly. And smell heavenly my house does now - all three loaves are out of the oven and cooling on the counter. They yeasty aroma has wafted all the way to my office upstairs at the other end of the house! My nose is happy.

And now I have three venison burgers and three loaves of bread. Let me know if you'll be stopping by for dinner tomorrow. Stay as long as you like, but no longer than three days, or else you and any fish I happen to have lying around will start to stink as well. And then I'll have to bake more bread.

** I would never have made it on Fear Factor as the only 'exotic' foods I have ever consumed are escargot and turkey balls (yes, Those Balls).

I accomplished many things yesterday - left the house with matching shoes; got to work on time; did two loads of laundry (when I got back home, not at work - that would be silly, unless I worked at the local Howard Johnson); cleaned the house in anticipation of my mother's visit this weekend; bought a basketball for my son; and ate dinner without spilling spaghetti sauce on myself. However, there are three things I pulled off yesterday that are of concern:

1. I became confused when I could not locate the Roman Numerals (which I spelled Numberals on my first pounding of the buttons) on my computer keyboard. Um, yeah, they are also called Capital Letters!

2. It took me three attempts to correctly inform a client of the date of missing documents. There is a difference between January 2009, January 2008 and December 2008!

3. I searched for 15 minutes for what I thought was a missing file - which I located right beside my desk phone. The phone resides 14 inches (I measured) from my left elbow when I am at the computer.

Oh, and earlier in the week.......I was on the PHONE with an automated person and was told to press 3. So I pressed the 3 on my KEYBOARD. I have since come to realize that the two are separate apparatus.

As I recall (haha), such mental deterioration can be caused by a number of things, including a good drop on the head as a small child; chronic use of alcohol and/or marijuana; or earning a living as a professional boxer. I suffer from none of these conditions, I think. I did drop my son on his head (a story for another day) when he was six months old, so at least he'll have a better excuse for any mind loss he encounters.

I suppose there is no other conclusion to which to come other than I am getting older. http://www.bigsiteofamazingfacts.com/ tells me - so it must be true - that at the rate of a thousand brain cells lost per day, it would take almost 300,000 years before my brain runs out of cells! Even though I still have close to 299,963 years of brain cells left, it is my belief that the first 37 years of cell lost are the most dramatic. Case in point - me! Oh, and many of my friends. At least I'm in good company.

There was something else I wanted to say, but I can't remember what it was.

Thank you for calling!

I have a celebration coming up. It will soon be twenty years since my best friend and I met during our freshman year in college. Some, but not I, would refer to her as my BFF. I shan't do that because I refuse to say/do/wear/etc. anything that reminds me of that useless twithead of a talentless, teeny rat-dog carrying drain on humanity, Paris Hilton. But I digress.............for you math whizzes out there, yes, that also means that this is the time (June 14 to be exact) to commemorate my high school graduation. For those of you wishing to send a gift, China is the traditional offering for a 20th anniversary. I prefer Wedgewood.

Tallulah is the name of the woman with whom I will observe this auspicious milestone. Ok, not really. I mean, she's the best friend to whom I refer, but her name is not really Tallulah. If it were, let's face it, I would have forced her to change it immediately upon being introduced to her in the hallway of the all-girl dorm (affectionately referred to as the Virgin Vault) to which we were sentenced way back in 1999.

As I pointed out in my very first post, I don't need to know you if you're not at least a bit kooky and/or insane. Lucky for me, Tallulah easily fell into the Kooky category (she's the biggest fan ever of - get this - the Monkees!). And after 20 years, there have surely been some insane moments for us both. Most such instances were times when we were just down right goofy and giggly; only a few were during the moments when we had bats in our respective belfries.

The most recent bout of giggly was over Tallulah's retort to a political survey taker who oh-so-inconveniently gave her a call during dinner time. We've all been there. We ignore the inner voice that tells us to ignore the ring when the Caller ID warns us that the incoming in an Unknown Caller. However, there are times when the mental flicker of a possibility that it really could be somebody we'd like to speak with at the other end of the line overrides the part of our mind that KNOWS it is a mistake to answer the phone. We pick up the receiver, only to be immediately accosted with unwanted offers of aluminum siding for our homes and warnings that our car warranties are about to expire!

What began as Tallulah's blooper of answering the call soon became a moment for her to shine! Her quick wit and sarcasm stopped the political opinion gatherer in his tracks.

ANNOYING QUESTION: What do you think is the biggest threat to America posed by the Obama administration?
GLORIOUS ANSWER: Pollsters!!

End of survey. Evidently, there was no direction in his script to cover this answer. Dinner-Interrupto-Man hung up and Tallulah called me immediately (I happily answered when my Caller ID announced it was her) to regale me with the tale of her brilliant comeback! Insert Uproarious Laughter here.......

I wonder who the stumped and stunned guy called after that! Maybe his BFF??

I'm Positive.

A dear friend of mine, Art (not Alexakis of Everclear), has challenged me to write something that is completely positive. So far, so good, as I've referred to him as a "dear friend" and not just 'some dude'. Here I go:

This evening, my child is being inducted into the National Junior Honor Society, qualifications for membership are a student's outstanding performance in the areas of scholarship, service, leadership, character and citizenship. He is quite the Renaissance Man at the ripe young age of 13. He has brought home straight A's this year, is active in sports and the school band, and is a truly kind person. He can also expound articulate arguments in the ares of politics and the ethical responsibilities people have toward each other.

Other positive thoughts and facts include:

• I have a job and a benevolent dictator of a boss whom I know has my back. (I once heard John Mellencamp described as a benevolent dictator and always loved that phrase.)
• I have a warm and safe home to go to every night.
• I love those with whom I live - the boy, the dog and the cat.
• I have some wonderful, crazy friends who love me despite, or more likely because of, the fact that I'm as loony as are they!
• I had a yummy Quizno's Tuscan Turkey sandwich for lunch today.
• It's baseball season, soon to be followed by football season.
• The new Dallas Cowboys stadium opens this year.
• Wii Boxing rocks.
• I know how to cook - food is always something you can use to make others happy.
• John Mellencamp and Art Alexakis are very talented musicians, and I have seen both in concert!

So, there you have it. Nothing but happiness and light. :)

Curses. Foiled Again! I don't think so!!

Yesterday, I sent the below letter to Wal-Mart. It will present all necessary background for the latest episode in my Oh-I-Don't-Think-So attitude adjustment.

To Whom It May Concern:

On June 7, 2009, I shopped for several items at Store Number 2015. Upon checkout, I was surprised to learn that a coupon I had for “One Free Roll of Reynolds Wrap Heavy Duty Aluminum Foil” would not be honored. The cashier told me that the store does not accept internet coupons. An assistant manager, Mildred, happened by and rudely reiterated what was, in her estimation, the clear fact that the store does not internet coupons. She refused to give further explanation as to why my Manufacturer’s Coupon was unacceptable.

Due largely to Mildred’s brusque response to my questions about the coupon and the store’s policy, I requested to speak to the Manager. The Manager, Cindy, again restated the store’s policy. She then presented to me a book, presumably some sort of operations manual, with a highlighted portion stating “Do not accept photocopies of coupons.” Cindy maintained that this phrase was the reason the store would not honor my coupon.

The coupon I have is not a photocopy. Further, Wal-Mart’s Coupon Policy on its website clearly states that it accepts internet coupons. Therefore, I respectfully request that the purchase price of the item ($3.32) be reimbursed to me as soon as possible. Enclosed please find the relevant documentation supporting this request.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can provide further information.

That's right, people, I'm making a fuss over $3.32 (less the 44 cents it cost to mail said letter). That's a net of $2.88 for my outrage. Compensation for the offensive incident is not unreasonable, and Wal-Mart should issue a reimbursement check forthwith (I work for attorneys). Furthermore, the company should show me the money even more forthwither, lest I take a lesson from a gentleman in Louisiana who earlier this month set his local Wal-Mart store ON FIRE after not being allowed to return various items. Look it up, I swear. Fire! He set the joint on Fire. This was certainly about more than 50 square feet of aluminum foil. Hey, aluminum foil won't combust in the oven - do you think they could have used it to put out the fire started by Mr. Wright (actual name of arsonist)?

I will probably never know why the managers I dealt with regarding my food-wrapping substance were so hot and bothered to absolutely refuse my valid and legitimate coupon. Perhaps they feared that the coupon truly was copied, and that I was in criminal violation of federal copyright laws. And as such the brazen felonious woman I am, most certainly I was taking copies of that aluminum foil coupon all over county, collecting roll after roll of aluminum foil! Mwuhahaha Yes, that's it. That's got to be it. They've found me out. I NEED all of that aluminum foil to cover all the windows in my house to protect me from the mind-controlling aliens who have previously abducted me and run all kinds of Glad Wrap, Ziploc Bag and Parchment Paper experiments on me! I hope I end up with enough rolls so that I can also make protective hats for the dog, the cat, my son and me! I've got to protect my family!!!!!!! And heck, maybe Mel Gibson will cast us in Signs II.

Have a seat.

Yeah! My new living room furniture is now situated on the puppy-pee-free carpet! However, bringing in the cushy seating arrangement was not without trauma, drama and even one electronic casualty.

Just as a I had requested - but surprisingly, nonetheless, the delivery driver contacted me at my office 30 minutes before expected delivery. More impressively, the truck arrived 45 minutes later. A 15-minute fib in a world where valued customers are often given a 4-hour window during which a needed repair or delivery person will arrive to save the day is more than noteworthy. I was all the more impressed by the timely arrival during yet another rain storm - it's been monsoon season, I swear!

The three gentlemen charged with providing my new accommodations first carried in the smaller items - lamp, end tables and ottoman (complete with storage cubbies - yeehaw!). Then, it was time to bring in the sofa, which is the piece on the right in the photo. The picture does not do justice to the fact that the couch really is much larger than the loveseat on the left. Now, as objects in the rearview mirror may seem closer than the really are; to the manly-men carrying it, the sofa seemed smaller than it truly was. Or my front door seemed bigger - or something to that effect.

Of the three men attempting to squeeze a rectangular peg through a smaller rectangular hole, only one spoke English, and he was, of course, my main contact. The seven years of Spanish I took between middle school and college allowed me to eavesdrop a couple of words at a time when the guys were discussing the situation amongst themselves. For certain, I translated: "Wait", "Lift it", "No" (granted, an easy translation), and a bunch of grunting - also simple interpretations. Only one English phrase escaped the lips of the sucker still stuck outside the door, in the rain, with one end of the sofa was "Oh Shit!". That can't be good.

It turns out that I am not the only one who utters such words during times of what really is only minimal trouble. No great catastrophe - just a decent-sized annoyance. It became apparent that the cursing was simply because they had determined that the (@#&$# couch was just NOT going to get through the @#*&$#@ door! The next words I heard from the English-speaking head-dude were "Miss, do you have a drill?" If there were any hope of my being able to sit my tail on anything but the clean floor in the near future, they were going to have to remove the legs of the loveseat and sofa! And, oops, their drill wasn't charged up. Fine, no problem, I have a drill. Never operated it, but I have it and have solicited others to fix things with it for me. While I went downstairs to retrieve this critical piece of equipment, the uncharged drill of the frustrated men was attached to a plug in my dining room to charge.

In time, legs were successfully removed, foamy parts successfully brought in, and legs successfully reattached to said foamy parts of the sofa and loveseat. One of the men then returned to the outlet to check the status of charging. Nothing had happened - the "I'm Charging" light wasn't even on. He was convinced that my plug had no electricity. I assured him that it did, as I had used that very plug the day before to steam clean away dog pee! Always enjoying a good round of show-and-tell, I plugged in said cleaner and voila - it worked just fine. I maintained that his drill charger thingie is what was dead. This opinion was verified mere seconds later when he smacked the side of a charger (a move I thought only silly women who own tools but can't operate them would attempt) and it promptly sparked! Yeah, it's dead. All he could say was "oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh". I was thinking, "Si, muerto!"

Since the smacking was so intelligently done while the lifeless apparatus was plugged in, it flipped the circuit breaker, and the lights in the living room went off. Oh, for crying out loud. Bilingual man and I went to the basement to find the appropriate breaker switch thingie to flip back on. We did and then there was light. And in that light, I could see that all of the furniture was successfully in and even the lamp had been unboxed and properly assembled for me. The very next, and last, thing I saw, were the Three Amigos walking out the front door. They didn't even say Adios!

An In (the living room) Convenient Pee

New living room furniture is being delivered to my home tomorrow! Props to the Room Store and its No Payments/No Interest for Two Years deal! Of course, they are counting on me to make No Payments for the two years, then they can screw me with $824,293.74 in accumulated interest. My plan is to outsmart them by winning the lottery and paying them off long before 2011. Excellent strategy, right? Plan B is to request a government bailout for struggling sofa-owners.

In anticipation of the new items on which to rest my sorry butt when I'm not energized enough to do anything productive, I decided to steam clean the carpet. Now that I think about it, I could save a lot of effort on that endeavor by simply first deciding where to situate the new stuff, and then just clean aroud it! Curses! Oh well.

During my lunch hour today, I went home to steam clean some of the carpet. I chose to work on this chore during lunch time because 1) I work close to home, and therefore would have no Northern Virginia traffic to battle; and 2) I had nothing better to do. Pathetic, I know.

In addition to dingy carpet, I have an 8 month old puppy, Holly. Before I started the cleaning process, I took her out for a good potty. But apparently, this young lady has an aversion to freshly unblemished flooring material. While I was slowly (per the directions) running the machine back and forth over the area to which the solution had been applied, this mutt peed on the carpet. She literally did this right behind my back! I suppose that was a sign of intelligence. After I called her the proper name for a female dog, I had no choice but to turn around and steam the area of the offending puppy pee. Holly then looked at me as if to say, I swear, "Gosh, Mommy, I was just helping you wet the area to be cleaned." Helpful, thanks so much.

Hopefully, she will not enlist the additional assistance of the cat this evening while I finish the job. Damn, I'm gonna need more cleaning solution!

Name That Tune

My son performed tonight in the school's last Band Concert of the year. Thank goodness - not that he and his trusty oboe performed flawlessly, but that it is the last jam session for the year. As middle school bands go (and I've now been subjected to many more of them that I ever nightmared possible), they are very good - even taking 1st place in a recent competition. So, it is not the fault of the troupe itself that I do not particularly enjoy attending such events, it's just that I like words to my music. Instrumental arias just do not do it for me.

A friend suggested that I attempt to match the words in my own head to the music being propelled toward my cochlea. Since that wasn't even close to any of the worst ideas I've ever heard (one of which involved a hot guy at a party and shotgunning my first beer), I chose to give it a go. Too bad, then, that there was no way on God's green earth that the band's tempo could match the velocity with which words and thoughts pulse through my little brain. Eh, it was worth a try.

Since it is not possible for me to make verbal sense out of the sounds emanating from the stage, Band Concerts only grab my attention when one of two things happens. Most often, given that much of the music played leans toward the classical variety, any jingle I do recognize is something I once heard on a cartoon. More often than not, that cartoon is Tom & Jerry. When that fond childhood memory presents itself to me in the darkened auditorium, I have no trouble visualizing that pesky mouse tormenting that silly, gray cat.

The second type of tune that sparks recognition and interest for me is one which contains even just a few notes that are those of a religious hymn. Tonight, sounds from How Great Thou Art appeared in some piece the band was performing. I have no idea what that piece was called, but I do know How Great Thou Art when I hear it. There are two renditions of this beautiful song that stick in my head. The first is as sung by Julia Sugarbaker (Dixie Carter) on Designing Women. If you do not recall the episode in which this appeared - check it out - it was a good one!

The other arrangement of this hymn that I adore is that performed by Elvis Presley. I was practically raised on Elvis, as my parents were/are big fans. I can still remember all of my Dad's Elvis 8-track tapes. (Yes, I'd enough to vividly remember the 8-track.) My parents' song is one of Elvis'; he died on my father's birthday and there is an Elvis trilogy that my father wants played at his own funeral. God willing, that will be many, many years from now. So many years, in fact, that perhaps the 8-track will have come back around. The classics do have a way of coming back into style, you know!

Another factoid that I'm happy to report that Sirius/XM has a channel devoted solely to the music of Elvis (#018 on your formerly-just-XM dial). It broadcasts from Graceland, I swear!

I am going to suggest that next year, the middle school band schedules a field trip to Memphis! I'll be a fantastic chaperone! Do you think we'll get to see the jungle room?

Change is good?

My mother once told me: Change is good....Transition sucks!

Experience has taught me that certainly not all change is good, but mandated by the universe. That sneaky bastard. I suppose forced alterations in life are nature's way of keeping us on our toes. If only I were a ballerina; then perhaps I could more readily steady myself when my world is shockingly shaken up.

I will admit that once the permutation of what you thought you had settles in and has fully been transitioned to, it can occasionally be seen in a positive light. From what I've observed, those occasions are much too few and far between. Or is it that time does heal everything; we just haven't waited long enough? Where is the cosmic clock that count downs for you to the time when you will be comfortable again after having taken one for Team Human Race?

People change us. Circumstances change us. And sometimes, it's just a matter of Sh!t Happens. In any event, when you are subjected to something you never imagined, did not want, actively prayed against, or still cannot quite fathom, one must transition nevertheless. And that sucks! But there's no changing it.