Yearly Archives: 2013

A Sunday Treat

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Dallas here.

Sunday was the Best. Day. Ever.

Mama went to the freezer and busted out one of the Big Bones she gets from the lady who bred me.

I couldn’t believe it!

It’s been a while since I had a Big Bone, but I haven’t forgotten how yummy one is.

Or what to do with it!

Om nom nom!

Om nom nom!

I know you people probably think it looks gross. But it was the best!

Show this picture to your doggie pals and see if they don’t agree:

What a lovely surprise!

What a lovely surprise!

I tell you, there’s nothing better than lying in the cool grass beneath a big old shade tree on a sunny day, chomping on a Big Bone!

Do you see my bone getting smaller?

Do you see my bone getting smaller?

Mama says a Big Bone is the best toothbrush a doggin can get. She knows these things.

Don't look at my feeties -- yes, they're a mess!

Don’t look at my feeties — yes, they’re a mess!

The only thing wrong with a Big Bone, in Mama’s opinion, is what it leaves on my furs. Take a look:

Looks like I got into a street brawl!

Looks like I got into a street brawl!

I’m a sight to behold, aren’t I? And if that’s not bad enough, you ought to smell me!

But Mama dunked my feeties into some warm water in the sink, washed me down good, dried me off, applied some baby powder to mask the “scent,” and gave me a good brushing. It wasn’t a full bath, but it did the trick.

Now I’m all beautiful once more!

Let's do that again soon, Mama!

Let’s do that again soon, Mama!

We all need a day off

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Why is it that I wait until I:

  • Just. Can’t. Go. On. Before I take a break?
  • Am. Totally. Exhausted. Before I stop and rest?
  • Feel. Completely. Broken. Before I schedule time away?
Tired. So tired.

Tired. So tired.

Dry. Parched.

Dry. Parched.

Wilting. Wilted.

Wilting. Wilted.

Do you do that, too?

Is it human nature, do you think?

Or are some of us just wired to go until we’re forced to collapse?

Perhaps it comes with being a mom. Doing for your family no matter how tired you might be.

Perhaps it comes with working for (and by) yourself. Knowing that you don’t have employees to pawn work off on, yet realizing the work must be done.

By Thursday night, I felt so spent that I knew my only recourse was to take Friday off.

To renew my psyche.

So I went to the country to visit a friend.

Something about fields of corn and soybeans in full growth mode soothes my soul.

Soybean field.

Soybean field.

We sat outside. And swung. And watched her puppies.

The air smelled clean. The trees swayed in a gentle cool breeze. The sun warmed our arms and faces.

Maple shade tree.

Maple shade tree.

Then we did a bit of shopping.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, so I felt no urge to buy. Just to look. And, as my sister says, To touch and roll the pretty things.

To soak in the colors and materials. To anticipate the changing of the seasons based on the items displayed.

And that night I slept the sleep of an old dog — deep, refreshing, rejuvenating. Like flowers after a soaking rain.

Colorful vinca.

Colorful vinca.

Purple petunias.

Purple petunias.

Since it feels so good to take a vacation day now and then, I wonder why it takes so long for me to take one?

What’s stopping you from enjoying the present?

Just a little change??

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The other day, Mom and I took her Fancy Pants car in for service and after they finished, we decided to do a bit of shopping.

Now the morning had been beautiful, but by afternoon, storm clouds were gathering. And we were eager to get home before the skies opened.

As we were making our way across a parking lot to the car, I noticed a woman standing around. I didn’t pay her much attention, but she zeroed in on us and came right over.

“I hate to ask this, but I was supposed to donate plasma and that fell through. Now I need gas money to get home. Would you happen to have a few extra dollars to give me?”

WHAT?? A panhandler in the parking lot of a major department store?

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I can’t do that.”

And I raced for Fancy Pants, leaving Mom — who hadn’t heard this exchange — with her mouth agape.

“What did she want?” Mom asked, as I threw the car into reverse and flew out of there.

I told her the story and glanced back to see the woman pull a new-model cell phone from her pocket and start using it.

Hmm, what’s wrong with this picture?!

Here’s a woman who claims she doesn’t have money for gas, but somehow manages to get to the mall toting a new phone??

It smelled like a scam to me.

I know times are tough, people are hurting, the economy is struggling, etc. But my late dad used to tell me stories of the Great Depression years.

When people were really hurting.

And he pointed out that NOBODY would beg for money without offering to exchange a good or service for it.

Like, if you had a laying hen and needed fresh milk for the kids, you’d barter and exchange with your neighbor who had a cow.

Everybody got what they needed; everybody saved face.

So when did it become okay to simply beg from strangers?

And why do we permit able-bodied folks to panhandle rather than working at legitimate jobs?

Perhaps because we’ve made it so lucrative. If you can get past the pride thing, you know.

But I find that rather sad, don’t you?

Casting off a burden

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Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, or so they say.

But even a crystal ball wouldn’t have kept me from shooting myself in the foot last week.

You see, I’ve had a certain client for five or six years. I not only designed his Website but also have maintained it with additions, updates, etc.

I thought we had a good working relationship.

But back in the Spring, a new fellow came on board. And started talking about “making some changes.”

Since the client is located far away from me, I figured he’d want to hire somebody local. Somebody who could be at his beck and call whenever he needed them.

I redoubled my efforts to keep him happy, doing updates the minute I got them, writing off time to keep my fees low.

Mistake No. 1. People never appreciate largesse.

And too often, the giver ends up feeling resentment.

Anyway, while I was out of town over the weekend helping Domer, this client emailed me something, noting it had to be published to the Website by a certain time on Saturday. But I’d left my laptop at home and didn’t get his message until Tuesday.

I shot him an apology email, to which he curtly responded that it was “okay this time,” but I shouldn’t let it happen again.

Huh?

The Fighting Irish and the Short-fused Italian in me exploded!

No way do I envision being chained to my computer 24/7/365. Yet that’s what it would mean, if I had to be on call for this one client.

Not to mention, how can I justify shoving my other clients aside, in favor of one who claims his work should take precedence?

So I fired him.

Mistake No. 2? You decide.

I wrote a scathing email, rewrote it (toning it down) two times, then, with a quick prayer, hit the Send button.

And worried.

Had I been too hasty? He was a paying client, after all, even if he was a slow payer.

Should I have tried to hammer out our differences over the phone? Right, and risk screaming like a Banshee at him!

What if I’d just reminded him I’m not his full time flunky? That I, too, have a life outside work? I doubt he’d have cared.

But I at least should have acknowledged my part in this and not let the resentment build to the boiling point.

Oh, well, what’s done is done. Part of me regrets my decision; the other part is jubilant over the freed-up time and emotion I’m left with.

I read something in this morning’s paper that resonated with me. “Sometimes you have to take a few things off your plate to make room for new opportunities that may arise.”

Lucille Ball said it another way. “I’d rather regret the things I’ve done than regret the things I haven’t done.”

So, without this albatross hanging from my neck, maybe I can finally find time to finish my novel!

What do you think?

Bye Bye Birdie

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Some of you have been kind enough to wonder where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to for the past few days.

A few have even admitted to worrying about me.

Cool! Thanks for the concern. Things have been crazy here, with little slowdown expected in the foreseeable future, but perhaps if I let you in on the craziness, you won’t worry as much.

I think I mentioned My Favorite Domer has a JOB in the Land of the North, and I’m helping him get settled there.

I’ve made three trips up and back in the last two months, no easy feat as it’s a full day’s travel one way!

This last trip, my mom wanted to tag along.

Traveling with Mom is a nightmare an experience.

At first she thought we might stay at Domer’s new apartment, but I nixed that fast.

She has a bladder the size of a grape; no way would he or I ever see the inside of the bathroom!

So we opted for a hotel.

Now Mom wants her hotel room lit up like an airport runway, hot as a greenhouse, and noisy with her snoring. I need darkness, coolness, and quiet.

It’s useless to complain, so I travel with my MP3 and a stuffed bunny (so I can use his floppy ears to shield my eyes from the light).

Don’t judge — you’d find my routine very relaxing.

Anyway, once we got to Domer’s place, I noticed a bird’s nest right outside his door, just as it had been for my previous trip.

‘Didn’t the babies hatch yet?’ I asked.

‘I think so, but I can’t be sure,’ he said.

These birds (some mysterious species prevalent in the Land of the North) have a proclivity toward SWOOPING at Domer every time he uses the door.

They almost landed in my hair last time, and Domer was horrified.

So he avoids them whenever possible, even to pinpointing their typical swooping hours!

Sorry, Mama Bird, but my son is paying good money to live here, whereas you’re camping out for free. That, in itself, seems wrong, but what’s even more aggravating is for you to be teaching your kids to attack my kid.

And that will never do!

‘I’m going to knock that nest down,’ I told Domer. ‘Those babies should have flown off a long time ago. Perhaps if the nest is gone, they’ll all just go away.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ he told me, reaching into his golf bag and handing me a Seven Iron. ‘But have at it.’

And he opened the door to let me out.

‘You’re not going to help?’ I asked, feeling a momentary panic.

‘Nope,’ was all he said.

From behind the closed door.

‘Just let me know when it’s done,’ he added.

My heart was pounding as I reached up with the club, pushed the nest off the downspout, and, finding it empty, chipped it into some tall grasses.

‘Take that, you beasts,’ I thought.

Moral: Don’t ever mess with this Mama Tiger protecting her cub!

Dare to Stand Out

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Have you ever felt like an aberration?

You know, like something apart from the normal or ordinary.

Take this rose, for instance.

So special

So special

Do you see it? No?

Take a closer look.

So very special

So very special

Still don’t see it?

Okay, let’s get even closer and zero in on exactly what I want to show you.

Ahh, so that's it!

Ahh, so that’s it!

We found this tiny white rosebud growing on our mostly-watermelon pink show rose bush this week.

How did it get there?

Who knows.

But as sure as the sun rises each day in the East, this white rose had sprouted and bloomed on a medium-pink mother plant.

Amazing, huh?

I guess it just goes to prove that aberrations occur in nature periodically.

From two-headed turtles to dogs who mother abandoned kittens to a musical prodigy being born into a tone-deaf family, aberrations fascinate us.

After the initial curiosity, we start asking questions.

How did that happen? And why?

Once, people took advantage of aberrations. Remember “freak shows” in circuses or oddities traveling with carnivals?

How sad.

But you know, being different isn’t so bad, really.

Who wants to be “ordinary”?

Far better to stand out, I think.

Each of us, in our own way, is special.

Different.

With different appearances, talents, abilities, strengths.

Shouldn’t we be celebrating our differences instead of pigeon-holing everybody into the same mold?

Don’t put the cart before the horse

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A few days ago, I noticed Darling Doggie Dallas was hobbling a bit after he awoke from a nap.

Wondering what was wrong, I ran my hands over his paws and legs (all of them, just to be safe).

Nothing amiss.

I called his vet, who suggested keeping him quiet and watching him. If he’s still wonky tomorrow, I was told, call back.

The next day, he seemed better. I couldn’t bring myself to walk him, but neither did I believe he needed a doctor.

Two days later, he was still wobbly. This, despite the fact he was eating and pottying normally, playing, and in good spirits. So I called the vet back.

He’ll be seven in November, she said. Sometimes they start feeling their age about then, just like people.

What?? Why, that’s barely 42 in human years!

Is it time to put him on glucosamine and condroitin, I kidded.

Sounds like a great idea, they said.

Dallas in profile

Dallas in profile

So it starts.

When we bring a puppy into our homes (and hearts), we know that, because of their shorter life spans, we’ll likely outlive them. In the mad scramble to housebreak, socialize, and train them, we don’t think about that.

We’re far too enamored with their cute little noses. And soft fur coats. And warm brown eyes.

And how they love us unconditionally. Like when we’ve had a hard day and feel no one else understands.

But aging doesn’t rear its ugly head suddenly; we’ve got time to acclimate to it. To look for “old age” signs — a bit more white to the muzzle, an ability to sleep as only old dogs can.

Still, it frightens me.

Triple-D is my soul dog. Sure, I’ve invested a lot of time and money into his care, but more than that, I’ve given him my heart.

The mere suggestion that he’s not always going to be a part of my life brings tears to my eyes.

After all, I’ve been through a beloved dog’s death before.

The gut-wrenching pain, the crying jags, the empty feeling deep in your soul.

And I don’t want to go through that again.

Not on the heels of Domer’s leaving home.

So I’ll put on my Pollyanna hat and focus on the bright side. A Sheltie’s average lifespan is 12-13 years, but they can live 15 years or longer. The Sheltie I owned before Dallas lived to 19 years!

I refuse to think Triple-D is on his last leg. This is just a blip on the radar.

Don’t you agree??

(Nearly) Wordless Tuesday

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Sometimes a picture really does say more than a thousand words.

I’ve long been fascinated with weather. It affects all of us all the time, from the picnickers forced inside because of rain to the farmers frantic over a drought or early freeze.

Today we in Central Illinois are looking forward to the arrival of a cold front. Our forecasters promise us it will bring cooler weather and much lower humidity, two things that spell “relief” in the dog days of July. Since clouds are the harbingers of weather changes, I turned my camera skyward to see if they’re going to be right:

Looking south from my patio.

Looking south from my patio.

Almost looks like snow, huh?

Almost looks like snow, huh?

These toward the north look even more like snow.

These toward the north look even more like snow.

I can only imagine what fun God must have had creating these!

I can only imagine what fun God must have had creating these!

My late dad used to call wispy clouds like these mare's tails.

My late dad used to call wispy clouds like these mare’s tails.

Cirrus clouds indicate a weather change in 24 hours.

Cirrus clouds indicate a weather change in 24 hours.

It's supposed to drop down to 56 degrees tonight -- turn off the A/C and open the windows!

It’s supposed to drop down to 56 degrees tonight — turn off the A/C and open the windows!

Rolling with The Oma

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I’m over at The Oma Today Project this afternoon. Won’t you come by and see my “date” for one of Central Illinois’ premiere festivals??

Here a Car, There a Car. . . .

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Recently, My Favorite Domer (AKA my son) permitted me to go car-shopping with him.

His decision, I’m sure, came after a frustrating day where he found:

  • Car salesmen who refused to take his search seriously.
  • Salesmen who ignored him on the lot.
  • Salesmen who tried to sell him more vehicle than he needed.
  • Salesmen who tried to charge him more than he wanted to pay.

Part of me misses the buying experience Saturn dealerships used to offer. No haggling. No gimmicks.

Just pay the sticker price and take the car.

How refreshing!

But Domer was born too late for that, so he had to suffer the joys of “search and wheedle.”

And he wanted me along for the ride.

He insisted he wouldn’t buy from any place where he had to go inside and hunt down a salesman.

“If they don’t want to try to sell, then they haven’t earned my business,” he said.

Okay. Works for me.

The first place we went, we scoured the lot peeking into car windows and examining stickers.

No salesman (or woman) approached us.

I suggested going inside. Domer didn’t want to, but we did.

Walked the entire length of the showroom, nodding at the salespeople sitting alone in their cubicles.

Not a one spoke to us!

Puzzled, we left.

The next place wasn’t much better.

This salesman approached us, made a few cursory remarks, learned Domer wasn’t a big spender and pretty much sent us on our way.

What’s going on here, I wondered.

At the third dealership, no sooner had we parked my car when a young, energetic, pretty sales girl welcomed us, introduced herself, and promptly started showing us cars.

In Domer’s price range. With the specs he’d outlined.

And if she’d had the car he wanted, she’d have made herself a sale.

The next day we traveled far out of town to a dealership where Domer immediately found “the car.”

It was beautiful, shiny, sleek, and looked perfect for him.

After driving it, we sat down with the salesman to crunch some numbers.

Now Domer majored in Finance. He loves numbers.

But I see figures, and my eyes glaze over and I zone out.

When the bottom line total appeared, Domer shook his head.

Too much, he insisted.

The sales manager stepped in, offering a lease.

Domer couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Finally, we found another dealership with another female sales rep. And while they didn’t have the car Domer wanted on their lot, she and the sales manager worked to get a fair price both they and Domer could live with.

And they searched around until they found the right car for Domer.

It was in Ohio.

He drove it off the lot Fourth of July weekend.

Now, if he’d just stop calling it a cash drain!