PRETTY SWEET GIG

Our dog has a pretty sweet gig. Jester gets two meals per day, spaced out predictably, one in the morning and one in the evening.  His water is changed daily and ice cubes are added to cool it to the perfect temperature. He gets a morning AND an evening walk daily. He gets numerous treats and doesn't have to do much at all to earn them. In fact, all he has to do is walk into the laundry room while I'm folding clothes and a treat magically appears.  He doesn't have to shake, roll over, dance, or speak.
Jester has the run of the house and sleeps on any surface that pleases him-that would be every bed in the house and every couch and chair is fair game too. He has 24-hour access to the outside with his doggie door so he can join in bark fests with the neighbor dogs when it suits him.
He has all of his health needs met with regular visits to the vet. His daily medications are administered with a piece of cheese or he won't take them. He gets multiple belly rubs, head pets and talked to in that cute voice that makes his tail wag.  He gets baths at reasonable intervals and we'd shower him with toys but he's not interested. He gets to sleep with his humans but he rarely does because he likes to sprawl in the guest room.
The only thing we ask of him is that he takes care of business outside and barks to scare off would-be intruders.  The truth is, he'd hightail it out the doggie door if an intruder actually entered the house, leaving us to fend for ourselves.
So, I'd say this guy is living the dream for sure.  How did he luck out? Where can I find a gig as sweet as his?

Thank you, tissue donor!

The day after my ACL surgery was a lost day. I was in and out of sleep, groggy, confused, in pain and afraid to move lest I hurt myself further. A row of drugs that would rival a shelf at CVS Pharmacy sat next to me with a time schedule that I was supposed to adhere to strictly. I was determined to stay on top of the pain.

During one of my awake moments that day, I reviewed the paperwork sent home with me.  That's when I spotted the information on the tissue graft. I had used a tendon from a deceased donor  to repair my ACL.  I now had the opportunity to thank the family of the deceased. It would not be direct contact. Rather, I would send a note to the tissue donation company and they would forward it to the family.

I suddenly realized I was given a gift out of someone else's misfortune. I plan on drafting that note in a few days when the fog of surgery has subsided.

GOT CADAVER TISSUE?

A while back, my dog Jester took me down on a walk.  He saw a cat and decided to tear after it, not realizing he was attached to me by a leash. He pulled hard and got away, leaving me in a writhing heap on the ground.  I knew it was bad, but I didn't realize how bad until I visited my orthopedic surgeon. I had torn the ACL and meniscus of my left knee. I would require surgery.

"Do you want to use cadaver tissue or your own for the repair?" he asked.
"Huh?" I responded. I felt a little dizzy and even a bit nauseous.
I would've thought by now they had come up with bionic ligaments. But no. I was either using my own hamstring or tissue from a cadaver- someone who had donated his or her body to science.

"I gotta Google this," I said. I really needed more information before making a decision.

There are pros and cons to both sides. Risk of rejection of foreign tissue. Risk of infection, risk of this, risk of that.  Ultimately, I decided to use cadaver tissue because the recovery is shorter.  I was all about getting back on my feet as soon as possible.

So far, so good after two days post surgery. I can only hope that my donor was strong, healthy and athletic. For sure, the donor was generous enough to share a body part with me. For that I am grateful.

RENTER MADNESS

It's hard not to think of the "before" picture-fists bashed through dry wall, cat diarrhea matted to the filthy carpet, food rotting in the refrigerator, closet doors completely gone.

That's what the renters  left.  Anger doesn't come close to how I feel about that. But now that I've been working five weeks at clean-up, I'm sick and tired of the anger. I want to Lysol it, sponge it away with Fabuloso, and follow that with a strong dose of Clorox. This anger is not serving me, is it? I'm the one who's hurting, certainly not them. So I'll dump the anger down the toilet and flush it away with the dirty water that remains from scrubbing the walls.

I have the "after" picture to think about-popcorn ceiling gone, freshly painted taupe-neutral walls, all new lighting and ceiling fans, new flooring and new appliances. You'd never know that those college boys had been there.

I asked the universe for a good tenant this time. It would be great to find a nice professional family that will appreciate the 70's style of the place. A family that will smile at the Buddha garden spot I created on the side of the house after the storage unit was torn down. I want them to love the short commute to ASU and being close to South Mountain and the REI store. I want them to live in the house for five years and then we can retire there when it comes time to downsize.

Anger-what anger? I'm moving on!

And you know what? The universe provided!

NOT THE INDY 500-FLASH FICTION

The call came around dinner time.  I was frantically sautéing onions and peppers to throw into the turkey enchilada mixture while two ravenous males sat at the table watching me, nearly drooling. Of course, they didn't bother to  answer the phone so I picked up.

“Pack your bags ‘cuz you’re going to the Indy 500,” a  male voice chattered in my ear.

“Excuse me?” I said, nearly dropping the spatula. I wondered if my husband was playing a joke on me. I looked over at him but he simply drooled so I thought this might be legit.

“You and three lucky friends will be off to spend an all-expense paid weekend in Indianapolis in a motor home right on the track.  Dinner with Al Unser Jr. is part of the deal.”

I wondered when I had entered this contest. I wondered who Al Unser Jr. was. Usually I enter every contest I can with the dream of quitting our jobs, but car racing I would have passed on. Car races are nothing I’d care to see. In fact, I’d rather have a mammogram or a root canal before standing in a crowd of drunks watching a race.

“Are you offering any alternatives?” I asked, hoping for some cash instead of the trip.

“No, ma’am.  You can’t put a price tag on this opportunity. It's the Indy 500.”

Of course I can't, I thought. Car racing is the largest spectator sport in America.  Which means we're gonna be surrounded by every Tom, Dick and Bubba on the planet, all of whom probably have a six-pack of Bud tucked into the folds of an Indy 500 T-shirt. Nothing like drunks and fast cars to really liven things up. Wonder if that is what makes the sport so fascinating?  Guess we’ll have to find out.

 

Over those turkey enchiladas, I say to my husband and son, “Gentlemen, start your engines.  We’re going to the Indy 500.” Let's hope it lives up to the hype.

BEAUTY-FLASH FICTION

Madeline excused herself from the kitchen where her two older sisters sorted through the coffee cakes and casseroles overflowing their deceased mother’s Formica counter top. Condolences came in the form of food in the Midwest and the flood gates had opened after the burial just four hours earlier.

When she reached her mother’s bedroom, Madeline could hear the sisters bickering about who got what, this time the focus was the Haviland china. Madeline didn't care about that. She knew exactly what she wanted and there would be no discussion about it. 

She opened the cream-colored  leather jewelry box sitting on the blonde wood dresser and scavenged through the mounds of costume jewelry  her mother had amassed over the years.   Memories of  childhood enveloped her and Madeline remembered the long summer days playing "dress up" with her friends, showing off  her mother's finery. She  pulled a rhinestone choker from the blue velvet shelf in the jewelry box and clasped it around her neck. It made her smile but she had to stay focused since her sisters might come looking for her once they tired of cataloguing the casseroles. She rummaged deeper in the jewelry box searching  for  the key to the cedar chest which held her desired object.

The treasure was her mother's slip, the one thing Juliette brought to the US after  the war. This wasn't just any piece of lingerie. It was an exquisite creation with a Parisian Maid label, fashioned of pink silk charmeuse with sexy black lace scallops around the bosom and a flouncy hem of the same lace. Madeline's father may have liberated her mother's hometown of Bayeux after D-Day, but he must have been Juliette's prisoner after one look at her in this chemise.

Madeline remembered  the day her mother discovered  her foraging in the cedar chest for more "dress up" clothes. Mother had made a strange noise before she rushed over to take the slip from her daughter's hands. She caressed the silk and reverently folded the garment before placing it back into the tissue paper and the Maison Chantelle box from which it came. "This is our secret," Juliette had told her. "You are my one daughter who appreciates true beauty."

Madeline found the key in the far corner of the second shelf of the jewelry box. She grabbed it and flew across her mother's room  just as the door bell rang.  Madeline was certain  it was another casserole delivery.  She'd have to go out and make an appearance with her sisters to accept the condolences and offer a cup of coffee. Quickly, knowing she had little time before they came looking for her, she opened the cedar chest and found the box her mother had hidden so many years ago.

Madeline wasted no time. She lifted her sensible TravelSmith knit black dress, appropriate for mourning, over her head and slipped the French silk chemise over her bosom, letting the sensuous fabric glide past her waist and travel effortlessly to  her hips. The black lace on the bottom of the garment reached her knees and the fit, to her surprise, was perfect. She tossed her dress back over it.

"Madeline," the oldest sister called. She pulled the choker off so as not to raise any suspicions with her sisters.  "The Sanderson's have stopped by and they brought a lovely tuna casserole."

"Coming," Madeline said as she placed the key and choker back precisely where she had found it. 

"To beauty", she whispered to her mother before she  joined them for coffee.

WHO YA GONNA CALL?

We visited a friend of ours yesterday who's recovering from quadruple bypass heart surgery. This friend suffered a heart attack at 46 years old-not exactly someone you'd expect to keel over in a coffee shop on a Friday morning before work.

"How'd you find out?" I asked the wife.

"That's a long story," she said.

Here's the condensed version of what happened. Wife had taken her mother to a doctor appointment at 9 a.m. Wife is one of those polite people who actually adhered to the sign that said TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONES WHILE IN THE WAITING ROOM.

So wife was blissfully unaware that hubby's heart had stopped and the firemen had brought him back before rushing him to the hospital.  In fact, wife and her mother sat in the waiting room for a long time and finally were seen and scheduling another appointment at 10:30 a.m. That's when wife turned on her phone and answered an unfamiliar number.

"Your husband had a medical situation and is in the hospital," the caller from the police department said.

"I'll be right there," wife said. She never even thought to ask what had happened.

She later found out that the paramedics had called the house, her office and her cell phone numerous times. Which begs the question: how did they know all these numbers? I was impressed.

This couple has the same last name. I, however, kept my family name when I got married. Would the police and the paramedics find me if something ever happened to my husband?  I'm sure they have their ways but I'm going to put a card in my purse that gives my husband's name. I want him to do the same. And I will ignore the cell phone warnings at medical offices because you just never know.

DAD DEMENTIA

It’s funny that I can’t remember exactly when my dad had the car accident.  Funny because that is when things started to unravel for him.  I can remember precisely where I was when president Kennedy was shot.  I was in third grade at a Catholic school sitting in a wooden desk with my prim and proper school uniform as the loudspeaker in the room made the announcement.  I remember Mrs. Mayrose crying and I knew something was dreadfully wrong even though I couldn’t fully comprehend.  Perhaps that is the way it was with my father.  The accident was just the start of something none of us could fully understand.

So it is with dementia.  The first glimpses are hard to notice, especially when one is so far away from the parent.  Had things been going wrong for a long time?  Did my mother fail to notice the signs and pass it off as forgetfulness?  For whatever reason, the car accident moved us forward and eventually to the diagnosis of dementia.

I’m not a doctor and still don’t have a working definition of the difference between dementia and Alzheimer’s.  What I do know is that it is important to document the demise since so many of us boomers will be dealing with aging parents and the loss of their minds.

But let me go back to that accident, the one I can’t remember. As I did my research, I found out that my dad had the accident back in 2003 on a day when he was driving to church.  After his retirement, he went to morning mass every day at 7:00 a.m.  On this morning, he sat at a stop sign and swears he looked both ways.  When he accelerated, he was hit by a car that clearly had the right of way. He stepped away from the accident with minimal cuts and scrapes. 

On the outside, we all felt grateful that he suffered so little.  On the inside, we had no idea that this event would precipitate the process of going mad.  It was not until his strange emails started coming that I knew something was terribly wrong.  I tried to ignore the clues. Is it because I didn't want to know? Or that I was in total denial?  Now that he's gone, I don't know that it makes any difference.   

WHY I WRITE

I’ve always wanted to be a writer.  Back in the days at my Catholic high school when Sister Audrey used my poem in Freshman English to demonstrate good writing, I knew I had found a calling.  In later years, college professors scribbled enthusiastic comments on my papers.  One that I still keep today said “You ought to be a writer.”  And so I am, even though it took years to call myself that.  Husband and child, work and family always intervened to occupy my writing time.

I’d flirt with writing throughout the hectic years, enrolling in half-day classes at book stores and libraries.  I’d vow to get serious about my work.  The flirting sometimes led to a real date where I'd take a full-credit  course at the community college and eventually have articles published, plays produced and an e-published book.

But I remained gun-shy of making a full commitment to writing.  Finally, a despised job pushed me to the brink.  Did I want to continue doing something I hated or find something I loved?   It was then I jumped off the cliff and started writing for real. That lasted for a while, but I let the insecurities get the best of me and returned to a full-time job. However, the dream still lives on.

I now write for those times when the words flow effortlessly from me.  I live for those occasions when I nail a scene or devise witty dialogue because they make me feel like I am whole.  I write because it gives me the chance to dream and the opportunity to reach others. Blogging gives me the best of all worlds to keep that dream alive. 

OFFICE FRIDGE

If your office is like mine, you probably had a staff refrigerator for stashing  lunches or Slim-Fasts if you prefer to drink your calories.  Many people store left over pizza or turkey wraps from a super-sized lunch on the rare times they eat out.  No matter what’s inside the fridge, over time, it seems like everything multiplies.  Suddenly there are four jars of jelly, eight bottles of salad dressing and numerous  bags of mystery food lining the shelves. 

Last week, as I struggled to store my left over chicken salad, I touched a bag of something gooey. Did I actually have the temerity to open it?  Not a chance. Something  squished in my hand, leaving a liquid trail drooling down the shelf.  It was then I noticed the bag had the name of an employee who had been laid off six months before. 

As I washed the science experiment off my hands, I realized I had had it! No way would I tolerate this hazmat of a refrigerator that was spawning more bacteria than the flu virus.  I was going to clean this thing out and make sure this would never happen again.

I anointed myself the fridge czar and sent a staff-wide memo that anything without a name would be tossed by Friday.  Suddenly, that Lean Cuisine with an expiration date going back to 2007 was a sacred cow.  How dare I throw it away?

Numerous suggestions flowed into my in box.   Why not alphabetize the shelves and create a personal space for each staff member?  Why not leave only one mustard in there at a time? Why did we have to put our names on things? The suggestions were endless, but no one offered to help me take on this gargantuan task.

Tossing bags filled with mystery food gave me a huge sense of accomplishment.  I cleaned every nook and cranny of the fridge and had it gleaming in less than an hour.  Suddenly, I was the darling of the office.  Accolades poured  in! So, this was the way to get  recognition-perfect!  Now that I’m the fridge czar I’m going to take on more territory.  Next, I’ll tackle the microwave!

FREE HUGGER

 

 

You'd notice Betty if you walked into the gym where I work out. And not just because she gives free hugs. She's the one with the completely color-coordinated outfits from head to toe. If she's got a gold sweater on (yes, she works out in fabulous cable knit sweaters), she'll have matching shoes and socks. She's also a big fan of Betty Boop so on any given day she may be wearing a top and socks with that iconic character on them.  Let's put it this way-Betty pulls it all together when she comes to the gym.

But it's the hugs I like the best. I'm not sure when they started.  Maybe it was after Betty lost her husband a few years back. Maybe she needed the touch of another human to help her through that loss. But the sequence goes like this: once you walk in the gym, Betty will get off whatever weight machine she's on and stroll over to give you a big hug. When I say big, I mean big. These are full-on, close-to- bear hugs. The woman can hug.

I'm sure my blood pressure lowers, my cortisol levels stabilize and my heart soars every time I get a hug from Betty. She should sell them. That's how good she is. I'm beginning to discover that maybe I need them just as much as she does. Whatever it is, her hugs are good medicine and while I don't remember when they started,I know I never want them to stop.

I HATE HOLIDAY LETTERS

We got a lot of holiday letters this year and some of them had a cringe factor of 10+. You know the kind I'm talking about. Don't you hate those families that send out holiday letters on candy cane bordered stationery and use both sides of the paper to regale you with their overachievements for the year?

 

Like they have a daughter who invented a new cancer vaccine at Harvard Medical School and  a son who’s dating Pippa, the sister of Kate Middleton, who married the Prince of Wales and another son who solved global warming using algae. You know the ones…you loathe reading those letters after the first sentence of how they spent the new year in a castle in Tuscany. Let’s admit it.  We all hate them.

So I've decided to boycott writing holiday letters and reading them too.  Maybe it's because our family doesn’t have glorious stories about life-changing events.  We're actually quite boring.  Suffice it to say we’re still here, we’re still smiling and despite life’s challenges, we are grateful for life’s sense of humor. And we’re still waiting for the cancer cure, another royal wedding and the solution to global warming. So get busy!

DOWN WITH TOTES

I hate the person who invented totes. You know what I’m talking about. Totes are those plastic bins that come in all shapes and sizes so you can store stuff that really should be thrown out but you’re not quite ready to part with.

When we downsized our mother from a four bedroom house to a one bedroom apartment, we discovered that she is a tote-aholic.  This woman had an inventory of totes that would rival Target’s distribution center.  Seriously, the woman had totes.  Going through them was an adventure. I discovered loads of totes filled with my father’s clothes. My dad had been gone for over two years but she held on to his clothes in totes that were piled high in the basement.  I was in awe wondering how she got them stacked so high without the benefit of a forklift.

We had to get rid of them  all, but where? I decided to haul the totes to the Goodwill full of the stuff rather than empty them.  After all, an empty tote is an open invitation to get more stuff. And then, you need to store it.  I say we get rid of all the totes and take back our lives.

 

AMERICANS: ARE WE THAT OBVIOUS?

I was visiting with a woman who had recently returned from a trip to Spain. She described how one lazy afternoon while sipping a glass of wine, she was approached by a stranger. Without so much as an introduction, the young man began to scold her about U.S. policy in the Middle East. She tried to appease him, but how does one begin to dissect the complexities of that region as a common citizen?

“We’re targets because we kinda stick out like sore thumbs, don’t we?” I said.

She nodded. “It’s the tennis shoes and the college sweatshirts, you know?”

“Or our insistence that the rest of the world speak English.”

While we can be an obnoxious group of world travelers, I remember a time right after 9/11 that the world was on our side. Three weeks after 9/11, I was on a plane to Italy with two girlfriends. Great timing on our part, huh? The plane was eerily empty since most Americans had cancelled their travel plans.

When we landed in Rome, we insisted on staying awake despite hella jet lag. We went out in our jeans and tennis shoes (but no sweatshirts) to find an outdoor café for a cappuccino. A delightful waiter came over to take our order.

“Hello,” he said in English.

Of course, he knew we were Americans from the get-go.  We stand out everywhere, but much more so in Italy. Those Italians can dress. I’ve never seen more Armani and Versace in my life.

I noticed the American flag lapel pin on his waiter’s jacket. I felt a lump in my throat.

“We love America,” he said in beautifully accented English.

He motioned around to the buildings surrounding the café. American flags hung in nearly every window of the apartments in the piazza. We hadn’t noticed them before due to our jet lag. But we did now. We three Americans began to cry at the sight, the bitter memory of that day replaced with the heartfelt love we felt from complete strangers in Italy. It was a beautiful moment to be an American, tennis shoes and all.

GOT MANNERS?

I recently attended a conference at one of the big hotels in downtown Phoenix. We had nice plated breakfast and lunches, lots of snacks at break time and great sessions to attend.

Here's something I discovered at the conference. A lot of people out there have absolutely no manners anymore.  Somewhere along the way we've forgotten how to act at the dinner table. I'm not sure if this is because no one cooks anymore or we've just gotten lazy, but I was taken aback  by some of the behvior I witnessed.  And it takes quite a lot to shock me.

One guy grabbed a roll from the bread basket and began eating without asking if anyone else cared for one. He didn't bother to pass the basket around the table until prompted. Another guy ate my salad by mistake and I was too polite to tell him. One man picked his teeth at the table. This would have been bad enough if he did it with a toothpick, but this guy used his fingernail instead. When another man placed his dessert on top of the dirty lunch plate and started eating his apple pie, I knew I'd had enough. I politely excused myself from the table. Not a single man stood up when I left, which is a dining etiquette rule they had apparently never learned.

I gained some valuable insight that day.  Manners do matter and create lasting impressions. I wish we'd start using them more often.

TO HOOT OR NOT TO HOOT?

My work involves helping people find jobs. I think I'm pretty good at it, but every once in a while, I get asked a question that I'm not quite sure how to answer. That's when I call my employer friends for advice.

A woman who wants to enter the education field has been working at Hooter's as a server.  Quickly, what came into your mind when I said, "Hooter's"? If you're like me, I saw a blonde bimbo with voluptous breasts straining to break out of a skintight T-shirt. Nice marketing job by Hooter's but not exactly the woman you'd want to be teaching your 2nd grader, right?

I know my biases so I decided to phone a friend. After speaking with a principal from an elementary school  and a representative from the financial services industry, I’ve summarized their thoughts on whether or not to list Hooter’s as a place of employment.

Female Principal

She definitely likes to know that people are working while going to school but felt that Hooter’s on a teaching resume would not serve in her best interests.  The principal didn’t want to prejudge but most females have a negative perception of Hooter’s and since the vast majority of school administrators are female, it’s not a good idea to put it on.  She suggested highlighting educational experience and any volunteer work.  Or, the woman could simply put server at a downtown restaurant and leave off the name.

Male Financial Representative
 Working at Hooter’s would not make or break an interview situation for him.  He said that it takes a lot of self confidece and demonstrates that a woman can handle herself well in most situations.  It takes a certain personality to work at Hooter’s which would fit well with his industry.  In the final analysis, he said that since so many people have negative connotations about the restaurant, it might be better to not list by name. Opinions will vary based on the industry.

Now you can be the judge. To hoot or not to hoot? It all depends.