Nothing is funny at 5 a.m.
Especially not a rooster crowing its lungs out while you’re trying to sleep.
Especially not on the first Monday morning of summer vacation.
Especially not when said rooster is in your backyard.
I tried to put the annoying sound out of my mind for a few minutes, as my body cried for sleep. But just like a snooze alarm, the rooster kept going – about every 30 seconds.
“Wait a second,” my mind finally stumbled into clarity – “In my backyard???”
Bleary-eyed and stumbling and unable to ignore the 5 a.m. fracas any longer, I made my way from bed to the window. I expected to see this early-rising rooster out past the backyard fence toward the barn lot or near my husband’s workshop, where he’s been known to wander.
But I raised the shade, and I’ll be darned if that fat red rooster wasn’t sitting right there in front of me on my window sill, crowing himself silly.
We looked at each other in surprise for a moment. I said nothing.
He said, “Cock-a-doodle-dooooooooooooooooo!”
I figured opening the window would shoo him away. When it didn’t, I did what anybody would do – drew back and punched that fat rooster as hard as I could right square in his hind end.
I said nothing is funny at 5 a.m., but I have to admit the surprised sound that rooster made when he suddenly became airborne was (a little) funny.
Now that I’d been rudely awakened and had sucker punched a rooster, I realized there would be no sleep in my immediate future until he was removed from my backyard. There’s no way I could lay my head back down on the pillow as long as he was out there – especially considering what he’d left me on the patio the last time he’d made a break from the henhouse.
So I trudged through the house, out the back door, onto the patio to gather my rooster-fighting arsenal. As I turned on the water hose and prepared to take aim, I inadvertently sprayed a little water on my swing. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or the OTHER rooster I had disturbed. He was sitting right there in my spot on the swing – with a chicken -- enjoying his start to the day immensely, having just taken his morning constitution by the sight of the mess next to them.
The sight of chicken-poo on my swing, one of my favorite things in the backyard, made me so mad that I couldn’t even enjoy the (a little) funny sound that rooster made as I sprayed him from his perch and sent his lady friend scrambling and squabbling to herself in his wake.
And now, at approximately 5:05 a.m. in the misty not quite morning light, the chase was on.
I sprayed torrents of water at two roosters and a hen, all the while shouting at them intermittently, “Get out of here, you chicken!”
But, no matter how I tried to direct the unruly trio out of the yard, they refused to go back out the way they came – through a hole my dog had evidently dug under the fence. We played a rousing game of “Ring Around the Trampoline” for a few minutes, as I’d chase them one way, and then the other, trying to get them out of the yard.
(I remember briefly thinking that I hoped my neighbors weren’t up to enjoy the sight of me in my pajamas and bare feet chasing roosters around the backyard with a water hose. They’ve already seen my previous adventures with escaped cows and miniature donkeys… But that’s another story.)
I digress…
The hen, who must have been the smartest or the most terrified of the three, made her way out somehow, because I was left with two roosters who stood directly outside my line of water-fire and watched me, daring me to come closer.
Muttering curses under my breath, I unwound the hose further and stalked out into the wet grass, spraying roosters and wondering how this day had started out so awry.
Roosters are not the smartest birds in the animal kingdom, evidently, because I finally had to drop the water hose, make my way all the way across the yard through the wet grass (did I mention I’m in my bare feet?) and fling the gate wide open before picking up the hose and issuing the rooster an engraved invitation to leave my yard. One rooster finally exited, complaining to himself the whole way of the indignity.
Rooster 2 had run to the opposite side of the yard, and I had to repeat the whole open gate, issue invitation, close gate, with him. Meanwhile, our four miniature donkeys are standing there watching the whole scene play out with something akin to amusement on their faces.
“And they call us asses,” you could just hear them commenting among themselves.
With the chickens having vacated the yard, I turned my hose to the swing and the window sill, where the evidence of the morning’s early antics still lay in wait.
Stupid chickens.
Finally, with a clean swing and window sill and chicken mission accomplished, I shut the water hose off and sighed as I tried to salvage what was left of my opportunity to sleep before my kids wake up and the day really gets going. Ha.
But instead, I’m sitting here at my keyboard, writing it all down for posterity just in case at some point later in life I’ll be able to look back and see that some things at 5 a.m. are (a little) funny.
P.S. In completely unrelated news, we will be having a big batch of barbecued chicken at my house this weekend. Y’all come.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Sticky Situation Leads to Homemade Lie Detector
Arnie and I thought we’d been doing a pretty good job of instilling it in our boys to be truthful.
So far, when faced with two equally cherubic faces, each proclaiming “It wasn’t me,” for an assortment of sins, we’ve been able to discern correctly who committed the crime. By talking about how it’s wrong to lie and how it’s always better to tell the truth, we’ve been able to solve many mysteries, patting ourselves on the back for teaching these valuable lessons to our children.
Or so we thought. Unfortunately, that celebration may have been a bit premature.
It started when I, tired and cranky from a full day of housecleaning and laundry, sat back in the living room recliner to put my feet up and watch a Tivo’d episode of “The Closer.” (That Dep. Chief Brenda Lee Johnson gets her man every time!)
I was just starting to relax when I shifted in the recliner – and something wasn’t right. Somehow, I was stuck in place.
And when I stood up, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a big gray wad of chewing gum stuck to my rear, stretching out like so much melted mozzarella to the seat of the chair.
I looked at my husband. My husband looked at me.
“BOYS!!!” we declared in unison at the top of our voices.
Into the living room bounded five-year-old Dylan and four-year-old Conner, smiling happily, wearing capes and carrying their Spiderman and Batman action figures. (I think they pull out their extra cuteness from the reserves for moments like this.) But I wouldn’t let it keep me from the business at hand.
“Somebody,” I began, “lost their chewing gum in the chair, and I found it. Do you know who this gum belongs to?” I ask, pointing at exhibit A.
Wide-eyed innocence.
“No, Mommy. It wasn’t me.” This from Conner.
A short pause, and then this from Dylan: “It wasn’t me either.”
I raised my left eyebrow. Trying again, I appealed to their sense of right and wrong.
“We know one of you put the gum in the chair, because I didn’t do it, and Dad didn’t do it,” I stated in my most authoritarian voice. “It will be much better for you to admit who did it then to get punished for the gum and for the lie.”
Again, I received two solemn, innocent faces and a duet of “It wasn’t me.”
At this time Arnie steps in. He wrinkles his brow, frowns, and puts on his best Serious Dad face. This look would normally invoke our boys to confessing to everything from sneaking the last cookie to being the second shooter on the grassy knoll.
And as he asks the question again, still no one’s forthcoming. Although Dylan is starting to squirm.
Perplexed, I try to appeal to their consciences.
“It sure hurts Mommy’s feelings that somebody accidentally left this gum in the chair and won’t tell the truth’ says I, giving them both the sad eyes.
But they’re not buying. Just as resolved, they stand still like statues.
“It wasn’t me, Mommy,” Conner says, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
“It wasn’t me either,” Dylan says, looking at his toes.
Dylan’s less convincing demeanor causes me lean my verdict toward him. But still, I’m not sure. What would Brenda Lee do?
Examining the evidence, I removed the wad of gum as best as I could from the chair and my pants. Rolling it into a ball, I gave it the eyeball, and then took a sniff.
The unmistakable scent of Juicy Fruit threw me for a loop. This is not a brand of gum that either of us keeps around the house. Where did it come from? Now in addition to the identity of the chewer, we’re faced with this new mystery – where did Dylan or Conner, whoever the guilty party may be, get the goods?
Figuring the Juicy Fruit’s unique scent may be lingering on the guilty gum chewer as well as the gum, I ask each one of them to step forward and perform my own breath-alyzer examination.
Unfortunately, neither of them had breath that smelled like Juicy Fruit. To be honest, each of them could’ve used a Tic-Tac.
This discovery led to a new hypothesis: Could it be that both my little angels are telling the truth? Could I have sat in the gum somewhere in public and, oblivious to it all day, just found it when sitting down to rest in the recliner? Is it possible? Could it be?
Naaah. Somebody just needs to fess up.
Arnie, tired of the delay in finding the verdict, brings out the big guns. He informs the accused:
“I am going to hook this piece of gum up to my lie detector, and it will be able to tell me whose it is,” he says, in all seriousness. “I won’t punish you for the gum if you tell the truth now. But if I have to wait for the detector to tell me, it’s going to mean trouble.”
No confessions. So Arnie gets to work.
Grabbing a couple of wires and a connector box from the assorted items in his junk drawer, he concocts the lie detecting device. The boys’ eyes widen as they watch him plunge two ends of the wires into the ball of gum.
“Now, show me your fingernails,” Arnie says, “And when I hold this over them, it will show me which one of you did it.”
Conner immediately puts his hands out, obliging.
Dylan, with a look of horror on his face, refuses. “I don’t want to, Daddy.”
Aha.
Arnie and I give each other the look. We believe we have found the guilty party.
“I’m giving you one last chance,” Arnie tells them. We’re both looking into Dylan’s eyes at this point. “If you tell the truth, I won’t be mad. But if you don’t, somebody is going to get a spanking.”
Total silence filled the room for the next 15 seconds. So Arnie held the lie detector over Conner’s fingers. Then he held it over Dylan’s.
“I now know for sure who did it,” Arnie announces. “Does anybody have something to say?”
“It wasn’t me, Daddy,” says Conner, this time looking away quickly to avoid eye contact.
“It wasn’t me either,” whispers Dylan, staring at the floor.
We can’t believe the lie detector failed to inspire the confession. We’d planned an evening at McDonalds and then bringing home a family video from the Red Box… But in light of the evening’s events, Arnie told the boys we’d be eating cold bologna sandwiches and no one was going to watch anything on TV until the culprit confessed.
Still clutching their pleas of innocence, both boys were sent to their bedroom.
Surely this change in the plans would evoke Dylan to tell the truth. There’s nothing he likes better than a trip to “Miss Donalds” and the Red Box…
If not, I was running out of ideas to instill truth telling. We’d gone through our whole repertoire. Only things left were the bright shiny light in the eyes… Or waterboarding.
About 30 minutes into their banishment to their bedroom, the guilty party came forward.
“It was me, Daddy,” Conner said. “I’m sorry I put my gum in the chair. And I’m sorry I lied.”
Arnie and I looked at our son and then at each other.
How were we not able to tell? We’d both concluded by the preponderance of the evidence – circumstantial as it was -- that poor Dylan was guilty, when in fact Conner was the one.
Two thoughts crept immediately into my mind. 1. Good thing we didn’t come right out and accuse Dylan – or worse yet, punish him -- for the lie. 2. We’re going to have to come up with some better ways of reaching the truth, because obviously our ability to read body language is lacking. And 3. Our younger son could have a heck of a career playing poker.
We resolved there would be no spanking since the confession came forth. But since it came forth so late, sentencing included no trip to the Red Box, and no TV. And no more gum for quite some time.
Obviously, Arnie and I have a long way to go before we’ll be able to do much patting ourselves on the back. As parents of preschoolers, we’re just getting into the game. We haven’t even begun to go whitewater rafting through those turbulent teen years.
And I’m sure as our kids grow up, there will be more instances of figuring out “who done it,” concerning items of much greater importance than misplaced gum.
I just have to pray each day that God will give us wisdom to hug and kiss our kids when they need it, punish them when they need it, and love them all the time. I hope the lessons we’re trying to teach about telling the truth in their pre-school days will carry over into their adult lives.
I may never have the intuition of “The Closer,” but I am so happy to have the opportunity just to be Dylan & Conner’s mom. I’m doing the best I can.
And that’s the truth.
So far, when faced with two equally cherubic faces, each proclaiming “It wasn’t me,” for an assortment of sins, we’ve been able to discern correctly who committed the crime. By talking about how it’s wrong to lie and how it’s always better to tell the truth, we’ve been able to solve many mysteries, patting ourselves on the back for teaching these valuable lessons to our children.
Or so we thought. Unfortunately, that celebration may have been a bit premature.
It started when I, tired and cranky from a full day of housecleaning and laundry, sat back in the living room recliner to put my feet up and watch a Tivo’d episode of “The Closer.” (That Dep. Chief Brenda Lee Johnson gets her man every time!)
I was just starting to relax when I shifted in the recliner – and something wasn’t right. Somehow, I was stuck in place.
And when I stood up, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a big gray wad of chewing gum stuck to my rear, stretching out like so much melted mozzarella to the seat of the chair.
I looked at my husband. My husband looked at me.
“BOYS!!!” we declared in unison at the top of our voices.
Into the living room bounded five-year-old Dylan and four-year-old Conner, smiling happily, wearing capes and carrying their Spiderman and Batman action figures. (I think they pull out their extra cuteness from the reserves for moments like this.) But I wouldn’t let it keep me from the business at hand.
“Somebody,” I began, “lost their chewing gum in the chair, and I found it. Do you know who this gum belongs to?” I ask, pointing at exhibit A.
Wide-eyed innocence.
“No, Mommy. It wasn’t me.” This from Conner.
A short pause, and then this from Dylan: “It wasn’t me either.”
I raised my left eyebrow. Trying again, I appealed to their sense of right and wrong.
“We know one of you put the gum in the chair, because I didn’t do it, and Dad didn’t do it,” I stated in my most authoritarian voice. “It will be much better for you to admit who did it then to get punished for the gum and for the lie.”
Again, I received two solemn, innocent faces and a duet of “It wasn’t me.”
At this time Arnie steps in. He wrinkles his brow, frowns, and puts on his best Serious Dad face. This look would normally invoke our boys to confessing to everything from sneaking the last cookie to being the second shooter on the grassy knoll.
And as he asks the question again, still no one’s forthcoming. Although Dylan is starting to squirm.
Perplexed, I try to appeal to their consciences.
“It sure hurts Mommy’s feelings that somebody accidentally left this gum in the chair and won’t tell the truth’ says I, giving them both the sad eyes.
But they’re not buying. Just as resolved, they stand still like statues.
“It wasn’t me, Mommy,” Conner says, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
“It wasn’t me either,” Dylan says, looking at his toes.
Dylan’s less convincing demeanor causes me lean my verdict toward him. But still, I’m not sure. What would Brenda Lee do?
Examining the evidence, I removed the wad of gum as best as I could from the chair and my pants. Rolling it into a ball, I gave it the eyeball, and then took a sniff.
The unmistakable scent of Juicy Fruit threw me for a loop. This is not a brand of gum that either of us keeps around the house. Where did it come from? Now in addition to the identity of the chewer, we’re faced with this new mystery – where did Dylan or Conner, whoever the guilty party may be, get the goods?
Figuring the Juicy Fruit’s unique scent may be lingering on the guilty gum chewer as well as the gum, I ask each one of them to step forward and perform my own breath-alyzer examination.
Unfortunately, neither of them had breath that smelled like Juicy Fruit. To be honest, each of them could’ve used a Tic-Tac.
This discovery led to a new hypothesis: Could it be that both my little angels are telling the truth? Could I have sat in the gum somewhere in public and, oblivious to it all day, just found it when sitting down to rest in the recliner? Is it possible? Could it be?
Naaah. Somebody just needs to fess up.
Arnie, tired of the delay in finding the verdict, brings out the big guns. He informs the accused:
“I am going to hook this piece of gum up to my lie detector, and it will be able to tell me whose it is,” he says, in all seriousness. “I won’t punish you for the gum if you tell the truth now. But if I have to wait for the detector to tell me, it’s going to mean trouble.”
No confessions. So Arnie gets to work.
Grabbing a couple of wires and a connector box from the assorted items in his junk drawer, he concocts the lie detecting device. The boys’ eyes widen as they watch him plunge two ends of the wires into the ball of gum.
“Now, show me your fingernails,” Arnie says, “And when I hold this over them, it will show me which one of you did it.”
Conner immediately puts his hands out, obliging.
Dylan, with a look of horror on his face, refuses. “I don’t want to, Daddy.”
Aha.
Arnie and I give each other the look. We believe we have found the guilty party.
“I’m giving you one last chance,” Arnie tells them. We’re both looking into Dylan’s eyes at this point. “If you tell the truth, I won’t be mad. But if you don’t, somebody is going to get a spanking.”
Total silence filled the room for the next 15 seconds. So Arnie held the lie detector over Conner’s fingers. Then he held it over Dylan’s.
“I now know for sure who did it,” Arnie announces. “Does anybody have something to say?”
“It wasn’t me, Daddy,” says Conner, this time looking away quickly to avoid eye contact.
“It wasn’t me either,” whispers Dylan, staring at the floor.
We can’t believe the lie detector failed to inspire the confession. We’d planned an evening at McDonalds and then bringing home a family video from the Red Box… But in light of the evening’s events, Arnie told the boys we’d be eating cold bologna sandwiches and no one was going to watch anything on TV until the culprit confessed.
Still clutching their pleas of innocence, both boys were sent to their bedroom.
Surely this change in the plans would evoke Dylan to tell the truth. There’s nothing he likes better than a trip to “Miss Donalds” and the Red Box…
If not, I was running out of ideas to instill truth telling. We’d gone through our whole repertoire. Only things left were the bright shiny light in the eyes… Or waterboarding.
About 30 minutes into their banishment to their bedroom, the guilty party came forward.
“It was me, Daddy,” Conner said. “I’m sorry I put my gum in the chair. And I’m sorry I lied.”
Arnie and I looked at our son and then at each other.
How were we not able to tell? We’d both concluded by the preponderance of the evidence – circumstantial as it was -- that poor Dylan was guilty, when in fact Conner was the one.
Two thoughts crept immediately into my mind. 1. Good thing we didn’t come right out and accuse Dylan – or worse yet, punish him -- for the lie. 2. We’re going to have to come up with some better ways of reaching the truth, because obviously our ability to read body language is lacking. And 3. Our younger son could have a heck of a career playing poker.
We resolved there would be no spanking since the confession came forth. But since it came forth so late, sentencing included no trip to the Red Box, and no TV. And no more gum for quite some time.
Obviously, Arnie and I have a long way to go before we’ll be able to do much patting ourselves on the back. As parents of preschoolers, we’re just getting into the game. We haven’t even begun to go whitewater rafting through those turbulent teen years.
And I’m sure as our kids grow up, there will be more instances of figuring out “who done it,” concerning items of much greater importance than misplaced gum.
I just have to pray each day that God will give us wisdom to hug and kiss our kids when they need it, punish them when they need it, and love them all the time. I hope the lessons we’re trying to teach about telling the truth in their pre-school days will carry over into their adult lives.
I may never have the intuition of “The Closer,” but I am so happy to have the opportunity just to be Dylan & Conner’s mom. I’m doing the best I can.
And that’s the truth.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Man's Best Friend Makes for Bittersweet Memories
It was only our second or third date when my husband, Cowboy, brought his best friend to meet me.
As I peered into the cardboard box nestled into the cab of his truck, I was greeted by a fuzzy brown and black face with a big wet nose looking back at me.
"This is Rush," Cowboy told me.
Rush, just a puppy at the time, was one-fourth lab and three-fourths pit-bull. I didn't know what to make of him at first.
Rush wasn't a pretty dog, at least not in the way that collies or poodles or dachshunds are pretty.
Rush was 100 percent dog -- and a Republican dog at that, named after the windy and rotund Rush of talk radio and television.
Being somewhat afraid of dogs with a reputation -- you know, Dobermans, rottweilers, and pit bulls among others -- I didn't take to Rush immediately.
Rush didn't seem to notice much or mind though. He'd pay me a polite nod or sniff, but he was Cowboy's dog in every sense.
As Rush grew up, I still feared him a little but was constantly impressed by the devotion he showed Cowboy.
You could tell easily by the look in his dog eyes that Cowboy was his world.
Maybe it had to do with the fact that when Rush was a pup, he contracted the Parvo virus and nearly died.
Cowboy set out with the determination of a miracle worker to nurse him back to health, caring for his friend day and night, feeding his tired body the electrolytes it needed to get better.
I think Rush was always grateful.
Cowboy was always proud of his dog, who followed his every step, every command. With wide shoulders and muscles that protruded like a weightlifter's, Rush was every bit a man's dog -- Cowboy's dog.
Though he had jaws strong enough to tear the limb right off a tree -- or I suspected maybe even a person -- Rush knew Cowboy was his master, and he would answer each command to sit, lay down, stay, with only the fierce wagging of his tail to show that he was eager to play.
I don't think any dog was ever happier than Rush, with Cowboy rough-wrestling with him in the grass.
While he would bark or emit a low growl to others who may tease him or try to take his food, with his master he was a pussycat.
Cowboy could take a piece of meat right out of Rush's mouth with Rush just waiting submissively for him to give it back -- never offering even a dirty dog look. He was Cowboy's dog completely.
The more I got to know Rush, the more I began to trust him. While I'd never bother his dinner dish or put my hand to close to his colossal jaws, I did begin to feel a little safer knowing Rush, a fantastic watch dog, could protect me from harm.
I knew I had come to care for Rush when one day, afraid he would follow me from the farm across a busy highway where my husband was working, I opened the car door and invited Rush in.
He didn't have to be asked twice. Rush sat in the passenger seat of my Pontiac polite as pie as we made the trip. In fact, once we arrived across the field, Rush decided he didn't want to get out. Cowboy had to call him before I could get his hefty body out of my car.
The only time I ever really got angry at Rush was a few weeks ago when my husband was working on our new house, ready to put the windows into our sun room.
He had them laid out on the floor, ready to install, when Rush strolled in the open door and made himself at home by walking right across the panes.
As soon as I saw him do it, I screamed at him to get off. CRACK! There went the first pane under a big hairy foot.
The more I screamed, the more Rush danced around, apparently confused, taking another window paine with him before Cowboy could get him back outside.
It wasn't a banner day for Rush in my mind.
But only a week or so later, with the angry wheels of a busy highway, Rush was taken from Cowboy's world.
Cowboy knew there was nothing he could do -- no electrolytes could save Rush this time. So he sat with him.
Though Rush was so badly injured, he still never offered to snap at Cowboy, as many hurt animals might have. He put his head on Cowboy's lap and looked up at him with the look that only a loved dog can reserve for his master.
And he died.
Only those who have had the God-given fortune of a cherished and loyal pet can understand how equally heartbreaking the loss can be.
Cowboy -- tough and ornery like his dog -- doesn't like to let his feelings show, but I know.
And if I could bring Rush back, I'd knock out all those sun room windows myself.
As I peered into the cardboard box nestled into the cab of his truck, I was greeted by a fuzzy brown and black face with a big wet nose looking back at me.
"This is Rush," Cowboy told me.
Rush, just a puppy at the time, was one-fourth lab and three-fourths pit-bull. I didn't know what to make of him at first.
Rush wasn't a pretty dog, at least not in the way that collies or poodles or dachshunds are pretty.
Rush was 100 percent dog -- and a Republican dog at that, named after the windy and rotund Rush of talk radio and television.
Being somewhat afraid of dogs with a reputation -- you know, Dobermans, rottweilers, and pit bulls among others -- I didn't take to Rush immediately.
Rush didn't seem to notice much or mind though. He'd pay me a polite nod or sniff, but he was Cowboy's dog in every sense.
As Rush grew up, I still feared him a little but was constantly impressed by the devotion he showed Cowboy.
You could tell easily by the look in his dog eyes that Cowboy was his world.
Maybe it had to do with the fact that when Rush was a pup, he contracted the Parvo virus and nearly died.
Cowboy set out with the determination of a miracle worker to nurse him back to health, caring for his friend day and night, feeding his tired body the electrolytes it needed to get better.
I think Rush was always grateful.
Cowboy was always proud of his dog, who followed his every step, every command. With wide shoulders and muscles that protruded like a weightlifter's, Rush was every bit a man's dog -- Cowboy's dog.
Though he had jaws strong enough to tear the limb right off a tree -- or I suspected maybe even a person -- Rush knew Cowboy was his master, and he would answer each command to sit, lay down, stay, with only the fierce wagging of his tail to show that he was eager to play.
I don't think any dog was ever happier than Rush, with Cowboy rough-wrestling with him in the grass.
While he would bark or emit a low growl to others who may tease him or try to take his food, with his master he was a pussycat.
Cowboy could take a piece of meat right out of Rush's mouth with Rush just waiting submissively for him to give it back -- never offering even a dirty dog look. He was Cowboy's dog completely.
The more I got to know Rush, the more I began to trust him. While I'd never bother his dinner dish or put my hand to close to his colossal jaws, I did begin to feel a little safer knowing Rush, a fantastic watch dog, could protect me from harm.
I knew I had come to care for Rush when one day, afraid he would follow me from the farm across a busy highway where my husband was working, I opened the car door and invited Rush in.
He didn't have to be asked twice. Rush sat in the passenger seat of my Pontiac polite as pie as we made the trip. In fact, once we arrived across the field, Rush decided he didn't want to get out. Cowboy had to call him before I could get his hefty body out of my car.
The only time I ever really got angry at Rush was a few weeks ago when my husband was working on our new house, ready to put the windows into our sun room.
He had them laid out on the floor, ready to install, when Rush strolled in the open door and made himself at home by walking right across the panes.
As soon as I saw him do it, I screamed at him to get off. CRACK! There went the first pane under a big hairy foot.
The more I screamed, the more Rush danced around, apparently confused, taking another window paine with him before Cowboy could get him back outside.
It wasn't a banner day for Rush in my mind.
But only a week or so later, with the angry wheels of a busy highway, Rush was taken from Cowboy's world.
Cowboy knew there was nothing he could do -- no electrolytes could save Rush this time. So he sat with him.
Though Rush was so badly injured, he still never offered to snap at Cowboy, as many hurt animals might have. He put his head on Cowboy's lap and looked up at him with the look that only a loved dog can reserve for his master.
And he died.
Only those who have had the God-given fortune of a cherished and loyal pet can understand how equally heartbreaking the loss can be.
Cowboy -- tough and ornery like his dog -- doesn't like to let his feelings show, but I know.
And if I could bring Rush back, I'd knock out all those sun room windows myself.
Show gives new meaning to "Go Soak Your Head"
People will do anything.
No matter if the boundaries of stupidity reach from here to eternity. Somewhere, somehow, there's at least one person harebrained enough to attempt the absurd.
This general lack of faith in the smarts of the human species was the result of too much time parked in front of satellite television last week.
Admittedly, that time spent doesn't say much for my own IQ. But I did learn something.
While flipping through the million channels of nothing on, I happened across the Discovery Health Channel. Folks, it's become my newest addiction.
You just never know what you're going to see.
Case in point. One of the episodes followed three seemingly normal people through their varied odyssies into the world of plastic surgery. Now I know that there are some very legitimate and medically necessary reasons for plastic surgery, but folks, this episode didn't include any.
I watched a woman get white hot acid poured all over her face (a chemical peel) to reduce her fine lines for her impending wedding. Her face literally was burned off. Of course after several weeks a new face grew back.
I sat in awe as a man with a dome as slick as a cue ball succumbed to hundreds of little needles being stuck into his head as he went under the knife for a hair transplant. He hoped it would make him more of a Don Juan.
The man had sections of hairy scalp removed from his head. Then, that section of skin was sewed shut. The hairs were extracted from the donor scalp area and poked under his unruly scalp. It was perfectly awful. The man was awake throughout the procedure and smiled as he pictured his future fortune impressing the ladies.
My eyebrow shot involuntarily up to the top of my head as I watched another young woman undergo a nose job and chin implant.
Doctors took some kind heavy metal implement, shoved it up the woman's nostrils, and then started banging away at it with a real honest-to-goodness hammer.
Crack!
Then, as pieces of bone and cartilage broke away, the doctor would reach down into the far recesses of her nose with the longest pair of tongs I've ever seen, pulling the unwanted nose debris out and depositing it nonchalantly into a metal pan.
Ping!
He turned her bottom lip inside out and cut a huge gash to implant her chin. When the operation was over, the woman's head looked like an old catcher's mitt that had been left out in the rain for a couple of seasons. However, when the cameras tracked her down again months later, she was grinning from ear to ear with her new nose sniffer and chin chopper.
A few nights later, the episode followed the trials and tribulations of teenage girls whoa re getting plastic surgeries as gifts. One 14-year-old girl got the birthday gift of liposuction from her mother.
And to think I was happy with a pair of jeans.
Another 18-year-old girl got what all teenagers need: a brand spanking new set of breast implants. These were a gift from her father. Now there's a conversation I could never imagine having with my parents.
"Mom, Dad... I have two little (well, make that two BIG) favors to ask."
What in the world goes through these people's minds?
Another Discovery health Channel program was all about men and women who undergo sex change operations. I won't even go there. Suffice it to say where there's a will, there's a way.
I thought by then I'd seen it all. There couldn't be anything stranger than that.
then I tuned in the other night to the episode on cryogenics. You know, freeze-drying yourself so you'll be fresh for the next lifetime.
Evidently, people with more money than sense have decided death is too much of a bummer, so they're just going to avoid it all together.
When it's their turn to croak, they're having themselves frozen. They figure they can remain in this state for how ever many years it takes for science to cure what killed them. The truly filthy rich are having their entire bodies frozen.
but for those on more of a fixed income or whose bodies have been mangled beyond further use, never fear. If you'd like to join the carefree world of the cryogenically preserved, you can just have your head frozen.
Yep. Believe it. Otherwise rational human beings are making plans for their own deaths that include beheading. That way, when scientists figure out how to do head transplants, they'll be the first in line.
Unfortunately, I fell asleep before I was able to learn where these heads will get their new body parts.
Maybe they will call the toe truck. Or, could be they'll ask for hand-outs. Maybe they let someone else give them a heads up. Someone should really put their foot down.
Either way, I don't think cryogenics is for me. I bet it costs an arm and a leg.
No matter if the boundaries of stupidity reach from here to eternity. Somewhere, somehow, there's at least one person harebrained enough to attempt the absurd.
This general lack of faith in the smarts of the human species was the result of too much time parked in front of satellite television last week.
Admittedly, that time spent doesn't say much for my own IQ. But I did learn something.
While flipping through the million channels of nothing on, I happened across the Discovery Health Channel. Folks, it's become my newest addiction.
You just never know what you're going to see.
Case in point. One of the episodes followed three seemingly normal people through their varied odyssies into the world of plastic surgery. Now I know that there are some very legitimate and medically necessary reasons for plastic surgery, but folks, this episode didn't include any.
I watched a woman get white hot acid poured all over her face (a chemical peel) to reduce her fine lines for her impending wedding. Her face literally was burned off. Of course after several weeks a new face grew back.
I sat in awe as a man with a dome as slick as a cue ball succumbed to hundreds of little needles being stuck into his head as he went under the knife for a hair transplant. He hoped it would make him more of a Don Juan.
The man had sections of hairy scalp removed from his head. Then, that section of skin was sewed shut. The hairs were extracted from the donor scalp area and poked under his unruly scalp. It was perfectly awful. The man was awake throughout the procedure and smiled as he pictured his future fortune impressing the ladies.
My eyebrow shot involuntarily up to the top of my head as I watched another young woman undergo a nose job and chin implant.
Doctors took some kind heavy metal implement, shoved it up the woman's nostrils, and then started banging away at it with a real honest-to-goodness hammer.
Crack!
Then, as pieces of bone and cartilage broke away, the doctor would reach down into the far recesses of her nose with the longest pair of tongs I've ever seen, pulling the unwanted nose debris out and depositing it nonchalantly into a metal pan.
Ping!
He turned her bottom lip inside out and cut a huge gash to implant her chin. When the operation was over, the woman's head looked like an old catcher's mitt that had been left out in the rain for a couple of seasons. However, when the cameras tracked her down again months later, she was grinning from ear to ear with her new nose sniffer and chin chopper.
A few nights later, the episode followed the trials and tribulations of teenage girls whoa re getting plastic surgeries as gifts. One 14-year-old girl got the birthday gift of liposuction from her mother.
And to think I was happy with a pair of jeans.
Another 18-year-old girl got what all teenagers need: a brand spanking new set of breast implants. These were a gift from her father. Now there's a conversation I could never imagine having with my parents.
"Mom, Dad... I have two little (well, make that two BIG) favors to ask."
What in the world goes through these people's minds?
Another Discovery health Channel program was all about men and women who undergo sex change operations. I won't even go there. Suffice it to say where there's a will, there's a way.
I thought by then I'd seen it all. There couldn't be anything stranger than that.
then I tuned in the other night to the episode on cryogenics. You know, freeze-drying yourself so you'll be fresh for the next lifetime.
Evidently, people with more money than sense have decided death is too much of a bummer, so they're just going to avoid it all together.
When it's their turn to croak, they're having themselves frozen. They figure they can remain in this state for how ever many years it takes for science to cure what killed them. The truly filthy rich are having their entire bodies frozen.
but for those on more of a fixed income or whose bodies have been mangled beyond further use, never fear. If you'd like to join the carefree world of the cryogenically preserved, you can just have your head frozen.
Yep. Believe it. Otherwise rational human beings are making plans for their own deaths that include beheading. That way, when scientists figure out how to do head transplants, they'll be the first in line.
Unfortunately, I fell asleep before I was able to learn where these heads will get their new body parts.
Maybe they will call the toe truck. Or, could be they'll ask for hand-outs. Maybe they let someone else give them a heads up. Someone should really put their foot down.
Either way, I don't think cryogenics is for me. I bet it costs an arm and a leg.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
This paint job was a horse of a different color
In the great game of practical joke tag, apparently I’m “It.”
I don’t know about your household, but in the Reed-Lambert abode, we’ve always had a little bit of unspoken rivalry in practical joking.
Sometimes my husband Arnie and I might go for months and not think of a dastardly deed to pull on each other.
And then, just when we think the other one’s guard is down, WHAM, down the hammer falls.
(hee, hee, hee.)
Except this time the joke’s on me, and I wish somebody could help me think of a good one to top it.
Arnie got the last jab when I went off to church one Sunday night not too long ago. Arnie stayed behind, having been horse riding and not getting home in time to clean up and get ready.
I never saw it coming. But when I crested the hill toward my house on the way back from church, I definitely saw where it had landed.
Folks, the joke was on me, and this time that man I married went too far, dragging my poor horse, Grady, into the mix.
If you’ve ever been around horses or cows, you’re probably familiar with the purple iodine mixture that’s used as first aid for the occasional cut or scratch.
As far as staining power goes, it’s there for the long haul.
Well, as I drove up my road, from nearly a mile away, I saw that Arnie had transformed poor old Grady into a big white walking billboard.
There on my beautiful white horse (the horse I love and the one Arnie is forever teasing for his “slight” weight problem) written in huge purple iodine letters were these words: “Horse for Sale – Cheap!”
My jaw dropped as I pulled into the driveway. As Grady m moseyed through the field, I saw there was more. On his other side, looming for the world to see was yet another “For Sale – Kid’s Horse.”
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Emblazoned across Grady’s hefty backside was – I swear – my phone number.
I could have croaked. There was my sweet Grady, munching his grass buffet in the pasture, just as proud as you please, completely oblivious to the ridiculous message he was sporting.
When I stormed into the house, Arnie was innocently watching television. I, however, was not amused.
I let him have it with both barrels. While I’d been sitting in church, innocent as an angel, Arnie had been a little devil.
Heathen!
It was only a few minutes before a still-laughing Arnie was alternately hosing and scrubbing Grady down. The skin nearly turned pink but the trace of the purple iodine message – like Arnie’s laughter – lingered.
Eventual rain and sun have now faded the message beyond legibility. And I’m thinking it’s payback time.
If I could just think of something equally evil… similarly sinister… comparably conniving.
I thought about painting a white shoe polish message on Arnie’s brown horse, but that lacks originality , and I don’t want to drag another hapless creature into the mix.
I could short sheet the bed… maybe sneak up and pour a glass of ice water over his head when he gets in the shower…
(Nope, I’ve done those before.)
There’s always the old “clear plastic wrap over the toilet bowl” trick… or putting a UK bumper sticker somewhere on his vehicle. (He’s one of those strange birds who roots for even stranger birds at a school slightly to our north.)
Better yet, I could put some Groovy Grape Kool-Aid powder in the shower head just before Arnie gets in and wait for his reaction to the ensuing purple hair-do.
Heh, heh, heh.
Arnie may not care so much for purple hair.
But then neither, I’ll wager, did Grady.
I don’t know about your household, but in the Reed-Lambert abode, we’ve always had a little bit of unspoken rivalry in practical joking.
Sometimes my husband Arnie and I might go for months and not think of a dastardly deed to pull on each other.
And then, just when we think the other one’s guard is down, WHAM, down the hammer falls.
(hee, hee, hee.)
Except this time the joke’s on me, and I wish somebody could help me think of a good one to top it.
Arnie got the last jab when I went off to church one Sunday night not too long ago. Arnie stayed behind, having been horse riding and not getting home in time to clean up and get ready.
I never saw it coming. But when I crested the hill toward my house on the way back from church, I definitely saw where it had landed.
Folks, the joke was on me, and this time that man I married went too far, dragging my poor horse, Grady, into the mix.
If you’ve ever been around horses or cows, you’re probably familiar with the purple iodine mixture that’s used as first aid for the occasional cut or scratch.
As far as staining power goes, it’s there for the long haul.
Well, as I drove up my road, from nearly a mile away, I saw that Arnie had transformed poor old Grady into a big white walking billboard.
There on my beautiful white horse (the horse I love and the one Arnie is forever teasing for his “slight” weight problem) written in huge purple iodine letters were these words: “Horse for Sale – Cheap!”
My jaw dropped as I pulled into the driveway. As Grady m moseyed through the field, I saw there was more. On his other side, looming for the world to see was yet another “For Sale – Kid’s Horse.”
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Emblazoned across Grady’s hefty backside was – I swear – my phone number.
I could have croaked. There was my sweet Grady, munching his grass buffet in the pasture, just as proud as you please, completely oblivious to the ridiculous message he was sporting.
When I stormed into the house, Arnie was innocently watching television. I, however, was not amused.
I let him have it with both barrels. While I’d been sitting in church, innocent as an angel, Arnie had been a little devil.
Heathen!
It was only a few minutes before a still-laughing Arnie was alternately hosing and scrubbing Grady down. The skin nearly turned pink but the trace of the purple iodine message – like Arnie’s laughter – lingered.
Eventual rain and sun have now faded the message beyond legibility. And I’m thinking it’s payback time.
If I could just think of something equally evil… similarly sinister… comparably conniving.
I thought about painting a white shoe polish message on Arnie’s brown horse, but that lacks originality , and I don’t want to drag another hapless creature into the mix.
I could short sheet the bed… maybe sneak up and pour a glass of ice water over his head when he gets in the shower…
(Nope, I’ve done those before.)
There’s always the old “clear plastic wrap over the toilet bowl” trick… or putting a UK bumper sticker somewhere on his vehicle. (He’s one of those strange birds who roots for even stranger birds at a school slightly to our north.)
Better yet, I could put some Groovy Grape Kool-Aid powder in the shower head just before Arnie gets in and wait for his reaction to the ensuing purple hair-do.
Heh, heh, heh.
Arnie may not care so much for purple hair.
But then neither, I’ll wager, did Grady.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Father's love wrapped in little pink boxes
Well, by the time you read this, another Valentine’s Day will have come and gone.
To tell you the truth, I’ll probably be glad.
Some years I can jump right into the romance of it, indulge in the sweetness of the Hallmark moments that Feb. 14 invokes.
I know I’m lucky to be married to the greatest cowboy in the world. And it’s nice to have a holiday that really encourages you to show it.
But this year I don’t feel like a red hot. In fact, I feel blue. I’m missing my little pink box of candy.
You see, when I think of my memories of Valentine’s Day, sometimes I picture the ones I spent as a little girl.
Every Valentine’s Day my mom and I were the object of my Daddy’s affection. She’d get a big red heart-shaped box, full to the brim of the prettiest chocolate candies you’ve ever seen.
And Daddy didn’t forget his other valentine. There was always a smaller box – a pink one – just for me.
Just picturing us lifting the lids to our boxes still invokes the faintest trace of the scent to my nostrils. The white paper pushed aside, we’d gaze at the morsels contained within.
I’ll have to admit this here. I come from a family of pinchers.
Maybe that’s why the first gaping look into the box was so memorable. Maybe I knew it wouldn’t be long before the thin plastic cubbyholes would be empty, their sweet indulgences sweetly indulged upon.
And, left in their wake, would remain the pinched-up smooshies. These were the least favorable of the lot. In my own case, those would be the orange-filled variety.
Yuck.
Just picturing the bright orange center cocooned inside the deep brown chocolate sends me cringing. Much less the taste of it.
So pinching became a part of the ritual. And I’m afraid this habit was inherited from my mom, no slouchy pincher in her own right. We’d pinch and poke and peek at the confectionary innards.
Then, upon confirmation that the center of the candy in question was not offensive, we’d dine in style.
Mmmmmm.
But those days passed on when Daddy did.
I don’t know if everyone who’s lost a loved one remembers the little things more around holiday time. As much as I still miss him in my day-to-day life, it’s usually ten-fold when there’s something to celebrate.
For 17 years, Daddy brought me little pink boxes. And the memory is as sweet as the treasure those boxes contained.
I know I can never go back and relive my childhood. But sometimes I wish I could.
My Daddy wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was more the strong, silent type, always on the ready, protective to the core. He didn’t gush or put his feelings into words very often.
But you always knew he was there.
And now he’s not.
I know there’s so much to celebrate on Valentine’s Day. There’s so much fun in exchanging cards and gifts and being allowed – even encouraged – to show your feelings to the world.
I know, Lord willing, Arnie will have gotten me a valentine. He’ll have hugged and kissed me and told me how much he loves me. He might even bring me home some candy in a big red heart-shaped box.
We’ll laugh and inhale and let the pinching begin.
But, oh, how I miss those little pink boxes.
* Originally published 2-16-00
To tell you the truth, I’ll probably be glad.
Some years I can jump right into the romance of it, indulge in the sweetness of the Hallmark moments that Feb. 14 invokes.
I know I’m lucky to be married to the greatest cowboy in the world. And it’s nice to have a holiday that really encourages you to show it.
But this year I don’t feel like a red hot. In fact, I feel blue. I’m missing my little pink box of candy.
You see, when I think of my memories of Valentine’s Day, sometimes I picture the ones I spent as a little girl.
Every Valentine’s Day my mom and I were the object of my Daddy’s affection. She’d get a big red heart-shaped box, full to the brim of the prettiest chocolate candies you’ve ever seen.
And Daddy didn’t forget his other valentine. There was always a smaller box – a pink one – just for me.
Just picturing us lifting the lids to our boxes still invokes the faintest trace of the scent to my nostrils. The white paper pushed aside, we’d gaze at the morsels contained within.
I’ll have to admit this here. I come from a family of pinchers.
Maybe that’s why the first gaping look into the box was so memorable. Maybe I knew it wouldn’t be long before the thin plastic cubbyholes would be empty, their sweet indulgences sweetly indulged upon.
And, left in their wake, would remain the pinched-up smooshies. These were the least favorable of the lot. In my own case, those would be the orange-filled variety.
Yuck.
Just picturing the bright orange center cocooned inside the deep brown chocolate sends me cringing. Much less the taste of it.
So pinching became a part of the ritual. And I’m afraid this habit was inherited from my mom, no slouchy pincher in her own right. We’d pinch and poke and peek at the confectionary innards.
Then, upon confirmation that the center of the candy in question was not offensive, we’d dine in style.
Mmmmmm.
But those days passed on when Daddy did.
I don’t know if everyone who’s lost a loved one remembers the little things more around holiday time. As much as I still miss him in my day-to-day life, it’s usually ten-fold when there’s something to celebrate.
For 17 years, Daddy brought me little pink boxes. And the memory is as sweet as the treasure those boxes contained.
I know I can never go back and relive my childhood. But sometimes I wish I could.
My Daddy wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was more the strong, silent type, always on the ready, protective to the core. He didn’t gush or put his feelings into words very often.
But you always knew he was there.
And now he’s not.
I know there’s so much to celebrate on Valentine’s Day. There’s so much fun in exchanging cards and gifts and being allowed – even encouraged – to show your feelings to the world.
I know, Lord willing, Arnie will have gotten me a valentine. He’ll have hugged and kissed me and told me how much he loves me. He might even bring me home some candy in a big red heart-shaped box.
We’ll laugh and inhale and let the pinching begin.
But, oh, how I miss those little pink boxes.
* Originally published 2-16-00
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)