My Fair Doggie

So this dog ownership thing...somebody should have told me what I was getting into.

Apparently all those things you hear about the differences between cats and dogs are true. Having had a cat...or four...during the majority of my adult life, I'm pretty well versed in the world of the feline. Feed them. Let them think my bed is theirs. Pet them when they say I should. Create a weird, creepy pet cemetery in the backyard when they die. That pretty well sums it up. No walks. No baths. No assurances that they are good kitties. They really don't care if I think they are good. As long as they feel I'm catering to their whims everyone is happy.

Not so with dogs.

It just would have been nice if someone had told me about that before we impulsively took in an abused, rescue dog whose needs are vastly different from the felines of privilege who currently concede to let us live in their house. 

In reality, Sadie doesn't show all that many signs from her early life anymore. I think she's forgotten about her puppies. Being on death row seems a distant memory. She's well loved and although she wouldn't look at the cats when she first came to live with us, she has learned to cohabitate with them. One cat is her buddy, two don't really care about her one way or another, and another one is seemingly plotting her death on a daily basis. But then, he seems to be plotting everyone's death on a daily basis, so we don't worry about it too much. 

Until recently my daily walks with Sadie have been a refreshing routine. We would go out in the warmth of the day so she could sniff all the things that appeal to dogs and burn off some energy. I used the time not only to get a little exercise of my own but also to think and process. Without that time my thoughts tended to resemble a Fort Lee lane closure. It just wasn't healthy. Since Sadie made her way into our house my mind had been clearer. Walking had been a good thing for both of us.

Until it stopped being a good thing.

Our walking routine changed a couple of weeks ago when, for whatever reason, Sadie decided to exercise her cattle dog herding dog instincts on a young man who in no way resembled a cow. He was just an innocent, if a good bit larger than I, boy on his way home from school. She didn't actually hurt him but she ripped his pants and scratched his leg. 

I was horrified. He was upset. Sadie, however, had no idea she had done anything unacceptable. She was just doing what herding dogs do. This was the first clue I had an Eliza Doolittle on my hands.

I gave the boy my contact information and insisted I would pay to replace his pants. Immediately following the unfortunate herding incident I called Animal Control and Sadie was put under house arrest. First a teen pregnancy and now trouble with the law. My children never gave me this much trouble. 

Sadie was under house arrest for ten days. This meant no walks, no trips in the car, just a few quick jaunts into the back yard each day. During that time I didn't hear from the parents of the boy who had the misfortune to pass us, as I had hoped I would. I did go out for several days in search of him. I was prepared to offer him another apology and some money but I never saw him again.

When Sadie had served her time, a parole officer visited our house and told me the boy's parents were pressing charges and I had to appear in court. Although it was sad to think they didn't trust my word enough to believe we could work things out on our own I also knew the situation could have been much worse. This is when I knew it was time for Operation Pygmalion. Minus the patriarchal undertones.

The first step was to enroll Sadie in obedience school. We knew she was smart but up until this point we had felt what she needed most was love and recovery from her early life. Clearly love alone wasn't going to cut it anymore so I registered her at a School for Wayward Dogs. Going to school creates a lot of anxiety for Sadie. She attends class with a rowdy little Husky intent on being the center of attention and distracting Sadie from her studies. Nevertheless, with time and patience I'm confident Sadie will eventually calm down. Currently she demonstrates some mad sitting and lying down skills and I'm pretty sure she's going to show that feisty little Husky up when they start learning 'stay.'

My second step was to take her to a veterinarian. I had taken her once just after we adopted her but she was so thoroughly traumatized by the experience little was accomplished beyond making it inside the front door. This time she was somewhat better although it took two humans to subdue her enough for an examination. At one point I heard the veterinarian say, "It looks like you are putting on a little weight." I looked around the room for my mother but then realized the vet wasn't talking to me, she was talking to Sadie. It seems our overzealous approach to love has nudged her from an ideal weight of 25 pounds up to a tubby 30 and Sadie needs to go on a diet. As an act of solidarity I'm going to join her.

We start as soon as the batch of chocolate chip cookies I just made are gone. I mean it.

The last step in the remaking of Sadie was a bath. Every time Parker sees Sadie he asks if she's had a bath. Something in my spirit knew this was not going to be an easy endeavor. My spirit was right. I recruited Parker to join me in taking her to the self-service Bark 'n Wash as I knew I'd need help. I had no idea how much help. By the time we left for home Parker, two professional dog washers, and I were all drenched and exhausted from washing a 30 pound dog who should really only weigh 25 pounds.

 

Sadie and the bath of terror

The owner of the Bark 'n Wash refused to let me pay. I'm pretty sure she just felt sorry for me as I stood there bewildered and dripping. But Sadie was fluffy and clean.

I don't know exactly how things will end up in court. I've been assured Sadie won't be taken away from us but I suspect I'll be asked to pay restitution. Which is what I wanted to do in the first place. It won't surprise me if some additional costs are added on. Regardless, I intend to continue playing Professor Higgins to Sadie's Eliza Doolittle until she learns to become a proper little cattle dog.

But ultimately I plan to continue to love her first and foremost. Because, manners or no manners, what all of us need more than anything is love.

For the Love of Bunny Marshmallows

I've been threatening to run up and down the street naked for years.

Once when Anna was a baby and wouldn't stop crying I told her if she didn't stop soon I was going to take off all my clothes and run up and down the street naked. She was too young to know what I was saying, but Charles wasn't. He calmly responded with, "Don't you think that would be a little embarrassing?" I'm not sure he understood the concept of hyperbole. Anyway, ever since then when I get frustrated enough I make the same threat.

This week I happened across two separate magazine articles offering expertise on how to be a good parent. According to both of them I've been a bad one. Apparently you aren't supposed to threaten. However, now that my children are young adults I guess I'm off the hook. But only a little. Whatever bad decisions they make in life will surely come back to having a lousy mother.

I guess using a Tazer on them wasn't such a good idea either.

Okay fine, I didn't really use a Tazer on my children. But if I believe the message of the parenting articles, not using a Tazer is pretty much the only thing I did right.  One of the articles even detailed a strategy for how to give praise.

Really? We need instructions on how to give praise?

I don't remember following instructions on how to give my children praise. Praise seemed like a fairly straight forward exercise. I wasn't aware there was a right way or a wrong way. I just did it the best way I knew how and for the most part they seem okay. They don't seem too badly screwed up today because I didn't praise them the right way then. But the truth is, praise aside, I didn't parent my children perfectly. At all. Sometimes I was negligent. Sometimes I was too attentive. Sometimes I yelled. Sometimes I was inconsistent. Sometimes I was too controlling. Sometimes too harsh. Sometimes too soft.

Sometimes I just was.

Because like almost every parent, I was doing the best I could. Which is something I have to remind myself about my own parents too. There are no perfect parents. Nor are there perfect children.

Thank God. Perfection is so overrated.

We weren't (nor never will be) a perfect family. Consequently, my children are now entering the age where family get-togethers provide the opportunity to dredge up old stories about the times I went insane. They laugh about me losing my mind and yelling. Or the time when I dumped the entire bag of bunny marshmallows in the parking lot because they disobeyed me. Or the time I threw the full water bottle across the room in exasperation. (For the record, I didn't throw the water bottle at anyone...just across the room.) Those things didn't happen every day. But they happened. And although they make for funny stories now, at the time I felt terrible.

I didn't need to be so hard on myself though. In the end, my children weren't scarred because I sometimes lost my patience. They admit they often drove me to it. They also say they never expected me to be a perfect parent. All they really expected from me was love.

I think striving to be the best parent possible is a good thing. I'd never discourage someone from that. But striving to be a perfect parent raising the perfect child is a recipe for unnecessary stress and pressure. It isn't going to happen. Kids aren't always going to be what we want them to be, parents are going to screw up, and later on all that striving for perfection will just get in the way of honest relationships.

In the end it doesn't really matter how perfect anybody was. In the end all that really matters is that my children know they are loved. So yeah, they misbehaved and I dumped the bunny marshmallows in the parking lot.

(Source: Google Images)



They cried. I felt bad. They missed out on gelatin and corn syrup molded into something that vaguely resembled a pastel rabbit that spring. My self imposed penance for the long ago hasty punishment has been making sure they receive bunny marshmallows every Easter. I realize I really don't need to. Because even if I never gave them another bunny marshmallow in their entire lives my children would know they are loved.

Loved for who they are.

Not what they do.

Not how they act.

Nor look.

Nor what they accomplish. 

They are simply loved.

I'm absolutely certain I could never love my children more than I already do. I'm fairly certain I won't ever again feel the need to dump a bag of bunny marshmallows on the ground. But that running naked up and down the street thing...

...I make no guarantees.

The January that Wasn't

Somehow I keep losing the month of January.

It showed up on my calendar and everything. I got invited to the party of good intentions and fresh beginnings and I made plans to attend but then, I don't know, I got distracted or I couldn't find the right outfit to wear or something and before I knew it I'd missed January.

At least that's what happened this year.

Last year I came down with influenza B on New Year's Eve. Or was it influenza A? It doesn't matter. It sucked. A lot. From that I developed a secondary bronchial infection and just as I was getting over that my cat attacked me. It wasn't a great beginning and I spent all of January 2013 in a pharmaceutically induced fog. For the entire month I was unable to do anything but read. While on the surface that doesn't seem bad, my brain was so addled by drugs I can't remember anything about the books I read. Not even the titles.

I was looking forward to a healthier and more productive January 2014, ready to greet the new year with hopeful anticipation of good things to come. But then, all of a sudden, I'm not sure why, I came down with a touch of indifference.

Ennui? I don't think so. Although the January Blues seem to be a thing, I don't really think that was what was happening. Granted, I've never been a huge fan of January. It has always seemed like the most moody and pessimistic of months.

Source: Google Images

I typically manage to tolerate it fairly well though. The best thing ever to come out of a January, for me, was Anna nineteen years ago, and even she wasn't supposed to arrive until later. Maybe in her fetal state she knew January would be in need of some joy and charm and sunshine so she decided to make her entrance earlier than anticipated. Since then she's always brightened the start of a new year in an otherwise disconsolate month. Anyway, the point here is, I don't think I was depressed.

I wasn't sad. Although I didn't wake up with my typical excitement and exuberance about what the day would bring, I did get out of bed every day. I showered. Washed my hair. I had no trouble working. Nothing seemed particularly gloomy but nothing seemed particularly funny either. I simply felt uninspired.

It started to bother me a little and I began to worry that I was going to settle into being dull, humorless, prosaic, and uninteresting. I wondered if I would have to retake the Myers-Briggs test and come up with a whole different personality type to fit the new boring me. I considered that this change would require a complete overhaul of my wardrobe to attire that is much more practical and better suited for my age. And I was going to have to repaint the interior of my house. Goodbye cheery yellow walls. So long purple counter tops. Get lost red couches. Ohmygod...I was becoming taupe.

Thank goodness I was too lifeless to over react.

Except I did. Which, if I'd stopped to think about it was a pretty good indication my dispassionate personality change was only temporary. And maybe not bad at all. What if it was just something my psyche needed to do. Perhaps, like all things in nature, my personality needed to go dormant for a while to rest and recharge. Maybe everyone goes through these phases and I'm just too narcissistic to notice.

I don't know.

Nevertheless,  February came a long and like Punxatawney Phil, I poked my head out of hibernation, looked around, noticed the sunshine and somehow started to feel like myself again. Although I find The Holy Day of Romantic Obligation in February to be contrived and silly, yesterday I found myself making heart shaped cookies, dancing to the radio, and laughing at the quirkiness of life. My mother called and told me she has a new boyfriend and all seemed right with the world.

I can't say exactly what happened. And I'm not sure if I'd even categorize it as good or bad. It just is. But maybe that's the point. Perhaps all life asks of us sometimes is that we just go with what is for a while. Not what we expect it to be, or want it to be, or even think we need it to be. Maybe life just asks us to trust what is, knowing when the time is right it will nudge us out of hibernation, turn on the radio, and once again ask us to dance.

The Birthday List

This week I sent an email to a casting agency expressing my interest in participating as a movie extra. To be clear, I don't make a habit of writing to casting agencies asking for the opportunity to be an extra. The truth is that I've never even considered it before. For one thing, I'm a lousy actress and for another, I'm just not much of a movie fan. Having a part in a movie, however insignificant, never really occurred to me until recently.

The closest I've ever come to this level of fame and fortune is when I lived in Southern California and a friend called to say she had signed me up to audition for Wheel of Fortune with her. I went along gamely and naively with no idea what I was in for. The process for being chosen as a contestant was to sit in a room with a bunch of people at little elementary school desks with paper copies of puzzles to solve. If you passed the first level you were promoted to the next level and on and on to stardom. I think some of the higher level challenges included jumping up and down and acting super excited. I probably could have passed those but having never watched the show I was a bit vague on the puzzle concept and was eliminated in the first round. I sat around waiting for her as she kept moving through the ranks of contestant selection. She made it to the top tier although she was eight months pregnant and I still cringe at the thought of her jumping up and down. In the end I'm not sure she ever got called to be on the show.

(Source: Google Images)

Now that I think about it that story really has nothing to do with being a movie extra.

Anyway, I sent the email to the casting agency and pointed out that I'm particularly talented at exiting a building and walking down the street. That seems to be what a lot of movie extras do. Walk out of buildings and down streets. I'm pretty sure this is my latest calling.

Whether I'll actually get the opportunity to be filmed while leaving a building and walking down the street remains to be seen. But I took the initiative to inquire because it is 2014 and just before my birthday in December I got this crazy idea to ask others to help me compile a list of new, different, and stretching experiences I can accomplish in the coming year. Being an extra in a movie was one of several interesting suggestions.

I didn't end up getting a lot of responses to my request for ideas. I'm not terribly concerned about the number of items on the list, though. I'm happy with what I got and appreciate those who invested time and brain power in helping me compile the list. I believe if I attempt to fulfill the offerings I will accomplish the goal of expanding my horizons somewhat. In some cases I will probably end up looking a little foolish. But perhaps no more so than failing out of the first level of solving Wheel of Fortune puzzles.

Here is the list:

• Learn to play an instrument I love.
• Learn to throw a Frisbee.
• Hike Mt. Elbert.
• Take a foreign language course.
• Be an extra in a movie.
• Take Irish Step Dance lessons.
• Attend several services at the House for All Sinners and Saints church in Denver.
• Take a road trip by myself.
• Learn to skip a stone.
• Write letters to each of my children saying why they are my favorite.
• Stop and talk with a homeless person.

There were three additional ideas that are still under consideration:

• Spin a globe with my eyes closed, stop it with my finger, and visit the place where my finger lands. I love this idea but am thinking I might alter it to a map of Colorado. I'm not sure I would have the funds nor the wherewithal to go anywhere my finger landed. I mean...what if it landed on Afghanistan or the middle of the Arctic Ocean?

• Sing a solo. As much as I love singing I, weirdly, have terrible stage fright. Speaking in front of groups presents no problem for me but singing creates paralyzing anxiety. I have, in fact, performed a couple of solos in my life. They were terror inducing experiences. I haven't decided if I want to try again.

• Let my hair go to it's natural color. This is the least likely suggestion to make the final list. I don't think the suggesters were actually serious about it but whether they were or not, I'm not sure I'm adding it. For one thing, my hair hasn't been it's natural color since I was 12 or something. For another, I'm not sure I'm ready for the whole grey thing just yet. It sounds terribly boring. I'm still thinking about it.

So that's my list. Some of the suggestions sound fun. Some sound scary. Some sound intimidating. Some sound interesting. And most are things I'd never have thought of on my own which is exactly what I wanted.

I don't anticipate being successful at everything on the list. I just anticipate giving them each a try. At the very least by this time next year I hope to be able to say

E _  _ e _  _ e _  _e       i _       t _ e      B e  _  _    T e _  _ _ e _!

I Need Your Help!

My birthday is next week. And since I don't plan to live until I'm 110 I'm pretty sure I've lived more than half my time on this earth. That isn't uncomfortable news. I don't necessarily want to live to 100. But I do, often, grow concerned that I'm not living my days as fully as I could.

It has been a lifelong issue for me. I remember turning 13 and feeling that life was just getting away from me. Because, you know, that's an issue for most 13-year olds.

Anyway, in response to my lifelong quest to live life as fully as possible I've come across an idea. But I need help.

The idea is this. I'm calling upon all my friend and family to help me come up with 55 ways that I might stretch my boundaries and grow in the coming year.This notion comes from an article I read about a woman who, on her 31st birthday saw a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop and decided to ask her friends and family for 31 ways that she could sample the flavors of life.

I fell in love with the idea.

The reason for asking others to help with the project rather than come up with my own 55 ideas is that I might only choose things I'm good at or comfortable with. By asking others for their ideas I can compile a list of things I might not think of. Plus 55 things is a lot! Most importantly, I am attracted to the idea that by accomplishing the goals others set for me, I am taking on a little piece of who they are and understanding what is important to them.

To get your creative juices flowing here are a few examples from the inspirational article:

• Write down all your blessings.
• Perform at an open mic night.
• Participate in Walk for the Cure.
• Go to a city meeting on a political issue.
• Write a children's story.
• Take a helicopter ride.
• Learn German and visit Germany.
• Start one day at 4 am on purpose.
• Use only one hand for an entire day.

So here is what I'm asking. Please join me in compiling my list of 55 flavors by offering your ideas for goals I can work toward in the coming year. The ideas can be simple or complex, expensive or cheap, silly or profound. Be creative! After I get the list together I will post it on my blog and write about my progress and experiences. 

I will consider any and all suggestions but keep in mind, you can't suggest I take a pole dancing class. I've already done that. And you can't suggest I start a PhD program. I've already done that. And you can't suggest I turn my hair pink. I've already done that.  And you can't suggest I wear the cutest flowered combat boots on the planet. Steve already gave me those for my birthday.

Aren't these the best boots in the world??

But you can suggest a myriad of other things. And if you offer a suggestion we can do together...all the better!

I'll take suggestions in whatever way you want to offer them. If you have my phone number, text or call  me with your idea. If you are my Facebook friend or Twitter follower, post it there. If you have my email, send it that way. Or leave your idea in the comments of this blog. (If you leave a comment, please make sure to tell me who you are.)

Thanks for joining me on this fun little journey of growth and experience.  I am so excited to see what happens!

Ready....go!

Making Assumptions

What's that saying about making assumptions?

Last week I decided to put a pink streak in my hair. Well, it was supposed to be a pink streak. It ended up being a pink splotch. But still, I thought it would be fun so I did it. In retrospect I realize I probably should have found out how long pink dye in blond hair would last before I committed to the splotch. I didn't think about that at the time.

I haven't done anything crazy to my hair for a while now. Having admitted my addiction to color changing chemicals I've been very rational and grown up about my hair recently. I have resisted the desire to make drastic color changes. Until Saturday. When I had a relapse. There I was, home with a free hour and a tube of fuchsia dye in the linen closet. Temptation overtook me. This happened.

It was supposed to be a subtle hot pink strip that just sort of peeked through the blond. Instead it ended up looking a little like I had suffered a head injury.  But, I was late for a party so I didn't have time to worry about it.

I found it interesting that hardly anyone at the party mentioned the bright pink clump of hair on the side of my head. Granted many who were in attendance know me well enough they probably weren't surprised. I'm sure some people couldn't say they liked it so they just chose not to say anything. And it was a pretty polite and conservative group so I wouldn't have expected any of them to say, "What the (insert expletive here)?" 

One relatively young man did say he thought a lot of people would assume a woman my age had dyed her hair pink in an effort to cling to youthfulness. But he added that he knew me and figured I had done it, 'just because.' He is right. I did it just because. Just because I could. Because it was Saturday and I had a free hour and a tube of fuchsia hair dye in the linen closet. And because I'm an addict.

I thought a lot about what he said though. He is right. A lot of people who don't know me would think I had done it in a desperate attempt to look young and hip. Let's face it. If I were going for young and hip I would have changed my hair and clothing style to something a lot more edgy.

Nevertheless, his comments made me think about how often we make assumptions about people.  As if, by mere observation we can actually know something about someone. I'm pretty sure we can't know something about someone unless we actually know the someone. But that doesn't seem to stop us from assuming.

I wanted pink hair because I could. Just that simple.

We all do it. We all make assumptions about people based on what we see. We assume things about people who are fat and skinny and young and old. We make assumptions based on skin color, accent, mannerism, style of dress and a myriad of other arbitrary criteria. Unless we know a person, though, we've no place making assumptions about them.

I'm ashamed to admit that I've made bad initial assumptions about some of the best people I know. Neither size, shape, nor color make the person. It's what can't be seen that truly matters.

I didn't end up loving my fuchsia clump but it was a fun experiment. I'm now conducting a fun experiment trying to get rid of it. I'm always hopeful that I will continue to have hair in that spot even as I try a variety of things to bleach it out. Instead of the bright shock of fuchsia, I currently look like I got a wad of pink cotton candy stuck in my hair.

I can't say I've learned to be more rational about hair color from this experience. I haven't. But I can say it has made me think about how often I make wrong assumptions about people. And about how making those assumptions keeps me from offering grace and kindness and compassion. Without grace and kindness and compassion we can't make this world a better place.

Assume grace.

Crying in Wal-Mart

I'm really not that crazy. I mean, yes, I'm a little bit crazy. But who isn't?

In fact, I'm not even sure crazy is the real issue. So I burst into tears in the middle of a store. What's the big deal?

(Source: Google Images)

For starters I had to go to Wal-Mart. That alone is enough to make a person cry. I typically don't go to Wal-Mart for a number of reasons, including concern for social justice issues and their general business values. Not to mention the overall weirdness of the place. But the other day I needed to go to Wal-Mart for an item I couldn't seem to find anywhere else. I was determined to get in and out as quickly as possible and headed toward my goal item with great intentionality, zipping past dawdling shoppers and short cutting through clothing racks. I got where I needed to be and started to scan the shelves. In a matter of moments a mother and a little girl, somewhere around 3-years old, came into the isle. They interacted sweetly for a bit and then the girl spied something she wanted. She asked for it. Mom said no. She asked again. Mom said no again. They did this for a while before the little girl lost composure and started crying and begging for whatever it was she wanted.  The mother never lost her patience but kept saying no.

That is when my crazy kicked in. I had to leave. Immediately. I had to walk away from their interaction because without warning I started to cry along with the little girl. Fortunately I wasn't wailing the way she was but I had to ground myself emotionally to keep from saying to the young mother, "Buy her what she wants. You don't understand how little time you have left with her. Soon she'll be gone to college and you'll be doing this alone. It goes by so fast." 

Obviously I didn't say that to the woman. For one thing it probably would have frightened her to have a tear-streaked-middle-aged woman she's never seen before telling her what to do with her child. Not to mention she was doing the right thing by not giving in. But my instantaneous reaction to their exchange made one thing clear.

It is time for Anna to come home for a little while.

Nevertheless, I made my way to the checkout trying not to look too off-balance as I attempted to regain my composure. I wanted in line for a near eternity as the cashier examined the fine print of every single coupon provided by the customer in front of me. Every. Single. Coupon. Every word. Every date. Because God forbid Wal-Mart might lose thirty-five cents by honoring an expired coupon. But that's beside the point.

I eventually made my purchase and left the store. By that time I was nearly back to normal but it made me think about why I felt the need to rush out of view because I had been blindsided by my emotions. Does crying because I miss my daughter really make me crazy?

I've always been one who cries easily. My mother made me stop watching Lassie when I was little because she got tired of me crying at the end of every episode. Although, in retrospect, I'm not sure making me watch Alfred Hitchcock was such a great idea.

Anyway, my Wal-Mart experience made me wonder why we, as a culture, are so afraid of tears. Why do we apologize for crying publicly? Assume it is a sign of weakness? And experience embarrassment and discomfort when someone sees us cry?

I think we've got it wrong. I don't think the intensity of missing my daughter when I saw that young mother and her little girl makes me weak or crazy. I don't think my tears indicate some emotional imbalance.

I think it makes me human.

Rather than hide my tears from view, maybe I should have just celebrated what they mean. That I miss the young woman with whom I spent years building a close and intimate relationship. That I recognize the speed with which time goes by and the importance of living intentionally and joyfully. That life is precious and fragile and fleeting.

I'm not saying I'm just going to walk around crying all the time. And I don't feel any compelling need to watch old Lassie TV shows. But if you should see me crying in Wal-Mart, don't assume I'm crazy or imbalanced or just hate Wal-Mart so much it brings me to tears. Just understand.

I'm human.