New Year's Eve Eve is here. Woo hoo! New Year's Eve has never really been my big thing. Amateur night, you know? Where all those who really can't/shouldn't/usually don't party hard always over emphasize/over prepare/over imbibe....and inevitably are overly disappointed and deservedly hung over. Hang overs at this stage of life are too time consuming to waste a day to the couch. Not to say it doesn't happen occasionally, it's just not something I PLAN for.
Now, my hubby had quite different plans for New Year's. For the past ten years(?) or so, he and A LOT of his cronies would gather at his home on New Year's DAY starting at six a.m. and cook breakfast (french toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, bagels, etc) while heavily imbibing in spirits of choice. Breakfast toasts takes on new meaning here. By noon, the chili (lots of chili) was being served alongside marinated deer ribs, boar, pulled pork, and any number of assorted pot luck dishes. The evening would set in with even more food and even more drinks and a steady influx of new guests arriving as the earliest revelers departed. As the evening would wind down around eight or nine, the twenty somethings (who had slept all day due to being out all night New Year's Eve) would start to take up residence, continuing the party till the wee hours of January 2ND.
Having joined/signed up/ been abducted into this household, I've had the pleasure and fun to witness some great moments at the behest of ringing in the New Year Ala Wesley. First rule of thumb- You don't want to go out the night before and actually celebrate the incoming New Year at midnight LIKE THE REST OF THE WORLD. This would result in a major headache and the urge to kill the people who will continue to knock on the door at six am whether you answer it or not. Nope, not this crowd. In fact, most Wesley-ans (large masses of like minded people as per mysuestories) stay home the night before, and rumor has it (to this I can attest) most of them are fast asleep before ten p.m., with visions of spirits and chili dancing through their heads. It appears this rare breed of people take their revelry very seriously.
Part of the challenge is to see who will appear first (although three years in to this, I can tell you, people, don't even try to beat Jimmy, who will arrive super early and immediately take over the kitchen cooking duties as well as a fine bottle of scotch!) From then on, the crowd swells and ebbs, the libations flowing, and the laughter insurmountably growing.
This is not to say these events are not without their moments. LOTS of moments. There was the year one female party goer wanted to kick the very inebriated butt of another female reveler (can you say cat fight anyone?) because the second feline had accidentally spilled a beer on an innocent bystander tom cat, neither of which either knew or cared to know him. That's got to be a great feeling, when you, the innocent tom, have two unknown kittens ready to gouge each other's eyes out over you!
There was the drunken party-er who was clearly not fit to drive, and accepted an extremely gracious offer by another non drinking guest to drive him quite out of her way to his home. Once in the car, said over indulger proceeded to thank her by telling her what an ugly bi och she was(!?!). And SHE was kind enough to continue to take him home. I would have left his ass in front of the nearest police department in the driver's seat of my car with the keys super glued to his hands which would then be glued to the steering wheel. (I would NEVER actually give him a chance to drive drunk and possibly harm my car in any way!)
There is our other dear friend, whom we made arrangements to have driven home in her car, while another followed to drive her driver back. This particular friend was of the variety that insisted she was pertectly/perfly/profectly fine to drive home. She then proceeded to get into the passenger seat of her car to do so.
And, my personal favorite. We have a dear friend who doesn't always drink well, and said friend should probably not overdue it in the alcohol department. Sloppy Sam, as his alcohol imbibing persona is known, would occasionally overindulge, with the nickname being descriptive of the eventual outcome.
That being said, this was a party, and we don't always do what's best. At some point in the evening, my dear hubby called me to look out our back door into the rain that had begun to fall. There, in the mud beyond our back steps, was a quite inebriated Sam, who true to his name, was quite sloppily rolling around on the ground. Luckily, an equally inebriated female attendee, was attempting to assist him in getting to his feet, and ended up straddling him in the mud. The resulting view was of two people simulating sex in the mud with their clothes on. I turned to my hubby and said, "What should we do?", to which he wholeheartedly replied, "nothing", as he led me away and back into the house.
Yes, these parties are fun and entertaining. And no, thank God, no one has ever been hurt or injured in the making of such fun (unless you count the brain cells that never made it back out of the door on those days). And we share here only with the greatest intention of sharing laughter and nothing more. And I am sure, truth be told, I have done more than my share of providing the laughter as opposed to just reporting it. You just won't be reading those episodes here. Hey, you've heard of poetic license, right?
Anyway, go about your New Year's celebration in whatever way makes you happiest. Me? I'm just gonna pull a chair up on the back porch and let the holiday unfold around me.
Have a happy and a healthy! And please, don't drive drunk. I can't afford to lose what little readership I have. Happy New Year! And thanks for reading, oh constant reader.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Anthony The Angry Goldfish
We spend a lot of time during the holidays celebrating with really good friends. We gather any where to celebrate anything. It is always a great time, and the reminiscences and rants and raves amongst us are great reminders of why we love all these people. And we do love them. Each and every one. And every once in a while, one of us/them will share a small slice of their life, and this will occasionally give us pause, as in "Wow, some of our friends are wackos!" Then we remember, this is why so much alcohol flows at these little get-togethers. And we realize that life without wackos would be really, really boring. Then we drink some more.
We have one friend, lets call her Dona (not because she is in witness protection, but simply because that is her name!) And Dona, well she is an amazing artist. She can create the most wonderfully artistic things out of metal, pine garland, beads, and now, thanks to her new Christmas gift/ chain saw, trees. She is no ordinary friend. And as she recited a tale from a previous life (of which she has many- tales AND lives!), her uniqueness was never more apparent.
Dona had a goldfish a few years back. She named him Anthony. This right here should have set off some major bells in the something is not quite right department. I mean, who names a goldfish anything? And if you feel so inclined to name said goldfish, Nemo or maybe Goldy seem logical choices. But Anthony? I was worried already.
Dona swears that Anthony didn't just spend his days swimming back and forth, forth and back across his little tank so prominently displayed on their kitchen counter. Nope. Anthony had personality. And a few anger management issues. He would rap his thermometer against the glass if he thought his dinner was behind schedule. He would displace his plastic plants and other underwater furniture (think scuba diver attached to an air hose) if he was feeling a little neglected. Some times these little tantrums (?!!) would result in a little fish-time out. How do you put a goldfish in a chair in a corner, you ask? Or I'll ask, because the question BEGS to be asked. Well, during Anthony's destructive moody episodes(?!), dona would remove the offensive items from his tank. The old, you can't toss around what you don't have any more technique.
During one such period of forced isloation, Dona noticed that Anthony was not swimming happily back and forth, forth and back, and at first she thought he was angry with her. Is anyone out there looking up the number of a good therapist out there? Perhaps one who could handle both her AND our fickle fish friend? Alas, upon closer inspection, Dona realized Anthony was not angry with her as she first believed, but that he was in distress. She surmised that he, Anthony the Angry Goldfish, was actually choking on a piece of gravel.
Quick thinking, and maybe just a little strangely(?), Dona immediately calls the animal help hot line. I have had pets all my life, including many unnamed, but otherwise psychosis free fish, and I did not know there was such a hot line. She, however, not only was aware of it's existence, she knew the number. And she maintained the level headedness to place a call during Anthony's time of need. She explained the problem to the person who would volunteer to man such a hot line (can you imagine what kind of time THAT person must have on their hands, just waiting for a fish in distress call?!!). This fish-crisis interventionist calmly explained to Dona that she must REMOVE the choking party FROM HIS TANK and perform a fishy type of Heimlich maneuver. At this point, I suspect that the person manning the animal 911 center is rolling on the floor in great heaves of belly laughter.
But Dona, true to her endearing nature, is on a mission to save her attitudinal fish. She removes Anthony from his soon to be watery grave, and places him on a towel on the counter as instructed. Now, as I see it, Anthony now has TWO problems. Number one, he is still choking, which must have been awful for the poor little piece of bait- I mean fish. But now that his loving keeper has thrust him out of his tank and on to a towel, he has NO WATER!!!!! He is the proverbial, no make that, he is ACTUALLY a fish out of water!
With a delicacy I obviously don't possess, Dona is able to palpitate our little neurotic Nemo's chest(?), and after two little pumps, the offending piece of gravel pops out of Anthony's little fish mouth (think Pierce Brosnan/Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire). Dona replaces Anthony to his home, where I imagine he immediately starts praising and cursing the psycho human who is his master. And as with all heart warming tales, they live happily ever after. At least for a little while.
It appears Dona's life saving technique caused a bowel obstruction (which I assume was determined at autopsy(?), and little Anthony expired six months later. Personally, I think it was a suicide. True to the tumultuous life that he led, Anthony had the poor timing to pass from this life to the next in the dead (oops) of winter. The ground was too frozen to bury him (BURY???? A GOLDFISH???-Whatever happened to the old flush-a-roo????), so Dona ceremoniously wrapped him in a Ziploc shroud and stored him in her freezer till the spring thaw whereupon he was buried with the highest of honors and dignity.
And so, at this most wonderful time of the year, as we remember our milestones and those whom are no longer here to swim amongst us, we toast to you, our nearest and dearest friends. Of course we love each and every one of you. And when we laugh, rest assured we laugh with you (sometimes at you, but always with you!). And of course, we thank you, dear, dear friends, for with you in our lives, life will NEVER be boring!
We have one friend, lets call her Dona (not because she is in witness protection, but simply because that is her name!) And Dona, well she is an amazing artist. She can create the most wonderfully artistic things out of metal, pine garland, beads, and now, thanks to her new Christmas gift/ chain saw, trees. She is no ordinary friend. And as she recited a tale from a previous life (of which she has many- tales AND lives!), her uniqueness was never more apparent.
Dona had a goldfish a few years back. She named him Anthony. This right here should have set off some major bells in the something is not quite right department. I mean, who names a goldfish anything? And if you feel so inclined to name said goldfish, Nemo or maybe Goldy seem logical choices. But Anthony? I was worried already.
Dona swears that Anthony didn't just spend his days swimming back and forth, forth and back across his little tank so prominently displayed on their kitchen counter. Nope. Anthony had personality. And a few anger management issues. He would rap his thermometer against the glass if he thought his dinner was behind schedule. He would displace his plastic plants and other underwater furniture (think scuba diver attached to an air hose) if he was feeling a little neglected. Some times these little tantrums (?!!) would result in a little fish-time out. How do you put a goldfish in a chair in a corner, you ask? Or I'll ask, because the question BEGS to be asked. Well, during Anthony's destructive moody episodes(?!), dona would remove the offensive items from his tank. The old, you can't toss around what you don't have any more technique.
During one such period of forced isloation, Dona noticed that Anthony was not swimming happily back and forth, forth and back, and at first she thought he was angry with her. Is anyone out there looking up the number of a good therapist out there? Perhaps one who could handle both her AND our fickle fish friend? Alas, upon closer inspection, Dona realized Anthony was not angry with her as she first believed, but that he was in distress. She surmised that he, Anthony the Angry Goldfish, was actually choking on a piece of gravel.
Quick thinking, and maybe just a little strangely(?), Dona immediately calls the animal help hot line. I have had pets all my life, including many unnamed, but otherwise psychosis free fish, and I did not know there was such a hot line. She, however, not only was aware of it's existence, she knew the number. And she maintained the level headedness to place a call during Anthony's time of need. She explained the problem to the person who would volunteer to man such a hot line (can you imagine what kind of time THAT person must have on their hands, just waiting for a fish in distress call?!!). This fish-crisis interventionist calmly explained to Dona that she must REMOVE the choking party FROM HIS TANK and perform a fishy type of Heimlich maneuver. At this point, I suspect that the person manning the animal 911 center is rolling on the floor in great heaves of belly laughter.
But Dona, true to her endearing nature, is on a mission to save her attitudinal fish. She removes Anthony from his soon to be watery grave, and places him on a towel on the counter as instructed. Now, as I see it, Anthony now has TWO problems. Number one, he is still choking, which must have been awful for the poor little piece of bait- I mean fish. But now that his loving keeper has thrust him out of his tank and on to a towel, he has NO WATER!!!!! He is the proverbial, no make that, he is ACTUALLY a fish out of water!
With a delicacy I obviously don't possess, Dona is able to palpitate our little neurotic Nemo's chest(?), and after two little pumps, the offending piece of gravel pops out of Anthony's little fish mouth (think Pierce Brosnan/Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire). Dona replaces Anthony to his home, where I imagine he immediately starts praising and cursing the psycho human who is his master. And as with all heart warming tales, they live happily ever after. At least for a little while.
It appears Dona's life saving technique caused a bowel obstruction (which I assume was determined at autopsy(?), and little Anthony expired six months later. Personally, I think it was a suicide. True to the tumultuous life that he led, Anthony had the poor timing to pass from this life to the next in the dead (oops) of winter. The ground was too frozen to bury him (BURY???? A GOLDFISH???-Whatever happened to the old flush-a-roo????), so Dona ceremoniously wrapped him in a Ziploc shroud and stored him in her freezer till the spring thaw whereupon he was buried with the highest of honors and dignity.
And so, at this most wonderful time of the year, as we remember our milestones and those whom are no longer here to swim amongst us, we toast to you, our nearest and dearest friends. Of course we love each and every one of you. And when we laugh, rest assured we laugh with you (sometimes at you, but always with you!). And of course, we thank you, dear, dear friends, for with you in our lives, life will NEVER be boring!
Friday, December 26, 2008
Call Me, Call Me Anytime!
The toys are strewn from one end of the house to the other. There are new video game systems to be set up and new hunting rifles to be cleaned and stored away. New movies to watch and iTunes to download. But that's not really what this season is all about, is it? Nope. The games and gadgets are good (the laptop of course is GREAT!). But the one gift that topped everyone's list in our house this year? The Panasonic wireless phone/answering machine with 5 (that's right -count 'em! 5) handsets, each with their very own Base charging station. Now with three kids and the two of us....well, mathematically speaking, this is good news for our house.
See, we are currently deprived of any corded phone hanging on a wall or sitting on a nightstand table. We have a wireless handset/phone answering machine, with two additional handsets. With a twenty something, a teenager, and a tween, and four seperate bedrooms, we are always in search of a phone (and, shudder, one that is charged long enough to dial and speak three words before it loses power and shuts down completetly always when talking to my mother , who is getting a little suspicious of how in this day and age we can't possibly acquire a working land line!).
Did I mention that each member of our family also possesses a cell phone, and yet, still we can't locate a house phone?!
And trust me, when Momma can't find a ringing phone, NOBODY is happy!
So it was with much glee and joy that our family was the proud recipient of the handy-dandy- every-body-gets-a-phone-in-their-own-room-with-a-charger. Now I have a cellphone AND a phone in my bedroom AND a phone in the living room.
It took us 3 hours to set them all up...I know, I know, I make us sound so technologically advanced, don't I? But in actuality, any job bigger than switching a battery makes me shudder. And dear heart? Well, his idea of changing a light bulb requires the use of a hammer. I kid you not.
It's been 2 days now, and still I sit and stare in wonderment at the marvel that is MY phone. It's battery bars at full mast. And there it sits.
I wonder what it will sound like if (I mean when, dammit, when!) it finally rings!
See, we are currently deprived of any corded phone hanging on a wall or sitting on a nightstand table. We have a wireless handset/phone answering machine, with two additional handsets. With a twenty something, a teenager, and a tween, and four seperate bedrooms, we are always in search of a phone (and, shudder, one that is charged long enough to dial and speak three words before it loses power and shuts down completetly always when talking to my mother , who is getting a little suspicious of how in this day and age we can't possibly acquire a working land line!).
Did I mention that each member of our family also possesses a cell phone, and yet, still we can't locate a house phone?!
And trust me, when Momma can't find a ringing phone, NOBODY is happy!
So it was with much glee and joy that our family was the proud recipient of the handy-dandy- every-body-gets-a-phone-in-their-own-room-with-a-charger. Now I have a cellphone AND a phone in my bedroom AND a phone in the living room.
It took us 3 hours to set them all up...I know, I know, I make us sound so technologically advanced, don't I? But in actuality, any job bigger than switching a battery makes me shudder. And dear heart? Well, his idea of changing a light bulb requires the use of a hammer. I kid you not.
It's been 2 days now, and still I sit and stare in wonderment at the marvel that is MY phone. It's battery bars at full mast. And there it sits.
I wonder what it will sound like if (I mean when, dammit, when!) it finally rings!
There's no Place Like Home
We wrapped, we unwrapped, we ate, we drank, we conquered. Christmas 2008 was an absolute slam dunk. Everyone had their fill of presents and food, and some of us, more than our fill of glasses of spirits (think spiked egg nog rather than spooky!). We had a full two days of visiting and receiving company, and everyone was just so gracious and generous and a wonderful time was definitely had by all. We had new friends in (Hi, John, - and don't worry, we are really NOT that scary, are we?) and of course some of our oldest (Hi, Eddie---LOL only kidding!) and nearest and dearest friends and family together. And we laughed. Not one disagreement or any pouting children. It was a perfect day topped by an even better evening of laughter and fun at any one's expense (sorry, Jen!). And who knew a certain very talented sister-in-law could actually create a sweatshirt with a beer cozy built in?! Her sewing was only to be outdone by her fudge.
Anyway, we all had such a wonderful time, that before I knew it, we are all planning to recreate the scene this Saturday evening....a little early new years thing, if you will..
I mean, heck, everything was Norman Rockwell perfect Wednesday and Thursday...What could possibly go wrong?
So, consider this your official invite to Our Home for the Holidays......
Oh, and make sure you wear your sweatshirt/beer cozy. It keeps the hands free if you want to go outside and play "rocks" with the other kids.
Happy Holidays from our home to yours! Oh, and constant reader, Thanks for visiting.
Anyway, we all had such a wonderful time, that before I knew it, we are all planning to recreate the scene this Saturday evening....a little early new years thing, if you will..
I mean, heck, everything was Norman Rockwell perfect Wednesday and Thursday...What could possibly go wrong?
So, consider this your official invite to Our Home for the Holidays......
Oh, and make sure you wear your sweatshirt/beer cozy. It keeps the hands free if you want to go outside and play "rocks" with the other kids.
Happy Holidays from our home to yours! Oh, and constant reader, Thanks for visiting.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Home for The Holidays
It's time. The moment I've been waiting for. The tree is decorated. The gifts are wrapped. The house is even semi clean. Okay...slightly clean. We are in full holiday mode, here on our corner of the earth! I am enjoying the twinkly lights, the ornaments, the nativity scene on the corner table......Anyway, I just want to wish you, my dear constant, (only? say it isn't so!)--Happy tidings! Happy whatever holiday gets you and whatever dysfunctional uncle and or anorexic aunts together! I appreciate your visiting with me. And I hope you have enjoyed your visit as much as I have enjoyed having you. Thanks for visiting, again.
We will meet again, dear reader. Till then, enjoy your family, friends, and virtual friends.
love you.
mysuestories
We will meet again, dear reader. Till then, enjoy your family, friends, and virtual friends.
love you.
mysuestories
Ruff, Ruff, Ruff (sing to the tune of Jingle Bells)
Let me start by saying, hey, it's less than 48 hours till holiday kick off time (24 if Christmas Eve is your big thing), and it is naturally a busy, hectic, unorganized, harried time of year. At least at OUR address. And I don't even do any baking, and my dear heart does most of the holiday cooking. I am our designated shopper (Shoes my specialty!) I do the decorating inside, and dear heart strings the outside lights. I complete the wrapping, although he DOES make out the tags, and we inevitably have the one unmarked gift that must be opened (without ruining the wrap job) and relabeled. So needless, to say, our house has been as hectic as all of yours, I'm sure.
So, how would you think we should spend our last Sunday before the holiday bustle REALLY kicks off? Considering we had a wintry mix of sleet and rain all Saturday night and Sunday, a hot Toddie while watching the tree would have been nice. A few last minute errands, even better. How about just catching up with a book nestled under a thick blanket? Sounds great. But, this is the house that WE built, and trust me, nothing is as simple as it should be.
We awoke Sunday morning, and I decided to put the dogs out for a few minutes in their pen. They had been cooped up nearly 24 hours, and even though the weather was lousy, I figured a five minute stretch would do them some good. Well, Rusty, our female, made a bee line for the doghouse, where she would stay until I climbed in and pulled her out. Bruno, our feminine male promptly buried himself in his crate under two blankets, and was having none of that outside crap. Mickey, our miniature Alpha male, bounded into their pen enthusiastically. Squirrel hunting is fun in any weather.
Not ten minutes later, I donned snow boots and coat, and went around back to retrieve my two albatrosses. I reached the pen, and oddly, Mickey was not jumping gleefully at the gate. I climbed into the aforementioned dog house, and dragged Rusty out from the farthest corner possible. Mickey was nowhere to be found.
I threw the one dog into the house, and Mountain Man, whom I've mentioned before, just adores these little buggers as much as an orphan loves lice...well, he donned his hat, coat and boots, and we set out in this miserable weather to go up and down the block uselessly calling Mickey. If this wasn't a testament to the limits of his love for me, I don't know what would be. Of course, Mickey is the one of the three dogs that NEVER answers when called. Much like our human (?) children. Great hunter that he is, my honey is able to find the half inch tracks of little doggy paws in the snow, and I foolishly think, this will be a snap. Two blocks later, the tracks abruptly end, and we spend the next hour and a half alternately looking, calling, and yes, cursing the damned dog.
We continue to look by car and foot for the remainder of the afternoon. It is still raining. I am wearing soggy clothes, my feet are wet, and my hair resembles that of a wet ferret. Great. Still no sign of Mickey.
Now, at 8 inches tall full grown, and a pedigree to boot, I'm thinking the worst of human nature. There is no way he wouldn't have come back on his own by now. Someone has decided to pinch our pooch and make an early Christmas gift of him. Wonderful. I am devastated, my 12 year old is continuously asking if he's back yet, and my hubby is acting like a little kid who just got his birthday wish fulfilled.
By the next morning, I am printing out one hundred flyers to pass out around town going door to door. Another productive holiday task to come. Yea, me. I call our local animal shelter, on the outside chance someone brought him in. No luck, but they did ask if I was sure it was a miniature red dauschund I was looking for and not a full size multi colored llapso apso. With very little confidence, I filled out a missing dog report, which apparently can be done in less time than a missing persons report. That should tell you something about this nation's care of animals over people.
I ruefully settle in to work, when not ten minutes later I receive a call from a woman from the next town over. Apparently her husband caught sight of our wet noodle of a pet two blocks from our home, and picked him up and brought him to his wife, who coincidentally has a full sized dauschaund. Seeing as his identification tag had come off, she dried him off and settle him in to their home, where he proceeded to mark his territory. Loyal little thing, ain't he?
He snubbed his nose at her dog's dry food, which is ALL he eats at home, so this angel of a woman COOKED for him. Chicken and rice for dinner, and then scrambled eggs for breakfast. By nine fifteen, she had called the same animal shelter I had just hung up from, whereas they kindly gave her my number. Profoundly grateful, and almost a little weepy, I thanked her over and over again. She agreed to hold him until my hubby to grab him on the way home from work. "Not to worry," says she. "After his catered breakfast he snuggled in to a spare crate she had gotten out for him and was resting comfortably."
Of course he was. He wasn't battling a cold like yours truly from having been out in a blizzard all day before. The kicker? Her husband had picked the little bugger up not ten minutes after he squeezed out of the pen.
Looking more than a little depressed at the prospect of having brought our dog quota back up to three, dear heart obligingly ran over and retrieved our third missing mongrel and then was rewarded with loads of hugs and kisses.
Oh. So was dear heart. Thank you, once again, big guy. Don't worry. I won't tell the dogs that you are an old softy at heart!
Oh, and will someone tell Mickey that he may as well eat that dry dog food in his bowl. I am NOT scrambling eggs for him, and it's a pretty good bet dear heart isn't either!
So, how would you think we should spend our last Sunday before the holiday bustle REALLY kicks off? Considering we had a wintry mix of sleet and rain all Saturday night and Sunday, a hot Toddie while watching the tree would have been nice. A few last minute errands, even better. How about just catching up with a book nestled under a thick blanket? Sounds great. But, this is the house that WE built, and trust me, nothing is as simple as it should be.
We awoke Sunday morning, and I decided to put the dogs out for a few minutes in their pen. They had been cooped up nearly 24 hours, and even though the weather was lousy, I figured a five minute stretch would do them some good. Well, Rusty, our female, made a bee line for the doghouse, where she would stay until I climbed in and pulled her out. Bruno, our feminine male promptly buried himself in his crate under two blankets, and was having none of that outside crap. Mickey, our miniature Alpha male, bounded into their pen enthusiastically. Squirrel hunting is fun in any weather.
Not ten minutes later, I donned snow boots and coat, and went around back to retrieve my two albatrosses. I reached the pen, and oddly, Mickey was not jumping gleefully at the gate. I climbed into the aforementioned dog house, and dragged Rusty out from the farthest corner possible. Mickey was nowhere to be found.
I threw the one dog into the house, and Mountain Man, whom I've mentioned before, just adores these little buggers as much as an orphan loves lice...well, he donned his hat, coat and boots, and we set out in this miserable weather to go up and down the block uselessly calling Mickey. If this wasn't a testament to the limits of his love for me, I don't know what would be. Of course, Mickey is the one of the three dogs that NEVER answers when called. Much like our human (?) children. Great hunter that he is, my honey is able to find the half inch tracks of little doggy paws in the snow, and I foolishly think, this will be a snap. Two blocks later, the tracks abruptly end, and we spend the next hour and a half alternately looking, calling, and yes, cursing the damned dog.
We continue to look by car and foot for the remainder of the afternoon. It is still raining. I am wearing soggy clothes, my feet are wet, and my hair resembles that of a wet ferret. Great. Still no sign of Mickey.
Now, at 8 inches tall full grown, and a pedigree to boot, I'm thinking the worst of human nature. There is no way he wouldn't have come back on his own by now. Someone has decided to pinch our pooch and make an early Christmas gift of him. Wonderful. I am devastated, my 12 year old is continuously asking if he's back yet, and my hubby is acting like a little kid who just got his birthday wish fulfilled.
By the next morning, I am printing out one hundred flyers to pass out around town going door to door. Another productive holiday task to come. Yea, me. I call our local animal shelter, on the outside chance someone brought him in. No luck, but they did ask if I was sure it was a miniature red dauschund I was looking for and not a full size multi colored llapso apso. With very little confidence, I filled out a missing dog report, which apparently can be done in less time than a missing persons report. That should tell you something about this nation's care of animals over people.
I ruefully settle in to work, when not ten minutes later I receive a call from a woman from the next town over. Apparently her husband caught sight of our wet noodle of a pet two blocks from our home, and picked him up and brought him to his wife, who coincidentally has a full sized dauschaund. Seeing as his identification tag had come off, she dried him off and settle him in to their home, where he proceeded to mark his territory. Loyal little thing, ain't he?
He snubbed his nose at her dog's dry food, which is ALL he eats at home, so this angel of a woman COOKED for him. Chicken and rice for dinner, and then scrambled eggs for breakfast. By nine fifteen, she had called the same animal shelter I had just hung up from, whereas they kindly gave her my number. Profoundly grateful, and almost a little weepy, I thanked her over and over again. She agreed to hold him until my hubby to grab him on the way home from work. "Not to worry," says she. "After his catered breakfast he snuggled in to a spare crate she had gotten out for him and was resting comfortably."
Of course he was. He wasn't battling a cold like yours truly from having been out in a blizzard all day before. The kicker? Her husband had picked the little bugger up not ten minutes after he squeezed out of the pen.
Looking more than a little depressed at the prospect of having brought our dog quota back up to three, dear heart obligingly ran over and retrieved our third missing mongrel and then was rewarded with loads of hugs and kisses.
Oh. So was dear heart. Thank you, once again, big guy. Don't worry. I won't tell the dogs that you are an old softy at heart!
Oh, and will someone tell Mickey that he may as well eat that dry dog food in his bowl. I am NOT scrambling eggs for him, and it's a pretty good bet dear heart isn't either!
Friday, December 19, 2008
No Business Like Snow Business
It's snowing in my part of blog world. It's about five pm and it's been snowing pretty heavily since ten a.m. We've got about four inches so far, and no sign of letting up yet. I work about forty miles (all parkways) from home, so snow is a MAJOR cause of stress for me. I work in a business where the show must go on, so rarely do I stay home due to weather.
So, I got up earlier than usual, and left the house by five a.m. ( I know, sucks to be me. It's not too bad, as long as you don't like prime time tv!) I was in to work before six, and come the first snow flake, I was headed home. I made it in to the driveway just as the snow started to stick. Lucky me.
Not always. Of course not. If my life were all peaches and cream, what a dull blog this would be. Okay, maybe even duller than it already is.
About five years ago, it was snowing as I was heading to work. There was already about three
inches on the roads, but I figured what the heck. I was invincible. I am woman. Hear me roar! (Although if you ask hubby, these days it's more like hear me snore.) So I took my trusty sled-translate- Mitsubishi Eclipse- more like a snow skate than a car with traction.
I was approaching the parkway and feeling pretty confident. There weren't many cars on the road (gee, I wonder why), and those that were out were all heavy duty pick ups and Hummers. In hindsight, I probably should have pondered that information a little more thoroughly.
Anyway, I was in complete control, when my dear old bucket of bolts car decided it did not want to approach the parkway headlights first.
The car went into a blind spin, during which time, I clearly remember screaming (aloud? in my head?-- What's the difference at that point?) I remember thinking, turn away from the spin. I did. No difference. I tried turning the steering wheel INTO the spin. Less difference. So I just spun and spun, and spun some more. I was wondering if my car would stop when it hit the guardrail that had started out two lanes away from me, or if it would stop when it hit up against a tree on the other side of the road.
It did neither. It simply stopped spinning after the third (or was it fourth?) 360 degree turn and came to rest somewhere in the middle of the four lane highway. well. This was good. The only problem was, I was now pointing towards oncoming traffic. The headlights of traffic that was supposed to be behind me were now shining AT me.
Thank God/Allah/St. Christopher and who ever else was in charge of me that day, because the first vehicle approaching was a Hummer. And HIS car stopped on command. So did the others behind him.
I took a deep breath, and turned on my directional to make a left hand turn from the Wrong direction on to a side street. I pulled off, and put the car in park. After counting fingers and toes and limbs still intact (don't ask why-there was NO rational thought happening by now), I put the car back in gear and spent the next thirty minutes navigating my way back home.
Home. My haven. Where my family were still safely and snuggly tucked in their beds. Home. Where I wanted to be enveloped in their love and comfort.
I was greeted at the door by my then husband and oldest son, who had come to see why I was back so soon. I retold AND relived my tale of woe, and I sat down to drink in their warmth and kindnesses.
I waited. And then I waited some more. When I finally lifted my weary head from my hands, I realized why their comforting tidings weren't heard. They were laughing. Not out loud. Not at first. But there it was. The snicker that can't quite be suppressed.
Okay, thought I. It was a LITLE funny. Me, the big old bad Mom who could handle anything, all shook up over a little snow. Heck, I hadn't even hit anything. No harm done.
Life went on, the world turned, more snow came and went. And the big spinout was all but forgotten.
Until last week. When my eleven year old, WHO WAS ONLY SIX AT THE TIME of the big spinout, came off the school bus and bounded into the house. He said, "How come you're home so early? Oh wait a minute. There were flurries this afternoon, weren't there?"
Well, it COULD have been a big snow fall.
So, I got up earlier than usual, and left the house by five a.m. ( I know, sucks to be me. It's not too bad, as long as you don't like prime time tv!) I was in to work before six, and come the first snow flake, I was headed home. I made it in to the driveway just as the snow started to stick. Lucky me.
Not always. Of course not. If my life were all peaches and cream, what a dull blog this would be. Okay, maybe even duller than it already is.
About five years ago, it was snowing as I was heading to work. There was already about three
inches on the roads, but I figured what the heck. I was invincible. I am woman. Hear me roar! (Although if you ask hubby, these days it's more like hear me snore.) So I took my trusty sled-translate- Mitsubishi Eclipse- more like a snow skate than a car with traction.
I was approaching the parkway and feeling pretty confident. There weren't many cars on the road (gee, I wonder why), and those that were out were all heavy duty pick ups and Hummers. In hindsight, I probably should have pondered that information a little more thoroughly.
Anyway, I was in complete control, when my dear old bucket of bolts car decided it did not want to approach the parkway headlights first.
The car went into a blind spin, during which time, I clearly remember screaming (aloud? in my head?-- What's the difference at that point?) I remember thinking, turn away from the spin. I did. No difference. I tried turning the steering wheel INTO the spin. Less difference. So I just spun and spun, and spun some more. I was wondering if my car would stop when it hit the guardrail that had started out two lanes away from me, or if it would stop when it hit up against a tree on the other side of the road.
It did neither. It simply stopped spinning after the third (or was it fourth?) 360 degree turn and came to rest somewhere in the middle of the four lane highway. well. This was good. The only problem was, I was now pointing towards oncoming traffic. The headlights of traffic that was supposed to be behind me were now shining AT me.
Thank God/Allah/St. Christopher and who ever else was in charge of me that day, because the first vehicle approaching was a Hummer. And HIS car stopped on command. So did the others behind him.
I took a deep breath, and turned on my directional to make a left hand turn from the Wrong direction on to a side street. I pulled off, and put the car in park. After counting fingers and toes and limbs still intact (don't ask why-there was NO rational thought happening by now), I put the car back in gear and spent the next thirty minutes navigating my way back home.
Home. My haven. Where my family were still safely and snuggly tucked in their beds. Home. Where I wanted to be enveloped in their love and comfort.
I was greeted at the door by my then husband and oldest son, who had come to see why I was back so soon. I retold AND relived my tale of woe, and I sat down to drink in their warmth and kindnesses.
I waited. And then I waited some more. When I finally lifted my weary head from my hands, I realized why their comforting tidings weren't heard. They were laughing. Not out loud. Not at first. But there it was. The snicker that can't quite be suppressed.
Okay, thought I. It was a LITLE funny. Me, the big old bad Mom who could handle anything, all shook up over a little snow. Heck, I hadn't even hit anything. No harm done.
Life went on, the world turned, more snow came and went. And the big spinout was all but forgotten.
Until last week. When my eleven year old, WHO WAS ONLY SIX AT THE TIME of the big spinout, came off the school bus and bounded into the house. He said, "How come you're home so early? Oh wait a minute. There were flurries this afternoon, weren't there?"
Well, it COULD have been a big snow fall.
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