Dear Client Who Begins Every E-mail With "I Hope All Is Well With You,"
I'm sure you think you're being polite, because you seem OK otherwise, but really, I find this kind of patronizing. We've never met; we've never even spoken on the phone, and while I'm sure you have no reason to wish me ill, I highly doubt when you hit that "compose a new message" button in your e-mail program, you're thinking, "I really hope Erika is having a great day, and I'm going to tell her so." Especially when you've already e-mailed me five minutes before saying the same thing.
I feel I should let you know -- via this blog to which I will never direct you and which I am quite sure you will never find on your own -- that this fake nicey nice is actually really annoying, especially after you forwarded me the message you sent to your boss, which began with the same sentence. After reading that, I have a very hard time believing that you do in fact hope all is well with me.
Sincerely,
Erika
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Got Refrigeration?
I had an odd flashback to my childhood at breakfast time yesterday.
When I was a little kid, I ate cereal every morning. I don't say "cold cereal," however, because rarely was it actually "cold." My dad, who was always up at the crack of dawn, drinking coffee and reading at the kitchen table, would get out the milk and leave it on the counter throughout the morning so he didn't have to keep taking it out of the fridge every time he filled his coffee cup. We're talking like an hour or so, not long enough for the milk to go bad or anything, but by the time I got up and poured my cereal, the milk had gone from frosty cold to just below room temperature. Eventually, I switched to toast, but in my elementary school years, just-below-room-temperature cereal was a breakfast time staple.
Yesterday, I sat down with a bowl of Grape Nuts (one of my favorites from the olden days), and at first bite, I was taken back 20 years -- the milk was kind of warm. Even though my dad is now three states away and my milk choice is now soy, I couldn't help looking to see if there was a coffee cup and a Clive Cussler book sitting around somewhere.
As it turns out, my dad had not come for a surprise visit -- there's just something wrong with my fridge. My husband turned down the temperature, but today, everything is still just a little warmer than it should be, so we figure we're either in for an annoying repair, or a new fridge.
Obviously, I'd rather go for whatever is more cost effective, but I wouldn't mind getting a new fridge -- the other one is pretty grubby, and this way, I wouldn't have to scrub it.
When I was a little kid, I ate cereal every morning. I don't say "cold cereal," however, because rarely was it actually "cold." My dad, who was always up at the crack of dawn, drinking coffee and reading at the kitchen table, would get out the milk and leave it on the counter throughout the morning so he didn't have to keep taking it out of the fridge every time he filled his coffee cup. We're talking like an hour or so, not long enough for the milk to go bad or anything, but by the time I got up and poured my cereal, the milk had gone from frosty cold to just below room temperature. Eventually, I switched to toast, but in my elementary school years, just-below-room-temperature cereal was a breakfast time staple.
Yesterday, I sat down with a bowl of Grape Nuts (one of my favorites from the olden days), and at first bite, I was taken back 20 years -- the milk was kind of warm. Even though my dad is now three states away and my milk choice is now soy, I couldn't help looking to see if there was a coffee cup and a Clive Cussler book sitting around somewhere.
As it turns out, my dad had not come for a surprise visit -- there's just something wrong with my fridge. My husband turned down the temperature, but today, everything is still just a little warmer than it should be, so we figure we're either in for an annoying repair, or a new fridge.
Obviously, I'd rather go for whatever is more cost effective, but I wouldn't mind getting a new fridge -- the other one is pretty grubby, and this way, I wouldn't have to scrub it.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Crash!
Last night, I came home from work expecting Stella to come running to greet me, as she usually does. Instead, I found her sitting pitifully in my husband's lap.
"Honey," he said, "I think our little girl is hurt."
A few minutes before I got home, the two had been outside taking care of business, and on their way back in, Stel had gotten a little overzealous coming up the stairs and crashed into them. When they got back in, she started limping around.
We looked for any protruding bones or other telltale signs of a break, and we felt her little legs, and everything seemed normal. Plus she didn't yelp or anything, and even when she limped around, it didn't slow her down at all. But my husband was still freaking out.
"I broke our dog!" he kept saying. "I broke Stella!"
I advised Stel that now was probably a good time to ask him for a raise in her allowance or a new car, since he felt so guilty, but she didn't want to take advantage.
For once, I was actually the cool-headed one, a real switch for the two of us. It's so weird -- ever since we brought Stella home, he's been the one who is nervous about everything, and I'm the voice of reason. This is not a role I am used to, and I don't particularly enjoy it, but it's probably a good exercise for me, and for my husband too.
We called the vet, who told us to bring her in if she continued to limp but the fact that she didn't seem to be in pain was a good sign. We put Stel on bed rest for the evening, and by the end of the evening, she was walking just fine and wanting to play. She didn't seem to harbor any ill will toward my husband; in fact, when he went into the office and closed the door to talk on the phone, she kept running over to sit outside the door.
I can't help being a little jealous. He is so obviously her favorite parent, and I guess that's OK, but she doesn't have to be so blatant about it. She never even comes to me when I call her; he shuts himself in another room and she still runs to him. But I digress.
Today, Stella seems no worse for the wear. We're continuing to keep an eye on her, but I think she's probably just fine.
My husband, however, is still milking her misery for all it's worth.
"She got hurt on my watch," he kept telling me last night. "It's all because I was the one who took her out. I don't think I can take her out anymore."
Nice try, buddy.
"Honey," he said, "I think our little girl is hurt."
A few minutes before I got home, the two had been outside taking care of business, and on their way back in, Stel had gotten a little overzealous coming up the stairs and crashed into them. When they got back in, she started limping around.
We looked for any protruding bones or other telltale signs of a break, and we felt her little legs, and everything seemed normal. Plus she didn't yelp or anything, and even when she limped around, it didn't slow her down at all. But my husband was still freaking out.
"I broke our dog!" he kept saying. "I broke Stella!"
I advised Stel that now was probably a good time to ask him for a raise in her allowance or a new car, since he felt so guilty, but she didn't want to take advantage.
For once, I was actually the cool-headed one, a real switch for the two of us. It's so weird -- ever since we brought Stella home, he's been the one who is nervous about everything, and I'm the voice of reason. This is not a role I am used to, and I don't particularly enjoy it, but it's probably a good exercise for me, and for my husband too.
We called the vet, who told us to bring her in if she continued to limp but the fact that she didn't seem to be in pain was a good sign. We put Stel on bed rest for the evening, and by the end of the evening, she was walking just fine and wanting to play. She didn't seem to harbor any ill will toward my husband; in fact, when he went into the office and closed the door to talk on the phone, she kept running over to sit outside the door.
I can't help being a little jealous. He is so obviously her favorite parent, and I guess that's OK, but she doesn't have to be so blatant about it. She never even comes to me when I call her; he shuts himself in another room and she still runs to him. But I digress.
Today, Stella seems no worse for the wear. We're continuing to keep an eye on her, but I think she's probably just fine.
My husband, however, is still milking her misery for all it's worth.
"She got hurt on my watch," he kept telling me last night. "It's all because I was the one who took her out. I don't think I can take her out anymore."
Nice try, buddy.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Fair Warning
If one more person tells me that raising a puppy is "just like raising a child," I will start to believe it and never have children.
Friday, August 24, 2007
An Open Letter To Any Company That Uses An Automated Phone System
Dear Any Company That Uses An Automated Phone System,
Everyone knows that automated phone systems are annoying as crap, so I'm not even going to bother asking that you let me talk to a real person when I call you.
But I would appreciate it if you stopped having your automated person say, "please listen closely, as our menu options have changed." Every time I call any of you, I get that. I'm sure there aren't that many people who call you often enough that they would actually have the menu options memorized, and I'm sure you don't change your menu options all that often; you probably just say that so people won't go pressing numbers willy nilly and you won't have to re-route them. It would be better if you said something like, "please listen closely, because if you ring into the wrong department, whoever picks up the phone will be annoyed with you, and you'll receive crappy service."
And while I'm commenting, I'd just like to put it out there that elevator music doesn't bother me, but elevator music with someone cutting in every 30 seconds to say, "please continue to hold" makes me want to shove a fork into my eyeballs. All it does is give me false hope that someone is picking up the line and interrupt my enjoyment of "The Girl From Ipanema."
Sincerely,
Erika
Everyone knows that automated phone systems are annoying as crap, so I'm not even going to bother asking that you let me talk to a real person when I call you.
But I would appreciate it if you stopped having your automated person say, "please listen closely, as our menu options have changed." Every time I call any of you, I get that. I'm sure there aren't that many people who call you often enough that they would actually have the menu options memorized, and I'm sure you don't change your menu options all that often; you probably just say that so people won't go pressing numbers willy nilly and you won't have to re-route them. It would be better if you said something like, "please listen closely, because if you ring into the wrong department, whoever picks up the phone will be annoyed with you, and you'll receive crappy service."
And while I'm commenting, I'd just like to put it out there that elevator music doesn't bother me, but elevator music with someone cutting in every 30 seconds to say, "please continue to hold" makes me want to shove a fork into my eyeballs. All it does is give me false hope that someone is picking up the line and interrupt my enjoyment of "The Girl From Ipanema."
Sincerely,
Erika
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I May Have Missed Out On A Great Deal
I'm not so great at math, so maybe someone out there who has more of a mind for numbers can tell me if I've made a bad decision.
Last week, I received in the mail a renewal notice for my gym membership, which is set to expire this month.
If I renew for one year, said the notice, the cost per month would be $13. (I know, it's dirt cheap -- my gym is totally no frills, but it's close and has all the basic equipment, which is all I want anyway.) I filled out the form and mailed it back in, set to sweat another year.
Yesterday, I got a phone call from one of the staff members.
"I have your renewal form here, but I wanted to let you know that if you want to renew for two years instead of one, you can save 50, 60 or 70 percent," she said.
When I went in for my workout last night, I inquired about it at the desk. After a scan of the pricing sheet, the girl behind the desk told me that if I renew for two years and put $50 down, my membership would only cost me $14 per month. I gave her a puzzled look.
"But with the notice I got in the mail, I'm only paying $13 per month with nothing down. Where's the incentive to renew for a longer period of time?"
She couldn't answer me. She seemed confused. She just kept asking if I wanted to put some money down. I told her never mind; I'd just go with the one year renewal for now.
I've never been great with numbers, but I'm pretty sure that was the right answer.
Last week, I received in the mail a renewal notice for my gym membership, which is set to expire this month.
If I renew for one year, said the notice, the cost per month would be $13. (I know, it's dirt cheap -- my gym is totally no frills, but it's close and has all the basic equipment, which is all I want anyway.) I filled out the form and mailed it back in, set to sweat another year.
Yesterday, I got a phone call from one of the staff members.
"I have your renewal form here, but I wanted to let you know that if you want to renew for two years instead of one, you can save 50, 60 or 70 percent," she said.
When I went in for my workout last night, I inquired about it at the desk. After a scan of the pricing sheet, the girl behind the desk told me that if I renew for two years and put $50 down, my membership would only cost me $14 per month. I gave her a puzzled look.
"But with the notice I got in the mail, I'm only paying $13 per month with nothing down. Where's the incentive to renew for a longer period of time?"
She couldn't answer me. She seemed confused. She just kept asking if I wanted to put some money down. I told her never mind; I'd just go with the one year renewal for now.
I've never been great with numbers, but I'm pretty sure that was the right answer.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Christian Bale Wants Me
I had an inkling before, but now I'm sure.
Christian Bale wants me. He's just playing hard to get.
Yesterday morning, my husband got a voice mail from the Batman (aka Rory's First Kiss) casting folks, asking him to be in a bar scene to be shot on Thursday. Insanely jealous though I was, I was still really excited that my sweetheart might have a chance to be in the movie. He and Christian Bale together would be a whole lotta hot on the big screen, let me tell you.
He was excited too, so he called them back immediately, only to find out that the shoot goes from 4 a.m. to 7 p.m. He works 9-5, and Thursday is a really busy day for him, one he doubts he'd be able to get off work on this short notice. He turned them down and spent the rest of the day angry that they'd ignored the schedule information he'd given when he turned in his photo, and then gone and gotten his hopes up.
Obviously, Christian Bale found out that my husband had a chance to be in the movie and fixed it so he couldn't be in it, so my husband would get upset and decide to try his luck in Hollywood instead, and I'd be left here, ripe for the picking. That is the only possible explanation here.
Christian Bale wants me. He's just playing hard to get.
Yesterday morning, my husband got a voice mail from the Batman (aka Rory's First Kiss) casting folks, asking him to be in a bar scene to be shot on Thursday. Insanely jealous though I was, I was still really excited that my sweetheart might have a chance to be in the movie. He and Christian Bale together would be a whole lotta hot on the big screen, let me tell you.
He was excited too, so he called them back immediately, only to find out that the shoot goes from 4 a.m. to 7 p.m. He works 9-5, and Thursday is a really busy day for him, one he doubts he'd be able to get off work on this short notice. He turned them down and spent the rest of the day angry that they'd ignored the schedule information he'd given when he turned in his photo, and then gone and gotten his hopes up.
Obviously, Christian Bale found out that my husband had a chance to be in the movie and fixed it so he couldn't be in it, so my husband would get upset and decide to try his luck in Hollywood instead, and I'd be left here, ripe for the picking. That is the only possible explanation here.
Electrifried!
It's like the universe thought I was getting too much sleep.
My husband and I awoke at 1 this morning to a tremendous clap of thunder, a brilliant flash of lightning and a scary electrical noise that caused us both to leap out of bed to find what had caught fire. Strangely, nothing had, at least nothing in our place. I had a small moment of panic when my husband said, "at least your computer was unplugged, right?" and I realized that it hadn't been. But when I turned it on, it seemed to work OK, so I may have dodged a bullet there.
Miraculously, Stella weathered the storm pretty well. Funny how the little dog who yelps and whines when we put her in her crate doesn't mind at all when a storm is roaring outside and lightning strikes the building. But I digress.
The hub and I went back to bed and one of us slept through the rest of the night while the other kept one eye open to take the puppy outside when she had to go. (Hint: The latter has spent quite a bit of time and money on Starbucks lattes in the past week, and my husband doesn't drink coffee, so you go ahead and take a guess at who slept and who didn't. To add insult to injury, he also started snoring in the middle of the night.)
Around 7:30, when he took Stel out for her post-breakfast poop, my husband ran into our upstairs and downstairs neighbors (a nice guy named Andy, and McCrochetypants, respectively) and learned that all of Andy's electronics (and his ceiling fans) had been fried, and McCrochetypants' garage door wasn't working.
Side note: While they were talking, McCrochetypants offered to let us borrow an old alarm clock of his to help soothe Stel while she's in her crate -- the ticking is supposed to sound to puppies like their mother's heartbeat, so she'll feel more secure. It made me wonder if McCrochetypants had gotten struck by lightning as well, because although I'm sure he offered it up in the hopes that he won't hear her whine in the middle of the night, it was almost a nice thing to do.
As I finished getting ready for work, my husband assessed the damage done around our place. Although my computer seemed to be working, his hadn't weathered the storm quite as well (which is weird, because he had a surge protector). His speakers weren't working, and he couldn't access the internet. Upon investigating the other electronic items around our home, he also learned that his CD player and our Wii weren't working, so we're hoping insurance will help us out a bit here.
It could have been worse; I'm glad no one was hurt or anything (even McCrochetypants, because even though I hate him, I'm not that mean), but the whole episode was not really a great way to start a Monday.
My husband and I awoke at 1 this morning to a tremendous clap of thunder, a brilliant flash of lightning and a scary electrical noise that caused us both to leap out of bed to find what had caught fire. Strangely, nothing had, at least nothing in our place. I had a small moment of panic when my husband said, "at least your computer was unplugged, right?" and I realized that it hadn't been. But when I turned it on, it seemed to work OK, so I may have dodged a bullet there.
Miraculously, Stella weathered the storm pretty well. Funny how the little dog who yelps and whines when we put her in her crate doesn't mind at all when a storm is roaring outside and lightning strikes the building. But I digress.
The hub and I went back to bed and one of us slept through the rest of the night while the other kept one eye open to take the puppy outside when she had to go. (Hint: The latter has spent quite a bit of time and money on Starbucks lattes in the past week, and my husband doesn't drink coffee, so you go ahead and take a guess at who slept and who didn't. To add insult to injury, he also started snoring in the middle of the night.)
Around 7:30, when he took Stel out for her post-breakfast poop, my husband ran into our upstairs and downstairs neighbors (a nice guy named Andy, and McCrochetypants, respectively) and learned that all of Andy's electronics (and his ceiling fans) had been fried, and McCrochetypants' garage door wasn't working.
Side note: While they were talking, McCrochetypants offered to let us borrow an old alarm clock of his to help soothe Stel while she's in her crate -- the ticking is supposed to sound to puppies like their mother's heartbeat, so she'll feel more secure. It made me wonder if McCrochetypants had gotten struck by lightning as well, because although I'm sure he offered it up in the hopes that he won't hear her whine in the middle of the night, it was almost a nice thing to do.
As I finished getting ready for work, my husband assessed the damage done around our place. Although my computer seemed to be working, his hadn't weathered the storm quite as well (which is weird, because he had a surge protector). His speakers weren't working, and he couldn't access the internet. Upon investigating the other electronic items around our home, he also learned that his CD player and our Wii weren't working, so we're hoping insurance will help us out a bit here.
It could have been worse; I'm glad no one was hurt or anything (even McCrochetypants, because even though I hate him, I'm not that mean), but the whole episode was not really a great way to start a Monday.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
My Dog Is Smart
My downstairs neighbor McCrochetypants has struck again.
I knew it would happen as soon as he found out we'd gotten a dog. McCrochetypants has been lying in wait, no doubt listening for any noise to complain about, for a few months now, so I was sure it was coming.
The other night, Stella and I were outside taking care of business when McCrochetypants came outside. Every other neighbor we've met out there has asked about her age and her name and given her a scratch behind the ears, but not him. Oh, no.
He glanced at my 4.5 lb. puppy, raised his eyebrows and said, "is that a pit bull?"
I was tempted to reply with simply, "sick 'im, Stella!"
"She's a boston terrier, you stupid idiot," I said. Alright, I left the "stupid idiot" part unspoken, but I certainly thought it. I don't expect him to know her breed right off the bat, but Stel looks nothing like a pit bull. Though I suspect I could have been out there with a collie and he would have asked the same question.
Yesterday, we were on our way outside again when my mom called. I continued chatting with her as I walked out, and I just so happened to be coming down the stairs past McCrochety's place when I mentioned to my mom that I have not yet heard Stella bark.
"I've heard her bark," McCrochety piped up, obviously not seeing (or caring) that I was both on the phone and on my way outside with the dog. "About 1:30 this morning. I was sleeping on the couch and heard this noise and thought, what was that?"
It's true, Stella had cried for a few minutes during that time, but the sound was nothing like barking, and it wasn't even that loud. I could barely hear her in my bedroom down the hall.
"She sometimes cries when we put her in her crate; we're trying to break her of the habit," I explained to my friendly neighbor.
"Yeah, well, it's annoying," he said.
Tempted as I was to give him a piece of my mind, I had already taken away enough time from my dog and my mom to talk to this jerk, so I simply reiterated that we're working on it and continued going outside.
I stewed about it all evening. Stella is a puppy, and sometimes puppies make noise. And considering the noise some dogs make, barking and yapping 24 hours a day, we all got off really easy with Stella, who only whines when she needs to go out and sometimes when we first put her in her crate. What does he want me to do -- muzzle her? Cut out her larynx? Get rid of her because she woke him up one time? Yeah, the crying is annoying; it's not what I want to hear in the middle of the night either, but it happens, and we deal with it.
I told my husband we should keep her awake all evening so she was good and rested and active overnight, then make sure she cries loudly so McCrochetypants can hear exactly how I feel when he says stupid things like that. Meanwhile, I had a whole speech prepared for my next run-in with my neighbor, a no-holds-barred, rip-him-a-new-one, kick-his-stupid-complaining-ass-
to-the-next-county kind of speech.
Stella had a better idea. When I took her out first thing this morning, she left a big, fragrant poo right outside of McCrochety's bedroom window.
It made me love her even more.
I knew it would happen as soon as he found out we'd gotten a dog. McCrochetypants has been lying in wait, no doubt listening for any noise to complain about, for a few months now, so I was sure it was coming.
The other night, Stella and I were outside taking care of business when McCrochetypants came outside. Every other neighbor we've met out there has asked about her age and her name and given her a scratch behind the ears, but not him. Oh, no.
He glanced at my 4.5 lb. puppy, raised his eyebrows and said, "is that a pit bull?"
I was tempted to reply with simply, "sick 'im, Stella!"
"She's a boston terrier, you stupid idiot," I said. Alright, I left the "stupid idiot" part unspoken, but I certainly thought it. I don't expect him to know her breed right off the bat, but Stel looks nothing like a pit bull. Though I suspect I could have been out there with a collie and he would have asked the same question.
Yesterday, we were on our way outside again when my mom called. I continued chatting with her as I walked out, and I just so happened to be coming down the stairs past McCrochety's place when I mentioned to my mom that I have not yet heard Stella bark.
"I've heard her bark," McCrochety piped up, obviously not seeing (or caring) that I was both on the phone and on my way outside with the dog. "About 1:30 this morning. I was sleeping on the couch and heard this noise and thought, what was that?"
It's true, Stella had cried for a few minutes during that time, but the sound was nothing like barking, and it wasn't even that loud. I could barely hear her in my bedroom down the hall.
"She sometimes cries when we put her in her crate; we're trying to break her of the habit," I explained to my friendly neighbor.
"Yeah, well, it's annoying," he said.
Tempted as I was to give him a piece of my mind, I had already taken away enough time from my dog and my mom to talk to this jerk, so I simply reiterated that we're working on it and continued going outside.
I stewed about it all evening. Stella is a puppy, and sometimes puppies make noise. And considering the noise some dogs make, barking and yapping 24 hours a day, we all got off really easy with Stella, who only whines when she needs to go out and sometimes when we first put her in her crate. What does he want me to do -- muzzle her? Cut out her larynx? Get rid of her because she woke him up one time? Yeah, the crying is annoying; it's not what I want to hear in the middle of the night either, but it happens, and we deal with it.
I told my husband we should keep her awake all evening so she was good and rested and active overnight, then make sure she cries loudly so McCrochetypants can hear exactly how I feel when he says stupid things like that. Meanwhile, I had a whole speech prepared for my next run-in with my neighbor, a no-holds-barred, rip-him-a-new-one, kick-his-stupid-complaining-ass-
to-the-next-county kind of speech.
Stella had a better idea. When I took her out first thing this morning, she left a big, fragrant poo right outside of McCrochety's bedroom window.
It made me love her even more.
Friday, August 17, 2007
I'm Ready For My Closeup, Mr. Bale
It's a good thing our color doesn't change with our emotions, because right now, I'd be green all over.
It was a month ago that I attended the casting call for the new Batman movie, and I've yet to hear a peep. I'm not entirely surprised; I'm sure they have thousands of people to choose from, and there isn't anything all that distinguishing about me or my appearance that would make me stand out from the crowd.
Even so, I am insanely jealous that one of the pals who went to the casting call when I did has been chosen for the movie. (Not that I feel he took a part I could have had -- he's a black man and I'm a white woman, so I doubt they put our pictures side-by-side and said, "they're both so right for this, who should we choose.") The funny thing is, though, of the three of us who attended the call, he's the one who was least into it; he didn't even really want to go at first. It's so not fair.
Even worse, the other pal I was with at the casting call actually spotted Christian Bale yesterday. He was walking to the bank, and his journey happened to take him right by the set, where he saw my favorite actor standing near a food table.
So when do I get my turn for a little Batman fun? They'll only be here a few more weeks, so I'm not all that optimistic...but if the universe is just, my phone will be ringing shortly.
It was a month ago that I attended the casting call for the new Batman movie, and I've yet to hear a peep. I'm not entirely surprised; I'm sure they have thousands of people to choose from, and there isn't anything all that distinguishing about me or my appearance that would make me stand out from the crowd.
Even so, I am insanely jealous that one of the pals who went to the casting call when I did has been chosen for the movie. (Not that I feel he took a part I could have had -- he's a black man and I'm a white woman, so I doubt they put our pictures side-by-side and said, "they're both so right for this, who should we choose.") The funny thing is, though, of the three of us who attended the call, he's the one who was least into it; he didn't even really want to go at first. It's so not fair.
Even worse, the other pal I was with at the casting call actually spotted Christian Bale yesterday. He was walking to the bank, and his journey happened to take him right by the set, where he saw my favorite actor standing near a food table.
So when do I get my turn for a little Batman fun? They'll only be here a few more weeks, so I'm not all that optimistic...but if the universe is just, my phone will be ringing shortly.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The King: Today, Tomorrow and Forever In My Family
I wasn't even born until more than a year after Elvis Presley died, but I still can't believe it's been 30 years already.
And I really can't believe how nuts people still are for him. I've been reading some of the coverage of Elvis Week in Memphis (which this year, for the first time ever, includes a Graceland-sanctioned Elvis impersonator contest). There are some die-hard Elvis fans out there (one literally did die, in her trailer on a nearby campground -- it's sad, but you've got to wonder if part of her thought it was a fitting tribute).
I hesitate to call myself an "Elvis fan;" that title implies a bit more of a fervor than I've ever had for the King. I do enjoy his music -- fine, yes, and his movies too -- but I think what keeps me from being a true fan is the fact that when I think of Elvis, I don't gaze misty eyed into the past, wistfully wishing he were still with us; I usually end up giggling. And I blame that on my family, more specifically, my mother's side of the family.
It was an innocent enough beginning. The story goes that back in the day, when my parents were first married and living with my maternal grandfather, my mom and Aunt Shellie (who still lived at home) used to sit up watching late night Elvis movies, all the time telling each other, "I'm only watching this because you want to." I doubt either of them had any inkling then that a few sub-par movies would cause an Elvis explosion, the effects of which have touched not only the two of them, but their other sister (my Aunt Nancy) and the children of all three.
For years, my mom and Aunt Shellie sent each other every piece of inexpensive-enough-to-still-be-funny Elvis merchandise they could find. (Or, sometimes, simply altered their existing possessions to make them more Elvis-y, like when Aunt Shellie moved to California and my mom sent her car out to her covered in ads from the newspaper announcing a local event. When it arrived, all over it were newspaper clippings with phrases like, "See Elvis' Car! Elvis' Real Car!" Good one, Mom). A few items my mother received included a "find Elvis" keychain (filled with water and glitter as well as a small Elvis that you were supposed to find among the other stuff), a swinging leg clock and Christmas ornaments. Having all that kitschy stuff around was fun, and it was even more fun helping my mom look for kitschy stuff for Aunt Shellie, so my sister and I joined in the fun eventually.
Sadly, I didn't realize that collecting tacky Elvis merchandise wasn't funny for anyone I knew outside of my family and more than once wore an "I [heart] Elvis" tee shirt to school, a move that me a reputation with my classmates that probably still stands today. It didn't help, though, that I didn't care what they thought and throughout my schooling years took every opportunity to incorporate Elvis into my education, including making him the subject of my eighth grade term paper, making him a character in a short story I wrote that same year, making him a source in a spoof news story I wrote for my high school paper and insisting, when asked, that Elvis was alive and well, working at a sewing machine store in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.*
The best -- and most lasting -- piece of Elvis merchandise in the family was the Velvet Elvis. I remember the night we bought it. We were at the mall -- my mom, my sister and me -- and came upon a kiosk of high-quality artwork, including this Velvet Elvis, which probably cost less than $20 but was still overpriced, at least for quality. But whatever my mom ended up paying for the thing, we've all gotten it back a hundredfold in enjoyment of this beacon of artistic wonder. Aunt Shellie received the Velvet Elvis as a Christmas (or birthday, or something) gift that year. But she didn't have it for long.
From then on, every time Aunt Shellie (who by then lived in California) and my mom sent each other any sort of package in the mail, or whenever they saw each other, the Velvet Elvis changed hands. Aunt Shellie would leave it underneath some towels in our bathroom closet; my mom would find it and sneak it into Aunt Shellie's suitcase...it became a game for them to find a spot to hide the Velvet Elvis where the other wouldn't find it until it was too late to secretly pass it back to the other.
The game ended when my sister went to college and took the Velvet Elvis with her. It hung in the window of her dorm room for a good long time and then passed to Aunt Nancy's son Rob, who hung it in his college apartment, whereupon it went to college with me. I had hoped to pass it along to Aunt Shellie's son Erik when he went to college, but for some reason (which I doubt is Erik's sensible and normal persona -- he's as much of a nutbar as the rest of us) it has sat for the past several years collecting dust in my parents' cellar.
But that doesn't mean the Elvis tradition has died. As a matter of fact, it's spread. One of the first Christmas gifts I received from my sister's then-boyfriend, now-husband was a lamp featuring a scene from Jailhouse Rock. When switched on, a mechanism inside the lamp rotates, hurling odd-looking shadows on the wall.
And I'm sure it's no great coincidence that the man I ended up marrying has rather long sideburns and an affinity for 50s music. We went to Graceland together last fall and had Elvis lyrics on the front of our wedding invitations.
It's actually a bit depressing how large this Elvis phenomenon is, even today. On our trip to Graceland, my husband (then fiance) and I -- although highly entertained by the huge amount of crap with the King's face plastered on it -- actually left kind of sad that the life of this man has been reduced to a $250 mug in the shape of his head. I guess I thought it was funny for my family but not for the rest of the world.
I wonder how Elvis would feel if he knew this is what his legacy had become. From what I know of him, I don't know if he'd think it was all bad, actually -- he was, after all, a man of excess (and excessively tacky taste, although perhaps we could chalk some of that up to the 70s). But however he would feel, this is how he is remembered in 2007 -- and I guess that's fine.
Or, as the King himself said, "that's alright, mama."
___________
*This theory came about on a trip I took to visit my Aunt Nancy in eighth grade. We went shopping for a sewing machine for her and met with a man who looked vaguely like what the King might now, had he actually retired into the sewing machine biz. I'm not even entirely sure now that it wasn't him, but whether he -- or, indeed, the sewing machine store -- is there today I have no idea.
And I really can't believe how nuts people still are for him. I've been reading some of the coverage of Elvis Week in Memphis (which this year, for the first time ever, includes a Graceland-sanctioned Elvis impersonator contest). There are some die-hard Elvis fans out there (one literally did die, in her trailer on a nearby campground -- it's sad, but you've got to wonder if part of her thought it was a fitting tribute).
I hesitate to call myself an "Elvis fan;" that title implies a bit more of a fervor than I've ever had for the King. I do enjoy his music -- fine, yes, and his movies too -- but I think what keeps me from being a true fan is the fact that when I think of Elvis, I don't gaze misty eyed into the past, wistfully wishing he were still with us; I usually end up giggling. And I blame that on my family, more specifically, my mother's side of the family.
It was an innocent enough beginning. The story goes that back in the day, when my parents were first married and living with my maternal grandfather, my mom and Aunt Shellie (who still lived at home) used to sit up watching late night Elvis movies, all the time telling each other, "I'm only watching this because you want to." I doubt either of them had any inkling then that a few sub-par movies would cause an Elvis explosion, the effects of which have touched not only the two of them, but their other sister (my Aunt Nancy) and the children of all three.
For years, my mom and Aunt Shellie sent each other every piece of inexpensive-enough-to-still-be-funny Elvis merchandise they could find. (Or, sometimes, simply altered their existing possessions to make them more Elvis-y, like when Aunt Shellie moved to California and my mom sent her car out to her covered in ads from the newspaper announcing a local event. When it arrived, all over it were newspaper clippings with phrases like, "See Elvis' Car! Elvis' Real Car!" Good one, Mom). A few items my mother received included a "find Elvis" keychain (filled with water and glitter as well as a small Elvis that you were supposed to find among the other stuff), a swinging leg clock and Christmas ornaments. Having all that kitschy stuff around was fun, and it was even more fun helping my mom look for kitschy stuff for Aunt Shellie, so my sister and I joined in the fun eventually.
Sadly, I didn't realize that collecting tacky Elvis merchandise wasn't funny for anyone I knew outside of my family and more than once wore an "I [heart] Elvis" tee shirt to school, a move that me a reputation with my classmates that probably still stands today. It didn't help, though, that I didn't care what they thought and throughout my schooling years took every opportunity to incorporate Elvis into my education, including making him the subject of my eighth grade term paper, making him a character in a short story I wrote that same year, making him a source in a spoof news story I wrote for my high school paper and insisting, when asked, that Elvis was alive and well, working at a sewing machine store in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.*
The best -- and most lasting -- piece of Elvis merchandise in the family was the Velvet Elvis. I remember the night we bought it. We were at the mall -- my mom, my sister and me -- and came upon a kiosk of high-quality artwork, including this Velvet Elvis, which probably cost less than $20 but was still overpriced, at least for quality. But whatever my mom ended up paying for the thing, we've all gotten it back a hundredfold in enjoyment of this beacon of artistic wonder. Aunt Shellie received the Velvet Elvis as a Christmas (or birthday, or something) gift that year. But she didn't have it for long.
From then on, every time Aunt Shellie (who by then lived in California) and my mom sent each other any sort of package in the mail, or whenever they saw each other, the Velvet Elvis changed hands. Aunt Shellie would leave it underneath some towels in our bathroom closet; my mom would find it and sneak it into Aunt Shellie's suitcase...it became a game for them to find a spot to hide the Velvet Elvis where the other wouldn't find it until it was too late to secretly pass it back to the other.
The game ended when my sister went to college and took the Velvet Elvis with her. It hung in the window of her dorm room for a good long time and then passed to Aunt Nancy's son Rob, who hung it in his college apartment, whereupon it went to college with me. I had hoped to pass it along to Aunt Shellie's son Erik when he went to college, but for some reason (which I doubt is Erik's sensible and normal persona -- he's as much of a nutbar as the rest of us) it has sat for the past several years collecting dust in my parents' cellar.
But that doesn't mean the Elvis tradition has died. As a matter of fact, it's spread. One of the first Christmas gifts I received from my sister's then-boyfriend, now-husband was a lamp featuring a scene from Jailhouse Rock. When switched on, a mechanism inside the lamp rotates, hurling odd-looking shadows on the wall.
And I'm sure it's no great coincidence that the man I ended up marrying has rather long sideburns and an affinity for 50s music. We went to Graceland together last fall and had Elvis lyrics on the front of our wedding invitations.
It's actually a bit depressing how large this Elvis phenomenon is, even today. On our trip to Graceland, my husband (then fiance) and I -- although highly entertained by the huge amount of crap with the King's face plastered on it -- actually left kind of sad that the life of this man has been reduced to a $250 mug in the shape of his head. I guess I thought it was funny for my family but not for the rest of the world.
I wonder how Elvis would feel if he knew this is what his legacy had become. From what I know of him, I don't know if he'd think it was all bad, actually -- he was, after all, a man of excess (and excessively tacky taste, although perhaps we could chalk some of that up to the 70s). But however he would feel, this is how he is remembered in 2007 -- and I guess that's fine.
Or, as the King himself said, "that's alright, mama."
___________
*This theory came about on a trip I took to visit my Aunt Nancy in eighth grade. We went shopping for a sewing machine for her and met with a man who looked vaguely like what the King might now, had he actually retired into the sewing machine biz. I'm not even entirely sure now that it wasn't him, but whether he -- or, indeed, the sewing machine store -- is there today I have no idea.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Puppy Parenting Lesson Number One: Go Straight To The Source
I'm turning into one of those people.
I've had a dog for two days, and already, I can't fathom having a conversation about anything other than her. I'm hoping it's just because of the newness of my status as a puppy parent and that I won't have to rename this blog something like, "A Dog's Life" or "Stella, Stella, Everything Stella." But right now, I can't help talking about her every chance I get and sharing what I've learned, which has been quite a bit in the last 24 hours. And the lessons came from someone I hadn't really considered consulting before -- Stella herself.
As I wrote yesterday, the night before last was pretty tough. The puppy kept crying in her crate, and we just didn't know what to do. Should we cuddle her so she knows she's loved and safe? Should we ignore her so she stops? Everyone had a different idea. Exasperated, we asked the vet last night, and although she urged us to speak to a behaviorist to get better information, she reiterated to us that Stella won't want to go potty where she sleeps and that perhaps when she was crying, she wasn't asking for attention; she was trying to tell us she needed to go out.
I hadn't really considered that before, although I'm mentally slapping my forehead now. I just sort of assumed that she was lonely and wanted to be picked up; I didn't think she would have understood the concept of where it was OK to go. But the vet's suggestion made a lot of sense, so last night, I decided to get up and take her outside whenever I heard her whimper. It happened twice, and both times, she had a successful trip outside. And compared to the night before, there was very little whining when she went back into her crate. Even when we have her out of the crate, she's much more willing and able to entertain herself, so I think she's feeling much more comfortable in her new home.
We still have some work to do. For example, we're still having a little trouble making the connection between potty and outside; right now, she only understands potty and not-in-the-crate. But I have confidence that we'll get there, and I'm pretty sure Stella does too. She's already proving herself eager to learn.
Late last night, she decided to try out the stairs. She's too little to climb them, so when we take her out, we've been carrying her up and down from our condo to the outside door, but when I brought her in the outside door last night, with no prompting at all, she bolted for the stairs. With a running start, she had just enough momentum to launch herself onto the first step. She wasn't able to hoist herself onto the next one, but each time we've taken her out, she's tried just a little harder. What made her want to do that I don't really know; I did sort of walk her up a stair or two once, just to see if she'd be willing to try, but when I did, she had no interest. I guess after she'd thought about it for awhile, she decided she was ready.
I am very encouraged today. I know we still have a long way to go, but with such vast improvements in just one day, I'm feeling good. My husband, who gets the "day shift" because he can more easily stop in at home, is still a bit nervous. I'm hoping Stella goes easy on him today. I know she'll do her best. She's a very smart girl, and she's turning out to be a fun little pup.
So maybe I am turning into "one of those people," but for now, I'm OK with that. Stella needs all the attention we can give her in these formative weeks and months, and if she continues to improve just a little each day, perhaps it won't be too long until I'm able to acknowledge that there is a world out there. I'm hoping the same is true for my husband, who has spent most of his time in the past two days worrying about the puppy. Yesterday, he was so exhausted that when I got home from work, I found him watching "Friends," a show he once insisted I never make him watch. The dog was sitting on a blanket at his feet, napping contentedly. I flopped down next to him and snuggled up to him, something I hadn't been able to do since we brought the puppy home, since one of us was always chasing after her. And for the first time in two days, I felt like we just might get to a "normal" place sooner than I'd thought. Then he said it.
"You smell like Stella."
Oh well. I guess all good things take time.
I've had a dog for two days, and already, I can't fathom having a conversation about anything other than her. I'm hoping it's just because of the newness of my status as a puppy parent and that I won't have to rename this blog something like, "A Dog's Life" or "Stella, Stella, Everything Stella." But right now, I can't help talking about her every chance I get and sharing what I've learned, which has been quite a bit in the last 24 hours. And the lessons came from someone I hadn't really considered consulting before -- Stella herself.
As I wrote yesterday, the night before last was pretty tough. The puppy kept crying in her crate, and we just didn't know what to do. Should we cuddle her so she knows she's loved and safe? Should we ignore her so she stops? Everyone had a different idea. Exasperated, we asked the vet last night, and although she urged us to speak to a behaviorist to get better information, she reiterated to us that Stella won't want to go potty where she sleeps and that perhaps when she was crying, she wasn't asking for attention; she was trying to tell us she needed to go out.
I hadn't really considered that before, although I'm mentally slapping my forehead now. I just sort of assumed that she was lonely and wanted to be picked up; I didn't think she would have understood the concept of where it was OK to go. But the vet's suggestion made a lot of sense, so last night, I decided to get up and take her outside whenever I heard her whimper. It happened twice, and both times, she had a successful trip outside. And compared to the night before, there was very little whining when she went back into her crate. Even when we have her out of the crate, she's much more willing and able to entertain herself, so I think she's feeling much more comfortable in her new home.
We still have some work to do. For example, we're still having a little trouble making the connection between potty and outside; right now, she only understands potty and not-in-the-crate. But I have confidence that we'll get there, and I'm pretty sure Stella does too. She's already proving herself eager to learn.
Late last night, she decided to try out the stairs. She's too little to climb them, so when we take her out, we've been carrying her up and down from our condo to the outside door, but when I brought her in the outside door last night, with no prompting at all, she bolted for the stairs. With a running start, she had just enough momentum to launch herself onto the first step. She wasn't able to hoist herself onto the next one, but each time we've taken her out, she's tried just a little harder. What made her want to do that I don't really know; I did sort of walk her up a stair or two once, just to see if she'd be willing to try, but when I did, she had no interest. I guess after she'd thought about it for awhile, she decided she was ready.
I am very encouraged today. I know we still have a long way to go, but with such vast improvements in just one day, I'm feeling good. My husband, who gets the "day shift" because he can more easily stop in at home, is still a bit nervous. I'm hoping Stella goes easy on him today. I know she'll do her best. She's a very smart girl, and she's turning out to be a fun little pup.
So maybe I am turning into "one of those people," but for now, I'm OK with that. Stella needs all the attention we can give her in these formative weeks and months, and if she continues to improve just a little each day, perhaps it won't be too long until I'm able to acknowledge that there is a world out there. I'm hoping the same is true for my husband, who has spent most of his time in the past two days worrying about the puppy. Yesterday, he was so exhausted that when I got home from work, I found him watching "Friends," a show he once insisted I never make him watch. The dog was sitting on a blanket at his feet, napping contentedly. I flopped down next to him and snuggled up to him, something I hadn't been able to do since we brought the puppy home, since one of us was always chasing after her. And for the first time in two days, I felt like we just might get to a "normal" place sooner than I'd thought. Then he said it.
"You smell like Stella."
Oh well. I guess all good things take time.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
One Night With Stella, And I Have Separation Anxiety
I am a nervous wreck today. I thought yesterday couldn't go fast enough, but today, I find myself watching the clock even more intently, just waiting for the time I can leave and go home to my puppy.
Little Stella had a rough first night, but it was nothing compared to the trauma my husband and I suffered worrying about her.
It all started pretty well. She was nervous when we picked her up, but once we got her in the car and petted her and said some reassuring things to her, she seemed content. When we brought her into the condo and put her down, she began exploring and sniffing and making herself comfortable. We set up her crate with some toys and an old shirt of mine, and although she whined a little when we put her in there, she eventually cuddled up in the shirt and fell asleep. When she awoke a little later, we ventured outside (a place Stella does not like at all so far), brought her up, gave her a drink and tucked her back in.
She slept peacefully until about 11:45 p.m. When I awoke, she was whining so loud that I was sure the neighbors could hear. I knew I shouldn't immediately go to her, because it would teach her that whining achieves results, but I wanted to make sure she was OK. Sure enough, she'd had an accident in her crate. After going out and getting all cleaned up, she went back in with a clean shirt to cuddle and fell back asleep until about 6 a.m.
I barely slept a wink in those hours. Puppies are so fragile at this age; I was so afraid something had happened to her. I kept going out to the living room to make sure she was still breathing, tempted to wake her up just so I would know she was OK. I felt like Shirley MacLaine's character in Terms of Endearment, who, in the opening scenes, tiptoes into her sleeping newborn daughter's room and calls to her husband that she thinks the child fell victim to crib death. She pokes at the baby until it starts crying, then nods to herself and walks out of the room, saying, "that's better."
My husband was worse off than I was. I thought he was sleeping soundly, but every time I would come back into the room after checking on Stella, he'd ask how our girl was doing. This morning, I was hesitant to leave for work, because I was afraid he would start whimpering.
This is a big life change, and we're going into it somewhat blindly. We've been reading all we can and asking questions of people who should know, but when it's just us and her, and she's crying for attention, it's hard to resist picking her up and petting her till she falls asleep in our arms. We know we shouldn't do that; we don't want to encourage her to whimper, but we also want her to know that she's safe with us and that we love her. It's hard to know what to do in those circumstances. Most of the time, we just sit, staring at each other with broken-hearted looks on our faces.
I was worried about potty training her, but I think that will be easy compared to this. I'm sure the potty training will be hard and frustrating, but at least it won't make poor little Stella so upset.
I miss my sweet little girl. I only hope she's napping contently at home right now and will have an OK first day there by herself. My husband plans to check on her later, but I know I won't feel comforted until I actually get home at 6 and see her scamper over to me.
This is a rough time for all of us...but I just know that once we get past it, we're going to be a very happy family.
Monday, August 13, 2007
My Stella
Today can't go fast enough.
Tonight, my husband and I will bring home the newest member of our family, our new little puppy, Stella.
After finding Otis last month, we haven't had much time to go looking for a dog, so the whole dog-finding thing kind of got put on the back burner. But on Thursday night, we were out and about, and I suggested going to the pet store to take another look and get us back in dog-finding mode.
I half expected to see Otis still there, jumping up and down with joy to see us back again. He was gone, however, and I hope he's found a good home where he's well loved. What we did find, however, were four cute little Boston Terrier puppies. We took one out and played with her, and immediately, she began jumping and nipping at us. The pet store folks explained that she's teething and is likely to nip for awhile, and once they gave her a pig's ear to chew, she left our toes alone, but she was still a little jumpy for our taste. Still, she was cute enough for me to name her (Ora -- which I don't think is an actual name, but my friend English Kari named her car Ora, and this dog looked like an Ora to me), and once we got home and read up on the breed, we thought a Boston would be a good fit for our lifestyle.
The next day, I went back to the store by myself and took out a male from the same litter. He was a little nippy but not quite as bad; he even crawled into my lap and chewed on a bone for awhile. Eagerly, I told my husband about this new little Otis, and the next day, bought our Otis-to-be a toy when I was out shopping. Unfortunately, my husband didn't have an opportunity to go see the dog until Saturday afternoon, and by that time, he had been sold. We played with another of the girls, but we just didn't get that "this is my dog" feeling.
I was depressed. I had really liked this little Otis. But he wasn't meant to be my dog. Yesterday, I found out why.
After a trip to another store to see some other Bostons from the same litter as Otis and Ora, we were both feeling dejected. We were willing to deal with some of the puppy tendencies, like the chewing, but we just hadn't met that perfect dog yet, the one who looked into our eyes as if to say, "I am your dog. Take me home and love me."
On a whim, we stopped at a different pet store, where we remembered seeing a Boston terrier a few days before. When they brought her out to us, she was so scared that she was shaking. So I petted her and let her sniff and lick my hand, and she didn't even try to nibble it. In fact, she didn't nip at all; she was the perfect little lady of only 4.5 lbs. We played a little ball with her, and when she tired of that, she began whimpering for the pet store employee to pick her up. I picked her up and put her in my lap and petted her, and soon, she had fallen asleep.
I looked at my husband and said, "I think this is our dog." He agreed; her personality was so much better than any other dog we'd seen. I knew he was nervous about agreeing to buy her -- it is a big decision, after all, and all that puppy love doesn't come cheap, either -- but in the end, he couldn't deny that we wouldn't find a better dog than this little girl.
We put down a deposit, and tonight, we bring her home. It took awhile, but we finally agreed on a name for her -- Stella. I've already laid out a blanket for her, with the little toy I bought the other day. By the time she arrives, she'll also have a crate and some other toys waiting for her.
I hope she's happy with us. Like my husband, I'm a little nervous about bringing home a puppy for the first time. I'm sure we have some challenges ahead as we get to know her and begin to train her. But we'll get through it, because we're a family now.
Tonight, my husband and I will bring home the newest member of our family, our new little puppy, Stella.
After finding Otis last month, we haven't had much time to go looking for a dog, so the whole dog-finding thing kind of got put on the back burner. But on Thursday night, we were out and about, and I suggested going to the pet store to take another look and get us back in dog-finding mode.
I half expected to see Otis still there, jumping up and down with joy to see us back again. He was gone, however, and I hope he's found a good home where he's well loved. What we did find, however, were four cute little Boston Terrier puppies. We took one out and played with her, and immediately, she began jumping and nipping at us. The pet store folks explained that she's teething and is likely to nip for awhile, and once they gave her a pig's ear to chew, she left our toes alone, but she was still a little jumpy for our taste. Still, she was cute enough for me to name her (Ora -- which I don't think is an actual name, but my friend English Kari named her car Ora, and this dog looked like an Ora to me), and once we got home and read up on the breed, we thought a Boston would be a good fit for our lifestyle.
The next day, I went back to the store by myself and took out a male from the same litter. He was a little nippy but not quite as bad; he even crawled into my lap and chewed on a bone for awhile. Eagerly, I told my husband about this new little Otis, and the next day, bought our Otis-to-be a toy when I was out shopping. Unfortunately, my husband didn't have an opportunity to go see the dog until Saturday afternoon, and by that time, he had been sold. We played with another of the girls, but we just didn't get that "this is my dog" feeling.
I was depressed. I had really liked this little Otis. But he wasn't meant to be my dog. Yesterday, I found out why.
After a trip to another store to see some other Bostons from the same litter as Otis and Ora, we were both feeling dejected. We were willing to deal with some of the puppy tendencies, like the chewing, but we just hadn't met that perfect dog yet, the one who looked into our eyes as if to say, "I am your dog. Take me home and love me."
On a whim, we stopped at a different pet store, where we remembered seeing a Boston terrier a few days before. When they brought her out to us, she was so scared that she was shaking. So I petted her and let her sniff and lick my hand, and she didn't even try to nibble it. In fact, she didn't nip at all; she was the perfect little lady of only 4.5 lbs. We played a little ball with her, and when she tired of that, she began whimpering for the pet store employee to pick her up. I picked her up and put her in my lap and petted her, and soon, she had fallen asleep.
I looked at my husband and said, "I think this is our dog." He agreed; her personality was so much better than any other dog we'd seen. I knew he was nervous about agreeing to buy her -- it is a big decision, after all, and all that puppy love doesn't come cheap, either -- but in the end, he couldn't deny that we wouldn't find a better dog than this little girl.
We put down a deposit, and tonight, we bring her home. It took awhile, but we finally agreed on a name for her -- Stella. I've already laid out a blanket for her, with the little toy I bought the other day. By the time she arrives, she'll also have a crate and some other toys waiting for her.
I hope she's happy with us. Like my husband, I'm a little nervous about bringing home a puppy for the first time. I'm sure we have some challenges ahead as we get to know her and begin to train her. But we'll get through it, because we're a family now.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
A Surefire Way To Beat The Heat
I hate summer weather, especially when it gets humid, and today is my worst weather nightmare. It's nasty and muggy outside -- going into work, I felt like I was walking through the rainforest exhibit at an aquarium, although I doubt we will see any rain today. I much prefer fall, with its cool (but not cold) temperatures and pretty colors.
Although August is flying, I've still got several weeks before those colors appear. But I've found a great way to pass the time, and it doesn't even require air conditioning -- the magnificent, marvelous world of books.
Yesterday, I began to re-read one of my favorite books of all time, The Hidden Hand by E.D.E.N. Southworth. Originally published in 1859 as a magazine serial, the book is a page turner all the way through. And it doesn't read like a book that is nearly a century and a half old, so those who want a book they can breeze right through without having to sift through outdated language will find a friend in The Hidden Hand.
To tell much about the story would be too difficult, as it has so many twists and turns that even though I read the book only a year ago, I can barely remember how it all turns out. It's a mystery, an adventure and a romance all in one, with secrets, danger and intrigue around every corner -- not to mention some very colorful characters, including the heroine, Capitola, an adventurous girl whose pluck would be admired by any woman reading her story.
This is the kind of book you want to read while drinking tea by a crackling fire while it pours down rain outside; indeed, there's plenty of inclement weather in the story itself. It's not a great book for the beach or (more likely for me) the elliptical machine. And had I thought about it before tucking into the first chapter yesterday, I might have waited till fall to read this book again, just to get myself in the right mindset.
But as soon as I began, I was hooked yet again, and I found myself forgetting about the hot, steamy weather, my instincts telling me instead to put on my warmest fuzzy socks and curl up in an afghan. And I may yet.
It's the perfect way to get through this last, nasty part of summer.
Although August is flying, I've still got several weeks before those colors appear. But I've found a great way to pass the time, and it doesn't even require air conditioning -- the magnificent, marvelous world of books.
Yesterday, I began to re-read one of my favorite books of all time, The Hidden Hand by E.D.E.N. Southworth. Originally published in 1859 as a magazine serial, the book is a page turner all the way through. And it doesn't read like a book that is nearly a century and a half old, so those who want a book they can breeze right through without having to sift through outdated language will find a friend in The Hidden Hand.
To tell much about the story would be too difficult, as it has so many twists and turns that even though I read the book only a year ago, I can barely remember how it all turns out. It's a mystery, an adventure and a romance all in one, with secrets, danger and intrigue around every corner -- not to mention some very colorful characters, including the heroine, Capitola, an adventurous girl whose pluck would be admired by any woman reading her story.
This is the kind of book you want to read while drinking tea by a crackling fire while it pours down rain outside; indeed, there's plenty of inclement weather in the story itself. It's not a great book for the beach or (more likely for me) the elliptical machine. And had I thought about it before tucking into the first chapter yesterday, I might have waited till fall to read this book again, just to get myself in the right mindset.
But as soon as I began, I was hooked yet again, and I found myself forgetting about the hot, steamy weather, my instincts telling me instead to put on my warmest fuzzy socks and curl up in an afghan. And I may yet.
It's the perfect way to get through this last, nasty part of summer.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
More On Tummy Trouble...And A Bit On Jewelry
I couldn't help but smile today when I read this news story. I certainly hope this guy thinks twice before stealing again.
My sister swallowed a necklace too, once. Not because she had stolen it -- but why in the world she had it in her mouth in the first place I'll never know. Probably for some crazy reason, unlike the totally understandable reason I had for having a penny in my mouth when I swallowed it -- I was trying to clean it off.
Note to self: Don't eat chicken and rice for awhile.
Note to readers: I promise I'll write about something more pleasant soon.
My sister swallowed a necklace too, once. Not because she had stolen it -- but why in the world she had it in her mouth in the first place I'll never know. Probably for some crazy reason, unlike the totally understandable reason I had for having a penny in my mouth when I swallowed it -- I was trying to clean it off.
Note to self: Don't eat chicken and rice for awhile.
Note to readers: I promise I'll write about something more pleasant soon.
Proceeding With Caution
It was a hell of a flashback.
The day before yesterday, I threw a party to mark my five year anniversary living in Illinois. Two hours into the party, I came down with a severe case of tummy trouble and spent the bulk of the evening hiding in my bedroom and the adjoining bathroom.
It was just like when I first moved here. Two weeks before I moved to Illinois, I came down with a very sudden and very bad case of the tummy trouble. No doctor was able to find a definitive cause of this trouble -- my best guess is a combination of lactose intolerance (which I hadn't known I had) and stress. It was so bad that I ended up more stressed as a result, so the whole episode continued into October.
I felt that way again on Sunday, and the horrible memories of my last two weeks in Pennsylvania, and my first few months in Illinois, came flooding back to me. The agony of feeling sick all the time but not knowing why, of never wanting to go anywhere because I knew I'd want to leave right away, of being too afraid to eat anything but white rice and Saltine crackers -- I know it sounds like I'm being dramatic, but I was miserable. Not wanting to go through that agony again, on Sunday, I made a drastic decision.
I'm instituting a dairy embargo.
Once I was well enough to think about the possibility of my eating again in this lifetime, I got to thinking about what that meant. So many of my favorite foods are dairy-laden. A complete dairy ban would mean no buttery delicious English muffins, no ice cream, no baked goods, no mashed potatoes, no sour cream -- but to be honest, if I never have to feel that way again, it would be totally worth it.
So today I'm off to Trader Joe's to see what kind of soy products they carry and ponder what I can slip into my cooking without my husband noticing. I've had soy cheese before, and it tastes like crap, but I'm sure there are other soy products that don't. I've had the soy ice cream, and although it's nothing like real ice cream, it tastes alright if you're looking for something cold and sweet.
I'm hopeful, but I honestly don't know how long the dairy embargo will last. It's a bit of tough love right now -- I'm going to hate it, but it's for my own good. I'm sure at some point I'll try to work the dairy back into my diet and hope for the best.
But for now, I'm proceeding with caution.
The day before yesterday, I threw a party to mark my five year anniversary living in Illinois. Two hours into the party, I came down with a severe case of tummy trouble and spent the bulk of the evening hiding in my bedroom and the adjoining bathroom.
It was just like when I first moved here. Two weeks before I moved to Illinois, I came down with a very sudden and very bad case of the tummy trouble. No doctor was able to find a definitive cause of this trouble -- my best guess is a combination of lactose intolerance (which I hadn't known I had) and stress. It was so bad that I ended up more stressed as a result, so the whole episode continued into October.
I felt that way again on Sunday, and the horrible memories of my last two weeks in Pennsylvania, and my first few months in Illinois, came flooding back to me. The agony of feeling sick all the time but not knowing why, of never wanting to go anywhere because I knew I'd want to leave right away, of being too afraid to eat anything but white rice and Saltine crackers -- I know it sounds like I'm being dramatic, but I was miserable. Not wanting to go through that agony again, on Sunday, I made a drastic decision.
I'm instituting a dairy embargo.
Once I was well enough to think about the possibility of my eating again in this lifetime, I got to thinking about what that meant. So many of my favorite foods are dairy-laden. A complete dairy ban would mean no buttery delicious English muffins, no ice cream, no baked goods, no mashed potatoes, no sour cream -- but to be honest, if I never have to feel that way again, it would be totally worth it.
So today I'm off to Trader Joe's to see what kind of soy products they carry and ponder what I can slip into my cooking without my husband noticing. I've had soy cheese before, and it tastes like crap, but I'm sure there are other soy products that don't. I've had the soy ice cream, and although it's nothing like real ice cream, it tastes alright if you're looking for something cold and sweet.
I'm hopeful, but I honestly don't know how long the dairy embargo will last. It's a bit of tough love right now -- I'm going to hate it, but it's for my own good. I'm sure at some point I'll try to work the dairy back into my diet and hope for the best.
But for now, I'm proceeding with caution.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Songs I Wish Someone Would Put On A Mix CD For Me, Or, My Play-And-Replay Songs Of The Past, Plus A Few
"Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows" by Lesley Gore -- It's just so darn catchy.
"I Bet You They Won't Play This Song On The Radio" by the Monty Python gang -- Again, catchy.
"Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot -- I don't think I have enough serious music in my collection, and this one might impress people, especially if I learn all the words.
"You Spin Me Round" by Dead or Alive -- I used to have an awesome extended version on my iPod, but I lost it one of the times my iPod broke. I do have the Dope version though, and that's not bad.
"No Mermaid" by Sinead Lohan -- I had this on a mix tape once upon a time and just loved it. I still have a tape player, and I probably have the tape somewhere, but I'd like to be able to listen to the song on my computer like people in this century do.
"Don't" by Yve.N.Adam -- I believe this was on the same mix tape, and if I'm not mistaken, I copied both from the "Message In A Bottle" soundtrack a friend of mine owned. I used to listen to it over and over and over.
"Theme from The Greatest American Hero" by Joey Scarbury -- My sister tells me I used to love this show, or at least the song, when I was little. I don't remember that, but I do remember liking this catchy tune when it played on the sound system at the grocery store where I worked in high school.
"More More More" by whoever sang it first, not Rachel Stevens, who redid it, but all I know about the first lady was that she did porn -- I wish a knew another word for catchy, but I don't. So I'll just say that about this one too.
"Fields of Gold" by Sting -- This is another that I had on tape at one point. I saw Sting in concert for the first time in 1996, and that summer became the Summer of Sting. Everything he'd recorded up to that point made it into my (tape) collection, and this is one I'd really like to have in my iTunes as well.
"Somewhere Over The Rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo Ole' -- After I graduated college and was living alone, miserable, in Pittsburgh, my friend BJ made me a video of himself lip-synching to this song. The song is sweet, but the video was hysterical, and every time I needed to be cheered up, I would watch it. I also heard this song almost every day when I was on my honeymoon, so now, the song reminds me of happy Hawaiian days.
"Careless Whisper" by George Michael -- I never could resist the sultry sax of this song. This is another sense memory song for me; when I was in seventh grade (the best year of my life up to that point, and the best year I'd have till I was 15), we played it in jazz band (my favorite activity that year), so every time I hear it, I think of the fun times of my youth.
"I Got You Babe" by Sonny and Cher -- I just can't help liking this one, cheesy as it is. It's another I once had on tape. In fact, I even had the Beavis and Butthead version, courtesy of my freshman year college roommate.
"The Hustle" by Van McCoy -- Doing this dance was a tradition at parties thrown by my college friends. I'm not sure we did it right, but we sure enjoyed ourselves.
"Born To Be Alive" by Patrick Hernandez -- My sister and I like to play this game called Encore, which is played by rolling a die, landing on a colored space, choosing a card, reading the word in the color of your space and singing at least eight words of a song which include the word on your card. We're quite competitive. Anyway, once my brother-in-law entered the picture and started playing with us, he'd always sing this song. Neither of us had ever heard the song and thought he might have made it up. Finally, about a year after he'd first sung the song, I was in an aerobics class one day and lo and behold, this song came on. I laughed so hard I almost couldn't follow the instructor.
"Nothing's Gonna Change My Love For You" by Glenn Medeiros -- If this song came out today, I'd probably gag every time I heard it, but when I was in elementary school, I loved loved loved this song. I couldn't get enough of it. I haven't heard it in about 15 years, but for some reason, I still remember it as one of my absolute favorite songs of the past.
"I Bet You They Won't Play This Song On The Radio" by the Monty Python gang -- Again, catchy.
"Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot -- I don't think I have enough serious music in my collection, and this one might impress people, especially if I learn all the words.
"You Spin Me Round" by Dead or Alive -- I used to have an awesome extended version on my iPod, but I lost it one of the times my iPod broke. I do have the Dope version though, and that's not bad.
"No Mermaid" by Sinead Lohan -- I had this on a mix tape once upon a time and just loved it. I still have a tape player, and I probably have the tape somewhere, but I'd like to be able to listen to the song on my computer like people in this century do.
"Don't" by Yve.N.Adam -- I believe this was on the same mix tape, and if I'm not mistaken, I copied both from the "Message In A Bottle" soundtrack a friend of mine owned. I used to listen to it over and over and over.
"Theme from The Greatest American Hero" by Joey Scarbury -- My sister tells me I used to love this show, or at least the song, when I was little. I don't remember that, but I do remember liking this catchy tune when it played on the sound system at the grocery store where I worked in high school.
"More More More" by whoever sang it first, not Rachel Stevens, who redid it, but all I know about the first lady was that she did porn -- I wish a knew another word for catchy, but I don't. So I'll just say that about this one too.
"Fields of Gold" by Sting -- This is another that I had on tape at one point. I saw Sting in concert for the first time in 1996, and that summer became the Summer of Sting. Everything he'd recorded up to that point made it into my (tape) collection, and this is one I'd really like to have in my iTunes as well.
"Somewhere Over The Rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo Ole' -- After I graduated college and was living alone, miserable, in Pittsburgh, my friend BJ made me a video of himself lip-synching to this song. The song is sweet, but the video was hysterical, and every time I needed to be cheered up, I would watch it. I also heard this song almost every day when I was on my honeymoon, so now, the song reminds me of happy Hawaiian days.
"Careless Whisper" by George Michael -- I never could resist the sultry sax of this song. This is another sense memory song for me; when I was in seventh grade (the best year of my life up to that point, and the best year I'd have till I was 15), we played it in jazz band (my favorite activity that year), so every time I hear it, I think of the fun times of my youth.
"I Got You Babe" by Sonny and Cher -- I just can't help liking this one, cheesy as it is. It's another I once had on tape. In fact, I even had the Beavis and Butthead version, courtesy of my freshman year college roommate.
"The Hustle" by Van McCoy -- Doing this dance was a tradition at parties thrown by my college friends. I'm not sure we did it right, but we sure enjoyed ourselves.
"Born To Be Alive" by Patrick Hernandez -- My sister and I like to play this game called Encore, which is played by rolling a die, landing on a colored space, choosing a card, reading the word in the color of your space and singing at least eight words of a song which include the word on your card. We're quite competitive. Anyway, once my brother-in-law entered the picture and started playing with us, he'd always sing this song. Neither of us had ever heard the song and thought he might have made it up. Finally, about a year after he'd first sung the song, I was in an aerobics class one day and lo and behold, this song came on. I laughed so hard I almost couldn't follow the instructor.
"Nothing's Gonna Change My Love For You" by Glenn Medeiros -- If this song came out today, I'd probably gag every time I heard it, but when I was in elementary school, I loved loved loved this song. I couldn't get enough of it. I haven't heard it in about 15 years, but for some reason, I still remember it as one of my absolute favorite songs of the past.
A Cookie Dream Come True
Someone sent me this link this morning.
In case anyone wanted to know what I want for my birthday...look no further.
In case anyone wanted to know what I want for my birthday...look no further.
Positive Law Enforcement
I heard on the news this morning that a police department in my area will be giving out gift cards to folks they see doing good deeds, such as picking up trash in parks.
I think this is a fine idea. I've long thought that our friends in law enforcement should give people an incentive to be good. I learned in high school psychology that studies have shown that positive reinforcement (rewarding for good behavior) works better than negative reinforcement (punishing for bad behavior). I wouldn't mind them taking it a step further, and I can't think of a better place to try this than our roadways.
We all see stupid drivers, probably every day we take to the roads. The ones who think they own the road, who drive 30 miles above the speed limit, run every red light, pass on the berm. Then there are the drivers who don't mind sharing the road but don't plan to make it any easier for other people. You know who I mean -- the ones who don't use their turn signals; the ones who insist on squeezing through after a yellow light turns red, the ones who talk on their cell phones and eat while navigating a busy parking lot.
With all of those bad drivers, it's not surprising that the law-abiding drivers often go unnoticed. But I propose to change that. I believe the good people of our police departments should take action to recognize safe drivers -- not just by not ticketing them for offenses but by rewarding good driving behavior. The only driver on the road using a turn signal, the person who stops at a yellow light if there isn't enough time to squeeze through, the one who actually observes the construction zone speed limit, even when there are no workers waving the "slow" signs. The cops could pull those people over and issue them reward checks for doing well (I propose the amount of the check be the same as the penalty for breaking the law, but in some cases, that's pretty steep, and really, I'd be happy with any small reward).
I have my doubts that this idea will ever take off, but on the off-chance that any police chiefs or community leaders are Stapling Jello readers, I thought I'd throw it out there.
I think this is a fine idea. I've long thought that our friends in law enforcement should give people an incentive to be good. I learned in high school psychology that studies have shown that positive reinforcement (rewarding for good behavior) works better than negative reinforcement (punishing for bad behavior). I wouldn't mind them taking it a step further, and I can't think of a better place to try this than our roadways.
We all see stupid drivers, probably every day we take to the roads. The ones who think they own the road, who drive 30 miles above the speed limit, run every red light, pass on the berm. Then there are the drivers who don't mind sharing the road but don't plan to make it any easier for other people. You know who I mean -- the ones who don't use their turn signals; the ones who insist on squeezing through after a yellow light turns red, the ones who talk on their cell phones and eat while navigating a busy parking lot.
With all of those bad drivers, it's not surprising that the law-abiding drivers often go unnoticed. But I propose to change that. I believe the good people of our police departments should take action to recognize safe drivers -- not just by not ticketing them for offenses but by rewarding good driving behavior. The only driver on the road using a turn signal, the person who stops at a yellow light if there isn't enough time to squeeze through, the one who actually observes the construction zone speed limit, even when there are no workers waving the "slow" signs. The cops could pull those people over and issue them reward checks for doing well (I propose the amount of the check be the same as the penalty for breaking the law, but in some cases, that's pretty steep, and really, I'd be happy with any small reward).
I have my doubts that this idea will ever take off, but on the off-chance that any police chiefs or community leaders are Stapling Jello readers, I thought I'd throw it out there.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Things That Just Have To Go
"I'm gonna party like it's _____." -- 1999 was almost a decade ago, and the song "1999" came out in the early 80s. I think we can stop using that lyric every time there's an event that has to do with another time period.
Palooza -- Made popular by music festival Lollapalooza, this suffix has been added to just about every word imaginable, and it's getting really old. Bingo-palooza. Birthday-palooza. Wedding-palooza. How about come-up-with-a-better-word-
for-it-palooza. Extravaganza is a good one. Or fest. Or even jamboree. Be a little creative.
Dancing animation on the internet -- Every time I go to one particular Web site, I see an ad for a mortgage company or something with a dancing alien. It's distracting and doesn't even have anything to do with the ad. I'll click on a clever ad, but if I'm shopping around for a mortgage, a dancing alien is pretty much going to make me avoid that company at all costs. A dancing alien doesn't exactly say to me, "do business with these people. You can trust them."
"____ and ____ and ____, oh my!" -- This Wizard of Oz reference is even older than the 1999 thing, yet people still haven't tired of it. Every time I have to say a list of three things, I cringe, because I know someone will inevitably follow it up with "oh my."
Traffic reports -- When I first lived in the city and commuted to the suburbs, I'd listen to them all the time, and never once did I hear anything that actually helped me. Most of the time, all you hear about are normal delays. You could pretty much copy today's traffic report and play it every day for the next three months and no one would notice. But when there's a crash or something that actually slows things down, you never hear about it. I can't count how many times I've sat in traffic, listening for the traffic reporter to tell me why I was idling on the highway, and no news ever came.
Palooza -- Made popular by music festival Lollapalooza, this suffix has been added to just about every word imaginable, and it's getting really old. Bingo-palooza. Birthday-palooza. Wedding-palooza. How about come-up-with-a-better-word-
for-it-palooza. Extravaganza is a good one. Or fest. Or even jamboree. Be a little creative.
Dancing animation on the internet -- Every time I go to one particular Web site, I see an ad for a mortgage company or something with a dancing alien. It's distracting and doesn't even have anything to do with the ad. I'll click on a clever ad, but if I'm shopping around for a mortgage, a dancing alien is pretty much going to make me avoid that company at all costs. A dancing alien doesn't exactly say to me, "do business with these people. You can trust them."
"____ and ____ and ____, oh my!" -- This Wizard of Oz reference is even older than the 1999 thing, yet people still haven't tired of it. Every time I have to say a list of three things, I cringe, because I know someone will inevitably follow it up with "oh my."
Traffic reports -- When I first lived in the city and commuted to the suburbs, I'd listen to them all the time, and never once did I hear anything that actually helped me. Most of the time, all you hear about are normal delays. You could pretty much copy today's traffic report and play it every day for the next three months and no one would notice. But when there's a crash or something that actually slows things down, you never hear about it. I can't count how many times I've sat in traffic, listening for the traffic reporter to tell me why I was idling on the highway, and no news ever came.
Oreo Balls
I've decided to start posting recipes here, since I like food so much and enjoy sharing it with people.
This is one of those things you can take to any party, there will be no leftovers and everyone will be asking for the recipe. So here it is.
1 package Oreo cookies
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 package chocolate almond bark
Smash cookies into the smallest bits you can (a food processor works great). Mix in cream cheese (I just smush it in with my hands). Roll into balls.
Melt almond bark in a double boiler and cover the balls in chocolate. Cool on wax paper. Refrigerate.
This is one of those things you can take to any party, there will be no leftovers and everyone will be asking for the recipe. So here it is.
1 package Oreo cookies
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 package chocolate almond bark
Smash cookies into the smallest bits you can (a food processor works great). Mix in cream cheese (I just smush it in with my hands). Roll into balls.
Melt almond bark in a double boiler and cover the balls in chocolate. Cool on wax paper. Refrigerate.
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