Avoidance Thoughts

I thought I'd pop in on my blog while avoiding my domestic responsibilities: namely a much-needed trip to Wally World (a.k.a. Wal-Mart).  It's a zoo.  A cavernous air-conditioned cage where prunes and Pringles mingle with maxi pads and mouthwash in complete harmony . . . save for the shoppers.

Panda, the elderly matron of our canine pack, has made her way, oh so carefully on those rickety arthritic joints of hers, up the stairs and found a resting spot close to me here in the study.  I've snapped off a few shots of her graying visage for those not-too-distant future days when she's gone and we're down to Hank, Fabio the Cat, and occasional visits from Abby the Grandpup.  Today is an especially relaxing and happy day for her as the Hankster is presently recuperating from a triple-threat surgery this afternoon at our vet clinic; he doesn't return home until tomorrow.  His rear dewclaws, that one baby canine which refused to budge when the adult tooth emerged, AND his yet-to-be-exercised (except on his doggy bed) manhood will NOT be returning with him.  Ouch!  Poor sweet baby.

There was a rather exciting and unexpected development courtesy of my Facebook instant message feature: my cousin IM'd me to ask one question and it led to a discussion of our individual blogs.  THAT may lead to a promising joint-venture down the road.  I'll keep you posted.  Meanwhile, she's sending me a little package!  I love me some good snail mail.  Wheeee!

(In the middle of it all, I'm inserting eight random pictures of the precious subjects and summer events of my 2011 life.  Enjoy.)

I discovered I have a talent for undressing.  My iPhone, that is.  The other day, Hank was acting the fool and had to be directed to his man cave for a cooling down session (you might call it a kennel).  In the process of escorting him, my iPhone was launched from my waist clip and landed in the dogs' water dish.  Well, I slammed that kennel door shut in a flash, lunged for the submerged technological lifeline, and moved with an efficiency and speed I've not hitherto witnessed in myself.  You've never seen a girl undress an iPhone so quickly!  Perhaps you've never seen an iPhone undressed.  Period.  But an Otter Box, the type of protective cover I use, is a rather cumbersome prophylactic consisting of a hard endo-skeleton which envelops the phone, clipping securely into place at several key points, and a flexible rubbery outer shell which fits snugly over the other piece.  It takes some doing, especially with my newly arthritic finger tips, to get the thing off my petite Girlfriend.  Possible water damage and replacement costs, however, are superb motivators.  Not to mention a nasty surge of adrenaline.
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Well, the above post never made it online before I was forced by time and circumstance to run the aisles of Wal-Mart.  Hank has returned home.  He can't seem to stop licking his suture on his hind leg where his dew claws were unceremoniously nipped off.  Actually, it's not a suture but a staple.  And as the paperwork stated without delicacy of verbiage, he was also castrated.  That emerging male dangle is depleted . . . left to hang behind him like a deflated hair-balloon.  I know.  Sounds rather crass.  But I'm not trying for that.  For some odd reason, I felt a mother's pride when it became apparent that my once helpless male pup was crossing the threshold into his adulthood with all of the promise of becoming a proud sire.  Now, he has been deprived of that right to at least practice carrying on his bloodline on anything but his new forest-green doggy bed (which is a handsome color-contrast against his white fur).  Yes, yes, it was necessary.  Can't have anymore homeless pups in the world.  Don't need the extra aggressiveness and territorial-marking that often follows on the heels of masculine maturity.  Intellectually, it all makes perfect and sound sense.  Emotionally, I'm glad he can't think into things the way his owner does.

Though this entry lacks finesse and cohesiveness, or maybe a theme, I'll post it.  My free drink coupon at Starbucks is burning a hole in my purse.  My cute new haircut requires the benefit of a quick color.  Much needed rain has drenched the yard.  And I've got to pack for an overnight with a good friend who is ready to celebrate turning 40 in quiet and friend-oriented fashion.  I'm hoping for a deep-tissue massage.  I feel the need to melt like butter.



 

Recipe for The Perfect Thunderstorm

**After much trial and error, I've hit upon the right combination of ingredients, activity and timing.  Considering the house-shaking power and inches of water which rained down from the heavens like so many angry and sorrowful tears within the past hour, I know I'm right. 

INGREDIENTS FOR A SUCCESSFUL RAIN DANCE:

-One iPhone loaded with several decades worth of Michael Jackson songs
-One sweaty, hungry Reluctant Suburbanite who promised a friend she'd water her plants
-A horde of threatening clouds off to the east which surreptitiously observes said house frau
-A two-week dry spell in the midst of a heat epidemic
-Several failed attempts to lure 'scattered showers' in with laborious timed sprinkler placements
-Sunscreen SPF 30+

DIRECTIONS FOR MIXING:

1: Choose to listen to aforementioned MJ tunes, beginning with "Shake Your Body Down" which he did with The Jacksons, and ending with "Heal The World".  Somewhere in the middle, include "Scream" with Janet Jackson and "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' ".  (Do NOT decide upon multiple NPR podcast selections of "This American Life" or "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me . . . " as these dry choices appear to dispell any and all rain clouds.  Why the world's biggest, and most disturbed, pop star does the trick, I can't tell you, except that his music seems to fit a variety of situations.)

2: Fill a watering can several times, placing the hose on various thirsty tall grasses and crape myrtle trees between fillings, and lug the heavy can to every single cotton-picking potted flower and tomato in your neighbor's front and back yard.  Empty and repeat.  And repeat.  And did I mention repeat?

3: Remind yourself that it's okay if your sunscreen is melting off your face in the 95-degree plus humidity afternoon because you can apply it for a fourth time if need be.  Further, embrace the pleasure you feel deep, deep, DEEP down, in knowing you are keeping alive these various and sundry flowers, vegetables and young trees which impart so much enjoyment to your busy and stressed-out friend who's presently on a week's vacation with ANOTHER friend . . . in sunny beachy Florida, while you are discovering creative ways to remain cool in the midst of multiple heat advisories.  And remember you might could be a touch irritable because you neglected to eat an actual meal and the clock was hitting 1PM when you headed out.

4: Even as the clouds gather in number, darkness, strength, and promise, do NOT -- and this is most important -- do NOT stop this laborious watering process.  Stopping now, with only the cucumber and tomatoes to go, will only ensure that this giant wall of water vapor restlessly situated on the horizon will move around you and every parched parcel of real estate in your section of town!

5: Oh, my gosh!  Turn OFF that danged sprinkler still arcing back and forth in your back yard.  It's been running for over an HOUR.  You forgot it because you decided to post yet another blog entry about that spellbindingly gorgeous and loveable Hank the Wonder Pup (even though your readers most likely tired of his antics about a month ago).

6: Don't think about rain, even as a gusty breeze stirs tired leaves and yard debris, and layers of ominous nimbus begin to creep ever closer overhead.  Calmly turn off your friend's hose and hang it up.  Admire your handiwork, pausing to snap a picture of the handsome cantaloupe you've kept alive another day for your pal (who DID invite you to celebrate her 40th birthday with a few other select friends in less than a week).  Send this cool view of said melon (even if you do say so yourself) to your relaxed and tanned friend, assuring her that her garden babies are sated and saturated.  Then, walk, don't run, home to check on the puppy you left out of his kennel but loose in your kitchen in your haste to complete your responsibilities.  If you run, this may relay the wrong signal to the approaching storm and, thus, divert its flow.

7: Trash your idea for a blog entry on the deceptive practices of local news channels and their weathermen/women as almost horizontal winds deliver the biggest, fattest, happiest, sassiest rainfall you've seen in a coon's age.  Embrace terms such as '30% chance' and 'possible hit-or-miss storms' and even those 'scattered showers' you've tried to seduce with no apparent success before now. 

8: Share your success.  Rejoice in the reality of NO WATERING tomorrow.  Ponder why the elder dog despises storms and hides indoors from them but the Wonder Pup rushes out to sit and observe the skies even as the drops begin to pelt his pelt.

9: Don't get too cocky; Mother Nature is listening.

10: Oh, and Google 'coon's age' as you've always wondered as per the origins of that particular term.

The Wonders of Barking

I'd like to get more regular with this here blog.  Something to shoot for, I suppose.  Which, by the way, is EXACTLY what Hank the Wonder Pup is sure to become if he continues to exercise his spirited barking in his back yard haven.  The charm of those satin bat ears and all that pearly white handsomeness will only protect him so far before a neighbor realizes how easy it really is to take aim and shoot with that rusty shotgun buried in the back of the coat closet.  (I, however, do not have either a coat closet or a shotgun.  Plenty of items with rust, though.)  I don't even know what the object of his barking IS most of the time.  Initially, he discovered his lung capacity in direct response to the serenades of other dogs in the Jamison 'hood.  Then, there were those odd times throughout the day when he patrolled the windows of his kitchen kingdom, lightly padding from back door to west window to north window, and shouted at birds and shadows and quite possibly . . . um, er . . . moths?  Now, Hank perches in the Bermuda grass in that charming sideways pose he has, one of his lanky pup legs tucked under his rump and the other shooting off to the east, and bays away at the distance for no apparent reason other than the sheer exhilaration of mouthing off.  (He's definitely related to Zachary.) 



Sigh-h!  Those ears.  That fur.  His sad, sad eyes!

While Hank's newfound love of howling seems to keep him entertained, I'm fairly certain that most human beings within earshot are not thinking, "Oh, how wonderful, he's safely occupied while I mop the floor and check my e-mail!"  Because outside of my own sweet and ornery puppy, even I -- the one capable of multitudes of circumspect thought and able to leap over latitude-for-others in a single bound -- don't entertain such imaginings with other folk's dogs.  (Save for the black Cocker spaniel of indeterminate age who patrols the fence line of the house behind ours: he can't see and barely hears!  What other pleasure in expression has he, aside from copious amounts of sniffing the same areas over and over and over again, if not that of oration?)  Whether they be wee pert yappers or barrel-chested barkers, the repetitive sound grates on the nerves after a few minutes or so (thus beating out most modern pop songs)  And interrupts naps.  Irritates those with PMS.  Damages the sound barrier.  Not to mention contributes to the inexplicable rise in bullet holes which suddenly seem to appear around that makeshift side fence where certain white pups (who have no idea they are about to have their unfurling male aggression halted on Monday at 11AM) like to lie in repose and chat with the wind!


When Hank's not barking, he's cornering the cat.

The irony in all of this is that I'm trying to teach Hank the Wonder Pup to bark on command.  Much as we did with our senior gal, Miss Panda.  I know she didn't emerge from her mother's crowded womb knowing how to SPEAK and wait patiently for her crunchy treat, but for the life of me, I can not recall how she learned this simple trick.  What I do remember, however, is using the garden hose sprayer to break both Panda and Rosie (our little mop of a dog who died of Addison's disease -- which is what President Kennedy suffered from -- over ten years ago) of their obnoxious noise making.  I must admit that I found that entire episode rather amusing; for awhile after that, anytime I entered the back yard to water the garden, both animals would bow their heads, tuck tails, and run into the dog house, before peeking out to check if the coast was clear.  Hilarious!

At trying moments like these, I'm sure Panda would LIKE to bark!

Hmmm.  Another entry about a girl (at least on the inside when she sets her eyes on one particular lab-mix hound who has a penchant for crunching on empty plastic water bottles -- yet another form of recycling) and her dog.  There are actually three children and a husband in the household.  And I interact both lovingly and regularly with them.  They even feature prominently in my blog.  Ju-u-st not quite as often as Hank.  He is, after all, a Wonder Pup!  He holds my heart in his perpetually moist jowls . . . not a very pretty mental image, is it?  But love can be messy.

And so can Hank.


Hank's twice daily refreshment in the heat of summer: he requires containment during dining.



Where to Begin . . .

First off, though you readers can't tell from your vantage point on my blog page, the new and improved Blogger draft page and author wall leaves much to be desired.  I don't like it!  Do ya hear me, Blogger.com people?!  Why did you have to go and alter a good thing.  And the white on white plays nasty tricks on my aging eyes.  Most unpleasant.  Most displeased am I (in the voice of Yoda, Jedi Master extraordinaire).

Overall, my summer has been a triumph.  A passage of time marked by family of the in-state AND out-of-state ilk -- including two months with my mother-in-law which proved to be highly entertaining; McDonald's soft-serve ice cream cones (no longer do they serve merely to calm my tummy during extended car rides; they are a bonafide food addiction; on one hand I can count the number of days that I denied myself this 150-calorie gas-free pleasure since this April!); thousands upon thousands of photogenic cicadas which threatened the sanity of my eldest daughter for weeks; an eager and loving white pup capable of devouring large piles of kibble in a single gulp and voiding same in an equally dramatic and copious manner; and continued friendly dealings with my Earth Divas (refer to previous entries for a layout of our varied frolics of fun and fancy).  Oh!  Yes . . . and plenty of coffee!  Did I mention weddings?  Baseball?  Abby the Grandpup?  Dare I say the list could wax endless?

Hard to pass up this deal!

A good day with Ollie.

Bidding a fond farewell to the old house.

Dried out and ready to fly.

He also enjoys a lite snack of toilet paper.

A creamy soy latte ala Rembrandt's in Chattanooga!

Brand new Earth Diva activity on display.

This fabulous red shoe enhanced the foot of a groom's sister at the wedding I DID attend.

They brought in the lefty pitcher this summer!

Abby, no longer a pup but a gorgeous dog.

I also witnessed watershed events in the lives of people around me.  Some momentous in the most wonderfully incredible of ways; others earmarked by shock and heartbreak.  A summer is not simply a happy thing because we wish it to be, merely because it is rife with swimming pools and sandy beaches, bikinis  and barbecues, fireworks and frivolity.  Harsh realities creep in, past the slathered-on sunblock and beneath the hems of brightly colored cotton dresses, fully capable of darkening the skies and canceling those long-planned vacations.  But perhaps it is that very contrast of sunlight and dark news within the parameters of this eagerly anticipated season which makes the bad so much harder to handle.

Here is the sunlight:

My daughter and I spent two overwhelming days of orientation at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga in preparation for her first fall semester as a bonafide college student there beginning in late August!  While she was practically paralyzed with nerves and worries of failure, coming to tears once in the midst of it all, her mother dear experienced a rush of positive feelings all along the maternal rainbow of pride.  I'm excited enough to fill both our cups to overflowing.

In counterpoint to her own choice for this next phase of her young life, her boyfriend (quite a nice young man, in my humble estimation) made the choice to join the Army.  I had the distinct honor of spending an evening and day with him and other men and women in his position, along with their loved ones, concentrating their final moments of togetherness into those anxious hours before the last good-bye.  Watching the convoy of white passenger vans drive off, single file toward the highway leading to South Carolina and other military points which escape me, holding a great many BOYS and GIRLS straight out of high school, I couldn't help but feel a curious mixture of patriotism and angst.  Admiring those headed out for their brave endeavor; wishing many, including said boyfriend, could have had a year, or at LEAST a summer, to themselves, free of the high school institution, before entering into another controlling institution.

Me and Derek -- the night before.

Boys on the verge of becoming men.

Parents waiting for good-bye.

Swearing in.

A happy moment before departure.

Hugging his mama.

We met Dakotah, now stationed with Derek, and an extraordinary young man.

Headed for basic.

Those were the highlights of life-changing events with hopeful outcomes.  But as I mentioned earlier, not everyone entertained such good news.  I wrote on "The Reluctant Suburbanite" blog about good friends of mine in the throes of possible divorce due to a drug problem hiding in the shadows of denial.  That frustrating situation continues.  The kids are adjusting, resilient as youth tend to be when they are loved even in the most difficult of times.  And it has been heartening to see how relationships outside the marriage have been strengthened as neighbors and acquaintances prove their loyalty and step up to the plate in terms of support and assisting.  I can't call this one, though the odds seem stacked to one side.

While my elderly dog was diagnosed with terminal abdominal cancer recently, that sad state of affairs pales in comparison to what my husband's previous boss called to tell him several weeks back.  Cancer.  Aggressive.  Advanced.  Already to a point where only a miracle could keep him alive until Christmas of this year.  This man is one of those regular good guys.  A fantastic father.  A literal savior of a husband.  It is with his wife that I am well-acquainted.  On that morning of horrific revelation, I grabbed my phone and rang her after quickly sending her a message on Facebook mail.  I was pissed.  Tired of cancer and all life-altering, life-sucking, life-taking illness.  Wrecked to realize their two sons, adopted out of what was once the USSR, would graduate without their dad in the audience.  Sad to think that his grandchildren, thankfully he has them and spends quality time with them, would grow beyond the seeing of his watchful eyes.  And deeply upset to picture the love of his life without him in their approaching golden years.

So I gave to my friend what I could.  My unique perspective.  My direct approach.  My empathy without the dubious benefit of placatory statements intended only to buffer the discomfort felt in such painfully awkward times.  My stalwart ear.  I listened.  And listened some more.  At one point, stay with me here, I took to hiding in the pantry to escape the happy weekend morning noises of our kitchen and it's hungry denizens.  But I was tied to the wall because she returned my call by cell with her own call to our home phone.  My bladder began to make known its presence.  Before long, it was screaming for relief.  However, there was no good stopping point in our conversation.  Rather than interrupt her very appropriate tirade concerning a physician who should have seen certain signs a country-mile away, I emptied a rather large and deep recycled margarine container of its chocolate chips and dried coconut, OH, BUT I DID . . . and voided the contents of my protesting bladder.  I "psssted" my husband on the other side of the door, where things had gone rather quiet.  Handed him the container before he could register the contents.  And continued to give of myself as my valuable friend needed.  (No worries.  There were Wet Ones for hand washing; and my experience with a coffee can in my closet during my second pregnancy -- I had a sister-in-law who often spent incredible amounts of time in our one shared bathroom -- proved invaluable.  It's like getting back up on a bicycle after 18 years!)  I later explained my predicament to her, and we had ourselves a stress-relieving laugh.  Take the silver linings however they present themselves, I say.

Panda kissing Ashley the weekend after her diagnosis.

I've gone long.  Terribly long, I'm afraid.  But so busy have I been enjoying this life of mine, stopping to observe the small, the beautiful, the obscure, that which is right before the eye, that my time on the blog has been short these past many months.  Oddly enough, when I do sit down to write and post my photo essays, I forget what has actually been set forth in blog and what has merely been thought of in my 'blog speak' brain.  I'm continually in the ON position.  Where once it was letters to my imprisoned little brother running through my head, it is now ideas for entries on PUSH-UPS.  I can't seem to help myself.

As summer winds down, remember to slow down, touch, taste, feel, think, rest.  It's the best advice I have to offer.