The Death of Einstein and Other Off-Kilter Subjects

First, let me say that I know it is a rather confusing -- especially to my mother, methinks, but also to others -- that I maintain two blogs.  And, it further muddies the waters that I post the entries for BOTH blogs on my Facebook page, and that Facebook page is labeled 'The Reluctant Suburbanite.'  I realize that 'The Reluctant Suburbanite' is the name of my first blog.  And it is the blog I use for more serious topics without the use of pictures as props.  The 'Push-Ups' blog is the one for lighter topics and often a fantastic array of photos . . . sometimes the photos are more interesting than the writing (not that I fancy myself a stellar photographer).  Or maybe that's just me.  Anyhoo, if you wish to post a comment on the actual blog page itself -- as opposed to a comment on the Facebook-posted link -- you must become a follower of THAT particular blog.  If you are a follower of the ' . . . Suburbanite' blog but NOT a follower of the 'Push-Ups' blog, you will only be allowed to leave a comment on the blog to which you have promised to be a faithful and adoring acolyte: in this case, the '. . .Suburbanite' blog.  Am I coherent in this at all?  Is this making sense?  Do you even care?  Could I possibly use the word b-l-o-g in the above sentence with any more frequency than I did?!


But enough of that.


Tonight is a hodge-podge.  I'm a bit off kilter.  I mean, I must be, because my eldest daughter AND my husband both asked me if anything was wrong with me at totally separate times this evening and they were not in the same room -- the kitchen in this case --when the concerned question was posed.  My reply to both was a bland, "No."  But that did not satisfy in either case, thus a follow-up reply was necessary, "I'm just caught up in listening to the end of my audio book and am a bit distracted -- it's really intense.  My rib hurts.  I was up 'til 2am coughing and unable to doze off like a good little girl.  I'm ticked because I consumed foods I know my belly doesn't like, though my mouth did, and I'm full . . . and a bit worried about how much I will weigh at my physical on Thursday morning!  But, really, nothing's wrong.  It's been an okay day.  Not bad; not great," an oral break as I rip another hole in my chest with a sharp cough, "Though I think we could use at least a fifteen-minute glimpse of the sun any time now.  I'm fine.  Really.  Remember, I do have my quiet periods of thought and brooding.  Just part and parcel of the package that is moi."  There.  Everything is all cleared up now.  Phew!  For goodness sakes, can't a girl just BE sometimes without BEING ON all the time?


I am sad, though, after coming across a Facebook post by my cousin, Annette, about her bulldog: Einstein.  It seems that he suffered a very sudden and final stroke while receiving what would be his last bath at the hands of his kind master and his master's son.  (Also known as Annette's husband and son.)  He was a very handsome specimen.  A solid and sturdy guy.  Smooth camel-brown coat with a white face and jowly wrinkled mug.  Friendly without being obnoxious.  Everything one expects to find in a good bulldog.  Age and illness were not factors in his death.  And that is rather troubling, too, because realizing that unexpected, and often inexplicable, death occurs in all species, and not just the human race, is a big fat downer.  A bummer.  "It's not fair!" as my kids so often say.  But the great thing about Facebook is that therein lies the possibility for shared mourning.  People flock to post their apologies, indignant reactions and comforting thoughts to pet owners when they lose their beloved canine or feline . . . or even, say, a hamster left to languish in a dark closet by a teen terrified that it would escape into her bedroom.  Again.  At least Einstein departed in a happy moment under the loving hands of owners who provided him with a swell home and and a wonderful family pack.  He passes his good-pet torch on to two other well-loved household dogs to comfort the humans he left behind. Goodbye, stalwart and stoic Einstein.  I'm glad you lived a good life and imparted joy to your family during your days and nights.

(I borrowed this gorgeous shot of Einstein from his owner's Facebook post.)

He had a CUTE backside!

See what I mean about his MUG?!

In a huge jump to the other side of the pond, er, subject, er . . . Great Lakes?  There's this sweet little article I clipped and pinned to the corkboard for future discussion in my blog.  It seems that after dinner one evening, an elderly couple, one Allen and Violet Large, 75 and 78 respectively, of Truro, Nova Scotia, Canada, discovered they had won $11.2 million on a lottery ticket.  Since 1983, Allen has purchased two tickets a week; they won the booty in June of 2010.  That's not the incredible thing.  People, people I don't know and whom I've never EVER met -- young, old, married, single, sick, healthy, you name it -- win lotteries.  But most people don't decide to give it all away within a four-month period: dividing the winnings between 14 family members and 63 Canadian-based organizations, including the local fire stations and a hospital which successfully treated Violet (I love that name!) for ovarian cancer recently.  "We wanted to share it with people who treat us well," they said.  They plan to get by on their retirement and their savings, living in their 148-year-old house and driving their 1987 Dodge Diplomat sedan.  "We have everything we need."  Now, I've often thought about what I'd do if ever we happened upon a substantial sum of money.  Pay off the house; get all of the kids through college; take care of both mothers, mine and Jimmy's; fatten-up our very meager retirement savings; carve off a nice chunk for our church; help friends and loved ones (though that can become a bit of a sticky wicket!).  But past that, I wasn't sure.  But I'm not in my 70's yet, either.  There's still time to become totally and completely magnanimous and satisfied.


But until then, I rather enjoy coming into a bit of money for myself.  Being an adult, birthdays filled with cash-stuffed cards aren't in the offing.  Shoot!  They weren't in the offing when I was a kid, either.  Still, when I receive the occasional card with a check made out in MY name with a small sum specifically targeted at MY wants, it feels good.  I'd be lying if I said otherwise.  Usually, it's one's parents, or some rich aunt or uncle who's taken a shine to you, who seals the deal.  However, my mom isn't in a position to fork over a large check each year to honor the birth of her 5th child; I love her cards and gifts just as they are.  Further, my father is not in my life, so the chances of receiving a card from him, with or withOUT money, is zero, zilch, nil, no, nada, nunca!  My Grandma Opal, an alert and active 92 year-old, still sends me a $10 check every year.  That's special just because . . . the reasons there are precious and obvious.  And it's not like my husband has ever denied me anything I wanted over the years within reason.  (I'm quite talented in the 'reasoning' department.)  But that's still OUR money.  Not much surprise there, you know?


Having said all that, for the past two years I've felt a keen disappointment at opening a specific card and finding no check in it.  Not because I'm particularly selfish or self-centered or feel entitled to money in my birthday cards, but before two years ago, THERE WAS ALWAYS A $50 CHECK IN THE CARD.  It was something reliable.  Something to which I looked forward to accepting with gratitude and pleasure.  Something I could apply toward a special purchase for my very own without subtracting from our checkbook.  I've not been able to decipher why the money dried up.  It's probably rude to ask.  And rude to to say that I'd rather receive the check -- the same check that 4 out of 5 Valdez' in my nuclear family continue to find in their birthday cards -- than the small gifts which don't really match my likes or wants . . . or that $50 check.  One starts to imagine possible slights or snubbing or insults not realized.  Those aren't nice imaginings.  So, I've decided to quit imagining in that vein altogether and simply accept the about-face and move on.  Yes.  A very good idea.  Very good . . .


I'm moving on to lottery tickets.  Two a week.  Maybe an extra one on my birthday!