THE YEAR OF LIVING COURAGEOUSLY

In one hour and two minutes, it will be 2011 (Mountain Daylight Savings Time).

And I just don't like that.

Not the new year - the number 2011. I don't like odd numbers (except 13 - I love 13) - and the number eleven is even extra odd.

 

In the Arabian calendar, it's 1433. So that's not good either.

It's the end of the Year of the Tiger - that sounds cool. But it's the beginning of the Year of the Rabbit - nah.

So I think we each name this year. Whatever

 is meaningful to us.

So this is going to be the Year of Living Courageously.

For me.

"YOU ARE WRONG"

It doesn’t take much to send some people over the edge.

For me, it’s when people ask what kind of cookie you want - as if there is anything besides chocolate-chip cookies.

Someone I know has an almost psychotic response if you hold your hand up to him in a “stop” motion - I still don’t know entirely why.

(No, forget the ‘almost’ - it is completely psychotic)

But there is something that no one ever likes to hear - “You are wrong”

It has taken me decades to accept the pure and simple fact that no one ever changes their mind by simply being told, “You’re wrong.”

There is a very natural human reaction when you are hit to hit back - probably one of the reasons Christ mentioned turning the other cheek, because it takes a very conscious effort to not retaliate.

I have a poster of a cartoon character completely losing it -- just to remind me how people will punch back emotionally (and sometimes physically) if they feel threatened -- even if you don’t mean it as anything like a menace.

And there must be someone in the world who can hear, “You’re wrong” and calmly and politely answer, “Why, if you say so, I must be wrong.”

But I haven’t met them.

Yet.

LET'S GET CYNICAL

The media campaign continues to trump the message that youth is beauty - beauty is youth.

Immense amounts of money are spent on lotions, creams, dyes, tighteners, exercises, even surgery to eliminate those horrible horrible things such as grey hair, wrinkles, drooping parts of anatomy.


One of the funniest, at least from my point of view, are the 'wonder'bras and breast 'enhacement' surgeries - yeah, you're 115 lbs., but somehow you also have  boobs that would make Dolly Parton jealous?

And young women in particular, do you honestly want to appeal to the most infantile part of a guy who was bottle-fed as a baby?!?


And the most discouraging thing? WE WOMEN GO ALONG WITH THIS.

We put on the creams, we inflate the wrinkles and the bras, we dye our hair, we wear tight clothing, high heels and bright red lipstick.

And we look critically at other women's make-up, fake eyelashes, breast enhancement, and tight clothing, while they look down their noses at ours.

I'm sorry - I've never been pretty, and I know that have been beyond tom-boyish from sheer rebellion. I had a mother who wanted a pretty, feminine little girl - but she got me. So I refused to wear dresses - nylons - make-up for years and years and years - so part of this scorn

So women - why in the world aren't we out there supporting, helping and building each other up instead of being competitive and tearing each other down?



Come on girls - let's stop worrying about pleasing the men, the fashion critics, and helping a lot of people make money off of us - let's work together, and let's spend our paychecks on real things - like clean water and food for people all over the world.

Okay.

TELEGRAMS

I'm teaching a lesson about communication today, so it got me thinking.

Used to be that telegrams meant only one thing:
A death.

That was the method of notification - at the time, it was fast, efficient and reliable.

I honestly don't know how death notifications are done now - phone call? An officer of the law showing up at your doorstep? Do they just send you an email, and hope that you are on the Internet?

I know with the military, it's always done personally, and I LOVE the logic of the 'how' (care of the all-knowing, all-powerful wikipedia):

For military notifications, there are usually three persons involved: the notifying officer, a medic (in case the family member faints), and an officer that stays in the car in case the family members react violently.

So why does the officer stay in the car; so he doesn't get hurt? So he can drive quickly away and abandon the other two? So he can simply witness the murder of the notifying officer and the medic?

Geesch.

Sorry - perhaps a bit of a morbid attitude, but it makes me giggle (note: take a look at the name of this blog).

TIS THE SEASON TO BE CRAZY

It's Christmas Eve Eve, right?

And everybody is in a rush - they are going someplace to visit family or in-laws, they've bought into the American media fantasy of having the perfect meal, with the perfect presents while wearing the perfect clothing and trimming the perfect tree.

They need to get to the mall - to the grocery store - to the pharmacy - someplace.

And it is absolutely CRITICAL that they get there FASTER than you do.

So if that entails that you go through a red light, when it's only just turned red - it's actually sort of a light orange, really - well, yeah, that's okay, because you have to get there right now.

And it absolutely means that YOU get that parking space before I do. It doesn't matter if it's an elderly lady trying to pull in there - you may be a young man with an elevated red pick-up with NASCAR stickers all down the sides, but damn it, he has to get into that mall before you do.

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Yes, 'tis the season for sharing, giving, and caring -- as long as it doesn't have to be on the roadway.

DO SOMETHING TODAY THAT WILL MAKE YOU HAPPY TOMORROW

I would like to have a time machine.

But not to go back in time -  I have watched enough sci-fi through the years to believe that I will go back to my childhood, accidentally step on a cockroach in 1961, and come back to 2011 to find that we have a black president but Republicans the majority and people still arguing about whether gays should be in the military... oh, wait, that already is today, isn't it?!

I'm be only interested in going ahead to the future.

Think of it - I would know when Wall Street finally and completely collapses - I could see when Wal-Mart takes over Apple - there may even be a day when leather moccasins come back into fashion (yeah, like that's ever going to happen).

And yes, I will bring back the small pill that guarantees we will all be size 6, never have grey hair, maintain erections for four to five days, and stay at age 24 years of age until the day we die.

THE BEST OF INTENTIONS

Okay, how do these compare to an hour working out in the gym?

- Taking a twenty-nine year old to a doctor's appointment where she breaks into noisy hysterics about the possibility of perhaps the doctor actually do a physical examination.

- Fighting approximately 1,322 people, 46 infants, and three adults in motorized scooters at Target who were all frantically searching five days before Christmas for the perfect present for both their mother-in-law, the neighbor who picks up your newspaper when you're on vacation, and their children's teachers.

- Walking a frantic greyhound twice today, each time with her straining and trying to keep up with an equally frenetic chocolate Labrador who is chasing imaginary rabbits everywhere.

- Unloading approximately 675 lbs. of alfalfa hay and stacking it into piles between old hay and 50 lbs. sacks of senior equine feed already in the shed.

- Moving each and every single piece of clothing I hang up out of my closet, separating and re-hanging on three rods instead of two.

Yeah, I agree - maybe two hours at the very least.

CASTING THE FIRST STONE

We all do it. We see someone, and almost immediately our brain attaches a label to that face - "fat", "old", "ugly", "stupid".

And even when we get to know the actual person who owns that face, and may discover that some of those stamped classifications we so quickly put on are completely invalid...

They stick. Like labels do.

Yesterday, I was having a great deal of trouble watching a group of well-dressed teenagers scornfully glance over their shoulders at my disabled, seriously overweight daughter attempting to complete an on-line job application.

Then I realized what I was doing.

 Just the same thing these girls were doing - putting a label on them just as they were putting one on my daughter.

SNAKE IN A CAN

The fire department is great about a whole lot of things.

They put out fires - they get people to the hospital - they rescue kitties out of trees..

And in some areas, they even make nice calendars.

They also take care of rattlesnakes that refuse to leave the neighborhood, even when asked politely.

So I knew who to call when the female Western Diamondback who had moved in right under the faucet for the horses tank flatly refused my offer of relocation to the other side of the propane tank.

So two very polite young firefighters (sidebar: why do all professionals keep getting younger and younger every year I get older?) came out, picked up and dropped Ms. Rattlesnake into a can, and look her far, far away to a happy place where snakes live with rainbows and little bunnies to eat ... at least, that's what they told me.

(These are actually photos from my cool little iPhone - isn't she pretty?

And even better, now living somewhere else?)

ISN'T DISNEYLAND A PEOPLE TRAP OPERATED BY A MOUSE?

I can no longer make fun of my dog, Sofi.

Sofi reminds me of Goofy. Her tail can cause serious damage to concrete. Her cold, wet nose is guaranteed to make contact with whatever part of warm skin you would most like to keep dry.

She has a rather disjointed run - a little bit like her fronts legs are at a trot, but her back legs are at a gallop. And she needs constant reassurance that she is loved - to the point where she will chase the greyhound and the cat away when they are trying to get my attention.

But late this afternoon, she alerted me to a rattlesnake, which was just where I would have stepped on it if she had not freaked out at it. 

 

Suddenly she does not seem that silly of a dog.

COWBOY BOOTS

My first pair of cowboy boots didn't come along until a couple of years after I got Sherman.

When you're 14 years old and paying for buying, feeding, & stabling (a fenced-in patch of Los Angeles dirt, in this case) 800 lbs. of equine flesh by washing cars and making signs ... then things like riding clothes are put on the back burner.

(Also seeing "Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid" repeatedly - yeah, like eating pizza every night for two months can be considered 'repeatedly').

I rode in old jeans, a tank top and sneakers. I rode bareback for quite a while because I couldn't afford a saddle (and I thought it was much cooler, anyway). A group of us would buy a 60 lb. of carrots together and split it because it was cheaper.

But when I did get cowboy boots, they were worn every single day... for years. When I switched to English riding, those type of boots eventually showed up. But I never got ride of my cowboy boots.

Until about eleven years ago.

By that time, my cowboy boots were literally unwearable, for a couple of reasons - MAJOR holes around where your little toe join the rest of your foot (don't ask me why they wore out there more - I have no idea) - holes in the soles of both boots - and my feet had grown one entire size during the six years I lived in Honolulu (one of the extremely few disadvantages to wearing slippers - flip-flops to you haoles out there).

And I do not know why I didn't get another pair - I mean, heck, I live in Arizona, where we have Cowboy Poet Gatherings (I kid you not, look up the link), and wearing cowboy boots and turquoise neckties is as common as, well, as the gangs of people we natives refer to dismissively as "snowbirds" come from places like Wisconsin and walk around in December in shorts and sandals.

I decided to spoil myself - walked in our (one and only) mall's western-clothing store, and bought a pair of cowboy boots.

And now I am wondering why I waited so long, and what other sheer delights I have left behind?!

Besides Paul Newman, I mean.

CHANGE OF SEX

I've already done this to one animal.

My cat was picked up outside of Wal-Mart (literally - one of a group of kittens in a cardboard box being given away) as an adorable, fluffy, long-haired puff-ball.

So I took a dainty Pandora into the vets as a little feminine feline to be neutered, and took home a musky male cat (yeah, didn't really look closely at the little boy/girl parts when I first got her - I mean, him).

And now I have a newly adopted chunky, sorta pushy big Labrador stomping around.

But she's a girl.

I've just gotten used to having a boy and a girl couple.

I mean, like Najale and Sally - "Good boy! Good girl!" Delilah and Murry - "Good girl! Good boy!" Josiah and Joy - "Bad boy! Bad girl!"

And somehow "Good girl! Good girl!" just doesn't come across right.

So simply for the appropriate use of the pronoun, I am hereby announcing that Sofi from now is a HE.

And Sofi isn't objecting.

At least not yet.

TAKING MY NAME IN VAIN

There are disadvantages to certain names.

Scientific studies have shown that people respond very differently to certain names or certain types of names. You may have heard about experiments where different names were put on the same homework assignment and given to multiple teachers to grade. Names that were perceived as "old fashioned," like Bertha or Marmaduke, were given lower grades on the average. The problem is, "old fashioned" is a relative term. When those studies were first done, Emily and Ethan would have been considered old-fashioned names, now they're as current as can be.

I haven't met anyone named Monica for quite a few years now - did everyone change their names after Lewinsky became a front-page headline?

My dad's name is Bruce - and he was a musician - and back then every possible gay joke seemed to have the name Bruce, pronounced with a lisp and effeminate hand gesture.

How long has it been since you've met an Adolf - an Elvis - a Madonna - a Bertha - an Elmer? Do you know a Hortense outside of a Dr. Seuss book?

I like my name, but I am convinced now that I should copyright it and make some dinero from all the ways it is being USED nowadays.

And yes, they are all worthy causes - wonderful sentiments - fantastic groups. 

 

But I am getting TIRED of hearing it all the time!!!! 

EGG-SUCKING

An "egg-sucking dog" is one of those hillbilly expressions that I accepted as 'something yucky' without knowing what it refers to.

Now I know.

Sofi is a snoring overweight chocolate Labrador from the local animal shelter. Living three miles from an extremely volatile international border (at least according to every political candidate running on the "secure-the-border" theme down here), I feel slightly more comfortable with an indoor animal of, er, substance around - the greyhound is faster than the wind, but she also is an anorexic slip of a dog that slips away if a mouse challenges her.

But any animal needs some time to adjust to a household. Pandora, aka Master-Of-The-Known-Universe, is not your everyday feline, and it took more than a few seconds for Sofi to recognize and bow to his superiority.

Somehow, the bathroom is off-limits to Sofi, which I am enjoying a great deal - Murray would never request a need for privacy - "I can lick my balls in front of you, why can't you pee when I'm trying to push my snout between your legs?"

However, Sofi is incredibly well house-trained - to the point of where she will let herself become  VERY uncomfortable before she asks to be let outside.

But - back to the egg-sucking.

Yesterday my group of teenagers at church had decided to take plates of cookies and treats to several households. And in anticipation of 14 and 15 year-old girls forgetting to bring the assigned goodies, I baked some brownies and cookies Wednesday morning.

And then left my house to go work out (yeah, I get to the gym maybe, what, once a week now?), so I left some cooking supplies out - like the cookie sheets, and the eggs.

PLEASE NOTE - the eggs were INSIDE the stupid foam container they are sold in, on the counter, when I left/

And I came home to - yes, you guessed it - EGGS broken, chomped on, scattered over (of course) NOT the kitchen linoleum (where it could be easily mopped up) BUT the carpet - which, thankfully, has already been stained far beyond any reasonable amount by numerous cats, dogs, one very temporary snake, and klutzy humans such as myself.

But the scariest news of all (and I am quoting directly from  http://ezinearticles.com/?The-Passion-of-an-Egg-Sucking-Dog&id=4375334) is "it's too hard to drown an egg sucking dog, just haul 'em over to Somerville County and turn them out. It's probably where they come from anyhow."

Have I forced upon my poor fat dog an addiction that will never leave? Is there a support group such as ESCAPE (Egg Sucking Canines And Potential Enablers)?