How WAS your morning, Suebob?
Well, let me tell you.
But first, a photo:
What is it, you ask?
That, my dear friends, is the spot in the fence where White Trash Neighbor’s big grey pit bull has been chewing the boards up. Yes, chewing through wood with his big sharp fangs, sometimes looking meaningfully at me as he does it.
He is not content to bark at Goldie through the fence. He wants to get into my yard to attack Goldie. He and his friend, the other pit bull, really, really hate Goldie.
This morning it got really bad. The dog busted a whole fence board – I think it was a 1×6 – out, just head-butted the board over and over til it popped clean off the fence. Then the dog stuck its massive Cujo head all the way through the hole and growled and barked at us.
I called my landlord’s assistant, who isn’t really worth the paper he is printed on, to come help PLEASE NOW. He hemmed and hawed and said he didn’t have any wood to fix the fence and I mentioned that we were trapped in the house and that Goldie could not go outside to pee, which was stressing both of us out A BIT.
He said he’d see what he could do. Knowing what both he and my landlord usually do (stall, ignore, forget, refuse to spend a dime), I was afraid Goldie would just have to go pee in the corner of the kitchen for a few days.
Then the phone rang and it was Life Alert. They had received a call from my mom’s alert button, but could not get her on the phone. They had called the paramedics, who were on their way. At this point, I assumed the worst about my mom. I really did.
And I was naked, getting ready for my mid-morning shower (one of the great pleasures of working at home is that I can take a shower on my morning break). I raced around flapping my arms and tripping on things and finally got clothes on.
Then I took deep breaths and ran out, throwing dog biscuits over the fence to distract the dueling Cujos and hustled Goldie into the car before the killer dogs noticed she was outside. This was not good for my blood pressure, which was already, as you might imagine, a tad high from thinking my mother had collapsed on the floor of her home.
We were on our way to mom’s when Life Alert called back. The paramedics had reported in and Mom was ok. She had gone outside without her phone and had gotten the wheelchair stuck in the lawn.
Thank goodness for her having the call button. I burst into tears at the stoplight, causing a homeless guy who was crossing the street to stare at me.
So then Goldie and I came home and I had to quickly run into the house to get biscuits to repeat the biscuit-tossing, dog-sneaking and praying the 2 Cujos didn’t eat us.
The landlord’s assistant and his buttcrack (his buttcrack always makes an appearance whenever he does) finally got over and fixed the fence, for now. But I just know the Cujos are out there, plotting, plotting. I can hear them thinking.
Just a poem about art
In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest, where no one sees you,
But sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.
Rumi
The Dad’s English
My dad had a way with the language. His expressions were colorful enough to amuse and confuse anyone. I thought I’d write a post where I could come back and add items to the Dad dictionary whenever I thought of them:
Medical
Organ recital: a long-winded discussion of one’s ailments
Collywobbles: a cold or flu
Food
A snort: liquor, probably brown
Axehandles: a vegetable side dish or maybe spaghetti
Buzzard: chicken or turkey
Hay: cereal
Horse: beef
Mud: coffee
Ptomaine Wagon: food truck (roach coach)
Slop and rocks: biscuits and gravy
Expressions of Disgust
“That’s enough to puke a dog off a gut wagon”
“Enough to gag a maggot.”
Expressions of Approval
“Slick as a whistle”
Descriptive
Sky-blue pink: his favorite color
A fur piece: a great distance
Kermit: the dog (short for “curr mutt”)
General Expressions about Okies (he worked in the oilfields, which were populated by people from Oklahoma)
Okie sheriff: speed bump
Okie chrome: silver spray paint
There are many, many more. I’ll be adding to the list.
I’ll Be Missing You
Silver Strand Beach, 1983. Me on the left, Laura on the right. She titled this postcard “Looking Up”.
My sister Laura would have been 60 years old today. She was a Thanksgiving baby (not born on Thanksgiving, but Mom was in the hospital with her on T-Day), which seems appropriate, considering that she was one of the most thankful people I have ever met.
Even when she had MS that left her unable to move anything but her head, she would say “I’m the luckiest person on earth.”
I remember her telling me how magical it was that she could be so still, because then she would sit outside under the crabapple tree and birds would land on her. She loved that.
Sometimes I get mad that she had to die. But other times I think she just graduated early, like an advanced student.
Giving Thanks and Eating Dessert
Photo from flickr by srd515. Used under a creative commons license.
I love my church more and more every day. Not to be too much of a churchy Church Lady, but really, it is so much on the good part and so light on the annoying part that I can’t help but be happy about belonging to such a great spiritual community.
Last night we had our Gratitude service. A little singing, a little prayer, and then the main portion of the show – all of those who wished came up front to some microphones and said what they were grateful for.
It was sweet and charming and touching and, when the kids came up, funny (“Everything” said one boy before scampering off stage, giggling, to join his two brothers in the back row).
A man who had just gotten married said he would give a food box to the school up the street for everyone who stood and gave thanks, so we gave away 22 boxes of food.
Then, of course, it was time to eat! Dessert potluck. I picked pecan pie and did myself in. One small piece and I was unable to consider anything else.
I was standing there talking to a guy as he ate. He took samples of about 6 desserts – brownies, lime cake, pumpkin pie, something puddingy, a lemon bar…no problem. Guy likes his dessert. I’m a kindred spirit.
But then…what he did was so stunning that I can barely consider it. He took his fork, and working carefully and rapidly, mashed all the desserts together in a uniform paste, kind of a dessert version of soda fountain Suicide.
It wasn’t like this was his first time. It was like this was what he had been waiting and wanting to do. He made this chunky brown paste and then happily shoveled it in, all chocolatey and limey and lemony and puddingy at once.
I could barely keep myself from twitching. It just seemed so unnecessarily violent, in a dessert-killing kind of way.
Have you ever seen anything like this? I’m still shaking my head.
I gave thanks for all of you last night, because I’m so happy to have this corner of the internet and this crazy online community. Happy Thankgiving.
30-Day Chip
Some people say you have to hit bottom before you quit drinking. Lost job, threatened divorce, DUI – it makes sense that you’d want to quit.
What is harder to understand is quitting drinking when one is nowhere near bottom, when one, in fact, is not an alcoholic.
I stopped drinking 30 days ago and I’m still sorting out the reasons why.
It was partly inspired by Schmutzie and her quitting. She said she wanted to be more awesome, and I could relate to that. Yes to awesomeness.
I had also met two amazing women in recovery at Creative Alliance 10 who made me think about my relationship with alcohol.
And then in church one day, the visiting Buddhist monk, Kusala Bhikshu, talked about why Buddhists believe you shouldn’t get intoxicated – because drinking can turn a PhD into an idiot in an hour. I thought about that. I guess I thought pretty hard about it, because the next day, I stopped drinking.
So here I am, still wondering what I am doing.
To be clear, I never drank a lot. I have never, ever had a hangover. I got drunk maybe once a year because I have a built-in anti-drunkenness mechanism – I go from mildly buzzed to “OMG, the room is spinning and I’m going to be sick” in the space of about one drink.
But I had a couple glasses of wine, every day, every single day, and I just wanted to see how life would be without that crutch.
I also wanted to end the snack-fest that started when my judgment was clouded by alcohol. Some people get horny when they drink. I get promiscuous with food. Things I would never eat while totally sober suddenly start sounding like a good idea. Third cookie? Why, yes, I believe I will!
I also wanted my buzzed hours back. Once I start drinking, I’m pretty much useless for anything more than sitting on my butt and reading or watching TV, so there were long portions of every evening where I didn’t accomplish much. I wanted to have that time to get more done. To be more awesome.
It was more difficult to stop than I had imagined. Every day when I got home from work, I really, really wanted my glass of wine. I wanted it a lot.
It took me a while to realize that I didn’t want the wine as much as I wanted a marker to the end of my work day. I found that, by making myself a fussy drink like San Pellegrino water with ice and lime, it was enough to put paid to my day and to make me feel like it was time to relax.
Now I have a serious San Pellegrino habit. I’m sure their profits have shot up just on the basis on my addiction.
Going out on the town was a little difficult. I quit drinking right before Restaurant Week, when I ate out at fine restaurants three times. It did kill me a little to sit there with a great meal and some…sigh…jasmine tea. Would one glass of wine have hurt me? No, but I wanted to take a good chunk of time to think about drinking before I considered when and if I would start again. So I held back.
Has it helped? In some ways. I haven’t dropped a bunch of pounds, but I have been more reasonable about my evening eating. I sleep better, I think, and wake up less in the middle of the night.
I’m happy to be present for more of real life, without the fuzzy edges provided by alcohol. I thought I needed that fuzziness, but now that I don’t have it, I find that reality isn’t so bad. I have always been a bit of a control freak, and this just adds a new dimension to that. I’m not entirely sure if that is good or bad.
Awesomeness? I’m still waiting for that to happen.
The weirdest side effect is the realization how alcohol-soaked our culture is. I don’t want to be too much of a pearl-clutcher about this, but it had really never occurred to me before. Now it is like a hangnail that you keep bumping on things. Every third tweet is about drinking or wine. Commercials, billboards, jokes, the giant block of pre-Thanksgiving floor space devoted to wine in the grocery store (it apparently takes a sea of wine to get people through dinner with their families. Shock.)
I’m not sure how long I’ll stay sober. I’m happy to have gone 30 days without. The longer I go, the less I miss my glass of wine, but I can’t say that I won’t start again.
I’m still figuring this out.
I Love We Olive
This part here in italic? I did not write this part. Full disclosure, people.Thanks to American Express for sponsoring my writing today about small businesses. American Express is presenting Small Business Saturday, a way to honor the local merchants who are the backbone of the economy, this Saturday, November 27. They’re offering statement credits to people who shop at small businesses, advertising for small-business owners, and donations to Girls Inc. for “Likes” of the Small Business Saturday page on Facebook. Join the celebration by clicking the “Like” button and then visiting the Facebook page to learn more about the program and read the terms and conditions that apply.
We Olive in Ventura, California
American Express said I could write about any small business I wanted for this post. I immediately thought of We Olive because I love them so much.
This is the story of a happy man, a story about the power of a wish.
Steve Tobey was a general contractor when he visited the We Olive store in Paso Robles, California. He liked the store so much that he said “I’d love to have the guy behind the counter’s job.”
Fast-forward to a year later. He opened his own We Olive store on Main Street in downtown Ventura! Now he IS the guy behind the counter, enthusiastically handing out samples of his products and educating people about olive oil.
I think there’s a power to saying what you want out loud, and Steve is proof of that. Doesn’t he LOOK like he’s having a good time?
We Olive is a small franchise that has 8 stores in California. They are wonderlands full of gourmet foods, olive oils, beauty and gift products – and the best part is that you can taste dozens and dozens of their products on any given day.
This isn’t one of those places where you go and feel like the staff is hoping you’ll just buy something and leave. This is an interactive experience – the staff greets you, suggests things to try, answers your questions and provides a culinary education in quick, digestible bites.
Gift Baskets
They have samples of almost everything available to taste, from their dozens of California olive oils and flavored vinegars to mustards, dips, marinades and dessert sauces. I highly recommend the strawberry champagne sauce. I like it on a spoon. It doesn’t really need anything else.
Sometimes they even have olive oil ice cream. You should put “taste olive oil ice cream” on your bucket list. It’s that good.
They also sell bulk oils in bottles you purchase from them or bring in yourself.
The day I was there, they had an amazing Manzanilla “Olio Nuevo” that was pressed just two weeks ago and was zingy with the leafy green flavor of freshness. This is NOT your grocery store olive oil.
Steve says his biggest seller, outside of various olive oils, is his bulk balsamic vinegar. It is very, very good, as is his bulk blood orange olive oil. What do you use blood orange olive oil for? Pretty much everything except breakfast cereal – and I’m not even going to rule that out.
All of his oils are certified extra-virgin – none of them are some weird funky mix of adulterated oils like we have been hearing about in the news lately.
Whenever anyone visits Ventura, I tell them they have to go into We Olive because I know they’ll have a good time. They also ship.
We Olive in Ventura is participating in Small Business Saturday by having a 15% off sale storewide. Here’s a link to their Facebook page. In addition, if AmEx members register their cards online, they can get $25 back on their $25 or more purchase. That, my friends, is an awesome deal. Free food!
Please join us in supporting Small Business Saturday by visiting the Facebook page and “liking” them!
I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.
Big Ideas
The locker room at the gym is always awkward.
First, you don’t know where to look when someone talks to you.
My stuff always seems to be on the bench right in front of the locker someone wants to use so I’m grabbing my dozens of loose articles and shuffling them around and dropping them while I am damp and naked.
I inevitably end up dropping my panties on the floor and having to contemplate which is worse: going home underwearless or wearing panties that have been befouled by the grotty germ-laden tile surface.
All bad.
I always bring a plastic bag, usually a nice big sturdy one, to put my wet swimsuit and towel into. You wouldn’t think this would be such a revolutionary idea, but a few weeks ago, the lady across from me commented.
“A plastic bag!” she exclaimed. “That is such a great idea! Why didn’t I ever think of that! I am gonna get me one and put my wet things in it.”
“Mmm hmmm,” I said. “It certainly does come in handy.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have been wrapping my swimsuit in my towel, but sometimes it still leaks in my car!”
This was all coveyed with a scary sort of enthusiastic airheadedness usually only seen on QVC, and one might hope that would be the end of the exchange. But, of course, no.
Now the woman and I have apparently become members of the Plastic Bag Appreciation Society, bonded in our clever knowledge that a barrier of plastic may keep dampness off of other articles.
“Hey, there you are with your plastic bag!” the woman will say. “You are so smart to do that.”
And one might think that the woman would have obtained her very own plastic bag by now, but you would be incorrect there, too.
“I got a plastic bag,” she tells me ever time she sees me. “But I just never seem to remember it.”
“Ah,” I answer. “Small steps.”
“But it’s a really great idea,” she says. “I think that every time I see you. I think “I gotta remember that bag.” But then I don’t.”
“Maybe next time,” I say.
But it has been three weeks. I’m wondering how long this plastic bag-based relationship can go on. It has already lasted longer than the last dating relationship I had. So there’s that.
I’m sneaking around
It’s like I’m having an affair or something. Except I’m not married. Or having sex for that matter.
BUT DO NOT TELL. This is a SECRET.
Every morning I get up, get dressed, and take Goldie to spend they day with my Mom while I go to the office.
I don’t go to the office.
I go home and put on my sweats and make coffee and sit in my comfy chair and work at home.
Then at 5 pm, I put my work clothes back on, trying like mad to remember what I had on that morning, including tracking down all the jewelry I have taken off during the day. I get in the car and drive to my mom’s house and tell her I had a nice day at the office.
The day I forgot and dyed my hair on my lunch hour was a little sketchy, but Mom didn’t seem to notice. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.
I’m doing it because my mom needs the dog. She has visitors sometimes, of course, but Goldie really helps her make it through the days when she is all alone.
And I can’t tell her I am working at home because she’d insist I not bring the dog over because she would want ME to be able to spend time with my dog.
It’s insanity, but it’s a good kind of insanity.
Ok ok ok
Quit fooling around with the template. Just start blogging. You know how.
(Looks up).
Oh, hey, hi! Thanks for coming over. This is my new place. Red Stapler grew up and got its own apartment! Welcome. Make yourself at home. Sure you can put your feet up on the furniture. You don’t mind that it is covered in fur, do you? That’s why they CALL it “fur”niture. Haha, old joke, I know.
No, that wasn’t me. That was Goldie. I don’t know what she eats that makes her do that.
Can you crack that window open? A little more. Ok. Thanks.
My Happy Place at Creative Alliance 10 in Ojai, which inspired me to do a couple things, including finally getting my own URL
Suebob's Red Stapler 