Topic 201: Behind the Teeth

Carol:

Mouthing Off

Sometimes don’t you just feel like putting your hands over your ears and screaming? The kind of “behind the teeth” primal howl of emotion that implodes if you don’t open your mouth and let it out?  I start to feel it when my daughter gets “that tone” in her voice as she asks “Are you finished with the essay yet?”
 

Yesterday, we decided to forego the essay. Megan suggested it, and I didn’t argue because every other Monday I get really stressed out.  That’s when I experience the convergence of writing the daily theme, picking up the house for the arrival of the cleaning crew and getting ready for my volunteer “job.” Stress makes me get “that tone” in my voice, too, and I feel like putting my hands over my ears and screaming. I must have a really tough life, eh, if I let such minutia make me feel crazy. 
 

Not that I have never experienced real scream-worthy stress. I was teaching one January when both my pre-school kids got chicken pox. I would get up at 5 a.m. to grade papers and prep for the class, drive in through the slush of a winter storm to teach, then head back home to start soaking them in oatmeal baths to alleviate the itching. I worried a lot about what new illness would create day-care havoc. 
 

My major stress relief back then, besides hiring a cleaning lady, was being with the students. Most of them were women, most mothers. They knew exactly what I was going through and commiserated with the right amount of sympathy and humor. In fact, I felt more relaxed at work than at home.
 
Right about that same time my husband was experiencing his own scream-worthy stress. He hated his job, didn’t much care for the people he worked with, and was frustrated with demanding, angry clients. His body reacted with debilitating migraine headaches, so It became obvious that some kind of change needed to happen. That was the spring we decided to take a year off and travel the country in a motorhome.
 

For the most part, that odyssey  provided just the respite from the screaming, howling stress that we both needed. We threw away all our work-centered routines, got up with the sun and went to bed with the moon. And, over an 18,000 mile journey, we only had two loud, emotional melt-downs, both times when we were hungry, tired and cranky.  And we returned to Prescott with plenty of memories to sustain us when the stress started to roll over us again.
 

I don’t know all that much about the Norwegian painter Edvard Munch, but I saw his painting “The Scream”(1893) when I was studying in Europe.  It was part of a larger Munch exhibition but I only remember “The Scream.” I was mesmerized by the anguish of the figure, shown through primitive, broad strokes. Apparently, Munch himself understood that “behind the teeth” raw emotion of suffering. He wrote to a friend, “You know my picture, ‘The Scream?’ I was stretched to the limit—nature was screaming in my blood…After that I gave up hope of ever being in love again” (source: “Edvard Munch”).
 

Okay, so I was exaggerating a bit. I do feel stretched to the limit sometimes, even without juggling work and family, but I have never experienced that deep angst of Munch’s painting, thankfully never experienced such loss of hope or love.
 

Any minute now, Megan is going to call up to me with The Question. “are you finished yet?” I don’t have to put my hands over my ears and scream because…. I’m finished.
 

Source:
“Edvard Munch.” Wikipedia.

Megan:

We didn’t write yesterday for a few different reasons, but if I’d been able to think of something to say about his topic, we probably wouldn’t have taken the day off. Today we don’t have any early morning obligations, so I can’t weasel my way out of it again. Even Googling the topic didn’t help, but I did learn that there are behind-the-teeth braces available now. That’s cool. But I’ve never had braces so I can’t talk about how nice it would have been to have the new ones, instead of the other, front-of-teeth kind. Instead, I’m going to talk about the dogs. Again.

Last Friday, Milo got into a fight with a friend’s neighbor’s dog. Every Friday we have coffee at this neighbor’s house, and we let the dogs off leash to roam her giant fenced in yard. Usually Milo ignores the neighbor’s dogs, but for some reason – and I think Bella was the reason – they went for each other at the fence. I heard the noise and ran with my father to break them up. The other dog had squeezed its head through the fence and clamped onto Milo’s jaw. My father had to kick the dog several times before he let go of Milo’s face.

There was a fair amount of blood, from both animals, because before the dog got Milo, Milo got the dog. I didn’t see how it started, but since Milo is the least aggressive dog ever, I think he must have been protecting Bella – who’d spent the whole fight leaping straight into the air and howling. After the bleeding stopped, Milo was fine, but my mother and I agreed that we should not take the dogs back to our friend’s house.

So, we decided to try the dog park. I’d taken Bella the week before, but we hadn’t tried it with both dogs. Milo immediately joined a pack of males, each determined to mark every plant, chair and garbage can, while Bella followed along. I wasn’t sure how our two dogs would interact with each other with so many other distractions around. At home they are pretty attached (correction, Bella is attached to Milo), but I just figured it was because there were no other options. But the only time she left his side was if he sneaked off without telling her. When she noticed he was missing, she’d run over to me and wait for Milo to come back into view.

After awhile, we were joined by two pit bulls – one was a little puppy, much smaller than Bella, and the other was huge and terrifying but very sweet.  He took a liking to Bella, and Milo took a liking to the pit puppy. Neither of the younger dogs appreciated the attention. Bella hid under my chair and the other puppy crawled into my lap, Milo still salivating by her rear end. And then I noticed he was dripping blood all over the puppy’s back. He’d somehow opened the wound he’d received the day before. 

I’m not that familiar with dog parks, but it is my understanding that there is an etiquette. Don’t bring aggressive dogs, or dogs in heat, or unvaccinated animals. One dog bleeding all over another also seemed like bad manners, so we apologized and left. But as soon as I’m sure he’s healed up, we’ll go back again.

Topic 195: The Monotony of Being Good

Carol:

  Shooting the Breeze

Our pack of dogs and their walkers met this morning for our usual Friday coffee chat at Marilyn and Lou’s house up the road.  When it’s warm, we sit outside while the dogs roam around the almost two acres of fenced land.  We spend the hour of sipping and socializing before heading off to work or chores or whatever--relaxed, enjoying both the gentle breeze and the meandering conversation.  Still, all are keeping an eye on the whereabouts of their various animals.
 

Koda, who lives here, rarely leaves the patio.  She appears to be bored with anything that doesn’t lead directly to food. She doesn’t play with the other dogs, she doesn’t poke around. She does sit beside the person most likely to drop a crumb or give in to her sad eyes by pulling out a dog treat, which is usually me. She is so quiet most of the time that we forget she is there. Good doggie.
 

Milo takes off in full throttle and covers  the whole yard, jumping over walls and poking under bushes. Sometimes we see the tip of his tail whiz by or track his direction by the scatter of birds.  Eventually he works his way back to the patio and sits at full attention if there is food on the table, hoping for a reward for his good posture and self-control.  He would never lunge at the plate of cookies, he would never leap up to grab food out of someone’s hand. He does, however, poke his nose into a pocket if he smells crumbs from a doggie treat. His behavior would be monotonous if it weren’t for those infrequent times when quiet presages trouble. Like the day he tipped over Koda’s food container and ate enough kibble for a week. Good doggie (mostly).
 

Bella is also predictable, not by the monotony of her behavior but by her absolute lack of predictability.  So far, she has been tentative about exploring the open spaces of Marilyn’s yard. Sometimes she will watch for evidence of Milo, a quick view of his tail through a bush or a flash of striped coat flying by in the distance. Sometimes, she will stop, frozen into a pose that betrays her German Shorthair DNA.   This morning she completely ignores the large dog bowl of water, instead jumping up to hook her paws over the cement lip of the bird bath to drink from the deeper pool of water.  She eventually settles down under the patio table, still licking the crumbs from the cookie she grabbed off the table.   We are using “off” and “no” a lot these days with Bella. Bad puppy (mostly).
 

Today we are joined by another neighbor and an extra dog is added to the mix,  Spirit, a 10-year old with beautiful long pristine white fur. He is quite patient as Bella takes a playful lunge and even indulges her with a few enthusiastic laps around the patio. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t bark, doesn’t lunge, well, isn’t he just about perfect. The kind of monotonous good behavior that parents of young pets and young people are grateful for.  Good doggie.
 

The hour is up, chairs are pushed back, cups retrieved, leashes snapped on collars. Bella, come. Milo, come. Where’s Spirit? The monotonously good, the beautifully white, long haired majestic animal is in the flower bed behind a bush, behind the flowing water sprinkler, barely visible behind the flying dirt from the hole he is digging with muddy black paws.
 

So much for the monotony of being good.

  

Megan:

The Monotony of (Writing About) Being Good

Yesterday I took my grandmother to Walmart, and while she was shopping, I wandered around the store. I hadn’t eaten lunch and I stood in the snack aisle for  a long time trying to convince myself that Cheeze-its were vegan because the cheese was probably all chemicals anyway. I didn’t actually read the label, I just stared at the front of the box. I put some Wheat Thins in my cart, and took them out again.  Then I picked up a small container of fresh fruit from the produce section and ate that while I waited for Grandma to finish.

Eating healthy is only a problem if I get hungry while running errands. After I dropped my grandma off at her house, I went to my favorite coffee shop because I had time to kill before I picked up my mother (I’m the family chauffer). I was so proud for not eating the crackers that I rewarded myself with an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie. It was probably not a vegan cookie, but I didn’t beat myself up over it because one cookie is better than (or at least not as bad as) an entire box of crackers.

I just reread those two paragraphs and nearly died of boredom. At least I’m on topic. I didn’t intend to be one of those bloggers – who writes about weight loss and diets and the silly things dogs do (which reminds me: on this morning’s walk, Bella tried to eat 2 birds, 1 mouse, and 1 rabbit leg – all dead before she got to them). And it’s not that I have a problem with people who write about those topics; most of the blogs I read cover the same issues. I just didn’t want that for myself, because it’s not particularly interesting (except for cataloging Bella’s dead animal collection).

The most exciting anecdotes and stories often involve dangerous excess, errors in judgment and unfamiliar environments. I have plenty of those stories in my past. As I get older though, it’s harder for me to remember why I thought that was fun. Young people take stupid risks with themselves without considering consequences. I never got in any trouble, but that was luck. Not all of my friends escaped their youth unscathed. We had some great times, but right now I think I would rather have a good life than an exciting life. And perhaps that means I will have to seek inspiration for my stories from my imagination rather than my good but boring life.

Topic 187: Laughter as a social asset

Carol:

Did you hear the one about the Priest who….

I really can’t think of any profession that doesn’t require a sense of humor. And that includes religious vocations. I haven’t seen a job description for minister, rabbis or priests, but people skills must be on the list, including not just compassion and patience but a sense of  “Humor In Uniform “

One of my favorite Mary Tyler Moore episodes revolves around inappropriate laughter. Chuckles the Clown, a rarely seen but often gossiped-about character on the show, dies under bizarre circumstances; prompting all kinds of jokes in the newsroom by Mary Richards’ colleagues. The always prim Mary is appalled at their poor taste and lack of respect for the dead. Later, Mary lapses into uncontrollable giggles during the minister’s eulogy at Chuckles’ funeral, then into loud guffaws as the rest of the attendees remain somber, even shocked at her behavior. The minister turns the situation around, encouraging Mary to “Laugh…Laugh for Chuckles,” at which Mary bursts into tears. This episode is ranked by TV Guide as #3 in list of televisions “100 Great Episodes of All Times” (source:  “Chuckes Bites the Dust.”)

A few months ago I went to a funeral for a judge who died in his early sixties after a  battle with brain cancer.  The church was packed with  colleagues, friends and family,  all of whom  admired and loved him as a special person of humanity and faith. Certainly there were tears and mourning, but the judge’s wife, son and large extended family chose to honor him with laughter and whimsy. Every participant in the service, every family member wore black trousers, white dress shirt and a large necktie from the judge’s own infamous collection of outrageous, gaudy, unique ties. Music provided by the folk choir his wife directed, and which he had belonged to for many years, included a recording with his voice.  How many people get to sing at their own funeral? His wife smiled, quipped and encouraged a spirit of gratitude for a life well-lived, if short, and for a dignity that was anything but stuffy.  The laughter followed us to the church basement after the service as we mingled with family over lunch, humor alleviating the awkwardness that often accompanies such social occasions.

In both funerals, the imaginary and the real, the tone of humor was encouraged by the “Pastor in Charge.” When I announce the music at our Saturday church service, I have learned to wait while ‘Father Woz” slips in a joke after the final blessing and before the last hymn. The congregation appreciates his humor, which often involves a story that sets up a pun or corny joke. Father Woz even self-published a collection of his favorite jokes to raise money for charitable projects. But, one of my favorite homilists is a big, tall, wide, loud convert from Wyoming who does a terrific job of poking fun at himself before he slides beautifully  into the gospel message.

I have no doubt that laughter is a social asset, but is it a spiritual one as well? I took me a while to wade through all the websites that popped up when I googled “Is laughter good for the soul?” but I found a website with Bible quotes. Proverbs 17.22 “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”

So, in honor of  Father Woz, I’ll end my essay with a joke:

Sources:
 “Chuckles Bites the Dust.” Wikipedia.  

Megan:

Laughter is my only social asset

So, maybe you noticed, maybe you didn’t… but we forgot to write on Friday. Mom had an early morning appointment and I was busy doing very important things that I not going to share because I cannot remember them. I know I walked 3 miles in the morning and then 2 miles that evening, but I remember nothing of the hours between except that at one point, mom looked at me and said, “Hey… we forgot to write our essays.” And I said I was too tired to write (on account of the walking 5 miles) so we left it until today, both of us hoping that the extra days would give us a chance to come up with something funnier to say.

Let’s see… what else happened this weekend? On Saturday, my father and I climbed Thumb Butte with the dogs. It’s not a long or difficult hike unless you are me, and you haven’t climbed that mountain in more than 15 years. So, we went up the shallow side and came down the steep side, and if you’ve ever hiked with a really strong puppy who doesn’t know how to heel, you know there are benefits and draw backs. Bella pulled me up the mountain, but nearly killed me on the way back down. Dad and I switched dogs halfway down, and by the time we got to the bottom, Bella knew how to heel. Afterwards, Dad commented on how different he was treated by the people we passed while he walked Bella instead of Milo. People smiled and talked to him while he had the puppy, but avoided him when he had Milo (probably because Milo looks like a scary dog). I too, have noticed the puppy phenomenon in the past, but on this particular day I was focused on staying upright on legs made of jell-o.

The rest of Saturday was spent running errands, going to see Horrible Bosses (which was hilarious if you like really bad language, which I do) and then dinner at a Mexican Restaurant. I managed to stay vegan with the entrée, but blew it with the sopapilla for dessert. It was probably this lapse that caused me to cut Sunday’s walk short because I had what my nutrition instructor refers to as McDougall’s Revenge (McDougall being the name of the doctor who wrote the book on the particular type of vegan diet we are attempting to follow). 

After I recovered, my father and I went to a Native American Art Show that he got free tickets to in exchange for allowing the exhibitors to park in his building. That was pretty nice except for and handful of white artists who called themselves names like Felicity Honeycomb or Terrence Ladykiller, which I thought might be offensive, but I couldn’t really tell if it was, so I was just uncomfortable. Then I saw a statue I liked and turned into the jackass who says too loudly, “Hey, that would go really well with our living room sofa.”

When I got home, I made a vegan pizza (again, not according to McDougall’s plan, but still so delicious). Mom had some, and she did this thing she does with everything I make, where she tells me how good it is and then she completely changes it. “This is the best pizza I’ve ever hard, “she said, and then added olives and real cheese.  I don’t take it personally, but next time she’s making her own damn pizza.

Finally, I spent the rest of Sunday re-upholstering a chair my mother bought from a neighbor for $5. I streamed Bones from Netflix to watch while I worked on the chair, and the entire project took 8 episodes. I was really enjoying myself and started thinking maybe this could be a new career path for me, restoring old furniture, but when I finished, I couldn’t straighten my back and my fingers were bleeding from repeated pricks by this giant curved needle, and I changed my mind. The chair looks awesome though.

I tried to take a "before" picture, but I forgot to press the button.

Topic 185: Animal Facial Expressions

Carol:

Making Faces                   

 Lots of websites help pet owners interpret the facial expressions and body language of their animals. That includes such variables as the position of the tail, alignment of the body, position of the eyes, lips and teeth, and appearance of hackles. Vocalization is another thing all together. Mostly, with domestic animals, I think we interpret animal facial expressions as we would human expressions. Lips curl up as if to smile says, “Look, I’m happy to see you.” Eyes look sad, happy, or angry.  We spend a lot of time in the daily theme talking about the antics of our two canine pets and the challenges of introducing a puppy into our once placid environment.. Dogs have always been a part of my life.  But in reality there is one animal I have always loved to  watch with fascination on television or at the zoo. Chimpanzees.

I have viewed almost every documentary about the work and life of Jane Goodall, and I was given time off from work to hear her speak when she came to Yale. The large room was absolutely full of students crammed into every possible space. Twenty-five years later, she continues to attract the interest—and affection of people all over the world. And, her website “Lessons for Hope” provides opportunities for students and teachers to learn more about chimp behavior. She describes her experiences with the chimpanzee William in her work The Shadow of Man (68). William, a scarred, submissive male used both facial expressions and hand gestures to send notice to other adult males that he knew his inferior status; he would “often pull back the corners of his lips and expose his teeth in a nervous grin.” (source: Lessons for Hope)

Researchers continue to examine the behavior of chimpanzees, including how they communicate using facial expressions and body language. The Yerkes National Primate Research Center housed at Emory University (Georgia) conducted research into Chimpanzee facial expressions under the direction of director Lisa Parr, not just to learn more about chimpanzees but to help understand “the evolution of human emotional communication” (source: Science Daily). Parr notes that the study has determined chimpanzee expressions to be much more complex than they expected, requiring more detailed studies. For instance, an open mouth and bared teeth that may appear to be “playful” must also be examined for muscle action, whether the eye brow is raised, etc.

When we say a chimpanzee, or any animal for that matter, smiles or pouts or frowns, we are associating human emotions to their expressions that may be inappropriate.  Right now, my dog (the well-behaved prematurely grizzled one) is looking right at me. He is in a full state of relaxation with ears slightly cocked, lower lip jutting out a bit (caught in his teeth again), and I would interpret that to mean he is relaxed but alert—wondering if I’m going to come over and give him a treat or a pat on the head. He’s tired because he had a big adventure on his morning walk. When he turned around at the sound of barking behind him, he took Marc by surprise and leapt for a young coyote, dragging his extension leash behind him, ruining in fact the second one in several weeks. The first time it was a rabbit. I wasn’t there to observe his facial expression, but it was probably one of completely satisfaction since he had been in full running mode all over the hills for about 15 minutes.

But, I wasn’t going to talk about dogs today.

 

Sources;

“Chimpanzee Facial Expressions…” Science Daily. 26 Mar 2007.      

Image of chimpanzee at LA Zoo. Wikipedia

Megan:

Animal Facial Expressions: a photo essay

 

I spent a long time this morning looking at the photos I've taken of Bella and Milo, and I have to be honest. There's little change to their to their expressions. Milo almost always looks resigned and calm (but maybe that's just the expression he adopts when I pick up my phone to snap a picture).

Considering that Bella is one of the clumsiest dogs I have ever seen, she does manage to look dignified,  and even noble every now and then. Of course, it could be the camera angle.

 

Usually, Bella looks like this:

 

Milo, on the other hand, almost always looks dignified. Except when I force him out of his comfort zone. Here, he is looking profoundly embarrassed.

Milo likes to hang out on the porch in the sunshine. Until a certain someone irritates him and then he retreats to higher ground.

Note that the furniture in disarray, and the torn screen courtesy of Miss Bella.

 Speaking of Miss Bella. She has a bit of a temper. This is the only picture I could get of her in "demon" mode. The white flashes by my blurry finger are her teeth.

But she's a pretty good girl, aside from her occassional outbursts. We finally got her the pool she's always wanted, which she seems to enjoy.

Topic 183: Diddling

Carol:

Hey, Diddle Diddle

Oh, fiddle faddle. The kitchen sink is stopped up, and  the water is full of tiny, moisture -seeking ants. We have tried the usual non-mechanical “solutions” with no results.   After a phone call to one of the family fix-it types, we are at the stage of (1) taking the pipe apart or (2) calling a plumber. We can’t really diddle around because the same family fix-it types are coming for 4th of July weekend;  we want to de-clog the sink , take control of the pile of dishes, and make the ants disappear before they arrive.
 

Now here’s the real problem. One member of our family considers calling a professional plumber a waste of money, so he has decided to tackle the pipe himself. This man is very bright and creative, the best kind to call in a legal emergency  or personal crisis. But, he is what we call mechanically challenged.  This is the guy who proudly  installed vertical blinds in the dining room—didn’t even need to use the directions—and then held up a “left-over” metal clip.“ What do you suppose this does?”  So, Mr. Not-so-Fixit  is going to disconnect the garbage disposal, pull apart the pipes, and then finish the job hours later when he gets back from taking his mother grocery shopping.
 

The response to that idea was an almost unison cry of protest from his wife and daughter. I’m surprised the dogs didn’t join in with their own howls of protest. After we talked him into waiting, Megan walked him to the door and took control of the situation. “Dad, I’ll fix the pipes. I’ve done it before in England.”  I think I detected a little spring in his step as Mister Mechanically Challenged walked out the door, fully confident that his daughter was not only up to the challenge but wouldn’t diddle around before getting to it (although she does need to finish her daily theme first).
 

You see, we do have a family fix-it type living in this house. She has been honing her mechanical skills  since she was a young girl, usually after her father’s efforts had failed. Like the downstairs toilet. It had a leak that made it run off and on,with a disconcerting sound of water rushing that can be heard all over our house.  Sir Fix-it-Not made several trips to the hardware store, changed out part.  Just when he thought the toilet was working, we would hear it run again.  One day when we arrived from work, 12-year-old Megan greeted us at the door. Grinning, she proudly announced, “I fixed the toilet.” And she had. After the vertical blind incident,  she decided to install the blinds in her bedroom herself. She followed the directions, no extra parts, no swearing (which always accompanies her father’s efforts at home repair). 

I may sound like I’m complaining about my husband. Like I said, he is a talented, creative and resourceful guy, just not with a tool or mechanical device like a TV remote or a DVD player. But, why should he diddle with projects that waste his time and raise his blood pressure when we have  Ms Tool Time living in the house. She’s the real “go-to” person for things mechanical.  I know she’ll be really excited when I show her the little to-do list I’ve been working on. I’ll even let her use my tool box, the one I keep in the downstairs closet for when I tackle home repairs. Heck, now that I’m retired, I may just give her that tool box.

Megan:

Diddling: an illustration

When we drew this topic yesterday, my mother and I looked at each other with exasperated confusion. She recited the nursery rhyme (hey diddle diddle) and I was wondering if I was once again going to have to write an essay about euphemisms. Separately we looked up the word in the dictionary, but when I shared the definitions with her, my mom seemed surprised – as though the definitions she found didn’t line up. Or maybe she was just surprised I was sharing any information with her at all, since I’m usually so concerned about her stealing my ideas.

What I didn’t tell her was that I found a delightful essay by Edgar Allan Poe on this very topic. He starts the same way she did, with the nursery rhyme, and then proceeds to philosophy, and then:  

Diddling; or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle; is sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing diddling, is somewhat difficult to define.

The rest of his essay is then concerned with examples of diddlers – examples of con-men really. I encourage you to read it. And since I have nothing to add to the topic, instead I will simply illustrate the definitions as I found them in Merriam-Webster. 

 1. to move with short, rapid motions

 2. to waste (as time) in trifling

 

3. hoax, swindle

4. often vulgar: to copulate with

Sources:

Defintion of diddling.
Poe, Edgar Allan. "Diddling." (1850).

Topic 170: On Living in the Present (Future)

Carol:

Traveling in the Now

Vacations are supposed to be opportunities to live in the present, especially if you have been planning that vacation for months and counting down the days until that future became The Now.
 

A year ago today my husband and I were debarking from a transcontinental flight with two lay-overs (cheaper than non-stop) and headed to a ubiquitous Travel Lodge somewhere in the center of historic Edinburgh, Scotland.  We were exhausted and couldn’t get into our rooms, so we sat in the lobby waiting for the arrival of daughter Megan, who had flown in from England with belongings from four years of living abroad. So ubiquitous are the Travel Lodge hotels in Edinburgh that Megan spent the afternoon of June 1 searching for us at the wrong hotels. When she arrived several hours later at the right Travel Lodge, she was cranky, really cranky. We were glad to see her anyway.   

The Scotland trip was meant to be a transition for her, a chance for one last vacation experience in another culture before returning to Arizona and the uncertainty of her future. For us, it was one last time to experience another culture in the capable hands of someone familiar with driving “on the wrong side,” round-abouts, lay-bys and quaint road impediments such as herds of sheep. A time also to make special memories with our daughter.
It was also a great time to practice being “in the moment” as we headed out each morning to explore the Scottish countryside and look for the perfect spot with a view to picnic or lunch at a tiny restaurant. Counting down the days until that future date when  the trip was over would have spoiled the experience although I’m sure Megan and Marc allowed their thoughts to stray into the future—work and looking for work—more than did mine. I have always been good at compartmentalizing.  

Ullapool, Scotland

So, now just about a year later Marc and I have returned from a shorter, closer jaunt to the Northwest where we spent four days with friends of 40 years in Seattle and four days with our son in Portland.  Familiar places and people, but we were able to fill each day with some little spontaneous adventure that kept us excited to be living in the moment. The bay view from The Oyster Bar on Chuckanut Drive south of Bellingham, Washington was spectacular as we ate fresh fish over a leisurely two-hour lunch that allowed us to reminisce about the view from another seaside restaurant in Ullapool, Scotland the year before. An hour spent with Marshall waiting for seats at the popular Toro Bravo restaurant in Portland provided a surprise opportunity to sit together and listen to Brazilian music played on mandolin and guitar.

Chuckanut Drive, Washington

As the days ticked by, it would have been easy to slip out of the pleasures of living in the present to fret about the future— court appearances, car maintenance, getting the deck re-stained, cleaning out the basement—and a return to routines such as cooking and cleaning and  the daily theme. I think I did a pretty good job of staying in the present, of allowing each day to create its own story.
 

But, vacations are retreats from, not abandonment of, routine. So, here I am back at my desk straining to come up with an ending for today’s theme, glad to be back home listening to the wrestling dogs and familiar cranky  voice: “Are you done with that essay yet? You said it would just be a few more minutes.”

Megan:

 On This Day

On this day last year, my Irish friend Sean gave me a ride to Stansted airport and I left my home in England for the last time. I only flew to Scotland where I met my parents and we traveled around for a couple of weeks, so on the 15th of this month you can probably expect “On this day last year, I moved back to the USA” or something similarly whiny and emotional.

It’s funny how little one can accomplish in a year. If I’d known that I’d still be unemployed and living with my parents a year later, I probably would have stayed in England. And in another month, I’d have been eligible for permanent residency. In my lower moments, that’s a regret I have. But I also would never have believed that I’d be happy here without a job or a place of my own.

Sometimes I miss living alone, but I spent all last week by myself and every night was an exercise in trying not to freak out at strange sounds, patrolling the house with a knife in one hand and my cell phone dialed to 911, my finger posed to hit the send button.  I thought about breaking a couple of glasses and leaving the shards in the entry ways, but then realized that no burglar’s gonna come into the house barefoot, so I’d probably just wind up hurting myself or one of the dogs. Bella exposed another chink in the armor when, annoyed at being separated from Milo, she jumped straight through an open (but screened) window to reunite with her one true love. The screen wasn’t damaged -- it just popped right out. All of the windows, which before seemed beneficial – letting so much light and air into the house –suddenly became additional weak points that must be defended.

It wasn’t all bad. The dogs and I had dance parties. Our previous dog Trixie, used to dance along at moments like those, or rather, she would get excited and hump a leg. Milo and Bella just sit and observe, tails wagging and no judgment on their faces. I got the impression that they would like to join in, but were shy because they didn’t know the moves. I turned up the stereo all the way  and danced and sang at the top of my lungs,  which is something I couldn’t do when I lived in an apartment, and also is not something I can do when my mother is home. It’s not fair to make her cry and wet her pants with laughter more than once a day. Too much laundry is bad for the environment.

I seem to have strayed off topic. I’ve written recently about my plans for the future. I head to New Orleans at the end of this month, the GRE is fast approaching and so are the application deadlines. I intended to spend time last week preparing for those upcoming events, but between the daily dance parties and the evening night terrors, I also babysat, hung out with my friends and spent one entire day cleaning the fridge. I’ll get everything done eventually, but there is enough to keep me occupied in the present, I'm not going to waste all my time worrying about the future.

Topic 169: Imitation

Carol:

Knock, Knock:

When Charles Caleb Colton penned the familiar phrase “imitation is the sincerest [form] of flattery (Lacon, V 1, no. 183),  he wasn’t thinking about copyrights, patents, intellectual property rights and consumer piracy.
 

Knockoffs are mass-produced imitations of popular or high-end products such as clothing, perfume, jewelry and suitcases.  Sometimes knockoffs are sold as “the real thing” to customers who think they are getting a great deal on a Luis Vuitton designer handbag or a Nordic Track.  Sometimes, the name or logo is changed slightly on the product to fool someone who isn’t paying attention. The product doesn’t even have to be expensive; it can be a lowly marking pen:

              

One of the most commonly  counterfeited goods in the United States is cigarettes, which can be sold more cheaply because the dealers and buyers are circumventing the tax revenues that hike the cost of brand-name cigarettes.
 

I suspect that most people who buy a product from an unconventional source at an unconventional price know they are “cheating the system” but may consider it a victimless crime. In actuality, the victims are not faceless government or corporate agencies but people who lose their jobs, their creative idea, and the benefits from tax revenues.  It is estimated that 750,000 jobs have been lost in the United States from counterfeiting, which has seen a huge spike in imitation drugs and computer parts over the last several years. Much of the commerce related to counterfeit goods now takes place over the Internet (source: “Counterfeit Consumer Goods”). And most of the seized products come from Asia. According to a study by the European Union, in 2005,  86% of seized knockoffs came from China (source: “Pirated Products”).
 

Another revenue loss besides the traffic in fake products is the traffic in pirated products. Despite the efforts of Hollywood and Silicon Valley to protect their latest film or cell phone technology, pirated movies, music and electronic devices show up on the Internet or are sold in international markets before they are officially released in the United States.
 

Generic products are legitimate “knock-offs” which are usually cheaper because they are often sold by lesser known companies without the marketing or advertising costs that inflate the price of products bearing the brands of famous companies or supermarkets. Generic medicines are cheaper than their brand-name counterparts because they are using drugs whose expensive patents have expired. Although studies have shown that quality is usually very similar between the “off brand” and the “popular brand,” many people will argue that they can tell the difference and are willing to pay the extra cost for a Cola, a pill or a bottle of Scotch.
 

Well, I’m going to knock off this essay even though it’s a little shorter than my usual essays. I Have a suitcase sitting on my bed waiting to be packed for a trip to the Northwest. I really like my suitcase, which I got a great deal on at an outlet mall near Sedona.  Quite chic really, a Lois Voitan original.
  

Sources:
Counterfeit Consumer Goods. Wikipedia.
Image of marking pens.  Author: DangApricot. 22 Nov 2008 No higher resolution available.
SharpieVsShoupie.JPG‎ (800 × 600 pixels, file size: 153 KB, MIME type: image/jpeg)
Image of cola can. Author: RelyAble at en. WikipediaGeneric_Cola_Can_Jewel.jpg‎ (158 × 317 pixels, file size: 19 KB, MIME type: image/jpeg)
“Pirated Products worth More Than $200 billion in 2005.” Agence France-Presse. 6 June 2007. Industry Week. 
 

Megan:

This essay has nothing to do with the topic.

These are the only essays we’ll be posting this week, because the senior member of this team has skipped town. This is a trip I might have been invited on if I had not gotten a puppy, so I’m harboring a little resentment at Bella for the moment for keeping me home.

That being said, I was also really looking forward to this week by myself. I had plans to clean and repair things, to train Bella to be the Best Dog Ever, and to eat healthy and lose 50 pounds. All in a single week! It was going to be amazing. Maybe it still will be. But it’s not gotten off to a very good start.

Last night I read a murder mystery about a serial killer who preyed upon single women home alone. I finished the book satisfied that the killer had been caught, but then realized it had gotten dark as I read away the afternoon and evening and there wasn’t a light on in the house. To say this freaked me out would be an understatement, so I did what any normal person would do. I turned on every light, locked all the doors and posted my predicament on Facebook. Then I had a glass of wine and two bowls of ice cream to calm the nerves.

I woke abruptly this morning after Bella kicked me in the face. I was relieved to be unmurdered, but not pleased that it was 5:15 AM. But I had stuff to do, so I got up. Our bi-monthly cleaning service is coming this morning and the senior member of this team failed to tidy up before leaving yesterday. Mostly this just involves clearing surfaces, and I finished with plenty of time to take the dogs on their morning walk with the neighbors.

My initial plan was to walk Milo on the leash, and let Bella walk free, which is how we’ve been doing it for the past week. This morning she decided to regress, and take a piggy back ride on the eldest and most arthritic dog in the back, which was not appreciated by either the dog or her owner. To Milo's disappointment, I cut the walk short, and skipped  coffee because I don’t like coffee and we headed home.

I let both the dogs out of the car to go into the house without leashes because, again, that is how we always do it. Within seconds, Milo was two blocks down the street. I thought he was chasing a woman who was walking by, but he just flashed past her. Bella followed for about 20 yards and then just stopped and watched him, obviously in awe of his speed and power. He turned  around, ran back past the house and disappeared into the bushes. Bella tried to follow him, but came running back to me after a minute, like she was being chased.

I wandered through the yard calling his name and shaking a bag of treats, but there was no sign of him. After 45 minutes, I got in the car to drive around the block. At the bottom of the hill, standing right in the middle of the road was the biggest coyote I’ve ever seen. I had to hit the horn to get him out of the way, and immediately I had visions of Milo lying in a ditch with his throat ripped out and his stomach torn open, and I’d left my phone at home so I couldn’t call the vet when I found him, and would I have the strength of will to pick up his body and put it in the car?

I continued driving slowly, calling his name, and swearing and praying in a weird mantra. “Dear God, shitshitshit, don’t let him be dead please, MILO,  shitshit, please God.” I pulled back in the drive way and Milo appeared running behind the car, with a very big stick (or the leg of a deer) clenched in his teeth, perfectly healthy and happy. I think Bella was even more relieved to see him than I was. She greeted him with a bark, and attempted a piggy back ride.

It's going to be a very long week.

Milo taking refuge from Bella.

       

Topic 168: Gigglers and Growlers

Carol:

  The Mood Scale

Every household has its gigglers and growlers, family members whose default temperament falls toward the outer poles of the “grin to grimace”  Mood Scale.  My mother was usually as close as it gets to the happy face side of the scale; as a teen-ager, if  I heard her hand on the  knob of my bedroom door in the morning, I would spring up to avoid hearing her chirpy voice call out “Goooood morning. Rise and shine.”  Most teen-agers tend toward the scowling face side of the scale, so I often considered responding (but didn’t dare) with my favorite line from The Glass Menagerie, “I’ll rise, but I’ll be damned if I shine.”
 

When I went away to a women’s college, It didn’t take long to figure out who the morning people were by looking in the dining hall. Some of the tables would be full, with 8 or 9 girls already chatting full speed and giggling from time to time.  As far away as they could possibly get were the growlers, two or three to a table at the most and spread as far away from each other as possible. They didn’t make a sound as they sipped and stewed over their morning coffee.
 

Somewhere in there, I became my mother. I morphed into the happy, chirpy morning person and it didn’t take much to move me over to the silly end of the Mood Scale. One night at dinner in the dorm, I started laughing so hard that I inhaled wrong and a noodle came out my nose.  When I transferred to the California university where I met my husband, I got a little more sophisticated.  One night at the local bar, I started laughing so hard that I inhaled wrong and beer came out my nose. 
 

I guess my happy face temperament was pretty obvious because one of my literature professors wrote a job reference for me that described my personality as “ebullient,” which the Free Online Dictionary defines as “zestfully enthusiastic.”  The first school job I applied for required a photograph (it was legal then), and when I got the job, my principal said she could tell from my smile in the picture that I would be perfect to work with her students.
 

I learned the meaning of “laugh till you cry” when I got pregnant with the co-author of the daily theme essays. A group of friends went out to dinner 2 or 3 nights a week after work. I would get the giggles over the slightest remark (it didn’t have to be funny) and begin to laugh uncontrollably. Suddenly, the mood switch would go haywire and I would begin crying hysterically.  My friends were just a little concerned, but I would eventually settle back down and then fall asleep at the table while they were still eating. Ah, hormones. 
 

Sometimes I laugh at inappropriate moments, like when Marc dropped a scuba tank on his foot. I figured the tank had to be light since it was full of air (okay, my physics background isn’t so solid) and the expression on his face was odd enough to set me off. However, his mood shifted pretty quickly to the growling side of the scale. I guess broken toes are nothing to laugh at.
 

I still sometimes laugh so hard that I start crying. Megan watches my expression when I read her essays for the daily theme. She knows she has hit a rhetorical home run if I start weeping when I laugh.  Although she has a tendency to exaggerate for comic effect, you can tell from her cartoons that she can be a growler, especially when she is waiting for me to finish my essay. Okay, okay, don’t get so grumpy!

Megan:

Sweet and Sour

When we pulled this topic, I immediately thought of Bella – as she is a source of both amusement and extreme frustration.  She turned 4 months old this week, and right on schedule she started losing and re-growing her teeth. First it was the little teeth right at the front of the mouth, and those grew back overnight. Now she is missing her canine fangs, which have been replaced by the tiny little nubs. I know it’s uncomfortable for her and that is why she is chewing everything, but I can’t help but think she takes some delight in the destruction.

She enjoys making a mess.

Mom asked me the other day if I thought Bella had a sense of humor. She likes to play, but I’m not sure she interprets anything as funny. She definitely has a temper and occasionally urinates out of frustration. We watched her dig frantically  in Milo’s bed, growling and whining, and then she just squatted and peed right in the middle of it. She also seems to have some sense of embarassment. This morning she rolled over and fell off the bed, and immediately began jumping up and down and sprinting around the room, as if the fall from the bed had been the beginning of an acrobatic show she’d been planning all along. After she wears herself out, she is usually quite sweet.

Mom thinks this picture makes her look bald.

We cleaned the house yesterday, and I found 6 toys under the couch. Keeping Bella under control is a lot easier when there are no distractions and things she can get into, like food on the counter, tissues on the floor or dresses hung up in the closet.

The strap is probably repairable. What you can't see is the blood all over the dress.

As requested, here is a picture of the new one.

Maybe this will be an incentive to keep things tidier, because there is still plenty to keep her occupied. Milo, for example.

                     

Topic 157: Evidence of Humor and Joy in Animals

Carol:

Animal Tales   

Tail #1: The Name Game
Chainsaw’s adoption records describe him as a shepherd mix , but he looks more Chow and Pitbull ,  breeds that  require frequent exercise, “strong leadership” and consistent training.  Chainsaw is 55 pounds of strength and power, well-muscled in chest and thighs, whose appearance might cause strangers to back away out of caution.  Did someone name him “Chainsaw” out of a peculiar sense of humor, or was he expected to become a guard dog ready to draw blood on command?
 
As mentioned in many of our daily theme essays, we  prefer his new name, Milo. Does he express joy or humor? He sneezes repeatedly first thing in the morning until he is let out the back door. Upon return, he looks out the window with pitiful longing, escalating to a series of mournful mewls until the Pack Leader grabs a leash from the front hall. Then, Milo leaps into motion, running around in circles until the leash is on and dog and Pack Leader head out for the morning walk.
 
After the return home and  a morning meal, he settles down in a sunny spot and is ready to be petted and scratched—the dog, not the Leader.  At night, Milo reveals his mischievous side while we are watching television.  Somehow he has perfect comic timing to grab and toss a toy up in front of the TV screen just as the plot is starting to crescendo.  Such antics arouse emotions from the other animals in Milo’s pack--appreciative laughter (Mother, Daughter) and unwarranted frustration (Dad).
 
Tail #2: Are you my mother?   
Three-month-old Benelli is a German Short Hair/Labrador Retriever mix.  Both breeds are sporting dogs, easily trainable “people pleasers” with high energy that require extensive exercise. Benelli’s original owners are avid hunters,  which explains why Benelli and her brother Winchester were named for high-end sporting guns. The two pups were so attached to each other that the owners of their mother--a purebred GSH who had an elicit affair with the black Lab across the street--were delighted when someone agreed to take both puppies.
 
Somehow, Benelli and Winchester ended up at the Humane Society, re-named Lorraine and Lipton, and recorded as “hound/lab mix.”  We her adoptive family  prefer her new name Bella. She immediately transferred her affections to Megan and Milo.  Whenever Milo leaves without her, she begins a low, husky, hound-like noise that  crescendos into a howl. When he gets back, she leaps up and grabs his ear or runs underneath him to tug at a leg. They spend much of the day either curled up asleep with their bodies touching or in energetic, playful tug-of-wars over toys. The rest of the pack members respond—Mom laughs hysterically, Daughter sighs in exasperation, and Dad seethes.
 
How Chainsaw got his name or ended up at the Humane Society is a mystery, but Benelli’s story comes under the heading of “strange but true.” Yesterday afternoon, I   picked Marc up from his part-time job in Chino Valley.  The ladies who work with him wanted to meet the new puppy, so I brought Bella. There was an instant shout of recognition from one of the women, an avid hunter whose German Shorthair had an elicit affair with the Black lab across the street. “Benelli,” she cried as our little Bella broke into a joyful run at the sound of a familiar voice. After a call to the animal shelter and the news that Winchester had also been adopted, we put Bella back in the car for the ride home. She jumped out of the car and leaped straight up in the air when she spotted Milo staring out the window, waiting for his little friend.
 
And so ends my story, a Tail of Two Sitees.

Megan:

 It's not all Humor and Joy

Just as I sat down to write this, a bird flew into the window next to me. It cracked the glass and left an imprint of feathers, and when it fell to the porch it was immediately set upon by Milo and Bella. You know how new parents are always saying, “I knew it was going to be hard. I just didn’t know there would be so much poop!” That’s how I’m feeling right now. I didn’t know there would be so many dead animals. 

This is exactly what it looks like, but with a shorter tail.

For three days now I have been trying to trap a mouse-type creature that is living in my room. It does not look like a mouse, but it is the size of one. It is flatter and has a drawn out snout and a short tail and internet searches tell me it is an Etruscan shew, except they are only found in Europe and Asia.  It could also be a North-American pygmy shrew, but apparently their habitats are only in Alaska and Canada. There is even an Arizona shrew that it resembles (most shrews look alike to me), but according to the websites, their habitat is limited to the southern part of the state.

Anyway, I have been trying to catch it before the dogs do. Every other day or so, it appears running along the baseboard in my room, out to the living room to do a couple of turns under the piano and then back to my room. Shutting the door is no use, because it is very small. We cannot use poison because of the puppy and I think mouse traps are cruel (so is poison actually), so I have been improvising with boxes and dog food in a half-assed attempt to trap it. I haven’t been giving it my full attention though because I’m not feeling great, so I keep forgetting about it and then the dogs eat the food that’s meant to tempt the shrew. Then, last night as we’re sitting around watching Doc Martin, I see the shew come running out of my mother's office, run crazily around the landing and then return. It was also sighted by my father when he (my father, not the shrew) emerged from the shower and walked into the bedroom.  It has now been spotted in 3 distinct areas of the house, two separated from the other by a very large (by shrew standards) staircase. I’m convinced we’re dealing with more than one animal now.

This isn’t really keeping with the tone of the topic, but I’ll leave that to Mom. Yesterday she came home excited because she had traced Bella’s heritage (does the woman’s interest in genealogy know no bounds?) and adoption history and then forbid me to write about it. “You can’t use it,” she said. “It’s mine.”
“But it’s my dog.”

This seems unfair to me. This morning I had to collect a stool sample from that dog, which is now in my purse sealed in a plastic container, inside TWO ziplock bags and I can still smell it. I should get some reward for prying lizards and mice and injured birds from her jaws, for carrying a vial of poop in my purse.  I guess Bella sort of makes up for all the hassle by leaping like a gazelle when she thinks she’s going in the car, and chasing her tail and being very happy to see me even if I was only gone for a minute – you know, the usual things which endear pets to people. 
(Turn on the sound for my narration)

PS: When my mother went to deal with the "dead" bird, it flew away.

Image of shrew came from here.