Category: Life

I’ll Trade You A Ceramic Chicken For Him

Sitting at the bar with a drink, a light nosh, and a magazine. Unwinding and looking for fashion ideas that will hopefully deceive the public as to the amount of class and grace i actually possess. Starting to feel all the bad vibes escape through the calamari. I feel a presence, and a body slides into the chair next to me.

At first glance, i was guessing his name was Chet, and he spent his weekends trying to lure 14 year-olds into the back of a panel van.  I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but it’s kind of hard to get past that thought. Home-bleached Sideshow Bob hair, tobacco-stained teeth, and a shirt unbuttoned to show his mangy chest hair… The appearance of a man who sells weed out of the back of an Ice Cream truck.

Why is it always these guys?

But maybe i’m being prejudiced. He might be a perfectly fine man. So i nod hello and go back to my magazine. A minute or so later, he sticks his jaundiced finger on an ad with a young and voluptuous model wearing strategically and provocatively torn jeans and two pasties over her ducks and says, “You would look good in that.”

The fact that it is total bullshit is overshadowed by my disgust at the lechery oozing from his face. Eeeewww. Just eeeewww.

So much for me being prejudiced.

I raise an eyebrow, utter a quiet and curt “Thanks”, and go back to the magazine.

He chats up the bartender, who appears to be about as enamored with him as i am, and in the periphery of my hearing, there is a comment about bitchy and unsociable women. I wanted to say something, but ignored the impulse, lest it start a conversation.

I’m not in the mood to fight.

I’m not sure what it is about me that attracts these people. The creepy; the crude; the crass. The ones who smack of squalid morals and smell of stale hormones. They always seem to find me. Or maybe it isn’t me… Maybe they hit all of us, and we all wonder that same thing. In any case, the only way this man could be more scheevey is if he was wearing a big, ugly scorpio medallion around his neck.

Just about the time i motion to pay my tab and gather to leave, a couple of young blondies take the stools on his other side and he puts his attention there. One of the few times in life i’ve been relieved to be replaced.

But i will give the guy credit for one thing – He was real. He wasn’t hiding his intention, not trying to be sly. He wore his indecency like a signature cologne – as part of his persona as his accent. I might not have liked what he was peddling, but at least i knew i wasn’t being swindled. And there is real value in that. Not enough value to give the man my number, but value nonetheless. And it makes me question what would be enough value, and am i trying to buy a Mercedes on a Chevy budget?

Since value is largely subjective, i don’t suppose there is a single correct answer. There are people in this world that would pay $100 for a ceramic chicken. I wouldn’t pay $5. So what is the value of the chicken? Maybe there isn’t a single value at all. Maybe it’s a range of values. Maybe it’s a three-dimensional graph plot. Maybe it’s a complex trigonometric equation to be expressed in base 7.  Hell, maybe it’s 42. I don’t know. To be honest, i’m not even sure we can know our own worth. “Eye of the beholder” and all that.

It’s probably a good thing. It would be sad to find out that you weren’t worth more than a ceramic chicken.

Hello My Baby, Hello My Honey…

 

Yesterday i mowed my lawn. Not terribly exciting, even if i did do it with my new battery-operated mower, which is crazy quiet and so much easier than my old gas mower. Not even notable for how good the lawn looks this morning after a night of rain and a morning sky that odd shade of lavender-grey that makes all the colors really “pop”. But it did make an impression nonetheless.

When i was finished washing off the grime and pollen and dust and clippings, i discovered that one of my fingers had developed an appendage of its own.

I spent the night thinking i had somehow whacked my finger without feeling it. The large hard lump on the side of my pinkie was surely just a little bone chip. It’s only mildly discolored, doesn’t really hurt, and i can still move the finger. Obviously not anything permanently debilitating.

I wish there was a word for that fear-disbelief-anger-embarrassment you feel when you’ve hurt yourself without realizing it. The older i get, the more lumps, bumps, and bruises appear without apparent reason. I can’t decide if our bodies grow numb, or we just get so distracted that we cease to notice things like the pain of knocking an end-table so badly that you leave a hematoma the size of Trump’s toupee on your thigh.

In any case, i woke frustratingly early for a Sunday morning today. As i lay there in bed, listening to the rain, and trying to devise a plan for my backyard, a different theory of the lump starting to evolve.

When i bought this house, there was a fire pit in back that had a single bench made of cement blocks piled together. The other three seats were made from tree stumps. As i was mowing by them yesterday, i noticed that they had become severely rotted.  I pulled one apart and knocked it over, just out of morbid curiosity. I’m not a big bug fan, but the idea that a single old tree stump could house any number of things was more powerful than my fear and disgust with palmettos. My curiosity was rewarded. The stumps had become a kind of condo for ants, worms, and some remarkably beautiful speckled slugs, among other creepycrawlies. After the mowing, i went back and poked some more.

You know those Italian villages that appear to be carved into the sides of rock faces? That’s what this reminded me of. As i peeled back the bark, a textured brown, tan, and grey cliff with holes/doors of various sizes carved into it began to emerge. The slime from the slugs left an iridescent path reminiscent of water and ice coming out of split shale. The sight both filled me with wonder and made me gag. God/Goddess/Universe is a freaking genius…. But She is also kind of gross.

So as i lay there listening to the rain, i started to plan my attack against the insects’ urban sprawl. I’ve been in this house for almost three years, but have never gotten around to lighting the fire pit. (I’ve been busy. And lazy. Don’t judge me.) The yard work that has been done has created quite a pile of sticks in the concavity, and i’ve a large back stock of logs besides.  I need to burn the sticks first and then somehow manage to get those big stumps onto the fire. They are twice the size of my own trunk, but i could probably pick them up if it weren’t for the bugs…

And that’s when it hit me. That lump on my finger is probably a bite. How the hell i managed to get bitten without feeling it seems strange, even for me. And it’s not like it’s itchy or anything. I slept all night without an allergic reaction. And it is no worse this morning.

Oh hell… What if something laid eggs in my finger? Daenerys is sexy as the Mother of Dragons, but i will be much less so as the mother of rhino beetles. Or fire ants. Or whatever hatches out of my hand.

Naaahhhh, i mean, what is the likelihood, right? Those stories of people hatching insects under their skin are myths, or bare minimum, rarer than nerdy Klingons.

(Can you picture a Klingon accountant? Carrying a badass pen in a snake skin pocket protector instead of a weapon in a sheath? Me neither. But there must be some, right? Someone’s gotta keep the books.)

Anyway, back to the bite theory. I went back to the stumps earlier today to take some pictures. And now i have that phantom infestation like you get when someone says the words “head lice”. I can feel ants crawling up my pants leg, even tho i am certain it’s my imagination. I feel the tickles of beetles and the damp of slugs on my toes, tho i can see there are none.

Apparently, phantom insect bites get my attention more than the real thing.

Of course, that’s assuming it is a bite. It could still be a bone chip.  It could be a torn pinkie ligament. Hell, it could be an alien, poised to pop out and deliver “Ragtime Gal” in a very high and tiny voice. That would only be slightly more surprising than the fact that i didn’t feel it when it happened.

If i didn’t notice what caused this, what else has passed by me without catching my attention? It’s not exactly on the same level as missing Liam Neeson smacking my bottom and calling me sweetheart; but it is still a bit disconcerting. Like, maybe, walking right past a $20 bill on the sidewalk. Or going the whole day with your shirt inside out. I’m too young to be that absentminded already.

Not really, but that’s what i tell myself.

In any case, i’m sure it’s nothing exciting. I’m more just miffed with myself for not knowing how it happened. Especially since there was no alcohol involved. Just my own aging brain. Tequila would have made for a better story. And if whatever is in my finger ends up on a nasty youtube video, that’s exactly how i will explain it. Unless it’s a little singing frog in a top hat. Then i’m gonna make millions.

A Jar of Confidence

I was watching an ad this morning that had Isabella Rossellini, with only a hint of makeup, talking about a face cream. Normally, when an ad pops up like that, i hit “skip” as soon as it lets me. But i adore Isabella, and what she was talking about really piqued my interest. There were no claims that it took years off her face. No percentages of improvement. It was her talking about how much she loved the stuff because it felt luxurious. Because she loved the scent. Because it felt special. And then she made the comment, “(I don’t want) youth. I’ve had that. I’m done with that.” And she smiles and laughs.

Oh, how i wish i could attain that level of security in myself.

It’s not so much that i want youth. There are so many experiences i never want to go through again. So many years of confusion and self-doubt. And then the years of growth, facing the parts of myself that i didn’t like and needed to change. (Not that all that work is complete yet…) I would rather spend a week getting daily root canals than go through all that again! But there are definitely things i don’t like about getting older.

Ok, ok…. You knew that already.

It made me feel so good to see Isabella – a woman who, in spite of being widely considered one of the most beautiful women in the world, was dropped from a campaign because of her age – talking about it in a positive way. Granted, she doesn’t look her age. She looks MY age, even tho the has 10 years on me. But even that means she has some wrinkles and sags… And she is stunning anyway.

It sounds trite, but i really think it has to do with her infectious laugh. And her sexy voice. And the way she projects herself. She is comfortable in her own skin. Aware of both her age and her own inner beauty. All things that you wouldn’t expect to sell a face cream. But it works.

Because after watching that ad, i actually left the house for the day in nothing but mascara and lip gloss. (Yes, and clothes. Sheesh.) If i had to estimate the last time that happened, i’d say it was no more recent than the previous presidential administration. But i figured, if Isabella – who certainly has a beauty mystique to maintain – can go confidently minimalist, i should be able to as well. I mean, it’s not like i have a cosmetic contract or reputation to maintain. So i left the majority of my makeup routine behind, and didn’t even add any extra cleavage to distract from it. I went out, ran my errands, and came home to a day of spring yard work without any penalty for skipping the color corrector or eyeliner.

I feel like i got away with streaking naked thru the park.

Yes, you could say that if the ad had really worked, i’d have run right out and bought that face cream. And i might have, if i didn’t already have more face creams, serums, and treatments than your average department store. I have creams with precious oils, serums without any oils, and bottles with vitamins and antioxidants and essences of the Amazonian rain forest. I’ve got a treatment whose selling point is that it is made with real Irish peat moss. I’ve got scientific breakthroughs that smell like Dow Chemical, and all-natural creations that smell like a goat’s ass. And in spite of all that, i still never leave the house without spackle and Bond-O.

I’ve spent enough years and dollars accumulating my skin care arsenal to know that no cream is going to bring a miracle, even Isabella’s.

But i still think it’s a successful ad. It will draw in women who are sick of the bullshit thrown at us by other companies that promise, if we use their products, we will wake up looking like Cindy Crawford. As she once famously said, even she doesn’t wake up looking like Cindy Crawford. So we know the claims are false. In spite of the fact that we sometimes (far too often) fall victim to wishful thinking, women aren’t stupid. If there was a lotion that would carve away the years, it would have been invented by now, and we’d all know about it. So the refreshing bit of honesty that sometimes a cream is good just because it makes you feel decadent might just be a game changer for the company. Maybe even the skin care market. The basic ingredients of a decent face cream don’t change much from brand to brand, so pick the one that makes you feel special.

My therapist once told me that your brain and body respond when you do something for them. Exercise, eating right, getting sleep – definitely. But also occasionally treating yourself to something extra yummy. Sleeping in on a Saturday morning. Things that are good for your soul. Your body responds positively. I think this ad feeds into that theory. Don’t buy it for a bunch of claims that can be made about nearly any moisturizer. Buy it because you like the feel of it, the scent, the fact that it makes you feel special.

Your body will likely respond to the honesty more than it responds to ridiculous claims.

As for me and my toiletry addiction, i won’t be buying the cream – I have too many already. But i will be buying the premise. And if i gain half of her sexy self-assuredness, i will be more than happy with the results. I’m sure i won’t be successful every day, but even if i manage it half the time, it’s an improvement. Maybe not to the lines on my forehead, but definitely to my psyche.

Potty Mouth

Tonight i am preparing for a very important event. Cancelled all my other plans, bought a fancy bottle of drink that i’ve never tried before, donned a special outfit, lit some candles…. You’d think everything would be perfect for a first date. Or an anniversary celebration. Or a sensual interlude. And it probably would be, if that is what i were preparing for.

But i’m not.

All of that stuff that sounds so romantic takes on a whole new light when i tell you i’m preparing for my “Welcome to Middle Age” screening colonoscopy.

A strong flavored juice to cover the taste of the laxative seemed like a good idea. And the first 2 glasses were easily tolerable. Now that i’m about halfway through two liters of “The fastest way to lose five pounds”, i’m pretty sure that just the smell of tropical flavor fruit juice is going to cause me nausea for the next couple years. Hopefully it won’t affect my ability to enjoy tropical drinks on the beach. Note to self: Next time, pick something that i will never, ever want to drink otherwise. Like Cheerwine. Or hemp milk. That way i don’t risk ruining potential future vacations.

I’m decked out in sweatpants and sweatshirt – Something i rarely do. I know that there is nothing wrong with sweatpants, but i have this irrational fear that Liam Neeson will break down on my street, and when he comes to my house to ask for help,  i’ll unwittingly answer the door looking like a schlump. And wouldn’t that be a total tragedy? Because, you know, it would take celestial aligning for him to break down on my street… I wouldn’t want to spoil it by having him see me look dumpy. But i also know that if i try to undo belts and zippers every time this prep-kit works its magic, i risk ruining a pair of nice pants. Nice pants that really fit and look good are too hard to come by. Liam will have to deal.

The candles are dual purpose. First, the only thing worse than having Liam catch me in sweatpants would be if i opened the door, and the cottage smelled like a sewer. And second, sometimes in the face of a bout of misery, you have to take the bright spots where you can. I love candles. They make anything more special. Even this. In fact, this needed a lot of bright spots, so i lit a lot of candles and put on some of my favorite music to boot (An Amazon playlist of Requiems, if you care.) At least a couple parts of my body are happy and at peace. That’s definitely better than none. I’ll take it.

I know some (Most) of you are wondering why i am posting this. If you read my ramblings often, the answer won’t surprise you.

Like so many other things in life, there are things that we all go through, but no one talks openly about. Unsightly things. Embarrassing things. Hard-to-admit things. And by avoiding the topics, we make hard things even more difficult. Whether it is parenting, aging, sex, our faulty bodies… By refusing to discuss them, bitch about them, even laugh about them, we make it worse for ourselves. On top of all the discomfort we face, we compound it with the worry that we’re doing it wrong. Or that we’re abnormal. When in reality, everyone before us could have assured us that it’s a well-worn path. Making the subject taboo in conversation also perpetuates fear and anxiety about it. And most of us have plenty of fear and anxiety already without adding to it. Better to cleanse the air of mystery.

Just don’t cleanse it with laxative if you can avoid it.

I told a few people about what i was facing at the surgery center tomorrow. I mostly did this because i wanted to see how people would respond. Everyone who has ever had one either offered advice, joked about their own experience, or just gave that empathetic grin that let you know they feel your pain. No one responded with horror or disgust.

Granted, these were people who knew me, so it’s unlikely that hearing me bring up a not-ready-for-prime-time topic surprised them at all.

Nor would any of them find it unusual that i would be stressing the importance of preventative health by making jokes about it. That’s what i do. I talk and joke about stuff – Especially stuff that others don’t.

So i’ve been talking about tomorrow’s colonoscopy. It has made it a little less daunting. Well, some of that is the talking. Some of it is the promise of some solid Propofol-induced sleep. Some of it is the thought of a thinner waist in the morning. Some of it is knowing that i am taking care of myself. And some of it is because i know i will treat myself the day after with something really yummy. Between all of that, and my pretty candles and nice music, it isn’t unbearable. I’d still rather be eating calamari on the beach, but it isn’t terrible. In fact, i’ve been on first dates that were far worse. So i can definitely take this in stride. I got this. Yup yup.

And Liam, if your car breaks down and you have to come here, please forgive the sweatpants.

 

Games People Play

Apparently nothing is safe from the trawling creepers.

My oldest daughter got me into playing Words with Friends. Since i am a tireless Scrabble player from way back, it made sense to add this app to my repertoire. It took me a while to get used to the changes in rules and features in the web-based versus board-based, so in the beginning, i only played my daughter and a couple of close friends. Once i started getting the hang of it, i added in suggested players. It got to be great fun, if still a bit of a time-waster.

Then WWF added in a new feature: Messaging. Seems like a cool thing. You can give your competitor kudos for an exceptional play. Complain about having nothing but vowels for 3 turns in a row. Maybe even get to make a friend. I enjoyed the additional perk until recently.

A few days ago, i received some new game requests. The first came with an immediate message. It was an introduction, which seemed innocent enough. The man appeared to be about my age and said he was in Idaho. I responded with a polite introduction. As he continued on, i noticed a few things:

  1. Judging by his vocabulary and syntax, he was not likely to be a native English speaker – Rather odd since his name and picture screamed “middle America”
  2. His hours of play made more sense for someone in a time zone 5 or 6 hours ahead of me, not 2 behind me.
  3. He became overly familiar very quickly. Questions about occupation, etc, rapidly gave way to questions about location and other specifics (That i would never hand out to a stranger)

I decided to have a little fun with him. I made up some fairly ridiculous answers to his questions. He didn’t catch on to the unlikelihood of the responses and kept asking away about the personal details of my life.

In less than 6 messages, he was asking for my email address. Uuuuuhhhhhh… Nope. But i kept on replying with complete and utter ridiculous fabrication, just for my own amusement. And when he finally got around to asking if i was married, i replied, “I married Jesus when i took my vows.”

I haven’t heard back from him since.

Mind you, i am not in any way knocking or mocking nuns. I think their commitment is a wonderful thing. But i guarantee it wasn’t what the trawler wanted to hear. And i do hope the sisters would enjoy the humor in using that line to put him in his place.

The second gentleman was a bit more relaxed, admitted to me he was from one of the more cosmopolitan areas of Africa, and has not asked nearly as many invasive questions as the first man. In fact, his first handful of contacts were about the game itself. Then came the inevitable “You are so beautiful!” bit. He went on and on about my insanely good looks (To note, while i am certainly not the bad side of a tram smash, i am in no danger of being mistaken for a fashion model. My profile pic on the app isn’t even a particularly good one. So excessive use of phrases like, “You look like a movie star!” reek of fresh horse shit.) I think he sent half a dozen messages about my sparkling appearance and the probability that i had a great figure before the eventual “Are you married?”

This time i replied, “I was before my transition.”

To his credit, he replied “Ok,” and has continued playing the game – Albeit with no more small talk.

(Again, this was not to place any harm on the transgendered. My response was solely crafted to be something he would not expect, especially if he was only trawling.)

The third player got to the “Are you married?” on message 2. Not even a formal introduction first. (Apparently he didn’t read the national bestseller, Miss Manners’ Guide to Social Media Trawling.) I went left field on this one and sent a rambling rant on how marriage is the creation of the patriarchy, meant to keep women down, “Screw the establishment!”, reasons why men should be cut up and used as shark bait, and, hey, my coven throws a big shin dig for Ostara – It would be great if you could come!

No response yet, but the night is early.

True, i could just not respond – But where’s the fun in that?  Besides, i’m kind of angry, and my passive-aggressive solution helps me to feel better.

Yes, i realize that social media is full of trawlers, and by joining anything that has messaging capability, i effectively take the blame for it. A handful of times a few years ago on Facebook i would get similar messages… And back then i made a game of seeing how long it would take them to ask me for money. I’ve had similar things on other sites as well. But good grief – This is Scrabble! It’s a game, not true social media. It’s supposed to help my brain stay agile as i slide down the splintered pole of middle age, not inundate me with fake men fishing for money. But then again, i suppose creating all these stories to thwart them probably does at least as much for my brain as the game does.

Yes, i will feel badly if it turns out that any of these people is for real and just looking for a friend. Just as i feel badly for the people who take the charlatans seriously and fall prey to money scams. But more than either of those, i’m disappointed that it took such a short time for such a relatively innocent pastime to become just another way for lowlifes to fleece people by preying on their insecurities and sympathies. If they spent half as much effort trying to do good for people, i can’t imagine all the wonders they could accomplish.

But we all know that isn’t going to happen. There have been cheats for as long as there have been humans on this Earth. And there is little i can do to stop it. What i can do is stop allowing the fact that i am a common target of trawlers make me feel bad about myself. I am not pitiful, insanely lonely, or stupid; and i am most definitely not going to follow someone into a metaphorical unmarked van for flattery and a piece of figurative candy. Instead, i will entertain myself by having them fish for the figments of my active imagination. For my stories. I will waste their time as much as they do mine.  In fact, i already have a plan for the next one… I’m going to (Appear to) fall for it, hook, line, and sinker, and ask so many specific and personal questions in return that i creep them out as much as they do me!

C-o-u-n-t-e-r-i-n-s-u-r-g-e-n-c-y. With the triple word scores and the double letter scores…. I’d say i win the game.

Kick It To The Curb

Aaahhhh…. It’s that time of year  – The new year. Fresh starts, new leafs, clean slates. For so many, it brings celebrations complete with fireworks, champagne, and general overindulgence. For others, it is feasts of black-eyed peas and other lucky foods, and time spent with family. All different kinds of traditions all over the world. But for me, the new year means one thing…

REORGANIZING!

I love sorting things and getting them all settled into an orderly fashion. I like little drawers and buckets and boxes and new coat hangers. And i LOVE getting to throw away things that do nothing but clutter my space. To my way of thinking, it is best not to bring last year’s garbage into the new year. The coming year will have plenty trash of its own.

Yes, yes… I know that if i were a better woman, i’d have thrown all the crap away as it appeared and not waited til the day i hung the new calendar. But i’m not. And i didn’t.

No one has ever accused me of being Nellie the Neat Freak.

So this time, every year, i go thru the house with bags to hold the garbage and bags to go to charity. I clear everything out that needs to go. Expired medicines and makeup. Clothing i hate or haven’t worn in a year. Accumulated magazines. Any Tupperware without a lid. And the bags of reuse/recycle items that i had craft ideas for that never panned out. And then i go back through and sort everything into new and better containers. Pretty baskets, decorator boxes, expandable shelves… You get the idea. By the second week of January, i am Martha Stewart’s rightful heir.

Come next season, it’s all right back to Clutter Central.

Throughout the year i will go back through and do a smaller version of the purge, but nothing like the High Baptism of the New Year’s Shedding of the Past Year’s Shit.

Seriously – This New Year’s ritual is my own personal day of rebirth.

For the record, i make no resolutions other than the one i always do – To be a bit better this coming year than the last. And each year, the cleansing of my house and head last a a bit longer than the one before. (Nothing like a resolution that you can keep!) It’s unlikely i’ll live long enough for the organization to last all year. I’ll keep doing my best and falling short, and the Grim Reaper will be tripping over stacks of books and craft supplies the day he comes to find me.

Unless the Hindus and Buddhists are right, in which case, i will die on December 31st of the year i finally keep my closet in order for a full 12 months.

At my current rate of improvement, that should put me somewhere around 200 years old when i finally leave this Earth.

This year’s purge is a little more complex, as i am starting to double down and really work on the house as a structure. I have lots of big plans for my little beach cottage in the woods… And the funding to complete about a third of it in the coming year. Not ideal, but it’s a start. And because i have all these plans that might actually come to fruition, i’ve had to cull even more than usual. Because trying to rehab a house that’s full of excess crap is like decorating a Christmas tree with green bows… Unhelpful and unnoticeable.

Anyway, the point of all this housecleaning is that it becomes symbolic – As my house is, so is my head. By clearing all the cobwebs, dustbunnies, and unused hand lotion samples; i am clearing my head of the same. Unused hand lotion samples become any leftover grudges and head smacks as they hit the trash bin. Dustbunnies become those things that i beat myself for daily, even tho they’ve been under the couch so long that everyone has forgotten them but me. And the cobwebs become… Well, truthfully, they’re just cobwebs. And the older i get, the more of a pain in the ass they are in both my house and my brain.

So here’s to those of us who shun parties in favor of self-improvement. While it’s true that we may not get to keep our OCD award for more than a month or two, we are setting ourselves up to start the year with a literal clean slate. Well, if we have a slate. I don’t. I’ll be starting with a clean closet. But i don’t think there’s a euphemism about closets that applies in this situation. Although i suppose it could to someone else. If they cleaned their closet and then came out of it. I think. Maybe. But being in the closet when there’s already so much clutter in there… I can’t imagine.

And there i go, weaving another cobweb.

No matter how you celebrate the new year, i hope it starts you off right: With Love, Light, and Laughter, and faith in a year that is better than the last. I wish you all the sweet things that life has to offer… And just enough salt to remember how sweet the good stuff is. And i wish you a rebirth and the chance to make yourself all you can be… Even if you fall short and there are still dustbunnies under the couch, your effort is not in vain. Any bag of garbage that makes it to the curb is a good thing, both literally and figuratively.

Let the purge begin.

 

“I’m Weeing in the Rain, Just Weeing in the Rain…”

SiriDog hates the rain. Like most small dogs, she’s a bit of a diva, a bit daft, and she doesn’t like getting her fur wet or being cold. So when we woke this morning to some near-freezing rain, and i took her outside for her morning wee, i was treated to full-on Dopey Diva mode.

First she goes to the side stairs of the porch. One step down, she realizes it is raining and comes back up. Then she goes to the front porch stairs, and like usual, seems surprised and peeved to see that it is raining there, too. She looks at me as if to say, “Now what do i do?”

She trots over to the side stairs again. Sure enough, it’s still raining there. So she goes back to the front side again. Yup. Still raining. Back and forth one more time, just to be sure.

“How do you expect me to pee? It’s raining everywhere!”

“Siri, we are not going back inside until you pee.”

She starts down the front stairs. Two stairs down, she gets hit with a big drop from the eave and runs back up. She scoots around my legs like they’re a box on the highway and plants her tookis at the front door.

“Nope. You gotta pee first.”

She barks at me in her annoyed voice.

“But i’ll get wet!”

“Too bad. Go pee.”

She stares at me.

“Siri… Now! It’s too cold out here to be playing this game!”

“Exactly! Now let me back in! I’ll just go in there, where it’s warm and dry.”

She wags her tail.

“No. The pads are not supposed to be your primary pee spot. They’re for times when i’m not home. Besides, you miss it a quarter of the time. I’M COLD! WILL YOU GO PEE ALREADY!?!?!?!”

She sniffs in my general direction and then heads back down the stairs at the speed of an elderly sloth. She wees about 6 inches from the bottom stair and then trudges back up, scowling at me like i made her eat brussel sprouts.

She is still sniffing. Not sad sniffs, mind you, but the sniffs of an overly-powdered aging socialite who is forced to fly coach. She is inconvenienced. She is wet. And she is mad as hell.

We go back inside, i give her a biscuit, and she forgets she had to pee in the rain.

Then i got to thinking… SiriDog and i aren’t really so different. How many times in my life have i taken a slightly different approach to the same old same old, essentially just changing stairwells to the same yard, and been surprised to find that it is still raining. And when confronted with that reality, shouted indignantly to my Master/God/Goddess/Universe, “How do you expect me to do what You ask? I will never make it! And it’s gonna take too much work!” because i feel like i’m expected to pee in the rain.

Kind of humbling, since i generally consider myself smarter than a chihuahua.

But it is also true in that we can both be distracted from anger and misery by a small treat. So i suppose it isn’t all bad. I rather like that quality in myself.

I don’t dare compare myself to the way she humps her toys before she tears them apart. If there is any commonality there, i’ll let my therapist deal with it.

********

And now, in the relaxing part of the afternoon, we are sitting together on the couch. Me in my slippers with a nice cup of tea, her buried under her little throw blanket and snoring. We are companionable. Compatible. Sympatico. But i do like to think that i’m not as much of a diva. And that i don’t snore as badly. (However, i know one of those things is definitely not true.) In any case, there are worse things in the world than sharing some traits with my dog. I think dogs, in general, tho simpler minded, are more pure and loving of heart. And like every other human on the planet, my jaded heart can use a little purity and loving.

It does make me wonder, tho, if SiriDog thinks of me the same way.