The newspaper had a lot of trash in it. Sometimes that seems to be the norm, but this was real trash, aka, garbage.
On the other side of the earth, people were rioting in the streets because their government had shut down the landfill and the trash was piling high in the streets. They were mad as fire and wanted something done about the situation. I felt their pain. A couple of weeks ago, the new driver for our trash pick up missed our house.
I kept trying to figure out if there had been some sort of holiday that I had missed out on, that would throw the pick up schedule off. I checked the calendar and discovered no new holiday had been created, at least not one that would warrant a day off for the collectors of garbage. These collectors are a dedicated bunch and rarely get many holidays. I decided not to worry about it. The new trash receptacles are very large and since this household of two does not create a lot of trash in a week, it would be OK.
The next week rolled around and still no trash truck in sight. I began to panic. Not quite like the people on the other side of the earth, but there was no way we could go another seven days. I jumped in the car and instantly turned into the little old lady running down the garbage truck. When I caught up with him and explained my plight, he smiled and assured me he had just picked it up. I thanked him and sheepishly returned to our dwelling, sure enough, I had just missed him.
The other trash talk was about people who make a living, or part time income, dumpster diving. They said it was not a job for the weak of heart, or for anyone who had a germ phobia. I had to agree because I knew what two weeks worth of trash smelled like.
These people talked about all the treasures that others throw out. They would gather things like TVs, VCRs and other electronic throw aways and either repair them for resale or scrap them for recyclable metals, even gold. Some of the people gathered food that was thrown out because it was a day over the expiration date, and rarely had to buy groceries. What's for supper?Dumpster Caesar Salad!
Recently, having made the decision to downsize, I had a garage sale. As I strategically placed years of accumulated items on the tables, I began to wonder if I had some kind of syndrome that has yet to be named. It seemed I had two of everything that I thought, at the time of purchase, must have been really special. At one point in my life I had an attachment to fish.....and dishes. Not just fish and dishes, but fish shaped dishes. There, on the table, set my beautiful cobalt blue, fish shaped, plastic dishes. I had three sizes and two of each size. Next to them were the brightly rainbow colored plastic fish shaped trays......I had four of them.
Having come to the realization that it is nearly impossible to get rid of thirty plus years of stuff at one time, there will have to be another garage sale. Having also come to the conclusion that not everything will sell, I foresee Dumpster Caesar Salad in a cobalt blue, fish shaped, plastic dish.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Friday, August 21, 2015
The Dawning
In the early morning hours, that point of darkness just before dawn, the heavens were filled with an infinite number of stars. They stood out crisp and clear in a black cloudless sky. The very same stars that all the generations before us have gazed upon, hoped upon, wished upon.
I wondered about some of the constellations, their names and their meanings. Something pulled at my heart strings. All these years and I can only name a couple of the star designs. Such a waste. Spending years scurrying around, being busy, running the rat race and never taking the time to know more than the Big and Little Dipper.
This made me remember a story. Satan was talking to a man and told him he would give the man all the ground he could cover by the end of the day. Satan waved his hand out towards a vast landscape and smiled. The man began to run. He ran all day, covering miles and miles of ground. While he ran, he thought of all the wonderful things he would have. He would be wealthy, he would be proud, he would be admired by many people, he would be like a king.
As the sun was setting, the man was making his way back to where Satan stood waiting. By this time, the man could barely walk, but he struggled forward, thinking of all the good fortune that would soon be his. Satan smiled at the man. The man took one more step to reach his starting point and fell over dead. Satan looked down at the dead man and said, "And there you have it, all the ground you can cover by the end of the day."
The last bloom on the orchid is laying on the floor. It is almost symbolic, an ending. But, with every ending, there is a new beginning. I look out the window, the sun is rising on a new day, as it has done since the dawn of creation and as it will continue to do until the end of time. Shall I use this foolish measurement of time to think about yesterday? What earthly good does that do?
We can only take with us the things we did, not what we accumulated. We can live out our wildest dreams or we can cower in fear and self doubt.
Let us not be our biggest obstacle.
I wondered about some of the constellations, their names and their meanings. Something pulled at my heart strings. All these years and I can only name a couple of the star designs. Such a waste. Spending years scurrying around, being busy, running the rat race and never taking the time to know more than the Big and Little Dipper.
This made me remember a story. Satan was talking to a man and told him he would give the man all the ground he could cover by the end of the day. Satan waved his hand out towards a vast landscape and smiled. The man began to run. He ran all day, covering miles and miles of ground. While he ran, he thought of all the wonderful things he would have. He would be wealthy, he would be proud, he would be admired by many people, he would be like a king.
As the sun was setting, the man was making his way back to where Satan stood waiting. By this time, the man could barely walk, but he struggled forward, thinking of all the good fortune that would soon be his. Satan smiled at the man. The man took one more step to reach his starting point and fell over dead. Satan looked down at the dead man and said, "And there you have it, all the ground you can cover by the end of the day."
The last bloom on the orchid is laying on the floor. It is almost symbolic, an ending. But, with every ending, there is a new beginning. I look out the window, the sun is rising on a new day, as it has done since the dawn of creation and as it will continue to do until the end of time. Shall I use this foolish measurement of time to think about yesterday? What earthly good does that do?
We can only take with us the things we did, not what we accumulated. We can live out our wildest dreams or we can cower in fear and self doubt.
Let us not be our biggest obstacle.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Red Collar Affair
Runtly, the ever so entertaining, fast as lightening, Jack Russell Terrier is approaching ten months of age. This has in no way, shape or form, slowed him down. But, I must remind myself, on occasion, he is still a puppy. On the other hand, someone said their's was ten years old and had not slowed down yet.
This speeding white bullet has more toys than should be allowed by law. He doesn't really play with all of them except when they are all picked up and put in the toy bowl. In Runtly's mind, the toy bowl must always remain empty.
When returning from the local big box store, with an arm load of filled plastic bags, he is as excited as a child. He knows there is a fairly good chance there may be something in one of those bags for him. He does not care what it is, as long as it is in a box or bubble pack, its good. His last 'gift' was a flea collar and he was as jubilant over it as he would have been if it was a bag of treats. By the way, flea collars do not work well unless they can be placed at each end of the dog, but that is another story for another day.
Of all the toys that Runtly has at his disposal, his most favorite play thing is not a toy. It is a collar. This bright red, woven nylon collar came with Runtly when he arrived last Christmas. After the first few times of bathing him, I noticed that the collar was leaving a pink ring around his neck. Thinking that a male dog should not have pink stained fur, I purchased a new, black collar.
Runtly has an attachment to this red collar that goes beyond explanation. The red collar is always in one of two stages, either dripping wet with dog slobbers, or stiff as a board. It is his constant companion. It is the first thing he looks for in the morning and when he finds it, the ritual begins. After his "oh, I'm so happy to see you" greeting with the collar he carries it to where ever I am standing, usually at the stove, and drops it between my feet. It is then my dutiful duty to kick the collar across the floor.
Runtly chases after the collar and brings it back to do this all over again....and again....and again. If I fail to kick the collar, he picks it up and places it on top of my foot, just in case I had not noticed it was there. For Runtly, this is a non-stop game, as long as someone kicks or throws it, he will gleefully chase it down.
When my husband returns at the end of the day, he will ask Runtly where the collar is. This dog knows exactly where he left it and comes back prancing with the collar hanging out of his mouth. Since he is so very happy that someone is going to throw the red collar for him, he plays with it himself for a short while. He will throw it up in the air and catch it and on a couple of occasions, has even ring tossed his own tail.
We have learned that, if we are not in the mood to play, one must not mention the word 'collar' out loud. We have taken to spelling it and I think Runtly is beginning to figure out what we are talking about.
This dog has changed our lives. He has brought much laughter into the walls of this home. Runtly is certainly a red collar affair. Just don't ask me how the potty training is going.
This speeding white bullet has more toys than should be allowed by law. He doesn't really play with all of them except when they are all picked up and put in the toy bowl. In Runtly's mind, the toy bowl must always remain empty.
When returning from the local big box store, with an arm load of filled plastic bags, he is as excited as a child. He knows there is a fairly good chance there may be something in one of those bags for him. He does not care what it is, as long as it is in a box or bubble pack, its good. His last 'gift' was a flea collar and he was as jubilant over it as he would have been if it was a bag of treats. By the way, flea collars do not work well unless they can be placed at each end of the dog, but that is another story for another day.
Of all the toys that Runtly has at his disposal, his most favorite play thing is not a toy. It is a collar. This bright red, woven nylon collar came with Runtly when he arrived last Christmas. After the first few times of bathing him, I noticed that the collar was leaving a pink ring around his neck. Thinking that a male dog should not have pink stained fur, I purchased a new, black collar.
Runtly has an attachment to this red collar that goes beyond explanation. The red collar is always in one of two stages, either dripping wet with dog slobbers, or stiff as a board. It is his constant companion. It is the first thing he looks for in the morning and when he finds it, the ritual begins. After his "oh, I'm so happy to see you" greeting with the collar he carries it to where ever I am standing, usually at the stove, and drops it between my feet. It is then my dutiful duty to kick the collar across the floor.
Runtly chases after the collar and brings it back to do this all over again....and again....and again. If I fail to kick the collar, he picks it up and places it on top of my foot, just in case I had not noticed it was there. For Runtly, this is a non-stop game, as long as someone kicks or throws it, he will gleefully chase it down.
When my husband returns at the end of the day, he will ask Runtly where the collar is. This dog knows exactly where he left it and comes back prancing with the collar hanging out of his mouth. Since he is so very happy that someone is going to throw the red collar for him, he plays with it himself for a short while. He will throw it up in the air and catch it and on a couple of occasions, has even ring tossed his own tail.
We have learned that, if we are not in the mood to play, one must not mention the word 'collar' out loud. We have taken to spelling it and I think Runtly is beginning to figure out what we are talking about.
This dog has changed our lives. He has brought much laughter into the walls of this home. Runtly is certainly a red collar affair. Just don't ask me how the potty training is going.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Cecil & Carl
The following story has many facts, truths, half truths and assumptions or assumations.....which really isn't a word, but I like the way it sounds.
Cecil and Carl were quite a pair. They were not young dudes, in their 50's and 60's respectively, but they did not think of themselves as old. They always wore matching Grateful Dead tee shirts and had, for the most part, remained lost somewhere in the year of 1965. Also, neither had cut their hair since that time.
They could recite every Cheech & Chong script ever written. If Carl would go out to get pizza, when he arrived back at their small, poster lined walls apartment, Cecil would have the door locked. Carl would knock on the door and Cecil would ask, "Who's there?"
Carl always answered, "Hey man, it's me, Carl."
"Carl?" Cecil would reply.
"Yeah man, it's me. Carl! Open the door, man!"
And every time, Cecil would say, "Carl? Hey man, Carl's not here." Then they would laugh like idiots.
Cecil and Carl were not the sharpest crayons in the box.
One day Cecil and Carl came to the realization their pizza fund was about down to zero. They decided to go to the beach and ponder on their situation. As they strolled down the wet packed sand, in their souvenir Grateful Dead flip flops, on a beach in sunny southern California, they were approached by a man.
This man was much younger than Cecil and Carl and thought of himself as a wise business person. He knew the moment he saw this pair, he had found who he was looking for. He introduced himself as Smoothcriminal and struck up a conversation with the motley duo. Cecil and Carl had never met a stranger and began to tell Smoothcriminal about their plight of the pizza fund.
Smoothcriminal listened intently and told Cecil and Carl, "Such a deal I have for you!" Smoothcriminal went on to explain that he had a car that needed to be driven to the east coast. His friend lived there and needed this car in a bad way. Smoothcriminal could not take the time to drive the car that far and his friend was in the same boat. He asked Cecil and Carl if they would be interested in doing this for him. Smoothcriminal assured them that, if they took this job, they would have enough money in the pizza fund to last them a year.
Cecil and Carl were elated. Why, certainly they would do this for Smoothcriminal, because they knew Smoothcriminal was just an awesome dude.
Smoothcriminal handed Cecil and Carl the keys and pointed up the beach to where their chariot awaited. Cecil and Carl high fived, wow manned, far outed and chest bumped each other all the way to the car. It was road trip time and they could not have been happier.
Cecil and Carl headed out on the highway, eastward bound.
Somewhere in the great state of Illinois, Cecil and Carl got pulled over by the police because they were going 90 mph down the interstate. Not only were they traveling far over the speed limit, neither had a valid driver's license and the car had no insurance.
In the trunk of the car, the police found 150 pounds of marijuana with a street value of $500,000.00.
No one knew for sure if pizza was a popular prison cuisine.
Mr. Notsosmoothcriminal went into hiding somewhere in the one of the rain forests of the great Northwest.
The police never knew there had actually been 160 pounds of marijuana in the trunk.
My proofreader has been on me about not writing. She is right, I've had a lot of things going on lately. A lot of things on my mind. I think maybe I've been riding in the back seat with Cecil and Carl.
Cecil and Carl were quite a pair. They were not young dudes, in their 50's and 60's respectively, but they did not think of themselves as old. They always wore matching Grateful Dead tee shirts and had, for the most part, remained lost somewhere in the year of 1965. Also, neither had cut their hair since that time.
They could recite every Cheech & Chong script ever written. If Carl would go out to get pizza, when he arrived back at their small, poster lined walls apartment, Cecil would have the door locked. Carl would knock on the door and Cecil would ask, "Who's there?"
Carl always answered, "Hey man, it's me, Carl."
"Carl?" Cecil would reply.
"Yeah man, it's me. Carl! Open the door, man!"
And every time, Cecil would say, "Carl? Hey man, Carl's not here." Then they would laugh like idiots.
Cecil and Carl were not the sharpest crayons in the box.
One day Cecil and Carl came to the realization their pizza fund was about down to zero. They decided to go to the beach and ponder on their situation. As they strolled down the wet packed sand, in their souvenir Grateful Dead flip flops, on a beach in sunny southern California, they were approached by a man.
This man was much younger than Cecil and Carl and thought of himself as a wise business person. He knew the moment he saw this pair, he had found who he was looking for. He introduced himself as Smoothcriminal and struck up a conversation with the motley duo. Cecil and Carl had never met a stranger and began to tell Smoothcriminal about their plight of the pizza fund.
Smoothcriminal listened intently and told Cecil and Carl, "Such a deal I have for you!" Smoothcriminal went on to explain that he had a car that needed to be driven to the east coast. His friend lived there and needed this car in a bad way. Smoothcriminal could not take the time to drive the car that far and his friend was in the same boat. He asked Cecil and Carl if they would be interested in doing this for him. Smoothcriminal assured them that, if they took this job, they would have enough money in the pizza fund to last them a year.
Cecil and Carl were elated. Why, certainly they would do this for Smoothcriminal, because they knew Smoothcriminal was just an awesome dude.
Smoothcriminal handed Cecil and Carl the keys and pointed up the beach to where their chariot awaited. Cecil and Carl high fived, wow manned, far outed and chest bumped each other all the way to the car. It was road trip time and they could not have been happier.
Cecil and Carl headed out on the highway, eastward bound.
Somewhere in the great state of Illinois, Cecil and Carl got pulled over by the police because they were going 90 mph down the interstate. Not only were they traveling far over the speed limit, neither had a valid driver's license and the car had no insurance.
In the trunk of the car, the police found 150 pounds of marijuana with a street value of $500,000.00.
No one knew for sure if pizza was a popular prison cuisine.
Mr. Notsosmoothcriminal went into hiding somewhere in the one of the rain forests of the great Northwest.
The police never knew there had actually been 160 pounds of marijuana in the trunk.
My proofreader has been on me about not writing. She is right, I've had a lot of things going on lately. A lot of things on my mind. I think maybe I've been riding in the back seat with Cecil and Carl.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
It's A Job
There is one job on the face of the planet that is the most rewarding and the hardest. This job has no set hours and is sometimes 24 hours a day, seven days a week. This job has absolutely no monetary compensation, it is completely pro bono.
This job is parenting.
There are countless people, couples, whose longing for a child has been met with emptiness. Then there are countless people, couples, who should have never had any children at all.
I do not think there is anyone, who is a parent, who has not experienced frustration in raising a child. Most parents know, or understand, that when feelings of being overwhelmed or feelings of anger emerge, it's a good time to walk away, to cool down and regain some composure. I remember, on more than one occasion, having to go sit outside and leave a screaming child in her crib. I'm pretty sure I cried too.
Having a child is not like having a pet. They can not be put on a chain in the yard. They can not be left unattended for hours on end. They need to be loved and nurtured. They need your attention, your guidance, your council. They do not need to see that your cell phone, or other electronic gadget, is more important than they are.
Child abuse is sometimes a very fine line. Constantly yelling at and belittling a child may not fall under physical abuse, but it is certainly mental abuse. Years of mental abuse can easily lead to physical abuse later on. When we witness this abuse, do we speak out or turn a blind eye? Do we pick up the phone and make the call? The system for rescuing abused and abandoned children is broken and over burdened, do we throw one more onto the pile?
Today, preventing an unwanted pregnancy is as easy as plopping a box of condoms or a tube of spermicide right between the box of macaroni and cheese and a bottle of dish soap. Really, the clerk is not going to pick these items up, wave them in the air and say "Woohoo! Looky here!". Most of these things work 99.9% of the time and that small decimal of failure is no where close to the amount of unwanted pregnancies that occur by using nothing.
Rewarding people monetarily for having children they do not want or cannot take care of, isn't working. It breeds an entitlement mentality. Someday the money tree is going to run out of leaves and then where does that leave all the little children?
There are far worse things than giving a child up for adoption. Making that decision, when the reality of not being able to care and provide for a child, should be awarded a medal of bravery. If the decision is made to keep the child, then the decision to get up off your butt and be a parent needs to be made too.
This job is parenting.
There are countless people, couples, whose longing for a child has been met with emptiness. Then there are countless people, couples, who should have never had any children at all.
I do not think there is anyone, who is a parent, who has not experienced frustration in raising a child. Most parents know, or understand, that when feelings of being overwhelmed or feelings of anger emerge, it's a good time to walk away, to cool down and regain some composure. I remember, on more than one occasion, having to go sit outside and leave a screaming child in her crib. I'm pretty sure I cried too.
Having a child is not like having a pet. They can not be put on a chain in the yard. They can not be left unattended for hours on end. They need to be loved and nurtured. They need your attention, your guidance, your council. They do not need to see that your cell phone, or other electronic gadget, is more important than they are.
Child abuse is sometimes a very fine line. Constantly yelling at and belittling a child may not fall under physical abuse, but it is certainly mental abuse. Years of mental abuse can easily lead to physical abuse later on. When we witness this abuse, do we speak out or turn a blind eye? Do we pick up the phone and make the call? The system for rescuing abused and abandoned children is broken and over burdened, do we throw one more onto the pile?
Today, preventing an unwanted pregnancy is as easy as plopping a box of condoms or a tube of spermicide right between the box of macaroni and cheese and a bottle of dish soap. Really, the clerk is not going to pick these items up, wave them in the air and say "Woohoo! Looky here!". Most of these things work 99.9% of the time and that small decimal of failure is no where close to the amount of unwanted pregnancies that occur by using nothing.
Rewarding people monetarily for having children they do not want or cannot take care of, isn't working. It breeds an entitlement mentality. Someday the money tree is going to run out of leaves and then where does that leave all the little children?
There are far worse things than giving a child up for adoption. Making that decision, when the reality of not being able to care and provide for a child, should be awarded a medal of bravery. If the decision is made to keep the child, then the decision to get up off your butt and be a parent needs to be made too.
Monday, August 3, 2015
The Dance Machine
Once a year, in August, some friends of ours host a large get together. The first time we were invited, I felt as though I had passed through some portal into another realm because I did not know half of the people who were in attendance. That in itself may not be a big deal, but I could see our house from theirs and it was odd to not know so many people.
I was looking forward with great anticipation to this year's party. Not just for the food and camaraderie with new friends, but for the music. They always have either live music or a DJ and with music, there is dancing.
Oh, how I love to dance.
In 2006 Antonio Banderas starred in a movie titled, "Take The Lead". It was a true story about a dance instructor who took a bunch of troubled kids and taught them how to dance. It changed their lives for the better. If ever I had any regrets, one would be not learning how to dance. My parents danced together and even sisters Lela and Blanche knew the foot work to the Swing and the Fox Trot, but somewhere in the decade that stretched between us, most of my generation lost this art. I haven't completely given up on this dream and have a stack of VCR tapes with "easy to follow" instructions for the above mentioned moves, along with the Tango. During our first encounter with these tapes my husband said, "I don't think we're getting it.", so..... maybe somewhere down the road we can enlist the help of a professional instructor. I can already see the look of delight on his face when I announce that I've signed us up for dance class.
Back at the party, it wasn't long before folks were taking to the dance floor. I had told myself I would take it easy this year, but once the music started, I could not stay in my chair. I danced with young people, I danced with older people, I danced by myself. A gentleman asked me to dance and half way through he said to me, "You like to lead, don't you?" I answered, "Why yes, yes I do.", and we continued to play tug of war across the dance floor.....he did not ask me to dance again. It did not matter to me and I continued to dance the night away.
I am still paying for skipping the light fandango, but it was worth every sore muscle and the twinge in one hip.
Live like there is no tomorrow, love with all your heart and when the opportunity to dance comes along, take it. Preferably more than once a year.
I was looking forward with great anticipation to this year's party. Not just for the food and camaraderie with new friends, but for the music. They always have either live music or a DJ and with music, there is dancing.
Oh, how I love to dance.
In 2006 Antonio Banderas starred in a movie titled, "Take The Lead". It was a true story about a dance instructor who took a bunch of troubled kids and taught them how to dance. It changed their lives for the better. If ever I had any regrets, one would be not learning how to dance. My parents danced together and even sisters Lela and Blanche knew the foot work to the Swing and the Fox Trot, but somewhere in the decade that stretched between us, most of my generation lost this art. I haven't completely given up on this dream and have a stack of VCR tapes with "easy to follow" instructions for the above mentioned moves, along with the Tango. During our first encounter with these tapes my husband said, "I don't think we're getting it.", so..... maybe somewhere down the road we can enlist the help of a professional instructor. I can already see the look of delight on his face when I announce that I've signed us up for dance class.
Back at the party, it wasn't long before folks were taking to the dance floor. I had told myself I would take it easy this year, but once the music started, I could not stay in my chair. I danced with young people, I danced with older people, I danced by myself. A gentleman asked me to dance and half way through he said to me, "You like to lead, don't you?" I answered, "Why yes, yes I do.", and we continued to play tug of war across the dance floor.....he did not ask me to dance again. It did not matter to me and I continued to dance the night away.
I am still paying for skipping the light fandango, but it was worth every sore muscle and the twinge in one hip.
Live like there is no tomorrow, love with all your heart and when the opportunity to dance comes along, take it. Preferably more than once a year.
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