It was a lovely Saturday morning. The sun was shining and there was a hint of Autumn in the air. Although there seems to be as many animal hospitals or clinics as there are furniture stores in this part of the country, I had chosen a veterinarian in a small town, north of the city.
Runtly, the ever so entertaining Jack Russell Terrier, needed a rabies vaccine. The trip was going to take about forty minutes, one way. Runtly has been doing practice runs riding in the truck. In the past, he was absolutely terrified, but since we have been doing these mini rides, he seems to be getting the hang of it. One mention of "a ride in the truck" or the jingle of the keys and he is ready to go. He still has to sit right beside me as we go down the road, but it seemed to be progress in the right direction.
We hopped into the truck and started the journey. The clinic was only open from 8-11 on Saturday mornings and the plan was to get there about 10. Runtly sat beside me as we left the safe confines of the complex. One mile down the road and arriving at the first left turn, I glanced over to the passenger seat. There sat The Voice, that lives inside of my head, peering into a small animal carrier. Knowing The Voice does not have a pet, I took another look and realized it had put a pair of shoes in the container. I rolled my eyes and as the light turned green, we made the first left turn.
Another mile down the road, Runtly decided the ride was not near the fun he had anticipated and tried to get to the floor board. I knew if he managed to get there, he would be under my feet and the brake pedal. I grabbed his harness and held him at arms length. Looking at the clock, going back for the crate wasn't an option.
I was thankful that I had spent the last month trying to get into better shape. Driving 60 mph, holding 15 pounds of squirming dog at arms length, for 30 miles, was quite a workout. There was so much dog hair flying around the inside of the cab, The Voice even rolled down the window to let some of it out. After it rolled the window back up, it peered again into the small animal carrier and cooed gently to the pair of shoes.
The clinic did not take appointments so it was a first come first serve situation. I thought arriving at ten was a good idea. As I pulled into the parking lot, everyone else from the city must have had the same idea. The place was packed.
We entered into a waiting room lined with people, pooches and one lone cat. After getting checked in and finding a seat, we began the waiting process. The clinic did not actually close at 11, that is when they stopped taking clients.
Animals do not usually forget their first visit to the veterinarian. This was made even more obvious watching large breed dogs get that first whiff of where they were, when coming in the door. Then, watching as they had to be pulled across the waiting room floor.
Runtly was no exception. After a two hour wait, along with getting reprimanded for barking, he was certainly a sad looking canine as I pulled him into the examination room.
Once in there, it was discovered Runtly needed a simple test that required a small amount of blood to be drawn. This is where the real fun began. I could not hold him, no matter how hard I tried. The young assistant finally convinced me to let her hold him because I was beginning to look like a shredded tissue. I relented and she took control. Runtly began to wail like a banshee and I had to stand in front of him so he could see that I was still there.
Needless to say, I certainly did not have to drag him out of the clinic. I was hoping the trauma he had just experienced would calm him down for the trip back home. I was wrong about that.
Another 30 miles, with him held at arm's length and five hours from when we had first left, we were home. Runtly promptly went to his favorite spot under the couch and The Voice took its shoes out of the carrier and put them back in the closet. I grabbed my billfold and headed out the door because grocery shopping was next on my "to do" list. As I got back into the truck and saw the carnage of white dog hair, that my husband was going to be thrilled with, I knew one thing for certain. My dreams of road tripping in a motor home with Runtly, the ever so entertaining Jack Russell Terrier, front and center, was certainly not going to happen any time soon.
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
HD Living
HD usually stands for "high definition", but in this case, it stands for "high density". It is a phrase I heard recently when it comes to describing apartment home living.
It describes, in two words, the stacked on top of each other, nestled right side by side, everything looks the same, row after row, mile after mile of apartment complexes. Major cities are surrounded by them.
Inside these communities, some the size of a small town, live peoples of all color and ethnicity. There are as many different languages spoken as there are styles of clothing.
Some of the occupants have lived in their apartment for years. They know their community and most of the people who live there. Then there are the ones who come and go. This has probably been the hardest thing for me to wrap my small town mentality around, or maybe I should refer to it as my Mid-West upbringing.
I grew up believing that everyone had a dining room table and many other pieces of useful furniture and they lived in the same place for.....well....for like, forever. I know better now. I know the young single mother who has not one piece of furniture in her apartment. I know the family that has possibly ten to twelve family members, all living together in a one bedroom unit. I've seen them come in the middle of the day, only to leave a month later in the middle of the night.
I feel for the children who do not know what it is like to have some sort of constant in their life. I miss the young Hispanic girl that I met at the end of the school year, while walking Runtly, the ever so entertaining Jack Russell Terrier. I have know idea when she left, or where she went. We never exchanged names, but she sure loved the dog.
I have seen apartments completely full of furniture, left behind. If there is no money for the rent, there is no money for a moving van. I wonder if they are living out of their car.
So, the moral of the story seems to be.....be thankful. Be thankful if you have clothes on your back and a whole closet full that haven't been worn in years. Be thankful if you only have but one chair to sit in. Be thankful if you have a job, even if it is not the job of your dreams. Be thankful if you have a mode of transportation that gets you from point A to point B, even if its a clunker. Be thankful if you have a roof over your head, that leaks during a summer rain storm. Be thankful for all the things in your life, good and bad. Most importantly, remember to pray for the ones who have it so much worse than you could ever imagine.
It describes, in two words, the stacked on top of each other, nestled right side by side, everything looks the same, row after row, mile after mile of apartment complexes. Major cities are surrounded by them.
Inside these communities, some the size of a small town, live peoples of all color and ethnicity. There are as many different languages spoken as there are styles of clothing.
Some of the occupants have lived in their apartment for years. They know their community and most of the people who live there. Then there are the ones who come and go. This has probably been the hardest thing for me to wrap my small town mentality around, or maybe I should refer to it as my Mid-West upbringing.
I grew up believing that everyone had a dining room table and many other pieces of useful furniture and they lived in the same place for.....well....for like, forever. I know better now. I know the young single mother who has not one piece of furniture in her apartment. I know the family that has possibly ten to twelve family members, all living together in a one bedroom unit. I've seen them come in the middle of the day, only to leave a month later in the middle of the night.
I feel for the children who do not know what it is like to have some sort of constant in their life. I miss the young Hispanic girl that I met at the end of the school year, while walking Runtly, the ever so entertaining Jack Russell Terrier. I have know idea when she left, or where she went. We never exchanged names, but she sure loved the dog.
I have seen apartments completely full of furniture, left behind. If there is no money for the rent, there is no money for a moving van. I wonder if they are living out of their car.
So, the moral of the story seems to be.....be thankful. Be thankful if you have clothes on your back and a whole closet full that haven't been worn in years. Be thankful if you only have but one chair to sit in. Be thankful if you have a job, even if it is not the job of your dreams. Be thankful if you have a mode of transportation that gets you from point A to point B, even if its a clunker. Be thankful if you have a roof over your head, that leaks during a summer rain storm. Be thankful for all the things in your life, good and bad. Most importantly, remember to pray for the ones who have it so much worse than you could ever imagine.
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Remembering
Most of us will never forget. At least those of us old enough to remember. We will not forget where we were or what we were doing when the tragedy, that was and still is, happened on September 11, 2001. It has become the second 'where were you' in my lifetime. The first was the assassination of President Kennedy.
I had gone to town to pay a utility bill when, just as I was getting back in my car, the phone rang. "Mom", said my oldest daughter, "There's something going on in New York City."
I raced home and turned on the television. The first plane had already hit the North Tower. I remember sitting there feeling so helpless, wondering what in the world was going on. I called my husband and tearfully told him what was happening. "They" had used our own planes to bomb us. I never gave a second thought to how quickly the news anchors knew who the culprits were behind this atrocity and how they did it.
As I watched the second plane fly into the South Tower, my mind went back to the year of 1974. I had just graduated from high school. My older sister had taken me to NYC for my graduation gift. I remember being so enthralled with the people, the traffic, the tall buildings as far as the eye could see. I remembered the dress. The dress I purchased in a small shop located on the ground floor of one of the World Trade Center towers.....it was purple with a paisley pattern.
As the memory of that dress began to fade back to the carnage on the screen, the first Tower started to collapse. I sat there watching, feeling like I was in a bad dream, when some weird thing went off somewhere in the back of my brain. The only time I had ever seen a building collapse like that was when it had be set up for demolition.
During President John F. Kennedy's administration there was an effort put forth under the name of Operation Northwoods. Its purpose was to create a false flag in order to go to war with Cuba. One of the ideas mentioned in this operation was flying planes into buildings...our buildings and blaming it on Cuba.
Shortly before his death, President Kennedy spoke of the underhandedness of secret societies. President Dwight Eisenhower, in his farewell speech, warned of the industrialized military complex.
It's been sixteen years. Let us never forget those who perished for no good reason.
I had gone to town to pay a utility bill when, just as I was getting back in my car, the phone rang. "Mom", said my oldest daughter, "There's something going on in New York City."
I raced home and turned on the television. The first plane had already hit the North Tower. I remember sitting there feeling so helpless, wondering what in the world was going on. I called my husband and tearfully told him what was happening. "They" had used our own planes to bomb us. I never gave a second thought to how quickly the news anchors knew who the culprits were behind this atrocity and how they did it.
As I watched the second plane fly into the South Tower, my mind went back to the year of 1974. I had just graduated from high school. My older sister had taken me to NYC for my graduation gift. I remember being so enthralled with the people, the traffic, the tall buildings as far as the eye could see. I remembered the dress. The dress I purchased in a small shop located on the ground floor of one of the World Trade Center towers.....it was purple with a paisley pattern.
As the memory of that dress began to fade back to the carnage on the screen, the first Tower started to collapse. I sat there watching, feeling like I was in a bad dream, when some weird thing went off somewhere in the back of my brain. The only time I had ever seen a building collapse like that was when it had be set up for demolition.
During President John F. Kennedy's administration there was an effort put forth under the name of Operation Northwoods. Its purpose was to create a false flag in order to go to war with Cuba. One of the ideas mentioned in this operation was flying planes into buildings...our buildings and blaming it on Cuba.
Shortly before his death, President Kennedy spoke of the underhandedness of secret societies. President Dwight Eisenhower, in his farewell speech, warned of the industrialized military complex.
It's been sixteen years. Let us never forget those who perished for no good reason.
Monday, September 4, 2017
Humorous Hummus
The Voice, that lives inside my head, was packing suitcases full of shoes. "Seriously?", I quizzed. The Voice did not answer and swept past me with the loaded luggage and waltzed out the door.
I watched it go down the steps towards a waiting cab and just before it reached the vehicle I yelled, "Good grief, it's only dip!"
I watched the taxi speed around the corner, shook my head and went back inside. Once there, I went to the kitchen and retrieved my small food processor. The recipe was for hummus. I'm never quite sure how to pronounce hummus. Is it hoo-mus or hyoo-mus? Either way, it is a delicious concoction with a main ingredient of chick peas.
I had made it before, although the last time I did not have one of the ingredients, tahini, and substituted something else that I thought would work. Not knowing exactly what tahini was or how it tasted, I had no idea if my batch of hummus was authentic, but I ate it anyway.
Tahini is an Arabic word for sesame seed paste and I had found a can of it at one of the grocery stores. The directions said that it might need to be stirred, once it was opened. When I removed the lid from the can I was instantly transported back to a time when I was a child. The lady I stayed with, while the folks were working, lived across the street from a church. Once a month she would go to the church and get some surplus food. The only things I remember her getting was cheese and peanut butter. The peanut butter was in a can and when it was first opened, it always had a layer of oil on the top. I would watch as she slowly stirred the oil back into the peanut butter. I remember thinking that was the best peanut butter in the whole world.
The tahini not only had a layer of oil on the top, but it was nearly half the entire contents of the can. Naturally, when I put a spoon in it, a bit of oil overflowed down the outside of the can. When the spoon hit the paste at the bottom, it was so compacted it felt like concrete. I put more pressure on the spoon, this action caused more oil to jump out of the can. So, I could neither make a dent in the tahini or hold onto the can at this point. I had the brilliant idea to get out my mixer and put just one beater in it. This did not work.
There was oil everywhere. Totally disgusted, I grabbed a large bowl and poured the oil into it. The paste in the bottom was so hard I literally had to pry it out with a knife. Then it had to be mushed into chunks that would actually go through the beaters.
By the time it was back to its creamy buttery state, I knew why The Voice had left. What a mess I had to clean up and all for a measly 1/4 cup of tahini.
The recipe for the hummus turned out to be good but, there is a grocery store just down the street that sells the best hummus and regardless of how it's pronounced, that is where I will get mine from now on. I sure hope The Voice sends me a postcard.
I watched it go down the steps towards a waiting cab and just before it reached the vehicle I yelled, "Good grief, it's only dip!"
I watched the taxi speed around the corner, shook my head and went back inside. Once there, I went to the kitchen and retrieved my small food processor. The recipe was for hummus. I'm never quite sure how to pronounce hummus. Is it hoo-mus or hyoo-mus? Either way, it is a delicious concoction with a main ingredient of chick peas.
I had made it before, although the last time I did not have one of the ingredients, tahini, and substituted something else that I thought would work. Not knowing exactly what tahini was or how it tasted, I had no idea if my batch of hummus was authentic, but I ate it anyway.
Tahini is an Arabic word for sesame seed paste and I had found a can of it at one of the grocery stores. The directions said that it might need to be stirred, once it was opened. When I removed the lid from the can I was instantly transported back to a time when I was a child. The lady I stayed with, while the folks were working, lived across the street from a church. Once a month she would go to the church and get some surplus food. The only things I remember her getting was cheese and peanut butter. The peanut butter was in a can and when it was first opened, it always had a layer of oil on the top. I would watch as she slowly stirred the oil back into the peanut butter. I remember thinking that was the best peanut butter in the whole world.
The tahini not only had a layer of oil on the top, but it was nearly half the entire contents of the can. Naturally, when I put a spoon in it, a bit of oil overflowed down the outside of the can. When the spoon hit the paste at the bottom, it was so compacted it felt like concrete. I put more pressure on the spoon, this action caused more oil to jump out of the can. So, I could neither make a dent in the tahini or hold onto the can at this point. I had the brilliant idea to get out my mixer and put just one beater in it. This did not work.
There was oil everywhere. Totally disgusted, I grabbed a large bowl and poured the oil into it. The paste in the bottom was so hard I literally had to pry it out with a knife. Then it had to be mushed into chunks that would actually go through the beaters.
By the time it was back to its creamy buttery state, I knew why The Voice had left. What a mess I had to clean up and all for a measly 1/4 cup of tahini.
The recipe for the hummus turned out to be good but, there is a grocery store just down the street that sells the best hummus and regardless of how it's pronounced, that is where I will get mine from now on. I sure hope The Voice sends me a postcard.
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