Good Night, Lucky...

I think many people have rituals in their everyday behaviors. Whether we live alone, have children or pets, or have a partner in our lives, we do certain things on a daily basis that become part of the normal ebb and flow of our days. They may become habits so that we don't forget the small, important things in our lives, or just because they make us feel better. Perhaps in some ways they ground us, or make us fell that all is right in our world. It may be a thing as simple as brushing your teeth at night, something that, when completed, tells your brain that the day's labors have ended and it is time to get some rest. 

We are no strangers to little rituals in this home either. There are some things that we do occasionally, and some daily. Heck, even our little dog had rituals. She liked to begin and end each day by showering us with kisses and lying next to us for tummy rubs, or on our chests for back scratches. Heck, when I tell Trent that a meal is ready to be eaten, he usually fills a large glass with ice and a beverage before putting anything on his plate. If he doesn't do it, there seems to be something out of order.

Something that is very important to us is how we end each day. The last thing we do every night before going to sleep is tell each other good night, and that we love one another. Even if we may have been cranky with one another, we don't go to bed without saying these important words. Even when I traveled to Europe, for example, I would call every night before bed, afternoon for Trent here at home, talk about the day, and say say, "Good night, I love you." After all, you never know when you might be having your last conversation with someone you really care about.

One night, after we had said our ritual good nights, and I had plugged into an audio book to help me get to sleep, I heard Trent chuckling. At first I thought perhaps Paris the poodle had pulled a sneak kissing attack and made him laugh, but realized she was curled up under the covers, fast asleep. I pulled out my earbuds and asked what was going on. "Nothing," he said, "go back to sleep." He began chuckling again, and I asked again what was so funny. "Never mind, it's something that you won't think is funny." Well, there was no way I could let it go. I told him that I was not going to leave him alone until he told me what was so funny, because I wouldn't sleep until I knew.

Finally, he caved in. "I was just laying here thinking that it would be funny if I told you 'Good night, Ball and Chain.' " I knew he meant it only as a joke, so it didn't bother me, as there was no insult or disrespect involved. "Go ahead," I said calmly. He giggled and said, "Good night, Ball and Chain!" Without batting an eyelash or changing my tone of voice, I answered, "Good night, Luckiest Bastage on the Face of the Earth!" In just a few moments we were breathless with laughter. Paris was awake, tail wagging, and dancing around on the bed with excitement at the "happy sounds" that her Mommy and Daddy were making. Even though this happened a few years ago, one or the other of us will occasionally replace our normal good nights with this funnier, but still loving, version. And we still laugh at it. It's sassy, but sweet, like our love for one another.

Moderate To Severe

Okay, I'm willing to admit it. I often have the television on as a sort of white noise. The background chatter keeps the room from being too quiet when I'm doing something else like cooking or catching up on social media, or even when I am blogging. I don't necessarily tune it out completely, however, and have been known to hurl responses at the program or commercial that is being broadcast even while I continue typing. (Incidentally, the telly is not on as I am writing tonight's installment.)

I noticed something the other day about a specific type of commercials, and had to point it out to Trent to make sure I wasn't just imagining it. It seems that the ads for almost every kind of medicine follow the same script. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that some medications are used for multiple conditions, but I don't think so. When one of these ads came on several days ago, I paused the program and said to Trent, "Now pay attention to this. No matter what disease or ailment they are talking about, they are going to say that their drug is for moderate-to-severe whatever it is." We then watched the commercial, and I was right. Trent has now begun paying very close attention to these ads, and he says I have them all figured out. Take a listen, and you'll hear, "If you suffer from moderate to severe Crohn's Disease/Fibromyalgia/Chronic Dry Eye, etcetera, ask your doctor about Miracle Drug Number Forty-Two."

Some of them actually have me split between wanting to laugh or yell at the telly. I am not an insensitive person. I know what it is like to have illnesses, both physical and mental. I also know what it's like to have visible symptoms of illness, and what it feels like when someone's curiosity overpowers their good manners and they feel compelled to point it out to you, or question why things look a certain way. That's why one of the commercials has me both laughing and yelling. You'd never catch me saying, "I was embarrassed when my five-year-old niece asked about my moderate to severe Plaque Psoriasis." Oh, heck no! I'd have a quiet little chat with her about what was going on. I'd also mention to her that people who look different might feel bad if others make a big deal about it. But I am not trying to sell medicine, so what do I know?

I guess all that I really know about the subject is that pharmaceutical companies walk a fine line. Yes, they create products that can alleviate symptoms of numerous illnesses. But the truth as I see it is that they are always going to work on developing medications that will make them the most money. If you disagree, I have one word for you: Viagra. So, they keep coming up with new medications, especially because when generic versions hit the market, they lose their exclusive earning potential. Yes, there may be five thousand people with a specific ailment in the world, but the earning potential isn't there, so nobody looks for a cure. Just like people with mild symptoms, they are orphans in the pharmaceutical world.

I'd really like to start seeing commercials for mild to moderate symptoms. Or at least saying something honest like "mild symptoms require less medicine, so we don't really care about how they impact your life." Or a commercial that says, "Does your family make you moderately to severely cranky? Maybe you should ask your doctor about taking a few days for yourself and visiting the Indian Hot Springs Healing Waters Spa in Idaho Springs, Colorado. Leave those demanding family members behind, pack your friends in the car, and come get steamed in our natural hot caves. Float in the warm waters of our chlorine-free, naturally-heated pool, surrounded by tropical plants and banana trees. We will temporarily relieve your stress with our aromatherapy massages and mud baths. Leave that moderate to severe anger behind, and refresh your spirits at Indian Hot Springs. We also have spa packages suitable for mild to moderate crankiness, including the newest chocolate therapy treatments. So on your next doctor's visit, remember to ask about treating that moderate to severe anger by spending a few days at our spa!"

I wonder if there are any treatments out there for moderate to severe sarcasm and smart-aleckiness. Who am I kidding? I wouldn't take them anyway!

Pudu And PooDoo

The other day I spotted a news story online that made both of us smile, and opened up some lovely memories. The story was about the birth of a doe at the Queens Zoo in New York. The new baby weighed one pound at birth, and is a member of an endangered species of deer called pudu, pronounced poo-doo. Pudu are native to Chile and Argentina, and, when fully grown weigh about twenty pounds and are twelve to fourteen inches tall at the shoulder. If you want to see something adorable, feast your eyes on this baby pudu.

Is that a cutie, or what? I am sure that at this point you're thinking that it is sweet and all, but it doesn't take much to make their day, does it? Well, I can understand you thinking that. The reason that it made our day is that we used to call our little dog Paris a PooDoo. There's a valid reason for us to use the nickname PooDoo. You see, Paris the poodle was a very smart dog. When she got a new toy, we would give it a name. As she began playing with her new toy, let's say a purple stuffed poodle with a squeaker in the noggin, we'd tell her the name a few times. Usually she had it down by about the third repetition. Paris had numerous toys, such as Cow, Boney-bone, Elephant, Ball, Santa...and Poodle. All it would take was a mention of the name of the toy, and she would jump into action. She'd stand at the end of the bed, stomping her feet and "talking" up a storm. She was ready to play, and waiting for us to throw her toy. So after she got her toy poodle, we couldn't call her our poodle any more without creating a scene, and a PooDoo was born. 

After I saw the story and gasped at the name of the miniature deer, I shared the picture and name with Trent. We felt all gooshy and happy about it, and had fun talking about some memories of our precious little Poodoo. She may have been only ten inches tall at the shoulder, and all of eight and a half pounds, but she had a brave and huge heart. I still get a laugh every time I get hiccups, because it reminds me of her. Apparently when I hiccuped she thought something had happened to startle me. She would jump to attention from wherever she was, spinning around mid-jump so that she'd land facing the front door. She had a bark and a few growls for whoever it was that had scared her Mommy and made her gasp.

I'm glad that the passage of nearly a year since we lost our little Paris has softened the harsh pain we have felt at losing her. We have gradually come to the point of being able to have moments of laughter about the fun times we had with her and her idiosyncrasies. Even though she is gone, the memories of times with her still enrich our lives. Twelve and a half years with a loving and intelligent creature will do that to you. 

I have shared a picture of the pudu, so I'd be remiss if I didn't share one of the PooDoo, so here's our girl Paris. I hope that whatever critters you love enrich your life like she has done with ours.

What A Cutie!

There's a lot to be said for and against the computer era in which we're living. We all know about how much easier it is for people to be cruel to one another through this faceless, no-contact format. But on the other hand, it is also easier to make friends with others, broaden our horizons, and expose ourselves to new things. And there is a virtual treasure trove of information at our fingertips. Just think of all of the things you can access, and often at no cost - movies, books, funny little videos, music...and there's all sorts of information available. Don't know what kind of plants grow well in your region? What were the dates of The Civil War? What does a white-sand beach look like? All can be found online.

I have enjoyed the way the friends I have made on social media have enriched my life, and from time to time one of them will inspire me to write a blog post. And that is what spurred me to write this piece tonight. My friend Rich posted a song from the soundtrack of the movie Rain Man. I really enjoyed the movie, and loved the soundtrack enough to purchase it in cassette format. (Some of you younger readers may not understand this. Google it.) The song was Beyond the Blue Horizon, sung by Lou Christie. I have loved that song since elementary school. We sang it in music class and choir. I adored the song and my music teacher, Mrs. Schlundt. Unfortunately, she died in a car crash at the end of my fifth-grade school year, but I still love the songs we sang with her. These were my first thoughts as I listened to the music.

As I continued listening and looked at the picture of the album cover, I remembered something delightful that happened regarding that little cassette. If you do not remember, the soundtrack album cover is a picture of the two brothers, played by Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise, riding in their deceased father's car. I was listening to the music one day while working in my stand-alone unit as a drive-through teller. One of my coworkers stopped by for a couple of minutes to say hi and have a little chat, and she saw the cassette case. "Oh, is this what you're listening to? I really liked this movie!" I agreed that it was a good film, and she looked at the listing of the songs. She took another look at the cover photo and said, "He's so cute!" And then we accidentally said the exact same thing at the same moment. "And Tom Cruise isn't bad either!" It was one of those really great moments when two people have the same funny thought at the same time. We had a good laugh at our wittiness, and it really brightened my day.

It was lovely to have that memory come to the front of my mind. I hope that my former coworker remembers it from time to time as well. Little moments like this can be bits of sunshine that stay bright for years. And isn't it fun to bask in that kind of sunshine?

Squirrely

I won't lie. Summer is very difficult for me. For various health reasons, the sun and heat just make me feel icky. I fondly remember the years of my childhood when my friends and I would run and play outdoors when it was a hundred degrees and love it. The drinks from the garden hose, which had the coldest and best-tasting water in the world, certainly helped. And it never hurt to douse your head with it either, or to run through the lawn sprinklers. I just can't handle the heat any more like I did back then. 

There are some things about summer that I really do love, however. As the days of spring get longer and the beautiful blossoms fade from the trees, you start to see the next amazing phase of nature. Suddenly the birds are all hanging out in pairs. If you walk within their field of vision, one will fly off to draw you away, while the other yells at you to get away from their nest, darn it! We have a pair of falcons that have nested on top of the building next to ours, and today we saw what may have been one of their young. He was standing in the grass underneath an oak tree, within ten feet of our car. He bent over to pick something up; it had tiny legs and a tail, so he must have been taking a rest break as he was flying home with his mousey catch. The cycles of life keep repeating. Perhaps next year this lovely peregrine will nest on our building, and his offspring will catch mice in a nearby field.

We also have a very industrious mama squirrel living nearby. The first time we saw her was last fall, as she was gathering and eating acorns from the same oak tree. She allowed me to take a few pictures of her, and I was close enough to see that she was indeed a mama, and had been nursing babies. As I spoke softly to her, she twitched her tail as if to say that I sounded all right, but she was keeping an eye on me. When we saw her this spring, it seemed pretty obvious that mama squirrel was ready to have another litter. It made both of us very happy. To me, there's something about having squirrels around that makes an area seem more homey and settled. You won't see them unless there are well-established trees for food and nesting.

When I see squirrels, and especially prairie dogs, I am reminded of a young man I worked with many years ago, and tried to be friends with. I think that my brief friendship with him taught me something I might have taken years to find out had I not known him. The way we view nature seems to reflect our attitude about life and the world. I was bound and determined to live fully, and fight against any and all of my ailments. This person, on the other hand, had a rather angry and victimized view of life. There was nothing wrong with him; he had not been an abused child, and hadn't fought any potentially life-threatening diseases. But he took everything too personally, and was angry about it. If a female that he was interested in didn't feel the same way about him, there was something wrong with her, and he would refer to her with unkind language. When things didn't go his way, he would say that he was going to commit suicide. I'd spend the weekend worrying since he had no phone, and he would show up to work on Monday in a good humor.

As I said, I tried to be friends with him, but it didn't last long. It was a very one-sided and soul-bashing experience. One of the things he and I would argue about was definitely a sign of his negativity. He lived in an older, downtown area with lots of huge old trees. And squirrels. We all know that squirrels (and prairie dogs!) have poor judgement at times about crossing streets. It still makes me sad to see one deceased in the street, because I am a softy, and I love animals. Not this person. He was convinced that squirrels who were hit by cars were committing suicide. I tried many times to tell him that he was trying to credit them with a level of learning that was beyond them, but he wouldn't have it. He just knew that they had seen enough other squirrels killed by cars, and that they knew better. They had learned the street was dangerous, so if they died in the streets it was because they were suicidal.

Eventually, I subjected the friendship to suicide. I hope my former friend learned to love life, and love himself and others. I've never forgotten what he said about suicidal squirrels. I shared this with Trent the first time we encountered a squashed rodent on the road. He agreed that this person was a wee bit wacky. But I will admit this...to soften the blow when we see an unfortunate road-killed beast, we do sometimes say it is yet another sad case of suicide...

American English, Fractured

I believe that a lot of people have moments when their mouths betray them. Gram used to say, "Your tongue got twisted around your eye teeth and couldn't see where it was going." A good example of this would be Gram talking about the sale price of bacon at a certain store, and that "everypelse ace" it cost a good bit more. This kind of mishap is often called a spoonerism in honor of Reverend William Archibald Spooner, who apparently had this happen all of the time.

The other type of mistake can be very entertaining because we often don't hear things correctly, and end up saying things that may seem just a bit odd. Of course, that is the one I really want to talk about. I think we have all heard our friends, heck, even ourselves, mangle and garble song lyrics. I freely admit to singing The Boys of Wrecker Town instead of The Boys Are Back in Town. And I did it for years. Boy, was I surprised. And pleased, because back in town really made much more sense than wrecker town. But I never questioned it, maybe because it came out in the seventies. After all, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida meant something! Maybe wrecker town meant something too, but I just wasn't cool enough to get it. And I sure wasn't going to ask anybody! How humiliating to admit that you don't know what the cool-kids slang means!

Then there's the variation where someone may be talking about an object or location and really get it wrong. It took me months to live down the spectacle I made of myself in high school Advanced-Placement Literature by excitedly answering a question, "Oh! I know! It's The Leaning Tower of Pisa!" Only I pronounced it "pizza." I was doubly humiliated because I was one of only two sophomores in the class. The older students immediately thought we were stupid, and for them, this just about confirmed it.

In my years of working in banking, I encountered all kinds of people, both customers and fellow employees. When I worked at a drive-through bank as a commercial teller, I was in a one-person freestanding unit, and became friends with my fellow teller in the next unit. We sometimes visited each other on breaks or chatted on the phone, because it can get lonely. Even though you have customers, there's no deep conversation. And not much light conversation, for that matter. So we'd chat whenever we could, sharing war stories and blowing off steam. It was also nice to have a friendly ear to complain to. One day, she was dealing with some congestion, and told me that her noes were stuffed. Apparently she has a right and a left noe, and the pair of them are noes. I am proud to say that I never reacted with disrespect when she told me her noes were stuffed, I just advised her on how to deal with it. Although she did discover that her noes bothered her less on the cold days if she wore her ear muffins. I adored her, so it didn't bother me a bit.

There was another coworker, a young woman, who used her fellow employees as a sounding board for her house-hunting frustrations. She and her husband were trying to buy their first house, and were dealing with trying to find something that they liked and could still afford. One day she was talking about finding a house that they rather liked. It was located on a culty sack. In the course of the conversation, I tried to gently use the phrase cul-de-sac in the hopes that she would pick it up, but no such luck. When I got home and told Gram about it, we got a few chuckles out of it. We tried to figure out what kind of people would live on that block. Were they all members of some strange cult who carried bags around all day? Yes, sometimes we were bad, and we would have admitted it freely. Oh, wait, I think I am right now.

I do think one of my all-time favorites has to do with a degenerative eye disease, macular degeneration. My boss was catching me up on the condition of her elderly parents who lived in another state. They had been convinced to retire somewhere warmer than their native Minnesota, but instead of coming to Colorado to be with their daughter, they moved to Arizona. J was telling me that she really wished that her parents lived closer to her. It would be easier, and she would worry so much less. Especially since her father, who refused to give up driving, had recently been diagnosed with immaculate degeneration. Trent really loved that one. "I thought only ex-nuns experienced immaculate degeneration; isn't J a Lutheran?" Ba-dum-pum. Or however it's supposed to be...

Mike, Part Two

On May 31, I wrote about my friend, and the son of my friend Julie, Mike. I was remembering Mike fondly and expressing how terribly he has been missed since his passing in April. One of the reasons I wrote about him at that particular time, I believe, was because I had been thinking that his birthday was coming up. I knew that everyone who loved him, but most especially his mother, would be missing him greatly on that day. I knew that I would miss him, and miss sending him a goofy text to wish him a happy day.

After I published my blog post, it occurred to me that my cell phone would be giving me a reminder of his birthday the next week. My phone is not a smart phone. I like to refer to it as a phone of average intelligence. I've had it for more than four years, and it still fills my needs, especially since I have a tablet. My average-intelligence phone will give me a reminder of a birthday two days before it happens. This makes sense; if I should decide to mail a card (yeah, right, it would get in the mail about six months later!) or do something special, I have a couple of days to get things in order.

So after I had written the post, I decided to delete Mikey's birthday from my phone's calendar. I knew I wouldn't forget his birthday - D-Day, June 6th, is not that forgettable, after all. But I was worried that getting the reminder would make me even sadder than the date rolling around on the calendar. So I picked up the phone after the tears from writing about Mike had subsided a bit, and deleted his birthday from my phone. I'm one of those people who tends to double-check things like this. When I opened the calendar on the phone, I was certain that the birthday was erased.

Tuesday morning, June 4th, I was awakened by my cell phone. "Who in the world is calling me so stinking early?" I growled. I picked up my phone and the screen said that I had a calendar reminder. I could feel my breathing speed up as I saw that it was a reminder for Mike's birthday. I was irritated that I had gotten it screwed up - obviously, I hadn't completed the deletion of his birthday when I did it a few days before. "Well," I thought, "I'll just make sure it doesn't happen again next year." I opened the calendar on my cell phone to make the deletion. And found that Mike's birthday was no longer in the phone.

I chuckled and said aloud, "Okay, Mike, I get the joke. I wasn't going to forget your birthday, you knucklehead!" Interpret this happening however you wish. But the way I reacted to it when it happened makes me happy. I felt like Mike was reaching out to me from wherever he is, saying that everything's all right. It fits in with his sense of humor, too. Thanks for keeping me smiling, Mike!