Spot on!

Spot is our family's chihuahua.  He is what we call, "an evil dictator/stuffed animal come to life".  Sometimes, after he has blasted out of his resting place right at your face, you might also call him a "pit viper".  Either way, he don't play.
He is feisty.  His looks are perfect and handsome.  Black and White markings end perfectly and precisely along his belly, down his legs, and down the bridge of his nose.
At some point a wild animal got ahold of him and he was {severely} injured.  Now, when he breathes in moments of excitement he sounds like Darth Vader and scares people who don't know his habits.
He is really fine, but he looks like he struggles, cracked ribs and all.
When we pull into the driveway and he comes running to greet us beside of Prissy, our other dog, it just melts our hearts, all our hearts (all five of them), even though he is mostly only nice to two of us!
At some point Spot decided he was only going to like three or four people.  Two of those live under our roof and the other two are Nana and Papa.
There is no love lost going the other direction either.  Most people really don't love or even love Spot.  My friends have to call or text me from the driveway to get into my house.  Several dog lovers have suffered the hand and ankle biting ON PURPOSE to try to "help him overcome his fear," to no avail.  He is nine now, so I don't see these habits changing on this side of the rainbow bridge.  It has actually been a source of much comic relief at times, once people learn to just leave him alone.  That means don't look at him, greet him, anything.  Just walk by his dog bed, or you will unleash his wrath and fury.
Since we have been trapped, all together, in the house this week I have noticed something about Spot.  I have been sleeping in the living room on a futon b/c Andy works at the hospital and I am trying to avoid whatever germs he might be bringing home.  I really would have thought he would have slept with me.  I like to think I am Spotty's favorite. This is what I have noticed:  He has not slept with me {every} night.  He has slept with Andy most nights.  He chose one or two nights, however, to sleep with me.  The couple nights before I faced a surgery (the surgery did not happen in the end, but it was up in the air at the time), Spot decided to sleep with me.
This made me realize something.  There is so much more to Spot's personality.  I think he was feeling our vibes.  He senses which one of us {needs} him the most and decides his sleeping spot accordingly.  Spot on, buddy!!

It's been a long time

Hey readers out there....HEY!
I am back.
The blog life was calling me back.

There is something creative about blogging and it was the something I have been craving.

The last time I blogged regularly I had three very small children.
There was a spot on my backporch that faced out the big windows where I would sit, all by myself, and just get it all out.
All my creative ideas and thoughts about whatever could just flow.

Since that time of regular blogging I have stopped writing completely.  I just stopped.
All that fun information, all the ideas, all the {vida} has been getting stuck and swirling around.  At least twice a week I think of blog entries.  I write a funny essay in my mind and then I do nothing.

So, this is it!
I am going to write, on my blog, my funny thoughts, any time I want to!
Well, I mean, when I am not at work, or cooking, or reading, or running, or taking kids hither and yon.
Every now and then I am going to sit and write my blog posts!

This should be a healthy way to get my thoughts out and my creativity too!

I hope someone is still here. :)

Expect the imperfected

I don't know if you can see from this photo, dear reader, but my toenails were lovingly painted by my nine year old in her salon yesterday.

After she polished her toenails, she offerred her spa services to her sister and me.  We gladly accepted, (don't we all want our feet rubbed??).  Her toenails looked so fab.

When she painted mine, she was a bit crestfallen b/c the pedicure turned out in 3D--there were clumps of polish sticking up and she had to spend about 10 minutes cleaning polish from around my nails.  In the process she also took the polish off my nails, and she had to start again.

We talked about practicing and what it means to practice and do things over and over and then, eventually things turn our more like you envision them, some version of perfect.

I really don't like things to be too perfect.  It bothers me. It makes me nervous.

When Eva said, "mama, you are probably going to want to wear your tennis shoes out b/c that polish is looking bad."  I told her NO WAY!  I rocked that bright pink polish right to the restaurant, and will continue to rock it until her salon opens again.

A Tale of two Matinees

This week in our part of the world the weather has been particularly wet and cloudy.  We have spent time inside, hanging out together.  I have also had a cold, probably the result of playing in the cool rain and swimming in the 65 degree ocean last week, then passing ratos sitting on the beach (without sun to dry me off).  Who knows?  Vamos, I needed to recover.  

Thursday and Friday, we decided, would be the days to go watch two movies of the summer we have been wanting to see.

Thursday we went to see Teen Titans Go!  That movie was so funny.  y'all, if you have not watched Teen Titans Go with a set of kids, you need to find some kids and watch that cartoon.  It comes on Cartoon Network pretty much back to back all day every day.  My kids had told me that they did not want to see the movie--they pretty much all agreed! (I was so sad--rite of passage, leaving kiddie cartoons behind).  BUT, later on, in a moment of weakness, they all also said, they DID want to see the movie.  Yay!!  Teen Titans Go! was the usual funny.  It only lasted 1.5 hours.  They are all written for incredibly short attention spans.  At the end of the movie, Robin is trying to tell the kids the "message (moral) of the story".  No one will let him.  He manages to squeeze in a message to the kids, "Hey kids, on your way home, ask your mom and dad how babies are made."  FUNNY!!  My kids all know--that is another post.  We all laughed.

Friday was going to be the day for Elena and me to watch "Mamma Mia."  Then, I thought about it, and decided all of us would go.  Eva  (9), Victor (11), Elena (13), and me.  I asked a couple friends and they all agreed that all their kids liked it.  It'a a musical...so hey!  As the movie unraveled it was hilarious to me how we were all processing the movie (probably).  Victor the least interested in the movie about love, and how the girl did not know which of three men was her dad and the teenager was discovering her purpose by escaping to Greece.  Eva was into the music and she was trying to figure out who was who b/c the movie kept switching b/t 1979 and 2005 (or so).  She was sitting beside me, so I was the resident explainer.  She thought the two young actresses looked "just alike".  That is a hoot to me b/c they really don't.  I have no idea what Elena was thinking, and most of the time I do not.  I can imagine, having been a 13 year old girl myself, that looking at all those beautiful people in a movie about love--well, you know... I think I am blushing just writing about it LOL.  I was in a complete dream state.  First of all I think any United Statesian who is 40 or older  probably has a lobe of their brain, right by their brainstem called the ABBA portion.  That music conjures up so much emotion for me.  Also, at 40 I was reminscing my own days living abroad etc.  Also, the scenery in that movie!! GOSH!  Then Cher popped up and I was like....this is so wierd.  She was not necessary for this... Her part in the movie was so contrived.  Then she pronounced the name, "Cien fuegos" as "Sin fuegos"  --look it up.  Completely changes the meaning.  Back to the good parts.  Lily James-is the next Julia Roberts in my mind, and when I grow up, I want to be Christine Baranski.  I have loved that woman ever since she was in that show with Cybil Sheppard in the 1990's--she was Maryanne.  GOSH!! Did y'all see her kick her leg up all the way to her face! At some points I found myself feeling embarrased about Donna having the three one night stands in a row and insisting that she "never did this" LOL.  My kids were watching!! Whatevs.  The whole two days with matinees had an underlying theme in the end.  (hee hee).  After the movie I had two potential drives 1.  to binge drink good wine with a friend and dance to ABBA or 2.  to come home and listen to ABBA and paint my kitchen.  Here is the result!  Here are my little movie mates being proud of their work.  Have a great day!

Pick a pronoun, any pronoun

No! Don't!

Please pick the {correct} pronoun.

Recently, I have noticed there is a pattern of people over-using the word, "myself".

Let me explain what "myself" is.

"Myself" is a relfexive pronoun.

It is the pronoun one should use with a verb in which the action of the verb is happening to oneself.

Here are some examples:

I ask myself.

I reminded myself.

I dressed myself.

See?  In each sentence above the verb's action happened to me.  That is why I used, "myself" as the pronoun.

People, I am thinking attempting to sound smart, use myself all the time.

They use myself as the object of the preposition.

Here is an example:  Please give your completed permission forms to Jim or myself.

STOP!!

Correct:  Please give the completed permission forms to Jim or me.

Trust me.

They use myself when they should just use the simple, first person pronoun, "I".

Here is an example:  My wife, Kathy, my daughter, and myself went to the basement to seek shelter.

No!

Correct:  My wife, Kathy, my daughter, and I went to the basement to seek shelther.

Gosh, I wish this could go viral b/c my ears pure sting when I hear people who want to sound smart over-using the poor little pronoun "myself".  There is a time and a place for this lovely pronoun.  Unfortunately, it is being over-used and linguistically abused.

Here are the people I hear using it:  news reporters, preachers, teachers, principals, doctors, ...pues the list goes on and on!

Once you start listening for it, it will drive you crazy too.

My view

On being {smart}

On Being {smart}:

When I was a little girl I learned that being {smart} was a good thing.  Smart in this piece will pertain to intelligence, not to the overall organization of a person as in the British sense of the word (which I love to use, by the way).  I was smart.  My sister was smart.  People who did {well} in life were smart (they got where they were because they were smart.) Smart might get you a scholarship.  Smart got you into all the good classes at our rural public schools.  Smart got you respect.  Smart got you friends above your class (big middle class in the 1980s with lots of nuance).  Smart got you babysitting jobs.  It earned you trust that you might not even deserve.  

At some point I realized that I thought about things a whole lot more than other people.  The things I thought about worried me.  I was probably 8 years old or so.  When I watched the news and saw people suffering, being greedy, being hypocrites, etc.  I worried.  When I learned about loving the planet, all they while depending upon plastic for basically everything, I worried.  I was definitely 8 years old.  I don't remember a time when the world's problems did not worry me at night.  This, I have read, was a common side effect of being {smart}.  It was a drawback.  Smart people worry.  Smart people let their ability to soak in information completely overwhelm them.  

In high school where my smarts got me through all academic work with relative ease, including helping other people pass AP exams when I tutored them, I started to realize some things.  I was working.  I was planning.  I was worrying.  I watched my parents work, plan, worry.  Then, I noticed a whole other subset of the population who didn't appear to worry about sh*t.  They would come into the video store where I worked and check out 15 horror movies on Friday night, return them on Sunday.  They would ride around in their clunker cars, stinky, buy a case of beer and go fishing all day from a pier.  They would cook that fish, choke on a bone, and go to the emergency room to get it taken out.  Did they have insurance on their camper?  Did they have medical insurance to pay for the E room visit? No.  Did they worry about drinking too much beer?  No.  They were not worried about sh*t.  They worked at K-mart all week.  Made enough money to buy some beer.  Bought it.  Drank it.  Repeat.  Kids...they had however many they had.  Did they worry about kids getting hurt, going to college, going to school, being smart?  Nope.  Not one bit.  They {appeared} to live day-by-day.  Happy as hell, or at least satisfied, and not worried.  I observed this at the beach, and I told my mama one time--"you know, it's almost a curse, what we {have}, being {smart}.  I won't live a day in my life without worrying, planning, working.  Those people seem to be just fine, and they don't appear to do any of those things.

Now that I am approaching middle age I wonder what good being smart even does a person.

If I thought, as a child, that being {smart} would lead to riches.  I know now, that is not true.  Some of the dumbest people I know are raking in money selling {whatthehellevers}.  Some of the smartest people I have known are broke as hell, or crazy, or have died from drug over doses.  You might say, "well they weren't too smart, if they were doing drugs."  Well I will ask you to refer to the part above where I talked about the worrying.  

To recent high school graduates I would say: "sell things young darling.  think of the seven deadly sins and sell something that pertains to any of those."  You want to be in the {helping profession}?   nope!  Don't do it!  Working in a helping profession will only lead you down the path to worry.  Society will ABSOLUTELY not value what you do enough to even pay you back what you will pay for college.  Nope.  Don't do it.  

Here are some anecdotal stories from my recent everyday life to drive this point home. Just some snapshots:

a couple weeks ago i drove my husband's 2001 Camry to the bakery to get some scones b/c friends were coming that weekend and we were gonna watch the royal wedding.  I was tired as hell and greasy after a long Friday at the Elementary School where I work.  I paid 30.00 for a box of baked treats.  As I was getting into my car, via opening the driver's side door from the back door b/c the door does not work, I noticed the bakery owner (who is a lovely person and a friend of mine) leaving work in her Porsche.  Let's see:  I help Autistic kids learn to communicate and was educated six years to learn this and I don't make enough to have a working car-door handle, and she sells flaky, buttery bread to people.... 

Last week another friend commented to me  that she was super nervous about the running of their new business selling ice cream along the river front in my town b/c in one day they only made 800.00.  She was comparing that, in her head, to the money she makes consulting.  I was comparing it to the 1/3 of my yearly salary they will make in a month.  So, she is selling fatty, sugary dairy food to the people in my town and running a consulting business (not sure what goes on there) and makes what i just said... and I help deaf preschoolers find the resources they need among our modest means to be communicators...and when we got back into the car after I left her ice cream shop one of my kids had to let my husband into the driver's side.

Those two ladies happen to be very smart.

Another acquaintance of our family and actually, other good friends, sells nabs for a living.  He literally drives a van around and fills up vending machines all over the Eastern part of the state satisfying our snacking needs with wholesale snacks.  Their family does not worry about money.  Ever.  

It almost feels like a betrayal that I would mention these people in this context, but I must.  These are the examples I have of how fucked up it is that I am smart, I have a wonderful profession, I work hard--but I will never have they financial stability and ability to buy a car/house/vacation etc. that these people have who, really, are just selling stuff.

What {does} a consultant to that is vital?

When I have told parents how much I charge for therapy in the summer, they scoff at the idea that they would pay for speech therapy.  That should be {free}.  

All of this frustrates me daily.

I have no desire to keep up with the Jones, but I would like to take a really nice vacation and go {somewhere} each year.  We cannot even {really} afford to go to Busch Gardens as a family.  We might do it, but we will be paying it off over the course of a year or so--bc we put the whole adventure on the credit card.  So there is an adventure with a side of guilt and worry on top.

The one thing that being smart has gotten me is that I learned another language.  Some part of me needs to believe that the only reason I am able to speak Spanish like I do is because of my smarts.  It is the ONE ACADEMIC accomplishment that gives me pride.  Degrees don't.  Naming my Alma Mater does not.  

I might also tell recent grads to sell insurance.  I sure missed a memo on that one!  It is unbelievable to me how much money those fuckers make!  Every insurance salesman I know appears to not worry about one damned thing (oh the irony)!  Why didn't someone fill me in on the good gig these folks have--selling us {guarantees} that if our worst nightmares come true--they will use the money we have already paid in, and {help} us out?  

So, let's see.  So far being {smart} has 1. caused me worry since childhood, 2. not benefitted me financially, and 3.  quite obviously caused me a bitterness that wells up very strong from time-to-time.   How was being smart good again?

Sometimes I vent about this among friends and every now and then one will try to reassure me by saying, "but look, susie, being smart has brought you three wonderfully {smart} children."  And to that I say, "go back to the beginning of this essay, and read it again."  

Maybe my children will be able to afford therapy so that they can tell a professional about this on a couch one day. 

I cannot afford one, so I will write.

Ay que vida!