Puzzle Me Crazy

Every day there are things that I hear, read, see, or notice that give me pause - leaving me puzzled or curious. Here are the most recent and random.

• An unreasonable amount of stuffed animals in the rear window or on the front dash of vehicles. With all this concern and proposed legislation to prevent people from texting or talking on the phone while driving, you think someone would be concerned about the limited visibility caused by 143 Beanie Babies or those large carnival-won stuffed tigers.


• Those limited-time-offer, collector-item order forms in magazines. Life-like baby dolls, collector plates, or hand-painted Thomas Kincaid something-or-others - I just don’t know anyone that has any of those. Who is ordering those?


• I saw a man that actually had pennies inserted in the slots on his penny-loafers. (His personal bail-out plan, I guess.) He was standing in front of me at the self-checkout and looking through his pockets for coins to pay in exact change. It took every bit of my self-control not to point out that he had 2 cents right there at his feet.


• I went to buy facial moisturizer. Who knew this would be stressful. After reading the 734 different varieties and labels, I felt exhausted and uneducated. I don’t know what micro-sculpting, regeneration or antioxidants such as coffee berry can do for me. And I don’t want a serum, gel, or a mousse on anything but my hair. Picking out a car was easier.


• I saw a commercial for Chantix, a new prescription drug to help people stop smoking. (Prescription drug commercials in general puzzle me, by the way). Below is the disclaimer that was politely and quickly read during the commercial and that I found word-for-word on their website: “Some people have had changes in behavior, hostility, agitation, depressed mood, suicidal thoughts or actions while using CHANTIX to help them quit smoking. Some people had these symptoms when they began taking CHANTIX, and others developed them after several weeks of treatment or after stopping CHANTIX. If you, your family, or caregiver notice agitation, hostility, depression, or changes in behavior, thinking, or mood that are not typical for you, or you develop suicidal thoughts or actions, anxiety, panic, aggression, anger, mania, abnormal sensations, hallucinations, paranoia, or confusion, stop taking CHANTIX and call your doctor right away. Also tell your doctor about any history of depression or other mental health problems before taking CHANTIX, as these symptoms may worsen while taking CHANTIX.” - http://www.chantix.com/
  I am not a smoker – but if I had to choose between being one or becoming a (smoke-free) sociopath… anyone got a light?


• A man in Georgia was arrested at a Walmart for slapping a stranger’s 2-year-old four times in the face, after he told the mother to make her child stop crying or he would. Maybe he is on Chantix. Wouldn’t hurt to ask.


• All these articles, stories, and public service announcements on how to fight the flu. Every single one lists hand-washing as the most important "weapon". I even saw a video online in which a doctor demonstrated (to adults) on how to best wash your hands. This is not groundbreaking science. I would hope, in the name of general good health, that most of us are already participating in the widely-accepted practice of washing our hands. Who (over the age 4) hears those tips and thinks, “Huh. Hand-washing. Clever. Gotta remember that.”


• There is a petite, middle-aged woman (who wears a different hat every day) that walks in the park at the same time that Shelby and I walk every morning. She carries what I thought was a walking stick, but just recently realized was a golf club. Every now and then (in what appears to be no particular pattern), she will stop and swing the club like you would swing a baseball bat. Hard, fast, and with all her might! I can't think of any health benefits this would add to her morning walk, so I am left a bit concerned.


• I read that it has been decided that flannel shirt-dresses, over-the-knee boots, animal prints, fur coats, and over-sized gray cardigans are all “in” this fall. I don’t know who the people are that make these decisions or where they meet, but I am thinking that us big-girls need a lobbyist.

And that is just a glimpse into the workings of this overly observant, curious brain! Who knows what this coming week will bring.. (sigh)...

Dog Gone It.

At about midnight last night, I heard Shelby jump into the bathtub. Knowing that Shelby is not usually a fan of baths, I stopped what I was doing, paused to listen to her little dog-nails clatter against the tub, and started to walk towards the bathroom. Then I heard vomiting. (In the past, if she starts to even gag, I always drag her into the bathroom, because cleaning the tub is so much easier than cleaning carpet. Apparently, I don’t have to drag her in there anymore.) There she was standing in the bathtub, shaking, tail between her legs, and head down.

Over the next hour, she threw up a few more times. She eventually climbed out of the tub. I followed her and watched her every move. She licked a paw. She looked for and found her stuffed Pooh Bear, who she knows as “baby”. She walked a few circles around her dog bed and pawed at the blanket, finally laying down when she had gotten it just right. Okay, all good signs. Very normal Shelby-girl behavior. I sat on the bed, still watching her. She watched me. She licked a paw again. Got up and walked in another circle. And then she vomited again.

And again.

As I was trying to clean the carpet and she was standing in the tub (by choice), I called the emergency animal clinic. That conversation, from what I can remember in between sprays of Resolve and scrubs, went something like this:

“Nashville Pet Emergency Clinic. How may I help you?”

“Hello. I am trying to decide (scrub, scrub) if I should bring my dog in tonight. She has thrown up (spray, spray) several times in the past hour and seems to be shaking (scrub, scrub) and not feeling well at all. She is just over 3-years-old (spray, spray) and has never acted like this or thrown up this much before (scrub, scrub, scrub).”

“What kind of dog is she?”

“The best kind. The Shelby-girl kind. The kind that is so smart that she gets in the bathtub to throw up.” Okay, what I really said was that she was a 55-pound lab mix (which does just not do her justice).

“How many times has she vomited?”

“Six times in the past hour.”

“Six times? Oh, yeah, that is not good. You might want to bring her in,” he says. “Did she get into anything or eat anything she shouldn’t have today?”

“No, I don’t think so.” (scrub, scrub)

“Does she have toys? Could she have chewed up or eaten part of a toy?”

“No,” I said. If only he knew that Pooh was not just a “toy” but a “baby” that she grooms, carries out to the car, and snuggles with at night. And, yes, while Pooh is missing his ears due to her incessant licking, Shelby is a good mom. She would not eat her “baby.”

“Yeah, you might want to bring her in to see us. I mean it could just be an upset stomach but it could also be something more serious that would be life threatening. We just don’t know.”

Helpful.

“Okay, I will see you soon,” I sigh, as I am looking at Shelby hiding behind the shower curtain.

“Great. We will see you soon. And just so you are aware, there will be a basic visitation fee of $95.00. Any other treatment or service will be discussed and added on from there. But we can talk about all that when you get here and we assess her. We’ll take good care of her.”

(You better give her a damn dog massage and some puppy-acupuncture for $95.00.)

On the way to the clinic (which happens to be on the complete opposite side of town from where I live), Shelby threw up twice in the car. At this point, there wasn’t much to throw up. But what little there was landed on the shifting gear, floor mat, and middle console. (Shelby says sorry, Amber.) Thank goodness for those left-over fast-food napkins that I stash in the glove box all the time.

Shelby does not like visits to the vet. She likes to be nosey and smell everything. She loves and usually remembers where they keep their jars of treats. And she is usually fine with the staff. Until they touch her. Then she goes Kujo. She cries, yelps, growls, hides, and eventually gets muzzled. The only thing different about last night is that you can’t really muzzle a dog that is vomiting – creates a bit of a choking hazard. As I am laying on her on the floor to restrain and calm her on one end while they take her temperature from the other, the vet asks me all the same questions about what she has eaten, chewed on, or gotten into. I answer the same – I don’t know of anything. They want to do x-rays “just to be sure” she doesn’t have a piece of rawhide or other obstruction in her intestine. And they can do that for me “real quick” for about $332.00 out the door. Unless, of course, she needs surgery to remove an obstruction. I tell them I can’t afford that. The vet says that she understands, that, if needed, the surgery would be “more affordable” to complete through our normal vet and could wait until they open in the morning. I tell her I meant I couldn’t afford the x-ray. She says, “Oh, okay.” Some IV fluids, nausea medicine, and $190 later, we leave with the advice to check in with her regular vet in the morning and a promise to bring her back in should she start throwing up again.

As we are checking out, the vet assistant says that Shelby weighed more than they thought she would from looking at her. “She sure is stout,” he says.

Is that what they are calling it now? Stout, really?

“Yeah, she is on weight-control food and I take her for two walks a day so I don’t know what else to do really,” I say. Polite smile.

“I wouldn’t worry. She isn’t obsese. She just weighs more than you would think. Like some people. She’s stout.”

Then, as I watch Shelby sniff the counter in hopes of dog treats, I remember that people always say that pets take on the personality and sometimes even the physical look of their owners. And I also remember that Shelby’s regular vet once wrote in her file that she was “food motivated.” But she is pretty darn cute, so there might be some truth in all that.

Our follow-up appointment at the vet is not until 4:00 this afternoon but I “shouldn’t leave her unattended’ until then just to watch for any changes in her behavior or condition. So, I took a sick-day and am sitting here on the couch with the infamous Shelby-girl. She is lazy, sleepy, and a little "stout" – all very normal. Let’s hope the vet thinks so too.

Fashion Forward

Let me say upfront that fashion is not high on my list of priorities (or areas of expertise). I like what I like because of the color, pattern, way it makes me feel, or that it actually fits what has been called my “disproportional lower half.” (And if that is the case, I’ll take two, please.) I don’t own anything created by a designer, unless the Daisy Fuentes line of big-girl jeans available (exclusively, I might add) at Kohl’s counts. I try to avoid malls. Something about the fluorescent lights, in-door play area, Kate Gosselin haircuts, and mall walkers frightens me. Not to mention those little kiosk (which is such a mall word) salespeople that are always trying to touch, lotion, or draw you in with the latest skin cream, clip-on ponytail, or hermit crab. And I don’t think I have ever bought anything at a boutique, but I do have some one-of-a-kind items from various thrift shops (where I do most of my shopping, in my one-woman protest against consumerism and waste). Nothing in my closest or on my shoe rack cost me over $40. In fact, the outfit I am wearing as I write this cost me approximately $14.00 pretax (underwear and bra not included, but rest assured that those aren't anything you can't find at Target or in a pack of 3).

But I am clean, groomed, matched, and well-put together (most days). As we all should, I have my own personal style.

And, as usual, I also have a few opinions to share. (Can’t say I didn’t warn you.)

With that disclaimer, listed below are some of my fashion pet-peeves as of late, in no particular order. Things that have just been rubbing me the wrong way, like my thighs under a skirt on a long walk.

‘Tis the Season
Seasons change and so should your clothes - for obvious reasons, like preventing hypothermia or heat stroke. Dress for the season, not all seasons. I am not saying you need to have separate winter and summer wardrobes that never overlap in those times of seasonal transition called spring or fall - but dress appropriately, people. If you are wearing spaghetti straps and shorts, you probably don’t need to be wearing that winter hat or scarf. If you need a winter jacket due to the wind chill, I am going to need you to find something other than sandals to wear with it. Stick to one season please – you will have your chance at the others.

Trend Whoring
This occurs when you are no longer able to make appropriate, reality-based judgments about what looks best and most flattering on your body, because you have become so intent on following a trend. I don’t care how popular skinny or ultra low-rise jeans are or were at one point – they are not flattering on most people (myself included). And I know that summer means stores full of clothes with little material or support, like bikinis, strapless dresses, and halter or tube tops. Be careful out there, folks. When shopping, bring a (true) friend that will tell you what you need to hear, not just what you want to hear. If you are a trend whore, those are often not the same message. And, remember, just because they make it in your size, does not mean you should wear it or that it will look good on you.

Ass-essorizing
Accessorizing can be tricky. At its best, it can add sparkle to your shine. But one wrong move and it can make an ass of you. Leaving people with a lot of questions. Should I wear a necklace if my shirt has a detailed neckline? What if it is a turtleneck or mock-turtle? How many rings are too many? Does that change if I am wearing bracelets or a watch as well? Are colored socks still okay? If so, which colors? When and how many ways can I accessorize with a scarf/pin/headband? One accessory too many or the wrong accessory can ruin a previously fine outfit. There is a lot of gray area there. When in doubt, don’t wear it. You don’t want to end up like an overly decorated Christmas tree - so much hanging that you actually lose sight of what it is all hanging from.

Home-ly Choices
Don’t wear house shoes past the end of your driveway. That means not to the grocery store, gas station, or (God forbid) work. I don’t care how long you are going to be gone or where you work. And please don’t attend parent-teacher conferences, softball games, or dinners out in pajama pants. There is something to be said for keeping things in the family, or at least the house.

Fashion Faux-Pa and Mama-Me
Please do not let me see you with a spray tan, permanent eye-liner, and a fresh pedi-mani if your children are not clean and clothed appropriately. That is not cute. Like adults, small people like being clean and comfortable too. Please make good choices for your children. Wipe their faces, comb their hair, and wash their hands. Put a warm coat and mittens on them in the winter (not in the summer though – what we talked about above regarding appropriate seasonal dress applies to all ages). Make sure they wear seat belts, sunscreen, and clean diapers. Yes, give them some choice to be creative – let them flaunt a cape, dress-up tiara, or rain boots when it is not raining. But insist on shoes while they walk across any parking lot or public bathroom. Those are not times for freedom of expression.

Most importantly, please remember that this is not about how much money you have to spend or being hip to the latest and greatest. You can have all the money and clothes in the world, and still look crazy as hell. I am not suggesting that anyone give into the consumer craze of retail (and all it entails). I am just asking that we all make good, everyday choices with what we have available to us. Personal style is possible on any budget. Hope you find yours.

Truth in the Trash

I got away from the city this weekend, away from the smog, cement, and city lights. With Shelby-girl in the passenger seat, I drove away from Nashville with the music up and windows down. As I left behind the familiar, my heart was full with the feeling that a weekend in the woods was just what I needed. I was imagining a cabin with a hot tub, sitting on a porch swing, walking through the trees, and maybe a good glass of wine. No schedule, e-mail access, or hair dryer needed. As we passed over the county line, I turned to Shelby and said, “This will be good for us, Shelbz.” She pulled her head back into the window, leaving the glass with a fresh trail of slobber (clearly, a sign of agreement). I was sure that a few days away from routine and responsibility would give me clarity. This would be a weekend of retreat really.

I wasn’t going alone. And this wasn’t my trip. My mom and her friend, Reuben, jokingly bid on the cabin during a silent auction at a St. Patrick’s Day charity event, expecting to be outbid. As the auction closed, we all giggled and planned on each of us bringing someone for the weekend. However, as we all admitted over brownies and milk in the hot tub Saturday night, none of us had anyone to invite. (Truth be told, I had invited someone and he wiggled his way out of it - the thought of which made me eat just a few more brownies than I had planned or could healthily digest).

The cabin is nicknamed the Tree House, appropriately as the house is built on a plateau surrounded by trees. Beautiful, but steep drop-offs coupled with a thriving population of s-q-u-i-r-r-e-l-s meant no walks without a leash after all. The four of us did go on one walk though, about a mile down hill toward the lake. Down, down, down – steep but easy, scenic, sunny, summery, and all very stupid. Afterall, what goes down, must come up (even in flip flops). Long (sweaty) story short – I remember sitting down half way up, my heart beating in my ears, with an inhaler in one hand and a fresh, hot bag of dog poop in the other. To climb back up to the Tree House, I called on muscles in my legs and ass that I didn’t know I had. Even Shelby laid down at some point, panting in protest of continuing the hike from hell. Needless to say, that was our first and only “nature walk.”

The first night there, we decided to sample the local cuisine. Our choices were limited. Option #1: “Grab a Hunk” pizza slices (yes, that was the actual name on the box) from a gas station that also served as a live music venue and deli. Option #2: A family-owned restaurant at the end of a boat dock, on the left just past the pontoon boats and live-cricket bait for sale. Clearly (or maybe not so much), we went for option #2. The restaurant was so noticeably slanted to one side that Reuben and I commented on it as we walked in (sideways). My mom claimed we were exaggerating until she set her glass down and it slid towards the end of the table. The fried pickles were great (as are most things fried and dipped in ranch), but I ended up sending my “fresh hand-patted” burger back. As I so eloquently found the words, “It tastes like the way wet dog smells.” The following day, we ventured out a little further, past Me-Maw’s Diner and several places that bragged of being “biker-friendly”, and were relieved to find a Pizza Hut for lunch. I think we all actually cheered as we pulled into the parking lot.

We also found the Appalachian Craft Center, the humble home and gallery of in-residence artists and students from Tennessee Tech. It was at the end of a wooded and winding road over the river, very Robert Frost-esque. Solar-power panels, sunflowers, and post-consumer art all gave it the feel of a liberal, ecofriendly, free-spirited community. I was envious of the talent and the lifestyle, wishing I had pursued my dream of being a photographer or had the courage to live so simply. Which then got me wondering again about my purpose in this world and if I was where and who I was meant to be. All leaving me to rely on drowning my doubt and regret in more brownies and Mike’s Hard Lemonade waiting back at the house – never did find any wine.

I didn’t sleep well either. Because black-haired Shelby was banned from the new tan carpet in the bedrooms, she and I slept in the living room. I slept on the denim couch and she slept on the tiled floor – which would be fine for most dogs. Not once-stray-now-spoiled Shelby-girl. She whined (and licked whatever limb of mine escaped from the cover of the blanket), begging to be freed of the torture of tile and allowed on the couch. So, I had to stay up and show her who was boss, had to put her back in her place… I rubbed her belly until she fell asleep on the floor. After I had finally fallen asleep too, I woke up because my legs were on fire. Okay, there was no actual flame – just a painful burning sensation from the 23 chigger bites on my feet and ankles (I counted).

I kept thinking that I had not escaped any of the things which I had hoped to let go of for the weekend. Somehow, even in the middle of the mountains, miles away from home, I had still managed to be reminded of my bad luck, chronic single status, extra chub, and other life woes. The only thing that had changed was that now my legs were coated in Benedryl spray, my ass was sore, and I wasn’t sure that the brownies were going to” work out” as planned.

As we were locking up the Tree House, we could not figure out what to do with the trash. There was no curb-side trash can or dumpster outside or in the area. We bagged it all up and put it in the car, thinking that if worse came to worse we would just take it home (day old dog poop, cracked eggs, and all). I remembered though that the marina had a dumpster. So, on our way back to the highway, we stopped by the boating dock. I watched my mom get out and toss the bag into the bright blue dumpster.

And there was my moment of clarity.

I realized that I have to stop carrying my worries and doubts with me. I won’t ever be able to escape from any of it until I take time to pull over and simply toss it out. I have to let go of those things I can’t change. Until then, no matter where or how far I travel, it will be right there with me, stinking up and overpowering everything else around it. It will take room from the other things I have packed in my life, the things that make me smile. I know it won’t be easy though, as some of it is compacted deep down into my soul.

My mom got back into the car, brushed her hands off, and said, “There. Much better.”

I drove away thinking, “Yep. It will be.” And smiled when I felt Shelby’s wet nose on my neck as she rested her head on my shoulder from the back seat. Clearly, another sign of agreement.

Waiting on the World to Change.

The infamous Shelby-girl, in her chair, watching the world go by.

For Sure

Yesterday, on my Facebook page, I wrote in my status box, “I am unsure.” Simple and even a bit vague – not intentionally, but just the way I felt at the moment. I didn’t think much about it to be honest. But others did. One person said that being unsure didn’t seem like my personality type (And what would that be – Unhuman Bitch Type B?). One said she had never known me to be unsure about anything. (The funny thing is that I am not sure who wrote that now that I think about it...hmmm…) Another wanted to know what specifically I was unsure about and if she should be worried. I started to think about how to respond. What am I unsure about?

I am unsure about things big and small.

Every day things. I am unsure of what I will wear, usually because I am unsure of what is not yet in the piles of dirty laundry. Switching, mixing, matching, tugging, searching, ironing, and even changing after I thought I felt pretty sure. (And all that then leaves me unsure as to when I will have the time, quarters, and muscle to drag it all to the Laundromat.) I am unsure if I should answer my home phone. I don’t have caller id. I never know how long it is okay to drink milk once it has expired. I worry that I have either over or under watered any type of plant. I am unsure of if and when one of my tires will blow out. The light indicating imbalanced tire pressure has been mysteriously on for a few days now. (The mechanic was unsure of the reason.) I am unsure of how my day will go. I plan the day but that always changes with bad hair, long lines, heavy traffic, or forgetting to apply deodorant in the morning. Today specifically, I feel unsure about the bug bite on my shin. It seems to have been there too long. (I am not sure it isn’t a scar at this point.)

And I am unsure about bigger things. I am unsure that I will ever have enough money to pay off my debt, let alone retire before my 101st birthday. I hate the question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” And don’t even get me started on organized religion. I am unsure that I will ever need a Maid of Honor. I know there are plenty of fish in the sea, but at this point I am not sure I know how to swim. I don’t know that I will ever be able to bitch about morning sickness or labor pains. I wonder when our troops will come home, and how many more this country will lose. I am unsure that our country will ever be truly healed of racism, homophobia, sexism, and hate. And sometimes I doubt the impact one person can have on all that, leaving me then unsure about my purpose in this life. Anyway, I am not sure that which makes this world beautiful will even exist in the future, depending on what we kill, cut down, destroy, or pollute into extinction next.

There are a few things I am certain of though – both big and small. I am not a morning person. I strongly dislike onions, thunderstorms, ignorance, heights, large crowds, and the feel of cotton balls. I know that babies, mashed potatoes, lavender, Diet Coke, most animals, hoodies, and any episode of Sex in the City make me smile. I am certain that there are few things better than sand between your toes, love letters, Aunt Deb’s No-bake Cookies, and the crisp air of autumn. I can count on Shelby-girl, my once-stray now spoiled pup, to be happy to see me when I come home, no matter how long or short I have been gone. And while I don’t know where I will be in five or ten years, I am sure that my work and my personal life will always be in line with what I believe to be true and worth saving. I also know that I have family and friends whose love and support make me more comfortable with being unsure.

Most importantly, I am completely sure that I will always be working on getting to know myself and my piece in the puzzle. I sometimes just wish I had the box – seeing the big picture helps put it all together.

Watch out World!

Okay, I admit that there is an excitement assumed in the title of this blog which implies that I am doing something new and ground breaking for all the world to see... Um, yeah, that may have been false advertising. Nothing ground breaking here. Just throwing it back to the craze of 1999 and becoming a blogger. Had to draw you in to my first post somehow though.

Not surprising that I am a little late on the scene. After all, I am the girl that still accessorized with a beeper until the year 2000 (to my defense, it had a transparent turquoise, glittery case that did add just a little something to most of my outfits). I admit that I am usually just a few steps behind the latest and greatest in terms of technology. I don't have cable, but I do have my antenna in just the right spot... (whew)... so I don't have to get up and adjust much anymore. I don't have Internet service, which is probably one of my better decisions since I don't own a computer. I do have a cell phone, but it doesn't allow me to listen to music, read maps, take measurements, trim my bangs, vacuum, pump up a bike tire, give CPR, or whatever the hell else they have an "app" for these days. And I still don't really understand Twitter. In fact, the only thing I do know about it is that it sounds like a knitting term. "Knit, pearl, twitter, and repeat" a couple hundred times and you've earned yourself a mean potholder.

Anyway, with every twist, turn, and tumble that life brings, I often shake my head and mumble, "I swear could write a damn book." A friend finally said to me the other day that I should. Figured I would start with a blog first. Test the waters.

I have to warn you though. My title is a very appropriate pick. I really am just one lil' girl with an opinion, which I am happy to share. In fact, my opinions about life, love, and other craziness (like the general public, politics, and pet peeves) will be the topic for most of my posts. I have read other blogs and know what they have to offer. So, let me not mislead you. I am not a mom. There will not be any adorable pictures of sweaty, sticky little ones running in the sprinkler, eating in the highchair, or sleeping in the stroller. I won't be offering advice on breastfeeding, bedtime routines, and award winning diaper rash ointment. I am also not a person that speaks frequently and evangelically about my faith. If you are looking for a Psalms verse-of-the-day or to better understand the relationship between Jesus and the disciples, let me encourage you to look elsewhere. The Bible might be a great start. Finally, I must also warn you that I am not dark, mysterious, and antisocial. No dark poetry, Marilyn Manson lyrics, or violently disgruntled art will be posted here. I do have bangs but not a picture of myself with them hanging heavily over most of my face so all you can see is one eyeball. I am a social worker though, so if you were hoping for that sort of scene, I can refer you out to some helpful resources.

Really, I am just a single, stubborn 30-year-old woman with bad luck, odd yet lovable relatives, little money, a few extra pounds, great friends and an even better dog. Which I realize now sounds sort of depressing when it is spelled out all in a row like that, but at times it can be humorous, thought-provoking, enlightening and heart-warming. So, I thought I would share. Like it reads, I'm "just one lil' girl with an opinion." Watch out.