Yesterday, my mother and I went to a play in Glendale, put on by a small theater company. The play was excellent, well-priced, and worth the drive.
It is an old building that has housed the theatre, a family venture, for years. The current manager is the grandson of the founders. The lobby employees pull double duty, collecting tickets, playing usher, and working in the small concession area.
The restrooms are upstairs. To their credit, the owner has installed at least 12 cubicles and a nice sink area in the ladies’ room. The women ALWAYS have to wait in line at intermission. As luck will have it, that is when all the women in attendance have to use the restroom.
I often tell the women towards the end of the line, where I usually am, that “we can storm the men’s restroom ladies, what do you say? Who’s with me?”
Usually there are smiles and some fake bravado, but yesterday there was just more grumbling. One woman in particular went ON AND ON about how SICK she is of climbing those stairs. She wasn’t feeble, she looked to be in good health and her age was somewhere around mine. Granted, she could have some debilitating illness, but she never mentioned that – only the fact that she, a well-dressed middle class woman well-acquainted with the risks and benefits of plastic surgery, was SICK of climbing a lousy set of stairs. Since the plays change about every other month, I am guessing those six trips a year are exhausting.
This was the same woman who whined about coffee not being included as part of the package. When you buy a ticket to the play, you get a complimentary soft drink. She stood behind me in line and bellowed about it to anyone and everyone who would listen. Since it is a small theater lobby, it is safe to guess that everyone had to listen, including the very pleasant and hard-working employees.
I forked over a couple bucks for a refillable cup of coffee. When I stepped aside, she began barking drink instructions to the young lady behind the drink counter. She wanted seltzer water – the kind used to mix the sodas, she said, but a bit of lemonade had to be added to the mixture with just the right amount of ice. NO… that was too much, pour it out. The drink has to be just THIS much seltzer water and THIS much lemonade and the ice has to be added AFTER the mixture has a chance to, you know, MIX.
This is a “theatre in the round.” There are no bad seats. But for a woman who has to have her lemonade and seltzer water mixed just so, the dearth of acceptable seats was just abominable. She stood on the stage, looking around, agitated and pontificating.
Apparently, the woman she picked up was LATE and spent TOO MUCH TIME IN THE BATHROOM AT MC DONALDS. So, they couldn’t get here in time to secure her “usual seats.”
An elderly gentleman sitting across the aisle caught my eye during this diatribe. He must have been present for the others, since his wife was rolling her eyes and hiding behind her program. He looked around and then leaned over to me and whispered, “it must be a BITCH being her.”
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Cubicle Debacle
A lot of people are annoyed at John Chiang. He's the guy in charge of California's money, and he didn't win any popularity contests when he threatened to stop paying bills and replace our tax refund checks with IOUs. The last time this happened, banks honored the IOUs and collected from the state when a budget finally passed. But since banks are taking bailout money to prevent insolvency, I am guessing that won't happen this time.
If there's no money, there's no money, and you can't blame the guy for being practical. When responsible individuals are out of money, they stop spending. It’s the same for state governments. Chiang’s checkbook is just bigger than ours. Pragmatic people understand these financial quandaries.
But this guy has really ticked me off because of cubicles, and I am not alone in my anger. Chiang is now fodder for the talk radio hosts who lambaste public officials on a regular basis. He is experiencing a “cubicle backlash.”
Cubicles, you may ask? Yes, cubicles. Nobody seems to like them much but they are ubiquitous in office buildings around the country. Workers toil away inside their portable walls. They hang up photographs, calendars, and posters about perseverance. People working in open office spaces talk too much and grate on each other’s nerves. So, office managers utilize cubicles in an effort to keep distractions to a minimum.
Apparently, the state controller has an affinity for them, so during this, the worst economic crisis in California's history, Chiang is processing purchase orders for a million dollars worth of cubicles - for the state controller's office! (Maybe the workers are talking too much.)
It's a bit disingenuous to tell working people that their tax refunds are not forthcoming. No paying off bills or funding home improvement projects just yet. But John Chiang can authorize overdrawing the state’s checking account for CUBICLES.
I keep hearing that businesses are leaving California to escape high business taxes. So, wouldn’t they leave behind some cubicles that Chiang could exchange for tax credits? And what about the businesses that are going bankrupt in this desolate economy? Retail outlets, chain stores, and small businesses are calling it quits in record numbers. I bet Chiang could settle a number of tax debts by trading for previously-owned office cubicles with low mileage and only a few sporadic thumbtack holes.
Local governments are feeling the pinch of Chiang’s pennies. There won’t be a lot of money in the city’s coffers for parks and recreation, after-school programs, youth sports, or stuff like libraries and public swimming pools.
The direct result of the state’s fiscal irresponsibility is being felt, quite painfully, by local school districts. Unprecedented budget shortfalls are wreaking financial havoc in classrooms across the state.
The Wilsona School District, with three schools, is considering closing a campus, cutting 25 teachers, and eliminating most classified support staff. What would a million dollar cash infusion do for this little district? What could it do for the countless other schools in the same precarious situation?
It is more than disingenuous for the state controller to spend a million dollars on cubicles when a fraction of that money could save jobs and keep schools open and operating. With higher class sizes, a skeleton support staff, and fewer classroom resources, there are serious consequences for California’s school children.
So why does Chiang need cubicles? He needs to focus on what is truly important.
Schoolchildren don’t need cubicles either. They need teachers dedicated to the business of education and not distracted by the ridiculousness of cubicle-loving bureaucrats and the frightening prospect of unemployment.
If there's no money, there's no money, and you can't blame the guy for being practical. When responsible individuals are out of money, they stop spending. It’s the same for state governments. Chiang’s checkbook is just bigger than ours. Pragmatic people understand these financial quandaries.
But this guy has really ticked me off because of cubicles, and I am not alone in my anger. Chiang is now fodder for the talk radio hosts who lambaste public officials on a regular basis. He is experiencing a “cubicle backlash.”
Cubicles, you may ask? Yes, cubicles. Nobody seems to like them much but they are ubiquitous in office buildings around the country. Workers toil away inside their portable walls. They hang up photographs, calendars, and posters about perseverance. People working in open office spaces talk too much and grate on each other’s nerves. So, office managers utilize cubicles in an effort to keep distractions to a minimum.
Apparently, the state controller has an affinity for them, so during this, the worst economic crisis in California's history, Chiang is processing purchase orders for a million dollars worth of cubicles - for the state controller's office! (Maybe the workers are talking too much.)
It's a bit disingenuous to tell working people that their tax refunds are not forthcoming. No paying off bills or funding home improvement projects just yet. But John Chiang can authorize overdrawing the state’s checking account for CUBICLES.
I keep hearing that businesses are leaving California to escape high business taxes. So, wouldn’t they leave behind some cubicles that Chiang could exchange for tax credits? And what about the businesses that are going bankrupt in this desolate economy? Retail outlets, chain stores, and small businesses are calling it quits in record numbers. I bet Chiang could settle a number of tax debts by trading for previously-owned office cubicles with low mileage and only a few sporadic thumbtack holes.
Local governments are feeling the pinch of Chiang’s pennies. There won’t be a lot of money in the city’s coffers for parks and recreation, after-school programs, youth sports, or stuff like libraries and public swimming pools.
The direct result of the state’s fiscal irresponsibility is being felt, quite painfully, by local school districts. Unprecedented budget shortfalls are wreaking financial havoc in classrooms across the state.
The Wilsona School District, with three schools, is considering closing a campus, cutting 25 teachers, and eliminating most classified support staff. What would a million dollar cash infusion do for this little district? What could it do for the countless other schools in the same precarious situation?
It is more than disingenuous for the state controller to spend a million dollars on cubicles when a fraction of that money could save jobs and keep schools open and operating. With higher class sizes, a skeleton support staff, and fewer classroom resources, there are serious consequences for California’s school children.
So why does Chiang need cubicles? He needs to focus on what is truly important.
Schoolchildren don’t need cubicles either. They need teachers dedicated to the business of education and not distracted by the ridiculousness of cubicle-loving bureaucrats and the frightening prospect of unemployment.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
My Bodybugg
I just love my Bodybugg. It is a device that keeps you honest. It tracks your steps and activities and lets you know how many calories you are burning. The accompanying computer program allows you to enter your food log and figure out if you are on track for weight loss, maintenance, or whatever your goal happens to be.
Here are some observations about the Bugg that I have been pondering:
Here are a few things I notice about my Bodybugg:
1. It likes to be clean. If I don't wipe it off every morning, it gets testy and reports that my metabolism belongs to a slug.
2. It is very egocentric. Once certain "goals" have been reached, you simply MUST wait for the readout to trumpet the feat TWICE. It does you no good to ask it to stop.
3. The bugg ignores cycling. It obviously prefers counting your steps and not the revolutions your thighs, buttocks, and calves make while riding a bicycle. It will count your calories, but only begrudgingly. An hour of cycling does nothing to increase your step count.
4. You can't wear it in the water. All that technology and it is not waterproof. Which means you never really know how many calories you burn swimming or participating in water fitness activities. You have to estimate just how vigorous your shower is - or take the program's word for it.
:-)K
Revisiting a Core Value: Grampy and the CCC
Today's L.A. Times has an article about the original Civilian Conservation Corps, as developed by the Franklin D. Roosevelt administration. The CCC was envisioned as a way to fix the heart and souls of American workers during the Great Depression. The end results included infrastructure that survives today, the nation's first freeway system, and work for the National Parks system.My grandfather signed up for the CCC during the height of the Great Depression. Born to Indiana farmworkers in 1913, he was 20 years old when the family moved from the midwest to California, searching for a better life. At some point after the move, unable to find work locally, he signed up for the CCC and began the hard work of rebuilding the state's National Park system.
The L.A. Times article cites numerous recollections of former CCC workers. The work gave them pride, good food, and gainful employment. The fact that it was difficult did not play into the equation. The workers felt valuable and respected for the work they were doing.
The article goes on to suggest that reviving the CCC and its core principles is an idea worth considering today. This suggestion has given me pause.
My grandfather, Paul V. Earl, was in his early 20s when this photograph was taken. Having worked from the time he was a child, this CCC work came easily for him. He went on to marry in 1937, when he could afford it, and had a job with the United Parcel Service, which he supplemented with carpentry and cabinet work. Several years later, he became a Los Angeles City firefighter - having circumvented the height restriction by wearing lifts in his shoes. Being 5'7" tall did not prevent him from working over 30 years for the fire department.
I wonder if today's generation of young people who would benefit from a CCC program would be successful. This is a generation raised in front of the television and adept at video games, computer applications, and loitering around malls and movie theaters. This is a generation with too many members who do not bend over to pick up trash and seem to lack the work ethic that made my grandfather's cohorts what Tom Brokaw dubbed "The Greatest Generation."
Today's young retail workers seem, for the most part, to dislike the entire idea of WORK. They are satisfied with "good enough" and quickly change jobs when the requirements to actually put forth effort becomes too apparent. This is the generation who rarely dressed for P.E. unless they were in that special class known as "athletes."
My grandfather always supplemented his work as a firefighter with manual labor. He was rarely idle unless "practicing" for a night's sleep by taking a short nap after dinner. He made cabinets and was a skilled carpenter, called upon often during his lifetime to build, re-build, and repair. His table saw was always buzzing and I delighted in gathering the mounds of sawdust and repurposing it for my wild and imaginary play purposes. He took time to fashion for me slender wooden arrows that I could fling with a notched handle and promptly lose in the yard next door.
My husband and son both work retail and often recount the frustration they feel when having to compensate for the lack of effort put forth by other employees in their work environments. Dan spends time every single work day cleaning up the mess left behind by employees who refuse to put forth even a minimal effort to work as a team. My friend Dave, a fast food manager, wages a constant battle to keep employees and to keep their respective operations running smoothly. The work ethic, he complains, is just lacking.
How many times have we entered retail establishments and left dissatisfied because customer service seems an antiquated value from the past? Too often, I venture to guess.
Do I paint with a broad brush? Of course I do. There are many hardworking employees in retail too young to remember vinyl records and life without cell phones. But they are under-represented in today's workforce.
I think the Civilian Conservation Corps is a good idea and worth revisiting. But I have to chuckle since most of the teenagers I am familiar with are loathe to bend over and pick up a piece of trash that doesn't belong to them. There is a sense of entitlement that was reinforced by my generation of parents, in a misguided attempt to make our children strong and responsible human beings.
My grandfather's work ethic was a model for my father, who rarely missed work during his 30 year tenure with the phone company and years of communications consulting that followed. It was ingrained in me and my sister by our parents and passed along to our children. I can count on one hand the number of times my husband and sons have called in sick to work in the past decade. My nieces do not shun hard work.
My grandfather would be proud - but only to the extent that this is how it is supposed to be. We must work together as a nation to dig ourselves out of the mess that our country is mired in today. It will take hard work - is the generation with the most physical energy up to the task?
Are we?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Crippled Ant Theory~
Okay, I am not 100 percent sure of the efficacy of this method, but my sister swears by it and it makes logical sense to me.
Ants are terrific communicators. They leave scent trails and clean up after themselves, and manage to build entire colonies without spoken language. They also raise baby ants, bring food for the Queen Ant, and change trail directions when imediments get in the way. There is also a song about the ants going marching. Not many insects have songs about them. (La Cucaracha excepted.)
So - here is the theory. You select one of the ants for "maiming." You must be careful because ants are fragile and pinching off a leg or thorax with your fingernail MIGHT result in death. This does no good, since ants don't usually collect their dead. (They might. We aren't sure.)
The maimed ant hobbles back to the nest and leaves distress pheranomes along the way. The maimed one then collapses in the nest and the rest of the colony gathers around and demands an explanation. Who did this horrible thing? Why?
Meanwhile, other ants come streaming in, briefed by the distress scent and communicating that THIS PLACE is a BAD PLACE because look at "________!" He/she is MAIMED for life and will have to go on welfare (or get eaten).
The ants convene a council meeting, decide to change course, and leave the offending property.
You will then be ant-free.
My sister swears by this. (If it doesn't work, she gets a can of RAID, then calls her exterminator, who is on speed-dial.)
;-)K
Ants are terrific communicators. They leave scent trails and clean up after themselves, and manage to build entire colonies without spoken language. They also raise baby ants, bring food for the Queen Ant, and change trail directions when imediments get in the way. There is also a song about the ants going marching. Not many insects have songs about them. (La Cucaracha excepted.)
So - here is the theory. You select one of the ants for "maiming." You must be careful because ants are fragile and pinching off a leg or thorax with your fingernail MIGHT result in death. This does no good, since ants don't usually collect their dead. (They might. We aren't sure.)
The maimed ant hobbles back to the nest and leaves distress pheranomes along the way. The maimed one then collapses in the nest and the rest of the colony gathers around and demands an explanation. Who did this horrible thing? Why?
Meanwhile, other ants come streaming in, briefed by the distress scent and communicating that THIS PLACE is a BAD PLACE because look at "________!" He/she is MAIMED for life and will have to go on welfare (or get eaten).
The ants convene a council meeting, decide to change course, and leave the offending property.
You will then be ant-free.
My sister swears by this. (If it doesn't work, she gets a can of RAID, then calls her exterminator, who is on speed-dial.)
;-)K
A Dadism: The Chicken Plucker
Driving back to my sister's house one day, my sister began talking about dinner.
My dad asked her if he could do anything to help and she jokingly replied that he could pluck the chicken.
My father said that he was not the chicken-plucker or the chicken-plucker's son, but he could pluck the chicken till the chicken-plucker comes.
Later that day, Sue and I took her very elderly dog, Nook, out for a walk. In recent weeks, Nook had started squatting on the pavement and letting loose, no longer waiting to eliminate on the lawn or grass areas. A simple plastic bag no longer sufficed, since the dog "went" about a dozen times during the walk. So, I had to follow along behind Sue and Nook, holding a shovel, which I put on my shoulder like a rifle.
Dad came out of the house and and asked me what in the world I was doing.
I told him that I wasn't the sh*t shoveler or the sh*t shoveler's son, but I could shovel sh*t till the sh*t shoveler comes.
;-)K
My dad asked her if he could do anything to help and she jokingly replied that he could pluck the chicken.
My father said that he was not the chicken-plucker or the chicken-plucker's son, but he could pluck the chicken till the chicken-plucker comes.
Later that day, Sue and I took her very elderly dog, Nook, out for a walk. In recent weeks, Nook had started squatting on the pavement and letting loose, no longer waiting to eliminate on the lawn or grass areas. A simple plastic bag no longer sufficed, since the dog "went" about a dozen times during the walk. So, I had to follow along behind Sue and Nook, holding a shovel, which I put on my shoulder like a rifle.
Dad came out of the house and and asked me what in the world I was doing.
I told him that I wasn't the sh*t shoveler or the sh*t shoveler's son, but I could shovel sh*t till the sh*t shoveler comes.
;-)K
Hitting "delete" and holding.....
I decided to take some time this morning to clear out some old stuff in my eMail program. Connectivity has been a problem for several days and the messages were piling up.
After initially browsing my inbox and replying to outstanding messages, I began the process of culling old messages. At some point, I hit some keys on the keyboard without meaning to and descended into a Twilight Zone of eMail Hell. I was only paying half-attention, so the transition was pretty flawless.
I began noticing that the messages I was deleting were from ME. WHAT, I asked myself. Did I mistakenly tell Outlook to send me a copy of any and all messages that I send out, reply to, or forward? What have I done? How do I fix it? I hate not being technical! Can I go Leo LaPorte the tech guy? Do I ask on Tnet? Will they laugh at me?
For 20 minutes, I leaned on my hand, dull and bored witless, trying to delete all these messages. Surely there is a better way, I thought. But I could not find one in all the drop down menus and buttons and other handy dandy features included in Outlook. I began timing the deletions so that I could just hit the button, delete, and then hit the button, delete, hit the button, delete. It was numbing. My appreciation of factory workers increased.
How long has this been going on, I asked myself, panicking. No wonder the computer is acting up and sounds like it is always processing something. I have really screwed up this time! I send out and forward a LOT of messages! Now I am reaping the consequences of being so communicative, so loquacious, so… VERBAL. Hit the button, delete, hit the button, delete. Good GAWED! Can't I just cut and paste and THEN delete? But NO.
And then I realized something, as I deleted messages from Thanksgiving, hitting the button, deleting, hitting the button, deleting. I received a huge jolt of clarity and tons of humiliation, embarrassment, and shock.
I was in my SENT ITEMS file.
I have an appointment with the Alzheimer's Specialist tomorrow.
After initially browsing my inbox and replying to outstanding messages, I began the process of culling old messages. At some point, I hit some keys on the keyboard without meaning to and descended into a Twilight Zone of eMail Hell. I was only paying half-attention, so the transition was pretty flawless.
I began noticing that the messages I was deleting were from ME. WHAT, I asked myself. Did I mistakenly tell Outlook to send me a copy of any and all messages that I send out, reply to, or forward? What have I done? How do I fix it? I hate not being technical! Can I go Leo LaPorte the tech guy? Do I ask on Tnet? Will they laugh at me?
For 20 minutes, I leaned on my hand, dull and bored witless, trying to delete all these messages. Surely there is a better way, I thought. But I could not find one in all the drop down menus and buttons and other handy dandy features included in Outlook. I began timing the deletions so that I could just hit the button, delete, and then hit the button, delete, hit the button, delete. It was numbing. My appreciation of factory workers increased.
How long has this been going on, I asked myself, panicking. No wonder the computer is acting up and sounds like it is always processing something. I have really screwed up this time! I send out and forward a LOT of messages! Now I am reaping the consequences of being so communicative, so loquacious, so… VERBAL. Hit the button, delete, hit the button, delete. Good GAWED! Can't I just cut and paste and THEN delete? But NO.
And then I realized something, as I deleted messages from Thanksgiving, hitting the button, deleting, hitting the button, deleting. I received a huge jolt of clarity and tons of humiliation, embarrassment, and shock.
I was in my SENT ITEMS file.
I have an appointment with the Alzheimer's Specialist tomorrow.
Burrow Decor~
In kindergarten this week, we have been talking about winter. Monday, I read the kids a non-fiction book about animals in winter and introduced the kids to vocabulary like "hibernation," "migration," and "burrow."
There is a place in the book that shows a woodchuck's burrow. The kids were very interested in the tunnels, bathroom chamber, and sleeping chamber. We discussed how many burrowing animals will have more than one entrance to fool predators. After discussing the book, we did a "directed drawing" of a woodchuck's burrow. We labeled parts and then some of the kids asked if they could color the drawings.
I reminded the children that this was a "science" drawing, so accuracy in color is important. The kids decided that brown was probably going to be the predominant color, since the picture of the burrow was under a winter landscape. Some children put green on a few trees and colored the hibernating woodchuck with tan and brown colored pencils.
I walked around the room, giving feedback. I stopped short when I saw McKenna, one of my most competent students and a very good listener, using a pink crayon inside the woodchuck's sleeping chamber. She was carefully coloring the outline of the chamber. Knowing that McKenna would not deliberately disregard my instructions, I stopped to inquire.
"McKenna," I said, "what's this? Is the sleeping chamber PINK?"
McKenna looked up and me and smiled.
"No. It has grass. And dirt."
"Well... what is the pink crayon for?" I asked.
She continued coloring and replied, "Wallpaper."
There is a place in the book that shows a woodchuck's burrow. The kids were very interested in the tunnels, bathroom chamber, and sleeping chamber. We discussed how many burrowing animals will have more than one entrance to fool predators. After discussing the book, we did a "directed drawing" of a woodchuck's burrow. We labeled parts and then some of the kids asked if they could color the drawings.
I reminded the children that this was a "science" drawing, so accuracy in color is important. The kids decided that brown was probably going to be the predominant color, since the picture of the burrow was under a winter landscape. Some children put green on a few trees and colored the hibernating woodchuck with tan and brown colored pencils.
I walked around the room, giving feedback. I stopped short when I saw McKenna, one of my most competent students and a very good listener, using a pink crayon inside the woodchuck's sleeping chamber. She was carefully coloring the outline of the chamber. Knowing that McKenna would not deliberately disregard my instructions, I stopped to inquire.
"McKenna," I said, "what's this? Is the sleeping chamber PINK?"
McKenna looked up and me and smiled.
"No. It has grass. And dirt."
"Well... what is the pink crayon for?" I asked.
She continued coloring and replied, "Wallpaper."
Snack Stealing~
Kindergarten students often have difficulty understanding the concept of stealing. Over time, the idea of "right" and "wrong" begins to form, but this is a hard thing to internalize when a classmate has a really cool snack - and you don't.
I have had some "snack stealing" off and on in my classroom and I finally caught the culprits yesterday. Neither are sophisticated enough to pull off this kind of a lie, so finally BUSTING them was a real treat.
Today, Josias had a baggie with some cereal and a fruit roll-up inside. He decided he wasn't hungry and left it on the picnic table. At some point, it disappeared.
I rounded up the usual suspects before they could lawyer-up and began the interrogation. No shifty eyes, no suspicious pocket bulges, no tell-tale leftovers on faces. They swore innocence but couldn't provide good alibis. I gave the usual "stealing is wrong" and "choosing the right" speech and they all looked like deer in the headlights and swore to gawd they were in Montreal at the time of the theft.
I quickly dashed off a note to Mrs. Abrams, asking if any of her little miscreants had "made a mistake" and "borrowed somebody else's snack." Two of my future police officers gleefully took the note down to Room 4 and the class settled down and began working. Within minutes, Nathan comes in to my room, looking very sorry....sorry he got caught.
I had him apologize to my usual suspects because, I explained, they were wrongly accused (this time) for something HE did. Nate dutifully apologized. Then I had Josias come up to Nate and I instructed Nate to talk to Josias.
"What do you have to say to Josias?" I asked.
Nate just stood there, looking at Josias.
"Nate, you have something you need to say to Josias," I prodded, using my best teacher voice.
Nate inched closer to Josias but remained silent.
"Nate!" I prompted. "Don't you have something to say to Josias about his snack?"
Nate gulped, put his hands in his pocket, looked at Josias and said, "Can I have it?"
I have had some "snack stealing" off and on in my classroom and I finally caught the culprits yesterday. Neither are sophisticated enough to pull off this kind of a lie, so finally BUSTING them was a real treat.
Today, Josias had a baggie with some cereal and a fruit roll-up inside. He decided he wasn't hungry and left it on the picnic table. At some point, it disappeared.
I rounded up the usual suspects before they could lawyer-up and began the interrogation. No shifty eyes, no suspicious pocket bulges, no tell-tale leftovers on faces. They swore innocence but couldn't provide good alibis. I gave the usual "stealing is wrong" and "choosing the right" speech and they all looked like deer in the headlights and swore to gawd they were in Montreal at the time of the theft.
I quickly dashed off a note to Mrs. Abrams, asking if any of her little miscreants had "made a mistake" and "borrowed somebody else's snack." Two of my future police officers gleefully took the note down to Room 4 and the class settled down and began working. Within minutes, Nathan comes in to my room, looking very sorry....sorry he got caught.
I had him apologize to my usual suspects because, I explained, they were wrongly accused (this time) for something HE did. Nate dutifully apologized. Then I had Josias come up to Nate and I instructed Nate to talk to Josias.
"What do you have to say to Josias?" I asked.
Nate just stood there, looking at Josias.
"Nate, you have something you need to say to Josias," I prodded, using my best teacher voice.
Nate inched closer to Josias but remained silent.
"Nate!" I prompted. "Don't you have something to say to Josias about his snack?"
Nate gulped, put his hands in his pocket, looked at Josias and said, "Can I have it?"
Friday, January 09, 2009
Who repaired this parachute? Would you jump?
I guess Billy Mays is the pitchman favored by the "as seen on t.v." product producers. I personally like the ShamWow guy, but there's no accounting for taste in an industry that allowed Ron Popeil to stay on the air for so long.
Currently, Billy is pitching so many products I get them mixed up. The one perplexing me right now is Mighty Mend-It, which will is making sewing obsolete and will repair anything, even the levee holes near New Orleans.
So, Billy tells us, you can jump out of a perfectly good airplane with a parachute that has been repaired by Mighty Mend-It.
It took me awhile to digest this but, apparently, somebody had a RIP in a PARACHUTE. For those not familiar with parachutes, they save your sorry life when you make the booze-induced decision to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. This genius repairs this rip with Mighty Mend-it and then proceeds to hurtle towards the earth at 125 miles an hour before the parachute deploys.
Notice that Billy Mays does NOT jump out of the airplane. He just shouts at us above the din of the open airplane.
Now I ask: Would you? Would you use a parachute that was repaired with Mighty Mend-it, just because Billy yells at us that it is OKAY TO DO SO?
Currently, Billy is pitching so many products I get them mixed up. The one perplexing me right now is Mighty Mend-It, which will is making sewing obsolete and will repair anything, even the levee holes near New Orleans.
So, Billy tells us, you can jump out of a perfectly good airplane with a parachute that has been repaired by Mighty Mend-It.
It took me awhile to digest this but, apparently, somebody had a RIP in a PARACHUTE. For those not familiar with parachutes, they save your sorry life when you make the booze-induced decision to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. This genius repairs this rip with Mighty Mend-it and then proceeds to hurtle towards the earth at 125 miles an hour before the parachute deploys.
Notice that Billy Mays does NOT jump out of the airplane. He just shouts at us above the din of the open airplane.
Now I ask: Would you? Would you use a parachute that was repaired with Mighty Mend-it, just because Billy yells at us that it is OKAY TO DO SO?
Wine and Cheese~
I was teaching Kindergarten out in Rosamond and had a little boy in the class named Alex. When I first met him, I thought he was the cutest, sweetest, most adorable child on earth. He had this tiny little voice that was just so….so…. CUTE!
Well, after awhile it wasn’t cute because Alex had a tendency to whine. He whined when things went his way and when things didn’t go his way. He whined just because that is what got him attention at home and elsewhere. In fact, his major mode of communication was a variation on "whine." Light whine would give way to full-whine on days when I lacked the patience to professionally deal with it. It would grate on my nerves and I would urge Alex to use his “big boy voice” and not his “baby voice.” Sometimes this worked but it was slow-going. Being a professional, I resisted the temptation to scream STOP WHINING!
We were a year-round school and when our first break came in late autumn, I was ready. The track change coincided with the first trimester report card and I had parent conferences during our last week. I told Alex’s mother that, despite her son’s brilliance, cuteness, and excellent personality, his whininess could really get on my last nerve – the one quivering over there in the corner. She laughed and said something like, “ya think?”
The day we tracked off, Alex brought me a gift that was nicely wrapped. I waited until recess to open it, since none of the other kids had gifts, it was not traditional to bring gifts, and I didn’t want anybody feeling bad because they didn’t have a gift.
(All kindergarten kids believe that gifts are for THEM. Anybody receiving a gift instantly reminds them that they are not getting a gift. Then comes the question, “What about ME?”)
Anyway, I hoped the gift bag and unwrapped a huge hunk of very expensive-looking cheese. Attached was a note:
“Some cheese to go with the whine you will be missing.”
Well, after awhile it wasn’t cute because Alex had a tendency to whine. He whined when things went his way and when things didn’t go his way. He whined just because that is what got him attention at home and elsewhere. In fact, his major mode of communication was a variation on "whine." Light whine would give way to full-whine on days when I lacked the patience to professionally deal with it. It would grate on my nerves and I would urge Alex to use his “big boy voice” and not his “baby voice.” Sometimes this worked but it was slow-going. Being a professional, I resisted the temptation to scream STOP WHINING!
We were a year-round school and when our first break came in late autumn, I was ready. The track change coincided with the first trimester report card and I had parent conferences during our last week. I told Alex’s mother that, despite her son’s brilliance, cuteness, and excellent personality, his whininess could really get on my last nerve – the one quivering over there in the corner. She laughed and said something like, “ya think?”
The day we tracked off, Alex brought me a gift that was nicely wrapped. I waited until recess to open it, since none of the other kids had gifts, it was not traditional to bring gifts, and I didn’t want anybody feeling bad because they didn’t have a gift.
(All kindergarten kids believe that gifts are for THEM. Anybody receiving a gift instantly reminds them that they are not getting a gift. Then comes the question, “What about ME?”)
Anyway, I hoped the gift bag and unwrapped a huge hunk of very expensive-looking cheese. Attached was a note:
“Some cheese to go with the whine you will be missing.”
Thursday, January 08, 2009
All because of a dog~
Dan and I both learned early in life that money does not grow on trees. We have always been careful with money and plan major home improvement projects with an eye on how we are going to pay for it without long-term debt. This usually results in big plans for home improvement projects but very few actual home improvement projects.
We decided a few years ago that the ten-year-old carpet was going to be replaced, eventually with laminate flooring. At least in the downstairs portion of the house, since this area gets the most wear. We like laminate flooring and often visit the Laminate Flooring Shrines at all home improvement centers.
Then, last week we adopted a new dog. Eadie is a good dog and, despite always being outside in her first eighteen months of life, she is practically housebroken. She had two accidents the morning after we brought her home. This was after holding it all night and before I could get her outside to do doggy business. Suffice to say that new surroundings, new food, and nervous dogs don't lend themselves well to healthy dog business. The results were the worst smell in human and dog history.
Scrubbing the carpet in the affected area did much for looks but little for odor removal. To be blunt, the floor smelled awful. The whole downstairs smelled awful. No matter what we did, it smelled awful. We lit a scented candle. It started to smell like baking cinnamon bread over the smell of something awful.
So, I took a good look at the slightly textured white tile in the downstairs bathroom, the slightly textured white tile in the laundry room, and decided that Home Depot or Lowes must sell these slightly textured white tiles by the box. Why not, I suggested to Dan, just rip up the stinky carpet here and tile this little hallway ourselves? It will look normal, I said, and probably won't cost very much.
So Dan the erstwhile tiling man came over to look. When Dan is pondering things, he usually strokes his mustache and pulls on his beard. He did this a lot. Yeah, he says, we can do that. So I get out the measuring tape and find that the tile in the bathroom is 12 inches by 12 inches, exactly. A square foot. How easy!
The tile in the laundry room is exactly 11-3/4 by 11-3/4. I measured most of the tiles in both rooms and, crazy at it sounds, they are not the same size.
Of course not, says Dan, who is rethinking the whole tiling man business. Then he starts pulling on the beard and smoothing out the mustache. How about, he says slowly, we start putting down laminate flooring? We want to do that anyway... we could just start here and then continue when we have more money?
So I stared at the little hallway with the awful smell and agreed. That, I told Dan the laminate flooring man, is exactly what we will do.
I left for my water fitness class and when I returned, the offending carpet was pulled up and surrounding baseboard was yanked off the wall. Two boxes of "Old Hickory" laminate flooring was opened in the garage and the table saw was set up.
Then Dan started playing with the planks. They are just like a giant puzzle. After much smoothing of the mustache and pulling on the beard, Dan declared that he would rather start from the family room, even-steven with the hearth, and go from there into the hallway. It makes more sense, he says.
So, the attached picture is what the whole area looks like right now. The unplanned and not-in-the-budget home improvement project.
All because of a dog.
;-)K
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Death by Hiking
I never cease to be amazed by the beauty and proxmity of the Pacific Crest Trail - and how I seem to always be the only one on it.
I don't mean the WHOLE trail, of course, I refer to the section that is within a half hour driving distance of most denizens of the Antelope Valley. A half a million people - and very few of them hike along this outstanding and well-maintained trail.
Part of the problem is timing - I just don't happen to be on a particular section of the trail when other people happen to be on that same particular section of trail. I do see evidence of other hikers, like cars and footprints. But I rarely see hikers.
I have come to the conclusion, over the course of several years, that many people are afraid of hiking because they think they might die. I wish I had a buck for each time somebody at school made reference to my hiking obsession and then refer to death - their own. As in, "God, I would just DIE if I hiked that long," or "that far," or "that high," or just "in general."
I've brought a few people with me in years past - but most of them act like they are going to die. Like Becky, who hunched over with her head between her knees about a half hour in one afternoon and announced that she was, in fact, going to die. We turned around.
My Outlaw, Jim, uses a variation of that sentiment when I eMail him the highlights of a particularly good hike. "You'd have to carry me out on a stretcher," he responds. This from a guy who likes to walk and does so on a somewhat regular basis. I think that HE THINKS he is going to die. Which means he never offers to come hiking with me.
Then there is my cousin Terry. Terry is really more of an uncle to me, having grown up with my father with a "brotherly" relationship. But he is my second cousin, to be exact, and perpetually young and vigorous.
"How about making plans for a hike up the Angeles Crest?" I write, full of hope and optimism. He usually ignores these pleas but on occasion he will reply that such a hike is not conducive to the health of "old fat guys." I usually double-take at this point since, in my mind's time warp, Terry is just out of UCLA and in his early thirties. He was the first guy I EVER knew who sported a pony tail. He was so WAY beyond cool that mere words could never describe him. I told my closest friends that I sincerely LOVED him and wanted to marry him and that he actually looked like John Lennon. For real. Of course, I was fourteen and he was in his thirties. (Which I don't think he's seen since the Carter Administration.)
And now, my cousin Terry, who is married to the marvelous and sophisticatedly down-to-earth Sandy, tells me he is ready to retire soon and that hikes are out of the question, for now. He has to "get in shape" which is hard because, you know, he WORKS and does not have the time and energy and inclination. I think it is more of the latter, although he will probably tell me that his mind is willing but his flesh is weak. I am pretty sure that if I haul his John Lennon ass up Mt. Baden Powell, he will claim he is going to die. Then Sandy would be ticked off at me.
My sister Sue is an intrepid hiker and my best hiking companion. Her legs are longer which means she is always ahead of me and it doesn't matter how good of shape I am in, she will always mention something about my "breathing." I think this is a dig at my state of cardiovascular shape-ed-ness, which is just fine, really. But hers is always a tad better. When we do the really brutal "good GAWD I can't breathe" hikes, she is in the lower end of her cardio "range," while I am pushing the point of being almost damned uncomfortable.
In recent years, her fibromyalgia, bad shoulder, and sports-wracked knees have given her trouble, which means shorter hikes. But she never says she is going to die. She's said she needs a big bag of ice, or a jar of Advil, or a hot bath, but she never threatens death.
This is not to say that Sue and I haven't run across a few people over the years who appeared on the brink of death while hiking. These experiences always occur on a trail in the Sierra Nevada mountains. These are the trails way up high in elevation, full of breathtaking beauty, and sought after by dedicated hikers everywhere.
There was the Diabetes Family. We named them that because all four of them were either shooting insulin, on the verge of shooting insulin, or the recipient of a family doctor's "suggested diet." We came across them as we attempted the Fern Creek Trail. Now, the Fern Creek Trail is listed in the Eastern Sierra Hiking Guide as "difficult." If the hiking guide says it is difficult, then it is in a class with mountains like Everest and Whitney and Denali. This hiking guide calls trails we would rate "difficult" as "moderate." The author is obviously a smart-ass. But I digress.
So, Diabetes Family is on the way UP to where the Fern Creek trail forks away from the main trail. Sue and I were on our way down and were appalled to see two middle aged people, a man and a woman, with bright red faces, totally out of breath, leaning on walking sticks, trying to remain upright. They were both on the "hefty" side, to be kind, and looked like heart attacks ready to happen. They were accompanied by a boy and a girl who were collapsed on the side of the trail. They had NO WATER. They had NO IDEA WHAT THEY WERE DOING.
"This trail is difficult," Sue and I tell the Diabetes Family. "May we suggest a nice flat trail that runs behind Gull Lake?"
The family waved away our concern and Sue and I continued on our journey, certain they were all going to die.
Then there was Flip-flop Girl.
We pulled in to the Lundy Canyon Trailhead one nice summer day at the same time as the Flip-flop Girl's family. They were loud and argumentative, not dressed at all for a serious hike. Sue and I picked up our pace so we could sign the trail register before them and get a good head start. Nothing is worse than being stuck with people who resembled the family from "Roseanne."
This trail ascends steeply from 7,398 feet to just over 10,000 feet in about an hour and a half. This is not a beginner's trail. Yet, here was this family, with a surly teenaged boy wearing head phones and skater shoes and a little girl of nine or ten wearing.......FLIP FLOPS. Yes, flip flops. Mom was screeching, Dad was swearing, and Sue and I were certain that they must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.
The family had no food except the bag of Skittles in the boy's pocket, which he refused to share with FF Girl. The family had NO WATER. Sue and I gave them a half hour, tops.
"They're gonna die," Sue said, as we hurriedly tried to put distance between ourselves and the bickering brother and sister.
Near Mammoth Lakes, we ran into a young couple who had not seen a gym or serious exercise in quite awhile - if ever. She was looking like she needed an I.V., while he was paused on the trail SMOKING A CIGARETTE. It gets worse - they had a toddler with them. They were obviously new parents who sincerely believed that if they coaxed and yelled enough, the child would happily toddle along in front of them. The "happily" part was missing. The child was in full-whine.
"One of you is going to have to carry him," Sue said, as we prepared to overtake them.
The mother looked disgusted and the father looked annoyed. "He's fine," snapped the annoyed one, struggling for breath.
"This is a long trail - we've only just begun," I offered. "Perhaps he can ride on your shoulders?" I asked. It was the mother in me - I just couldn't help it. "You'll burn extra calories..."
Suffice to say that we didn't see them a few hours later on our way back to the trailhead.
They either gave up - or died trying.
I don't mean the WHOLE trail, of course, I refer to the section that is within a half hour driving distance of most denizens of the Antelope Valley. A half a million people - and very few of them hike along this outstanding and well-maintained trail.
Part of the problem is timing - I just don't happen to be on a particular section of the trail when other people happen to be on that same particular section of trail. I do see evidence of other hikers, like cars and footprints. But I rarely see hikers.
I have come to the conclusion, over the course of several years, that many people are afraid of hiking because they think they might die. I wish I had a buck for each time somebody at school made reference to my hiking obsession and then refer to death - their own. As in, "God, I would just DIE if I hiked that long," or "that far," or "that high," or just "in general."
I've brought a few people with me in years past - but most of them act like they are going to die. Like Becky, who hunched over with her head between her knees about a half hour in one afternoon and announced that she was, in fact, going to die. We turned around.
My Outlaw, Jim, uses a variation of that sentiment when I eMail him the highlights of a particularly good hike. "You'd have to carry me out on a stretcher," he responds. This from a guy who likes to walk and does so on a somewhat regular basis. I think that HE THINKS he is going to die. Which means he never offers to come hiking with me.
Then there is my cousin Terry. Terry is really more of an uncle to me, having grown up with my father with a "brotherly" relationship. But he is my second cousin, to be exact, and perpetually young and vigorous.
"How about making plans for a hike up the Angeles Crest?" I write, full of hope and optimism. He usually ignores these pleas but on occasion he will reply that such a hike is not conducive to the health of "old fat guys." I usually double-take at this point since, in my mind's time warp, Terry is just out of UCLA and in his early thirties. He was the first guy I EVER knew who sported a pony tail. He was so WAY beyond cool that mere words could never describe him. I told my closest friends that I sincerely LOVED him and wanted to marry him and that he actually looked like John Lennon. For real. Of course, I was fourteen and he was in his thirties. (Which I don't think he's seen since the Carter Administration.)
And now, my cousin Terry, who is married to the marvelous and sophisticatedly down-to-earth Sandy, tells me he is ready to retire soon and that hikes are out of the question, for now. He has to "get in shape" which is hard because, you know, he WORKS and does not have the time and energy and inclination. I think it is more of the latter, although he will probably tell me that his mind is willing but his flesh is weak. I am pretty sure that if I haul his John Lennon ass up Mt. Baden Powell, he will claim he is going to die. Then Sandy would be ticked off at me.
My sister Sue is an intrepid hiker and my best hiking companion. Her legs are longer which means she is always ahead of me and it doesn't matter how good of shape I am in, she will always mention something about my "breathing." I think this is a dig at my state of cardiovascular shape-ed-ness, which is just fine, really. But hers is always a tad better. When we do the really brutal "good GAWD I can't breathe" hikes, she is in the lower end of her cardio "range," while I am pushing the point of being almost damned uncomfortable.
In recent years, her fibromyalgia, bad shoulder, and sports-wracked knees have given her trouble, which means shorter hikes. But she never says she is going to die. She's said she needs a big bag of ice, or a jar of Advil, or a hot bath, but she never threatens death.
This is not to say that Sue and I haven't run across a few people over the years who appeared on the brink of death while hiking. These experiences always occur on a trail in the Sierra Nevada mountains. These are the trails way up high in elevation, full of breathtaking beauty, and sought after by dedicated hikers everywhere.
There was the Diabetes Family. We named them that because all four of them were either shooting insulin, on the verge of shooting insulin, or the recipient of a family doctor's "suggested diet." We came across them as we attempted the Fern Creek Trail. Now, the Fern Creek Trail is listed in the Eastern Sierra Hiking Guide as "difficult." If the hiking guide says it is difficult, then it is in a class with mountains like Everest and Whitney and Denali. This hiking guide calls trails we would rate "difficult" as "moderate." The author is obviously a smart-ass. But I digress.
So, Diabetes Family is on the way UP to where the Fern Creek trail forks away from the main trail. Sue and I were on our way down and were appalled to see two middle aged people, a man and a woman, with bright red faces, totally out of breath, leaning on walking sticks, trying to remain upright. They were both on the "hefty" side, to be kind, and looked like heart attacks ready to happen. They were accompanied by a boy and a girl who were collapsed on the side of the trail. They had NO WATER. They had NO IDEA WHAT THEY WERE DOING.
"This trail is difficult," Sue and I tell the Diabetes Family. "May we suggest a nice flat trail that runs behind Gull Lake?"
The family waved away our concern and Sue and I continued on our journey, certain they were all going to die.
Then there was Flip-flop Girl.
We pulled in to the Lundy Canyon Trailhead one nice summer day at the same time as the Flip-flop Girl's family. They were loud and argumentative, not dressed at all for a serious hike. Sue and I picked up our pace so we could sign the trail register before them and get a good head start. Nothing is worse than being stuck with people who resembled the family from "Roseanne."
This trail ascends steeply from 7,398 feet to just over 10,000 feet in about an hour and a half. This is not a beginner's trail. Yet, here was this family, with a surly teenaged boy wearing head phones and skater shoes and a little girl of nine or ten wearing.......FLIP FLOPS. Yes, flip flops. Mom was screeching, Dad was swearing, and Sue and I were certain that they must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.
The family had no food except the bag of Skittles in the boy's pocket, which he refused to share with FF Girl. The family had NO WATER. Sue and I gave them a half hour, tops.
"They're gonna die," Sue said, as we hurriedly tried to put distance between ourselves and the bickering brother and sister.
Near Mammoth Lakes, we ran into a young couple who had not seen a gym or serious exercise in quite awhile - if ever. She was looking like she needed an I.V., while he was paused on the trail SMOKING A CIGARETTE. It gets worse - they had a toddler with them. They were obviously new parents who sincerely believed that if they coaxed and yelled enough, the child would happily toddle along in front of them. The "happily" part was missing. The child was in full-whine.
"One of you is going to have to carry him," Sue said, as we prepared to overtake them.
The mother looked disgusted and the father looked annoyed. "He's fine," snapped the annoyed one, struggling for breath.
"This is a long trail - we've only just begun," I offered. "Perhaps he can ride on your shoulders?" I asked. It was the mother in me - I just couldn't help it. "You'll burn extra calories..."
Suffice to say that we didn't see them a few hours later on our way back to the trailhead.
They either gave up - or died trying.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Seamus the Greyhound
Seamus, my dog with little brain, has finally found his calling. He is a greyhound in disguise. Who knew?
Jealousy led to the creation of this "incredible hulk"-type transformation. It is a powerful motivator.
First, let me backtrack a bit:
Ziggy, Danny and Brandy's 7-month old labrador, has been living with us since early August. It is quite apparent that a happy and peaceful house is predicted upon and inversely correlated to Labrador Exercise. It is not sufficient to take Ziggy for hour-long walks around the neighborhood. This activity is good only for dachshunds. The Zigrador requires vigorous exercise. Real vigorous - the kind that induces huffing and puffing and sweating on the part of the exercisor.
So - Brandy and I began taking Ziggy for runs. He runs while one of us pedals my bicycle. Over the past couple months, he has gotten quite good at running on the "house" side of the sidewalk and stopping (on a dime) when the pedaler yells "Stop!" (A good safety feature.)
A couple of weeks ago, the brown dog started going into jealousy overload. He just couldn't stand it when the puppy got to go running and he had to stay INSIDE. As a joke, I leashed Seamus up and took him for a lap. It was a disaster, with the brown dog all over the place, determined to knock me over and strangle himself - while in full motion, naturally.
But, because hope always springs eternal in my heart when it comes to the brown dog, I leashed him up and tried again. He tried to kill me several times with unfortunate leash entanglement accidents - always involving the leash, the running dog, me, and a high rate of speed. Staying on the same side of the fire hydrants and streetlights were merely suggestions for Seamus. Several instances of me sprawling out flat and the bike going sideways led to near strangulation for Seamus. Near death is a good teacher.
Seamus is not a natural hiker. He goes because we all go, but he starts making excuses early on to flop under bushes and take frequent breaks. He never wants to keep on going when we stop for water, like Duke and Augie. He would be perfectly content to turn around after about 8 minutes or so.
But for some reason, Seamus loves running. His short legs just pump away and there is a smile planted across his face as we fly around the neighborhood, up and down hills, in and out of driveways and avoiding trash cans and cars parked across the sidewalks.
On the downhill stretch, Seamus pulls ahead of me and it is all I can do to keep him from pulling me like a water skier around the corner, onto the flatland stretch behind the house. He runs on my right side, away from Ziggy, who is running off-leash on my left. Occasionally, Seamus cuts in front and then pulls to the left, just to ensure that the view on the laborador's side isn't better than his own. He gives token barks to the neighborhood dogs and just keeps right on running.
Today he ran 5 laps and didn't try to kill me at all. This is a new record.
I wonder if he thinks he is a greyhound?
Jealousy led to the creation of this "incredible hulk"-type transformation. It is a powerful motivator.
First, let me backtrack a bit:
Ziggy, Danny and Brandy's 7-month old labrador, has been living with us since early August. It is quite apparent that a happy and peaceful house is predicted upon and inversely correlated to Labrador Exercise. It is not sufficient to take Ziggy for hour-long walks around the neighborhood. This activity is good only for dachshunds. The Zigrador requires vigorous exercise. Real vigorous - the kind that induces huffing and puffing and sweating on the part of the exercisor.
So - Brandy and I began taking Ziggy for runs. He runs while one of us pedals my bicycle. Over the past couple months, he has gotten quite good at running on the "house" side of the sidewalk and stopping (on a dime) when the pedaler yells "Stop!" (A good safety feature.)
A couple of weeks ago, the brown dog started going into jealousy overload. He just couldn't stand it when the puppy got to go running and he had to stay INSIDE. As a joke, I leashed Seamus up and took him for a lap. It was a disaster, with the brown dog all over the place, determined to knock me over and strangle himself - while in full motion, naturally.
But, because hope always springs eternal in my heart when it comes to the brown dog, I leashed him up and tried again. He tried to kill me several times with unfortunate leash entanglement accidents - always involving the leash, the running dog, me, and a high rate of speed. Staying on the same side of the fire hydrants and streetlights were merely suggestions for Seamus. Several instances of me sprawling out flat and the bike going sideways led to near strangulation for Seamus. Near death is a good teacher.
Seamus is not a natural hiker. He goes because we all go, but he starts making excuses early on to flop under bushes and take frequent breaks. He never wants to keep on going when we stop for water, like Duke and Augie. He would be perfectly content to turn around after about 8 minutes or so.
But for some reason, Seamus loves running. His short legs just pump away and there is a smile planted across his face as we fly around the neighborhood, up and down hills, in and out of driveways and avoiding trash cans and cars parked across the sidewalks.
On the downhill stretch, Seamus pulls ahead of me and it is all I can do to keep him from pulling me like a water skier around the corner, onto the flatland stretch behind the house. He runs on my right side, away from Ziggy, who is running off-leash on my left. Occasionally, Seamus cuts in front and then pulls to the left, just to ensure that the view on the laborador's side isn't better than his own. He gives token barks to the neighborhood dogs and just keeps right on running.
Today he ran 5 laps and didn't try to kill me at all. This is a new record.
I wonder if he thinks he is a greyhound?
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Need Ink? Call Utah....
Yesterday, one of my teaching colleagues stayed late to gather the materials needed for next week’s language arts lessons. She sorted the black line masters, made a list of which teacher on her team needed what, figured out the numbers of copies, and carefully paper-clipped everything together with detailed instructions for the clerk who does the school’s major copying.
When she arrived in the work room, however, she noticed a sign on the duplicating machine. It was out of ink – again. My friend then walked up to the school office to ask the secretary about the status of the duplicator’s ink order. The secretary replied that yes, she had placed an order several weeks ago for a box of ink. Each box costs $38.50 and holds two ink cartridges. The district office was holding the purchase order because the budget is frozen. No money can be spent from the district’s depleted coffers – so the duplicating machine has no ink and a fresh supply is not forthcoming because, Virginia, there is no Ink Fairy.
We discussed asking teachers to chip in so that a box of duplicating machine ink could be purchased. This would cost less than spending time and money at Kinko’s over the weekend. We discussed trying to do without copies at all – but some skills just have to be practiced with paper and pencil.
But the best idea is to go to the Mormon church and ask for a box of duplicating ink. Not all of my colleagues agree with me on this one, but my ideas tend to be a bit outlandish sometimes.
I figure it works this way: The Mormon church outspent every other denomination supporting efforts to pass Proposition 8 and deny homosexuals the right to marry. It bothers them immensely that “Adam and Steve” want a wedding cake, a gift registry, and to file a joint tax return. The church phone-banked out of Utah to sway California voters on this issue. Coupled with deceptive television ads that scared John and Jane Q. Public into thinking schoolteachers were drafting lesson plans to “teach same sex marriage,” the strategy worked and the Proposition was passed by a narrow margin.
America is a democracy and this church, along with countless others in our nation, have the right to express their opinions on this matter and put their money where their collective mouths are – such is the sanctity of freedom of speech. As any basic philosophy class will teach you, all rights are coupled with responsibility. If public education is “the great equalizer” in a democratic society, then the public has the responsibility to ensure that the institution of education is adequately supported.
Since Arnold and his fiscally irresponsible state legislature can’t seem to properly fund education in California, maybe the Mormon church can help out. A box of duplicating ink costs around $40.00 and we could use some a couple boxes of Kleenex too.
When she arrived in the work room, however, she noticed a sign on the duplicating machine. It was out of ink – again. My friend then walked up to the school office to ask the secretary about the status of the duplicator’s ink order. The secretary replied that yes, she had placed an order several weeks ago for a box of ink. Each box costs $38.50 and holds two ink cartridges. The district office was holding the purchase order because the budget is frozen. No money can be spent from the district’s depleted coffers – so the duplicating machine has no ink and a fresh supply is not forthcoming because, Virginia, there is no Ink Fairy.
We discussed asking teachers to chip in so that a box of duplicating machine ink could be purchased. This would cost less than spending time and money at Kinko’s over the weekend. We discussed trying to do without copies at all – but some skills just have to be practiced with paper and pencil.
But the best idea is to go to the Mormon church and ask for a box of duplicating ink. Not all of my colleagues agree with me on this one, but my ideas tend to be a bit outlandish sometimes.
I figure it works this way: The Mormon church outspent every other denomination supporting efforts to pass Proposition 8 and deny homosexuals the right to marry. It bothers them immensely that “Adam and Steve” want a wedding cake, a gift registry, and to file a joint tax return. The church phone-banked out of Utah to sway California voters on this issue. Coupled with deceptive television ads that scared John and Jane Q. Public into thinking schoolteachers were drafting lesson plans to “teach same sex marriage,” the strategy worked and the Proposition was passed by a narrow margin.
America is a democracy and this church, along with countless others in our nation, have the right to express their opinions on this matter and put their money where their collective mouths are – such is the sanctity of freedom of speech. As any basic philosophy class will teach you, all rights are coupled with responsibility. If public education is “the great equalizer” in a democratic society, then the public has the responsibility to ensure that the institution of education is adequately supported.
Since Arnold and his fiscally irresponsible state legislature can’t seem to properly fund education in California, maybe the Mormon church can help out. A box of duplicating ink costs around $40.00 and we could use some a couple boxes of Kleenex too.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Family Drama Cycle
This morning, I hopped on my bicycle to take the dogs for a run. I can’t run all the dogs at once so we take turns. First up is always Ziggy, because the energy of the Labrador puppy is something that needs to be expended early in the morning if you want to drink coffee in peace. I ride a quarter mile loop around the neighborhood, staying on the sidewalk for the safety of the dogs. I see neighbors on occasion, but rarely get entertained with family drama. This morning was an exception.
Loop 1: Ziggy is running at top speed and I am pedaling furiously. When we reach Argyle Lane, we see the garage door open at the corner house and Todd, the 15-year old resident, come out in his pajama bottoms, gray tee shirt, and a motorcycle.
Loop 2: Ziggy is still running at top speed and I am pedaling furiously. I am grateful that nobody has parked their car across the sidewalk and that the path has been clear of any obstructions. Todd is pushing the motorcycle up the street. I am venturing a guess that he is trying to start it. He looks pained.
Loop 3: Ziggy is running and I am pedaling. His tongue is hanging from the side of his mouth but he doesn’t let up except to double check that I am still there. Todd is now sitting on the motorcycle with a scowl on his face. He scowls at me and Ziggy. Ziggy runs over to comfort him but Todd does not respond and Ziggy catches up with me. My “good morning, scowling teenage boy,” went unanswered.
Loop 4: Ziggy is running at a fast trot by now and I am encouraging him by pedaling faster. Saliva is escaping the side of his mouth and I can hear him panting. Todd is now cursing the motorcycle and kicking it with his pajama-clad leg. The effect is somewhat comical but I refrain from laughing since snarling teenage boys lack a sense of humor, especially at their expense from middle aged bicycling women. Ziggy refrains from running over to Todd. I think it was the kicking – but I am not sure. Maybe the Zigrador was just getting tired.
Loop 5: Ziggy and I go around the loop on an even keel. He runs and I pedal and we reach Argyle Lane to hear Todd in the garage yelling at his mother. The motorcycle is on the ground and Todd is generous with words that include the Father and Son but not the Holy Ghost. I am not thinking these are church-going words or that Todd and his mother are having a prayer session. I pedal faster because this scowling mood of his has gotten worse and I don’t want him kicking anything else.
Loop 6: Ziggy has entered the house for water and breakfast. He is replaced by Seamus, the brown dog, who has taken well to bicycle runs. He is very cute with his short little legs pumping away and his pink little tongue hanging out. We see Todd’s mother backing the big blue truck out of the garage and Todd waiting on the motorcycle. He is shouting directions at her and she is looking wearing sunglasses and looking annoyed. I don’t look inside the truck long enough to notice details, but I get the impression Mom is wearing jammies and hasn’t brushed her hair yet.
Loop 7: Seamus continues to run and I continue to pedal. I am wondering if I should take him another loop. When we pass our house, the brown dog keeps going, so I guess the answer is YES. When we turn onto Argyle Lane, the big blue truck is slowly driving up the street. Todd has apparently affixed the recalcitrant motorcycle to the back of the truck. He is yelling at his mother to “F%$#%@ slow down!” as she guns the engine. I don’t think that Todd is happy. We cycle past and I call, “Good morning!” to Mom.“ She waves back and Todd continues to shower his mother with expletives. He is liberal with the F-word and I refrain from calling him a potty mouth. I reflect on his use of the word as an adjective and a noun. This is a versatile word.
Loop 8: Seamus is still going like the energizer bunny. We cycle at an even pace and I have to slow down a bit on Argyle because he is beginning to lag a little. Mom is still attempting to pull Todd and his motorcycle and she has inched up the street a few houses. Todd continues to scream at his mother and every other word begins with an F. She is, according to him, not only “F^%$#%@$ stupid,” she “F%$#%@ can’t hear.” I nod to Patty and she gives me a half wave. I reflect upon the disrespect that the scowly, potty-mouth boy is showing to his mother. I call out to her that she should run the motorcycle over. She smiles and nods and Todd unleashes a stream of expletives regarding his mother’s hearing, driving abilities, and intelligence level. He refrains, however, from kicking anything, since he appears pinned beneath the motorcycle. His NFL football jammies are getting dirty but I refrain from offering laundry tips.
Loop 9: Seamus still does not want to stop so we go for a fourth loop. The brown dog is slowing down but still trotting. We reach Argyle Lane and there is no big blue truck, no annoyed mother, and no snarling, potty-mouth teenage boy. There is no motorcycle and all is quiet. I wonder if she just gave up and pulled the truck back into the garage. Had she run over the motorcycle and the boy, it would have been messy. There is no evidence of carnage, no matter how well-deserved.
Loops 10 and 11: It is now Augie’s turn. There is no sign of life on Argyle Lane. In a way I am disappointed.
Loop 12: Duke trots along the bike for one lap. We stop and visit a neighbor for a few minutes and Duke shivers, shakes, and yips at me to get going. We finish our loop and head home.
So ends our Sunday morning drama.
Loop 1: Ziggy is running at top speed and I am pedaling furiously. When we reach Argyle Lane, we see the garage door open at the corner house and Todd, the 15-year old resident, come out in his pajama bottoms, gray tee shirt, and a motorcycle.
Loop 2: Ziggy is still running at top speed and I am pedaling furiously. I am grateful that nobody has parked their car across the sidewalk and that the path has been clear of any obstructions. Todd is pushing the motorcycle up the street. I am venturing a guess that he is trying to start it. He looks pained.
Loop 3: Ziggy is running and I am pedaling. His tongue is hanging from the side of his mouth but he doesn’t let up except to double check that I am still there. Todd is now sitting on the motorcycle with a scowl on his face. He scowls at me and Ziggy. Ziggy runs over to comfort him but Todd does not respond and Ziggy catches up with me. My “good morning, scowling teenage boy,” went unanswered.
Loop 4: Ziggy is running at a fast trot by now and I am encouraging him by pedaling faster. Saliva is escaping the side of his mouth and I can hear him panting. Todd is now cursing the motorcycle and kicking it with his pajama-clad leg. The effect is somewhat comical but I refrain from laughing since snarling teenage boys lack a sense of humor, especially at their expense from middle aged bicycling women. Ziggy refrains from running over to Todd. I think it was the kicking – but I am not sure. Maybe the Zigrador was just getting tired.
Loop 5: Ziggy and I go around the loop on an even keel. He runs and I pedal and we reach Argyle Lane to hear Todd in the garage yelling at his mother. The motorcycle is on the ground and Todd is generous with words that include the Father and Son but not the Holy Ghost. I am not thinking these are church-going words or that Todd and his mother are having a prayer session. I pedal faster because this scowling mood of his has gotten worse and I don’t want him kicking anything else.
Loop 6: Ziggy has entered the house for water and breakfast. He is replaced by Seamus, the brown dog, who has taken well to bicycle runs. He is very cute with his short little legs pumping away and his pink little tongue hanging out. We see Todd’s mother backing the big blue truck out of the garage and Todd waiting on the motorcycle. He is shouting directions at her and she is looking wearing sunglasses and looking annoyed. I don’t look inside the truck long enough to notice details, but I get the impression Mom is wearing jammies and hasn’t brushed her hair yet.
Loop 7: Seamus continues to run and I continue to pedal. I am wondering if I should take him another loop. When we pass our house, the brown dog keeps going, so I guess the answer is YES. When we turn onto Argyle Lane, the big blue truck is slowly driving up the street. Todd has apparently affixed the recalcitrant motorcycle to the back of the truck. He is yelling at his mother to “F%$#%@ slow down!” as she guns the engine. I don’t think that Todd is happy. We cycle past and I call, “Good morning!” to Mom.“ She waves back and Todd continues to shower his mother with expletives. He is liberal with the F-word and I refrain from calling him a potty mouth. I reflect on his use of the word as an adjective and a noun. This is a versatile word.
Loop 8: Seamus is still going like the energizer bunny. We cycle at an even pace and I have to slow down a bit on Argyle because he is beginning to lag a little. Mom is still attempting to pull Todd and his motorcycle and she has inched up the street a few houses. Todd continues to scream at his mother and every other word begins with an F. She is, according to him, not only “F^%$#%@$ stupid,” she “F%$#%@ can’t hear.” I nod to Patty and she gives me a half wave. I reflect upon the disrespect that the scowly, potty-mouth boy is showing to his mother. I call out to her that she should run the motorcycle over. She smiles and nods and Todd unleashes a stream of expletives regarding his mother’s hearing, driving abilities, and intelligence level. He refrains, however, from kicking anything, since he appears pinned beneath the motorcycle. His NFL football jammies are getting dirty but I refrain from offering laundry tips.
Loop 9: Seamus still does not want to stop so we go for a fourth loop. The brown dog is slowing down but still trotting. We reach Argyle Lane and there is no big blue truck, no annoyed mother, and no snarling, potty-mouth teenage boy. There is no motorcycle and all is quiet. I wonder if she just gave up and pulled the truck back into the garage. Had she run over the motorcycle and the boy, it would have been messy. There is no evidence of carnage, no matter how well-deserved.
Loops 10 and 11: It is now Augie’s turn. There is no sign of life on Argyle Lane. In a way I am disappointed.
Loop 12: Duke trots along the bike for one lap. We stop and visit a neighbor for a few minutes and Duke shivers, shakes, and yips at me to get going. We finish our loop and head home.
So ends our Sunday morning drama.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Ghost Writing~
Browsing at Barnes and Noble this afternoon, I noticed a display filled with books for the Halloween “season.” I looked over several titles and came upon a box, sealed in cellophane. The outside of the box said, “Ghost Writing.”
The box is sealed, but there are helpful pictures on the front and "directions" on the back. Apparently, with this Ouija-looking ‘planchette,’ you can contact the dearly departed. A special pen is provided that you insert into a hole in the palette thing. You put your fingertips on the edge and wait for the spirits to start writing. This contraption costs $19.95, before the membership discount.
Now, Barnes and Noble is a reputable bookseller. This isn’t some hole in the wall, San Francisco boutique that caters to the occult. This is a suburban retail outfit.
I would be thrilled if such a pen and planchette could actually be used by my dead family members to chat with me. Heaven knows we have stuff to talk about. Nobody wants to believe that this is possible more than I do. But something about this niggles at me and I just couldn’t add the “Ghost Writing” box to my stack o’ books.
I do wonder though – IF you buy the box and the contraption doesn’t work, will Barnes and Noble refund your money? Or will they blame the customer because the ghosts don’t want to write? Or will the harried, eyebrow-raising clerk inform you that since you didn’t BELIEVE hard enough, OF COURSE the damn thing didn't work?
K (who is scratching her chin hairs here….)
The box is sealed, but there are helpful pictures on the front and "directions" on the back. Apparently, with this Ouija-looking ‘planchette,’ you can contact the dearly departed. A special pen is provided that you insert into a hole in the palette thing. You put your fingertips on the edge and wait for the spirits to start writing. This contraption costs $19.95, before the membership discount.
Now, Barnes and Noble is a reputable bookseller. This isn’t some hole in the wall, San Francisco boutique that caters to the occult. This is a suburban retail outfit.
I would be thrilled if such a pen and planchette could actually be used by my dead family members to chat with me. Heaven knows we have stuff to talk about. Nobody wants to believe that this is possible more than I do. But something about this niggles at me and I just couldn’t add the “Ghost Writing” box to my stack o’ books.
I do wonder though – IF you buy the box and the contraption doesn’t work, will Barnes and Noble refund your money? Or will they blame the customer because the ghosts don’t want to write? Or will the harried, eyebrow-raising clerk inform you that since you didn’t BELIEVE hard enough, OF COURSE the damn thing didn't work?
K (who is scratching her chin hairs here….)
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Bad Doggy Gramma
Danny has reported to San Diego for Game Warden duty and Brandy is visiting family in Las Vegas. So, I am on Dog Sitting Duty.
This morning Ziggy awoke early. He is now five months old and at least 50 pounds. He is used to getting up with me at 5:30am but THIS is not a 5:30am day.
Saturdays mean nothing to him. My precious sleeping-in time is of no consequence to the black Labrador. It was O’Dawn Thirty when panting puppy breath, just at eye level, invaded my peaceful weekend slumber. I turned over. He licked my neck.
I am assuming he came upstairs because nobody downstairs would wake up. When licking my face didn’t work, he began working on the brown dog – trying to get his attention. Seamus was having none of it. He growled at Ziggy, sighed a doggy sigh, and went back to sleep.
So naturally, Ziggy attacked the bath mat. He killed it and then killed it again. Then he shook the carcass and ran it around the house, announcing his victory. Next came the bathroom trash can and its plethora of fun contents.
When the spewing of old tissue and the chewing of used Q-Tips failed to elicit response, Ziggy went after clothing on my closet shelf. Down came the brand-new, white and fuzzy hooded sweater, the one on sale. He killed it. Then he shook it and paraded the remains around the house. Nobody applauded his victory. I opened one eye while Dan yelled at him to SETTLE DOWN! He didn’t.
So, back to my face with his puppy panting. I noticed white sweater threads and a piece of toilet tissue around his snout. Feeling suspicious, I got up.
I took him outside and ordered him to “go potty.” He gave me a “pity pee” and began running around the yard. I threw toys, his ball, and an old bone. He dutifully ran after them and plowed into my legs with all of his overgrown puppy force. I stepped in mud trying to avoid broken bones. I found bathmat and white sweater wreckage around the family room. He attempted to wrestle the parts from me and kill them again.
I went upstairs to take a shower.
Now, Ziggy thinks all bathroom activities require canine attendance. A closed shower door is an invitation, apparently, to hurl his 50-pound-plus body against the glass and howl miserably, demanding entrance. Huge puppy paws clawed at the glass. The idea of sharing shower space with a stinky dog first thing on a Saturday morning is less than appealing, so I told him NO and he flopped down to wait. Mostly.
In between waiting episodes, he tried to get the brown dog to play with him. Seamus wouldn’t budge. He jumped on the bed but that didn’t work either. The brown dog does NOT get up early unless hell has frozen over. The weather has cooled, but there is no evidence of freezing over.
So, Ziggy tried to get into the closet but I ordered him, through soapy hair and water-blurred vision, to LAY DOWN! He did, temporarily.
But what does a moving bath towel mean to a Labrador puppy? YES! Tug! Tug! Tug! This explains the loose threads in my favorite $50.00, extra-plush bath towel. All mysteries are eventually explained.
FINALLY, Ziggy got breakfast. A few more throws of the ball were obviously NOT going to cut it, so I saddled up for a bike ride around the block to tire the dog out. The loop is hilly and Ziggy runs like he’s possessed. This is a GOOD thing for exercise so we rode around and around and around and around. He kept up with me until the fourth go-around, so I slowed down. Then we went around some more. He kept running, smiling his doggy smile, panting his doggy pant.
Until he stopped running. Just like that. No warning, no slowing down, nothing. Just… errrrk!
I noticed he was sending doggy saliva all over the place. We stopped at a corner house down the street where a pair of nice ladies were watering. They were more than happy to hose down the hot puppy and provide water.
“I don’t think dogs are supposed to foam at the mouth,” one of the hose ladies said.
“He’s not just tired?” I asked, feeling like Gramma of the Year.
“Um, no. He’s getting over-heated,” she replied, covering Ziggy with cool hose water. The dog flopped onto the shade of the sidewalk, licking up water and looking generally exhausted. It was really pitiful.
“Well, shoot. I’m not a very good doggy Gramma,” I confessed. Ziggy rolled over so the nice lady could hose down his belly. He snorted and looked more pitiful.
“Let’s just hope you do a BETTER job with the real thing,” said the hose lady. Her tone of voice indicated that SHE would never encourage a dog that kills bath mats and new sweaters to run around the block to the point of exhaustion. SHE would know when to stop.
Feeling contrite and wracked with guilt, I walked Ziggy home. To add to my misery, he began limping.
When we reached the house next door, Ziggy revived. He ran at the neighbor, rolled on the grass, and demanded a belly rub. Then he did a somersault and tried to bit the neighbor’s inert weed whacker. Then he resumed limping home.
I think I am forgiven because the black lab is asleep ON my foot right now and the bath mats of the house are safe from doggy destruction.
K (Bad Doggy Gramma)
Monday, September 01, 2008
Our House... is a very, very, very, fine house...~
My house is an insane asylum.
Brandy and Danny left their animals with us for a few days while they take care of some business.
Ziggy, the 12-week old Labrador puppy, can’t stand it that Duke, the 14-year old dachshund, doesn’t like him. The solution is to stalk the poor geriatric dog all over the house.
Seamus goes ballistic if Ziggy comes near me. Ziggy always comes near me. Seamus needs Prozac.
Tallulah, the cat, can’t stand the fact that she was moved without her permission. She is pissy, nasty, and actually HISSES at me in my own house. Every move she makes attracts the attention of Augie, who won’t let her be. This adds to her “mood,” I am sure. Augie sits for hours on “point” outside Danny’s bedroom door. The cat sits inside, plotting my demise.
Koka, the red-tailed boa, won’t eat. “Little Guy,” the ball python WILL eat. I am tempted to smear the cat in mouse droppings and have her “ visit” the snake enclosure “by accident.”
Otis refuses to come inside, favoring the garage and the back patio. Until the Zigrador figures out he is there – then the gray cat hides behind the compost pile or jumps into the yard next door, where there are only 3 dogs in residence.
Dan keeps trying to “talk” the dogs into calming down. During the last negotiation session, I took the Zigmeister outside to run around. He promptly mistook my hand for a tennis ball. It still throbs. When the swelling goes down, I will check for broken bones.
And Dustin won’t believe me when I tell him that the dachshunds just belted out the last portion of the Jeopardy! theme song. He served up some leftover dinner, ate standing up, then drove out of here like a bat out of hell, saying something about me seeing the Virgin Mary in the Grilled Cheese Sandwiches next.
He didn’t take ANY of the dogs with him.
If the ball python won't dispatch Tallulah, I’m going to put that bitchy little feline in HIS room and won’t HE be surprised…….
:-)K
Brandy and Danny left their animals with us for a few days while they take care of some business.
Ziggy, the 12-week old Labrador puppy, can’t stand it that Duke, the 14-year old dachshund, doesn’t like him. The solution is to stalk the poor geriatric dog all over the house.
Seamus goes ballistic if Ziggy comes near me. Ziggy always comes near me. Seamus needs Prozac.
Tallulah, the cat, can’t stand the fact that she was moved without her permission. She is pissy, nasty, and actually HISSES at me in my own house. Every move she makes attracts the attention of Augie, who won’t let her be. This adds to her “mood,” I am sure. Augie sits for hours on “point” outside Danny’s bedroom door. The cat sits inside, plotting my demise.
Koka, the red-tailed boa, won’t eat. “Little Guy,” the ball python WILL eat. I am tempted to smear the cat in mouse droppings and have her “ visit” the snake enclosure “by accident.”
Otis refuses to come inside, favoring the garage and the back patio. Until the Zigrador figures out he is there – then the gray cat hides behind the compost pile or jumps into the yard next door, where there are only 3 dogs in residence.
Dan keeps trying to “talk” the dogs into calming down. During the last negotiation session, I took the Zigmeister outside to run around. He promptly mistook my hand for a tennis ball. It still throbs. When the swelling goes down, I will check for broken bones.
And Dustin won’t believe me when I tell him that the dachshunds just belted out the last portion of the Jeopardy! theme song. He served up some leftover dinner, ate standing up, then drove out of here like a bat out of hell, saying something about me seeing the Virgin Mary in the Grilled Cheese Sandwiches next.
He didn’t take ANY of the dogs with him.
If the ball python won't dispatch Tallulah, I’m going to put that bitchy little feline in HIS room and won’t HE be surprised…….
:-)K
Sunday, August 31, 2008
A Report from Tallulah~
This is my second report on Day 2 of my captivity. You will note that one of the ugly animals from my Male Staff Member's former home has breached the security gate. He is even worse than I expected and dared to IGNORE me after glancing at my comely face and beautiful body.
This despicable creature actually JUMPED onto my throne and proceeded to chew on one of MY toys. The woman who wants to be a staff member, actually LAUGHED at this and I shall not forgive her.
Her resume will be placed in my litter box along with my latest aromatic deposit.
Tallulah
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