Recent Disaster, Revealed

And now, the story you’ve all been waiting for. (Or not.) Just be advised that I tried to edit it down, but it’s still a long story.

Last Tuesday, August 19, now known as “Black Tuesday,” through absolutely no fault of his own, Tom lost his job. He called me at work shortly after 3:30, and we had the following conversation:

Tom: I want you to come home.

Me: OK. Why?

Tom: Dave let me go.

(At this point, I’m thinking how nice this was of Dave, to let Tom go home early. After all, Tom has – in addition to being an assistant that cuts Dave’s workload in half – manages to be the leading salesman and does nice stuff like going in early on his Sunday off to run reports, so Dave will have them there all nice and handy when he gets there. Plus, Dave’s dad had had some heart trouble the previous week, and Dave was out of the store all week, with his family. Tom picked up the slack, so yes, it was quite nice of Dave to give him some extra time off.)

Me: So, you want me to come home?

Tom: Yeah.

Me: (seductively) How ‘bout you give me some incentive?

(Because I’m totally reading this as a “Hey, I’m home a little early and can’t wait to get my paws on you,” and I’m more than willing to get the ball rolling with some flirtatious chit chat.)

Tom: (sounding puzzled) No. Lor. Dave. Let. Me. Go. I’m freaking out.

(Massive shift to the axis of the planet, as this begins to penetrate my thick skull. Who knew that “let me go” was not followed by a silent, but implied, “early?” Which, of course, I should have realized, because 3:30 is not “going home early” for him, since his shift typically ends at 3:00. Plus, his voice sounded very flat, not at all flirty. But that’s where my mind went, anyway.)

Me: OH. (Pause. Is this real?) I’m on my way.

I clued Dr. Vet-Friend in on the situation, and headed home. With a stomach full of hot rocks, of course. Panic could be allowed to prevail, though. We needed a plan. What do people do when they don’t have jobs? Oh, yeah, they can file for unemployment. He’ll hate that. But it’s money. I was busily composing his spectacular resume in my head as I drove. I was also figuring out how to quell his panic, because there was no way he wasn’t going to be losing his mind.

I was thinking of potential jobs, places he could apply, people he knows who might know of something. I was thinking he should have a pay check and a week of vacation time coming, so that’s good. He’s not unemployed. He’s on vacation! I knew he’d never see it that way, but dammit, that’s what we’re going with.

Once I got home and heard the whole story, besides being freaked out, I was massively pissed off.

Tom has never been out of work a day in his life. And by “in his life,” I can go back to when he was in elementary school and had a paper route. Completely stellar work history. Somehow, he’d managed to dodge all the corporate shifts in the companies where he’s worked, when many others did not.

You see where this is headed now, don’t you?

And it’s totally not his fault. He didn’t screw up, or do something he shouldn’t, or try to overthrow the powers that be. He just happened to get along very well with an owner who was forced out of the franchise group. Originally, that owner and another one (there were three owners of their franchise group) tried to force out the third one, who is a clueless, petty rat bastard. They didn’t succeed. Then one of the first pair teamed up with the rat bastard and they got rid of the one Tom liked best. Once he was gone, the rat bastard started focusing on Tom as an enemy sympathizer or something. I guess the writing was on the wall if we’d bothered to see it. But we’re still naïve enough to believe that if you’re honest, hardworking, and excel at your job nothing bad will happen.

The other thing that had me absolutely seeing red is how he was “let go.”

The store manager worked with Tom all afternoon. Waved bye-bye as Tom left at 3:00, then waited till he got home and called him on the fucking telephone. What kind of cowardly, slimy gastropod does such a thing? Especially when he knows it’s totally bogus, and he’s only doing it because he doesn’t have the balls to tell the owner who “doesn’t like Tom” that he doesn’t think that firing Tom is a very good idea?

Sure, it’ll save him a hunk of payroll. Tom didn’t come cheap, and they could get a counter-jockey for much less. That’ll be nice initially, till he realizes he’s paying Bozo the Salesman to stand around and pick his ass, whereas he was paying Tom fairly and that Tom more than made up for it in his sales totals, and the whole management thing on top of it. But noooooo. “Boss used his Meanie voice, and said I needed to fire my best employee, and I’m so gutless I’ll just do it, even though I know it’s the wrongest thing ever.” What a colossal insult.

How did we look for jobs before the Internet? In a matter of an hour or two, we’d filed for unemployment and submitted several online applications. But, holy shit, have some of these online applications gotten complicated! One in particular was so convoluted as to be laughable. Yes, it’s a famous “management aptitude” type thing, consisting of 120 questions. It started out with about 60 “on a scale of 1-5, how much do you agree with these statements” questions. It asked about how strongly you agree that you’re reliable, that you’re lazy, that you complete projects, total no-brainers. But it asks them slightly differently a whole bunch of times, to see if you’re consistent or not.

After about 60 questions, though, it went to number-type problems. It would give a series of five numbers, and you had to predict the sixth. Maybe it was “the second one is two times the first one minus two, and the third one is three times the second one minus three,” etc., till you get to the magic answer at the end. I almost shoved a Sharpie up my nose to puncture my own brain.

Then it got worse. Something along the lines of, “There is a square table with eight chairs equally distributed. Four men, Fred, Joe, Hank and Bill, are seated at the table. Four more people come in. They are Sally, Maria, Carl and Phil. If you assume that the two women are not seated next to each other, and Hank is directly across from Fred, and Carl is not sitting by Maria and Bill is to the left of Sally, what two men can swap seats while having all those things remain true?”

Somebody has got to go to hell for that one. Seriously. Is this a fair thing to do to someone who just lost his job? And his wife, who is actually doing large portions of this test? What value does it have? Because I’ve already proven that the person taking the test may or may not be the one actually applying for the job. If there are 60 questions like this, how many people complete it? How many still have any remnant of sanity left when they do? What does this actually tell you about someone? Liking word puzzles doesn’t really predict whether you are a good manager. How ‘bout 25 years’ experience? Is anybody stupid enough to say they “strongly agree” with the statement “I have a hard time completing projects on time” on a job application?

I was trying really hard not to be wildly panicked. Believe me, he was panicked enough for both of us. On one hand, I have complete faith in his skills and his integrity, and I know that under normal circumstances companies would be knocking each other out of the way to bring him on board. But the economy is currently in the toilet, and that could derail us. I didn’t want to appear to not be helpful, but I wanted to try to normalize things as much as possible. Some days he seemed positive, but then he’d lose it all over again.

In a lot of ways I wanted him to be the kind of guy who could sit back for a week or two and say, “Hey, I’ve worked my ass off every day for my entire adult life. I have a week’s vacation and a final paycheck coming, and unemployment, and I’m going to take some time to get my head together and be totally Zen for a while.” But I’ve finally found something that Tom can’t jump into with both feet and do a totally spectacular job at it – being unemployed. He just doesn’t have it in him.

I’m not used to my check being critical to survival. When I started working part time when The Boy started school, it was nice to have a little extra money. When I started working full time around 1998, it became a more important part of our income, and if I didn’t work it would be a bit tight, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Suddenly, now, it would be. This is not a responsibility I want.

This Tuesday, exactly one week after Black Tuesday, Tom went online to get the request in for his first unemployment check, only to find out that the company was contesting it. WHAT??? If unemployment isn’t for people like Tom, just who the hell is it for????? He lodged his answer, and we began waiting for the state to make a decision. I later learned that many businesses automatically contest unemployment claims. Then the person answers it, and the state decides if they get paid. I guess it gets companies out of a claim occasionally, but what a shitty thing to do to someone who you just totally screwed over and who is panicking every day about if he’ll lose his house, his dogs, and everything he’s spent the last 25 years building.

Tom had been talking to his contacts, and sending in a bunch of applications and resumes. He talked to a store owner outside his franchise group, and he’d love to have him as soon as he has an opening, which might or might not be in a few weeks. But that’s a long time away if you’re Tom and unemployed.

A master mechanic who had been let go by the franchise group was in touch with Tom right away, and he works for a family tire and service business that has two stores. He’d set up an introduction, and on Tuesday afternoon Tom went in to talk to them. By the time I got home from work Tuesday night, they’d offered him the job, and he started the next morning!

By the end of the first day, the owners had thanked the mechanic for sending Tom their way, and said they should call the idiots who fired him and thank them, also.

For the first two weeks they will pay him an hourly rate, which is higher than his salary was at the job he lost. Not as high as his salary plus commission and bonus, but still. I figure if they’re willing to pay him this well during a two week new hire period, once they figure in his permanent pay structure, it should be pretty good. And he still has so many lines in the water that if he doesn’t feel 100% committed to this new business, he should have other opportunities coming up in the next month or so. Choices. Gee, when’s the last time that has happened?

I’m so relieved, and not just because there should be no noticeable break in our cash flow. I mean, he was off 7 days, and had a week of vacation coming, so technically he was never unemployed at all. (Try telling him that!) But mostly I’m relieved because I know even another week off would have been devastating to him. He’d have taken unemployment, but seen it as some sort of “charity.” He’d have driven himself nuts with worry, not knowing if it would be a day, a week, or six months before he found a job. He was already contemplating temp work, or taking “anything” just to get a check coming in. It would have killed me to watch this man, who has supported a family since he was only 18 years old, worry himself sick, feeling humiliated that he couldn’t take care of us now, all because some asshole “didn’t like him.”

But now I have mixed feelings.

During the days he was off, I had the perfect House Boy! He got up with me each morning, packed my lunch, dealt with the dogs, and washed my laundry. He went to the library for me, and took Darwin to the groomer. When I came home, he had made dinner (fresh rolls!), and the house was totally neat. The vacuum had been run, the dirty dishes were all in the dishwasher, there were no weeds around the pool, and I could actually see the surface of the dining room table.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to make enough money so he can stay home and do that all the time! I’m thinking “best selling writer” would fit that bill nicely. Because then the only time I would have to leave home is to go on book tours. I’d stay home, and he’d stay home and wait on me hand and foot.

I think we’d both enjoy that.

And, oh, one more thing. Remember Tom’s much gloated-over 1.6 mile commute? And my tedious, gas-guzzling 25 mile one? The store where they’re going to place him for the time being is… 29.3 miles away!

I win! I win! I win!

But their other store is only 12 miles away, so while it will be a far cry from his “fill the gas tank every five weeks” experience, he’ll once again one-up me in the commute department.

He says he would have commuted to Pittsburgh if he had to, though. And that’s only a slight exaggeration, because he truly, truly does have that much personal and professional integrity.

No wonder I love him so much.

Warning: This Post Not For Men

(Men, you have been warned. This post is about female-type things. You will not find it amusing or get the jokes, and you don't want to hear the icky details. I am basing this on Tom's aversion to feminine hygiene commercials, but I'm pretty sure this is universal.)

Normally, I enjoy being a girl. I like being all prettied up; I like high heels; I like long, fluffy hair; I like manicures, and (sorry, feminists) I like being taken care of. Truthfully, I like femininity and am glad I’m not a man.

Most of the time.

However, there are those several days, on a more or less monthly basis, when being a girl is something I could totally do without. Like today. And probably tomorrow.

Seriously. I had my one and only child 24 ½ years ago. I was completely finished with any significant use for my uterus in March of 1984. Yet I’ve continued to haul it around, suffering its continued fruitless operation, ever since. Neither of my sisters currently possesses a uterus. I think this is grossly unfair. Oh, yeah, sure, they had medical reasons to get rid of theirs. But still. I tried to convince Former Vet-Friend to spay me on several occasions, but for some reason she felt this might not be a good idea.

If medical science were capable, I would have cheerfully donated my uterus to someone who desperately wanted a baby, but due to uterine insufficiency had been unable to carry one to term. However, I think that the required anti-rejection drugs are probably prohibitive to childbearing. Maybe not. Perhaps I should have researched this more, back when my uterus was younger. It’s 43 now, but it does have a proven track record of producing a healthy child. Maybe it’s not too late.

I have nothing against my ovaries. I appreciate their reliable flow of hormones, keeping me younger and healthier than I would most likely be without them. I don’t get crazy PMS and mood swings (I don’t think… I should ask Tom for verification of this), so they don’t really cause me any trouble. I know many diseases and other signs of aging accelerate rapidly after menopause, so they can keep doing their jobs for a while, if they want.

I’m not one of those women who dreads menopause. I’m kind of looking forward to it, actually. I’m totally ready to embrace my inner crone. I’m just not entirely sure what to do about the process itself. I know that taking or not taking hormones either increases or decreases your risks of breast cancer or heart disease, but I can never remember which choice causes which result. Plus, it seems that the medical journals report something new every time I think I’ve got it sorted out.

One thing I do know is that I am not taking any sort of synthetic hormone. Things like Premarin are not only unnatural, they are an animal-rights nightmare. Have you ever read about the Premarin horses? The mares are kept pregnant and in tiny containment pens, so that their urine can be collected. (Premarin = Pregnant Mare Urine) The foals that result from these constant pregnancies are considered a byproduct. Not nice at all. Fortunately, organizations such as United Animal Nations have programs in place to try to find homes for some of these foals, and the mares that are no longer valued for their ability to produce mommy-horse-pee.

There are plant-based estrogen products, so I guess I could use one of those. However, you know my support of holistic practices, so you can bet I’ll be researching and trying to determine the most natural way possible to go through menopause. Herbs and homeopathy might be the way to go.

Lately, in addition to the “oh, god, this is just too disgusting for words” aspect of this particular rite of womanhood, I’m faced with the unpredictability factor. Early? Late? This week? Next week? Right in the middle of my vacation? Five minutes after I’ve left my house for a morning full of errands? I used to be able to tell, more or less, when to expect this, but now it’s much more of a surprise. As in, “Surprise! You need to buy new pants!” This may be a perimenopausal sign. Impatient as usual, I’d prefer to just jump right into the Main Event and skip the opening act.

Dr. Vet-Friend and I were commiserating with each other over this very thing recently. She’s a year younger than I am, and also looking forward to menopause. We decided that the technology exists for doctors to evacuate uterine contents in times of medical necessity. Wouldn’t it be great if there were a do-it-yourself device so that, when the dreaded day arrived each month, you simply stepped into the bathroom and reduced several days of messy, stinky, disgusting, fun-interfering ordeal into a couple minutes of quick clean-up?

Yes, I understand its potential for misuse, and that’s probably the main reason we don’t have such a revolutionary gadget already. Maybe it could only be possessed by those of us who have had tubal ligations (which I have), are on prescription birth control, or who are proven infertile. I don’t know. I hate getting caught in the whole religious/ethical quagmire. I just don’t want to be subjected to a biological process that no longer is of any value to me.

But if I follow that logic, I suppose I should stop having sex, too. And that is so not going to happen. Anyway, sex has other purposes other than childbearing (unless you listen to the Catholic Church), such as pair-bonding and actual physiological health benefits. There is no good reason for me to have to bleed for several days a month, though.

Remember those pre-puberty days? Most of us were just dying to take this step toward womanhood. Girls at school would shyly or triumphantly announce when it was first visited upon them. I really wanted to be part of the club, too, but was a bit worried. My preparation had come in the form of a pamphlet from my mother, who was a nurse. I smuggled it to school in the inside pocket of my windbreaker to show my friends. However, it wasn’t as clear as I’d have liked. Even after reading it, I was concerned that I wouldn’t know precisely which of the confusing bits down in the nether-regions was producing this essence of womanhood, leaving me at a bit of a loss as to how to deal with it.

Well, I sure know that NOW. And it can stop any damned time it wants.

So Obvious, But Still Funny

I was at Wal-Mart, having just mailed off my DWAA Writing Competition entries. I had a huge bread craving, which is not at all unusual. I can eat bread, in any of its many varied forms, all day, every day. I am aware that this is not really a good thing, especially since I'm a gastric bypass patient. I'm supposed to focus on protein, lots of water, and fresh veggies. You know. Healthy stuff. Yet at heart I am still a carb addict, and tend to over-indulge, just as I do with most things.

Today, I have bruschetta on the brain. So I got bread, three jars of various toppers (black olive tapenade, tomato bruschetta, and mushroom bruschetta), and two containers of pico de gallo. I'm making my own lunch smorgasbord. Then I'm going to make Tom some egg salad, because he left me a note on the kitchen white board this morning stating that he would love some. He also mentioned that he loves me, too, and if I didn't know that for an absolute fact I would assume this was intended to further encourage me to make egg salad. He does love it. I do not. So making it for him will be a purely unselfish act of loving support for my sweetie.

While I was puzzling over the bread choices at Wal-Mart (Funny: Wal-Mart commercial just came on the TV while I was typing "Wal-Mart."), being annoyed that those little discs of French baguette were not currently on the shelf, I heard a woman talking to an employee.

Woman: Do you know where coconut milk would be?
Employee: Inside a coconut?

Really. A total smart-ass remark, yet given in a good-natured, humorous manner. I'm sure he then directed her to the coconut milk, but I was too busy wondering whether to shake my head in dismay at the wise crack, clutch my stomach at the nauseating qualities of the painfully obvious joke, or laugh so hard that snot bubbles came out of my nose.

Instead, I snorted softly to myself and headed to the library.

(By the way, spell check did not like many of the words in the first paragraph, but I know they're right because I went to look at the containers to be sure. Yes, I'm that obsessive about spelling.)

Go, Team! (Or Just Go Away)

It is a well-known fact – to those who know it well – that I hate those participatory, team-building, touchy-feely, business seminars. Let me be absolutely clear about this. I hate them. Loathe. Abhor. Despise. Detest.

I do not like them. And I need a bigger thesaurus.

And yet that is exactly what I’ll be doing next Tuesday. All day.

We recently re-started our work with our ActionCOACH (yes, that’s how they spell it), which is a worldwide business coaching network. Our coach is an unbelievable dynamo. She’s from Australia, and she does not have a low gear. (Think "ADHD hummingbird on crack".) She rock climbs, surfs, bungee jumps, kayaks, and (for all I know) participates in triathlons with entire populations of third world villages perched on her shoulders. Still, she is always impeccably dressed, has lovely - if very pointy - shoes, perfectly sculpted nails, and a dark tan.

As a part of our return to the ActionCOACH fold, we’re being subjected to participating in a Team Alignment Day. I understand the importance of strengthening our team relationships, and finding ways to get along and work better together, because – unfortunately – this is one of our ongoing struggles.

I’d just really rather not be there.

As the Practice Manager, though, there’s simply no way out of it. I must attend, participate, and pretend to be happy about it. I do have enough experience from years of front desk work, pretending to like people, that I will likely pull this off, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’d rather have all my skin peeled off, strip by strip, and fed to rabid jackals.

Tell me if this agenda sounds like fun:

(Setting, a meeting room at a local hotel. The room will be too chilly, I won’t get to sit where I want, and there will not be nearly enough breaks.)

8:00 AM – Welcome and overview.
Welcome team
(Yeah, yeah. Yippee.)
Why we are here today
(Because somebody made us be here. Oh, and they’re paying me $15/hour.)
Why invest in a business coach
(Because we’re clueless, and you’re that damned persuasive)
Introduce business coach
(Hi. We’ve met.)

8:10 AM – Introduction

8:20 AM – General Principles of Success
(By now, I already have to pee, and I want a cigarette. Brain cells may already be starting to atrophy.)

8:45 AM – Setting RAS: What I want out of today
(My answer: More smoke breaks, free lunch, and an early dismissal. An open bar would also be appreciated. And a cab ride home.)

9:00 AM – Game
(I do not like games. And these “games” are never, ever fun.)

9:10 AM – General Principles of Success (Continued)
(Oh, goodie. The 25 minutes of this we’ve already had weren’t nearly enough.)

9:45 AM – Break (15 minutes)
(Translation: Two cigarettes and one quick potty stop. I will probably return to the meeting room out of breath, my pants half zipped, and toilet paper stuck to my heel.)

10:00 AM – 6 Keys to a Winning Team
(If she can just help me get them to stop whining and do their damned jobs, I’ll be happy.)

10:15 AM – Strong Leadership
(Easy. Get a bigger baseball bat team motivation device.)

10:30 AM – Common Goals (Created prior to Team Day)
Business Vision
Business Mission
2007 Goals
(I’m pretty sure that last agenda item should read either 2008 or 2009 goals. Of course if I re-write my 2007 goals, I could make it look as if I actually accomplished some of them.)

11:30 AM – Rules of the Game
Business Culture Statement (Created on day with Team)
(We’re a holistic veterinary practice. Our vision and mission from the 10:30 segment, and our culture statement, are all very new-agey, all about respect, empowerment, trust, healing and harmony. Sounds lovely in theory, very tough to pull off in practice when you want to slap someone silly for remaining an idiot after all your generous attempts to de-idiot-ize them.)

12:15 PM – Game
(Perhaps I can pretend to have diarrhea, and thus get an early start on lunch.)

12:30 PM – Lunch (45 minutes)
(Lunch. Is. Not. Included. I am not amused. I shall have to venture several blocks to Chili’s, which I normally wouldn’t mind, but 45 minutes is not enough time for a dozen people to eat lunch, take care of necessities, and get back to the meeting. Especially if they take a detour through Bismarck, which I just might do.)

1:15 PM – Action Plan
5 Ways Profit and 4 Ways Business Building Strategies (Created on day with Team)
(“Created on day with Team” means “We’ll all talk simultaneously and spout off a bunch of random, inconsistent, impractical, off-topic nonsense, and Lori will write it down and attempt to form it into something that won’t make us look like absolute vapor-brains.”)

2:30 PM – Support Risk Taking
(How risky would it be to make a break for the door right now???)

2:40 PM – 100% Involvement/Inclusion
(I can only promise 75% involvement. Any more than that and my brain begins to swell. I shall have to fake the other 25%.)

2:45 PM – Break (15 minutes)
(See “9:45 AM”.)

3:00 PM – IVVM (Dream Builder)
(I have a huge problem with this part every time. This coach is all about attracting wealth and success, much like The Secret, and simply saying “I will achieve/have/experience this by this date” and it will happen. This has thus far not proven true for me. The other part of the problem is that they encourage our personal dreams and goals as much as business ones. Since all my personal goals and dreams involve things like a remote northwoods island full of dogs, a wildly successful writing career, and never, ever having a “real job” again, I’m not sure my goals are exactly compatible with dreams for the business. With work, I have a hard time looking ahead to next month, let alone 5 and 10 year plans.)

3:15 PM – Top 7 Things Learned Today
(1. Next time, claim to have leprosy.)

3:45 PM – Team WIFLE
(Do you know about WIFLEs? It stands for “What I Feel Like Expressing Is…” You then express whatever needs expressing. Work-related, personal, weather, good news, concerns, whatever is on your mind, always concluding with, “…and that’s what I feel like expressing.” Everyone then says, “Thank you, Lori.” I cannot spontaneously WIFLE. When we do this at staff meetings, I have to mentally compose my WIFLE the night before. This is one of those spectacularly lame “getting to know each other as individual human beings” things. Hey. Remember me? I’m an introvert. That’s all you need to know.)

4:15 PM – Conclusion: Time to Get Into Action
(“Time to get ready to take a nap.”)

At 4:30, I get to exit the parking lot, leaving behind skid marks and a huge, billowing cloud of dust.

Naturally, no Team Day is complete without a bunch of personality profiles and “what I think of our team and business” stuff. We had to fill out and fax in all that stuff this week. I’ve done about 688 of those personality profiles over the years, and guess what? I’m an introvert. (See Team WIFLE) I’ve always been an introvert. I will always be an introvert. Anyone who knows me at all is aware of the fact that I’m an introvert. They also know I’m highly anal-retentive, non-confrontational, and very unpleasant when pushed past my tolerance levels. They’ve seen the results.

Still, I am tired of a lot of the intra-team behaviors that we haven’t managed to change or eliminate. If by some wildly improbable chance this helps fix some of those, it might be sort of worth it. Maybe. Possibly.

I will be ten times more tired at the end of this Alignment Day thing than I ever am after a regular work day. All this “people stuff” sucks the energy right out of me. It’s a ton of effort and extraordinarily draining for an introvert to pretend to be able to function with normal people, non-stop, for an entire day. That’s why I was so thrilled when we were finally able to assign me to practice management full-time and get me the hell away from the front desk forever.

It may be somewhat more uncomfortable than usual this time around, though, since at least some of the staff probably sees me as the Wicked Witch right now, following last week’s careless screw-ups and subsequent Consequences. We’ve been saying for ages, “Hey, one more screw-up or one more crappy attitude and there are going to be some Consequences, gosh darn it!” Yet until then, no Consequences ever manifested. So maybe it’s not so strange that people actually were surprised when it happened. But I know how to be the Bad Guy now, when I have to be. I don’t like it, but I like warning people about the same errors and attitude issues till my tongue goes numb even less.

Maybe the cure for being an introvert is just getting too pissed off to remember that you are one.

Dogs Bring Neighbors Together

If you read my post “Letter to My Neighbors,” you might recall that my Across the Street Neighbors, West, have an unknown quantity of small children (more than one, probably less than ten) and at least one dog. I also mentioned that I do not remember having spoken to any of them, adult or sub-adult, in the 12 years we’ve lived here.

There’s only one thing that could change that last fact. Dogs.

We were sitting here watching TV, when Brody erupted in one of his window-barking frenzies. This one was particularly spirited, which means he was fully up in the window, pawing and spraying slobber, then raced back to the sliding doors, and nearly took the whole screen door off its track. I knew that this meant that the bark-alert in question involved a dog.

I rose from the Sofur and looked out the window. A petite female black lab and her larger, short-coated white pack mate were galloping through our front yard. Mere seconds later, they had come around our east fence line and were on the far side of our back yard fence, running full-out.

This neighborhood consists of houses with 2-acre lots, because we’re all on wells and septic systems. Ours is the only one on this side of the street that is fenced. Neither next-door neighbors have a fence, and none of the four or so yards behind ours does, either. It looks like an enormous park back there. I tracked the escapees’ progress along our back fence (My boys are going to have a lot of marks to cover) for several minutes. They’d seem to be about to go along the fence on the west side of our yard and head home, then they’d chase each other back the other way.

A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Neighbor appeared beyond our back yard, accompanied by two sub-adults. (I’m no good at kids’ ages. Maybe 6 and 8? 8 and 10? Old enough to walk, not old enough to drive. That’s the best I can do.) Naturally, at the sight of humans in pursuit, the dogs struck out across the adjoining yards. They were soon two yards away (two 2-acre yards, that is). The mom and sub-adults did the absolute worst thing you can do in this situation. They chased after them.

Dogs love nothing more than playing “chase.” If you run after them, they start singing in their heads, Jackalope style, “Fast as fast can be, you’ll never catch me!” Before long, I lost sight of the dogs in a cluster of trees three yards over. I occasionally caught glimpses of the people’s brighter clothing as they looped back and headed further west.

Another sub-adult was standing across the street at the end of their driveway with a food dish, rattling it in hopes of attracting the dogs with the lure of supper. She ventured down to the far side of the yard, along the road. Then, what do you suppose happened? The dogs reappeared, coming back from the last place you’d think to look for them, which was the direction they’d originally run – the east side of my front yard. They’d given everybody the slip, sending them searching to the west, and headed back around the way they’d come. They slipped up their own driveway, unbeknownst to the kid with the food dish, and disappeared through the back yard.

Of course their back yard isn’t fenced, either, so they could be in Iowa by now. I can’t see.

Then Mom and the two other kids (meaning they probably have three, I suppose) came down the street from the west, and I knew I had to tell her what I’d seen. I mean, if it was her kid, I’d probably choose to remain uninvolved. They have police and such to handle those matters. But these are dogs, and I know a number of years ago they had two get hit by cars.

Sigh.

Out the door I went, in my ratty black Haines Her Way shorts and Ragweed “Mission California” t-shirt. Seeing me approaching (and probably being quite surprised by this fact), Mom headed in my direction.

“They went thattaway,” I said, pointing helpfully past their garage. I had prepared this succinct and quaintly descriptive sentence prior to venturing outside.

This led to what I reluctantly have to count as a conversation. She thanked me. I described what I’d seen. She said the little black lab will run if you give her even the tiniest opportunity. I sympathized, telling her our 15-year-old used to like to do that, too, when he still could. (Of course, we have a fence. It’s why we bought this house instead of a house we liked a bunch better. This one came pre-fenced. Because that is how you keep running dogs from becoming roadkill.) She thanked me a few more times, and headed off behind the garage.

I’ve been watching (spying – I feel just like Jen Lancaster!) to see if they actually appear with any dogs. The hounds could have been sitting by the back door, waiting to be let in for a cool drink and a late supper, but I’m not sure. They could also be setting new land speed records on their way to the next county. I’m monitoring the situation closely.

That is just how gigantic a blog-nerd I am. Even as I’m watching this unfold, I’m thinking, “I am so totally blogging about this.” I had the post half written in my head, when I started worrying. I want to actually see the dogs safe at home, or as safe as proven runners are ever going to be without a sturdy fence. I mean, what if I write a hugely amusing blog about the incident, only to discover later that they were hit by a cement truck on County Road 42?

I suppose I could go over and knock on their door and ask what happened, but I’m simply not capable. I have never, in 12 years, knocked on the doors of any of my neighbors. I'm not about to start now. Plus, doing so would lead to a second conversation in one day, after 12 years of near-anonymity. If I did that, it would be possible that I might actually recognize her if I saw her at Wal-Mart, and that simply cannot be allowed to happen.

So, I’m doing what I do best – monitoring the situation from afar. Since our house is a split-level, I’m a half floor above ground level, giving me a pretty good vantage point. I don’t see them at home or orbiting around my perimeter fence. It’s getting dark. Darwin is perched in the window, and Brody keeps making the rounds from the window to the sliding screen door. We briefly debated sending Brody out, a la Bloodhound, to help locate the wayward pups, but realized that would only lead to three dogs being missing. Pyrs are not a breed of dog that you want loose on the wrong side of their own fence. They go on patrol and forget to come back.

I sure hope they’re OK. Blogs without happy endings suck.

I’ll keep you posted. (As if you expected anything less.)

Happy Dance

The clouds have receded and the sun is shining once again. Metaphorically speaking. Not literally. Because in reality it's a rainy morning. Truthfully, though, that is a positive thing as well, since I don't think my yard has seen a drop of rain in about three weeks and my grass actually feels like a billion tiny, brittle needles when I walk on it. So, everything's great.

The crisis we were experiencing for the past week appears to be resolved. I've been asked not to blog about it for a week or two, though, just to make sure everything works out, and probably so as not to tempt Fate unnecessarily. I have written a little bit about it, and will get that posted when we feel like the final "all clear" has been sounded.

Even not knowing my tale of woe, many of you sent positive energy our way, and I know that helped. It certainly made me feel better and helped keep panic at bay!

That's it for this morning. I just wanted to let everyone know things are definitely looking up, and that probably means I'll get back on track with the blogging!

It's much easier to write when you can breathe!

Onward and Upward

I’m still here, more or less. I’m not at liberty to discuss the current personal crisis, but don’t worry. Suffice it to say that nobody is dead, dying, or splitting up. This means that everything will sort itself out in time, and then I’ll be able to tell you all about it, and amuse you with the dark humor of the whole sorry situation. I’m sticking with the theory that there is humor here, or there will be. Eventually.

Then, I had the worst day at work on Friday. As the Practice Manager, I usually have to deal with client complaints maybe twice a month, if that. But I had three, just on Friday! Really. Three. On Friday. Actually, one wasn’t so much a complaint as a concern, involving a client that followed Dr. Vet-Friend from the last practice where we worked together. She’s older, on disability, and doesn’t have much money, yet her cat needed a major dental. Poor kitty now has a total of six teeth left, but her mouth is going to feel tons better. But kitty-mom needed to talk to me about leaving held checks to cover the $500+ bill. This was fine. She’s always slow to pay, but always does, so that was the least of my concerns.

I also had to negotiate with a guy who was pissed that he’d been charged an exam fee when he brought his dog in for vaccines. He hadn’t “wanted” an exam, just the vaccine. I explained that it doesn’t work that way, and that it is, in fact, illegal to vaccinate an animal without a current exam. The fact that his wife hung up on our receptionist in the middle of the conversation in which the price of the vaccine and exam were being discussed is another matter. I figured that pointing out that his wife is an impatient, raving bitch wouldn't help move our discussion in a positive direction. Finally, we reached an agreement, and I happily sent him the credit receipt for his partial refund – and the letter we use to fire clients, telling him that we really think he’d be happier going to another clinic. And here are Rover’s records. Adios.

The other situation still makes me mad. Because it was 100% our fault, and I had to apologize my ass off. Mrs. Client had brought her sick pet in a week ago, and part of her payment was a held check. Unfortunately, our receptionist forgot the “held” part of “held check,” and deposited it the same day. This is very bad, and I just found out Friday morning when the deposit correction from the bank arrived in the mail. Naturally, the distressed client called about two minutes later, sparking my investigation. The receptionist had filled out the held check agreement, but naturally the check wasn’t attached to it, because it had been in the cash drawer. Compounding the error, she did list the check on the deposit slip, but clearly did not add up the numbers on the slip. She just copied the “cash and check total” line from our day sheet. Which they are never, ever to do. You must add up the slip, for just this reason. If she’d done that, she’d have seen that she had one too many checks. Now we will have to reimburse this woman for any NSF fees she is charged because we fucked up. This annoys me for so many reasons. You know how those NSF fees snowball. And it’s a colossal pain for the customer. And this should not have happened.

So after I groveled for the nice client, who was remarkably kind about it, even apologizing to me, I had to talk to this staff member. And then I suspended her for two days, which I hated to do. I hate to penalize someone’s income that way, but the clinic is going to be out of pocket for those NSF fees, and that’s not right, either.

I spent the weekend trying to shut down all brain activity, and was partially successful. Now, Monday is looming, and I’m determined to shift the energy at the clinic. There is negativity hovering about in sticky black clouds, wrapping around me and sucking the life right out of me. I put some sacred sage spray in my bottle of bubbles and bubbleized the clinic on Friday, but I think it needs another hit. Perhaps with a fire hose.

Don’t give up on me, and keep checking back. I’ll try to get back on track with lots of fresh new posts as soon as I can! In the meantime, send positive energy my way, because I could use it.

Bloggus Interruptus

Due to circumstances beyond my control (amazingly, not service interruption because of Charter being giant weenies), it may be a few days before the next installment of Fermented Fur. No, the computer is fine, though the fan makes funny noises sometimes. (Note to self: talk to The Boy about that, though it's probably just dog-dust needing a can of air.) It's personal, work, and time-management stuff, all of which has fallen upon me at once. If I survive (just kidding... I think), I'll come up with fresh new wisdom and hilarity for all of you soon!

In the meantime, I still REALLY want your input on funniest and best-written blogs so I can win a butt-load of money in the Dog Writers Association writing contest! Consider what "real" dog writers - who are judging the contest - would find original, well-written and funny. I've already decided to enter the "Time to Tell the Story" one about Ripley in the non-funny category. I'm leaning toward the "Letter to My Neighbors" for humor, and maybe individual blog. But I want another really good dog blog for individual blog, too.

MacKenzie, I planned to put links in, but sadly chaos has struck before I had the opportunity!

Don't worry, all will be fine; it's just going to take some sorting through the debris field.

Splish-Splash Sunday

We haven't had Darwin in the pool nearly enough this summer. While it's definitely fun, it does detract from the relaxation factor, which is usually what I'm after when I head out to the pool.

It's hard to remember that, though, when you get pictures like this:



Just screams "joyous abandon," doesn't it? And it's just not the full Darwin Experience unless you can see him in action:

There's really nothing left for me to say. Darwin had a fun afternoon, and now it's time for a slightly damp nap.

Nominate Your Favorite

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but by virtue of my previous magazine work, I am a member of the Dog Writers Association of America. Every year, they hold a writing contest. When I got up this morning, I discovered that Tom had found a postcard in the mail announcing the deadlines for this year's contest. Lest I should miss it, he had propped it on the keyboard of the laptop, knowing I'd make a b-line straight for the computer once my eyes were fully open. I took this not only as a hint that I should enter, but as a sign of encouragement.

I'd discounted the contest at first. I mean, this organization includes the finest "dog writers" in the country. I don't mean minor-league wannabes like me; I'm talking people who write the big-gun books on training and behavior, regular magazine columnists and contributors, and novelists that are so far above me in the literary stratosphere that I'd need supplemental oxygen to get anywhere near them.

Looking at this year's categories, though, maybe there's a place for me after all. There is a category for single blog entry, as well as humor. I have to decide which blogs to submit, and in which categories.

This is where I need your help. It's hard to be objective about one's own writing. I'm asking each one of you reading this to go back through my archives and post a comment here telling me your favorite "dog-blog." Focus on ones that seem especially well-written and funny. (Though there is a category and special award for memoirs and/or work highlighting the human-animal bond, for which I might consider submitting Ripley's story.)

I know everyone is busy, and going back through my archives is a huge task, but I'd really appreciate your opinions! Please help the humble aspiring writer! My future success - or lack of it - may well be in your hands!

(Some posts to consider:
"Too Many Dogs"
"C is for Canine"
"A Weekend Without Canine Carnage"
"A Golden Life"
"Just Another Muddy Monday"
"Dirty Rotten Scoundrel"
"The Cute Revolution Continues"
"A Brush With Canine Chaos"
"A Letter to My Neighbors"
Frankly, I really, really need your help. I've been re-reading blogs all morning, and I'm actually sick of myself!)

Musical Discovery

Irony? Coincidence? Fate? Good omen? A cosmic gift? I'm not sure. Tell me what you think.

In 1982, the very first song Tom and I danced to was "Open Arms," by Journey. Last night, he was (again) flipping through the cable music channels, and as always, it was bugging me. True, those channels reminded me of "Heartbeat, It's a Lovebeat," but I'd still rather just watch TV. Then we saw a Journey song was coming on, but the release date was 2008. New music? From Journey? I'm not even sure if any of the original members are still with the band, but they sound just about the same.

But it was the song. "After All These Years." By Journey. Who sang our first-dance song. And here we still are, "after all these years," about to celebrate our 25th anniversary.

Tom went out and bought the CD today. It's actually a 2-CD and 1 DVD set, with one CD of new music, one of re-recorded hits, and a concert video.

I looked up the lyrics, to see if the song was as fitting as it first sounded, and I'll let you be the judge:

After All These Years

A faded wedding photograph
You and me in our first dance
Our eyes are closed
We're lost in one sweet embrace
Since those days the world has changed
Our love remains the same
God knows we've had our share of saving grace

And I'm proud of all the blessings
You have given me
The mountains we have climbed to get this far
You learn to take the laughter with the tears
After all these years

You make it feel brand new
After the fires that we walked through
Against the odds we never lost our faith

In a house we've made our own
Where our children all have grown
Precious moments time can not erase

Make a livin' up and down the gypsy highway
Seasons that we've beared to share apart
Somehow in my heart I always keep you near
After all these years

After all these years
You stood by me
The days and nights that I was gone
After all these years
You sacrificed, believed in me
And you stood strong
Cause with our love there's nothing left to fear
After all these years

After all these years
You stood by me
The days and nights that I was gone
After all these years
You sacrificed, believed in me
And you stood strong
Cause with our love there's nothing left to fear
After all these years

Don't Roll Your Eyes

I know a lot of you will think this is way out there; I can hear The Boy rolling his eyes already. (Stop it, by the way!) But we are a little off the beaten path, so to speak, and this is significant and appropriate for us.

Yesterday I spoke to the shaman who will be conducting the recommitment and blessing ceremony for our 25^th anniversary next month. He has a really excellent ritual that I think will be perfect for the occasion.

We are supposed to gather some objects to represent things that are precious to us, or memorable times in our life together. I’m thinking things like a seashell from the times Tom went to the beach with me and my family, birch bark from our trips up north, bits of dog fur and maybe a sprinkle of Ripley’s ashes, a few strands from the lock of The Boy’s baby hair, a dried leaf from a special rose Tom once gave me, a bud from my bridal bouquet, and whatever else I can find stashed around the house. We will also include our old wedding rings.

The purpose is to make a gift of these things to the spirits of the Earth, to thank them for all we’ve received in our lives, and to ask for their continued strength, guidance, and blessings as we enter this next phase together. The shaman will gather the objects in a special wrap he will bring, and at the end of the ritual we will toss them into Lake Superior as a way to give them back to the Earth.

Of course it is entirely possible Tom will toss me in the lake as well, but if I wear my pretty pretty green silk dress, maybe he’ll stifle the impulse.

(The North Shore is so beautiful! I prefer it to any ocean, anywhere. It doesn't matter if it's cold, because I don't get into outdoor water. It has things in it, which I cannot see, but which can see me.)

The shaman will also perform a ritual over our new rings, as they also come from the Earth, asking for the natural world to grant us love, peace and wisdom.

I know this all sounds bizarre to anyone who follows a more traditional spiritual path, but this is wonderful for us. It will have more meaning to us than the Catholic wedding we had 25 years ago. Not that it didn’t mean anything; I’m sure it did. But since we (mostly, I) have drifted so far from organized religion over the years, there simply isn’t much in a Catholic ceremony that seems applicable to us now. Plus, have you listened to a Catholic wedding? It must mention fifty times about having oodles of little Catholic babies, “accepting children lovingly from God,” and raising them in the Faith. Clearly we screwed that one up royally the first time around, or the Church would think so, as The Boy is a happily devout atheist. We might have to see about obtaining a “Get Out of Hell Free” card or something.

(Who knew??? There really is such a thing!)

I’m sure it’s for the best that we have some sort of renewal ceremony. Since we failed in the primary point of a Catholic marriage (raising many, many little Catholic children – and bonus points if one or more enter the Holy Orders), and the priest who married us is not even a priest anymore (too liberal for the Church’s doctrine, plus he was WAY too handsome and I suspect celibacy was a bit of a drag), it’s possible we’re not even married now. I should call the Pope and ask him.

At any rate, our anniversary will be spent in a way that is meaningful for us. Being thankful for the years we’ve already had, and starting out on a positive note into the years that still lie ahead. It will be just be the two of us (not counting the shaman), which is largely how it’s been all along. Now that The Boy is grown and established in a life of his own, it truly is just the two of us. And that’s just how we like it. (No offense to The Boy; we did our job, now you're doing yours, just as it's supposed to be.) (Although your atheism is why we're destined for hell.) (Just kidding! We love your cynical, sarcastic, science-nerdy, atheistic, beard-y, tattooed self!) (Plus you're educated, successful in your chosen field, a home-owner, funny, intelligent, kind-hearted, have zero tolerance for idiocy, love dogs, have great friends, and have the best taste ever in wives-to-be!)

(Way too many parentheses there. Sorry. I just had a lot of digressions that demanded insertion.)

(Darn, there was another one. Someone please stop me!)

The only way it could be more perfect is if the dogs could be there and participate in the ceremony with us. But Brody would disappear while chasing seagulls (he can’t understand why he can’t catch birds), and Darwin would surely drag us both, along with the shaman, into the lake and swim us to Wisconsin. Ozark would stand on the rocky shore wondering what the hell happened. Sprocket would be asleep in the shade, oblivious.

So we’ll just tell them all about it when we get home.

Olympic Observations

Some things are making me smile, while others are making me frown. Then I process all of that and come up with some odd conclusions. Then I go to sleep.

Smiles:

My #1 highlight thus far has been when Michael Phelps wears the long-legged swim pants, because he wears them very (very) (very) low on his hips. All the better to observe the maximum square-inchage of the museum-worthy sculpture that is his torso.

While conducting research (unsuccessfully looking for a picture of the fabulous low-slung pants in which Phelps is not also sporting a ridiculously gooberish facial expression), I discovered that he has a couple of interesting tattoos. On his hipbones. Very low on his hipbones. (Photos below) You know how I feel about tattoos. (Hint: I love them!) The one on his right hip is the Olympic rings. His left hip has the Michigan “M.” Apparently he’s moving back to Baltimore after the Games, leaving Michigan behind, but I hope he still feels proud of his M tattoo.

(Top photo (c) Getty Images. Bottom photo is from a while ago, but shows them better, if you look really hard. I did.)

Our women’s beach volleyball team kicks so much ass.

I still have the diving events to look forward to. The synchronized competitions have been interesting, but also somewhat creepy. I don’t imagine the Chinese divers will be any less like tiny wind-up diving automatons than they’ve been in the synchronized events (that was the creepy part), but maybe some other divers (Americans?) will have some great performances and generate some excitement.

Watching all this swimming makes me want to hoist my ass off the Sofur and go out and swim a few laps in our pool. Almost.

Have you heard some of the music they play between points in the volleyball matches? You'll hear "Who Let The Dogs Out," "Dancing Queen," "Hang On, Sloopy," and just about ever other random, Western pop-culture song you can think of. Funny, and a wee bit distracting.

Frowns:

Not a fan of the male swimmers wearing the one-piece, full-body swim suits. I mean, c’mon. They have the best bodies of any of the athletes, and we don’t even get to totally appreciate them. What happened to those little bikini style suits? Huh? They might look repulsive on 99.9% of the men on the planet, but on Olympic swimmers? They should be required by law.

Time zones. Prime time here is ass-crack-of-dawn early the next day in Beijing. The swimming and gymnastics events that I most enjoy watching are being televised past my admittedly early bedtime. All future Olympics should be held in the U.S. Central time zone for my viewing convenience.

(Sigh.)

OK, perhaps that is a whisker unreasonable. But wherever they hold them, they should schedule all significant live events to fall between 6:00 and 10:00 PM wherever I am. And that’s being generous. I would actually prefer they be between 7:00 and 9:00 PM, but I realize that’s a lot of coverage to squeeze into two hours a day.

The male beach volleyball players wear shirts. That is Just. So. Wrong. (See comment about bikini-style men's swimsuits above. I detect a bit of commonality here.)

I have yet to see any Trampoline coverage. I was about to blame this on the fact that I’ve had to work all week during the day, and daytime is when many of the lesser-known events are broadcast. But further research has revealed that the qualifications are on Saturday, with the women’s and men’s finals on Monday and Tuesday, respectively. I’m sure I’ll be at work, but perhaps I’ll be able to find some online coverage. I have simply got to find out what an Olympic Trampoline contest entails.

Ideas:

The Summer Olympics need something comparable to the Winter Olympics’ bobsled, luge, and skeleton. They are hugely popular events. Perhaps a water-slide course? Lots of dramatic wipeout potential with that.

Whatever happened to cliff diving? I used to love watching that on Wide World of Sports when I was a kid. When I was in Acapulco in 1983, we planned to go see the cliff divers, but the hotel where they appeared was on strike, so there was nobody to provide the support and the night-time lighting that they required. But this should totally be an Olympic sport. Or at least the X-Games.

I’m incredibly grateful that golf is not (yet) an Olympic sport. But I think putt-putt could be worth watching. Imagine the over-the-top, Olympic-quality, host-nation-themed courses. Putting along a miniature Great Wall. Rolling past a Royal Pagoda. Banking a shot off a rickshaw and through a giant panda’s legs. I mean, badminton and table tennis are Olympic events. Why not putt-putt?

And now it’s time to don my cross-stitch gear and settle in to watch the afternoon coverage of the Games. (It’s my day off.) Gotta locate my anti-ear-freeze headband to wrap my delicate inner left elbow, put a new band-aid on my stitching finger, and try to figure out a way to mark the rows on my pattern so I stop losing my place and getting frustrated. It would be sad if the whole piece ended up at the bottom of the fish tank.

More profound, insightful, and thought-provoking Olympic observations are sure to follow. Eventually.

Sissies Don't Stitch

It is a well-known fact, for those who know it well, that I have a problem finishing craft projects. This was not always the case. I was a stay-home mom with The Boy until he started school (other than one brief stint into part-time work, during which he screamed all day at the babysitter’s for an entire month), so I had plenty of time to crochet or cross stitch. Even when we lived in Indianapolis, I only worked part-time, so I still managed to complete a fair number of projects.

Since I’ve been working full time, though, my closet is a mausoleum of incomplete and forgotten crocheted afghans and slippers, and partially cross stitched samplers and bookmarks. I still love making things. I’m really good at selecting, organizing, and beginning a project. As you might have noticed, I tend to be a wee bit obsessive about things, so when I get started on something, it’s a very high priority. Until it’s not. If I get distracted, bored, or just run out of steam, the half-done-whatever vanishes into one of the numerous craft bags in the closet, never to be seen again.

Which brings us to last night, when I settled in to watch the Olympics and start my latest project.

We’ve all seen the charming depictions of delicate little old ladies sitting on the divan, stitching away on some piece of needlework. I’m here to tell you… that is an enormous lie. Stitchery is not for the frail or feeble!

This is what it took for me to get started on my self-assigned task.

I spent part of Saturday evening sorting the embroidery floss that came with the kit. The instructions listed all the colors (about 20), as well as how many strands of each color were included. I nearly went blind trying to determine which was pale green, light green, pale yellow green, green, pale pink, light pink, pink, pale peach, cream, pale gold… well, you get the idea. The only way I could assign names to many of the colors was by saying, “Hmm. There are supposed to be three strands of pale gold, and four strands of cream. Therefore, this one must be pale gold.” Or I’d end up with seven strands of what I assumed was the same color, then had to decide which three were slightly different, and therefore must be pale gold. My eyeballs were dangerously close to bleeding by the time I was done.

Little old ladies could not accomplish this.

Last night I settled down on the leather couch because I didn’t want the stitchery to be more dog-fur than floss. I had a floor lamp positioned nearby so it could direct high-intensity light on the work area. The 40-watt bulb in one of the fixtures wasn’t bright enough, so I added a 60-watt to the mix. Then I realized the positioning was all wrong, because the light needed to come from the other side so my stitching-hand didn’t create a shadow. I relocated to the far end of the couch, repositioned the light, and got started.

Then I noticed that the scroll frame, which is 18 inches wide, needed to be wedged against the inside of my left arm in order to hold it in place at the right angle. After a few minutes, I had round sore spots on my arm from the end of the dowel. Tom suggested wrapping my arm in an Ace bandage, and I found one under the sink in the bathroom. (I elected not to think about which injured, possibly necrotic, body part had last seen the use of this particular bandage.) After determining that this was not a viable option, I rummaged in a drawer and found one of those wide knitted headbands that are supposed to keep your ears from freezing off in winter. Wrapping this twice around my arm, once above and once below the elbow, seemed to work well.

Again, little old ladies have delicate skin and could never endure the trauma of dowel-induced tissue damage.

(The middle-sized frame here is what I have. Note the jabby ends of the dowels, particularly the lower left one. I have welts exactly that diameter on my inner arm. In searching for this image, I noted that many brands of frame have knobs of some sort covering the ends. This is what I get for being cheap.)

I also had to take out my contacts and put on my glasses, all the better to see the teeny-tiny holes in the fabric. I refuse to buy one of those lighted magnifiers. Those are for little old ladies.

I’m about three stitches away from having to bandage my right ring finger, on the inside just below the nail. This is the digit that directs the needle through the microscopic hole, which I can almost see now that I have figured out to wear my glasses and have enough light to land a jumbo jet in a corn field at midnight.

Finally, I’ve been forced to remember the feeling of being “craft-crippled.” After an hour or so of stitching, I stood up to let the dogs out. It took several minutes for my legs to remember how to function, and my back had some serious complaints about my posture for the evening.

Perhaps this is why little old ladies use canes.

Now, the challenge is completion. We’ll have to see if my mania interest holds until it is done. If it does, someone will have a nice, hand-made gift sometime around the holiday season. Since I’ll have to have it framed, it is crucial that I finish it sometime in November, at the latest, to avoid the “it’ll take us six weeks to frame it” rush at the craft store.

A little old lady could never stand up to this kind of pressure.