A Walk In The Park

I can't call it "hiking," because that would technically be exercise, and I simply can't be associated with such a thing. But we did spend the afternoon at Lake Maria State Park, west of Monticello. We took Ozark, because he's such a sweet, good boy and deserved a special outing. Darwin would have been a ton of fun (or at least 72 pounds' worth), but I would have had to have both shoulders put back in their sockets, and we would have had to walk him through a car wash on the way home to get rid of the mud and pond-slime.

It was a beautiful day for a walk. The sky was brilliant, with just enough clouds. It was about 60 degrees, and cool enough on the wooded trails for a jacket. We sat by the lake for a while, then walked about 3 miles through marsh grass as tall as I am, over sun-splashed, grassy hills, and along trails through old-growth forest.

Much of the time, Ozark was off-leash. He never went very far ahead of us, and every time Tom would stop and try to take a picture or video clip, Ozark would stop and turn, looking at us as if to say, "Hey, why are you stopping?" and then he'd trot back to us, sitting at our feet.

Lake Maria is such a nice park. The natural diversity, the clearly-marked trails, the lakes, the old-growth forest... and on a State Fair weekend, we encountered few people. We hadn't been there in years, despite it being only a half hour from our house. We'll be going back more, though, now that we've re-familiarized ourselves with it. They also have remote cabins for rent. We did that once, ages ago, but may look into it as an overnight/weekend getaway next season.

And now, what you've all been waiting for... the pictures of Ozark!

Well, great. Blogger isn't letting me upload any more pictures for some reason. I'll try again, but might end up trying to just start a new post with just the pictures. Grrr. I'm blaming it on the fact that I'm using our "other" laptop, since mine died on Friday and is currently at the hospital seeing if it can be resurrected... and my data recovered. Sigh.

Wait. Here's another plan. I posted photos to Facebook, and this link might allow you to see them!

Doggie Distress and Desperation Dinner

Oh, my, how I love alliteration. Le Sigh.

Ozark is always so happy to go somewhere. Anywhere. Sometimes when he gets to hop in the car it is go to go a park. Rarely. He's far more likely to be going to the groomer or to the clinic with me. The outcomes of those excursions doesn't exactly top "park" on the Doggie Delight-o-Meter. Still, he's always cheerful and tail-waggy when he gets in the car.

He clambers into the back of my little Chevy Cavalier and plops his butt on the seat. His front feet, though, go on the floor, and his head (and, lest we forget, his nose) sticks up between the driver's side window and my headrest. Since he is excited, there is an abundance of nose-drool, which he smears liberally all over the window, and drips decoratively down the inside of the door.

No, I'm not disgusted. I actually think it's kind of cute. Also, I love writing "nose-drool." People without dogs can't really do that, because what comes out of kids' noses is just snot, and that's gross. Some kid wipes snot anywhere in my car, and they'd better hope their stroller has a motor, or at least pedals, because my car isn't taking them one inch farther.

After we got to the clinic and Ozark had peed on every shrub and blade of grass on the property, he went inside and deposited a pony-sized poo pile in the training area, which seemed to make him extraordinarily happy. (Me, not so much, but what're you gonna do?) Then we settled in my office to await the arrival of other humans to adore him, and other dogs to either bark at him or play with him.

Cheyenne arrived and barked for the required five minutes, before going to sleep under Dr. Vet-Friend's desk. She's an elderly beagle mix, and that's what she does. (I don't have a picture of Cheyenne, for some reason.)

Ariel looked at him suspiciously and then curled up in a chair.

(Ariel, Dr. Vet-Friend's "terrier-mix-of-some-kind")

Brick, a 12-year-old greyhound came over and sniffed, then went to rest on his blanket. He has a broken leg, so senior doggie play time (Ozark is about 10) wasn't really in the cards.

(Brick, who lives with Associate Vet-Friend, on his couch at home. Greyhounds loooooove their couches.)

Cora, a 9-month-old Cane Corso belonging to Vet Tech Dana, definitely caught his eye. He's a playful boy, and at her age (and amazing adorableness), he was kind of smitten. However, I can't referee dog-play and work at the same time... so she had to go hang in her kennel in the training area. (Sorry, Cora!)

(Cora, by the lake near her house. If you can't tell in this picture, she's brindle and beautiful!)

And then Ozark's day went horribly, horribly wrong. The Evil Vet Techs came and abducted him, dragging him off to the Torture Chamber. While there, they cut his nails (all 22 of them, because he's a Pyr mix), shaved the mats behind his ears and behind his front legs, and - gasp! - cleaned his ears. Then Dana started brushing his britches/under-tail area, trimming a mat here and there, and before he knew it, much of the butt-region was naked. I knew he was matted back there, and planned to tackle that chore tomorrow (maybe), but wasn't looking forward to it. It was a relief that they went ahead and took care of that problem, because they did a great job and my back doesn't hurt.

Oh, and he weighed in at his usual 110 pounds.

When he returned to the office, he got a raw bison bone for being such a good boy. This might have been a wee bit premature, though, because the torture wasn't totally over. I proceeded to trim his foot-furs... and put medicine in his ears. That, FFFans, is his Most Hated Thing. For putting up with that, he got the rest of my sandwich.

Now he's all fine-tuned and presentable, and ready to go to Lake Maria on Saturday. His tail is very fluffy-bushy, so it pretty much covers his bald-baboon-butt, and I'm sure he feels better without all those mats and tangles pulling at his skin.

Actually, despite the horrors to which he was subjected, I think he had a pretty nice day. And he's so easy to have around that I really should make a point to take him with me more often.

Hopefully the weather will hold. They're now predicting 68F and a slight chance of showers on Saturday. But I'm pretty sure we can find a few decent hours sooner or later, and I plan to get some good pictures of Zarky-Barky. Though we've had him 7 or 8 years, we have fewer good pictures of him than most of our other dogs, past or present. He's so unobtrusive that he sort of disappears whenever photo sessions come along.

So, stay tuned, and you will get to see some glorious Pyr-Lab fluff frolicking in the forest soon!

And now, you are probably wondering, what about the Desperation Dinner?

Yesterday, I ate pretty much everything edible in the entire house. This included a skillet full of hash browns, three sliced green onions, and six eggs... four pudding pops... the rest of the Wheat Thins, a 7-Layer Burrito, two steak soft tacos, a bunch of sour cream and onion Pringles... and probably some other stuff I can't remember.

Tom has to close tonight, and won't be home till about 10 PM. I got home at 4:45. Hungry. And the cupboards are bare of readily-available dinner-type items. I was forced to scavenge.

So, here's what I did. I found a bag of Bird's Eye Steamfresh vegetables (white and yellow corn, asparagus and baby carrots), added two sliced green onions, half a box of penne pasta, and coated the whole thing with an assortment of Italian-type salad dressings, a dash of ginger-mango stir fry sauce, some grated parmesean chese, and a squirt of honey mustard.

Surprisingly, it did not suck. My opinion may have been colored by the fact that I was starving, but it's not totally awful. I'd have enjoyed a few croutons, but I ate those last week, as a snack. (What can I say, I like crunchy things.)

It might not be on a par with my "Oh shit I'm out of ice and mixer but I still have plenty of rum so I'll use orange freeze pops to substitute as both ice and mixer because I'm a total freakin' genius" brilliance, but it wasn't too bad.

And tomorrow... out to lunch with a friend (Food! There will be food!), to the library... and I swear I'm going to finally work on my synopsis. So far, I have one sentence, which I guess is technically "started," but only if I squint.

When Scribbling, Always Do So In A Superior Manner

Just a little quickie post, in which I shall thank kk over at will work for shoes for thinking of me when passing along the Superior Scribbler Award. Whatever I do, I always try to do it in as superior a way as possible, from caring for my dogs to beating my own personal best in the "number of consecutive hours spent immobile on the Sofur" department.


I humbly (and superiorly) accept the award and bestow it upon:

While Walking Duncan (because how could I not???)
Sir Pinky's Eye On Everything (because Sir Pinky has always been one of my biggest supporters)
I.L. Foster's Blog (writing buddy)
Notes to Self (amazing blog-friend and all-around awesome woman)
The Spaniel Diaries (DWAA friend Teri Wilson's new dog blog)

Those of you named above need to do a few things to fully claim your award:

1. Each Superior Scribbler must, in turn, pass the award on to 5 most-deserving bloggy buds.
2. Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author and name of the blog from whom he/she has received the award.
3. Each Superior Scribbler must display the award on his/her blog and link to this post which explains the award.
4. Each blogger who wins the award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List at the Scholastic Scribe's blog. This way, we'll be able to keep up to date on who wins this prestigious award.
5. Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

Accidental Movie Reviews

(Disclaimer: This blog sprouted somewhat organically while I was unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep last night. I expect it to consist mainly of several extraordinarily long run-on sentences. So settle in, and perhaps follow along with your finger if it makes it easier to keep from getting lost.)

As I have previously mentioned, on more than one occasion, I seldom watch movies. I not only don't go to the theaters, I almost never watch them at home. I like to be doing several things in my head at once, and this makes it hard to follow movie plots. Plus, in a theater, there will be... other people. Some of which may or may not be children.

At home, it's still too much bother. The TV in our room is too small. The TV in the family room is huge, but requires a degree in advanced electronics to operate the half-dozen remotes. When we are down there watching something (which is always the Cross Canadian Ragweed "Back to Tulsa" live concert DVD if I get to vote, which I usually do), and Tom dares to leave the room to go to the bathroom, get a drink, or find out why the dogs are barking themselves stupid, that is guaranteed to be the time I decide I must back up the DVD or adjust the volume. No matter how careful I am, it's inevitable. One poorly-timed thumb-twitch, followed by my bumbling attempts to fix whatever I did, and it takes him a half hour to get the surround-sound to work again. Or something equally catastrophic.

We spend most of our time up in the living room, anyway. But there wasn't a DVD player there. Until Friday. Tom went shopping and found a very thin, very cheap DVD player that would fit on our TV stand on top of the cable box.

I knew how to operate the single remote that worked the TV and the cable box. Now there are two, which - if you are counting - is twice as many as before. I'm ignoring the second one until I no longer have a choice.

After he set up the new DVD player, he had to test it, which led to my accidentally watching a movie. In the tradition of "All The Right Moves" (Tom Cruise, early or mid-1980s) and "Rudy" (Little Hobbit Guy, Timeless), it was "We Are Marshall." This is the story of the 1970 plane crash that killed the football team, coaching staff, athletic director, and key supporters of Marshall University, which is in Huntington, WV, and the attempt to re-build the team.

You might recall that we are native West Virginians. In fact, I went to high school with a guy (and actually went out with him a few times, which totally icks me out now, because he was big and dumb and egotistical... and did I mention dumb?... But his mom was a friend of my mom's or some stupid thing, and no matter what anybody says I absolutely never ever slept with him, because at that point I was about a year away from sleeping with anybody, and if I'd done that with him I am sure I would still be in the shower, but anyway, where were we...?) who went to Marshall in the '80s and later coached there.

Backtracking for a second... I liked "All The Right Moves" because that town looked exactly like the town where we went to high school, and the story was so true-to-life. I mean, for every character in the movie, I could point to someone I knew back there and say, "Just. Like. That." However, there's the part where Tom Cruise's football buddy finds out his girlfriend is pregnant, and he has to give up his football scholarship to get married (because that's what you did in that kind of town in that particular era), and when she's all fat and pregnant, all their friends come over to their ratty little apartment and act like it's so cool and exciting that they got to get married and are having a baby instead of being in college and having some chance of ever getting out of that dead little town, but really they all pity the hell out of them... and I should hate that part because I was that fat, pregnant chick who should've been in college but wasn't. But it's so real and true I have to like it.

So. Back to "We Are Marshall." I got sucked in and watched the whole thing. Which kinda pissed me off because it made me cry and gave me angst, and I cry enough and have enough angst in my own life without having to watch movie-angst, which is even worse when you know it's a true story, because then you want to research everybody in the movie and find out where they are now, and if their lives got better, or if they still suck, then you find out the person you liked best is dead, and that totally sucks, and he's buried with the six unidentifiable remains from the crash, and that makes you want to open a vein.

Plus, it's probably the one movie in which Matthew McConaughey doesn't look remotely attractive. Not that he's a particular favorite of mine, because he's not. I've heard he doesn't like to shower or use deodorant, and I don't care how cute you are, but stinky ain't sexy. But he does have the potential to look pretty good up on a nice non-odor-transmitting screen. Do you remember 1971 men's hairstyles? A little longish, but parted waaaaaaaay over on the side, like a comb-over but with a full head of hair? And do you remember striped ties with plaid jackets, and sometimes also plaid pants? Plus, apparently this coach walked like Columbo, which isn't a good look for Mr. McConaughey.

That was Friday afternoon. Then I spent most of Saturday and Sunday lying on the Sofur performing Important Thought Experiments. (That's my new thing. I'm not lying there being lazy, or reading my third book in two days. I'm performing Important Thought Experiments. That's what Einstein did, and without him we wouldn't have Relativity or Gravity or Oxygen or the ability to travel through time at will, so don't interfere with my work, people.)

Sunday evening at 8:00, Tom was flipping channels, because that's what he does. It might be Important Visual Data Processing Experiments, I don't know. I don't question these things. He paused on what appeared to be one of my favorite shows ever, "Dead Like Me." It ran on Showtime in 2003-2004 and was canceled after two seasons because I liked it. I am the Kiss of Death for any television series. I must also apologize to "Freaks and Geeks" (not even one full season) and possibly "Chuck," but I'm afraid to go to the NBC website and see if it's actually been canceled. It's aired so sporradically that it's hard to tell.

However, it didn't look like the episodes I knew. Then Georgia said something in the intro about having been a Grim Reaper for five years, and I know it wasn't nearly that long when the show got axed, so I tell Tom to hit the "info" button.

Hot damn. It's a 2009 "Dead Like Me: Life After Death" movie!

But now I'm going to have to stay up till 10:00 PM. Uh-oh.

I totally loved that show. I have Season One on DVD, even, but I've never watched it because of the whole "not knowing how to work the zillion remotes associated with DVD-watching" thing, and the "I loaned the set to Dr. Vet-Friend and her remote is broken (dog ate it) so she hasn't been able to watch beyond the first episode yet, because she doesn't have the button that makes it go to another episode anymore, but she wants to, so I'm letting her keep them till she gets a new remote, and I think she's had them for over a year now" thing.

When they got to the end of the second season, they sort of guessed they might not be back, so they tried to wrap up some of the story lines, but did a lousy job. It's like watching the series finale of M*A*S*H and it goes like this, "...and all the people you saw last week are probably still alive, and eventually the war ended, and most of them went home, and many poignant and witty things were said before they departed. The end."

This new movie was okay. In it, our merry little band of Grim Reapers, whose job it is to free the soul of a person about to die due to accident, murder, or misfortune, so that it doesn't suffer the torment of physical death, have a new, horrible boss. Mason, Daisy, and Roxie all sort of run amok, breaking key Reaper rules, and George finds herself the responsible one, who has to fix it all... which is hard because she's technically breaking one big rule herself. The dark humor that I loved so much in the series was present, but not as much, and mostly toward the end. There were some changes I didn't like. But it did address some of the key issues that had been left unresolved with the sudden cancellation.

So. I watched two movies in the same weekend. Neither of them big-screen blockbusters (The DLM movie was made for DVD release), but I watched them. And you should be glad I watch so few, because it appears that I will feel obligated to tell you all about them when I do. In as long and rambling a manner as possible. So you should all send me gift certificates to Applebee's or Maynard's so I can eat shrimp salad and drink white wine instead of potentially going to a movie on purpose.

Because I fear that's where this is headed. Tom sort of pointed out, as kindly as he could, that... I am boring. I think he technically said "we" were boring, but I know what he meant. He likes to go and "do" things. He went to the casino without me Saturday, and took Ozark for a walk Sunday. I do like to go out to lunch or dinner, but that's about it. We sit and actually talk, have snacks and drinks, watch whatever's on the big TV over our heads, look at people... that's something, right? I guess the many fascinating and exciting things going on in my head are really of little interest to anybody who doesn't actually live inside my head. So I'm trying to figure out what people "do" when the go out to "do" something (And it can not involve exercise of any kind. I'm quite adamant about that.), and I'm afraid it might involve going to movies.

And I'm pretty sure that would be a Sign of the Apocalypse.

UPDATED: Alright, boys and girls, hope for nice weather here on Saturday. We have a plan. It involves taking Ozark to Lake Maria State Park for a while, because he's the least psychotic one of the bunch, least likely to drag us to death or gnaw through his leash and escape to Canada... as much fun as it would be to take Darwin (aka "The Little Crazy One Most Likely to Drag Us to Death, Gnaw Through his Leash, and Escape to Canada Where They Would Immediately Make Him Prime Minister"), Ozark gets the call. Which means I need to take him to work Wednesday or Friday and get his nails trimmed because they are disgraceful and also likely to snag on something and bleed all over Lake Maria. The park is only about a half hour from our house. Both of the pictures below (Ripley and Sprocket) were taken at Lake Maria around 1998 or 1999.

(Ripley was well-known to have a talent for finding the muddiest, stinkiest bogs in a six-mile radius. I suspect Darwin also has this skill.)

(Sprocket sitting on a fallen log at the crest of the tall hill on the side of the park farthest from the lake. A pleasant and not-too-demanding hike for those of us who eschew exercise.)

Wow. I miss both those boys so much. We always took them up north with us, and they were so good, and so much fun. I'd give about anything to be able to take them both with us again on Saturday.

Then we're going to come home and make a bonfire in the fire pit in the back yard, maybe grill up some steaks or hot dogs, hang out in the yard with the dogs (which we hardly ever do), have some beverages, listen to some music (dare I hope the new Cross Canadian Ragweed CD will be here by then????)... and if all factors are in alignment, perhaps a moonlight swim in the pool.

It's not that much going "out," but I think it's within my comfort zone. It's more than lying on the Sofur, so I think it will make Tom happy, it includes lots of dog-time, which makes me happy, and there's the food/beverages/probable adult recreation which I think will make us both happy. The dogs will also enjoy having us out in "their" yard, and the potential for dropped hot dogs or burned marshmallows. Win/Win/Win.

UPDATE #2: Weather prediction is mostly sunny and a high of 71 on Saturday. I'd like it a bit warmer, may need a sweatshirt, but sunny is good. It's also good weather for sitting around a bonfire in the evening.

Maybe I Should Just Stay Awake

It was a dream-filled night. I had no fewer than three dreams in which a demonic-vampiric type was after me, and after the first one I woke up very worried that it had "gotten" Tom. In the third one, I was escaping the house (which was, for some reason, located where my paternal grandmother's house was) with a small black dog and running for my car. The d-v beat me to the car - because they're evil and speedy - and was sitting in it with my dog when I got there. I lose.

But... that's not even the weird dream. Yeah, I know. My head is capable of some truly bewildering things.

In the last dream, I lived in a house located where our trailer was when I was little. In the "real" world, we had three gnarled old plum trees by the road, and my grandparents' property across the field had various types of fruit trees. In the dream, we had lots and lots of fruit trees, as did all the surrounding properties. Apples, oranges, lemons... and watermelons.

Yes, I am aware that watermelons to not grow on trees. Except, apparently, in my subconscious.

But... that's not even the weird part. Yeah, I know. See previous comments regarding the inner workings of my head.

I arrived home and discovered that every single one of the heavily-laden fruit trees had been... vandalized. Each apple, orange, lemon... and watermelon... had been cut in half. One perfect half of each piece of fruit was still hanging on the tree, and the rest was just gone.

The trees that in my childhood were huge, spreading maple trees were the "watermelon trees." It looked as if someone had taken giant Christmas tree hangers and used them to attach the half-melons to the branches. Oddly (because none of this has been odd enough yet), there were also beach-ball-sized wedges of oranges and lemon on some of the trees.

I wanted to find a camera. Because who would believe this without photographic evidence? By the time I found a camera, there was barely any of the mystery-fruit left.

But then I noticed some people moving among the trees. These people turned out to be... Monica, Chandler, and Rachel from Friends.

You'd think that was strange enough, but it's even stranger than you might imagine, because I have not watched a single episode of Friends in at least 10 years. I watched the first couple of seasons, then I started thinking that these people should just grow the hell up already and stop being such morons.

The only thing I could figure was that it was part of one of those prank shows, which I would not find even remotely amusing.

I'm sure there's some sort of dream interpretation regarding fruit trees, but I wonder what it means if the fruit has been mysteriously halved by ex-cast-members of an annoying TV show.

Then there was a part about a church, a room at a nice inn, a wedding, a kitten, a bicycle (the kitten was scratching the handlebars)... and then I woke up because the dogs wanted breakfast and started doing their head-shakey, ear-flappy version of an alarm clock.

The only conclusion I can reach is that I either have a very warped imagination or a brain tumor.

If Your Dogs Eat You, That Does Not Make Them Cannibals

This conversation just took place. Tom and I were lying on the bed in a post-dinner stupor, watching That 70s Show on TV. (I kinda like Hyde.) Tom started talking about going out to mow at least half the yard (we have two acres), so he could do the other half tomorrow. It's supposed to rain Wednesday evening and Thursday, and he does not want to have to deal with it on our "long weekend," Friday though Sunday. By Friday, he'll have worked ten days in a row, and he wants to be able to do nothing but relax.

Just as he started to sound serious about this lawn-mowing thing, the daylight outside our closed blinds dimmed.

Me: Wow. It got really dark in here.

Tom: It did? Oh, good. I was afraid I was stroking out.

Me: Well, if you did, then I'm doing it at the same time. Which, I guess, has always been our plan. (It has. Neither one of us would be any good alone.) (Which means nobody would have us. I'm a tad on the selfish, batshit side, and Tom would spend the rest of his days mourning me, which tends to piss off prospective second wives.)

Tom: Yeah. They'd just find our bones all scattered around by the dogs.

Me: The dogs would not eat us. (I am horrified at the very thought. I try to picture this scenario, fail, and decide that's probably a good thing.)

Tom: Yes they would.

Me: No. They would not. (Ozark was lying between us on the bed, and he didn't look even remotely as if he were considering gnawing on my carcass.)

Tom: Sure they would.

Me: My dogs would not eat me.

Tom: They would. Even if it was by accident, dragging us toward the food bin in case we could still feed them.

Me: My dogs would not eat me. I'm pretty sure I'm toxic.

(Forty-five seconds of hilarity. Okay, I probably laughed harder than Tom did, because I always think I'm funny, and he frequently disagrees. Possibly because I frighten him. Still, I think this is the funniest thing I've said in at least a week. Because, honestly, I'm mostly composed of random chemicals, nicotine, and liver damage at this point.)

Ozark: (Via thought-bubble, which I can totally see and interpret) Hey. That's not funny. If you can't feed us, your corpse is not allowed to be toxic.

Me: Sorry, 'Zark. Eat me, take your chances. Plus, I'm mostly bones and gristle.

Ozark: (Via thought-bubble) Note to self. Let the little crazy one taste-test Mom. I'll start with Dad. He's probably safe. Plus, I heard blondes taste like chicken. I like chicken. I'm not sure about toxic brunettes.

Me: Hey!

Ozark: (Via thought-bubble) Don't look at me. I'm a dog. And you're probably hallucinating the thought-bubble. What with the toxicity and all.

And then Tom went out to mow the yard.

The end.

Epiphany

This isn't a funny post. Unless you find new-agey, woo-woo, hippie-ish, Zen-type epiphanies funny, and if that's how you feel, you'll be laughing at me rather than laughing with joy at the purity of my insight, and I won't find that funny at all. (This could result in smiting.)

Last Tuesday was a nice day. It was sunny and warm, and we were in the pool for the first time since the July 4 weekend. Good music was playing, sunscreen was applied, and I was floating happily, draped over my raft.

I started to wonder what the rest of the day held. I started pondering dinner, beverages, whether I'd like the next song that came up on the CD player, if the disc-change malfunction the CD player was experiencing was terminal, and if that stupid cloud was going to interfere with my sun-soaking.

Then I realized that even thinking about those things was interfering with my enjoyment of the moment. Which, it was suddenly clear, was a waste of time and totally defeating the purpose of being there at all.

All we have, all that exists, all that really matters is the moment in which we are currently existing. The vast majority of factors determining what will happen in subsequent moments is beyond our control, yet we waste mental energy, angst, and time worrying about them. By doing so, we have detracted from moments we should be enjoying to their fullest.

As I was floating there, and I found myself getting irritated that I might have to get out of the pool in another few minutes and try to get the CD player to advance to another disc, I was destroying my ability to enjoy the present. At that moment, I was comfortable and warm, the water was flowing around me, the sun was beautiful, Tom was there with me, the song playing was one of my favorites, the flowers in my planters were lush and colorful... and I was worrying about what might happen in a few minutes. Stupid.

I decided to put anything beyond the present from my mind and fully experience That Moment. The only point in thinking beyond it was to decide whether an action I would shortly undertake would create a moment that was better than the present one. Rather than bitching because I had to get out of the pool and fix the CD player, let the irritation go and see the CD-player-fixing as one moment that existed to create a better moment. (More music) Even in that previously-irritating moment, there was something to appreciate. The pool area is beautiful and peaceful, the weather is lovely, the pool is clean and sparkly and exactly the right temperature, there are six great CDs in the player awaiting their turn... so no reason to be annoyed. The moment.

How often do we do this? We sit and fret over a phone call that might come, a meeting we don't want to attend, what to fix for dinner, whether traffic will be bad for our commute... and we really have little control over any of it. So why worry? Why ruin the current moment, which probably has something in it worth appreciating, wasting energy fretting over stuff that isn't even happening yet?

I've thought about this often since last Tuesday. I've decided this is a philosophy that is probably impossible to achieve in absolute purity, but it's worth striving for. When I find myself getting antsy or tooth-grindy, I think about what is making me that way. Is it that I have to get up and get ready for work in 20 minutes? If so, I'm ruining my appreciation of my last 20 minutes in my warm, comfy bed by worrying about it. Is it that when I let Darwin out the next time, he is likely to return with dirty paws? If so, I'm not appreciating the oh-so-cute, cuddly, affectionate, clean-pawed dog currently lying beside me on the Sofur. Let it go, already.

I'm trying. I think this is an important shift of perspective, and maybe it will help reduce my stress and increase my appreciation of the moments of my life. Because that's what life is. A series of moments. And if you let each one be lessened, to flash by without being fully experienced, because you're too busy worrying about the next one, and the one after that, you're letting your own life get away from you.

This concludes today's Zen Moment.

Un-Moved by Movies

I'm not a movie-watcher. I haven't been to a theater in at least six or seven years. My brain needs more than one thing going on at a time, like TV, a book, or five different internet tabs. Movies are a paradoxical dilemma for me - I have to pay too much attention to follow what's going on, meaning I can't also be doing something else, and a single movie isn't enough to keep my head busy. Plus, theaters are always cold, and having other people around is annoying. So. No movies.

I seldom watch movies on TV at home, either. Because I'm going to read or be on the computer at the same time, so I'll never be able to keep up with what's going on in the movie. I do watch some old favorite comedies over and over - or I should say they're on my TV, but I'm not really watching - because if I already know what's happening, I can drift in and out of it for favorite parts and not be lost.

It's probably not anything to be proud of. I'm totally unfamiliar with many of the "movie stars" I hear discussed on TV and on the radio. Some talk radio host will be gleefully reporting the latest juicy gossip about someone, and I'm all, "Who the hell is that? Don't care. Insert CD now." If a social situation calls for chit-chat about the guests' favorite movies of the year, I have nothing to contribute. This might be a problem if I ever allowed myself to be forced into social situations. (The Oscars, obviously, mean nothing to me, except I like to look at the pictures the next day of the pretty-pretty dresses. I just have no idea who most of the women are who are wearing them.)

So, today I want to play a game. In the comments, tell me your favorite movie(s), and I'll tell you if I've ever seen them. Odds are that I haven't. You will be shocked by the magnitude of my pop-cultural ignorance.

Go!

Laundry List

This is my method for dealing with a filthy laundry room and piles and piles of clothes that have been shuffled, shoved, moved, wadded, re-washed, stacked, and tossed but still haven't made it out of the laundry room in recent memory. I doubt it would work this way for you, because you probably have things like hampers and laundry baskets and hangers... and use them on a somewhat regular basis.

Your laundry-doing process probably has, at most, five steps. Mine has 56. (You'll see why.) And this is even with combining several steps into one because I thought of things I left out and was too lazy to insert them and then re-number everything from there on down the list. So, really, it's probably around 100 steps.

I kept waiting for the Laundry Fairy to come, only to be disappointed over and over. Apparently there is no such thing, and all my childlike willingness to be open to the wonder of belief was totally wasted. (Or maybe I was just being lazy. Either way. No Laundry Fairy.)

Let us begin...

1) Decide that you're simply not up to dealing with the inevitable disappointed looks and head-shakings from your spouse (who "suggested" a few days ago that Saturday should be laundry-room-cleaning-day), because you have been kind of an ass-pain lately, and a boring and grueling housekeeping task is probably no more than you have coming.

2) Do not drink the night before undertaking the task, because trying to do it while sweating out Jack Daniel's residue is a fate worse than death. Plus, you'll be tempted to take every article of clothing you own and shove them all in the trash bins to avoid having to deal with it, leaving you nothing to wear to work, meaning you'd have to go naked, which is not an option, so you'd stay home, lose your job, and become homeless. And probably divorced.

3) Drink lots of coffee, then venture down to the laundry room. Look around, sigh, and return to the Sofur for another hour.

4) Return to the laundry room, look around, sigh, but refuse to leave until you've at least made a start of it, because maybe you left $100 in the pocket of some forgotten pair of pants. (As. If.) (But sometimes we have to lie to ourselves so we can fake motivation.)

5) Place a sheet in the one open spot on the floor. This is your "sorting pile."

6) Open a trash bag and place it nearby. This is the "maybe somebody will wear this, but it ain't gonna be me" bag.

7) Place a large trash can beside the giveaway bag. This is for stuff that not even third-world orphans would wear, because these things are so ratty and stained and mauled that wearing a vermin-infested feed sack would be a step up. (Sadly, many of the things to be sorted fit this description. Not all of it was in this condition when it arrived in the laundry room.)

8) Select the first basket and begin sorting. This involves admitting to yourself that you'll never ever mend that hem or replace that button or pre-treat and eradicate that stain. Marvel at the fact that with so much red wine soaked into your various shirts it's a miracle you ever got enough into your system to become intoxicated.

9) Resist urge to abandon the project and go make yourself a Jack & Diet to drown your sorrows over the fact that those size 2 jeans were so freakin' cute and shall never adorn your ass again.

10) Wonder for the second time this month why you have four bathing suit bottoms and no tops.

11) Realize that there is no way in hell you're going to do additional loads of laundry consisting of items you will not wear until October. Designate the empty hamper as their Summer Home.

12) Sort, sort, sort. Notice that you are sweating, and take an emergency break. Wonder if doing laundry has ever killed anybody, then conclude that it probably has. Text your husband and inform him that dealing with the laundry room is definitely a multi-day process so he won't start with the disappointed looks when he gets home.

13) Try not to throw up when you realize that the overwhelming mess in the laundry room is the least of your problems. There's that laundry-mound that has been leaning against your dresser since 2002, as well as the contents of said dresser.

14) Try to remember what's in the dresser, as you haven't actually put anything in there (or taken anything out) since... well, that's not important. A long time. Because the laundry-mound has been blocking the bottom three drawers.

15) Go to your room to assess the laundry-mound and dresser, and suppress an agonized groan when you also remember the basket of assorted whatnots that has lived beside the bed since whatever point in the past when you were no longer able to put things in the dresser.

16) Remove candy wrappers, shoe boxes, half-sucked-on cough drops, and torn thigh-highs from the bedside basket and carry the remainder downstairs.

17) Sort one full basket in the laundry room, then carry the empty basket upstairs and transfer a small portion of laundry-mound into it. Transport the basket back to the laundry room.

18) Repeat step 17.

19) Repeat step 17.

20) Repeat step 17. (Actually, you need to repeat this about six times, but I'm getting bored.)

21) Promise yourself not to blog about the tiny piece of fossilized dog poo you found underneath the laundry pile, because you're pretty sure it came from Sprocket who has been dead since last November, then admit you're going to have to blog about it despite the fact that Tom will strongly disapprove, but it's too darned disgusting - and therefore hilarious - to keep to yourself.

22) Realize you need a variation of step 17, because now that you can open the dresser drawers, you learn that all this stuff needs to be sorted, too, because some of it is disgusting, and some of it dates back to your "I had gastric bypass surgery, and now I'm a size 2, so I'm going to buy all these teeny-tiny adorable clothes" days, and if you have to ever see these teeny-tiny adorable clothes again you are going to need extremely powerful prescription medication to deal with the disappointment and rage.

23) Place some of the dresser contents in the basket, and tote to laundry room.

24) Repeat step 23.

25) Repeat step 23.

26) Wonder why the fuck you ever bought a split level house, because those stairs are getting on your last, sweaty, disgruntled nerve.

27) Marvel at the number of times you've been up and down those stairs and have not fallen and bashed your brains out on the tile entryway of the landing. Conclude that the fact that you have not been drinking (yet) probably has something to do with it. Then ponder the fact that if you were drinking, you probably wouldn't give a shit about the laundry room, and wouldn't be going up and down the stairs in the first place.

28) Wonder if it is possible to teach Darwin to mix a Jack & Diet, but decide the way he likes to chew on ice cubes and then spit them out probably doesn't bode well for the quantity of dog-slobber that would end up in your drink. Plus, you just know he'd skimp on the Jack.

29) Sigh, and return to sorting. Try to be cheered up by the things you find that you had completely forgotten that you had. Be extra-cheery if there's a chance that it might still fit.

30) Spend eight seconds doing the Snoopy Dance of Joy when you sort your last article of clothing into the appropriate pile, bag or trash bin.

31) Cry a little bit, because you now have a chest-high pile of stuff that you actually have to wash, dry, fold, and put away. (This, people, is why I don't do laundry in the first place. Sort, wash, dry, fold, and put away??? We won't even list "iron," because that is totally not an option. The rest is daunting enough. If I spend all my time doing that shit, my ass-print will start to work its way out of the Sofur. Do you know how hard I've worked at that?)

32) Tie up bags of stuff that you're giving away. Wonder if the Goodwill people will see all the teeny-tiny "hey-look-at-me" clothing in the bags and think a hooker just cleaned out her closet. Be slightly proud of that.

33) Grab several armfuls of clothes and stuff in the washing machine. Do not bother to separate whites/lights/colors/darks. This is a huge waste of time.

34) Thus concludes the boring portion of the process.

35) Now we get to the really, really, excruciatingly boring portion of the process.

36) Try not to stab yourself in the eye with a bleach pen when you realize that step 35 is going to last at least two days.

37) Ask yourself why the hell you have a bleach pen, where did it come from, and how long has it been on the shelf above the washer and dryer? (Hey. There's a shelf above the washer and dryer. Wow.)

38) Each time you get a load to the "folding and putting away" phase, feel freaked out by the fact that you really don't know if that kind of shirt should be on a hanger or neatly folded in a drawer, and what if you don't have enough hangers and the whole process derails and Tom comes home and finds you sitting in the laundry sink sucking your thumb and crying.

39) Promise yourself a beverage-filled evening, and persevere.

40) Carry several items upstairs - on hangers! - and open the closet door. Be dismayed at the fact that you totally forgot about the closet, and it is also full of crap you haven't worn in forever because the closet door keeps falling off the track and it's way too much bother to keep fighting with it.

41) Jam the closet door back on its track, shove all the closet-crap to the far left side, and hang your newly-washed items on the right.

42) Carry up a basket of dried/folded clothes and choke down a shriek when you realize that putting these things away is going to require... more sorting. This includes tops, bottoms, regular undies, "special" undies, and stuff that fits no particular category so you cram it in random drawers even though that means you will never, ever see it again.

43) Intermission. Husband arrives home, and is not dismayed by your lack of progress. Enjoy a nice, relaxing evening and refuse to think about the piles of work that await. But panic a little when you get undressed for bed and remember that you now have neither a "laundry-mound" or a hamper, and feel kind of awful about dropping your clothes right there on the floor.

44) Day Two: Pick up around Step 35 and repeat steps as necessary.

45) Be a little sad when you discover that the little black camisole with all the rows of swishy-swishy fringe on it clearly should not have gone through the washer, because now the fringe is all either unravelly or tangly, and you probably won't be wearing it again. But don't throw it away. There might be some kind of household utensil made for re-raveling and un-tangling fringe. Make mental note to check the As Seen On TV ads. Could ask Billy Mays, except he's dead.

46) Decide to keep the itty-bitty, girl-cut, French-sleeve, baseball-style Cross Canadian Ragweed t-shirt even though it would be too small for the average toddler, but you are simply incapable of throwing out or giving away any Cross Canadian Ragweed schwag.

47) Begin to whimper when you realize you can actually see the sheet at the bottom of the laundry pile.

48) Suppress the urge to weep when the very last item is folded and placed in the basket.

49) Be glad that none of the spiders you saw bit you. (But wonder where they all went.) (Check your hair for spiders.)

50) Refuse to think of the hamper full of winter stuff that you will have to wash at some point, maybe within the next two weeks, because summer seems to have decided not to make an official appearance this year.

51) Wonder how the livin' hell you're ever going to be able to find anything when it is in closets and drawers instead of right there in a nice, open laundry basket or draped over the handlebars of Tom's bike in the laundry room. The only solution might be to buy all new stuff.

52) Check available credit on your Kohl's charge. Decide that's not enough to finance a whole new wardrobe, so you're going to have to give this "dresser-and-closet" thing a try.

53) Try not to smack the husband when he says, "See, don't you feel good now that it's all clean?" Resist the impulse because he can't help it. He was raised that way. Plus, you're kind of glad he seems happy with you, and he can't bitch that you never do anything for at least a month, which is approximately how long it will take for chaos to return to Laundry Land.

54) Decide to write a blog about the process, even the fossilized dog poo. Write the blog, and discover it's way, way longer than you anticipated, which indicates that you worked even harder than you thought, and somebody better give you a large cash bonus for this, or at least several potent drinks.

55) Hope the blog isn't too boring, but post it anyway, because you just spent all this time writing it, and somebody's going to read it, dammit. Plus, misery loves company.

56) The end.