As we all know, I'm not the most aggressive driver in the world. Hilary is convinced that my driving style exists simply and exclusively to annoy her. I've said it before people.......my most comfortable speed of choice is 50 mph. For me to hit 60.......well.......you can pretty much count on a pronounced lack of blood flow to my fingers as they clutch the wheel in a sweaty panic. It's getting worse as I age. I drive along with my mothers scowl on (sorry Mom...it's true) Mom would frown as she drove, and be utterly oblivious to any and all attempts to wave or otherwise attract her attention. I catch a glimpse of my scowl face in the rear view at times, and try hard not to make it appear to other motorists that I'm having a colonoscopy while driving 50 on Rt 15.
Hilary, on the other hand, is a maestro motorist. She cruises along with a confidence born of her no nonsense, tell it like it is approach to everything in her life. I am in awe of Hilary the driver. So we are coming back from a lovely pedicure and heading to dinner when a driver suddenly speeds up to whip around her to exit the highway. Hilary maintains her cool and glances over at the offending individual with a cold and disapproving eye.
Then it happens again at the next exit...........
Hilary rolls down her window...."REALLY!!? SERIOUSLY!??" she yells across the atmosphere. We continue along having merged in to the left lane to avoid the cluster fuck that is rush hour exiting of the highway. Our exit to the restaurant is coming up. Hilary merges back in the the right hand lane. "THIS IS ME GETTING READY TO EXIT IN PLENTY OF TIME.......WATCH AND LEARN PEOPLE!!!" We are almost to our exit when another car is cut off. Hilary rolls down my window and yells "HONK......AT.......HIM!!!!!!" "HONK.....AT......HIM!!!!" It seems her annoyance at traffic brings out her protective side as well.
I sit quite peacefully in the passenger side........trying not to wear my mothers driving face just in case it happens when I'm riding as well. I trust Hilary completely to get us to a relaxing dinner in one piece. she exits the car without even the slightest residual effect of the treacherous trek we just completed.
I pause and reflect a moment
Were it me driving..........I would have stayed glued in the right hand lane going 45 mph, at least 14 car lengths away from the car in front of me, compromising blood flow to my extremities, all while enjoying a psychic colonoscopy that reads on my face like a jowly jack-o-lantern.
I'm good.
You drive.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Dog training for idiots such as myself, part 1
My mother always said "we have bad luck with dogs" We did actually. Frequent moving wreaked havoc on our pets. It seems like very shortly after settling in to a new place, the family dog would end up the hopeless loser in an unfortunate vehicular confrontation. Mom was an absolute genius at hiding doggie damage from Dad. A shrug and a smile would diffuse his anger on the off chance he uncovered one of the secret places. Her smile in combination with her wicked sense of humor never failed to do the trick. Mom was the kind of woman who, upon growing tired of the endless parade of belches emanating from my father and brother on football/beer/peanut Sunday, would quietly sit opposite them with her own beer and belch them in to submission.
Mom was the dog trainer.....and she was good at it. All the basics were achieved. Sit. Down. Stay. She also trained the dogs to potty in one little chicken wired off section of the lawn. No poop hunts for her! No unsightly yellowed and dead patches of grass! "Poor dead dog!" she would say as the cue for Brandy to lay motionless on her side. I think I always took for granted mom's gift with the dogs because many, many years later when I finally had my own dog...........I found the gift not to be inherited.
To benefit those of you who may now, or at some future time, be involved in the training of a dog, here are some tips you might find helpful. Keep in mind that these are all from my own personal experience as a completely idiotic dog trainer.
1) When trying to get your new and inexplicably off-lead dog to come to you because you are now ready to go home because there's a thunderstorm looming and you are running late for an appointment, yelling "HEY FUCK HEAD.....CAN YOU GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!!? most often fails to be all together effective.
2) Finally resorting to chasing him while waving his lead over your head and bellowing COME COME COME YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!! also.......not typically a plan that will end with your dog back under your control. Aside from the general mechanics of failure on a purely physical level ( he can run at 20 mph with 4 legs. I can plod like a drunken plow mule on valium. I think I'll try to run him down.........ahhhhh....good plan) there is on the behavioral level, the non existent chance that your dog will actually come to a screaming maniac waving a leash. Would you?
3) When offering a tasty treat for a job well done, keep in mind that your dog has no particular emotional or spiritual attachment to your fingers.....besides....they smell like pupperoni. Yum! Be kind to your fingers, you may have a use for them later. Offer treats with an open hand.
4) potty training is always a challenge. I found that baby talking to your dog; "duh ma mas bay bay wan uh go poo poos?" will only serve to annoy your neighbors and call in to question your competence and ability to live an independent lifestyle. Best to find a non offensive potty word and stick to it. Once again......a word......."Nickolai would you please hurry up and dump so I can go inside!", may just be a tad too wordy for your darling with a brain the size of a walnut.
5)Destructive chewing can be a problem. I have found that when attempting to get an inappropriate item away from your dog, it's always best to offer something of higher value in exchange. Keep in mind that this means a higher value in your dogs eyes. Wrestling your fabulously broken in Nike orthopedic bun lifting tennis shoe away by offering your genuine Prada pumps in exchange, is not generally a good idea. This is a dog.......you could offer him a nice and newly deposited cat tootsie out of the litter box and he will smile inside at his good fortune and gladly release the not-nearly-so-tasty tennis shoe.
So by now I'm sure you are asking yourself "what is the secret to dog training Nancy?" Well kids.......I'm gonna let you in on it. Please feel free to share it with your friends and neighbors. The answer is simply this:
Hotdogs
Dogs will do anything for hotdogs. I am convinced that it was their originally intended purpose. Human consumption had to be way down on the list. I discovered the magic of hotdogs while trying to teach my hopelessly hardheaded Husky to sit. If there was a piece of hotdog in it for him, he would plant his ass with such a fast and enthusiastic "BAM" that the floor shook and pictures hung askew.
It was a breakthrough
If you would like to teach your dog hop on two feet and recite the Gettysburg Address.......just pick up some cheap hotdogs and have a blast! Nickolai has been known to rapidly run through his entire repertoire of behaviors, followed by a snappy little soft shoe routine, if there was a hotdog within 100 yards.
Watch and learn Grasshoppers
Mom was the dog trainer.....and she was good at it. All the basics were achieved. Sit. Down. Stay. She also trained the dogs to potty in one little chicken wired off section of the lawn. No poop hunts for her! No unsightly yellowed and dead patches of grass! "Poor dead dog!" she would say as the cue for Brandy to lay motionless on her side. I think I always took for granted mom's gift with the dogs because many, many years later when I finally had my own dog...........I found the gift not to be inherited.
To benefit those of you who may now, or at some future time, be involved in the training of a dog, here are some tips you might find helpful. Keep in mind that these are all from my own personal experience as a completely idiotic dog trainer.
1) When trying to get your new and inexplicably off-lead dog to come to you because you are now ready to go home because there's a thunderstorm looming and you are running late for an appointment, yelling "HEY FUCK HEAD.....CAN YOU GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!!? most often fails to be all together effective.
2) Finally resorting to chasing him while waving his lead over your head and bellowing COME COME COME YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!! also.......not typically a plan that will end with your dog back under your control. Aside from the general mechanics of failure on a purely physical level ( he can run at 20 mph with 4 legs. I can plod like a drunken plow mule on valium. I think I'll try to run him down.........ahhhhh....good plan) there is on the behavioral level, the non existent chance that your dog will actually come to a screaming maniac waving a leash. Would you?
3) When offering a tasty treat for a job well done, keep in mind that your dog has no particular emotional or spiritual attachment to your fingers.....besides....they smell like pupperoni. Yum! Be kind to your fingers, you may have a use for them later. Offer treats with an open hand.
4) potty training is always a challenge. I found that baby talking to your dog; "duh ma mas bay bay wan uh go poo poos?" will only serve to annoy your neighbors and call in to question your competence and ability to live an independent lifestyle. Best to find a non offensive potty word and stick to it. Once again......a word......."Nickolai would you please hurry up and dump so I can go inside!", may just be a tad too wordy for your darling with a brain the size of a walnut.
5)Destructive chewing can be a problem. I have found that when attempting to get an inappropriate item away from your dog, it's always best to offer something of higher value in exchange. Keep in mind that this means a higher value in your dogs eyes. Wrestling your fabulously broken in Nike orthopedic bun lifting tennis shoe away by offering your genuine Prada pumps in exchange, is not generally a good idea. This is a dog.......you could offer him a nice and newly deposited cat tootsie out of the litter box and he will smile inside at his good fortune and gladly release the not-nearly-so-tasty tennis shoe.
So by now I'm sure you are asking yourself "what is the secret to dog training Nancy?" Well kids.......I'm gonna let you in on it. Please feel free to share it with your friends and neighbors. The answer is simply this:
Hotdogs
Dogs will do anything for hotdogs. I am convinced that it was their originally intended purpose. Human consumption had to be way down on the list. I discovered the magic of hotdogs while trying to teach my hopelessly hardheaded Husky to sit. If there was a piece of hotdog in it for him, he would plant his ass with such a fast and enthusiastic "BAM" that the floor shook and pictures hung askew.
It was a breakthrough
If you would like to teach your dog hop on two feet and recite the Gettysburg Address.......just pick up some cheap hotdogs and have a blast! Nickolai has been known to rapidly run through his entire repertoire of behaviors, followed by a snappy little soft shoe routine, if there was a hotdog within 100 yards.
Watch and learn Grasshoppers
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Air painting and the Jay
My life, as it exists in the here and now, is quite a perplexing thing. I am currently credit-less and working on a strictly cash only basis. My only child is newly married and has a different last name than mine, which has left me feeling strangely adrift. I have developed a new fascination with old Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis movies, which causes me to examine the mechanics of my slightly twisted attachment to throwbacks to simpler times......and I'm sorry, paratroopers in metal helmets toe tapping and making Latin arms while singing about jumping out of planes just makes me laugh.........and I found myself doing something last night that I've never done before......air painting.
In the midst of my latest slightly unhealthy need to throw away everything that's not freakin' nailed down, I found myself stopping,,,,,and sitting......and holding an imaginary brush as I laid down the imaginary strokes that would make a painting of Nickolai as he slept in the sunny spot. My only thoughts were color and the direction of my strokes. "Burnt umber and gold ochre......white........ultramarine blue, burnt umber.....white.......a tiny touch of sap green......white" I'm not sure exactly how long this went on before I became aware of the strangeness of my task. OK...so people air guitar and that's not weird right? they pretend to drum with pencils right? yeah........air painting......that's just fucking weird.
All right then.........God has made me an artist. I get it. I might ask why he didn't make me a neuro surgeon or the CEO of Microsoft or some such other lucrative field that precludes the purchase of mini ravioli because it's 89 cents a can.....but I get it. I'm an artist. Not a lot of those on the fortune 500...but I get it. I found myself last week feeling the weight of my lack of fundage....wondering why......to what point and purpose am I called to be the artist that I am. "I need a sign God.......just give me a sign that I'm on the right road!......that there is a reason and a point.......and that I'm not just standing in the "too stupid to be in the right line" line.
I leashed up the dogs and headed to the park for a walk to stave off the looming panic attack. I was rounding the turn back to the car and decided to head off in to the field. Nick loves to scope out that area for squirrels. I stopped to rest a minute and saw the blue fluttering at my feet. directly in my path is a wounded jay fledgling. His tail feathers were messed up and one wing didn't look so good. "Well shit fuck" is honestly and precisely what went through my head at that moment. "now I gotta go back to the fucking car and pull the fuck around and transport a bird along with my 2 dogs back to the clinic and call the wildlife rehabilitator" I made a mental note to be a little more careful when asking for signs from God......he tends to get right on that.
I bundled up the bird in my jacket and headed off to the clinic. I got there just as the doctor needed me to assist in the euthanasia of a sweet old Sheltie. He was by himself when the call came in long after hours. That I showed up just as he needed me was part two of the sign I had requested earlier that evening. We said goodbye as Joey drifted quietly off and I cried as I always do in these cases. Di showed up for the jay...."nice weight to him......yeah, that wing's broken.....maybe that one too.......I'll see what I can do"
I'm on the right road. It may be a road where I drop my coffee in the parking lot...go back to get another only to have the cat knock it off the counter. It may be a road where I lean over the toilet to flush and drop my bifocals in. It may be a road where I discover that Willie regurged on the couch only after I sit in it.......but it's my road....and it's the right one for me.
I called Di yesterday. "How's the jay?" "Oh hes a pain in my ass........hes resisting self feeding, the little bastard likes being hand fed"
Yeah.......that sounds about right
In the midst of my latest slightly unhealthy need to throw away everything that's not freakin' nailed down, I found myself stopping,,,,,and sitting......and holding an imaginary brush as I laid down the imaginary strokes that would make a painting of Nickolai as he slept in the sunny spot. My only thoughts were color and the direction of my strokes. "Burnt umber and gold ochre......white........ultramarine blue, burnt umber.....white.......a tiny touch of sap green......white" I'm not sure exactly how long this went on before I became aware of the strangeness of my task. OK...so people air guitar and that's not weird right? they pretend to drum with pencils right? yeah........air painting......that's just fucking weird.
All right then.........God has made me an artist. I get it. I might ask why he didn't make me a neuro surgeon or the CEO of Microsoft or some such other lucrative field that precludes the purchase of mini ravioli because it's 89 cents a can.....but I get it. I'm an artist. Not a lot of those on the fortune 500...but I get it. I found myself last week feeling the weight of my lack of fundage....wondering why......to what point and purpose am I called to be the artist that I am. "I need a sign God.......just give me a sign that I'm on the right road!......that there is a reason and a point.......and that I'm not just standing in the "too stupid to be in the right line" line.
I leashed up the dogs and headed to the park for a walk to stave off the looming panic attack. I was rounding the turn back to the car and decided to head off in to the field. Nick loves to scope out that area for squirrels. I stopped to rest a minute and saw the blue fluttering at my feet. directly in my path is a wounded jay fledgling. His tail feathers were messed up and one wing didn't look so good. "Well shit fuck" is honestly and precisely what went through my head at that moment. "now I gotta go back to the fucking car and pull the fuck around and transport a bird along with my 2 dogs back to the clinic and call the wildlife rehabilitator" I made a mental note to be a little more careful when asking for signs from God......he tends to get right on that.
I bundled up the bird in my jacket and headed off to the clinic. I got there just as the doctor needed me to assist in the euthanasia of a sweet old Sheltie. He was by himself when the call came in long after hours. That I showed up just as he needed me was part two of the sign I had requested earlier that evening. We said goodbye as Joey drifted quietly off and I cried as I always do in these cases. Di showed up for the jay...."nice weight to him......yeah, that wing's broken.....maybe that one too.......I'll see what I can do"
I'm on the right road. It may be a road where I drop my coffee in the parking lot...go back to get another only to have the cat knock it off the counter. It may be a road where I lean over the toilet to flush and drop my bifocals in. It may be a road where I discover that Willie regurged on the couch only after I sit in it.......but it's my road....and it's the right one for me.
I called Di yesterday. "How's the jay?" "Oh hes a pain in my ass........hes resisting self feeding, the little bastard likes being hand fed"
Yeah.......that sounds about right
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Never blog under the influence of Lorazepam
This I discovered after spending several hours writing a pointed and deeply spiritual blog entry containing lines like "it was real good" and the chorus to a song I was writing simultaneously "la la la la la la-razzz-a-pam", I decided that it might be a good idea to delete the whole mess before someone in the health care profession saw it and scheduled an intervention. Medication and creativity cannot co exist peacefully.....so choose grasshopper.
Yesterday, I chose medication. For someone such as myself who can really pump up the old existential angst when the situation calls for it, meds are a necessity. Trust me when I say that sparing you the long winded, chest-thumping journal entries of being "awash in creative ambition only to be beached on the sands of despair" in favor of popping 2 lorazepam is for your own freakin' good........and mine. I can put in "I Love Lucy"and sleep deeply and peacefully.
The drawback is as I've said......nothing creative can happen for me under the influence. Forget painting. Forget writing. The most ambitious endeavor I will attempt is watching the progress of that stink bug across my windowsill. Oh yeah........I'm done.
Fortunately for all, the same impetus that causes me to falter in the face of my remote controls and fail to set off paper towel dispensers when I want to, and set off toilet flushers when I don't, is the same one that drives the creative bus. At least I can get some decent paintings out of it. It's the days where I feel my compassion faltering and my patience waning that I fore go the creative in favor of the la la la la la-razzz-a-pam.
It's a damned good thing that I'm not the addictive type, although a Jack Daniels neat would really hit the spot right now.
Yesterday, I chose medication. For someone such as myself who can really pump up the old existential angst when the situation calls for it, meds are a necessity. Trust me when I say that sparing you the long winded, chest-thumping journal entries of being "awash in creative ambition only to be beached on the sands of despair" in favor of popping 2 lorazepam is for your own freakin' good........and mine. I can put in "I Love Lucy"and sleep deeply and peacefully.
The drawback is as I've said......nothing creative can happen for me under the influence. Forget painting. Forget writing. The most ambitious endeavor I will attempt is watching the progress of that stink bug across my windowsill. Oh yeah........I'm done.
Fortunately for all, the same impetus that causes me to falter in the face of my remote controls and fail to set off paper towel dispensers when I want to, and set off toilet flushers when I don't, is the same one that drives the creative bus. At least I can get some decent paintings out of it. It's the days where I feel my compassion faltering and my patience waning that I fore go the creative in favor of the la la la la la-razzz-a-pam.
It's a damned good thing that I'm not the addictive type, although a Jack Daniels neat would really hit the spot right now.
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