Ok, cheesy I know, but I am most obviously too far removed from all of these words that I love...and I miss. I didn't realize that the last time I posted on a blog of my own was back in July. Excuses have been too easy to come by and the de-railers (AKA children) are insistent upon giving me another reason (right now!) to stop typing and to attend to their needs. The mother in me expects that I get up from this chair, shut the laptop and continue chipping away at the incessant chores that are still here even after I spent ten hours yesterday laboring. The writer in me wants to quietly slip out of the room, with laptop securely hidden under my arm, and find a secluded room where I can hide. The filthy bathroom comes to mind...or the back of my closet...
Shoot! It didn't work...they found me, and I probably couldn't have lasted much longer with their incredibly effective flushing tactic "Mom!! Mom!! Where are you?!! Mom!! MOOOMMM!! Mom, we need you!!!"
Ok, I have tried a new strategy, but it is going to cost me $5 for each of them after they are done. Oh well, can you really put a price on solitary time to write?
I've come to a conclusion, and I am unsure I'll ever be able to pay the bills writing, but to be honest, I am starting not to care. I tried, through the summer, to self-promote and diligently finish the proposal for my marriage book. The proposal package is done, and the unwitting publishers will start to get my reams of paper soon. I will, of course, be thrilled if someone picks it up and wants me to keep writing about it, but I am starting to lose the momentum to self-promote.
SHHH! Don't tell the publishers because that could preclude me from being picked up. What I mean by that statement is that I am bored with having to be just about marriage. The experts (probably just the loudest talkers) have suggested that if I have a twitter account, and a website, that the material I put out there has to be devoted to marriage topics, if that is the focus of my book. GAG!!! Yes, the bulk of the book is about what I was able to discover about marriage, but I think more important to me was what I discovered about myself. Let's be honest...all I really want to talk about is myself anyway because everything else just bores me. Just kidding! But seriously, I find it too narrowing to be forced to write about only one aspect of my multi-dimensional life. Yes, I am married, and too happily to be of interest to the masses. I have been searching for drama the last few months, but damned if the things that I found in my research actually worked!! We're both faithful, selfless and generally focused on the good of the family. Why in the world would anyone be interested in hearing about that?
So here I sit...needing to write, but rebelling against instruction that it has to be about a singular topic. That is not what writing has ever been for me, and I miss just writing to write. This site: "What the blog is going on around here?" is my new oasis. I want to be here often. I refuse to conform to a "New Year's Resolution" that I will write daily and that I will cover X, Y or Z. My quote for the day is: "When we cease to cling to our own expectations and conclusions and begin to flow with life, then we begin to let God's life live in us." That would be cool! I'll let you know how it goes...
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
How Not to Kill a Guinea Pig
Before I tell you this story, I have to explain that in no way do I think that it is funny that there is a legitimately sick guinea pig with a real family who is struggling with how to best help her. I am not an animal-hater nor someone who regularly pokes fun at her friends, but as things unfolded yesterday for a family that we adore, it was impossible not to see the humor in their situation.
We had scheduled a dinner with our friends last evening, and when she called me to coordinate details about the meal, she got distracted by what was happening on her end of the line, and I heard, “No…no, don’t do that…you are ruining what I spent all that time setting up. Just close the garage. No…you have to close it!”
She came back to the phone and explained, “ Oh, I’m just sick about this. It would cost us $75 to put down this guinea pig, and she is just so sick.”
“Oh no, what’s wrong with her,” I asked.
“Oh, she has this tumor the size of my fist, and she has had it for almost six months. She is six and a half years old, and we really didn’t think she would make it this long. The vet told me that it will only continue to grow and then abscess. I just can’t let it suffer through that.” She sighs.
“I’m so sorry. So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m trying to put carbon monoxide into its cage. I have the hose hooked up to my car and I just spent the last half an hour with the lid closed and the car running. My son just lifted up the lid and let out all the gas that was probably in there,” she explained exasperated.
“You can’t just let it go out in a field or something?” I naively ask from the perspective of a previous guinea pig owner, whose pigs didn’t live longer than three years.
“Oh, that’s just too cruel. She would get eaten that way, and I just can’t do that to her. She’s been in a cage her whole life.”
I see her point, but I’m still trying to visualize this contraption that she has described. We work out our details for the dinner, and I wish her luck with her euthanizing adventure.
When we drive up to their house, I see the remnants of the days’ drama. The hose is attached to the tailpipe of the car and the other end is closed underneath the garage.
We learn that my friend is not very good at killing animals, even in a merciful capacity. The guinea pig is still alive, possibly more sluggish, but hard to tell. We discuss the disturbing image of the hose/tailpipe combination and we talk about the fact that they were lucky that their neighbors did not call the police. It cannot have looked good with the hose hooked up to a running car and slid under a closed garage door. We imagined the conversation with a policeman answering the call:
“No, officer, we are not suicidal…just homicidal.”
“Excuse me?” A confused and concerned officer would respond.
“Oh, you see. It’s for our guinea pig.”
After we abandon that angle of discussion, we move to the part of the conversation that includes the fact that the guinea pig is still alive. It is probable that the exposure to the gas has only left the pet with a really bad headache and has not effectively poisoned it. My husband offers another possible side effect.
“You do realize that you may have just cured the guinea pig.”
“What?” my friends look at him confused.
“Well, who knows, maybe carbon monoxide is like chemotherapy to guinea pigs and you just gave it a dose to shrink its tumor.”
We all know the science behind that comment, but it makes us laugh anyway.
My friend’s husband asks about the technical aspects of the contraption, and we all realize what must have been the problem. The hose was hooked up to the tailpipe, but not sealed. Some carbon monoxide was probably getting into the hose but not at a concentrated enough level to be lethal.
I am certain that the fate of the guinea pig is one of a peaceful departure, if my friend has anything to say about it, and she can only be commended for her kind-hearted, pet-loving approach to putting her pet down. It is nothing to be ashamed of if you are an ineffectual pet killer, and she has proven that there are certainly ways NOT to kill a guinea pig.
We had scheduled a dinner with our friends last evening, and when she called me to coordinate details about the meal, she got distracted by what was happening on her end of the line, and I heard, “No…no, don’t do that…you are ruining what I spent all that time setting up. Just close the garage. No…you have to close it!”
She came back to the phone and explained, “ Oh, I’m just sick about this. It would cost us $75 to put down this guinea pig, and she is just so sick.”
“Oh no, what’s wrong with her,” I asked.
“Oh, she has this tumor the size of my fist, and she has had it for almost six months. She is six and a half years old, and we really didn’t think she would make it this long. The vet told me that it will only continue to grow and then abscess. I just can’t let it suffer through that.” She sighs.
“I’m so sorry. So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m trying to put carbon monoxide into its cage. I have the hose hooked up to my car and I just spent the last half an hour with the lid closed and the car running. My son just lifted up the lid and let out all the gas that was probably in there,” she explained exasperated.
“You can’t just let it go out in a field or something?” I naively ask from the perspective of a previous guinea pig owner, whose pigs didn’t live longer than three years.
“Oh, that’s just too cruel. She would get eaten that way, and I just can’t do that to her. She’s been in a cage her whole life.”
I see her point, but I’m still trying to visualize this contraption that she has described. We work out our details for the dinner, and I wish her luck with her euthanizing adventure.
When we drive up to their house, I see the remnants of the days’ drama. The hose is attached to the tailpipe of the car and the other end is closed underneath the garage.
We learn that my friend is not very good at killing animals, even in a merciful capacity. The guinea pig is still alive, possibly more sluggish, but hard to tell. We discuss the disturbing image of the hose/tailpipe combination and we talk about the fact that they were lucky that their neighbors did not call the police. It cannot have looked good with the hose hooked up to a running car and slid under a closed garage door. We imagined the conversation with a policeman answering the call:
“No, officer, we are not suicidal…just homicidal.”
“Excuse me?” A confused and concerned officer would respond.
“Oh, you see. It’s for our guinea pig.”
After we abandon that angle of discussion, we move to the part of the conversation that includes the fact that the guinea pig is still alive. It is probable that the exposure to the gas has only left the pet with a really bad headache and has not effectively poisoned it. My husband offers another possible side effect.
“You do realize that you may have just cured the guinea pig.”
“What?” my friends look at him confused.
“Well, who knows, maybe carbon monoxide is like chemotherapy to guinea pigs and you just gave it a dose to shrink its tumor.”
We all know the science behind that comment, but it makes us laugh anyway.
My friend’s husband asks about the technical aspects of the contraption, and we all realize what must have been the problem. The hose was hooked up to the tailpipe, but not sealed. Some carbon monoxide was probably getting into the hose but not at a concentrated enough level to be lethal.
I am certain that the fate of the guinea pig is one of a peaceful departure, if my friend has anything to say about it, and she can only be commended for her kind-hearted, pet-loving approach to putting her pet down. It is nothing to be ashamed of if you are an ineffectual pet killer, and she has proven that there are certainly ways NOT to kill a guinea pig.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Chickening Out
I swear on a stack of Bibles that this really happened to us tonight…because really, who can make this stuff up?
“What do you want for dinner?” I unenthusiastically ask.
“I don’t care. What do you want for dinner?” My husband echoes with indifference. “Do you feel like Chinese?”
“No!” The biggest yells from the backseat, “I just had Japanese for lunch.”
“I want a restaurant.” The littlest voice pipes in from her car seat.
“You just want chicken nuggets…and we have some of those at home.“ I point out.
“No, I want a restaurant,” she insists.
“What are you going to order at the restaurant?” I query.
“I want…(dramatic pause) chicken nuggets.” She answers honestly.
So, the decision is made that my husband and I are going to get something for us and we would cook nuggets for the kids at home. We pass a sign on the highway for a chicken joint that we used to frequent, years ago, but we often laughed about the fact that they never really had the chicken that we ordered.
“We’d like the 8-piece chicken meal, mostly drumsticks please.” My husband yells out the window.
“Spicy or mild,” the box squawks.
“Mild, please.”
“So 3-piece chicken meal?”
“No, 8-piece meal with mostly drumsticks please.”
“A 2-piece meal?”
“No,” he looks over baffled at me as I try to stifle my giggles. “An 8-piece meal with mild drumsticks.” He enunciates.
“Come to the window please.” The frustrated woman requests.
As we drive around the corner, we cannot help but to laugh at how ridiculous that attempt at a fast-food order was. We get to the window and the woman pulls on her headset explaining that she cannot hear very well. We place our 8-piece order once again and she leaves the window for a minute.
“We only have 3 pieces of chicken right now. It will be 12 minutes for the rest of the order.” She explains.
“I think we should just go get something else.” I lean toward the car window to say.
My husband thanks me for making the decision to abandon the ill-fated trip to the chicken restaurant that too frequently does not have chicken, and we belly laugh all the way back to the highway. As entertaining as our attempt to get chicken was, we are back to our dilemma of needing to find some food for dinner. We head toward our temporary condo home and eventually decide on another fast food restaurant that is one of our favorites. It is known for its chicken bols and burritos and we get excited about our change of craving.
The kids and I stay in the car as my husband heads in with my order. I find myself talking with the kids and I realize that my husband has been gone longer than would be expected. I glance toward the door and I don’t see him headed toward the car, but I note that there are a lot of people in the restaurant. I chat a little longer with the kids and then, sans husband, I look back at the door and I find him silhouetted by one of the windows.
I joke with my oldest, “If they are out of chicken, I will absolutely die.”
Several more minutes pass and eventually my husband emerges with a bag of food and a look of utter disbelief.
He shakes his head as he gets back in the car, saying, “Well, I’m not sure what we’ve got in here, but the good news is, I didn’t pay a dime for it. Unbelievably, they ran out of chicken.”
“What? You have got to be kidding! That is nuts!” I laugh.
My husband told me that he had ordered our dinner and when it was apparent that they were not going to have enough chicken for our order, the restaurant employee offered my husband beef instead, and now, completely out of principle, he told the worker that we were really planning on being able to have chicken for dinner. After he was told that he would have to wait ten minutes, the manager informed my husband that our dinner would be free, and for all the effort that we went through for our chicken, it only seems right.
“What do you want for dinner?” I unenthusiastically ask.
“I don’t care. What do you want for dinner?” My husband echoes with indifference. “Do you feel like Chinese?”
“No!” The biggest yells from the backseat, “I just had Japanese for lunch.”
“I want a restaurant.” The littlest voice pipes in from her car seat.
“You just want chicken nuggets…and we have some of those at home.“ I point out.
“No, I want a restaurant,” she insists.
“What are you going to order at the restaurant?” I query.
“I want…(dramatic pause) chicken nuggets.” She answers honestly.
So, the decision is made that my husband and I are going to get something for us and we would cook nuggets for the kids at home. We pass a sign on the highway for a chicken joint that we used to frequent, years ago, but we often laughed about the fact that they never really had the chicken that we ordered.
“We’d like the 8-piece chicken meal, mostly drumsticks please.” My husband yells out the window.
“Spicy or mild,” the box squawks.
“Mild, please.”
“So 3-piece chicken meal?”
“No, 8-piece meal with mostly drumsticks please.”
“A 2-piece meal?”
“No,” he looks over baffled at me as I try to stifle my giggles. “An 8-piece meal with mild drumsticks.” He enunciates.
“Come to the window please.” The frustrated woman requests.
As we drive around the corner, we cannot help but to laugh at how ridiculous that attempt at a fast-food order was. We get to the window and the woman pulls on her headset explaining that she cannot hear very well. We place our 8-piece order once again and she leaves the window for a minute.
“We only have 3 pieces of chicken right now. It will be 12 minutes for the rest of the order.” She explains.
“I think we should just go get something else.” I lean toward the car window to say.
My husband thanks me for making the decision to abandon the ill-fated trip to the chicken restaurant that too frequently does not have chicken, and we belly laugh all the way back to the highway. As entertaining as our attempt to get chicken was, we are back to our dilemma of needing to find some food for dinner. We head toward our temporary condo home and eventually decide on another fast food restaurant that is one of our favorites. It is known for its chicken bols and burritos and we get excited about our change of craving.
The kids and I stay in the car as my husband heads in with my order. I find myself talking with the kids and I realize that my husband has been gone longer than would be expected. I glance toward the door and I don’t see him headed toward the car, but I note that there are a lot of people in the restaurant. I chat a little longer with the kids and then, sans husband, I look back at the door and I find him silhouetted by one of the windows.
I joke with my oldest, “If they are out of chicken, I will absolutely die.”
Several more minutes pass and eventually my husband emerges with a bag of food and a look of utter disbelief.
He shakes his head as he gets back in the car, saying, “Well, I’m not sure what we’ve got in here, but the good news is, I didn’t pay a dime for it. Unbelievably, they ran out of chicken.”
“What? You have got to be kidding! That is nuts!” I laugh.
My husband told me that he had ordered our dinner and when it was apparent that they were not going to have enough chicken for our order, the restaurant employee offered my husband beef instead, and now, completely out of principle, he told the worker that we were really planning on being able to have chicken for dinner. After he was told that he would have to wait ten minutes, the manager informed my husband that our dinner would be free, and for all the effort that we went through for our chicken, it only seems right.
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