Thursday, October 30, 2008

Hydrophobia

My dog, Emmy, is terrified of water. If you turn on the hose, she heads straight for the back door. When you fill her water dish, she leaves the vicinity. She once held her bladder for three days rather than venture out into the rain. I had to don a slicker and galoshes and drag her around the block for twenty minutes before she’d take a bio-break.

My husband insists this fear of water can be traced back to the first bath I gave her, when she was seven weeks old.

Emmy spent her first days in a garage, along with her mom and siblings, and the first thing I noticed when we got her home was that she stank. Mother dogs are supposed to be fanatical about keeping their kennel clean, but Emmy’s mom must have been one of those bitches who gets hooked on Animal Planet and just lets the housekeeping go to the dogs.

Anyway, we got this adorable little black and white ball of fur home, and, as Richard Pryor would say, it wasn’t just odor, it was o-dear. So the next morning, bright and early, I carried her out into the back yard with some doggy shampoo and a pile of fluffy towels and proceeded to give her a bath.

Next door I was surprised to see our neighbor wander over to the fence to watch. Willy was the Boo Radley of our neighborhood. He had serious health problems stemming from his service in Vietnam, and he rarely came out of doors.

The first part of the bath went reasonably well. I got Emmy all lathered up and she looked even cuter with soapsuds piled on her head and dripping from her little black ears. It was when I went to rinse her off that the trouble started. As soon as I turned on the hose, she made a break for it, streaking across the yard, yelping at the top of her lungs and flinging suds everywhere.

I ran after her, hose in hand, begging her to stop, but every time I got my hands her, she’d shoot through my fingers like a bar of wet soap.

It was about this time that I heard a strange wheezing noise. I looked over and it was Willy, his face alarmingly red, laughing so hard he was doubled over the fence.

Meanwhile, Emmy continued to hightail it around the yard, squealing like a piglet bound for slaughter. All up and down the street, doors began to open as people came out to see who was torturing a poor, helpless animal.

I finally managed to grab the scruff of her neck and held her under the hose, yelping and struggling, until she was soap-free. After I toweled her off, I collapsed into a lawn chair to catch my breath.

Over at the fence, Willy was catching his, too. Wiping tears from his eyes, he said, “I haven’t laughed this hard in years.”

After that, we saw a lot of Willy. He’d come to the fence to give Emmy treats and stay to chat about what was going on in the neighborhood. And to this day, when we go back to visit, he likes to reminisce about the day I gave Emmy her first bath.

As for Emmy, she likes him, too.

As long as he’s not watering the lawn.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Standing Up for Marriage

I’m Jeanne and I’ve been married for 30 years.

(Pause for applause.)

To three different men.

Hey, it counts! If they move you from one jail to another, it’s still time served.

This is the intro to my stand up routine, conceived at the 2006 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Conference, where they offered each participant the chance to do seven minutes of stand up comedy in front of a live audience.

I didn’t actually perform (because I’m afraid of public speaking, and even more afraid of public sucking) but I did stick around to watch the people who had the guts to go onstage. And, uniformly, everyone started by giving her name and stating how long she’d been married (except one lady, who started by giving her name and stating that she’d never been married). And, uniformly, each time they’d announce, “I’m So-and-so and I’ve been married for X years,” everyone would clap enthusiastically.

This got me to thinking about my own marital history, and how well it wouldn’t go over in this marriage-loving crowd. Although, I love marriage, too. I must, or I wouldn’t keep trying it.

(Pause for disclosure under the Fairness Doctrine: I’ve been married to my current husband for 11 years, and I adore him and think he’s just the nicest man in the world. For the remainder of this blog, let it be understood that any negative commentary about marriage does not apply to present spouses.)

Anyway, recalling my own past, which is not so much checkered as a screaming hounds-tooth plaid, got me to thinking about gay marriage and how it seems like less of a threat to marriage than people like me, who do straight marriage, but badly.

What is the deal straights have with gays getting married? It’s not like gays getting married is going to take away straight couples’ tax breaks (Congress will take care of that), insurance coverage or right to purchase family-size side items at KFC.

The Defense of Marriage crowd seems to fall into two camps:
Category 1: “Fags make me wanna puke and do not deserve oxygen, much less the same rights as normal people.” AND
Category 2: “Okay, they can have civil unions, but they can’t call it marriage, because that’s what we call ours, and it creeps me out to think that they use the same words we do.”

I’m not even going to deal with the first camp because they’re really scary. I think it’s probably better if I stay off their lawns and they stay off mine.

As for the second, their concerns seem reasonable, if, perhaps, not based too much in reality. The argument I’ve heard from them is that, if gays are allowed to marry, as opposed to civilly unite, then churches will be forced to perform ceremonies for a lifestyle the bible condemns. Since when did churches ever have to accept any thing they didn’t want to? I can’t imagine even the most liberal judge who would interpret “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof” as giving the high sign for government to interfere in weddings.

So here’s my message to the DOMA crowd: If you want to shore up marriage, work on bringing down the divorce rate.

Because it’s not people who truly commit to each other who threaten the sanctity of marriage. It’s people who marry without commitment.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Getting the Off Out

So I’m taking my three-year-old granddaughter to buy a pair of shoes, because all girls need to learn to love shoes, and it’s their grandmothers’ job to teach them that, when a school bus stops in front of me and turns on its flashers.

As I’m waiting for the bus to discharge its passenger, a car shoots past both me and the school bus. So I’m yelling at the driver, because he’s an idiot, when a little voice from the back seat says, “Are you pissed out, Grandma?”

I stop in mid-rant. I blink. “What did you say?”

And the little voice elaborates: “Did that man piss you out?”

I’m now faced with a choice: do I simply correct her grammar, or go for the deeper life lesson?

“You know,” I say finally, “that’s really not a very pretty word. Let’s say ‘angry’ instead.”

“Did that man make you angry, Grandma?” she says.

“Yes, he did,” I say. “He went right past that school bus, and he could have run over a little child and hurt it.”

“Ooh,” was all she said.

But from the back seat, as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud, I could hear what she was thinking:

“Yep, she’s pissed out all right.”

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

In Celebration of Cellulite

When I was in high school, I was so thin that there was a rumor I had graduated from Auschwitz Elementary. In those days of mini-skirts, I was subjected to such taunts as, “Jeanne, you have a string hanging from your skirt. Oh, wait, that’s your leg!” and “Jeanne, can I borrow one of your toothpicks? Oh, I guess they’re attached.”

Now that I’m older and chubbier, I find it hard to get too excited about staying thin. Which is why, today, we’re going to celebrate cellulite.

Following is a list of useful things you can do with your dimpled thighs:

1) Provide a visual for describing your metal roof after the hail-storm.
2) Wrap them in aluminum foil and make a handy cheese grater.
3) Demonstrate to your grandchildren what a golf-ball would look like magnified 300x.
4) Enter a “Best Dimples” competition in the “Most” category.
5) Plant an American flag and a tiny space capsule and allow your sixth-grader to photograph as a moonscape for her science project.
6) Two words: bubble wrap
7) Show your daughter-in-law what mashed potatoes are NOT supposed to look like.
8) Use as a temporary egg carton.
9) Create a topographical map of Tennessee to show where your cabin is located.
And, finally: (this may require exposing some cheek for contrast)
10) Explain the difference between large and small curd cottage cheese.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Shall We Dance?

Last Monday I took my granddaughters to their first ballet class.

Grace, at six, is a good child – well-behaved and eager to please. Kylie, 4 and 1/2, is none of those things.

As Grace and the others were stretching along with Miss Erica, Kylie was hanging from the barre by both hands.

When the others were walking around on tiptoe, Kylie was squashing her face against the full-length mirror, trying to see just how flat she could smash her nose.

As the others folded their ankles into the five positions, Kylie was hopping around the room like a bunny.

Finally, as the rest of the class practiced their pirouettes, Kylie tried break-dancing. On her back, with her legs in the air, spinning in circles.

A few moments later, the other kids had begun to ignore the teacher, and were attempting to emulate Kylie instead.

After class, I spoke with Miss Erica.

“She’s really not mature enough for this class, is she?”

Miss Erica, who is, after all, paid by the student, assured me Kylie had done “just fine.”

"I don’t think she has the attention span for this. Do you?”

And, just like with McCain at the crazy lady rally, for just a moment honesty won out over self interest for Miss Erica.

“There’s a lot of discipline in ballet,” she admitted. “She might do better in a different class.”

After talking it over with Grace and Kylie’s mothers, we agreed a change was in order.

Next week they start hip-hop.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Rue for Remembrance

According to an article I read in National Geographic, short-term memories get posted to your brain all day long, and at night selected ones get written into long-term memory. As we age, the brain, for unknown reasons, writes fewer and fewer things into long-term memory.

Mine seems especially selective, to the point of snobbery.

Every night, in my sleeping mind, something resembling a butler examines candidates for retention and says fussily, "You're not good enough for the permanent pantry," or "You're far too trivial to warrant shelf space," as he tosses out useful information, like where I left my car keys, the agenda for my upcoming meeting, and the name of my sister-in-law’s best friend, with whom we’re having dinner on Friday.

And while the facts that would make my day-to-day functioning a lot simpler get tossed onto the neurological compost heap, I’m doomed to retain garbage that little or no future value, like:

The list of the helping verbs that I learned in 6th grade (is, are, was, were, am, be, been….)

The prologue to the Canterbury Tales, in Middle English, no less (Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote)

The first song I ever learned (I was sitting on a fence on a hot summer day/ just sitting on a fence when the fence gave away/ with my hands in my pockets and my pockets in my pants/watching the fish do the hula hula dance)

How to do firsts, seconds, thirds and removes in genealogy (if you’re interested, look it up on the internet, it’s too complicated to explain)

What would be really useful is to have the equivalent of a Windows® recycle bin, from which I could pull back data that I’ve trashed, but which afterwards proves to be needed – like the name of the vet I decided was a quack when he took three visits to diagnose ear mites, but who specializes in puppies that are difficult to housebreak.

I’ve always used memory aids to help me remember things, and these mnemonics have grown more elaborate as I’ve gotten older.

Where a cryptic note jotted in my daily planner was once enough to remind me to send out meeting notes, I now need a checklist of all the items to be included on the report, with examples. Where I once set items near the door if I needed to take them with me, they now must completely block the doorway, making it impossible to exit without either picking them up or breaking an ankle.

I send myself emails, leave myself voicemails and twist notes into my key ring in a valiant effort not to stand people up, forget to buy milk, and leave stool samples sitting on the counter. I can picture a time, in the not too far distant future, when I’ll have to actually disable the car and leave myself a recorded message under the hood.

Which is why I'm posting this blog right now.

Because now needs no remembrance.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Meeting the Man


Is America the best country in the world, or what?

I’m feeling like it is, because today I got to shake hands with Barack Obama.

As he walked the rope line, trying his best to shake every hand thrust toward him and to make eye contact with each and every person and make them feel that his dazzling smile is intended solely for them, I got a sense of the true meaning of the word “charisma.”

And this is why I support him. Because I think that, over the next 4-8 years America is going to have to do some pretty tough stuff. Our economy is in shambles, our troops are worn to the bone, and we still have our oil addiction to kick. And I think that Obama, who has overcome some really high hurdles to get to where he’s gotten, has the unique ability to inspire people to go beyond their own self interests and do more than they’d care to do, for the good of everyone.

Okay, enough campaigning.

Let’s talk, instead, about the quest I had to complete to earn this opportunity.

I Become a Redneck

My first attempt to see Senator Obama occurred in August, when he spoke at Stivers High School. Stivers is the oldest school in Dayton, built in 1908, and I figured the auditorium would be small and I’d be able to see him without resorting to binoculars. Even better, tickets were free. All you had to do was to go down to the Democratic Headquarters and pick them up.

I talked my libertarian boss into letting me leave work at 2:30 so I could find parking and get in line early, but by the time I arrived the line was already stretching halfway around the block. It occurred to me that the small auditorium size was maybe not going to work out so well.

The line was friendly, festive even, with folks coming by every few minutes to hand out water (I did mention it was August, didn’t I?), proffer petitions, and register people to vote. (Which I found surprising, figuring anyone who cared enough to stand in line on the off chance of getting tickets to miss work to see The Man would already be registered, but they signed up quite a few people.) Everyone in line talked easily, united by a common goal, while the sun blazed down on us.

At 3 p.m. the doors opened.

At 6 they came out to tell us that they were down to their last 75 tickets, and anyone more than 20 feet back in line wasn’t likely to get in.

So, all I got out of that effort was a sunburn and the chance to tell people that Barack Obama turned me into a redneck.

I Become a Volunteer

Except for my abortive attempt to attend a rally, I was pretty content to sit on the sidelines of the campaign this year, just as I’ve done in years past.

And then McCain selected Sarah Palin as his running mate.

Pundits say that Ms. Palin galvanized the Republican base. On me, she had the effect of drinking a Fleet cocktail with a milk of magnesia chaser. Something in my gut began prompting me to get up and do something. The idea of having That Woman one heartbeat away from becoming George Bush III was scarier than having people who raise beagles move in next door. I logged onto the Obama website and signed up to do a Neighbors Talking to Neighbors canvass.

I spent the next few evenings ringing doorbells in my neighborhood, talking to folks about Senator Obama and duly reporting back the information at
http://www.mybarackobama.com/. A couple of weeks later, I got a phone call, asking me to attend a day-long training and become an active member of the campaign. Figuring there was no point in sloshing around in shallow end when you can dive in over your head and drown, I did.

Over the next couple of weekends, I knocked on 102 doors, out of which I actually spoke to 25 potential Obama supporters (and a number of people who very much weren’t). It’s not as much fun as, say, a weekend camping in the rain, but it was good work.

And goodness is sometimes rewarded. On Monday night I was invited to a conference call, where we were told that Barack would be in Dayton on Thursday, at 5/3 Field, and that they had 25 VIP tickets to hand out. Each person who knocked on 50 doors Tuesday or Wednesday could earn a ticket.

VIP ticket? An actual chance to see Barack Obama up close?

Count me in!

I Earn my Ticket

On Tuesday afternoon I went to the Obama Headquarters at the IBEW building and picked up 2 packets, figuring I’d score a ticket for myself, and one for my husband, who’s too shy to talk to people, but who walks with me to keep me safe.

The packets were a good news/bad news proposition.

The good news was, they were in a nearby neighborhood, less than a mile away.

The bad news was, it’s a really rough neighborhood.

But, with Bill walking shotgun, we set out. This is how it went:

I got bitten by a dog.
I saw a guy’s butt crack.
I got jeered at by a bunch of Palin-ites.
I was nearly accosted by an angry McCain supporter, who backed off when he realized I wasn’t stopping at his house (and, presumably, saw Bill).

And that was just the first night. The second was about as bad. As we get closer to the election, and it starts to look more and more like Obama may win, McCain supporters seem to be growing more tense.

And what I want to remind them of is this: if you don’t like who gets elected, just wait 4 years and vote for someone else. Because in America, we don’t have to overthrow the government, or stage a civil war, or have a military junta, to change our government, because every 4 years, regular as clockwork, the current administration retires and a new group takes over.

And that is what makes America the best country in the world.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

The Divine Miss V

On Friday I attended the funeral of my Aunt Virginia.

My father’s older and only sister, she lived in Paducah, KY, in her own home, until a month or so before she died, of a brain aneurysm. Last year, at the age of 97, she had a letter to the editor regarding world events published on Time.com. (“Will we all,” she wondered, “just eat each other up, like so many gingham dogs and calico cats?”)

The funerals of the young are heart-breaking. The sense of what-could-have-been and the cosmic injustice of a life cut short make these services a bonfire of emotional pain. But funerals for the very old bring their own sorrow. The parents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends and, too often, the children of and even grandchildren of the departed are already on the other side, leaving precious few who knew and cared about them to grieve their passing. This should have been true for Aunt Virginia – she lost her daughter to cancer four years ago, and two grandsons to tragic accidents in the 1970’s and 80’s.

But when I got to the funeral home, there were a number of people there and, to my surprise, even some younger folks.

The girl who always did her hair – even for the funeral -- came by to pay her respects. “It was the least I could do,” she said. “I thought the world of Miss V.”

Another young girl, the 16-year-old daughter of the woman my cousin Joe is dating, told me, “We just loved Miss V. I told her once, ‘Miss V, I’m going to help you find yourself a man. And Miss V tossed her head and said, “I don’t need your help. I can find my own man.”

She was a dyed-in-the-wool, no-quarter-given-and-none asked, Southern lady. A tiny woman, the top of whose head barely reached my shoulder, she always reminded me of a parakeet, fluttering from one room to another in her little stone cottage, dark eyes sparking with energy and curiosity. She spoke in the fastest drawl I’ve ever heard, but if you could manage to keep up, there was sage advice to be heard.

“Never pick a man based on his looks,” she once told me. “They all get ugly later on. Pick one that will take care of you.”

“Keep the man you start out with,” was another piece of wisdom, “otherwise you just have to break in another one.”

It was advice she herself heeded in her own way. After she and her husband of 40+ years separated, he continued to bring her flowers weekly and take her out on dates for as long as he lived.

Goodbye, Aunt V.

We’ll miss you.

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