Losing a pet: Natural cure for grief-induced depression

For the last five weeks, I've dithered about blogging on a recent adventure: suffering through grief and depression. Bankruptcy? No problem. Divorce and losing friends? Why not? Along the way I've peppered this site with missives on my mushy, cat-loving, pitbull, relationship love and misery, all without much heart palpitation. Finally, I'm ready to admit I'm as much a wuss about suffering from loss of a family member, nay, a cat, that me in to a state that is as close the walking dead as I've ever been.

As a classical type-A, I've long-held many beliefs on grief that suddenly became irrelevant when my furry, four-legged companion of fourteen-years left my life. I cried, thinking that'd be the end of it. A week went by, then a month. I kept at it, going through the motions of my life, but I wasn't living. The best way to describe my experience is to say that I knew the sky was blue, but all I saw was grey.

When I smiled, Rog knew it wasn't genuine. (I'll never win an Oscar for keeping up appearances). Two months passed, then three. At month four, Rog threw in the towel. He'd tried everything (so he said), the gestures, taking the kids more often than usual, doing the dishes and other strange and unusual things.

All the while, I debated if I was depressed or if I was suffering from grief, not really knowing the line between one or the other, and where they intersected.

"I'm sending you to your parents," he told me one day. In fourteen years of marriage and a year dating, he'd never encountered this from my big-haired, Leo-self. "I thought it was a physical impossibility and I'd wouldn't have believed it had I not seen it myself," he continued. "But I can't take this anymore." (So like Rog to make it about himself).

The darkened clouds that hovered were so thick, I wasn't even really looking forward to the trip. My fear was that it would fail to help my mood, and then we'd be on to other, more drastic measures. At first he planned the trip to be three days, then four, mistakingly believing lengthening my stay would jolt me from my misery.  Finally, a week before my departure, he made it for almost two weeks. One by myself and then he'd join me for the latter part.

Then came a break, not from the dissipation of all that is precipitous, but from good old Mom.

"Maybe you should try Ignatia." huh? "It's good for grief-induced depression."

Only in England, where even the pet cemeteries are civilized

No matter Mom has been right for, oh, going on 44 years. I fell back in to my rebellious, 14-year old self and ignored her. The following day, thunderclouds were on the horizon. I got my butt in the car, drove to PCC, and snapped up an Ignatia 30c. Before I popped one, I figured I should double check with my swami.

"Just take one and give it a month," Dr. A said (new readers, his last name is so bloody long, I don't have that kind of time). "The grief has to work its way out of your body," he explained. "If you take it before the 30 days is up, it's like hitting the restart button."

Sure enough, I took a single, white, magical earthen pellet, and in a few days, the heavens started to shine again, the black turning to grey, then white, then finally, after a week, leaving altogether. The day before I left to see my parents, Rog remarked that I had 'self-healed' and I probably didn't need the vacation after all. (I still went and he joined me).

One of the suggested tips was to create a monument to the pet. I found lots of pictures of pet cemeteries in England, where wealthy Londoners started burying their pets in the 1880's, and by the early 1900's, it was filled (now it's closed to the public).

As an aside, P-dog was weirded-out for about a week after
Fats left the building. She wandered, seeking out her sleeping
companion. Now her and White Bear are cuddle-buddies,
cozying up since Number One is no longer.

I'm writing now, a month after the fact, because just this morning, I popped another one. It didn't matter that in the last thirty days, I've read a lot about the special type of sadness pet owners experience when losing a pet, including the techniques, tips and how-to's--which were good to know, but frankly, didn't change my emotional self.  Over the last few days, I've noticed the same invisible feelings of sadness and mental weight dropping down on my shoulders. This evening, I'm upbeat again and more positive--one of my life-long traits, I'm happy to say. Thus, I must issue an apology for my blog this last month, that really was an overall drag to read this last month, (and readers were flocking from my site like vultures from an on-coming semi-truck). I'll channel my inner Jack Nicholson (I'm Back....) without the gory after-effects, as go love on my remaining animals, Mercury (aka White bear) and our adorable, fierce-yet-mushy, pitbull. They still needs lots-o-love.

The Swedish "Stink Eye"

Back when my life was full of meetings with clients, negotiating a licensing agreement or considering a problem, my brows would furrow as my lips pressed. Little did I know that this Swedish trait had an impact on others, often causing the room to fill with a bit of tension. I was told I had great
deal-making tactics, when really, it was a genetic fluke.

Swedes don't cry. We just frown a lot.

3 female Swedes in a row, giving one message:
"Do not cross us."

The fringe benefit of frowning is that a) we can keep a lot of cosmetic surgeons or any hack with a needle and numbing-agent in business for the eternities and b) we can pass this along to family members. It's exceedingly helpful to know that, despite what complete strangers tell me about my children looking either adopted or like my husband, I can prove them all wrong with a simple act of the eyebrows. My husband calls this "the stink eye."

Apparently, I wasn't just late to the game on this phrase, I didn't even know the address of the ballpark. Now my readers in Brazil and Australia and happily invoke the phrase at the proper times, be it a question 'Are you giving me the stink eye? or conversely, in a command: Don't give me the stink eye.

The look, as it's also referred to, can be one of disapproval (your an idiot), annoyance (you are gnat on a dogs behind), declination (uh, don't think so), or in my case, I'm thinking (don't confuse this with being an idiot).

In case you dispute the heredical passage from one Swede down the line to another, I present you my evidence. While we were on the gondola this last winter, all giving my husband the unified "stink-eye." I can't recall what inspired this particular photo, but Rog pushed whatever button was required, and as one, we responded. 

The Spector of an Ex-Wife

"Mom, can I keep this?" It was my six-year old daughter, helping me empty out the remnants of a backpack she'd taken on a trip three weeks prior.

I extended my hand, feeling the soft thud of a ring in my palm. At first I thought it was a fake gold ring from a bubble gum machine, but it was a bit heavier than normal. I lifted it, examining the two, thin bands of gold melded together. In the center was a small diamond stone with a ring of little diamonds dotting the solitaire. It was impossible to think anything other than it had been a gift to our daughter during her recent trip with my husband, wherein they visited several sets of relatives.

"Can I keep it?" she repeated.

"Let me hold on to it for a minute so we can show dad," I suggested, just in case it had "accidentally" found its way in to her bag. I slipped the ring on my forefinger, as it was so small in circumference, it wouldn't go past the first knuckle.

We went upstairs, I finished the buttermilk buscuits, we sat down at the dinner table and were nearly finished with the meal when my daughter brought up the ring.

"Mommy, did you ask dad?" I hadn't, so I slipped off the ring and showed it to him. "Did Aunt Jane give this to Porsche?" He looked down without taking it from me.

"No," he said, without elaborating. "I'll tell you later." What was to tell? She hadn't stolen it, that was good. Rog knew where it had come from, so what was the hold up?

"Was it Grammy's?" I asked, referring to his grandmother who had passed away the year prior, slipping it back on my finger for safe keeping. Rog shook his head.

"If you think about it, you'll know." I gave him a blank stare. I had no idea what he was talking about. Then he said a word he's uttered less than a dozen times in fifteen years. "Dionne."

Oh.

Dionne is the name of his highschool sweetheart, whom he married at eighteen when he went off to the university. They were married for seven years and undone by Rog's intense ways. (I'l never forget the comment he made when we were dating-- "I did my undergrand and grad in three years, worked a full-time job and played golf. I wasn't around much, and when I was, I guess she figured I wasn't going to change.") News flash. He hasn't. But those are other blogs.

All this flashed before me as I kept chewing on my corn muffin, looking down at my left forefinger. "How did it get in the backpack?"

Rog shook his head. "I have no idea. It had been in the house or in his things all these years, only to find its way in to an obscure (and relatively new) backpack, that traipsed along a 3,500 mile journey to find its way back to our home. As I considered this oddity, my daughter was waiting expectantly to hear my verdict if she could keep it or not. She piped in to remind me she hadn't forgotten.

"Sure you can," I told her. It was one digit away from my ring finger, where my own wedding ring loomed large by comparison, but in some respects, lacked the finesse of this smaller, more delicate piece of jewelry. "But it's really special," I said. "You can't trade it to one of your friends or take it to school."

She nodded her head in understanding. "Can we put it upstairs with your things?" That was going a bit far.

"How about in your special box on the second shelf?" She enthusiastically agreed.

"Can I see it first?" Rog requested. He bounced the ring in his hand a couple of times. "You know, with the price of gold, this might be worth a few hundred bucks." My eyes lit up.

"Some pin money," I announced. Rog shook his head, handing it back to me. "You promised."

"Oh. Right."

There I sat, sitting at the dining room table with my two daughters and husband, wearing his ex-wife's wedding ring. That ring, and all that went with it, were a part of my husband, and helped make him what he is today.

I looked at it in silence. It was a sweet setting. An innocent setting, absent of ornamental embellishments. It was cute and sad and comical all at the same time.

"You know, pretty soon, tomorrow, maybe even tonight, we are going to think this is really funny," I told him. It didn't take that long. I slipped it off my finger and gave it to my daughter. She pranced away, the sounds of her feet on the steps, the door to my wardrobe opening and shutting. The ring, like Rog's history, would be a part of our lives forever.

Dude, Where's my Gun

"It's time you let it go," said my husband, his voice conveying the weary, "I'm-dreading-this-subject" tone that he uses when referring to baby stuff. Our daughter has been out of the crib since she strattled the wooden prison wall and let herself down. It had been six months. It was time.

Instead of arguing, I relented, posting the crib and dresser to Craigslist, the last bastion of all the was once free on the Internet. After reading through the new caveats, warnings and bold, red labels that practically screamed "you may get assaulted, robbed or otherwise taking your life in to your own hands," I wrote out a great description, uploaded the pictures and called it a day. (have you seen that cops are now referring to Craigslist as "robbery-by-appointment?" egads.

Within minutes I was received queries about the French-made set that I can't pronounce, and for good reason. We paid $3,200 a few years ago, and I listed the set for $450.

"You are inviting a mugger," Rog pronounced. Bah, I scoffed. We've sold a refrigerator to a nice couple, a washer and dryer and other major appliances. Why not a crib set.

"It's not like a diamond," I reminded him, referring to the sad incident that resulted in a robbery and death. "Don't worry. It's a crib-set," I told him. How many Bonnie and Clyde's are out there, ready to pull out the shotguns if we don't throw in a hamper?

It only takes a few hours for the serious buyers to identify themselves. They are all men. Men don't negotiate when it comes to baby items. They buy.

"It's first come first buy," I wrote back, and sure enough, just as the sun was setting, a youngish couple in their mid twenties (we guessed) drive up in their pick-up. It takes about five minutes for them to inspect, fall in love, and offer us the money. We tell them to wait until its all loaded up on their pickup, that still has the temporary licenses.

They were definitely nesting. Rog and I share a look. Ahh, a new family. Pretty soon, we have thrown in an entire French-country bedding set, the mattress, a brandnew, never-been-used, Graco portable bed, a booster seat, and just about every other item that was new or brandnew we saw and could fit in their truck.

After they leave (I'll skip over the part where their yelping, mini-dog locked the doors, the man had both sets of keys in the car, we had to get a locksmith (Rog wouldn't allow him to break a window) and then helped pay the $300 highway robbery price of the locksmith), I go upstairs.

"Rog, what is the safe doing open?" I'd opened the door to retrieve something from this location, where the safe is hidden among other things, but it's an electronic lock, the lid was open and the pocket empty.

He walks in to the closet and brings back the gun. I freak.

"Are you crazy?" I nearly shout, "It's loaded and you had it in there?" He waves down my temper, telling me it was on a top shelf, and he'd taken it out 'just in case.'

"I needed it handy," he explained calmly, "just in case we had a crazy couple."

I shook my head. For as smart as Rog is, he was being a complete moron.

"If that was going to happen, the altercation would have been outside, you and he would have wrassled, and then I'd go running for the gun, only to find it gone. What was I going to do if I needed it? Say, Dude, where's my gun? right in the middle of an assault?" I think I mumbled the word idiot under my breath, but I'll never tell.

He recognized the slight error in judgment, returned the gun to its rightful place and smiled.

"We didn't need it anyway."

Thankfully. It's like all those gun stories you hear about. When you have it, you don't need it, and when you don't need it, you have it.

Got Wheat Belly? The new muffin top

Do I want to lose 26.7 pounds? My Prevention Daily Newsletter told me that's the average weight lost when wheat is removed from a diet.

Ever heard of wheat belly? Neither had I. It's the new phrase to describe the ring around the belly, otherwise lovingly referred to as the muffin top. The trend among doctors now is to 'give up the wheat,' and I've often described it as the yeast.

It's all the same. Or rather, the results are the same. When the wheat is given up, the pounds go away.

Here is the quote:


Just how powerful is this wheat-free approach? “When my patients gave up wheat, they lost an average of 26.7 pounds each,” says Dr. Davis. This isn't an isolated finding: According to a Mayo Clinic and University of Iowa study, test subjects lost an average of 27.5 pounds each on a wheat-free diet. 


I know I'll be revealing one of my great sources of info, but signing up for the Prevention Newsletter gives me recipes, tips and info that I love to share with others. You can get all the insights I don't pass along, like maybe, donut belly.

The reformed philanderer

A friend of mine has been a chronic philanderer for the past decade. He didn't start out that way. Married for twenty years, father of two, this very bright and nice-looking guy married his best friend. About the time their kids were in elementary school, her interest in sex waned. Well, that's putting it mildly. As my dad liked to tell my brothers when they were on the threshold of manhood "there comes a time in a woman's life, after she's had kids, that she doesn't want it anymore." I listened, curious if this was lore or a means for my father to stall his son's advent in to the great world beyond the home.

In the case of my friend, (and I know his wife), her disinterest wasn't caused by any major, or minor event. The two have a great time, share many commonalities, like cooking and the outdoors, she just wasn't interested. He had no desire to leave his family, abandon his children or leave his best friend. So he did what he says many men do. "I just get it elsewhere."

I learned all this about six years ago, four years after I'd met the couple. Love me or hate me, I said nothing to the woman. Having been divorced myself, and finding out only later that my husband had not just strayed, but he had taken my Rolex, some of my purses and who-knows-what-else and given them away to various women-folk. I always ask myself, 'what would I have done had someone told me?' Like many women I read about, probably nothing. Denial, avoidance, getting angry at the person revealing the information--I figure I'm as human as they come, and probably would have done all three. Looking back on my journey through a horrid relationship, I had to come to learn, deal with, and get over, my own situation.

With my friend, I took the same approach. First off, I wasn't going to judge him. By the time I was in my late thirties, I'd learned that only God can judge. I'd not lived in his shoes, dealing with his life or his choices. Whatever he did, he needed to go through it, without my intervention.

Fast forward all these years. We have lunch today, the first time in months. Naturally, the conversation turns to children, family and spouses. He has a son going off to college, I have one in college. "What are you going to do when the last one is out of the house?" I ask, always curious about the 'next phase' of parents who are empty-nesters. "And what do you think X (wife) is going to do?"

"I'm not sure," he replied honestly, then told me he'd recently had an epiphany. A female friend who knows his personal situation had offered to set him up with a divorced mother of two, in her early forties. She was cute, tall and "ready for fun," not necessarily caring who she hooked up with, married or not. My friend then 'friended' her on Facebook, she responded, and he was 'ready to pull the trigger.' Then a funny thing happened.

"I didn't do it," he said, still sort of amazed.

"You realized it was a dead-end?" I offered, when he faltered. He nodded.

"There was no future. No good could come of it. Starting anything would only lead to hurt for everyone involved. I'm not going to leave my wife or abandon my family. I don't want to." He pointed to the fact that he and his wife had saved for two decades and were now proudly shipping their son to a top-5 Ivy league school, all paid for, thanks to their smart savings (they drive modest cars, live in a modest home and he has a modest job, yet they have saved enough to pay $62,500/year for the college-whoa. If that's not teamwork and discipline, I don't know what is).

I couldn't help myself. "So you're finally growing up?" I asked, as only a friend can do. He nodded again. Then he told me how he'd been learning to deal with celibacy. His experience had happened months before, and he was on the straight and narrow. Rog, who knows about my friend, doesn't believe his situation is tenable.

"No man can hold out forever," he contended, although he was suitably respectful of my friend's change in approach.

I shrugged. My mind was on other things. Over the years, I'd invariably wondered whether or not I'd done the right thing by not saying a word. Today, I was sure I did. This man, who is so brilliant in the business world, had to learn a few things. He kept his promise to take care of her and his family, and truly believes she is his best friend. I wonder if his sex drive will wane over time, like hers, or if their friendship will out way the loss of the physical side of their lives. In the past, she hadn't asked about his personal life, thus avoiding the need for him to reveal his extracurricular activities. If she asked now, there would be nothing to tell.

The Global Popularity Contest

On this bright day, I'm feeling inexplicably sassier than usual. Perhaps its the fact that I'm up all hours, dealing with producers from foreign lands that skip every other word and I'm a little punch-drunk. It could also be that I've been spending way too much time inhaling natural deer repellents.

Whatever the reason, my mental self was still consumed with the shock last week when I read Facebook spent a billion dollars on a photo sharing service. 250Million photos are uploaded a day. That's not the interesting part, since I'm not one of the 5 employees that get to share $100million, nor am I related to, or personally know, the 28 yr old founder who gets to pocket $400M.


No. I'm concerned with mankind.

What is Facebook after all? A way to communicate? Nope. It's a way to become a Global Prom Queen. Signing up for a personal Facebook account is akin to joining the world's largest popularity contest. Didn't get attention in high school? Get it now. Show everyone how beautiful, talented and bright you are, all the while visiting exotic locations (did you know people actually photoshop themselves on to pictures and post this stuff?), eating amazing food with gorgeous friends.

Now, I'm not saying that some of the information is not legitimate. Problem is, I can't tell the difference. What I really want is to find a site where "friends" do more than post kiddie pictures, vacations, child-achievements and race cars that cost more than my house. I want some real-life sick days full of vomiting, a car breakdown or two, or a zit on face. What? Oh wait. That's my real world. Not the world of other, better people than I.

I'll be clear. I'm Facebook schizophrenic, first, avoiding it like the plague for years, then ultimately succumbing to the pressure. I then created a personal site, (and you can friend me, but if I don't know your mother's name, I won't friend back). As you can imagine, I started getting friended by people I barely know (and certainly didn't know their mom), some I didn't really want to know, or those I wished I'd never known. For all, I said yes. This is where the conservative if me becomes downright Clinton-esque, in a "I-wanna-be-liked" kind of a way, but without the cigar.

What happened then? I never posted anything meaningful. When I did post, they were boring.  Nobody visited my wall and people posted with the reluctance of touching a leper. Having no visitors is worse than not having a storefront. If the Open sign isn't up, I can't complain no one is stopping by.

So it is that I active my personal facebook account when I need to get in touch with someone, then immediately deactivate it. (I have only a bit more than 100 people, but maybe a dozen people I actually have in my cell phone).

Don't get me wrong. I love to go on FB periodically and look at the photos and timelines of other people whom I've forgotten about. In less than 5 minutes, I can consume a person's entire life, new home building, child's first tooth and a job change with the light touch of my index finger doing the tapping. No phone call or bothersome conversation. It's amazing.

Thus, my epiphany.

I'm actually a rather shy individual. Don't swallow your tongue, it's true. I don't want people in my local area, church, or neighborhood, to know what I'm thinking or doing. I don't want to talk about my children's achievements. I don't want to get mired in the one-upmanship that seems to come with posting the latest and greatest. I find general topics posted to the unwashed masses that have become my blog followers much more interesting, revealing and honest.

Above all, I've come to terms I will never be the Facebook prom queen. My two-faced usage of Facebook includes my Sassality page of course, for how else am I going to get in front of the popular crowd? Yet my global popularity will always be stunted by my lack of electronic glad-handing and lovemaking. I shall wander in the Internet universe, staggering among the unwashed, luddite masses, doing it old school. One phone call, one email and one blog posting at a time.

When the "Blessings" Over-floweth

Mother's Day is coming up, and you know what that means. Frantic men, running in and out of jewelry stores and candy shops, hoping to ultimately entice their significant other in to the bedroom. The truly ambitious men will have several garments strategically placed on the bed. A subtle hint to the recipient of said gifts.

As men consider their options (and desires) for this day, the one that child-weary and exhausted mothers around the world look forward to with varying degrees of anticipation, I offer up one suggestion:

Consider the bra size. Please.

This little tidbit comes to you courtesy of She, the illustrious woman who is always on the scout for an obscure piece of knowledge that will help our lives proceed a little-bit smoother.

"Did you know bra sizes have doubled?" she asks me last week. Um, no. As I've gone through the child-bearing years, my bra size has shrunk, not increased. It's also dropped in gravity a few notches, not lifted up like a chest-lift. "Well, it has," she continues, and proceeds to read me snippets of an article.

I wait a week, until I'm safely in my own home, so I can ponder the expansion of chests around the world. This shouldn't come as a surprise. Girths around the world are expanding, so why not chests? Sadly, it's not the frontal chest only. It's the back fat and the under-the-arm fat that increases as well. (Isn't that a nice thought?)

A man will be standing in Victoria Secrets, looking at a mannequin, thinking about how big "the breast," completely forgetting the rest of the woman. If you are a man reading this blog (or a woman who needs to drop a hint to your significant other) be sure to check out the universal bra sizing chart. If not, do what my husband did last year. He was confused, as any man is, about his wife's (my) "blessings" (another euphamism used in the movie world, typically invoked when a woman is busting out at the seams).

"You asked for help?" I suggested, thinking of his aversion to requesting directions when lost.

"I did the only logical thing I could," he replied. "I put both of my hands on the mannequin." As I about swallowed my tongue, Rog continued. "And then I faced her, and said--they are about this size."

Men, let my momentary mortification inspire you to look for other ways to purchase a piece of lingerie for your lovely woman. It may bring you the benefits you so desire on that day of days.

Flawless Foundation for the Natural Look

The fringe benefit of being associated Hollywood is that I'm like a toad sitting on the edge of a pond: I can jump in anytime I want, enjoying a dip in the water when it suits me. The rest of the time, I can remain on the edge, basking in the glow of the exotic sunshine, unrepentant about my toad-like exterior.

Total Block: note the two color tubes-light and dark

Fortunately for me, I have a few helpers around that are determined to have me upgrade myself to a member of the court every so often. When it's free, I partake.

Today's gift to the world from my toad-ish self is the most wonderful, easy to customize and apply foundation I've found in a while. It is Total Block Tinted Foundation. I don't use it all the time, for it's rather dry. However, it has a high-power sunblock, is extremely light (or thin application) and as I said, it can be customized, and for $17.00 US, it is a bargain. When the studio make-up artist told me about it, I was dubious. When I looked at her skin, it truly appeared to be natural and fresh--zero foundation. Yet she was wearing a layer, and looked perfect.

Sure enough, I used a tester, played around with the colors and walla. Perfect skin. Even my husband commented.

This is the natural tint. I can use it directly from the container.

As I mentioned, the downside is that it's a dry application; one of the benefits (and requirements) to a natural look. As I have dry skin, I use a moisturizer beneath it, which is no big deal. However, for the world of oily-skinned folks out there (and yes, men use this as well, for you truly cannot tell it's on the skin), it's the perfect solution.

Tips: When mixing, use a metal or plastic spatula-- the end of a knife will do. You can mix this in any small, tight container, such as can be found in a drugstore. This will store the mixed foundation. It comes out a little runny, so be careful when you press on the main container. Invariably, I get a little too much when I use the bottle.  Also, the bottle has so much in it, I imagine it will last me for a year or two, at least. For now, I'm thrilled.

When do I go for my other foundation? When my skin is really dry, or I need a little extra firepower. I tend to use this during the day, as all around natural. When I go out at night, and want to glam it up a bit, I go for my other foundation (which I still need to blog about). It is a bit thicker, but provides more coverage, and makes my skin pop (thanks movie land)!

Don't kill 'em, Scare 'em: Natural Deer Deterrents

Although I could be referring to bad breath members of a political party that shall not be named, I'm referring to the bain of a gardners' existence: deer.

Those wild, cute, fast-producing herbivores that decimate acres of expensive, exotic plants that have no business being in my yard. Here in the US, Russia...heck, everywhere but bora bora. I'm sure God put these creatures on the earth to save mankind from the end of times, since they are the only ones that produce faster than rabbits.

Since my natural cure for frogs is the highest and most frequently visited blog topic I've ever written (sadly, I wanted it to be batwings and chinhair), I'm doing the world of landowners a favor by telling you a natural, effective way to keep these lovely but irritating creatures around you lawn, but not on it.

Coyote urine. Yep, you read it right, and it comes in spray bottles for convenience spreading.  tI go 5 minutes to the Grange (otherwise known as a feedshop where hay is sold, along with just-hatched chicks and onion starters), and pick the stuff up for $4.00 US. Like a man on his property, a little droplet here and there is all it takes. Deer hate the stuff.

I start with the perimeter, as the deer follow our man-made path from the cabin, up to our pond (they like the private watering hole. So much more convenient than the water bog at the bottom of the hill). A little spritz by the edge of the water (I don't mind them drinking the water. It's cute actually). What irks me is when they nosh on my hard-earned roses, moving on to other flowers I like but can't pronounce, leaving droplets of post-feasting love on my recently mowed lawn. To be on the safe side, I drop more of the coyote urine around the roses.

Of course, you don't have to go for coyote. You can purchase the urine from your predator of choice, and use drops, pills or whatever form that suits your fancy.

Cute: from a distance

when it's raining every single day. Lasts longer. One thing to note. Be sure to monitor the usage with the weather in your neck of the woods (or region, for you non-Americans). It rains a ton here, and the spray dissipates with the rain. As such, I've found that it's easier to use the spray in the full summer, when it rains once a week, and use the granuals in the spring

The other product I've used with mixed success is Deer Out. While the labels and site boats 3 months and "won't wear off," the reality is that in rainy climates, it DOES wear off.  Furthermore, this is the most rancid, horrific smell. It's rotten-age smell is an offense to rotten eggs (and coming off Easter, we should know a thing or two about that). When I first moved to this lovely part of no-where, I planted about 22 varieties of roses. Why? I was an idiot, that's why. My landscaper must have been from the city, for he didn't warn me of the incoming, four-legged aliens that would soon invade my property. When they did so, I went to the Grange, started with Deer Off (for I'd not yet see the coyote urine).

I began to spray, unfortunately, standing down-wind. After I'd coverage myself in rancid egg, (which took 2 washing to get off), I sprayed my roses.

Result? The deer stayed away, for miles. But so did I. It was rank. Why get a deer off when you can't smell the roses? Furthermore, deer off actually mutates the flowers. The buds don't really open: rather, they are sort-of stuck to themselves. What I ended up doing was using the Deer Out on non-flowering plants, but only when I was too cheap to purchase the urine.

Effective, but stinky

I'm happy to say my roses and plants have recovered, and I have now achieved a harmonious balance with loving the cute animals...from a distance.

The merits of Pickem' up trucks

Six months after Porsche was born, I was zipping down Maple Valley highway when I see two men preparing to cross the street. One, a gap-toothed, mentally disabled man known to the area, ran wildly across the street, about a hundred yards ahead of the oncoming cars. I was headlight-to-headlight with the car on my right and we both slowed down. At the same time, two lanes of cars were coming from the opposite direction.

“Cum arrnnnn,” cried the one who’d made it across. The other man, a large, lumbering guy, stepped out onto the freeway.

“No way,” I said out loud. “You are not going to do this.” I slowed down further, as did the car to my right.

The man darted across the invisible path, making it past the two lanes of oncoming traffic. As he lurched toward my car, I skidded, unable to veer left, or hit head on with the oncoming car. I couldn’t veer right, since I’d slam into the vehicle beside me.

I did the only thing I could: I hit the brakes a few times, giving the car behind me warning of what was to come. Then I slammed down hard. The anti-lock brakes prevented a spin out, but not the crunch of a three-hundred pound body connecting with my front lights. He bounded up on my hood, smashed into my front windshield. When the car stopped, he rolled down the front and on to the ground.

Of course I freaked. I’d hit a person—well, technically, the police officer told me that it was reverse. “He hit you,” he said. It was illegal crossing the street, ramming into the car, and I wasn’t at fault. In fact, both men received tickets. (The guy who hit my car was legally drunk, and was cited for all of the above).

However, my sedan, which I’d had for a little over a year, was toast.

“Drive the truck until we get you another car,” Rog said, offering up his newly acquired Dodge Ram. It was white. “It’s a short bed,” he said, as if I knew what that meant or cared. It was Diesel.

When I stepped into the thing, I had to jump up. When it started (and I remembered to wait for the light inside to go off), it rumbled. It announced I was coming up the hill a mile before I got home. It had big, mud-loving tires and a silver gas tank cap. The only thing it was missing was a gun rack on the back window and those playboy-escque mud-flaps flashing the sillouhette of a woman.

“How long until I get a new car?” I asked sweetly.

“In a few more months,” said Rog, non–commital.

On a shopping excursion to Seattle, I found it was too tall to park underground. I found this out the hard way, when I ignored the height notice and pulled forward. The car stopped---and I mean STOPPED—at the cement. Slowly, full of mortification, I went backwards. Ignoring the honks of the Prius behind me, I jumped out, stood on the floorboard and inspected the damage.

“Rog will never know,” I muttered, waving the Prius guy to get out of my way. He did so. My pick ‘em up truck would roll right over him.

Six months into this, my mom showed up.

“Where’s your car?” she asked.

“This is my car.”

She looked. She said nothing.

“How do I get in?”

I pointed to the baseboard. She stretched her long gams and made it in, reluctantly. Her teeth rattled when the car started and she asked about that "smell." (Rog’s sweaty hockey-gear was placed in this car, not the small sports car he drove).

“Why don’t we take his car?” she asked politely, knowing she was treading on hallowed ground.

“Rog is afraid I’d kill us both.” His car, endowed with 405 horsepower, was ‘too much muscle’ for me. He was probably right. I love speed, my claim to infamy being I flipped a car as a sixteen-year old going too fast around a corner.

Six months stretched into a year.

“I think you’ll always drive a truck,” Rog said. I was mortified. I’d been patient. I’d been quiet. Not a single word of complaint about the inability to park within a bus ride at the Target parking lot.

“But it’s a Hee-Haw car,” I said, grumpy.

“Hee haw??”

“Yeah, like those hill-billies on that show from the sixties." Rog shook his head, resolute.

“Do you know how much money you’re saving us by driving that thing?” Sure, I was driving a friggin diesel. It was cost-effective.

“No, no, no,” he returned. “You never shop anymore! We’re saving hundreds of dollars every month!”

He then showed a spreadsheet with an accompanying graph of my spend. Sure enough, the numbers went down, coinciding with than d—n truck.

“I can’t park it anywhere!” I said. No Nordstrom, it didn’t fit in the parking garage, and I wasn’t going to try and find street parking for the behemoth. I dreaded Costco because the turning radius was limited. I even avoided getting my hair done, because I’d get dirty looks from women and men alike, who silently accused me of polluting the planet with more than my fair share of fumes and black soot. The first few times someone actually told me to ‘be nice to the Earth,’ I bothered to explain it was clean diesel. No fumes! They didn’t care. It was diesel. They want to know the rest.

My clothes progressively went out of style and the family ate rice and beans, but no matter. I was giving it up for the team.

On the upside, the truck gave me a whole new lease on life. I discovered I no longer had to wait for Rog to go get plants or bark. I could load up the back of that with compost for the garden, for what did I care if I smelled like the barea tar pit in the dead of summer. I was driving a truck!

Driving that truck, I was master of the freeway universe. It was better than being at the helm of a firetruck with the lights on. Other drivers would see me comin’ from a mile away and move over before I had the chance to flash my lights or tap my breaks. And those itty-bitty Prius’s? Let them try to cut me off. What did I care?

“It’s a truck!” I’d yell from inside the cab, a once, proper San Francisco city-fide girl gone wild.

This was also the beginning of my love affair with “the grange.” The Grange, as I learned, was one of the few places to get clean diesel. It happened to be a pit stop with cowboy stuff, and all things horsey. Soon, I found myself checking out red-plaid shirts with brands like Cruel Girl and Cowgirl UP! After a while, I succumbed and tried one on, and with glee, realized this stuff was made for tall, long-armed girls like me (early cowgirls must have been from Nordic stalk).

This begat wearing dope, phatty cowboy books like Ariat and buying useless, cowboy-themed stuff for the house.

“What’s with the cowboy junk?” Rog asked. He was long over the anything western or cowboy, having OD’d on it as a child.  

“It’s grown on me,” I told him. “It's all because of my hee-haw truck.”

“It’s time to get you a sedan,” he muttered.

“No! I love my truck!” I told him. What did I care if the only guys to give me a second glance were actually looking at my vehicle, hence, the phrase “pickem’ up truck.” Had I know a short-bed with mag tires was such an attraction-getter, I would have begged my dad for one in high school.

Yet, the light at the end of the tunnel was dimming. My daughter was preparing to go to school. The small drop-off and turnaround area wouldn’t accommodate a honkin beast. The rumble threatened to shake the delicate flowers from the gazebo.

We still have the hee-haw truck, and when I’m feeling ornery, I drive it to the grocery store just so other drivers move off the road. In the summer, I fill it up with smelly compost, and every so often, make my mom climb into it when she comes, just so she can appreciate a sedan.

When I'm not behind the wheel, three feet higher than the rest of mankind , I don my blue, halfszees cowboy boots and my Cruel Girl shirt with the long sleeves and shout Cowgirl Up!

Ballet butt ups-Firm that fanny in 5 minutes

 

It's Friday. The day before the weekend. Want to eat that Pecan pie guilt free? Get on the floor, squish that took-us (yes, pronounce that phonetically), a few hundred times, and eat away.

I'll mix it up this blog, and put the story second, the exercise first. No sense procrastinating the pain that long.

Face down, resting on hands and knees, draw the back led to the chest then kick directly back and up. That's it. Switch legs and do it again.

Ever wondered where ballerinas get those long gams? These leg kicks, I'm sure. The little girls, teenagers and adults, pracing around in pink, all looked like Veeeeliaahhh, the Russian instructor. Nary a bit of cellulite out of place.

As I avowed to go home and get busy with the leg lifts, two thoughts crossed my mind. First, that the 80's marked my entrance to the world of fitness, aerobics classes, home videos etc., and every last one advocated keeping "a flat back," to protect the lower back. In the last 5-7 years, I began practicing yoga and martial arts, which basically scoff at the "protecting the back" theory.

"That only reduces the mobility," said one instructor, an Indian gal who's family had been practicing and teaching yoga for several generations. She proceeded to explain blood circulation; stiffness equals no circulation, mobility increases it, thereby maintain joint lubrication. Lubricated joints reduces the possibility of a break, but when a break does occur, the lubrication accelerates the healing.

Down I go, lifting my leg, the mass feeling like a downed pine tree being kicked up in the air.

"You look like a donkey," says Porsche.

I'm sure I did. It's called a donkey kick, and for good reason. My lower back is arching, my glut and back thigh is burning like nobody's business. I manage 15 is all, then switch sides, and go back for another 10 on either side. Later that evening, I try again, eeking out 5.

Now, a week later, my inner thighs have stopped hurting, and my bum isn't so tight in my jeans. Even Rog noticed.

"You've lost even more weight," he says to me last night.

"No," I told him. I'm still eating the same. "It's the ballet donkey kicks," I say proudly.

As I'm down on the ground, I'm thinking about Veellliaaaahhh, my daughter's Russian instructor, who on the phone, sounded lithe and lean. Her name is probably spelled Velia, but the way she says it is so loooonnnng and exotic, it must be replicated in type to do it justice.

When I arrived, I noted she's a bit more pear-shaped that she was in her prime. The fruitness of her figure didn't prevent her from keeping the girls going like Stalin on the death march, no talking, giggling, or stooped shoulders.

Watching Porsche was nostalgic, since I was kicked out ballet at age 8. In point of fact, the only thing I've ever been kicked out of, and it was all due to my height.

"You will be tall," pronounced the instructor, ending my dreams of pointed shoes and anorexia.

Last week,  as I sat in the studio, shivering, listening to one woman chomp her gum with her mouth open (a pet peeve) and talking on the phone to her uncle (another pet peeve) I took to reading the ads on the wall.

Beginning ballet exercises, was one, and 24 ballet exercise videos was another. When I got home, I looked online and, sucker that I am, purchased a DVD set for the New York City Ballet: The Complete Workout, Vol. 1 and 2. I should get it right after I eat that last bit of Pecan pie:)




.

Toe jam is gross

This whole notion of shoe removal has gone beyond reason. I’m sure the end is nigh when Microsoft includes a template for homemade signs requesting shoe removal in Office. I've lived in the south, the east and along the west coast, and never encountered the whole 'removal of shoes' thing until hitting Washington. After ten years, I can take it no longer (caveat, I think this qualifies as a rant). 

Let me be blunt about my feelings.

Toe jam is gross. Even my own husband, bless his anatomically correct feet and uber-hygenic self, has been known to acquire “friends” from time to time. Eee. The notion that a thin layer of cotton is between him and my floors doesn’t give me comfort. And if Rog takes two showers a day, and his feet still weirds me out, you can imagine my thoughts on folks who take a shower, say, every few days.

What may lurk underneath
a sock!!!

Holes in nylons is not sexy. We have wood floors, slate, and floating, wood staircases. Wood chips are nurtured—it’s part of our homey/woodsey home. Chipped wood=slivers and holes in nylons. NOT GOOD. Furthermore, what woman wants to spend the coin for a sexy pair of shoes, only to be asked to take them off at the doorway?

Stinky feet. No polite way to say this. Sure, one hopes and assumes people wear clean socks. But clean socks get inside stinky shoes, and we are back to stinky feet. I for one, don’t want stinky anything on my floors.

Hot feet. Even if socks are clean and stink-free, some people have hot feet. Sweat leaves track marks on wood like a bear walking through mud in the woods. Can you imagine tracks here and there and everywhere, leading in and out of the bathroom? My floors could immortalize the migratory patterns of my food consuming and facility-using guests. Double-Eeee.

Socks are a bit too personal for me. It’s like knowing what type of underwear someone prefers. Call me old fashioned, but I really don’t want to know what someone has on underneath, and that includes socks. It leads my mind to places I don't want to visit.

Animals vs humans. It’s always struck me as odd when I go into another’s home, remove my shoes, then have to sit on a sofa covered in cat, dog or unidentiable hair. It’s smelly. It’s always the color I’m not wearing. If I have to remove my shoes, then the least the homeowner can do is handout tape-roller things so I can rub myself down when I sit up.

What about me? The worst is when people come to my house and want to do the respectful thing (they think) and immediately remove their shoes at the front doorway. I’ve tried everything. I’ve put up signs outside “Shoes on please”, but it’s ignored. I meet guests at the front door, my own shoes on, and request they “keep shoes on,” and the guest starts debating the merits of removing shoes with me. At the last party I gave, I made a honkin big sign that read “PLEASE KEEP SHOES ON!” and yes, I did use an exclamation point. I figure, I’m a writer, I’m weird and eccentric. It wouldn’t be taken personally.

Kids ignore me altogether, so well trained are they by parents insistent it’s a sign of respect to remove shoes. 

To be fair, I was raised well enough to respect someone else’s wishes in their own home. However, I’ve also learned that removing shoes is more for dirty children and grandchildren than actual adults. As such, I’ve become adept at dealing with the shoe-thing by lingering in the front room.  

If I’m in the front entryway, and don’t move forward, I’ll say…Oh, I don’t want to get your floor dirty. To which the home owner will say "OK," (e.g. they want to keep me in the front entryway rather than have me roam their house with my shoes on), OR, the homeowner will wave it off and say “don’t worry about it, come on in!”

The few times the shoe subject has come up, I’ll be honest and say my feet are cold, which, as a Swede, is true nearly 100% of the time unless I drink my chamomile/cayenee pepper concoction. If the homeowner pushes the issue, I’ll tell them the notion of sharing footprints with other strangers grosses me out. The response to this is typically laughter, followed by some variation of..."you're a writer.” The implication I’m weird, eccentric and to be expected. As such, I’m given a pass.

It’s awesome.

For those normal, reasonable people out there (non-writers that is), here are a few, polite, subtle suggestions.

If one is going to have carpet, don’t get white. When I moved up from San Francisco, I was surprised by the number of white and off-white carpets in such a muddy, wet, rainy state was Washington.

“It’s happy,” was a common reason, or “it makes things brighter.”

Not when it’s dirty and grey, it doesn’t.

Floors are meant to be walked on, not looked at. When the kids are gone and the dog is dead, then put in a white carpet. Until such time, have dark green, like our neighbors. Sure, it resembles the floor of the forest outside, but at least it’s “natural.” In a blue/purple state such as ours, one would think that philosophy would gain traction. Wood, slate, bamboo and other non-carpet items are meant to get dirty, wet and clean up well. If one is really worried about mud, get dark wood like we did. It lasts great, hides marks well, and easy to clean.

Until then, I’m going to have a big arse sign explaining the rules of the home…shoes are welcome, revered and expected…to stay on.

And no. this isn't an April fools joke. I'm serious.