Charlywalker's Blog

{March 30, 2010}   Blog-Faced Liar

There are a few things in life that I have a low tolerance for:

One: My  screaming dog running after cars and people passing by.

Two: Coin operated laundromats.

and Three: People that pretend to be something they are not, especially while doing their laundry at a coin-op.

I have visited a coin-op laundromat a total of three times in three different states all  under duress. The first time was in Atlanta, Georgia.  My roommates and I did not own a washer or dryer nor did we care to. We were foot loose and fancy free flight attendants with disposable clothing and inter -changeable uniforms.

I drew the short Mai-Tai straw that month and was elected to do the bulk items, like towels, sheets, and my high maintenance roommates  collection of designer jeans.  I spent over two hours sitting between machines having time to observe who walked through the one way sliding door carrying their lives in a Walmart basket.

   I stuffed the laundry into the Big Mother Load and slammed the lid shut and dropped my coins into the allotted slot. I noticed a man glaring at me from behind a counter as I did this and slowly approached me laughing.  I don’t like to be slowly approached.

  He asked me if this was my “first time here”, and I reassured him it was and probably my last. He laughed again. He had a light airy accent from some Island in the Caribean. He asked me if my “clothes come out clean”. I responded that they do. He laughed again. I told him I was happy he found my laundry amusing and he laughed again and handed me a small box of detergent stating: “You need to add soap”.

” I know“, I said with my mind occupied with last nights frivolity. “Maybe my clothing has built in microbes that self clean when you just add water”.

 We both laughed at my laundry foible. This man owned the Coin-op and was from Trinidad. That day he taught me how to professionally fold towels so they stack like layered cakes on the closet shelf.

  I think it is important to try and learn something new every day and this crossed my mind when I returned home and smushed the pristine towels into the lower cabinet under the bathroom sink.

My second visit to the wash-n-wait society was twenty years later in Brooklyn, New York.  I was married  with one child and we lived in a building owned by the Camaretti brothers. Two well connected Italian boys. There were only two machines in their building which happened to brake down one morning and forced me tote my laundry ,(which has  now graduated to include baby diapers), to an eclectic laundromat down the block.

I tossed my laundry into the machines and sat and waited for my load to finish.  It was during the rinse cycle,  that I noticed a man enter the area wearing just his trousers and shoes and carried a crumpled New York Times that appeared to be dripping moisture. I looked around an noticed I was alone in this place and the attendant  had quietly vanished out back to have a smoke.

This man seemed indifferent as to whether anyone was  around him or not as he unrolled his package to be placed in the washer. I raised my head higher to get a glimpse of what his delicate load consisted of and I saw him flop a shirt stained in blood into the machine. He then added his soap (with bleach?), slammed the lid down, popped four coins in and then gently turned around and looked at me. I looked back giving him a smile to insinuate that I know I could be his next victim featured on the front page of the Times, and bolted through the Exit, leaving my laundry for a future garage sale.

 My Third, but inevitably not my last, visit to the coin-op happened in  Delaware.  My puppy peed on both my sons and daughters comforters on the same day. I found a laundry facility located in an upscale neighborhood that catered to people that  looked as though they suffered from job transition, divorce, or living the Bohemian life in the City.

I was next in line for the Mega-Machine and patiently sat and read a Doggie magazine to bide my time.  Shortly after I arrived, a  tall slender man entered wearing a tailored Brooks Brothers suit assisted by a designer oxford shirt and a Bulgari Tie scuffling in his Bruno Magli loafers. He daunted ahead of me as if it were his privilege and entitlement to nab my machine.

The attendant kindly informed him that I was next in line.

He waltzed in my direction and towered over me with his tortoiseshell rims laying half mast on his nose and uttered “Oh?”, as if he had stumbled upon a pile of smelly laundry.

 He decided to downsize and opt for another washer that was readily available.  We both threw our items into our designated washers and stood quietly next to each other until he started to mutter comments regarding his surroundings.   Utter-ings that carried an undertone as if his being there is an after thought and he dare not be spotted by anyone from his Polo Lounge. Sheer rubbish.

That opened the proverbial dryer door for me to crash through and devour this DuPont wannabe.

We engaged in some small talk that lead him to  continue his bragging rights of a non confirmed Blue Blood. I listened intently as he boasted about his designer attire and lavish eateries where he “parties” with friends at the ripe age of 56.  He carried on about his divorce (during the drying cycle) and waxed and waned about the up -coming yachting season.

I had to ask. “What line of work are you in?”.

His head lowered and he half formed the words; “Car Finance, for a locally advertised used car lot”; escaped his exhausted lips.

A giant cheshire grin came over my menopausal face……he actually was trying to impress me with his hyperboles of life, just like when I was a young and inexperienced Ingenue who never fell for that stuff….ever…..well once maybe.

My Dog has more character than this character will ever have.

I didn’t know that laundromats were the new meat market.  I have been married too long.  I can’t imagine how this guy thinks a person could possibly be interested in a dinner date after witnessing his intimate monogrammed whitey -tighty’s  being thrashed about by a Whirlpool.

Besides…….. I’m a woman who prefers Boxers….they’re well bred.

Looks like someone needs to Heir their dirty laundry…..

spread the humor.


{March 21, 2010}   Like Cat and Blog

I went to the beach today with my son and his two friends. The weather was absolutely stupendous, sun shining, seventy degrees, and a light ocean breeze all accommodating my pastel body in mid March.

 I love the beach, I love everything about the beach; the sand that is buried in a stick aftermath from the winter storms, the returning seagulls waiting patiently atop rolled up awnings of closed shops, and the variety of people covering the  a Tri- state  area coveting the not  quite ready for flip flops board walk. The beaches on the East coast differ from the West in that they close up in October and re-open Memorial weekend, yet in Los Angeles, where we migrated from, you can hit the beach all year round.

I don’t care if the beach is in Timbuktu’, when I plop my chair into the sand facing the water and plug my Ipod into my over wrought ears, I know I have reached heaven.  Laying in the sun on a shore is the best therapy that should be prescribed by over paid Doctors.

 As I basked in the Pre Spring sunshine listening to my chosen Itunes, it suddenly dawned on me what I truly want in life. A beach house. I want to wake up with the sound of the morning tide hitting the shoreline. I want to retire for the night with the sound of the waves echoing against each other.  I envisioned the house and the beach where I would be spending the rest of my life and amongst all the beauteous seascapes and sunsets what stuck out most in my daydreaming was my dog Charly. I could see him in the distance romping in the sand and chasing birds away from my opened Cheetos bag and lightly barking as the tide ebbed and flowed. I sat there on the sand with Michael Buble crooning “Summer Breeze” only to me and my eyes closing to the satisfaction of the day…….

….Only to be brought back to reality by a semi chewed soccer ball landing on my lap spraying  sand into my face.  My son and his teen friends were engaged in a World Cup of their own and neglected to notice my  seat of serenity and decided to use me as a goalie.  Shortly after that awakening, a herd of strollers equipped with dune buggy wheels marked their trail next to me and families flocked in more than the seagulls. I watched as people darted about in the sand toting toddlers with an assortment of plastic play toys. I watched couples and singles walking their dogs along the water front. I watched all these people with dogs pass each other and the dogs would wag their tail and stop to say hello to their fellow canine friends. I watched and wondered if my puppy would ever be able to be in a public place displaying this incredibly polite doggie behavior that these pooches were exhibiting. I must have watched these dogs   for over an hour  in wonderment  and praying that one day this would be Charly and me; strolling down the beach encountering other  tail-waggers and Charly-dog would just  smile and sniff a behind or two and carry-on in search of drift wood. That would be a dream come true.

As it stand now it is just a dream because my dog still barks wildly at any passing dog, runs and chases cars down the street, and does not come when I call. So I can imagine my puppy on his leash at the shore running up to every sun bather and staring them right in the face and barking his  bobble head off until the Bay Watch people come to strap a muzzle onto his snout and ask me to vacate.

No, I think if Charly-dog and I are to retire to a beach environment it will have to be an unchartered uninhabited island deep in the South Pacific where his yelp will not be heard around the world. Right now I am still dealing with a dog that barks at a tall tree in the yard or  an upright vacuum standing in the corner of a closet. He barks at a pillow propped on the couch or a jacket slung over the back of a kitchen chair. He barks if he hears the jingle of another mutts collar  two miles down the road. He barks if a commercial for Pedigree treats comes on the T.V. ….No my beach house will have to be out of ear range, I’d pick the Alps but the barks would just intensify with the echos creating more barks and  me having to offer Charly a Ricola.

There’s gotta be a right tree for Charly to bark up………I’m thinking a nice large Palm in the Sahara…

spread the humor.

It’s raining over our little corner of the state and it hasn’t stopped for three days. If this continues I may have to build an ark. It won’t be a large one, mind you because the only animals being loaded in two by two are me and Charly-dog. So maybe I’ll just build a nice cozy two seater Cigarette boat like the one  Detective Crocket had when rounding up criminals in Key West.

 I think Charly-dog will like that cruiser it has an extended bow that cuts the waves just so to make his floppy ears hyperextend in the wind. This boat travels at 80 knots in calm water which means Charly and I will get a head start when the great flood hits. Problem  lies with neither one of us knowing how to operate one of these and would no doubt wreak havoc in pari delicto.

I have operated a boat, well lets say a 50 foot Bay Liner, but my  talents remained only at the helm with my father standing behind me all the way. I enjoyed steering the ship when the sea was calm and no other boats were in sight. I hated sitting at the captains chair during opening day. I would get nervous with all the boats surrounding displaying ttheir colored pennants screaming the name of their yacht club.

There were times when my father would “go below” to the “galley” or  visit “the head”, and leave me  flying solo on the bridge. I hated it.  I would get scared and my hands would freeze onto the wheel and I would close my eyes when another boat was approaching along side.  I found out later that turning a wheel on a ship and  steering your old Volkswagon Beetle have  nothing in common.  Not to mention the nautical terms that go along with it. To this day I still have a rough time with the words Port and Starboard.

It became abundantly clear when my English neighbor who claims to be knowledgeable in everything, set me straight:  “Port is the left side, when you pass the Port around the table you always pass it to your left”.

Equate anything to alcohol and my brain just soaks it up..

It’s not only raining outside it’s raining inside as well. Lately I have been unable to pass any of my exams in this one subject relating to Micro science. I don’t know what’s blocking me other than the fact I haven’t a clue about the content of the course. I am not the only one failing, there are others that have dropped out early on and only a few stragglers are left. I often wondered what the cause could be if over half the class is not getting the concept of the course and failing. I can’t fathom that the majority of the students are incapable of learning.

Personally I have my own theory;  I think that it is all about the money. I think they set the kids up for failure so they are forced to take the courses over again which is more money for the colleges. I can’t believe that over half the class is absolutely ignorant and predestined to fail. I corrected my professor tonight with regards to his power point presentation. I realized his PPT’s were different than the outlines he gave to us to utilize for his lectures. He made note of the importance of one topic to be highlighted for an exam yet we had no reference in a book or outline for this subject matter. I requested he surrender the PPt’s that he harbors in his private collection and he said he was not authorized to do so. That these PPt’s were not his to give out.

I said:”what’s the difference if I delay class time to transpose these via my handwritten transcript or possibly take a photo with my I Phone.”. He was not obliging which led me to believe that these notes were congruent with tests questions that we were not privy to. I hit the nail on the head. If the college makes the standard so high and unattainable and align their teaching techniques to set the student up to fail and retake the course; well, they stand to make a bundle.

I met kids that are taking a course three times over that was funded by the Government. Who cares where the money comes from as long as it’s coming in. Keep setting the bar too high and keep collecting as the dominos fall. No one should be taking a course over if they 1) show up 2) honestly do the work 3) hand in homework 4) and are giving it the old college try and are genuinely trying to learn.  I still could not get a valid reason as to why my professor would not forfeit his superiors lecture PPt’s. The only conclusion I could ascertain is that they probably catered to the Exams. And just maybe if  we were privy to these notes we might all get “A’s”.

 OMG. Then the students might take the reins and actually pass the course. Then who will reign.

I’ll be at that educational wheel maneuvering the waves of circumvention until the rain stops…..Ahoy Matey , gang way to cast off dead – ahead…..

spread the humor.

{March 11, 2010}   Bar Blog

People have asked me why I don’t take hormone replacements after having a total hysterectomy. I answer with two things:

One: It’s none of their business.

and two: It’s still none of their business.

Why take Meds when you can have a Mutt instead. Just think if every menopausal woman gave up their estrogen suppliments and sublimated with a mongrel why that would….that could…. well that certainly would be a dog day afternoon. Which might carry over to the evening.

Just think, the next time your hormones get in a hissy fit while standing in the long lines at the post office during the Holidays,  you can just send your dog in to manage the dirty work. You know what a great relationship dogs have with the postman. wink-wink.

I don’t understand menopause and I don’t think I really want to know why I don’t understand it. I just know that certain uncontrollable urges surge throughout your entire system without an invitation. It’s like there is a huge party going on in your body minus the Host.

I don’t know why women’s bodies have to endure this intrinsic torture. Just because your feminine parts are missing and your hormone system is looking for a valid escape route doesn’t mean you can’t cooperate with the change of life sans drugs. I am suffering the effects of estrogen interruptus and they want to replace it with something synthetic. I say take the synthetic cork out of your Merlot  and replace it after you finish the glass.

I recall the reverse happening to me when I was a teen and ready to experience the onset of my menses. I had no clue about hormones or their whereabouts.  My menses made no senses, nor was it ever properly explained to me by my mother. The only incidental bypassing of that topic in our household was in pamphlet form secretly passed to you in the hallway on your way to the bathroom.

My “girly hood” wasn’t arriving according to my moms schedule so she took me to the Doctor to get something synthetic to induce the onset of something that will show up eventually. I refused to take this giant horse pill that might make me grow hair in places where is shouldn’t be. My mother gave me a daily dose and I gleefully popped it into my mouth and when she turned her back I unloaded it into the foyer planter. I noticed the African Violets blooming a little early that year…….

Mom’s in those days didn’t discuss the” body and nature”  to their budding offspring like they do now. Now there is a universal approach  called; over-saturation to a grade school population wearing thongs and experiencing the miracles of Victoria Secret’s push ups..

When my daughter was five she asked the almighty dreaded question of “where do babies come from?”. Being the intellectually older established mom ,I handled this with the utmost concern and delicacy: I panicked and phoned a radio psychologist. This radio personality stated that “you approach the issue in a very adult manner” and “use the anatomical terms in you descriptions, not baby language”.

I went to the nearest kid section in the library and checked out a cartoon version  about  “how to talk to your kids about sex”. I sat with my daughter and thumbed through the pages reading the book that was suppose to answer all her questions regarding where babies come from and the parts involved in the process. When it came to the highlighted cutsie name of an intimate body part I substituted for the correct anatomical term. I used “Vagina” in place of “pee-pee area”, or “private part”, or “that place you never show anyone until you’re married region”.

After we finished the book I asked my daughter if she had any questions. She sat quiet for a moment then asked if she could go out and play. I could see that this material was way above her head and I should have not heeded the advice of the DJ Doc and dive in feet(?) first. I believed my effort to answer a delicate question went upon deaf kindergarten ears that she needed to grow into. I thought the discussion went well; I covered all pertinent material in an adult fashion and scientific manner.

The following day I went to retrieve my five year old from school and as we waltzed past the array of mothers getting their children from class, my daughter turns around in the crowded corridor and points and yells:

“Do those moms have vagina’s too?”.

It was too late to pass myself off as the Long Lost Aunt merely passing through on her way to Italy.  I felt the  group glares of motherhood soaring down on me in disgust.  I leaned toward my daughter  fostering a gritted grin and replied:

“Some do,  and some have  deep crevices which is an outlet to rent space, which could give them a much needed window of opportunity…”

spread the Humor.

The snow is melting and leaving spots on my yard looking like a patchwork quilt. I think the storms are fading and Spring is trying to hone in where it should have been weeks ago.

My puppy is fluent in making storm stools. I was worried how the winter would affect his potty rituals but Charly-dog came through like a trooper. A  pooper trooper. I think he is a little too proficient in relieving himself in the winter, because he now treats the now effacing green blemishes as if they are Poison Ivy patches.He now goes directly to the nearest snow pimple to drop his excess baggage. Maybe the ice on his fanny cools the burning sensation of those tough days of constipation when he swallowed everything lying loose on the floor. Maybe Charly has a case of Hemorrhoids and the snow acts like Preparation H.(hiney).

Whatever the case, he seems to have a hard time figuring out the changes on this planet. He’s only eight months and hasn’t experienced all four seasons to their fullest. Maybe I’ll have to keep a patch of white ongoing throughout the Spring in order to ease his transition. I could sculpt a make shift potty and keep it in the freezer and pull it out in the summer months.

Charly-dog has decided to mark his territory all over the lawn. This is something new to us and takes a lot of time. He likes to cover the entire acre and a half lifting his back leg onto specified areas. Areas that only HE can dick-tate. Charly will encompass the entire yard and stop every so often to spill a little content on his chosen spot. Not like the old days where he would pee for minutes and head home.

I think he actually enjoys this self empowerment  because his tail wags frivolously and he smiles with his eyes squinting as he looks upward.  I can almost hear his brain talking as he does his potty dance: “look what I can do..Look what I can do”.

I don’t mind this ritual now since the weather is getting warmer, but he started this practice during the height of subzero temperatures. I think he enjoyed imitating an arctic nomad wrapped in his own pelt fighting the frost. I think he believed he was the Yukon King  sniffing out Dirty Dan some where in Canada.

Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was one of the many TV shows my mother planted my pre-school ass in front of instead of helping me form Play-Doh letters. I loved watching the rugged adventures of a weathered Mountie and his dog and horse surviving the wilderness solving all the problems  of the Northwest Territory. All by themselves. All Sergeant Preston had was a smart Malamute dog and a horse named REX.

One episode had the Sergeant solving a murder and the only witness was a dog. Can you imagine that? Out in the vast frozen Yukon at the turn of the century and all he can attract is an abandoned dog? His malamute must have been in heat. More like Yukon Queen. I wonder if I were ever trapped somewhere if my puppy would try to rescue me as I yelled for help into his bobble head ears. Or would he respond much like he does to everything by running over to sniff whatever it is to pieces and then turn to chase a fleet of leaves.

I think the only thing Charly has in common with the Sergeant’s Malamute is the mute part. Anytime I call the dog it just falls on floppy deaf ears.I think Charly-dog hears me when I call and I think he chooses to ignore me. He likes to play tricks on me. He likes to curl up in a corner sunspot and lie there without making a sound watching me look for him throughout the entire house. He’s the same size and color of my son’s black & white back-pack which curls up in the same corner untouched for an entire weekend.

Menopause does strange things to your mind. Those missing hormones can play hide and seek with the optical department in your brain. I figured that out one time when my son asked me why I was giving a dog chew to his back-pack.

Spring is in the air and I think I’ll dye Charly’s fur to match the budding roses……..I highly doubt my son will tote a pink back pack….

spread the humor.

Ain’t marriage grand? Don’t you just love the long silent pauses and passing each other by the bathroom like two ships in the night with only one fog horn that is actively tooting.Isn’t is amazing how twenty years can sneak by faster than gas escaping my husbands ass during an afternoon nap.  Much like I have been experiencing with my new puppy.

Charly-dog and my husband have many similarities that they don’t even know exist. They both run around on weekends  unshaven with their bed heads disheveled yawning as they transport their bodies from the couch to the floor.

 Their table manners are lax in the department  of keeping their compartments closed while they chew and finishing their meal by licking their bowls in unison.

 I have witnessed the two loitering around the stove while dinner is being prepared begging for a tasty preview.  The only difference lately that I have recorded is that I get jumped on more by my Dog…..

My parents were married for ever, and I asked my mother: “Why?”….why stay married for fifty years. What’s the point. The kids are grown and gone and maybe the things you thought you had in common aren’t  there anymore. Maybe two people have grown apart and have different desires and dreams then they did fifty years ago when they  first met. Why stay together if you are not truly elated and passionate about each other any more. I asked my then 70 year old mother these questions and her reply was:

“You marry for companionship. The companionship follows you into old age  ’til death do you part”.

Companionship? Get a dog. There is less barking and minor messes to contend with. Dogs curl up at your feet and can keep you warm and protected during the night without the snoring. They don’t have any excess baggage of extended family members. I can’t imagine one of Charly-dogs siblings phoning us for money or, God forbid, his mother calling daily to complain about the shiksa Shih Tzu he married.Dog’s make great companions, they smother you with  unconditional love even when they are faced with a rolled up newspaper above their nose.

 My husband has always traveled a lot and most of that time  for me was filled  with raising  children, I never stopped to take a breather, I just kept following the lead line.

 There can be a lot of things that get misplaced in a marriage besides your keys. For instance ,those times in your relationship where the initial spark lasted longer than  a brisk kiss goodbye out the door. Those times when a dinner and a movie meant actually getting out of the family room for a night.

Relationships fall into the hands of both parties involved and each is responsible for their part. It takes two to Tango…unless your mate doesn’t like to dance.  Charly-dog likes to dance. He waltzed over to me once in the kitchen poised on his hind legs mimicking a Cha-Cha as I attempted to tackle  a Chicken Marsala. I grabbed his front paws and we swayed to they songs of Michael Buble blasting from the Bose speaker. I picked him up into my arms and extended his paw toward that Tango path of a hallway allowing him to take the lead. Charly has the perfect emotion for that dance; he harbors a perennial grin as he exploits the pencil  in his teeth that he stole from my book bag.

Yes I think Dogs could replace  husbands in certain categories, now if Charly could just get out there and earn a buck I’d have it made in the shade. Maybe I’ll send him for some Salsa Lessons at Juilliard. Maybe I’ll just send him out for Hot Salsa & Chips to go along with my Hot flashes..

spread the humor.

{March 1, 2010}   Put on the Blog

I have made an executive decision to try and post once a day to either drive my readers batty or have them asking for more….

Last night I had a dream about Bill Gates. I have had dreams of famous people before but never one of this caliber or fortuitous in nature. I don’t know why Mr. Gates decided to pop into my castle in the air, maybe it’s the menopause gods messing with my brain; but he did pop in and we were in his automobile. He was driving of course, and I was in the passenger seat.

This was not the car I actually found myself leaning on outside the Westin Hotel while waiting for the airport Taxi  one afternoon. In the dream, this auto was a very sleek Cadillac Escolade with tinted windows…

  I have never had the pleasure to meet Mr. gates. I have only seen pictures of him on integral publications. I knew his dad was a lawyer in Seattle like mine was and maybe they crossed paths a few times in the court house elevator to exchange briefs…….

Anyway….. as I was heading back to Los Angeles and awaiting a transport vehicle to pick me up along with the other less fortunate’s who couldn’t afford a cab, the “Sit-n-Wait” bench was occupied and I was left with standing room only. Nestled under the car port in the semi circular drive to the entrance of the Hotel I noticed a teal  colored Mercedes abandoned and parked close to the curb.  I mozied on over and leaned my too- tired-to-stand-anymore- rump against the rear fender with my leg  propped atop my Hartman carry- on; balancing  the Times to attempt a puzzle I started three days earlier. Just when I finished filling in an 11  letter word for Mega rich person who monopolizes the computer industry……….

I heard an attendant scatter about rustling a set of keys and running after a man walking towards the Teal car where I was resting my laurels.  He tossed out a quiet yell towards the man:

“Here’s your keys Mr. Gates”.

My tuschie came off the back end of that car as if it had just sat down on  a wet seat on the Subway to Coney Island. I slowly looked to my right to catch a glimpse of the Billionaire hoping he wasn’t going to instruct the attendant  to have me removed and get his car dusted for commoner butt prints.

What I actually witnessed was Bill giving me the double take. He looked at me twice before he opened his car door to get in.

There are only a few reasons I can think of when someone looks at you twice:

one: you think you recognize that person,

two: you like what you see and you have to have seconds.

three: “what was this girl thinking resting on his specially made Teal Sadies as if it were a hitching post equipped with a watering hole. Why the nerve of that girl placing her back pocket of her designer jeans against my hand crafted rear panel indulging in the New York Times Puzzle. What,…..  she’s too good for the Seattle Times Sudoku??”.

O.k…That actually happened…..with the exception of the NY Times…..I  was reading the Horoscope section holding a pen………

My dream  last night about Mr. Gates opened with  the two of us riding about in a giant SUV and he was yakking about how we were going  to go swimming at a club that my family belongs to.

He was very concerned about my “knowing how to swim”, and “do I like swimming”.( I didn’t know how to respond because it was 30 degrees out and snow was still on the ground and swimming was the last thing on my mind.)  As I sat there in the passenger seat groping for an answer that would honor the Mega- Trazillionaire, my puppy , Charly-dog, popped onto the dashboard and rummaged through the front seat as if he owned the car.

Mr. Gates started quizzing me about Charly and “what kind of food he eats” and “if the food was expensive” and “was it tasty“.

I informed him of the brand and mumbled that I had not yet sampled it.

Then I woke up. I woke up with a feeling that I had just held a private meeting with one of the top richest men in the country and our conversations centered around swimming and dog chow, instead of a great stock tip or insight to a new pc product.  I was left drowning in a  Pool of Purina……..

I don’t know about anyone else, but conquering menopause without medication is starting to have it’s effect on me.   It has now hit the subconscious. My anterior pituitary has reached its last droplets of hormonal secretions and is casting its FSH out to the sea of dreams. Flooding the GATES of  REM.

Thank God my puppy was there to witness the whole thing, he smiled at me in the morning as if everything went swimmingly well…..

spread the humor.

My husband has been in Italy for the last month traveling about to various cities and waking up with a mint on his pillow and a do not disturb sign dangling from his hotel room door. He asked me if there was anything that I would like for him to bring back to me. I told him to bring the do not disturb sign.

While he has been working in the fields  under the Tuscan Sun soaking up the Chianti that was meant for me, I have been knee deep  trekking through a winter blizzard catering to children and a dog and shoveling a 20 yard drive way. I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely hate snow. I think snow should stay atop the mountains where it feels most at home and at peace instead of my street where eventually it ends a mixture of slush and gravel on the side of the road.

My dog is starting to hate the snow. It is no longer a novice for him where he romps and chases snowflakes. Now it is a chore and he will fight to the end to Not go out in the cold. Charly and I are having wrestling matches and he waits until I pin him to get his leash on. He actually retreats to his doggie bed and curls up in fetal position in rebellion. I don’t blame him, I don’t want to go out  into the white chasm that chills every hair on our heads.

 I have found one saving grace though, something that helps with the winter nights and warms the cockles. Whatever cockles are. I think Charly is losing his cockles soon. I have turned to brandishing wine. Wasn’t this the survival mechanism of the early explorers. Didn’t that trusty St. Bernard carry that lovely Keg of    Laphroaig Scotch twenty miles into the Rockies around his thick neck? I wonder if I could train Charly-dog to carry a stash for me when I’m out doing his nightly poo-poo walk. The walk that takes hours because he is so busy sniffing atop three feet of snow in order to locate his last leakage. The last potty stand that got buried under a glacier a week ago and is untraceable even to the most sensitive snoz.

If he could carry a flask of Grey goose around his puny neck accompanied by a saddle of green olives  I could walk him all night in a snow storm.  Work a plate of  appetizers on his back and I have a traveling bar at my disposal. Maybe I could train him to retrieve an Andes Creme de Menthe and place it on my pillow with the dent in the middle.

My dog is no bigger than a bottle of scotch so maybe I’ll have to attach a few airline miniatures behind his ears.  I have a few left over from when I grabbed a flight or two. Those days when I was free floating and had absolutely no responsibility , well, those were the days.  I was a flight attendant at one time. A time when flying was fun and you actually got a meal.  A time when you were thirty thousand feet above everyone else and  miniatures came in a caseload and not in a Bichon Frise packed in some ones Louis Vitton.

I see nothing wrong with a nip or two especially during the chilly nights or when your hormones are bouncing higher than Michael Jordan’s slam dunks. It can get lonely when your husband is away for a long time, but the company of a dog toting a flask of Martini’s could sublimate any longing that may  have entered your heart. There are a few things that can replace the warmth missing from the other side of the bed: A dry martini and a warm puppy. I believe that sums it up in a Dog shell.

Now, If he could accomplish the art of Shiatsu my husband need not return…………………

et cetera
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