Charlywalker's Blog












I have been informed by current dog owners (CDO’s) that it is important to get your new dog a “puppy check” a.s.a.p. I am a new puppy owner and have not owned a dog since childhood and apparently this is a  check-up to verify if you have a healthy or sick dog. This “puppy check” will establish him with a Vetinarian to gain a history and secure his records. Hmm…. very similar to what I did when my kids were born, however, that was covered by insurance.  My dog was a quasi rescue and did not come with any records.  Maybe the Vet will conduct a back round check.  I’ll have Charly-dog present a puppy print to be submitted to the canine data bank.

I did not grab the yellow pages and seek out an established Primary Vet right away, instead, I went the cheaper route and did a one stop shop at the local S.P.C.A to get his initial set of required shots.  Also known as “The Clinic”.  I have worked in the hospital environment and for all of you who work or have worked in a hospital environment; back then the word CLINIC meant: “Line ’em up, step right up, one ata time folks…get your shots here..hurry while they last..that’s right little lady don’t be shy, now serving number 187”: All accompanied by a waiting room full of the village people.

My 15 year old son accompanied me to the clinic clutching the pup close to his chest as if he were cradling a football and running for that 60 yard T.D.to get to the head of the Free Shot Line. We stood in line for over an hour along with other dogs all senior to our pup.  My son tired of holding Charly-dog and decided to set our mongrel down to mingle with the pack, at the ripe old age of 7 weeks.  Apparently my son missed the lecture in the car regarding immunities, vaccines, and death by Parvo!

The line moved slowly toward the table that dispensed the paperwork. They asked for my ID and the name of the dog and DOB.(date of birth). The pup was 7 weeks and was born sometime in July so I made my pre-calculous privately schooled teenage son do the math.

We were then escorted to another table ( the paying one) and gave our donation. We waited in line as  I witnessed the Vet-du-jour give vaccines consecutively to all the dogs as he inched down the line without taking a breath. It came to our turn and I looked at our new puppy resting in my arms staring at me  with those Margeret Keane eyes.   My heart was pounding and I was near tears. I couldn’t watch as this fully Tattooed, braided pony-tailed with no credentials in view VET (?)  approach my pup with a hypo from the 1950’s…….. I made my son do it.

It went so quickly and not one yelp from our puppy, not even a sniff. This master with a needle had a soft touch equipped with precision that didn’t even tussle a piece of fur.  I was so impressed, I slipped the VET a twenty and mentioned that my son is due his tetanus soon and maybe he’s free on Tuesday……..

I may have spoke too soon;  a few days later our pup came down with a doggie cold or as the professionals call it: kennel cough; and, as newbie owners and ignorant about puppy ailments, we did what responsible adults do…….dialed  doggie 911.

It was a weekend and we did not do step one of new puppy ownership: Get Established With A Vet.  So we had to go to an Emergency Vet Hospital, on a weekend, with an On Call Vetinarian….This visit cost nearly the same amount of money as a one nights stay at the Hilton with a spa package.

  The Vet receptionist had us enter through the “sick pet door” where we were quarantined in a corner seat in the waiting area. We were greeted much like a regular hospital E.R.; as their initial instructions were:

“Please sign in and fill out this paperwork”.

Our puppy was lying listless in my lap and displaying shallow breathing. We have only owned this dog for seven weeks and I am presented by the receptionist at the Vet E.R.  with a vibrant blue page to be filled out immediately. I mentioned to her that my dog will be the color of this form by the time I finish with this paperwork.  She turned away smacking her gum to the tune of  Springsteen’s “Born in the USA”……..

  I noticed  at the bottom of this Blue Page there were  two options that required One mandatory check mark:

  Option 1: ( short version) We will take the pet and do everything possible to save it costing you at the least $750.

Option 2: DNR.

I was hoping that DNR had a different meaning than the one used in People Hospitals.  I was thinking that maybe Vet clinics had their own special vernacular and acronyms that pertained to animals, and that maybe their version of DNR meant something less devastating. Like:

Do Note-the Reading-material-while-you-wait……. or…..Dinner Needs Reheating… or…. Did-you Need-to-Rethink-this-puppy-thing?….

As it turned out our pup had a mild form of a kennel cough and just needed a dose of antibiotic and we didn’t need to go to Eddie Bauer in search of an oxygen pup- tent.  Our little pupster came through with flying colors as I stayed curled up next to him throughout the night and day.

I know I inherited this mutt a mere seven weeks prior to his illness and my attachment to him was still in a foreign  stage to me.  I know I was riddled with guilt  despair when I was faced with the decisions of those two options  listed on  the required Royal Page. I know that in those fatal few seconds in between my puppy’s breaths, thoughts flashed through my mind of various views before my pen decided to land in the blank box nestled near the bottom of the Bright blue Form.  My mind was being coerced into choosing between an eight week weakling that I barely knew that could stiff me for a giant Vet bill or Do Nothing Right-now……

I know you are dying to know which option I chose…..

That is not an option………

spread the humor.



{July 23, 2011}   Some of the Best Laid Blogs

I am not a big planner in life.  I admire those people that carry their life in the palm of their pocket.  I tried to get inspired by those folks whose lives run on a PDA, but the best I can do is scribble notes on a giant desk calender and forget to look at it again.  Or the important data I just documented has a mishap with my cappuccino and is now rendered illegible.

Oh, I have planned vacations and booked flights, but it’s really not me doing the arrangements, it’s the booking agent that gets all the credit.  I know everything is handled through the information highway with precise technocality, but I am the person who downloads the material online while talking to the agent.  I need the comfort of a human voice that responds back with semi-logic and a  peppy emotion who entraps me to commit to a date and hand over my American Express card.

It seems that some of my best laid plans go awry no matter how methodically I  manage to orchestrate them in my mind.  For example:  Last night I planned a great nights sleep with Charly dog nesting at my ankles and  wake up refreshed and ready to prance off to the gym to endure a grueling workout sporting my matching Nike attire.

Instead….I woke up to a puddle of pee at the base of the bed.

My first inclination after I yanked the covers  off was to replicate that memorable scene from the Godfather where the studio head discovers the horses noggin beneath the bedding.

But…. it was early and I didn’t want to wake the sleeping teens down the corridor for fear of being doused with attitude and rolling eyes; or..worse yet… I believe my quasi adult children may have listed a retirement community on their cell phones……s(pee)d dial…….

It did cross (what’s left of) my mind,  that…well….er……did I have and accidental accident???

I know I’m in the drones of menopause and plumbing issues are near the top of the list of things that go bump in the night.  I did under go a surgical procedure  a few years ago that was performed by a robot harboring arms like a giant spider which has the same name of the artist who painted The Last Supper, and looked as though it was assembled  at NASA.  This was a procedure that was less invasive and could be executed in under two hours.  That is, if there are no complications.  Mine lasted five hours because the commander at the controls ripped a hole in my bladder which resulted in a 911 call to an in-House specialist. So, needless to say, that morning I thought I had sprung a leak.

As I toppled out of bed and began to  figure out a way to wake my husband and break the news to him that I just might be a victim of the Depends generation I realized:

Maybe it’s time to wake up and smell the urine.  No more  sailing that sea of denial that age and women don’t mix well in certain genres.  Might as well face the future and take it with a grain of cotton and imported materials with a flexible waistline……………

……..and that an over-sized puffy pant, while moderately absorbent and locks in odors, may be replacing my  Pink Victoria Secret  Lacy Wonder Scanty Panty.

As I climbed off the California King (mattress) my foot touched a breathing furry object semi cowered under the bed.  There lie Charly-dog staring at me with guilty big round eyes and shaking as if he were stuck in a winter storm without his coat. He glared with the kind of eyes you see in a Keane painting that  boarder on cuteness and crazy.   I noticed a dotted trail of pee that flowed in his direction and it didn’t take the Dream Team to figure who the culprit was in this voiding crime.  I’m surprised my pup didn’t grab my husbands Bruno Magli’s and leave and imprint in the carpet…..

I was angry at the dog and wanted to reprimand him for the dirty deed that happened during my REM slumber, but I didn’t get mad at Charly for his incidental accident on my dry clean only comforter.  I turned my anger into elation because it wasn’t me that suffered the indiscriminate incontinence…… it was my pup.

Oh Halleluja and pass the menopausal plate!  I have branded another age defying dilemma and will Prevail with Dignity-plus a Nu-Fit on age that Depends on the Tranquility  that life can Pull-Up.

I picked up my shivering puppy and held him tight and whispered in his bobble head that “everything will be O.K”.

Tonight my Plan is to take a Brief interlude and turn a Puppy-Pad into a Huggies Overniteoh..and..delete the retirement center’s number on my kids cell phones…

spread the humor.




Why do men cheat and sleep around on their mates like a junk yard dog scavenging through a dumpster from bone to bone. Do they not realize that after a while not only do they get caught but all the bones end up tasting the same?

I don’t understand the actual concept of how some one can actually follow through and consummate the cheating, however, I do  understand the preliminary’s that lead up to it. I can see how stagnation and redundancy play a vital part in a relationship especially if only one person is adding fuel to the proverbial fire. What is it that enters a persons mind when they start to  want to have that notion to stray. Most seem to lay the blame on lack of attention in their relationship. Why is having attention paid to one so important? Is someone’s ego so deflated that it warrants affection stemming from strangers to strippers?

I have a friend who is worth millions and is a direct descendant of a prominent family who steeled their fortune in the roaring twenty’s.  She is a great grand-daughter of a a guy who has a Hall and a Deli named after him. She lies low in a suburban area located in a semi small state where the shore is eroding faster than Elliot Spitzer’s hairline. She married a nice guy and had two children with him the same age as mine. She was living the quiet life by the sea in a secluded neighborhood that just happened to have a strip club in the adjoining county that touted their Tiny Dancers.  Her husband was a man of leisure and an  unlimited bank account gratis the wife; a bank account that he convinced his wife to support his returning to school for a degree in Law. He would drop the kids off at school and mosey over to the community college and sign in, then hop in the BMW and tend to his education in lap dances by Professor Candee-lite.

He took his education to a higher court and veered off Course and centered around a Pole of conviction which benched him and booted his pre-law ass to another jurisdiction. I did hear he returned home with his tail between his legs in hopes of a reconciliation, but his wife did not find that appeal-ing; and the hammer of justice came down on him one night when she crazy glued his member of congress to his thigh and he had to drag his gavel around the sound block to the emergency room and plead his case while the surround sound echoed “stuck on you” by Huey Lewis and the News.

Yeah you can teach an old dog new tricks using HO-rrifyin ways to TIT-illate the male libido that tends to lie dormant when faced with commitment longer than their allotted attention span…which lasts about as long as Candee-lites thong during one pelvic thrust.

Yep cheating creates havoc, mayhem, and mistrust and leaves many people with wounded hearts and angered souls and bury their sorrow in a bottle of 1999 Beaujolais Nuveau.

I tell them to get a dog. Charly-dog doesn’t cheat. Well, maybe when playing cards…….



{June 14, 2011}   Blog’s In The Belfry

I woke up this morning with a horses head in my bed.  I didn’t find myself reacting like Jack Woltz  from the Godfather  did ,  who arose in his Egyptian cotton sheets next to his prized Khartoun screaming bloody murder;  I woke up with a two inch stuffed head of a  Seabiscuit pencil topper dangling  by one reign over my face  repetitiously neighing:  “I’m a little pony” in the same tone that emanates from the Chucky Doll when the batteries are dying…….

Charly-dog brought this Child’s Play to my attention at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday. I don’t know how he got his canines on a souvenir  from a Bat Mitzvah that we attended eight years ago.  I don’t know what possessed him to share his discovery with me at the break of dawn, but I do know that there have been  many attempts made on my life brought about by my pooch, and maybe this is some kind of final warning……

Maybe it’s a  symbol or a for -shadowing of what lies a HEAD on the floor below for me to trip over -and break my neck.  Like maybe the pencil end that held the plush memento where an eraser should’ve been……..

I tried to get my dog to relinquish this token  of affection(?) that brought back scenes form a 1972 classic, but he held onto it tighter than the Great White  clenching  onto Chrissie Watkins legs in the opening scene of Jaws.  Not even the Jaws of Life would be able to free that stuffed stallion from my dog’s choppers.

  My dog Charly, followed me throughout the house carrying that faux foal head around with his jowls seeping saliva that is soaking onto the drool resistant carpet.  I know he harbors a subliminal message somewhere under that  bobble head of his while he clenches that colt between his Sublingual gland.

I was determined to not let this dog intimidate me into spending the morning worrying about his ulterior motives brought about with his prized possession.  He was not going to drive me crazy in thoughts about his future ploys with that stuffed toy head.  No way,  I am just going to set my chair to the recliner mode and conduct a self Rorschach Test with the cloud formations in the sky until Charly stops grinning at me with that furry fabric stuck in his teeth.

While I was retreating in the back yard reading the Sports page and sipping my coffee, , Charly  decided to drop Mr. Ed’s head into my cup of Joe.  It took a while to fish him out because  a Palomino  is hard to locate when you take cream in your coffee……..

Maybe Charly-dog is trying to give me a “Heads up” and pick the winner of the Belmont Stakes…..Maybe Charly is  able to channel predictions, and  just maybe  he is able to  label  winners.  (Although, I don’t recall seeing “Made-in-China“,  followed by  “Press Here for Sound“, and  “Inspected by No. 9“, all winning by a stuffed nose in the Kentucky Derby.   I mean, what would be the odds of that?)

I am not a gambling person but if my dog can predict a winner of a Major Horse race I just might have to capitalize on it.

This toy bronco brain that my dog introduced into my bed this morning might be a message of some other nature. Maybe it’s a clue telling me to be on the lookout for the rest of the Horse that could be logistically placed in harms way. Maybe it’s a sign from the clutter- god that my daughters room needs to be excavated again.  Maybe the act of  a pet pooch offering up a petite padded pony’s head lodged between his lips takes on a symbolic meaning of a deeper fashion.

  Maybe he’s trying to tell me that heads will roll if his dog dish is not filled promptly by seven.

Maybe he knows I switched his Flea & Tick remedy to a cheaper brand and he’s looking for retaliation.

Maybe I should stop letting him stay up and watch re-runs on the classic movie channel and just stick to viewing the Dog Whisperer where Charly  can enjoy seeing Pit-Bulls rip the heads off of Chi-hua-hua mixed breeds…..

(uh-oh…..now I know where  “drop the My little Pony head in my bed” idea came from….)…




My daughter will be off to her “sleep-a-way” college very soon and I am having a real push-me-pull-you sensation circling my being with regards to her being an absentee family member at the dinner table.

It’s amazing how fast time flies when you’re raising children.

  Running a close second is my son who will be gone in another year, which leaves just me, a husband, and a crazy dog.  Coming in third is my traveling husband who checks into this House Hotel periodically and has check-out by 11.  So,  inevitably I am left with just me dining with Charly-dog sharing our kibble-n-bits and picking  on a bone or two….

I suppose confronting an empty nest syndrome could cause one to feel slightly deserted  and leaving one to feel alone to combat that empty feeling rising in your stomach, but actually, it’s last nights dessert followed by a gastric flare-up that’s creating the fuss.  And you thought I was going to wallow in  lonely abandonment and cry over Spilt Vintage Port…….

Having the place all to myself???   I say…Halleluja and pass the Pinot Grigio……Sweet freedom…..I can’t think of what I want to do first:  Sleep til noon or Kennel the canine and shop-drop-and -roll into a SPA…….without family interruptus.

Just think of the exhilarating feeling of not getting that emergency call of: “I forgot my English paper  that I left curled up at the bottom of my bed that’s due today,”  while you’re in the middle of a shower that was  already scheduled for an earlier time…..

Or the incredible lightness of being inside your purse that no longer carries the contents of a beloved family members lost possessions…..

Imagine not having to try to cook for four, in addition to  their last minute friends that  may bombard your kitchen promptly at 6pm. Which  leads you to hop in the car and rush to the grocery to buy more food, but as you start the car it’s low on gas because the other family drivers never load the tank, so now there is an unscheduled stop to fill up. Which, when you are grabbing  the car that your daughter inhabits, you nearly have a head-on because you are fighting off a pile of college clothes in the passenger seat causing an avalanche of underwear to flow onto your lap.

Imagine not having to engage in banter about: “How come I can’t go the Marilyn Manson concert by myself, I’m 15 you know……:.” .    (yeah I know…, I was there when you were born…remember?).

Ohhh..I dunno….something about that guys(?) LAST name that bothers me, being that I was  around during the Helter Skelter years….

Lately, my son and I  have been having a communication breakdown.  I think it has to do with an increase in his hormones and a withering away of mine. We are currently amidst a clash of the mighty testosterone-Titans.  He wants his Friday night lights to be continually burning while my dimming levels are suffering a low AC/DC output leaving me longing to lounge into Sunday morning.

My son accused me of not being “cool” and never having any” fun” and  that irritated me because FUN use to be my middle name.  Fun is part of FUNny, which I use to be before my children were born and Worry seem to take funny’s place.

This poor teenage lad thinks his mother was Born This Way. He thinks when I plopped out of the womb I immediately set up shop in a household full of responsibility waving a Clorox wipe to rid all the dust that has been collecting in the ancient corners of my life.

Sometimes you have to drop that parental facade of setting a good example and let that little offspring have a piece of your life as you knew it…..or remember it……

My son exclaimed that I don’t let him have any fun. This statement is based  solely on the premise that I won’t let him go to a RAVE party that mixes thousands of unknowns from around a tri-state area and continues on into the night lasting an eternity…..

He mumbled to me that Everyone is going.

I asked him to give me the names of Everyone;  I’d like to check with Everyone’s parents.  I don’t recall ever meeting the Everyone Family,  and maybe I need to check the school Roster for Everyone’s address and phone number. Maybe Everyone’s Parents  are available for dinner sometime…..(I’ll make sure Everyone is there).

This is where we both reach Moot hormone point…….

Then he hammered  in a closing statement:  “I could lie about it and say I’m going somewhere else and spend the night with a friend, instead….”.( 23K spent on tuition and he ends his clause with an adverb…..).

“Well”..(you smarty teen who thinks he just closed the justice doors on me…) “I guess I would know your lying to me”.

“How?”  He smirks, as if he holds the secret to life.   ( Which I gave to him, by the way...).

“Well”……..(you  know it all teen who couldn’t see a Mac truck breezing in front of your Ipod clad ears):

“You just TOLD me….sooooo…….go on………ask me now if you can spend the night at a friends house…..”.

I sat my son down and explained to him about the repercussions of a lie.  No, I didn’t go into a fancy parable  like my parents use to do and infer references that included Pincochio, Instead ,  I decided to take another twist and give my son a little Flava-Flav of my own accolade of life with my parents.  I told him I too told my folks I was Spending the night at  a friends house when I was his age because my parents wouldn’t let me attend a concert:

“But son”, I said with great urgency and  glowing remembrance;  “this was no ordinary concert, this was a Rock Festival in the late sixties that resembled a mini Woodstock which you are now studying in your History book along with Vietnam, LSD, and Sqeaky Fromme’s red sweat shirt”.

“Son”, I continued, (as if I were there now, three feet away from Jim Morrison crooning “Light My Fire” through his three weeks growth of beard):

“This was a Pop Festival in the summer of ’69 when tickets were $6 and the featured  headliners were the legends of:  The Doors, Ike and Tina Turner, Country Joe and the Fish, Joe Cocker, Bo Didly, Led Zepplin, Alice Cooper, Santana…and Chicago…..”.

(These bands were escaping my palate with all the excitability a fifty-something mother stuck in a time warp could muster….yet trying to keep her parental controls in check….)

“Son, this was two days of reckless existence and FUN nights rolled into a day of recovery………which, when I got caught in my lie ,  nearly cost me a one way ticket to an all girls Catholic school in Canada, thousands of miles away from my friends,  where I would be forced to wear Maroon Knee-highs for Identification purposes only….”.

“Son, if you want to LIE to me and then  get caught, (and  you will get caught) ….(we live in a small rural town), please make sure that whatever story you concoct in that under developed teen brain of yours, is for a worthy cause…….like something that has gone down in History………..”.

“Attending an over sized party of punks that is hosting a Dee-Jay who  scratches vinyl records for a living is nothing to RAVE about to your children…”.

(It was soon after my  total recall rant that my Coed daughter decided to chime in and eradicate her life of missing concerts, which started the dog barking and dinner was burning…).

Maybe I won’t miss the tete-a-tete’s that bring my blood sugar to a boiling point, but I do know I’ll miss the presence  of my children at my dinner table.  Sometimes letting a little of your past leak out can mark your place on the “teenage map” of life and put you on the “cool Mom’s” continent.

 And, Sometimes,  you just  have to concede and curl up with the dog and wait until they come back home for well missed dinner……..




My daughter’s boyfriend bought an item for me to use on my Puppy. It is something that has been advertised on the late night barkers channel and plastered all over a coupon on the back page of a grocery store flyer. It is a battery operated device that is suppose to control your dogs incessant barking by using high frequency waves that can only be detected by dogs. Or , possibly your sixteen year old son.

This three inch plastic made-in-a-remote-area-of-cheapness, houses a nine volt battery and emits a high frequency sound that resonates every time your dog barks. There are two levels that occur in this cycle of transparent noise: High and Low.

This small appliance is the size of a cell phone and operates up to twenty feet away. It is a remote tool which ends up in various places much like the remote from my T.V. in the family room. My remote for the television has legs because it wanders aimlessly throughout the house. I found a lovely basket to place all the entertainment apparatus which sits atop the coffee table one foot from the couch, which means a mere outstretched- arms -reach could cover the radius of placing the remote in it’s proper place. It is a simple convenience accompanied by simple science, but aggravated by lazy couch potatoes who have a “control” issue. They find it adhered to their palm and it winds up in areas that could possibly never find any reception, like the bathroom, or under the sofa cushion, or God forbid, in one’s suitcase.

Our new “Bark-B-Gone” toy travels with us from room to room as the dog follows clasping his paws over his ears. This little receptive instrument does not give any implication that it is on and working. There is no LED light blinking, there is no sound resonating, there are no beeps , blips, or flashes to insinuate it is in working order. This piece of PETrochemicals just sits and stares into the rooms without focusing on a target, very much like I do at times.

My puppy started his seven o’clock ritual of barking at air and this “bark-no-more” piece of crap did nothing but glare at a wall with its seeing eye glazed over. It wasn’t until I walked over and plucked it from its holster and steadily held it above my pup like a priest holding a cross over Emily Rose that my dog Charly turned his head around and ignored  the “Bark-Never-Again” contraption. And  only then,  did his right ear slowly raise like an antenna on an old Rambler sedan. That seem to have lasted a mere second as he turned his head around and continued his conversation with the drapery patterns.

I had rendered this thing useless until my sixteen year old son came stumbling down the stairs with his palms covering both ears and screaming at me to to “turn off the high pitch sound”.  I managed to quiet the pup yet my son was still holding his head and complaining about the white noise in the room. I told him that Charly is actually WHITE  with black spots.

At that moment I realized my son has a sensitivity to electromagnetic high frequency waves which could cause irrefutable damage to his hearing. (I’m sure his blasting Slipknot and Eminem through his Skull Candy from his Ipod mini at 300 decibels isn’t an issue). I just realized that my son could hear the noise from the mute plastic box that was meant for my dog’s ears. I just realized that he woke up before noon stumbling down to where this little toy box sat on the kitchen counter and utter a nearly complete sentence at me to “shut off that sound, it’s hurting his ears“.

That SOUND that my dog would scoff at and “no one else could hear”, the ad stated……..

I just realized that this $9.99 special from QVC could retrieve my son from farther than twenty paces at a rabbits pace, and the setting was on “low”.

I Just realized I now hold the secret to life. The secret of getting a “teen” up and on time for school in the morning…….

RUFF-LIFE….Bark-on..Bark-Off….




Some one saw my blog and made a constructive critical acclaim to the way it looked.  She said that it didn’t have enough “zip” to it and that I “needed to add more ambiance and eye-catching glitter”.  I told her to put down her Rose` colored wine glasses and just try to enjoy the humor of it all.  I happen to like the dark-haired green and black cartoon version of a silhouette that keeps reminding me of what my body looked like twenty years ago.

I haven’t blogged for quite sometime due to the fact that I was actively pursuing some academics that might help me further a career that was lying dormant over thirty years ago.  After getting my fifty-something year old carcass out of bed at 5:00 a.m., and jumping into a sassy saffron uniform with the school logo stitched over my left breast, and downing a cappuccino while racing the other commuters in the dark to board a freezing train that wreaked of diesel and radiated loud gum popping cell phone addicts in the quiet car and after brandishing 29 credits for three months and harvesting sleepless nights, watching the dust and grime host a no swifter party in my house, and neglecting my children ( who barely noticed between their social life and Ipods that I was missing), and, worst of all, forgetting that I owned a dog.

I missed passing a required course by two points in order to continue on with the program.

I thought that if I resurfaced a career I would be helping the family income during these bouts of economic hardships. Instead, I found that my economics were becoming even harder while aspiring to achieve greatness.  After calculating the cost of this venture and weighing the outcome of age vs. job opportunity, while finding myself crying over spilt Martilnelli 2008 Pinot Noir, daily,… and realizing that I am not smarter than a fifth grader,…I decided to do what any normal red-blooded hormonal woman would do:

I booked a trip to Italy.  Isn’t that where all the menopausal misfits run off to during a time of reputable failure? As my neighbor so eloquently put it to me over her lovely pomegranate martini’s: Ah hell, you didn’t want to be a nurse any way..fuck em’.. No truer words spoken out of an elegant pearl clad mouth..

The beauty of this departure from my academic whirlwind is that is brought me back to the basics of what my purpose may be in life. Even though my children are growing and heading into the adult world, they still need me. They have been use to their mother hanging about and being at their beck and call throughout their lives. As much as it appeared that they were fine without me being at the helm, I could see that they were not. They watched as their mother turned into a maniacal obsessed text-book worm letting the responsibilities of the days slip into the abyss. They witnessed mommy breakdown’s from the pressure of not being able to tackle her Medication Math and Calculate with Confidence.  We were a family of a traveling husband, teens in action, a mom running amok, and Charly-dog bearing the brunt and being locked up for hours, alone, in his room, with a night-light and food and water and an August issue of The Enquirer spread out on the floor. There was only so much that Charly could take, and peeing on yesterday’s news was his limit…  I’m sure Charly felt dejected and unwanted until someone came home from their daily activity and he was freed from his laundry room habitat and able to roam the great out doors to relieve himself.

My children are very capable individuals, and that is one trait that I am proud of.  My children will survive in this world and make wonderful lives for themselves with out me in tow.  My dog, however, I worry about.  I think about him when I’m away, I think about his well-being, I think about whether he is tearing up the wicker basket in the laundry room, or has dived into the pile of dirty clothes waiting to be washed and torn into every sock of every family member that has abandoned him for the day.  I think about him possibly sitting in is doggie bed staring at the white walls holding his hind legs with his front paws and rocking back and forth seething and thinking hate barks.

These things weigh on my mind more than one knows, which is why I probably missed passing the school program by two lousy points. But I will say this, when I came home every day and sometimes into the night and opened Charly’s door, I was met with a wide-eyed, waggy tailed, sausage-shaped, tongue licking my face Mongrel that is irreplaceable and doesn’t care if I pass or fail,  only that I returned home.

Sometimes life does funny things to a person, like taking a 4.0 graduate and mashing them into elementary mush making them wrap their entire being around  the word stupid. And sometimes is takes a mangy flea-bag tail-wagger to pull you out of your Picasso Blue period and pounce to a different tune, a tune where you work like a dog and you don’t have a dog’s chance to be a Top dog, so you’re thrown to the  dog’s, only to return with your tail between your legs.

And sometimes you just have to face the inevitable and break open that vintage 1989 Chateauneuf du Pape that has been collecting dust in your wine cabinet awaiting that special dog day afternoon…….




I’m off to the Tuscan sun (37 degrees) in 12 days and I am starting to feel elated. There is still a big part of me that harbors a shroud of anxiety at the thought of leaving my quasi adult children to roam in my home sans mommy. That is why I am a big supporter of Neighborhood Watch.

This is no ordinary watch where the “hood” posts glow- in- the -dark signs on dead trees only to be read by  passing fluorescent headlights; this is a watch that includes designated specialized attention from lovely neighbors who volunteer to randomly check in at my house unannounced on Friday and Saturday nights dangling their secret key.

This action keeps my teens on High Alert.  Kind of like Publishers Clearing house ,  the way the marketing Team of Todd Sloan and Associates  keep a close eye on the prospective winner before they pounce on them to present a  a giant cardboard check during halftime at the Super Bowl.  The contestant has an inkling of being followed but writes it off as a minor paranoia accompanied by an occasional hallucination of a Navy Blue Van.  It’s the same feeling I inject into my Teens when I plan to go away for a few days; that feeling of someone possibly stopping by for a cup of sugar at midnight who entertains the same suspicious glare unlike myself….That look that can clear any house of unwanted public

Needless to say it helps a mom sleep comfortably at night when she is out of town, far, far, away, sipping her Chianti Classico with a side of Fava beans…

I have lived in many a neighborhoods throughout this fine country and I have to say that where I have landed now harbors some of the most eclectic group of people, and I enjoy everyone of  them. Well, almost everyone of them.  There are some that have gotten lost in translation, which can happen when you live close to one another over a five year span. It’s a lot like having room mates at times. Some you enjoy sharing your intimate pasts and some are just too high maintenance and add too much drama to an already infused Camille society.

I no longer have issues with whether or not I like my neighbors, I have a sixth SCENTS in regards to  people. Albeit..Charly. I now leave that ability, in my dogs paws. Charly has a great sense of ” I don’t like you ” smell. He is very protective of our domain and lashes out at the ones he feels are a threat ,and  yet,on the other paw, he acts like a bouncer at Club Rave and sorts through the melee with his snout in the air, and upon his approval, let’s them pass through the threshold with a tail wag.

I think dogs have a sense of self worth and who is worth sensing. Sometimes Charly-dog has a gaze that looks through your soul and if he could verbalize to someone he would be spouting worse than a tea kettle on high.  Charly is relentless when it comes to visitors that rub him the wrong way. He is a high strung combination of a couple of breeds that should never have mixed in the first place, yet when he chooses who he wants to befriend, he is all over them like a cheap suit licking last nights after shave off their satin cheek.

Personally, I think my dog has better judgment of a persons character than I do.  When I walk him around the “hood” he has  become very selective as to which car he wants to chase after. It use to be all cars, but now as he watches them drive by he methodically watches and contemplates which neighbor’s vehicle is going to get the Charly rant.  Funny, it always ends up to be the same ones. And , oddly enough, they happen to be the neighbors I can no longer tolerate other than a passing wave from my free hand. Keeping it on the down-low… Now on the other hand, Charly charges towards the ones he likes. It’s all about the scent.  Think about it, does anyone really like a not-so nice-smelling- person?  I think my dog is on to something that Freud or Jung never tapped into: The aura of aroma.

As long as the sniffing stays above the waist………………




I have just received an  incredible Honor in the blogging world which was passed on to me by: Sandysays1.wordpress.com.

She awarded(?) me with the “Versatile Blogger Award”, and upon receiving this I would just like to say” Thank You very much…… and You like me, you really, really like me…..well Sandy says she does……….”

I am not familiar with this award, but none the less, it is something that I can hopefully add to my resume of achievements along with learning to change diapers, taxiing teens, spoon feeding life into my family, conquering menopause without taking out a post office, and avoiding my puppy’s plot in trying to kill me……..

I have found that everything in life does come with strings attached…my children entered that way….and with accepting this award there are rules that must be obeyed and conveyed.

First: I must post the Link that nominated me: http://sandysays1.wordpress.com

Secondly: List 7 random things about myself………So….here’goes:

1) The Girl in Green that is posted on my blog is a silhouette of my body 20 years ago……(you just scrolled up..didn’t you…)

2) Charlywalker is not my real name…..although I’m thinking of changing it to avoid creditors….

3) I live in Levi’s, loafers without socks, cashmere sweaters, and a HootersAir cap hosting a pony tail….

4) I will retire under the Tuscan Sun….even if it’s the name of a local restaurant…..

5) Speak, Write, Serve me anything in Italian and I’m all over you like a cheap suit……………

6) I like funny. Anything Funny.  I like people who like funny………

7) I will continue to uphold my motto: Spread The Humor………..

Now there are many people and blogs I’d like to post but the rules of engagement are to list only 15.  I have 52 blogs I would love to tout so if you could find it in your blog-hearts to nominate me 3.742 more times I would be able to give them all a  just due mentionable…..

Thirdly: I Google(d) the definition of versatile and it states: “capable of doing many things competently; having varied uses or serving many functions; changing or fluctuating readily”.  I can state that by this definition, Versatile applies to many bloggers, but you will never find me fluctuating in public.  Here are my first fifteen:

http://www.mostlybrightideas.wordpress.com          http://www.newsanvil.wordpress.com     http://www.woodsgateview.wordpress.com               http://www.souldipper.wordpress.com       http://www.uptorandomthoughts.wordpress.com   http://www.rhumr4@ec.rr.com                         http://www.happybarkdays.wordpress.com              http://www.ignorthebucklesonmyjacket.wordpress.com   http://www.spectrumwoman.wordpress.com            http://www.theforkintheroad.wordpress.com        http://www.whatthefluffy.wordpress.com           http://www.passionateaboutpets.wordpress.com     http://www.acleansurface.wordpress.com       http://www.bridgesburning.wordpress.com              http://www.lauriecag.wordpress.com

Now, just in case I missed a few:

 Mutterschwester,Ournote2self,Workingtechmom,sdliving,tipsylucy,mag5sx2,jesswords10,

miraclemama,Redneckprincess,murrbrewater,sportsattitude,postadailychallenge,paroxysmornews,

belleofthecarnival,kimeling,cdewine,Thevividwriter,coopernicus,cheeseschipsandgravyplusfootball, thedailydish,artswebshow,brokenalabasterbottle,cocorivers,oldbentnail,theteachingwhore,joysinmylife,

itslisa,Rufusguide,Alittleteteatete,Charlienitric,AccordingtoGus,

Normalstepfather,Martinimaidens,Ocinthered,Onemixedbag,momintraining13,pccadvantage,oh, and Salt & Pepper(?).

And all the SPAM one blog can NOT allow…….

Thank You.

Charlywalker…….spread the humor.




I have a friend that is angry. Her mind is upset with her body.  Her body wants to exacerbate her hybernating hormones and bring them out to the surface to face an all out war with her libido. She is so bewildered by this ipso facto that she is writing in quasi legal Latin jargon that her attorney father would utter when he was upset.  Every time she heard him shout In Loc0 Parentis, she figured he was trying to locate some local parents and trade her brother in for a golden retriever because he used his mothers fine crystal in a neighborhood water fight…again. Mea Culpa!

My friend had her female reproductive organs removed exactly two years ago in February and her Doctor did not place her on replacements; ad infinitum,….. until a month ago when she happen to mention that; ” while she enjoyed having sex; her vagina is in absentia followed by rigor mortis..“. In other words lacking a little of the moisture it had in her youth.

I will for warn all of you pre, post, or anytime in between, menopausal women: your Vee-Jay will quit on you. Your walls of Jericho will collapse and dry up and crack like the Great Lakes did 7000 years ago.  Your brain and hormones will still present themselves in an orderly fashion and aid you along in the passion and fever while starting to copulate, but come half time and LeBron James is about to do his slam dunk into that lovely basket everything comes to a rip roaring halt. The pain replaces the pleasure. The dry spell took over and all the K Y from Jelly-stone park can not help Yogi fall into his Pic-A-Nic basket without creating a Boo-Boo…modus operandi.

She thought this was just her. She thought this was a situation that only she had to keep In camera, until she had drinks with a colleague the other night who managed to have a slip of the labia and exclaimed she too, had the same situation. Maybe if we ran this situation across the Jersey Shore cast they’d get answers. I’m sure Snookie has no problems with  her nookie. Wait til she’s over fifty, I bet her shoreline will recede and her tide won’t ebb and flow like it use to. I’d like to see her habeas corpus reach terra firma after two kids…..et tu, Snookie??

My friend went into a twenty minute dissertation about her private parts during intercourse with a closing argument of “how and why is that fair to women:  just as we women are reaching the age of acquiescence and enjoying the act now doesn’t mean the damn thing has to dry up and quit on us”. God I love  a person who tells it like it is, even if it’s Martini induced.   Aqua vitae.

I educated my dear pre menopausal friend about the miracle drug of Estrogen. I explained how it comes in various forms; from oral to topical, and how replenishing this hormone that is starting to fade from our anterior pituitary, will recapture that rapture that has escaped through our vaginal portal.   Opus Dei.

This is no Davinci code; this is a miracle drug from your local Pharmacy that can ignite the heavens, prima facie, so your husband can provide pro bono ad infinitum…..quid pro quo…until you veni vedi veci….So you can Carpe Diem…until your hearts content; pain free.  Just remember this is a temporary fix and needs a refill………

Caveat  Emptor….…..



et cetera
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