Charlywalker's Blog

{February 2, 2011}   A Blog in Sheep’s Clothing

I have been in Italy for nearly nine days now and I depart tomorrow on an early morning flight back to the states.  I am having mixed feelings about returning to my home in Pennsylvania, not because of what awaits me when I land but what has been left behind. My husband.

  I just realized after 21 years of marriage I actually love my husband. Over the last nine days I witnessed a man whose heart is larger than the moon that rules him and  he carries the world’s woes atop his stooping  shoulders. Shoulders  that lean more than the Tower of Pisa. Atlas cowers in comparison to my husband and he’s not even standing upright…I can’t decide if the amore rekindled because of the visit to Italy or if this is a part of what happens when a marriage continues past 20 years and the love  drought is over.

I will say that Geography plays a large part in where intimacy raises it’s protuberant head; well with me it does.  For example, having sex while married over a long period of time has it’s ups and downs and the outside meddling affairs that intervene during  a marriage can put a damper on your sex life:  The onset of children; A troublesome mother-in-law; A job or lack there of; and even a dog can cause rippin’ the sheets up to cease and desist.

  I always found that my PGAD was on high alert at the most inopportune times: Like the airplane toilet, or a cab, or the front steps of the Brooklyn Museum in February….. A bit frosty but fun. Or if you need to come in from the cold; your car parked outside Tavern on the Green under the lighted trees.. I’m sure there is a psychological term for folks that take advantage of our countries beautiful monuments and tourist attractions for their own nookie gratification, but I don’t care. You get off wherever you get off. You indulge when the urge strikes, because sooner or later you will be met with many interruptus bouts of screaming babies, or an everlasting phone calls from the boss, or the ferocious knock on the front door from your mother-in-law who schlepped all the way from west 6th street to find out if everyone is O.K. because no one answered her phone call… for the seventh time…..

Or maybe your dog jumps in to assist with what has been desist and causes mayhem on the mattress.  I don’t know if recapturing a spark that ignited over twenty years ago happened  again because of a romantic location or if I actually found my husband appealing.  My vote is the location.. location.. location… Italy brings the best out in me, there are no distractions except the  lovely country side, fantastic food, and an abundance of not over priced Chianti, all accompanied by the rapture of the language that captures your heart.

  There were no arguments breeding in our emotions or outside stimuli of  vagrant responsibilities that caused us to go asunder. We just had each other and the waft of Italian ambiance embracing our beings. All of this stayed intact until I entered the U.S. and headed home.

I left the garden of Eden to enter the gates of Hell.  As I crossed the threshold of my front door, I was immediately trounced on by Charly-dog who saturated my new Euro coat with pee stains ;  after receiving a giant hug from my 16 year old son  he followed up with complaints of “how he did all the work around the house and his sister did nothing”, then topped  the evening off by my invisible daughter who hasn’t seen me in weeks and opted to stay at her boyfriends parents house instead of asking me “how my trip went”.

I shuffled into the house after a nine hour flight and noted the dishes piled in the sink stained from yesterdays meals, pizza boxes left open laying on the garage floor two inches away from the recycle bin, soda cans left atop my car, laundry piled higher than Mt. Everest, and my husband calling to have me check his phone messages because he doesn’t want to be charged for roaming.  Business as usual.

I grabbed my over priced American Imported Chianti Classico and my box of chocolate covered Pocket Coffees and retreated  my jet-lagged ass to my bedroom.  I plugged my used airline earphones into my IPOD and blasted Pavaroti into my deaf ears as I downloaded my Flip videos of  Italy onto my Macbook Pro and sipped a lovely Vino Rosso all the while watching a recap of virtual food being served to me on a lovely terrace in Florence.   I feel the love…..Is it love or is it the idea of love?…….

OR is it the Location of love……………….Ciao Italia until we meet again…

{January 22, 2011}   Raining Cats and Blogs

I have been inspired to get down and dirty and to reveal certain aspects of my life. Someone has put the notion into my head that I need to tap into that inner self that collects all the history and tears down the cob webs that are shielding some true lies. I was going to write about my first time  visiting  a Porn shop in Atlanta in the seventies, but revealing the true actualities of that experience is very benign in comparison with what is vehemently exposed today.  My Coed  daughter shows more skin than the three minute video I watched from a coin -op arcade shielded by a draped stained curtain that housed every STD under the sun……

During the 70’s in Atlanta, Georgia, the South had certain rules and laws that governed their great City and protected  their poor Sainted pedestrians.  They have  (or had) a major street in Atlanta called Peachtree Street and this street had many branches that added middle names to the main thorough fare: like Peachtree Avenue, Peachtree circle, Peachtree way. That tree wound its roots throughout the metropolitan area until it landed in the pit of an intersection that was divided between church and Porn. During the roaring 70’s or should I say snoring 70’s from all the excess potheads that were left over from the Jane Fonda era;   Atlanta had an area that was baptized ” the Bible belt” on one side of the street while the other side harbored a strip mall of Satan.  This was a religious war of an unusual kind during those times in which the Holy Rollers were trying to defeat the wHO’S -wHO of the porn industry.  This King of Thieves was a god in his Kinky community and owned one of the largest Porn magazine’s of its time. He Hustled night and day to defend his empire against the seething zealots who wanted to tear down the walls of Jack shack across the road from the House of Lord.  The marketeer muscled in and kept his ample footing and coveted the holy land down the street which left a gaping gloryhole and no room for Jesus…..

Now my roommate and I had a night off from our airline employer and decided to have a night  out on the town which included too many Mai-Tai’s and a giggling stop at an all night, dimly lit, porn shop.  When we entered the place we were immediately met by flailing inflatable body parts with orafices that never closed. I was laughing so hard I had to steady myself from falling onto a sticky floor, and I grabbed  what I thought was a handle  next to the counter, which turned out to be a removable object that vibrated off the wall. I tossed it to my roommate like a hot potato and she disappeared into another room. I found her a few minutes later calling out to me from behind a crusty curtain laughing hysterically  and peering into what looked like a colossal view master.

So there we were, loaded on rum and curacao, and dropping change into a coin-slot to watch our first pornographic movie.  We spent close to three dollars in change to watch one minute of a young lady dressed in Hot Pants and a Daisy May tube Top doing laundry.  My roommate added another two dollars and at the very end of that segment the laundress was approached by two masked Mucha Lucha wrestlers carrying what looked like liquid Tide.  We were stuffed behind this curtain of shame and took turns to watch the elicit theater until I commented to my roommate on the amazing 3-D effect permeating from behind.  My roomie asked what I was referring to and I said that the “curtain has a moistness to it and smelled like a bad night with Sodom and Gomorrah”.  She removed her eyeballs from the lens master and broke into uproarious laughter when she  turned around and witnessed a man standing outside our curtain enjoying his own “live” peep show..starring  US.

The last thing I remember was sprinting out of the that place like a bat out of Hell and my roommate running through the door tango-ing with inflatable Barbie deflating around her neck and the store operator chasing us through the parking lot………all the way across the street where we ran to a safe house:

A Church. …………………………..We stuck Barbie in a Confessional and called it a night. It’s O.K. she was in the missionary position..

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 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…….

{September 10, 2010}   To Drop a Blog in One’s Ear

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 barking at 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 of 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, utter a nearly complete sentence at me to “shut off that sound, it’s hurting my 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…….


{August 24, 2010}   Blog Agility

If you are reading this blog AND you find it clever or funny please comment. I need the feedback or otherwise I am wasting my Megabytes.  Speaking of mega-bites, my puppy is still snapping even after two weeks of guaranteed training. I don’t blame the Trainer , I blame my family who are lacking in the follow-up program arena.

My scheduled training of two weeks ended recently and I feel a bit empty inside. Charly-dog and I got use to the trainers 10 a.m. visits and it is hard to let go now. This trainer came into our lives and spent hours with each and every member of my family and worked with all of us as a whole to get Charly on track. I am  starting to have a small tinge of anxiety that once he is out of our lives for good, things will resort to the way they were.  The trainer did drop an anecdote  while sipping his bottled water, that being ;if any “uprisings” occur he will be here on the spot, and this is guaranteed forever.

Hmm.…. I could always find some fault somewhere in my puppy that might need tending to; maybe stage a scene or two…….kind of like the little boy crying wolf, only it’s a middle aged menopausal woman needing someone to talk to other than her doggie…..

I find as I am getting older and less tolerant of my estrogen levels, that letting go is becoming harder and harder. I took my son to the airport to catch a flight from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. He has been bugging me to let him fly out to see his best friend  ever since we moved out to the East Coast. My children have traveled extensively since they were born, but never without me in tow. I have this phobia about my children on  planes without me, what if  they have snakes on board……or worse yet Samuel L Jackson pushing the beverage cart………”I’ve had it with these Mother F*ckin’ Pepsi’s on this Mother F*ckin’ plane…..”

My son is 16 and does not qualify for the “unaccompanied child Airline escort” anymore. Plus, there is a $100 hidden  fee for this “Program”. It must fall in line with the “Meal Program” and the “Luggage Program”.   Personally I think they should wave this amount for first time moms letting their youngster fly solo and traipsing through Major City airports spending all their allowance on nonsense that is flagged out in the open Kiosks. ( Oh , yes son, I love the $50 neck snuggie you purchased to keep you comfortable during your flight that you left on board and is now on its way to Hong Kong where it originated from).

My sons flight was delayed over an hour from his connecting flight. I have a party retrieving him at the baggage claim terminal and they phoned to inform me that his flight was going to be late.   I got nervous.   I phoned the Major Airline that starts with a “D” and has been around since the Nixon administration, to find out more information about his flight. The “D” Agent confirmed that it was delayed twice, out of Atlanta.

I spat out; “TWICE?”.

“Yes”,( he said with an accent that was identical to the driver in the second Indiana Jones Movie).

I interrupted his silence with a very loud “WHY TWICE?”.

He enlightened me with the explanation that the first delay was a security issue.


  “Was a maintenance problem”.

 I questioned him further on the maintenance problem and he laughed and told me:

Well the plane is in the air now”.

Oh thank God, that is so reassuring, I am so thrilled, oh, and I feel so relieved and unconcerned that that plane is in the air now! How about the landing??? Please tell me the maintenance problem was a toilet that wouldn’t stop flushing or the Captain’s coffee pot heater light keeps blinking, or the food cart has a rusty wheel…………

I popped open a Dos Equis and brought up my sons Itinerary and  started to track his flight on my Macbook like a Pro. I love technology, it’s almost like being in the control tower yourself, minus all the other distractions, like ten million OTHER flights trying to take off and land.   I went into the “D” Airline WEB site and typed his flight number and it showed a map of the U.S. with a little yellow airplane following a bright blue line to his destination. I felt a little more at ease and managed to breath a little easier…………..

Until this little yellow plane started a nose dive over Arizona….

The time left on his flight was an hour and a half and the meter was not moving, nor was the tiny yellow plane that I was watching for twenty minutes without blinking…

 That little mustard piper cub was not advancing on my screen and I was having the most horrible images run through my mind.  Images of a black smoke plume smoldering from seat 11B because I thought I  had confiscated all the fireworks my son wanted to share with his friend in California. Where they are illegal and maybe he sequestered a box of black Snake Glow worms that he stuck in his back pocket. I was a flight attendant once and have witnessed plight flights that brought me to my knees saying a few Hail Mary’s while pouring a few Bloody Mary’s..

I shut the laptop off  and logged back on to the “D” website to commence with stalking my sons flight. His fake plane kept stalling in the air until I clicked the refresh button so it would advance faster to LAX airport.  In a matter of seconds that little yellow cartoon 757 was now starting it’s descent  into Los Angeles with it’s nose in the air and landing in 22 minutes……..Funny if I keep clicking the Back Button that plane just might land on time.

My son loves being independent and Hates that his mother texted him thirteen times before he even left the ground. I can’t wait to tell him about the tracking device….I wonder if they have that for everything…like when he starts driving or is out with his friends at a movie, or maybe, just maybe…on a date.

Yes I love technology it helps a mom sleep at night…….and you thought Big Brother was watching……………hellooo Big Mother……..

{August 17, 2010}   No sense in Beating a dead Blog

I’m cocktail slumming right now. I actually opened a beer. I don’t like beer, but when you are amidst menopause and you are not taking replacements, your gunna need Sedation via Libation and I’m waiting for my Vino to chill.

I know there are beer connoisseurs out there who have a love of Hops and Yeast, but I really can’t unravel the taste.  Although, my underage- by- a- year- college daughter informed me that she loves beer. She waltzed into our home the other evening after her hard days work at the Pizzaria folding boxes and collecting change, and grabbed a beer out of the fridge and retreated to her bedroom. I Tango’d into her space with a pile of clean laundry to be put away and I noticed a half empty beer resting on her mahogany dresser sweating Malt & Barley on her July Cosmo. (I couldn’t escape the wet  ring embedded in Shakiras’s Belly…. Well I can’t think of a better coaster.)

I asked my daughter if her father happened to leave a beer in her room and she snapped back;”no, it’s mine, dad said I could have it”.

My eyes went into a trance like glaze and my head spun around like Regan from Blatty’s  Exorcist and I spewed; ” oh really” in pea soup.

 I walked down stairs and confronted my husband with my new discovery and he admitted to the crime.  Now I know kid’s in college drink and party and do much worse. And I know my daughter is responsible about this and I have warned her of the repercussions of getting behind a wheel if you have had alcohol. That being DEATH by me. I have lectured on the effects of a DUI stigma affecting the rest of her life. She is 20 and 1/2 and continually proclaims  to know her life and informs me that she is responsible and not stupid. So, I quickly ran  to the office and printed out a waiver for her to sign absolving me from any accidents she may incur while drinking a beer and putting away laundry.

I know my daughter is on the up-n-up with me. I know this because she is not at all like me, she is a clone of my husband. He likes beer and he is a responsible drinker. He, too, leaves his sweaty bottles lying about on tabletops without coasters.

I truly believe that whichever category of alcohol you prefer is genetically coded in your DNA.  My dad liked what they called in his day, “the hard stuff”, like Scotch and Bourbon. I acquired a taste for Scotch in my twenties when a local bartender decided to teach me about the different variances and degrees of Scotch. He lined up a few shot glasses and poured from a variety of fancy labels and had me taste each and every one of them. I started with the beginner blend of Cutty Sark and ended with a Glenfiddich. (I should have started the other way around and I would have appreciated the finer first.)  The rest of the evening was a blur and my friend drove me home and I spent the remainder of the night kneeling to the Porcelain God. There is no such thing as a scotch tasting….

I am not a prude when it comes to alcohol and my children ,but I am not a liberal in that arena either. I have alloted my children tiny tastes of Mommy’s aperitif  now and then and when we toted our children to Italy they witnessed first hand how the European’s handle their brewed er I mean brood.. When in Rome…

I did offer a Dogfish beer to Charly-dog, but he sniffed  the spout and turned his tushie to it and farted.., It appears I have a Breed of Beer snob. Maybe the same would have happened with my daughter if my husband  would have offered her the local brew instead of the Import….

{August 15, 2010}   One Blog Night…..

I have a friend who is in dire straits. This friend stands to lose everything she owns that she has worked hard to obtain. My friend is separating from her husband and losing her home at the same time. My friend has never been in this position before and is too proud to ask anyone for anything, she has been a big contributor to life and community and doesn’t deserve this fate. Someone needs to throw her a bone.  She doesn’t own a dog, but I think a dog would help her disposition and frame of mind during this time. I would offer her  my Charly-dog, but that might cause undue harm.

I don’t think anyone should lose anything except their mind once in a while. This person stands to lose her home. A home that she lived in for a long time and paid for with her blood,sweat, and many tears. She’s losing this domain because of a job loss. A job she held for many years with a company  that now thinks she is too old to be there anymore, only they don’t quite put it in those words. Downsizing do to economy.

I can’t speak for anyone else ( or can I?) but I am tired of that phrase flowing out of corporate HR’s like lava out of Kilauea’s Volcano.  My friend is in her late forties who looks ten years her junior and has kept herself fit and has the mind  and wit of a sassy pre-teen. Why wouldn’t a company want to keep someone like that on board  until death do them part? What can a corporate conglomerate’s hope to gain by hiring a newbie grad from  “Ivy League Du Jour” who belonged to Tap-a-New-a-Keg Frat house,and majored in “babes”?

  Oh, yeah, intro pay scale. Let’s get rid of the highly experienced high producers that made the company’s P&L  statement soar into the black abyss heading skyward on the line graph, and replace her with a Poly Sci major who’s bed time  ritual includes washing with Pro-active Skin care.

When will businesses wake up and realize that its the quality, integrity, and loyalty of the person they employ. This friend of mine runs circles around kids half her age all the while trying to explain to them the meaning of of the words work ethic. This woman has spent countless days training youngsters and explaining the mission statement of the company  based on credibility , reliability, and visions of the future. All this, of course, fell onto IPOD clad ears and thumb texting titans who parlayed their comments in anagrams.

 I had advised my girlfriend to do what I do with my teeage son when I need him to listen to me…..I download my instructions onto his ITunes and yell at him through Facebook. I have a Facebook account now. I actually had the account for months and didn’t know it. My daughter had set it up and posted photo’s of me on a wall without my consent. (Funny, I’ve had to sign consent forms for my children throughout their lives and now the role is reversed and their is no legal protection for Parents.)  I don’t know where my daughter found these photo’s of me, but they are the unedited versions. You know the ones with the distorted face or the close ups of the age spots and that lovely morning shot before you apply the Deep wrinkle cream. Facebook is a network that reaches into the vast unknown of society in an instant. I have picked up friends that I never knew existed and witnessed conversations that are for Mature Audiences Only. (That are written by the immature..).

I do admit though that I visit this site and I have conversed on it and I have posted my own photography.. I added Charly-dog.  I also contacted my friend in distress on this site and offered a ray of hope. I sent her a video of my dog’s first day with the professional dog trainer. The one where Charly is screaming his bobble head off while the trainer sits on him. The one where the yelps were at a decibel level that could break crystal. I also showed her my hand with the bite wound  from Charly that was bound up like a boxing mitt.

I  decided to take my Flip camera and give a tour of the potty stained carpet throughout the house and the furniture covered in pet hair and the scratch marks on the hardwood floors from the CLAWS of life. I added the one  video where I’m walking the puppy and he’s viciously  attempts to attack all passer-bys with me in tow.  I also sent her a subscription to my blog.

Funny..I heard form her and things had miraculously turned around for her. She sold her house, got a new hubby, and sent me a picture of her “new addition”.

 A  Dog………….  There is a light at the end of the choke collar…..

{August 13, 2010}   Blog-Leg-Left

Can someone out there help me to publish this as a book? I surely could use the money.  I have decided to incorporate my relationship with my dog,menopause, raising children, and my marriage into some light reading. Oh and float the influx of alcohol into the equation it could  add some  unintentional lightness of being.

Anytime you affix alcohol into the picture it ads excitement and adventure; oh,  and a  slight headache.  Earnest Hemingway use to drink a bottle of Scotch before he  started to write his novels. I just uncork the latest Pinot Grigio and free float. Alcohol adds containment to life’s little sidebars;  And also works as a quick astringent for dog bites.

Yes, my lovely Charly The  Chaniel grabbed my hand with his Chi-hua-hua canines and left a one inch blood gushing gash in my right palm. That pissed me off. That’s my drinking hand.

No, Charly was not fighting me for the Chardonnay , I was attempting to recover a tuft of tissue dangling from his mouth that he stole from the waste bucket in the powder room. I used the command on him to “drop” before I reached for the used Ultra Soft Kleenex, but Charly was stubborn and would not surrender his  rumpled white flag.

So, I, being the larger of the two species, bent down to tear that paper out from his teeth and that’s when he charged and latched onto my hand.

I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but when I came to there was a lot of blood and a rolled up torn Times next to me and my dog looked like an Andy Warhol painting.

My hand did not require any stitches but I was hurting for a dog trainer.  I called a family meeting, minus my always traveling husband, and announced to the children that I was getting rid of the dog. My twenty year old  daughter said “Good” and continued texting on her Iphone, and my  16 year old son grew silent and grabbed some ice and a band-aid.  (I now know which child will put me into the Deluxe Suite at the Retirement Center and which one will leave me duct taped to a wheel chair drooling in a parking lot).

 There was no need to call the paramedics for me or an  undertaker for the dog; the only phone call I managed to dial was a local Dog Trainer in my “hood”. I had his card for months, but due to economic hardships, doggie obedience and doggie schools and doggie camps and doggie play dates where not in my budget this year.

Plus, growing up with German Shepherds as kid, I never recall any dog training with a professional in our household or even in the neighborhood for that matter. Dog’s just seem to be dogs and they either obeyed or were met on the nose with whatever was handy. Albeit a stick, magazine, or my mothers new Rubbermaid spatula that she ordered through the catalogue  that ended up mysteriously missing from the Gadget drawer one day only to be returned with large bite marks on the handle.

“Rubbermaid, Touching millions of people everyday where they live, work, and play”. Even while sent to the Dog House…at least my mother’s bark was worse than her bite…

I finally gave in to the recession and dipped into my budget Piggy bank and hired a Dog whisperer of my very own. Only he doesn’t whisper. He met with Charly-dog and took that Chaniel by the horns and showed him whose boss. He was The Trainer.  He was Alonzo Harris in Training Day with a mix of Kathy Bates of Misery, throw in a hint of Darth Vader ,  and a wardrobe from Barbara Woodhouse.

 This Trainer got my dog under control and civilized in under an hour. My Trainer can take my dog anywhere and meet any one or any other dog and my Chaniel never complains. Not one little bark or whimper escapes his little doggie lips. If he had lips. The Trainer can make Charly-dog do anything he wants him to do and Charly obeys him, because if he doesn’t he will face the almighty choke collar cutting off his air supply.

When I try to emulate the Trainer and do as I am instructed Charly behaves like he should. Especially when the Trainer is present. I was impressed to say the least, that I actually had a dog that I could be proud of , and not fret every time I had to walk him and a car zoomed past and Charly would try to outrace the moving vehicle. I basked in the glory of strolling by folks in the neighborhood without Charly on High Alert Attack mode. I have to say that training day is the highlight of my life right now because my dog transforms into a T.V. dog that minds his manners….. For the camera anyway…

That’s right , when the Trainer is gone and I am solo again with my pup, mayhem breaks out and he regresses back to his original Hell Boy Look-a-like.  I can not afford to have this Trainer 24/7 unless I offer him room and board.

Hmmm…I’m thinking. My husband does travel a lot and I do have a guest room collecting dust more than visitors….

Well, it could make for some interesting blogging…………

{July 19, 2010}   Like a Blog’s Dinner

I can totally understand why dogs mate and not marry. Dogs like to run with their pack and scavenger around all night with their buddies rummaging for trouble and practicing their twilight bark in hopes it will fall upon some finer pedigrees silky ears. I can’t see a dog staying with another of its kind and claim that they are in Heavenly bliss after sniffing the same behind for twenty or thirty years. I watch my puppy outside on his daily walks and his nose is  constantly sniffing something in the air attracting his attention. An attention that spans a nano second.  I think if dogs got married their mates would have them on a short leash with a choke collar.

I have met many women with husbands that have a wandering eye or some other wandering part of their anatomy, and I have suggested they research the Pet Smarty  Store for control apparatus. Just think how much it would solve the cheating situations in our country and could put a damper on the high divorce rate. Instead of investing in high priced, I mean lawyers, you could shop online for a shock collar .There are various modes and models, for example;

There are bark collars which could suppress the nagging and whining.

There’s the Spray collar which could assist in training them to stop oogling the secretary or stop addressing the office help as Caro Mias.

AND not to mention the  wandering collar that features a venture control button in the hand piece to make sure they find their way back home.

There are ultrasonic collars which have a switch to submerge your captive under water……indefinitely.  (They have the Dogtra 200  Gold series which is water proof.)

There is a remote system that  could  be run from your home. Maybe directed at a Bar, or I’m running late at work excuse, and possibly help with being “stuck in traffic”.

 They have the Platinum collar with the LCD screen to provide easy viewing. So the next time they take a lengthy lunch break and can’t be reached, at least you’ll have the Name of the Hotel in plain view and on disk.

God I love technology.

Just think when he takes his office interest on an escapade to the Ramada  Inn you can adjust the Jump stimulator to a positive vibration and get a rise out of him.

Plus, there’s a negative selection as well…….Oh and the collar with the four prong  attribute….well need i go on?

 All these items are advertised to keep your dog in line. Can you imagine carrying this one step further and applying it to your mate?

I would invent a collar that instructs them to go “fetch” a menu from Chez Who-ever, and plan an unexpected dinner date along with purchasing a swanky sexy little black dress and a dozen roses.

I would attach the Extend -o– feature that ensures a fun night out…. lasting into the morning. There would be  menu options on this remote that would intervene when he starts to order a bottle of the cheap champagne. There would be shock values that would reach Hospital levels when they forget your Anniversary  or your birthday and bought a last minute gift at Target.

I would set this collar to the standards of our lovely Country and keep it at High Alert.  I would have the shock intervals set at every five minutes according to how often he chews with his mouth open, or asks you to put his wallet in your purse when you are out at a movie, or requests that you call his mother and/or send her a card while he’s busy traveling, even though he can’t take the time to send you a card.  Yeah, I would set that sucker on a “comatose” level……

Yeah, it’s a good thing dogs don’t mate for life; Charly would never find the time to buy them  dinner , he would chew his leg off first……Hmmmmmm…could I love a gimp? With a Rockefella bank account and a lot of Stoli’s, everyone looks good.

My puppy is regressing in behavior and lashing out. The interesting thing about this is that he is snarling at the family members and, oddly enough ,he is wagging his tail at strangers.

The mailman who never rings once at our home, but merely drops packages at the end of the street and has neighbors sign for our registered mail, came to our door and Charly-dog extended his paw in a greeting.  After the door closed he turned to me and raised his upper lip to bare a canine tip, and barked as he leapt towards my chest. I usually don’t show fear at rude and bad behavior (just ask my children), and back down from a confrontation, but I was baffled at my dog’s new(?) mannerism. My voice commands just filtered through dead air and my physical directives where met with nips and growls. I was so confused and angered at what to do that I did what any normal menopausal woman would do when faced with adversity and hormonal assent;   I mixed my self a mojito.

Albeit, not ever having a Mojito molded my anger a little off target. I first had to google a recipe and then check to see if I had all the ingredients. Oh, yeah…Rum and club soda and mint.

I gathered all the makings for the Mojito to purge my menopause outburst and set me on a smooth sailing river of doggie obedience.  Making this cocktail calls for one to use an Apothecary Mortar and Pestle to mash your Mint unconscious. I know this is hard to believe, but I don’t own a Mortar nor a pestle: I had to improvise and use substitution tools that were right at hand, or foot…… a dog dish and a calcified dog bone.  Not really, I would never bend over to a level of apparatus beneath mankind and besides I  think Charly-dog doesn’t like a hint of creme de minth in his Science bites.

I did manage to find a reputable instrument to make my mint match the Mojito  mint in a recipe from Wine Magazine. I smashed those leaves into oblivion and back again all the while envisioning my puppy in the bowl. I added the mint,the Ice, club soda, and a hint of a new secret ingredient that is not yet privy to the most decadent Bars in Manhattan. Menopausal puppy anger.

I am sure there are variances in degrees in the amount of kinetic energy dispersed per bartender while mincing their mint, but no one can compare to a 50 something woman amidst the change of life who has had her last stance with a gnarling dawg. I massacred that mint into green noise… Then I finished the mixture and stared at it in wonder-mint.

I watched as the tiny particles of leaves mingled with the bubbles from the soda and swirled about until they fell to the floor of the glass. They looked as though they were enjoying their own spotlight on dancing with the stars. I wondered if the Rum felt left out. Well it did, because I forgot to add it in.

 I thought by entertaining myself with the task of mixing this drink it could possibly distract me from my possessed puppy, but no, Charly was on a mission from dog hell and determined to destruct my Zen moment.  He was determined to win and I was determined not to let him. I cradled my Mojito and receded to the couch to coil up in fetal position turning to the T.V. to possibly capture a re-run of the Golden Girls.

 My dog would not let that happen, he followed me and jumped up on me to continue his one sided battle. Consequently at the same time, Cesar Milan happen to pop up on high-def wielding a wild doggie resembling my puppy. I watched intently while pushing my pup away from view, and I looked up at the screen and witnessed Mr. Whisperer himself taking a newspaper to a couples pup. He stated that “it was O.K. to use it like an extension of your hand”. Well, I just got Carte Blanche from the Dog whisperer to swat my dog with the NY Times. Hallelujah.

 I got up from the couch and left my Mojito melting on the coffee table to wallow in it’s mint. My puppy chose this opportune time to run after me and nip at my shirt and bark at my hands. My commands were fruitless towards him and his responses were negative. I had no other recourse but to resort to the newspaper technique I attested to onscreen.

To grab what ever source of reading media is handy is not a good idea when  disciplining a dog.  I nearly destroyed Princess Diana in her wedding dress while brandishing my January 1982  collectible edition of Life Magazine on my dog’s heinie.   My dog did not even blink a cows eye, probably due to the fascination of the young Ingenue  in her over blown dress and sparkly tiara.

I should have grabbed the  the ’73 Life  Special Report featuring Nixon and Bebe Rebozo boating in Biscayne Bay. Yeah, that might have calmed Charly’s Mojo. Although  his Mojo is no match for my Mojito….

et cetera
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