Charlywalker's Blog












Dear Faithful Bloggers,

Due to the fact that I am inept at setting archives to my Blog site, I am going to burden you with some of my earlier work. I started this Blog after adopting a mongrel and wrote about my frustrations  with  Puppy-dom. Add Menopause, Motherhood, atypical Mayhem, and a touch of Merlot, I showered this blog with fact bearing sheer nonsense, in which I hope you will comment and: spread the humor….’Sincerely, CW.

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 offering 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.



{September 4, 2011}   Mean as a Junk-Yard-Blog

One day I went to the Giant Conglomerate Corner the Market Pet Store to return a Doggie item. Two days prior I entered the store in search of a Pet Gate to ward off  my puppy displaying the evil eye to Christmas Trees methodically placed throughout the house. I walked into this  huge warehouse filled with dog merchandise in hope of getting assistance with a purchase. Three times I approached a logo appareled employee and three times I was shunned and told:  “someone will be ri-i-ight with you in aisle 300″.

I waited ten minutes until a woman wearing a famous brand of puppy chow T-shirt  saw me stranded and asked if I needed help. I explained my need and she seemed enthralled with my being a new puppy owner. She completely bypassed the fact that I needed a gate and started her pitch about; “what kind of food am I feeding my newbie?”.  Then she preceded to load me up with coupons from her company and stated that she didn’t work for the store, BUT, she did know where the gates were located and handed me a blue print of the store.

I asked another Pet Smartie personnel for assistance and was again told to: “wait, and someone will be ri-i-i-ght with me”.

At that point I gave up. I tried to find my way back to the entrance of the store and got lost, thank God for the trail of doggie treat coupons  I dropped along the way that were blowing out the door….

On my return trip I was greeted again by the Science Chow Lady balancing a tray of cookies. I was starving after being shuffled around the store and grabbed the big one with the white frosting and sprinkles shaped in a Paw print.   She could see that I had a long face probably due to the many people dogging my needs.I’m sure It had nothing to do with my gagging on the cookie that was specially baked for Dogs.(they looked so realistic…)

I must have looked lame and overwhelmed standing in the center…..alone…..with no dog to guide me.  I do not do well in giant stores. They are too big and cold. Not just the attitude but the temperature as well. I felt so alone and on my own. I felt as though I will have to make the decisions by myself on what items to get my puppy. I do not have  enough experience to do that. I am codependent when it comes to my puppy. I need guidance and expertise and be lead by the nose for my purchases. I need constant attentive care from an expert because I am clueless in Doggie conscientiousness. I like someone to get to know me and my pet on a first paw basis. I don’t like standing out (?) in the cold  warehouse knee deep in doggie-stuff.

This Science Smart Lady had expertise. She asked if I found the right gate.  (she must have recognized me from the cookie crumbs on my blouse). I told her “no”.   I had given up on the scandalous gate expedition and ventured out to the doggie-treat aisle hidden behind a life size cut-out of the Dog Whisperer holding his latest Edition.

I did ask her about doggie chews. I desperately needed a tougher chew for my  pups budding canines that seem to be navigating away from squishy toys and headed  directly for coffee table legs.  She kindly walked me over to the Raw Hide section that held 100 different varieties of chews.  The titles on the packages brought back memories of childhood TV shows. One packet of Rollem’ might Get along with my  little doggie…..

The chow woman pointed out a package of rawhide rings. Bacon flavored. She told me that these are the best chews for dogs and that other raw hides are not good for pups because pieces break off and they choke.  I asked about the Heimlich disclosure on the back  of the package.   She just smiled and stared at me like a broken traffic light. One gentleman overheard our conversation and verified her statement. He said “His new puppy just ado-o-ores these rings”.

Oh, well, then , how could I possibly go wrong.  It had the Pet Smart Public seal of approval.  I asked the Chow Specialist what these rawhide rings are made of?  She grinned: “Bull Testicles”.

Bull testicles.    My 7th month old puppy is going to snack on bull testes. Well, here’s waving a red flag in my face. Right. Ole! El Torro!  Areeeba!   Let’s feed our little darlings a catastrophic castration to sink their teeth into. Let’s recycle those balls of glory to do some good  in this recession.  I wonder if the Bull gets a cut in this New Raw(hide) Deal.  BULLY!

Just put it on my CHARGE..

spread the humor.




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……..



{June 5, 2011}   Blog Agility (earlier post)

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 something happens to that plane; what if there is an outbreak  on board of food poisoning from stale pretzel’s; what if there’s an emergency landing in a Delta swamp; what if  they have snakes on board……or worse yet , Samuel L Jackson  is pushing the beverage cart………”I’ve had it with these Mother F*ckin’ Pepsi’s on this Mother F*ckin’ plane…..coffee? Tea?….”

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.

(Oh great,  glow snakes in a Plane Pocket..)

AND THE SECOND DELAY? 

  “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, just 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……anything’s possible.

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……..




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…….



et cetera
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