Woof

In Your Wildest Dreams

2014-11-14T15:50:00.001-08:00

I woke up this morning exhausted. You know the feeling. You’re relieved to discover that you’re really in your bed, and all the drama surrounding you a moment ago is vaporizing. In my case, being on unemployment for several months (reality), I felt really good to be working (dream). I reported to the hospital floor, got report on my patients, and then made my way to the medication cart to begin getting their pills ready. And it went downhill from there. There were no medicine cups to put the pills in, only a few crumpled coffee-filter sort of paper things crammed in the corner of one of the drawers. It turned out that some of the pills were missing, and then some of my patients! I had really tried to get a head start to make sure everybody got good care, but instead, I found myself alone in a long, shiny-floored corridor with blue walls.

At that moment a dog snout shoved my arm. I opened my eyes. No corridor, no medication cart, just my warm dog who wanted to go outside (reality). And who maybe had sensed my frustration. Gratefully I hauled myself out of bed and let him out.

I shouldn’t complain, but why stop now? That dream wasn’t as bad as some of the others. I’m sure you’ve had those dreams where your foot doesn’t reach the brake pedal of your car and you can’t stop!

Or the running dream. A few nights ago I found myself on a medieval farm, like a TV movie. I decided to hide because I knew I’d stand out with my 21^st century jeans and hair. I also realized that anybody I encountered was probably going to speak a different language, Middle English if I were lucky. There were some barns nearby, so I ran toward one of them. I could hear my sneakers plibbing loudly on the hard ground. I smelled the muskiness of cattle or horses. I kept running and running, then feeling the splintery wood along the outside of the barn before slipping inside to figure out my next move. The dog woke me up out of that dream, too.

What about basement and tunnel dreams? Have you ever had those? I don’t even want to talk about those.

But there’s another kind of dream, the floating kind. I’m usually in a room with other people, and we can all levitate ourselves to the ceiling. It’s always pretty easy, just a matter of concentrating and feeling the release as our bodies float up. Upon awakening one morning after a particularly realistic floating dream, I KNEW I could really do it. I’ve watched Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson enough to know about alternate universes. I KNEW it could be done if I could just find the spot in my brain to focus the energy. I’ve never told this to another living soul until now, but I tried to float: I went into the living room and stood there. And concentrated. I directed my mind’s eye inward and … I … concentrated …

Nothing happened.

I must have done something wrong because I KNEW I could rise up. It just didn’t happen, though, and I felt betrayed by the cosmos. Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted. The businesses of the day crowded in, smothering the magical moment, but the secret belief remained that I could float up if I really tried.

That was a while ago. Since then I went on to attempt a few things that I’d wanted to do for years, remembering that saying about what we would do if we knew we could not fail. The first time I’d heard that, I was shocked to realize that I’d been living my life wordlessly expecting my projects to go limp. In the past several months, imagining the hands of the clock turning ominously faster, I began mustering the nerve to leap forward. And succeeding! I’m not failing! Good things are happening because I’m making them happen!

It’s very scary to take risks, even when they feel right. But you can expect your dreams to become real when you concentrate your energy on your goal and lunge for it.

Maybe I’ll see you on the ceiling!

PEOPLE IN PIQUA, OHIO: CHOOSE TO BE SAFER

2014-11-02T17:02:00.000-08:00

Even though she knew she was dying, my mother’s last year was one of her happiest. She lived in a small apartment on Downing Street with tall windows. She slept a lot that last year. Many times I came to visit and found her snoring peacefully across her bed in the living room, bathed in sunlight. One of the things that added significantly to her sense of security was the knowledge that the police and fire stations were just a few blocks away. Although she always phoned me for medical emergencies, I often redirected her to call the 911 guys because their response time was quicker than mine would have been. They were stronger than me, too. When she became so weak that she slid down onto the the floor, they treated her with respect when they helped her back up, often joking with her and flattering her as if she were their mother. When her oxygen condenser shut off late one night during a power outage, she called me in a wheezing panic, too frightened to remember how to hook up her portable oxygen tank. I called 911 for her, and within a very few minutes she was back to normal. More than once a police officer willingly went to do a safety check on her at my request when I was unable to drop by.

Although she had friends, caregivers, and family, there was no one on this earth who could have done for her what they did that last year of her life, and I will be grateful till the end of mine.

Unfortunately, budget cuts now threaten the ability of these members of public safety services to provide this kind of personalized attention. State funding reductions have left police officer and firefighter positions unfilled and equipment replacement delayed. Although a few years ago the city received a non-renewable SAFER grant – Staffing for Adequate Fire and Emergency Response – it is due to expire early next year, and Piqua will likely lose six of its firefighters. Statistics show that communities with a decrease in crew size experience an increase in loss of life and property. Few people are aware that Piqua has the highest rate of forcible rape in the nation for a city our size, according to City Manager Gary Huff, and ranks abnormally low in police staffing. Having more police officers patrolling the streets would mean higher visibility and greater availability to protect citizens against crime. Adequate staffing also improves a department’s ability to conduct timely investigations and lessens the demand for overtime. Strong police presence improves the local economy because people feel safer going out.

Tuesday is Election Day. Piqua citizens will have the opportunity to vote FOR the Police and Fire Public Safety Levy, improving emergency services to the community. The levy asks for a 0.25% increase: one fourth of one percent, equal to twenty-five cents out of every hundred dollars, to be collected only from citizens earning at least $30,000 annually; social security, pensions, military pay, and public assistance will remain unaffected. Voting for the Public Safety Levy means that for less than the cost of a Netflix or Hulu subscription, you can count on getting life-saving help when you really need it the most.

And make your mother happy, too.

To learn more, check out City Manager Gary Huff’s blog at http://piquaohcm.wordpress.com/2014/09/05/police-and-fire-public-safety-levy/

P.S. To The Next To The Last Morning Of Vacation

2012-10-02T05:52:00.000-07:00

So I went ahead and published the dawn blog, thinking that nothing else of note would come to pass until later in the day. But you know, there are times when it's DELIGHTFUL to be WRONG, and I was WRONG!

Yayyy!

My little brother Garrett Wolfe in California posted this on Facebook:

http://io9.com/5947852/this-is-a-hexaflexagon-its-about-to-blow-your-mind

Please watch, enjoy, and hexaflexagate!

The Next To The Last Morning Of Vacation

2012-10-02T05:15:00.002-07:00

Cool and rainy nights are good for sleeping, especially with the warm dog. If the cat wouldn't drool and suckle, he could join us, but the drooling and suckling really bother me, reminding me of a past bad relationship I want to forget, especially at night in bed.

Although Dobro has lived here over a year, his company in the bed is much more recent. As you can see in the picture, his large scars are dry. The last open area finally closed over in August, exactly one year after his nearly fatal experience being hit and dragged on the highway. No bones were broken but large areas of hide were gashed, ripped, sheared, loosened, mangled, and otherwise damaged. I'll be forever grateful to the officer of the Centerville Police Department who stood by him at the bottom of the embankment while I drove to the site; he then helped carry Dobro up the embankment and led me to the emergency veterinary clinic. The Troy Animal Hospital calls Dobro their "Miracle Dog" because he survived shock, infection, and a long recovery requiring treatments similar to those received by victims of serious burns. He suffered through repeated vet visits so his many wounds could be cleaned and repaired. For months I gave him multiple medications taken by mouth and also applied to his skin. He had to stay on a special high protein diet to aid in the massive regrowth of new tissue and to replace the protein continuously seeping from several areas over his body. In a nutshell, that was why Dobro didn't sleep in the bed until just recently. He seems very appreciative, and usually pauses and looks at me as if asking permission before jumping aboard.

There was no creamer of any kind in the house this morning, no soy milk, no almond milk, no hemp milk, no flaxseed milk, no canned milk, no powdered milk, no ice cream, so I had to get creative with the morning coffee. I ended up putting the coffee in the blender with a huge dollop of Greek yogurt, adding a huge dollop of locally-produced honey and the last of the old cinnamon that had been my mother's. I blended it instead of whipping it so it wouldn't be too foamy. It was okay, and I mean that not in a dull, disappointed tone of voice, "it was okay," but in a perky, pleased tone of voice, "IT WAS OKAY!"

Sipping the coffee creation in the pre-dawn darkness with the faithful hound curled up against my flank, I found a new blog online: http://redwineandgarlic.blogspot.com/. In spite of all the cruelties revealed daily in the media, my faith in the goodness of humanity remains uncrushed because of the growing number of softer voices, sharing their observations, their poems, their images, their gentle souls. Alongside his blog, Black Pete offers the following quote, reflecting so much that is wrong in our society but fixable:

"Harmony with land is like harmony with a friend; you cannot cherish his right hand and chop off his left." -- ecologist and writer Aldo Leopold

He also blogged a surprisingly lovely poem describing damp laundry hanging on the clothes line:

The Hanging of Clothes

I am pleased to be hanging

the damp clothing in the welcoming morning,

laundry remnants of closeted life,

our privacy laid bare in the sunlight.

The sheets, clouds of white floating

downward onto my naked body

but an hour ago, zephyrs like benedictions

before I dared the day,

now shielding the flag-coloured shirts

and sturdy pants, the ribbony socks,

and the underthings--

just clothing, no more than shadows

of the bodies they cover,

no more than suggestions of the reality

of our being.

For reason of this last, I do not linger

over my wife's underthings, hanging them

as casually as my own, though her body

revealed is beauty as terrifying

as the Biblical army with banners,

stopping my breath.

No more than shadows of our bodies,

yet there are old country people

who will not hang men's and women's underthings

on the same line, perhaps because they are shadows

of that which stops my breath

and pounds my heart. Maybe they are right.

But the ordinariness of this damp clothing

arrayed, pinned, spinning gently in the breeze,

is no shadow, but itself a glory

as the moisture rises like released spirit

into the sunlit air, in which I marvel

at the extraordinariness of the pairing

of us two many years before,

on just such a morning.

The morning darkness outside is giving hints that the sun is on the way and I already feel that the day is good.

NO MORE

2012-10-01T10:20:00.002-07:00

**Bye, Baby**

No more lonely, cold nights or hearing that I'm bad.

No more growling belly from the meals I never had.

No more scorching sunshine with a water bowl that's dry.

No more complaining neighbors about the noise when I cry.

No more hearing "shut up," "get down," or "get out of here"!

No more feeling disliked, only peace is in the air.

Euthanasia is a blessing, though some still can't see

Why I was ever born if I weren't meant to be.

My last day of living was the best I ever had.

Someone held me very close, I could see she was very sad.

I kissed the lady's face, and she hugged me as she cried.

I wagged my tail to thank her, then I closed my eyes and died.

Written by an animal shelter volunteer in Massena, NY

This poem was posted from Shannon Marie's ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN Facebook album of pound dogs that have been put down.

Please educate yourself before deciding to adopt an animal just because you think he or she looks cute; different breeds have different needs.

Please spay/neuter your pets so the pounds won't fill up with discarded dogs and cats.

Please check out NO KILL alternatives in your state: http://www.nokilladvocacycenter.org/

Day Six, Part Two: Elvis Warms Up The Chill

2012-09-29T02:55:00.004-07:00

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Tom's nursing home held a summer party today that welcomed family members and friends, featuring bingo and hot food and Elvis and a home-made pie auction to benefit the Alzheimer's Association. It was kind of chilly and Tom didn't feel good at the time, but we knew we'd enjoy the memory of the afternoon afterwards. We have an agreement to make ourselves do that kind of thing a lot, to make ourselves attend events even when we really just want to stay warm and comfy in bed. Arthritis and fatigue and disability and getting older are a bear, but ya got to

consider the alternative.

I myself was never a huge Elvis fan, but I'm becoming a huge Elvis tribute artist fan. They are invariably sexy and charming, and Jason Griffith was no exception!

His sound technician was a young woman who knew every word to every song and sang softly along. Twice during the show she donned a large decorative bib-like cloth over her front to nurse her beautiful new baby while the adoring audience rocked with Elvis. It seemed natural and normal.

During the intermission, the maintenance guy for the nursing home, who is also a professional auctioneer, auctioned off a table load of home-made pies donated by employees and other people. It was my first time hearing a real auction. I wonder how old that traditional singsong style of calling is! I went ahead and got one since I would be buying one from the grocery store eventually anyway. Eating pumpkin pie has become a really sad ritual since Mom died, so I although always buy one but so far never fully enjoy it. This way I at least supported a good cause, the Alzheimer's Association, as well as a living person, culinary artist Michelle Stollman, who made the most beautiful leaf design crust I've ever seen! It was tasty, too, the right balance of flakiness with crustiness. If Tom had felt better, I'd have stuck my finger in the pie and let him suck down a few bites of the succulent pumpkin, but he was just too sleepy. Look how beautiful the pie looks on Tom's lap on his woolen powwow blanket:

Look in the background of this Elvis action shot and see the blonde woman in the print scrub top. That is the pie artist Michelle Stollman talking to Auctioneer Tim!

Two hunka hunka burnin' loves in one photo! Life is good!

Day Six: AAAACCKKKKKK, VACATION'S SLIPPING AWAY!

2012-09-27T12:24:00.002-07:00

It's cold and raining, and it's Thursday. I was confused this morning because even though I've kept very close track on the day of the week, it still seemed too far along, like, "THURSDAY ALREADY??" Dobro didn't care, though, he was just happy to be in the bed on fleece blankets.

I took McCartney the cat to the vet for an old man check-up and shots, and brought Dobro along for the ride. Learn from my mistake: old cardboard pet carriers on damp days get warped and soft and will not hold an unwilling cat! The wire rabbit carrier held him, though. He was pissed, but observing Dobro's joy in the van, he got used to the idea.

There was a big pretty girl at the office but I could only take a long-distance shot out of respect for McCartney.

Did you know that cats can be farters just as some dogs are? "Tooters" was the word I believe the vet used. Except for tooting and tooth tartar, McCartney is totally tip-top! I apologize for the alliteration.

Dobro was so good waiting. He really likes going there because he knows that he's among friends.

Once back home, McCartney was happy to take off, while Dobro and I decided to take a nap. Gotta love vacation.

THE MONSTERS: GUEST BLOG BY TERRY ALLEN

2012-09-27T06:30:00.003-07:00

Terry Allen's Facebook is filled with photos of Tennessee landscapes, sunsets, butterflies, and literally hundreds of images of his beloved dogs. And, yes, a couple of cats, too. When someone speaks with love, the words carry more weight.

Please read and think.

It's Saturday night. Most of my life it's been the best of times. I have always lived for Saturday nights!

Now I am a little older, twice the legal drinking age. Not into the party scene, rarely drink at all. Still love me some Saturdays.

I love dogs, I know I am Captain Obvious! I hate this Saturday night. My timeline is covered up with the most dedicated and loyal servants to mankind...rottweilers, pit bulls and german shepherds. This Saturday is going to be memorable for me. It will go down as the Saturday night that I realized just how disappointing my species really is. We cannot possibly ask these breeds to give up any more of themselves than they already have. We can't expect anymore from them. Yet we label 'em and toss 'em away like trash and they serve and serve and serve us. All for a pat on the head and a bowl of disgusting slop. The best deal humankind has ever gotten but we just SHIT all over em! I Try not to cuss on here but its late and I'm sick of it! Dogs that nobody wants, dogs that somebody wants but the govt facilities won't allow em to have! Its always lose/lose and kill some more. Screw that, we are the monsters! There's no way in hell they'd throw us away like we do them by the millions!

Go take a long hard look in the mirror and then decide who the monsters are.

The death toll, the discrimination, the abuse, the nonchalant attitude of "oh, well, it's just a stupid animal" has to stop. You're killing them in the name of apathy. You're killing me and those like minded with disappointment.

To all my furry friends, I hope you have many more Saturday nights. To the gone, I remember you tonight and I'm sorry you gave so much and got so little in return. Just know, we are quick to do it to each other, you're not alone.

https://www.facebook.com/terry.allen.3572

https://www.facebook.com/terry.allen.3572

WHO'S WATCHING YOUR PET'S VET?

2012-09-26T15:48:00.002-07:00

Who’s Watching Your Pet’s Vet?

GUEST BLOGGER BETH SHEEHAN

Ohio Companion Animal Lovers, the next time you check in your pet, check out your veterinarian's clinic. Ask your vet when the last time anyone from the state ever checked his clinic's protocols, record keeping, equipment, medications, or hygiene. Apparently the majority of veterinary clinics are never checked. The state agency, the Ohio Veterinary Medical Licensing Board, charged with overseeing veterinarians' clinics, has no full time inspector on its payroll. In Ohio, the Board of Health does not handle animal hospitals.

Moreover, according to a law passed in 1992, the OVMLB has to give the veterinary hospital five days written notice that it will be inspected. The inspections should be random and unannounced to get a true picture of the operations and conditions of the veterinary hospital.

In a vet hospital sick animals are brought in all day long, every day. Who is checking on the spread of zoonotic diseases between the patients and their owners? What is stemming the animal illnesses from being carried out of the premises, into the families’ homes, and into the community?

In contrast to the Vet Board, the Board of Health regularly inspects all types of premises. In Ohio's Hamilton County every gas station is inspected by the BOH once a year; every restaurant two to four times a year; each school and every beauty parlor, twice a year; all tattoo parlors, three times a year. Every nursing home gets a team of several people who come once a year, unannounced and stay for about five full days on the premises. Who checks on the record keeping, the protocols, the equipment, and the hygiene of your veterinary clinic? Apparently no one ever regularly checks the veterinary hospitals. The OVMLB only went to 12 vet hospitals last year. In sharp contrast to that number there are 6,200 licensed vets and vet techs in Ohio.

Governor Kasich and the Ohio Veterinary Medical Licensing Board should institute regular, unannounced, random inspections of veterinary clinics, checking on hygiene, protocols, equipment, medicines, and record keeping. These are reasonable requests. These procedures regularly occur in other Ohio state agencies, such as the Pharmaceutical and Dental Boards, and other states' Veterinary Licensing Boards, such as California. Ohio animals, as patients, Ohio pet owners, as consumers, and Ohio veterinarians, as professionals, deserve to have the assurance of high standard of care. It is the mission statement of the Vet Board to assure public trust. It is the right thing to do.

Follow me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/goldenre and join the conversation to work for improved Ohio, veterinary oversight.

Beth Sheehan

Tony Was Put To Death

2012-09-25T18:57:00.000-07:00

This is Tony from New York. Was. Someone found him and turned him in as a stray. His nails had not been trimmed for some time, but his ears were certainly cut. Why his muzzle was so sore is unknown, but knowing how tender our own faces are, you can imagine that the injuries were very uncomfortable. He did well in his temperament testing, wagging his tail, allowing food to be taken away without showing aggression, energetic and responsive.

He almost got out of the pound, with several hundred dollars collected for his care, over a thousand shares on Facebook, and many people acting on his behalf, but the system grinds on. It killed Tony.
Does this face look like a beast with no feelings, unaware of its surroundings and its future?

You can help stop this. Please support NO KILL efforts in your state, and spay and neuter your pets so they won't make generations of unwanted babies that end up like Tony.

DAY TWO: COLD AIR, WARM HEARTS, HOT COFFEE

2012-09-24T18:31:00.000-07:00

Dobro woke me up with joy, as usual, in the pre-dawn darkness. I was glad in a way because I wanted to check Suedey, my little rabbit, to make sure he survived the night. There's been a raisin turd stuck to his fur near one back leg that I'm using as a measure of the extent of his illness because he's as vain as a teenage boy in his grooming, normally keeping his fleece perfect. Lately he's been looking pretty moth-eaten. The vet checked him out thoroughly a few days ago, unable to find anything wrong with him. He seemed to be improving until yesterday when he pretty much shut down. Now he's barely eating, just hunched inside the cardboard box in his cage in the dark. He seems to like it when I stroke his nose and the base of his ears, but it alarms me how tufty his fur feels.

Tom and I were planning to go to a Country Fair at a historical farm today but it was just too chilly, so instead I brought Dobro to the nursing home and we hung out there for a few hours.

Before I talk about that, let me talk about HISTORICAL. A HISTORICAL FARM. NOT AN HISTORICAL FARM. I asked Daddy, an English teacher for thirty years, about the peculiar silent "h" in American English, how so many people are using "an" before words starting with "h." Daddy was a ready source of grammar wisdom for me and I feel bound to carry on his legacy. His thing was that the article "an" is to be used before spoken vowels, and therefore before silent "h." Therefore, if you say "honest" without the aspiration of "h" as it should be pronounced, then you would refer to "an honest person." Therefore, you would say "a hysterectomy" if you normally pronounced that "h." Therefore, you can say, "A hicky, a horse-sized hicky on the neck, is a happenin' thing for a hipster, but a hidden hicky is even better." A historical event for a hippie, to be sure.

Back to Tom. I draped him in the wool blanket that he got at the powwow a few weeks ago. It was a raffle prize, but the lady who won it presented it to him. Beyond the profuse thanks given to her at the occasion, I have no way to thank her but to pay it forward, to pass on the good. It is an incredible blanket, very warm and so vivid it makes your eyes vibrate.

Tom has always loved the Beatles, and recently we talked about adopting Paul's and his deceased wife Linda's vegan lifestyle, at the very least, a cruelty-free lifestyle. It takes steps to make the change since we are surrounded by a culture that takes so much for granted, but Tom was very clear in making strong single blinks to indicate, "YES!" A few days ago I found a local farm in our county where the couple has their own bees, chickens, turkeys, vegetables, fruits, flowers, and other products from local sources including maple syrup. I bought several items and used the beeswax cream to give Tom a foot massage.

I brought Tom some routine supplies, but also some other goodies. Since his big Abbey Road Beatles backpack had been chewed literally to bits by a frantic Tree Walking Coonhound that we were transporting, I got him a new one, bigger and better, and today was the first time he got to see it. It met with his approval, as I knew by his wide eyes and big affirmative blink, so I'll stock it with some necessities and hang it from the back of his wheelchair. I also brought along a couple of small raw wood birdhouses given to me for him by a friend so we can work on painting them together, again eliciting a long blink. What else? Some delicious colognes, some new socks, stuff like that.

At the recent Heritage Festival from a Native American vendor we had each got a small skin pouch to be used as a medicine bag or spirit bag for "good medicine," containing personal items as well as herbs and crystals, that hang around the neck for strength and healing. At the powwow Tom was given some very special items as blessings. I brought some things from home for his bag, including his deceased father's crucifix, his old guitar pick, his black leather Camaro keyring, and some other things for him to examine. He was very glad to see them but I think so many mementos made him exhausted, too, so we'll finish the bag later. The main bag will stay at home in his room for safety, but I have an extra bag, fringed black with blue beads, that we decided to use as a secondary bag to put on his bulletin board in his room at the nursing home.

After our dog's adventure at the flea market, I thought Dobro's visit to the nursing home wouldn't make him nervous, but there were WHITE MEN IN BLUE JEANS that left him trembling even though they were very kind to him. He's getting more and more accustomed to being around people but being approached by a person who strongly resembled his abuser was hard for him.

The happier news is that he's totally used to wearing bandanas. He wore one today bought at a recent dog rescue fundraiser, showing doggie skeletons and the words, "BAD TO THE BONE."

I have to say that I hadn't had any coffee Saturday, so by Sunday I was ready for some. I treated myself to a big steaming cup of Tim Horton's vanilla cappuccino. The bright blue sky and crisp autumn air made it taste soooooo delicious. I feel bad for Tom that the brain injury damaged his olfactory nerves, forever impairing his sense of smell, so food and drink are not only difficult to swallow for him, but they no longer taste as they did. Many years ago, before he was removed from home and institutionalized, he used to use the deaf hand sign for "S," a fist with the thumb in between the index and middle fingers, as the sign for "shit." One time I fixed him a sweet potato with lots of butter, something he had loved before his hiking accident, but he made a terrible face with the first bites. I asked him how it tasted, and he made the sign for "shit."I laughed at his expressiveness but it was a bit sad at the same time. It was no insult to my cooking, but a disappointment representing another loss in his life.

We spent a few hours outside together and then parted ways, each looking forward to our respective beds since we don't share one now except on special occasions. I was happy to spend time with him, especially since we are both marking the death anniversaries of our mothers this month. The bleakness of our parents' absence is ever present. It's weird how absence can be a presence, a kind of silence at the periphery that doesn't go away. Since the weather is warming up again this week, I'll try to plan a visit to their cemeteries for us. Daddy was cremated, so I can't be in his physical presence again, although I do carry a tiny gift from him in the medicine bag around my neck.

When I got home and checked on Suedey the bunny, I was elated to discover that the raisin turd stuck to his leg was GONE! He ate some of his alfalfa pellets, the raw celery bits, and then half an apple. He came out of hiding a few times, leaving the cardboard box to be petted.

Tomorrow the new week begins.

FIRST COMES THE CRASH

2012-09-22T18:16:00.000-07:00

Today is the first day of vacation. Technically it doesn't start till Monday, but it feels as though I'm out the door TODAY, Saturday. I had a shitload of ambitious plans, but sleep crowded them all out. Usually Dobro, my dog, gets me up around 5:30 in the morning, but today I went back to sleep and he stayed curled up next to me till the early afternoon. Faithful boy.

A phenomenon exists in which the organism pumps out an incredible amount of adrenalin to survive a prolonged extreme situation -- being stranded on a raft in the ocean, for example, or living in a home where one cannot escape regular abuse -- but when the situation ends and the adrenalin stops flowing, the rescued organism crashes in exhaustion, sometimes even dying. It's not coincidence, but simple pathophysiology, if that is not an oxymoron. I guess I should have pencilled that into my calendar, some Post-Adrenalin Crash time. Although I had envisioned springing up out of bed and launching into activity, that just didn't happen today. I did surf the web with return dips into Facebook, and ended up volunteering to drive three hours to a shar-pei sanctuary near Cleveland next week where I'll be meeting some dogs that were rescued from a puppy mill.

The Animal House & Ohio Pet Placement has the following contact information:
2555 North Ridge Road, East, Lorain, Ohio 44055
440.277.7400
contact@ohiopetplacement.org
http://www.ohiopetplacement.org

Photos of a few of the rescued babies are below. Most of them are afraid of people and have medical issues such as skin inflammation and visual and/or hearing impairments in spite of their young age. They're now being cared for with love and patience, feeling grass in the open air for the first time, learning how to play, discovering that human touch brings comfort instead of pain.

Pepperoni

Chicken

Onion

Ham

Olive

I fell back asleep dreaming of these girls and boys and hoping I can adopt one of them so Dobro will have somebody to play with and I'll have a new baby to ... I don't know the right verb to use ... indulge ... nurture ... mother ... well, play with.

Waking up later, hungry, it was with great pleasure that I remembered going to a country store a couple of days ago and buying many locally produced delights including honey, maple syrup, and turkey eggs from Mr. Adams' farm. They were huge eggs, speckled, with hard shells and tough membranes, but tasted pretty good this morning scrambled in chemical-free Earth Balance fake butter that really tastes like butter. A filling breakfast, and not eaten at the cost of causing animals to suffer.

Speaking of suffering, I'm worried about Suedey, my little mini Rex rabbit, so named for his suede-like fleece. I took him to the vet a few days ago to get checked out because his usually voracious appetite has been flagging, and his usually impeccable grooming has become sloppy. Of course, at the vet's he was perky and fine. It never fails. The doctor did say that lots of people's rabbits are shedding now, and don't always feel too great during the process. She recommended I give him papaya tablets for the benefit of its digestive enzyme in case he has a hairball from all the fur. He was back to himself yesterday, but today he's not eaten much of anything and he's as bedraggled as if he'd been partying all night. I'm keeping a close eye on him because rabbits, being prey animals, hide their sickness and can die fast when they really do get sick. I'm kind of scared. I was going to take him to the Bunfest in Columbus at the end of next month, a celebration of house rabbits and featuring lots of exhibits, giving him/us a chance to meet lots of other bunnies and their humans.

A rabbit's foot is supposed to be for good luck, so I'm posting a photo of Suedey's foot for his own good luck.

I'm getting sleepy. Worrying about Suedey as well as having the SyFy Channel on all day and listening to giant drooling, squealing bugs battling humans has been exhausting. Dobro and I wish you a gentle goodnight.

Nurse Randi Speaks: Morphing Misery Into Material

2012-09-17T03:57:00.000-07:00

A Cheap Way To Replace Depression

This article from www.Lifescript.com makes an interesting suggestion that takes the usual advice a step further. As a nurse as well as a person with depression, I've done a lot of research for my patients as well as for myself and found that common advice includes seeking out things that produce smiles and laughter -- funny people, funny tv shows, funny websites, funny books. Great advice, but pretty passive. In this article, Gina Roberts-Grey urges the sufferer to retell details of depressing experiences with a different perspective. At first that may seem awkward, but the truth is that doing so teaches a person to see everything in a new light. Misery morphs into MATERIAL! The lonely downward vortex reverses itself into an upward spin as the budding comedian searches for commonly-experienced situations and feelings to share with others. Very clever idea! People have died from depression gone out of control, but nobody ever died from comedy, which can only get better.

The Benefits of Laughter Therapy

By Gina Roberts-Grey, Special to Lifescript

Published September 16, 2012

Depression is no laughing matter, but some experts say that comedy – along with antidepressants or therapy – can lift your spirits. Find out how...
Laughter may the best medicine when you need a little pick-me-up. But can telling jokes be a fix for depression?

“Learning to tell jokes is one way to rediscover your sense of humor,” says Katie Valentino, a licensed clinical social worker in Bloomingdale, Ill.

Although laughing about depression may seem inappropriate, therapists say that sharing intimate – and often embarrassing – details of your depression with wit and wisecracks can be cathartic. In fact, for some people with depression, making others or yourself laugh really is good medicine.

“Humor is a healthy defense mechanism that allows a person with depression to master an unpleasant situation so she can gain control and begin to recover,” says Joseph Hullett, M.D., a San Juan Capistrano, Calif., psychiatrist.

Research agrees.

Humor "significantly" improved satisfaction with life and cheerfulness in older people experiencing depressive symptoms, according to a small 2010 German study of 90 depressed participants.

The Benefits of Laughter Telling jokes – even when they’re at your expense – and laughing in general, can be comforting and constructive.

Here are 6 reasons why humor can be such a healing force:
1. Humor humanizes and demystifies depression. “It's an unlikely form of group therapy that fosters hope and optimism in people with depression,” says psychiatrist Michael Banov, M.D., medical director of Northwest Behavioral Medicine and Research Center in Atlanta.

Humor can lift misconceptions while conveying the message that depression is a common condition that, with proper treatment, can have a successful long-term outcome.
2. Humor can literally lighten moods. “It benefits both emotional and physical health by boosting blood flow to the brain and increasing dopamine and endorphins, brain chemicals involved in depression and other mood disorders,” Dr. Banov says.

3. Humor relieves stress.

“Laughing releases brain chemicals that counter production of the stress hormone cortisol,” Dr. Banov explains.

Managing stress helps people with depression control symptoms and reduce anxiety.

4. Humor can develop better coping skills.
“Revisiting the negative experience, seeing the humorous side and then humanizing it in a funny way for others can help you cope with your depression,” Dr. Hullett says.

When something doesn’t go according to plan, instead of slipping into a depressive state, think about how to turn the situation into a joke you can tell later.

5. Humor lessen the stigma of depression. It can reduce the shame people often feel about depression, says Canadian therapist and comedian David Granirer, founder of Stand Up for Mental Health, a program that teaches people with mental illnesses to perform stand-up comedy in Vancouver, Canada.

“When someone tells a humorous version of one of the worst points of their life, and that story or joke is met with laughter and raves, they feel differently about themselves," he says. "They think, ‘Maybe I’m not such a bad person.' ”Comedy creates a “unique cosmic shift” for people with depression because the things they’re ashamed of – such as a hospitalization – become fodder for new material.

“These are things they wouldn’t normally want to talk about, but are a source of strength,” he says. “I tell people you can't change the past, but you can get the last laugh.”

6. Humor can boost self-esteem. Granirer started Stand Up for Mental Health to help people with depression “carve out a chance to succeed at something most people without mental illness would never dream of trying.”

Tackling the fear of baring your soul, but also appearing funny in the process, can give people with depression a “performance edge,” he says.

Stepping on stage during classes, then taking it one step further to perform in nightclubs or around their dinner table can be empowering and therapeutic.“Getting the laugh is simply the icing on the cake,” Granirer says.

Getting started Ready to reap the benefits of laughter? These tips will increase the odds that your comedic foray is successful.

Ease into the role. Start slowly by tossing in a funny quip or two once in a while when talking to close friends and family.

“The safest way to incorporate humor is gradually, especially if it’s not typically part of your personality,” says Katie Valentino, a licensed clinical social worker in Bloomingdale, Ill.

But don’t use humor to share the news of your disorder, Valentino advises.

“A person with depression needs to have family and friends understand the importance of the diagnosis,” says Valentino.

Consider your audience. To determine the best joke for a situation, think about the audience: Co-workers? Family members? New friends?

People you’ve just met probably aren’t ideal for sharing your most personal details with, Valentino says.

“Gauge the intimacy of the relationship to see [what’s appropriate],” she suggests.

Avoid putting yourself down. Depressed people often lack of a strong sense of self, and intentionally belittling yourself worsens that lack of self-esteem.

There’s a fine line between self-deprecation and self-abuse. You’ll need a therapist’s help to find and set boundaries, Valentino says.

Say “sorry” when needed. Don’t beat yourself up if a joke unintentionally offends someone. In that case, apologize.

Valentino suggests saying, “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just trying to figure this whole thing out.”

When humor falls short But laughing at – or about depression – isn’t right for everyone.

Although many experts say most people with depression or any mental illness respond well to humor, some might feel a blow to self-confidence – even self-loathing – if they don’t get a laugh or, worse, are heckled.

Granirer offers 3 tips to combat potential negative reactions:

Don’t take flops personally. Humor is subjective, and people find different things funny. Even the most famous comedians bomb occasionally.
Avoid repeating mistakes. Start a humor journal to record jokes that work and don’t.
Talk it out. Share your experiences with your therapist and don’t brood over negative reactions.

If you're struggling with depression, these resources can help:
Lifescript's Depression Health Center
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
Phone: 1-888-333-AFSP (1-888-333-2377)
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance
Phone: 1-800-826-3632
The International Foundation for Research and Education on Depression
Phone: 443-782-0739
National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) Phone: 1-866-615-6464 (toll-free) Could You Be Depressed?Depression affects 20 million people in any given year and is a serious enough disorder to compromise one's ability to function normally day to day. Find out if you're just blue or if you might be clinically depressed.

2012-09-05T14:28:00.003-07:00

A repost from Rosaria Williams that will make you feel good:

http://sixtyfivewhatnow.blogspot.com/2012/08/our-fantasy-lives.html

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Our fantasy lives.

(picture from a landscaping blog I no longer remember. If you recognize it, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due!

We live our days on two tracks, the work and clean track, and the dream and wish track. It's not as though they are opposite. They are intertwined, and the amount of focus we are consciously aware of in any one field depends on the moment.

I do most of my wishing and dreaming when I'm gardening or when I'm doing routine tasks, such as driving, cleaning house, doing laundry. In the garden, for instance, I may start with weeding a small area and then, needing another tool, I stand up and go fetch that tool. Before I get there, something catches my eye, and I'm off to something else entirely. I'm still gardening, but I'm blending in with the entire universe as well.

The effect of this meandering on my soul is most salutary. All the bending, the pulling, the carrying and positioning, the raking, the digging, the pruning, the harvesting, all succeed in numbing my thoughts, stilling my fears, positioning me in the place and the moment of the task, body and soul.

And yet, I travel millions of miles with each little twitch. Every time I use the hoe I see my father bent over this implement for hours, tending the vineyard. Every time I gather fruit and vegetable Mother is right beside me, reminding me of something or other. Wait another day for this one is still a bit small. Take these in and make a big tart, the way we used to make it when Grandma visited. You are lucky with a big refrigerator and lots of freezing space, you could bake a few extras and taste these delights in the middle of winter.

As I work, I take great delight in how something is bending, blooming, fighting to remain in its position. When I realize how tired I've become, I stop reluctantly.

We worry about children not staying on task. We demand their attention for hours and hours, and put all our emphasis on routine tasks, rather than creative pursuits. We test them on specific items, as though life is a big recipe we must memorize, rather than a big labyrinth to discover.

I wonder if we allow them enough time to meander and imagine, mix and match tasks, reminisce, create scenes and dialogue about their wishes, their fears, their consternation.

We must rethink the benefits of staying on task. Perhaps the explosion of ADD (attention deficit disorder) among our population is nature's way to correct all that tasking we have been submitted to.

CHEAP THRILL

2012-09-03T20:42:00.002-07:00

Sex can be fun, but it can get you in trouble, in more ways than one! And it's not always fun. Sometimes it's bitterly disappointing. It's unpredictable.

I learned of a way to experience intense sensual pleasure and to kindle emotional satisfaction at the same time. And legally, too, without much risk of disease or divorce. Masturbation, you're thinking to yourself? No! Well, yes, but that's not what I want to tell you about.

In late summer, you go to the store and buy yourself a kiddie pool on sale. When the next hot, humid day invades, you pull out that pool next to a plastic chair, sit down, and turn on the hose full blast, running the water over your feet. You will be delighted by the water massaging your toes, your soles, your ankles, your calves. Not hot, but just right, relaxing you almost instantly. The music of the pouring water fills the air as a cool mist enshrouds you, and you begin to feel your tension being washed clean away.

The next thing that happens will be unexpected. You'll start seeing flickers of the past in your mind's eye, your own fat little belly, shiny wet as you stood in such a pool as a toddler, other little kids around you, their curling hair dripping, their pink mouths open. You'll hear laughing and splashing in your mind's ear. Perhaps not present in the memory, one or more caring and watchful adults were undoubtedly nearby to keep you safe while the summer sun sparkled on the water. Nearby birds twittered and fluttered in the many puddles created during exuberant moments of extreme tsunamis.

As you watch the pulsing water distort your flesh, you feel that the muscles of your feet have softened and relaxed. Your burning ankles were swollen a few minutes ago but now they look different. They definitely feel different, glowing with a sweet kind of ache.

You can savor this alone or with anyone you choose, including the dog. Shared joy is multiplied joy, but solo joy is delicious joy, too.

A few final comments:

This can be used as foreplay.

This can be used as a sleeping aid just before going to bed.

This can possibly kill you because a lightning bolt can strike from a storm miles away. But you'll feel so refreshed,

you won't even mind.

A Moment 100,000 Years Old

2012-08-29T16:28:00.000-07:00

Two souls

A fresh soul, seeing movement and color for the first time

An old soul, slowing down from the friction of time and the grime of the road

Two souls

A fresh soul, feeling that love can be sweet without milk

An old soul, pausing to rest and discovering a tiny breeze of spring

Two souls

A fresh soul, empty of language and intention

An old soul, eroded into furrows from decades of talk

Two souls

Breathing each other's breath

Sharing their primal moment that reaches back to the Aboriginal Dream Time

IF THINGS MATCH

2012-08-25T09:52:00.000-07:00

I grew up in the 1950s being taught that things should match.

In those days, girls were instructed that pink clashed with red and that plaids mismatched with florals, so dressing with such combinations was considered a sign of lack of education. "Only poor people dress like that." Therefore, not only did our clothing match, but our furniture matched, our bath towels matched, and our bed sheets matched.

Even by age six I was well-indoctrinated. I got my first pair of glasses, making the world magnificently clear and beautiful. Daddy had let me choose my frames all by myself, too. I was happy! I excitedly ran to show Mommy my new glasses, cat's eye frames with narrow black and white stripes on the outer corners, chosen because they would MATCH with my black and white saddle shoes that I wore to school every day. I was proud and asked Mommy if she liked them. "Frankly, no," she said. "But they match!" I cried out. She wasn't interested. I was hurt and confused. I thought I'd done the right thing. Oh, well.

The 1950s drifted away and the psychedelic '60s exploded our culture, inciting us to "do our own thing." Challenging the establishment didn't just mean challenging the government, but also our common social practices. The tsunami died down but the waves of change continued.

My husband and I were in our early middle age when we married, so we didn't register for wedding gifts. Part of the ritual of a proper marriage included buying or being given new dishes, cookware, and utensils that all matched, but we were just happy to be together and grateful for what people gave us. We didn't need formal matching things because our lives were controlled by the need for the house to be wheelchair-accessible as well as pet-friendly. Pet-friendly and pet-proof are the same thing, right?

We are older now, and money is less plentiful. We still have pets, but different ones. Our parents are dead. This morning I was enjoying washing dishes with the morning sunshine pouring through the window. As the water poured over the utensils, I noticed that none of them matched.

I remembered that as a young single woman back in the '70s, I'd spent hours looking at wedding magazines, studying china patterns and silverware. Daring young thing that I was, I preferred stainless steel flatware instead of traditional silver because I just didn't want to spend time cleaning it when that time could be spent on more fun activities. The magazines showed dramatic patterns available from Finnish, Japanese, Israeli designers, designers from all over the world. However, life eventually crowded out the dream, as it has its way of doing. This morning I looked at what I had.

The faux ivory fork on the left was my mother's. She loved white, perhaps a soothing balm for the chaos of the schizophrenia that tormented her. When she died, my brother's family came from out-of-state for her funeral. They helped me disassemble everything in her apartment. I took some of her flatware even though I didn't really want it at the time. Nowadays when I look at the fork, I can hear her voice as she would hand me a plate heaped with Kentucky Fried Chicken and cole slaw on so many summer afternoon visits during the last years of her life.

The blue plastic fish spoon is left over from a carry-in at one of the monthly Gem & Mineral Society meetings where local rockhounds gather to show each other such treasures as fluorescent minerals, rough gemstones, fossils, arrowheads, and their own handmade jewelry. I've shared many happy evenings with these dusty people whose vacations consist of hiking around in quarries carrying buckets and wearing hardhats, gloves, and smiles.

The steak knife in the center is a childhood relic from the last century. I look at the grayed metal and can smell Texas beef, Au Gratin potatoes, iceberg lettuce salad with homemade dressing (mayonnaise mixed with ketchup), and Betty Crocker chocolate cake warm from the oven. The whole family was together then, for better or for worse.

The black plastic spoon is Tom's. He can't eat much by mouth since he fell almost two hundred feet in a Colorado park in the Rockies. He has a stomach tube into which liquid nutrition like Slimfast or Ensure is poured. I saved the spoon for him for those special occasions when he can work on a few half-bites of buttered sweet potato or pureed vegetable soup or maybe softened banana. Metal spoons bother his teeth and tend to get cold quickly, so the plastic is perfect. He's always loved the color black, even before it was a mark of being cool, even back when people used to say to him, "But Tom, black is so morbid!" After all the times I've spoon-fed him, it was great fun for both of us one day when I supported his hand so he could spoon-feed me a cup of yogurt.

The last utensil is both the newest and the oldest. I seemed to be low on forks somehow, so when my friend Betty and I went to the flea market last year, I kept my eyes and mind open. At a large table under a big tree, an old black man guarded items he'd collected from a major estate sale, including a velvet-lined wooden box containing a mixture of silver-plated flatware. Although tarnished, the forks were heavy and solid with intricate antique designs. I bought three. Ironic that there is actually silver in my silverware drawer now, and they have come to shine as if they'd been polished.

Although they don't match, all the utensils are relics, each one triggering a memory of another place and time, as well as the reality into which someone's dreams evolved or dissolved.

They match with life, and that's what counts. They are beautiful.

OUR CORPSES

2012-08-23T21:21:00.001-07:00

For some reason I've been feeling super happy lately, full of love for the people around me, appreciative of the glorious beauty of summer, really thankful to be alive. All that is great, but the

underside of it is being really thankful not to be dead.

Watching crime tv the other night, I began to wonder what I would look like dead. Correction: what I WILL look like dead. Gotta love technology ... I whipped out the smartphone and after a few practice poses, took a photo of myself with my eyes partially open, my jaw slack and still. My jaw is not often still. I made what hospital and extended care facility nurses refer to as "the Q sign," the classic face of death in which the swollen tongue protrudes sideways out of the open mouth. Too bad I couldn't get a

summer fly to land on my cheek.

Emailing the photo to myself from the phone to the laptop, I made two versions using iPhoto, the Mac photo editing application. One picture came out sort of old-timey, obviously and unflatteringly depicting a dead woman.

The other one shows the enhanced color of post-mortem

decay and mottling. Vividity and lividity.

At first I found that the usual human fascination with the face of death was compounded by the fact that it was my own face, but then it started grossing me out.

It took a few days to get used to the idea of being dead.

Then came the question of whether or not to share the pictures. Would you have shared them? Why or why not?

One thing I will say is that comparing the photos to one taken a few months ago made me thrilled to see how PRETTY I am because I'm ALIVE! If you're having a bad day, take a mock photo of your corpse and your outlook will change!

Scarf Ace: First Day Back on the Scarf Team

2011-02-03T07:29:00.000-08:00

Scarf Ace: First Day Back on the Scarf Team

Our Cold Pearl

2011-02-02T00:55:00.000-08:00

Imagine the solar system as an oyster in the black ocean of the universe. And imagine our earth as a pearl inside the oyster, slowly being coated in a hard, shiny nacreous material. Imagine that! That's what's going on outside.
Only instead of opalescence, it's ice.

The Boomer generation was used to a certain stability of climate, but it seems that the generations following will be incorporating climate change into their culture. These increasingly violent fluctuations that are so disruptive to older generations are going to be the norm for the younger generations. As a Boomer, I'm reminded of Bob Dylan's disturbing song,"The Times, They Are A'Changin'."

Where I live in Ohio, there is a Level 3 Emergency in force, meaning that only necessary vehicles are allowed on the roads, and anyone else can be ticketed. I guess that means police cruisers, ambulances, and pizza delivery kids. Over 70,000 people in our area are reportedly without power due to heavy ice glazing tree branches and power lines, causing them to fracture and break. Predictions of power outages lasting several days have been issued.

So how would you spend your life with no power for a week? Have you ever given this any thought? No heat, no hot water, no landline, no tv, no radio without batteries. Your chargers can no longer charge. Your fish tanks stop filtering. Your microwave doesn't zap. Your power tools don't run. Your desktop is dead. Your oxygen concentrator goes silent. Your refrigerator stops humming, although you could put perishables outside since ice is covering everything.

Your life will never seem the same to you after this is over.

Will I Be Mummified This Year?

2011-01-30T10:36:00.000-08:00

This is kind of personal, but I hope to hear from people willing to share their thoughts.

Perimenopause is the time when a woman's body begins to wind down the production of female hormones. Those of you that haven't had the pleasure, imagine weeks and months of PMS! Night sweats, insomnia, itchy skin, vaginal dryness, tearfulness, and volcanic rages at nothing and everything. My doctor prescribed hormone replacement therapy to ease the transition.

Once the transition was over, I tried to go off the hormones, natural plant bioequivalents, but each time the symptoms returned. I decided to stay on the hormones because every woman I'd known who used them kept a kind of dewy glow. I wanted to keep mine.

The only problem is that studies indicate that continued use of the hormones predisposes one to certain cancers and other medical problems. With all the different cancers in my family plus my own personal risks, I'm scared anyway. So, when I ended up being without the pills for a whole week due to lack of funds to pay for the refill and icy weather preventing transportation to pick up the refill, I asked my doctor about staying off.

It's been almost two weeks now without the pills. No strange conditions have arisen that weren't already there. Definitely not the dreaded rages. Will my back hump over? Will my hair grow scraggly? Will my neck wrinkle into crepe paper? Will my voice turn squawky? Will my vagina dry like autumn leaves?

I'm going to stay the course and see what happens. See if there are other ways to keep a dewy glow.

End Of January Thoughts

2011-01-30T08:53:00.000-08:00

In most American states, January is regarded as a "bad" month because of the post-holiday season let-down and the mid-winter cold. Days are short, the light is bleak, we find ourselves encased in ice. Because our lives are likewise short, I'm really, really, really trying to reroute my thinking to appreciate every reality. Such as January. While puttering in the kitchen recently, I glanced at the window and ended up taking pictures of my struggling houseplants leaning toward the whiteness outside.

Because I just discovered a delightful blog here called "Julie Tries ... " in which Julie wrote about "Lavender in Winter," posting a couple of photos of her lavender plants that not only have survived but have bloomed, I'm going to copy her and present you with those photos I took a few weeks ago of my little plants. To ease your winter blues, I also invite you to visit her blog.

Below is the same photo, tweaked a little bit to make the scene more gentle.

If only we could tweak winter.

In case you didn't notice, the green leaves are beyond the screen while the pink plants are inside. My mother gave me a silk ficus that I keep outside the window.

And below is a magnification of a bit of the same picture. To go English-class on you, allow me to point out that the screen symbolizes our sense of being trapped by the cold of winter, and the green leaf tips symbolize our yearning to grow and thrive, to seek light wherever we can find it.

The final photo is a different shot altogether, but the hot pink against the snow will make you feel happy and warm and springtimy! Hence, not only is today's post meant to be the end-of-January thoughts, today being the 30th, but it also resolves to be the End of January-thoughts.

A STRANGE CUP OF COFFEE

2011-01-23T11:20:00.000-08:00

So it's 15 degrees outside, icy sunshine, 3 inches of snow on the ground. I'm inside the warm house in my nightie, enjoying being off work. Time for a cup of morning coffee.

While the coffee heats (I guess coffee doesn't perk any more, does it?), I snap together the components of the candle-making machine, setting up my work station in the kitchen. Sipping the steaming drink, I websurf candle supply companies, researching soy wax prices, deciding which scents to buy first, planning which new scents I can create. One company's site -- www.house-of-soy.com -- offers candles with aromas such as chocolate cinnamon, chocolate Italian spice, chocolate marshmallow, and chocolate pumpkin, in addition to popular chocolate scents. Intriguing to me was chocolate suede, described as having a "hint of soft sandalwood." It takes a true chef/perfumer/artist to create such exciting new blends, and I can't wait to join their ranks once I know what I'm doing.

Swallowing a mouthful of my stimulating brew, I become aware of voices emerging from the tv. LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT is on. The plot examines the murder of a man killed by multiple stab wounds with a large knife that was also used to cut off his genitals. As it turns out, he was a military officer in what used to be Yugoslavia. He not only was involved in the machine-gunning of men and boys of all ages, but also in selecting girls for his own use, serially raping them for weeks before tiring of them and shooting them. When he was too drunk to keep an erection, he used a wrench or broomstick or pistol. The female detective, Mariska Hargitay, finds it difficult to invoke the law against the young woman charged with his murder. The issue, of course, is law versus personal ethics. The detective has dinner with her mother, who was herself the victim of a rape that resulted in pregnancy. The baby born of that pregnancy was her daughter, the detective. I asked myself, and now ask you, the same question they discussed about the butchering of the rapist, "Would you have done it if you could have?"

Some will unequivocally say, "YES!" Some will thoughtfully say, "No."

Some, like me, are not sure. If there were rational and fair justice for all, if one could feel secure in relying upon justice being done, then one might back off from personal vengeance. On the other hand, in a society where the amount of justice depends on many factors such as race, gender, residence, citizenship, economic status, social connections, etc., then one faces defining "justice" before making a decision. Is there truly a need for retribution beyond satisfying one's emotions? What are the criteria? Animals live without justice or retribution. Whatever happens, happens. If one believes in a god, should that god be the one who handles the situation, or should the decisions be left to humans to fill the roles of judge, jury, and jailer? If to humans, then which ones?

So, my coffee cup is empty. It began with thoughts of chocolate candles and ended it with thoughts of cutting off a rapist's genitals.

And so starts this day, the continuation of our lives.

Spring Leaves With The Winter This Year ...

2011-01-22T10:52:00.000-08:00

What does that title mean, you wonder. Well. It means that I just realized a few days ago that I need to stop wishing for spring so fervently because I will turn 60 in May. The three inches of snow and ice outside, the single-digit crystallized air, I need to cherish those because I'm still in my 50s right now.

Numbers are human creations and they shouldn't matter, but 60. Jeez. Oh, well.

THE CHOCOLATE ADVENTURE

2011-01-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

I need more income to survive, but the thing is that I don't want to work any more than I already am. At least not for anybody else. Does this sounds familiar to you? So, what better motivation to research the perfect part-time job? I want something I can do at home when I choose. Also something fun that doesn't electrocute my brain or drain my blood. Remember that John Mellencamp song, "I need a lover that won't drive me crazy!"? Like that. It also has to be something realistic in the present economy. Nobody has any money.

Kids always want to know why they have to study certain things in school, demanding to know what's the use of it. Here is the use of it: studying history tells us what people want regardless of poverty or riches, war or peace, youth or age. Studying Facebook fine-tunes the answer. The final filter is what I am able and willing to deliver. The answer was partially described by the Roman poet Juvenal as PANEM ET CIRCENSES -- "bread and circuses." Food and fun. In a word, comfort.

To spare you further Venutian circumlocution (a John Gray reference to female verbosity), I will simply announce that I'm going to make chocolate-scented candles. They smell like a delicious comfort food, look pretty, make good gifts, enhance romance, satisfy the primal attraction to fire, and therefore fulfill the PANEM ET CIRCENSES criteria. And they don't cost much and they're environmentally friendly.

I'm using this blog to track my progress. Part of it is for you: if any of you can benefit from my mistakes and successes, I'll be happy. Part of it is for myself: by publishing my commitment to you, I'll boot myself in the ass. If anyone has suggestions, please share them!

One of Anthony Robbins' books urges you to work daily on your goal, even if only in tiny little steps. At the end of the day you can see yourself closer to your goal than you were when you first woke up.

As of this moment, early Saturday afternoon, I've researched the cost and availability of supplies. I dug out an old Walmart candle-making kit, still unopened, from my arts-and-crafts room. The box is open, the directions reviewed, the permanent work station established. Without training, I made some candles a few years ago for fun, but now I know better how to make good quality candles worthy of being in your homes.

I plan to use soy wax made from local soy beans. Available scents I plan to test include milk chocolate, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate fudge, mint chocolate, mocha, and more. A couple of members of my family have graciously offered to work as my scent testers.

This is going to be so fun! It's fun already! I will keep you posted.