Cuckoo

I was talking to my friend on Sunday, and he was telling me about how he had gone out on Saturday night. His wife (with whom he's been fighting) had made him promise that he would be home no later than midnight but since he was out with his buddies, drinking beer and shooting pool, he didn't make it home on time.

By the time he left the poolhall it was almost 2:30 am, he was pretty drunk, and it took him a little while to get home. When he walked in his front door, he heard the cuckoo clock in the living room sound three times and he freaked out. He figured that the clock alone probably wouldn't wake his wife up, but with the door it might. So, he did the only thing he could think of to do spur-of-the-moment to keep himself out of trouble: he cuckooed another nine times. He's a pretty creative guy and was pretty proud of himself for his quick thinking and otherwise got to bed without incident.

Sunday morning he got up early to do laundry, and when his wife woke up she asked him what time he got in - he told her it was right around twelve. She just said okay and went on about her morning.

Later, however, he found a note asking him to get the clock fixed because she had woken up the night before and the clock had cuckooed three times, said "oh s&@t," cuckooed four more times, cleared it's throat, cuckooed twice more and started giggling, and then cuckooed another three times.

I'm starting to like his wife a lot more than I used to.

Headlines

My laugh for the morning came from the first headline I saw: "British Police Crack Missing Gnome Case."

I understand that law enforcement has their priorities, but I have this great picture in my mind of a row of policemen holding up the gnomes by the feet like fish they've caught, looking oh-so-proud of themselves. It'll keep me laughing the rest of the day.

(In case you're interested, it's here.)

Telecommunications

The phone system at work is out to get me. At home (and everywhere else on the planet) the button you push to store a voicemail is 9 (7 to erase). At work, just to keep me on my toes and give me incentive to listen the first time, 9 erases - irretrievably - everything that I thought was important enough to keep. Since 7 saves it all, my voicemail is full of the stuff that I don't need. Nice.

To add insult to injury, my phone has quit using proper grammar. Instead of displaying the message "You Have X New Messages, " it has taken to informing me "You is Message." As long as it doesn't tell me I is messy, I think I'm okay.

Muchas Smoochas (aka Shadow)

Last night I became someone who used to have a dog, and I'm pretty sad about that. I kind of knew that my golden retriever, Shadow (not my choice for the name), was on his last legs. He had quit eating regularly. It was hard to get him out from under the piano. He wasn't moving well. It turns out that he was pretty much full of cancer, bleeding on the inside, and just ready to go.

He was a pretty cool dog, though. For example, he loved to float down the Guadalupe River, he hated to be clean, and he would smile when he thought stuff was funny (he did have quite a sense of humor). I once made him mad by giving him a bath, so after I had toweled him off he (still soggy) didn't go to roll in the grass to dry as he normally did - no, he jumped directly between my sheets. He definitely knew how to get revenge.

Shadow wouldn't let anybody else in the house get hugs or kisses until he was tired of getting them first. If he could talk, I have no doubt that his personal mantra would have been "love me, love me!" He would howl at the neighbors as they walked into their own houses, had a peculiar dislike for people of Mexican persuasion, and had the somewhat distressing hobby of chasing skunks in the backyard. He was orignally a Christmas gift but, as it turned out, was exactly 50 years younger - to the day - than my father. That made it a little better the year that he ate the cake while we were at dinner.

He would take flying leaps into the swimming pool, lounge in the shade on the trampoline, and dig up things from the flowerbeds in order to plant tennis balls instead. He thought deer looked like fun.

He was my dog for almost 12 years, but as I said, I kind of knew this was coming. When I was home a few weeks ago, I really said goodbye to him when I left. He was a good dog, and I'm going to miss him terribly. Muchas Smoochas, buddy.

Diplomacy

Do you ever have days where you think the world has pretty much taken leave of its senses? Like this morning, when I opened the newspaper to find that a notable televangelist has openly and explicitly advocated assassinating the Venezuelan president. In some ways it terrifies me that this man has actually run for office himself. But then again, it gives me a tiny bit more confidence in the electoral college that he wasn't successful. (I know, I know: tell it to President Gore, right?)

What happened to that commandment, the "thou shalt not kill" one? I guess Christianity has changed since I was a kid.

Hey, You Asked

A friend came over the other day to bemoan the state of his current relationship. At the outset, he asked me whether I "could handle" talking about a new relationship of his - he was worried because we had (ill-advisedly) dated once. I let him know that I was okay with it - I pointed out that it's been almost a year, I was the one who ended it and neither of us was particularly happy together. He wasn't convinced. So I laid it all out, "Believe me, I'm over you."

He got so upset at the idea I was over him that he refused to talk to me at all. Such funny creatures, men.

Automotive Independence

Last Friday I was headed south to a doctor's appointment in a town that I used to live in. It's a hundred miles away, but I like the doctor. It was a nice day for a drive, and I was pretty thrilled at taking an afternoon off.

A little less than halfway there, I noticed that a little light on my dashboard shaped like a battery had come on. I had no idea what it meant! So I did what any girl in my position would - I started calling guys.

My father is MIA somewhere in Colorado, Keith's phone sends me straight to voicemail, Daniel isn't picking up, and Patrick...well, things aren't bad enough to deal with Patrick at the moment. I was about to start indiscriminately going down the list of guys I know when, finally, I get a hold of Keith who promptly diagnoses the problem: my alternator no longer loves me.

I ask the pertinent questions: "Will I make it to where you will change it for me" and "Will you pick me up if I don't?" Keith was sweet enough to go and buy the parts and get them put in for me. It cost me a case of beer and a few hours hanging out to help drink it - not a bad trade. In fact, I highly recommend this sort of roadside assistance.

My father always worries that I can't take care of myself where automobiles are concerned. Whenever he gets back, he'll be impressed that I handled this on my own. Then again, he knows Keith. He may know that I cheated.

Before I'm Thirty

Everyone says that I absolutely must make myself one of those "30 things to do before I'm 30" list. The sad thing is, I'm stuck at six. My list so far:

1) See the Grand Canyon.

2) Read something (anything) by George Elliot.

3) Play a Chopin nocturne (in order to make good on a promise I made to my mother when I was six - she hasn't forgotten).

4) Buy a really great evening dress, red with slinky straps. Even if I never wear it anywhere, I want to have something that will make me look smashing at a moment's notice.

5) Learn to ballroom dance.

6) Sail from the Florida Keys to Cuba and back.

After these six, I ran out of steam. I am working on them, though - that should keep me busy for awhile.

Not Quite the Six-Pack...

Foul-Weather Friends

I feel blessed, really blessed, to have some people in my life. The other night a friend of mine looked me straight in the eyes and told me that he was my "foul-weather friend." Anybody can stick with you through the good times, but I've discovered it is nearly impossible not to love someone who promises to be there for the bad.

How lucky can a girl get?

Puppy

Though hardly qualified to do so, I blessed my first baby last month. I asked that he live a good life surrounded not only by people he loves, but people who love him back. I asked for a lot more unreasonable things too: that he never be lied to, that he never be hurt, that he never get any bigger than he is at this precise moment. Right now he's just a perfect, tiny person who will, unfortunately, one day grow into his paws - just like a puppy.

So this is what the fuss is about. He's gorgeous, and he looks just like his dad.

Outside Inside

I complain to others that I'm bored with my life. It is a game of waiting for some who-knows-what to come around who-knows-when. I realize that this is a side effect, like nausea or a headache, of vicariously living my friends lives. I, however, have always been the "fixer." I am the person to go to when something goes wrong.

It is my one true talent - taking someone at that near-implosion state of panic and calming them down. I barter skills and favors of my friends to make the ends all somehow tie together. I have no idea how I do this, but it works. And luckily I have never, knock on wood, truly needed my own services.

As a result of all this fixing, I tend to hear more of what's going on than I ought to. I know who's been wronged, I know who's misbehaving, and I know who's tangling up the lives of everyone around them. It's kind of nice, though, to be able to see the world through so many eyes. They don't try to approach objectivity; I get the full bias. It helps to counter the bordom and sometimes, every once in awhile, makes me grateful that my own life is a little less interesting.