Back...and writing

I've made two promises to myself this year: one, I will finally lose some baby weight I've carried around for twelve years, and two, I will prepare one of my three, potential books for publication. I have eleven months to complete these goals. Both, I believe, are obtainable.

So, why am I blogging? This is where I will sand off the rust. I don't expect anyone to read this, and it won't connect to weight loss or my other writing endeavors. It will be a form of exercise for the mind and the fingers. Maybe it will help with the first goal of weight loss. I'll have to start slamming on the keyboard for that to happen, I fear. I have a lot of work to do...

The First Date

My "baby" went out on a first date tonight, with a clean-cut kid sporting the latest hair style and too much Hollister cologne. When he came through the door, he smiled at me. Then he said, "It's nice to meet you," and he held out his hand. I wanted to squeeze it and warn, "Take care of my baby...or else," but instead I politely shook it and offered, "It's nice to meet you, too." At least the kid knows his manners.

A Sound Marketing Choice?

If you're walking in a parade and your business is pet cremation, should you use living dogs to help you advertise? Just wondering.

P.S. Look closely at the SUV.

Mosquitos and Knives

It's summertime in the land of 10,000 (x 1,000,000) mosquitoes! It's hard to escape the swatting and bleeding. It bums me out. In fact, I've started seeing blood everywhere. Call me Lady MacBeth. Find that hard to believe?

Today, I was visited by a young person selling knives, door to door, hoping to make a little money for college. The sales pitch was just about flawless, but I couldn't get over two minor details. On one of the seller's thumbs was a large, white bandage. On the same hand, I swear I saw dried blood. When it came time to pitch the large, serrated knife, the seller looked up and said, "The knives are very sharp; I tried to cut through a watermelon and nearly sliced off my thumb!" I just nodded in acknowledgment.

(2 Months Ago) The View from the Kitchen Window

I had suds on my hands, but I managed to look up and out the window. This is what I saw:

Addendum to Quiet Desperation

This is why people don't discuss their "quiet desperation"... people may confuse that with simple desperation. So as not to confuse the two, let me assure I only suffer quiet desperation. Most of the time, I enjoy my own Concord, without having to visit Walden. (The metaphor is tiring; thanks, Mr. Thoreau.)

My Concord? The backyard on a summer evening, complete with a bonfire and a whole neighborhood of kids running around playing night games. It's just too much gleeful squealing for quiet desperation.

Quiet Desperation

Was Thoreau right? Do we all lead lives of quiet desperation and die with a song still in us? Funny thought, especially from a guy who "went out into the woods" a few blocks away from home and the family pencil business. He knew what he was talking about.

Sarcasm aside, he might have been right. The trouble with the song inside is most of us don't realize it. We're busy. We don't stop to ask why we're busy. We simply accept, "We're busy living!"

In the play, A Delicate Balance, one of couples runs to their friends' house claiming they're scared. They don't know why they're scared. They just are. It seemed like an odd line while I was sitting in the cool theater. Scared? About what? At the time, I listened and heard a traditional type of scared, the type that causes the pulse to take off and palms drip with sweat. I didn't hear the psychological fear that questions, "This is it?" That type of fear only comes when we stop being busy and start paying attention.

That fear is closely tied to living lives of quiet desperation. It's part of all of us, isn't it? We don't tell each other, though. Our society wants us busy. Thoreau knew this. It's why he went out into the woods, even if the woods were blocks from home.

Graduation and Animal Tales

What is it with me, graduation parties, and animal stories?! A few years ago I wrote about my conversation with a woman. This woman told me her story of her pet rabbits that had maggots climb into their anuses when she put them outside for fresh air. The whole story/conversation happened – quite seriously – over a plateful of hors d'voeures at a graduation party.

Well, deva vu, only this time the animal at the heart of the conversation was a ferret. I will admit that I invited, maybe even encouraged, the conversation this time, by holding – without thinking – my 3.06 oz toy poodle who was dressed for the party in her grungy, Kurt Cobain-ish, turtleneck sweater made from an old, human sweater sleeve. I'm sure my dog's cuteness said, "Talk to my owner...anyone who has me must be an animal lover!" In any event, the dog encouraged conversation. It started like this:

"Oh my goodness, that's such a cute dog! She reminds me of my pet ferret, well, the ferret is no longer living. Sadly, I had to put it to sleep after only six years because it suffered from epilepsy!"

A ferret with epilepsy? I couldn't get past the image. Then there was the "only" qualifier. Wow, I had no idea ferrets lived longer than six years. I stared at her, speechless, but then noticed her husband nodding his head as she spoke. He was in complete agreement. The woman continued:

"We were heartbroken when we had to put our baby to sleep. We were so used to his kisses. He'd kiss us every morning when we first woke up."

Her husband chimed in, "Yeah, except when he got lost in the vents of the house. Then we wouldn't see him for days." (I tried hard not to imagine a ferret running through the vents of a house.)

"But, [insert daughter's name] always knew how to get him out of the vents," the woman defended. "Our ferret came when our daughter blew a whistle. Amazing."

And then, silence.

How was I supposed to respond to that? They were grieving a dead ferret, one that had epilepsy and ran through the vents of the their house, only to return by the sound of a whistle. They kissed it. My dog was cute, but that was about it. And, it was another graduation party, and I was holding a plate full of hors d'voeures.