I own a new car. I also live in the country and am married to an engineer. (The relevance of these facts will become obvious as this story progresses.) The car I chose is appropriate for the lifestyle, a small SUV with many of the bells, whistles, gongs and widgets that technology has to offer in today’s market. Automatic door locks are standard with a conveniently located door lock button on the driver’s door handle; right next to the window locks, individual window controls, and the mirror adjustments; nicely appointed and well-located within easy reach of the driver.
Last night, on my way home from work and under the approaching black cloud bearing down from the west, I decided to stop at my barn which is located some .5 miles from my house and 200’ vertical feet below, and feed the three mares that recognized the approaching vehicle and were now galloping towards the barn in joyful anticipation of their evening oats and sweet hay.
Parking the vehicle right outside of the alleyway of the barn, I quickly hopped out of my car wanting to beat the threatening deluge as I still had another horse, in another pasture and another barn to go before I got to the house. Habitually, I pulled the keys from the ignition in order to avoid that very annoying warning bell and tossed them unceremoniously into the console, right next to my charging cell phone.
Oats were hastily measured, vitamins added and distributed to the nickering trio. Rain began its solo drumming on the steel barn roof, indicating that the threatening cloud was at this moment going over us. Hay was disbursed in measure as the tapping of the rain drops began crescendoing. Double-checking each stall door to make sure they were securely latched, I bounded for the comfort and dryness of my car to head up the road to my last stop.
The handle snapped back out of my hand without so much as giving an inch. %$@!! The damned door was locked! Visible through the tightly closed window were my keys, right there by my cell phone, exactly where I had left them. Damn!
I darted out of the rain and back through the barn to get a look at the incoming weather to determine if this was just a cell blowing through or if I would have to make an uncomfortable and agonizing decision to walk home in the rain. A survey of the western sky revealed that this now full-blown, freezing downpour was not going to go away any time soon.
Perhaps I had been mistaken. I shot back out in the rain, this time checking each door individually, including the back hatch; tight as a tick. Nobody was going to get into this vehicle without a key or remote entry. Now what do I do? Here I sit in my dress clothes, in a drafty (did I mention ‘cold?’) barn, and a half mile from anyone’s house, with no cell phone and no umbrella. Thank God I took a vow of abstinence from high heel shoes many years ago. Walking in flat shoes across this fresh 1 ½ - minus gravel was tough enough.
For sure, I would need some kind of protection from the rain for this 15 minute walk (Remember the 200’ vertical? It’s all up hill from here.). Dawning a fresh and fashionable 50-pound, plastic feedbag, I set off for the hike to the house. No doubt, my husband would be near panic mode by now wondering where I was. For the briefest moment, I considered the palomino that was now contentedly munching her hay, but I didn’t want to have to ride her back in the rain as well.
Wind and rain pelted me every inch of the way. Thank heavens I had gone casual that day and was wearing a water-proof sports jacket. My hands were freezing from holding on to my sack and my legs were drenched by the time I got to the second horse and second barn, but I decided what the hell? I was wet and mad already. I may as well stop and feed the running, bucking, neighing buckskin on my way up the hill.
As I was just leaving the second barn, I spied the hubby in his car heading down the hill to feed, not knowing that I was there. He slammed on his brakes at the sight of a drenched bag lady wearing a feed sack. Laughing at my own stupidity, I hopped in the car with him; yes, he had his key to my car and we went to retrieve the SUV.
As we approached my car, I used the remote entry to unlock the doors and reminded Woody not to leave until I was secured in my car. A second walk in the rain would have ensured an unpleasant evening for both of us. The acknowledging flash of lights assured me the car was now unlocked.
Power walking through the torrent to the driver’s door, I confidently pulled on the handle, only to have it jerked out of my hand once again. Glaring at my husband in the dry car, I could see that he was curiously playing with his remote entry. Just like a %$ engineer! By now, my hair was soaked as well and I yelled at him to open the *&% door! Surprised, he looked up from his experimentations and obeyed what had now become my uncompromising demand. Entry was achieved; we both returned home where he showered me with hugs of sympathy and offered to fix me a drink. Good choice.
Of course, something like this would never happen on a clear, sunny day. Good ol’ Murphy is batting a thousand. What had happened was obvious: In my haste, I had accidentally hit the conveniently located door lock button upon exiting, thereby sealing my fate. Next time, I’ll take the keys with me. Lesson learned.
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cars, car convenience, walking in the rain, engineers, bag lady, door locks, horse, rain
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
How to Wash a Country Dog - Volume I
Anybody who has ever owned a dog one day will have to face the unpleasant task of giving that dog a bath for one reason or another; either by self-performing or hiring a professional at $50 plus per occasion. Personally, I don’t believe in washing dogs. I don’t think it’s good for their skin or their hair; it washes out all of the oil and that oil is what waterproofs them. Perhaps we should invent some kind of Scotch Guard for Dogs for those bathing enthusiasts, so that the poor animal can have some kind of natural protection. I do, however, believe in brushing my dogs clean and in the case of over-exuberant farm dogs turned loose in the corrals, there’s the old standby of a box of baking soda and a good stiff-bristled brush to remove the “fragrance.”
With the freezing and wet weather being wreaked upon the Pacific Northwet (no typo) this spring, my dogs have stomped the perimeter of their dog pasture into a slurry of red clay, decaying leaves, and remnants of this year’s attempted grass growth. Daily, they patrol these perimeters, ever vigilant for the occasional visiting coyote or raccoon. The sticky mud has begun to coat their lengthy fur with the gooey mass that then hardens into something resembling cement dingo balls.
Noticing that my Border Collie was sporting a fresh limp as well as a thorough coat of fresh mud from head to tail and fearing that he had gotten into another scuffle with his kennel mate, I called the dog forth to examine his wound. Turning the dog on his muddy back in order to accurately view the wounded area, I was astonished by the freshly sculpted clay bangles attached to the belly fur of this unfortunate canine. He fully resembled something that I had seen on Animal Precinct, leading me to disclaim any previous knowledge or interest in this beast. The wound was superficial, a mere scrape. At least this was not another $300 visit to the veterinarian.
Crap! There’s two inches of fresh snow on the ground and this outside only dog is in desperate need of a good bath. Just what I wanted to do on a Sunday afternoon – wash a muddy farm dog for the second time in his entire eight-year life. This is not going to be fun.
Grabbing a king sized sheet to cover the freshly vacuumed carpet, I carefully spread it out full length and width and organized the grooming tools; scissors, wire bristle brush, natural bristle brush, doggie comb. Retrieving the dog from his ½ acre-plus kennel, the dog gladly came into the warmth of the house and quickly made himself available for what he knew would be a welcomed grooming.
I carefully cut away the softly clinking chunks of mud from his belly, leg feathers, and trousers, trying to be careful not to massacre him in the process and piling the sticky debris in a safe corner of the sheet for disposition later. (This ol’ girl only gets up off the floor a limited amount of times in one day.) The dog cooperatively laid on his back, making his underside area easily available, while the cat carefully examined the growing pile of removed hair and ultimately offered his assistance by laying in the mass; which of course, he redistributed throughout the entire house, with particular attention to the family room. My God! What a mess!
The dog lazily snoozed while I carefully picked, snipped, and combed his fine hair into something that resembled a dog. With the big chunks out of the way, it was now time to head for a bathtub and the waiting oatmeal shampoo and cream rinse.
As we approached the bathroom door, the dog (Angus) did not yet realize that this was to be more than the pleasant experience of following the human to a potty break and enjoy a good ear rub in the process. As he began to slowly comprehend that this was going to involve warm water and soap, fearful anticipation gripped him. He quickly did an about-face in the middle of the room and headed for the door which was now blocked by a 16-pound Ragdoll tom cat that tagged along to harass the victim and entertain himself in the process. I grabbed a fleeting opportunity to push the door shut, just as the cat darted inside, causing said dog to retreat respectfully from the dominant feline in the process.
As I began slowly filling the tub, thinking that I would soak the remaining mud balls off, Angus hugged the closed door, frantically sniffing at the edges hoping to find some kind of an escape route. It was to no avail. Not even the cat would help him.
At first, I tried to pick the objecting 55 pound dog up by cradling his chest and rump and gently place him in the tub, but his squirms of protest quickly put him off-balance and in danger of slipping from my arms and into the claws of the disapproving cat that was observing the entire fiasco from a safe distance behind the toilet. I then grabbed his front legs and tried dragging him in! His muzzle slowly turned to face me, inches away; a menacing expression in his dark eyes. My God! I forgot the muzzle! He’s never bitten anyone, but you never know in these circumstances. Abandoning that idea, I went for the gusto, grabbed him firmly by the nap of the neck in one hand, put my other hand under his flank and in one mighty effort, heaved that dog right into that bath!
Instantly, the water was brown with dirt; no, this was not brown with dirt, this was a soup of muck! Soaking this off wasn’t going to work so well. I would have to change tactics. Warning the dog to “stay”, I slowly rose to disengage the shower head and take advantage of the hand-held feature while stretching one leg to block his exit. Theoretically, I would rinse most of the mud down the drain, quickly finishing up with the shampoo and cream rinse.
Angus now surrendered to his inevitable fate and stood rather quietly while I rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed, watching the thick brown liquid ooze towards the drain, all the while wondering if the plumbing would hold up. The cat took station on the bathroom counter, suspiciously eyeing the proceeding, and no doubt communicating silent sneers and harassments to the subdued dog.
Long minutes drug by and the retreating water did not lighten, an indication that I was getting ahead of the mud. Out of desperation, I began the next phase of the operation and slowly began the shampooing, theorizing that the massage of the shampooing would soften and dislodge the remaining debris. One shampoo; two shampoos; I notice the water is beginning to collect in the bottom of the tub, no longer freely draining. Great. The drain is plugging. My husband’s going to love me tonight.
I then unscrewed the drain plug and removed it entirely in hopes of relieving some of the stoppage and allowing the mud to pass. The results were not encouraging. Proceeding with the final leg of the process I administered lavish quantities of cream rinse on the thick, black hair, paying particular attention to the tail and trousers, massaging it well into the dense winter fur. A final rinse and all would be well.
We’re now 45 minutes into this operation, my back aches from bending over this stupid tub, and the rinse water is still tan at best. To hell with it! This will just have to do. I held the dog in place waiting for the level of the water to minimize before removing him, soggy paws and all, but by now, the water wasn’t budging. Wrapping my thickest of the pile of towels around this freshly laundered canine with dripping paws, I invited him out and out he came with a vengeance and immediately plunged himself vigorously into the bath mat and walls, rubbing and scraping while scouring the immediate area for that nice fluffy, dry cat, perhaps to settle things up a little.
Angus’ ecstatic and enthusiastic preening catapulted him out of my arms and from underneath the protective towel. Twisting and leaping for the escaping dog with everything my old, fat body could render, I caught a glimpse of what I was sure was a puma that had somehow snuck into this room during the fray! I was met by a pair of glaring blue eyes that fixated threateningly at the gyrating collie. My beloved Ragdoll had now morphed into the Halloween cat from hell, pressed against the bathroom wall, back arched and a tail stiff resembling a toilet brush. I immediately burst into hysterical laughter at the sight of the-cat-who-would-not-be-intimidated who was at this instant in full battle stance facing an intruder that he no longer recognized.
Angus was oblivious to any immediate danger and continued his frantic attempts to rub off the stench of clean, mixed with frequent bouts of vigorous shaking, which in spite of my finest efforts to minimize, resulted in a rich deposit of spackle of earth tones on every surface below three feet of that bath.
Four bath towels, three bath mats, and a load of laundry later, the chore was done and the dog was as clean as he was ever going to be. A final grooming and an afternoon indoors to dry while I scoured walls and cabinets finalized it and I returned a freshly scrubbed and relieved Angus to his separated dog pasture, fresh air, and a reunion with his kennel mate.
It’s been two days now and the specific muscle group involved in bending over a bathtub while washing a dog has become painfully apparent. Paying a groomer $50 or $75 for this service is a buy! Suffice it to say, in anybody’s book, washing a country dog is a pain in the ass.
Del.icio.us Tags:
dog, dog wash, country, groomer, cat, Ragdoll, Border Collie
With the freezing and wet weather being wreaked upon the Pacific Northwet (no typo) this spring, my dogs have stomped the perimeter of their dog pasture into a slurry of red clay, decaying leaves, and remnants of this year’s attempted grass growth. Daily, they patrol these perimeters, ever vigilant for the occasional visiting coyote or raccoon. The sticky mud has begun to coat their lengthy fur with the gooey mass that then hardens into something resembling cement dingo balls.
Noticing that my Border Collie was sporting a fresh limp as well as a thorough coat of fresh mud from head to tail and fearing that he had gotten into another scuffle with his kennel mate, I called the dog forth to examine his wound. Turning the dog on his muddy back in order to accurately view the wounded area, I was astonished by the freshly sculpted clay bangles attached to the belly fur of this unfortunate canine. He fully resembled something that I had seen on Animal Precinct, leading me to disclaim any previous knowledge or interest in this beast. The wound was superficial, a mere scrape. At least this was not another $300 visit to the veterinarian.
Crap! There’s two inches of fresh snow on the ground and this outside only dog is in desperate need of a good bath. Just what I wanted to do on a Sunday afternoon – wash a muddy farm dog for the second time in his entire eight-year life. This is not going to be fun.
Grabbing a king sized sheet to cover the freshly vacuumed carpet, I carefully spread it out full length and width and organized the grooming tools; scissors, wire bristle brush, natural bristle brush, doggie comb. Retrieving the dog from his ½ acre-plus kennel, the dog gladly came into the warmth of the house and quickly made himself available for what he knew would be a welcomed grooming.
I carefully cut away the softly clinking chunks of mud from his belly, leg feathers, and trousers, trying to be careful not to massacre him in the process and piling the sticky debris in a safe corner of the sheet for disposition later. (This ol’ girl only gets up off the floor a limited amount of times in one day.) The dog cooperatively laid on his back, making his underside area easily available, while the cat carefully examined the growing pile of removed hair and ultimately offered his assistance by laying in the mass; which of course, he redistributed throughout the entire house, with particular attention to the family room. My God! What a mess!
The dog lazily snoozed while I carefully picked, snipped, and combed his fine hair into something that resembled a dog. With the big chunks out of the way, it was now time to head for a bathtub and the waiting oatmeal shampoo and cream rinse.
As we approached the bathroom door, the dog (Angus) did not yet realize that this was to be more than the pleasant experience of following the human to a potty break and enjoy a good ear rub in the process. As he began to slowly comprehend that this was going to involve warm water and soap, fearful anticipation gripped him. He quickly did an about-face in the middle of the room and headed for the door which was now blocked by a 16-pound Ragdoll tom cat that tagged along to harass the victim and entertain himself in the process. I grabbed a fleeting opportunity to push the door shut, just as the cat darted inside, causing said dog to retreat respectfully from the dominant feline in the process.
As I began slowly filling the tub, thinking that I would soak the remaining mud balls off, Angus hugged the closed door, frantically sniffing at the edges hoping to find some kind of an escape route. It was to no avail. Not even the cat would help him.
At first, I tried to pick the objecting 55 pound dog up by cradling his chest and rump and gently place him in the tub, but his squirms of protest quickly put him off-balance and in danger of slipping from my arms and into the claws of the disapproving cat that was observing the entire fiasco from a safe distance behind the toilet. I then grabbed his front legs and tried dragging him in! His muzzle slowly turned to face me, inches away; a menacing expression in his dark eyes. My God! I forgot the muzzle! He’s never bitten anyone, but you never know in these circumstances. Abandoning that idea, I went for the gusto, grabbed him firmly by the nap of the neck in one hand, put my other hand under his flank and in one mighty effort, heaved that dog right into that bath!
Instantly, the water was brown with dirt; no, this was not brown with dirt, this was a soup of muck! Soaking this off wasn’t going to work so well. I would have to change tactics. Warning the dog to “stay”, I slowly rose to disengage the shower head and take advantage of the hand-held feature while stretching one leg to block his exit. Theoretically, I would rinse most of the mud down the drain, quickly finishing up with the shampoo and cream rinse.
Angus now surrendered to his inevitable fate and stood rather quietly while I rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed, watching the thick brown liquid ooze towards the drain, all the while wondering if the plumbing would hold up. The cat took station on the bathroom counter, suspiciously eyeing the proceeding, and no doubt communicating silent sneers and harassments to the subdued dog.
Long minutes drug by and the retreating water did not lighten, an indication that I was getting ahead of the mud. Out of desperation, I began the next phase of the operation and slowly began the shampooing, theorizing that the massage of the shampooing would soften and dislodge the remaining debris. One shampoo; two shampoos; I notice the water is beginning to collect in the bottom of the tub, no longer freely draining. Great. The drain is plugging. My husband’s going to love me tonight.
I then unscrewed the drain plug and removed it entirely in hopes of relieving some of the stoppage and allowing the mud to pass. The results were not encouraging. Proceeding with the final leg of the process I administered lavish quantities of cream rinse on the thick, black hair, paying particular attention to the tail and trousers, massaging it well into the dense winter fur. A final rinse and all would be well.
We’re now 45 minutes into this operation, my back aches from bending over this stupid tub, and the rinse water is still tan at best. To hell with it! This will just have to do. I held the dog in place waiting for the level of the water to minimize before removing him, soggy paws and all, but by now, the water wasn’t budging. Wrapping my thickest of the pile of towels around this freshly laundered canine with dripping paws, I invited him out and out he came with a vengeance and immediately plunged himself vigorously into the bath mat and walls, rubbing and scraping while scouring the immediate area for that nice fluffy, dry cat, perhaps to settle things up a little.
Angus’ ecstatic and enthusiastic preening catapulted him out of my arms and from underneath the protective towel. Twisting and leaping for the escaping dog with everything my old, fat body could render, I caught a glimpse of what I was sure was a puma that had somehow snuck into this room during the fray! I was met by a pair of glaring blue eyes that fixated threateningly at the gyrating collie. My beloved Ragdoll had now morphed into the Halloween cat from hell, pressed against the bathroom wall, back arched and a tail stiff resembling a toilet brush. I immediately burst into hysterical laughter at the sight of the-cat-who-would-not-be-intimidated who was at this instant in full battle stance facing an intruder that he no longer recognized.
Angus was oblivious to any immediate danger and continued his frantic attempts to rub off the stench of clean, mixed with frequent bouts of vigorous shaking, which in spite of my finest efforts to minimize, resulted in a rich deposit of spackle of earth tones on every surface below three feet of that bath.
Four bath towels, three bath mats, and a load of laundry later, the chore was done and the dog was as clean as he was ever going to be. A final grooming and an afternoon indoors to dry while I scoured walls and cabinets finalized it and I returned a freshly scrubbed and relieved Angus to his separated dog pasture, fresh air, and a reunion with his kennel mate.
It’s been two days now and the specific muscle group involved in bending over a bathtub while washing a dog has become painfully apparent. Paying a groomer $50 or $75 for this service is a buy! Suffice it to say, in anybody’s book, washing a country dog is a pain in the ass.
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dog, dog wash, country, groomer, cat, Ragdoll, Border Collie
Monday, April 21, 2008
Draft Again?
The war drums continue to beat and in spite of a strong election-day message last November (06), it looks like our government will not quit its aggression until every soldier deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan is killed or maimed.
There is a limited amount of bodies serving in our military today; recruitments are down in spite of lowering enlistment requirements. It seems there is no alternative save reinstatement of the draft if we are to continue to send troops overseas and in fact, increase that number deployed as our current administration has stated.
No one wants to see the draft come back (fully 1/3 of our population is too young to ever remember what it was like watching friends and relatives reluctantly report for duty and never knowing if you’d see them alive again). There was, however, a positive side to that draft that few talk about today, although it is worthy of mention.
Back in the 50’s and 60’s, during the height of the drafting era, there was a policy that actually had a positive impact on many young men. Often times, if a young man of draft age found himself in trouble with the law, he was given the option of going to jail or joining the Army; an infantry unit was assured. These boys frequently were aimless high school drop outs with no future. In the Army, they could finish their education, serve their country, learn a trade, and if they survived war times, could come out three or four years later a changed man and a responsible member of society. This practice turned around many an aspiring criminal and I believe it could work today.
Perhaps it is time to revisit this custom and potentially solve two problems at once.
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Iraq, draft, reinstatement, young men, delinquents, serve country, solution
There is a limited amount of bodies serving in our military today; recruitments are down in spite of lowering enlistment requirements. It seems there is no alternative save reinstatement of the draft if we are to continue to send troops overseas and in fact, increase that number deployed as our current administration has stated.
No one wants to see the draft come back (fully 1/3 of our population is too young to ever remember what it was like watching friends and relatives reluctantly report for duty and never knowing if you’d see them alive again). There was, however, a positive side to that draft that few talk about today, although it is worthy of mention.
Back in the 50’s and 60’s, during the height of the drafting era, there was a policy that actually had a positive impact on many young men. Often times, if a young man of draft age found himself in trouble with the law, he was given the option of going to jail or joining the Army; an infantry unit was assured. These boys frequently were aimless high school drop outs with no future. In the Army, they could finish their education, serve their country, learn a trade, and if they survived war times, could come out three or four years later a changed man and a responsible member of society. This practice turned around many an aspiring criminal and I believe it could work today.
Perhaps it is time to revisit this custom and potentially solve two problems at once.
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Iraq, draft, reinstatement, young men, delinquents, serve country, solution
Friday, April 18, 2008
Lesson in Life - and Loving
To the previous owners of one orange and grey calico, spayed pussy cat that you dumped on West Ellendale last fall – you know the one – she was always sick with a runny nose/respiratory infection. Or maybe she didn’t have the snotty nose when you abandoned her and then attempted to shoot her with a shotgun, only wounding her and adding to her misery.
In this horrible condition, she tried her best to take care of herself for nearly four months, hiding in a barn, too traumatized to trust a human to come anywhere near her. By the grace of God, she survived the coyotes and was able to catch a few rodents to sustain her and drink from the surface rain water, although her body weight dropped to nearly ½ of what it should have been.
It is inconceivable to me that someone who cares enough about a cat to have them spayed can abandon them in such an inhumane and cruel manner; sick, deformed, full of fleas, infested with round worms, and then wound them, leaving them for dead. Do you ever wonder what happened to your kitty? Do you console yourself with thoughts that she died instantly, or that someone took her right in and she lived happily ever after? If you did not want her, you at least owed her a merciful demise with a fatal injection. Didn’t have the nerve? Couldn’t afford it? You paid to have her spayed. She didn’t have to suffer.
If you recognize this cat and had a hand in her suffering, you deserve the same fate. If, on the other hand, you recognize this cat and she just disappeared last fall through no fault of your own, there is good news. She found her way into the barn and hands of someone who does rescue and foster work for the Willamette Humane Society; someone who has dedicated their life to minimizing the suffering of animals.
It took nearly four months before she would let me get anywhere near her and another two months before I could touch her, so great was her distrust of humans. With daily bribes of warm milk and dishes of good, quality cat kibble, along with a nest deep in the hay of our distant barn, she survived the winter; the rain, the frost, the cold, the neighbor dogs, and the coyotes, but her nasal infection never cleared and she was given to bouts of sneezing, coughing, gagging, and choking. Her thick fur became stiff with the uncontrollable expectoration. I didn’t think she would make it through the winter without veterinary care. At least I was able to administer flea control.
As soon as she trusted me enough to allow me to pick her up and take her to the vet, a diagnosis was made: The persistent infection was caused by a cleft palette. Some of everything that poor cat tried to eat or drink would wind up in her nasal cavity, causing a constant irritation. The veterinarian couldn’t determine if it was congenital or caused by trauma. Maybe you just threw her mercilessly out of your moving car and the impact caused her palette to split. Maybe someone in your family threw her away because she was always sick. We’ll never know for sure. A surgery was scheduled and successfully performed by Dr. Trina Brotherton, Polk Veterinary Clinic. The cat was removed from the drafty barn and brought into our home. Within days after the surgery, the awful, convulsive choking fits started to subside. Her lumpy coat began to give way to the silky, gleaming pelt of a well-cared for pet. There is only one remaining shotgun pellet embedded in her neck.
“Jasmine” (aka, “Miracle”) is one of the most loving, affectionate, joyful pets that one could ever hope for. Her distrust of humans has transformed into an undying gratefulness; her future comfort virtually assured. She is the consummate lap cat; playful, and forgiving.
The lesson I have learned from this cat is a lesson we should all heed. It’s about forgiveness, it’s about trust, and most of all, it’s about love. We would all do well in our lives to follow her example; be wary, be careful who you trust, and at the end of the day, give all of your love away and don’t hold on to a grudge.
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cat, cruelty to animals, love, forgiveness, humane, survival
In this horrible condition, she tried her best to take care of herself for nearly four months, hiding in a barn, too traumatized to trust a human to come anywhere near her. By the grace of God, she survived the coyotes and was able to catch a few rodents to sustain her and drink from the surface rain water, although her body weight dropped to nearly ½ of what it should have been.
It is inconceivable to me that someone who cares enough about a cat to have them spayed can abandon them in such an inhumane and cruel manner; sick, deformed, full of fleas, infested with round worms, and then wound them, leaving them for dead. Do you ever wonder what happened to your kitty? Do you console yourself with thoughts that she died instantly, or that someone took her right in and she lived happily ever after? If you did not want her, you at least owed her a merciful demise with a fatal injection. Didn’t have the nerve? Couldn’t afford it? You paid to have her spayed. She didn’t have to suffer.
If you recognize this cat and had a hand in her suffering, you deserve the same fate. If, on the other hand, you recognize this cat and she just disappeared last fall through no fault of your own, there is good news. She found her way into the barn and hands of someone who does rescue and foster work for the Willamette Humane Society; someone who has dedicated their life to minimizing the suffering of animals.
It took nearly four months before she would let me get anywhere near her and another two months before I could touch her, so great was her distrust of humans. With daily bribes of warm milk and dishes of good, quality cat kibble, along with a nest deep in the hay of our distant barn, she survived the winter; the rain, the frost, the cold, the neighbor dogs, and the coyotes, but her nasal infection never cleared and she was given to bouts of sneezing, coughing, gagging, and choking. Her thick fur became stiff with the uncontrollable expectoration. I didn’t think she would make it through the winter without veterinary care. At least I was able to administer flea control.
As soon as she trusted me enough to allow me to pick her up and take her to the vet, a diagnosis was made: The persistent infection was caused by a cleft palette. Some of everything that poor cat tried to eat or drink would wind up in her nasal cavity, causing a constant irritation. The veterinarian couldn’t determine if it was congenital or caused by trauma. Maybe you just threw her mercilessly out of your moving car and the impact caused her palette to split. Maybe someone in your family threw her away because she was always sick. We’ll never know for sure. A surgery was scheduled and successfully performed by Dr. Trina Brotherton, Polk Veterinary Clinic. The cat was removed from the drafty barn and brought into our home. Within days after the surgery, the awful, convulsive choking fits started to subside. Her lumpy coat began to give way to the silky, gleaming pelt of a well-cared for pet. There is only one remaining shotgun pellet embedded in her neck.
“Jasmine” (aka, “Miracle”) is one of the most loving, affectionate, joyful pets that one could ever hope for. Her distrust of humans has transformed into an undying gratefulness; her future comfort virtually assured. She is the consummate lap cat; playful, and forgiving.
The lesson I have learned from this cat is a lesson we should all heed. It’s about forgiveness, it’s about trust, and most of all, it’s about love. We would all do well in our lives to follow her example; be wary, be careful who you trust, and at the end of the day, give all of your love away and don’t hold on to a grudge.
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cat, cruelty to animals, love, forgiveness, humane, survival
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
The Angry Consumer
Dear Mr. Corporate Giant:
I’m a consumer. I drive a car, own a TV, a home, a dishwasher, washer and dryer, the usual and have a job that I must drive to every workday, a distance of some seventeen miles one way. I’m also a conscientious consumer and as such, I’m angry; very angry! Why am I angry, you ask? After all, I’m pretty much living the American dream. I’m damned mad because I have trusted and been deceived.
For decades I have trusted the makers, the manufacturers of all that I enjoy that they would provide me with these time and effort saving devices (for which I have given them most of my money) in a careful and thoughtful manner; not raping, pillaging, and polluting the air and land that we depend on for basic life just to make their millions. I would have happily paid more, if that’s what it took just to keep from living in their cesspool of waste that they’ve left behind.
I did not want cheap tomatoes and lettuce at the cost of polluting the ground water, drying up the rivers, and killing all the fish.
I did not want cheap electricity at the cost of eradicating the salmon, contaminating the air, or blocking the water flow and eliminating nature’s water filters in our wetlands.
I did not want comfortable and inexpensive transportation at the cost of polluting the air that I breathe and contaminating the soils and streams.
Neither did I want cheap synthetics and plastics in my clothing and food containers at the risk of exposure to toxins and potential development of life-threatening cancers.
After these decades of deception, I am now left with the dubious task of sorting out who among you I can trust and which of your products I can use in good conscience. It’s an extremely tough job and I want you to know I resent the hell out of this! I trusted you and you betrayed me, Mr. Big Shot! You have caused all of us to become dependent on this lifestyle.
If you want my dollars in the future, give me what I want at an environmental price that I’m willing to pay which is ‘zero’ adverse affect on the environment or you will be boycotted!
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consumer, environment, lifestyle
I’m a consumer. I drive a car, own a TV, a home, a dishwasher, washer and dryer, the usual and have a job that I must drive to every workday, a distance of some seventeen miles one way. I’m also a conscientious consumer and as such, I’m angry; very angry! Why am I angry, you ask? After all, I’m pretty much living the American dream. I’m damned mad because I have trusted and been deceived.
For decades I have trusted the makers, the manufacturers of all that I enjoy that they would provide me with these time and effort saving devices (for which I have given them most of my money) in a careful and thoughtful manner; not raping, pillaging, and polluting the air and land that we depend on for basic life just to make their millions. I would have happily paid more, if that’s what it took just to keep from living in their cesspool of waste that they’ve left behind.
I did not want cheap tomatoes and lettuce at the cost of polluting the ground water, drying up the rivers, and killing all the fish.
I did not want cheap electricity at the cost of eradicating the salmon, contaminating the air, or blocking the water flow and eliminating nature’s water filters in our wetlands.
I did not want comfortable and inexpensive transportation at the cost of polluting the air that I breathe and contaminating the soils and streams.
Neither did I want cheap synthetics and plastics in my clothing and food containers at the risk of exposure to toxins and potential development of life-threatening cancers.
After these decades of deception, I am now left with the dubious task of sorting out who among you I can trust and which of your products I can use in good conscience. It’s an extremely tough job and I want you to know I resent the hell out of this! I trusted you and you betrayed me, Mr. Big Shot! You have caused all of us to become dependent on this lifestyle.
If you want my dollars in the future, give me what I want at an environmental price that I’m willing to pay which is ‘zero’ adverse affect on the environment or you will be boycotted!
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consumer, environment, lifestyle
Friday, April 11, 2008
Cat Story - Night of the Demon
(Taken from October 2006 entry)
For anybody who has ever cherished a kitten, this one’s for you!
Having recently purchased two of the most darling pedigreed Ragdoll kittens that you’ve ever seen, my life, and that of my patient and accommodating husband, now revolves around these captivating felines. Television has taken a back seat to this entertaining duo as they pounce, roll, ambush, and scurry about their new domain. Delighting in their antics, we have become indulgent and obliging “parents” to this new pair, paying particular attention to the placement of our feet at any given moment, lest we inadvertently step on and injure these four-pound snipers.
Of course, we willingly share our spacious king-size bed, encouraging these furry little darlings to enjoy the warmth beneath the covers, which sets off primitive stalking instincts in them as they stealthily pursue unaware toes in the dark recesses beneath the covers.
Last night being a typical night with our purring, precious pets, we drifted off into contented sleep trusting in the warm comfort of the flannel sheets and the anticipated exhaustion of our wards.
I was started awake by the dim awareness that something had just dropped on my head and I had a piercing pain in the end of my nose! Cursing and wiping at the sting, I felt the sticky warmth of my own blood! Vampires in the night? After all, it is getting close to Halloween. No! It’s “Rowdy”, the male kitten, with his early morning wake-up call, pouncing on my head with claws extended in invitation and expectation of play!
After a brief episode of creative vocabulary, the offending kitten was launched from the bed with firm warnings of the limits of human patience, the blood flow was stopped and eventual peace blanketed the boudoir turned war zone. Luckily, the kitten heeded the warning and all was well until morning.
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cat, demon, kitten, pet
For anybody who has ever cherished a kitten, this one’s for you!
Having recently purchased two of the most darling pedigreed Ragdoll kittens that you’ve ever seen, my life, and that of my patient and accommodating husband, now revolves around these captivating felines. Television has taken a back seat to this entertaining duo as they pounce, roll, ambush, and scurry about their new domain. Delighting in their antics, we have become indulgent and obliging “parents” to this new pair, paying particular attention to the placement of our feet at any given moment, lest we inadvertently step on and injure these four-pound snipers.
Of course, we willingly share our spacious king-size bed, encouraging these furry little darlings to enjoy the warmth beneath the covers, which sets off primitive stalking instincts in them as they stealthily pursue unaware toes in the dark recesses beneath the covers.
Last night being a typical night with our purring, precious pets, we drifted off into contented sleep trusting in the warm comfort of the flannel sheets and the anticipated exhaustion of our wards.
I was started awake by the dim awareness that something had just dropped on my head and I had a piercing pain in the end of my nose! Cursing and wiping at the sting, I felt the sticky warmth of my own blood! Vampires in the night? After all, it is getting close to Halloween. No! It’s “Rowdy”, the male kitten, with his early morning wake-up call, pouncing on my head with claws extended in invitation and expectation of play!
After a brief episode of creative vocabulary, the offending kitten was launched from the bed with firm warnings of the limits of human patience, the blood flow was stopped and eventual peace blanketed the boudoir turned war zone. Luckily, the kitten heeded the warning and all was well until morning.
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cat, demon, kitten, pet
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Not So Far Out of the Cave
There is a huge issue facing Americans today. It’s all over the news. I feel that I need to write something about it, but I’m at a loss for words to address the barbaric brutality that has befallen the weakest amongst us at the FLDS (Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints) compound in Texas. The pathetic consolation is that for many, the abuse is now over. Thank you, Texas. Why was this allowed to happen to begin with?
I ponder the mentality, the genetic code, the mindset that permits a culture, a gender, a society, a religion to exploit, condemn, and wreak unspeakable torture upon those that would offer them grace, softness, nurturing, and kindness. What kind of a man does it take to abuse women and children? To bloody and bruise those least able to defend themselves? Who admires these demons? Whose God do they represent?
It occurs to me that the very drive behind this has its roots in the primordial ooze: One male will mate with and breed all the females. One male will surpass the others and pass on his genes. Many males will lose. That’s nature’s way. As a society, as a nation, we all must strive to step out of the cave; to exercise self-discipline in a measure sufficient to eliminate these carnal desires, whether in our religious, political, or personal communities, lest we regress to depths we believe we left behind eons ago.
In our semi-civilized society (and I use the word ‘civilized’ loosely in this context), it’s a little tougher for one male to dominate all other males. It’s no longer acceptable to walk around with a big club, dispatching the competition at will. So why not try a different tact and just threaten and intimidate all the women into thinking this is their lot in life? Then at least, you have a shot at becoming the dominant ‘silverback’ with a guaranteed supply of subservient and fertile females. Of course, in America, with our multi-system networks of communication, it behooves you to keep these girls isolated, lest they get uppity and realize they have choices and a life of their own. Then you’re just SOL, cowboy!
What these poor women and their children have endured and in fact think they had to endure is beyond my comprehension. I only know that as citizens of Planet Earth, this is not what we strive for; this is neither our direction nor our destiny. This is insanity at its basal level and we all have an obligation to put a stop to it wherever and whenever we can. Turning a blind eye or proclaiming it none of our business isolates us from reality and responsibility and indeed makes us a part of the problem. Will you be part of the solution? It’s a simple matter of choice.
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morman, rape, cavemen
I ponder the mentality, the genetic code, the mindset that permits a culture, a gender, a society, a religion to exploit, condemn, and wreak unspeakable torture upon those that would offer them grace, softness, nurturing, and kindness. What kind of a man does it take to abuse women and children? To bloody and bruise those least able to defend themselves? Who admires these demons? Whose God do they represent?
It occurs to me that the very drive behind this has its roots in the primordial ooze: One male will mate with and breed all the females. One male will surpass the others and pass on his genes. Many males will lose. That’s nature’s way. As a society, as a nation, we all must strive to step out of the cave; to exercise self-discipline in a measure sufficient to eliminate these carnal desires, whether in our religious, political, or personal communities, lest we regress to depths we believe we left behind eons ago.
In our semi-civilized society (and I use the word ‘civilized’ loosely in this context), it’s a little tougher for one male to dominate all other males. It’s no longer acceptable to walk around with a big club, dispatching the competition at will. So why not try a different tact and just threaten and intimidate all the women into thinking this is their lot in life? Then at least, you have a shot at becoming the dominant ‘silverback’ with a guaranteed supply of subservient and fertile females. Of course, in America, with our multi-system networks of communication, it behooves you to keep these girls isolated, lest they get uppity and realize they have choices and a life of their own. Then you’re just SOL, cowboy!
What these poor women and their children have endured and in fact think they had to endure is beyond my comprehension. I only know that as citizens of Planet Earth, this is not what we strive for; this is neither our direction nor our destiny. This is insanity at its basal level and we all have an obligation to put a stop to it wherever and whenever we can. Turning a blind eye or proclaiming it none of our business isolates us from reality and responsibility and indeed makes us a part of the problem. Will you be part of the solution? It’s a simple matter of choice.
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morman, rape, cavemen
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
America - Land of Mixed Messages
Is it just me, or have the rest of you began to notice the mixed messages we send and receive in this country? It seems that no matter what we do or say, there’s an equally important and opposing point of view, law, rule, regulation, policy, procedure, or practice. Little wonder that we’re all in a quandary trying to figure out what we represent. I like the words of a popular Country-Western song of a few years back that says, “You’ve got to stand for something, or you’ll fall for any thing.” How true. How true.
Let’s take for example, simply being an American. In the beginning, there were Indians; lots of Indians; reports say upwards of 25,000,000 living in this land pre white-man, in their aboriginal state, in perfect harmony with the land and their creator; a true Garden of Eden. Okay. They’re certainly Americans and most never spoke a word of English.
Then came the European invasion, pouring into this Eden in massive numbers, drawn by promises of a new life, fortified with lies from their prospective reining countries whose agenda was to have the predominant hand in this new land of untapped riches. Even this country’s fledgling government got in on the act by promoting free land in the West and the Indians were friendly! Go west, young man! This is manifest destiny. Problem is, nobody bothered to get permission from the presiding land owners or tell these unsuspecting pioneers that they were told this just so the United States government could have a substantial representation in the west to make sure that citizens representing England, Spain, or Russia didn’t out populate it and claim it. Smooth move, Jackson.
Somehow, in this slurry of immigration soup, English became a predominant language and European customs in general the accepted and preferred culture. Assimilation was occurring and a new American culture of apple pie, mom, and baseball was evolving. Life was good.
But wait! As more and more people poured into and over this land, immigrants sought the company of others from their homelands and pockets of old country lifestyles developed; customs and grievances were kept alive and in tact and to bolster this divisiveness, some genius came up with the idea of celebrating this diversity! What a great way to widen the gap!
Wait a minute! Mixed message alert! Assimilate and celebrate diversity . . . right. Isn’t this like having your cake and eating it too? My mother always said that wasn’t possible and my religious upbringing told me that a house divided against itself was doomed to fail. OMG! What have we done!
Here’s another one of my favorite oxymoronic policies: Who amongst us isn’t made to feel guilty for using disposable products or tossing a single plastic baggie in the garbage? ‘Recycle’ is the mantra! We are running out of places to put our crap! We must conserve, reduce, and recycle. Everywhere, we are reminded of our wantonness and gluttony.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m an avid recycler and always will be, but if you’ve visited your local landfill lately, you will realize that there is a preponderance of building litter and debris being deposited at these sites. Great mountains of sheetrock, shredded framework, bricks, cement, and scrambled portions of every product ever known to man.
Hey!! Mixed message alert!! What about these guys?? According to my estimates, one rather modest building remodel could equal about five years and 50 families worth of extravagant garbage. Whatever happened to lead by example? Can one person saving a baggie really make up for the tons of commercial waste that are the real culprits in the recycle picture?
These are but two of a myriad of controvertible evidences that we live with daily. There are others, but this a blog, not a book. (My book is available at Amazon.com.)
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american, indians, mixed messages, recycle
Let’s take for example, simply being an American. In the beginning, there were Indians; lots of Indians; reports say upwards of 25,000,000 living in this land pre white-man, in their aboriginal state, in perfect harmony with the land and their creator; a true Garden of Eden. Okay. They’re certainly Americans and most never spoke a word of English.
Then came the European invasion, pouring into this Eden in massive numbers, drawn by promises of a new life, fortified with lies from their prospective reining countries whose agenda was to have the predominant hand in this new land of untapped riches. Even this country’s fledgling government got in on the act by promoting free land in the West and the Indians were friendly! Go west, young man! This is manifest destiny. Problem is, nobody bothered to get permission from the presiding land owners or tell these unsuspecting pioneers that they were told this just so the United States government could have a substantial representation in the west to make sure that citizens representing England, Spain, or Russia didn’t out populate it and claim it. Smooth move, Jackson.
Somehow, in this slurry of immigration soup, English became a predominant language and European customs in general the accepted and preferred culture. Assimilation was occurring and a new American culture of apple pie, mom, and baseball was evolving. Life was good.
But wait! As more and more people poured into and over this land, immigrants sought the company of others from their homelands and pockets of old country lifestyles developed; customs and grievances were kept alive and in tact and to bolster this divisiveness, some genius came up with the idea of celebrating this diversity! What a great way to widen the gap!
Wait a minute! Mixed message alert! Assimilate and celebrate diversity . . . right. Isn’t this like having your cake and eating it too? My mother always said that wasn’t possible and my religious upbringing told me that a house divided against itself was doomed to fail. OMG! What have we done!
Here’s another one of my favorite oxymoronic policies: Who amongst us isn’t made to feel guilty for using disposable products or tossing a single plastic baggie in the garbage? ‘Recycle’ is the mantra! We are running out of places to put our crap! We must conserve, reduce, and recycle. Everywhere, we are reminded of our wantonness and gluttony.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m an avid recycler and always will be, but if you’ve visited your local landfill lately, you will realize that there is a preponderance of building litter and debris being deposited at these sites. Great mountains of sheetrock, shredded framework, bricks, cement, and scrambled portions of every product ever known to man.
Hey!! Mixed message alert!! What about these guys?? According to my estimates, one rather modest building remodel could equal about five years and 50 families worth of extravagant garbage. Whatever happened to lead by example? Can one person saving a baggie really make up for the tons of commercial waste that are the real culprits in the recycle picture?
These are but two of a myriad of controvertible evidences that we live with daily. There are others, but this a blog, not a book. (My book is available at Amazon.com.)
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american, indians, mixed messages, recycle
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Boosting The Economy and Other Legends
The big news just came across the airwaves that the economy is saved and a recession is avoided, as if we weren’t already in the throes of a recession. The plan is, according to the news bite, that all of us who receive paychecks are going to get a whopping $600 from our Federal Government! More, if you have children.
How to invest such a windfall no doubt will be large upon the minds of the multitudes. Personally, I’m thinking real estate. Perhaps I could use this as a down payment on a nice little investment property. Or buy a new car, maybe a boat or some new expensive toy.
Of course I’m being sarcastic here. My point being, what is their point? Three hundred dollars is nothing, nada. It may buy a quick trip to Wal Mart, but what about next month, and the next and the next?
(Copied from my January 24, 2008 writings)
How do you bolster a consumer-based economy that is supported primarily by a middle class when you have broken the back of the middle class? This didn’t just start last year. This started during the Reagan Administration with his laughable “trickle-down” economics. The theory being that if the rich had more, they would create jobs and employ more people, thereby stimulating the economy. They certainly did that. They created thousands of jobs in India, China, Viet Nam and other off shore points paying workers pennies a day to sell $150 shoes. Well, shipping is expensive, you know.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this is one of the stupidest plans concocted by this administration to date. Thanks Nancy (Pelosi), for going along with it. What’s in it for you?
It’s time to ponder the distribution of my wealth. Will it be cheap shirts and dog food at Wal Mart? Or will I try to put a dent in my $400+ electrical bill this month?
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economy, economic recovery, Bush's plan
How to invest such a windfall no doubt will be large upon the minds of the multitudes. Personally, I’m thinking real estate. Perhaps I could use this as a down payment on a nice little investment property. Or buy a new car, maybe a boat or some new expensive toy.
Of course I’m being sarcastic here. My point being, what is their point? Three hundred dollars is nothing, nada. It may buy a quick trip to Wal Mart, but what about next month, and the next and the next?
(Copied from my January 24, 2008 writings)
How do you bolster a consumer-based economy that is supported primarily by a middle class when you have broken the back of the middle class? This didn’t just start last year. This started during the Reagan Administration with his laughable “trickle-down” economics. The theory being that if the rich had more, they would create jobs and employ more people, thereby stimulating the economy. They certainly did that. They created thousands of jobs in India, China, Viet Nam and other off shore points paying workers pennies a day to sell $150 shoes. Well, shipping is expensive, you know.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this is one of the stupidest plans concocted by this administration to date. Thanks Nancy (Pelosi), for going along with it. What’s in it for you?
It’s time to ponder the distribution of my wealth. Will it be cheap shirts and dog food at Wal Mart? Or will I try to put a dent in my $400+ electrical bill this month?
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economy, economic recovery, Bush's plan
Friday, April 4, 2008
Living The Perfect Life
Ever wonder what happened to a 24-hour day? Especially if you’re over 50, you will recall those days of leisure when you actually had time to relax in the evening. That was before we knew we had to do so much just to continue to live so that we could continue to keep our schedule so that we could live (etc., ad naseum) . . . .
Never eat within three hours of bedtime.
Get at least 8 hours of sleep a night.
Eat five or six small meals a day as opposed to three large ones.
Exercise at least 1 hour a day, five days a week . . .
o . . . but never within three hours of bedtime.
Don’t workout right after eating.
Eat fresh foods, not processed.
Avoid fat and the three evil whites (sugar, salt, and refined flour).
We have so much information now about how to best live our lives; how to live longer, better, if only we can keep to the recommendations. Not wishing to become prescription dependent, I try to do my best to follow popular recommendations. My doctor, in fact, during my recent annual physical pointed out the benefits to me of the Curves diet when I wailed about my post-menopausal weight gain and the impossibility of losing it. That diet prescribes six light meals a day (some cooking and preparation involved).
Okay. Now let’s do the math. There are 24 hours in a day, take away 8 hours for sleep. That leaves 16 hours. Assume that we all work and in order to accommodate an 8-hour work shift will require being there 9 hours. Factor in travel time and you are gone from your home a good 10-11 hours a day, depending on traffic. Let’s go worse case scenario and deduct 11 hours for working. That way, if you have to stop at the cleaners or the store, you’re covered. Alright, 16 hours minus 11 equals 5 hours left. Take an hour off of that for showers, hair and make up, shaving and we’re down to 4 hours left in our perfect day.
We still have to workout. So taking 1 hour to work out, plus say, 15 minutes or so to dress down, get to the gym, find your bicycle, whatever, and we are now down to < 3 hours in our day and we still have to eat!!
Now THERE’S a challenge for you! I now have < 3 hours, split that in half morning and evening, and there is 1 ½ hours each to slice, dice, chop, peel, and steam those fresh veggies and eat, but remember, not within three hours of bedtime. Right. That’ll happen.
Let’s look at an average day – my average day, and mind you, I am now an empty-nester. God help those of you with children - -
5:30 a.m. – rise, shower, do face, hair, feed the cat, feed the dogs, fold a load of clothes, make bed, fix lunch, eat breakfast, gather dirty dishes from night before and deposit in sink for hubby to do later, make sure cat is in the house, and leave by 7:00 in order to be at work by 8:00. (Pant, pant, pant! That chick on TV has nothing on me!) Forget working out! There’s no time here.
8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. – on the job – no time for self. Work out at lunch? I don’t think so! Fifteen minutes to get to the gym and dress down; 1 hour to work out, 15 minutes to quickly shower and re-dress; 45 minutes to put face and hair back together. Two hour 15 minute lunch – I’m fired! It ain’t happening! And I still haven’t had lunch! I need nourishment. Remember the five or six meals a day thing?
Home at 5:45 or 6:00, depending on traffic. Dress down, ride bike, walk or treadmill for 1 hour (must do now – can’t eat then exercise, you know); play with the dogs, feed the horse, clean stalls, feed the dogs, fill up the bird feeders, clean the kitty litter, start another batch of laundry, then change into sweats for the evening. Damn! The cat just pewked on the carpet! Time is now 8:30 p.m. and I haven’t eaten yet.
YIKES!! In order to get my eight hours’ sleep, I need to be in bed in 30 minutes in order to wind down, lights out at 9:30. When do I eat my evening meal? I can’t now. It’s too close to bedtime. Better skip it. But what about tomorrow’s lunch and three snacks that I must prepare in order to eat right?
But wait! There’s more! What if the cat has to go to the vet? Or what if I have to stop at the grocery store? The pharmacy? The dry cleaners? Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale!
By now, the demands on my time trying to live the perfect life have become so stressful that I will need medication to deal with the high blood pressure!
Who is the idiot that came up with these impossible recommendations? I want my pound of flesh! Obviously, it is somebody with way more money and time on their hands than the average working person has in this country today.
Wanna know what I think? Screw it. Relax. Have a drink. After all, two drinks a day are recommended as healthy. Right?
Del.icio.us Tags:
perfect life, exercise, worker's day, 24 hours
Never eat within three hours of bedtime.
Get at least 8 hours of sleep a night.
Eat five or six small meals a day as opposed to three large ones.
Exercise at least 1 hour a day, five days a week . . .
o . . . but never within three hours of bedtime.
Don’t workout right after eating.
Eat fresh foods, not processed.
Avoid fat and the three evil whites (sugar, salt, and refined flour).
We have so much information now about how to best live our lives; how to live longer, better, if only we can keep to the recommendations. Not wishing to become prescription dependent, I try to do my best to follow popular recommendations. My doctor, in fact, during my recent annual physical pointed out the benefits to me of the Curves diet when I wailed about my post-menopausal weight gain and the impossibility of losing it. That diet prescribes six light meals a day (some cooking and preparation involved).
Okay. Now let’s do the math. There are 24 hours in a day, take away 8 hours for sleep. That leaves 16 hours. Assume that we all work and in order to accommodate an 8-hour work shift will require being there 9 hours. Factor in travel time and you are gone from your home a good 10-11 hours a day, depending on traffic. Let’s go worse case scenario and deduct 11 hours for working. That way, if you have to stop at the cleaners or the store, you’re covered. Alright, 16 hours minus 11 equals 5 hours left. Take an hour off of that for showers, hair and make up, shaving and we’re down to 4 hours left in our perfect day.
We still have to workout. So taking 1 hour to work out, plus say, 15 minutes or so to dress down, get to the gym, find your bicycle, whatever, and we are now down to < 3 hours in our day and we still have to eat!!
Now THERE’S a challenge for you! I now have < 3 hours, split that in half morning and evening, and there is 1 ½ hours each to slice, dice, chop, peel, and steam those fresh veggies and eat, but remember, not within three hours of bedtime. Right. That’ll happen.
Let’s look at an average day – my average day, and mind you, I am now an empty-nester. God help those of you with children - -
5:30 a.m. – rise, shower, do face, hair, feed the cat, feed the dogs, fold a load of clothes, make bed, fix lunch, eat breakfast, gather dirty dishes from night before and deposit in sink for hubby to do later, make sure cat is in the house, and leave by 7:00 in order to be at work by 8:00. (Pant, pant, pant! That chick on TV has nothing on me!) Forget working out! There’s no time here.
8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. – on the job – no time for self. Work out at lunch? I don’t think so! Fifteen minutes to get to the gym and dress down; 1 hour to work out, 15 minutes to quickly shower and re-dress; 45 minutes to put face and hair back together. Two hour 15 minute lunch – I’m fired! It ain’t happening! And I still haven’t had lunch! I need nourishment. Remember the five or six meals a day thing?
Home at 5:45 or 6:00, depending on traffic. Dress down, ride bike, walk or treadmill for 1 hour (must do now – can’t eat then exercise, you know); play with the dogs, feed the horse, clean stalls, feed the dogs, fill up the bird feeders, clean the kitty litter, start another batch of laundry, then change into sweats for the evening. Damn! The cat just pewked on the carpet! Time is now 8:30 p.m. and I haven’t eaten yet.
YIKES!! In order to get my eight hours’ sleep, I need to be in bed in 30 minutes in order to wind down, lights out at 9:30. When do I eat my evening meal? I can’t now. It’s too close to bedtime. Better skip it. But what about tomorrow’s lunch and three snacks that I must prepare in order to eat right?
But wait! There’s more! What if the cat has to go to the vet? Or what if I have to stop at the grocery store? The pharmacy? The dry cleaners? Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale!
By now, the demands on my time trying to live the perfect life have become so stressful that I will need medication to deal with the high blood pressure!
Who is the idiot that came up with these impossible recommendations? I want my pound of flesh! Obviously, it is somebody with way more money and time on their hands than the average working person has in this country today.
Wanna know what I think? Screw it. Relax. Have a drink. After all, two drinks a day are recommended as healthy. Right?
Del.icio.us Tags:
perfect life, exercise, worker's day, 24 hours
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Working For Beans
Apparently the illegal issue is much stronger there in California than it is up here in Oregon. Yes, we have our illegals. They work the expansive landscape nursery industry up here for the most part. There are crude jokes going around addressing this. One thing that occurs to me: When I was a kid, about 100 years ago, here in Oregon, working the crops (green beans, pears, walnuts, apples, strawberries, etc.) was what the children did each summer to earn school money. Somewhere between then and now we, (the adults) decided that that was child labor, so we made it illegal for children under (I think it's 14 or 16) to work the crops. That left a huge, empty labor market. Traditionally, it paid beans (pun intended - 1 1/2 cents per pound in my day), so no adult with a family to support was willing to go there. Besides, it was hot and dirty, and seasonal work only. The farmers did what they had to do to stay in business. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating breaking the law. I'm just saying, there were (and are) few options for an industry that cannot pay a living wage (because we, as consumers would refuse to pay the necessary increase in price in our goods). What would happen if we reversed that law and allowed our children to work the fields again? What if we required our children to work helping others clean house, mow lawns, weed, wash dishes, and other odd jobs that illegals occupy today? Of course, it would take a major shift in thinking for young parents today to allow their 8-year-old to go hoe beets for a day, or the 11-year old to mow a lawn, but that just might be a good thing. It seems that the children that were to be protected by that law are still slaving away in the hot sun, out of sight and out of mind to most of us, while our puffy, white American kids, fat on fast-food are spending their summers in front of the X-box. Hmmmmm . . . . what's wrong with this picture? Just food for thought
Del.icio.us Tags:
beans, country life, work, child labor
Del.icio.us Tags:
beans, country life, work, child labor
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