A Memory I'd Rather Not Remember

Saw this on Facebook today and it reminded me of one those painful childhood memories you lock away.  Mostly because you a) grew older and b) you moved away.

One the street to the east of ours in Lakewood, Ohio lived 3 girls that I was friends with in elementary school.  I can't remember their names and it's probably best in the long run. I know where the house is, I can see parts of the interior in my mind's eye still. It was right next to the lake (Lake Erie).  I learned to ride without training wheels in the driveway next to their garage. (To the left.)

I remember they had this really cool surrey with two seats that you pedaled.  This is a more modern version of theirs, but yes, they had a striped top too!  I remember that!  Funny, I can't remember shit from yesterday....The seats were wooden.  The had really great toys, as I recall.  The best F.A.O.  Schwartz had to offer!

Anyway, I digress, as usual.  

I can remember spending nights there and vice versa. I can remember the kitchen layout and that they had a piano.  Not as big as ours and the mom wasn't a concert-level pianist who had performed at Severance Hall as a teenager.  (Insert evil grin here.)

The mom was a Southern Belle; there's no other way to put it.  She was from "Ver-gin-nee-yah" Old Money. (Yes, THAT many syllables! And yes, with a capital M.) She was very proud that she was NOT from Ohio and that her "people" had been in  "Ver-gin-nee-yah" for generations.  I'm sure her husband got transferred much to her chagrin to the "Nawth."  (I think he worked for Union Carbide.) She had a lovely accent and like my mother, always wore dresses.  This was, after all, the early 60s.  Think "Mad Men." I really liked the girls, the middle one was my age.

Now, you must remember that my dad's home office backed up to my bedroom. My dad was a lawyer. My dad swore. A lot. He usually prefaced sentences with "Goddamnit." One word, run together. And "Jesus-s-s H. Christ."  He rarely used the F word but he did say "Crap." quite a bit, and often mumbled under his breath in combo with the other two or often as a whole sentence: "Goddamnit Jesus-s H. Christ Crap!" No commas. I always wondered what the "H" was for. 

So yes, I grew up with hearing cussing and sharing a bathroom.  I saw my parents naked and on the toilet.  We were not allowed to swear (rightly so), but I never knew that "crap" was in the Swearing Lexicon. 

When you are a geeky, gawky, nonathletic, dorky-looking kid with sunglasses and a bit of a vision problem (as I was) you feel like you have to come up with something that might add to your coolness.  Being able to draw does't exactly make you cool with your peers. Most kids start, I think, with cussing.  Especially with older siblings. You heard it, of course. And if your sibs did it, it MUST be cool, right?

My mother didn't swear, maybe an occasional "damn" here and there.  Ladies just didn't.  She left the serious swearing up to my father.  Oh, she could swear; I heard her in later years let go with a blue streak of vicious, cussing invective! Mostly on the phone to Dr. Ben Schneider.  I can't blame her for cussing at Dr. Ben.  He was a cheap-skate, a pompous pain in the ass.  

Yet, I digress.

One day, when I was in second grade, I went over to my friend's house to play.  Her mother, in her shirtwaist dress and pearls, greeted me at the door. I'm sure I said something like, "Can so-and-so come out to play?"  (I seriously can't remember her name. We'll call her Susie.) 

There are few people frostier than a Southern Belle in high aristocratic honk.  I'd rather face a Boston matriarch or the Queen of England any day.  You know they're going to be a bit stiff or stuffy or formal.  But this mother had always been sweet, fun and kind to me.  Not this day. I think that's why I'm suspicious of that whole "honey", sugar-sweet routine to this very day.   

"Ay-yam sorry, honey, but Susie caint play with you," in that sweet, smooth as silk, all-words-run-together upper crust Virginia debutante tone. 

 I'm pretty sure I asked if she was sick. 

"No, she is naught allowed to play-ee with you any-ee moor. Now-ah, ya'all go on hawm."  

My stomach lurched, I felt light-headed. I remember that feeling.  I'm sure I was equally astonished when she (very politely) shut the door in my face.  Naturally, I ran home to my mother, in gulping tears.  She was comforting and she said that she'd see what that was all about but for the meantime, if that's the way they were going to be, I didn't need them, now did I? (Good life lesson.) I felt pretty sure that Mrs. Ver-gin-nee-yah was NO match for Mary Louise.  I still believe that.  It would have been Lady-like Behavior She-Cats at 20 paces and I'd always put my money on Weez.

I questioned Mom later on as Susie had been avoiding me at school.  Not the nasty, pariah avoidance behavior, just more of a shying away.  She wasn't a bad kid, not by any stretch of the imagination.  But in those days, if your parents told you do something or avoid someone, you just did it.  Plus sneaking around wasn't an option. Everybody knew you and you'd get caught. I do recall going over to their house a few months later and Mrs. Ver-gin-nee-yah finally yielded said I should ask my mother and she just didn't want her daughter "associatin' with me."  OK, that's much more harsh then Susie Can't Play.  

When Mom finally leveled with me, I'm sure in retrospect, she must have been humiliated and embarrassed.  Apparently, my cussing with my friends got back to the parents and I was considered (for the first and probably ONLY time in my life) to be a Bad Influence. The Bad Words in question that Mom cited was "Crap" and "Damn." I think my mother felt bad in a wide variety of ways, for me and for herself too. She was honest but not in a nasty way, as I recall and I'm not romantizing it. I can see the room, remember the partly-sunny weather, see the air conditioner in the window, see the tree branches moving in the breeze outside the window, see the open closet door. 

I think that was the beginning of growing up. When you get that slap that makes you realize that you have to learn to play the game of life. You have to gauge your audience and watch yourself; filter and censor yourself if you want to have any chance of meshing and mixing with others. It was my first acting lesson. It's not a bad thing to know.  A Life Lesson.

A few years later, I went back to that house.  We were moving and I wanted to say goodbye. I also wanted to see how uncomfortable I could make Mrs. Ver-gin-nee-yah.  She and I played the Dance of Cordiality and Manners.  I was 12 or so and I had started to learn the life lessons that still have stood me in good stead to this day. That day was a minor triumph for a pre-teen still-gawky girl because she apologized to me for being "unkind" to me.  In that insincere Southern Belle way.  I hope it stuck in her friggin' craw. Susie and I did spend some time together but it was never the same.  It rarely is, trying to resurrect a friendship like that. The unsaid reason for its demise is always there, whispering in the background.  She knew, I knew and she knew that I knew.  Unspoken.  Stilted. 

I am pretty sure about one thing. Somehow my mother, while agreeing with her (probably very correct) veto of my mouth,  got Mrs. Ver-gin-nee-yah back socially.  Weez was very, very good at that game. And we Clevelanders had an aversion to folks thinking just because your name is Hungarian, Italian, German you are Less Than.  Unlike the rarefied air of upper crust Ver-gin-nee-yah, we were a city of immigrants.  Besides that, Mom's pedigree was probably as good if not better than Mrs. Ver-gin-nee-yah. Just without the Old Money part.

The only GREAT thing I can see about getting older is I rarely need that filter.  Truly.  Come on, I'm 58 f---g years old.  Yes, there are certain people I need to watch my mouth around: little kids, people older than I by 15-20 years, people from other lands.  Other than that, I only need the filter of kindness and remembering to take a breath and think. Trust me, I won't embarrass you at the Embassy Ball. Or meeting the Queen! 

This old fox still knows how to play The Game.

I Can't Make This S---t Up #452

Seen today in Akron, Ohio.  Taken by my friend Chris Scuba Cook.  Seen by me and his wife, Laurie Scuba Cook.  Swear to God, it's real, not photoshopped.

Coming Home (A Sarcastic Retort)

I can't make this up, even with my fevered imagination.  This is not an exaggeration.

I just LOVE coming home in a torrential downpour to two people beatin' feet out of our driveway, the one explaining things in a totally rushed manner as they fly into the car, yelling,"I forgot I had to take a friend to work."  Right. (This is after tap-dancing on the phone, adding little tidbits of information with each call I'd just as soon not hear.)  I'll give Someone this; they didn't want to stick around for the potential bloodbath.

I LOVE coming home to laundry still being done in my washer and dryer; none of it MINE.

Oh, and I just ADORE that stale stink of "cigarette-dirty-B.O.-hair-bleach-people" in my den. Look, I know my den, where wet dogs have lived for years, does NOT smell like lilacs and roses. However, with five days of Dogs'R'Gone, it should have smelled a hell of a lot better.  And please don't lie. I know Someone was not only smoking in our basement but also in the den.  The nose knows. Only the Spousal Unit is allowed to smoke in the basement.

Oh, and I loved finding a ton of crap here and there that isn't MINE. From a netbook, a plug-in fan still running, magic markers, glitter, nail polish remover, a erasable wall calendar, cat brushes, a box of I-don't-what-crap etc. Etc. The sofa and love seat were very tidy.  Credit.

What, pray tell, is THIS doing in my kitchen? Am I missing something?  Somebody is missing something....

Oh, and a bunch of junk/stuff which has transformed my porch from something "trying to be slightly idyllic" to something close to Hillbilly World?  Just precious. "Oh, I am going to bring that stuff inside." Please. Don't.

And the two huge bags of soaking-wet, already thrown-out clothing, bedding, miscellaneous trash that Someone Else had decided needed to be reclaimed sitting in the pouring rain right by our back door?  (And trust me, it wasn't worth reclaiming. I checked. It's an old habit.)

Yes, this charming sight sent my Spousal Unit's head spinning like Exorcist Baby.

So the question was: Why and what are these bags of trash for?

"Oh, I thought we could use some of this stuff for dog blankets." (I kid you not.  Really.)

Right.

My (or anyone else's) dogs really need a busted cheap-o plastic laundry basket, a sleeping bag splattered in (no doubt) white lead paint flakes and a stinky, sweat-stained hoodie that I, even with my somewhat lax standards, would not use to swab out skanky dog kennels full of crap. Among other things so reprehensible, moldy and soaked I dare not even begin to name them between bouts of almost-nausea. (I told you I checked. I did salvage two dog-worthy blankets.)

And what the hell is this by my back steps?  What?  Why?

Yes, and I just LOVE knowing that, for at least one day (if not more), someone else whom I do NOT like nor trust had his carcass parked in my house.  Ostentatiously to "Help dust."  I kid you not.  I can't make this sh*t up. I looked at potentially dusted surfaces. Even though I am a crappy duster; if that's what you calling "dusting" I think I should hire out. Because my dusting is way better than that.  (Read: no dusting done.) Nice dodge/excuse as to why Mr. Forbidden-My-Home was here.  I'll give Someone credit: they're creative.

I'm utterly enchanted with all the crap in my living room and on my dining room table ----- which was, when I left, pretty crap free!

The dish items in my sink that I've NEVER seen before were....well, we could call that an interesting addition.  The dishes in the dishwasher ARE clean, that was running when we arrived. Credit. I believe the dishwasher still works; it's new.  Thank God.

And as you can imagine, I'm thrilled to DEATH with the waste-paper baskets filled with cat poop that were never emptied for 5 days. And the one litter box that hadn't been cleaned in 2-3 days.  Don't lie, I've been mucking out that box for two years and I know how much poop there is in a day, or two, or three.) Oh, and my cat's bowls having no food or water.  Yes, coming home and having to feed my cat and scud out his cat box was JUST what I really wanted to do.

I had made arrangements for the cats to be cared for.  Swear to God, I did.  But Someone got all pissy that I had done that. "I was going to do that. I told you I was going to do it." Thank heavens I kenneled Elke!! The original plan was that she would stay home and only Artie would go to the kennel.

And why am I left trying to explain utter chaotic jumbles here and there, inside and out, to my dog-tired, sputtering Spousal Unit?  I keep on finding stuff and wondering what other little "treasures" will there be?

Such a NICE way to come home after being in a car for 11 hours.

Priceless.

The Brave little Toaster Ride

On, Sept. 11th, 2011 I participated in my second longest time on a bike. 33.17 miles according to my odometer. Marty, that nut, did 100 miles. The ride, called the Horizontal Hundred, took place in Findlay, Ohio, a lovely town actually.

We arrived Saturday and managed to get out bikes into the hotel before the rain poured down!

April 30, 2012: And, sh*t, I didn't write the rest. Damn.  I did do 33.17 miles though.

Pit Bulls: Yeah! Elke: Nay! (A "Reactive" Rant)

This past Saturday, I went to an event benefiting a Pit Bull group and there were 2 female "pit bulls" being big goofy, tail-wagging goobers. Those two girl dogs were being petted hundreds of times, having kids rolling around them, crawling on them, hugging them, yanking on their necks ---- for hours.  The tails never stopped wagging. I was so impressed by their tolerance and temperaments.  If Elke were in the same room, people would gravitate towards her because she looks "safe" and adorable.  And she is, sort of, with people for the most part. She might have taken that attention for about 15 minutes, tops. Which is fair; it's pretty stressful stuff. I get that.

 BUT if any other dogs would have been in her view, all bets would be off.

Go figure.

Last Friday, Artie The Cattledog goes off to Doggie Day Care and does just fine with the other dogs! He had so much fun he snagged a dew claw nail, so he's on antibiotics. I'm actually thinking about having those damn things removed. Hate them.  If I thought Artie would tolerate being a Conehead for 2 weeks, I'd do the damn surgery tomorrow. So yes, he is still a mouthy, somewhat disrespectful, bratty, adolescent cattledog boy.  But he's starting to mature a bit.  A little bit.
I am frankly so astounded that my cattledog did OK at day care. I know Elke has some issues but I figured Artie would be a wash-out too. He is, after all, a cattledog and they can be jerks! Yet again, he has pleasantly surprised me

On the other hand, there was today's debacle:

Elke, the one everyone thinks is so friggin' adorable (she's so snuggly, kissy and cuddly at home) FAILED. MISERABLY!

A big F.  As in Failed. As in Your Other Dog Is More Than Welcome But Don't Bring Her Back.

As in We Can't Get Her Out The Door Fast Enough And Don't Let The Door Hit You On Your Ass On The Way Out failed.

 I should have known this was doomed:
Death Knell #1: I had forgotten her vet records and we had to go back and get them.
Death Knell #2: A truly nice laid-back, hound-type dog walked into the lobby when she was in there and I had to get her in a corner away from that dog ---- fast.

It was embarrassing as hell. I get why parents, when faced with Little Johnny being a jerk at school, go home and beat the crap out of Little Johnny.  They are mortified. (No it's not "right," of course, so don't start with me.) And no, I didn't get mad at Elke until she pulled on the leash for about the bazillionth time which is getting so blasted old I could scream....I just yelled at her to quit it.

By the way: Gentle Leaders, harnesses, prong collars, C/T for loose leash walking....all a bust.  All the damn harness did was rub her fur raw in her armpits and cause huge problems.  Didn't affect the pulling one little bit. Walking her is even less fun than walking Artie on his worst days.  About like Dri, my German Pinscher.

Her "failing" means I've failed this dog somehow. Yet again. And it's getting really friggin' old.

Yes, I've failed. Period.  End of discussion.  You cannot convince me otherwise because: This is how I was trained in horses and then in dogs.  Your animal fails a test, an event; it is YOUR FAULT. Rider error, handler error.  It's all the same. You might get a pass with a shelter dog unless you're working with that dog every single day, a couple of times a day. But I felt like a failure is those "Help Train A Shelter Dog" classes; all my dogs were collosal failures, poor babies.....which is one of the reasons I stopped doing it. I might do OK in a Shy Dog class...I can toss hotdogs with the best of 'em to a dog who avoids me like the bubonic plague.

The Day Care People actually did a lot right. They took her into a very quiet room without me but I could see her (she couldn't see me) and brought in a very mellow, quiet, older, non-reactive dog.  At a distance on a leash. I heard her bark and I knew it was doomsday. I know that bark. She started being a jerk IMMEDIATELY. Growling, snarling, barking, snapping.... She was a total growling, shrieking, snapping mess of stupidity. They didn't even get the chance to meet and greet; the people at the Day Care were afraid Elke might hurt the other dog.

 I got Elke when she was 3-4 months old; she's never been attacked by any dog EVER to my knowledge. The boarding kennel where I normally take my dogs doesn't allow any dog interaction and she'll ignore the humans. The regular boarding kennel (Vistah Kennels) said she's very good but actually not much fun.

What is weird is so many dogs that I've seen who look like Elke tend to be assholes.  There must be something in the DNA combo that creates shepherd-looking faces, tan bodies, curly tails, cobby bodies and growling, snapping, asshole behavior. I have had more dogs that look similar to Elke growl, even from a distance.

I called the trainer we're supposed to take CGC prep classes with and left her a message that I'm afraid Elke is gong to get kicked out of class or fail it miserably. I'm afraid she's going to screw it up for the other dogs, Artie included. She growls when she sees people sometimes. She'll even growl at us occasionally, which is unacceptable. She only does it when we tell her to shut up because she's growling at something she hears outside. She definitely "reacts" to strange dogs. She's really bad in strange situations which, obviously this was.

How the hell is she going to pass the CGC, which is almost always in a strange place?  Let's not even TRY for the Therapy Dog or D.E.L.T.A.  (In fairness, that is a really hard test for any dog, regardless of breed/type to pass.).  I see my hopes for her going down the toilet like a torpedoed ship.

React. You know, I'm starting to HATE that word.

F---k "react." It's so P.C. It's so Dog Behaviorist-Don't Shoot The Dog psycho-babble lingo B.S. Don't misunderstand, I do respect those people.  They have tons more training and experience than I do.  I get that.

I got news: It's called Being Stupid. If we were talking about a child it would be: YOUR KID IS A BRAT. I don't care if they are 2 or 20.

In the olden days of dog training, we called it "Being An Asshole." We would have had her front legs off the ground by her face and she'd be getting a "what the hell" lecture in no uncertain terms if she pulled that crap.  You lunge at another dog (or worse a person) you're being an Asshole, a Bully.  (No offense to Bully breeds.) Nowadays with "positive only" types of training that is a huge no-no.  They're being "reactive."

Screw Being Reactive. They're being an ASSHOLE!  Call it what it is.  I'll try positive training, clickers, the yippee-skippy dance, whatever but PLEASE call it what it is.  Please "nice' dog training people, please, just call my dog an asshole. I'm OK with it.  Promise.  I know, far better than you, that my dog IS one! I want him/her to NOT be one!  The world sucks for doggie assholes.  Doggie asshole have very little life. Doggie asshole die all the time.

This is my issue...

I'm tired of having dogs I can't take anywhere or do anything with because they are reactive assholes. Just like one expects their kid to graduate from school, I expect my dogs to get their Canine Good Citizen certification.  Just the normal course of events. I expect that if I'm walking my dog on a trail I don't have to go 6 feet into the bush, stuffing hotdogs like I'm a sausage maker into my dog's mouth to avoid the other dog passing me or coming at me, even an ancient, calm one. I'd like to go on vacation with my dogs. We having a standing invite to go to NY state with our dogs too.  Bummer.  Kennel time!

I've only had one dog, Dri, my German Pinscher who couldn't pass the CGC test and it was one part...the "leave the dog with a friendly stranger" part.  He moaned. A lot. He whined. A lot.  People laughed.  A lot. (Frankly, I was stunned he did OK on the rest.)

Here is Elke, with those melt-you eyes, that soft fluffy fur, her adorable face...and she is being a jerk.

I'd love to take my dogs for hikes, bikes, maybe herding or agility or Rally.  I'd love to go to events like BARK IN THE PARK, the Humane Society's fun benefit and dog walk. I will probably try and take Artie. He might be just fine.  I'd love to do therapy work with my dogs; I've seen the benefits.  I know what dogs can do. I'm tired of my world shrinking because of the asshole dogs the goddamn Universe seems to throw in my way.

WTF? WTF am I doing wrong?

So, in conclusion, the next time you are out walking with your dog and see an adorable Elke-looking dog and a "pit bull" type dog, you might want to give Miss Adorable a wide berth and try walking NICELY past the Pit Bull.

Poem for a dog

For Nathan, a victim of dog-fighting...

"An angel needed a guardian to help those souls in need.
So heaven asked for Nathan to help with this great deed.
They knew his heart was better that what this world had shown
'Cause sometimes angels lose their way but a dog will lead you Home
©Mia (Mia Hess)"

Rant No. 347: Modern Grammar For Yo' Peeps

I will put on my snotty, little Miss Debutante crown here. I make absolutely no apologies either. I also make no apologies for my writing style either.

Caution: Big Word Alert!

Since I am extremely well-educated and well-traveled, have lived abroad and am fairly adroit in 3 other languages other than English, I'm entitled. Since I have been drilled and grilled from an very young age on proper manners and etiquette, I am entitled.

Since I am a published author (online and in print) of various articles, I'm entitled. Since I come from a family (on BOTH sides) who are published authors of newspaper columns, articles and books for over 75 years, I'm entitled. Since I have read, edited and critiqued submitted book excerpts for a New York publishing house, I'm entitled.

Since I have testified before the Ohio State Judiciary Committee speaking words that I wrote, I'm entitled. My written words are now part of the record and helped to get a law enacted.

Since I have been in theater (in all aspects) for over 40 years (amateur and professional) and have been a Master of Ceremonies for a wide variety of events nation-wide, I'm entitled.

Since I am far more verbally erudite and eloquent than most people and I use "big" words far more often than most ever will in my everyday conversation, I'm entitled. I even know what the "big" words mean. I can (and often do) speak and write correctly and beautifully.

And because, damnit, I'm over 50, I'm entitled.

Therefore, if I want to use the slang, "Peeps" for "People" on Facebook, Twitter and text messages occasionally, by God, I've earned it.

Is it proper? Of course it isn't, you dunderheads, you cloddish dolts! However, language is fluid, ever-moving, changing. Oh, for your information, "Can't" and "Don't"used to be considered conjunctive slang; highly improper and very low class. Thank you very much.

"Peeps?" It is a written colloquialism, for God's sake. Oh, my! Big Word Alert again!

Yo' mother! Bouya!

(There may be a few typographical errors, which I will apologize for.)