ANIMAL CRUELITY

Our laundry room is tacked on to the farthest end of our house. And although this placement is convenient for location of a cat's litter box, it isn't practical for something like washing one's clothes.

This small, non-ventilated room is either the coldest or the hottest place in the house. There is barely room for the two machines, let alone folding or hanging garments. During the washer's spin cycle, the pictures on all walls rattle. And at it's loudest, the dryer's ending cycle beep can barely be heard ten feet away, even with the door left open.

This morning, however, I heard just a little too much of something. I was switching clothes from the washer to the dryer (sidebar - I know in Europe they have combination washer/dryers that go through the wash cycle and then in the same machine, dry the clothing - when the heck is that going to catch on over here!?) when I heard a sound that made me pause -

A tiny splashing sound accompanied by a metallic scratching noise.

Now, it couldn't be the cat - unlike most domesticated felines, Pandora is approximately the size of a small lion, and does NOTHING quietly. Both the dogs were sound asleep in front of the television (I know, I know, I should limit the number of soap operas they view daily - I'm trying).

It sounded like it was coming from the boarded off water-heater area to the immediate left of the dryer.

I do not trust my hearing ever, so I grabbed my son and made him listen and track down the noise.

And yes, it was coming from the water-heater. Unmistakably, a mouse or small rat had fallen into the water and was trying frantically to not drown.

Talk about a conflict of emotions.

1) The automatic maternal "RESCUE THE POOR MOUSE!" mode kicks in before anything else. Then...

2) "Yuck, there is a MOUSE in our water supply!" And then...

 3) "OMG how much is it gonna cost to get a plumber to come all the way out here and remove a small carcass from the water heater?

I could not find a plumber who believed the situation - "Lady, (southern accent here), them heaters are self-contained - ain't no way a mouse or a rat could get into one."

So somewhere in my house an animal has died, and I cannot tell if its death is at all related to our water supply.

But I am drinking only Diet Coke in bottles for the next two weeks.

TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

Having a job outside the home requires several things.

One thing is a 'work' wardrobe.

When I was working at BYU, the dress code forbade blue jeans. I was working on a night custodial crew - so I wore overalls - every night. And nobody could complain because they weren't blue jeans.

And when I worked for a pharmaceutical company - as a reward for getting our first drug FDA approved, our CEO gave us the okay for casual dress for the entire summer. And everyone liked it so much, he kept it for the rest of the year.

And with working, you have MAJOR food issues.

Most places, you put your name on your lunch (or in my case I just kept buying funky lunchboxes on sale that no one else in their right mind would want to claim), and hope that most individuals keep their dirty fingers out of your chocolate pudding.

Sodas, however, are difficult, if not impossible, to label.

And they get taken.... a LOT. Unless you drink something like diet bourbon dosed with lemon... no, actually, that would probably be taken FIRST.

Thankfully, I went back to a regular job not that long after leaving Germany.

And Germans do not believe in refrigerating a lot of things. Beer is warm, milk is so ultra pasteurized that you keep it in the cupboard, not the cooler. So you get used to it - and room temperature sodas were the norm.

It only took a few times of my Diet Cokes disappearing for me to come up with the ultimate solution.

Keep them at my desk, not in the fridge.

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HOWEVER, I am no longer working out of the home AND my Diet Cokes are STILL disappearing - and I'm in Arizona and I am NOT going to settle for non-chilled sodas anymore, so keeping them out of the fridge isn't an option anymore.

Solution?

Keep those stupid plastic six-pack thingies ON. And the two males in my house somehow are stopped by the simple effort of having to take REMOVE them.

HARRY POTTER THE SECOND TIME AROUND

I watch certain movies repeatedly. And I don't mean just two or three times... like HUNDREDS of times.

Most of the time it's when I'm babbling on my blog or Facebook or working on a lesson - it's sort of a comfortable background noise. I don't have to pay attention, because I know every single line of dialogue, all the action in every scene, all the expressions on every actors face.

It's sort of like eating popcorn - it's sort of filling, but mindless, and really doesn't taste like much of anything, it just SMELLS so great.

So some movies - Aliens, Serenity, You've Got Mail, Jesse and Steven Go To Yale and Lose Their Virginity - just can get played over and over and over and over... and all the Harry Potter movies are, of course, in that same category.

But I am a HUGE JK Rowling fan - I love all of her H.P. books. So I am super critical of the movies when they stray AT ALL from the original plot.

Earlier this week, I took my daughter to go see HPATHBP. And sat there hating it more and more every step the director took away from the book.

So I got a chance for redemption this weekend - my husband wanted to see HPATHBP (and doesn't like to go to movies by himself anymore), we went, and I DID NOT THINK OF THE BOOK AT ALL.

And enjoyed it thoroughly.

NO MORE ADULTHOOD, PLEASE

My daughter and I went to see the sixth Harry Potter movie this afternoon, thinking, early Thursday, movie's been out for a while, should be a quiet matinee.

It wasn't packed, but it was more crowded than I expected.

I'm a HP purist. If J.R. Rowling wrote it, then that's how it is. I have little patience with the directors who drop some of the best scenes right out of the script and put in some of the stupidest lines.

So I wasn't exceptionally happy with HPATHBP - although I was surprised that some parts were absolutely perfect (the Inferi were great).

But it was fun to get lost in the wizarding world of Hogwarts, instead of worrying about how much you can honestly modify the aforementioned daughter's resume when she has been every-thing-except-fired from her fast food job, how long you can afford to pay her rent with no other income coming in, and how much can you pressure your back-living-at-home-and-not-attending-college-anymore son into possible sharing his sister's abode and thereby paying part of the rent.

Yeah, give me a wand and put me up against Voldemort - right now that sounds easier.

GERONIMO!!

Late one night I had a soda explode in my face.

Ungainly is a polite expression, but an honest description of me would include that in addition to gawky, clumsy... well, I tend to drop things.

Easily.

And frequently.

So it wasn't entirely unexpected that the can slipped easily from my grip.

But, like the true solider I am, I immediately threw myself on top of the grenade (sidebar: did you know the word 'grenade' is derived from the French word for 'pomegranate'? Does that make about as much sense as anything French does? Pomegranate?!) to absorb the detonation.

Well, actually, I picked up the foaming, spitting and hissing can, resulting in sticky, sweet fizzy soda flowing all over my hands, my arms, my legs AND getting into my hair.

I threw it into the kitchen sink, and then (and only then) thought (finally) of the concept of COVERING it with a towel to lessen the damage.

And then spent probably twenty wiping down the fridge, the counters, the cabinets, the dishwasher, the dog, the floor, the ceiling, the oranges in a nice decorative bowl, the nice decorative bowl, and my face. Everything I was wearing was consigned to the washing machine - a hot shower was essential to get my hair separated again...


But my skin was glowing for the next two days.

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Call NOW - operators are standing by!

I AIN'T GOT NOBODY - I GOT ABOUT 85

Think about where you would LEAST like to spend seven hours on a Friday evening.

You are CORRECT, sir - waiting in the emergency room at the local hospital.

My horse, whom I still adore even after this little incident, has been incredibly obedient, calm and attentive all this past week with training. He has lunged, stopped, backed, picked up his feet, and even allowed me to completely brush all the tangles from his tail (which, when untangled, are equivalent to the entire square mileage of French Guiana).

So when he tried to follow the mare out of the pasture into the corral when I was feeding them at 4 p.m. yesterday, I calmly yet forcibly stepped in front of him to halt him, certain that he would again respond to my verbal command.

And was properly knocked flat on my back as my horse went ahead and plowed right through me.

Wait, let me clarify that a bit.

He knocked me flat on my SHOULDERS, which was then followed by my head, and then my butt hit the ground and last of all my feet.

I laid there in the dust for a few seconds, feeling very sorry for myself, but since there was no one else there to sympathize with me - even my dog had fled the scene - I got up, chased my horse back to where he belonged, and went into the house. Slowly.

And on arriving in the house, discovered I had had... well, an accident.

Well, of course, I had HAD an accident - with my stupid &@%$(@# horse knocking me off my feet.

I mean, another kind of accident. One that you are supposed to have conquered when you stop using diapers. When you begin school. Or before you have reached the age where a sneeze can cause that kind of accident.

And that sort of accident that shouldn't involve blood in any way - at least not when a uterus is no longer a part of your physiology.

So regardless of which information source I consulted (WebMD, Google, my doctor's office, my oldest daughter), the guidance was the same - go to the emergency room.

Immediately.

Do you know how many people seem to have nothing better to do on a Friday evening than go to the E.R. for a MINOR symptom, such as sniffles, a slight fever, or kidney stones (well, I guess that last one isn't minor, but he was being SUCH a big baby about it)?

But the crowning jewel is that 85% of these people spend the majority of the emergency room COMPLAINING about how...

1) The staff in the emergency are doing things that are NOT related DIRECTLY to seeing to that particular complaining patient (such as eating dinner, talking to each other, going to the restroom, etc.)

2) The man who came in TWO HOURS after that particular complaining patient was seen BEFORE them - who cares that he was bleeding from gunshot blast, clutching his chest, and/or in the last stages of labor (okay, maybe not that one).

3) There are not sufficient personnel in the E.R. to take note of their complaints, comfort and/or constipation (er, sorry, not that last one) exactly when this particular complaining patient needs to vent.

So I bent over backwards to tell each and every E.R. personnel (Michelle, Lisa, Heather, Eva, Stephen and Eddie) how incredible great and efficient they were and how much I appreciated all their efforts.

And got out of there just under seven hours. Even with having a CAT scan.

You guys at the E.R. rock.

GETTIN' DOWN AND DIRTY

I don't mind dirt.


I try to keep my fingernails clean, I vacuum, I dust things when it becomes too obvious. I wash my hair a lot, and I take a bath almost every night (not for cleanliness so much as relaxation).

But I also live in southern Arizona, where dust is simply a significant part of the environment and our culture - sparkling clean cowboy boots that would be fine in New York City look silly down here. Same with real pick-ups and blue-jeans.

(Although I still can't get over paying money for jeans that LOOK worn and have holes. I could have made millions if I'd saved all of mine and kept them to sell on ebay)

And I must admit, I simply love dirt from horses.

I love the way horses smell, I love grooming them, I even love cleaning up AFTER them. It's the exact same infatuation ten-year-old girls go through - I just never outgrew it... as well as some other pre-adolescent traits, my family would add.

But I have a unique specimen in my Najale.

He is a cuddler.

Which is real cute with puppies and kittens, but is somewhat ridiculous for a 16.1 horse who weighs almost 1,000 lbs.

The weather has been good enough the last few days that I've gotten back with some 'serious' training (serious horse training, by my definition, means you actually put a halter on and use a lead rope and ask the horse to do something... almost anything).

And Najale has been remarkedly good, responsing correctly to voice commands, lunging nicely and paying attention to me.

Er... maybe that 'paying attention' should be translated into the lanuage of Najalese, where it means "every-time-I-do-something-correctly-for-Mom, I get to come over and nuzzle-slobber-rub-my-big-stinky-face-all-over-her-shoulder-and-face."

Proof?

I took a shower after working with Najale for almost an hour - scrubbed pretty hard - and STILL got the white bath-towel I used to dry off looking like THIS.

A MORNING THAT ACTUALLY WAS GOOD

To say that I am not a morning person is a gross understatement, and does not even begin to touch how bad my mornings are.


I believe, perhaps wrongly, that I am normally a cheerful and polite person (please feel free to contradict me; just remain aware that I will burst into tears when you do).


And it seems like the way I can remain a cheerful and polite person is to be the grumpiest, meanest bitch for the first hour I am awake. My excuse, at least.


So when I awake, I normally am the epitome of the the hungover, blearily-eyed staggering night owl, staggering to get a coffee fix.... except for the fact that I don't drink coffee, so some Diet Coke or Mt. Dew.


There is a line from "Stranger in a Strange Land" by Robert Heidlein which I am going to paraphrase badly, but describes this condition perfectly: "For a long long time, he had been getting through that black period between waking up and the first cup of coffee by telling himself that tomorrow might be a little easier."


However, this morning was different.


Today I woke up and felt LIKE GETTING UP. I stood up and FELT GOOD. I walked into the bathroom and ACTUALLY SMILED at my reflection in the mirror.



Lord, whatever you did, keep it coming, please.