A Walk on the Wild Side

I guess we all have weaknesses, things that we accumulate or collect that we don’t need or go completely overboard with.   For me…..it’s shoes.

I love shoes.  When I married my husband we had some help moving to our first apartment.  I remember one of the first things my new father-in-law said to me was “Why would ANYBODY have this many pairs of shoes?”  It was a legitimate question after making dozens of trips to the U-Haul with big boxes of shoe boxes. 

At times I’ve had more, and sometimes it’s less, but I probably have never had fewer than a hundred fifty pairs of shoes at any one time.   When I retired a few years ago I sold a bunch of clothes (I’m a clothes horse, too) and took literally dozens of pairs of shoes to a donation center.   I didn’t think I needed high heels any longer because I planned to adopt a blue jeans lifestyle from here on out.   The “best laid plans” and all that……

Today someone commented on a gal’s shoes when she came into the office.   They were high, high, high, and pointed to an armor piercing sharpness.  I don’t have any of those shoes left, but I’ve worn my share over the years.  I still admire high heels on women….just not this woman any longer. 

I realized I’m sort of “out of the fashion loop” these days, so I went to some websites to look at fashionable footwear in the year of 2012.  Evidently a lot has changed since I gave up high heels, and this is one fashion loop I’m glad to be out of.

The fashion websites and magazines are full of clunky, ugly, Frankenstein shoes!   When did this happen?  They look torturously uncomfortable, and I wonder what men think of these ugly things?   Prince Charming would NOT have gone door to door looking for the girl who wore one of these things….would he?

These shoes threaten to cripple a woman, and the videos are full of runway models teetering along on these ugly shoes, only to fall on stage like a tree felled in the forest.   What are we thinking, ladies?

It puts me in mind of the barbaric practice of foot binding in China. That little fashion trend began in the 10th century sometime during the Tang Dynasty (618-907) and ended over a thousand years later.  This fashion sanctioned torture was practiced on young girls usually six years of age and younger. Feet were wrapped in tight bandages and broken so they couldn’t grow. Foot binding was generally practiced by wealthy families; it was a sign of beauty and wealth.

Eventually foot binding moved from wealthy city families to women in the countryside, where women realized they could marry into money by having these prized three inch feet. For centuries women suffered terrible pain in the hopes of having a better future by meeting this insane fashion standard.

You know gals, if we go along with this and plunk down our money we’re only encouraging the designers.   Besides, you want to be able to be barefoot and fashionable too, don’t you?   I say give up the ugly shoes and talk to your plastic surgeon………

                               Now ladies,  THAT’S fashion.

                                               Life is Good

A pause for the cause....

I’ve had a “bug” for a couple of days.  Thankfully it doesn’t happen often, and once is a great while is quite enough.   I’m a horrible patient….a patient without patience.  There are things I want to do, and when throwing up doesn’t allow me to get to those things I tend to get testy.

My bouts with the flu are always the same.  I am in total denial (I am NOT going to be sick)  until a growing nausea  inspires me (don't make me throw up!) to tear through cabinets in search of some magic potion that will stop my stomach from erupting like Old Faithful.  I know I can stop this (don't make me throw up!) if I find just the right medicine or if I can strike the right bargain with God. (please don't make me throw up!)  Next thing I know my exortations are silenced by a geyser of Alka Seltzer and anything else that I've ingested within the last 12 hours.   Ugh, it's official....I'm sick.   I would make a terrible bulimic. 

If there’s anything at all that’s good about a sick day it has to be the enforced bed rest that allows one to catch up on some reading.   It might be a novel I’ve been working on for a while, might be a stack of catalogs I’ve been saving for a quiet moment, even magazines still wrapped in plastic.   Actually it ended up being all three, and I spent Thursday evening and all day Friday cuddled in bed with a stack of reading material.

Halfway through the stack of unopened magazines I paused for a minute to reflect on how much I enjoy reading and then, as it always happens, the woman who presented me with this gift crossed my mind.

I can’t remember if it was second or third grade, but I remember the teacher well who inspired my love of reading.  Her name was Hilda Bowman, and I was in school at Mifflin Elementary.  I thought she was an “older” woman, but looking back at pictures I’ve saved from grade school there she is, smiling out from the 1950’s in that old school picture, hair tightly curled and wearing a dark flowered dress with a white collar.   Although it’s a head and shoulders shot I know it was a dark flowered “dress” because in those days teachers dressed like ladies, these were the days before pant suits or slacks. I bet she was somewhere between thirty and thirty five at the most.

I think she must have been a relatively new teacher, but I remember sitting at her feet as she read to the class.   She was animated and enthusiastic…and I remember wanting to have the power that she had.   At the time I thought her “power” was the ability to read, but much later I realized what I really wanted was the power to communicate.   Reading was a very important part, but it was her power to communicate what she read to us that fascinated me.    Her reading to us and telling us stories made me impatient to be able to read and learn things for myself.  I wish I had been old enough to understand that and tell her how I appreciate the unquenchable curiosity she woke in me.

I spent my youth lost in one book or another….trying on personalities and visiting foreign places, seeing things I never would have imagined.  Growing up with one black and white TV in the house it wasn’t hard to tear yourself away from the “boob tube” to do something else.   But today, with hundreds of channels from which to choose, it’s just as easy.   There are so few television shows on that I think are interesting.  The fascination behind “reality TV” completely escapes me, and movies no longer have endings that make any sense to me.   In truth I don’t recognize many of the faces in either; that seems to be an age thing. 

And so I constantly turn to my dearest friend, reading.    A stack of well-chosen books is as welcoming to me as a group of friends with whom I have a great deal in common.   On the other hand a book that challenges my thinking and makes me take a closer look at my own beliefs is something I enjoy as well.

I can’t think of anything anyone ever gave me that has lasted longer and meant so much to me as my love of reading.   Thank you, Hilda Bowman.   I don’t know if you’re still out there, but if I had the chance to meet you again, perhaps over a cup of coffee, after all these years I would say, “Thank you. Your dedication to your craft has given me a lifelong passion for reading and communication.  What you chose to do with your life made a great difference in my own.” 

“Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes.  And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book and we resume our lives.”  Neil Gaiman, American Gods

                                       LIFE IS GOOD

It only hurts when I laugh

You know how sometimes you’re just trying to organize your desktop on your computer and you get started going through pictures and things you’ve kept?   If the things I have saved on my desktop were in paper form they would fill a side by side refrigerator box.

This morning I started sifting through things and came upon a picture that took me back to August 20, 2010.  I haven’t memorized the date of every picture I have, but this one was “special”…..because it’s a picture of me being loaded into an ambulance.

That August day started out just great.   Larry and I had tickets for Phantom of the Opera in Cleveland; we were going with two other couples that we enjoyed.   We had plans for a nice dinner at The Star; right next door to the theatre…….what could possibly go wrong?

Parking was a snap, we got right into a lot and as long as we picked up the car by eleven thirty we were golden.   We walked the short distance to the restaurant, laughing and joking.   Dinner was great; we finished with a drink and then walked next door to enjoy the performance.

Phantom of the Opera is my favorite, I’ve seen it everywhere I could…..from the Pantages in Toronto to Broadway, Cleveland and a performance at the Renaissance Theatre here in Mansfield.   I have the sound track, the movie…..I have a pin that I can no longer locate and I would go see it again anywhere, anytime.  Suffice it to say, I am a fan.

So, here we are in Cleveland enjoying the performance in a lovely old theatre in Playhouse Square, the show is over and we’re leaving to get the car.   Then someone suggested dessert at The Star before we headed back to Mansfield.   We had heard the cast sometimes goes there after the performance, so we all trooped in for dessert and coffee. 

More conversation and more food after a lovely play, it just can’t get any better than that.   Since our friends had driven the six of us to Cleveland we all started to follow them out, but I decided to make a short stop in the ladies room before I left the restaurant.  

The restaurant was dimly lighted….I assume it’s what is considered “mood lighting”….and my mood was very good as I exited the ladies room and turned left down a long slate walkway to meet my husband as he stood waiting for me at the front door.   Next thing I knew I was doing an excruciating version of the splits on that very same slate floor.  I can’t say there was something on the floor because it was too dark to see anything….but here I am with my right leg hyper extended in front of me.   I had come down on the slate on my bent left knee and then on out into a painful version of the splits.   I might add here that until this particular evening I never even knew I could do the splits, a revelation I could just as easily have done without.

Trying to figure out exactly how my body was configured and how it came to be in this position, all I could do was wait for help to arrive.    Larry was two steps ahead of the restaurant manager and a server, then all our friends.   I was afraid to move; in fact it was out of the question.    It took a few seconds to decide just who should grab me and where and then what to do after that.  Everything was a blur of pain, but I was finally able to shift my legs to a position that allowed everyone to get me into a chair. 

My right leg was screaming, my left leg completely numb, and about that time the rescue squad showed up.  They put me on a gurney and took me into the back of the truck to check me out.   By now I was so completely embarrassed I just wanted to go home.  I had visions of my husband and friends spending the night in the emergency room in Cleveland while I was treated for some extreme leg and ego damage.

Eventually everyone agreed if nothing was broken I could go home and hit the nearest emergency room if necessary.    My right ham string was torn, my left knee swollen to twice its normal size, and there was an assortment of other bruises that wouldn’t come into full bloom until the next day or two had passed.  Just as painfully my pride was shattered beyond repair….it, too, would take some time to heal.   I just wanted to get out of there, and so it was that the nice young people gave me ice packs galore, towels to hold them in place, and wished me well as we headed home.

Two years later I still have trouble with the knee, but the ham string seems to have healed pretty well.  I have never again worn the shoes I had on that night just in case they were in any kind of conspiracy with the slate floor.  One of the employees who helped get me out of there that night said several people had fallen on that floor……I sure hope they get it replaced before Phantom comes back to Cleveland.

I ended up at my family doctor and then an orthopedic for some after care, so all in all things have healed pretty well.   I only wish I had seen a pride specialist, because I can still remember the embarrassment of being stretched out on that restaurant floor like a geriatric cheerleader.

            Well….they say write what you know.  I know I don’t really want to do that again.

Real people for Real Americans

I want to announce that I am running for President of the United States.  My platform will be job creation…and my slogan is “Real people for Real Americans”.   Upon my election I will sign into law a piece of sweeping legislation that will immediately create jobs across the country.   This will be called “Diana’s Law”, and every company, every doctor, every government agency will be forced to take out their automated answering systems and hire real people.    No longer will the only telephone  answered by a real person in this country be the pizza joint around the corner!  I know everyone in this country is sick and tired of talking to a machine…especially THIS American.

Here’s where my candidacy began.   Today I have been trying to reach an appliance salesman who helped my husband and me spend our hard earned dollars on some new things for our kitchen.  I was to call him back to make sure our delivery date was solid.  Had I known it was almost impossible thing to do I would have given him my cell number and had him call me. 

                                The names have been changed to protect the stupid.

When you dial the number of this local store you get the canned, but friendly, voice of a young woman who seriously wants to help you.   Or at least she really wanted to help you when she recorded this stuff five years ago.
“Thank you for calling Shane’s Department Store.    Please tell me what department you wish to speak with and I will connect you.”

Me:  “Appliances”

“I’m sorry….I didn’t get that.  Did you say bedding?”

Me:  “Appliances”

“Let me try that again. (tinkling music)   Please tell me what department you wish to speak with”

Me:  (louder) “APPLIANCES”

“I heard ‘appliances’…..is that correct?”

Me:   “Yes”

“Now please tell me if you wish to speak to someone in small appliances (coffee makers, toasters, small kitchen appliances), or large appliances (stoves, refrigerators, washers and dryers).   Say ‘large’ or say ‘small’.”

Me:  “LARGE”

“I heard ‘large’, is that correct?”

ME:  “YES!!!!”

“Great!  (tinkling music)  If you want to speak to someone about a purchase, say ‘purchase’.   If you want to speak to someone about something you have already purchased and are awaiting delivery say ‘delivery’, if you need to order parts and service say ‘parts and service’.   If you want….”

At this point I sneezed….and she stopped talking.   I guess she’s not programmed to say “Gezundheit!”   Since the sneeze seemed to break her spell of caring and connecting, I was forced to call back again….and again….and again.

After what was probably the fourth attempt to navigate this special piece of automated hell, I remembered something that someone sent me on the internet.  It said push zero when you get into one of these electronic tangles and you’ll get a real person.

I pushed zero about two hundred times.  To my absolute shock there was a pause and a real live person came on the line and said, “Thank you for calling Shane’s Department Store, how may I help you?”

Ah-ha!!   Of all the crap I get sent to my email this ONE thing seems to work!  Press zero…get a human! 

“I need to speak to the large appliance department, please,” I said in a very self-satisfied tone.   Hadn’t I just thwarted their automated system, made them give me a human to speak to???   Waaaaaaahhhaaaaahaaaa!!!

“And you are in what State, please?” said the human.

I almost answer “Euphoria!”…….but I controlled myself and said, “Ohio”.

“Thank you, I will now connect you with that department”, said the human.

Click……wherrrrrrrrrr……click….and then the dreaded tinkling music.

No more human….no more sound at all for ten seconds…..and then the line went dead (Noooooooooo!) except for the choked sobbing that was coming from my end.

Notice:   If you are a Shane’s Department Store appliance salesman with a really bad moustache named Ron, and you happen to read this, please call me!   My number is someplace on your paperwork, along with my date of birth, my blood type, my social security number and shoe size.    

                                     The future of my kitchen is in your hands.

                                                        Life is Good….anyway

 

Life Lessons

Driving to the grocery today I passed a house where a young boy was out in the yard, playing with a three legged dog.  It took my mind back to a time years ago when we had to decide what to do about a dog with three legs as well.

We’ve almost always had a dog in our house.   My husband and I love dogs, and our kids love dogs, cats, raccoons, ducks and anything else that walks, creeps or crawls.   We’ve had our share of animals…..but, personally, dogs are my favorite.

Many years ago we had a beautiful Weimaraner named Brandy.  She was silver grey, with intelligent gold eyes that understood everything, and she had the disposition of an angel.  One of my favorite memories is of the times Larry and I would take her for a walk, unleashing her in a field up the road from our house.  She ran like the wind, stretched out like an arrow moving across the landscape.   What a beautiful animal, and what a joy it was to watch her run.

Our children were young, and Brandy was affectionate and protective of them.  She ate with us and slept with us, always patiently waiting for us to go to bed at days end.   If we just didn’t cooperate she would put her big gray head in my lap and look up at me with those beautiful eyes as if to say, “It’s been a long day.   We need our rest”.

One summer afternoon the kids and I were home when the youngest daughter headed out to play in the front yard.  As she opened the door Brandy spied a squirrel, forgetting her manners she charged out the door to make chase.   The squirrel ran across the road, and Brandy was a second behind, running in mindless pursuit.  The squirrel made it safely across, but Brandy wasn’t as lucky.  She was struck by a red pickup truck as my daughter and I watched in frozen horror.

Running across the road I saw the dog force herself out of the ditch where she had landed, and for a moment I thought she was unhurt.    Then she fell as she tried to reach me and I knew she was really badly hurt.   With tears streaming down my cheeks I just sank down in the road and held her.

My poor little girl felt so guilty, and she was hysterical as she stood behind me.  My young son had the only cool head among us.  “Go get the car, Mom.  We have to get her to the vet.”   And that’s what we did.

The dog weighed at least 70 pounds and she was in terrible pain as we got a blanket tucked under her so we could lift her.   I backed our station wagon up, and we got her into the car somehow.   All three children and their sobbing mother headed into town, praying the vet would be in his office. 

Thankfully the departing vet turned to go back into his office when we pulled up with Brandy in the back of the car, all three children huddled around her.  He took one look and ran back in to get a muzzle.  It had never occurred to me that our gentle beauty might bite us in her agony….but she had not.   

 The vet knew she had a badly broken back leg, but he couldn’t tell what else might be going on.  He encouraged me to take the children home and leave our friend with him, promising to take good care of her.   Our sad little group walked back to the station wagon and made the silent drive home. This was the days before cell phones, so we had to wait till Daddy got home from work to tell him what had happened.

 It seemed a very long time before the vet called me at work the next morning to tell me he had Brandy on the operating table.  Both back legs were broken, one would have to be removed.   Did I want her put down while he had her asleep?  I told him I needed five minutes to think and I would call him back.  After a few very deep breaths I called back to tell him to do the best he could for her.  We would take care of our three legged dog.

At home that evening I told everyone what the vet had been forced to do, hoping I hadn’t made the wrong decision.  I didn’t know how they would react to an animal that was now very different.   I told them honestly we’d just have to wait and see how this worked….I’d never seen a big dog with three legs before.  She would remain at the animal hospital for a couple of days, and then we’d bring her home.

The next day I had my youngest with me at a green house buying some flowers for the garden.   As we walked through a big, shaggy dog was stretched out in the sun, one leg tucked under him and hidden in his fluffy coat, the other three legs splayed out around him.  My daughter studied the dog and asked, “Is that what Brandy will look like, Mommy?”

“Well, honey, I guess it is.  And when you look at it there’s a lot of dog left even without that leg, isn’t there?” I replied.   

On Monday Larry and I picked the dog up from the vet and I had never dreaded anything so much in my life.   I was shocked to see Brandy come walking out with the vet, her remaining back leg splinted.  She moved slowly and carefully, but she could walk.   Standing like a tripod, she nearly knocked herself over in her delight to see us.  At that moment I was so glad we hadn’t had her put down.

We took her home to heal….and heal she did.  For a couple of months I came home every day on my lunch hour to take her outdoors.  Her hindquarters had to be supported because of the break in her remaining leg, and the wound from the amputation had to be cleaned and dressed every day.  Larry took her out each evening before bed, sometimes carrying her when her leg gave way.  Eventually she grew stronger, and to the vet’s surprise her remaining back leg did heal and support her.   The kids all helped her up stairs and out to the yard without complaint.    She lived seven years after that and died at a ripe old age. 

It wasn't untill much later that I realized what a wonderful lesson this was for all of us.  This beautiful dog had won blue ribbons, she was champion stock, but that isn’t why we loved her.  By not having her put down and taking care of her the children learned that we don’t just throw something (or someone) away because it’s no longer “perfect”….and they learned that we take care of those we love no matter what.    

Our standard comeback when someone commented on our three legged doggy was, “Oh….you have a FOUR legged dog?   Well…maybe someday you’ll be lucky enough to have a three legged one.”

Life has a way of teaching important lessons….sometimes you just have to listen more closely to hear them.     

                                                                     Life is Good