Toys

When we come home and I let Goldie out of the back of the car, the first thing she does is to run and grab a squeaky toy.

Then, if the neighbor dogs are out in their yards, she parades up and down, tossing her head in the air as if to say "Look what I have! I have a TOY!"

I was doing some reading up on dog behavior and it said that female dogs often like to brag about their toys to other dogs.

Wow, we aren't really much different, are we?

Girl dogs and girl people. My dog has a squeaky hedgehog and I have a Superhero necklace. Some women collect handbags. Or shoes. And then go parade them around.

Hey, look at ME! Look what I have!

Funny little creatures, aren't we?

Beach Walk

I wonder if I put up just a photo instead of a post, if anyone will notice?


Super Friendly Ranger Guy: HI! HI! What is your pup's name?
Suebob: That is Miss Goldie
Super Friendly Ranger Guy: Oh, she looks like a GOOD dog!
Suebob: Why, yes, she is.
Super Friendly Ranger Guy: So the reason I am talking to you is about the PUP!
Suebob: Yes?
Super Friendly Ranger Guy: You see, this is a STATE BEACH! Dogs aren't allowed on the STATE BEACH! Because of the ENDANGERED SPECIES!

Ok, that's enough. But I swear he did talk in all caps like that. Like kindergarten teachers do.

The problem with blogging

The biggest problem with blogging is non-bloggers.

Bloggers understand. They don't complain. They don't ask. I think they assume, as I do, that we are among friends.

Friends say stupid things. They disappear for weeks at a time without a word. They talk about themselves too much or say the wrong things or don't tell both sides of the story. And we forgive them, because, well, we are friends. We cut each other some slack. Sometimes a lot of slack.

Then the non-bloggers stop by and say "OMG! How could you SAY that! Who do you think you are?

It is like we are two different species. Some people have to blog, and others can't figure out why we have to.

Yesterday the delightful Mrs. G of Derfwad Manor launched her new baby, Women's Colony out into the blog world.

Her second commenter - SECOND COMMENTER! - complained that the new blog didn't have much content. As my old co-worker Kirk used to say "Hello? Hello, BUTTHEAD!"

Yes, we are bloggers. We are just like you, in every faulty, crazy, leaky, smelly, goofy way. The only difference is that we do it in writing, in public. And for some reason we can't stop.

Maybe we do it because blogging makes you happier.

And now, as a public service, the proper way to say "Hello Hello Butthead."

New moon

Curt's memorial service was today and it was wonderful in the way that only a small-town memorial can be wonderful. So many loving people gathered together, each contributing in their own way to a circle of love and caring and life. Good music, good food, kind words, fond memories.

Ack. Now I'm crying again.

I was a frickity-fracking mess through the whole thing. I wept through the Bach and Beethoven violin and cello pieces, used 17 tissues while the rabbi and the friends were speaking.

Then Gael had to go and read the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem I told her not to read because I was sure no one could read it without sobbing, and she read it in a clear, perfectly composed tone:

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

I was so proud of her.

...and that set me and Anne-Marie, who was clutching my hand, off all over again.

It was not a pretty sight, people.

But then...then...a miracle happened. A rainbow? A cloud in the shape of a dove? No.

The service was held in the community center at the park. The speakers stood with their backs to a big picture window that framed a view of the green grass, the trees, the perfect warm day.

As the rabbi made his closing remarks, a man came and lay down on the grass, underneath a tree, with his back to us. And even though he was about 50 yards away, I could clearly see about 5 inches of his exposed buttcrack.

I was suddenly, overwhelmingly happy. I know without a doubt that Curt would have approved.

Inappropriate Laughter

Along with almost every tragedy there comes inappropriate laughter. Just at the point where you think you can never stop crying, where you feel like you will never smile again, it strikes.

Something so stupid and awful and wrong that you burst into laughter that starts small and catches like a wildfire in dry grass until you are howling and crying and snotting all over yourself.

Gael gave me permission to share her story that caused our inappropriate laughter Tuesday night.

******
She had told many, many people what happened to Curt, but she hadn't had a chance to tell her beloved cousin, Lisa.

Gael checked her email and found one from Lisa with the subject line "Sad news."

She thought "Oh, good, someone told Lisa. That's one less thing I have to do."

She opened the email. The sad news was that Lisa's dog had died.

"So I thought 'What do I do NOW?'" Gael said.

Indeed. Call Lisa and say "You think YOU have sad news! Well, check this out!" or "I can see your dog and raise you a husband!"
***********

Yeah. Inappropriate laughter. Sometimes it is the only way we survive.