When we were kids and flying on an airplane, turning off all electronic devices for takeoff meant turning off your Walkman. Now it's cell phones, MP3 players, and laptops. Unless you have never been on an airplane, you know that when the plane door is shut, the electronics must be turned off.
Yet I am still amazed at the number of people who seem to think this doesn't apply to them. They keep texting on their smart phones, or browsing on their laptops. On a recent flight, the flight attendant had to walk down the aisle telling people to turn off their electronics. She had to personally tell ten people. And even then, they kept working. Some people had to be told two or three times, and in one instance, she had to reach over and close the laptop for the person.
The really annoying thing is that most of these people appeared to be businessmen who travel frequently. They board first with their frequent flier status. They get annoyed in security lines when they get stopped behind people who don't travel frequently, and are therefore not aware they need to remove their shoes or put their liquids in a bag. So they should know the drill. All electronics must be off for take off. It doesn't mean all unless you are a businessman. It means all. Teenagers, soccer moms, world travelers, and businessmen.
I didn't notice myself flying on Air Force One, and I didn't see the President on the commercial 100 passenger jet out of Albany. So nothing any of these people were doing was so important that they needed to disregard the safety of the other passengers. Yet these arrogant jerks continue to type away, or talk away, like the rules don't apply to them. Obviously they have such an over-inflated sense of self-worth that they think they are impressing the working people on the plane by having to take this call or finish this email. I've got news for you jerks- all email programs have a 'save draft' function. You can save it and pick up right where you left off. And the call you're on? Tell the person 'We're getting ready to take off. I'll call you later'. Seriously! I am unimpressed by your status. You're just a loser who cannot follow directions. So turn it off before I cram that cell phone down your throat!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Halloween
I hate Halloween. I know that is strong, but it's the way I feel. I am fundamentally opposed to Halloween. It's not that my parents didn't believe in Halloween. We went trick-or-treating each year as children. Dad would take us around the neighborhood, and Mom would stay home to pass out candy to our own trick-or-treaters. We were only allowed to go to the houses of people we knew. We had a few houses we went to. Maybe 15 houses. Which was plenty.
As a teenager, I started noticing we didn't know all of the people coming to our house trick-or-treating. We grew up hearing that you should check your candy for razor blades or pins or drugs. Interestingly, recently I heard this is a myth. That destroys all the good memories of dumping out our candy for Mom & Dad to inspect. (Not sure if the sarcasm can be felt through the type). It was also as a teenager I started to really think about Halloween. See, I was one of those teenagers who not only knew everything, but I spent a lot of time thinking about things. So when I made my argument about why I was right, I presented it in a logical, well-thought out manner.
364 days a year, we tell our children to stay away from strangers. Don't talk to them. Don't take anything from them, especially candy. They could be poisoning you and trying to lure you away with them. (Back to that old fear from our childhood.) And then one day a year, we send our children out into the neighborhood to take candy from strangers. At our house, we get a couple hundred trick-or-treaters a year. I know we are strangers to all of them, because there are about 5 children on our street.
364 days a year, society looks down on begging. We see someone panhandling in the parking lot, and 99% of people look at this person with disgust. We think 'get a job!'. As if they chose this path. Yet one night a year, it is expected that all children will go begging. And strangers throw open their doors, ooh and ah over the disguises, and actually toss candy at the children.
What kind of a message does that send to our kids? It's okay on October 31 to talk to strangers and beg for candy, but on November 1 it's unacceptable.
As a hard-working adult, I dislike the destruction that accompanies Halloween. I don't know what purpose is served by smashing pumpkins in the road. I have never understood the urge to toilet paper a house or yard. And my heart breaks at the thought of black cats being tormented. I don't like cats, but I hate to see any animals abused.
As a dog Mommy, Halloween is a very stressful night. Here in Ohio, the various cities set trick-or-treat times. Sometimes they are on different nights, and other years most of the cities do it on the same night. Middletown's is always an hour and a half: from 5:30pm-7pm. Many cities do two hours, so the shorter time in Middletown is wonderful for those of us with dogs. If it were up to me, we would not pass out candy at our house. I wouldn't participate. Erich loves Halloween though. So he buys the candy and passes it out. I get the joy of sitting with the dogs. After the first year, we learned they cannot be near the door. They do not like people coming to our door, and people wearing costumes was even worse. Add to this all the people asking for 'treats' (the dogs know the word treat, and were very distraught that they weren't getting any); and it made for a very stressful night. Now we block them in the dining room (which is away from the front door). They sit in there with toys and food, and sometimes I still have to sit with them to keep them calm. It is the longest hour and a half of the year!
I know I'm in the minority. Some people love Halloween, and most people at least enjoy it. I hate it. I'm the Halloween Scrooge. For me, the only good thing about Halloween is that once it's over, we're that much closer to Christmas. That's my Holiday! I put a lot of energy into Christmas. So come back to my house in a few weeks, and you'll find a very cheerful, festive environment. And maybe even some cookies or homemade fudge!
As a teenager, I started noticing we didn't know all of the people coming to our house trick-or-treating. We grew up hearing that you should check your candy for razor blades or pins or drugs. Interestingly, recently I heard this is a myth. That destroys all the good memories of dumping out our candy for Mom & Dad to inspect. (Not sure if the sarcasm can be felt through the type). It was also as a teenager I started to really think about Halloween. See, I was one of those teenagers who not only knew everything, but I spent a lot of time thinking about things. So when I made my argument about why I was right, I presented it in a logical, well-thought out manner.
364 days a year, we tell our children to stay away from strangers. Don't talk to them. Don't take anything from them, especially candy. They could be poisoning you and trying to lure you away with them. (Back to that old fear from our childhood.) And then one day a year, we send our children out into the neighborhood to take candy from strangers. At our house, we get a couple hundred trick-or-treaters a year. I know we are strangers to all of them, because there are about 5 children on our street.
364 days a year, society looks down on begging. We see someone panhandling in the parking lot, and 99% of people look at this person with disgust. We think 'get a job!'. As if they chose this path. Yet one night a year, it is expected that all children will go begging. And strangers throw open their doors, ooh and ah over the disguises, and actually toss candy at the children.
What kind of a message does that send to our kids? It's okay on October 31 to talk to strangers and beg for candy, but on November 1 it's unacceptable.
As a hard-working adult, I dislike the destruction that accompanies Halloween. I don't know what purpose is served by smashing pumpkins in the road. I have never understood the urge to toilet paper a house or yard. And my heart breaks at the thought of black cats being tormented. I don't like cats, but I hate to see any animals abused.
As a dog Mommy, Halloween is a very stressful night. Here in Ohio, the various cities set trick-or-treat times. Sometimes they are on different nights, and other years most of the cities do it on the same night. Middletown's is always an hour and a half: from 5:30pm-7pm. Many cities do two hours, so the shorter time in Middletown is wonderful for those of us with dogs. If it were up to me, we would not pass out candy at our house. I wouldn't participate. Erich loves Halloween though. So he buys the candy and passes it out. I get the joy of sitting with the dogs. After the first year, we learned they cannot be near the door. They do not like people coming to our door, and people wearing costumes was even worse. Add to this all the people asking for 'treats' (the dogs know the word treat, and were very distraught that they weren't getting any); and it made for a very stressful night. Now we block them in the dining room (which is away from the front door). They sit in there with toys and food, and sometimes I still have to sit with them to keep them calm. It is the longest hour and a half of the year!
I know I'm in the minority. Some people love Halloween, and most people at least enjoy it. I hate it. I'm the Halloween Scrooge. For me, the only good thing about Halloween is that once it's over, we're that much closer to Christmas. That's my Holiday! I put a lot of energy into Christmas. So come back to my house in a few weeks, and you'll find a very cheerful, festive environment. And maybe even some cookies or homemade fudge!
Blessings
It would be so easy to feel sorry for myself. Every day I battle pain. Some days it is an all over ache-like the flu. Other days it is random stabbing pain that comes and goes. It might be in my hands one day, and my legs the next. When I feel the stab of pain, it makes me stop what I'm doing briefly. Some days the pain gets the best of me and I give up. It feels like that happens a lot, but when I look at a year full of days, the pain only wins 20-25% of the time. So 75-80% of the time I just keep pressing on.
Many people with Fibromyalgia also battle depression. I am fortunate that my bouts of depression are very rare. When they occur, it is more feeling sorry for myself rather than being outright depressed.
I try not to ask questions like 'Why me?'. Ok, I was diagnosed at age 30 with a chronic condition that will plague me the rest of my life. A college friend died at the age of 32 from cancer. She left a husband and young family. When I think of that, the chronic condition doesn't seem so bad.
To keep my focus, I try to remind myself daily how lucky I am. I have been blessed in my life. I have a wonderful family. My parents are very loving and supportive, and we enjoy spending time together. My sister and I are great friends. I have a niece who adores me, and hopefully her brother will, too. My job may not be the greatest, but it does pay the bills. I can wear jeans to work, which is quite nice. Especially on the days that I feel lousy. I feel lucky to still have a job in this economy. So I try to remind myself it is better to have one than not. Sometimes I have to tell myself this several times a day.... *grin*
Perhaps my greatest blessing is Erich. He came into my life a few weeks before my Grandpa Wager passed away. I believe Grandpa sent him to me. I say this because he is a lot like my Grandpa. He is a very smart man. While Grandpa never went to college, he wanted to. He wanted to be a lawyer. Erich seems to be the perpetual student. He has five degrees so far, and plans to start his Bachelors of Nursing soon. Both Grandpa and Erich love to read. And Erich has a very dry humor, just like my Grandfather.
At least once a week, Erich does something to remind me how blessed I am. Three weeks ago I was rear-ended on my way home for lunch. Accidents are stressful times. I was at home, on the phone with my mom, and Erich came through the door with a bouquet of pink carnations. He had no idea what had happened, he just picked up the flowers. I started crying all over again when he came through the door, but those tears were more of a happy tear.
Sometimes the blessings are more subtle. It might just be seeing an amazing sunset. Then I think how lucky I am to have the vision to see it. Fall is a time of year that leaves me in wonder. Tucked around the bend can be another beautiful display of reds, oranges, and yellows. I love to drive around and see the color. It is a terrific time to reflect on the blessing of living in a climate where I can see this.
I probably sound a bit like Pollyanna. I guess I am. I don't run around telling people to look for the positive in things. It is more of a mental game I play with myself. It helps me keep things in perspective. Yes, the Fibro is annoying and sometimes it interferes in my life. But other people deal with far worse things. When I look at the big picture, my life is great. Sure, it could be better. Couldn't every one's? I am blessed, and so grateful for the good in my life.
Many people with Fibromyalgia also battle depression. I am fortunate that my bouts of depression are very rare. When they occur, it is more feeling sorry for myself rather than being outright depressed.
I try not to ask questions like 'Why me?'. Ok, I was diagnosed at age 30 with a chronic condition that will plague me the rest of my life. A college friend died at the age of 32 from cancer. She left a husband and young family. When I think of that, the chronic condition doesn't seem so bad.
To keep my focus, I try to remind myself daily how lucky I am. I have been blessed in my life. I have a wonderful family. My parents are very loving and supportive, and we enjoy spending time together. My sister and I are great friends. I have a niece who adores me, and hopefully her brother will, too. My job may not be the greatest, but it does pay the bills. I can wear jeans to work, which is quite nice. Especially on the days that I feel lousy. I feel lucky to still have a job in this economy. So I try to remind myself it is better to have one than not. Sometimes I have to tell myself this several times a day.... *grin*
Perhaps my greatest blessing is Erich. He came into my life a few weeks before my Grandpa Wager passed away. I believe Grandpa sent him to me. I say this because he is a lot like my Grandpa. He is a very smart man. While Grandpa never went to college, he wanted to. He wanted to be a lawyer. Erich seems to be the perpetual student. He has five degrees so far, and plans to start his Bachelors of Nursing soon. Both Grandpa and Erich love to read. And Erich has a very dry humor, just like my Grandfather.
At least once a week, Erich does something to remind me how blessed I am. Three weeks ago I was rear-ended on my way home for lunch. Accidents are stressful times. I was at home, on the phone with my mom, and Erich came through the door with a bouquet of pink carnations. He had no idea what had happened, he just picked up the flowers. I started crying all over again when he came through the door, but those tears were more of a happy tear.
Sometimes the blessings are more subtle. It might just be seeing an amazing sunset. Then I think how lucky I am to have the vision to see it. Fall is a time of year that leaves me in wonder. Tucked around the bend can be another beautiful display of reds, oranges, and yellows. I love to drive around and see the color. It is a terrific time to reflect on the blessing of living in a climate where I can see this.
I probably sound a bit like Pollyanna. I guess I am. I don't run around telling people to look for the positive in things. It is more of a mental game I play with myself. It helps me keep things in perspective. Yes, the Fibro is annoying and sometimes it interferes in my life. But other people deal with far worse things. When I look at the big picture, my life is great. Sure, it could be better. Couldn't every one's? I am blessed, and so grateful for the good in my life.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Frozen Treats in the Middle of Nowhere
My parents live in the country. Well, kind of. They live in a small village- in the country. It is a very rural area that remains a bit isolated. The town did not get cable until 1995. I was in college when they got cable. When we were young children, we only got one channel-WRGB Channel 6. It was CBS. One of our other neighbors only got Channel 10 (ABC) and a third neighbor had Channel 13 (NBC). If you wanted to watch something on the channel you didn't get, you went to your neighbor's house.My parents were married 30 years before they had pizza delivered. And then it was here in Ohio. They were visiting me and we decided to order pizza for dinner. I called the pizza place, placed the order, and hung up the phone. I told them it would be half an hour, and Mom picked up her purse while Dad got the car keys. They wanted to know how far away the restaurant was. I explained to them that they have delivery drivers, and the driver would bring it to our house. My parents wondered how they knew where we lived. I told them we have ordered from this chain before, so they have our information on file (but I didn't tell them HOW often we order). When the pizza arrived, my parents were stunned that it was still hot. Where they live, if you pick up a hot pizza on the way home, it is cold when you get home and needs to be reheated. Not that my parents are stupid- it was just a new experience for them.
So imagine my surprise when Mom called one night this summer to tell me they now have an ice cream truck that comes to town. I honestly wondered if Mom had had a really rough day and maybe drank one of Dad's beers. I never imagined I'd experience this phenomenon in late October when I went to visit.
On Tuesday night, 10/19, I was sitting in the living room with Dad after dinner. The windows were all closed, yet around 6pm I heard the distinct music of an ice cream truck. We have ice cream trucks in Middletown, so I'm used to hearing them go up and down the street. But I wasn't prepared for the excitement of the ice cream truck coming to Berlin. I looked around, puzzled. Dad asked what was wrong, and I told him I heard an ice cream truck. My father, who is 6'3" and has one very bad knee and one that is a little better, jumped out of his chair like he had been sitting on an ejection spring. He shouted excitedly, "Mr. Ding a Ling is coming! Dear, get your wallet, come on!" (Dear is my mother). My mother was washing dishes and she immediately stopped, and ran to her purse. She grabbed her wallet and said, "What do you want?" but started rushing out the door before Dad could answer. I thought they were doing this for me, and told her "oh, I don't need anything." Dad said, "No, you have to buy from her and support her so she keeps coming back."
My parents then practically tripped over each other trying to get out the door. They were bouncing up and down with excitement as we waited in the driveway. They kept looking up and down their road, trying to see where she went. I listened to the sounds of the music, and could tell the truck was still on Main Street, and had not yet turned up Mom & Dad's road. It was only about 40* outside, and dark already, so it was a bit brisk. Dad went back inside to watch the news, telling Mom to just get him 'something'. Dad has a sweet tooth, especially when it comes to ice cream. There are few ice cream products he doesn't like. Mom stepped inside to get coats for us.
As we stood there, watching the truck slowly make its way up Mom & Dad's road, stopping at other houses along the way, Mom told me that the one neighbors are like 'little kids' when the ice cream truck comes along. I asked her how she & Dad had acted, because to me, they acted like little kids. She said, "Well, yes, but they get enough to last the whole week". The ice cream truck made several stops on Mom & Dad's road which is great. There are 11 houses on Mom & Dad's road, and a couple of them are second homes for people who live in the city. There are no little kids on the road, just a couple of teenagers. When we were growing up, almost every house had kids in it, but we've all grown up and moved on. However, our parents are thrilled by the ice cream truck and eagerly run out each week to get their fix.
Finally, the truck pulled into Mom & Dad's driveway. They have a big round driveway which makes turning trucks around very easy. The ice cream truck lady parked the truck, and we went over to make our purchase. I asked her if I could take a picture of her & the truck, because it was such a neat experience. I just knew I'd have to blog about it! But I didn't get her name. She said she comes every Tuesday night. I don't know if she'll keep coming in the winter, but if she doesn't, there are going to be some very disappointed adults on Maple Avenue and Walnut Lane. These adults will have to revert to their previous method of buying ice cream- at the store!
Mom had us each get two things. The ice cream lady was very nice, and it was a lot of fun. I have to say, all the times the ice cream truck has gone past my house in Middletown, I've never gone out to it. Maybe I'm embarrassed because I always thought it was a thing for children. When we went back inside, I wouldn't let my parents eat their ice cream until I took a picture of our loot for my blog.
Berlin still doesn't have pizza delivery, and the nearest grocery store is 20 minutes away. But they have an ice cream truck, which is much cooler than a Papa Johns!
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Thanks, Mom
I took my knitting home to New York. I am working on a Christmas present, and am a bit behind schedule. I have two more full size blankets that I hope to get done after the one I'm working on. I'm not sure I'm going to make it. I might get two done, but not three. The 'good news' is that the third one is for Erich, and if I don't get it done for his Christmas, I can give it to him for his birthday in February. But that means I will have to buy him something else for Christmas-and I don't have any ideas!
I knew I would not have a lot of time at home to knit, but wanted to make the best use of any free time I might have. As it turned out, I was able to knit only about 4 or 5 days. That still put me further ahead than if I had left it in Ohio.
While I was knitting one night, I showed mom the picture of what I was working on. She looked at it, then looked at me and just kept shaking her head. When I finished the row, I asked her if she didn't like the pattern. She said no, it was beautiful and she liked the colors I'd chosen. She said she was amazed at my talent. She said she looks at yarn in the store and sees yarn. She thought it was great that I look at the yarn and see projects for people. Mom told me what a gift I have, and how wonderful my presents are, because they are made with love. She said she didn't know where I got this talent, and sometimes she found herself amazed that I'm her daughter.
That made me feel incredible. My mother had a big hand in the woman I have become. Sometimes I feel completely ordinary. To leave her in awe was a nice feeling. Thanks, Mom!
I knew I would not have a lot of time at home to knit, but wanted to make the best use of any free time I might have. As it turned out, I was able to knit only about 4 or 5 days. That still put me further ahead than if I had left it in Ohio.
While I was knitting one night, I showed mom the picture of what I was working on. She looked at it, then looked at me and just kept shaking her head. When I finished the row, I asked her if she didn't like the pattern. She said no, it was beautiful and she liked the colors I'd chosen. She said she was amazed at my talent. She said she looks at yarn in the store and sees yarn. She thought it was great that I look at the yarn and see projects for people. Mom told me what a gift I have, and how wonderful my presents are, because they are made with love. She said she didn't know where I got this talent, and sometimes she found herself amazed that I'm her daughter.
That made me feel incredible. My mother had a big hand in the woman I have become. Sometimes I feel completely ordinary. To leave her in awe was a nice feeling. Thanks, Mom!
It Makes No Difference
I was away for a few days. Ok, a week and a half. I went home to NY to visit my family and meet my new nephew, Drew. One night, while we were out to dinner, we ran into a family member. As we talked, this family member asked if Dad was thrilled to have a Grandson. Mom told this family member that he was, but it wouldn't have mattered if my sister had two girls- he loved his grandchildren equally. Our relative could not believe that, they were certain Dad must be partial to Drew.
I suppose people who don't really know my parents, or my Dad in particular, might assume that he is partial to Drew. After all, Dad only had girls. What man doesn't want a son? The answer is My Dad. We know plenty of people who are disappointed to only have two girls. And people who are disappointed to have two boys. We know several families who had two or three boys, and tried again to have a girl. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn't. My parents lost a baby 13 months before I was born, a girl. They were thankful to have two healthy children after that, and it made no difference to them if we wore pink or blue.
My father's family is very patriarchal. The men rule the family. The females are second class citizens, put here primarily to wait on the men. I know, it's a bit archaic, but that's how they are. My mother's family on the other hand, tends to be more matriarchal. My Grandmother Wager was a very strong personality. According to the stories I've heard, her mother was as well. My mother is a strong woman, and she raised my sister and I the same. It was always a clash with the values of Dad's side of the family. Mom and Grandpa Primeau got into it many times over the way he treated the girls of the family. I remember my mother telling him her girls were not servants. I wouldn't call my mom a feminist-but she did believe women are equal to men, not beneath them.
So in Dad's family, of course people would expect you to favor the boy. My father never treated us like second best. He was proud to have two daughters. Maybe when it was time to pay for weddings, he wished he had boys. But that would have been the only time. Dad was there for our school concerts, our track meets, our birthdays. My sister joined several sports over the years, and each time, Dad was there cheering her on. There were some things he taught us that many girls might not have known. When we learned how to drive, he made us show him that we knew how to check the oil and where the spare tire and jack were located. He taught us to listen to our cars, and if something was wrong, we needed to be able to explain the sound. He didn't want us just walking into the garage and saying 'it's making a noise'. There have been many mechanics over the years who saw either my sister or I walk in and thought 'ah. Here comes a woman'. And those mechanics were given an education by the time we left. I still take offense to a mechanic treating me like a stupid woman.
If anyone thought Dad would favor Drew over Sydney, they only have to spend an afternoon with Dad as he plays with his grandchildren. His face lights up when he sees either of them. He loves pushing Sydney on her swings or watching her drive her mustang. But he also loves holding Drew, or watching him sleep. I know he is looking forward to Drew getting older, so that he can play with him like he does Sydney. He has plans to take both children to the races and to Yankee Stadium. He's just waiting for my sister to give him the okay. He tells me the funny things Sydney says, and how cute Drew looked. He is Poppop to Sydney and Drew. His love is not based on their sex. I know when he puts their pictures in his wallet, he doesn't know who to put first. When we were kids, he solved this dilemma by putting Mom's picture first. He might still do this. When Drew is old enough to draw pictures, his will hang on the refrigerator next to Sydney's; not above them and not below them. He will spend Saturday mornings going between Sydney's dance practice and Drew's hockey practice (or football. But I'd like to think he's going to play hockey!) He already shops for both kids. He will continue to fill the cart in the girls' section, and then get another cart and fill it in the boy's section. He will beam proudly and wipe his eyes as Sydney graduates with the class of 2024, and he will react the same four years later when Drew graduates.
My dad is the most fair person I know. He loves and will love both grandchildren equally. It doesn't matter that one wants to play with dolls and the other with trucks. Of course, if the grandchildren are like Laura & I; they'll both have dolls and trucks. But they will both be very fortunate to have my Dad as their Poppop.
I suppose people who don't really know my parents, or my Dad in particular, might assume that he is partial to Drew. After all, Dad only had girls. What man doesn't want a son? The answer is My Dad. We know plenty of people who are disappointed to only have two girls. And people who are disappointed to have two boys. We know several families who had two or three boys, and tried again to have a girl. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn't. My parents lost a baby 13 months before I was born, a girl. They were thankful to have two healthy children after that, and it made no difference to them if we wore pink or blue.
My father's family is very patriarchal. The men rule the family. The females are second class citizens, put here primarily to wait on the men. I know, it's a bit archaic, but that's how they are. My mother's family on the other hand, tends to be more matriarchal. My Grandmother Wager was a very strong personality. According to the stories I've heard, her mother was as well. My mother is a strong woman, and she raised my sister and I the same. It was always a clash with the values of Dad's side of the family. Mom and Grandpa Primeau got into it many times over the way he treated the girls of the family. I remember my mother telling him her girls were not servants. I wouldn't call my mom a feminist-but she did believe women are equal to men, not beneath them.
So in Dad's family, of course people would expect you to favor the boy. My father never treated us like second best. He was proud to have two daughters. Maybe when it was time to pay for weddings, he wished he had boys. But that would have been the only time. Dad was there for our school concerts, our track meets, our birthdays. My sister joined several sports over the years, and each time, Dad was there cheering her on. There were some things he taught us that many girls might not have known. When we learned how to drive, he made us show him that we knew how to check the oil and where the spare tire and jack were located. He taught us to listen to our cars, and if something was wrong, we needed to be able to explain the sound. He didn't want us just walking into the garage and saying 'it's making a noise'. There have been many mechanics over the years who saw either my sister or I walk in and thought 'ah. Here comes a woman'. And those mechanics were given an education by the time we left. I still take offense to a mechanic treating me like a stupid woman.
If anyone thought Dad would favor Drew over Sydney, they only have to spend an afternoon with Dad as he plays with his grandchildren. His face lights up when he sees either of them. He loves pushing Sydney on her swings or watching her drive her mustang. But he also loves holding Drew, or watching him sleep. I know he is looking forward to Drew getting older, so that he can play with him like he does Sydney. He has plans to take both children to the races and to Yankee Stadium. He's just waiting for my sister to give him the okay. He tells me the funny things Sydney says, and how cute Drew looked. He is Poppop to Sydney and Drew. His love is not based on their sex. I know when he puts their pictures in his wallet, he doesn't know who to put first. When we were kids, he solved this dilemma by putting Mom's picture first. He might still do this. When Drew is old enough to draw pictures, his will hang on the refrigerator next to Sydney's; not above them and not below them. He will spend Saturday mornings going between Sydney's dance practice and Drew's hockey practice (or football. But I'd like to think he's going to play hockey!) He already shops for both kids. He will continue to fill the cart in the girls' section, and then get another cart and fill it in the boy's section. He will beam proudly and wipe his eyes as Sydney graduates with the class of 2024, and he will react the same four years later when Drew graduates.
My dad is the most fair person I know. He loves and will love both grandchildren equally. It doesn't matter that one wants to play with dolls and the other with trucks. Of course, if the grandchildren are like Laura & I; they'll both have dolls and trucks. But they will both be very fortunate to have my Dad as their Poppop.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Therapy
Today is my Grandmother's birthday. She would have been 93. Tomorrow marks the second anniversary of her passing. I am glad to be home with mom this week. I had to babysit Drew this morning, and then spent the day at my sister's. I suggested we take Mom out to lunch, just in case she was feeling down. We went to a nearby diner. Once we were settled, my sister started talking about her morning.
Our lunch to take mom's mind off the date quickly took an amusing turn. It became a bit of a therapy session for us. We weren't completely man bashing, but more taking comfort in the idea that we weren't alone in our frustrations. Had any of them walked in, Dad, my BIL, or even Erich, would have quickly decided not to sit with us.
My sister was venting about her husband. She was feeling what I think a lot of new mothers feel-a bit overwhelmed and under appreciated. Now that she has two children to juggle, in addition to the house, the job, the dogs, and the husband- she just needed to let off steam. As she talked, my mom nodded in understanding. Mom has been there. Even though I am not a wife or mother, I understand some of her feelings. We shared stories, and those little things that your significant other does every day that every once in a while adds up to making you just want to wring his neck. We laughed a lot. My sister felt better afterwards, and we needed the laughs. It was a good break in our day.
I think all women need to have someone they can vent with. Whether it is a mother, a sister, a daughter, or girlfriends. It was therapeutic for us. I realized how much I love my mom and sister, and how very fortunate we are to have each other. The three of us are great friends. I wish all mothers and daughters and sisters could have such a great relationship.
We did have one boy with us at lunch-Drew. He slept through the whole thing, and fortunately, is too little to repeat our secrets to the other guys!
Our lunch to take mom's mind off the date quickly took an amusing turn. It became a bit of a therapy session for us. We weren't completely man bashing, but more taking comfort in the idea that we weren't alone in our frustrations. Had any of them walked in, Dad, my BIL, or even Erich, would have quickly decided not to sit with us.
My sister was venting about her husband. She was feeling what I think a lot of new mothers feel-a bit overwhelmed and under appreciated. Now that she has two children to juggle, in addition to the house, the job, the dogs, and the husband- she just needed to let off steam. As she talked, my mom nodded in understanding. Mom has been there. Even though I am not a wife or mother, I understand some of her feelings. We shared stories, and those little things that your significant other does every day that every once in a while adds up to making you just want to wring his neck. We laughed a lot. My sister felt better afterwards, and we needed the laughs. It was a good break in our day.
I think all women need to have someone they can vent with. Whether it is a mother, a sister, a daughter, or girlfriends. It was therapeutic for us. I realized how much I love my mom and sister, and how very fortunate we are to have each other. The three of us are great friends. I wish all mothers and daughters and sisters could have such a great relationship.
We did have one boy with us at lunch-Drew. He slept through the whole thing, and fortunately, is too little to repeat our secrets to the other guys!
Baseball with Dad
I am on vacation, visiting my family in my hometown of Berlin, NY. I am here for a long stay- 10 days. That is long considering I frequently just come home for a 4 or 5 day 'weekend'. It is rare that I am able to get away for such a long relaxing visit. True to form, however, we have planned something for each day I am here. My family and I have gotten really good at cramming a lot of stuff into a short period of time. We tend to make the most of every minute we are together. Anyway, mom & dad's Internet connection is slow, plus we have so much planned, there is not a lot of time for me to be blogging. I have been here three full days, and already have many blog ideas. I am writing them down in a notebook (you know, the spiral bound paper kind), and will catch up when I'm back in Ohio.
I do have some time tonight, because Mom & Dad's cable went out in the bottom of the third inning of the Yankees game. I am currently catching the game old-school: on the radio. I didn't grow up listening to baseball on the radio. We always had TV. So it's a bit odd, I'm having trouble concentrating on the game, but we'll see what I can do. We set up the radio in the computer room, and my parents have gone to bed. So I might as well blog.
Regular readers of my blog (the two or three of you), know that I have previously blogged about being a sports fanatic. You could also call us die hard fans. Either way, you can thank my Dad. Dad was only blessed with daughters. While I know some men who find this extremely offensive, Dad made the most of it. He took us to sporting events. Now as adults, between my sister and I, we have all the major sports covered. She likes pro football and NASCAR, I like hockey and baseball and college football. (We were not allowed to watch basketball-my mother does not like the sound of the shoes squeaking on the floor.)
The best way to describe my father is an armchair quarterback. He is very animated when he is watching sports, especially when it's a 'win or go home' situation-such as the baseball playoffs that are currently being played. He argues with the calls the Umpires make. He yells at the batters for not swinging at pitches, or for swinging at pitches they shouldn't have. He curses out the pitchers. Dad gets very involved. I do too, but Dad reacts like he thinks the players & managers can hear him. I know they can't hear me, I just have to vent.
Mom watches the Yankees because of Dad. Yes, she's a fan. She cheers when they win and doesn't like it when they lose. She goes to Spring Training games with Dad, or to regular season games in the Bronx. But she doesn't have to be home by first pitch, and she doesn't catch the replays on YES. If she didn't catch the game, she doesn't make a point of catching the score on the news, or reading the sports page the following day. Most of the season, she probably really doesn't know if they win or lose. She does enjoy watching the post season though, and will be sure to ask who won the game if she didn't see it. But Mom is very tame compared to Dad and I.
The Yankees have not been giving us much to cheer about in the past month, and certainly not the previous two games of the playoffs. Game 3 of the ALCS between the Yankees and the Texas Rangers was played last night. It was an ugly game. At least if you are a Yankees fan. It was also a good thing that Sydney was not spending the night here last night- because Dad and I both have a lot of trouble controlling our emotions when we are watching sports. And we both tend to swear. I know, it's not a great habit. But we do. Erich teases me that if he hears a lot of swearing, he knows the Yankees (or Canadiens, or Notre Dame) are not doing well. Last night there was a lot of swearing in our house. We all started out watching the game on mom & dad's big TV in the living room. Mom went up to bed around 9, and Dad and I kept watching the game. In our frustration, we forgot that Mom was sleeping in the room above us. (Mom & Dad's house is very old, and there is no heat in their bedroom. There is a vent in the living room that allows air to rise up to their bedroom.) Fortunately, Mom is a very deep sleeper. She never heard us.
Dad went to get his shower, and I had to do play by play for him while he was away from the TV. Since he was a couple of rooms away, this involved raising my voice. Again, I had forgotten Mom was in bed. Bad daughter! Around 10, I decided to come upstairs and finish watching the game from my room. At least that way, if I fell asleep, I was in bed. My room is next to mom & dad's. As I turned on the TV, it looked like Texas had another 2-run homer, and a string of profanities spilled out. Loudly. And then I cupped my hand over my mouth, remembering my poor sleeping mother. I apologized to her this morning, and she said she hadn't heard any of it. Good thing!
I turned off the game when Texas took a 6-0 lead at the top of the 9th inning. Apparently they went on to score 2 more, the final score was 8-0. Dad told me this morning he turned off the game when it was 4-0 at the top of the 9th. Mom woke me up at 5am this morning as I had to go in with her when she went to work and then go babysit Drew. As I went downstairs, Dad was standing at the kitchen sink, and the first thing he said to me was 'Who gave up the big run?' It wasn't 'Good Morning'. No. We were talking baseball at 5am and lamenting the pitiful playing of what should be and could be the greatest team in baseball.
Mom, Dad, and I continued to talk baseball for the next hour and a half, until Mom and I left. In the car, Mom & I talked about it some more, mostly laughing at Dad thinking the Yankees can hear him yelling at them. When Mom went into work, one of her coworkers asked 'So what did your husband think of the Yankee game last night?' Mom told him she was really tired of discussing it, and we felt the way all Yankees fans felt.
Tonight is Game 4. The game I am currently listening to on the radio (and the Yankees have a slight lead). When the pitcher started struggling in one of the early innings, we all started getting upset. I found myself yelling at the TV with Dad, acting like my words were being heard three hours away in the Bronx. Mom laughed at us, and I realized how much I sounded like Dad. What can I say? I look like my mom, and act a lot like her too. But there's just enough of my Dad in me- more than the premature gray hair or the big feet. I am a passionate sports fan. It's part of what makes me Amy. Removing that would give you a totally different person.
So thanks, Dad. Let's go, Yankees!
I do have some time tonight, because Mom & Dad's cable went out in the bottom of the third inning of the Yankees game. I am currently catching the game old-school: on the radio. I didn't grow up listening to baseball on the radio. We always had TV. So it's a bit odd, I'm having trouble concentrating on the game, but we'll see what I can do. We set up the radio in the computer room, and my parents have gone to bed. So I might as well blog.
Regular readers of my blog (the two or three of you), know that I have previously blogged about being a sports fanatic. You could also call us die hard fans. Either way, you can thank my Dad. Dad was only blessed with daughters. While I know some men who find this extremely offensive, Dad made the most of it. He took us to sporting events. Now as adults, between my sister and I, we have all the major sports covered. She likes pro football and NASCAR, I like hockey and baseball and college football. (We were not allowed to watch basketball-my mother does not like the sound of the shoes squeaking on the floor.)
The best way to describe my father is an armchair quarterback. He is very animated when he is watching sports, especially when it's a 'win or go home' situation-such as the baseball playoffs that are currently being played. He argues with the calls the Umpires make. He yells at the batters for not swinging at pitches, or for swinging at pitches they shouldn't have. He curses out the pitchers. Dad gets very involved. I do too, but Dad reacts like he thinks the players & managers can hear him. I know they can't hear me, I just have to vent.
Mom watches the Yankees because of Dad. Yes, she's a fan. She cheers when they win and doesn't like it when they lose. She goes to Spring Training games with Dad, or to regular season games in the Bronx. But she doesn't have to be home by first pitch, and she doesn't catch the replays on YES. If she didn't catch the game, she doesn't make a point of catching the score on the news, or reading the sports page the following day. Most of the season, she probably really doesn't know if they win or lose. She does enjoy watching the post season though, and will be sure to ask who won the game if she didn't see it. But Mom is very tame compared to Dad and I.
The Yankees have not been giving us much to cheer about in the past month, and certainly not the previous two games of the playoffs. Game 3 of the ALCS between the Yankees and the Texas Rangers was played last night. It was an ugly game. At least if you are a Yankees fan. It was also a good thing that Sydney was not spending the night here last night- because Dad and I both have a lot of trouble controlling our emotions when we are watching sports. And we both tend to swear. I know, it's not a great habit. But we do. Erich teases me that if he hears a lot of swearing, he knows the Yankees (or Canadiens, or Notre Dame) are not doing well. Last night there was a lot of swearing in our house. We all started out watching the game on mom & dad's big TV in the living room. Mom went up to bed around 9, and Dad and I kept watching the game. In our frustration, we forgot that Mom was sleeping in the room above us. (Mom & Dad's house is very old, and there is no heat in their bedroom. There is a vent in the living room that allows air to rise up to their bedroom.) Fortunately, Mom is a very deep sleeper. She never heard us.
Dad went to get his shower, and I had to do play by play for him while he was away from the TV. Since he was a couple of rooms away, this involved raising my voice. Again, I had forgotten Mom was in bed. Bad daughter! Around 10, I decided to come upstairs and finish watching the game from my room. At least that way, if I fell asleep, I was in bed. My room is next to mom & dad's. As I turned on the TV, it looked like Texas had another 2-run homer, and a string of profanities spilled out. Loudly. And then I cupped my hand over my mouth, remembering my poor sleeping mother. I apologized to her this morning, and she said she hadn't heard any of it. Good thing!
I turned off the game when Texas took a 6-0 lead at the top of the 9th inning. Apparently they went on to score 2 more, the final score was 8-0. Dad told me this morning he turned off the game when it was 4-0 at the top of the 9th. Mom woke me up at 5am this morning as I had to go in with her when she went to work and then go babysit Drew. As I went downstairs, Dad was standing at the kitchen sink, and the first thing he said to me was 'Who gave up the big run?' It wasn't 'Good Morning'. No. We were talking baseball at 5am and lamenting the pitiful playing of what should be and could be the greatest team in baseball.
Mom, Dad, and I continued to talk baseball for the next hour and a half, until Mom and I left. In the car, Mom & I talked about it some more, mostly laughing at Dad thinking the Yankees can hear him yelling at them. When Mom went into work, one of her coworkers asked 'So what did your husband think of the Yankee game last night?' Mom told him she was really tired of discussing it, and we felt the way all Yankees fans felt.
Tonight is Game 4. The game I am currently listening to on the radio (and the Yankees have a slight lead). When the pitcher started struggling in one of the early innings, we all started getting upset. I found myself yelling at the TV with Dad, acting like my words were being heard three hours away in the Bronx. Mom laughed at us, and I realized how much I sounded like Dad. What can I say? I look like my mom, and act a lot like her too. But there's just enough of my Dad in me- more than the premature gray hair or the big feet. I am a passionate sports fan. It's part of what makes me Amy. Removing that would give you a totally different person.
So thanks, Dad. Let's go, Yankees!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Possibilities
There is an email that makes its way around at least once a year. It's the '(Fill in the current year) Edition of Get to Know Your Friends'-or something like that. One of the questions is 'In what store could you max out your credit card?'. Of course I could choose Kohls, because there is about an inch of free space in my huge walk-in closet, and therefore, I need clothes. I could choose Target because I can find all kinds of great things there for the house. But my answer is usually a book store or a craft store.
There is something about a craft store. Michael's, Hobby Lobby, or even Joann's. I can go in with a list, very focused on what I must buy, and as soon as I walk through the door, I feel inspired. Maybe it's something in the air. Like casinos that pump oxygen into the gaming area so you are alert and easily lose track of time. I am pretty sure creativity isn't a gas, so I'm not sure what they are pumping into the store. Maybe it's more of a mythical dust, like the pixie dust that Tinkerbell uses. Suddenly I find myself wandering through parts of the store I might otherwise consider foreign. The sewing area, for instance. My sewing abilities are pretty much limited to replacing buttons on sweaters or blouses. Even then, I will avoid replacing that button as long as possible. Yet, I walk through the fabric aisles, drooling over all the pretty festive patterns, imagining tablecloths, place mats, napkins, and on my more daring days-dresses.
Nowhere do I experience this flood of creativity more than in the yarn section. I go in with one project in mind, and come out with several. One of my worst habits is buying yarn without having something in mind. I found a blue a few years ago that was perfect for my dad. At the same time, I saw a red that I knew my mom would love. I bought several skeins of each color, and it wasn't until last year that I made afghans for each of my parents with that yarn.
I say this is a bad habit, because if you don't have a project in mind, you don't know how much yarn you need. Most of the stores have a return policy of 60-90 days with a receipt. That does not help if you buy something and then wait a few years for the inspiration. So if you buy too much, you are left with extra yarn. If you don't buy enough, you will not match lot numbers, and run the risk of having the yarn discontinued. I almost had that happen last year. It was less than a month before Christmas, I was working on dad's afghan, and realized I did not have enough of the blue I had picked out several years earlier. I went to Michael's and they did not have it. The salesperson told me she thought it was one of the discontinued colors. I felt sick. It was too late to choose something else. I had a good portion of the afghan already done. I panicked briefly, then went to Joann's, which is a couple of blocks away. Fortunately, Joann's had the blue yarn I needed!
You would think I would have learned my lesson after that scare. I learned to keep my receipts. Right now I am working on a project with yarn I bought in March. So I'm using it within months, rather than years. That's better, right? Even yesterday, I went into the yarn section, needing a specific yarn. Then I saw a pretty pink, and thought of Sydney. I saw a black and gray mix, and thought 'that's perfect for Erich'. My mind whirls with ideas. It can be overwhelming. I know it is frustrating for Erich, who wonders why I am wandering up and down the yarn aisles. I'm sure he thinks I'm either wasting time or spacing out. He doesn't know that I do not see displays full of skeins of yarn, I see displays full of possibilities.
I could easily max out my credit card in a craft store. And I could easily keep busy year-round with my crafts if I didn't have to work. Imagine the damage I could do with endless funds!
There is something about a craft store. Michael's, Hobby Lobby, or even Joann's. I can go in with a list, very focused on what I must buy, and as soon as I walk through the door, I feel inspired. Maybe it's something in the air. Like casinos that pump oxygen into the gaming area so you are alert and easily lose track of time. I am pretty sure creativity isn't a gas, so I'm not sure what they are pumping into the store. Maybe it's more of a mythical dust, like the pixie dust that Tinkerbell uses. Suddenly I find myself wandering through parts of the store I might otherwise consider foreign. The sewing area, for instance. My sewing abilities are pretty much limited to replacing buttons on sweaters or blouses. Even then, I will avoid replacing that button as long as possible. Yet, I walk through the fabric aisles, drooling over all the pretty festive patterns, imagining tablecloths, place mats, napkins, and on my more daring days-dresses.
Nowhere do I experience this flood of creativity more than in the yarn section. I go in with one project in mind, and come out with several. One of my worst habits is buying yarn without having something in mind. I found a blue a few years ago that was perfect for my dad. At the same time, I saw a red that I knew my mom would love. I bought several skeins of each color, and it wasn't until last year that I made afghans for each of my parents with that yarn.
I say this is a bad habit, because if you don't have a project in mind, you don't know how much yarn you need. Most of the stores have a return policy of 60-90 days with a receipt. That does not help if you buy something and then wait a few years for the inspiration. So if you buy too much, you are left with extra yarn. If you don't buy enough, you will not match lot numbers, and run the risk of having the yarn discontinued. I almost had that happen last year. It was less than a month before Christmas, I was working on dad's afghan, and realized I did not have enough of the blue I had picked out several years earlier. I went to Michael's and they did not have it. The salesperson told me she thought it was one of the discontinued colors. I felt sick. It was too late to choose something else. I had a good portion of the afghan already done. I panicked briefly, then went to Joann's, which is a couple of blocks away. Fortunately, Joann's had the blue yarn I needed!
You would think I would have learned my lesson after that scare. I learned to keep my receipts. Right now I am working on a project with yarn I bought in March. So I'm using it within months, rather than years. That's better, right? Even yesterday, I went into the yarn section, needing a specific yarn. Then I saw a pretty pink, and thought of Sydney. I saw a black and gray mix, and thought 'that's perfect for Erich'. My mind whirls with ideas. It can be overwhelming. I know it is frustrating for Erich, who wonders why I am wandering up and down the yarn aisles. I'm sure he thinks I'm either wasting time or spacing out. He doesn't know that I do not see displays full of skeins of yarn, I see displays full of possibilities.
I could easily max out my credit card in a craft store. And I could easily keep busy year-round with my crafts if I didn't have to work. Imagine the damage I could do with endless funds!
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Someone
Have you seen the Family Circus cartoons where Mom or Dad asks the kids 'who did this?' and all four children answer either 'I Don't Know' or 'Not Me'. And then, sneaking off to the side is a ghost child, with a shirt that says 'Ida Know' or 'Not Me' . We had that in our house too. Everyone probably did. Mom would say 'Girls, who used my shears?' and it wasn't me and it wasn't my sister. Mom would sigh and say 'It's that damn third kid running around here'.
You would think, since I have only beagle children, that there are no ghost beings in our house. Wrong! Ours is named 'Someone'. And apparently, Someone has a sweet tooth, and I suspect a bit of a weight problem. Either that, or we have a thief who breaks in only to eat our junk food.
I find it amazing that Erich has lost over 40 pounds in the past few months. He has no willpower. I have very little willpower when it comes to things like chocolate, and hence, I'm not a stick. I have curves. Had I lived in the 1950s or 1960s, I might have been a sex symbol like Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe. But size is just a number, like age. It's what a person is like on the inside that makes the difference. Anyway, my point is, we both like sweet things. The difference, is that I admit it.
For instance, if we have a package of cookies on the counter, I will admit I have succumbed to the temptation. Erich will look at the half-empty package and say 'Someone's been eating all our Oreos'. At first, I thought this was his way of accusing me. No, he's just admitting he can't resist them either.
Last week at the Apple Orchard he told me to get two dozen cider donuts after we walked through the barn smelling them for several minutes. On our way home we made a couple of stops, and I noticed that every time he opened the tailgate of the Rav, it became an excuse to eat a donut. When we got home he complained that they did not give us a full two dozen at the orchard, because several were missing. My response was that the Rav must have used the donuts for fuel.
Someone only shows up to eat our junk food. If I start to make a sandwich and discover we are out of turkey, Erich will say 'Sorry, I ate the last of it'. If the leftovers from the previous night's dinner are gone, he will say he had it for lunch. We're out of fruit, and he was the one who ate it. (Not that he eats all the food, but if I use up something, it goes on the grocery list). But if we're talking about cookies, candy, donuts, or ice cream-it was Someone.
It has become so common, I was telling a coworker about the donuts, and she thought I meant we had really been jipped by the orchard. I had to explain to her that 'Someone' is Erich's sweet-toothed alter-ego.
I love to bake, and I guess I prefer Someone eating and enjoying what I make to No One eating it. I just find it hilarious that Erich feels the need to cover his tracks this way. It's just another part of the circus that is my life. But it's a good life. Now if I could train Someone to do the house cleaning....
You would think, since I have only beagle children, that there are no ghost beings in our house. Wrong! Ours is named 'Someone'. And apparently, Someone has a sweet tooth, and I suspect a bit of a weight problem. Either that, or we have a thief who breaks in only to eat our junk food.
I find it amazing that Erich has lost over 40 pounds in the past few months. He has no willpower. I have very little willpower when it comes to things like chocolate, and hence, I'm not a stick. I have curves. Had I lived in the 1950s or 1960s, I might have been a sex symbol like Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe. But size is just a number, like age. It's what a person is like on the inside that makes the difference. Anyway, my point is, we both like sweet things. The difference, is that I admit it.
For instance, if we have a package of cookies on the counter, I will admit I have succumbed to the temptation. Erich will look at the half-empty package and say 'Someone's been eating all our Oreos'. At first, I thought this was his way of accusing me. No, he's just admitting he can't resist them either.
Last week at the Apple Orchard he told me to get two dozen cider donuts after we walked through the barn smelling them for several minutes. On our way home we made a couple of stops, and I noticed that every time he opened the tailgate of the Rav, it became an excuse to eat a donut. When we got home he complained that they did not give us a full two dozen at the orchard, because several were missing. My response was that the Rav must have used the donuts for fuel.
Someone only shows up to eat our junk food. If I start to make a sandwich and discover we are out of turkey, Erich will say 'Sorry, I ate the last of it'. If the leftovers from the previous night's dinner are gone, he will say he had it for lunch. We're out of fruit, and he was the one who ate it. (Not that he eats all the food, but if I use up something, it goes on the grocery list). But if we're talking about cookies, candy, donuts, or ice cream-it was Someone.
It has become so common, I was telling a coworker about the donuts, and she thought I meant we had really been jipped by the orchard. I had to explain to her that 'Someone' is Erich's sweet-toothed alter-ego.
I love to bake, and I guess I prefer Someone eating and enjoying what I make to No One eating it. I just find it hilarious that Erich feels the need to cover his tracks this way. It's just another part of the circus that is my life. But it's a good life. Now if I could train Someone to do the house cleaning....
Friday, October 1, 2010
Sock Thief
From the time she was a tiny puppy weighing just a few pounds, Onyx has liked socks. Her preference is for dirty socks, which smell like her humans. If the opportunity presents itself, she will not turn down a clean sock. Almost every time you come into the room, she brings you an offering. Usually it is one of her toys. For a while she brought rocks from the yard. Thankfully it has never (knock on wood) been a dead critter. But the ultimate offering is a dirty sock. If she greets you with a dirty sock hanging from her mouth, you know you are one of her favorite people.
Not all socks are created equal. Erich's socks are the most common. This is because Erich takes off his shoes & socks wherever he feels like it. I wouldn't mind this if he picked up his socks. In the ten years we've shared a house, I've gotten him to the point that he piles the socks in one area. I guess this is an improvement over scattering the socks throughout the house. Maybe in another 10 years I'll have him trained to pick up the socks and get them into the hamper or laundry basket. Or maybe not.
Onyx is very helpful with the socks. She picks them up for me, but doesn't really get them to the laundry basket either. She carries them around, buries them in her toy box or under her bed, or takes them outside and buries them in the yard or sand pit. At least I don't see them all over the house!
Erich also perpetuated Onyx's sock love by training her to pull socks off your feet. Unsuspecting guests (such as my parents) have tried to take off their socks in the presence of Onyx, and yelp in pain as she attacks their feet. She gets this twinkle in her eye, and she pounces onto the foot. She grabs the sock in her teeth and with a performance worthy of a Puppy Emmy, she tugs and tugs and pulls the sock free. Then she bounds off happily with her treasure. Sometimes, in her excitement she nips your toes or scratches your foot to pieces. If you know it's coming, you can prepare by having the sock mostly off your foot, so she only has to grab the end and run. This makes it a painless experience. But if she catches you off guard, it's not so cute.
She gets access to my socks a little less frequently than she does Erich's'. I usually remember to pick them up. Still, she will come upstairs when I get home from work. I come home and change into lounge clothes or pjs. Onyx follows me, knowing this is a good chance to score some socks. If I get distracted talking to Erich, my socks disappear. She will go back up in the evening, when I'm relaxed on the couch. She's hoping I left a pair of socks on my bedroom floor. Sometimes, she gets lucky. If you catch her stealing socks, she will look at you with this sweet, innocent look, while the sock (or socks) are hanging from her mouth. Then she gives a little head toss and a snort, and takes off downstairs. If she has my socks, she sits down on the couch or the floor and just licks them adoringly. Maybe she is acknowledging that I truly am the Alpha Dog and even my socks must be worshipped?
Without a doubt, Onyx's favorite socks belong to my dad. My parents come to visit once or twice a year. Dad puts his clothes out for the next day before he goes to bed. I give my parents my room, and I sleep on an air mattress downstairs in the living room. My parents go to sleep earlier than I do. They leave the bedroom door open because Cobalt likes to sleep with them. Once everyone is asleep, Onyx goes upstairs. She clears the stairs like a dog on a mission. She slips into my parents room, and in a minute or two, she comes speeding down the stairs as if she's being chased. I am usually a very light sleeper, and once I hear her go upstairs, I know what she is doing. When she comes back down, she puts her treasure on the couch and curls up with it. I tell her that she's going to be in trouble, but she just snuggles with my dad's socks.
Dad is usually the first person up in the morning, way before the sun. He gets up and reaches for his socks and slippers, and then I hear him say 'You little thief!'. He comes down the stairs, trying but failing to be quiet and not wake anyone else. The whole time he is muttering about a thief. Onyx hears him coming, and sits on the couch, his socks under her paws, wagging her tail. The funniest part is Dad is 6'3" and he's chasing this 13" beagle because she has his socks. When Dad sits on the couch to put his socks on, Onyx climbs into his lap and he pets her. She is happy because she's being adored, and Dad is happy because at least his socks aren't wet with doggy drool. The next night Dad might put his socks a little higher, but Onyx still finds them. I know she enjoys the game, and I think he does too.
And while I'm not a morning person, it's a hilarious way to wake up!
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