To Marley, May He Sleep And Slobber In Great Peace

October 7, 2009 -- Marley, The Only Dog, age 12, died peacefully surrounded by family and friends.

Marley was a good dog.

His interests included almost anything he could chase or eat, and he had a deep appreciation for sleep. He especially liked large sofas and he especially loved (along with his dog food and rawhide) steak, fish, shrimp, rotisserie chicken, scrambled eggs, lunch meat, pizza, mayonnaise, chips, cheese, and cookies.

Marley was loved for his free and liberated spirit. He never invested in a retirement account or worried about having a 401K. He didn't have a girlfriend but he loved all women and they loved him back. He never got his driver's license and he never voted. He never had a job or money but he was generous with happiness and love.

Although things got a lot tougher for him in his final years as his health declined, he never complained, not once.

Memorial donations in lieu of flowers may be made to any Golden Retriever rescue organization or your local SPCA.

COMCAST TRULY CAN PROVIDE TEACHING MOMENTS

I read the Mimi Smartypants blog. She's an editor or something. I'm not really sure what she does but I am sure of what she is. She is hilarious. In one post she writes about the back of a Wheat Thins box and points out that although someone bothered to use a semi colon correctly, they didn't end the sentence with a period.

I thought that was funny and I appreciated the observation. For some reason, finding something like that sends a charge of triumph through me. She might not be that petty but I am.

You can imagine, therefore, how it felt the other day when the guy from Comcast handed me a High-Speed Internet Self-Install Kit and I looked down at the box.

I've provided you with another, larger view. Click on it if you need to (just remember to use the back button and not the X to close it).

See anything strange about it?

How about Comcast's new way of spelling the word "seperately?"

Immediately, a Google search response flashed before my eyes:

Did you mean: separately

Lately Comcast is getting a lot of exposure for using Twitter. I think it's premature. They haven't even started using Spell Check.

I've also heard Comcast is winning awards for customer service (hard to believe), but I'll tell you what: they won't be winning any spelling bees. Ironically, over the last few years Comcast has started sponsoring spelling bees. That's okay, as long as they don't participate in them, but I was thinking maybe they should consider recruiting a few of the winners. Check it out here and here.

A Short Story

The Y Chromosome gave me a couple of books the other night and said, "Here, I got these for you because they were giving them away at the bookstore." (What!? Free stuff? What is it!? I'm interested!)

I asked him if "free" meant he paid the $3.98 price tag stuck to the corners but he said no, the bookstore was giving them away because they couldn't sell them. (Honey, I'm touched!) He wanted to know why I thought he was lying.

Well, I didn't think he was lying, I thought he was using "giving them away" as a euphemism for "cheap." But then I wanted to know why he thought I wanted something the bookstore couldn't sell for less than $4.

And so it goes.

I started the first book the night before last. It's a collection of "fresh fiction from the top writing programs" aptly entitled "Best New American Voices 2007." Seriously.

(Note: Not described as "fresh fiction from the top writers" and not entitled "Best New American Fiction 2007.")

Curiously enough, while I like to write and hope to entertain (myself), I'm not a fan of short stories or fictional essays that are randomly grouped together and serious. I either feel a little like a voyeur or a little like I'm with someone I just met and they're committing a serious sharing violation.

She never felt this way before. It was so unexpected. She opened her bedside drawer where she kept her bible and [some random sex toy] and placed the flower carefully between the two.
Okay, thanks, didn't expect that.

Of course, I can never read a collection of short stories without being reminded of the time I picked up a collection by Ernest Hemingway. You might have heard of him once. I didn't realize it was short stories and it took me until I finished the third "chapter" to think "this book doesn't make any sense."

I also struggle with the hanging endings. Only a few pages and you're implicated in someone's big, beautiful, complicated life. And then it's over. It reminds me of when I was a kid and the super cool insult after someone told you something was, "And then what happened?"

The writers of this collection have quite a pedigree. They write for a living and attended things like the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. (I write, but only for my blog. I attended a Meatloaf concert.)

I've read two of the stories so far. I didn't appreciate the story lines. In fact, I wouldn't call them stories. I would call them annoying and far too intimate, but these people sure can write. Here's one phrase that has drifted all day, unbidden into my mind: "hoping to find some clue to justify her unreasonable interest in this unsuitable rose..."

The End.

Johnny Be Good?

No, johnny be humiliating.

I had to see an orthopedic doctor this week about my back pain. I have very strong opinions about orthopedic doctors and this guy didn't change any of them.

Some of it was my fault. I should have left when the nurse handed me a johnny. Why would I have to wear a johnny? I was wearing yoga pants (no, I don't do yoga; yes, I wear the pants). Any doctor, if they even needed to look at my back, could work with them.

I asked the nurse if I really had to take off my clothes. You would think my surprise would have made her think twice, but in her defense, I don't think she could think once. She just repeated herself and then told me I could leave on my underwear like that was a big treat. She left and I changed into a johnny. Like an idiot.

Then I had to make that decision about where-to-sit-while-waiting-for-the-doctor. If I waited in the chair by the desk I would have a problem. The set up meant that if the doctor asked me to move to the table, it would be quite a bit more than a few steps. I would have to walk across the room. To clarify: I would have to walk across the room in a johnny (opening in the back)...with the doctor sitting at his desk behind me.

Okay, that wasn't going to happen. I waited on the table. Like an idiot. Swinging my legs and thinking about how good I was looking...wearing a johnny and little white sports socks.

The guy finally showed up and introduced himself. Coincidentally, his first name was "Doctor." (That seems to be fairly common in orthopedics.)

He sat at the desk and asked me why I was there. I told him about my back and then he asked again why I was there.

I was stumped. For some reason, sitting there on a table, in a johnny, staring down at my little white socks, I started to feel a little at a loss for words. Maybe...Like an idiot?

He, of course, quickly concluded I had the IQ of a pet hamster. After an awkward silence he said, "Let me rephrase the question. What is it you have come here expecting me to do for you?"

At that point, it started to feel like a test. I was breaking into a nervous, clammy sweat and I was purposely trying to keep my mouth shut.

My back hurt. This guy was being a condescending @#$%&. He had to be more than 10 years younger than I. Put him in jeans and a tee shirt at Target, and I'd call him a punk. But there I was, standing in front of him, sweating, wearing a johnny and little white sports socks. I became painfully aware of MY clothing folded neatly on the chair next to HIS desk.

What was it I came there expecting him to do for me? Perhaps I should have suggested to him that I had come there expecting him to lend me some money. Or maybe give me the outfit they made me put on and let me wear it home.

I don't know, maybe it was crazy, but I at least expected to be treated in a respectful manner.

The upshot (apparently): My spine looks fine.

"[Almost everyone has arthritis; 10 days of pain is not concerning or unusual. Come back in eight weeks* and if it still hurts, we'll do an MRI.]"

Thanks for the invite, I'll decline.

You would think if my experience was that common one of my friends or relatives (or perhaps the Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House) or maybe the doctor I saw at the urgent care clinic would have pointed that out to me, but they must be as ignorant as I am.

He asked if I needed more vicodin or anaprox and gave me a script for physical therapy. He got a little nicer at the end but certainly not enough to make up for his grand inquisition with regard to why I was wasting his time and certainly not enough to make up for the fact that I had to wear a johnny for no reason at all.

I have wondered how much more I would have gotten out of that appointment if I had not been wearing that stupid gown. I am sure I would have asked more questions and understood more of what was said to me. I probably would not be wasting more money, making another appointment, with a different doctor, to figure out what's wrong with my back.

I have also wondered this: wouldn't disagreements and negotiations go a whole lot better for me if I made people wear a johnny when they talked to me? THAT'S why doctors are so smart. I bet I would be a lot more successful, and I plan to try it.

*I had to live with the pain another 10 weeks before I got an MRI. It showed a protruding disk and two weeks of Prednisone fixed it. In other words, I went through all that pain, missed work, and took all those other drugs for 10 weeks because "an MRI is an expensive test." This confuses me. Was he going to pay for it himself?

Don't Eat It, Use It To Build A Hut

Tonight I made AMARANTH.
I have no idea how it came to be in my home but it was there, and I cooked it, and I had to explain it to the Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House ("some cereal, s'posed t'be good for yah").

(I dare you to click on the photo.)

In general, the two of us try to do the healthy thing. We don't eat "white" anything too much anymore. We try to stick mostly to sweet potatoes, we love black rice and wild rice; whole wheat pasta. We like quinoa; we consider couscous a treat.

But AMARANTH?

It has this weird corn-like flavor that immediately sours in your mouth and then leaves a sour taste in your mouth. It has the consistency of paste. Sticky, thick paste. Sticky, thick, sour, paste. I do not believe that seasoning could make a difference. I am pretty sure it would ruin anything it touched, so I would be skeptical of any suggestion to mix it with something else.

When I went to look it up (which admittedly, I probably should have done before I decided to cook it instead of toss it) I found out it's sometimes also called pigweed because it was used in the past for pig fodder. Why anyone changed their mind about that and decided to put it in a cereal box is a complete mystery to me.

Amaranth is featured on health food holistic medicine sites (along with the ever respectable earcandling) and some study reported it's good for lowering lipid profiles in diabetic animals.

Well, maybe I won't throw out the rest. Maybe I'll keep it just in case the next time I get my cat's cholesterol checked, the results turn up elevated. (FYI: He's eleven. In his entire life, I've taken him to the vet twice. Except for being a little cross-eyed and having a pretty consistent, overall general look of drunkeness, I think he's fine and I don't see any ancillary healthcare services in his future.)

Apparently, amaranth was illegal for a while in Mexico. Considering how I feel about amaranth after tasting it tonight, this new information inspired the good idea to call my state senator and ask him to propose some legislation that bans it in NH, NOW. (After you review his profile you'll agree that he's sure to help me out with this.)

On the other hand, amaranth is also described as "Food of the Gods" and supposedly has almost 90% of total human nutritional requirements. Of course, aren't there some religions which worship pigs as gods? If I cared, I might research it a little better but I don't, and I'll get my nutritional requirements filled elsewhere thank you, please don't bother to pass the amaranth.

Here's another thing: one site I found described amaranth as "cultivated for [human consumption] too." That's just weird. I'm not suggesting that food shouldn't be cultivated for multiple species, but I'm just not going to get too excited about food that's cultivated for humans as a secondary interest.

I just know that bossy blogger SMC who's gluten-free is going to have plenty to say on this, but seriously, don't let anyone convince you that you'll like this stuff. It's just YUCK.  If you really just want to eat some weed, stick with a good brownie recipe.

I'm certainly not suggesting you shouldn't try it.  You definitely should. Like my mother always said in that perky voice, "You should always try new things!"  I am suggesting however, that you won't like it and you won't eat it, but after you've tried it, you should keep it.

It will probably come in very handy as a bonding agent the next time you're building a hut with cement blocks.

She's Got What It Takes

Not much can better bond two women than a good eye roll over another woman, arriving late to a business meeting, pushing her cleavage in front of her.

It seems like we should be beyond that but we're not. (Okay, I'm not.)

I know there are a few different philosophies on this. One is that women should wear whatever they damn please and there shouldn't be any eye rolling. Another philosophy is that women should wear whatever they damn please, but it's not going to get them any special benefits.

I don't subscribe to either. It's quite simple for me: cleavage is about sexy and sexy doesn't belong in the office. We also live in NH and for a good 8 months of the year, it's just too cold to expose that much skin; for that reason alone someone who does it should be identified as an idiot. World Class.

I know it still works for some women though. I worked with one over the last few years who became known as "[So-And-So] And-Her-Big-Boobs." Even the guys called her that. "Call "[So-And-So] And-Her-Big-Boobs and ask her if she (and her big boobs) can make it to the meeting." Despite such a damning nickname (or I guess, in light of), and even though I never, ever once heard one thing escape her mouth that could be considered even remotely smart or thoughtful, her career has been absolutely meteoric.

When do you think men will wake up and realize there's a class action suit here? Don't you think if one of them showed up to a business meeting sporting plumber's butt, they'd be out on their butt in a nanosecond?

I doubt it will happen because too many of them want to protect their view, but don't you agree?

www.rocksaltandwildflowers.com

I've been looking at dirty snow lately and instead of being excited about spring and looking forward to summer, I'm just resentful. This time of year is usually fun for people who live in NH because during the winter, human presence is virtually undetectable.

Once March tumbles in, people start turning out. Although during the heart of January they might have been outside shoveling, snowblowing, scraping their windshields, they don't look at you. There is an unwritten rule of NO-EYE-CONTACT. You don't want to get into a conversation with anyone when you just know your tongue is going to be stuck to your lip if you open your mouth just to say "hi."

(If the Aliens come to Earth during the winter, they will identify NH as a wasteland where they will set up headquarters and this will be good for them because by the time spring arrives, they will have conducted enough research and will be prepared to meet people in the slow, small, consistent doses that March and April appear to provide.)

Literally, people start appearing. They wave and smile. It's usually worth a good smirk to realize that your community is just sort of suddenly, "populating."

I don't care. I'm still resentful. Besides being chronically resentful about just about almost everything else you could possibly imagine, I'm resentful that I can so vividly picture the memory of a snowplow on the road in front of me, spewing rock salt and dirty snow onto the hood of my car and completely obscuring any visibility through my windshield. I can remember it as though it happened on the way home this evening, despite the fact that we're enjoying 55 degree weather here.

It's just that I hate rock salt so much. It poisons animals, pollutes the environment, kills the paint on my car, ruins my shoes, and strikes me as such a sterling characteristic of living in New Hampshire.

My new blog address (which I'm waffling about and which I think I might change again) was an impulsive decision. I concluded that I needed to try just a little harder to be happy living on the banks of melted, salted, sandy, poisonous grey slush for five months out of the year.

Most people might just plan a trip to Florida. Or change their real address. But I'm here, it doesn't look like moving is in the cards, and I have a blog. And I do like the wild flowers during the summer. I once heard someone say the seed was so expensive they didn't know whether to plant it or smoke it.

So, the new address is www.rocksaltandwildflowers.com. I am attempting to embrace the fact that living in NH means living with rock salt, while reminding myself that wildflowers provide beautiful roadside distraction. Or something like that.

I'm not sure what will happen to all my fans but I can't let you hold me back. (Seriously, I noticed my links to Cool Blogs and Random Interests didn't come with me, so I guess I'll spend an evening this week recreating that list.)

Also, I know Forsythia isn't technically classified as wild, but it sure looks wild and it's one of my favorite plants. I love the fact that it flowers before it grows leaves. It's so hopeful.

People who prune their Forsythia like hedges should be sent to PRISON.

By the way, today when I went into work, the creepy guy who's in charge of maintenance was using a real, electric vacuum cleaner in the parking lot. You know why? Because a regular broom isn't enough when it comes to rock salt and sand.