Soul Thumping

Sparky...At Last, a Farewell to My Friend - A Gen Xer and Her Childhood Dog

Sparky...my friend...my farewell at last

When my twin sister and I were four years old, my parents adopted a miniature toy collie from a farmer wanting to get rid of him.  A miniature toy collie is a collie breed on tiny, short legs, maybe bred with a beagle, but I'm not sure.  Anyway, when we got him, he was already 2 or 3 years old and set in his ways, but my sister and I treated him like a newborn.

This dog followed us everywhere.  He was our protector, our best friend.  If my dad raised his voice at us, Sparky growled at him and my dad would quiet down.  Sparky was...Sparky.  My best friend, my protector, my mentor, my parent.

When my sister and I were 15, Sparky went on one of his million hunting trips, but this time was different.  It had been 5 or 6 days since we had seen him, which was unusual and I had a sick, dark feeling in the very pit of my stomach that I refused to acknowledge.

My father found him a few days later, dead.  I believe he had been shot, but I don't remember the details, and my father didn't want to give us the details.  Though I had already been a child who went through depression, and a teenager who was forever plagued with chronic depression, this was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.  Not my Sparky.

Years later, I still carry a sadness about his departure and I have decided to address it...

I'm 42 years old now, Sparky, but I carry you inside of me like no one else and I have still been unable to express my gratitude to you.  It might be silly as an adult to wipe the streaming tears from my face when I think of you, because you were a dog, but I cannot begin to describe to people who didn't know you, how human you were and how important, so, so very important you were in keeping me sane and alive...I miss you Sparky...I've written these words so quickly so I wouldn't censor or edit them, so I apologize if they are garbled:

I remember you hunting like a warrior...you were an old soul, and free, and though free spirits don't always have to leave, you did.  I can't fault you for that.  You were wise and knew it was your exit, stage left...i'm sure you thought of us and a smile curled around your lips as you slipped into the warm sleep of a content being who was ready to appear elsewhere, where needed.  Thank you for licking my tears.  I know you craved the salt and wanted to take away the hurt, and I craved the care.  Thank you for your protection and for allowing me to experience the cliched "unconditional love."  You were my rock, and when you left, I sank, as though I were tied to you like a stone.  Your memory allowed me to float, just enough above water to exist for over a year.  I was numb, and sometimes I still am numb and I reach for you in my dreams, but oddly enough I never see you;  I feel you though, and maybe that is more comfortable to me.

I've been afraid to think of you so often because I don't quite like tears and the lump your memory puts in my throat.  It hurts.  It is heavy and hard to swallow; so hard that is feels unbearable and I want to pretend you never existed so I don't re-live the pain.  That goes away soon enough because I do want to remember you, always, and I do.  Words cannot express how I've missed you the past several decades.  It warms my heart now that I'm forcing myself to remember you, which includes the pain of losing you.

Your melancholy down-turned eyes were so brown and beautiful and in the most paradoxical fashion, held so much happiness.  Yours was the most free spirit I've ever known and you have made me want to be strong and independent and love the way you did; your flight helps me fly today; your love and concern was so beyond you.  Do you know this?  Any of this?  I think you do.  I think you were my Bodhisattva, Sparky and I'm sorry I haven't pulled you out of my pocket in such a long time.  You were (are) the most incredible being I've ever known and you did more to get me through my sad childhood and utterly lonely teenage years than any human being could have and for that I thank you and at this very moment, I'm combing the burs out of your beautiful carmel-colored coat and you are licking my tears and we are both ok.

--Fortuitous Observer

Do I Genuinely Need Validation...From My Cats?

Do those cats have any idea how hard I worked on the pillow I made for them?  Hell, no...ungrateful little quadrupeds.

I decided to use some scrap fabric I had to make a "kitty pillow."  I designed it myself, painstakingly sewing little squares of discarded fabric together to form a hip, ultra-groovy pillow for our two cats to park themselves on next to the fireplace.  I had visions of two cats who were so proud of their new one-of-a-kind pillow that each would prance in the window sill, taunting all of the other cats in the neighborhood for being so square and not having a mom as cool as their mom.

Ten minutes after putting the final stitches on the pillow, I laid it on the floor, anxiously awaiting one or both of our cats to pounce on it, so excited to even think such a glorious creation was made just for them.  I honestly expected that to happen, but then I became keenly aware of my ability to flip swiftly into the land of delusion.

Neither cat gave a damn about that pillow.  Oh, I did get some strange glances because I had plopped something down in front of them that was foreign, and being they are creatures of habit, nothing new introduced into this household (no matter how insignificant) is ever welcomed with open arms until the proper amount of scrutiny has been given.

My feelings were hurt.  I know this is crazy, but I think anyone who has ever read my blog understands that I'm neurotic, and I no longer offer apologies or explanations.  The thing of it is, I feel my cats are my children, and if they don't respond automatically to something I've done for them, I grow anxious and sad, feeling unloved and under appreciated...from creatures who don't even have opposable thumbs (showing how far they have truly evolved--sarcasm).  I will add this to the, "Why Poseidon and I should not procreate" column of our "Baby or No Baby Decision" list. 

Is there is a 12-step program for pathetic?   

--Fortuitous Observer

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The Naked Man on Fire - One of my Favorite Gen X Childhood Memories

Last night I found myself staring into the glow of my fireplace, trying to lose myself in the dancing orange flames.  As usual, my mind started taking little trips of its own, and I sat back and let it go.  I started thinking flames, flicker, heat, fire, naked man.  What?  Did I just say naked man?  That's right, naked man.

When I think of fire, I think of the naked man who visited our home one morning (approximately 2 am, on a school night) when I was in the fourth grade (or it could have been the fifth grade...once one hits 40, grade school seems like one big year instead of many), because he wasn't just naked...he was on fire.

The drama started around 2 am when our front doorbell rang.  My parents got up immediately, and as the doorbell continued to ring, in an urgent sort of way, my sister and I crept out of bed to check out the action.  My dad opened the door to find a skinny naked man and his hair, or what was left of it, was on fire.  His skin was red and blistered, and smoke was billowing from his body!  His clothing had melted away!

This strange man told my parents that his car had exploded up the street and could he please get into a bath or shower and run cold water on his body because he was burning.  My parents rushed him down the hall and into the bathroom, which is of course when my sister and I noticed he was naked (and smoking, mostly his hair).  My parents helped him turn on the cold water and one of them called the police.

Now, there really isn't much else to tell of this story.  I suppose this may have been my first naked man sighting, but it was a blur because he was on fire, which captured my attention more than his nakedness.  It turns out, he was stealing gasoline from cars in the neighborhood and he was putting the stolen gasoline into large open containers in the trunk of his car, which of course, caused an explosion.  He was naked, on fire, and stupid.

I can't really remember what happened next, but I believe the police came to our house and promptly arrested him, and that was the end of that.  The lessons learned from my little flashback into childhood are these:  if you are going to steal gasoline, make sure you put it in closed containers, and, if you have an unexpected naked visitor on fire at 2 am--or anytime--grab your camera, because no one will believe you the next day.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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The Delights and Miseries of Christmas

I love Christmas.  I hate the self-imposed sense of urgency to get everything done.  I love watching my Christmas tree blink relentlessly in the evening as Poseidon and I bask in the glow of it (with our sunblock on).  I hate thinking about dragging it through the foyer, through the door, across the yard, and out to the curb for "tree pick-up day" in January, only to then retrace my steps to clean the fallen needles left behind.

I love watching old Christmas specials from my Gen X childhood.  I hate that Gen Y and Gen Z think the animation is lame (it isn't, you are).  I love finding perfect gifts for people.  I hate standing in line at the post office to mail said gifts to those people.

I love lighting the gas log in the fireplace (I know, I'm not really "lighting" it as much as "turning" the knob).  I hate that it is so cold outside that we have to turn on the fireplace.  I love humming my favorite Christmas songs as I move through the house.  I hate hearing the same 3 Christmas songs over and over and over and over at every establishment in my neighborhood.

I love moving through the stores with a smile on my face as I think of friends and family opening gifts on Christmas (when I must go to the stores that is...on-line shopping rules most magnificently).  I hate seeing scrooges moving through the stores with frowny faces, grumbling about prices, crowds, having to park more than 10 feet from the entrance, etc.  I love seeing those same scrooges in the parking lot yelling at another scrooge because of a ding on their car door.

I love opening my gifts from Poseidon because I never know what to expect.  I hate when I've opened all of my gifts because I'm greedy and I want more.  I love when Christmas is over.  I hate waiting for Memorial Day.  I love summer, the sand, the beach, and the sun.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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Bridezillas and Bridezillas-to-be

I suppose I haven't blogged about it yet, but Poseidon and I are engaged.  Yup.  He proposed, I said yes, we've set a date (in just a few months actually). made the guest list, I bought a dress, ordered invitations, etc.  I'm not the bridezilla type, so no haggling over details and fluttering about from one florist to another, harassing every cake maker in town, pissing off everyone I know.  Why?

First, I can't be a bridezilla because of my inability to cope with crushing anxiety.  Actually, the anxiety doesn't even have to be crushing, just present.  I'm anxious and stressed enough on a day-to-day basis, and fretting for days over the color of my groom-to-be's cummerbund or whether we have chocolate, raspberry, or celery-flavored cake (Poseidon requested celery-flavored cake...freak) would send me straight to the hospital, begging not to be resuscitated should it come to that.  I swear, I'm not kidding.

My second reason for not turning into a bat-shit-crazy bridezilla:  I don't want people to hate me.  Take note of these things bridezillas and bridezillas-to-be for your own future happiness because you are going to want someone there in your old age to change your diapers for you or at least come and visit you in the "home."

Getting engaged then picking a wedding date 2 or 3 years in advance just to reserve the "best" photographer in town or the "trendiest" chapel in the entire county is, well, stupid.  Those years you spend planning, demanding, screeching like a maimed animal and just being an overall bitch will follow you for the rest of your life.

When you start gossiping about your best friend, whom you've asked to be your Maid of Honor, because she gained 5 pounds and will screw up your wedding pictures, you better think about it.  It will get back to her (you think the other bridesmaids aren't going to stab the bride in the back?) and she will hate you for the rest of her life.

Do you think your husband won't remember you calling him an incompetent dimwit because he answered the phone one day and told the florist that carnations will be a fine substitute for calla lilies?  He will.  Trust me, 10, 15, 45 years later...he will, bridezilla, he will remember.  He might forget sometimes, but maybe when you are 90 and sitting on the porch together drinking some lemonade, and you have an accident, he won't change your bridezilla diaper.

When you call your mom a lazy fat cow because she can't take the day off from work (again) to go with you to another dress fitting (and oh my, how I feel sorry for bridal shop owners who have to deal with bridezillas for a living), she isn't likely to forget it.

Know this bridezilla, they will always secretly despise you.  You might think you can be a bridezilla for 2 years, and then after the wedding day, the switch flips to, "Oh, I was just stressed out while I was planning the wedding, let bygones be bygones," but that doesn't happen.  I've wondered why it is that many brides rarely, if ever, talk to their bridemaids after the wedding, and I realized while writing this blog why that is.  They loathe the bride.

I'm high strung and I like doing things my way and all that, but I want to get married because I love my Poseidon, not so everyone looks at me and pays attention to me on "my special day."  I can't see flipping a lid and spending thousands of dollars on one day, and it isn't even a full day!  Don't get me wrong, it's an important day and I want to enjoy planning it, and I'm sure I'll always remember my wedding day if Poseidon decides to go through with it.

--Fortuitous Observer

Remembering Mr. Gristle Head

I don't know why we named him Mr. Gristle Head, it just sounded right.  Mr. Gristle Head was actually a styrofoam wig stand (or holder, or whatever the correct term is) that belonged to my mother in the 1970s.  As Gen Xers we had to entertain ourselves because Play Stations, iPods, and the internet didn't exist yet, so we had to actually use our imagination to come up with cool shit to do, and we did.  It was during one of those days when we had to find something to do that my mother's wig stand met with a most unfortunate makeover, becoming Mr. Gristle Head for all eternity.

One winter afternoon, my sister and I decided to kidnap my mother's wig stand and mutilate it beyond recognition.  I can only guess we did this out of pure boredom, but as it is decades later, the exact whys, hows and wherefores are mere speculation on my part.

First, we unearthed our old LITE-BRITE® pegs from somewhere.  I think we had them in a large freezer bag in a dresser drawer.  We began by sticking the LITE-BRITE® pegs into the styrofoam wig stand, which we began referring to it as "the head."  Once we started, there was no stopping.  The wig head must be covered with colorful pegs, and so it was.  We stuck the pegs close together, so close that barely an empty space could be found on the wig head.

Conveniently, there was already a hole in the bottom of the wig head.  It was made that way.  I'm assuming wig heads were traditionally displayed in wig stores on large wooden pegs or something to keep them from falling over.  So, fortunately, we had an empty hole in the bottom of the wig head, and a baton that would fit perfectly into that hole.

Next, we decided to somehow put some clothes on our new Frankenstein-like creation.  We found an old shirt belonging to my dad, and we buttoned it around the wig head.  Of course, the wig head had no shoulders, so the shirt draped over it, giving it a ghostly, yet comical look.

Now what?  We have killed my mother's wig head stand and stolen a shirt belonging to my dad.  The next logical step in this impromptu moment of cleverness was to name the beast.  As I stated at the very beginning, I don't know why we chose to call him Mr. Gristle Head (or why we decided it was a "him" because the wig head was already wearing blue eyeshadow and red lipstick), but we did.  We paraded him around, holding the end of the baton, marching him down the hall and through the dining room, into the kitchen.  I think we even took Mr. Gristle Head outside.  We tried scaring our little brother, though he recognized the now destroyed wig head immediately, and the LITE-BRITE® pegs just weren't scary.

I'm not really sure why I'm even telling Mr. Gristle Head's story.  Probably because it popped into my head one day last week, out of know where, and I felt the tale must be told.  Believe it or not, Mr. Gristle Head suck around for a few years, mostly hiding out in the closet, making an occasional appearance at Halloween.

Perhaps Mr. Gristle Head is important because my sister and I were extremely proud of the creativity displayed in the design and execution of our plans to create such a unique being.  Perhaps he is important because we took something from our mom and destroyed it without getting into too much trouble.  Those are possibilities, but whatever the ridiculous reason, Mr. Gristle Head was a holding space for our LITE-BRITE® pegs (I don't think we even had the LiteBrite at that time...it bit the dust years before), a conversation piece, and a bit of my personal childhood history that I look back on with fondness...though I really don't know why.  Long live Mr. Gristle Head.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Amazing Grace & the CLEP Exam - Remembering My Father

This isn't my usual funny, sarcastic post (I know, I know, I'm sorry for trying to get serious for once).  This is something that happened to me that is a total mystery, something so profound yet confounding that it is difficult to explain, but I'll try.

My father passed away from esophageal cancer on August 11, 2004.  I went to the wake and the funeral and I was miserable at both.  I didn't like seeing my father in a casket with entirely too much makeup on, and the pink lipstick was over the top!  At the funeral, my cousin Toni sang "Amazing Grace" which was one of my dad's favorite songs, and he always loved her voice.

A few months after the funeral I was trying to finish a degree and I wanted to "test" out of some classes, which means I take the CLEP examination for the course, and if I already know enough about the topic, and pass the test, I don't have to take the classes, etc.  So, I had scheduled a CLEP exam at a small college in Philadelphia, where I was living at the time, called Manor College.  I didn't even know where Manor College was, but I followed the directions.  My exam was scheduled on a Saturday at noon.

I gave myself plenty of time to get there, but due to road construction (imagine that, road construction in Philadelphia).  I had to take several detours around this construction (or "destruction" in Philadelphia...not to go off on a tangent, but due to the unions in Philadelphia, things get finished at a slower, relaxed pass because that means, well, more money), and I was hopelessly lost.  I was frantic.  I drove up and down streets, looking for the school.  If one is scheduled for an exam and more than 5 minutes late, they won't let you in!  I was in a panic, tears streaming down my face.  I had the radio on, and out of nowhere, "Amazing Grace"  started playing.  I was stunned.  I hadn't heard this song since my father's funeral, and the radio station I had on, a college station, wasn't in the habit of playing gospel music.

As I listened to the song, tears still streaming, I began to calm down, and an almost peacefulness took over.  I took a deep breath, and I looked up, and directly in front of me was Manor College.

I made the exam on the dot, and passed.  Thanks Dad.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

The Obligatory "Things I'm Thankful for List" at Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving 2009 and it came around so fast this year that I've hardly had time to mentally prepare.  It crept up on me because in my neighborhood, the stores had Christmas decorations out before Halloween.  Usually they have Christmas stuff out before Thanksgiving, and that is how I know it is almost turkey time.  This year, I was caught completely off guard and I'm annoyed about it because I like savoring the crisp late fall two weeks prior to Thanksgiving, preparing myself to eat more food than my stomach can physically hold, and I was robbed of that this year!

Some families do the traditional verbal "what-are-you-thankful-for" round-table exchange.  Mine usually did not.  Everyone is thankful for the same things anyway (and they should be):  my bank account, my family, my kids, my house, my BMW, my health, my ability to hold my breath underwater for 6 minutes, etc.

Because my family doesn't really do this (we are usually too hungry because the Thanksgiving meal is always late getting on the table), I've decided to do my own little list of thankfulness.  I'm calling it Vad jag är tacksam för (which is Swedish for "what I am thankful for, roughly...because I'm part Swedish I should try to use the language now and then).  Here we go:

• I'm happy England sucked or else we wouldn't even be a country (I'm just kidding...I love the U.K.)
• My Siamese cat, Kwinn, only throws up every few months now
• I have a terrific boyfriend (Zeus...that is what he wants to be called when I blog about him)
• I'm not in jail or prison
• I have a cool brother and sister and brother-in-law (and soon to have a new sister-in-law!!!)
• I look nearly 10 years younger than I am (thought I act 20 years younger...that may be considered immature)
• I have great teeth
• Tennessee Titan's won their 4th game in a row this week!
• Raleigh finally sells decent beer
• My flashing "Cassandra" key chain still works
• Though I've broken every toe on both feet at least once, I can still walk
• That I've never watched an episode of "Jon & Kate Plus Eight"
• My pathetic eyesight can only be corrected to 20/40 in my left eye with glasses/contacts, but that is better than 20/480 (which is what it is without corrective lenses)
• My little Scion gets 38 MPH
• I'm not affected (too much) by all the Phish concerts I attended during my 20s and 30s

Though there is so much more to be thankful for, I'm can't think anymore.  To all of my American friends and readers, enjoy your Thanksgiving feast.  To everyone else, enjoy the rest of your work week : )

Adjö

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

 

If Only I'd Chosen a Smaller Book to Put in My Shorts

Zeus and I had dinner this past weekend with R, M, and D, and R was telling us a funny story about when she was 4-years-old and she got a spanking from her father, and she told him that must never happen again (yes, at the age of 4 she doled out some sage words of advice for her father, which is what makes the story so funny), and it made me recall a particular spanking I received from my father when I was around 6 or 7 (I can't remember exactly).

I had done something (I can't remember that either...honestly) and my mom told me that she was going to have my dad spank me when he got home from the store.  I knew I didn't want a spanking, and I also knew she was too mad to plea bargain so I waited nervously for him to return.  Through my anxiety, I was somehow able to have an epiphany that would save me.  I had seen a sitcom not too long before this incident in which a child was in the same situation I found myself to be.  This child decided that a spanking would hurt less if he put a book in his pants before getting the spanking.  His dad would be hitting the book and not his bottom.  How clever!  I was going to do that.

Fortunately, we had a large selection of books.  Unfortunately, I chose a huge reference book, thinking it would be thicker, therefore, I would feel the spanking less (I was only 6 or 7 remember).  So, I put the book in my shorts and waited for my dad to come home, feeling almost sorry for him that he would be giving me a spanking that wouldn't bother me.

Dad arrived home, mom told him what I did (I still can't remember what it was...honestly), and I was sitting in the kitchen awaiting my fate.  He came in, told me he had to give me a spanking, and I believe I almost smiled as I turned around as if to say, "Go ahead, give it all you got."  Of course, he saw the book in my shorts, and I heard him laugh, just a little, enough to know I'd been caught, and he told me to take the book out, so I did, and even though he found it a little amusing, I still got the promised spanking.  The spanking didn't hurt, but I included the obligatory cries and I-hate-you yells, then it was over.

I realized later that my mistake was in the book selection.  Had I chosen Winne the Pooh or even Little Women, I may have actually gotten away with it, but I also knew if I tried that again, my father was not going to be amused twice, so I left those antics to the make believe children on the sitcoms...

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Do What Your Told...or Maybe Not (A Gen Xers View)

"Do what your told!"  That was the command barked to a child by his mother yesterday while I was in the grocery store, trying to find an avocado that had some pliability (I didn't find one).  I didn't hear what it was that she told him to do, but it must of have been serious judging by the amplification of her voice.  I secretly agreed, and in my head I was saying, "Yeah, do what your told!"  I think everyone knows that my patience with children is somewhere between nil and none, only because most of the children I meet are mutant degenerate little barbarians.  However, I started thinking about this:  should one always do what they are told?  

When I was in kindergarten, I had to go to the little girl's room during story time.  Because it was during story time I was hesitant about asking, but I had to go, and I mean I had to go bad.  I reluctantly raised my tiny little elfish-sized hand and asked politely to go to the restroom.  My teacher told me no.  I raised my hand again a bit later (only because the situation was growing desperate) and told her I really had to go.  She said, "Then go in your pants."  So I did.  Everyone laughed at me, but I didn't care.  She told me to go in my pants, she was my teacher, so I did.  I was doing what I was told.

In the first grade, while learning to print my entire name, I discovered that doing what you are told can be conflicting and bring about some unfortunate results.  My middle name is Lyn, spelled with just one "n" (I don't know why my parents did that) yet my first grade teacher would always write in a second "n" in red pen, indicating that I was spelling my middle name wrong, so I started spelling it with two "n's."  My parents noticed this and told me my middle name only had one "n" so I went back to spelling it with one, and my teacher continued to "correct" it by writing in the 2nd "n" while my parents continued to "correct" me at home.  I was so confused that I stopped writing my middle name at all, even pretending I didn't have a middle name (which is pretty deep for a first grader if you ask me).  If only I'd known to get my parents and my teacher on the same page with what they were telling me to do, the chaos would have been eliminated and I may not need the therapy that I now require as an adult.

On the flip side of this, doing what your told may save your life.  When my sister and I were 3 or 4 years old, we were jumping up and down on the sofa and my mother said, "Stop jumping on the sofa or you will fall off and crack your head wide open."  That is exactly what happened.  Fell, cracked top of head on stereo console, had to go to the emergency room.  Stitches were required.  A few years later, I think I was 10, my mother told me to tie my shoe or I would trip and crack my head wide open.  Yup, you guessed it.  Tripped, head landed on a rock, had to go to the emergency room.  Stitches again required and I have a nice dent in my forehead to remind me of the incident for the rest of my silly life.

Either I was very unlucky, or my mom was somehow putting a curse on me, or she just wanted to see what I would look like with multiple dents and scars all over my head, to make it easier to tell my twin sister and I apart.

So, after this trip down memory lane, and recalling the grief I endured due to doing what I was told and not doing what I was told, I decided the kid has no chance either way and will more than likely have need for therapy in the future.

 

--Fortuitous Observer