Sunday, June 29, 2014
Friday, June 27, 2014
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Thievery is around me everyday. I have somewhat mastered the understanding of why people do it.
They didn't have things as a child and now they feel entitled. Or perhaps they need to keep up with the Jonses' or the Richardson's, but aren't in the same disposable income bracket. And in my opinion the worst: They simply don't care. I care, and as I've said before: I'll never really "get it"
See, the man that sits on my shoulder would never let me live with myself. He would haunt my every living moment, and his good buddy Karma would eventually come calling and I would immediately make the connection.
I have stolen once.
I was between 8-9 years old. We only had one vehicle at the time and had to walk for groceries. I was embarrassed about having the neighbors know, but enjoyed the walk. I always, ALWAYS had to carry the milk home. To this day, I will never ever buy milk by the gallon jug. I prefer the glass bottles, and will pay more for them. I'm also severely lactose intolerant, so my milk consumption is quite small. So we were at the check out and even that early I was obsessed with pop culture and the glossy magazines. I wanted a picture in one of the glossies so bad, but knew my Mom would never buy it, and there definitely wasn't money for it. And I'm sure she would have questioned, what would an 8 year old girl want a magazine for ?!
So I carefully ripped the page out of the magazine. I folded it carefully just once, as to not disturb the image. I concealed it in my jacket quickly and grabbed my jug of milk to make the trek home. The entire time, The Entire time, I was panicking. I was sure the gates would come down before we left the store. I was expecting the manager to come through the parking lot, demanding the photo back. And if there was a siren that sounded on our way through the snow, I was positive the red and blue lights were for me.
It never happened. But what did after that has stuck with me until this day. I snuck out of the house, and made the trek back to the grocery store alone. And returned the page back into the magazine. I can't be certain it went in the right one. But I put it back. I should have never walked that far by myself across the busy highway. But I had to do it. My Dad was an officer of the law, and even back then I knew he wasn't raising me that way.
My best friend recently bought and paid for, by herself, a lovely vacation home. Emphasis on: By Herself. She is a recent divorcee, and lives on her own. She has been extremely successful in her business and is looking forward to an early retirement. She found the place, made multiple offers, and signed her, and No One Else's name on the paperwork. This is amazing! So after 3-4 trips up north to make it her own, she returned with her parents to show off the property. She unfortunately came to discover she had been a victim of thievery. Several thousands dollars worth. And it clearly wasn't the work of kids. This was the work of adults. Tackle boxes, marine oil, batteries, ect. There she was on a private lake in her new place, and wasn't able to escape the entitlement someone felt, to have her shiny new toys.
And even though I knew the answer to question of: "Who does That?", it still escaped my lips.
The answer: Someone who doesn't have a conscience.
Someone who doesn't feel like they have to pay for possessions.
Someone who doesn't think, or care, if they take something of someone else's'.
And apparently, someone who doesn't have the same guy as I, taking up a permanent residence on his or her shoulder.
Ring, Ring..."Hello? Yes, This Is Karma, I always come Calling"
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Saturday, June 14, 2014
This is what I told the man that had her. He wasn't a stranger and the destination had seen me before.
See, 4 years prior I had gotten her sister from another litter .He opened the garage door, and there she was. Shy, skeptical, full of freckles and a little fearful. She was tiny. I could fit my hands around her entire body. Her breastbone protruded out of her chest so sharply, I was afraid the skin would tear.
I told him tearfully, I would take her. I needed her, and she needed me.
Annie Francis Bean was born.
Well, she was birthed 8 months prior, and came with her first name, but I embellished gratuitously. She lived on a farm just out of town about 40 minutes. She was running with about 12 other dogs and the only food she saw was what she could wrestle from the barn floor when the dog food bag was spilled open. For the first 4 months that I had her, she would squirrel away mouthfuls of food and hide them throughout the house. I was beginning to think I had a rodent problem, until I caught her one day. Then we began eating together, and I stayed with her until she was finished, and assured her there would be more.
Annie really isn't a nice dog, and I warn people of that when they first meet her. I mean, of course she's a nice dog, quite possibly my best yet. She is loyal, to a fault. But around other people, or especially people she doesn't know? Forget about it. She's the sheriff, the deputy, and the gatekeeper. A few years back she even took a nip out of the back of the postman's pants, and I was scared for days I was going to jail for allowing my dog to injure a federal employee. I was ready the following day with fresh cookies. When I asked the postman how his leg was, he completely shrugged it off and laughed about being taken down by a basset hound! Whew!! She has moved with me 3 times in the last 5 years. And for those of you with pets, you know that routine to them is their Zen. And their surroundings, their safe spot. Annie has taken up residence in each house with ease, and found the watchtower of each abode where she can preside over the kingdom. She knows immediately when someone walks by the house, windows closed and drapes shut. I think she can feel them.
P and Annie were able to bond during a stint of travel for me. Looking back, I can't believe I actually let her stay with him. but somehow they worked out their differences, and he apologized to her for not even knowing what kind of dog she was. They regularly now take trips to Starbucks on the weekends when I'm working and get Pupperchino's(whip cream in a baby cup for doggies in the drive- through!) Annie has to share our household with her younger brother Buster. She let him know right away how it would all go down, and Do Not Even think about going near her kibble. About a year after we moved in with P and Buster, Annie ran after another dog one morning and across the busy street. I was running as fast as I could after her (4 4- inch legs actually move surprisingly fast) and was watching as a car came speeding down the hill. The car ended up hitting her, before she got to the other dog. Imagine watching your dog get hit by a car, and your running as fast as you can to stop it =The stuff nightmares are made of. Somehow, miraculously, and thankfully, my little dog did a tuck and roll, and just ended up under the front bumper. One of the many advantages of having a 14 inch tall dog.
See, I would have taken the hit for her. Willingly. She is the first thing I think of in the morning when I wake, and the last kiss I give before bed.I've never known the love of Motherhood with a child, and of course, there must be a difference?? I'm sure ya'll with kids will school me in that. But for now, I'll always choose the company of my dog, than the distraction of other humans. And I think Annie feels the same way.
That's why we go together: like Peas & Carrots
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Often people will ask me what my little blog is about. When they hear that the topics usually circulate around Human Behavior, or Relationships, a quizzical look always will follow. So I try and make them more at ease by letting them know I also post my daily outfits. This usually works, but makes me feel like I've compromised. See in my eyes, this life needs less of the "Gifted" blogger wardrobe posts and more talk of what's Actually going on.
Last week(as previously mentioned) P and I attended a heartfelt service for one of his good friends. Since I'm currently quarantined from discussing (the perils of censorship) how That all went down, I choose to share one of my Take- Aways. There we were approaching the service. It was a beautiful day and unseasonably warm. There in front of us were about 200 people.
They were All Smoking.
Can I just ask the question: When did people Start Smoking again??
I have not gone un- smoked in this lifetime. The last year of high school saw me many a cup of sweetened coffee, followed up by a Benson & Hedges(dating myself here). And even as of recent, at a friends housewarming party out in the garage, and at a summer Bar- be- que. The same always happens to me. I get through about 1/2 of said cigarette, and wonder how in Sam hell can people do this!? That isn't the smoking I'm speaking of. The type I'm talking about is: buying a whole pack, having multiple burn marks in your car, and having no fewer than 3 lighters at your disposal at any given moment. The wake up in the morning and go to bed at night, but not yet before the final flame burns.
And before you pull out the argument that smoking is "Retro Chic", I will contest, that there is nothing "retro", nor "chic" about doing something that makes you smell and taste like an ashtray. For those of us who remember when you could still smoke in restaurant's, bars, and hey even airplanes, I have a message from your hair, skin, and clothes: Thank YOU!! And every girl who has stood in the shower on a Sunday morning and waited for the stale stank to steam out of her pores, knows exactly what I'm speaking of. There a young girl I see on a regular basis that's in the Smokey Joe's club. She is literally in the prime of her mid 20's. She regularly runs, works out, and wafts past me resembling more Joe Camel, than cute girl. What in the world is she smoking for!?
My Dad smoked a pipe for years. The man actually smoked a pipe! None of my other fancy friends fathers did that. But I enjoyed it. I knew it relaxed him, and in later years knew he wasn't inhaling. I didn't necessarily enjoy when he did it on the 3 hour ride home from Grandma's with the windows rolled up. But if those windows would have been open, I doubt I would still have vivid memory of the cherry flavored tobacco he used.
These days, my kinda smoke includes some graham crackers and chocolate. And the only thing Hot about it, is the marshmallow that may go up in flames if my stick gets too close to the campfire!
Sounds, and smells,,, just perfect.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Just a few years ago I started to recognize that I have never Really been Hit On. Never really Truly Hit ON.
Yeah sure, the creepy Jeffrey Dahmer-esque guy at the bar that comes over with, "What's wrong? Smile" . Note to the boys: The WORST line. EVER!!!! Sure I've had That.
And of course, I've had the window washer guy, that is in 6 cartons of Newports deep, tell me I smell good. But never, an actual, Intentional HIT.
I started considering this after I had spent the day with an old friend. She was soon expecting her 2nd child. There she was with her swollen belly, fighting them off like flies. From the seat of her car, and from behind her shopping cart. The Hits, just kept on a comin'. And after a full day of this I feel befuddled, and slightly rejected. So I tell this story to my(now) ex, and he says the next 7 words, that I wouldn't soon forget:
"You don't look like a nice girl"
Wham!! There it was. The reason this gal ordered solo so many times she was out on Girl's Night. The reason her barstool stayed occupied, during many a midnight rendez- vous. The girl that even when completely content, appears to have #constantbitchface. He went on to elaborate that I don't look "approachable", and the slightly more complimentary, "You don't look like you take any shit". And I decided,: I could live with that.
I didn't need to meet someone in a bar. Because I'd rather be at home than bar closing. And I didn't need to meet someone during a dance, because watching a man dance is about the least attractive, most emasculating activity in the world to watch. And if your going to look at me, please do so without the inhibitions of being inebriated.
So it finally happened. Well, sort of. In the kind of way that happens to me. This Friday night I decided to make a detour from home and stop at my local Target. I had no agenda in mind, but soon had a shopping basket stuffed. I was nearby one of the check out lanes, and one of the employees started chatting me up. The dress, the shoes, the bag, Ohh gosh and the the Earrings!! Squeel!!!
Wait...was this my Hit? I soon let him know that I was not wearing my usual Target attire. I also let him know that I had just attended one of the nicest funeral services I had ever attended. He shares his condolences and I accept his apology.
Then the Hits just keep on a comin'. His opener: "You must have been the nicest person dressed at that funeral". Wait...what??? Here I Finally get my hit, and do I mention it's from someone that has sexually No interest in someone of my gender???
And you wonder why I call this little Blog,
This is My Life with Coffee:)