The Perfect Sport

July 2011

By (Trying to Be) Anonymous — Age 64, Height 5’3” and shrinking, Weight ? (Would be commensurate with a height of 7’3”)

Karate is the perfect sport. Yes, I know that’s a huge claim to make. To back that up, I challenge you to name any other sport that you can practice with other people, any one of any age out of diapers can do it, it keeps you fit and is a good workout, it can accommodate limitations and injuries, you get to play with weapons and best of all you get to do it in pajamas known officially as the Gi!

And, no worries about body image in this sport. You are covered from head to foot. Should you happen to have unsightly feet, you will learn to kick with them should someone dare comment or if you are a girl or woman you can show off your pedicure and compare nail polish colors. If you have too skinny legs, no problem, sunken chest, bowed legs, thunder thighs, hunch back, knock knees, no problem; you don’t need to be self-conscious here. The Gi has it covered.

Karate is a very accommodating sport. If you have a bit of arthritis, bursitis, any other “itises”, a weak wrist, a trick knee, a bad shoulder, or acne on your shoulders, no worries you can still work out! No one will ever know. It’s covered by...pajamas!

If you have physical (or mental limitations) a good instructor will work with you. He will be patient but firm with the children, patient but firm with the stubborn, patient but firm with slackers, patient but firm with teenage girls at least once a month, and patient and firm with anyone carrying an “attitude.” (And, if you don’t like it or mess with him, he will throw you on the floor or use you to demonstrate on. One student called it “instant karma.”)

Karate also provides entertainment. It is fun to watch the guys interact in the dojo. Before I signed up for training, I just didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to hit, punch, kick, knock-over, throw down, and tap out someone? Now I know--because it’s fun!

The guys do things much differently. They really mess with each other. During a demonstration Carlos once deliberately got too close to a sensitive part of Sensei’s anatomy, and Carlos was already smiling as he was in turn thrown on the floor. He knew it was coming. Guys like to mess with each other like that; it’s how they show their regard.

I like to mess with people too. If I am being irreverent it is my way of showing respect. If I am not being irreverent I probably am showing my distain. Also, I find my sense of humor irrepressible at times and hear “no laughing” from Sensei. But that’s difficult because many, many things strike me as funny except maybe torture and death. So sometimes it isn’t funny in the dojo.

If you want what Sensei has (the training) you go along or he can ask you to leave his dojo, I suppose. It is, after all, called Martial Arts. Like a personal trainer his job is to push you further than you think or believe you can go.

If you are looking for an egalitarian or democratic sport this is not it. I don’t remember some of what I signed papers for but that part must have been in invisible ink. The higher belts are supposed to be over the lower belts as well and you are supposed to bow to black belts but I think some of the rules are forgotten. I know I forget them—not intentionally. So Karate can be forgiving.

I am way beyond the years (or figure) to look good in a tennis skirt or shorts. Anyway, I have a scarred up leg that was broken in five places and anything with much running is out of the question now. So, I happily trot the inside of the dojo during training letting others younger and fitter literally run circles around me. I love the fact that it is not a race.

You see, Karate is not competitive unless you choose to compete. Mostly, you are competing against yourself, setting your own goals under the direction of your Sensei and learning how to seriously maim or kill people without yourself dying from exhaustion in the process. It is quite a workout. Of course, if you want to compete there are the tournaments and they can be fun at the right time and in the right frame of mind. I’m sure Sensei would agree.

It is sometimes mentioned that some of the training is useful for multiple attackers or for street fighting. It gives me pause to wonder how others are living their lives and also whether or not I should be seeking out bars to test my training—and reason to drink and brawl.

A good Sensei is a good trainer and coach. He deals with much more than just that. He also encourages, “suggests,” keeps the mood of the dojo positive, teaches respect and tolerance. True, I have threatened to report my Sensei for “elder abuse” but that was in the early months of my training. Now, I only complain “he is trying to kill us” to my friend Starr, a generational cohort, who I encouraged to enroll when she complained she could no longer find her waist and was bored with the gym. Now I have company to share with the occasional feeling of misery from an especially hard work out.

In my time I have played many sports including tennis, racquet ball, golf, and is bowling a sport? I have killed snakes with my golf game and fallen over backwards catching a fly in softball. Tennis is fun for the mental game but there is chasing the ball. Racquet ball is a great workout--but dang it hurts if you hit yourself with the ball off the back wall. I was jogging before women’s running shoes were even being made and it always seemed like work, not fun.

I broke an eardrum attempting a half gainer at the swimming pool. I also passed the Red Cross Life Saving Course. During that test we had to swim a mile with all our clothes on, they tried to drown us and we learned how to make a flotation device by tying up the waist and legs of our wet pants and blowing air into them.

I have not played football, soccer, rugby, polo or cricket. None of them look like the perfect sport to me and in three of them you have that shorts thing going on. Rugby shirts are hideous and you don’t get to put cool dragon or tiger patches on any of them. Pajamas have lots of patch space.

I am reminded that most sports require specialized footwear...not Karate. You can do it barefoot and what is more natural than bare feet with--yes, you said it, pajamas!

My husband doesn’t want to take karate. He worries about getting hurt. I have seen injuries in the dojo. One student cut his hand at work, another twisted an ankle on a skateboard, one came in with a frozen shoulder, another with existing back and knee problems and all still train either working around or modifying exercises for injuries or if they are not permanent, modifying them until they heal.

I hurt myself in the dojo moving a piece of equipment that looks like a medieval torture device and tore off part of a toe nail. When the nail fell off I just painted the skin to match the rest of my toes! There was no ruined footwear and the nail grew back.

Contrary to what may be believed, part of training concentrates on how to avoid injury: how to fall, how to deflect a strike, how to react quickly and defend with arms or legs. I’ve actually used this skill when a heavy box was going to fall on me off a closet shelf--No.6 block deflected it.

Yes, I am quite convinced that Karate is the perfect sport. It helps prevent household injuries, is accessible to children and adults of all ages and abilities, is an awesome workout, it’s fun and best of all...you get to do it barefoot and in pajamas!

Black Pants in a White Dog World

Written June 4, 2011 at the Not Quite Ready for The Bucket List Mobile Home Park

The yard that I fenced at great cost and with much exasperation for our aged 11 year old Yellow Lab mix is going totally unused. The dog who NEVER wanted to be inside now never wants to go outside and has decided that the bathroom of the master bedroom is her den. Even deflating her airbed is not discouraging her from making it her den. Mind you, I no longer have my own den due to downsizing but she does and now she is there to greet me at all hours of the day and especially night with her sunny disposition, beautiful face, and melt-your heart eyes.

Aaarrrgh. Beautiful but not all day and night. If you have ever owned a Lab or know someone who has they shed enough each day to make a replica of themselves. Only it is not a standing one, the hair is everywhere. There is not a vacuum strong enough, a pet broom sturdy enough or a lint remover sticky tape sticky enough to get it all or if there is the sticky stuff is not sold like yardage and that is what it would take--5x7 feet pieces might begin to pick up all the hair. Even dust bunnies do not stand a chance against this invading army of dog hair. (The bunnies remain a tiny minority hiding under the bed and hoping to one day expand to their once-owned territory so they bivouac and making battle plans in dark corners.)

Rascal is now shedding her winter coat and it is coming out by the handsful. If my spinning wheel was working, and I so desired, I could spin enough yarn to make an afghan, several sweaters, some hats with ear flaps, and I could probably also make socks for a small third world army.

At our other house, since she was outside most of the time--her choice mind you--the hair could be swept, hosed or blown off the patio. From there, it disappeared into nature providing enough bird nest liner for the entire bird population of San Juan Capistrano. I don’t know if the Swallows used it, but I’m sure if they did it made great adobe homes for them.

Furthermore, it’s not just shedding that she does. It’s passive aggressive shedding. She cannot enter a room or even be in the same room with anyone without rubbing up against them leaving a large patch of clingy, pretty yellow, almost white hair. Now, anything a person is wearing, in my case usually dark jeans, is covered. Now, I have to get out the lint roller again before I can leave the house looking even passably decent.

“Why don’t you brush her”, I hear you asking.

Look, I am on a shortened routine for my own brushing. I barely have the time to do other things such as look for Waldo, re-re-remake my mammogram appointment, get my teeth cleaned, follow up on following up, make sure everyone else is doing what they should be doing (my way hopefully) and teaching the parrot to say “you look great.”  If I were a really organized person, I probably would find a way to drop my daughter off for her pedicure, my husband off for his haircut or the other way around and my dog off at the groomers, stop by the recycle bottles and cans place, donate blood, go bird watching and come back just in time to pick them all up.

So I hear you saying to yourself, “Yeah, I get it her dog sheds a lot...so what?” Well, there is more...

Today, I realized something as I threw a half a box of cling-frees into my clothes dryer. The hair everywhere is a metaphor for my life at this time. Having just moved there is stuff everywhere. Were it not for gravity, it would be floating through the house just like the dog hair. It all is very annoying. Things that I want to shake off and leave behind such as annoying neighbors, annoying habits especially of others, items from to do lists from June last year, things I cannot possibly bear to part with like National Geographic’s and Elvis Impersonator albums cling to me like dog hair and target me on seek and destroy missions.

Today we moved--once again--the boxes we brought to the mobile home from storage just two weeks ago back to storage today--rented the truck, paid someone to help and hoped to God that we shed some of our belongings before the $1 month storage rental increases to $1000 or perhaps lower but just as ridiculous a sum. The reason we had to do that was because (whiny voice) we had to have a three foot clearance along the side of the mobile home all the way to the very ugly and horribly inconveniently placed utility meters. When I heard this after all that we have gone through in this move it was too much and I just went to bed for the day and left it to my dear husband to figure out and pay for.

This additional inconvenience confirms my suspicion that we ARE living on Indian burial ground and the residents of the park are zombies and it is true that no one leaves this park alive and if you want evidence they post the passing of neighbors on the white board at the club house along with the Bingo schedule!

It was Dora and Fred (not related) who died last week. I wish my husband still had his real-estate license. Sales are good in the park. He’d have to keep a lint brush by the door and in his car though. He’s also living with black pants in a white dog world.

At the Dojo

October 2010

If a black cat crosses my path I’m not likely to think that it is bad luck but rather wonder where the heck it is going and possibly even want to follow it just to see if it will be struck down by curiosity if nothing else. Not unlike Alice, in following my curiosity, I have landed in a few situations myself and found myself in unexpected places wondering about the outcome...

     Perfectly content with the free trim to my bangs that I just received at the salon--the stylist there not wanting my impulsive mutilations credited to their place of business I’m guessing--and heading back to my car, I was approached by a nice looking young man in a karate uniform--the traditional black Gi. “Would you like a free karate lesson?” I turned around to see who he was asking. He couldn’t possibly be talking to me because according to my weight I am very height challenged so should be playing pro basketball. I also have graying hair and an AARP membership card in my wallet. And, I couldn’t have been walking any faster than about one tenth of a mile an hour--the perfect rate for picking out weekly specials in grocery aisles. I certainly, in my mind, appeared a most unlikely candidate for karate training. But yes, he WAS talking to me and having just seen the black cat cross my path, I said “Sure, why not?” and made an appointment for later that evening. I was also invited to bring along my Bubba Stick (Made in Texas by Texans) which is a cane with a heavy brass head and he told me he would show me how to use it as a weapon--Kane Fu, a martial arts form for elders.

I arrived at the appointed time and was first shown some defensive moves that were impressive. The sensei made it seem easy. I learned to break a hold if someone were grabbing me and how to make a strike to the nose, temple or groin count. I learned to swing the cane over my head making it a lethal weapon and I learned that if you are physically worn out you are much more likely to sign on the line for lessons and be left wondering “what was I thinking?” as you are parted from your senses and your money.

Private lessons are once a week and group lessons are three times a week. I told myself this was all good because I was weak, lacked strength and balance from too many “power naps” and persistent fibromyalgia sapped my motivation and any desire I had to wander far from the couch.

I was nervous about going to the group class. All the students were younger than I, some young enough to be someone’s grandchild—I refuse to say mine. I figured that I would either be an inspiration to them, comic relief or both. When they asked me what made me decide to take Karate I told them honestly “my children.” There does come a time when parenting skills just aren’t working on them any longer and serious intimidation is needed.

At the first class, after a brief meditation and exercises which I did from an elevated mat because I couldn’t yet stand from kneeling, we were paired off to practice. We were learning how to backhand someone and increase the impact by flicking the wrist and twisting the torso. I was facing Alfredo whose dark eyes held warmth and mirth. The sensei Ian told me to hit him and not just pretend. Doing so, I couldn’t suppress the giggles and neither could my opponent. I could tell he thought it was like being beat up by his grandmother. Just then I learned something I didn’t know about myself--I like pretending to hit people. Of course, I immediately apologized and controlling our moves, no one gets hurt purposefully. It was his turn to hit me.

If I were following the black cat, I would be noticing about now that it didn’t know exactly where it was going. As I tried to do “girl” pushups and crunches and squats and other kinds of exercises I only remember from high school, I kept asking myself “What was I thinking?” I must have a screw loose. The sensei became a kindly but pressing task master. I’d show up for classes and I would do modified exercises because of old injuries to knee and leg and I would huff and puff with the others. I was surprised to find that while I move slowly, I can strike faster than others might guess and have at least as much endurance as one of the other younger students. Other students weren’t use to having a senior among them and I hoped they were surprised by my determination and good humor.

I plan to be a perpetual white belt due to my limitations which are many. I can’t kick higher than the groin (and maybe don’t need to), my round house kick is practically non-existent but someone seeing it would probably be disarmed just by the sight and laugh themselves off balance and then I can finish them. I can execute hits to the head, nose, ears, jaw, and throat--if my opponent isn’t taller than a dwarf. And, I also do energy healing so if I ever do harm someone it is reassuring to me to know that I can heal them as well.

There are all kinds of rules and traditions in the “Dojo”. You don’t wear shoes, you bow entering and leaving. You bow to your sensei and opponents, you kneel putting on and taking off your belt, the belt is not supposed to be washed. That is disrespectful while not washing your Gi is disrespectful to other students. It is bad luck to kill a bug in the Dojo and bad luck not to kill an opponent who hasn’t washed their Gi.

I have been really surprised by the amount of enjoyment in Karate under the leadership of the sensei and it’s a very good workout. Although not a big fan of physical exertion, I have improved my strength, balance and flexibility. I am learning how to fall when others my age fear falling.

There have been many, many more crunches, push-ups, squats, stretches, jumping jacks, jogs, etc. and there are still days when I wonder what I have gotten myself into. Now the sensei is asking me (telling me?) to participate in a tournament. Ha, ha, ha. Right. Me in a tournament--all because of a chance encounter on the way from having my hair trimmed!

My 64th birthday fell on a Saturday when class meets. Everyone at the Dojo wished me happy birthday and hit me. It was a good day. Exhausted, sweating from the workout, and cheerful, I went to my car. I imagined seeing a black cat peering out from under wondering with curiosity just what I was doing and whether I would survive. Heading home for my afternoon “power nap” ...I had the confidence I would survive.

Note: I am still, as of this posting, enjoying learning Karate. I have a yellow belt and I was "persuaded" to go to a tournament by Sensei and I actually brought home a trophy LOL. You can see pics of me at the Dojo on my Facebook account.

After All It's Just a Fence

Note: This is out of sequence time-wise and happened earlier in our move but is still very much on my mind and still applies.

I have to face the fact that I have been a big whiner. It’s not an attractive trait and I am as self-conscious of it right now as I would be of a volcano size zit on the end of my nose.

I have been trying to get a fence built at my house for a couple of weeks now. No progress. The fence had to go up because we moved the dog. Then we had to change contractors. There was quite a bit of unpleasantness surrounding the whole fence building thing. I want to mention here that after all the trouble and money Rascal still won’t stay in the yard. We are going to see if beer works for her.

I have been trying to get flooring in. No progress. I have been trying to get unpacked from moving...more of the same...no progress. Moving is like being caught in an avalanche and calling for more snow. And now I understand what people who remodel go through because nothing is simple.

Everyone is specialized. Flooring people don’t do edge molding on the floor. Reupholsters don’t do wood refinishing. Movers are the only ones who move everything including I’m told packing up the garbage or in the case of our last move my friends shoes from the bedroom floor. She had to go home barefoot.

I have no TV, no land line, my accounts have disappeared with the closing of our internet account by our provider on their end. I can’t even get my blog back under my own name. I have been wearing the same limited wardrobe out of my suitcase for the last two weeks. My life is chaos. And there I go again more whining. And I am painfully aware of doing it.

I try to be evolved as a human being, honestly I do. It’s just that it is such a struggle sometimes. I even went to a class in Buddhism and I fell asleep meditating and it was only the snoring of a fellow meditator that kept me from falling off my chair completely.

My “Life is beautiful, I love you” side struggles with my “F-you, go to hell” side. The latter mostly manifests itself while driving. I bet we have the highest rate of road rage in the country.

I like feeling loving and warm and fuzzy and huggy toward everyone. But life frustrates me sooooo much. I can’t even type sooooo without a spell check reminder pointing out my deliberate spelling error—just another frustration.

I tell myself “It’s just a fence not yet built.” “It’s just carpet the dog chewed up and mini-blinds she bent.” “It’s just sleep I’m losing because daughter fell out of bed in the middle of the night and hurt her arm.”

None of those things or the accumulation of them should drive me to the point of irrationally yelling at my husband that I was leaving to drive to Alaska to charge my cell phone in my car and I wasn’t coming back! And it was just because he locked the bathroom door while he was showering and my phone was charging in there and I couldn’t get it. That was totally stupid. I should have said Florida because it’s too damn cold in Alaska.

But I have to stop whining really I do. The only thing that matters is the love we have for our friends and family. This was made painfully clear to me today when I sent a whiny, albeit funny, e-mail to a friend.

Her reply e-mail informed me of the sudden death of her husband in an accident.

My heart stopped for more than a moment. It was one of those instances that remind me that life is precious...even with all its frustrations and chaos and crises.

ALL that really matters is the love of family and friends and trying to find at least one joyful moment each day. It is after all just a fence...

I Wish I Were a Lark

--one of those people who wake up alert, smell the coffee and want to carpe diem.

Instead, I resent the early morning bird twittering, believe alarm clocks are evil inventions to enslave a conformist population and I wish only to carpe dormire.

The thought of eating in the morning makes my stomach queasy. I do have next of kin who can wolf down Grand Slams, coffee, biscuits and gravy and go all day on it but I don’t know how they face that in the morning.

I have never cared much for coffee and would rather get my caffeine from a cold Coke but somehow it is unseemly a drink in the morning—suspect of being more as if I were adding rum or something. I dare not drink tea, having recently become a member of the Tea Party and need to save my tea bags to attach to my hat for the April 15^th event this year.

It is true that the sun coming up over a meadow with early morning frost can be quite beautiful and I can look at those photographs all day long any time after 10 a.m. I love to be present for sunsets and their sweep of never ending colors and variations across the sky over ocean or even roof tops and watch as the sky turns purple and night time takes on its mystery.

Lark friends tell me that they love the quiet of the morning starting their day around 4 or 5 a.m. They even exercise. Three words you will never hear me say together are “brisk morning walk.” How do they do that when it’s all I can do to crawl out of bed?

Early risers do have the advantage of being able to call businesses on the East Coast, but then as morning wears on daytime fills with crowds of people tying up phone lines as well as streets and freeways on their way to school or work.

Because let’s face it, owls are out of step with the rest of the business days activities and that makes scheduling appointments or surgery more difficult. It has been suggested to me—more than once—that I just go to bed earlier and voila, I will wake up with the rest of the larks, rarin’ to go. No, it doesn’t work that way, I will lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling--as well as I can in the dark--for several hours, thinking of all the useful things I might be doing.

As it turns out, there truly are larks and owls and it all has to do with an individual circadian rhythms. Normal rise and fall of body temperature determine rhythms of sleep and wakefulness. If like my sister, or my friend Kittie, your body temperature drops at 10 p.m. you are lights out and “up and at ‘em” first thing in the morning even on weekends thus allowing you to tout your wonderful garage sale finds or any other worm that early birds catch. The only thing that ever got me out of bed for sunrise was the rim of the Grand Canyon. Why would you want a worm anyway?

I got up early one other time. Since I wasn’t waiting for the coffee to brew or breakfast and didn’t need to call New York, I didn’t know what to do with foggy-headed self and I went back to bed.

Being a relative or friend of an early riser can be particularly difficult. For some reason they don’t understand that I don’t want their eight a.m. calls anymore than they want my midnight calls.

I have been told by a few close friends that they don’t call me early, not because they understand my circadian rhythms but because I am incoherent. I don’t remember that and I probably don’t remember the phone call either. I am eternally grateful for e-mails and so are my larky friends.

Something I have noticed about Larks is that they like to note the time stamp on e-mails and probably posts to Facebook. Why? Maybe I can get one of them to explain this to me. So I’m up late, very very late maybe, how do you know I didn’t just wake up very, very early, huh?

I love the night time. It is so quiet and cool. The phone is not going to ring unless it is another owl friend calling. The door bell almost certainly isn’t going to ring unless it’s the police. All the noises of the day have settled down, interruptions are far, far fewer. Children are sleeping--hopefully. Pets don’t mind keeping you quiet company.

There are no cars at the drive-thru to slow your burger down, there are no crying children in the markets or restaurants and no one trying to sneak through the 12 item line with 13 items. People up at night are usually not rushing to get somewhere else. Hardly anyone honks their horn at night. Movie theaters are nearly empty for very late shows.

Expectations are less at night. No make-up, who cares? Not driving hand’s free? Who can see? Forgot to change out of your slippers... no funny looks (unless they are the duck feet slippers). You can put on an old sweater or sweat shirt to go out--one that you wouldn’t dare wear during the day. Night time is a time to be comfortable, informal, cozy even.

Furthermore, my muse keeps erratic hours and always will unless I train him or her to show up only at appointed times, but where’s the creativity in that? My muse is no lark either.

Well, I seem to have talked myself out of wanting to be a lark even if it were possible to change. You can’t be a member of the Lark’s club anyway if you are not a Starbuck gift card totin’ coffee drinker and I’m not.

I enjoy being an owl. I almost never get to talk to the East Coast though. The only thing that troubles me is my perception people who don’t know me might possibly believe that I am lazy, slothful, a miscreant or have a drinking, gambling or other problem since I go to bed late and wake up late. Shoot, they ought to know and I’m here to tell them, I’m not having that much fun.

The owls aren’t what they seem...they are far more interesting. Just ask Robin or Snowy.

All God's Creatures

Previously printed in the Anthology She Writes which was published March 2011 by Windflower Press.  http://www.windflowerpress.com/

I like to think that I have a “live and let live” attitude toward life in general and that comes to little lives too.

However, if you are a fly or a spider or a damsel fly and I open the door for you and invite you back outside, I shouldn’t have to ask twice.

I have been known to capture a small critter, especially spiders in a jar, and throw them outside. I’m always surprised they make a sound when they land. If I’m upstairs they are on their own ‘cause I’m not doing the stairs for a spider and all the windows have screens.

I ought to mention here that the only thing I dislike more than uninvited guests is uninvited-guest poison spray. For pity sake, we walk on that floor too!

Lately, we have had more flies than the Amityville house. Reason tells me that they are coming in through the sliders having hatched over at the horse stables. Clearly, they considered themselves too good to hang out for long there and come looking for more refined accommodations. They seem to really enjoy the patio and the patio set with the umbrella covered table. It’s like a little Meet-Up place for them.

You have a chance inviting one fly to leave but when they get that mob mentality it’s a whole ‘nother story. So, I went to get some natural, doesn’t-harm-children-or-pets flying insect spray. It does seem to help them fly and they may do a loop through the mist that’s quite impressive but not the effect I hoped for. I have children, dogs, a parrot, a guinea pig and a husband to consider so I can’t use anything stronger. And everyone complains about the spray’s smell.

I just haven’t figured out how to explain all this to real people type guests. I don’t mean the children’s behavior, I mean the bugs. Sometimes--I have to admit—it’s all out warfare and I want you to know that I do not send them on their heavenly journey without a little prayer or at least a “go see God.”

There is a creek behind our house. We hear coyotes and see them too, rabbits and skunks and raccoons. Recently, I asked a neighbor about the punishing tree trimming taking place next to her house and she told me that the raccoons were climbing the tree onto the roof and staring at her children through the bedroom windows on the second floor and scaring them. That’s a twist on the children who stare out.

Every summer there is a portion of the creek area that gets mowed when the grass turns brown. This is a signal for the mice to pack their little bags and head north ahead of the oncoming scythe. If they can make it alive across the street, and they all seem to, they must see a little sign on my back fence that says “kind woman leaves water and dog food free for the taking.” They really like the Kirkland’s lamb and rice.

These mice are not like any others I have ever seen. They have Dumbo ears set low on their heads. Are they mutants? I don’t know. It does raise the question of the well water quality in my mind.

Their presence in the house was the last straw. I went down to Denault’s hardware and bought the strongest rodent killing poison cakes I could find. I placed them in strategic locations around the kitchen including in the cabinet under the sink. I forgot my daughter thought it was clever to teach our dogs to open doors. One day I come home to find a gnawed poison cake on the stairs.

My husband had passed by it earlier and “wondered” what it was. He has his own philosophy about don’t ask, don’t tell. Don’t ask if this wool sweater can go in the washer. Don’t tell that I used your best bath towel to clean up a grape juice spill. Don’t mention that son fell off his bike, chipped a tooth and now has a severe headache. He thinks this philosophy will keep him from getting yelled at but he is sooooo wrong.

Did I say that I have three small dogs--any one of which could be the rat-poison chewing cupboard door opening culprit? I called the vet and he told me to bring them down right away. I stuffed them all into a small dog crate. You can do that with Chihuahuas and I took them down. I apologized to them for what was about to happen. Two of them were innocent, I was sure. My dogs were fine. The vet was happy to tell me that he thought he got everything up from their stomachs even carrots. They do like raw carrots. It was only $150 for that information and a few more days of careful watching.

I did not relent in my waged war on Rodentville. I just made sure that the poison biscuits were well out of reach of my pets. The mice obliged me by eating the stuff and not chewing through the dishwasher water line like they did once before prompting a service call expense and leaking under the sink. In the all out battle they have gotten their licks in too. My husband was then able to bring his one unsprung mouse trap down from the attic.

You know writing about this has raised my ire. This is my house dammit. They can all go find their own places to live. I just wish they weren’t so darn cute then I could live without guilt for the sometimes unavoidable chemical warfare.

The insects are not cute but still they are all God’s creatures so they will get at least one invitation to leave with the door held open before they are dearly departed. For that I am sorry but they can’t cross my path and live here for long. I do hope my now adult age children take note.

Living in Purgatory

In this case it is the place between moved out and not completely moved in. Boxes lined up against walls give the place a spacious feeling that will disappear as soon as the other two pods of stuff arrive. I waited and waited to get the fence put up so our Lab mix Rascal could be outside as she prefers. Inside, she prefers to get into the trash can, jump on the bed leaving enough fur behind to make a new pillow, chew the carpet, drink from the toilet, and "adjust" the mini-blinds. At our previous home she actually chewed the corner of the house. She makes up for all the mischief with a perpetually sunny disposition and while I have seen her chomp down a June bug or two, she would never hurt a fly. She is eleven and leaving her behind or "rehoming" her was just out of the question. She is family. Because our escrow closed the same day at the old house and at the new, and I must say lovely for its size and amenities, mobile home we need a fence up like NOW.

Without the fence, I can't get the dog out of the house. Without the dog out, I can't get the flooring in, without the flooring, I can't get my furniture delivered. What should be so difficult about getting a fence put up consigning one to purgatory you may wonder. Well, let me tell you. First, there are the mobile home park rules, fence height 4', partial exception for the height of the fence that faces the street that points car headlights at our bedroom, so 4' and 6'. Part of 6' was already up, so let's match part of that and put some of that lovely open looking white vinyl fence that never needs painting. Good enough. Second, the handyman who came recommended to us did not have English as his first language and had some strange fence building ideas. Have you ever seen white DAP used to join the seams of fences? I hadn't. He thought also it didn't matter because we were going to paint the fence white...no we weren't. We were staying with the redwood color that was already up until we get to the vinyl fencing. The job was going horribly wrong already and I didn't want to continue. Third, part of the reason that I didn't want to continue was that the vinyl fence had to be ordered from the Midwest I was told. The slats of the local fencing are too far spaced apart and Waldo our 4 lb. Chihuahua can just stroll on through. I couldn't wait two weeks for a fence, Rascal was redecorating my house and getting ahead of the flooring guy by pulling up carpet. I found someone else to build me a fence. He wanted to build it in wood. OK, that's okay. Lastly, it looked beautiful but now the beautiful natural fence has to be 1) sealed 2) stained or 3) painted. The only way to match the preexisting fence was of course to paint. The stain on the preexisting fencing was aged and would be impossible to match unless stripped down and there was the white DAP problem to overcome. So we decided to paint the whole thing. The first color we tried looked like ladies foundation make-up. The redwood color was too dark and after several trips to Home Depot and a secret paint formula kept here at home in our vault we got a color that was "just right." Or, I'm too tired and frustrated to care what it is. I bet this never happened to Martha Stewart. Let's just get this dog into the yard.

While the fence was going up Rascal was driving us crazy inside the house. We tied her outside but that didn't work because she would whine and cry and and garner us more complaints than the numerous ones we had already accrued. When we had the area partially closed in she would always manage to escape. When we tried to keep her on the porch she slithered under the lowest rail and got out that way. She went directly to the neighbor's yard and did her business there. One morning I tied her outside again trying to get her used to her new yard. I drove off to the market to get her a bone to keep her busy and occupied. When I arrived home I was accosted by a neighbor man who told me I was cruel to my dog and I was a "horrible neighbor" and people in this park were dog lovers and that was no way to treat an animal. I listened as politely as I could and I calmly said to him "What about patience and tolerance? We just moved here and we're having trouble getting the fencing up. I just left to get my dog a bone and have only been gone less than twenty minutes. Would it be kinder for my dog to be in a crate at a kennel, supposing I could afford it or take her to be put down?" I was in tears inside..."I am not a horrible neighbor" I told myself. I went to sit with Rascal in the yard. I was very surprised when the man came back over and apologized, said he was sorry, he was just a dog lover and couldn't stand to see Rascal tied up and crying. I told him the story of the fence and showed him what was happening and he went back to his double wide and called the park manager and told her that he withdrew his complaint and that "she is a nice lady." The bone that I bought at the market was spoiled and while waiting for the fence to still be finished, for three days Rascal emptied her bowels in the house. Horrible dog. It's a good thing the carpet is going.