A Timely Tale of Bullies

 

 

th-1A few weeks ago, I shared the story of Bob, my current cabana boy.  Bob and his burly dog, Max moved into my guest house over a year ago.  For a year, Max only ventured outside when my dogs were in the house.  If they happened to see him, they’d chase him back through his doggy door.   They’d gnash their teeth if they spied him through the sliding glass door.  I would go and visit Max; I felt sorry for him, for his dad was gone much of the time.  He spent endless hours alone–unhealthy for a pack animal.  Dogs want to belong.

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Like some of our children, Max was a victim of bullies.  He was lonely and afraid.  Even though, I made numerous attempts to introduce him to the group, they refused…unless his dad was present.  Surprisingly, two weeks ago, Max wandered up on my patio and came through my doggy door.  Given the mid-afternoon, Phoenix heat,  my five were all asleep in various locales.  No one took notice.  And on that very afternoon, Max moved in.  He quickly adapted to our routine.  He knows his dinner is served in the laundry room, as each dog has an assigned space, i.e. office, powder room, playroom, kitchen.   (Yes, with six dogs, I need separation at meal time.)

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Further, like the rest of the pack, he understands I am the Alpha.  It is my way!  (Wish my own children understood I run the pack!). Curiously, though, Max quickly assumed another role–chief body guard of Sue.  I can not walk from room to room without him beside me. He follows me around the pool as I brush grit from the walls.  When repairmen come, I must banish him back to his own abode, as the hair raises down his spine and his teeth are in full display.  No doubt, he is my protector!

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Certainly, I was hesitant to bond with Max; he is Bob’s dog.  Yet, most of us want a haven to belong.  We don’t like being made fun of or ostracized.  Each of us has something to share; each of us wants to further the greater good.  So for the most part, the rest of the pack is relieved to not be #1 in guard duty of the old witch.  All is well.

I shall never understand why Max ventured into my house two weeks ago.  Perhaps his loneliness fueled his instinct to just belong.  Hmm.  Wonder if there’s a lesson here?

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Cabana Boy=Eye Candy

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Several years ago, I was antsy to do something worthwhile; I decided to redo my decimated guest quarters.  Prior to her illness, my youngest and her dogs lived there, and eventually her one whacked-out dog destroyed it.

After all the carpet was removed, I had the concrete floors sanded.  I painted the walls and worked for over a week staining the concrete floors.  Certainly, I didn’t do a magnificent job, acceptable and a huge improvement.  I decorated and used left over furniture, bought new appliances, a new air conditioner/furnace etc.  In short, it was cute.  Someone suggested I rent it.  Me?  Do I look like Ethel Mertz?  Do I want to be a landlady?  Absolutely, never!

“Mom, I have a friend who’s moving here from San Diego and needs a place to stay for a month.  He got a job here, and he wants to check everything out before he rents an apartment.  I told him he could stay here until he finds something.  Hope that’s ok.”

“Do I know this guy?”

“No.  I went to school with him in Colorado for one year.”

“And now, five years later, you’re moving him in to the guest quarters?”

“It’ll be fine, Mom.  It’s just for a month.”

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A month became almost a year.  Joe was delightful, and I soon found myself doing his laundry, packing his lunches, cooking his dinners, and advising him on the random girls who frequented my swimming pool. My friends dubbed him my “cabana boy,” given his bi-ceps were larger than my thighs, his good looks, and his adeptness as a bartender.  He took out the trash cans to the the road, he easily opened jars, and he dog sat when I was away.

Joe came in one night for dinner and announced, “I’ve landed a new job back in California.”

“Great!  When does it start?”

“Next week.”

With Joe’s announcement came a line of young men wanting to take his place.  My kid’s high school friend, Bob moved in a month later with his dog.  I’ve known Bob since he was in the 8th grade, so the transition was easy.  He’s just finished his junior year at the university with 3 semesters remaining till he graduates in elementary education.  Unlike Joe, I don’t cook for him, but I do his laundry and have recently taken to charging him “rent.” (Translation:  You give me money, and I’ll keep it until you want it back.  Dr. Suze banking system of forced savings.). Of course, he has bi-ceps and abs on which I gaze.  My friends are a tad jealous of the scenery in my swimming pool.  Yet, every older woman needs a cabana boy to tend to her dogs when she’s gone.  Agree?

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Absurdities: Mental Test and Open Shelving

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What a week it’s been!  As some of you know, I managed to survive a graceless fall which resulted in forehead cuts, a protruding bump, and two, black eyes.  (You really didn’t expect me to show my face, but this picture depicts my current status.)  I mopped up the blood, bandaged the wounds, and went to bed with a raging headache.  Then it occurred to me,  “Sue, are you mentally with it?”  I asked my dogs aloud:

“What is your name?  Sue Skidmore.”

“Where were you born?  Youngstown, Ohio.”

“What year is it?  2017

Well, this nonsense went on for a few more self-asked questions.  Suddenly, it occurred to me if I suffered a head injury, how would I know?  I could have said my name was Mary Jane Brown, born in Ames, Iowa, and the year was 1943.  My dogs wouldn’t have objected.  And if I was crazy, how would I know?

Given my astounding revelation, I practically fell off the bed with laughter.  Absurd lunacy!

Then to add proverbial insult to my injuries, the next morning a guy came by to give an estimate on redoing my kitchen cabinets.  Since the cabinets would have cost a fortune to replace, I hoped Andres would offer a less expensive alternative.  He did.  In my naïveté, I expected: “I’ll be back in three to six weeks to start this project.”

No.  He retrieved from his truck his fancy battery-operated screwdriver and swiftly removed all the cabinet doors.  I was busy dumping stuff from the drawers–stuff from several junk drawers I hadn’t seen in two decades!  Damn, I’ve acquired a lot of scotch tape and too many bottles of the same spice.

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“Sue, it will take a couple of weeks for me to get this done.”  Off he went with doors and drawers.  Maybe I did have a head injury, for I spent half the day trying to close non-existant drawers and doors.  A visual nightmare through half-swollen-shut eyes.  Visual proof of my ineptness as a housekeeper.

Ok.  I can survive this chaos.  Until…I read this article today.

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I don’t give a rat’s hind end about that trend at my age.  Doors are made to keep out Phoenix dust and to make my kitchen look presentable at a party.  Absurd lunacy!

BTW, I think my real name is Hucklebarrie Finn.  I think I’ve floated down the mighty Mississippi in Hannibal on a number of occasions.  I own 12 pair of scissors and 9 tins of cinnamon.  I have over 20 coffee mugs, 15 random plates, three old skillets, and five aprons.  (Aprons? I prefer a clothes change.)  Message me if you’re in need of any of the above.  Downsizing….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wall

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The news runs rampant with stories of building a wall between Mexico and the United States.  While the Berlin Wall and the Great Wall of China ultimately did little to prevent infiltration by the “enemy,” the proposed Trump Wall seems to many to be the answer.  I find it curious, though, that Canada is not being walled out also.  Guess it’s long forgotten that some of the perpetrators of 911 entered that way.

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Yesterday, I was leafing through my ancient English 101 anthology and reread Robert Frost’s Mending Wall.  It begins: “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.”  In New England, the spring ritual for many landowners was to mend the wall that nature damaged throughout the winter.  Though often a laborious task it was a necessary, annual tradition because “Good fences make good neighbors.”  Hmm.  I find it paradoxical. Nature battles against the wall.  Tradition battles against nature to keep us and even countries apart.

When I moved to Phoenix, I was amazed that most houses had walled backyards.  Unlike my Ohio upbringing, where I often roamed through three or four backyards to my friend’s house.  We neighborhood kids sledded down our neighbors’ hill every winter; we weren’t walled out.

Unfortunately, I’ve met people with walls.  Folk devoid of humor and zest.  Folk who prefer to remain within their cramped life without friends and a sense of community spirit.  Their self-imposed isolationism boggles me.

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True, I live in a walled community; it keeps my dogs off the street.  Some of us with small children fence our pools to prevent child drowning.  But my ‘hood has not walled out each other.  We socialize, work collaboratively together, and even borrow a cup of sugar when the need arises.

Frost asks:  “Why do they make good neighbors?  Isn’t it where there are cows?  But here there are no cows.  Before I built a wall I’d ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.”

Robert Frost penned this poem 103 years ago.  Hmm.  Our world is no longer a simple fence on a New England acre.  What are we mending?  Another paradox….

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Friday from Hell

When I worked full-time, I rejoiced on TGIF. I reveled in a weekend of fun and foolishness.  However, Friday, March 24th was deplorable.

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First, I was awakened by the sound of heaving.  (One of my dogs, an inherited Heinz, burrows herself every night under the blanket.)  I leaped from the bed, threw back the cover, only to witness her vomit a disgusting mess of grass and yellow bile on the sheet and mattress cover.  I looked at the clock–5:50 AM.  Really?

After sentencing the soiled linens to the washer, I went to make a cup of coffee.  Damn! Out of K cups!  Remembering my grandmother’s advice to never leave home without donning clean underwear, I got dressed, semi-combed my bed hair, and drove to the Golden Arch’s drive through.  “One small cup of coffee, please with cream.

“That will be $1.08 at the first window.”

As I reached in my purse to retrieve the money, I remembered my wallet was on my kitchen table.  I scoured the bottom of my purse for errant change–67 cents.  Now what?  Fortunately, I don’t store my credit cards in may wallet, so I offered the clerk a charge card.  Her face was filled with disgust as she swiped my card.  I imagined her thinking, “Dumb old broad, driving a nice car, without $1.08 in cash.  She must not own a hairbrush either.”

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Wait! It gets worse.  The mail comes with my credit card bill.  I peruse it and quickly realize my account has been compromised.  Immediately, I phoned.  “Enter your zip code, enter the last four digits of your credit card number. Press one for….Press two…. ”  What?  I need to talk to someone; no choices dealt with my issues.

Two hours after this mayhem began, I finally talked to Amber, and my compromised card was cancelled.  But March Madness didn’t end.

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My house phone rang once, then stopped.  Again and again.  Once.  Then, nothing.  The house phone screen message, “Line in use.”  I can’t deal with this; I destined in end up in the emergency room on a Friday night.  I’ll suffer a full-blown heart attack, die on the gurney, while all the drunk, car-accident victims are ushered into ICU.  My cell phone quickly connected me to the cable phone service, and Frantesa answered.

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Swiftly, my Friday from hell vanished.  When I explained my problem, she offered help.  “What’s your first name?”

“Sue.”

“Miss Sue, let me reset your modem.  Are you physically able to unplug this and that?”

What?  I’ve not lost all the cards in my deck…yet.  “Certainly.”

“This will take a few moments.  Since you said you’re older than me, do you have any words of advice for me?”

What?  I’m trying to get my phone fixed.  She persisted.  “Frantesa, you are 29-years old.  Vote.  Pay attention to local, state, and national issues.”

“We’re not allowed to discuss politics with customers.  Come on, give me some to improve my life.”

What?  Now, I’m a shrink?  “Frantesa, your goal in life is to be remembered for what you gave, not what you had.

“Wow, Miss Sue, those are powerful words.  I do give, but not enough.  I’m sorry I can’t resolve your phone problem.  A technician will be by tomorrow morning.”

NEVER in my long history had this cable company scheduled promptly.  “By the way, Miss Sue, I flagged your account.  You’ll receive a $10 credit, and I will receive an urgent message when your problem is fixed.”

The technician arrived three minutes ahead of schedule Saturday morning and within another five minutes, my phone problem vanished.  Even in light of the vitriolic hate currently spread across America, our country is brimming with wonderful people who give, regardless of what they have.  Frantesa, thank you.