Rumors at work have led to pretty much common knowledge that my mentor will be taking to a more leisurely life sometime early next year. The woman is a pillar at the newspaper. We think she came with the building back in the 70s. She has a tremendous following and a job I've lusted after for more than 10 years. Seriously. But she also writes a weekly column that, we've been told, will go with the job. I need to practice...........
Writing a weekly column is a challenge. You would think that for those with overactive imaginations, finding fodder would be a cinch. Not always the case. Finding a balance (and humor) in the everyday goings-on around you is what makes a good and successful columnist. And I so wanna be one when I grow up!
So, my resolution is to use this space weekly (which is humorous in its own right if you look at how long I can go between posts!) as a training ground to worm my way into the job I've always wanted. First thing I need to learn is the meaning of the word "brief."
How did I do???
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Simple enjoyment
This is what life is all about..............
Then again, according to Butterbean, so is this............
Then again, according to Butterbean, so is this............
It's been too long.......
I so wish I could be better about writing more frequently on here. In fairness, when you write for a living, it's somehow harder to find the time to do it just for fun!
Along with managing life in general, I've been toying with the idea of venturing into the world of online marketing. Namely, Etsy. Several people have suggested I get involved with that, which must mean some think my "therapy" could be worth something!
For those who don't know, Etsy is an online marketplace for home crafters. Amazing site and some incredibly talented people. Think of it as a craft mall on the Internet. I think the reason I'm even considering this is because holiday craft shows have totally lost their appeal to me. I tried a few a couple years ago and I'm not sure I agree with how some sponsors jury their vendors. How can truly handmade items (quilts, folk art painting, jewelry, etc.) compete with Gack at a buck a bag? Etsy is different, in that these are serious crafters, who enjoy the art itself and believe in quality goods.
So, I'm gonna let you vote. Venture over to Etsy, check out some of the vendors and see what you think. In the meantime, so you can compare, here's some stuff I've done recently.
Along with managing life in general, I've been toying with the idea of venturing into the world of online marketing. Namely, Etsy. Several people have suggested I get involved with that, which must mean some think my "therapy" could be worth something!
For those who don't know, Etsy is an online marketplace for home crafters. Amazing site and some incredibly talented people. Think of it as a craft mall on the Internet. I think the reason I'm even considering this is because holiday craft shows have totally lost their appeal to me. I tried a few a couple years ago and I'm not sure I agree with how some sponsors jury their vendors. How can truly handmade items (quilts, folk art painting, jewelry, etc.) compete with Gack at a buck a bag? Etsy is different, in that these are serious crafters, who enjoy the art itself and believe in quality goods.
So, I'm gonna let you vote. Venture over to Etsy, check out some of the vendors and see what you think. In the meantime, so you can compare, here's some stuff I've done recently.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
My Marley
In remembrance of Joey, October 2000 to September 2009
Making the decision to put an animal down has to be the single hardest thing in life to do. I've done it three times. And each time, it's more heart breaking than the time before.
We've always had our Goldens in pairs. First came Al in 1989. A few years later, Bob. Five years after that, we lost Bob, but within months, we gained Joey. Al went to doggy heaven in 2001 and has now been joined by the puppy who once gave him so much grief.
John always reserved the right to name the dogs. That right has been revoked when the next Golden takes up residence with us. Al? Bob? Joey? I always felt like I was calling kids into dinner when I hollared for one of them. Still, I guess that's what made them unique to us.
Of all the boys, Joey was the one with the most personality. He was a rowdy guy, with unbounded enthusiasm and an equally unbounded appetite. He was one of 11 in a litter born to Ben and Lucy and was quickly named Fat Boy by the breeder for gaining weight faster than the other pups. He came to live with us at seven weeks, no where near house broken but somewhat eager to learn.
What WE didn't know was that Joey had a recessive Marley gene. As we worked to integrate him into the household, his name became "Joey-NO." That's all we ever seemed to say to him.
My other two boys never chewed shoes or really, anything. Joey didn't chew -- he digested. Doc Maarten sandles (one pair), dog beds (three), tennis balls (numerous), seats on the exercise machine (two) and more books than any of us have read in a lifetime. It's not that we left temptation in his line of sight. He could just smell things he knew he wasn't supposed to have.
I was working full-time when Joey came home, so the dogs were left to their own devices outside during the day. Al was still with us, but aging and having some issues with arthritis. John didn't want Al laying on the hard cement all day long, so he purchased a soft, cushy (read: expensive) dog bed. Joey ate it out from underneath him in a day. John purchased another dog bed. Joey ate that one too. Not to be outsmarted by a puppy, John built a wooden frame, layed a big chunk of foam inside, covered that in chicken wire (nailed to the frame) and enveloped the whole thing in a nice soft blanket.
Joey moved the blanket, peeled back the chicken wire and started eating away at the foam padding. With Al in the bed.
The outside water bowl became another problem, especially when the weather got warmer. Joey would upend the bowl and parade around the dog run with the bowl in his mouth. Several days, we came home to find the bowl bone dry and upside down in a pile of bark dust. John ended out bolting and chaining the bowl to the foundation of the house.
About this time, our neighbors next door brought home Blue, an Alaskan Huskey who quickly became Joey's new best friend. They would run the length of the fence talking to each other, and eventually, Joey had to check out how his buddy lived. We kinda suspected he was digging holes when the neighbor kept appearing at the door with our dog on their dog's leash! John finally poured cement in all the holes to keep Joey in his own space. We had to have that section of fence repaired last spring and you should have seen the look on the guy's face when he encountered all that cement.
After we lost Al, Joey flew solo during the day. Things began to go missing in the garage. We discovered Joey was climbing up to the work bench, helping himself to whatever was there and dragging it out to the dog run to take out his agression at being left alone. Nothing was sacred. It still makes me laugh to recall the night we found the strap to John's bowling bag hanging outside the dog door. The bag was still in the garage -- Joey had drug a 16-pound bowling ball across the garage but couldn't get it up through the dog door.
Joey always hated suitcases. He knew that meant somebody was leaving. He reserved a special pathetic face for when he saw them come in the house. And with the amount of time John and I spend on the road, they're in the house frequently. While we were gone, he'd pout and sigh and sometimes, boycott food.
He always slept in the hall at night, where he could see the bedroom doors and down the stairs. In the morning, he'd lay on the bed and watch while everybody got dressed for the day. He loved the hose -- anybody's hose -- and would wander yards to see if somebody else had water better than his. When John fired up the sprinkler system every spring, Joey would run through the water with the wild abandon of an out of control toddler.
We've always been a vet's nightmare in the treat department, but these last few weeks we repealed the ban to let Joey have people snacks again. Cracker packaging could wake him out of a sound sleep. The bread wrapper brought him running. And if somebody took food downstairs, he'd patiently sit in front of them and drool.
Joey never had a bad day. He loved unconditionally and he had a happy tail that wagged continuously. Everybody was his friend. There is nothing more endearing to me than the face of a Golden Retriever, but Joey's always possessed a sort of smile. He was a happy dog, but he gave us so much more.
And he's sorely missed.
Making the decision to put an animal down has to be the single hardest thing in life to do. I've done it three times. And each time, it's more heart breaking than the time before.
We've always had our Goldens in pairs. First came Al in 1989. A few years later, Bob. Five years after that, we lost Bob, but within months, we gained Joey. Al went to doggy heaven in 2001 and has now been joined by the puppy who once gave him so much grief.
John always reserved the right to name the dogs. That right has been revoked when the next Golden takes up residence with us. Al? Bob? Joey? I always felt like I was calling kids into dinner when I hollared for one of them. Still, I guess that's what made them unique to us.
Of all the boys, Joey was the one with the most personality. He was a rowdy guy, with unbounded enthusiasm and an equally unbounded appetite. He was one of 11 in a litter born to Ben and Lucy and was quickly named Fat Boy by the breeder for gaining weight faster than the other pups. He came to live with us at seven weeks, no where near house broken but somewhat eager to learn.
What WE didn't know was that Joey had a recessive Marley gene. As we worked to integrate him into the household, his name became "Joey-NO." That's all we ever seemed to say to him.
My other two boys never chewed shoes or really, anything. Joey didn't chew -- he digested. Doc Maarten sandles (one pair), dog beds (three), tennis balls (numerous), seats on the exercise machine (two) and more books than any of us have read in a lifetime. It's not that we left temptation in his line of sight. He could just smell things he knew he wasn't supposed to have.
I was working full-time when Joey came home, so the dogs were left to their own devices outside during the day. Al was still with us, but aging and having some issues with arthritis. John didn't want Al laying on the hard cement all day long, so he purchased a soft, cushy (read: expensive) dog bed. Joey ate it out from underneath him in a day. John purchased another dog bed. Joey ate that one too. Not to be outsmarted by a puppy, John built a wooden frame, layed a big chunk of foam inside, covered that in chicken wire (nailed to the frame) and enveloped the whole thing in a nice soft blanket.
Joey moved the blanket, peeled back the chicken wire and started eating away at the foam padding. With Al in the bed.
The outside water bowl became another problem, especially when the weather got warmer. Joey would upend the bowl and parade around the dog run with the bowl in his mouth. Several days, we came home to find the bowl bone dry and upside down in a pile of bark dust. John ended out bolting and chaining the bowl to the foundation of the house.
About this time, our neighbors next door brought home Blue, an Alaskan Huskey who quickly became Joey's new best friend. They would run the length of the fence talking to each other, and eventually, Joey had to check out how his buddy lived. We kinda suspected he was digging holes when the neighbor kept appearing at the door with our dog on their dog's leash! John finally poured cement in all the holes to keep Joey in his own space. We had to have that section of fence repaired last spring and you should have seen the look on the guy's face when he encountered all that cement.
After we lost Al, Joey flew solo during the day. Things began to go missing in the garage. We discovered Joey was climbing up to the work bench, helping himself to whatever was there and dragging it out to the dog run to take out his agression at being left alone. Nothing was sacred. It still makes me laugh to recall the night we found the strap to John's bowling bag hanging outside the dog door. The bag was still in the garage -- Joey had drug a 16-pound bowling ball across the garage but couldn't get it up through the dog door.
Joey always hated suitcases. He knew that meant somebody was leaving. He reserved a special pathetic face for when he saw them come in the house. And with the amount of time John and I spend on the road, they're in the house frequently. While we were gone, he'd pout and sigh and sometimes, boycott food.
He always slept in the hall at night, where he could see the bedroom doors and down the stairs. In the morning, he'd lay on the bed and watch while everybody got dressed for the day. He loved the hose -- anybody's hose -- and would wander yards to see if somebody else had water better than his. When John fired up the sprinkler system every spring, Joey would run through the water with the wild abandon of an out of control toddler.
We've always been a vet's nightmare in the treat department, but these last few weeks we repealed the ban to let Joey have people snacks again. Cracker packaging could wake him out of a sound sleep. The bread wrapper brought him running. And if somebody took food downstairs, he'd patiently sit in front of them and drool.
Joey never had a bad day. He loved unconditionally and he had a happy tail that wagged continuously. Everybody was his friend. There is nothing more endearing to me than the face of a Golden Retriever, but Joey's always possessed a sort of smile. He was a happy dog, but he gave us so much more.
And he's sorely missed.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The City Girl and the Farm Boy
John and I hosted some interesting house guests recently.
We didn't have to entertain them. They arrived without luggage and I didn't have to lay out fancy soap in the guest bathroom.
But they overstayed their welcome and invited all their relatives.
I don't deal well with critters that have more legs and hair than I do.
Mice and spiders make my skin crawl.
I suspected we were running a Rodent Bed and Breakfast after I discovered one had been living quite comfortably in a 30-pound bag of dog food in the garage. Not much good can come from a canine breakfast served with a side of dead mouse.
I'm not sure what caused its demise -- but it doesn't say much for the nutritional value of fat-dog dog food. Maybe it was smashed by the weight of said food. Either way, it wouldn't be spreading the word about good eats at our house.
Admitting you have a rodent issues is like confessing the crazy relative you keep locked in the attic is on the loose. And you can't hide what's going on when you shop where people know you.
A large bag of grapes and a four-pack of mouse traps through the checkstand and you have no secrets.
I was raised a city girl. Wooden mouse traps are a little out of my range. No matter, I managed to set the trap without losing a finger, leaving a generous cube of cheese as bait. I moved onto peanut butter when the cheese kept disappearing leaving the trap unsprung.
I live with two men convinced I have no survival skills. I know they set me up just for the laughs. They snickered while I spooned peanut butter under the cheese scented pad, but never told me I was doing it wrong.
John finally decided to bail me out. He could only take my manic cleaning and sniveling for so long.
He went to the feed store, where we don't know anybody, and brought home a metal box trap.
"This is more humane," he said, dropping peanut butter into a corner of the box. "The mouse gets in but can't get out. Then, we'll take him to the field at the end of the street and let him go."
"Won't it come back?" I asked.
"Annie, mice aren't that smart," exasperation showing all over his face.
For several days, we moved that box trap from one part of the family room to another.
I was getting frantic. I smelled like bleach 24/7 and was quickly becoming a candidate for an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Intervention.
John told me to be patient. He spent his childhood summers on his family's farm in Deer Island. He was manly and knew how to deal with this.
Until the day Pixie and Dixie's brazen relative walked right past the trap in broad daylight. It didn't actually walk. It ran -- within an inch of Joey's nose. He didn't even flinch.
John bought another box trap. Guess he figured if one piece of equipment didn't work, he needed two.
I was less than trusting, so I doubled my own efforts. I redeployed newly baited wooden traps in every room near ground zero. The place was a mine field. The smell of peanut butter was overwhelming.
The next day, one of my traps was upside down in the bathroom, a skinny unmoving tail sticking out into the hall.
City Girl, 1. Farm Boy, 0.
We didn't have to entertain them. They arrived without luggage and I didn't have to lay out fancy soap in the guest bathroom.
But they overstayed their welcome and invited all their relatives.
I don't deal well with critters that have more legs and hair than I do.
Mice and spiders make my skin crawl.
I suspected we were running a Rodent Bed and Breakfast after I discovered one had been living quite comfortably in a 30-pound bag of dog food in the garage. Not much good can come from a canine breakfast served with a side of dead mouse.
I'm not sure what caused its demise -- but it doesn't say much for the nutritional value of fat-dog dog food. Maybe it was smashed by the weight of said food. Either way, it wouldn't be spreading the word about good eats at our house.
Admitting you have a rodent issues is like confessing the crazy relative you keep locked in the attic is on the loose. And you can't hide what's going on when you shop where people know you.
A large bag of grapes and a four-pack of mouse traps through the checkstand and you have no secrets.
I was raised a city girl. Wooden mouse traps are a little out of my range. No matter, I managed to set the trap without losing a finger, leaving a generous cube of cheese as bait. I moved onto peanut butter when the cheese kept disappearing leaving the trap unsprung.
I live with two men convinced I have no survival skills. I know they set me up just for the laughs. They snickered while I spooned peanut butter under the cheese scented pad, but never told me I was doing it wrong.
John finally decided to bail me out. He could only take my manic cleaning and sniveling for so long.
He went to the feed store, where we don't know anybody, and brought home a metal box trap.
"This is more humane," he said, dropping peanut butter into a corner of the box. "The mouse gets in but can't get out. Then, we'll take him to the field at the end of the street and let him go."
"Won't it come back?" I asked.
"Annie, mice aren't that smart," exasperation showing all over his face.
For several days, we moved that box trap from one part of the family room to another.
I was getting frantic. I smelled like bleach 24/7 and was quickly becoming a candidate for an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Intervention.
John told me to be patient. He spent his childhood summers on his family's farm in Deer Island. He was manly and knew how to deal with this.
Until the day Pixie and Dixie's brazen relative walked right past the trap in broad daylight. It didn't actually walk. It ran -- within an inch of Joey's nose. He didn't even flinch.
John bought another box trap. Guess he figured if one piece of equipment didn't work, he needed two.
I was less than trusting, so I doubled my own efforts. I redeployed newly baited wooden traps in every room near ground zero. The place was a mine field. The smell of peanut butter was overwhelming.
The next day, one of my traps was upside down in the bathroom, a skinny unmoving tail sticking out into the hall.
City Girl, 1. Farm Boy, 0.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
House Guest Essentials
New kitchen table
$6.99
New chair
$6.00
Personal storage and new linens
$10.00
The House Guest?
Priceless
$6.99
New chair
$6.00
Personal storage and new linens
$10.00
The House Guest?
Priceless
Monday, June 29, 2009
On another note
After two weeks of hell -- for everybody -- Joey lost his plastic fashion accessory over the weekend. The beast has butted heads with door frames, furniture, walls, etc., so many times, that the collar was no longer round. It was time for it to go away.
Amelia came to visit for a few days, approximately 48 hours after Joey's surgery and was initially, rather wigged over what became known as Joey's "hat."
We've always been a vet's nightmare in the dog treat department. Our other Goldens were frequently treated to DQ children's sized soft ice cream cones. So it was no surprise when John promised Joey an ice cream cone when he regained his neck freedom. Only, John didn't buy a child's cone.
Considering what happened to the dog, an ice cream cone seemed rather cheap. As Megan put it, "If he'd been a girl, this whole thing should have demanded a Tiffany box."
Amelia came to visit for a few days, approximately 48 hours after Joey's surgery and was initially, rather wigged over what became known as Joey's "hat."
We've always been a vet's nightmare in the dog treat department. Our other Goldens were frequently treated to DQ children's sized soft ice cream cones. So it was no surprise when John promised Joey an ice cream cone when he regained his neck freedom. Only, John didn't buy a child's cone.
Considering what happened to the dog, an ice cream cone seemed rather cheap. As Megan put it, "If he'd been a girl, this whole thing should have demanded a Tiffany box."
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