Barbie Cutlery

Some years ago I was invited to a Barbie-Party. This other couple I know has one foofy member who likes to throw theme parties, and this was the one that had some impact on my life...(as absurd at that sounds).

One of the gifts she gave out to us was our own personal set of Barbie Cutlery. It was bright pink, made of thick, durable plastic, and I took it home with me and found that after I used it a few times, I didn't want to use anything else...

Perhaps I should explain that I have this little quirk--I hate the sound of metal cutlery on plates and teeth. It gives me the same reaction as someone who wads up some foil and chews it. Invisible multi-legged critters traverse my spine, and I am stricken with some sort of seizure that makes me avoid the situation in the future.

So, when I realized how useful it was to have plastic cutlery that didn't break off in your bite of steak, but that also didn't make those horrible scritching and skerking noises, I was REBORN. Eventually I lost this set of fine utensils in a move and couldn't find them anywhere.

Recently, though I was tooling down the sale aisle in Wal-Mart, and there they were--tube upon tube of Barbie Cutlery....They were only 60 cents each, and I nabbed about 4 tubes, which turned out to be about 20 of each piece.

I can't tell you the ridiculous joy I get from using these.

And yes, I use them for company, too.

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

Barbie Cutlery

Ichabod Day

Today feels like the first day of fall to me…not because it's necessarily cold, but because I have noticed for the first time that most of the leaves have been liberated from the trees. It opens things up, makes things feel larger, and yet more mystical at the same time. There is a starkness to the trees that create an ambiance like something out of a Tim Burton film. I half expect Ichabod Crane to come galloping down Pivot Rock Road with a lantern and windswept leaves crackling beneath clocking hooves.

Ichabod Day

Defining Rape

I don't pretend to know the truth one way or another about the Kobe Bryant case...This woman could be just trying to capitalize on the wealth and fame of a sports celebrity. She could have a legitimate complaint. She could be merely embarrassed that she engaged in sexual activity and then thought better of it later. She could feel that she wanted to stop, but wasn't strong enough to say so.

Regardless, all i do know is that often there are gray areas, and that this case has brought up some interesting issues.

The thing that interests me is the dynamic of screaming rape when there is some question as to definition. To me, rape can be defined as penetration of any kind in either genital orifice, against the will of the person being penetrated.

The question then becomes one of what I mean by "against the will of." If a woman places herself in a sexual situation, she is essentially expressing a permission to at least engage in SOME amount of sexually oriented activity, even if it is only kissing or touching. She is then responsible for being clear about what her intentions and limits are. Should she change her mind or reach her own boundary, which she has a perfect right to do, and then does not have the personal power to say "Stop" or "No" firmly and clearly, how is the other person to know that the situation has changed, when all other signals have told him otherwise?

Therefore, when a woman begins a process of sexual activity, and then remains mum when she changes her mind, there can be no rape, unless you say she has essentially raped herself...If she knows she is not strong enough to communicate her own will, then she has no business placing herself in any sexual situation to begin with.

This assessment does not include, naturally, situations in which the woman is incapable of speaking or communicating, incapacitated, incompetent, or not of the age of consent. Those situations fall into other categories.

A friend of mine told the story of someone she knew who had an applicable situation happen to her. This woman got drunk with a male friend, and the two of them went back to one of their houses, and she consented--actually requested--that he perform oral on her. Some time during the process, she passed out, and he was just drunk enough not to notice or not to care, and he then had intercourse with her. The next day,the girl stated, she questioned him when she awoke and found him naked from the waist down. He admitted openly what had happened. The girl then decided she had been raped. Now this is a prime example of what I'm talking about. Getting drunk was her responsibility; getting sexual with him was her responsibility; inviting him to perform oral on her was, too, and the mere fact that she opened herself up to him by asking and by removing her clothes, indicated clearly that she was open to sexual activity. How did he know she meant that was the only type of sexual activity? That she passed out is a moot point, since she was the one who allowed herself to get drunk in the first place.

Now if this situation had been a bit different, such as, the woman told him they were going back to her place to sleep it off, directed him to a sofa, and their clothes remained on, and there were no sexual invitations...then what he did would then be considered rape. Especially if she had said no and he did it anyway; but also if she had been unconscious and he took advantage. This in no way releases her from her responsibility in that she voluntarily became incapacitated, but that does not mean she deserved to be raped.

There are also situations in which a woman allows herself to be raped, such as when her children, sleeping in the next room, are threatened, and she chooses to be violated rather than endanger them. This is still rape.

Then there's that issue of women who dress provocatively and flirt, and men who think this is a license to have sex with them, even if the women say No. Men are responsible for behaving themselves as well and cannot use a woman's teasing or moral turpitude or revealing clothing as an excuse to force sex upon them--this would be rape. Women of this ilk do generally create unfortunate circumstances for themselves by constantly "stirring the coals" as it were. Our behavior has repercussions. That's the law of Cause and Effect: Karma. They should be willing to take responsibility for at least perpetuating the situation. But i still do not buy the argument that they "had it coming" or "wanted it." Unless, of course, they state that they DO or DID.

Essentially, i don't like it when women tease and manipulate men, when they have no intention of follow-through, just as i don't like men who blame their misbehavior on their "manhood."

Defining Rape

Climbed Like a Cat

For some time now, I have suffered the quick intake of breath on the heels of sharp pain in my legs right above the knee.

I attribute it to the fact that my new kitten, Shoes, keeps climbing me. It would explain the lacerations as well. Thank God she is now old enough to get declawed, as my airbed is also deflating several times a day, now, too.

Last Saturday, I was in a local pub with LS, and a really attractive blond woman climbed me like a cat. She nuzzled me, purred in my ear and couldn't stay off me.

Now, between being climbed BY a cat, and being climbed LIKE a cat, I think I much prefer the latter.

Climbed Like a Cat

Monster on a Half-Shell

(from an email to an Ex)

.....whew, okay. let me see if I can tackle this one....

My intent in contacting you was simple: I knew we would eventually cross paths and I didn't want to dredge up the past. I am in a space where I want my life to move forward. I have learned a lot about myself, and about the dark rooms I wandered in for so many years. I cannot begin to tell you how many lights have been switched on. I didn't like what I saw. As long as it was shrouded in darkness, I could deny its power over me, and the fear and repulsion it engendered in others. I have come to understand in the last few years that I have been ill-equipped to deal with a lot of things. I have my demons, like anyone else. But in knowing about those demons, I cannot pretend they do not exist, simply because I don't want them to.

I am loathe to wallow in past mistakes, and loathe to reopen those wounds, but for the sake of clarity, I will say that I know I was a difficult person to be around. I was pathetic and depressed and unbalanced. I was eaten alive by fear and pain and confusion and insecurity. The dynamic of you and I together was created by both of us. I simply will not shoulder all the responsibility or the sequence of events, but I will take on the portions that belong to me. I should never have started a relationship with you, simply because I was still so broken hearted and lonely and wounded from my breakup with T. I was an injured child. It was unfair to you to lead you down that path with me. But as I said, I was not equipped to see that at the time. I only knew that there was someone who thought I was somehow special, and she came along when I felt like a useless monster on a half-shell. By the time the fog lifted, I was ensconced in a relationship and then allowed myself to feel obligated to continue, for fear that you would be another person on the list who thought badly of me. The result, as you know, was that those fears were ironically realized by that decision.

You represent 3 years of a profound learning experience, so yes--you are important to me. And yes, I have thought of you; initially with bitterness and pain and frustration, then with more understanding and compassion. Any residual betrayal or anger I felt toward you has long since vanished. That's part of the growth process--for those who are open to it. But that did not mean I excused myself from the equation. After forgiving you, I had to then forgive myself. I'm not entirely certain I have done that completely. But we are all human, and we have human shortcomings and it would be inaccurate to say that we were not both responsible for what happened. Our last days together were profoundly upsetting. I received information secondhand about things you said I did or said, that I know I did not. I had no idea where you were in your head--we had gone too horribly far to communicate in a healthy way. You knew where all my own triggers were, and you used them against me. I realize now that it was partly a defense mechanism on your part. You used the only weapons you had, because you felt cornered. I have been guilty of the same on many occasions. The chasm between us was built by many differences in our experience, our psyches and our individual demons.

But no matter what you may think of me now, I recognize that you are a person of value and quality, and you have a good heart and a potential for greatness. And I don't want to use my new strength to carry more burdens. I was constantly frustrated by the continual siege upon my psyche, brought by my battle with the VA, with a family who abandoned me, and an overwhelming feeling that I was blindly feeling my way through my life. I had great expectations for starting fresh, but all I managed to do was take the chaos with me. For as you know...the most formidable chaos is the one we carry within. And I could not run far enough to release myself from its grip. I was lucky enough to meet someone who was equipped to show me those things with a firm and loving hand, and am eternally grateful to her. We remain the closest and dearest of friends and I love no one more deeply than I love her. But I know that until I reach a space where I am at peace with my life, I cannot inflict myself on a partner on a daily basis. I would be bringing half a person to the relationship.

I have many things to build right now. Many roads to travel, and many ghosts to face. I am finally prepared to do that, and that's one reason I knew that I had to come back here. I had to make this place a place of possibility, rather than of doom; a refuge rather than a battlefield. I had to face these things head on, and be able to hold my head up and know that with all the mistakes I've made, others made mistakes as well, and I remain a person with something to offer. I just have to offer it in a way that does not suck the life out of those around me.

I am more content than I have ever been, and I do feel very much like this is the first chapter of a new book--the series that is my life. I can put an entirely different story on these pages. I can do nothing to change what was already committed to print in previous "books." It's a journey, and I am on it, now, without the old constraints. I can only hope the path will be more smooth than the last time.

I want to start LIVING my life for once. I want to be social, have fun, experience the pleasure of creation in art and writing and music, and I want to avoid those dark rooms that serve only to keep me bound within my own sickness.

I hope that answers at least some of your questions.

Peace.

Monster on a Half-Shell

Space Invader

It started out with me on my way to the grocery store, having awakened with no coffee in the house-a tragedy all on its own. I thought of that little coffeeshop down the street and thought maybe I'd stop in to check it out, so I brought what i lovingly refer to as my Tippi Tap Typer just in case.

Roscoe's Music and Espresso Café was a tiny establishment, but intriguing. It was time I tried to get out of the house a little and use my new toy in a different environment. I ordered a White Chocolate cappuccino and chatted with the owner for a few minutes, and then a young woman walked in. The first thing I noticed was that she immediately invaded my space. We exchanged pleasantries. The tiny coffeeshop was no bigger than most people's kitchens, and I tried to move aside, but she hemmed me right in, ordering his house blend.

The proprietor, Roscoe, informed her that he was just now making a new pot. She asked how long it would take, and he said just long enough for the water to run through.

"Could you give me some sort of idea, then?"

"Two point 3 minutes."

"Jolly Good," she exclaimed.

Jolly good? That's when it dawned on me that she had a British accent.

Roscoe started the brew and the Space Invader waited, turning a bit to examine a painting on the wall. She then would not let me get past her to sit down out of the way, so I just turned back around and stayed where I was. I don't think it was intentional. I noticed the Bible she was holding behind her, clutching it almost fiercely, standing erect, as if a recruit at attention. My first reaction was Oh great, a religious zealot. I was afraid she'd try to witness to me. Faith is a wonderful thing, but those who wander around with little else other than a Bible, are bound to launch into some religious tirade or hackneyed effort to save my soul. I had already noticed that my communication skills were suffering from caffeine withdrawals, so I didn't feel up to the challenge.

Then she did the inevitable witnessing. Thankfully, to Roscoe. "Have you ever read the Bible?

I understood him to say yes, but heard him counter with another book he had read, asking her if she had read it. She said no, there was much too much in her head right now… But she had realized that the Bible had everything in it she needed, about life and love and so on, and that we should read it, because it answers so many questions… I asked her if she had read The Seat of the soul for the same reasons. She said no, as he poured her cup and handed it to her. She carried her House Blend out to the patio and sat, lighting a Camel filter right next to the sign that read Thank you For Not Smoking.

Roscoe gave me a knowing look, and whispered, "She comes in here a lot…she's been in and out of institutions…she's staying at the halfway house up here…doing pretty well now…except that today, she seems to be British." I was surprised and intrigued. It was clear what the implication was, now. HE motioned me to follow and pointed out the front window. "See that tower, right over there between that building and the water tower is a halfway house for people who are…"

"Halfway?" I offered.

He smiled.

Three people come in, and I comment, "oh look out, you're getting a rush."

He laughs. The people order, one of them a lady who says she misses her coffee, as she is from "Coffee country." I engage her…ask if it's Seattle…she says another town in Washington, above Seattle and I tell her I'm thinking of moving to that area in May. She says what she doesn't miss is the dismal weather and I confess I love weather like that.

I put a five dollar bill on the counter, so that I won't forget to pay.

The Space Invader Zealot returns asking for a refill, saying, "I should think that this much coffee cannot possibly be good for the stomach." She takes her refill back out.

I carried my coffee and Typer out to the deck for a little fresh air and maybe morbid curiosity, so that I could be within earshot and eyeshot of her. She comments on what a lovely day it is, and I agree. Shortly, I hear her chuckle. I look up and she is smoking, smiling, and whispering a few words to some unseen table companion. I know then, she really is certifiable. She sucks on her camel filters, and makes properly British faces, laughing, obviously enjoying the repartee of the voices in her head.

I am intrigued enough to want to talk to her, but intimidated enough not to. How does one talk to a crazy person without sufficient psychological experience? What if I say something that screws up this reality she has created for herself? What if that little swim in the cerebral fluid garners me a proper British drowning? I move to the smoking section, situated at a picnic table behind her, lighting a cigarette of my own, and bend back to my writing.

A moment later, I notice Birkenstock knockoffs a few feet from my table and look up.

"Excuse me, " she says. "I am out of smokes…can I give you 50 cents for one, or something?"

"Oh, no, here," I give her two. "It's awful to run out when you're addicted."

"Isn't it though?" She returns to her table and lights up.

A young man approaches, asking about my typing gadget and I give him the sales pitch and he seems interested, then wanders back into the café. I wondered why he came outside just to ask me about my Typer. After he leaves, Space Invader turns around and says, "These are delicious cigarettes."

Delicious? "I'm glad you like them. Most people don't because they're menthol and lighter."

"Oh no, there's just enough menthol, and it doesn't last long, and there's this fruity aftertaste…"

"Yes," I say, while thinking, funny she would say Fruity.

Later, I go inside the café for a refill and while I wait, admire a portrait of a man who is playing harmonica. I comment on how good the painting is. Roscoe tells me it's by a local artist, and he knows the guy in the painting, played music with him for years. I see an old photo of Roscoe on the wall, jeans, no gray beard, but still a mustache, wearing one of those poofy down slicker vests, and a newsboy cap. "This is you, right?" I ask.

"Yes, a long time ago."

"I can see it's you. You have the Jack Kerouac look to you in this…you have this face that seems familiar…were you famous at one point?" I smile. "--maybe in a movie you might not claim?"

"No..." He laughs. "-- but I was in the movie they made here recently..."

"Oh, Billy Bob Thornton's movie?"

"Yeah, I got to play banjo a little."

Space Invader comes in and announces she is finished with coffee, and wanders back toward the halfway house. I finish my third cup, and settle the rest of my tab and tip him two dollars. He dubs me Customer of the Day.

Outside, I hear the now familiar laughter of the Space Invader. She is nearby, toward the road, probably standing there waiting to cross, and having a pleasant conversation with no one.

Space Invader

Passerby

(Published in the Arkansas Women's Journal)

I had begun the trek to my Expository Writing class that January afternoon, taking the high walkway in front of the campus bookstore, when my eyes flickered to the woman coming toward me. She was a frosted blond, middle aged, dressed professionally, and carried a soft side attaché. She held an ugly green umbrella over her head to stave off the light drizzle; the edge of the umbrella tilted just enough so that I couldn't see her face clearly.

These details swept into my brain along with a numbing suggestion that she was not a stranger, but someone I have known all my life. I looked away so quickly, caught up in my practiced apathy, that I was unable to get another look at her face, for fear she would notice me and that eye contact would result in a dreaded confrontation. My brain whirled away in a fantasy that she would see me and rush over to me, pulling at my sleeve, and tell me how very proud she was of my success at school, and of my courage in going back for a degree, and how sorry she was for the awful letter she had written when she excused herself from my life. And the fantasy evaporated abruptly when she passed by, and my heart thumped back into operation, and the veins in my neck seemed to swell, forcing the blood into my head.

I tried to catch my breath before I turned around to examine her as she moved away from me without pause across the red brick square below. Like a traumatized child, I stood there in the mist, trying to focus on her form before it moved too far away. It had to be her. But the green umbrella-- she would not carry a green umbrella. And the walk she never hobbled like that unless something happened. Unless she's had an accident of some sort since--I continued to watch her move under the canopy at the entrance of the student union, and beyond toward the parking lot, analyzing the reasons why it could not be her. She might have looked at me, but it was not for very long. I know, even though I was busy looking away. Maybe she didn't recognize me after two years. Have I changed that much? Maybe she didn't look at me at all, and that's why she kept walking. That's why she didn't react.

I stood there in my long, dark raincoat, the mist caressing my face, and wondered why it mattered at all. I wondered why I would risk being late for class for someone like her, who could not give me the time of day, nor acknowledge me as a valuable human being. How can a mother ignore her only daughter?

I checked my watch, and turned toward my destination again, refusing to take that additional glance my heart ached for. She's no longer part of my life.

If it was her.

Which I'm sure it wasn't.

Passerby

Hangbags

I have this quirk that remains indefinable in psychological intelligentsia. I can be so picky about where something goes, and how it goes there, and get upset when it is misplaced. But then I'll throw empty file folders on the floor. Odd. Like a wannabe Obsessive Compulsive who never quite embraces the illness, but flirts with contracting it.

But since two of my big irritants is hunting for something i need, or moving something out of the way so i can use a space, I was so happy when i found a clever solution. I had lots of various items in the bathroom that had no "nest"--no place to be until i needed them. These bags are meant for shoes, but another of my quirks is finding another use for a common object. (That's why i consider Reader's Digest Practical Problem Solver one of the most useful and interesting books ever to hit the press).

Now i even use the bags for my socks and underwear in the bedroom.

I love my organizational hanging bags.

Hangbags

SHOES

A short time back, I offered a blog entry on what could only have been a hallucination. The little black kitty I saw by the side of a dark road. Perhaps it was a waking dream…a precognitive waking dream, at that. This month, I adopted a tiny black kitten from the Humane Society. I was going to get another kitten, but she was too sick to adopt out and all her siblings had already died. On whim, I stopped in days later to check on her and decided I would check and see if there might be another kitten I liked that was healthier. I went in the cat room and immediately saw the minute black furball in the first cage. I went over and spoke to her and she pressed herself to the bars, purring, mewing softly, flipping over on her back and writhing in an impressive display.

I opened the cage and she jumped out onto my shoulder and began snuggling up under my hair and nuzzling my neck. It was not likely at this point, that I would leave without her. And I didn't. I loaded her in the van passenger floorboard next to the heating vent, sequestered in a cardboard box with holes punched in the sides. She didn't like the box much and made continuous efforts to free herself from the hole between the top flaps. My journey home was not conducive to dealing with a frightened cat, since the roads in my area are hilly and curvy and safe drivers never take their eyes from the blacktop. That's why I put her in the box. But she would have none of it, finally struggled free and scampered up to my shoulder, leaving the first of what would be many claw marks and punctures in my skin. But she rode there happily, forgoing the natural inclination to wrap herself around my face like that creature on Alien.

She looked out the window, watched the road, purred in my ear and waited for me to pull into my parking space at home. LS was asleep in my bed when I got home (she has, of late managed to get her insomniac self on the opposite schedule from me) I placed the kitten on her chest and she awoke to the joy only a new kitten can bring--she being a cat-lover herself. Soon, we were discussing names for the new family member. She suggested "Frodo" although I'm not sure she was being anything but a smart ass. The kitten had little white markings on each of her feet, but I refused to name her "Socks" or "Boots." So when she crawled into my shoes and looked up at me mewing, she named herself. Shoes.

SHOES

Novel Navel Tangents Before Bed

I was just lying there reading, and my hands wandered absently, scratching invisible itches, examining a rough patch of skin, worrying with the blemish on my chin. At some point, my finger found it's way into my navel, and some suction was created when I pulled it out-odd-- It had been a little moist in there. And I came away with a prize, an infinitesimal little wad of something that looked rather like a dust bunny.

This was sufficient distraction from the article I was reading, and I dug around inside my navel again, quickly aware of the irritation I was causing. On a whim, I threw the sheet off me, and went to the bathroom where I dug out a bottle of peroxide and a handful of Q-tips.

Returning to the bed, I dunked the cotton wand into the solution and placed the Q-tip into my navel, twirling it a bit. I could hear the fizzle from up on the top of my body where my ears were, from way down there where my navel was. Bubbling. I knew what that meant. It was cleaning something. Whenever those scrubbing bubbles appear, you know there's some germ warfare in the offing. I mean, it is a small, puckered, wrinkled, dark and moist place. It stands to reason that it would need periodic purification.

I was pleased that I was taking such detailed care of myself. But during my navel swabbing endeavors, I noticed that when I pushed the Q-tip a little further and moved it around, I got this odd sensation in my private area. Now, I'd never considered my navel as an erogenous zone, and I wondered if I was the first one to discover this. Likely, it has been included in the collective consciousness for some time. Perhaps it was even in the Karma Sutra somewhere, if I could just muster the patience to read it. But there it was, a dubious and unsettling erotic discovery. One which I feel sure I will discover each time the old navel needs a scrubbing bubble or two.

Novel Navel Tangents Before Bed

Hygienic Hijinks

I saw a few commercials about it, and found myself warming to the idea. But not so long ago, I thought it was the most bizarre practice I'd ever heard of. I was afraid to visit a European country for fear I would be forced to take part in this cleansing ritual.

Now, I'm a big proponent of cleanliness, but there are some concepts that are foreign to me. I just didn't think I could ever get used to the idea of sitting on a toilet and having my genitals accosted by a stream of water.

By now I guess it's clear I'm referring to a bidet.

If it's not clear by now, then I'm sure you're a little perturbed.

Those darn late night commercials. If I had a credit card with a huge limit, I'd be very dangerous. By now, I would own a convection oven, Nathan's Reversible Stovetop Grill, A Tempur-Pedic Nasa-developed foam bed, a Food Saver Vac, and a Mini Steam Zapper, and a Magic Bullet mixer…at the very least….

I saw an infomercial about a Bidet toilet, and made another of my frequent Ebaying excursions, wondering if there was a less expensive alternative. I typed in "Bidet." Lo and behold (all Ebayers say that at one time or another, and usually outloud, even though they are generally alone in a room with a computer and no friends or social life)-but, anyway, Lo and Behold! A Bidet conversion kit. I could attach this thing to my own toilet and have the benefit of hygienic cleansing all the time! And it was a two for one special. So rather than bid, I just opted for Buy it Now and got the set. Wouldn't this be a fantastic Christmas gift for me and my best friend? I mean, who else would buy her a Bidet? Who else would be thinking about her genital hygiene? Isn't that what best friends are for? (Don't answer that.)

Anyway, a short time later, the contraptions were delivered and I set about installing mine, so I would know how to install hers for her. Won't she be thrilled. Won't the caroling be fine?

Jingle bells, jingle bells,
I've got a Bidet…
Now my nether regions
Are nice and clean today, hey!

Determined to assemble and attach the thing without assistance, I gathered my tools and read the instructions. Long moments later, I discovered that the coupling I was to use, meant the tubing behind the toilet had to be cut to a shorter length. I did so, and got it all hooked up, and when I tested it, realized the hose was leaking and I had no rubber gasket on hand. Then I realized that I couldn't put the toilet back the way it was because I had shortened the original hose. This was the only toilet I had. Wouldn't that be an entertaining conversation with the landlord? "I need another piece of toilet tubing until I get a gasket for my Bidet hose…yes, a Bidet. Yes, I'm squirting water on my private parts and no I'm not a weirdo." (not everyone is as worldly as I had just become).

It was midnight and all local stores that carried things like gaskets and washers were closed. I'd have to improvise.

I wound up cutting a piece off a rubber plug that was meant to go in the bottom of a piggy bank. But it was just the right size and I managed to eliminate the leak.

I was so proud of myself. I couldn't wait to drop my pants and try it out.

The first thing I noticed was that the trajectory of the stream was a little off, and I gave myself a mini-enema. The second thing I noticed was that the water was cold. Not quite as luxurious as the Bidet Toilet that had warm water and a blow-dryer built in.

It took some getting used to. It was the price I paid for the price I paid. The cheaper Bidets did not have warm water; and I would still have to pat dry with tissue, because the cheaper ones also did not have a convenient blowdryer.

I finally got it working sufficiently, and used it several times before going to sleep, feeling just a little wicked, and a great deal more hygienic.

I went to bed early that morning, and was awakened four hours later by my best friend who dropped by for a visit and used her key to come in and bring me a croissant.

My sleepy brain finally kicked in and I realized I could not hide the Bidet on my toilet and I had already told her I got the same gift for both of us. And the Bidet was the only new thing. She'd notice, of course, and then the surprise would be ruined.

She eventually went to the bathroom and I waited. After a few minutes I heard her exclaim, "Oh, my God!" and she was laughing.

When she came out of the bathroom, she had a huge wet spot on the front of her pants. I was confused. Did she sit the wrong way on the toilet? Did she somehow manage to relieve herself without removing her pants?

Seems she had noticed the activation lever on the toilet when she stood up to flush, and pushed it, dousing herself with the stream of water coming from the Bidet nozzle located just below the toilet seat, pointing forward.

"Why in the world did you stand facing it and push the lever?" I laughed.

"I didn't know it was a bidet, I thought it was some new gadget you had that sprayed that blue stuff in the bowl," she said.

This was not how I pictured her enjoying her Bidet.

Hygienic Hijinks

Symbols Are Not Things

In recent news there is a battle of wills at play regarding the presence of a 10 Commandments monument in the Alabama Judiciary Building.

I feel the same way about this as i do the flag-burning issue. The real issue here, i believe, is that people make the error of attaching God to a symbol, rather than to their own inner consciousness. It makes no difference what they do to that monument or symbol. Proponents of keeping it in that building are saying, essentially, that removal of the monument will somehow damage God.

This is essentially a fallacious argument, since the very nature of God is that He/She/It, as an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving, infinite, incomprehensible and perfect Entity can ever be damaged by something a human does. I find it ridiculous that there are those misguided enough to think they are somehow protecting God. God does not need our protection.

The real issue here is that we are a nation founded on Freedom. Freedom of religion also is included in that, and so the more logical action would to be either put up monuments/ symbols that represent all religions and belief systems, or take them all away.

Symbols Are Not Things

Canine PTSD?

He has begun to have bladder control problems. He goes through phases when he begins to shake, and whine for no apparent reason. He has, for the second time, exhibited a sort of PTSD response to normal stimuli. When we were at the other house a few months ago, he had this response to LS on the porch, when she had removed her boots, and smacked them together to knock off dried mud. He yelped, screamed and ran under the furniture, he was shaking uncontrollably.

When i would get near him, he would suddenly yelp as if i had kicked him in the ribs, and i hadn't touched him. He would no longer raise up to put his feet on me, as he has always done, as if his "up button" was malfunctioning. He acted like he could no longer jump into our laps while sitting, either, and if we tried to pick him up he would scream. This lasted for about 3 days, and nothing helped. He was not physically injured in any way, so this was very much like PTSD response to some past trauma--triggered by something unknown.

Now, months later, he had about a 24 hour bout with the same thing, and i just ignored it. And now, i catch him sitting and staring at a dresser or a chair or a wall, as if in a trance. When i tell him to go lay down, he moves to another object and stares at it--almost in a posture of punishment, like when you reprimand a child and tell them to go face a corner. He seems fraught with anxiety and fears. He will whine and grumble while he stares, sometimes, like he's having disturbing thoughts.

He seems fearful of his food bowl, of the kitchen floor, of grass, of trash bags, of anything in my hand, of the doorbell, or any other people in the house. He no longer runs fearlessly outside to the yard to relieve himself, but has to be cajoled, or dragged into going. He hides beneath beds and furniture.

While often comical to witness, it is at the same time disturbing. LS says, "He's crazy. That dog is just crazy." But he didn't always act like this. I assume it's possible for animals to have mental illness, just like humans do. But what brings this on? I've tried reprimands, gentle understanding, ignoring him...but nothing seems to help. He just acts like a crazy person.

Canine PTSD?