Author Archives: Debbie
February & a Bit About my Crumbling World.
I was a senior in high school when we were taught about the concentration camps in Germany. Being raised in a severely uneducated home, I was caught unaware that human beings could be so cruel in such modern times. Yeah, I knew old old old stuff was bad but assumed that we knew better now. Don’t people learn from their mistakes or is that simply another misnomer?
The teacher played that awful movie about Germany during the war and when it showed the lamp shades made from human skin, I bolted. We hadn’t learned anything. I was so disgusted and angry I quit school on the spot. I hated the world and omg fuck that school that tarnished my sensitivity. Two months from graduation and embittered by the realization that first of all, humans were still assholes and secondly, angry because the innocent German people just let it happen. Why did they just sit there and let it happen?
Eventually, I reabsorbed my idealism, but even then, in the farthest back rows of my mind, pushing, pushing forward, was the sinister knowledge that in other countries, massive senseless murders were happening all the fucking time. (Don’t get me started on school shootings other American senseless stupidities.)
But I remained steadfastly safe in my bubble of pretense. After all, I’m an American, a woman born and raised in the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation with liberty and justice for all. God bless America, dammit. No matter what, God bless goddamned fucking America. Dammit.
My Canadian friend recently asked what we were doing to stop the fascists from destroying our democracy. I guess a lot of us have stopped talking out loud so they don’t know.
Well fuck, here you go: We’re terrified. We see what’s happening. We make phone calls, write letters, contact our senators, our governors. We pray and pray and pray. Even those who don’t believe have fallen to prayer. Although I’m lucky enough to live in a blue state, our representatives are exhausted from the regime’s blatant disregard of our laws. They’re treating our Constitution like a piece of toilet paper stuck on the bottom of a shoe.
Our lives are consumed with fear and an intense soul-deep hatred that most of us never thought we were capable of feeling. We’re old hippies, for god’s sakes.
The news is on all day. We watch, transfixed in stunned horror at how quickly this devastation is changing our lives and destroying others, so many others. Devastating shit after devastating shit. We live under constant stress. Like shadow boxing under a full moon, it’s every single fucking where and every morning brings more despair. We are gobsmacked from the crimes against humanity.
Whenever someone from Canada says, “We’ll take you,” we raise our hands. When someone writes, “Let Canada adopt Washington, Oregon and California,” we merrily start singing their national anthem and suck down straight maple syrup like a drunk Russian with vodka.
We’re not quiet. We’re absorbing and angry every single fucking minute.
And I apologize from my very soul for ever judging the innocents from Nazi Germany. I get it. Please forgive me.
You from other countries, don’t be stupid like me. Please don’t hate us because a few are destroying our world.
My Christmas Story
My husband’s mother Marie was a remarkable woman. Although we never met, I know she was tall and exuded class. Even as a young mother in the 50’s she had impeccable expensive taste. The phrase, “You get what you pay for” worked in the 50’s. A gift from Marie was a gift of a lifetime, something to pass down to your children and grandchildren.
Unfortunately, Marie died when my husband was very young. He doesn’t remember a lot about her and has only a few cherished possessions to remember her by. And cherished is an understatement.
When he moved in with me years ago, he arrived with an old shoe box in hand. In that shoe box were ceramic figurines wrapped in old tissue paper, each piece carefully wrapped. He quietly showed me the contents: An angel, a donkey, three wise men. Mary and Joseph, and of course the Sweet Baby Jesus in the manger. The angel still held an old birthday candle his mother had placed there in the early 60’s.
This was some reverent shit, man. The nativity scene was one of only a few memories he had of his mother. This was something. I was in awe.
Every year, I would decorate the house for Christmas, red and green gaiety in every corner and on every surface. And always always always I left a special place for his nativity scene, just in case. Every year he would leave it in the box, unwilling to take it out. Being rabidly insecure, of course that meant he didn’t feel we were a bonafide couple, or established, love-everlasting, til-death-do-us-part soul mates. We were just a temporary thing and there was no reason to plant roots.
I’m emotional that way. It was an invisible test he never knew and he failed every year.
Finally one year he did. I was breathlessly delighted. He carefully set the manger on top of the cabinet that was bare every year, a lady in waiting. He gently spread out the angel hair (original of course) and gingerly placed each piece exactly as he remembered. A lovely sight to behold! He even cut holly from Mr. Murphy’s tree to decorate the wall behind the blessed scene.
I have no words to describe my glee. YES! He loves me! Yes, we will be together forever and YES he knows we are a twosome, united forever, dammit. This is PROOF! WE ARE ONE!
On cloud nine, I was happily dusting the living room, listening to Christmas carols, no doubt silently planning my wedding vows. As I merrily whisked through the living room, I happened upon the nativity scene. Why, it hadn’t been dusted in what…40 something years? With joy, I waved my feather duster at the delicate figures. I was all puffy with ego, knowing how my long deceased mother-in-law would admire and approve of me and my impeccable housecleaning skills.
I heard a small thunk.
Oops.
Whoa! There was the Baby Jesus, lying headless and helpless in his manger. WTF? With mounting despair, I realized I had exuberantly caught the Babe’s head with the duster, cruelly severing it from its precious Blessed Baby Jesus’s Neck.
Panic arose. What the hell was I going to do now? Goddamit, I beheaded the Baby Jesus! Fuck! The one precious thing he finally shared with me and I BEHEADED THE FUCKING BABY JESUS!
You don’t get forgiven for beheading.
With guilty fingers I nervously slapped on some super glue. It holds everything, right? It held the quarter on the sidewalk years ago that my little brother put there, so it can hold anything. With a prayer and solemn vow never to swear again, I lay the Baby Jesus down in his sweet bed. Shhh! Everything’s going to be alright and no one is the wiser.
But fuck no, his stupid Blessed Ass Baby Head rolled off, lying in a surprised heap next to his stupid severed Baby Neck. The Babe looked at me accusingly. “He hates you and I do too,” I swear it said.
What to do? The humor route? A bandaid holding the head on? A teensy scarf, after all it was December! Pretend I didn’t know? Or what about those damned crazy dogs? (That one would have worked.)
I had no choice but to come clean. That was a long wait, eons later he came home from his long day of work.
With a trembling voice, I confessed. So very very sorry was I. I recklessly destroyed a precious irreplaceable memory. Selfish stupid me!
“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “It was already broken. That’s why I haven’t been putting it out.”
Shit.
Regrets
A mother’s influence on her children is funny. You love her, of course, she’s your mother after all. She gave you life, she spent years caring for you. You were her mom-reason, her life’s work. Her devotion and love were something you took for granted. When I needed anything, there she was, my mother–eager to help, even when her help wasn’t actual help but a semi crazy idea that any sane person could see was nuts.
But every once in awhile, my mother’s ideas hit a home run and everyone quietly and grudgingly realized she was pretty fucking clever.
For example: When I was little, our dog Penny had 11 puppies. (No clue why I remember the number 11.) She birthed them in the cellar of our old home. One of the puppies, eyes not open yet, fell down the drain in the cement floor. The puppy’s plaintive cries echoed loudly through the pipe into the ears of the helpless adults. The relatives told her to fill the drain with water–drown the puppy to put it out of its misery. There were plenty of other puppies anyway. My mom, watching Penny who was whining and pacing around the drain hole, was horrified.
An idea came to her. She grabbed her prized Electrolux, shoved the long hose down the drain and hit the power switch. Up came the tiny puppy, reunited with its anxiously awaiting Penny. Mom was clever. Oh yeah, she was as loyal to her animals as she was to her children.
But more often than not, despite love, my mom could irritate the absolute shit out of me. The unwelcome advice, the constant questions, the jokes and OMG she spoke in puns. Oh and that laugh after one of her jokes. Ugh. It can make you want to pull out your eyelashes, one by excruciating one. Funnily enough though, my friends thronged around her like she was some dumb ass comedian.
All this baby love aside, I had a shit show for a childhood. Not only were we poor, we were stinking poor. The type of poor neighbors pitied all the while furtively looking away. My sister and I were surrounded by pedophiles. Father, uncle, neighbor, grandfather, everyone. There was no place safe for us. It was a cesspool of abuse for me and my sister. Something that my mother didn’t notice.
I grew up composing a semi-unwritten list of things my children would never have to experience. It grew as I did. I would not, could not, be anything like my mother. That constant laugh, the irritating puns, the practical jokes and, most importantly, the hidden depression disguised by that raucous laughter and jokes.
When my son was born, Mom had “suggestions. Lots of them. They were all so very wrong. In retrospect, they probably weren’t wrong but I was defensive. First time mom power! I didn’t need suggestions, dammit. I read Dr. Spock, by God. Cover to cover. Twice. I vehemently knew what to do. Leave me alone! But the super experienced baby making machine wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. After all, like a good Catholic girl, she made a lot of little humans. And she loved babies. So she knew this shit like the proverbial back of the hand.
But like it or not, with all her faults, she’s still there alongside me. No matter how alive she isn’t, I can still feel her voice, her laugh, and those damned hugs that kept you hugged for a long time.
She died when she was 45 from a miserable, pre-effective chemo cancer. I was 21 when she moved in with me. I took care of her. When I turned 22, she died, leaving behind her youngest for me to raise alongside my own two year old.
Most of the time it’s so subtle I’m unaware of her influence. But there it is, imprinted in my soul. She was a guilt ridden strict Catholic, hence all the damn babies. Every Sunday she would walk down to church. Late. Always at least a half hour late for a one hour service. I realize now her consistent lateness was her own subconsciousness defying the heartless cruelty that was the Catholic church.
How is this affecting me as an adult? Well, I had that list of course. I tried to follow it. Like her though, I’m fiercely loyal to my family and friends. Stupidly loyal, no matter how wrong they might be. Puns? I got ‘em. I love animals. I love love love my kids, my grandkids and my great granddaughter. I walk all the time. She used to say we were ancestors of gypsies who wandered from town to town. She walked everywhere. And crap, you should hear me laugh. Or push my advice onto my kids, their kids and my grandkids.
For all of her married life, my mother was treated like shit by the relatives as well as my father. Kids are sponges so we grew up sort of scorning her, retreating from those bear hugs. I am ashamed of how I felt about my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her and treated her well, but dammit, she died so soon after my teenage years, I didn’t get a chance to tell her I was ok and thank you for trying your best even when you were constantly overwhelmed by us messed up kids.
Sometimes the regret overwhelms you. Yes, there is always the losing-her grief, but when regret comes for a visit, it’s always a surprise. It hits you like a punch in the gut.
Happy birthday, Mom. Wish I had one more day with you. Or one hour. Or one minute. Or just one of those damned bear hugs. Dammit.
Mom
It’s been a long time since I’ve written. It’s funny how much I’ve needed to write but just haven’t had the time–scratch that, I just haven’t had the opportunity. Life gets in the way.
It was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 93. She would have made it too but cancer took her away at the ripe old age of 45. And after all these years, she’s on my mind so much.
My daughter recently gave birth. I suppose that could explain why I’m remembering my own birthing experiences. Moms and daughters.
When I was in labor, my mother stayed right by my side. Back then there were no birth classes, nobody knew about breathing or stretching or how to do anything to help the process go easier. It hurt. I was shocked by how much it hurt. My mom had nine pregnancies with seven surviving. Having babies didn’t faze her. It seemed like she just grunted and out came the kid, sometimes before there was anyone to help her. “You have a body perfect for babies” she was told by our family doctor.
That same doctor didn’t say that to me when I was pregnant.
I guess I wasn’t built like her. I spent my labor walking around the hospital, most of the time bent over in pain and moaning. I’m no martyr, I was pretty noisy. It wasn’t some primal urge that kept moving. Nothing like that. It was because as soon as I had to go back to my room, I knew they were going to give me an IV. I was more terrified of that than squeezing out a 9 pounder. So I walked. My mom walked with me. At one point as I was staring at the fountain from the upper floor I must have whined too much because she looked at me and said how much she wished she could take away my pain. Then she abruptly disappeared. She was gone for over an hour. I selfishly would have given her my pain.
I was alone. Abandoned. So alone and so frightened.
It turned out that my mother had literally run from the hospital all the way down the hill and across town to St. Anthony’s. There she lit a candle for me, tossed a dime into the donation box (candles alone won’t reach Jesus apparently), said a quick prayer and ran back up the hill to the hospital. It was almost four miles each way.
I don’t remember what happened after that. Back then nobody was allowed in the delivery room. But she was there, patiently awaitng the arrival of her grandchild.
Hours later along came my son. He was a whopping 9 pounds and I’m ashamed to admit I wanted to smack him for causing so much pain.
Mom never left the hospital during this time. And I realize now, she had to walk home that night, after midnight and in the cold rain. She never said a word.
She died less than two years later. She loved that baby so much. He was her life and her joy. When she was lived with me before she died, he was the one who made her smile, who gave her hope. That night she died, her last words to me were, “Baptize the baby.”
Fuck I miss her. I’m 70 and a bit so why now? Why do I miss her so much more now? She’s been gone from my life far longer than she was in it.
Baptize your baby if you want. I didn’t. I hope he doesn’t go to hell.
Paying your Dues…
There’s a lot of news right now about men in power sexually abusing those not in power. Years, and sometimes decades go by and these victims don’t speak up, not a word. They bundle up their nasty secrets, carrying them deep inside their psyche, where they quietly fester and infect, never healing.
Why don’t they talk? Why the silence for years then a sudden surge of going public? Are these people making this shit up? Do they want attention? Money? What the fuck is going on? They must be lying, most likely to exact revenge for some mis-perceived slight which they probably deserved anyway.
Some lucky fuckers don’t get it. Why the silence? These people that don’t get it are members of a small elite society. They’ve never been a victim. They wouldn’t know how. They get to go to bed at night and there is no monster looming. They’re not guarded in their joy. Their world isn’t constrained by a narrow field of safety. When they laugh, there is no sinister voice quietly insisting that they have no right to happiness. They have no “dirty” secrets to hide. They are faultless.
Most likely, if you’re in this group, it’s through no effort of your own. It’s just shit luck that you landed there. I’m not chastising you for being one of the luckies, but you need to understand why victims don’t talk and stop making their lives worse by doubting their honesty.
Last night my husband asked me if I had anything happen sexually to me as an adult that I kept secret. I had to stop and think. Surprisingly, the answer was “no.” At least not as an adult. It was at that point I realized how very lucky I am. Yes, there has been a lot of teasing and joking around, but it’s not the same as being coerced to give someone you detest a blow job so you can keep your job, life, car, whatever.
Yes, I said blow job. It’s easy (sort of) to say, “I was sexually abused.” It’s hard as fuck to say, “I had to pull on his dick and then suck it until he ejaculated all over my face.” The details are humiliating and if you can understand that, then you can understand one of the reasons victims stay quiet. Who wants to admit to that shit? Out loud? Don’t think so.
But the main reason is shame. We are taught (let’s call it by it’s real name: groomed) as children to do as our grownups–teachers, parents, superiors–said. Be a good girl. Obey. Obey. Obey. The more this is crammed into your developing being, the more likely you’re going to keep your trap shut about stuff that’s obviously your own fault. Obey.
Shame says: But hey! Let’s face it. You could have said no. You could have walked away. You could have asserted yourself. You should have accepted that you were going to lose your job, or your friend, or your father, uncle, or who-the-fuck-ever. But you didn’t. Shut the fuck up and don’t talk about it.
Victims aren’t stupid. Yes, the rational brain quietly and logically says you didn’t do it of your own free will, and it’s not your fault. But we don’t listen to our brains. Not when the child heart is screaming, accusing you. “You didn’t stop it. You made a choice not to stop it. This is your fault. You’re a dumb fuck and deserve this.” “Your fault.” “Your fault.” “Your fault.” There is no “no” in your vocabulary.
That’s bullshit. You know it. I know it. What’s worse, the victims know it. Yes, their cognitive powers can explain in simple terms why it’s not their fault, but the child heart always prevails. Unless you can feel your own innocence in your heart, it matters diddly squat what your common sense is telling you. You can’t logic away feelings, not even you Sagittarians. The shame is all yours, to have and to hold.
In a convoluted sort of way, I have the best of both worlds.
I was raised a victim. I know the fear. That fucking sinking dread taking over when you realize it’s going to happen (again) and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it. The terror paralyzes you. There is no fight, never a fight, just a despondent acquiescence. Obey. Obey. Obey. There is no “no” in your world. And it happens again and again and again and again and again and again. Each time, your shame buries the shards of your self worth deeper and deeper into the silence until there is no longer a you.
I went through a lot of shit when I was a kid. It wasn’t until my husband asked me that question that I realized that I’m no longer a victim. I am no longer powerless. I’m no longer a deer in the headlights. But I get it. I know why victims don’t talk. And hopefully, now you do too.
I paid my dues. They’re paying theirs too.
Requiem to my Sister
I’m going to be honest here, and that’s easy because I’m pretty sure nobody will read this and I need to let some things out. My shit is safe here.
I accepted today that I have lost the sister I’ve known all my life. She’s still here physically, but the girl I grew up with, the younger kid sister, my devoted follower, is gone. She’s not coming back. There. I said it. She’s not coming back. Fuck you bad doctors, fuck you bad health care, and fuck you life, but she isn’t coming back. I have no words to describe the grief.
Background: We lived a shit life. We were the poor family that everyone felt sorry for, but we were dirty so those generous souls also kept their distance. I remember my mother’s shocked embarrassment at Thanksgiving when she’d receive a basket full of food from the do-good pitiers. Her dismay was palpable–Through her grudging acceptance, I could feel her white hot anger. But hey, every Thanksgiving we had enough food. What’s a little anger when you have turkey and all the trimmings?
My sister is five years younger. When she was little I thought she was the cutest damn thing. She had blonde straight hair (in contrast to my dark curly crap in the 70’s) and two (count them!) two blue eyes that matched. (another story.)
How cute is this kid?
And she adored me. I was the big sister. I shared my dreams with her. Fantasies of boys who liked me, of being rich, of being somebody who, simply put, wasn’t the object of all that pity. God how I hated that mother fucking, esteem sucking pity. My sister was my biggest fan; hell, she was my only fan.
I’m not sure she ever believed my stories. She shouldn’t have. It doesn’t matter. We shared hope. We were going to survive the ugliest childhood and become “NORMAL” like others.
Long story short: I made it. She didn’t. Too much pedophilia tossed in with a lot of physical abuse, and of course the emotional horseshit that came along for the ride. Topping off the crap, our mom died when my sister was 16. She needed her mom at 16, all teen girls need their moms. My sister never had a chance.
Fast forward a zillion years: I’m doing well. I admit that I’ve had some lucky ass breaks, breaks that have saved me. Oh crap, I do realize how dramatic that sounds, but fuck it, you didn’t live it, you weren’t there. Trust me.
I have a good job. I have a wonderful spouse. I have the best kids in the world. I have everything. I am happy on purpose.
My sister has so much as well: Anxiety. Panic Disorder. Depression. So many physical problems. The past year has brought her a failed serious back surgery that causes her constant pain, two–maybe three strokes that have left her with enough damage to her brain that she can no longer control her emotions. She needs constant help, not as much supervision now, but constant help. Her daughter has not only stepped up to the plate, she filled the plate, washed the plate and put the plate back into the cupboard. Every day. Every single fucking day.
My sister has much improved since I started this piece. She will never be right, but she’s improved.
It’s not fair. Fucking life. It’s not fair and I want to kick whoever it was that said it would be fair right in the ass. Realizing now of course that nobody actually ever told me that life was fair.
I’ve always wanted to write…
Ok, I have this blog site and I’ve had it for years and here it is, glaringly empty, blank nothingness, staring back at me, daring me. What’s the point of having of blog if you’re just going to write “someday?”
Memories of childhood–do we fully understand how one seemingly insignificant moment can change the course of our lives?
My first grade teacher was Mrs. Kristoff. I loved her. She was my first teacher and, coming from a dirt poor family, her sophisticated-lady countenance impressed me to no end. She wore soft pastel sweaters and plaid skirts, and (what are those shoes?) high heels. She was soft-spoken and I sucked in her every word.
We weren’t just poor, we were dirty poor. The kind of poor that the proud poor look down on. I was taught very little at home. In fact, at the age of six, I didn’t know what “colors” were. When Mrs. Kristoff handed out fat crayons, I had no idea what color was what. My desk neighbor, Rick P. , took pity on me and patiently showed me the name of each color. (I don’t mention Rick’s full last name because he also took a big smelly shit in front of me in our barn after that and I don’t want to embarrass him if he’s still alive and runs into this blog.)
Along came Thanksgiving, and with Thanksgiving, holiday arts and crafts. Our class project was a giant turkey made out of construction paper. My job was to paste (yum) feathers onto the turkey. I was apparently too new at art to understand about using too much paste. Mrs. Kristoff gently took my paste and feathers from me and said quietly, “You’ll never be an artist, dear.” I was put into my chair and advised to read.
I have no clue if she really meant it or not. Hell, she may have been kidding even, but that statement cemented itself into my very soul and followed me throughout my adulthood. I wasn’t even aware of it at the time–My feelings hadn’t been hurt. It was a statement that I accepted without emotion or understanding. I loved her, and had no reason to disbelieve anything she said. It would have been the same as if she had said I had curly brown hair. Fact is fact.
I spent my life not drawing. Not coloring. Not painting. There was no mauve or turquoise in my vocabulary. There was green, red, blue. Nothing in between. My catch phrase as an adult was, “These hands are only good for holding cigarettes.” If I had to draw something, it was a pitiful two-stroke attempt. I can’t draw. I’m not an artist you know. My biggest fears came to light when that horrible Pictionary game came out. LOVED watching the game, HATED when it was my turn, as did my game partners.
A few years ago, the DrawSomething game came into popularity. It was an online game created by OMGPop. I was harassed constantly by my son and friends to play the game. Nope, I can’t draw, it would be a waste of time. I finally gave in and started playing. All the phone calls and messages started pouring in. “What the FUCK was that you just drew?” The bad part was, when I looked at the pictures, even I didn’t know what I was trying to draw.
It was so bad that my son and friends quietly stopped playing the game with me. It didn’t matter, I kept tossing out shit pictures to my game partners, constantly trying to show them, “I TOLD YOU I CAN’T FUCKING DRAW!”
My online friend Joy is an artist in Australia. She would send me turns of simple drawings that looked amazing. I loved watching her draws come to life. One time she sent me a drawing of Jimi Hendrix that was so amazing I whined in a message to her, “Oh I wish I had your talent. I can’t draw.”
Her response changed my life. She told me (paraphrasing) that it didn’t take talent to draw. The only thing holding me back from being an artist was my own fat ass attitude. I was blocking any attempts to learn by my negative feelings about drawing.
It was then that I realized who had taught me that I couldn’t draw.
Joy told me to try, just once, to see what I could do. No scribbling, just thoughtful movements with the stylus. I laughed and told her I’d try, knowing I would be proving her wrong in no time.
My next draw with her, I tried. I thought about what I wanted to show. I searched out photos on the internet, and I tried. Much to my own shock, what I drew was not great by any means, but oh my god, you could tell what it was.
At that point I became obsessed with the game. I wanted to learn so badly, I drew and I drew and I drew. The original DrawSomething game was simple–just a few colors and simple brushes. Then they came out with Drawsomething2. More brushes, more colors, and more “ink” time. I became even more obsessed. I would draw for hours, leaving the world behind. This included my husband who would talk to me and we would carry on conversations while I was drawing that I had no recollection of later.
I’ll post some of my drawings that made me happy. I had a LOT of help from artist friends who played the game.
Here are some early ones that made me shriek with happiness:
With DrawSomething2 (later renamed by Zynga to ArtWithFriends), I had a lot more fun and by this time, I only drew. Work meant nothing, family and friends were ignored. Showers were a waste of time. Here’s what I came up with before the damned program died:
I have hundreds, but I’m not a famous artist, you won’t need to see them all.
In fact, that Christmas, my daughter bought me a beginning drawing class and my son surprised me with an art box. Three drawers filled with brushes, watercolor paints, acrylics and oils. (“Now do some real art, Mom.”)
I’ve started off (reluctantly) with watercolor because well, it was what was in the top drawer of the box. My watercolor work isn’t ready for prime time as I can’t seem to get past the first rule of watercolor: Give up trying to control the paint.
I don’t have a conclusion to this writing because, although DrawSomething was discontinued (the second version), I’m trying to learn to paint and draw in real life.
This is Daisy.
We weren’t expecting another dog. We had Sophie Ray and LucyFur and our hands were full. We accidentally picked up Daisy (Oopsie Daisy).
She’s a German Wirehair and English Pointer cross, at least that’s what we were told.
Our old German Wirehair, Buddy, was a handful of work. His head was as thick and hard as a slab of cement, but oh the personality in that boy. If you weren’t mad as hell at him, you were trying your damnedest to not let him see you laugh at his antics.
German Wirehairs are a lot of dog. They’re energetic, busy, and smart. Too smart. Unfortunately for Buddy, all we knew about dogs was that we loved them. Loving them isn’t enough. You have to learn about dogs. Dogs need to be trained. Buddy trained us.
Daisy’s our second chance to train a busy Wirehair with a giant brain.
Here she is at five months:
I’ve taken a few classes (bless you, Seattle Humane Society), read a lot of Patricia McConnell (Bless you, Trisha), Karen Pryor (you know the routine now), and I’ve gotten a lot better at the training side of things. Here’s a picture of Daisy’s response to the “Watch” suggestion:
Maybe you can’t tell, but she jumped up and knocked the camera out of my hand. This tells us two things:
1) You know why I call it the “Watch” suggestion instead of command.
2) I need more training.
3) We need to work on jumping (or to be more precise, *not* jumping).
4) I can’t count.
So now I need to learn how to put in links. It’s irritating that learning some things is so hard for me.
Hello world!
I’m actually ok with Hello world! for the beginning. It should probably just say Hello nobody! as most likely nobody will read this.
My first entry. I’m generally a positive person, not exactly prone to depression. No reason, just my brain gets bored after awhile.
I’m in a lousy mood today though, my ex daughter-in-law’s birthday. A coincidence? No. I miss her so much. I admired her so much. She’s happier without us, but it’s also hard to watch all that budding happiness from down here. I want to be thrilled for her, but I can’t get past my own grief and loss. I’m sure the depth of the grief is directly related to the depth of the loss.
I’m also not too thrilled with double spacing. (See? I was depressed, and then bored myself to another subject.)
Another subject of more importance: Here’s a new picture of what’s happening in my world today, not doggy at all, but I sure love my yard.
There. I did it.
PS: Looks like the double spacing took care of itself.
Good.
Lucy Nose You Laughed 