Sunday, December 27, 2009

Explosion at the Goat Lick

My sister, Caren, is like a sprite. She is petite and adorable. She is cute, and she gets cuter with age. Caren looks one hundred times better than she did in high school. She is athletic and competitive. Don't try to beat her at anything because she won't let it happen. If you happen to get lucky and beat her at something, she'll go home and practice and challenge you to a rematch. Caren is everything I am not. That is why I always told her the mailman was her father.

One must have a great self-esteem to hang out with Caren. Everybody loves Caren. She is the life of the party. Caren will make friends at the drop of a hat. Don't sit next to her on a plane, if you don't want to make a new friend. Don't even try to put up that invisible wall. She has special sprite powers and she will break down that wall and become your new best friend.

Children worship Caren. It could be because she is a kid at heart. She will play anything kids want to play a million times, but don't think she will let them win because they are kids; she won't. Caren is a get-dirty-roll-on-the-ground kind of gal. She, also, has a very special talent that all kids big and small love. Caren is a burper and a farter! Kids of all ages line up to worship at the Church of Caren.

One summer a friend
that I teach with, Lauri, and her family came to visit Caren and me in Montana. Lauri has two children Seth and Larissa. Seth and Larissa loved hanging out with Auntie Caren. Seth especially loved Caren's "special" talent. He admired her ability to fart a tune and burp the ABCs. Lauri has always said, "Caren corrupted her sweet innocent son. After that summer in Montana, Seth became a regular burping and farting boy."

When we have visitors in Montana we do the regular Montana sight seeing tours: Big Mountain, Bear Park, Jeff Fleming Studio, Horseshoe Dam, Flathead Lake, Moose's Saloon and Pizza Parlor, Huckleberry shakes, and, of course, Glacier Park. Visiting Glacier is a full day trip. When driving through the park there are places where all sight seers stop: Glacier Hotel, Trick Falls, Lake Mary, Glacier Visiting Center, and the Weeping Wall. Montana is one of the most amazing and majestic places I have ever seen. It's beauty is so difficult to explain. it is one of those places one has to see to believe.

We were taking Lauri and her family on our official Glacier Park day trip. We had to take two cars. The girls: Caren, Larissa, Lauri and myself in my van, and the boys: Darrel (Caren's husband), Terry (Lauri's husband) and Seth in the truck. We communicated between the two vehicles with walkie-talkies. Our catch phrase for the trip was, "Hey, where are you aaaaaattt?" This phrase drove the school teachers in Lauri and I crazy because of the dangling preposition. Lauri became somewhat frantic about the phrase because not only were her young vulnerable children being corrupted by the fun loving burper and farter but, they were learning and using improper grammar.

On the way to Glacier we always stop at the Goat Lick. It is an exposed river bank where goats and other animals come to lick the mineral-laden cliffs. The cliffs are steep, so the mountain goats are the ones that are able to get to cliffs easier. On the opposite side of the cliffs is a paved trail that leads out to an overhang where visitors can stand and view the goats. As we walked toward the lookout with Caren and the kids in the lead laughing and giggling we saw a couple standing at the rail. When they saw or heard us coming they stepped away from the rail and made room for us. Caren was in front blocking everyone's view. Seth pleaded, "Come on, Aunt Caren, move so we can see!"

"Yea, move!" urged Larissa.

"Move, please!" insisted the the ever-correcting mother of Seth and Larissa.

At that moment, Caren lifted her leg like a dog and farted. It made a noise like a Whoopee Cushion being sat on by a fat man. It sounded like a rocket taking off. I am surprised the force of the explosion didn't lift her sprite-like body off the ground and over the rail.We all fell silent. Unbeknownst to Caren the older couple that was originally standing at the rail was still there. As Caren was turning around to face us she giggled, "Come you guys, you have to admit that was a good one." And then she saw the couple and her face went as white as a porcelain doll and she shyly said, "Oooops! Sorry!"

As the couple scurried away in bemusement, we all shouted, "Please, excuse our friend. She is a bit addled!"

"Aunt Caren, you should be ashamed of yourself, " guffawed Seth and Larissa in unison.

"Yea, Aunt Caren, you should be ashamed of yourself," the rest of us chimed in.

"Aaah, who cares? I'll never see them again!" replied Caren. "And you have to admit it was a goodie!"

"It wasn't just a good one it was a great!" worshipped Seth. "I gotta practice some more."

"No you don't!" shouted Lauri.

We continued on our trip through the park. When we were pulling into the Trick Falls parking lot Seth came over the walkie-talkie, "You guys aren't going to believe who is here!"

"Is it someone famous?" Caren asked over the walkie-talkie.

Seth laughed with gusto as he replied, "Yea, your famous fart friends."

And there they were, the couple Caren had so rudely imposed upon at the Goat Lick. And when we stopped at Lake Mary, there they were. And when we stopped at the Glacier Hotel, there they were. Every place we stopped, the people we were never going to see again were there.

Seth and Larissa are now much older. Larissa is a junior in college and Seth is a senior in high school. And when we have the opportunity to get together we still talk and laugh about that summer in Montana. The summer Seth and I came face to face with a bear. The summer Terry fell in love with huckleberries. The summer Seth became a regular boy. The summer of the explosion at the Goat Lick

Paco's Perspective

I love summers in Montana, but I don't love Auntie Caren's farts. I do love it when she shares he wine with me.

The Flip Side

I can't wait to go to Montana. Paco says there are lots of trees. More trees than in a dog's dream.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

I Prefer Spinster

Soon, I will be one year older. Since my parents were told my brother and I would die before our sixteenth birthdays, I am not ashamed of my age. I will proudly turn fifty-four on January eighth, which happen to be Elvis Presley's birthday. So when you are driving down the road on January eighth and the radio DJ says, "Elvis Presley would have been seventy-five years old today" you should shout, "Darn, I forgot Cathy's birthday again!"

As my birthday gets closer and closer, I continue to ask myself over and over this question, "Is this the year I officially become an Old Maid school teacher?" On the sitcom Sex in the City, Charlotte became worried that she has become an old maid on her thirty-sixth birthday, and I am turning fifty-four!

What is an old maid? During the Elizabethan era the term old maid referred to a woman or girl of marriageable age who is unwilling or unable to marry and has no children. In the encyclopedia it states, "old maid is sometimes considered an insulting term". Sometimes? Really, does anyone want to be called an "old maid"? Why are childless unmarriageable women called old maids, but childless unmarriageable men are called bachelors? This is the ultimate example of the term double standard. Unmarried childless men have the right to a degrading term. I am thinking maybe . . . . . "old bastards"!

When the term "old maid" is thrown out there what image comes to mind? Is it that scrawny, wrinkled, glasses on the end of the nose, old lady in the card game? Yep, me too!

It is time to face reality. I fit the criteria:
  • I am unmarried. I never ever thought I would be married. There aren't too many men out there that would want to commit to someone with as much baggage as I carry around. When I was young and hanging out in country western bars I never expected a tight jeaned, handsome cowboy to walk in and say to his friends, "Out of the way, boys, the chunky one in the wheelchair with a great smile is mine!"
  • I have no children. I have never longed to have children. I like children, but I like them the best when they belong to someone else.
  • I am wrinkled. Word of warning: Don't drink out of a straw. It is the quickest route to those wrinkles around your lips. I, also, have those horrible school-teacher-glare-at-kids wrinkles between my eyebrows.
  • I wear bifocals. I cannot see anything without my glasses. I used to wear contacts, but I always misplace my reading glasses (which I wore on the end of my nose) so I accepted my fate and bought bifocals which I feel is the symbol of old age.
  • I am old. I can't see. I have wrinkles in place I didn't know one could get wrinkles. Gravity has caused everything to go south. I can no longer eat spicy food.
Yep, it is official. I am an old maid. Worse yet, I am an old maid school teacher. While I was researching the term old maid I came across another term which was "spinster". Spinster is a medieval word that was originally intended to indicate a woman who spun wool, thereby living independently of a male wage. A spinster was a free and independent woman. Medieval people were afraid of spinsters because unmarried women were correlated with witches. Spinsters were free and independent women that could turn people into frogs. In two weeks I will be fifty-four years old, but please don't call me an "old maid"; I prefer spinster!

Paco's Perspective

Hey, Speenster, how old are you in dog years?

The Flip Side

I'm not old. Teach me some tricks.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Whatever You Do Don't Step on the Brake!

I am an Arizona Girl through and through. I love the Arizona heat. What is so bad about Arizona weather? When it is hot a person steps out of their air conditioned house, gets in their air conditioned car, and drives to the air conditioned mall. I can always get cooler, but once my toes get cold there is no turning back. The only way I can get my feet warm is to take a hot, hot, hot shower and jump into a toasty, warm bed. I despise the cold. I believe God is okay with people whining, but only about one thing, so when the temperature gets below eighty I whine.

My aversion for cold leads me to ask this question: Why would anyone want to play in the snow? If one lives in Arizona, one has to drive at least two and one half hours to get to the snow, and then this means driving in the snow. I have only driven in the snow two times, because I purposely avoid cold weather. I was caught in a snowstorm in Texas driving to a family Christmas. Believe when I woke up and saw the snow outside the hotel window I thought about heading for home, but Caren said there was no turning back.

My first snow driving adventure happened in Flagstaff, Arizona. I went there with a dear friend, Jeri, and her kids. I think we went to see the Grand Canyon in the winter and to play in the snow. This was pre-accident, so I was game for just about anything. It was a nice day the drive to Flagstaff was easy with no complications. The drive to the Canyon was the same, but on the way back from the Canyon to the motel it started to snow. Then it started to snow harder and I started to panic. (My van was only equipped for me to drive, so there was no changing places.) Jeri, being the mother of teenage boys that drove, was very calm. I on the other hand was a basket case. I clutched the steering wheel until my knuckles were as white as the new fallen snow and I squeaked, "What am I going to do?"

Jeri replied very calmly, "First, you are going to stop gripping the steering wheel so hard. Ease up a bit. Then you are going to slow down."

"Ooooooo, but what about the people behind us? They are going to start honking and then I am going to get nervous," I whined like a kid wanting a new toy.

"The other drivers can go around us. We don't care about them. Slow and steady," she cooed like she was talking to a new born babe. But then she added with a little bit of an edge on her voice, "But whatever you do, don't step on the brake."

I was lucky there wasn't a lot of traffic in front of me. It was all behind me HONKING! As I drove, the words, "Whatever you do, don't step on the brake", kept going through my head. I wasn't quite sure what I was going to do when I got into town and came upon a red light, and I was too frightened and focused to ask. I prayed my way through two stop lights. I slowly pulled into the motel parking lot hoping I would coast to a stop. I coasted into a parking space easing closer and closer to the sidewalk when Jeri's eyes got as big as a fifty cent piece and she shouted, "Step on the brake!"

Paco's Perspective

I am glad Caren drives to Montana. Whatever you do, don't stop giving me treats.

The Flip Side

I don't think I like car rides.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Not Suitable for Wheelchairs, Really, We Mean It!

I have found myself in some interesting predicaments. Many of these predicaments have come from not believing posted signs. I always think that the "Don't Do That" signs are only written for insurance purposes. For example, on just about every kind of medication there is a warning that states: Don't drive heavy machinery while taking this medication. I believe that warning is there so that some knucklehead that drove a bulldozer through a house while on the medication couldn't sue the manufacturer of the medication. So, I have a tendency not to believe warnings on medication or "No Trespassing by Penalty of Death" signs because, really, is someone going to shoot a human being for stepping on their property.

This brings me to those "Not Suitable for Wheelchairs" signs. Really? I need to know how unsuitable they actually are. I think there are degrees of suitability from Okay-go-ahead-but-don't-blame-us-if-you-lose-a-wheel to We-mean-it-you-could-die. I have come across quite a few of these signs, and I have tested them out for there degree of suitability. At the San Diego Zoo there are walkways that have signs that state: "Not Suitable for Wheelchairs". The sign is absolutely correct! One might be deceived by the paved walkway and the sixty degree slope at the beginning of the path. It's that eighty-five degree slope that wheelchair brakes and a friend walking backward, holding the chair, wearing holes in their tennis shoes, trying to keep you from zooming at breakneck speed into the gorilla pit that the sign is warning visitors about. Been there, done that!

I have been fortunate to have the opportunity to do things that no other wheelchair bound person has done. I have been beach combing, white water rafting, hot air ballooning, glider plane riding, dirt bike riding, hiking, etc., etc., etc. I have been able to do these things because of my wonderful friends. My friends that look at me and see just Cathy not Cathy sitting in a wheelchair. When making plans my friends have never said, "We can't do that because Cathy is with us." They have always said, "Let's figure out how Cathy can do this with us." Two such friends are Jo May and Peggy Hillis. I taught with Peggy at the beginning of my career and Jo May (we never call her just Jo) worked at the district office. I was the rule follower that didn't want to do anything. Peggy was always the instigator, and Jo May was the one that always said, "Yea, let's try it!" Together, we were quite a trio.

Me saying, "Ooooooooo, I don't think we should. Someone could hurt, and most likely that will be me."

Peggy saying, "Come on you big whining, rule-following, baby! Let's go!"

Jo May smiling with that wide-eyed kid at Christmas grin saying, "Yea, let's try it!"

Quite a few years ago we were in Vegas when the three of us came across a sign that said, "No Handicapped Access". We were walking on the strip and we saw a shortcut to Cesar's Palace. It was a moving sidewalk. In order to get to the moving sidewalk a person had to go down four steps. Next to the steps was that sign "No Handicapped Access". Peggy was always ready for a shortcut, and Jo May was always ready to follow.

As Peggy and Jo May are checking out the stairs, I am saying, "You guys, it says 'No Handicapped Access'. That means crippled kids stay away from the staircase."

"Ummmm, Cathy, it is not a staircase. It is four steps," Peggy egged on.

"Yea, let's try it!" agreed Jo May.

"But, I have learned, in the past, that when it says 'Not Suitable for Wheelchairs' it is maybe not suitable. Jo May, do you remember the hiking trail in Prescott? It took us hours to get out of that canyon. We traumatized those Japanese foreign exchange students. And does anybody remember the San Diego Zoo when I was almost lunch for the gorillas?" I unsuccessfully pleaded my case.

"Cathy, you big whining, rule-following baby, no one died in Prescott or San Diego. It is only four steps, and the moving sidewalk is wide enough for a semi truck. It is a shortcut! We will get to the food faster," insisted Peggy.

"Yea, food! Let's try it!" said Monkey-See-Monkey-Do.

"Since you put it that way, let's do it. But, if I die, I get to say, 'I told you so!'" I agreed.

"Yea, yea, yea! Let's go!" snarled Peggy.

Yea, yea, yea! Let's go!" sang Jo May.

We easily made it down the four steps. The moving sidewalk was wide and we made it to the end of the sidewalk with no problems. The moving sidewalk stopped directly in front of doors that opened to Cesar's Palace. As Peggy entered the door she stopped cold, Jo May ran into her and stopped cold, and I ran into Jo May. It looked like a scene from an old Keystone Cops silent movie. I heard Peggy say, "WOW!" and Jo May gasp, "Yikes!" The two parted like the sea for Moses and I saw it! A staircase. A golden staircase, but a staircase. Not four steps. A huge flight of stairs with no other route to take. We couldn't go back from where we came. The sidewalk only moved in one direction, and it was packed with people.

As I surveyed the staircase, I started to giggle, "So I am thinking, maybe, this would be the reason that sign said, 'No' let me repeat, 'NO Handicapped Access'. Call me crazy! Where are the half-naked, strong, Roman Cesarian guards when you need them?"

"I bet as soon as they saw us they ran and hid," chortled Peggy.

At that moment four foreign men, asked in broken English if we needed help. They carried me down the golden flight of stairs. I am not light, and my chair is even heavier. The entire time three of the men were swearing at the one that offered the help. I didn't understand what they were saying, but swearing in any language sounds the same.

When we eventually got back to our hotel room and settled into bed, I asked, "Guys, what have we learned from this evening's adventure? The next time we see a sign that says, 'Not Suitable for Wheelchairs' what are we going to do?"

"The same thing we did in Prescott, and the same thing we did San Diego, and the same thing we did tonight," replied Peggy.

"Yep, the same thing," yawned Jo May.

"Yep, the same thing," I sighed as I drifted off to sleep to dream of "Not Suitable for Wheelchairs, Really, We mean It!" signs.

Paco's Perspective

I don't like that chair on wheels. It hurts.

The Flip Side

I like that chair on wheels because your lap is always available.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Here's Your Sign

Bil Engvall is a comedian that has a "Here's Your Sign" routine. It is when people ask stupid questions that have obvious answers. I have had heard many a stupid question, but I am never quick enough to reply with that witty "Here's Your Sign, Stupid" answer. I always think of the witty answer at two in the morning.

I have had the opportunity to be asked many stupid questions. Especially, when it comes to my handicap. Here is an example conversation:

"And where are you from?" inquires Shtupid

"Arizona," I reply.

"Oooooo, I have a friend that is in a wheelchair that lives in Arizona. Do you know him?" asks Shtupid

"No, I don't, sorry," I answer with my nonwitty reply.

But, my two a.m. answer is, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do, and I have slept with him. Because I do know every handicapped man and woman that lives in Arizona intimately! Here's your sign!"

This past summer on the way to Montana Caren and I stopped for gas. As she was cleaning the windshield, Shtupid happened to be getting gas, also, and asked, "Did you hit a bird?" pointing to the grill of the van with a smashed bird.

Caren replied, "I guess I did."

When she got in the van she said, "Did you here what that guy asked me?"

"Yes, I did," I answered.

"Did you here my stupid response? Why can't I think of a 'Here's Your Sign' answer when I want?"

"I know how it feels. You should have said, 'Nope, before going on long road trips I catch a bird and tie it the van grill to deter other birds from making that mistake. Here's your sign!'"

My two a.m. response was even better, "Nope, I didn't hit a bird. That is our pet bird, Polly. That is where he prefers to ride on long road trips. It is too stuffy in the van for him. Here's your sign!"

Someday, I will be quick enough to respond correctly. I guess that is why I am not a comedian. But, as I age, I have a feeling that I am going to get slower with my witty responses. I bet I never get the opportunity to say, "Here's your sign, Shtupid!"

Paco's Perspective

"Paco, do you want to go out?" asks Shtupid.

"No, I always bark and twirl in front of the door. It is the best place in the house to practice my dance moves. Here's your sign.!"

The Flip Side

"Flip, do you know who that dog is in the mirror?" asks Cathy, I mean, I mean, Shtupid.

"Ummmm! Ummmmm!" Okay, I can't do it. If I think of something clever, I'll wake you at two a.m. Oh, wait I already do that.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Don't Sprinkle Rose Petals

The other day we were sitting at a stop light, and a funeral procession came through the light. There were a lot of Harley riders in the procession, so there was generally only one person per vehicle. This made for a long procession. We were there for about five minutes and they were still coming like a line ants to a sugar bowl. The procession was stopped and traffic was finally let through. As we drove adjacent to the procession in the opposite direction, we realized that the procession was almost three miles long!

At that instant, I decided on my number one rule for my funeral: There shall be no car pooling. I want a long procession. I want to mess up traffic. I want people to say, "Wow, that person had a lot of friends!" If there are five people in a family and they all drive and own cars, then they all have to drive by themselves. My own family will not be riding together in a limo. No! No! No! If family members and friends fly in for the festivities, I would like them to rent cars. There shall be no car pooling.

Rule number two: Don't mourn my death, rejoice my life! Puhleeze, find something nice to say about me. Remember all the good times. Don't worry about me, I will be in a much better place (probably running away from Brad). I hope there will be people at my funeral that can say nice things about me. At the rate I am going, if I don't hurry up and die there might not be nice things to say. Remember what your mother told you, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

Rule number three: Sing the songs. Stand up, dance to the music. Even if you can't sing, sing loudly. I have spent an exorbitant amount of time picking the perfect songs for my funeral. (I know, I need to get a life.) I have taken careful consideration picking mostly upbeat songs. I had to pick one or two that might tug at your heartstrings, but most are uplifting-get-out-of-your-seat-clap-your-hands-and-sing-along songs. Don't be a party pooper. I know, I know, I am a party pooper. I am not fun. I am depending on my guests put the f-u-n in funeral. SING! SING like you're singing for your supper!

Rule number four: Don't sprinkle rose petals on my casket. I hate roses. I do not think they are fragrant. I hate the smell of roses, so I would prefer they not be anywhere in the vicinity. If a flower arrangement with roses is present, it is a clue that the sender didn't know me at all. Point and laugh at them, I give my permission. I like cheese as a matter of fact I love cheese. If someone asked, "Cathy, would you rather have steak and potatoes, or cheese and crackers for dinner?" My emphatic answer would be, "Cheese and crackers, please!" So don't sprinkle rose petals on my casket. Don't sprinkle any flowers on my casket; sprinkle . . . . . . .grated cheese.

Paco's Perspective

I like cheese. I like steak. I like potatoes. I like wine. I love ice cream. But, I hate that diet dog food you are feeding me. Unhuh, I know it is diet food. I can tell the difference. Did you think I just fell off the tomato truck?

The Flip Side

I like cheese. I like treats. I like Paco's toys. I don't know how many times I have to say this, but I don't like that dog called Reflection. He has got to go!

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Who Brought Brad?

My brother, Brad was one and a half years younger than I. He was also handicapped and confined to a wheelchair from birth. Brad was unable to write or feed himself. This made attending public school challenging for him. Brad and I both attended public school in the sixties which was unheard of in that era. I attended first, and at the time I was able to walk, so my disability wasn't noticeable. When my mom registered Brad a year later the school wasn't going to let him register. My mom pointed out that I had been attending for a year and we had the same disability. She also informed the school that his problem was he couldn't walk not that he couldn't think. I think we paved the way for many handicapped children in the Cartwright School District. Throughout my public school career I always saw students in wheelchairs other than ourselves attending school. This was before public law 94-142 which stated that ALL children had a right to a public education.

Brad and I did not like each other. I don't know if it was "crippled kid" rivalry or what, but I can assure you he hated me. He and my mom were best friends and they were inseparable. Brad and my youngest sister, Caren, were also inseparable. I always teased Caren that he liked her because she would do anything he said. If he told her to guzzle a pitcher of beer, she would. If he told her to rob a bank or jump off a cliff, she would. To be honest, we probably didn't get along because I was jealous of him.

I always thanked God that Brad was in a wheelchair. He was a mean brother. I can't imagine what would have happened, if he had the ability to get a hold of us. He would have been one of those brothers that would have held you down, and let a loogie slide out of his mouth to where it would just get close to your face and then he would suck it back up. Except with me, he would have let the loogie drip in my face.

What Brad couldn't do with his legs and arms, he made up for with his mouth. His tongue was as sharp as a newly honed hunting blade. His words could slice through you and go directly to your heart. I am not saying that I didn't fight back. I learned snarly word whipping from the best, Brad himself.

Brad was the cutest little boy in the whole world. He was adorable. He was witty. He was funny. He was fun. Brad was the complete opposite of me, and that is probably the reason we hated each other.

When Brad was in first grade he made one of those typical first grade Christmas ornaments. It was a star cut from Styrofoam with a pipe cleaner hook, and it had his picture on it framed with glitter. Now I am sure throughout his school career Brad made many Christmas ornaments, but that is the one that my mom kept throughout the years, and always placed it on our tree. That is saying a lot because we evolved into a theme Christmas tree family, and a Styrofoam glittered star was never part of any of our themes.

Brad died two weeks before his twenty-fifth birthday. He fought the hard fight, and he lost. Unfortunately, sharp words can't battle pneumonia. I always wonder, if Brad will be one of the "five people I meet in Heaven". I am sure we will have many things to discuss as we walk the streets of gold. I am a little leery of meeting him because he will be able to walk, and get a hold of me. But, I will be able to run, if needed.

I always think of Brad at Christmas. When my family gathers for the Holiday, no matter what sister or what theme Brad's Styrofoam glittered star is put on the tree. We make a toast to him and other loved ones lost. It has been quite a few years since we have all had Christmas together. I miss those Christmas gatherings: exchanging of the perfect gifts, daily Scrabble games, the laughing, the teasing, the laughing, the fights, the laughing, the food, and the traditional Christmas question, "Who brought Brad?"

Paco's Perspective

Thanks to you, I have a little brother. He takes all my toys and he doesn't give them back. He won't let me sleep in MY bed! Don't tell him, but I like play fighting with him, and I like going for runs with him. Okay, I guess he can stay.

The Flip Side

Thanks to you, I have a big brother. He has great toys and his bed is very comfortable, especially, the soft blankie. Please tell me that dog you call Reflection is NOT my brother!

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

I Have Two Men In My Life

I consider myself lucky because I have two men in my life. They are complete opposites. Maybe that is why I am drawn to both of them. If I was forced to make a choice between the two of them, it would be impossible.

One is overprotective of me. He has to keep an eye on me wherever I am. He insists on being in the same room with me at all times. Sometimes he follows me to the bathroom. The other doesn't care where I am unless he needs or wants something. He knows where I am when he wants dinner.

One is very loud. He is constantly giving his opinion to others, even when they don't ask for it. He is not polite when giving his opinion. He is boisterous and overbearing. The other is quiet and seldom has much to say. Some mistake his silence for a lack of understanding or knowledge. I think he chooses not to speak unless it is important.

They both love their toys. One is happy to share with anyone even perfect strangers. The other wants no one touching his stuff. He will stay home just to make sure no one gets near his stuff.

One is a homebody. He never strays too far from home (because he insists on keeping an eye on me). When he leaves he only does what needs to be done and does it quickly, so he can promptly return home. The other is a wanderer. He leaves and comes back on his own time. I worry about him, and he doesn't care. He comes home when he is good and ready.

One is overweight. He insists he is stocky. It could be the nightly bowls of chocolate ice cream that contribute to his "stockiness". The other is trim, somewhat on the skinny side. He could stand to gain a few pounds.

One shares my bed. The other shares nothing.

I can't make a choice between the two of them. They both have their faults and their honorable qualities.They both pee in the shower. I considered them both to be very attractive. I even think the "stocky" one's waddle is cute. I love them equally. I worry about them equally. I call them "the boys". Their names are Paco and Flip. They are my best friends. They have to be. I am their pet, at least, that is what they think.

I never thought I would become a "dog person", and now look at me. I am a TWO DOG person. The three of us take walks together, we travel together, we watch T.V. together. We sit home alone together. Wherever we go, whatever we do, we're going to do it, together.

Paco's Perspective

Who you calling overweight? Let me repeat myself . . . STOCKY! And to everyone else, I AM the nice one.

The Flip Side

Are you sure you only have two dogs? What about that dog you call Reflection? I hope he doesn't live with us permanently because I don't like him. And what's this comment about not sharing?Align Center