Biscuit Friday: Art Imitates Bad Dog

I think Biscuit approves of the new portrait. It’s a print I’ve had my eye on
here at Ballard Designs. When I got a coupon the other day, I thought I’d go for it. It tickles me as much as I thought it would — it really does look like the VBD.

and the dog, he’s nuts too

We were moving some stuff around in the family room and vacuuming tonight. This ottoman is out of its usual place and blocking Biscuit’s path into the kitchen. He first bumped into it (remember, he’s blind), then decided it was a spiffy new resting spot put there for him. He’s been like this, back feet on the floor, front half chillin’ on the ottoman, for nearly an hour now.

Indicentally, this is the same dog who, when he was let out into the backyard to pee late last night, returned to the house with a whole loaf of French bread. I have no idea.

Belly Flop

There’s a little “pub” near here where we go quite often for dinner. Nothing fancy, usually a salad and soup on those nights when I work a little late and we’d rather sit and talk than hurry up and cook something. You enter this pub through the bar, then make a quick turn through another door into the restaurant part.

One night last week, as we were leaving the restaurant, stepping into the bar, I felt a chilly sensation across my front middle. To be more specific, I felt a brisk breeze across the approximately 1.5″ swath of belly skin (fat) that was inadvertently exposed. See, the good news was that I have lost the tiniest bit of weight, so that the jeans were slipping down. And the bad news was that my shirt was too damned short and my gut was busting out.

Something about the breeze on my belly, and the shock of my exposure, and the wondering how many fools at the bar had noticed, tickled my funny bone and I started to laugh. Without pulling down my shirt. Which sounds odd under the circumstances, but there was a method to my madness. Jif and LG were slightly ahead of me walking out. I wanted them to see that this hysterical thing was happening, but I didn’t want to shout ahead, “Hey! Look at my belly!” (Because that would be gauche, and as you’ll see, I am anything but gauche.) So I thought, if I’m laughing (as I was) and lagging behind (as I was), when they turn around to see where I am and what’s so funny, and they see my belly hanging out, they’ll find it just as funny as I do.

So, soon they turned and saw and heard me laughing. And they grinned a little, but that really was not what the occasion called for, so I had to raise the stakes. I bent backwards and stuck my belly out, and pulled my shirt up more, and went after them! Then they started laughing like they were supposed to.

I chased them down the sidewalk and out into the parking lot, as they laughed and yelled things about how terrifying the situation was…

::tangent::Here, there was a drama within the drama. Since LG was little, our rule, in fact her very first rule, was WE HOLD HANDS IN A PARKING LOT. Now, this started when she was barely toddling, and as she got older, of course we relaxed the rule. But for some reason, it’s been revived. Just to torment her, we remind her of THE RULE. And we chase her down in parking lots and grab her hands while she screams and laughs hysterically and tries to escape from us, and we go on about “YOU KNOW THE RULE!” and people stare at us like we’re idiots or like we’re abducting her. So, yea, not only are Jif and I chasing LG down to enforce THE RULE, but my big fat belly is shining to light the way.::end of tangent::

… and I laughed so hard it’s a wonder I wasn’t peeing (because I’m not QUITE bizarre enough yet, this fat almost-50-year-old woman wielding her belly like a weapon in the parking lot of a strip mall), until I finally corner them at the car.

And they lock me out. So, I do the only thing I can do in that situation. I pull my shirt up even more and stand on tippy-toes to press my belly up against the passenger side window.

We are all laughing like hyenas when Jif finally lets me in. Sitting there in the parking lot before we pull out, in the sighing afterglow of the hilarity, I can’t help but think, “Oh. my. GOD, I hope none of my clients were here tonight.”

Why buy steal the cow when you can get the milk…?

I took a phone call at work this week that flitted from one unbelievable utterance to another. The mother was calling to arrange counseling for her family, and I took the application over the phone. After getting the basic demographic info, I invited Mom to tell me her story. Stories. This is just one.

It seems that young Damocles, 16, had stolen a check, a gift given to his older sister upon her high school graduation. Although he denied the theft, the family had suspected him all summer. And now they had proof.

The uncle who had given sis the check, called Mom to say that his bank account was being charged monthly for membership in an online pornographic site, and did she know anything about this?!

Yes, Damocles had stolen this sister’s check, with his uncle’s banking information, and had used that information to become a bona fide member of a porn site.

As the mother told this woeful tale, I was ready to empathize with all the “issues” raised — the family betrayal, the deception, the lure of internet porn, the loss of innocence, the humiliation when her brother discovered what her son had done . . . on and on.

I gently asked the now agitated Mom, “What did you say to Damocles when you found out what he’d done?”

Her reply was quick and firm. “I said, ‘You idiot! Don’t you know you can get porn online for FREE!!!?’”

The Family that Denigrates Together

One of the exercises I sometimes have couples do in counseling is to create a “relationship vision” for themselves. Their instructions are for each of them to make a list, independently of one another, of statements that they would like to be true of their relationship, whether or not those statements are at all true today.

These statements are to be stated in the present tense, cover every area of their relationship they can think of, and most importantly, they are to be stated in positive terms, i.e., the statements are about what the couple does, not what they don’t do.

Some things that might appear on such a list would be:
“We agree on how to spend and save our money.”

“We treat our in-laws with respect, while maintaining our family’s boundaries.”

Sometimes something that really belongs on the list will have to be tweaked a little bit, to make it fit the “positive” criteria. For example, “We don’t scream at each other,” may be changed to “We resolve our disagreements respectfully and creatively,” or “We can disagree without harming our relationship or one another’s feelings.”

Last night I heard a new one. On one of my clients’ lists was, “We do not mock each other.” Between the husband and wife, they had maybe 30 items. We compared, combined, discussed, until they had merged their lists into a relationship vision on which they could both agree.

When they left the session, the couple’s merged list included, “We only mock other people.”

My 9-11 Post

It’s still the same. It’s here. Have a safe and thankful day.

Bitch, don’t make me cut you in church

(How’s that for a Sunday Post?)

Due to WTF-medicine-related nausea, I did not attend services today. But Jif and LG did, as they often do without me.

First thing LG tells me when she gets home is that “Miss Ginger doesn’t like my new haircut.”

“What? How would you know that?”

“She told me. She said, ‘Did you get a haircut? I don’t really care for it. I liked it better before. But if you like it…I guess that’s what’s important.’” Thank the good Lord, my daughter has a sense of humor, and was telling this whole story in the context of laughing at the wacky and clueless Miss Ginger.

I ask LG what occasioned this unsolicited commentary, and she tells me that Miss Ginger told her this during the “passing of the peace”, when we are supposed to be sharing loving, encouraging greetings with one another.

On what shamar-moore planet is that a proper thing for a 50-something woman to say to a 13-year-old? ‘Bout to lose my religion…

Sunday Post

“Relationship is primary…It is possible to cause seemingly biochemical changes through human emotional involvement. You literally have changed his chemistry by being his friend.” — a psychiatrist quoted in “The Soloist,” by Steve Lopez

Psalm 51:10
Ecclesiastes 4:10-12

I have been thinking a lot about relationships, these past few months. Well, maybe all my life, but especially in the past few months. The things I miss about my relationship with my mother. The things we never got right. My relationship with my husband, and the things we have yet to get right. My relationship with my 13-year-old daughter, and how almost desperate I feel at times, to get that right. With adults, there are more chances for do-overs. Kids are forgiving and resilient, but with kids, those moments in time can really stick. They remember a look, a tone, a few words spoken in frustration.

The more I learn about brain development, the more seriously I take this business of relationship. Of human interaction, and of being conscious of creating an atmosphere that nurtures growth and development. There was a time when my home and even my presence (I’ve been told) supported such an atmosphere. That’s not true, now. I say this NOT to have you kind, generous folks jump up and say, “Oh, yes, you do!” I don’t need that. And I live in my house and in my head, so I know better. Illness and relationships and life circumstances have taken a toll. I am in the process of trying to climb back to that place, to that piece of my identity. And I will. Because I choose to, and because God will help.

I am thankful for the words and the actions of those who continue to help change my chemistry in the right direction.

Biscuit Friday: Be Careful What You Wish For Redux

OK, let’s see if I remember how to do this. It actually took me a few tries to get to this “new post” page. Quite rusty, I am.

I suppose the biggest news that’s happened in our lives since my Mom’s death is that Biscuit, the VBD, has lost his sight. I couldn’t help but think of this post, from a couple of years ago, when I’d so admired the neighbor’s blind dog. Well, got me one now.

He bumped into the furniture a couple of times on a Thursday, and by that Sunday he could see nothing at all. It is related to the diabetes that was diagnosed as my mother was dying. Biscuit almost died at the same time. Such a time.

When I am not busy rising above circumstances, I blame myself mightily for Biscuit’s condition. By the time his diabetes was diagnosed, it was quite severe. I can’t help but think that we missed signs. During my mother’s final weeks, I was entirely preoccupied. The truth is, I didn’t know dogs could get diabetes. And even if I had known that, I don’t know that I would have put the “signs” together and guessed correctly.

But in hindsight, when the doctor asked us questions, there were signs. Had he been really thirsty? There were those few days in late April when we remarked on how much he was drinking. I thought that was good; water is good for us. Good for you, bad guy, for drinking lots of water. Then there was that time when he peed on our bed in the morning when he woke up. That was just bizarre. And we commented, gosh how bizarre. But we didn’t think, “We must get him to the doctor!” We just didn’t think that.

If we’d recognized the signs, we may have gotten him started on treatment in time to delay or even prevent, the blindness. Or maybe not. The vet says there is no way of knowing this. And he says that if they had gotten Biscuit’s insulin regulated correctly when he was first diagnosed, his sight may have been saved. But it’s a difficult thing to do. Lots of money and many attempts later, they still don’t have the right dosage. I have to schedule another day for him to spend there, getting tested periodically throughout the day. A glucose curve test, they call it.

It hurts my heart, and I do feel guilt, when I see him run into things; and especially when he’s wagging his little stump tail, thinking he’s looking at me, when he’s not quite.

The bright sides: He’s not depressed. They say some dogs get that way. He’s a trouper. He can still play fetch — his very favorite thing in life, after stealing food. LG found a ball that makes a sound, even after it lands and rolls, and he will fetch it for hours. He can “map” our house or another, with amazing speed and accuracy. He still has the occasional collision with the errant object, but for the most part, he gets around well.

We took him on vacation with us, to Lake George, last week. Our pastor and her family invited us to stay with them at the old house where they’ve vacationed for many years. He pretty much took charge of the place. I cannot express how thankful I was (am) that she and her family welcomed him and then thoroughly enjoyed him. He was massaged and patted and played with more there than he ever is at home. He was one happy camper. Or vacationer.

And as for the rest of the vacation, it was … splendid. I sat on the porch a lot. And then I sat on that other porch, some. I watched spiders, for a long time. And I noticed all the different greens in a single fern. I did these things, and I sipped coffee and read, and put ointment in my dog’s eyes and other medicine in his ears, all from a rocker on the porch. And these are precisely the activities that my soul had needed, but didn’t know to ask for.

(btw, I understand the Today Show is live from Lake George this coming Monday. Watch and you’ll see how it would be good for what ails ya.)

In memory of my Mom, who is now healthy and happy

Working on this tonight, to be shared at my Mom’s funeral this weekend

Some of my earliest memories of Mom are her washing dishes at the sink at our house in Delaware. She would wash dishes and sing. I heard my mother sing songs that I didn’t hear anywhere else. If a radio was on in our house, my father had it tuned to Orioles baseball. The music came from Mom. Years later I heard someone named Loretta Lynn and some dead guy named Hank Williams, singing Mom’s songs. They had more talent, I suppose, but they had no more heart, soul or passion than my Mom. I learned to love music from my Mom’s singing at the kitchen sink.

I learned to love books and reading from my Mom. She read to me. And she taught me how important books are. She said that if she had not married and had babies so young, if she had made different choices, she would have wanted to be a librarian. She would have wanted to be surrounded by stacks and stacks of books, instead of stacks of dishes and laundry.

I learned to laugh at myself from my Mom. As a psychotherapist now, I have to say, the value of that ability cannot be overstated. The difference between survival and defeat is often the ability to laugh at oneself.

You couldn’t be around my mother for very long without two things happening. She would feed you something, whether you wanted it or not, and she would mention the Lord. If you were having some sort of trouble, she would advise you to pray.

My mother was not as well-educated as she would like to have been, but she said a lot of very wise things that her children will always remember. She taught us, “You treat the janitor and the governor just the same, with respect.” Tony reminded me that she said, “Don’t ever take from a person anything that you can’t give back.” She was talking about someone’s reputation. She told us we were no better than anyone else, and we were no worse. She told us not to bring out candy unless we had enough to go around. She taught us the things that all good mothers teach their children: you’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar; if you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything. She taught me that mothers will cheerfully sacrifice in order for their children to have the best. In the 60s, when schools were integrating, she taught me to get along with people who looked different from me; we used the term “colored people” then; I remember her telling me, about a little black girl that I mentioned to her, “Don’t treat her the same as everyone else; you treat her better; maybe you can help make up for the ones who are mean to her today.” As a human being, she taught me tolerance. As her daughter, she taught me to love pretty clothes and too many shoes. She taught me not to buy shoes without buying a bag to match; you’ll regret it. And no matter how bad life looks, or how bad you feel, get your bath and fix your face and smile. I teased her that her motto was “It doesn’t matter how you feel as long as you look good.” And she surely did look good. When I was a little girl, I thought my mother was as pretty as any movie star. My father thought so, too. On my wedding day he told me, with no unkindness intended, that I was pretty, but not as pretty as Nell.

I learned how to love from my mother, and I hope to some day be as good at it as she was. Not likely, though. I believe she’s been awarded her gold medals by now. If my mother loved you, like she loved her husband, children, grandchildren, and others, then you were loved beyond all reason and good sense. I can’t help but think that’s very much how Jesus loved; like Mom.

My mother was the Queen of the Second Chance. No matter what her husband, children, nieces, nephews, in-laws, out-laws did, she never wrote them off. You always got another chance. No matter what kind of fuss you had with her, you could come back the next day and get something to eat, a place to sleep. Her door and her heart stayed open all the time. We could learn a lot from her example of forgiveness.

My mother wasn’t perfect, of course. She and I got on each other’s nerves the way only mothers and daughters can. I will also say that she loved her daughters-in-law the way she loved me, which includes getting on their last nerve sometimes. That’s OK. One thing that I think has always spoken well of Mom is that even her sons’ former wives love her and continued to ask about and keep in touch with her.

Sometimes Mom didn’t know when to quit. That’s a trait most of us have inherited from her – talking, working – you name it, we’ve probably done a little or a lot too much of something. I heard about a time Mom traveled North with two of her nieces, whom she loved very much, and she talked so much they stopped and bought her a book so she’d be quiet for a while. She didn’t get the hint. She stopped chatting and started reading out loud to them!

And Mom never quite caught on to the concept of political correctness. For example, if she saw someone whose nationality or ethnic background she wondered about, she would not think twice about asking them about it. She would say, sweet as could be, “Now, honey, just what ARE you?” I would cringe, but the person would give her their answer, also sweet as could be. I guess people could tell that as politically incorrect as she was, her spirit was never malicious.

Thank you for being here to honor my mother. I hope she is pleased with the things we’ve all had to say about her as we’ve remembered her here today. If we remember to talk to Jesus regularly, and be sweet to each other, and aren’t afraid to laugh, then we will keep her memory alive. And ladies, if we always have a bag to match our shoes.