Four Chairs and a Chat

I've been experiencing too much of the bad stress lately. You know how there's good and bad stress? Good stress is things like studying for the bar exam and wondering how you'll spend the six-figure income you'd be earning if you pass. Bad stress is the kind you get when your dog tries to retrieve her frisbee from your neighbors' roof using a ladder she stole from their garage and then falls through the roof.  

My backyard, with one chair for me, one for my relaxed self,
one for my stressed self - and one for my dog.
Image: Teece Aronin.

And yes, I know I said dog and not something more believable like kid, but if you know my dog, you know it's more believable that she'd do something like that before my kids would. 

Yesterday I took someone's advice, got up early and sat in the backyard with my morning coffee. I decided that I would strive for an enhanced sense of mindfulness. 

I have four retro-style metal chairs in the backyard and a little metal table. I had wanted chairs like those for years because they remind me of my childhood, but I've barely sat in them twice. Why? Because I've been too busy with the things that stress me out. 

So yesterday I made a cup of coffee, snatched a peach from the fruit bowl and walked with my dog into the back yard. I put the coffee and the peach on the table and sat, eyeing them warily as if they might explode. 

I had planned to leave my phone in the house, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I might get an idea for a column and want to make some notes, I told myself. That was partly true, but the other part was that I couldn't imagine myself just sitting in my chair with nothing to focus on but coffee and a peach - but I had underestimated their power. 

I inhaled the coffee. The aroma and the steam made their way to my nose and immediately helped me unwind. Then I took a sip of the coffee. It was delicious. And when I bit into the peach all I could think of was the Shel Silverstein poem about the farmer who grew a gold and bejeweled garden, but dreamed of "one real peach."

Sitting back in the chair, I wasn't fully relaxed, but felt better than expected. I'd say I was about half relaxed and half stressed-out. I started hearing things. 

"What are those sounds?" my stressed self asked. 

"Those are birds," explained my relaxed self.

"But the sounds they make . . . " said stressed self, a little afraid.

"That's called birdsong," explained relaxed self. "It's okay; it's just the birds calling to each other. It can't hurt you."

"And what is that feeling on my face?" asked stressed self.

"That's the breeze," replied relaxed self. "You loved it as a kid. Remember?" 

"Oh, yes, vaguely," murmured stressed self. 

Then stressed self's eyes darted toward the family dog leaping and playing near the garden.  

"Oh, no - that thing," cried stressed self, pointing. "Look how close it is to the tomatoes!"

"She's a good 20 feet from the tomatoes," cooed relaxed self. "And she's enjoying herself. Here, let's call her over."

The dog came running at the sound of her name.

"Aw, Hope," sighed relaxed self, "I love you so much. Go on," relaxed self said to stressed self, "pet her. See? Just like I am."

So, stressed self petted the dog, and felt calmer. 

By the time I came back in the house, I was a new woman, and an optimistic, energetic tone was set for the rest of the day. I spent good, solid time with my kids, time during which I wasn't distracted by the things that stress me, and later in the day I made a pizza with peppers and herbs I picked from pots on my own front porch. I even baked chocolate chip cookies. They were store-bought and came from a freezer case, but they tasted just as good and looked just as homey on the plate. Just as important, they pleased the kids as much as any mess I might have mixed up in a bowl.

I tried the backyard thing again today and loved it all over again. 

I wonder what tomorrow will bring, the first time I try it on a workday.  And I wonder how I'll compensate once winter comes. 

Maybe I can bring the table and chairs inside and set them next to a picture of themselves from this summer. 

Or maybe not. 

If Silas Could Talk

If Silas could talk, he would speak of our dog and say, "I love her so much! Let's jump her!"

Silas "in repose." The only time his

feet are still is when he's asleep. 

If Silas could talk, he would complain that there aren't enough toys around here. 

If Silas could talk, he would exultantly proclaim that the reason he climbed Mt. Mommy was because she was there - in the kitchen.

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that wrapping his arms around the cat's neck and kicking her with his hind legs - while she's sleeping - is his way of keeping her mentally fit like Cato did for Clouseau. 

If Silas could talk, he would justify chewing up that $100 pair of earbuds by complaining that there aren't enough toys around here. 

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the reason he claws the new leather club chair is because the other new leather club chair already has the other cat's claw marks on it.

If Silas could talk, he would complain that he had to climb up the tablecloth because his cat tree isn't challenging enough and because he'd already conquered Mt. Mommy.  

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the kitchen counter is really the only place where his butt feels nice and cool. 

Silas, seen here shimmying up my body like a pole-

climber. 

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the reason he tore the protective covering out from under the rocking chair, crawled up inside, and forced you to get out of the chair, upend the chair, and then ram your arm in up to the shoulder to haul him out like a freshly birthed calf - five different times - was because he wanted to be closer to you and that was the only way because you always hog the rocking chair. 

Silas asking, "What is this thing? No, really - 

what is this thing?"

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the reason he chomped holes in all the plants was because he was bored, and there aren't enough toys around here. 

If Silas could talk, he would say that the reason he tears through the house like his tail is on fire, wreaking havoc and blazing a path of destruction, is because he's a kitten, and that's just how it is with kittens.

If I could talk to Silas in a way he'd understand, I'd tell him all is forgiven, that he'd have plenty of toys if he'd stop rolling them down the basement stairs, and that he'll feel much better once he's neutered.

And then I'd tell him I'll feel better then, too - because that's just how it is with humans. 

You Have Successfully Unsubscribed

At times I can be an anxious little kiddo. And often it's life's little stressors that make me vibrate the hardest. Take my email, for instance. No, really, take my email. Please. 

Par Avion; available in the

phylliswalter Flourish Collection. 

redbubble.com/people/phylliswalter

Like millions of others I have a Gmail account. You might use Gmail or Yahoo or Zoho or Lycos or any of the other email service providers whose names sound like Western apparel manufacturers or movie villains; that part isn't important. What's important is that email as a sales tool has run amok and is drowning boatloads of innocent consumers in waves of happy-crappy overload.  

I was getting dozens of emails a day and deleting them was like digging in the sand with a toothpick: the few I managed to get rid of in any one sitting were replaced by dozens more by the end of the day. Suddenly I realized how much stress it was causing. There was something so out-of-control about it. Remember the old adage: Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door? It was like that, but all catty-wompas. They had the mousetraps and I was a mouse - a mouse with a door - and a wallet.  

Of course we all know I was the core of my own problem. I was the one who'd said yes to enough cashiers, or foolishly assumed I could shop online without lingering consequences and messy entanglements. 

I was the one who didn't end the relationship after the first layaway.  

Then, what had been so out-of-control was perfectly under control when it occurred to me to simply snake my way through all the happy-crappy content, all the fine print and all the links and then click on the most powerful word in the entire email: Unsubscribe. 

Even now, looking at that word on my computer monitor gives me chills and I swear I hear a chorus of angels in the distance. 

Why this simple fix didn't occur to me long ago, I have no clue, but once it did, the shackles of my oppressors began snapping like twigs, and I was free in no time.  

Well, not quite.

While I was told I had successfully unsubscribed, in some cases I was also told it could take up to 10 days before that particular company's emails would stop. And some people tell me the emails might just come back - with a vengeance. 

And often I was asked if I had made a mistake. Did I really want to part company with the vehicles to so much material happiness or health and wellness wisdom or improved mental acuity? Yes, I'd say. Yes, I really did. 

Last spring I did a lot of online shopping because I'd just moved from an apartment into a house and I needed a lot of things. And while the things I bought for the house have brought me a lot of pleasure, they haven't changed my life. And reading about sales on dozens of items just like them is no life-changer either. I still have to pay for my kids' braces, I still have to get my tires rotated and I still have a gassy dog who scares herself when she poofs. And I would still have those things to deal with even if I bought more stuff. 

Unsubscribing to all that email felt so good. Whether or not my unsubscribing will stick, we'll have to see. 

But for now, it's been like shooting fish in a barrel - very crafty and very aggressive fish in a barrel.   

As I Lay Ploozing

A friend of mine once suggested that his elderly, demanding father was refusing to die just so he could be a burden to his kids. 

Image: Teece Aronin

"My father," he said, "may never die. He isn't going gently into that good night, nor is he raging. He simply ignores Death."

That was more than 10 years ago, so my guess is that Death has gotten that man's attention by now.

I used to fear that there is no afterlife, dooming me to sputter out like a candle. Now, I see things differently, and my reasoning is this:

1. Either I go to Heaven, or I don't. Either way, I'm probably fine because I think I've lived the kind of life likely to get me in. But if Heaven doesn't exist, I won't know the difference - unless, by some oversight in the recordkeeping, I go to the other place. 

If Heaven doesn't exist, I doubt Hell does, or Purgatory, for that matter. Then again, I suppose there could be an afterlife that's not Heaven or Hell or Purgatory. If it's not Hell or Purgatory, that would be great, but if it's not Heaven, that could be bad, especially since we're talking about an eternity of something other than Heaven. If by some chance, there's an afterlife that isn't eternal, I might have to die all over again, which seems totally unfair. Then where will I be?

Wait - these are supposed to be reasons I'm not worried, so let me back up. 

2. If there is no afterlife, as I said before, I won't know that. My awareness will be the same as before I was conceived: zilch. Before I came to be on Earth, I wasn't trailing God all over Heaven, nagging Him like a toddler to hurry up and give me life on Earth. My fear of death was predicated on the notion that I would be miserable after death, but that would require an awareness of my lack of life, which means that I would have to be conscious and existing in an afterlife. Then again, I could be in Purgatory or Hell. Ugh. 

3. I'll get to play the harp, and when presented with the prospect of acquiring a new skill, such as harp-playing, I refuse to sweat little details like how I will suddenly know how to play a harp.

4. After I die, I get access to the vault where they store the answers to Earth's unsolved mysteries, such as why John Lennon ever thought Yoko Ono could sing. 

One thing that still bothers me, though, is that many of the words we use to describe the state or process of no longer living all sound so death-y.

Rather than die, I'd prefer to plooze, and I think we should replace the word death with plooze and dying with ploozing. 

Let's test plooze out by using it in a sentence, shall we? "Did you hear about Frank? He ploozed last year after a fall."

Doesn't that sound better, like Frank slipped and took an unexpected trip down a slide at a waterpark?

I was joking, but now I'm being serious:

If we believe in God, and statistics say more than half of Americans do, it becomes much easier to take another leap and believe in life after death. And then there's this: 

About a month after my mother died, I was lying on my bed, eyes closed. My mind was drifting, but I was fully awake, and I wasn't consciously thinking about her. Suddenly, I heard her voice, blossoming with delight, the state of being where she spent much of her Earthly life. 

"It is so wonderful!" she said.

Having Hope

I have a dog named Hope, and ever since the day we first laid eyes on each other, life has never been the same. 

Hope keeping watch while Silas sleeps.
Photo: Sydney Aronin

We met Hope (we being my kids, Syd and Jon and I) when we visited a local shelter hoping to adopt a dog. We came upon a large cage in which sat one scrawny, black and white mutt. As soon as she saw us, she snapped to attention as if she knew winning the game meant making a good impression. She concentrated so hard on sitting still that she vibrated. Her tail rapidly mopped the floor in a sweeping arc, and she peered straight into our faces. The tag on her cage read "Maybelline."

I'm not sure why, but Maybelline seems to be the default name for all goofy-looking female dogs up for adoption. 

"Guys," I said, "This dog has hope written all over her."

Isn't there an ancient admonition about becoming responsible for beings you have named? If there isn't, there should be, because now I'm responsible for Hope. It's not only that I inadvertently named her, but then I paid her adoption fees, paid for her shots, paid for her license, paid for her allergy tests, and paid for her skin infections. I just generally paid, and paid, and paid, and paid, and paid.  

Complications related to Hope started on the ride home from the shelter. Thrilled to be going anywhere with anyone, she planted herself in the backseat between the kids, a soon-to-be-thorn-in-my-side nestled between two roses. Jon was cheerfully reading her paperwork.

"Hmm . . . This is interesting. It says here, 'Maybelline is partially housebroken.'" 

I nearly pulled a U-turn in the middle of I-96.

"What??? She's an adult dog! How can she be only partially housebroken?"

I was already more than $150 in the hole with this dog. This news was like finding out that I'd just paid people for the privilege of inviting a stranger into my home, and now that stranger was going to urinate all over my carpet. Hope had lots of "accidents" before getting the kids and me trained.

The next thing we realized was that she'd probably been abused. When we'd reach out to pet her, she'd squeeze her eyes shut, hunker down, and brace for a blow. Eventually she learned to trust us but would get into scrapes with other dogs, so we had to be careful when walking her and never will take her to a dog park. 

I've written about Hope here before. You might have already read about the day we moved into our new house. Feeling territorial and stressed, Hope shot out the front door like a fur-clad cannon ball and chomped down on an ancient basset hound belonging to our new neighbor. Hope is a lean and muscular dog with legs like an Olympic marathon-runner. Picture Eeyore plodding along, pausing to sniff a daisy only to have Goofy, all hopped up on adrenaline, screech up out of nowhere and jump him. That's what it was like, but luckily Selma recovered, I paid the vet bills, and my daughter took get well treats over to our neighbor who graciously forgave us.  

Hope is otherwise quite social and likes to share. She likes to share my bed, my rocking chair, my love seat - but only when I'm trying to nap on it - and my personal space in the car. There has to be an important reason for me to drive Hope anywhere. Otherwise I avoid putting that dog in the car just as I would avoid putting myself into a tubful of dirt and drool, because that's more or less the equivalent.  

The other night, I climbed into bed and shut off the light. Hope jumped in with me. Just as I pulled up the covers, she found the top of the blankets and systematically muzzled them to the foot of the bed - like a snow-plow driver. I'd pull the blankets back up, and Hope would push them back down. This went on until it dawned on me that she was trying to burrow beneath them, so I held the blankets up. Hope walked under, collapsed dramatically as if all that plowing had exhausted her, then sneezed against my bare leg like a snorting elephant. 

Sometimes Hope does things that can only be described as inexplicable. One night when Jon was about 13, his friend Miles was staying over, and both boys fell asleep on the living room floor. Hope hopped off the couch, crossed to where Miles lay, and shoved her cold, wet nose into his ear to wake him up. Then she stepped on Miles on her way to where Jon lay and did the same thing to him. After she'd woken both boys, she stepped on Miles again on her way back to the couch and laid back down.  

Hope is also protective of the kids and me. Once when my old boyfriend, Pete was playfully smacking Syd with a pool noodle, Hope barked out a few warnings, then bit down on the seat of Pete's jeans and pulled. She did the same thing when one of the neighbor kids was rough-housing with Jon. 

Another time, when a date came to pick me up for lunch and Hope didn't know him, she repeatedly positioned herself between him and me and glared at him. This man, a self-described "dog guy," explained to me that Hope was "on alert." 

"Right now I wouldn't consider even kissing you hello," he said. 

Another of Hope's quirks is her jealousy of any dog that might be considered in any way superior to her - which some say is any dog ever, including Cujo. For Christmas a couple of years ago, I bought Syd a biography of Rin Tin Tin and Hope chewed it up before Syd got past Chapter One. 

But then something will happen, and like those times when she tries to protect us, Hope shines. A couple of weeks ago, we brought home a kitten, a tiny orange tabby we call Silas. We read up on the popular wisdom for introducing kittens and dogs, and when we finally let them meet, Hope "motherized" him, herding and licking Silas, lying nearby as he slept, and patiently allowing him to maul her muzzle and climb all over her. 

When our other cat, Kitt was perched on the sofa arm, Silas whacked her with his paw. Kitt tapped him on the head as a gentle reprimand, and Hope sent her flying with both front paws to the chest. Then she rushed back to check on Silas. 

So now, not only am I responsible for Hope because I named her, I'm responsible for her because I love her. I love her for being such a well-meaning mama, not only to Silas but to my kids and sometimes even to me. 

But thank God Syd's the one who named Silas; I don't need more responsibility. 

White Caps on Lake Mousey

I started graying in my early thirties, and instead of just accepting it as one of nature's quirks, I made a beeline for the beauty aisle at my local grocery store and bought my first box of hair color.

Image by Teece Aronin. 

We're allowed our own choices about these kinds of things, but to anyone out there still dying (their hair), I will say that I shudder to think how many charitable donations could have been made, how many cruises could have been taken and how many co-pays could have been paid with the money I spent on all that dye. 

And forget having it dyed professionally. I never paid someone to do that for me. I much preferred to spend less, do it myself, and then replace the shower curtain, the shower curtain liner, and the grout between the bathroom tiles after splattering up the bathroom.

And there are all kinds of valid ways to look at things like this. Our appearance is a crucial part of how we feel about ourselves, and like plastic surgery, diet, and clothing, there aren't many wrong choices assuming we have our mental balance when we make those decisions.

However, my mental and even my physical balance are a little toddleresque at times, and I kept dying my hair into my fifties because I cared too much about what others saw when they looked at my aging head. That seems silly to me now.

I have a friend about my age whose salt and pepper pageboy frames her face perfectly, and I can't imagine her looking quite herself any other way. She told me, "Yeah, I started graying in my thirties too, and I just went with it!" When she said, "went with it," the page boy took a little swing around as she merrily tossed her head. She might as well have said, "Yeah, I saw the yawning abyss of advancing age open right in front of me, and I just zip-lined right over it!"

I tried the zip-line thing, too, by dying my hair. In my case, the cord snapped, and I landed on my fanny in the treacherous part of the abyss, the part my friend zipped right over, a part where some women stay and dye until they die. Men too!

Yes, lots of men dye their hair - and their beards - and their mustaches - and since women typically don't do comb-overs, I think that gives women a leg up in the self-image/self-acceptance department - in the health and beauty aisle anyway. Actually, that's probably not true. 

Anyway, now that I've decided to let my hair gray, I'm finding that's not so simple either. If I'd been a blonde, it would have been easier since the gray roots wouldn't have been as noticeable. But I'd been a brunette with redhead tendencies from the get-go, so when I tried to dye my hair blonde so the gray could ease in, it turned out the color of an anemic carrot, and the gray roots glowed ominously. 

Lately, what's been working - kind of - is having my hair cut very short so that as the gray hair at the top grows in and the brown at the bottom gets snipped off, I'm looking more all of a color.

I saw my brother recently after several months apart, and he joked about my "little white cap." Seeing the expression on my face, he then spent the next ten minutes reassuring me that no, it really did just look like highlights.  

Highlights or not, it was time for me to stop clinging to something that's not only unnatural and expensive, but not that attractive on me anymore.

And it was time for me to stop fearing the "abyss," because most of it's not an abyss at all. It's a little like the Grand Canyon: natural, mysterious, beautiful - a little scary - and begging to be explored.

Red, White, and Water

There was a time when I worked as a recruiter. You might be more familiar with the term "headhunter," people whose job it is to track down and court talent at one company, then get that talent to join your client, the competition.

Red, White and Water by Teece Aronin. 

Available on products at Redbubble.com. 

Just go to the phylliswalter store: 

http://www.redbubble.com/people/phylliswalter 

and click on the Flourish Collection. 

Most headhunters specialize in specific fields. My first headhunter job was recruiting engineers and technical sales reps. I wish I had a dollar for every time I said these words: "The position offers a 30 - 35K base with an 80 - 100K top end."

Translation: "The position offers a $30 - $35,000 base salary with potential annual earnings in the range of $80 - $100,000 dollars after commissions." 

The only thing I liked about the job was slinging those numbers around followed by a K; there was a certain kool kwotient in that. 

My second recruiting job was recruiting actuaries. I've written about that job before in a post titled Dial D for Dick.

In that post I confessed the hatred of that job that bloomed in my heart from Day One. It wasn't the actuaries themselves, it was the sneaking around on the phone to find the person I was looking to recruit, along with the sense of stealing and trickery I perceived to be going along with it.

That was when I started thinking about priorities and choices and what really mattered. I knew nothing about life coaching or career coaching or all the other means open to help me chart another course. But I was beginning to sense there was a better fit for me somewhere.

Blessedly, I had several gal-pals at that job, my two closest being Marti and Sharon. One day, Marti and I were at Sharon's place, sipping drinks with her by the pool. As it turned out, Sharon also had a hot tub and soon she and Marti and I were in it, sipping Chardonnay and gabbing like little girls.

We were laughing hard about something when Sharon's fanny slipped off the fiberglass seat and she was going under faster than Lehman Brothers. The lower she sank, the higher she held her wineglass in an attempt to keep it from going with her.

Marti and I sobered up immediately and lunged forward snatching the glass seconds before it would have gone down and seconds after Sharon had gone down.

Immediately, Marti and I realized what we'd done, set the wineglass down - carefully - then hauled Sharon back up. We apologized while Sharon sputtered water. 

Then Sharon said: "You did the right thing."

And that was the day it occurred to me, as I poured myself more wine, that deciding what's most important in life can be downright intoxicating. I'm still deciding all these years later, right now with a nice glass of red. But sometimes it's a white, and sometimes it's cold, perfect water, more refreshing than anything a grape could ever dream of being. 

Bottoms down, dear Sharon, wherever you are.

My Mother Dated Mickey Rooney?

The day after my mother's memorial service in June of 2016, I hosted a picnic and invited my family and a few extended folks. There were several reasons for the picnic: to honor my mother one more time, to celebrate my brother's birthday and to give the family an opportunity to go through some of the things my mother had kept in storage.

Image by Teece Aronin

There were photos and dishes and tissue-thin letters, a portrait of me in a little smocked dress and one of each brother taken at the same time as mine, both of them wearing blazers, dress shirts and ties. 

One of us sitting among the piles of pictures held up a framed photo of my father and asked, "Do you mind if I slip the photo out and see if there's anything behind it? You know how people used to do that - slip one picture in on top of another?"

She slid my father's picture out and lo and behold, reposing beneath was a publicity shot of a youngish Mickey Rooney. The room erupted in surprised laughter and those of us of a certain age recalled how, in the golden age of Hollywood, picture frames and wallets were sold holding pictures of popular film stars instead of the fake, paper flower versions of loved ones we see on store shelves today.

Silently I mused how wild it would be if the photo was stashed back there because my mother dated Mickey Rooney before she met my father. How close might I have come to being even shorter than I am? What if my mother, as faithful a mate as any swan, had married Mickey and through no fault of her own found herself Ex-Mrs. Rooney Number Umpty-ump?

What else didn't I know about my mother? Maybe she'd been a studio starlet and met Mickey that way. Maybe she was a cigarette girl at the Biltmore Bowl in Hollywood and caught his eye one night as he wined and dined Ava Gardner. 

I know my mother's past didn't really include Mickey Rooney or even a stint as a cigarette girl at the Biltmore Bowl. She was a kind-hearted, pretty Clarkston girl who met my father before her twenty-first birthday and they were married soon after. And besides, she was allergic to cigarette smoke.   

But for a few minutes, imagining my mother's secret life with Mickey Rooney, I almost forgot how much I miss her. 

Playing the Sympathy Card

There are still days when I can't believe she's gone, my mother who was so full of life - until, suddenly, she wasn't. And one of the harshest truths about grieving is that no matter how debilitated, laid to waste, and torn apart you feel, the world keeps spinning.

Image by Teece Aronin

When my mother died, it was like being dropped in cold, waist-deep water and having to get ready to run. Run and get paperwork to the lender so I'd close on my new house on time; run and grab my laptop so I could pay the credit card bill before it was late; run and get the permission slip in to my kid's choir teacher so my kid could go on the class trip. First World problems, I admit, but still slogging, wet and weighty burdens when you're grieving. 

When all this was too much for me to bear, I'd play my sympathy card and pray that it bought me a little time, a small break, a minute to catch my breath.

I was pulled over by a State Trooper about a week after my mother's death, and I couldn't help it - as soon as my window went down, words came blurting out of me about how I'd just lost my mother, how I must have been distracted, and how I could barely think of my own name right now, much less read a speed sign. Before I knew it, I was on my way with a gentle warning to slow down. 

Then there was a request for paperwork from one of the outlying parties associated with the escrow on the house I was buying. "Please, may I have a few days on this? My mother died about a week ago." I can't remember the woman's exact reply but the gist was: "I'm sorry for your loss, but we really need this done as soon as possible." We ended up closing on the house two weeks early so I'm thinking maybe she's never lost a mother or maybe she never had a mother in the first place.

When the agent handling my homeowner's insurance made a similar request, I played my sympathy card again. I could hardly navigate my way through the grocery store, let alone whatever his request was. Steve (Free-thinking) Freemire leaped into action. He expressed his condolences on the death of my mother, very sincere ones, it seemed to me, and spoke of his own similar loss. Then he told me not to worry about the paperwork and that he would take care of it. Not even, "You Can Have a Few Days," but "I Will Do it For You."

He was one of the few people who not only accepted my sympathy card but placed a little kiss on its cover before offering it back. Those are the people you remember, the ones who when you're going through hell actually do something to help. 

It's been three-and-a-half months since my mother "went away," leaving me the world's oldest orphan. I don't use my sympathy card anymore because my mind is almost as normal now as it ever was, which many would argue, wasn't close to normal ever. 

But to anyone who accepted my sympathy card when it was all I had to offer, especially Free-thinking Freemire, thank you. 









  

Sometimes It's Just Nice to Have Someone Do Your Work for You. Thank You, Help You Flunk Essay-writing Service!

Where is it written that everything should be written? Take this ad for the (let's call them) Help You Flunk Essay-writing Service. I found them when I was Googling around for something else. 

Dr. Bertha Baumgartner of 
Ainsworth, Iowa. Patience pays off.
Image by Teece Aronin. 

Please know that I am a gentle soul, even when it comes to other people's writing, and especially when said other people are writing in a second language. But when I saw this ad for an ESSAY WRITING SERVICE, I needed to be physically restrained. Please note that the italics are mine; everything else is all them. I also broke up some of their block paragraphs which were longer than anything you'll find in Manhattan:

Searching for websites that can write your essays? You are at the targeted place!

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Customized essays online now available in US 

We would like to commend the team’s diligence that has finally paid off and officially announce that Help You Flunk Essay-writing Service is now available in US. We are constantly improving and growing our work to deliver you in the most efficient manner. No matter what lifestyle you have you don’t need to worry and compromise anymore. Many of you are sportsman or hardcore fitness trainers, others like to prefer travelling or reading books therefore they can’t write essays up to their peers’ standards. We would want you to be who you are and continue with your preferred activities because we are here in US to provide you with the most customized essays online. Just sit and relax and enjoy your day while we customize your essays according to your needs. 

We have been expanding our work ever since we started off with the venture with other countries such as UAE, UK, Australia and even Canada (because anyone can read online ads almost anywhere in the world and Canadians are too polite to say no) as our business place. Most importantly our academic writers are proficient in almost all the disciplines which include Micro Economics, Customer Relation Management, Art History, and other subjects. So hurry up students, don’t miss out the chance and order now to get customized essays for our website. We are hardly a few clicks away.

Teece here again. Note the case of Bertha Baumgartner pictured above. Baumgartner finally graduated from University of Iowa, Carver College of Medicine and is now a practicing urologist. She'd been a client of Help You Flunk since 1943 when the service still typed its essays on Underwood typewriters. Said Baumgartner: "Hindsight is always 20-20. Maybe I should have switched to another service, but I never change horses in midstream." 

"This is Memorial Day weekend and I decided that I deserved to phone this one in. So I kicked back and let the Help You Flunk Essay-writing Service write today's blog post for me. 

And it's staying here until I receive a cease and desist letter from their lawyer, which would have to be better written than their ad. 

Moved to Tears

The kids and I had waited a long time for this day, the day we would finally move into a house of our own after five years of apartment-living. And everything was going so well until our dog, usually the lovable lunk type, shot out our new front door like something fired from a circus cannon to attack a neighbor's 11-year-old Basset hound.

Hope, waiting for
"her kids" to come home. 

Everyone had been distracted. Hope was corralled in the fenced-in back yard, but was staring through the window like we'd abandoned her on Pluto, so someone felt sorry for her and let her in. When the movers opened the front door, and Hope saw sweet little Selma trundling along across the street, it was all over but the sutures.

Giving Hope the benefit of the doubt, she was in a strange place with a lot of commotion, she likely felt a need to stake out her new territory and protect us, and she might have mistaken Selma for a housewarming present. 

Selma's owner, a tiny woman in her sixties, had been walking her dog and minding her own business when Hope skidded up, clamped down on Selma's elephantine ear and wouldn't let go. One of the movers sprinted over, grabbed Selma's leash, and tried to kick Hope off. My daughter Sydney screamed. I went running, grabbed Hope, then had it pointed out to me by the mover at the top of his lungs, that Selma's ear was still trapped between Hope's teeth; yanking on Hope wouldn't help Selma.

What felt like hours in slow-motion was probably about 30 seconds, and Hope somehow became detached. I hauled her up in my arms yelling, "Stupid dog! Stupid dog! Stupid dog!" all the way across the street, up the driveway and into the house until I could dump her in the bathroom and shut the door.

I ran back to where Selma's owner, understandably distraught, was standing with the mover who was also shaken up. 

"I'm so sorry!" I said. I was in tears for Selma who, unbelievably, nuzzled my hand, making me cry harder.

"I need to wash my hands," said Selma's owner. "I have blood on them."

"Of course," I said. "Come in the house with me. Do you live on this street?"

That, I admit, was a self-serving question. The only thing that could make everything worse was Selma's owner living two doors down with all that ammo with which to bash me to all the other neighbors before I'd had a chance to make my own bad impression.

"No," she said, and indicated another street up the road from mine.

Oh, thank God, I sighed inside my head.

I escorted Selma's owner into the house where she nervously glanced around like a guest of the Munsters. I took her to the kitchen sink and she rinsed her hands.

"I have to take Selma to the hospital now." Her eyes were huge and her voice flat with shock. 

"Would you like me to go with you?"

"No."

Now really, what had I thought she would say?

"May I ask your name?" I queried.

"Karen O'Brien," she answered as we went on to exchange phone numbers.

"Please know that whatever it costs, this is obviously my responsibility and I will pay for everything Selma needs." 

"Thank you. I'll be back later," Mrs. O'Brien said, and left.

When several hours passed with no word from Mrs. O'Brien, I took the kids out to eat but left a note on our door so she wouldn't think we'd blown her off. While we were out, Syd and I made a stop at a pet store to buy Selma some treats. When we got home, we saw that Mrs. O'Brien had left a note in place of ours. It read cryptically:
                             
                                Selma and I stopped by. Please call.
                               ~ Karen O'Brien 

I called Mrs. O'Brien immediately. She was calm, polite and direct while telling me that Selma had surgery and the bill was $753.85. My brain glazed over and this soothing image arose of Hope's head on a platter, garnished with chocolates and chicken bones, her mouth stuffed with one of her own kongs.

Syd felt she should go too, so we walked up to Mrs. O'Brien's neat as a pin little brick house and knocked on the door. It was a storm door and when we knocked, Selma waddled up, forgot about her cone, and bounced off the glass. 

Mrs. O'Brien gingerly sidestepped Selma and let us in. She wasn't exactly warm; tolerant is a better word, but who could blame her? She indicated two empty seats then sat down on her sofa. Sydney offered the treats to Mrs. O'Brien with the first of the visit's many apologies.

And then Mrs. O'Brien smiled. "Oh, wasn't that nice of you." She offered Selma the treats but the dog didn't show much interest. "Well, I'm sure Selma will love these once she's feeling better."

When Mrs. O'Brien offered me a copy of the bill, I saw that one of the items was an "Elizabethan collar." Why should I have to pay for a fancy new collar? I thought, feeling a little ticked off until I realized that the Elizabethan collar was that cone Selma would be stuck in 24/7 for at least a couple of weeks.

I handed Mrs. O'Brien a check then glanced around the room. Beside the fireplace was a small Kelly green leather wing-back chair with little steps leading to the seat. 

"I take it that's Selma's chair,” I said.

"Yes." Mrs. O'Brien smiled again, this time fondly in the direction of the chair. "I didn't buy it for Selma, but she claimed it as her own. As she got older, she couldn't get into it by herself so now she has a little help."

There was a back support pillow reading WOOF in a bentwood rocker opposite the wingback. Clearly Mrs. O'Brien, who was a widow, cherished this dog and just as clearly, she was a very nice person. Syd and I teared up again as the three of us discussed what happened. Then Mrs. O'Brien, proving herself a straight shooter said to me:

"Well, I admit for a while there, I was thinking about bombing your house, but I'm pretty much over that now. And I'm pleased to see how seriously you've taken this. The two of you can stop by and visit Selma and me whenever you like."

Later we learned that Mrs. O'Brien was to have shoulder surgery in a few days, so the day after her operation, Syd and I walked over to her house with a plant. The storm door was closed, but the front door was open and a coloring book and crayons were scattered on the floor. In the driveway was a car with Massachusetts plates.

"Oh, how nice; Mrs. O'Brien probably has family helping her after her operation," I said. I knocked softly and when no one answered, I hung the plant in its gift bag on the door knob.

A few hours later, I received a text from Mrs. O'Brien thanking me for the plant and explaining that her daughter and son-in-law drove up from Boston to help after the surgery, but the surgery was postponed because Mrs. O'Brien wouldn't be able to oversee Selma's recovery with one arm. How could things get any weirder? Surely, next up, Selma would somehow manage to explode. 

"But it's fine," the text continued. "Now we'll just have a nice visit instead." 

Since moving day, when Hope "helpfully" introduced us by mauling her dog, Mrs. O'Brien has continued to allow us to befriend her. We've exchanged more texts and the other day Syd walked over to her house with a slice of cake. While they chatted, Syd offered to walk Selma any time and Mrs. O'Brien said that she would be happy to pay Syd for her services.

Replied my daughter, of whom I am immensely proud: "Oh, I think that under the circumstances, walking her for free is the least I can do."