I went to Lowe’s Building Supply early yesterday morning to be there when they opened because I needed some supplies to get started on a porch-painting project.
But first.... I fall a lot. I have some kind of problem with my propioception or kinesthesis or something or other, and as a result I don’t lift my feet up high enough; not as high as I think I am. That means that I’ll be walking along and I'll see something I have to step over. I’ll lift my foot high enough to clear it, but instead I trip over it. I can’t seem to gauge distances with these two particular appendages (my legs).
So I’ve decided to become a supermodel.
Runway (catwalk) supermodels lift their feet quite high when they walk and I figure it’s a good way to remember to do that myself. I participated in the First Annual Lowe’s Home Improvement But First Fashion Show yesterday morning... funded and produced entirely by Bucksnort & Co. And since the only other people at Lowe's were salespeople and contactors, of course I was the only one who participated! I was breath taking. I strutted up and down the catwalks (aisles) and I worked it and worked it and worked it and it worked! I didn’t fall once.
Oh snap…. you’ll have to excuse me. My neighbor is playing hip hop music. It’s very loud. I can’t hear the melody or the harmony or the lyrics, but I can hear the bassline and it sounds exactly like the bassline to David Bowie’s “Fashion”. So as you can imagine, the beat of the catwalk calls to me. I’m about to begin my haute couture strut from the diningroom to the livingroom. Please nod your appreciation for my statuesque grace and cool composure as I pass by your front row seat.
(Thus ends the first annual "But First" Annual Fashion Report.)
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Kids These Days..........
I got a buzzcut on Monday. My hair is now about ¾” long. Just the way I like it. I have a full-on phobia about any hair getting in my face. Even if it’s an inch-long wisp brushing my forehead, it makes me a leeeeetle bit crazy.
So anyway, I’ve developed a friendship with the teen girls who wait at the bus stop on my corner and if I’m out messing around in my garden, they sometimes come up to hang out on my porch until the bus gets there.
“Ohmygawd Miss Jean, did you get your hair done?"
“It looks so pretty!”
“Ohmygawd, it looks so cool (probably spelled k-e-w-l). My mom would never let me do that.”
We talked about my new dog for awhile. Yanna and I talked about gardening and baking for a while. I’m going to be trading her homegrown tomatoes for zucchini from her “gramma-gramma’s” garden.
One of them is going to a sixteenth birthday party this weekend and she's very excited about it. For awhile we all discussed whether to go with green or blue eye shadow with her brown hoodie.
The bus came and our morning visit ended.
Kids these days…
So anyway, I’ve developed a friendship with the teen girls who wait at the bus stop on my corner and if I’m out messing around in my garden, they sometimes come up to hang out on my porch until the bus gets there.
“Ohmygawd Miss Jean, did you get your hair done?"
“It looks so pretty!”
“Ohmygawd, it looks so cool (probably spelled k-e-w-l). My mom would never let me do that.”
We talked about my new dog for awhile. Yanna and I talked about gardening and baking for a while. I’m going to be trading her homegrown tomatoes for zucchini from her “gramma-gramma’s” garden.
One of them is going to a sixteenth birthday party this weekend and she's very excited about it. For awhile we all discussed whether to go with green or blue eye shadow with her brown hoodie.
The bus came and our morning visit ended.
Kids these days…
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Breathtaking National Geographic Photos
I know it's not cool to post images without giving credit to the photographers, but these were posted to a discussion board I belong to and all that was said was that they were National Geographic pics. And I HAVE to share them. Apologies and please to enjoy. (Click on them for a closer look.)
(more to come - having trouble with my connection)
(more to come - having trouble with my connection)
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Spike & The Lostlings
Spike. That's the name I've given to my newest dog. The Lostlings. That's the name I've given to all the orphaned dogs and cats in my town.
Two friday's ago, in the early morning, when Kalili and I were gearing up to once again head out and hunt for a black and white Lostling doggy who had been wandering the neighborhood for three days, I was sitting on the porch steps adjusting Lili's leash when a feisty little black and brown canine Lostling came trotting by. He stopped to kick some dirt with his stiff little back legs as a little show of bravado. He spent some time sniffing Kalili and then took off running toward Lolo's yard. Lolo is the unaltered male pitbull who run's loose in the neighborhood and stops by now and then to lift his leg on my potted plants. I've yet to see a neutered male dog round these parts. I think it's a regional male (human) thing to not alter male pets. It's ignorant, stubborn and cruel. This is the bible belt for crying out loud so I just don't understand these attitudes. What ever happened to christian charity and good works? Well, whether they're churchgoers or not, they're a bunch of neanderthals. Judge and complain, grumble and whine... very constructive, Bucksnort, very constructive.
Anyway, Lili and I started to jump in the car to go after him but before I could even get the key in the ignition, he was back. I coaxed him into the house and ha! Mine! Yet another stray, destined to either starve or get hit by a car... saved! My very modest contribution to animal activism. I got the back story about him (and the black & white dog) from the kids who stand at the schoolbus stop on my corner. Both dogs belong(ed) to a guy a couple blocks away who had just moved in recently. He left them outside loose, without food or water.
At one point the b&w dog followed some of the kids to school (five blocks away). Even though it meant that they would be late for first period, they walked her all the way back to the guy, who put her in the house. But before the kids were a block and a half away she was back following them. Apparently someone eventually called the city shelter because she was picked up. My sister and I went down to visit her and my sister ended up going home with a very Lucky Little Lostling lynx-point siamese cat who is now named Gracie.
So I've decided that Spike is mine by default. If someone intentionally leaves their dogs out loose in a new environment with no food or water, unaltered no less, they're guilty of abuse at worst and neglect at best and they've given up all claim. So Spike is gonna get his little cojones snipped next week, have all his bloodwork and shots done and then he's an official member of my little family. Even if Mr. Micreant (that's what I've named his previous "owner") discovered where he was, I doubt he'd want him back after he's neutered. It's just not a cool thing according to most of the men round these parts. So even if Mr. Miscreant would want Spike The Girlyman back, he'll have a fight on his hands if he thinks he's taking my dog.
Spike and Lili get along perfectly, and he's the perfect size. A matched set, the two of them. I think he's a min-pin/pit mix with a little bit of chihuahua thrown in for the sake of humor. Here he is before I took his harness off and bathed him:
He was filthy, dehydrated, nervous and had massive amounts of undercoat that needed to be brushed out. He also has several nasty bites on one of his ears, one that went all the way through, but I'm treating them and they're healing up pretty quick.
My cat Spackle loves him but then, she trusts everyone. My other cat Kiwi hates him but then, she suspects everyone.
Spike has gotten out twice now. He's very good at figuring out how to push open doors that don't close properly. I've since repaired the unsecured doors to prevent this ever happening again. Last week I had to engage in a wild goosechase around the neighborhood, driving in ever-widening concentric circles with that sickening frantic feeling in the pit of my stomach, dreading finding him squashed by the side of the road. When I was just about to give up, a neighbor who'd just spotted him tipped me off and I took off at quite a clip, found him again, scooped him up and brought him back "home".
Speaking of The Lostlings, I recently found out from neighbors and people just walking by that my neighborhood is a favorite dumping ground for dogs and cats. That explains why there's a feral cat colony at the park up the street and why there are two or three panicked stray dogs sniffing and running past my house every week. I need to do something more than just whine/complain/judge/grumble all the time about the laissez faire petowner attitudes that are so prevalent in my town. Uncle Barack has called upon us all to contribute some of our time to our communities and I've decided to heed his call to service. I'm going to a Clovis Animal Welfare League meeting on Monday evening. CAWL rescues animals from the city shelter who are destined for execution by gas and finds foster and forever homes for them. I'm going to volunteer to transport Lostlings from here to no-kill shelters around the state. Take that, Mr. Miscreant!
Two friday's ago, in the early morning, when Kalili and I were gearing up to once again head out and hunt for a black and white Lostling doggy who had been wandering the neighborhood for three days, I was sitting on the porch steps adjusting Lili's leash when a feisty little black and brown canine Lostling came trotting by. He stopped to kick some dirt with his stiff little back legs as a little show of bravado. He spent some time sniffing Kalili and then took off running toward Lolo's yard. Lolo is the unaltered male pitbull who run's loose in the neighborhood and stops by now and then to lift his leg on my potted plants. I've yet to see a neutered male dog round these parts. I think it's a regional male (human) thing to not alter male pets. It's ignorant, stubborn and cruel. This is the bible belt for crying out loud so I just don't understand these attitudes. What ever happened to christian charity and good works? Well, whether they're churchgoers or not, they're a bunch of neanderthals. Judge and complain, grumble and whine... very constructive, Bucksnort, very constructive.
Anyway, Lili and I started to jump in the car to go after him but before I could even get the key in the ignition, he was back. I coaxed him into the house and ha! Mine! Yet another stray, destined to either starve or get hit by a car... saved! My very modest contribution to animal activism. I got the back story about him (and the black & white dog) from the kids who stand at the schoolbus stop on my corner. Both dogs belong(ed) to a guy a couple blocks away who had just moved in recently. He left them outside loose, without food or water.
At one point the b&w dog followed some of the kids to school (five blocks away). Even though it meant that they would be late for first period, they walked her all the way back to the guy, who put her in the house. But before the kids were a block and a half away she was back following them. Apparently someone eventually called the city shelter because she was picked up. My sister and I went down to visit her and my sister ended up going home with a very Lucky Little Lostling lynx-point siamese cat who is now named Gracie.
So I've decided that Spike is mine by default. If someone intentionally leaves their dogs out loose in a new environment with no food or water, unaltered no less, they're guilty of abuse at worst and neglect at best and they've given up all claim. So Spike is gonna get his little cojones snipped next week, have all his bloodwork and shots done and then he's an official member of my little family. Even if Mr. Micreant (that's what I've named his previous "owner") discovered where he was, I doubt he'd want him back after he's neutered. It's just not a cool thing according to most of the men round these parts. So even if Mr. Miscreant would want Spike The Girlyman back, he'll have a fight on his hands if he thinks he's taking my dog.
Spike and Lili get along perfectly, and he's the perfect size. A matched set, the two of them. I think he's a min-pin/pit mix with a little bit of chihuahua thrown in for the sake of humor. Here he is before I took his harness off and bathed him:
He was filthy, dehydrated, nervous and had massive amounts of undercoat that needed to be brushed out. He also has several nasty bites on one of his ears, one that went all the way through, but I'm treating them and they're healing up pretty quick.
My cat Spackle loves him but then, she trusts everyone. My other cat Kiwi hates him but then, she suspects everyone.
Spike has gotten out twice now. He's very good at figuring out how to push open doors that don't close properly. I've since repaired the unsecured doors to prevent this ever happening again. Last week I had to engage in a wild goosechase around the neighborhood, driving in ever-widening concentric circles with that sickening frantic feeling in the pit of my stomach, dreading finding him squashed by the side of the road. When I was just about to give up, a neighbor who'd just spotted him tipped me off and I took off at quite a clip, found him again, scooped him up and brought him back "home".
Speaking of The Lostlings, I recently found out from neighbors and people just walking by that my neighborhood is a favorite dumping ground for dogs and cats. That explains why there's a feral cat colony at the park up the street and why there are two or three panicked stray dogs sniffing and running past my house every week. I need to do something more than just whine/complain/judge/grumble all the time about the laissez faire petowner attitudes that are so prevalent in my town. Uncle Barack has called upon us all to contribute some of our time to our communities and I've decided to heed his call to service. I'm going to a Clovis Animal Welfare League meeting on Monday evening. CAWL rescues animals from the city shelter who are destined for execution by gas and finds foster and forever homes for them. I'm going to volunteer to transport Lostlings from here to no-kill shelters around the state. Take that, Mr. Miscreant!
Friday, May 1, 2009
See, there's conventional wisdom...
...and then there's my wisdom. Mine is better, faster & stronger!
But let me back up a little. I was raised in the 50's, in a family that respected the voice of experience, a family that understood there's a logic in reading directions... it's not a creative choice, it's a logical choice. Well, actually, it's not a choice, it just is. I was taught by my family, by my teachers, by my occasional clergy that the most direct route to a successful conclusion was the established one. Just follow the instructions; listen to what others who have achieved similar successes have to say about how it was done.
My sister is bright, capable, adventurous, creative, imaginative and successful; successful with her life and successful with the projects she undertakes... simply put, she does it right. So what happened to me? Same genes, same upbringing. Or maybe I was the illegitimate lovechild of a traveling salesman - The Fuller Brush Man, perhaps? At what point along the way did these tools-for-success start falling from my little fingers? At what point did these time-tested recipes-for-success stop penetrating my stubborn little noggin? At what point along the way did I decide that I was gonna do it my way because I knew better? What's up with that?
Did it happen because I'm left-handed? Is the swirly romantic notion that left-handed children have to be more creative and resourceful in a world designed by and for the righties actually true? Was I born with this nonsensical - yet strangely seductive - little fairytale already etched into my dna?
My sister is bright, capable, adventurous, creative, imaginative and successful; successful with her life and successful with the projects she undertakes... simply put, she does it right. So what happened to me? Same genes, same upbringing. Or maybe I was the illegitimate lovechild of a traveling salesman - The Fuller Brush Man, perhaps? At what point along the way did these tools-for-success start falling from my little fingers? At what point did these time-tested recipes-for-success stop penetrating my stubborn little noggin? At what point along the way did I decide that I was gonna do it my way because I knew better? What's up with that?
Did it happen because I'm left-handed? Is the swirly romantic notion that left-handed children have to be more creative and resourceful in a world designed by and for the righties actually true? Was I born with this nonsensical - yet strangely seductive - little fairytale already etched into my dna?
I dunno how or where it happened, I don't know when or why I decided to turn left at Development Annex (an unpaved and poorly-lit cul-de-sac, incidentally) while the rest of the class was logically following the teacher along smooth brightly-lit Development Avenue. But turn I did. And I developed into a kind of off-kilter adult.
So here I sit, pondering the self-indulgently circuitous route I almost always choose when attempting to get successfully from Point A to Point B. I'm relatively average - not smarter than most; not more creative nor more imaginative than most. But this annoying attitude persists inside my head, this theory that says conventional wisdom may have depth but it doesn't have breadth. This theory goes on to say that my innate wisdom is the opposite, not much depth but a whole lotta breadth. Within this preposterous theoretical context, depth keeps company with words like pedantic, compliant, limited and limiting; this depth requires that one stand safely in one place upon a firm foundation. Breadth keeps company with such words as creative, imaginative, curious, limitless; this breadth requires one to jump and leap and twitch, to reach up and out in all directions to gently grasp the slipper of the muse. (insert lol smiley) btw, I know how mixed up and inside out and upside down this theory is. It's totally bogus. I know that. Or I should. But I do. But I don't.
When I begin a project, I do enough research to get myself amped up, to get my juices flowing. Beyond that, I might scratch a few more surfaces in the how-to department before I start scoffing, which I always do. I never follow the directions, I never listen to conventional wisdom because I always think of every project as some kind of high-falutin' journey of discovery. I always think I'm smarter, more creative, more imaginative than those who have tried it (and succeeded) before. And I always think that my results will be superior because... well because my innate wisdom is superior to conventional wisdom, of course.
Nine times out of ten, my results are disastrous - a messy smelly expensive bust. So I try again. And again. And in the end, when I finally succeed, I claim the finished product as my own original creation. Never been done before! Well..... ok...... but not like this!! In my own little delusional world, I fancy that I forged the way to an unparalleled success.
Now, if I had heeded conventional wisdom, if I had read the directions, I would have ended up at the exact same Point B as everyone else who departed from the exact same Point A as I did, but for some reason I need to declare it a totally unique, blindingly creative, stunningly original invention. I've just invented the perfect ____________ (fill in the blank... I invented them all! I could invent everything if only I had the time!!)
Now, if I had heeded conventional wisdom, if I had read the directions, I would have ended up at the exact same Point B as everyone else who departed from the exact same Point A as I did, but for some reason I need to declare it a totally unique, blindingly creative, stunningly original invention. I've just invented the perfect ____________ (fill in the blank... I invented them all! I could invent everything if only I had the time!!)
I waste a lot of materials, money and time because of this stubborn attitude of mine. But for some strange reason, my self-aggrandizement simply charms the socks right off of me. (How weird is that?) And being able to charm myself somehow fulfills some strange need that I haven't yet been able to clearly identify and grow beyond, develop beyond.
Maybe I should get out more often. Maybe someone else should be charming the socks right off of me. Maybe I should just read the damn directions. Maybe I should just recognize the following simple truth...
Maybe I should get out more often. Maybe someone else should be charming the socks right off of me. Maybe I should just read the damn directions. Maybe I should just recognize the following simple truth...
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