Dog Philosophy

All well brought-up dogs (and I like to think that ours are so), know quite well that there are two classes of things in the world: things Dog is allowed to chew and things Dog is not allowed to chew. 

The first category is usually fairly limited and includes designated "chew toys," Nylar bones, tug-of-war ropes, some treats, etc. The second category of forbidden items includes all the rest of the world, but especially blankets, pillows, dog beds, shoes, clothing, TV remotes, glasses, and many truly fascinating things. Many are all the more desirable because they hold the scent of beloved Human. 

As indicated previously the well brought-up Dog knows that he is not suppose to chew these wonderful things. However,  dogs are very philosophical beings, and they have developed a marvelous philosophical concept of "attachment." The basic axiom of attachment philosophy is that any item that becomes attached to an allowed chew item, automatically may itself be chewed. 

Suppose for example, that Dog's favorite and well-chewed Nylar bone becomes entangled in the blanket on the bed. It is not Dog's fault that the blanket is attached, no indeed. What other choice does Dog have but to chew the blanket in order to exercise his legitimate right to chew bone? None of course. 

A January of Small Stones 22

Ode to an Office Chair Now Deceased

Four sturdy ball-bearing wheels

to scoot quickly out of the way

or cozy up to the desk,

a smoothly twirling seat

from keyboard to desk to bookcase

and back over and over,

soft padding for the rump,

firm lumbar support,

and a back just right

for perching cats.

A few short years together

ended in an awkward crash.

January 22, 2014

sgreerpitt

A January of Small Stones 13

January 13, 2014

desert

open the faucet
tiny dribbles 
then sucking air,
the pipes are dry.

flood

small, repetitive, insistent sound:
tick, tick?
tap, tap?
drip, drip?
search reveals
spreading puddles 
from the water cooler.

January 13, 2014
#smallstone

warming climate models predict more snow

The piles of snow blanketing the mid-Atlantic states have inspired global warming deniers in politics and the media to gleefully declare the demise of global warming...and a number of great comic responses, like this one by Jon Stewart:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Unusually Large Snowstorm
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Health Care Crisis

Comedy aside, folks, heavy -- even apocalyptic snow falls -- are predicted by global warming theories. This is not a case (as suggested by folks like Glen Beck) of proponents of global warming seizing on every passing weather condition as it occurs and declaring it a result of global warming. The likelihood of increased extreme snow fall events arising from global warming have been predicted well in advance of this years snowmaggedeon, as the following excerpt from an article in a referred scientific journal supports:

“To assess possible future snowstorm conditions, the relationships of the storm frequencies to seasonal temperature and precipitation conditions, both estimated to undergo future changes, were defined for 1901–2000 using data from 1222 stations across the United States. Results for the November–December period showed that most of the United States had experienced 61%–80% of the storms in warmer-than-normal years. Assessment of the January–February temperature conditions again showed that most of the United States had 71%–80% of their snowstorms in warmer-than-normal years. In the March–April season 61%–80% of all snowstorms in the central and southern United States had occurred in warmer-than-normal years. The relationship of storm incidence to precipitation in all three
2-month periods of the cold season showed that 61%–85% of all storms occurred in wetter-than-normal years. Thus, these comparative results reveal that a future with wetter and warmer winters, which is one outcome expected (National Assessment Synthesis Team 2001), will bring more snowstorms than in 1901–2000. Agee (1991) found that long-term warming trends in the United States were associated with increasing cyclonic activity in North America, further indicating that a warmer future climate will generate more winter storms.” page. 1149
Stanley A. Changnon, Changnon Climatologist, Mahomet, Illinois; David Changnon,
Northern Illinois University, De Kalb, Illinois; and Thomas R. Karl, National Climatic Data Center, Asheville, North Carolin. (2006) “Temporal and Spatial Characteristics of Snowstorms in the Contiguous United States.” Journal of Applied Meteorology and Climatology Vol. 45, August 2006. The American Meteorological Society. (Manuscript received 17 May 2005, in final form 30 December 2005).

Read the real science at http://ams.allenpress.com/archive/1558-8432/45/8/pdf/i1558-8432-45-8-1141.pdf

bored out of my skull

I am definitely not suited to inactivity. Yesterday morning, on the last day I was caring for Pam and Mike's animals (see the sweet photos of Dip, Tuggles and two of the kitties from Wednesday), I hurt my back lifting a much too heavy bucket of water. Totally my fault. I knew I shouldn't lift that much weight. I could have made two trips, but I was being lazy. Fifteen minutes later I was doubled over in pain.

After limping across the lane home, I tried muscle relaxants and heat, and fell asleep in my wonderful recliner. But by noon, I woke again in more pain feeling feverish and nauseous and began to wonder if it was more than muscle spasms (appendicitis crossed my mind).
So John gave up his entire afternoon of grading papers to accompany me to the doctor (as driving myself was out of the question). Hours of waiting and several tests later the verdict was simple muscle spasm. Off we went to the pharmacy with prescriptions for prednisone and more muscle relaxants, and very strict instructions to spend a day or two in my recliner with a heating pad -- absolutely NO scaffold climbing!

At first this morning it felt nice not to have to be rushing around getting all my stuff ready to go paint. I spent a little bit of time in the morning at the computer getting caught up with the on-line class I'm teaching. [The students this summer are unaccountably inactive, nice for me, but not so good for their grades.] But an hour in the computer chair was a bit much.

So the rest of the day has been spent, as ordered, lounging in the recliner with the heating pad. The SyFy Channel (why did they change the name??) was running a marathon of one of my favorites "Eureka!" and that was entertaining for a few hours. I napped a little. Ate way too much. Even low fat, sugar free pudding is not so good for you after the second serving!

You know you're bored when even Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson can't engage your attention. I found myself fast forwarding through portions of "Last Chance Harvey." The movie has it's sweet moments, but I had little patience for the pacing. I did particularly like Harvey's response at the end, when Kate asks him "how is this [relationship] going to work?" and his response is "I don't know. But it will. I promise." Optimism, commitment, faith -- all good qualities for starting a relationship.

So here I am blogging. I can already feel a few twinges and know that it will be back to the recliner and heating pad in a few minutes. It's almost time for my evening call to my mother, and then it's not long until SyFy Channel (again what's with the name change?) airs a new episode of "Eureka!" so I suppose I'll make it through until bedtime without expiring of boredom.

One perk of spending the day in the recliner, is that I've had plenty of feline company. I've been so busy since starting the mural, that I haven't had much time to create "lap time" for my kitties. I like being a "cat mattress" for a day.

obesity and air conditioning

One of my students posting something today that caused the proverbial light bulb to go on over my head. She said that one reason kids are obese is because in the summer time no one wants to go out in the heat.

It dawned on me -- when I was a child 50 years ago, air conditioning was extraordinarily rare in homes. Only the most affluent had air conditioning. Even fans, which were made of metal and relatively more expensive were not within the reach of many people.

This was of little consequence in the San Francisco Bay Area community where I grew up with its mild climate. But in much of the U.S., sweltering summer heat and humidity forced people, and especially children, out of doors, to seek summer breezes and shade and cooling sources of water. I spent part of many childhood summers in Virginia and a vivid part of those childhood memories is smothering damp heat, and the various ways we attempted to stay cool, with cool drinks and splashing in water (lawn sprinklers, wading pools, creeks and streams). Riding bicycles, roller skating, even running around in the shade of the back yard was cooler than sitting still inside.

The heat and humidity affected how we cooked and ate. No one wanted to heat up the house with the oven -- which can easily be avoided these days by using your microwave. One also felt less like eating a heavy meal on the hottest days.

Makes me wonder to what extent the prevalence of air conditioning (and microwaves) in American homes has helped turn us into a nation of overweight couch potatoes, computer and video junkies. Of course, no one is taking my air conditioner except from my hot dead hands (to paraphrase Charlton Heston).

malaise

It's that "I don't have any right to complain about my life, but everything feels just a little bit off" sensation. It's a mild (REALLY mild) version of post-traumatic shock, after stepping back from the mine field that is my parents' life.

It's the sudden full force crashing return of all my rheumatoid arthritis symptoms, after their inexplicable absence in California -- going from being able to hop out of bed or chair at a moments notice to avert disaster to requiring my walker to make it to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

It's the "I have this really wonderful project (the mural for Southeast's Whitesburg campus) that I'm excited about starting, but I have to wait around for two weeks until the supplies arrive;" coupled with "I've finished all the prep for summer school classes two weeks ahead of time -- now what do I do?"

It's the "I'm so glad my cat (Booger) is better, but now I have to figure out how to get him to sit still for 100 ml of subcutaneous fluids twice a day for the rest of his life."

It's the aching desire to write, but the inability to marshal my thoughts in any coherent fashion.

It's an amorphous miasma that clings like our suddenly hot humid air; an undefined, vague, corrupting malaise.

It's time for BED!!!

One Single Impression -- Dropped

all I could think of this week was all the various phrases we have with the word "dropped" in it. Turns out that there are quite a lot of them, for example: "dropped a dime," "dropped names," "dropped a load," etc. Below is my feeble attempt at humor.


When he dropped the hint
she dropped a stitch.
She didn't like the glint
in his eye, or the hitch
if they dropped the ball
on their plans for the mall.

©sgreerpitt
Sunday May 24, 2009

For other poems on the theme "dropped" see One Single Impression.

"card from california" part 1

I arrived at San Francisco International Airport at 7:20 PM, Wednesday May 13. It was, as Walt Kelly's Pogo used to say "Friday the 13th come on a Wednesday." The air travel went smoothly, but once on the ground I was my usual bumbling self and things went slightly, but not irretrievably awry.

I had reserved a car with Avis. I've always wanted to rent from Avis, ever since they began their "We Try Harder" campaign in the mid-1960's. When I was in high school, Avis ran a promotion that involved giving away buttons that said "we try harder" in dozens of languages. Teens then collected those much the way that today's teens collect those brightly colored rubbery bracelets.

I signed the papers and headed for my car -- a cute, bright red (my favorite car color) Chevy Aveo. I piled the luggage in the trunk. Loaded my self in the front seat. And turned on the key. All hell broke loose. That is if "all hell" means loud honking sounds and lights flashing. I quickly turned the key off, but the noise and lights didn't stop -- at least not right away. I checked everything I could think to check and tried again. Same result -- horrible noise and flashing lights. And acute embarrassment. After a third try, mortified, I locked my stuff in the car and returned to the counter for assistance.

The very kind agent who had done my paper work, got someone else to cover the counter and came out with me to check the car. She immediately noted the red warning light on the dash. Okay -- I'd seen it -- but had no idea what it meant. It was a warning that the trunk was improperly shut. Opened the trunk and found that my travel pillow had been caught in the trunk. Moved it out of the way, shut the trunk again, and the car started up pretty (and quiet) as you please. D'oh!

My next moment of mortification was luckily unwitnessed by anyone else (except you dear readers). I had steadfastly declined the inclusion of a GPS system for the car, and even earlier all my mother's queries about my need for instructions, airily declaring that this was my home town and I knew how to get where I needed to go. Ha!! It was after dark, and the road/freeway set up at SFO has changed dramatically since the last time I would have driven there (1999). So instead of finding myself on Interstate 101 heading south towards San Jose, I found myself on I-280 heading north to San Francisco.

Even in the daylight in my own car, merging right across multiple lanes of traffic is not my forte. At night, in a strange car, on a strange road -- well -- I accomplished it without getting creamed. Only to find myself on the wrong side (the exit I needed was a left hand exit).

I kept going, and took the very first exit to the right off the interstate I encountered. It dropped me into a residential area of San Bruno. I decided that I would just simply keep going down hill or turning right (if down hill wasn't an option) until I ran into El Camino Real. The "avenue of the king" is the thread that connects all the coastal cities and towns of California from San Diego to San Francisco. It comes from the days of the Spanish padres and the missions that they built.

After a modest amount of twisting and turning my strategy worked. I hit El Camino as I knew was inevitable, and followed it through miles of commercial and residential areas, traffic lights every few blocks until I reached my home town of San Mateo, where I was (more or less) on solid ground.

I made it to my parents house, was greeted, fed and got to bed.

This morning I got a quick lesson from my mother in how to get my father out of bed, dressed, and through the routine of the bathroom. Mid-morning, my parents care worker, Jennifer, took my mom to the doctor, and left me to care for my dad.

I thought for a moment, when I came in last night, that my dad recognized me. But since then he's shown no sign of recognition. He appears to tolerate me as one more in a stream of care givers -- albeit one less skilled than most.

This is going to be a very long 9 days.

Note: the subject line comes from a Phil Oches song from the 60's. I have photos to add, but forgot my cord for the camera, so will have to wait on photos until I can buy a new cord.

frenzy

Yesterday the weather was spectacular -- all sunshine, dry fresh air, soft breezes, moderate temperatures. John finally mowed the lawn, leaving plenty of islands of native plants and shrubbery to satisfy me, but getting enough nicely clipped lawn to satisfy his masculine pride. While he ran the mower outside, I ran the vacuum inside. We made lots of noise, and used lots of fossil fuel.

I have this bizarre, morbid fear every time I go on a major trip, that I will die in car or plane crash and when the mourners come to the house they will think that I was a terrible housekeeper. So, before I take off on a trip I feel it necessary to do a big burst of cleaning.

The reality is that I am a terrible housekeeper. Most people do the vacuuming and dusting I did yesterday every week or even more frequently. I wasn't always this lackadaisical about housework. But in the last 15 years, since John came into my life, other things have become more important than keeping house.

House cleaning is cathartic -- works up a sweat and you can see real results at the end. For the moment, the house looks as good as its likely to get -- given all the patched floors, water stained ceiling tiles, and the accoutrements (e.g., litter boxes) of nine cats, the toys of one dog, and the paraphernalia of one husband engaged in running and lifting.

And if the plane goes down my last thoughts won't be about dust on the bookshelves and cat hair on the carpet.

One Single Impression -- "What's it like?"

What’s it like?

What’s it like
to live
where the roof
don’t leak,
without patched floors,
duck-tapped doors,
and torn linoleum?
Where you don’t
lie awake
in the dark
wondering
“do I hear dripping?”
What’s it like
to plan a house,
build new,
start fresh?

©sgreerpitt
Sunday May 10, 2009

No, we're not destitute. We hope to move in the next three years to a more urban area, and hesitate to put any significant money into this 30 year old trailer that we own outright. We could never sell it, it's too far gone, and would take more money than most people in this county make in four years to repair adequately. It wasn't installed properly by it's first owners, a lake sits under the house year round. Even if we stayed, we'd need to simply replace it. So for the moment we engage in temporary patches, hoping for it to remain habitable for a while longer.

ruminations

Recently through the wonder of Netflix we started watching the original 1975-1976 Saturday Night Live episodes -- episodes that I watched live while in graduate school. They are as entertaining as I remember them, and the humor still works after all these years. One staple of those early shows was fake commercials. Don't know if Saturday Night Live still does that, because my days of staying up past 11:00 PM are long gone.

In the very first show ever aired, there was one fake commercial that absolutely fascinated me. It was a parody of a razor commercial seen frequently at the time. The first double bladed safety razor, the TracII made by Gillette first went on the market in 1971, and was followed by many imitations in the next few years. One of the real commercials -- probably for the TracII itself showed an animated image of how the first blade in the razor lifted the hair and allowed the second blade to cut the hair closer to the skin. The fake Saturday Night Live commercial made fun of the whole idea of the need for two blades by carrying the image to ridiculous extremes (or at least they thought at the time was ridiculous extremes) -- the fake commercial featured a three bladed razor!

Imagine what the Saturday Night Live comedy writers of 1975 would make of today's five bladed razors!!

Sufferin' the bufferin'

Pet peeve: Suffering the buffering -- being in the middle of watching something exciting in streaming video and having it suddenly stop for the buffering to catch up.