Karin Fuller

25 Strange and Random Things About Me

2006-11-03T09:35:00.000-08:00

While roaming through several blogs a few weeks back, I noticed some had posted lists of random things about themselves. What a fun idea for a column, I thought. Surely I could come up with a few strange and random things about me. I figured it might take a while-maybe even a few years-before I'd have enough odd things collected to fill up this space, but I started jotting down those random tidbits and quite to my surprise, I learned that

Random Thing No. 1.

I'm much stranger than I thought. In no time at all, I had my list.

2. I saved my dog's baby teeth.

3. My favorite part about a bag of pretzels is the leftover salt at the bottom
of the bag.

4. I have a friend whose son had been collecting his toenail clippings for years.

5. For some reason, I find the above tremendously funny.

6. When I was a kid, I was so traumatized from watching "The Blob" that I used to shove towels in the crack under my bedroom door at night to keep it out.

7. When Geoff (who is now my husband) and I first started dating, I noticed his bookshelves held many of the same serial killer titles as I had at home. Instead of making me nervous, I was excited since I had many of the same titles at home.

8. On the wall in my home office, I have a growing collection of mucus man from the Mucinex ads. ("Mucus rules!" "Save the mucus!." "Mucus happens.")

9. On a speed-typing test once, I once clocked in at 125 words a minute without a single mistake.

10. It never happened again.

11. My favorite picture is one my daughter made when she was seven. It's titled, "Bathtub sharks in love."

12. On our first Valentines Day together, Geoff and I somehow managed to buy each other the exact same present. (The first two seasons of "24" on DVD.)

13. I have a freckle on the bottom of my left foot.

14. When I'm alone in the house, I sing to my animals.

15. Sometimes, they join me.

16. More often, they hide.

17. I don't particularly like perfume or jewelry.

18. My car is easily distinguishable from others just like it because of the dog nose art that covers the insides of the windows.

19. I was once robbed at gunpoint and handcuffed to a pole by a man wearing a fake mustache.

20. Every woman in my family has ugly feet.

21. I can't fold fitted sheets.

22. I've never been able to watch the ending of the "Little Mermaid," where Arial is saying goodbye to her father, without getting teary-eyed.

23. Many have sworn they could teach me how to (a) play tennis, or (b) drive a stick shift, but none have succeeded.

24. I wear bangs because I have a second set of eyebrows on my forehead.

25. I occasionally can't resist attempting to pass off outrageous lies as the truth.

A Halloween tale not meant for chickens

2006-10-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

Alone time. Precious alone time. I'd looked forward to having a weekend by myself for so long that my list of things to do was as long as my arm. Still, it was the To-Do list of my dreams. Finish unread magazines. Empty bottle of wine. Organize box of chocolates according to which should be eaten first.

Nothing was going to ruin this weekend for me. Not even a ghost.

Especially not a ghost. I didn't believe in them anyway. Silly see-through apparitions. The paranormal couldn't manage anything scarier than the see-through specter I'd once viewed in the dressing room mirror at Victoria's Secret.

So there I was, stretched out on the couch, finishing off a box of KFC extra crispy with a George Clooney movie playing, wine chilling, and the animals patiently awaiting their scheduled lap times, when it began.

Tiny white feathers drifted down from above.

"What the . . .?" I said out loud as I held out my hand, where a few brilliant white feathers soon settled.

I looked around to see if perhaps a bird had sneaked in and had an unfortunate encounter with our ceiling fan. But there weren't any birds and the fan wasn't on.

What was "on" was George Clooney, looking so fine I soon forgot those strange feathers. I cracked the seal on my wine (I'm too cheap for real corks) and organized a few of those chocolates. Somewhere around midnight, I must have drifted off.

I was awakened by a strange thwacking sound--a wet sounding crash-crunching that seemed to come from all sides of the house at the same time. Flashlight in hand, I cautiously stepped onto my front porch. It was littered with egg shells, the walls dripping with yolk.

"What the . . .?" I found myself saying again.

That's when I first heard the crazed cackle--a sound so insane I rushed back inside. I slammed the door closed and fastened the locks. Then slipped on the yolk-slick floor. I plopped down in the puddle of broken eggs and was still sitting there, stunned and confused, when another batch of white feathers began to rain down. Followed by that crazed cackle.

Heart pounding, I found my footing and raced up the stairs, my terrified terriers close at my heels. We passed our three cats. Each appeared poised and ready to pounce--tails twitching, eyes glowing. Licking their lips.

I wasn't sure where to go. Nowhere seemed safe. As I searched wildly about for the phone (which was, as usual, not on its base), the bad odor began. Within seconds, the whole house smelled fowl. Then again, the crazed cackle.

I began to tremble and cry. The mad cackle then changed to a taunting, "Bawk! Bawk!"

Whatever it was, it was cruelly egging me on. I began to get angry. My house was a mess. I was a mess. Sticky and smelly and covered with feathers. Egg on my face.

Then it hit me. I knew what it was. Our house was haunted. And it wasn't just your average ghost. No, what we had was a poultrygeist.

My fear quickly turned to frustration. The last thing I needed was to have to shell out for an exorcist, especially one abreast of hauntings like this.

There was only one man to call: The Colonel.

Luckily, I had a coupon, so not only did the Colonel rid my house of the demon, but I got my choice of two sides. And let me tell you, that Colonel really delivered. He gave that demon chicken took a good lickin'. In the week since his visit, I've not heard a peep.

Although I suspect that right about now, I might hear a few groans.

DIARY, by Chuck Palahniuk

2006-10-25T06:46:00.000-07:00

I just finished listening to the audio version of Diary by Chuck Palahniuk. When I read the back cover blurb, I thought it seemed like such an intriguing idea for a book. "Diary takes the form of a 'coma diary' kept by one Misty Tracy Wilmot as her husband lies senseless in a hospital after a suicide attempt." The husband, while remodeling the vacation homes of rich people, had begun "hiding" rooms in the houses he worked on, closing off linen closets and bedrooms and even a kitchen. Early on in the book, there are answering machine messages left by the rich people that go something like, "I know I don't spend much time in this house, but I could've sworn it had a kitchen." Ha!

Anyway, inside these closed-off rooms, the husband left bizarre messages written all over the walls, and Misty tries to find out why he wrote what he did. Then Misty, a former art student, suddenly begins painting again-compulsively painting.

I loved the surreal feel I had the entire time I was listening to this book (read by one of the best readers I've encountered so far, Martha Plimpton). He does dark humor well. There were times when the repeated phrases annoyed me (the third-person to second-person references to Peter, the facial muscle descriptions, the weather forecasts, the "for the records"), but most of the time, I liked how it sort of pulled me back to home base. The drinking game reference went on a bit too long, but when it was brought back in a single line chapters later, it was very effective.

All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The ending went on a few paragraphs longer than it should have. I don't like endings that leave the reader totally hanging, but neither do I like them to be over-wrapped, as this one sort of was.

The author of this book also wrote Fight Club, Choke, and Lullaby, none of which I've read, but I'm curious enough about this author's style to want to read more.

Drama Queen

2006-10-22T09:36:00.000-07:00

Aside from having given birth to its queen, I've had little involvement with drama.

But the end of this month, I'll be onstage at the Clay Center as a lip-synching, yodeling townsperson in the Children's Theatre production of "Hansel & Gretel."

Before anyone tsk-tsks me over not singing--trust me, I do so with the public's best interest at heart. As one who can't manage to walk while just thinking about chewing gum, it's not likely I could make it from backstage to front, waving my arms like windshield wipers while singing "yodel-a, yodel-a-he" without injuring some innocent cookie or causing great pain to many innocent eardrums.

My 9-year-old daughter is one of those cookies. And she's also responsible for getting me (a lifelong sufferer of stage fright) up on the stage.

At one of the first practices, the play's director, Kelly Strom, asked for parent volunteers to stand in as townspeople. Kelly worded her request in such a way that many of the parents believed she needed us just for that night. I've come to suspect Kelly worded it that way for a reason. It was no accident. She's a sly one, that Kelly.

But she and her assistant drill sergeant--I mean, stage manager--Donna Venable-Thompson, are impressive to watch, adeptly managing the 58-person cast, made up mostly of children ages 6 to 16.

They start off simply--teaching stage terms, explaining the parts, showing each cast member where to stand. Once those details are mastered, more is added--a dance step, a hand movement, a facial expression. Great gobs of guidance aren't doled out at once, but a bit at a time. When the children are ready. Corrections are done with just the right mixture of humor and seriousness.

There are numerous songs and movements and expressions for the children to remember, numerous attitudes and inflections to perfect. Early on, it seemed like too much. But I've learned you should never underestimate children. They're capable of more than we can imagine.

And then there's us moms. The yodeling moms. It's not a large group, but the women are fun and good-natured. Sadly, though, they're not easily corruptible. Instead of just waving our empty hands back and forth over our heads, I tried to convince them to all hold up lighters, but no one was game.

Most of the moms, myself included, seem determined to blend into the background as much as we can, to not call attention to ourselves in any way. When my daughter came home from practice without me one evening, she filled me in on the general details of rehearsal, then as an afterthought, mentioned that Kelly announced she was going to put microphones on all the moms.

"She's going to do what?"

"Microphones," Celeste said casually. "On all of the moms."

Up to that point, I'd actually been singing during rehearsals. Granted, I didn't sing loud. I'm a responsible citizen, aware of the pain my voice box is capable of inflicting (it was once suggested I have it registered as a lethal weapon). But the thought of having a microphone attached to my body

in close proximity to that which has brought me both ridicule and shame was mortifying.

At the next practice, as soon as one of the other yodeling moms was nearby, I asked if she'd heard about "the microphone thing." When she said she hadn't, I explained. She paled visibly. Together, we approached another mom to see what she knew. Her eyes soon grew wide.

"Surely not," she said, sounding distraught.

"I don't know," I said. "She said it so casually and with such authority. No way could she come up with a prank like that on her own."

But, like I said, never underestimate children.

Especially an apple that not only didn't fall far from the tree, but rather traveled straight down.

The Clay Center performances of Hansel & Gretel will be at 7 p.m. Oct. 27, at 7 p.m., and at 2 and 7 p.m. Oct. 28.

Exhausting (but mostly fun) week

2006-10-20T06:38:00.000-07:00

It's been an exhausting but mostly fun week. Monday I was terribly sick with a fever that reached 104 and made me feel pretty bizarre at times. Celeste and her friend Jordan were so nice to me, bringing me wet rags for my forehead, ice water and aspirin. (Geoff was in Morgantown.) Whatever bug this is has now moved to my throat, where it's making my voice alternate between sounding like a long-time smoker and a 13-year-old boy whose voice is changing.

The rest of the week has been a wild mix of book promo things and play practice.

On Wednesday, Celeste and Geoff were on Good Morning West Virginia, then later that same day, she and I participated in the "Meet the Press" event at the Town Center Mall. There were reporters, photographers, circulation staff, our NIE director and other staff members on hand to talk with students interested in a newspaper career, as well as those who just wanted to stop by and say hi. They invited Celeste to come, too.

And then there's play practice. Every single night. I know the reason they only do two shows a year--it's so we parents can have time to forget what a pain these last two weeks can be.

This picture above is of Jordan Holmes, who plays a troll in the play. He lives across the street from us and I absolutely love this kid. He's hilarious. Born to be on the stage. He has the most powerful singing voice (which is not always a good thing, especially when you're in a small call with the windows rolled up).

Saturday and Sunday we'll be at the Book Festival. Geoff and Celeste are sharing a booth along with Keith Estep, who has written this fantastic book about growing up in Nitro. And then on Sunday, the set for the play will be moved into the Clay Center and we'll have our first practice there from 6 to 9.

(more) LOST

2006-10-19T11:07:00.000-07:00

Well, I did it. I broke down and went to ABC's LOST website and read their message board to see if anyone could explain how the hatch could've imploded without killing the men inside.

When Desmond awoke in the jungle, he was naked–-so the implosion blew his clothes off but it didn't kill him. (WHY COULDN'T IT HAVE BEEN SAWYER?!) And the loud boom and earth shaking wasn’t something that would scare away a hungry polar bear? That's a weird looking bear. Wonder what’s up with that? The one in the Coke commercials at Christmas are more realistic looking.

Anyway, that implosion bit was nagging at me so at lunch I hopped on the internet to visit the board. Here’s how it was explained:

"...imploded is correct, and it is well thought out. Have you ever heard of the sun imploding in the future? You know, where it expands to the point that it 'implodes,' or collapses on itself. An implosion means it would actually expand first, sending everything flying out, and then it would quickly collapse on itself. The hatch would do the same. Thus, an implosion sent the door marked 'Quarantine,' Eko, Locke, Desmond, and Eko's 'Jesus Stick' flying into the sky. That's how they all landed in the middle of the jungle."

I guess it's kind of weird for me to get hung up on the implosion rather than the polar bear's cave with the old Tonka truck and skeletons or the whole Locke sequence, since it once again showed him in a wheelchair. There was also Boone's reappearance during Locke's vision. Thank goodness that in the Better Place where Boone has gone, someone took a weed whacker to his wooly worm eyebrows.

Oh well. A so-so episode. I'm not sure what I keep hoping will happen. I like having a mystery to try to solve and clues to look for, but I'm also ready for more of it to be resolved.

Life with a sour puss

2006-10-13T12:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I have to look extra hard to find something about which to feel proud. Luckily, I have fairly low standards for what qualifies.

Most people, after having worked more than a year on a challenging endeavor, would require more than a mere purr as reward for their labors. But for me, it was enough.

Sully is, in most ways, a strikingly handsome cat. He has long and shiny black hair and bright yellow eyes. But he also has a perpetual scowl.
If recognition were given for the most continuous disgruntled days, Sully would have a room full of trophies. He's the Andy Rooney of felines. The Dick Cheney of cats.

But for some reason, his seemingly impenetrable dour mood amuses me and I'm not really sure why. I guess some might take this to mean I'm not very nice. What does it say about a person who finds hilarity in an unhappy cat? Yet it seems adorable much the same way as a small child standing with arms crossed, knees locked, brow furrowed and bottom lip sticking out. Sully forever looks and acts like a Terrible Two who someone's told 'No!'

Or it could simply be that I like a challenge, and Sully has provided me that from Day One.

We already had two indoor cats and a dog when Sully claimed our front porch. Although his full domain consisted of a six- or seven-house region, our porch was his base of operations. He was wild and frightened at first, but I'd sit on the step and talk to him while he cautiously ate his dry food. In the early days, my efforts at conversation with the grump were met with hisses (the cat equivalent of cursing), and he'd glare at me suspiciously, ears flattened and back. When winter came, my daughter and I added warm towels and bits of ham to our list of attractions. The ears stopped turning back. The hissing decreased.
Eventually, Sully began worming his way indoors, a development the other cats didn't like. A long power struggle ensued, finally decided after my clawless cat, Squirt, gained enough weight that he could flatten the snaggle-clawed Sully by dropping onto his back like a cinderblock.

Once Sully accepted his position in the hierarchy of cats, things were better. He began following me from room to room, and seemed smitten with me for a while. It was a brief honeymoon, though. Soon he was back to whapping the dog on the forehead, attempting to swing from Gypsy's tail whenever it dangled, and refusing to budge from the highchair where Squirt eats his meals.

Sully quickly went from treating me like the love of his life to treating me like his automatic door and can opener. Outside, he was the self-designated wildlife control expert. Inside, he specialized in sour looks and hair relocation.

We entered a frustrating phase. Having Sully around was like having all the expenses and labor of owning a pet with none of the perks. While my other two cats were often so clingy I referred to them as "lap fungus," Sully rarely gave me the time of day.

And then a month or so back, I was standing at the sink when I noticed a blouse slowly disappearing through the crack beneath my bathroom door. Once it was gone, a black paw appeared, feeling this way and that, hoping to snag something else. From my side, I began handing him things--a sock, a hair band, a belt. When I peeked out at him, his eyes were glowing with mischief rather than wrath.

It's become our routine. Every morning I shut the door, and he shoves his paw underneath.

It wasn't food or warm towels or a dry place to sleep that crumbled his wall, but a simple game. One that belonged to just him and me.

The other day, a good hour or more after we'd played, I was walking past Sully to pick up some clothes when I heard something I'd not heard before. Sully was purring. I wasn't touching him--I wasn't even looking his way--but he had begun to purr loudly anyway. He's done it many times since.

In the days since then, he's reduced his scowling to maybe 80 percent of the time, has not hissed even once, and has permitted a few belly rubs without causing me to loose that much blood.

To most, they'd be milestones too minor to mention. But for me, they count very much.

More LOST rambling

2006-10-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

I wish I could draw more LOST fans here so we could get a big conversation going about the show. I get so confused by it at times, especially this episode with the flashbacks on Sun's life.

At the beginning, it showed Sun breaking that ballerina statue, then telling her dad the maid did it. The dad said, "If the maid did it, then I will have to fire her." He knew Sun did it, but he asked her again, I guess hoping that by knowing the maid would lose her job if Sun didn't tell the truth, that she'd fess up. Instead, she still blamed the maid.

I'm thinking that scene was to let us know that Sun isn't so nice after all, and now I'm wondering if it wasn't Sun that pushed her lover off the building.

Did Sun accidentally or deliberately shoot the woman on the boat? (The actress she shot plays my favorite character in Deadwood.) I'd looked away from the TV for just a second and all I heard was the shot.

I still like Sun and don't want her character to end up being bad. Flawed is fine, but not evil.

I got such a kick out of Sawyer watching Kate digging. His facial expressions were perfect. And when he kissed her--I love how he figured out a way to do that while at the same time feeling out the fighting capability of the Others.

Juliette is bizarre. Something about her seems kind, but she also has this evil-ness to her.

OK, so the Others obviously have contact with the outside world. They have CDs and camping-style folding chairs and weapons that weren't around 20-30 years ago. Yet Ben said he'd never been off the island. Hmmm.

One thing I have trouble with . . . Remember Danielle? (I think that's her name.) The French woman who was shipwrecked on the island ages ago, killed the rest of her crew because they were infected? She's been there all those years, been all over the island, yet she's never tripped over this big ol' village the Others have right out in the open? I hope the writers have explanations for all the clues and twists and unexplained things they keep throwing at the viewers.

In case you missed it

2006-10-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

It's been SO hard for me to keep quiet about Celeste's book, but I had to wait to officially anounce it until after the story appeared.

Click here to listen to Celeste's interview with Anna Sale on WV Public Radio. She sounds a little unsure of herself in this interview, but it didn't last long. By the time we went over to V100 for the Thursday bit I do there on Ric Cochran's show, she was a different kid--confident and funny and well-spoken. She put the headset on and pulled down the mic like she'd done it a hundred times before.

She's going to be on Good Morning West Virginia at 7:40 on Oct. 18, then appear that same day at the Town Center Mall along with a bunch of us from the Gazette and Daily Mail in our "Meet the Press" event from 11:30 to 1:30.

Here's the story about her that ran in the October 08, 2006 Sunday Gazette-Mail

YOUNG WRITER PUBLISHES FIRST BOOK

By Susan Williams, Staff writer

Although 9-year-old Celeste Vingle stayed calm as she explained her writing career, she said, "I screamed," when she saw her first book in print.

"When Good Babies Go Bad" tells the story of what can happen when seemingly good babies decide to throw food or feed an older sibling's homework to the family pet.

Even though she competed with adults, Celeste's book was selected in a children's book competition at last year's book festival. She was a mere 7 when she wrote the book during a family vacation. She won the contest when she was 8, and now she is a published author at age 9.

The name Vingle frequently can be seen in the pages of The Charleston Gazette. Celeste's father, Mitch, is the Gazette's sports editor, and her mother, Karin Fuller, writes a column in The Sunday Gazette-Mail. Celeste's stepfather, Geoff Fuller, is also a writer.

All the writers around her influence her, Celeste said, but she writes about different subjects than they do. She is presently working on three screenplays at the same time. She enjoys seeing plays performed, and currently has a part in a play, the Children's Theater production of "Hansel and Gretel." She plays a cookie and a towns-person, and is a member of the chorus.

Two years ago, Celeste was in the car on her way to a family vacation. She was listening, more than her mother realized, to what her mother had learned at a writing retreat taught by children's author Cheryl Ware. While her stepfather drove, her mother started suggesting ideas for children's books. Celeste had some ideas of her own, and quickly began jotting them down. By the time they reached their destination, she had the first draft of her book.

For winning the contest, Celeste's book was professionally edited, and then a professional illustrator did the drawings for it.

The books are available for $9.95 in the Gazette newsroom or online at Amazon.com. Some local bookstores might offer the book soon. Celeste will be signing her books during the West Virginia Book Festival Oct. 21 to 22, where she will be sharing a booth with her stepfather.

With her friend Jordan Holmes, Celeste also won third place in a writing contest sponsored by the West Virginia Writers for a story called "The Cat Lady's Revenge on the Purple Bean Man." They split their winnings. ($12.50 each.)

When she is not writing, the Rock Branch Elementary school student likes to hang out with her friends and play with her two dogs and three cats.

In the Gazette, Celeste's parents wrote about a tragedy that struck their family after Celeste's baby sister, Camille Gabriella Vingle, was diagnosed with Spinal Muscular Atrophy. The baby girl died in November 2002. Celeste dedicated her book to her sister, and part of the money Celeste will earn from her book will go to research into finding a cure for the disease.

For other budding writers, Avantgarde Publishing Co. of Ashland, Ky., is holding a new Great Kid's Book II contest with a deadline of Oct. 30. For more information about the contest, visit www.avantgardepublishing.com.

Her mother said she tried to explain to Celeste that she was facing stiff competition in last year's contest. Having some experience with writing contests herself, Fuller said she tried to prepare Celeste that she might not win. Now that she's won both a first and a third place in the two contests she's entered, "She now thinks this writing stuff is easy," said her mother.

Hamster Dance

2006-10-06T05:53:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, when I share a story about a sleep-deprived, pet-owning mother, it's myself I'm talking about. But not this time. This time the sleep-deprived mother was Koral Midkiff of Barboursville (formerly of Charleston), sharing the story of her night in an email to her mom, Kathy Canonico. Who shared it with me (with her daughter's permission).

It seems Koral was having trouble getting her 11-year-old daughter, Taylor, to bed. "I can't get her to settle down and go to sleep, and I have to get up for work at 4:30 a.m.," Koral writes. "She keeps coming into my room asking for silly things, like wanting to wash her hair, even though it's well after midnight."
Taylor has a pet hamster, Potato ("a fitting name for a round, tan ball of fur"), that usually lives in a habit trail, but thanks to Taylor's constant state of motion that night, the hamster has somehow come to be roaming the hallway.

"I'm yelling at Taylor to GO TO SLEEP and she's yelling back at me just as loud," writes Koral. "The cat jumps off the bed and a few seconds later, we hear this piercing 'Eeek!' We both realize what the sound is: The cat has Potato.

"Taylor screams. I hear panic and tears in her voice, so like any good mom--in spite of how frustrated and tired I am, in spite of knowing that at best, I'll only have three hours of sleep (if I ever actually get to sleep)--I take off flying downstairs after the cat.

"About the same time I'm slipping on a pile of dirty clothes at the bottom of the stairs, I catch a glimpse of the cat and I realize where it's headed--through the cat door, Potato in tow.

"Of course, I'm not wearing my fancy matching pajamas. Oh no. Instead, I'm barefoot and wearing my 'git-r-done' pajama bottoms and a non-matching purple tank top (with no bra). But I know if I don't get this hamster back, there will be hysterical tears all night long and I'll never, ever get any sleep.

"So out the front door I go. At 1 a.m. Chasing after a cat with a screeching hamster in its mouth. Yelling, 'Drop it! Drop it!' as loud as I dare.

"The cat tears around the corner of the apartment parking lot across the street and I'm right behind him. Finally, I get close enough to scare the cat into letting go of Potato, only now I realize that instead of chasing the cat, I'm going to be chasing a still-screeching hamster. I know he's so traumatized that even if I do manage to catch him, it's probably going to cost me a chunk of my hand, but catching him doesn't seem very likely as he shoots off across the grass.

"I sprint across the lawn and manage to stop him by trapping him under my bare foot, then carefully reach down and scoop up Potato and head back to the house, all the while trying to verbally soothe the trembling rodent.

"The bottoms of my pajama pants are soaked from running through the wet grass, and I'm out of breath and panting, but I feel good--picturing how happy and grateful my daughter will be when she sees what I've done.

"I walk in the house and look up to the top of the stairs, holding Potato up victoriously.

"'I got him!' I say proudly. 'He's alive!'

"Taylor looks at me, blinks and yawns, then says, 'That's good, Mom. I'm tired. I'm going to bed.' Then she turns and goes to her room, closing the door behind her. Leaving me and Potato looking at each other at the foot of the stairs.

"You know, I'd been thinking about asking the doctor to run some tests to find out why I'm so tired all the time, but if I really stop and think about it, it would be a waste of money."

And trust me, Koral. There are many other pet-owning, sleep-deprived mothers who have thought that same thing.

Do you have a story as funny as this one you'd be willing to share? If so, PLEASE send it to karinfuller@cnpapers.com.

LOST!

2006-10-05T10:47:00.000-07:00

I LOVED how the episode began. It was totally disconcerting. Absolutely perfect beginning. This seems like a promising start, but so many questions . . .

I'm sure many male LOST fans were cheering the writers for finding a way to get Kate into that dress. (I love how Sawyer looks at her. He's so tough and cocky the rest of the time, but the way he softens when she's around-I'm a sucker for that.)

What's up with Sawyer being in the cage, Kate being in the dress and dining on the beach, and Jack being in that glassed-in room? Am I understanding it right--is Jack's "cell" some kind of underwater aquarium? (That would explain the water coming in when he opened the hatch.)

I'm guessing the way the Others are treating each of them is supposed to mean something, but I'm not getting it. Do they see Sawyer as an animal? Kate as a lady? Jack as a shark?

Speaking of Jack, he was thoroughly annoying last night. The way he was so stubborn with yanking on that chain hanging from the ceiling; the way he insisted on opening that hatch; the way he leapt to the conclusion that his father was sleeping with his wife even though he watched her sort of nuzzling some other man in a school yard. I was sort of cheering Juliet when she slugged him.

Back to Sawyer. When the kid helped him escape, was that some kind of psychological test? I mean, the kid opened that cage so easily that he could've left any time, right? Sawyer didn't tell him which direction to go to find the other camp, and after he released Sawyer, he told him which way to go—the complete opposite direction from him. But Juliet was right there waiting for him, dart gun at the ready. It seemed like something designed to frustrate Sawyer and put him in his place.

Ben told Kate the next two weeks were going to be terrible, and she came back with her wrists all bloody, plus she was hungry, even though there was all that food at the beach, so something must've happened there between her and Ben.

OK, here's my theory. The island used to house a research station where they performed some pretty serious tests on electromagnetism and psychology. Maybe even testing of psychic abilities. After a few years of these tests, there was some kind of incident that caused something awful (similar to radiation poisoning) that forced the island to be quarantined and the scientists and test subjects have either been abandoned or are being protected from the outside. Not sure which.

Just thought of something--remember the polar bear from the first season? And the horse? Maybe they used to be in those cages, part of the study.

I have so many questions. Why do the Others want the children? What were the monsters (mostly seen in the first season)? Hurley once referred to the monster as a "pissed off giraffe." Could it really have been a giraffe that has mutated because of whatever it was exposed to? Still, it had a mechanical sound, didn't it? What are the whispers? Is that some kind of hallucination caused by whatever it is that contaminated the island?

The song "Downtown" feels like some sort of a clue (Juliet was playing it at the very beginning). I think it played on the show before. Every time there is music--even in Jack's flashback--it's something old, not current. But was it on a CD or a record or what? Did they show that? I missed the first few seconds where they might've shown that.

C'mon someone. Talk LOST with me.

Oh yeah--did anyone watch "The Nine" that came on right after "Lost?" I liked it. The only part I didn't much care for is that starved-looking woman from 24 is part of the cast. She plays the District Attorney.

(If you do a head count, there are ten shown here, but one gets killed in first episode.)

Sad news...

2006-10-03T11:01:00.000-07:00

Just ten days after Mac died, another of my parent's dogs died, too. Rosie was only about 8 years old and seemed to be in really good health until a couple of days after Mac died. They took her to the vet, where they were told she was in kidney failure. The vet kept her on an IV for days, and she seemed to be improving. They knew they wouldn't have her for long, but thought they'd at least get her home and maybe have a few more months. They were supposed to get her on Saturday, but early Saturday morning, they got a phone call saying she'd died during the night.

Rosie was such a bossy little character, quick to sound the alarm or put in her two cents. Their house feels far too quiet now. All that's left is Daisy, who is deaf and seems partly blind, and their cat.

Kids say...

2006-09-30T17:33:00.000-07:00

My friend Mary Ellen has a nine-year-old daughter, Amelia, who is naturally funny, although I'm not certain she's funny on purpose.

Each year, the grade school Amelia attends holds a celebration to recognize the 100th day of school. The students in her grade class were to complete a writing assignment telling what they believed they'd be doing when they were 100. This is Amelia's.

"When I am 100, I will be playing bingo at the Greenlodge Nursing Home. I will be married with one child who never comes to visit."

Mary Ellen told me about another time, when Amelia was just three years old, they went to a Friendly's Restaurant for lunch, where they each ordered a hot dog. When Amelia's hot dog arrived, there was a large dill pickle next to it on the plate. Amelia, looking thoroughly disgusted, and said, "A salad! I didn't order a salad!"

(Says Mary Ellen, "I guess you can tell there aren't many green things eaten at our house.")

Last winter, another of my friends was helping the children at her daughter's kindergarten class get their coats at the end of the day. She said a tiny blonde girl came up to her and asked, "Have you seen my gloves? They're pink." The little girl paused, seemed to be considering something, then added, "And they're kind of shaped like my hand."

My own nine-year-old daughter, Celeste, comes up with funny lines on a regular basis. The other day, she was showing her stepdad a very loose tooth, then mentioned that she needed to run over to our neighbor Carolyn's house so she could pull it for her. (She's better at it than me.)

Geoff said, "It's getting late. If you're going to go, you'd better go now."

Celeste looked him in the eye and said, "Not this second." She allowed there to be a long, silent pause, then said. "Not this second either."

"You're a strange kid," said Geoff.

"I'm not strange," she said quickly. "I'm unique."

Geoff and I recently moved our bedroom down to our basement, right before he left town for a few days. With him gone, Celeste decided to sleep downstairs with me. At bedtime, I put her hair in two braids to help keep it from tangling, then I told her it made her look like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. The next morning, she was awakened by her shaggy, little dog standing on her chest, tugging her braid. She looked around at the unfamiliar room and said, "Hey, Toto. I don't think we're in Kansas any more."

Celeste has more than her fair share of hair, and when allowed to hang loose, it can wind up looking like a brown bush--something that drives her father (who has personal hair retention issues) up the wall.

One day last week, when Celeste was looking especially primitive, Mitch complained, "Your hair is a mess."

She looked up at her father's aerodynamic noggin, squinted hard, then said, "And so are both of yours."

I'm proud that my girl never curses. In fact, I suspect she sees herself as the self-appointed head of the profanity patrol. If she hears one of us slip and say a bad word, she makes us apologize to God for being offensive.

So it came as a huge surprise when, after she banged her head while jumping on the bed, I heard her say, "Man, if I cursed right now, I'd probably say sh**."

Yard Sale POSTPONED

2006-09-30T03:55:00.000-07:00

Because of the rain early Saturday morning, the V100 yard sale has been postponed until next Saturday, October 7.

Of course, we decided to load the van last night. *sigh*

V100 Yard Sale

2006-09-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

Remember earlier this year when I swore I'd never have another yard sale? Well, I lied. I'm having one tomorrow (Saturday, Sept. 30) along with scads of other people at V100's big yard sale at the Kanawha Mall from 8 am until noon.

Much as I hate going through this again, I could really use the money, especially with Christmas not that far away. I still have the attic and one closet to go through tonight, as well as some clothes to price. I don't have anywhere near as much stuff as I did the last time around, but it's still amazing how fast it accumulates, especially considering how seldom I shop. Where does it all come from?

Wish me luck!

Let sleeping columnists Lie

2006-09-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

I occasionally have trouble with insomnia. It's something I've mentioned it in my columns and on my Gazz blog a few times in the past. After a day or two without sleep, I'm not all that bad. But by several days in, I'm a nut. I do stupid things.

For instance, it was a lack of sleep that once prompted me to believe it was a good idea to use a box of (extremely expired) hair color I found while cleaning a bathroom cabinet at 2 am.

It's what caused me to alphabetize our spices, Superglue two fingers to a Popsicle stick, and get so angry with Stephen King over how he ended Pet Sematary that I got rid of all of his books.

Thankfully, my insomnia bouts don't usually last more than a week or so at a time. Whatever stressor kindled my curse will soon have weakened or passed, and I'll be back to getting my usual five or six hours of z's.

Determined to squeeze something positive from these aggravating times, I started recording the bits of wisdom I've learned during my middle-of-the-night meanderings.

For instance, I've learned it's not smart to take an opinionated dog for a middle-of-the-night walk around homes occupied by easily offended, light-sleeping dogs.

I've learned that at 2 a.m., if you can't tell the difference between ivory, eggshell and off white, it's best to wait until daylight to paint rather than trust that your choice truly is "close enough."

And I've learned it's not a good idea to attempt to trim tangles out of the hair of the neighborhood cat without having a potential donor matching your blood type close by.

Those without sleep shouldn't attempt to tweeze their eyebrows, cut their own bangs, or be allowed anywhere near a home bikini wax kit.

And they should know to never hit "send" even though they're certain the recipient of their cleverly worded email will not only understand, but appreciate, the bizarre tome for the wittily sarcastic masterpiece that it is.

I've learned that bad lunchmeat can smell just fine at 2 a.m.
And that one's judgment over whether the contents of the dishwasher are clean or dirty can be grossly wrong.

I've learned Dirty Dancing is on practically 24 hours a day, that David Oreck never sleeps, that Tom Bosley must be down on his luck, and that it's terribly important to Wilford Brimley that his diabetic supplies be delivered right to his door.

I've learned sleep deprivation can make one incapable of following story lines involving anything more complicated than, "Mr. Brown can moo. Can You?"

And that rearranging furniture while the rest of the family is sleeping can bring about entertaining results.

I've learned there are long infomercials that run all hours of the night featuring young women who can't restrain themselves from lifting their shirts while yelling out, "Woo!"

And that writing down the many stupid things one does after several days without sleep can fill up a column.

Mac

2006-09-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

It's never easy to lose a dog, but Mac did what he could to make it easier for my folks. On Wednesday night, he waited until Mom went upstairs to talk to Dad, then he died. He was a gentleman right up to the end.

A little over 15 years ago, when I still lived on the next ridge over from my parents, Mac was dumped at the end of our road. I spotted him as I drove past on my way to work. He was sitting there, very straight, like a sentry on duty, his posture perfect. Almost rigid.

Around 6 that evening, as I drove home from work, the Shepherd-Chow pup was still there. He looked stubbornly certain that whoever left him was going to return. Dad and I talked about stopping, but decided the pup probably belonged with a truck parked nearby. At 9:30 that night, I went out again. The truck was gone, but the pup was still there. His loyalty to the people who abandoned him in such a dangerous place broke my heart. I called Dad. He brought him home.

At the time, my parents already had Molly, Mitzi, Millie, Jade and Shorty (shepherd, sheepdog, elkhound, shepherd and dustmop, respectively). What was one more?

Mac was pretty much the most perfect pet you could ask for--intensely intelligent and terribly proud. But he had a few quirks--he was very sensitive about his hygiene, and he growled a lot. The two went together.

If you told Mac he smelled funny, he'd growl. If you sniffed the air the way you might at an strange smell, he would growl. Even if you happened to be in a different room from him and casually remarked about an offensive odor: "Grrr "

The first time my ex-husband, Mitch, ever visited my parents' house, Mac was having a hard time deciding if Mitch was friend or foe. He (Mac, not Mitch) was under the table at the time, head between Mitch's knees, teeth bared, poised dangerously close to Mitch's manhood.

I couldn't resist. I sniffed.

Mitch could never quite get the humor in that.

FISHING FOR IDEAS

2006-09-20T06:04:00.000-07:00

It just occurred to me that I could use this blog space to fish for ideas for future columns.
I'd love to hear your suggestions, funny anecdotes, embarrassing moments (I doubt I'll ever run out of my own personal supply of those). Was there something that touched you that you'd like me to help share? Some adventure or endeavor?

I'm not a reporter, so I can't get into anything investigative or terribly complicated (the latter because I write the columns on my own time rather than the company clock, and I'm spread far too thin right now to devote many hours), but I'd love to hear your suggestions. The quirkier, the better.

If you don't want to post here on the blog, you can send me at email at karinfuller@cnpapers.com.

no column tomorrow

2006-09-16T17:03:00.000-07:00

I've been so sleep deprived I decided to take a week off from the column. Got an hour of sleep one night, nearly two hours the next. Wasn't up for trying to pull something together after a few days of that. The insomnia seems to have finally broken, as I've slept the past two nights, so I'm feeling worlds better.

This afternoon, Geoff and I went to see The Black Dahlia. He liked it, I hated it. At first, I thought the whole film noir thing was cool, but it wasn't enough to make up for shallow characters and an implausible, coincidence-dependent plot.

American Idol concert

2006-09-15T13:44:00.000-07:00

Celeste and I went to the American Idol concert in Huntington last night with our across-the-street neighbor Trish and her son, Jordan. We had such a great time. Celeste said it was one of the best nights of her life. (Perhaps not so much a good thing as it is a sad reflection on the rest of her life.)

I don't really follow the show like most people there did, and I'm certainly not the huge fan Celeste is. I didn't know the names of most of the singers so Celeste helped me with these names. I apologize if I get one wrong.

Mandisa was the first act, and a good one to start with. What a powerful voice. Lisa and Paris were next--both entertaining and competent, although not terribly memorable. I don't remember the order after that. I think the next one out was Ace. I can't honestly say how good a singer Ace was because I was too distracted by his purty arms and the glare from his teeth. He's just too darn cute. Who cares if he can sing?

I think Kellie was next and she seemed like such a genuinely nice person. She knew how to get the crowd to love her. She should consider a career in politics or PR. She'd be a natural. Somewhere in there was Elliott and Chris. I thought Chris was very impressive and seemed the most professional singer of the bunch (and the one with the most star potential).

Finally, Katherine took the stage. She was (and still is) Celeste's favorite. Such a beautiful woman with such perfect everything--hair, body, voice--but something seemed to be missing from her performance, although I can't say what. She didn't stay on stage as long as the other singers. Maybe that's all it was.

Taylor Hicks was his usually passionate, strange-dancing self, but he also seemed tired at times (understandably). I thought his choice of "Country Roads" was a great idea, but it looked like he forgot the words and decided to just sing the one part he did know over and over again. The crowd didn't care. They went wild over him. He was the obvious favorite.

My biggest thrill, though, was watching Celeste dancing on her chair, clapping her hands over her head, singing along. She was totally into it, thoroughly enjoying herself. She's really putting that reserved side behind her.

Multi-tasking Madness

2006-09-07T08:36:00.000-07:00

I was on the phone with my mom, doing what I usually do when I'm at home on the phone-loading the dishwasher, unloading the dryer, folding clothes. In constant motion. Mom asked to speak with Celeste, who was quietly sitting on the couch, watching a show. As soon as I handed my daughter the phone, she immediately stood and started futzing around, moving things from here to there, her shoulder pinning the phone to her ear so she could use both hands like I do. It seemed as though she didn't think it was possible to talk on the phone while sitting still.

Likely because it's something she's not once seen me do.

I recently read about a work-from-home mother, Alana Morales, who claims she's the queen of multi-tasking, saying she "lacks the ability to do less than three things at a time.

"For me, torture would be to sit on the couch doing absolutely nothing, knowing my kitchen was messy and my kid's clothes needed washed," she wrote. "After about 19 seconds, I would begin to tremble. After a minute I would look like I was going through detox. After five minutes, you'd have to strap me to the couch because that's the only way I would be able to not do anything."

She admitted there's a downside to her efficiency. "When I sit down to watch a movie or TV show, I'm still working or thinking about working or feeling guilty about not working."

It's a feeling with which I'm completely familiar.

I'm not sure when "multi-tasking" first joined our vocabulary, but the term now makes me wince, especially when I hear it used as though it's a positive thing. Many businesses embraced the concept of employees who could perform many tasks at the same time and began "cross-training" their staff members so each was capable of performing the other one's job. Once this cross-training was achieved, downsizing often occurred, with the responsibilities of the slashed positions being divvied up among those who remained.

And those who remained were forced to juggle more assignments and responsibilities than ever before, frequently switching from one project to another, forever prioritizing which is most urgent.

With fragmented thoughts and minds that, although still working on one task, have already moved on to the next, these employees are expected to give 100 percent (or, more likely, 110). They become so accustomed to juggling more and more pins at the same time they don't notice multitasking spreading into other parts of their life.

They don't notice that they've started to view a walk downtown or a drive in their car as intolerably unproductive unless they have a cell phone pressed to their head. Or that they have more eating utensils in their desk drawer than at home in their kitchen. Or that they've begun carrying separate calendars for each family member.

Instead, most multi-taskers seem proud of their productivity, rattling off their responsibilities with that same strange mixture of self-pity and glee as a four-year-old with a bandaged scratch. Instead of seeing it as a consuming distraction, they brag about how much they accomplish.

People who are compelled to fill every quiet moment with a phone call or some kind of e-stimulation are depriving themselves of a much-needed reprieve. I worry that habitual multitasking will condition our brains to an over-stimulated state, making it difficult to focus even when you want to. Thoughts are too fragmented. They come in short bits. Like a perpetually scrolling to-do list. Get milk. Get kids? Schedule meeting. Work out. Got shoes? Design ad. Cancel appointment. Call boss.

It can't possibly be good. You can't turn on the TV without seeing a commercial for an antidepressant or sleep aid. You can't talk to a doctor without hearing about the dangers of stress. We flip through channels, skim the headlines, and hammer out emails so fast we don't slow for punctuation or capitalization, resorting instead to acronyms and emoticons.

It's like living an index.

Yet we keep piling it on, accepting it as our lot. And I can't see it changing any time soon. We've become too good at it.

And our children, following our example, are becoming good at it, too.

2006-09-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't been posting much lately. I'm in the midst of one of my reclusive moods. I'm social enough when the need arises, but for some reason, I tend to withdraw every so often. This is one of those times. I'm well suited for being a hermit, I think, or one of those crazy old ladies with 43 cats. I'm not depressed so much as I am contemplative. (And terribly tired. Insomnia sucks.)

On the up-side, Celeste is loving school this year. She got the teacher she badly wanted, and her best friends are in her class. She also got a part in Hansel & Gretel, which is being put on by the Children's Theater the last weekend in October at the Clay Center. She's in the chorus, plays a townsperson and (she loves this part) a cookie. She doesn't have any individual lines. She's always part of a group, which is just fine with her. She loves being on stage, loves being around acting and singing and other kids who like those same things, but didn't seem to care whether she got a big part or small. She just wanted to be there.

She's coming out of her shyness in an amazing way. I imagine she'll always be a quiet and somewhat reserved kid, but she's trying hard not to be AS quiet and reserved as in the past. I need to follow her lead.

Fearing future forensic finds

2006-09-01T06:52:00.001-07:00

I HAVE A NEW FEAR. It springs from having watched one too many episodes of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

For those who have never watched the popular CBS show (or one of its spin-offs, CSI Miami and CSI New York), the series follows a team of forensic scientists as they investigate the circumstances behind unusual and mysterious crimes and death.

A typical show opens with the CSI team arriving at the scene of a gruesome murder, then the investigators poke and prod the body, all the while talking casually to each other in their smooth investigator jargon, which they occasionally mark with gallows humor.

Then the team members begin exploring the scene of the crime with their trademark tactical flashlights (a Surefire M4 Devastator-a detail only true fans can appreciate), carefully examining each nook and cranny, under beds, in closets and drawers, extricating and bagging every apparently sinister-looking fiber they find.

And thus comes my new fear--that I'll die in some bizarre sort of way that'll require a team of investigators to inspect every inch of my house.

I imagine Grissom peeking under my bed, the long-time favorite den of our shoe-chewing dogs. "Maybe we should have the Hazmat team go through here first," he might say with his bemused smirk.

Or Stokes, he of the chiseled jaw, looking around my domestically neglected abode and saying, "I hope we bought the extended warranty for our electrostatic dust lifter."

Former exotic dancer Catherine Willows would likely appear deeply disgusted while examining my lingerie, adorned with SpongeBob's likeness, as she dangles it at arm's length from the tip of her pen.

Sara Sidle would be standing, hands on hips, shaking her head over how to discern which of the thousands of fingerprints might've come from the perp.
And Warrick Brown would be busy for months trying to analyze the many bite marks he'd find all through my house.

Oh please, let me die from some boring cause or with so many witnesses present no investigation will be required. Please don't let there be a need for me to be stretched out on a table while a virtual camera zooms, complete with slurpy sound effects, into my wound in order that viewers can better visualize my exact cause of death.

Come to think of it, though, there are many CSI techniques that could come in handy in everyday life.

For instance, DNA swabbing of family members could help determine who was guilty of licking off half of the icing from the cake.

And attention could be called to whatever needs done by placing little orange evidence markers next to all non-hampered clothes, unfinished homework, overdue library books, and dirty dishes left in the living room.

Genetic matching could be used to determine which neighborhood dog is responsible for building its own mountain (one deposit at a time) at the foot of your yard.

And a simple bacteria test could determine whether a child's hands have really been washed.

Replicating blunt-force trauma would be perfect for cleaning rugs.

And the beam from a Surefire Devastator flashlight would be ideal whenever you need to entertain cats.

The agony of de-feet (or actually, de-shoes)

2006-08-25T07:22:00.000-07:00

We have a pup that likes to eat shoes.

He isn't discriminating. Most any shoe will do. Sneakers and heels, slippers and boots-he seems to find them equally tasty. But to find a pair of unguarded flip-flops-that is his creme de la creme. He dines on them with great relish (and sometimes, great mustard). It seems no matter how well we hide them or how high we hang our cheap summer shoes, our wee pooch can sniff them out whenever he's in the mood for a snack.

Recently, the flip-flop pickings were especially easy for him. I was packing my suitcase, distracted and hurried, trying to leave town for the weekend. Finally ready to go out the door, I went to step into my shoes and found the entire right big toe section of pair #144 was gone.

Not wanting to delay my departure to search for less digested footwear, I put on the shoes anyway, thinking I'd simply stop at a Kmart or another cheap shoe place along the way.

Several times over the course of that weekend, I went searching for shoes. In this, the blessed Season of Clearance, I expected to find a great bargain. For a skinflint like me, full-price would never do. Yet the flip-flops pickings were slim. Only strange colors and odd sizes remained. (I briefly confused one oversized, bright yellow pair for some sort of flotation device. And sadly, the pair nearly fit.)

It wasn't until, as I was heading back home on Sunday, that I stopped at a Target and found a pair of Clearance Keds that fit both my size and price range. In a hurry, I snatched up the simple, cute shoes-white canvas flip-flops with a fairly thick, padded sole-without trying them on. Since the shoes were attached to each other with a thin, plastic strap, I tossed the shoes, still in their box, next to me in the car.

I was in a hurry to get back to Poca in time to make a 2 p.m. meeting, and I was cutting it close. There was no time to stop at home first. I pulled into the parking lot with just one minute to spare. Not wanting to go into the meeting wearing dog-nibbled footwear, I used my keys to cut through the plastic strap that bound my new shoes, then quickly put them on my feet and made a dash for the door.

Something felt strange. It sounded strange, too. But there was no time for such matters. There was a serious meeting to attend.

Except I quickly learned it's hard to be taken seriously when one of your shoes sounds like a baby rattle and the other like a dog's squeaky toy.

With each step, my left foot gave off a loud, "SHUSH!", which it followed with a sound that was something like rocks in a hubcap. Then my right foot went "Skwee-KEEEY." Imagine, if you will, a mouse with a microphone that's being squeezed and goosed at the same time.

Heads turned. People chuckled. With as much dignity as I could muster, I pretended the sound effects weren't coming from me.

There was a time during the meeting when I would have liked to have stood, but seated, I stayed. And there was a time when all those cups of coffee I'd consumed during the drive made themselves known in a most uncomfortable fashion, but knowing my shoes would cause too much disruption, I forced my molars to swim. Once the meeting had ended, I wanted to leave, but too many neighbors were still milling about, so I waited at my table until nearly all were gone. When the largest quantity of witnesses had dispersed, I headed out to my car.

Shush-rattle--skwee-keeey!

Now fully aware why the shoes were only four bucks.

FOOTNOTE: Once home, I took off the shoes and gave them to our pup. He looked confused, even backed away a few steps, apparently believing it was some sort of trick. Try as I might, I could not convince him the shoes were a gift. Finally, I put them back on and started to walk. The sound caused our pup to tilt his head way left, then way right. And then pounce.

Then those shoes got what was coming to them.

I feel kinda silly posting this, but...

2006-08-24T04:05:00.000-07:00

I promised my daughter I would.

Tuesday was Murry's 4th birthday, so Celeste and her friend Dani made him a cake (Pedigree canned dog food with Cheese Whiz icing and rawhide candles).

I wasn't home to see it, so they took these pictures for me.

(The Cheese Whiz flames on the candles were a nice touch, don't you think?)

2006 dog swim

2006-08-21T08:42:00.000-07:00

A few scenes from the dog swim/costume contest/pet tricks contest this past Saturday in Kanawha City. We had a great time. There weren't many participants in the contests, but plenty showed up for the swim. The dog in the swimsuit was hilarious--from the back, it looked like it was wearing a thong. The one on the right was supposed to be Flower, the skunk from Bambi, but as soon as her owner (Gazette lifestyles editor Rosalie Earle) put the whipped cream down her dog's back, she shook it right off.

(That's Celeste and her pup, Chewie, dressed as WVU and Marshall football players.)

Below is the winner of the pet tricks contest. (Sorry--I don't have that name.) This dog was too cute. There was maybe an inch or two of water in this container and this dog, who was much bigger than she looks in this picture, climbed right in, walked in circles for ages, then finally curled herself up like this.

There will be another dog swim on Saturday, September 9 (10 am to 5 pm) and on Sunday, September 10 (3 pm to 7 pm) at Cato Park Swimming Pool. The event is totally free, but they're collecting supplies and food to donate to the Kanawha-Charleston Animal Shelter.

Waiters on wheels

2006-08-18T05:57:00.000-07:00

The email wasn't meant to make me feel better about my own job, but it did.

"The next time you're having trouble coming up with a story, go to www.tipthepizzaguy.com and do a little research," wrote a local pizza delivery person recently.

The writer then shared a typical day of searching for homes without numbers or porch lights, of dealing with people who send children to the door to pay to avoid tipping, of waiting for ages while those who ordered loads of food search under couch cushions for change to pay the tab.

Mostly, though, the driver was upset because many people want food delivered right to their door, but don't bother to tip.

Since I'd never given much thought to such things before, I took the emailer's advice and visited tipthepizzaguy.com. I was soon sucked into the site. It felt like I'd stumbled into a secret underworld of pizza delivery people.

The site has an interesting message board for venting and scads of delivery stories that give insight into a world most have never thought of before, a world where many customers try to get something for nothing, where they try to con drivers into giving them rides or picking up other items while on the way to their house, where they get hit on and hustled and hurt. (According to a 2006 Washington Times article, being a pizza delivery driver is the fifth most dangerous job in the U.S.)

"By having us deliver pizza right to your house," the driver wrote, "you don't have to use your own gas or your time, you don't have to find a parking spot or stand in line, then try to rush home before the pizza gets cold. Instead, you can spend the time doing chores or playing with your kids while your pizza is being delivered-nice and hot--to your door."

With gas prices nearing $3 a gallon, many pizza chains have added a delivery charge to the bill. Many people (myself included) thought the new delivery charge was much like the automatic gratuity many sit-down restaurants add to make certain their waitstaff doesn't get stiffed. "A lot of people think the delivery charge is my tip," wrote the driver. "They believe that since they are paying $1.50 for delivery, that should be enough."

Although some chains do share a small part of the fee (up to 20 cents), the surcharge covers the store's increased expenses for ingredients, their escalating per-run cost, and their insurance. The one making the delivery isn't the one who gets the so-called delivery charge.

Delivery drivers are risking their cars and lives, but just like waiters and waitresses, drivers are paid under minimum wage because most of their pay is supposed to come from tips.

One lurker at the site complained that delivery drivers don't deserve the same percentage as waiters because they don't seat the customer, refill their drinks, or do anything but bring the order, an opinion which prompted the webmaster to create an impressive chart with side-by-side comparisons between the two jobs.

"About half my customers did not tip," wrote the driver who created the website. "I was courteous and always thanked them for ordering. It was surprising so many didn't tip, yet they would smile, chat with me and express thanks. A few even called me their favorite driver. That led me to believe there was a general level of ignorance in the public. They simply didn't know about tipping."

The site recommends a $2 minimum tip, increased for bad weather, long distance, or if it takes a long time for you to complete the transaction. (If you still think tipping isn't necessary, go to the site and read what can sometimes happen to the pizzas of those who make a habit of stiffing the drivers. It's an appetite killer.) In a nutshell, if you can't afford the tip, you can't afford to have the pizza delivered.

Among the strange observations about tipping was that the best tippers tended to be those who order veggie pizzas, with meat lover types generally being the worst.

Other notable suggestions:

* It's ok to add the tip to the check.

* Avoid paying small tabs with large bills, or with bags of change.

* Give the driver the coupon, even if he doesn't remember to ask for it.

* If ordering from a business, notify the front desk and make sure your money is ready for the driver.

I have a new appreciation for what those drivers endure. And a new appreciation for my own job, as well. (And, for the record, I welcome tips, too.)

We're having a heat wave...

2006-08-12T16:57:00.000-07:00

Hot. So hot. Too hot to think.

Why, it's so hot I just saw a bird using a potholder to pull a worm out of the ground. So hot the trees are whistling for dogs, cows are giving evaporated milk, and farmers are feeding crushed ice to their chickens so they won't lay boiled eggs.

I don't do well in hot weather. All these years of living with air conditioning has me spoiled. I'm in awe of those who work outdoors during times like this, when it's so hot you just want to take off your skin and sit around in your bones.

The weather has made me a slug. Even though I'm in the artificially cool indoors approximately 23 1/2 hours a day, something about this weather leaves me feeling drained. I miss being able to sleep with the windows open and going for walks before dawn. I made it as far as the corner once this week before turning back. It was too muggy and damp.

Before dawn.

You can tell how wretched it is outside without getting near a thermometer. The streets are often as empty as they are in the midst of a blizzard. People are beginning to complain of cabin fever as much as they do in the winter.

I keep waiting for the weatherman-who has to be tired of saying the same thing day after day-to start ad-libbing. Instead of, "It's 95, but the heat index has it feeling like 110," I keep expecting to hear, "It's 95, but I'll tell you what. It feels like HELL. I just passed Lucifer a few minutes ago. He looked miserable."

What's the deal with this whole "heat index" thing anyway? I suppose it's the summer equivalent to "wind chill factor," a term sadistic weathermen use when saying "it's going to be 95 degrees with 100% humidity" just isn't enough.

The jokes about it being so hot you can fry an egg on the sidewalk are no longer just jokes--they're inspiration. One industrious woman from Bedford, N.H., made the news last week for baking cookies on the dash of her Toyota Rav4.

(I'm not sure why the big fuss, though. I use my car to prepare meals all the time. I call the technique, "drive-thru window.")

As a public service, I've decided to pass along some of the best tips I've collected for how to survive during this dangerously hot summer weather.

* Purchase a Celsius thermometer to enjoy summer temperatures that rarely exceed 35 degrees.

* If you have to sleep with the window open, stretch a damp sheet across the window.

* Wear your clothes wet, straight from the washer.

* Wear your underwear wet, straight from the freezer.

* Play Christmas music. (It probably won't make you feel any cooler, but the annoyance factor should distract you.)

* Duplicate the effects of a fan by deliberately aggravating those who talk with their hands.

* Block as much sunlight as possible. Room darkening shades are excellent. Eyelids also work well.

* Slip an ice cube down the back of a child. (I guarantee the child will "repay" you a dozen times over.)

* Move slowly. Very slowly. In fact, just stop moving altogether until this heat wave is past.

(Thanks to "Southern Miss" for sharing her "It's so hot..." collection.")

2006-08-10T10:08:00.000-07:00

I just clipped the Grand Avenue cartoon in today's other paper. It shows two kids talking to each other in the pool while their grandmother sits in a lounge chair.

"Why is it that adults don't swim when they go to a pool?"

"Come to think of it, why don't they swing when they go to a playground or climb trees when they go to a park?"

"So much for getting older and wiser."

"Remind me never to act my age."

Just last night, I was accused of not acting my age. Now I realize what a compliment that was. Celeste, Jordan and I had gone to see Monster House, then ran over to Walmart afterward to get cat food. As we were crossing the parking lot, the two of them were slightly ahead of me with a perfectly placed puddle in between.

I couldn't resist.

When my big feet splatted down in that puddle, water went everywhere. (heh heh)

They complained at first, of course, but then the three of us hit every other puddle there was.

Brace Face

2006-08-09T06:40:00.000-07:00

My girl is happy. She finally has her braces. In June, her orthodontist (Craig Miller, DDS) put an expander in the roof of her mouth, which we had to turn twice a day for ten days. It was amazing to watch her teeth, which had overlapped, quickly spread apart, without once causing her any discomfort. The expander came out on Monday and the braces went on. She chose silver and blue.

I'd like to give a pat on the back to whoever came up with the idea for making braces in different colors. They've gone from being dreaded to being cool.

Feedback

2006-08-07T08:56:00.000-07:00

I didn't expect Sunday's column (about the policy of giving awards to all children, regardless of whether they earned one) to generate much feedback, but my inbox was surprisingly full. Below is a sampling of some of the emails. (Some replies have been edited for length.)

It's nice to know there are so many others who feel the same way! Thank you for writing!

====================

Bravo! (or Brava!) on the messages children are getting today when they receive some award that's really not warranted. I'm an art teacher in an elementary setting. From Kindergarten to 5th grade, the kids are always exclaiming, "That's not fair!" about everything. I would have your father-in-laws' words painted on my classroom wall. One of the side effects from this "giving everyone something" theory is the children EXPECT something special for simply existing. I have students say, "Hey, we were good in your room today" or "I cleaned up my mess, do I get a treat?" My response is "You did what you were expected to do, so NO. I didn't maim any of you today. Do I get more on my paycheck?" I tell them their treat is knowing that they can behave like human beings and live with themselves as well as others. I can count on a few parents to inquire as to why their child did not get to participate in a special project. It's usually due to lack of responsibility with materials or behavior that requires an extra person in the room just to simply keep an eye on their child for inappropriate behavior. I even offer the invitation for the parent to be there with their child that day in order to participate. Has that ever happened? No. We're raising kids to have lame excuses for no consequences and no expectations to live up to their potential. That's evident in our society regarding the legal system, work ethics, etc. Now, we have parents crying "it's not fair" that they have to be involved with their kids education and child-rearing. Ugh. ~CC

As I watched parents bring their kids to school, I thought, "No wonder we're raising children that don't know how to function." They drive them to school, they carry their backpack, they walk them to class. Being a parent is without a doubt the toughest job a person will ever undertake, but many take it so lightly. We see those little babies and allow our hearts to overrule our heads. ~DH

I enjoyed your column. The trend not to make children work to achieve to the best of their ability cheats them in preparing for the skills they will need to succeed when they have to make career choices. The theory to make everyone feel good lowers the standard to encourage mediocrity and indifference in all phases of life. ~CT

Right on!!! My wife Peggy and I very much appreciated your excellent viewpoint. You have touched on something that has reached new heights with families, organizations and those that envy America. This would be an excellent study for someone or maybe even a book. This goes along with the 'there is more where that came from' throw-away and the 'you owe me' society. My parents were very good to me as a kid growing up in the Kanawha Valley during the 30's, 40' and 50's. We were taught by example to earn our way in school, at home and in life. Thanks again for your stepping forward. ~KL

This was not your funniest column, nor the saddest one, but it has to be one of the BEST ones! Everything you say is so true and needs to be shouted in schools and on sports fields. If I still attended PTA meeings, this column would be handed out at every September meeting, but, praise the Lord, I graduated from those over 25 years ago. Keep up the good work. ~JP

I read and agreed with your column. One of my pet peeves is the birthday party treat bag where the guests get more stuff to take home than the gift they brought to the party! They lose the spirit of giving in lieu of seeing how much stuff is for them in the treat bag. I'm in favor of just celebrating someone else on their birthday with nothing in return except the party (heaven forbid!!). And if it's your child's birthday on top of all the planning and expense of a party, you have to be sure the treat bags meet the "standard." ~CMM

(NOTE - this is another column I'd like to write someday. I refuse to do goody bags at my daughter's birthday parties and wish more parents would do the same. The last thing we need in our house is any more stuff, and for kids to think they're going to get something just for coming seems wrong. The party for their FRIEND should be enticement enough.)

The Call of the Wild

2006-08-05T04:36:00.000-07:00

You know how some dogs, when they find something dead, they just HAVE to roll in it until they're good and thoroughly stinky? Well, that's what our pup just did. Except the dead thing he was rolling in was a basketball bug. About the size of a comma.

All's not fair

2006-08-04T13:01:00.000-07:00

In some soccer coach's basement there is a little gold trophy with my daughter's name inscribed near the base. We never went to the post-season party to pick it up, never attempted to get it some other way. She didn't deserve it. And didn't want it. She hated soccer. She hated the uncomfortable shin guards, the goofy socks, and the boring black shoes.

She didn't like practice and she passionately--fervently--didn't like games. Still, for completing the season, they wanted to give her a trophy. I couldn't understand why. To my mind, if you start, you finish, and that gets an "atta girl"--not a trophy.

I recently shared a waiting room with two mothers whose conversation seemed to be about how life wasn't fair. One was complaining her son wasn't allowed to go on a field trip reserved 'unfairly' for high-achievers. She admitted her son made little effort to earn a spot on the trip, but in her eyes, it was unfair that others were rewarded while he was not. The other mother was upset because her son had received a failing grade for falling asleep in class repeatedly. "It's not fair," she said. "He turned in most of his assignments."

So let me see if I've got this right: Doing most of the assignments should be good enough to give her son a pass on that sleeping-in-class thing? Has our society become so obsessed with fairness that we're raising children to believe everyone should be treated the same, regardless of effort or talent or skill? Life isn't that way. Life isn't always fair.

When I mentioned this to my husband, Geoff, he told me about when he was a teenager. He was from a blended family--his father, who had two kids, married a woman with two children of her own. The two oldest boys were just entering their teenage years when they met. They were both used to being the oldest. The two younger were used to the slight privilege younger siblings sometimes receive. As you can imagine, cries of "That's not fair!" were soon commonplace. Geoff's father, Winston, sat all four of them down and said essentially this: "On any given day, life isn't fair. That's the way it goes. But we hope that in the long run, everything evens out. Live with it."

I fear we've become so obsessed with fairness that we're raising a generation that believes they're entitled to get the same as everyone else. But life isn't that way. By trying to run our schools and after-school activities counter to reality, I think we're doing a disservice to our children.

I've sat through awards assemblies where every child received some recognition. I've attended sporting events where every single participant carried out a big trophy. And every time I see it happen again, I shake my head.

The trophy is devalued. The certificate is nothing but a piece of nice paper with pretty type fonts. It means nothing. Costs nothing. In the quest to make everyone equal, to make everything be fair, no one is special. In an attempt to bolster self-esteem across the board, we seem to be saying esteem is valued more than hard work and achievement.

High self-esteem and low achievement are not a good mix. Research is now showing that exact combination leads to children who bully and engage in criminal behavior. Unrealistically high self esteem combined with low actual achievement leads to an exaggerated sense of entitlement, and is more likely to lead to frustration and aggressive, antisocial, and even criminal behavior. If we want to breed a generation of self-important criminals, the way to do it seems to be to reward everyone--fairly--for the most trivial of accomplishments.

I imagine there are many (especially trophy salesmen) who won't agree with what I say, and that's unfortunate.

I believe we need to challenge our children to excel and reward them when they do something especially well, but kids need to know they're valued regardless of whether or not they win a prize. Sure, it would be nice if everyone's special talent or skill could be given equal time, but it's seldom that way.

That's life.

I only have a few trophies from when I was growing up, but I earned them. And they meant something to me because of that.

I hope someday I'll her my daughter say, "Look what I won!" instead of her usual, "Look what I got."

Walk A Hound, Lose A Pound

2006-08-02T11:37:00.000-07:00

Dog lovers -- this is going to be fun!

On Saturday, August 19, the Kanawha City Community Center is hosting a two-mile dog walk, a dog swim at the rec center pool, a health fair, a best trick contest, and a dog and owner costume contest. (I'm judging this! Celeste is bummed because it means she can't win, but she's still planning to enter.)

Celeste and I took Murry to the dog swim last year and it was so much fun. Murry is more of a wader than a swimmer, but the other dogs there (especially the retrievers and labs) were having the time of their life.

No registration fee is required, but donations of dog items will be accepted and given to the Kanawha/Charleston Humane Association.

All dogs participating should be well socialized, on a leash, and with a walker who is willing to clean up after the dog. Activities begin at 10 am with the dog walk.

For questions, contact Rachel Pett at 348-8008 or rachel.pett@cityofcharleston.org.

Early registrations should be sent to: Charleston Parks & Recreation, 200 Baker Lane, Charleston, 25302.

Birthday weekend

2006-07-31T11:43:00.000-07:00

When Celeste said she just wanted to have a few friends over to swim at her dad's pool for her birthday this year, I was thrilled. It was a simple and affordable choice. (Plus, it wasn't MY house.)

She didn't want to plan anything too big because her Uncle Rod and Aunt Brenda's first baby is due any minute and she wanted something she could easily cancel if he came early. She's determined to be there when that baby arrives. (They live in Pittsburgh.)

It turned out perfect. There were several of Celeste's friends, her grandparents, aunt, cousin, one of our neighbors, me and Geoff, and Mitch, his girlfriend, Pam, and two of her kids (her youngest wasn't there). Oh yeah, our pup was there, too. Wore himself out. I don't think he understood the concept of doing laps since he did his around and around the outside edge of the pool.

This is cousin Hunter, age 8, standing next to the newly-9 Celeste. (And no, he's not holding up his middle finger. That's his index finger. He was trying to get me to hurry up and click the picture already.)

I'm glad Mitch and I get along so well we can do things like host a party for our kid together without it being awkward or strange. I think the world of his girlfriend, and her kids are fantastic.

Several people gave Celeste cash for her birthday, enough that she was able to buy herself something I'd be refusing to get--a cell phone. It's one of those prepaid minutes kind, not something we have to pay every month. (Sometimes I get the feeling I'm the last person on earth not to have a cell phone.) She'd been lobbying for one for ages, using such persuasive arguments as "it will teach me how to budget." I'm not really sure who she plans to call on this thing, but she couldn't be happier.

I still can't believe my baby is 9. It's going too fast.

For the love of strange foods

2006-07-28T12:14:00.000-07:00

"Your cereal's going to get soggy," I warn my 9-year-old daughter as she sits, lump-like, in front of her bowl.

"I know," she says, carefully dunking a disintegrating batch of Coco Pebbles with her spoon. "It tastes better that way."

She allows the cereal to sit until it congeals. It resembles brown tapioca. I snarl my nose in disgust, which is apparently her signal that it's ready to eat.

"Try it," she says, offering a spoon of her sludge. Because I've spent these past nine years trying to coax her to taste different foods, it feels hypocritical to refuse, so I try a bite. It's actually good. Better than good.

I shouldn't have been surprised that I liked it. I've been eating strange foods ever since I was a kid. I believe it was potato chip sandwiches that got me started. Raw pie dough was a delicacy, as were raw potatoes. Even now, I like to put sliced raw potatoes in a bowl of water and refrigerate them until they're good and cold, then eat them loaded with salt.

Unfortunately, I've never been particularly good at coming up with strange food combinations that actually work. Luckily, those around me seem to be gifted that way. I'm forever saying, "That looks disgusting." Which I almost immediately follow with, "Can I try a bite?"

Sandra, a peanut butter-loving friend, recommended mixing Jif with baby gherkins or crispy bacon--neither a taste combination that I could imagine. Both were surprisingly good. She also suggested a cream cheese, olive and pecan sandwich. Now, that was fantastic.

My friend Nancy's mom boils macaroni, then once it's soft, she drains it, throws it in a pan and cracks an egg over it, then mixes it up. After it's fried, she serves it with ketchup. When I mentioned this to my husband, he looked contemplative a moment, then said, "Sounds good to me. Maybe if we just added some cheese . . ."

Speaking of my husband, he loves sour things. He once created a dish he calls the "perfect pucker," a concoction consisting of a bowl of grapefruit pulp that has been liberally salted and doused with a teaspoon (or three) of vinegar.
Even though I love both salty and sour, I've grown accustomed to having enamel on my teeth, so I haven't yet given it a try. (I'll stick with sneaking sips of green olive juice from the jar.)

My friend Sue likes to smear cherry preserves on her toast, then add shaved turkey breast. She says cling peaches make a good substitute if no cherry preserves are on hand. She also likes to coat a slice of bread with mustard and brown sugar, then broil it in the oven for a short time. She swears it tastes like a sugared, cooked ham. My husband says it probably does. (Cooking people seem to share a private knowledge of taste combinations that escapes me.)

My niece likes to fill a bowl with several marshmallows (or a bunch of mini ones) and add about a quarter stick of butter, then microwave until melted and bubbly. Stir with a spoon. She warns that if you eat this when it's too hot, it'll burn the roof of your mouth, but if you wait too long, it's yucky. (She also said it quickly becomes one with the bowl and can be a nightmare to clean.)

My friend Wendy admits to eating plain mayonnaise sandwiches, although sometimes she says she goes all out and mixes her mayo with peanut butter, which she spreads on a cracker.

Wendy also shared a story about when she was growing up. "Mom used to make a casserole that I absolutely hated, and she made it at least three times a week. It consisted of beef, corn, stewed tomatoes, and some other things all mooshed together. I was one of those kids who didn't like my foods even touching each other, so Mom's casserole concoction was particularly off-putting. I would go to bed hungry rather than attempt to choke down the foul food. Fast forward ahead 20-ish years. On my birthday, Mom gave me a framed copy of that casserole recipe. At the bottom she wrote, 'Hee-hee-hee. Love, Mom.' I have it hanging on the wall in my kitchen."

My friend Charee's grandmother tortured her family once a year with her Easter bunny cake, which she decorated with coconut and jelly beans she bought on clearance the year before.

Stale coconut and rock-like jelly beans. Sounds disgusting.

Can I try a bite?

Do you have a strange food combination or bizarre snack you'd like to share? Please post it under comments (anonymous comments are now allowed!) or email it to me at karinfuller@cnpapers.com. Thanks!

What a night

2006-07-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

Geoff and I dog sat for my parents last night while they took Celeste to Ohio to watch her cousin compete in a horse show. Rather than going back and forth several times (we live about 20 minutes apart), we were spending the night there, and we were both looking forward to it. It's so pretty up there. (This picture was taken from their front yard.)

When we arrived, though, the house was SO warm. They have this bizarre double-thermostat (some kind of timer thing?) and we were afraid if we messed with it, we'd screw it up, so we went outside, hoping it might be cooler with the breeze from the river. No such luck. It was unbearably muggy out there. But before we could go back inside, the pup slipped out of his collar and tore off straight for the nearest neighbor's house. The neighbor who owns wolves.

By the time we recaptured the brat, we were both wringing wet. We decided to go back inside, turn the ceiling fan on high and watch a little TV. Except we couldn't figure out how to get any of their THREE remote controls to operate the set. After running through all logical options, we began randomly pushing buttons and were finally rewarded with a single channel. The show? The O'Reilly Factor.

NOOOOooooooo!

We went upstairs to see if their bedroom TV might be easier to operate, except as soon as we walked in the room, Murry jumped on the bed . . . and peed on it. He's NEVER done anything like that before. I don't know what got into him. I carried all the bedding downstairs and got it started in the washer. (Nothing like running a dryer to make a hot house even hotter.)

And then my parent's oldest dog had to add his two cents. Mac, who is about 15 years old, sometimes woofs at things that aren't there. He has this scratchy, old Jazz singer kind of voice, so it's a cool little bark. Unfortunately, when he started, my two boneheads didn't recognize there was no emergency and they panicked. One "oof" from Mac and they were off, yapping and howling all night. Add to that the ding-dong-dong-ding chiming of their big clock every fifteen minutes and you have a recipe for a night of pure hell. I feel like a zombie today.

Playing the stock market

2006-07-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

"Remember that friend you wrote about who helped you get in touch with your inner hoochie-mamma?" my friend Julie asked. "Well, I'm going to help you get in touch with your inner bovine."

"Does this involve me chewing cud or leaving smelly pies on a field?"

"No."

"Does it require enduring a farmer with cold hands?"

"No," Julie promised. "All you have to do is dress up like a cow and go to Chick-fil-A with me on Friday. It's their annual Cow Appreciation Day. If you dress like a cow, you get a free meal."

This wasn't the first time that Julie, a mild-mannered mother of three, had turned into a cow. She earned a free meal by going Guernsey last year during Chick-fil-A's first dress-like-a-cow promotion. This year, she wanted me to go, too.

According to the official press release, last year's event-the company's first--was a huge success. "A herd of 200 cow-spotted customers stampeded the Chick-fil-A in Olive Branch, Miss., while 60 young 'bovines' from a local summer camp visited the chain's restaurant in Conway, S.C."

But the herd was much thinner in Charleston. Only eight people last year. And this year? Just two. Yours truly and the instigator.

"Just slap on a few spots and we'll go as Holsteins," said the cattle prodder. "It'll be fun."

Looking like a fool in public and chasing after a free meal-both things at which I'm quite adept. "Count me in."

That night, I found an old, white, hooded sweat jacket, which I covered with spots cut from a black trash bag. Then I cut large cow ears from heavy, white cardboard and stitched them onto the hood. The effect was udderly ridiculous.

"You're not really going out in public in that?" asked my horrified daughter as I modeled the top half of my ensemble for her.

"Be nice or I'll make one for you, too,"

My costume still needed some beefing up, but since I was unable to find a coordinating cowbell, I made a nametag instead. "Hi. My name is Patty."

On the big day, Julie and I stood by my car in the mall's parking building, taping on spots, then we each tucked a puffy pink glove in our waistbands to serve as the udder. I carried my obnoxious jacket until we were standing in line, then slipped it on. Hood and all.

"We have cows!" exclaimed one of the guys at the counter. Someone hurried to the back for a camera. (Oh bull. Why didn't I think to bring mine?)

(Note to reader: The text contained in the previous set of parens was meant to be read with a sarcastic tone.)

Julie and I vogued for the camera, proudly displaying our udders as if posing for Hugh Heiffer. The shots were (don't act surprised--you know this is coming) total beefcake.

The only downside were the cow puns, which we were unable to stop. There were complaints about bull-emic looking young women and the sad disparity between the calves and calve-nots. We were "spinning our veals," born in the barn, and at home on the range. You know, a never-ending stream of bull-oni.

But it was so much fun that we're already planning our costumes for next year, when we're determined that no trash bags, construction paper or cardboard will perish in the making of our attire.

And I have no doubt that we will succeed. That Julie and I will be there again, year after year. Since she and I are, quite obviously, friends for-heiffer.

My new gig...

2006-07-21T12:20:00.000-07:00

The things I get myself into . . .

Ric Cochran, V100's afternoon (3 to 7 pm) DJ, called to see if I'd be willing to try my hand on the air as a regular guest on his show. So thoroughly charming was Ric (and so convincing was he that I wouldn't make a complete fool of myself on the air) that I agreed to give it a shot.

I can't count the times this week that I've had mini panic attacks at the thought of being live on the air. I'm not a fast thinker. Any clever lines I manage to come up with are usually the result of long battles with the keyboard. They seldom spurt forth easily on their own. But like I said, Ric's charming and convincing, and luckily, he's also very easy to talk to. He managed to get me talking, although I'm not sure how I sounded. Hopefully, after a few more attempts (yesterday was my first), I'll not be as nervous. I'm on the schedule for Thursdays at 4:15.

One small step at a time

2006-07-14T09:23:00.000-07:00

I built a house once. It was a long time ago. A different lifetime ago. But I still pass it every time I visit my parents. It remains one of my most frustrating and unsatisfying accomplishments, but something I've never regretted.

I knew every inch of that house when it was still just on paper. Before that even, when it was only in my head. I knew little about construction except what I'd learned from watching my dad as he fixed this or that. Dad was fearless about the projects he took on. Nothing seemed to intimidate him, regardless of his level of experience with whatever skills the job might require. He had this "every expert was once a beginner" mentality about him that I think rubbed off on me. If others could learn to do it, just as he learned to do it, so could I.

I began envisioning my future house when the lot was nothing but a weedy, junk-car-covered piece of ground on the next ridge over from my parent's house. At first, I was fascinated by log homes, so I immersed myself, reading everything I could find about that type of construction. Then I became intrigued with both underground and expandable homes (the latter being homes that are completely under roof but only partially finished, with the basement, attic or upstairs rooms left to do later). My research was extensive.

Gradually, I came up with my plan. Build a basement that was topped with a subfloor (to support later levels), then cover that subfloor with industrial grade rubber roofing to keep the water out. Finish the basement with a full bath and its own mini-kitchen, and live there until enough money was saved to build the rest of the house.

The night before the first dozer was scheduled to arrive on the site, the immensity of what was about to happen suddenly loomed large. This wasn't some little weekend craft project. It was a house. It was every cent we had saved. There was no water at the site. No electricity, gas, sewer, telephone or cable. There wasn't even a road. I had never attempted anything even close to this size. It terrified me.

I realize now how dangerous it can be to step back and look at the big picture. When I did, I was so overwhelmed I nearly called it all off. Somehow, though, I forced myself to see just one step at a time. Dozer work first, gravel the road second, order block third, find contractors for whatever we could not do ourselves. Each was a small and totally do-able step.

Those small steps continued until the basement was done and, a few years later, the rest of the house under roof. Then, when the house was just one room and some flooring away from completion, my husband and I were divorced. Someone else lives in my dream house.

Frustrating as that was (and still occasionally is), it's not something I would have avoided. I think sometimes more is gained from the journey than from actually reaching the destination.

Wrote professor Betty Bender, "Anything I've ever done that was ultimately worthwhile initially scared me to death."

The house wasn't the only time I found myself feeling that way.

I built a person once. It was a long time ago. Nine years this month. At first, I didn't know what I was doing there either, but I stuck with it, determined to go from beginner to expert. Celeste has been an often frustrating, yet immensely satisfying, part of my life. When I was hugely pregnant and the contractions were coming two minutes apart, I remember thinking, This is really happening. This little girl is going to be depending on ME for ages to come. I saw the immensity of it and it scared me to death.

Sometimes it still does.

But, much like with that house, I've been taking it one small and totally do-able step at a time.

And she's definitely something I've never regretted.

It worked! Some photos from our camping trip

2006-07-11T03:02:00.000-07:00

The water was shallow (and so clear) across most of the river. Even at the better swimming holes, you could still walk most of the way across.

Celeste and Jordan on the swinging bridge that goes over to the Boy Scout camp.

Gale Harman (left) and my brother, Kurt, serving up the roasted pig.

Furry Murry enjoying a cool dip in the river.

Our pup, Chewie, resting after his swim. This dog is fearless--headed right out into the water after the kids. The current was a little too much for him, though, and we had to pull him back in.

Jordan takes his turn on the tire swing while Murry (in the background) heads out the path for a walk.

Union Carbide Summer Camps Reunion

2006-07-10T06:24:00.000-07:00

Once again, former Carbide Campers will be getting together both in Charleston and on Blue Creek to have some fun and remember their days as Carbide Campers. It's hard to believe it's been 24 years since Carlisle and Camelot closed.

Friday, July 14 - 6 PM to ?
Bear's Den (lower level of the Daniel Boone building, Capitol and Washington Streets, Charleston). Come join in the planning for the big 25th-year reunion in 2007.

Saturday, July 15 Come on out to the Creek (Hunting/Fishing Club) and bring your own picnic. We'll go to the camp sites and do some hiking, and those equipped and interested can camp-out at the Club on Saturday night.

Sunday July 16
There are no formally scheduled events this year, although everyone will likely hang around and visit, as always.

Click here for directions.

BRING YOUR OLD PICTURES FROM CAMP (and reunions)! Randy Rice will have his laptop and scanner on hand so your pictures can be added to the website.

You don't have to be a former Carbide Camper to enjoy this collection of old camp song lyrics.

Just want to say...

2006-07-07T13:17:00.000-07:00

No matter what time of day I get online to update this blog, I have so much trouble adding photos or graphics that I end up giving up. Text-only posts are dull. I've tried linking to photobucket.com, ofoto.com, and straight from my computer. Maybe one out of every 15 I try will work. Suggestions, anyone?

So much fun, so little time

2006-07-07T09:31:00.000-07:00

SORRY -- THE PHOTOS MENTIONED IN SUNDAY'S PAPER CANNOT BE UPLOADED DUE TO A PROBLEM WITH BLOGGER.COM.

When I suggested the camping trip to my husband, he immediately quoted one of his friends. "If the great outdoors was so great, why was indoors invented?"

"It'll be fun," I persisted.

"It'll be in the 90s," said Geoff.

"It's right by the river," I said. "And there are plenty of trees, so we can be in the shade."

"I bet it'll rain," he said. "Haven't you ever heard that rainstorms will travel thousands of miles just for the chance to rain on a tent?"

"I checked the weather. There's only a slight chance," I said. "Besides, the tent is waterproof."

Geoff emitted a somewhat sarcastic sputtering sound. "How's that Dave Barry saying go? 'Camping is nature's way of promoting the hotel business?' Sounds like the words of a man whose been rained on."

I shrugged. "So long as you don't mind us going without you."

"So long as you don't mind me not going," said Geoff.

I assured him I didn't . . . since I also felt assured that once he saw the growing pile of camping gear at the top of the stairs, he'd get the itch, too. I was right. The night before we left, he added his sleeping bag to the pile. (So contagious was the camping bug that our 10-year-old neighbor, Jordan Holmes, soon added his, too.)

So with two adults, two kids, two dogs, four sleeping bags, one tent and enough gear to last a week all crammed into our little Toyota Matrix, we headed out for our one-night camping trip. Our destination was a camp near Buckhannon where our friends, the Harmans, host a big Fourth of July party and pig roast each year. Relatives and friends come from near and far to set up tents and campers in the field below the old house, then spend their days riding dirt bikes and ATVs, fishing and swimming (and bathing) in the river, cooking out, and sitting around the fire to talk. There are kids of all ages and dogs of all sizes and they all get along.

We arrived early enough to nab a heavily shaded spot by the creek to set up our new tent, which went up easier than any I'd ever dealt with before. After, we helped the kids build a dam in the creek, then spread our sleeping bags on the ground and laid there talking while Celeste, Jordan and the dogs continued to splash in the water.

We packed so much into our short time in the country that it seems hard to believe we weren't there much longer. The kids spent ages swinging way out over the path on an old tire swing. We swam several times in the river. Biked to the Boy Scout camp and walked across the old swinging bridge. Went on a four-wheeler ride. Stayed up late into the night feeding the pig-roasting fire. And we were only there one day.

Jordan blew us all away by accepting a dare to eat one of the eyes from the cooked pig. (Impressive, too, was the distance that eye covered when he spat it out.) My nephew Zach ate the tongue, prompting someone near him to quip, "Just think--it's tasting you back."

Then, after one last swim in the cold river, it was time to go home.

"This was so much better than I was expecting," Geoff said. "When we do it next year, let's plan to stay several days."

"Do we have to wait until next year?" Celeste asked. "I want to go camping again."

I looked to Geoff for his reaction. He smiled and shrugged. "Actually, I wouldn't mind going again either. Especially if we can find another place that's something like this."

So can you recommend a WV campground (or camping spot) you can recommend for us? We're especially looking for those that are dog friendly and have some place to swim, like a river or lake. Please post your recommendations here or email them to karinfuller@cnpapers.com.

America's Got Talent

2006-07-06T11:28:00.000-07:00

When I saw the previews for Regis Philbin's latest show, America's Got Talent, I couldn't help but think, here we go again. Another rip-off of American Idol. But it isn't. It's actually a rip-off of the Gong Show. (I guess Chuck Barris must've been unavailable to host. Probably overseas on one of his CIA hit-man jobs.)

Aside from some annoying camera work, it was actually pretty entertaining. The 11-year-old, self-trained yodeling girl was amazing, and I loved the world's most dangerous comic. The quick-change artists were mind-boggling, and jugglers cracked me up with their blindfold bit. (I'm easily amused.)

If you have a few minutes to kill, follow this link to watch some short video clips from the show.

Take my gall bladder . . . please

2006-06-30T12:46:00.000-07:00

Based on the surgeon's expression, I gathered mine wasn't the typical reaction patients have upon being told they'd be losing an organ. Apparently, most patients don't cheer.

But after being so sick for so long, after being able to eat little but Cream of Wheat for weeks, I couldn't hold back my excitement that it might soon be over. Although I'd been hearing my symptoms were "textbook gallbladder" for weeks, I feared the tests would show I was fine. Then I'd be back to square one.

But not this time. For once, there was no "wait and watch." This time, the culprit had been identified, and my trusted surgeon was quick to set a date to take it--

Sorry about that. Had to answer the door. Magazine salesman. Nice guy. He actually asked if my mother was home, like he really believed I'm too young to have a house of my own. Jeez. He sure had some good deals on those magazines, though. And I believe in supporting the young. So where was I?

A few days before going under the knife, I mentioned my upcoming surgery to a coworker. An eavesdropper overheard. "Oh yeah. I had that done. Came back to work the next day."

"You did what?"

"The next day," he repeated, with a cocky head bobble. "Doc said to take two weeks off, but I didn't see the need."

Another chimed in. "Same here. I even stopped by the office on my way home from the hospital."

I stood stunned for a moment, feeling conflicted. Although it was reassuring to hear the surgery might be such a breeze, it was difficult to suppress the urge to deliver a shin kick to anyone who would return to work so fast, thus making those who don't look really bad. I decided--

What's that, Celeste? No, we can't go to the pool. I'm working. I'm writing my column. Besides, it's raining. The pool will be closed. Yeah, I know the whole reason to go to a pool is to get wet, but trust me, it's closed.

Sorry. I never realized how many interruptions there could be at home during the day.

It wasn't long before I began hearing tales from the other end of the spectrum-horror stories from those flattened by the procedure.

"I couldn't eat for a week," a friend said. "Then it was nothing but baby food for a month after that."

"The pain was so bad afterward I was convinced I was having a heart attack," my aunt--

Oh no! Fidgety dog with watery eyes! Still trying to housebreak the pup. Back in a sec.

I ended up somewhere in the middle. I went into surgery at 8 am, and was on my way home by 11:30 that same morning. (I did NOT stop by the office on the way.) The first few days are a bit of a blur. I remember being bloated and tired and sore. I remember my own personal crowd (dogs and cats) following me as I tested one uncomfortable sleeping space after another. I remember much "Law & Order," a few videos, many magazines and one really good book.

Even though it was often uncomfortable, it was more rest than I've had in ages. Maybe ever. That part was nice and--

No, honey. I don't think I'm ready for Cajun just yet. No, not Indian either. Or Chinese. And no, smart aleck. No Cream of Wheat.

That reminds me. There has been one somewhat embarrassing complication from surgery, one I normally wouldn't discuss in public except I believe both an explanation and an apology are owed to those seated near me at the Clay Center performance of Mountain Stage Sunday night.

You see, we purchased our tickets long before knowing I'd be having surgery a week before the show. And when we requested seats in the very center, it was done without realizing how many unfortunate people would be seated between the newly gastronomically challenged and the nearest restroom. For this--and for having such large feet--I am truly sorry.

My apologies, too, to those I may have inadvertently body-checked on my way up the aisle.

2006-06-23T07:46:00.000-07:00

I was about to open our back door to let the dogs out when I noticed a robin that appeared to have flown face-first into the bank by our deck. Its neck was at an awful angle and its wings were splayed out on both sides. I didn't want the dogs to get the body, so I shooed them back inside so I could move the bird. When I stooped to get it, though, it hopped upright, shook itself off, looked severely annoyed, then flew off. It had apparently been sunbathing.

Celeste didn't believe me when I told her birds sunbathe, so I dug up these pictures of Bammy, the bluejay we had for years, who was forever finding spots to stretch out in the sun.

2006-06-19T17:09:00.000-07:00

How fast the hoochie mamma have fallen. Just days after donning low cut and tight clothes, I'm now in seach of anything baggy and soft, anything that won't stick to my incisions. I look like I've been shot. Several times. One up sorta high, between the ribs, two more on the right side, another at my belly button. I'm not sure which hole they actually used to take out my gall bladder, I'm just glad that it's gone. Even if I do whistle when the wind blows.

And so now I'm home recuperating. Enjoying the bliss of oxycodone. Actually, I'm not sure what the big fuss is over that drug. It just makes me sleep and not hurt.

The first two nights I had to sleep sitting up in a chair because the gas they'd pumped into me made it hard to lie flat on my back. I had a dog beside me, one on my feet, a cat low on my lap, and another (Squirt) balanced carefully on the arm of the chair. Squirt would regularly touch my face, as if worried. Once I didn't open my eyes when he did it and he tapped again and again until I did.

Geoff's been an angel, babying me in a way I've never experienced before. And Celeste has been . . . missing. Up with my parents one night, then with her dad. She got home last night. Immediately insisted on taking pictures of my stomach for Mom's Boo-Boo Book. (Which is now, I believe, in its second edition.)

I'd been saying how much I needed some time off of work. Didn't expect to get it this way.

On getting in touch with your inner hoochie-mamma

2006-06-15T06:15:00.000-07:00

"All women should get in touch with their inner hoochie-mamma every once in a while," said my friend, Pam, as we pushed our shopping cart through the Walmart in Ripley.

"Now that's an opening line for a column if ever I heard one," I said, pausing to examine a lacy black camisole that was cut down to there.

"You should write it," she said. "It would be a public service."

"I'm not even sure I know what a hoochie mamma actually is."

"It's a confident woman who knows how to work it," Pam said. "One who attracts attention with little or no effort. And they don't necessarily dress slutty, but provocatively."

I did a quick assessment of what we were wearing. Capris and sneakers. Shirts with collars. It was more homeroom mamma than hoochie mamma.

I've never been style savvy. As far as fashion, I'm way over there on the conservative side. The same holds true for Pam, a married journalism professor and mother of two. But once a year, when the two of us get together at the WV Writers Conference, we attempt to lure out our inner hoochie mammas. And in what has come to be a tradition, we do this by sneaking away from the conference for a field trip to Walmart, where we try on nothing but inappropriate clothes.

"So you're saying I'd be doing a public service by encouraging other women to strive for hoochie-mamma wanna-be status, like us?"

"Hey--we're way past the wanna-be stage," Pam said. Her side of the cart was growing faster than mine, so I grabbed a few of the closest tank tops that met our credentials. (Those credentials being that it couldn't be something either of us would normally wear, especially in public. Except according to our own self-imposed rules, we'd each be wearing one of those things later that night.)

"Look at the size of the neck holes on these," I said. "Is this whole line of shirts made for women with freakishly oversized heads?"

At the dressing room, we encountered Tina, perhaps the most pleasant WalMart employee I've ever met. She directed Pam and I to dressing rooms across from each other, then entertained us with enough funny anecdotes about dressing room escapades to fill a whole 'nother column.

“Hubba hubba," I said, wiggling my eyebrows lecherously as Pam modeled a severely scooped turquoise number.

"You can see almost to my kneecaps in this neckline," Pam said.

"But you have cute kneecaps," I said. Ignoring my most sincere compliment, she resigned the top to the reject pile. Soon, I noticed her arms wiggling strangely in the air over the top of her dressing room door, then heard a snap of elastic, followed by a low, muttered curse, then a giggle. "You ok?"

"I can't get this thing on," she whined. "It has one of those built-in shelf bras and it's all twisted or something. I can't contort myself into it." She paused. "Or out of it."

Finally, she emerged. The shirt was a winner. And I'd found one of my own. (That lacy black number that was cut down to there.) We dressed again in our boring old clothes, bid farewell to Tina, then headed back out into the store, where for some strange reason, we began to attract the attention of men.

"What's going on?" I asked Pam after a beefy construction worker type had stopped me, insisting he and I had once been "very good (wink-wink) friends."

"I think it's our confidence," she said. "June Cleaver has become Peg Bundy, at least for a while."

As Peg 1 and Peg 2 swaggered out to the car, I realized she was right. We both seemed changed. Our excursion had transformed the way we viewed ourselves. No longer were we drudgy, middle-aged, working moms. In the course of just one fun and magical hour, we had become hoochie moms instead.

2006-06-15T06:03:00.000-07:00

Thanks to John Leaberry for alerting me to the ironic placement of ads just to the right of my Sunday column this week. The column was about how women shouldn't have to be skin and bones to be beautiful, yet the ads are all about how to lose weight.

2006-06-15T05:40:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't my house.

2006-06-08T13:02:00.000-07:00

Now I know why they're referred to as "The Good Old Days."

While cleaning house recently, I ran across an issue of Woman's World from November 1933. (And no, smart aleck. It hasn't been that long since the last time I cleaned.) Of course, such a find called for an immediate break from my work so I could peruse the pages, and upon doing so, I ran across the following ad:

"Special quick way to put pounds on fast!"

Huh? People actually once wanted to do that? I read on.

"Now there's no need to have people calling you 'skinny,' and losing all your chances of making and keeping friends. Here's a new, easy treatment that is giving thousands healthy flesh and attractive curves--in just a few weeks!"

The clever copywriter continued. "Day after day, as you take Ironized Yeast, watch ugly, gawky angles fill out, flat chests develop, and skinny arms and legs round out attractively. Life becomes a thrilling adventure."

And then the tone turned grave. "Skinniness is a serious danger. Authorities warn that skinny, anemic, nervous people are far more liable to serious infections and fatal wasting disease than the strong, well-built person. So begin at once to get back the rich blood and healthy flesh you need. Do it before it is too late!"

Instead of being ahead of my time, I now realize I'm way behind it instead. My day came and went long before I was here to enjoy it. Back then, I'd have been the picture of robust health. A model of physical perfection. Why, oh why, wasn't I born in a time when hipbones were meant to be pleasingly padded instead of protruding?

Reading that ad made me wonder when and why our society's perception of beauty had changed. I have an old picture in my house showing of a long row of--by 1930s standards--bathing beauties. By today's standards, many in that picture would be considered at least 20 pounds overweight.

In paintings from the 19th century, beautiful women were full-figured. Rubinesque. Even into the 50s, celebrities were curvaceous. Now, the "beauties" are emaciated, sharp-boned. Callista-Flockhart-esque.

In that ad from 1933, it warned that, "skinniness is a serious danger." I wonder if perhaps it wasn't the perceived danger of thinness that ended up creating the allure. It was seen as risky and dangerous, and therefore appealing. It was something difficult for many to achieve, something only the celebrities or the rich, with their private chefs and personal trainers, could manage. Being skinny became a status symbol.

The public, in their desperation to be just like their gaunt role models, began dieting and exercising to excess. Somehow, skinny became synonymous with healthy, and the women whose figures once would've been considered appealingly shapely came to be viewed as rotund. Instead of hearing how pretty they were, they began being told how pretty they could be.

Thankfully, a few celebrities have entered the scene who don't fit the last few decades idea of standard beauty. There's no denying that Queen Latifah is anything less than gorgeous, or that Kate Winslet isn't as glamorous as one of the many starved-looking waifs with coat-hanger collarbones.

The zaftig actress Camryn Manheim wrote "If I am presented with the choice of a rice cake or tiramisu, I know that [fitness guru] Kathy Smith would desperately want me to choose that rice cake. But that's not living. That's merely existing. I want to live in a world with tiramisu."

And I want to live in a world where women like Manheim aren't devalued for making that choice.

2006-06-06T07:36:00.000-07:00

I picked up the pup from the vet on Friday after he'd been neutered--a procedure which Celeste and her friend Jordan found endlessly fascinating.

Finally, Jordan asked Geoff, "How do boy dogs get girl dogs pregnant anyway?"
Geoff answered, "Dice."

"Dice?" Jordan said. "How?"

Geoff: "The boy dog throws one dice and the girl dog throws the other. If the boy rolls a higher number, the girl dog gets pregnant."

Jordan: "Oh. OK."

2006-06-02T06:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the best compliments are those heard by accident.

"My wife is a writer," my husband said to a long-lost friend on the phone recently. I then heard him telling her about some writing awards I had won, and I realized his words made me sound more accomplished than I feel like I am. Even though what he told her was accurate, it sounded strange--and nice--to overhear what Geoff (my idea of a real writer) had to say about me. I mentioned it later.

"I've noticed you seem uncomfortable telling people you're a writer," Geoff said. "Why is that?"

"I'm never sure what to say when someone asks what I do," I said. "I feel like I'm a fraud if I say I'm a writer."

"So who gets to claim they're a writer?" he asked.

"Someone who does it full time, I guess. Someone with a journalism degree. Someone who makes the majority of their income from writing or has achieved a certain level of fame."

He retrieved his well-worn copy of John Gardner's "Art of Fiction" and read the following excerpt (which I've abridged) of what Gardner believes to be the definition of a writer:

"The storyteller's intelligence is partly natural, partly trained. It is composed of several qualities, most of which, in normal people, are signs of either immaturity or incivility: wit (a tendency to make irreverent connections); a refusal to believe what all sensible people know is true; mischievousness and childishness (an apparent lack of mental focus and serious life purpose, a fondness for daydreaming and telling pointless lies); a marked tendency toward excessive eating, drinking, chattering and a weird fascination with dirty jokes; a strange mixture of playfulness and embarrassing earnestness; patience like a cat's; a criminal streak of cunning; psychological instability; and finally, an inexplicable and incurable addiction to stories, written or oral, bad or good."

"Except for that drinking part," Geoff said, "That's pretty much you."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted."

He laughed. "Probably both. I just know that when I first ran across that quote, I recognized myself immediately."

"Just think," he continued. "Call yourself a writer and you have a job description with a built-in excuse for what you always thought were character flaws."

I think he could be on to something there.

I've learned that being in the company of other writers can make me feel more like one myself. That first occurred to me a few years back while at a statewide gathering of writers. I was having such a good time, and realized it was because I finally felt like I belonged, like I had something in common with everyone there. Writing can be such a solitary thing. There's no water cooler to cluster around with your cohorts on a regular basis and compare complaints.

But once a year, there is. (Although many of my cohorts end up clustering around a jug rather than a water cooler.)

The West Virginia Writers conference is held the second weekend in June at Cedar Lakes in Ripley. (That's next weekend, for those of you without a calendar handy.) The workshops at the conference are great, and it's going to be fun getting to meet the likes of Lee Maynard (author of Crum) and listening to a reading by Chuck Kinder (legendary W.Va. author and current head of the writing program at Pitt). But it's hanging out with all the other writers from around the state that I most look forward to. It's not every day that I get to consort with those as immature, uncivil, and mischievous as me. (Last year's conference included a field trip to WalMart to try on totally inappropriate clothes. I suspect it's going to become a tradition.)

I'm not sure why I have such difficulty seeing myself as a writer. I write all the time. No, it isn't my day job, but it's become a huge part of who I am.

And who I want to be.

She would've been 4

2006-06-02T05:42:00.000-07:00

I've been fighting the blues a lot lately. This week has been especially rough. Yesterday, Camille would've turned four. So of course, all week, at every turn, I've encountered one brown-eyed four-year-old after another.

I'm tired of getting this way. I want more space from this, want it to be further from my thoughts more of the time than it sometimes is. It HAS gotten easier. It really has. It's just as the milestone dates hit -- June 1, October 8, November 26--that I get markedly bad.

Tomorrow, Celeste is heading to the beach for a week with my ex-laws, Patty & Bernie Vingle. My ex-SIL and her son are going, too. Celeste and I have never been apart for that long, and I know I'm going to be a wreck worrying about her, but she's so excited about going. She and her cousin, Hunter, who is five months younger than her, get along so well. He's as rough as she is prissy, but they never argue and just have the best time together.

She got her braces on this week -- another reason I'm depressed. ($2,700 -- I'll be paying on this debt for years.) I'm really proud of how she's handling it so far. She's usually something of a weenie when it comes to even the mildest discomfort, but she really wants straight teeth. Hers are terribly crooked. Poor kid took after me there. She has an expander in the roof of her mouth to make more room for her adult teeth. We have to turn the key once in the morning and again at night. (We aren't starting that part until she returns from the beach.) It looks like a torture device and it makes eating difficult, but she talks pretty good around it.

And finally -- the pup is losing his manhood today. (We had an appt for that way back, then they found the mange and didn't do it.) I called our new vet's office this week to make an appointment, and while talking to the receptionist, I asked how much it would cost. She said, "It's priced according to size." That struck me as funny so I said, "Great! His nuts are tiny so this should be cheap." There was a long silence, then she said, "Um, I meant the size of the dog."

On alpha cats and beta dogs

2006-05-26T06:31:00.000-07:00

A considerate person wouldn't tell this tale, wouldn't air something like this in public. A considerate person wouldn't subject their boys to the shame.

But I'm not that person.

Since my boys cannot read, and since it's a safe bet none of their friends can read either, I feel no need to hold back. I'll come right out and say it. In our house, the alpha dog is a cat.

I'm not sure how it happened. I always assumed there was some type of natural order, a hierarchy of beasts. Apparently, both our dogs--my boys--snoozed through that class.

Since Murry was the first animal to set paw in our house, it seemed logical to expect he would reign, but when we brought home a tiny kitten several months later, Murry immediately rolled onto his back, baring his belly. The quintessential dog sign of submission.

"Squirt's not even as big as your paw," I reasoned, befuddled by my dog's rapid acquiescence. But there was no reasoning with Murry. He'd determined the kitten was king.

A year later, we added a second cat, Gypsy. Murry immediately deferred to her, too, even though for the first few months, Gypsy trembled at the sight of him in a way that would've made other dogs strut. Not Murry, though. Her reaction concerned him, and he apparently wanted to make her feel better--the only way he knew how. He began submitting to her with such frequency that her terror evolved into confusion, then bemusement, then scorn and disgust.

Sully (Cat No. 3) weaseled his way into our home in such a long and roundabout manner that I paid little attention to whether Murry was behaving the same way with him as the others. I do know, however, that when my humble pooch was tied in front of our house one afternoon, the big cat took sentry duty. When a roaming dog attempted to get to Murry, Sully stood on hind legs, groundhog fashion, and with much hissing and spitting, chased off the dog. So not only had Murry sublimated himself to three cats, one had become his protector.

And then came the pup, just four months old and maybe six pounds. I had no doubt our 40-pound, four-year-old Murry would flop onto his back and expose that much-viewed belly of his all over again.

He did not disappoint. Except this time, his audience missed his act of contrition. Because the pup was also on the floor on his back, baring his belly.

"You be the alpha dog."

"No. You."

It's like living with the two most polite creatures ever born. If both arrive at the water bowl at the same time, each defers to the other. Neither one drinks. Set a dish of food on the floor--very same thing.

Taking the boys for a walk can be a humiliating experience, as both usually spend as much time on their backs as their feet.

I'm anticipating the day they hear a dog bark on TV and both go belly-up.

Squirt, in the meantime, seems convinced he's done something to deserve their capitulation. He patrols his domain in a swaggering manner, stomach swaying, head held high. On whim, he butts them away from the food dish, checks their breath for contraband, nudges them from the best sunny spots on the carpet.

And the boys just take it. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

American Idol

2006-05-25T13:33:00.000-07:00

Celeste was crushed. She actually cried when Katharine didn't win, which surprised me since she hasn't seemed that into any of the contestants since Paris was voted off a few weeks back. I tried to convince her that coming in second doesn't mean Kat's career is over by any means. I bet she'll end up doing better than Taylor in the long run.

When she heard about the American Idol tour coming to our area, she went WILD, so this morning promptly at 10, I got online and ordered two insanely expensive tickets, which I'm going to save for her birthday. If I can keep quiet about it. I'm terrible about keeping something I'm excited about to myself.

2006-05-24T08:01:00.000-07:00

So much going on I haven't had a chance to write lately. The next few weeks are still going to be unusually full, but after the second weekend in June, I don't have a single thing on my calendar. If I can just make it until then...

Celeste's dance recital was this past Saturday night. (She took hip-hop from January's.) As recitals go, I was pretty impressed. There were, of course, quite a few numbers with little ones looking like they were squishing bugs while wigging their butts, but you can never have too many of those. The dances with the older girls were amazing. There's some serious talent, especially Morgan Vargo (daughter of Charleston dentists John Vargo and Dianna Lenick). That girl is amazing. She was in so many dances, had so many complicated moves, yet performed them all flawlessly.

My own girl was really good, too. She has no trouble at all being on stage in front of a crowd. In the rehearsals, she was a little reserved, but come show time, she gave it her all.

2006-05-21T05:22:00.000-07:00

My name is Karin and I'm a television-aholic.

I've gone 22 minutes without touching the remote.

I'm trembling as I type. Concentration is difficult, but ... I ... must ... concentrate. There are decisions to make. Serious decisions. All these season finales and leading-up-to the season finales. Do I watch Boston Legal or House? ER or Without a Trace? Criminal Minds or Lost?

I'm ashamed of myself. How did I allow this addiction to spiral so completely out of control? Not so long ago, I only had basic cable and seldom bothered to watch any shows. For years I went to bed about the same time as my daughter, so I didn't realize what I was missing until a year and a half ago, when I married Geoff.

I'm not blaming my husband, though. No, I'm solidly putting the blame where it most deserves to be — on NBC. They're the ones who made Law & Order. They're who led me astray. Who got me hooked. All it took was a little Law & Order one night a week to give me the taste, to make me want more. That soulless network had already recognized the addictive nature of its product and upped the production, knowing the addicts would consume every bit. First came SVU, then Criminal Intent. Before I realized what was happening, I was no longer trying to cure my insomnia problem. I was happy to have it. Happy.

Happy because now, along with my new husband, I'd gotten cable. Real cable. Cable that could provide me with more Law & Order, which seemed to be running 24 hours a day.

Predictably, though, one addiction led to another. It began to take more shows — newer and flashier shows — to feed my craving. First came CSI, then 24, then Lost. Before I knew it, I was buying entire past seasons on DVD.

I was beginning to show the typical signs of addiction. The bloodshot eyes. The callused thumb. The broadening backside. The inability to use a light switch, determined to use a flashlight instead. The Pavlovian palpitations upon hearing the phrase, "In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups."

For years before I succumbed, I believed all the talk about the dumbing-down of
America, claiming the boob tube was turning us into a nation of drooling bobbleheads. I suppose that's why I was caught so completely off guard when I began sampling primetime and saw evidence of well-thought-out, well-written and well-acted shows. I was expecting Mad Dog 20/20 and found Dom Perignon instead.

And it made me want more.

Not only were the dramas better than most I'd seen in the past, but the sitcoms were far more intelligent, too. My Name Is Earl and The Office are in a whole different league than Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley. Even many of the shows I don't care for, like Fear Factor or The Bachelor, are still better quality and more entertaining than, say, The Newlywed Game or The $10,000 Pyramid. I'm grateful there are still plenty of shows that don't interest me in the least, and grateful, too, that the networks seem to save their best shows for after 9 p.m., so my addiction hasn't made me a negligent mother.

It wasn't until recently, with all the dramatic season finales, that I begun to recognize the extent of my madness. I stopped answering the phones. Refused to make after-work plans unless guaranteed they'd be over by 9.

If the rest of my family wasn't as addicted as me, I suspect they'd have planned an intervention, but it was up to me alone to overcome.

If I attempt to wean myself during television's summer hiatus, it just might work. I'm optimistic about this treatment plan I've developed. After all, what's better for a television addict than a new "program"?

2006-05-15T11:36:00.000-07:00

I started not to post anything about Grey's Anatomy last night since the big two-hour season finale is tonight, but I can't help it. It was too over-the-top and tonight's episode promises to be even more so.

The whole Izzy deal, with her rigging Denny so he'd go into cardiac arrest (so soon after he signed a DNR form) was too much. Her shrieking and hysterics bordered on comical. I kept expecting Denny (who has been so charmingly sane up to this point) to discreetly press the "CALL NURSE" button and have her carted away. And George just stands there and goes along with everything?

Then there was Addison's meltdown in front of everyone. I'm predicting it's the result of the hormones kicking in since I'm guessing she's pregnant. Of course, she won't find out until Meredith and Derek are together, but that'll just give them reason to bring McSteamy (Mark?) back, and that is NOT a bad thing.

Burke getting shot was the only surprise, although as soon as he decided to drive all the way back to the hospital (instead of just calling someone there) to check on what was going on with Izzy and Denny himself, I began to wonder if he might not be doomed.

The biggest question of all, though, is why do I keep watching this show when it drives me absolutely nuts?

A Mother's Sacrifice

2006-05-12T08:12:00.000-07:00

I only heard from her once. She emailed two years ago after reading a column I'd written. In it, I mentioned I had friends I'd been avoiding because they had children the same age mine would have been had she lived.

This woman said she could relate. Said she'd been doing the same thing. Every time she'd found herself around a child of a certain age, she'd feel the stabbing pain that accompanied the thought, "That's how big she'd be now."

Except her daughter hadn't died. She'd been given up for adoption.

The woman witnessed no teething or crawling or first steps. Never had her little one sneak into her shower or crawl into her bed in the middle of the night. She had as many nevers as me.

I saved her email and read it several times. It's strange how you can know about something-like adoption, for instance--but not really see it for what it is: Not just a choice, but a loss. I'm embarrassed I didn't see it that way until it she showed it to me.

The generosity of what she and others like her have suffered in order to ensure their child has a good life is humbling. That a mother could be selfless enough to make that big a sacrifice . . . I believe it says something about what mothers should be. Mothers are supposed to look out first for the best interest of their child, regardless of the personal pain such a decision might bring.

I know that not every woman who gives a child up for adoption does so for selfless reasons. But I also know that not every woman who keeps her child does so because she wants to be a mother. They're often shamed into keeping a child whose life would've been better had they not.

I doubt giving up a child is a one-time-only pain. It wouldn't be something you'd do, then forget. It wouldn't be like yanking a tooth--an instant of hurt, then not another thought after the wound has closed.

Mothers who have had a child die continue to receive sympathy, even many years later, from those who respectfully acknowledge the loss. I wonder if moms who "lost" a child to adoption are afforded that same sort of regard, if people who are aware of what they sacrificed ever mention or recognize that loss.

I wonder how Mother's Day feels to them.

In the email from the woman who wrote to me once, she admitted to constantly scanning faces in crowds, hoping to spot a child who bore some resemblance to her. When shopping, she sometimes couldn't resist going to the children's section, looking at outfits that might fit her daughter. She knew she couldn't properly care for her baby, so she took great care in choosing parents who could. She didn't regret the decision. She knew it was right. But knowing didn't make that loss disappear.

I read recently that the Saturday before Mother's Day is now recognized as Birthmother's Day. While the nod of recognition is nice, my initial impulse was that a separate day isn't needed. Maybe they weren't the ones who stayed up nights when the child was sick and traded their cool car for a mini van. Maybe they weren't the ones who drank after a toddler or changed diapers or cleaned vomit or did any of the many disgusting things a parent will do. But for every single rough time they missed, they missed out on dozens of sweet ones. The ones that make it worthwhile.

These women are still mothers, regardless of whether they raised the child or made the sacrifice that allowed someone else to be blessed.

And as a mother myself, I consider it an honor to share this day with them.

2006-05-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

We were watching TV last night when the Nissan commercial came on. In a dreamy sounding voice, the announcer said, "What would it be like to go on a road trip where you only made left turns?"

My husband said, "Short."

It only took me a second to realize he was right. Taking nothing but left turns would have us back in our own driveway in less than two minutes. The joys of living in a subdivision laid out in a circle.

2006-05-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

I had the best long weekend. I took off Friday so Mom and I could do our annual mother-daughter event--the neighborhood yard sales in Winfield. The very first house we stopped at was fantastic. The woman had tons of clothes Celeste's size, much of it Limited Too, and everything was just a quarter each. I left with three bags. Then it was on to Shawnee Estates, where we spent as much time talking as shopping.

My favorite buy? Two incredibly ugly pro wrestler dolls. More on that in a minute.

Geoff was teaching one of his writing classes on Saturday, so he encouraged me to take advantage of the opportunity to go to Morgantown by myself and write. Most of the time when I'm home, I find it impossible to write. There's too much stuff needing done. Even if I have a deadline looming, I'll flit from dishwasher to computer to laundry room to computer to yard work to computer. I needed a place where there were no distractions, so I dropped Celeste off with her grandparents in Fairmont and went on to Morgantown--alone. I didn't even pack a spare dog.

Geoff's folks have this incredible house close to Morgantown high. They were out of town for the weekend, so I stayed in their carriage house that Geoff used to rent. After writing a bit Friday night, I went to bed early, then got up early Saturday morning to drive around town. Morgantown has always confused me. I generally have a great sense of direction, but not up there. I wanted to try it without Geoff in the car. I still don't know the street names, but I think I finally have the feel of the place.

While out driving around, I hit a few yard sales. My favorite buy of the day was this lovely piece of coconut art.

More on that in a minute.

I went back to the carriage house and wrote my heart out. And it stunk. It was forced and dry. Pretty much the flattest writing I've ever produced. So I called my friend, Pam, a talented writer who teaches at WVU, and we went to Black Bear for dinner. While talking to Pam, out came the beginning to the piece I was wanting to write. She even said, "That's it! That's your beginning." Once I had that, the rest came easy.

So I mentioned my in-laws have this incredible house, right? It really couldn't be more perfect. I love the place. Every inch is perfectly decorated. It's like something out of a magazine. The only thing missing was some coconut art. And a professional wrestler doll (or two).

I think the coconut art adds just the right touch to Winston's office decor.

And the wrestler guys add charm to the dining room, don't you think?

2006-05-09T09:16:00.000-07:00

OK - not that any 24 fans are reading this, but I've got to vent. So Jack Bauer retrieves the recording that implicates the president. He has it in his hands while they're on board a plane that's going to be shot down in 8 minutes. Don't you think it might occur to him at some point to hold the little recorder up to the phone and hit PLAY? Sheesh. I love this show, but I'm starting to hate it, too. And being forced to look at that jagged Audrey in lingerie was painful. Someone needs to feed that girl.

Now about Grey's Anatomy. It's another show I both love and hate. It's like Friends and ER mashed together. This past Sunday night's episode was totally offensive. As soon as I heard the people being wheeled in on stretchers talking with exaggerated Southern accents, I knew it was going to be bad. I can't do the Mamma/Daddy/Sugah thing. I hoped they'd step away from the noble-but-stupid-but-noble stereotype, but that was apparently too much of a stretch for the writers. And the voice-over thing Meredith does at the beginning and end of each show--does someone really get paid to write that?

A labor of . . . desperation

2006-05-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

To some, it might seem a stretch to say there are similarities between giving birth and having a yard sale. I doubt there are many women who haven't--while in the absolute midst of doing one or the other--loudly declared, "There's no way in hell I'm ever doing THIS again."

But after it's over and time passes, the woman's memories will begin to soften. Slowly, she'll forget just enough. Gradually, she might even begin to reminisce fondly about (a) breaking three fingers of her husband's hand when he was too slow with the ice chips, or (b) unloading a used pinata for $5 and a mismatched pair of crutches for $10.

Forgetfulness is nature's way of ensuring that, in time, a woman will be willing to do it again. Before long, she'll begin dreaming of having another. And so it goes with the most natural of all instincts: The urge to procreate and the equally powerful urge to get rid of all the crap in the basement.

And depending on the condition of the basement, both can take up to ten months to accomplish.

Not long ago, I was struck with just such an urge. I can still recall the precise moment of conception. I was listening to the radio early one morning when I heard my cats fighting. I hurried to the basement to break up their spat and in doing so, toppled over a stack of books, upended a chair piled high with clothes, then had to climb Mount Old-Linens to get at the two cats. When I returned to my desk, I heard Steve Bishop talking about the upcoming semi-annual yard sale on V100.

And miracle of miracles, the seed was implanted.

In no time at all, I was busily nesting--assembling garment racks, emptying cabinets, writing prices on stickers. My husband and daughter soon joined me. Together we shared our dreams about the big event as we prepared wistfully for our new arrival-an empty room.

Although the basement room was still mostly full at the time, I wrapped my arm around Geoff's waist and began to imagine how the room might look after the sale. "I bet it'll end up looking like you," I said, knowing it's genetically unlikely that such a dominant characteristic (compulsive book hoarding) would not somehow emerge.

"I bet it'll look like Celeste," he said, likely imagining the games and game parts that trail behind her in a cloud much like Pigpen's dust.

Our cat hacked up a hairball, apparently voicing her opinion that the room would, before long, look just like before, decorated with hairballs, shed fur, and junk.

And so, last Saturday morning, it was time. With my parent's van and our hatchback filled to the top, we headed for the Kanawha Mall parking lot. We thought we were well prepared for what lay ahead. We'd read tips, listened to advice from friends and relatives who had been there before. We had dozens and dozens of bags, plenty of change. We even had ice chips, although they melted long before we had a chance to get near them.

Although I'd attended that sale as a buyer before, I'd never considered what life might be like on the other side of the table. It was insane.

Before we had even emptied our vehicles, cash was being thrust at us from all sides. This is not something I have a problem with. (Readers in doubt should feel free to thrust cash my direction and watch how well I handle myself.) But in the midst of attempting to set up our space, it was discombobulating. No sooner had we lifted a loaded garment rack out of the van than we were dealing with negotiators wanting even more of a bargain. We'd priced our stuff low, the goal being to free up our basement more than to raise cash, but I soon learned there are right ways and wrong ways to bargain with me.

If an item is marked $4 even though it still has the original $32 price tag attached and is still mostly IN this seller's van, saying, "I'll give you a buck for that" is not likely to work. But asking, "Could you possibly do any better on this?" works every time.

By the end of the day, when the Goodwill truck came by to pick up the leftover wares, we didn't have much left to give. It was over. We were done. The experience, rewarding as it was, the labor was exhausting and even painful at times. And now, it's behind us. And there's no way in hell I'll ever do that again.

LOST

2006-05-04T08:47:00.000-07:00

What an episode last night.

So Libby . . . is she a goner or not? In the previews for next week, they showed Jack saying, "She's dead." He didn't say, "They're dead." By having Libby holding those blankets in front of her the way she was, I'm thinking maybe she was carrying a tray or plates or something that deflected the bullets.

I hated to see Ana-Lucia go. Hers was an interesting character, especially the connection they revealed last night between her and Jack's father. Speaking of that -- Jack's dad has a daughter in Australia? Could Claire be his daughter? The woman he tangled with at the door looked too young to be Claire's mom to me, but I really didn't get that good a look.

The whole Michael-The-Mole thing wasn't all that surprising, but maybe that's just me. I've never liked his character. From the moment he turned up again, I had a feeling he'd made some kind of deal to get Walt back.

I'm starting to think there might be two other groups on the island--maybe the group of Dharma researchers (the ones who needed the disguises) and the "dirty people," who they did their original experiments on.

Doesn't anyone who comes here watch LOST? I feel like I'm talking to myself.

And your fortune is...

2006-05-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

I've had my share of fortune cookies that were vague or profound or obvious, but this is the first time I've had one be insulting . . .

I miss Delish

2006-05-02T08:57:00.000-07:00

This is one of those days when the absence of Delish half a block away is almost . . . painful. Excuse the melodrama, but it's so ugly outside. Threatening rain. What I wouldn't give for a turkey-bacon wrap or some chicken satay. Instead, it looks like I'll be spinning the wheel on one of the paper's vending machines and try to pick the lesser of many evils.

The customer's not always right

2006-04-28T10:03:00.000-07:00

It used to be that the customer was always right. And even if they weren't right, they were treated like they were. It was standard business, a way of guaranteeing the customer left satisfied and would return. I don't think it's that way so much anymore. In fact, even when the customer is right, I've learned they aren't always treated that way.

Because I'm a bit of a mouse, I generally avoid conflict and seldom complain. The few times I have, it wasn't apologies I received, but excuses.

Sadly, it isn't just the big boys, the WalMarts and Exxons, with so many customers that losing a spattering of disgruntleds won't make a dent. Now, even some service-oriented businesses are mumbling excuses rather than offering apologies. Recently for me, the excuses were with regard to questionable veterinary care.

Our saga began when I took our new pup to the vet and mentioned he'd been scratching his ears. The vet--one I'd admired and trusted for about 20 years--found a small spot of mange on the edge of his ears. Because mange is highly contagious, the vet said both our dogs would need immediate treatment, so my husband hurried our other dog in so both could be dipped.

Although I've had dogs all my life, I'd never had an encounter with mange. When this vet prescribed dipping, I deferred to her wisdom, even though I worried the pup was too young and too small and that Murry, who is terrified of baths, might hyperventilate and breathe in too much of the fumes. But the vet was aware of those things. And like I said, I trusted her.

When I arrived to retrieve my boys, they were both dripping wet. Without a word of caution, they were delivered to me, and into my car the saturated dogs went. By the time we arrived home, I was saturated as well. Still, I thought, how bad could it be if it was safe enough for a dog as little as ours?

Once at home, though, the dogs barely moved. They dropped by the door and there they remained. Not eating. Not drinking. I was scared they might die.

And then I got sick myself. In hindsight, I feel dumb that I didn't connect my own illness with their chemical treatment. My dripping-wet boys had been in my car, had slept on me in bed. But I'd been having health problems already and assumed those problems were worsening. A doctor bill later, my problem was not identified until we visited a different vet a week later. (Yes, I was diagnosed by a vet. Stop snickering. It's not funny.)

I made several calls asking vets about sarcoptic mange and whether it would be safe to dip a puppy so young and little (under four months and right at 9 lbs.). Each said--with varying degrees of anger and passion--that dipping is never appropriate in such a case. There are safer, less expensive treatments that not only get rid of mange, but also protect against heartworm and fleas at the same time. (The original vet sold us separate medications for those.)

Thankfully, both dogs survived, although both ended up battling a case of kennel cough, too. Once we were all healthy again, I began to stew over the idea that we'd paid so much without being told there had been other options, that we hadn't been warned of the dangers to our pup (or to us), and that the bill had been stacked with medications we wouldn't have needed had the most reasonable (and affordable) course of treatment been prescribed from the start.

But like I said up there at the top, I'm a bit of a mouse. I'm fortunate, however, that my husband is not. He went back to the vet seeking a refund, an apology, or an explanation.

Instead, he got an excuse. They stood firm on their course of treatment and refused to admit they may have been wrong. They wouldn't even admit they should have told us about other treatment options in order that we could have decided which way to go.

It didn't matter that the customer had product literature from the dip manufacturer saying it wasn't safe for dogs the size and age of our pup--the customer was wrong. It didn't matter that the customer had other vets who said our dogs had been given an expensive and irresponsible course of treatment--the customer was wrong.

And I suppose maybe they're right.

The customer was wrong to have trusted them. Wrong not to have voiced her concerns at the start. Wrong not to have questioned the rationale behind risking the life of such a young, tiny dog to stop an itch.

And wrong to believe such a money-motivated business might do the right thing.

Good In Bed

2006-04-26T11:07:00.000-07:00

Just finished listening to Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner. It was definitely entertaining and kept my interest, but I didn't completely love it. I DID like much of the commentary about plus sized women and how it feels to have gone through a tough break-up, but so much of this story was so far fetched that it bothered me. How convenient that Cannie, the main character, became instant best friends with a movie star who loves the screenplay that Cannie just happened to have with her when they met in the bathroom of a hotel after Cannie cursed the movie star out loud by name, not knowing she was in the next stall. (How's that for a run-on sentence?) How convenient that Cannie's perfect doctor fell for her without her even noticing him in that way.

I still liked this book, but it could've been SO much better if Cannie had actually faced a few of the struggles real single moms face. That was something that bothered me about Weiner's other book that I read (Little Earthquakes). There are no financial struggles for any of the characters. That's such a big part of real life (especially MY real life) that it's hard for me to find believable a story where money comes so easily for everyone.

Even though I didn't like some things about this book, it wasn't a waste of time. The beginning was fantastic and had so much promise. I kind of wish there had been one more column from the ex-boyfriend since his character's contribution to the story was basically dropped. The guy had been enlightened enough to understand the plight of large women, to write eloquently about the hauntings that linger after a break-up, but then he became a turd pretty much overnight.

Sappy blast from the past

2006-04-25T10:56:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a fairly new friend about the upcoming WV Writers Conference and I mentioned that's where Geoff and I met. I was telling her the story and she asked me to post the column I wrote about it back then, almost two years ago.

============================================

It started because of the rain. Because our bonfire was canceled. Because my friends Krista, Judy and I needed shelter in a hurry. Voices from a nearby cabin porch--fellow writers attending the same conference--called to us, "Over here."

As the rain poured that June night, we talked with those porch-dwellers, enjoying the pleasant chemistry between our group and theirs. It wasn't a physical chemistry, as nearly all were married or attached, but one of similar humor and overlapping interests.

As for me, my marriage had ended months earlier. My divorce had been final that week. During the painful times leading up to that night, I'd sworn off men forever, pronounced my heart hardened. It seemed easy--and sensible--to plan for a life with just my daughter and me. I determined the only males in our home would be furry ones (ones we could legally neuter).

But my eyes kept meeting his. Blue-gray eyes. Black lashes. Shy smile.

Throughout that evening and the next day, there were more looks, more smiles, more maneuvering to be in the same places at the same times.

And then another rained-out bonfire. And we were all back on that porch.

We sat side by side and talked, our hands "accidentally" brushing each other when we'd reach for our drinks. When the rain ended, we went for a group walk, and then a just-the-two-of-us walk. We stopped to sit on a bench by the lake, where we talked, oblivious of the time, until the sun began to come up.

We laughed about the schmaltziness of having talked all night, then went our separate ways.

A week later, he drove nearly three hours to take me to dinner and a Mountain Stage concert before driving another three hours back home. A week after that, he drove half as far just to see me for an hour when I had business nearby.

And so began our cautious courtship, one that baffled us both for seeming too easy, for being devoid of awkwardness or conflicts right from the start. We had each traveled vastly different roads in our lives, yet seemed to have arrived at the same point at the same time.

Even so, I was guarded, as there was another whose heart would need winning over as well: my six-year-old daughter. (My dog and cat had already given enthusiastic stamps of approval, both regularly choosing Geoff's lap over mine.) But I'd been cautious with Celeste, waiting five months before introducing the two, wanting to be certain of my feelings before risking hers.

Yet there'd been nothing to fear. Within minutes, she was decorating him with feather boa and princess hat. Within hours, they were engrossed in lying competitions. She soon took me aside and whispered, "You can keep him." That same night, the confirmed bachelor leaned over to me and said, "So this is what I've been missing."

Last weekend, Geoff and I attended the same WV Writers conference at Cedar Lakes where we met last summer. There were the same friends on the same porch, and the same late-night walk down that path to the same bench by the lake.

And that's when he dropped down on one knee.

And when my answer was yes.

Country Colloquialisms

2006-04-21T07:03:00.000-07:00

Some old timers might say I'm gettin' above my raisin' or speaking out of hat here, but if that's their poison, I won't pay it no nevermind. In fact, I'll hang out the welcome mat and say hell yeah. It makes me sad that so many of the once-common sayings from this part of the world are becoming scarcer than hen's teeth these days.

Experts in linguistics blame technology--mostly television--and a chronically transient population for the standardization of modern language. I suspect there's a trace of the uppity, too, as speaking a mountain vernacular is viewed by some as a sign of low breeding.

That kind of thinking just dills my pickle. To some of us, the country way of talking can be music to our ears.

These days, it's common for families to uproot repeatedly. We've become a culture of rolling stones, and not only do we gather no moss, but we don't gather the unique cultural quirks that come from being rooted in a place with ancestors as colorful as those in West Virginia.

My own family's roots here are still stubby. My mother, a Pittsburgher, and my father--born in Germany, raised in India--moved here in the 1960s when Dad was hired by Carbide. Since I was knee high to a grasshopper when we came here, I remember no other home.

I've always been a bit envious of those who have been burying their ancestors for generations in the same family cemetery. That may sound like I have a few ancestors I'm longing to plant, but that isn't the case. It's the sense of belonging that much to a place and carrying forward its traces in ways that are uniquely Appalachian.

It seems that colloquialisms-the phrases and descriptions exclusive to this part of the world- are being squeezed out by slang. While some slang is easy for anyone anywhere to pick up and use, no matter how much we say it, it'll never be ours in the same colorful way as it was in the past. For instance, if you want to own up to a mistake, which one sounds better? Saying "My bad," or "This isn't the first time I've brought chicken to a fish fry."

A few years back, I started collecting sayings every time I came across an especially good one. Although many of them are a little too crude to print in the paper, below are a few of my favorites.
He's tighter than a tick with lockjaw.

She could talk a dog off a meat wagon.

He could cut himself with a picture of a razor.

I'm as confused as a termite in a yo-yo.

She's cuter than a bug's ear.

You need to count your fingers after shaking hands with him.

He's so crooked that when he dies, they're going to have to screw him into the ground.

She couldn't catch a cold if it had handles.

I wouldn't speak to her if I met her in hell and she was carrying a big lump of ice in her hands.

You look like you've been drawn through a knothole backwards.

I'm mad enough I could eat barbed wire and spit nails.

She's got more cousins than Carter's got liver pills.

Now that'll throw yer hat in the creek.

Uglier than the southbound end of a northbound donkey.

We grew up so poor we'd go to Kentucky Fried Chicken to lick other people's fingers.

And my absolute favorite: Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And now some from my collection that weren't entirely suitable to print in a family paper . . .

He couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel.

She's so full of shit her eyes are brown. (That one's usually said about me.)

She's so stubborn she'd argue with a stop sign.

He's as jumpy as a fart on a griddle.

I'm as busy as a one-armed barber with hives.

She wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful.

That food tasted so bad the dog had to lick his ass just to get the taste out of his mouth.

That kid is ugly enough to scare the buzzards off a gut wagon.

It's hotter than a goat's ass in a pepper patch.

I'm as anxious as a one-eyed cat watching two rat holes.

Well, I'll be dipped in shit and rolled in breadcrumbs.

He's shorter than a mouse hole.

That man is dumber than a sack full of hammers.

That's about as handy as a pocketful of paper assholes.

If you threw him in a barrel of boobs, he'd come out sucking his thumb.

This is one of my favorite descriptions ever. It was said about a woman who was wearing a really bright lipstick: "Her mouth looks like a jaybird's ass in pokeberry time."

If you have any to add, please post them under comments or email them to me at karinfuller@cnpapers.com.

2006-04-19T19:49:00.000-07:00

I was just trying to copy and paste the story about my husband that was in
today's Metro Putnam, but apparently I'm not as techno-savvy as I thought. I didn't even know they were going to do a story about Geoff, but it was the photo they used with the story that was the biggest surprise. I'd never seen it before. It's Geoff without facial hair--a picture he says was taken about 8 or 10 years ago. I still haven't figured out how they got it. (He was blaming me, but I SWEAR I'm innocent.)

Here's a much more recent picture of him.

The article is about these three writing classes Geoff's will be teaching soon--one is a four-week course on writing short fiction, and the other two are Saturday-only classes, one on the business of writing and the other on self-editing.
If anyone out there is interested, he has more information on his website at www.drwriteclinic.com or you can contact him at geocam@adelphia.net.

audio books (again)

2006-04-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

I ran down to the library at lunch today and found a few of the audio books I had on my list -- Good In Bed by Jennifer Weiner and Comfort & Joy by Kristin Hannah. (Actually, that second one wasn't on the list but the author was, so I grabbed it anyway.) I also got one called Heal Yourself with Medical Hypnosis. It sounded interesting, but I have a feeling it'll end up being one of those ones where my mind drifts off. (Or maybe with hypnosis, that means it's working?)

I've been curious about hypnosis and hypnotherapy for a while. I keep wondering if it might help me get past my problem with public speaking. I tried Toastmasters but didn't have the time to commit to it. Besides, Toastmasters seemed to be more for polishing speaking skills than whipping a fear. Mine's a strange phobia. If I'm in front of a bunch of people and they're asking me questions, I'm OK, or if I'm really pissed off, I can talk fairly well. But to just stand there and speak . . .

(shudder)

2006-04-17T11:04:00.000-07:00

In one of the comments section down below Missy and I were talking about coming up with names and I mentioned that Celeste just looked like a Celeste, which then led (of course) to me trying to find a picture to prove that I'm not totally insane. I don't think any other name would've fit her.

Caring a little can help a lot

2006-04-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

"Would ya look at that?" Geoff said.

"What?" Celeste asked.

"The pup made an exclamation point on the carpet."

"That's not funny." Celeste's nose was snarled in disgust.

Curious, I looked in from the kitchen to see for myself. "Hey," I said. "It does look like an exclamation point. And look over there - an ellipsis."

"That's NOT funny," Celeste said again. "I just cleaned up a puddle a few minutes ago. And now this."

I handed her the paper towels.

"Maybe he'll get like that spider from 'Charlotte's Web' and start spelling out words," said Geoff. "He's got punctuation down."

Although I expected more whining, Celeste cleaned up the creatively placed droppings of her obviously well-fed little dog with just two or three sighs. (Long and loud sighs.)

I've been pleased by how well she's held up to her promise to care for her pup. But to be honest, I'm a bit surprised, too. I expected the novelty of having a dog of her own would quickly wear off, that she'd begin attempting to shirk her responsibilities a little at a time.

Although there have been a few slips, rather than shirking, she's been taking on more responsibility for our other animals without being asked, recognizing and taking care of their needs. Filling their food and water dishes, brushing their hair, cleaning off that disgusting eye gunk (but so far, not tending to litter boxes). Caring a little led to caring a lot. It was an outcome I hadn't expected.

When I mentioned that to Geoff, though, he didn't seem too surprised.

"Taking care of someone else takes you out of yourself," he said. "Suddenly, you aren't all that matters. Your sacrifice isn't that big a deal because what you're working for or who you're helping becomes more important."

He went on to tell me how, many years back, not long after he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a close friend was going through some serious medical problems of her own. Even though his situation had him feeling spent, he pushed aside what was happening in his world and instead focused on helping her get better. When her situation was finally stable, he said his concerns, which had once seemed so overwhelming, had shrunk down to something completely manageable.

"Maybe that's why therapists suggest their patients to do volunteer work," I said. "It not only distracts, but reframes. Seeing someone else's problems can minimize yours."

It reminded me how, several months after my baby died from spinal muscular atrophy, a man I'd never met called asking if I'd consider talking to a couple whose baby had just been diagnosed. I told him I had nothing to offer this couple, that I was still too big a mess to do any good. Still, he seemed so confident I could help that, ignoring my doubts, I agreed to visit them in the hospital.

The couple had a million questions. I had a half-million answers. They cried, and I consoled them. I cried, and they consoled me. I'm not sure which of us that visit helped more, but I know when I left, I felt better than I had in a while.

"The more you give, the more you get" is something of an overused phrase, and while it makes sense, it also seems incomplete. Like it needs a few different words. Perhaps, "The more you give, the more you can give up." Amazing things become possible when the self is sacrificed to benefit others.

And it seems appropriate that we're celebrating today, Easter Sunday, in honor of the most important sacrifice of all.

2006-04-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

Celeste woke up this morning not feeling too well, so she's in my bed watching TV. I went in a few minutes ago to check on her and this is what I found . . .

The one on Celeste's chest is NOT our dog. She lives across the street.

2006-04-12T07:25:00.000-07:00

I ran across this picture the other day and it cracked me up all over again, so I thought I would share it. This is me and my favorite uncle, Edgar Frankwich, back when I was eight months pregnant with Celeste. (Yes, eight months. I got even bigger than that.)

Edgar died five years ago last month from a rare form of cancer caused by the anti-rejection medications he took after his heart transplant. He was the neatest person. I miss him especially bad this time of year. My mom (his sister) and I love yard sale season, and so did Ed. He liked to come down here from Pittsburgh so he could go with us to the sales held all over Putnam county the first weekend in May.

My uncle and I used to email quite a bit, and he was always sending me funny stories to use in my column. I would tease him that he was just trying to get his name in the paper, and it became a joke between us because I'd use his stuff, then only identify him as "a relative." Anyway, after Edgar died, I told one of my friends I was going to miss Ed always trying to get his name in the paper.

Immediately after that, I started finding pennies everywhere I went. It was the strangest thing. It wasn't just one or two, but ten or more every day. Once I put money in a vending machine, and when my change came out, it included a handful of pennies. No one puts pennies in a vending machine, yet they tinked out with my change. I'd heard about "pennies from heaven" before, but I thought it was silly. Which made Edgar have to work even harder. Finally, I cried uncle and wrote one last column about him. As soon as it appeared, the pennies stopped.

Kind of ironic...

2006-04-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

It's kind of ironic that at the same time I was writing about the health benefits of having pets, my own pets were indirectly responsible for me becoming very ill.

When I took the pup to the vet to get fixed, they found a spot of mange on the tip of his ear, so rather than losing his manhood, he and Murry both ended up getting dipped. When I picked them up, they were both still dripping wet. My car got soaked. I got soaked. I'd been given no warnings about handling the dogs after the dipping, so I didn't think twice about allowing them in my bed as usual, where one sleeps against me and the other one on me.

Because I'd so recently gone through the trouble with my eyes, when I started having trouble again, I figured the medicine wasn't working. Then I got the worst migraine of my life. My equilibrium was shot. I was nauseated. Felt drugged. My doctor said she felt like she was missing something, but it never occurred to me to mention the dog dip. She referred me to a neurologist.

It wasn't until we went to a different vet on Saturday that we figured out what was wrong. Fortunately, it's not something that will cause permanent damage, but it is almost certainly what made me sick. Kind of strange being diagnosed by a vet, but also strangely appropriate, don't you think?

I really like our new vet, Dr. Mankin in Winfield. I'm totally impressed -- not just with him, but with everyone in his office. That's an animal-loving bunch if ever there was one. It's kind of a quirky office with their one-eyed thieving yellow cat, a three-legged pup, and a few somewhat surly cats from the Putnam shelter that are available for adoption there. It felt right.

The Secret to Immortality

2006-04-07T12:46:00.000-07:00

I think I've discovered the secret to immortality.

Pet ownership.

According to an article on a UK Health & Fitness website, "Research has shown that lifestyle factors-such as living in the countryside, eating a healthy diet and owning a pet--can add as much as two decades to your life expectancy."

Two decades.

So I'm thinking-if you can't live in the countryside and don't care much for eating healthy, all you have to do is have enough pets and you can skip the diet and location part completely. The average pet owner is believed to live anywhere from two to five years longer than non-pet owners, so depending on the accuracy of those findings, I'm going to be around an extra 10 to 25 years.

"I don't think you can give any single reason why pet owners live longer," wrote Bruce Headley, a researcher at the University of Melbourne, "but I think companionship has a lot to do with it."

A US study on people who have survived a heart attack revealed that pet owners are up to four times more likely to survive one than non-pet owners.

Not only do pets lengthen lifespan, but they improve it as well. "Pets enhance social interactions between people, strengthening social networks and elevating psychological and physical well-being," said an article from WebMD.

During one experiment, a woman took her dog with her as she went about her daily routines for five days, then did the same routine for five days without the dog. With the dog, she had 156 interactions with people. Without the dog, just 50. So the dog not only provides its own companionship, but also makes it more likely for the owner to have the companionship of other people.

Studies have also found that stroking a dog or cat actually lowers blood pressure, and people with pets tend to have lower levels of triglycerides and cholesterol than non-pet owners. While the lower cholesterol/triglycerides part might be due to the animal conning the owner out of much of their food, it's likely also that "having a pet stimulates exercise, activity and play," wrote Alan M. Beck, author of Between Pets and People. "People who engage in regular exercise tend to live longer than those who do not."

"Just being around dogs boosts levels of serotonin-the brain chemical responsible for lifting mood," according to research from the University of Missouri-Columbia.

I know that some of the most peaceful times in my life are when I'm with my animals. As I write this, the pup is curled in a ball on the ratty LazyBoy chair in my little home office, and Murry is curled in a ball on his ratty once-white pillow by my feet. Two of my three cats have popped in just long enough to say hi. Just long enough to make me feel cared about.

Usually, the first thing I do when I get home from work is spend some time with my crew. Celeste and Geoff first, then generally by rank of seniority after that. For a long time, I didn't recognize what I was doing when I would seek out one of my animals for a little one-on-one time. There's something about stroking their fur, watching their eyes glaze over from an especially good belly-scratching, that can take me from feeling balled up inside down to feeling even again.

What prompted me to research the health benefits of having pets was the reaction of an acquaintance, upon hearing of the number of pets in our house. "I don't know how you stand it," she said, looking repulsed. "Animals are so dirty."

Her reaction surprised me. Although I know animals are dirty and often require a great deal of work, I believe the inconvenience of having to clean up after them is immensely more desirable than the alternative. Which is more important-a clean house, or one that comes with its own cheering section? A spotless carpet, or one decorated with cat hair, rawhide bones and squeaker-less toys? A showcase to impress company, or a place where my favorite company is already there?

For me, the choice wasn't hard.

And unlike that pet-free acquaintance, my animals are making it likely I'll be around for many more years to enjoy all their dirt.

2006-04-06T08:34:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday night, Geoff and I took Celeste and our neighbor, Jordan Holmes, (remember that name - he'll be famous someday) to see The No Pants Players improve group on stage at the Labelle Theater in South Charleston. Celeste and Jordan both became huge fans of Joe Wallace after meeting him last summer at Charleston Stage Company's Summer Arts Camp, where he was one of the counselors. As soon as they saw that he'd be performing, they couldn't wait to go, even though it meant missing the Kids Choice Awards on Nickelodeon. (I hope Joe recognizes just how big a compliment that is.)

What a show it was! I haven't laughed that hard in ages. It was totally family-friendly, and the group pulled kids (and a few adults) from the audience to use in their act. These guys (and one girl) are so talented. I can't imagine being able to make something up on the spot the way they do.

Admission was only $5 and the theater was very nice, although they didn't have the air on so by the second hour, it was becoming a bit uncomfortable.

I don't know how often they put on a show, but we intend to become regulars there.

Pandemic Panic

2006-03-31T08:01:00.000-08:00

I recently read an article on the ABC News website called "Preparing for a Pandemic." The story included a list of "must-haves" each home should keep on hand if bird flu ends up forcing everyone to stay at home for weeks on end.

No sooner had I finished the article than an interview came on the radio with a government official saying it's no longer a matter of "if" the bird flu will strike the U.S., but "when." Then, a short while later, The Daily Show ended a segment with a microscopic look at a virus. One guess which virus it was.

Ever since bird flu began to appear in the news, I've had the nagging feeling the story was being carefully managed. Managed by who? I don't have a clue. So tell me, dear readers, what should we do?

(Sorry. Such scary subjects send me speeding to Seuss, where silliness out-muscles such serious truths.)

I guess maybe my paranoia can be chalked up to having watched too many episodes of 24 (although in my opinion, there's no such thing as too many episodes of 24), but something about this bird flu business just smells funny to me. It feels as though they know for certain it's coming and that they aren't ready. And since they aren't ready, they need to make everyone aware of the situation in the slowest, gentlest way possible in order to avoid too much of a panic.

(Heaven help me. I'm talking in "theys." Next thing you know I'll be tin-foiling the ceiling and wearing a helmet with the ear holes plugged up.)

Like many people--perhaps most--I have my head buried ears deep in the sand. In that position, it's still possible to breathe and sort of see, but sounds are muffled and not as hard to ignore.

It's easy to bravely say this is nothing but another millennium-type scare, or to recall the mad panic after 9-11, when folks were stockpiling gas masks and government spokesmen were advising how to use duct tape to lessen the effects of chemical weapons. This is hardly the first time Armageddon was predicted, yet in the so-recent past, nothing of substance has come from the scares.

The only stories that bumped bird flu from the news this past week were the latest reports on global warming, complete with colorful graphics showing raised temperature zones and video footage of melting glaciers. Makes you wonder if there isn't a Sweeps Week for catastrophic global disasters.

(Hey, in the late '70s, weren't they predicting a second ice age was coming?)

Countries all over the world are attempting to prepare for the potential pandemic by stockpiling Tamiflu and Relenza, the only two antiviral drugs that are effective against avian flu. But the U.S. has only two million doses on hand (for a population of nearly three hundred million), so our government is advising us to prepare in a whole different way. Remembering the government's assurance that duct tape would protect us from those bothersome chemical weapons, I couldn't wait to hear their advice for staving off the bird flu.

Health and Human Services Secretary Mike Leavitt says we should buy a few extra cans of tuna fish and powdered milk every time we're at the store. And, according to him, we should stash it under our beds.

Other nations prepare with a mountain of medicine. We prepare with canned goods.

Shopping list: duct tape, tuna, powdered milk, false-sense-of-security blanket. Head-sized bucket of sand.

This is a little crude, but...

2006-03-30T11:54:00.000-08:00

it still makes me chuckle to think about it, so . . .

Last night I was talking to Geoff and didn't realize Celeste was listening in. I said, "I'm going to take the pup to the vet tomorrow to get his balls cut off."

Celeste shrieked and said, "Why would you do that?"

I said, "It keeps boy dogs from running away. If you don't do it, they go off looking for girls."

She looked totally horrified, then asked. "Why didn't you get Murry done?"

I said, "I did."

She looked at him, appeared confused, then said, "No, you didn't. He still has his paws."

Instead of "balls," she thought I said "paws." I guess it does make sense--I mean, how far could he go without paws?

2006-03-28T06:39:00.000-08:00

My kid is strange. I like that about her. When I got to work this morning, the message light on my phone was on. When I retrieved it, this is what I heard (spoken in a 8-year-old version's of a Valley Girl/surfer voice):

"Like, um, hi. I'm a high pressure ham salesman and I'm, like, selling ham. I'm also, like, selling chicken. Oh yeah, and I'm also selling these pet vacuums that will totally pick up your pet's hair and oh, man, is it awesome. It's called the Pet Vac and the other stuff is called ham. And chicken. Anyway, I didn't really want to sell this stuff but, like, I was desperate for a job and all, so I am. So, like, if you want to buy some, let me know. Well, later, dude. I've gotta go get my nose pierced now. Bye."

April Fuller

2006-03-24T07:25:00.000-08:00

Darn, I thought when I looked at the calendar and realized April Fools Day would fall on a Saturday.

Darn, my daughter and husband will probably soon be thinking, too, when they realize my pool of prank subjects has been reduced to just two.

I prefer having a plethora of coworkers to choose from, as it offers a better chance of catching my victim off guard. But my family-they know me too well. A distrustful lot they are, too.

Since my choices are limited, I plan to rise Saturday morning at my usual time, make my usual noises, not vary from my routine, which includes getting Celeste up for school. My girl, who is NOT a morning person, habitually squeezes in a few extra z's by eating while still soundly asleep. Each morning, once she's seated at the table, I put a bowl of cereal in front of her and, without once opening her eyes, she begins to spoon it into her mouth. Occasionally her arm will stall somewhere between bowl and mouth and I'll have to give her a nudge to get her going again. It's a fascinating process to watch--to witness someone eat and dress and brush teeth while just minimally conscious. And it's a process I'm counting on using against her come Saturday morning.

I wonder how long she'll stand and wait for the bus.

Before anyone starts thinking I'm cruel, trust me--I owe her one. Actually, I owe her several. Ever since Celeste learned my weakness (startle me and my knees go out, like one of those fainting goats), she's been torturing me. When she noticed I was going around the house picking up clothes for the laundry, she sneaked in the bedroom and hid in the hamper. When she heard me say I was going to go take a shower, she hid in the linen closet. When I went to give a goodnight kiss to what I thought was my daughter, she grabbed my ankles from under the bed.

Thud.

That's one apple that didn't fall far from the tree. And when it fell, it made the same sound as her startled mother.

It might sound a bit crazy, but I seldom discourage her from playing pranks, although I want to make certain she recognizes when she'd be going too far. For example, coloring Styrofoam packing peanuts with watered-down orange food coloring and putting them in a candy dish would be ok. Switching my Raisenettes with chocolate covered ants would not.

Generously sprinkling confetti (or glitter) in a little pile on top of the blades of a ceiling fan would be ok. Doing so on our home ceiling fan would not.

Putting Saran Wrap tightly across a door frame would be ok. Putting Saran Wrap tightly over the toilet bowl would not.

Taping a sign to the speaker of a fast-food drive through that says, "Having speaker trouble--please talk extra loud and very slow" would be fine. Taping a "Wide Load" sign to the back of my coat would be going too far.

Just six days to go. Then the games will begin.

P R A N K S

* ONE of the best practical jokes I've heard about was one played by a guy whose little sister had a pet turtle--the green kind they still sell at some pet stores that you keep in a glass bowl with water. His sister loved her little turtle and was always worrying whether it was eating enough, so the brother went to a pet store and found a turtle that looked exactly like hers (not hard to do), only this one was a little bit smaller. He replaced her turtle with the smaller one, then several days later, replaced that one with an even smaller one, then did it again with a really tiny one. He marveled with his sister over her incredible shrinking turtle, then waited a few days and replaced it with the slightly bigger one, then again and again, until she had her original turtle back. He claims she never figured it out.

* REMOVE the small electronic music button out of a musical greeting card and hide it under your carpet in an area where there's a lot of foot traffic. Whenever it's stepped on, the music will play. It'll drive everyone (including your pets) crazy trying to figure out where the music is coming from.

* PROGRAM a universal remote control to work with the main TV, then hide it under a seat cushion where you can discreetly make it change channels or raise and lower the volume while the person holding the "real" remote control goes nuts.

* THE next time you're a passenger in a car going through a drive-through window, tell the person driving that the restaurant you're at is having a promotion where you can get a free Whopper (or whatever) just by saying "I can spell Whopper" when asked, "Can I take your order?"

* OLDIE but goodie - put a rubber band or a piece of tape around the squeeze handle of the kitchen sink sprayer. Whoever turns the water on will get blasted with water.

* WASH out a can of dog or cat food, then replace it with a similarly smelly food (like tuna), then casually spoon some of it into your mouth while talking to your family. This also works well with a box of dry cat food. (Cracklin Oat Bran looks and sounds a lot like cat food.)

* I LOVE this last one -- wish I still had a Brownie troop I could do this one to. If you go to this site, they have find-a-word and crossword puzzles you can print that can't be solved. http://www.chrisdunmire.com/fun/worlds.hardest.puzzles.shtml

IS YOUR POOCH A MOOCH?

2006-03-24T06:27:00.000-08:00

Some dogs are expert beggars, and we're looking for the funniest and most unique pooch mooch in our area. Does your dog have a special technique to get you to share your food? Tell us your dog's story (in 100 words or less) and you and your dog might both win some great prizes.

Winners will be announced and prizes awarded on May 6, 2006 at TAYLOR BOOK STORE on Capitol Street in Charleston. Patti Lawson will be on hand to sign copies of her own pooch mooch story about her dog, Sadie ("The Dog Diet: What My Dog Taught Me About Shedding Pounds, Licking Stress and Getting A New Leash On Life").

Judges aren't looking for the best writers--just the funniest or most outrageous story, so get out that pen and share your dog's special techniques for filching food.

DEADLINE: Entries must be postmarked or emailed by April 21, 2006

Email entries to thedogdiet@aol.com. (Put POOCH MOOCH in the subject line.)

Mail entries to: POOCH MOOCH, Taylor Books, 226 Capitol Street, Charleston, WV 25301 or personally deliver to Taylor Books by April 21, 2006.

Entries may be typed or legibly handwritten. 100 WORDS OR LESS. Too many words will result in disqualification.

Decision of the Judges is final.

You must be present to win.

That's all there is to it! So jot down the story about your ever-clever, always hungry hound, and then get ready for a fun evening at TAYLOR BOOKS on
MAY 6, 2006 at 6:30 p.m.

(I'm one of the judges for this.)

2006-03-21T10:46:00.000-08:00

Kind of lame episode of 24 last night. When I put out a column I don't really like, I call it a place-holder. That's what last night's episode felt like to me.

The Homeland Security take-over of CTU is dull and uninspired.

Curtis lived through another episode without his character being developed in the least. Maybe that's his survival strategy, since characters you like never seem to live long on 24. I mean, no one likes Kim, yet she's still alive. If Curtis starts acting whiny and spoiled, I'll be sure that's his game.

Wayne Palmer resurfaced, insisting on visiting the Presidential compound so he could give something to Aaron, the Secret Service guy. Unfortunately, Wayne wasn't able to outrun a crappy old van with his sports car.

The show ended with Collette saying Audrey had been the one who provided her with the blueprint. Audrey? Come on. With Nina, there were clues she had the potential to be bad. She had an affair with a married man. She had a cold, aloof demeanor. There was definite self-serving bitch potential in her. But Audrey has never been anything but doe-eyed. She's the spinning around in the snow, tossing her beret in the air like Mary Tyler Moore type, not someone who would sell out her country. What reason would she have to do something like that? She has a good relationship with her family and isn't hurting for money. (Well, maybe she is hurting for money since it looks like she can't afford to buy food on a regular basis.) It feels like a set up, but I wonder how long Jack will end up torturing her before she's proven to be innocent? Guess Jack will be sleeping alone for another year.

2006-03-20T13:16:00.000-08:00

It's hard to get a picture of Celeste smiling these days since her two front teeth are at different stages of growing in and she thinks she looks goofy. (Young enough to be losing teeth left and right, but old enough to be vain.)

Creative Vandalism

2006-03-17T16:25:00.000-08:00

Audio Books

2006-03-17T07:03:00.000-08:00

It's been a long love affair--an on-again, off-again sort of thing. Each time I rediscover this old passion of mine, I go overboard for a while, immersing myself completely. Maybe too completely. Before long, I become distracted, preoccupied with the next time we're together again.

Just me and my latest audio book.

Please excuse the melodramatics. It's a side effect of the company I've been keeping while commuting these past couple of weeks. Some of the books I listen to tend to rub off on me. Before this last one ("Little Earthquakes" by Jennifer Weiner), it was "I Don't Know How She Does It" by Allison Pearson, performed by a British reader with a quite lovely voice. The more I listened, the more difficult it became not to try to copy her accent. It's a book with a bonus.

I've always loved reading--loved few things more than curling up with a book for hours on end. I used to have several books going at the same time (one in the kitchen that I'd read with breakfast, one on my nightstand, another in the bathroom, one in my car in case I got stuck somewhere dull). But ever since my daughter was born, I've found it difficult to get time to read. It can take ages now to finish a book, and so much time often passes between when I put a book down and when I pick it up again that I forget what's going on.

That isn't a problem with audio books. I'm always in my car. Sometimes it feels like I live in my car. I start and end work days with a 25-minute (if I'm lucky) commute, although when I'm involved in a book, I consider myself lucky when traffic is slow.

The National Endowment for the Arts reported that although fewer Americans are reading than a decade ago, nearly a third more are listening to audio books, which account for about 3 percent of books sold. In the past, people who listened to books rather than read them were stigmatized, as if they were lazy or not really reading. That's still the case, to some degree, but advances in technology, however, now make it possible to store three or four books on a tiny iPod. Suddenly, we who listen to audio books are seen as techno savvy.

Much as I adore this "lazy" way of enjoying a book, there are still several downsides. For instance, a bad narrator can ruin a book you might otherwise love. I bought my daughter one of my childhood favorites, "A Wrinkle In Time." The book was read by the author, but her accent and speech impediment was so distracting that it sometimes made entire passages hard to understand.

I also miss being able to flip back to reread a particularly well-written passage. When I read something especially good, I often try to figure out just what made that part work. That isn't so easy to do when you can't look at the words.

At the same time, though, when I'm reading an actual book, I often skim over parts I deem too descriptive. Doing that, I now realize, can really lessen the feel of a book. I've also noticed that I seem to absorb more of a book I've listened to far longer than one I've read the old fashioned way. It stays with me longer, feels more real. But only if done by a competent reader. It all hinges on that.

My all-time favorite writer, David Sedaris, reads most of his own work. His sense of timing is perfect. No one else could do it the way that he does. But I recently abandoned a good story because the reader made nearly every sentence sound as though it ended with a question mark, and my father-in-law just gave away a CD set he'd been wanting after discovering the reader's voice was just too grating to bear.

I will always prefer to have a book in my hands, to be able to dog-ear pages, highlight passages, jot notes in the margins. But until my life slows enough that I can do that again, I'll continue happily haunting the aisles in the library's Audio Visual department, looking for love . . . on a CD.

MINI REVIEWS OF RECENT AUDIO BOOKS I'VE LISTENED TO

DEAR ZOE by Philip Beard (2004) -- This was a FANTASTIC book. One of my favorite reads in a long, long time. The premise for the book struck me as strange -- letters written by a 15-year-old girl to her 4-year-old sister Zoe, who was killed on 9-11 by a hit and run driver. The realistic way the story covered grief and the aftermath of something that tragic were handled so impressively that I was compelled to look up interviews with the author online to see if he'd actually lost a child himself. (He didn't.) Equally impressive is that a 40-ish man could write in the voice of a 15-year-old girl as convincingly as he did. This was Beard's first novel. His next, "Lost in the Garden," will be on sale May 4, 2006.

ON THE ROAD by Jack Kerouac (1955) -- Although I can't say I completely enjoyed this book--it seemed repetitive in parts--listening to it left me feeling as though I was actually on a trip myself. Never before has a book triggered such wanderlust in me, and to be honest, it also triggered a bit of regret that I've never experienced that kind of reckless freedom.

DAVID SEDARIS BOX SET (2002) -- I actually bought this for myself, and for someone who has difficulty parting with money, that says much right there. I already own all the Sedaris books, but wanted the CDs too since he and his sister, Amy, perform the stories. It was money well spent. This man is just the most incredible writer. He can tell a serious story about his mom having lung cancer or his childhood battle with obsessive-compulsive disorder, and he tells it in such a way that you're cracking up while feeling like you're experiencing the pain or the problem at the same time. How the heck does he do that? He's the writer version of a singer with perfect pitch.

DAY OF THE DEAD by J.A. Jance (2004) -- This is HORRIBLE. The reader is bad, the story is bad, the writing is bad. I hate that I wasted an hour or so trying to get into it. Major stinker.

TWISTED by Jeffrey Deaver (2004) -- Short stories just don't get much better than this. I checked this one out because I liked Deaver's book, THE BONE COLLECTOR, and I was not disappointed. This is an excellent collection of shorts. Deaver does not waste a word. Every sentence moves the story forward or serves a purpose. The man is a clean, clean writer. A few of the stories in this collection are just okay, but there are others, like the WEEKENDER, that totally blew me away. There are some writers I just read (or listen to) and others that I want to study to figure out how they do it. Deaver (and Sedaris and Beard) are writers of the studying caliber.

I just checked out THE BREAKDOWN LANE by Jacquelyn Mitchard and so far, so good. I'm always looking for recommendations, too. Anyone? (Is anyone even out there?)

2006-03-14T10:07:00.000-08:00

Finally, some good news. My eye pressure numbers have come down enough with the drops that I won't have to have surgery. Phew. The thought of having my eyes sliced into terrifies me. I have to use the drops for the rest of my life, but I'm still so relieved.

OK, now on to the more important stuff - last night's episode of 24. I've been irritated with the McGill character for a while now, but I liked how he was able to redeem himself.

I was surprised they killed off Tony's character in such a lame way, unless maybe he's not really dead. The drug he was jabbed with was the same thing they were giving Henderson and they were able to bring him back over and over, so I wouldn't be surprised if Tony didn't return. Last year a near-fatal bullet wound to the neck only made him miss a few hours work, and this year's life-threatening injuries/burns only took him out for six our seven hours.

A friend sent this to me . . .

A FEW THINGS YOU MIGHT NOT KNOW ABOUT JACK BAUER

If Jack Bauer was in a room with Hitler, Stalin, and Nina Meyers, and he had a gun with only two bullets, he'd shoot Nina twice.

If everyone on "24" followed Jack Bauer's instructions, it would be called "12."

Upon hearing that he was played by Kiefer Sutherland, Jack Bauer killed Sutherland. Jack Bauer gets played by no man.

Jack Bauer once forgot where he put his keys. He then spent the next half-hour torturing himself until he gave up the location of the keys.

Jack Bauer is the leading cause of death in Middle Eastern men.

When Jack Bauer was a child, he made his mother finish his vegetables.

When President Palmer started doing Allstate commercials, it took him 43 takes before he could stop saying, "You're in good hands with Jack Bauer".

In 96 hours, Jack Bauer has killed 93 people and saved the world 4 times. What the heck have you done with your life?

Finding Nemo would have been vastly more exciting had Jack Bauer been looking for him.

Jack Bauer can get McDonald's breakfast after 10:30.

You can lead a horse to water. Jack Bauer can make him drink.

Jack Bauer got Helen Keller to talk.

2006-03-13T17:59:00.000-08:00

This is nice. I'm at my computer in my small white and dark purple home office, my belly full of Geoff's wickedly good meatloaf, window open. It's raining and cool, but not cold. Just right. Murry is sleeping against the door. Squirt is curled, head tucked into paws, on the raggedy recliner next to my desk, the one with half its buttons missing. I can hear Geoff and Celeste laughing, but can't make out what they're saying. Sounds like something about who got it the last time and getting the paper towels. I suspect the pup is involved.

Nice.

When push comes to shove

2006-03-10T07:09:00.000-08:00

"Do you ever get the feeling that something is coming?" a friend wrote in an email recently. "That some kind of change is headed your way?"

She apologized for her vagueness, for maybe sounding a little bit crazy, but I knew exactly what she was talking about. I've felt that same thing myself.

As a teenager, I became enchanted with the idea of predestination, found comfort in the belief that a plan was already in place for the rest of my life and all that was required of me was to live it. How easy that was, to bear no responsibility one way or the other, to assume that regardless of the path I took, in the end, it had already been decided where I would emerge.

Gradually, my belief in predestination was replaced by the idea of fate, which to me was basically a slightly less organized, less elaborate version of the same thing. I could tell myself something simply was not meant to be and be satisfied. It was fate's fault, not mine.

As I entered my late 30s, however, I began to realize that I had been wrong. Believing you're helpless to change things, to affect the direction and quality of your life, is not just wrong, but lazy.

"Destiny is not a matter of chance. It is a matter of choice," wrote William Jennings Bryan. "It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved."

That's the kind of destiny I believe in now. That we have total say in who we are and who we become. Still, I think something more is going on, too. Something mystifying. Spiritual. Something the logical, scientific mind has trouble grasping.

Some people see it as karma--that if we do bad, bad things happen to us. And if we do good... But that's a little too simple, a little too sweeping. Life, at least mine, isn't that way. There's no balancing scoreboard making certain no one gets cheated, that we reap an equal amount of what we have sown. But there are, I believe, little pushes. Something that helps us get what we need.

There have been many times I've felt myself nudged, felt directed to go a certain way. If I chose to ignore it, the nudge became a tug, then a push, then a shove.
Sometimes, the push frightens me, especially if I'm feeling shoved in a direction I wasn't wanting to go. Before I met my husband, I'd sworn off men. I'd made plans for a life with just me and my daughter. There was no room in my plans for anyone else.

Nudge. Go to the conference.

I went to the conference.

Push. Go with your friends for a walk.

But it's going to rain any minute, I argued with this . . . whatever it was.

Shove. Just go.

I went. It rained. Actually, it poured. It poured so hard my friends and I had to take cover on a nearby porch. Where Geoff, who is now my husband, was sitting.

I had recognized the shove. Argued with the shove. But I hadn't ignored it.

Sometimes these shoves, when they come, are anything but gentle, nor are they always pleasant. They can be dealt to me, forced on me, not offered as a choice. Often, they seem more like punishment or the absolute last thing I'd want, but in every case where that's happened, I've later discovered the reason behind it. Sometimes I had to work to make there be a reason, but I've come to believe that's part of the plan.

Recently, on my daily quotes calendar, was one that I saved.

Good things are seldom handed to us. It often takes a push-one hard enough to make us leave our comfy nest-in order for us to go find, and value, those good things ourselves.

2006-03-10T06:54:00.000-08:00

This new pup (whose name is now Chewy) is such a neat dog. I love how he and Murry are together. I was afraid the size difference would be a problem, but if anything, Murry ends up getting hurt far more than Chewy.

Chewy lures Murry into playing tug-of-war with this pom-pom hair band all the time. He pulls it tight, then lets go. SNAP! Gets Murry every time. And he lures Murry into chasing him at high speeds through the house, then when he senses Murry is into it enough that he's not paying attention, he ducks under something low and Murry runs smack into it. Over and over again. My poor clueless boy.

I got a little grief after last Sunday's column because I bought a full breed instead of a shelter dog, which I really would have preferred. It was a tough thing for me. I hate the idea of deliberately breeding dogs when shelters are full, especially when there are so many irresponsible breeders out there, treating dogs like they're workers on a production line, churning out pups.

With the exception of Murry and two German shepherds (one in the 1960s and another in the early 80s), my family has always had mutts. Murry is a full breed--a soft coated wheaten terrier. He was purchased for us by relatives after our baby died. Since Mitch and I were still married then and he was terribly allergic to dogs, they chose a Wheaten because they're hypoallergenic.

Anyway, I didn't want to get a full breed, so for the last few months, my daughter and I had been going online to the different websites like Petfinders and the local shelters looking for a small Yorkie-ish dog. There was nothing. (On Petfinders, there actually are many Yorkies listed as available, but there are nearly none that aren't marked as not liking children, cats or other dogs, and NONE anywhere close to West Virginia.)

What it ended up boiling down to, though was this wasn't MY dog or MY money. It was my daughter's choice and decision and responsibility. She understands about animals in the shelter. It's where we got our cat Gypsy, who was the next scheduled to be euthanized. (She was older than the rest and had been there the longest.) She's far more aware than most eight-year-olds, but she's still just a kid. And this pup--this full breed pup--is what she wanted. And there's no way I can look at the two of them (or the three of them, if you count Murry) and think he was any kind of mistake. I love this bright, happy little dog. I love how he is with Celeste. The rest of the crowd is mine. He's hers.

I DO want to look into a few local puppy mills I was told about, along with some pet stores. If there are bad breeders in this area, I'd love to hear about them. If you don't want to post your comments here in a public forum, send me an email directly at karinfuller@cnpapers.com. I appreciate it!

More on 24

2006-03-08T13:33:00.000-08:00

Really good double episode of 24 this week, although I was crushed that they killed Edgar. I loved his character and thought they were going to develop something more between him and Chloe. I just hope they don't kill Chloe. I love her attitude and facial expressions.

I didn't care much for Kim returning. Maybe they just brought her back so they could kill her. Her character has annoyed me from the very first year. The way she reacted after finding out her dad was still alive . . . there wasn't even a flash of her being torn between happy and pissed. A better actress might've been able to pull that off in a more believable manner, but not her.

I was also bothered by how Henderson managed to blow up the room he'd locked Jack in, yet Jack still managed to get out and made it back to Henderson's house before Henderson did. They didn't show anything to account for it taking him so much longer to get there.

Kim's "boyfriend" (Barry?) is creepy. I'm guessing he might be some kind of a mole, knowing she'd eventually get him inside CTU.

And finally, I'm thinking Tony's days are numbered. With Michelle gone, I have a feeling he's due for some heroic last act, although he'll probably off Henderson first. (They were both in the same room at the end of Monday's episode, and I think he knows he was responsible for Michelle's death.)

Down in the dumps

2006-03-08T10:57:00.000-08:00

Feeling a bit down in the dumps. Last week I was diagnosed with glaucoma. I'd been seeing light flashes in my left eye and getting wicked headaches, but it still came as a surprise. Over the weekend, I lost sight in my left eye twice for several hours at a stretch. Well, I didn't completely lose it. It was more like I was looking through milk or grease. I went back to my eye doc yesterday and the pressure numbers had gone up quite a bit more in just one week. I'm now on special eye drops, but may end up having to have laser surgery if the drops don't do the trick.

I haven't had the best few years health wise. I need a break.

And Then There Were Five

2006-03-03T07:21:00.000-08:00

I'm not usually the kind of person who acts on impulse. Well, I admit I've made some decisions that might've appeared impulsive. Like that time I colored my hair at 3 a.m. and wound up looking goth. Or the time I agreed to take over a Brownie troop, thinking, "How hard could it be?" Sure, those might've looked like the acts of an impulsive person, but really--they weren't. There was some logic involved. Like thriftiness with the hair color, using something I already had, in spite of the expiration date. Or when I said yes to the Brownies--I knew at the very worst I'd wind up with the stuff that columns are made of.

Normally, I'm a cautious person, one who plans every move, considers all the options, anticipates potential pitfalls. Except for one time each year, when I behave with reckless abandon.

I didn't realize until last weekend that a theme had emerged regarding my annual impulsive behavior, a theme similar to a Chinese calendar (with hiccups). For instance, 2002 was The Year of the Dog (Murry), and 2003, 2004 and 2005 were each The Year of the Cat (Squirt, then Gypsy, then Sully). Now 2006 has brought us back to the dog. (So far, we're calling him Shorty, but that could change.)

It was the last thing I intended. The very last thing. I will swear that to my dying day.

My eight-year-old daughter became obsessed with Yorkshire Terriers a few years ago, but as she's had many passionate, yet quickly passing, fancies, I expected this to follow suit. That wasn't the case. If anything, her desire to have one just picked up steam. She spent hours reading about them, drawing Yorkie pictures, decorating her room with anything Yorkie related that she could bat her big browns and convince someone to buy.

Finally, my husband and I agreed that if she could save the money herself, she could get one. At her age, she has no real concept of why someone should save, doesn't grasp how long it can take or the different way you value something you worked hard to get. We thought it would be a good lesson.

And it would've been, too. If I wasn't such a soft-headed, soft-hearted, spineless animal lover. One capable of falling in love at first sight.

It began innocently enough last Saturday morning, with me and Celeste killing time at Biscuit World while our car was next door getting inspected. She was playing with her Nintendo, a game called "Nintendog," with her dog in the game being, of course, a Yorkie. Soon, she was asking (again) when she'd have enough money saved to get one of her own.

"But I have $125," she said. "That's a lot of money."

"It is," I agreed. "But it's probably nowhere near enough."

She refused to believe me, so to prove my point, I took her to Missy's Pet Store in Poca. And I saw that face. Then I heard those words that always make my heart beat just a little bit faster ("marked down" and "only two left.")

The rest, shall we say, is spineless history. It wasn't one of my best teaching moments as a mother, but it was certainly one when I was most adored. (Not to mention the one when I received the most promises per second. I now have them in writing, along with a payment plan and accounting of what she's already put in.)

The one thing still bothering me is that I feel like a hypocrite, allowing her to get a full-breed when I've always been passionately opposed to the deliberate breeding of dogs when our shelters are full. We'd been regularly checking Petfinder.com and the shelters online and found nothing even remotely Yorkie-ish there.

Somehow, though, I feel Shorty (or whatever his name is by now) was meant to be ours. He fit right in without any major adjustments and has lived up to Celeste's dream of what her dog would be. He follows her everywhere, sleeps snuggled close in her bed, enjoys being carried and cuddled and kissed.

So I've crossed "Act impulsively" off my list of Things To Do in 2006, determined that our ark doors have swung shut for good.

At least 'til next year.

NOTE: Shorty, who is now being called Teddy, is actually a Silky Terrier, which is sort of a Supersized Yorkie. When full grown, he should be between 12-15 lbs, although if he follows the trend of the other Supersized animals (and adults) at our house, he'll be a few more than that.

Movieland Wax Museum AUCTION

2006-03-02T10:05:00.000-08:00

My aunt called today from California to tell me that the Movieland Wax Museum has closed and they're having a big auction next weekend to sell everything. You don't have to be there in person - you can bid online, too.

How often do you get a chance to bid on Prince Charming's HEAD? (Disappointing, isn't he? I always figured ol' Prince would have a bit on top.)

They're selling all the stuff from the sets, too. Some pretty quirky things, like the stretching rack from a torture chamber set or a whole taxidermied horse.

Want something really scary for your yard next Halloween to scare all the kiddies? Skip the 8' Frankenstein and bid on the life-sized Michael Jackson instead.

I don't really know why, but
this one on the left here is
one of my favorites. Maybe
it's his keen fashion sense...
(Male tourist with camera)

Some of the heads you can bid on include O.J. Simpson, Pee Wee Herman, Princess Diana, Bruce Lee, Tom Cruise. (I wonder if Brooke Shields is going to bid on that one? She could probably set a new drop-kick record with it.)

This is supposed to be Sylvester Stallone.
Did he ever play a drag queen?

For the avid do-it-yourselfer, there will even be a few opportunities to bid on assorted lots of miscellaneous wax heads and assorted body parts so you can build your own.

Catwoman (the later years)

2006-02-24T13:30:00.000-08:00

I could hear the phone ringing on the other side of the house. "I'll get it," my daughter yelled, much to my relief. And, I imagine, much to the relief of my crowd.

"She's around here somewhere," Celeste said to the caller. "It's always easy to find her. I just look for all the animals."

She opened the door. "I found her. She's under the cats."

I wondered if my caller was envisioning a mechanic with felines hoisted in the air like a car on a lift. Or perhaps a pair of flailing arms, struggling out from under a mountain of cats. The latter is actually not far wrong, and although three cats hardly constitute a mountain, none of my cats are of average size.

Lately, I've been spending more time than usual underneath cats. We recently added a third to our crew. More correctly, I finally gave in and agreed he was ours. Sully had been the neighborhood cat for a while, a large and longhaired black beauty with bright yellow eyes. He'd once lived in a tree house, but after it burned down, moved to our porch.

It didn't take long to learn what made our porch more appealing than others. Ours had a little girl who would wrap him in warm towels while feeding him ham.

I tried not to get attached, and for a long time, I didn't. For someone who can bond with an animal from only a picture the size of a stamp, it wasn't easy for me. The cat had its charms.

Unfortunately, the ability to play well with others wasn't one of those charms. I learned this after allowing him to weather a storm inside our house. Instead of accepting our hospitality with humility and grace, he viewed it as an opportunity to stage a coup, to violently overturn the current regime so he could foist his fluffy butt onto the throne. (The throne in this case being a carpeted cat platform in our back window.)

After the storm, out Sully went. And out Sully stayed, until the weather got cold.

(I suppose I should pause here to mention that during the time Sully was ousted and the time it got cold, I talked my editor, Rosalie, into taking him home. It was not a good match. Rosalie soon returned him to me--Sully appeared none the worse for the trip, but Rosalie brandished striped forearms and claimed of being a few pints short of blood.)

So Sully was back on my porch in his little PetSmart cat house, aiming those big eyes oh so effectively at me every chance that he could. Before long, he'd convinced me to clean out our little sunroom and give it to him. (After his failed coup, I suspect he spent his months in exile carefully planning his next move.)

With the advantage of the sunroom's flimsy door, it was easy for Sully to gain frequent access to the rest of the house. Once in, he'd entertain us by batting rolls of masking tape and stray hair bands all over the floor. And although we were charmed, he still didn't play nice. There was much hissing, spitting and swatting. Sometimes even involving the cats.

And then something unexpected happened. Sully fell in love.

With me.

I knew he'd always liked and trusted me more than others, but over the past few weeks, it became more than that. He started following me, being gentle with me, but most of all, not attacking my other cats because he could tell it upset me. (Animals are sensitive to such things, you know. Especially when such things include shrieking and an undignified dumping back out on the porch.)

We seem to be settling into something nice, but it still isn't smooth. My original two cats, apparently wanting to make certain they maintain their rank, have taken to stalking me, immediately attaching themselves to any part of me that becomes horizontal. My dog, a lifelong lover of cats, goes along with the crowd. Cats, he understands, know the best places to sleep.

And these days, that best place is on me.

On Letting Them In

2006-02-17T08:41:00.000-08:00

I've written a few times in the past about my favorite advice (including some sent in by readers), but it didn't occur to me until last week that I hadn't recognized what was likely the best advice I've ever been given. By recognized I don't mean that I simply never put it in print, but that I'd never thought about or appreciated just how good that advice was.

I came to that realization through a small group I belong to at church. Our group meets on Wednesday nights, after dinner in the gym. For the past month or two, our topic has been on forgiveness. My friend Carolyn, one of the group's leaders, thought I'd have much to share on the topic, since my ex and I have an oddly good relationship, in spite of all that happened between us.

Last week, the group's conversation took a turn down one of those side alleys that often run off the main subject, and we got to talking about times when we'd felt let down or abandoned by friends. There were a few in the group who'd had to endure tough times on their own or with minimal support from their friends. But it hadn't been that way for me.

It hadn't been that way because of that one piece of advice.

I was (and still am) a sporadic member at St. Paul's United Methodist. I've attended there, off and on, ever since my family first moved to Nitro in the late 60s. There were times, in my teens, when I practically lived at that church, then adulthood (or a reasonable semblance thereof) pulled me away until 1997, when my daughter was born.

Suddenly, the importance of church loomed large, and we started going again. Even so, I kept most of those there at arm's length, perhaps afraid they'd try to pull me in and involve me in ways I wasn't ready for. My schedule was tight and time precious. I guarded it jealously, unwilling to share.

Several years passed, and then there was Camille. My beautiful second daughter. When she was just four months old, we learned she was terminally ill. We were still reeling from the news when, the day after her diagnosis, the pastor of our church, Okey Harless, (now in Dunbar), stopped by. Along with his compassion and prayers, he shared his advice.

"People are going to want to do something to help. You're going to be constantly hearing, 'Is there anything I can do?'" Okey said. "Find something for them to do, even if it's something really small. Just let them in."

I remember thinking his advice seemed strange, that it was even sort of wrong for us, in our grief, to have to be thinking of others and coming up with ways they could help. But I trusted Okey. I let people in.

For a private, independent person, that wasn't easy to do, but when a neighbor called asking if there was anything we needed, I impulsively answered, "Could you possibly get us some milk? I'm completely out and can't get to the store."

She seemed so grateful to have something she could actually do to help, and when she brought the milk, we talked for a bit. I welcomed the company, and enjoyed the opportunity to show off my so sick, but so healthy-looking little girl.

It gradually became easier to ask for, and accept, their assistance. My coworkers, neighbors, friends and relatives all pitched in. I didn't carry the load by myself. It was spread over many. Many who grieved with us when her time came to go.

You would think, having been there, that it would be somehow easier to know what to say when a friend is going through a divorce, a parent's long illness, a death. But it's still just as awkward as ever. I want to help, to at least acknowledge what they're going through, to not say the wrong thing. So I find myself saying those same words I heard time and again. Is there anything I can do?

Then I wait, and hope, they'll tell me there is.