Experimenting -- Am I or Am I Not?

A week with a holiday on Wednesday is a complete waste of both a holiday and a work week.

During the first part, nobody gets too enthused about doing anything, because, after all, . . . “we’re off on Wednesday.”  When you come back on Thursday, the same reasoning prevents starting any new projects. 

Besides, half of your coworkers have taken off either the first or last half of the week, or both, so essential personnel aren’t available.  It is a week of piddling without breaking a sweat (metaphorically speaking; it’s 102 degrees out there this afternoon).

It’s also too hot to even think about cooking, which means that we had the “where you wanna eat” discussion along about 5:00. 

Red Lobster won.

It won for a couple of reasons, not the least of which that we wanted to try an experiment to see if I really had acquired a shellfish allergy. 

Where better to test this theory than a seafood restaurant.

Besides, we know that my doc is in town, the hospital is less than 10 minutes away from the restaurant, and I had my epi-pen, which is a real pain to have to remember, with me.

A shrimp lover’s feast awaited.

The lobby to Red Lobster is my favorite part of the restaurant, especially if there are little kids.   The lobster tank is both fascinating and within reach unless the parental units are really on their guard.  I learned this early on when Caleb, upon seeing a similar tank in the grocery store, promptly ran up to it and asked in his loudest 7 year old voice, “WHY DO THEY HAVE THEM BIG BUGS IN THE GROCERY STORE?”

Today, an even younger child noted that the entrees on the hoof at Red Lobster were, “. . . taking a shower before dinner,” a reference to the recirculating pump that kept the water aerated in the tank.

It’s all a matter of perspective.

So anyhow, we ordered (a beer first; if there was going to be a hospital stay involved, I wanted to get a bit of early relaxation going) and then our food.

It was very systematic – take a bite, check for symptoms.  Take a bite, check for symptoms.

At least, that’s what I was doing.  About halfway through the meal, I observed that there didn’t seem to be any adverse reaction. 

Sweating?  Yeah – it was still triple-digits outside.  I defy anyone my age and size NOT to sweat, despite air conditioning.  Not clammy, though (at least not that I could tell from the inside of my skin) and the sweat wasn’t such that it seemed to be shellfish-related.

Not being the one with the medical expertise in our family unit, though, I turned to the in-house expert for a second opinion only to realize that he had forgotten that we weren’t just at dinner but were engaged in a serious experiment to see whether I "swole up" and was gonna die or not.

The only thing on my first-responder’s mind by then was whether or not I was going to eat those last 3 shrimp on my plate, once again proving that it is imperative that the patient be involved in his own healthcare plan.

In the end, the experiment was successful.  It confirmed that I continue to get significant indigestion when eating deep-fried anything, which is unfortunate given my dietary preferences, but concerns about a shellfish allergy seem to have been misdiagnosed.  

I wish I'd known that before we went to Maui on vacation.  

But now instead of an epi-pen, I get to carry Prilosec, which is preferable.  

Dawg Days of Summer

July 5.  Vacation’s over, and it’s time to return to the real world.

Well, almost.  Jet lag is still kickin’ in a bit so there’s a need to keep moving in the evening because the minute we sit down we tend to fall asleep.

Like about 7:00 in the evening.

And that wouldn’t be such a big deal, except that it leads to waking up even earlier than we normally do.

Like about 11:30 in the evening. 

You see the circle.  Eventually we’re going to be getting up when other people haven’t even gone to bed yet.  At some point, either we or the world is going to be out of sync for an entire day.  That can’t be good.

Add to that the fact that it’s hot.  Not just “warmish” or even “a might uncomfortable.”  It’s HOT. 

As in record-breaking, triple-digit, too-hot-to-wear-many-clothes hot that makes you feel like you need a shower from the second you walk out the door in the morning and keeps you inside close to the air conditioning wishing you’d bought stock in Duke Power in the afternoon.

Too hot to either cook OR light the grill.

There has to be a good reason to go out.  Today it was the need to stay awake, and to do that we decided to engage in that age-old summertime ritual and take the kids for ice cream.

The fuzzy kids, that is.  The others all have drivers’ licenses.  They can get their own ice cream.

We didn’t realize that it’s Thursday night, which means that there’s a “rod run” at the old Dairy Queen, the one that we patronize over by the concrete plant.

Complete with Elvis singing on the sidewalk out front.  

There’s no inside seating.

No seating at all, in fact, unless you bring a lawn chair or stay in your car.

Just as we were leaving the house, EM came along and joined us. After all, everyone likes ice cream.

So we joined the show in the parking lot at the DQ, with the boys getting theirs first (they split a small cone in a cup usually), and after they’d eaten theirs the adults got to enjoy their treats.

One of the advantages of doing it this way is we get to learn exactly how long the dog's tongue is.  This is useful, because they'll want to share ours even though they already had theirs.

While that was happening, the manager came out to visit with us.  At first I thought she was going to tell us that dogs weren’t allowed.

That rarely happens, although it has a couple of times – CVS, Target and Best Buy apparently have rules, but c'mon!  We were in the parking lot!

She actually was just coming out to tell us about their “Dog Days of Summer” special.

It seems if your furry four-legged friend brings you on Tuesdays, they get a free “pup cup” if their human makes a purchase.

And free ice cream is almost as sweet as a snitched melon.  So I suspect we’ll be going back on Tuesdays for a while.

Because it looks like it’s going to be a long, hot summer.

Zimmerman's Attorneys

Having been an attorney for over 25 years now, I have a great deal of sympathy for what George Zimmerman’s attorneys are going through.

Zimmerman, you may recall, is the self-appointed neighborhood watch captain involved in the shooting of 17 year old Treyvon Martin in Sanford, Florida.

Zimmerman’s attorneys, who are fairly high-profile criminal lawyers, are to be commended for taking a case that is incredibly unpopular. Everyone, regardless of how morally repulsive they may be, is entitled to competent legal representation in this country. It always amazes me how otherwise educated and intelligent people fail to recognize that this is one of the foundational concepts of our country.

John Adams, the second President of the United States, recognized this early on and represented 8 British soldiers involved in shooting into a crowd and killing civilians in the “Boston Massacre”.

http://mnbenchbar.com/2011/04/a-proud-tradition-representing-the-%E2%80%9Cunpopular-cause%E2%80%9D/

I appreciate attorneys who take on unpopular cases because it’s the “right” thing to do, like Atticus Finch in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” When they do it without any fee, like the lawyers for Zimmerman did, it’s even more noble to some extent. At the very least, it’s a personal sacrifice.

The problem is that no good deed goes unpunished, especially if you have a client who seems inclined to “go rogue” anyhow. Lots of times there are signs that you can watch for in clients that will let you know they’re going to be difficult in that regard.

Things like refusing to keep appointments, or fill out paperwork or provide necessary details to the lawyer. Calling the other side (or their lawyer) to try to negotiate around their attorney is a big ol’ red flag, too. Every lawyer has had either the nightmare about or the actual experience of learning some damning fact about their client from the witness stand, in front of the jury and judge and the client then trying to justify their failure to disclose.

“Yeah, DSS took my first two kids away. Why, was that important?”

“But that happened a long time ago; it’s been almost 3 months since that DUI.”

“We ‘self-divorced’ in another state. I can’t remember which one. I’m sure it’s recognized here, though.”

“Oh, yeah. I was convicted of that before. Did I forget to tell you?”

If you start denying representation to the ugly people, it’s a short step to denying legal assistance to those with whom the majority – or a vocal minority – simply disagree. Whether we like it or not, that disagreement and debate is one of the things that pushes society and ideas forward. It’s too important to risk limiting it.

Zimmerman’s attorneys realized they had the start of a problem when he stopped responding to telephone calls, texts, etc. Then they got word that he had set up a web site, contacted a talk show to arrange an interview, and was trying to call the Special Prosecutor to discuss the situation directly with her.

These are the kind of things that promote substance abuse among those in my profession.

When the lawyers are trying to control the message in the media for damage control purposes – especially in a case where your client is so unpopular that he’s had to go into hiding in another state because of the death threats – the last thing you want to hear is that he’s set up an interactive website and is making arrangements to go on a talk show.

Especially when that client has quit taking your calls.

So they did what any responsible attorney would do. The withdrew.

For those that don’t know, withdrawing from representing someone in a legal matter is often not just a matter of telling your client “I quit” (especially when you can’t get the client on the phone). You may have to ask the Court for permission (whether you’ve been paid or not), and have to take steps to make sure that the client isn’t prejudiced by the action, or that he or she has had ample opportunity to protect themselves before you leave. It can take hours to get out of a case that took only seconds to get into.

So my sympathy for Zimmerman, which admittedly wasn’t much before, is a bit less today. He had good lawyers who were trying to help him and chose to ignore their advice. Now things are going to get very interesting. The fact that his own lawyers can’t find him mean that he’s likely to be considered a significant flight risk if charges are actually filed. If that’s the case, bail, if it’s offered at all, will be significantly higher than it would have been otherwise. His court-mandated leash is likely to be quite a bit shorter than it might have been otherwise.

George Zimmerman, like many defendants, has probably failed to realize that his own credibility is pretty minimal and the Courts rely on the ability of the lawyers to handle their clients appropriately. He also doesn’t recognize just how valuable that “free” representation he was getting was worth. Smaller firms likely couldn’t even begin to take on a case of this magnitude, just because it shuts you down from too many other clients. They certainly couldn’t do it for free and a larger firm could easily require a retainer well into 6 figures just to begin to start a case like this.

Noble causes are one thing, but the bills still have to be paid.

So George’s life is likely to change in a lot of ways, all of them somewhat “unintended consequences” of his determination that he knows better than anyone else how to handle a situation, to appoint himself as neighborhood watch captain, to carry a gun and then to follow Treyvon Martin despite instructions from the 911 operator to the contrary.

And regardless of his guilt or innocence, or even the specific details of the interaction between him and a 17 year old African-American male, he may now find that his refusal to follow directions from people with more experience and knowledge than he has may come back to haunt him.

Maybe it’s my personal prejudice, but my sympathy lies with his lawyers who were trying to do the right thing by their training and profession and help their client. Because every time something like this happens, it makes another tiny cut and produces a bit more scar tissue in the already jaded outlook that many lawyers have, and the next person who comes along and needs quality representation, but can’t afford to pay for it, may not get it because George has already burned that bridge.

Silhouettes on a Winter's Evening

We are moving slow here today. That doesn’t mean we weren’t up by 6, it just means that there’s more groaning involved and the trip to the bathroom and downstairs for coffee takes a bit longer than normal. Yesterday was a full day, and we were up way past our normal bedtime.

It was for a good cause, though, so the hurt isn’t so bad, kind of like the way you feel the day after you’ve spread mulch all over the yard. There’s some real pain, but a definite feeling of satisfaction involved.

Yesterday was the culmination of almost two year’s work.

A couple of years ago one of the local physicians came up with the idea that we needed a support group for LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) youth in the area. This revelation came to him after some of his patients came in with complaints that nobody – especially a kid – should ever have.

Things like being beat up to the point that, despite the fact that he had been this boy’s physician since birth, he couldn’t recognize him, or testing a 16 year old for STD’s (Sexually Transmitted Diseases) because his parents threw him out when they discovered he was gay, resulting in him becoming a prostitute.

So a group of people got together with the thought that “We ought to form a club.”

Well, not exactly. Adults don’t form clubs. They convince their friends to help them form nonprofit organizations and foundations to support their cause. Then they badger them into helping and giving money.

So we helped create OUTright Youth of Catawba Valley, Inc., a bona-fide 501(c)3 not-for-profit, your donation is tax deductible organization. Anyone who's ever worked on a new nonprofit knows getting through the paperwork of that ordeal is, in itself, a real test of endurance.

As a result every month we meet in a conference room and tell what we’re doing to help beat back the misguided ideology of the rest of society to help a group of kids that need a little boost and to know that someone cares. There’s a couple of ways to do this.

The first is to create educational programs, especially ones focused on bullying, whether in school, in churches or in society, in the hopes of preventing teen suicide, then to get to present the programs in places that they might actually do some good.

This is more difficult than it sounds. Some school systems haven't exactly welcomed us into the fold of their bosom. Some have, though, and that's part of what keeps a group like this going.

The second is to provide a safe social outlet for these kids.  Nothing spectacular. Hang out and watch movies. Go skating. Play board games. Things that any church group might do, except these kids -- who often aren't welcomed into churches or other groups because they happen to be gay -- don't have any place to do those normal things.  To flirt. To talk for hours on end. To just hang out and be who they are.

Starting up a nonprofit is a lot like starting a business. In some ways it’s worse, though, because you can’t fire volunteers. Well, you can, but it just seems a little awkward. This group is unusual, though, in that everyone shows up for the meetings.

They’ve done their homework and have new things to bring to the table.

They help put a plan of action together and then go out and make it happen.

Last night, all of that culminated in our first fundraiser – “Silhouettes on a Winter’s Evening – an Evening of Distinction.”

You don’t get to be my age without having done the “rubber chicken” circuit more than a few times, so I know what you’re thinking.

"If I buy a ticket, do I still have to go?"

This was different, though. One of the nicest restaurants in town offered to close down – on a Saturday night – so we could have our event there. Then the chef and the owner came up with a menu that was sufficiently exotic to be exciting, but not so far out of the norm as to scare people off.

Homemade cheese biscuits with Jalapeno Jelly. Moroccan chicken, from an old family recipe. Couscous with veggies in it. Warm bread pudding with vanilla ice cream for dessert. It was as far removed from the typical chicken breast with green beans as a burger is from filet minion.

The food is only one part of an evening, regardless of how wonderful it is. Others kicked in with amazing things as well.

The President of the North Carolina NAACP--Rev. Dr. T. Anthony Spearman -- introduced the guest of honor, Mitchell Gold, who wrote the book “Crisis in America” about bullying of LGBT kids by houses of faith.

Mitchell gave an incredibly moving talk about change that needs to happen in our society, and especially about the proposed North Carolina Constitutional Amendment that will not only limit marriage for gay people, but will substantially impact the rights of ANY unmarried individuals in this state. More importantly, though, he talked about caring for the future of our society, our young people.

Especially those that might not be in the mainstream.

A centerpiece of the evening was a video created by the youth themselves. There were roughly 160 people in the restaurant – it was packed to capacity, which at a minimum of $100 a plate is a miracle in itself with this economy. But during the 10 minutes or so that the video played, there wasn’t a sound. 

You can watch it here (if the link changes as we anticipate when it's made public, I will revise it here...)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_3xiqWrm8A

Nobody talked. There were no glib remarks or side conversations that continued.

Everyone in the house was glued to the televisions that were playing the video.

I said there wasn’t a sound – by the end, that wasn’t exactly true. There was more than a little sniffling and nose blowing.

It was THAT moving.

So our day yesterday was the end push of a lot of days of preparation. Everyone got a copy of Mitchell’s book and a little jar of the pepper jelly to take home, party favors to help them remember the evening and our organization.

There are some things that are telling about whether an event is a success or not, though. People will say, "Oh, this is so wonderful," when they're really just wanting you to go away so they can finish eating and go home. You can't rely on that, especially in the South where an emphasis is put on being polite.

Besides, you want some of these same people to come to YOUR group's event when it happens, so you want to say nice things to them.

But numbers don't lie.

We had generated almost $40,000.00 in sponsorships and ticket sales before the event. We were too tired to tally up the totals last night, but I have no doubt that we far exceeded that amount with what was given during the evening.

More importantly, though, people hung around after they ate. Usually it’s almost a “dine and dash” to get out of a function like that after you’ve eaten.

People – and it wasn’t the usual crowd that you’d see at an event like this – circulated through much of the group and talked to others.

The other interesting thing was that I know it was a financial stretch for some of those attending to buy their ticket. But they thought it was important to help fund this group.

Finally, about 11:00, with both the wait staff and the Board members exhausted, it was time to pull down the decorations and call it a night. We cleaned up and headed for the house.

So we’re moving a little slower than normal today, popping the ibuprophen because we’re not used to standing on a concrete floor in dress shoes for 8 hours on end, and I suspect that the afternoon nap may be a bit longer than normal.

That’s OK, because it’s not like we’d planned to go to the circus or anything today.

It’s the tired you feel when you know you’ve done a good thing.

In the legacies of my life, this is one of the best things of which I’ve ever been a part. It’s a chance to work hands-on and not only make a difference, but to see the difference you make and to know that the world is a better place than it was before.

That’s worth tired feet and a sore back.

If you'd like to help support the work of ORY you can make a tax-deductible donation via the website at:  http://outrightyouthcv.org/ 

Like us on Facebook at "OUTright Youth of Catawba Valley."

My Friend Annette

For some of us, the sun shone a little less brightly yesterday.

I got an email telling me that my dear friend, Annette Briley, had finally lost her battle to Lupus and Cancer. I can’t say that it was a real surprise, as I hadn’t heard from her in weeks and happened to think over the weekend that I needed to call and rag her about it.

Annette had a 20 year history of imposing “radio silence” on me whenever her health was in decline. I suspected that the lack of communication was a portent of what was soon to come.

Annette was one of those people that I met and with whom I instantly bonded. When we were first introduced in 1993, the year I moved to Lawton, Oklahoma, she became the caregiver for my parrots when I was out of town. From the start we could look each other straight in the eye and say what needed to be said, although I had to learn that role.

Annette and I seemed prone to adventure. We would start out on a day trip to Wichita Falls, TX, a mere 50 miles away, and return 12 hours later, 800 miles on the truck odometer and in great spirits. We used to joke that we’d drive 200 miles out of our way just to see the “world’s largest ball of string.”

Lupus is a cruel disease, sapping the energy from vibrant individuals. There were times that we’d be scheduled to go off for the day and she’d call to say she simply didn’t feel up to it. The first couple of times I let her get by with it. Then one day her husband, Richard, took me aside and said, “You know, when she says she’s too tired she really just needs someone to kick her butt to make her go. I have to live here and obviously can’t be the one to do that. You, however. . . . .”

That was it. I understood my charge and the next time she said she wasn’t up to the trip I told her I didn’t want to hear it and that she needed to be ready in an hour, lest I come over, select her wardrobe and draw her makeup on myself.

To a classy lady such as Annette, this was a serious threat. Her demand was that I have coffee with me when I arrived, and she’d get in the truck, grumbling and snarling for a good 5 minutes before she was over it. As the disease progressed we had to make some accomodations.

I always drove.

She sometimes napped in the afternoon, regardless of where we were. This wasn’t that big of a deal, though, since we’d been caught asleep in a parking lot or rest area after lunch if it’d been a particularly long day.

But it was always rejuvenating to be with her.

Annette’s husband, Richard, was a Lawton police officer and was a great guy, too. They had a wonderful relationship with a dance they did that simply astounded me the first time I saw it.

Richard came in one evening and she looked him dead in the eye and said, “Oh, good, you’re home. You’re going fishing / hunting / camping for a few days. I’ve already cleared the time off with the PD. Call me on Wednesday to see if you’re back on the schedule or not.”

Richard, recognizing that absence makes the heart grow fonder and the value of “separate time” for all couples, never blinked an eye. He knew that his opportunity would come in the future to look over his newspaper and ask, “When was the last time you went to Arkansas to visit your mom?” which was her clue to “un-ass the area” as Richard said.

A few years ago, Annette was struck with breast cancer on top of the Lupus. While I know there were times that she must have despaired, she rarely let it show to anyone else. Ever the voluptuous woman with a figure straight out of a Renaissance painting, the chemo and other treatments brought on significant weight loss.

Last time we talked, she laughingly told me that she now weighed roughly what her boobs did just a few years ago. “On the bright side, I can fit back into my prom dress from 1966, except this time I don’t have to stuff the bosom. This time I can just roll those puppies up where they’ve flattened out and tuck ‘em in. Instant 36D’s.”

Last time I saw her, I had to sneak up unannounced. She’d been dodging me for months and I’d decided it was time to force my way in when I was back in Oklahoma visiting, whether she liked it or not. I knew that she was dragging around an IV pole, mainlining antibiotics for several months because of some infection that simply wouldn’t go away. I suspected that she looked like hell and was sealing herself off from everyone, but if those who love you can’t see you at your worst and still love you, what’s the point?

Her daughter (who didn’t really know who I was) answered the door. When I asked to see Annette, she said that she wasn’t feeling well and seemed to think I was going to go away. I insisted, and finally asked if she’d give her mom my calling card.

Then I handed her a pound of butter.

You see, Annette had a bigger butter thing goin’ on than Paula Deen. She had at one point sent me to the store to bring back 5 pounds of butter, “just in case” because she thought she might do a bit of cooking that weekend.

I heard the laugh from her bedroom when her daughter gave it to her and we had our last meal together -- Annette, her daughter, our friend Lori and me. We got take-out from Wayne’s Drive In, a Lawton institution dating back to Annette’s childhood and purveyor of such delicacies as Frito Pie, Cheeseburgers, fried pickles and Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, all of us sitting on her living room floor.

It was some of the finest dining I’ve ever done, and I wish we could do it again.

I wish her well on her journey to Richard, a Vietnam veteran and Lawton Police Officer who passed in 2007, his own cancer likely attributable to encounters with Agent Orange. I suspect, even though she died on Sunday, she hasn’t gotten there yet, though.

After all, in the great expanse of the Universe there must be even bigger “balls of string” to visit and see before you finally decide to call it a day and head home.

I hope that she has a hell of a journey, with all the detours she wants.

http://www.grayfuneral.com/CurrentObituary.aspx?did=34f83dd1-7d67-41ea-a3e1-3e4158947643

Spring Cleaning

So it’s springtime in the Carolinas.

Never mind that it’s here a few weeks early and there has been virtually no winter to speak of. The daffodils are up and blooming (at least in the neighbor’s yard) and my plans to wait until Valentine’s Day to transplant some small shrubs has to be moved up a few weeks. It’s springtime.

That also carries with it the idea that it’s time for Spring Cleaning.

I’m betting the concept of Spring Cleaning goes back to a time when houses were all closed up for the winter and things just got generally nasty and needed to be aired out. In a house that is on a 5 lane highway, I can tell you that there’s NEVER a time that we get to open the windows and air out the house. So we stay closed up all the time.

You reach a point, though, usually after (a) having to help clean out the house of someone who passed away or (b) after watching an episode of “Hoarders” on television and living in mortal fear of a camera crew showing up on your doorstep, that you simply have to address things.

We came up with the concept a couple of years ago of taking “one room a month” and cleaning it out entirely. Following that line of reasoning, the entire house would be cleaned out in about a year and a half, meaning that we could then rest on our laurels in a clean and uncluttered environment until the market comes back and we can move into our brand-spankin’-new dream condo that is on a single level, has windows that don’t let the wind whistle through and a crew that maintain both the yard and the pool.

It was a decent effort. It lasted two months, which is roughly three times longer than the average New Year’s Resolution for some of us. Then the decision to go back to school happened and the project got put on hold. During that time, we got the attic in pretty good shape, other than dealing with enough Christmas decorations to do the windows at Macy’s on any given year.

Anyone who’s ever lived with a person who is pursuing an advanced degree – especially when they’re writing their thesis / dissertation – knows that EVERYONE in the house is working on the project. It is absolutely a joint effort that puts everything else on hold. The only thing that I can imagine that might even begin to come close to equating this change in routine is a pregnancy / baby, and I have to rely on third party information for that comparison.

But even during graduate school life goes on, and sometimes you have to give the student a bit of space and occupy yourself. So with that in mind – and having seen an episode of Hoarders that hit close to home AND hearing this weekend’s edition of The People’s Pharmacy on OCD and hoarding (http://www.peoplespharmacy.com/2012/01/28/844-overcoming-obsessions/) it was obvious that the universe was sending me a sign that it was time to start again.

Plus, the dissertation surveys closed out this week and EB was glued to his computer analyzing data.

My decision was to tackle the kitchen, starting with the pantry. It had, since before the holidays, taken on attributes of Fibber McGee’s closet, and I suspected that the strange odor was a vagrant vegetable that had managed to set up its own ecosystem in there.

There are some things about an old house that are great. Our pantry is one. I’ve seen bathrooms that were smaller and, after I remodeled it a few years ago, it now has steel shelving that goes all the way up to the 10 foot ceiling, a fluorescent light that turns on with a switch (as opposed to the bare bulb hanging from a wire that we started with) and, if fully stocked, would completely feed us for several months.

That’s the theory, anyhow. The reality is that it becomes a jumble of things rarely used and assorted bits of flotsam and jetsam, the “real food” either being stored in the freezer or in another cabinet. The result is that things I’m going to use “someday” when I make “insert name of impossibly complicated dish here” migrate to the pantry to either evolve or die.

Cleaning the pantry is a solo task, especially when there are divergent philosophies on how to interpret date codes on food. One school of thought is that things go out the day the expiration date passes. Others of us take a more liberal approach, viewing those dates as merely guidelines, kind of like the traffic markings on the road in NYC or select Bible verses. They are somewhat informative if they agree with the position you wish to take, but otherwise you can chart your own path.

Even I have to admit, though, that there comes a time when you have to look at something, admit that you are NEVER going to use that in your entire life, and either give it away or throw it out. It was with that fresh philosophy that I tore into the pantry.

It was not an easy task, eating up substantial parts of both days of the weekend and exacting a significant emotional toll on me.

We might need that.

I am gonna make “insert name of impossibly complicated dish here” with that.

There are starving children in China who will go to bed hungry if we waste that.

I never said the arguments were logical. They are a part of my DNA, though, and it is exhausting to try and overcome them.

Kind of like making myself go to the gym.

Never mind that there are at least three grocery stores within a one-mile radius of our house. Even in the worst blizzard, I could trek through the ice and snow for a package of brown sugar and chocolate chips in the event of a baking emergency.

At the end of the day, the only old things in the pantry were those that I intentionally left there. Indeed, they are so old that they no longer qualify as “food”.

Three bottles of “Adam’s Extract” – glass memorials with cork liners in the metal lids, which were left in the house by Mrs. Miller when we moved in, and a tiny bottle of Olive Oil that I scarfed from Mom’s kitchen when I moved into my first apartment.

Not because I needed olive oil – I suspect that this was acquired by her shortly after she and Dad married in 1959, in those days when everything was deep-fried in Crisco and nobody knew what to do with something as impossibly exotic as olive oil, but it looked like something that a well-stocked kitchen would have.

I just liked the shape and size of the bottle, and it reminded me of growing up and mom’s kitchen.

I suspect the next chapter of the cleaning saga will go to the other extreme, attacking items with a much shorter life-span than some of the foodstuff in the pantry, as we have two separate closets with a variety of electronic gadgets in them, including a huge tangle of charging adapters of uncertain provenance that seem to have crossed species and interbred in the darkness of their environment.

Part of me will want to try to match them to whatever gizmo they originally powered, placing the technology all together in a nice ziplock bag for future generations, while the rational side of my mind says, “If you haven’t used it in that long, you don’t need it. Put it in the box to throw away.”

Maybe I should take a few weeks off before tackling that, though, giving my psyche a chance to adapt to the new rules.

Stitch's Birthday

Last Sunday was a special day in our family.

Our little boy is turning one, and it’s hard to believe that he’s only been with us for a few months.

That’s how completely he’s taken over. He thinks that everyone who comes to the house is here to see him. Same for everyone who happens to be anywhere else that I take him – the dry cleaners, the bank, Lowe’s Hardware – it’s really surprising how many places are dog-friendly when you start to look around.

Other than food-service places and the cable company, nobody seems to think much about it. Maybe it’s because he’s cute. Maybe it’s because he’s not so huge that he scares people, or that he’s fairly well behaved (we’re still working on how to greet someone without jumping).

So he’s now my constant companion. He’s in the office when I’m at work, occasionally comes to the courthouse with me (although we sneak in through the back door to visit the people in the clerk’s office) and is VERY disappointed when I leave him locked in the kitchen alone.

Most of the time, if it’s not too early, Martin has come down to get him so that he and his brother Yoko can go for a walk. Then they spend a lot of the day together, often going to the park to play if the weather is good.

I understand now why parents of human children engage nannies. If a puppy can take up t

his much energy, I don’t see how anyone can get anything done with a human baby. I don’t see how the parents of multiples get anything at all done.

So things have changed during the last year. We’ve got a plastic scraper

and a squirt bottle of vinegar water sitting around most of the time, just in case of “accidents”.

Although it seems as though they are more “on purpose” than “accidents” any more.

I wish that we’d bought stock in a paper towel company. We’d be rich.

Like a little kid, it often doesn’t occur to him (or big brother Yoko, although he’s getting better) to tell someone that he’s got to go potty until it’s too late. Thus, the phrase becomes, “I have to go potty – never mind,” all being uttered before I can make it out of the chair, much less to put on my shoes and get the leash and other accessories that are required for every trip outdoors.

The other habit that we’re trying to break relates to those accidents, and this is really disgusting, is how the boy tries to hide the “evidence”, which is really hard if you don’t have hands. Or paper towels. Or cleaning fluid.

It kinda limits your options to – well, your mouth.

Let’s remember who in the house can and cannot brush their teeth.

This is one of those things that calls for parental intervention, so after a bit of research we ended up with a bottle of pills that are designed to make one’s poop taste bad.

Let’s think about that one – I don’t even want to know what is in them that could possible make sh*t taste worse than it undoubtedly already does.

Things are getting better, though, and the activity seems to be on the wane. Until we’re absolutely sure, though, we’ll stick to hugs instead of kisses.

When the reality of becoming parents of a full-time four-legged child (in addition to our foster-care of Martin’s pug-child, Yoko), we were determined not to become “those” people – the ones who talk incessantly about their dog child, gushing on and on about what little Fifi did and, of course, whipping out photographs with the least provocation.

That lasted about a week.

Days are now planned around the puppy’s needs. He doesn’t understand the concept of “weekend” and “sleeping in” although he’s happy to climb up on my lap and spend the morning there. Martin keeps him when we go out in the evening or on the weekend, or away for a few days.

But I can’t imagine what life would be like without him any more.

And you don't have to ask me twice to get me to drag out the phone full of pictures.

One Sick Puppy

So it was the end of the week. I’m jumping ahead and will have to go back and fill in the details about the week, but for now recognize this all happened last Friday night.

Of a loooonnnggg week. We’d just gotten back from dinner and picked the puppy up from Martin.

I should have recognized something was up, because he (the puppy, not Martin) immediately came down the stairs home. Usually he’s the recalcitrant grandchild, screaming to stay with Grandma and Grandpa rather than come home with his parents.

Once downstairs, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. He was hanging around the food bowl – I called to confirm that he had, in fact, had supper.

Yep, he’d been fed. Nothing more here, besides a dried apricot (which are healthy for all of us and usually on the counter).

Up to bed to watch a little TV, and the furry child wouldn’t settle. He wanted down off the bed. Usually he just snuggles down and sleeps. This time, though, I had to retrieve him from downstairs by the heater vent.

That wasn’t unusual, as it’s one of his favorite places now that he’s learned where the warm comes out. It’s our first real cold snap of the season, and they’d all been on a long walk just before he came home.

That’s fine, though. He can come up on the bed to watch TV with us for a while and warm up there – electric blankets are the friend of anyone who lives in an old house with absolutely no insulation.

So finally, with some coercion on our part, he was lying there while we each read.

Then it happened. What every parent has experienced at some point – he sat up and gave us that look that says, “Dad, I think I’m gonna . . . . .”

No more words were needed. Cleaning towels, however, were. Quickly.

It’s amazing how two grown men can go from a prone position to upright, removing the dog from the bed and trying to grab a towel.

The problem with a 4 legged child who’s sick, of course, is that it’s not clear what you do with them.

With a human child, you shove them in the bathroom, hopefully somewhere in the direction of the toilet. With a dog-child, that accomplishes nothing other than at least keeping the mess confined to the tile floor.

Like so many kids, once the “bad stuff” was out, the rest of the night was relatively calm.

For him. We had extra laundry to deal with, however.

The New Year, Redux

We’re a week into the new year now, and I’m already behind. It’s all because of what I brought back from NYC this time around.

My souvenir from NYC circa 2012? – A wicked cold.

It’s “wicked” not that it’s so terrible as it is simply evil. I've had much worse colds before.

It’s wicked in that it’s not bad enough to send me to bed bereft of the ability to do anything useful, but leaves me instead among the walking wounded, free to hack and spew my way around society as I try to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

I couldn’t change my telephone message saying I was out of the office for most of the week because I didn’t have enough voice to make a comprehensible message.

When I answered the telephone, it so startled several people that they simply hung up, not knowing what else to do to the amphibious warbling coming from the other end under the guise of speach.

It’s also wicked in that it has derailed all of my good intentions about habits I was going to start for the new year.

Going to the gym.Writing regularly. Going to bed at a reasonable hour Sleeping through the night.

OK, the dog gets some of the blame for killing the last one. He seems to think that he needs a bit of reassurance along about 4:30 in the morning, along with the chance to go out. I can’t blame him, as it’s not unusual for me to need to make a bathroom visit about that same time.

Unfortunately, whether it is he or I that need to visit the toilet, it tends to be about the time that I’ve stopped hacking enough to finally fall off to sleep.

But you get the drift.

So for the past week, I’ve been exiled to the guest room, with a bed specifically designed to encourage visitors to go home after 4 days.

Well, not exactly. But it’s not the room I’m used to sleeping in and there’s no cable box, which means that my television sleeping choices have been pretty limited.

Stitch the Wunderdog wasn’t all that thrilled about it, either. After a week of living with Uncle Martin upstairs, he was surprised that he wasn’t sleeping in the same bed as either of his daddies and was returned to his own bed/box, downstairs in my office, some subordinate or household pet or something.

It was really traumatic for a couple of hours the first night. Fortunately that was before I found out that you can't take cough syrup and blood pressure meds at the same time, so I slept through most of it.

Fortunately for me, I also woke up each morning afterwards.

So, like someone in the Greek Orthodox Church, I’m celebrating the new year a few days late. I’m feeling better now, though, and my resolve is returning as the light-headedness from the various cold remedies diminishes.

So let’s start 2012 over again.