I was not sure what to write about today, and then...my phone rang.
Over the last couple of weeks I've been getting a great deal of calls from numbers I do not recognize. I don't even answer the phone, because my telephone talks as it is ringing and if I don't know the party calling, I simply let the voice mail take the message.
There is never a message left, so I know it is from a solicitor. This really makes me angry. I signed on to the NATIONAL NO CALL LIST years ago, and was told at the time this would be an on going choice and over time the calls would stop. And they did for quite some time...till, as I mentioned, a few weeks ago the calls started again.
So far I've been ignoring them, but it is very frustrating. So much so, that last week after getting repeated calls from the same number over and over again with ten minutes time I finally picked the phone up but didn't say anything. After a few seconds a male voice finally said hello.
In the most angry sounding voice I could muster, I shouted 'STOP CALLING ME' and hung up. For that evening the calls stopped. However, the next evening around 7PM another call from this number came again.
I was furious...answered the phone and warned the male caller that if he called again I would report him and his number to the better business bureau, and would go on line, find out who his superiors were, and he and they would be in big trouble. Of course, I had no idea if I could really do that, but the threat worked and I have not had a call from him since.
However, other nonsense calls continue. They come as 'toll-free' (four times over the last two weeks along with, V022714465308550, 505-555-1234, 507-540-0459, 602- 753-5617 homecare service, V22021351700196, and V21918272770011966. Plus calls from Le Sueur, MN, Phoenix, AZ and Marathon, FL. I don't know anybody living in any of these three places, and I'm pretty sure they don't know me either, otherwise they would have left a message.
I'm starting to think that some very old solicitation lists are making the rounds with my number on them. Frankly, I'm at my wits end. Do I try to get back on the no call list? Does a no call list really exist? Should I develop a system whereby I buy myself a whistle and blow into the phone as long and loudly as I can? And, what do I do if the call is a pre-recorded message? Yeah, what in the world do I do about that?
Grrrrrrrrrrr!
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Things I haven't told you!
I'm here to get you up to speed. We will not be traveling at the light of speed, 'er speed of light. I just got up and have only begun to drink my coffee.
I will start by telling you that I have a grandson getting married in early April. This of course, requires me to wear something other than the two dresses hanging in my closet that are approximately twenty years old.
This meant I had to look for something new, and I began perusing catalogs that arrived in my mail box, and going to various clothing sites on the Web in an attempt to find something that would look good on a lady of my size, age and stature. I was beginning to panic. And then, one glorious day I found a suit. It was a nice neutral color (beige), came in petite sizes, was not 'flashy' and so I thought. "By golly, this just might work." Plus, it was on sale...a sixty dollar suit, closing out for 29.99. This was going to be perfect. A few clicks of my mouse, and the suit was mine.
I tracked the progress of my suit for days, anticipation rising...yesterday, it arrived.
When the mailman came to the door I was ecstatic, practically ripped the bag out of his hands. (My first clue should have been the suit arrived in a plastic bag, not a box.). But, I was not deterred. I cut open that bag, inside was another see-through plastic bag with my precious suit in it.
I was just a tiny bit disappointed in the shade of 'beige', (to me it appeared a bit on the yellow side)...but I figured with the lovely, pastel, light weight cotton sweater I intended to wear under it, the color would still work well.
Yep, once I had the suit unfolded, it looked exactly like the one in the catalog, okay...is is still all good. I threw it on over all clothes I had on at the time, and it fit...wow, this was even better, and I could hardly wait til bedtime so I could check myself out 'for reals'.
Giggle, giggle.
If you didn't have to continue reading, I would ask you to close your eyes to envision this next part. But, Tee, hee, that is really not necessary. Tee, hee, hee. You will get the picture.
You ready? Bedtime has finally arrived. I put on my new suit.
Baaa, haaa, haaa.
I look like a 23 pound turkey,,,giggle, giggle,,,just before you put it in the oven to roast,,,giggle, giggle,,,for that long, baaaa, hhhhaaaa, teee, heee, anticipated holiday feast. Really, the suit is the exact shade of a turkey's skin. Heeee, heee, heee.
Looking in the full length mirror only enhanced what my vanity mirror already told me.
The skirt is at least four inches too long, the sleeves are about two inches too long as well. Those are easy fixes...heee, heee, heee....but those shoulder pads have got to go. Baaaa, haaaa, haaaa, they make me look like a 300 pound Center on some professional football team.
Haaaaaa, haaaaaa, haaaaa. Although the label inside the suit jacket specifically says this is a petite suit...in size 18, nothing is petite. Heeeee, heeee, haaaaa, haaaaa. Oh dear....am I going to be able to salvage any part of this suit to wear to a wedding without having all the guests wanting to extract some stuffing, and throw on a side of cranberry sauce to boot.
Giggle, giggle, tee, hee, Baaaaaa, Haaaaa, Haaaa.
There is no time left to find something new to wear, so altering this suit is my only option....no....wait...I still have my twenty year old dresses in the closet....if the thread holding them together has not deteriorated, I just might be able to wear one of those.
I will start by telling you that I have a grandson getting married in early April. This of course, requires me to wear something other than the two dresses hanging in my closet that are approximately twenty years old.
This meant I had to look for something new, and I began perusing catalogs that arrived in my mail box, and going to various clothing sites on the Web in an attempt to find something that would look good on a lady of my size, age and stature. I was beginning to panic. And then, one glorious day I found a suit. It was a nice neutral color (beige), came in petite sizes, was not 'flashy' and so I thought. "By golly, this just might work." Plus, it was on sale...a sixty dollar suit, closing out for 29.99. This was going to be perfect. A few clicks of my mouse, and the suit was mine.
I tracked the progress of my suit for days, anticipation rising...yesterday, it arrived.
When the mailman came to the door I was ecstatic, practically ripped the bag out of his hands. (My first clue should have been the suit arrived in a plastic bag, not a box.). But, I was not deterred. I cut open that bag, inside was another see-through plastic bag with my precious suit in it.
I was just a tiny bit disappointed in the shade of 'beige', (to me it appeared a bit on the yellow side)...but I figured with the lovely, pastel, light weight cotton sweater I intended to wear under it, the color would still work well.
Yep, once I had the suit unfolded, it looked exactly like the one in the catalog, okay...is is still all good. I threw it on over all clothes I had on at the time, and it fit...wow, this was even better, and I could hardly wait til bedtime so I could check myself out 'for reals'.
Giggle, giggle.
If you didn't have to continue reading, I would ask you to close your eyes to envision this next part. But, Tee, hee, that is really not necessary. Tee, hee, hee. You will get the picture.
You ready? Bedtime has finally arrived. I put on my new suit.
Baaa, haaa, haaa.
I look like a 23 pound turkey,,,giggle, giggle,,,just before you put it in the oven to roast,,,giggle, giggle,,,for that long, baaaa, hhhhaaaa, teee, heee, anticipated holiday feast. Really, the suit is the exact shade of a turkey's skin. Heeee, heee, heee.
Looking in the full length mirror only enhanced what my vanity mirror already told me.
The skirt is at least four inches too long, the sleeves are about two inches too long as well. Those are easy fixes...heee, heee, heee....but those shoulder pads have got to go. Baaaa, haaaa, haaaa, they make me look like a 300 pound Center on some professional football team.
Haaaaaa, haaaaaa, haaaaa. Although the label inside the suit jacket specifically says this is a petite suit...in size 18, nothing is petite. Heeeee, heeee, haaaaa, haaaaa. Oh dear....am I going to be able to salvage any part of this suit to wear to a wedding without having all the guests wanting to extract some stuffing, and throw on a side of cranberry sauce to boot.
Giggle, giggle, tee, hee, Baaaaaa, Haaaaa, Haaaa.
There is no time left to find something new to wear, so altering this suit is my only option....no....wait...I still have my twenty year old dresses in the closet....if the thread holding them together has not deteriorated, I just might be able to wear one of those.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Ya'll know...
...I have a thing for the guys who are 'presenters' on the BBC America show 'Top Gear'. The things these three, slightly overweight, middle aged men will do strictly for the entertainment of others make me laugh out loud. And I love the way they approach everything with a stiff upper lip, tongue in cheek, gut-wrenching stamina, genuine enthusiasm, and stalwart good humor...Pip, pip.
Here's a good example. It was toward the end of last night's show that James May and Jeremy Clarkson wanted to show the agility and sturdiness of a particular car, and decided the best way to do that was to have a Rugby game...using the cars...in place of human bodies.
I could not believe the genuine excitement these men exuded as their cars raced up and down the 'pitch', chasing a huge ball that looked much like an American football. Seriously, there was a great deal of yelling, vehicle bumping, and a lot of chasing that outrageously huge ball. However, after locker room chats at halftime, all bets and rules were off, and I gotta tell you, these men got knocked around very, very badly. And the 'pitch' became a mucky, miry, muddy, gunky place.
However, watching this ridiculousness, I became very intrigued. Since I know nothing about the game, this morning I looked up Rugby on the Internet and found a site called Rugby for Dummies by Bill Rayburn. In a nut shell he explained some of the terms and rules of the game. He says, for instance, quoting another gentleman, Peter Winder, "Rugby provides a suitable outlet for the controlled release of any frustration or aggression within the structured framework of a sport." He's right!
And, he is quick to add..."legalized mayhem has therapeutic value." Again, he's
right. I felt great after my accidental encounter with the 'car' game on Top Gear.
According to Bill, there is some terminology and jargon you will need to know in order to enjoy the game...and I quote...."The basic terms are pitch, scrum, ruck, maul, and hooker." It sounds rough and...believe me... it is..."because no pads or helmets are worn in Rugby and a player is expected to play hurt if at all possible"...clearly, injuries are an expected part of the game.
The basic rules of the game, states Bill, "involve 15 players per side, though seven-a-side tournaments are popular too. The responsibilities of those 15 positions are loosely interpreted, depending on the league and/or country where the game is played, but the 15 positions include 8 forwards, 2 halfbacks, 2 centers, 2 wings, and 1 fullback. The field of play is called a "pitch," usually the size of a soccer or football field (i.e., whatever's available, especially in the U.S.)."
While the object of the game is "to score as many points as possible by carrying, passing or kicking a leather oval ball, about twice the size of a football, toward the scoring zone at the far end of the pitch called the in-goal area, akin to an end zone in football. Grounding the ball (literally touching it to the turf) in the in-goal area must be done with downward pressure, and results in a try (score), worth 5 points."
Are you intrigued? I'm telling you, I am and think I could like this game better than American football. I'm going to see if I can find myself a good pitch, and some jolly good fellows to form a team. Hmmm, maybe I have enough grandsons' to do exactly that. Pip, pip.
Here's a good example. It was toward the end of last night's show that James May and Jeremy Clarkson wanted to show the agility and sturdiness of a particular car, and decided the best way to do that was to have a Rugby game...using the cars...in place of human bodies.
I could not believe the genuine excitement these men exuded as their cars raced up and down the 'pitch', chasing a huge ball that looked much like an American football. Seriously, there was a great deal of yelling, vehicle bumping, and a lot of chasing that outrageously huge ball. However, after locker room chats at halftime, all bets and rules were off, and I gotta tell you, these men got knocked around very, very badly. And the 'pitch' became a mucky, miry, muddy, gunky place.
However, watching this ridiculousness, I became very intrigued. Since I know nothing about the game, this morning I looked up Rugby on the Internet and found a site called Rugby for Dummies by Bill Rayburn. In a nut shell he explained some of the terms and rules of the game. He says, for instance, quoting another gentleman, Peter Winder, "Rugby provides a suitable outlet for the controlled release of any frustration or aggression within the structured framework of a sport." He's right!
And, he is quick to add..."legalized mayhem has therapeutic value." Again, he's
right. I felt great after my accidental encounter with the 'car' game on Top Gear.
According to Bill, there is some terminology and jargon you will need to know in order to enjoy the game...and I quote...."The basic terms are pitch, scrum, ruck, maul, and hooker." It sounds rough and...believe me... it is..."because no pads or helmets are worn in Rugby and a player is expected to play hurt if at all possible"...clearly, injuries are an expected part of the game.
The basic rules of the game, states Bill, "involve 15 players per side, though seven-a-side tournaments are popular too. The responsibilities of those 15 positions are loosely interpreted, depending on the league and/or country where the game is played, but the 15 positions include 8 forwards, 2 halfbacks, 2 centers, 2 wings, and 1 fullback. The field of play is called a "pitch," usually the size of a soccer or football field (i.e., whatever's available, especially in the U.S.)."
While the object of the game is "to score as many points as possible by carrying, passing or kicking a leather oval ball, about twice the size of a football, toward the scoring zone at the far end of the pitch called the in-goal area, akin to an end zone in football. Grounding the ball (literally touching it to the turf) in the in-goal area must be done with downward pressure, and results in a try (score), worth 5 points."
Are you intrigued? I'm telling you, I am and think I could like this game better than American football. I'm going to see if I can find myself a good pitch, and some jolly good fellows to form a team. Hmmm, maybe I have enough grandsons' to do exactly that. Pip, pip.
Monday, February 25, 2013
What's it mean?
This morning we had a pondering. We were watching a show and the term 'stick it with a stick' was used. Frankie immediately went into questioning mode and needed to know what the heck that meant.
Of course, she could only visualize 'sticks'...like from a tree branch, and so could only picture somebody using a stick to stick a stick. Oh dear...how was I going to 'splane' this.
I went on line thinking I would be able to come up with some easy to understand explanation, but not so. I could not find 'stick it with a stick'. So, I thought perhaps a good old big book, might have various definitions for 'stick'.
And finally, waaaaaay down the page on Google's Dictionary.com I found the following:
Stick2 [stik] Show IPA verb, stuck, stick·ing, noun
Of course, she could only visualize 'sticks'...like from a tree branch, and so could only picture somebody using a stick to stick a stick. Oh dear...how was I going to 'splane' this.
I went on line thinking I would be able to come up with some easy to understand explanation, but not so. I could not find 'stick it with a stick'. So, I thought perhaps a good old big book, might have various definitions for 'stick'.
And finally, waaaaaay down the page on Google's Dictionary.com I found the following:
Stick2 [stik] Show IPA verb, stuck, stick·ing, noun
verb (used with object)
1.
to pierce or puncture with something pointed, as a pin, dagger, or spear; stab: to stick one's finger with a needle.
2.
to kill by this means: to stick a pig.
3.
to thrust (something pointed) in, into, through, etc.: to stick a needle into a pincushion.
4.
to fasten in position by thrusting a point or end into something: to stick a peg in a pegboard.
5.
to fasten in position by or as if by something thrust through: to stick a painting on the wall.
Frankie was not impressed, she seemed stuck on the stick thing.
I guess she could not envision a stick doing a heck of a lot of damage.
I pointed out if the stick had been whittled down to a sharp point it could indeed do quite a bit of damage.
Whittled, what the heck...apparently she has led a very sheltered life, because I had to explain what whittling was. I pointed out, you didn't have to whittle just wood, and that when I was a Girl Scout one of our projects was to whittle something out of a bar of soap. Which by the way you don't want to do on a hot day, as the soap not only becomes sticky from sweaty hands, but also gets very, very dirty. And that in the end your little white bunny will look more like a lump of coal than cuddly, furry, wabbit.
But I digress.
Frankie was still not impress, so I decide to try a different word than 'stick' and substituted 'poke' instead.
You can poke your eye out with a stick. You can poke somebody in their eye with your finger. You can poke a fire back to life, using a stick. You can stick it to somebody by poking around in their private lives and then blabbing about it to everybody.
By now Frankie is about to come unglued. I know I have gone way overboard in my explanation and she has that look on her face she would like to poke me into kingdom come, and happily stick me there with a stick.
I'm going to go now. I have the sudden urge to whittle.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Remembering a hero.
I've been thinking a lot the last couple of days about my Uncle Sonny. He passed away many, many years ago as a very young man.
Back in the early '40's we were at war and like all young men, my uncle, wanted to serve his country. He joined the Army Air Corp. (There was no Air Force yet.) He was in training to become a fighter pilot. I have a picture of him standing beside his fighter aircraft. He is so handsome. He looks so proud.
Unfortunately, during one of his training flights, his plane crashed and he lost his life, November 12, 1942. I have a copy of his accident report, that includes grainy pictures of the scene of the accident. It is not a pretty sight.
I've discovered, while these young men were in training, the planes they were flying were in air almost 24/7. I know because in the copy of the report, there is a copy of his planes, log. If he was not flying it, some other young pilot was.
You have to remember, in 1942, America was desperate for fighter planes, and fighter pilots, and both were being 'massed produced' so to speak, so my uncle was not the only pilot in training who lost his life in this aircraft. Please, don't misunderstand...I'm not faulting the airplane, I am not faulting the pilots...I don't think there is anywhere to place blame. We had an enemy to fight, and America was doing its best to come from behind, catch up, and overtake a diabolical tyrant. Unfortunately, along the way, some very, very fine young men lost their lives in the process. I don't think you could find a one of them who would say even today, they had lost their lives in vain.
Although the builder of the fighter plane had test pilots, it is my belief that the young men learning to fly them were also 'test pilots'. The planes pretty much came off the assembly line, were pressed into service, and I might add, served well. I know because, I have done research on these planes, and I found a list of all that model made, what happened to them, and which ones are still around today, mostly in museums. If it were not for the young men who flew them during the war, and came home to tell their tales, history could not so easily be told.
So it is I've been thinking of my Uncle Sonny, his plane, his desire to serve his country, his horrible accident, his young life, snuffed out, and I want to tell his tale. It is short, sweet, and very, very sad.
Levi Shaffer, Junior, age 24. Born June ll, 1918, youngest son of Levi and Mary, pilot, Army Air Corp. Served his country well. Died November 12, 1942.
Back in the early '40's we were at war and like all young men, my uncle, wanted to serve his country. He joined the Army Air Corp. (There was no Air Force yet.) He was in training to become a fighter pilot. I have a picture of him standing beside his fighter aircraft. He is so handsome. He looks so proud.
Unfortunately, during one of his training flights, his plane crashed and he lost his life, November 12, 1942. I have a copy of his accident report, that includes grainy pictures of the scene of the accident. It is not a pretty sight.
I've discovered, while these young men were in training, the planes they were flying were in air almost 24/7. I know because in the copy of the report, there is a copy of his planes, log. If he was not flying it, some other young pilot was.
You have to remember, in 1942, America was desperate for fighter planes, and fighter pilots, and both were being 'massed produced' so to speak, so my uncle was not the only pilot in training who lost his life in this aircraft. Please, don't misunderstand...I'm not faulting the airplane, I am not faulting the pilots...I don't think there is anywhere to place blame. We had an enemy to fight, and America was doing its best to come from behind, catch up, and overtake a diabolical tyrant. Unfortunately, along the way, some very, very fine young men lost their lives in the process. I don't think you could find a one of them who would say even today, they had lost their lives in vain.
Although the builder of the fighter plane had test pilots, it is my belief that the young men learning to fly them were also 'test pilots'. The planes pretty much came off the assembly line, were pressed into service, and I might add, served well. I know because, I have done research on these planes, and I found a list of all that model made, what happened to them, and which ones are still around today, mostly in museums. If it were not for the young men who flew them during the war, and came home to tell their tales, history could not so easily be told.
So it is I've been thinking of my Uncle Sonny, his plane, his desire to serve his country, his horrible accident, his young life, snuffed out, and I want to tell his tale. It is short, sweet, and very, very sad.
Levi Shaffer, Junior, age 24. Born June ll, 1918, youngest son of Levi and Mary, pilot, Army Air Corp. Served his country well. Died November 12, 1942.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Cheddar cheese, peanut butter and...
...potato chips.
OMG...I cannot believe how much I missed my cheddar cheese. Well, all my cheeses to be unspecific. And it is very comforting to know I have a reserve of peanut butter to last for quite a while.
However, what surprised me is how much I missed potato chips and it shames me to admit, I could hardly wait for the delivery driver to leave so I could search the bags, not for the cheeses, nor the peanut butter...but the potato chips. Oh, Buddy, did I scarf those babies down! Yes, yes I did. Every time I walked past the open bag on the kitchen counter I shoved one or two in my mouth, so that by the time I had all the groceries put away, half the bag of the Sea Salt and Vinegar ones were going, going, gone. I can't believe I did that.
The scenario went something like this, eat a chip, wipe my fingers on my sweat pants, put tomato sauce away. Eat a chip, wipe my fingers on my sweat pants, put celery in fridge. Eat a chip, wipe my fingers on my sweat pants, put toilet paper away. Seriously...eat, wipe, put, it took quite some time to finish the job.
It was kind of scary for me to discover I had such an addiction to chips, and I think I know now how junkies feel when they are in bad need of a fix. I tore open the bag in wild abandon, never giving a thought to the fact I could have scattered the chips all around the room. Then, not even caring if I was grabbing a whole chip or simply a fragment, I shoved one into my mouth. Ohhhh, that wonderful taste...salt...sour...I did not eat these in a lady-like fashion either, Emily Post would not have been pleased. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Wipe, wipe, wipe.
I could not stop, and probably would not have save for the fact I finished putting the groceries away and it occurred to me how thirsty I had become. So, I chugged down half a bottle of water. Bloated, full, and on a potato chip high, I was one happy camper. Wheeeeee! I was fly---in'.
I catch a glimpse of Frankie, she is sitting with a TV tray pulled up tightly in front of her. Her eyes are glazed over and her fingers appear to have a sticky substance on them.
Me: "Frankie, you okay?"
Frankie: "What?"
Me: "What on earth are you doing?"
Frankie: (Mouth full of food) "Eating."
Me: "I can see that...are you even bothering to chew?"
Frankie: (Wiping lips with back of sweatshirt sleeve) "Yeah." (Another blob of food enters her mouth. A blissful smile crosses her face.)
I walk over to the tray and peer over the lid of the box...and see the remains of what used to be a full size blueberry pudding cake. A quarter of the cake is missing. Well, dang...guess I'm not the only one with an addiction.
Me: "No, Zorro...sorry...there will be no peanut butter till tomorrow." (Sad, wistful eyes look up at me.) "Oh, alright, but just one tiny bite."
OMG...I cannot believe how much I missed my cheddar cheese. Well, all my cheeses to be unspecific. And it is very comforting to know I have a reserve of peanut butter to last for quite a while.
However, what surprised me is how much I missed potato chips and it shames me to admit, I could hardly wait for the delivery driver to leave so I could search the bags, not for the cheeses, nor the peanut butter...but the potato chips. Oh, Buddy, did I scarf those babies down! Yes, yes I did. Every time I walked past the open bag on the kitchen counter I shoved one or two in my mouth, so that by the time I had all the groceries put away, half the bag of the Sea Salt and Vinegar ones were going, going, gone. I can't believe I did that.
The scenario went something like this, eat a chip, wipe my fingers on my sweat pants, put tomato sauce away. Eat a chip, wipe my fingers on my sweat pants, put celery in fridge. Eat a chip, wipe my fingers on my sweat pants, put toilet paper away. Seriously...eat, wipe, put, it took quite some time to finish the job.
It was kind of scary for me to discover I had such an addiction to chips, and I think I know now how junkies feel when they are in bad need of a fix. I tore open the bag in wild abandon, never giving a thought to the fact I could have scattered the chips all around the room. Then, not even caring if I was grabbing a whole chip or simply a fragment, I shoved one into my mouth. Ohhhh, that wonderful taste...salt...sour...I did not eat these in a lady-like fashion either, Emily Post would not have been pleased. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Wipe, wipe, wipe.
I could not stop, and probably would not have save for the fact I finished putting the groceries away and it occurred to me how thirsty I had become. So, I chugged down half a bottle of water. Bloated, full, and on a potato chip high, I was one happy camper. Wheeeeee! I was fly---in'.
I catch a glimpse of Frankie, she is sitting with a TV tray pulled up tightly in front of her. Her eyes are glazed over and her fingers appear to have a sticky substance on them.
Me: "Frankie, you okay?"
Frankie: "What?"
Me: "What on earth are you doing?"
Frankie: (Mouth full of food) "Eating."
Me: "I can see that...are you even bothering to chew?"
Frankie: (Wiping lips with back of sweatshirt sleeve) "Yeah." (Another blob of food enters her mouth. A blissful smile crosses her face.)
I walk over to the tray and peer over the lid of the box...and see the remains of what used to be a full size blueberry pudding cake. A quarter of the cake is missing. Well, dang...guess I'm not the only one with an addiction.
Me: "No, Zorro...sorry...there will be no peanut butter till tomorrow." (Sad, wistful eyes look up at me.) "Oh, alright, but just one tiny bite."
Caving in.
Okay, I confess, I caved in and ordered groceries. I think I could have continued to live without cheese, but I was getting dangerously low on peanut butter, and since I need PB every morning in order to make my bed without interference from Zorro I knew I had to give in and place an order.
Zorro has always associated bed making with play time, and when he first came to live with me sometimes it would take hours for me to complete the bed making task. I would throw up a blanket, he would nip at it, pull on it and otherwise impede my labors. I would walk away from the bed try to sneak back later to finish the job, but he always seemed to know and interfere again and again. I eventually bought a little rubber toy designed to put kibble in, generally used for when a person leaves the house, to help ease a pets separation anxiety. However, I thought it would be a good toy to keep Zorro busy while I made the bed...he cleared the kibble out before I even got to the bedroom.
What a waste of money. Then it occurred to me maybe if I put peanut butter inside the toy it would take longer for Zorro to lick it out. And, that, dear friends, worked like a charm. Within no time I figured out the exact amount I needed to put in the toy for me to complete my bed making task.
There were a few mornings he brought the toy in to the bedroom and jumped up on the bed, but I immediately took it away from him and made him return to the living room. Smart little fellow that he is, he quickly learned the peanut butter toy was not meant for the bedroom.
Now, my little guy did suffer from separation anxiety too, and would chew the paint off the front door's frame up as far as his little mouth could reach, so I began to put kibble in the toy any time I left the house for an outing. It worked pretty well, except the kibble was often gone before I got the door completely locked and the chewing of paint continued. One day, I decided maybe if I put in kibble, a bit of peanut butter, more kibble and a topping of peanut butter it just might keep Zorro busy long enough to calm down and take a nap until I returned.
Wow, what a relief. That worked wonders and I've not had a problem of paint chewing since. However, I've also created a monster because Zorro now knows and expects his peanut butter every morning...and heaven forbid the toy comes up missing and I have to get down on hands and knees to look for it. (I have to confess I have had to use the top of my baster on a few occasions until I was able to locate the missing toy.) So, you can see to be without peanut butter could lead to a possible catastrophe, one I am willing to avoid at all cost...in this case approximately two hundred and fifty dollars, which includes not just the groceries but delivery fee, petrol expense as well.
On the plus side, I'm tickled pink I will have my delicious cheddar cheese to devour, and Frankie is beside herself that I have ordered two pudding cakes, cinnamon buns and some blueberry bagels...oh the joy there will be later today when that wonderful delivery truck pulls up to my driveway, and all those goody bags get spread all over my living room floor.
Yummmmm-i-e.
Zorro has always associated bed making with play time, and when he first came to live with me sometimes it would take hours for me to complete the bed making task. I would throw up a blanket, he would nip at it, pull on it and otherwise impede my labors. I would walk away from the bed try to sneak back later to finish the job, but he always seemed to know and interfere again and again. I eventually bought a little rubber toy designed to put kibble in, generally used for when a person leaves the house, to help ease a pets separation anxiety. However, I thought it would be a good toy to keep Zorro busy while I made the bed...he cleared the kibble out before I even got to the bedroom.
What a waste of money. Then it occurred to me maybe if I put peanut butter inside the toy it would take longer for Zorro to lick it out. And, that, dear friends, worked like a charm. Within no time I figured out the exact amount I needed to put in the toy for me to complete my bed making task.
There were a few mornings he brought the toy in to the bedroom and jumped up on the bed, but I immediately took it away from him and made him return to the living room. Smart little fellow that he is, he quickly learned the peanut butter toy was not meant for the bedroom.
Now, my little guy did suffer from separation anxiety too, and would chew the paint off the front door's frame up as far as his little mouth could reach, so I began to put kibble in the toy any time I left the house for an outing. It worked pretty well, except the kibble was often gone before I got the door completely locked and the chewing of paint continued. One day, I decided maybe if I put in kibble, a bit of peanut butter, more kibble and a topping of peanut butter it just might keep Zorro busy long enough to calm down and take a nap until I returned.
Wow, what a relief. That worked wonders and I've not had a problem of paint chewing since. However, I've also created a monster because Zorro now knows and expects his peanut butter every morning...and heaven forbid the toy comes up missing and I have to get down on hands and knees to look for it. (I have to confess I have had to use the top of my baster on a few occasions until I was able to locate the missing toy.) So, you can see to be without peanut butter could lead to a possible catastrophe, one I am willing to avoid at all cost...in this case approximately two hundred and fifty dollars, which includes not just the groceries but delivery fee, petrol expense as well.
On the plus side, I'm tickled pink I will have my delicious cheddar cheese to devour, and Frankie is beside herself that I have ordered two pudding cakes, cinnamon buns and some blueberry bagels...oh the joy there will be later today when that wonderful delivery truck pulls up to my driveway, and all those goody bags get spread all over my living room floor.
Yummmmm-i-e.
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