Word of the Day: Stymie

Stymie:
  noun

1. Golf . (on a putting green) an instance of a ball's lying on a direct line between the cup and the ball of an opponent about to putt.

2. a situation or problem presenting such difficulties as to discourage or defeat any attempt to deal with or resolve it.

verb

3. to hinder, block, or thwart.

Definition courtesy of Dictionary.com.


Tonight my writing feels stymied.  All humor has fled.  I would like to crawl in bed with milk and cookies. (Yes, I eat in bed... even things that make crumbs... so wrong isn't it?)   

I almost hit one of my clients with my car today.  She stepped out into a cross walk in front of me.  Tucson is a very small town at times and having been in the behavioral health business for three years now I recognize a lot of people here.  Anyways.  She stepped in front of my car at a random intersection in town. I slammed the brakes.  Without even a glance up she kept going: a tiny, bird-boned little creature whose hair always looks like a child had taken scissors to the raggedy ends.  I wanted to hop out and shake her because 1.) she scared me and 2.) she prostitutes herself to buy heroine.  All attempts to help her have been stymied.  When I saw her last, before today, she hugged me tightly and thanked me for caring enough to come check on her.  It was like hugging a dead person, all skin and bones.  I try not to think about what happens to her when she's not safely in sight. Today she looked like she was on a mission.  I didn't want to know.

I wish I had a funny hook to end this with...

...but I don't.

Don't worry, I had a good day.  Sometimes I just feel a little sad.  The remnants of my job.  Now off to feed the dogs, read a book, and maybe, if I'm lucky (and I am lucky, and more than a little blessed)... have some milk and cookies.

Things That Go Thump In The Night

I know, right?  This sounds like the beginning of a story about some crazy noise that woke me up in the middle of the night, scared me half to death, and then turned out to be benign. 

Or maybe it’s the story of that time several years ago when someone tried to break into my house three nights in a row.  Heaven help me if I ever have children and have to listen on the phone as they tell me not once, but three times, that someone tried to break in to their apartment. Shout out to my mom and dad!

Better yet, this could be a hilarious post on me stubbing my toe or banging my hip into something as I stumble around half asleep in the dark.  Nix that. Not funny at all. 

But this post isn't any of those things.  This is a tender post.

Last night as I sleepily walked to the bathroom I heard what I realized is one of my favorite sounds in the world.   

The soft thump-thump of Oliver’s tail as I went past him.  It doesn’t seem to matter what hour I wake up, walk to the bathroom, yawn, or sleepily role over…this dog is attuned to me… and he thumps his tail on the ground, just once or twice, to let me know he’s there and he loves me more than I deserve (especially as I haven’t walked him or taken him to the dog park in at least two weeks, poor Big Guy).  I could cry just thinking about how much I love him in return.

Even if he threw up a pair of my underwear whole at the kennel once and they had to call to tell me about it.  Humiliating!

Yeah, I love this dog...

Oh! The Light

 

This is the light in my kitchen at the end of the day.  Somehow it seems just a little magical. 

 

These are my wine glasses and my one giraffe patterned martini glass.  

I love my house.  

...yeah, those are watermarks on the wine glass...my maid didn't get around to polishing them yet.... 

Word of the Day: Amphoric

Amphoric:
adjective

 

resembling the deep, hollow sound made by blowing across the mouth of a large, narrow-necked, empty bottle: amphoric breathing.

 
Definition courtesy of Dictionary.com.

This is why I love the English language.  We have words for the sound the breath makes over the opening of an empty bottle!  That just stuns me.  I want to use this word in my next novel.  The amphoric sound of wind over the canyon…  Oooo.  Now I need to write a novel just so I can use that sentence.  My enthusiasm undoes me, as so often is the case.   

Sometimes I Feel Old

Sometimes I feel old.  Like when I’m at the mall and I look at a little girl who I think is maybe, oh say, twelve… and then she starts talking about her college classes. Or when I feel like yelling at those “pesky kids” for parking in my permit parking spot (hey, I pay for the privilege to park there you, you… pesky kids). Or when I see someone walking down on the Avenue in a mini skirt and I think “even I wouldn’t have worn a skirt that short, goodness doesn’t that child have a mother?” Or when the most exciting part of my day is finding a second National Geographic special on crocodiles on Netflix.  (Hey, I'm obsessed with crocodiles and alligators right now, okay?)

Oh I could crawl under my house and live in shame with the spiders that such thoughts even cross my mind.

Next thing you know I’ll be standing on my front porch shaking my cane at kids on skateboards as they ride by yelling things in a croaking voice like “stay off my lawn of rocks” and “turn that awful music down” or “don’t pick my cactus flowers!” I think I am having an identity crisis.

You thought I was joking about the lawn of rocks.  I wasn't.  This is how we do "lawns" in Arizona.  In fact, this is part of my front yard. 

These are the sweet new leaves coming in on the tree in my front yard.  I thought it died over the winter, but apparently it was simply hibernating.  Amazing the small things that make me really, really happy.  

These are the "cactus flowers" in my front yard which I imagine I'm about to shamefully descend to yelling at the "kids" not to pick.  Yes, it isn't technically a cactus, I think it's a succulent, but close enough for me.  

Now, let me digress a bit. The Cottage is situated next to a sweet duplex. In this duplex lives a guitar playing college boy who actually plays quite well. About every two or so weeks he invites his friends over, they get roaring drunk, and at some point long after I have gone to bed… they start to sing. Yes. Sing. They aren’t half bad either… for highly drunken college guys bellowing songs they only know the chorus to at one in the morning.

Why am I telling you this? Because it happened again last week.  On Thursday. 

As I came out of my sleepy state around one in the morning what do you think I heard drifting over the fence from the duplex next door but a jaunty strata of male voices howling: Now I had the time of my life. No I never felt this way before. Yes, I swear, it’s the truth. And I owe it all to you. ‘Cause I’ve had the time of my life. And I’ve searched through every open door. ‘Til I found the truth. And I owe it all to yoooouuuu….

And suddenly instead of feeling old and crotchety, I laid there and smiled. The college boys next door were singing the theme song to one of my favorite old sappy romance movies, Dirty Dancing. And they weren’t doing half bad. In that moment I felt an extreme warmth towards them. I remembered all my loud nights on friends' porches doing similar things. I imagined how much fun they were having and sent them some good energy for the night. 

Sorry to disappoint those of you who were guessing and hoping that I jumped out of bed, threw on some sexy clothing, and went to join them. I'm not that cool anymore. Besides anything under 25 is practically cradle robbing! In fact, instead of jumping out of bed to join them, I very unsexily closed my open window and put in ear plugs when they descended into a gosh-darn-awful rendition of Sweet Caroline. Well really, I did need my beauty sleep.  But for a few moments I felt young. Very, very young.  Identity crisis delayed.  

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” (Wait, does loving this movie make me old?)

Oh, and for those of you wondering just how old I am... I'm thirty.  I know. Super young.  I have so much energy and joie de vivre.  I get hung up on silly things sometimes....

Till next time… 

Seriously?

Today, having just gotten home from doing client visits I was tired and wanting to read a book, but still had a bunch of phone calls to do.  So as usual I bribed myself with 15 minutes of reading now and a promise of hours of reading later.  When I got up from my illicit fifteen minutes of reading in the bedroom and went out into the living room what met my eyes but a veritable flood of water inching across the dining room floor towards my feet.  Yes, this is my life and I don’t even have kids yet.  Oh boy! 

The source: Oliver’s water bowl.  

 Notice the lack of any water in it?  Yeah. 

Now there are a couple very good explanations for a situation like this which have happened before:  

1.)    Oliver got too excited jumping around and landed his big paws on the side of the bowl, tipping it and dousing him and any unsuspecting creatures near him.  But, as neither of the Little Girls was wet and neither was Oliver, I ruled this one out.  

2.)    Lilly, feeling that the conventional way of drinking water by putting only her head in the bowl is boring, stepped into the bowl to simultaneously cool her feet and get a drink. Oliver’s water bowl is big enough she uses it as her own personal swimming pool in the summer.  True story.  When she steps out she tracks water all over the floor.  Pomeranian fur is amazingly absorbent. But seeing, as I said, that none of the dogs were really wet and frankly Lilly couldn’t displace that much water if she did a cannon ball, I ruled this one out too.  

3.)    Oliver chased one of the cats through the dish.  As I didn’t hear a commotion and all the cats were also dry (and disgruntled by me waking them up from their naps to feel their fur for dampness), I ruled this one out too. 

Then I noticed that there was a lot of water, and I mean a lot, dripping from Oliver’s mouth.  He drools, I’ll admit that. 

 

I tried to get a picture of him drooling.... 

And tried...

And failed...

And failed... 

But anyways, the water dripping from Oliver's mouth was far more than drool.  I looked closer.  Oliver waggled his whole body.  I stepped closer.  Oliver lifted his snout to be petted.  Water fell on my toes.  I said “Gross!”  Oliver looked offended.  And then I saw the slightest bit of Ducky-fur in Oliver’s mouth.  Apparently, soaking wet, his favorite decimated toy Ducky shrinks and can fit fully in Oliver’s mouth. “Drop it,” I said.  Oliver dropped it. 

With a wet splat Ducky-remnants landed at my feet.  Now there’s an image.  Splat is such an evocative word, don’t you think?

Best I can figure Ducky somehow got dropped in Oliver’s water bowl and was then gallantly rescued by my big mutt who proceeded to wring Ducky out all over the house.  I found a puddle on the couch.  I found wet footprints in the kitchen.  I found a small pond in front of the baby gate to the back bedrooms where Oliver watches the forbidden kitties.  He had even christened the seat of my kitchen chair with water.   The seat where I was about to sit down and commence working again. 

This is when my mantra comes in handy. 

I love my dogs. I love my dogs. I love my dogs.  

I also need more old towels…