Grandma Alice, Cat, Dog.
I have about 839 things I could be doing right now. What do you think? Do something? Clean house? Fold laundry? Post memberships?
Hold on – I’m thinking. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Wi8Fv0AJA4 (for those of you who want to sing along, here are the lyrics: doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo DO dado doo! doodoodoodoodoo doo doo DO dado do do do. do. dooooo)
Nah, they all just lost. I’m going to write and stare out the window at the lake.
I am apparently turning into my Grandma Alice. Except she was a very sweet person, so that part I did not get. If she ever said a cuss word I think the entire surrounding South Dakota community would have sunk into the earth forever, leaving a gaping crater. Crater Alice they would call it, and shake their heads sadly at the memory. All those innocent lives, lost, because Alice one day looked up and said, Well. Sh*t.
My Grandfather, John, lost all but the last joint of one of his fingers in a farming accident. When we were little we would say, “Oh, Grandpa! How did your finger get cut off!?” and he would reply, “Your grandmother got mad at me and cut it off with the kitchen knife!” and we’d look at sweet Grandma Alice and say, “GRANDMA!” in horror. She’d just shake her head and murmur, “Oh, John.” in a sweet little voice.
Maybe she was so sweet because she ate so much sugar. She lived to 103, never had any health problems except colon cancer in her nineties which they removed and was never a problem again, and I think 1/2 a blood pressure pill. But that woman ate sugar all day long. Breakfast: cinnamon roll, coffee. Or coffee cake and coffee. Or toast and jam and coffee (and she put extra sugar in the bread recipe). Two hours later it was time for coffee and a cookie, or piece of cake or whatever. Repeat throughout the day. Sugar in the coleslaw, sugar in the potato salad, she even put sugar in the jar of dill pickles. One day we were visiting and my children watched in fascination as she spread butter on a saltine, opened a sugar packet, sprinkled it on top and ate the cracker with her coffee. She was ticked because the nursing home didn’t have any cookies out that morning.
She existed on about 6 hours of sleep, out of bed before the sun in order to get breakfast on for everyone out milking the cows in the freezing dark, but she could power nap like a champ. Grandma would lie down after lunch, close her eyes, pop back up 10-15 minutes later and get moving like Robocop the rest of the day. Herded five kids and a farmer all over the farm most of her life, put up her own veggies, used a wringer washer for I don’t know how long, worked her veggie garden, gathered eggs. Me: I’m pretty tired right now, Facebook can Wear. You. Out.
Today I woke at 4am – and 4 or 4:30am is seeing my face a lot more lately, not that I’m happy about it. Probably Grandma Alice wasn’t either. I do get a lot of work done then, like she did, only different. I answer all my emails that crazy people send me in the night and later the runners or the Board members reply: WTH were you doing checking email at 4:13am?? Coffee – lots of it. But no sugared saltines, thank you anyway. After I got up at 4am and drank half a pot of coffee I met my friend, Speedy Gonzalette, at the track and did a tempo run. That was fun. I’ve never done that before. Funny how you can call something that sucked like an egg sucking dog “fun” but it was. Other than all that sweat burning my eyes. And the gasping for air. And the skyrocketing HR. Aside from that, definitely fun. After lunch, however, I was crashing so I laid down for a minute or sixty. Grandma Alice Power Nap on ‘roids!!
I will point out that I deserve to be tired; in addition to the 6.5 today, yesterday I ran 2 miles, worked out with Killer (who is getting better, by the way, but she’s gonna be laid up for a few weeks) for an hour, then later worked in the yard in the CODE PURPLE Memphis air for an hour. Didn’t actually ever know there was a code purple but by dingydangy there is. (See? trying to be sweet like Grandma). I thought Code Orange was the best you could hope for.
In case either of you need, here’s a chart for you:
Isn’t that pretty? Kinda makes your eyeballs feel good looking at those pretty colors.
Hey. Whoa. If you unfocus your eyes it’s awwwwwwwwwwesome.
Whee!!!! I kinda went somewhere in my brain for a few minutes, looking at it. Let’s do that again!
(40 minutes later)
O. KAY. That was more fun than a tempo run. How are you doing? And who am I?
Probably all the blood loss didn’t help, that’s probably why I’m tired and lost my focus there for a fewforty minutes. Cattila the Hun has been decorating my arms with her dagger like, razor-tipped claws until they look like a completed jigsaw puzzle. I think most of the time she doesn’t mean to, but she reaches out and there they are and there I am and SLASH I look like a horror movie. This morning she got one claw hung up in my shirt and couldn’t get it out. I’ve known for a couple of weeks I needed to do something about this issue. I thought about it for a while and decided ignoring it would be my first option. Obviously that failed. Then I considered trimming them myself. That was an Epic Fail resulting in two trimmed claws for her and considerable blood loss for me. I can take her in to the vet any time between 8-noon and 2-5pm without an appointment but I kept putting it off because it’s nearly 20 minutes each way and the non-stop howling mewing kind of gets on my nerves after a couple of seconds. This morning, however, I remembered my secret weapon: the pheromones (story here, in case you forgot). I got out the cat carrier, spritzed a bit of kitty happy pheromones around it and when I picked her up and took her to the carrier she popped right into that sucker without a peep. She mewed most of the way but it wasn’t that ear shattering, incessant, tornado siren pitch. And on the way home she just mewed a few times and gazed up through the skylight, rather like she was looking at an Air Quality Chart. I’m telling you: They have got to figure out Happy Teenager pheromones. They’d make a hundred bamillion bucks.
Murph T. Dog, however, snorts at pheromones. He don’t need no stinking pheromones. The world, to Murphy, is a wonderland.
SQUIRRELS! DEATH TO SQUIRRELS!
If we open the car door – even only to retrieve the groceries – he’s IN. Car = Love. He’ll sit in the car with the door open and hubs listening to NPR blaring on the car radio for the entire neighborhood’s enjoyment for two, three hours while hubs works outside. True love. Dad, and a car.
Hey, Murph, wanna get in the car? Slavering slobbering JOY! Yesyesyes. Arrive at destination: The. Vet. *sadness* *hanging head* *drooping tail*
Leave the vet: JOYJOYJOY open the window pleeeeeeeeeeeeese slobber slobber.
On the other hand, here’s a pic of Chunk before pheromones. Usually my arm is substituting for the box. Zombie Cat.
Here’s Zombie Cat on pheromones:
and here’s the Munker helping my Grandma Alice make bread: