Food Fetish

America seems to have a food fetish. Since the Supersize Me movie, a number of programs about food and eating a lot, have come out. I had the interesting experience of seeing one of them today: Man vs. Food. I was flabbergasted. The whole show is about this overweight guy named Adam Richman who goes to various eateries in the U.S. that serves ginormous portions of food to see if he can eat this portion within one hour. So he is seen going in to the kitchen to watch the cook prepare his 12-egg omelette with cheese, mushrooms, and onions inside, and add two large bisquits, a pound of hash browns, and a pound of sausage in it. He comments about how wonderful it looks and how he can't wait to sink his teeth into it. Earlier today we saw him try to eat 5 lbs of steak, two large buns and a pound of creamed spinach and broccoli. He came within two spoonfuls of doing it within an hour. His face was ashen, he was bloated, and God only knows what his stomach looked like on the inside. it must have been stretched way out of shape, not to mention what his arteries must look like. But while everyone in the shop was cheering, hooting, and raising their drunken fists in the air to encourage him, he just kept pushing it down.
This man did manage to get down the omelette but failed to eat the steak dinner. He goes at food like the truest glutton I've ever seen.
Aside from recoiling at what he is doing to his body, I can't believe the message he is sending to young people today. And we wonder why at least 28% of the people in this country can be considered obese (30% over their desired weight). If you look at the people who are watching him gulp down these massive quantities of food, you won't find very many of average size. And there aren't many people in the restaurants who are cheering that I would want my kids to emulate.

People don't think that these kinds of messages stick with young people. Why try to be healthy when these guys on TV look fine (more or less) and are yucking it up with both feet in the trough? There are incredible restaurants and diners in this country that thumb their noses to health. Here's one: the Heart Attack Grill where people over 350 lbs eat for free. They allow non-filtered cigarettes there, and the menu items are things like the Quadruple Bypass Burger, Triple Bypass Burgers, Flatliner Fries, and Jolt Cola. Are these people crazy?

In case you can't tell, this is a bona fide rant. Our country is suffering from poor nutrition, when we are the best fed people in the world. We have so much while the vast majority of the world don't have enough to eat. It is almost painful watching a porky guy chow down a plateful of food that could easily feed a family of six. What are we coming to? While the economy is going downhill and people are struggling with the enormous global issues we face today, the best we can do is watch people gorge and destroy their health?

Time Off

Today was the last day I will be working until August 30. There are no words for the relief I feel. The last three weeks have been very difficult for me, as my motivation and energy have been at an all time low. It has been a grueling school year. We doctoral faculty are supposed to have the summer off from teaching so we can publish and conduct our research. Today I sent in an article to the Journal of Religion and Spirituality in Social Work--an article that has been in the making for four years. It is finally submitted. I have given the green light to a student to schedule his dissertation defense at the end of August, and sent the fifth revision suggestions of another dissertation to its owner today. All of my supervision except one individual has been either put on hold or parcelled out to others for the month. My work phone and email notifications that I'm out of the office have been created. So now I just need to relax.

Perhaps I'll sleep for the first week, if sleep is to be had with these little busybodies of ours. They need to be trained, as they still aren't too swift recognizing their own names, even if they are able to sit and come on command (if a treat is forthcoming). I have 108 packs of laminate wood flooring in the garage that I'd like to install in the house. It is sitting next to my new chop saw. I have six cans of paint, ready to get the bathrooms and our bedroom ceiling in order. The pale grey-green color for our bedroom walls has yet to be purchased. The material for our bedspread pillow shams are laid out and ready to be sewn. Every time I look at the livingroom windows I think about what kind of curtains I will make to hang. So there is no shortage of things to do while I'm off work. My challenge is to go slowly and to recognize that whatever doesn't get done now will be completed later.

While my neice is awaiting the birth of her second child, and my nephew is planning his wedding, while Sam is working every day, I will be here on the couch watching daytime TV, reading books that I have put off for four years, and cuddling my puppies. It is a good life after all.

Our Boys at 11 weeks

Here are our 10-week old babies. And I do mean, babies! As you can see, they can't seem to get close enough to us. We have licked toes and cheeks (yick), little eager faces that crumple up when we walk out of the room, and howls and gnashing of teeth when we leave them in their playpen. Above is Sam with Charlie, who has been nuzzling him for some time. Since he is a little Houdini, he is probably just pacing himself for a leap up onto the back of the sofa where Otis (the cat) is reclining (with an expression of utter disdain).

This is Charlie before he got groomed yesterday. He has a sensitive little soul and when I have shaken a newspaper at him he screamed out as though I were skinning him alive. We have to be very careful when we reprimand Baxter because Charlie goes and hides behind the chair just to get away from us. He is a little dickens though. No one can run as fast as this little guy can.

This is our pathetic-expressioned little Baxter who should have been named Doloroso. He is as cute as a button, but as naughty as a puppy can be. I'm forever pulling landscaping bark, lilly fronds, sticks, dead roses--anything he can get in his mouth--out of his teeth. It's a marvel that he's alive, for all the plant matter he has ingested over the last two weeks. He has an ear-rending little bark and whenever Charlie, who runs faster, takes off with something he wants, he barks him into dropping it. He has already been put in time-out twice this afternoon. Our little sensitive Charlie has been so horrified at his discipline that he laid in front of the kennel (his time-out spot) and whined.

And now they are trying to kill each other by tearing each other's ears and jowls off. I suppose that is what happens when you have two male dogs. They are eager to learn how to be leaders of the pack. That includes us. When they wake up in the morning and see us coming to let them out of their little doggie playpen, they come roiling out of there at 90 mph, unsure where they're going, but full of exhuberance and life. When we see them after being away, their little upturned faces, licks on our ankles, and wagging tails tell us that we made the right decision in getting them. I just love my boys!

Puppy Update

It's been quite a week. At the risk of sounding like a boring first time parent who strings out every detail, I have to say something about what we've been going through with these little guys. Sam and I are trying to accommodate the needs of these puppies and it's pretty overwhelming to be fully responsible for two bored, whining, yipping, crying babies with unreliable bladders. Baxter and Charlie are now nine weeks old and it seems that they've grown this week already. I will try to post some pictures in the next couple days. That will require time and concentration, neither of which their demands have allowed.

We've fallen into a daily pattern: whining at 5:00 a.m. means that they need to get outside right away to "do their business." After running through the backyard sampling every piece of chipped bark they can pick up from the flowerbeds, they frenziedly lick dried earthworms off the sidewalk, find bird droppings in the grass to roll in, then go on a romp under the trees. Of course, I stand on the porch and cheer them on so they'll pee before they come inside. As they squat in the grass, they turn to look at me and get my approval. Baxter has big soulful cocker spaniel eyes, and to see him peering back over his shoulder as he does his business, always makes me laugh. Three cheers for going outside and not inside on the carpet!
We then go inside for their breakfast, which they eat in between trying to tear each other's ears off. That comes with barking, whining, and all sorts of growling noises. Just as they sound as though they will kill one another, they suddenly head for their bowl and have a few more mouthfuls of kibble. Then it's off to the races once again.

We have a variety of toys: little fuzzy squeaky (annoying) toys that they love to play with and fight over. And I do mean fight. There are clear rubbery bones that they chew on, and a canvas octopus with squeaky parts in every tentacle and the main body. That is quite a noisy invention but they love it. Funnily enough, their favorite toy is an empty Arrowhead water bottle. It crunches and cracks as they both try to bite on it with their tiny razor teeth.

They play with their toys for awhile before edging over to the tassle on my persian rug. This is where they've learned the word "No!" as they chew and then look over at me to see if I notice what they're doing. They tear in and out of their doggy playpen, roiling across their blanket and chewing everything they come in contact with. Even while you hold them and look at them, they're trying to chew the air, your nose, their own foot or tail. They're typical babies: everything goes into the mouth. I'm continually pulling landscaping bark out of their mouths, and lilly fronds from them. What the fascination is with these things, I do not know.

After about 20 minutes of being occupied by their toys, they get bored and start throwing themselves at the wall of their playpen, trying to get out. They either clamor over the barrier, or squeeze past the ottoman, and tear off into the living room. This is precisely the time they should go back outside, I've learned, as I've cleaned up little suprises that they've left under the table, in the corner, or even in the middle of the living room floor. (glad they're not Great Danes!) They check out the place where Otis' food dish used to be, sniff around Stepdaughter's bedroom door and whine a little bit, before wildly chasing each other through the living room, around the couch as fast as they can go.

At some point they come back to their little enclosure and flop down on the floor where they fall onto their backs or lie halfway under the couch, dead to the world. For awhile they lie on the tile floor, but then they gravitate together and lie curled up together. They really love each other and it is evident. Other than hiccups or flailing legs in their puppy dreams, the house is quiet for about an hour. thank goodness--I can get something done and even leave the room while they're asleep.
If you multiply this series of activities by 20 times, this is what life is like for these dogs every day. We are utterly worn out.

Little Baxter is stocky--a real butter ball. He has shorter legs than Charlie, and is really a beautiful puppy with those soulful eyes of his. He has a very sensitive temperament and if you scold him, he looks like he might curl up and die. Yesterday I swatted him with a piece of paper--one piece of paper! --to penalize him for chewing off the tassel on the area rug. I thought he might collapse. He dashed around behind his puppy carrier and cowered, looking at me through his eyebrows with the most dejected and pained expression. I was absolutely stricken.
Charlie, on the other hand, is a natural guard dog but has the build of a poodle. He stood, stiff legged at the edge of our lawn when my 300 lb. neighbor stopped in his driveway yesterday to say hello. "Oh, such vicious attack dogs!" he said of my 5-lb. ferocious dustmops. Funny, cockapoo guard dogs, I know. But they bark at Otis, at anyone who comes to the door, and at the neighborhood dogs that he hears. They even bark at our reflection in the sliding glass window at night. Charlie is full of spunk. Baxter, our little fat boy, just sits and ponders--I think he has a therapist personality. (We should get along just fine!)
If I go upstairs to get a shower, the place turns into the house of howling, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. You would think someone is killing them. and of course, if one howls, the other chimes right in.
Last week we had a woman with a 16-month old son stop in. The dogs were terrified of the little boy, probably because he squealed in excitement and his arm and leg movements were pretty unpredictable. As we went out into the back yard, the boy squealed, Charlie let out a blood curdling scream, peed himself and lay like he was dead under the lawn chair. Across the lawn, Baxter began screaming right along with him before he could even see what was going on. I wonder what the neighbors thought. Poor little enmeshed things!


They have the most ear rending little barks you ever heard. Otis thinks so, too. He hardly comes downstairs during the day when the boys are out because they see him and bark at him. He's coming ever closer, as I think he realizes they are just babies. But when they bark, he lets fly with a string of feline expletives and shoots over the back of the couch and back up the stairs. I think we're going to need to do some intentional damage control so he doesn't become a recluse who lives on the guestroom bed upstairs.

To be honest, I wonder what in the world we have done. This morning at 3:30 all I could think of was getting them back to the breeder as soon as we can. They are such noisy, inconvenient little things that I love more than I wish I did. It almost breaks my heart to hold them at night and see their little eyes looking up at me and feel their cheeks against mine. Maybe I don't want to love anything this much (this is the therapist speaking...) or maybe this is normal for parents of little puppies. I just wonder how on earth I'm going to do this when I go back to work in the fall. Maybe I can take them to class with me--until the Dean finds out.
In the meantime, we need to put our off-white sectional upstairs in the sitting area of our bedroom, along with the leather ottoman. They will shred these things. We'll get a couple rocking chairs and a cheap sofa, a cheap rug, and install a gate across the entry way into the kitchen/den area. Then they can have space to run around and if they have an accident it won't ruin the rug. Maybe the time will come when they can be trusted to go into the livingroom without leaving little piles under the end table or behind the couch, and without chewing everything in sight.

They are darling and they will be wonderful companions for many, many years (they live up to 20 years). But getting to adulthood is almost a dream that we don't think will ever come true right now. They are so cute and we love them so much. We are also very tired. Otis' nose is out of joint and he's on his last nerve. New little lives take a lot of energy and patience.

Dying

I had a long conversation with a friend tonight and I won't be able to sleep now. She told me that last week her doctor told her that she will die within a year due to a number of chronic illnesses that she has had for over 50 years.
I am stunned.
Veronica is one of the cheeriest women I know and she has endured more in life than almost any woman I can think of. Born to a woman who was married nine times, she was pressed into the job of taking care of her hypochondriac semi-prostituting mother from the time she turned 13. Leaving that home, she married an abusive man who verbally and emotionally abused her for 20 years. Three sons later, she left him, only to have her church ask her to give up her church office. "Too many people misunderstand what has happened." So she gave up her office and watched as her husband was hired on by another local church to do what she wanted to do so badly. She watched as he received accolades for what she could do much better but was not allowed to, for no good reason. At the same church, she was finally hired to be involved in part time ministry, but was elbowed out by a family with money and influence whose child wanted to take over her responsibilities. Veronica asked if she could continue on without pay, just to be able to contribute to the church. She has been allowed to up until the end of this month. It will be her last opportunity to serve the church in this way.
Meanwhile, Veronica was diagnosed with Hepatitis C. She picked it up in a transfusion she was given at birth, after which she almost died. No one knew what was wrong with her, but she narrowly survived and was severely jaundiced at the time. Veronica grew out of it, she thought. In fact, it was growing insidiously inside of her until last year she was told that she had severe cirrhosis of the liver. And then the bleeding started: severe nosebleeds that took forever to staunch. Her ankles and thighs swelled up to twice their size and she became very tired. While this was happening, she lost two of her part time jobs and now she is $700 short every month. How does she manage? In a word, God. People have given her money, put cash inside of her purse--all of this without a word from her, but there are many prayers ascending from her every day about how she will manage. It has been this way--hand to mouth--since her divorce. Her credit had been ruined by her ex-husband, and the alimony and child support ran out way too soon.
Veronica's doctor has put her on the liver transplant list. She is not excited. "If the transplant doesn't kill me, paying for it will!" She does not know how she will manage financially if she can't work, can't pay for her car, has no one to care for her through the medical crisis, etc. She wonders why she should consider a liver transplant if she can only plan on five good years to follow. It's really hard on one's body and she is uncertain about it. But now the doctor tells her that she has a cirrhotic heart. I had no idea there was such a condition, but it is like cardiac stenosis (hardening and narrowing of the vessels). Veronica needs to give someone medical power of attorney, but her boys don't want to talk to her about it. They feel sick at heart that she is ill and can't bear the thought that she will most likely die soon. So they completely avoid talking about her illness. She has tried to tell them that they can sell her one and only antique furniture piece in order to bury her--up on the hill where next to her stillborn baby girl lies. They simply can't talk with her about dying.
This is why I talked with her so long tonight. "I hate to even ask this question, Veronica, but do you feel that you are ready with God?"
"Yes. But more than that, I wonder why I've lived through all these things just to have this happen."
She tells me that two weeks before she was diagnosed with Hepatitis she had a vivid dream of a man who was speaking to her. He told her that she had lupus and that it was very serious. "Well, I'm going to fight it," she told him. Although she couldn't see his face, she had the distinct impression that he sincerely approved of her plan. "Maybe I'm in denial," she told me today. "But I talk about dying on purpose. And when I do, there is nothing in me that answers to that. I just don't think it's going to happen to me because I remember that dream." She is a new grandmother and has done so much reading on her illness and medications that she is now suggesting medication regimes to her physicians. By following her plan, she has lost much of the extra fluid in her legs and her chest pain has diminished somewhat. She wants to avoid the transplant if possible. Veronica is having a cardiac angiogram next week to see how cirrhotic her heart is and if needed, to place a stent in her arteries to decrease the chance of heart attack. And yet even with all of this happening, she continues to take care of her mother and also another elderly woman who has mobility problems. She is usually cheerful and eager to be involved with people. I really love her and it is hard to think of her goodhearted soul having to suffer the way she has--and quite possibly, the way she will before she dies.

If there is anyone who reads this blog, please put Veronica on your prayer list. She needs your prayers more than you can imagine. Prayer is the best thing, she tells me, and she adds tentatively, it is the only thing that has helped her survive. I pray not for a miracle--althought that would thrill my soul--but that she will have peace and if/when she does die, she will slip away quickly and painlessly. She has had enough pain in this life.
So tonight, with a very heavy heart I'm thinking of Veronica. I feel challenged to make every day of my life count--my life that has so much good in it. May God bless my friend with a cheerful heart, peace that passes all understanding, and a real sense of how much God loves her as she declines.

Happy Family

Our boys are finally home!
Today we drove to the breeder's home and picked up Charlie and Baxter. They cuddled right into us when we were introduced, and seemed not the least concerned that we were new to them. Baxter was not too keen on getting into the car, and as soon as I was seated with them in the dog bed on my lap they crawled up onto my neck and stayed there for about 30 minutes. I now smell like puppy breath--so precious!
No urps or poops in the car for the 3 hour drive home. We stopped once at a rest area and put them down on the grass to "potty." They did their business and off we went once again.
Once we got home, it was another potty stop in the front yard and then introductions to Otis took place. It went over like a rubber crutch, hissing and yowling prevailing. He is livid that these little rodent type animals are in his house. There was some yapping at Otis and he fled to the upstairs bedroom. Even now, he is lurking in the hall after a few horrified sniffs of the puppy's enclosure and food. So much for our fantasies of the three "kids" curling up together to sleep!
Charlie will be a great watch dog. He is already alert and taking notice of the neighborhood dogs barking up on the hill. Baxter is just interested in cuddling. Each are 5 lbs. and they have great big feet for their little bodies. They also have very long eye lashes--such sweet little faces!
We were told that they need to pee around 10:30 at night and that they should be okay until about 6:30 a.m. We have 30 minutes before our last backyard outing. Sam is sawing logs and they are sacked out on their doggie blanket on the bed. They lie in positions as if they have no hip bones: back legs straight out behind them and front legs straight out in front. Every now and then there is a whimper, but they are very much asleep. It was a big day for them: leaving mom, leaving home, riding in a car, meeting Otis, adjusting to us, and learning that the terrifying water dish wouldn't hurt them (they were petrified of it initially!) They make little puppy grunts every time they wake up and reposition themeselves on the bed. It's soon time to put them in their little doggie play pen for the night. I shall probably not sleep well because I will be listening for their middle of the night signal that they need to go on a pee outing. What little warm, wiggly miracles they are! I am delighted to have them.

Truth in Advertising

Found here

Years ago when I moved to Southern California, my sister and brother-in-law used to drive me through various towns to give me a sense of my surroundings. There were the desert towns that were very hot (and that left me cold!) and also quaint old money suburbs that were enchanting. I particularly loved going up to Oak Glen, or "Little New York" as it was called at that time. It smells like apples year round and it is much greener than down on these dusty plains.

To get to Oak Glen, one has to drive through Yucaipa, a bedroom community of the city of San Bernardino. It is in the foothills and until 10 years ago, it was not much more than a collection of disheveled little houses of older people. What always struck me were the little white signs that so many people had at the edge of their lawns on the street. These signs had Bible verses printed on them. A person could get nearly a full Bible chapter just by driving up California Street. We used to chuckle at the randomness of these verses, wondering what they hoped that passersby might gain from reading them.

I didn't think about it for years until we moved here two years ago. It is a wonderful little town now since hundreds of new homes, landscaping, and businesses have augmented this place. The other day though, I noticed some of those little signs sticking out of someone's lawn in an older section of town. As I drove I read, "He that believeth and is baptized will be saved, but he that believeth not shall be damned." Down a little further, I came across this one: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." I'm wondering what effect the homeowner hopes the latter verse will have on people driving by. How about this cheerful message: "Because you have rejected knowledge I also reject you as my priests; because you have ignored the law of your God, I also will ignore your children."

What kind of seeker after spirituality might be attracted to something like this?

I remember one of the members of my childhood church put up a billboard on the edge of the junkyard he owned. It read, "For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life." This verse always struck me as rather ominous, but I suppose it depends on the perspective and needs of the people who drove by.

The sign down the road caught my eye this morning: "It is written, "I believed, therefore have I spoken."" What on earth can this mean to someone who is unfamiliar with scripture? Other than giving drivers a good laugh as they look over at it. What is the intended effect of this? What kind of representation is this of Christian beliefs for people who don't know anything about how Christianity? Will they have heightened ideas of the love of God? Will they be intrigued about Christian beliefs enough to go home and pick up a Bible and start reading? Or does it simply create a caricature of Christians?

Meaningless remarks, signs, and depictions can actually negate the positive witness of Christians. The sad thing is that we all do this: indelicate jokes, non sequitors in reverent settings, retaliatory remarks in response to strong comments of others. These things dilute what Christianity is and how others might perceive it. What impression do you give of Christianity and your walk with God? Is the message clear? Does it pique the interest of other people? I ask myself this every time I drive past these unusual little signs.

Our Boys--Update

This morning our cockapoo breeder sent us more pictures of our boys. We think they are terribly cute and can hardly wait the 15 days until we pick them up. Above is Baxter and Goldie, one of his female litter mates. This is probably their first time outside in the grass. It's been warming up here lately, so this was taken most likely over the weekend.

This is (fatso) Charlie in the background, with Baxter in the front. You can see that they're both variegated looking puppies. Their mother is a blue merle, which is a combination of grey, black, and brown variegated colors. Their father is a copper colored cockapoo.

Here is Baxter, sacked out in front of the puppies' kennel. You can see his colors a bit better in this picture. And just for the record, Baxter is my puppy and Charlie will belong to Sam. We are very happy expectant parents!

If you would like to see another half-grown puppy from these parents, you can see videos of Quica the Cockapoo on YouTube. Here's one that I like especially well. This one makes me laugh. It is of Lucy at Myrtle Beach (don't know who this is, but you can see something of the energy and delightfulness of these types of dogs). As my father would say, Lucy is a bugety-bugety-bug type of dog (Linda, you will understand this!). Enjoy!

Natural Beauty

Found here

For some time I have been trying to change my hairstyle. I have felt vexed by wearing the same style for nearly 20 years. The one reprieve during that time was in 2002 when I had just lost 35 lbs and had a thinner face with more defined cheekbones. My hairstyle had been what I would call short, spiky, and sassy. Now as a 'woman of substance' I look too full-faced with my hair brushed back from my face in that '80s look.My stepdaughters have commented that I should do this or that with my hair but I summarily dismissed their remarks because they are teenagers and I have pretty much resigned myself that whatever I do not be exactly right, including how I dress or what I do with my hair. But this year when we were visiting Stepdaughter #3 in Puerto Rico, she asked what I would do with my hair for her big sister's wedding in July. I didn't know. She suggested that I grow out my hair because she would like it (this is the same girl that suggested that I wear chartreuse nail polish). Why not? I've grown my hair since March.
I have almost shaved my head a hundred times since March.

It's hard to find a good hairstylist who can catch the vision that you don't really have yourself of how you might look with an updated hairstyle. It didn't help that we've moved in the last two years and I've been trying to find someone in our neighborhood to patronize. I went to several hairstylists and always came out unhappy. I either looked like my mother in 1963, or my hair would be flat to my head, or cut above my ears, giving me the appearance of an egg with fuzz on top. Sam's eyes would narrow as I'd come in the door and he'd ask in an agonizing tone, "Honey, why do you go to these people who do this to you?" After washing and styling my hair myself (back to that 1980s style--hair brushed back from my face, tucked behind my ears on either side, bangs curled and over my forehead), we'd both agree that it wasn't as bad as I'd looked walking in the house. But I knew I was about 20 years behind the times and Sam kindly never mentioned how outdated I looked.

Last Tuesday afternoon I met with Megan at a place called Salon Strut. Either I would come out strutting, or it would look like I just had my struts replaced. Both held possibilities. Megan is about 22 and had dyed orange hair that is folded over her head and held in place with a clip on one side. The back looks like it was dried with a high power fan--it stiffly shoots out in all directions. She could not have been nicer or more accommodating, however. I took her a couple pictures of hairstyles that I liked and she talked me into "something really easy and updated" that had elements of the look that appealed to me. It's an updated shag haircut.

It was fascinating to watch her style my hair after the cut. She suggested that I would look younger if I were to wear my hair with side bangs (bangs are not straight down, but swept over to one side) and the sides not tucked behind my ears, but moved toward my face on either side instead. As she talked, Megan flipped my hair up and out all around the sides and back, and dried my hair back and forth over the top of my head. "You have wonderful hair," she murmured as she jhuzhed my hair. "This is jhuzhing and you need to do lots of it with this hairstyle. No more round brush. Just use your hands to separate out your hair and then give it shape." It all looked simple, and I took note of the product she used. Phomolient and some kind of pomade to separate out the strands once it was dry. Yes, I could do that.

When she finished and I looked in the mirror I was amazed. My hair looked much darker (must be that pomade) and I looked 10 years younger. Sam would like this! I told her that I have lots of hair product at home that I have been using right along, and I think I could style my hair with that.

Sam got up off the couch when I came in the house and remarked, "Now that's pretty, Honey!" I fairly floated up the stairs to our room, where I set out the requisite products for Wednesday's styling. I could hardly wait for the Big Reveal at work.

I was so excited Wednesday morning that I leaped out of bed at 5:30 and took a shower. Couldn't wait to try the new styling techniques. But since Sam was still asleep, I just laid out my new clothes that I'd gotten so all of me would look different that day. When finally I did my hair, Sam stood by watching. "Is that how she told you to dry your hair?" he asked cautiously. "Yes," I replied with an air of superiority. "No more round brush. She said I can use my head as the round brush and dry my hair over the top using the curve of my skull." I leaned my head to one side and my wet hair fell to the left. "See?"
He seemed unconvinced but hurriedly kissed me and left for work. When my hair was dry (and standing on end), I put some hair pomade in my hand and even between my fingers, just as Megan instructed me to do. "Work it in at the roots" I said aloud, echoing her advice. I pulled my bangs over to one side and slid the pomade through them. Into my new outfit and one last look in the mirror. "Well, this isn't exactly what I looked like yesterday, but I'm not really used to the look yet, so maybe this isn't entirely right."
It wasn't even close. My bangs looked like a grease slick and my hair fanned out on the sides like my sister's prom pictures from the 1960s. I tried to ignore the hair pushed forward on my cheeks. That might drive me crazy, but at least I had a new look. Now I just needed to update my wardrobe to complete the look.
During the day I jhuzhed my hair and followed Megan's instructions to "use your fingers to jhuzh your hair during the day so the heat of your hands can reactivate the product and restore your style." By the time I walked in to my group therapy class at noon, my hair was flat to my head and looked like a staticky silk helmet in a style that made me look like a henchman. Mercifully, no one commented on my new look.

On Thursday, I tried again while Sam stood by to encourage, cajole, and then just plain annoy me with his helpful suggestions. "No Honey, that's not going to get you the right look. I don't think it helps to dry your hair with your head upside down." I fought back the words, "Oh really? Then let's see what you can do with it?" and continued on "giving body through postural elements." How could I have been so stupid to believe such a thing could happen? Postural elements? Either this girl was inarticulate or this was a term she had learnt in cosmetology school. There were no recognizable elements visible, postural or otherwise, as I stood back upright and surveyed the damage in the mirror. Bozo the clown was more like what I looked like now. Sam doubled up with laughter. "Honey, get back in the shower and start over." I was running late and didn't have time to do that so I hastened him on his way to work and tried to fight my hair into submission. The pomade, AKA "Hair Control Creme" was not working and I was about to forget myself. My hair shot out in all directions and my bangs wouldn't go to the side. They hung straight down limply--not even the '80s curl in them. I tucked my hair behind my ears and rushed out the door to class. Again, no comments about my new look. I tried to avoid mirrors and to act natural.
When I got home in the evening Sam took one look at me and asked, "Why did you get a style that is so hard to do?" My muttered comments about not wanting to look old and how easy it looked in the salon did not offer anything to the conversation and I quit the room. Perhaps I could go back to Megan and have her show me once again how to style this mess.

Friday morning found me sitting at Megan's station in Salon Strut. She had me dry my hair in front of her and then she "pieced it out" --put the Hair Control Creme in her hands, between her fingers, and she worked magic on my head. I just love how it looks when she does it. I left the salon feeling confident that I could recreate this look. What had I done wrong? I left out the teasing at the crown of my head, and I hadn't dried my hair right. I need to jhuzh everything except the bangs and then it would look how it should. My students commented enthusiastically about my hair and I called Mother triumphantly: "When you see me tonight, my hair will look the way it's supposed to." She couldn't wait.

I speak once a month at Mother's retirement center, so I was particularly happy to be able to walk into the meeting room with the new haircut. Mother's mouth fell open and her eyes widened as she came right over to where I was sitting. "What happened?" she asked in horror.
"What do you mean, what happened?" I retorted. "This is how it looks."Mother began laughing and wheezing. "Really?"
"It's not a style for the over 80 crowd, but it's an updated style that is supposed to look tousled and young."
Mother admitted that my hair looks darker and I do look younger this way. But when she returned to sit with her group, I could hear her whisper loudly to her friend, Evelyn, "It's supposed to look that way." There were giggles all around, even though after the meeting, several people said my new look was "very becoming."

Yesterday morning I washed my hair twice and had a meltdown before going out the door to church. The bangs aren't right and there was no amount of jhuzhing that could induce my hair to flip out at the sides as Megan could make it do. I pulled my bangs to the side and put more Hair Control Creme in my fingers to give it one last hurrah before I slunk out the door to the car. Suffice it to say, there were no comments about my hair in church. Sam and I sat near the back, and when Mother turned around to wave at us, she thought I was someone else sitting with Sam. I felt completely demoralized.
Sam and I went out for a hike in the high desert yesterday. There is a lovely spot called Whitewater Preserve where there is a beautiful mountain stream in the middle of nothingness. As we were wading in the ice cold stream, the wind came whistling down the canyon and caught us, nearly knocking us down. My hair flew in all directions and I could barely see where I was going. Sam shouted above the howling wind, "There! Now your hair is looking like the hairstyle."

Tomorrow I am going back to Megan for another styling lesson. Her comment, "If you can't style your hair, what good is my haircut?" is ringing in my ears. Other than getting a wind machine, I'm not sure what to do to get my hair to look right, but I'm not giving up.
Yet.

They're getting bigger!

This is the litter of puppies from which Baxter and Charlie hail. Baxter is at the very back, and Charlie is the brown merle right in front of him. It is difficult to get a clear idea of just how tiny these little guys are, so let me try to explain it this way. The mother is just 15 lbs, and there are five of these little guys. Each was about the size of a small ice cream sandwich. Not flat of course...but just saying.

We've been eagerly waiting to get our weekly pictures of our boys, and every time we receive one I print it off and put it up where we can see it. I know that when these babies get to us our lives will change dramatically. No more taking off on a whim or staying out all day or all night. We'll have to get home to take care of the dogs. We will be like the senior citizens we know who are always worried about feeding the cat or leeting out the dog. But I think this will be good for us, too. We've both wanted dogs for a very long time.



Here is Baxter after his first bath. What a little sweetie boy! You can see how little he is by the size of the woman's hand that is holding him wrapped in a hand towel. Only three more weeks before they come home to us. Can't wait!