What does he see in her?

This time change is killing me. I used to wake up at 4am, but now I’m looking at the clock at 3. I woke up with Jake on my mind. No, Al’s still the one, but it might not be for long, if he doesn’t start training his dog. His dog, Whiskey is getting by with murder.

We had dinner with Jake’s owners, Sam and Judy. Remember Jake, the dog who wears pajamas to bed. He’s the one who can’t go out without wearing his little booties and a coat over his sweater.

Can you imagine taking the time to dress a dog so he can go out and do his business? I can’t comprehend this love for a dog.

His owner said last night he could have bought a new car for the money he’s spent on Jake’s doctor bills. They have probably spent $1,000 on his teeth and thousands of dollars on other body parts. He’s got problems with his stomach and he is on a special diet. Then, there is his liver, blood tests, and it goes on and on.

I asked Sam how many pills Jake takes every day? He said, Jake is taking only three capsules a day now, but they are very expensive.

“Only three?” I said, “Jake is a ‘Doctor Bill.’ Jake and I would split the sheets. I advised them that they should get insurance on that dog since he spends so much time at the doctor’s office.”

Sam said, “Jake can’t get insurance, he has too many pre-existent illnesses. But, he could qualify under the Obana Care.”

“Oh great. There goes our insurance rate! Something else for My Sweet Al to worry about.”

 Now, I find out that Jake is also having trouble with the time change. Him, too? What’s his problem?

Sam said, “Well, Jake used to go to bed at 9pm, but with the time change, he has to go to bed at 8. He won’t go until we do. He sits and looks at us until we all go to bed together.”

“So does that mean you and Judy have to go to bed at 8 because of Jake?”

“Well, yes.” Sam hemmed and hawed around. “But he doesn’t wake up until we wake up. Even when we sleep to seven, he won’t move. Then I get up and give him a pill, I put on his booties and coat over his pajamas and take him outside.”

“That dog is running your life.”

“But we love him.”

I said, “I’d get rid of him.” Then I remembered Whiskey. Just this morning, I thought we had her trained from jumping and eating everything on the cabinet. She grabbed the loaf of bread and ate it. Whiskey is a “Grocery Bill.” She helps herself to the snack cart and everything else in her reach.

She still jumps up on me. I yell all the way out the door to the car, “Down, down, down. Get down.” When I come home, I look around to see where Whiskey is, I open the car door, get out before she jumps in my car, then I yell all the way back into the house, “Down, down, down, get down.”

I told Al he’s got to train Whiskey or get rid of her. He went into shock. Al says he loves her. And he confesses that he’s a little lenient on her, but the reason she jumps up on me is because she is excited to see me when I come home. I’m not buying it.

What about these dogs? Jake wants to go to bed at 8 so his master obeys. Al loves Whiskey and is determined he can’t live without her. Now, I’m waking up at three thinking of Jake. I jumped out of bed and had to write an article about him. I’m losing sleep over these dogs.

Whiskey is an ugly dog by all standards. She has beady eyes, a crop of wiry hair between her eyes going down her nose. Al says she is beautiful and is loyal to him. She wants to be wherever he is, and he can’t live without her.

Pagosa is a dog town. I see you driving around with your dogs in the front seat. They used to ride in the back of the truck. I’m perplexed with all of this dog love. I guess, when someone falls in love, they can’t help it.

Remember the days in high school when a good-looking guy was going with some ugly girl? She was latched on to his arm at the football games. Of course, we were jealous because she got the cute one. Remember what we’d say? “She’s a dog, what does he see in her.” I think I just answered my own question.

Final Brushstroke! Dogs are loyal and some of us are fickle. I’m sleeping with my Sweet Al and thinking about Jake.

What’s with the Underwear?

Al came home without his underwear. He can’t find them, and he has worried me to death. He’s looked in the car, and he’s called our daughter and worried her sick. He’s had her looking for them in her car, house and yard.

He called the store to see if he left them there and wondered if they would give him another package of underwear. They said no.

He’s asked me to backtrack everything he brought home from the store.

I put all the groceries up, but I didn’t see his underwear. I told him,  “I didn’t lose your underwear, Al. Let it go, buy another package of underwear and forget it. It’s only $7.00.”

“It’s not the $7.00, but it’s the principle. I bought them, now they’re gone.”

What’s with the underwear? This week Al’s brother David called. I was telling him that my book The Spirit of the Red Candle: Journal of Mary Magdalene has been made into a movie script, and it was in Hollywood being shown to a producer as we were speaking.

David’s advice to me was, “When it turns out for you and your book is made into a movie, keep your panties on.”

I laughed at him. He’s got one thing on his mind. I said I’m seventy years old. Maybe when I was thirty you might have needed to worry. I don’t think that’s a problem.

In the same phone call, David said he needed to get away. He had been working really hard, so he was going to Mexico for a few days. I told him, “Keep your panties on.” He’s getting close to eighty years old. He is forgetting things. He probably wouldn’t mind losing his underwear, but what’s he going to come with? Now, that’s something to worry about.

I was baking for the holidays and I found Al’s underwear. It’s the same size and color as a two-pound bag of powder sugar. I had the thought, I should just wrap the underwear and put them under the tree, he’d be thrilled. But I decided to tell him I found his package of underwear in the baking drawer. I should have never told him.

Meanwhile, the holidays are here, Al wanted to play Chicken Foot with our youngest daughter. If you remember, I’m in the mode of scaling down and moving things. He couldn’t find the Chicken Foot Game. He has driven me crazy. “Where is it? You’ve moved it. You lose everything, and I just wanted to play Chicken Foot with our daughter. It’s just like you, you lost my underwear.”

I said, “Just play Scrabble with her and forget it.” Then I laughed.

He said, “You know I don’t play Scrabble. I’m not a good speller.”

I said, “Put on your big girl panties and play it anyway.”

He reminded me again,  “You were the one who lost my underwear and now you’ve lost my Chicken Foot Game.”

I told our daughter, “I won’t hear the last of that one, I should have just tied a bow around his underwear, put them under the tree and let Al think I bought them. He would have been full of gratitude.”

I said to My Sweet Al, “Take all your old underwear out of the drawer and throw them away.” You would’ve thought I asked him to hang the moon.

He said, “Throw them away? No, I’m using them for grease rags.” That’s another story for another time.

Final brushstroke: Meanwhile Al’s brother is in Mexico during the holidays and he will probably lose his panties there, too. Oh me, we’ve all got our issues.  Better that I put Al’s underwear in the cabinet and not hear the end of it, than David leaving his in Mexico.

Confessions of a Garage Sale Goer!

Is there a Garage Sale Go-ers Anonymous group in town? If there is, My Sweet Al and I need to attend.  If there isn’t one, there should be, this whole town is full of Garage Sale Junkies. I would tell the whole world I’m not one of them, but I think it is time to come out of the closet and confess I also have a problem.

I don’t want to have garage sales, don’t want to go to them, and I don’t want any more junk. But somehow I‘m always sorting through junk, which we have accumulated in weak moments. This stuff comes to the door. People know we can’t say no, so they bring their treasures to us.

I’m finding when we have garage sales, the serious garage sale people come before we open, even though we specify, 8am, no early birds. They come at 7:00 and stand there with things in their hands waiting for us to tell them what it’s worth.

Instead of saying, I’m not open yet, I’ll say, “Oh, just give me a couple of dollars.” That’s how a lady got a good pair of antique snow skis. Al is still mad at me for selling those for two dollars.

Then there was the antique toboggan that Al had in the family for years. It was probably worth some money. Another lady came early, caught me off guard and I sold it to her for a few dollars. I think they know what they’re doing, and I don’t.

When I told my friend, she says that’s what serious garage sale people do. My friend knows, because she has a friend who does that and she actually makes a living by being the first one there to get the good deals. She takes these treasures and puts them on E-Bay.

Another friend, when she is having a garage sale, she makes it a party. Her husband fires up the barbeque grill and serves hot dogs. I can’t imagine cooking for people in the midst of all that junk. She does and she always makes $500.00 or more and she doesn’t have that much to sell.  She uses it as a time to get to know the neighbors, and she’s making money and new friends.

So when do you hold or fold? I don’t have garage sale smarts. Garage-sale-smart people live at garage sales. They hang around garage sale people.  They know the lingo, they know a good price, and they know how to do it.

I think I need to join the GSG’s Anonymous. “Hi, I’m Betty.” I’m married to a Garage Sale Junkie. He won’t stop collecting junk. He promises me he will stop but he won’t do it. He sneaks it in and hides it under the couch pillow or on the top shelf of the closet. It’s tearing us apart.

I confess I have my own junk addiction, as well. Our addictions feed off of each other. He brings home a blue bottle, and I can see it on our mantel with flowers. I can’t say no to him or the bottle. He brings home a table. I see one of my paintings on it. The light goes off in me. I grab it up. I say, “It’s mine.” It’s that hallelujah moment when the heavens break open and the light shines around it. We are both junkies.

The new me — I will say no to all garage sales, shopping at them or having them. But when the junk mounts up, I give in. Al gets energized with garage sale day. I want to crawl into a hole.

Back to my recent episode with our garage sale, which prompted this article in the first place. I have to confess. I put an ad in the Classified Ads, planned, worked like a dog, got it ready and then came the rain. I went to the football game the night before the garage sale, and heard there would be 60% chance of rain for Saturday.

I had reserved the church in case of rain. I didn’t want all that mud tracked into the church. I couldn’t decide the best thing to do, follow through or shut it down. Apparently, there is protocol in calling off a garage sale. I didn’t do it right.

On Friday night, my friend came up to me and said she had invited 9 friends, and she had things to donate to the church, thinking it was a church event. I told her I called it off.

I was reprimanded. “You called it off. I drove by the church.  I didn’t see a sign that said “Garage Sale Cancelled.”  You should’ve put up a sign.”

“I thought when people saw the rain they would know it wasn’t going to happen.”

“You need to call Tradeo and have them announce it.”

I didn’t think it was necessary. I went home that night and started to pray for more rain. As if we hadn’t had enough rain all ready, I had to prove that I was justified that I had a good reason for calling off the garage sale.

I don’t quit when I commit to something. Surely the whole world knows that and wouldn’t see me flippant toward serious garage sale shoppers. I woke up the next morning. Gray skies!  I ran to the computer Giddy and e-mailed Tradeo. I e-mailed all our church members since I announced it the week before. I told Al he had to go to town and put a sign that said, “Garage Sale Cancelled due to Rain.” Because I was told to do it so no one would be disappointed.

He said, “Betty, they will know it’s cancelled. People know it’s going to rain.” By 6:30am it poured down, I was relieved. For you serious garage sale people, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you in the rain. I had heard a few people came by. They must know about all the good treasures we want to set free.

I have boxed all our garage sale stuff up which takes up the whole barn. Some of our vehicles are going to be out in the rain and snow so that I might make $100 in the Spring. I’m going to do it come rain or shine. Again, if you see my sweet Al wandering by your yard sale, tell him he already has 3 of those at home. Pretty Please.

Final Brushstroke! Deliver me. My Sweet Al and I live among junk. Let me know when the next meeting is for the GSG’s Anonymous, we’ll be there.

Turn your head when you smile!

“Welcome every morning with a smile. Look on the new day as another special gift from your Creator, another golden opportunity.” Og Mandino

My colleague finishes his column with a delicious, tasty recipe for a good meal and adds quite a bit of flavor to his witty manner. Maybe I can draw a picture in your mind of a tasty, spicy, Mexican dish. This will surely add a little flavor to this article. Your mouth will sizzle and you’ll want to shout Caliente, caliente… que te quemas!! Ola!

Do you remember a couple of years ago, when Al and I were invited to an elaborate banquet in California? We were our daughter’s guests, and we needed to be on our best behavior. Fat chance that would ever happen!

The night before, we were at the dinning room table and Al ate his tooth. Yes, ate his tooth. Al said, “I must have eaten my tooth, it’s gone.”

The artist in me said, “Give me your plate. Let me look at it. Not your plate, but your partial plate,” After the family had a good laugh, we discussed various ways we could make that black hole go away.  I engaged in one of my talents, I made a tooth for him. I took Pearl White fingernail polish and painted a tooth on his plate.

He went to the banquet with a painted tooth. I told him, “Don’t smile. If you have to smile, turn your head, no one will be the wiser.”

He made it through the banquet. When he got back to Albuquerque, he went to the dentist and had a tooth put into the empty spot. All was well until it fell out again.

Al’s brother, David, told him he needed to get his tooth fixed.

Al said, “It’s on the list to do, but new tires for the car are first before winter.”

Meanwhile, Al’s brother has been wining and dining his lovelies in Mexico. He has met the rich and famous there.  One of them is a reputable dentist, who has a chain of dentist offices in Columbus, Mexico.

David called Al, “Get down to Albuquerque, I’m taking you to Mexico to get a new set of teeth.”

I had my doubts. I would rather have him fall into my hands as an artist, than a dentist in Mexico. I had at least painted the tooth white. No telling what they might do to my Sweet Al. He might come back with a grill on his teeth, like ‘lil John. He might come back with Elvis on black velvet, or little red and orange paper flowers painted on his partial plate. They can be very creative in Mexico. You just never know how colorful they might get.

I could see it now! My Sweet Al will come home singing La Cucharacha. On a side note, did you know, the song is about a cockroach that had lost one of its six legs and is struggling to walk with the remaining five. A “Cockroach” has got to add a morsel of flavor to this delicious picture.

Back to my story!  When he got back to the states, he called. I asked him what his teeth looked like. He said, “Oh they’re pretty and really white.”

I got the picture! A flashing set of white teeth that sparkle. With a little tanning he’ll be dancing on Dancing with the Stars. He can hold a rose between those pearly whites and dance the Mexican Hat Dance with Cheryl Burke.

Or better than that, he will be eating what he loves, hot, hot chili. His new teeth will be spiting fire as he chomps down on his favorite meal, which is any kind of Mexican food that is en caliente.

After this article, I hope he doesn’t leave me for a senorita who will make him homemade flour tortillas, enchiladas and love his pearly whites.

Final Brushstroke! Al’s trying a new Mexican plate. I had to warn him, if you smile, turn your head, your teeth will surely blind them.

A Speech that almost happened!

"Most great people have achieved their greatest success just one step beyond their greatest failure." ~Napoleon Hill

Timing is everything.

My speech was a great one. It was tweaked, streamlined, power-pointed, and ready. I showed up, but it didn’t happen.

We were invited to our pastor’s house for lunch. I was telling the four at the table that this speech I prepared for a writer’s conference was burning inside of me to be told.  I said, “I’m fertile to tell my little speech.”

My Sweet Al’s eyebrows went up, his eyes started blinking and twinkling.

The pastor’s wife said, “WOW! We have a extra bedroom in the back.”

I said, “I’ll take a rain check. I’d rather give my speech. I’ll make it quick.”

The pastor asked, “What’s it about?”

“I’m glad you asked. It’s about the Rhythm of Time for a Writer. It’s that moment when you’re prepared, you’re in alignment with the universe, the market is ready, your words flow onto the sheet of paper, and someone gets excited about it.

It’s not about your age — you might be a late bloomer.

It’s not about your education —you might have barely graduated from high school because you were too busy looking at the boys.

It’s not about how ready you are — you might have lived your whole life thinking you were ready.

It’s not about the sale of your book — only your friends and family have bought it. It’s not about money — you might be living on a limited income.

It’s not where you live — you might be living on the Lower Blanco at your computer.

It’s all in the timing.

For a mystery writer, it’s when to hold back that final clue to solve the mystery. For a humorous writer it’s about rhythm in your humor and voice. I don’t know if it’s a learned instinct or you’re just born with it. It’s all about timing.

I have said many times and many ways, “I think it’s my time.” and nothing happened. “It feels right,” and I’m still on the launching pad. “It’s right around the corner,” and it wasn’t there. “I feel like I’m in a Sweet Spot,” and the ball goes out of the court.

One thing I’ve never said is, “It’s not my time.”

Here’s my little speech that didn’t happen. “The Rhythm of Time for Writers.” Rhythm of Time will bring your Place, Vocation and your Goal. There is an appointed time for you. You need to be ready!

Jeremiah 9:7 says even the birds have a vocation and know their time, but my people don’t. Wow! Even nature chastises us, because we’re not in tune with the One who made us, and what we are called to do.

Migratory birds each have a different vocation. The stork, returns to Palestine, and has been described as the “stork in the heavens.” It refers to the immense height at which they fly during migration.

The turtle-dove returns and is the sure sign of spring. It represents new life.

The crane and swallow is all about whooping and trumpeting that rings through the night air in spring.

The swift has a shrilling scream. There is no bird as more conspicuous by the suddenness of its return than the swift.

Birds are free to roam through illimitable regions of air, the high-flying stork, the turtle-dove, the swift and the crane all keep to their true course, not dropping down tempted by the attractions of leafy vales or fruitful gardens. They don’t turn aside terrified by the horrors of high mountains, lonely deserts, stormy seas, or my Sweet Al’s shotgun. They reach their destination in punctual obedience to the mysterious law of their nature. They migrate by their inward law, called instinct.

For man, it comes as a mandate of duty, an impulse in the conscience, a way to clearly perceive what we should be doing on this earth, our place, our vocation, and our voice.

So, that Sunday afternoon after the meal, I said to the wife of our pastor, you and I are like cranes and swallows. I’m not going to apologize anymore about who I am. I get too excited, I get pushy, passionate, over-the-top, and even loud at times. I’ve got to write it, talk about it, and paint it. It’s who I am. I think it’s my time.

Final Brushstroke! So there, I told it! I finally gave my speech. Was it the right time? Who knows? Someone out there might be waiting for things to turn around, for their ship to come in, or their book to be published. When it’s your time, be ready, be confident, and keep showing up. When you show up, things happen. It’s all in the timing.