Isn’t that just like a man!

I said to my Sweet Al, “I was complaining about your dog to Lin and Jerry, today.”

He pouted, “I hope you didn’t say anything bad about her. I love her. She’s awfully faithful. She comes into the bedroom and lays down at my feet.”

I know. That’s the problem. She’s a country dog, she rolls in the dirt, and then she runs into our bedroom and rolls around on my pink carpet. And I’m tired of it.

“What did they say when you complained about my dog?”

Jerry said, “I shouldn’t have pink carpet,” and Lin said, “Isn’t that just like a man.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way. Maybe there’s something to this. Whiskey’s a sweet dog, but the problem is, it’s my Sweet Al. He has ruined Whiskey. She doesn’t know how to behave.

I open the door to go outside. I tangle with her as she rushes in and I’m yelling, Out! Out! Out!  She speeds by me, and hides in the house. No matter how much I call, she won’t come to me. When I find her, she locks her feet on the floor and I have to pull this big dog outside.

I have a feeling when I’m not around she’s making herself at home. She helps herself to the food in the kitchen, to the trash, and is probably sleeping next to Al in our bed.

I’ve seen evidence of her on my beautiful antique chair. When I wasn’t home, Al took a picture of her and staged her on my cranberry parlor chair. He keeps this photo in his billfold and shows off his dog to everyone. He laughs and says to them in front of me, “My wife doesn’t know I had Whiskey on her best chair. Look how cute she is.”

I’m smiling on the outside, but on the inside, I’m thinking, He’ll think how cute she is. Those two are about to lose their happy home.

My friend came to visit me in her new black Lexus. Whiskey jumped up on her car and scratched it. I couldn’t apologize enough. It’s not Whiskey’s fault, she doesn’t know any better. When Al drives into the driveway, he stops the car, rolls down the window ands talks baby talk to her. She jumps up on the car and looks at him through the driver’s window.

I told him, you’ve got to train your dog, she’s out of hand. She jumps up on everyone’s car and she jumps on me.

He says, “She’s just happy to see you.”

I said, “She needs to find something else that makes her happy.”

Whiskey’s been to obedient school. She stayed an extra month for good measure. She came home and Al forgot the signals, so he just loved on her. She’s my biggest complaint. My friends tell me how to train her. It doesn’t do any good. Al breaks all the rules I set.

I’ve already served notice on Al. If anything happens to him, his dog is going. I’ve surveyed the likelihood of new homes for her. The neighbors love Whiskey and that’s the first place I’ll look. Our daughter loves her, too, and that will be Plan B.

My Sweet Al can’t believe I would talk about his dog this way. They are inseparable. Where Al is, so is Whiskey. Do I deny this poor man his best friend and his awfully faithful dog? Yes, In a New York minute!

Final Brushstroke: In the lyrics “In a New York Minute,” Don Henley pens, “You better take a fool’s advice and take care of your own. ‘Cause one day they’re here, next day they’re gone.” Maybe I should just let Al enjoy his dog, quit nagging him, and buy myself new pink carpet when Whiskey’s gone.

Driving Miss Crazy – Bananas don’t travel well!

After a horrible experience a few years ago, I vowed I would never drive the streets of Denver again and especially during rush hour. It’s happening again. I feel like I’m driving Miss Crazy and all these songs are going through my head, I’d rather be drunk on a plane and I’m about to ask Jesus to take the wheel.

It started the week before when My Sweet Al and I committed to a road trip with our daughter. She was having surgery in a Denver hospital. Her husband was with family in New York when the call came from the doctor. They had reserved the date at the hospital, and she needed to be there within the week. Someone must be with her and we were the only ones available.

Before she arrived to pick us up she told us to eat since she wouldn’t be eating anything before surgery. We grabbed a little lunch, but when we got settled in the car I had a sweet attack. I looked through my purse for a little candy, just something. I found a protein bar and ate it. The banana I brought was looking badly. Bananas don’t travel well.  I started to eat it anyway, and then I gave it to my Sweet Al.

My daughter said, “Are you going to chain-eat all the way?”

“Well, the banana was getting soft, so I thought I’d eat it. I just want something sweet.”

On the day of the surgery, my daughter handed me the car keys and said, “I need to teach you how to use the Garmin, how to get back and forth from the hotel to the hospital, and how to use my phone. You’ll have to text everyone after my surgery.”

“I don’t know how to text.”

“It’s easy.”

Right then, I was in another world of technology in a big city and the responsibility of taking care of our daughter. I had no idea where the hospital was located or what we would be facing in the days to come.

The doctors’ biggest concern after surgery is blood clots, and they do everything to prevent against them. They brag about not having a patient with a blood clot on their floor. The day we were to pick up Allison and take her home, the nurse said, she’s not going home, she’s got a blood clot on her lung. It went through her heart and lodged in her lung.  We’ve got her on blood thinning medicine. It’s good she’s still in the hospital. Her vital sign went from 90 to 40 in seconds. She’s on oxygen and won’t be leaving.

I said to the nurse, “We’ve checked out of the hotel, we thought she would be going home today, I guess we need to check back in.”

The next day, we went to the hospital, not knowing if they were going to release her. They were concerned she was going to Pagosa and away from them. Believe me, I was more concerned that they were going to release her into my care.

The nurse said, “She threw two more blood clots during the night. We’re not sure if the doctor will let her go home.”

Our daughter’s room became the hub of the hospital. It was the first stop for the party train. Everyone wanted to talk to her. She was getting more tired with each doctor and nurse probing at her. We were still waiting to hear if we were going home or staying another night. We were going into the Labor Day Weekend and the rooms were going fast.

At three o’clock that afternoon, they finally said, “She can go, but she must get out of the car and walk every hour.  Take two days to get home. Look for the big blue H road sign just in case. We are sending her back home but everything has to be done right.”

Al was anxious to get home. I was responsible to make sure everything was done right —cleaning her open wounds, giving her shots for blood thinning medicine, remembering pain pills, changing out oxygen tanks, having food in the car for a special diet and lots of instructions of what not to do.

We packed her into the car with an oxygen machine and three full bottles of oxygen. We started driving away from the hospital into dense traffic.

Our daughter said, “Mother you have three live bombs in the car, don’t have any accidents.”

“Don’t remind me.”

I looked down to see the dashboard light was on.  The back wasn’t shut. I said, “What if it comes open, everything will blow out.” I could see everything in the car laying along the Freeway.

“Don’t worry, Mother.”

“If it blows out, we can’t stop, the traffic is backed up for miles.”

We had to stop every hour. We devised our plan. Our first stop would be Cabellas.  It had been Al’s only request the whole week. He had gift cards he had held on to for three Christmas’ and he wanted to spend them.

Al was in the backseat reading People’s Magazine. He was counting the tattoos on Pink. “Did you know Pink has five tattoos? Are we at Cabellas yet? Get to the right so we don’t miss Cabellas. We’ve been on the road for two hours.”

“It’s too soon for Cabellas. We’ve only gone twenty miles.”

Allison is out of it. She’s in La La Land and Al’s afraid I’m going to sneak by and miss Cabellas. He’s reading to me about Pink.

My Sweet Al got lost in the inventory and wildlife mounts in Cabellas. I sat in the car waiting for Allison to walk thirty minutes and Al to shop. I finally went looking for them. I spotted the purple pajamas and oxygen hose amongst the camouflage.

She said, “Daddy has found a duck painting he wants.”

“You must be kidding, do you know how many paintings we have at the house? I’m an artist. Do you remember?”

“Daddy wanted you to paint a duck painting. That’s all he wants.”

“I couldn’t find the time.”

“He’s found a 3X4 foot duck painting he wants.”

“The car is full, now we’ll have a painting to deal with and I won’t be able to see through the back window.”

“Mother, it’s his Christmas money. Just humor him, tell him you like it. If you want to get out of Cabellas, just do it. Get my drift?”

“Yes, I get it.” I went to the painting. I turned to Al, “Honey, I love the painting, it’s beautiful. Buy it. If you want it, let’s get it.”

After spending all his gift cards, we were back on the road. Another song rattled through my head. We’re on the road again. Can’t wait to get home again. Our next stop would be Kohl’s in Pueblo, and then a hotel room. Finally we arrived at the only available hotel in Pueblo.

I looked around, I said, “Allison, just lie down on the bed, don’t touch anything. Keep your shoes on until you get in bed. We’ll get out of here early in the morning.”

I looked over at our daughter who was sleeping soundly with her oxygen cord on her chest. The night would never end. The next morning at dawn, she was already sitting in the car and Al was wiping down her oxygen hose with an alcohol pad.

Our next stop was Alamosa, another walk for our daughter and groceries for a special diet. The trip was getting more comical and more wearing with each mile.

The road became longer and longer as we got closer and closer to home and the backseat was getting fuller and fuller with stops and purchases.

Coming over Wolf Creek Pass, every time we made a curve, the weight of the purchases shifted and the back seat window went down and up.

The wind was whipping around. “We’re going to lose everything we bought. Pull the weight away from the window switch.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Oh Lord, take the wheel, I’m about to lose it.”

Final Brushstroke! Al hit the buffet line every morning and picked up bananas. By the time we got home the bananas had turned black and Allison had turned white. Bananas and sick people don’t travel well. The bananas went in the trash and Allison went to bed. I’ve got another song in my head, “Yes, we have no bananas today.”

It’s Greek to me and I’m hanging on by a dangling participle.

I just came from my Greek class where I had an outburst of showing myself, and lets just say, a moment of letting it all hang out. It’s all because of this dang Greek language and verb endings. I’m dangling over a cliff, and I’m hanging on by a pair of dangling participles. I’ve tied a knot and hanging on to a verb ending.

Today, in my exasperation, I brought God into my fits and starts. “Why doesn’t God just say what he means?” My friend said, “He does.” We’ve all come from different religious camps. We made a pact we would hang in there and remain friends no matter what. It’s a good thing we are committed to our friendship, because this Greek language could cause us all to jump over the cliff.

In early spring my two friends and myself decided to join this Greek class. We each had our reason for doing this hair brain idea. The reason for doing something like this has to be stronger than it hurts. Otherwise no one would still be in the class and sweating bullets over one more lesson. All the others who started the class with us have gone by the wayside.

My reason for learning Greek is cut and dry. I want to know what the Bible says it says from the original language. If I’m going to teach it, then I need to know what it really says.

Two months into the class, I learned just enough to be dangerous. In my high mindedness, I made the declaration that no one should stand in the pulpit and preach from the Bible unless they know Greek and understand exactly what the Bible says. After these dangling participles and all of this exasperation, I told my friend, “I take it all back, I don’t know if anyone can learn Greek and the pulpits would be preacher-less if a preacher had to learn Greek.”

It’s a funny sight to behold. We have a male teacher, who is very patient and tolerant with his three women students. He didn’t know what he was getting into.  We’ve cried, had outbursts and declared we were quitting. He’s remained calm.

This language we are learning is a dead language. That means it isn’t spoken today. I guess it’s a good thing it isn’t spoken, because I don’t think anyone can speak it.

My one friend is determined to learn and has run ahead of the other two. She has made 3X5 cards, now graduated to even bigger cards. She’s driving her husband up the wall with her determination. She takes them in her purse and pulls them out every chance she gets. She studies all the time. She said she couldn’t understand the ending to one of her words. She was beside herself. She called everyone to find an answer.

In class a few weeks ago, she went into a confused state of mind and said, “I don’t get it. I can’t understand. This wall is going up and I’m totally confused.”

The other friend said, “I pray before I start doing my homework.”

With tears in her eyes, she said, “I prayed over my prepositions, I’m not a heathen child.” She put on her dark glasses and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She sat quietly the rest of the class.

I was sitting there with the teacher watching these two ladies have a melt down. I kept my mouth shut for a change. They both apologized and all was well. But, it makes one wonder why we put ourselves out there and are determined to learn this colloquial language.

Al and I were invited to dinner to one of our friend’s house. The hostess said, “No talking Greek tonight or giving Bible studies.” I shut down. I didn’t have anything to say. The wind had been taken out of my sails. I had taken my bag with my Greek study book, my Greek Bible and all my discoveries on three scriptures, which I had translated and was dying to share.

Al said, “Leave that bag in the car.”

I said to my Sweet Al, “If anyone wants to know this wonderful truth I’ve discovered and ask me to share, I’ll run out to the car and get it.”

He said, “Just leave your Greek book in the car.”

I couldn’t let it go. I told everyone I had uncovered some exciting news as I was studying my Greek and I had my books in the car. No one jumped on it and encouraged me to tell them. They didn’t say a word. I said it again. No takers.

On the way home, I said to Al, “Nobody wanted to hear what I learned in Greek. I offered several times. I am offended.”

Al said, “No one cares what you know in Greek.”

“Why not? It’s important to me.”

We finished the six-month course, now we know just enough to know we don’t know anything. We want to take the class over. We’ve convinced the teacher we need another class. I know he’s probably wondering why he would once again put himself into this place with three emotionally charged women who cry and have outbursts over Greek.

The teacher said, “If I teach it again, then each one of you must bring one new person. You have to help teach the class.”

We didn’t know if we could do that. My friend said she didn’t have any friends who wanted to take Greek. Her friends thought she was crazy for taking it in the first place. She was told she was hanging around the wrong people.

I racked my brain thinking who I knew, and who would put themselves under such a commitment to do all the homework and to learn this language. I’m putting it out there. If anyone is interested, e-mail me. I’m desperate to find someone who is willing to learn Greek so I can continue. I’ve just begun and I’m more determined than ever to nail this language.

Final Brushstroke! Why do we do what we do? I’ve almost lost my religion, two friends and a teacher over this Greek language. I can’t promise a class without an outburst. Let me know if learning Greek is something you’ve got to do. I’d like to share the pain.

– It’s always an experience – Another Pickup Line!

My Sweet Al and I were having dinner with his brother, David, at a local restaurant. It’s always an experience when we’re with him. The conversation always comes around to women and the women always come around.

An expensive bottle of wine is brought to the table. There’s a friendly exchange with the waitress. His favorite waitress isn’t there, so he’s breaking in another one for the evening.  She’s working on a large tip and David assures her she’ll get one if she gives him good service.

The waitress asked me how I’d like to have my meat cooked. Before I could answer, David answered for me. “She want’s it medium rare.” Then he said, “I’m used to doing that.”

I said to David, “It’s all those Bimbos you date. You have to think for them. That’s why you answer for them.”

Then a super neat lady came up to the table and asked David if his rack of lamb was good. She introduced herself and David introduced himself.

He said, “It’s good. Here, take a bite.” If this isn’t a pickup line, I don’t know what is. The bite of lamb was fed to her across the table on his fork. She took the morsel of meat without her lips touching his fork. They exchanged ooh’s and ah’s on how delicious the lamb was.

Al and I nodded our heads to each other as we watched an instant relationship happen between David, the Master Pickup Artist, and this younger lady, who just wanted to know what was good on the menu. Apparently, there was more going on than what was on the menu. Eventually he brought us into the conversation.

David introduced us to her. She bent down, grabbed my hand and held on. She said, “I’m so happy. I’ve always wanted to meet you. I read your column every week.” That line always wins me over. Then she said, “You’re the only woman in Pagosa I can relate to.”

What a line. I’m busting my buttons. Wow! Someone who reads my column and feels that way, I’ll follow her anywhere. I gave her my card and made plans to have lunch with her.

David brought her back into his conversation. He wanted her to know he just climbed 160 feet into the air for an inspection job on a water tank. He explained his business to her, and how the younger inspectors won’t climb that high, but he does.

Wow, I’m impressed. I guess she was, too. The lady responds to David. Mind you, she is still holding my hand while she is talking to David.  She says, “I was with some eighty-year-old men the other night, they were young and spry, but they can’t hold a candle to you.”

I could visualize in my mind his arms flexing under his shirt as he pulls in his stomach. With that line, David was all into the conversation. The lady went back to her table and ordered the rack of lamb. Before I knew it, He went to his car, got his business card and took it to her table. He invited her and her friend to his restaurant in Albuquerque where he’s financially invested.

Now, she has my business card and David’s. She impressed both of us.

Back at our table, I told David I wouldn’t let My Sweet Al on the ladder, but I needed the cobwebs and windows washed in our home. If he could climb that high, he could help us with our twenty-four foot ceilings. He just laughed and said he had never heard that pickup line before and he had heard a lot.

That was that! I knew I would be climbing the ladder and washing my own windows.

The dinner conversation went from the rack of lamb on his plate to the lamb with the rack on her plate. Then he brought up his first wife. They were in their teens when they married, you can add up the years.  He said he saw his first wife again after sixty years. “She’s old. She wanted to talk to me. Did you see her?”

I said, “Yes, I did see her. She shuffled into the room. She’s your age, David.”

He said, “It’s a good thing she’s not my wife now. What would I do with her?”

I said, “Zip, zero, nothing.”

He laughed and said, “You’re absolutely right.”

It was a beautiful evening sitting out on the restaurant’s patio and having dinner with Al and his brother. After dinner, Al helped me down the steps of the restaurant.  I held onto the railing, carefully taking one step at a time.

David said, “You’d never be able to climb that 160 foot water tank.”

I said, “Well, I could sure use someone climbing 24 feet up and washing my windows and pulling down those cobwebs.”

He ignored me. I knew that would never happen. In the car I told my Sweet Al, “I figured it out. Pickup lines only work when you have something someone else wants. Did you see how that whole action came down tonight?”

Al said, “It happens all the time when I’m with my brother.”

We walked into the house. I said to Al  “I taped a Hallmark movie while we were gone. Do you want to stay up and watch it?” That line gets Al every time.

My Sweet Al said, “I’m in. That’s the best pickup line I’ve heard the whole night.”

Final Brushstroke! I guess pickup lines work when you’re determined to get what you need and what they want. If I’m going to have clean windows, I’m not getting any help from David. He’s got other things on his mind.

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