I had writers block today.
So, in honor of, “Writer’s Block Day,” here are some humorous and entertaining graphics:
I had writers block today.
So, in honor of, “Writer’s Block Day,” here are some humorous and entertaining graphics:
Yesterday I took a shower around two in the afternoon.
No, I’m not lazy — quite the opposite. That was the exact moment where I had a free moment to crate our new puppy, Gunther, and rinse off all the dog hair and drool from my body.
He threw up on me Friday on our way home from the breeder, but it was a long ride; bouncing him up and down with my knee probably didn’t help either.
Meet our new baby boy, Gunther.
He’s adorable, isn’t he? I know — he’s topped the “Adorable Meter” as far as puppy cuteness goes. At only eight weeks of age, he has been living with us for four full days now.
This takes me back to being a new mom with a newborn. They require your undivided attention unless you want them to get into things like a rough neighborhood gang, adding electrical cords to their diet, considering them as “fiber,” and thinking your toes are mere appetizers for the main meal that lie ahead.
Within four days he has managed to climb up and down the stairwell from our main level of the house into the basement.
He knows his name.
He climbs up the main level steps onto the third level of our home — he refuses to climb down.
I don’t blame him. I’ve fallen a few times. Slippery wooden steps are not for soft-padded puppies.
His brother and sister didn’t know what to make of him for the first two days. Crusher thought he was just a distant relative staying for the night. He then started complaining about the ruckus Gunther was making during his first overnight “visit”; arguing with his father and me about leaving home to find better living arrangements, packing his suitcase with canned dog food and his favorite chew toy. He decided to stay only because he claimed it was, “Really cold outside.”
Lucy couldn’t understand Gunther’s incessant crying during his first overnight stay either. She insisted on getting my attention to shut him up by sitting on my head and licking my eyelids, eyebrows and forehead until I surrendered.
Dave didn’t sleep. The soft whimpering turned into ear-splitting hell within five minutes; Gunther continually barked. All. Night. Long.
I slept through the whole ordeal with the exception of Lucy sitting on my head and giving me a face bath. Being deaf has its advantages, and in this particular situation I was super glad I had pure silence to deal with as opposed to the other three people in the house.
Let’s just say the next night, he wasn’t sleeping in his crate up in our bedroom anymore. He now sleeps in our bed. The nights since then have been pure bliss with the exception of Gunther only falling off of the bed once…maybe twice.
Yes. Everyone seems to be adjusting. Crusher is now under the impression that he is the Alpha dog of the house, and he is dead on. He has also decided to tutor Gunther and quickly let him know who the boss is. As Sarge would do when he was alive, Crusher gently takes Gunther’s neck into his jaws to give it slight squeeze. “Hey,” he motions, “You don’t bite my paws, understand?”
And, so he sleeps — for now. He loves the snow and is fascinated with Crusher; following him wherever he goes.
He likes to stand either right behind me or walk right in front of me so I can trip and fall dying from a massive brain hemorrhage.
When I don’t see him after three minutes, I think he must be chewing on computer cords somewhere. I envision the electricity flickering on and off while hearing a “Psffffft” sound from an electrical short. I then think of the cat from “Christmas Vacation.”
GUNTHER! Where are youuuuuu????
I found him–gnawing on Dave’s slipper. I guess he’s hungry.
I crow-barred myself apart from Facebook since the beginning of January.
I did this primarily because it was a distraction in trying to get another goal accomplished which I have set for myself before my 50th birthday. That goal, which is in progress, should be completed by that time with a bit of luck and hard work. More to follow on that.
However, when I extricated myself from my Facebook news feed, I didn’t think it would be that difficult. I was wrong.
I missed hanging out online with my Facebook friends to find out what’s going on with their lives. I found out through an email that one of my uncles had a pace-maker put in. I found out through another email my cousin had to have a stint put in one of her arteries. I have no idea what else I’ve missed, but after being off of Facebook for two months now (I will have a reunion with my news feed at the end of March), it’s not as bothersome, like a bad rash, as it was when I initially started.
It’s kind of like smoking. You try to kick the habit of checking online periodically. Some people succeed, others fail. I did have to go onto Facebook for two occasions. One was to show the shadowbox of my dog, Sarge, who passed away on January 2nd. The other was to let my former co-workers know of the passing of a good friend and fellow co-worker.
As you can see, both of my reasons were not very happy ones, but were required to break my sabbatical for those two brief moments. Otherwise, I have remained strong willed to stay true to a promise I have made for myself.
What I did discover was how much more time I had on my hands without any type of Facebook interference. While mourning the loss of my dog, I watched the movie, “Gravity.” In all seriousness, I should have known better. Having a vertigo problem with vestibular dysfunction made the movie hard to watch at times. Sandra Bullock’s spinning on my TV screen made me cover my eyes more than once. The same can be said for that fast image swap commercial of the Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas. I just can’t look at it without going into a head spin.
I bought my son a new/used car. This was an interesting experience. His old car was junked. It needed repairs that were far too expensive than what the car was worth. We handed the title over to the mechanic who used it for parts and in partial payment for checking out the car to try to repair it. As my son was barraging his father (my ex-husband, Mike), and me at least two dozen links of cars (including a Lamborghini) during the month of January, I was ready to hoist his ass into outer space to spend some quiet time with George Clooney. He finally reduced the car choices down to two, based on his parent’s criteria. My ex-husband, who I haven’t seen in a few years, came in from Ohio to go car shopping with me. My kid ended up with a great used car with only 26,000 miles on it — it’s nicer than mine.
I played with my dogs more and they now demand kisses and treats every hour — on the hour, or they start tapping their paws like a businessman taps his watch. I think they’re a little spoiled.
We decided to replace Sarge’s huge void with another puppy. Our household was always built for three dogs. We love German Shepherds and will get another one. I hear the newest litter of puppies are big, roly-poly coats with huge heads. And, even though I have trouble hearing, I insist on training him as far as God’s willing to allow me to take him. He came from a good set of parents, so I have every expectation that he will be a great dog. I’d really like to try agility training. Not me — the dog. We’ll see them for the first time tomorrow; bringing the other two dogs with us to get their approval. It’s normally chaos, but it’s fun. Wouldn’t you want to sit on the floor while seven big balls of fur were crawling all over you? I would, and have! It’s a big dose of happiness and laughter. I did learn something about picking out a puppy: The puppy picks you, not the other way around. Trust me, I’ve done this A LOT. We are open for dog names, so let me know if you have any good ones for a male German Shepherd. Our ideas so far are Otto or Gunther. Anyone? Buehler?
I have also become an expert at picking up frozen dog poop. Every. Single. Day. How does one pick up frozen dog poop? You kick it with your industrial strength snow boot to loosen it from the snow and then use plastic bags. Innovation at its finest.
I filed my taxes. I’m getting enough money back to buy a tank of gas. I’m not sure if I should cry or be grateful.
I bought a paper towel dispenser. I know, the riveting suspense is killing you, isn’t it?
I celebrated my wedding anniversary while my husband was in bed with the flu. While he was coughing up a lung, I was downing an Old Fashioned. Happy Anniversary, Honey!
I spent Valentine’s Day at the hospital while my husband was getting a colonoscopy. No shit. I think my husband is avoiding momentous occasions by scheduling flu-like symptoms and hospital visits.
I cooked more. I’m not so certain if my husband appreciated all the new Pinterest recipes I’ve been trying on him, but at least I’m actually cooking from my Pinterest recipe board!
I lost twenty pounds. Weight training makes a huge difference. Carrying my dogs up and down the stairs isn’t so fun for them, but it’s a hell of a workout for me. Now, if I can just convince my one dog, Crusher, to wear a 35 lb. weight around his neck…
I cleaned my floor of dog hair about 354 times — and counting.
I decided that I wanted to take the Siberian Express as a vacation after seeing a segment on the Olympics, only to find out it was SUPER expensive. Dream-slayer strikes again.
I shoveled the driveway 15 times — OK — Dave has snow-plowed the driveway fifteen times. I’m not allowed to use the snow-blower because I’ll lose a limb, and then how would I be able to cook those delicious meals I’ve pinned onto my Pinterest recipe board?
I fell flat on my ass from hidden ice under snow on our driveway. I hit my head on the asphalt but it didn’t crack open. My husband was disappointed there was no blood shed. I was disappointed the ice didn’t crack to make it easier to get off the damn driveway. I mean, I have a pretty hard head.
My husband bought a soft top Jeep. C’mon summer! It’s an old school Jeep — 2006. She’s a champ and she’s perfect. Now when we drive around with the top and doors off, Dave can nonchalantly push me out of the car when he makes a sharp turn. Note to self: Wear a seat belt at all times.
Yesterday was the official last day of the Olympics.
Did I hear cheering in the background?
It started out pleasant enough. Aside from the failing fifth snowflake morphing into an Olympic ring, I thought the opening ceremonies were nicely done. I wasn’t too thrilled with the floating balloons in the shape of the Russian Orthodox Church — it didn’t seem, at least to me, a proper homage to one of Russia’s most famous landmarks. On the other hand, giant balloons in the shape of vodka bottles is more up my alley. Lest we not forget one of the three Sochi mascots — A Polar Bear. He got his head stuck in a car. There’s a joke there somewhere…
“Bear with me while I try to get my head out of this car.”
“It was a grizzly scene — I hope he was able to claw his way out.”
I think I’ve seen enough skiing (Alpine, Cross-Country, Freestyle, Nordic Combined, Ski Jumping), to last another four years until the next Olympics. I was fascinated by the Curling event. It was one event that provided full concentration; people weren’t out of breath when they completed their turn. The outfits were stunning as usual — thank you, Norway.
And, I won’t disappoint you. There were a couple of observations that I just didn’t understand. Why do the guys in the Bobsled event clap, hit, pat, and punch each other as well as the sled they climb into before they push off into that tiny, ice-filled tunnel from hell? If I were at the starting line at the Olympics as a Bobsledder, my team mate wouldn’t have to get my attention in this sort of fashion — I mean, it’s the Olympics, for Christ sake. I’m certainly not going to be standing there looking up into the sky pondering, “Why am I here?” or filing my nails. You have my undivided attention, dude. Really. I’m ready for this — four years in the making.
I was also curious if an ice skate blade would hurt if it were piercing one’s thigh. As I was watching the Ice Dancing event, some of the women would place one of their ice skates on top of their male partner’s thigh. Don’t ice skate blades need to be really sharp? I worry about the guy gushing blood from his thigh halfway through the performance. I wondered if they would receive extra points for pain and suffering. Speaking of ice skating, who designs the outfits? Most of them were absolutely beautiful. I, for one, wouldn’t be caught dead in one of them because 1) I am not an ice skater, and 2) I would be worried about getting my panties in a bunch during a triple toe loop or a quadruple salchow — neither of which I can perform because, again, I am not an ice skater.
The ice skaters were all beautiful, but I had a problem with Meryl Davis and her eyes. They seemed like they are on the sides of her head. If she had one of those floating eyes, it would require literal jumps from left to right on someone’s part to determine if she were really looking at you.
I was so upset about the US women’s hockey team losing to Canada that I had tears in my eyes watching them get tears in their eyes after their overtime loss. They were ahead by two goals with three minutes left in regulation. It appeared surreal at first, but when they went into overtime, Canada had the momentum behind them to win it, and they did. I was hoping the men’s U.S. hockey team would avenge by winning a gold medal, but they got knocked out of competition the very next day. However, they did oust Russia with a heart-stopping win that took a five minute overtime period and eight rounds of a shootout to settle. Can you say, “I saw Oshie in Sochi” three times fast?
Oh, Canada…… I have nothing against Canadians. I love Canada. They helped us with the Iranian hostage crisis and have always been one of the United States closest allies. I was just super pissed at them for a split second after the women’s hockey team lost. I’m back loving you again and congratulations. I’m also happy that the Canadian men’s hockey team won a gold medal only because four of my beloved Chicago Blackhawk players were on the team.
The one event I don’t get is the biathlon. These people ski with guns on their backs. I don’t look at this as a safe event — at least for me. I don’t know how to ski. Falling on my back would be the first place I’d land. This would more than likely set off the gun and shooting me in the back. Just give me a beach on Maui’s north shore with a good book and a cocktail. Is there a sporting event for that? There should be!
A bright spot that I really thought was wonderful to see was people adopting animals from a pet shelter in Sochi. I hope all those animals end up in loving arms of thoughtful owners throughout the world.
The other events I would have liked to see at the Olympics but were not on the schedule were:
Ice Slipping – This would require regular shoes, and some sort of cushion on your rear end to protect your tailbone. Whoever falls and contributes the largest crack in the ice, or provides a great visual showing pain (i.e. pool of blood, facial expressions, sound of bones cracking), should be awarded a medal. Extra points if you have rambunctious dogs with you that can’t differentiate between the words, “walk” and “go get it!”
Snowball Throwing – I’m shocked this was not on the event schedule. It’s a no-brainer — all you would have to do is throw a snowball as far as you can. It would be the equivalent of ski jumping.
Snow Shoveling – I could totally win at this event. Snow-blowers will get you disqualified and would be the equivalent of doping. Everyone gets their own driveway; they are all the same length. Whoever finishes shoveling their driveway first wins a medal. This requires skill though — no sloppy shoveling, and you must also clear the very bottom of the driveway where a snow plow can come through at any given time during the event to pile an extra three feet of the white stuff toward the end of your shovel-run. The upside? Cool uniforms.
Snow Driving – An obstacle course for vehicles. The athlete must maneuver through bright orange cones on a slippery white slope of hardened snow while not running over or hitting obstacles along the way. These could be people, buildings, baby carriages, hot dog stands, or a fire hydrant. Someone from Chicago could very well take the gold in this event.
And now, I return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
My husband, Dave, and me like to play a certain game which often finds me on the losing end.
Today my losing streak has ended. He isn’t here to keep feeding me a line on our imaginary conversation because he isn’t looking over my fin as I type this. He’s actually directly behind me watching me on porpoise.
Yes. It’s the famous Play On Words game. I try to show a steady stream of emotions so he can try to take the bait, but he never bites. I always get left in his wake to float and sputter out words which were already used. This is the only rule in the game — you can NOT use the same word twice. Did you catch that?
As we angle back and forth, I try to hook him on a comment so he can’t add to the story, but he always provides a snapper comeback which leaves me aweighing my options; finally surfacing with a confusing, “Can you be more Pacific?” question so I can tide my time and easily throw it back into his side of the lake.
He told me I was being shellfish. Really? I just want to win — that would make me guppy. Instead, I wanted him to see the anchor in my eyes. I wanted him to know that I was a bit crabby since he was AGAIN winning while I was tanking. Just for the halibut, I threw out, “Water you talking about?” I really didn’t think I was being shellfish, but it was done on porpoise.
From my perspective, I just don’t sea it. I’ll never fin, er win. He’ll always be the King of Carp as he seizes the day.
My husband just pointed out that I used the words, “Porpoise and shellfish,” twice. I told him it was my blog and I could change the rules. He told me I needed to go back to school. Playing this game with Dave is an upstream battle. I can’t lure him in like I have tried — it’s a reel challenge. I’m a little lake getting started now.
I was going to end my blog at the last paragraph, but my husband told me, “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have a stream of consciousness going on?”
Wow. I’m barely keeping my head above water, so I’m going to continue to sit on my perch and think about a whale of a next story.
I’m just a small fish in a big pond…
Do you remember your very first job?
What about your worst and best jobs?
As most girls who were twelve years old, my very first paying job was being a babysitter. I’d have the honor of caring for anyone from newborns to kids who wrote on walls with crayon. They were under my short tut-ledge for a mere $4.00 an hour. I would slowly brainwash their little minds into starting bad habits like leaving the toilet seat up and teaching them how to belch the A-B-C’s; slowing moving onto the next family.
My least favorite job was working as an Admin Assistant for a trailer rental company. These were trailers that would be brought to construction sites and left on site. Eventually, they would be brought back where we would have to tear down the inside spec build and rebuild it based on the next client’s spec needs. It was my first job interview after being home for almost two years with my son. Since I had been out of circulation for awhile, I really wasn’t sure if my existing skills were still up to snuff, so to speak. The job sounded great from the ad, and I took the interview while I had pink eye and strep throat at the same time. I was kind enough to not shake hands, and explain why — if they hadn’t already figured it out by my “Bob Costas” makeup job.
Unfortunately, I got the job. The atmosphere in the place was very cold, and I don’t mean by temperature. There were three other women that worked in the office along with a few sales people. The sales people were very good to work for. However, the women were extremely territorial and would get offensive if I asked if I could take on any additional work. It appeared to me very quickly that I was overqualified for the job and unintentionally shoving myself into other women’s job descriptions. The job itself was pretty mundane. The only exception was when I was allowed to tear down trailers with a sledgehammer for two weeks.
I can’t tell you how therapeutic it is to tear down walls and 2×4′s with a sledgehammer; using a crowbar to strip away trim. I would also climb on top of the trailers to hammer in aluminum on the roofs. After about six months at that job, I had had enough of the drama (and sinus infections from all the trailer dust), and left for a web development company.
I think my best job was my longest held job. Let’s face it — I think the longer you are at a job, the higher the risk that it would be the best job you’ve ever had. I mean, why would you stay there that long unless you were forced to? Last time I checked, we didn’t live under socialism.
Tellabs started out as a contracted position. I was given the position at the time when the telecom industry was thriving from the upsurge of the wireless industry. They were probably hiring at least 500 people monthly on a world wide basis in order to keep up with the demand for their products. As a Project Manager (they called them Project Engineers back then), I was assigned a certain customer and had to make sure that all of the people working on a specific project kept to their timelines, troubleshot any unforeseen obstacles, provided customer service to the client, etc.
The job was like second nature to me. I loved it and gained many friends and a wealth of experience during my tenure. And, as with any particular job that you’ve worked at for a number of years, you are bound to encounter obstacles. Those obstacles were in the form of lay-offs after 9/11.
I think most people who were working in any type of industry saw a drop in the economy after that tragic and historic event which changed the way we live today. I survived at least ten layoffs by my count, but through the good-byes and new hello’s, I weathered the storm until April of 2008 when I decided to leave Tellabs and pursue my dream of owning my own business.
I knew I was going to miss the people and the dozens of stories we could re-tell with hilarity and a good dose of sarcasm. Crap, these people were 80% of my life for ten years. Some of them are like family. But, the creativity in me was screaming to jump out of my skin.
I left complacency behind for the uncertainty that lay ahead.
I made the right choice. But, there are times when I wish when I turned my chair around I would see my old cube-mate, Jodi. I would complain to her about the guy on the conference call that we would be on — he wouldn’t stop coughing and wheezing. We’d put the phone on mute and make jokes while a conference call was taking place. I’d make fun of her banging on the keyboard with her acrylic fingernails — it sounded like she was finely chopping onions with the precision of Ron Popeil’s Chop-O-Matic.
We had chair races down the hallways when nobody was looking, and we would always celebrate everyone’s birthdays. We had code names for people who were coming down the hall — consider it our home made version of the “Bad Weather Alert System” — and Jodi would give me all the “dirt” that went on in the office, because I was always the last to know.
We were completely, without a shadow of a doubt, exceptionally professional.
Best. Job. Ever.