Freckles, Speckles And Barnacles

Today I went to the dermatologist to have a little eruption on my nose checked out. I go through this process every year or two, when the thingy on my nose shows up. My doctor froze the spot, as usual, and checked out other specks, spots, and freckles on the old bod. My face had some new “maturity spots”, heretofore known as age spots. I was particularly interested in a rough circle on my back. Dr. F said it was a barnacle. A barnacle, seriously? What am I... a rusty old boat? I would expect something like that to grow on my butt, but not my back. I was starting to feel not-so-pretty, then remembered the last time I visited Dr. F. There was a man in the waiting room with a small grape-sized thing growing below his left nostril. I felt bad for him, and tried not to stare, but damn... I would run screaming into the street if I had to see that thing looking back at me from the mirror. Before I moved from Salt Lake City to Seattle twenty years ago, I visited my dermatologist. When that doctor saw me in his office, he practically kissed me. He said he was so glad to see a young person, as most of his patients were elderly. Even though I’m twenty years closer to the elderly category, I should feel like a goddess. I may have barnacles and maturity spots. At least I don’t have a grape growing out of my nose. Not yet anyhow.

Le Bark

As I left the house with the dogs yesterday morning, Stella began her incessant barking. As usual, I wondered what the hell she was saying. Announcing her presence to the world? Warning the birds that Stella Was Here? My other two dogs ignore her, so I doubt she is talking trash to them. Every walk is the same. Yappety yap yap yap. So, I started thinking... If I took my dogs to another country, would the dogs there understand them? Are there regional dialects in the dog world? I’ve always thought Scotties in Scotland would probably say “Barrrrrk, Rrrrruff, Grrrrowl”. As a child, I loved the Pepe Le Pew cartoons. A female black cat would somehow get a stripe down her back, and Pepe (a skunk) would fall in love, and pursue her. The poor little thing would frantically run away, speaking kitty French “Le pant, le puff, le mew”. I know that was the cartoon world, but still... do dogs in France bark similarly to that little cartoon cat? I believe dogs talk to each other. Isn’t it reasonable that a huge barrier like the ocean would create a language difference even in the animal kingdom? It’s too bad someone hasn’t invented a machine to decipher barking. We, as humans, guess what is being said, but it’s only a guess. We muddle through, knowing when our pets are hungry or need a potty break. The in-between noise, however, is what I’m interested in. Yesterday, Cosmo made a noise somewhere between a whine, and a squeaky screen door. Very intriguing. At the time he was lying under the coffee table, not wedged, just lounging. The noise he made sounded like there was a purpose to it... something meaningful. Or maybe he was yanking my chain, and just feeding me gibberish. Tee hee. Oh you dogs are crafty, with your secret language. Someday we will crack the code. Maybe.

Slow Motion Crash & Burn

Today I worked in the yard. I was standing on my raised rockery, pulling wild grass when I lost my footing. So, why is it, when we are in dire physical peril, time defaults to slow motion? I started to fall, then twisted and turned, eventually doing a backwards roll down onto my neighbor’s lawn. I immediately jumped up, with a forced laugh. Ha ha ha! I meant to do that! Actually, as I was slowing falling, I had a memory flash from about 12 years ago. I was at my daughter’s soccer game. The other team had not shown up, so the parents decided it would be fun to have our girls play each other, with a few parents sprinkled in. I was somehow cajoled into playing. Up to that point, the only soccer I had played was in my mind as I watched Molly. My feet would kind of spaz out, as I tried to help (from my seat in the stands). So, there I was, down on the field with a bunch of seasoned twelve year-olds. At some point, the ball came towards me. OMG! Nobody was around...and the goal was nearby. I started to run at the ball, taking giant steps. This was my big moment! Then, as I got closer to the ball, my knees slowly buckled. I kind of melted into the ground, ending up flat on my back. I tried to act dead, and hoped everyone would just leave and go home. To my dismay, they all came around to see if I was OK. I wasn’t hurt, but if you could die of embarrassment, I would have gotten my death wish. Molly still laughs about my brush with athletics. I have secretly harbored a lifelong desire to be a prodigy the first time I try a sport. So far, golf, skiing, softball and tennis have gone prodigy-free. I think I can just write off that fantasy, unless there is such a thing as an imagination prodigy. It may not be a sport, but I think I got that one covered.

The Name Game

This week, a co-worker and I were discussing the latest hurricane name - Bud. Not very threatening. All I can picture is the son on “Father Knows Best”. It got me wondering - Who gets to name stuff? When I was a child, nuns relinquished their given names when entering the convent. Some of the names they received in return were curious, hideous, and even horrible. Perhaps there was a large Price-Is-Right type of wheel used to select the Holy Names. Here are some names from my Catholic school past:

- Sister Michella: Her name wasn’t so bad, but she was. She was my first grade teacher, and about a thousand years old. That may explain her ill temper.
- Sister Jane Robert: Girl-guy name combo, and my favorite nun.
- Sister Susannah: A pretty normal name. She was round and jolly.
- Sister Wilfred: Pretty darn heinous name. I always suspected she wasn’t in it for the long haul. Sister Wilfred was fairly young and had braces on her teeth. I think she took full advantage of her orthodontic benefits, and then hit the road.
- Sister John Baptist: Not to be confused with John THE Baptist.
- Sister Claire Assisi: I think they let her keep the family name - I’m pretty sure she was the sister of St. Francis of Assisi. She was a scary genius, and ancient.
- Sister Christian: She wore brown, like a UPS truck, which she resembled.
- Sister Mercedes: The first time I heard someone say they wanted to own a Mercedes, I almost had a heart attack. I hadn’t heard of the car, only the nun.
- Sister Paraclita: I believe this refers to the Holy Ghost. I would hate to have a name that forces people to respond “Say what?”.

If there is an open position for Grand Imperial Nun Namer, I’d like to apply. Is it cheating to use inanimate objects or animals? Flora and fauna? So many choices...

Dog Day Afternoon

Today, I made a face at a dog. I didn’t plan to do it. It just happened. I was driving home from work, and stopped at a light. In the car next to me was a white bulldog. He was hanging his head out the back window directly behind his owner. Bad owner! Don’t you know the little guy could go flying out the window at any moment??? At one point, the dog and I made eye contact. We had our own private moment. Then, I made a face at him. Who could resist imitating that ugly under-bite below that Winston Churchill face? Not me! I stuck out my bottom teeth and looked over at Winston. Then I felt bad, sure that he knew I was mocking him. If he had been a person, I never would have made a face. Oh the guilt! Then he turned away, the light changed, and life went back to normal. It must have been my day for weird dog happenings. Earlier, I had to wait while a woman in a big SUV turned left in front of me. She was having a rough time turning because she had a big dog on her lap. The dog was right in front of her. She couldn’t see out the windshield because he was blocking her field of vision. To turn, she had to kind of peer around Fido, and steer with one hand. Might as well have been chugging a beer and texting. What a dummy! I’m not sure if Citizen’s Arrest is a real thing, or just something on TV. It crossed my mind, though, to try it out on Fido and his mom. Then reason got the better of me... or maybe I just wanted to get home. As I walked through my front door, my husband cautioned me that I might not want to kiss Stella (my Yorkie). Apparently, she ate poop today. Great. Too bad I’m allergic to cats... I think I might need a break from the dog world. At least for today.

Cheesed Off

There was a 6.0-magnitude earthquake in Italy this past Sunday. It occurred in the parmesan cheese-making area of Italy. I didn’t know cheese came from specific reqions across the globe. Like most everyday things in my life, I never gave the cheese-making process a second thought. I know it isn’t grown on trees, or dug out of the ground like a potato. I always thought cheese was an accidental product of milk-gone-bad. Isn’t a butter churn involved? So now I find out that parmesan cheese comes from Northern Italy. Wheels of cheese, not that weird powdery stuff in the can. I had a bad experience with the fake stuff 30 years ago. My husband and I were dining at an Italian restaurant in San Francisco with another couple. I spooned what I thought was powdered creamer into my coffee. As my coffee wasn’t getting any lighter, I kept spooning. My three companions just watched, never saying “Hey, how come you’re shoveling parmesan cheese into your coffee???”. I felt like a big idiot, and am still kind of mad at that nasty, fake parmesan. The real stuff, though, is awesome. I wonder if all cheese is regional. Can cheeseheads in Wisconsin make parmesan, or are they restricted to just American cheese? Does Swiss cheese really come from Switzerland? And what about Gouda? Rhymes with Buddha. So, this earthquake occurred north of Bologna. Hmmm... bologna and cheese. Too bad the Sandwich Islands are in the Pacific Ocean. How awesome would it be if they were off the eastern coast of Italy? You’d have a geographical cheese and Bologna sandwich.

Sights Around The 'Hood

This morning, while I was driving home from a local coffee shop, I noticed an interesting woman walking in the neighborhood. This prompted me to make a new list - Sights Around The ‘Hood:

-Woman in hat. It was 52 degrees outside. The woman was wearing a tank top, shorts, and running shoes. Topping it off (literally) was a wintery, itchy-looking hat with the ties fastened tightly under her chin. Kind of an incongruous look, like a bald guy who has a bushy beard.

- Large plastic cow. This life-size creature stood in the back of a pickup truck in someone’s driveway. It was black and white, my favorite flavor of cow.

- Woman with exotic birds. On Mother’s Day, I spied a woman walking with two large birds, possibly macaws. One was on her shoulder, and she was cradling the other one in front of her. Maybe they were going out for brunch. I know Seattle is starting to allow dogs in restaurants. I’m not sure where exotic birds fit into the equation.

- Guy holding a violin. This sighting occurred a few years ago, while I was driving to work. It was 5:00 am, and still very dark. The tall young man was standing on a neighborhood roundabout traffic island. He was standing perfectly still, and looking slightly down at his feet. I thought he was watching his dog go potty. As I drove past him, though, I saw that he was alone. He was holding a violin, and was not moving. I kept checking my rearview mirror, but never saw him move. Seems to me 5:00 am is too early to play “Statue”.

- Sign language driver. While motoring home one day, I noticed the driver in the car in front of me signing to the other two people in his car... while driving. He was using both hands to sign. I’m not sure I want to know what he was using to steer the car.