Total Pageviews

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Shooting Yourself in the Foot

Even when I was a kid, I had a tendency to pop off at the mouth. Combined with a keen intuition, an eye for hypocrisy, and too large a vocabulary, I was always getting into trouble. You could count on me to stand on a table to introduce you to the elephant in the room.

If it sounds like I scorched some earth back in the proverbial day, there's truth to that. I was a disc jockey in my hometown when I was fifteen, for example. For some reason, they gave this certifiable teenager a real disc jockey job. I locked up the place, spun records (look it up, kids), and took my Personality on-air. But, whoops, got fired before I turned sixteen for making fun of New Coke. Turns out people who buy ads pay your salary. But, might I point out now, as I pointed out then: I WAS RIGHT?

But I digress. I lost another awesome gig as the Features Editor of my college paper, just for making fun of campus police (I'm tempted to again now, but alas still wary. Those guys get jacked up on coffee and doughnuts, and they'll arrest you like a real cop). Again, I may be right, I may be funny, but I have bloodied some noses along the way, however unintentionally. And taken some big, big lumps as a result.

I recognize this shortcoming of mine, along with a full menu of character flaws that on most days I can own. Every time I experience pain associated with these flaws, I try to see them as an opportunity to grow. I would encourage you, dear reader, to check your head if you are in emotional pain. Is there a character flaw you are digging your heels over that keeps costing you at work, at home, with friends? Are you shooting yourself in the foot?

Refusal to accept the Universe's lesson about self-growth enslaves you to repeat the pain. Don't make Her smack you. Like Nancy Grace, She'll issue a warrant. Open the mail already and evolve.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Marley was a Pussy(cat): Meet Shiner

I promised a while back I would spend a little time talking about this guy:


Hope this picture isn't so big you can look up his big, dumb snout. Oh, don't feel sorry for this guy.  He's a shelter dog, mostly a Heeler mix. I wanted to name him Steve, but when you look at his eye, it's the first thing everyone comments on. No, he's not Petey. He's Shiner. Now, if you're not familiar with big, dumb country dogs, Heelers are cattle dogs. They are working dogs. I was unaware of some very key things about this dog when he moved in, so I'm here to help you learn from my experience. He was so cute! I'm sure even Hitler was as a baby, too. Here are some things I did not know when I picked him out as an eight week old puppy that I wished I had:

1. I would have to tether him to the coffee table until he was two years old to keep him from eating the crotch out of family members' pants.

2. That he, like a shark, evidently, must keep moving or die.

3. That he would lack the ability to attach emotionally to any other living creature,  and he would go on to crush my children's dreams by not caring about them in the least and knocking them down regularly and rudely.

4. That my cats would hate him and beat him up regularly. There is nothing more funny than the "thock thock thock" of a declawed cat smacking him in his stupid maw.

5. That he would eat his weight in food daily and somehow magically convert ten pounds of food into twenty pounds of poo...each log approximately the size of a Chanel clutch bag.

6. That he would dig enough holes in my yard to fill the Albert Hall (with apologies to Lennon and McCartney here) and prefer sleeping caged in a kennel rather than anywhere near me.

7. That despite being the most submissive dog ever, he would require a collar with spikes on the inside to keep him from dragging me to my death when walking leashed.

8. That no electrical current, even one that would kill the most virulent of Texas death row inmates, can faze him or keep him contained in the yard.

9. That he would be capable of scaling a six foot privacy fence as well as have the ability to, when hit by a car, damage the car and run away unscathed.

10. He's a big, dumb animal, folks, and Marley's got nothing on him.

Do you have your own unbelievable pet stories? Share them with me!

Monday, January 24, 2011

What You Need to Know about Dallas: Superbowl Edition

All eyes are on my 'hood. Yes, Dallas is all adither: the Packers and Steelers are coming to town, and we North Texans are bracing for the onslaught of Northern visitors from the strange lands of Pittsburgh and Green Bay. Translators might actually be a good idea. There are a lot of conceptions out there about Texas. I'm a native on the ground ready to give you your guide to what's true and what's false as you prepare to descend on our Lone Star State.

I'm concerned for our travelers, dear reader, because not only are these visitors Yankees, but a lot of them will be celebrities too. Historically, Texans have low tolerance for both former and latter. Have you seen the NFL's commercials starring Troy Aikman asking all of us to behave when the out-of-towners arrive? The fact the organization thought this was necessary should indeed concern you about the levels of Southern hospitality in Dallas.

Because here's something most people don't know: most who live in Dallas are not from Dallas or even the South. We are not all issued cowboy boots and a hat upon arrival. True, some do wear belt buckles off of which you could serve a turkey, but this is less common than you would suspect. Most of us have never approached a horse. We do not, I repeat, NOT all "boot scoot." This is particularly important for me to have you understand.

JR Ewing, by the way, wasn't real. Most of us work with telecommunications here now, not oil and gas.We are not all Republicans. Texas may be red, but you will discover Dallas itself to be quite blue (on every level). You will enjoy the Roman Orgy atmosphere of Jerry's World, where there were at last count go-go dancers at different levels in the stadium. Trust me, the Baptists don't have the hold they'd like to here. For every church there is an equal and opposite strip club. There are gays here! Bet you thought we didn't allow them. In fact, Dallas has a thriving and wealthy gay population and one of the biggest gay churches in the nation.

What you call a "pop" is a Coke here. It doesn't matter if the can says "Pepsi," "Sprite," or "Dr. Pepper." It is a Coke. Our table wine is sweet tea. Now, our Mexican food is better than anyone's. That much is true. Our women are prettier if a little high from all the hairspray. Texas women are also football literate, so don't underestimate us. The females here like football, watch football, and are used to winning football. Football is a religion here. Tom Landry is our patron saint. We can be just as mean as any body-painted Cheese Head. Example:

Northern girl: Ooh, this football game is so violent.
Texas girl: Tackle that sumbitch and break his legs!

So, I'm happy to be Ambassadress (that's a word I just made up, I'm almost sure) as you explore Texas and Dallas in the next two weeks. If you're a celebrity I follow on Twitter, I'll put you up on the sofa bed and buy you a margarita: we do make the best of those in the nation too, by the way, and I haven't even touched on the beauty that is a Shiner Bock beer. Sigh. Enjoy all that is beautiful in Texas; who am I to say what is? Y'all travel safe, and don't believe the hype.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mutiny in the Kitchen, or: Appliances Gone Wild

It will go down as The Week of Appliances Gone Rogue. They made this movie in the 80s, and I'm telling you, the AC/DC soundtrack song "Who Made Who" has been blasting between my ears for days.

Let me back up. It begins innocuously enough: in the middle of dinner prep last week, the microwave abruptly stops working. Now, for a mother of three children under the age of seven, this is an earthquake, magnitude 7.0. No warming coffee, in particular, proved to test us all, as did my five year old's refusal to give up his "hot milk." I challenge you to not use your microwave for a week as an exercise in gratitude. Insult to injury: can't replace the microwave for two weeks. I am now down two burned sauce pans.

Okay, so I once again apply yoga/meditation/breathing and get right. And I say to myself: Self! What a funny blog post these tales will make! Ha! It takes some effort, but I make some progress carving some new neuropathways about this farce: Oh, the microwave dying is really an exercise in gratitude for me. I will reflect on how rich I am because of this experience. Kumbaya, a little mental sweat, but I do seem to start not sulking so much about lack of caffeine.


I'm telling you, be careful what you put your attention on, folks; next, the Universe decided that since I was mining such wisdom from the microwave malady, I could really use some extra material. Because the next morning, at five of the clock, with sleet pounding on the window, on the coldest day of the year, I awoke to no power.

Have you ever attempted to dress sleepy, recalcitrant toddlers near open flames in sub-normal temperatures? The house resembled a Sting video. No hot water, also, means no bath for grubby mommy....who was due in for a long day at the sadness reduction factory. And have I failed to mention I'm kind of an indoorsy, American prinncess anyway (I can own it)? Surliness ensues.

After an epic struggle against the Universe...will I ever learn?...the power did return six hours later. But as a result? Both the stove and the electric garage door were broken, joined the revolution.  And since all the cool kitchen accessories were doing it, my toaster handle came loose and half off just to keep up with the crowd.

Am I being punk'd? Is, to date myself, Alan Funk lurking behind a bush somewhere? Alas. I am left only to struggle to find the inevitable personal self growth inherent in this situation. And this premise under which I operate, that everything that happens as designed specifically for my growth, is how I'm going to play it. I am a powerful conjurer-upper of my own experience. And thusly, I have elected to think all these unbelievable stories happen to me so I may blog about them, be given some outrageous book advance, and live the rest of my life out like a Katy Perry/Molly Ivins hybrid.

So here's to picking the thoughts that make the most meaning out our Family Circus on acid adventures. Certainly, if I can help make you laugh about some of your challenges, there's meaning indeed to the truth of my life that is, indeed, stranger than fiction. As I always tell the little ones and clients alike: it's always better to share. And I share on twitter too at @eliskacounce. See you there.