Routine Additions

I have developed a new routine in the mornings. There is still hot chocolate made by steaming milk with the espresso machine and half a bagel with peanut butter and a scan of the headlines on various websites. But once I've thumbed through all the predictable routines, I turn on the radio and listen to classical music -- baroque, to be exact.

I used to play this Pandora Station in my classroom before the kids arrived and then I'd leave it on quietly while my students settled in for the day. The music visibly calmed them. They never complained. They never told me to change the station or whined that they didn't like the music. Instead, they'd settle into their seats, pull out a book to read (the morning expectation), and wait for class to begin.

It works like that for me even now. After my predictable morning routine, I can settle into my day with the sounds of Telemann and Handel. This morning a solo for oboe quieted my busy mind.

There is much to do today, but I have most of the day to get it done. I am glad for that, though tomorrow is packed solid and I am not looking forward to it. But I shan't think about that now...as Scarlett would say.

Today there are four dogs to walk and though it is foggy now, the sun promises an appearance. I must interview a teacher for my job as a "writer" -- something I still put into parentheses because I am afraid to label myself in a permanent way. I have some errands to run including making double-sided business cards to represent the double sides of my life -- dog walker and "writer" all under the banner of my new business I've decided to call Let Me Out Consultation. I have yet to fill out the paperwork for the business license, but I shall put that on my list for next week. I must renew my teaching certificate, just in case, and then there are all the little things that require my attention at home -- filing papers, cleaning up the clutter, brushing out Rubin, and perhaps squeezing in a nap before preparing dinner.

Oh, and eating one of the mammoth apples our friend, Dely, brought back from Eastern Washington -- a Cameo about the size of a grapefruit. I can smell it even now. Yum.

I have my fingers crossed and will have them crossed for the next week. The elections are a lesson in letting go -- I do not have control though I want it desperately. I'm feeling hopeful, but there are quivers of doubt...no, not doubt, but worry...and I do my best to ignore them.

Jean-Baptiste Lully's music is helping.

Some Where

I wake, occasionally, to the image of a place. Not the same place, but a specific place like the curve of the road just below my childhood home, or a long stretch of highway in South Dakota, or a bridge that I can't exactly name. Sometimes, I fall asleep with a place wedged between being awake and being fully in a dream and often when this happens, my dreams begin in this place.

Many are places from my past, like the intersection of Perry Avenue and Sylvan Way. This is where I'd turn when riding my bike to school -- high school to be exact -- and make my way up the last long hill before coasting down the last long hill. I dream of the sharp curve of Riddell Road or the winding turns of Tracyton Boulevard.

But there are other places that are familiar, but I can't identify them. I'll wake up -- either early in the morning or just as the alarm sounds -- and try to hold the wisps of the geography long enough to remember, but often I can't. I know they exist, but I've lost the anchor of where the somewhere is under layers of fuzzy memory.

It happened this morning. There was a lake and I was paddling a kayak next to a steep cliff at the edge of the lake. In the distance, I could see two women sitting on the porch of a lake house -- one woman was black, the other was white. They were far away, but I could still hear them talking and they were talking about me. They sat in lounge chairs, their long legs stretched out before them, a cup of tea or coffee in their hands, and each woman wore sunglasses. It was a warm day, late in the afternoon, and I could feel my arms pulling the paddle hard through the murky, dark lake. I listened in on their conversation, but when I woke, I could only remember the white woman saying to the black woman, "She has strong arms."

Though I paddled, my kayak did not move with any speed. Soon, there wasn't a kayak at all. Instead, I was swimming and despite the rush of the water past my ears and the submersion of my head under water, I could still hear their voices. I found myself swimming toward them, but just as with the kayak, I was struggling to make any progress. With every breath, I looked around. "I know this place," and in that instance, I realized I was dreaming.

This happens to me a lot. I don't wake up when I realize I am dreaming, instead, I continue dreaming realizing that as the person within my own dream, I can direct the story line. I am no longer pushed along through the narrative by my sleeping brain. Rather, I decide the direction the dream will take next. I make conscious choices. In this particular dream, I knew I was a strong swimmer and there was no reason why I couldn't swim to the porch and talk with the two women and that's just what I did all the while flipping through the images of places I'd been swimming trying to figure out which lake I was swimming in.

It's odd how so many mental leaps can happen in a dream. Once I know it's a dream, my mind operates on many more levels -- more levels that it can when I'm awake. I can be in the dream, feel the water and my muscles and hear the womens' voices at the same time I can make a conscious effort to move forward through the water, take note of the shoreline and the sky, and search my waking life for this place, this somewhere in my memory.

I woke early this morning. Still tired, I had a hard time going back to sleep. I tried to reenter the dream, but instead my waking mind pondered the place of my dream. I still have no idea where I was though I know I've been there before. To fall back asleep, I thought of other places that bring me comfort -- the forest that surrounded the cabin where I once lived, the stretch of shore along the Strait of Juan de Fuca where I gathered polished glass, the hidden path in the park where I walk the dog during the week. None of them made me sleepy. Instead, they lead me back to the lake, the two women, and the feel of the water against my skin as I swam.

I never did fall back asleep. I thought of the lake, listened to the dog at the end of the bed as he flipped and flopped, snuggling in under my legs, and finally heard the click of the alarm right before ti went off. Now I've lost an familiarity of the dream. Now I doubt that I've actually been there before. Now I wonder if it is a conglomeration of various lakes and waterways where I've been swimming or paddling. And who were the women? In the dream, I knew them. Awake, they are as murky as the lake of my imagination.

This is one of those dreams that will stay with me for most of the morning. I have a busy day ahead of me so at some point, the memory of this dream will fade cluttered out by chores I must complete. Perhaps I'll dream it again. This happens. I wake after a dream and think, "I've dreamt this before" or "I've been there, but where is it?" Perhaps in the next version of the lake dream, I'll remember its name and sleep soundly once I do. For now, it's just a whisper that will tug at me in between the breaths of this chilly blue Monday.

Am I Still?

I tell myself not to listen to the news. I tell myself not to open my financial statements. I tell myself there will be no pink slip in my mailbox at work. I tell myself it's all going to be okay. I tell myself that Obama will win and all will begin moving in the right direction. He will make a difference. I am voting for something and not against for the first time of my life.

But the more I listen to the news, the more I read my financial statements, the more I don't see a pink slip in my mailbox, the more I hear that McCain still has a chance (devious or legitimate), I wonder if I am actually voting for the first African American in office than what the man actually stands for. Lately, it's gotten hard to decide what he actually stands for.

I understand this is politics. I understand this is how liberals play it safe, but there's a quiver of worry that Obama is Bill Clinton in black face. I didn't vote for Bill Clinton. From the beginning, he felt smarmy. I didn't vote for the Republicans either. I voted the Green Party -- Nadar -- because I couldn't see the advantage of a moderate Democrat and in the end, he's the one who instituted NAFTA, he's the one who instituted "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," and he's the one who changed the welfare program -- all decisions I strongly disagreed with.

And then there was that whole Monica Lewinsky business. It was hard not to say to my Clinton-supporter-friends "I told you so" but I bit my tongue. Hard.

My first impression of Obama was that he was intelligent, compassionate, level-headed, kind, and more to the left of center than any president we've ever had in the past. And, as a history teacher, I always believed that radical right or radical left candidates would end up in the middle -- pushed there by the extremes of the continuum -- the ultimate check in the checks and balances system.

Then W. got elected and the whole centrist theory flopped to the right with a painful thud. So when Obama appeared to be as left of the center as W. appeared to be right, I had hopes that the balance would shift and perhaps for the first (and only) time, liberals (true liberals...not moderate liberals) could have their crack at the running the country.

Now I'm not so sure. I'm trying to hold onto the the idea that Obama is walking the centrist line so he doesn't piss off the white people who are afraid to vote for a black man or the lifelong Republicans who are so embarrassed by their current president and candidate that they have decided to vote for a Democrat for the first time in their lives, but there is a niggle of a worry that Obama is more of centrist than I'd first thought.

He'll still get my vote. In fact, I'm one of those millions who are voting early, my ballot stamped, signed, and ready to go into today's mail, but there is something wonky rumbling around in my belly and I fear it is that doubt that once again I'm voting against more than I am voting for.

Meanwhile, Hank Williams' daughter is twanging on NPR and I'm finding it very difficult to write with such a voice in the background. And when they play Hank's songs, my teeth rattle. I have never been a fan. I've tried, but his music never stuck. Instead, when I hear his voice, I think of his son, Hank Williams, Jr. in his football jersey, cowboy hat, and beer gut standing behind McCain and Palin at a campaign rally, his arms straight up in the air in a victory stance.

I feel sick to my stomach. November 5th (the day after) can't get here fast enough.

Meanwhile, I'll keep imagining myself dancing with my friends when McCain gives his concession speech and the first African American is elected President of the United States. No matter the reasons I have for voting for him, I will dance in honor of that historical event and cross my fingers he can move that see-saw of national politics back to the left-side of the fulcrum.

Crush

(My friend, Laurie and I are meeting once a week to share our writing. We've been giving ourselves assignments. For this assignment, we're taking on the topic as presented in the Sun Magazine's Readers Write section. The topic is Crushes...this then is my first draft...we'll see where it goes.)

I'd had crushes before -- Carol Burnett, Barbara Stanwyck, Billie Jean King, Joan Baez -- but my first close proximity crush is someone I cannot name though everyone who knows me can name her.

She was older, as all really good crushes should be, and she was a she, which says a whole lot about me at a very young age. I was 14, to be exact, and she was my teacher. She was hired after the teacher she replaced was "demoted" for having an affair with one of her female students. There's a whole story in that scandal, but in the mid-1970s no one talked about the mess an affair between a female teacher and female student might cause. They just demoted the teacher and let the student graduate without stirring the mess any further.

So in stepped the "new teacher" and I immediately lost myself. She was strong, she was funny, she was beautiful, and she cared about all of us -- the gang of girls who were athletic outcasts, pre-Title IX tomboys who wore overalls and Converse sneakers while every other girl wore mini-skirts and platform shoes.

I'll admit it -- I was obsessed with this teacher. I got to school early just to help her set up for the day. I stayed late and played every sport that she coached. I even came to school on Saturdays when she organized basketball games and open gyms. But what I remember the most about my obsession was riding my bike behind her car after school trying desperately to keep up so I could find out where she lived.

Though I was a strong athlete, it was nearly impossible to maintain the pace I needed to catch up to her silver Toyota. So each day, I'd follow her as far as I could, then the next day, ride to the place where I'd lost her the day before and continue the chase. It took almost two weeks, but eventually, after pedaling up the largest hill in town and along the busiest street, I saw her pull into a wooded driveway and I knew, I'd achieved my goal.

Of course, my troubles only began. Now what? I remember thinking to myself. So I know where she lives. What good does it serve me? What I was really asking, though I had no idea until I was 19 years old was what am I doing and what does it say about me?

I pondered my next move for days. While I no longer saw the benefit of following her home, I switched to hanging around the busy street by her driveway every chance I got in hopes that, while driving in or out, she'd spot me, pull over, and carry on a conversation that might end up with her asking me to stop by for a visit. So, after school and on weekends, I hopped on my bike, rode to the street in front of her driveway and pedaled back and forth. I spent hours there just waiting for her to approach in her car, but to no avail.

Until one day, months after my pedaling vigil, she drove down the street headed to her driveway and she saw me. She approached slowly, waving and smiling from the driver's side. I thought I was going to bust open. My legs, now strong from all the bicycle riding, turned soft and weak, and I pulled to the side of her car only to realize someone else was in the passenger seat -- a woman I'd never seen before.

That was over 35 years ago. The woman in the passenger seat of the car is now married to my former teacher and they are both retired and living in Canada. We are and have been good friends for years. On my bookshelf sits a copy of A Rubyfruit Jungle, my graduation gift from my then teacher and now friend. We laugh about all the ironies of those days -- that the school had demoted a lesbian and unknowingly hired one to take her place; that those weekend open gyms were a way for her lesbian friends to get together and hang out for the weekends; that almost all of the students who attended those impromptu basketball games are now lesbians themselves, me included. We laugh about the Anita Bryant fears that lesbians were out "recruiting" young women when, unknowingly, that's exactly what was happening.

But we never talk about my crush. She had to know. I was so obvious and even to this day, the sound of her voice on the phone brings a twittering smile to my face. It's no longer a crush. That ended years ago. Now it's admiration and a kind of love that's born from someone who was both role model and friend. Someone who knew how to lead by example, but never cross the line of inappropriateness. She was my real life Barbara Stanwyck -- strong, beautiful, and tough -- someone who gave me confidence by simply being present in my day to day life. She was my daily Carol Burnett -- funny, lively, and inspiring. She was, and still is, my Billie Jean King -- true to herself and a champion to a generation of women.

I keep waiting for her to say something about my embarrassing behavior, but I doubt she ever will. In a sense, I'm still pedaling along the street of this truth waiting for her acknowledge my crush, but she is still too kind to point out my teenage flaws. And in the end, it makes me admire her all the more.

Managing the Day

Once jobless, I now have three jobs -- retail, service, and creative passion. My hours in retail have been dramatically cut. I check my mailbox every time I go to work (retail) to see if I have been laid off. I'm fine with 4 hours a week, but I'm uncertain about the future. Meanwhile, the free time (though it can be quite expensive -- I'm trying not to turn on the furnace while I'm at home) is exactly what I need to start my business -- Let Me Out -- a dog walking and writing endeavor.

An odd combination, I know, but they are the two things I am the most passionate about these days and somehow I must combine them under a single business license. Currently, I have a writing contract with a local school -- producing their monthly enewsletter, editing communications to families and donors, and putting together their Annual Report for the end of November. I've also been enlisted to take photographs so they have a bank of pictures to use for their various communications.

It's perfect for me in many ways. I enjoy assignments. I am a better writer when given an assignment and so far, every week there has been a field trip to attend or an interview to conduct or photographs to take.

On the side, though not quite yet a business, is dog walking. I have four dogs currently, but the paperwork for getting a business license sits on my desk -- a jumble of questions and requirements I have yet to figure out. Walking the dogs, in a roundabout way, helps with the writing -- a meditation of thought where I can formulate exactly what I want to say and how I want to say it.

But all of this makes for busy days part of the week. For instance, I am walking three dogs today, interviewing an alumnae on the phone this afternoon, and putting the finishing touches on November's newsletter, though somehow the word "finishing" doesn't feel quite accurate -- there are always tweakables, as it were, and I have yet to figure out exactly how to tweak what I wish to tweak.

And there are invoices for it all to keep track of. I'm not good at this part, but I'm learning and that learning is also part of what I must manage during the day. I'm not complaining. I'm employed and as I listen to the endless bad news on the radio, I'm exceedingly thankful I am employed, I have a mortgage I can afford, a partner who is willing to carry me financially if need be, and no outstanding bills (well, except for the student loan that I will whittle away at for the rest of my life).

It's just different and while I'm okay with different, I still feel as if the rhythm of my life is not quite in sync. It's less stressful, that's for sure, but it's not yet smooth.

Thankfully, the rain has passed on and the sun is attempting to shine as I head out the door to pick up my first two canine charges for a walk down by the lake.

Dear Rachel Maddow

A number of years ago, Showtime "pushed the envelope" of television with their production of "The L Word," a weekly series about a group of lesbians in Los Angeles. In our household, we watched and were surprised. We were surprised that women were actually kissing on TV, but more than that, they were having "sex" that was beyond the heavy petting of most television shows with lesbian characters.

We were also surprised by the women who, dressed in the latest fashions, were skinny, beautiful, and incredibly feminine. Not the lesbians can't be feminine, it's just that these women were more feminine than most straight women we knew. Let's just say, none of the characters on "The L Word" that first season played softball.

We were surprised that all of them had nice houses and/or apartments and jobs that obviously put them in the higher tax brackets. Again, not that lesbians can't be rich, but the combination of young, beautiful, skinny, feminine and rich doesn't really reflect the world in which we live. We'd often watch that first (and sometimes second) season and say to each other, "Wow, this is nothing like our life!" and while that's something we often say when watching movies or television shows, we had higher hopes for "The L Word" because it offered us a chance to actually see ourselves on the screen in a real way.

Only it wasn't in a real way.

A few months ago, in a fit of frustration, anger, and the need to hear from people who shared my views, I flipped on your radio show while driving to work one evening. I was impressed. Knowledgeable, intelligent, well-written, and not too "shouty," something we abhor about talk radio. Then I found you on MSNBC and thought, "Yes! Finally a woman of intelligence analyzing the news with a leftist perspective and she doesn't look like a beauty queen." (Not that you aren't attractive, but just not attractive in that Jennifer Beal anorexic way.)

Next, I heard you interviewed on another radio show (I think it was NPR) when you talked about how awkward it was to get "made up" for your television show. You were irritated by the make up. It wasn't you. It was uncomfortable. Well, if that wasn't you, I thought to myself, who were you?

I "googled" you and what I saw was a young, attractive woman in faded jeans, a t-shirt, converse shoes and big "masculine" glasses and I remember laughing out loud. "My god," I shouted to my partner in the other room, "She looks like us!"

And now, months after I found you, you're getting all sorts of press attention. Even the New York Times covered your "rise" on the national scene. And there, in their extensive article, was a picture of you with your black lab in a room filled with books. They even had a picture of your red truck and your refurbished house and again I thought, "She's just like us!"

It was refreshing. It was refreshing to read about your relationship, about your day-to-day activities, and your feelings about stardom. You sounded normal. You looked normal. You had a normal life. You were a lesbian who looked like you actually played softball a time or two in your life. You read books. You watched old movies. You worked on your house. You walked the dog.

"The L Word" needs to write another show called "The Real L Word" and set it in Maine on a farm where young (and old) lesbian professionals and farmers and plumbers and teachers struggle to live their values without makeup and $4000 shoes and have real conversations about books and politics and recipes and gardening and movies and all the things "real lesbians" do.

Sure, there could still be kissing and sex, but maybe a little less serial monogamy and more committed relationships. Sure, there could still be a level of drama and difficulties, but more about issues we all face like paying bills, and who's going to take care of the dog while on vacation, and illness and adoptions and all the things real lesbians (and all people) face each and every day.

So, I thank you for persevering, for your willingness to wear the make up for a few hours a day so you can be on television for all to find, for speaking out against the neo-cons, and for being true to yourself and your values. It means a lot...especially to real lesbians like myself.

Our Fair City

The fall colors are amazing right now, so we headed up the stairs above the park to check out our favorite view of the city and the colors of the park. The blue sky was a perfect back drop and the chilly temperatures put a glow in our cheeks.

Rubin is a lighter shade of fall so we positioned him at the top of the steps for a portrait. Soon we were joined by Colleen with Monty and Jessica with Quillette and they set up for a threesome portrait.

It takes a bit of staging...
...to end up with this...

I'm particularly fond of the shot because it really shows Monty's scar from his surgery about a month ago. He's healing well, but as you can tell, it's one big ass scar. (I close up is on the Rubinations blog.)

Then Monty and Rubin posed for their portrait...
After which, we hiked up the hill to the Bradner Gardens where Rubin forced us to take a picture by his favorite quote. Not sure it's readable but engraved in the rockery is the phrase "Live to Dig, Dig to Live." Not that Rubin's a big digger, but given half the chance, he'd love nothing more than to rip up and out all of the garden fabric laid under all the garden beds in our yard.

It was a beautiful day. Tomorrow promises to be the same.

And the world spins madly on...

My first writing gig

I spent the day on a farm with kids and horses. My new writing gig is to produce a monthly newsletter for the school I worked for last year. I've been on this field trip many times, but this time I didn't need to do anything except shoot photographs and listen for good tidbits to use in the newsletter. I took a total of 372 pictures, dumped about a third of them, and then honed it down to 9 from which I must choose 2, maybe 3.

It's hard to decide. The words aren't coming very easily either, but I trust those more than I trust my choice of photographs. I'd post them all on this blog and let YOU decide, but since some of them show the girls' faces, I doesn't feel ethical. Hence, the two photos without faces that I did post.

I used someone else's camera, too. I liked it, but I'm still unfamiliar with it and some of the pictures turned out blurry and weird. Ann and I each have a camera and we can even take pictures with our video camera, but today's camera made me have the "wants" for something different and yes, more expensive. I forgot how much I like to shoot pictures and that, in fact, my Bachelor's degree is in radio and television communications, which required quite a few photography courses. While I was unfamiliar with the camera, it was fun to play around and have tons of memory to shoot picture after picture knowing I'd dump most of them.

Meanwhile, Rubin is exhausted. He went with me today and while he was wound up and nervous about the horses in the morning, he mellowed by the afternoon and is now laid flat out on his bed in the office. It was mentally and emotionally draining...and he never got a nap.

I didn't either. I'm tired from all the kid energy, from the focused attention I needed to sustain the whole day, and standing in the elements of the great outdoors. But we were lucky today...no rain, no wind, no chilly temperatures, which were the predictions for today. Instead, blue skies, warm sun, and the most interesting clouds stretched along the horizon.

All Quiet

I rejoiced when I found out that I had to work on the night of the last debate. I am a nervous debate watcher and so, I thought, working would be a brilliant distraction.

I was wrong.

Work was slow. Work was not work. Work was simply standing around waiting for customers to show up. I saw three in my department (tents, sleeping bags, and camping supplies) and while I sold 2 sleeping bags and one sleeping pad, I couldn't keep the customers around long enough to make me feel as if I were working.

So I talked with Fred -- the svelte Jerry Garcia who has worked at the store for 37 years.

37 years.

He is an old hippie with a comb over.

He speaks softly and has a permanent smile glued to his face.

He is always positive even in the face of the nastiest customers.

We talked politics last night. Rather, he talked and I listened. Fred makes me feel hopeful.

"Don't worry. Your hours may be slim, but people always buy stuff. Hang on."

And I believed him.

He told me, "Obama's going to win. Nobody wants their grandfather to be president."

And I believed him.

Fred knows a little bit about everything from microbiology to starting a business, from baking bread to the best hike in the North Cascades. He ate a twinkee at break last night and washed it down with ginseng tea.

Fred enjoys life. Every minute of it.

When Fred wasn't able to distract me, there was Phurgel, a small man from Nepal. He was an Everest guide all of his life and now, probably in his mid-30s, he lives in Seattle near the ocean, not near the mountains. "Mountains are enough in my life. Now I like ocean." He goes to school and when asked by a co-worker if he wanted to go on a hike over the weekend he replied, "No, I have hiked enough. Now I wish study."

No wants, just wishes.

And I talked with Marian, the feisty, funny, athletic young woman who carries 80 pounds in a backpack when she goes into the backcountry and brings twinkees into work to share with her fellow employees. Marian bounces on her toes. She never stops moving. She speaks loudly, but confidently. She moves through the store rapidly, finding customers who seemingly appear out of the woodwork.

Meanwhile, the debate was on the television only I couldn't watch it because I was stacking water bottles on the high wall at the back of my department. I asked customers, when I saw them, "You decided to skip the debate tonight?" And I was met with the same anwer, "Oh, is that on tonight?"

I am nervous about the election. I don't know why. I've seen Reagan get elected and survived that. I've seen two Bushes get elected and survived that. I didn't vote for Clinton (Nadar got my vote) and I even survived that, Monica Lewinsky and all. Why does John McCain feel so much more frightening?

I am less nervous after reading the papers today, but I am still nervous. I was nervous last night and looked to Fred to console me.

"It's all going to turn out fine," he said. "It's a waste of time to think any other way."

19 days. I'm imagining myself watching the election results and dancing, rejoicing in the victory of the first African-American president. I am trying to keep myself busy -- walking dogs, taking photographs, writing, baking, and walking more dogs -- to avoid thinking about anything devastating.

Fred said, as I was leaving at the end of my shift, "All will be well. Enjoy the free time. You'll see. All will be well."

And I believed him. I still do.

Where are they?

I've become a news junkie. I listen to the news on the radio, watch it on TV, and surf the net reading the paper, blogs, and anything I can find to reassure myself that Obama has a chance of winning this election. In the process, I've noticed a lack of conservative voices who are female -- Republican women who have stated their opinion on the fate of their Republican candidates.

Conservative thinkers David Brooks, William Kristol, Christopher Hitchens, Christopher Buckley, Matthew Dowd -- they're all saying something negative about the McCain campaign though they are in disagreement as to the choice of Palin as the VP candidate. While conservative columnist Kathleen Parker (on the Colbert Report) spoke out, she is the only conservative woman I've heard say what I think needs to be said: Conservative men are blinded by the hard-on they have for Palin.

Parker's observation that conservative men find nothing sexier than a hot woman gutting a moose hit that erect nail right on its head. But why is she the lone female voice? Where's the wisdom of Kay Bailey Hutchinson? Where's the refined commentary of Olympia Snow or Susan Collins? We haven't even heard a word from Elizabeth Dole or Barbara Bush for that matter. Has anyone interviewed Condie Rice or Gale Norton? Surely they have some opinion and even if their opinion is counter to mine, at least they'd be saying something. As it is, they are silent and silence does not become them.

Sure, the conservative female pundits on TV are talking, but they're paid to stir things up not go out and seek the voices of conservative female politicians who think Palin was the wrong choice or eventhe right choice. And even those conservative female talking heads have been rather absent and quiet.

For that matter, Hillary Clinton has been relatively mute on the choice of Palin and you know she has an opinion -- she always does.

I applaud Kathleen Parker for speaking out, for putting a name to the ga-ga reactions of David Brooks and William Kristol. I applaud her for critizing one of her own. I applaud her for criticizing a "sister." I applaud her for calling out the stereotypical male view of a woman, of calling a sex kitten a sex kitten even when she receives vile criticism from male conservatives (one email she received bemoaned the fact that she had not been aborted).

But I'm disappointed that other women haven't done so. Deeply disappointed. And all of this feeds my junkie habits -- I surf the net, I surf the channels, I thumb through the newspapers trying to find someone other than Rachel Maddow and Campbell Brown who have risked giving voice to the step backwards Palin represents. The many steps backward.

It's become a Stepford election and I'm longing for someone brash and brave to step forward and break the trance. Someone female and Republican that is. Where are they?

Crossing Paths

I have been "hired" to write a monthly newsletter for my previous job at a private girls' school. I am glad for the job because it combines my love of writing and my need for a bit more monthly income. It does something else: it allows me to be involved with the school without the stress of the school. In other words, I can be involved without really having to be involved.

I like that. No papers to grade, no parents to call, no icky behaviors to curtail, no frustrating faculty meetings to endure.

This contracted job also requires that I take photographs to use in the newsletter, which means I must spend time with the kids on their field trips, in the classroom, and at their big performances, but I do not have to organize the field trips, plan the lessons, or stay all day and night at school preparing for the culminating events.

I went on my first field trip yesterday and ironically, I ended up going to my current place of work (REI) to take photos of the kids climbing the pinnacle, the tourist attraction at REI.

When I showed up, with four cameras strapped around me (2 were mine, 2 belonged to other people), my co-workers at REI had no idea what I was doing. It was too hard to explain, so I just told them I was taking photographs of the students and left it at that. I didn't tell them that I used to work at this school or that I was making 5 times as much money going on field trips and writing than I was selling backpacks and binoculars.

This crossing of paths was a bit odd, but it sums up the slightly fragmented life I have these days. I am not bound by any consistent schedule -- each day is different and many of them are self-determined. Yesterday, for instance, I had the field trip and then a meeting at the school to learn how to use their online newsletter program. In between it all, I needed to run some errands and roast a chicken for dinner. Not having slept well for the past few nights, I ended up taking a small nap on the couch in the middle of the day in between a walk with the dog and downloading the 150 photographs I took on the field trip (10 of which are actually usable...thank god for digital cameras!).

There is part of me that misses the certainty of a day-to-day schedule -- get up at 6, get to school at 7:30, hammer through the day teaching, and come home at 4:30 for a walk with the dog and some semblance of a meal before I head to bed-- but that schedule comes with so much unhealthy baggage. While I find myself groping my way through some of my days of late, I can feel the stress melting away. Finally, FINALLY (and I say this with my fingers crossed) the congestion I've lived with for the past three months is diminishing and the purge has lightened my head as well as my worry.

Today I have three dogs to walk, some insurance papers to sign, a dog to brush, and time at the computer getting a start on my first newsletter article on leadership models in an election year. Each "job" -- the dog walking and the writing -- require me to log my hours, but in between is this mushy room in which I can make choices -- clean the house, do some laundry, make some soup, a long walk with the dog -- and while I'm still learning how to move within the mush, I'm finally feeling as if I have the energy and the confidence needed on this new and unfamiliar path.

Not Much Can Be Done

There are many details of my life I have little or no control over. First is this never-ending cold. Since I left the teaching profession (3 months ago), I have had one form of this congestive bug or another. Currently, it's a clogged head that requires me to stuff tissues into every pocket.

Second, there is this presidential election. While the polls are swinging my way, I fear the final days of lashing anger and bitter accusations.

Next, my dwindling investments. I no longer listen to the news. When my financial statements arrive in the mail, they remain unopened until I have a firm grip on something solid like my desk, the kitchen island, or these days, my house -- something weighty and substantial.

Then, there is my part-time, minimum-wage job. While I'm feeling more seasoned with every shift, a letter arrived in every employees' mailbox "positively" informing us that hours will be reduced in the next month, though they will increase as the holiday and snow season approaches(that is, IF the snow falls, which it's starting to do, and IF people decide to celebrate the holidays). The tone of optimism fell short of its intent -- I have averaged 20 hours one week and 8 the next. How much more will they cut?

So, I find myself grasping tightly to those things I can control. There is laundry. There is housecleaning. There are long walks with the dog. There is grocery shopping and simple dinners that involve digging through the freezer for those morsels we've stored away for future use.

The future is now.

There is the budget I've created, muddling through the spreadsheet program on my computer, meticulously logging the receipts for dog food, our food, and all those bills that come. "Death and taxes," they say, are the only certainties. But there are bills, too, and the dog who must be fed and exercised. There is sleep and there are friends. There is the beauty of this day --a blue, blue morning and the chill of winter. There are difficult certainties and there are enjoyable ones, too.

Letting go of those things I cannot control is freeing. While I can only do it sporadically, when I do, I breathe more deeply. There is motivation when I let go -- I am now working on other alternatives to my part-time job. There is dog walking that started almost of its on volition, and there is the chance for a small writing job at my former employer -- a monthly newsletter complete with photographs, which requires my participation on field trips and in the classroom. More hours equals more money.

And there is Ann. She is a constant and something I can wholly depend upon. We haven't seen much of each other these days what with my evening shifts and her long hours at work during the day, but when we find those shared moments they feel steady and certain.

The dogs (Lucy is here) have awakened from their after-breakfast-slumber and the day begs for a walk. So we shall head out to the lake and leave the uncertainty of stock markets, elections, and work behind.

Three Waffles, Four Dogs, and Little Old Me

Lucy and Rubin as puppies many months ago...

Last week, in a fit of panic, I made a decision: I shall be a dog walker.

Let me back up.

The hours at my new, minimum-wage job have been inconsistent. My investment portfolio, like everyone's, is diving. This December I will turn 50 and my financial planner tells me I still have 15-20 years before I can retire. While I no longer worry about all my responsibilities as a teacher having given up that profession (for now), I now worry about money.

I considered going back to teaching. I haven't ruled it out as an option, but while working and worrying one day last week, I thought about how much I really like spending time with dogs. Learning to be a trainer was not going to work -- it was not financially viable in the short term. So, I thought to myself, what if I started a dog walking business? I could work evening shifts and one day a on the weekend at the store, clearing my days for dog walking.

When I got home, I started looking into the particulars of starting a business. I mentioned my new endeavor to a previous co-worker who promptly sent me an email message from a woman in a nearby neighborhood who was looking for a dog walker. And before I knew it, I had two dogs on my list of new clients.

Two is about all I can handle at the moment. With my own dog to walk and my work schedule still undefined, I really needed to start slowly (though it can be argued that this idea leapt into action with more speed than I intended).

On top of this, I have agreed to walk my own neighbor's dog two times a week (this was before I came up with the business idea). So, while I'm walking two dogs for pay, I'm walking one for free. Oh, and I'm walking Rubin, my own dog on top of that though he loves to go with me on my other dog walking trips.

This morning is my first real day of being a dog walker. Lucy, a Boston Terrier mix is here this morning, her owner having dropped her off at 8 (something I agreed to, again, before the official business idea). Lucy, Rubin, and I went for a walk and played fetch at the tennis courts already this morning and in an hour, we'll head out to get Ollie, my other dog-client. Ollie, Rubin, Lucy and I will take another hour walk and as Rubin and I head home, we'll pick up Quillette, the neighbor's dog from up the street, for a shorter walk (she's much older). After Quillette goes home, I will get ready for my evening shift at the store, which will include some lunch and the preparation of a dinner.

This, I've decided requires waffles for breakfast. Waffles with flaxseed and homemade rhubarb/cherry jam. Oh, and butter. I figure I'm burning the calories with all this walking.

Ann is, of course, worried that I will over-extend myself and I suppose she has cause to worry, though so far, it's enjoyable. Okay, not ecstatically enjoyable as Rubin is now barking at Lucy since she has commandeered his toys. She's good at that. And Rubin is good at complaining.

And now they are playing tug-o-war with a toy that looks like a raccoon tail. And now, after I put the toys away, they are finally resting. This is good.

What a life I am making for myself.

(Does that last sentence need a question mark at the end?)

Wash and a rinse or two

When I looked out of the window at work this afternoon, a half hour before I was to head home, the rain came down in sheets. I crossed my fingers the clouds would squeeze themselves out before I mounted my bike to trudge up the hill towards home.

No luck.

I was washed and then pulled through the rinse cycle. The rain soaked my cycling pants after 5 minutes and the water poured off my helmet right into my eyes. Dressed in neon yellow with my red lights flashing and my high beams on, I was still leery of every car. The ones behind scare me the most, but today, with the gray shrouding me into invisibility, I was particularly cautious about the cars parked on the side of the road.

In cycling terms it's called getting "doored" when the driver, after parking her/his car, opens the door without checking her/his side view mirror. I have never been doored though I've had my number of close calls. On rainy days like this, no one is thinking about checking their side view mirrors. They just want to make it from their car to their destination without getting too terribly soaked. So, as I pumped my soggy self up Capitol Hill, I squinted into every parked car searching for a silohuette of a head or two.

Ten minutes into my ride, I felt cold water running down my back. My raincoat, neon yellow with extra reflection taped down the arms, has a pocket in the back and it was, unfortunately, open. With one hand I zipped it up and the waterfall down the back of my pants stopped, but not after my underwear soaked up the deluge. Equally soaked were my shoes and socks.

By the time I arrived home (a mere 25 minutes of pedaling) only the inside of my mouth was dry. I carried my dripping bike straight to the basement after kicking off my squishy shoes. When I came back upstairs, I could see the visible footprints of my wet socks on the bamboo floors. Rubin licked water off my pants the whole journey from front door to basement, wiggling himself in delight that I was finally home. I opened the back door to let him out and he looked at me as if I was crazy.

"It's wet out there!" he exclaimed and only after much coaxing did he venture out to relieve himself after 7 hours home alone. After I changed out of my wet clothes, the rain stopped and so I strapped on some dry shoes, leashed up the dog, and headed out for a walk. He needed it. Ten minutes later, the rain returned with a vengeance and even the dog, who would rather swim than do almost anything else, looked at me and shook in exasperation. By the time we got home I was as wet the second time as I was the first; the second rinse cycle of the day.

I'm not complaining. I wasn't cold or uncomfortable, just wet. The streets, aside from the too-fast-moving cars, were empty of people and our trail down to the lake and back up was meditative. It wasn't a hard rain, just one of those steady downpours that leave no dry spaces in between the drops. When we got home, Ann was just pulling up and she smiled when Rubin ran to her side. "You must be really wet!" she said and only after a moment did I realize she was talking to me.

Now we are both bundled in warm clothes with the heat on for the first time this fall. My hair is beyond curly, much like Rubin's, and he has even given up the need to play with a heavy sigh on his position underneath Ann's feet as she sits reading on the couch.

Weather like this is something I should be used to, but somehow it surprises me a little when it comes with such ferocity. The neighbor was out this afternoon clearing wet leaves from the gutters attempting to "empty the lake" as he described it forming at the end of our street. Now, with the gutters cleared, rivers of water are whooshing their way down the drains. Even with the furnace on, the music softly playing and the sound of the rain on the windows, I can still hear the water racing down the street.

I have tomorrow off though in the afternoon we are meeting up with friends for dinner and then a reading of Terry Tempest Williams from her latest book. We will miss the presidential debates, but I can think of nothing finer than listening to someone I truly admire. It's supposed to rain like this again tomorrow. It seems fitting. Perhaps we all need a good rinse cycle or two.

The Many Kinds of Congestion

I'm trying to avoid saying "Why me?" today after losing the battle with yet another cold. It's moving faster this time -- all sore throat yesterday, all stuffy nose today. I just took two Sudafed in hopes the "decongesting" it promises will arrive before dinner tonight when we are to spend time with my former colleagues at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant.

I don't do lazy well. Ann gave me direct orders today -- REST -- and so I have been, falling asleep to reruns of the X Files, eating tomatoe soup, drinking a whole jug of apple juice, and only walking the dog for a short while. I should be writing, but I just can seem to think through this fog of congestion and then I worry I am creating yet another excuse. One illness after the next has me wanting for motivation. I sputtered through work yesterday helping a man work out a kayaking trip to my old stomping grounds and woman, who is headed to Vietnam, find just the right piece of luggage.

Overhead luggage, I have learned, must be 22 x 14 x 9. That's inches, mind you. When you splay that out on the counter, it's not much space. I know there are people who don't own enough to fill such luggage, but I bite my tongue when "pitching" one piece of luggage over another. "Are you an organized packer who likes lots of compartments or are you the kind of person who likes an open space to fill with your belongings?"

This woman liked an open space, but the luggage had to expand for her return trip when she'd be bringing items back. I marveled at that idea. Go minimal to a foreign, far-less fortunate country -- two pairs of underwear and socks, a pair of pants, shorts, and a couple of shirts, minimal bath supplies, and something that resembles a coat, though that could be worn on the plane -- and then return, taking from this less-fortunate place, the trinkets of your visit. "I will leave behind my overabundance of wealth while visiting your impoverished land, but when I leave, I will buy "gifts" (that's what I'll call them) back to my home filled with more goods than you'll see in your lifetime."

I am being harsh, but it is fascinating watching the variety of shoppers who arrive at the store.

Another man showed up later and at first, I thought him homeless. His beard was rugged and unkempt, his clothes stained and torn, his shoes tired and holey, and his pack, into which his life was apparently stuffed, smelled slightly though not unpleasantly, just used.

In our training, we heard again and again -- don't assume. Every customer is different and though they may not look like they can climb Everest or canoe the Boundary Waters, that might just well be their current adventure.

It was hard not to think "Into the Wild" when I saw this man, but I pushed it out of my head. I did not assume. "Are you finding what you need?" I approached the scruffy young man.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I'm looking for something, like a duffel bag, to put my pack in for flying."

"Oh, we have just the thing," I told him and lead him over to the small section where one can buy just that, a pack bag for flying.

He took off his pack and with much delicacy on my part, we fitted the pack bag over it and zipped it up.

"Perfect." He smiled and his teeth were as white as a sheet of paper. Not homeless was my first thought, but then I reminded myself not to assume.

"Where are you headed?" I asked, avoiding the "where have you been" entry into a conversation.

"I'm going home," he sighed. "I've just spent the past 5 months hiking the PCT."

REI shoppers often speak in acronyms, but this one I'd heard before -- the Pacific Crest Trail.

"Wow, this (I motioned to the store) must be overwhelming."

He smiled again. "Yes, very."

We parted ways and he waved, slightly and shuffled off down the aisle cautious of the displays and people along his way.

Living simply is not that easy. That's the conclusion I've come to. It's so much easier to use the "things," whatever they may be, to navigate through life than to use, say, one bowl and spoon to create a meal. For instance, now that I'm earning almost $1000 a month (as opposed to the $3300 a month I earned as a teacher), I think about what I purchase. I've even created a family budget for us, which I'm forcing Ann to follow, so we don't live beyond our means.

But being at home more during the day means that the radio is on, the lights are on, and soon, as the temperature drops, the heat will be on. This costs us more and in that regard, working full time allows me to live more inexpensively. Well, at least someone else is paying for the electricity -- it doesn't show up on my bill at the end of the month.

When I see the Into the Wild Man who has lived for the past 5 months in the woods with very little contact with humanity, I think there is much I could give up. But then, when I see the wealthy businessman purchase $400 sunglasses after sitting on the last pair and then purchasing a $600 Suunto watch because it "looks cool" I think I live a very simple life compared with most.

Of course, if we continue to exchange this cold back and forth, I may have to add another column to our budget -- a DayQuil/NightQuil/Sudafed/Kleenex/Vicks Vapor Rub column.

I think I shall go back to the couch, but this time I'll take my laptop, that expensive material object I don't really need.

What Goes Around...

Rubin is back under my desk. It's early and we're both tired. I woke at 4 and couldn't fall back to sleep so I got up and came downstairs to muddle through some bills and papers. Ann got up at 6 and shortly after, Rubin followed. Now Rubin and I are both hunkered down in the study with me trying to write (my mind feels fuzzy) and Rubin trying to sleep.

He had a tough day yesterday. Our visit with Katie, the trainer, went well though it exhausted him. I guess it exhausted me as well. Mental work is far more tiring than physical and he's still feeling the effects of it this morning. As for the training, I have mixed feelings though it was clear that the "vibration" collar gets Rubin's attention.

This has been the difficulty -- Rubin, at certain times, decides not to listen. This can be annoying -- when you have to leave the park and he won't come to get his leash on, bouncing around and playfully barking at you -- but it can also be frightening -- when he chased after a bicycle at night across a busy street. I understand the reasons behind all of it -- sort of -- though Katie enlightened me more yesterday.

He is in his "adolescent" stage. He is, typical of smaller poodles (of which he is part of), nervous and aware making him sensitive to sounds and sights. When he reacts to these sensitivities, he does so from a place of fear. "He lacks confidence," Katie told me, "And it has nothing to do with how he was raised, but rather with the breed of dog he is."

I have a dog with a fragile self esteem. Great.

"He needs to learn," Katie advised me, "that coming to you is how he avoids his fear. You need to represent safety and leadership."

She strapped on the vibrating collar after demonstrating it on me. It felt like a phone vibrating against my skin. It didn't hurt, it didn't over-vibrate, it didn't really seem like much at all.

But that's my opinion. Rubin had a much different reaction.

Let me back up a bit. I watch the Dog Whisperer religiously. I find Cesar Milan to be a fascinating dog "philosopher" teaching his clients (the humans) to be confident pack leaders. Often, when he's working with a dog who has fears, the dog throws a wild tantrum at the end of the leash. Cesar's response is always "This is good." While the dog is in a tantrum, he keeps the leash tight and once the dog relaxes, he relaxes the leash. "I want the dog to know," he says, "that when he does the right thing, the tension on the leash goes away."

Often the owners of these dogs freak out a bit watching their dogs flip and flop and whine and whimper and growl and snarl at the end of the leash. Watching it on TV, I completely understand. It's just like a kid in the grocery store. If you give her the candy when she's screaming she will scream every time. If you just let her scream (as hard and embarrassing as it is) and don't give in, she won't scream the next time.

So when Katie called Rubin to her and he did not come, I shouldn't have been surprised when she said "no" and pressed the vibration button on the remote collar that Rubin would throw a tantrum. I guess I just never expected his tantrum to emotionally impact me. When the vibration hit his neck, he took off, spinning and biting his tail in a flurry of fur and whimpers. He headed straight for the door of the training room and slammed himself into the corner of the room in a panic.

I had to turn away. I couldn't watch. I had become one of those weak dog owners on the Dog Whisperer. She was "hurting" my dog and I wanted it to stop. Katie saw me turn. I explained what I was feeling and she said, as calmly as Cesar, "It doesn't hurt. It's just different and now he has gone into panic mode. He needs to think his way out of it."

He did, of course, but it took about 5 minutes and for the next hour, he was nervous. We only used the collar three times after that because, true to the intelligent side of his breeds, he learned quickly that when we said, "Rubin, come here" he could avoid any "acts of God" by making the right choice. Even after we got home, a "Rubin, come here" command had an instantaneous response.

By the evening, he was a little less certain if he wanted to follow the command, but one firm "no" snapped him out of it.

This morning, then, I woke thinking about the collar. We ordered one (none to cheap), but I had second thoughts. Maybe I just need to work with the long leash some more and really get him to come back 100% of the time instead of the 90% of the time I was accepting. Maybe if I worked harder with him, I could trust him more off leash. Maybe he would no longer chase a bicycle or bark like a madman at strangers on a forest trail. Maybe the one lesson was enough.

I debated the other side as well. One mistake could get him killed. I don't completely trust him to come back to me and when he doesn't or when he plays keep away, I get frustrated. I need something that's going to reinforce the command and clearly, the vibrating collar did just that. It's only a vibration, I told myself. I am not shocking him or hurting him in any way. Hell, when I put on his raincoat he goes into the exact same panic because he doesn't like how the coat feels on his body.

That's silly.

Then I thought about Katie's words: He lacks confidence. When he feels insecure, he barks, he runs, he misbehaves because he goes into another state of mind. He needs to think his way back to confidence. The collar snaps him out of the panic. The collar reminds him that the safe place is by your confident side. The more you take on that role and the more he sees you in that role, the more confident he will become. He's a smart guy. You'll probably not have to use the collar after awhile except on occasion when he regresses a bit, but once he gets it, he'll come back to you every time he's called.

Okay, it makes sense, but it's hard to trust the process.

This, I imagine, is exactly what all those parents felt when I talked to them about their children. Boundaries, rules, and limitations, Cesar Milan always says. He also says, Exercise, Discipline, and then Affection. This is how I taught children. It's how I thought I was teaching my dog, but I guess every parent needs to be reminded of their role even if it's sometimes a difficult pill to swallow.

The collar will arrive some time next week. He is to wear it 24/7, but we are not allowed to use it for the first week. He must get used to wearing it and have no negative association with the collar. When the "act of god" hits, he's to think it actually came from god and not the collar. Then, when we do use it, it must be in controlled settings where he cannot bolt across a street or off into the woods.

This morning, when I couldn't sleep, I kept thinking of Katie's words -- It won't take long. He's really smart. He'll get it. This will build his confidence. It will help him relax. Give it time and stay consistent.

God, how many times have those exact words come from my teacher's mouth!?!

Rubin just lifted his head from underneath the desk. Ann is about to leave for work and now Rubin's up and worried. "Rubin, come here," I call and what do you know, he comes.

Chicken Soup for The Dog's Soul

Chicken soup, I once read, is clinically proven to prevent and cure the common cold. This is why I made some this weekend. It turned out beautifully, my best yet, and is now expanding noodles in a container in the fridge.

I gave some to the dog last night. He is finicky, to say the least, but sporadically finicky. There are meals when he turns up his nose for hours until the food turns dry and brown around the edges. It's expensive food so I feel guilty throwing it out, though not as guilty as I'd feel if he ate the stale morsels and got sick. So out it goes, $5 at least, right into the garbage can.

I've tried discussing the current economic state not only of the world and the country, but of our household. "I am now a minimum-wage worker and momma can't bring home the bacon like she used to." All he hears is "bacon" and so his tail sets to wagging in anticipation of bacon scraps in his next bowl.

This is why I tried a few spoonfuls of chicken soup in his bowl last night. He ate it right up. Licked the sides of his bowl as if the soup had soaked itself right into the ceramic edges. But this morning, no go. I set it down, made him wait like any good dog owner, and then pretended to eat from his bowl. This has been the advice of the breeder right down to the pet store clerk who have all advised a "pack leader" mentality -- the leader ALWAYS eats before the pack. So, I pretend to dip a cracker or two into his bowl and the moan deliciously while I eat the crackers.

Either my dog is too dumb or consequently too smart. This technique works infrequently, so infrequent that I'm not sure when it does work that it's actually the cracker technique that has spawned a voracious appetite on his part or some other cosmic alignment of which I am woefully unaware. There are times, this morning in fact, when I ritualistically dip the cracker, moan with delight, that he looks at me and says, "If that bowl is full of crackers, we're in business lady, but if it's one of your silly ploys to convince me to eat that swill, it's not going to work."

He then walks into the study and curls up in a sleepy ball under my desk and sighs with regularity.

I can hear his stomach growl as I work.

On occasion he will fool himself into an upset stomach. He's done this recently, not eating until late in the afternoon, chowing down, instead, on grass in the back yard. He promptly throws up and then, just like humans, everything seems unappealing. But I'm convinced his stomach is not upset in the least. Rather it is empty and he mistakes hunger pains for an illness and refuses to realize if he ate his breakfast, he could pass up on the grazing.

This then, is his not so bright side.

He is not starving. I remind myself of that often. He is lean and fit and perhaps slightly under weight, but by no means in any danger of wilting away. When Monty comes for a visit, he'll eat after watching Monty down his food, but now that Monty is recovering from his flipped stomach (which required surgery last week!) and is on a 4 times a day small canned food diet, he doesn't come over as much to give eating lessons to Rubin.

That Rubin is not eating this morning actually works in my favor as we have a one-on-one session with Katie, his dog trainer. Rubin is well-behaved. A little rambunctious at times, but on the whole, obedient. Occasionally, though, he throws himself into misbehavior with such abandon, I wonder whose dog he really is or if he's in fact possessed by demons.

His favorite escapade is to grab his ball with which we are playing fetch and hop around us barking uncontrollably. Try as we might - with the use of enticing food and happy voices -- he will not get close enough for us to touch him let alone catch him. I read somewhere that this is a dog's idea of a joke. If so, Rubin is the king of joking. If he has any inkling that we are about to leave the game of fetch and strap on his leash, he morphs into a disobedient fiend, the master of keep away. A canine comedian.

While this behavior has been diminishing as he ages, the other night, during a game of fetch, his disobedience rose to a new level. We play at night in a big field by our house using a yellow ball that blinks rapidly so the dogs (Monty is usually with us) can see the ball as it's hurled across the field. The dogs chase after their respective blinky balls and then bound back to us for another throw. But on the night in question, Rubin retrieved his ball only to see a cyclist race across the field, his red blinking light on the back of his bike glowing in his wake.

Rubin took off. Barking at first and then headlong into a dead run, chasing the cyclist across the field and then, to our horror, across a busy street whereupon a car had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting him. We raced across the field shouting and screaming, but Rubin was in another world, chasing the cyclist with a singular purpose. When he finally realized he couldn't catch the rider, he turned around, back across the busy street and toward us, though when he arrived at our panting panic, he played his beloved game of keep away.

An interesting side note is that we often keep Rubin's leash on him (it's called a leash drag) so we can stop his games of keep away with our foot on his leash, but in his rabid race across the field, he lost not only his leash but his collar. Sensing that there was no way for us to capture him after the near death experience, he fell into his game of chase me, chase me. Eventually we caught him (cornered in a three-way grab) and then we spread out across the field to search for his collar and leash. I thought it was hopeless since the field had just been mowed and clumps of grass created a depth into which a human could get lost and most certainly a dog collar.

Just as we were to give up hope, I saw that Monty, who was off leash and as always obedient, lying down in the middle of the field. As I approached him I said, "I bet you found his leash, didn't you?" at which point Monty jumped up, tossed his own blinky ball into the air and pranced around me. I kicked my feet through the grass right where Monty had been lying and what do you know, there was Rubin's collar and leash.

Despite Monty's amazing ability to sleuth and communicate, Rubin's disobedience not only almost got him killed, but got us all brainstorming how to avoid such disobedience in the future.

"A shock collar," was Ann's suggestion and for the first time, I had to agree that that might just be the thing.

So, I emailed Katie the trainer who agreed to meet with us, not with a traditional shock collar, but with something a bit less cruel -- a vibrating collar. "It doesn't shock them at all," Katie wrote to me, "It sends out a sound and vibrates against their neck. It's just the thing to get their attention when they are in the altered state of chase." We scheduled an appointment immediately (for today) and Katie will see if Rubin reacts to the vibration of the collar before we decide to purchase one.

I have all the confidence in the world that this dog will get it with the first vibration. He hates anything "on him" like a raincoat or bandanna, so I imagine he'll figure out quickly that the vibration on his neck is something to obey lest it tickle him again. The fact that he will have an empty belly will also be to my advantage as he is never one to turn down tasty treats while training.

This has turned into a rambling post, but this is how I feel today -- a bit rambling. I have chores today, but sitting here listening to the keyboard click away, writing about the crazy, hungry dog at my feet feels more pertinent.

But I must get to it. I promised our neighbor I'd walk her dog today while she is off at school working on her master's degree in urban planning and community rehabilitation. There are sheets to change and bills to pay and then, yes, the vibrational training class.

Rambling.

Perhaps after such an adventure, chicken soup soaked kibble will sound scrumptious!

Wheezing Retirement

I am to meet with my financial planner this afternoon. After watching the stock market take another dive today, I wish I'd met with him sooner. What can I do? Down, down, down it goes and I am left with a minimum-wage job and dwindling savings.

Would I go back and do it differently? Would I go back and say, "I think I want to stay teaching even though it might be killing me because the salary is much better?"

I don't think so, but it's hard to be strong and firm in this resolve when my retirement skids downhill.

I like what a man on the radio said this morning. I'm not sure who I was listening to, but it made sense. It went something like this: You've got crooks at the bottom of this scandal and crooks at the top. Those at the bottom are the homeowners who, for reasons still unclear, signed onto loans they were neither qualified for nor could afford. On the top, you've got the de-regulated CEOs of banks and mortgage companies who fed credit to the credit unworthy and walked away with millions and billions of dollars. The solution is to now give those on the top a bailout, but in fact, we should give the bailout to the crooks on the bottom. Trickle down doesn't work. Let's try trickle up and see what happens. Do an FDR, in other words. Buy out all the mortgages, give out 30 year 5% fixed rate mortgages to everyone and see if that stimulates the economy.

It reminds me of Whoopi Goldberg who years ago said, "If this is the trickle down theory I'd rather be pissed on!"

But no one listens to me and meanwhile my retirement is high-diving into an empty pool.

I wonder what my financial planner will advise? Will he show me that chart that all financial planners show with the bar graph that goes up and up and up since 1929 with only slight dips and say, "Really, it's a correction, a painful one, but still a correction"? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I understand the bar graph. I get it, that over time, you make money. But that doesn't ease the pain of watching the stocks he's invested for me go down, down, and more down.

Meanwhile, Ann stayed home sick today only after I guilted her into it.

Ann: I really need to go today.

Me: So last week you were really angry at C, your co-worker, because she came into work all coughing and sneezing and you even blamed her for your existing condition. And now you're going to go into work sounding just like her and think everyone's going to be touched by your commitment and dedication?

Ann: (silence)

Me: So just call in sick. Take care of yourself and in the process, you won't get anyone else sick.

She did just that. Now she's on the couch reading "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle" and blowing her nose every few minutes and sputtering out a cough now and then.

There is nothing to do -- about her cold or my retirement investments -- except wait.

And so I wait.

What happened to the "g" in "ing?"

Talkin. Negotiatin. Delegatin. Changin. Lobbyin. Votin. Electin.

When did it happen? At first I thought George W. did it because he was speakin Texan. His parents don't sound like that. His brothers don't sound like that. Did he talk like that when he was at Yale? "I'm goin out for a beer. Anyone comin with me?"

Drinkin. Druggin. Pukin. Partyin.

Okay, so I'm willing (yes, willing) to let it slide because there is so much about W. that I find vile and repulsive.

But now, as the debates play on the TV in the background, I hear John McCain using the same inflections -- spendin, deterrin, torturin, fightin, succeedin -- and I wonder, what the hell happened to the "g" in "ing?"

Does he think it sounds folksy? Does he think it makes him a man of the people? Did he choose his "runnin" mate because she has no idea that a "g" belongs at the end of "askin" and "parentin"?

Maybe her husband's last name is really Paling and she just forgot about that nasty "g"?

McCaing?

Who knows.

When did "politickin" ruin the English langauage?

When this election campaign started, I was thrilled to know that whoever became president it would no longer be W. I could listen to the president speak on the radio or television once again and not cringe every time he (or she) tried to put a sentence together.

But now...now we're on the brink of electing two people who have decided they no longer have to pronounce words correctly.

What would the world think if Obama talked this way? He can't sound too black and he can't sound too smart -- each would be death to his campaign. He'd be labeled "elitist" in one breath and too "inexperienced" in the next. But McCain and Palin can walk all over sentence structure and pronounciations and no one, NO ONE says anything about it.

Help!

I'm doin my best to ignore the debatin because it grates against my upbringin.

And yet, there it is again -- It's goin' be tough...bombin... cooperatin...employin...

Arrrrrggggghhhhhh!

Hey Boo-Boo! Let's go get a pic-o-nic basket!

It started early. I got to work before the store opened and helped stock the shelves with stuff -- expense camping stuff. When the store opened, customers came and went. It was only about three hours into it that I realized a lot of large, rather chubby white men with beer t-shirts and dirty hands were asking for certain maps -- maps deep in the Cascade wilderness, maps we generally don't carry. It was only after helping such a man create a map he needed on a map machine, did I realize that these men, aside from their attire and hygiene, had something in common.

They were all hunters.

Hunting season is days away. On one website, which I looked up at work out of curiosity, has an hourly countdown for the various hunting seasons in Washington. 9 days until pheasants can be killed, and bears are currently in season. 16 days for deer and duck, 30 days for muzzleloader elk and archery deer. Who knew?

My favorite hunting customers were younger, though still unclean and pudgy, who came in like twins dressed in over-sized t-shirts with MCCAIN-PALIN embossed on their shirts and NRA emblazoned on their hats. One guy even had a McCain-Palin button as big as a dinner plate droopy from his t-shirt.

"Ya'll carry guns?" he asked me.

"No, sir, we do not." It was all I could do to be polite. Do they realize how much they fit the stereotype I'm trying to erase from my head of what McCain-Palin supporters look like? My co-worker wasn't so pleasant. Well, he was pleasant to their faces, but once they sauntered off my co-worker said, "Good thing we don't carry guns. We might have to use them to fight off the rednecks!"

Later he quipped, "We need to find those guys and give them directions to Cabellas (a down-home hunting store) and tell them you'll smell it before you step in it."

One customer did not fit the mold (the mold of a hunter or the mold of a right-wing Republican?). She was about 5 feet 2 inches tall and looked surprisingly like Sarah Palin. When she approached me for help finding a map, I pictured her as a typical hiker curious about a weekend trip to the Alpine Lakes.

But no. "I need a general map, large in scope because I'm going moose hunting."

I choked. "Oh," I said in a very knowing voice, "You're a hunter!"

Then a man, who was also looking at maps, and who fit the mold of both a Republican AND a hunter said, "You mean elk, don't ya?"

SPT (as one co-worker called her = Sarah Palin's Twin) giggled and said, "Yes, I mean elk! I've never been before, what kind of map do you think I need?" At which point the Republican hunter and SPT carried on a conversation about hunting and maps and all things guns.

I stepped away.

She came to the register and I was there to ring her up. "Did you find everything you needed for your hunting trip?"

"Why yes, thank you," she bubbled. "That man was very helpful."

I had to ask. "So, what's called you to the hunt?"

"Oh, I'm a writer."

Of course.

She continued. "I feel I should really understand hunting before I write about it. I've only gutted a chicken and a sheep, but I really want to get my hands dirty with a moose."

"An elk?" I questioned.

"Yes, an elk."

The hunters shuffled through, one after the other, and I did my best to steer clear. Instead, I helped a man who was from North Carolina. He was going hiking at Mt. Rainier. "We have hills," he told me, "beautiful hills, but I really want to give these mountains a try."

I helped him plan his route and then he noticed the watches. "My son wants a watch for his birthday. What can you tell me about them?"

This is a loaded question. We carry about 150 different watches and from day to day they are never the same. But I liked this man so I did my best to describe for him the many features. He chose two options. "I need to find my wife. Will you be here when I get back?"

"Certainly!" And he was off. About a half hour later he returned, wife in tow, and she was a pleasant (and un-hunter) as he. In the end, she bought the watch for him for his birthday and they would decide back in NC if their son wanted a similar watch for his birthday.

So I rung them up. She paid and I ran her card through the cash register, flipped it over to check out the signature to compare to the receipt and what do you know, we shared the same last name. While this may not seem like much if your name is Smith or Jones or Johnson or Rogers, but when your name is a rarity, one transported over from Eastern Europe, one you rarely see or hear or ever meet, it's not surprising to know that I jumped.

"My god! We have the same last name! And it's spelled exactly the same!"

We danced a jig and talked about relatives and hometowns and geneology and who knows, we may yet be related. "I knew I liked you right off!" the man said to me and I could tell he meant it.

"Have a great hike!" And we waved goodbye to each other.

I turned to the next customer, who was a large man with hairy hands and a grimey shirt. "Ya'll carry any guns?" he asked.

I work again tomorrow. 8 days until the pheasants must take cover. Bears are scurrying as I type. And those muzzleloader elk better watch out for SPT and her desire to gut a moose.