Musings on Holiday Music

With the coming of Thanksgiving, comes the advent of holiday music. Some people hate holiday music. I can't say that I hate it although it does get old by the time Christmas finally arrives. In fact, the music used to be my favorite part of the season.

I have noticed the past 10 years that the local radio station that plays holiday music between Thanksgiving and Christmas seems to have a limited repartee of songs, playing the same songs everyday, every hour. When compared to newer holidays like Labor Day or Kwanzaa, Christmas (and for that matter Hanukkah) has been around a  long time. So there is a ton of Christmas (and Hanukkah) music out there. Public vendors like the local radio station are not  interested in Christmas music anymore, they are interested in shopping music. True Christmas classics like "The Holly and the Ivy" and  "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen",  have been relegated to church choirs and madrigal groups leaving the radio waves to dump out songs like "Santa Baby" and "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."

The only song I hate more than "Santa Baby" is the "Little Drummer Boy". I think the story is sweet but all the pa-rumpa-pum-pumming makes a mediocre song last for a horrid eternity.  While I can totally relate to the drummer boy's plight of having no gifts to bring because he was too damn poor to buy food, much less gold or frankincense, he could pa-rumpa-pum-pum a lot less and still get his point across.

Peace! lw

Sonic's Newsletter Debut

Sonic and I teamed up to write the Fall newsletter for City Dog, Country Dog. I've been attending City Dog's Call of the Wild Dog Camp in Yachats every year since the first camp in 2004. Sonic's camp debut was in 2011 as a 7 month old whippersnapper fresh out of a shelter in Klamath Falls where he was labeled as incorrigible. Camp is the place he learned to be off the leash in the woods without getting lost (at least not for long) and to hunt rats with passion. As my camp pals would attest, he's come along way. While he's still a handful, he's been worth it. Rising into the top ten Schipperkes in the North American Flyball Assc. has been a super sonic journey for this wild and crazy little pup. He defines the word enthusiasm and his zest for life reminds me that refusing to give up can carry you far. Peace! lw
Click on the link below to see my article and his shining face.
http://citydogcountrydogtraining.com/CDCD_News_Fall_2014.pdf

Fun with Socially Awkward Moments

My friend gets married. Now it should not be a big deal that I am invited to the reception. In a room full of dog owners or science geeks, I'm cool as a cuke.  But when it's just some regular, average folks, I  reach the pinnacle of social awkwardness in a nanosecond. My friend knows me well and says she understands if I can't  bring myself to attend. In the interest of being a good friend, I force myself to put on nice clothing and go. I hate nice clothing.  I invite a mutual friend to join me and she agrees.

When I arrive at the restaurant, I see the happy couple greeting guests.  I congratulate them briefly and then head back into the reception room where I fail to find an empty chair.  I stand there in the middle, surveying a room full of old people, like a nervous hare assessing escape routes. There is only one way out and it is the way I came in.

I hustle back to the front of the restaurant and drop anxiously into a booth. I grab my phone knowing that text-ing could squelch my anxiety. Let's see... who can I text? Who can I tell that I am dangerously close hyperventilating?

"Hi", says the server, "Can I get you anything? Are you with the wedding party?"

"Yes," I say becoming too honest. "I hate these things. My socially awkward state is escalating. I just had to get out of there where I can send some texts or inhale oxygen."

"Oh no problem," she says," I get it. My boyfriend is the same. He hates social gatherings and he gets all sweaty. Let me get you something for that."

"Great," I say ," a Diet Coke with a little something."

When the drink arrives I slam it. Mistake! It is all rum with just enough Coke to hide that fact.
I almost cough it up back up.

About half  way through the drink, my friend arrives.Whew! Not alone!  We head for the buffet which is pretty well picked over. We glean a few scraps and find a space on the fringe to stand with our plates. We chat. Toasts are given, cake is eaten.  I am done.

I hope her marriage lasts because I am not going to her wedding again. Seriously! Not going again. \

Peace! lw

Time's Upper Hand

All people have 8760 hours per year in a non-leap year. The average person spends about 2000 hours at work (23%). That, of course, does not account for overtime or any work we take home. Most healthy people spend almost 3000 hours per year asleep. So that's another 1/3 of our time used up. Unfortunately, sleep is necessary and we suffer if deprived of it. Most people spend another 5% of time commuting about to work and other places we have to go. That leaves about 40% of our time up for grabs. I would guess that most of us spend more that half of these left over hours leading a civilized life: getting the oil changed, mowing yards, eating, cleaning,  taking showers, and standing in all kinds of lines. It's what we gotta do to continue on in the civilized world. If you have kids you give most of that time to them in an attempt to turn them into productive tax-paying citizens  in the event that you let them live into adulthood.

That leaves us only about 20% of lifetime of hours to really do the things that make life worth it. Since it's not a lot, we have to work hard at spending the 20% really well.

Now the really bad news. Once you spend time, it's gone. Really gone. You can't get it back no matter what you do. So if we decide to spend those few hours that are truly ours to spend sitting on the bench, then what? We don't get time sponsored "do-overs". Once it passed, it's past.

The other unfair thing about time is that nobody gets to know how much they have. We aren't born with an expiration date stamped on our hand. All we know is that everybody gets some. Time always has the upper hand. It keeps us guessing. How would we live if we did have an expiration date? Would our lives change as the expiration date got closer? We are only guaranteed one day at a time. So you if rack up your Super 20% in the bank in hopes of using it for the bucket list, you might get it, but you might not. Time is not FDIC insured.

I don't have a bucket list.  Like many working people, I don't have the money or large chunks of time to do much about what might be on a bucket list. Minding the present and not worrying too much about the future is how I survive the hands of time staring me down. For me, "Seize the Day" seems a more appropriate response to what to do with my Super 20%. I have to think about what I can do today or this week.  What can I learn today?  Who can I appreciate tomorrow? Where will I go and what should I do this week to find some peace to refuel my soul? So many questions, so little time.

Tick..... tick.......tick.

lw

Here's a place that Pi and I go to relax and reflect. Pretty sure he's reflecting
 on \how much trouble he would get into if he chased those ducks. 

You think it's funny, but it's snot.

I have a cold. It's terrible. Not terrible enough to keep me from going to work, just terrible enough to make everyone I work with miserable too. I don't mind the fact that I am tired but I would like to be able to breathe. Not breathing is a problem. I tried breathing some oxygen from our anesthetic machine today. I thought maybe more oxygen would be helpful......... it wasn't.

I hate being sick. In my family, if you were sick it was considered a sign of weakness. Sicknesses were required to be ignored as long as possible. To get out of going to school, my mother required bleeding, barfing, or a fever over 101 F. If you could not produce one of these effects to her satisfaction before the bus came, you went to school even if she had to carry you to the bus stop and dump you there. As a result, I spent a few days in the nurse's office while the nurse made many attempts to contact my mother to retrieve me.

I will be miserable for a week, somewhat miserable for another week, and then it will be over until I catch it again. Unless it kills me.
Achoo! lw

Sisterhood of the Whispering Pants

Alas, the autumn is upon us. The leaves are turned. The rain has come. My hot flashes have subsided for the time being.  Time to pull out the winter, sweaters, jackets, rain gear, and my favorite corduroy pants. This year my old gray corduroys are baggier than ever since I dropped a few pounds. So I donned them for day and was sad to find out that even when the pants are not too tight  they still  utter a zippy whisper with every step.

What the pants whisper is up for interpretation. When they were tight I was sure they quietly buzzed the phrase, "Too fat, too fat, too fat".  Now, that I'm a year older and have a bum knee,  I think they mutter, "Slow down, slow down, slow down."

Why does anyone wear corduroy pants anyway?
Peace! lw