humor

A Matter of Importance

/ Ann Coleman / 91 Comments

Mom has been super busy lately, and apparently that means she’s not had any time to write blog posts.  So I decided to write a guest post on her blog, because: 1) I’m a super-helpful dog (as we all know) and 2) I’m getting a little tired of listening to Mom complain about being too busy to keep up with her blog.  I’m hoping if I take over for a few days that will both put her mind and ease and give my ears a break.  I believe that’s what they call a “win-win” situation.

Sometimes I wish that I could talk directly to Mom in a way that she would understand, but so far our communication is limited to words like “stay,” “sit,” “potty break,” “let’s go for a walk” and “get off the couch.”  But if I could sit her down for a heart-to-heart conversation, I would tell her that she really needs to stop fretting so much when her schedule gets so crowded that she can’t keep up with everything.  Why humans insist on believing that they can “do it all,” don’t ask me.  But I know it’s a myth that many of them, including my mom, believe in.

We dogs know better.  We know that life is all about priorities and the way to keep from getting all stressed out and overwhelmed is to know exactly what is most important in our lives and behave accordingly.  For example, one of my duties as the dog of the house is to greet guests, and I’m good at it.  When someone first comes through the door, I race toward them and then (if Mom isn’t quick enough to stop me), I jump up and lick their face to show them just how glad I am they’re here.

But even though greeting guests is great fun, it isn’t my top priority.  If someone comes over when I’m eating my dinner, I just go right on eating.  And if I happen to be in the middle of a good nap when someone walks in the door, even if it’s Mom and Dad, I don’t jump up to say hello.  I’ll open my eyes briefly and give a tiny tail wag by way of welcome, but that’s it.  Because in my opinion, eating and sleeping are top priorities, whereas being a one-dog welcoming committee is not.  Which is why I don’t feel guilty about neglecting my greeting duty when I’m eating or sleeping.

I’d love to tell Mom that it’s really okay to neglect things like blogging, attending meetings, volunteer obligations, cleaning house, etc. once in a while, especially if she’s neglecting them because she’s doing things that are more important.  You know, such as babysitting the grandchildren, going on a much-needed vacation or celebrating the holidays with family.  Or even just plain old taking a little time to herself for a change.  But since I can’t actually tell her, the best I can so is set a good example and hope she manages to learn from it….

Love,  Finn

A Grand Surprise

/ Ann Coleman / 110 Comments

I have to be honest:  I didn’t see this coming.  In the first place, I never gave much thought to what my life would be like when I became, shall we say, “a woman of a certain age.”  Like most young people, I secretly believed aging was something that happened only to other people, but that I would maintain my youthful vigor right up to the day I died.  (Even if I lived to be 100.)

Yet slowly but surely, my body began to succumb to the ravages of time.  I still remember the morning I woke up and found I couldn’t read the newspaper because the print was suddenly fuzzy.  I blinked repeatedly and even put in eye drops, but nothing helped.  It took the better part of the day before I realized the time had come for reading glasses.  And the first time I noticed that my neckline was both sagging and full of wrinkles, I almost threw away my make-up mirror.  The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that I couldn’t safely apply my mascara without it.

But what really surprises me about reaching the ripe old age of 64 is the change in my behavior. And this change can’t be blamed solely on my age.  I know for a fact that there are precisely three reasons why I am now doing and saying things I never thought I’d say or do, and those reasons are my three grandchildren.

To be honest, I didn’t give becoming a grandparent any more thought than I gave any other aspect of aging.  When I first heard that my daughter was going to have a baby, I was thrilled, but I didn’t really believe that becoming a grandparent would change me very much.  And yet it did.

From the first time I laid eyes on my new grandson, I was smitten. That’s only natural.  But the problem was that overnight, I turned into the typical obnoxious new grandparent.  I had tons of photos of my grandson, and I shared them with everyone who crossed my path.  How could they not want to see the most adorable child in the history of the world?

So imagine my surprise when grandchild number two came along.  Not only was she equally adorable, but she was my first granddaughter!  That had to be shared as well.  And not just by photos.  By the time I became a grandparent to two adorable children, I was also sending friends, family, and old schoolmates videos of them.  Regularly and relentlessly.

By the time the third grandchild was born (another boy), I was a hopeless case.  I talk about my grandchildren, I write about my grandchildren, I share photos and videos of my grandchildren with all and sundry, etc.  In short, I’m a typical grandparent who is hopelessly in love with the three little people who gave her that title.  And yes, it’s a sign of my age. But unlike those others, it’s a sign I happily embrace…..

Service Dog

/ Ann Coleman / 84 Comments

I’ve always been a helpful dog.  It’s just my nature.  When I see someone in need of assistance, I step right up and offer a helping paw.

Take yesterday, for instance.  Mom and Dad have been complaining for weeks about their internet service.  So yesterday, a technician came to fix it and I was right there, helping.  Even when it meant squeezing in next to his tool box, getting up close and personal, and turning a deaf ear to Dad telling me to get out of the way.  It took us almost three hours, but you know what?  We fixed it! And I know it would have taken much longer without my assistance.

I don’t like to brag about myself, but the truth is, I can help with just about anything.  I help around the house all the time.  Mom likes to keep a clean house, so whenever anyone spills food on the floor, I snarf it right up.  I also rearrange the throw pillows on the sofa from time to time, because she never places them just right.  But most importantly, I make sure our house stays free of pests, especially flies.  If I see a fly in the house, I chase it down until I catch it, even if it means jumping up on a table or crashing into the window blinds.  I’m that dedicated.  Once I catch the fly (and I always catch it eventually), I dispatch it humanely and neatly by eating it.  Flies don’t taste very good, but dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do.

I’m also very helpful in the yard.  I chase away any squirrels, rabbits or chipmunks that wander in before they can eat any of our flowers, and I bark (loudly and persistently) at any dog that goes by just to let them know I’m on duty here.  Constant vigilance is essential in these matters, despite what my parents seem to think.  (They may say they want me to be quiet, but I know that deep down, they’re grateful for my service.)  I also help Mom with her Spring planting by digging holes wherever I think the flowers should go.  She might not always use the holes I’ve dug, but I just know she appreciates the thought.

Still, I think the area where I really shine is childcare.  The grandchildren come over a lot, and when they do, I go to work.  First, I make sure they feel welcome when they walk in the door.  Lots of jumping, whining, excited barking, etc. lets them know just how glad I am they’re here.  But I’m good at other things too.  If they’re putting together a puzzle on the floor, I use my nose to push the pieces around to help them along.  If they’re served some food they don’t want to eat, all they have to do is slip it under the table to me and I dispose of it.  And if they’re throwing a ball around, I’ll chase it down and sometimes even bring it back to them.

Sure, it’s hard work to be so helpful all the time, but I don’t mind.  It’s what I’m good at, and besides….it’s the best way I know to show my family just how much they mean to me.

Love, Finn

It’s a Mystery

/ Ann Coleman / 88 Comments

When our children grew up and moved out of our house, my husband and I officially became “empty-nesters.”  I remember having mixed feelings about it, both proud of the adults my son and daughter had grown into, yet also feeling the loss of the children they had been.  But for the first time in years, I had empty closets, dresser drawers, and even empty storage containers on our basement shelves.  It was a strange and wonderful thing.

I remember standing in my son’s old bedroom in front of an empty dresser and wondering, “What am I going to put in it?”  Usually my problem was finding a place to store our stuff, not finding stuff to fill our storage space.  Eventually, I put my collection of antique post cards, our heating pad and extra throw blankets in that dresser, deliberately leaving one drawer empty so houseguests could use it to unpack and settle in properly.

That was approximately ten years ago, and sadly, finding stuff to put in empty storage space in our house is no longer a problem.  Somehow or other, we’ve filled every one of those closets, storage bins, and dressers.  The house that used to comfortably hold a family of four is now full to bursting, even though there are just two of us living there now.  And I have absolutely no idea how that happened.

I’m not a person who shops a lot, or who is comfortable having a lot of stuff.  I cull my wardrobe regularly, and make frequent trips to local donation centers with bags full of clothes and household items.   With the exception of my photo albums and my books, I’m not, and never have been, a “saver.”  If anything, my motto is “less is more.”  So how did I end up with a full house?

I can blame some of it on the grandchildren.  My grandmother kept a bedroom in her small bungalow reserved for grandchildren, and it always made me feel so welcome.  I wanted that for my own grandkids, so they have a dedicated room in our house, complete with toys, books, and a crib.  I also acquired a few things when my mom moved to a retirement community, which explains the large drum table wedged into our third bedroom.  My husband sometimes complains about it, but I grew up with that table and can’t seem to let it go.

Still, that doesn’t account for the overflowing storage shelves, the packed-to-capacity closets, the boxes underneath the pool table in the basement family room, etc.  We do a big clear out every couple of years, congratulating ourselves on successfully downsizing our stuff, but it’s always just a matter of time before those closets and shelves fill right back up.  I don’t understand it and I don’t like it, but it still happens.

I guess I just need to accept that this is one of life’s mysteries, like how we can put two matching socks in the washing machine and only one sock comes back out.  Or how we can diet for two weeks and lose one pound, but eat one piece of cheesecake and gain three.  Maybe some things just weren’t meant for us to know….

Room for Improvement

/ Ann Coleman / 73 Comments

One of the downsides of buying “fixer-upper” houses is that they require a lot of work.  Over the years my husband has become adept at hanging dry wall, replacing basic plumbing fixtures, doing light carpentry, etc.  My job is usually painting and assisting, although once I surprised him by widening a doorway with my trusty crowbar.  (Sadly, my husband wasn’t impressed.)   But some jobs require a professional, and that’s when things get a little tricky.

The problem is while I love home improvement projects once they are finished, I hate the process of actually having the work done.  It’s not fun having to live with the noise and dust of demolition, and I’m not a fan of having workers in my house, no matter how nice or professional they are.  It never fails that if I get up extra early to be showered and dressed before the crew arrives, they don’t show up until around ten in the morning.  But if I dare to venture down into the kitchen to get my early morning Diet Coke, three carpenters are sure to come in the back door, calling out a cheerful “hello” while pretending not to notice I’m still in my pajamas.  You get to know the people who work in your house, but we don’t need to know each other quite that well.

Our latest project was supposed to be tearing out the carpet in the small family room off our kitchen, leveling a small section of the floor and laying down a new laminate floor.  What it turned into was the complete demolition of the entire floor (you could see the slab the room sits on), redoing most of the joists and then laying a new sub floor, laminate floor, baseboards and thresholds.  They also repaired some hidden holes in the exterior walls (we were wondering how a chipmunk got in our house).

None of this was easy.  I know because I could hear the workers complaining as they struggled to remove wood that was rock hard and nailed in with what seemed to be a thousand nails per square foot.  And just to make things extra fun, the nails were so old that the heads often came off when they were trying to pry them out.  I thought the worst was over when they began laying the new floor, but soon discovered that involved using the loudest nail gun I’ve ever heard.  And of course the sound of it terrified our dog Finn, who promptly took refuge on our antique and recently-refinished dining room table.

The project is just about complete as I write this, and the new floor really does look good.  It’s nice to know that the chipmunk entrance is now blocked off and new insulation has been installed.  A few hours with a good vacuum and a few dozen dust cloths should clean up the last of the mess, and then we get the fun job of moving our heavy furniture back into the room and finally placing my Christmas decorations where they belong.

Right now I’m swearing we’ll never tackle another home-improvement project, but I know that isn’t true.  Time has a way of making bad memories fade away, and eventually we’ll add that dormer to our bedroom I’ve been wanting for years.  All I ask is when that day comes, please ignore my whining and complaining.  Because no one likes to be reminded they really should have known better….

Keep It Simple

/ Ann Coleman / 106 Comments

My husband and I recently returned from a wonderful vacation.  We were lucky enough to spend a week with our daughter, son-in-law and grandsons in a rented house just a few blocks from the beach, stores, and restaurants.  Spending time with the people we love is a good thing, and spending time with them in a vacation setting is even better.  Overall, it was a very good week.

Very good, but not perfect.  And yes, few things are perfect, and the key to a good vacation is to overlook the things that don’t go quite right.  We did that.  When it rained, we read and did jigsaw puzzles.  When it was too windy to walk the beach, we swam in our pool instead.  But the problem that we couldn’t quite conquer was the house itself.

It was a very nice house, but it also equipped with “state of the art” technology.  I know that sounds like a good thing, and in some houses, it probably is.  But in this particular house, it meant we spent way too much time just trying to figure out how to turn out the lights at night.

Every room had several switch plates that operated the various lights and window shades, and every switch plate had several buttons and finger-operated “slides.”  The trick was to push the right button and use the right slide in the right sequence, which apparently varied from day to day.  What worked to turn off the porch lights on Monday night did not work on Tuesday night.  Other lights turned on by themselves a few minutes after we turned them off.

And the problem wasn’t just the lights.  The front door refused to lock from the outside, so we had to lock it from the inside and then exit via the garage.  The ultra-sophisticated dryer started to make strange, loud noises instead of actually drying the clothes.  We decided we could air dry our clothes as long as the washing machine worked, so of course the washing machine promptly broke down, mid-cycle, with our clothes inside and the door still on “lock.”

But the worst was the stove top.  It was equipped with a control pad and six invisible burners that were supposed to light up when you placed a pan on them.  So I put my pan on, adjusted the temp and waited for my pan to heat so I could scramble some eggs.  The burner stayed cold, and the control pad informed me the “pan is not detected.”   I muttered words I didn’t want my grandsons to hear and pushed the setting button on the control pad, which produced a recipe for New England Clam chowder, complete with photos.  Eventually we discovered that the stove top only works with certain pans.

I’m not against state of the art technology, per se.  But I am against making things so very complicated that people who are trying to have a peaceful vacation have to waste time trying to figure out how to turn off a light or scramble some eggs.  I can do those things at my house, I swear.  My stove lets me use whatever pan I want, and I can dim our lights with a simple dimmer switch.

Sometimes complicated doesn’t mean better.  It just means more things that can go wrong.  The KISS (keep it simple, stupid) motto may not be nice, but it’s not wrong either……

Picture Perfect

/ Ann Coleman / 85 Comments

I was at a photography shop yesterday, uploading my photos in order to make prints of them.   A woman was sitting at the at the kiosk next to me, being helped by a young man who worked at the store.  She was trying to make 5×7 inch prints of her photos, and it wasn’t going well.  The woman (who looked only slightly older than me) kept apologizing for her ignorance of the system, and for needing the employee to help her.  “Sorry I’m taking up so much of your time!  But this is hard for someone my age,” she said, “it was so much easier when all we had to do was bring in our photo card and insert it into the computer.”

The more I listened to their conversation, the more I was struck by the woman’s attitude.  Why did she keep apologizing?  Because she was right: it was so much easier to print our photos a few years ago.  We didn’t have to worry about uploads and file compatibility, retaining original resolution or any of the other stuff she was struggling to understand.  We just inserted our photo card into the kiosk, the pictures popped up on the screen, and we selected the number and size was wanted of each.  It was quick and easy.  

But in these past few years, printing photos has become a real struggle.  I can’t get my photos to upload properly to the online sites anymore (apparently, they’re not compatible), so I go to the shop and sync my phone with their device and upload them there.  Even that takes a very long time unless I use their Wi-Fi, which my phone informs me isn’t secure, and every once in a while the upload simply stops for reasons no one can explain.  These days, it takes real determination and lots of patience to make a print of a photo.  

I believe that woman had no need to apologize, and yet I understood why she did.  If you’re over fifty and struggling with any type of technology, often the immediate assumption is that you’re not quite smart enough to, say, actually print a photo.  The young man who was helping her was patient and kind, but not once did he agree with her that the new system is harder than the old.  Nor did he contradict her when she kept repeating that the problem was her age.  But the truth is, if a system has become complicated and doesn’t work properly, the problem might not be the age of the person trying to use it.  As radical as it sounds, the problem just could be that the system is flawed.

I know I’m one of the few people who still likes to print my photos, so I soldier on.  I’ve learned the difference between a “jpeg” and a “HEIC” photo file, and how to convert one to the other.  I schlepp to the photo shop to use their kiosk because if I try to use the shop’s website, it takes approximately five minutes for each photo to upload.  And when I’m really stymied, I’ll ask for help from the staff.  But no matter how difficult the process becomes, I have vowed that I will NOT utter the words,  “I’m sorry, but I’m just too old to understand……..”

 

Memorable

/ Ann Coleman / 95 Comments

My husband and I eat out more than we should, but we rarely visit a restaurant more than once or twice a month.  I honestly don’t think there’s anything about either one of us that is particularly memorable, as we’re just your average sixty-something couple who enjoys a good restaurant meal.  So I’m always a bit surprised when the staff recognizes us, because I’m not exactly sure just what it is that would make us stand out from the dozens, if not hundreds, of other people they serve every month.  I mean, it’s not as if we’re bringing along our pet aardvark or something else that would attract undue attention.

Yet time and time again, the wait staff will greet us warmly and sometimes even remember what we like to order.  The first time this happened, I was with some former college friends, having our own little reunion five years after graduation.  We walked into the college bar we’d frequented as students and the bartender greeted us with, “Welcome back, ladies!  Having the usual?”  (That did startle me a bit, but I put it down as the result of a misspent youth.)

Sometimes it’s been rather touching, such as the time my husband and I returned to a restaurant we hadn’t eaten in since the pandemic started.  My husband got us a table while I made a quick stop in the restroom.  When I joined him, our old waitress brought over the menus and greeted us warmly.  I was impressed she’d remembered us, but then she looked at me and added, “It’s so good to see you!  When your husband walked in alone, we actually got a little teary.”  My husband battled cancer during the pandemic, so he weighed about fifty pounds less than he had when the staff last saw him.  I guess between him looking so gaunt and my absence, they thought we’d both contracted Covid and only he had survived.

We’ve puzzled about this, and the only thing we can come up with is that maybe we’re just good customers, restaurant-wise.  We eat out regularly, we’re always polite and friendly with the wait staff, and we try to tip well.  We’re patient when they’re short-staffed, and understanding when things don’t go perfectly.  Waiting tables is hard work, so maybe those who do it appreciate, and remember, the customers who treat them well.

And if you think about it, the same is true for almost every area where we  interact with other people.  We know how important it is to treat our friends and family well, but I believe it’s just as important to treat everyone we come into contact with well, as far as we are able.  A bit of patience, a friendly word, or even an encouraging smile seem like such little things….but the truth is, people notice them.  And often, that’s also what they remember.

Vindication

/ Ann Coleman / 86 Comments

I’ve been telling Mom and Dad for years that rain and storms are dangerous, but they wouldn’t believe me.  They think they know better, just because I’m a dog.  Whenever I felt the atmosphere begin to change (and like most dogs, I can sense that well before the first raindrop appears), I’d whine, shake and pace anxiously to warn them of the impending danger.  When that didn’t work, I’d jump up on the couch next to them, or even on the table if that’s where they were sitting, in an effort to get their attention.  All that got me was a sharp, “Get down!” while they pushed me off.

Even when the storms actually hit, they’d pretend everything was okay.  It could be pouring rain outside, with the sky lit up with lightening and deafening booms of thunder, and Mom and Dad would basically just go about their business, ignoring it all.  Even worse, they wanted ME to ignore it!  “You’ll be fine, Finn,” they’d say.  “It’s nothing but a little rain and thunder.”  Now I know that my parents are mostly smart people, but when it comes to bad weather, they have absolutely no clue.

So I have to admit that I feel just a little bit vindicated after the past week.  We had THREE bad storms in the past seven days, and all of them resulted in some rather serious flooding in our area.  Unlike many others, our house escaped damage, so we were lucky.  But our driveway turned into a raging river with several inches of rain pouring down it, and we even had white caps where it meets the street.  Trash cans floated by and disappeared behind a neighbor’s house, and all the while the water crept closer and closer to us.

Mom says we’re lucky that our house sits up high, but even that didn’t help last night, when fifty-mile an hour winds drove the rain right against our house and the upstairs bathroom window started leaking all over the floor.  Mom seemed very unhappy about that, but not nearly as unhappy as she was later, when Dad used her best towels to stuff into the window to keep more water from coming in.  And today there are many streets in our neighborhood that are still closed because of the flooding damage and the trees that blew down in the high winds.

“See?” I want to tell my parents. “I was right!  Storms are VERY dangerous!”  I’d like to believe that when the next storm comes, they’ll be a bit more sympathetic to my fear.  And then maybe they’ll join me when I take precautionary measures, like going to high ground in case of flooding.  (The dining room table is ideal for that, and there’s room for all three of us on it.)  I know perfectly well that being frightened out of your wits and trying to find a safe place is the only logical response to bad weather, and maybe, just maybe, Mom and Dad have figured that out now too.

But I guess only time will tell if they’ll react appropriately when the next storm hits.  And the one thing that all  of us agree on is that we don’t want the chance to find that out for a long, long time.

Love, Finn

Dog Training

/ Ann Coleman / 83 Comments

03FF4508-3450-4F62-A4A1-53B29F66B001I’ve been living with my human family for over three years now, and I have to say that things are going pretty well.  I’m still not allowed up on the furniture (when my parents are around to see it) and they still insist on feeding me dry dog kibble when all I really want is a plate of the same food they’re eating, but overall, I’ve got them pretty well trained. The trick with humans, I’ve discovered, is to let them think they’re training you, when in reality, you’re training them.

Take walks, for instance.  Like all dogs, I love a good walk. Sauntering around the neighborhood with my human in tow is great fun, and I especially like stopping to sniff all the enticing odors along the way.  The first few times Mom took me for a walk, she insisted on keeping up a brisk pace, and seemed irritated when I’d stop to sniff every few feet.  She didn’t understand that investigating all the scents we encounter is how I learn what’s going on in our neighborhood.  How am I supposed to know that the beagle up the street passed stopped by this very same bush if I’m not allowed to smell it thoroughly?  And don’t get me started on all the interesting scents coming from the storm sewer….the stories I could tell!

So I had to teach Mom the importance of letting me stop and sniff on our walks.  It took quite a while, with me pointedly ignoring her tugging on the leash and repeated cries of, “Come on!” before she figured it out.  She still doesn’t let me stop and sniff every single scent, but now she waits patiently when I discover something particularly intriguing, which happens a couple of times per outing.  I heard her bragging to Dad about how she’s taught me to mostly keep moving, and of course I let her believe it.  But the truth is, I’ve taught her to let me stop and sniff.

And while my parents still fill my supper dish with kibble, I’ve taught them to also share their (far superior, in my opinion) food with me.  Again, it took time and lots of patience on my part, but now they both know that whenever they eat something, they have to save a bite of it for me.  And since both of them are fond of their food, I get quite a few “bites” of food every day.  My nickname is Bubbles (due to my bubbly personality) and they actually refer to the tidbits they give me as the “Bubble tax.”  I don’t care what they call it, as long as they pay it.

I’m not sharing this to brag on my success, even though I’ve done a pretty good job of training my parents.  I’m sharing it to give hope to all the other dogs who have just joined their human family and might be a feeling a little frustrated by how slow their new parents are on the uptake.  I want them to know that it takes time and patience to train your humans, but if you stick with it, the rewards are worth it.  Trust me on this…..

Love, Finn