National What Day?

          As many of you know, today is National Dog Day in the U.S.

          This is the most superfluous holiday I can think of: EVERY day is Dog Day.

My dad used to say, “If a dog gets into the right home, he’s the luckiest creature on earth.”

And think about it: You are given praise and tummy rubs several times a day. You bring no income to this family, yet they feed you, provide you with a snuggly bed, play fetch with you, and even pick up your poop. Almost nothing compares to a dog’s life.

So, as a writer, I’d like to propose a different holiday, one that makes a world of sense. It would honor people who have signed up for a lifetime of frustration, having to be patient, and having to proofread.  It’s the poor, beleaguered spouses of writers.

We could call it Spouses of Writers Day (although S.O.W. comes to mind), or maybe just PPW—People Patient with Writers. Bless their hearts, they will talk to us for ten minutes, only to hear us ask, “What was that, again?” because we were miles away on a desert island or a roller coaster, coming up with dialogue and plot points.

          Our frustrations billow through the house as we moan about agents, publishers, even grammar (though that’s usually other people’s). 

          
We jot down ideas, misplace them, and then insist these were the best ideas ever. We dream great ideas, scribble them on a bedside pad, and then can’t read any of them in the morning.

  

        Honestly, our careworn companions need a day to be celebrated. Or, at least to have a favorite meal, followed by a hot fudge sundae.

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Don't Be a Pill

          I have a wonderful group of friends in what we call “The Etc. Club.” ETC stands for Extra Talented and Creative. A few years ago one of them broke her arm while driving (!!) and said to the rest of us, “Double up on your calcium, Girls!”  So, I did. A month later I had kidney stones.

You’d think I would learn. A week ago she showed us all her little pill-carrier, a tiny metal box you can attach to a key chain, or wear around your neck. She has actually had a couple of mini-strokes (TIAs), so this is a great way to keep a baby aspirin handy.

Once again, I dutifully ordered one for me and one for St. Bob. Not only could this help us, but someone else nearby, right? But now I have to come up with some kind of padding for it, because here’s what the box literally said:

And we certainly can’t have pills crashing into each other. And now you can pass on this excellent advice.

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You're Hooked on WHAT?

           The other day I was at lunch with a couple of friends, and one of them happened to mention her first date with her husband. Turns out they decided to go boating in canoe, truly a romantic first date. The river was sparkling blue and a gentle breeze helped guide them along. 

Then, as they went under a bridge, a fishing line was hanging there, and the fish hook snagged her nose!

          What are the odds of this? First, you have someone sitting on the bridge, who knows when, who loses their line. But wait—the line miraculously gets stuck and doesn’t fall all the way into the water.  But wait—it manages to dangle its hook exactly at the height a person’s nose could be, if they were floating by in a canoe underneath. And then the boat is lined up perfectly. Folks, you couldn’t do this if you tried 1,000 times.

          My poor friend had to go back to her home with her date, as he carefully removed the hook from her nostril, and dabbed her nose with alcohol. Some of you (and you know who you are) would be crying and screaming at the same time, right?

          As we left our lunch area, they mentioned the overly chatty woman sitting next to us, dining by herself, yet jumping into our conversation as well. My friend mumbled something, and I thought she said, “Better than having a bishop in your nose.” (Well, we’re all LDS so we actually do have a bishop.)

          “What did you say—having a bishop in your nose?” I asked.

          “No, a fish hook,” she reminded me.

          “Oh, yes,” I agreed. “That’s much better than having a bishop in your nose.”

          And that’s when I realized I might be just a teensy bit like autocorrect. Sheesh!

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Time For Some Good Rizz

           If you’re reading this, you speak English. But did you know that another language has sprung up right within English, that most of us can’t understand?

          That’s right. GenZ kids, born in the late nineties, use English words in different ways, so that nobody over 25 can understand them. They’re doing this right under our noses! It’s like the Pig Latin we used to speak as kids. But much harder to decipher.

          So I’m giving all of you a break, and helping you become bilingual by this afternoon:

          First, my own flub—teaching a group of teens who understood that Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce's “ship” name is not the name of their boat. It’s their relationship name. Sheesh! (And sheesh no longer means good grief, but is a compliment to someone.)

          No Cap—This means no lie.

          Dank—we think of dank and dark, like a sewer system. Nope—it means excellent and of high quality.

          Clocked—means someone caught you, or saw through your act.

          Snack—Oh, no. It’s not chips or cookies. It’s a person you find attractive.

          Drip—Remember when a drip was a dullard, a doofus. But today it means a cool or sexy style.

          Bet—Remember feeling cool when you learned “word” confirmed something? Well that was a Millennial thing. Now the word for that is bet.

          Cooked—You’re done for

          Hey, Sis—this is a greeting for any friend of any gender.

          Boujee—expensive, extravagant

          Frfr—For real, for real.

          And if you still can’t speak GenZ, you’re definitely cheugy, you Boomer.

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Going the Distance

           Not all of you remember getting a “long distance” phone call. It ended in the late 1990s, but as a child I recall the way my mother would announce it to the family.

          “Hurry—it’s long distance!” she would shout.  This rallied the troops and told us that someone was paying a dollar a minute to reach us from some faraway land (like the next state-- never somewhere exciting, like Ethiopia or Thailand). And a dollar then was worth almost nine dollars today. We dropped everything we were doing and rushed to the kitchen phone with the long cord.

          It could be tragic news, thrilling news, or something REALLY IMPORTANT.  But it meant you watched the clock and spoke quickly, so as not to bankrupt the caller. It also meant that you, personally, were important enough to call long distance.

          We held our breath as our hearts pounded. Quietly, we watched our mother receive the news and then relay it to us. She was the watchman on the tower, dispensing announcements. There was no speaker phone then. Nervously, we’d glance at one another to share the alarm and apprehension in our eyes.

          There was something unifying about phones then, unlike the cell phones today, which isolate and divide us. In those days, the phone worked for us. Today, the phone is in control, owns our attention, and keeps us from close relationships.

          In those days, we could pursue life, nature, hobbies, and relationships without interruption. We’d come home to an answering machine, none the worse for having missed a call.  Our life was ours, and the phone knew its place.

          Boy, I miss those days.

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A Baaaad Surprise

           We all have wallpaper on the home screens of our phones, right?

          But we can’t always see our carefully selected picture, because of all the icons we add. Some people display family moments, artwork, or their latest crush.

          I picked a painting of Jesus, coming to rescue a lost lamb: 

           I like this because we’re all that lost lamb, and also because it’s the only painting I’ve seen of Jesus actually running. Needless to say, I love it. And, even though some icons block part of it, I can tell what it is, and it lifts my spirits.

          But do you think I could keep it just as it is?  Of course not. St. Bob chose to buy an electric Tesla, which requires you to have an icon for it on your phone. Your phone is your key, by the way.

           We added the icon to the bottom of my home screen list, and
whaddayaknow… it is perfectly positioned to make my poor little lamb look like it has buck teeth. A whole row of them:

           I know, I know: Pretty baaaaad.

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DASHED DREAMS

             This is the season when we see the most butterflies, at least in the Northern Hemisphere.  I’ve always loved them and even bought a butterfly hatching kit so I could contribute to Monarch numbers. Okay, that didn't work out as no Monarchs came to lay eggs there, but I’ve also planted native milkweed, a purple Butterfly Bush, and tons of flowers butterflies love.

            So, it was no surprise when St. Bob—wait, just Bob this time—pointed to one of them as it dipped and fluttered through the yard. Up and down, as if riding on bubble of air, it would swerve one way and then another.

            “Butterflies always fly like they’re drunk,” he said.

            And I watched as it staggered through the air, exactly as if it had been drinking.

            Is this what nectar does to them?  Has anyone even checked? Maybe this is why they’re so crazy about my zinnias. Maybe there’s even a secret group called Caterpillars Against Drunk Flying.  We don’t know, do we?

            I thought about my childhood, chasing butterflies and laughing into the wind. They were probably drunk, too. I mean, they flew like it.

            I just never realized it until Bob decided to spoil my butterfly watching for the rest of my life. Now I’ll see them bobbing about and worry that they’re going to hit a tree.

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