The Nemesis of Dog is Squirrel

In case we've never had this conversation, demon squirrels live a tree in my backyard.

For those who have not had the luxury of visiting my backyard, it is approximately fifteen feet from my back door and only about six feet beyond the borders of my deck.  My land is all located to the side and front of my yard.

But I digress.  Back to the squirrels.

A family of squirrels live in a pine tree, which is next an oak tree.  They play in the oak tree and take acorns from the tree to throw at my sliding glass door.

They throw the acorns in an attempt to torture my dog.

Poor Kam.  She stands at attention at the back door and stares at the squirrels who taunt her with their acorns and chatter.

I am not exaggerating, either.  My deck and remaining six feet of back yard are littered with acorns.  A carpet of acorns litter my yard.

Knowing how Kam, the Kamikaze dog, feels about the squirrels; Patrick and I taught her the word "squirrel."  She stands at attention whenever anyone says "squirrel" and subsequently goes into psycho dog mode if we say it more than once.  Her ears perk up and and her tail curls above her hind quarters. Then she spins a few circles and heads straight for the back door. 

She likes to spin circles.

Kam stands at the back door, at full doggy attention, and stalks the squirrels.  They enjoy torturing her.  I've seen them come up onto the deck and climb up the screen door in an attempt to tease my poor puppy.

This morning Karma caught up with the devil squirrels.

I was showing our babysitter the squirrels at the back door when a pair of squirrels scampered up the oak tree in front of my back door.

"See," I tell her, "There they are.  Those are the squirrels who drive Kam insane."

We had a clear view of these two rascals.  The zigged and zagged and raced up the tree, vertically defying gravity along the way.  

You know, up until one little guy fell.

Yeah, he attempted to gracefully jump from one branch to the next branch and missed, entirely.  Then he subsequently fell thirty feet to the ground.

I laughed!  I laughed until tears sprang to my eyes.  I would feel bad about laughing so hard, but he was fine.  He gingerly climbed back up the tree.

Coincidentally, last summer, a similar episode of grace befell my dog.

Patrick, my husband, had removed the stairs to our deck while he worked on replacing the side of the house (entirely different story).  Poor Kam saw the devil squirrels and Patrick opened the door, not realizing she had gone into full attack mode.  She took off after the squirrels like her Kamikaze namesake.  She, being a dog, did not realize the deck ended with no stairs.  So she ran at top speed and then dropped fifteen feet off the deck. 

She was fine, but I am beginning to wonder about the jinx on my house.  It must have something do to with the ghost mice.  Which, again, are another story.

I Am Not a Number

I am not a number,
though you may wish to see me this way.
I am not some calculation
impervious to variance or sway.

I am not a number.

I am, however; a mother
with a family and heart for my soul.
I am, however; a lover
devout to this life and my goals.

I am not a number.

I am not a robot
you cannot program me to perform.
I am not cyboric;
ignoring the emotion of the storm.

I am not a number.

I am, however; impressive
with my flair and diva-like traits.
I am, however; inventive
my imagination may flood the gates.

I am not a number.

You cannot treat me as such
and expect a machine to print out your report
To never flounder or fail
or take a hit and sit out the corporate sport.

I Am Not a Number.

I am passion and pride;
a volatile flair with the drive of belief.
I am family and friends
and hard working hands sans relief.

I Am Not a Number.

Your father, your mother,
Your sister, your brother.
Your neighbor, the cat lady
Your cousin with the baby.
Your friend, your companion
Your theatrical stand in.


I Am Not a Number.

I am that person who keeps your life going
When you cannot care to commit.
The one to push buttons and brooms
When all you see is a summit.
I am the one who put you there
I suggest you take a moment to care.

I AM NOT A NUMBER.

Remember my name; you may need it some day.

Facebook Passwords: Employers and Schools Demand Access; Facebook and Senators Respond - ABC News

Facebook Passwords: Employers and Schools Demand Access; Facebook and Senators Respond - ABC News

Somewhat fitting, this comes to you a mere day after a release by the unnamed company that I work for.

I say unnamed to protect both myself and this unnamed company.

I must also note that my opinions do not necessarily reflect those of the unnamed company I employed by, nor am I a representative of said unnamed company.

So I went into work yesterday and there is an announcement waiting for us on the company's HR weekly release.   The announcement that caught my attention was a section dedicated to social media networking.  The company goes through a spiel about being careful what you post (duh), but also about the above disclaimer.  I will make mine universal.  I go to work and I come home.  Outside of work I do not represent whatever company I work for, I represent myself.  I would kindly respect that unnamed corporations should also refrain from representing me outside of said working hours.  I want it noted that their opinions and beliefs do not necessarily reflect those of this writer.

The announcement encourages you to "like" them on Facebook. 

As I am a firm believer of separating my private life from work life, I shall decline.

I wonder if said unnamed company had looked into the bad publicity recently in the news regarding employers attempting to either demand passwords, or imply that you have to grant them access to your private Facebook account in some way or other.

So, to said unnamed company, should you search my name on Google and find this blog, or should one of my backstabbing coworkers turn this link over to you, please understand that as a Free and Independent person, I refuse to represent you outside of working hours.  Also, please note that my opinions do not reflect your opinions and I prefer it that way as my opinions are my own.  Please stop trying to control or gain access to parts of my life that have no relevance or bearing on work schedules or hours.

And for corporate tools everywhere who tolerate these actions, shame on you.  People throughout our history have fought and died to ensure we keep our freedoms.  Oh, sure, we're not going to get arrested for saying what we want about the places where we work, but your opinions and independent thoughts or your desire to publicly share those thoughts and opinions should not have weight over your job unless you are sharing said thoughts on company time. 

Remember, "All Tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent."  - Thomas Jefferson.

"This is how the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper." - T.S. Eliot.

What will you do?  Whatever they tell you?  Or will you do what you think is right?  Are you a corporate tool?  Or are you an individual who demands her privacy?

Gym Antics

My life is less than exciting, I will have to admit.  My most entertain part of the day lately has been the gym.

Now, don't get me wrong, I do not have a gym mom body.  I have a desk job body and I'm hoping to keep it from getting worse.  I sit on my arse all day tip-tapping on my computer listening to the world's misery.  It's a cheery place to be, so I guess the gym is far more entertaining by comparison.

Anywho.  Here are some things that amuse me in an annoying fashion. 

First of all is the male ideology that the weights section of the gym is man-town.  There is a forty something chauvinist out there in Webster, Massachusetts, who was recently shown I could do whatever he could do on those damned weights, so any who harbor this mentality can shove it.  Mind you, I had difficulty walking for a few days after my little show, but it was worth it.  Totally.

Also, and this is to my traitorous female coparts - what the hell, guys?  Why aren't you in the weight section?  You know as well as I do that we are not going to tone up by running on the elliptical or treadmill alone.  Stop letting the weight section and male wannabe body builders intimidate you.  Pump it!

Okay, and while I'm on it, what's with locker room modesty?  Does anyone else out there think that's weird?  I went to high school, and personally recall hordes of girls changing clothes in front of each other without one thought about it.  Since when did we become so modest?  Is it homophobia?  Is there a freakish new phobia about potential lesbians?  I gotta tell you, we all have the same packages, just different wrappings, so I don't get the big deal with all this locker room modesty.  I am not going to cramp myself in a bathroom stall to change my pants and my top and my shoes.  It's just not happening.  You don't like my flab, turn around.  I'm a mom, I have no modesty.  I've had students and strangers parade at the foot of a hospital bed staring at my cervix while writhing in pain.  You think I care if my bra color makes you uncomfortable?  Man up, ladies.

So here's what society says we should do at a gym:

Yeah, we've turned the gym into a night club, with hoodies.
Also, was anyone else fixated on the girl with the gray hoodie?  Ummm... Duct tape, I'm thinking.  I hear it fixes everything.  That needs some serious help.  Or at least some more support.  And this is why we don't post such videos, because these are the thoughts people like me have.

That being said, here's what I'd like to see at my gym:

Just an idea.  I mean, seriously, we could use some punching bags, don't you think?  ;)

You know you love me.

The Definition of Madness

A conversation in the car on the way to the Elementary Art Show

Kaitlyn - "You know we have another neighbor, Mom."

Me - "Who?"

Kaitlyn - "You know, our other neighbor."

Me - "Sweetie, we have lots of neighbors, which one?"

Kaitlyn - "You know, the guy.  I met him when I was three."

Me - "Yup, now I know who you're talking about.  He was there with the girl with the hair at the place."

Kaitlyn - "There wasn't a girl there.  Just the guy.  You know, our other neighbor."

Me - "Honey, I was being facetious.  You have to be more descriptive."

(You have to imagine Patrick driving down the road while giggling at this conversation.)

Kaitlyn - "You know, the guy I met when I was three."

Patrick - "My earliest memory was when I was five.  It was the blizzard of 1978."

Me - "I was four.  I fell in the neighbor's pond."

Kaitlyn - "Mom, our neighbor doesn't have a pond.  Don't you remember, I met him when I was three?"

Random Marriage Story.

I don't blog often enough, I know.  I'd apologize, but you know it'd be fake.

I am making an effort, though.  See?  Me, here writing.  Eh.

Actually, I have to tell you a funny story.  It's a funny story that only a married couple will appreciate.  I've been married for 6 years.  My husband has yet to learn the famous words, "Yes, honey."  Instead, he's still asking, "Are you sure?"  Men, just learn to say it, "Yes, dear."

So, two weeks ago I had my hair done.  It's totally a girl thing, getting your hair done.  It's also essentially vital to a woman's self esteem to have good hair.  My hair is my vanity.  It's very Biblical Samson, I know.  So, two weeks ago I go to see Amanda at the HairZone, in Dudley. She's amazing and works magic with my hair.  She lightened up and threw in some highlights and bobbed in some new layers.  Long and the short of it, my hair look gorgeous.

A few days later, my husband has yet to notice the hair.  Or, if he has, has yet to comment.  Instead, he opens up the bank account online.

"Honey," he says.  "I've been looking at the bank account trying to find ways that we can cut spending.  There are some discrepancies in our bank account that I want to point out to you."  I stole a moment out of eye sight to roll my eyes, because I know this translation:  "Honey, I've decided to take this moment from your life to criticize you and your spending habits, while I pretend to be innocent in these spending infractions."

So he pulls up the bank account.  He points to a debit from the account of $185.  "See," he says, "That's a huge chunk of money.  I certainly didn't spend that much money anywhere, did you?"

"Ah, I see what you mean."  I said to him.  "By the way, did you know that the line under the price tag there shows you exactly where that money was spent?  You see this one here, for $185?  The line under it says Market Basket.  I know that you are unfamiliar with this type of store, but this is called a grocery store.  This is where I buy all the food you eat each week.  And yes, it's expensive."

That shut him up for about two minutes, when he found the bill for the HairZone.  "You spend over a hundred dollars on your hair?!"  His head nearly exploded at the idea.  "I don't spend a dime on my hair.  I buzz it in the sink, and you're spending over a hundred bucks on your hair?!"

"Patrick, your hair doesn't count. You're going bald."

This led to a long debate about whether or not I should buzz my head and make a fashion statement.  He later stated I could buzz my hair if I wanted, but he would not be seen with me.  He then refused to admit that the way I looked, the way my hair looked, was important to him.  I decided pointing out his own contradiction would serve no purpose, so I walked away from the lost cause.

That's not my funny story.  That's a married story, and we've all heard them/had them/whatever.

Tonight, we're watching Mr. and Mrs. Smith on FX.  It had waaay too many commercials.  One such commercial caught our attention.  Sitting in a room of bubbles and whipped cream, sparkles a bottle of vodka surrounded by confetti.  Sitting on a swing next to the vodka with a bottle of whipped cream is a woman with platinum blond buzzed hair.  Seriously, it's as short as Patrick's.

He says to me, "Why in the world would a woman buzz her hair like that?  I mean, does that make sense to you?  Does she think it looks good?"

"I don't know honey, maybe she just didn't want to spend $100 every six weeks getting it done.  Or perhaps she simply got tired of her husband complaining about the bill."

Patrick groaned and buried his head under the pillow.  I, of course, in all my poise and graciousness, cackled like a fairy tale witch, laughing until tears spurt from my eyes.

Patrick sulked all the way into bed.