Mr. Boot

Have you ever been having a lovely time socializing when someone booted you into a tailspin? If so, while you were spiraling downward, did you catch yourself midair and realize that the object sticking out of your behind was actually a soft leather moccasin, so you asked for the other?

At May’s end, we threw a high-school graduation party for my daughter to celebrate the end of an epoch, the beginning of another—for Ivy as well as me. I’d looked forward to this day all Ivy’s life. We were blessed with good food, wonderful friends, an ex-husband, and Mr. Boot.

Mr. Boot is of failing health and aiming at gene therapy for his fix. A cigarette smoker since about 1961 and recent cigarillo puffer, his congestive heart failure and peripheral artery disease has steadily worsened. In years past, his lying-embedded-in-soft-skin Device that Injects a Cardio Kick (lessDICK) has on three different occasions shocked him as he fell toward the asphalt during tennis matches, scaring other players into the hospital.

For decades Mr. Boot has also enjoyed pot, made easier these days via marijuana’s legal, more lethal form that turns a cough into a lung-reversal procedure. But a deep inhale after lung expulsion draws them back into the chest cavity. (Another friend who smokes legal MMJ promised me he would quit after I mentioned his painful cough.)

So back to Mr. Boot. He seemed to be having a quiet, conversational time at the party talking with my ex, his former classmate, and meeting others. Eventually, though, I saw him move into the corner of the sofa, perhaps hoping he’d slip into the cracks. Soon after when I left the room, Mr. Boot slipped out of the house without a cough.

Upon my return and seeing neither him nor his car, I wondered if his premature ejection meant he had fallen ill—or worse. He could be going to play tennis. Researching, I didn’t find him between the sofa cushions, and his car hadn’t careened into the bush. My daughter said she saw him go outside to have a cigarette.

I immediately rang his number. No answer. I left a message for him to call me.

For four days, no call. No announcements in the obituaries. No word from his relatives. Had he really become debilitated or was he playing dead again? A couple weeks prior, he’d said, “Your number didn’t register on my iPhone.”

The more I stayed awake nights contemplating his vanishing act, the more memories I choked up, never swallowing again. In the 13 years of our acquaintance, he wouldn’t tell his longer-term galfriend that he spent time with me on Friday nights. I was treated like the paramour—by a single man. He’d toss chewed gum and lit cigarette butts out his car window. He could only perform on his guitar.

So on that fourth day I awakened rested, ready to tackle a procrastinated project: fixing my very large window blinds. This five-hour task was in the category of performing one’s own surgery without anesthesia, so when a friend of 25 years called to ask if I’d like to stroll around the Broadmoor Lake, I said yes, as long as he’d help me snap the blinds into place.

Within an hour, I was seeking solace, opening my guts to Ed about Mr. Boot. “He’s got you where he wants you,” Ed stated matter-of-factly.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“He’s got you thinking about him. He’s got your attention,” without actually having to talk, I thought.

I realized that playing dead seemed most viable as Boot’s game of choice. He was really a zombie (pictured below). And just as Ed and I sat down in the hot sun to enjoy a cold brew, the clouds opened and a hailstorm of beeps pummeled my mobile phone—nine texts, six calls, plus two more at home, I later counted.

The departed’s feeble fingers finally pushed, pressed, and punished. Suddenly I became the only person Mr. Zombie wanted to talk to, and just when I was enjoying his silence. Why is it when someone wants to talk, he expects you to be ready and willing?

“Good beer! Refreshing. Lovely view.” I thanked Ed for being nonjudgmental through 25 years of friendship and my two marriages—one legal, one lethal.

At five o’clock we headed home, where Ed checkmated me three times. I steered him where I could win, outside into my backyard’s silence. Eyes closed, relaxed, I sensed a peeping presence. As I opened my eyes, there stood Mr. Zombie back from the dead, gazing accusingly, if not defeated in a small, weak way.

He was ready to talk but obviously not to listen. He coughed.

After realizing that the friend sitting with me was alive, Zombie man spewed pieces of his hardened heart toward me, missing every time, then he stomped to the front of my house and happened upon my daughter returning home. Blessed with a receptive audience, Zombie retched chunks of vile about all of my qualities from his dead perspective. She, in her teenage emotional tumult, swallowed his entire vomitous mass.

Feeling empowered because Zombie man had become her hate buddy and they shared a common enemy, she moved into her dad’s house and I haven’t seen her since.

Every opening creates space for something to take its place, hopefully something better. I love my daughter more than anyone and have given her 19 years of education, support, safety, love, and my life. She, I miss.

Filling the space left empty are focus, stability, peace, and people I’ve not seen nor really known well in my 26 Colorado years. I’m growing, sewing, reading, writing, and enjoying an adult life.

The morals of this story:

• If a person sees an imperfection and criticizes you, especially to your children, waste no time and excuse him or her from your presence.

• Enjoy life with those who like you.

God is good. There are plenty of wonderful people to share time and a cold beer with on a hot day. Ahh.

Addiction

An ad popped out from the page: “Addiction Kills.” It scared me, because I developed a habit 11 years ago, and at this point, I’d call it an addiction.

It began slowly and innocuously with a friend in 2000—no strings attached. Just two people, home alone most of the time, and no one else to do it with. He was twice divorced. Me, well, I was flying solo. We both seemed to need it and gently took our first step and then the next. After it was over, indeed, we both felt better, though, if we were to be completely honest, there were times when one or both of us might hurt a little.

“Too much of a good thing can be wonderful,” Mae West said, and my friend and I kept doing it year-round. Even in the depths of winter when it was an effort to get together, we’d be panting and hot when we were through. Though we were reluctant to partake when passing winds were so ferocious they’d almost bowl us over, we ignored the conditions as best we could and stayed on schedule. We were tenacious and aiming for the high.

I’ll admit, there were times when it would drag me down—usually when I hadn’t slept well, which made me emotionally and physically exhausted, but eventually it got to a point when I would feel high just thinking about it.

Then my friend had a stroke—not because of our activity, but a complication three days after his appendectomy. Since then, we’ve done it together only once because it wore him out.

So I started doing it alone. Performing solo is a completely different movement, but I’ve come to like it better. It’s much faster and less time consuming than waiting for my buddy to come.

Three months after his stroke, I had my own surgery, for cancer. Only three weeks afterward, I felt more energy coursing through my mind, body, and spirit. I gained momentum and increased my speed. Now I run three miles a day rather than just hike.

Does addiction kill? I hope not, but if it does, what a great way to go.

Dawn’s Thongs

When I was growing up, a thong was one of two sandals I wore to protect my feet. They weren’t very comfortable and sometimes caused blisters where the narrow strip of rubber rubbed between my toes.

Things change, however, and from what I’ve seen, today’s thongs don’t protect much of anything, but they certainly look as if they could cause one heck of a blister. Each is about five square inches of fabric strapped 35 inches northward from the foot and covers nothing but an area a person doesn’t shave unless that person likes whiskers in new, exciting places.

Today’s thong seems more of a torture device for hanging a cat from a ceiling fan than an article of clothing.

(Neither cat was up for stunt duty, so they offered up the bear for sacrifice.)

Given a good meal of rice and beans, a person wearing a thong the next day could turn the article into a musical instrument—a sound akin to blowing a blade of grass stretched between two thumbs.

My daughter calls the threadlike undies “butt floss,” which makes me think twice each night before I draw the glossy white string toward my mouth—not the undies. And appropriate to their sound in motion, she calls the foot protectors “flip-flops.”

To her, butt floss is comfortable and sexy. Comfortable to me is a sundress with no panties, and sexy is a silk gown wrapping a ready body. Also sexy are two of my friends, Dawn and Mary. Mary is 17 years older than I, but has worn undie thongs for at least 15 years.

“Ew!” I said when she slipped into the itty-bitty thingie. “How can you stand that thing?”

“Ever tried one?” she sprang back at me.

Guess it’s like flan or crème brûlée: Just because each dessert looks like coagulated pus, doesn’t mean it tastes like it (even though it does, only a bit sweeter). And given a thong’s seating location, I suspect its appearance gives it away: It can’t be comfortable.

Well, Dawn came to visit me the other night for a sleepover. We hadn’t seen each other since my birthday last June, so I was downright excited to hear her say, “I’m comin’ your way!” I quickly changed the sheets and ensured the wine cellar was replenished.

When Dawn walked into my foyer, my eyes popped. She looked hot! Her hairstyle transformed her into a teenager, and most of her rear had fallen off. She’s a year older and has five more kids than I, yet Dawn looked like a 35-year-old virgin. If I didn’t love her so much, I‘d have been jealous.

We talked till 1:30 when I murmured, “I’m asleep.” Just like the olden days.

The next day we moved into a busy Tuesday, she on her phone, me on my computer, then she set off for an appointment. When she returned in the afternoon, she opened a bag and said, “Here. These are for you!”

With a quick glance and mouth agape, an “ew!” almost popped out, but I caught it in a gasp and accepted the two slingshots with attitude.

She said, “You’ll love ’em. I sure do!” Dawn’s so brave.

So I washed them, but I still haven’t had the guts or occasion to wear one. Oh, what the heck. Excuse me for a moment.

Hmm, I look like a sumo wrestler in a mawashi. My daughter would call me Muffin Top.

Maybe I didn’t put it on correctly. Oh! There.

Just like the olden days.

Is It Prayer?

Close your eyes and imagine him praying. The room is luxurious, yet simple. Plush latte-colored carpet rests atop thick padding to warm and insulate his sacred place. Woven artwork drapes the walls and matches the robe that wraps his body.

Diffused light glows from recessed, façade windows placed high on the walls, but whether the light is natural or artificial is indiscernible.

As he quietly and reverently speaks his consecrated words, he gently rocks back and forth over his knees on a meditation pillow. His focus is intent. Only an occasional presence and barely audible footsteps are heard outside the room.

A bird flying over the prayerful man’s anointed space chirps and swoops to capture his breakfast fare, then another that he dutifully carries to his brimming nest. Farther away, donkeys haul their burdens down a mountain, and men speak loudly as they travel.

Miles off in the distance through the cool, crisp air, screams can be heard—first that of a woman, then one from a child, followed by silence.

Still farther away bombs can be heard, shaking the earth like a quake. Missiles whistle through the air at lightning speed before making their resounding impact. Groans and cries from old men fill the air like thick smoke.

Thunderous noises envelop vast areas from range to mountain, earth to sky. All that once lived quietly dies. Animals cannot comprehend. Babies are terrified, a feeling that will not leave them in this lifetime—perhaps not the next.

While the holy one prays, he receives the death and destruction for which he asks. For all those who do not follow his beliefs as their own, he will destroy.

But first he will instill fear. Women to fear men. Children to fear their fathers. Former followers to fear rebellion. Christian to fear Muslim.

Fear will separate us, isolate us from each other. It is his hope. When we fear, we are suspicious, we react, we decide poorly, we destroy each other. He hopes we will do the destroying for him, so he won’t have to. He will stay home and have more babies with all his wives, all of whom will be as safe as he will allow.

If I were a Muslim, I would start a peaceful rebellion with all other decent Muslims and work together to cease the insane, destructive behavior of those giving our religion a bad name.

And so it is.

The idea for this story came from listening to Dina Temple-Raston’s story March 10, 2011, at http://www.npr.org/2011/03/10/134402971/muslim-americans-question-scrutiny-at-border

Thoroughly Modern Me (the giveaway!)

It’s February 13, and as promised, I am preparing to honor one of you with the CSN Stores $35 gift certificate code for answering
What is the craziest thing you have ever bought online?

My assistant and I are rating the only five answers on a scale of 1 to 10:
1 being “That’s not at all crazy.”
10 being “That person is a nut case!”

Domestic Diva bought a year’s supply of coconut butter, which we found normal. In fact, we’ve had enough of the stuff in our house to last, gosh, eight years. Honest! We gave her a 1.

Bill H. bought a third copy of a book he’d misplaced. I have him a 6. Not because the purchase was crazy, but because Bill must have been a bit nuts looking for the book. My assistant, on the other hand, gave him a 4, because the action wasn’t crazy. Average, 5.

Pkozuch bought an old telephone switchboard that weighed 400 pounds. Then the dinosaur had to be shipped, so someone had to pay for that. My assistant gave this nut an 8. “Who on earth would use a telephone switchboard? Then who’s going to unload the thing and move it around? Not even a treadmill weighs that much!”

I gave pkozuch a 7. If this object was to become a functional part of life, that’s not crazy but shipping it is. I’d guess shipping cost more than the switchboard itself. How does anyone rationalize that? If the thing wasn’t functional, I go for a 10, but I’m surmising and will stay with my 7. Average, 7.5.

Ashley usually buys clothes. I gave Ashley a 3, because she probably doesn’t need another thing clogging her closet. My assistant wonders why Ashley even responded.

Finally, Shala Darkstone “bought 50 bars of glycerin soap just to get free shipping.” My assistant said that’s a 7—“that’s a lot of soap, but it’s justified.” Since I would do the same thing and I don’t consider myself crazy, I’d go with a 2. Soap in a pair is a great gift placed in a basket on top of a couple of washcloths. Average, 4.5.

That means our winner is pkozuch! Congratulations! I’ll email your code shortly.

We would just like to know the story behind the switchboard—and its buyer, the nut.


I asked our winner to comment on the product she bought online, and here’s the scoop.

“We bought [the switchboard] for $450. Weighing in at 400 pounds, we found that shipping from Connecticut to Wisconsin was going to be $500 to $700. Then a resourceful TSI employee found a company that specialized in shipping computers and electronics.

When we told them it was an old telephone switchboard, it seemed to fall within their usual guidelines. We had to get the seller to haul it up out of their basement, because the trucking firm wouldn’t do that. Once it was in the garage, the trucking firm came and got it and it made the journey from Connecticut to Wisconsin.

We did a little restoration on some wood veneer and got a few new cords for it. If we hooked an incoming phone line to it, there would be some functionality (being able to answer it), although we couldn’t really transfer the call out to an extension.

It is the focal point of my Telephone Museum in our waiting area. Mostly serves as a conversation piece. I have a friend who just got an old phone booth for her birthday. It was an interior phone booth made of mahogany that came from an old hotel. I was excited for her. She told me I was the only person who ‘got it.’ Most of her friends were very puzzled when they asked, ‘Did you want a phone booth?’”

Do You Live Up to Your Name?

Following a recent event involving a potential client and desperately needed income that didn’t materialize, I emailed an update to several interested friends. One scribed back that the prospect “has just lived up to his last name.”

Clever guy! Why hadn’t I thought of that?

I was still in shock.

My friend’s statement reminded me of a story I’d read in a 1988 USA Weekend about people’s careers coinciding with their last names. “Chiropractors named Bonebrake, doctors named Blood, ministers named Lord, dentists named Smiley and Brush, undertakers named Dye.” For that article, others submitted their names and related professions:

Barker, veterinarian
Burns, fire inspector
Hammer, hardware store owner
Looney, psychiatrist
Sparrowe, ornithologist
Lt. Speedy, state highway patrol
Suing, lawyer
Watts, power company official
Yawn, sleep disorder center manager

Thinking about this led me to draw upon a few friends’ names and their fields of expertise. For my female friends, I used their née names (sounds like a stammer, doesn’t it?), except for one, who said her married name suits her better. Let’s see if any could consider changing profession or name, as I did in ’86.

Surname (definition): former or current occupation [Auntie note]

Byers (dairy or other cattle farmer, one of the earliest recorded surnames): printing-business owner, marathoner, running-footwear specialist [one of my earliest Colorado friends; rather than rearing ruminants, he’s commingled with canines]
Craft (strength, skill): respected, conscious, skilled business owner, no matter which craft he has chosen
Farris (valiant warrior, farrier, blacksmith): she owned a horse, then a veterinary hospital [and valiantly raised three talented children]
Faucett (multicolored, flowery hillside): multitalented artist and spirited, enthusiastic teacher [who’s been one of my best influences for 33 years]
Fisher (fisher): software developer, troubleshooter extraordinaire, BGF, always fishing for solutions
Griffin (definitely a mythical creature): actor, producer, voice talent
Groat (silver coin worth four old pence): Harvard-educated marketeer, school bus driver [worth his weight in gold]
Hackworth (mystery name, first recorded in Devon, whose origin evades genealogists before 1663; probably a habitation name, Haca’s enclosure): landscape architect, business owner, pilot [has the need to escape his enclosure to explore the world]
Hall (one who lived in or near a large house, or hall): piano player, sound engineer, sound studio owner, composer of works for full orchestra, concertos, and chamber ensembles that are played in huge halls
Harloff (strong, brave wolf): U.S. Navy, genius, can do anything, notorious musician—banjo, concertina, fiddle, guitar—sounds like a dirty, ol’ wolf when he does his best Arte Johnson’s Tyrone F. Horneigh [whack!]
Hoffman (farmer): financial services advisor* [tills our fertile globe to grow investments]
Kugizaki (kugi means nail, zaki means point): artist, graphic designer, fine woodworker, cabinet maker [by viewing his new site,** his name hits the nail on the head, ahh, point]
Menza (middle, small stature): refueling, transport, and smaller jet pilot, USAFA Chinese History professor, attorney, writer, overall bright, shortish, fun guy
Mullin (monk, holy man, or if English, miller): musician, Mensa man, inventor, business owner, satellite communications [blessed with intelligence in more fields than a jealous God, but Mullin’s graciously humble]
Phillips (lover of horses): radio station manager, pilot, B-737 CFI, business owner [lover of things that fly, so his horse is a Boeing Pegasus]
Promack (no definitions found that aren’t Apple related, but she has deep meaning to me): dentist, massage therapist, Trager practitioner
Rice (ardour, enthusiastic): teacher, passionate manager of environmental discovery center
Roach (someone who lives by a rocky crag): cinematographer, pilot, sailor
Samolinski (hmm, salmon-shaped boards for strapping on feet and sliding down hills): nearly priest, electrician
Wolfe (cunning, ferocious wolf hunter): woodworking craftsman, ferocious sound engineer [he recently gave up hunting…anything]
Wood (forester, resident of the woods): math professor, systems engineer, symphony-notes writer, arts aficionado, and helper of this writer-editor to find the forest for the trees, to grasp the real issue whilst not overattending to details. How appropriate is that?

I hadn’t considered the prospect’s last name in doing my usual due diligence, but had I blended it with the statement, “My handshake is good,” after saying we didn’t need a written agreement, it might have piqued my mind.

And although my handshake is also good (from milking cows back in Wisconsin), so is my word.

* I will not spell it adviser unless someone pays me to.
** Great site! www.kugidesign.com [happy birthday, DK]

Name definitions came from the 2005 Oxford dictionary on my iBook and the following sites: www.surnamedb.com/Surname, www.ancestry.com

What about Them Packers, eh?

Yippee!! The Packers made it to the Super Bowl for the fifth time (the Steelers for their eighth)!

So Sunday, February 6, I’ll try to figure out how to turn on my old TV, which will probably be like turning on an old guy—just walk past with food and beer and press a button. I expect to see lots of action worth hootin’, hollerin’, and tootin’ for.

I’m an annual football viewer, only at Super Bowl time, and this year the game actually means something to me. I’m a Wisconsinite—born in Wausau, schooled in Eau Claire. Although I lived in Minnesota for seven and a half years in the late sixties to early seventies, the Vikings never elicited any emotion in me. Being a 26-year Coloradan, I’d root for the Broncos over the Vikings. But if the Broncos play the Packers, Green Bay definitely has my support.

While I was on my hike today, I thought, Aside from what Ed taught me a couple of Sundays ago, I know almost nothing about football, downs, defense, or offense. All I know is that a player needs to carry the pigskin across the goal.

From an amateur’s point of view, football appears ridiculous. A herd of huge guys dressed in pads and tights struggle to gain control of an oblong ball that each can easily crush with his hand. Then one guy grabs the ball and runs like hell while the other guys chase him.

So as I hiked, this amateur called her dad in Wisconsin. “So what about them Packers,” I said in my best Wisconsinian when he picked up the phone.

“Hey! Yeah!” I knew we were heading into a good conversation.

After talking about his beloved Vince Lombardi and listing all the old players and their jersey numbers, he filled me in on the rules. The good thing is, he replicated what Ed taught me, so the facts have less of a chance of escaping my skull. At our lesson’s conclusion, he mentioned that learning about football’s defensive strategies and each player’s job are important slices of information too. For another day.

So even though some entrepreneurial guy, Ralph Bruno,* concocted a foam cheesehead that crazy Packers fans wear, I’m not offended. Those folks have balls—something I also have. Mine just need a good pumping.

*http://www.npr.org/2011/02/02/133424492/Cheese-Head-Hat

Hungry for Chess

He left me. The emptiness I feel inside cannot be filled in any other way. I miss the occasional glances across the travertine marble table, the quiet comments, candles brightening the board, tumblers of Glenlivet Scotch.

Utterances such as “Oh no, I didn’t see that,” “Crap!” and “Can I take that back? My hand was only off the piece for a second” enveloping an otherwise peaceful environ added perfectly to the ambience.

Only once did it end in complete frustration, maybe twice. After all, it’s not about winning, it’s how you play the game.

He left me to move back to Delaware to be closer to his daughters. Although he loved Colorado, skiing, kayaking, gardening, and international travel from this centrally located state, he said, “If something happens to me, it makes more sense for me to be in Delaware than for both girls’ families to come here. You know, I’m almost 82.”

So the next thing I knew, we were throwing a love-filled farewell gathering for George and Jeanne. They had lived in Colorado for about 30 years: she, a retired school nurse, he, a navy guy with a PhD in chemistry who had worked until retirement for DuPont. In Telluride, he’d taken to gardening, and lucky for me, he taught me what I know in that department—and how to drink Scotch.

From spring till autumn, I’d garden with George—he in their gardens, me in mine, then his kindness drew him to help me, probably from pity. He could make a dirt pile become a terraced work of art. I’d pop a silk flower atop the pile and call it a day.

On warm summer afternoons, the three of us, which sometimes grew into eight or more, would enjoy happy hour in our back garden by the fire pit. Life couldn’t be better.

But all year round for about 10 years, George and I played chess together on Thursday nights. It is this game, the mental challenge, and his company I long for most. Unlike racquetball, whose competitiveness I quite enjoy, chess acts like fertilizer coursing through and enhancing my neurological pathways. Unlike golf when everyone’s eyes are on me, we closely watch the board, anticipating our challenger’s next move, and our own. And unlike sex, I don’t have to do it alone.

Our between-game conversations flowed with depth and humor, and our equally challenging Ping-Pong matches kept our hearts beating together. I have thanked Jeanne many times for loaning me her husband on Thursday evenings.

Concurrently and until recently, my daughter would challenge me to three games of chess a night, but as texting has become her favorite pastime, chess with her lacks appeal.

So the invitation is out: Join me for chess Thursday or Friday evenings. I might not be the best, but I’m up for a challenge, and maybe even a Scotch.

Television, Tennis Balls, and Kitties

In 1975 I quit watching TV because of something my high-school English teacher, Mr. Schumacher, said. “You girls, you cross your legs and nervously bob a leg up and down. Well, you’re just wasting energy.”

My mind immediately took that statement and nudged it a step further—into the living room. How much time and energy do humans waste doing nothing but staring at the box of movement, delighting in entertainment others have created for those less motivated? Perhaps you see the action of bobbing legs and the inaction of watching TV as unrelated, but you don’t live in my head.

After that English class, and except for occasional fixes of 60 Minutes and Saturday Night Live, I quit watching TV and soon became repulsed by the noise. By college, September 1977, I’d completely quit. Ironically, though, I was on TV as an evening news anchor for the college station, lights shining brightly, accentuating imperfections.

To this day, 35 years later, friends who’ve known me for two to nearly four decades will say, “Have you seen—? Ahh, right, you won’t know this, but on TV…,” and they’ll describe a show that has made an impact on them. Friends don’t mind sharing with me, and they respect my difference without rolling eyes.

Many of my Colorado friends don’t watch the telly, either. There are just too many outdoor, theater, arts, music, sports, literary, and social things to do. And don’t forget the book. God led two of my friends’ families to grant me their libraries after my friends passed, so when it’s cold and blustery outside, a hundred books raise their hands shouting “pick me!”

Of course, movies, tax preparation, and pussy cats cross my mind too. (Yes, it’s that time again to contact my preparer, aka my former.)

Last night before Ivy, 17, and I popped in the movie Pulp Fiction, our two puddy cats were rolling around the floor being fat, furry, and cute. It reminded me of when Ivy, herself, was still a scoop of mashed potatoes—a rolly, squishy, bubbly, babbling little dish. Her dad and I would watch her explore and learn, then pause and fill her diaper. It provided hours of aromatic entertainment.

So I ask, with all the creative things to do with time, who needs TV? And if simply watching a baby, cat, or dog doesn’t provide the needed excitement, try tossing a cat, three tennis balls, and a dryer sheet into the dryer (Ivy’s idea). It’s more fun to watch through a glass door (my two cents).

Just kidding.

It’s just as fun to have a metal door, then watch the cat stumble out after a few turns.

No, not really. Would I do that?

Author’s note: When I came upstairs after shooting the cat in the dryer, I said to Ivy, “That cat is such a sport. He handled the turns in the dryer so well.”

Ivy’s incredulous look said, “You didn’t. Did you?”

Thoroughly Modern Me (and a giveaway!)

I love saving money.

All right, I know, it’s impossible to save money when you don’t make any, so let me rephrase.

I love not spending money, because I’m sort of a minimalist. Sort of, because I have a lot of excellent-quality leather and marble furniture built to last (like silicone breasts), but even some of my lovely upholstered chairs have worn out (like their owner) and could be replaced (like my ex).

So when I have to replace things, like furniture, cookware, lamps, and football-team paraphernalia (go, Packers!), I research as if I were looking for a new, revised mate, because when I make my decision, I want to feel satisfaction—deep and for a very long time, so I open my iBook and start yucky shopping.

For those of you who enjoy shopping, let me share with you what my Aunt Shirlee of northern Wisconsin told me after one of her annual New York City shopping excursions. “All of us girls love shopping. You just didn’t get the gene. What a shame.”

Nope. Not my size.

But years ago when I moved from my home office to a downtown spot, I uncovered a space with modern office furniture already there for me to use—and some built-in clientele! Talk about lucky. It would have been weird to see me straddled by my computer on the floor in my office, though not completely out of character.

So I need your input on a question, and CSN Stores will honor one of you for your input with a $35 gift certificate (United States and Canada via a code) to be used toward anything from their more than 200 online stores.

What is the craziest thing you have ever bought online? Comment below by February 13 and pass this offer around!

Embarrassing Moments

My partner and I have a greeting card line called Embarrassing Moments. The idea emerged in about 1998 through self-observation. For an extremely detail-oriented and organized human being, my creative side is pure impromptu—sometimes hilarious, other times faux pas, or a combination of the two.

I surmised I wasn’t the only person who’d unintentionally erred, so I decided to expose myself. At a party a few years ago, our bunko group toasted around a large chiminea in the night air. Conversation dwindled, so I decided to spice things up a bit. After telling them about my greeting card line, I asked them about their most embarrassing moments. Oh my gosh! Stories fueled the fire, and soon we were all laughing so hard, tears rolled from our eyes.

Though some of their stories shouldn’t be exposed on greeting cards, I’m sure George Carlin could use the ammo. My embarrassing moments paled in comparison. Nevertheless, I’ve continued using my fun cards.

Each cover photo has a gal wearing red and doing something absurd. I’ve used decades of my other photos for cards with a variety of captions, depending upon the occasion and recipient, printed on great stock.

How about you? Have you ever wanted your own greeting cards but didn’t know how to create them? Here’s your chance. I’ll photograph you in different garb, in different places and poses, at different times of day, inside or outside. Or if you have an image that deserves a noteworthy caption and printing, let me know.

We’ll create a series of greeting cards for you containing thoughts you’d like to express. You can even use your images for a newsletter. I’m here to help write, design, and publish the work for you.

Be daring. I directed and shot an extensive lingerie session for a gal (for her beau). Those images turned out beautifully!

Be expressive. Show your emotions through clothing, reactions to nature, experiences.

Be creative. Use a variety of props, like the lingerie model did. Rather than clothes, wear plants or feathers or a piece of nature.

Be bold. Use color on your lips, around your hips. Use texture. Involve other people.

How much will it cost? We’ll work it out. I’m easy.

Just do it!

Freecyclin’

Free is my favorite number,” I’ve always told my daughter.

“Mo-o-om,” she used to sing, “free isn’t a number.”

Oh yes it is! Take an equation with free in it one step further and form a binary, win-win relationship.

In 2007 I asked my friend Cherri what she would do to make the world a better place. The first thing she said was, “I’d get rid of the almighty dollar. I like the idea of barter, whether you exchange a service for material goods or trade one thing for another.” She has a disdain for greed and, like me, doesn’t like to spend money or accumulate stuff. We tend to keep our loads light for reduced stress.

Years before asking Cherri that question, a Colorado Springs group did exactly what she suggested. In 1986, entrepreneurial professionals met weekly at an old red brick school that had bats in its belfry. Our host, Bill, would introduce the business networking concept and perhaps a guest speaker, then afterward we’d learn about each other and the work we each had to offer.

As a graphic designer and writer who handled prepress production for publishing and printing, I could, perhaps, exchange services with someone in marketing or accounting. An architect might find an interior designer to collaborate with on a joint project. An office services proprietor with a nasty husband could trade services with a timepiece repair technician who could clock the meanie.

Time went on, the group dissolved, and I began working as a full-time marketing communications manager for a global high-technology firm in exchange for salary and benefits. Five and a half years after that, I swapped abusive married life for safe singleness and moved from a big house to a small one. Although I didn’t plan to live in the small house very long, I still vowed to unpack every box and take my inventory, which was more emotional than physical.

Since that fresh-start year of 1994 and residing in that house longer than I’d planned, I have continually shed stuff in exchange for peace of mind. For every document I place into a file, I shred or burn one that’s no longer needed. Balance is vital. It’s like an ongoing, cleansing enema. Makes me want to kick up my heels and run for the beach—naked, because I gave away my swimsuit.

One day in 2009, I joined Freecycle.org, an organization that allows people to get rid of stuff while staying home, but it wasn’t until November 2010 that they started emailing moderated updates of items wanted and offered. All items are given and received free. I immediately gave a gal a Sprint phone I’d used for only two weeks. She asked, she received! It’s biblical. If I wanted something, I could post my desire, with restrictions. I suggest reading Freecycle’s rules.

Deron Beal set up the Freecycle Network in 2003 and, like wildfire, the organization has grown from Tucson into an 85-country networking exchange group (see freecycle.org/group). When you have something you would like to give away, you post an ad on your city’s Freecycle page, like this:

OFFER: soon-to-be-ex-husband

Once a person finds the item you’re offering valuable and the item is picked up, the offering person is obligated to post on the site:

TAKEN: relieved, intelligent woman’s soon-to-be-ex-husband

Or if you are seeking something, you can post a little ditty like:

WANTED: dirty socks that remind me of my ex-husband (must smell like Fritos)

And if someone happens to have dirty socks lying around, he or she can send you an email. Once you pick up the Fritos-smelling foot covers, you are obligated to post their receipt.

RECEIVED: dirty socks to remind me of how good life is.

Or something on that order.

Because my daughter will soon be dashing off to college and I haven’t decided if I want to stay in Colorado Springs or move to an exotic island to experience a hurricane firsthand, I’ve been engaging in a more rigorous campaign of sharing excess and now have two almost-empty rooms.

But I’ve learned a lesson about giving that relates to the analogy of tossing a pebble into a pond. The rings from the pebble’s impact move gradually outward, signifying one’s effect on the world.

I responded Wednesday morning to a guy living 45 minutes away who wanted two plastic chair mats: the kind you roll a chair on. It has extreme spikes underneath so it stays in place. (Or you can place the mat with spikes up at night to ward off intruders.) I offered one of my two plastic mats, and he replied that his wife would soon come over. So I thought, If I like this guy’s wife, I’ll give her both. Well, I gave her both, plus a balance chair on wheels that she rode home, SUV in tow.

Within an hour, a neighbor friend came over to assess a problem with my car. Excited about giving things away, I shared my Freecycle experience with him. He said, “I just bought one of those plastic chair mats a month ago. They’re expensive!”

I felt like oil spill. Why? I have not needed those plastic chair mats for 10 years and have asked others if they wanted one. Had I used my 90-person Neighborhood Watch email list to offer these things, I could’ve given them to someone close to home, as if the pebble had just fallen into the water.

Lesson learned. Now practicing.

Today I gave my favorite neighbor’s daughter colored pencils, pens, markers, and a toy theater for her young daughter. From now on, I offer first to people close to home. But after I’ve given all I want to give, will I want something? Hey, I have an idea.

WANTED: wealthy young guy who likes exotic islands and looks great in a swimsuit—or not

Heart note: Giving close to home can go further than just giving material—give love, share money, offer attention.