It’s pretty hard to imagine anything cuter than puppies or kittens. They’re soft. They’re fluffy. They’re playful. They’re fun. They’re also irresistible and they turn a house into a real home. Every year, Santa Claus listens to millions of children around the globe recite their wish lists with puppies and kittens sitting at the very top! Most families want them. And mine was no different.

Heidi, a small yet plump 20-pound Dachshund, helped my parents raise my brother, sister and me during our early childhoods. She chased us around the backyard, nipping at our heels, never tiring of her babysitting responsibilities. Doll clothes fit her perfectly (after we cut holes in the pants for her tail). One of my father’s shoeboxes was repurposed as a portable baby carriage for her. I lovingly lined the interior with a thin flannel receiving blanket, dressed Heidi in the frilliest pink Easter outfit in my doll’s wardrobe, including white gloves and a bonnet with that killer elastic neck strap that was tight enough to sever a little girl’s head straight off her body, stuffed her into the box and greeted my dad when he arrived home from work.

“Look what’s in the box, Dad!” I said as I carefully removed the top. There was Heidi, crammed into the size 11-½ shoebox, surrounded in ruffled eyelet, taffeta and ribbon.

“Peg! You can’t keep the dog in a box like that!” he said, reaching toward me in an effort to rescue Heidi.

“It’s not a box, Daddy! It’s something to carry babies in, and besides, you’re not the boss of me!” I argued, shielding the box from him.

“Oh no? I’m your father! Of course I’m the boss! If I’m not the boss of you, then who is?” he asked.

“God is,” I affirmed, always demanding the last word.

For a long time I wondered why suddenly Heidi didn’t live with us anymore! Could it be that when my sister leaned in to smother her with kisses, awakening her from a sound, well-deserved nap, that poor, startled Heidi accidentally bit her on the lip? Probably.  It appeared that Dad really was the boss!

We all felt Heidi’s absence deeply. For several years, every Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Fourth of July, Columbus Day, Halloween or any other day that we thought might bring us another dog passed but yielded no blessed result.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSEEEEEE could we get a dog?” the three of us begged our parents.

“We PROMISE we’ll take care of it! We’ll feed it! We’ll take it for walks! We’ll do EVERYTHING! PLEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSEEEEEE?”

But no. My parents remained firm in their resolve . . . that is, until Earl and Renie Kidder’s Dachshund had a litter of puppies! There they were, seven tiny, grunting bundles of warmth, nestled just beneath their mother, some of them silky smooth while a few of them seemed a bit fuzzy, like Brillo pads.

“Hey Earl,” my father began, “are you SURE these are Dachshunds? Look at those three right there!” He knelt down next to the canine maternity ward and pet the three scraggly pups with just one finger.

“These sure don’t look like Dachshunds to me!” he said, concluding his inspection.

“Ya . . . you’re right, Joe,” conceded Earl, “we’re not entirely sure WHAT the mix is, but we sort of suspect that Winston might be the father. He’s always around the kids and the neighborhood, so . . . he just might be the culprit!”

Winston, a 95-lb. massive Old English Sheepdog, belonged to the Murphys who lived on the next street just behind the Kidders. He was part of the neighborhood gang of kids who played with us every single day. He was there for hide-and-seek, although he never hid very well AND he was a dead give-away to OUR hiding spots! Freeze Tag was one of his favorite games. As soon as one of us became “frozen,” he’d come bounding toward us at full speed! He wasn’t big on chasing us, but he LOVED the kid-to-dog tackle! Winston was never tardy or absent from snack time either. Oreo cookies, Cheese Nips and popsicles disappeared right from our hands and into his mouth before we knew what happened. I used to throw a tennis ball for him to chase. He seemed to be interested as he searched for the ball, but his focus waned very quickly. Mrs. Murphy finally figured out that he had so much hair hanging over his eyes that he couldn’t see where the ball had gone! She gathered it up into a ponytail to see if that would help! Bingo! A whole new world opened up for Winston! Not only could he see where the tennis ball had gone, he could also see . . . Gretchen . . . the Kidders’ dog!

Earl and my dad joked about the unlikely, unusual and awkward mating of these two breeds, but the humor was lost on my 5-year-old self.

“I can’t really get a clear visual on the actual event,” chuckled Earl, “but these pups are either gonna be real hairy Dachshunds or real ugly Sheepdogs!”

Whatever. I didn’t care. I just REALLY wanted one of those furry puppies! Following an intense family meeting with all three of us kids vowing to keep our rooms clean, our beds made (never a problem for me, but I vowed, nevertheless, for effect), never to argue with each other again, ALWAYS to set the table, clear the table, wash and dry the dishes, keep the turtle dish clean, do our homework without being told, and basically to be model children for the rest of our lives, my parents agreed to allow an addition to our family . . . by four feet! My mother was the only one who wasn’t fully overjoyed and committed.

“I’m not sure about this, you guys,” she said warily, “I just KNOW I’m the one who’s going to end up with the full responsibility of taking care of this dog! The reason dogs are called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ you know, is because the women do all the work!”

“No, Mamma!” the three of us chimed in simultaneously, “we PROMISE we’ll do it! We’ll do ALL the work!”

(Famous last words!)

Ragamuffin (Rags, for short) was enthusiastically welcomed into our family by four out of the five of us. The fifth silently tolerated her. We three kids honored our commitment to attend to the puppy’s needs . . . well, almost all of them, anyway. We fed her, walked her, played with her, cuddled her and loved her like crazy. Cleaning up from her back end hadn’t been part of our initial contract. In fact, we hadn’t even thought of it when negotiating the deal, and there had never been an exact schedule itemizing all of the duties. Luckily for us, however, my mother’s affection for Rags grew as soon as it became clear that Rags inherited her size from Gretchen and her hair from Winston. She was the most adorable Dachshund/Sheepdog mix imaginable! Mom picked up the slack and assumed the task of keeping the back yard clean.

As time went by, Mom and Rags spent most of their time together. Of course she saw the writing on the wall from the very beginning when she cautioned us about getting a dog in the first place. Just as Mom had predicted, her dog duties grew in direct proportion to our development into preteen and teenagers. Our days at school stretched into extracurricular activities, slumber parties, Brownie and Boy Scout meetings, piano lessons, choir practice, Glee Club, baseball games, swim meets and play dates. And so it went. We grew up, went to college and moved away. Mom, Dad and Rags held down the fort.

My experience with dogs had been so positive, that at one point I thought of becoming a veterinarian. Yep. Me. A DOG DOCTOR! On top of that, I wanted to move to Montana and raise St. Bernards! After all, taking care of Rags had been so easy and effortless, what was wrong with bumping up the average weight and number of dogs? Rags grew to a full adult weight of 18 pounds. I knew my love for her was greater than 18 pounds worth, so . . . what about doubling that? No, tripling that . . . or quadrupling that? St. Bernards seemed like nice dogs and I had enough love in me for a whole bunch of them, so . . . I was going to raise them!

UC Davis is THE school for animal husbandry. Throughout high school, I set my sights on attending that university, keeping my end goal in mind. I was, however, tackled broadside by chemistry, biology, trigonometry and calculus with the same force as one of Winston’s attacks during Freeze Tag! There was no way I’d ever get through the rigorous requirements of vet school with my lack of aptitude for even high school science and math. I had to abandon the dream of a ranch in Montana and a herd of giant St. Bernards. I would have rather stuck needles in my eyes than endure the challenge of years of science and math involved in veterinary medicine.

Life continued, and so with it, my love of dogs. I married young. Too young. The fantasy of “happily ever after with two cats in the yard and at least two dogs in the house” fed my dreams and expectations. My outline of the perfect life included a dog. Gosh! At one point hadn’t I wanted St. Bernards? It stood to reason, of course, that my then-husband’s insistence on a Great Dane should raise no red flags.   A big dog is a big dog, right? WRONG!!! Marmaduke in the comics endeared himself to everyone who read the newspapers; Jake, the black Great Dane in MY household, on the other hand, endeared himself to . . . my spouse . . . who worked all day . . . and stayed out very late into most evenings and “worked” on weekends.   I also worked full-time. Confining Jake indoors all day long was not an option, so, like many working families with pets, we installed a doggie door. Problem solved? Yes and no. Jake did have the freedom to go in and out of the house at will; however, our particular dog door was a recycled Great Dane brand mud flap meant for an 18-wheel Mack truck! It was so large that neighborhood children, opossums, raccoons, stray dogs and cats, mice, rats and even full-grown adults (like burglars) could pass through! Strong winds pushed branches, leaves and clouds of dust and right along with them, swarms of insects, straight into the kitchen. Being alone all day with no companion, not to mention NO DISCIPLINE, allowed Jake to drag furnishings from inside the house outside to the backyard and vice versa! Throw pillows from the sofa and area rugs from the entry way and halls doubled as chew toys. They were found outside, half-buried in the flowerbeds. Hoses, small gardening tools and remnants of citronella candles were scattered on the living room carpet, chewed, broken and oftentimes muddy. But what I had so often thought was mud was not mud at all! Jake had a very regular constitution, and if I weren’t hyper-vigilant to his schedule, I ran the risk of having to clean up an extra layer of filth . . . EVERYWHERE! I dreaded coming home. I knew what chaos laid waiting.

“UUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH! I HATE this dog! He’s so unruly, so big and so much work! Why do I have all the responsibilities of taking care of him?” I lamented to no one who cared.

My mother’s words from the past haunted me: “The reason they’re called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ is because it’s the women who take care of them!” How right she was! She was two for two on that scorecard, that’s for sure! It was she who ended up taking care of Rags and now it was I who had to deal with Jake.

Not long afterward, both Jake AND my ex-husband went away. I raised my two young sons by myself, keeping order, managing my job, their school and sports schedules and the entire household. Needless to say, it was NOT easy! One thought that comforted me every time Life overwhelmed me was my calming mantra, I know things could be worse; I know things could be worse! I could also be taking care of a DOG! A few minutes of mental chanting and a few deep, cleansing breaths later made all the difference in the world. I was going to make it!

And I DID make it and several years later, Life DID get better! A lengthy relationship with my REAL Prince Charming moved toward marriage . . . at least that what I was hoping.   Most men seeking a woman’s hand in matrimony ask for her father’s blessing. MY Prince Charming asked my sons.

“What do you guys thing about me marrying your mom,” he asked when I was nowhere around.

“Oh . . . I dunno,” answered my older son, not too sure he wanted a change in our little family, “<sigh! > I guess if my mom’s happy, I’ll TRY to be happy.”

But the younger son exhibited no hesitation whatsoever! In fact, he looked at the situation as an opportunity to get something HE wanted.

Slapping his hand on the table, he offered, “If you buy me a dog, you can have my mom!”

The deal was made, the three of them shook hands, and we started a new chapter in our lives. I still couldn’t believe that I’d been bartered away for a dog, but then again, I still couldn’t believe that I’d found happiness with a wonderful man.

History has a funny way of repeating itself. I know a dog was part of the deal, but when we tried to select just one yellow Labrador from the litter, in a very weak moment, I suggested that we adopt TWO, one for each boy! Wilbur and Bailey grew like weeds and so did the boys! Just as Mom ended up taking care of Rags when we began high school, I did the same when my kids went to high school. My husband worked all day, but so did I. The boys’ after school activities and sports schedules kept them away from home two to three nights a week. The dogs spent their days out in a dog run along the side of our house until I got home every day. (At least I had learned a lesson from my mud flap doggie door days!) Truth be told, they remained in that dog run well past my return home. I only stopped in to start dinner preparations, and then headed back out to pick up the kids from wherever they were and from whatever they were doing.   Wilbur and Bailey bonded with each other and not us. Why would they? We were seldom home!

My husband and I really tried to break the barrier between us and Them. We enrolled the dogs in obedience classes and accompanied them every Wednesday night, but Wilbur, the more strong-willed of the two, spent most of his sessions in the time-out corner with another stubborn dog, Max, a German Shepherd. Our next-door neighbor constantly left messages on our voicemail recorder complaining of the dogs’ incessant barking. We weren’t home during the day! How did WE know they were contributing to the noise pollution in the neighborhood? Contributing? NO. They WERE the noise pollution in the neighborhood.

“I can’t believe my son actually traded me away for . . . DOGS!” I cried, “and I thought it was CUTE!”

All in all, my adult experience with large dogs had been a complete and total disaster. Jake was a 185-lb. nightmare and Wilbur and Bailey were 80-lb. evil stepsons! It frightened me that I was beginning to think I hated ALL dogs!

The nest eventually emptied, dogs and children alike, and I was footloose and fancy free of all dependent responsibilities! Wow! What a fabulous feeling! No longer working, I filled my days with activities that had long been on the back burner for an eternity. I learned to golf, I joined clubs, I went out to lunch with girlfriends, I sewed, I read and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of every day.

“I think we should get a dog,” suggested my husband one weekend, “I’m gone a lot, and I’d feel better if you were protected when I’m not around.”

WHAT DID I JUST HEAR? IS HE OUT OF HIS MIND?! A DOG!

“I’m just fine, trust me!” I responded, trying (albeit unsuccessfully to convince him that I didn’t need protection) “I’m way too busy to take care of a dog!”

A few weeks passed, but the thought of Carl surprising me with a dog kept nagging me.

“What if he comes home with a puppy? I won’t have any say in what kind of dog he gets! What if it’s another Lab??? Good God!! I just CAN’T have another Lab! I’d rather get another divorce than have another big dog! What am I going to DOOOOOOOOOO?”

One of my neighbors had just adopted an 18-month-old liver-and-white English springer spaniel. Her husband loved the breed and had wanted one for quite awhile. This young dog became available through a local veterinarian’s office, so Sharon brought it home on a trial basis.

“Hello there, this is Sharon,” she beckoned from the other end of the telephone, “if you’re not doing anything, come over and meet our new dog, Rusty!”

Of course I ran right over there! After all, it wasn’t MY dog! At first glance, I felt serious tugging on my heartstrings.

“Oh! He’s SOOOOOO cute!” I cooed, “and look how funny he is!” I said as Rusty tried to catch his stub of a tail.

“Ya, he’s cute alright,” agreed Sharon, “but I don’t know if we’re going to keep him. He may be too much dog for us!”

I stayed and played with Rusty for awhile, the entire time hearing Carl’s threatening words: “I think we should get a dog!” and I did NOT want him to surprise me with a giant Labrador, Golden Retriever, Great Dane or anything, for all that matter. If I had to have a dog, I wanted one of more manageable size AND I wanted to be included in the decision. NO SURPRISE DOGS!

As a preventive strike against being blindsided by a surprise puppy, I said, “Work with Rusty for a few days, a few weeks in fact, but . . . if you decide you don’t want him, call me first. We may take him!”

Shortly thereafter, our household grew by . . . four feet. Rusty and I spend a lot of time together. Of course I saw the writing on the wall from the very beginning when I asked Sharon to “call us first” in the event Rusty proved to be too much dog for them. Just as Mom said a long, long time ago, “Dogs are called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ because it’s the women who take care of them!”

 

 

Felix Unger and Oscar Madison, the classic “Odd Couple” — roommates incompatible in every way!  Polar opposites.  Each the antithesis of the other.  One fastidious and obsessively neat; the other an absolute, undeniable slob!  Neil Simon first introduced his lovable characters to the world in 1968 in his screenplay, and they continued to entertain us in their television sitcom through 1975.   The pair of mismatched friends may no longer be on the air, but they are indeed still alive . . . in many of us!  In fact, Oscar and Felix’s traits have become descriptors for people we know!  “Oh, my gosh!  You’re room is so messy and cluttered, you’d think Oscar Madison lived here!” I used to say to my own kids.

My husband is Oscar Madison in many ways.   His inattention to tidiness went largely unnoticed — well, more ignored — until the nest emptied, but now it has become a focal point in our household.  He leaves things wherever he finishes using them.  Empty ice cream cartons stick to the kitchen counter top where they’ve been sitting over night despite the fact that the trash can is less than three feet away!  Envelopes from opened mail clutter his desktop.  Matchbooks with no matches left inside go through the laundry and end up as hard pebbles stuck to his pants and to the dryer’s lint screen.  Naked hangers in the closet either dangle on the dowel or lie scattered on the floor.  Reading glasses travel from room to room all by themselves!  They must scurry from place to place like rats in a maze!  One minute they’re resting beside the computer, then all of a sudden they appear on the kitchen counter or in the family room or on the dining room table or outside on the fire pit or even inside a shoe!  How DO they do that?  And I, Felix Unger extraordinaire, race around tidying up after him.  But it REALLY bugs me!

“Why can’t you just toss the empty ice cream carton into the trash can?  It’s not even two steps away from where you’re scooping!” I ask with obvious irritation.

“Well, if you weren’t such a Felix Unger, it wouldn’t bother you so much!” he says, equally annoyed.

And so it goes, the push-pull between two people with disparate attitudes about housekeeping sharing a home.

Uh oh!  Hold on a second! It just dawned on me —maybe the problem isn’t with my husband or my kids or everyone else in the world who doesn’t make their beds in the morning, or arrange their closets in ascending degrees of colors, darks to lights, solids to prints, wools to cottons! Could it be that the problem is ME?!  NOOOOOOO!  Could it?  Possibly!  Hmmmmmm . . . .

I’ve always been a neat-nick.  From as far back as memory serves, I busied myself by organizing, sorting, arranging, rearranging, classifying and prioritizing everything in my world.  Stuffed animals knew their places in my room.  Bright Eyes, the cat, was given the place of honor smack dab in the middle of my bed.  The others, not important enough to be named, filled a set of shelves standing in the corner, the smaller animals at the top.  Sometimes I allowed the lion or the teddy bear to move up a couple of tiers, but . . . their size just didn’t quite fit into the overall symmetry of the shelf, and they were once again banished to the lower levels.

On rainy days, my sister and I played jewelry store.  We each displayed our assortment of treasures on top of our three-drawer dressers to sell to each other.  My sister’s store was up and ready for business in no time!  She had no order too her display.  It seemed that no care or thought was given to her presentation at all!  The chains of some of her necklaces were tangled and knotted.  Rings were turned backwards with the gems facing her, the seller!  Bracelets and bangles piled on top of each other.  Pins lay upside down, showing the pin rather than the stone!  It’s a good thing she never pursued a career in retail!  She would have starved!  My store, however, was a mini-Tiffany’s!  I borrowed a large remnant of velvet from my mother’s sewing notions and draped it over my dresser to provide that professional look.  Each necklace, bracelet, ring and pin sparkled against the black velvet background.  Better, more precious items were separated from the lesser quality pieces.  My sister announced her readiness while impatiently awaiting the grand opening of my store.  I shopped at her store first, but after making only a nominal purchase, I spent the remainder of my allotted shopping time to arrange her inventory in a more appealing display while only pretending to be interested in making another purchase.  When it was her turn to shop at my store, I couldn’t bring myself to part with any of my trinkets!  I knew they’d be destined to a lifetime of tangled chaos at the bottom of her jewelry box!  I did the only thing I knew . . . I set the price of each item well above the total amount of her allowance . . . for an entire month!

“No fair!” she protested, “You’re supposed to SELL me stuff just like I sold YOU stuff!”

“Well, I’m the owner of this store and I can put whatever prices I want on whatEVER I want!” I snapped back, my arms covering my display in a mid-air protective hug.

“Then I’m not playing anymore!”  she said.

“Me neither!” I agreed, relieved that my valuables were no longer at risk.

The truth is, I never had any intention of selling anything . . . EVER!  I only played store with her so I could sort, arrange and admire my nice things!

Throughout elementary school, mine was the cleanest, most organized desk in the class.  PeeChee folders provided the base for textbooks, notebooks and outside readers while a pencil case in the shape of a studious owl held two #2 pencils, one cartridge pen, one pink eraser and one red correcting pencil.  The pencil sharpener sat alone in the tray meant for loose pencils.  Special care was given to textbooks.  The covers were always so clean and beautiful on the day my mom bought them for me!  I didn’t want anything to happen to them to diminish that beauty, so I took them home, retrieved brown paper grocery bags from the kitchen pantry and made book covers for them.  Each one was labeled in large capital letters with a wide-tipped black Magic Marker: “Reading,” “Grammar,” “Geography,” “Math,” “Science.”  The other kids in the class looked at me like I had two heads, but I didn’t care.  My school supplies were by far the neatest and cleanest, not only within my classroom, but probably in the entire school!

The compulsion toward neatness, and efficiency continued to grow right along with me.  Once I had a family and a house of my own, I was determined to raise children who appreciated order.  However, my penchant for tidiness drove my two boys crazy.  There was a constant struggle between them and me over the condition of their bedrooms.

“Have you made your bed?” I asked every single morning as they appeared for breakfast.

“Doesn’t Mela come today?” they asked, trying to dodge their responsibility.

“Mela is a housekeeper, NOT A SLAVE!” I said, not letting them off the hook.  “Just because we have a housekeeper does NOT relieve you from your responsibilities to keep your rooms in presentable order!”

“They ARE presentable!” they argued.  “You’re the one who can’t stand if there’s one little thing out of place!”

The boys used to annoy me on purpose, too.  Setting the table for meals was one of their daily chores.  Our stoneware plates were decorated with a house and garden scene typical of an Early American embroidery sampler.  Of course, I expected the plate to rest in the center of the placemat, house squarely positioned in front of the chair. More often than not, when I brought the meal to the table, I noticed that the houses were facing to the right or to the left or even sometimes, upside down!

“Boys!” I called, summoning them to dinner, “before you sit down to eat, you need to rearrange those plates so that they’re facing the right direction!”

The smirks on their faces and their shared knowing glances betrayed the delight in their success at irritating me.

Co-workers and friends have also labeled me a Felix Unger.   My lesson planning spiral notebook was the envy of the entire faculty.  As a carry-over from my childhood, I wanted to protect the pristine condition of the book’s soft green cover, so I reinforced it with clear adhesive Contact paper.  Differently colored plastic index tabs identified the section for each class, Hons. English I, English I, Adv. ESL I and Rd’g/Wrt’g/Grmr. II., and a large steel clip marked the exact week of lessons.  As the year drew on, my plan book had no curled corners on pages and no torn or bent covers.  Other teachers rifled through their books, searching for the current week’s lesson or class list pages.  Bulletin boards in my classroom changed monthly to illustrate a particular season, grammar rule or genre of literature.  Other classrooms revved up for Back-to-School Night in September and remained unchanged until the last day of instruction in early June.  Girlfriends frequently marvel over my home-sewn organizer inside my purse which provides more pockets for keys, lipstick, tissue, cell phone and mints.  My car, now five years old, still looks like I just drove it off the dealer’s lot.  Whenever it becomes absolutely necessary for the dog to travel with me, I line the interior with a heavy protective tarp.  Even the inside door panels are protected with specially made covers that clip to the insides of the windows and a black mesh screen bars Rusty from jumping into the front seat and riding shotgun! Aside from the inevitable nose marks on the windows, there is no evidence of a four-legged passenger ever having been inside!  The fact that there exist such items proves to me that there are other Felix Ungers out in the world, too!

Grocery shopping presents particular challenges for the Felix Unger in me.  Of course I prepare an itemized list, detailing everything I need, that’s not the problem.  Once I wheel my cart into the produce section, tear off a plastic bag and begin to select the best vegetables or fruits, I adhere to a strict mandate governing the number of each item on my list.  Tomatoes, for example, are always on the list.  I examine each one,  gently squeezing to test for firmness and checking for blemishes, before dropping it into the bag.  I choose, two, four or six tomatoes; never one, three or five.  My self-imposed rule is to choose even numbers of fruits and vegetables, NEVER odd . . . with the exception of lettuce and watermelon.  In those cases, I can choose only one!   Who needs two of those on a weekly basis?  Unloading the items from the cart onto the conveyor belt to check out requires special attention.  First off are the reusable bags (with the insulated Cold-Pak bag on top) signalling the start of a new order to the cashier.  Next up are the items needing refrigeration: yogurt, eggs, milk, meats, ice cream, cheese, etc.  After the produce has been off-loaded, scanned and set aside for bagging, there is no hierarchy for the remaining items in the cart.  Crackers, coffee, pasta and cookies don’t require special care in packing, so they are last off.  Not to stand idly waiting for the total amount to be tallied, I offer packing instructions to the bag boy!

“You should use the Cold-Pak bag for all of the cold items,” I begin, “It snaps closed to keep the temperature cold!  And try not to put the English muffins at the bottom of the bag.  They’ll get squished!”

I’m pretty sure that my shopping techniques have been the topic of discussion in the employee’s break room!  Recently, it seems as though I’ve been assigned to a particular bag girl who has Felix Unger tendencies too!  She’s a real packing dynamo!

“Good Morning!” she greets with a lilt in her voice and a smile on her face, “let’s see . . . Cora, could you scan the Kleenex and paper towels next?  I’m saving space for them in this bag!  Then give me the aluminum foil and coffee filters!”

I LOVE THIS GIRL!  Ordinarily, I wheel my packed groceries out to the car by myself, but when she asked if I needed help, I accepted immediately!  I couldn’t help but comment on her excellent packing skills.  That’s when she told me that she’d just finished reading The  Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo and how it impacted her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I squealed with delight, “I’ve read it, too!  Isn’t it THE BEST BOOK EVER?”

We chatted for awhile, she not too attentive to putting my groceries in my car, gushing over how helpful and “magic” the art of tidying really is.

“I used to think I was really good at organizing, but that book has changed my life!” I told her.

“Oh my gosh!  Me too!” she agreed, “Do you fold your shorts so that you can store them laterally in your drawer now?  I do and Marie Kondo is right — it’s MUCH more efficient!”

“Of course I do!” I said, “I have made all the changes she suggested!”

My house has NEVER been so tidy!  Being neat is part of who I am.  Organizing, sorting, tidying . . . it’s what I do.   I vow to be more tolerant of the Oscar Madisons in my life because I have come to realize that compared to me, even Felix Unger was a slob!

 

 

“There once was a girl from Nantucket . . .”

Ya, ya, ya . . . we’ve all heard that limerick and others almost like it.  Funny, clever, entertaining,  but oh so limited in available rhyming words.   Now that St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us, perhaps some effort should be made toward crafting a few original new limericks.  They’re not easy . . . with the AABBA rhyme pattern!

As I sat, twirling my pen in my hand and trying to think not only of clever topics for limericks but also racking my brain for suitable rhymes, I looked down at my dog.  Instantly he became my muse:

There once was a dog named Rusty

Who rolled in the dirt and got dusty

Chasing gophers and rabbits

Were two of his habits

He mustn’t be crazy, or must he?

O.K.!  There!  That wasn’t so hard, was it.  Let’s do another one!  Hmmmmm . . . . what about?   The morning News broadcast droned in the background . . . something about the plight of the homeless in Los Angeles . . .

There once was a man in the city

Upon whom all took great pity

He lived by himself

Like a lost little elf

Such a shame ’cause he really was witty!

Who knew that the News could inspire a limerick!  (Now, looking out the window into the back yard garden . . .)

There once was a bee that flew by

With quite a big tear in his eye

He lost all his honey

And didn’t have money

Which gave him great reason to cry!

All right!  I’m on a roll!  Let’s keep this going!

There once was a girl named Nell

Whose favors she wanted to sell

She pranced through the town

Made up like a clown

What happened?  Just wait ’til I tell!

I definitely had a groove going now with the AABBA pattern!  But . . . I found myself wanting to know what happened with Nell!  Could I . . . should I . . . DARE I try to write a whole limerick story?  I wouldn’t know unless I tried!  Just what DID happen to Nell?

There was also a man named Bob

Who found lots of people to rob

He came upon Nell

Who screamed, “You go to Hell!”

And with that, she started to sob!

Bob then went home to his wife

Where the two of them shared a sad life

They had no friends at all

and no lower to fall

So they lived with their sadness and strife.

Bob’s wife was indeed very smart

Through her brain ideas would dart

She got a new job

Couldn’t WAIT to tell Bob

She sold apples in town from a cart!

It was Paddy who sold her the cart

He had a big ol’ true Irish heart

He was kind; he was nice

He asked such a low price

And wished her “good luck” from the start!

Paddy appeared to be tattered and old

From living outside in the cold

His beard was bright red

And the cap on his head

Was outrageously bulky and bold.

He brought luck to people in need

And loved to perform a good deed

He used a shamrock

That he hid in his frock

Lest others take it in greed!

The shamrock’s leaves there were four

Not even one less or one more

The magic, it seemed

Could once be redeemed

By the person that it was meant for!

Paddy knew about Bob and his wife

He decided to rid her of strife

He pulled from his frock

That magic shamrock

To bring her a new way of life.

He then took the cart into town

Once there, he flagged Bob’s wife down

“You’ll be excusin’ me, please,”

(He said on his knees)

“Havin’ THIS there’ll be no reason to frown!”

Bob’s wife took the cart right away!

“But Sir, I’ve no way to pay!”

“Don’t worry, dear lass –

Your hardships will pass

Because this is your big, lucky day!”

In the cart Paddy placed the shamrock

Using the apples and crates as a block

“She can’t know that it’s here –

Lest luck disappear!”

He said in a tone full of shock!

The apples were juicy and good

They sold well in that huge neighborhood

Bob’s wife raked in money

Her life became sunny

As Paddy knew that it would!

Bob’s wife knew her husband was bad

And also that he was a  cad

With her new lease on Life

She brandished a knife

Letting him know she was angry and mad!

“Ya’ don’t take things that don’t b’long to you!

Ya’ didn’t think that I all along knew!

“Get out of this house

You miserable louse!”

Yelling as plates and saucers she threw.

Bob scurried out the front door

He just couldn’t take any more

He went to find Nell

Of his hardship to tell

And found her close to the shore.

“You know I never meant ya no harm!”

He cried as he poured on the charm

But Nell was too wise

And she glared in his eyes

“Get away or I’ll be breakin’ your arm!”

Bob wandered and rambled ‘round town

His sins and misdeeds clamped down

He’d lost his best friend

No fences to mend

He was thrown out of his own hometown.

This happened as Paddy looked on

Pleased that Bob was now gone

His good deed was done

Good Fortune was won

Bob’s wife was no longer a pawn!

Paddy’s shamrock had worked quite well

For Bob’s wife and even for Nell

You’d better watch out

Don’t have one little doubt

The Luck of the Irish is Swell!!