The Dog Arguer?

Well, it's Monday morning. I'm checking out my to do list for the day. And I'm arguing with my dog. Kinda looks a little like this:

Speedy: I want a chewie.

Me: You cannot have one.

Speedy: I want a chewie.

Me: It isn't happening, dog.

Speedy: I want a chewie.

Me: Go.Away.

Speedy: I want a chewie.
(I stare at him for a long moment. You can literally hear the Western showdown music playing. My eyes squint. He cocks his head to the side and uses his 'cute face'. I square my jaw. He wags his tail. And I say...in my best Clint Eastwood voice:)

Me: Eat the breakfast that's in your bowl, punk. And maybe, if you're good, I'll give you a chewie later.
(Speedy stares at me for a second or two. And then begins to eat his breakfast.)
Me: Good dog.

I tell you, my friends...that there are days when I am beggin' for my chewie at breakfast. I haven't done anyhing to earn the chewie. I haven't done anything to NOT earn a chewie. I just want it. And I want it now!

Waiting is awful, isn't it? Friday night my daughter and I went to the movies. And
there was a line to get in. Apparently, this particular theatre has only 2 people working on tickets on a Friday night...and what's worse...I was told that the movie began at 7:30 p.m....but the sign at the theatre said 7:10 p.m. It was 7:20 p.m. I HATE BEING LATE FOR MOVIES!! So I feel myself start to panic a little inside. "Let's go, people...let's go!" I say under my breath. Finally, after what feels like 4,000 hours...we get our tickets and go. And the movie hadn't started yet. I'd been anxious. And it was a waste of my time.

Was Speedy anxious, I wonder? I should ask him. You see, the kids and my hubby think it's funny that I talk to the dog. And he talks back. We converse. We share ideas and opinions. We contemplate the stars and the subtle differences between vanilla ice cream and french vanilla ice cream. But mainly, seriously, really....we argue about the chewie.

Yeah, that's pretty much it. And when I give him a chewie...do I get a thank you? Rarely. Sometimes, for fun...I ask for the chewie back.

That doesn't go over well. Suddenly, mild mannered Speedy turns into Savage Beast of a DOG Speedy! RAWWWR! It's a little scary.

My friends, the sobering thought here is: sometimes Speedy and I have a lot more in common than sharing the same address and fondness for ice cream. I don't want to wait. I want my chewie RIGHT NOW! And if/when I get the chewie...I can almost guarantee that I am not eagerly interested in giving it back.

And sadly, sometimes I do not say thanks.

Waiting is hard. Working is hard. Being denied your chewie on your time is not easy.

Are you tired of arguing? Can you be satisfied just eating your breakfast for a little while longer?

Oh, and here's another thing to remember: I love Speedy. I love him with a passion sometimes. And there are times when I want to just get up and give him the chewie. And there are moments when he gets two...just for fun.

I think he knows that. I should ask him.

There is Someone, my friends...that doesn't want to argue with you. He wants to spend time with you. And He cares deeply for you.
His chewies...by the way...are well worth the wait.

SPEEDY! STOP BARKING AT ME! I'm trying to blog here! Oh, for the love of...I gotta go! Have a great day!

Maybe Mrs. Tuggle was right...

Help me out here people. How can folks run in -44 below temperatures? I could, I guess, if I were running towards say, a warm, inviting Taco Bell....or perhaps just running to my car to get out of the cold.

How do they do it? It boggles my mind. I can come up with 465,093,123 reasons not to do that. Not to run in this weather.

Who am I kidding? I don't run. Ever.

You see, I've never been very interested in exercise.

Yeah, I can hear you gasping in surprise. Take it easy on the sarcasm, okay? Knock it off.

Even as a baby, I didn't really exert myself. Wasn't one of those amazing kids that you see walking around at 3 1/2 months. Nope. I preferred to take it easy. Maybe drag myself along if I had no other option. Used my baby cuteness to get myself picked up and carried around. Did that until I was twelve. Yeah. Seriously.

There's the reason my name is what it is. I am supposed to be carried!

Sure, C. Whatever helps you to get to sleep at night. Aren't you a little big to be carried now? You know, if you would do a little exercise...like maybe, oh I don't know....run?

Seriously, I said knock it off.

Anyways, like I mentioned, exercise and me...we don't get along. The exercises that I actually do somewhat enjoy (like swimming) aren't possible right now due to money mostly. I just don't have the cash available to join the Y or whatever. And yeah, I know that sounds a lot like an excuse. But I don't care. And you know what? Chalupas are cheaper...

But...thanks to dictionary.com, I now know why I don't get along with physical exertion.

It's training. It's putting forth strength. It's effort. It's practice. It's...

It's sweaty, y'all. And tiring. And requires a good deal of discipline to be really effective in the long term.

Discipline. Oooooh. There's a word for you! I looked up "discipline" in my Webster's Dictionary and found this:

Discipline - (noun) PUNISHMENT.

Ah...dictionary.com must be written by someone who exercises...because it lists 'punishment' as the number 3 definition!

PUNISHMENT.

Not a good word. Look it up and you find "Suffering, pain, penalty, p.e. class".

Okay. So I lied. You won't find "p.e. class" there. But you will find a picture of Mrs. Tuggle, my jr. high gym teacher.

It's not pretty.

Punishment, I mean. Not Mrs. Tuggle. Although I have to admit that the woman was not the cutest banana in the bunch.

See, my problem is...I don't like pain. I don't enjoy suffering. I'm not that into p.e. class. In fact, p.e. class felt kinda like being on a chain gang.

And who wants to do that? Who volunteers for the chain gang?

No one.

But here's the kicker. I need discipline. I need training. I need to do push ups because that which doesn't kill me...makes me stronger, right?

Push ups kill me. Even the thought of push ups makes me light-headed and a bit freaked out.

I think one of my problems with this is perfectionism. I think I have to be just like that gal who's been running for 40 years and has a negative body mass index number. The gal that's running in -40 below temps. And smiling.

I blame an absence of oxygen for the grin. I do. Unless she's running say, to a Taco Bell...

So what does discipline take?

Small, little, wee steps. Baby steps. And it takes time. You have to do it every day. Every day. Small steps every day. For 40 years.

It seems a little daunting.

Daunting, by the way, is defined as dismay.

And...unfortunately, that's what I feel when I think of exercise. Not anticipation. Not enthusiasm.

Dismay.

Like I'm missing out on something better by taking the time to exercise.

Do you ever feel that way about something that disciplines you? Like budgeting, or smaller food portions...or waiting to purchase that big screen t.v.?

We don't like to wait. We don't want to hear that things take time. I mean, my perfectionism tells me that I should be able to have that body type NOW. With little effort or time.

Seriously?

I know. It's dumb, isn't it? But I know I'm not the only one that struggles with those sorts of thoughts.

We get overwhelmed by the task ahead, don't we? So we choose to not do it...or put it off. Thinking what? That somehow, down the road, the Chalupas we ate at Taco Bell will just melt off on their own?

My friends, I encourage you to take one small step towards a discipline today. I will. And you know what?

I will try not to focus on the sweat too much...sheesh...where's Mrs. Tuggle when you need her??

Death of a Toaster

It's a new year. A new month. There is a glorious, wonderful expectant feeling in the air.

THIS YEAR...THINGS ARE GOING TO BE DIFFERENT!

And boy howdy...that, my friends...is true. I'm not pyschic...but I know that I can say that sentence above with confidence. You, regardless of age, race, religion, gender, education, experience, dog person, cat person...

Your year, my friend...THIS YEAR...THINGS ARE GOING TO BE DIFFERENT.

Write it on your calendar. Stencil it on your wall in your kitchen. Make it a scrolling marquee on your computer screen saver. Scrapbook it. Whatever.

It's a fact.

The question is not...will this year be different? The question is: How will I handle the changes?

It was October, 1986. I was a freshman in college at Millikin that fall. Talk about change! I had a 'new home' in a dorm room, a 'new roommate' from the Chicago area that I was still trying to get to know, new classes, new teachers (oh, wait...they're PROFESSORS now!), new friends were being made. That fall EVERYTHING was new! Everything was different. It was a little overwhelming...but I was really trying to see the positive side of things.

And then my Grandma Sybil died. Suddenly.

Something different. Something new. Something unexpected.

I went home for the funeral. I thought I was handling things pretty well. I mean, as well as one handles the death of a grandparent. I read her last letter to me several times. I remembered the wonderful times we'd had at her house as kids. All 'typical' or 'classic' mourning stuff.

Then my Dad called to tell me that they were cleaning out Grandma's apartment and was there anything I wanted furniture wise?

Yes! Yes there was! Two things. A round table(George Washington style, I think...is what Antiques Roadshow calls it) and her toaster.

Her magic toaster.

As a child, staying overnight at Grandma Sybil's was just about the best thing in the world. She made us milkshakes...and played Pollyanna with us...and Seven Up...and made us watch Lawrence Welk.

It was a blast! And mornings were amazing! Because of the magic toaster!

This toaster was different from every other toaster I'd seen in my seven years of life. This toaster DIDN'T HAVE A BUTTON! There was no button to push down! You set a piece of bread into the slot...and it sank gracefully, noiselessly down...out of sight...and then, as you waited in anticipation...toast would slowly appear...rising out of the heat of the machine silently. No dinging sound...no jumpy toast. Just....magic toast.

Excellent with some Skippy peanut butter and a glass of milk.

So I got that table and toaster. And for 22 wonderful years...I've been watching toast rise out of that machine...and I have to say:

I still think of it as a magic toaster! It, to this day, still causes me to behave in a somewhat childlike fashion. I'll actually stand there and watch the bread sink down...and wait....and watch toast rise up!

Well, I did. Until Christmas Eve. That's when I...killed the toaster.

I guess, looking back, I should be glad that it wasn't a bigger fire and all. I lit a pastry thing on fire in the toaster...and now it doesn't work anymore.

I know. It's a stinkin' toaster, Carrie. GET OVER IT!

Here's the thing: the past couple of weeks, I've been really down about it. And I think it's because of a couple of things. One, I'm struggling with the fact that I'm missing my toaster...and two: part of me has felt that by having the toaster work...having it 'be alive' so to speak...that Grandma was still 'alive'. I mean, I know she's not...perhaps I'm not explaining that well.

So what have I learned? I am grieving all over again. Mourning. Because it's different in my kitchen now. I have a different toaster. And while I fully appreciate it for what it is...it isn't magic. Something's missing.

Acceptance is hard. And just yesterday, I talked to someone who thinks that maybe...they can fix the old toaster.

But you know what? Part of me doesn't want that. Part of me thinks that it's TIME for a change. That I need to have a new toaster now. I'm old enough to handle it.

I am keeping the Magic Toaster. It's on top of my kitchen cabinet with some other antiques. It is...a part of me. Even if it is a simple kitchen appliance.

I'm sure most of us have things like my toaster around us.

Change is hard. Different isn't always a good thing.

But attitude, my friends...attitude is everything. I know, for a fact, that Magic Toaster or not...I am still the same goofy gal I've been.

Wait, maybe I'm not. Maybe I AM different! In fact, by losing my toaster...I understand loss better. So my loss might help me to understand your loss.

If the things in our lives didn't experience change...we wouldn't grow.

That's what makes toasters amazing in the first place! They change bread, right??!!

Time to eat some breakfast. Let me know what's different in your 2009...