The things we do for love, uh, I mean for smoking hotness.

Matt is having a birthday soon, so we drove the hour or so to visit my mom and step-father last night for a pre-birthday dinner.  My Aunt Baby and Uncle Joe were also there and as always seems to happen, I came away from the evening with a good story or two.  Any time that my family gets together, there tends to be at least one good tale that makes an appearance, because as Baby says, “You can’t make this shit up.  You have to live it.”  Indeed.

Last night, we started talking about how my Uncle Joe was getting back into some of the hobbies and interests that he used to have, like wearing cowboy boots and collecting guns.  He had saved a lot of his pairs of cowboy boots that he had bought in the 70s and 80s and is just starting to wear them again (vintage!), so his argument is that this is a cost-effective interest.

Baby said something like “You’ll want to be wearing Sue boots again!” and she and my mom and Joe laughed and laughed.

me:  What are Sue boots?

Baby:  Back in the early 80s, me and your mom and Joe went to the Mt. Airy Fiddlers Convention with your dad while he set up his booth there to sell his Harley panties.  [My dad would go to flea markets and fairs, etc. and sell cowboy hats, t-shirts, leather wallets, etc. and black panties with the Harley-Davidson logo that said “I’m a Harley Honey”.  Classy.]  Joe walked around to check out the competition and saw this Sioux woman selling boots.

me:  Oh, Sioux as in S-I-O-U-X.  I thought you were saying S-U-E.

Baby:  No, like Indian.  Anyway, he thought she was hot, and she talked him into buying these Sioux boots.

Joe:  She was smoking hot.

Baby:  So he comes walking back wearing these boots with fringe all the way down the front and they cost like $40, back in 1982 that was like $100.  I was so mad!

Joe:  She was really hot.

Baby:  I guess I’m glad she wasn’t selling Sioux chandeliers, or I would have one of those in my house now.

Joe:  Yeah, I would have bought one, cause she was hot.

My Dad's Camper and Displays -- A Shopper's Paradise

My Dad’s Camper and Displays — A Shopper’s Paradise

Joe’s story made me think about the crazy stuff people do when they are trying to get someone’s attention or they, like Joe, think someone else is hot.  We all do it, at some point in our lives.  I know we do.  And I think that for the most part it is harmless, like buying Sioux boots.

I drank two bottles of wine pretty much by myself at a restaurant in New York City one time because our waiter was hot and the more I drank, the more often he would come back to the table to refill my glass.  Worst. Hangover. Ever.

My best friend in college got up in the middle of the night/morning, showered, put on makeup, etc., to meet a guy who called her on the phone, not realizing it was a crank call.  When the guy on the phone asked her what she was doing, she asked, “Is this Dominick?”  “Yes, it is.  Meet me.”  Because she thought it was Dominick, she did it because Dominick was hot.  Of course, no one showed up because it was a crank call.

This temporary insanity is giddy and fun and makes me smile to remember.  I think of the scene from Seinfeld where George Costanza said, “I once told a woman that I coined the phrase “Pardon my French.”” to get a woman.  We will do some outlandish things.  And some times we end up with boots, some times with hangovers.  Maybe sometimes we end up with a new love.

I am so excited for Matt and me to keep bees. These photographs really show how beautiful bees are!

chenson70's avatarBuzzing Around in My Head

I stumbled upon this website yesterday — it has the best pictures of bees. I’ve posted a few examples. You should check it out: The Bee Photographer at www.thehoneygatherers.com. The photographer’s name is Eric Tourneret and his work is fabulous. Enjoy these few pics and check out his site for more.

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Building combs – from www.thehoneygatherers.com

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Detail of a wing under microscope – from www.thehoneygatherers.com

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Multitude – from www.thehoneygatherers.com

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Lucky or blessed? Does it really matter?

Today I went outside with the dog and looked down and bam, right there, standing up taller than all the grass around it was a 4-leaf clover.

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It may not be a real clover, but in this part of the world, this is what we call a clover.

It seemed especially appropriate to find this on St. Patrick’s Day.  When I found it, I thought, “How lucky was that!  Finding a four-leaf clover on St. Patrick’s Day!”

I’m not Irish.  Well, maybe like a smidge a gizzillion generations back.  So, I don’t have the luck of the Irish.  I’ve never considered myself lucky — never won contests, never win money when I buy the scratch lottery tickets, never even do well on the Slots app on my iPhone.

After finding the 4-leaf clover today, I started to think about all the ways that I maybe am lucky:  marriage, family, home, friends, health, job…

According to dictionary.com, “lucky”  or “luck” means:

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Ok, I guess there is some measure of chance related to the great things in my life.  I didn’t have any control of being born in a developed nation instead of a third-world country.  I didn’t have any control of being born in a country that has a higher level of health care than most other countries.

I think that the word that describes me better is blessed, especially the fourth definition of the word:

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I am fortunate, happy and content.  And maybe lucky, as well.  It can’t hurt to be either.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Daoibh!

I’ve read it all….

I just read something that I think is pretty silly.

As background, this is what has been taking up a lot of my time for the last two months:

Louie

Louie

Louie was my Christmas present to myself.  He’s a little ball of love.  And a little ball of work.  My schedule has changed, I had to hire a dog trainer to come to the house to help with housebreaking, we’re visiting a doggie day care tomorrow to see about him staying there two times a week so that I don’t have to get up and leave meetings every day of the week to go and let him out….

He’s worth it.

One of his little idiosyncracies is that he shakes a lot.  As in starts at the head and shakes all the way down (I would say from his head to his tail but French bulldogs don’t have tails).

So, I did what anyone would do:  I looked up “Why do dogs shake?” on Google.

The first article that came back was from Modern Dog magazine.  The article proposes that dogs shake because humans are showing them love in ways that their canine brains can’t process.

Emotion is energy-in-motion, which is why the more emotional we feel the more animated we become and want to move. And as energy emotion has an internal dynamic of movement that works quite like the tides in that there is a rising and an ebbing effect. When emotion sweeps over us, we can feel it surge as if we’re a tidal basin being flooded with a wave, and then these effects slowly subside and in fact can linger for a very long time. So in the animal mind, when there is an input of love that falls outside this natural rhythm, the canine mind doesn’t necessarily process it as love, but rather as social pressure, which to a dog is equivalent to pain and since the emotional circuitry piggybacks on the most basic systems of physiology, the dog shakes it off.

WTF?  The dog mind can’t process love, but it can process social pressure?  PUH-LEEZE!  Glad I haven’t subscribed to Modern Dog.

Then I went to the other most visited site for information:  YouTube.

Another WTF moment.  There has actually been scientific work on dog shaking water off its coat.

If you have time to watch this video — DO!  The scientists involved actually videoed (in slow-mo, no less) a rat shaking so that you and I can see its skeleton during the process.

Conclusion:

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AWESOME.

And I still don’t know why Louie shakes except that he just feels like it.  Good enough.

Commuting with your hubby

I drove Matt to the airport the other morning, so we had the opportunity to share a morning drive.  We started to talk about our new hobby of beekeeping and how there doesn’t seem to be a lot of young people involved.

me:  You know if people would involve young people when they were taking care of their bees, I bet there would be more young people who wanted to keep bees.  When I was younger, we were always warned away from the hives.  “Stay away!”  “Don’t go near there!”  We were scared to go near the hives.  Doesn’t that sound like a Sheets family response?  “Danger!  Danger!  Stay away!”

Matt:  Sounds so like your family.  When I was growing up, I was taught that guns were just another tool.  They’re dangerous, so you have to be careful.  You have to learn how to handle them properly.  But you were never around guns so now you’re very apprehensive about guns.

me:  Yes, and other things.

Matt:  Like what?

me:  Penises.

Matt:  Yeah, you were taught that if you got around a penis you would end up a homeless crack whore, with no job and no family.

me:  With no one to love me.

*pause*

me:  I should have been taught that they are just another tool.

Matt:  That they can be dangerous but they can be good in other cases.

Then we got distracted by this boy waiting for the school bus that wears shorts every day regardless of the weather (that morning it was in the high 30s but with a biting wind).  Matt didn’t think that was weird because he said his legs never got cold when he was that age.  Which led me to tell him the story of the time in high school when we couldn’t wear shorts but the girls could wear mini skirts, so two boys protested by wearing mini skirts to school.

This led to a discussion of whether there is a disproportionate amount of assholes attracted to school jobs or if your perspective is skewed as a child/teenager.

I love commuting with Matt.

 

Dealing with stuff

I was listening to my iPod on the way home tonight and a lyric in a song caught my ear:

When stink fades into smell..

I think this is akin to “Things look better in the morning” or “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger”.  Basically, sooner or later, the things that make us gag because they stink so bad will eventually not even elicit a response from us.

Is it because we actually learn to live with the new normal, that we grow stronger and can handle things that we didn’t know we could?  Do things actually get better?  Or is our first reaction always exaggerated doom so there is no place to go but up?  Maybe it’s some sort of combination of three.  But I am always completely amazed by the things that we humans handle.  Natural disasters, deaths, debilitating pain, homelessness, etc.  I don’t know that I could handle those things and keep my sanity.

I remember reading or hearing once about a theory that if everyone could take their problems and label them and put them in a pile and we could all walk around and pick the pile of problems that we wanted to take on, we would all eventually come back to our own pile.  Our pile somehow would look more manageable.  It would feel “comfortable.”  We have some level of understanding with our own problems, a feeling of familiarity and intimacy with them.

I’ve always liked this.  When I’ve felt overwhelmed or down, I’ve thought, “I bet I would come right back to this pile of problems.”  Now I know they probably wouldn’t stink to me either.

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On another note, Matt and I have completed a beginning beekeeping class and passed the first part of the NC Certified Beekeepers test.  I’m keeping a blog about being a new beekeeper (Buzzing Around in My Head), so if you are interested, come by.

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I saw these fortune cookies on tumblr.com and thought they were hilarious.  I may try my hand at writing some.  These are all from Pleated Jeans.com.

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Not my monkeys

I’ve been taking my new puppy to a friend’s house (thanks tons, Wendy!) each day, a house that is within easy driving distance from work, so that I can easily pop over at lunch and let him out during the middle of the day.

The house to the right of Wendy is a rental house and the last renters trashed the house.  The landlord has hired a company to renovate the house for the next set of renters.

The guy in charge of the project is almost always outside in the yard when I am in Wendy’s yard, walking Louie the puppy.  He’s a friendly guy and very chatty.  I’ve learned more than I ever wanted about the condition of the house post-renters, what a bad job the previous property managers did, how upset the landlord is, how much money property managers make, how much money he makes on projects, where his parents live, how many times he’s been to court, how crazy his cat is, etc.  Not even the sight of me bagging Louie’s poop discourages the pseudo-monologue.

Today, our conversation/monologue went to this place:

Guy:  I’ve been married 32 years and in all those years I have never cussed my wife nor have I ever raised a hand to my wife.

me:  *long pause* That’s the way it should be.

I don’t know whose background this reveals the most about (probably his) that he thought that this was an achievement worthy of mentioning to a complete stranger and that I think that this is an ante into marriage and totally not worthy of mention.  For me, it would be like advertising that a car has a steering wheel — duh, it better.  My husband promises not to hit me — well, no shit, that is given in this marriage.  I promise not to poison any meals that I cook and hand to you.  Do we have to put that in the vows?

I realize that for many, many people the reality of violence in their relationships means that my mindset is not their mindset.  A spouse or boyfriend (or a wife/girlfriend) that doesn’t physically abuse them would be very different from current status.  I don’t understand the dynamics between those partners, the demons that drive the abusers and the abusees, etc.  I guess I should count myself lucky, but it makes it hard for me to relate to Mr. Chatty.

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I found this on the internets today and I am totally going to introduce it to my daily conversation:

Source: flickr.com via Amy on Pinterest

According to the internets, this is a Polish idiom that means “Not my problem”.  Now, I’ve seen a few occasions where the internets have been wrong, so if you know anything about Polish (and I’m specifically putting a call out there to my friend, “Princess” Jenn, whose grandmother provided us a picture of Jenn’s ancestor King John Sobieski of Poland to hang in our freshman dorm room), I would appreciate validation.  I would hate to be going around saying, “Not my circus, not my monkeys” when I really should be saying, “Not my circus, not my clowns”.  I want to be right.  Especially when you’re talking about monkeys.  Or circuses.  Or (especially) clowns.