dogs we housed

Growing up, we always seemed to have an open-door policy when it came to animals. If it meandered onto our taxed property, we would feed it. This is not always a good thing to do with wandering animals, as one might belong to a devoted owner... and all we were doing was teaching it that s/he could find a meal at our home. Nevertheless, we did it.

Among stray dogs, we also had pet-store purchased pets. I had a fascination with hamsters that my dad allowed me to indulge in. I didn't like the idea of these furry little creatures locked up in a plastic cage, so I would let them run free in the house. This resulted in furrowed brows of my parents, and a few hamster fatalities.

In an effort to show them how much they were loved when they were forced to live in their little plastic cages, I would wait until everyone was sleeping, then sneak to the scary plastic cage and pluck my little fuzzy creature into the world and into freedom. I figured God made them fuzzy because he knew that they wanted to be cuddled, so I would take them to bed with me. Unfortunately, God forgot that I was a heavy sleeper... so, I ended up rolling over my fuzzy little friend(s) in the night. It wasn't long before hamsters went on the list of animals not likely to ever enter the house again.

Growing up in Louisiana and Texas, we rarely had the occasion to light the fireplace. But, with the combination of begging for a fire and 60°F weather, we were able to get a fire going one night. My dad opened the flue and found a charming little nest of chimney swifts. This immediately became more interesting than a fire. I told him that we had to keep them. All they knew was the chimney, and surely it would be much too shocking to let them into the wild. We had to keep them until the fire was gone, then they'd go back.

We got a cardboard box, and placed the nest of anxious birds into it. I talked to them for hours, and I really don't even recall if we had a fire that night. Even when there is no fire, a chimney just strikes me as a warm place... so, with this thought, I felt sorry for the cold little birds. I only had room for one, so I again waited for everyone to go to bed, then gently took one of the baby birds back to my bed. Surely a bird sleeping with a human in a human bed (rather than in a nest in cardboard box not in the chimney) would have a greater chance at life. Except that I rolled over this one in my sleep, too. The chimney swift family -1 was returned to the chimney the next day.

Seeing as I could not be trusted with small animals, my family moved on to dogs and cats. One of our first strays was a dog that appeared to be part pitbull. He came along, he ate well, and he seemed to like us. So, we had a family meeting on what to name the dog. We all wrote out our chosen names for the dog on pieces of paper and decided that the piece of paper chosen would be the dog's name. My brother's suggestion of "Boner" was chosen.

Years later, we adopted a greyhound. This has since become my absolute favorite breed of dog. He exhibited excruciating anxiety and bad breath. The GPA had named him "Storm." I demanded that we rename him "Greyhound." It stuck. This dog was so fascinating... he was more nervous than coffee, and he could run and play to no end.

My brother wanted a yellow lab for hunting. He found one, but failed to train her. This dog ended up being the most spoiled fat lab ever. Ty. She ate a slice of pizza on Fridays, followed by a scoop of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla. She lived a very happy 11 years, and her passing still makes everyone in the family cry. She had such a laid back, easy-going personality... and, she loved everyone. The world would be a better place if there were people like Ty.

We had other dogs. This is not in chronological order.

Rex was a Doberman, and I think he had some intestinal issues. He was loved and caressed by all members of the family on a regular basis. And, a little more. Despite any family troubles going on, Rex always brought us together. However, he did seem to exhibit some digestion problems. When a dog farts, s/he usually just raises an eyebrow or two and waits for the audience response. When Rex would fart, he would moan and leave the room. As if the smell was so foul that even a dog should not endure it.

We had other dogs with other stories. Rest assured, all dogs were treated well (often better than the human children) while under the Gamble care.

equal pie

I went to the store today for kale and to stare at the doughnuts. Upon entering the store, I saw an elderly woman smoking a cigarette and sitting on a bench. She had lots of wrinkles. I reminded myself to use my wrinkle cream when I got home.

I had just dropped off my load of plastics and metals and glass at the recycling place, so upon my arrival at the store, I hurried to the restroom to wash my hands. Just before elbowing open the restroom door, I noticed a number of quarter machines. One of them held little plastic monsters made in China. I made a note to visit this coin-operated thing after washing my hands. I entered the restroom, and to my excitement, they provided foaming soap. It seems that public facilities are using this more and more. I like that. Something about it just seems more cleansing than liquid soap. The restroom was blessed with a white porcelain sink, so I was able to easily see my dirty suds rinsed away.

I went to dry my hands and noticed that the paper towel dispenser was not a sensor dispenser as I am used to at work. I had to touch the little lever to dispense a paper towel. I cursed myself for not dispensing the paper towel before washing my hands as I usually do. I dried my hands, then let out a couple more towels and washed my hands again. This time, I didn't have to touch a thing.

As I used the paper towel to open the restroom door, I was filled with excitement about the little monster quarter machine. As much as I do not like to handle coins, I dug into my purse in an eager search for two quarters. Found them. I put them into the machine thing, turned the lever, and was greeted with a little pink monster that looked like a bunny. I opened up the plastic capsule with a car key and smiled. I went back to the restroom again to wash my hands since I'd handled coins and that lever. This time, I thought to dispense the paper towels before washing.

I walked out one entrance/exit to enter the other entrance/exit. The second one is closer to the handheld grocery carts, and it's the entrance I pretty much always use, so I had to go out the odd entrance/exit and go into the regular entrance/exit to equalize things and cancel out my entrance to the odd exit. The elderly woman was working on another cigarette. She was sitting in the same position. I told myself that I shouldn't stare, but I did.

I picked up some kale and cursed those damn produce water-sprayers. Is that really necessary? What good does it do for the consumer other than to try to show just how "fresh" something looks? I have my own idea that it is done to add just an ounce or two of weight to per pound of produce.

Then again, maybe the produce has some sort of rinsing complex. I can understand that (even if it doesn't include foaming soap).

I'd done what was most important: getting kale. So, I moved onto gazing at the glazed doughnuts. On my way there, I was stopped in my counted steps by something I saw in the baked goods area. I saw a sign that read, "EQUAL PIE."

I frowned and looked around for an "INEQUALITY PIE," but I could not find such. It seemed all-too American. HEY! It's 2009, so let's pretend that there is no such thing as inequality... so need for an inequality pie.

I don't even know what an inequality pie would look or taste like, but I was upset that I didn't see one. I squatted down to see just what was so great about the "EQUAL PIE," and upon reading the ingredients, discovered that the "EQUAL" part was referring to the ingredients. "EQUAL," as in the artificial sweetener.

I left with a full basket of kale and a yearning for an inequality pie.

the coupon binder is back

The coupon binder is back. The last time I was faithful to this binder and the practice of couponing was when I was in Austin (2005, I think). I belonged to a coupon club... we'd meet up for coupon happy hour (that just sounds pathetic), where we'd enjoy drinks and pass around our coupon inserts that we'd already dissected, but always left much for others, as we all have different shopping wants and habits.



For the most part, I really had not used coupons in the last few years, as the majority of food I consume = fresh vegetables. Well, and tuna. Seafood here in Missouri really sucks, so packaged tuna is about as good as it gets (with the exception of spending all too much dining at a fresh seafood restaurant).



Eventually, I realized that my fascination with cleaning and beauty products was getting a little overboard... so, a coupon intervention was necessary. I have recently gone back to buying Sunday papers (some places allow you to buy them for $0.75 - $1.00 on Mondays) and clipping coupons.



For those of you assholes who say, "I don't have time for that," I would just like to remind you that we all have 24 hours in the day, and we spend it as we wish. I do not own a TV, so I do not waste time on stupid fucking drama, comedy, or CSI shows. I spend about 60 minutes a week clipping and organizing coupons while listening to the news on radio. The majority of my used coupons are for household/cleaning and beauty/body products... those markets are always coming up with new products, so coupons are rather common and easy to use for consumers of long-branded items.

My 60 minutes a week averages about $20 savings a week. And, again, this is really on household and beauty items. So, if you have a family and use other items in coupons, you could do really well with savings.



If Walgreens decides to do their "Free After Rebate" deals again, I'll write on strategies for that. With the exception of a few salon purchases, I have not paid for shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, toothpaste, etc. in about five years. The FAR is a good thing, so I hope it comes back.

In addition to hygiene products that are of use, there are always a number of products from Walgreens' FAR, as well as nearly-free foods from grocers, that you can collect and donate to women & children's shelters. When I moved from TX to MO, I had a couple of kitchen bags of (new, unopened) hygiene products and other good stuff to donate to Phoebe House. They were grateful, and it felt good to give something that I didn't even have to spend money on... just a few minutes of shopping.

counting monsters

I do not count sheep; I count squares of toilet paper on a roll. You would be surprised at how the number of squares varies from roll to roll, even among the same brand.

My sometimes-overwhelming habit of counting everything reminded me of something more important today. I may very well be able to tell you how many steps of stairs there are in various buildings of the cities in which I've lived... or just how many florets of broccoli may be found in the average 16oz. bag (again, variances among brand... and per brand).

When I was growing up, I thought that I wanted to be a banker. Not that I knew what a banker did, but I imagined that it was a job that required counting money all day long. I really do not like to touch money in paper or metallic form, but the idea of getting paid to monotonously count something- anything- all day long just seemed too perfect. Maybe they would let me wear gloves. I'm still not sure what type of gloves, as the powder in latex gloves always freaks me out. Maybe I could wear my long yellow plastic home-cleaning gloves. Although, I imagine that might be frowned upon, as it may appear strange to some customers. But if they could only put me in a little green box with my long yellow gloves and things to count for 9-10 hours a day, I think we'd have a deal.

Other jobs I wanted when I was growing up: flight attendant, butcher, laundry folder (is there such thing?), dog walker. And, perhaps my longest-held and most cherished: catfish farmer. I went to school for marine fisheries for two years to pursue this. After two years of study and two volunteer positions as cephalopod lab tech at UTMB and as a docent and renovator assistant to the new curator of the Houston of Museum of Natural Science Malacology Hall (my time there is another story), I chose otherwise. But, I still dig marine creatures. The smell of such work leaves much to be desired, yet I do miss it. As I type this, I am reminded of my stranded dolphin necropsy experience, though that is another life account.

Regarding counting, monsters are another thing. Strange how they can have as many eyes and arms and other appendages as the illustrator designates. They seem to elude all that is normal and regular and counted... but, I suppose that is why they are in a category of their own. It must be freeing to be a monster, to not have to feel the pull to conform to any standard or have any sort of expectations to which it should meet in life, love, community. On the other end of the spectrum, I suppose that could lead to apathy, loneliness, and a sense of indirection in general. But, I like to think that monsters are on the more cheerful side of that rainbow.

You could even call a monster an artist of sorts. No real form, only imagination may interpret just what they are. As friendly or sinister as they may appear, they ultimately choose their own life's will. Better than any other creature, they understand acceptance for their own selves, appreciation for their strengths and concessions for their weaknesses, and recognition with which how they may change this world, for better or for worse.

I think we could all learn something from monsters. In fact, I cannot even count the ways.