|
RETURN TO BLOG
RETURN TO BLOG INDEX
Life According to Winston the African Grey Parrot--7/2
Cognitive Emotive Dissonance--7/5
IBox of Fluffy Ducks--7/12
It's Not the Heat, It's the Humidity--7/19
You Know You've Lost Weight When. . .--7/23
Reduced to Poetry--7/26
The Bear Facts--7/30 |
|
|
July 2, 2006
Winston the African Grey parrot is my favorite pet ever. That’s a bit
odd, because he’s quite persnickety and not at all chummy like a dog.
Still, he suits me perfectly.
When I decided to buy a big bird, I researched all the parrot species
thoroughly, eliminating each one by one. Many things about African Greys
intrigued me. First, they don’t demand physical attention all the time.
I hate to be hovered over and clung to. They have favorite people,
usually only a few, and I appreciate loyalty. They are intelligent,
cautious, studious, and watchful, with an understated sense of humor
(all of which I appreciate in people, as well.) Of all the larger
parrots, African Gray’s are known to be quiet, although in the case of
any parrot, quiet is relative. The thing is that Winston doesn’t shriek
the same thing at the top of his lungs over and over for hours. He IS
loud, but the sounds are so varied, they don’t bother me unlike the
screaming of other birds such as conures. His whistles and bird noises
are interspersed with plenty of real words, spoken in either my voice or
Brad’s voice. In fact, Winston’s vocabulary grows weekly now, and I’m
constantly surprised by new words. (His latest phrase is, “I’m sorry,
honey.”)
Skeptics have said that Winston is only mimicking us. He can’t possibly
understand the language he uses. But even a child learns first by
mimicking words then figuring out how they work. For instance, saying
mommy or daddy brings mommy or daddy running. I believe Winston is the
same. In the morning, he waits until Brad is walking to the door to
leave, then he says, “Bye, bye.” When Brad has been gone for a while and
the back door opens, Winston says, “Hey, Brad!” If Winston wants my
attention, he’ll cling to the edge of his play stand and say, “Hello,”
over and over again until I turn around. If he wants us to scratch his
head, he says, “Scratch?” It’s amazing to have a parrot greet me first
thing with a bright and cheery, “Good Morning!” That’s the only time of
day he says that phrase.
Mimicking? Perhaps he started that way, but he’s learning to say the
right thing at the right time to get the response he wants.
However, lest you think that a parrot, particularly an African Grey, is
the ideal pet for everyone, I must caution that buying a parrot,
especially a larger one, is not a decision to be made lightly. They have
definite quirks, as you will discover in my following discourse.
Life
According to Winston the African Grey Parrot
● I am cool. You are not. Most people aren’t worthy of my trust. Okay,
let’s face it. Most people just aren’t worthy.
● The world is a scary place. Flying across the room and bashing into
the wall is preferable to sitting still when danger (perceived or
otherwise) strikes. Getting hysterical and throwing myself around is
good, even if I end up in a worse place.
● If you think you can predict my behavior, you’re wrong.
● I want attention only when I want attention, otherwise I’ll bite you.
● I like certain foods and things, and I don’t like other food and
things, and that’s how it is. You can’t change me. Don’t give me
anything I don’t like because I’ll fling it on the floor. Furthermore, I
might decide today that I don’t like what I liked yesterday, and I’ll
fling that on the floor, too.
● Rearranging my world is not acceptable. If you do it and I can reach
you, I’ll bite you.
● Do not move me if I don’t want to be moved. If I can reach you, I’ll
bite you.
● Everything that’s mine is mine. Everything that’s yours is mine. And
all of it needs to be chewed to pieces. Including your curtains if
you’re foolish enough to put my stand near them.
● Your jewelry is mine, too. I love diamonds.
● You can’t make me talk. Neither can you make me shut up. I say what I
want to say when I want to say it.
● Showers are cool. Chewing holes in things is cool. Wood is made to be
splintered, and that’s cool, too.
Lessons We
Can Learn From Winston’s Persnickety-ness:
Be nice to people, even if you think they’re stupid. That’s good
manners.
Hysteria might lead to head injuries.
Don’t throw things. It’s not nice.
Receiving love and affection from people who love you is a good thing.
Don’t be a picky eater. It’s annoying and rude, especially when someone
is trying to be nice to you.
Be flexible.
Learn to speak at the appropriate times.
Learn to shut up before you get on everyone’s nerves.
Don’t break other people’s stuff just because it’s in your way.
Don’t steal jewelry—you will go to jail. . .er, your cage.
Back to Top or
Return to Blog
July 5, 2006
Okay,
forget the cliché for today. I’m not in the mood for clichés. Instead, I
have three words for you.
Cognitive emotive
dissonance. Isn’t that awesome? The words sort of roll
off the tongue and sound almost as smart as using a Latin phrase like, *Amoto
quaeramus seria ludo.
This week, I was reading a book called
Coroner’s Journal,
by Louis Cataldie. I came across this phrase and thought it was catchy.
Especially since each word is more than one syllable, and I had to look
them up to make sure I knew what they meant.
Hey, just because I’m a redneck who jogs through the pasture,
occasionally steps in cow patties, and communes with bunnies, doesn’t
mean I can’t use big words. I adore words.
Mr. Cataldie was the coroner for East Baton Rouge Parish in Louisiana
from 1998 to 2003. His book is a quick read and excellent for those of
us fascinated by the dark side of life—read: crime and mayhem.
He used the phrase, cognitive emotive dissonance, to express how a
coroner sometimes feels about the more horrific scenes he’s seen.
Basically, it means a person understands and comprehends what he sees,
but it’s in conflict with his emotions, which are screaming,
Hey, this isn’t
normal and right, and I don’t get it even though I’m looking at it.
In other words, your thinking doesn’t match your emotions. You can
analyze and intellectualize, but not embrace the concept.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to use this phrase in my books. Not
unless I write a series about a coroner, which would surprise me.
Somehow, I can’t imagine Trish, my redneck heroine in my
to-be-released-in-January-book, discovering a body in the milk case and
then informing the detective who is investigating,
You know what? I’m
having an attack of cognitive emotive dissonance. I really don’t
comprehend the fact that I just found someone behind the two percent
milk.
* For your information, this Latin phrase means,
Joking aside, let us turn to serious matters.
Back to Top or
Return to Blog
July 12, 2006
What
is this?
you ask. Isn’t this cliché night? What do ducks, fluffy or otherwise,
have to do with cliché night?
Well, because, dear reader,
BOX OF FLUFFY DUCKS
is a cliché. Really. According to a cliché site on the internet. And we
all know the internet never lies.
It simply means,
I’m fine. According to my source, the phrase (used this way)
originated in New Zealand. Honestly—I found this on a site as I was
researching to find a great cliché for this blog entry. So, the next
time someone asks you,
Hey, how ya doin’?
if you’re doing just ducky, meaning you’re doing fine, you say,
Box of Fluffy Ducks.
Just ducky,
by the way, also means
I’m doing fine.
In fact, Merriam-Webster says ducky is an adjective.
Inflected Form(s): duck·i·er; -est
1 : Darling, Cute
2 : Satisfactory, Fine
Perhaps in a round about way, that explains where
Box of Fluffy Ducks
came from.
I assume whoever started this cliche meant little baby ducks. The fuzzy
ones. Aw, how cute, right? But have you ever seen a box of fluffy ducks?
They wiggle and squirm. Worse, they have mothers who aren’t always nice.
And they all poop. Slimy stuff.
This is not working for me. Think about it. I have a box filled with
wiggling birds. The bottom of the box is covered with bird poop, and
I’ve either got to clean it or throw it away. And the little ducks' feet
are covered with muck, too, so who wants to handle them? Have you ever
cleaned up slimy bird poop? And all the fuzzy little yellow darlings
keep trying to escape. I’ll tell you what. That’ll teach me to put ducks
in a box. They belong outside. And worse, their mother is really mad at
me. She keeps following me around making agitated duck sounds. Have you
ever been accosted by a duck? Those beaks. Not nice.
So, I’m reversing the meaning of this cliché. The next time someone asks
me how I’m doing and I’m having a poopy day, I’m going to say,
BOX OF FLUFFY
DUCKS!!!!!
And in case you wondered, there are other duck clichés. For instance,
It’s like
shooting ducks on a pond, which means, it’s easy; Or,
Get your ducks in a
row, which means, get everything organized; Then there’s,
Duck soup,
which means, easy or simple; And,
Driving your ducks to
a mighty poor pond, which means, you’re being really stupid
in the area of finances; Last, there's,
What a duck! which means a poorly thrown,
wobbly pass in a football game.
I could only find two clichés for a goose.
Ducks. What makes them so important?
Back to Top or
Return to Blog
July 19, 2006
Yep,
that’s a cliché. At least according to my internet sources. And it’s
apropos since we’re in the middle of a heat wave here. Yesterday, the
temperature was around one hundred, and the humidity was way up.
The definition of this cliché is interesting. What it means is,
the problem is
different from what it seems to be. It’s hot, but the real
issue is the humidity. Two other clichés come to mind.
Let’s get to the root
of the problem; and
This is what it boils
down to.
An interesting thought occurred to me when I read this. That is, an
inability to see the real issue or problem often leads to arguments and
misunderstandings. Also, the inability to identify the real reasons for
our reactions or emotions can prevent us from developing our character,
solving our problems, and growing the way the Lord wants us to grow.
I will relate this directly to my facetious blog entry called,
Intense Blonde Bimbo
Writers Don’t Keep House. I wrote, in a humorous fashion,
about an argument with Brad that started out as a general quarrel over
my intensity and the house being a wreck. But in the end, it boiled down
to the fact that Brad was bothered because the trash can in his bathroom
was overflowing. Frankly, if I had known that was the problem, I would
have emptied the trash can and avoided the whole thing. Of course, then
I wouldn’t have had such scintillating content for my blog the last two
Sundays, so, all’s well that ends well, to coin a phrase.
Anyway, this inability to pinpoint the real issue can affect us
personally, as well. For instance, a person with a depression problem
often blames outward circumstances.
I hate my job. I hate
my marriage. I hate my hair color. I hate that I have hair on my chin,
and I’m a girl. Yes, those facts might be true, but the real
issue is that person feels hopeless. Like they have no choices.
I could go on and on about this, because if more of us would dig down
and find the root causes of arguments and emotional issues, we’d be able
to solve problems better. But I’ll stop here.
Good, you’re
thinking. I expected you were going to write something fascinating like
last week’s entry about a box of ducks. And now look. You’ve up and
gotten all serious.
Well, let that be a lesson. I am capable of serious thought. Like Brad
said, I can even think deep thoughts. But never fear. I’ll have another
blog entry on Sunday. . .
Back to Top or
Return to Blog
July 23, 2006
Yes,
I'm going to blog about losing weight, but, as usual, I will digress.
First.
I have, in the recent past, been accused of being arrogant. Yes, it’s
true. Not only arrogant, but prideful. Yep. And a number of other things
that would be considered rather negative personality traits. I’m not
exactly sure why this person felt obligated to say such things. Not only
is it not nice to call people names, but no specific examples of my bad
behavior were given to support these supposed, horrid, character flaws.
And after careful interrogation of my family and my good friends of
decades (who would surely know me after all these years), I couldn’t
find anyone who particularly agreed with that alarming summation of my
character. However, those accusations cross my mind when I write blog
entries that showcase my accomplishments. Therefore, I will qualify the
following content with a firm statement that it’s not my intention to
come across as arrogant or prideful. Furthermore, if you think you might
call me anything like that, my mother is going to be very, very angry
with you. (My mother can rewire a light, install a screen door, neuter
bulls, and artificially inseminate cows. Mess with me, you mess with my
mother, and you shouldn’t mess with my mother. 'Nuf said.)
So, here’s my big accomplishment. I went to the doctor and found out
that I’ve kicked off ten more pounds since last April, for a total of
almost sixty pounds, and my blood pressure is down to a very nice
118/80. At my age, this is significant. And I accomplished this with
regular exercise and a healthy diet. I took control of my life and quit
making excuses for being fat, lazy, and unhealthy.
The process was slow-going because I was determined to go about it in a
balanced way, which made the weight come off in half pounds. Sometimes I
felt like I wasn’t seeing any progress at all. But this summer, I’ve
finally seen results. I had to clean out my closet and drawers. I had to
buy new clothes because the others were falling off. And for the first
time in over eight years, I bought some clothes in the regular section,
not the plus sizes.
So, after all those years of being fat, here are my observations about
my weight loss:
You
Know You’ve Lost Weight When:
Jeans don’t look like sausage casings on your thighs.
A belt looks like a belt and not a packing strap.
You don’t wear baggy clothes to cover up the rolls.
The dog fits in the chair next to you, not just on top of you.
The dog hangs over your lap instead of being smothered by it.
The crotch of your old pants hangs mid-thigh and you can no longer wear
them, even around the house.
Your body doesn’t shake like the proverbial bowl of jelly when you walk.
You can see your belly button without bending over.
Same with your toes.
In fact, you can reach your toes without sitting.
You can stand on one leg and not hold onto anything.
Your breathing doesn’t sound like you ran a mile when you walk three
feet.
You can actually run a mile.
The lumps in your legs are muscle definition, not a disease.
You don’t avert your eyes from the blood pressure machine at the grocery
store.
Your new blood pressure indicates you’re not at risk of dying from a
stroke in the next two seconds.
You don’t threaten to destroy everyone’s cameras when they point them
your way.
Some pictures of you actually look good.
You don’t worry about seeing old friends from years ago.
You buy an ice cream cone without worrying that everyone around you
thinks it’s your twentieth of the day.
You actually buy an ice cream cone and enjoy it because food doesn’t
control you anymore.
You have a good chance of living to a ripe, old age, in a healthy state.
Back to Top or
Return to Blog
July 26, 2006
I have
once again been reduced to poetry. My creativity this week has been
spent working on my next book. That’s all I have time for. I’ve been out
every night helping with scenarios for the recruits at the sheriff’s
office police academy. Please don’t groan. I deserve a break. So far,
I’ve been a hostage victim, the mother of a suicidal person, and the
mother of a dead baby. (For that, I managed to cry real tears.) How much
can one person take?
No time to think. No time to play.
I have a lot to do today.
I’m working days. I’m out at night.
And so you’ll understand my plight.
I’m taking time to tell you this;
I’m sorry that I’ll have to miss
My Wednesday blog. Oh no, you say.
You really mean, no weird cliché?
I’m sorry, yes, that’s what I mean.
This week has not been quite routine.
So please come back, I promise this
On Sunday I won’t be remiss.
The topic then will be a bear--
A story that I want to share.
Back to Top or
Return to Blog
July 30, 2006
I
wrote this article in 1998, proof that I’ve been writing facetious
articles longer than I’ve been a published author. I used to write just
for the sheer joy of the words. Yes, I’m a freak. I’ll admit it. I LOVE
WORDS.
Anyway, this incident happened when we lived out in the woods in the
Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. And though I make light of the bear in
this article, I will admit that I was frightened at the time, and
believe me, I am no sissy.
Before the bear came, I walked my dogs every evening when the sun was
going down. But during this rampage, I first took to carrying my gun out
of fear of coming face-to-face with the hairy creature. Then I stopped
walking altogether in the evening until the situation was resolved.
***
Heartening news. The behavior of the bear that has been visiting us is
perfectly normal. At least according to the bear biologist who works for
the Shenandoah National Park. Yes, that is a “bear” biologist.
Our tax dollars at work. Makes me wonder if there is a deer biologist or
a snake biologist. How about a possum biologist? And maybe next winter,
when the yearly mouse infestation starts, I could call the park and talk
with a mouse biologist.
The bear biologist assured us the destruction of the things on our deck,
the sounds of crashing in the middle of the night, the crushed fence
around our garden, the attacks upon our house, and the disappearance of
everything outside that’s edible, is typical of bears, especially during
food shortages like during the drought we’ve had. (I guess the new
landfill up the road has nothing to do with the sudden appearance of
bears after eleven years of not seeing any.) The biologist said bears
especially like corn and bird seed. No bird feeder is safe when a bear
is around. And that explains the hummingbird feeder and dog flea shampoo
bottle that were both squashed to death and left on the deck. (Don’t ask
what flea shampoo has to do with bird seed. I can’t tell you.)
Now, in regards to the two big fat muddy bear paw prints on my bedroom
window, that’s normal, too. Because bears have been known to chew on
wood siding. (And don’t bother asking what windows have to do with
siding, okay? Especially since we don’t have wood siding. We have vinyl.
I never did get a satisfactory answer to that question.) The bear
biologist said that bears like the flavor of the wood preservatives.
Yep. Specifically the salt in it (?). Gosh, I feel so much better now.
But inquiring minds want to know how anyone really knows what a bear is
thinking? Does our friendly, helpful, government biologist interview the
bears to find out just why they chew on siding? “Yes,” says the bear. “I
love preservatives. They taste really great. Like ham. It’s the salt.”
Right.
I have another theory. I think bears are smarter than we are. They
probably laugh at us and our interpretations of their behavior. They
make the biologists think bears like preservative, but really they know
our houses are full of good things to eat, like cats. They know that
busting into houses is a profitable venture. Of course, they’re smart
enough to know if we see them coming through a hole in our house, their
lives are over, so they try to break in windows in the dark. Preferably
when they think we’re asleep. That’s why that bear was pawing at my
bedroom window in the middle of the night. It was late, and I was
asleep. He knew that.
But regardless of what the real facts are, we did indeed have a bear.
And he left some huge paw prints on my bedroom window. He was hungry.
And he’s still out there.
So, are our lives safe anymore? Can I ever walk in my yard after dark?
Is my cat dead meat? Are my dogs doomed? Or worse? Well there is a
potential hero in this bear tale. A guy with a big trap. He’s coming to
rescue us. I think he works for the government, too.
By the way, in case you were concerned, those sightings of Mountain
Lions in the Park are just a rumor. At least that’s what the government
says.
***
RESOLUTION: That bear was too clever for the trap. Unfortunately, they
had to haul it away before we ever caught him. And though I make light
of the situation, it was a really good thing that my window wasn’t open
when that bear placed his paws against it. Seriously. My bed was right
next to the window. That bear would have come crashing into my bedroom.
I don’t even want to think about that.
So, after the trap didn’t work, we didn’t know what to do. No one in the
government would help us. And no one I called would offer me a solution.
My husband and I are law-abiding citizens. Shoot the bear? Sure. I could
do that, but it wasn’t bear season. I was terrified of being arrested.
The rampage continued until one day our neighbor, a short little skinny
man aptly nicknamed Tadpole, came by the house and said, “Y’all don’t
need to worry none ’bout that bear. It went after me and my dog in the
yard last night. I took care of it.”
We didn’t ask details because we didn’t want to know, given that what he
implied he’d done was illegal. I wanted to be able to truthfully say,
I didn’t see
nothin’ and I don’t know nothin’! However, I was more than
grateful that I didn’t have to worry anymore. Once again, I could sleep
with my windows open. And I could walk my dogs.
Tadpole said that bear wasn’t quite right in the head. I agree. And more
power to Tadpole. I hope he has a fine bear rug.
|
|