Hot Dog!

Congratulate me on my new grand-dog!

The little nipper is an 8-week-old miniature Dachshund. The proud “mama”, my daughter Stephanie, named him McGee after her favorite character from the NCIS television series. She has wanted a pooch of her own for years, and we gifted her with the pup as part of her college graduation present. Though he receives attention from all of us, he somehow knows that Stephanie belongs to him; she is the love of his little doggy life.

While McGee accepts us as his pack, our gray cat, Bailey, refuses to acknowledge his existence at all. Maybe she thinks if she ignores him he’ll go away. Our other cat, Tabby—aka She Who Reigns Supreme—hisses and stands her ground to let McGee know that she is the boss; he believes it and gives her a wide berth. Rigby, our yellow Lab mix, cocks his head and furrows his brow as if to say, “How do you keep winding this thing up?” Penny, our black Lab mix, is the most relaxed with the newcomer and lays down to let him play. Both dogs outweigh the diminutive McGee by 45+ pounds. It is amazing to watch them interact; they seem to know he is a baby who requires their patience.

Housebreaking the little two-and-a-half pound squeak toy is a joint effort. Mostly we try not to step on him. He trots around with the big dogs like he owns the place and I love the Rottweiler attitude in the little hot dog body; when he grows up he may just give Tabby a run for her money in the “bossy” department. I don’t know yet if he is really that self-confident or just too clueless to realize he’s the size of an hors d'œuvre.

McGee was the runt of the litter and since most miniature Dachshunds max out at eleven pounds, we aren’t expecting McGee to amount to much, if you know what I mean. My guess is he will always be small, bright, silly, and—yes, he’s won our hearts—utterly irreplaceable.

Until Stephanie moves into her own apartment we will be a three dog family. I don’t think of it as extra fur balls and muddy feet. Any dog lover will tell you it just means triple the love. Rawr.

Til next time –
Lisa

Say Hello!

Don’t you just love it when you get more than you anticipated? I’m talking cool stuff like going shopping and finding a great sale that offers twice what you expect for half the price, or asking your teenager to dust only to discover that she not only dusted but vacuumed, scrubbed the bathrooms, the kitchen, and started laundry. Way cool, right? Well that happened to me this afternoon. Not the whole teenager-cleaning-the-house thing which is, let’s face it, more of a fantasy than a serendipitous reality. I’m talking about the more-than-you-expect thing.

Here’s what happened. I read a book by author Lisa Gardner (see Authors Who Rock My Socks). I have read her novels before and enjoyed them, but never felt compelled to visit her website. Oh, what I was missing! It turned out to be a treasure trove of information for writers. Aside from the usual book list and contest stuff, her site includes a section called “Tricks of the Trade” which includes terrific info on the craft of writing as well as a downloadable lecture series that she wrote for a month long class. If you are a writer, I beg you to peruse Ms. Gardner’s site. You won’t be sorry.

If you are not a writer, visit her site anyway and take a look at her book list. If you enjoy suspense novels, this may be for you. The novel I just finished, Say Goodbye, was her creepiest yet (read the book to learn why I chose a spider image!) and I enjoyed it enough to pass it along to my hubby with the caveat that the book contains some disturbing stuff. (Ms. Gardner’s ideas come from true crime and her research is thorough.)

I’m heading back to Ms. Gardner’s website now so I can review the first lesson in her lecture series. This may not be as exciting as a teenager cleaning the house, but in my world, it comes pretty darn close.

Til next time –
Lisa

Labor Laws

Labor Day celebrates American workers, but if we’re honest, it mostly signals the last hurrah of summer. Now, when I was a kid, it also meant my white dress shoes were relegated to the back of the closet because “no one wears white after Labor Day.” I once asked my mom why this was so and her inevitable response was—say it with me—“It just isn’t done.” Labor Day marked the end of white shoes which were to remain in hiding until Easter Sunday and not one second before. This was Fashion Rule #2 in my parents' house, Fashion Rule #1 being No Mini-Skirts Allowed. (Which leads to the secret addendum regarding the rolling up of skirt waistbands and the surreptitious application of eye shadow, but that’s another subject.)

Wearing white after Labor Day is not the fashion faux pas it once was, but old habits die hard, y’all, and even though the fashionistas no longer enforce this particular Labor Law, as it were, my mother held hard and fast to the practice and I find it impossible to break the cycle. I can see myself attending a *NWSALD-Anon meeting for other fashion disasters like myself: “Hi, I’m Lisa, and I’m afraid to wear white after Labor Day.”

I Googled the subject and learned that the Labor Day fashion rule dates back more than one hundred years and, while no one knows exactly where it originated, it may have started as a class distinction. Well-to-do girls knew to abandon their white shoes and girls of a lesser class were clueless (or were smart enough not to dispose of a perfectly good pair of shoes due to color bias). Eventually, the rule came to include not only shoes but fabric as well. Today, fashion designers use white whenever they please, and Labor Day be damned.

So what is my problem, pray tell? I’m stuck in a NWSALD time warp! It kills, because I have the cutest pair of white Candies and I cannot bring myself to slide my feet into them. If I wear them after Labor Day my toes will rot and fall off, I just know it.

So here I sit, sans white shoes (but with my toes intact), to wish you a happy and heartfelt Labor Day.

Have fun and be safe--
Lisa

*NWSALD: No White Shoes After Labor Day

Happy September 1st!

Once upon a time and long ago, on the 1st of September, there was a restaurant and lounge in Merrimack, New Hampshire called The Village Squire. Mama and Daddy took me there for dinner—our standing Friday night date—and we three made a pact: no matter where the years might lead us, September 1st would be our anniversary. We would meet for dinner every September 1st, we promised, no matter what. I still have the red matchbook bearing the restaurant logo. When I flip the cover I see the date, written in the sloping cursive of my 17-year-old self: September 1, 1978.

This, the 1st of September 2009, marks the 31st anniversary of that dinner. I wish I could remember details about that night, but in typical teenage fashion I took for granted the hours spent. If I could live it again I would take photos and write a detailed journal; I would make note of the menu and the waiter’s name and the topics of conversation. I would memorize every sound, color, and scent; every bit of laughter and nuance of conversation. I would savor those things which, in my youth, I could not imagine ever being without.

I remember snippets, such as Daddy wearing a tweed sport coat and Mama’s charm bracelet jangling. Daddy drank a vodka martini with extra olives and Mama ordered scotch and water on the rocks (with a lemon twist). Before dinner drinks were sipped, not slurped, and dinner—seafood, I think—lasted for a couple of hours, not a couple of minutes. There were white linen tablecloths and I sat next to Mama in the booth with Daddy across from us. It sounds formal, but it was very casual, and we were silly and laughed a lot. I had just graduated from high school the June before, so I imagine we discussed my plans to attend the University of Las Vegas in the spring. Daddy was a philosopher at heart, so the conversation may have veered toward lofty things. God help me, I cannot remember. I want so much to remember.

Subsequent Septembers came and went, and for a few years we celebrated on the first day of the month to honor our pledge. But our pact gave way to life—marriage and babies and moves and illness and death. Before Mama and Daddy died we rarely forgot our special day and, over the telephone and the separation of a thousand miles, we would share a glass of wine to commemorate that first dinner.

I pray that right now my parents are together holding hands on a heavenly beach, watching over me and calling out, “Happy anniversary, Snowflake!” And in their honor I lift my wine glass and say, “Happy September 1st to the best parents God created. I will love you forever and miss you always, and I hope I’ve made you proud.”

Love,
Snowflake