Category Archives: Storytelling

America, American Politics, Chicago, Diversity, Storytelling, Travel

Another American City

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I’m talking about Chicago, folks. Probably one of the most fun cities to visit, in my opinion.

And the evil regime in the White House has directed their troops to invade it. It’s shocking, isn’t it? And as it happens more and more (and it will, though eventually I do believe their luck is going to run out based on “we, the people” pushing back with all we’ve got). But let’s not let the shock wear off. That’s what this administration wants. Let’s not let this ever become normal. Because it’s not, and it should never be.

Now that I have that off my chest, let me share a few anecdotes about my relationship with this great American city.

I have close family there. People I love. I’ve visited them there both when I was younger and when I was older. With my family of origin and with the family I made with Mr. NOA. I’ve visited there with a girlfriend of mine, taking the Amtrak to get there, and staying with her childhood friends who live there. The friend we stayed with was living her best single life, in her own condo right in the heart of the city. The view from her floor-to-ceiling windows was spectacular. The four of us ladies had a night on the town like no other. It culminated in us, drunk and happy, traipsing through an “adults only” store (you know the kind), giggling like a bunch of 13-year-olds.

Another time I visited this great city was with Mr. NOA. At Christmas, his gift to me (a humongous surprise), was a weekend in Chicago to celebrate the New Year (it was probably 2008). We went out on the town, getting all gussied up, me in a fancy black dress and heels, Mr. NOA in a handsome gray suit with a lavender button-down underneath. We had a very fancy schmancy seafood dinner and later many, many alcoholic beverages to ring in 2000-whatever it was.

I drank far too much that night. More than I possibly have ever in my life. The next morning was rough as hell, a sobering reminder of the nightmare of being hungover, which I hadn’t been in years. We had tickets to see “Addams Family, the Musical” at a theater downtown for that afternoon. I rallied, but not after sipping cold water while sitting as still as possible on our hotel room bed, watching “Shameless” on cable. Ironic, I thought at the time, that I’m watching this show for the first time, a show which, it could be argued, features the city of Chicago as one of the main characters.

I was hooked on that show from that point on. Upon our return home, I proceeded to watch each and every season that was to be found, and when new seasons started, I devoured them like a fiend.

I can’t help but wonder what the Gallagher clan would think, or more interestingly, how they would respond to the ICE insurrection happening in their beloved city right now. They’d surely be raising holy hell.

My wish for the people of Chicago is that they don’t back down from this fight. Not that they should try to cosplay what Kevin, V, Carl, Ian or myriad other characters of “Shameless” would likely do (because I suspect it would not be pleasant for the insurrectionists; not that there should be a goal of keeping these ICE insurrectionists comfortable with what they are doing). I like the subversive sort of trouble that I’ve seen in the news recently in Portland, where ICE has also set up shop, where folks don their blow-up costumes and dance in the streets alongside these ICE goons. To me, that’s the secret sauce to changing the tide in this country, in particular when it comes to our lively, diverse American cities which are being undeservedly harassed at the direction of the occupants of our White House.

Fortunately, the citizens of Illinois have a tough, common-sense, benevolent Governor, JB Pritzker. He is a leader. He is a helper.

It just so happens that the very first concert Mr. NOA attended together, back in about 1988, was “Chicago”. This was a band that I have enjoyed ever since I can remember. We booked a bus trip to the Twin Cities for this concert. We were by far the youngest people on this bus, which we found hilarious.

No doubt you know which musical artist is going to be featured at the end of this random blog post today, but this is one of my top favorites from this band. I think the line “listen children, all is not lost all is not lost” feels especially apropos for this particular timeline.

family, Love, Memories, Storytelling, Wisdom

Pearls on the Brain

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This post is inspired by two things.

Well, two women I loved and the “Pearls of Wisdom” theme the non-profit I work at has going on to celebrate our 30th year of serving the senior citizens and adults living with disabilities in our county. Because the traditional gift for 30 year anniversaries is pearls.

The two women I am referring to are my grandmothers, who both passed away years ago, when I was a young adult.

Both of my grandmothers were named Pearl.

Recently, I found what is surely the only photo in my family’s history of the three of us together. I, aged 8 or 9, in my red, snazzy, and bedazzled dance costume flanked on either side by a Pearl.

I’m so bummed that I cannot find that photo for the life of me.

But I did find these two:

Me, in my baby goblin era, with my dad’s Mom, Pearl.
What I’m certain is the last photo with me and the other Pearl (my mom’s Mom) when I was 19.

The two Pearls were very different from each other. Like, very.

One tended to stay awake late into the night playing solitaire.

The other read tarot cards in her younger days, which my Grandpa was vehemently opposed to. Something about it being “devil’s work”.

One was a great cook. The two things I clearly remember her making on the regular was chili with big chunks of celery, stewed tomatoes, and spaghetti. It was more like soup, but my mouth waters whenever I recall how delicious it was. The other was white cake with chocolate frosting. I remember there always seemed to be one of those cakes sitting on top of her washing machine (why there is beyond me).

The other Pearl comes to mind when I smell Noxema. The woman used it religiously. Speaking of religion, she was a believer of the evangelical pentacostal variety. She donated gobs of money over the years to the Billy Graham/700 Club nonsense. She was a teetotaler.

My other Grandma Pearl loved to laugh and socialize, (though I don’t think she was laughing when our family accidentally left her at Disneyland during our one-and-only big cross-country multi-family vacation in about 1974. A stellar moment in our family).

The other Pearl was a bit misunderstood and under-appreciated. I, along with several of my family members, believe she was living with an undiagnosed case of manic-depressive or bipolar mental illness. She could be super silly but also super not. We never knew what version of her to expect when we came to visit. One famous story from my mom’s youngest sister was when her friend Ruthie came to hang out after school, Grandma Pearl, for whatever reason, wanted her gone. She told Ruthie, “why don’t you go home and get acquainted with your own mother?” My aunt was mortified!

I’d really like to learn more about my two Pearls. Perhaps I will bite the bullet and sign up for one of those ancestry dna sites, so I can learn more about their lives before they became my Grandmas. Maybe that’d give me more of a notion of what their “pearls of wisdom” would be if they were still here with the rest of us.

Please don’t hold back with sharing your “pearls of wisdom” with me in the comments. The more original, the better!

I hope you enjoy today’s sweet song.

family, Humor, Storytelling

Story Time with Jim

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Someone I admire recently gave me the nudge I needed to follow through with this plan, which had been in my head for the last couple of months, to start capturing family stories.

Thanks, Stephanie H.

I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with my almost 90 year-old father-in-law, Jim, since last month, asking him to tell me his stories. Anyone who knows this man knows that he loves to tell stories (and talk political conspiracies) about his life growing up in Mexico.

Mexico, Missouri that is.

Here’s a little tale Jim told me recently.

Jim and his friend, Jimmy, purchased an old Model A together back around 1950. My MIL, Alice, commented, as he was telling this story, “you know there was going to be trouble when you had two ‘Jimmys'”. They’d drive it to school (they were about 16 at the time), then Jimmy would drive it to his after school job and our Jim would walk to the body shop where he worked after school. Then, when his work was done, Jimmy’s sister would pick Jim up in that Model A and drive him home.

Jim said that one night, he took the Model A out for a drive on his own. It was dark inside the vehicle (no inside lights in cars at that time), so Jim didn’t see that the gas tank was leaking. Fuel pumps had yet to be invented, so the gas tank was actually inside the vehicle, on the dashboard. It had to be higher up than the engine under the hood, so that gravity could allow the gas to get into the engine.

Jim drove it a ways down the road, and when he shifted it into a higher gear, it backfired and flames erupted inside. He said he “bailed out”, thankful that he had just installed a handle inside the door, and then watched, while he was on fire himself, the Model A careen down the road, fully ablaze. He thought to himself “now I’m going to have to leave town” because he was certain that the car was going to drive itself into town and set the whole place on fire. Fortunately, the Model A crashed into a ditch before that could happen.

As Jim was flailing about after bailing out of the Model A, there was what he called a “tramp or a hobo” walking along who quickly threw off his coat and covered Jim with it to extinguish the flames.

This could be known as the story where we all thank that unhoused person for saving Jim’s life. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have met Alice or fathered 3 kids. I wouldn’t have met Mr. NOA and we wouldn’t have our kids together. Our grandson wouldn’t exist.

So, thanks “Mr. Hobo”, and Merry Christmas to you, wherever you are.

Adventure, American Politics, Blogging, Books, Storytelling, Travel

Sensational Solo Sightseeing in DC

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This blog post has been a work in progress for over a week now. It’s getting published today in spite of the anguish I feel over the results of the Presidential election.

You can go ahead and make fun of me, call me dramatic, whatever. I’m distraught and worried about what the next four years is going to look like for us all, and I believe I have reason to be.

This very well may be the last time I post anything remotely political on this blog. I’m spent; yet determined to carry on with my quest to put some measure of good out there into the world via this blog.

That said, I greatly enjoyed my time in Washington, DC during the last week of October. Those of you who have been following me for a bit may recall that I was planning on traveling as Mr. NOA’s “plus one” for this work trip in our nation’s capital.

Inspired by a book I read as part of my “24 books in 2024” challenge, “Life in Five Senses” by Gretchen Rubin, which I wrote about it in this post, let me tell you all about my experiences sightseeing solo in DC through my own five senses.

SIGHT

I saw the American people and foreign tourists in all their glory. On the Metro platform, the blond yoga lady with her mat tucked under her arm. Little ones in their strollers. The buddhist monks (or Hare Krishnas?) with their orange sarongs on the National Mall. Some were more red. It made me wonder what the significance of the colors orange and red were to them. There has to be some significance, right? I visited the National Gallery, where I had the pleasure of viewing a large installation of French Impressionist art. It is amazing to me how large some of these pieces are and how much they look like actual photographs.

At the International Spy Museum, I got to see a multitude of exhibits featuring various gadgets used by spies over the years. I enjoyed some interactive exhibits there as well. There was an area where you could sit down and do these perception games. That was really interesting. Seeing a man’s face that at first to me looked like a woman sitting down with her head over her knees. The picture morphed several different times (or was that an illusion?) until at the end it was clear that it was a man’s face. It looked to me like Fred Flinstone. The other perception game I did was where I had to read a list of color words (like purple, white, brown, etc) but the colors didn’t match the word for the color. The mind is an interesting thing. It took concentration to get that right.

HEARING

This is more nuanced because the truth is, my hearing has diminished over the years. I did hear a lot of honking. One thing a person ought to know about visiting our nation’s capitol is that it’s cars that have the right of way, not pedestrians. Pedestrians, while there are plenty of them in DC, are essentially 2nd class citizens there. You could have 42 seconds to get from one side of the intersection to the other, and that black sedan turning left is going to be mere inches from you as you stride to the other side. The engineers (or is it operators?) of the Metro trains whose job it is to announce things over the loudspeaker were hard for me to hear. It’s similar to the experience one has at a children’s play where the kids don’t project their voices while simultaneously speaking rapidly. Luckily I didn’t have to rely on the voice on the loudspeaker to know where my next stop was as there’s a digital sign embedded into the wall that notifies the passengers of this important information.

TOUCH

This brings me to “touch”. One thing I did a lot of touching of whilst navigating my way through DC was escalator railings. This was due to my neuroses regarding escalators. They freak me out. My Grandma, the one I was closest with, had the same affliction. Though the difference between us is that I will indeed ride escalators. My Grandma, Pearl, flat out refused. However, elevators were an acceptable alternative to her. I have this macabre image in my head of falling backwards while riding an escalator, clunking my noggin on the metal as my body rapidly descends to the bottom. So, yes, if you see me on an escalator I will be the woman clutching onto the railing for dear life, taking deep soothing breaths while ascending or descending.

SMELL

Cannibas, which is legal there. What’s interesting is that I remember it being a bigger feature of my experience in DC when I was there in 2022. I didn’t smell it almost literally everywhere I went this time. I greatly enjoyed the savory aroma of ethnic dishes that wafted through the air as I walked through a pedestrian mall on my way to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. I resisted the urge (perhaps I shouldn’t have) to taste any of it, however, as I wanted to maximize my time in the museum.

TASTE

On my way back to the Union Station Metro to catch my train back to Silver Spring, I enjoyed my first ever “black and white” shake at the Shake Shack, along with some parmesan truffle fries. That cool creamy deliciousness was such a sweet little reward after having logged over 14,000 steps per my Amazfit watch. A glass of chilled Chardonnay was savored later when I met up with Mr. NOA and some of his work colleagues at a slightly upscale restaurant we enjoy visiting in Silver Spring.

Here’s a little collage of some pics I snapped during my sightseeing tour:

Lifestyle, Mental Health, Relaxation, Self Compassion, Self-Care, Storytelling

Massages for Self-Care: Yay or Nay?

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Personally, I say a big fat “Yay!” when it comes to getting a full body massage.

In fact, I just had one the other day. I won’t have another one for probably three months, however, as my talented and very pregnant massage therapist will be on maternity leave for a while. I’m not planning on finding a substitute for her either, because I believe it’s unlikely I’ll find anyone as good as her and heck, it might be nice to save myself a little bit of money.

I started getting massages on a regular basis probably 12 years ago. Mr. NOA and I would pay for the lovely Anna to give us deep tissue massages every 2 weeks or so. She was so good at her job. She was friendly and easy to talk to as well. I would often spend most of the massage chatting with her about the trials and tribulations of parenting, and my work life.

I had such a good connection with her that I was comfortable enough to ask her a question that had been simmering in my head since she started giving me regular massages. I asked her if clients ever farted while enjoying her massages. She replied that they most certainly did and it didn’t faze her at all. She told a story about a male client who often would fall completely asleep on her table and let ‘er rip. She laughed as she told me this and assured me she would not be offended if I had to release some gas myself during my sessions with her.

When I get massages from my current massage therapist, we typically chat for the first few minutes about the weather or what we’ve been up to since my last massage. After that, I zip my lips and just let my body melt beneath her heavenly (and suprisingly strong) hands.

It took me a few sessions with her for me to feel comfortable not being chatty the whole time. It begs the question for those of you reading this today who also are fans of massage therapy: do you feel compelled to chat with your massage therapist when they’re working on you? Or are you more of a “melter” as I have become?

I remember a client I had, back when I was a social worker, who had MS (the relapsing- remitting kind). He got regular massages. It seemed to help him quite a bit. I always believed that, due to him being anti-social and paranoid, his massage therapist was likely the only other human who laid their hands on him, like ever. He lived alone, had few friends and generally did not seem to like people. This always struck me as heartbreaking. I think we often undervalue the power of human touch.

I’ve been in therapy for a few months now (the mental health variety). Recently, my therapist asked me a question I don’t think any other person has ever asked me: what are you doing for self-care? It caught me off guard, and all I could manage was to say that writing is my primary mode of self-care. Not writing just to post in this blog of mine, but writing for just me. It helps me sort through what I’m thinking and feeling and it often gives me needed perspective.

But that’s not all I do for self-care, obviously. The massages I get are deeply relaxing and stress-reducing. Petting and talking to my good boy Radar is a form of self-care. Spending time in the sunshine is a form of self-care for me. Writing a to-do list and checking things off as I go is self-care for me. It give me a sense of accomplishment; a little boost.

Whether or not you, my readers, enjoy massage therapy as a form of self-care, I’d love to read any comments you’d like to share about what specifically you do that falls under the self-care umbrella.

As always, I am ending this blog post with a song. This one is not only gorgeous but fitting for the relaxing and contemplative vibes I experience when I’m on that massage table.

Grandparenting, Happiness, Humor, Joy, Storytelling, Summer Fun

The Alphabet Game

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Over the 4th of July weekend, my daughter, 10 year-old grandson and I went on a road trip together to visit family and friends.

As we were making our way up to the “Northland”, my grandson was immersed in playing games on his tablet in the backseat. After a while, I could hear the voice of one of those young adult “gaming bros” on their YouTube channel going on in their annoyingly enthusiastic manner about whatever game they were playing.

The grandma in me decided I had enough of that business. I suggested, with no actual confidence that this suggestion was going to be embraced by the kid, that we could play the “alphabet game”.

You know this one, right? I can’t imagine it was just my family (actually, me and my Mom, Bonnie) that played this on long car rides.

Anyway. It’s a simple game. All you do is start with the letter “A”. You “spy with your little eye” that one simple letter. You might find it on a sign. Or on the license plate of the vehicle that just passed you. Then, of course, you loudly exclaim “I found an A!” and proceed onto the letter “B” and so on until you get to “Z”. The first person who gets all the way through the alphabet wins.

Thankfully (or perhaps not, as it became a bit of an obsession over the course of the weekend), the kiddo latched onto this suggestion of mine with gusto.

Playing this game with him on this road trip was a huge highlight of this grandma’s summer. The “Alphabet Game” did the following wonderful things: it gave this bright boy a mental challenge. It gave us an opportunity to interact with each other for a sustained period of time. It got him off that obnoxious “gamer boy/man” YouTube channel so my daughter and I didn’t have to suffer through it any longer. It gave me a great memory. My hope as this boy’s grandma is that he was imprinted with a great memory too.

Baby, this kid is a firework indeed.

Blogging, Dogs, Humor, marriage, Storytelling

My Mister’s Nickname: the Back Story

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A while back, I was inspired by another blogger to re-consider how I refer to my husband when I’m writing blog posts.

Like me, how she referred to her husband wasn’t working for her. Since I started this blog (7 years ago!), I’d been calling my husband “Hubs” in my blog posts. I knew that it was inevitable that I’d be writing about him at least some of the time, since this is a personal blog after all, so I chose “Hubs” as his online moniker.

The thing is, though, I never, like ever, refer to him as “Hubs” to his face. Or when I’m referring to him in conversations with others. All I knew is that I didn’t want to use his actual name in this space, lest I inadvertently share something in a blog post that would somehow cause him embarassment. So, “Hubs” it was.

When I gave it more thought, a few months ago, it occurred to me that there was an alternative name for him in this space. Something I have only called him. Something between us that we both understand and laugh about: “Mr. None of the Above” (“Mr. NOA” for short).

As I recall, the first time I called him this was during a long, boring drive from one state to another. It was very late at night. We were both hungry. Hangry, actually. So, we agreed it was high time we stopped to get something to eat.

Now, my husband will attest to this statement: he is a pickier eater than I. I mean, he’s not ridiculously picky, mind you. There’s plenty of things he absolutely loves to eat that I will not touch with a ten-foot pole. Examples: pickled herring, sweet potatoes, cauliflower. And, of course, there’s things I love to eat that he wants no part of: corn in mexican dishes, ketchup on my scrambled eggs, and most sweets.

That night, in our hangry state, I suggested two different options of places to get some grub. I believe it was Subway or McDonald’s. Being more finicky about what he eats, had his own idea: Perkin’s. We could sit down and relax, he said, not just eat on the road in the dark. It then occured to me just how often I would suggest various options (not just food related) and the man comes up with an altogether different choice. So now, I call him Mr. None of the Above on a regular basis. He will invariably have his own idea in any given situation, often one that I hadn’t thought of.

A more recent example: I told him that I thought we ought to adopt a cat for Christmas this past year. Radar has lived with a cat before and it went well. They weirdly shared food and sometimes even sat on the same couch together. After a bit of discussion, I suggested we just be content with having access to our daughter and her boyfriend’s puppy, Max. He and Radar get along famously after all, and they only live 20 minutes away from us. And Mr. None of the Above’s suggestion? “Let’s adopt a puppy!” One that has recently been weaned, he said. “What?! A teeny-tiny baby puppy?” I said, in shock. Then we talked some more about that particular option. We were in agreement that because Radar does so well with Max, playing with him, but also watching out for him and corraling him when they’re frolicking in the yard together, this might not be the worst idea ever.

Yet I can’t say I’m completely convinced we should or will ever do it. Maybe I’ll just hang on and see if Mr. None of the Above comes up with an alternative.

Ambition, Community, Dreams, Employment, Fashion, Inspiration, Life, Small Business, Storytelling

Moms and Pops

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In my online search for writing fodder, I learned that today is “National Mom and Pops Business Owners Day”.

Have you ever heard of this before? I’m guessing not. I hadn’t either.

Finding out about this national day made me think of my own “mom and pop”. I know I’ve mentioned in past blog posts that my parents, Bonnie and Babe, were small business owners for many years. A women’s clothing store, to be exact.

Prior to my parents ownership of the business, it had been known as “Kay’s Clothes Bar”, on account of the building’s history of housing, you guessed it, a bar.

The name, of course, was changed once my parents took it over.

A keepsake

How the store became theirs is remarkable.

When my mom, at 42, was gabbing with her girlfriends one day in 1979, one of them posed the question “if you could own your own business, what would it be?” Bonnie responded with “I would own Kay’s Clothes Bar”.

That was on a Thursday.

While out and about on that following Saturday morning, my dad called my mom and asked if she was serious about wanting to have a clothing store, and she said yes, she was indeed. Dad had learned that morning that “Kay’s” was up for sale.

So together they forged ahead with becoming small business owners. Dad was on strike from his job at the mining company at the time, so this venture was a huge leap of faith.

Me, at 16, posing in the store

Though Dad had a great mathematical mind, he hadn’t gone to college (neither did Mom). Fortunately that mattered not, because his pragmatism, work ethic, and desire to keep Mom happy worked in concert with his accounting skills to see them through 15 years of being successful small business owners.

One thing that Mom took pride in was her ability to remain current. I think she was a young soul, really, because of her committed interest in staying on top of things. On top of fashion trends, on top of the news of the day, on top of whatever was going on in our little town. She didn’t miss a thing.

She was a social being who was happiest among others. She loved visiting with her customers, creating beautiful displays to “wow” them, and sharing her fashion expertise.

I very much relate to these aspects of Bonnie. So much so that as I sit here writing this post, I’ve been periodically glancing out the window at our “man cave”, (the name will be changing to something that’s not a cliche), thinking up ways to decorate and furnish it as it is to be (at least in part) a fun gathering spot for neighborhood parties and family get-togethers.

Yet lately I’ve started day dreaming about what kind of business I could run in this space. You see, I’m slowly but surely honing in on what it is I’m going to do, work-wise. And there’s so much potential, right here. I could section off a portion of the building for an office for myself to pursue paid creative writing projects or open it up as a non-profit food pantry. Or do something altogether different with this space.

At the risk of sounding like a total flake here, I believe that while I fancy the notion of operating my own small business, I can’t say definitively that working for someone else is out of the question for me. For the right job, the one in which I can use the skills I possess to help others, I would consider being someone’s employee again.

Of course, that would be the easy choice. Much less risky.

It makes me wonder, what would Bonnie and Babe think?

So, I’ve given myself a project this spring. I’m having a garage sale. Over the last several weeks, I’ve been methodically going through all of our stuff and determining what we no longer need. I’ve been going on Pinterest for ideas on how to put on the best garage sale possible.

I figure this is a good way for me to practice having a small business. It also gives me something to focus on as the time I have to spend watching our grandson lessens.

But back to Bonnie and Babe.

I don’t think I realized until the last few years just how much my parents teamwork and individual contributions as small business owners shaped who I am as an adult. How I think, what I dream about, and how I want to live in community with others.

My hard-working parents had so many adventures together in mid-life on account of being small business owners. Financially, they were successful at it, putting me through college and funding their vacations both inside and outside the U.S.

But perhaps even more importantly, they enjoyed running the store together. They took pride in it. They developed meaningful friendships they may not have otherwise developed. They made a positive impact on our community.

Back when I was going through pictures, just prior to moving back to Wisconsin from Colorado last year, I came upon a treasure. It was a clipping from our hometown newspaper of an article about my parents as they were fixing to close up shop and retire.

Retirement came a few years earlier than they had planned, as a dispute with the owner of the building over the lease had developed. They came to the conclusion that it was time to close up shop as a result.

However, Bonnie and Babe retained their great attitudes, with Bonnie commenting to the reporter in the article “As unfortunate as this is, it’s not a tragedy; no one’s dying, we still have each other”. To which Babe responded “if this is as tough as it gets, we’ve got it made”.

Cheers to all of you small business owners out there on this national day. May your customers be loyal, may you stay the course, and may you flourish!

Dogs, Humor, Imagination, Joy, Love, Storytelling

Simply the Best Mutt

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This post is for those of you who have adopted a rescue mutt at some point in your lives, without knowing much about them beyond where they were rescued from, their supposed breeds, and their approximate age.

Do you ever wonder what their origin story is?

I do. And I have a theory about what Radar’s is.

Radar showing off his newest favorite toy, that moments before was covered in cloth.

What am I sure of? That before he came to Colorado, he was loved by someone else. I say that because of his sweet nature and love of all people he encounters.

This is the point in this post where I was going to tell you a clever, heartwarming story I made up about the newlywed couple that were his first “hoomans” who named him “Goofy”. These two crazy kids broke up for a time, then got back together when they were a united front trying to find him after he ran away amidst the devastating flood that hit the Houston area in the spring of 2019. They didn’t find him but “found” each other again. And of course they learned that the wife was pregnant and then they proceeded to live happily ever after, though often wondered what became of Mr. Goofy.

Instead of that, however, I’m just going to tell you all that Radar the dog ought to be the first of many dogs to compete under the category of “Mutt” at the Westminster Dog Show.

I know that the WDS does have the “All American” category of dogs; however from what I understand these dogs only compete in the “Agility” competitions. What I’m talking about is adding more diversity to the mix. Making it more inclusive, if you will.

There would be no agility tests. No checking their dental health. No showcasing the dogs’ levels of obedience.

Instead, the mutts would be judged on things like how long each dog does the “zoomies” after bathtime. You know, when they get out of the bathtub and run around like tasmanian devils, rubbing their wet furry bodies on every possible surface?

They would be judged on how cute their expressions are when their parent excitedly says the mutt’s favorite word or phrase, like “Treat?” or “Who wants to go for a walk?”

And of course, they’d be judged on their best, most unique tricks.

It’d probably have to be its own show, though, because the folks at the Westminster Dog Show take their shit very seriously.

Reminder to self: watch that movie “Best in Show”, stat.

Speaking of shit…a couple of weeks ago, Hubs was off in Wisconsin for the week, leaving me home alone with Radar-ling.

Here’s what happened on one of our neighborhood walks that week:

We ran out of poop bags and I wanted to avoid the nearest poop bag dispensing thing in our community garden area because there was a dog with their human and I didn’t want to have to deal with Radar going completely nutso and pulling me down and causing a ruckus. Because of course this has happened before.

I know there was an angel watching over me as I managed to walk the distance back to our house with one neuropathic (I have hereditary peripheral neuropathy) hand holding the leash and the other carefully holding a pile of poop mixed with grass and dry leaves in a used Kleenex found in my coat pocket, without Radar bolting ahead and pulling me down to the ground where most certainly his poop would have wound up somewhere on my person.

Truth be told, I am the more hands-off doggy parent, as for the most part, Hubs takes the lead with getting him out for walks, giving him baths, and making sure he’s fed. I am the “fun” parent. The one who plays with him, curls up with him on the couch and has lively one-sided conversations with him.

I was nervous as the time grew closer to me being on my own with him. Sure, I am capable of taking him out for walks and all of the other stuff Hubs usually does as the more responsible pet parent. It’d just been so long since it was just the two of us.

Well, it turned out that the professional training we three participated in when we first adopted him, coupled with Hubs continuing to reinforce that training when taking him out for walks, paid off.

I was proud to report to Hubs when he returned home that Radar was a very good boy the whole time he was gone.

My Radar-ling is just simply The Best.

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Hometown Gem

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Her name is Stephanie Himango and this is, ironically, the second time I’ve written about her in my life.

Stephanie and I both grew up in the small town of Two Harbors, Minnesota. She was two years below me in school. For that reason and the fact that she was sporty and I was most certainly not, we did not have any real interaction with each other. As far as I can remember anyway (this was like 35 years ago, folks).

As a senior at our long ago demolished high school that sat atop a hill, I was co-editor of the school newspaper. That extra-curricular sparked a passion in me for creating something out of nothing. A passion for written communication. One of my pieces then was about Homecoming. And in that piece I reported that Stephanie, as a sophomore, was in the Homecoming Court. I came upon that long forgotten factoid about a month ago when I was searching through a box of memorabilia, hoping to find pictures of Christmases past.

The reason I mention any of this at all is because in the summer of 2020 she accepted my friend request on Facebook. I had been made aware through mutual friends that over the years that Stephanie had made quite a name for herself career-wise. That she had a long career in the news industry, even winning a couple of Emmys as a writer and producer. She is also a published author.

Shortly after we became Facebook friends, Stephanie announced on social media that she was beginning her first ever podcast, entitled “Another Door Opens with Stephanie Himango”.

Stephanie promoted her podcast as being one in which she would interview a wide array of people from varying backgrounds to share their stories of overcoming life’s struggles and what, and as she says in each episode, “if anything”, the phrase “Another Door Opens” means to them personally. As if anyone she would interview would actually say that phrase means nothing to them! But that little qualifier exemplifies to me the genuine respect she has for her interviewees. She does not make any assumptions about them. She asks interesting questions and her enjoyment of asking them comes across through her voice as real and true.

So, as you can clearly see, I subscribed to Stephanie’s podcast. Stephanie interviewed everyone from a man who works as a sketch artist at SCOTUS to a veterinarian who treats pets of those experiencing homelessness to a woman who owns and runs her family’s pumpkin farm and much more. After listening to all of the episodes via Spotify (as of last week), I can tell you I’ve learned so much. I’ve been inspired. I’ve laughed. My eyes have been opened up about all the good stuff that people are out there doing with their lives. Kind of like David Byrne from the Talking Heads, who I wrote about here. Listening to Stephanie’s podcast brightened my days in the bananas year that was 2020.

Thanks for that, Stephanie. You are a Gem and I look forward to listening and learning from your podcast in the New Year. Maybe someday if we happen to be in our sweet little hometown (which in my opinion is home to lots of other interesting and inspiring people-maybe it’s something about that perfectly ice cold tap wonder we drank, courtesy of Lake Superior) at the same time, we will bump into each other. That’d be cool.

I encourage all of you reading this to check out “Another Door Opens with Stephanie Himango” and listen, learn and gain inspiration along with me.

I’ve no idea who this pretty young girl is, but I love the beautiful pictures of my home state and remember this song from my youth. Dontcha love the sound of the loons? The Minnesota state bird!