It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

Apparently, more and more millennials are considering themselves “Plant Parents.” It’s a new trend reviewed on the radio program I heard today. (By the way, the song on the radio when I entered the car was by “Panic at the Disco!” It has come to haunt me!)

In lieu of animals, these millennials parent plants. I guess they’re less demanding? They certainly have fewer needs and are less expensive than a pet or a child. They don’t sass you, tear up the furniture or shoes, scratch the heck out of the draperies, or need a sitter. And – the headline in the RMNews two days ago read, “Houseplants Become More Active as Days Get Longer.”

I’m thinking I need to emulate a houseplant – be less demanding and become more active. Who knew?

It’s the name of a band, and their song, “High Hopes,” roused me from slumber this morning at approximately 4:03, thus completing with Shinedown’s, lyrics in “If You Only Knew.” (It’s 4:03….) The two bands were battling it out in my head and reminded me of days of yore when the disco was a hot spot and quite entertaining, and the best dancers battled it out.

There was a true disco queen at our favorite haunt, Grandpa’s – and it wasn’t me. I can still picture this woman, who could wheel on her heels and make John Travolta take notice. It’s quite possible I only went on disco night so that I could watch her magic. I loved disco. Loved the lights, the fast pace, the directed moves. I didn’t have the proper disco gear, but I did have a black and white suit which makes me blush to realize I wore dancing. And I had a proper perm in my hair to make it as big and twisted as was possible in the Midwest. I guess I thought I could be the dancing queen – and maybe that was good enough.

Thank goodness we didn’t have phones with cameras and video capability. That would be a true reason to panic!

Who is Alberto, other than the guy replacing our hail-damaged windows? Well, he has a beauty product I use, the name of which I shall divulge to those of you privy to my recent vow to keep Cheryl Ladd’s secrets safe, yet willing to share my own, and in light of my prattle about mangy-looking dogs.

Alberto VO5. Yes. Who uses that anymore? Apparently I and a few others, because it is still sold! I had to buy a new tube after approximately two and a half years. I put a little “dab” on the ends of my freshly washed hair to make it less brittle. (Living in a desert climate takes its toll in many ways.) Feel free to borrow that hint. Surely you’ll noticed the difference!

So, who is Alberto? Apparently he was the house chemist for the company. There are actually directions on the package regarding the application of the greasy combo, which contains no water and is really mineral oil. It was a fascinating moment of understanding after years of blindly following this regimen.

I have no idea why I actually read the box other than I had to wonder about the name. I probably should really be wondering why I still use VO5? And maybe I should get a Reader’s Digest subscription so I have something more valuable to read?

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Welcome to Nat Geo’s “Shark Week” ala the dog.

Yesterday was set to be one of those most enjoyable days, where the dog visits the “spa” and returns all handsome and soft and adorable again, thus ensuring a good 24 hours of being petted and swooned over. (For the dog) This visit usually happens after a vet visit when I’m staring at how matted, dirty and mangy he looks.

How long have I been a proud dog owner? The correct answer is not, “too long.” The correct answer is “18 years.” How could I forget that you can’t get a dog groomed within 48 hours of vaccines? Easily – they didn’t ask me on the phone! That is their job, isn’t it? Ask me all of the questions first? Oh well. No spa day. All plans of accomplishing errands flew out the window. I had to take my dog back home.

You have never seen a happier canine.

Ah yes…it was another dog day. The yearly veterinarian visit of “get-the- shots-so your-dog-can-be-boarded-and-not-get-rabies” day. I always feel as if it’s a visit to sell all of their other services.

I’ll hand it to the dog doctor, she was persistent. Ten minutes I sat listening to why I needed to make a bloodwork appointment and set up a dental cleaning date. And guess what? Because we take the dog out of state (at Christmas to that exotic land of Nebraska) we should consider heart worm medication! That’s the first time I got that pitch. Heart worm isn’t an issue in Colorado. And what is the “stop scratching spray” that I’m using? I told them it was theirs, but I sure didn’t remember the name as I got it years ago. I didn’t lie, I don’t think. It’s just a spray.

The teeth business comes up every visit. So, I had to employ the old acting skills and throw my husband under the bus regarding brushing the dog’s teeth. I employed that famous unwritten rule. Whoever takes the dog in gets to blame the other for the hygiene and unkept appearance.

I can’t blame the vet. They have to compete with so many other animal places and big box stores so they hawk those services well. However, Frosty dodged the dentist for another year!

Let’s start with a psychiatric admission, should a psychiatrist choose to take me on as a case. “It’s all my mother’s fault.”

Of course it is! All of us know that everything we do which others see as being quirky, weird, laughable, socially awkward, strange, eccentric, batty – is our mother’s fault. I have a friend who always told her daughter she could blame her in her memoirs.

This rambling all goes back to a dog. My brother’s dog. He died when the neighbor poisoned him and my brother was at camp. I was home that summer. We had to bury the dog in the backyard, but before we did, my mother put on lipstick. (She and the Avon lady emphasized how that one thing could just brighten your face.) It was a somber day and the mood did need to be lifted. Probably my mother was trying to cover her tears by doing something else and all I remember is the lipstick part?

Obviously, I still keep that memory and always put on lipstick before I meet the public. Or bury a dog.

As it is the “Year of the Camel,” I have another saying from the sands of Egypt. I was reminded of it when my daughter asked if I had an emery board when we were out and about.

I directed my girl on the board’s whereabouts in my purse that day, and she was obliged to find and open my cute little organization bag. I put my beauty products in there. Apparently, I only have lipsticks. Four of them. (I had five before last week.) I also had lip balm, but that doesn’t count.

I endured some good-humored teasing as I couldn’t really explain why all of those lipsticks were necessary. I think I lose them, buy another, then find them? I’m almost out, buy another one, and then I keep the dying color around longer? They procreate mysteriously? I have a coupon to use.

So I have a “lipstick affliction?” My camel saying applies aptly here. “One camel does not make fun of another camel’s hump.”

Guess what my gig has been for the past three days? Dog-sitting.

In a moment of weakness I agreed to help a friend and neighbor with her 120-pound white German Shepherd. (I really don’t know how much he weighs, but he practically stands as tall as a bicycle.)

He is a very good and well-behaved dog, for the most part. But I don’t think he was supposed to leap onto the bed and watch television with me as he has his own bed. He also wasn’t supposed to run around outside gnawing on a charred piece of wood from the fire pit, thus alluding me at our recess time. And he probably wasn’t supposed to play outside with an indoor rug he absconded.

However, I assume this is a practice for the day when I will be watching grandchildren. You just let them do whatever they want and the owners can correct the new bad habits. Right? Thank goodness my friend does not subscribe to this fine blog!

Sophomore year of high school. Miss Johnson’s English class. Sitting next to to Mary M. Miss Mac says to me, “You’ll be the first one married out of your class.” I retort, “I’m not getting married until I’m 30!” (Self-fulfilling prophecy.)

Why do dumb thoughts like that pop into my head? I don’t know, but it did as I prepared to go wedding dress shopping with my daughter. We encountered gorgeous gowns complementing her beauty. I remained cool, calm, and collected. I think I could have earned an academy award for keeping my emotions in check and just enjoying the moments. However, I couldn’t stop the tears when the veil was placed on her head. My little baby! She didn’t even have hair until she was two and a half years old! People always told me what a “cute little feller” she was. And now she is a stunning woman, tolerant of my attempts to braid her hair as we prepared for our day. (The last time I braided her hair was with the “Pocahontas Braid Book” back in elementary school. I failed miserably then, too. We gave away the book. It’s probably a politically unacceptable publication now!)

This MOTB business is an emotional roller-coaster. I love it!

While putzing around on Pinterest, I was invited by one advertisement to “Check Out Cheryl Ladd’s Secret Skin Care Routine!” (I only allowed myself one hour of decadent roaming on the app after I had completed my sewing tasks which have been calling to me for a few months.)

Anyway, what kind of a secret would Cheryl have if I clicked on the link? What if I was the only one who clicked on it, learned the secret, and then shared it with the world? She would no longer have the upper hand on skin care and beauty. I decided that was a burden I did not want to carry.

Instead, I’ll be content with the same old face wash and lotion I’ve used for years. Cheryl’s secret will be safe.