It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

Isn’t that a cool word? It’s what most of us would like to do when the weather turns cold. Unfortunately, it’s been so dry and warm most haven’t considered absquatulating to a warmer clime. We have been stuck here enjoying the opportunity to drag garden hoses around watering the trees. I’m sure that quarter of an inch of snow will be the miraculous cure we needed though!

A year ago we were able to absquatulate to Antarctica, although it was a choice, not a decision to “flee” as the word implies, and it certainly wasn’t warmer! I changed the photo on the blog earlier in honor of the anniversary – and to see if I could remember how to do such a technical thing! (Actually, I cheated and had my son help me again. It’s just easier that way.) I’m looking forward to a warmer photo in the coming months, but for now, enjoy the penguins.

Even though the temperature at home will be nearly as warm as Florida, we have absquatulated south in the hopes of inspiring snow back at the ranch and to visit friends.

(You can absquatulate to your bedroom and read a good book, too. Happily, the word works the same way!)

I know…I make a few as I’ve discovered when I’ve returned to a past blog for referral. (Yes, sometimes I can’t remember if the stupid thought I had made it to print!) It’s easy to overlook the same eRror when you keep seeing it and you are in a hurry to move on. It’s kind of like the windows.

Our windows are last fall/winter wind-pelted with dirt. They are not the shiny bright glass my mother sports because whoever visits gets to reinvigorate her view. At least we can reach her windows. My cleaning demands the extension ladder in the family room, which further requires a vacuum for the moths who found eternity on the sill up there. Of course, that entails a drapery dusting in the dryer. This all came to light as I looked across the family room from the upstairs hall and saw the dead moths yet again. I guess I’ve gotten used to seeing them, too.

Thank you, friends and family, for ignoring my eRrors and lack of moth mitigation.

Yesterday morning I was subjected to my yearly physical exam, sans breakfast, at 7:45 am. I walked in and the receptionist asked if I had an appointment. There was no one in the waiting area. Two office people, one PA, one nurse, and no doctors were there when I arrived. I was amused.

“Do people come without appointments this early in the morning?” I asked. My next thought, “Can I come without an appointment?” Various possibilities were opening up for me!

She was a young, new receptionist and just smiled at me. Thankfully, all was boring and seemingly normal. I did not grow an inch height-wise as I had hoped. My brother thought I might have after the Christmas height-measuring ritual he now performs as the eldest male of the family. (Every religion has their traditions!) In our family ritual, we measure how tall grandkids get each year as we measure how much shorter the adults are getting. We all thought I had possibly grown taller with my new hip! Apparently, he measured incorrectly. I did grow an inch width-wise, which was not a celebratory moment.

I concluded I truly need to become a houseplant.

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.”