I May Have To Move Again
As I was leaving home a few days ago I was interrupted by a knock at the door. When I opened the door I was confronted by Janie, my neighbor from a few doors down and her dog Mitzi. Mitzi was wearing a rain coat, doggy goulashes and something that looked like an umbrella. Janie, on the other hand, looked like a drowned rat.
I quietly thought to myself, “I can understand loving your pets, but, really!”
Anyway, Jane began to tell me that Mitzi had read my column where I said it doesn’t rain in Seattle and is very upset. I had no idea Bassets could read, but I digress.
After about three minutes of giving me holy hell, Janie said that her Mitzi demanded either a retraction or correction immediately. For some reason, probably because I am a sarcastic little SOB, I asked if Mitzi could write a correction for me – in her own words, of course.
Janie responded by asking what kind of computer software I use, to which I answered Microsoft. “Hmmmp!” She said walking away. “Mitzi ONLY uses a MAC!”
Janie and Mitzi walked off before I could offer a towel and hot chocolate (and whatever Bassets drink).
OK, so here is my correction: Apparently, it does rain on Bainbridge Island.
I may have to move again.
The View From Here is published every Sunday (and Monday starting in February).
Copyright © 2010 Moody Publishing Co
All Rights Reserved
Childhood Joy
I’m sitting here this morning, pointedly refusing to think of anything that could possibly have anything to do with personal growth and internal change. I went to the doctor, what more do you want? Instead of focusing on character and moral development, I want to think about those wonderful things from my childhood; those things that brought me a sense of wonder and amazement.
First and foremost among those happy memories are chocolate chip cookies. They come to mind because of the plate of cookies which are sitting here at my elbow, right beside the mug of hot chocolate dotted with melting mini-marshmallows. Actually, I chose to forego the marshmallows today.
You see, kids, when you get old, you have to make choices. If you’re going to have hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookies for breakfast as a grown up, you have to sacrifice the marshmallows. That’s why you see fat ladies eating pizza and pasta but drinking diet soda. You’ve gotta make cuts somewhere.
Erm, anyway, uh, back to the point.
When I was a little girl of about six, my mother had just put a plate of cookies on the table. I was staring Ambrosia in the chocolate chip-y eye. But, Mom said, “Don’t let me catch you putting a hand on those cookies!” This presented me with a problem. How could I possibly get the warm, chocolate drug I so desperately needed without touching the cookies?
It took me a few minutes, but I figured out that I could just barely reach the plate itself. I was six and short and the table was very, very, very big for me. Still, I was able to skooch the plate ever so slightly closer. I had to be very careful not to touch the cookies, but eventually I did it. I got the plate close enough. I then, gently, placed my teeth on a single cookie, pulled it – even more gently – from the plate, set it on the edge of the table and took a bite. I won. I got the drug AND didn’t touch it with my hands!
To say the least, I was surprised when I got in trouble for this. I’d obeyed the rules!!! Mom didn’t say, “Don’t eat the cookies.” Instead, she told me not to get my hands on them. So I didn’t.
Being a kid was so unfair. Grown ups almost never meant what they said; unless, of course, they just said, “No!” Grown ups always meant it when they said that.
Sigh.
Anyway, I also remember having adventures at Northwest Trek. The problem with Northwest Trek was that the animals tended to hide whenever the tram with people on it drove past. Oh you still got to see plenty of animals, but they were all in pictures at the gift shop. There was one exception to that Northwest Trek rule. The deer walked freely around the entrance/staging area and playground. So, while parents spent their hard-earned money on food stuffs for their frustrated kids, those same kids could be playing leap-frog with real, live, actual, honest-to-goodness deer. That was really cool!!!
Then, of course, there was the Olympic Game Farm. Now THAT was an experience I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Unlike the Trek where you rode on a tram through the wild-life preserve, you drove through the Olympic Game Farm in your own car. You could also buy loaves of bread which you would then feed to the various animals. Unlike Northwest Trek, the animals at the Olympic Game Farm had equated the sound of motors to getting fed.
I remember, in almost vivid detail, the length and near-triangular shape of a buffalo’s tongue as it reached through the open-two-inches window when Dad didn’t quite feed it fast enough. At first, I was surprised when Dad jigged to the side to avoid the slimy thing, but with age came wisdom.
Think about it. You have an animal that stands over 6 feet tall at the shoulder. This same animal weighs in at about 2,500 pounds. This animal also has horns on either side of its head. In that head is a prehensile tongue that looks like something from Aliens, all dripping and slimy. And, it wants bread; the bread in your hand; the hand that used to look huge and intimidating but now looks frail and dainty in comparison to that HUGE, SLIMY TONGUE!
I understand why Dad jigged sideways, nearly bashing Mom’s shoulder. Of course, Mom’s, “Bill! Drive! Get away from that thing!” probably didn’t help much.
Still, that was an incredible adventure. I’m not sure if the adventure was incredible because of the animals – lions, tigers and bears included – or because of the parents’ reactions to said animals. I don’t think it matters one way or the other. I just remember those times with great fondness.
I’m thinking a trip to the Olympic Peninsula is coming due.
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all Email. JD_DSVic at Yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved
Fixing Things
My husband fixes things. He fixes things as his employment (ASE Certified Master Technician, thank you very much!). He fixes things as his hobby. He fixes things around the house. When I’m sick, he endeavors to fix me. He fixes things.
I hate being/feeling weak. I hate feeling weak more than pretty much anything else in the entire world. I think the only thing that I hate more is thinking that someone else thinks I’m weak. Therefore, when I’m sick and/or in pain, I want to curl up in bed and hide until I’m not weak anymore.
Mr. Fixer doesn’t think my method of self-healing is effective. Mr. Fixer thinks that if I’m sick or in pain, there should be something he can do to fix me. If he can’t fix me, he thinks that I should go to the doctor so that the doctor can fix me. But, I don’t like doctors. I don’t like doctors because whenever there’s a doctor around, it means that I’m weak. You can see how this might cause a little friction between the husband and myself.
For the past five or six weeks, I’ve had intermittent pain, swelling and discomfort throughout my right sinus cavity, from nose along the jaw line to my ear and up to my eye. It’s been quite intermittent, occurring once or twice in a day about once every ten days or so.
To me, this means that I am having moments of weakness which must be ignored lest someone else see that I’m not the strong, capable, Wonder Woman-esque person I like to think I am. To Mr. Fixer, this means that I’m hurt and in need of being repaired, ergo he must find a way to fix me.
Well, this last weekend the pain was so severe that it hurt to blink. Mr. Fixer insisted on my seeing a doctor. I was in enough pain that I just didn’t care anymore. It went sort of like this…
Mr. Fixer: “I don’t care how much it costs. You need to go to the doctor and have your face looked at!”
Me: “Do you realize how insulting that sounds?” laugh and pause for breath “Ouch. Okay. I’ll go.”
After four days of high-powered antibiotics and effective over-the-counter pain meds, I ponder whether or not my internal struggle against weakness is really worth it. I mean, really, I could have avoided a full month of intermittent pain and frustration if I’d just been willing to go to the doctor in the first place.
How long will it take for me to get over this prideful need to never be seen as weak? For that matter, is being sick really being weak? For the bulk of my life I’ve considered weakness to be a character flaw. Lord knows that I can’t have any character flaws; not even one. After all, I’m perfect! Always! Honest!!!
***
I’m not saying that Mr. Fixer fixed me, since that would imply that I was broken in the first place, but I will say that in the future I won’t be AS reticent to see the doctor. Maybe.
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Comments are welcome. Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all Email. JD_DSVic at Yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved.
Tropical Butterflys In Seattle
One of the benefits for living in a large city is the variety of experiences available.
One of the most unique experiences is a display at the Pacific Science Center. Its the Tropical Butterfly House, a year-around display. I didn’t even know this display existed until recently and when I went to see it I was thrilled by the beauty and variety in the exhibit.
I’ve explored the Pacific Science Center at various times during my tenure in Seattle, usually when I have guests and I’ve enjoyed every visit.
The center has been a part of the Seattle Center grounds since it was built in 1962 and was featured in Elvis Presley’s 1963 film It Happened At the Worlds Fair.
If you are visiting Seattle and have an afternoon free, I recommend you explore the Pacific Science Center, just for fun.
The View From Here is published every Sunday.
Copyright 2010 Moody Publishing Co
Dust Bunnies
There are times in life when you must present a clean-cut and semi-professional appearance. If you’re going on a job interview, you don’t show up wearing your circa 1980 Metallica T-shirt and Nirvana-reject jeans – unless, of course, you’re auditioning for Roadie #1 in the latest Rockumentary. If you’re meeting your girlfriend’s parents for the first time, leave the gang-banger-wannabe, jeans-at-the-knees outfit at home and wear a pair of slacks and a decent button-down. If you’re applying for a loan to buy a house, please don’t show up in Coco Chanel’s latest silk and lace number – unless you’re a woman.
If you’re trying to impress someone, appearance matters. Yes, it’s unfair and extremely biased, but it’s true; appearance matters. We are visual beings, and while many of us do try to remain objective, we all tend toward snap judgments based on form. No matter how nice, kind or diligent a person is, if they don’t look the part, they’re initially going to be seen as, well, someone who isn’t nice, kind or diligent.
I bring this up because Mr. Fixer and I have been discussing character and honor quite a bit lately. I think that while one’s personal character is of utmost importance, there isn’t really a way to visually show character. Because this is a visually oriented society, good character is often ignored due to the package surrounding it.
You see, in my life, I’ve had a number of job interviews at which I spoke eloquently, tested with very high marks and showed excellent references, but wasn’t hired. This is irksome to me. I am of the opinion that (as my Aunt Cheryll frequently says) if I’ve done the interview, I should start receiving the paychecks. But, in fairness to those who chose not to hire me, I really didn’t look the part of an executive assistant or corporate receptionist.
Now, if I had been applying for the position of bawdy bar maid, I think I would have gotten that. I have the big butt and bazoombas of a classic, pirate-movie bar maid! I could definitely pull off “Saucy Wench”! Saucy Wenches don’t get those corporate positions unless they’re in a very badly translated Romance novel.
My appearance has always gotten me in trouble. Not the legal kind, mind you, just, well, my physical look doesn’t match my insides. I am a kind, gentle, sometimes-polite female of the human species. I don’t yell or scream or have a bad temper. Yes, I have a temper, but the fuse is long, easily doused and there’s a rather small pop; no big ka-boom.
My appearance, on the other hand, is very big, very bold, somewhat stern (especially when I’m not wearing my glasses and can’t focus) and rather intimidating. Since I really don’t do much out-of-the-house stuff, I’m usually in sweats and/or rumpled clothing. Therefore, upon first sight, one would be likely to think that Gigantrix the Frump-Meister had come for a visit.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” you say. “What does any of this have to do with dust bunnies?”
Honestly? Absolutely nothing. When I started this column I was completely blank so I wrote down the first thing I could think of, which happened to be “dust bunnies”. My fingers moved over the keys of their own volition. I figured eventually they’d come up with something about dust bunnies, but they never did.
See? Even this column belies its appearance.
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Comments are gladly accepted. Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of your Email. JD_DSVic at Yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic.
All rights reserved.
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