Rain Rain Go Away

Today is Monday.  That’s enough to put me in a bad mood by itself.  But this continuous water pouring out of the sky is really starting to piss me off.

I was appreciative last night when it started raining.  I don’t have a green thumb, mostly because I’m too lazy and forgetful to keep up with watering.  Each spring I get this desire to plant flowers and such, but once they’re in the ground my enthusiasm trails off.  It hasn’t rained at all in the past several weeks, so the plants in the front of the house have been looking wilted and stunted lately.  I was just starting to feel bad enough about the way they looked to actually get the hose out.  Thankfully the rain relieved me of my guilt. 

If it had stopped after a couple hours, that would have been perfect.  After raining steady all night and today though, my flowers are drowning and I’m just pissy.

For those of you that don’t live in the “low country” of South Carolina, let me explain… We’re about as “low” as you can get – sea level.  That means utter chaos in weather like this! 

Sunny Low Country

Rainy Low Country

Southerners aren’t known for their driving ability to begin with.  If it sprinkles during rush hour, you have a 90% chance of being hung up by an accident.  Add flooding roads and malfunctioning traffic lights to the mix and you can pretty much expect to get nowhere.  I still don’t understand the inability of the people around here to drive while it’s raining.  Simply slow down to a reasonable speed and leave plenty of space between you and the car in front of you.  I didn’t say come to a complete stop on the interstate!  I guess that’s a hard concept to grasp.

When I moved to South Carolina a few years ago, my first observations about the differences between Northerners and Southerners were made on the road.  People in the south have trouble overcoming inertia.  Very slow to start.  Yet somehow they have no trouble with defying momentum, abruptly stopping without any sign.  I was concerned about what kind of vehicles would be on the road since there is no annual inspection required.  I was worried for nothing though.  Even if you can’t pay your rent or feed your babies, somehow the $500 car payment for the brand new beamer is never overlooked.

It actually snowed a couple of inches last winter.  I stayed off the roads for two days in fear of my life.

Rocky - pet or hunting dog?

We think Rocky was a hunting dog in his previous life.  In fact, we’re pretty sure of it, since an old hunter came around the campground looking for his best hunting dog a few weeks after my husband, Tad, took Rocky home.  No one spoke up of course.  I think if Rocky were smarter, he would have really appreciated that.  He went from living outside in a pen to the lap-of-luxury!

Normally a hunter who keeps dogs treats his pack fairly well.  But they are NOT treated as pets.  My father-in-law has a few hunting dogs, so I’ve seen this first hand.  On my first hunting escapade with Tad, I quickly volunteered to retrieve the dogs at the end of the drive.  I felt bad for them and wanted to pet and show them some affection.  That’s when I discovered why hunting dogs are not treated as pets.  It’s not because they are considered working-animals and such treatment would make them soft and useless.  It’s actually because of the horrible odor they give off!  It’s like a musty mix of old cheese baking in the sun, with week-old sweat.  If that weren’t bad enough, if you actually touch one – say to try to pet it – good luck getting that smell off your hands for the next two days.

 

Considering Rocky’s background, you can understand some of his behaviors… but others don’t make any sense at all.  For example, if it’s been raining, Rocky will try his darndest not to get his feet wet.  I have to chase him off the back porch if the grass is even slightly damp, otherwise he’ll either decide he can hold it or find a suitable spot on the porch to do his business.  When his feet hit the wet grass, you wouldn’t believe your eyes - try to imagine a beagle on his tip-toes.  When Rocky and Rolly would come in from the backyard on a rainy day, Rolly, the white Dalmatian, would be covered from head-to-toe in mud, while Rocky, the ex-hunting dog, would be as pristine as when he went out.

Maybe part of Rocky’s dislike for getting wet and dirty stems from his hard life as a hunting dog, which would make sense.  What doesn’t make any sense is his need to lick anyone who gets within a foot of his face.  My father can attest to this from personally experience.  Imagine getting woke up with a French kiss from a beagle with really bad breath!

Rocky doesn’t like fences.  Probably another result of living in a caged pen day after day.  Our home does not have a fence, but we did install one of those underground, electric barriers to contain the dogs.  Rocky seems perfectly content with this arrangement.  But previously, at Tad’s old home, Rocky would try everything in his power to escape the half-acre, fenced-in backyard.  For some reason Rocky sees a physical barrier as an obstacle to be surmounted - some kind of challenge. 

One morning at the old house, we were all peacefully sleeping, only to be awakened by a horrible screaming/howling sound.  I knew something was terribly wrong, so I ran towards the noise, finding Rocky at the gate of the chain-link fence howling miserably.  He was stuck and trying to back up to free himself.  When I got close enough I could see that he was caught by his ear and the reason he was making that awful noise was because his pulling had actually punctured his floppy ear and he was trying to tear it free.  I was able to stop him from pulling while Tad used pliers to free his ear without additional damage.  Since it was already pierced, I suggested we make Rocky an earring, but Tad didn’t go for it.

Tad attempted once to take Rocky back to his roots.  Bright and early one Saturday morning in November, Tad loaded Rocky into his dog box to take him hunting.  From what I understand, any time the truck was moving, Rocky was howling.  The first drive of the day, Tad’s brother released Rocky with their father’s dogs.  As soon as the other dogs caught a scent and started after the trail through the woods, Rocky decided he’d rather not go trailing through the rough brush and mud.  Tad’s poor brother spent the next hour trailing Rocky up and down the dirt lanes.  When he finally was able to get Rocky into the dog box, the howling started again.  Everyone on the club could hear Rocky as Tad’s brother made his way back to the camp.  I’m pretty sure Tad’s brother had a lot of things to say to Tad when they got back, but whether he was able to hear it through all the howling, I don’t know.

I’ve come to the realization that Rocky will never be a normal dog.  He’ll never be like a real pet because of his origins as a hunting dog, and he’ll never be an actual hunting dog since we give him baths and let him sleep on the couch.  Poor Rocky, torn between two worlds, yet somehow he’s found a little place in all of our hearts.

Bios

I originally titled this blog imagining that I would end up writing about the zoo that I currently live in, so I guess I should give quick bios on each of the main characters.

Jaala (that's me):

My last post gave a lot of background on my childhood and hopefully some insight into who I am.  What I didn’t tell will probably come out in future posts, so I won’t bore you now with how fantastic I am.  (Sometimes I wonder if I overcompensate for a lack of self-esteem by filling my own head with my superiority and come off to others as arrogant, but then I realize that I truly am exceptional in many ways and it’s not my fault if others recognize their own shortcomings when they compare themselves to me.)

Tad:

Tad is not a dog, cat, fish or even a frog; he’s my husband.  It’s hard to tell that from his name, but it actually suits him well.  Tad is a hunter, fisherman, and NASCAR fan.  Yes, I realize I just described every white, southern redneck on the planet, but I think he’s got potential.  We got married about six months ago and he’s already moved out of his double-wide, sold his bass-boat, and helped paint our home “honey beige.”  He’s really coming along!

Haley:

This is my husband’s 10 year-old daughter.  She spends half her time with us and the other half with her mother and TOM.  TOM is not her name, it's an acronym for “the other mother.”   Don't worry, I wasn't in-the-know about these things either, until recently .

Haley seems to be pretty well-adjusted to the arrangement with all of her “parents.”  I spend a lot of apparently unnecessary time worrying about that, but all indications seem to indicate she is developing in a normal, healthy way.  Well, as normally as any child can!  I just hope that being surrounded by all these adoring adults doesn't end up spoiling her...

Nash:

Nash is my red-headed, miniature poodle.  He’s around 3 years-old and weighs 16 lbs, so he’s not one of those tiny, yippy dogs.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a poodle, but not your stereotypical one.  He likes to eat kitty treats (not treats “for” cats, rather “from” cats – another important distinction) and roll in stinky stuff like a real dog.  Nash learns to do tricks pretty quickly, so I guess most people would consider him a smart dog.  However, the fact that he eats cat poop makes me skeptical.

Yeah... that's kitty litter caked up his nose.

I have to admit, he is a momma’s boy, but all my animals are.  I am the pack-leader.

Rocky:

Rocky is the family beagle, who actually pre-dates me.  He was found chasing rabbits around a campground where Tad used to go on weekends.  After a couple weeks of no one claiming him, he went ahead and brought him home.  I’m still not sure why.  I’m trying to think of something nice and pleasant to write about Rocky, but I’m really drawing a blank.  Oh wait, he does have nice soft ears!  But if you start petting him, he’ll either piddle on the floor or start trying to lick every square inch of your exposed skin.  If he’s not trying to lick you, he’s licking himself – and very noisily I might add – or scratching himself, or chewing on himself.  Thank goodness for you that I don’t know how to add sound to a post, otherwise I would subject you to the beagle howling and whining that I must endure daily.

Nope, still can’t think of anything pleasant to share about him…

Rolly:

Rolly was Tad and Haley’s albino, deaf Dalmatian.  I say “was” because he is now buried in a Rubbermaid container out back, behind the double-wide.  Can you believe this dog lived to be almost 16 years-old?  I’m introducing Rolly, even though he’s no longer with us, because I’m sure he’ll make some future posts.  He is Tad and Haley’s beloved, never to be replaced in their hearts.  I don’t get the attachment honestly.  I guess I only knew him in his elderly, grumpy-man condition.  But he was always deaf, born that way, so I don’t see how you’d get attached to a dog that won’t follow any commands or respond to you other than when you have a treat in your hand (very much like Rocky... but he's not deaf... hmm).

 I swear it is a Dalmatian... an albino one.

Spike:

Spike is a tough, vicious bulldog!  Just kidding, he’s a cat.  Yes, a grey and white, tiger striped cat named Spike.  I guess I thought a tough name might affect his personality accordingly - not so.  I got him my last year of college, so Spike is the most “worldly” of our animals.  He’s lived in 5 different homes in his 7 years of life.  Maybe all that moving is what made him so timid?  Spike can be very loving when he wants to be though.  Giving head-butts is how he expresses his general affection, and is also the reason he is not allowed in the bedroom at night.  My slight allergy to cats only really flares up when Spike wants to show me his affection, over and over and over again.

 He looks tough, right?

Chili:

This little kitty girl was the second addition to my zoo, the year after college.  She got her name by taking a trek through a bowl of chili the night I brought her home.  Her snow white paws were stained orange for a while.  Not surprisingly Chili has dominated Spike from day one.  She’s a predominately grey calico cat with white and orange markings.  She always looks pissed-off.  Even when she’s purring and rubbing up on you with love, you get the impression that she’s plotting your death.  I think I’ve gotten used to this evil look of hers, knowing what a lover she really is, but every now and again I catch an especially pissed-off look on her face that makes me  wonder…

 "I kill you with my laser death stare"

Lew:

No, really, I don’t want to spell it L-O-U, it's L-E-W.  This kitten is the newest member of our zoo, my husband’s idea of a thoughtful birthday gift.  I’m still trying to decide if a “free-to-a-good-home” kitten should count as a birthday gift for your wife.  I guess it’s on par with a home-made card, and those are considered thoughtful... when they're from a five year-old.

Anyway, Lew is a very uniquely marked grey and white guy, currently about 2.5 lbs.  I don’t know why, but I’ve been letting him sleep on my pillow at night.  He’s like a little vibrating night cap.  I should probably put a stop to this before he gets big and smothers me in my sleep.  Lew has only been with us three weeks now and has two distinct modes:  crazy-hyper-ball-of-fuzz and passed-out-like-a-drunk.

 A rare moment... holding still, yet not passed-out.

Tom:

Not to be confused with TOM, this was Haley’s cat.  She was only seven when she named him, but it actually turned out to be the perfect name for him.  Other than the fact that I had him neutered right away, he was the ultimate tomcat.

Haley brought him home as a stray the same day we got Nash.  Kind of like giving birth to twins when only expecting one.  Ok, maybe not like that exactly, but Nash was planned and Tom was a surprise.  Spike and Chili never met Tom, as my ex had "custody" of them at that time, so he was an only-cat.  I keep referring to Tom in the past tense because he didn’t come home one day.  We really don’t know what happened to him, but it’s a 50/50 chance that either he tried to catch an opossum or the neighbor guy shot him.  I guess it’s for the best anyway since Tom was black and white.  He wouldn’t have fit it in with my grey-cat theme.

 The twins

Henry and Rose:

These are Haley’s turtles.  Henry is one of those illegal red-ear sliders that aren’t supposed to be sold as pets.  Nana bought it for Haley when she was seven.  Haley brought Rose home from the lake about a year later and I still don’t know what kind of turtle it is.  You may have noticed that I am not calling them by gender.  This is because one morning while I was passing by their tank, I shouted out in alarm thinking that Rose was dead.  It looked like Henry had Rose backed up against their little sunning bridge and that Rose was unconscious.   After taking a quick look Tad politely informed me that Rose was just fine.  He also pointed out that we had been mistaken when naming the turtles, as Rose is obviously a boy turtle and Henry is a girl turtle.  Once the shock wore off, I became concerned about being over-run with little, baby turtles.  My research informed me that I didn’t have to worry since there was no dry land for laying eggs.  I also became very proud of myself because my sources also said that turtles that were not content and happy would not "get horizontal" (Well, Henry was horizontal, but Rose was more vertical).  I apparently am a master of turtle tank Feng Shui!

We did think about switching their names around, but that got too confusing.  So Henry is still Henry and Rose is still Rose.

Henry and Rose in their happy home

The Beginning

I don’t want to give the impression that my parents didn’t pay any attention to me… I was certainly well loved.  I was one of those lucky kids to grow up with parents who were always in love with each other and cared about their kids’ well-being.

I easily became my own best friend, being the youngest girl of three and then having a younger brother to compete with.  My parents always told people that they had three girls and a terror – I wonder if that gave my brother a complex?

Being the introverted one didn’t really become noticeably painful until my early teens, when my parents moved us to a teeny, tiny town in rural Pennsylvania after my father retired from the Army.  To 3 out of 4 of us kids, the atmosphere was full of pettiness, jealousy, and misery – you know, all the great things that make up small-town living!  Other than my one sister, who could make friends with a rabid grizzly bear in order to sell it a fur coat, we were all happy to move on.

We ended up in an equally small town, less than 90 miles away from the other.  What this new town lacked in blatant snobbery, made up for in yokel ignorance.  This was a big improvement!  My poor parents are still trapped there while my Dad works on a state retirement to go with the federal one.  He’s always said that next will be a municipal retirement and then he’ll fulfill his dream of becoming a Wal-Mart greeter…  But after being in the Army and then working at a state prison, I somehow doubt that’s going to work out for him.

In the end, all of us kids went to college and escaped.  Well, except my brother, the terror.  For some reason he has fully embraced his small-town existence.  He’s even working at the same prison as our father.  Yes, I did say “working at,” not “a guest of.”  This distinction is important, as it means he has exceeded many expectations.  Ok, well maybe we didn’t ultimately expect him to end up in jail, but there were a couple of close-calls, so we are really proud.

I did eventually “find myself,” but as a kid I watched my sisters to see what I should be doing.  And that became a competition for me without really knowing it.  My oldest sister was labled “the smart one.” So what did I try to be?  The smarter one!

My second oldest sister was labeled “the artistic one.”  So of course, I did it bigger and better!

So who am I now that I’m no longer “the smartest and most artistic one?”  Good question.  I guess I’m a self-driven engineer, a step-mother, and a zoo keeper.  These things are all me, and no one else.  Ok, so maybe I got my work ethic from my father, and my parenting skills from my mom, but the zoo-keeper thing?  That one’s all me, I swear!

Intro-Blog

Is it proper blog-etiquette to start with an introductory post?

I’m new to the blog-o-sphere, only recently enjoying the writings of a few hilarious people, so I’m not sure. 

I apologize to anyone looking for a debate… you’ll have to find your fix elsewhere.  I just want to share some of the absolutely ridiculous shit that seems to happen in my day-to-day existence.  If you can relate… that’s great!  If you can’t imagine how such things could happen to someone living such a seemingly simple life… go ahead and laugh it up!  You can laugh at me, I don’t mind.

This may just end up being a way for me to vent and express a little creativity with no one else on this planet ever seeing.  I’ll just pretend I have an audience for now.