I have always been a cat person. I love fluffy cats, short-haired cats, black cats, orange cats, calico cats, tiny kittens, overweight cats, you name it. So it should come as somewhat of a surprise that my latest job is:
Dog Walker.
I like to tell people that this is because no one will pay me to walk their cats (that's right, cats are smart enough to walk themselves).
Paint the scene: I found myself in a job situation with a co-worker that I could no longer tolerate. She truly made every day miserable, and I knew things were bad when I would secretly hope she would call in sick, go on a vacation, or just flat-out die.
Yep, I needed to quit.
I endured three long years there, while things continued to get worse. I would come home from working with this awful co-worker, and every day my family would say Find another job!
I randomly saw a sign near our house that said the three little words I needed to hear:
WANTED: DOG WALKER.
I applied, passed the background check, and now people I have never met happily give me their keys to go into their home while they are gone and take their most valued possession (their dog).
I am terrified of Pit Bulls. Did I mention that? Why yes I did, right there on the job application. I said I would walk any type of dog (especially a cat) but staunchly refused to walk a Pit Bull.
You know where this is going, right? The very first dog they assigned me was a Pit Bull. It (he? she? who knows, as I have tried to block it out) bit me on the ankle the moment it saw me.
Somehow I lived through the ordeal, and continued to walk dogs. Now we will briefly pause so that I can show you pictures of dogs I may have walked, or you can just think I got these photos off the internet:
Oh my goodness, is that a cute dog or what?
Another favorite.
Be still my heart. Look at those eyes!
Oh how I adore you, you gorgeous thing! (And what a smart owner to color coordinate with the yummy orange leash to really set off those spots.)
Reasons why I love my job: The dogs never complain. They never say, You are 5 minutes late, again, MOV! They never criticize my choice of outfit. Or the fact that I didn't brush my hair. They genuinely seem happy to see me, and sad when I leave (which is more than I can say for my teenagers). They usually do what I say (Sit! Shake! Let's cross the street here now!), and if the worst part of the job is picking up poop, well, what job doesn't have some metaphorical poop you have to deal with?
Sometimes the owners are home. This always shocks me. I feel like I am breaking and entering and they might call the police at any moment. That never happens. Instead they mumble something about how they forgot that I was coming, but sure please take Scout for a walk.
Scout and I go.
We feel the fresh air. We squint into the sunlight. We notice that squirrel dart up that tree trunk. We hear the birds chirp, sometimes at us. We smell the freshly cut grass. We smile at other people walking by, and we stop and chat when those people have dogs too.
But mostly we walk.
I LOVE MY JOB.
mothersofbrothersblog
if her wit were any drier, your computer would spontaneously combust
Tuesday, July 2, 2019
Friday, June 28, 2019
1001. It's Just A Sunflower
Yep. I’m back. It’s really me. Had to think about it for five years, but then I decided to write something. Here goes:
The Husband has always planted vegetables: corn, squash,
zucchini (is that the same as squash, or just sort of a distant
cousin? Who knows), pumpkins, lettuce, tomatoes.
His garden is green and leafy and full of nutritious things;
it makes my friends swoon with jealousy (“MOV, did you
personally grow all that?” Me, without hesitation: “Yes.”)
So it should some as somewhat of a surprise when
The Husband one day woke up and told me:
“This year, I’m planting sunflowers.”
Naturally, I was thrilled. Sunflowers are one of my favorite
kinds of flowers, next to tulips. They are big and bold, and
basically look like if children’s laughter was made of flowers.
Yep, I love them.
Now, in the five years I have not been writing my blog
(and who knows, the next post might take me five more
years to compose, so don’t get your hopes up), I have
gotten into photography. Not Ansel Adams or
Irving Penn-level photography, but (ahem) I have won …
let me just say … I have won EVERY SINGLE
PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST that I have entered.
That sounds impressive, doesn’t it?
So anyway, like I was saying, I like to take pictures.
Pictures of my kids, pictures of the beach if we go on
vacation, pictures of the dog (we got a dog in the past
five years- who knew I was a dog person?!? Oh and
now I have a part-time job as a dog-walker, so I guess
I need to get you up to speed on a couple things
sometime soon.)
Standard deviation: here is a pic of the dog:
(Cute, right? He only weighs about 105 pounds-
same as me, I like to say.)
Enough rambling, MOV! Get to the point of the
story already! Gah, writing is harder than I thought,
and I guess I am really rusty.
So. The Husband. The sunflowers. The newfound
interest in photography. (Maybe you know where
this is going because I sure don’t?) One morning I
innocently glance out the window and notice that
the light is what can only be described as magical.
I have to grab my camera RIGHT NOW THIS SECOND.
I walk outside in my jammies and approach the sunflowers.
They are easily three feet taller than I am
(hard to believe, as I am somewhat tallish in real life,
but they dwarf me). I hold my good camera
(as opposed to my phone camera) to my eyeball
and start clicking away.
Unfortunately, due to the inconsiderate shade of a
nearby tree, the sunflowers are turned the wrong
way and do not look good in my pictures. Instead
of being sunny, they are dark. They stubbornly do
not respond to coaxing or bribery like my sons
(“Please please look this way! If you just cooperate
for two pictures, I promise I will take you to the pool
later and we can get ice-cream!”). Nope.
They stay firmly in place (think rooted).
I take matters into my own hands. I walk over and
gently try to adjust the flower. I attempt to turn the
stalk where I need it to be.
No sooner do I touch it, then it snaps off in my hand.
The Husband will not be happy later, I already know.
Not having learned my lesson (gah! The cliches.
Writing really is harder than I remember), I gently
bend another flower to get it into the acceptable
photographic range.
SNAP!
Did I mention his garden only has about three
sunflowers at this early date?
I have destroyed ⅔ of his bounty.
Unfazed (probably due to all that flight attendant
emergency training of what to do in a crisis situation),
I prop the now-dead sunflowers into the general area
of where I need them to be for my picture. Perfect.
Then I start snapping away.
I check my camera, and I am satisfied.
Now I take the remnants of the sunflowers and
internally debate my choices. Leave them
propped up and pretend to be shocked when they
“suddenly” wilt in the next day or two, ultimatley
saying “a fox must have chewed through them”?
Throw them over the fence into the neighbor’s
yard and blame it on a “strong gust of wind”?
In the end, I (stupidly) decide that honesty is the
best policy (more cliches. And spellcheck does
not even know to add and accent to cliche.
I’m sorry). I cut the flowers down even more
and stick them in a vase.
Predictably, The Husband was not pleased upon
his arrival home (“MOV, those are MY flowers!!!
What gives you the right to cut them!!! I can’t
believe you did this!!!”).
By the next day (who am I kidding, month), he
forgot all about my selfish ways, and yes, I got a
pretty good photo out of the deal:
(Thank you for being here, and I will try to write again
if I have anything remotely entertaining to say.)
MOV
Ps- first blog back, I had major formatting issues, so if
anyone has advice on that let me know
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
1000. Dolphin in a Wheelchair and Other Disturbing Things
There are
some phrases you never hear uttered, such as, “That chocolate was disgusting,” “I
would totally vote for Nixon if he were alive,” and “Hooker with morals.”
No one says
these things, because they are unacceptable to say. They are lies. We all know there is no such thing as “disgusting”
chocolate. Heck, even stale and melty M
and M’s are better than no M and M’s.
Another
thing you never hear about is when someone who used to love to write suddenly
(or maybe not so suddenly) just stops.
STOPS.
STOPS.
WRITING.
What?
Did Hemingway stop writing? Did Shakespeare stop writing? Did John Grisham one day just stop writing??
No, of
course not. They had something to say,
and an audience who wanted to hear it.
As a blogger
and eventually book writer, I also had something to say. More than something. I had a LOT to say.
But guess what? After 1000 posts (that’s right, count ‘em), I
think I have said it all. And not only
that, I am a little bit sick of hearing my own voice. So, Blog, I am divorcing you.
It’s been a
fun ride. I remember when I started and
had zero followers. And then two. And then, unbelievably, 10. Then somehow, 100. And now, over 600! In just five years.
For someone
who considers herself shy in real life, this is a huge accomplishment for
me. People wanted to read what I
wrote!
Somehow, I
cobbled it into a book. And then with
help from a fellow blogger, we made a second book. The insecure me I was when I was 11 might not believe
that. But it’s true.
I thank you,
dear readers, for reading what I wrote, and for commenting. (I was a bit obsessive, sometimes checking my
comments every 15 minutes, sometimes less).
I thank you for making me feel like what I wrote mattered. And for taking the time to come back and read
just one more essay, one more paragraph, one more story. I was writing for you.
But lately,
the busy-ness of life intrudes. The
laundry. The job. The carpool.
There are never enough unoccupied minutes to build a pyramid of
words. Discarded words lay littered across
the floor of my study, mocking me (“MOV, you’ll wish you had us back! Mark my,
uh… words!”).
Now I must
bid you and this lovely blog adieu. It
pains me, because I know as soon as I sign off, Muse will return with buckets
full of ideas for me (“Muse, honestly, where have you been for six months?!”).
I never
thought I would utter this phrase: Goodbye,
Blog.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
994. Help, I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up
I recently
wrote about my face not cooperating with my brain and now my feet are
apparently in on the mutiny: yesterday I fell
while walking.
Notice I don’t
say “while skateboarding” or “while bungee jumping” or some equally glamourous
or athletic endeavor. Nope. Walking.
Let me set
the complicated scene. Daytime. My front yard. Walking at a normal pace (not running) toward
my car parked out front. Accompanied by
my kids (because let’s face it: there
are always witnesses to help record life’s embarrassments and retell them in excruciating
detail after the fact). I made the
critical mistake of stepping off the curb when suddenly my rebellious left ankle chose this
precise moment to go out.
I came
toppling down (with a surprised, squeaky sort of grunt sound effect emanating from my nose
and mouth, young witnesses later confirmed) and landed face down in a heap in the street,
keys and purse strewn about the asphalt.
I felt like
I’d been pushed, or at least tripped.
This is when
my life switched into slow motion, like some sort of Matrix movie. I lay there in a crumpled up pile for what
seemed like 10 minutes (but was probably 10 seconds) evaluating what had just
occurred. Who was my assailant? Had Tall played a cruel joke on his
middle-aged mother and given me a well-timed shove? Had Short picked up the sidewalk and shook it
fiercely, like a blanket? Had a rare
earthquake just announced its presence?
No. My feet just did not get the memo to perform
a complicated maneuver (e.g. “walk”) and therefore I fell.
The fall was
not without repercussions. Skin was
scraped. Ego was bruised. Blood was involved.
The children
(who are used to falling off their bikes and such) were immediately sympathetic
and helpful: “Mom! Are you okay?” “Do you need help?”
I pushed
myself up and for the first time noticed my elderly neighbor Harriet staring at
me from her front yard across the street.
Harriet is about 99 years old and has a live-in nurse.
I did not
want to alarm Harriet, so I waved and called out: I’m all
right!
She waved
back from her walker and responded, “Don’t worry, dear, that happens to me all
the time.”
I dusted
myself off, got in the car with the kids and drove away, praying Harriet would
not post a video of my fall on YouTube later.
MOV
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
986. If I Get Your Name Sorta Right, It Should Still Count
For some
strange reason, I was not blessed with the DNA coding to remember people’s
names correctly. Fortunately, I can remember that
I do know the person, and that we had a long chat about where their daughter is
going to college or about how their cat might have to have surgery, but then
the part about their actual name? Not so
much.
Sharon? I want to call her Karen.
Winnie? Let’s make that Wendy.
Brad? How about Bob.
JoAnna? I’ll change that to
Jessica.
I should get points though, right? Partial
credit? It means I was paying a tiny bit of attention at some point, but maybe not all the way.
The Husband (big surprise here) does not quite agree with me.
“If you know you forgot their name, why don’t you avoid it all together? Because if you get the name wrong, it’s not like in math class where
you get some points for showing your work.
You lose points. It is better to
not say a name at all and then you stay at zero points instead of negative.”
Zero points? Who wants to stay at zero
points?!? I want the possibility to earn points!
I call the kids in for their opinions.
“Grande, Little, Mommy wants to ask you something.”
“It’s Tall and Short, Mom.”
Nevermind.
MOV
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
984. Floppy Beach Hat
I bought a
floppy beach hat today. It is 22 degrees
out.
My purchase is
partially wishful thinking that the weather will tropicate overnight.
But even if
it did—what then? I am not a floppy
beach hat girl. I wish I was. I so want to be her. I imagine myself languorously drifting into
the local market, embellished with the floppy beach hat.
People I don’t
know would whisper about me behind my back:
“She is wearing a floppy beach hat.
Therefore, her life must be perfect in that casual not-trying-too-hard
kind of way.”
I want
people to think I am not trying too hard.
But I am
actually trying really hard.
I own a
black coat with a fake fur collar. For floppy
beach hat girl. I also have a pair of
5-inch stilettos acquired on trip to New Zealand two decades ago.
I have worn
the shoes exactly once.
Floppy beach
hat girl would wear those shoes to go see the dentist.
You know she
would.
Floppy beach
hat girl is fearless. She wears what she
wants, when she wants. She doesn’t agonize
before leaving the house if she is dressed appropriately and then ultimately put
on jeans and a Target t-shirt (again) just so she can look like a suburban
soccer mom. No. Floppy beach hat girl will wear bracelets
made of rubber bands (bestowed upon her by her 7-year-old) with an evening gown
to go to her husband’s work party. She
dresses for herself, not caring what others think one way or another.
I take a cue
from floppy beach hat girl. I put on
black corduroy pants, a pink sweater, and a crazy wood necklace shaped like
arrows that I bought at a second-hand store in LA. I lace up chunky leather boots. I look in the mirror and smile.
As we are
about to leave, my snarky 4th grader groans, “You’re not wearing that, are you, Mom?”
I zip back
to my closet and change. Jeans and a sweatshirt. No necklace.
Floppy beach
hat girl will have to wait another day.
MOV
Sunday, February 2, 2014
982. Dating Superman
It’s not
like I didn’t know who he was when we met.
He had on the cape, the tights, the giant letter “S” across his
chest. He looked like a very handsome
caricature of himself.
“Hello, I’m
Superman,” he said confidently, as he extended his hand.
“MOV,” I
replied. I felt my cheeks turn red. It’s not every day you meet a superhero.
His grip was
tight, but not too tight. He could
probably bend steel with those hands if he wanted to.
Once we
started talking, I confirmed that he was single. I know what you’re thinking: Lois
Lane. That’s what everyone says now
when I tell the story. But we actually
met way before he and Lois were an item.
Superman and
I had a lot in common. We both liked
long walks on the beach, saving puppies, and listening to rain while enjoying a
good book and a cup of hot cocoa. Oh,
didn’t I tell you? We met through a
dating service.
This was
back in the days before the Internet and Match Dot Com. You had to fill out a questionnaire with,
like, 50 questions, and poof! They would set you up with your perfect
guy.
I don’t
remember all the questions, but I do remember my answers: Super! As in, “If you unexpectedly found yourself
with a day off, what would your first thought be?” Or, “Tell us about your relationship with
your next-door neighbor,” and, “What is the one word your best friend would use
to describe you?”
It just
seemed natural that they would set me up with him. I liked Super and he was Super.
The
beginning was great. He called when he
said he would, showed up with flowers, always paid for dinner—that kind of
thing. He was courteous and
thoughtful. I even started to think about
introducing him to my family.
But then
something changed. He was very
show-offy. Say a giant metal safe was
falling out a window of a high-rise building just as we happened to be walking
under it? He would reach out and catch
it and prevent us from being killed.
Okay, maybe that’s a bad example because I am glad that I didn’t get
crushed by a safe. Oh, here’s one: if a baby was playing on railroad tracks FIVE
STREETS OVER then he would woosh away and save the baby or stop the train or
whatever.
The whole saving
people thing got to be annoying. It interrupted
a lot of romantic moments, if you know what I mean.
He was
always “on”—always paying attention to something else, somewhere else, some
element of danger lurking that I had no idea about. And everywhere
we went, people had to come up and shake his hand and thank him.
“Oh,
Superman,” they would swoon, “you are the greatest! Thank you so much for saving my dad from
being eaten by that shark,” blah-blah-blah.
Of course I
would stand to the side, smiling and nodding politely (what else was I going to
do?) and then the people would turn to me and say how lucky I was to be dating
Superman.
Lucky.
Yeah, right.
Then,
totally out of the blue, he proposed.
Literally out of the blue: he scooped me up, flew me in his arms to a mountain
top, and pulled a diamond ring out of a secret pocket in his cape.
I said
yes. Not because I wanted to say yes,
but because I felt pressured. And the
fact that I was on a random mountain top and not sure how I’d get home if I
said no.
He wanted to
elope, and I wanted to break up. He told
me to meet him down at City Hall but I was a no-show. I felt bad,
but I couldn’t go through with it. It’s
not like I have to be in the spotlight all
the time, but with Superman I knew I would never be in the spotlight. Ever.
He knocked
on my apartment door with a big bouquet of roses in his hand.
“MOV, can we
start over?”
My roommate glanced
up from watching TV and rolled her eyes.
“Look, S,” I
began, “I love the idea of you. But the you in the flesh, well … it’s a
little hard to take.”
He set the
flowers on the table and left. I never
heard from him again. Well, until last
week, that is. He sent me a friend
request on Facebook. I immediately
checked his relationship status:
Single.
And according to his
profile, he still likes saving puppies.
MOV
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)