Celebrate Boredom!

That's my son Will listening to me talk.

I just read that the Boring Conference 2012 held in London was a sell-out. Organizers said it's in response to the "in-your-face noisy world" we've created and love.

 

 The conference will include talks about toast, pylons, and yellow road lines.

 

I, for one, am highly interested because the stuff that's supposed to be so fascinating usually doesn't thrill me.

 

I don't care about new Starbucks coffee flavors, Spanx, celebrities (except Ellen because she's funny), the latest app, or how to craft an edible holiday gift box.

 

Bring on the Rubber Band Round Table, White Noise Panel Discussion, and Goose Feather vs. Foam Pillow Break-Out Session!

Boring Conference 2012

Blog About a Dog

This is my blog about a dog, my dog Hunter, specifically. I'd like to share snarky comments or brilliant insights into the human experience, but all I want is for you to look at my cute dog.

This is my Border Collie Hunter, and I love him to pieces even though he looks like a skittish coyote and acts like a frightened cat. He's got bad breath and sheds like a cheap toupee. All the same, he’s been my main man for more than 12 years.

 

 Here's my bright boy plotting to take over the world.

Why do we adore our pets to the point of giving them human attributes? I can't answer that, but dogs wear hats, drive cars and plot revenge against the family cat. It’s true. I’ve seen it on YouTube. 

 

 

. . . wearing a Hawaiian lei. Look how happy he is!

We see similarities between ourselves and our hounds, yet there are THINGS ONLY YOUR DOG CAN GET AWAY WITH:
Licks: He'll lick the floor, his privates, and then your face.

 . . . after examining some cat stuff. Yum!

Collar & Leash: Bound and leashed, he couldn’t be happier.

 

. . . champing at the bit to get out there and feel the wind in his face!

Tail Wag: With a shake like that, he should have a wad of one dollar bills stuffed inside his collar.

He works hard for his money!

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving from Lynette’s Whimsy and Hunter.

Where's the Fire, Dude? 5 Reasons Someone Would Buy My Mini-van

He peeled away in my 13-year-old mini-van. I stood there on the sidewalk, blinking, counting my money, and wondering Where’s the fire, dude?

This should have been like any other modern-day Craigslist transaction.

Me:     I have an old mini-van to sell.

You:   Have money to give me for said mini-van.

But something felt off. He pulled up in this really big and expensive Mercedes Benz. He stepped out wearing snazzy leather loafers, NO socks, and flashed a shiny tough guy ring. When I greeted him, his lip curled, he looked around the neighborhood and sniffed. Hey, c’mon, man. I live here!

“I want a vehicle for my wife!” his voice rumbled.

He must not like his wife very much.

As an occasional reader of mysteries and a sometimes-fan of Criminal Minds, I knew I had to surrender to my instincts.

He was too eager and too willing to overlook the stained carpet, broken door handle, inoperable AC, cracked windshield, and myriad dings, scratches and dents. He wanted this hunk of junk and badly!

But why?

The Obvious

1. Dispose of his dead wife’s body. Duh!

2. Run illegal drugs, guns or fancy pants men’s shoes across the border. No brainer!

The Cool

3. Drive it out into the desert, set it on fire, and gleefully watch it burn as part of a man weekend ritual. Awesome!

The Absurd

4. MoFo Food Truck that specializes in soccer family fare: apple wedges in little baggies and  juice boxes. Been there, done that!

5. Undercover police vehicle used in prostitution sting operations at  the Wal-Mart parking lot. Now, we’re talking!

I Disavow Any Knowledge

To my knowledge, California law doesn’t require the seller to verify lawful, moral or acceptable use of a vehicle after the transaction is complete.

I wave, take the money, and run.

You Vomit in Vegas, It Stays in Vegas

You vomit in Vegas, it stays in Vegas. Except when you make a public proclamation on the Sunday morning shuttle to the airport. That was when a bleary voice behind me moaned, “I never puked in so many public places!”

Folks, we are now leaving Las Vegas. I’d arrived that Friday to attend a conference and see a few sights, my first visit in 18 years.

It was a hot Friday afternoon. The sidewalks of Sin City surged with humans. Families, couples, frat boys, working girls, book clubs, bus tours and even a few Fundamentalists gathered. They screeched, giggled, jiggled, slurped and preached their way up and down the strip. Huge puffy clouds full of promised rain glided above casinos, desert scrub and endless packs of people.

In a city famous for its excess and its very own Rat Pack, I was neither excessive nor part of anyone’s pack. I was alone.

But Not Lonely, Dammit!

Here in the City of Illusion to observe and ponder, while attending a Blog Conference, (a lot of self-indulgence), I wondered where I fit into the need we humans have to join.

I read somewhere once that Louis Leakey believed after humans evolved physically to survive, our minds adapted to survive as social creatures. We have this drive to affiliate and become part of a social organization. Gathering in groups started somewhere. Why?

Walk Like an Egyptian

Current anthropological theory (sounds kind of smarty pants, but hear me out) is that great civilizations and complex social organizations – like the Egyptians or the Incas – first arose out of need. If people banded together to divert water for crops or to hunt or to protect the kids, well, everyone was better off.

Once the practicalities of getting the group to build a better community was set, all sorts of rules about how people should act were thrown into the mix. We call them societal expectations -- like people shouldn’t go to Las Vegas alone.

Which is where I come in.

Hey, Lady, You Okay?

So I’m waiting for the Las Vegas Blvd. strip shuttle to show up and take me back to my hotel. Not once, but twice, concerned citizens, also waiting for the shuttle, look at me, standing there all alone (but not lonely, dammit!) and ask if I’m waiting for the South Point (shameless plug) shuttle. I answer, but wonder what’s going on. Why the concern in a town without a heart?

And then, while inside the Beatles Cirque de Soleil show (I should get a kick-back here), a pleasant middle-aged man with his wife is careful to make sure I’m comfortable in my seat and tries to draw me into his group’s conversation.

What am I? Slack-jawed and drooling? Don’t answer that.

And it doesn’t end there. While waiting for the volcano to erupt outside the Mirage  (C’mon, someone send me a check!), a nice man with a New Zealand accent steps aside m’lady style to allow me space on the sidewalk and says, “Can you see?”

From start to finish, members of the community inquired after my well being. Before I arrived, friends wondered who’d I’d go with? Is it a big party? No one and no, were my answers. I’m going alone, but I won’t be lonely, dammit!

That’s Just Weird

I was like a dog at a cat show, a nun at a strip club, Donny and Marie at an Obama convention. I just didn’t fit into our expectation of a trip to LV, but that poor bastard who puked all over town is quintessentially Las Vegas. Hail, Caesar, King Tut, and Captain Morgan.

Civilization Died on September 27, 2012

The wait is over. You no longer have to sit around until December 21, 2012. Civilization has already come to an end.

Yes, it’s been coming on for a very long time now, but September 27, 2012, at 11:47 a.m. PST officially marks the precise date and time the death knell rang out for good ole civilization.

 I should have recognized the signs: crazy job, demands at home, backed-up kitchen sink, broken-down van, mid-life existential crisis, printer ink prices, and finally ailing elderly parents.

This particular day wasn’t the ideal day to test my patience. The proverbial straw was already poised to break this camel’s back.

In a rush back to work after a mid-morning meeting with my mom’s attorney, the “low fuel light” flashed on the dash board. Although I’d already missed two work meetings that day, I had to stop for gas.

I prefer ARCO because of its pricing and nothing else. These gas stations are notoriously dirty, surly, crowded and miserable. But they save me upwards of $10 per fill up.

 I pulled into the gas station and got in line. Two cars in front me, both pointed in the same direction, one was pumping, and the other one was inside paying for gas and what looked like Skittles and a Diet Coke. Two more vehicles pulled in behind me. All five of us are lined up like parade floats.

 When the guy in the front finishes and leaves, the unthinkable happens: a giant gas hog of a Mercedes eased its fat, ugly nose into the empty space facing in the opposite direction of the rest of us. Mr. Skittles is trapped! I’m trapped! The entire parade is trapped! All of us must inch back just enough to let him out. I pull up directly in front of the Mercedes and get out, a mad fury grips me.

 “Hey! Heey!” I yell at the Mercedes, “Did you notice we’re all pointed in this direction, and you’re not?” I sweep my hand back toward four cars in a neat row.

“All of us had to get out of the way for the guy in front of me to leave. Did you notice?!? To accommodate you?” I enunciate each word.

His reply is dismissive, “It’s all good.”

“No! Not all good. Not all good at all!” I yell. “Plus you’re very rude.”

Other ARCO patrons have stopped and watch. I finish up, hands shaking, and depart.

 

The barbarians have stormed the gates. And I'm a cranky old lady.

 

Men’s Insider Guide to Women’s Tears

Men, listen up. This guide is for you. It’s provided as a public service to help you with relationships with a person of the female gender--be she wife, girlfriend, mother, friend or coworker. This insider’s guide just may save that relationship as you’ll gain a better understanding of the vagaries of a good cry.

Here’s the deal, men. Women cry. Some cry all the time; some of us cry once in a while. The flow of tears can be as unpredictable and perplexing to us womenfolk as it is to you.

 One thing is for certain: You guys never know how to react.

Cry Category	What This Could Possibly Mean	Your Reaction Could Save Your Life
Misty eyes	Cute puppy sighting or touching child’s poem.	Ignore altogether, but do not mock.
A single tear rolls down her cheek + chin quivers	Sappy movie like The Notebook or the kids won’t go to sleep.	Tilt your head toward her and give her a closed-lip smile.
Sustained tears  + strangled hiccup	Didn’t get job promotion or ongoing feud with sister ends badly.	A long hug, listen, appropriate Uh-huhs, and offers of chocolate.
Blubbering + full-on sobs	Usually alcohol fueled. Didn’t get into grad school or lost winning lottery ticket.	Sit and commiserate, and then put her into bed.
Mouth open + gasping + unable to speak	Okay. This isn’t good. Really serious stuff like she admits to a gambling addiction and has blown your life's savings.	Break up and run.

There’s one more type of cry that’s beyond categorization. It’s called the Good Cry. Every so often, women feel a need to let out pent-up emotion in the form of a sustained sob-fest. There’s nothing in particular that brings it on. But letting loose with a Good Cry is better than the men’s version – the Dangerous and Recklessly Fast Drive Home.

I ask one thing, men: Please don’t sob and speed.

An Archaeologist Asks: What's in Your Toilet?

My hand plunged into the hall bathroom toilet, but that didn't work. A straightened-out wire hanger just might. And so with this home-made tool, my son and I poked and jabbed in an attempt to retrieve what he’d lost. Silence, and then a buzz! from deep within the mysterious workings of the porcelain bowl. I leaped backwards, surprised that this thing was alive after so many days submerged, there beneath the eau de toilette.

Something had to be done. It had plugged up the works. Shower water refused to drain. Toilets filled alarmingly to the brim and then slowly receded. I fretted about a dishwasher back-up. So we went fishing in our toilet bowl.

Down in the Dumper
“History is written by the victor,” some victor once said. History is also left behind in the latrines of our ancestors. As an amateur archaeologist, I’ve contemplated the question, “What’s in your toilet?” On digs to explore the meaning of prehistoric hunting camps or 19th century military outposts, our goal is to interpret what we find and place it within the context of human history.

Sometimes the most compelling stuff we find is in the toilets of our ancestors. Yup, you heard me: the latrine, potty, outhouse, throne, crapper. Today’s waste is often tomorrow’s propitious historic find.

Back in the day, people simply tossed garbage in the toilet. There were no ordinances or societal pressure against illegal dumping (ahem). Old time waste pits are an exceptional source of not only the icky, but also the bits and pieces of everyday life.

And Now a Little History Lesson
On a recent dig at the abandoned Fort Ruby in Nevada’s Ruby Mountains, porcelain doll heads, belt buckles, kitchen pottery and all manner of the everyday life of soldiers and their families has been dug up – much of it from the Fort’s former outhouses. Built in 1862, Fort Ruby was established to protect U.S. interests in the area – Pony Express, stage coaches and emigrant travel -- from Comanche attacks.

Meanwhile Back in the 21st Century
A call to the Roto Rooter guy cleared things up, though he never actually saw the culprit -- a slim electric razor -- float out the clean-out drain.

Who knows? In 150 years, some archaeologist might dig up my latrine and find this shaver still abuzz and wonder, “Why’s this in the toilet?”

You know what? I’m wondering the same thing right now, but I'm not sure I want to know.

What I Saw From the Kitchen Floor

Mind-numbing pain shoots through both legs. My knees buckle as the heat from hell’s inferno sears down to the bone. Sweat pops on my brow. A pounding in my head is surely the hoof beats of the approaching Apocalypse. My stomach churns.

I collapse to the kitchen floor. In vain I try to pull myself to the telephone but am only able to lie there panting and awaiting eternal darkness.

Apocalypse Now But Not Before I Clean Up This Mess
Hold your doomsday horses, folks.

What is this I see? Oh, golly. My kitchen floor is filthy! Look at the grease accumulated there by the stove and crumbs stuck to every corner from the droplets of a thousand spilled juice drinks. Goo drizzles down the front of my oven door.

Ugh! One glance and I notice the colorful hook rug on which I lie hides myriad stains and crusty gookiness. If only my legs would cooperate, I’d jump up and toss it in the washer.

I thought the kitchen was passable, but I’d never gotten this kind of bug’s eye view. At this moment, all I can think is: Please don’t report me to America’s Messiest Home.

With God as My Witness, I’ll Move Again
I begin to focus and realize I’ve not been seized by satan. I’ve experienced excruciating leg cramps the likes of which would take down an Olympic high jumper. These were the grand-daddy of all leg cramps.

An eight-hour workday in high heels and two more schlepping through the grocery store had proved to be too much on my poor aging calf muscles.

Twenty minutes of leg massage and housekeeping self-examination, and I was able to limp to the couch where I rested and reflected.

Cleanliness is Next to Someone Else
Anyone who’s been to my home will agree I’m no Suzie Homemaker. Small tufts of dog hair float down the hall way. Dishes await a washing. Windows are smudged. As in life, when I don’t look too closely, I can overlook the grime and dirt that isn’t in my face.

And as in life, tomorrow is another day, and that’s when I’ll think about hiring someone else to clean up this mess.

Play the Fool Like No One's Watching

Despite my silent promise to the contrary, I’d made a fool of myself – again.

My reputation had been firmly set years ago, and it didn’t take much encouragement to convince me to break my vow of somber seriousness.

Lying in bed, I relived, with shame and worry, my antics of the night before. Were my friends tsk-tsking behind my back? Did they laughingly recall how I acted, what I said, what I did? Most importantly, did they think less of me? Oh, how I want to be thought well of. But how can that happen when I act like a Silly Sally?

Okay, Here’s What Happened
I attended my friend Diana’s annual awesome, all-out family karaoke holiday extravaganza. Years before, with an I-don’t-care-what-the-world-thinks attitude, fueled by the raw emotions of a failing marriage, I’d grabbed the microphone of her karaoke machine. Some Vegas night club cheeseball persona took control, and I started chatting up the party guests.

“Hey, everyone, happy holidays. Are y’all having a good time? Who’s from out of town here? Anyone from the east coast? Hey, mister, is Santa gonna treat you right? You been a good boy?”

A wink. A smile.

Yipes. What was I doing? My kids are here!

Without thinking, I belted out “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire,” and by belting out, I don’t mean in an undiscovered talent way. I mean, in a cringe-worthy, I ‘m horrible and way off-key way.

They Like Me, They Really Like Me—I Think
To my surprise, my friends and neighbors laughed. Their smiles, giggles and come-backs were an elixir, and I wanted more, more, more.

A friend said she’d laughed so hard, her sides hurt. An elderly neighbor told his son he hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in months.

Wow. Did I have that kind of power?

But, You See, There’s Always a Down Side
“Are you drinking, Mom?” my son asked?

“Nope. I’m sober as a judge, darlin’,” I drawled. “Can’t mama have fun without y’all thinkin’ I’m tipsy?”

And it was true. I was high on mirth and the attention a microphone brought me.

Every year, against my better judgment, this night club act reveals itself.

But what do my friends really think? Do they groan when they see me? Does it really matter? They continue to talk to me. They continue to invite me out in public. And Diana continues to ask me to her annual awesome, all-out family holiday extravaganza.

From now on, I’m going to live like no one’s watching, except when I’m holding a microphone.

Attention, please, I’ve got the floor!