Scribbles and Scrambles - Bears and Rats and Hamsters – Oh My Part 1

I’m going to confess that I am not a dog person. I lean toward cats. However, an occasional dog has caught my fancy and affection. Probably not Max, the Chihuahua, who was so excited to see me that he tinkled down my leg. Not the growling, barking dogs I’ve encountered. Stinky dogs are low on my list. I had a memorable encounter with Princess the poodle, fresh from the groomers with ice blue ribbons tied around her pewter, poofy ears. With her matching blue metallic painted claws grasping the car door and her hind end draped casually on my left arm, we bonded during a trip to my friend’s home. Princess left an indelible mark on my psyche along with the small brown spot on my arm.

Bear was an adorable puppy. This might be the key to dog gaga-hood. He grumbled when picked up and fit in my arms like a wriggly, five pound bag of potatoes.

Then he grew to the size of a Mini. Seriously, the dog hovered around 130 pounds. People would stop by the house and recoil at his size.

The biggest threat he posed was excessive licking and head butting for attention.

Except one unfortunate time.

A sweet elderly lady walked her little puff of a dog every day. One day Bear was outside at an inopportune time. They strolled by and he wanted to play so he bounded toward them. He tended toward clumsy, and this may have been his crowning moment of clumsiness.

He overshot and bowled the dog down. Fortunately my husband was the one observing all this and he had to go calm them. After that I noticed the duo walked a different trail.

Bear, the big lovable lug – emphasis lug -- also loved rodents – come back tomorrow and I’ll share just how much.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Snail Saga - Yes, it's Gotten Worse....Conclusion - I Hope

I guess I’m officially back.

I suppose the super snails didn’t want me to reveal their evil plot to take over the world and since I posted their diabolical plan in cyberspace they’ve decided to quietly disappear. Secreting a glowing slime trail behind them, they’re headed west.

I logged on this morning. Cake. Bingo. I exist again, no error message. Except there are lingering defects. My favorite site addys are wiped out. And some of my quick click icons are MIA. Hmmm. Maybe the snails don’t know their own power and one sneezed or something. Fortunately for me, I have been washing my hands a lot over the past two days ever since I discovered the “problem” aka conspiracy.

Another area of interest I’ve discovered is that I completely exist on someone else’s station – even my favorites are intact. So they seem to have targeted my computer specifically. Shudder.

While I was in my dark room this morning something hit me. Not literally, not snail poo dripping from the ceiling.

What dawned on me was the picture.

I left early Friday. A tech was scheduled to “clean” my film processor. A normal enough occurrence.

Arriving Monday morning, I discovered a test film resting on top of the machine. An arm. “Odd,” I thought, “the tech’s never taken a picture of his arm before.” And then I pondered how he managed to do it and forgot about the film.

This morning, electrified by the drama of the last few days, I picked it up and looked at it for the first time. Strangely, the arm appears to be alien. The type you see in movies with the fat rounded-end fingers and the thin wrist. If that wasn’t creepy enough – there were NO bones. If he took an actual x-ray – there would have been bones. Even creepier – fine arm hairs, standing at attention -- cover the appendage.

My final take on this whole thing…the electric snails arrived sometime Thursday, probably killed the poor processor guy and somehow the electric flash of the murder in the dark room took an image of his lifeless arm. Don’t know how the snails managed to get the film into the processor and get rid of his tools – but I am not going to be fooled into complacency. I’ll be calling the authorities as soon as I get this posted. Tomorrow, I anticipate that the office will be fumigated and all will be well.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Something's Strange

I still don’t exist with the networking guru’s. However, I’ve officially discovered my way around and have unearthed all my necessary files. I feel like I’m exploring the dark side of the moon. Surely, a simple keystroke or magic command exists that will put me back in the good graces of the computer network. Maybe tomorrow.

Why do computers morph and change while humans sleep? Little computer elves who dance on the keys as soon as the cleaning people shut the door?

Nothing has changed for weeks, no updates or system overhauls, nobody spilled a cola on my keyboard. I just logged on Monday and found I ceased to exist.

I think there must be a weird sci-fi novel in there somewhere. Maybe I need to investigate this. I think the rogue computer taking over the world is a bit overdone, so I’ll rule that one out. And elves, shoemakers, Santa Claus and tree house bakeries are not at all hip.

What if it could be malevolent computer snails? A semi carrying keyboards could go through some wicked electrical storm during high snail season. (Does that exist – do snails have a breeding season? How do they multiply? Do I want to know? Someone from the state of Washington may need to provide me with snail facts – any volunteers?) The electrical storm somehow permeates the snail shells and electrifies the snot (sorry) out of them – and they become super snails.

Long, extremely exciting, action-packed yet sensitive story later – they end up in my office to wreak havoc and destruction, one computer frustrated employee at a time.

Wait. I can’t believe I just realized this. Our networkers are located on the Oregon/Washington border. Where snails are plentiful and…… This is big. This is a conspiracccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc….

Scribbles and Scrambles - Abby-Normal Monday

Blogger was a bugger last week. But today it seems healed. Which is more than I can say about the rest of my computer system -- for some scary reason it chose not to acknowledge my existence today. I found a back door in, so I know I still exist, or at least did at one point.

I don’t think I’ll enjoy being a person non grata. I hope our network minions find me soon.

Otherwise, Monday morning dawned crisp and sunny in Iowa. Crisp is usually reserved for spring or autumn. But since we had a few 90 degree scorchers in April -- June mildness nicely represents the weather’s inconsistent consistency.
Hmmm, could this be a conspiracy – this leaning toward inconsistency that I’ve always labeled “abby-normal”?

Abby-normal life has been whipping past at an alarming speed.

I guess the old Iowa motto, “Hey, you don’t like the weather -- stick around a few minutes it’ll change,” pretty much sums up life – doesn’t it?

Maybe I’ll be brilliant tomorrow if the computer guys find me. Keep your fingers crossed.

Scribbles and Scrambles - I Packed The Food

I just had the funniest conversation.

Two of my co-workers and I were discussing the various unique stresses in our lives. One of my friends has been building a house for – forever. If you’ve ever built a house, or remodeled one, you know what I mean. If you haven’t….the life stress scale http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=life+stress+ranking assigns values to types of stress. The number of life areas touched by building or remodeling puts it in a high category. Everything is tweaked by the process.

Because my friend is frugal and trying to stay within the budget to fund said building project, and because she doesn’t want to pack, haul, and find a location for a million pounds of stuff in their new home she’s getting rid of what she can.

Months ago she started giving things away. She’d bring bags of goodies to work and hand them out.

Then she decided to stop collecting all the eye-catching, nose-candy lotions and candles that we are so apt to buy. Last month, she announced she’d dwindled so low in personal products that she might actually have to purchase some hand lotion. A little victory.

Today the two of us listened to the latest update, responding with raised eyebrows, frowns or growls, as she shared. Closing is less than two weeks away. The deck guy needs to be creatively coaxed daily to show up and finish the handrail, and he’s a master in the art of spinning excuses. Tilers and painters fight over who has rights to what room. One contractor called her and said he planned on becoming an alcoholic as soon as her house is done.

Her rapt listeners have survived remodeling, we understand her pain.

Finally, she threw her hands in the air. “And I’m going crazy. These are my fat pants and they’re getting tight! You know how I don’t want to pack anything that I don’t need to? Well, I’ve started doing that with food. ‘I don’t want to take that, I better eat it! Oops, I better eat dessert I only have two weeks to finish cleaning out the freezer.’ Am I insane?”

It took awhile to answer since we were bent over, laughing at knee level. Then we peppered her with comments.

“What about condiments?” I asked.

She had a ready answer for that one. Hubby left a jar of horseradish on the counter, and she refused to put it away and let it sit out overnight. Then the next morning she looked at it, decided it was bad since it sat out all night, and tossed it. Another victory.

“I guess its easier carrying all the kitchen contents on your rear-end than in boxes.”

“Hey honey, I did all my packing, the rest is yours.”

I love people. Especially crazy ones like me.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Paradise from the Backseat - Part 2

Scene - small back seat in sporty bargain attempting to hurtle down the highway but instead crawling. Between two bored girls ages nine and fourteen. Empathizing yet? My daughters are affection seeking and cuddly little darlings. The oldest was nicknamed heat seeking missile as a toddler. The few times she slept with us left me clinging to the edge of the bed with a sweat slicked child glued entirely to my backside. The youngest bed-locked me in a straight jacket of twisted sheets one stormy night. These girls are pros.

I don’t recall who started the first mother intensive game. It began with the standard “My Mommy”. My children sometimes lack creativity – but the do make up for it with dogged determination. This lovely game consists of a volley style tug of war with increasing intensity and passion as the competitive rivalry escalates.

Parental warnings are issued and somehow rated with a point system.

“Hey, you didn’t say ________ to me. Not fair.”

This is where I apparently turn into more hilarious than all comedians to ever grace a stage. The kids howl as my warnings turn ever creative and then mere whimpers.

Furtively I began to look for a pen and a piece of paper. Would a desperate “HELP ME” held up to passersby earn me freedom from the torture? Not likely since the traffic still limped and lurched like a newbie bronc rider.

A slight reprieve. The girls responded to the look. Minutes later and about 100 yards of highway, a little hand wormed itself into one of my limp ones as I drank deeply of the silence. A head found my shoulder. Then the sibling saw. War was declared. The jostling ramped up. I leaned forward shoved my head into the front seat and whimpered. Of course, I also managed to breathe deeply at an inopportune moment. I mentioned there were males in the front seat. I squealed and recoiled. Masculine laughter joined the chorus of “My Mommy!”

Some might argue the medical terminology I’m going to throw out. But me-thinks since it’s my story and blog, I can call this two and a half hour ordeal what I wish. I survived it – and didn’t get a T-shirt made to commemorate though maybe I should. I tried counting and went to every happy place I could think of and even borrowed a few. The girls blew past fighting into giddy. The smells from the front assaulted me. I cracked and began to laugh. I believe this moment in time is actually a mini-nervous breakdown. MNB is a rare medical condition that results in extreme emotiverrhea.

I held my breath, popped my head over the seat. “How many more miles?”

“Twenty-two.”

But hey, I saved thirty bucks plus tax.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Paradise from the Backseat - Part 1

I love the word hurtle. So of course I use it often. My favorite use is in reference to cars, as in hurtling down the highway in tiny tin boxes.

This story is not for the weak of stomach. It involves hurtling and highways and children.

Frugality is a vice of mine. When given a choice between spending a bit more for comfort and gritting my teeth and saving a buck – I usually grit and save.

And here’s where these two passions, love of hurtling and saving money, merge.

We traveled to Florida five years ago with friends. We shared a condo, and got a great deal on airfare but decided each family should get their own vehicle because my family had booked a little day trip.

At the auto rental counter, I pushed for the cozy coupe at the better price. I’m short and therefore decided I could sit in the back with the two girls. Our son, who was a college freshman, could have the front seat.

My husband lifted an eyebrow – he’s ridden in the car with the family and apparently has a better memory than I do. It may be that whole childbirth/childrearing hormone. You know -- the one that actually makes females drool over cute baby clothes at Target while still recovering from seventy-two hours of hard labor and months of sleepless nights in the midst of potty-training the last baby.

I returned the eyebrow lift. Mine said. “Of course I’ve thought that through.”

He grinned. I believe it spoke, “This is going to be rich.”

The twenty minute trip from the airport was fine. The girls stared out their own windows and rode quietly. Aside from the hump upon which I sat, I was pleased with my bargain.

We enjoyed the first three days at the condo. Of course, that’s probably because we were on the beach and had nowhere we needed to go.

The hotel reservation for the quick side trip to Orlando beckoned though, and we left for our little adventure. Forty miles separated the two locations – a breeze.

Interestingly, the scenery began to wear on the children just minutes into the trip. Apparently endless miles of concrete, the blur of passing cars and an whizzing palm trees grew old.

Then traffic slowed and eventually to stop and go. Ten minutes later we’d gone maybe half a mile. Calculate that – it’s not pretty.

A girl on each side. A bored girl on each side. Did I mention my girls like to compete for my attention, and that they are very affectionate? And that my children, all three of them think I’m hysterically funny when I get frustrated?

Come back tomorrow for the rest of the tale – if you dare….