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Today, I learned something about how to conduct my life from a most unlikely source.

Real, powerful lessons I look forward to applying as soon as possible.

So this afternoon, I had the honor privilege task of taking The Feline to the vet. She’s having ongoing ear troubles, so back we went to see the same guy who cut the tumor off her little nose last year.

Needless to say, not really her most favorite person.

But our vet is the owner of nine (yes, nine) of his own cats. He’s got a real firm but friendly touch with my cat who prefers it if you’d never actually *touch* her.

As I wrassled that pet down so the good doctor could examine her, I watched how the feline worked.

First, she simply tried to walk away. Vigorously.

When that didn’t work, she began this low-in-the-throat growl. Very menacing. In fact, I’ve never heard her use this growl on anyone BUT the vet. He’s a very kind man, really, and no one else can cause my normally bulletproof pet to make that sound.

So with the long growls and face-finger* looks, we were put on notice.

Next step was to use her paw to push the vet’s hand away. Firmly. No claws, no biting, just firmly shoving with her paw flat against the palm of his hand with all she had.

Finally, when the doctor persisted in looking in her ears, and after trying walking away, growling, and pushing, The Feline went to code red.

Meaning: The cat freaked the f-word out.

The vet, not a petite man by any account, threw hands up in the air, backed right off, and looked a little skeered, actually.

Twelve point one pounds of fury.

Oh yes.

She never had to get violent. No blood was drawn. I think she might have peed the tiniest bit, but not enough to make a mess.

But let me tell you, that animal was no longer messed with. Nope. We both let her be.

In fact, the meaner she got, the kinder the vet became. He started out calling her “big girl” in reference to her heft. (As a “big girl” myself, I was sort of offended on behalf of my pet!)

By the end of the visit, he was calling her “little one” and practically cooing to her in Peruvian.

See, this is good. The smallest, most vulnerable one in the room got her way.

I can learn from this!

First, if you don’t like it, walk away.

If that doesn’t work, get vocal. Make your displeasure known in a firm but not offensive way.

It that doesn’t work, be firmer. Don’t be afraid to physically push the trouble away. No need to be violent, just be direct.

And if you really, truly have to, freak out! Including a little pee, but only if really necessary.

Once the trouble is over, give everyone a face-finger, walk away with tail held high, and loudly demand food the moment you set paws in safe territory.

I can’t wait to try this at my next mammo visit!

Look at her now…all sweetness and light….hmph!

*i.e. a dirty look. As in, giving the finger, but using your face.

If you gotta explain the joke…

Then it isn’t funny. Right? Or the saying goes something like that.

For the past couple years here in the Bay Area, we’ve been without a country music station. At all. None. Zero.

So yeah, I’m a fan of country. I’m also a fan of blues, rock, eighties, popular, swing, jazz, mariachi and mambo. It’s all good by me.

I really do like the old country stuff. I’ll admit that. Stuff I grew up on. I tend mostly to listen to the Roadhouse on my Sirius radio. They play only old music, and I love it.

But I also like new stuff. I’ve just haven’t been listened so long, I lost touch a little bit.

Recently I discovered that country music has returned to Bay Area radio, so now, every time I’m in the car, that’s all I listen to.

I’m getting caught up on what’s hot right now.

And I’m perplexed.

Every other freaking song is proclaiming, “I’m from the country! Oh yes I am, let me tell you about dirt roads and June bugs and mama’s apple pie! No, really, I swear to GOD I’m so totally country, you don’t even know!”

It’s making me weary.

All this chest beating, “no, I’m totally serious guys! I’m country” is bull crap.

Example? Current number one country song? “Small Town USA” Oh and “Big Green Tractor” is on that list too. Both proclaiming that they come from the dirt roads and pretty green tractors.

Oh and recently I heard that song “Boondocks,” though I think that one has been out awhile.

But anyhow, to all of this, I say:

Blah, blah, blah all you yahoolios!

Did Willie ever have to let you know he was country? Did Merle feel he had to prove to you he could drive a tractor? Does *anyone* doubt that Dolly came from something real poor and made it big?

No.

Give it a rest, you kids. If you have to say you are from the country, you probably aren’t. Folks tend to just know these things.

I blame Sarah Palin, by the way. All her chest thumping “I’m just a country girl!” while, you know, being governor and wearing $3,000 custom made suits.

If it were just a song here and there, I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but there is a glut of these “where I come from” songs. It is sort of repetitive and honestly, rather boring.

Plus, it’s all faker than a cowboy riding a broomstick pony with plastic spurs on his spotless boots.

Kind of like those “cowboy up” bumper stickers. Read my thoughts on THAT phenomenon in this post.

Image courtesy of jumpsoverthelazydog.com

Going analog

You know, these tough economic times call for a bit of tightening on the ol’ belt.

Have to go back to the old ways. The simpler ways. The cheaper ways.

So with that, from here on, all my missives will come across in analog form.

That’s right. Sure, it will be a little tougher to shove those bits through that cable and out onto the interwebs.

But in tighter times, we all have to work a little harder. Make more of an effort to get there. Put a little elbow grease into it.

And I’m up to the challenge.

Maybe a little more arm and finger strain. Sure. But back in the day, they never heard of no stinking carpel tunnel syndrome! Nope, you just played through! And you liked it!

Ok, no, actually, this little beauty is the reason I traversed the Bay Bridge a couple days ago. I found this on Craig’s List and got a pretty sweet deal on a barely used Underwood typewriter. The guy selling it was cleaning out the attic, preparing to move. This belonged to his wife’s family, that’s about all he knew.

From my research, I have found that it dates to the 1940’s and is in really great condition. The coolest feature is that the bottom of the case has these fold out legs. Basically, the whole case turns into a little desk, a work surface for “in the field” work.

It’s such an amazing work of engineering.

Why did I buy this boat anchor, you might ask? Well, I had an idea. And if it all works out, you’ll see it all come together in a few weeks. Hopefully anyway.

For now, I’m enjoying the smell and sound of this fully manual machine. It has a great *ding* bell sounds and *zip* back goes the carriage. Yep, it’s fully functional! Some of the keys stick, so I’m looking for a shop that can tune it up.

The rat-a-tat sounds reminds me of, sure, that typing class I told you about last week. But it also calls to mind the sound of my mom working the keys. She had an old Royal (pretty sure it was a Royal) and back in the day, my mom was a professional secretary (administrative assistant) and that woman could type like crazy. 100 wpm, no mistakes.

Anyhow, stay tuned. You may see more of this little beauty!

Today, more than ever…

…I am convinced that the members of the human race are all nothing more than a truckload of clucking chickens wandering around the big cosmic coop.

Seriously.

Ok, so, backstory:

Over the Labor Day weekend, the people constructing a new eastern span of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge closed the bridge to traffic. During this closure, they removed one section of the lower deck of the bridge, and placed a temporary section in place to divert traffic and allow vital work to be completed.

This made big news all over the Bay Area. It was much ado about “The S Curve”

Ba-kah! An S curve!

So when the bridge re-opened to traffic the following week, all the traffic reporters reminded commuters that people would be getting used to the new S curve, so allow extra time.

Ok, fine. Right? It’s a new thing, we all get used to it and move on.

Oh but nooooooo.

No, today, I had a rare occasion to have to cross the Bay Bridge. (stop shuddering, my dear mother!)

So, first of all, the approach going in an eastern direction on a good day is a cluster of merges that has always made me nutty.

Fine, it is what it is.

Then there had been an accident an hour earlier that had still left traffic snarled. Fine.

But oh…the best part. Once traffic was flowing along, I came through the tunnel that goes through Treasure Island, and then I was confronted with…DA DA DUUUUM…

The S Curve.

And people hit the brakes! Oh did they hit the brakes.

Fer crimeny’s sakes, people! It isn’t a frappin’ Z curve! It is quite easy to navigate. You follow those fabulous little white lines they paint on the ground. You turn your steering wheel gently one way, and then gently the other way. This is not a step on the brake-able road hazard!

My god. The freak out. The pandemonium! The utter ba-kah!

The Bay Bridge carries some 270,000 cars every day. And this change was implemented TWO WEEKS AGO!

But nooooooo.

Ba-kah!

*sigh*

This, along with people on the southbound highway slowing down to look at an accident that occurred on the northbound side, you know, OVER that heavy concrete barrier?

Bah. Kah.

Fine. I’ll just peck at my grain and shake my tailfeathers and call it a day.

I. Am. Cranky.

What else can go in there?

Oooooh baby! I bought a new eeeelectrical device over the weekend and I’m becoming an OCD monster with this thing!

After reading one or another health book written by some expert and the need for more fruits and veggies in the diet and how big corporation farmed veggies are less healthy than ever and now it takes tons and tons of vegs to get the job done and we all need to be healthier and have more fruits and veggies and (breathe breathe) soooo….

I bought a juicer.

[Tim the Toolman Taylor grunt]

Oh yeah. This one right here: new toy

I shopped best prices, best brands, compared, touched, felt, took ’em apart and finally settled on one with good reviews, ease of operation, and, oh yeah, I had a coupon. That always helps.

I clutched this little beauty to my chest and put it lovingly into the Jeep. Then I went to Trader Joe’s and went nutty in the produce aisle.

Whew! All stocked up, I was rarin’ to go.

I had a little trepidation when I first fired this thing up. It says in the literature, you can drop a whole apple in there. But, you know…sometimes they *lie* in sales literature.

So imagine my delight when I fired up that 13,000 rpm (6,500 on the low end) mo-chine and it emitted a low rumbling hum.

Then I slid a smallish apple down the chute and “woooompph” that thing was pulverized and a nice glass of juice poured out the spout. Oh, and it was delicious too!

Then I started channeling both Jack Lalanne and Tim the Tooltime Taylor, all at once.

I was like “well, what else can we fit down there?” For much of Sunday afternoon, The Good Man was patient as I ground down just about anything I could possibly fit down that chute and shove through with the “food pusher”.

Remember how Tim the Toolman wanted a garbage disposer that could chew up tree limbs? I think my juicer could do it! The juice would taste, uh, pine-y, but man what fun!

I *may* have lost the focus here on this whole juicing thing, not sure. But if you are a fruit or veggie anywhere my neighborhood, be very, very afraid.

I’m just saying. Today, there is a pineapple on my counter that tomorrow, won’t be more than a pile of rubble.

Woooo!

I am:

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