Thursday, November 24, 2016

A Smidge of Thankful Things

These past three months have been crazy, wacky busy for me. The result = an overly tired woman writer. That is the excuse I am giving myself. Because last night, as I dream walked/shuffled my way into the bathroom to take care of business, I tripped over a non-existent bump in the ultra smooth linoleum floor, or was attacked by an invisible fairy, or was taken down by a ghost dog. After landing in the bathtub, I came to the realization that...

I am thankful for the shower curtain that broke my fall.

Living in the Pacific Northwest, rainy nights are a part of the package of living in a plush, green, grand scenery. Rain = grass and super tall trees and flowers and moss. Even the ten minute ride to work is like traveling in a gorgeous landscape calendar. And so, the night before the shower curtain incident, it came as a revelation that...

I am thankful for that eighty-five pound puppy who wanted to snuggle on my belly, to let me know that thunder storms are quite scary, indeed (and the other fifteen pound puppy, but his cuddles are not quite so breath-taking).

Living in front of a farm, with a continual change in unseen pollens and dust in the air, I am apt to sneeze. I get attacked by my nose much more than the dull, dirty, smoggy air of big city San Diego, where we are from. And my sneeze volume was inherited from Grandpa Chuck. They can be heard several aisles away in the grocery store, or so I have been told by my sons. The last time I was shaken by the sneeze of earful doom, I inherently knew that...

I am thankful for tissues, so that I don't smear others in my sneezing pollen sensitivities.

Having lived in the jungles of far away Costa Rica, I never recuperated from the mind melting heat that takes you to a new high in the splendidness of sweat. Although that level of hotness is more than any sane human should suffer through, it is one that my skin at least partially grew to accept. At least enough to render me helpless in these frigid foggy mornings. They push to make me jump out in joy, if my body were not feeling constantly under attack from hypothermia, with the knowledge that...

I am thankful for the dozens of sweaters, jackets, and coats, one thick robe, and fleece leggings that are always ready to accept me in the closet.

In reflecting on the vast void of boredom that my life could have been, I wonder how I ever got to have such a full one. It could have been nothing but dreary office work, drumming my fingers on a table at every meal, and perfecting my naturally intensely beautiful face and hair that always looks great (if I am going to dream about what ifs, might as well throw that last fantasy in the pile). But then I hear the native call of, "Hey, Mom," and I am shaken to the core with the epiphany that...

I am thankful for my sons. And what else can I say about that?

Heather Leigh
Author forever thankful for Readers who are charmed with my writing

Happy Thanksgiving!

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

House Ruined In Puppy Play

We did it. Yes, we are incorrigible, unruly, and horribly stupid. We adopted yet another puppy from the Humane Shelter.  Morris is sixteen pounds of white fluff, part Maltese, and sixteen tons of energy. With our other one year old, Daisy, there are now two Tasmanian Devils living in our house.

Wait, is living in our house the correct term for our present circumstances? Seems to me that playing, chasing, wrestling and howling in delight are more correct descriptions. They both get into that infamous Down Dog yoga position, shake that booty and fling into Mexican style wrestling matches. Best entertainment since Reality TV shows.

So far, Morris has displayed only one major fault. Although both are neutered or spay, as appropriate to their gender, the new mongrel was wholly unaware that the action of humping another canine was fruitless. Plus, it rather annoyed Daisy. Having never been such accosted, she did not know that she should report unwanted advances immediately. The poor babe looked to us in confusion.

After a single day of firm reprimands, Morris has given up on his propagating urges. Good thing. Because us humans are uncomfortable watching a dog attempting to dry hump a leg.

A leg is all that Morris could get to, anyway. Daisy is eighty-five pounds of St. Bermastiff--half St. Bernard and the rest Bull Mastiff. So the little guy is not going to get too far with those kinds of heights.

At the third day in an actual home, he has pretty much adjusted to his new situation. But he does still seem a bit confused and discombobulated. He looks as though he is not one hundred percent as to his new role in life. By the end of the week, I prophesize that he will be completely aware of our expectations: don't pee, chew or in any way destroy the sofa; stay away from my slippers (oh, wait! Daisy chewed those last week, so this is no longer an issue); be ready to snuggle when I am.

I really want to talk with him. You know, the usual small talk that we make with new roommates. This just doesn't word in Doglish--I just don't speak it.

I would ask what was it like, traveling in a tiny cage from a shelter in Monterrey to a Humane Society hours and hours north. Did he have an inner peace, knowing for certain that better times lie ahead? That he was destined to live with a family smitten with their pets? One that could spend hours gabbing away at how unbelievably cute you are? Four people vying for a chance to pet you? A playmate with your energy and zest for life?

Or did you howl away the vast uncertainty and despair that was most certainly dwelling within the hearts of your other homeless companions? Did you cave into depression, anxiety, fear of unknown tomorrows?

The other thing I would really like to know is all about his pre-pound puppy life. He was a stray. There is no information on him beyond his obvious adorableness. Was he abandoned, abused, led astray by some deceitful bitch with big brown eyes and a luxurious tail? Never can tell about these things.

Guess we'll never know about his life before last Saturday. The only thing certain with this pup is that he is our forever dog. We love you, Morris and Daisy!

Heather Leigh,
Two Timed Puppy Lover

Monday, November 7, 2016

App Voting

There are too many decisions for me to make tomorrow. What book should I write, who do I vote for, what do I wear to work, eggs or Tofurkey sausages for lunch, what new hair style will best display my inner and outer beauty, and should I make a salad with dinner. Hold on a minute, my mind is about to explode with the inner stresses of over work. I have to put on a special cap to prevent this.

At least there is something that I do know that I want: A phone app that will show me the outcome of every possible choice that I can think of. Do you know where I could get one?

As I await the app, here is my well thought out, workable plan: at each choice juncture, I will fall to my knees and pray for guidance. Perhaps flinging myself to the ground and screaming would actually be better. Hope they don't drag me out of the voting booth. But then again, I probably won't be the only one begging for Divine Guidance at the polls tomorrow. It may be a noisy day.

Since we are on the subject of apps, I have a BIG SECRET to reveal. I have never used one. I really am not even sure what they are. Yes, I know I am part dinosaur in this regard. But NO, I have not been living in a cave. So it must be the fault of my teenage sons. While they are ever helpful in still having to help me navigate my way through my Smart Phone, I feel that asking to be taught about apps would push them over the edge in teaching-mother-another-techno-thing. I love them too much to see their powers put to the test to such an extent.

At least I know how to type and use the computer enough to post these ever witty, overly entertaining posts. I can even attach them to FaceBook! Woo Hoo! There may be hope for me, even yet.

Back to beginning, I am supposed to ask if you have a PLAN for voting. Do you? Even if you are wringing your hands in despair with the presented choices, you still have to show up and vote. It's an obligation you make when you sign up to be born in the United States. Death, Taxes and Voting, it's all the same.

My plan is this: tonight, with a glass of comforting wine and bunny slippers, I will finish going through the pros and cons of each Proposition, and deciding on who will run governmental affairs. Popcorn will most likely be present as I am an addict. Tomorrow after my nutritious daily smoothie, I will crawl my way to the Booth of Voting Angst. Climbing up to face the Voter Facilitators, I will humbly snatch a ballot, like a mouse clutching to a morsel of possibly poisonous cheese. Drooling, trudging, sludging my way, I will gather the strength to make it to a booth. There, Divine Intervention will surely show me who to make our next President. It WILL happen, people.

Then, I will be off to work. Probably best to keep busy so as not to spend the day in mortal worry about results. I mean, there are still three months left until the new President takes over. Plenty of time to buy an island in the South Pacific and learn how to live off of pineapple and coconuts.

Maybe there I will have the time to learn how to use an app.

Heather Leigh,
Obligated Voter Against Apps

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Swimming With Swine

I've been searching the internet to discover who said that the artist needs to be in the ocean, just past the spot where his/her feet touch the sand. It is from this uncomfortable zone that creativity seeps in. The words are written from my memory--nothing is exact. Pretty sure it was David Bowie. It certainly was how he lived his ever-changing career life.

In starting my first adult  novel, I am way past the place where my feet touch the sand. Waves of not-knowing-what-the-fudge I am doing are knocking me around like a rubber duckie in a tsunami wave. If first drafts are supposed to be shit (Hemingway) then at least I know I got that part right.

Where is the light at the end of the tunnel? Where is the rope to pull me out of the well? Why can't I quit relying on cliches in this post today? Must be because my brain has been mushed out by feeble, puny attempts to claw at something new.

Desperate, starved for clarity, Daisy and I went for a dog walk to the farm behind our house. Noisy Pig grunted out her daily writing advise. She said to feed her some freshly pulled weeds, and inspiration would be mine.

She lied.

On the three house walk from the farm to our home, Daisy ran after a dog. Although she has a firm self image of herself as a lap dog, the truth is that she weighs eighty pounds. The other dog saw the reality of Daisy's true bulk hurdling towards him.

It took three hollers to get that dog to return to me. Now she is back to Gentle Lead harness to get us the extreme short distance to the leash free zone.

She must have been affected by my desire to reach beyond the comfort zone of doing what she generally does: being a good dog. She must have read that bumper sticker, Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History. Oh, Daisy. If this truly was a 'Dog Eat Dog' world, you would not be in the dog house for bad behavior.

So now that the pig is not being my muse, and Daisy is recovering from her consequences (being firmly told she was a bad dog), who do I turn to in order to get me out of this muck of insipid writing that has spilled across this first novel of mine? David Bowie is gone, Noisy Pig only grunts greedy nonsense, and Daisy is misbehaving. Is there no hope for a well-written novel by one as deserving as I? Is there a Goddess of Words I can pray to?

Guess I'll body surf my way back to shore and swim at it again tomorrow. I'll keep my mouth shut, lest the saltwater gag me.

Heather Leigh,
Misbehaving Body Surfer