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
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
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
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
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
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Greedy Elephant Rice
What happens when you cook long grain brown rice with short grain? Well, since you are gasping out the desire to know, I'll tell you. You get a mixture of rice sizes with no taste difference. This was a huge dilemma last night. We had half cup of long left in the cupboard, and a big bag of the puny pieced ones. I had to take the risk--I was craving rice!!! In my effort to keep you away from this stressful situation in the future, thought I should let you know the results. Feel better now? Stress free? Good, my work here is done.
Another stressful situation to save you from: Ever bought a Greeting Card that was just so splendiferous that you had to buy it--even though there was no one to give it to at the time? Happened to me last week. Well, after deliberating for close to forty-one minutes on whether or not to buy the one dollar card, I decided to throw my buck away at the checkout counter and take that card home. Next morning, amongst anguish and hair pulling, searching and despairing, I realized there was no one I really wanted to send it to. Solution? In a moment of complete GREED, I grasped at the situation and kept the card for myself.
Yes, just like that. Poof! That card is now mine. Bet you had no idea how ruthless and ego driven I can be.
Presently, I am eking out the rough draft of my seventh Scout and Ellie book. It has thus far been sluggish, grueling, and exhausting keeping up with my rule of a chapter a day. I am forced to admit that yesterday, I was horribly bad in only writing one-half of my goal.
But here's the thing, see. Those greedy characters have not been divulging what comes next. They are cruelly, utterly taunting me. While I have the basic premise of what is going on overall, they are withholding the details. What did I do to those kids and elephant? Where did I go wrong? Did I commit a social faux pas that only elephants are aware of? They can be so much more aware of proper etiquette and kind treatment to others than I can ever hope to achieve.
I'll try again tonight. Perhaps if I am very quiet, a spider waiting on a web for plot, then I can listen in on what they are up to with out their knowledge. Takes planning, patience and camouflage on my end, but I have gained success with this tactic before.
BUT PLEASE! Don't warn the elephant of my spying ways. You know Ellie's temper. It will not be a pretty pumpkin night if I am caught.
And anyway, you owe me. I did give you two solutions to stressful situations. Two common situations.
Well, I must be running off. It's time for the nightly stress called: Whats-For-Dinner-Mother?
You'd think after nineteen years of kids in the house, I would have calmed down from this nightly anxiety. But then, it is a big hurdle to stride over.
Heather Leigh,
Solution Giving, Spying Writer
Another stressful situation to save you from: Ever bought a Greeting Card that was just so splendiferous that you had to buy it--even though there was no one to give it to at the time? Happened to me last week. Well, after deliberating for close to forty-one minutes on whether or not to buy the one dollar card, I decided to throw my buck away at the checkout counter and take that card home. Next morning, amongst anguish and hair pulling, searching and despairing, I realized there was no one I really wanted to send it to. Solution? In a moment of complete GREED, I grasped at the situation and kept the card for myself.
Yes, just like that. Poof! That card is now mine. Bet you had no idea how ruthless and ego driven I can be.
Presently, I am eking out the rough draft of my seventh Scout and Ellie book. It has thus far been sluggish, grueling, and exhausting keeping up with my rule of a chapter a day. I am forced to admit that yesterday, I was horribly bad in only writing one-half of my goal.
But here's the thing, see. Those greedy characters have not been divulging what comes next. They are cruelly, utterly taunting me. While I have the basic premise of what is going on overall, they are withholding the details. What did I do to those kids and elephant? Where did I go wrong? Did I commit a social faux pas that only elephants are aware of? They can be so much more aware of proper etiquette and kind treatment to others than I can ever hope to achieve.
I'll try again tonight. Perhaps if I am very quiet, a spider waiting on a web for plot, then I can listen in on what they are up to with out their knowledge. Takes planning, patience and camouflage on my end, but I have gained success with this tactic before.
BUT PLEASE! Don't warn the elephant of my spying ways. You know Ellie's temper. It will not be a pretty pumpkin night if I am caught.
And anyway, you owe me. I did give you two solutions to stressful situations. Two common situations.
Well, I must be running off. It's time for the nightly stress called: Whats-For-Dinner-Mother?
You'd think after nineteen years of kids in the house, I would have calmed down from this nightly anxiety. But then, it is a big hurdle to stride over.
Heather Leigh,
Solution Giving, Spying Writer
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Bird Brain Storm
How does the Weather Service know what time our rain will stop? They predicted a 3:30 downpour cease. Well, holy moly, guess what happened at 3:30 p.m.? Not at 3:29, nor 3:31, but on the button, exact-a-mundo, stop time. Literally. As the second hand clicked into place, raindrops vanished from the sky. I believe the ones out of my eyesight were sucked back into the towering, thick, dark gray, stalking clouds. Storm lunacy.
The resistant leaves on our front yard maple are cautiously at rest. Rather than the cruel force of the impassioned winds that have been knocking them around for two days, they are at a breezy, well-deserved peace. Those are tough little buggers that are still clinging to the branches. Should I reward them with maple syrup for their strength and fortitude? Although, I am not quite sure how to do that. Perhaps I could dip each one in a cup of syrup. Hmmm.
Neighbor kids brought out a foot-high toy sailboat and took full advantage of the wind and huge puddles. Silly kids. Although they pretended to have fun in a storm, us grown-ups know better. The only way to enjoy a wet, blustery day is to sip hot cocoa in a warm house and talk about how lovely rain is. We know better than to actually participate in the elements of nature. Ah well, someday they will have our wisdom.
There was an article once about computer storm people. They could not get the computer to figure out how birds land on a tree branch in windy weather. That means, that the people who are so smart that they can predict the EXACT time that rain will disappear, are not as sophisticated as a bird. Hope has been restored to my intelligence. If they are plagued with smarts, smaller than a bird brain, then there is a chance for a writer to have at least a portion of a nugget of cerebral knowledge. Whew, that feels good. I am off the hook of complete stupidity. Perhaps, maybe, you are too!
Now that we know that we are in with the smart crowd, what could we do in the world? I'm thinking, that after I dip each surviving maple leaf into a bowl of syrup, that I will take on world peace, provide food, clothing and shelter to every human, and stop climate change. Shouldn't take me more than a day or two. Of course, I will wait until this storm has totally passed. Wouldn't want to risk getting cold.
Thank you for joining me in our new Smaller Than a Birdbrain Smarts Revolution. I look forward to seeing what you come up with to make the world into a perfect place. One request for a volunteer to undertake is to get rid of cold weather. I am very much opposed to chill, but have yet to come up with an idea that does not destroy the earth. It has to be an eco-friendly solution. Good luck, and may the force of your smaller than a bird brain be with you.
Together, we will take on the ills of humanity!
Heather Leigh,
Warm, Snug, Smaller-Than-A-Birdbrain, Storm Watching Author
The resistant leaves on our front yard maple are cautiously at rest. Rather than the cruel force of the impassioned winds that have been knocking them around for two days, they are at a breezy, well-deserved peace. Those are tough little buggers that are still clinging to the branches. Should I reward them with maple syrup for their strength and fortitude? Although, I am not quite sure how to do that. Perhaps I could dip each one in a cup of syrup. Hmmm.
Neighbor kids brought out a foot-high toy sailboat and took full advantage of the wind and huge puddles. Silly kids. Although they pretended to have fun in a storm, us grown-ups know better. The only way to enjoy a wet, blustery day is to sip hot cocoa in a warm house and talk about how lovely rain is. We know better than to actually participate in the elements of nature. Ah well, someday they will have our wisdom.
There was an article once about computer storm people. They could not get the computer to figure out how birds land on a tree branch in windy weather. That means, that the people who are so smart that they can predict the EXACT time that rain will disappear, are not as sophisticated as a bird. Hope has been restored to my intelligence. If they are plagued with smarts, smaller than a bird brain, then there is a chance for a writer to have at least a portion of a nugget of cerebral knowledge. Whew, that feels good. I am off the hook of complete stupidity. Perhaps, maybe, you are too!
Now that we know that we are in with the smart crowd, what could we do in the world? I'm thinking, that after I dip each surviving maple leaf into a bowl of syrup, that I will take on world peace, provide food, clothing and shelter to every human, and stop climate change. Shouldn't take me more than a day or two. Of course, I will wait until this storm has totally passed. Wouldn't want to risk getting cold.
Thank you for joining me in our new Smaller Than a Birdbrain Smarts Revolution. I look forward to seeing what you come up with to make the world into a perfect place. One request for a volunteer to undertake is to get rid of cold weather. I am very much opposed to chill, but have yet to come up with an idea that does not destroy the earth. It has to be an eco-friendly solution. Good luck, and may the force of your smaller than a bird brain be with you.
Together, we will take on the ills of humanity!
Heather Leigh,
Warm, Snug, Smaller-Than-A-Birdbrain, Storm Watching Author
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Catastrophic Cleaning Crises
There are some serious problems simmering in my household. An explosion of epic proportions is due any moment. I don't even know where to hide, for the inevitable meltdown of my psyche and home.
First issue: After having posted an urgent plea on FaceBook, not one of my friends came to my rescue. My simple request? I was in desperate need of a legitimate excuse to not have to clean my bathroom. Oh, sure, everyone agreed with me on the horrid chore that it is. But no one offered a way to squirm out of it.
Some one out there could have broken into my car, started our house on fire, found a way to start a tsunami and made us have to evacuate, left a piglet crying on my doorstep in need of a good rub down. Nothing. It's not like they have to clean their own bathrooms, or something. They probably all have a cleaning service to do all household chores for them. Because I know that I am the only person in the U.S. to have to scrub their own toilet.
Second issue: My teenage son has decided to quit honoring his mother. No respect from that off-spring that caused me to scream at his birthing. All I asked was that he help me make my bed. Because second to scouring foot grime off of the bathtub, I truly loathe putting on sheets, blankets and bedspread. Don't even get me started about pillowcases.
I tried every thing I could think of to gain his assistance. From guilt trips about the jacket I bought him today and all the painful effort it took to earn the money for it, to over blown compliments about how extraordinarily gifted he is at putting together bedding. Nothing worked. He has called my bluff and now refuses to tuck in the fitted sheet, or lay the blankets in place.
Finally, I threatened to never make dinner for him ever again. And can you believe this? He thinks I'm joshing. Just wait until tomorrow night when I feed his share of the tofu meatloaf to our dogs. Hah. He'll not be laughing then.
He actually said that I was old enough to make it myself! Where is the love here, people?
The only compensation for us poor, poor mothers, is that half glass of Cabernet waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
And the warm, clean, freshly made bed to clamber into and read a John Updike novel. And, well, I guess the sudsy bath I can take tonight while drinking the half glass of Cabernet.
So, I suppose my life is not a catastrophic mess.
But I am still feeding his tofu meatloaf to the dogs. Or making him eat it. Whichever he protests the most about, that shall be his non-bed-making consequence.
I am the hardcore, mean mother.
Heather Leigh,
Cleaned Out, Suffering Mother
First issue: After having posted an urgent plea on FaceBook, not one of my friends came to my rescue. My simple request? I was in desperate need of a legitimate excuse to not have to clean my bathroom. Oh, sure, everyone agreed with me on the horrid chore that it is. But no one offered a way to squirm out of it.
Some one out there could have broken into my car, started our house on fire, found a way to start a tsunami and made us have to evacuate, left a piglet crying on my doorstep in need of a good rub down. Nothing. It's not like they have to clean their own bathrooms, or something. They probably all have a cleaning service to do all household chores for them. Because I know that I am the only person in the U.S. to have to scrub their own toilet.
Second issue: My teenage son has decided to quit honoring his mother. No respect from that off-spring that caused me to scream at his birthing. All I asked was that he help me make my bed. Because second to scouring foot grime off of the bathtub, I truly loathe putting on sheets, blankets and bedspread. Don't even get me started about pillowcases.
I tried every thing I could think of to gain his assistance. From guilt trips about the jacket I bought him today and all the painful effort it took to earn the money for it, to over blown compliments about how extraordinarily gifted he is at putting together bedding. Nothing worked. He has called my bluff and now refuses to tuck in the fitted sheet, or lay the blankets in place.
Finally, I threatened to never make dinner for him ever again. And can you believe this? He thinks I'm joshing. Just wait until tomorrow night when I feed his share of the tofu meatloaf to our dogs. Hah. He'll not be laughing then.
He actually said that I was old enough to make it myself! Where is the love here, people?
The only compensation for us poor, poor mothers, is that half glass of Cabernet waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
And the warm, clean, freshly made bed to clamber into and read a John Updike novel. And, well, I guess the sudsy bath I can take tonight while drinking the half glass of Cabernet.
So, I suppose my life is not a catastrophic mess.
But I am still feeding his tofu meatloaf to the dogs. Or making him eat it. Whichever he protests the most about, that shall be his non-bed-making consequence.
I am the hardcore, mean mother.
Heather Leigh,
Cleaned Out, Suffering Mother
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Zombie Frogs
There is a great fear that I know must be shared by multitudes of people: What would happen if the Zombie Apocalypse occurs while I am in the gym jacuzzi? As I crawl my way out with melted, mushy muscles and brain, it would be easy to mistake my form for the Undead. I could be shot with a silver bullet and have my head bashed in with a shovel before making it to my brand new, eco-friendly Prius.
Is there a label for this justified and common fear?
Another issue that needs to be labeled is the condition of falling tree frogs. (Background knowledge for you: there are two maple trees on either side of our driveway. Their branches, thick with foliage, hang over my brand new, eco-friendly Prius). While driving on the highway last week, a tree frog crawled out from underneath my window wiper blade.
She stared at me through the front window glass.
This must be a common occurrence with tree frogs--falling off of their tree home onto car windshields, and then crawling under wiper blades for comfort. But as we could not converse, neither of us speaking the other's language, I could not be sure if this was a suicide attempt, or a leap of desired adventure. Knowing this would help greatly in determining a proper label for her actions.
Now all of this leads up to what you have each been thinking: do frogs worry about becoming zombies?
If so, what can we do to help alleviate their fears? The first step, obviously, is to label this psychosis. Ideas: TFZF, tree frog zombie fear; Frogbie Disorder; Undead TR Obsession.
Once a label name has been established, us caring humans will have to start outreach committees and support groups. It is the only right thing to do in this situation.
Wow. Now that I see that my fears of Jacuzzi Zombie Mistaken Identity Disorder are nothing compared to my green friend's issues, I feel a mighty compassion overtaking me. My anxieties have disappeared. Thank you, tree frog, for bringing me to this new found sense of peace.
Namaste, tree frog.
Lastly:
If this were a High School Quiz posting, this would be my question to test your reading skills: What kind of car do I own?
Don't worry about the tree frog. She was safely re-homed at the edge of the Humboldt Bay, on a bed of tasty grass. No animals, or amphibians, were harmed in the making of this blog.
Heather Leigh,
Writer at Peace
Is there a label for this justified and common fear?
Another issue that needs to be labeled is the condition of falling tree frogs. (Background knowledge for you: there are two maple trees on either side of our driveway. Their branches, thick with foliage, hang over my brand new, eco-friendly Prius). While driving on the highway last week, a tree frog crawled out from underneath my window wiper blade.
She stared at me through the front window glass.
This must be a common occurrence with tree frogs--falling off of their tree home onto car windshields, and then crawling under wiper blades for comfort. But as we could not converse, neither of us speaking the other's language, I could not be sure if this was a suicide attempt, or a leap of desired adventure. Knowing this would help greatly in determining a proper label for her actions.
Now all of this leads up to what you have each been thinking: do frogs worry about becoming zombies?
If so, what can we do to help alleviate their fears? The first step, obviously, is to label this psychosis. Ideas: TFZF, tree frog zombie fear; Frogbie Disorder; Undead TR Obsession.
Once a label name has been established, us caring humans will have to start outreach committees and support groups. It is the only right thing to do in this situation.
Wow. Now that I see that my fears of Jacuzzi Zombie Mistaken Identity Disorder are nothing compared to my green friend's issues, I feel a mighty compassion overtaking me. My anxieties have disappeared. Thank you, tree frog, for bringing me to this new found sense of peace.
Namaste, tree frog.
Lastly:
If this were a High School Quiz posting, this would be my question to test your reading skills: What kind of car do I own?
Don't worry about the tree frog. She was safely re-homed at the edge of the Humboldt Bay, on a bed of tasty grass. No animals, or amphibians, were harmed in the making of this blog.
Heather Leigh,
Writer at Peace
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