Whether you are for or against immigrants coming to the United States, is none of my bees wax. That whole business is not what this post is about. This is simply advice for anyone moving here:
1. There is one article of clothing that is a necessity to your wardrobe: Micky Mouse. The most common is the one that I own, a gray tee-shirt with Mickey in traditional garb, hands behind his back, and smiling.
As we are a diverse nation, you are allowed to alter your selection. We even allow for various genders and animal types: Minnie Mouse for the women, Daisy and Donald represent the duck culture, Goofie no one's quite sure of, Pluto of the doggie kingdom, Chip and Dale from the underground tree rodents.
See how the 'melting pot' works now?
2. Pretend you are totally fashion insensitive, that you have your own character and style of clothing. Then, wear what every one else in your crowd is wearing. When you notice that your freshly dyed pink hair, that you paid top dollar for in the search to stand out from the crowd, is being worn by a huge percentage of the crowd, pretend you do not notice. Works every time.
3. Embrace ketchup on food. Be sure to include a puddle of it on your plate with every American burger and fries that you eat, then only use half.
4. Eat french fries weekly and do not question why they are attributed to the French--yet, I'm pretty sure they were started by our country Nobody quite knows why the credit goes to our European neighbors, and the fact that we don't really know is an embarrassment to us all. Avoid the discussion like politics, religion, and minimist modern art.
5. We are a nation obsessed with pets. Our dogs are friendly; no need for you to leap off the sidewalk in terror when you see one coming. Cats are fed foods for finicky eaters that cost more than premium wild salmon, and stinks. We have pet outfits that match the owner's wardrobe, bakeries that serve only furry four footers, massage for the stressed pooch, and aquariums that are more colorful than the Australian Reef Barrier.
If you happen to come from a background that believes in come-back Karma, consider requesting to be placed in an American, pet-loving home. You will be spoiled more than any Queen of Sheba.
6. Cars are a sign of status, smugness, culture and your world view. Practical sedans are for the efficient go-getter. SUVs are reserved for the Soccer Moms/Dads. Hybrids are for those of us who want to be sure you know we care about the environment more than you do (just please don't mention the fact that I drive twice as much as I used to because I so rarely have to buy gas). Sports cars are for those who love speeding tickets, and being pulled over by the highway patrol. Luxury vehicles let everyone know the driver has made it big in America and wants to be sure you are aware of the fact.
7. When someone asks how you are doing, they don't really want to know. The acceptable way to answer is, "fine", or "good". Then, if you are feeling extraordinarily cheerful, you can add, "and you?".
To test this one out, try saying this quickly as you walk away, "I have six weeks to live. Have a nice day." Be sure they can hear you and speak clearly. It is a rare person who actually reacts to your response.
Don't think we are being rude in not listening to your answer. We are simply following social norms.
Because, really, we are a rather friendly bunch.
8. Alcohol is drunk by types:
Wine is the classy way to get plastered.
Micro Beer is for the aficionado, the craft masters of knowledge, edgy tasters.
Regular beer is for the regular guy/gal, seen most often at BBQs and kiddie pinata birthday parties (I mean the parents are doing the drinking, not the kids, silly)
Hard alcohol is for hard people. Also rumored to be for those on a slow suicide march.
Mixed drinks are for friends, If you partake in a fruity drink alone, you border on the edge of madness.
Hope this guide to living in the U.S. was helpful. It may not have been included in your Welcome to America brochures. But it is needed if you don't want to be labeled as a Newbie Geek.
Heather Leigh,
Non-Newbie Geek
Friday, February 24, 2017
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Humboldt Grass Description
Had I the tech savvy knowledge of how to click a selfie and then post it onto this fabulous blog, you would be able to see the beautiful view of the farm beyond our backyard fence. As I have yet to reach this climax of human knowledge, you have to read about it instead. Sorry.
There is a great, green field of knee high grasses being blown about by a combination of gutsy wind and oodles of rain. The angle of the rain before it hits the ground is barely a few degrees short of being parallel to the horizontal land. Beyond the field are pastures of piglets, goats, cows, one bull, and three horses.
It is a feast for my eyes for which I am thankful.
If only everything in life were so simple to describe. Yesterday, my sons and I drove for five hours to make an appointment. Being that the ride was through the rain, winding mountain roads, and plenty of dips and rises, I had to actually pay attention as I drove. The nerve. AND, as if being forced from a warm, comfy bed were not enough intrusion on my life, we had to leave at six thirty in the morning!
But don't worry, Gentle Reader (direct and intentional steal from Ms. Manners herself), I got my revenge on that trickster called human life: I stayed in pajamas today wearing my Christmas bunny socks. Sleep-in, no housework, kind of day.
You may be thinking that I am meandering around, poking in non-related paragraphs. But, oh, no. The joke is on you, oh Doubtful One. Being of revengeful mind, I spent the day writing my newest book. As it is about a couple who are not of the Earth but are living here anyway, it is a revenge on practical thinkers.
What does that mean exactly? Well, I am not sure. What I am sure about, is that it has actually made me have to think. Scary, but true. I have to conjure up what life for non-humans in body-less form would be like. And, figure out a plot for them to follow on their life-time on earth.
AND, being my first novel for adults (I quiver at saying adult novel, as then you may think I mean a naughty novel, which is not what I am writing.), I have to talk as an adult in the dialogue. With different perspectives from each character. Make it funny, yet grounded. Understandable without telling the reader everything that is happening, like a documentary.
Whew. Makes me want to go back to describing my backyard view.
One last thing that is difficult to describe, is why I associate tree frogs with my dear aunt, who passed away last year. They are not something that we ever discussed. Yet, every time I encounter one now, I feel giggly inside; somehow their cute, fat, laughable body shape and thin, straight mouth makes me sense that she sent them to me from beyond, as a way to get me to chuckle.
Last night, puppy Morris alerted me to one hiding on the side of our kitchen floor. Together, we trapped it under a plastic container and then rushed it to the front yard. I wondered what it thought, going from linoleum floor, to plastic dish, to wet grass and rain. As I heard the chorus of frog croaking of which he is sure to join, I sent a smile of gratitude to my aunt. She always could get me to laugh out loud.
Today I described my backyard view, challenging new book, and an aunt-derived frog. Feels like Sesame Street learning for the Writer's Soul.
Any descriptions you want to try? Post them in the comments section, I would love to read what you have to share.
Want to hear a kid laugh like my aunt still does for me? Buy a book from my Scout and Ellie series, They are just plain funny:
Scout and Ellie
Heather Leigh,
Author With Serious Intentions to Describe
There is a great, green field of knee high grasses being blown about by a combination of gutsy wind and oodles of rain. The angle of the rain before it hits the ground is barely a few degrees short of being parallel to the horizontal land. Beyond the field are pastures of piglets, goats, cows, one bull, and three horses.
It is a feast for my eyes for which I am thankful.
If only everything in life were so simple to describe. Yesterday, my sons and I drove for five hours to make an appointment. Being that the ride was through the rain, winding mountain roads, and plenty of dips and rises, I had to actually pay attention as I drove. The nerve. AND, as if being forced from a warm, comfy bed were not enough intrusion on my life, we had to leave at six thirty in the morning!
But don't worry, Gentle Reader (direct and intentional steal from Ms. Manners herself), I got my revenge on that trickster called human life: I stayed in pajamas today wearing my Christmas bunny socks. Sleep-in, no housework, kind of day.
You may be thinking that I am meandering around, poking in non-related paragraphs. But, oh, no. The joke is on you, oh Doubtful One. Being of revengeful mind, I spent the day writing my newest book. As it is about a couple who are not of the Earth but are living here anyway, it is a revenge on practical thinkers.
What does that mean exactly? Well, I am not sure. What I am sure about, is that it has actually made me have to think. Scary, but true. I have to conjure up what life for non-humans in body-less form would be like. And, figure out a plot for them to follow on their life-time on earth.
AND, being my first novel for adults (I quiver at saying adult novel, as then you may think I mean a naughty novel, which is not what I am writing.), I have to talk as an adult in the dialogue. With different perspectives from each character. Make it funny, yet grounded. Understandable without telling the reader everything that is happening, like a documentary.
Whew. Makes me want to go back to describing my backyard view.
One last thing that is difficult to describe, is why I associate tree frogs with my dear aunt, who passed away last year. They are not something that we ever discussed. Yet, every time I encounter one now, I feel giggly inside; somehow their cute, fat, laughable body shape and thin, straight mouth makes me sense that she sent them to me from beyond, as a way to get me to chuckle.
Last night, puppy Morris alerted me to one hiding on the side of our kitchen floor. Together, we trapped it under a plastic container and then rushed it to the front yard. I wondered what it thought, going from linoleum floor, to plastic dish, to wet grass and rain. As I heard the chorus of frog croaking of which he is sure to join, I sent a smile of gratitude to my aunt. She always could get me to laugh out loud.
Today I described my backyard view, challenging new book, and an aunt-derived frog. Feels like Sesame Street learning for the Writer's Soul.
Any descriptions you want to try? Post them in the comments section, I would love to read what you have to share.
Want to hear a kid laugh like my aunt still does for me? Buy a book from my Scout and Ellie series, They are just plain funny:
Scout and Ellie
Heather Leigh,
Author With Serious Intentions to Describe
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Forced Moving
If not forced into moving, I would lounge about in bed all day, every day. There would be a lovely silver bell on the night stand table that would rush a butler to do my bidding with every shake. When I close my eyes in contemplation of such a glorious fate, I can see him leaping over our dogs, flipping over the couch, and skipping down the hall to serve my flimsiest desire:
"Chocolate caramel topped with sea salt?" the butler would ask. "Green tea with a hint of lemongrass? Latest Pickles comic, or today's NY Times? How can I best serve you, oh great writer?"
But the butler has been on vacation since before I was born. And so I am pressured into seeking out these personal preferences all on my own.
In order to get what you want, do you, too, set yourself up with irritating naggers? A whistling tea kettle that shrills out the order to attend to it, so that you can have your cup of cozy tummy warming hot cocoa. A Zumba exercise teacher who demands that you move-that-body in the quest to have at least a semblance of healthy body and heart. An annoying alarm clock that will not shut up every single weekday morning so that you can fulfill yet another day with checking off your list of things-to-do today.
The creative naggers we set up for ourselves is over-the-top madness. Why don't we all leave well enough alone and go back to sleeping in until bedtime?
Who is responsible for the outrageous idea that life is meant to be lived?
The biggest, most obvious moving that we do, is move all of our stuff into a different house, sometimes even to a different city, for goodness sake. While I was not the first to partake in this silly practice, I have been overly guilty of over-indulging in it. The longest I have ever lived in one house has been four years; my average is two.
Why? The reasons are as varied as the creative naggers in your life. Every thing from a better job in a different city to wanting to experience life in another country. The reasons are irrelevant, it's the moving that is the BIG issue today.
My asinine addiction to writing is yet another thistle like burr that slave drives me into moving. In order to get this horribly intelligent, relentlessly witty post to you, I must have a computer. Last week, the dearly loved, decade old Mac abruptly died while I slumbered. After a couple of days of sleeping in until bed time, I was dragged into taking action by ordering a new computer. And how do I pay for this thing? I sale books. And where do I write the books? On a computer.
This entire vicious cycle translates to one thing: I have to move my entire body off the bed and on to the computer chair and desk. See what I am getting at? I have to actually move. No one else, not even a real live, not on vacation butler can do it for me. Life has become one immense series of moves. Ugghh.
In the end, I have at least achieved one thing in my life: I am a Master of Moving. And this leads me to wonder what things you have mastered in moving. What movement exercises, creative nagger ideas, or ways to get out of bed? What cities, counties, countries? What states of mind? Please, tell me in the comment box below. If you don't satiate my desire to know your movements, then my mind will dwindle in idleness, thought process become stagnant in non-use. Please, do not burden me with such afflictions.
If you want to know my not-so-secret wisdom of moving tips, buy my book on moving with a twelve pack of beer (or wine or donuts). It is quite the read:
Moving: Are You An Intelligent Mover?
Missions for today: comment on your moving experiences, and buy one of my books. That should get you going until bed time.
Heather Leigh,
Mistress of Moving
"Chocolate caramel topped with sea salt?" the butler would ask. "Green tea with a hint of lemongrass? Latest Pickles comic, or today's NY Times? How can I best serve you, oh great writer?"
But the butler has been on vacation since before I was born. And so I am pressured into seeking out these personal preferences all on my own.
In order to get what you want, do you, too, set yourself up with irritating naggers? A whistling tea kettle that shrills out the order to attend to it, so that you can have your cup of cozy tummy warming hot cocoa. A Zumba exercise teacher who demands that you move-that-body in the quest to have at least a semblance of healthy body and heart. An annoying alarm clock that will not shut up every single weekday morning so that you can fulfill yet another day with checking off your list of things-to-do today.
The creative naggers we set up for ourselves is over-the-top madness. Why don't we all leave well enough alone and go back to sleeping in until bedtime?
Who is responsible for the outrageous idea that life is meant to be lived?
The biggest, most obvious moving that we do, is move all of our stuff into a different house, sometimes even to a different city, for goodness sake. While I was not the first to partake in this silly practice, I have been overly guilty of over-indulging in it. The longest I have ever lived in one house has been four years; my average is two.
Why? The reasons are as varied as the creative naggers in your life. Every thing from a better job in a different city to wanting to experience life in another country. The reasons are irrelevant, it's the moving that is the BIG issue today.
My asinine addiction to writing is yet another thistle like burr that slave drives me into moving. In order to get this horribly intelligent, relentlessly witty post to you, I must have a computer. Last week, the dearly loved, decade old Mac abruptly died while I slumbered. After a couple of days of sleeping in until bed time, I was dragged into taking action by ordering a new computer. And how do I pay for this thing? I sale books. And where do I write the books? On a computer.
This entire vicious cycle translates to one thing: I have to move my entire body off the bed and on to the computer chair and desk. See what I am getting at? I have to actually move. No one else, not even a real live, not on vacation butler can do it for me. Life has become one immense series of moves. Ugghh.
In the end, I have at least achieved one thing in my life: I am a Master of Moving. And this leads me to wonder what things you have mastered in moving. What movement exercises, creative nagger ideas, or ways to get out of bed? What cities, counties, countries? What states of mind? Please, tell me in the comment box below. If you don't satiate my desire to know your movements, then my mind will dwindle in idleness, thought process become stagnant in non-use. Please, do not burden me with such afflictions.
If you want to know my not-so-secret wisdom of moving tips, buy my book on moving with a twelve pack of beer (or wine or donuts). It is quite the read:
Moving: Are You An Intelligent Mover?
Missions for today: comment on your moving experiences, and buy one of my books. That should get you going until bed time.
Heather Leigh,
Mistress of Moving
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Reflections On Non-Finishing
The Pacific Northwest in northern California has been our home for about six years now. Most of my life was spent in southern California, San Diego. And beyond the difference of a few million people versus a county population of a smidgen over one hundred thousand, there is one major issue that flings itself out at me every chance it can get: The sunlight up here can not speak in full, coherent, complete sentences. It is a treacherous tease, a scandalous skaleewagon, and a pernicious player. It is a burnt out cookie with looks but no flavor.
You know what I am talking about, you cruel taunting sunlight you. Pouring warmth through the window, you coerce me into the utterly false belief that the northwest can be warm in the month of January. When I stand at the sliding glass door leading into the backyard, your beams melt into my shoulders and caress my face.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world (as sung by the wonder himself, Louis Armstrong).
Before I can stop them with their tomfoolery, my legs prance into the backyard with gleeful expectation of weather satisfaction. Only to be slapped in the face with a chilling embrace of forty degree Fahrenheit weather. It is not a pretty sight. Were it not for the muddy ground left from yesterday's storm, I would collapse right there in the dirt.
Once again, the sunlight has not finished it's job. If you are going to travel all of the millions of miles from the sun to the earth, then do your duty. Report here at sixty degrees, eighty, or somewhere in-between.
As my blog statistics have informed me, there are people reading this from Alaska. So you know what I am talking about. A big, bad, show-off, bloated ego sun sends us little farts of inferior sunbeams. With all your power and might, huge orange/yellow ball in the sky, mail us something useful. Something that will actually feel good from my skin to my bones. The stuff you have been throwing at us is not worthy of your might. It is an insult to our sensitive, deserving skin.
Because you have been ineffective in your job, oh sun, I have been forced to rely on a space heater. Located two inches from my legs, it is making up for your ineptitude. But I have to pay for it's services! Sunlight is free. And I have paid for my right to be a warmed Earthling. You are not living up to your end of the bargain.
I am going to initiate a petition to the sun, insisting it do it's proper duty. Who will be the first to sign? Probably my friends in Alaska. The ones who realize that forty degrees above zero is much the same as forty below.
Heather Leigh,
Cold Weather Activist
You know what I am talking about, you cruel taunting sunlight you. Pouring warmth through the window, you coerce me into the utterly false belief that the northwest can be warm in the month of January. When I stand at the sliding glass door leading into the backyard, your beams melt into my shoulders and caress my face.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world (as sung by the wonder himself, Louis Armstrong).
Before I can stop them with their tomfoolery, my legs prance into the backyard with gleeful expectation of weather satisfaction. Only to be slapped in the face with a chilling embrace of forty degree Fahrenheit weather. It is not a pretty sight. Were it not for the muddy ground left from yesterday's storm, I would collapse right there in the dirt.
Once again, the sunlight has not finished it's job. If you are going to travel all of the millions of miles from the sun to the earth, then do your duty. Report here at sixty degrees, eighty, or somewhere in-between.
As my blog statistics have informed me, there are people reading this from Alaska. So you know what I am talking about. A big, bad, show-off, bloated ego sun sends us little farts of inferior sunbeams. With all your power and might, huge orange/yellow ball in the sky, mail us something useful. Something that will actually feel good from my skin to my bones. The stuff you have been throwing at us is not worthy of your might. It is an insult to our sensitive, deserving skin.
Because you have been ineffective in your job, oh sun, I have been forced to rely on a space heater. Located two inches from my legs, it is making up for your ineptitude. But I have to pay for it's services! Sunlight is free. And I have paid for my right to be a warmed Earthling. You are not living up to your end of the bargain.
I am going to initiate a petition to the sun, insisting it do it's proper duty. Who will be the first to sign? Probably my friends in Alaska. The ones who realize that forty degrees above zero is much the same as forty below.
Heather Leigh,
Cold Weather Activist
Sunday, January 1, 2017
Cold Geese Words
The Webster's Universal Dictionary on my desk has over nine hundred pages of word definitions. That means, a whole heck of a lot of people got to think up new words, and get them published into a respected book that makes the words legitimate. These aren't slang words that only last a season or two, like twirking, which I still don't fully understand nor do I want to.
So, if all of these other word savvy smarty pants are made famous by getting their idea into a legitimizing book, then I have the right to enter Webster's as well. I'm pretty sure that's what eminent domain means. Or something close to that.
Here is my list:
Blahtrans, noun. the last day of being sick and realizing that tomorrow there is no excuse for being lazy. It is the essence of feeling blah to the moment. Of transitioning from a state of utter addiction and need for the warm, healing, comfy bed, to the world of productivity and cheerful people. See also, ambivalence.
Mudshea, verb. The act of discovering that on this day you will be unexpectantly washing sheets. Corresponds directly with muddy backyard from stormy day, and having two wrestling puppies snuggling under covers into above mentioned comfy bed.
Maswon, verb. An intellectual wondering as to why I do not have a massage therapist coming over nightly to massage my back before bedtime. This is especially prevalent to the hard-working writer who does so much to entertain the world. Finding laughter for others is a tough daily grind.
Cold Geese, noun. Geese flying south for the winter are a reminder that we are being left behind to endure the cold that they are skipping town over. Some unclever people believe that their presence, view, and flight patterns are lovely. Those are the people that most adhere to the next definition.
Stupeweaden, noun. Stupid people who wear light clothing in cold situations. If I am chilled, everyone else should be wearing a sweater. If they are walking around in a tee-shirt, they are deniers of the goose bumps on their skin which can quickly turn to frostbite within seconds. How do they not know this? Did they not have grandmothers who warned them of the seriousness of the evening chill?
Woo Scream, noun. The screaming that you will hear when I see my first of many Royalty payments of over one million dollars. Has been utilized by a plethora of writers before me. However, I am the first to actually get the word into Webster's. Hah, take that Hemingway.
This is a partial list of my new word entries. Perhaps I should start a GoFundMe account to get them popular with english speakers. The entry level fund for the account will be one million dollars. You can stick the money in my donation button to the right of this post.
Thank you for your support! The first donator will be with me on the red carpet as I receive my award for most highly achieved utilizer of the new words account in the Webster's dictionary. We'll go out for dairy-free frozen yogurt after the ceremony.
Heather Leigh,
Originator of self-serving words
So, if all of these other word savvy smarty pants are made famous by getting their idea into a legitimizing book, then I have the right to enter Webster's as well. I'm pretty sure that's what eminent domain means. Or something close to that.
Here is my list:
Blahtrans, noun. the last day of being sick and realizing that tomorrow there is no excuse for being lazy. It is the essence of feeling blah to the moment. Of transitioning from a state of utter addiction and need for the warm, healing, comfy bed, to the world of productivity and cheerful people. See also, ambivalence.
Mudshea, verb. The act of discovering that on this day you will be unexpectantly washing sheets. Corresponds directly with muddy backyard from stormy day, and having two wrestling puppies snuggling under covers into above mentioned comfy bed.
Maswon, verb. An intellectual wondering as to why I do not have a massage therapist coming over nightly to massage my back before bedtime. This is especially prevalent to the hard-working writer who does so much to entertain the world. Finding laughter for others is a tough daily grind.
Cold Geese, noun. Geese flying south for the winter are a reminder that we are being left behind to endure the cold that they are skipping town over. Some unclever people believe that their presence, view, and flight patterns are lovely. Those are the people that most adhere to the next definition.
Stupeweaden, noun. Stupid people who wear light clothing in cold situations. If I am chilled, everyone else should be wearing a sweater. If they are walking around in a tee-shirt, they are deniers of the goose bumps on their skin which can quickly turn to frostbite within seconds. How do they not know this? Did they not have grandmothers who warned them of the seriousness of the evening chill?
Woo Scream, noun. The screaming that you will hear when I see my first of many Royalty payments of over one million dollars. Has been utilized by a plethora of writers before me. However, I am the first to actually get the word into Webster's. Hah, take that Hemingway.
This is a partial list of my new word entries. Perhaps I should start a GoFundMe account to get them popular with english speakers. The entry level fund for the account will be one million dollars. You can stick the money in my donation button to the right of this post.
Thank you for your support! The first donator will be with me on the red carpet as I receive my award for most highly achieved utilizer of the new words account in the Webster's dictionary. We'll go out for dairy-free frozen yogurt after the ceremony.
Heather Leigh,
Originator of self-serving words
Friday, December 23, 2016
Universal Animal Questions
There are two main universal questions about animals, neither of which will likely ever be completely answered:
First Question Are the tree frogs in our front yard croaking solo or in harmony?
Solo Argument: There can be only one frog singing at a time. Each with his unique and lively, yet throaty voice. A rhythm that surges out from his soul and speaks to the heart of his listeners. Frog worlds do not include back-up singers. Each frog has his daily fifteen minutes of fame.
Of course, there is an orchestrator. A Froggy Director who ensures that there is no pause between the fifteen minute performances. She points her grass blade wand to the next Croaker right on cue, every time. Frogs are in flow with the bliss of the moment. There has never been a mistake made on timing, in the history of frogs. It is a beautiful thing.
Harmony Argument: Darwin taught us that evolution has brought us a race of Super Singers who are able to croak in unison. Anyone who cannot detect that the noises collected are several at once, do not deserve their own listening skill. After millions of generations of green creatures practicing their talents every morning, harmonizing has become tadpole play.
From the first time that tadpoles wag their tails, they are a part of the rhythm of their heritage. Her body rolls instantaneously along with the Great Vibration of Froggydom. At the moment that the throat is put together within the growing animal, and croaking has been made possible, the tadpole takes her place among her 'peeps'. What is a Mystery to us humans, is a reality to the frogs. It is really that simple.
Second Question Which dog is moving our couch to the middle of the room every day while we are gone?
Recently, we lost our much beloved Australian Shepherd, Sydney. She was the last dog that I will ever have as a companion.
--Oh, excuse me. I was interrupted by our two puppies. They came for a quick chat. Daisy, weighing in at eighty-five pounds is a St. Bermastiff, half St. Bernard and the rest Bull Mastiff. Morris at a full sixteen pounds, including that white, curly, fluffy fur, is a mixture of Maltese and Mutt.
Favorite game for rain, mud, puddle season? Chase-Around-The-Backyard-Perimeter. The goals include:
hitting maximum mud, being the first through the doggy door, spreading dirt all over the house.
Taking turns in the chasing is a must in the quest for fair play and sportsdogship.
The end of each Round is accomplished in a leap to the sofa, pushing with all of that canine might.
So the question remains: Is it Daisy or Morris who is pushing the furniture around like a bag of dog treats? We don't even have an argument as to which one it could be. A complete and total mystery on all accounts. Maybe a professional movie camera would be able to record the details of their leaps, and we could analyze the video and figure it out. Until then, we are stumped.
Oh well, at least we are entertained.
So this holiday season, please think of the universal animal questions. Perhaps you will come to a conclusion and answer the unanswerable.
Happy Holidays!
Heather Leigh,
Human Amongst Animal Attitudes
First Question Are the tree frogs in our front yard croaking solo or in harmony?
Solo Argument: There can be only one frog singing at a time. Each with his unique and lively, yet throaty voice. A rhythm that surges out from his soul and speaks to the heart of his listeners. Frog worlds do not include back-up singers. Each frog has his daily fifteen minutes of fame.
Of course, there is an orchestrator. A Froggy Director who ensures that there is no pause between the fifteen minute performances. She points her grass blade wand to the next Croaker right on cue, every time. Frogs are in flow with the bliss of the moment. There has never been a mistake made on timing, in the history of frogs. It is a beautiful thing.
Harmony Argument: Darwin taught us that evolution has brought us a race of Super Singers who are able to croak in unison. Anyone who cannot detect that the noises collected are several at once, do not deserve their own listening skill. After millions of generations of green creatures practicing their talents every morning, harmonizing has become tadpole play.
From the first time that tadpoles wag their tails, they are a part of the rhythm of their heritage. Her body rolls instantaneously along with the Great Vibration of Froggydom. At the moment that the throat is put together within the growing animal, and croaking has been made possible, the tadpole takes her place among her 'peeps'. What is a Mystery to us humans, is a reality to the frogs. It is really that simple.
Second Question Which dog is moving our couch to the middle of the room every day while we are gone?
Recently, we lost our much beloved Australian Shepherd, Sydney. She was the last dog that I will ever have as a companion.
--Oh, excuse me. I was interrupted by our two puppies. They came for a quick chat. Daisy, weighing in at eighty-five pounds is a St. Bermastiff, half St. Bernard and the rest Bull Mastiff. Morris at a full sixteen pounds, including that white, curly, fluffy fur, is a mixture of Maltese and Mutt.
Favorite game for rain, mud, puddle season? Chase-Around-The-Backyard-Perimeter. The goals include:
hitting maximum mud, being the first through the doggy door, spreading dirt all over the house.
Taking turns in the chasing is a must in the quest for fair play and sportsdogship.
The end of each Round is accomplished in a leap to the sofa, pushing with all of that canine might.
So the question remains: Is it Daisy or Morris who is pushing the furniture around like a bag of dog treats? We don't even have an argument as to which one it could be. A complete and total mystery on all accounts. Maybe a professional movie camera would be able to record the details of their leaps, and we could analyze the video and figure it out. Until then, we are stumped.
Oh well, at least we are entertained.
So this holiday season, please think of the universal animal questions. Perhaps you will come to a conclusion and answer the unanswerable.
Happy Holidays!
Heather Leigh,
Human Amongst Animal Attitudes
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
Ravens On AODD
I have AODD. Whew, now that I have admitted my failing, I am feeling so much better. Relief off the old burden box shoulders.
Oh, now you need me to explain to you what my previously hidden issue is. Attention Over Drive Disorder: there are too many story possibilities to possibly stay focused. On anything.
For example, what the zumba dance teacher was doing this morning. How was I supposed to follow along with anything? I was being bombarded with how to write a funny blog about being consistently one half a step behind every one else in the class.
That kids book about the mini person and the raven that I wrote? Well, that came through at a traffic light. That world famous one--the left turn signal that we parents ran smack against Monday through Friday mornings at the charter school. It gave ample time for reflection with a light that let about five cars go through every five minutes. Hmmm. I still remember those fun mornings.
Anyhow, there were pepper trees along the sidewalk. Now most people would have been spending their time doing something productive, like slurping coffee or screaming at the kids to be quiet. But the AODD afflicted are stuck with forcing these events into a story.
I could barely pay attention when it came my turn to inch forward. There were too many things to think about: designing a home for Piper, her personality, what mini people living on a Pepper Tree would eat, and whether or not she would be eaten by the raven.
How could I be expected to drive? Pay attention to the road? Hah, that is for those medicated people who can manage a normal thought. And writers have yet to be drugged up by pharmaceutical companies for our disease. Our issues have not even been addressed by the medical establishment. Probably because they are afraid we would write something silly about them in our next blog. Which is most likely accurate.
Back to zumba. Whoever thought up a cardio workout in which you actually have to pay attention? That dancer dumb-dumb probably could not even write a complete paragraph. Let alone an entire story.
Now, I am not just saying this so that I feel okay with myself for not being able to keep up in a gym class. This is all scientific, easy-to-prove fact. If it were not for my writing induced brain, I would be Queen of the Zumba World. So true.
I could do more scientific research, but our puppy just trotted in. That curly furred cutie is dripping with story ideas...like what is it like to wear a fur coat 24/7? Why do they like humans to such an irrational level? What would happen if dogs could suddenly see in color?
Can't write anymore. Too much crowding into my brain to focus. Dang puppy.
Heather Leigh,
First Person To Come Out About Her AODD
Oh, now you need me to explain to you what my previously hidden issue is. Attention Over Drive Disorder: there are too many story possibilities to possibly stay focused. On anything.
For example, what the zumba dance teacher was doing this morning. How was I supposed to follow along with anything? I was being bombarded with how to write a funny blog about being consistently one half a step behind every one else in the class.
That kids book about the mini person and the raven that I wrote? Well, that came through at a traffic light. That world famous one--the left turn signal that we parents ran smack against Monday through Friday mornings at the charter school. It gave ample time for reflection with a light that let about five cars go through every five minutes. Hmmm. I still remember those fun mornings.
Anyhow, there were pepper trees along the sidewalk. Now most people would have been spending their time doing something productive, like slurping coffee or screaming at the kids to be quiet. But the AODD afflicted are stuck with forcing these events into a story.
I could barely pay attention when it came my turn to inch forward. There were too many things to think about: designing a home for Piper, her personality, what mini people living on a Pepper Tree would eat, and whether or not she would be eaten by the raven.
How could I be expected to drive? Pay attention to the road? Hah, that is for those medicated people who can manage a normal thought. And writers have yet to be drugged up by pharmaceutical companies for our disease. Our issues have not even been addressed by the medical establishment. Probably because they are afraid we would write something silly about them in our next blog. Which is most likely accurate.
Back to zumba. Whoever thought up a cardio workout in which you actually have to pay attention? That dancer dumb-dumb probably could not even write a complete paragraph. Let alone an entire story.
Now, I am not just saying this so that I feel okay with myself for not being able to keep up in a gym class. This is all scientific, easy-to-prove fact. If it were not for my writing induced brain, I would be Queen of the Zumba World. So true.
I could do more scientific research, but our puppy just trotted in. That curly furred cutie is dripping with story ideas...like what is it like to wear a fur coat 24/7? Why do they like humans to such an irrational level? What would happen if dogs could suddenly see in color?
Can't write anymore. Too much crowding into my brain to focus. Dang puppy.
Heather Leigh,
First Person To Come Out About Her AODD
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)