This is one way to keep your car’s innards safe and sound.

I opened the door late this morning and was greeted with a burst of hot and humid August air. Breathing the heavy air, I strolled down the driveway, with dogs in tow.

The dogs guided me to the flower bed for a sniff and a pee. It came into view. I drew closer and wondered why Tim would leave a pile of weeds in front of the flower bed.

The flash bulb ignites. The weeds are two feet long, trimmed at the base with pruning shears and covered with large burrs. I know for a fact, nothing like that was in the flower beds and it is too hot for Tim to venture out, let alone pull weeds. Another flash, I have cleaned up piles of weeds in the same spot, twice before. I figured Tim, struck by the weed pulling bug, left each pile for later clean-up.

I find it odd and share the discovery with Tim. He then shares the story at the water cooler. “Oh dear”, his co-worker replies, “you know it’s a ‘sign’ from the neighbors”.

“A what, a ‘sign’ you say?”, Tim asks.

“Why of course”, she replies. “You’re yard does not meet expectations and a neighbor is sending you a ‘sign’.”

Tim recounts the tale and my temper flares. “What NERVE!” I retort, “utterly rude and unneighborly”

I chewed on the situation during my train ride into the city. My anger subsided and my heart filled with sadness. Not for myself, but for the person who left the weeds. It is a ‘sign’, I thought. A ‘sign’ of an empty, superficial soul that values appearances more than substance and where you can greet your neighbor with a smile, then deliver a bouquet of thorns as a welcome gift.

I took few minutes before going to bed to give thanks for my blessings: a loving spouse, fantastic family and friends, an interesting job (part of the time anyway), and many other wonderful experiences. I send out thoughts of forgiveness and love. Perhaps one day, our new florist’s sadness will be replaced with joy.

Till then, I graciously accept any bouquet of nature’s wonders you leave me.

There is nothing like cat piss to snap you back to reality. Our lovely cat, Sheleata Kanoftuna, has taken to pissing in the hall. Now that wouldn’t be so bad if we had hardwood floors like our last place. With sixy medium pile beige carpet, the piss stain is hidden to you step in the damp spot and the smell lingers like an unwanted house guest.

After a bit of internet browsing, I learned this is often an indication your kitty has a urinary tract infection. Painful pee … ouch … I figured it was time to take Sheleata to the vet.

Taking Sheleata to the vet is an adventure. Sheleata’s not like the dogs, who make a dash to the car and then run in circles with child like excitement till you open the door. The last couple of trips to the vet the car rides were filled with the most horrific cat screams (thank god there is not a Department of Child and Family Services for pets, from the sound of Shealeta, they would have locked me up thinking I was beating him). If that wasn’t bad enough, Sheleata would often piss and crap in his crate.

I managed to get to the vet with no peeing or pooping. I figured after the 13 hour trip from Atlanta to Chicago, perhaps Sheleata is over his fear of ridding in cars. Two days later, I was asked to pick up Sheleata from the vet. Yes, that’s right, our cat, who freely pees in the hall, managed to hold his piss for two days. Mind you, the vet was quick to tell me that wasn’t the record, but much longer than usual. My kitty is so special.

While waiting for Sheleata, I am called into the Principals office, err…the vets office, for a consultation. She proclaims Sheleata is healthy as can be and proceeds to ask me 20 questions about litter, general care, etc. I felt like I was being interrogated to find out if I was an abusive parent. I got the Okay and sent home, with Sheleata and some things to try. Our vet also mentioned, in a worse case scenario, I can try Prozac. I chuckled to myself and wondered if I should put the cat on a diet of booze and dolls; it would fit the neighborhood we live in.

During the car ride home, I discovered just how angry our precious Sheleata was about his two day visit to the vet. A few blocks from home, Sheleata turned around, shoved his but up to the crate gate and proceeded to piss like a race horse. I felt the warm liquid splatter and got a good wiff of the now familiar smell. I turned to see view the carnage.

Holly Mary Mother of God, Tim is gonna crap his pants when he sees the car. I pulled out my cell, and placed a 911 call home. “Be outside with rags and cleaning material” I barked, “Sheleata just pissed all over me and the car”. After a thourough cleaning, there is no scent of piss. I’m certain no one will comment on the lingering new car smell.

Two days later, I ponder what to do as the mild smell of cat piss lingers in the air. Prozac for me, the cat or both of us … well, at least I have health insurance.

We hit 102 degrees Fahrenheit yesterday … Whew … I thought I left the blazing hot weather down in Atlanta? As I step outside, sweat magically materializes in places that are just not proper to mention in public.

My thoughts sent to the Editor of the Lake Forester after attending the Lake Bluff, Illinois 4th of July Parade.

I attended the Lake Bluff 4th of July Parade for the first time this year. I was expecting a festive display, celebrating our Nations birthday. Instead, after seeing the Lawn Mower Brigade, I walked away wondering when our community lost its sense of decency and became so self-centered. Even the Lake Forester’s coverage is shocking, proclaiming “the lawn mower brigade mocked pop singer Michael Jackson, who just finished a lengthy trial on molestation charges.”

A mockery of Michael Jackson? This was far beyond that. The Lawn Mower Brigade’s display mocked the current issues of racism and child abuse, starting with Mr. Lydon Neumann stepping over the bounds of decency appearing in white face. I am not even able to fathom what he was thinking.

Then you bring on the rest of the brigade, wearing t-shirts proclaiming “Michael has touched us all” while pushing lawn mowers made to look like strollers. Mocking child abuse and molestation is not humorous on any level. I can’t even imagine what a current or recovering victim of child abuse, was feeling while watching these men make fun of what happened or is happening to them.

Now that the infamous Lawn Mower Brigade has thrust these subjects into the spotlight, I hope they will do something about the ongoing problem of child abuse and racism in our communities. Perhaps we all could use some sensitivity training and a few hours of volunteer work at a local chapter of Prevent Child Abuse America (http://www.preventchildabuse.org/) or another appropriate organization.

It’s time to be kind

At a recent party, a friend’s guest said to me, “I don’t know what to think of you. You don’t have any vices.”

I found this to be an odd statement and have been chewing on it the last few days. No vices … is that so bad, or does it make me some kind of bad or freaky person? Will people shun me if I don’t have a naughty vice to talk about? What am I to do?

Lord only knows I’ve given many of them a whirl … I tried drinking and found I don’t care for the taste of most beverages. I tried smoking and that was the same as drinking. I tried cigars but they gave me a hangover the next morning. Drugs…I decided a long time ago to just say no. Porn…I like that, but it gets a bit boring after awhile. Then there are the items I don’t plan to publish on the internet and well, been there, done that and all I got was a lousy t-shirt.

This afternoon I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders! I felt like I was a part of “in-crowd” as I sat gorging. I have a vice! Every week or so, I find some excuse to indulge. I fight the craving as long as possible, then I just give in. I scream for ice cream! Mind you, not just any ice cream will do. Some folks will only drink a specific beer, or vodka. I crave Cold Stone Creamery, made fresh, with it smooth creamy texture and my choice of fixings. My mouth waters at the thought.

Now I can share my vice at the next party. Describing how each flavor and fixing makes me tingle with delight (queue up the sexy romance novel music). How I savor each lick of creamy goodness, relieved to know I have a vice.

Just a warning…this one is of an adult nature and may offend some more sesible readers…

My great friend Dan was turning a magical age during our last trip to New Orleans. To celebrate, he wanted to do something crazy. New Orleans is the town you can find anything and everything crazy to do from excessive drinking, public flashing for beads to simulated sex acts on stage.

I was thinking we would go on a bar crawl and end up at one ot the sleazy strip clubs handing out dollars for some good old-fashioned gawking and groping. That wasn’t the plan at all, Dan was hell bent on attending a foam party at a local club.

You know, just the usual evening of dancing the evening away covered in slippery foam. How could I not check it out? I brought along a disposable pair of shoes and a pair of easy to clean, loose fitting nylon shorts.

About an hour or so into the evening, disaster struck. No, I didn’t gulp down a mouthfull of foam or fall down and hit my head. I started to feel a tingling down below. And no, not one of those, “I’m happy to see you” tingling. After another 30 minutes or so, the tingle turned to a burn. I had to give up and head to the showers.

Well, I won’t go into any further details, except to say, chaffing of the private parts is not an experience I want to repeat. I will admit, I enjoyed the foamerience and figure…”no pain, no gain”.

Ode to my Chaffed Privates

Writhing and gyrating in the foam
So slick and fun
Bumping and grinding in the foam
So slick and fun
Humping and pumping in the foam
So slick and fun

I feel the tingle
So slick and fun
The tingle spreads
So slick and fun
My tingle turns to burn
So slick and not so fun

I wryth and gyrate to the exit
So slick and not so fun
Into the shower to rinse the foam
Oh the BURN
The warm water fuels the flame
Oh the BURN

I gingerly dry
Oh the BURN
So red and swollen
Oh the Burn

I limp to the bar
Oh the BURN
I need a big drink to make me numb
Oh the BURN

I gulp it down with a grin
Oh the BURN
Images of dancing in the foam flash through my head
Oh so fun
Well worth the BURN

Spring has sprung

The days grow warmer

The days get longer

Pollen…oh sweet pollen

The invisible devil fills the air

The pollen counts increase

Ahhhh choooo

Sniffle sniffle

The pollen count skyrockets

The devil appears

Leaving a fine yellow dust on

On everything he touches

Ahhhh choooo

Sniffle sniffle

So many fall under his spell

That naughty devil

He’s so fine

Ahhhh choooo

Sniffle sniffle

I do my best to keep him at bay

He is so tempting

I can’t stop it for long

Ahhhh choooo

Sniffle sniffle

I know the feeling will pass

It always does

That naughty devil

Ahhhh choooo

Sniffle sniffle

We’ve been a one dog and one cat household for nearly six years now. A couple of months ago we test drove a Dachshund – Lab puppy. Just picture short legs and body with a Lab build and coloring. He was more of a handful than we were ready for at the time.

A couple of weeks ago, our friends rescued a puppy near their house. We offered to puppy sit while they went on vacation. Well, the little guy is still here. LongJohn and Sheleata are getting along well, playing more everyday.

I had the pleasure of showcasing Buster at the vet. Everyone came by the examination room to check out the newest addition to the Barnes Place family. A whole lot of boy he’s cute and we hope he gets along with LongJohn. Buster took the visit well, even though dinner didn’t accompany his series of pokes and prods (I would expect at least dinner if a thermometer then stool scoop were stuck up my bum).

Our little boy is more like a young man. Dr. H estimates his age at 7-12 months based on a mouth full of adult teeth and a healthy set of testicles. Weighing in at 10.5 pounds, Buster received his first set of adult shots, with one more set to go before he can venture with us to the park or other social settings. The poor young man has worms from his street walking days. Today at dinner I gave him his first dose of deworming medication.

The consensus of the staff is a Papillon (pronounced PAP–ee–yon) – Dachshund mix. My favorite part is the butterfly ears. I’m sure the next few months will be full of many adventures.