One Never Knows, Do One?

So while I was heading to the store the other evening, I ran into a neighbor who was walking his three dogs. He told me sad news, that the 15-year-old pooch had a fatal health condition and probably wouldn't be around for long. And then, while we were commiserating, he said something that really stuck with me:"This dog changed my life."

The cynic in me automatically thought, "really, how's that possible?"

But after he told me the story, I understood. It seems that, pre-dog, he was a "man about town" who barely came home to sleep. But one day he found a forlorn puppy wandering on a nearby street, took pity on him, drove the him to the pound, and went on his way. About a week later, he called the shelter to make sure the dog had been adopted, only to learn that he had not and, in fact, was scheduled to be put to sleep that very day. He asked them to hold up the execution, rushed over to the facility and adopted the dog, whom he named "Larry." Without planning to, he suddenly became a canine "Dad," a duty that called for him to become less of a gadabout and more of a responsible caretaker. In his new role, he walked his rambunctious mutt to a nearby dog park every day, which helped him to become friendly with neighbors whom he had barely even noticed before, including an old college buddy who had lived on his same block for eight years. One dog led to lots of new friends (and eventually to two additional dogs) and certainly a new way of life for him.

In that same "fate" note, I met my hubby one weekend when some friends extended a last-minute invitation to visit them at the seashore. We had a great day at the beach and a fun dinner party at their house, and I assumed that we were done for the night. But then someone suggested that we head to a club and before I knew it, I was chatting with a stranger and the rest is romantic history. (Except, of course, for the days when we momentarily want to strangle each other...)

Now, I'm not saying that the evening I met my beloved was the only time I ever hung out at a nightclub. Nor am I saying that every stray dog wandering on the street is magically going to revolutionize your life - ya have to kiss a lot of frogs and pick off a bunch of fleas first - but you just never know.

The point is that we can plan our lives to our little heart's content, but those blueprints are probably going to get discombobulated anyway.

So this holiday season, if you plan to have a lovely, relaxing, joyous celebration with your family, don't flip your mistletoe if it doesn't exactly turn out that way.

Smile, send good vibes out to loyal old Larry, have yourself a Merry little Christmas and I'll talk with you in 2012.

U R GONNA B SORRY...

Most of the people whizzing past me and Sammy the Dog had the normal look of attentive drivers - head up, eyes ahead - but one guy sported the all too familiar head-slanted-down-awkwardly, eyes-not-on-the-road stance of today's texters.

But he obviously stayed on task for one reason and one reason only: He was a distracted driver AND a VIP - a Very Important Putz.

Very Important Putzes think that they cannot go five minutes without letting the world know their thoughts, words and precise whereabouts.

If you're a walker, you can spot a texting driver immediately as they bob their heads rapidly up and down: text; obligatory glance at road; text; damn road again; oooppps! kid walking to school, watch it, sonny boy!; text; road AGAIN; yellow light, hit it, mister; ooooppps!, bicyclist; rinse and repeat. 

But this guy was hard core, reading an obviously fascinating text, road or no road. Sammy and I were perplexed and fascinated, so we kept watching him:

a) Because we need a little excitement on our walk, frankly; and

b) Because we couldn't believe how long this moron could commandeer a moving vehicle down a main city street without actually LOOKING at said street. Does this mean that legally blind people can now drive a car, too? I used to know a blind guy who loved automobiles and would have killed to be able to drive, so maybe this whole "you don't really need to look where you're going" trend is promising news! 

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration recently released a survey showing that about half of American drivers between 21 and 24 confess that they have texted from the driver's seat. Interestingly enough, the interviewees didn't consider their actions dangerous, although they did think it was unwise for other drivers to text while behind the wheel.Why? Because only they - and not the other lowlifes - are Very Important Putzes.

Driving home the other night on a downtown street that was clogged with rush hour activity, the car in front of me had to constantly honk at the driver in front of him to move forward when the light turned green. I'm no NASA engineer nor a soothsayer, but my guess is that the snail-paced driver was repeatedly texting during the lull between light changes, thus making a slow commute even more painstaking and wince-inducing.

But raise your hand if you have ever glanced at your phone to read a text while sitting at a red light.

See? That's a lot of fingernails and I'll admit that mine is among them.

I don't know why we do it - we're not the Secretary of State, we're not keeping an entire medical team waiting while we rush to perform neurosurgery, and we will not perish without reading our pal's reply to our latest witty text.

So let's resolve to keep our corneas on the road and avoid being Very Important Putzes.

Trust me, some other VIPs (Very Important Pedestrians) will be forever grateful.

WRITE ALL ABOUT IT!

In case you're scrounging for gifts ideas, I read about some exotic new coffee-table books published just in time for the holidays, covering topics such as 17th century paintings of monkeys dressed up as humans; wild orchids; the Serengeti; castles; and steam.

I'm not dissing them. Actually, I'm in awe that someone had the dedication and scholarship to create an entire book about steam and then convinced a publisher that it could be a real hit with the reading public.

But I wish this list of gift books didn't cross my path on the very day I received my 2011 royalty check of $11 for "Tea, Sticky Buns and the Body of Christ: Postscripts from a Nursing Home," my book about taking care of my aging Dad that took three grueling years to finish.

True, I didn't set out to write this Baby Boomer memoir to make my fortune. But any writer who doesn't admit to having a few daydreams of appearing on the Oprah Show is just plain lying. I pictured me and O hitting it off, bonding over Cosmos at her penthouse apartment in Chicago, and me breaking down in ugly sobs after learning that my humble book has been selected for the Oprah Book Club.

Of course, my Oprah appearance never happened (and never will - QUITTER!) and have been encouraged by the occasional email from a reader who - THANK YOU LORD! - kinda sorta enjoyed the book. But still, eleven bucks isn't even a round-trip train ride during rush hour.

An English professor of mine in college used to say: "To be great artist, you must suffer." Back then, I wasn't quite sure what he meant - cramming for exams? - but when my skimpiest of checks arrived, I think I finally understood (not the great artist part, just the suffering...).

But I'm not gonna let it gnaw at me. I see authors hawking their books at food festivals, craft fairs, yard sales and keg parties, so maybe I'll just sprint onto that bandwagon, too. 

I'm going to sit right down and send Oprah a letter, because now she has an entire network of programs to fill and I'll give her one last chance to use me, USE ME!

And I'm also going to set a goal for 2012: This year, I'm hawking my book and I ain't stopping until my residual check soars well into the twenty-dollar territory.  

Silly (and Scawy) Wabbit...

So when the Philadelphia Sixers recently announced that they were ditching their sidekick Hip-Hop in search of a new mascot, the only sound you heard around town was: "WHAT THE HELL TOOK YA SO LONG?"

 

Just take a peek at that creature for a moment. Does he look like he hangs around basketball courts? He looks more like the type that hangs around vacant lots dealing illegal substances. Forget Freddy Krueger, put Hip-Hop at the end of long, dark alley if you want to terrify slasher movie audiences.

Plus, he's a rabbit, for God's sake, the symbol of Easter, fertility and batteries that last a really long time, none of which are automatically linked with Philly or with professional basketball.

The Sixers management wants the new team representative to have a Colonial theme to mesh with the city's historical image. They are working with Jim Henson's Creature Shop and Dave Raymond, the guy who was the Phillie Phanatic for many years, to develop an appropriate Hip-Hop replacement. Maybe those experts know if it took a while for people to warm up to Miss Piggy (a swine) or the Phanatic (let's face it, nobody knows exactly what he is - the lovable creature from the green lagoon?). However, I'd bet that very few men, women or children ever felt all warm and fuzzy about Hip-Hop. (Even though the guy inside of his mascot costume was probably both warm and fuzzy after a few hours of trying to entice the Philly crowd to cheer along with a giant synthetic hare.) I'm sure the Sixers conducted loads of market research regarding their furry mascot and I'm guessing that all of their findings could be summed up thusly: "WE HATE THAT DAMN RABBIT, GET RID OF IT, THAT !*@# THING SCARES THE LITTLE ONES AND MAKES MY GIRLFRIEND NERVOUS."

Of course, the National Basketball Association has bigger rabbits to fry these days, what with the strike almost over and their season still in limbo. It's hit everyone in the basketball world hard, including the hourly wage earning soda and popcorn vendors at the Wells Fargo Center and other arenas who have yet to work this season. But it's tough to feel pangs of sympathy for the multi-millionaire players when it's rumored that they'll earn less money if this contract goes through. (Maybe now they can feel a real bond with the terminated Hip-Hop and the currently unemployed popcorn sellers?)

Who knows, perhaps a new team mascot that mimics a 15th century Puritan will shake things up in Philly once the 76ers finally hit the boards.

The dictionary defines a mascot as "a person, animal or object adopted by a group as a symbolic figure, especially to bring them good luck."

And right about now, the Sixers - and every other team in the NBA - could definitely use an extra heaping helping of that.

THANKS, PAL!

Am I thankful this Thanksgiving? Absaflippinglutely. 

Thankful that I don't live in San Paulo, Brazil, where schools of flesh-eating piranhas popped up on a popular beach and bit 15 unsuspecting tourists. (Local authorities warned people that, if they were attacked, to get out of the water quickly and to "not allow the blood to spread." This struck me as a bizarre request. Do they think people will linger for one last swim after a piranha or two ripped open their flesh?)

Thankful that the big lump on my dog Sammy's face was not cancerous and, as the vet described it, just some  "fatty tissue." Hey, if I can get along in life with a little fatty tissue, so can she.

Thankful that I am not a cockeyed optimist, like the Occupy Philadelphia guy who stated: "I'm not leaving until every issue of every human on this planet is resolved." While I admire his energy and activism, I feel compelled to inform him: Ain't nevah gonna happen, dude. Pick a one or two issues to address, but don't pledge to wipe out every single injustice affecting every creature in the world - who do you think you are, the Dalai Lama? Settle down!

Thankful that I don't have to cook this holiday. (Bless you, sis.)

Thankful that, even though my dear old Mum died on a Thanksgiving Day, I do not let her passing taint the holiday. It's not that I'm so emotionally strong, it's because I can just hear Mommy Bones saying, "Oh, don't be so morbid" if I sat around and sulked on Turkey Day.

Mom always predicted that "better days are coming, DiDi" and darn it if she wasn't right.

And for that, I am incredibly thankful.