Sometimes, you have to do the right thing, even though it is the hard thing to do.
Monday night I cued up the post about "Pete" our new dog and detailed how adorable he is and how sweet and how he ran away.
He's all of that. but we are surrendering him back to the rescue group. Both the husband and I devastated.
Tuesday night, Pete got out again, this time as the husband was snaking through the door one leg at a time. And he took off with the same breakneck speed he exhibited on Saturday afternoon. Only this time or beloved Rocky (the top dog) followed Pete - and Rocky is trained not to go through the door.
E chased on foot and got Rocky when Rocky got scared at the busy arterial street at the end of our block. But Pete sped up. Undaunted and unaware. This time when the husbands legs gave out from running - he's had vascular surgery in the right leg) a neighbor just happened to come around the corner in her Jeep. They took off, headed in the direction of the freeway. They found Pete a mile+ from our house in a terrible neighborhood.
Twice in four days this dog has bolted. We had a problem beyond our capabilities - this dog is fast and this dog twice has run EAST. In the direction of railroad tracks, in the direction of the freeway.
We had to make the tough decision. We have to put his safety and the safety of Rocky first. We can't have this happen again.
We're surrendering him to the shelter tomorrow - he needs placed is a different home - one with a fully fenced back yard - something we can't provide.
Neither of us slept last night - the founder of the rescue group called us the most despicable things last night. She is a horrid woman. Luckily, the rescue group has a Board, otherwise we'd place him someplace else.
Both the husband and I have had dogs as family pets for a great number of years in our lives. But neither of us have encountered this type of will, or speed. And there was nothing to suggest that this was even something that could happen. His behavior with other dogs, in unfamiliar situations, everything was counter to this discovery.
So instead of celebrating, we are grieving.
Maybe in time we'll look again, but right now we're both too shaken. The emotional roller coaster will pull into the station tomorrow evening. But I profoundly miss my Pete. I hope they find him a good home and share the lessons we've learned.
Well boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, dudes and dudette's - I need to take a week or so off from the blog because we have a new baby in the house that needs my attention. We have a second dog!
We have adopted a rescue dog - a 1 year old half Chihuahua and Schipperke male and have named him Pete. He's underweight and a bit skittish so my goal for the coming week is to get some structure in his life and hopefully alleviate some of his stress.
Apparently - and we did not know this before we adopted him otherwise we wouldn't have picked him - for as cute as he is, Schipperke's are runners. And we loathe dogs that look for any opportunity to run. He's already broken loose once and as a result I have burns on the bottoms of feet from running at break neck speed across searing pavement on a 96 degree day. But we also loathe quitters, so we are committed to Pete.
I'll be back in a about a week, but I will que up Best of DHTiSH from last summer as a year has already passed and reruns are in order, anyway.
Wish us luck with the little darling. Pictures next week!
If it is possible that you have never seen this movie - find it and watch it. It is exactly what John Steinbeck would have written if he would have included overt sexuality and spanish fly in "Of Mice & Men".
See it: Joe Gage presents Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!When: 8:00PM, Monday, July 26 Where: IFC Center- 323 6th Ave at W. 3rd St.
Back in college – way back in 1983 - I lived in an apartment complex called Alhambra Court. Central Columbus is a Mecca for these aging structures that are essentially two buildings that run from the street back to the alley at the back of the property. In the middle of the two buildings was a lawn that the front porches faced. While some of the courts are two story townhouses, Alhambra Court was comprised of 36 flats – each building have an equal number of first and second floor units, each with their own private front doors. Mine was a second floor unit so I shared a second story porch with a grad student in English, one Carmine DiBiase, making it easy for us to socialize.
It was my neighbor Carmine’s idea to throw a party and use both units. A doctoral student in the English Department, Carmine figured taht the party would be in his place and then if the bathroom got busy the guests could hop the low railing and use my bathroom. He would invite his friends and I would invite mine.
One of the people that Carmine and I invited was a woman named Enid who had left her husband and her two teenage sons in my home town, to pursue a college career. I would see Enid at one of the campus watering holes and we would talk. Carmine was mesmerized by her, in the poetic sense. She dressed like Annie Hall and she danced under no dancing signs while live bands played. And Carmine – a heterosexual who loved exotic women found Enid’s brand of craziness to be exactly that – exotic.
The night of the party I was at Carmine’s cutting up vegetables for the crudités when there was a horrific sound down stairs at my front door. It was Enid. She was drunk, very drunk. And she was shrieking at the top of her voice, demanding Chicken Divan.
So Carmine hauled her up the stairs and she continued to demand Chicken Divan, claiming that I had promised it to her. I assured her that I had never made so much of an offer – as I had never made the dish – but having downed “a half bottle-o-Jack” she was soused and it was a fools errand to argue.
She had begun to dance in a fashion that reminded me of Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane, picking up he skirt and dipping and twirling to the music that Carmine was playing when she showed up. It was then, in one of the mid twirls that she saw “it” and direction of our evening took a turn for the worse: the bath tub.
All of the units of Alhambra Court featured claw foot bath tubs large enough for William Howard Taft, and when Enid saw the tub an audible gasp shattered the Maria Muldare mellow enveloping the room.
“Oh Darling Love!” cried Enid in utter ecstasy, “I so adore your bathtub!” She approached it in a reverent fashion, as if it were oracle that had just self generated. “May I come over sometime and bathe in it? It would be such a treat as I do so need to bathe and all I have is a shower!” she exclaimed as she clasped her hands to her bosom.
Carmine, always up for an exotic event, said “my God, but of course!”
Now the key words I heard were "May I come over sometime and bathe in it?". meaning that she could pick a date in the future and take her bath. Boy was I wrong, because what happened next was both unexpected, and truly shocking. With 30 guests due in 30 minutes, Enid began to disrobe. Her “sometime bath” had turned into an immediate need and within seconds I was treated to a flash of Enid’s vagina as she wiggled out of her clothing.
Now bear in mind, no pun intended, the only other up close and personal vagina I had ever seen was my mother’s on the way out into this world, and even then I was too upset for words - and spent some period of time screaming, so I am told. So when Enid flashed her vagina at me, without a care in the world on her part, it almost sent me off to the psychiatric ward. Of course, Carmine was simply enchanted by this moment Hollywoodlike scripting and enjoyed the show as much as I was appalled by it.
So I did what any newly out gay man would do – I want home to fret, and change clothing. I suppose if I smoked, I would have done that too. If I were Judy Garland, I would have taken some pills - but I'm not, so I didn't. Mind you I was young and this was the first big party that I had ever thrown, so for Enid to bathe at that moment meant chaos. I began to feel my (and not in the transitive sense) party was doomed.
Of course looking back on it, I was too young to have enjoyed the absurdity of the whole event. I mean, what gay man hasn't had a drunken woman in the bath tub when he’s about to the throw a party at sometime in his life? Turns out lots of gay men have drunk women in the bath tub at sometime or another, but this was a fact of life I would just have to learn on my own as it was covered in Homo Continuing Education. But my problem was that this was Enid, from my hometown, and she was old enough to be my mother. Had it been Audrey Hepburn, it would have been a different story. But this was ENID!
Well, after I changed, I went over to Carmine's and found Enid sobbing as her breasts were a bobbing. EVIDENTLY, this whole thing that set off the marathon drinking was that in one of Enid’s honors philosophy classes, there had been a discussion about whether or not man was born innocent and screwed things up on his own, or whether man was born with his fate sealed.
Either way, Enid was so overwhelmed at the futility of it all she began to drink, and when we cut the liquor off, then she needed another way to dull the pain. She decided to take a bath and return to the womb, so to speak. After about 25 minutes we were brave enough to hoist her out of the tube and hand her her clothes, which she put on sensing that something was about to begin.
With the worst behind us, the party could just go on and we would have a story to tell. That’s what we thought. We thought that with guests arriving that we could them watch her and we could have some fun. That’s what we thought.
About three hours into the party, my friend Sharon came over to me and said “Did you know someone was taking a bath?” I knew someone hadtaken a bath. But someone else was taking bath? Now? “And she’s weeping about the nature of mankind and its hopeless purpose.”
It was Enid. And she was very upset. And she was in the bathtub again. Her tears at this point were caused because a man we had not invited (and no idea who he was) had crashed the party, made goo-goo eyes at her, and rather than engage her in some intellectual exchange of ideas, instead leaned over and offered her a toke on a joint. Enid, the lover of life, the seeker of new experiences had encountered an experience that was too exotic for words and she needed to return to the womb.
"No one has ever asked me to smoke an illegal drug," she said as I sat on the toilet seat lid trying to get to the bottom of the issue at hand. In my sheltered life, no one had ever waved a joint in front of my face, and had they done so I would have declined and walked away. So that made two of us, but I wasn't Enid and I wasn't sobbing in the tub, either.
For the rest of the evening various people would go into the bathroom and chat with Enid. And at some point the plug was pulled on the drain because one of the guests was concerned that the poor woman’s lips were blue from lack of hot water as she kept draining the tank in the basement and it couldn’t keep up with her unrelenting demands. Someone got her dressed and a couple women who were PhD students said they would get her back to her honors dorm.
And that was the last that I saw Enid for many years as I tried to dodge her, and her irrational needs. I wasn’t equipped to deal with my own problems, let alone Enid's. And I was fairly successful for several years until one Saturday night when I was out with friends, one of which lived on the top floor of the Greystone Aprtments in the Short North.
Four stories high, and no elevator, we trudged up the metal fire escape one June Saturday evening and there was Enid, nude, sitting with a wooden bowl in her lap, filled with large buds of marijuana.
“Darling love!” She exclaimed upon seeing me. “How are you! I'm cleaning seeds from my buds. Let me get the pipe and we can pass it. We can remember the good times!” And into her apartment she went.
I didn’t wait – down the stairs I went, and at break neck speed. An Enid freaked by a joint was hard enough, but an Enid totally stoned and rambling on while opining about the nature of man and the world was an "exotic" expirience I was unprepared for. But it was the threat of her drifting off to take yet another bath, when some innocent new remark would upset her, that was an expirience that I was only able to endure once my life, my Darling Loves.
"...Every word she writes is a lie, including 'and' and 'the.'"
"I want every penny she has - every God damn cent."
The great Linda Ellerbee once said that "Ideas off the top of one's head are a lot like dandruff - small and flaky." In an appearance on the Dick Cavett show, Mary McCarthy let one such idea fly, and the resulting bug tussle that resulted from it would consume her and her target almost until their dying days.
If there was ever any love lost between Lillian Hellman (author of The Little Foxes, and the lover of Dashiell Hammett) and Mary McCarthy (author of The Group and sister of actor Kevin McCarthy), one would be hard pressed to know where to look for it. The two despised each other for years, but kept their feud to polite whispers with their confidants. That all changed when the literary critic and author quipped that every word that Hellman ever wrote was untrue, the litigious Lillian struck back with such ire that it rocked the literary world and caused the lions of publishing worlds to rush to take sides.
Hellman's poetic license was well known, but the animosity towards her simmered just beneath the surface. There was also residual anger towards her for her performance during the HUAC hearings for trying to make her time on the stand all about "her" instead of standing up for the rights of others.
So when McCarthy let that pearl drop, Hellman lived up to her name and sued - everyone involved. In addition to McCarthy, Lillian also named Cavett and PBS in the suit. Hellman wanted for $2.5 million dollars, an outragous amount of money back then, though in retrospect, and charmingly small sum by today's lawsuit standards. But she knew it would wipe out McCarthy, and Liliian was going for blood. When friends begged her to back down, she - in modern parlance - "defriended them". Never one to enjoy being left out of literary eye of controversy, even Norman Mailer threw himself into the spat, mugh to the annoyance of everyone.
What Hellman didn't plan on were McCarthy's will to fight the suit, and those who felt that Lillian had so re-engineered her past that she had no recollection of what was truth and what was the fiction of her life she peddled. In fact, the keen eyes of many were turned to Hellman's works, and by God they were only too eager to find inconsistencies between Hellman's coming and goings and how she wrote about them later in life.
Even the titled of her last great work, Pentimento was an unwitting witness to Hellman's willingness to adjust the facts to suit the true story. When the ink was signed for the film rights - Hellman insisted that the film bear a different name than the book. She knew that two many people would called it "Pimento", and then after time they would start to wonder what the title really meant.
The suit started in 1979 end five years later when Hellman died and her estate executors refused to pursue the matter. McCarthy died in 1989.
In the end, no one received the justice that they felt they were due. Hellman never ruined McCarthy financially and McCarthy never was able to prove in a court that Hellman was nothing more than a hack fiction writer.
Hellman scores big in that her name is the best known, as the questions around her fade. And it is to her benefit that she died before the rise of Oprah and the 24 News Cycle Mania that has enveloped our society. Had she lived she could have been the first author to appear before the Big "O" and defend her memories. Hell would have to freeze over for Hellman to admit fault.
McCarthy, on the other hand scores higher on the academic scale. never as popular in American culture, her finely honed eye for biting words are as respected as they are reliable.
But as far as quotable quotes - its McCarthy, over Hellman, in a knock out.
Lady Nancy Astor and Sir Winston Churchill enjoyed one of the more quotable relationships of the 20th Century. Astor, a native of Virginia, arrived in England a divorcee. To a woman of title in England who asked her if she had moved to the UK to take one of their husbands for her own. Nancy replied "Evidently you have not heard of the difficulty I had in ridding myself of my last husband." She married well, snagging Waldorf Astor, and later served in Parilment, was known for her searing observations.
As Astor grew older, her views became more extreme and out of touch even for her own fellow Torrie's in Parliament. It galled her that Churchill's aspirations played out, and she thus became a thorn in his side. Theirs was a relationship of formidable equals not for the weak of heart. In one of their encounters, and the midst of a heated discussion in the halls of Parliament, Churchill tried to excuse himself as he went into the rest room, and admonished Astor "not to be so bold as to follow (me) in an attempt to further the discussion." Replied Astor: "Winston, you flatter yourself; but you are simply not that attractive."
In their most often quoted encounter it was Churchill got the upper hand.
Lady Nancy Astor: "Winston, if you were my husband I would put poison in your tea."
Sir Winston Churchill: "Nancy, if I were your husband I would drink it."
Today I picked the pockets of two bloggers I admire to start a regular feature - "Have you met my step-mother?" From Thombeau, I have built upon his feature "Have you met our mother?" and from Donna Lethal, I snatched the image so evocative one (or multiple) of my step-mothers.
Since it would not be nice to single any one of them out, each photo will contain at least one attribute of at least one of step-mothers. This picture contains two elements - big ass high up in the air and the crooked seams on the cheap hose. Oh, I wonder were she is now.
When my mother and I last spoke on the subject of these women, my remarked about one, in particular, "she's as common as a cold."
I wouldn't let this man use my toilet, let alone choose the material for my sofa covers slipcovers.
Well since Mr. Peenee opened the can of worms, here's my rant.
In our house, if my husband isn't watching cartoons and the SyFy channel, then we're watching HGTV because I love to hiss at Suzanne Wong and her stable of unstable house hunters.
So HGTV has started "Season 4" of its "Design Star" - the highly touted, but contrived reality TVesque design competition to find the network's next STAR personality. And they make into this HUGE production because not only (presumably) can the person decorate BUT they have enough star power to carry the weight of their own show. Yeah, thats it.
The first year an aging but vapid Circuit Boi named David won the contest and was awarded with his own "show" called "Color Splash" Because they weren't so sure it would work, they mated him to a female (a first for Missy Bromstad, I'm sure)"minder" who was his "co-designer". Missy proved himself to be a big old girl and devised "designs" that reminded me of a seventh grader arranging furniture for their home ec classes. With every room, he added a personal touch - his "color splash! - one of his own "matches the sofa" painted "art" on par with my next door neighbor's seven year old.
How did they reward him?
He got a second season, but without the woman.
The second year, the contest was won by a black woman (but not too black) who was bubbly and fun. She got her own series but she didn't do anything very memorable and "Myles of Style" faded into the "B" rotation on HGTV.
So far we have a gay guy, and a black woman. Do we see a pattern? Who do you think they picked for Season 3? White woman. Do we remember her name? Nope. Do we remember her show? Nope. So much for "star power".
Season 4 however gave us something totally different. The final show comes down to another hot party boi named Dan (who unlike Missy Bromstad had a killer smile and a killer 8-pack) and a straight male artist who went to great care to dress like a roady for a rock band that would play on a stage in a bar behind a wire mesh guards. His name was named Antonio. ANTONIO! "Ooh, ANTONIO!" Vern Yip gushed. "Oh, Antonio!" the two other judges said. Since they already had a gay winner, they gave it to Antonio. Antonio was edgy! Antonio understood the world of rock music, Harley's and edgy design. Good bye pretty boy.
ANTONIO! He ain't no sissy.
Then HGTV started the commercials that asked "Are you ready for the Antonio Treatment" shot with scenes with him high fiving the guys, sitting back with a guitar and his love of air brushed murals. And that edgy design? Well, to showcase that immediatly they ran a special where Antonio gave his own home the "Antonio Treatment" His bedroom featured white walls, a RED accent wall (featuring an air brushed painting of a virago) black leather and dark oak. And the crowning glory for his living room - which must have been inspired by Robin Williams and Nathan Lane's sanitized living room from The Birdcage - was a Spanish throne, placed at the end of a table better suited to a monastary than a dinner party. If you had a stoner brother who was a metal head (or knew someone who had a brother who was a metal head) then you know what the EDGY means. It had all the charm of a 1970s customized van, minus the shag walls.
Oddly, these were the same types of rooms that HGTV's stable of real estate professionals of shows like "Get It Sold" would walk into and say "Do college kids live here? This is not a room that buyers would feel comfortable with; YUCK!" Sabrina Soto would have a literal kniption!
For weeks, HGTV kept demanding of us: "Are Your Ready For the Antonio Treatment?" And for weeks, my husband and I said "nope" and mute the volume.
And then, nothing. Not a peep. Nada. Not even da nada. And the date of his shows premiere comes and goes and not-a-promotion. Nothing.
Now by the time Design Star rolls around for another season, the previous season winner is on the air. and doing fine and where is Antonio?
According to HGTV's web site - they are "looking for people who would like the Antonio Treatment."
I''m just wondering what they have done with Antonio.
When casting directors for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory were searching for a young unknown to play "Charlie" the settled upon on Peter Ostrum from Ashley Road in Shaker Heights.
Ostrum, then a student at Mercer Elementary, was well supported by Gene Wilder and Jack Albertson. The movie perplexed the public and they weren't sure what to make of it. It was too mature for young children, and too childish for adults of the era. It enjoyed some success, but never became a real classic until baby boomer's began to age and were ready to deal with its edgy irony. Since it wasn't a success with the young crowd, young Ostrum wasn't really fodder for the Tiger Beat set. A recent poll listed him as the 78th most popular Teen Star of all time. Yah!
Upon his return to Byron in 1972 or 1973, there was a "buzz" in the air that lasted a couple hours. After students figured out that a movie star of "one" movie is not a MOVIE STAR, they started to treat Peter just as they did before, after all when you're in grades seven, eight and nine, there are other important things going on your life.
In one legendary incident, Ostrum reached out and "got fresh" Annie Heller. Annie clocked Ostrum. According to her sister Hetty, Annie decked him because he acted like he felt "entitled". Did he feel entitled? I don't know, I never got the chance to act as Hetty and I were still fourth graders at Mercer.
Annie's mother Ellen and my mother were best friends. So upon hearing this (Annie is about four years older than I am) I thought "Good for her!"
Shortly thereafter Peter was enrolled at University School - a private, expensive and legendary boys prep academy. Ashley Road actually abuts the U.S. grounds - so Peter merely had to cross Shelboure and Ashley Roads and there he was.
By the time I was carrying my Cleveland Press route, the Ostrum family had moved to Hunting Valley and Peter was long gone. The Merkatz family owned the house on Ashley and our brush with "Hollywood" had long since passed.
I am troubled by the following - should I be a style leader or a style follower?
Just sign me,
Unsure of What to Wear
Thank you so much for taking the time to ask my opinion on your predicament. What with the fashion industry, such as it is, always changing what one should be changing "into", I understand your question, and I have empathy for your quandary.
When I was young, it was very important for some people to fit in with other young people, and clothing - being an outwardly signal of personal (and even political) taste was one way of proving that one was "in the groove" and "with it".
I dare say though, in my youth the rules for proper attire were somewhat more structured than it is now.
For example, we dressed when going shopping because we were acutely aware of who we would see at Halle's or Sterling-Lindner. Today, a person wearing proper street attire would look totally out of place at Wal-Mart, where the rule of thumb seems to be to dress in man-made fabrics to demonstrate to their maximum strength and support of being able to hold back the damn of fat from a bad diet of cheese doodles and Mountain Dew.
However, your concern is not the cruel punishment of polyester, but which is better: to be on the forefront of fashion, to follow fashion, or to find a style that suits you and favor it.
My advice is find a happy medium of all three positions, and find those articles of good clothing that bridge the divide. A timeless suit, made of a good natural fiber will always provide you with a good basis for adding a bit of flair. A daring brooch or a bold scarf may be all you have comfort for. In my picture above, while I am wearing sedate colors, by summer suit is raw silk, and blouse is crisp and white for summer.
I do wish to add that it is always important that you dress for the season, and that you dress appropriately for your age. That is not say that as you grow more mature in years that you have license to become dowdy, but don't fall into the trap of my dear friend Murial Cunningham who hasn't learned that, simply because you could wear hot pants in the 1970s does not give you license to do wear them in your seventies.
Last week at work turned out to be a DUSEY, and not in a good way. And verily, as predicted, I may not have run screaming from the office like a crazy woman, but I would have given the chance, but I was too damn busy dealing other people's issues.
Caller: I can't get into my cash drawer
Me: Did you sign in?
Me: Well then sign in, please.
Caller: Well what do you know! It works!
Caller: My vault is out of balance.
Me: When was the last time you balanced it?
Caller: I never have.
Me: Then how do you know you are out of balance?
Caller: Should I count it?
Its taken all weekend for me to renew my IP address and myself. This week will be another firecracker. Things should get back to normal in about a week.
So today the husband I drove past a 1966 Buick Sport Wagon that I am thinking of buying - its is so tres cool and its in better shape than the Studebaker - and then we decided to run by the Giant Eagle and pick up stuff for dinner.
Well we walk into Giant Eagle and a 20something woman who glides in, cuts in front of us and I admire her shape, which is fit, and her summer jersey dress in light grey and there, just south of where her bottom would sit, is a dark wet spot, about four inches around.
So I do the gay chivlery thing and go up to her descretly and say, "I believe that you may wish to go to the ladies room - as there is something on the seat of your of your dress." She looks at me, trys to look behind her (you know those human heads - unless you are posessed a 180 degree range of motion just isn't within your abilities, no matter how many hours you spend in a Yoga class) smiles at me and say thank you, and off she goes and continues shopping as I had just told her a ggreat big lie.
Well its a big store, and you can only help the stupid so much. And we pass our friend Manager Dave who works there and manager Dave said "Did you see the..." And I said "Yes, and I tried to tell her and ..." "they never listen!" finished up Dave.
So I tried to do my good deed for the day. Bitch can't say that someone didn't warn her!