Hear, Hear!

I've noticed something over the years: the numbers of hearing-impaired people. Now, don't get all politically-correct on me; I'm not talking about those who would be helped by hearing aids or who grew up signing. I mean those who choose not to hear.

Example: Several weeks ago, I decided to have a yard sale. Simple enough. There were things in the house that really weren't needed, so I figured why not pick up a few bucks?

Saturday morning, several of us dragged stuff out, put them on tables, and a couple of signs were posted on a busy road to point people toward the sale. At the last minute, I brought out three large framed photos, figuring someone just might buy them. I'd had the photos blown up and framed a year ago for a show that ended up canceled. (Long story, don't ask...) But I figured that maybe I could recoup at least the money I'd spent to frame 'em.

A friend of mine stopped by around eleven and we yakked up a storm until around one. Just before he left, two cars pulled up to the yard sale. The first car held another photographer and spouse, the other, a single person who seemed a little sleep deprived. Photog. and I talked about photography, framing, cost of such, etc, while the sleep-deprived person looked around, finally spotting the photos.

"Wow," S.D. exclaimed. "These are beautiful! How much?"

I mentioned I'd put two-fifty into each photo, then added with a smile, "And that's not $2.50," and that I'd like to at least get my money back.

S.D. looked over the prints before stating, "I'll take that one and that one," pointing to two of the three.

Photog. and I looked at each other, dumb-founded. Recovering, I stated, "Great. That'll be $500."

S.D. stopped, stared, and fairly yelled, "Five hundred dollars?!? Five hundred dollars?!? What a rip-off!" before stomping off to the car and driving off. Photog. and spouse wandered off, shaking their heads.

Okay, so S.D. might not have heard the "not $2.50" disclaimer, and setting the photos out at a yard sale probably wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but still...

Another example of selective deafness: An acquaintence called one afternoon as I was going through a week's worth of newspapers before taking them to the recycling bin. When Acquaintence asked what I was doing, I told her about the papers. (It had been a very hectic week.)

After several minutes of chit-chat, I ran across my nephew's obit. I had had no contact with him since before my brother had died seven or eight months earlier (it's a very long story), but it was still a shock to see his name in the obits. I mean, he was 25 years old and had died in his sleep.

"Oh, no!" I said, shocked.

"What?" A. asked. I told her what I'd just discovered, nephew's age, etc. There was a slight pause before A. said in what I thought was sympathy, "Oh, wow!" Then, a split second later, "My cats are driving me nuts."

Huh? I thought. I mention that I just discovered that my 25-year-old nephew - the only offspring of my dead brother - has died, and the only thing A. can say is that the cats are working a last nerve? "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, they've been driving me nuts for the past ten minutes."

So glad we have our priorities straight...And to think I was actually more distressed about my nephew's death than cats and nerves...

And finally, the best selective deafness example of all: Several years ago, a very close relative died. Two weeks later, two hospital bills arrived, totalling $1,500. As the executor, I called the billing number and got someone on the phone.

"I'd like to discuss my late relative's bill."

Sure, I was told. And your late relative's name and patient number? Gave the name of the deceased, the patient number, then listened as I was told that because of HIPPA laws, the person I was speaking with could not talk to me without the relative's permission. "Well, I'm the executor of the estate, and since so-and-so is dead, you'll have to deal with me."

Okay, I was told. So, what do you need? I explained that I could send along $10 a month until the bill was paid, at which point I was told, Sorry, best we can do is in two installments of $750.

"Okay, I'll send the bills to the lawyer." That got her attention. Lawyer? What do you need a lawyer for? When I reiterated the person being billed was dead, the woman asked, astonished, "Dead? You mean, like, dead?"

Hmmm...what part of "late relative," "executor of the estate," and "deceased" hadn't she understood? The bill was written off...but I wonder who paid for her new hearing aids?

I'm sure I've run across many other examples of selective deafness, but I really wasn't paying attention...Just saying...

Why am I the only normal one in my family? And why does everyone laugh when I ask that...?

It's been one of those Saturdays...I'd planned to have the house completely cleaned, and yet, at 4:44 p.m., I've managed to get some laundry and the dishes done. That's it. Oh, okay, I did go to the nearest CVS with one of my sons to buy a gallon of milk and some eggs, but other than that, I have gotten very little done. Yup, one of those Saturdays.

But I have noticed something...the people I live with are a little, um, odd, shall we say. The fact that they are two of my four offspring, and that they swear that their quirkiness is genetic, having gotten it from you-know-who (and not their dad), might be a little telling. I have been known to ask, "Why am I the only normal person in this family?" only to hear laughter and refrains of, "Yeah, right!"

So, this afternoon, after M. and I walked to CVS and back, he and his brother started talking about diphthongs, along the lines of, "You know what words sound weird?"

Diphthong was one of those words; the ensuing conversation went along the lines of, "Diphthong? Do you know how obscene that sounds?"

"Obscene it and I don't believe it, but please, keep your diphthong to yourself!"

It got stranger from there, the parting shot coming from M., who was on his way to his room to read when he stated, "I've come up with a great title for a horror book." What is it? I wanted to know. "The Despicable Dipstick and the Diphthong of death." I rolled my eyes as his brother informed him that that sounded weird.

Also, J. has a way of hearing a voice once and being able to mimic it perfectly. If the words hobble or wobble come up in conversation (which, believe me, they can on a daily basis, even if it's in a contrived way), J.'ll come up with a dead-on Edward G. Robinson voice and say, "Hobble, see? Wobble, see?"

Their conversations today have been, for the most part, as quirky as that, but then, truth be told, it's like that a lot. I still maintain that, while I'm a writer, photographer, artist, and former stand-up comedian, I'm still the most normal person in the family.

Don't laugh!

Saturday rituals

It's saturday, the last one in October. Not that the month necessarily matters. Saturdays are saturdays, and, as with other days/months or every other way to measure time, its own rhythms and rituals.

"Rituals?" you might be thinking. "For a saturday?"

Yes. Think about it: if you have a weekday job, then weekends are for other things than working. My neighbor lives for yard work, which he has done for years, starting with Saturday mornings and not quitting until Sunday afternoon. Other men of a certain age, status or inclination, hit the golf course. Women might get the washer and dryer going for the big laundry of the week, garden, or other housekeeping or relaxation. (Believe me - housekeeping is not relaxtion, unless someone enjoys it.) Kids, freed from the restraints of school, might sleep in.

But the punchline is that yes, there are rituals associated with different days.

One of mine is an occasional bubble bath. (Okay, way too much info, right? You relax your way, I'll relax mine.) It might be moved to Sunday mornings, but when I do decide to relax this way, it's almost always on a Saturday morning.

I'd lived in this house for several years before getting into the routine. Then, after a very stressful week, a friend mentioned that it might help me relax without costing a small fortune. (The same male friend had me over for dinner a few evenings later, showing me around his half of the duplex he rented, fixing a huge pot of spaghetti and pork chops. I didn't bother telling him that I was a beginning vegetarian; if someone fixes you dinner in an effort to be nice when you're having a rough time, it's best to eat what he or she is fixing, unless there are underlying health reasons not to. Just saying...Afterwards, we listened to tapes and records, mainly Rolling Stones and Bob Seger, which we danced around to. Let's just say that whenever I see pictures of Kokopelli, the "mystical Anasazi flute player (http://www.kokopelli.com/)," I think of Dennis, as that was how he danced, sort-of bent over, but with a kind-of mystical joy.)

Anyway, someone had left several bottles of bubble bath at my place, saying that she had no plans to use them, and they were mine to use or pass along. A hot bubble bath did seem in order - the first one in this house, though I'd lived here for almost three years - so I ran the hottest water I could stand and dumped an almost obscene amount of bubble bath into the water.

Now, instead of doing this on a random evening, it's Saturday morning. I used to run it just as the Women's Show on WMNF started on Saturday mornings, the radio plugged into the wall socket across the bathroom.

(The Women's Show is now relegated from 3:00 - 4:00 p.m. on Thursdays, as opposed to the two-hour slot it once held. An unrepentant feminist, I still listen...) (For those who don't live in the Tampa Bay area, and who are therefore unable to tune to 88.5 on the FM dial, you can hear 'MNF at .)

I still grab my glasses, a set of OTC readers, the latest Ms. Magazine and the latest issue or two of Vegetarian Times and veg out in the steamy, blubbly tub. Sometimes, Drexie Calabah, one of my two cats, pushes her way into the bathroom. I'm not sure if she wants to hang out with me or enjoy the sauna effect in the small room.

By the time I'm done soaking and washing (except for my hair; that requires turning the shower on at the end, since my hair is too long for washing in the bath), I usually sink into the tub, almost up to my ears, listening to the bubbles bursting, sounding similar to a bowl of Rice Krispies. Then, water out, showered off, hair washed, I head out wearing my most comfortable jeans and tee-shirt to fix French toast.

Happy Saturday...

Octobers haven't always been rough...

Octobers are rough. Mind you, they weren't always that way. I mean, what's not to love? My birthday falls in October, as does Halloween, the air is finally cooling off, even here in Florida, the holidays are right around the corner, and the kids have finally settled into their school routines to start bickering about the homework.

But then, there's the rest of it: six years ago today, Paul, the love of my life, died. There, I said it. Also, my step-mom died in October, too, two years after Paul. Phyllis and I used to kid over the phone that we must be doing something wrong, since we got along so well.

Paul's death was the first in a string of deaths - the second, if you count Osha - and Phyllis was the last.

Two years ago, I won a lawsuit against those responsible for Paul's death, and got enough money that should have been life-changing, and it was, for a while. Even last year, there was still enough money left to at least ease through an otherwise rough month, between the anniversary of Paul's death and a cancer scare.

But this year, things are a little tight. It could be worse, I suppose: I'm working on a documentary, am trying to build a small business, things should pick up.

But sometimes, it's hard to remember that things are picking up when the anniversary comes up.

Tomorrow should be better...

I've gone to the cats...

When it comes to pets, most people - at least, here in the U.S. - are in one of two camps: dog people or cat people. Yes, there are people who love and own other animals: horses, birds, fish, lizards and snakes...But narrow it down to cats and dogs, animal lovers tend to take sides.

"I've always been a dog person," or "I'd much rather have cats than dogs; they're so much easier!"

I've always thought of myself as a dog person. Sure, we had both types of pets while I was a kid. But dogs were so much more appealing, especially the larger breeds. Irish setters? Love 'em, all that longish red fur and exuberance. German Shepherds? Smart dogs, good protection. But cats? Too independent.

What kind of pets do I have? Two cats, no dogs.

We had a dog when my kids were young, a beautiful, ditzy Cocker Spaniel named Osha. No, not pronounced like the acronym for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, but like the kids' clothing company: Osha, B'Gosha!

Osha could play deaf when it suited her; accidently let her escape out the front door, and she'd wander around the yard, sniffing good smells, while I'd call her. "Osha! C'mere, Osha! Want a treat?" Nothing! But let a car door open, she was there right now!

When Osha was almost 6, my oldest son gave me a cat. He informed he he'd named her Soak (pronounced So-ack), which, he told me, was Kaos backwards. "But feel free to change her name," he said as he handed over the little black ball of fluff. I was leaning toward naming her Ybor, since Jason had picked her up in the Ybor City section of Tampa. Soak/Ybor cried pitifully.

It was maybe two weeks before Christmas, and our Christmas tree was up. That first night, I showed Ybor - Ebbes - where her water, food, and litter box were. Once I knew she was comfortable with these, I brought Osha into my room (didn't want any fights) and went to bed.

Five minutes later, there was a loud Crash! from the living room. Hurrying out, I discovered our 6-foot tree on its side, a very startled kitten clinging to the top limbs. I swear, she had a look that said, "I don't know how that happened! I was just climbing this big thing and wham!"

So I picked up Ebbs, righted the tree, straightened out a few ornaments, and headed back to bed. Five minutes later, the same scenario. By the third time it happened, I'd had enough. Cat out of tree, tree up, then cat, food, water and litter box into the bathroom with the door shut.

The tree remained upright the rest of the night. The new roll of toilet paper hanging from the wall, though, was somewhat worse for wear.

By 2006, a 16-year-old Osha died; a year later, E. B. (her name mutated from Ybor to Ebbes to E. B. White) died, too, of what was, I'm sure, a broken heart.

Several weeks before she died, my friend Kevin informed me that he knew someone whose cat had kittens. "One of them hasn't been claimed yet," he told me. "I told Billie that I'd bring the little guy to you when he's old enough."

"No way!" I didn't want any more animals. We'd already lost Osha and E. B.'s end was near. I didn't need any more animals.

"But he's your Karma!" Kev informed me.

"No!"

Kev gave me this look like I was some kind-of dense. "You're getting a cat," he said with an "and that's that!" tone of voice.

Several weeks later, after E. B. had already been cremated, I was on the phone with my son-in-law when I heard honking in my driveway. "Hold on," I told s.i.l. "This won't take long."

I opened the door and headed outside as Kevin was popping the trunk of his cab. "Hey, I got your cat here!" he called.

"Yeah, well, even you wouldn't put a cat in the trunk."

He gave me a look as he pulled out a litter box, cat litter, and a 4-pack of canned cat food. "Billie's got Karma. I just made sure I picked up the accutrements that go with a cat so you couldn't hand him back."

I glanced at Billie, who was riding shot-gun in the cab. She rolled down the window and held up another little black fluff-ball. Without thinking, I took Karma from her. He had the absolutely softess fur I'd ever felt. I rubbed my nose into his beautiful fur.

"Hey, Karma, how ya doing, little guy?"

Kev had already put the cat stuff on the front porch and was smiling as he passed me on his way to the cab. "See ya later."

I brought Karma inside and put him on the floor. He immediately started sniffing the rug, still ripe with E. B. smells. "Yes, Karma, this is a cat house," I said without thinking. Immediately, laughter came from the portable phone. I'd forgotten I was on the phone, and he'd heard the "cat house" remark!

I seriously considered changing Karma's name. My youngest suggested "Rupert-the-spastic-monkey-boy" after watching the rambunctious kitten tear through the house. Personally, I was leaning more toward naming the little guy "Kevin is so toast." Neither seemed like a suitable name, though. I mean, how can a person bring a tiny kitten to the vet's, only to have the vet tech inform the vet, "Ms. S. is here with Kevin Is So Toast." Nah...

We ended up with a second cat a month later to keep Kev - I mean, Karma - company. I named her Drexie Calabash, since my oldest son had 2 Drexies up in Tennessee. (It was either that or Kevin's idea of naming her Sutra; if I wasn't having my cat announced as Kevin Is So Toast, I definitely didn't want to show up with Karma and Sutra. Another idea was San Diego, since I was frequently asking, "Where in the house are Karm and..." My sons just rolled their eyes.)

We've had Karma and Drexie now for five years. They get along great, most of the time. They sleep with me...or I sleep with them, I'm not sure which. Their toys are strewn all over my (their) bed. I know if I were to pick up a couple of kitty beds, they'd probably look at the beds and wonder how I'd sleep in those tiny things.

As Kevin likes to point out, "There are three people living in that house, and two cats. Who runs the place?" to which I always respond, "The cats."

Another dang blog...

I find it rather amusing that I'm starting another blog. Why would I do such a thing? I have several blogs that I can no longer access for several reasons. Two were on another blog site - one (my first blog ever) was titled "Walking the dog, walking myself," or something to that effect. It dealt with going out for my daily walk/run, half of which were with my old cocker spaniel, Osha, the other half, dogless. I tracked the weather, how long the walk/run went, etc. Unfortunately, I left it alone long enough after Osha died that I could no longer access the blog. Somewhere, I have a printed copy of it. The other blog on that same site was started - signed up for, email address, password - then never used. Sigh. I have several blogs here on blogger (blogspot): two deal with journalistic endeavors, one deals with the death of my husband, and several were started, then never written on, etc. Then, there are my e-portfolio and my business website, both on weebly (http://rjshwedo.weebly.com and http://robinshwedoproductions.weebly.com, respectively). And finally, one on wordpress, dealing with work stuff (http://brainstorming4work.wordpress.com). The point is that all of these are for specific things: work, journalism, etc. Nothing for me to simply kick back and observe life around me. That's what this is for. Why "life in the left-hand lane"? For starters, I consider myself a liberal. Secondly, I have no intentions of going onto the exit ramp any time soon. Therefore, life in the left-hand lane. I have no idea where we'll be going, what or who we'll see, or what we'll find. So, sit down, strap yourself in, and enjoy the ride.