Imitation is the Highest Form of Flattery

First, I have a confession. For the greater part of the past three days, I have been reading http://www.thepioneerwoman.com/. I can't stop. I've tried. My laptop is burning up with the hours I've spent reading posts. Why is this? Why can't I stop? I have no life.

Now, back to imitation. I guess it is the highest form of flattery. I wish that I didn't do it so much. I have the most annoying habit of mimicking or imitating people that I'm around. I don't even have to be around you for a long time before I will pick up your speech patterns, hand movements, and facial expressions. Then, I will proceed to mimic you whenever it's my turn to speak. I don't know why I do this. It is sick. I wish I could stop. It makes others uncomfortable, and I feel like a ginormous idiot. I feel that way most of the time, so I guess that's why it's hard for me to stop mimicking others. If you have experienced this while talking with me, I apologize from the bottom of my dorky heart. Now, for a funny story about my mimicking abilities.

In high school, my bff got her driver's license way before I did. Thus, we were free to roam the dark streets of Snyder without much supervision. One of our favorite things to do was to eat at Polynesian Gardens, our local and only Chinese food restaurant. Now, you might think that a Chinese restaurant named "Polynesian Gardens" might not be authentic. You would be right; however, we didn't much consider it at the time. It felt very grown up to eat there and the food was unlike anything we had eaten before. There were two problems with Polynesian Gardens. One, it was outrageously expensive. The food was okay but not wonderful, but it cost me a lot of my allowance. So, I didn't get to eat there much. Second, the people who ran the restaurant spoke very little English, at least that I could tell. The woman who was the oldest of the few who waited on tables also spoke very loudly. I'm not sure if she had a hearing problem, or if she just liked to yell. Either way, it was very funny when she repeated your order back to you. I would say, "I would like chicken fried rice." She would say, at the top of her lungs, "You wahhnt chiKEN FRIII RIII?" Then she would go to the kitchen, back kick the swinging door and yell your order to the people within, again, at the top of her lungs.

As you may have guessed, I delighted in her accent and way of speaking. I even liked it when she back kicked the kitchen door. I would order lots of funny sounding menu items just to hear her say them. Then, I was struck by lightning. Just kidding. I developed my mimicking ability, or curse, as the case may be. So, one fateful evening, my bff and I went for a lovely dinner at Polynesian Gardens. At this time, I was unaware just how serious my mimicking ability had become. I soon found out. My bff ordered, and her order was repeated at 10,000 decibels. Then it was my turn. "What you wahhhnnt?" "Chi-KEN friiii riii," I said. Yes, you heard right. The restaurant suddenly got very quiet. The woman squinted at me, and then turned toward the kitchen. My bff was staring at me. "Dude (that's what we called each other throughout high school and even to this day), I can not believe you did that! She's going to spit in your food!" I was mortified and wanted to laugh hysterically at the same time. Our food came without incident, and I did not darken the door of Polynesian Gardens ever again. I did learn a lesson. Never mimic someone who controls food. Especially food I will be eating. Needless to say, as soon as my bff and I left the restaurant, we immediately cracked up. I think I laughed for three days straight. I still can't order fried rice without thinking about that fateful night.

I realize I have a problem. I continue to work on it each day. If you find yourself a victim of my unfortunate problem, I apologize. I, to, am human.

The Limits of Love or Do They Make Hazmat Suits in my Size?

I love my dogs. I really do. I love that they get so excited to see me. I love that they look at me as if I am a perfect human being. I love that they bark at strangers or the garbage man. I love them. Love can wear thin, however. It can be stretched to the breaking point. I do have my limit. My limit is poop.

After getting home in the wee hours of the morning, I let the dogs in the house so we could all get some rest. I thought, I can sleep past 5:30 since they've obviously been outside for a long time. They won't need to get up so early to "potty." My alarm awakened me at 7:15 to prepare for my glorious dentist appointment. As my eyes opened, my nose recognized that all-to-icky smell of dog poo. Wonderful. Lately, one of the dogs has been pooping on the rug in the dining nook. It's either Tula (the heeler) or Nigel (the schnauzer). Zen's poop is in a whole other category. It is EPA worthy. I have to stick cotton balls up my nose to deal with his poo. It's noxious, and nothing short of bleach can get the smell out of whatever it lands on. Anyway, back to 7:15 am. I knew that I had a problem. Dog poo from Zen and, as I discovered momentarily, another pile on the dining nook rug. This is not good. I have to go to the dentist, then the bank, and then I must have nap. So, I clean up the dining nook rug. No problem. I glance in the office, which is Zen's favorite place to poop. Piles of poo. Piles. I shut the door and stuff a towel underneath it to keep the smell from invading the house too much. Some of you might be thinking, it can't be that bad. Surely you are exaggerating. I would invite you over next time he has an accident and let you decide for yourself. Personally, I would rather pull out my own fingernails than smell it or clean it up. But maybe it's not that bad.

So, I go to the dentist. A painful experience. Then off to the bank. Feeling the effects of a late night, early morning, and noxious poo odors. Then my mom calls. Let's do lunch. Okay. Anything to put off the poo cleaning. As I leave the bank, I notice that the temperature is already blazing. That means I must clean the poo. The air conditioner intake vent is in the office. Either I clean the poo so I can use the a/c, or I don't and bake this afternoon. Such a dilemma. It actually took me about ten minutes to decide. Cleaning won.

Soon, with a cotton ball in each nostril, I attacked the office. Luckily, the poo was not on anything important, and it only took me 15 minutes. I have time for a quick nap before meeting my mom, but first, I must speak with the dogs. I called them all onto the back porch. I looked each of them squarely in the eye and began my lecture. "Dogs, please let me explain that poo does not belong in the house. It belongs in the backyard. Grass is much better for absorbing poo that carpet or a rug. No more poo in the house. If you must go, please wake me up. I'll let you out. I'll even let you back in, if you want. No more poo. I'm asking nicely." They looked at me with their sweet doggie eyes. They understand! They get it! They love me and will stop making me clean up their poo. My day is better already.

Until this morning. The dogs go out at 5:30. I go back to bed. Wait, what's that smell? NO! No, no, no!!! Another pile of poo! That's it! I'm setting up a camera and catching the dog responsible. This cannot go on! Is it too much to ask them not to poop in the house? I do have a really nice backyard that they can poop on to their hearts' content. I'll have to think about this. A solution is out there. In the meantime, I'm going to order a Hazmat suit. I think I'll need it.

A New Career

As I grabbed a shopping basket (yes we call them baskets or buggies in Texas) at Wal-Mart yesterday evening, I thought, maybe a new career is what I need. Why would I possibly want to give up my glorious career as a middle school librarian, you ask? Well, I have finally found my true calling, my one love, my purpose in life. What might that be? Shopping basket tester. That's right. My new career will be to test shopping baskets for structural integrity, i.e. do they roll properly.

You see, I have an absolutely uncanny knack for finding the baskets with the stuck wheel, lumpy wheel that clicks everytime it revolves, and the cart that can't go straight to save its life. Every time I go to a store where a basket is necessary, I invariable find the one that should be back in the basket shop getting repaired. How do I do this? I'm not sure. It must be a gift.

Ah, the joy of finding one of these baskets is, for me, a truly momentous occassion. I cry a little inside when it happens. Then I usually run into something with my basket that has a mind of its own. Or I alert then entire store to my presence by the insanely loud clicking issuing from one or more of the basket's wheels. Best of all, I love it when I can drag my basket through the store because of a stuck wheel.

Now, you might think that this job is for suckers. Not true. I have even tried to fix my baskets while in the store, free of charge. So the next poor soul who gets this basket won't face the humiliation I am so acustomed to, I don't even notice it any more. I'm not sure if they offer "basket fixing" as an honest trade yet, but I'm sure they will. What a great job. Pulling out plastic, trash, hair (ew) from the wheels of poor, mistreated baskets would be the higlight of my day. And the feeling I would get from knowing that no longer will rogue baskets be plowing into unsuspecting shoppers or displays would almost extinguish the shame of what I do for a living.

So, I'll be sending resumes out to those large stores who use shopping baskets. I must use my gift for good. Wish me luck!

Cats and Chimneys

My cat, Lucy, sometimes does not think of herself as a cat. She seems to feel that she should be afforded all rights and privileges of regular human beings. I've tried to explain to her that she is, indeed, a cat. I am just not getting through to her.

A few days ago, I noticed that I could hear a bird chirping very loudly in my house. Strange, I thought, that I can actually hear chirping and the beating of bird wings. I finally figured out that the sounds were coming from inside my chimney. That was sort of a relief because I did not want to try to hunt down a bird or birds inside my house.

Obviously, the chirping and feather rustling came the attention of my bird-eating cat. Yes, I frequently find bird feathers and sometimes little bird feet on my front porch. Ick. (I also wonder every time I see the pitiful remains, where is the rest of the bird? Does she eat the head, beak, etc.? I can't imagine trying to choke that down.) So, I opened my fireplace doors and poked my head in. Not too far, since I have a baseless fear of something/someone attacking me from my own chimney. My brain hasn't quite worked out how this attack might happen, but it knows it will. I hear the birds chirping, rustling, and almost sounding as if they are in distress. I'm not sure what to do at this point. I don't want to get on the roof. I can't crawl up the chimney. The chirping is LOUD! I did notice, however, that when I opened the fireplace doors, the chirping stopped for a little while. Ah, the easy solution. Make some noise every now and then to keep the birds from chirping. I can do this. So, all day I open and close the fireplace doors. The birds chirp a little, but nothing like before. I go to bed. No chirping. I can rest.

At 6:45, I hear loud, frantic, terrified chirping. It's bad. I think, oh my, did one of the birds fall down the chimney? Sleep prevents me from checking on the birds. In just a minute, my cat races into my bedroom and jumps on the bed. It's sort of light in my room, and I see she has something in her mouth. That's right. She has climbed up the chimney, gotten a baby bird, and brought it to me in bed. How sweet. How thoughtful. If only I felt the same way. I scream and jump out of bed. Lucy drops the bird on my dry-clean only comforter. The bird is not dead. It begins to cry out and flop around on my bed. Lucy grabs the bird again. I yell for her to drop it. I run for a towel to rescue the bird. Lucy grabs the bird again. All of us are yelling at this point. Lucy drops the bird, I make a grab for it. The bird is still flopping around, and I notice that it is bleeding. Yes, bleeding on my dry-clean only comforter. My anger mounts. Finally, the bird is safely in the towel. I go outside and put it in my hanging basket closest to the part of the house where the chimney is. Crisis over? No. I come back in the house to find my cat already in the fireplace going back for her second bird. She is nothing if not persistent. I yell, "Get out of there you stupid cat!" She whips around and stares at me as if to say, "What? I'm a cat, this is what we do." I grabbed her out of the fireplace and quickly shut the doors. Of course, Lucy believing she is actually human, takes great offense to this and runs back into my room. She proceeds to walk over my clean clothes that were on my bed with her sooty feet. What a way to start a morning. I couldn't have been more awake than if you had thrown a bucket of cold water on me.

Being so awake I could solve world hunger, I eat breakfast. Oatmeal and tea, yum. Lucy keeps stalking the fireplace, peering in the doors and cocking her head to listen for chirping. The birds have wisely shut up. I feed the dogs, who were already outside when this drama began. Everyone is happy except the cat. She has begun meowing at the fireplace. This goes on all day. I can't bear to look at my bed and see the feathers and blood. Finally, I have to clean it up. I thought about getting my comforter cleaned. Then, I got out the OxyClean. Amazingly, it worked. All of the blood came out. I dustbusted the feathers, washed the sheets, and washed the clean clothes on the bed. I could forget the whole thing happened if only my cat would stop looking into the fireplace several times a day to check for birds.

She hasnt' given up. She knows the birds are there. I haven't heard them, and I'm not checking. Every now and then she will go to the fireplace, look at me, and meow. A meow that says, "Please, I beg you, let me go. I will only take one bird. I promise. I just want to check. It will only take a minute." How do I know that is what her meow is saying? She meows all the time and has basically trained me to meet her every need, desire, and whim. I never thought a cat would have this much control over me. How did this happen? Am I the one to blame? The dogs don't act like this.

In conclusion, I hope the birds have learned their lesson. My house and yard are not safe. I will not always be around to save them. Build your nests somewhere else. Please, I beg you.

Writing from a Non-Writer

I've never thought of myself as a writer, but now, at 30, maybe it's time I put my thoughts into words. Who knows if it will be readable or even enjoyable, but I want to try. So, first, a bit about me. I'm newly single, newly 30, work as a librarian, and have four pets. Yes, I said four pets. I never anticipated having four pets, but alas, now I do.

Lucy is my crazy cat. She is almost nine years old, but she acts like a kitten most of the time. She insists one sleeping near me, and she absolutely hates the dogs. She also meows at me as if I can understand her perfectly. Oddly enough, I sometimes do. Zen is my yellow lab. He is the perfect epitome of his name. He takes everything in stride. He only gets excited about walks, food, and coming in to the cool house. Currently, he is a little on the hefty side, but we are working on that. Tula is my blue heeler with way too much energy. She is eating everything in my backyard. She adores Zen and wants to be friends with Lucy, but that will never happen. Tula is a very happy dog and will lick you to death if you let her. Nigel is the newest addition. I don't know how long I will get to keep him, but I love him already. He is a schnauzer, I think. I rescued him from my neighbors who thought that leaving him outside in the 95+degree heat was okay. He had no food or water. I couldn't not rescue him. He is great. Zen and Tula have accepted him, and all seems well in the Collins household.

My pets are such a big part of my life now. I was married for nine years, and now that I'm not, it still feels weird that no other human lives in my home. Luckily, my family and friends have been my support during this trying time. I am absolutely blessed to have them in my life. Lots of things have happened to me in the last year and a half that have made me take a good, long look at my life. I've decided that while I'm stronger than I ever thought, life doesn't always care if you are strong enough. God does care. He cares about me more than I thought. His love for me is overwhelming sometimes, and I see it everyday. He has taken care of me and looked out for me. In November 2007, I was hit by a car and had to have my hip rebuilt. I'm back to normal now, so to speak. The accident, along with my divorce, was something I never anticipated. Now, I look back and see how God was working in my life. He still is, and for that, I am so grateful.

For those that know me, my life is sometimes crazy, sometimes serious, and mostly funny. I have lots of stories to tell, and I'm looking forward to sharing them.