A couple months ago, the "25 random things about me" meme was all over Facebook. Users were to publish 25 facts about themselves and tag 25 people. The 25 tag-ees were then to publish their 25 random facts, re-tag the tagger and 24 others, and on it goes. Spread like a virus.
As is characteristic, I missed the boat on this little fad. By the time I thought I had scratched together a passable collection of random facts, the thing was over. And really, I think I was hung up around 23 or 24.
So reproduced below, in expanded format, is the first of a few of the random observations I thunk up before abandoning the project altogether.
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My greatest music-related guilty pleasure: On long solo drives, especially in the summer, I dig out a couple CDs loaded with country songs from when I was a kid and sing along.
My country listening started in the early '90s and fizzled late in the same decade. I tuned out right around the time Faith Hill started showing up on top-40 stations; for whatever reason, "crossover" country was a deal-breaker for me. But for a few years there, it didn't get any better than Reba McEntire and Garth Brooks.
That stuff does not age well, though. Looking back, I can safely say that if anyone tries to tell you country's not all about drinkin' and cheatin', they're in denial. Songs I actually have in my collection include "Bubba Shot the Jukebox," "Jukebox with a Country Song," and "Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox" - and that's not the only theme. Whiskey is also big. Also rain, rodeos, and saying goodbye.
A focus on place is also heavily recurrent. Georgia, Austin, Arizona, Carolina, and Little Rock (twice) are among those represented in my playlist, and that's just the song titles. What is it that's so evocative about a dirt road, a muddy river, a slow train, or a small town?
It's an idealization of the American dream. A simpler time and place. A simpler way of life. Where everybody knows your name. How many of the people who identify with those places in song would be mind-numbingly bored by them in reality? But only the Dixie Chicks, in "Wide Open Spaces," sing about heading to the big city without attaching any consequences to it.
And despite my derision, the place theme is a big part of my nostalgia for the genre. An open road, man. Falling in love. Maybe it was Memphis. Porch swings. Hot summer nights. Maybe my nostalgia is actually for all the trouble I didn't get into around porch swings and muddy rivers when such things were right there in my backyard for the taking.
Or maybe, more simply, I'm just getting old and like to listen to stuff I already know the words to and can sing along with...on an open road...with the windows down...on the backroads of Indiana, on my way back home...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Problem Child
Sometimes I think I give Annie a little less credit than she deserves.
Yesterday in PetSmart, where we got our regular mani/pedi, a sales associate asked her age and seemed surprised when I said she's about a year and a half.
Usually, this reaction comes because the inquirer has assumed she's only about half-grown – she has an eternally youthful look about her, I guess. But the sales associate instead commented on how well-behaved she was, presumably for someone with as much puppy left in her.
I gave a little "Pfft! Who, my dog?" expression of incredulity and proceeded to tell her just how mistaken she was, gushing about how much of a different animal Annie is without this Gentle Leader collar on, etc., etc.
But later on, I got to thinking about it. I'm certainly used to being the mother of a poorly-behaved dog, and she did promptly jump up and put her paws on said sales associate after being complimented for her behavior, and she was a bit squirmy during the nail trim and file.
Around the house, though – and really just in general – she's showing me in little ways that she's learning to live in our world more and more. And with that, we're also learning more and more how to live with her in our world.
Annie was not an apartment dog. That's well-established. Despite our best efforts, she was having potty incidents at a rate of once or twice a week. She gave her share of impolite greetings to the neighborhood kids. And, presumably because she figured the whole complex was her territory, unsuspecting strangers were often subjected to a high-alert warning bark during the course of a regular walk or potty break.
Now, though, it seems that a few months' maturity and a few hundred extra square feet of indoor space has been the medicine she needed. Whether it's the added space for running (or, more accurately, chasing the cat), the easier and speedier potty breaks in a designated space, the quieter surroundings, happier owners, or all of the above combined, she seems to be growing day by day into a more contented, less mischievous animal.
It doesn't hurt that, on those occasions when she is mischievous, we're getting a better idea of how to get the result we want. The key, really, is to work with her rather than against her. I've come to the conclusion that she's never going to learn what she is and is not supposed to get into. She's never going to be like my mom's dog, Sally, who can inherently tell an intended dog toy from, say, her owner's glasses or retainer (or dryer sheets, or wallet, or iPod, or cat poop – the list goes on). When Annie grabs a sock out of the laundry basket and trots past me with her ears perked up, she's not being "bad" – she wants to play. Rather than yelling and trying to chase her down, I find it's most effective to cheerfully ask her to bring it over, just as I would when she has a toy she wants me to throw for her, and unceremoniously take it from her and put it away.
Maybe it's because I'm old, but there's something therapeutic about having this little mutt around. Something comforting about waking up weekdays in the fetal position because the dog is stretched out across two-thirds of the bed, or on weekends being woken way too early by a stare I can feel with my eyes closed because she wants to do business and eat breakfast NOW, only to go right back to bed and sleep for three or four hours. Something heartwarming about being greeted every time I walk through the door by a 35-pound animal that springs three feet off the ground to try to kiss my face. Something adorable about the knowledge that at any moment, she might barrel around the corner and bowl the cat over and chase him to the top of the fridge.
Yeah, no – she's still a bad dog.
Yesterday in PetSmart, where we got our regular mani/pedi, a sales associate asked her age and seemed surprised when I said she's about a year and a half.
Usually, this reaction comes because the inquirer has assumed she's only about half-grown – she has an eternally youthful look about her, I guess. But the sales associate instead commented on how well-behaved she was, presumably for someone with as much puppy left in her.
I gave a little "Pfft! Who, my dog?" expression of incredulity and proceeded to tell her just how mistaken she was, gushing about how much of a different animal Annie is without this Gentle Leader collar on, etc., etc.
But later on, I got to thinking about it. I'm certainly used to being the mother of a poorly-behaved dog, and she did promptly jump up and put her paws on said sales associate after being complimented for her behavior, and she was a bit squirmy during the nail trim and file.
Around the house, though – and really just in general – she's showing me in little ways that she's learning to live in our world more and more. And with that, we're also learning more and more how to live with her in our world.
Annie was not an apartment dog. That's well-established. Despite our best efforts, she was having potty incidents at a rate of once or twice a week. She gave her share of impolite greetings to the neighborhood kids. And, presumably because she figured the whole complex was her territory, unsuspecting strangers were often subjected to a high-alert warning bark during the course of a regular walk or potty break.
Now, though, it seems that a few months' maturity and a few hundred extra square feet of indoor space has been the medicine she needed. Whether it's the added space for running (or, more accurately, chasing the cat), the easier and speedier potty breaks in a designated space, the quieter surroundings, happier owners, or all of the above combined, she seems to be growing day by day into a more contented, less mischievous animal.
It doesn't hurt that, on those occasions when she is mischievous, we're getting a better idea of how to get the result we want. The key, really, is to work with her rather than against her. I've come to the conclusion that she's never going to learn what she is and is not supposed to get into. She's never going to be like my mom's dog, Sally, who can inherently tell an intended dog toy from, say, her owner's glasses or retainer (or dryer sheets, or wallet, or iPod, or cat poop – the list goes on). When Annie grabs a sock out of the laundry basket and trots past me with her ears perked up, she's not being "bad" – she wants to play. Rather than yelling and trying to chase her down, I find it's most effective to cheerfully ask her to bring it over, just as I would when she has a toy she wants me to throw for her, and unceremoniously take it from her and put it away.
Maybe it's because I'm old, but there's something therapeutic about having this little mutt around. Something comforting about waking up weekdays in the fetal position because the dog is stretched out across two-thirds of the bed, or on weekends being woken way too early by a stare I can feel with my eyes closed because she wants to do business and eat breakfast NOW, only to go right back to bed and sleep for three or four hours. Something heartwarming about being greeted every time I walk through the door by a 35-pound animal that springs three feet off the ground to try to kiss my face. Something adorable about the knowledge that at any moment, she might barrel around the corner and bowl the cat over and chase him to the top of the fridge.
Yeah, no – she's still a bad dog.
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