Packing Away Christmas

A somewhat bittersweet day, this first day of 2023, much of it was spent putting away Christmas décor. Leaving the lights up one more day, today was mostly about putting away my beloved Santas, wreaths, wall décor, stockings, a couple of small artificial trees and some tree decorations. 

Most of the bittersweet comes from a melancholy feeling that one never knows when this might be my last Christmas, Chuck’s and my last Christmas together, the last with this particular crew of dogs (Griff turns 14 April of this year, after all) or any other changes that may come around in 2023 that could possibly make next Christmas a very different one, a sadder one. 

Why the melancholy? I cannot help but think about my friend Valerie, who lost her 62-year-old husband David to illness this past September. She can’t bear the holidays, yet she is still participating in a small way, with her son and her father; but it is indeed a sad time for her. She told me that a year ago, during their last Christmas together, she had no idea it would be their last. 

I also think about my friend Carla, who I have been corresponding with via Facebook the past few days. She and I have been sharing fond memories of our Antioch (CA) days; high school and our time working together back in 1977-79 at the Campanil Cinema. Although it seems she has been enjoying her holiday season, she lost her own David, her brother, over 40 years ago, suddenly, in a car accident. It was mid-November, 1981. I was at San Jose State at the time, but I remember hearing the news and being devastated. Carla and her family’s lives were turned abruptly upside down. Although Carla and I haven’t discussed it in our conversations, David is in both our thoughts. As much joy as the holidays can bring, one cannot help but think about loved ones who are no longer with us.

You just never know. Putting away my Santas earlier today, I picture Chuck leaving everything boxed up next Christmas, should anything happen to me. My three kitchen Santas I have had for years, that earlier this month oversaw the making of tamales in my kitchen, would more than likely bring up too painful of memories. Dapper Santa, whom Chuck knows is a personal favorite of mine, more than likely would not get his due. The bedroom Santas would stay put away as well, all in good company of the other 20-or-so.

But enough negativity and what ifs; chances are good we will both still be here next December to start the whole process over again, which will more than likely include our huge holiday party. Let’s start 2023 with positive thoughts, with love, hope and optimism. I believe even people who have lost loved ones, whether recently or long ago, would encourage us to do so. 

Goodbye 2022

As 2022 winds down and the world braces itself for 2023 and all that it will bring, I find myself ensconced in a fog of gratitude. I use the term “fog,” as the gratitude isn’t always prevalent. After all, my body aches more often than not, especially my feet (apparent Plantar Fasciitis the culprit), my clothes fit a bit tighter from holiday indulgences, my to-do list is lengthy, unorganized, lacking order, all which add to my sense of anxiety.

As I write this, Ricki Lee Jones’ On Saturday Afternoons in 1963 plays on Spotify.

“…then again, years may go by…”

But the gratitude…

As Chuck walks by I pull him down to where I am seated, draw his face in and kiss him, and tell him how glad I am that he is in my life, that we love so many of the same things, including our pack of terriers all laying nearby. We love where we live, even though there are so many things about this house that need fixing (oh, yeah, that to-do list…where do we start?). 

Having just returned from Total Wines & More, we are stocked and ready for New Year’s Eve. We’ll order Chinese takeout from Hong Kong restaurant nearby. We are hoping the storm rolls in soon; it’s supposed to be a significant one. We both appreciate the coziness of our home even more when it’s rainy outside, although it sometimes entails more cleanup due to rain-shy dogs. We’ll deal. 

I am grateful that Chuck and I both have jobs we enjoy, although I can’t help but look forward to retirement at times. I am constantly reminded of my parents, who both worked at jobs they resented having to do. Truck driver Dad, and factory worker Mom, he died at his job, while she was severely injured at hers. Even on my worst day in Radio, I have nothing to complain about, in comparison. 

Not much when it comes to New Year’s resolutions, I wouldn’t mind making the exception this year by writing each day. Something. Anything. Just getting back into it like I used to during my “40 Days of Writing” phases years ago. After all, how am I ever going to write that book I have been contemplating (more on that, another time)?

I will make it all part of my Wired for Whimsy blog, only publishing on Facebook when I see fit. Yes, let’s do this. I would like to make some changes in 2023, and resurrecting my blog could be the start of some good things. 

Happy New Year. Welcome 2023. 

The Missed Anniversary

This was written on March 13th, 2022.

The anniversary of my mother’s death slipped by me this weekend. Last year I caught myself toward the end of the day of March 11^th, and took time to honor and post about it. This time, I should have been more on the ball, as it was the 10-year anniversary of her passing. Instead, I was busy driving up to Torrance to spend the weekend with one of my best friends, DIanne; my mind was on other things: wrapping up work stuff, then fun, food, cooking, yard sales, wine, great conversation and laughs, all with a friend I have known more than half of my life. 

I didn’t realize the faux pas until about fifteen minutes ago, as I am back home, out on my terrace, with a few of my dogs, a stack of magazines, a few good books and a glass of wine. When it hit me, I closed the book I was reading, took a deep breath, then started to cry. Out here on my terrace, surrounded by apartments where tenants could see me, I didn’t care. I messed up. Could my little brother be right, in his base for our estrangement a year after Mom’s passing, “I find you selfish, uninteresting and toxic?” 

How could I miss the 10-year anniversary of my mother’s death? How could I not automatically have that date on my calendar each year? At least then, I would have taken the time to toast her with Dianne this past Friday — one of the few friends who had actually met my mom; how bittersweet that would have been. Ten years. A decade. A milestone.

But I forgot. I was too busy living, having fun, and doing so many things my mother enjoyed while she was still here (especially yard sales). Suddenly I don’t feel like the terrible daughter, and considering how Mom never wanted us to wallow in sadness and pain, maybe this is exactly how the weekend was meant to play out. The anniversary of her passing came to mind as my fun weekend was winding down, me out here on the terrace — ironically the setting of the last photo she and I ever took together. 

Drying my tears, I feel she is with me, watching with love and pride, not judgement; her only disappointment being that I didn’t come away with any awesome deals at the yard sales.

Parking Lot Etiquette

The holidays can be a chaotic time at the malls, especially in parking lots. All of us have places to go and things to do. Please be respectful of other shoppers’ time by taking these parking lot etiquette rules into consideration.

1. When you know someone is waiting for your spot, please don’t just sit in your vehicle, dawdling, making phone calls, applying lipstick, etc. Try and hurry along as best you can. “Well, too bad; when I am parked there, it’s my spot,” only indicates your own orneriness and inconsideration. It’s not “your” parking space; it belongs to the shopping center.

2. If you and another driver come up on a car pulling out of a space, whoever puts their blinker on first, gets the spot. Be mindful that some parking aisles are one-way; if the other person is going in the wrong direction, you have the right of way, no matter who signals first. This can be tricky. Try to avoid any confrontation as best you can, and know when it’s best to simply relinquish the spot and find a different one.

3. Having your passenger jump out to run over and stand in a parking space to reserve it for you is unfair and dangerous. Don’t let desperation lead to ridiculousness. The “First come, first serve” rule in a parking lot applies in a vehicle, not on foot.

4. If you are dropping some purchases off at your car, but still have shopping to do, please politely signal to any driver waiting for your spot that you are not leaving yet. Although they may be disappointed, they will know not to waste time waiting for you, and they will move on. Ignoring them is rude, as it costs them time and adds to their frustration.

Although especially important during the holidays, these rules should apply all year, anywhere and anytime parking is at a premium.

Day 12 — Working like a Dog — 40 Days of Writing, Summer 2017

I was feeling extremely tired and sore last night, and for some reason, the Beatles song “Hard Day’s Night” kept running through my brain.

“…and I’ve been working like a dog.” Aside from helping to facilitate the second line into a rhyme “…sleeping like a log,” I have always been puzzled by this expression, so I looked it up. It simply means working very hard.

Aside from extracting peanut butter from a Kong applies, my dogs don’t really work, but there are plenty that do. There is a whole Working Group category in most dog shows, German Shepherds still reign where police dogs are concerned, and then of course there are the therapy dogs, like my Griffin, who “work” at bringing joy and comfort.

Back to police dogs, I had to chuckle one time while watching the news. A high speed chase had ended and the suspect had been pulled from the car and was laying handcuffed on the ground. A canine unit was nearby, and the officer was struggling somewhat to restrain his German Shepherd, who kept lunging toward the suspect. The news anchor commented, “…and as you can see, the police dog is anxious to get to work…” Fortunately — especially for the suspect — dog intervention proved unnecessary for that particular situation.

Working like a dog; I’ll admit that, at my age, it is a rarity that I do. Nothing too physical about my job, unless we’re talking vocal cords. So, why was I so tired last night? No idea. Perhaps I still hadn’t caught up on sleep from the previous night when I only got about three hours in.

Not sure where else to go with this. There is a lot on my mind.

 

 

Day 11 — Pavlovian II — 40 Days of Writing, Summer 2017

Tired of my dogs immediately demanding their evening snack the moment I walk in the door after my afternoon shift — which gets me home anywhere between 6:20 – 6:50 p.m., I developed a new strategy that keeps them from bugging me until I can get settled, start dinner and tend to any pre-dinner chores. A very simple formula, I simply set the alarm on my smart-phone for 7:00 p.m. which will alert them that it is officially time.

I started working on this Pavlovian method about six weeks ago, and it didn’t take long for them to get the idea — they are terriers, after all. Now it is rather endearing to see all four of my dogs immediately get into position in my kitchen the moment those first two notes of that sweet tune emit from my phone. I keep it playing during the brief feeding session (3 treats apiece, the girls are better at catching, while the guys need to have theirs handed to them). If Chuck is downstairs he will pause to enjoy the show, himself grooving to the tune.

Sometimes it’s the simple things.

Day 10 — Dogs and Chocolate — 40 Days of Writing, Summer 2017

People are always warning us about how chocolate can be fatal to dogs. If that was the case, I would have had at least three dogs succumb to such poison.

Around Christmas time 1993 a bowl of Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses disappeared off our coffee table at our home in Orange County. We knew it was an inside job, as we hadn’t had any guests that particular day. Each morsel was wrapped in either red, green or silver tinfoil, and you can bet the culprit(s) didn’t bother to unwrap each piece before devouring. At the time we didn’t know that chocolate was very bad for dogs. Since they roamed in a pretty tight pack, we figured all three of our Miniature Schnauzers must have partaken in the heist, with our craftiest, Winnie, more than likely the ringleader. We heard groaning from underneath the bed that night, so we assumed someone was experiencing the after-effects.

For the next couple days we picked up poop in our backyard that was flecked with the colorful tinfoil. I later joked with people that we could have hung those turds on the Christmas tree, they were so festive.

All three dogs lived through that experience with no necessary vet visit, but whether they learned anything was doubtful, so we made a point to keep anything like that out of their reach in the future.

A few years later, after our move to San Diego, the same trio of Schnauzers found $40 worth of See’s candy I had tucked into our closet. I was going to surprise Chuck with it Easter morning. We didn’t realize there was a problem until the boy, Clive, walked up to Chuck and dropped what looked like a doorknob at his feet. Chuck reached down to find a half-eaten Bordeaux Egg. Realizing what had happened, I raced to the closet to find half of the candy gone. The humorous part was that the box the egg had been packed in was still in one piece, not torn or eaten; it was if a dog had carefully opened the once-taped box and lifted out the egg.

The not-so-humorous part was that soon after, there was a virtual lake of diarrhea in our hallway. We called the vet and she informed us that, considering the type of chocolate, their symptoms probably wouldn’t get any worse than what we had already witnessed and cleaned up.  She did tell us to monitor the dogs’ behavior for the next day or so.

Massive amounts of chocolate can be fatal. The worst kind of chocolate for dogs is Baker’s chocolate; even just a bit can cause problems. Dark chocolate is next. Milk chocolate produces the least amount of harm, and fortunately in both cases, that was the majority of what they had eaten.

The size of the dog also comes into play. Although “Miniature,” our Schnauzers at the time ranged in weight of 22-28 pounds — and that had nothing to do with forbidden foods; they were just a little bigger than average, is all (we had met their biological parents).

People that go running to the vet after their dog devours a Snickers bar or a handful of chocolate peanuts are alarmists, and could save some money and stress with a little education. If you have a dog, read up on how much and what type of chocolate can harm them, before you find yourself in a questionable and potentially scary situation. No matter how careful we are, sometimes dogs get into things. Being informed ahead of time can save you a lot of angst.

Sure, it’s better to be safe than sorry, but Chuck and I can’t help but chuckle when people gasp at the prospect of a dog ingesting even a fragment of chocolate. “Chocolate is fatal to dogs!,” they exclaim, eyes wide with horror.

“Yeah, that’s because I almost killed those dogs after they broke into $40 worth of See’s candy years ago,” I laugh. I am in no way making light of a potentially fatal situation; I am simply putting people at ease should they ever find themselves in panic mode after their dog happens to take advantage of an unattended chocolate chip cookie.

We have had five other dogs since that first generation of Schnauzers back in the day. We have been extremely careful about keeping certain foods, especially chocolate, out of their reach, but I can almost assure you, each one of our dogs has at some point had chocolate in some form cross their taste buds. No side effects, however, and no emergency vet runs — or “runs” of any other kind, thank goodness.

We’re careful, but we’re not paranoid. Something serious happens to one of our dogs, and we are off to the emergency vet in a flash. In that case the last thing we need is to have to wait because an uneducated and drama-infused pet owner who got there first with their Labrador who chowed down on a handful of Peanut M & M’s.

Education and precaution. You, your pet and your wallet will all benefit.

Day 9 — In Limbo — 40 Days of Writing, Summer 2017

I make a point to visit the San Diego Humane Society on a weekly basis these days. I feel the need to rescue somebody, and we have room for another dog in our home, as long as it is around the same size of the dogs we have now.

I have only had one somewhat heartbreaking experience, and that was almost two weeks ago when I foolishly got my heart set on a Brussels Griffon/Terrier mix. The good news is he got adopted. The bad news is it wasn’t by me. I have to learn to not get my hopes up, and instead get into the mindset that if someone beat me to the punch, that is still one less dog in a shelter.

Sadly — and understandably — about half the dogs at the SDHS are Pit Bulls. The stigma attached to this unfortunate breed has led to  their situation mostly due to no fault of their own. As I pass through the aisles of cages I acknowledge the ones who stare out so forlornly, even speaking to some of them. “Aren’t you a pretty girl,” or “Hey, sweet boy,” but that is as far as it goes.

Some of the smaller dogs are boarded with other dogs of similar size and temperament. As I roamed the viewing halls this morning I noticed a very sad-looking tan terrier mix in a cage all alone. His info indicated he was about two years old, and had arrived there two days ago. My rescue instincts kicked in a bit, but I continued to wander down the other halls just to cover all bases.

Once I finished my rounds I gravitated back to #C684 to take another look. He hadn’t moved much, and continued to look very sad, confused and lonely.

I decided to inquire about the little fellow, and I found out that he wouldn’t be available for adoption until July 21st. There was already someone interested in him, but no guarantee that they would take him. If they didn’t, I would be next in line for consideration.  Regardless, I found myself filling out the familiar blue form with the usual questions, then waiting for my name to be called so they could put me in their database. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat somber and out of place.

Within five minutes I was called up, and the nice young woman behind the desk smiled and said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you the same Kelly Danek that does traffic on KSON?”

“Yes, that’s me,” my mood lifting,”and I don’t mind at all.”

She beamed and excitedly told me how much she and her mom loved KSON and how she couldn’t wait to tell her mom she had met me. We chatted a bit more about the station and the on-air personalities as she typed my info into her computer.

We chatted a bit more, and she gave me instructions on when I could call about the dog’s availability and what time I could visit if the other party chose not to take him. She also gave me a bit of background on how the dog got there; it turned out he was removed from a home and the owner taken to the hospital, but that was all she could tell me. I assumed that his situation may have something to do with having to wait until July 21st, in case a family member came forward to claim him instead.

Do I feel hopeful? Somewhat. Ambivalent? Perhaps for now, as I have not officially met this dog; I have only seen him through the bars of a kennel. Can this feeling of potentiality encompass my heart without setting myself up for disappointment? I think so. Do I feel proud that I have taken the first step in rescuing somebody that may very well enjoy the same advantages that our own Griffin experienced when we first brought him home over six years ago? (Who Rescued Whom?) Yes, but why am I now crying?

Because amid all the red tape, paperwork and uncertainty, a confused and dejected dog must wait — and he is in good company.

 

 

Day 8 — A Rescue After All — 40 Days of Writing, Summer 2017

There were three boys and one girl in the litter of Schnauzer puppies Chuck and I were interested in. Actually, we were interested in adopting the girl, but we hadn’t seen the litter yet. I spoke with the woman on the phone and she seemed in a hurry to adopt these pups out. “My brother-in-law is being a pain; it’s just not a good situation here, so I want these pups to go to good homes as soon as possible.”

Long story short, I checked out the litter, met the Miniature Schnauzer parents — the female was black, while the male was salt and pepper — and on Election Day 2008 (Obama would be our new president), I took “Mittens” home to meet Chuck and our other two dogs.  She had earned the name by her white-tipped front paws. We renamed her Maggie, but the paperwork we sent to the United Kennel Club (UKC) was “Smitten with Maggie’s Mittens.”

Our first meeting

Over the years there have been a handful of instances where Maggie would run off and hide in a secluded spot in our backyard. The first time was about four years ago. I didn’t realize she was missing until after my friend Jim left. I panicked, thinking perhaps she had gotten out. I called Chuck, and he came home from work. While I was starting to look up and down the street for Maggie, Chuck called me from inside the house and said he had found her hiding in her little “fort” out back.

It happened again less than a year later, while Chuck’s nephew Chris and his wife Angie were visiting. This time we knew right where to find her. What bothered us was that she was shivering nervously in her fort and we had to physically bring her back in.

We weren’t sure what to make of it; the only common denominator was that my friend Jim and our nephew Chris were both somewhat loud, and had similar inflections in their speech. But these men were gentle and respectful of all of our dogs, so what was the issue?

Then it dawned on me. I thought about her previous owner and how there was mention of a difficult brother-in-law. Could that brother-in-law have possessed the same boisterousness and speech pattern as Jim and Chris? More importantly, had he been abusive to the dogs in that house and/or the people? Was there just a lot of negative energy in that household, all stemming from that individual’s actions and words?

Maggie

I would never know, as I had not been in touch with Maggie’s previous owner for years. Part of me didn’t want to know. What I did know was that whatever was triggering Maggie’s small panic attacks and reclusion needed monitoring and remedying, whether it be anxiety meds or simply assuring her that no one was going to harm her.

Chris and Angie live in Arizona and don’t make it out to San Diego very often, but Jim is a frequent guest. Now when he comes to the house he makes a point to pet and maybe hold Maggie, speaking to her gently at first, just to put her at ease. Once Jim and I get to laughing I check to see that Maggie is still with us, and she usually is. If she disappears I usually know where to find her. Do we walk on eggshells after that? Not really; we just give her some gentle, reassuring strokes and continue our conversation and laughter.

A friend of mine, after hearing about Maggie’s issues and my speculation as to why, asked, “Animals really remember that stuff?”

“I’m almost certain that they do.”

I am all about rescue dogs these days, but back when I was purchasing Maggie from a litter, that wasn’t the case — or so I thought. As it turns out I probably was rescuing this puppy from a difficult, and possibly dangerous situation. All I can hope for is that her litter mates met the same good fortune as she, settling into loving homes where there was no fear of verbal or physical abuse, and where positive energy permeates their environment.

Shouldn’t that be what Home is about, for all of us?

 

 

 

 

Day 7 — Pavlovian — 40 Days of Writing, Summer 2017

I once knew a family who had a poodle that loved to sniff its own farts. Audible or not, once the fart was emitted, the dog’s nose would immediately gravitate toward its butt. Naturally hilarity would always ensue. To up the ante, now and then a family member or friend would make a fart noise just to watch in amusement as the dog would, in response, yet again sniff its own butt.

That is some cheap entertainment, in which everyone wins.