Are You Concerned For Your Pet's Soul?

Once upon a time, I was scanning Facebook when something caught my eye. It was a funny picture of a puppy wearing a scarf that said something like, "This is why we can't have nice things." Dog shaming is a silly trend. It seems kind of pointless, and only marginally amusing, but I've never felt upset or offended by it.

This Facebook user, however, was deeply and personally hurt by this photograph. It cut her to the core. How dare a pet owner treat their furbaby so cruelly? She invited the original poster to reflect on the intent of "dog shaming." Then she went further and pointed out that you wouldn't treat your children this way. Up till this point I was mostly amused by her ire. The post was weird and convoluted, but still kind of funny. And then it took a turn, and I felt like I had slipped down the rabbit hole.

She insisted that the dog owner pray for her pet, and tell it about Jesus. And then... then, dear reader, she explained that she reads the Bible to her cats every night, and confided that it "does make a difference."

I had to take a step back and examine my life. I currently have both a dog and a cat. We had a dog when we were growing up. I've owned many different kinds of rodents. Have I failed them all by not preaching the good word unto them? Would my hamster have been happier if we had a little baptism ceremony, giving him the chance to accept the gospel?

-Prepare for Sunday School-

No. Baptism symbolizes a "death" of sin in our life, and a "rebirth" in Christ. Since animals don't sin, they have no need of baptism. I'm not here to make any statements about whether or not our pets will be with us in the next life, but I can tell you for sure that they do not need baptism.

Having said this, I'm still willing to try reading scriptures with my cat. I'm pretty sure she'd be open to it. She's a very broad-minded animal, so I bet she'll have a lot to add to the discussion.

So We Were Studying The Revolution...

This year in school we are studying early American history, and after reading about the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, the kids decided it was time to create their own countries. To my daughters, this mean play "revolution" with their toys, discuss the name of their country, and maybe come up with a national animal.

And then there's my son.

At age 10 he has declared his bedroom an independent nation. I will share his founding documents with you.

"We the people hereby declare our independence from the USA. We will remain independent for all ever. We will be happy on our own."

This was my favorite, though.

"We, the people, will be:
Free, independent, awesome, da best, momentarily confused, dairy-full, meat-full, mostly cheerful, usually peaceful, ready to fight, willing to join forces with almost any country of one mind, supportive of Minecraft, and eating doughnuts sometimes."

I'm proud to be the mother of the leader of da best, mostly cheerful, eating doughnuts sometimes country.

When It Comes To Public Transportation, It's Not the Transportation That Bothers Me

    Except for when it is.  Don't get me wrong, the public brings it's own unique flavor to the entire experience.  I'm not talking about the guy dressed up like a wizard who cast a spell on the entire train this summer.  (Not sure it took, by the way.) The lady with a terrible wig and the gentleman who is backpacking across the U.S but seems to be constantly stuck in downtown Salt Lake are both very kind.  The corporate weirdos who don't appreciate personal space are the passengers that get me.  But those invasions of my personal bubble are small sample of the experiences I've had with the Utah Transit Authority.

    I lived in Chicago for two years and took the "L" daily.  I loved it.  Aging cars on aging tracks in an aging city delivered outlaw art as graffiti from the backs of the ghetto.  During my time in Chi-town, I honestly don't remember having issues with the Chicago Transit Authority.  Buses and trains took me where I needed to be with an acceptable degree of predictability.  Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow hindered the delivery of human cargo throughout the concrete jungle.  No delayed trains or buses.  No waiting in the snow for hours praying your bus wouldn't be affected by "snow routing".

    This begs the question: "WHAT THE FRIG IS WRONG WITH THE UTA?".  From the time when the train hosts made us switch platforms three times, to the train downtown being unpredictable, to being unable to tell which side of the platform you need to be on, the Utah Transit Authority is always an adventure.  I was impressed with the college student who arrived at the bus stop waiting for the 6:52 arrival and was still there when I arrived for the 7:36 arrival.  The explanation? Snow. I was less impressed with the  UTA who wasn't prepared for the snow storm that had been predicted for the previous 4 days. Even today, 24 hours after the storm, the bus was weirdly timed for an over crowded train into Salt Lake.  I never did figure out who was late and who was early.  I just know that the awards the UTA has received should probably have been given posthumously.

    When it comes to public transportation, the public is bothering me less and less.

According to the Fortune Cookie, My Life is Meaningless

Since the exchange between me and my brother was so perfect, I'm simply going to include it word for word here.

"Craved Honey Walnut Shrimp all day. Finally got to Panda Express. Ate delicious food. As I was about to crack open my fortune cookie I thought, 'Since I've been feeling kinda crappy and directionless lately, let's see what my fortune says!' It was empty. There was no fortune."

"Your horoscope is just a blank paragraph. That's awful. And it needs to go on the blog."

"No, not even that. There was no paper at all. Just a dry empty, cavernous cookie mirroring my soul."

"You just sat there staring into the delicious empty fortune cookie abyss?"

"The despair this cookie instilled in my has sent me to my bed for days."

"I'm never eating a fortune cooking again, just out of fear of the power the thing seems to have."

"I unwrapped that small, crunchy treat with rising hope, thinking perhaps the little piece of paper waiting inside would give me some direction for my life, or barring that at least a grin when I saw the silliness written there. But no. It was not to be. The universe felt it was important to reinforce the ennui I've already been feeling by telling me I have no fortune. Thanks, universe, and screw you."

I Only Trust the Hell's Angels

I love bikers. When the husband-man was either deployed or in school I used to travel on my own with the kidlets quite a bit, and I always felt safest when we stayed in hotels that had a row of motorcycles out front. There's something oddly comforting about great big, bearded men in leather vests.

Having said that, if you're on a motorcycle on the highway and you're NOT one of those great big leather-clad riders, I tend to doubt your skills and/or knowledge. We've seen some pretty freaking stupid bikers. You know the ones, those kids that weave in and out of traffic, with no helmets, wearing flip-flops.

Last weekend we drove up to Tucson, which is about an hour away. On the way back home we found ourselves behind a group of biking morons. There were four or five of them taking up both lanes, which in itself is extremely annoying. It's even worse when they all insist on going just under the speed limit, and no one can pass them.

We drove this way for about 20 minutes, 3 cars and a truck stuck behind this clan of idiots. Every so often a couple of the bikers would switch lanes, but there were always at least two in each of the two lanes. Finally, a truck in the right lane decided he had simply had enough and tried to pass the two in his lane by going around them on the shoulder.

Obviously that was not legal, but the freaking psycho on the bike in front of him SPED UP AND SWERVED TO MAKE SURE HE STAYED IN FRONT! I really thought he was going to get hit. It actually almost looked like he was trying to get hit. Just as this happened we came to a light where we were turning left and the bikes were either going straight or turning right. Since we were parting ways we weren't able to see the whole outcome of this little show, but as we turned he did see the biker, who was once again in his place of power in front of the truck, had jumped off his bike along with his little tribe of imbeciles, and was gesturing wildly at the guy in the truck.

I cannot fathom what he was saying. "DUDE! How dare you try to pass me, when I am clearly Lord and Master of All Interstates! I even have the Earl of Highways here to back me up and make sure no one is ever in front of us. What on earth were you thinking?"

While the poor guy in the truck is just thinking, "Shoulda hit the little twerp when I had the chance."

What Does It Mean?

I'm not a weirdo.  I do agree with the theory that dreams often indicate emotions we're experiencing subconciously.  When I have dreams that I need to run but my legs won't work, or that I need to hit something but my fist won't impact, experience has shown me that at these moments I don't feel like I'm having the influence I should.  Oddly, when I have dreams about teeth I typically have an embarrassing secret that cannot get out.  For some reason, I haven't been able to interpret my dreams about muppet play-dough stick feet.  Let's explore, shall we?

First, it's important to note that my muppet play-dough stick foot dream was the first dream that I remembered in at least six months. Second, it's imperative to understand that the memory of the dream was triggered by some random event at work, which resulted in me doubled over at my desk, laughing uncontrollably at it's absurdity.  Having thus dispensed with the preliminaries, let's dive deep in to my subconscious.  Evidently, it's a really weird place.

My entire family— wife, kids, siblings, their kids and spouses, and my parents— were catching a flight from what appeared to be a combination of the Great Falls International Airport in Montana and the Idaho Falls airport.  I was the last to board.  The take-off was smooth.  We were in the air for mere minutes when we landed again, being forced to return to the terminal for an unexplained emergency.  I was escorted off the plane, where I met my wife— she had previously been seated in a window seat on the plane.  After what seemed like interminable hours, I was told I couldn't fly because I had swollen feet.  In that moment it became very clear why the TSA makes passengers take off their shoes at the security check points.

My wife is a nurse.  She knows first aid for swollen feet.  I took off my shoes and showed her.  They were gnarly— fat, twisted, weirdly bent.  And also,  muppet-blue.  Obviously, the treatment for swollen, gnarly, muppet-blue feet is to rubbed them vigorously.  As I began to apply the prescribed treatment to my misshapen feet, I realized that they were quite malleable.  Like, actually made out of play-dough. And formed around sticks.  Muppet play-dough stick feet.  Homeland Security doesn't let those people fly.

I don't recall if I was ever allowed to board the plain again.  I do know that from now on I'll always be nervous when taking off my shoes in an airport.  Anyone with the gift care to take a stab?  What does it mean?

Utah, I expected more from you.

I've lived places.  I've seen things.  I've lived in places where I was not surprised to see flaming tires rolling down grassy hills at family barbecues.  I've lived in places where mullets prevailed and special tree stands and fishing spots were the standard topics of conversation, where parents named their children Catfish and Bubba.

I feel like I can expect those things from Idaho or Alabama.  Owing to it's diversity, I think Utah should be held to a higher standard.  Hence my grave disappointment twice this week: first, when I saw a tweet about Barbi Power Wheel racing— a spirited event where the competitors remove the motor, battery, drive line, and whatever else might weigh the Barbi Bopper down.  After removing the dead weight, they a much larger load of dead weight— the driver.  The first down the hill in one piece wins.  "Wins what"? you might ask.  My response is: "Please, don't ask".

The second head scratcher occurred just this morning.  My daughter and I ventured from our front door in Suburbia to check the mail out by the street.  Surprised, we found ourselves dodging large piles of manure in our drive way.  Knowing a couple who owns two large bull mastiffs, I attributed the special surprise to them and made a mental note to mention it to them the next time I saw them.  As my son and I began picking the poop up and putting it in the bag, a neighbor informed us that it was, in fact, not bull mastiff manure.  She had photographic evidence of an unplanned cattle drive through our subdivision.

Honestly, Utah, you can do better.

New Family at the Farmers Market

I love going to a good farmers market. It's wonderful to wander through the tables of veggies and fruits and flowers, and my husband loves finding new local vendors to buy steak or cheese or olive oil or hot sauce from. Sometimes you can even find family you didn't know you had!

The little town we currently live in has a small farmers market every week (every Thursday at mid-day, the best time for a market... ?) with a surprisingly varied selection of veggies, meats, and cheeses. After meandering down the single row, looking at the delicious things to nibble, I saw a blanket at the end of the aisle covered with African-style baskets. I'm a sucker for anything African, after spending a couple of months in Kenya, so I made a bee-line for the basket blanket.

Upon reaching the vendor, I found him chatting on his cell phone. Hearing his accent, I knew he was actually African (or doing a dang good impersonation). He hung up and started chatting with me and my kids, and when we asked about his accent he revealed that he was from Ghana. I told him I had visited Kenya for two months, and then ... then he hugged me. He hugged me and announced that we are family, because I have been to Africa. I smiled and politely extricated myself from the awkward embrace and the conversation continued as he tried to sell me one of his baskets. He asked where I was from, and when I told I grew up in Montana I had to brace myself for another hug. He said he had always wanted to visit Montana and find a woman to marry. He then asked if I had a sister he could marry. I was almost sorry to tell him my only sister was already taken.

What a disappointment! I could have had the chance to have an overly-friendly basket-making Ghanan for a brother-in-law. Guess I'll just have to put up with that other guy who decided he could manage my sister.

That is not a thing. It can't be.

With Heather back in the States, she and I have taken up the tradition of talking on my lunch hour a couple of times a week.  These conversations are gold. Maybe I'll record one to share with our reader one day.  Because we're hilarious.

It was during one of these treasured conversations that my mind was effectively blown as I struggled to grasp what I was seeing on the lobby TV in my office building.  "Yeah, uh huh, it was... um... er, what?" I trailed off mid-conversation as the connection between my mouth and brain was temporarily severed.  In that moment, I was privileged to witness something oddly beautiful. A commercial for an animal acupuncturist.  That's not a typo, trust me, I even spelled checked it.  Animal acupuncturist.

I think I was disconnected from my body for about seven minutes.  I kid you not, there was a segment starring a horse with needles sticking out of it's hide.  I expected the next scene to show the equine relaxing on a massage table, wrapped in towels, with cucumbers on it's face.  I cannot oversell the surrealism in that moment.  Heather had to literally yell my name three separate times as she tried to telephonically smack me back to reality.

Animal acupuncture.  I checked my phone to make sure the date wasn't April 1.  There was no way that was a thing.  I was so confused as an actual animal acupuncturist testified of the healing powers he possessed.  The ability to rejuvenate a menagerie of vertebrates after a long, stressful day, or something.  I still don't get it.  I was in such disbelief I had Heather google the profession. She texted me the website: www.ivas.org, which is apparently the website for the International Veterinary Acupuncture Society, complete with a mission statement.

Animal acupuncture.  I still don't believe it.  It is not a thing.  It can't be.

"Horse Boarders," If That Is Your Real Name

There we were, minding our own business, driving from Centerville into Farmington, UT, a lovely little suburban road lined with lovely little suburban houses. I found myself following a pallet truck loaded with hay, which at first I did not consider odd, knowing that the "Farmington Days" parade was coming up, and would probably include horses.

We continued to follow this pallet truck a few blocks, being amused at the quaint little town we were visiting. The something unexpected happened - the truck took a turn into a driveway. A driveway that led to a home. A home with a sign in front that read "Horse Boarding."

This is Utah, you know. It's not like it's full of cities and huge apartments, so it's not TOTALLY out of the realm of possibility for someone to be boarding horses in their yard. The only problem was that this home was in a totally residential area. As I mentioned early, we were driving in a suburban area. Like, 5 or 6 houses to a block. We could not see any possible way for this house to have a yard big enough to contain A horse, much less MULTIPLE horses.

"What? What is happening here?" I wondered out loud. JJ looked at me, clearly just as baffled as I was. We tried to talk this through - maybe the driveway wound around to a larger backyard. That would be the only logical explanation. However, upon further examination (read: me driving around the block multiple times in utter disbelief) this did not prove to be the case. So what does this mean? Do they have an underground bunker where they keep other people's horses? Are they a secret butcher, and advertising as a "horse boarder" is a sick joke? Are they actually looking for someone to board THEIR horses? That is even more confusing.

Then, to add to my horror, I found a Facebook page documenting the obvious cases of human/alien interaction or possible post-apocalyptic evidence on Mars. On this extremely educational page, there was a clear photo of a STATUE OF A HORSE! This can mean only one thing. This home, this innocent-looking house in suburban Utah, is actually a portal to Mars. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT board your horses here! They will send them to Mars without proper protection, and your. horse. will. die. These people don't even care about using correct equine space protection, the bastards.