Sunday, April 22, 2018

Full Moon

We broke the rules.  We knew it was wrong.  Worst part, we involved the children.

It really was out of our hands.  With spring break just over a week away, our original dog sitter experienced a family emergency. So we reached out to two boys in our neighborhood and asked them to come over and spend time with our puppy, Milo.  Sweet Milo is notorious for hiding in impossibly small spaces and refusing to come out - even for food - when strangers call.  Unfortunately, during both visits, Milo was decidedly, embarrassingly, very unfriendly with the boys.  So, when we woke up the morning of the trip, we knew what had to be done.  The baby was going with us to the "No Pets Allowed" vacation house.

And yes, we left the other two, best-behaved dogs, behind.

It was a long ride to the beach, with Milo in self-imposed exile under a car seat. Us humans had plenty time to develop a cover story in case we got busted.  In a nutshell, we decided "the dog is staying with friends on the island, and 'just happened' to be over for a visit" would be simple and believable.  We even stooped so low as to inform said friends so that they would now be complicit in our lies.

When we at last arrived, it was agreed that we would all take turns escorting Milo outside to the bathroom, every hour, to ensure no indoor accidents.  That night, he slept in his crate in the master bedroom.  Sure enough, in the wee hours, he started crying.  Hearing my husband snoring next to me, I decided to take one for the team, and I hustled Milo outside.

The wind was literally howling, which spooked us both, but Milo still managed to do his business by the light of the full moon.  I was feeling the call myself, and so, being cold and barefoot, in just a t-shirt and pajama pants, I was eager to get back inside.  Once I saw him do his slow little "back leg kick", I raced him up the steps to the house. I grabbed the door knob, turned it, and ... it didn't budge.

Sh*t.

Immediately I began a frantic run around the property, with Milo happily frolicking at my heels.  I tried every door I could find.  Locked, locked, lockedity, locked.  Panic began setting in as the winds rose to a fevered pitch and the temperature plummeted. I banged on doors and called out my family's names, but it was no good - my hands and voice turned raw as the screams of the night air drowned me out.  With hypothermia slowly setting in, I suddenly realized that my 45-year-old body, which had birthed two large babies, could no longer hold "it", and I needed to pee asap.

Yes, dear reader, there were two full moons that night.

After a humiliating and quite chilly squat in the trees, I resumed my self-rescue mission.  I next considered climbing.  If I could get up to the balcony off the master, I could wake my husband. But without shoes or a ladder, shimmying up a pole promised splinters in very bad places.  I did throw a pine cone up there, but pitifully, it barely cleared the railing.

Finally acknowledging defeat, I moved into survival mode. It was time to build a shelter. 

Milo and I investigated a screened porch on the ground floor, and lucked on to some accent pillows.  After a quick search of a utility closet (which was too small for me to get into  --- yes, I tried) we hit jackpot with a lounge chair cushion.  So, we created a fort, pressed up against a glass door looking directly into the warm foyer, shielded from the monsoon by nothing more than a screen and a prayer.

You learn a lot about yourself trapped in the wild.  You discover just what you're made of; if you have the raw strength to survive.  And ultimately, you hope your family won't feel too guilty when they find you petrified under a table with a yippy dog licking your frozen tears.

I eventually grew tired of feeling sorry for myself and watching Milo press his little paws up against the window. So I decided to recommit to a last-ditch effort at salvation. Making a mental map of the house, I grasped at straws and hoped that there might be another door on the upper deck that I didn't try.  Throwing off my pillows, I roused Milo and we made a final attempt to get back inside. 

We raced up the steps to the deck.  I found a door!  I grabbed the knob, turned it and ... EUREKA!!!!!!!!  WE WERE SAVED!!!!!!

Just as we triumphantly entered the bedroom, I heard my husband's cell phone ringing.  It was my daughter.

Me: "I'm fine, I'm fine, tell her I'm fine."
Him: "What?" Hello?"

 - pause -

Him: "I don't know."
Me: "I got locked out.  I'm fine now."
Him: "She got locked out ... I don't know how.  Go back to bed."

 - snore -

I looked at my cell phone and it was after 4:30 a.m.  I had a text from my daughter at 4:00 a.m. "Why are you calling me?"

Um, no reason.

Sliding under the sheets, with the sensation slowly coming back into my feet, a feeling of immense relief washed over me, and I was finally able to go back to sleep.

There are a lot of important lessons I learned from my near-death experience, the most impactful one being that my family has no compassion and they think I'm a complete idiot.  Such fools - they just haven't reached enlightenment like me and Milo.

Until next time, keep crowin' and always know your key code!


P.S.  We did get busted with the dog, but the property manager bought our story and he and my husband came to a "bro code" agreement!

Monday, January 22, 2018

The Dog Universe

After a roughly 20-year hiatus, I decided to revive my tennis career.  I was missing the sport, and the exercise, and the socialness of the game.  I was also, apparently, missing my body from 20 years ago.  Because immediately following my team’s second practice, I had to send my racquet back into hibernation, after going for a forehand and hearing an unmistakable “crack” inside my right shoe.

As luck would have it, this mishap coincided with my family’s upcoming spring break trip to Edisto Island in South Carolina. I certainly couldn’t tell my two kids that the beach was cancelled, and I was getting tired of rolling around my house in an office chair, so I had to get creative.   After a few sketchy searches on the internet, I eventually met up with a man in a McDonald’s parking lot in Woodstock, who rented me a wheelchair from the back of his pick up truck.

Once on the island, my husband had the unenviable daily task of getting me down the long stairs of our house, wheeling me up the bumpy street, pushing me over the unyielding sand walkway, dragging me backwards over the broken oyster shells that lined the beach, and then parking me far enough away from the tide so that I didn’t rust my borrowed chair.

One day, as I entered about the third hour of ennui while watching my kids play in the water, I saw a man come buzzing along the shore on a golf cart. Seated next to him was a cute little dog, clearly enjoying the ride, despite the fact that it had an enormous cone of shame around its head. This unusual, unexpected scene gave me a much-needed chuckle.  Surely, the universe was reaching out to pat me on the head and tell me that I was not alone in my pitiful state – that I had a kindred spirit in this fellow injured soul.

So imagine my pure delight when, a few minutes later, the little cone dog came trotting back down the beach, exploring his domain like an upside down martini glass.  As he drew closer to my family, I could see he was taking an interest in the kids’ activities, and then -- his sights turned to me.  My hopes rose as he approached me without fear, no doubt sensing our common bond.  I spoke to him lovingly, his eyes met mine, and then ever so slowly, without leaving my gaze, he lifted his leg, peed all over me, and then sauntered off.

Turns out, the universe was giving me a pinch, not a love pat.

I really wanted that dog to like me.  I really wanted him to jump up in my lap and let me scratch his tummy and then settle in for a cozy afternoon nap. I wanted him to put his cone head up to mine and give me little dog kisses.  I really wanted us to be soulmates.

Maybe it was because my kids were having a great time without me, and I was feeling lonely and sorry for myself.  Or, maybe I was disappointed that my injury had not earned me some well-deserved good karma.  Regardless, my ego was crushed, because let’s face it, if a cute puppy comes for you, then you have probably hit rock bottom.

Somehow, though, I managed to survive the humiliation and enjoy the rest of the trip, despite the fact that we met another animal during our stay --- one that goes by the name of lice. 

Fast forward to today - all of my bones are currently intact, but I find myself relating back to that “broken Alison.”  My two kids are now teenagers. My daughter is about to graduate high school and move far away.  I officially have begun the stages of empty nest syndrome, because even though my kids are still physically in the house, mentally, my daughter is like that Eagle’s song – “already gone.”  And my son, while just a freshman, has decided that there are some things he definitely no longer wishes to discuss with me.

That’s where my dogs come in.  I have three of them of varying size, age and personality, and I really need them to like me right now.  I really need them to jump up in my lap and let me scratch their tummies and give me dog kisses so we can all settle in for a cozy afternoon nap.  I need the universe to just chill for a minute, and send me a sign that despite the fact that soon I will be once again observing my kids from afar, I am going to be ok.  I need to know that I can pick myself back up, wipe the pee off my leg, and keep on wheelin’.  And once my nest is actually empty, I am probably going to need another dog.

Until next time, keep crowin' - and find a cute puppy to love on!

Thank you to Story Sisters Live for letting me share this "tail" in front of a lovely audience!

Monday, January 1, 2018

The Perfect Starbucks

It's 2018, and people around the world are making resolutions, pledging to do better, be better, in this new year.  There are a lot of things I could put on that list, but they would all pale in comparison to what I achieved on December 29, 2017.  On that date in history, I found the perfect Starbucks.

I wasn't looking for it - but good things often happen when you least expect them.  It wasn't even my goal to achieve.  My daughter has been on this quest all year, driving from east Cobb to east Atlanta to find her little cup of heaven and just the spot to set up her laptop. I would ask her, often, why she was driving 15-20 miles for a Triple Berry Hibiscus, when she could practically walk to one of the four Starbucks within two miles of our house for the same drink.  Her response was always, "You just don't get it.  They aren't the same." 

She was right - I didn't get it.  Why venture out so far when what you want is right in front of you?

And then like a sunbeam breaking through a storm cloud, or the hallelujah of a celestial choir, the truth was revealed to me.

It was a cool, bright Friday morning in downtown Atlanta.  My husband and I had just celebrated our 21st anniversary with a staycation in Buckhead, and were taking a detour so he could do a site visit before we headed home.  He had been tasked with inspecting the Peach Drop set up at the Flat Iron Building, but it was a restricted area, so I had to wait for him outside.  We walked together to the building, joined by a parade of pigeons who were clearly expecting a treat.

As luck would have it, there was a Starbucks right across the street. It was tucked in a corner, part of a larger office building.  The outside was made up of a long expanse of windows, painted with festive holiday images.

I walked in, sunlight everywhere, was greeted warmly, and ordered my usual chai tea latte.  I then found a seat at a high bar, facing the window and the street. I could feel the sun on my face, see the trees rustle in the wind, watch the people walking by - and the pigeons still looking for their breakfast. It was quiet and peaceful. I pulled out my cracked Ipad and a story I had been working on, and reached for the latte. 

It was at that moment that I noticed the name printed on my cup.  "Alison".  A miracle.  A-L-I-S-O-N --- my name, spelled absolutely correct.  Not Allison, or Alyson, or Allessin, but Alison.

And that's when I knew.  This place was clearly special - or, dare I say - perfect.  Let's face it, there is something cosmically gratifying about a barista spelling your name right.  Fresh with inspiration, and with a cleansing, deep breath, I turned back to my story, absorbing the sounds around me.  A man next to me was on the phone, talking to someone about sending them a package, and explaining about his legal name change and how he had never met his father.  Two other men came in with delightful British accents, ordering their coffee like proper gentlemen.  I joyfully texted my daughter a photo of my view, pleased to actually be able to speak "Starbucks" with her.  I finally got it.


I was so very content, and making progress on my story when my husband suddenly snuck up on me at the window, done way too soon with his site visit.  Reluctantly, I packed up my gear, wishing I could stay longer and keep this feeling going.  But, my life in the 'burbs was calling, and, relaxed and refreshed, I was ready to get back to reality.

Yes, Virginia, there is a perfect Starbucks.  But it is different for each person.  Mine created a zen moment for a chaotic mind, and gave me a chance to center and regroup.  Yours might be a bustling, two story mini-city full of interesting characters and a few chummy regulars.  Whatever it is, make 2018 the year that you step out and create those spaces for yourself, somewhere you can regain your footing and discover something new.

Until next time, keep crowin' and - treat yourself to a venti!