Potty Mouth

I have a problem.

I have a HUGE potty mouth.

But I don't ALWAYS have a potty mouth, which is sort of the thing. If I can manage to rein it in, say, while I'm giving announcements at church, or while I am playing with a baby or helping an old woman cross the street, then why can't I control my mouth ALL the time??

The Bible tells me that I should, and that I MUST, cut it out:

• Ephesians 5:4 - Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving.

• Proverbs 21:23 - whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue keeps himself out of trouble.

But then, the Bible tells me that I CAN'T cut it out:

• James 3:6-8 -- For every kind of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.

• James 3:10 -- From the same mouth come blessing and cursing.  My brothers, these things ought not to be so. 

• Romans 7:18-19 --  For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.

So you kinda see my problem, right??

I know exactly how this all started for me. I was in the USC Trojan Marching Band in the early 1980s. Back then, we lived in a world far less fettered by today's political correctness. 

We. Swore. All. The. Time.  Even when we were brought to attention on the field during rehearsal, which happened every few minutes, we, the 250-member marching band, would shout, in unison: "U - S - C! F*** the (whoever we happened to be playing that week)!!" Granted, we'd tone it down to "BEAT the (whoever we happened to be playing that week)!!" when in public. But only reluctantly.

We had our own version of every opponent's fight song, each laced with obscenities. Generally speaking, the first verse would be tame enough to sing in public, at pep rallies and such, and each successive verse would become more and more crude -- those verses were not generally meant for public consumption, but we were endlessly amused by them and usually managed to keep them away from unwilling ears. Usually. 

For example, the second verse of our version of the UCLA fight song is dirty enough that, when my family insisted on hearing it, I'd censor myself by singing it this way:

Bruins are a bunch of hmmm hmmmm,

Song girls are a bunch of hmmmm.

When they hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm they look like garbage trucks.

You get the idea. And part of the band culture was not only to memorize all these songs, but to sing them loudly, every chance we got. As freshmen, we were required to know all the verses of these and other equally inappropriate songs...

I remember when I first joined the Trojan Band. I was a relatively naive little Christian girl, and I remember my jaw literally dropping open when I heard such profanity spewing out of the sweetest looking upperclassmen, as they urged us on to meet the standards of TGMBITHOTU (The Greatest Marching Band In The History Of The Universe). Whether singing or speaking or yelling at us, "swears" were just part of the lexicon of the TMB.

I also remember my fourth year, when I was section leader of the clarinets. There was the sweetest little guy who was the most promising of all the freshman scum (yes, hazing was a big part of band too). About the third day of band camp, he started to falter and not look as good as he had at first. His marching technique and attitude were growing worse and worse. Sensing that he was starting to lose heart, I pulled him aside. 

"This is super hard, isn't it?" I asked. He nodded.
"You feel like you're not getting the hang of it, even after all this time...?" Nod.
"And you can't believe the foul language you're hearing around here, huh?" Another nod.
"Especially coming from women. It's pretty shocking, isn't it?" Another nod, and this time, from behind his Ray-Bans, a single tear slid down his cheek.
"You know what? I was exactly like you when I first got here. You can totally do this. You're the best marcher of all the freshmen, and you're the best player too.  Hang in there. After a while, you kinda get used to it. Please don't quit. We need you."
Again, he nodded. He never said a word. I don't know if I helped. But not only did he stay through band camp -- years later, he ended up becoming section leader himself.

But the whole foul language thing was a problem. And it stuck with me. I'm just sayin'. 

So, after I left the Trojan Band, it took a while to learn to once again speak like a civilian.  And I admit, it was not easy. 

Fortunately, I married a man who wasn't shocked by my occasional (haha, occasional) lapse into profanity. Brian and I were always pretty careful around his daughter, Becky. But we only had her a few days at a time, so we could pull ourselves together and only unleash the kraken when she wasn't around. And even after Jennifer, our youngest, was born, we still lacked, um, self control. For a while.

At work, we had a "Potty Mouth Jar". In an effort to clean up our language, any time someone swore, he or she would put a quarter into the jar. When it filled up (which was far too frequently), we'd use it for happy hour after work. On review, this plan might have worked better if we hadn't, um, rewarded ourselves for cussing... I even remember one day, a co-worker stormed into work late, crammed a ten-dollar bill into the jar, and said, "It's gonna be THAT kind of day!" So, at least I managed to surround myself with people who at least understood (if not shared) my problem.

The turning point, for my darling husband and me, came when Jennifer was just beginning to speak and understand lots of words (which for her, was super early -- she was saying full sentences by the time she turned two). We were in Michigan, visiting his folks at Christmas time. Apparently, as I learned later, Brian had been carrying Jennifer that morning while stepping into the garage, and he'd painfully wrenched his ankle when he half-missed a step down. Later, he admitted that perhaps he had cursed in reaction to the pain.

Well, fast forward to later that day. We'd been out Christmas shopping with Jennifer, and we'd stepped into a Wendy's for lunch. Jennifer had grown bored of eating and was tossing her food, one french fry at a time, onto the floor. I tried a few times to correct her, but to no avail. So finally I calmly removed all the food from her tray and we continued eating, not paying her much mind. Jennifer took one look at this development, and in the clearest, loudest, most crisply enunciated manner you can imagine, she yelled, "G** [pause] D**** IT!"

The entire Wendy's, which was jam-packed with nice mid-Western people, fell instantly and completely silent, like in the old West movies when the villain crashes through the squeaky saloon doors. In horror, Brian and I looked at Jennifer, then at each other. Then, responsible parents that we were, we burst into hysterical laughter. Brian looked around, wiping his eyes, and said, "Well, at least she used it appropriately."

So at this point, we realized that Jennifer had entered that "parrot" stage. We knew that it was time to cool it on the language. And we did pretty well with that. Until recently.

It seems like now that Jennifer has reached the age of 17, our filter has sprung a leak. Okay, several leaks. We are far less careful about swearing around her. And with all the extremely funny but off-color TV shows, videos, songs, etc. floating around, it's sort of a losing battle. So far, Jennifer has only unleashed one really big swear in a place where she absolutely should not have (at least that I know of). In fact, the word she used was something I'd never even heard before. It was pretty impressive. And, on review, it wasn't entirely unwarranted, either. But hey - this blog is about me.

I try. I really try to choose other words when something unexpected or frustrating happens. My favorite exclamation of late is, "SHOVELS!" And usually I'm able to pull that one forward before a less acceptable epithet escapes.  But I constantly slip and struggle to keep that leash on my tongue. 

Recently, I saw "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" for the first time. It's a delightful movie -- we absolutely loved it.  Part of the humor in it involves how the characters swear.  They use the word "cuss" for everything.  The main character, voiced by George Clooney, refers to something as a "cluster cuss."  

Here's another exchange:

Mr. Fox: I understand what you're saying, and your comments are valuable, but I'm gonna ignore your advice. 

Badger: The cuss you are. 

Mr. Fox: The cuss am I? Are you cussing with me? 

Badger: No, you cussing with me? 

Mr. Fox: Don't cussing point at me! 

Badger: If you're gonna cuss with somebody, you're not gonna cuss with me, you little cuss!

I find this hilarious, and I've started trying to use "cuss" in place of the many colorful words I might otherwise use. I've had varying success with this. Hopefully I'll get better at it. My success is inversely proportional to just HOW angry I am. Because come on... sometimes, there's just no acceptable alternative to the F word.

I know that for me, this is a spiritual issue -- a matter of heart. That as I draw closer to the Lord, He can clean this part of yet another dirty closet out for me. But for now, I limp along doing the best I can -- which isn't very well -- and when I blow it, ask forgiveness. Usually. And often. 

Feel free to call me on it, if you hear me let fly with a colorful phrase. Or just pray for me. It'll take a village to get this accomplished. In the meantime, maybe you can lend me some quarters for that Potty Mouth Jar...

Carolyn Butler -- My Wicked, Wicked Mother

(note: I had originally posted this blog, and then, while using my phone on vacation this week, I accidentally deleted it. My husband, the ultimate hunter/gatherer, managed to find a copy in my old browser history and restore it to me after we returned. So this is a second edition of this blog. Thank you, Imzadi! You save me so much heartache!)

-----

My mother was the most positive, unswervingly optimistic person I've ever known. She could see the bright side in just about anything. As a teen, if I'd point out that I'd chosen two colors in my outfit that didn't match, she'd cheerfully reply, "Those colors are in the same family! They look great!" She was irrepressible. To describe her, I like to tell the following story I heard somewhere:

Scientists wanted to study optimism in children, and whether they could change a child’s outlook by changing his or her circumstances. They led a small boy who was constantly pessimistic into a beautiful, brightly lit room full of the most creative, lavish, state-of-the-art toys any child could ever want. The little boy walked into the middle of the room, looked around sadly, then dropped his head and began to wail in despair. 

“What’s wrong?” asked the scientist. 

“How can I possibly find time to play with all these toys? And what if I break one? What if I break them all?? What if someone comes in and steals them all? Oh, nooooo… this is just terrible!!” 

Next, scientists ushered a little girl who was constantly optimistic into a different room. This room was piled knee-deep with horse manure. The room had nothing but plain beige walls, a single hanging light bulb, and a floor full of horse manure. Instantly, the little girl’s face lit up. She waded gleefully into the manure and began scooping up great handfuls, throwing them up in the air, and yelling, “YESSS!!! This is SO GREAT!!” 

Perplexed, a researcher asked her, “What are you talking about? This is a room full of horse manure. How can you possibly be so happy?” 

The little girl continued digging, giggled wildly and answered, “I just KNOW there’s a PONY in here somewhere!!!!!”

That little girl could easily have been my mom.

Mom was the survivor of a terrible childhood. It wasn’t until 1976, when I was 13, that she first obtained a copy of her own birth certificate. It was then she discovered that the man whom she’d grown up thinking was her father actually wasn’t. A different man’s name appeared in the section marked “FATHER”. It turns out that my grandmother had gotten pregnant out of wedlock (which, in 1934, was a MUCH bigger deal than it is now). The Fred Sharp she knew as "Father" was not at all related to her. 

[THIS JUST IN - my sister Debbie, who has done a lot of research on our family tree, says Grandma was actually married to Gerald Steuttgen, the guy on the birth certificate, and that they divorced after something like two years. Apparently I need a fact checker, because when you learn things as a kid, they're almost always not the whole truth... In any event, the fact that my grandmother had my mom with another man never came up in conversation between the two of them, apparently...]

For my mom, this discovery caused everything to click into place in a way it never had before. She had grown up suffering abuse from this man, whom she now realized was just her stepfather. The fact that her younger sister, who was his actual offspring, escaped the same evil treatment suddenly became clear and much more understandable.

My mom said she always knew that the abuse she suffered wasn’t her fault. Many children of abuse grow up with terrible self esteem, thinking they were the bad, wrong ones, rather than rightly blaming the monsters who hurt them. Mom had a deep and unshakeable faith in her Savior, Jesus, which sustained her through those years of mistreatment.  And in spite of this, Mom was the most upbeat, cheerful woman I've ever known. 

Therefore, no one would ever suspect that Carolyn Butler had a secret mean streak. But oh, did she ever. She was a wicked, wicked woman. I shall now attempt to prove this with two true stories.

First, there was our quartet, Sterling.

For several years, I had the pleasure of singing in a Sweet Adelines quartet with my mom. Sterling was my first quartet experience, and it was amazing. The other three ladies in my quartet were seasoned Sweet Adelines, and they had already distinguished themselves in our hobby. Our tenor, Mavis, had been in many regional champion and medalist quartets. Our first bass, Susan, was a “Queen of Harmony” (international champion) with 4-For-The-Show. Our second bass was Bonnie, also a Queen, with Panache. My mom had sung in many international level quartets - I think the highest she ever placed was fifth, with Quicksilver.

So, being the lead and brand new to quartet singing, I had the unparalleled experience of singing with three brilliant, completely bulletproof, amazing musicians, who simply sang into my sound and patiently followed along behind me while I progressed. As I mastered new skills and achieved more mature resonance in my voice, they simply unpacked more of their own fully stocked boxes of talent and brought them out to play in our developing sound. I admit that this experience spoiled me forever for quartet singing. How could I ever have another quartet to rival this?

But I digress. I was supposed to tell you about my mean, wicked mother.

To further set the stage, you need to know that I am, to say the very least, fiercely competitive. Each year before our regional competition, we’d put together little love gifts to exchange with the other competing quartets. Once, I (only partly) joked that I wanted to include a little poem I’d written, along with our gift:

“If contest has got you so nervous you’re hurling,

Think about getting your butt kicked by Sterling.”

My quartet overruled me, of course. I mean, it's not like I woulda actually given that to the other ladies... Sheesh.

Anyway, in competition, we always seemed to place just behind another quartet called Shimmer (and I believe I've told all of those ladies this story by now - most of us have sung or still sing in Harborlites chorus together!). It was a source of great frustration to me that we never seemed to manage to out-score that darned Shimmer.  So when we finally placed third, earning a MEDAL, and Shimmer came in just behind us at fourth place, I was pretty pumped.

The Monday following our regional weekend, however, I got a phone call from my mother. She told me she had some bad news. Our International Headquarters had called her to say that they had unfortunately made a tabulation error in our regional contest scores. Instead of outscoring Shimmer by the few points we had, which had landed us in third place, it turned out Shimmer had actually earned the medal, and Sterling was once again, sadly, fourth. Mom said that the representative from International asked us to please mail our shiny new medals to Shimmer, and that they’d be glad to send us those lame fourth-place ribbons that you have to safety pin onto your clothes... (mind you, the SAI rep didn't call them lame. I'm relaying my version of the conversation).

I was devastated. I'm pretty sure I even started to cry. How could they make such an error? Why on earth would they ask us to send OUR medals to our (in my sad, little mind) rivals? As I moaned and railed against the system, I slowly became aware that my mom was, incredibly, choking back laughter. When I finally took a breath, she could barely get the words out — “April Fools!” before she burst into her little high-pitched, hysterical mirth. Dismayed, I think I finally hung up on her.

See? I told you she was mean.

But wait. There’s more. I shall call this second piece of evidence “Zebra Panties”.

Long ago, I was shopping with my mom, whom my sisters and I used to call "The Carolyn Bird" (imagine a parrot repeatedly squawking, "Looks good! Buy it! Looks good! Buy it!"). I needed undies, but in the amazing high-waisted, high-cut style pictured above (which, in my defense, was quite popular at the time), literally the only color scheme left on the shelf was this 3-pack of zebra stripes. I kept digging and searching until, exasperated, my mom said, "Just buy them! No one but you will ever see them anyway!" Anxious to be done, I hastily paid for them and we escaped the store.

Fast forward several months. We were at a Verdugo Hills Chorus show, hurriedly changing in the dressing room between sets. Guess what I was wearing? And who else but my dear mother yelled, from across the room, "Hey Doreen!! NICE ZEBRA PANTIES!!" This drew guffaws of laughter from my singing sisters. See? My mother was NOT as sweet as you all think...

As a little postscript, fast forward SEVERAL years, after my mom had died. Just because of that fond yet cringe-inducing memory, I had never thrown out these panties. And the only time I ever dig one out is on laundry day, when there is NOTHING else left to wear. So, one such laundry day happened to fall on a Harborlites rehearsal night. They were revealing our new costumes, these gorgeous, flirty, velvety black dresses with polka dots. Another front row member, Carol, tried it on first to act as a model for the chorus, but she was too skinny for the prototype. So they had me try it on. Our opening song for our finals package was "Ain't Misbehavin'", which featured some of our more athletic front row people rolling around on the floor and flinging their legs into the air. Gerry Papageorge, the designer, asked me to get down and do the kicks (even though I wasn't one of the floor people), so that they could see how the dress would move around with the dancers. I suddenly realized, with horror, that that morning I had put on those darn 80's zebra panties, and that a hundred people would soon see them in all their glory as I lie there awkwardly flailing around on the floor. I agreed to demonstrate the floor kick, but only after quietly asking our director, Pam, to make the entire chorus turn their backs on us! She actually DID, and I then felt compelled to explain my odd request to the entire chorus by repeating this whole tale, assuring them that Mom was probably having another great laugh over my zebra panties.

So next time any of you has a mind to talk about how nice my mom was, be sure you know the WHOLE story. Wicked, I tell you...

The Last Dog I'll Ever Own

To tell you about the last dog I'll ever own, I must first back up a bit...

Once upon a time, I adopted our first dog (as an adult pet-owner) for Jennifer. Charlie was kind of a nightmare. He was sweet enough, but he'd been abused and neglected, and he was a terribly fearful dog. He barked at EVERYTHING. He was even deathly afraid of Brian, in spite of our best efforts to hug him and treat him like the pack leader in front of Charlie.

Here's Charlie, looking the happiest I ever saw him. We were camping at Carpinteria, where he was actually more relaxed and cheerful than at any other time in his life. At his very best he looked, well, not suicidal... and he HATED cameras. I think it was a fear of the flash, which, like many things, terrified him. Every time I brought out a camera, he'd slink away and hide.

His allergies (and perhaps phobias) caused him to lick his paws until they bled. This led to my ever-patient husband's incredulous cry: "Are dogs even evolved enough to have freakin' allergies????"

Mercifully, Charlie didn't last long with us. After only a couple of years, he developed several serious health problems that caused my vet to surprisingly recommend against tossing my whole wallet to him (more on that later). We petted Charlie as he drifted off to sleep at the vet's office, and we assured Jennifer that they would bury him at Pelican Hill (see my blog, "Parenting and Pets", for more on Pelican Hill).

Not long after that, I'm not sure what came over me. It may have been Becky and Jennifer begging for another dog. It might have been the niggling feeling that I could have done better with Charlie. After all, I was by now a Cesar Millan Dog Whisperer aficionado. We are avid fans. We even took a homeschool field trip to Cesar's Dog Psychology Center, where we hung out and talked shop. He comforted me by agreeing that a fearful dog is the very hardest to rehabilitate...

So I knew the drill - that any dog, given exercise, discipline, and affection (in that order), can become a balanced dog.

Maybe it was hormones or a brief bout of insanity. But for whatever reason, we found ourselves at the Long Beach animal shelter on Valentines Day of 2009, adopting another dog. Brian came along with us. In fact, he drove the car. And paid. To this day, we still argue about this. He claims he was overruled by the three of us. That against his express wishes, we insisted on bringing this dog home. I can't imagine this being the whole truth. Although I suppose the persuasive power of three women against one man must be overwhelming. After reading my first draft of this, Brian says we told him we were taking him for a "Valentine surprise". When he realized we were headed for a shelter (which ended up being TWO shelters), he says he tried to turn around but we all whined and cried until he gave in. And we told him we weren't going home until he picked the one he liked best. His version actually seems legit.

Nevertheless, the deed was done, and we adopted a dog who had beautiful green eyes, wasn't afraid of Brian, and played happily with us in the play yard -- as opposed to other rescue dogs who would just slink around the prison yard suspiciously and pee in every corner.

When we had him vet checked and neutered, they diagnosed kennel cough, so they wouldn't let us take him home until he had been on antibiotics for a week or so, as I recall. That should have been my opportunity to sprint for the chicken exit. But no...

This is one of the first pictures I posted of him on Facebook when he finally came home:

The caption reads: You'd never know by looking at this picture that he has peed all over my living room! Jennifer says he has "Harborlites Green" eyes!

The girls wanted him to have a name from literature. After some discussion, we settled on Bingley, after Mr. Bingley of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. After all, he was a most jolly fellow, always cheerful and completely unspoiled by his wealthy surroundings. I recently posted a picture of him next to his namesake - you can see the resemblance:

I found this picture from April - just two short months after we got him.  The caption reads:  Winking at me because he has a stinkin' eye infection. Why did I get a dog, again?...

As I'm writing this, I'd completely forgotten about that extra vet trip...

Shortly after this, I think, is when Bingley was being walked around at our homeschool park day by one of the young boys, who proclaimed, upon returning him, that he had "swallowed a whole bird skull".  Awesome.

That night, the explosive barfing and pooping started - fluids shooting out of every end.  He was sooooo sick. And in between vomiting and spraying diarrhea, he'd stretch carefully and miserably, as though trying to stretch his abdomen out. I could just picture that little bird beak perforating his intestines as it worked its way through the digestive system.

So in the morning, I took him to the vet. They rushed him to the back room, and then the vet came back and informed me that they'd like to do a CT scan, and ultrasound, IV fluids and antibiotics, and keep him overnight. In short, it would run me about $650 just to find out what was wrong with him.

At this time in our lives, we were living on one very modest income. I was homeschooling Jennifer, and we did NOT have an emergency fund for things like this. Plus, we have a family rule that any trip over $300 to the vet is a one-way trip. I've negotiated extra a time or two, but it's a good rule.

I have never thought of this dog as a "fur child" or treasured family member. So I looked that vet right in the eye and said, "Just put him to sleep. I can't afford this, and I don't want him to suffer."

What happened next was the most surprising and appalling thing ever. And I'm passing this information along to all of you who think your vet is your pet's best friend. Never forget that this is BIG BUSINESS. The vet looked at me and said, "Well, hold on a minute. Let me see what I can do to help you." He disappeared into the back room for an eternity -- JUST LIKE A FREAKIN' CAR SALESMAN going to see his manager.  He came back after a long time with a neatly listed menu of options, in order of importance and starting with lowest cost. The list included something like these options:

1. Stop the spewage (I could do this at home, making sure he didn't keep eating his own vomit, which had apparently happened all night and was causing some of the problem. Dogs are awesome).

2. Guard against dehydration (he said I could do this at home, checking him for symptoms and giving him subcutaneous injections of fluids they'd send me home with).

3. IF that didn't work, take x-ray (which would only be about fifty bucks).

4. If x-ray is inconclusive, proceed to all the butt-expensive stuff he tried to sell me in the first place.

The kicker? All this, he said, could wait 24 hours. In short, if I paid the $65 they wanted just for walking in the door, I could leave and take my chances with Bingley at home. If he wasn't any better in 24 hours, we could start the fluids and move progressively onto the big ticket items.

Sooooo, in short, if the vet knows you're not some animal-worshiping sucker who is going to throw your whole wallet at them when you rush in, you'll receive excellent, appropriate care for your pet, at a reasonable price. This has borne itself out in every interaction I've had with vets since. I'm onto them, and they know it.

Anyway, I took Bingley home and together we hunkered down in a sleeping bag on the living room floor for the night. He slept inside it, at the bottom, and every couple of hours, he'd shakily crawl out, drink some of the water I'd left nearby for him, then dive back to the warmth at my feet.

By the next morning, it was obvious he was going to pull through. Glory be. Total cost: $65 and a whole lot of stress and cleaning products.

This dog has energy. Boundless energy. In true Dog Whisperer fashion, I faithfully walk him at least 2.5 miles every day, while he wears a backpack that's loaded with sand-filled water bottles. This, according to Cesar, doubles his workout. When we get home and I take off the backpack, he still zips around the house as though he just woke up -- like Superman, relieved of kryptonite. I cannot imagine what a spazz this dog would be if I didn't give him this much exercise.  Here he is wearing his backpack and his usual crazed facial expression:

He's also, incidentally, wearing the little blanket we made for him. He used to get cold, being short-haired and a total freak. I simply REFUSE to put clothes on my dog. I find it degrading for canines to walk around wearing tutus and hoodies. So, Brian created a sort of horse blanket from fleece. My friend Danae, seeing this picture on Facebook, hilariously proclaimed him "Dobby the House Elf", and I realized we'd picked the wrong name for him. Here's a picture of his Dobby look:

Our best guess is that he's a miniature pinscher mixed with dachshund. And, as a little dog, he's a strong-willed little jerk. I do NOT, however, allow him to ACT like a jerk. So many owners of small dogs let them snarl and lunge at the leash and bark at other dogs and bite kids. Not my dog. I'm all over him like a drill sergeant to be a good citizen. From the first, I took him just about everywhere with us, and I made sure that he knew how to act in public.

Here he is with my grand-niece, Lola, with whom he is a completely different dog. Totally calm and sweet. Mostly. I never turn my back on him, though...

I call Bingley my "overnight success that took three-and-a-half years". Slowly, so slowly I hardly noticed it, he's become reluctantly compliant to almost my every command. We've gone from needing a muzzle and two assistants to clip his claws -- as he struggled frantically, red-eyed, smacking his muzzle against my arm in an effort to kill me -- to a nervously tense but unmuzzled, submissive dog who'll lie stiffly while I clip his claws, unaided. He just waits for that treat.

I have never seen an animal more driven by the quest for food. He will eat ANYTHING he can swallow.  He doesn't chew things so much anymore. But any food left within his reach is doomed. Including veggies and fruit. And don't get me started on cat poop ("kitty roca") and cat barf. This is why he sleeps in the garage, in a cozy blanket-filled crate. I've spent too many nights and mornings being awakened by his barfing/diarrhea bouts, having to mop up the results of something evil he ate. And if I give him any treat, he acts like a crack addict for the rest of the day, waiting anxiously for his next fix.

Once, for reasons we won't go into here, Brian left a full cup of semi-sweet chocolate chips on our bed. Bingley waited til his back was turned and devoured the entire cup of chocolate AND all of Brian's cookies. Now, as you may know, chocolate is toxic to dogs. Not wanting to spend money on an emergency vet trip (because of course, this happened on a Sunday night), I called the vet. After giving his weight and the amount of chocolate he'd eaten, they recommended I bring him in. I Googled how to induce vomiting in a dog. It suggested using hydrogen peroxide. But, the website warned, there is a risk that the dog will aspirate his vomit and die. I resignedly told Brian this and that we were on our way to the garage to give it a whirl. He replied, "JUST TAKE HIM TO THE F*****G VET."

The vet whisked him "backstage", then returned after a few minutes and told me that they recommended inducing vomiting. However, they warned me, there was a risk that he'd aspirate his vomit and die. Soooo, I coulda just done it at home. For free. Well, at least now somebody else would clean it up.  So, 135-bucks-and-no-dessert-for-Brian later, Bingley came home with an empty stomach. I declined the vet's sweet offer to keep him overnight "for observation".

I think it was shortly after this that I began referring to him as "the last dog I'll ever own." Wait, no. Maybe it was after he ate the crotch out of my favorite pair of panties. Or when he smeared blood all over our cream colored carpet when Jennifer was playing with him using a laser light and he apparently bit his own tongue.

And no one told me about a special problem that little dogs have. Delicately put, his butt leaks. Apparently, small dogs need to have their anal glands periodically "expressed". On the rare occasions when Bingley finally relaxes -- usually while lying on my bed -- this horrendous, fishy smelling brown liquid leaks out of his butt. It's horrifying. Again, we are not a family that has a budget for dog grooming. And I'll be darned if I'll squeeze his bottom for him. I'm told that there are people eager to do this at the pet store, for just a few bucks. But so far, I haven't caved in to the hassle or expense of having this done.

My sister Diana, who is a lifetime dog owner and lover, has said, after watching Bingley with me, "It's like he constantly challenges you." She assures me that it's not DOGS I don't like. It's just that I have had the perfect storm of two dogs in a row that were a complete pain in the butt. She might be right. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have gotten a great big, couch potato of a dog. A dog who has energy equal to or lesser than mine (which is what Cesar recommends, I learned too late). A dog who's happy to obey me, instead of reluctantly waiting for his chance to wreak havoc when my back is turned. People ask me about Bingley's backpack when we're out walking. "That backpack," I tell them, "is the only thing standing between him and total world domination." And it's really true.  He'll definitely survive the apocalypse. Most likely by killing and eating us, his caregivers.

For now, though, the last dog I'll ever own bides his time, pretending to be "calm-submissive". He watches the Dog Whisperer too, so he knows how to play the game -- for now. But he doesn't have me fooled. Not one bit.

Father's Day 2015

My dad was an exceedingly complicated man.

Bill Butler was, literally, a rocket scientist. He graduated from college Phi Beta Kappa, with a major in physics and a minor in math. He worked in the world of aerospace as a physicist. I remember asking him once, when I was pretty young, what he did at his job. He told me this story: 

One day, let's say some guys came up to me and said, "Bill, we want to build a little globe that has people in it. When you tap on the globe, lights flash and the people dance around." I would give them a list of the best people to help them build this globe. We'd put a plan together, and I would check on them to make sure they were using the right materials and following the directions. Every once in a while, we'd do a test to see whether the globe was working. If it didn't, we'd change our plan or find someone else to help us fix it. That's what I do.

Another time, I asked him again to tell me what he did for work, and he told me he helped design missiles that shoot down Russian satellites. After he died, we read through old documents and performance reviews from his job, which included loads of redacted paragraphs and mention of his security clearances. I'm inclined to think his second answer was spot on.

Dad was also a brilliant musician. He was deeply involved in barbershop harmony singing -- as a singer himself, and later as a director and coach to many Sweet Adelines choruses and quartets.

However, my father had a very rough childhood. And it affected him deeply. There is a lot I could write about this, and maybe someday I will. But for now, suffice it to say that in addition to being brilliant, funny, and creative, Dad spent his whole life fleeing from the things in his past that tormented him. It took a lot of time and therapy of my own to realize that he really did the very best he could have, given the hand that was dealt him by an abusive mother and a father who ignored that abuse.

Dad died very unexpectedly in 1998. In November of that year, while our chorus was literally onstage in Nashville for Sweet Adelines International Competition, Dad was having a heart attack through the whole pre-competition pattern and performance. It wasn't til we got offstage, having finished our contest shot, that he said he should probably go to a hospital. He had emergency quadruple bypass surgery there in Nashville, and two weeks later, after returning home, he passed away in his sleep.

We were dumbfounded. My mom had been fighting ovarian cancer for a couple of years, and she had been in remission for some time. My dad's death came as an unexpected blow that rocked our family to the core. It seemed so ironic, so cruel, that he should die so suddenly.

There's a verse in the Bible, Ecclesiastes 3:11 -- "He has made everything beautiful in His time." And though it took me a while to see it, I eventually got a glimpse of God's perfect timing in all this.  You see, shortly after my dad died, Mom's cancer came back with a wicked vengeance. It ravaged her entire body, and the suffering she experienced before her death was far worse than anything she had endured when my father was caring for her.

As I said, Dad had spent his adult life haunted by the shadow of his past. It made him an extremely angry man. He was very hot-tempered -- a trait that I've unfortunately carried on. We, his four kids, each had very difficult relationships with him as we were growing up. Dad didn't really "get" how to live with kids. He used to say, and God forgive me that I have repeated this so often, "Kids wreck everything." In some ways, he was right. Kids are messy. They're defiant. They're exhausting. They're difficult. And he just didn't know what to do with us. We were often a source of frustration and disappointment to him.

Don't get me wrong. I totally get that I am who I am because of Dad. Largely because of my desire to please him, I became a super high-achieving student. I graduated from USC, cum laude, with two bachelor's degrees (His response to this achievement, by the way, was a quiet, "That's really great, kid."). I was also the clown of the family. I attribute my sense of humor to figuring out, at an early age, that humor goes a long way toward smoothing out a tense situation. And again, thanks to loads of therapy, I really get that we all do the best we can with what we're given. So I don't blame him. But I can't really forget, either. It wasn't easy being Bill Butler's child.  I think I had it easier, as the baby of the family. I learned early on how to avoid a lot of trouble, and I was very involved in the barbershop life, which kept me close to both my folks throughout our lives together.

But as we reached adulthood, I think Dad really began to appreciate us kids more. He figured out how to relate to us. And in the last few years of his life, I know that each of us reached a peace with Dad that was sweet and redemptive and so very lovely. His heart softened in a way that was totally palpable. He CHANGED. Big time. In the span of a few short years, we saw him soften and learn to take life a little easier. He began to pay more attention to his health, and he just seemed more settled and content than he ever had in his life.

Which is why his heart attack, emergency surgery, and unexpected death came as such a total out-of-left-field shock. And then, within few months, Mom became so very sick again. She died just six months or so after Dad.

But here's the thing I've come to know. If Dad had seen Mom suffer and die the way she did, I know, without a shadow of doubt, that his heart would have slammed shut forever. He would have shut everyone out. More importantly, he would have shut God out of his heart and life. He would have been totally, irretrievably lost. Lost to us. Lost to the Lord.

I know, I absolutely KNOW, that God took my dad right at the perfect moment, when he finally belonged to Him. He softened his heart, wooed him, changed him. God's timing in this, as in everything, was just perfection.

So, why did God let my mom suffer so horribly? Why couldn't he just heal everyone and make it all pretty and tidy, with a happy ending? I don't know. I will probably never know. But I do believe that my mom and my dad are waiting for us. We'll all have a sweet reunion one day soon. No more harsh words. No more anger. No regrets. And until then, God will continue to make everything beautiful in His time.

Parenting And Pets

When I was a child, my siblings and I had countless beloved pets. The first one that was all mine was a guinea pig named Speedy, who came to a tragic end in the blistering San Bernardino heat, due to a blanket accidentally left on his backyard cage all day. Years later, my mother confessed that she blamed herself and spent years feeling terrible for letting it happen. I was probably only 6 or 7 at the time, so I can imagine how she felt -- but I'm getting ahead of myself...

There was the scrappy outdoor cat named Omar (whom I used to sneak into my bedroom window at night to sleep, draped across my neck). 

Later came Chelsea, the amazing stunt cat. She was an excellent actor. We'd play "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom" -- I'd make the sound of a tranquilizer gun, she'd fall to the ground, and I'd hover over her while pretending to check her vitals and tag her ear for tracking. I’d narrate the action in Marlin Perkins’ funny southernish accent: “Watch those claws -- they can be dangerous.” As her imaginary sedative wore off, she'd regain consciousness and dart away. 

My sister’s dog Rinda would play the Big Bad Wolf. On cue, she would dash across the room and savagely attack my screaming Raggedy Ann doll (okay, it was really me doing the screaming, but Rinda and I still loved it). 

I also enjoyed a true friendship with my pony, Foxy Roxy. We spent many quiet warm summer evenings together in her box stall behind our house on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, listening to the sound of horses munching hay in the connecting stalls, while the strange wailing cries of peacocks echoed through the canyon outside our barn. By day, I'd ride her for hours, either with friends or alone. I was a feral child, barefooted and helmet-less, and she was my wild little pony, often without a saddle or bridle, as we galloped up and down canyon hills and bridle paths. I still wonder what on earth my parents were thinking... We'd stop on the trails to munch wild blackberries and solve the world's problems together.

There were herds of other four-legged childhood companions in and around my childhood homes, each unique and memorable, and all who eventually and inevitably died from old age, accidents, or illnesses. Each loss would leave us kids with puffy, wet faces, and that genuine yet fleeting grief with which children are mercifully endowed.

My dear, strong and capable father used to take our deceased pets to a resting place he called "Pelican Hill." He'd wrap the limp and lifeless kitty (or other unfortunate furry casualty) in a towel and gently carry it to the car. We would stand in the driveway, weeping and waving goodbye as he drove off to a place we never saw but imagined to be a beautiful grassy knoll overlooking an ocean somewhere. I would picture the sun quietly setting as my father wiped a sweaty brow and tapped the last pieces of soil onto the top of the grave he had dug himself.

Decades later, as an adult, I was at dinner one night with my folks. The subject had come up somehow, and I said to my dad, "You know, I'll bet Pelican Hill was just a landfill somewhere -- you probably just slowed down and chucked the dead cat out the window, didn't you?" Dad never actually admitted it, but his hysterical laughter that went on for far too long confirmed my suspicions.

So now, as a mom with my own daughters, I find myself in quite a different state of mind regarding our furry family members. 

When my future stepdaughter Becky was really, really young (maybe 4?), we found a cat in the Pennysaver for Christmas. We had not been able to find any kittens locally, so we had to drive to some run-down hovel in south-central L.A., which was filled with filthy cats. The woman selling the cat apologized for her completely trashed house, claiming that they were "remodeling". Before we left with a half-grown kitten that looked less sickly than the other cats, she insisted on tying a yarn ribbon around his neck and blessing him with holy water from France. Brian and I had a good laugh on the way home about that "French Pope" who had blessed the water...

Well, at his initial vet check, Rajah ended up testing positive for kitty leukemia. Although he was not yet showing symptoms, the vet said he might live six months, six years... no one knew for sure. With heavy hearts, waited for our little time bomb to go off. He ended up living a couple of years, and months after his death we discovered that little Becky had blamed herself for making him sick. Sobbing, she confessed that she had petted an outdoor cat before touching Rajah without washing her hands, and she was sure that was why he had died. We explained that he was sick when we first got him, that she had nothing to do with it. I thanked God that Becky never asked why on earth Santa would give her a sick kitty for Christmas. 

At that point, I was only just beginning to realize that being on the "parent-end" of pet ownership was, well, just delightful...

We adopted two sister kitties from a reputable source a while later. Named Jasmine and Nala by Becky (after Disney princesses, naturally), our cats were quite dear to me; I raised them from kittens and carefully followed advice from books such as The Natural Cat, which taught me how to give “kitty kisses” to show that I loved them and that I would indeed return soon from the store. Aside from having the unpleasant responsibility of paying for vet visits and cleaning the litter box (my darling husband resolutely refused to go near it, except for during my pregnancy – doctor’s orders), I have enjoyed these kitties every bit as much as I had any childhood pet. Jasmine is, as I type, 20 years old, and she's still going pretty strong. Sure, we need to keep several litter boxes in the house -- she sometimes forgets and just squats wherever she pleases. And she's almost deaf. And she smells. But mostly, she's still pretty tolerable.

However, something strange began to happen to me once Jennifer came along. Shortly after arriving home from the hospital, my newborn baby lay peacefully in her little bassinet near the couch. Cautiously, Jasmine (the bolder of the cat sisters) peered over the edge, fascinated by the tiny chubby hand that was bobbing up and down, just high enough for her to see. Jasmine tentatively reached out a paw to touch Jennifer's little hand, and WHAM! Before I even realized what I was doing, I had grabbed that predatory beast by the scruff, plunged her into the kitchen sink, turned on the tap, and doused her with a surprise shower that kept her clear of anything baby-related for at least the next six months.

What had come over me? How could my precious companions become "those cats" in the twinkling of an eye? The answer, for me at least, was parenthood! With blinding swiftness, I developed the perspective that could never possibly be achieved by my childless neighbor, who prepared and hand-fed homemade meatloaf to her Shih Tzu, named (really) "Princess Minky of Redondo Beach". I was going through some photo albums not long after Jen was born, and I looked up at my sometimes-too-tolerant husband and asked, "Honey, why do I have all these pictures of, um, cats?" Brian threw up his hands in exasperation and cried, "This is what I've been saying!!!"

So now, as I reflect on a phone call I once had with our vet (when I actually heard myself say, "Look, I'm willing to sacrifice time off the end of this dog's life, as long as the medicine you give me keeps him from chewing his paws and bleeding all over my carpet now!"), I realize that the magical relationship I shared with my childhood pets has taken a back seat to the pressing realities of caring for a home and a human family. 

I must admit, however, that we have kept one important tradition alive. When Nala succumbed to heart disease at the age of 11 (Jennifer and I actually watched her die… isn’t parenting stressful enough without pets, for cryin’ out loud??), Brian tenderly carried her off to "Pelican Hill" while I held my daughter as she cried. I cried too. I really did.

And I even cried when the first dog I owned as an adult, Charlie (the paw-chewing one above), shuffled off his mortal coil.  In time, I even nearly forgot about the night I brought him to my friend Julia's house. I only discovered that he'd spent the entire evening gorging himself on tortoise poop after we got in the car to leave. It took weeks to rid my Accord of the smell of regurgitated tortoise poop. Okay, I lied. I never forgot it and never really forgave him.

And then along came Bingley. I most often refer to him as The Last Dog I'll Ever Own. His transgressions upon my tolerance are far too numerous to list here. I'll save that for another blog. But I'll just say that having that dog has really put the nail in the coffin of my enjoyment of pets.

And don't even get me started on the hermit crabs. That is also a story in itself.

I may get another cat (or two), eventually. And I really, really want two alpacas (that's a whole other story as well). But I'm sure I'll find reasons to regret that, too.

Thou Shalt Not.... But Come On. Not Even These?

I have a guilty confession. I think. It may not be much of a confession at all. 

Every day, I walk The Last Dog I'll Ever Own. We cover two-and-a-half miles or more, while he carries a backpack that holds sand-filled bottles (it doubles his workout). Bingley also gets a walk before dinner. He must work for his food, Cesar-Millan-Dog-Whisperer style. Presumably, this makes him less of a jerk (Cesar would say "balanced"). I shudder to think how much MORE of a jerk he would be without so much exercise. But I digress.

On Thursdays, our local free papers are delivered -- The Beach Reporter and Easy Reader. They're tossed out of a moving car onto just about every driveway on our route, often loosely nestled in a plastic sleeve.

Now, here in Southern California, we're in the middle of a drought. It hardly ever rains. The biggest threats to these papers are getting backed over by cars or soaked by sprinklers.

These bags are the perfect size to pick up dog poop. I'm not one of those people who shells out unnecessary money for my pets. Like, say, for vet visits. Okay, I'm mostly kidding about that. But not really. I usually take Bingley to pet store vaccination clinics rather than fork over $65 just to walk into a vet's office. So, naturally, I don't have one of those cute little dispensers of deodorant dog waste-disposal bags with playful little paw-prints on them, which conveniently clips onto your designer leash. I generally use empty grocery or produce bags. Heck, even to this day, I use the cheap-o leash we got from the shelter when we adopted Bingley six or seven years ago. I'm frugal.

Oh, and did I mention that The Last Dog I'll Ever Own twerks when he poops? I NEVER see a human being twerking without imagining Bingley, humping away on the sidewalk, while poop literally flies out of his butt. But again, I digress...

In this era of re-usable grocery bags, we have far fewer plastic bags saved up. And on average, Bingley poops twice a day.  So, on Thursdays, I spend a portion of my walk collecting the plastic sleeves that hold these free papers.

So here’s the question.... am I stealing? I mean, does anyone else actually use them? I always make sure to place the newly-naked papers where they are in little danger from cars or the elements. And I don't take bags from driveways that are littered with several weeks' worth of sad, uncollected papers. Surely the residents won’t miss these bags...?

Or will they? Do they come out and wonder why, oh why, they never get a wrapped paper? 

When something I do begins to prick my conscience, I usually stop doing it. Years ago, I stopped sharing or accepting home-burned music CDs – except among my immediate family. I pretty much try to live my life as though God is watching -- because He is. As a follower of Christ, I mostly listen to that little voice in the back of my head when it pipes up, rather than ignoring it or rationalizing away my behavior.

But is this actually stealing? The bags certainly don't belong to me. I haven't asked permission to take them. And here's the biggest thing -- I never take one when I see someone watching me. So... I guess I have my answer...? Or do I? Still conflicted... but if I take a bag from your driveway one morning and you run out and yell at me, I'll be mortified. Until I run out of bags.

Empty Bottles - Making Turkish Delight - 2006

From time to time, I'm going to post old blogs I wrote long before I really knew what blogging was. In keeping with my newly named "Two Beers and a Blog" title, I'm going to call these old, recycled stories "Empty Bottles". See what I did there? 

This particular story about making Turkish Delight came to mind this week, because my friend Kathy Wright, having just returned from Turkey, brought some of the real thing to chorus rehearsal for me to try.  It wasn't a whole lot better than what I describe below, but it definitely didn't merit the abuse I give it in my story. Jennifer was eight years old at the time I wrote this (now she's 17)... 

Turkish Delight

Doreen Philbin, June 2006

Well, we did it. We made Turkish Delight. The five people in the universe who've not yet read or seen "The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" will wonder what on earth I'm talking about. It's this gooey, sugary, yummy-looking candy treat that Edmund, one of the children, receives from the White Witch. In the story, this batch of Turkish Delight is of course enchanted, so that although Edmund stuffs himself with it until he’s sick, he still wants more. So Jennifer and I decided to try out hand at making such an irresistible treat.

I guess I really should say I made it. Jennifer cheered me on (until she grew bored and ditched me to pursue less lofty interests – I think “Power Rangers” was on), but this was a big job that required more patience than either of us seems to possess. I had found several recipes online and picked one that seemed to be mostly the same as a few others I’d read. The ingredients were a snap, except for the rose water – we had to hit Bristol Farms for that one. This was an adventure in itself, as Jennifer mischievously ducked underneath my shirt and led me around the store that way, completely cracking herself up in the process. She thought it was even funnier when I pressed my hand over the spot on my shirt where her mouth was to muffle her unbridled hilarity.

The actual making of the candy took about three hours, spread over two days, including a frantic phone call to a friend of mine who makes jelly, so I could ask her why the heck the sugar solution hadn't budged past 225 degrees for 20 minutes and what the "soft ball" stage would look like when it finally got there. I ate dinner literally standing over the stove stirring the concoction while it simmered for an hour so that it wouldn't stick to pan. By the way, the dinner I'd planned on making (salmon filets with garlic mashed potatoes) had become a distant memory from simpler times, and my neglected husband, Brian, had to bring home takeout. I had become a slave to our candy.

Well, this morning I finished cutting and rolling it in powdered sugar and corn starch (which is soooo much like face powder, by the way), and Jennifer and I eagerly bit into a piece to test our results.

Wow. You just have to try it to believe it. Now we fully understand why Edmund feels so sick after eating lots of it. The mystery is why he'd actually eat lots of it in the first place... It didn’t have any taste other than, uh, sweet – the rose water didn’t even flavor it enough to make it taste like roses (which would, I imagine, have been equally unpleasant).

This only reinforces that old stereotype that British people have bad teeth and bad food.

Maybe I missed something in the recipe? Anyway, we chalked it up as one of those "don't knock it until you've tried it" things. But, man, are we ever knocking it now!

We saved some for Brian to sample when he got home later (it made 81 pieces, for cryin' out loud), and we took the rest to park day to try out on the unsuspecting homeschoolers.

When I opened the airtight container in which the recipe had advised me to store it, I discovered with dismay that all the powdered sugar had somehow been absorbed into the weird red gelatinous mass, so that now it looked all slimy and even less appealing than before. Only two people at the park were brave enough to try it at all – after that, I stopped offering it because it just seemed cruel.

At home, the remaining candy (the “control group”) had suffered the same gooey fate, which at least reassured me that transporting it in a warm car hadn’t caused the problem. Brian, like us, took one bite while wisely standing over the sink, and he promptly released it to the garbage disposal. Experiment concluded. Long live Aslan.