Some time during the night, Charlie got up, moseyed out to the kitchen, deposited three little turds, then came back to bed. I hasten to add that Charlie is a dog. He eats exactly the same thing every morning and evening so I am not sure how he can get off schedule. Even more of a mystery, he sleeps suction-cupped against me, and he cannot get back up on the bed without climbing a stack of boxes that I have just for that purpose. So how did he accomplish this midnight meander without waking me up? Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe I had a tiny, tiny burglar who shits mini-Tootsie Rolls. Or some awesome big roaches.

It’s considered unseemly to make fun of the local Native American art. But when the tribes do it themselves, well then, surely I can join in. I love this billboard for our neighborhood casino:

I suffer from arachnophobia. Actually, the people around me may suffer more because I can let fly some blood curdling screams. Anyway, imagine my chagrin at Salt. Who knew? The Mister used to let me sit there in the dark, hands over my eyes, and he would tell me when I could open them. I asked the same of John, my significant-other-in-law. Problem is his memory. He’d forget. So I would have to ask if it was safe to open my eyes yet. “Oh, yeah!” he’d whisper back. Bottom line, while I have heard Salt, I’d have to say there are great gaping holes in what I have seen of it. But somehow, I don’t think it would make a lot of difference to the plot if I’d seen every frame.

TA-DAH!

Clicking another time or two, I find that Achlys was the Greek Goddess of eternal Night. She’s the funster who clouds people’s eyes when they are dying. As described by eighth century poet Hesiod, she was “pale, emaciated and weeping, with chattering teeth, swollen knees, long nails on her fingers, bloody cheeks, and her shoulders thickly covered with dust.” If this sculpture of Hesiod is accurate, I’d say he might have dated Achlys a time or two too many.

Anyhoo, my research into Achlys has caused me to rethink the desirability of this whole Goddess thing. I mean, just consider those bloody cheeks and dusty shoulders. The ability to turn men into swine just isn’t worth it.

***
This morning, our littlest dog Caesar set a new record for flouting the BAD DOG! BAD DOG! rules. Within a span of 28 seconds, he licked his dick, ate some bird poop, and humped Bella (point of clarification for new readers of the back nine: Bella is another dog). And I’ll bet you were sitting there thinking the phrase “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him” was about some old emperor.

***
Back in the Dark Ages, I asked for some author recommendations. Thanks to Lucy’s Mom, Barry, and Pete for reminding me of authors like Koontz, Cornwell, Sedaris, Reichs. I’ve read them and like them all. .303 Bookworm suggested Lois McMaster Bujold who was new to Sis and she loved the whole series, and The Other Donna got us both started on John Lescroart. Your suggestions made great fodder to pick up at Better World Books

***
My friend Jan in Oregon sent this article about a guy who committed suicide in prison after robbing a bank. She circled the bit about what he wrote his note on. As she said to me, “I thought this kind of thing was only in jokes.”

***
And speaking of jokes: Limbaugh and Palin both find reasons to leave the country for health care? Don’t you just love it?

***
The Joint Commission is an organization that inspects and accredits hospitals. They have published the Hospital National Patient Safety Goals. The first goal is “Identify patients correctly.” And there are eight additional goals they apparently consider more important than number ten which is “Prevent errors in surgery.” Now I ask you, who says that the American health care system is in trouble when our hospitals aspire to such high standards?

***
Photography tip: Dogs don’t usually climb up your camera strap, bite your lens cap, then laugh at you.

There’ll be driftwood powder to burn on logs
And a shaggy rug for a couple of dogs,
Boreas, winner of prize and cup,
And Mickey, a lovable gutter-pup.
Thoroughbreds, both of them, right from the start,
One by breeding, the other by heart.
There are times when only a dog will do
For a friend . . . when you’re beaten, sick and blue
And the world’s all wrong, for he won’t care
If you break and cry, or grouch and swear,
For he’ll let you know as he licks your hands
That he’s downright sorry . . . and understands.

I am a widow. Widow, widow, widow. The word sounds funny. What are widow’s weeds anyway? And do they come in size XL? My weeds appear to be cruise wear.

Thoughts flit around, sting and are gone. Do people know the amber earrings they are buying on board are insects in tree poo? Would they pay less if they did? Or is petrified poo worth more?

You shouldn’t write when emotionally ionized. Maudlin. It sounds like a name, doesn’t it? “I’d like you to meet my new friend, Maudlin. You’ll be seeing us together quite often for a while.”

Did he have to die while I’m half a world away? Did he do it so I wouldn’t have to sit there and watch? A bad joke or a kind gesture. He was capable of both, you know.

These are the at sea days. And I think there will be a lot of them on the back nine.

NOTES:
- To all of you sending well wishes, you are appreciated more than you can know. In time, I will thank you all. In the meantime, you’re saving me about a billion in counseling! Love at you all.

- Because the Mister requested cremation and no ceremony, the time pressures are not as great as with many deaths. That’s why I have the ability to take it slow and make few decisions until I am ready.

- In his last days, he was preparing an email for me with photos of all the kinds of dogs we have owned. His last night he dreamed about dogs in his room, according to the nurse. He loved those pooches, so I think that is nice. About time these mutts earned their doggy bones.

***

My friend Carol asks, “If Washington Mutual is bankrupt, does that mean that Black Angus is restaurantrupt? And is Rite-Aid nearly pharmacyrupt?”

***

Steve’s dog can’t learn to fetch. And she’s a retriever. But he’s getting a lot of exercise throwing balls then going after them.

***
Drew Barrymore, being considered for Eclipse, said she is “one of the directors that is being talked about, which is great, because I’m a director now.” And who can argue with that logic?

***

Having no kids, no fortune, and no wisdom to leave behind, I realize my debt to society will have to be paid by creation of “You’ll Find It At Freddy’s” and the disclaimer on Sears furniture, “virtually all wood.” Don’t tell me my passing will go unnoticed.

***

Sundance is on his way to the real vet, not the toenail vet. He (the bird) has been picking at his feathers and has me worried because he is looking very scruffy. And a bird with this much personality better look good because he jolly well doesn’t act good. For no reason I can understand – except for when he waddles across the floor to me screaming “Love a Birdie?” – I am fond of this little fluff ball, so wish us both luck.

***
Yahoo headline: Possible Mammoth Tusk found on Southern California Island “It’s very difficult to tell whether or not you’re dealing with mammoth bones,” the expert said. It does seem like there’d be a couple of clues though, doesn’t it?

***
Just in case you’re behind on your Finnish or Swedish scientific reports, here’s the best news of the decade: “Middle-aged people who drank between three and five cups of coffee a day lowered their risk of developing dementia and Alzheimer’s disease by between 60 and 65 percent later in life.” Just think, the ol’ beans may be bad for most everything else, but they’re great for the Old Bean.

***
“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Happy MLK Day everybody. And, oh yes, Inauguration Day.

Bella in her Christmas finery

2. I picked a fight with Sis. She has purchased a ridiculous asinine item she will enjoy very much and it’s none of my goddamn business. I know that, ok, so I suggest you keep any pollyanna-ish opinions to yourselves.

3. Not yet convinced that my New Year celebration was complete, I picked a fight with the Mister. If you really want to feel good about yourself, try berating a man in a hospital bed.

4. I can’t win at Spider Solitaire since New Year’s Eve and I am sure the Compu-noia gods are messing with me. It is embarrassing to admit that I am an SS addict, but come to think of it, maybe not so embarrassing since at least one of you is in to ass porn. You know who you are.

5. I am furious with the weather. I haven’t been able to get to Rite-Aid to purchase the half price Christmas candy before they swapped it out for the Valentine candy.

6. I have now received the fourth rejection of my query letter about my manuscript. Maybe I should have listened to Josh all along.

Anyway, if you’re looking for anyone to kick your dog, pick a fight, or call you names, I’m your woman. Happy fucking New Year from the back nine.

***
Contest! Win! Win! Those of you who have hung around the Back Nine for a while know there is almost never a reference to golf. I don’t give a shit about golf. To me, being on the back nine refers to being closer to the end of life than the beginning … I’m the oldest year of the baby boomers. Short Game entries refer to these posts that are little bits about nothing much. I am now bored with Short Game as a title. I have considered Short Putts but said aloud, it is quite rude. And I am nothing if not polite (hehe). Anyway, have any suggestions?
***
On second thought: In my last post I asked a perfectly innocent question about what goes on at Day Care so I can have a realistic character in my book. I get this from Josh:

… In fact, I think your story would probably be more interesting if you just had a character that didn’t know shit about kids, but was stuck working in a daycare. It could even be like an odd couple, or bunch rather. Maybe a burly biker dude would be the daycare butler (I’m assuming this daycare is being held in a huge mansion, in space) and he would be scary but turns out he wouldn’t hurt a fly, except for occasionally when he forgets to be nice and stabs a person or two. And you could have a Rasta cook that always makes crappy food cause they have the munchies and think everything tastes good. Actually, make that a Mexican Rasta, that would be funnier. And when he wasn’t cooking bad Mexican Jamaican food, he could try to teach all the kids broken English with two accents. Throw in an uptight British lady who runs the joint, but has a secret drinking problem, and an aspiring actress/dancer/singer retard. You know the type, the damaged goods that always move to LA or New York, and maybe she was abused as a child, but now she developed the power to move things with her mind, and uses that to protect all the children from the vicious space wolves and their Cthulhu masters who want to slaughter everyone in the space mansion daycare center and harvest their souls for the coming apocalypse. So basically I don’t know anything about daycare, sorry.

And maybe I don’t want readership help naming the Short Game feature after all.

Speaking of readers and writers, Musings from the Left Coast is blogging again. You can see the link to her there to the left. Welcome back, Lab Lady.
Christmas recap: Charlie was to only one of these goddamn dogs that would wear the jingle bells and, as you can see, he was none to gracious about it. And we’ve spent how much on non-China-poisoned kibble this year? You mutts better watch your step in 2009.
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In fact, we should all watch our step in 2009 … here’s hoping it’s a wonderful year. Now please pass the macaroni and cheese.