We sit in the dark... ( a funny doggy tale/tail )

It started sometime last year.   The day would pass peacefully and normally and the night usually mirrored the day, but sometime last year things changed.  At first it wasn't a big change.  It was a little annoying, and certainly very much attention getting, but it only lasted a few minutes and then it was all done.  One night, some unknown thing startled him.   It wasn't a bark from a dog on the television, and it wasn't the sound of the neighbor's firecrackers that set him off, and there was no delivery at the must-be-barked-at-if-there's-someone-there front door to trigger the panting, the panic, the can't-sit-still, gotta-go-out, gotta-come-in, let's-go-upstairs, no-let's-stay-downstairs, pant, pant, pant that can now last for hours in this darkened house.

It did happen once in the daylight.  It was a Sunday afternoon and he just wouldn't calm down.  Pant, pant, pant, up the stairs, and down the stairs, scratch the dirt in the garden, scratch the (perceived) dirt in the carpet, scratch (the hopefully only perceived) bugs in the bed.  He was in a panic.  I thought it was the precursor to a cardiac event so off we went to what I was sure would be an event leading to euthanasia.  Turned out (after a couple of hundred bucks in emergency vet bills) he really just wanted a ride in the car.  We determined that because he was perfectly fine at the emergency vet hospital.  

You know when you take the car in for repair because it's been making that funny noise, but you can't quite describe the funny noise to the guy at the car repair shop, and it stopped making the funny noise about two minutes before you got to the car repair shop, and the guy at the car repair shop drives it around town and it still won't make that funny noise, and so the guy at the car repair shop takes your car home (his home, not yours - which also explains why you see your mechanic driving around town in some very fancy cars that kind of look like the cars your friends own) to see if it will make that funny noise , but that funny noise just won't reveal itself to the guy at the repair shop, and so the guy at the repair shop charges you $89.75 for his diagnostic ministrations (but he usually charges the other blokes $125 so you kind of feel better)?  Well, it was the same thing with the dog.  The dog was fine at the emergency vet, and he was fine when we brought him home, but who wouldn't be fine after getting a $75 shot of valium in their forty-five pound body?   Oh, and don't bother asking if the vet can hook-you-up with a quick shot of Demarol for your shattered human nerves: apparently they're only licensed to hook-up the animal kingdom, inter-species doctoring being severely frowned upon by those who administer the licenses of the vets who are charging you a week's salary for shaving a one inch square section of fur, to 'have a look' at the bump or lump 'that might' be the cause of today's palpitations (the dog's palpitations, not your own palpitations.  Your palpitations are easily explained by the avalanche of symptoms exhibited by the dog, and the palpitations brought on by the all-too-predictable-but-unexpected tsunami of cost attached to this veterinary visitation).

We bring the dog home, and we both attack 'Dr. Google'.   If you look hard enough, look long enough, and are persistent enough, you can validate pretty much any physical (for better or for worse) condition on the interwebbynettythingy.   If you want to confirm that you're at death's door, you can find someone, somewhere who has had that same pimple in the same place with the same headache, cough, and anal leakage that you've been experiencing simply by consulting the internet.   Having confirmed that you're at death's door, you now want to deny the reality of your own mortality by doing a search for remedies, palliatives, ointments and unguents that will relieve one of the headache, clog the anal leakage, remove the pimple and restore good health (relieve wrinkles, and restore a youthful glow) to one so deserving of good health and long life.   With Dr. Google, off you go down that well-worn path of denial, bargaining, anger, depression, and acceptance that is the right and privilege of those whose day's are numbered, and then you can go back out into the 'doctor market' to find some doctor who will agree with your diagnosis and relieve you of $500 but not relieve you of your pimple, headache, or anal leakage (which you later discover can all be cured by two aspirin, a pair of tweezers, and a cork that are found at Walgreens).

According to the interwebbythingy, this old dog is suffering from Cushing's disease.  Well, kind of, but not really.   He has 'this', but you really need 'this' combined with 'that' for it to be Cushing's disease.  He's never had 'that', but the 'this' portion of a Cushing's disease diagnosis he has in spades.   He has so much of the 'this' part of the Cushing's disease diagnosis that you convince yourself (because Dr. Google is telling you right there, in print, before your very eyes) that 'this' can really only be Cushing's disease, and just because he doesn't seem to exhibit any signs of 'that' doesn't mean he won't be doing 'that' real soon, and honestly, maybe he's been doing 'that' for months in some private place in your house or yard where you can't see 'that' - after all, just because the dog's every waking moment is spent at your side (as God intended), like I said, just because he's at your side constantly doesn't mean he doesn't take a few moments off from his watching-you-duties to have a little personal moment of 'that' for himself.  Does it?

The emergency vet says he'll calm the dog down with a shot (you'll have to calm yourself down with a shot of tequila when you get home thank you very much) but he's more than happy to do some blood work and do an X-ray.  Oh sure, 'he's happy'!   He's happy to see a $60,000 off road vehicle (that attacks a speed bump at Target at three miles an hour as if it were made of crystal and they were driving this $60K crystal off road vehicle across the Alps like one of the vonTrapp's more desirable children) in his parking lot with two guys (Gee, are you two brothers?  You look so much alike...) two guys who have clearly never missed a meal, and whose wallets are clearly encumbered by limitless credit lines given by Visa, MasterCard, American Express and Discover, and just by chance this happy vet happens to accept all four of those major credit cards, which is convenient because you're gonna max out every one of them if you take the sucker's-bet and go for the in-house blood work, and X-ray that are so generously (?) being offered.

Being no fool (well, not being the biggest fool in a world of fool's) we accept the drugging of the doggie, and decline the 'convenience and immediacy' of the offered bloodwork and X-ray.   After all, our own vet had to downgrade from a stateroom with a balcony to a regular (outside) stateroom for his last cruise, and we want to be supportive of his business, and we want the vet to have first class vacations (while we sit at home because we don't have money for vacations) so we'll take the dog to him (our vet) the next day.

Which is exactly what we do...

The regular vet has just spent a hundred grand on a machine because the tax laws gave him a generous break on such machinery, and it's a really great machine, and wouldn't we like him to use this expensive machine on our dog to diagnose that which would explain why he has 'this' and not 'that', but might also reveal that he's been doing 'that' for a long time and I've been too much of a lunk-head to notice 'that'.   This machine, when combined with $800 worth of bloodwork will, without doubt, without question, with no uncertainty, determine that the dog is on his last legs, or determine that his ailments are indeterminate in nature, and aren't you happy that he doesn't have anal leakage?

Which is exactly what the expensive machine, and the expensive bloodwork, and the expensive examination determine: this dog is (kind of) fine: except for doing 'this' (but not 'that') and being very annoying during the hours that we've generally determined to be time for sleeping (9:00 p.m' through 4:00 a.m.).  During the examination they've noticed some skin tags (doggie equivalents of pimples).  One of them looks like Hiroshima on a bad day in August, so let's just whack that sucker off.   Now, I've been picking at this thing for months, and it's the kind of pimply-growth-kinda-thingy that your finger nails just can't resist.  Five minutes of picking at this fleshy Vesuvius is always productive and weirdly satisfying (said the Marquis de Sade).  The dog can't feel my pinching of this monstrosity, and according to Dr. Google I can strangle this thing off his body with some dental floss and a tourniquette.   However, I'd much rather pay another $600 to remove this pimple by a professional pimply-thingy-removal guy, and since he doesn't exhibit anal leakage I'm that much ahead of the game (if he's suffering from headaches I'll never know).

He's an old dog.  At least sixteen years old, and there have been more than a couple of times in the last few years that we thought: "This is it, he's not going to pull through this event....".  Fortunately, medical science and thousands of dollars later, he's still here.  It seems to me that dogs weren't as expensive to have as they are today.  The vet who has set up shop here in our swanky neighborhood is a nice guy, and a great vet, but man is he expensive.  How the hell do poor people have dogs?   Well, I guess they have them, but they don't have them for sixteen years like I do.   Our other dog died in my arms (a heart attack) one September afternoon, and while I miss that old dog (he was nearly twenty) I sure can use the money (nearly five grand a year) that funded our vet's luxury accommodations on whatever cruise ship our vet vacationed on in those lush, hundred dollar a barrel oil years!

The vet has given me some medication that is supposed to relieve us of the 'this' symptoms.   Every evening, the dog gets a Xanax.   Actually, he gets a half of a Xanax.  Exactly what kind of a world is it when the dog is on Xanax and I'm not?  At first, the Xanax worked, and frankly there have been a couple of recent world events where I may have slipped a Xanax into my own Alpo to get through the night, but now, his Xanax wears off at about 11:00 p.m. and we're enjoying pant, pant, pant, in and out, up and down, 'this' but not 'that' throughout the night (well, at least until 4:00 a.m.).

The dog is now boasting a three inch square section of shaved skin.   It's kind of growing back, but it's doing so in a very odd way.   It's been four months since the initial shaving, and it's been four months of panting, out, then in, then upstairs, no downstairs, and none of this, absolutely none of this can, will, or does occur during business hours.   I'm kinda wishing I hadn't removed that doggie pimple, picking at it would give me something to do in the wee hours of the morning while I sit in the dark.

No, all of this panting, up, down, in and out needs to be done between his business hours (he apparently prefers working the night shift - 9 p.m. to 4 a.m.).  I'm trying to convince the dog that he can do his business during daylight hours and not bother anyone, but you know what they say about teaching an old dog new tricks.  Besides, part of his pleasure is in making me get out of bed an additional four times a night to attend to his needs (supplementing the eight times I'm up in the night to attend to my weakened bladder or supplementing the twelve times a night I'm up if I've dared to have more than two ounces of liquid after 4:00 p.m.).

Back in September, I just wasn't quite ready to let go of this dog.  So I made a deal with the devil, and he's still here.  In the morning, I get up (if I'm not already up like this morning) and make the coffee.  He rolls on outta bed (he's too old to jump on the bed so he has to be picked up to be put there - six times a day, and four times at night), and he rumbles on out to whatever part of the house I'm loitering in.  All he knows is that he's done his night's work, and it's the start of a new day.  He's always wagging his tail, and last night's 'this' is a thing of the past.   That I wanted to kill the beast sometime around 2:00 a.m. for the panting, the in, the out, the up, the down, the 'this' but not 'that' is also forgotten.   After all, it is (or soon will be) a new day.

In the meantime: we sit in the dark.   He wags his tail, I sip my coffee.   He wags his tail, I lament the world condition.  He wags his tail, I worry about money.   He wags his tail, I worry about health issues (mine, yours, ours).  He wags his tail... we sit in the dark!

That feminine touch..... (A Christmas Story)

Frisky Barrington shared his king size bed with three other pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that he called 'family'.  Sometime around midnight these mismatched objects of his affection would find their comfort zones and the night would (then) pass peacefully.  Until midnight arrived, the war (actually, a series of mini-battles that when gathered together for review, could justifiably be called a 'war') anyway, the war for bedding real estate was fierce and combative.

By morning's light Frisky inevitably found himself on a sliver of the bed, with the lamp table on his side being annexed for the repose of his head, left shoulder, and whatever else had been pushed, shoved, jostled, scratched, clawed, punched, or otherwise manhandled during the night.

Frisky was a side sleeper.  He favored no particular side.   Left side, right side, with an occasional changing-things-up by sleeping on his back or (rarely) sleeping on his stomach.  Observers to his nocturnal habits could bear witness that all four of the major positions and at least six of the minor positions were exhibited throughout the night.  Along with the four major sleep positions and six minor positions Frisky (being a creative sort) inserted a few variations on this nightly pas-de-quatre which made the nightly  'tableau' more interesting for all involved.

This particular night, was no different from the other nights.  It may have been the night before Christmas when this occurred (it would make for a nicer story if it was the night before Christmas), but, it could have been sometime on the 4th of July (post fireworks) when both dogs and humans are finally assured that the last cherry bomb has been exploded and quiet once again reigns in their neighborhood.  Maybe it was the night of Halloween, when the last of the trick-or-treaters had come and gone.   It could very well have been no special night at all - a night like any other night.   Not a weekend night, nor a mid-week night, not a payday night, not a night where a birthday or anniversary had been celebrated.   I suppose the actual calendar date is immaterial.   But, it was that special moment of quiet that is generally more noticeable when an event of importance shatters the day-to-day humdrumness.   That special moment of quiet when the guests have all left the party, and the hosts are left with nothing but cake crumbs, dirty dishes, and half empty (or maybe half full - depending upon one's point of view) bottles of wine or champagne. 

On this particular night, at this particular moment of quietude, when the weather outside was: well, if we start describing weather conditions, we'll be here all night.  On this night, 'it' started with everyone claiming a generous portion of the bed for themselves, while politely (an insincere 'Bless-your-heart' politeness at best) leaving space for the others.   The real action generally started under cover of darkness; when the lights were off, and the glow and the noise of the television were clicked away by an always misplaced and hard-to-find remote control. 

On this night, Frisky turned this way and then that way.  He fluffed the pillow, pulled the blankets, tugged at the sheets, stuck one foot out, then one foot in, was simultaneously too hot, and too cold, (but not too rich nor too thin) and at some point, he turned his back on the assembled masses (or messes) on those who shared/fought-for his bed.

And then (most good stories have an 'and then') Daisy placed her right paw upon him.  No, Daisy didn't just place her right paw upon him - her paw, with complete intent, and with what appeared to be calculation, fell upon his back.  I suppose 'fell' isn't quite the correct description.  One would not intentionally 'fall-down-the-steps' (unless one was a paid stunt person).  'Falling' is an action that is happenstance, coincidence, something that occurs without thought or premeditation.  Daisy's paw did NOT just 'fall' upon him. 

Having raised doubts about whether Daisy's paw 'fell' upon his back, we must now question whether it is accurate to describe the placement of this paw upon his personage as being so general, so meaningless, so unimportant as to cavalierly describe the placement of this paw upon a place so specific that a place as large and non-specific as 'his back' dishonors the intent of the gesture.  Furthermore (complicating things that were already too complicated to describe) Daisy's paw did not and could not possibly be accurately described as having 'fallen' upon Frisky's shoulder.   Daisy's touching of Frisky (on this night) was done with intent, and with meaning.  The touch was not accidental, it had intent, purpose, a reason.  It was done in such a way that any intentions could readily be explained (and whisked away) by the anthropomorphism that Frisky (and others) were so frequently guilty of!  In this regard Daisy (like anyone testing a love that might be unrequited) and Frisky could both deny the depth of their feelings to a public that is quick to find fault and make mockery of things such as this.

Daisy did not 'reach' for Frisky.  She had not 'grasped' for Frisky.  The spot that benefited from Daisy's delicate gesture was not a back nor a shoulder (per se).  Even though a shoulder is oftentimes considered as part of one's back, it was not the shoulder that attracted Daisy's reach.   A paw upon the shoulder would have suggested a neediness that the ever-independent Daisy was unlikely to reveal.  A paw upon the shoulder would have been more grasping in nature.  Suggesting that Daisy did not want Frisky to leave.  "Frisky please stay, I need you, I want you, I love you..." might well be emotions that this terrier felt, but terriers (much like humans) are unlikely to reveal such raw emotions because of the disadvantage that such revelations would create in future relationship issues.

The paw was not on Frisky's spine.  That might have suggested a 'pushing' type of action: "Frisky, I like you, and sometimes I love you, but could I please have some space?"   If one needs space (emotional or spiritual) any chiropractor will assure you that a little spinal pressure is the best place to begin in the movement of an object that once seemed immoveable.   Pushmepullyou is a wonderful creature and unlike the double headed Pushmepullyou in Dr. Doolittle,  Daisy boasted only one head .   Frisky had spent a lifetime in relationships with people who loved him and hated him (often within the same millisecond).  Whether it was a Mister or Miss Pushmepullyou (Pushmepullyou's being rather genderless) Frisky danced their dance, pushing, pulling, twirling, jumping, twisting and shimmying to the beat of their drums.  Along the way Frisky had become quite savvy about issues where 'no' meant 'yes', where 'go away' meant 'I need you to be closer' and this touch from Daisy was neither push nor pull, not come hither nor shove.  It was not insincere.  It was quite the opposite: a rare moment of unguarded, unplanned sincerity between two entities.

The placement of this paw can best be described as somewhat clavicle-adjacent.  A spot somewhat near one's (physically) beating heart, but a spot best defined as definitely near one's ever-beating emotional heart!  An acupuncturist could readily identify this spot.   A chakra specialist could also better describe the location.  A reflexologist might be better suited to explain why this particular spot on Frisky's back (when touched in just the right way) sent Frisky into paroxysms of peace, and of pleasure. Unlocked were emotions as sublime as a movement in a Beethoven Sonata, Choral Fantasy or 9th Symphony and emotions as complicated as a Rubik's Cube.

The anointment of Daisy's paw upon Frisky's back could not accurately be described as more than a whisper.  Nor could it be said that this touch was heavier than a feather.  When Daisy wants to be held, she feels like cotton candy. She is as light as air.  Sometimes (when she wants it to be) she weighs no more than the weight of a cotton sheet drying on a clothesline in a soft summer's breeze.  She is the weight of a dream, the weight of  a thought (even a heavy thought accurately describes the lightness of being Daisy).  She is the weight of the moon, of the stars, of the sky and the clouds.  Oftentimes, she lays her head in the crook of Frisky or The Jimster's elbow for a moment of repose.  At those times, she is as light as the aforementioned clouds.  She is ethereal, ghostly, weightless.  When the moment has passed, and it becomes necessary for her human friend to go about their duties, that same weightlessness is magically turned into twenty tons of inert, immovable, you're-not-going-anyplace, dog.

When  Carol Barrington became ill, and just before her passing, she commented to Frisky that her sister Minnie had visited earlier in the day.  Carol knew her situation to be hopeless, and unfortunately, home care was simply not possible at this stage of the disease.  In circumstances that are out of one's control, one must take control of that which is controllable.   There was no hug, no embrace, no massage, no medication, no ointment, that could stop the cancer's spread.   However, there were still small comforts to be enjoyed.  A big arrangement of flowers was nice, but the showy flowers in the showy arrangement(s) that Frisky presented faded quickly and the last few surviving blooms were plucked off to be placed in a cup of water to be enjoyed, examined, and reviewed in search of clues to the true meaning of life.  Those last few flowers never kept their secrets long, and in their simplicity, they did, they did reveal the true meaning of life.  

Minnie could do no more for Carol than to minister to such things that helped Carol to retain some dignity in a situation that offered little dignity with its bedpans, sponge baths, catheters and other intrusions.  Towards the end of one visit, Carol drifted in and out of sleep.   The pains that morphine could not overcome often inhibited the deep sleeps that Carol had so often enjoyed.  Minnie had fluffed the pillow, tidied the bedside table, and now smoothed the bed linens, tucking Carol into the bed like a love letter into an envelope.  Little else could be controlled and their educations at the hands of nuns at Little Flower made neatness the one controllable element of this horrible circumstance at which they had arrived.  Frisky entered the room as Carol awoke (Minnie having left sometime earlier).  With rheumy eyes, but clarity of mind, Carol said to Frisky:  "There's nothing like the feminine touch..."

It was a decidedly feminine touch that Daisy presented to Frisky that fine and memorable evening. Men can touch gently, softly, caringly, but no man, can ever duplicate the touch of a woman.   Daisy's cotton candy ministration to Frisky's personage struck a lonesome chord on his heartstrings, and he remembered with fondness (a long lost memory) of summer nights in Dentdale when Carol tucked him into line-dried sheets after a bubble filled bath in the ball-and-claw footed bathtub of the Barrington Avenue home... 

--------------------------------------

Frisky and The Jimster have both submitted their DNA for examination by one of those 'ancestry-r-us' companies, so we'll soon know how much Irish contributes to the stubbornness of those two fellows.  I wonder if dogs have nationalities?   Well, there are Irish Setters and German Shepherds.  French Poodles and Staffordshire Terriers.  Daisy is a terrier of some sort.  If there's an Irish terrier, Daisy would be one.  She's very smart, very opinionated, very sweet, very kind, easily hurt, quick to defend, ready to smile, sometimes she'll cry (quietly).   She likes to smile, and is oftentimes offended by the smallest of events, gestures, or opinions.  She is empathetic, sympathetic, and sometimes just pathetic.  She is strong, indomitable, unbeatable, and sometimes a bully (but in a Cowardly Lion kind of way).   She cries (for what once was, and for what could have been), and laughs (at the absurdity of what once was, and what could have been).  In this regard, she is much like Frisky, who can oftentimes, (recalling some moment past or present) be found in full-sob in the fresh vegetable department of the local grocery, and who is only moments later laughing with the cashier as his comestibles are bagged, and his grocery bill paid.

Like many of the Irish, she thinks that her emotions are her secret.  As anyone who has ever spent any time around the Irish knows: there are no secret emotions when it comes to Irish people.  On this night, at this moment, a secret passed between Daisy and Frisky.   Like two elementary school children experiencing their first crush:  Daisy loved Frisky.  Oh yes, it was Daisy and Frisky sitting in a tree.......  Daisy revealed her hearts desire: she did not need Frisky, she did not want Frisky.  Frisky did not need Daisy, nor did he want Daisy.  It was love, it was hate, it was sweet, it was sour.  It was of-the-earth, and yet ethereal.  It was a lightening bolt of emotion between the two of them - a moment of Godliness, a moment where the fleeting nature of life, life's problems, life's rewards, life's burdens, life's exaltations, life, life, life.....

'It' lasted for several moments, and some other movement in the bed changed the spirit (but not the intent or meaning) of Daisy's touch, her embrace, her gesture.

In the morning's light, both Frisky and Daisy exchanged knowing, somewhat guilty glances between themselves.  It was not the love that dare not speak its name, but it was not a love that could be explained by song, dance, poetry, or rhyme.  Some things in life just 'are'. 

The ending of this story has not yet been written.  If life is fair (and life is never fair) soon (possibly sooner than later) Daisy will turn around and Frisky will be gone.   The Jimster and Daisy will walk back to the limousine (the hearse having left only moments before) and there, on a beautiful sunlit morning, the traffic on Allen Parkway will zoom past Frisky's grave, and Glenwood Cemetery will add a new member to its community. 

Daisy will place her paw gently, caringly, knowingly, upon Jimster's knee and on that long ride back to the Houston suburbs that is now absent of Frisky's presence, they will both feel a feather-like touch, and they too will know that they were loved.....

Chapter 10: Frisky Barrington deals with some boobs!

It is I (Anonymous Dent) who writes today's continuing saga of life in Dentdale!  

I decided to publish the Dentdale Diaries a few years ago.   I'd had a wonderful time growing up in Dentdale, and my memories of the place and its inhabitants were fond!   Although our family moved away from Dentdale, we would occasionally go back to visit friends and family who resided in the area.   As the years went on, I kept in touch with current and former Dentdalians via email and various internet sites. 

It was by chance that I was in Philadelphia on business, when I learned of Jake Barrington's passing and his impending funeral.   I extended my trip, and rented a car so that I could attend Jake's funeral service at Saint Frances de Sales on Gloucester Pike in Dentdale.   Jake's funeral will be the subject of another chapter.   But, as with most Irish funerals, it was a time for great sadness and a time of great humor.   I walked away from the event remembering how Frisky Barrington's emails presented some of the best written material that I've ever read, and so I dug up a few of them to share with the readership of the Dentdale Diaries.

Frisky Barrington and I were the same age, and although our lives could not have been more different, our childhood bond, and general outlook on morality, politics, and world issues pretty much jived.

Frisky is certainly dramatic, but not extremist.   In this email he reacts to the radical right wing of a particular group...

To:  Anonymous Dent
From: Frisky Barrington
RE:  Does this really have to be done in public?

"Dear (Anonymous Dent):

It was nice to see you last week.   I'm sorry we didn't have more time to visit....

On occasion, I indulge myself in a rant.   As time goes on, I find myself mellowing, and I would hope that you've noticed my rants are occurring with less frequency.   I really don't want to be that cranky old guy in the corner house, but, like Father, like Son, and I fear I am doomed to a retirement spent writing letters-to-the-editor and fomenting in public venues about things that are better left unwritten, unthought, or unspoken.

In an effort to retain what little remains of the public's perception that I am somewhat sane, I will be running my rants through you for editing, comment, and clarification.   A decent friend would ask if this arrangement is acceptable, but I've never really been a decent friend, so you'll just have to do my bidding, and suffer through my tirades.   By no means are you encumbered to respond - it is hoped that you'll consider the source of these agitated writings and allow the opinions that I express to waft away into the nether regions of the 'inter-web'!

I realize that as time goes by, you, me and others, should utilize our remaining energy and resources to enact changes that will make the world a better place.   In this regard, my rants should focus on the merits and demerits of global warming, a woman's right to choose, voter I.D. laws in Mississippi, the decaying infrastructure of bridges and highways in America, starving children in the Adirondacks, and the board of education for the state of Texas who insist that public school's teach creationism and treat Darwinism as 'theory'.

All of the topics that I mentioned above, are undeniably good fodder for my rants, but I believe you and I solved all of those problems last week when we drained my bar of its best scotch.    Clearly, what the world needs now is not 'love sweet love' - it needs you and I (and a nice bottle of single malt) to run it for a week or two to get things straightened out.

Two days after you left, I was surfing the interwebnet thingy and came across a rather innocuous little incident that occurred in one of America's favorite shopping emporium: Target.

On a recent summer's day, a rather buxom lass determined that her infant son's demands for nourishment could no longer be dismissed.   This demand came at its usual time (10:15 a.m. every day of the week in this child's 293 day existence).  For reasons unknown BL (Buxom Lass) was surprised when Sonny-boy could not be persuaded to understand that a fifty-cent coupon for Doritos had to be cashed in at Target at the same time as his need-for-feed, and that the coupon ranked a little higher on BL's to-do list!

As could be easily predicted, Sonny-boy decided to publicly shame BL for her negligence by piercing the calm, quiet, and easy-listening-music airs of the local Target store with his operatic bellowing.   BL does not like being publicly embarrassed.   It wasn't Sonny-boys bellowing that embarrassed her - after all he could howl like that for hours at home without her giving a rat's patootie.   What embarrassed her was that his bellowing brought attention to her clearance-rack presence.   BL and her husband Bubba didn't want the world to know that this child (Sonny-boy), their fifth (and God help us) last child was the child that broke the bank.  

BL and her pseudo-socialite friends never missed an episode of The Real Wives of (fill in the city).   Life in their suburban McMansions meant that mortgage payments, car leases, and botox treatments precluded any fashion statements that came off the runways of New York, Paris, and Rome.   It was Prada Nada for these lasses.   However, between TJMaxx, and Target these girls did somehow manage to pull off a fresh 'look' on a fairly frequent basis.

Believing that her quick run to Target for the aforementioned (couponed) Doritos did not require a full-on maquillage,  BL grabbed her NYX matte finish lipstick (Sweet Pink is the preferred color) that was worn down to the nub, scrunchied her Supercuts hairdo into a ponytail, and covered her roots with a baseball cap!

BL was well-known for her beautiful eyes and lovely personality.   In the South, this description is generally followed with a 'Bless-her-heart'  and an almost imperceptible nod between those describing BL that acknowledged the cold-hearted truth:  BL's former cheer-leader physic was not likely to bounce back after the birth of this current lad (in fact, it was an unspoken truth that sometime around child number three BL started letting things 'slide').  

BL could still turn heads and set tongues wagging at The Target with her beauty.   Fortunately for BL, Isaac Mizrahi's plus sized fashions hid the 'baby weight' that was certainly going to come off in the next few months.   But sometimes (as it was on this auspicious occasion) BL's pret-a-porter Mizrahi was 'at the cleaners' (Translation: covered in baby-poo/vomit/or spittle, at the bottom of the laundry basket).

Lacking any other cut rate couture, and falsely believing that if she went to the Target on the other side of town no one would see her, BL threw on a sports bra, and clingy tank top from Juicy Couture.  Paring this with a pair of bright pink Lululemon four-way-stretch yoga pants, and some barely scuffed Nike sneakers, BL was off-to-the races at Le Target!

Packing the other four children into the leased Navigator (whose monthly lease payment was only six days past due) BL grabbed Sonny-boy with the firm belief that at 10:15 on this day, God please, just this once, on this day:  Sonny-boy would forget about his feeding, or be content with a bottle.

Ah, the dreams and desires of those who think that life should be fair!   The daycare center had been closed for a week because of an unfortunate infestation of lice that required the tenting and fumigating of the building.  Bubba was on an unexpectedly-extended nine day trip to the Permian Basin to assist in the fracking of America.  Her mother-in-law was on a honeymoon cruise with this (her fourth) husband, and BL no longer spoke to her own relatives because of an unfortunate incident at last year's Fourth of July picnic involving her sister Brittany's Tequila-fueled twerking in front of the defenseless and hapless Bubba!  ("Defenseless my ass" screamed BL at Bubba throughout that month of July).   On this, day ten, of BL being a single mom to this squad of five screaming brats (formerly known as, and referred to as God's little blessings) BL wondered if she could tent her own home for fumigation and conveniently 'forget' that the children were still inside.   Or, an even better defense would have been that the lice shampoo just wasn't doing-the-job, and it was her impression that the children found it easier to breath the fumes than to shower thrice daily.

The first ten minutes at Target went as well as could be expected.   Not all of the earrings flew off the display rack when Bubba Jr. twirled it with all the strength he could muster.   The twins (Caitlyn and Bruce -  whose naming honored the dubious accomplishments of a certain Mr. Jenner) busied themselves with their magic markers.  This time the twins limited their artistic efforts to the easily-wiped linoleum floor before store security intervened.   Jenny-lyn happily napped away in the large seat of the Caroline's Cart that Target provided for those with special needs children.  None of BL and Bubba's children had special needs - it was BL whose needs were special this day, and anyone who had a complaint about BL's using this cart was also probably going to have an opinion about BL parking in the Pregnant-women-only spot out front - well at least it wasn't the handicapped spot, and thankfully (this time) Bubba Jr. hadn't gone joy-riding in an unattended motorized wheelchair that some poor disabled person had momentarily left in front of the ladies room.

As was said, the first ten minutes went as well as could be expected.   Sometime around minute eleven or twelve - all hell broke loose....

Sonny-boy has learned that BL tends to the fire that burns the brightest.    BL greases the wheel that squeaks the loudest.   BL is easily distracted by that shiny thing in the distance (worried mostly that the shiny thing is Bubba Jr. playing with Bubba Sr.'s Colt 45).   Sonny-boy does not regard himself as mistreated, or underserved, he just knows that he has been fed at 10:15 a.m. every day of his life, and that this change-of-location and circumstances was not sufficient excuse for him to delay his satisfactions.   At approximately 10:26 a.m. the first scream pierced the air....

BL assessed the situation, and quickly listed her options:

• Throw a bottle in Sonny-boy's mouth.   The problem here was that the bottle has been left in the Navigator, and the cart was laden with unpaid-for items (including the Doritos that had instigated this trip).  Going to the car would have meant finding a separate cart, loading the kids, going to the car, returning to the merchandise-filled cart in the hopes that a well-intentioned stock-boy had not returned all of her items to the departments from which they had been mined......
• Ignore Sonny-boy, head to the cashier, and bear the cluck-cluckings of other Target shoppers who stood in line with this howling banshee and his errant, sugar fueled, Ritalin-taking brothers and sisters.
• Give Sonny-boy what he wanted: a nice quiet breast-feeding!

It was the third option that BL thought to be the path of least resistance.   The other children's Ritalin and anti-depressants were now kicking in, and the guy from store security had scared the bejesus out of the twins so 'the mob' was now under control.   All that was needed was a place to sit so that Sonny-boy's needs could be ministered to!

It was the relatively quiet space and ample seating at the Target snack bar that BL chose as the site for Sonny-boy, Bubba Jr. Caitlyn, Bruce, and Jenny-lyn's respite from today's chores and shopping spree!   Whilst the other children munched away on their snack of choice (paid for with the Capital One credit card that WASN'T over its limit, or past due), BL gave Sonny-boy his due.

This, my dear Anonymous, is where I, Frisky Barrington get my proverbial tit-in-a-wringer.  

Back-in-the-day, a breast feeding was a charming, bonding moment, to be shared between mother and child.  It was a time where a milk-filled-bosom was an object for the husband and child to enjoy.  Loose garments were generally preferred in these pre-Jane Fonda/Richard Simmons spandex days.  A tight fitting undergarment, or favored pre-pregnancy (thereby ill-fitting) garment would be paired with a husband's dress shirt, or lovely 'over-blouse' that need not be fashionable as everyone understood this over-blouse was being worn for temporary functional purposes, not as a fashion statement.

Accent this men's shirting/dreary over-blouse with some oversized earrings and a designer label handbag/shoe combination and a woman could go from dawn to dusk without fear of being under or overdressed.

The other benefit of this ensemble was that those card-carrying member of the La Leche group could discretely feed their young, make a political statement, and do so with discretion and a certain amount of propriety.

BL was not aware of the benefits an over-blouse could bring.   Lacking even a towel to convey or suggest some sense of modesty, BL lifted her (ironically labelled) Juicy Couture tank-top and let Sonny-Boy have-at-it!   Had BL chosen a corner booth or table, and given Sonny-boy his well-deserved privacy none of us would be reading this today.   No,  BL believed that her other children's behaviors would create sufficient smoke screen for her rather dubious choice of breast-feeding-site.   Unfortunately, BL was never considered small-of-breast and even though Sonny-boy voraciously obscured BL's boob from the prying eyes of other Target customers, one simply could not ignore the fact that BL was, in fact, in a state of dishabille - a state of undress (as the French would say).

Many years ago I faced a similar boob.   An inexperienced, and unprepared real estate investor had convinced a small group to invest a portion of their retirement funds into a company that would 'flip' houses for profit.   The young man who gathered these investors together had a somewhat limited perspective on the 'flipping' process.   He was in the mortgage industry, so he saw 'flippers' who would acquire a small mortgage that was quickly paid off when their 'flip' sold.   He had worked with experienced and well-financed 'flippers' who understood the challenges that one could face.   He did not work with failed 'flipper's because those folks never applied for, or received mortgages for their (losing) investment properties.  He saw this 'flipping' business as a gold mine, but did not realize that the gold mines lay further west and that he would be lucky to find a little coal for his fires in the geologically bereft of minerals sites and 'estates' that he intended to flip!

This young boob and his supportive wife had never owned a home, never worked with a contractor, and never even lifted a paint-brush.   They had decided that this lack of qualifications or experience meant that the contractors, realtors, and others related to this 'flip' would be generous and kind - after all, isn't generosity and kindness the foundation of the real estate industry?    Anyway, they purchased five homes in one day.   Hired five separate contractors for each property, and without any previous design experience or professional design assistance, planned to flip these properties within six weeks.

I, Frisky Barrington, had become the object of their affections through a reality TV show that focused on my home staging business.   Their attentions arrived on my doorstep at about the same time that the sub-prime mortgage problem was having a negative affect on my business.   Their money was green, and although I had trepidations about the project, I agreed to consult them during the construction phase, with an eye towards staging the end results.

At one of the projects, the wife regaled me with her thoughts about decorating.   Well, I was being paid to listen - so what the heck.   On this day, I was introduced to their two-year-old daughter.   As you know, I didn't like kids when I was (and you were, dear Anonymous) a child.   My dislike of children has not waned nor mellowed.   A child on a construction site is a terrible idea, and a child on a construction site where I am also in attendance is possibly one of the worst ideas - ever!!!

At some point during this meeting, the wife declares that the child is still being breast fed.  I don't think it's farfetched to say that I don't know nothing about breast-feeding no babies.   I pretty much assume that those who know me, and those who have met me for the first time, would discern that on the topic of female breasts and their machinations - I am clueless.

Immediately after informing me that the daughter needs to be fed,  I am treated to this rather bovine-shaped lass's bare breast and her rapacious child's public feeding.   To be fair, I was asked if I objected to this public display of affection, but I was being asked whilst the aforementioned tittery was being exposed - thereby making my only polite response to be:  "I'll have what she's having..."?

So there I stood in the backyard of some crappy bungalow in The Heights, with this woman, her child, and her boobs (the husband and her breast) - all being treated to the fresh air and sunlight that Houston is renowned for. 

Shortly after this Kodak moment, and for reasons unrelated to the boob she displayed, but totally related to the boob she married - I quit the project.

Back to BL at the Target snackbar:  some dolt passes by BL and the snacking Sonny-boy, and can not help but notice the Rubenesque BL's boob being passed around like a cheerleader at a frat party.   The Dolt has come to Target for his Metamucil and other digestive treatments, but decides that a sticky bun, and a Starbucks is just what his diet needs - hence his presence at Target's snackateria!

Not having the good sense to keep his undesired observations of the unavoidable display of breast to himself, The Dolt calls BL a whore and a slut.   OK, OK, bad choice of words.   In fact, any choice of words would have been a bad choice, because in today's day and age, a cellphone can record any indiscretion at the flick of a switch.  

Being caught between a rock and a hard place, BL grabs her camera so that this escalating public embarrassment can be shared with us all!   In this era of mob justice, we are all expected to extend our sympathies and finance a Go-Fund-Me account for anyone suffering anything more than a hangnail or bunion.  Success as a victim depends upon being the first person to post an incident on Facebook, Tweet a perceived indiscretion, Link-in to equally affected parties, and then attach a YouTube video to one's personal blog to attract the attentions of some Gloria Allred wannabe!

BL records the still feeding Sonny-Boy, and the castigations of The Dolt.   What The Dolt did not realize was that the right wing, militant division of the local La Leche League had gathered in the brassiere department at Target for an informative lecture on proper bra sizing, and other merits of the various lingerie selections that Target provided to the lactating woman.

BL was gloriously unaware that her city boasted a rather vocal group of breast bearing Amazons whose group photo reveals these women to be more than a little curvaceous.   Apparently membership in the Itty Bitty Titty club precludes one's acceptance in La Leche.   The rather cow-eyed, bovine shaped, card carrying members of La Leche were informed about the quickly developing disturbance in the snackery and herded themselves towards the commotions!

Much to the dismay of store management, store security, and merchandise managers who had gathered to 'protect and defend BL's right to public display, the La Leche crowd whipped 'em out, and offered their cage free breasts to all who were hungry.   Unfortunately,  these well-intentioned lactators did not post age or size restrictions for those who pounced upon their bounteous breasts.  This oversight resulted in another unanticipated embarrassment at The Target. A twenty-nine-year-old UPS driver leapt at this opportunity to show his support.   He was then joined by the seventy-two-year-old mayor of the town who claimed sudden-onset Alzheimers, and a charming lesbian lacrosse coach (age undisclosed) who happened to visiting relatives in the area.   These three folks showed the dolt what-was-what, and it can honestly be stated that they (and a few unnamed others) got their licks in on the topic at hand!  All-in-all I think it can honestly be said that everyone involved acted with 'udder' disgrace!

BL is now the poster child for The International La Leche League.   She regards Kate Gosselin as her patron saint, and is a regular guest at The Duggar's table.  The Go-Fund-Me account was a roaring success and BL recently received a rather stunning six figure advance from Random House for her soon-to-be published memoir:   Mammories: Light the Corner of My Mind!   

A frequent guest on Ellen, Wendy Williams, The Today Show (where Matt Lauer displayed personal interest in her cause), and other shows of similar ilk has led to conversations with TLC and Bravo about a weekly reality show tentatively entitled: Two Breast, or not Two Breast: that is the question!

A diagnosis on The Dr. Phil show of recurrent, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was the basis for litigation against Target and its affiliate companies and vendors because they should have telepathically known that The Dolt would be triggered into his Tourette-like verbosity at the site (to say nothing of his proximity) of BL's exposed aereola.    The Dolt has filed a similar suit against Target and BJ for defamation of character, PTSD, and anal leakage all being the result of this all-too-avoidable incident. 

As for Bubba, he supports BL's efforts and is always keen to host the La Leche League keggers.   Apparently nothing pleases Bubba more than to witness twenty or thirty breasts being bared.   If he had it his way, the entire female population should be encouraged to bare-em-if-you-got-em.   After last year's La Leche International convention Bubba's needed medical assistance, for his frozen Mona Lisa smile, and the erection that lasted for over four hours....

As it often is in life, the innocent must bear (so-to-speak) the burden that comes with fame.      It is reported that Sonny-boy's first words were:  "No comment!"  Sadly, Sonny-boy will forever be mocked as a 'breast-man'.   His attempts to be respected as an accomplished foot-fetishist will be met with mockery, disdain, and disbelief.   After many years in therapy, religious conversion programs, and a few too many sessions with Freudians who refuse to believe that Sonny-boy's preference for Bundt-cake is anything but the result of BL's terrible, horrible, really bad day - Sonny-boy will settle down with a nice man of impeccable Laotian descent who boasts no less than five supernumerary nipples.

Dear Anonymous, I became so involved with my story that I nearly forgot to express my earlier promised rant.   I think that there is a time and a place for everything.   In third world countries it is a century old practice to eliminate one's waste in what passes for a street.   Pissoirs were quite common in Paris until the 1980s.   Were one to attend to one's toilet duties in the open air at The Champs Elysees, or at 57th and Madison in New York, one's actions would be generally be considered inappropriate and met with interest by the local constabulary

I correlate all of these bodily functions because I strongly feel that there should be no shame attached to anything that the human body does.   However, I do believe that we (as a society) have pretty much determined that not everything needs to be shared with everyone.   Some people are just exhibitionist by their nature.  It is completely appropriate for them to share their talents with like-minded people who enjoy (or at least don't object to) their actions. 

I think BL and The Dolt were equally inappropriate in their behavior.   Both individuals needed to respect the behavioral boundaries that society has embraced.   BL could have planned her day more appropriately, covered herself with a towel or over-blouse, or just turned away from the prying eyes of strangers.   She need not be embarrassed by her duties to her son.   By being somewhat more discrete (but not hiding what she was doing) she gives us all an option:

• to ignore what is going on,
• embrace what is going on with a smile or nod,
• or simply not notice what is going on.

The Dolt should have exercised a little more maturity and handled his complaint through the proper channels.  The best option that he could have exercised would have been to inform store management that they needed to provide private space for their guests who need the accommodations that BL required.  In this case, BL could not have chaperoned her boys in the ladies room at Target.   But, she could easily have asked for privacy in the larger fitting rooms that are provided to those with special needs.   The children could join BL in the fitting room, where all activities could be supervised, and corralled. 

This last option is probably the best.   The person who would have benefited the most, is the futuristically long suffering Sonny-boy.    After all, who likes being seen eating in public?   I have been seated on the dais table of too many weddings, banquets, and fund raising events, and absolutely hate the thought of some camera phone, or well-intentioned photographer capturing someone's special moment with me unconsciously photo-bombing said photo with an over-laden fork filled with the evening's chicken, fish, or filet!

Anonymous, thanks so much for letting me rant!  I have needed to get this topic off my chest (so to speak) for some time now!   I am pleased to report that I wrote this entire essay with my shirt on....   So, you see, if some dolt passes by my window or doorway and is compelled to shout whore or slut, it is for reasons other than my attire....

Wishing you the best!

Warmest regards:

Frisky Barrington