Woops! There Goes Another Ivy Plant Leaf

This is a letter I wrote to my aunt a couple of years ago and just re-discovered while I was cleaning out my email. I'm certain it's no coincidence that I found this today. People, places and things that we need in our lives tend to appear or re-appear at just the right moment.

Dear Aunt Doris:

I want to share something with you, and I hope I can explain this well enough for you to understand what an amazing thing this was for me.

I have been feeling especially frustrated by a medical condition I have been dealing with for over a year, and one which no one, so far, has been able to explain or diagnose. The last few days have been particularly difficult, and I have been feeling equal measures of frustration and despair. So, in the hopes that Joyce Meyer (Enjoying Everyday Life) would say something that would make me feel better and restore my hope, I decided to watch some of her programs which have been patiently waiting for me on my TiVo box. It just so happened, although now I do not believe it was merely a coincidence, that the next Joyce Meyer program on my TiVo list was about frustration. She hit on several points which hit home.

John 15:11 Which talks about how Jesus wants us to be really happy. Not just a little happy, but with joy and delight of full measure and overflowing. That's what He died for. And, after all, a joyful Christian is a good witness for everyone they encounter. A sad, depressed, angry, or cranky Christian is just not a good advertisement, so to speak.

John 15:1-10 Which talks about how God wants us to bear excellent fruit but, to do that, there will have to be pruning away of dead and useless branches (things in our lives) that are sucking the life out of us. So, we should abide (live, dwell and remain) with God at all times, so we can bear much excellent fruit with ease. In other words, you must spend time reading scripture, praying, meditating, and abiding with God every day. Or, as Joyce puts it, just hang on the vine for a while.

Now, at this point, she had a visual aid in the form of a big board with leaves attached. The board was divided up into squares, and each square was labeled "Day 1," "Day 2," "Day 3," etc. In the first square was a group of fresh, green leaves which had been off the vine for one day; the second square had some leaves which had been off the vine for two days, and so on. Now, by about Day 5, those leaves were looking pretty brown and as Joyce said "crispy around the edges."

Joyce went on to explain that this demonstrated what happens to us when we don't stay on the vine and abide in God daily. We wilt and shrivel and become "crispy around the edges." In other words, spending 45 minutes a week in church is not going to keep you fresh and green and bearing excellent fruit easily. (Joyce said when she contemplated this scripture, she realized she was pruned if she did and pruned if she didn't. LOL)

She then went on to say when she first became a Christian, it took her almost a full year to accept that she is a child of God and He loves her unconditionally. (For those who don't watch Joyce, you should know she was abused and molested as a child.) She said she would look in her mirror every morning and say, "God loves YOU!" And she would do the same in her car when she driving, and at any other time she thought of it. She said it took that full year for that belief to make it from her head to her heart and take root. She said first and foremost you must truly believe and understand that you are rooted and grounded in God's unconditional love and then you should take some time to hang on the vine and be nourished and encouraged and strengthened.

Taking Joyce's advice, right after the program ended, I went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and said to myself, "God loves you unconditionally." I was surprised at how difficult that was for me to do. So, I said it again and, of course, I began to cry. I walked into my living room to retrieve a tissue, and that's when I saw a perfectly healthy, bright green leaf from my ivy plant laying in the floor, a good five feet from the plant. I was baffled, because I knew that leaf was not there when I left the room, and there was no good explanation for how it had ended up so far from the plant. The cooler wasn't on and the windows weren't open. I went over and picked it up and examined it. To my amazement, it looked as if it had been carefully snipped from the vine and gently placed on the floor.

I stood there looking at that leaf for a moment and, then, I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. It just bubbled out from deep within me. And I said aloud, "Looks like I'm gettin' pruned!"

And I'm still laughing. Truly, this is one of the most amazing things that has ever happened to me. I think there are a couple of messages in this for me (actually for all of us): (1) God does love me unconditionally, and that part of me that didn't believe that needed to be pruned away, because it has been sucking the life out of me and keeping me from moving forward as a Christian; (2) There may be some additional pruning, and I need to stay tuned for further instructions regarding this; (3) God does have His eye on me and He has a good plan for me.

One more thing I would like to add is that this happened last Wednesday, and that ivy leaf is still green and is NOT crispy around the edges five days later!

I hope this makes some kind of sense to you, because this experience has refreshed me and re-ignited my hope and joy in a way I can't begin to describe.

Love,
Brenda

You should also know that, shortly after this experience, I found the most caring, knowledgeable, and excellent doctor I have ever known. With his guidance and considerable skills, I was quickly on the road back to health. And, even during the rocky bits between sickness and health, I was able to maintain a spirit of expectant hope that all would be well, because I had finally accepted God's love for me and had asked for His help. Several times over the next few months, my doctor called me to report test results and to see how I was feeling. He was constantly amazed that I was feeling so well and upbeat, when my test results indicated I shouldn't be able to get off the couch. I would just look up toward the sky, smile, and whisper "thank you."

I'm not quite sure what thoughts or things I am clinging to now that need to be pruned and discarded. But I have no doubt when they are I will take another step towards being the Christian and the person I am meant to be. Now, that's something to look forward to. And, there I go again - chuckling to myself.

Just remember that God does love you unconditionally. Hold that knowledge in your heart, and do not ever be afraid to say: "Help, Lord, I can't do this without you."

If you have never watched Joyce Meyer, I highly recommend you do. She has a truly unique way of showing how scripture applies to our every day lives. Plus, she is a real character, whose stories will often make you laugh out loud, for real. Click here to go to her web site.

I have studied the Bible and tried to sort out what it says about health and healing, and then I discovered Joyce has compiled all the healing scriptures in one place. I truly believe they have helped me time and again over the last few years. Yeah, I know you are probably skeptical and are envisioning tent-revivals and sketchy faith-healers slapping people on the forehead and declaring them healed. That's not what I'm talking about at all. It is a fact that God wants us to be well, but most of us don't take the medicine He has prescribed. At any rate, you've got nothing to lose by giving them a read, right? Click here.

Scorpions, Mammograms and Margaritas

There's a scorpion in my bathtub. We lived in Tucson, AZ for eight years, and I never saw anything remotely resembling a scorpion. But, since moving to New Mexico, I have had close encounters with several of them, both inside and outside the house. And everyone in the Southwest knows the only good scorpion is a dead scorpion, in a paperweight, which proves tourists will buy anything. Bless their hearts.

I eventually decided my personal ban on pesticides was far outweighed by my sudden obsessive-compulsive full-blown scorpion paranoia, which was taking over my life. I have to say abandoning my Earth Mother status was a tough call for me, but I called the pest control guy to come out anyway. He said there was nothing in the house for scorpions, and it was probably just a fluke that a couple of them ended up in the house. Well, I wish he would hold a meeting and tell the scorpions that, because they keep showing up in here.

After seeing two more scorpions and half a dozen centipedes, I threw caution to the wind and went out and bought some bug spray myself. Whatever that pest control guy was using didn’t seem to be working, and I wasn’t in the mood to pay him another $35 for nothing. For the very first time in my life, I actually sprayed pesticide around the outside of the house, carefully avoiding a large area where the lizards hang out, and then went around the baseboards inside the house, something that was absolutely unthinkable for me a year ago.

So, this morning when I stumbled into the bathroom with one eye open and one at half-mast and saw a scorpion merrily running around the bathtub, I was beyond annoyed. What disturbs me the most though is that I no longer feel the need to scream like a girl and run the other direction when I see one. I simply sighed, wearily retrieved a flip-flop, and quickly dispatched the offending critter. I can’t believe I’m getting used to this.

Now, I told you that story, to tell you this one. I should have known when I started my day out squashing a scorpion, that was some kind of sign this was going to be a bumpy day. Then, it dawned on me while I was pouring water into the coffeemaker that this was MAMMO DAY! Oh, crap. Ever since I started getting these things, I have yet to make it out the clinic door without having to get re-takes or an ultrasound, as if the original squishing wasn’t injury enough.

The good news is, or so I’ve been told, as you get older your breast tissue gets less dense, so mammos get somewhat easier to endure and easier to read. That’s just a nice way of saying, “Those puppies are headed straight for the floor, sister, and there’s not a cotton-pickin’ thing you can do about it.” Well, one thing I know for sure. Gravity works on me. Parts of my body have already headed south, and it's not even close to winter. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "the land down under."

I briefly contemplated re-scheduling the thing, but I decided I might as well go ahead and get it over with. So, I headed over to the hospital about 30 minutes before my appointment time because you always have to do paperwork.

Snag #1 – Being newly far-sighted (a condition which came on practically overnight), I now need reading glasses for the fine print stuff, and I had forgotten my glasses. Of course. By holding the paper in my hand and extending my arm full-length, I was able to get through it. Luckily, there was no one else in the waiting room or behind the reception desk to witness this spectacle-less spectacle.

Within a few minutes, I was called back to the exam room. Then came Snag #2. The technician held out her hand and said, “You did bring your previous films with you, right?” I don’t know about you, but I don’t keep my hooter films on hand. We moved four times in four years, so that’s four different clinics, and trying to get the films yourself takes an act of Congress these days, patient rights notwithstanding. Although the technician decides to deliver a small lecture on how this is much easier and faster if you have previous films to compare, she does say they have a release form I can sign, and they will unearth one for me. I skip the snarkasm and murmur my thanks, not wanting to tick off the woman who would be in control of the vice grip. My mama didn't raise no dummy.

So, off we go to the exam room. Get undressed, put on this silly paper open-front crop-top thing, which the technician immediately removes from one shoulder to get the left girl on the plate. Put your arm up here, shift your shoulder back, turn your head to the left (which she has to tell me twice, because my brain is fully focused on what’s about to happen to my girl on the plate and not what she’s saying, so I turned my head to the right), and lean back slightly. She retreats behind the protective barrier, depresses the footplate which puts the plates in motion, and tells me to hold still, as if you could actually move with your girl in that vice grip.

You know the rest of the drill. Three more positionings later we are finished. The technician tells me to get dressed and go sit in the waiting room. I quickly put the girls back in their braces, check in the mirror to make sure they're pointing the same direction, and get dressed. Just as I’m opening the exam room door, the technician quickly approaches and tells me to go back in the exam room, have a seat, and she’ll be right with me. Oh, great, Snag #3.

In a couple of minutes, she reappears and tells me to get undressed again. We have to redo all the films, not because they saw something suspicious on them, but because the processor suddenly went berserk and chewed them up. Of course it did. So, we go through the whole process again, I get dressed and finally get to retreat to the waiting room.

In the waiting room, there are two more women waiting with that “look” on their faces, so I try to reassure them by saying, “She’s good! It was practically painless, and I survived!” Upon hearing this, they both smiled widely, as did I, even though we all knew I was lying.

I sat down and saw that the woman next to me was filling out her paperwork. Or, rather, she was trying to fill out the paperwork, because she was doing what I had done earlier – holding the paper way out there to read it and then bringing it back to the clipboard to fill in the blanks. I had to laugh, and then I had to explain to her I had done the same thing. She said, “Darned menopause! I’ve never needed glasses and suddenly I have to use reading glasses, which I keep forgetting to take with me!” Well, it’s good to know I’m not the only who has this problem. The woman sitting across the waiting room started digging in her purse and came up with a set of reading glasses, which she laughingly offered to other woman.

The technician appears at the little window and tells me I need to fill out the release form so they can get my previous films and I’m free to go. She, due to her recent birth, has no idea why this sets off a round of laughter. The woman next to me offers up the reading glasses, while the smart woman who actually remembered to bring them says, “I think I’ll just hang around here today and make a few extra bucks by renting out my glasses!

One good thing is I did remember to take all the info about the clinic where my last mammo was done, so I was able to quickly fill out the release form. The second good thing was that the print was large enough that I didn’t have to borrow the reading glasses to complete the form.The third good thing was the questionnaire they wanted us to fill out and make suggestions as to how their service could be improved.

Well, since you asked, we took a vote and we all agree a mammogram weekend getaway in Margaritaville is the ticket. The prospect of spending a weekend cavorting on sandy beaches surrounded by eye candy and all the margaritas you can drink is far and away better than the cold, drab, sterile waiting rooms and exam cubicles we currently have to endure. Not only would women schedule those mammograms, but they would never skip a year. And, of course, there would be the added bonus of being slightly, or not so slightly, anesthetized at the time of the procedure. Somebody needs to get on that. Stat.

In the meantime, we demand a margarita bar and a hunky bartender in the waiting room. Make mine a double - one for each of the girls. Ladies, we have the power. We can make this happen. Are you with me?

Wonder Woman, Tiaras & Anti-Drama Llamas

When I last reported on Southern Belle Mama she was sashaying through my front door, looking spectacular after an eight-hour drive, and carrying homemade fudge. I, on the other hand, was fretting over the fact that my nails looked like I had been using them to pry open rusty paint cans, my roots were showing, the barbecued chicken in the oven was approaching jerky-status, and I forgot to wash the good napkins.

Like I told you before, Southern Belle Mama is the least critical person I have ever known, with the possible exception of Southern Belle Granny, but she is also the most together person I have ever known. And, try as I might, I have never been able to reach her level of Southern Belleness. If we actually wore tiaras, my mother’s would be perfectly perched and centered on her perfectly coiffed head, with no visible means of anchoring, and mine would be hopelessly tangled in my hair and teetering just above my left ear, despite the duct-tape running through it and under my chin. I consider myself lucky to be hanging onto the bottom rung of the Southern Belle ladder with my ragged, polish-free nails. Most likely, I have been spared banishment for the simple fact she is my mother.

Now, the words “Southern Belle” conjure up images of delicate females who get the vapors with little to no provocation, and are prone to being drama llamas. But Southern Belle Mama has always been strong, fearless and drama-free. I can easily picture her, hands on hips, facing down a grizzly bear, shooing him back into the woods, and then going casually back to putting on her lipstick, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

So, when I checked the answering machine yesterday and heard her almost-but-not-quite tearful voice saying she really needed to talk to me, I panicked. My hand flew to my chest and, yes, I almost got the vapors. If I actually had a fainting couch, I would have been draped over it. With my heart in my throat, I called her back, convinced that something was very, very, very, very, very wrong.

One ring, two rings, three rings and she answered the phone in pretty much a normal voice.

“Mama! What’s wrong?!”

“Oh, Hon, you’ve been on my mind the last few days, and I’ve been worried about you. I really needed to hear your voice. Are you okay?”

“Well, I will be as soon as my adrenaline levels come back down. You scared the crap out of me!!!!” (Yes, I was in such a state I actually said “crap” to Southern Belle Mama.)

As my breathing slowly returned to normal, I assured her I was fine, and we talked for another half-hour or so. I won’t bore you with all the gory details, but something important came out of that conversation you might need to hear.

Being the drama-avoiding, strong women we are, we realized we don’t tell each other important things we probably should. We have a tendency to keep things that might worry the other to ourselves. In times of stress, we don’t lean on each other and seek out that emotional support. More often than not, we don’t even tell each other about distressing events until whatever it is has been resolved and the whole thing is over. We have both faced down our fair share of life’s low blows, but most of those battles have been fought standing our own two feet, with the help of God.

Being a strong woman doesn’t mean you don’t need another living, breathing, caring person to lean on, share things with, or seek advice from, especially when you’re in the heat of battle. So, we agreed to start doing that more. My mother and I have always had a great relationship, but now I am excited to get to know her better as a person and a friend.

By all means, seek guidance from God, send up your prayers, and go out and fight the good fight, but remember, my sweetnesses, reaching out to one another is not a sign of weakness. Confiding in and leaning on a friend does not make you a whiner. You are allowed to be afraid. Everyone is. You are not Wonder Woman with a Magic Tiara and bullet-deflecting accessories. And, after all, isn't loving and supporting each other our Prime Directive?

Like I used to tell my son, you have to have at least four hugs a day to keep from being weird. Consider yourself hugged. It’s up to you to go get the other three.

The Other Side: Public Employee Union Members

WARNING: For those of you who visit my blog for the occasional humorous or warm and fuzzy post, you should probably avert your eyes and close this page now, because this post is neither of those things. You might even call it a rant. Something I am known to do every so often, but I generally do it in the privacy of my own living room, so as not to inflict my crankiness on others. In other words, I’m climbing up on my soap box today. You have been warned.

I never intended for this blog to become a political forum but, for weeks now, I have watched the tweets flowing through my timeline about the public employee union dispute in Wisconsin. It’s not an exaggeration to say that 99.99% of those tweets have been mini-rants against not only the public employee union in Wisconsin but all public employee unions nationwide. Some people, in my opinion, have been truly outrageous in condemning all public employee union members and calling them, among other unsavory things, greedy, selfish, over-paid, lazy thugs. I have been surprised and saddened by this, because I thought most of my Twitter friends would be more interested in hearing both sides of the story and coming to a well thought-out conclusion.

Personally, I have searched for the actual dollar amounts involved in the Wisconsin dispute, and I have not yet been able to find anything which sets out how much union members earn or how much they pay for their benefits. From what I have been able to find, it appears the union members were willing to negotiate on benefit costs and other issues, until the governor abruptly decided to put an end to all collective bargaining. And everyone is surprised that the union members are upset? Frankly, to me, that doesn’t look so much like a move to balance the state’s budget as political grandstanding on the governor’s part. But I simply don’t have enough information to form a solid opinion about the dispute in Wisconsin, so I’m passing on passing judgment.

Are there bad seeds in public employee unions? Of course there are, but you cannot judge a group of more than 7 million people based on the actions of a relatively small number of union members and leaders. I’m fairly sure no one is condemning all Baptist congregations in this country because of the actions of the Westboro “Baptist” Church.

While I don’t know much about the specifics of the Wisconsin situation, I do know something about public employee unions, and I think some enlightenment is desperately needed. Not being in a particularly creative mood today, I’ll use an old, well-worn phrase – here’s the rest of the story.

First of all, state workers in our state have no choice. That’s not something they tell you at the new employee orientation. But, shortly after accepting a state job, a union rep will swoop in and hound you day and night to join the union. Then, if you steadfastly refuse to join or just keep avoiding the calls, you will receive a letter from the public employee union informing you that you do NOT have to join the union but you DO have to pay dues or you will be terminated. The letter will also state they are going to assess dues retroactively to your date of hire and, if you don’t pay up by a certain date, you will be terminated.

You will be stunned. You will wonder how that could be legal. But with a little research, you will discover it is legal. Then, after lobbing this grenade into the middle of your life and threatening your job, the union will then make you an offer you literally can’t refuse and say they will “forgive” most of the past due dues and accept a substantially smaller amount. All of which sounds like the very definition of extortion, but it’s legal extortion, so you fork over the cash to keep your job.

More than likely, years later, you will still have no clue what the union does, other than take money out of your check and give it to politicians you don’t like or support. Oddly, you will never hear from the union. There are no meetings, no newsletters, no explanation of what they’re doing for members, or even how to reach a union representative.

Meanwhile, when our state legislators realized the state was headed for a budget crisis, they instituted a hiring freeze, decided not to fill some positions as they were vacated, cancelled scheduled raises (which means there have been no raises for 2+ years), instituted furlough days and increases in the mandatory contributions to the public employees retirement account, which is now almost 11% of gross pay.

Other benefits offered by the state have seen similar increases. Of course, some of those increases might not affect you directly, because the price tag was too expensive from the get-go, and you opted out. Nevertheless, you are taking home less money now than you were two years ago. And, since those vacated positions in your department have not been re-filled, you have been doing the jobs of two or three people for years. Oh, and let’s not forget the 8 months you didn’t have a working answering machine or voice mail because it wasn’t in the department’s budget, so people called your home at all hours, 7 days a week.

I know several public employees and none of them are earning more than $50,000 a year. Most are earning substantially less, despite having degrees and years and years of experience. Some of them also work nights, weekends, and holidays, for which they do NOT get paid, for no other reason than they want to do the very best job they can for the public they serve.

Public employee union members in this state have taken all of this in stride – no protests, no yelling, no rabble-rousing, no capital building take-over, and no hitting of people over the head with signs. In fact, they have pretty much rolled over and played dead, because they just want to keep their jobs.

Despite all this, there are people in this country who are condemning public employee union members, calling them vile names, and questioning their character and integrity, simply because they are union members. My parents did a pretty good job of teaching me right from wrong, and that is wrong.

For the most part, public employee union members are hard-working, regular folks, just like you. The only difference is they were forced to join a union, or at least pay union dues, to keep their jobs.

Like the guy who inspects the restaurants in your town and the food vendors at every public event you attend to make sure the food you eat is safe and handled properly – that’s a public employee.

Or the social worker with 100+ open cases on suspected child abuse, foster placements and other heart-wrenchers – that’s a public employee.

Or the 3rd grade teacher who buys school supplies for 10 kids in her class who showed up without any and buys art supplies because there is no money in the school budget for them – that’s a public employee.

If you want to call out union leaders, that’s fine by me. There’s no love lost there. But, before you trash all public employee union members, take a look around your neighborhood because, chances are, you know one.

All thoughtful and rational comments are welcomed. Profane or offensive comments are not. Thank you.

A Christmas Story

In the winter of 1986, life was good. I was a single mother with one adorable, healthy, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy; I had a good job; I had a not-so-good second job; I had a fixer-upper house; and I had one spoiled rotten Doxie dog. Norman Rockwell might not have been impressed with the broken-down white picket fence in the back yard, but I thought of my life as having “good bones.” A little sanding, some spackle, a new coat of paint and everything would be perfect.

Money being a bit on the short-side, Christmas was something I planned long-range. The clerks at the lay-away counters at WalMart and K-Mart knew me by name. Of course, the best-laid plans of Santa’s helpers can and do go awry from time to time. This year I was completely blind-sided by an animatronic, story-telling bear called Teddy Ruxpin. About three weeks before Christmas, my son, Derek, started talking incessantly about this Teddy Ruxpin toy, so I checked it out to see if it could be worked into The Grand Christmas Plan. I was horrified to discover this new must-have toy was a whopping $75! No way was this going to fit into the budget. Period. This was all my precious baby could talk about, and I couldn’t afford it. I was crushed.

As I cruised the toy department hoping and praying I could come up with a suitable substitute, my eyes were drawn to a tiny stuffed bear, wearing a stocking cap and a Christmas sweater. I picked him up, adjusted his little sweater and stood there looking at him and, as I did, a New Plan suddenly came to me.

On Christmas Eve, after my son set out the requisite cookies and milk for Santa and finally went to sleep, I set my New Plan in motion. It was risky, but I thought it just might work. I retrieved the tiny bear from his hiding spot, and I sat down at the kitchen table and composed a note. A note from Santa to Derek. It went something like this:

Dear Derek,

Thank you for coming to visit me in the park and giving me your Christmas list. I know you asked for a Teddy Ruxpin toy, but I have been looking all over trying to find the perfect boy to take care of this little Christmas bear. He is very special and he needs a very special boy to take care of him. You have been such a good boy this year I know you are the only boy I can trust to give him the special care he needs. I hope you love him as much as I do. Merry Christmas!

Love,
Santa

I finished setting up the rest of the toy delivery from Santa, set Special Bear on top and tucked the note under one fuzzy little leg. And, yeah, there might have been a tear or two. I crossed my fingers, looked up at the ceiling, and went to bed.

The next morning, Derek bounded into the living room, and I stood back and watched. He picked up Special Bear, saw the note, and brought it to me to read to him. I read the note, took a deep breath and looked up at him. And this is what I saw.

Like magic, it was as if all thoughts of Teddy Ruxpin were gone. He was never mentioned again.

And, yes, Special Bear still lives. Every year since, he has occupied a place of honor in our home at Christmas and a special spot in our hearts. I always smile, give him a hug and adjust his sweater when I unpack him and remember that Very Special Bear Christmas. And, every year after Christmas, he is lovingly snuggled into his bubble wrap, placed in his special box and packed away.

I always knew there would come a time when Special Bear would get passed to a grandchild and, after some discussion, it was decided the time has come for Special Bear to work his Christmas magic for my precious granddaughter. So, I gave Special Bear a booster-shot of love with one more hug, triple-bubble-wrapped him and placed him in a new box for his journey, along with two pictures I found of that special morning. Just so my son will know which box Special Bear is in, I did this. Think I overdid it?

And, when they ask me at the Post Office if I want insurance on this package, I’ll laugh, because you can’t put a price tag on what’s in that box. Christmas is not about the Teddy Ruxpins. It’s about the love and the Special Bear places in your heart.

Stuffed Bear - $4.99
Pictures & Frames - $24.95
Magical, twinkly, smiley, love-filled, makes-you-teary-eyed memories – PRICELESS

One word of advice though – take LOTS and LOTS of pictures, because you never know when a Special Bear moment will happen.

“Oh, would that Christmas lasted the whole year through, as it ought,” Charles Dickens lamented. “Would that the spirit of Christmas could live within our hearts every day of the year.”

MERRY CHRISTMAS! God bless us every one!

Mimi Teaches Me Italian

Someone recently asked me to name the 10 most important people in my life - people who have taught me a life lesson or were the catalyst for a major change in my life. When I asked her if I could name animals, she laughed and said "of course!" because, like me, she knows animals can change your life in strange and wonderful ways. So, this is the story of one of the most important "people" in my life, who just happened to have four legs.

We had been married only six months when my husband received new orders and we were transferred to an air base in Sardinia, Italy. A little research revealed that our new base was a NATO base, which had very limited shopping, no medical facilities and, most importantly, no base housing. We would be living in an Italian village several miles from the base, completely surrounded by people who did not speak English, with no phones or television. Having lived all my thirtysomething years within 100 miles of where I was born, I was excited and anxious in equal measures.

What I had not anticipated was the total terror I felt at not being able to communicate with the neighbors and village shopkeepers I had to deal with every day. The few rudimentary Italian phrases I had been practicing weren’t much use when I couldn’t understand the rapid-fire responses. Trying to find and buy something as simple as a light bulb would sometimes take an entire day. And some days I simply couldn’t muster up the courage to go out the front door.

One beautiful, Mediterranean morning, I was sitting on the back terrace contemplating the long, lonely, quiet day ahead, when our Italian landlady came out her back door and started calling, “Mimi! Mimi!” As I sat there waiting for the “Mimi” to show itself, a beautiful, longhaired, snow-white cat bounded out of nowhere and flew up the back steps to the landlady’s kitchen door. Right then and there, Mimi became my mission.

My mother has always called me a “cat magnet” because cats seem to gravitate to me wherever I go. This cat was different though. Every morning I stood on the terrace and called to Mimi. I tried to entice her with tidbits from the refrigerator. But still Mimi steadfastly refused to come near me. Then, I decided to try some American cat food. I filled a dish and left it on the terrace. In short order, she was daintily devouring every last morsel, as I watched from the door. Over the next week, I moved my chair closer and closer to the dish and, eventually, she allowed me one or two quick scratches behind her ear before she scampered away.

Deciding that I must sound very strange to her because, after all, she had never heard English before, I began talking to her in Italian as she ate. I spent hours looking up words and phrases in my English/Italian dictionary, just so I could “converse” with her, and this seemed to meet with her approval, because she stayed for longer and longer periods.

After a couple of weeks, I began leaving the back door open, hoping Mimi would eventually make herself at home. When she finally did, as cats will do, she completely took over. Mimi became a permanent fixture in our household and would appear with lightning speed whenever I called. Our landlady took this all in stride but seemed to be baffled by my attachment to her cat, especially when Mimi chose to have her kittens on our balcony.

What that dear lady never understood is exactly what that cat meant to me. Mimi was a friend and companion to a scared and lonely woman in a strange and frightening place. Hours of conversing with Mimi in her native tongue, so to speak, gave me the courage to try it out in the world outside my door. Her gentle, furry friendship comforted me when my courage flagged. Her kittenish antics gave me reason to laugh out loud on days when I thought I would scream from frustration. She reminded me that life is what you make it.

One day at a time I won Mimi over, and one day at a time I faced the language barrier and the newness and wonder of living in a foreign land. Grazie, Mimi, l’amore sempre. You were my first Italian friend and, thanks to you, you were not my last.

Claire Learns a New Language - In Defense of Deaf Dogs

I’m taking another zag this week because I recently overheard someone discussing whether or not to adopt a deaf dog. Having some experience in this area, I was shocked and saddened by some of the things that were said, and so I did my own research. Sure enough, there are actually breed-specific websites that promote putting down deaf dogs, because they say they have no value. To which I say “Nonsense!" Now, while I can see the logic in having a deaf dog spayed or neutered, I personally know the true value of a deaf dog.

World, meet Claire. Claire was a “Sprocker,” which is a Springer spaniel/cocker spaniel mix. We have no idea if anyone actually uses that moniker for this particular mix, but we thought it was pretty witty.

(Please excuse the quality of these photos, as they were taken pre-digital camera. Truth be known, I still prefer film and I had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the digital age, but film doesn’t seem to speak computer as well. Or maybe it’s me.)

You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but Claire was a Wonder Dog. Faster than a speeding whiptail lizard, strong enough to hold down an 8-ft. couch, and able to leap right into your heart with a mere wiggle of her barely-there tail. (Please, no comments about tail-docking. It was that way when she adopted us.)


When Claire was about 14, we began to think she had developed selective hearing, because she wasn’t responding to us as she normally did. We would call her name and sometimes she would come and sometimes she wouldn’t. She also had a habit of wiggling her rear end (we called it “back field in motion”) at an alarming speed anytime anyone talked to her, and that too was sometimes happening and sometimes not. Finally, it began to dawn on us that maybe she was losing her hearing, a not uncommon thing in mature critters, two- and four-legged. So, we did our own rudimentary hearing tests by coming up behind her and clapping our hands, calling her name, and even blowing a whistle. No response.

Thinking that maybe she had an ear infection or other condition that might be causing temporary deafness, we took her to the vet for a proper exam. The good news was she didn’t have an infection or any other symptoms of disease. The bad news was she didn’t have an infection or any other condition that would cause temporary deafness. She was pronounced healthy but severely hearing-impaired.

I attacked this problem the same way I attack most things. Head-on. I started doing research on the Internet about deafness in dogs and read everything I could get my hands on. I also found several books at the library. And, boy, did I suddenly feel like an idiot. Seems dogs can and do learn sign language. Well, duh, of course they do. She already knew several hand signals – for sit, lay down, stay, quiet, etc. All we had to do was come up with new signs and teach them to her. That seems to astonish a lot of people, but you have to remember dogs don’t speak English (or any other human language) either, and all you have to do is use the same word and/or sign consistently for the same thing. I was still a little skeptical because, after all, she was 14, and this would be like doing puppy training all over again.

Since I wasn’t familiar with sign language, I needed some help coming up with signs. I found a website which had the American Sign Language alphabet and signs for a lot of common words. I started with signs for things that she liked – one for “cookie” and one for “hungry.” It took about two days for those signs to get firmly imprinted in her wonderful little canine brain. Then, I came up with signs for “go to bed,” “Daddy’s home,” “ride in the car,” “walk,” and so on. She learned this new language at a speed that amazed me, and I had known her for a long time. Of course, I think it also helped that she was such a people-pleaser and had a very sensitive and loving nature. And, crazy as this sounds, sometimes I believed she was reading my mind. I could just think about going for walk, never saying a word, moving a muscle, or making any kind of sign, and she would go into her happy dance and try to herd me towards the door.


Of course, you have to be aware of dangerous situations your dog might get into because of their hearing impairment. For example, you should never allow your dog to be off-leash anytime they are outside, because they will not be able to hear you calling them back from the street or other impending disaster. You also want to approach them slowly if coming up behind them, so as not to startle or scare them. Make sure any visitors to your home are aware they should only approach your dog from the front and never touch them when they are asleep.

Here’s one example of creative training you might use for getting the dog back inside at night after they have been out in the yard doing their business. Have one person go out with the dog on a leash, while you stand just inside the back door with a flashlight and treats. When you’re ready for the dog to come back inside, shine the flashlight where the dog can see it, and instruct your training partner to bring the dog back into the house, where you are waiting with yummy treats in hand. It won’t take long for them to associate the flashlight with the treat, and they’ll come running.

Will you have to devote more time to a deaf dog? Sure, in the beginning, but it’s certainly not any more difficult than the training you would do normally. And there is plenty of help out there. I joined a group at Yahoo where I could get advice and exchange ideas and training techniques with other people who have deaf dogs. I highly recommend joining this group, whether you have a deaf dog or are thinking of adopting one. http://pets.groups.yahoo.com/group/deafdogs/

The only downside of Claire’s deafness was her slight insecurity about her new situation. She was used to sounding the alarm when a sound struck her as not quite right. She was my protector and defender and, when my husband was in Kuwait, she even captured a couple of birds in the back yard and deposited them at my feet. Her intent was clear. She knew Daddy was gone, and she took her job quite seriously, right down to making sure I had food to eat. I was less than thrilled with this behavior, but I couldn’t bring myself to scold her for it. Not that it would have done much good anyway.

While Claire had always been a bit of a mama’s girl, she became Velcro-dog after she lost her hearing. I was now her ears, and she depended on me to protect her as she had protected me all those years. I was honored to return the favor. I also noticed she seemed to be looking at my face more closely than before. It soon became clear that she was checking my facial expressions and body language and taking her cues from them. So, Claire became my constant companion and shadow, and she continued to thrive and be the same happy, loving dog she had always been. She also continued to “chuff” at strange men we encountered on our walks. Good girl.

Claire was with us for another three years. Kidney failure took her at the ripe old age of 17. One of the most difficult days of my life. I miss her every single day.

Being deaf did not made Claire any less devoted or loving or intelligent. Just the opposite. I now know just how intelligent she truly was and how close a bond you can form with a four-legged irrepressible sunbeam in fuzzy dog clothing. And just how many of us do you think will be able to learn a new language at the age of 98?

Howling with the Wolves

I have always had an unrequited love for wolves. I can’t pinpoint exactly when, where, or how it happened but, somewhere along the line, wolves walked right into my heart, curled up, and made themselves at home there. Even with little to no hope of ever being so lucky as to meet a wolf, much less have that love returned, my love for them has never diminished.

About 10 years ago, I discovered a wolf and wolf-dog sanctuary practically in my back yard. But life has a way of getting right smack dab in between you and the things you want to do. Oh, so close but so far away. For a brief time, I ran a website about wildlife rehabilitators, and the link to the Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary (then Candy Kitchen Ranch) was displayed prominently on the home page. Eventually, I lost track of the sanctuary and I thought maybe it didn’t exist anymore. Then, out of the blue, a dear friend on Twitter (Janice a/k/a @jlsemmel) tweeted about an upcoming open house at a wolf sanctuary. The name was different, but my wolflie passions were stirred, so I clicked on the link. And there it was! I was beside myself. The name had been changed, but it was still there. And Joy to the World! They were having an open house the weekend after my birthday. So, when my husband asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said I wanted a trip to the sanctuary. I even forgot to ask for chocolate cake. For those of you who know me, you know how huge that is.


The purpose of Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary (WSWS) in Ramah, NM is to provide the best possible home and care for abused and abandoned captive-bred wolves and wolf-dogs. Captive-bred wolves could not survive in the wild, and wolf-dogs are generally not a good fit for the average person, family or household. Since there is an overabundance of misinformation floating around about wolves, WSWS also has an outreach program to educate the public about wolves and the implications of owning a wolf-dog.

Some people mistakenly believe that cross-breeding wolves and dogs will produce a suitable pet. People will take on a wolf-dog, only to return it when they discover the animal is destructive and/or hard to control and doesn’t have the temperament to be a family pet. Cross-breeding wolves and dogs is illegal in most places, but that doesn’t stop disreputable breeders with little to no knowledge of wolf-dogs or compassion for the animals they are responsible for bringing into the world. Of course, they are stunningly beautiful animals.


Low-content wolf-dogs (those who are mostly dog) occasionally have the right temperament to go into an adoptive home, but it can still be a tricky proposition. For instance, WSWS has a pack of five wolf-dogs, 1 brother and 4 sisters, who are low-content wolf-dogs. However, this family group has been together since birth. Our guide said they experimented with taking a couple of them for a walk on leashes but didn’t get more than a few feet away from the enclosure, when they dropped down and started crawling back. In other words, it’s a package deal – all five or nothing – because WSWS has decided, and after observing this close-knit family, I agree, it would be beyond cruel to separate them.

But, back to the Open House. We were greeted by a volunteer who, much to my surprise, spoke with an English accent. Apparently, volunteers come from all over the world to spend a few months here. We were then asked to sign a waiver. So much legal nonsense, in my personal opinion, because I had no doubt no harm would come to us unless someone strapped an elk hindquarter to our backs and then tied us to a tree in the middle of one of the enclosures. Guided tours were scheduled every couple of hours, and we were in time to join one which had just left the courtyard.

Angel was the guide on our first tour. Yes, the first tour. I was so busy watching the wolves and trying to get photos of them that I didn’t hear half of what Angel said and had to take a second tour. I did, however, catch enough to know she is knowledgeable, passionate, and absolutely dedicated to the animals she cares for, as is everyone involved in the running of the sanctuary.

Specially for the Open House, the staff and volunteers had prepared an assortment of enrichment treats for the animals. The purpose of providing enrichment items is to give the animals new experiences and well, enrich their lives as much as possible in a captive environment. The enrichment items this day were frozen watermelon and paper canisters and piñatas filled with meat, peanut butter, deer urine (yes, deer urine), and stuffed animals. They love stuffed animals, as you can see. There was also more than a touch of jealousy and "nanner-nanner" going on here too.



The watermelon and canisters seemed to go over well with most everyone, and they were gleefully ripping and tearing them apart in no time.
_




However, this was the first time they had used piñatas and had varying results. Come to find out, wolves are notorious for not liking new things. For example, our guide informed us that the so-called biggest, baddest wolf in the sanctuary wouldn’t go near a plastic bucket. All of them eyed the swinging piñatas with great interest but approached them with caution and a definite degree of skittishness. Some more than others. And some just seemed to want someone they trusted to go first.




When the enrichment items had been given to the animals in the enclosures, we were allowed to go behind the barrier and, when given the go-ahead by the guide, we could take pictures through the fence. We were advised to back away from the fence if any of the animals came towards us. (Common sense here – if an animal has food on the brain, you don’t wanna have a finger sticking through the fence mistaken for a food item.) Once the animals were occupied with the enrichment food items, they were relatively stationary and in an area close enough to get photos. But you know how animals are – unpredictable, always on the move, getting behind trees, or lounging in the tall weeds at the back of the enclosure. They rarely make it easy. But, once in a while, you just get lucky.




Despite my lack of focus on what the guides were saying, I did manage to learn a few things. I was curious how Arctic and Timber wolves fare in the extreme heat we have in New Mexico, but Mother Nature seems to have taken care of that problem. The wolves shed down most of their coats in preparation for the summer heat. I also noticed the enclosures have small ponds and water buckets, and I witnessed one wolf repeatedly sticking his front paws into one of the buckets.

And, whereas your dog may be mildly curious about what is making that strange buzzing sound in the wall (electricity), a wolf has the intense curiosity and the strength (in jaw power and claws) to tear a wall apart to see exactly what is going on in there.

One of the high-content wolf-dogs really caught my eye and captured my heart. Ally. Ally’s story was very nearly a tragic one. She was bred in Alaska, where it is illegal to breed wolf-dogs, by one of the disreputable breeders I mentioned earlier. When she became too much for her owners, she was turned over to authorities. Generally, these wolf-dogs are destroyed, because there is no one to take them. However, Ally was rescued by a friend of the WSWS, who fostered her until the director could fly to Alaska and bring her home to the sanctuary.

Ally is only a year old and is the newest rescue, having been there just a few weeks. (By the way, being the new pup on the block, Ally needs sponsors.) She has the beautiful golden eyes of a wolf, magnificent markings, style and grace, plus a certain delicacy, almost daintiness, about her. At the sanctuary, she is known as The Supermodel. She is obviously still adjusting to her new home and enclosure-mate, Flurry, but she seems to be quickly overcoming the shyness and timidity inherent in wolves. She came right up to the fence several times, a behavior a lot of the other wolves and wolf-dogs who have been there much longer did not display. Yep, she’s a doll, all right. I don’t see how Flurry can resist her charms. At this point, he is still grumbling when she gets close, but it’s early days.

Another enrichment item that comes along every so often at the sanctuary is fresh meat. Occasionally, when someone hits a deer or elk on the highway, the sanctuary will get a call to come out and pick it up. The carcass is then taken to a communal enclosure which the wolves are released into, so they can enjoy their feast in the proper wolfie way. The wolf equivalent of Thanksgiving or Christmas. In Howlville. Instead of Whoville. (Sorry couldn’t resist, that just rolled out through my fingertips before I could stop it.)

And, speaking of howling, we had the rare, special privilege of being serenaded by the entire pack not once but twice that day. I’m not sure what set them off the first time, but the guide on our second tour asked us all to howl to get them started. I’m pretty sure everyone in the group howled at the count of three, as instructed. And we didn’t feel the least bit silly.

Now, we have all heard wolves howling in movies and on television, but hearing The Call of the Wild up close and personal is an experience that defies description. But I’ll try. As the first howl goes up, your jaw drops, you give a little gasp, you smile, maybe even giggle a little, and then your eyes close as you are drawn into a mystical place by the haunting, soulful tune your ears can’t quite believe they’re hearing. As the howls continue, they seem to resonate within your body, striking a chord in your very heart and soul. I don’t mind telling you I get a little misty-eyed re-living that experience in my mind.

A few of the wolves were rescued as pups and have been socialized to a degree I didn’t even realize was possible. These few special wolves are Ambassadors who go to schools, libraries and special events for the purposes of education and fund-raising. We had been told these Ambassadors would be making appearances throughout the day, and we were really looking forward to that.

After the tour was over, one of the guides, Angel, brought out Forest, who is a Timber-Arctic cross. A full-blood wolf, in other words. He is a beautiful animal with those mesmerizing golden eyes, and we were thrilled to be able to get closer to him. However, we never dreamed we would be able to pet him. Yes, pet him! Turns out Forest is a regular social butterfly. We were instructed not to lean our face into his, but if he leaned into your face, it was no cause for alarm.

Being the intelligent, sociable critter he is, Forest has figured out the best place to get the most attention, pats and scritches is standing on the picnic tables, so we all sat down and waited for Forest to make his rounds. He went from one table to the next, basking in the adoration of his fans and getting all the petting he could. And posing for photos. Yes, posing. If Forest could speak, I have no doubt he would have announced, “Gather 'round. I’m ready for my close-up now.” It was quite a sight.

Finally, he climbed up on our table. I reached up my hand to give him a scritch as he walked by, and he casually leaned down and gave me a kiss! Be still, my heart! I haven’t stopped giggling about that yet. Oh, Forest, you handsome devil, you do know how to steal a girl’s heart! {Swoon} Unfortunately, since I am always the one holding the camera, there are no pictures of this momentous event, but I know it happened, and it's a memory I'll treasure forever.


Of course, nothing gets in the way of a good roll in a smelly patch of grass. Besides, he knew his fan club wasn't going anywhere.






As often happens in the mountains, there were intermittent rain showers that afternoon, but we barely even noticed we were sopping wet. Unfortunately, when the lightning started, that did get our attention, and we decided to wrap up our visit. On our way out, we stopped at the Howling Wolf Grill where George cooked up two lip-smacking, juicy, double-patty cheeseburgers in their newly-opened kitchen. Their slogan is “Feeding your hunger feeds our Wolves!” And, of course, we also cruised the Gift Shop for souvenirs of our visit, knowing that money too would go for the care and feeding of the wolves.

To say we had a great time would be the understatement of the year. As birthday presents go, this was the best to date. The wolves received enrichment items that day, but I know we were the ones who were really enriched.

WSWS is a non-profit organization and operates solely on donations. In these lean times, they are feeling the pinch and are in dire need of donors and sponsors for the wolves. If you want to learn more or are interested in visiting WSWS, sponsoring a wolf, donating a wish list item, or scheduling a presentation, please check out their stunningly beautiful and informative website. http://wildspiritwolfsanctuary.org/index.php

You can also help by making a purchase in their gift shop. And, yes, they have even captured the musical stylings of the wolves on a CD. http://wildspiritwolfsanctuary.org/gift_shop.php

Also, if you are planning to visit WSWS, I recommend staying at this excellent B&B http://www.cimarronrose.com/ I was so impressed I wrote a review for them here http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g60799-d616750-r74633121-Cimarron_Rose_B_B-Grants_New_Mexico.html

This area has other points of interest, along with some spectacular scenery. Thanks to our B&B hostess, Sheri, we discovered some places we didn't even know existed. I'll be telling you more about those in upcoming posts.



Extra special thanks to my friend, Janice (@jlsemmel on Twitter), without whom this trip never would have happened. She also has a website - “Arizona Destinations” - at http://jsemmel.wordpress.com/ you should visit. She has great tips on places to visit in Arizona and incorporates some breath-taking photos.

The Domestic Goddess & The Dishwasher: A Cautionary Tale

Once upon a time there was a domestic goddess who lived in a cottage with no dishwasher. Unfortunately, it was a rental cottage, so she slaved away over a steaming sink full of dishes day after day. Some days this made her quite grumpy and a bit difficult, but she reminded herself there was a time when she had lived in Italy and didn't even have hot water in her kitchen.

Finally, one day she had a brilliant idea. She would make the landlady an offer she couldn't possibly refuse, because all would benefit. She and her husband would pay for a dishwasher, if the landlady would pay for the installation. The domestic goddess would be happy and would once again be able to grow decent fingernails, and the landlady would have an improvement in her property.

The landlady was quite pleased with this idea and the dishwasher was ordered, delivered and eventually installed. The domestic goddess danced and sang and was joyful every day. She had forgotten how such a simple appliance could make her life so much easier, and she was well pleased.

Then, one day she cleaned out the refrigerator and filled the dishwasher with plastic storage containers and decided not to use the "dry" cycle, as that might melt the plastic containers. When the dishwasher stopped, she opened the door so as to let the dishes air dry for a bit before she put them away. Having worked all day on domestic goddess domestic chores, she decided to make some popcorn and take a well-deserved rest. So, she walked into the kitchen, walked around the dishwasher door to retrieve the popcorn from the cabinet, walked back around the dishwasher door to put the popcorn into the microwave, and then started to walk back across the kitchen. Suddenly, with no warning, she was airborne!

In the split second it took her brain to realize she had exactly a split second to react, she managed to get one arm out in front of her, but then she felt her chin hit the floor and then her nose - BAM! Slightly dazed and with her tiara hanging precariously by a single bobby pin, she jumped up and quickly realized something was bleeding. Somehow, she managed to stagger to the bathroom where, to her horror, the mirror revealed a split lip and a chin that was quickly starting to turn purple. She was able to determine there was probably no major structural damage, but that chin needed frozen peas fast.

Over the next couple of hours, various body parts started to assert themselves and make it known they had not taken this incident lightly, including, but not limited to, the left wrist, arm, and shoulder, the right knee, the back, the neck, and the nose. To say nothing of her bruised ego. Domestic goddesses simply do not do full face-plants into the linoleum. At least not past the age of 10.

Upon reflection, while taking deep breaths and trying to calm herself, it occurred to the domestic goddess she had been saved grievous bodily injury by . . . uh, the “girls,” the “ta-ta’s,” “the chi-chi’s,” – yes, her own personal air bags. She remembered they had actually hit the floor first and most likely kept her from breaking her nose. And, miraculously, they seemed to be fine. She resolved to never again take them for granted and to finally find them a comfy bra with no underwire. That’s the least she could do to reward them for their bravery, quick action and self-sacrifice.

Her husband, upon returning home, took one look at her and demanded to know who had hit her. (Seriously, did he think she had gotten into a fight with the neighbors or in a brawl over broccoli at the store?) But, yes, that is exactly what it looked like - like someone had given her a quick upper cut to the chin.

After making sure the domestic goddess was not in need of medical attention, he looked at her lovely purple chin and declared she would be confined to the cottage for an indefinite period of time. It would simply not do for anyone to think he was responsible for the goddess’s Extreme Fighter/Warrior Princess appearance. He also instructed her to rest on the couch and he would do all the necessary fetching and carrying for a time.

The domestic goddess laughed and started to protest, but then decided she could use this proclamation to her advantage. If confined to the cottage, she wouldn’t be able to shop for groceries. If confined to the couch, she wouldn’t be able to cook, clean, or do odious and odorous piles of laundry. Within minutes, bags of frozen peas, a heating pad, a pillow, ibuprofen, cups of tea and dinner magically appeared.

And that is how the domestic goddess learned the true meaning of “every cloud has a silver lining.”

NOTE: This incident occurred last year, and I am fully recovered. I did eventually see the doctor, who prescribed muscle relaxers and sent me to physical therapy. I was under the impression I was to receive massage therapy, but that didn’t happen. Instead, I was put through my paces by a physical therapist three times a week for two months on various torture devices.

The moral of the story? Most accidents happen in the kitchen. Stay out of there.

Attack of the Cubicle Zombies from Ford

Attention, Co-Scissor-Heads! I interrupt a regularly-scheduled blog post tentatively entitled “If It’s Not One Thing It’s Your Mother” for a public service announcement.

I am hereby officially declaring this Running with Scissors Week, brought to you by certain deadhead, mooncalf, cubicle zombies a/k/a customer service representatives. Please note: This is not a general indictment of all customer service reps, but the few, the monotone, the never go off-script customer service reps who have been brainwashed, uh, expertly trained by Big Dog companies to make our lives a living hell. So, put away the roundy kindergarten scissors, get out the grown-up pointy ones, lace up your tennie-runners, and adjust your chair. We are taking on the Big Dogs. (Note: I have tried to keep the snarkiness to a bare minimum but, given the subject matter, some spillage has occurred.)

First up, Ford Motor Company. A Very Big Dog. A veritable Rottweiler of the corporate world. Apparently, they also believe they are the King of the Automobile Industry because they didn’t take a bail-out, and are doing quite well in spite of the economic conditions. Based on my interactions with their Cubicle Zombies, I think I have figured out why. I’m betting you’re a pretty smart cookie too, so I’ll let you decide for yourself. According to them, this is UV damage, not a defective paint job.





Does that LOOK like a little UV damage to you? The only way that’s UV damage is if that spoiler has been taking itself to the tanning salon on the sly. Ditto for the hood.

Yes, my treasured red Mustang, my former pride and joy, the car I have dreamed of owning for most of my life, has turned into a leopard.

Ford Customer Service Cubicle Zombie #1 instructed us to get the damage “evaluated,” at a Ford dealership, so off we went. The first dealer said they didn’t do body work and told us to go to another bigger Big Dog dealership 50 miles away. It was my understanding they would take a paint sample and do something scientific to it.

Uh huh. The scientific evaluation was done by Cubicle Zombie #2 who walked around the car with his hands in his pockets nodding and hmmmmming, focusing his company-implanted zombie-like laser eyes on the problem at hand. His conclusion? UV damage, consistent with the heat and sun we have in this area. They would, however, be happy to repaint the entire car for about $3,200.

Next stop – Twitter. After tweeting Ford Customer Service several times, Cubicle Zombie #3 contacted me for more information. A couple of days later, she actually called. Oooooo, the excitement! Did she want a paint sample? Was she calling to tell me to take it back to the dealership to be painted? Was she going to make me an offer so I can get it painted? Not so fast there, Sparky.

Cubicle Zombie #3 said she had enlarged the picture I had sent, and she had determined it was . . . . UV damage. Apparently, Cubicle Zombie #3 has the same company-implanted zombie-like laser eyes as Cubicle Zombie #2. I think maybe she got the super-laser eye upgrade, because all she needed was a picture. But “Good news!” Ford would be happy to sell me a new car at “dealer cost,” which would be a savings to me of $3,000 to $5,000, depending on the car I buy. Really?! Woah, Duuuuude. Let me get this straight. Ford is going to give me a $3,000 to $5,000 discount on a new car, but they won’t fix the one I have, which would cost them substantially less. Is it just me, or do you smell the halibut too? Cubicle Zombie #3 had apparently reached the end of her script because, after that, she had nothing original to add to the conversation and just kept repeating herself.

When I tried posting to Ford’s Facebook page, I heard from Cubicle Zombie #4. She ever so politely informed me that post was inappropriate for Ford’s Facebook fan page, and I should contact Ford Customer Service. {Sigh} I responded to her and, as courteously as possible, pointed out that I had contacted Ford Customer Service, as stated in my original post.

Then, through a Twitter friend, I discovered Ford has a Social Media Director who is on Twitter. Thinking I had nothing to lose, I tweeted him, and he said he would look into it. Good thing I wasn’t holding my breath waiting for a response, because I would be a mummified Smurf by now. Yep, sure enough, I never heard from him again. So, that would make him Cubicle Zombie #5.

Adding insult to crap, uh, allegedly bad paint job, just a few days ago I received the sweetest little card from Ford which says:

“Since you are a valued Ford customer, we are extending to you this exclusive offer. Get $750 Private Cash toward the purchase or lease of your next Ford vehicle.”

I have to wonder just how “valued” I am. Actually, before we started getting the Cubicle Zombie run-around, we had been thinking about buying another Ford. Not now. There will be no more Fords at this house unless and until they fix the one I already have or send money so I can get it fixed. Why on earth would I sign on the dotted line, go in debt several thousand dollars, and basically reward a company which refuses to stand behind one of its products by buying another one? Duh.

As Dolly Parton says, “Blonde jokes don’t bother me, because I know I’m not dumb and I know I’m not blonde.” I resemble that remark.

In case anyone (Ford?) is not yet clear about how the world works, satisfied, happy customers talk about the companies who did them right. Unsatisfied, angry customers talk MORE about the companies who did them wrong. A company can spend millions of dollars on advertising, but word of mouth is still the best advertising around and delivers more real bang for the buck. With social media, that word, good or bad, travels fast. I may only have 1000 or so followers on Twitter, but some of those people have thousands and thousands of followers. You do the math, Ford. When company policies, procedures and Cubicle Zombies tick off customer after customer and word gets around, it’s only a matter of time until said company gets a karmic banana stuck up their tailpipe.

Research has turned up some interesting information about Ford and their problems with paint, going back many years. If you’re having paint problems with a Ford vehicle, are considering buying a Ford, or are simply curious, I suggest you check out this Facebook page:

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=94328817418#!/group.php?gid=94328817418

Big Dog or not the fight continues, because I don't intend to become a Scooby snack . . .