Saturday, June 24, 2023

A Look Back: Wise Words from a 22-Year-Old Barbie

First off, my apologies for my rather prolonged absence. Nothing is wrong. It's just when the weather gets warm, it becomes less and less likely I will spend a weekend day inside writing but today is very hot and I've been outside a lot lately so thought I would spend some time writing a blog today. Wow, lucky day!

Lately I have had several friends and family members who have kids that are either graduating from high school or college. Many of those kids are being gifted with cars, which made me think back to when I was heading to college hoping that I would also be lucky and get a car. Looking back, I have no idea why I was so optimistic. 

I thought it might be fun to jump in the Hot Tub Time Machine and go way back 35 years and give you you all a glimpse into the crazy mind of 22-year-old Barbie, a sassy senior Journalism major at Texas A&M University, and at the time a weekly columnist at my college's newspaper, The Battalion. If you missed the whole Barbie story, you can catch up here. 

Being one of the very few liberals on campus and without question one of the most vocal because of said gig, my columns were typically met with more ire than most. Got loads of hate for my criticism of the students who destroyed the shanty shacks that had beeen set up on campus to protest The Apartheid in South Africa. You can't even step on certain grass on campus without getting yelled at. Yeah, it's a thing.

I eventually decided it was safer to just write about my life instead of tackling political topics. Less hate mail that way. 

So behold, the very earliest version of the "World According to Barb," that originally posted in 1988. Sadly, you will see my writing hasn't evolved much and my sense of humor is still quite immature today, to which you can all attest. 


Oh, Joy the Search for the Perfect Auto

Over the past weekend several important newsworthy events happened. The US warship mistakenly shot down an Iranian jetliner killing, all 290 passengers, Attorney General Edwin Meese announced his resignation, and my parents bought me a new car. Well, it's not really new, but close enough.

This might not seem to some of you as a monumental event, but then again maybe I should back up and bit and fill you all in on the whole story. 

First off, I must explain a little about my parental unit. My parents believe firmly in two principles: One is that regardless of the amount of money one has, children are not to be spoiled. They must work for things they want and not just be given them. 

The second principle is that a car is simply a mode of transportation from Point A to Point B, not material possession. As a result, my family's driveway resembles a used car lot. In my family, you don't stop driving a car until it stops running. My dad still brags of a car he once owned, appropriately named the "Vomit Comet," which he bought off a friend for $50 and drove for two years. 

A lot of kids, when embarking on their freshman year, are given cars for graduation gifts by their parents. Well Bob and Barb Jones were not those parents. It was entirely out of the question. "But all my friends are getting to take cars to school," I pleaded to no avail. My parents were not ones to fall for that sort of logic. 

Fortunately, it turned out to not be such a tragedy since I was living on campus and everything could be access on foot.

My sophomore year I again pleaded for a car; instead, I got a bike. Not a new bike, but a friend of my Mom's Sears Jiffy 3-speed with goober handlebars and a basket with plastic flowers hanging off the front. I was horrified. I was going to be living off campus with no car.

The nearest grocery store was three-fourths of a mile away. To get my groceries home, I would have to steal a grocery cart and cross a busy 4-lane road and push it all the way back to my apartment—a very humbling experience. I would try and look as it had forgotten where I had parked my non-existent car. My friends called me the "bag lady." What are friends for?

Then came my junior year, and I felt assured that this was going to be my lucky year. Well, there was good news and bad news. Yes, I was going to have a car to take to school with me. The bad news was the car I had to take. 

Close your eyes and imagine every student's idea of a nightmare car. Yes, that's right a station wagon! Not just any station wagon, however, but the same one my parents bought when I was 11. It had 130,000 miles on it and it definitely was showing its age. Now imagine the worst color imaginable. Right again...Yellow!



Since the car had been collecting dust in the driveway for a decade and not driven in ages, I felt certain the old bomb wouldn't start. My (bad) luck continued, and the "Banana Mobile" as my friends called it, started on the first try with a sizable cloud of blue smoke bellowing from its tailpipe. Lucky me, right?

So off I went cruising in the Banana Mobile. Now considering the advanced age of said car and high millage, I knew the humiliation of driving this car would be short-lived, and excitedly looked forward to its dying day. Well, it lived and it lived. It was the eternal automobile, and I felt sure that this car would see my death before its own ultimate demise. 

[SIDE NOTE: For some reason I don't add (probably because it was humiliating) that one day, the entire rusted-out bumper fell off and rolled down the street, just as I was driving past the Dixie Chicken, the school hangout bar. This bumper was made of steel and the size of a modern-day Kia Rio, so obviously I kept driving. I thought that would warrant a trade-in of sorts, but no. my mom just drove it to the junk yard and for $20 I got a new (old) bumper that came with a "Honk if you love Jesus" sticker. Yep, that happened. Sorry, back to story.]

I drove it my entire junior year and senior years, and just when I thought I would have to hire a contract killer to get rid of this vessel, it happened. While I was home for the weekend this spring, my Dad discovered some major problems and deemed it unsafe to drive.  That was one of the happiest days of my life. I was finally going to get a car...or so I thought.

Sunday rolled around and no new car had materialized. My parents smugly handed me the keys to the maxi-van. It is not a merely a van, mind you, but at MAXI-van—a whopping 3 feet longer than your average van. 


I stared at them in disbelief. I once thought you would have to work really hard to find a car that is less cool than the wagon, but let me tell you a white, wood-paneled (because they got a deal) maxi-van is about as close to uncool as one can get...unless you do airport pickups for a living. 

"You will have to drive this for a couple of weeks or so until we find something else," my mom said. Well, the weeks turned to months, and I was beginning to think I was cursed. But indeed, it happened, and the rest is history. I now have my new own car--and it's not yellow! 

UPDATE: Once my siblings and I finished college and moved away, my parents immediately moved to buying only expensive premium cars. 

Summer is here

The season we all live in Chicago for is here! I hope everyone is having a great one, thus far. I promise to write a few more blogs before summer ends, have a few topics in mind. Until then, I hope this finds everyone healthy and happy.

Ciao for now,

Barb(ie) 


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Sunday, April 2, 2023

Raising Teenagers: The World's Most Thankless Job

Ok, yes. I am aware that I no longer am raising teens, but I still remember those years quite vividly and have very helpful advice for those of you who are in the midst of raising those snotty, know-it-alls. I have many friends as well as family members who are still in the process.

I like to randomly throw out helpful advice like: "it's going to get worse before it gets better" when I see my brother-in-law dealing with my beautiful, but feisty 15-year-old neice. 

I've heard the effort of raising teens is akin to "nailing jello to a tree" and can't disagree with that analogy. Pretty sure the reason they make babies and toddlers so cute is so you won't kill them as teenagers. 

A friend of mine recently commended me on having kids who appear to have good heads on their shoulders, in other words, who have their proverbial shit together. Indeed, for the most part, my kids are flourishing. 

Laura is killing it in the corporate world and Ben is relatively close to finishing his PhD. Bottom line is they are successful, and more importantly happy adults, and as a parent, that is really the best you can ask for. 

That, and neither of them are currenty on my payroll or living in my basement...

Looking back

I will have to say that this chapter of parenting was not easy. Going through a divorce during this time did not make it any easier. By the time my kids were in what I refer to as the "danger zone," I was parenting solo.

The difference being, post-divorce, I had no bad cop to back me up or to scare off dusty boys from my very pretty daughter. When her dad had been around, the boys would at least sit up and remove their hands from my daughter's body. After he was gone, they would barely even make notice of me loudly moving about the house while glaring them. 

I suddenly had to be both the good and bad cop, which isn't easy. And being the bad cop was in direct contradiction to my lifelong self-identity as the "cool" mom. I mean I really was the cool mom, something they now have finally accepted as adults. But you can't be the cool mom and the bad cop. It was new territory. 

Oh, and I was also trying to have an actual social life and date, which only added to the insanity of this period. 


We were really close though; naming ourselves the "Three Amigos" after the divorce, a title we continue to use to this day. Despite having a good, close relationship with both of them, I still lived in constant terror during these years that they would get in trouble.

Ride into the Danger Zone

What's the danger zone? The years when as parents you worry about the following: car accidents, teenage pregnancy, bullying, drug and/or alcohol misuse or addiction, failing in school, pursuit of life of crime, etc. You know, all the normal shit that people that look like adults but also don't have all the equpiment in full working order do. I mean that is fact. 

Just doing one of the possible menu options from the Danger Zone list and they got in trouble, it was going to be on me; it would be my fault as the single mom and one of the only liberals in a subdivision of conservative golfers. Nope, was not going to happen on my watch!

As teenagers, it's almost expected that they will do stupid things. Their teenaged brains are not even fully formed! Wait, that's actually not true. They have all the same equipement, in this case in the frontal lobe, but it's not fully connected yet so they don't yet connect action with consequences. Now, will this reality help you navigate the absolute idiocy of the teenage years? Absolutely not. 



Explains a lot of my own behavior as a teen actually. I was a handful so I naively thought this would give me a leg up during this chapter in parenting. I've written before about how I'm a rebel at heart, regardless of age. No way, those idiots were going to get away with anything on my watch! 

One of my rules was no one in the basement, unless you're playing ping pong. Reason was obvious; nothing good happens in a basement. Alcohol is consumed, pot smoked and virginitites lost. That's what happens in basements in the danger zone. 

It worked for a while. One day Laura was down there with one of our least favorites and Ben yelled up to me that he was no longer hearing the ping or the pong of the balls in the basement. Duly noted, I texted Laura a first warning from the 3rd floor, not wanting to embarass her. 

Unfortunately shortly thereafter, when once again no ping, nor pong was audible, Ben grabbed his handy airhorn and blasted a friendly warning from the top of the basement stairs to his sister and her little friend. You can imagine how that was received. 

Good times. 



I took it as my primary job to stalk my kids. Yes, you heard me. Digitally stalk, in most cases. I'm sure some of you are balking at this, spouting something about privacy. Yeah, no. If you're saying that AND have teenagers, I will pray for you. 

Why? Because teenagers lie. You can trust a teenager about as far as you can kick said teenager. Don't try it..but there will be moments you will want to. Bottom line: They all lie. And, if you are saying to yourself that your teen doesn't lie to you, then you're either wrong or your kid is weird. Sorry, but it's true. 

I hear parents say, "my teenager tells me everything." Well, if that is true, they again are either a weird kid (it does happen) or that kid is withholding some truths from you (or worse yet, is going to go buck wild the minute they get to college). It's part of the process. As such, I left nothing to chance and added an app to my kids' cell phones that enabled me to track them. 

When I first started using the app, I had other parents tell me that the kids would just leave their phone behind. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Clearly these idiots didn't have teens at home. 

They would be more likely to leave an organ, perhaps a kidney, behind as nothing is more important than that phone. It is their connection to their peers, which in case you have not noticed is now the voice they listen to. Once this happens, around 13-14, they are no longer listening to you and you better hope everything you said prior was taken to heart. 

At this same time, teenagers also magically become smarter than their parents. Or so they believe. There are literally years when half the things you say to your kids will be met with the standard eye roll. I mean clearly now that they have teen-fueled, super intelligence, despite the brain disconnect, their parents' stupidity is quite a burden to them.

One year, my son got caught driving through the neighborhood, while on his phone: a no-no. Once caught, his cell phone was taken away...and it was during Spring Break. Ouch. Yep, it sucked...for everyone because teens don't suffer silently. Below is what I found on my quite large, 28" Mac screen shortly after that ruling came down. He was not happy apparently.


It's hard to read, a screenshot of a screen but all Google searches like "what's the defintion of child abuse" and "what to do if your mom is crazy" all meant to communicate his ire. Mission accomplished. I had to laugh though. Both of my kids have inherited my and my ex's senses of humor: both a curse and blessing as illutrated above.

Obviously there were a few years when I did not win any popularity contests at home. Catching them in places they weren't supposed to be and doing things they weren't supposed to do was the norm. You would think that knowing full well their "awful" mom was stalking them, they would largely be where they said they were going to be but again, they are idiots. Note: see above about disconnected teenaged brain ☝.

I won't list all the things I busted my kids for as teens but suffice to say they were no angels, though neither have felony convictions either. 😀 

Note: as adults, they just love to regale me with stories of all the shit they did get away with. I find it a tad less amusing than they do at this point.

Below is their T-P kit packed and ready to go that I found when I was moving out of the house. Clearly derelicts in training...


Handing out punishments was not fun. Despite what kids think, we don't like it. That said, I think my dad did actually enjoy saying no during my hellish teen years and I'm pretty sure I still hold the record for the longest grounding on record in the state of Connecticut (3 months-don't ask, though duly noted in this blog).  

It's always easier to say yes. My Mom's go-to move when she just could not say yes to a query was to send it up to the Supreme Court (Dad) who would strike it down instantaneously. Wasn't really even worth the appeal process to be honest. Dad always said no. He didn't even pretend to be my friend, but as an adult, I get it. He was playing the role of Bad Cop and just refused to break character. I do understand.

I actually did want to be friends with my kids, and I'm happy to say that today I do think of them as friends in addition to being my kids. I love nothing more than traveling and exploring the world with my now adult children. 

But my job during those years wasn't to be their friend, but their guiding force, like it or not. And, I assure you they did NOT always like it.

A thankless job indeed but an incredibly important one so hang in there!

Happy Spring, everyone.



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Monday, March 13, 2023

Right Up Your Alley


"Oh dear Lord, she must have run out of topics to write about."

That is my guess at everyone's initial thoughts about this week's topic: the alley. Now when you think of the word "alley," my guess is the first thing you think of is getting mugged or just danger in general. I mean let's face it; bad shit happens in alleys so in most people’s minds, they are dark, dangerous places to clearly avoid at all costs.

While I would not argue with that logic, in Chicago there is simply no way to avoid alleys, as they quite literally serve as a backbone to the city's infrastructure. There are more than 1,900 miles of alleys in the city of Chicago on 90% of the city's blocks, and alleys have played an important role in Chicago since the very beginning in 1830!

In the early days, the alleys were made out of wood and coated with coal tar, which was rather unfortunate in the 1871 Chicago Fire when the alleys caught fire in addition to the buildings and residences, leaving 100,000 homeless.

The huge upside of alleys from an urban planning perspective is unlike cities like New York, the trash is not on the street. You don't smell refuse as you traverse the city's sidewalks, which is great and makes Chicago seem like a much cleaner city in general than other big cities.

The downside is that rats totally dig the alley. It's dark, has lots of trash and decaying shit and it's less trafficked at night, which is when the rats like to be out and about. Explains why Chicago always earns the top spot as the rattiest city in the country every year. I try and avoid going out to the alley for any reason at night but when I do, I just intentionally don't look. Ew. The city puts bait out to kill them so every alley has these posters, which have become somewhat iconic.



I like to think of alleys in Chicago as the modern urban promenade...but with rats and trash bins, because everyone crosses paths in the alley. I have friendships with many neighbors and, in many cases, is based around having conversations in or simply exchanging greetings in the alley. 

I truly do find this fascinating because where else in the world do people of such vastly different socioeconomic levels cross paths? On the street behind me and throughout my neighborhood, there are a multitude of million+ dollar homes but right across the alley there's a much more diverse group of residences, including a few delabitated homes, several where I'm pretty sure people just flop in. 

There's only one thing all this entire gamut of humanity has in common: the alley. Where else would you see millionaires and homeless people casually crossing paths on a daily basis?

I had my first scary experience in the alley on my first day in Chicago. I was unloading my car when suddenly I felt someone's presence close to me. I turned around to find his giant man dressed in what appeared to pajama bottoms and a dirty white t-shirt offering to help me unload my car. 

Fortunately, I watch Dateline regularly so I knew I was about to be murdered, tragically five minutes after arriving. Fearfully and politely I declined his offer. "Are you sure? You have a whole car load of stuff? he said.

Oh ok. He's not taking no for an answer because he's already committed to murdering me. What's my play? Scream fire and run? I swallowed by welling panic and said no, it's ok. 

He finally accepted that I was not about to let him help me and he moved on. Weeks later, I met him again though this time I realized that he was not indeed a serial killer, but a dentist who lived next door! And, yes, Frank has been told the story, and he and his wife, Vesna, are both now friends for life who I absolutely adore, despite moving to Wisconsin a few years ago. 

There's always something going on in the alley. A few years ago, mid Zoom work call, I saw a naked man casually sauntering down the alley. Without saying why, I immediately left my work call and ran outside to find two Chicago police cars slowing pursuing him (think OJ chase, but slower). 


Photo credit: Kelly Bauer, Chicago Book Club

Driving through the alley is not for the faint of heart. Why? Well for one, they are 16 feet wide. Might sound like ample berth, but when you add the trash bins, recycling trash cans, and random shit (mattresses, furniture, appliances, etc.) that find their way to the alley, your room for error is actually quite small. And, because Chicago is based on a grid, every alley ends with an abrupt and zero-forgiveness, 90% turn, a corner around which you have zero visibility. 

Add an oncoming car coming from the opposite direction, and you have a fun game of Chicken, one in which either the biggest car or the biggest set of balls (of driver) wins. 

Another commonly found character in the alley is the scrap metal truck, or fleet of trucks. These trucks, most of which look barely road-worthy themselves, troll through the alleys daily on bald tires in search of any heavy piece of metal they can find, which everyone knows to drag out to the alley. My advice: Don't try and play Chicken with a scrap metal truck; they have little to lose and most likely no insurance.


In the winter it gets even more fun because despite the fact that they are not private roads, the Chicago snowplows won't touch them so snow, ice, etc. is just a daily reality most winters. Walking in the alley, or attempting to drive through it, is not advised in these conditions but also completely unavoidable, making them endlessly entertaining in the winter. I have to wear Yaktrax (spikes) over my boots to just walk the dog.

There's also the unspoken rule that a huge truck or moving van can and will block an entire block of alley for any number of reasons at any time, without notice, sometimes for an entire day. That's just the law of the alley. The faster you accept these rules, the better off you are.

I hope this blog finds you all well. Since we've already sprung ahead time-wise, hopefully spring-like weather is also on tap.

Ciao for now,

Barb


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Sunday, January 15, 2023

Bored Barb Takes up Yoga

Nope, not me. For those of you who don't know my mother, also Barb, consider this blog post your official introduction to the amazing matriarch of our family.  Certainly doesn't seem blog-worthy to write about my mom taking up yoga, but then again it wouldn't be if it wasn't her doing it.

I'm sure you remember my first foray into yoga. I chronicled my own yoga adventures at the beginning of the pandemic in my very first blog post back in 2020. From that blog: 

For years, I've watched as the flood of skinny bitches pour out the yoga studio at the gym. Clearly they are onto something.  I am quite the expert at wearing yoga pants (and leisurewear, in general) so I really felt like this was going to be the perfect at-home workout. 


I downloaded a free Peloton app, grabbed a mat and donned the garb. Unfortunately for someone who has never even come close to touching my own toes, this pursuit was a stretch...quite literally. I still have PTSD from the stupid Presidential Fitness Tests we were subjected to in grade school; my flexibility was notably bad. Certainly made me question whether I was built for this, but what the hell?


I'm not going to lie, there was a lot more sweating and shaking than I would have thought. And, contorting my uncooperative rigid limbs  in some of those positions — while also trying to crane my neck to see how the skinny bitch instructor was doing it — was akin to a playing a demented game of Twister that no one wins. My dogs watched with what appeared concern. My left shoulder is now spasming and my right buttock  hurts, but overall it felt pretty good. 


It was definitely touch and go initially, for both my rigid limbs and my dogs who both thought it was "Mommy and me" time on the mat and not yoga. I have improved slightly though still can't touch my toes. 


Being raised by a jock


My mom was born a natural athlete, meaning she can pick up nearly any sport and be good at it very quickly. My dad was also a good athlete but one who studied hard at it. Read everything, videotaped himself so he could study his motion, golf or tennis swing, and then methodically plot how he could get better. Not mom; she can just watch someone do something and mimic it naturally.


She's ambidextrous! When she wants to mess with someone, she simply changes the hand she's playing with. Talk about a mind fuck on a tennis court! 


She was the first female Little League player in the state of Arkansas back in the 50s. She got a hole in one on the golf course…7 times!! Not a typo.


She is just amazing at every sport she does, which is all the more surprising because she got sick when she was a baby and was hospitalized and didn't grow for an entire year. That is actually why she's short in stature; her twin brother and father were both 6 feet tall. 

Despite being barely over 5-feet herself, it never stopped her from competing and winning in sports her whole life.  Below is a picture from one of the many tennis tournaments she won as a kid. She's the one rocking the crop top before that was fashionable. FYI: she is the same age as the other kids in the picture. Not sure what to say about that haircut.





While I adore her, It wasn't always easy having a mom who can do every sport better than you. It's the reason neither my sister or I took up tennis until our 40s, despite having spent much of our childhoods hanging out by tennis courts while she played. Why take up a sport that you'll never beat your own mom at? I mean she's pushing 80 but I've officially given up the hope of ever beating her at tennis. 


I remember being 7 or so and being fearful of jumping off the diving board at the local pool. I mounted the board a few times before bailing in fear. Then my mom casually walks up to the diving board and with absolutely no preamble does a flip off it. Then a back flip. What? I mean I was aware she could swim but really? 


When she decided it was time for me to learn how to swim, she didn't bother teaching me or signing me up for lessons. She just signed me up for the local swim team. Didn't matter that I could only swim the width of the pool. "You'll get better," she assured me. I believe the term "baptism by fire" works here but hey, a few weeks later and many tearful pleas to quit, and boom: I learned how to swim. That was Parenting 101 Barb-style. 


Then I remember trying to learn how to water ski. My poor, very patient dad would drag me behind his boat for an hour but my little "Olive Oyl" arms could not muster the strength to pull my 75-pound frame out of the water. I cried, begging to get back in the boat. 


Shortly after that, my mom takes her turn, popping up within seconds and then within a few minutes, kicking off one ski and going slalom. What the...? All 3 of us kids looked at each other in bewilderment. Didn't they just buy these things? 


You can lead the horse to water...


I have tried since 2020 to get my mom to try yoga. She was getting increasingly bored being stuck at home and I thought it was the perfect way for her to stay busy and thought maybe the meditation part would be a good thing for her as well. 


As you might be able to tell she has the boundless energy so not being able to do all her various activities was making her a little crazy. I'm sure many of you enjoyed the pandemic videos she made and posted to Facebook. This one was one of my favs.





So I must say when she said she was ready to try yoga, I was excited to see how it would go. With no ball involved or thing to swing, I thought we might finally have arrived to a level playing field. 


Over the Christmas holiday, I spent a week visiting my parents, and daily Mom and I did yoga. It was fun and I must admit pleasantly surprising to see that there's at least one thing Barb Jones doesn't do well. Turns out she has the flexibility of a 2 X 4 (her words) and not stellar balance; both important things to have as we get older. After I left, she took a few classes. Review below.




Comedy aside, I'm quite certain that Barb Jones will become a yogi of stellar status. She never backs away from a challenge so I won't be the least bit suprised when she morphs into Rubberband Nana after a few months. 

Later this week on January 20th, my mom turns 79. Please join me in wishing this crazy lady and amazing mother a very Happy Birthday. Love you, Mom! 

Hope everyone's year is off to a good start and this finds you all happy, healthy and hopeful that 2023 will be an epic (in a good way) year.

Happy New Year,

Barb

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Sunday, November 13, 2022

My Marley: the Best Worst Dog Ever

Some of you know that I recently had to put down my older dog, Marley, who has been my most faithful constant companion for almost 16 years. He would have celebrated that milestone next month actually. I will admit losing him has been heartbreaking. Yes, he had a wonderful life, and I was quite fortunate to have had him as long as I did. That is true, but still such a loss.

Marley was my third dog, although my family also had several dogs growing up. Right out of the gate, he was a handful. Dudley was just a year older so it was obvious from the start that Marley was a livewire, not the laidback dog his furry predecessor was. 

He was always into something, a committed life-long trash tipper/looter. No trash can was safe; ask any member of my family who have had their own trash cans looted by that dog. Nothing like coming home to a disaster like that or getting in bed only to find a tuna can has been left under the sheets. 

All I can say is thank God the dog didn't have opposable thumbs! Can you only imagine the crimes he would have been able to commit with just a tad more agility? Terrifying. 



Possiby the worst was one year at Thangsiving. While we were all happily eating our amazing feast, he was in another room quietly sampling each of the pies my Aunt Marilyn, Arkansas' version of Martha Stewart, had brought. Not the entire pie, just the center of each one. When he made to the pecan pie, he decided that was his favorite and ate a sizable amount. 

There were a whole lot of people not happy with Marley that day.

Despite his antics, he was mine and from the day we picked him up, I was the center of his universe. Always and forever. I mean quite literally all that dog ever wanted was to be by my side. He would quite literally follow me everywhere I went every day. In the almost 16 years he was with us, I could never close a door between he and I...ever. Very sweet in sentiment (who doesn't enjoy adoration) but in practice can be problematic. 

For one, it's quite embarassing when I have company and attempt to close a bathroom door and he would simply sit at the door and bark until I safely reemerged. I just got used to zero privacy and constantly stepping around or over his 30-lb body. 

Once when he was younger, I locked him in a bathroom during the Christmas holiday at my sister's house so we could all go play tennis and he wouldn't get into anything. I could see no other option. No way I could leave him out to pilfer and loot their entire house for hours without proper supervision. 

We came home a few hours later and he was about 80% through the door. Yes, he had spent the whole time dismantling the bathroom door. Who knew a dog could even do that? My brother in law hated him for the remainder of his life because of that particular episode.

A few years ago, I went to visit Laura at college her senior year. Marley's clinginess has actually gotten much worse after his brother Dudley died suddenly at 10. So I was concerned with leaving him but again, decided to lock him in her room while we went to dinner to prevent him from looting the rest of the house. I did give him a Xanax before we left, as prescribed by his vet for his separation anxiety. A few of Laura's roommate's parents found it alarming I was medicating him for such a short time.

They didn't know the history. A few hours later, we got a call from one of those parents reporting that he was halfway through the drywall and making good progress, and perhaps we should return sooner than later. She commented that it was probably because he was thirsty. LOL. 😉

One year for work I had to travel to our global headquarters, which is in Paris. I was gone for a week but had neighbors come in at night and get Marley, walk and feed him and then let him stay overnight with them. He did fine, or so I assumed. My lovely neighbor upstairs asked if I had had any recent visitors. I said no, but she said while I was gone, she could hear what she said sounded like "an old lady moaning" for hours upon hours. 

I honestly couldn't imagine what she was talking about so when I got home, I put my GoPro in my bedroom to capture what happened when I left him. Note: this was a 20-minute run to the grocery store in the middle of the day. Also note that he is wearing his thunder jacket, which is supposed to provide comfort but as you can see is failing miserably. Moose mating? Or some sound a humpback whale would make? You can see why she thought it was a person, not a dog. 


The Runaway

Oddly enough, despite being a true stage-5 clinger, as evidenced by the prior instances, he was also a runner. I've never had a dog that ran before. People who are not dog people: some dogs are for whatever reason predisposed to take off and run and not come back, aka "runners." 

Growing up our dogs would just roam the neighborhood freely and eventually make their way back home when they were ready. So I was not prepared to deal with a dog that ran from me, especially one who seemed so fond of me.

Our house had a big yard with an invisible fence so for the most part, it wasn't an issue, but he was also very prey-motivated and our backyard backed up to woods so it was a veritable cornucopia of potential vermin victims. 

He knew if he left the yard, he would get zapped by the fence. But those creatures, which included squirrels, birds, bunnies, and the worst, groundhogs, were so enticing. At least to Marley. 

When one of these creatures was spotted and deemed worthy of the zap, Marley would run out in the yard and then quickly run multiple laps around my garden. That was the signal that he was about to escape. Picture a dog boomarang, shot-putting himself out of the yard. Often I would observe the wind-up and run outside in full screaming mode, "NOOOOOOOO, Marley!" Most of the time, however, he had already mentally committed to the escape so nothing would stop him. He would just run faster and faster and then aim straight toward that hill and yelp as he got zapped by the fence and then poof..he would be gone.

Once he was gone, he was gone for a while. I can't tell you the number of hours I gave chase up and over the berm that separated our subdivision from an industrial park with several businesses. Sometime I would even pursue in my car because he had serious wheels and I'm one of the slower humans on the planet.

One day he took off after one of the groundhogs and disappeared, once again, over the berm. I got in my car and parked in the park area and walk to each business to tell them, again, that I was missing my dog and if you see him, please grab him and call me. They had all heard this before. 

I got to one of the businesses, which I swear was a meth cooking lab inpersonating as a mechanic. One of them came out, no teeth and wearing overalls with no shirt underneath (Imagine Deliverance but without the southern accent and you get the proper mental picture).

He comes out and gives me a big toothless grin, belly laughs and says, "That Marley...he's a real bad dog, ain't he?" I couldn't help but laugh. Marley was indeed a very bad dog. I am still laughing at his comment as I see my car with the driver side door still open and a very muddy BAD dog sitting in the passenger seat looking quite pleased with his bad self. 

Yes, Marley was a bad dog. He was also the most loving, loyal dogs I have ever owned in my life so in many ways he was also the very best dog. Almost 16 years of being stalked by that big love leaves me very sad but also very grateful that I had him for as long as I did. 

I hope he's somewhere chasing vermin and running free.


I'll probably get another dog at some point as I'm so used to having a pair. Bowie, for the most part, seems to be dealing well with being an only dog. Yes, there have been some forced hugging and crying sessions he would probably rather not be a part of but he's being compliant and dealing with the increased amount of affection from his sad mom. 

He's a good boy but he'll never be the best worst dog. 

Until next time,

Barb 


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