Is It Really The End of the World or Just A Snowstorm?

Apologies, first of all, to those of you who are truly in a blizzard. Washington, Virginia, New Jersey, Long Island, I get it. This is some serious snow.

This is directed at the media.

Wolf Blitzer was so excited by the snow that he donned his hat and scarf and walked outside the CNN Washington studios to show us deserted streets. That's probably the best thing I've seen Wolf do in a long time. But the New York stations were downright ridiculous.

NBC dragged Chuck Scarborough into the studio and cancelled all their programming to yammer on and on about the fact that it was snowing.

"Better leave early for work," they warned at a time when you can be certain anyone who WAS going to go to work was already on the way.

"Leave your car behind." Ditto.

All day long they had video of kids sledding, people trudging through the snow, cars crawling along the road.

Isn't this New York? Doesn't it snow here in the winter? Do we really have to act as though this is a major disaster?

It seems to me that a storm that is likely to result in one snow day for the local schools just isn't much of a storm.

I see this as a symptom of the 24 hour news cycle. As soon as anything happens, anything at all, the newsrooms go into hysterical overdrive, covering and covering and covering it until it's absolutely smothered.

Excuse me, weren't we all just in a lather on Monday (sorry - you were, not me) about the governor's supposed scandalous behavior which the NY Times was going to publish? Wasn't he going to resign?

Not only did the governor not resign, he soundly thrashed the Times for spreading rumors without actually providing any facts, or even a story. There's still no story in the Times.

And by golly there was another rumor about the governor today, this time involving ethics. The news organizations pounced on it like starving wolverines.

They've got time to fill. They need stories. And we've apparently reached the point where we report rumors if we don't have fact.



I have no opinion on the governor but I'm disgusted by the press, my colleagues.
We're becoming Chicken Little, screaming the sky is falling every time a flake falls from the sky, every time someone whispers there might be a story that could bring down a public figure.

I've sometimes felt like being a reporter is not far different from being a professional gossip. It feels even worse now.

Why Are the Dogs In Cages Instead of The People Who Hurt Them?

I'm angry tonight, angry at a world where people can abuse animals and get away with it.

We went to see Mellifer/Amy/Nancy/Cupcake tonight, the dog I met the other day and who I was hoping could become part of our family.

"Someone's beaten the hell out of her," I'd been told. "She's been impossible to place."

She was wonderful once we got her out of the cage and outside that first visit; sweet, friendly, clearly interested in getting a human of her own.

But I'd been warned she was fearful of men. KB and I went tonight, hoping that perhaps she'd sense that he'd never hurt anyone.

She greeted him with a growl. She was afraid, despite the cookies in his pocket, his soft voice, his effort to be non-threatening.

It didn't get better. He tried. He gave her space. But the minute he turned his attention toward her, she growled. At one point, she lunged.

"This isn't going to work," the woman who clearly likes her and wanted her to go home with us tonight admitted.

This isn't a mean dog. She's afraid. And unfortunately, she shows her fear with aggression. For someone comfortable with dogs, who understand them, she's worth the work she'll require. But for us, with one of us never having owned a dog and just not sure what to do or how to act, it's a disaster waiting to happen.

We had to leave her there.

"Someone else called about her, too," we were told. "Maybe it'll work out."

I've adopted dogs before, dogs who'd been abused and mistreated. And it always breaks my heart, because the dogs are so willing to forgive, so basically kind and bewildered. And it's even sadder when a badly treated dog turns fearful; it makes it that much harder to find them the loving home they so desperately want and need.

I hope Mellifer/Melissa/Melinda/Melanie finds one. I wish it could have been ours.

Decision Postponed

Through no fault of ours. Mellifer, as I've been calling her for the past hour, or Clarisse, as KB seems to be leaning toward, or Big Sweet Thing, the abandoned dog who has been languishing in the local shelter for the past two months, is still there.

We tried. I called, but the line was busy. I emailed but got no response. They're busy, I know. So we decided to take a chance, just ride on over and hope we could find someone.

The shelter is on the grounds of the town transfer station. There's a big gate halfway up the drive, so no way to get close if that gate is locked.

It was.

The transfer station is closed on Monday. So we must wait to see her again, to see if she likes us, if KB wants her, too.

I have jury duty on Tuesdays, so that's out. But Wednesday! I'll be there.
We'll all chat about it, BlarneyStone, KB and I, and see if we think we'd be a good fit. And if KB and Regina/Maxine/TubeSock/PunkinHead/Sophie/CutiePie agree, we'll probably be out that night gathering supplies, preparing the three cats who don't suspect what cruel joke we're about to play on them. And arranging a date for her arrival.

Unless we all look at each other, shrug and say, "Eh. Not so much."

Odds of that? Slim to none.

Heaven On Earth

It's blizzarding in some parts of the US, sunny and cold in others (like here in the Catskills), god only knows elsewhere. But it's probably gorgeous in Saba.

That's where I took this photo. It was six years ago but it feels like yesterday; this is an island in the Dutch Antilles that isn't easily forgotten.

I'd been to the Caribbean once when I was thirteen; I went to Maui on my honeymoon.
This was my first tropical experience in a very long time and absolutely the most breathtaking place I have ever seen.

Saba's wildly popular with European snorkling enthusiasts (that's such a clumsy-sounding name for such a wonderful pasttime) who appreciate the incredibly clear water, the bountiful sealife and the quiet, nearly-all-alone-in-the-universe feel of the experience.

I followed a sea turtle who was flying gently through the water; I let myself be dragged through a narrow pass between two rocks by roaring waves after I realized that the water was so salty that I could float with absolutely no effort. I love the water, but this was the most incredible experience ever.

This is a view overlooking my favorite spot on the island; a rock in the the neighborhood of Hell's Gate (named for the fearsome winds that can roar in off the ocean). I sat on that rock every morning with a cup of coffee, facing a panoramic, 180 degree view of the ocean without another soul in sight.

Look next to the larger building - that was my inn. See the white road? Follow it to the top. The rock is there.

Heaven.

Where's your spot? Tell me about it. Winter is a fine time to share stories of outdoor paradises.

I'm A Sucker For A Pretty Face

I met someone today. Her name may be Valley. It may be Lady. It may be something entirely different.

She's been in the local animal shelter for two months, according to the woman there.

"We haven't been able to place her because she gets so worked up when people come to see her."

This big, gorgeous black dog (let's call her Honey as that's what I found myself calling her)greeted me by leaping up against her gate and barking. She is intimidating.

"Trust me. Get her outside and she's a different dog."

I couldn't doubt it. The room was full of barking, yapping, jumping dogs, each one working the rest into a frenzy.

I trusted her. She snapped a leash on Honey's collar (a flimsy cloth number, by the way) and we went outside. Honey was fascinated by everything going on around her. I was not on her radar.

"What do you think she is?"

"We think Golden Retriever and black Lab. I mean, she looks like a big black Golden."

Or a small Newfoundland. She's got a huge, soft head.

"What have you been feeding her?" I asked as I patted her round sides.

"Too much. It gets cold in there in the winter; I give 'em plenty of insulation."

The shelter manager proceeded to thump Honey enthusiastically on the butt. Honey didn't mind a bit.

"You see? If she was mean, she'd turn on me for this. I've seen her with men and she's just scared. I think someone beat the hell out of her. We found her just wandering the streets."

After a bit, I took the leash and we walked. Honey's entire body was swiveling...first her head, then her butt. She wasn't rough, but she was fascinated by everything. After a bit, she started following me a little.

"Sit," I told her. She did.

"Have her give you her paw."

She gently offered one fuzzy mitt.

I came back and sat down, patting Honey's head.

"If it was just me, I'd take you home right now," I told her.

Honey watched me.

"She's already listening to you more than she listens to me," the woman observed.

Flattery will get you everywhere.

"So would you be open to letting me foster her for a couple of weeks and see if it's going to work?"

Honey licked my hand.

"I'm sure we would. It's been two months. They're already telling me that we have to do something about her."

"You mean put her down?"

She nodded. "But she's a great dog! She just needs a place she knows she belongs!"

"I have to bring back my guy. It won't work if she's scared of him or she hates him, even though I can't imagine she would."

"That's fine."

"And there are the three cats. I know you showed me she doesn't seem to care about them, but what if one of them swats her?"

She nodded.

"I think they'd be okay with just about anything if you're willing to give her a shot."

I came home with plenty to think about. What if I get a job that doesn't keep me home all day? What if we have to move? What if what if what if???

KB was drinking his coffee when I got home.

"So where is she?" he asked, smiling.

"Well....want to go meet her Monday?"

He didn't say no.

Writer's Block? More Like Writer's Shutdown.

Remember when you had to write a paper for school, you knew what you were going to say but you just couldn't bring yourself to sit down and DO it? Welcome to my first non-fiction book's progress.

It started with an idea, which found an interested agent, who then proposed a different project first, a project that should have been pretty straightforward.

That's apparently not how I roll.

A simple collection of biographies has, instead, turned into a narrative in which I weave my own search for meaning into stories of people I've interviewed. They are people who inspire me, who challenge me; people whose stories hit a nerve, a nerve I sometimes didn't even recognize at the time.

My writer friends who've seen the initial rough drafts are encouraging; it's a compelling read when I'm strewn all over the pages. That's enough of a challenge for me right there to shut me down.

I'm fighting to remember that making myself the common thread that runs through these stories isn't a form of narcissism. All it does is give the reader someone to identify with, changing the book from a dry, objective textbook into a messy human story.

But every single time I even think about writing, I run up against a twelve foot tall Donna Reed sadly shaking her head over my unladylike willingness to talk about not only myself, but about my least shining moments.

She's so disappointed in me.




But come on, Donna! You felt trapped in that good girl role, too, didn't you? I've seen the studio photos. And when you put on a dark wig, you actually pulled it off.



Twelve foot tall Donna Reed does not concede the point. That, she informs me, was a job. But in real life, we're supposed to be perfect. Why would you parade your life in front of the world, trading the soft focus lens for harsh magnifier?

In practical terms, this is how it looks: I finish work for the day. KB, home from his two week southern sojourn, asks the usual question: what are you doing tonight?

"Oh," I mumble, "I don't know. Maybe I'll practice violin. Maybe I'll get my tax stuff together. Maybe I'll write."

The rest is unsaid: maybe I'll scan real estate ads. Maybe I'll look at dogs that need a new home. Maybe I'll read other peoples' blogs. Maybe I'll watch television. HGTV is pretty damned fascinating, you know.

I anticipate discomfort when I begin to write. It doesn't really happen; in fact, it's a pretty enjoyable undertaking. Once I start, I get sucked in pretty quickly.

But far too many days go by when I don't make myself start.

What, I wonder, is that all about?

Absolutely Outstanding

You want a brief course in civil rights in America? No? Do you just want to see a truly masterful blog post?

You can't do better than this:

http://ruthie822.blogspot.com/

Creative, compelling, informative. Bravo.