beagle picnic play-by-play

I can't think of a better way to spend a sunny Saturday than at a park with a slew of beagles. This is the most fun I've had (and hubby would concur) without our ever present hooch. It's the second year we've attended, and we were able to because I design their newsletter. Only volunteers and rescue families are allowed. The leader of the CBR makes special exceptions to non-approved personnel on a limited basis, like people that donate a lot to the organization, but it's mostly a treat for the pups and their peeps.

I nearly got myself arrested in the beginning. There were these two puppies (!) that I wanted to love and hug and take home and keep forever. Then I remembered what a pain in the ass puppies are and that stopped me from committing Grand Theft Puppy.

Instead, I took the first of 141 pictures.

Like these two hound dawgs, locked in a portable pooch jail, looking very pathetic and lonely. I could tell they were horribly neglected. Just look, only one bed for each of them! I nearly called the ASPCA for them. They can't call themselves, you see, they don't have opposable thumbs.

In general, the hounds were on their best behavior. Who wouldn't like a barking good time like this? Rocky has what we like to call, "jack ass issues." There were a few close calls, but most people were very understanding. Once we got him something to do, he was a changed pup.

The agility course.

He's a natural. We're thinking of getting a mini agility set for the casa.

Samantha, not so much. She's more of a pool pup.

Musical plates.

Samantha and I got knocked out in the first round. Her heart just wasn't in it. He nearly won. He placed 4th after an embarrassing mistake in the sixth round.

He hangs his head in shame. "Next year, by golly!"

Moma hangs her head in shame for operator failure of the camera. Thus, there are no shots of Rocky making the Musical Plates semi-finals.

Watching the costume contest.

Every beagle picnic has a theme. This year's was Beach Blanket Beagle. So costumes centered around the beach them. This innovative pup thought outside the crate for this one. The winner was a beagle shark. A beagle shark!

Watching the best trick contest.

We could take it next year. Oh yes. We will. We thought it was real tricks. Not just sit and beg, which any hound can do when Snaugages are involved. Watch out dawgs, in 2006, Rocky and Samantha are taking you down!

Tolerating a child.

Rocky should get extra treats for this one. He hates children. They scare him. I think he was abused in his former home. But for some reason, this little girl didn't bother him. He actually, kind of, liked her.

A long walk home.

Ga. Miles and miles to go. After taking their souvenirs, the dawgs wanted to get back to their regularly scheduled naps. They slept the whole 20 minutes home, barely lifting their heads when we pulled into the garage. A very tired pair dragged themselves to their beds and partook in Olympic-style napping. What a great day for dogs.

More pics of pooches:

On a lighter note...

BEAGLE FEST 2005 is in only THREE MORE WAKE UPS!

(When I was a kid and couldn't wait for something to come, my mom would count the "wake ups" until it would get here. She'd also do that for when she or my dad would travel.)

I repeat, BEAGLE FEST 2005 is in 3 more wake ups! I can't wait. The beasts can't wait. Hubby can't wait. This is the ughe picnic where all the beagles bring their rescue families and volunteers. We get to take our dawgs. They can howl and no one will care. There will be agility courses. And costume contests. And yummy food for people. And 100+ beagles!

Three. More. Wake. Ups. Yay!

The Curse of Snow White

Rocky started barking today while I had a client/friend over. Nothing too unusual about that, he’ll bark at the rain if you let him. It was the way he was barking. Something was at the door and it was troubling him. As usual, I ignored him until he stopped barking and went to lie down. When I was escorting my client out the door I saw it: A little bird sitting on the front step. Gina almost stepped on the little fella. He was hurt, struggling for air and looking mighty sad. I sent Gina on her way and turned to the little guy. Blood was coming out of his beak. He’d been hit by a car or attacked by a cat and was suffering internal bleeding. There was little I could do for him. I sat there next to him and watched him struggle for air through the blood that was surely choking him. I muttered softly to him as he opened and closed his mouth. In less than a minute, I watched him lie down on his side and gasp a few more times. His little heart pounded in his chest, making his tiny little frame shake. Then finally, as his short little life slipped away, I watched the calm take over. His heart slowed. His eyes closed. He was at peace.

Animal Control informed me that it is that time of year, but it still didn’t make it any easier to watch. I’ve been blessed/cursed with a Snow White affinity with animals. All the lost dogs and cats of the neighborhood seem to make their way to my door. So why shouldn’t a sad little bird? Perhaps I terrified him in his last moments, some huge blob watching over, waiting for him to die? I’m sure a howling beagle didn’t help. But perhaps, maybe, as the final witness to his brief adventure here on earth, I provided a bit of comfort? A kind heart to watch over him, to protect him from harm one last time.

I like to think that.

Who will love a little Sparrow?
Who's traveled far and cries for rest?
"Not I," said the Oak Tree,
"I won't share my branches with
no sparrow's nest,
And my blanket of leaves won't warm
her cold breast."

Who will love a little Sparrow
And who will speak a kindly word?
"Not I," said the Swan,
"The entire idea is utterly absurd,
I'd be laughed at and scorned if the other Swans heard."

Who will take pity in his heart,
And who will feed a starving sparrow?
"Not I," said the Golden Wheat,
"I would if I could but I cannot I know,
I need all my grain to prosper and grow."

Who will love a little Sparrow?
Will no one write her eulogy?
"I will," said the Earth,
"For all I've created returns unto me,
From dust were ye made and dust ye shall be."

Remember to keep an eye out for the little birds. It’s that time of year.

Feng Shui'd and all that...

Now that my ranting is over - and isn't a good rant something everyone needs every so often? - I've moved on to a better place. Somehow getting it all out in the open has helped. My mind is wide open like windows on a spring day. Fresh air circulates, filtering the dust and grime out, bringing sunshine in its place.

Or something like that. Two things, no, three things happened since I hosted a one woman pity party... I feng shui'd my office, got some direction from a master and volunteered at a ritzy fundraising event. Not quite in that order.

First the master.
I attended a seminar/networking function on Wednesday night. It was all about this marketing program I adhere to, Get Clients Now. The speaker is a certified coach in the program. Since I was one of the first to sign up for the seminar, I got to "ask the master" a question and get a 10 minute mini coaching session. Wow. This was so needed. She helped me understand the program in a deeper way. She gave me permission to "break the rules" of the program and do it different. I had read the book, but never talked to a coach about it. She gave me some clarity and direction. She has a class that starts up in September, which I think I'll join.

Now the feng.
At this same seminar, the ladies that put it together also have a Feng Shui for your Office workshop next week. They talked and talked about how this helped them so much that they wanted to help others. Since I am impatient at times, I looked up feng shui for offices online. Another big wow. Turns out I've had my water fountain on the wrong wall all this time! And no green plants on the East wall! And, my day planner on the wrong corner of my desk! How I survived this long without spontaneously combusting, I'll never know. The worst part? I left my bathroom door open. How could I leave my bathroom door open?! This lets money down the drain! Whew. Thankfully I caught all my errors in time. My BF Megan and I fenged together on the phone. She fenged her cube at a large government agency, which we all know can use all the feng it can get. So I like to think I did a favor for all our lives that are touched by this big gubment agency.

Now there are some of you who may scoff! at the feng shuiing of my office. (And your name is hubby.) Scoff! away I say. Scoff! all the live long day. While you're scoffing!, I'm answering calls from clients for more work. Yes, within 15 minutes of shuiing the "Creative HQ," I got a call for another project. Not just any call. This client just went on and on and on about how great the last project I did for them was. She just gushed, yes, gushed! over the positive responses they got from their clients about it. It was just what I needed right when I needed it. So scoff! all you want, but my feng is shuid.

And finally the ritz.
I'm a sucka for volunteering. I think I was born to be a professional volunteer. Last night, me, my BF Megan and some other girlfriends volunteered at the Alzheimer's Association's Memories In The Making art auction. As volunteers, we were treated to what the posh paid $$$ to gain admittance. There was a Cosmo bar, a wine bar, a beer bar, and "some" food. Roast beast, salmon, breads o' the world, anti-pasta goodies, little desserts that went down soooo easy and on and on. The art was all created by Alzheimer's patients. B-eau-T-ful stuff. Heart-breaking to read their stories. It made me ache for my grandmother who passed away last year. They paired a few of the pieces with art donated by professional artistes, so you could get two for the price of several. I saw a John Fielder picture that I could have made a home for, but it went for hundreds (multiples) of dollars in the live auction. Someone bought a pair for $4800! There was another that went for several K. Big money was there and they were all so happy to give. Even when I worked the register, with lines 20 deep, they all kept their cool and a smile on their face. They were giddy with what they'd done.

So that's me. My feng is shuid and I'm learning to take things as they come. Now I just got a call from a girlfriend who got fired from her horrible job. (This is a good thing, she was miserable.) We are going to lunch. We'll probably have cocktails. That's what a woman who doesn't worry does with her Friday afternoon.

Update: 3:30 pm. Just got back from a THREE HOUR lunch with my unemployed friend. That's right. I highly recommend it. Doing nothing but chatting, laughing and drinking cocktails for three hours does the body good.

Unreasonable Expectations

I visited my acupuncturist/massage therapist/chiropractor/Eastern Medicine/miracle worker yesterday with an odd strain in my back. It only occurred when I went to put on or take off my pants. And only on my right side. I also had a tense neck and shoulder. On my right side. Since I'm used to being all jacked up for one reason or another, I didn't associate the two as symptoms of a larger problem. I had attributed both to 1) yardwork-o-rama, 2) golfing, 3) golf lessons, 4) drinking a wee bit too much with my BFF on her visit here, 5) dogs pulling on a leash as they struggled to attack an innocent discarded hotdog in the park.

What she told me may surprise you... it's from worrying and anxiety. What? That's crazy! Me? Anxious? Believe it or not, I worry. I worry about money. I worry about being successful. I worry about not being successful. I worry about money. I worry about leaving the dogs alone when I go to business meetings. I worry about talking to strangers. I worry about what clothes to wear. I worry about money. Then I worry some more about money.

I never used to worry about money when I had a cube job. Money just magically showed up in my bank account every week. As if the Paycheck Fairy had flittered down and bestowed a gift under my pillow. Oh, wait, that's the Tooth Fairy. Or is it? Instead of a tooth, in exchange for part of my soul, I received a paycheck. Now I have all of me to myself, and no steady paycheck. But it's replaced with plenty o' worry.

According to Dr. Barbara, we are on a first name basis, anxiety and stress show up in the spleen. Stress also shows up in the neck, but it's usually coming from an imbalance in the back, which is the "switchboard" of the body. Sometimes it's the kidneys as well, or something else. At that point I had 6 needles in me and hot stones on my back, so my listening functions were, shall we say, limited. My anxiety is showing up in the one weird spot where it happens to hurt when I try to put on pants. Hmm. Maybe I should switch to skirts?

Why all the anxiety? I've been journaling every night before bed and I've come to a realization. What? Yes, I've been cheating on you with a paper journal. Get over it. Not everything in my head is fit for public viewing. Really. My realization is that I've placed these unbelievably high expectations on myself and I'm falling short. Even hubby says it. That's the rub. He doesn't expect me to pull in six figures the first year. I do. My friends don't expect me to replace ALL my income from cubetopia. I do. My family doesn't expect me to be insanely busy with client work all the time. I do. But I still put these expectations on myself. In my head I've got this idea of what I should be doing, where I should be at, who I should be at this point. I fall terribly short of this. I feel like all the world is watching me and admitting that I haven't achieved a lifetime of success in less than six months is admitting failure. My overachieving tendencies are only causing me to feel like I'm a failure.

I need to learn to let go. To stop worrying. To stop measuring myself against such impossible expectations. My yard stick of success is unreasonable, yet I continue to look at it as if it's going to provide the magic solution. I see myself everyday, sitting at my computer, working, working, working. On what? For what? If I don't have client work to do, what the hell am I doing at a computer? This morning I got away from my ball and chain and read the DBJ in the kitchen. Standing up. Tomorrow I think I'll read the Denver Post outside on the deck. In the afternoon. Not first thing in the AM like I've been doing. I'm going to get up earlier and walk the hounds, then do something different with my time. Maybe unplug and go to the library. Or the park. Or somewhere other than this office and my house which seems to be closing in on me, limiting my mind and spirit.

I need to learn to take success one step at a time. To cheer on the little things that happen. Like when the devil dogs pay attention to me with a treat in the park instead of barking frantically at passing dogs. Yes! This is a very small victory, but it showed me that persistence and rewards pay off in the long run. It also showed me to buy that brand of treats by the ton and get some of their stock.

Well, don't put me in charge if you want it done half-assed

It's almost like some people don't realize that I am OCD. Perhaps I do a good job of hiding it with "normal" people? I dunno. My leads group made me VP. One of the responsibilities is to keep track of attendance and send out nastygrams to people who don't come. I repeat, I must keep track of attendance and stalk people who fail to show.

This is as close to my dream job as we can get.

Picture it: Being informed of my responsibilities, I swiftly set out to follow them. I made me up an attendance roster with all the dates through the end of the year, marking off the holidays and dates we are off for special events. Then I printed it out, cut it down to size, and put it in my day planner, under the tab marked for the leads group.

For the past month I've kept track of attendance. Some people don't come. I call them. Some are nice. Some are miffy. Some never call me back. Now it's time to send the letters. I get an evil sense of pleasure from this. Can you tell?

I'm so good at these obsessive activities. Sometimes I think I'd be better as the attendance lady at a school than a graphic designer. The one in the principals office with the blue hair in a bun. But with the OCD comes the short attention span. I get off topic so often. I think I'm OCD to compensate for my bi-polarism. When I don't have enough to do, I start to think about things. Thinking can sometimes be good, but too much time to think and I end up in a downward spiral of depression. Before you know it, I'm flat on my back in the kitchen, with three empty cake containers littered around me. Dazed. Crying. Wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into. Why? Why!

This is where my OCD kicks in. I glance around and notice how, oh ma ga, dirty the floor is! Ack! Must. Scrub. It. Now.

Pretty soon, my house is clean, and I ain't got them blues no more.

3 feet

When I start to get a little down on myself, thinking that I'm not doing enough, not making enough, not trying hard enough, I think about this story I heard somewhere. Everyone has heard it at one time or another. If you've read the motivational books or attended a seminar, you've heard it. It's the one about the minor who sold his mining rights because he stopped finding gold. The guy who bought the rights went in with some big heavy equipment and started drilling. (Put aside the obvious environmental impact issues here for one minute.) What the new owner found when he started drilling was just three feet below the point that the old minor stopped mining, was the biggest, baddest, buttload of gold the world has ever seen. (Don't get bogged down in the "specifics" of the story. I may not be using all the right "words.") The moral of the story is to keep going, because success may just be three feet in front of you and you wouldn't know it if you stopped working toward it.

I balance that in my head against all the Todos I have to do to keep going. Don't get me wrong. I L-O-V-E not working at BigCo. I adore working for myself. I enjoy meeting all these wonderful new people, and stretching my comfort zone further and further out. I cherish the freedom and opportunity I have and wouldn't trade it for anything at this point. I just want to be able to pay myself and my quarterly taxes. I make money. I make enough to get by. Thankfully we have a small mortgage. And no debt. And reasonable living expenses. And hubby has a decent paying job and benefits. All of this helps to make the highs and lows a little more bearable. When I'm staring at an A/R statement with thousands waiting to come in, it all makes it a little easier to stomach.

But I want more, people. I want and I want and I want. So I keep going. Keep building relationships. Keep working. Keep networking. Keep mining. I feel it. I know the gold is there. Just beyond my reach.

Let them eat cake...

or... a Tale of Three Cakes... or... my grandmother pushing food on me from heaven.

It was hubby's birthday on Sunday. We did what anyone would do, bought a cake. A nice cake. A small cake. One that we could eat ourselves. Then the neighbors brought us a chunk of their son's graduation cake. Then hubby came home from work with even more cake. Before we knew it, we had three cakes on our hands.

I can hear my grandmother's voice in my head now, in her funny little Czech accent, her broken English telling me to eat...

Eat! Eat! You too skinny!

That's clearly not my problem now, what with an arse and hips that collectively could have their own zip code. But yes, grandma, I'll eat the three cakes. Oh, make that two. Mmmm.