Pins Envy

Nancy kindly let me read her copy of Madeleine Albright's book Read My Pins. Albright was Secretary of State during the Clinton years and is now a professor at Georgetown University, and for much of her career she has adorned her business clothing with pins. Me, too, Madeleine! Me, too!

Albright used her pins to send a message to those she was interacting with, usually positive but sometimes with a twist. For instance, Saddam Hussein called her a serpent and so when she went to Iraq to deal with him she wore a snake pin, although she abhors snakes. (Me, too, Madeline!) She also has a huge collection of patriotic pins (flags and such) as well as flowers, animals, buildings, and anything else you can think of. Me, too!

I've collected and worn pins for many years, during many years when they were popular and fashionable and many when they weren't. (More of those latter, probably.) I have, I think, around 140-150 pins, most of which live in two over-the-door cases.  Others hang out elsewhere. Each case has 40 pockets on each side, so there are a total of 160 pockets. Some of those pockets hold earrings, but most have a pin and sometimes two.

Many of these pins have a story behind them. Many were bought with my friend Nydia. We started buying them at craft shows and continued buying them together and separately for years. I'll have to ask her whether she's still got hers--mine are mostly all still here. Others were gifts--my sister Deirdre has given me some really interesting pins. One's an old native American turquoise pin that's as big as a dinner plate.

Then there are the ones I can't find--like the ceramic fish I bought in Massachusetts when Mr. Pug and I went there with his daughters. And there are the ones that got broken somewhere along the way--I have a Robert Shields wooden fish with one of the feet broken off. Yes, I said "feet." Shields put feet on his fish. But I did find the replacement fish I bought when he still had a storefront in Sedona. Alas, he's gone from there now but I still have the fish (with and without feet).

I did find an old blazer in the closet the other day with a pin still attached to the lapel. That makes me think there are probably a few more that didn't get detached before the jacket went to the Women's Shelter or Goodwill or Dress for Success. Rats!

Anyway, what got me started thinking about all this is that one of Albright's pins also lives in my collection--the gold and marcasite Ginko flower on page 7. Mine is lying to the left on the book.

I was really excited about telling Nancy that until she told me she has two of the pins in the book. (Her, too, Madeline!) Then I saw another pin farther back in the book that looked familliar--surely I have that one too! It's the one with the line of attached stars--don't I have that? Nope--mine is similar but it's hearts, diminishing in size and falling away down my shoulder. See the star pin in the top center? That's my heart pin superimposed to its right. Similar but ...  NOT!

All this has inspired me to start wearing my pins again, and documenting that. I'm going to blog my pins at a new blog site http://www.pinsenvy.blogspot.com/. Come see what the Pin of the Day is today!

Cat Whisperer Update

It's been awhile since there was an update. Not for lack of interest, just lack of  ... well, I don't even know what. I have no excuses. So here's a minor update at least.

There are so many things of importance that I could write about today, including the surprising depth of my emotional response to USA's elimination from the World Cup (who knew a professional soccer game could feel so personal?), the fact that Mr. Pug and I have finally formalized our 24+ year history, the fact that my first granddaughter Haley has graduated from high school and is on her way to the next stage of her young life ....  you get the message. There's a lot to talk about.

But what do people really want to know? What's the burning question that my friends ask me? It's "well, Woofgang, you really left us hanging. What's up with the kittens?"

And the answer is, they're all fine. The three tiny ones that I honestly wasn't sure would live through the night? One of our employees took them home with a kitten baby bottle and formula, and she and her parents have been having a wonderful time fostering them until they're old enough to go to permanent homes.

And Monroe? The little dark gray/blackish guy that we took over from the two teenagers? Well, he's as happy as can be. He's the newest addition to my boss's two-black-cat household and, while he hasn't won over the two original homesteaders Noir and Lucy, he's got the boss and her husband firmly in his pocket, metaphorically speaking.

Let's put it this way--he just returned from a lovely weeklong vacation in the western North Carolina mountains AND he's got a hat to play with. Right now, I'd like to have his life.

The Cat Whispers

Uh, do I look like the Cat Whisperer to you?

Right. I didn’t think so.

So how did I end up rescuing three … no, wait, make that four … kittens today?

When I am not, and let me re-emphasize this, NOT a cat person?

I was wandering around the campus at work today, minding what passes for my own business, enjoying the lovely weather and the nice flowers and the beautiful green lawns being manicured by the landscaping company when one of the aforesaid landscapers approached me.

Cute Hispanic Guy: “Meees! Hey, Meees!”

Me:  “Uh, me?”

CHG: (Doffing hat in a respectful way—God, I really have to get some better wrinkle cream! I must look ancient!)   “Jes, Mees.  Can you come?

(Hmmmm…maybe the wrinkle cream IS working. Maybe I’ve set this handsome young Latino man wild with desire.)

CHG: “Cuts, Meees.”  (pointing)

Me: “Cut? Someone’s cut? Who’s cut?” 

GHG: (Holding up three fingers) “Cuts, Meees.” (More pointing, toward one of our cottages.)

Me:  “Uh, okay. Cut? How badly?”

CHG (as if speaking to the village idiot, and not the young pretty one, the old crone one): “Cuts, Meees. Three cuts.”

Me: “Oh, hell. Cats? Damn! Morte?”

CHG: “Morte? What?” (Apparently my Spanish is no better than his English.)

We reach the bushes outside one of the cottages and he’s digging in among the foliage, finally pointing out three tiny, bedraggled, scraggly kittens, wedged in under some roots.  Oh, crap.

This is a cottage peopled by adolescent boys who tend, on a good day, to jump around playing with make-believe swords slaying each other and make-believe dragons. On a bad day, all bets are off.  Not a good place for three itty-bitty starving kittens. 

But, in fact, what is the right place for three itty-bitty etc., etc ., etc.? I remember from a series of emails that there were originally five kittens and that at least one small kitten body has already been found on the grounds. No mama anywhere to be found.

Now there are three. And they’re not looking that good. And I am SO not a cat person.

Luckily at that point one of the staff joined me and began to coo and giggle and talk baby talk … or kitten talk. I went to fetch a box and she yanked out a root that had one of the kittens effectively stapled into the ground by the neck.

The next thing I knew, I was back in my office with a box of cats. Tiny, mewling, weak little cats. Three of them. Luckily the staff member agreed that she’d take them home with her some ten hours later, and to a vet in the morning. If any could be saved, she’d adopt at least one and maybe two of them.

Could I let it go there? No. I’d already tried giving them milk off my fingers but they couldn’t figure out the whole “lick the finger” thing. Two of my coworkers and I went to a nearby vet to ask for help.

We stood there with our pitiful cardboard box and were told “take them to the pound; that’s the right thing to do.”

We finally prevailed and purchased a tiny nursing bottle and a can of formula.

I felt a tug on my sleeve. I saw two young teenage boys, skateboard in one hand and a kitten in the other. Another kitten. Oh, crap!

They’d been sent by their mother to drop off the kitten which they’d found a day earlier. He was dressed in a tiny sweater and nestled in a woolen cap.  Oh, crap.

The vet’s staff sent them away. They don’t take kittens. They told them to take them to the pound. The boys left.

Then they returned. With the kitten. What were they supposed to do with the kitten?

Oh, crap. They were trying to do the right thing, and no one would help them do it. And I have a thing for kids who really want to do the right thing. They’re not all that common.

So that’s how I ended back at work with four kittens, not the three I left with.

I have no idea where Monroe, as we named the older black kitten, will end up. Maybe with my boss but maybe not because she has two older cats who will not take kindly to an interloper. But probably someone here at work will take them.  They have to, now that he has a name. (Yes the spots of our volunteer's dress are milk from feeding Monroe with a baby bottle!)

Oh, crap. I AM not the Cat Whisperer.

An Old Friend and a New One

I'll be the first to admit it--I'm not right when it comes to dogs. So, when I heard someone calling my name from the hallway outside my office today to come see a dog, I ran ... er, walked sedately ... to see what was going on.

Standing in the hall was an old friend, a woman I'd worked with at The Big Corporation. She and I had served for several years developing and managing the company's disaster recovery/business continuity plan*.  The person who had called me had no idea Melissa and I knew each other--she was amazed when we broke into a big hug. That was worth the price of admission right there.

*Yes, that's the plan that was ditched as soon as the new Powers-That-Be realized they really didn't give a rat's patootie if the company recovered or continued or anything else. So they let my friend go and, shortly thereafter, me too.

Anyway, it's always nice to see an old friend, especially in a context you weren't expecting. Those are her feet at the top of the picture (the ones in the sandals). But look who she's holding on to. Could Gina be any more beautiful? (I deliberately took a picture that wouldn't flash in her face or you'd really get a faceful of beauty to look at.)

Gina is a 7-year-old rescue black lab who works as a Reading Education Assistance Dog. Turns out Melissa is the president of the Georgia chapter of READingPaws. READingPaws brings assistance animals into therapeutic situations to help kids with their reading skills. The Reading Assistance volunteer and the animal are matched with a child and come on a regular basis to work with that specific kid. The kids form a bond with the dogs (and there's even a Reading Assistance parrot!) and their reading skills improve in the process.

It won't be Gina who will come to my workplace but I was thrilled to meet her anyway. Who wouldn't want to learn to read if you could have a friend like Gina to help you out?

Pistol-Packin' Mama

So on Sunday, Mr. Pug and I went to the local Koi emporium.



For the uninformed in the Fish World, Koi are not the type of fish that supply those much-needed Omega-3s. Nope, they’re more like “black gold, Texas Tea.” Some of these bad boys and girls are as big as a cat and cost a car payment. At a certain point, they’re more valuable than your grandmother’s silver tea service.


Here in the Pug household, our requirements are more modest. We have a pond the size of a sink on steroids and three smallish fish who are the survivors of our three seasons of fish-perimentation. That’s not a problem. And, at this point, we can’t afford any more actual fish  because all of our money goes to upgrading their environment.


We’ve put more money into this pond than BP’s put into the Louisiana wetlands—with about the same results.


Anyway, we went to the fish store, where I wandered among tanks of huge, hungry fish who bobbed to the surface whenever a humanoid figure approached, apparently thinking we would all carry Koi pellets with us. Each time I’d return to the “show room,” which apparently had been the tiny living room of a 50’s brick ranch-style house before it became Koi Central, Mr. Pug and the owner would be deep in conversation about pumps and money and power sources and money and filters and money. I would roll my eyes and inquire about some vital facet of fish-raising (“ooooh, look honey, they have puppies here in the back room!”) and the owner would drag the conversation back to money.


Finally, on my third pass through the Money Pit, I interrupted a deep discussion about valves and hoses and clamps and input and output (Mr. Pug: "so if I want to backwash the filter, I just turn this knob?” Owner: “He-ah-al no, man! That’s the input, not the output! Do you want to spray fish excrement all over yourself?”).


Okay, let’s interrupt here. Why would a 50-year-old man think the best way to advertise his no-doubt considerable experience and expertise in fish-raising and money-taking is to wear his old college sweatshirt? To me, a college sweatshirt on a middle-aged man just says “Hey, look at me! My best years are 30 years behind me!”


And don’t get me started on the guys with GED in their resume wearing the local college mascot. That’s just false advertising in my opinion.


Okay, back to fish guy. At this point I said, “so, cutting to the chase, how much is this new system going to cost?”


You would have thought I’d spit in his scuppernong wine. Both of them, for that matter: Mr. Pug wasn’t any happier with my question than Mr. Bulldawg. They exchanged “The Look,” and I saw where this was going.


“I’ll be in the car,” I said. And left to my knitting (Ulmus, in Malabrigo SockYarn, Indecita and Abril, if it matters, ).


When Mr. Pug returned to the driver’s seat, after filling the back of the car with 20+ feet of hose and several large boxes, and after spending approximately the equivalent of two months utility costs (think height of the summer with the AC going full blast 24/7), he was proud. He had acquired Tools. He was a Happy Camper.


I’d already decided I wouldn’t mention the cost—after all, it’s no worse than a smallish bag of yarn would cost.


“You know what he said about you?” Mr. Pug grinned.


“Nope.”


“He asked how long we’d been married.”


“What’d you tell him?”


Now, mind you, if I’d had to answer that question, I’d have pulled out my pocket calendar and calculated “uh, about negative three weeks,” but he took the Guy Way Out.


“I told him we’d been together more than 24 years. Then he said you were 'some kinda pistol, ain't she?.' What a hoot!"


“Uh huh.”


Now you and I know that’s code for “can’t you control your woman?” A woman might have said, here in the South, “bless her heart,” and it would have meant the same thing. Basically, “sorry, man, that you have to deal with that.”


Not, Mr. Pug. He thought it was a compliment.


Bless his heart.

Technology Musings

On the way to work this morning I listened to the new John Sandford novel on CD. Last week it was Pat Conroy's South of Broad (highly recommended!!!!). So, for 43 miles and an hour and a half, my car tells me a story. Then at night, I repeat the process.

Last night I woke in the middle of the night and did some reading on yet a different novel, this time the new Jonathan Kellerman/Alex Delaware. This time I read on my Kindle. When I fell asleep, the Kindle turned itself off.

Frankly, it's been forever since I read a novel ... printed on paper. If I have time to read, which I mostly don't, I don't want to schlep around a big ole hardcover and even the paperbacks today weigh a pound or more. And if I'm awake, I'm probably knitting, so I need my hands free.

So the Kindle. (Thanks, Jake!)  Anyway, the Kindle is about the size of a paperback book but half the weight. Amazing, amazing! But it's a different life and requires some life-skills adjustment.

For one thing, your library exists in the ether. In this case, all my New Yorkers (or at least the ones I haven't read yet) are stacked up on my menu instead of next to the bed. So are the next four novels I'm determined to read. (Whoops! I just bought the new Karin Slaughter, so make that five!)

To get a new one, I go to the Kindle store (on the Kindle main menu) and hit the "buy" button. Then, once it's in the menu, a matter of seconds, I can move between all my reading material with the movement of one finger. And the darned thing even "dog-ears" my place in each book -- it knows what I've already read and haven't. Like I wish my IPOD worked but it usually doesn't.

And now when I want to turn a page -- and by the way, the "print" on the page can be adjusted by size depending on how my eyes feel on a given day -- I hit "next page" or "back."
So, will future generations only get their reading done electronically? Who knows? Will they miss the smell of a new book?

And those same generations -- will they know what the words "hang up" mean? After all, we don't hang up the phone any more -- many of us haven't had a telephone for years-- we end the call.

Now that vehicle ignitions are push-button, will our kids ever know the pleasure of putting their brand-new ignition key into their first new car and turning it -- the power of feeling that engine turn over under the power of your fingers? Or will turning that key become the equivalent of turning the crank on your Model A?

And what about phone exchanges? Do you remember when you could look at the first three numbers of a phone number -- no, not the area code, that's New School -- the three numbers after the parentheses and before the hyphen. Remember when those numbers told you something, like what part of town the caller lived in? No more.

So, here  we are -- the whole world is technological. Except for my knitting.

I just continue to wind yarn around my two sticks. Over and over, knit and purl. Around and around. Occasionally I knit two together, or slip a stitch. The most high-tech thing I do is use one long needle to Magic Loop.

If my grandmother could come back for a day she'd have no idea where to find a book or how to start a car, but darn it all, she could pick up my knitting and go to town. Knitting is one thing that's changing every day and at the same time hasn't changed at all since my grandmother learned to knit 100+ years ago or since men and women learned to knit fabric for warmth 2,000 years ago.

And as long as I can keep knitting, I don't really care how to turn on my car. It can just stay in the driveway.

Oh, the picture? That's Kerrigan and Emma, hanging out at the lake last week. Do you think they care about technology? Not hardly.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways!

There's a reason I'm the Poster Child For Failed Relationships. Well, two reasons.

First, I'm crappy at relationships. Love relationships, that is. The other kind (friends, children, siblings, business), I'm pretty okay at.

But love? Nah! I'm prone to the "got along without you before I met you, gonna get along without you now" school of relating. My philosophy of marriage was probably formed by the favorite cartoon characters of my childhood (ca. 1958). About that time Albert the Alligator (in Pogo) quoted Rudyard Kipling :  "a woman is only a woman but a good cigar is a smoke."

(Years later I translated this for my friend Ruth and me into "husbands come and husbands go but you can never have too many dogs." It fit both of us way too well.)

Anyway, the second reason relationships never work is that I always choose the wrong man. Wait, that would be The Wrong Man. Capitalized, bolded, italicized, underlined and in a large font.

The Wrong Man

So, what does this have to do with 2010 and Mr. Pug? Glad you asked.

On Mother's Day, Mr. Pug gave me a really lovely card, the kind that's kind of soupy and soapy, covered with little violets and other delicate and beautiful flowers, and all the words in script. You know, the kind that you scan, skim, and put aside. Nice thoughts, kindly usually, but  frankly, Come On, Big Boy, Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is.

(Yes, there was a really nice place where he actually wrote some flowery and personal thoughts about having been together for a quarter of a century --- a quarter of a century? Is he kidding? No, really it's .... okay, 25 years together. I'll give him that one.)

But how do you know Your Man is really The Right Man?

Because he gets your septic tank pumped, without even being asked. Just because he thinks it will make you happy.

Okay! I'm convinced. He's the guy.