Rehashing the Coffee-Maturity Connection

There are times when I rehash my theory on being me... Drinking coffee gives me a false sense of maturity... And every time I devote more brainpower to this conclusion, I come to realize how true it is.

At the moment, I am sitting at the Marketplace (presumably to sell soap) and I find myself spending too much time being judgmental. This condition is likely brought on by the uppity feeling I get drinking my over-priced coffee in a casual see-how-cool-I-am manner.

In the midst of all this narcissistic self-talk, I noted an older woman standing nearby wearing a baby Bjorn sling. I watched as she turned to the side and her happy little dog came into view. Yikes! Judgmental me thought, "Cracked up Lady!" But the other part of me thought... At least she is happy!

Think about it... What is the difference between growing older and being happy and growing older and being dejected, sad and unhealthy? Is it a small dog in a baby sling? Is it not caring that those of us hovering around age 40 in a fit of must-have-expensive-coffee think it is nuts to carry around a dog like a baby? Wait... Do I want another baby?!

oh! oh! oh! Someone just bought a black sparkle cowboy hat! (See previous post titled Where's the Tourist?)

NO! I don't want another baby but I think I would do a better job this time around. I'm definitely older and calmer and more mature. Then again, maybe that's just an assumption.

As for the woman with the dog in a baby sling... She is happy and apparently does not care what the rest of us think. While I don't want to be the type to carry my dog around or push it around in a stroller, I do want to be happy. I want to be happy and I want to have a dog.

Furthermore, I definitely want to feel free of the judgment of others. I don't want to care what others think. I want to be happy and content with who I am without feeling the need to change. I think, however, the first step to this personal nirvana must be that I have to not be judgmental. If I want to be truly happy, I must let others do the same... That will be a sign of true maturity.

Procrastination Formula

I told someone I would send them some soap and then said that owing to the usual procrastination, he would not get it for at least a week. Thinking about this today and how I have not yet put the package together, I started to consider what formula would adequately represent the Omalley procrastination factor.

Here's what I've come up with...

P = (1 + d) - x

• P = procrastination factor Omalley
  
• d = the number of days of procrastination
• x = often zero but is determined by the push factor of problem-related individuals

Maybe I could just refer to it like, "P factor of one" or "P factor of six" or something like that. P factor of one is quite reasonable and almost makes me look reliable. P factor of six is logically much worse.

Here's a couple scenarios:

1. Omalley receives an email stating that she needs to take something to the Cub Scout Pack meeting that evening. She puts it off, kind of remembers it, thinks she'll set it out, and then forgets it completely as she is yelling at son to put on socks with his shoes. Thus, if d=1/2 for the half-a-day she procrastinated, and x = 1 for the email her friend sent reminding her, the equation looks like this: P = (1 + 1/2) - 1 = 1/2. Not too offensive but still a negative result.
   
2. Omalley needs to make sales calls and drum up wholesale business for her soaps. She procrastinates months (d=a gazillion). Then she gets smart and asks a good friend to work on commission to be the cold-call person to set up sales appointments (x=18 for the number of days the friend has been enlisted to make calls). The equation looks like: P = (1 + a gazillion) - 18. For the sake of the math, we'll round d to 100 for the number of days Omalley put off making calls or finding someone else to do it. P = (1 + 100) -18 = 83. Yikes!

So, in the name of procrastinating on all the stuff I need to be doing right now, I've created a formula designed to make me feel worse about my procrastination. Not a good sign...

The Grass Menagerie

Looking back over the array of animals that have lived in our house, I'm pleased that we were willing enough to share the experience with the kids; and yet, I'm waiting for the last two members of the grass menagerie (two guinea pigs) to expire. It's a bit morbid but I'm tired of taking care of them.

Our first animal was a black schipperke puppy who came into our lives a few months after our youngest son. Akilah is a spectacularly loyal and protective dog who barks at the slightest noise. She makes me feel safe and annoyed all at the same time. She has been with us eleven years now and I love her dearly despite the fact that I wanted to get rid of her many times, including the time she bit the Fed Ex man. 

While we had a number of fish over the years, it was a while before another mammal wriggled its way into our house. There was the hamster who lived two years before becoming frail and unable to feed itself. Brownie was the first of a few small animals we took to the vet for a $7.00 euthanasia shot. I just can't stand to see animals suffer.

I decided at some point that hamsters were not the ideal pets as their main goal in life is 'escape'. Our next rodant-like pet was a guinea pig who was all about just 'being' without any real inclination to go anywhere. Brownie the Second lived only a few months before accidentally being hurt by our very young son (my fault for not providing adequate supervision). I feel bad for Brownie's demise and she was our second visit to the vet for the $7 please-end-this-animal's-as-well-as-my suffering. This was only one of a million times I was sure my 'mom of the year' prize would be instantly revoked.

At this point, the number of animal plots was growing in the back yard as every death was accompanied by an appropriately formal burial. A second guinea pig also lasted only a few months and passed quickly when a friend's son fell on him. This second rodent death was a serious blow to my sense of self-worth as a mother as I took full responsibility for the short life of another piggie.

Six and a half years ago two guinea pigs came home with us; smiling assurances were given that they were both girls. In hindsight, I should have known that the pet store clerk was just pretending to know how to tell the difference. In short order our two piggies turned into a male (we presumed) and an ever-expanding female. 

The male was shipped off to a friend's and on New Year's eve 2003, four of the cutest little guinea pigs were born under the watchful eye of our protective schipperke. The dog had grown very fond of the piggies and liked to sit on the back of the couch and look at them in their cage. We kept the females, Pumpkin and Midnight, while we found loving homes for the males, Marshmallow and some other aptly-named furball.

I assumed that the piggies would require a limited number of years of care. I was wrong. It's been six long years now and I'm still caring for the things. I feel bad for wishing that they weren't living such long hay-chomping years but I've come to terms with my guilt and already picked out their burial plots under the palm tree in the front yard. 

I haven't yet mentioned the rat that lived with us for a time (came home after a school project about feeding rats junk food) and our new second dog that someone dumped down the gravel road from my grandparent's in Illinois. However, despite all this whining about the animals and my irritation at still having to care for them, I am glad the kids had the opportunity to have them around. There is something very special about a child caring for an animal.

However, after these two fortuitous little piggies pass on from this rubbermaid-tub-on-the-lanai life, I'm done with anything weighing so little that requires on-going fiber supplementation. From now on, we're sticking with the dogs.