- Nanny training her protege
No problem, BIL (my computer genius brother-in-law Jeffrey) is only a quick phone call away (he works from home, conveniently for yours truly). BIL would get this resolved and restored in short order and I could start Blog #4. Six hours later BIL reluctantly comes to the conclusion that Blog #3 cannot be pulled from anywhere; it is totally, irrevocably, completely PHFFT into thin air and must be recreated. AAPIS CRAPPIS!! Nothing to do but pull on my Big Girl panties and deal with it. Apparently The Spousal Unit was to install an additional back up immediately upon returning from Atlanta just to avoid this very situation, but OOPS… he had once again checked into the Chardonnay Arms and forgot!!!! Someone will be making his own Texas Toast this evening, dear readers. Excuse me momentarily while I slip into the nearest phone booth, put on my BITCH cape, and emerge as SUPER PISSED WOMAN!! Ok, I feel better now.
We all know that badass Hurricane Earl turned out to be a docile lamb and a non-event, so we dodged that bullet yet again. We did bring home our eagerly awaited new arrival Baxter. If you want wonderful AKC Boxer puppies and would prefer to spend slightly less than your mortgage to acquire said pooch, we highly recommend Stillwater Kennels outside Rocky Mount NC. Fabulous! Pooter is thrilled with her little baby Booger and hasn’t been this happy since she destroyed the entire carpet and baseboards in the master bath of our new house when she was seven months old; how quickly one learns about crate training! The bible for Booger’s upbringing, his baby book, as it were, is Cesar Millan’s “How to Raise the Perfect Dog”. Booger walked on a leash from moment one and is about 90% housebroken; of course he IS a genius of epic proportions, will undoubtedly attend Harvard on a full scholarship, and looks exactly like Walter Matthau. Those adorable boxer wrinkles give him an air of a gravely worried old man. Look out Boxer bitches; we have a stud in the making! Pooter has decided that she surely must be the full-time nanny of Booger and seems genuinely thrilled with her new job. She does seem quite interested in his hiney, however; her nose is perpetually up there, almost likes she thinks it’s a vending machine and if she just wishes hard enough snack foods will come tumbling out!! Better make sure she has no access to coins!!
The phone booth thought earlier got me to ruminating on how very different life was when those archaic, sticky-floored, urine-soaked glass booths could be found on every street corner of Manhattan and how many missed connections resulted from someone not being around to receive a certain phone call at just the right moment, being unable to leave messages because there wasn’t even widespread use of answering machines, for God’s sake. How many dates weren’t made, how many marriages crumbled, goodbyes were left unsaid, all because we didn’t have the luxury of the instant, continuous communications we have today? Missed connections got me to remembering how dangerously close I came to almost missing the proverbial boat that led to my modeling career.
I procrastinated for days after the encounter with Eileen Ford, should I really go and see her? What would I wear? I was a hippy chick straight off the campus of UT Austin in the early 1970’s, not exactly an icon of high fashion. While I was agonizing and going back and forth and to and fro, should I or shouldn’t I, the Prancing Sheilas stepped in and decided that I was to be their project, a reclamation project, kind of like the Adopt a Highway program, except that I would be their stretch of road. By golly, if their little Texas filly wanted a modeling career, well, they were going to move heaven and earth to be sure I got it. I was quite amenable to this because the six of them had survived many years in NYC and surely must know considerably more than I about life, liberty, and the pursuit of a good haircut. One of the Prancing Sheilas, Alan/Mary was a “hair designer’ for an upscale salon on the Upper East Side and I was soon the proud possessor of a new shag haircut, ala Jane Fonda in the movie “Klute”. I found myself on an uptown bus on Third Avenue in very short order, wearing a mini dress, platform shoes, and clutching an envelope containing photos of the modeling I’d done part time back in Austin. Very exotic shots of me waving long, gangly arms at various pieces of furniture, appliances, and Camaros, Vanna White style. At that moment I was blissfully clueless about how openly disdainful the powers to be at the Ford Agency would be of these small town efforts at local advertising, and that Alan/Mary had just cut off the one reason Eileen Ford had probably stopped me on the street in the first place, my long, shimmering, tumbling mass of auburn hair which had fallen halfway down my back. Ignorance CAN be bliss, dear readers, but only temporarily.