Field Trip

This morning was a bad morning; there's just no other way to put it. I had a dream last night wherein I was speaking to my mom (who died several years ago) about death. Needless to say, I woke up feeling scared, sad, lonely and old. I sat in the sun that streams in the sliding back door doing my Bible study, but I still felt the same. The walls were closing in on me, and I had to get out in the sun and mingle with the general public. It's been so long since I've done this, I didn't know where to go. I could go on a nice drive, I could go buy a magazine and sit at Starbucks and read it while sipping a mocha, I could take the magazine to a local college that has a really nice outdoor area under some magnificent ancient oak trees . . . my options were endless. I bought my magazine (Real Simple), and I went to Starbucks. My friend was sitting in front of Starbucks watching her son play in the fountain. She asked me what I was doing, and I told her I was on a field trip and had decided to enjoy a few hours basking in the sun with a good magazine and a good mocha. Maybe I was drowning my sorrows, maybe I was just seeking an escape, but, hey, it worked. I am home now, with a load of laundry in the washer, feeling totally rested and energized. And to top it off, the magazine had a great quote from one of my favorite comediennes, Rita Rudner: "It take six months to get into shape, and two weeks to get out of shape. Once you know this, you can stop being angry about other things in life and only be angry about this."


The 16 Inch Dog

Feeling once again sprightly, I went for a walk around the neighborhood. (I also did some jogging and somehow in my mathematical computation, one twelfth of a mile is the same as one fourth of a mile. What can I say? Math was never my strong point.) I kept seeing the same sign taped to lightposts: "FOUND DOG. 16 INCHES TALL." I would love to meet the person who, upon bringing home a lost dog, thinks that the best way to describe the dog is by its height. I would also like to meet the dog owner-any dog owner-who knows how tall his dog is. It has honestly never occurred to me to measure Rufus' height. Should I get one of those growth charts like they have for kids? Should I measure his height on a door jamb? Am I a neglectful dog owner? That sign, which has been up for weeks, always makes me chuckle.