Tag: horse pucky

Another NHP

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

I think that the blog could use another light-hearted “no horse pucky” story, so here it is:

Earlier this week, I had my annual OB/GYN appointment. (this is the point where I lose most of my guy readers – I understand) When the nurse took my blood pressure, it turns out that it was slightly elevated. Now typically, I have really good blood pressure. Once, when I was giving blood, my blood pressure was so low that the nurse taking my blood quipped, “Are you dead?” Knowing this about myself, I implored my gynecologist’s nurse to take my blood pressure on my other arm. It still came up a tad high. Now, truthfully, the nurse wasn’t all that concerned, and neither was the doctor. I wish that I could say that this indifference was the same for me. I had just drunk a bucket’s worth of coffee right before the appointment, and I admittedly, was a little nervous about my appointment, in the first place (despite being 50 years old and having given birth to four children, they still have to beg to me “scooch down a little further, come on now, just a little further” to the edge of the table, every single time). Coffee intake and “white coat syndrome” are known to cause elevated blood pressure. I know this. I have experienced this before. But still . . . .

After the appointment, I headed to the grocery store. I had tried to put my “higher than usual blood pressure” out of my mind, but the truth is, I was sitting in the meat department, staring at my phone, and “telemedicine-ing” with Dr. Google. I once had an employer who was a neurotic, blood pressure fanatic. “I can’t let myself stroke out!” she would emphatically shriek on a weekly basis, putting her hands up to her neck and sticking her tongue out of the side of her mouth (this is completely true – no horse pucky). Truth be told, standing in the grocery store, I was starting to freak out, that I was in fact, “stroking out”, with the visual of my previous boss growing exponentially in my mind. This is when I decided to calm down and to sing along with the grocery store music, and to focus my mind on the seven or eight items that I needed for dinner. I didn’t even grab a shopping cart. I just winded around the grocery store, juggling bread, and fish, and a bag of salad and few other items. Then, I passed the pharmacy department. This is when I got an “aha” moment or perhaps divine intervention, when I laid eyes on their glorious blood pressure monitoring machine.

There was a woman sitting by the machine, and there were two empty seats on the opposite side of the blood pressure monitoring machine. “Oh wow, are we still allowed to use this?” I asked the woman who was sitting by the machine and who must have been waiting for a prescription. I was concerned that Covid may have rendered the machine untouchable, but I didn’t see any yellow tape or Mr. Yuk stickers on the machine.

“I think that you can use it,” the lady by the machine said. (not that she really had any kind of authority on this, but I was happy to take her word for it.)

I was thrilled. I dumped my pile of groceries on the empty chairs on the opposite side of the machine, and I sat myself decidedly and comfortably, in the plastic throne of the blood pressure monitor. It is then that I decided to close my eyes, and I took five long, deep breaths to center myself. I put my arm in the cuff, and I put my mind in Nirvana. When I opened my eyes, I was delighted to see that my blood pressure was 117/73. It was such a gratifying, comforting relief to see those numbers on the screen. I turned to the woman waiting for her prescription and I smiled and I bragged. She nodded kindly (we both had masks on, but I am pretty sure that she was smiling and happy for me). Then I turned to the chairs, in order to grab my groceries, but alas, they were gone. The chairs were empty. No groceries. Nada.

“My groceries are gone! Where are my groceries?!” I asked the lady waiting by the machine.

“Oh yeah, a worker did come by and pick those up,” the lady said, non-chalantly.

“What?!” I looked at her astonished and perplexed. I could feel my blood pressure rising exponentially, at that very moment. But then, I decided it just wasn’t worth my health and my sanity to pursue any further conversation with this woman. I went around the store and I grabbed some more groceries. I did end up tweaking what I decided to purchase, though. I substituted a bag of chocolate chips for the fish. If I am going to stroke-out anytime soon, I want to make sure that I really enjoy every last bit of my life. My prescription for myself: More chocolate, less panic. (but wait, chocolate has caffeine in it, too, right?!)

No Horse Pucky Archives

Happy 16th birthday, to my beautiful daughter! This isn’t quite the plans at Disney which we had made, but at least we (your parents and your brothers and your doggies) are your captive audience, and your dutiful servants for the day. xoxo Disney is just delayed.

I think that in a time of uncertainty, fear, and boredom, another one of my “no horse pucky” stories is called for, to lighten the mood. The other day (I can’t remember which day; they are all melting into each other. Quarantine days look remarkably the same around here.) I went into my garage and started poking through the storage boxes. Back in the year 2000, I had belonged to an online pregnancy chat group. I was pregnant with our third son, during that time. Our other two boys were ages four and two, and our daughter was not even yet, a glimmer in our eyes. It turns out that I printed out every single post that I had made on the chat group, and I kept the printed sheets, as sort of a pregnancy journal. The other night, when I rediscovered the “journal”, I delighted myself and my captive audience family, with various anecdotes that I talked about in the journal, including the time my 4-year-old son said that my new haircut made me look like “a monster” and he meant it sincerely, as a major compliment. Anyway, Tuesday, November 7th, 2000’s entry is absolutely “no horse pucky” worthy and reading the entry, brings me back to the sheer horror of that day, like it was just yesterday. Keep in mind, my third son was born in early December of 2000, so I was very, very, very pregnant that infamous day, with a 4 year-old son and a 2-year-old son (who had the nickname “Road Rage” at that time period; his temper was legendary) in tow. Here is the journal entry (Tuesday, November 7th, 2000):

“I just got back from voting and running a few errands. The boys and I enter Eckerd Drug Store, and we are no sooner in the door, when my four-year-old announces that he has to “go potty real bad,” (number two, mind you) and starts groaning and grunting loudly. I ask the clerk where the bathroom is, only to be told that they had no public bathrooms. I announce that it is an emergency and the clerk, noticing my obviously huge pregnant belly ushers us through the store, through the warehouse into this skanky bathroom where my son “blows it out.” (sorry to be gross, but it was GROSS)

After that episode, I decide to buy some sodas that are on sale and I pick up a 12 pack, only to have the bottom give out on me and all twelve cans roll all over the floor. Both sons think that this is great fun and once again, we are the spectacle of the day, at the store. The sweet clerk comes over a with a calm smile on his face and cleans it all up. I then go over to another aisle and I pick up two plastic, one gallon jugs filled with grape juice. As I am walking to the cashier, one of these bottles hit one of those giant steel poles that support the ceiling of the store. The whole plastic top is ripped off and the juice sprays all over us, and the floor. At this point, I was seriously considering running out of the store, but I notice that the puddle of juice is gaining momentum towards the “too-nice-of-a-guy” clerk, busy cleaning up our other mess. He once again, just smiles and says, “Not your day, huh?” and proceeds to clean up the new mess.

Well, you would think that this story would be over, but no. Now, the entirely frazzled me, goes to pay for the juice, and the gallon jug that is now broken, is still filled a quarter of the way, so I decide to set it on the counter. In my utter frustration, I set the jug down too hard and a geyser of grape juice lands all over the completely shocked cashier.

I won’t be frequenting that store any time in the near future or maybe even, ever again. I bet the store personnel started thinking that they were all victims of Candid Camera!”

No horse pucky, true story. I found this true account, in the printed pages of my online pregnancy journal, found in a Mattel’s Hot Wheels paper folder; the folder having a copyright date of 1997.

I think that it is great when you can still laugh at yourself, twenty years later. I can’t wait for the time when we can all look at this coronavirus situation in the rear view mirror, and perhaps even get a couple of chuckles out of what is otherwise, a horrific ordeal.

Stay well, my friends.

Fortune for the day – “Just remain in the center, watching, and then forget that you are there.” – Lao Tzu

No Fish Pucky – A Fish Story

I had a “first time in over twenty years” moment yesterday. I had to spill out a gallon of milk because it had gone bad. I think I am going to have to start buying the smaller cartons of milk. Life sure is different with just our baby girl at home.

Speaking of over 20 years, I have another “no horse pucky” story (see previous “no horse pucky” stories in my blog, if you end up liking this one) to lighten all of the somberness of the news lately. Over the summer, it turns out that I was only the second person to ever fall out of my fly-fishing tour guide’s upgraded canoe, in his over 26 years of being a guide. The water was cold – breathtakingly cold. Let me give you some background.

My husband loves to fly fish. He loves all things outdoors and the biggest highlight of our summer vacation in Montana (and in celebration of his 50th birthday) was to be his treating of the rest of his family, to fly fishing lessons. He set up three tour guides, each equipped with upgraded canoe-type boats that were going to drift down the river, and by the end of it all, we were going to be expert fly fisher-people, with all sorts of pictures of our catch and release beauties, to prove our proficiency. Now, at dinner parties, when I have told this story, people usually interrupt me to say, “Oh, I always thought that you did fly-fishing on the side of the river, in waders and cute hats, with those old-school wicker baskets for your fish.”

Well, where we went, they preferred the row boat method because the water is cold – breathtakingly cold, even in June. (plus, there are grizzly bears, but that is for another blog) Anyway, we got divided into twos. My husband and my second son (the most outdoorsy child of ours, the one who counts Bear Grylls as one of his idols, the one who has mused more than once, about chucking college and living “off the land”) were, appropriately, in one boat. My youngest two children, both good fishers and extremely competitive with each other, jumped into another boat and already started betting each other (and their zany, also hyper-competitive guide) who would catch the most fish. That left my eldest son and I, to the final boat. My eldest son and I are the ones in the family, who get bored with fishing, the quickest. (usually within the first fifteen minutes) We’re the ones in the family who rent the “out there” indie films that the rest of the family groans about, and we talk about the movie, after it is over, for longer than the movie lasted. I felt sorry for our guide. I was already calculating, in my mind, a large tip for him.

Our guide, it turns out, was a very serious, quiet, Thoreau-type guy who after being an English major in college, decided to spend the rest of his life in nature, teaching people alternately, to fly fish and to ski, depending on the season. We were the same age, 48 years old. My first question to him, as I entered the boat, was, “Do you have any good juicy stories about any mishaps with your clients?”

“No, I don’t,” he said with a little tone of puzzled disgust, in his quiet, slow, hard to hear cadence, with already, an annoyed look on his weather-lined face. “Most people who come out here are just so relaxed and happy to be in nature – one with it, so to speak,” he said as he waved his hands to the beautiful horizon with the towering mountains in the distance.

Our guide was very patient. My son and I got our lines tangled together more than the average clients, I suspect. Our guide was an expert detangler. (I kept thinking that I wish I had brought that old ball of costume jewelry. He would have had that thing detangled, in no time flat, with no broken necklaces, to boot!) One time, I got my line tangled on the anchor. I thought that I would discreetly pull the anchor up, and detangle it myself, so as not to add to the tally of his detangling efforts. Of course, that was an epic fail because the boat starting flying down the river, so fast, you would have thought that it had a motor.

Still, thanks to our guide’s peaceful centering, and patient instruction, my son and I started to get the hang of fly fishing and my son, even, started catching fish. I really enjoyed the constant action of fly-fishing, and my instructor kindly stated that while my casting form was getting to be very good, I must remember that the fish are in the water, not in the air. I decided that sitting on the bench seat was probably impairing my abilities and I asked my guide if I could stand.

“Yes,” he sighed. “You can stand, but you must remain in the middle of the boat in the guard area.” This area he pointed to, looked kind of like a pulpit, jetting out from the middle of the boat, so for now on, I’m just going to refer to it, as “the pulpit”.

I loved standing in the pulpit and casting and casting and casting and casting and casting my line. I, admittedly, would get excited from time to time, and move out of my pulpit and lean a little too much on the side of the boat and that is when our guide would say to me (a little more firmly each time), “Remember to stay in the guarded area, or you will fall out of the boat, and be sorry. The water is breathtakingly cold.” I think one time he may have even said (and rightfully so), “Stay in the center guard area, dammit.” I can’t be sure, though, as he was a very quiet, serious man.

Towards the end of our excursion, all three of our boats were in sight of each other, on the river. My daughter had beat her brother by catching one more fish than he had (9-8, or something like that) and I was enjoying watching her amazing form, while fishing. My eldest son, had caught at least 5 fish and had even offered to stop fishing, so that I could catch one, instead of him. My husband and our second son, had caught a couple of fish each. I hadn’t caught any fish. None. Nada. Our guide didn’t like that fact.

“I’m fine. I’m just enjoying watching my kids fish,” I said to him, with an earnest smile.

“That’s not good enough,” he said to me. He anchored us at his favorite fishing spot and told me to cast away. I casted and casted and even let the fly sit on the surface for more than a minute and then, for the first time, all day, I felt a bite.

“You’ve got one! You’ve got one! Bring it in!” my guide exclaimed, in the loudest voice that I had heard him speak all day. His voice startled me. It was the first time all day, that I didn’t have to lean in, to hear what he was saying. He was so excited. My son was so excited. I got excited and all instruction of what to do next, completely blanked on me. I started to jump up and down. I jumped out of the pulpit. I backed up against the edge of the boat. When, the guide reached over to grab me, I leaned back . . . . the next thing I knew, I was gasping, desperately for air. The water was cold – breathtakingly cold. Still, I had my rod in hand and the fish was still on it. Much to the relief of my guide, I started laughing. He smiled, handed the rod to my son, pulled me into the boat, handed the rod back to me. And I brought in my first and my last catch of the day. Freezing, soggy, but triumphant. I would post the picture of the fish that I caught, but my phone was in my pocket when I fell out of the boat.

“You’re welcome,” I said to my guide, as we were leaving and saying our good-byes, at the end of the excursion.

“For what?” he said, looking at me, quizzically and piercingly, at the same time.

“You’ve got your story.”

True story. No horse pucky.

Another “No Horsepucky” Tale- Holiday Edition

A few Christmases ago, I ordered a bench for our living room, that was handmade.  It has a really cool flokati shag cover that reminded me of my favorite rug to lie on when I was a little girl.  I had actually ordered it that October, but for some reason, it was taking a long time to be made and then to be delivered, and I finally got notice that it was to arrive on Christmas Eve, via UPS.  I actually found that delivery date to be exciting and special and was eagerly awaiting its arrival.

Christmas Eve rolled around and during our festivities, I kept wondering when my bench was going to arrive.  It got later and later, and the bench wasn’t being delivered, so I checked my email for the delivery status.  The email showed that it had been delivered!  Now, we were home all morning and it’s a pretty big, heavy bench so it would not have easily been stolen off of the porch.  I was distraught.  I called the company and UPS and they put “tracers” out to see what might have happened with our package and they told us that we would likely hear something within a week or two.  I was so disappointed!!    

Now, I’m not sure if it was intuition or just my demanding, impatient side that doesn’t do well with disappointment, but I remembered that sometimes our mail delivery person sometimes transposed our address numbers with another neighbor with a similar but different number-ordered address, (who we did not know) several houses down the street.  I had to put that neighbors’ mail in their box more than a couple of times, due to the dyslexic confusion.  My husband and son, eager to get away from my welling dismay, agreed to walk down the street and to see if perhaps, that is where the bench had accidentally been delivered.

My husband and son were gone for a good 45 minutes and I was starting to get concerned.  The holiday spirit was zapping down to nothing in our house.  They weren’t answering texts and calls and I was getting ready to walk down the street to see who or what was keeping them, when all of the sudden, they opened the front door, carrying in the lovely bench!  My hunch was correct!  But here is the best part of the story . . . 

The neighbor was a new neighbor of Eastern European descent.  She was older, had just recently moved here, and she did not know too many people.  She had been thrilled when my husband and son arrived at her door, because she believed that they had been sent “specially” to her.  You see, her family heritage has a strong tradition and belief, that on Christmas Eve you cannot leave your house, until you have first, entertained a visitor and given them a gift. She had a party to get to and was patiently waiting for a “visitor” who might appear. So, not only did my son and husband come back with the beautiful bench, but my lucky son also received a bag of candy and a crisp $20 dollar bill, after a nice little visit with our sweet neighbor and some coffee and cookies.  She said that she hadn’t even looked at the box that UPS had placed by her garage earlier that day because she just assumed it was things that she had ordered for Christmas.

I’ve written before that my friend has told me that coincidence is God being anonymous.  I think that it applies here to this very true, heartwarming story that I think about, with a smile, any time that I glance at my bench.  No horse pucky here!! (please check out my other previous “no horse pucky stories”- all crazy, but true) 

Horse Pucky

Do you have a few stories that have happened in your life that are so hard to believe that if someone else told you that it happened to them you would say that it was “horse pucky”?  I imagine that we all do.  Here is one of mine:

Many years ago, I had a little white, soft, fluffy pet chinchilla.  She had a pen in a little area off of our garage where she liked to sleep, eat and take her dust baths.  One day, as I got my youngest son and his baby sister into the car to take my son to preschool, I noticed that the door to my little chin’s pen was open. We were in a rush so, I decided that I would look for her when I got home from taking my son to school.

I drove the 6.4 miles to my son’s preschool. (I just googled the distance, so I am not exaggerating) I got my son and my daughter who was in her cumbersome baby carrier out of the car and I guided my son into his classroom.  Now I am not sure if this was one of the days my son chose to take a “Flat Stanley” approach to the idea of going to school where eventually I would have to drag him into the school, with him refusing to cooperate and remaining “stiff as a board.”  It may have been a day that he happily skipped into school; I really don’t remember.  But anyway, I got him safely situated into his classroom with his bag and his lunch and then I got my daughter back safely situated into the backseat of the car, all ready for the 6.4 mile drive back home.

A couple miles from our home, I decided to stop at the drive-through window of our bank.  As I pulled into the parking lot and waited my turn, I noticed a little white spot that seemed to have leaped out from my wheel well.  It was scurrying around the parking lot.  It took me a minute, but it soon dawned on me that that little white ball of fur was my pet chinchilla.  I ran into the parking lot, and miraculously, as scared as she must have been, she allowed me to pick her up and cuddle her.  Now her fur definitely looked more “dalmatian” at that point due to the black grease spots that were now adorning her, but she wasn’t hurt and she lived for many years after that incident.

True story.  No horse pucky.