If I had the choice to have a discussion about the health care reform controversy or the marital state of Sandra Bullock and Jesse James, well, it's a no-brainer, folks. Seeing as I have the depth of a flattened teaspoon (and damn proud of it!), if there's some celebrity scandals floating around out there, I'm all over them like white dog hair on a black sweater and right now, I'm wearing a black "Mossimo" t-shirt, because I only wear the most expensive designer duds, that is covered with white Gracie Lou hair so I believe that makes me qualified to pontificate on this topic. Because I'm deep like that.
In the wake of the Tiger Woods/Jesse James and their nasty habit of banging some seriously skeevy whores, despite several of these Skanky McSkanksters declaring that they thought they had a "real" relationship and that it was luuuuuuv, they all seemed to have the foresight to save and print their text messaging conversations. Not that they were planning on using these messages for monetary gain or anything several of them said with a straight face. I'm sure they were just saving these messages to paste into a scrapbook or something. Oh, who am I kidding. These bimbos probably had a cash register sound effect set as their ring tones. Every time they got a text from Tiger or Jesse, a "Cha-CHING!" sound was heard.
Not only do I not know HOW to save my text messages, it has never occurred to me to save them although I kinda wish I had saved some of the conversations between me and my friend Shellie because they are so frickin' hilarious but if people were to actually read them they would think we were talking about something completely different than what we were really talking about but WE know what we're talking about and now that I think about it, if someone were to have a record of our conversations they would think we were up to some kind of illegal shenanigans which we aren't.
Raise your hand if you think Lindsay Lohan will be trotting back to rehab, again, in the next few months? Yeah, me neither and she's a mess and a half.
And speaking of rehab, it seems Jesse James has entered a rehab facility in Arizona in the hopes of saving his marriage. What I want to know is if it's rehab for drug addiction, alcohol addiction, sex addiction or a combination of all three. And can they cure him of his addiction to bumping uglies with fugly gold-digging whores who bear a striking resemblance to Marilyn Manson. Because really dude? Really? That's what makes you sport wood?
And now the latest Jesse James shenanigans and can I just say how much I love the word "shenanigans" is his caught-on-camera assault of a member of the "entertainment media" which is a fancy word for "paparazzi" and normally I have no sympathy for the paparazzi even though without them I wouldn't get my celebrity dirt but in this case, I think the guy has a good case against Jesse James and his knife-wielding sidekick. One of the newscasters on my favorite KTLA Channel 5 Morning News made the comment about celebrities in that "we build them up and then knock them down" or something like that but hey, nobody forced Tiger and Jesse to impale skanky whores on their penises (peni?). They have only themselves to blame for their abysmal taste in extracurricular sex partners.
And as long as they keep doing it, I'll keep reading about it. Because I'm deep like that.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Concrete and Harmonicas
Ok, since we've had Gracie Lou/Rachel/Little Gypsy Dog/New Lu/Add Your Own Name for Her, she has been an absolute joy. Except for two things.
The first issue is that she absolutely REFUSES to go to the bathroom on the grass in our backyard. I do not know why. It's not as if it were filled with booby traps or anything.
There's plenty of room and plenty of leftover smells from her predecessor, My Lucy, to let her know that it's OK to do her business on the grass. But nope, she avoids that grass like the plague. I've even picked her up and carried her to the grass and gently put her down and you'd have thought it was burning, molten lava the way she hightailed it back to the patio. Where she promptly piddled. Of course.
For some reason, probably because she was a shelter dog, she insists on doing her bathroom business on the patio
which drives TheManTheMyth INSANE. TheManTheMyth takes his concrete VERY serious, seeing as he IS a concrete specialist, and the fact that his little dog, who he just adores even if he can't admit it out loud. Yet, is peeing and pooping on his stamped and stained handiwork is giving him a facial tic. And if I don't wash it down immediately, the pee etches a stain into the stained concrete because this little dog has some seriously strong pee. I'm all "Dude, what's with your pee? Do you need to drink more water or something?" and Little Dog looks at me and hears, "Blah blah Wah Wah Blah Blah."
Anyway, I don't know much what we can do about her preference for staining the stained concrete. I know what you're saying, "Better she pee on the patio than in the house." Um. Yeah. With the exception of today, Gracie has gone to the bathroom in the house every. single. morning. this week. Twice in my office, right in front of the dog door, once on the kitchen floor and once in the doorway to the kitchen although that time she dropped a deuce instead of a puddle.
Gracie's other issue is other dogs. When we go for our walk in the morning, it's at the park where many other people have the same idea I do, which is to take their dog for a walk in the park. We've had to take so many detours because whenever Rachel saw another dog, she would go ballistic, barking, lunging on her leash, growling. It's been a pain in the butt. She also would refuse to "walk nice" and would stop to sniff something every 5 feet and then she'd race full speed until her 16 foot retractable leash ran out and then she'd practically do a neck-snapping backflip because the leash ran out. Between her mad sprints and my constant scanning of the horizon for people with enemy dogs, our walks in the park haven't been the most joyous and fun occasions.
Until I discovered the perfect training device.
I discovered this wonderful Training Device quite by accident. It was just laying around the house and Thing 1 picked it up and used it and New Lu's reaction was instant and I said to myself, "Self, I bet if I take that Training Device to the park and use it when she gets all freaked out about other dogs and/or doesn't behave, she'll immediately stop her bad behavior!" So yesterday, I took the Training Device with us to the park and right off the bat, we see another dog. Sure enough, Gracie started the barking and lunging and I used the Training Device and she immediately stopped and sat down. No, scratch that. She stopped and LAY down. I told her "Good Dog!" and we proceeded on our way. She didn't pull on her leash or sprint ahead or anything. In fact, she trotted along, looking at me for reassurance the rest of our 2 mile walk. When we got back to the car, she spotted another dog and instead of her usual shenanigans, she looked to me for guidance and we continued peacefully to the car.
Fast forward to this morning. For the first time this week, she did not have an accident in the house. Yay! But wait! It gets even better! We're at the park and I see a lady and her dog jogging toward us. As they get close, the lady looks at Gracie Lou and says, "Australian Shepherd?" and I look at her dog and say, "Belgian Shepherd?" and we both congratulate ourselves for winning "What's The Breed?" and Gracie DOES NOT BARK! In fact, she and the other dog sniffed each other and wagged tails and I was so darn proud of my little girl!
A few minutes later, here comes a couple with a yellow Lab. And Gracie sniffed and wagged tails and was all nice and calm. I kept telling her what a good girl she was and gave her a training treat. I think we've turned a page in her behavior issues and our walks will now be fun and productive instead of a struggle with a bunch of detours.
Ok, you want to know what this Fabulous Training Device is, don't you. This is not a joke, this really is it. I'm serious. Hand to God. Are you ready for it?
Yes, that's right. It's a harmonica. A harmonica is the Training Device. When she starts to react badly to another dog or she's doing something she shouldn't, like digging at gopher holes or trying to chase squirrels or jumping on the joggers, all I have to do is blow a note on the harmonica and she stops and drops. I don't even have to do it loud; just a soft note is all it takes. By the end of our walk, I don't even have to do that. I just click my ring against the metal and that does the trick.
A harmonica. Who knew?
Now, if I could just get her to potty on the grass.
The first issue is that she absolutely REFUSES to go to the bathroom on the grass in our backyard. I do not know why. It's not as if it were filled with booby traps or anything.
For some reason, probably because she was a shelter dog, she insists on doing her bathroom business on the patio
Anyway, I don't know much what we can do about her preference for staining the stained concrete. I know what you're saying, "Better she pee on the patio than in the house." Um. Yeah. With the exception of today, Gracie has gone to the bathroom in the house every. single. morning. this week. Twice in my office, right in front of the dog door, once on the kitchen floor and once in the doorway to the kitchen although that time she dropped a deuce instead of a puddle.
Gracie's other issue is other dogs. When we go for our walk in the morning, it's at the park where many other people have the same idea I do, which is to take their dog for a walk in the park. We've had to take so many detours because whenever Rachel saw another dog, she would go ballistic, barking, lunging on her leash, growling. It's been a pain in the butt. She also would refuse to "walk nice" and would stop to sniff something every 5 feet and then she'd race full speed until her 16 foot retractable leash ran out and then she'd practically do a neck-snapping backflip because the leash ran out. Between her mad sprints and my constant scanning of the horizon for people with enemy dogs, our walks in the park haven't been the most joyous and fun occasions.
Until I discovered the perfect training device.
I discovered this wonderful Training Device quite by accident. It was just laying around the house and Thing 1 picked it up and used it and New Lu's reaction was instant and I said to myself, "Self, I bet if I take that Training Device to the park and use it when she gets all freaked out about other dogs and/or doesn't behave, she'll immediately stop her bad behavior!" So yesterday, I took the Training Device with us to the park and right off the bat, we see another dog. Sure enough, Gracie started the barking and lunging and I used the Training Device and she immediately stopped and sat down. No, scratch that. She stopped and LAY down. I told her "Good Dog!" and we proceeded on our way. She didn't pull on her leash or sprint ahead or anything. In fact, she trotted along, looking at me for reassurance the rest of our 2 mile walk. When we got back to the car, she spotted another dog and instead of her usual shenanigans, she looked to me for guidance and we continued peacefully to the car.
Fast forward to this morning. For the first time this week, she did not have an accident in the house. Yay! But wait! It gets even better! We're at the park and I see a lady and her dog jogging toward us. As they get close, the lady looks at Gracie Lou and says, "Australian Shepherd?" and I look at her dog and say, "Belgian Shepherd?" and we both congratulate ourselves for winning "What's The Breed?" and Gracie DOES NOT BARK! In fact, she and the other dog sniffed each other and wagged tails and I was so darn proud of my little girl!
A few minutes later, here comes a couple with a yellow Lab. And Gracie sniffed and wagged tails and was all nice and calm. I kept telling her what a good girl she was and gave her a training treat. I think we've turned a page in her behavior issues and our walks will now be fun and productive instead of a struggle with a bunch of detours.
Ok, you want to know what this Fabulous Training Device is, don't you. This is not a joke, this really is it. I'm serious. Hand to God. Are you ready for it?
A harmonica. Who knew?
Now, if I could just get her to potty on the grass.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
What's your name, little girl, what's your name?
Ok, so almost 3 weeks ago we adopted our new dog
The shelter had given her the name "Rosie" because of her rosy nose and personality. She is a happy little dog who loves her new home and family. But one of the first things we did was come up with a new name for her because "Rosie" just didn't cut it. And since I'm all about naming my pets human names, names like Lady, Misty, Dusty weren't even considered. And no Mollys or Maggies either thankyouverymuch. Thing 1 suggested "Janis" after Janis Joplin, which was vetoed, Thing 2 suggested "Sadie" but that didn't fit either. Then Thing 1 suggested "Grace" after Grace Slick and can you tell that my 17 year old son likes 70's rock and I said howzabout "Gracie" and Gracie she became. Then she became Gracie Lou after Sandra Bullock's character "Gracie Lou Freebush" in "Miss Congeniality."
But just like those pedigreed AKC dogs that have fancy names like "Anthem's Showboat Roaring Eagle" but are called "Bubba" instead, nobody in the family really uses our pets given names and Gracie Lou is no exception. For some reason, TheManTheMyth has started calling her "Rachel" which is the name of my sister Jamie's dog. Thing 1 calls her "Little Gypsy Dog" or just plain "Little Dog" and danged if I don't find myself calling her that as well. And Thing 1's crony Wyatt calls her "New Lu."
Oddly enough, she seems to respond to all her names and sometimes none of her names. But if I need her to come to me, the most effective way is not calling her by any of her names and alias. Oh no, if I need her to come, all I have to do is jingle my car keys and she is at my side in the blink of an eye. Maybe I should have named her "Jingles" or "Car Keys." Of course if we had named her "Jingles" or "Car Keys" we still would have called her something completely different.
Here's a picture of Rachel:
New Lu:
Little Gypsy Dog:
I sure hope she doesn't end up with an identity crisis.
But just like those pedigreed AKC dogs that have fancy names like "Anthem's Showboat Roaring Eagle" but are called "Bubba" instead, nobody in the family really uses our pets given names and Gracie Lou is no exception. For some reason, TheManTheMyth has started calling her "Rachel" which is the name of my sister Jamie's dog. Thing 1 calls her "Little Gypsy Dog" or just plain "Little Dog" and danged if I don't find myself calling her that as well. And Thing 1's crony Wyatt calls her "New Lu."
Oddly enough, she seems to respond to all her names and sometimes none of her names. But if I need her to come to me, the most effective way is not calling her by any of her names and alias. Oh no, if I need her to come, all I have to do is jingle my car keys and she is at my side in the blink of an eye. Maybe I should have named her "Jingles" or "Car Keys." Of course if we had named her "Jingles" or "Car Keys" we still would have called her something completely different.
Here's a picture of Rachel:
Friday, March 19, 2010
Now THAT is a Gypsy Wagon!
Ok, somehow, someway, my family has started calling me "Gypsy." I think it started when Thing 1 saw "Borat" and thought it was the funniest thing
and somehow TheManTheMyth, as well as Thing 1's posse of cronies, followed his lead and now everyone calls me "Gypsy" and I'm asked if I have my tambourine. Ha. Ha.
So now the running/inside joke in our family, which includes Thing 1's cronies who I love like they're my own kids only I didn't have to give birth to them and toilet train them and I can kick them out if they piss me off, is if I mess something up, I'm told to take my tambourine and go back to my Gypsy Wagon
Well, take a gander at a different kind of Gypsy Wagons:
Can you believe all that chrome? Seriously, these Gypsy Caravans are incredible! But wait! The interiors are to DIE for!
These are not your regular RV's. Oh no. They're full of chrome and cut glass and etched mirrors and gilding and more chrome and they are so kitschy and tacky they're FABULOUS!
That's the type of Gypsy Wagon I'm talking about! I would be more than happy to be sent to my Gypsy Wagon if it were one of those. As long as I didn't have to polish all that chrome.
So now the running/inside joke in our family, which includes Thing 1's cronies who I love like they're my own kids only I didn't have to give birth to them and toilet train them and I can kick them out if they piss me off, is if I mess something up, I'm told to take my tambourine and go back to my Gypsy Wagon
That's the type of Gypsy Wagon I'm talking about! I would be more than happy to be sent to my Gypsy Wagon if it were one of those. As long as I didn't have to polish all that chrome.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Who? Her. Huh.
This morning, while driving my darling daughter, Kaylyn, aka "Thing 2" aka "Little Mama" aka "Her.") to school this morning, I happened to mention to her that I found out that I had blog readers who read my blog every day but don't "follow" me on Google so I want to give a Shout Out to Natalie, Gabby, Deja and everyone else at Nancy Corzine.
Anyway, I told Thing 2 this and she mentioned that she hadn't read my blog in several weeks because, and this is SO Her, I didn't talk about Her so she (Who? Her. Huh.) saw no reason to read her own mother's blog. What?!?!? I risked my life to give birth to Her (breech birth, placenta previa, blah blah blah) and she can't be bothered to read my blog because I haven't mentioned Her? Fine, I said. I'll mention you, I said. I'll be more than happy to tell everyone, including everyone at Nancy Corzine who all know and love Her (just ask Her, she'll tell you that), that She (Who? Her. Huh.) will NOT be participating in the Spring Season of Hockey because SOMEONE (Who? Her. Huh.) is getting a big fat PHAIL in one class, which has brought her GPA down below 3.0, which is the requirement for both of my offspring to participate in their chosen sport.
She (Who? Her. Huh.) has been playing hockey since her brother tied pillows to her legs, plopped a helmet on her head and stuck her in goal in the garage.
That was the start of her promising hockey career and she moved up through the ranks
and even made it to the Coast Cup Championships several times, although she's never had the privilege of actually hoisting the Cup as a Champion. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride:
This is the first time she will be sitting out a season but hey, SOMEONE has become a bit of slacker in her freshman year and now She must pay the piper.
Now the drawback to Her not playing hockey is keeping her occupied for the next three months. And by "occupied" I don't mean sitting in her cave of a room playing video games and watching all those skanky teen dramas on the CW. That's what caused her to slack off on homework and receive that big ol' "F" which does NOT stand for "Fantastic" on her mid-quarter progress report.
So all you faithful followers over at Nancy Corzine, I'm sure you'll be graced with Her presence when she goes on Spring Break. No sleeping in until noon for Her. And if anyone has suggestions on how else to keep her occupied and hopping while she is benched from hockey, let me know.
All suggestions will be considered.
Anyway, I told Thing 2 this and she mentioned that she hadn't read my blog in several weeks because, and this is SO Her, I didn't talk about Her so she (Who? Her. Huh.) saw no reason to read her own mother's blog. What?!?!? I risked my life to give birth to Her (breech birth, placenta previa, blah blah blah) and she can't be bothered to read my blog because I haven't mentioned Her? Fine, I said. I'll mention you, I said. I'll be more than happy to tell everyone, including everyone at Nancy Corzine who all know and love Her (just ask Her, she'll tell you that), that She (Who? Her. Huh.) will NOT be participating in the Spring Season of Hockey because SOMEONE (Who? Her. Huh.) is getting a big fat PHAIL in one class, which has brought her GPA down below 3.0, which is the requirement for both of my offspring to participate in their chosen sport.
She (Who? Her. Huh.) has been playing hockey since her brother tied pillows to her legs, plopped a helmet on her head and stuck her in goal in the garage.
Now the drawback to Her not playing hockey is keeping her occupied for the next three months. And by "occupied" I don't mean sitting in her cave of a room playing video games and watching all those skanky teen dramas on the CW. That's what caused her to slack off on homework and receive that big ol' "F" which does NOT stand for "Fantastic" on her mid-quarter progress report.
So all you faithful followers over at Nancy Corzine, I'm sure you'll be graced with Her presence when she goes on Spring Break. No sleeping in until noon for Her. And if anyone has suggestions on how else to keep her occupied and hopping while she is benched from hockey, let me know.
All suggestions will be considered.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Pinch me, I'm a Campfire Girl
St. Patrick's Day. A day where everyone pretends they're Irish and the wearin' o' the green is mandatory unless you want to get pinched, HARD.
Back in elementary school, my sisters and I were Campfire Girls. Being a Campfire Girl was fun. Once a month, (or was it once a week? I don't remember) you had your meeting and did crafts and sang songs and talked about how many Honor beads you earned and how to earn new Honor Beads and during the summer you went to Campfire Camp and oh! it was a lot of fun being a Campfire Girl.
Except for one day a year. Every year, on the birthday of the Campfire Girls, you were required to wear your "Service Costume," that's what the uniform was called, to school. And that day was March 17. That's right, St. Patrick's Day. A day you risked life and limb if you were not wearing green.
So on March 17, everyone in your school is wearing green in one form or another and everyone in your school is on the lookout for those who are NOT wearing green so that they could pinch them, HARD, because they were not wearing green and there I was, in my Red, White and Blue Campfire Girls Service Costume with nary a spot o' green anywhere on it.
So every year that I was an Elementary School Campfire Girl (I dropped out sometime around 5th grade) I dreaded having to go to school on March 17 because I would come home black and blue from being pinched, HARD, by all those green-wearing thugs at Hawaiian Elementary School.
One year I thought I'd be clever and pin a piece of green paper to the blouse of my Campfire Girl Service Costume but some little asshole thug said it didn't count and proceeded to pinch me, HARD. I like to think that that pinching thug is serving hard time at Pelican Bay while *I* am living a life of freedom as a blogger whose blog is read by less than two dozen people but he's probably a CEO of a some mega-corporation and is making millions while *I* am an self-employed (read: UN-employed) blogger whose blog is read by less than 2 dozen people and it's all because of friggin' Campfire Girls having their friggin' birthday on St. Patrick's Day.
I should have been a Girl Scout. THEY had green uniforms
and THEY wouldn't have been pinched, HARD, on St. Patrick's Day. Bitches.
Back in elementary school, my sisters and I were Campfire Girls. Being a Campfire Girl was fun. Once a month, (or was it once a week? I don't remember) you had your meeting and did crafts and sang songs and talked about how many Honor beads you earned and how to earn new Honor Beads and during the summer you went to Campfire Camp and oh! it was a lot of fun being a Campfire Girl.
So on March 17, everyone in your school is wearing green in one form or another and everyone in your school is on the lookout for those who are NOT wearing green so that they could pinch them, HARD, because they were not wearing green and there I was, in my Red, White and Blue Campfire Girls Service Costume with nary a spot o' green anywhere on it.
So every year that I was an Elementary School Campfire Girl (I dropped out sometime around 5th grade) I dreaded having to go to school on March 17 because I would come home black and blue from being pinched, HARD, by all those green-wearing thugs at Hawaiian Elementary School.
One year I thought I'd be clever and pin a piece of green paper to the blouse of my Campfire Girl Service Costume but some little asshole thug said it didn't count and proceeded to pinch me, HARD. I like to think that that pinching thug is serving hard time at Pelican Bay while *I* am living a life of freedom as a blogger whose blog is read by less than two dozen people but he's probably a CEO of a some mega-corporation and is making millions while *I* am an self-employed (read: UN-employed) blogger whose blog is read by less than 2 dozen people and it's all because of friggin' Campfire Girls having their friggin' birthday on St. Patrick's Day.
I should have been a Girl Scout. THEY had green uniforms
and THEY wouldn't have been pinched, HARD, on St. Patrick's Day. Bitches.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
4.4 at 4:04
Yep, we got hit with a 4.4 earthquake at, get this, 4:04am. 4.4 at 4:04, how weird is THAT? Ok, a 4.4 isn't all THAT big but it's an earthquake and it must be reported ad nauseum on the local morning news stations. I felt the bed shake but I just assumed it was Miss Gracie Lou scratching until TheManTheMyth spoke up and said, "We're having an earthquake" and then I was awake and could hear Thing 2's loft bed rattling away but she slept through it which is not unusual because she is a Professional Sleeper.
So even though it just felt like a mild rolling to us, there was that bit of fear that this would be The Big One and even though our house has survived every major earthquake, the Sylmar, the Whittier Narrows, the Landers, the Northridge quakes, etc. since the 1950's with nary a scratch, I'm still enough of a shicken to worry. A couple of months ago a good hard jolting quake hit during dinner and I scampered to the nearest doorway at lightning speed. I hate those jolting quakes, they feel like a train has hit the house.
When Thing 1 was one month old, I was up nursing him and the Landers quake hit at 4:31am. I was terrified because it was a good one and I just held him while we shook, rattled and rolled and he never even paused in his nursing. TheManTheMyth came running to make sure we were ok and then he had to go out of town. About 2 hours later, when I was nursing Thing 1 yet again (he was a frequent eater, around the clock. I slept in 2 hour increments for the first 6 months. It was brutal.) the SECOND Landers quake hit and this time, the the transformer on the power pole outside the house blew up and I thought a plane had crashed into the house and of course I'm all alone with a tiny baby because TheManTheMyth was on his way out of town for the weekend but our next door neighbor came running over to make sure I was ok. As soon as phones were working, TheManTheMyth managed to call and make sure we were ok. He had felt the quake on the road and knew it was a Big One.
Two years later, the Northridge quake hit in the wee small hours of the morning and I ran to snatch Thing 1 out of his crib. He was awake and standing up and said only, "Big Boom!"
When we were growing up, we had a Siamese cat, named "Siam" who seemed to sense earthquakes before they hit. He would start racing up and down the hallway in an agitated state and sure enough, we'd feel the shaking a short time later. When the Sylmar quake of '71 hit, he had been running up and down the hall and when the stuff on my dresser started to shake, I though he had jumped up there and was knocking stuff over until I heard my dad calling out, "Earthquake!" Of course, we thought it was all fun the way our beds were rolling around our room and we didn't have to go to school that day which made that day seem like a holiday.
Compared to the devastation of the Haiti and Chile quakes, our little 4.4 Pico Rivera quake ain't nuthin' but it gave me fodder for the blog and when one has a dry spell at coming up with topics, beggars can't be choosers.
So even though it just felt like a mild rolling to us, there was that bit of fear that this would be The Big One and even though our house has survived every major earthquake, the Sylmar, the Whittier Narrows, the Landers, the Northridge quakes, etc. since the 1950's with nary a scratch, I'm still enough of a shicken to worry. A couple of months ago a good hard jolting quake hit during dinner and I scampered to the nearest doorway at lightning speed. I hate those jolting quakes, they feel like a train has hit the house.
When Thing 1 was one month old, I was up nursing him and the Landers quake hit at 4:31am. I was terrified because it was a good one and I just held him while we shook, rattled and rolled and he never even paused in his nursing. TheManTheMyth came running to make sure we were ok and then he had to go out of town. About 2 hours later, when I was nursing Thing 1 yet again (he was a frequent eater, around the clock. I slept in 2 hour increments for the first 6 months. It was brutal.) the SECOND Landers quake hit and this time, the the transformer on the power pole outside the house blew up and I thought a plane had crashed into the house and of course I'm all alone with a tiny baby because TheManTheMyth was on his way out of town for the weekend but our next door neighbor came running over to make sure I was ok. As soon as phones were working, TheManTheMyth managed to call and make sure we were ok. He had felt the quake on the road and knew it was a Big One.
Two years later, the Northridge quake hit in the wee small hours of the morning and I ran to snatch Thing 1 out of his crib. He was awake and standing up and said only, "Big Boom!"
When we were growing up, we had a Siamese cat, named "Siam" who seemed to sense earthquakes before they hit. He would start racing up and down the hallway in an agitated state and sure enough, we'd feel the shaking a short time later. When the Sylmar quake of '71 hit, he had been running up and down the hall and when the stuff on my dresser started to shake, I though he had jumped up there and was knocking stuff over until I heard my dad calling out, "Earthquake!" Of course, we thought it was all fun the way our beds were rolling around our room and we didn't have to go to school that day which made that day seem like a holiday.
Compared to the devastation of the Haiti and Chile quakes, our little 4.4 Pico Rivera quake ain't nuthin' but it gave me fodder for the blog and when one has a dry spell at coming up with topics, beggars can't be choosers.
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