Our Weekend Walks

Meet Max & Leo!  They're the Miniature Pinscher mixes that Mr. C. and I have been practicing our parenting skills on since we first brought Leo home in 2007. 

Because they're small-breed dogs, they don't require a lot of intense exercise. As a result, we do a lot of this couch potato thing during the work week. 

On the weekends, we change it up and they get some quality dog time out of me. I try to take them to the local dog park at least once. The socialization is good for these little monsters, who are often painfully territorial around the house. And we stop at the Sonic Drive-In for a diet cherry limeade and a small dish of vanilla soft serve or an order of tater tots and they also get biscuits from the nice girls on roller skates. I get chided from Mr. C. for giving in to them too much, but their lives are short and their love is unconditional. Besides, it's not like they're teenagers asking for $500 prom dresses and $30,000 cars. They just want $1 worth of ice cream once a week. They go crazy for that!

On the days we don't make it to Sonic and the dog park, we take our weekend walks.  It's an interesting little ritual we have that the three of us love and for that reason I thought I'd share it with you.  This is what the boys and I do while Mr. C. sleeps in on Saturday or Sunday...

We're sandwiched between the local intracoastal river and the Atlantic Ocean, so our neighborhood is filled with blocks and blocks of tiny beach bungalows from the 40s and 50s.  Our walks start out our back door, and I love to walk up and down the streets behind us imagining how I'd turn a little rambler like this: 

Into a loved and well-cared for retreat like this:

The boys and I usually spend their sniff-and-dump time walking around these little homes, down one street and back up another, while I scoop poop, jam out to Lady Gaga and dream of the milestone that is home-ownership.  

When their business is finished and I can prevent them from wasting too much time, we kick the walk into high gear and hit the coastal highway.  Lined with shops and parks and plenty of sidewalks, I enjoy the highway's views while the guys enjoy meeting all of the other pedestrians and cyclists we pass along the way. Lady Gaga is usually Linkin Park by this time, and high-rise condos disappear so that the ocean finally comes into view:

Some mornings there will be dolphins, and pelicans diving in sync are not uncommon. There are almost always fishing boats in the distance. For a Midwestern kid like me, it really is some kind of miracle that I live here. 

Our walk turns back west, toward the intracoastal, after two miles or so.  I admire more beach bungalows until we hit the river, where the size and architecture of the homes change dramatically:

And these homes stretch the entire length of the river, more or less, up and down the street where we live.  Our little concrete block home, built in 1955, pales in comparison to some of the surrounding estates.  A lot of the places have wrought iron gates, fountains and names like "Southern Serenity." I'll have to remember to add The Barenaked Ladies' "If I Had A Million Dollars" to my iTunes!

We stop to admire the river. I don't mind the brackish smell of fresh water and sea water mixing, and the dogs love to sniff around all of the different fish that have been caught and cleaned on the public pier.  There's usually a good breeze in the morning too, making a quick break even more enjoyable for all of us.

The view to the north:  

And the view to the south:

After a "halfway" rest (and, if necessary, a good bark-fest at some fishermen or passing jetskis), we turn back from the river and head for the hiking trails.  The public pier is the western end of a local park that spans the length of the beachside, from the river on the west to the ocean on the east.  With the natural hills still in-tact, the park's hiking trails make for a decent burst of cardio in the middle of our stroll. 

I love the tropical foliage here in Florida.  Makes me want to keep Muldoon close by in case the raptors are hungry!

Sometimes we make new friends along the hike. Max & Leo are always good to embarrass me when we meet up with a larger dog. And the boys are cute enough that the people out without dogs of their own feel the need to stop and pet and coo at them while having the same old conversation with me.

Stranger in the park:  OOOOOooooh! Cute babies! What kind are they?!

Me:  They're Miniature Pinscher mixes.
Stranger in the park:  I thought so! Are you sure they're mixed? That little one looks like he could be purebred, if only his tail were docked!
Me:  He might be, but this one, the big one, he's definitely not all Min Pin.
Stranger in the park:  Look at these adorable pink and blue collars! Are they brother and sister?
Me:  (grumbling) I thought that was purple when I bought it. Silly me, huh? They're both male.

Stranger in the park:  And not from the same litter?
Me:  Not even from the same shelter! 

Stranger in the park:  Oh, well, they're precious. My so-and-so's what's-her-face had Min Pins for years. We just love them!

Me:  (looking around for the additional person or persons that would complete the 'we' that Stranger is speaking of) They are great little dogs. Enjoy the rest of your day! 

Other days, we're the only ones on the trails, and if I weren't just a bit nervous about what kind of critters call the park home, that would suit me just fine.  There's so much to look at while I get lost in my thoughts:

By the time we're finished with the trails, these little pups and I have logged three miles and they're starting to get weary. Max, panting hard, still doesn't know when to quit, and he'll pull at his leash and chase squirrels and birds and cats until I force him back into the house when we're done. Leo, on the other hand, will actually stop and turn back to me, jumping at my heels just begging for me to start for home.  

Leo always wins. It's about a mile and a half to our house from the eastern entrance of the park, and so we find the coastal highway and don't stop until we make it home. And that's just fine with me, because the view on our homeward bound leg is just as nice as all the other views we take in during our weekend walk:

In total, we log about 4.5 miles. Because of all the pottying that takes place early on, it takes us about 1.5 hours to do the entire thing. And despite the fresh air and the sun and the views, I'm still convinced that the best part of all is how tuckered the boys are when we get home. I won't have to play ball or tug a rope for hours now, and they'll leave the cats alone and snooze on the sofa while Mr. C. and I tend to some of our usual weekend domestic duties.

Which reminds me:  our weekend walk is over, I've blogged about it, and Mr. C. is still sleeping. Time to remedy that. I don't do weekend domestic duties alone!  

Should've Been A Therapist

And not just because I probably need one.

I started studying various methods of personality typing more than a decade ago (oof!), back in high school (double oof!), while spending copious amounts of time with my then-boyfriend and his very eclectic family which included his mom's life partner, a bookkeeper-turned-astrologist.

Quick digression:  Astrology is like the gateway drug of the occult. Your boyfriend's moms give you a copy of "The Everything Astrology Book" for Christmas and the next thing you know you're sitting around the table in their candlelit, crystal filled dining room getting your tarot cards read. Then you're joining the family for weekend outings to psychic fairs and spending hard earned babysitting money on palmistry and aura photography. Suddenly you discover that you're not the least bit shocked to walk in to their home after a Friday night football game to find a seance in full swing, and a medium you've only met once in your life being possessed by the spirit of her dearly departed mentor.

Sure, it was interesting and often very entertaining, but none of it was for me. I've never had an interest in divination. I just want stupid people, myself included, explained.

I stumbled into numerology while listening to late-night talk radio, and I find it to be both more practical and more secure. I mean, when's the last time the number seven got downgraded by scientists for being too small?

Seriously though, the numerologist whose methods I study doesn't use numbers to predict what's going to happen in five years. Rather, she helps people understand themselves, those around them, and their interpersonal relationships. It's the Holy Grail of personality typing for this eternal student of self.

My entire point, though, is that I'm still a sucker for other good personality typing methods. I adore a Myers-Briggs or Jungian archetype exam. And I doubt you'll find anyone else who will admit they've taken the free eHarmony personality test for kicks after hearing the site had refused to allow a friend to sign up because she failed the assessment (I, on the other hand, passed). Hell, I'll take pet-parenting-style personality tests, home decor personality quizzes, and fill out just about any other kind of questionnaire that will provide me with additional insight into who I am.

So it's no surprise that when my baby sister posted this link to a short form version of the Pierley/Redford Dissociative Affect Diagnostic exam on her Facebook page this evening, I was compelled to follow and get my diagnosis. And while this is one of the most bizarre tests I've taken, I have to say the results are scary accurate. Try it for yourself, especially if you're a little nuts about this stuff like me.

Here are my results:

"Fond of tradition, but attached more to the joy of human interaction, you are often a beacon of hope to those members of society who have lost faith or who are in need of succor. You are often emotional, and this emotionality is rarely held in check. Kind and helping by nature, when affronted you will explode, and just as suddenly when the pain has passed return to normalcy again. On occasion this quick and vibrant emotionality is translated into a life on the stage or screen. You have a strong sense of right and wrong, but can sometimes be left confused and uncertain in times of stress or when tough decisions must be made. You avoid conflict, tending to stay out of trouble in hopes that the group will benefit most from this behavior. Because you have trouble putting your own needs first, you will be put in much stress if you find yourself in an unequal relationship, one in which your partner is not as giving as you are."

So weird.

I Self-Censored This Post Before I Even Started Writing It

And that annoys the piss out of me.

See, I have all of this stuff I want to write about, but the people-pleasing control freak/coward deep inside of me always screams "STOP! You'll ________ and it's going to __________ you/loved one/random stranger you don't even know!!!"

I mean, the internet's a dangerous place to leave your thoughts. Especially if you're not doing it in complete anonymity. And while I have no problem discussing politics/religion/sex/race and ethnicity/insert your taboo of choice here face-to-face with respectful, intelligent people, I know what would happen if, for example, I used this blog to regularly tell my liberal friends to quit stupidly spending tax dollars that MY great-grandchildren haven't even handed over and my conservative friends where to shove their need to legislate based on their loose and warped interpretations of Judeo-Christian values.  And I don't want that.

Turns out I have an unhealthy aversion to chaos... inviting it upon myself via thoughtless blogging would make this entire exercise pointless.

Unfortunately, my desire to have a thoughtful discussion with myself and anyone else who cares to engage me occasionally has turned into a charade wherein I talk myself out of every idea I've got and am left staring into a Sunday night slow-cooker full of pot roast and wondering if I've got what it takes to spin that into a story worthy of posting.

LAME-O-RAMA!

My biggest problem is that I don't do anything worth memorializing. I have a job that I find incredibly interesting, but which requires extreme confidentiality on my part. I cook, but it's standard fare. I get bored with crafts so easily that I'm still trying to finish the dishtowel I started crocheting almost 3.5 years ago when my MIL taught me the basics over Christmas. I gave up music for reasons that I should probably be discussing with a therapist once a week. I have an on-again-off-again relationship with all things fitness related that is currently off-again. And I'm one of those ridiculous people that has pets instead of babies because I'm too scared to have kids, and either way, filling a blog with one or both of those subjects is... how do I say this without sounding judgmental?... for a very specific audience that usually only includes one's closest friends and family.

Yeah, you didn't know that no one else but you, your parents, your best friends, and your eternally single older cousin who has taken up living vicariously through you and all her other younger relatives cares about your dog/ferret/parakeet/baby belly/gender-determining ultrasound photos/adventures in potty training?

Sorry. I have a real problem resisting the urge to write reality checks when they're deserved.

And it's that urge that brought me back to blogging. I need a reality check or four(teen thousand). I am a nightmare of faux-composure right now, and my mind's wound tighter than an eight day clock.

My husband can tell you that when I'm stressed, the pressure tends to escape from me in little bursts of ridiculousness. I make up songs about our animals. I dance like a suburban white frat boy with epilepsy. I say the most absurd things for no reason at all.

This blog is supposed to be for my songs, my dancing, and my pointless absurdities. It's also supposed to be about all of the things that lead me to sing, dance and be absurd.

It's just hard.

And yes, I self-censored this the entire time I was writing it.