Are You a Cat or a Dog?

Last night we attended an Oscar party and the biggest surprise of the night was not Sean Penn beating Mickey Rourke for Best Actor….

No, the biggest surprise of the night was finding my husband, Jeff, confirmed Hater-of-Cats, gingerly petting the big, fat, fluffy gray cat of our hostess!

The cat was sitting on the kitchen table, next to Jeff, and he was caressing her with a smile on his face that looked like he was really enjoying himself.

One of the biggest regrets of my life is that I didn’t get a photo of this!

(And certainly something that my husband will deny in future years without photographic evidence. He tends to repress uncomfortable experiences to the point of completely blocking them from his memory! Certainly petting a cat will fall into this category.)

As we were leaving the party with our kids, I again exclaimed at the wonder of Jeff petting a Cat!

Jeff remarked that he was just trying to be a good guest—embracing, rather than recoiling at the experience of the cat jumping up to sit beside him on the table.

He explained the nature of his experience with Cats…

“Unlike Dogs, Cats want to know if you're friend or foe (most Dogs assume you're friend).

So, if you ignore a Cat when you first meet it, the Cat will seek you out to determine friend / foe. Therefore, the quickest way to get rid of a Cat is to initially pet it and then ignore it. This establishes you as a unreliable friend and practically insures the Cat will never bother you again.

Put yourself in the Cat's position: if a guy flirted with you at a bar and then ignored you for the rest of the night, how would you feel?”

Is it a wonder that this (Cat) guy ever got married?! Good thing he connected with a Dog like me…

“It’s funny,” I said, “That you hate Cats so much, when, really, you are a Cat.”

"What?"

“They say there are two different kinds of people—Cats or Dogs. You are definitely a Cat. You keep your distance. People—you can take or leave. You are naturally aloof. As long as your bowl has food and your litter box is clean, you are pretty well satisfied.”

“In our family, Jeff and Savannah are Cats. Carson and I are Dogs.”

“What?!” exclaimed Savannah! “I don’t want to be a Cat!”

“Sorry, honey, you’re a Cat like your dad.”

“No!”

“Let’s think about Dogs. They love people! They are happy! They would rather have a walk and a belly rub and a little attention than anything.”

“But everybody loves Dogs!”

“It’s not about being popular. Angelina Jolie is a Cat! Sean Penn is a Cat! George Clooney is a Dog! They all have Oscars!”

Some people like Cats and most people like Dogs—it’s a matter of personal preference. You might admire a Cat from afar, but not want to get too close. Sometimes people even like Cats more because they are so hard to like.

Tilda Swinton, for example.

But, the clincher…

“A Dog would rather play ball in the yard than cruise Wikipedia for Twilight references.”

“OK, I guess I am a Cat," Savannah relented.

“Fine," I said. Dog that I am, giving her a hug, “Luckily, I like Cats AND Dogs.”

Babysitting Dog's Little Brother

I have a few backlogged blogs to post, but just had to do this one today--totally living in the Now! A tale of two brothers—a photo-journal…


As loyal blog readers know, Cameron and family are the wonderful people who are Sunny’s “second family.” Whenever we go on vacation, we leave Dog (aka Sunny) with the Sullivans where I know he is not only well-taken care of, but loved and spoiled to excess. Vacations all around!

Long story, short, the Sullivans fell so madly in love with Sunny that they decided they just had to have one of their very own—and not just any dog, but a brother of Sunny’s—different litter, but same mother. (Much more about this later…)

Such is how "Speedo" (named not only for his quick sprints, but, also because Cameron and kids are competitive swimmers) came to be the new Top Dog at Chez Sullivan.

Cameron and I just knew that the brothers would be the best of friends and imagined rambunctious playdates and trading sleepovers when we needed someone to watch the dogs.

What we never could have anticipated is just how much the dogs would behave like real brothers. Speedo ADORES Sunny. He would rather be with Sunny than anyone—just the mention of "Sunny" sends Speedo into near spasms of doggie delight of barking and whining and crying! When he sees Sunny, he leaps at him—nudging and jostling for play—doing anything to get his attention.

Sunny, on the other hand, not so much.

It’s a little strange, because Sunny is extraordinarily friendly--he will cross a busy street to greet a person or dog; he loves most dogs, and he is the first to strike up a friendly play whether it’s with the cute little Havanese girl down the street or the neighbor's big Lab-mix from the pound.

But his attitude towards Speedo leans more to tolerance than delight. Just like the little brother who constantly bugs his big brother to let him in on the fun—Speedo just seems to desperately want to be a Big Dog, too.

I, of course, love Speedo like you love the baby of a really good friend--he's absolutely adorable, charming, cute-beyond-all-measure, and totally exhausting! You marvel at the energy of your friend and wonder how you did it when it was your time.

Today Cameron took her twin girls on a big, all-day trip to San Francisco, so I cleared my schedule so I could be home all day to be Doggie Supernanny. And what a day!

The first thing I did, as you always do when watching babies, is to fence off the stairs...


Of course, I worry about Speedo's safety, but, also, I have new carpet upstairs.

The boys sized each other up:

Are you lookin’ at ME?


Then they decided to play a little keep-away…

Mom, Speedo has my toy!




Sunny, you have to learn to share with your brother.

Mom, He's teasing me!

Oh, Sunny, you have to be more tolerant, he’s just a baby! You’re the big brother!

Aha! You took your eye off the prize. Now I’m coming to get what’s mine!


Now, who’s the Big Dog?


I am totally taking this outside and burying it in my secret spot.



OK, Boys! Enough! I am not going to spend my day refereeing your silly sibling squabbles! Opposite sides of the couch for you!


I’ve got to get away…Up to my perch!


Where’s Sunny?



Come on! Let’s Play!



And, just like a lot of brothers, I have no doubt that Sunny and Speedo will someday be the best of friends!

We're Baaaack!!!

Dog, my muse, thinking, can you please finish this fricking novel so I can get back to sleeping in?!

I feel a Dog Blog coming on...

Apologies to the three or so regular readers of the Dalai Dog Blog who have expressed their discontent with the dearth of posts recently.

Dog and I have had a lot on our minds.

What with the broken toe, and school starting, and me, stupidly volunteering to be a room mom again, and the incessant watching of CNN during the election, and the evil opposing twins of puberty and perimenopause invading our formerly happy home—we are all out of whack!

Plus, November was National Novel Writing Month and I decided, pretty much impulsively, after a couple of glasses of wine at my Writers’ Group meeting, to write a 50,000 word novel in one month, which proved to be an excellent and timely exercise in creative abandon and testing my aptitude for writing Crap. And, let it be known, that writing 50,000 words of crap is the goal!

We all know that Nobody, not even Stephen King or Danielle Steele or John Grisham, can write a good novel in a month! So the whole idea of the month is to give aspiring writers explicit permission, even encouragement, to write badly, which is exactly what all writers must have in order to squash their inner critic and get a first draft actually written instead of just imagined.

It’s a quantity versus quality type of thing, which is such an awesome challenge for a crazy, Type-A, perfectionist, self-flagellating workhorse, like me. For one month, I could just write and write, as fast as my fingers could type, which was an absolute necessity in order to fit this novel into the rest of my life and keep the family from starving and in clean underwear for the duration of the month.

As usual, Dog was my muse. He contributed greatly by entering this weird new phase in which he would sit beside my bed and whine and cry at 5:30 am (or sometimes earlier!!!!) until I relented and got up with him. After I let him out to pee and fed him some kibble, and made myself coffee, I decided I might as well write since the house was quiet and I was up anyway! The moment I sat down at the computer, Dog curled up in his bed in my office, snoring away, content in fulfilling his purpose as my Doggie-writing-coach wake-up call.

And I did it!


50,111 words! And, just as they predicted, I think I actually wrote a few gold nuggets in the mound of crap that is the rest of the novel. Right now I have no expectations, but in January, I may read it all through and make some edits and see where it goes. Or not!

Stay tuned. There will be more tomorrow or the next day about Thanksgiving with Dog and Cameron and Speedo (oh, yes, and the rest of our families!) and the incident that will forever be known as The Day Dog Bit the Groomer, and Dog's ongoing saga of searching for true love.

Gratitude and the Broken Toe

I’m big on gratitude.

Nowadays, everybody from Oprah to The Secret is singing the praises and benefits of gratitude.

But the Grande Dame, the High Priestess of Gratitude is my good friend, the very smart, talented author, M.J. Ryan. Way back in 1999, M.J. wrote The Gratitude Bible, Attitudes of Gratitude: How to Give and Receive Joy Every Day of Your Life.

A few gems from the book:

“As we get older, we get schooled in our mistakes, and learn to focus on what’s NOT right, what is lacking, missing, inadequate, and painful. That’s why gratitude is so powerful. It helps us to return to our natural state of joyfulness where we notice what’s right instead of what’s wrong. Gratitude reminds us to be like plants, which turn toward, not away, from the light.”

“Gratitude is not just the key. It’s the magic key—all you need to do is to use it, and the world is suddenly transformed into a beautiful wonderland, in which you are invited to play.”

“Gratitude births only positive feelings—love, compassion, joy and hope. As we focus on what we are thankful for, fear, anger, and bitterness simply melt away, seemingly without effort.”

And, not only all of that, but as both New Age and Old Age sages agree, practicing gratitude brings more abundance into our lives!

I have a ritual. Every morning as I walk Dog, I start by thanking God for all the wonderful things in my life. The list is long: my family, our good health, my home, my beautiful neighborhood, the freedom to do what I love (writing) and the good fortune to both impact people’s lives and make money at it, and, of course, the smiling, rambunctious ball of fluff at the end of the leash. (Right about this time I usually have to stop and pick up poop, which is very grounding.)

As I take pleasure in the California weather and landscape and the joy of watching Dog romp in the wet grass, I forget minor slights and troubles. My to-do list melts away for a few sacred moments. It is a time of peace and happiness that I hope will set the mood for my day.

Of course, it’s easy to be grateful when everything is going great. The challenge is to be grateful when things suck.

Along these lines, I have another great teacher in my life, my friend, Rich, for whom life is not all butterflies and rainbows. Rich surprised me one day by telling me he was grateful for laundry!

Laundry!!! As any mom knows, laundry is one of the subversive banes of our existence. It’s never done! Even if you do every spec of laundry in the house—every towel, every sock, every single piece of underwear—at the end of the day, there’s more!

But Rich had a different take on laundry. He rented an apartment and had to go to the laundromat to wash and dry his clothes. Mostly, laundromats are not the most pleasant places to spend the couple of hours it takes to get the job done. Hot, crowded, smelly—sometimes even a little scary with the various characters hanging around who might have come straight out of central casting for an Elmore Leonard movie.

One day, Rich decided to be grateful--for having the good fortune to be alive, to own clothes to wash, for his healthy life in which to dirty those clothes and the quarters to do the laundry. Wow!

A Course in Miracles says that a miracle is a shift in perception. I'd say that qualifies.

So I began to bless every dirty pair of pants that my son had worn to school, every smelly sock from my husband's tennis games, every towel (and there were many!) that my teenage daughter soiled, and every tablecloth with the remnants of our Sunday family dinners.

Realizing that I could and should be grateful for laundry, something I had always looked upon with dread, changed my perception.

And, isn't that really The Secret? To look upon things in a new way? The alchemy of changing rocks into gold? Or piles of dirty clothes into a blessing?

And so, with that in mind, since I'm out of my Dog-walking ritual for at least a few more days, I decided to make a list:

Top Ten Things to Be Grateful About Breaking My Toe:

10) It gives me something to write about.
9) Since I can only wear one shoe, I am finally getting some use out of those lonely, single socks who have lost their mates.
8) My mom sent me flowers:


7) For the first two days I was in so much pain that I just sat around with my foot iced and propped up, watching the full first season DVDs of The Sopranoes while my kids ran wild and played video games and watched too much TV—and I didn’t even feel guilty!
6) I got the opportunity to realize and appreciate the people who love me: My husband who fetched me water and pillows to prop up my toe when I couldn’t sleep at 3 am; my son, who wrapped his beloved blankie around my neck to comfort me; my daughter, who hates to clean even more than me, who washed all the dishes and wiped the kitchen counters sparkling clean; and my wonderful friends, who volunteered to pitch in to help during my debilitation.
5) A phone call from my brother from Virginia to see how I was.
4) I have an excuse not to exercise, especially not to lift weights.
3) It could be worse. It’s not a life-threatening injury or illness. My toe will survive.
2) I scored some really awesome pain pills—although I have practiced amazing courage and self-control by only taking one so far.

And, the absolute best thing to be grateful for….

1) My husband and kids are walking Dog for me!

Crazy Dog Lady and The Broken Toe

Around town, I am known informally as Crazy Dog Lady. This is not a trite, superficial label, but one I am unreasonably proud of and I take quite seriously.

For example, I am not the kind of Crazy Dog Lady (CDL) who forces my pet into frilly pink faux-leopard frocks and smuggles him into trendy boutiques and hip restaurants in my Louis Vuitton handbag. (Although I AM guilty of sneaking him in a big, black, fake leather, free-with-purchase Lancôme tote bag into a birthday party at the local ice-skating rink when he was a tiny puppy because we had only had him for one day and I thought he would be too lonely left by himself at home.)

But, as to the aforementioned type of CDL, as Seinfeld would say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that!” But Dog and I have a more profound, spiritual bond, based not upon our "image" or the fleeting notice and approval of others. (Also, Dog growled loudly and fiercely when we attempted to dress him up in a white jumpsuit and cape as Elvis Dog on his first Halloween. And he prefers to sit perched on the top cushion of our bedroom chair than to be confined in any type of bag—even a designer-type.) Dog is a free spirit and I honor and respect that about him!

No, I am the CDL who is crazy enough to put the dog’s needs above her own—most of the time. I’m the kind of CDL walks her dog every single morning, no matter what the weather or my personal deadlines or detriments—more reliable than the postman since, although we both deliver through rain, sleet and snow, I also am on duty 7 days a week, 52-weeks a year—even on Christmas Day!

As my neighborhood friends pass and wave in their Minivans and SUVs, promptly onto more productive endeavors like loading their dishwashers or dusting their miniblinds or laundering underwear or golfing in a club tournament. One odd morning when I had to work in my son’s class very early, I dropped by the grocery store for a quick trip before rushing home for my routine dog walk.

Running into a neighbor, she seemed as shocked to see me, at this hour, sans Dog, as if she’d spied me running out of the Motel 6 in black leather hot pants and fishnet hose, tossing an empty fifth of Maker’s Mark in the bushes before high-tailing it home to defrost Trader Joe's French Toast for the kids' breakfast.

“Where’s your dog?” she exclaimed! “Shouldn’t you be walking your dog now?”

I’ve also endured comments like, “Do you take your dog EVERYWHERE?” when I bring Dog along to pick up a kid from a playdate or a birthday party or as Dog and I wait in the carpool lane at school. And, my answer is, “Yes, I do take him everywhere I can." He loves to be with me and will go anywhere I want and be a happy, pleasant companion, which is more than I can say for other members of my immediate family who I cannot mention.

My Crazy Dog Lady persona really was highlighted on my birthday this year. Here is a sampling of my cards:







But, the grand, ultimate, completely over-the-top example of me being a Crazy Dog Lady was this week, when I stupidly dropped a 10-lb weight I was lifting on my toe, causing excruciating pain, much blood and a broken bone. (I thought of posting a photo, but I’ll spare you by asking you to imagine an overgrown, exceptionally ripe, slightly damaged red grape—that’s what my toe looks like!)

And what was my first thought? (Other than %*@&*$%%^&%!!!!)

Did I worry about the throbbing pain? Whether or not my toe would heal straight or end up as crooked, arthritic mess of a toe? Did I worry about losing my toenail (ouch!) or all the end-of-summer trips to museums and beaches that I would miss with my kids without the full use of my foot?

No. Truth is, my first thought was, “Who will take Dog for his walk?”

The Last Lecture

A tenuous connection to Dog at best, but still something I want to say….

For my birthday, two plus months ago, two different people gave me the book “The Last Lecture.”

I had heard about it and I knew that it was about a guy who was dying of cancer and his life lessons and that it was really inspirational.

I knew I wanted to read it, but I was in no rush, so both copies languished until we took a weekend trip in the car to Santa Cruz and I had a couple of hours to read uninterrupted.

The book was beautiful. Just enough ego to make it engaging and real, but simple, profound, wonderful lessons for life.

I highlighted several passages and made a note to watch the You-Tube video of the actual “Last Lecture.”

Then a couple of weeks later, I played the lecture on my laptop as I cleaned out my closet. (I am the ultimate multi-tasker.)

To see this man give this talk has to be one of the most transformative experiences ever.

There are no words. You must see it.

And know that every second of your life is one to be grateful for, and that living your dreams is really possible, and that going through brick walls is what you do when you really want something, and that helping others achieve their dreams is at least as good as achieving your own.

Wow!

So, the tenuous connection…

I met a friend today who has a lot of health and other problems. We like to meet once a week for what we call a “walk (dog) and talk.” Before we met I searched for one of the copies of the book to give him, but couldn’t find it in my mess of an office.

His response was that he must not be ready for the book. Still, I told him about the You-Tube video and how Randy had this amazing attitude in the face of everything.

This is the e-mail I received from him this afternoon:

I just turned on the computer and that last lecture guy passed on.

I knew he was dying, but somehow I had hoped he wouldn't. I have been praying for a miracle for Randy and his family, but it’s not going to be the miracle I imagined.

I'm unbelievably sad for someone I never met, yet felt I knew intimately. And, it sounds really corny to say this, but I am unbelievably grateful for the lessons that Randy Pausch gave us.

And I can't help but wonder how our lives, our worlds would be different if we were all in Randy's situation.

What if we had a finite time granted to live in good health before we left this world? How would we spend the time? What would we do? What would we say? Who would we say it to?

And, of course, do we have to go to the very brink of mortality to realize these things?

More Law of Attraction! Vision Boards!

Inspired by Oprah’s latest show on The Secret and my good friend, M.J. Ryan interviewing me for an article she is writing for Good Housekeeping about Affirmations, combined with the grand attempt to find some mutually fun, uplifting, soul-enriching activity for the kids and me this summer, I decided we all need to make Vision Boards!

For those of you who don’t live in California, or who aren’t regular Oprah viewers, a Vision Board is a visual representation of people, places, things, feelings or accomplishments that you dream of having in your life. You start with a big poster board and make a collage from magazine clippings, drawings and writings of all the things you want to happen in your life. The general idea is that you focus your energy on your "vision" and the “Law of Attraction” will manifest these things in your life.

Cool! And fun! Easy! Not like slogging through pages of tedious, loathsome, self-help exercises! Less like therapy and more like kindergarten—cut and paste! The more colors the better!

Instead of going to the dollar store to buy three poster boards for a buck, Carson and I ventured to Office Max to pay a premium $5.99 each for the half-inch thick, sturdy, high-end foamboards. I figured that was the least we could do to lay the foundation for our most magnificent dreams and wishes! I think Oprah would approve.

So we came home, magnificent boards in hand, magnificent dreams in our heads, cranked up the latest Jonas Brothers CD, spread magazines all over the family room floor, and started dreaming…

The boards are still a work in progress, but so far, Carson has his favorite band, The Jonas Brothers:


Who we are going to see in concert in two weeks!, so, really, he manifested his dream even before doing his Vision Board. Oprah producers, take note!

My board tended toward Beach Vacations and Lots of Words:


And, of course, my big career goal dream:


Dog, of course, could not be left out of such a fun-loving, life-affirming activity of the spirit. Since I neglected to buy a separate board for him and since he doesn’t have the opposable thumbs necessary for cutting pictures out of magazines, he was content with rolling around on my board, playing in one of my daughter’s old tu-tus.


Maybe his vision is to dance Swan Lake with the Bolshoi Ballet…

Could be. But my guess is that if Dog could do his own Vision Board, it would look something like this:


What does your Vision Board look like?

Dog's First Vacation!

This weekend signified a momentous occasion in the life of Dog—his very first official vacation!

Yes, Dog has traveled along with us to Grandma’s and houses of friends, but that doesn’t really count, does it? This time Dog was going on a real, for sure, destination-type vacation—to the beach! And sleeping, not on the humble floor of a friend or relative, but in a real hotel!

I hoped Dog’s experience would be a magical for him as it was for me--my first time, when, as a child traveling by car back from a vacation to visit relatives (the only kind we could afford), we were all tired before my dad could drive the long eight hours home and we decided to stop in at—luxury of all luxuries—a Holiday Inn!

At that point in my life, “Holiday Inn” was synonymous to “The Ritz”—each of them being completely out of my sphere of experience.

My mother still laughs, remembering me, running out of the bathroom, thrilled out of my mind at the very idea of the little, teeny soaps (free soap!) that they had waiting for us like they were little pieces of gold! (BTW, I guess old habits die hard, because I am still enamored of all the little sample toiletries, especially in a really nice hotel where you not only get soap, but all kinds of cool stuff like body butter, bubble bath and shower caps!)

I would have loved to have treated Dog to a really posh hotel, like the Ritz Carlton or the Four Seasons for his “first time,” but we were going to Santa Cruz and there were only about a half a dozen hotels that accepted dogs and only one with a vacancy—The Capitola Inn, it was!

Check-in time was 3 pm, so when we arrived at noon, we headed to the beach. I knew Dog would love it (the sandy volley-ball court in our neighborhood park was one of his favorite spots). The beach sand had to have a lot more fascinating smells, birds, discarded food to enhance his pleasure! We did three long walks, some seagull chasing, and lots and lots of exploratory sniffing. Dog was in heaven!

The rest of us—not so much. It turned out to be a foggy, cold day at the beach, the waves too rough for play and the wind too much for pleasurable lounging. We were worried about Dog getting too hot, but with this weather, not a problem! (Do you think he used his magic powers again?)

After we toughed out three hours at the beach, we headed to our hotel. We sat in the car while my husband checked us in. He came out and said, “They want to meet Dog.” I felt proud. I thought that my glowing description of him when making the reservation piqued their admiration and curiosity—that they felt they must meet this magnificent animal of which I spoke.

I did the mom spit-clean of his muzzle and paraded him in, ready to let him reign his charm over them. Turned out they just wanted to make sure he was under 25 pounds, per their rules:


The rules! So many rules for a dog-friendly hotel!

But, luckily, one of them did not forbid jumping on the bed. The very first thing Dog did upon entering the room was to take a flying leap onto one of the two queen beds. I guess because we were on vacation and they weren’t our beds, and he had paid an extra $20 for the privilege of having Dog in the room, my husband not only tolerated this, but actually encouraged it. Dog was in bliss.


Back to the rules—The most frightening, onerous of which was Rule Number 6:

Excessive noise or barking can result in guest being asked to leave.

Yikes! Dog is not much of a barker, but they gave us a room right next to the lobby and, at first, every time a guest would pass by, Dog’s guard-dog instincts would heighten, and bark, he would. The kids and I would descend on him, “Shhh, please, Dog, quiet, no barking,” petting his head in our feeble attempt to calm him.

Eventually, Rule Number 6, combined with Rule Number 7:

(Registered guest is responsible for any and all damages that may occur)

led to my husband staying in the room with Dog while the kids and I ventured to Capitola Village for dinner, which ended up being fine because my husband wasn’t hungry anyway and wanted to take a nap and we wasted a whole hour browsing in the high-priced, touristy gift-shops before we ate, which he would have loathed.

The rest of the vacation was somewhat uneventful, dare I say miserable? I got zero sleep—who knows why—too much light, not my bed, dog curled up, snoring on my shin?

Cold weather predicted for Sunday. As the kids and Dog and I “enjoyed” (which is a term I use somewhat facetiously) the free continental breakfast in the small freezing, early morning, outside patio, Carson, my optimistic, look-on-the-bright-side, go-with-the-flow adventurous guy said, as he sipped his hot chocolate, looking over, not at the ocean, but gazing at the suburban flora and fauna of our hotel, “Ah, this is the life!”

Then, Savannah, my no BS, sardonic child, said, “Yeah, It’s a cold life!” and I knew it was time to go home.

We barged into the room, woke up Jeff, packed up and were out of there before 10 am.

Looking back on the trip logically, analytically, it was a huge failure. Sucky weather. We thought we could leave dog in the room and go have a nice family dinner and that didn’t work out. We were pretty much freezing and worried about getting thrown out of our hotel room the whole time.

I wondered how I could get a theme out of this experience.

Yet, the cool thing is that, even as I’m writing this, I’m starting to get it. (Joan Didion said, "I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means.")

The vacation was way more fun because of Dog and watching him and his reactions and tending to him. The newness, the tail-wagging, his boundless enthusiam. Dog is never jaded. Dog is always excited. His joy is infectious.

So, Here’s The Grand Theme: Like many things in life, Dog is a huge amount of trouble, but also a great big boost for the soul. Dog forces us to live in the moment, to get out of ourselves, to enjoy and to fully experience life, to pay attention.

It’s corny, but it’s true and not just for Dog, but for most everything that means something—children, passionate work, a beloved spouse: Life with Dog is not easier, but it is richer, more colorful, more joyful.

Barbara and Me Part 2

(Continued) Because my editor is such a wonderful, dream-nurturing human being, (and maybe because I did her a big favor by helping her in a crunch and doing a last-minute story—that was so wonderfully-written, if I do say so myself, that the subject of the article actually sent my editor flowers!—and I promised her many future favor pay-backs) she agreed to let me go along with the reporter on assignment who is about 12 years old and probably thinks Barbara Walters is as interesting as a “History of Media” class that she slept through in college six months ago, but, as usual, I digress.

So, I blow-dried my hair and shaved my legs and tried on three different outfits and made very complicated arrangements for the kids and power-skimmed the book, making up thoughtful, insightful questions. No pressure—I mean what do you ask the Queen of Interviews?

I arrived at 5:05—a full 35 minutes before the scheduled time, to make sure that traffic or parking would not get in the way of my golden dream moment.

There was already a huge crowd outside of the bookstore. Mostly middle-agey women (like me) over-dressed in colorful sundresses and little kitten heels (like me) and clutching books with the little purple slip of paper that indicated the book had been purchased at that bookstore—a prerequisite for entrance and an audience with La Walters.

I was never so happy to be a member of “the press.”

I strode right past them into the store.

“I’m here from the Danville Weekly,” I told the bookstore owner, expecting the crowds to be parted, to be ushered in to a separate, air-conditioned room, while waiting for Barbara to arrive, even though I had spied a big-time stretch limo on the corner and suspected that the author was already there.

“I’m sorry,” the bookstore owner said brusquely, “Press time is over. She wanted to start early.”

What?

But, she wasn’t supposed to see the press until 5:40.

“She. Wanted. To. Start. Early. There. Is. Nothing. I. Can. Do.”

What would Barbara Do? (WWBD)

Would she push ahead, demanding her right to an interview? Or, more likely, as I know after reading her memoir, would she charm and cajole her way through the pack.

I didn’t seem capable of either. It would appear that I didn’t have the right stuff to be a world-class journalist like Barbara.

But, later, after reading the book, I did get one reassuring glimpse of a mortal Barbara when she described her first press junket to accompany Jackie Kennedy on a trip to India and Pakistan in 1962.

“I did have one momentous breakthrough in Pakistan when Jackie was visiting a monument. ‘Mrs. Kennedy, there’s a bobby pin falling out of your hair,’ I said to her. She turned, smiled at me, and said, ‘Thank you.’ That was it. My exclusive interview.”

Realizing my exclusive interview was not to be, I got in line with the other 199 people hoping for a special moment.

When it was my turn, I asked Barbara where Cha-Cha (her beloved Havanese dog) was and I told her that I also had a Havanese dog who I was nuts about.

Despite her very hurried, necessarily detached manner, Barbara looked at the picture I had brought along, brightened up for a moment and said, “They have these little cute legs.” Then, back to business, she signed my book “Barbara Walters” (no personalizations!) in very perfect, tiny script, and moved along to the next person.

So, like too many dreams come true, this one was more than a little disappointing.

My husband said I should have brought Dog along. Barbara would have melted. I think he was right.

p.s. A couple of side notes:

Barbara looked fabulous, even better (and thinner!) in person than on TV.

And calm. She says that one of the secrets to her success on TV is that she never sweats and that must be true. It was 101 degrees outside and she was (sorry for the cliche) cool as a cucumber.

And, as disconcerting it was for the press (me, in particular), she was smart and kind to begin her signing early. With the extreme heat, she may have avoided some serious medical issues like heatstroke among the crowds.

Alas, I have no photos of Barbara, but here are some photos of the scene. As I was driving by and writing this blog in my head and suddenly realized I needed some pictorial evidence:


A side shot of Barbara's humongous stretch limo. Babs must have quite a posse to fill up that car!


A small piece of the amazing crowd that braved the 100+ degree weather to see Barbara.

And, this is my favorite photo, because after driving by really slowly and taking a bunch of pictures, I think the crowd thought I was paparazzi! As if!

Barbara and Me

Barbara Walters and I both have little Havanese dogs who we adore.


(Barbara's beloved Cha-cha)

And, that’s about all we have in common.

When it comes to intrepid reporting, fearless questioning, breaking the mold, going where no woman has gone before, Barbara is the pioneer—the master.

Me, not so much.

Meeting Barbara Walters has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. In the fifth grade, I read the biography of Nellie Bly, the ground-breaking, feminist reporter of the late 1800’s, and I immediately knew that I wanted to be a journalist. Other than Nellie, Barbara was the best role model I had—a symbol of possibilities as I watched her on “The Today Show” and later
as the first woman ever to co-anchor a network news broadcast.

Barbara is my Michael Jordan, my Bill Gates, my Mother Theresa—the person who had reached the absolute pinnacle of the mountain I so wanted to climb.

So when I heard that BARBARA WALTERS would be appearing at a bookstore only 20 minutes from my home, I was the first to call and reserve my copy of her memoir, ordering a priority ticket ($13, plus the hardcover price of the book, to be one of the first lucky 200 people in line to meet her!) I was hoping that this premium might garner perhaps a moment or two to speak with my idol, maybe even a quick photo for my mantel.

But when I went to pick up my ticket and book the day before the event, I discovered that a) they expected 900 people! and b) no photographs were allowed—absolutely, positively, no exceptions. I began to think that this would not be my dream meeting after all.

Then I had a brilliant, if late-breaking idea. I freelanced for the local newspaper! I had just this week written their cover story! The editor owed me a favor! I called her and when she said that they had a press credential and Barbara was meeting with the media for a full 20 minutes before the signing—from 5:40 to 6:00, I literally BEGGED for her to reassign it to me, or to at least let me tag along.

(To be continued.)